|Painting, "Adrift" by Anne Packard.|
Things unroll, misalign, fall, elude and, sometimes, vanish. Wobble-free steadiness seems too much to ask. There we are, no longer properly moored, having trouble surrendering the need for an immediate solution. Wonky seems to be one of my constants.
In my family there was a long-discussed wool plaid picnic blanket that eventually came to me. Unremarkable in all respects, other than being mended with silver duct tape, its appeal must have been too subtle for my sensibilities. It was too pointlessly, needlessly wonky. I said, no thank you. No one remains to ask about this curiosity. I only just remembered the fact of it.
IT is, literally and metaphorically, about getting the holes to line up. One part of life can't be affixed to another if the phillips head screws are not a straight fit. Even if the day itself has askew portions, the feeling of things gone-out-of-true is within. It is uncomfortable and generally unfixable. Oh, dandy, I think, another warty booger to befriend.
For however long I am separated from my shore, my actually reliable center, I twitch and squirm. Vague and momentary pains jostle my legs. Focus wants to trade places with sleep. Eyes and mind wander. And I know that just as suddenly as this flux state overtook me it will depart. Bobbing corks on an endless sea.