Message In a Bottle: Nov. 21, 2016

Dear Reader,

It’s been nearly a month since my last post so I’m sitting here now, trying to figure out what to say.  There have been a variety of reasons for not writing: the emotional American election, scrambling to finish up my Dante reading, my seasonal struggle to motivate myself, reading reading reading as a way to escape & also to find answers.  I’m trying to break the habit of sleeping in but setting my alarm early to get up & write.  I end up turning it off when it rings & crawling back into bed, trying to fall back asleep to the argument, ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow–I’ll be better tomorrow.’  And so giving myself a pass to not write at all today.  But, the page & the muse are always waiting, no matter how much I put it off, so here we are.

I’ve probably written before about how books are my shield & my barrier.  And in these last few weeks, I’d thought about just posting reading lists just as a way to communicate ‘here I am, this is my survival kit.’  But people don’t read books the same way that one does–not in a better or worse way necessarily, just different.  So the books I choose to pull close for comfort will not mean the same thing to you, as much as I’d like them too.  And with the high emotions running through my immediate family & community, I wonder if recommending something will even offend someone.  And that’s a hard thing to consider, for someone who works in a library.  It’s a hard thing to consider even as someone who’s read books that warn of the fading relevancy of text & writing.

Ok, maybe not follow that thought down it’s difficult track–at least not for the moment.  If this was a true message in a bottle, I would write you a story, something fantastical to come across & savor for the rest of the day so why don’t I try that.

I wake up dizzy in the mornings–sort of the reverse of that feeling you have sometimes when you’re falling asleep, like you’re falling off your bed but when you jerk yourself awake you’re flat on your back.  I’m bewildered in the morning, floating on the sunlight & the flannel sheets, trying to figure out where I am.  He is still asleep next to me, the details of his face sharp in the sun pooling on the pillow–fine eyelashes against his cheekbone, the faint freckles at his temple, the pulse in his jaw.  Risking upending myself completely, I roll onto my stomach to look out the window past the cat’s impatient tail as it keeps watch underneath the curtain.  Where I should see the house next door, all I see are trees & a bright horizon.  Our room sails over the tree tops, swaying gently & confidently to avoid larger limbs, toward a young, custard yellow sunrise.  Before there is time to panic, time to worry how this happened & how we can escape, all I can think is, “Well, at least that explains the dizziness.”