Sunday.
Soup and
pie. I open
my front door to find a gift - a postcard from
icicle. The first line is about leaving
flowers on people's doorsteps. Any day that starts off with magic like this, can't turn out too bad.
Icicle's message undoes the damage that might have been done by being honked at three times, whistled at once, and asked to fuck, by, say it with me, a truck full of Mexicans. I shouldn't jump to conclusions - the only word I caught clearly was "fuck," so he might have been asking "where's the fucking Kroger," but I doubt it.
Why does this keep happening? Just once I'd like a Korean guy to ask if he could ream me ragged. Once upon a time, one Mexican got his cock sucked by a stranger, and a legend was born.
I want to scream at this moron not for being rude but for being a cliche. They stop the truck - to appreciate me fully, I guess. I step forward, smiling sweetly, announce "No fucking for you!" and give him my middle finger with a hard fast jab. I don't flip people off; it's dumb. This was a special occasion.
Anyway icicle and the polite woman who pulled over to ask for directions undo the Mexicans, and the honeysuckle undoes the block of heavy pesticide-smell, and the very alive bunny undoes the very dead sparrow and much deader possum.
Back in front of my apartment I cross paths with the maintenance guy who is not a rapist. He smiles at my pace and says, "Ooh, girl, you just jammin!" We chat; it's nice to talk about the weather sometimes. I try to figure out what evil he's undoing for me, but he's a bonus.
At home I lie down on the floor in front of a fast fan and discover I have massive sweatstains under my arms, yay! Wanting to know what's in my cup, Jamcracker dunks his whole head in my water and comes up pissed and sneezing. I watch What About Bob because I'm a sucker for Bill Murray when he tries not to smile.
A little pot sends me spiraling and it's not like ever before, high or sober. Suddenly everything is fear. This isn't high-paranoia, it's a gripping, total fear of everything that has ever worried me, all at once. Pete comes over. I let him in and ask him to leave. He does and immediately calls me. (how did he know it wouldn't trouble me to be on the phone? it doesn't.) Listen to those breathing discs, he says. It sounds like a distraction which is all I am seeking so I agree.
Dr. Andrew Weil looks like a hippie and sounds like he is trying to sell me a flowbie but when I let my mind shut up and my lungs do their work, something expands and flattens out in my mind. It isn't until the next day that I will realize the little, impossible truth that I am never required to worry about more than the moment I am in. That is what I am learning to do now. Nothing more complicated. The universe is breathing into me and I might be a starfish but I know that's the last of the pot talking but still, I might be a starfish, I think that's important.
This experience is a gift. All pleasure is relief. Relief, relief. I always think I'm the only one feeling awful things, feeling all crunched up, and I'm not, so clearly I am not. It's reassuring; I feel something familial, I have learned a little about how to uncrunch, and I know that it will be a pleasure to slip into sleep.