the structure of things is simple. an outline, a scaffold of right angles and sturdy support. the veinous structure of the map.
and then there are the details.
the rhythm of the heart. the out-branching, the outlier, thinner and thinner and prone to dissolution. age and wear. the curve of a doorway arch. the dirt road still in use. the ‘what’s for dinner’ call at the bus stop at 8 am…
in my brain, something snagged. A detail stuck out and hooked all the scaffolding for miles in a precarious leaning-towards a vast nothing.
I have believed, for months, that I needed a w2 from my last ‘real’ job, and today I started acting on finding it. Because an answer did not immediately fly my way, my body got anxious. as in, my heart is still tight now, hours later, my skin was flushed hot and prickly and i was buried in shame. and this, all this, in a series of maybe 6 text/message/email exchanges. six. (and I’m wrong. I don’t need that w2.)
simple. not simple.
i want to joke about death and taxes. i really do.
i can’t entirely figure it out. the shame? dear god. Shame? COME ON. shame is for cain and abel. for trump, if in fact he had a heart or soul… but me? shame?
ugh. brene brown, come and get me.
Something about being a good girl, I am sure. Following the rules. Having clear countertops. Failing. Failing at taxes, being ignorant of what you need to get by in the world. Not knowing the loopholes, not knowing the structures to climb. Not knowing what you do not know.
the enormity of all that I do not know.
biggie, out.
