12/7

The word part of this is long and rambling, so I'll put up the picture first.
Tada! My mini-tree!





I finished reading No One Belongs Here More Than You. Mind blowing.

And this is my adventure from yesterday.




It was a snowball of events, in the best sense. It started with super glue, to repair the headphones, which made it possible to listen to music while biking, which made it easier to not think about the burn of long-ignored muscles as they carried my body and messenger bag down the road that led to a bookstore. The bookstore was my first stop, and I soaked in it like a tired mother/nurse/(anyone-who-works-as-hard) soaks in a steaming bubble bath; grateful, sighing, sinking, and not thinking about anything in particular except the wonderful feeling of just existing. Books reached out to me, held me, stroked my back and whispered words of rest and comfort that no one else knew to say. Time let go of me, and I let go of Time, and we ignored each other for an infinity of moments as I allowed myself to become consumed by the rows and rows and rows of books. I bought two, and they were the weight of feathers on my shoulders- that is to say, wings- along with a scone and a small hot chai. The scone proved rather difficult, as I was untaught in the art of managing not to scatter crumbs, but I did learn how to only scatter them on the plate in front of me. It wasn’t until my scone was gone and my cup emptied and the first book half read that I felt maybe, perhaps, I should move on? The suggestion was brought up hesitantly in my mind; seeing as how I felt no serious urge to reject the idea, I began walking. My feet carried me to Anthropologie (I’m not afraid to say the name!). The feeling of belonging hit me rather like a belly flop into water, except without the pain and discomfort that follows; the sudden strike, and then a gentle float to the bottom of the pool. This pool smelled like everything I wanted to smell like, with lovely textures and gorgeous colors and patterns and pages and everything was beautiful. From this point on, words begin to fail me. I ceased to think in coherent sentences or thoughts, and generally ceased thinking at all; I let the wave of my five immediate senses wash over me, and over, and over, until I was saturated and full and drunk with it. Honey and The Moon- it was the scented lotion that I rubbed on my hands after leaving the dressing room, as if it could lift away the moment of guilt I felt after admitting that yes, the pants fit, but I didn’t think that I would be buying them. There was a hope inside me that the worker understood, that she could see something in my eyes that explained that I belong here but I will never be able to belong here. The scent of it filled me, and satisfied me; I left with it delicately holding onto my skin, along with the growing sense that I was a stranger in this place. The people with their false hair, faces, loves, lives. I could feel myself pushing through them; nearly laughed out loud when I thought of how ridiculous they looked. How can you loathe something so absurd? The man who doesn’t glance twice when his wife detaches from his arm to enter into a jewelry store; the face with uncertain age, stretched and pulled until it is monstrous in form; another man, walking alone with his cigarette, dressed all in expensive black clothes and black hair and a swagger that speaks of easy living- him I found especially humorous, for some reason. The way he strutted, almost gesturing with his arm as he brought the cigarette to his mouth and back down; his dark wardrobe that made him look like a waiter. That was probably it- for all his fancy clothes, he looked like a sleazy waiter in a rundown bar, the kind that buys his fancy suits with other people’s money. Before he could pass me, I crossed the street to where I had propped my bike. Earlier I had prayed that it wouldn’t get stolen, and I was relieved to find it whole and still in place.
After the first time I crossed the busy streets on my return journey, I didn’t have to stop to wait to cross the rest of the way. I let the falling night jangle inside my head, strumming the tight strings of consciousness that I hadn’t played in a while. Tunes of light blue fading into yellow, searching for the shade of green in between them and getting distracted by the sliver of moon above the horizon and the silhouette of a large cactus; the cacophony of riding on the side of the road so that traffic was coming towards me, catching me in their tunnels of dry air and dust, highlighting me with their cones of light; the symphony of cool air on my arms, caressing my face, running its fingers through my hair and down my neck- the song of living filled me, and I laughed with the small gasping breathes that I could take from the lungs unused to being put through this much activity at once. Bursts of laughter, throwing my head back for a moment until I remembered that I might crash, laughing again at the thought and riding on. My pace slowed for the final stretch, as my muscles went to a numb fire and my mind grasped for straws. Could this last forever, just this once? But then a small thought floated to the surface- the blue-yellow has changed to indigo-blue, and it is time to be home. Yes, I whispered to myself, home.