I can't sleep.
I've been in bed for four hours.
I've meditated. I've watched way too many clips of the Kardashians on instagram.
I made myself some tea.
Now I'm watching Chef's Table: France, for two reasons: I've watched and rewatched all the episodes of the original series, and I'm still fixated on learning french, despite not opening duolingo in months.
With my humidifier pumping out lavender essential oils in a rainbow diffusion, Adeline Grattard speaks to me as I read along. She talks about her husband. He keeps her grounded. He says, "Remember your origins, remember the source."
remember the source
My fingers paused just now.
My mind went into the whirlwind of history, and my eyes are watering up. I'm fixated on the backyard I had as a kid. There was this plastic playground thing that Johanna, Sofia and I would lie on top of. It's red. We'd eat our popsicles from the dairy, red white and blue melting down our forearms, staining khaki shorts and sticking to our skin. Dad jokes revealed on frozen ends, no longer remembered through time. The roof of this playground sunk in from growing girls weighing it down. There was a slight discoloration in the center, a collection of dirt and dried rainfall. We'd jump from this height, landing/falling onto mushy grass and running to the rope ladder that hung from a poor excuse for a treehouse, careful to step on tree-star leaves on the trip over.
Blistered, sugary hands grabbed hold of wooden handles as the tail end of the ladder whipped us in circles, often leading us into the trunk of the tree. One at a time, we'd climb - the girl on the ground holding on to the last rung for tension, support. I don't know how we got up on our own, but we always made it to the top, splintered or bleeding on that triangular platform. Parents these days would be called crazy for letting us have such a free childhood. It's funny, Johanna and I did so much together that I don't remember if something happened to her or to me. One of us got a gash in the leg from a nail sticking out by the bungee swing. We'd sit on that corner of the platform, inching our leg out to catch the contraption. A strong hold and a jump led to a bounce and release down. Bruised knees, scars over scars, sweltering summers and shit lemonade stands. This is the source.
I look down at my hands now, callouses torn from bouldering, flesh exposed, scars on scars. Sometimes I get the feeling that life is like looking into a mirror with one set up behind me, watching the infinite reflection stretch back into a green forever – a delayed familiarity.
july 22 2017 . 1 am