Saturday
Oct092010
Some Days Lately
Saturday, October 9, 2010
When I left the house this morning, nature's smaller bits winnowed their way up my nose and left me crying all the way to work. Allergies are a bitch. I daubed at my eyes with my blue scarf until the corner of my left eye started to feel raw.
I thought about how I had found a purple mark on the bottom of my foot when I dusted it off before putting on my socks. It seemed to hover just below the surface of my skin. It didn't hurt when I poked it, so it probably wasn't a bruise.
It's cancer, I thought.
I think everything is cancer. Once you've had it, it never goes away. I find a spot on myself that is suddenly out of the ordinary, I watch it for a while, and when it doesn't change, I move on. Right now, I'm worrying about amputation and how it might be to live without my right foot.
When I was nearly at work, I saw a crazy woman coming toward me. You could see how long she'd been crazy by the six inches of wirey, white roots followed by two feet of dyed red-brown hair. Six months to a year, maybe.
My eyes were spilling tears as though they could wash the world out of them, and when I pulled my scarf back up to wipe them away, the woman looked me in the one eye I had open.
"Don't cry," she said. "Your looking really good today."
She threw in a little skip as she passed. It made me smile.
Things really are that simple, sometimes, lately. Maybe it's because they have to be as I navigate my way through time and space without the ease afforded by alcohol. Some days I eat breakfast, I iron my shirts, I sell shoes, I take photographs. I keep things simple. I do things without thinking, without investing them with anything deeper than what they are. I am moving. I am eating. I am attending to business.
On those days, it is tidy, like living in a magazine picture that describes mid-century American life in a mid-century American magazine.
After work, I bought things we needed for the house, hair conditioner and wood glue and hashbrowns. A young woman, late teens or early twenties, pointed me out to her boyfriend from the lawn where they sat as I walked home with my bags. She had the courage not to look away when I looked back at her.
I imagined that it was because she liked the way I was dressed, that she wouldn't mind being me in fifteen years.
I thought about how I had found a purple mark on the bottom of my foot when I dusted it off before putting on my socks. It seemed to hover just below the surface of my skin. It didn't hurt when I poked it, so it probably wasn't a bruise.
It's cancer, I thought.
I think everything is cancer. Once you've had it, it never goes away. I find a spot on myself that is suddenly out of the ordinary, I watch it for a while, and when it doesn't change, I move on. Right now, I'm worrying about amputation and how it might be to live without my right foot.
When I was nearly at work, I saw a crazy woman coming toward me. You could see how long she'd been crazy by the six inches of wirey, white roots followed by two feet of dyed red-brown hair. Six months to a year, maybe.
My eyes were spilling tears as though they could wash the world out of them, and when I pulled my scarf back up to wipe them away, the woman looked me in the one eye I had open.
"Don't cry," she said. "Your looking really good today."
She threw in a little skip as she passed. It made me smile.
Things really are that simple, sometimes, lately. Maybe it's because they have to be as I navigate my way through time and space without the ease afforded by alcohol. Some days I eat breakfast, I iron my shirts, I sell shoes, I take photographs. I keep things simple. I do things without thinking, without investing them with anything deeper than what they are. I am moving. I am eating. I am attending to business.
On those days, it is tidy, like living in a magazine picture that describes mid-century American life in a mid-century American magazine.
After work, I bought things we needed for the house, hair conditioner and wood glue and hashbrowns. A young woman, late teens or early twenties, pointed me out to her boyfriend from the lawn where they sat as I walked home with my bags. She had the courage not to look away when I looked back at her.
I imagined that it was because she liked the way I was dressed, that she wouldn't mind being me in fifteen years.
Reader Comments (12)
A beautiful entry. The photos compliment it perfectly.
This is a peaceful, comforting post. Thanks for sharing.
even the very simple can be wonderfully complex (and deep). being here now isn't necessarily easy. (and a "normal" day can, in its most fundamental way, be quite a blessing.)
and
you are looking/being/radiating "really good."
The crazy lady is right. You are looking really good today-- I can see it in the clarity of those photos.
I don't know why but this really struck me today. I found you via Doobleh-vay Twitter. I really needed something about this. It made me cry. I have not had alcohol now since 2002... Maybe it was something to do with that... I'm not sure... :) Beautiful!
Happy Thanksgiving. I am thankful for you.
I think sometimes the crazies have the clearest vision.
But then I only think that when I want to believe them, most of the time I figure they are just crazy. I just can't make up my mind.
Damn, you write well.
splendid. every single word.
the blessed ordinary, both simple and profound, expressed with such beauty
Being you in 15 years would definitely be something someone 15 years younger than you could aspire to. You ARE pretty awesome.
I COMPLETELY empathize with you on the allergies. I have them YEAR-ROUND. I hate them and they drive me half insane. Ugh.
I came to visit your writing tonight and ... Schmutzie, I don't know how you're dressed but I'd love to be as brave and badass as you are in fifteen years, or tomorrow. Your sobriety is inspiring.
Love,
a young woman.