storms a' brewing

Let's begin with the begining. i am tripping. Not from a chemical intake, but over my own distractions and lack of smart choices. My repeat fallings have left me knee-skidded and down-caste-glancing....

Was it wrong to dream? To dream that I could sit at my computer all day, completing nominal work, remain addicted to all the knick-knacks of cyber space, and mount vast credit card debt at night through my freewheeling, womanizing ways- all while still being able to lift my head the next day with a semblance of stress-free pride?

"A salesman’s got to dream," A. Miller once wrote. A salesman’s got to work to first be a salesman. I need to get out of the house, I tells yeah.

I ran into the sister of an old school chum last night. It reminded me of things, nothing in particular, but a vision is forming… a wooded creek area. It is dense with vines, shrubs, possible poison ivy. The water flowing through has swelled from the previous night's storm. I am in overalls, unabashed. I have a straw hat in hand and a rake. I am planting tiny, green seeds.

I am on my hands and knees, pushing one seed into the moist, dirt whole, about three feet from water. I actually feel my shoe has moved into the creek and is now soaked. I pull it out quickly. I say, "what the fuck," unearth the seed, eat it and splash into the water. I splash and splish and splash. I am put my head under. It is fun.

I let the current control me, and I dead-man float along with increasing speed.

….passing under bridges, past boys fishing and families of ducks. As I move along, I hear frogs jump from their mud hideouts and into the creek to join me.

Did I mention this creek isn't more than five feet wide? It's a creek. It’s small.

The woods on either side of the shore thin out and the half-hidden housing developments disappear from the periphery. The fauna and flora turns to tall grass- marshy-like. This is okay. But the splashes of my frog friends is getting louder, as if heavier bodies are joining me in my splish splash splash splish.

The creek is becoming wider, too. Am I in the Raintree Lake of my ocular youth? At the distance shore I see an outcrop of rocks with boys hiding, quickly looking around, and setting off fireworks. I see one of them stands at a distance, hands in pockets, shoulders huddled, crying. Does he not like the noise? Or the attention the noise could bring?

I hear the distance sounds of a tennis match. The bottomless swish of racket thrown in anger / paper cups, drawn from their dispenser and set on fire by more teenage boys.

I feel that slime of a body of water, set upon by every shoreline with easygoing mannerist garbage-painters- Seurats of Litter recreating space with each casual wrapper toss. I am covered. Just covered.

Thank you and have a banging Saturday! Don't forgot to look for book in stores; "Gabriel Caplan: Shylock / the Merchant of Venison" where I serve up more delicious and anti-structural sentiments from the shared experience of suburbia.

And don't forget to look yourselves in the mirror before going out and practice saying, "do I really need another drink to feel attractive?"

Oh, and don't forget to tip.