Chewing on my own brain, angst and anxiety soup…
Mom. Is Mom ok? happy? Should I call? What would I say? I’ve got nothing going on. I hope her days are getting brighter. Why has she had so much shitty luck? Am I just like her? How do I be a good daughter?
Oh Sis. I hope her kiddo is behaving today so she can get a good day. I wonder how she’s feeling? Hopefully not too depressed. I wish I could be more helpful to her.
Is my Dad alive? Is he happy? What is he doing with his life? Does he have friends, a job? Has he completely forgotten about me? Did he ever care? Will he ever talk to me again? Will I ever get over this hole in my family or does it remain a gaping pit forever?
Why did Grandpa stop writing back? Is he happy? Is he in pain? I should call. What if I call and I can’t bear hearing him in pain and old and I have another breakdown? Why am I such a coward? Fuck, I need to work up the courage to call dammit. I hope he’s getting my letters.
Jon. Is work stress killing him? Is some SUV running him off the road? Is some asshole going to shoot him/rob him today? Will his megacorp get bought by a megamegacorp and fire everyone? Am I keeping him happy enough, healthy enough, active enough? I don’t want to him to die before me. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t deal with that.
What am I doing with my life? What else c/would I be doing with my life? What do friends think of me? Do I even have any friends? I don’t mean to be such a melancholiac all the time, but I can’t fake happy while Shell is heading to the Arctic to destroy our world. Where can I find melancholiac friends? Am I insane? Am I healthy enough for my age? Do I eat enough vitamins? Am I drinking too much?
I can’t go back to Montana anymore. In my mind I’ve put fences around the prairie, with Keep Out signs rusting on the perimeter as the tumbleweeds pile up.
In the garden, shoes are optional but SPF 100+ mandatory. Sans shoes, dust embedded sun lotion, I am a wild creature. Wild me, crawling around the understory, tending my urban food forest, I’m a landing pad for insects and birds, springing up only to chase toxo-infested cats, most unwelcome guests.
Plants are companions and snacks while I work, receiving my poorly executed singing and philosophical wonderings with devoted attention. New weeds appear daily, I stay busy. Plants await my sculpting, rearranging, designing, things build out of other things, trash becomes treasure. It becomes seamless: plants, bugs, trees, hands, mosses, birds, dirty toes, wind, stones. Thought stops. Time expands. I’ve tended the garden months before Jon returns from work. Limbic time.