It’s getting to the point where I need a food change. Where the food that is supposed to get me through is tasting gross and slowing my system. It’s adding to my stress. I’ve got a few plans cooking that start on Sunday afternoon, but I don’t know if that should also be one of them. Maybe it would just be okay to force down a salad. Fake it until you make it?
As I was pulling into the parking lot, we got a text about the cat. She had gone missing. She’s a cat that was found on the railroad tracks, a ball of fur and vinegar who by some good grace was put in our path, we of a cat-loving nature. I can’t say that she’d have had an easier life with anyone else in charge of her comings and goings. Chessie, the railroad kitten, was at my parents’ house and my father was the one texting. Then came the sister’s facebook message. Okay, I said to myself after reading it, okay. I don’t know if I meant it, but I said okay. She’s not my cat, but the idea of her lost out there on the mean streets of idyllic, sunset suburbia isn’t great to have to ponder.
It has been a long day of striving again, of being relieved and then sucker punched, relieved, sucker punched. I’ve heard about Nice, but only tangentially, only in headlines. I feel like I’m only capable of processing headlines, even if they’re the most stringent and dangerous part of the news. A distillation, 100 proof. And I’ve been so drunk on it lately, bashed about with the ceiling for the floor and the floor for the ceiling with fucking shitty news. Every generation has its paranoia, every generation peering down on the next thinks it’s the end of civilization as we know it, but the truth of it is that eventually one of them will be right. You can read that a crazy fanatic person filled with hate drove into a crowd of celebrating people and your eyes can slowly close to let the picture come in, fuzzy and without sound effects, only a soundtrack that is just this song.
The song ends and you can open your eyes, feel your own body against the familiar air, the familiar ground, the familiar impulse to live. Say Okay. Nobody thinks you mean it.
Tomorrow is my mom’s next appointment. An appointment where they are to explain options and status and treatment. Okay, I say, without meaning it at all. Okay. Let me know.
Not an hour later, the message comes through on all fronts. The cat’s been found. Was just hiding from the dog, her enemy and was just biding her time and sleeping. Was surprised that there was a hubbub and secretly pleased. She looks at you, a ball of fur and Okay. She wouldn’t know to be otherwise.
Do have my good wishes.