I was looking for a synonym of anxious, one of the options that I found in an electronic thesaurus was “having kittens”.
I am totally having kittens over my exam this week.
Check out these one’s. I am really in a lather because of that money issue, thing.
I’ve never been in a dither all my life, I’m cool as a cucumber. I am really on tenterhooks about my trip to the dump, I hear there are rats.
It feels like having an addiction to something, in this case a stable footing, then realizing that you don’t need it or want it anymore. What I love more than the fulfillment of an intense, hard to resist, desire is when the desire ceases. I find I don’t even want it. I am happier without it. On the slackline I come to the place where I let go of control-freak-ish- ness. I first tried to force a handhold out of thin air; I now relax my hands by my side, or, on the occasion, I tuck them neatly into welcoming pockets. It is a nice experience.
What begins as a shake becomes a sway. The shake feels like the ground betraying you, a sabotage of your safety. It seems “how could anyone do this?” And, “I won’t be able to do this.” This is an uncontrollable shake. It is interesting because one has to accept the shaking to proceed. At some point the shake dies down or is converted into something that feels like a close friend. This is when the addiction starts. It is a spectacular feeling, to overcome the shaking enemy and to “hang out” with the bounce, the sway, the feeling of floating. I find a desire to revisit the transformation.
The close friend is the movement of the slackline. The movement is no longer out of control but is predictable, even is used to maintain balance. I become fond of the manner in which I can move the slackline under my center of gravity. Movement used to be and enemy now is it the handhold or foothold that I was grasping at before. I was grasping wildly at the air for something that was always there touching me. I wanted something to walk beside me, but what was needed was the very thing that was under me.
The stories of my scars.
Do, do, do, la, la, la, la, do, do. As the world has spun on its slant axis, many odd objects have found themselves in violent encounter with my largest organ, these are The Stories of My Scars.
I have a scar on my right hand, my first knuckle of my first finger. When I was I don’t remember how old, my grandmother on my mom’s side died.
I used to deal poorly with my emotions by hiding them. I did this because I thought that it was a more masculine way.
My grandma sent us awesome packages. She sent one for each of our birthdays and one Christmas. Toys, underwear, pepperoni, halva, and clothes were among the lot. She would make us kiss her on the cheek. She gave us Sen Sen. They were little black breath things that plowed my taste buds with flavor. She had couches that were covered with plastic. It was first at her house that I saw ice water in the refrigerator. I didn’t understand why anyone would put water in the fridge when you could get it out of the tap. She had a TV in the kitchen. I miss my grandma, but not in a pitying way, in an love filled fondness way.
She was diagnosed with cancer. When I found out that she had died I went walking outside. Behind my parents’ house were windows, not installed in anything. One was broken with shards remaining in the window housing. I looked at that window and felt some sadness. I thought, “This idea is very foolish, you will be ashamed if you do it.” I was very ashamed, but it was too late. I had already punched the glass. What made it worse was I had cut my knuckle badly. A small flap of skin hung loose. It really bled. I was very worried that I would be “caught” having done something so stupid and feel even more ashamed. I wasn’t. No one asked me how I got the cut. That is my scar.
I didn’t wimp out. Gerald, my own brother went without me. He took his friend Melvin.
Gerald and Melvin were as prepared as they could be. The first lucky rock that was chosen was a bad fit for the job. It was too small. A new rock was lifted and the excursion went off with out a hitch. I hear that the experience was quite surreal insomuch as the water was calm at such depths. After a time or two in the water, Mitch, I mean, Melvin decided to try an attempt at retrieving a white thing at the bottom. When he resurfaced the was holding is hand up, it appeared he had grabbed the white thing.
Some bystanders had an amazed look. Gerald saw that it was his own thumb that Melvin was holding. The tip had been cut nearly off. Gerald gave Melvin a towel, I assume to wrap his wound with. I don’t know very throughly the details of the rest of the story. Gerald drove Melvin to the hospital. I think that Melvin was fairly out of it. Can you imagine someone walking out of the river with a cut like that and walking up to you to show to you it? I think that the current spun the rock around and hit another rock with little Melvy’s finger between the two.
This is a true story. The names of the individuals involved have been changed to protect their identity. There is not an interesting reason for this measure, I just think it is kind of cool. This story is one of brave reckless abandon, daring thrill seeking, quick thinking and excitement.
My brother Gerald and I were enjoying a pleasant summer. We had discovered the edgy thrills of the new white water park that had been built on the Smunnison river. This park was built for the benefit of white water kayakers. The otherwise mild river had been sculpted with concrete and rock into two nice holes. The water made a wave that kayakers would surf. The upper was smaller, the lower was bigger, and both were deep. I kayaked them a little, but the real fun started when we saw some kids taking running leaps in to the middle of the rapid. A half a second or so later the kid’s head would bob up.
The first jump was pretty scary. The water was really moving and it was cold. Once we were in, we were hooked. After plunging deeper than expected the current would grab us and sweep us down stream. For me, jumping into water when my head is submerged and my feet don’t touch creates an intense feeling of being in the depths. It makes me feel small. It can be a thrill to be suddenly aware of one’s limits. Generally speaking after a period of exposure this excitement wears off and confidence replaces it.
This was our situation. We, Gerald and I, were caught day dreaming. I should really describe it as some thing more along the lines of scheming. We wanted to get to the bottom of the approximately fourteen foot deep water. A large stone would pull us down. We would be wearing goggles and nose plugs. Yes, we were planning to be “safe” by wearing a life jacket so that we would be whisked away to the surface once we let go of the stone.
I never did it. I didn’t muster up my courage to embark as an explorer, a pioneer into the new territory, the unknown that was buried deep at the bottom of the lower hole.
I sometimes look back with curiosity at how my life might be different to this day had I gone for it.
I didn’t wimp out. Gerald, my own brother went without me. He took his friend Melvin.
to be continued...
