So I dreamt I crawled inside of her ear and sat there in the mushy mush, until I found what I had destroyed and twisted it all around, back to the way it used to be. I looked at my clipboard and put a check mark next to “shattered” and “damaged” and “ruined” and “spoiled”. It was bad. Bad news. Not an easy job.
Skipped over some things and went back to the good stuff, the really really good stuff. (I fluffed it up a little). I put-- I’m sorry-- band-aids all around and kissed it all better. It was good to be close to her.
And when I crawled out she hugged me and told me she loves me again.
leave quickly and come home late. if you see Josephine let her know that her man was downtown with Clara Lee... just sayin' if it is on your way can you pick up some kisses for me? assorted. sordid. sure did. now leave quickly and come home late and call me if Josephine starts to cry.
baby, my parents are out of town, and my older sister bought us some wine coolers. i put on my finest strawberry lipstick and non-cotton undies for you... come over and look at me awkwardly while i smile because i know what is going to happen-- and you do too, but you are too shy to start... we will kiss and pretend we are older than ourselves.... as if older people would kiss violently over fuzzy navel wine coolers on a cider porch.
Little Tully Tuesday was the silliest girl in town. She stopped to slip her slippers on and take her body down to the other side of the tracks where she could see her dressing gown- sewn by the sister of her paramour, Mr. Wednesday Brown.
It is that time of year again. And, although I know my readership is limited, I want to thank each and every one of you for stopping by my blog to see my little scribbles.
I am a huge fan of The Moth and This American Life, and they inspired me to record a story for you all, as a little token of my appreciation. I want to start experimenting more with reading my pieces out loud. I would love any feedback you could offer. And sorry for the bad quality- my first time!
This is the story of the Johnson family: Ma, Pa, Emily, Clancy and Clyde. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you are feeling the love of the holiday season.
PS I'll type up the written story tomorrow maybe- so you can read to your children all snug in their beds.
I was just wandering the streets, clearing my mind in the brisk, sharp air. The sky was the color of apathy and the people were all bundled up in scarves and hats. I had already stopped for a coffee near my place- where I sat warm and at ease writing a million letters to a million people. I stopped by the post office and mailed all the little thoughts out across the ocean.
Regretting wearing only my little black ballerina slippers instead of my cushy winter boots, I wrapped myself up tight and started walking. I crossed by Notre Dame- how it was almost camouflaged against the grey sky!- and continued down the Seine towards wherever.
I passed Shakespeare and Company, the cello maker, and two Italian tourists shouting at each other in the road. Before I knew it my watch said it was near 3 and my tummy growled- empty except the coffee and cream. I passed a brasserie, same as any other, and ducked inside from the cold.
As I stripped off all my outer layers and ordered a mulled wine, I realized I had just walked into a 1960’s Goddard film. The bar was long and plated in metal, smudged with the fingerprints of lunch guests. A few men sat there, mid 40s, with glasses full of rosé, discussing something serious in hushed tones, close to each other. Behind the bar was a man with a flop of dark hair and a striped shirt, wiping down the espresso machine and turning the glass jar of Madeleines. The chef stood at the door of the kitchen, bored now that lunch was finished for the say; he surveyed the old men sitting to my right.
They sat, chatting, and one could tell that they hadn’t moved all day. Every time a man with silver hair and a long umbrella would walk in the door with a fresh blast of winter they would say “Hello young man!” and drag him in to conversation for a spell. One snacked on a crème caramel while the other refilled their glasses with wine from a small carafe. A tall, younger man entered and the table shouted “Bonjour Olivier!” but Olivier managed to avoid their grasp, taking a quick coffee at the bar before disappearing back into the latin quarter. A man in shocking red pants and a Burberry scarf joined them at their small table and they cried “Hey bartender! This guy needs a glass of wine! Hurry!”
To my left sat an older couple, resembling each other as many years of marriage will do. She drank a perrier and he had a coca cola, and at their feet was the largest, fluffiest black dog I have ever seen- dozing away happily on the cold tile. “Is he nice?” I asked, then scratched his head, feeling only handfuls of fur.
Beside the cooler displaying chocolate mousse in sundae cups, small crème caramels, a cherry clafouti, a large white bûche de noel, and bottles of Cotes de Provence and Sancerre, a man in small glasses, the owner I presume, sat quietly. He had a large calculator to one side, a large rubber stamp on the other, and a stack of papers in front. He held his face close to the papers as he read, lifting only to sip from his tiny espresso cup.
A Christmas tree blinked in the corner and the speakers buzzed with a quiet jazz piano. The light snow flurries turned to freezing drops of rain and the old men cried “another!” at the man in the striped shirt.
It was less than a month ago when I first called him. I'm not sure quite why. I wasn't very lonely- I had been seeing some other guys casually. I guess it was curiosity? Maybe I really did miss him, somehow? I do know that I was still angry. It was only two years ago, the last time I saw him, that he had pushed my heart through a meat grinder.
I remember so well when it happened- a hot, humid July day. We had already been on the rocks- his obsessive jealously was so overwhelming at times I would just scream and scream with no release. When he started going through my phone and peeking in my journal, I knew it had gone too far. And I was generally at a really bad place in my life- in the middle of law school, leaving Paris again, questioning my future with him and Paris and life in general. And then came the knowledge, like a shotgun to the chest: he was seeing someone else. And I cried, and cried. I wondered when I had ever decided to let my guard down with a French man anyhow, as I have never known one to be faithful. My rule was easy- I can play the game. Everyone has fun and no one gets hurt. But he told me he loved me, and my tummy needed to feel it so badly that I believed him.
But that was two years ago.
So I called him. I think I wanted an apology, finally. Or at least some satisfaction. And expecting anything from him was the second mistake. I heard his voice and my heart died all over again. I cried, I asked why, I yelled. I hung up the phone, the release unsatisfactory. He called again and again. "I want to see you" he said. "I want to say I am sorry and I missed you" he said. A few weeks later, in a moment of weakness, I gave in.
It was late and cold, too many clouds to see any stars. He arrived and I poured us both a strong glass of whiskey. It started with more yelling. I tried to be cold to him but I could not control it. So much anger, like a rolling ball of fuzz and dust, smashed into my stomach, not budging. And then I cried. And he held me. And then hours later I was still crying, but now not because of him, but because of myself and my uncertainties and my own little demons. And he was still holding me. And when we kissed it was like two years ago, before everything went bad, when he could still make me blush and giggle.
In the morning we went for coffee like we always did- he his espresso with plenty of cigarettes, and me with my cafe creme, leafing through the paper. It was cozy and comfortable and I felt my body relax as it hadn't in a while. When he left I tried to analyze the situation but it was much easier to push it out of my mind. We started talking on the phone, meeting for a glass of champagne, and sweet text messages late at night.
**
Then he showed up one afternoon, with take out and coca cola and all smiles. We snacked and talked and cuddled, then stayed in bed all afternoon. We made love and kissed each other and talked about our lives for the last two years and life in general. We listened to music and he flicked cigarette ash out my window. An endless stream of dressing and undressing. I remembered every centimeter of his chocolate eyes. He kissed my nose and called me old pet names. The window turned from bright to dark as the day turned into a grey evening. "I should go" he said.
"Lets go out and have a cocktail," I suggested. "I haven't left the apartment all day and it is apero hour."
"Just one," he said, and we took the tiniest elevator in Paris down to the street and then out to the square and down the street to a pub. Typical pub, all dark wood and smelling of Guinness and fried foods. We sat at the bar and chatted and ordered, a beer for him, a gin and tonic for me- extra limes. When he left to smoke outside the door an English guy next to me struck up a conversation. At his return, I felt his mood change immediately. "I'm just talking," I said. "Do you want to go soon?"
"I want to go" he said, "but I can see you want to stay." I had no intention of staying without him but regardless he ordered more drinks and stood by me like a bulldog. But every time we would finish a round, and he would go out to smoke, a new guy would start talking to me, and his jealously would compel him to stay at the pub with me and make himself angry anew each time he walked back through those doors, smelling of smoke and hops. When we finally left, much later, after several rounds and an order of french fries, he walked me back up to my apartment, both of us full of kisses and spirits and nostalgia.
"Can I come in?" he asked.
"You can," I said. "But if you come in you have to stay the night."
"I can't do that," he said. "I can't stay here."
"Why?" I asked, twirling my fingers in his hair and looking at him with teasing eyes.
"I can't stay" he repeated. His face had now changed.
"I have to go home.
I have to go home because I live with my girlfriend."
Situation this afternoon: I am opening the door to the hallway and I see someone coming down the stairs and so I close the door really quickly to hide because I look like hell. So its my upstairs neighbor, he comes up to the room- door still jarred and says "Is someone there?" which is embarrassing because he obviously saw me avoiding him. So, I am thinking he is about to kill me for all the noise in the apartment last night. So I sheepishly open the door and say "Oh hi! How are you? You know, I'm really sorry about all that noise last night. I was having a dinner party that didn't really start until 11 and we had some wine and anyway I'm sorry. I hope I didn't keep you up." He's like "Oh, I just wanted to ask if I could crawl out your window to get something that fell on the roof." So I say ok and I'm standing there, in my sweats, yesterdays makeup,hair a tangled mess, with my fucking SHEETS in my hands about to go to the washer, after randomly confessing to inviting people over last night,
and thinking this is the first time in history someone took a walk of shame in their own apartment.
The sky was the strangest shade of purplish grey. They sat at a café table, enjoying one of the last days of the year warm enough to sit outside. As the sun snuck into hiding over the horizon a breeze, like tiny fingers, nipped at ears and bare ankles.
"I'm trying to live in the moment" she said to him. She immediately put her hand to her lips, as if she wanted to push the cliché back into her throat. "Well, you know, I mean..."
Her name was Lita and her hair was a short crop, decorated by a tiny white bow on the right side. She was pretty, though her face had become rounder in the past few months. When she wasn't speaking she was peeling the polish from her fingernails or toying with a stray yarn on her multicolored, thick scarf. She wore no makeup other than mascara and magenta lipstick, which transferred itself slowly from her lips to her wine glass every time she raised it for a sip.
"I just want to feel like what I am doing is worthwhile. I want to be proud of something. I want to be in love with someone who makes me a better person, not a distorted version of myself. I want to start sculpting again, and watercolor." She looked up at Paul to see how he was reacting to her confessions.
Paul had green eyes and thick black eyelashes. He sat slouched in his café chair, one leg outstretched into the sidewalk, the other slightly bouncing under the table. His apparent apathy gave him a youthful aura, though he was older than Lita.
The waitress passed by and the two ordered another carafe of wine. The waitress gave them a quick glance, acknowledging the request, then disappeared inside. She probably thought they were a couple. They seemed to be. Lita, fidgeting and wide-eyed, seemed a good match for Paul's laid back vibe. But they weren't a couple. In fact, they were hardly even friends. They had met by chance at the park two weeks ago, when Paul's friends had forgotten to bring a corkscrew, so they requested one from nearby Lita and company. The two picnics then converged and Lita and Paul found that they lived in the same neighborhood.
The first time they had seen each other after that day was when they ran into each other at the weekend market, and sat down for a cup of coffee afterwards. Lita thought Paul was a bit of a bore, in a way that she couldn't quite explain. Paul found Lita amusing in a condescending fashion. Yet they found themselves together again, drinking red wine on the banks of the Seine, filling their bellies with Bordeaux and fresh air.
The waitress returned with the carafe and set it down sloppily on the small, worn; wooden table. "Voila" she said.
"Well?" implored Lita. "What do you think? What makes you feel like what you are doing is worthwhile?"
"To tell you the truth, I don't really think too much about that kind of thing," said Paul. "I mean, I work, I make money, I find pretty girls to kiss... That all seems worthwhile to me. I'm pretty alright happy."
"Pretty alright happy?" asked Lita. "Don't you want to be really happy?"
"Of course I do. It happens in moments, not large spaces of time."
Lita paused, looked down at the newly refilled glass of wine marked by magenta smudges, and sighed. She ran her finger over the rough tabletop, noting its dips and curves. She saw the light from the inside of the café bounce off of the rounded sides of the carafe. The air smelled like leaves, and tobacco, and river water. The sun was now completely hidden and small groups of people were huddling around the posted menu of the café, pondering dinner.
Her mind felt still, her body relaxed. She turned toward the city and the ornate stone buildings lining the streets. The trees were gradually dropping their now yellow leaves, creating piles of crunchy fragile stepping stones down the sidewalk.
If time could be stopped, she thought, this time would be wonderful. She took the dusk, wrapped it carefully in fallen leaves, placed it in her skirt pocket.
She looked towards Paul who was following a woman in a purple pea coat with his eyes.
"I guess I'll take what I can get," Lita said, discovering a new stray yarn on her over-picked scarf. And the clock kept ticking, and the metros kept running, and the waitress stepped outside to smoke.
My little Parisian pied-a-terre used to belong to a woman named Dot. In fact, I think it still does. Dot is not on Earth anymore, technically, but I think she has yet to leave her little home.
She had many properties- maybe Paris was her favorite? I read some letters from her friends and they were often reassuring: "Its ok, Dot. You are moving on to new things." and "You have excellent taste in art and friends- you have collected a great deal of both."
She was a traveler and an artist. She was one of our clients, so I looked up her file...
In the inventory for her other Paris home, her belongings read like poetry. And "under the bed" is the best random listing of luxuries I could imagine.
Under the bed:
2 suitcases
3 good long dresses
1 sari
long gloves
various silk stoles
2 old sari dresses
red hotelplan bag with winter mittens, earmuffs, and hiking stockings
gloves: white beige, black satin, purple, summer
beaver fur coat
And my favorite listing from her closet:
scarves- dozens.
She's not a bad flatmate at all. Who wants to drink coffee alone anyway?
I miss my bicycle. I've been thinking, if I don't get accepted to any law schools, I want to find a city to live and work in-- a new city, where I can ride my bicycle and live within limited economic means with lots of ethnic restaurants and weather where I can grow daisy bushes and maybe some water nearby? I could wait tables until I get some sort of 'real' job and I could volunteer at the woman's shelter and take up some adult ballet classes. And maybe get my ESL license?
I have no plan/I have no future/I am free and oh-so trapped.
I've only ever really been in love once, when I was with my first college boyfriend. While packing I came across this journal entry I wrote shortly after meeting him:
September 14, 2001
I am so fucking smitten. Last night was absolutely wonderful. I met Armon just two days ago, but I feel like I've known him forever.
He came over to study. When I first saw him I stopped a little- he was so hot in the middle of the lobby of the dorm. I was thinking "I really hope he thinks I am pretty" because I was feeling awfully self-conscious, but I got comfortable with him so quickly and his vibes were just so good. Everything about him was good.
We went downtown and walked around, stopping by Junkman's Daughter and Smoothie King and Blue Sky for coffee. I knew that even if he didn't like me we were going to be great friends because we just went so well together.
We went to his dorm to get his books and I saw his pretty guitar, then we went back to my dorm room to start studying. We met his friend Bob there, and let me tell you- Bob is an awesome guy. I really hope we become good friends. He lives in the same dorm building as I do.
So we started studying kind of, but kept talking about music and other things. It was fun and silly and how I had imagined college to be: sitting around, studying and listening to music and laughing....
After Bob left I talked to Armon for a long time. I was pulling super heavy flirting mode with him. I guess it worked because we kissed and it was soft and sweet and delicious. It was getting late, around 2 i think, so I told him he had to go. We went into the hall and I couldn't stop thinking about his lips.
We were absolutely going at each other like crazy. We kissed together perfectly, we meshed. We took the stairs the 6 flights down and kissed on every landing. It felt so nice and I wanted to write about it so badly.
Big tests inspire a very visceral reaction in me. I have always feared them in a way that is not normal. Probably because I am not very good at them. There are a few reasons for that. One is I just don’t test well on those large scale exams. Another is my aforementioned insane fear. Another, I think, is based in my diversion from competition. I don’t like being competitive. It doesn’t make me happy. It is kind of amazing I did so well in law school considering this fact, since law school is a bastion of competition where no one stops until they are standing in a pool of bloody bodies, covered in sweat with a smug look on their face. Not everyone is like that, of course. But it is a culture that is fed by the schools themselves. Can we have a new word for law school now? I feel like it is cursing my happy little blog each time I use it. You know how when people go to prison, after they get out, they talk about it like “you know, during the time I was away…” That’s how I feel about law school.
This time last year all of my fears about big tests became entangled with my fears about life and destiny and direction. I was so lost, just out of school after being a student for 21 years (not counting one year I escaped: then I was the teacher). I was afraid of loving and I was afraid of my instincts and I was afraid of the big bad world but mostly I was afraid of that test. The big one, you know? The one that sounds like a fun place just to mess with you? I was afraid of the bar. Very afraid.
So I just quit. I quit the bar, I quit New Orleans, and I quit life for a little while. I had a constant feeling of falling, as if I just kept going deeper and deeper and I didn’t have the ambition or energy to get back to the top, or even look towards the sky. I convinced myself that I was taking time to figure things out, but nothing could be farther from the truth. I was hiding. I was ignoring everything in my life- the debt that weighed so heavy on my shoulders, the job market and it’s never ending stream of rejections, my friends and family, myself.
Now I’m starting to peek out again. And part of that is facing what I am afraid of. So I reached out to Paris, and guess what? It worked out. I reached out to my friends and family and they were all still there and supporting me. And of course, I reached out to the bar. That pesky debt however…
So this morning I woke up in my hotel room a block away from Times Square and opened my toile curtains to a lovely view of a brick wall. I carefully placed the items I was allowed to take with me to the testing center. I was slightly terrified that accidentally bringing one too many pens, or the wrong flavor of chapstick, or a note with my walking directions would get me thrown out of the exam immediately so I packed only one pen, a water bottle, my wallet, and my laptop. I left the hotel around quarter of 7, which was a nice calm time- even in Times Square. The air was not too heavy yet and people were rolling up the shutters on their shops. I felt calm and a bit dazed, oscillating between feeling blessed to be able to experience a walk in New York in the morning when it is still waking up, and petrified of the small booklet of test questions that awaited me.
The testing center was huge and disorganized. The tension was palpable from a mile away. People were everywhere drinking coffee, reading notes, and glancing around uncomfortably. We lined up for a lifetime, and were finally let into what I can only call a glorified airline hanger.
The room was huge, very huge. I am bad a guessing sizes but I will tell you there were about 2500 candidates taking the test in there, at rickety plastic tables for two, and a proctor for about every ten people with their own wobbly white table. I was 694. It was freezing. The entire room was concrete, the walls and the ceiling and the floor. Everything was grey. Everything. It was one of the saddest rooms I have ever seen. There were no windows. Just rows and rows of those white tables, two chairs each, in never ending lines. The test began and it was four and a half hours of essay writing. I tried to write and write but my brain kept drying up. I understood what they wanted but the words were just not in my head. I trudged through the three essay questions with a half an hour to spare. This is one of my test-taking faults. I always finish early. In law school it was a blessing because I could unplug my laptop and high-tail it out of the room before all the others finished and started commiserating about the test questions in the lobby. I like to think I always finish early because I can quickly organize my thoughts and have a good grasp on the material, but it could be that I just want to get away from exams as quickly as possible.
I looked around and everyone was serious. They were all slightly hunched over their computers, gazing intently at their screens. I could see some screens and it looked like they had written a lot more than me but it was hard to tell. The proctor was filing her nails and casually glancing up every once in a while, looking as bored as I was. What a terrible job, I thought, sitting there for five hours looking at stressed people facing a life altering exam.
When we were let loose for lunch, and that is pretty literal as we were herded out of the room and into the food court, I was torn between going outside to defrost my bones or forcing down some terrible cafeteria food. I chose the latter because I had been too nervous to eat breakfast. I swiped a hamburger that gave me instant flashbacks to middle school because of its pure non-appeal and asked to sit at a table with a brunette snacking on a sandwich. After being seemingly surprised that I was talking to her she started to release a stream of negative comments. She is from New York, got a firm job, hates it, is avoided her other former classmates, ending it all with youknowhatimean and a knowing glance. I told her I am working in Paris even though I don’t like telling people that because it sounds like I’m bragging I think, even though it shouldn’t. But no one wants to know the nitty gritty about my fanatical life-long commitment to living in Paris, they just want to tell me about how they went there last summer and had really good mussels. Which is fine. I like to hear people’s Paris stories. And it means I don’t have to talk about my crazy situation.
Anyway, after lunch we were hoarded back into the room. I went in early to my seat while everyone was lining up outside of the bathrooms. I figured I would take a little break during the exam to freshen up, which is a huge perk of the early finish- breaks aren’t stressful. So I sat down at the table who had seen so many stressed elbows and I laid my head down and…. Well I do something I never do… I prayed. I tried to make the room as quiet as possible and I said in my head
God, whoever you are, and if you exist or not, I hope you aren’t mad that I don’t really believe in you. And when me and Beth make all those baby Jesus jokes, we’re just kidding, you know? I mean I definitely don’t believe in Jesus but just in case you take that personally, I’m sorry. I need your help because this is really important to me. Just let me pass this test. Please. I don’t want to do this again. Just let me find all my knowledge and all my skill and make it through. I’ll never again ask for anything else.
Well it just seemed like all I could do. The second half of the test started and I hammered away on my computer until time was called. We all filed out of the building looking vaguely drugged and slightly tight, as when you stay up too late drinking with people who aren’t really your friends but you end up telling them your life story. It was that kind of morning, but in the New York evening. I felt like saying “Don’t worry, guys, we’ll never speak of this again.”
When I walked back to my hotel the city was breathing gusts of hot air. It was awake and ready to sizzle. The roads were packed with yellow taxis and the sidewalks were flooded with people walking to and fro. Half over now it didn’t seem so scary, but who knows? Tomorrow is day two, then I’m off to Brooklyn to knock any memory of this exam out of my mind for a while, with the aid of martinis and cute boys. And I’m tired.
new orleans where gigi says "i'm so glad you're here" and i believe it,
it is hotter than sin but we love it--
in the driveway at my old house there is a car from new mexico and i wonder if they repainted my bedroom? all the flowers are dead, including my giant hibiscus, though i prefer to think it left to another home after i moved out.
next week new york and for bar, boy and bride, baby.
pretty pizzas and central park.
then a big bus will carry me to washington dc, to see the lovely lass zaza,
with every weight off my shoulders, every worry from my mind, every insanity settled....
we'll have cocktails on the hill and cupcakes in the cafes.
This letter is to alert you to the fact that you reneged on the oral contract formerly created.
According to Section 8, B, ii: Neither party may be " roguish idle-headed hugger-mugger."
According to my records, you have breached this agreement. Our relationship is henceforth terminated and I will be contacting my attorney about any future punitive damages.
Sorry to say
I cannot make it to your
impeding nuptials. i
have some hair washing
to do and more
toe nails to be painted
maybe red this time.
i really would have loved to have made it
but i have plans
that day, plans with
someone very attractive and...
polish. he is polish.
perhaps i can make it
to your next wedding if
my schedule turns out to be
more open,
in the future,
if i am not in africa or baton rouge.
so please excuse the absence-
it appears you may have
forgotten to mail me an invitation--
but out of politeness i want you to know
that i wouldn't have been able
to make it,
anyway.
drink wine, call meaningless boy (who you may or may not actively dislike), drink more wine while stripping and kissing in the yard,
lament lack of stars and inadequate kisses loudly (to make sure he knows you dislike him), roll around on a thin blanket over the grass, under the trees...
wake up in his bed at 2:00 with a throbbing head and many mosquito bites.
a remainder is a future interest in a grantee that...
a remainder is a future interest in a grantee that is capable or becoming posessorypossessssrie possessory
a remainder is a future interest in a grantee that is capable of becoming possessory upon the expiration of a prior possessory estate created in the same conveyance....
sigh
a remainder is a future interest in a grantee that is capable of becoming possessory upon the expiration of a prior possessory estate created in the same conveyance in which the remainder is created.
I received my first diary from my mother on Christmas Day, 1989. It was pastel and had a princess on the cover. The pages were scented with some sort of floral baby powder, and it was fitted by a small lock. To this day I think it is the best present I have ever gotten. I thought you might be tickled by my first entry:
A transcript:
DATE: 12251989 WEEK: Mon WEATHER: snow
Dear Diary my name is Brandy I am 6 years old. I love Jack. My favorite ant* is Jean and ant beth.
I love brian.My big brother is a pest. I go to kennesaw ELEMENTary school. My best friend is Amber. The best brbe** I have is holiday Brbe. From Brandy.
*-aunt
**barbie
{ps i specifically remember that diaries were for writing down the names of the boys you liked and was obsessed with my brother finding the book, breaking the lock and reading it with his friends (meaning I secretly really wanted it to happen...}
Today I stepped out onto the front yard, and a sharp pebble stuck my toe. I squeaked and jumped.
When I was a little girl, I played barefoot kickball in the cul-de-sac with the neighborhood boys. You had to run fast because of the steamy black asphalt.
There was no way to cross the creek in shoes. You had to remove them and grasp them in your hand, and cross keeping balance on the slippery river rocks.
Feet were used for kicking away branches as you made a path through the woods, for poking at the neighbor’s dog, for jumping high in the air over the lake, landing with a splash.
Later my feet were manipulated like crazy. Smashed into pointe shoes 3 times a week, and taps and bare feet slapping the wood floor to move modern. The pointe shoes bent my toes and twisted my ankles, I would wear them for days.
My feet have become soft: blistered from impossibly high heels, and polished with pink. They aren’t for barefoot playing anymore, they are used to tromp through airports, press the gas petal, run for the elevator.
