(no subject)
It is difficult to express the quantity of relief and excitement I have about getting on a plane tomorrow. I would probably be happy to get on one going in any direction, to any city, so its even better that its not any city, it’s a city I’ve wanted to visit and never have, it's a visit to Miss Katrina, and later the rest of the merry band of grad school family in a cabin in the woods next to a river with a hot tub on the deck. Or rather, a soft tub, but such differences are negligible to me. Of course, its supposed to stop raining in Chicago right around the time it starts raining in Portland, which all this is happening about 12 hours after I land, but it wouldn’t be Portland without a little of that, I suppose. It is festive even.
Here are all the times I think about how my daily rituals have been changed by loss: coming home, opening the door to the apartment, leaving the apartment, waking up in the morning and not needing to put on clothes to stand in the backyard, getting home at night and not having to leave on my pants because I’m going right down the back stairs, picking up my keys to put in my pocket, putting on shoes, cooking meat, using the can opener, singing outloud, talking to myself, hearing dogs bark outside, doorbell ringing, running through the house to catch a phonecall, dropping food on the floor, walking past the orange futon in the middle room, sitting on the toilet, plastic bags in the house, going for a walk in the neighborhood, sitting on the couch, opening the kitchen window, opening the back screen door to the porch, whistling, doing laundry, vacuuming, thunderstorms, naptime.
In other words, about fifty times a day. Yeah, I need to get the hell away from here for awhile.
Here are all the times I think about how my daily rituals have been changed by loss: coming home, opening the door to the apartment, leaving the apartment, waking up in the morning and not needing to put on clothes to stand in the backyard, getting home at night and not having to leave on my pants because I’m going right down the back stairs, picking up my keys to put in my pocket, putting on shoes, cooking meat, using the can opener, singing outloud, talking to myself, hearing dogs bark outside, doorbell ringing, running through the house to catch a phonecall, dropping food on the floor, walking past the orange futon in the middle room, sitting on the toilet, plastic bags in the house, going for a walk in the neighborhood, sitting on the couch, opening the kitchen window, opening the back screen door to the porch, whistling, doing laundry, vacuuming, thunderstorms, naptime.
In other words, about fifty times a day. Yeah, I need to get the hell away from here for awhile.