I remember watching the movie “Crossroads” a lot as a kid
and hearing my Dad tell stories about the musician Robert Johnson,
who, as the myth goes, supposedly met the devil at the crossroads
and sold his soul to be able to play the guitar,
one of the greatest blues musicians of our time.
I think about the juke joints he visited, playing surrounded by
pool tables, Colt 45 bottles, jukeboxes, artwork on the walls.
We listened to every one of his songs growing up.
But the myth…
The idea of being at the cross section of roads,
each leading to different futures,
I am standing there now.
It is stark, desolate, the only thing of note
are the telephone poles
with lines running, energy humming between them.
Here I stand.
I don’t know how far to push, how far to fight for myself.
I’ve been living very small, on purpose.
No writing, no social media, no evidence of myself anywhere,
for fear that I’ll be deemed too healthy.
I’ve been trying to get disability since October of 2020,
I just received my 2nd denial.
If I appeal, I have to wait another year.
4 years to get my lawyer in front of a judge.
Another year of tracking symptoms, working hard to find
new ways to heal my body
as it continues to morph, some symptoms dropping off,
new ones appearing.
I am still reliably unreliable.
Do I keep fighting?
Or do I just let it go, and give up?
Do I walk to the right, left, forward or backward?
I will just stand here for a bit,
and see who might walk down the road.