plants of various sorts
NEGLECT.
Forgive me, Fire in the Hole. This is why I don’t have children yet. My two plants remind me of this when they aren’t hidden by the curtain.
* * * *
Last night, driving home from work, I called my mom. We traveled through the Holland Tunnel together, where she told me she got claustrophobically sick when she was a little girl on vacation with my grandparents. Her spot has been marked by irises and the skeleton of a man who never made it out. My mom is famous.
Once I came out of the tunnel I got off the phone so I could be legal and pay attention to driving. My mind wandered anyway. I left into space, wondering if I might be a bad person, how I might be a better person, as I rolled up to a stop sign on a small unbusy street. A man who looked like he might have been homeless was walking in the street outside my window and caught my eye. As I looked out, he looked in, eyes to eyes. Am I a bad person? "Don’t give up," he said to me. And walked on.
This reminded me of a time when I was in college. I was walking toward the bridge back to my dorm. These were the especially depressed and disgruntled days. Nick Cave was playing in my walkman. He had just growled about a devil on his floor when a fellow I didn’t know approached me. Mind you, this was why I wore the walkman (outside simply enjoying the music)—so that people would leave me the heck alone. He handed me a pamphlet: How Can You Be Saved? From the devil on the floor?
This is why I sometimes think I have my own Truman Show. Laughter is the answer.
Forgive me, Fire in the Hole. This is why I don’t have children yet. My two plants remind me of this when they aren’t hidden by the curtain.
* * * *
Last night, driving home from work, I called my mom. We traveled through the Holland Tunnel together, where she told me she got claustrophobically sick when she was a little girl on vacation with my grandparents. Her spot has been marked by irises and the skeleton of a man who never made it out. My mom is famous.
Once I came out of the tunnel I got off the phone so I could be legal and pay attention to driving. My mind wandered anyway. I left into space, wondering if I might be a bad person, how I might be a better person, as I rolled up to a stop sign on a small unbusy street. A man who looked like he might have been homeless was walking in the street outside my window and caught my eye. As I looked out, he looked in, eyes to eyes. Am I a bad person? "Don’t give up," he said to me. And walked on.
This reminded me of a time when I was in college. I was walking toward the bridge back to my dorm. These were the especially depressed and disgruntled days. Nick Cave was playing in my walkman. He had just growled about a devil on his floor when a fellow I didn’t know approached me. Mind you, this was why I wore the walkman (outside simply enjoying the music)—so that people would leave me the heck alone. He handed me a pamphlet: How Can You Be Saved? From the devil on the floor?
This is why I sometimes think I have my own Truman Show. Laughter is the answer.
2 Comments:
missed you, dear sara. and apparently, FITH, too.
~the girl FKA transience
Thank you, hudson, for your kind words.
How very nice to see you here, transience. Really. I hope you're doing well. I like the acronym. Some FITH t-shirts would be nice.
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