We set out on the high road amidst mesas and clouds of overpowering majesty. Between us was a loaf of homemade Peruvian Corn Bread which we tore apart with our teeth. We spoke about the rapidity of changes in perception and the urgency of examining one’s own consciousness. After slogging through a musty thrift store, she found high waisted black velvet pants. We arrived at the river full throated; pantsless and suspended we swam, hugged the sky, and kissed the mesas. Our fingers traced whorls beneath the currents. Bliss.
My car jumped off of a wall – there was a moment of suspension before landing – the smell of exhaust and smoke and latex dusted airbag against my cheek and then the blur of the faces of kind passerbies. “Are you okay??” “Do you need a ride?!” “Are you okay?” My home lay bleeding, its nose in oncoming traffic. The police came. The man whose wall I’d smashed came. Everyone was civil and kind.
My friends pulled up, playing Lemonade, their car full of foil balloons. One of the balloons said “It’s a boy!” The tow truck pulled up, and its lights illuminated my shattered windshield. In another friend’s car we followed the tow-truck at a maddeningly slow pace.
I have good people all around me, but strangely that is no comfort. Although I have not had physical solidity for years, only now am I bereft of a home.