It’s 11:38 am and I’m okay. I and my demons have thrown caution to the wind as I empty last night’s half-full bottle of Pinot Noir, topping off my 10:00 am scrambled egg breakfast. Stomach revolt forthcoming.
TV is noise. Noise is TV. I peruse the news on my favored channels and wonder why I don’t favor them anymore. Is it the channels or is it the news? I tilt my head and I make a mental note. The mindless churn used to be less noticeable. Where I wonder, is this world headed?
Staring into TV faces that lie (knowingly, unknowingly, purposely, purposefully), I lift the long-stemmed, delicately bowled wine glass. Perfect for fine reds and cheap rosés. I drain the glass in toast to the world’s best and brightest, liars and non-liars alike. I wait for the last musky drop to finish the velvet coat on my tongue before it occurs to me that it’s not a question of where the world is headed. The world spins in place and goes nowhere. The world, in fact, will always spin in place until it does not. The real question is this.
Where am I headed?
Shouldn’t I do something, be about something, be someplace? Where is that place? Can I find it in a painting, a poem, a story, a song? Or, am I, like the world, spinning in place?
The air of reality is not sudden but cold and brisk, windblown. Yet, staid and stale, used and reused by all while the world keeps spinning, spinning. Weightlessness settles anxiously into my bones made brittle from the chill. This can mean only one thing. The air conditioner is too high. What else could it mean because I’m alright. I’m just fine.