Mia said, “Write like your life depends on it.” I’m not quite there, but my feet are sinking in the hot dirt - I can see tiny trails of dust stirring from my movement.
I’ve gotten fat since we moved from the water. I get fat when I’m unhappy. My heart’s crying for the ocean. I hear tears splattering against the inside of my chest. I want to run to the shore and put my toes into its perimeters. I want water kisses from the Pacific. Beautiful, blue, wet kisses. I’m afraid if I leave it this time I might possibly wither into death. I know what my oxygen’s are; my children and the ocean are a few. Oxygen keeps us alive.
On a completely unrelated note: I’ve begun to only trust the numbers … the words consistently lie. Show me the chemistry, an equation, that concludes that vinegar possesses the same bacteria-killing properties as chlorine bleach. I want to see the microscopic plate proving death by vinegar. Is rice fermentation the equivalent of a rotted apple? How many days must a fruit brown and assault our senses? Show me, add and subtract – prove the math.
I think about this stuff. I obsess really. Is this worry? I guess if you don’t stop thinking about something that makes you somewhat fearful, then you are worrying. It seems like such a simple concept, to stop worrying, doesn’t it? You just say, "Hey. No more of that thought pattern." The protection of the environment is killing me. I see headlines, "Environment survives, concerned being dies from worry, exhaustion and possible fruit infection. Funeral at the landfill, Wednesday at 2 p.m."
Our house is rented. We must move on. Chula Vista could never have become home, it's too far from the water.
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