Even stranger than before

...in which I am trying to talk about something other than flames in LA.

Let’s talk about my first life, plus anchors and ghosts. Granted, an unlikely mix — like many things I write about. My first life wasn’t all that anchored. Just think of the word “ghost,” which was one of my former jobs, and you probably don’t think of the adjective “anchored.”

Then I became way less anchored. The mind I lost was mine. The life I lost was also mine. I got shorter, too. I lost 3 inches due to broken bones in spine. This means I was short before I got shorter and looked up to everyone. I was also strange before I got stranger.

But back to this stack. It was very hard to write. They’re all hard to write, frankly, but not this hard. That’s because I’m scared. I’m scared for and about my daughter — who lives in LA.

Each of my stacks — not just this one — weaves a slice of a story with a slice of another story or stories that don’t quite make sense/fit/belong. Sort of like me.

Let’s take the character, who is more or less “like me.” Imagine she carries multiple tote bags into each post, a few on each arm. Imagine, too, that each tote bag contains multiple ingredients she can’t recall.

Let’s call them incidents. Or accidents. Or both. A kooky non-sequitur here, another kooky non-sequitur there. Add that each piece takes less than two minutes to read.

Let’s describe the character in a bit more detail. An agent of chaos. An odd bird. A fish out of water. An outside observer. In fact, a very outside observer. A somewhat muppety woman. Comic. Playful. Semi-amnesic. Disabled. Despairing. Determined. Bold.

Let’s get back to the stories. A mix of quirky, kaleidoscopic, catastrophic, off-kilter, down-to-earth. With a bit of sparkle, a bit of hope, and a lot of love.

Let’s get back to the writer. She makes the character and the slices look more accidental than they are. Derails things with intention. Adds a sprig of surprise. An existential crisis. A dispatch from bewilderness.

She asks herself why she’s writing. Rather, I ask myself why I’m writing this stack or any stack at this time in this world. Maybe it’s because sometimes, somewhere there is beauty, too. Then I wonder if it’s ok to think of beauty in this crazy burning starving thirsty battling brutal scary world. Other than that, everything’s fine.