It's like floating in the dark, spinning slowly. It's not sickening, though you occasionally feel your gravity shift. You're up. Now you're down. It's 360 degrees of three-dimensional reality. You're in space, but you're not exactly alone. This is what it's like for me. Bits and pieces of life float by, and I grab on to them when I can. I can never seem to hold on long enough. Sometimes they slip away. Sometimes I let go.
I feel something rough and scratchy press to my back. There is a jolting realingment, and I'm suddenly lying on my back in my front yard, facing the hot, blue, cloudless sky of the Texas afternoon. Looking around, I can see that the grass is too long from neglect and too yellow from thirst. I set to the sweaty task of gassing and mowing and edging and weeding. Hours later, covered in tiny splinters of dry grass clippings and dust, I put tools back into the shed. My back is sore and my cuticles are raw and dirty. I turn to head inside, but then I'm off again. The yard rotates slowly away into the spinning mobile of my universe. On it I can see Chuck, my Gnome friend, leaning against the shed, rooted firmly to that bit of earth and oblivious to its dancing retreat.
"Is this how it is for everyone?" I call to him.
He just smiles.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
