Cork Floats 

I have cork!

Ok, so that’s not as impressive as having wood, but we all work with the gifts we’re given, right?  Well, the cork wasn’t really a gift; it was a purchase.  I made it. 

What’s so cool about having cork?  It’s a buoyant bump up to the surface for me.  After submerging into the cold depths of divorce, I’m floating back towards the light writing realm. Nothing says “floatation device” like cork, and nothing says “I’m a writer” like a cork wall and a laptop at Starbucks.  I already got the laptop;  now I have the cork.  Next, I’ll work on aloof.

“No, don’t bother me, I’m great.”

Ok, so I already have aloof down, I just need somewhere to throw it.  That’s why I bought the cork.  I want a visual wall to see my thoughts.  Most of them will frighten little children, but that’s ok.  I just won’t invite them into the ove—office.

“Some more gingerbread, Hansel?”

You can tell a man by the personality icing slathered on his wall.  Look at his notes.  “buy milk” that means he’s forgetful, and likes his dairy.  “Do army ants march?”  That’s an inquisitive person.  “Do you still hear the Lambs Clarise?” Yeah, it’s best to find the door and add color later when you see that note.

Until recently, I didn’t need a wall; I had a business card.  It said “divorce” that’s all I needed.  Whenever I thought of something, all I needed was to look at the card and remember, because it was somehow going to relate to that.

“Says here that Al Gore is going on tour to raise global warming awareness.”

“Divorce.”

“Excuse me?”

“…it’s about divorce?”

“Al Gore?”

“No, global warming.”

“I see.”

“Al Gore is just touring to stay away from Tipper.”

“Divorce?”

“Exactly.”

“I see…I’ll be over here.”

“You’re divorcing me.”

“No, I don’t know you, I was just here to buy coffee, but you’re creeping me out.”

“Have some gingerbread.”

So my coffee shop divorced me.

Divorce. That’s the billboard I carried around in my pocket. Halogen night lit so you couldn’t miss the blinding accusation. It’s what I ate, drank, and slept.  Not anymore.  I’ve got cork: it’s lighter.

So what changed?

Time.  Yep, that’s it.  After a while the business card frayed and the words smeared leaving me alone with a wad of pocket lint.  It was time for something more.  My mind had become a dam nation of dammed thoughts.  It’s time to let things go.  Time to buy some cork.

Cork is great, it bottles things in. It holds things up. It’s multifunctional.  I’ve bottled things up just fine (see my dam previous reference)--No, I need a place to pin my new flowing thoughts and issues.  I’m ready to make sense of the other things in my head, sort out the rivulets like refrigerator magnets.

Ok, I’m not ready for magnets. Not magnets. Not yet.  Magnets will stick to anything, I need to keep my thoughts secure. Cork is perfect. Not everything sticks to cork.  I’m also finding not every adhesive holds it up either.

Nope.  I bought spray glue that was supposed to do the trick, but three coats of sticky goop later, my cork still flaps out. That’s ok.  I held onto divorce, I’ve held my liquor, I can hold up my cork. I’ll make it stick.  I’ve found I’m creative.  I just need to use the creativity on the back side of the cork, as well as the front.

Once I do, what’s next?  I fill the cork, of course. Rob’s brain has been moving. I have scraps of things from the past year. Things I want to hold onto. Things that make the new Rob still Rob.  Chunks of gingerbread frosted together to make myself alluring.

The worn out business card?  Oh, no.  I’m throwing that away.