We are on our way to Vegas. The airplane rumble tumbles and I sit here, ached and all and ok and self-conscious and oh so Catherine. Life can be a mixed bag at times.
My ears full of the sound of wind scraping the wings and the jetted plume left behind, our one mark on the world.
I try hard. To be something, to be ok. This isn't easy for a child like me. I feel like a child although I am adult-ing at twenty-eight. Burgeoning holes in my own steam cast future.
They pop, those ears. Those two holes out of the five holes in the head. Leaving my head filling inflated, bigger, less, all at the same time.
I struggle with it and am oh so very okay as well, too. I seem to trudge from bed, open a bag of cereal and a jar of coffee and pummel into my days full steam ahead until 'pop' it hits like a moon rush, I hit the semi-colon of the day and feel the need for a nap, otherwise death will ensue (it is really quite serious). Then awakened by my own inner motor I sit up, go on, make a mess of dinner and feed the two dogs. Then it is time for a quick mind rest (that never works, I don't rest, I just don't) and henceforth to bed.
I don't rest because I can't let go. I hold on so tightly to my ideas, my sanity, the hope that I can make it through another day, and that he will come home-as always each night. Somehow one day this will stop. One day I will be on a bed, or in a chair, or even standing and die. I can't hold onto things forever, this in itself is disconcerting.
Airplane writings are always tangible and interesting. I feel trapped and present and see that claustrophobic cloud looming over head like a punching bag. Things are in front of me, beside me, in back of me. I hate things being in back of me. My wide cautious eyes unable to see the killer within and without.
"From now on" I think this a lot, making vague and important decisions in my self-loathed noggin of how things would be better if I did this, that, made it so. It would expand my range of living from a sorrowful old legged chair to a comfy divan. This is hope, but I never do the tasks to get there. The most I can do is paint, scrub brushes along thick paper to make a small handheld decoration.
Its cold and my sea foam green nails start to shiver. The cold weather bird rarely hits me as I run hot as a coal locomotive but for the rare occasion I always bring a sweater.
Dizziness hits the plane, oh how it hits, so much corralled force shimmying me in my seat.
My life is kind of cursed, and kind of fantastic at the same time.
He being gentle and sweet, my one life rock, holding me steady when the unending carousel pulls me up and reminds me jumping is always an option. To take certain things of the table, while also building pillars of the good strong sturdy stuff.
This up and down life...I think...is so up and down.
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