KJPcreations

I’ve been a bit withdrawn from the world for what feels simultaneously like months and minutes. In full disclosure, I’ve been an acute mode of ‘getting through this.’ The ‘this’ changes alternately between big and small things; I’m getting through the work day or I’m getting through a painful past or I’m getting through rush hour traffic. If my life was a circus act, I think we’d be at the part where the lion tamer sticks his head in the mouth of the lion. The days are anticipatory and fraught with a controlled sense of danger. A good lion tamer never gets hurt but entertains us all the same with the threat of injury. I’m not entirely convinced the threat of my well being is entertained by anyone but me; it’s the kind of circus where I am both the audience and the player on stage. Look away. There is nothing of interest here.

Things like poor reaction to medication, reoccurring panic attacks and uncontrollable trembling in public are simply boring. These things are so early 90’s like baggy sweaters and raves. Is the darkness that occurs in all of our lives more fascinating after it’s all went down or as it’s going down. Is recovery or breakdown more scintillating? I ate a grilled chicken salad for lunch today and could barely eat a week ago. Is either detail of interest? My thumb on my right hand feels like it’s broken but only half of the time and I drink tons of water these days. In fact, I am part camel so put me in the desert and call me, Cheats.

This weekend, I am anticipating the Portland Saturday Market. My desire is to acquire some berries and some succulents. These are my intentions but sleep may win as sleep is like kryptonite to my heroic attempts at adventuring out into the world. The weekend could be the promise of a berry cobbler and a new cactus in the kitchen or the unraveling of non sequitur dreams and tangled sheets. My therapist tells me I am thawing out or coming back to life like when you leg falls asleep and feels all tingly and uncomfortable as it awakens. So there I lay, on the kitchen counter, wrapped in cellophane thawing and waiting, waiting and thawing. These things feel simultaneously like always and never. Only time will tell.

photo credit: tyshortsleeve

Portland wears the summer well; it gets dressed up in strappy flips and slips on a favorite retro dress and holds the hand of a boy in a smart bowler cap wearing a vintage tee with knee length shorts held  at the waist by a braided hemp belt. Tattoos appear on skin now bare and windows are thrown open and fans are propped up and the evening breeze is welcomed like an unexpected kiss. The city sips iced blended coffees and frothy micro brews in pints shared with friends along outdoor patios. The commutes on bikes and trains and busses and cars all feel a bit more optimistic than the rain soaked trips taken just a few weeks past. Time sweeps inside dreamy days filled with outdoor activities like gardening, tickling toes in a kiddy-pool, languid strolls and porch sittin

It’s nearly half-passed the year 2008 and half-closer to the year 2009 and time, she has a way of asking too many question. I sleep the days away and catch glimpses of the summer days happening outside my window and I think to myself, I don’t miss the sun; I had sun for years in LA. I am not so much lonely as I am alone but even that feels false because there’s always someone reaching towards you or that you are reaching towards and everything is timing and everything has been said and more than likely, it’s all been asked before. Was I loved? Did I love well enough?

On a perfect day, I feel light and hopeful like a summer dress and I join those sitting outside sipping on yummy somethings and the panic of what might happen and the shame of what did happen doesn’t manifest as trembling hands or keep me inside, asleep and hiding. I am motivated to do the simple things like cook, wash dishes and bathe instead of finishing off the bottle of wine and taking another nap. On this perfect day, my windows are thrown open to the world and the breeze rushes past my cheek like an unexpected kiss and hope, like the sickeningly sweet hope of a teenager, is gifted in smiles at those passing by. I would know this day was true and real because I would be able to answer the questions simply and sincerely with yes; I was indeed loved and I loved well enough. My perfect day would be forgiveness and my night would be empathy and at some point, I would have reached to the person who needed it the most all this time, to me; and I would tip my hat and say, “It’s such a lovely summer day. Care for a stroll?”