something is happening which is not happening at all
Thoughts from a few days ago:
Ah. Scary. By myself in concourse C as in Charlie. Although I have a sneaking suspicion they mean concourse C as in Charley. In all my nervousness I was tempted to get off at concourse B as in Baker or concourse A as in Adams just to test myself and perhaps prove that I have no common sense. However I tamed my nerves and kept my skin clamped on tight as my insides were likely to be the things jumping off that train or going everywhere at once. But I got to my seat and am waiting for my flight. Everything I've been told to do has gone past my head. I'm almost shaking. I'm scared of being alone in such a big place that echos from the ceiling "any person of suspicious or unusual activity please report to authorities". Does suspicious activity include shaking and not knowing one's name, age and destination? Yes I know it would include something more like having a bomb but I felt like a walking time bomb myself.
I brought this notebook with me just in case I might suddenly become enlightened by my surroundings and completely aware of the big world around me. I always thought subways and airports were inspiring. Where all the lost souls, and the rest, all shapes and sizes and colors would gather for at least one moment a day until concourse C as in Charlie was announced and then they'd go about their way. So I thought maybe I'd become more aware of something I hadn't before from being around all sorts of people. I know it must be true. At least it works in movies and books, the new age sorts, indie sorts. But all I can think about is these obvious tourists on the train with me. Highly sunburnt, in high spirits with their coolers and Hawaiian t-shirts and their sandals with high socks on. And I only think of this and how it's a wonderful description of them and how lucky I am to encoutner such folk as the stereotype so I can write about them and laugh at my wit in identifying silly people.
Anyways, I'm so scared that I look like I'm scared to toher people. So I try my best to look relaxed but it doesn't work. Nervous glances ab out the place, fake yawns and smiles and not to mentionthe whole idea that I'm sitting here bunched up, squeezed together, I think all my muscles must be strained at the moment, and I'm busily writing in my little notebook like I know somethingthey don't and must write it downas quickly as possible. I pretty much look like a basket case. It's true. And I think I feel better this way; writing something they don't know in this notebook is my only comfort for the moment.
On second thought, what's the big deal, it's just a plane ride.
And anyways I've got that thought coming. That thought I get whenever I'm in tough situations that seem endless that at the end of the day I'll be home wondering what it was I was worried about before.
Thoughts from some other days preceding:
At cousin's house.
I discovered I'm like a child/animal whisperer.
The baby is as cute as a baby can be to me. She likes to pretend to cough and she's curious about me. She stops crying when she gets near me just so she can stare at me.
Jackson is the older one. He just turened 3 and has started potty training, which means he runs around the house with his hand tugging at his penis and the other hand still on that pacifier.
He says some profound things among his non-stop jumble. Like he told his mother the other day, "I'm a big 3 now but tomorrow I'll be 22 and you'll be crying." He also tells her about things she did in the past when she was a baby.
Anyways as I sit here on the porch speaking with my mother on the phone I realize this has been a learning experience. I'm not sure what I learned but I felt that God intended me to be here for something.
And then I look over and see Jackson peeing off the porch right next to me. Aww.
Bothersome things:
chilled soup
draperies
the word cream if not used for food or lotion
The word cheese if not used for food
I must admit:
I steal pens
And I snoop in people's cabinents
And I borrow their toiletries
I also wrote something which I decided I'd call a poem. Or a stab at poetry.
It is for Tommy boy about how predictable he can be sometimes.
Ah. Scary. By myself in concourse C as in Charlie. Although I have a sneaking suspicion they mean concourse C as in Charley. In all my nervousness I was tempted to get off at concourse B as in Baker or concourse A as in Adams just to test myself and perhaps prove that I have no common sense. However I tamed my nerves and kept my skin clamped on tight as my insides were likely to be the things jumping off that train or going everywhere at once. But I got to my seat and am waiting for my flight. Everything I've been told to do has gone past my head. I'm almost shaking. I'm scared of being alone in such a big place that echos from the ceiling "any person of suspicious or unusual activity please report to authorities". Does suspicious activity include shaking and not knowing one's name, age and destination? Yes I know it would include something more like having a bomb but I felt like a walking time bomb myself.
I brought this notebook with me just in case I might suddenly become enlightened by my surroundings and completely aware of the big world around me. I always thought subways and airports were inspiring. Where all the lost souls, and the rest, all shapes and sizes and colors would gather for at least one moment a day until concourse C as in Charlie was announced and then they'd go about their way. So I thought maybe I'd become more aware of something I hadn't before from being around all sorts of people. I know it must be true. At least it works in movies and books, the new age sorts, indie sorts. But all I can think about is these obvious tourists on the train with me. Highly sunburnt, in high spirits with their coolers and Hawaiian t-shirts and their sandals with high socks on. And I only think of this and how it's a wonderful description of them and how lucky I am to encoutner such folk as the stereotype so I can write about them and laugh at my wit in identifying silly people.
Anyways, I'm so scared that I look like I'm scared to toher people. So I try my best to look relaxed but it doesn't work. Nervous glances ab out the place, fake yawns and smiles and not to mentionthe whole idea that I'm sitting here bunched up, squeezed together, I think all my muscles must be strained at the moment, and I'm busily writing in my little notebook like I know somethingthey don't and must write it downas quickly as possible. I pretty much look like a basket case. It's true. And I think I feel better this way; writing something they don't know in this notebook is my only comfort for the moment.
On second thought, what's the big deal, it's just a plane ride.
And anyways I've got that thought coming. That thought I get whenever I'm in tough situations that seem endless that at the end of the day I'll be home wondering what it was I was worried about before.
Thoughts from some other days preceding:
At cousin's house.
I discovered I'm like a child/animal whisperer.
The baby is as cute as a baby can be to me. She likes to pretend to cough and she's curious about me. She stops crying when she gets near me just so she can stare at me.
Jackson is the older one. He just turened 3 and has started potty training, which means he runs around the house with his hand tugging at his penis and the other hand still on that pacifier.
He says some profound things among his non-stop jumble. Like he told his mother the other day, "I'm a big 3 now but tomorrow I'll be 22 and you'll be crying." He also tells her about things she did in the past when she was a baby.
Anyways as I sit here on the porch speaking with my mother on the phone I realize this has been a learning experience. I'm not sure what I learned but I felt that God intended me to be here for something.
And then I look over and see Jackson peeing off the porch right next to me. Aww.
Bothersome things:
chilled soup
draperies
the word cream if not used for food or lotion
The word cheese if not used for food
I must admit:
I steal pens
And I snoop in people's cabinents
And I borrow their toiletries
I also wrote something which I decided I'd call a poem. Or a stab at poetry.
It is for Tommy boy about how predictable he can be sometimes.
say anything
"okay" says he
silence
typical tom
another situation
say anything
"anything" says he
tom...
another situation
say anything
"what should I say" says he
tom...
another situation
say anything
"that ear is an irregular shape" says he
tom...
wanted situation
say anything
"okay" says he
silence
"i was thinking i love you and coconut soup is good and i think i'll see you tomorrow" says he
my tom
"okay" says he
silence
typical tom
another situation
say anything
"anything" says he
tom...
another situation
say anything
"what should I say" says he
tom...
another situation
say anything
"that ear is an irregular shape" says he
tom...
wanted situation
say anything
"okay" says he
silence
"i was thinking i love you and coconut soup is good and i think i'll see you tomorrow" says he
my tom
posted by Em at 11:01 PM
1 Comments:
You might consider being a writer.
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