all words but some clarity of thought
I took a cocaine fueled rocket ship disguised as a Honda to the airport this morning and the motion sickness was kept at bay by the fear. I should have known by the cadence of his speech and the way he grabbed my bags out of my hands as if I were taking too much time but I initially just chalked it up to quirkiness. Once I got in the car I knew something was up.
The fidgeting at lights was spectacular. Drumming way too fast for the music. Talking to himself at stop lights. No gradual acceleration - foot to the floor. By the time we were done weaving our way through the back roads to O’Hare I was not well. I stood outside of the airport for ten minutes after he dropped me off just getting my shit together before entering the rest of my travel day. I tell you all this because a dude sitting in front of me had to call for a trash bag about halfway through our flight which is my nightmare.
He handled his business but nothing could prevent the smell from drifting back. While I was mentally chanting not me not me not me I couldn’t help but flash back to vacation flights as a kid where my dad would sit in the smoking section which was just one row in front of us. Same hot-boxing as riding in the car with him but he had friends… Ahh the 70s. I am happy to report that something on the internets I read worked as I called for an alcohol wipe. Sniffing one of those when you feel a bit woozy sets your shit right. Try it next time and You’re welcome.
On a different subject I also dabble in not-so-great poetry. It rarely rhymes and is nothing I show anyone because the thought of someone else reading it give me preemptive embarrassment which might make you wonder why in the hell I do it. (the length of that last sentence should leave no doubt as to my quality claims.) The answer is that the act of trying to write that way sometimes helps me think through questions that are stuck in my brain. One such question came up last week while I was having a philosophical discussion with a friend. They are in a different stage of life that revolves around purchases and are baffled on my stance on owning too many things. The question they asked was “How will I know if I’ve lived a good life?” and I hated the fact that I didn’t have a great answer.
My first thought is that I raised kids that make me smile and I want to hang out with. (NOT assholes) The next thing that came to mind was more of a fear than a measure of a life well lived but it is I wasn’t a burden to anyone. If I could sign an agreement that cut years off my life but guaranteed that last statement I would do it in a second… (shit, this feels like a sign that I need to find another therapist) and my final thought was I try to help anyone who asks as soon and as much as I can without any strings attached. This one took a while but it means that you can never keep score and I can say that over the last four to five years I’ve done a pretty good job.
But that seemed clunky so this weekend I went the poetry thinking route and oddly enough it led me to a sentence I’m happy with:
If someone in the future, after I’m gone, thinks of me and smiles, then I will have lived a good life.