Choices. Often they are our only power. No matter how much research, thought, consideration, investigation, imagination goes into our choices, they are a crapshoot. There are bad choices, yes, and, according to my sister Mara, and I concur wholeheartedly, many supposed bad choices have pleasing consequences.
Or fester like a sore – and then run?
Choices. When bad ones are imposed on you, well, you do your best to forgive, if you know how, and to be empathetic, compassionate. Mostly the bad choices could not be helped. Or, if you ask my hard-hearted id-twin, the instigator could have helped it, but didn’t. Point being, they didn’t. It couldn’t be helped.
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Choices. The power of making one can be paralyzing, intoxicating.
Watching Shriners zip about in tiny cars at the St. Patrick’s Day parade, I was reminded of the stream of Shriners in red Corvairs who passed below my Greyhound window in a dusty corner of Colorado in 1986 and of a tiny, silly dream/fantasy I used to nurture.
“Unsafe at any speed”, the Corvair was/is my dream bed. Park it in the center of a sprawling, concrete-floored living space, fill the trunk with 8354 thread count linens, engineer the dash to accomodate a 10W-30 coffee maker, a woofered iPod dock, and a GPS that sends you out risin’ and shinin’. Highly octanible dream/choice.
This dream, conversely, fell out of sight in my riew view mirror many years ago: A Lunch Encounter to call my own.
It is never gonna happen and I have put it to bed.
Or crust, and sugar over – like a syrupy sweet?
I’m updating my short list, the chain letter of my life. Some dreams are dropping off the bottom, while up at the top pop simpler, more finite possibilities. A Lunch Counter seemed so likely 25 years ago, while a Corvair bed not so much. Seeing the continuum in my head now, the bed, well, it’s imaginable. More than imaginable. Shoring up the second floor now to sustain the weight. Vee eight weight. The kind to put a person into heavy, heavy sleep.
Langston Hughes is laughing at me in his grave. Laughing at my indulgent dream of ownership. More ownership, I should say, as I live a life of great privilege and much ownership. Having dreams to put to bed is in itself sayin’ somethin’. At any rate, it is not the specifics of my dreams that bear weight, it is the fact that those times and opportunities are long past. I made other choices, some were made with intention and others were imposed. Your days of reckoning come long before the grave, bit by bit, piece by piece, as you tuck your long gone, tightly-held dreams in forever.
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?