You know -- I changed my mind.
I really don't think I want to comment on the wedding except to say that I had a really good time and feel honored to have been invited. No matter how I construe the story I'll be leaving certain details out -- so I feel it'd be better just to leave the moments crystallized on the fibres of the mind, and hope that certain others can break off and shatter away forever. St. Lucia is entertaining two very lucky people right now -- if only I were so lucky as to have escaped to another country, escaped the hangover and the guilt that commonly thrives in post part depression. Instead I've been confined to my home, keyless, as in some sort of karmic wonder, my keys were grasped by hands later bound to a steering wheel set on a course for Louisville, Kentucky. It took me two days to figure that out -- and I'm still recovering. My car, meanwhile, still sits in the hotel parking lot.
Don't get me wrong -- I was one of the happiest cats at that ceremony and afterwards...I really enjoyed seeing and meeting everyone. Some I hadn't seen in many a month -- some I'd never seen. Some I may never see again. Then, that shooting star passed out of the night and landed in a big vat of tapioca pudding the next morning.
Cosmic forces are laughing at me. I think they're responding in kind to that moment when Stephen awoke in Athens to my face glowing orange from the reflection of the flames that were surrounding his socks. Or perhaps they were responding to my prancing around in articles of the ex's clothing that showed surprising support, an event I can only hope has not been documented on film. (It's much sexier to use your imagination.) Oh yes, there are plenty of other moments that could be listed -- but as the blisters on my feet can testify - their occurrence is damning enough without having to be sketched out completely here. There are pangs of guilt that come on every so often, strong enough to force out audible apologies. They've been made in the middle of the night to an empty room several times in the past few days, apologies only to the night air. Yes - I've been talking to myself. I've lost my mind.
The hours of my tour here in Georgia are dwindling. The waves are threatening to topple this battered schooner. I fear I may be going in circles as I tighten the sashes of my eyes against the razor rain, unable to recover my bearings as a fog has formed under the glass of my compass. Wiping with sopped clothing, even were it a productive activity, would be rendered doubly useless by the ferocity of this storm. I can only strengthen my grasp, digging my fingernails into my palm, clutching close to my heart the only relic of direction I have left.
