Oh shit The Universe.
So extremely well played. Song 135.
A guest in my car today said something about the cars of people who have made certain lifestyle choices. People who in one way or another have dedicated a good portion of their life to music. He said it’s funny because their cars are almost always the same. An old scrappy little guy full of CDs and tapes, both new and old, flyers and drive thru remnants (just so we’re square, I SO cleaned my car this morning) because at some point they just decided what was important for them and so the faucet is always on. Dripping. And due to that, they can only be so clean.
All I could think to say was “You should see my apartment.”
Earlier, in a significantly more overwhelming situation all I could think to say to a huge crowd of people was. “Ok. This is a little bit nuts. But let’s all just be really nice and this should go great.” Vague right? But that’s exactly what happened. Everyone was polite. And everyone was happy. And I have never had more people say thank you to me in my life.
I don’t think there is any way that I can say thank you enough.
Later, after all the excitement, I ended up saying something totally random to my friend Mere that as it spilled out of my mouth I couldn’t help but be surprised by. I was telling her that I sometimes feel like there is a little bird in a little wooden cage inside my chest flapping like a maniac because it is injured. And it keeps me up at night because I don’t know what to do. Some days I want to help it and some days I want to drown it in the sink.
And some days are just better than others, for no reason I can figure. Sometimes that stupid bird just seems to be feeling better on it’s own. And sometimes it’s for long enough that I forget it was sick in the first place. But some days it chirps and struggles for hours. And sometimes I just throw a blanket over it so that it thinks it’s dark outside and goes to sleep. But sometimes it just flaps and flaps pathetically no matter what I try and do.
I now think what really has to happen is that I have to slowly and patiently creep up on it with a little splint made out of teeny tiny things, like toothpicks and cottonballs.
And I have to gently tape it’s injured wing back together without waking it.
It’s like playing a game of Operator on a live animal, with a heartbeat twice the speed of your own.
But even if that works, I know that doesn’t mean it’s over.
Then I just have to wait. And I can’t leave it’s side.
Otherwise, it might wake up and be afraid that it’s alone.