An Organized State of Disaster

I feel like I have been running with scissors. Or maybe the scissors have been running with me. I feel connections; the threads that held my life together, fall away. Things are different now.  I made them this way, others made them this way and some were altered by the unknowing world.  And so I am left to wonder at what I will make anew with the strings, ribbons, strands, fibers and filaments that fall upon me daily. Will I make hammock, a boat, will it hold me, and will it unravel or prove transparent? Or perhaps they are like clothes, that fit so well at first, bold and free and beautiful, that only later, when tattered and stained, are thrown away for something new. (Although true to form this takes me years, for all my cloths go through many various levels of use before I hold on to them unused before throwing them out) But I do not feel bold and beautiful, no that’s not quite true. I do feel both those things but low down like a simmering deep inside. On top is all froth and foam, anxiety and doubt.

I am trying things out but have an untenable desire for something, some dream to come to fruition, although I have found that the minute a dream becomes reality, it looses its luster in the day to day grind that sands away a polish. But despite that I do know a few things about myself by this age. (32) That what I want has not change much from childhood. And that perhaps now is the time to believe in childish dreams because the adult ones seem just as unrealistic.

There have been moments this week when I felt the threads straining or stretching to comic lengths.  Driving with the dog, whose helicopter tail has ceased to move through overexertion and age, in a truck that still takes seven to twelve tries to start in the morning. Its one remaining side mirror held on by a single, stalwart screw. I felt at a loss, overwhelmed by the list of things that are not working compared to the minute list of things that are.

But now days later, the wag has slowly returned. And I have found and installed new (to me) side mirrors on the truck whose countenance has thus improved with my care and attention.

We, my partner and I, almost ended and then did not.  Ever trying to recapture some beauty we both felt was there. I know perfection is not our goal, our flaws far to cavernous for such presumptions but we were connected before by steel and this week we were down to a string. But it did not break.

And so despite the fact that I live in a place where almost all whom I love have left, where I quit a perfectly good job to try to go it alone, where my love, whom I adore, cannot see me sometimes, where the cat fights with its neighbor requiring frequent bouts of antibiotics, where the dog has lost its wag, where the kitchen floor is never clean, where the cars are never new, where the boats are never finished. I will try to make my stand. And I’ll try to make it a good one!