No paranoia.  Fanatic flashes of anger.  She’d forgotten to pack her little white take-with-water dots for the group’s trip into the woods and she now had to hide her:

random bouts of crying
warm bodily chills of pure joy
new words

The individual brilliancies of every tree, stock to stem, each its own abiding bronchi, caused in her an urge to snap their trunks, tune the rings, and snap them back.  A playful, nurturing sun hid from her its reflection of rays between the gills of wakes on the water, surfing into a shore they used as another hand to applaud a perpetual return to bed.  All thought had given way to the natural realisation of God, suddenly walled, with a reminder that such bliss was made of hippocampus chemicals in flux.  Thus the frontal lobe began its debate on the idea of the unregenerate legitimacy of a so-called natural world.  The Provider’s soil begat background dirt.  The sky was blue.  The trees made nothing but tree, and the sun allowed you to see anything but itself.  Then a person, a person, with a mindless flair for interruption, as natural as feeling sick, broke everything.  Whatever they were about to say, it would be painful and wrong.

They crossed a bridge, the group.  She stopped and peered over the edge with a torso craning steep enough to right-side a troll, then she paralleled the water, twenty buses down.  Her mates assumed she was interested in something they wouldn’t be.  They’d given in to the intensity of her little off-stares before and resolved her mind wasn’t theirs.  They continued to move, callow of their previous crossing’s purpose, now lusted in new conversation about tits, muscles, and tennis.  Their lack of unadmitted knowledge became a cacophony of jabs; subtle, personal pangs flecked the circle, the result of them being kings.  So they laughed.  Laughter is never boring.

They, the bridge crossers, all loved her.  Truly.  Wanted her to catch up, but “please, do not speak, because we’ve just run through the file of things we’ve chosen to hear you say, and most likely, whatever it is, will be painful, and wrong.”  She knew about tits, muscles, and tennis, and although she found them more funny than they, she’d miss the joke, black and grey.  One of them stepped out of their little strings, mams, toids and ceps cloud {from the Greek, gloutos} and mustered a jovial “join us”. Happiness for the sound of her name.

So the devil stopped talking.  Her feet had been forgotten, her knees poised, hands unloosed, head in the water.  She pushed hard against the new weight of her backing half, turning in thicker-than-anyone’s air away from the rails toward the ones she loved back.  She never wanted to fall and she never would, but she felt it and made it her friend, finding those who had fought to have failed.  She was very much alive.  The dots, although sold for the feeling of feeling alive, were prescribed for something else.

2 responses to “dot

  1. Dude, you’re just F’n cool. I like it a lot.

  2. Beautiful. I’ve found the source to your question from the other night. Love this sentence: “The individual brilliancies of every tree, stock to stem, each its own abiding bronchi, caused in her an urge to snap their trunks, tune the rings, and snap them back. ”
    Great subject, and I like the simultaneous bond and distance between the girl and the group. Well done, Lone Wolf.

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