Tag: reflection

Next, your nightstand

I wish there was something more poignant about the way I’m feeling right now.

These days it seems that every experience I have (and the feelings that accompany it) are new and strange. Have you ever gotten to that point in your timeline where you realize that you are just… different? The changes certainly weren’t overnight—maybe they came from extreme loss or a job change or marriage, partnered, perhaps, with purposeful self-growth. It doesn’t matter. Either way, you come to this point where you fully realize it. It’s like if you were slowly to replace everything in your bedroom. First, you swap carpeting. The next day, your hamper goes. The next, your sheets. And so on, until eventually everything is different. You feel like a foreigner in your own room, your own shell.

I don’t even know if it’s ok, you know. I just know this is how it is. And I can either accept it or start swapping again.

mt

Summa-summa-time & a visit to the supposed city of my dreams

Hey y’all…

Yep. Being in the south for a week definitely does something to one’s dialect. I mean, it’s not like I’m really toting some raspy drawl or anything, but there have been some slipups. Don’t worry: I came home and said “hey yinz guys” in front of the mirror like 147 times to make sure.

The week-long jaunt to and from Asheville was a much needed vacation. I still did work and fretted over such things as emails and edits, but I think the fresh air and the new surroundings did me good. It’s amazing how gorgeous those mountains are, and how they followed your every move: pumping gas, standing outside for a smoke, walking around town, everywhere. It was kind of like having a sky in your pockets. Or something like that. (I realized upon coming home that we have all those gorgeous mountains, just smaller.)

We ate BBQ, wrote postcards and walked around town (we stayed in Black Mountain), enjoying most of all, the people. What is it that makes us so frustrated, uptight and intolerant? We are so rushed and quick to move onto the next thing. What about right now? Time crept more slowly there and my eyes weren’t fixed to my phone’s clock.

What can I say? Asheville was everything I thought it would be.

The house across the street

I look.

I can’t help it. It’s right across the street. It’s a worn white house with ugly brown trim. Looking at it, I can’t quite point out exactly what it is… why it looks as if it’s caving in on itself. But it does.

When I moved in, my roommate told me the story.

A man lived there, a big man, with no family. Nobody really knew him. Middle-aged. He shot himself a year or so ago. Pretty sad. Could it be any sadder, really? And since then, it’s quirks have haunted me.

It’s been only about five or six times, but sometimes a car will be there. On a Sunday. Once I saw a small gathering, a few men and a woman, purveying it from the sidewalk. Solemn.

Sometimes, a light will be on outside. I’ll run a few errands, come back, and it’ll be out. I don’t think it’s motion-activated. I’ve tested that theory. Sometimes, and this is the worst, the screen door will fly open. It will stay that way for days, flapping. I don’t dare close it. I’ve never come that close.

A small driveway, severely sloped and stout, falls into it like an open mouth, a garage tucked neatly below. And, on a morning not too long ago (aptly during the deep freeze of this winter), I heard a gushing sound emanating from it’s eerie cavern. Water line, I’m sure. And I had to call the cops.

“Who owns it? Does anyone live there?”

And somehow I was explaining my haunt to a policeman, leaving out all of my paranoia.

I don’t know what it means or if it will ever be sold or demolished. But it’s part of my (nearly) everyday. And I just wanted to say it somewhere. I’m sure we all have these things. I’ve even dreamed about the place, the man inside who I’ve never met.

Do you have something like that? Something that scares you, a constant reminder of your mortality?

That’s just one of mine.

mt