I walk though the honeysuckle sweetness of childhood innocence and feel great comfort in this far away but deeply implanted memory of place. Over two thousand miles and decades from my hometown, I am planted in my old backyard watching sticky droplets fall like jewels from open mouthed flowers wanting to sing. Wide-eyed under the glow of flitting fireflies, I climb to the top of a tree. It is here that I do my best thinking.
Middle-aged, I wear a mask to protect myself and the passersby from what still seems ill defined but frightening nonetheless. I zigzag swiftly from one side of the street to the other remembering hating how aggressive dodgeball used to be. I much preferred the parachute we fluttered and raised, giggling as we ran around underneath. I was too young to understand this parachute was a remnant of war. I just knew I liked it as much as any kid could. And if this was gym class, it was about as good as it was going to get.
I sweat through my shirt as the camera clicks. The sun is high and bright; the sky is bluest of blue. I might cry about things I cannot control, but I am also smiling. This is my natural state. At home, hot water is temporarily cold, but my shower is refreshing in its briskness. I plow through pictures and stay up until night turns to early morning.
Now, I post these pictures but they insist on picking their own order. They fall oddly and nonsensically into places I do not put them, as if someone else is shuffling my deck of cards when I am not looking. I decide that the spontaneity I seek is also seeking me.
Note: I initially created this blog post on another platform. On this one, I honored the order the images had fallen there. This time, my text deleted itself over and over again. Something is trying to grab my attention here. Is it the crazy dog? Whatever it is, I'm listening.
Middle-aged, I wear a mask to protect myself and the passersby from what still seems ill defined but frightening nonetheless. I zigzag swiftly from one side of the street to the other remembering hating how aggressive dodgeball used to be. I much preferred the parachute we fluttered and raised, giggling as we ran around underneath. I was too young to understand this parachute was a remnant of war. I just knew I liked it as much as any kid could. And if this was gym class, it was about as good as it was going to get.
I sweat through my shirt as the camera clicks. The sun is high and bright; the sky is bluest of blue. I might cry about things I cannot control, but I am also smiling. This is my natural state. At home, hot water is temporarily cold, but my shower is refreshing in its briskness. I plow through pictures and stay up until night turns to early morning.
Now, I post these pictures but they insist on picking their own order. They fall oddly and nonsensically into places I do not put them, as if someone else is shuffling my deck of cards when I am not looking. I decide that the spontaneity I seek is also seeking me.
Note: I initially created this blog post on another platform. On this one, I honored the order the images had fallen there. This time, my text deleted itself over and over again. Something is trying to grab my attention here. Is it the crazy dog? Whatever it is, I'm listening.
