What’s new with you, she asks. I’m at peace now, I tell her. I’ve given up, No more archive digging, enough staring at the dangling crystal ball. This moment is my rapture. Rapture? How…Christian. No, no, no; salvation is universally desired. So, what changed? You know, it’s not pleasant to desire those things which I do not have [yet], so I ought to focus on my blessings. For instance: Sunshine, the daily green protein shake I devour, my healthy family, friendships that span decades. Oh, yes. Of course. 

See, I’m free. Why lament liberty? Resenting the process seems…antithetical. You sound wiser. Do I? Brainwashing, I mean, rewiring – is an essential process. As is exfoliation. 

If you’re in the now, how do you plan? Oh…funny question. It’s G-d’s plan. I’m just a silhouette of flesh writing down “to do’s” in my funny little planner; items written in indigo ink that will get me from Point A to B to…Z. 

Do you think you’ll retain this clarity? Ha! Ha!, of course not. Eventually I’ll fall for the evil inclination’s stupid genius tricks. I can only hope, I mean, pray, to recover more quickly and snap back to reality with grace. How does one do that? By forfeiting pity. By counting my blessings…one, two, three, four… Ah, exactly. 

Everything will happen as it’s meant to. I used to think a new city would solve my problems. Not today, though. No more problems, let’s call them…challenges that G-d has laid out for me. There’s no escaping. 

Recently I acquired a desk, though I’m writing this from a round dining table. But: The desk, I manifested it. I’ve known for a long time that the core focus of my life, and constant desire, is to create (I get in my way, oops). To witness myself and the world. 

I once built an energy field – many years ago, and it was destroyed. I stared at the wreckage for years. I cried over every last broken bowl and mirror. Clean it up! Clean it up! A solo search and rescue team, I did just that.

Memories. Most difficult to dispose of, there are special parcels for burying memories which inevitably take their own form if left to ferment, effervescent in the mind – a clockwork orange spritz, ew. 

Enough. Clean, sweep, swipe – I mean, wipe – cough, the cleaning agents are horrible and intoxicating and then they disappear. OK. The temple has been taken care of. It’s time to rebuild. 

First make the vessels, mold them. One-by-one; the plates are different sizes and depths and fit only one slice of toast. Keep going, they’ll live in the temple. Collect little artifacts like vanilla tobacco candles.. Build the structure to house books, tend and tend and cry that after laborious tending it’s still not a home. It’s a temple.

What’s the difference between a temple and a home? Questions like this are obsolete, I’m told. Musing is not amusing, musing has come to give me a headache.

I tell her, if I’ve learned anything in the last few months it’s that we spend our youth crying over spilt almond milk. Do you know how sad that is? Can’t you see all I want is for you to listen? I can hear you. But do you see what I’m saying? No, I hear what you’re saying. You’re swimming in minutiae, you’re missing the point. And you’re antagonistic.

Sheesh.

What’s new? Right, I’m at peace now. Peace, of course. Unless I’m locked in a traffic jam or on hold for too long, or extorted $12 for a bottle of water. 

Yeah, anyone would get bothered by that. 

Really? Yeah, you seem at peace. Good. Thanks.