LJI, week 8: My True North
Check the pockets. Sharpie. Box Cutter. Lip balm (Burt's Bees if possible). Wallet in back pocket. Keys...somewhere.
(The blessing and curse of Dickie's brand work pants is in the pockets. You can carry a life in them...but keys remain elusive, even if you know they're there. Somewhere. Keys especially like to migrate from pocket to pocket, espescially if the weather is bad or you have had a shift that raises the bar for bad days and all you want to do is stumble in the door and fall asleep before you take your third sip of beer. Keys can be cruel that way).
Check the bag. Journal. Crochet project. Titanium spork. Another Sharpie, two more box cutters, extra socks since I'm likely to be stuck with mop duty and have to wait for the bus in wet feet otherwise). Something that used to be a granola bar before it met the swamp of tea dregs, used tissues, and the offspring on tiny bottles of vodka that leaked in the bottom of my bag. Pocket knife from an old lover which would probably be best used to threathen him with in a half-lit hipster alley...and explain why this blade is as ineffectual as his dick and his attempt at a handlebar mustache.
(I've never understood why the gifts I get are always the ones that I could use against you in horrible ways. If I were, you know...a different sort of person)
My armor is colorful. Mish-mashed mixed up rainbow of bits and bobs of yarn. A hat and a scarf and things that don't match but are powerful and they are me. Songs sung out loud ring from the bells at my wrists I have love in my heart and a knife in my boot...and, occasionally, poison on my lips.
I am told I was other once. I didn't need these things. Not these colors. Not these trappings of creativity and life and spark and...yes, even tthe bad things that have that seductive scent of shame and power.
But I have these things and I carry them with me. North. Always North. I am told someday I may get to drop them. They will become light and a star and a purpose and wrap me in lights and colors and imaginings told only once for my ears.
And my name will be True.
(The blessing and curse of Dickie's brand work pants is in the pockets. You can carry a life in them...but keys remain elusive, even if you know they're there. Somewhere. Keys especially like to migrate from pocket to pocket, espescially if the weather is bad or you have had a shift that raises the bar for bad days and all you want to do is stumble in the door and fall asleep before you take your third sip of beer. Keys can be cruel that way).
Check the bag. Journal. Crochet project. Titanium spork. Another Sharpie, two more box cutters, extra socks since I'm likely to be stuck with mop duty and have to wait for the bus in wet feet otherwise). Something that used to be a granola bar before it met the swamp of tea dregs, used tissues, and the offspring on tiny bottles of vodka that leaked in the bottom of my bag. Pocket knife from an old lover which would probably be best used to threathen him with in a half-lit hipster alley...and explain why this blade is as ineffectual as his dick and his attempt at a handlebar mustache.
(I've never understood why the gifts I get are always the ones that I could use against you in horrible ways. If I were, you know...a different sort of person)
My armor is colorful. Mish-mashed mixed up rainbow of bits and bobs of yarn. A hat and a scarf and things that don't match but are powerful and they are me. Songs sung out loud ring from the bells at my wrists I have love in my heart and a knife in my boot...and, occasionally, poison on my lips.
I am told I was other once. I didn't need these things. Not these colors. Not these trappings of creativity and life and spark and...yes, even tthe bad things that have that seductive scent of shame and power.
But I have these things and I carry them with me. North. Always North. I am told someday I may get to drop them. They will become light and a star and a purpose and wrap me in lights and colors and imaginings told only once for my ears.
And my name will be True.