What A Long, Strange Day


It’s been.

I mean.

REALLY.

I don’t even know how to process all the strangeness of it.

Pockets of silence and serenity, sunshine, breath, music, ocean reveries.

Then.

Tears on the steps at work.

Locked out for two hours.

TWO.

So much for getting out of work early.

I couldn’t really do the cooking that I was there to do sitting on the front porch surrounded by six bags of groceries from Whole Foods and another from Lucca.

It was my fault and I knew it.

Admitted promptly when we were wrong.

UGH.

No.

I don’t want to.

Except I had to, I absolutely had to.

I could not find my keys and I had been back and forth between the house and Lucca Ravioli three times, I had asked every single store and restaurant that I had walked past whether any one had returned a set of keys.

Aside.

How sweet the vendors and market girls and shop keepers, I ran into many of them later and they all asked after me, “did you find your keys?”

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

But it sort of, no I mean, it really fucking sucked for a good two hours.

I had a lot of time to reflect and sit and watch the sky, high and blue, the new green leaves of the Japanese maple next door pressing into the blue, unfurled, young, tender, a kind of new grass green that was almost a shock to my eye to watch them flutter in the wind.

I watched the clouds.

I listened to the birds.

I watched a female robin pull a worm from the yard next door.

I saw a daschund puppy waddling by.

I smelled a lot of pot being smoked, the marijuana scent floating down the block.

I heard the Irish lilting voices on the construction site two houses down.

I sat.

I waited.

I cried in my hands a few times.

My face a mashed up smoosh of hurt and sadness and rue.

I was rueful.

I remember all too clearly getting done with what I needed to get done right away in the afternoon as I showed up to work with a long list of things to do and a plan of action in my pocket.

I was going to get it done and then get the fuck out.

Go to the park.

Go to the DeYoung and finally get me some motherfucking art.

There was no art although there was much sweetness and beauty when I stopped to see the world from the front porch stoop.

I was worried about my keys and the fact that my scooter was locked up and cabled in front of the house in the drive way.

I kept staring at that.

Well.

I thought to myself.

I can always stash the groceries in the garage or ask a neighbor to put the perishables in their fridge, I might have to wait for the neighbors to get home, but I could do that and I can take a car back to my house and fingers crossed my housemate’s around and then I get the spare set of my scooter keys and take a car back.

I was not happy about it.

But it was an option.

The whole fiasco happened with a small series of words that usually gets me in trouble, “fuck it.”

The mom had a big delivery of groceries being delivered via Instacart and I was tired of waiting and I figured I could get out to Lucca and back before it was delivered and worst comes to worse, they put the groceries on the steps and I’ll be back before you know it.

Fuck it.

Just do it, because I didn’t have anything to do.

I don’t know, Carmen.

Maybe next time you just sit your ass down and make a cup of tea and check your e-mails and wait.

Because when I rush I do stupid things.

Like leave my keys on the kitchen counter.

I cannot actually remember the last time I lost my keys.

It is not a fun experience.

Especially when I am ordering sliced turkey from the counter guy at Lucca and the mom pings me and says, hey the grocery delivery is there can you let them in?

Oh fuck me.

REALLY.

I debated lying.

But nope, can’t and in hindsight boy am I glad I was able to connect with the mom.

I told her I was at Lucca and I knew she was mad and I apologized and zoomed back to the house, digging for my keys as I was on the run and where are my keys?

WHERE ARE MY KEYS?!

OH MY FUCKING GOD!

I ran back to Lucca, no keys.

I scoured the ground.

I walked back and forth.

I started crying.

TEARS are not helpful right now, stop it.

I dashed them from my eyes.

I text the mom back.

I asked if they had a spare set in the garage, I know the code, I go into the garage, I get the spare key I take all the groceries…

Oh.

They don’t have a spare key in the garage.

Fuck me.

And the neighbors don’t have a spare and the family is actually about to board the plane.

I tell her I will get the groceries secured and figure things out, and she pings me the number to the dog walker.

Saved!

But humbled.

Oh.

So very humbled.

So.

I sat and sat and sat and waited for the dog walker to finish with her dogs and drop offs and finally, two hours later I am let in and yes.

Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, my keys are on the kitchen counter.

I burst into tears again.

The dog walker gives me a hug and says she was happy to help.

I started cooking.

I did all the food prep and made homemade pizzas for the boys tomorrow and a very large batch of pureed broccoli soup.

I talked to my person on the phone.

We talked about how I was in pain and experiencing disappointment, I got the news from the program co-ordinator that there really wasn’t much I could do about the weekend of Burning Man and maybe I could miss one day of the first weekend.

She attached the attendance policy and all I could see was the great big F you get for missing too many classes and I just sighed, surrendered and said, ok, I guess I can’t go.

So.

Get it all done here at work and go to Lucca and get the cold cuts and get done and go have a day for you and.

Well.

That’s not at all what happened.

Really, in the end, nothing bad happened, I was humbled, I made a mistake, I am not perfect and that can be uncomfortable to see.

But see it I did.

I was also unexpectedly available to take a phone call from a woman I’ve known for a few years who wants to film me for a documentary.

What?

Um, ok.

We had a really nice chat and it was cool to be asked to collaborate with an artist as an artist.

I might not be able to go to Burning Man, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still make art or engage with the community.

I still am an artist.

I still am a nanny.

I still am a student.

I am a woman, slightly saddened by turns of the day, but I know, in my bones, with a kind of unshakeable faith, there is a good reason for all of this.

I don’t have to know what it is.

It just is.

Hello reality.

It was, interesting, er, good to meet you today.

Tumult does not mean an end.

It means an opening elsewhere that I had not seen before.

I am available for that apparently.

Whatever it is.

I’m game.

I’m in.

Bring it.

 

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