today could have been movie worthy. but not the type you're thinking of. more a minimalistic, obscure piece with lots of piano and scenes shot through car windows. rolling white landscape. incoherent snapshots. the moments we forget to treasure up.
this morning i sat in a diner - toes and fingers numb like red icicles. heavy layers peeled and thrust into the booth before me, save my wet black gloves, deliberately laid out on the table to dry. two inconspicuous hand prints. i savored the warm, cheap coffee in the predictable white mug. i savored the 60's music spinning on scratched CDs - waitresses singing along and getting the words all wrong. i savored the omelet and greasy hash browns and pieces of conversations - loud and impolite and Iowan - between cops and truckers about road conditions and weather.
later, there were cars to be dug out of ravenous cocoons of snow, mugs of hot chocolate and cider, bare christmas trees and stolen moments alone listening to waterdeep. i kept wanting to postpone my birthday somehow, and now i realize that this snowstorm was a backwards answer to my wish.
this evening i helped prepare dinner at the drake house. i peeled and sliced potatoes and veggies. in a very quick moment of stupidity totally unrelated to chopping up food, i sliced a chunk of skin almost entirely off my pointer finger. mortified, and never wanting to draw attention, i folded the dangling flap of white skin back over, and tried to coolly notify others of my misfortunate and sudden need for a bandaid. the blood started to ooze, growing more and more alarming. i felt light-headed and shaky, but kept trying to laugh and ignore it until a duct-tape bandaid hid the disaster from view. it didn't take long until that was soaked through as well, but i refuse to remove the bandaid and examine the situation further. i'd most likely pass out.
its been a long time since i've injured myself like that. i felt childish. it seems i felt all my ages today, in one moment to the next. simple joys and hurt, maturity and immaturity, fear and bravery. fitting that this is my 26th post, on my 26th birthday.
... something unrelated that i've been thinking about lately: the artist as the outcast/observer... is it the price to pay for doing something you love?
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