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7:04 a.m. - 2005-08-06
Staying Small Rant
Every radiant sunrise, casting pastel shadows on the rugged contours of Lily Rock, every silver squirrel posing like a statue on the porch railing, every fragile blossom persistently piercing the frozen rain reminded my of what I already knew. I had relinquished my soul in increments. Not to the Creator of heaven and earth. Not even to the adversary. I had placed my gifts on the altar of convention. Of supposed security. Of fear and longing. Ballet slipper by tube of Cerulian Blue. Ingesting each nascent poem like belladonna, keeping the pristine page a perpetual virgin while I sickened inside. Resenting the ones whose song would not be silenced. Fighting the resonance that beckoned from within. The yearning for surrender. I wasted my energies in a self righteous search for the error of Ron's ways. The spirit of Carrie tended to appear at just such moments as though sent by Central Casting. Opening the medicine chest for an aspirin, I would find myself reading her name on some forgotten stash of Valium, the delicate hue of her pale, peach cheeks. Collecting fire kindling, there would be a stack of Victoria magazines, slick and foreign, subscribtion sticker bearing the name of none but Carrie. Her lotions lined the shower, her scents accumulating like sweet smoke in my lungs. Each find would incense me. Enraged, I railed at Ron, who attempted to assure me that I was not a houseguest. And then one day, when Ron and I were planning to return to the city for a brief visit with Shane, he casually let me know that Carrie phoned to ask if she could stay at the mountain home in our absence. I was horrified, imagining Carrie amusing her way through my thrift shop closet, perhaps a writer friend sharing the moment on her miniscule cell phone. Sleeping dreamless in our king sized bed. Stretching herself awake like a slinky cat in the late afternoon, feeding the squirrels bits of cranberry croussant. Chuckling over my childish attempts at watercolor, my amateur decoupage of Frieda Kahlo, strewn about Ron's otherwise tasteful home. Embarassed, he told her in hushed tones from the deck that her coming would not be the best idea, no doubt alluding to the profound insecurity of his present houseguest. I was certain they had a laugh of it. That unspoken nod earned over a decade together. Tsk and sorry tsk. Humiliated at my victory, I was certain he had also shared the incident with Shane. They seemed to look across me with knowing glances. Shane was subtly condescending while my smile imploded on the vine. And then I was given the news that Carrie was looking at property. There in the mountains. There in the purple shadow of Lily Rock. It was not, of course, to be near Ron. It was simply her love for the place, developed over long years. Her delicate health demanded a change. Breathable air. Distant neighbors. Perhaps she could host a writer's workshop, there in her cottage with the small antique desk. I, of course, could be a part of the group. Teacups in the twilight. Smouldering sage. Subversive prose. I shrank smaller still. Alice disappearing right on cue, swallowing the vial that would cut me finally down to size. We drove back up the mountain after that excruciating weekend. All the way, I scanned for Carrie's car. I was told she had been looking, while we were gone, for her hideaway. The ache in me was palpable. Familiar. And, arriving, I began to plan my escape. Also palpable and familiar.

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