words spoken underwater

I woke up really sick. The person I had been conspiring with, seated together on the floor between the stacks of tower blue mats, she evaporated. Retreating to the place she had come from. And although the woman was gone and everything built on her was crumbling to the light of day the thought lingered.  Maybe the dream lady was right. 

Or there is no maybe about it. She was right: I have stuff to do. Stones to collect.  Paths to travels. You know stuff that isn't laundry.

Like to sit in a diner over greasy plates and questionable coffee on the edge of a town so small it doesn't have it's own weather.  Run wild over dirty trails, thoughtlessly through summer snow storms, and down mountains of tumbling descents.     

I am sure I was not meant to be held here so long.  My gypsies soul got caught in a body that was captured by motherhood.  So I stay because they can't part ways. But I find myself peering out with prison eyes at the distances between what is and what might have been.

Revisit the merits of the original plan. Plan A: to leave the green valley right after high school to live and work on the burning docks of Lake Powell.  Sleep in poorly air conditioned trailers with dank corners and dusty beds, Work for nearly nothing, plan for even less.

Or plan B was life on the edge of Jackson Hole along the Hoback River waiting tables or cleaning hotel rooms. Plan C: Grousecreek, the town at the end of a dirt road.  Plan D: Peoa.

Plan E: Judd Ranch, West Desert.     

The dream lady and I had sat together in the shadow of the blue-blue gym and we talked about what we should be doing and how together we could pull it all off. She talked of many things, of lots of stuff, of golden deserts, white mountain tops, hot pots in the night, waterfalls that come from inside the belly of a mountain cave, & rivers that run emerald green.   

Now that I think about it, the dream lady looked very familiar.  

She looked a lot like me.