Yesterday, in a waiting room where people are quiet because they are saving their energy for the emotional waterfall that is about to ensue. In that waiting room I was early. For the first time since I started seeing Dr. D I was early. I had a book in my purse that was meant for these early moments, but it had felt emotionally draining to read this book lately. It was about the grieving Joan Didion experienced after her husband died suddenly in front of a fire as she was preparing dinner. I picked up an adventure magazine. There was an image of ice and snow and mountains on the front. I skipped to a random page and I began to read. This man was narrating the moment when his wife was confirming where she wanted her ashes to be spread when she died. Ten days later she died in a kayaking accident. I wondered why I kept reading about death. I went into my session with Dr. D. The first 20 minutes were spent with casual small talk. Then silence.
“You’re really good at silence.” I told her when I couldn’t stand reading the titles of the books on the coffee table in front of me any longer.
She smiled. I cried.
The day before I had an interview with a celebrity mixologist. His small apartment in Playa Del Ray was stark, barely lived in, 5 minutes from the airport. His collection of cowboy boots bombarded me as I walked in. They were meant to be seen. I’m still unsure of what he does with his life. He fills it to the point of forgetting his loneliness. He was utterly in love with his dog who was not a Chihuahua, but looked like one. After the interview the photographer took some pictures of him with a bottle of red wine in his hand and an empty glass. Once the pictures were done the mixologist and the photographer took a couple hits each. It was 4/20. I watched and became paranoid I would smell of weed as I entered the sober living I worked at. The photographer and I left at the same time. I asked if he would like to go out sometime. He told me to hit him up. I probably won’t hit him up.
That night after I cried at silence I went out with my parents for drinks. My dad and I got Pilsners and my mom got a glass of white wine. We laughed. I loved them for filling in for the friends that I have scattered across the country. The world.
The next night I went out for Thai food after I wrote the piece on the Mixologist. I read my book that is emotionally draining and ate Pad Thai that I put too much red pepper on. I tried to balance the spice with sugar. That’s what I used to do when I lived there. Red pepper and sugar. My taste buds have been ruined by the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and yogurt, and pasta. All bland compared to the spice of my past. I drank a lot of water and ate slowly. I nearly ate it all. I read about the year I was born on the placemat under my pad thai. It was the year of the horse. I am ostentatious and impatient. The goat or tiger are whom I should look to for marriage.
I walked back home. The air was cool. The dogwood trees were blooming.
The key took a minute to unlock the door to my ugly white house. I walked to the messy kitchen that I don’t spend much time in. I opened a Sierra Nevada and I walked to my room with green and purple walls. I live in an eggplant. I began writing this and sipped on my beer.
There are lights over my bed that make it possible to see all the specks of stuff we forget about when the light doesn’t expose it. It floated and instead of reading I watched them and created love stories for the dust that floated in and out of the other dust’s realm of being.