A Round Up of Daily Tragedies

I was born as Wednesday’s child of woe and I thrive in lamenting daily losses , both mine and yours. The little big things, the invisiblia and obscure paraphernalia of the everyday normal. Think of this as your daily wrap-up of today’s tragedies that went by without notice or pause. The involuntary shoulder shakes of the woman with sandy hair thrown messily into a bun 20 years too young for her. The endless sparkle of city lights from the window of a building I will only be allowed to enter once. The cracks in the pavement leading to the bus stop, unnoticed by the city, just like the rest of the neighborhood. The unexpected kind words of a strange man I encounter at the train station — I cannot lie, my first instinct was (and always is) fear. The gentle cajoling smile on the face of the young man selling his poetry downtown. The homeless father-daughter duo, offering blessings to disappointed downtowners.

A Borrowed Imagination

I was going through some old writing and blogs and I found a bunch of things that reminded me of who I was and where I was and how far I've come in some ways (and not in others).

All the missing

I remember so much from my childhood. I remember the childhood I did not have. I remember the childhood I did have. The one that was, for all its warts and flaws, a childhood. I can see that clearly, from the lens of adulthood, closer to thirty than ever. A new year starting is always a place of reflection and remembrance.

Unclenching

Tiredness tells its own stories. Its vocabulary is vast, it knows how to reach the hidden crevices of your day. And night. Its running companion is often guilt, not a welcome friend, but never enough of a foe to be abandoned completely.

The steady, comforting bus ride to work. The walk to your desk. The gentle trickle of hot water into your mug. The polite nods and murmurs at faces not familiar enough to slow down for (and the shame of realizing you make that distinction). The exaggerated sip of your hot beverage of choice. Leaning back into your chair and being suddenly aware in that moment of the silence around you, the steady snowfall outside, the intense lighting surrounding you, almost lulling you into acquiescence for this sort of life.

Do you marvel at the slow uncoiling of your heart? Are you surprised, you who thought, it was all under control? Do you slowly feel the rushing of your blood slowing down? I sometimes look at my hands and wonder at the strangeness of it all.

The inescapable sigh in your voice, I hope you don't ignore it. The tug of gravity feels stronger, you imagine your swaying is somehow the earth's fault.

In the end, you shrug, realizing there is only so much you want to do. This is your one life. The chapter of tiredness deserves only so many words, so many pages. 

A Borrowed Imagination

One of the problems with a love for reading is that every time something sad happens, something falls apart, you are left with all the possibilities that could have been. Not just possibilities from your imagination, but from the imagination of every author you ever read. You think to yourself, I would have worn two sweaters each day so as to not feel cold, I would have cycled to work, we would have taken walks on weekend, the house would have been full of books, compliments would have been saved for birthdays and anniversaries and so on.

Perhaps that's why I dwell so much. I think of what didn't happen (fact) and then I think about the millions of things that didn't happen (fiction), and now never will. And this of course leads to a journey million miles below the surface of the truth.

I wouldn't stop reading though. I couldn't stop. But sometimes I wish I had only my imagination to deal with. Or an off button. 

The Worst Email Ever Written

This is fiction, made-up stuff

The worst email that was ever written was like a curse. No, scratch that, it was a curse. Once it was in your inbox, everything went awry. You sent your boss the email with those pictures meant for your boyfriend. You accidentally sent a copy of your bank statement to your mother. Who is usually not the best at email, but this one she managed to read this right away and called you ten times in a row. You think your brother may have a hand in this; he has never approved of what he calls your flighty ways and you can always imagine his self-righteous glee as he read your statement.