The Mountain That Wasn't

Last month I was sitting in bed reading. I don't sit in bed during the day often, but on this day I was. I looked out the window and saw for the first time ever a large mountain n the distance. Majestic and capped, not unlike a Paramount intro. It centered me, slowed my heart rate. How beautiful and how somehow new. But the longer I looked at it, the more suspicion I had. It was a house. A house on a hill. It really did look like a mountain. But no, it must be a house. Actually. I liked it less.

Puhg came in to get a pair of socks. I asked him, "What's that? Is that a mountain?" He followed my finger through the glass. Way way too the left? No. No, right there. "Is that a mountain or a house?" Like the houses over to the right? Wedged in the hill? No, no, not those. "I'm not wearing my glasses," I explained. He looked a while longer. "You mean the tree?" he asked. And so I squinted and readjusted and, in fact, it was a treetop. Oranged and fluffy, with a particular cloud puff hovering over. Now it's all I could see.

Fall is delayed in the west. In January there will be a woodsy smoke that comes or a wet gutter or bare branches. Today I noticed the tree lost all its leaves. Nothing in it's place. Certainly not a possible mountain or even a house. And so one goodbye became three.

Tile by Tile

So often when we need to relax we think of the things that will relax us. And I do love these things, I do. Massages and cream puffs and sparkling tonics and clicking BUY on Etsy and send a flurry of witty texts out to numerous folks and posting and receiving the little hearts in return. These things do their best to meet the unsaid need, but sometimes. Sometimes we are probably stocked to the brim of all and don't need anything else. A pool floatie so aired it might pop any moment. It begs for someone to unclasp that little plastic nozzle.

The joke of "haha it's a boring Saturday night in a pandemic" has gotten so very old. It's the oldest, saddest joke I've ever heard at this point. Partially because it's so obnoxiously routine for some of us and a distant memory for others. But last night I made a veggie pot pie. I scrapbooked while watching a documentary about near-death experiences. We played Rummikub and put on a garage sale Taylor Swift record. Touched the tiles, won the first game, lost the second. Welcome to New York spun on. And I didn't want to eat any more snacks so I had a tea. A real tea full of leaves and scents and roots. Painted my nails and watched a movie. It wasn't hard to sleep.

Longevity

Been seeking out old emails this week. It started with a specific curiosity and continued for reasons unknown. I put controversial names in my search bar, see what they said, what I said. Sometimes I remember it all too well. Other times it feels like two mannequins typing to each other. Who was that person? Moreover, who was I? I'm so different. I would not say "completely" but perhaps 60%, which is significant. I get the impulse to write this past person and give context or explain I'll feel different later (but also I bet so will they). There's something about letting things sit and rest. Because years will tick on and change everything anyway. And if I hurt a being, I am sorry. At the same time, if they hurt me, they may be too.

Reading this book about sociopaths has made me even more narrowed. 4% of people don't have a conscience! Isn't that incredible! I didn't know! Most of them aren't violent. Many are actually just leeches. The question swims up, when you knew someone who surely couldn't be doing that one thing out of spite because who would that serve may have been indeed evil in their broken little heart! And here we are lifting, hefting, rearranging the furniture in our mind to accommodate them.

I watched a TikTok of a girl explaining she fell into her confidence about dressing bright and colorful when she watched a video the solar system. Earth was a speck and she a speck on a speck, why not wear a fluffy pink bubble dress? But isn't that oversimplification how we get distracted by mozzarella sticks and accept microaggressions/patriarchal cycles/the prison industrial complex?

Where Is He Now?

G was 60 or so when he worked at the ice cream shop in the mall. He had curly grey and white hair. He was always in a good mood and usually in some mild pain. He moved slowly. Once, he explained, it's because he went to his daughter's house and had to walk home. I had a lot of questions about what that meant but didn't ask. He said he got home at 4 AM. Was the walk that long or did he leave that late? Sometimes he told me stories that included a lot of 60s slang I didn't fully grasp, so I was always worried he'd already explained something about his life to me last week. I didn't want to make him think I wasn't listening.

The job was simple enough--mainly because I was never trained to do most of what we were supposed to do. I know this for a fact because one day a corporate rep showed up unannounced. I kind of made a show of trying to clean the scoops a little more intensely before she finally sighed and said, "Just work as though I'm not here." I did, and then we got an F on every section of the evaluation sheet besides "Hospitality" (for which I got an A -- insert angel emoji).

I was often alone, but G had some regular hours, so that's when we'd be paired up. Mostly people ordered a cup or cone, but once, a week into working together, someone ordered a sundae. G got a little nervous, like "oh great, something fancy." I said I'd make it, and G would not stop gassing me up for the rest of the day. "It looked just like a magazine picture!" he said. Whenever someone ordered a sundae for the rest of the season he'd point to me and explain something like, "You are not going to believe how good she can do it!" A kiosk nearby sold some weird wind chime music. We'd hear the same quirky hour of music on repeat all day sometimes. One of the songs was, "Our God Is an Awesome God." After a long day I said, I'm tired of Our Awesome God." And G said, "Oh but he's not tired of you!"

I remember one morning G was particularly happy. He just got a new job, he beamed, working in the refrigerator department of Sears. I congratulated him and asked when he was leaving. He clarified it was only half time, just like his hours at the ice cream shop. But the next day I overheard the store owner talking with our manager. "G got a new job, which is a relief, so we don't have to feel bad about firing him." We never said goodbye.

Fizzy Little Cherry Drink

This year's resolution is to rest more. Last April I decided to take Sundays off from writing, which felt ugly at first, but then like a long breath. Still, little emails and annoyances worked their ways into the holy day. Saturday afternoons started to feel sack heavy because I let all my essay and publishing research plop there. It was supposed to be a break from the television hustle, but it felt alien and difficult. So in 2021 I'm attempting to have two real, full, plump weekend days. Errands or phone calls or classes or activism, okay. But no spreadsheets or google docs, email filtering or trade reading.

The impulse to be productive is strong in me. I told myself these days after the new year were a treasured reset. I did a yoga livestream and bought a sound bath mp3. I hold my purple stone for balance and try to sit on the balcony a few minutes for no reason. The woodpecker taps on my brain, why not at least get to the draft and jumpstart the week, organize the story cards. There's a hint of fear in the morning. What to do with endless time, endless time in quarantine no less. It feels stupid to make up little busies to fill the space. Last night after (early) dinner, I had nothing in mind. So we got out some playing cards for a few hands, then a boxed game, next thing I knew I was unwound and delighted, my mind whirring quickly and challenged--but for something that didn't matter at all for a change.

I also bought a set of patio chairs for the aforementioned balcony reverie. "I'm so used to not getting anything I don't need," I said, cracking open a fizzy little cherry drink (also unneeded--the calories? The $2.00 cost?). Puhg agreed, but then he wondered if always operating from a need-based place makes you tired, worn, and extremely resentful of anyone who doesn't.

By the way, researching which patio chair to get took a very long time. I dislike shopping, so this would usually send me into an angry slump, but because I had nothing planned for the afternoon I could take my time. I spent thirty minutes on the phone with customer service in the morning, signing up for online workout classes, but what of it. All these mundane and necessary pins don't seem so bad with an empty day planner.

And now tomorrow I start strong. Revisions of this, new scenes of that, brainstorms of the other thing. I'll be looking forward to the whirl of all there is. It's been such rolling hills for days.

Midnight

Counted one, maybe two cars on the usually packed four lane street. A bus sped, a minute before the new year. We counted down, but no celebratory cheers. I remembered crunching into snow as a child, on the stoop of our house, with the horn. The fireworks spit up over downtown. We can see the skyline from the edge of the balcony. I wondered who set them off. Glittery and red. Silver pops. It looked professional, but did our city do it? The bar across the street dark. I wanted to watch for longer than I thought I would. The tears came too. So much relief to have made it, pride. But also the crushing weight of insanity we've all felt this year. How this is normal now. Not a soul on the sidewalk, no clacking of heels, the excitement hisses out like an old balloon. I've always had a new beginning at the year. Semesters or jobs changing or even a gust of what will be. Instead I stare down the upcoming twelve months in groundless imbalance. More of the same, and the same wasn't particularly welcome. There's nothing on the entire calendar. I logically made the peace it's likely next year looks no different. When will I embrace a friend again? There's no way to know. I thought I'd settled on another 365 of isolated life, but then I read an article about vaccines being rolled out so poorly millions may expire on the vine. At this rate, the culture we used to know returns in seven years. And I know these are safe crying gasps, here, seated on the weight bench. I'm not going to go hungry or homeless or die alone in the ICU (I don't think). But it feels good to feel. Because there's only so much pivoting a human can do before they no longer trust their own self. I don't make promises I can't keep.