The symmetry of visiting all of my old haunts in one trip
was broken by pragmatism. This break was sanded and reinforced by an easy
differentiation. Some were chosen based on convenience, while the others had to
be sought and earned as if stripes on the shoulder of an adventurer’s jacket.
But those easy access joints that were simply presented, offered, and by a
cosmic pattern thrust into my life hold me just as firmly as the places I have
all to myself. If they have come to mean anything to me, it’s through a
process, not an event.
Franklin Park, just a stroll south of my red brick high
school, is a place I came to by convenience. It was far enough away from school
to no longer feel oppressed by the institution of learning, but close enough to
fully appreciate in the span of a forty minute lunch break. The park had a reputation, however, that kept
most of the school from treading on its field or experiencing the thrills of
pendular motion on its swingset. A specific corner of the park was where the
senior potheads made their dark and slouching home. This spawned the nickname “Stoner
Park,” closing the refuge to use by the squares. This kept my friends from
accompanying me, and earned a few confused glances from my cannabinoid-puffing
peers.
I came for the swingset. I have never felt strong, from my
head to my toes. Sometimes between my ankles and hips merits the adjective, but
never my whole body. If I played on the swings for an hour and a half, my arms
and abs would both be sore. I loved the feeling. This simple exhilaration
brought me back regularly.
The swingset gave me more than a mild workout. It gave me
some of the crystal clearest visual memories of that time of my life. I
remember one day, in a moderate downpour, when I found that with a certain amount
of vigor I could end up falling at the exact rate of the rain. A rainstorm
makes every field of vision full of motion, but I could freeze that and see the
world slower than a camera lens. No blur, only ever drop falling in front of
drenched trees and sodden houses. Falling with me.
Another night, I fell from an imperial dark blue sky,
glinting its power from a thousand points. My long hair barely glowed with its
fresh coat of purple in the glow of sporadic streetlights. A feather dangling
from my ear sneakily absorbed pigment from the unprofessional rinsing job my
purple hands had performed an hour before. I felt small, but very much
myself. I felt alone, but with the
potential for company. I decided to find someone I could feel alone with, as a
long term life goal. I thought it would make me happy.
Then I left to play Trine with Graham and Ryan and learn of
my virtual inadequacies as both an archer and a wizard. Though I did not identify
with the character of Fat Armored Thug, I appreciated that he allowed me not to
ruin everything all the time. And all of this belongs to Franklin Park.
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