Tuesday, April 3, 2012

The shortest distance between two points

Lines: Boundaries, links, paths. Lines get drawn, crossed, smudged, broken, traced...

When I drive I take incredible (foolish) comfort in lines. I feel safe between the lines, strong and protected. I have my path, you have yours let's get where we're going and let's not die in horrific crashes along the way, ok?

When I drive I talk to the lines; pretty talk. I coax and cajole them to stay strong and straight. I tell them about their power and praise them for their obedience.

When I drive I think between those lines; I think about how I wish all the lines in my life were so stable, so solid and so loathe to be crossed.

When I drive I have conversations with all the people in my life who treat lines with disdain. People who cut and dismember them. People who sever connections, fail to recognize patterns and who swerve perilously, erratically and without pause INTO MY FUCKING LANE.

I am a good driver (regardless of the absolutely insane way I was taught to drive: USE THE TRANSMISSION TO SLOW THAT CAR DOWN, GIRL!) I color precisely between the lines. I have empathy and compassion and know how I got here and how I'm going to get... there.

My mother was in a car accident the other day and she landed square in my lap. I guess I don't need to mention how disorienting this was for me; for me and my lines.

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