Frothing Your Milk
Yesterday I found myself in a rather mellow state, feeling at once relaxed and perhaps a bit sad. For the week prior, I was in Las Vegas, Nevada, enjoying a five day family love, +100ºF heat, and sunshine feast. Coming back to the cool humidity, back to the grind of work, back to the ailing and aging pup - it's been a weird transition. So yesterday afternoon I did what I've learned I can do when I need a pick-me-up: I asked my friends for a little help.
"Up" by Life Without Taffy
At the end of my sleep the other night, I had a discussion in a dream about symbols. I was talking with a faceless young man, and I think we were designing a website or a flyer or a sign. It needed something to convey a message, and I suggested an arrow. He scoffed, “I hate arrows!” The dreaming me responded, “But, I love arrows...” a sentiment that was news to the conscious me, as I watched the conversation fade to black on the insides of my opening eyelids.
I've had the same craft supplies for years: Box of collected spare buttons, bag of tiny spools of thread, bundles of hemp and leather cord, tubes of glue, yarn and fabric remnants, sheets of paper, bins of pens and markers... And not just the same kinds of supplies, but the same exact supplies. They've moved with me from South Carolina to Oregon, and now into their their third apartment.
My doctor propped her elbow on the exam table and rubbed her temple with her thumb. “Life is hard,” she said. I was sitting in a chair across from her, elbows on the exam table, too. “Yeah,” I winced, “and I don’t know if the pills are helping.” We shared a silent moment, looking each other in the eyes. She’s a cancer survivor. A mother. My doctor for two years, and the first physician to ever treat me like a friend. “I’m cutting the prescription in half until the specialist gives you a diagnosis.”
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