When my fairy godmother peeked over the bars of my crib on tip-toe, she saw a squalling, angry mess. Where she could have chosen any number of gifts to bestow, I like to think she looked down at me and pronounced: "Stubborn." And as an afterthought she scratched her chin, squinted and said, "Jack of all trades, master of none. Or some. Whatever. Gah, I wonder what other jobs are on craigslist. Cuz this blows."
It is all fine and good to have a paycheck. I know this. But I am quickly approaching decision junction, which is out by the rest stop over by the pizza place just past the biker bar. It's not a pleasant trip -- too much traffic, bad roads -- but it's heavenly on the other side. All the chocolate malt you can drink and the air smells like pine trees and honeysuckle and freshly cut grass.
Or maybe I'm the frog. And I just realized the water is boiling.
It is a totally ordinary day, not any more or less stressful than the 90 before it. But we are building sandcastles and each turrett sits on walls and the moat's been dug and just know that the sandcastle started as a grain of sand and then it kept growing until it became unstable and collapsed in on itself because of physics and gravity and the science of tides. (This is how it sounds in my head all the time. I generally run all this through a real-world language filter before I post. Be glad you aren't telepathic or you would go mad from the non-sequiturs bouncing in there.) So I am the sandcastle, see? And lately it has been harder and harder to keep my tower from falling over. The hands that made me are busy elsewhere so no sand reinforcements and you know, I think I could keep going with this metaphor all day, but I won't because I think you get the drift. SAND DRIFT. Ha. My kingdom for a spade and a bucket and a glass of wine.
Class tonight or I would crawl into bed. It'll be good for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment