I recently found myself in front of a flat screen with the scrolling of ESPN 2 updates on it…flashes of faces in their early twenties, highly paid athletes speaking mumble from under a sweat-stained baseball cap into a giant microphone.
Underneath I read the stream of messages…”Bill Buckner dead at 69…ill-fated Red Sox player dies today”
I remember hearing of the ground ball that slid between his legs on the day that I was born. I remember curiously understanding very early that there was a link somehow between the Red Sox losing the World Series and myself.
I seem to aways be wanting to make sense of everything
I want it to fit into a space where I can say, “Yes, there is where that memories goes, on the shelf next to the other pink hues and those grey ones snug next to the indigo nights…”
I seem to be constantly time traveling and I wonder where we all are if not here
One moment I am driving in a snowstorm of the Sangre De Cristo mountains, and the next I am scrambling to remember the old Pearl Jam lyrics and when I last sang them in the white Subaru driving through the Rabbit ears pass and arguing with him about whether they are Billy Joel or Eddie Vedder’s “Someday”. He always said we were singing a different “someday”, and lately this is one of the easiest things to understand of the past.
It’s strange how sometimes we seem to know what we will cling to, years later. How the moment seems to jump out in bold print and surround the entire memory, until it outlasts everything else
But I seem to never grasp the theme
I am beginning to fear that it is my own will that is in the drivers seat
I remember reading sometime in my early teens that it is the most simple of truths that startle people the most.
Being in charge shakes me from the dreamlike reverie and I am beginning to understand how skillful I have become at being in the passenger seat of my own life
I stare at the house corners and wonder, if I dusted them, would I write better?
If I changed my jeans and cleared the table top of mail and ski maps and keys
There is a saying for everything, and I fear that if I keep listening to them all at once I will not hear my own voice