I've been working and worrying so much that my vision is clouded with future fears and present states of being. So I shake my head and toss my worries aside! There. I can almost see something moving! A light. A crack—big enough for a thought of a finger to pick through the layers of dust that have formed a thick crust that crumbles with finger flicks.
Now both hands, and a burst of fresh air escapes into my hair. It smells like sunshine and happiness. I gotta seeeee what's through there—reach for it and touch it!
Pushing my head through, it appears that I am peeking out of the middle of a cliff! I look up and cannot make my way to the top. I look down, and it's a straight drop, and a looooong way down. And I think I can hear a river way down there. I have a lot of water rushing around my imagination. I'm drawn to it.
I pull my head back in and begin to kick through the thick of it—breaking off large chunks. I'm going to jump. A few more kicks. A few more. And that's it! I'm going to
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Oh? I seem to have stopped falling and am just standing on the empty air. I do see a river below me. It's moving. But it's still a long way down, farther than I had imagined, so I
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What? Now I'm going back up!? Hmmm. Maybe I should
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There. I land in the water slowly—slipping into the rushing pulling at my feet, then legs, then I'm laying on my back and floooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooating downstream.
The cliffs above me move gently while I watch a tiny stream of sky float by. Lovely, just lovely. Floating, just floating. Listening, just listening—hearing only bubbling in my ears mixed with muffled, quiet heartbeats.
I'm in a state of concentrated imagination. A respite.
22 July 2012
23 June 2012
Cheeto
A blank sheet of paper and the thought of having an imaginary dog that never poops and always catches frisbees in the air—he practically flies. His name is Cheeto. Someone else named him before I rescued him from the imaginary dog shelter. The previous owner abandoned him, which is how most imaginary dogs end up in the shelter.
On the day we met, I had only seen three other imaginary dogs before I stepped in front of his cage, and there he was, wagging his tail, happy as can be to see me. I called his name, "Cheeto!" and he stood up and tilted his head to the side to flash a smile at me. I never needed to take a step further. Cheeto was the imaginary dog for me. I paid extra to be able to take him home that very same day. We walked out of the shelter and I didn't even need a leash—he prefers to walk at my side, on his own, within reach.
I'm not sure what his previous owners were thinking when they decided to name him Cheeto. He's not orange or lumpy, and he's not spotty like a cheetah. But I sure do have a lot of fun saying his name when I call him.
"Chee-chee-cheeeee-toe!"
"Cha-cheeto!"
"Cheech-cheeee-toh!"
Ha! He's going nuts! He hears his name being called, and he can't quite figure out where it's coming from. He's running to all the places where sounds leak and freezes—holding very still until he hears his name called again.
"Cheee-toe!"
"Yes! That's you! Such a good boy."
I took Cheeto out for a run earlier. We ran all the way to the coast. Imaginary dogs love the beach. Cheeto especially loves the seagulls. He stretches out his skin and leaps into the air after them—gliding up in gusts. I tried it once, but my skin proved too heavy. I did manage to find out that I make a pretty good sail, so long as I have something smooth under my feet, like a piece of cardboard or a plastic sheet.
Tonight we're going to explore what's under the door that someone dropped in the middle of the parking lot down the street.
On the day we met, I had only seen three other imaginary dogs before I stepped in front of his cage, and there he was, wagging his tail, happy as can be to see me. I called his name, "Cheeto!" and he stood up and tilted his head to the side to flash a smile at me. I never needed to take a step further. Cheeto was the imaginary dog for me. I paid extra to be able to take him home that very same day. We walked out of the shelter and I didn't even need a leash—he prefers to walk at my side, on his own, within reach.
I'm not sure what his previous owners were thinking when they decided to name him Cheeto. He's not orange or lumpy, and he's not spotty like a cheetah. But I sure do have a lot of fun saying his name when I call him.
"Chee-chee-cheeeee-toe!"
"Cha-cheeto!"
"Cheech-cheeee-toh!"
Ha! He's going nuts! He hears his name being called, and he can't quite figure out where it's coming from. He's running to all the places where sounds leak and freezes—holding very still until he hears his name called again.
"Cheee-toe!"
"Yes! That's you! Such a good boy."
I took Cheeto out for a run earlier. We ran all the way to the coast. Imaginary dogs love the beach. Cheeto especially loves the seagulls. He stretches out his skin and leaps into the air after them—gliding up in gusts. I tried it once, but my skin proved too heavy. I did manage to find out that I make a pretty good sail, so long as I have something smooth under my feet, like a piece of cardboard or a plastic sheet.
Tonight we're going to explore what's under the door that someone dropped in the middle of the parking lot down the street.
23 May 2012
Spring In The Grass
The next time you go outside, every grassy spot you see will be springy like a trampoline, and you will be able to jump jump jump from them as high as you want because when you land again the grass will cushion your fall and spring easy on your knees. All the hard concrete sidewalks and streets weave and wind around narrow stripes and strips all the way up to trampolines the size of football fields where you can jump so high you'll be surprised at how far you can see.
