Dreaming about living in the country is easy, even when you’re not quite
there.
Rural images ripple unbidden through burbling brooks
of the mind like so many flashing, darting minnows- abrupt, startling
sensory overlays to whatever is passing for reality at the time.
Steaming in stalled traffic, toxic fumes rising from
the tailpipes of a million other commuters, all windows closed to the
stench, breathing "conditioned" air, radio turned full up to stifle the
cacophony of a million other radios and a million other engines, right in
the middle of a nice mental image of ramming your car into the one ahead
of you, and the one ahead of THAT one, and the one ahead of THAT one, (poof)
and you’re in the middle of a field of cows- nice clean cows with doe like
eyes and lashes to die for, all contentedly chewing on their organic cuds.
Perhaps humming something classical under their chlorophyll-scented
breath. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
Cubicle, inbox, outbox, sticky pads, telephone,
rolling black chair (kept carefully on the hard plastic carpet guard),
office gossip circulates, virus-like, infecting everyone it touches. There
must be no softness shown, no sympathy, no common sense, and above all no
refusal to pick a side. You MUST be on a side, you must choose, this is
important to the well-being of the entire universe, this ISSUE must be
cussed, discussed, discovered, covered, recovered, hashed, rehashed,
solved, resolved, until it’s unrecognizable from whatever it started out
to be (were we deciding between plain/coated paper clips, or pizza/salads
for lunch???). There’s an opening, a tiny imperceptible rift in the space
between gray fabric covered co-workers and gray fabric covered cubicle
wall and a break is made- to the ladies’ room! The door slams shut, the
latch is latched and the body slumps onto the stool- head spinning,
breathing in the carefully sterilized aroma of Lysol, glass cleaner and as
many different perfumes as there are women in the office. Torn as to the
next logical action- laughter, screaming, head banging or just giving up
and flushing yourself, (poof) and you’re in a vegetable garden. Sun
shining, the earth warm and fragrant under your bare feet, the tomatoes
could be harvested blindfolded; they’re so intoxicatingly spicy. Inhale.
Exhale. Repeat.
(Only one more, I promise…)
Arriving home after a
day at work, the odor of cooking wafts through the air. Someone
else’s cooking. In someone else’s apartment. The sound of
someone else’s child pounding on something while singing off key at the
top of their tiny voice can be heard over the chorus of a herd of
television sets all marching to the tune of different drummers.
Wearily, drapes closed to the mirror images of your life across the
street, you pet the cat in your lap and (poof) you and the cat are sitting
in a rocking chair in front of a fireplace. The pitter-patter of
raindrops on the roof keeps time with the spring peepers’ concert
literally over the river and through the woods. There’s a pie in the
oven. Apple pie. Made with apples from your apple tree.
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
