Fruit Wine Friday The gravel lets me know I've arrived. Somehow I make my way from here to there with not so much as a single thought about direction until the time comes to press the clutch and rail up hard on the old, gurgling E-brake. Home....or at least something like it, pulls up into side view. I'd be lying if I said I knew my exact thoughts at the sight of the place because usually my head is juggling 5-7 thoughts simultaneously. I don't say this to brag but rather to lament since as a fully-fledged member of the female sex I tend to multi-task with less than perfect efficiency. In fact, the constant task balancing tends to detract from my overall effectiveness at daily living as simple tasks like recovering keys and remembering to remove my laundry from the drier become epic when I recall that I was not thinking about the laptop I set my keys on when it came time to abandon them but rather at what time my dog last had a bowel movement. Even that very run-on sentence pales in comparison to the trains currently running through my head. As such thoughts digest I reach the door and am met with barks, paws, tails and my own scrambling to contain the wiggling beasts. My bed peaks at me from the corner of my eye and walking toward the bright rays coming through the window I think "this is my adult room". Honestly, I think like that. I look at the color of the walls, the pattern on the bed sheet, the computer on the small side table and think that never in my childhood mind did I picture this room when I thought about my life when I grew up. I try to remember what or where I thought I would be and the memories are still bright and in tact, as if I had spent enough time creating them that my effort laminated them in time for future reference to such a masterpiece of forethought. I pictured myself in a big, open room with lots of light colors. I would have a small part time job and thus devote a lot of time to decorating my home, which of course, I owned. I could hear a family in the background, a husband for sure and a dog too. I had no rooommates, no benefactors, and I was very proud of myself for this. The kitchen smelled of fresh cooked foods and outside was a small farm. All this by 23.
Boy was I ambitious.
Now I lay on my bed, comprised of a lent mattress, no boxspring, sheets my mom bought, and a comforter that I need to return to my aunt, in a room of a house owned by my cousin, in a city where I can honestly say I dont know a single person, wondering how I got here. Don't get me wrong; I love where I am and wouldn;t change a thing. I love the freedom I have as a young, unmarried artist, living simply and honestly off each paycheck. I love the distance I keep from the place i live and the friends I leave at the end of each workday to come find my retreat in this small rich suburb.. I love the snobby feel of the coffee shop and how I laugh everytime I pull up in my used bike next to the BMW's for my morning .50 brew. But the discourse between what is and what I thought would be creates a sort of permanent tenitus in my mind, reminding me of the nature of dreams. How do I see my future right now? What pictures have I sold myself about tomorrow? How much more distant can they possibly be from what I used to think today would be? If nothing else, the suspense is killing me. Let it be tomorrow already.  ¶ 10:17 PM