Disquiet

In a collection of yellow-edged postcards that I am unable to send, there is one, a cartoon, with the caption, "The moon must be in klutz." That could be it. Unrest has just pulled its SUV into the driveway and will soon be using all the clean towels and setting drippy glasses on our books.

Ordinary tasks have become puzzles without solution. Dreams bring me the frustration of seeing what those around me can't, endlessly questioning decisions of others which result in hardship or peril for those they have deceived. There was the tunnel in which elephant-sized black cats wearing rainbow stripes slurped passengers from speeding trains. A deceased friend returned, possessing the ability to restore life with a touch.

For at least a moment yesterday, I (yes, awake) pictured myself in a thrift-store prom dress, something between a ballet gown and Disney princess, with a rhinestone tiara I may even still own and a gourmet cupcake (pink icing), sitting as though nothing screamed for attention. I was given the chance to step out of the current and sit...and be. I had no sense of concern for things undone, not even the ordinary reproach for all I regularly ignore. The moment was sweet.

Watching, or being kept company by, broadcast tv later, my one thought was how tired and impatient I was of people wanting to sell me all manner of over-priced, impossible, unnecessary...stuff. Gram Parsons, in his song RETURN OF THE GRIEVOUS ANGEL , sings, "And the man on the radio won't leave me alone...he wants to take my money for something that I've never been shown..." I felt that we are seen as nothing but consumers, marks at the carnival, and are expected to say yes to any old thing.

Each day I find local news more unbearable. If I didn't have curiosity about the weather, I would never turn it on. But the Cassandra dreams aren't coincidence, they can't be. We have no one to tell but each other; we will not be able to change any minds. I am uncomfortable in my skin and in my observations. If what seems true is fact, that we have - willingly - lost our way, how far do we need to stand from the epicenter to save ourselves from permanent displacement, if that is even possible? And will this feeling diminish or increase? When the moon moves out of klutz, will I resume the accustomed level of angst or are these adjustments here to stay?

I am no longer a candidate, let alone a volunteer, for carrying signs, let alone torches and pitchforks. I sense disquiet seeping, interrupting our easy moments, few enough as they are, if we give too much thought to the signs. Like the pulling of tides, that sly moon may have dragged some of us too far from shore to make it back and my question is, what do we do now?