The Other One

alien on a precipice

“I’ve never known a writer who didn’t feel ill at ease in the world. We all feel unhoused in some sense. That’s part of why we write. We feel we don’t fit in, that this world is not our world, that though we may move in it, we’re not of it.”

~Andrea Barrett


I find comfort in that quote. I am comforted by the very presence of all others in the same boat, even if the boat is leaky, there's a hurricane a-comin, and we're sinking, Goodnight Saigon  -style.

I am an alien on the precipice, moments of something akin to terror, hours of a strange discomfort, days of tension. The incessant ticking of the clock in my mother's kitchen while I type at the table. I may smash that clock.

When Jonah was a baby, he had this Winnie the Pooh toy that played the theme song in a tinny-toy-way, the melody too fast, no attempt at tempo. dee dee dee dee! dee dee dee dee! I hated it so much that finally I brought it outside, placed it carefully under one of my car's tires, and ran over it - back and forth, reverse and drive, shatter and destroy. It was one of the most satisfying moments of my life.

I think I will smash that clock.

I turn on a familiar movie or TV show - often it is Little House on the Prairie   - something so far removed from now it might as well be set on another planet.

Maybe it's my planet. I wish I could get home to it. I don't like it here anymore.