The Necessity of Hope

“I think a man needs only one thing in life: He just needs someone to love. If you can’t give him that, then give him something to hope for. If you can’t give him that, just give him something to do.” (Flight of the Phoenix)

Hope is the last bastion for those not already living in grace. Yet grace requires faith.

Hope and faith are intertwined – That last pillar that keeps a person standing; somewhat irrelevant until all else is lost. Necessary, because the point where all is truly lost is death. Hope and faith then preserving life; Faith leaving those left behind to pursue what comes after it. Hope does not tread past the grave.

But yet faith also dwells amongst the living, a blind, compelling thing. Pushing one past all frontiers of logic, suspended in a metaphysical stronghold, full of assurances. Faith is the ultimate paradox. Only the blind can truly see. Hope is its sister wife – a blood relation one too many times over. Hope, too, strains for that stronghold, seeks that assurance. But while faith is at once the journey and the destination, hope remains the weary traveller, set back by the burdens not yet encountered. Hope is not blind because it is aware of its shortcomings, it relies on these to exist. For if there were nothing that was beyond one’s reach and every achievement was palpable, hope would fade into the collective oblivion, a space reserved for minutiae and the long forgotten, Latin still teetering on that precipice.

Hope decries oblivion, it rests in the physical, it earns in the tangible and it is dogged in its pursuit to collect. What it wants, it can see, and if the thing does not yet exist, it can be created. Hope is an atomic structure waiting to be multiplied. It requires imagination within the borders of the frank but youthful. Faith does not bend to oblivion because it exists beyond it. It reigns supreme on every plain. It encapsulates all of our desires and our guilt, it directs them to the amorphous sorter of all things beyond our control. Humanity is one big ever spinning wheel; understanding in the brief glimpses of the whirring cogs that we have no say in the speed and constancy of our continuous movement. We have free will and we have the actions we choose but there is no halting destiny. Faith is perhaps the reason some can handle this when logic has gone as far as it can go, and is still found wanting. Hope is an acceptance with a desire for a different outcome. Faith is an acceptance and submission to the different outcome. One remains a fighter, one panders to whim.

Yet whim is by far the most compelling characteristic of humankind. Inconsistent that whim and faith should be considered side by side since faith put in humankind is seldom deserved, usually lost – blind as it insists it must remain. Faith must transcend the corporeal to become a spiritual seed; rely on the whims of things beyond our understanding, if indeed those things have whims. Hope, on the other hand, relies on the catching of whim’s fancy; sailing the breeze of impulse, simply aiming to catch the right one.

And of these two that remain so intertwined, humankind must always carry both. But the better to be held is hope. For we must first concern ourselves with the here and now, and the betterment of that lot. Only then, can we dive deeper and aspire to those beyond.

Journaling Non classé Prose et Poesie

Seeking Comfort

“It’s been an interesting day.”

 

She laughs. His eyes sparkle. He’s smiling but his mouth hasn’t fully hit it’s lopsided curve. She doesn’t know anything about his curve, he’s a stranger. But she can recognize the glisten in his eyes. That’s familiar.

 

“Interesting is one way to put it. You definitely tried to take a baseball bat to my head this morning.”

“I did. I did.” She throws her head back laughing, eyes momentarily fluttering closed with the force of it. “I did — didn’t I? And now we’re here eating Chinese at 3am.”

“To coincidences!”

“To obeying the natural vibrations”

They clink their water glasses. She stares at him, he’s looking right back. She’s nearly daring him to make a comment about her salutation. It’s like she said it to get something out of him. More than a reaction — some understanding of who he was.

 

How did he react to the spiritual? What faith based systems did he follow? Did he believe in faith? Was he grounded in logic and agnostic? Why did this matter? Why had she already pictured him here — figuratively? A presence in her cosmos several months from now. Why did she expect more than this night — this morning? Was she deluded? Doing that thing people do when they have a good moment with a stranger and think of it as the beginnings of forever. They’d had a moment. It had led to another moment. And now they were having a moment over cheap Chinese food and, tomorrow? She didn’t even know his name yet. Not for sure.

He echoed her — “To obeying the natural vibrations”.

He took a sip of his water. Put his glass down and didn’t take the bait. That was telling her a lot. She decided this was going to be a moment. No extended leases on fate.

“Okay then, Mr. Your-head-is-still-intact, can I get a last name? Or a coherent first name?”

“Oh, I thought we had agreed to carpe this diem”.

“Placidly. I still would like to be able to refer to you pointedly, from across a room, if need be”.

 

This felt like witty banter. It wasn’t un-witty… but it was a 2/10 on the scale of smart things she could be pulling out her repertoire. Yet, it still felt like it was supposed to be flirtatious. Flirtatious, witty banter?

“Okay then — as a ‘break in case of across the room emergency’, you can call me Tobi.”

“I won’t insult you by asking if it’s an ‘-ey’ at the end like McGuire, or just a ‘-y’.”

“L-O-L”. He enunciated the letters out loud, spelling out the acronym to bolster the cynicism in his humor. He mellowed it out with a smile.

“Omo naija here please. My parents didn’t play any of that. This Tobi has an ‘Oluwa’ in front of it.”

She smiled. Wide. It was nearly a laugh. He was funny. Not super, belly achingly funny. At least, not just yet. But, she was amused and she was interested in continuing the conversation.

 

“Okay then, Mr Tobi with an ‘I’ and an Oluwa somewhere by his side”, her eyes twinkled, “you already know my first name, the kind of car I drive, the kind of weapons I keep — at least in the car, the kinds of cuss words I pick, the kinds of asses I kick… tell me something about you that doesn’t have to do with why you were on the back of an okada, edging the driver on between several tightly packed cars till he knocked off a side mirror.”

“Ohhhh! But that’s the best part!” His face contorted into a dramatic look of anguish, overdone so someone who might not recognize the subtleties of his emotional cues would not be confused by his word choice. She understood.

“Well, if you insist, I’ll start somewhere else. I also have a car — my weapons of choice are the dumbbells I use in the gym, or my office, or on the go, that I choose to keep in my car for ever present fitness. They give a hell of a headache in the right setting. Or would that be the wrong setting?”

“That would depend — how heavy are these dumbbells?”. She was teasing him. He understood.

“20 pounds each ma’am. They do the work.”

“Oohhhh I bet they do.”

 

He looked up at her from the patterns he’d been tracing on the white table cloth, head cocked a little to the side. He was appraising, fully, for the first time. She could tell he was beginning to understand this little dance they were doing — how slow men were to jump in.

“Yeaaaa,” he dragged it out, “do you work out?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Question’s still on you, Tobi with an ‘I’.” This was definitely a flirtatious exchange, right? Time to kick it up a notch — “So you drive and you gym — on the go, apparently. What’s your favorite color? Better yet, what’s your star sign?”

“I know I’m a Cancer and that’s supposed to make me secretly sensitive/weepy? I have several girl-friends and cousins that are into that mess, but I’ve never really been interested.” Unsurprising. Still. Cancer — what was she going to do with this information? Moment, not fate. Moment.

“Not interested, huh? Well, I’m a Libra sun, Cap rising, Cap moon, but that Scorpio’s a real bitch as a Venus.”

She looked at him and laughed. She’d only said that to watch his eyes glaze over. That, too, she was familiar with — no nuance needed.

 

The waiter came back with the appetizers they’d ordered. She took a bite of an egg roll and let her mind wander just a little bit — to the car she was going to get back into with a quarter tank and the drive she was going to be taking back to the one bedroom flat she shared with four other girls on the other side of town. By now, she was just biding time so she didn’t get home before 6am, which is when Patience would wake up and start getting ready for her early job. That would free up a spot on the mattress so she could get a few hours of sleep before heading back out herself…

“You still with me?”

She looked up at him and centered this moment — the egg rolls, which really weren’t bad for a 24-hr establishment; and this really handsome stranger who had broken her side mirror this morning, eating out 47 percent of her savings if she decided to fix the damn thing, and setting her back exponentially in her fight against mind-numbing poverty. Yea, she was with him. For the next two hours, she was golden.

“Yep, Tobi with an ‘I’, I’m carpe-ing the hell out of this diem”.

 

He tossed his head back and laughed, easily. This, too, was familiar.

Non classé Prose et Poesie

Atlas

Sometimes self hate looks like trivializing your own trauma; comparing your handle on pain to others’ handles, with your superficial understanding of their metaphysical navigation.

Sometimes self love looks like you beginning to understand that you are strong beyond measure because the things you go through are heavy for you. So heavy, in fact, that you are weighed down. And that weight you feel is in your mind but also outside of it because it textures the fabric of your life. Yet, this weight is sometimes lifted. You are able to move around under it. Yes, it forms the clouds above you and that is it’s own grey issue. But the weight is sometimes lifted, and you are the one lifting it.

So the next time you doubt your own suffering, the next time you feel like you should not be weighed down by the triviality you have decided is your life, understand that you are brave beyond measure, strong beyond will, and that part of the measure of a good life is our willingness to continue shouldering  our barely manageable burdens long enough to receive our light.

Inspiration Prose et Poesie

The Force of July

Its this process of “collective” grief.

It’s the feeling like you are not recovering as fast as the rest of the collective. When you feel like your rage is overblown because you do not see it mirrored communally but do not realise that you, too, are moving through life silently, simmering, but only below the surface. Rage on mute. About to boil over but not yet, not quite. When is the bounce back, the recovery? And as you are doing this, as you are moving through with your muted rage, your comrades are moving through with theirs too, maybe not as silently, maybe not very loudly either. Unbeknownst to you. This perceived silence – the sweet, elusive recovery time- is ripe and heavy with the weight of pent up rage. No one is bouncing back. Communally. And sometimes, the only catharsis achieved in these moments is through witnessing the turbulence, the pressure cooker of emotions roiling in the depths of the “collective” eye, in the burdened beat path routed to the reality of connection with the kindred in community. Collective healing, from the vantage point au milieu; the crowd clamoring for justice  to remain in full view. Change, unspooling, whipped in old ideas of the “new”.

Change.

I don’t think the process of change is intended to be pleasant. We have never asked the butterfly how it feels to be in the chrysalis. We just rejoice in solidarity when it breaks free and begins to fly. And what was the process like in that shell? Did the wings rip it’s body apart as they formed? Did the caterpillar fear being reborn? What must flight have looked like for one so close to the ground? Are there screams of protest against the metamorphosis with voices too shrill to translate into sturdy vibrations? Are we not paying enough attention to hear them or is the silence it’s own picture of strain. When I feel pain, I curl, I shut my eyes tight and squeeze; tensing muscles till my hands are unyielding mallets and the mounds that clog  the barely formed arches on my flat feet, spasm. I experience pain in flows I want to ebb into oblivion. So perhaps there is a tortured silence in a changing pulse. Or maybe this is out of the loop and there is no pain at all. Just discomfort. Just a longing to hold on to the stable we have built before being dragged by our wings into verdant fields of unknown. 

Perhaps the caterpillar lived in pain and discomfort every aching moment till it was freed. Perhaps change was the road not taken that led to peace.

Peace.

No justice. No peace.

Rage is rage. Muted or shrill.

Inconsolable, is the collective grief.

Journaling Prose et Poesie

Changeling

It does not softly rain through the snow
It melts, it hardens
The layers beyond are brittle
Cracked with the slightest pressure
Flowered with fluff
Relying on roots that do not pierce
That which does not pierce cannot persevere

 

It does not softly rain through the snow
It cures, it mixes
the mulch and concrete, serving us
Dirt from the deep
Footsteps wound beneath
Donning unique rivulets to the crevices
Through which the mulch mix
Seeps

 

It does not softly rain through the snow
It alters,
Waters down many moons, in flow.

Inspiration Prose et Poesie

Transparent Markers

In relationships, where is the marker between ego and self respect?

In respect, where is the marker between ego and sense of self?

What do we know about sense of self? My sense of self shifts everyday, from its very foundation. I spend a lot of time oscillating between an understanding of my scope of self and then an understanding of how many of those parts are interacting on a daily basis. 

How many people are convinced that they haven’t looked deep enough into themselves? Like they haven’t peeled back the layers far enough and what they understand to be of self might very well have left a few layers unexplored. What if you’re only a talented liar when it comes to lies you tell yourself?

I’m convinced this is the case with a lot of people who harbor the fear of being hurt, or who have at some point or the other in their lives, decided against the long hard road of emotional unease, opting instead to pretend that something never mattered that much, never got deep enough to hurt them to distraction. That fear of vulnerability is an acceptance of self deception; a contract to lie to oneself for as long as necessary and maybe till the day they die, a bed of uncertainty made that will grow doubt and confusion for a significant portion of one’s life. It’s as simple as this – if I fear my hurt to the point where I am unwilling to feel it all the way through, I will throw up blocks with varying levels of dishonesty in order to build a solid enough labyrinth in my mind to prevent my access to the truth aka the pain. That labyrinth will only serve as the shaky foundation to my continued perception of my self and my values and my strength. This foundation will leave cracks wide enough for anxiety, self doubt, self loathing, and depression to seep in and find purchase. If one is susceptible to these things, at least.

Whenever the day comes that I then want to dig out, break down this house on its shaky foundation, I will find that it’s been welded with a variety of stuff I had no business gathering. Now the chaff and grain are identifying as self, now I identify as part chaff, now I’m doubting my worth. Now I’m doubting me. How does one go about untangling that? And how does the building’s demolition not feel like self destruction? How do you start from scratch when the scratch you’ve so far come to understand has been a lie?

Where is that marker exactly? Where is that sense of self?

Anyway, I’m a stone in this quarry, a sailor on this sea. I’m currently struggling with these questions. I’m on a constant search to find me.

Inspiration Journaling

Juggernaut

“The next time he sees me, he should look the other way, pretend he never met me one day in his sorry life. “

He looked up.

“Nooo, you don’t know. You haven’t seen. He’s different now. Calmer. The last time he saw me, he bowed when he greeted me, bowed! He’s seen things since then. Different roads- life has humbled him, you’ll see.”

She snorted.

“People like him aren’t humbled. The soonest they get a chance at recovery, they jump into their old bullshit, treating people like dirt because they believe they are better, deserve better. That’s how you know his circumstances may have changed but they haven’t changed him.

Life has halted him, not humbled him.

For humility, life would need to have taught him some lessons, ones he actually learned. But he didn’t come to be a student of life. He came to conquer it.”

Prose et Poesie

Buried in the Weeds

“Say you had a tougher love to give, Maeve. Would you do it? Or would you never risk dancing that close to trauma’s border?”

“Hmmm” – Maeve

“Ah”, he said, pre-empting those non-verbal cues he thought he read so well. “But what if you didn’t?” He was in full steam now, having triggered that cognitive latch that it seemed only ever showed it’s key hole with Maeve in the cut.

But, no, he hadn’t pre-empted the non-verbals after all. She was… Tired.

What the fuck? “Baby? Are you even listening?”

“Yes, Eli. But I also popped 2 5s an hour ago. I don’t know that it matters that I am because I can’t engage.”

Eli, 25, disappointed. A real pull-yourself-up-by-the-ankle-tats sort. Dreamer. Finisher. Seed. All this tremendous potential buried in the weeds.

Maeve, 29, satiated. A life already well spent basking on the well-grazed lawns of epicurean tenets. Ethereal, rebel, stud. One stop shop for, “all of the above”.

“Say this is an elaborate ploy for me to get in your pants?”

“Then it would succeed on no fronts. It isn’t a ploy, it isn’t elaborate, and it most certainly will not end with you actually in my pants.

Besides, I never wear pants. I am not modeling an aesthetic that would portray me as sartorially challenged.

And what the fuck did I say about calling me baby?!”

And she was supposed to be having an off evening, Eli thought. This was not going as planned, not at all… ugh, retreat.

“Ayve, my bad, man. I was just in that sweet spot and you know how light I get when I let it carry me away.” He smiled. She relented. All was unwound.

Sort of.

She walked to the fridge and pulled out a PBR. He knew damn well that beer was warm. He’d put the whole 6 pack in the fridge not 12 minutes ago, several minutes after he’d walked in, only two after she’d asked if they were drinking urine for their nightcap.

“I’m really sleepy, Eli”, she said, stifling a yawn as she plopped herself back on to the couch. “We can dive into it another time. Right now, all I wanna do is stay awake long enough to drink this beer and stare comatose at a screen.”

She started up quickly, catching herself, “And before you go there, no, we aren’t diving into whatever you’re thinking. Your name isn’t Sean and your latest hit isn’t an ode to my amazing V.” Her eyes danced in the pale blue light emanating from the TV screen. She set those twinkling orbs on him.

“Alright then, so why am I here tonight if its not that and we’re not engaging in meaningful debate? What do you suggest we do to pass the time till we both fall asleep?”

Shrug.

“Settle in?”

“Eli.” She said his name like a punch. He could feel the dent.

“You came over so we could chill, drink a couple cold ones,” she eyed her PBR suspiciously, “eat a bunch of girl scout cookies, and waste away like two morons who have a deep appreciation and understanding for each other’s moronic tendencies.”

‘I was also hoping to get some of your witty banter, my bon mot tossing friend.” He wasn’t pleased with her plans, but he was mollified that she thought of him when she thought of base comfort. There were no layers she needed to keep on with him around. That was it’s own sort of reward. He guessed.

“Not tonight. It’s been a long week. Maybe tomorrow.” She put her feet on the ottoman and slid forward till she was at a weird 30 degree angle, neck wedged firmly on the couch’s backrest. “Besides, we’re all tiny balls of trauma anyway, just waiting to be triggered. That’s the saddest Friday night topic ever.”

He sighed, still disappointed.

“Alright, I’m picking the movie. And I am not sleeping on the floor. So you’re going to have to drag yourself…”

The doorbell rang, biting off what would have been a chunky yet unappetizing rant around his sleeping patterns and needs. Maeve glanced in the door’s general direction non-committally. He looked at her then followed her gaze. The doorbell rang again.

“Soooo, are you gonna get that?”

She shrugged.

What had she eaten anyway? Straight indica? Damn. Zombie.

“I’m gonna answer it.” He uncrossed his legs.

She was already back to her previous position; chin leaning on her sternum. She nodded. “But I’m not expecting anyone so you could also give it a rest and let whoever that is give us a rest too.”

But he was already up and moving *somewhat* purposefully towards the door.

The damn doorbell went off again.

“Ayy chill man, it’s been all of 14 seconds and you’re not Grubhub.”

Through the peephole was a man that couldn’t be much older than Eli was. Or maybe he could be 35. Age is such a trippy social construct anyway. He was looking a little sweaty (“she’s only three floors up and there’s an elevator, dumbass”), and he’d never seen the face before. He continued studying the face, unsure now.

“Hello? I can hear you breathing on the other side of the door. Maeve? Please. Open the door. Your dad gave me your address.”

Her dad? Maeve hadn’t spoken to her father for the better part of 15 years. And the man had been in jail for most of those years. Who was this dude? How did her dad know where she lived?

The apartment went quiet. She had hit the pause button on Netflix. Oh wait, she was also standing beside him. How had she got here so fast?

She looked through the peephole, familiar mask of studied indifference cloaking all her actions now. No look of recognition, no signs of surprise. He had moved out of her way, immediately, of course. She undid the lock and opened the door a crack, “You better not be a fucking reporter and he better have told you this address with his dying breath – What do you want?”

“My name is T. All other personal details are unimportant. But, when Marcus went to jail, we had an agreement. I’ve been playing mega millions everyday to fulfill that agreement.”

Sooo, not 35 either. Age, man.

“I had the winning numbers 2 weeks ago and I’ve been trying to find you ever since to give them to you.”

Maeve shut the door. Same mask on, no shock, no disbelief, nothing. She locked the door and walked back to the couch.

Eli staggered a step in her direction then turned back, taking a step towards the door. He was utterly flabbergasted. ” B-b-b-butt-t-t, hold up, Ayve. Hold up!” He ran in front of her, hands held out in front of him to slow her momentum, just in case she decided to keep moving and crashed into him. “Let’s think this through, now. There is a man – yes, a sketchy man with an initial for a name, but there is A MAN AT THE DOOR WHO IS TRYING TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE!”

What he did not say, and didn’t think he needed to, was that his life would change too, even if it was only through the happy coincidence of being her friend.

“Get out of my way, Eli. I already told you about my plans for this evening.”

Eli, surprisingly, did not budge. The possibilities for the millions ahead making him bold. “Just listen to what the nice, sketchy man has to say in full. That can’t hurt.”

Maeve was staring at him, unblinking. When she got this way, it was terrifying. You could never tell if she was planning your very detailed homicide, or if she was about to gift you a travel companion ticket to Kauai, like that one time last summer. #travelbestie.

She blinked, once. Slowly.

He moved out of her way. Quickly.

“Yep, you’re not in the mood right now. Totally get it. Plus the 2 5s, I haven’t forgotten. I’ll tell him to come back tomorrow, if he’s legit.” She shot him a sidelong look. “I’ll tell him to meet you … us”, another look, “at the coffee shop on the corner tomorrow morning.”

Netflix was already back on now and he was definitely talking to himself.

He half ran, half slid to the door, slowing down only enough to stop himself ramming into it. Only, now that he was here, he wasn’t sure he wanted T seeing his face or knowing his name. He said loudly, through the closed door, “thanks for stopping by! Please come by at 11 tomorrow morning. We’ll meet you at Cheaper by the Baker’s Dozen, then. It’s around the corner. Goodnight.”

He looked through the peephole to see if T had heard him. There was no one there. Could he have just dreamt up the last 10 minutes? Possibly. This was exactly the sort of thing that had his therapist telling him to lay off the recreational drugs.

He walked back to the couch in a daze. Maeve was staring half lidded at the latest episode of “Sex Education”. He dropped in a heap beside her, stretching his legs out on  the rug, eyes dead centre. He didn’t need any non-verbal cues telling him to STFU till the next morning. Damn, he should have picked up the PBRs from the fridge.

Prose et Poesie

March 15th

8:02AM

Sun- Too much sun. But that’s only my opinion from behind the safety of my glass sliding door. My iPhone says it’s 36 degrees on the other side of  the transparent barrier boxing me in my warm 620 sq foot cocoon so definitely not appropriate weather for the blue bum shorts and orange cami I have on. I wage a little war in my head between closing the blinds that are casting black and yellow ochre stripes down my slender frame or leaving them open so my whole parlour looks ready for the early stages of a Hitchcock movie. The sunshine wins… Obviously. I don’t even know why I bother with this ritual every Saturday. I adore the light once my eyes adjust and it stops blinding me. Besides, Saturday’s are the only days of the week that I get to fully bask in the sun’s humbling ambiance. “Humbling ambiance” – hmm, I like that phrase…

I spend my whole life with words and phrases. I work a 6-7 job that keeps me on my butt in a dingy room pre-editing  articles for the biggest daily self-help editorial east of Wyoming. And west of Iowa. Okay, okay, it’s the biggest editorial in Nebraska. But, when I talk to people about my job, I usually leave out the west of Iowa part. I also stop at the “daily”, since saying more usually loses me “cool” points. The fewer specifics, the better. Anything to give my self confidence a boost since I have no real friends for a 400 mile radius and I have had no real life in a two-year span. This lovely Saturday though, none of that matters. It’s a beautiful day outside AND I’m going skiing. I am also fully aware that I live in Nebraska without a plateau in sight. But I’m making the solitary drive down  to Jackson, Wyoming. I’ll drive down, glide on some of that beautiful pow, spend the night in a not-so-reliable temporary establishment, catch a morning run or five, then head back home in the afternoon. I’m completely stoked. It’s been a minute since I did anything outdoors. Even longer since I took a solitary road trip. I can feel the greatness of this weekend in my bones! Or is that the crack in my sliding door sending shivers up my spine?

***

12:38PM

The drive up is going okay so far. I just hit Wyoming, its a little past noon, the windows are down, and… a bug definitely just flew unto my dashboard. Whyyyy? I start frantically swatting at it with Khloe Kardashian’s boobs, which are plastered on last month’s issue of Cosmo. Two minutes ago, I had HAIM crooning from the stereo and I felt like I was in a movie about my life (picture “Thelma and Louis, but solo). Ugh, I hate bugs. Plus, this fairytale solo trip is about to go sour faster than milk left out in the sun if I run out of my water crackers nearly four hours away from my destination. Crap, there’s only four left in the box and I definitely left the other box on the kitchen counter. Perfect.  Now all I need is an engine stall or a repeat performance of my food poisoning debacle from yesterday and then I can write this off as the worst day ever. I’m beginning to feel like I should probably have waited till next weekend to go skiing but that feeling is a bit late to the party. Roughly 200 miles to go but for the life of me, I cant remember now why I decided against a trip to Colorado instead…

4:30PM

I made it to Jackson! I’m not even stopping at the hotel first. I’m just going to drive straight to the resort and catch as many runs as possible before I pass out on a bed tonight. The parking lot at the base of the slopes is suffering a bit of human scarcity but I jump out to put on my ski gear, anyway. The fewer the people, the fresher the pow… Holy Mother of God! It’s definitely way colder than my iPhone said it was going to be when I checked the temperature yesterday. What is happening here?! That gust of wind nearly pinched the half of my nose with my nose ring in it clean off. Anyway, I’m here now and half way into my ski boots. I can’t possibly turn back around like a complete wimp. Besides once I’m fully decked out, the cold won’t matter. I buy my half day’s pass from a surly brunette called Carly and catch the chair lift up. Now this is what I’m talking about! This view is e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g, but it doesn’t look like there’s been a snowfall in at least a couple of weeks. Maybe I’ll only do three runs instead of seven and call it an early night.

4:53PM

Okay, that first run was a bit choppy but that’s why I’ve got sloppy seconds! And if the second time is rough, well, that’s why the saying says the third time’s the charm. My lift descent this time is flawless and ooooh, I’m gathering some steam. Okay, this sloppy second isn’t so sloppy after all. Wait, is that a patch of ice ahead that I see? Better dodge th… Shit.

4:55PM

All the wind was definitely knocked out of my brain. It literally took a full minute for it to reboot and process. I guess my ribs feel like these mountains just used them as punching bags as well. But I seem fine otherwise. Nothing broken or twisted as I twist around to check my derriere. I’m only a little soaked and embarrassed, thank heavens. I don’t even want to think about how bad that could have been.

4:57PM

My tummy feels sore now that I’m up and trying to glide down slowly. My poor stomach lining was probably not prepared for a double attack in a two day span – food poisoning then a “soft” tumble down the slopes. Yea. Probably not.

4:57:30PM

Ok. I’m almost at base but what seemed like a tiny ache on the left side of my tummy a minute ago is absolutely excruciating now. I might as well slide to a halt and see if there’s a tiny branch sticking out of my gut or something. I lift all five of my layers. A quick peek and I’ll determine if a good back stretch or some pepto bismol will fix me right up. Is it normal that my skin is this tender? I know I just shook it up but I can’t touch it and it looks like its swelling. Ok, maybe that fall could have shaken the spleen off my mother but… Oh God, what if my sple…

4:57:13PM

***

Prose et Poesie