This past week might as well have been a montage. Except for Sunday Tea, every day whipped past without clear delineation. One scene sliding into the next, cut, fade, patch cables snaking through the corners of my vision, the boom mic menacing just overhead, Damocles sword for the new generation, waiting in the wings an outdated phrase. My body moves again, my feet carry me, my hands, they grasp. Everything forward. My cases are packed, sitting open in the living room like two full mouths, unable to speak for the wealth they carry, their tongues tied with t-shirts and his&hers cargo pants and travel bric-a-brack. Food is on the way. In the meantime, I wait for laundry, I wait for the dishwasher. I wait. A pause as subtle as the violin sap hollywood pastes over love scenes.
Prepare food, ( vegetables, chinese food), (eat ice-cream to make room in freezer, oh noes), pick up birth control, extra extra sunscreen, bike, ribbon/string for hat, more underwear, long sleeve shirts, travel mug, extra water bottle, pack WD-40, zap-straps, fill the dishwasher, mod some shirts, do laundry.
I’ve been calling my optometrist, to replace my misplaced contacts prescription, but have been getting no answer, no matter which branch I call.