A small pack of brown almonds are gathered in front of me like a circle of kindergartens awaiting for a teacher to read to them. but in this case—instead of reading to my young almonds, I am going to eat them; em em good.
I feel really optimistic today. let me rephrase that because I don’t like how somewhat limiting that sounded—I feel really optimistic,” ah much better. as I await my consciousness to eventually make a bold move by stepping away from my red kitchen table and into the streets of farmers markets bustling with fresh opportunities along with fruits and vegetables—-picking out organically and deliciously mouth watering fortunes.
I first take note of my attire; we’ll start from my head then to my toes—I’m rocking a nice bed head accompanied by my untrimmed bread. Next, resting comfortably on my shoulders and elegantly over my back–leaving decent negative space in my front is, a cape-like lumber jacket T-shirt. and any candid observer would love the cascade of exotic colors ranging from bright blue, red, white, black–to even the subtle colors of pink and green. Oh yes, call me a human teletoobie if you like because I feel like I am right now. Furthermore, making its way through my un-button lumber jacket is a bright white shirt with a black and white image that is hard to miss—two perplexing dichotomy’s—Malcolm x and martin Luther kind Jr. Continuing to the lower half of my body and patiently waiting to be described are my red pants; and these red pants have been to hell and back–rain, snow, hail, and sweltering heat–nothing more than the latter has questioned its loyalty to my unfriendly ever moving body. but of late, my pants have been vocal, echoing their frustrations and reveling their discontent by exposing their worn stitches next to my crouch. I often pray that they don’t get too upset and just rip—because if so, my dick would show, and that would be a shitty day.
While heading home on Sheridan—now only 3 minutes away from my house—I saw a dead cat on the side of the road—more specifically, on the green grass portion of the sidewalk.
For a brief moment, I thought about investigating, but then something told me to proceed with my journey home—perhaps, it was my hunger. But before I gave into my biological need for food—a middle age white lady with dirty blond hair and grey leggings came running towards the direction of the dead cat.
She cautiously examined the limb body, and ask’d the dead body” are you breathing?” But the cat did not respond—somehow the lax response gave her the reassurance that the cat was truly dead—causing her to freak the fuck out. She frantically started jumping up and down, and pasting back and forth—clearly emotionally distort. I asked her ” mam are you okay?” she didn’t hear me at first because of the multiplicity of cars zooming by—then I asked again ” mam are you alright?” then, she looked over at me with tears dripping down her face and replied “they hit my cat!” I looked around to see who she was talking about–then as I went to look back at her as if to say ” I don’t see anybody,” she had already disappeared.
I walked closer to the dead cat—and I could see its eyes bulldogging out of its eye sockets. The panicky lady reappeared out from her house with a phone book. she sat the phone book on a brown table outside and began frantically flipping through pages. I felt very bad for her; she was emotionally downtrodden and some what confused about it all. to me it was a open shut case—some motorist hit the cat, put it on the side walk and then drove off. I asked before I left, “are you going to be okay?” I don’t think she heard me when she replied “do you have any cigarettes on you?” I answered her with “No;” which made her even more upset—as if my attempted moral support was insignificant. I ignored that, then asked her for the last time “are you sure your going to be okay?” to which she replied “yes.” I then slowly departed and left her alone to mourn over her dead cat.
Early this morning a young child and I shared a bond that was telepathic. This child and I have this game that we play with our eyes called “staring contest.” The goal is to stare into each others eyes without blinking, and whoever blinks first looses.
But the latter has evolved to more than who can blink first to something more Kodak and priceless. Instead of just staring into each other eyes—the gateway to the soul—we communicate and assess each other telepathically. We’ve gotten so good at it that we can basically mirror each others facial expressions. For instance, while the site manager was talking, kids bouncing, chatting, and walking around in a very subtly chaotic fashion—this young child and I, sitting only 8 feet away—stared into each others eyes, and when I began to from the pathology’s of a smile, she instantly joined me, and we both remained staring while smiling at the same time. How sublime; we couldn’t ask for a more picture perfect moment.
Eventually, she blinked because she was smiling too much; which evolved into a full blown laughter—upon which her cheeks became red and her eyes watery with tears of joy. But, before she clearly lost by blinking—-I said to her telepathically ” Have a great day,” and as the site manager told everybody to depart and head to their classes—-the young child said to me out loud ” I will Mr. Lew.”