letter to a friend...continued

Dearest Screams:

Today was rainy and warm, and my kitchen has been invaded by fruit flies hatching from the vermiculture bin. It may be the last breath of fall, so I celebrated with an extra long walk. Now, as I write to you, I am thoroughly soaked since I was ill-prepared for the weather.

Walking and thinking go nicely together. My thoughts jumped from car alarms to Christmas lights. From decomposition to rust. I listened to the news on my MP3 player for a while and thought I might detour my June Gypsy plans for a few months in Liberia volunteering as a nurse. I'd leave now but I started a new job, as you know, and I have my bridges to consider. The one's you aren't supposed to burn.

I reflected, also, on the people in my life, from the trivial to the significant. I thought of my day in orientation working with matter-of-fact Scotland, who is highly skilled at her craft of teaching new hires, and plain old Pillsby, the man who is my preceptor and who reminds me of a ball of lifeless white dough. His thinking is flabby and soulless and tells me everything I do is "great",  while Scotland finds a million errors and tells me how to correct them. Then says "good effort" with a sincere and encouraging smile.

As I walked along the patch of concrete, where a lone stroller's footsteps are preserved, defiantly deeper as they go, I thought of the Blasphemer, who initially drew my scattered attention to this observation. He had to return to his Hinterland alone, since he could not extract the essential oils he needed from our relationship. As my gaze turned to the shimmering silhouettes of naked trees I thought about the Mantid, who's unexpected flight has left behind a ghostly exoskeleton for me to puzzle over. The children's toys behind the streaked windows of closed shops reminded me of my inaccessible childhood conducted by my parents, who sent me off to the school of life, my Pandora's lunchbox packed with insecurity and anxiety. I am still sitting on the steps after every one else has gone home, waiting for them to return.

But, Screams, you know, as I ponder these relationships I realize how, despite the lingering impatience and anxiety that plagues me almost constantly, my heart in regards to others has become less damaged. There was a time it was a gaping wound, reopened over and over, purulent, bleeding, swollen, painful, but now, it has healed up quite nicely, with no callous scars. What is my evidence? In the past I would have wrung my hands over Pillsby's incompetent tutelage and I would have begged the Blasphemer to put aside his own feelings in order to nourish mine, and I would have chased after the Mantid, and I would have yearned irrationally for my parents to come pick me up.

Today, however, I just shrug and say "okay", I accept, this is what I have to work with. If these people have malnourished me in one way or another, I will just have to find another source of food. I will keep my attention on the dwindling supply of moments I have left on this floating rock, beneath the stars that surround it, among the hungry life that swallows it and marvel at the existence of my feet, which enable me to walk upon it. I will no longer worry, and beg and chase and yearn. Inaction is not always passivity, more often it is strength.

Well, except maybe in the case of Pillsby. I think he'll have to go.

Goodnight, Screams.