little feet, silly truths

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The puddle swallowed his little feet, and then exploded away as his next step was taken in earnest.  The splashing wasn’t intentional but the running was.  He was always running.  Running from one end of the house to the other.  Running down the alley behind our condo.  Running from the store to the car.  Running in the rain where he encountered pools of the heaven’s manna waiting patiently for him.

Then, of course, it was no longer about running, at least for a few minutes.  Water gushed and spouted and pulled away from him by the combined forces of pressure and momentum.  He didn’t care about the science of why jumping in the puddle caused the water to spray out in halos and arcs.  He only cared that it happened and that he was in control.  There are so few things in a toddler’s life they can control, he latched on to this new game, this new experience, with all of his might and enthusiasm.

Eyes wide with glee and mouth full of joyful shrieks and exclamations, time thinned while the toddler explored the cause and effect of his discovery.  One foot at a time.  Both feet together.  Running through.  Walking through.  Stopping in the middle.  Jumping into the middle.  Jumping on the edge.  Twirling around.  Behind those shimmering pupils, I could see his mind capturing it all and storing it away for further contemplation later when he would have time because he was no longer fully engrossed in the here and now.  And, of course, I laughed along with him, joined my voice with his in a chorus of giggles and guffaws.  The laugh of a child would always be the paramount of compulsory contagions.

Clothes, unprepared for the onslaught, were drenched in no time.  After a while, equal amounts of water dripped from dangling sleeves and bent knees as was sent cascading around him with each new foray into the puddle.  The wetness would eventually be the cause of the game’s end, in the forms of coldness and discomfort, but until then the grin would never waver on his eager face.  Just as I couldn’t help but join him in laughter, he was powerless to resist the demanding call of adventure.

Even if he could have, why would he have wanted to?  Children are built to learn and discover through such bouts of messy frivolity.  They know this simple truth in their bones.

…..

This post was written for Lizzi.  I accepted the challenge to write beautifully without pouring my blood across the page, sharing something worth sharing, worth reading, that wasn’t about pain or loss.  As she says in her posts, which you really should read, those types of words are compelling and worth reading, but we should also remember to share our happy moments and our silly truths from time to time as well.

Sinking Deeper

Old stuff again but still living it.

This first time
You beckon me with your open arm.
You beckon me with your cunning charm.
I see
I believe
I embrace you and succumb to your warmth.
I float this first time.

This second time
You beckon me with your open arm.
You beckon me with your cunning charm.
I see
I believe
I embrace you and succumb
to what I believe to what
will be your warmth.
Instead the warmth is replaced
by an icy grip.
Against my will, This time I sink.
This second time.

This third time.
You bexkon me with your open arm.
You beckon me with your cunning charm.
I see
I want to believe
I tentatively embrace you.
I once again succumb to your icy grip
I sink deeper
this third time.

All these times,
you beckon me with your open arm.
You beckon me with your cunning charm.
I no longer want to see.
I no longer believe.
Yet I still embrace you.
I still sucxumb to your icy grip.
I sink deeper aand deeper.

I wonder when I will touch bottom.

1j1

No Substitutions

Another old one, but this person is still close.

I closed my eyes
to visualize
someone
who wasn’t you.

I let myself venture
in an attempt
to fantasize
about someone
who wasn’t you.

I travelled past
subjects deemed perfect.
Perfection is merely perception.
My perception reminded me
I couldn’t find one
who wasn’t you.

I wandered past
the point of exhaustion,
collapsed in frustration,
refused to accept
one who wasn’t you.

I closed my eyes
to seek a vision.
I ventured.
I travelled.
I wandered
in vain.

The only vision
to materialize
was the one
who was you.

Support Your “Local” Author

Local, as in you are all my faithful kingdomites, right?  Right!

Nothing says, “I love what you write,” like buying an author’s book.  As luck would have it, I happen to have a fun book ready for you to buy right here: The Erratic Sun

The Erratic Sun - Cover

Yep, just click the link, select Kindle or paperback, add it to your cart, check out, and then enjoy the heck out of it when it shows up in your mailbox.

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Did you need that link again?  Buy my book here, here, here, and here.

Or…

You could buy a signed copy of the book by sending $20 to me via: PayPal

If you decide to go that route, send me an email (djmatticus @ yahoo dot com) to let me know so we can talk inscription for the autograph and so I can get the address you want it shipped to.  (Also, some restrictions apply.  That price is for US only.  I’ll happily ship anywhere in the world I’m allowed to, but I’ll need to factor in the appropriate costs if you are in Azerbaijan.  Again, when in doubt or if you have any questions, just shoot me an email and we will figure it out together.)

Happy reading!

 

Paved With Irony

She merged onto the Interstate to save herself.

The grooves in the road met the treads in the tires with a measured thump-thump, in a cadence so perfect that her heart used it as a metronome to keep pace.

The purr of her car’s engine spoke to the buzzing in her mind and calmed it to a gentle hum.

The exhaust system emitted a throaty growl as the tailpipe exhaled sweet fumes. In a normal response she would have inhaled deeply to saturate her brain cells with the life-robbing gas. Tonight, she allowed her lungs steady and mindful breaths.

Her thoughts wandered, but her peripheral vision remained sharp, most notably with the lines and the signs.

The dashed lane markers blurred into a line that reminded her to stay in the center. The signs sent their own messages.

Orange signs meant construction and a SNAFU in traffic matters ahead. She paid them little heed as hers was the only car on the road.

Green signs meant that a street was approaching at a certain point. When the point was reached, an arrow demanded that the driver exit.

Blue signs politely invited the motorist to do the same, with promises of fuel, food, and rest.

She ignored all. She was relaxed and thought about the crippling anxiety she felt just an hour ago and how she wanted to end it. Now, she felt a calm and peace. She knew all would be okay. She closed her eyes for a moment. As she opened them, she caught a sign that read, “Right Lane, 1.5 Miles.”

Her mind tried to piece it together. Right lane closed in 1.5 miles? She was in the center lane. Her thoughts wandered again. During Driver Education, her instructor warned her about highway hypnosis. She always thought that the concept was absurd. Tonight she realized it could happen.

Her mind came back to “The Present.” She saw that she missed the orange and white exit sign in the right lane. Straight ahead, she saw the sign that read, “Bridge Out.”

Earlier she merged onto the Interstate to save herself.

She smiled at her final thought.

“Oh, the irony.”