If I’ve ever in my life been this stressed, my memory has mercifully erased it. Strange sensation; I barely even know where I am or what I’m doing — a lot like the early seventies, come to think of it. I’ve been telling myself things like “Your keys are in your hand,” but it doesn’t work without additional data, like “your hand is at the end of your arm.” (Did I get that right?)
Got to the P.O. ten minutes before closing, so the hard drive with my just-finished Final Cut production is winging its way east. Handed over the final batch of reins for various projects. I think I’m finished working. Now I’ll see what I can do about packing.
Speaking of where things are: I got an e-mail from the woman I’m lodging with. “Someone will be there” when I arrive, she reassured me. If only she’d told me where “there” is. But that’s okay. Don Toí±o will know.
Shortly after that, Jill popped up on chat — newly emerged, bug-bitten, from the jungle — to say she’d gotten my e-mails about my Costa Rica plans and will meet me on the airstrip in Puerto Jimenez. I told her I’d fulfilled her request for dark chocolate but can’t guarantee its intact arrival. A travelin’ gal gets hungry.
Just found out that, because of a system error at Taca, I have to show up at the airport three hours early, rather than two like everyone else. That’s very soon. Already time to practice acceptance and I haven’t even left yet. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
(It didn’t help.)
Byeeeeeeeeeeee.
Love,
Ginna
P.S. Okay, now I am losing it: I haven’t heard from my daughter who’s supposed to be giving me a ride to the airport. If I have to take the shuttle instead, I’d have to leave in minutes and I’m not ready.
P.P.S. Molly and I just said farewell by video chat. She took this picture.
Then she put on the song “Jackson” by Lucinda Williams, which she knows makes me very, very homesick. After that, she played the song about “I really don’t like you,” which made me feel much better.
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