Little (excerpt 2)

When I was little, I was a flying champion swinger.  I could swing for hours and hours, a little aspiring trapeze artist, although we only had about 13 minutes of recess.  And that was only if we weren’t made to stand silent on the painted footprints on the black- top, our backs turned toward the screaming delight of our classmates. Standing silent on the those footprints meant we had gotten our names on the board with a check, and possibly two checks if we had been especially naughty.  Our music teacher, Mrs. Gish, was constantly putting our names on the board. It was just that she was a source of ridicule. She had been seen, at some legendary date, putting what we thought was lipstick, on the tip of her nose, where a small wart lived. She was seen, probably by a sixth grader, the source of all things known and unknown in the school, applying some cosmetic while hiding behind a cubby in the band room.  From then on, we third graders had a really hard time singing for her, playing our recorders for her without short bursts of contagious laughter behind her back. She could only guess who had started it. And so it went that the last child left smiling when she looked up from the piano, was sent to stand on the footprints at recess.

When I was not in trouble, I would often participate in the flying contest.  It was not so much about the swinging, as it was about the leaping off from your swing and landing on your feet, no matter how badly the stab to the heel and then up to the knees. To win you had to land on your feet and from a great height, furiously pumped. There was the one, two, three, and all would leap that forbidden arc.  One day, when I was involved in this contest, feeling quite confident in my abilities, I found myself flat on my back and unable to move.

Little (excerpt 1)

When I was a little kid, I saw visions often. My brain would tell my eyes to see things, and there they would be.  It was often when I was trying to fall asleep. I would see little things floating in front of my eyes as if they were on a carousel. Sometimes it would be items that made sense together- like toys- a rocking horse, a jack in the box, some marbles, a doll- floating in a rainbow arc and around in a circle.  Notice me, they would say. They would be there with my eyes open to the twilight coming in the window. They would be there when I shut my eyes- blue black with flashing yellow. They were real to me. Sometimes, the visions would be unpleasant- like ants in a pile or a wasps’ nest. I knew they were not real, but I thought I could still play with them- no matter how much I wanted them to go away. I would squeeze my eyes tighter- shutting out any possible thing from attacking me through the slits of my eye lids, and there the floating visions would be.  Once I saw people, strange small monsters walking towards me. They kept coming and would never reach me, but they kept coming, There they were in three dimension- I may have been able to shake their hands- find out what they were really about, but they never quite reached me. They would just back up and then come towards me again. I always wondered where these visions came from.  

I sometimes would try to play games with my own mind.  Sometimes during library time, I would try to feel dead.  Just blank unknowing. Nothing. I found it quite impossible though.  I would think about these things as 7 year old. Use my imagination to manifest a feeling.  I was quite good at it. I could alter dreams- have control over the outcomes. I could will myself into a flying dream- or into something I wanted to actually feel scared of.   I thought I had control over what happened. If I wished hard enough, something would happen. If I willed it, a bunch of wrapped presents would appear under my bed.  Or my dad would come home and play with me. Of course I did not have control over these things, but it did not stop the little me from trying and continuing to wish.  

When you wash your hair

Tomorrow or the next day or Monday morning, you will remember the purity of your skin. The places of pleasure and unspeakable longing for healing are both the same. The water will remind you that your lungs are working and the pulse of your next move does not need to be decided by the time soap spirals down the drain. You will be gentle with your bruises, and you will lather the lavender on your beautiful strength. And this momentous morning, the same as tomorrow, will help you gather the days of your wisdom.