You know how they say that good things come in small packages. So, it appears, do strong drugs. The pink pill was miniscule. And while I have never knowingly done drugs, I’m pretty sure I was stoned all yesterday. Mind you, the appointment went swimmingly. It was suggested that I go to the bathroom first, lest I find myself unable to negotiate the facilities later. It was already too late in that I vaguely remember washing my hands with Listerine.
In no time at all I was on my way home; even though I wanted to stay and visit some more (at least an amiable stoner), I meekly clambered into some car with a man who claimed to be my husband. It seems that I was hungry because today I keep finding hints of snacks, the most intriguing being the gnawed vidalia onion in the TV room which was accompanied by a half-licked spoonful of almond butter. I’m not sure what I ate with the three kiwi whose skins surfaced in the bed this morning.
My plan had been to paint all afternoon. Thank God I didn’t try.
Yesterday put me in mind of the best description I have ever read of plastic bags in an windy alley (there should be a special Giller Prize category for this, don’t you think?):
The sound of the plastic bags was like rifle fire. If you watched the rubbish for a while you could tell the exact shape of the wind. Perhaps in a way it was alluring like little else around it: whole, bright, slapping curlicues and large figure eights, helixes and whorls and corkscrews. Sometimes a bit of plastic caught against a pipe or touched the top of the chain-link fence and backed away gracelessly, like it had been warned. (...) The bags often stayed up in one place, as if they were contemplating the whole gray scene, and then they would take a sudden dip, a polite curtsy, and away. Let the Great World Spin, Colum McCann
Today my mouth feels as if it might have been on the losing side of a brawl but yesterday it was a real blast channeling a plastic bag.