Monday, May 16, 2005

Paralysis

It smells like nursery school today. It must be the rain and the mud. I wish I were back there, playing in the damp leaf pile behind the swingset. Getting my clothes dirty. Digging for earthworms. I liked making magic wands with dried macaroni and glitter on popsicle sticks, but getting my corduroys and my hair mussed in the backyard was best. On the sidewalk this morning I walked through a soggy scattering of absurdly bright pink blossoms. An old man with a fedora and a cane stepped respectfully around them but I kept my trajectory and crushed them with my heavy treads. The bus was packed. I could barely fit on and stood next to the driver for awhile, feeling like a copilot. Halfway through the commute, finally, a seat. A woman stood in front of me holding a bright blue fish in a cup. The fish was right in front of my face, resting. It hadn't much room to move but seemed content. Or asleep. Absurd to think about it, really. I mean, what kind of consciousness does a fish have? I wished I were that fish. Obviously it was going somewhere special. A classroom, perhaps. It would be admired just for being such a pretty blue. It could just float and be admired. Eat occasionally. Thoughtless, weightless. Today is a bad day.

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