Played 2 times
"My Winding Wheel" by Ryan Adams
I think I may have willed this into existence, maybe through attraction or boredom or whatever it is that makes molecules vibrate the way they do. All I know is one day we’re all hockey and poutine and kicking it with Cousins, and suddenly we’re standing in front of CVS all awkward arms and tippy toes. It makes the head spin.
My father was hospitalized over the weekend, brain aneurysm they say, and my own brain is finding it difficult to contemplate. I’ve had zero emotional response to the news but for some vague annoyance at my mother (who blames herself of course) but for once in my ungrateful life I’m supremely thankful for my little sister—the ostensible nurse—for her ostensible nursing of the situation back home. Way to go, little sister.
And here I am on the real Day One, to-do list one million items long, willing myself to take the leap (for if there are two things at which I excel, they are willing and leaping).
Someone called me “Ms. Director” this morning. I lol’d.
Don’t worry about the compass. Give me a call whenever you want to get lost.
A postcard fell out of a beat-up paperback and I didn’t recognize that it was your handwriting scratching out the letters of my name and address until I flipped the dang thing over, saw a picture of the Canyon of the Crescent Moon and immediately pictured you sweaty and dusty and smiling ear to ear astride your new camel friend. You used to send me postcards a lot, and I’d stick them randomly amongst the pages of books also pulled randomly from the shelves, little gifts to my future self, I thought, the revisiting of both. How naive of my past self.
These many years later would you believe I still get updates from well meaning mutual friends? “You know who just moved, don’t you?” and “Did you see that picture on Facebook?” Don’t you know? I want to ask but never do; it’s a noisy world and our silence is drowned in the cacophony. And now how do I tell them—to borrow a cliche—the steady stream of postcards dwindled to a trickle until the creek dried up entirely.
Drive south, you wrote. And Jiminy Cricket I almost did.
Too often these days it feels I’m biding time, sitting center stage while the rest of life swirls round and round and round. It’s the little things I put off, inexplicably, the ordering of that tinted moisturizer I so like, the transport of spent AAA batteries from the mantle to the recycling bin. The big things, they get done; I travel, I applied for that job (and interviewed! twice!), I’ve cooked and drank and talked to strangers. But somewhere last year—well really, the year before that even—I got the morbs and have procrastinated feeling anything but ever since.
So that’s my story. I’ve read some really great books recently and also some not great ones. I think I like Peter Capaldi as the new Doctor but I’ve not much liked his episodes thus far. If Claire and Jamie don’t make out soon I swear to Santa I’m going to… keep watching that dumb show until they do. I’ve hit 20% and found both wildly overrated. I also didn’t much like the new Arcade Fire record. And the more I think about it the more I think that Jeni McQuain was right when she said that thing that one summer I came home from college: I am such a snob.