Navelgazer

I have a friend or lover who is dark and beautiful with curly, wavy, thick, shoulder-length hair– he’s persian and has the most exquisite features– but I’m not entirely sure where I stand– it’s possible I admire him too much and am dismissable. I get him a gift while I’m out around the little town, and when I’ve given it to him, I’m seized by doubt– I had thought it such a pretty, unusual gift and that it would suit him, but after I’ve already handed it over, my heart quails with embarassment because I’m suddenly certain that it’s entirely wrong– not appropriate for a guy at all, even a beautiful and unusual one. it’s a pair of earrings, and while he does wear a small pair of gold loops in his ears like a gorgeous pirate, these earrings I’ve found and given him are entirely wrong: bright blue metal, fan-shaped, and dangly. really something out of the atrocious ’80s. I’m mortified. and he sees how inappropriate they are and even downright ugly, and I know there’s a judgment of me being made for having chosen and given them. and then he’s walking on with a kind of cursory, insincere thank you tossed back. I even try to pursue it, suggest taking off the bottom dangly fan, can’t leave it alone, trying to amend and explain and recapture some sense from whatever my original inspiration might have been– but it’s gone now, and all I can see is how dreadful what I’ve given him is.

I drop in to visit a friend, or my cousin, and gradually realize that she has plans I’m interrupting and that I’m not entirely welcome– she and her boyfriend or husband are having drinks with the couple next door, and he stops over a little early, and they’re chatting and he asks what she’d like him to make her to drink– I’m standing there like an awkward, unwanted embarassment, so I leave.

I climb aboard my balloon flying contraption and take off over the city– decide I want to fly to the urals, go visit the asian russian mountain cities– so I imagine the direction and eyeball a flight path and set off– but as I’m soaring high over downtown houston, I realize my craft may not make it so far, over oceans and wild mountain reaches– it’s only a humble, makeshift contraption– so I turn it and head for a closer home, where I feel I belong.

partway into the trip I have to crash-land– I lose altitude and am going down fast– but fortunately, as it turns out, there’s a big, soft buddha statue to cushion my fall– I crash into its belly, and all the people, the family, come running to see if I’m okay and to help me out.

I wake up in triangular traction out in their backyard, hanging from my head, the top of my spine– and I feel perfectly fine (although I accept an offered advil)– and in fact the crash has managed to open up my sacral chakra, and now I feel clear and calm and laughing and light. I didn’t realize how closed I’d been before.

when I get down out of the traction, there’s a kind of community fair in progress– possibly even a welcoming celebration for me, which seems perfectly astonishing and unimaginably generous– and the bake-off is just beginning with an apple pie contest, and they call me down to taste and judge. I’m honored and happy and having fun, and I go over and praise both pies for their shapeliness and color, though they’re as different from one another as two apple pies can possibly be: one is classic traditional, and the other is experimental. I try the experimental one first– it has deep fried slices of apple, or maybe even some entirely other fruit or vegetable, inside a spicy crumble crust– and it’s surprising, delicious, quite fascinating really, and I know then and there that I’ll definitely be giving this one a prize, tho I haven’t even tasted the other one yet.

I show up at huron mountain in a state– it’s an off-season gathering, some sort of social obligation, and I’m weeping and shouting at my father in a public space, the dining or club room– I’m thoroughly beside myself– at the time I don’t consider the display; I’m entirely focused on my anger and frustration with my father– but later, after I’ve calmed down somewhat, I realize what I’ve done. I’ve made a spectacle of myself. I have to get out, get away.

since I arrived by plane, I have no car, and it’s dark and I’m not entirely well, so I don’t know that I can handle the old brown jeep on the roads– but I go. on the road all the oncoming traffic is driving on the wrong side– they keep having to turn quickly and get in the other lane– I’m flashing my lights and honking and driving slowly in order to give them time to move out of my way.

other cars are stopping at the railroad tracks, but I race right across and glimpse an approaching train.

I go to the inn in town and try to make myself inconspicuous in the public spaces– I just need some time to rest and recover. a member of the staff tries to take me around to introduce me to the other guests, but I say, no no no, I’m quite fine– I’d just like to sit quietly and read if that’s okay. so she goes away, and I turn to the contents of the inn’s library. I see, all along the top of the old upright piano, piles of magazines all stacked together and buckled and warped with water-damage– and I wonder, why in the world does she keep these?

I notice a hole in the hardwood floor, a gap to the space below, rooms with light coming up– and then I see more holes, scattered, worn by walking– and it occurs to me, viscerally, that this floor is undependable. I try to imagine a way I might fix it– and there’s even a guy downstairs who might do it for me– but really I’m leaving this place, so I don’t much care.

there’s a channel of cool fresh water outside, and my friend and I go to swim in it– it’s like a living snapshot of a river, just this little piece framed by concrete and then the rest flowing in and away at either end and out of sight– all we can see is what’s right here, bright and clear and in motion. I say, I’ll bet it would be good for lap swimming— and my friend gets right in and goes to work swimming against the current– which is strong, and she struggles. and me? all I want is to get in and ride that current away.

I’m watching a whale rise from the water– it’s blue-black and round like a cartoon whale but big as life and alive. I want to touch its rubbery, resistant skin.

I’m standing in a kind of gigantic hall– a confined space– I think maybe I’ve fallen to the floor from higher up. the ceiling is midnight-, deep-space- blue, and when I look up, I see swarms of airships darting far above– so many it’s boggling. and I turn and ask the person beside me, “are they always up there, above us, and we just can’t see them in the light of day, in the natural air? are there always so many?” and the person beside me says, “yes.”

my dear friend has died. I’ve gone to the seaside town for the planned-celebration-turned-memorial– and I can hardly bear it. I can’t stand to be alone, but there are queues of people lined up to pay their respects– I avoid all that and seek out our mutual friend who’s keeping busy hosting a gathering. I’m having trouble finding her in the crowd and collapse in the shadows, overcome by grief– she finds me by my sobbing. I cannot believe or bear it that our friend is gone. I don’t know how to continue– everything that was right before now seems entirely wrong and out of whack. how can all the world just go on as before, now that she’s left it?