June 05, 2004
Fire Doors That Won't Close
I got home last night, after spending nearly two hours of the afternoon on the I-5 parking lot. The 85-degree weather joined forces with the appalling pollen count, and, with the aid of black vinyl seats and mis-addressed packages, I just felt miserable.
Maybe my misery had nothing to do with all of that, though. It was the end of a long week. Or three weeks. Or three-- anyways... the days go by so fast, don't they?
And all I wanted was to finish off the bottle of gin in the freezer.
I was on call, though, and had already been sent two night orders. And that was good, really, because I like driving around at night. Especially at times like those.
Times like those. The times when I play "This Is a Fire Door Never Leave Open" on repeat as loud as I can stand, and sometimes even louder still. The times when I try to find the fastest road to drive on, because all I want is the scenery around me to feel as fleeting as everything else of seeming importance. The times when a reasonable mother might say, "Don't go out when you're feeling like that. You'll get yourself into an accident."
I heard someone say something like that once.
Today is full of much of the same. I've thought about driving down to Corvallis, finding a corner at the Interzone, and just watching people and life float by. I've thought about calling Jen, and babbling about obfuscated metaphors and guarded references. I've thought about opening up the freezer. Or maybe just trying to get that LED to blink.
My glasses broke, too. I wonder if someone is trying to tell me something.
Sometimes, on a glass window or polished floor, out of the corner of your eye, you see a face, or a feeling, or a fragment of a memory that just won't die, and it fixes you in that formulated phrase. Of whether there is time enough, or not; of whether the train has passed you by, or merely late; of whether the deck, sanded and stained, will ever feel new, or if it just needs to be thrown out with all the dirt in the vacuum bag.
In cleaning my mom's house during the past two weeks I've taken out dozens of bags of trash and recycling. When trash is like that, when it piles up visibly, in the open, and not yours, it's easy to get rid of. You don't think about everything that comes with the trash and everything that leaves with the trash. You don't think about the trash much at all, save how the dirt makes you sneeze and gag and wish it wasn't there.
Maybe if I was better at writing, I could put all my trash out onto college-ruled paper, and have someone-- a loved one, perhaps-- throw it out for me. I've tried, but the words all come out wrong, and the wrong words just seem to add to the trash. And so all I have now is this breathing in of failing to describe the feeling, and this breathing out of remembering this is what the living do. All I have now is the sound of trains passing by all night long, and the sight of reflections on the television. All I have now is a feeling that I'm looking for forgiveness in all the wrong places and faith that I'll be able to forcefully answer the megaphones in helicopters asking, "Hey, are you ok?"
Yes.
Posted by Sean at June 5, 2004 04:43 PM