Page 34 of Knot All is Crystal
“Found objects. Trash. Things that are overlooked or thrown away because no one sees their value.” Although I haven’t created in a while, I still find myself picking up scraps as I wander the city, storing them in a room in my apartment in hopes of one day creating with them. “I think there is something beautiful in the discarded. That I can take something unassuming and forgotten and make it eternal.” I pull a bottle cap I picked up on my walk to the club this afternoon out of my pocket.
“See this?” I hold it up. It’s bent, the bottom third nearly touching the interior of the cap. “Imagine it as an eye. The sleepy eye of a giraffe.” I spin it, showing her how the logo on the lid now looks like part of a pupil, obscured by a lower lid. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that, but beauty isn’t something static. It morphs and changes with us. This bottle cap isn’t beautiful or ugly. It is potential. It has the potential to be trash, to be worthless.” I slip it into my pocket, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “But it also has the potential to be heartbreaking, and moving, and priceless. It can be breathtaking.”
She chews her bottom lip, and I notice tears in her waterline that she’s fighting to keep from falling. I don’t call attention to them because this is the first time she’s looked at me with so much vulnerability. “Do you really believe that? That something worthless can be made into something beautiful with the right hand?”
I don’t think we’re talking about art anymore. “Of course I do. Everything has worth. Sometimes, it just needs help showing it to the world.”
TWELVE
My alarm blares,startling me from a sleep that can barely be considered that.
When I went to bed last night, I again had the naïve hope that my migraine would be gone when I woke up. At least once a month, I convince myself that all I need is a little sleep and that I’ll be right as rain.
Unfortunately, that is never the case.
I groan as I roll out of bed, trying to take stock of my body. Aching at the back of my neck, my lower back, and the tips of my fingers and toes.
Pain level: Three. It’s annoying and a little distracting, but over-the-counter meds may help.
But the main problem is my traitorous head. As soon as I start moving and begin my morning routine, it rebels, ratcheting my pain up dramatically.
How and why is my body attacking itself? It feels like someone has bolts on my temples, steadily tightening them. My vision is slightly blurry, and nausea simmers beneath the surface.
Pain level: Seven. Difficult to concentrate, but can function with effort.
When I mention to someone I have migraines, the first thing they do is tell me all about their headaches. Because that’s what they are. They’re not migraines.
I can recognize someone who actually suffers from them. I don’t know how to describe it, but people who deal with chronic pain have an aura about them that is only recognizable to someone else in the same boat.
The second thing they do is ask how I am out and about, if I have a migraine, because their brother/aunt/neighbor/grocery store clerk has to hide under the covers whenever they have a migraine.
Don’t get me wrong, I have my hide under the cover days—more than I’d like to admit. But the world doesn’t stop because I’m in pain. There are things that I have to do to keep living.
My family returned to Colombia after I finished college, and I don’t have a pack. I utilize delivery services and outsource everything I can, but I still have to leave the house sometimes.
Like today.
I’ve got a follow-up with Dr. Talbot to get another gene therapy treatment. I’m still wondering if it was a good idea to put some of the small amounts of banked effort I have on a given day to explore this treatment option. I haven’t noticed much, if any, difference.
I should eat.
Not eating and drinking can make it worse. But the idea of eating makes me feel green.
A smoothie would be good. I could handle a smoothie.
But the blender is soloud.
Maybe I could order one from the shop by the Clinic on my phone and walk in once it’s done?
I’ll try that.
The rideshare driver honks from outside my townhome, and I cringe. I guess requesting a silent ride doesn’t extend to the horn.
By the time I slide out of the backseat and run into the smoothie shop (the blenders were off when I went in, thankfully), I’m just on time for my appointment.
The nurse—I think his name is Kyle, but I honestly cannot remember—takes me back to take my vitals and set me up for an MRI. Once all that is done, I’m escorted to Dr. Talbot’s office, where I try to keep my straw from making that obnoxious slurping noise that happens when you get to the end of a drink.
The smoothie has helped a little, surprisingly.
