Your girl is restless. And yet content. And yet restless. And on and on. I make plans and abandon them and again rearrange them weekly. I keep Andrew updated on our walks home from school and bounce ideas off him in between laughs and observations on our cast of characters. "OK, new life plan" we tell each other every few days. This week he is formulating a 'Rocky montage of Japanese language learning' that involves early mornings with fish mongers and 6 lessons a week with his old lady teacher. Me: this week I'm somewhere in South America studying Spanish and taking long walks with boy-short hair wondering what ever brought me to Asia in the first place.
Like a rolling stone...
My life is in a tectonic shift. Or at least it would like to be. I admit, I could use some heat.
Living in such a vulnerable quake zone and having narrowly escaped, by one measly day trip, the biggest earthquake in my city for decades, I am constantly aware. Shizuoka is strategically positioned for a "big one" and I think on certain days, this is earthquake weather. But that's really just a line from a Lorrie Moore story. I don't have any experience with earthquake weather.
Back to my shift; or is it my shiftlessness? I realize it's an indulgence, a luxury. It's actually more like a tide that floats me where it wills. I don't even feign resistance. Take me, currents, I'm yours. I pay close attention to the moon and pray merely for benevolent winds and fruitful destinations. I also pray that the people I love have happiness and have health. I pray hard for that.
You're gonna make me wonder what I'm doing. You're gonna make me give myself a good talking to.
I dreamt recently that Bob Dylan paid me a visit because I sent him a letter asking him to. He just knocked on my kitchen door one night while I was cooking. I was so composed. Once, in waking life, an old flame who was supposed to be states away did the same thing. Such a womanly tableau. I offered Dylan a smoke and then some of the dinner I was making once it was finished. I don't smoke. He didn't want to eat but suggested we take a walk to the beach. I sensed he had something he wanted to talk about. Once there, nervous I think, I took pictures of everything but him and so, ended up feeling like I failed to capture the message he had for me. I worried; I didn't capture his image nor therefore his message. Later, alone, I saw myself in a public bathroom mirror and discovered I had magic to change my eye color at will. From blue to brown and back and forth again. I did it over and over and concluded I liked my look better with brown eyes. I was tempted to pose as a brown eyed girl but wondered reluctantly if it would be dishonest to parade about with conjured eyes.
I woke up with no photographs of Dylan and my same old blue eyes but a feeling that the message was in the magic.
What did you see my blue eyed son? And what did you see my darling young one?
