Tuesday, September 22, 2009

happenings ii

I pick my nose, and what I pull out, I put in my mouth. I swallow it after I examine it with my tongue. Simultaneously, I wonder what people find so gross about it and why anyone would feel compelled to do that in the first place.

During my dad's softball game, I lie down on the concrete and fall asleep.

At dusk, on the roof's edge of a parking garage, my chosen roommate and I stand and look at the Tampa skyline. I suspect he's going to kiss me. When he doesn't, I'm both grateful and annoyed.

Accidentally, I drop my favorite toy - a green, plastic whistle - off the edge of a pier.

Led to believe that the DMV location where I'd get my driver's license doesn't test for parallel parking, I don't bother to practice. Come test time, I am asked to parallel park and I do it gracefully the very first time.

Returning from a traveling carnival with my friend, I convince my friend's mother that I've become a carney and will be leaving town with them in the next couple of days.

Joining my ankles together by sticking them through a colored ring diving toy, I swim around pretending to be a mermaid.

I climb up a dumpster to be like my brother's friend and when I climb down, I cut my leg and end up with 19 stitches.

Positioned under the coffee table, I listen to the grown-ups speak - bored, but secure.

Hysterically crying, my friend wanders on to a stranger's front lawn and cries in the sprinklers. I kneel down to hold her and then I start to cry, too.

Pissed off at my grandparents' Boston Terrier, I have a vision of picking the dog up by her hind legs, swinging her over my head like a lasso, and hurling her clear in to the wall - but I refrain.

After listening to a meditation CD designed to foster contact with one's spirit guides, I go to take a nap and on the edge of sleep, I am awakened by someone saying my name - a loud whisper in my ear that I both feel and hear.

I read of Jane Goodall's work with chimpanzees and wish I were a participant.

While in Illinois, my great-aunt ushers my mother and I around her garden, telling us about her plants and flowers. She gently touches the leaves, inviting us to do the same, and then takes her fingers to her nose and breathes in their scent. She - and her garden - easily become my favorite part of the trip.

Wandering aimlessly around downtown Dallas, my friend and I come upon a hotel hosting some sort of fancy, political function taking place in the ballroom. We decide to crash the party. Sweaty and inappropriately dressed, we mingle and enjoy slices of cake.

On a layover at the Atlanta airport, I stop at the food court. At Popeye's, I order some biscuits that I take in to a bathroom stall and eat.

My grandmother holds a gathering at her house with several of her lady friends. For fun, I hide in the hallway and call out strange sounds, hoping to bewilder and confuse the guests.

I pick a scab and taste the blood. I'd do proud no vampire, but still like its sweet, metallic taste.

I take my canvas out to the porch and paint in late afternoon.

I get angry at my dad and stepmother for whatever reason, and while they aren't looking, I impulsively spit in to their pan of frying bacon. Instantly, I'm ashamed and regretful.

Petting my cat, I stare directly in his eyes and hold his gaze. I see God. And by his expression, I know he sees the same in me.


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