I lay in the collegiate grass, under some collegiate trees (we all know that plants on college campuses have a very different feel from suburban and city fauna) watching a documentary about drugs. A hoard of young summer campers ambled by and settled down for their lunch break. A child with a particularly piercing voice was inspired by the canopy to ask if "trees are just mutated pieces of sticks?" I think karma was telling me to take out my headphones. Who knows what other gems I missed.
My 16 year old brother's presence was announced by a light breaking through the shadows of the hallway. Then, what began as a mumble turned into a soulful "cuz my body so bootylicious" as his silhouette grooved into view. I thought to embarrass him: "I heard that, Jordan" to which he replied "Well yeah, I'm singing." I'm inspired to accept the silly things I do in private with such public moxie.
My friend and I tread uneasily through the isles of a corporate art store. None of the plastic garlands or premature Halloween decor appeals to us. As we pass another tower of marked-up petroleum derivatives, two women appear. One crouches near the ground with one hand touching something with the generic plastic sheen which reflects light but not creativity. Her other hand rests on a substantial baby-bump. The woman behind her is older, but speaks with authority. "Why don't you name your baby Darth. Like Darth Vader."
I thought I could use a writing exercise.
No comments:
Post a Comment