Present and Accounted For -- And Trying to Be Human

I'm trying to stay present, folks, while at the same time a big part of me is stretching its peripheral vision, looking for a bolt-hole.

I just need to do the next thing, and try to keep the lines of communication open between my out-of-practice heart and the outside world, instead of retreating to my oversized left brain and analyzing the hell out of every damn thing.

A warning: "We haven't made any promises to each other." I forgot that I was the one who said it first, flippantly, and yes, it's true.  But still, as the words were repeated back to me, the bartender slid a fear cocktail with a chaser of here-we-go-again across the bar and leaned conspiratorially on one arm, his face close to mine, his lips twisted in what might be a smile or a leer.

"Taste this," he says, "It's full of all the things you know."

I am staring down that drink and taking deep, nourishing breaths.  Keeping my hands loose at my sides, fingers gently fluttering, and giving my shoulders and arms a shake and a roll.  Staying on the balls of my feet with slightly bent knees -- just in case.

Cheri Huber says that fear is a sign that you're heading in the right direction, and that you should step on the gas.

So I think I'll take a big swallow of that fear cocktail.  It has not killed me yet, has it? Thinking back to when I was afraid and did it anyway, those were the moments when I shone like gold.

It's probably just V8 and Grey Goose anyway.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I may be starting another round of travel-travel-travel in a couple of weeks, and the thought of it makes me want to lay on the floor and scream and thrash like an oversugared 5-year-old in a Wal-mart candy aisle. What I really want is to sleep in my own bed for 60 days, knocking around in my funny little apartment, and rattling around in my funny little life.

Last night, I heard a song that my mother loved on the radio ("Oh, that '1-2-3 You're A Lady' is such a nice song!"), which triggered a sudden stormy cry behind closed doors.

You guys, my mother died.  (I just have to say it to myself again and again, to make it real.)

I worked late and decided to walk my city for awhile.  I haven't been able to walk very much this summer because it's been so crazy here at the Farm and oh, yeah, it's hot as hell. Who wants to walk around when it's 95 degrees and the entire city feels like Satan's armpit? Yecch.

But it was nine-ish when I left the office, and there was a good breeze, no doubt driven by Hurricane Earl off the coast, and I dunno, there was a lot of energy in the air.  A lot of folks were feeling festive and holidayish because it was the start of the long holiday weekend.  The pretty girls were going out in force, in their little flowered frocks and high heels, with brown shoulders with that perfect end-of-summer tan, smelling like little gardens as they walked past me.  I smiled as I remembered being them, with that excited, anticipatory look of another night of possibilities.

I ended up walking all the way from 59th Street to Union Square, and the strange energy seemed to trail me off the subway.  I crossed Bushwick Avenue and as I passed under a streetlight, it winked out over my head.  "So, that's how I am," I thought to myself.

It was after ten when I got home, and even though my long walk had cleared my head somewhat, the residual tendrils of sadness were still floating around me, wisps of smoke around my soul.  Got on the phone for a little while with someone who was in a different, more impish mood ("dickish" was his word), which I was ill-prepared for and not sure how to read. Sometimes I need a face in front of me to read what is behind the words. Maybe if that face had been in front of me, I would have been jollied instead.  As it was, I sat silently for a time, then spoke in a completely normal voice, with tears rolling down my face and soaking the neckline of my shirt.

This has been a strange and difficult and challenging and changeful time for me, and without sounding too much like Dorothy waking up after the twister, some of it has been terrible, but most of it has been beautiful, too.  I am dedicating myself to seeing both, discounting neither.

Because I see that now I contain all that terrible and beautiful stuff.

I'm joy and sadness.

I'm fear and bravery.

I'm wisdom and naivete.
I'm everything and nothing.

I belong everywhere and nowhere.

I am no way and all ways.

And that is just fine by me.