The other day I thought: I shouldn't care about anything I write. Why bother? It's insignificant. I'm insignificant; we all are. Everything is. What does it matter what I write; why should I write at all. Oddly, writing still beckons me and, whispering softly, it seduces me with imperatives I do not understand. There is an absurdity to life when it comes to living and doing. Yesterday, I felt so strongly I had to escape the city that I wore a wig and an eye patch, called myself Snake, and drove as fast as I could to Sonoma. The feeling of being chased wouldn't leave me, even after I'd arrived. I guess it's because it wasn't truly an arrival; more of a layover. We only truly arrive when we last depart. Everything else is just a seat in the economy cabin - breathing in stale, recirculated air, tired trapped and uncomfortable, with aching joints and never enough leg room.
Nature did help allay my distress though, through brief distraction. Lately I feel like a child holding a broken flashlight, running wildly down a sidewalk on a cool night; falling victim to the uneven angles that hide in the dark which wait to reach up and catch the front of my shoe, to taste the skin of my knee. I need something to stop me from crying; a funny face or my mother's arms, something shiny, a lollipop, a Scooby Doo band-aid.
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