One of those mornings...

We finished packing the moving truck on Tuesday with the help of some strong and handsome friends.  I'm lucky to be surrounded by such nice and good-looking people, particularly ones with excellent spatial reasoning skills.  You guys know who you are.

Wednesday morning I packed up the Jeep with the essentials that I would be taking South.  A suitcase of clothes, my KitchenAid mixer of which I am overly protective, my jasmines and lavenders, Pup and her accoutrement, and my backpack stuffed with the laptops, my stats book, surgery reference books, and cell phone charger.  I was prepared.

Except  DH had forgotten to pack a few things.

Thus I added two coolers, a Rubbermaid container, a pair of antlers, a set of downhill skis, a broom, and a tree stand to the interior.  I strapped the kayak to the roof.   I tossed the cable box we had to return, the non-functioning laptop we had to recycle, and the library books we had to donate into the passenger seat. I was prepared.

Except Pup and I had nowhere to sit.

So I rearranged the plants, tucked her bed on top of the pile of electronics in the passenger seat, and put my lavender in my lap. She could barely fit, but we were just going 30 minutes away. I knew I would be able to move things into the Jetta for the trip to DH's parents.   We would be fine.

Except we got stuck in construction on the interstate.

I was hot, I was sore, and I was wearing the same grimy clothes I had been the day before because of a packing error on my part.  I had just scrubbed the entire apartment. I hadn't eaten yet. I was gross and cranky, y'all.  I just wanted to get to our friends' house, shower, and change.

One of the boxes kept shifting when we went around corners causing it to bang into the window switches.  This meant that at various times the windows would roll down, and I couldn't get my hand under the box to roll them back up immediately.  Annoying, but not that big of a deal.  I had one last glass of sweet tea that I had squished into the cup holder.    It was the only thing holding me together - the thought of how wonderful that cold sweet liquid was going to be when we got to K. and J.'s house.

Except someone had fed Pup pizza and ribs the night before.

She chose the moment when we were stuck in construction and the back window was rolling down on its own to stand up on her little bed, look at me, and throw up.

Everywhere.  In the cable box.  On my plants.  On her bed.  On the gear shift.  And in my last glass of tea.

Another paper for the wall

Today I finished my last assignment in my last class.

Someone get me a hammer and nail.  It's time to add another piece of paper to our wall.

I never was a poet...

I was going through and recycling papers today in an effort to minimize the piles of stuff that we will be moving with us to the South, and I came across a poem written, I think, by my old college roommate.  It immediately took me back to the campus lawn at dusk, sitting cross-legged in the grass listening to her practice her beat poetry.  I had no idea what beat poetry was, but the coffee house crowd was dark and mysterious and seemed oh-so-cool.  I never figured out how to snap in rhythm, and I never figured out exactly what the poems were talking about. Surrounded by that hipster crowd, sipping my hot chocolate and pretending it was coffee, I felt all artsy for a couple of hours.  Then I would go back to my straightforward pre-med courses.  I appreciated her for that.  I can't say I agree with everything she wrote, but this is the poem I found, edited slightly for space:

I seek and search.

Down red brick avenues,

dusty winding roads.

Like Ponce De Leon

in pursuit of that nirvanic utopian place.

See, I want to live in a perfect world. 

Is it too much to ask? 

A perfect world where the three stooges would be Chris Farley, John Candy,

and of course Curly. 

Because Larry was destined for punk rock

Not Moe

Because he was a mean little bastard anyway.

Where we all speak in French.

No fat grams or health clubs.

Where Keanu Reeves can act.

Like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz,

George Bush would get a brain.

Mike Tyson would get --- help.

In the perfect world you wouldn’t have to be bright or cool or on.

You could just be.

No stereotypes

Of being skinny or fat or pretty or ugly or old.

No Self magazine,

Vogue, or GQ.

Where all the angels

Are Downs Syndrome children

Because aren’t they the sweetest angels already?

The seraphim is Joni Mitchell

Singing songs from the Blue album.

On a cloud veranda, there’s Bob Dylan

Singing anything he wants.  He’s Bob Dylan.

And every song in a perfect world

Would be sung with the pain and the passion

Of how Ben Harper sings “Oppression”

Or how Richie Havens sang “Freedom” at Woodstock.

Where God would look like Frank Zappa

With legs like Giselle

And would play two guitars

One like Hendrix

And the other like BB King

And He’d belt out truth like Martin Luther King

In sweet lyrics like Carol King

Have hair like Don King

Because He is the King of Kings

His throne would be a metal chair

In a tree shaded yard

Surrounded by a perpetual drum circle

And He’d have time to talk and listen

We’d all have time to listen and talk.

Yeah, no hate or war or hunger –

Those are givens,

But what about loneliness

Or failure – NADA!

It would be what all dreamers dream

What the beat poets wrote about

What the songwriters of the 60’s sang

Where even Satan

Would find his mantra

Or get saved

Or at least commit to rehab

But this isn’t a perfect world

And when I think I’ve found it,

It pixilates and fragments into its fallen sometimes horrific reality

And I’m just a little weary.

But we have this,

You and I.

Maybe, if we can be real

And honest

Have a little understanding and love

We can capture a perfect moment.

And for now,

Perhaps that will have to be enough.