I believe in fragments and fluidity. My best days are the ones with no punctuation at all, later recounted in little episodes. Yesterday was one of my best days.
Every morning I drive through the country's largest collection of Victorian mansions. Take a minute to consider that; a permanent, living, functional museum. A civic treasure. Ornate and proud, sturdy, each with distinct character, artifacts in their own right. I rarely consider the historic magnitude of my daily commute, the stories and voices that must haunt those street and alley. I whiz right past. Springtime, however, demands that Old Louisville be recognized for the colorful gem that it is. The avenues are lined in dogwoods and flowering pears, now in full bloom, accentuating the lost and hidden potential of a neighborhood relic of glamour and sophistication.
During lunch I found a tree of my own, positioned in the direction of the sun. I nestled in to a concave nook of the trunk, perfectly fit to the width of my back, and stretched my legs out long across dirt and mulch. My sandals slid off my feet and I pointed my toes. My skin was sticky and damp, the backs of my calves melted in to the earth. My hair was blowing in the same direction as the grass, strands and blades wistfully one long line of motion in the breeze. I let the straps down to my dress, careful not to let them slip so far as to give passers by a cheap thrill.
I forgot to eat. Blue skies and the scent of fresh mulch will do that to me. Mother Nature must be awfully tired of repressing herself... That cunning seductress bewitches me so easily, and I forget lots of things.
Once home, I ate a late-day breakfast of yogurt, bran, honey, and strawberries on the deck. I was in my undergarments, delirious over the sunshine.
There are several tools one needs to properly enjoy a beautiful day. These things include sunglasses, a book, a full bottle of water, a pillow, a lounge chair, and the absence of time keepers, ringing gadgets, and restrictive clothing.
I watched a single lucent petal surrender to the naviagtion of the wind, swirling in straighaways and switchbacks, until inviting itself to a place of rest in my breakfast bowl. I know not where it landed, only that it found a more organic destination in my stomach. This led me to consider the thousands of particles of organic matter that go unnoticed, quietly disguising themselves in my food and water day in and day out. That's ok, I like pollenated water and protein fortified snacks.
The deck shakes in the wind. When a strong breeze catches this creaky structure of weathered boards and nails it creates a speed bump effect underfoot. Same thing happens when someone is coming up the stairs. Sometimes I wonder, being on the third floor, if this thing is properly attached to the building, or if it's a dutiful free agent. I like to think of it as the latter, out of a love for old stuff and the imperfect. Anyway, the shaking is good, it has the potential to notify me of foreign footsteps. Paired with an impressive obstacle course of stacked flower pots at the top of the stairs, I have a fool proof security system. No one will get past me.
Sometimes, laying back in my chair with the sun blazing over my closed eyelids, my body occupies a position worthy of a Mayan petroglyph. I imagine my shape representing an animal, or a revered symbol, baked on the face of an ancient ruin; legs bent outward at the knee to form a diamond between my lower torso and toes, a second diamond formation pronounced between shoulders and fingertips, a pair of bent elbows with arms extended overhead.
Other times I imagine myself at the edge of the ocean. The scent of Aveda sun veil mist on my hair is sufficiently summery enough to evoke an olfactory interpretation of $5 sunscreen. The breeze, cutting through the solar rays, catches the cool spot where perspiration collects at the nape of my neck, and a redeeming sense of calm comes over my entire being. The whir of Bardstown Road traffic in the distance can, by a liberal stretch of the imagination, account for the ocean's song. Of course, crashing waves and V8 engines sound nothing alike, which pocks my reverie, just a bit.
It is entirely possible to know the time of day by the position of the sun. I can usually pin it down to the hour, the half hour with a little practice in sunbathing. As a girl from the city, I find this to be a miraculous discovery, a grand epiphany born of my love for the outdoors. I turn in my chair like a human sundial, until shadows cover my feet, the heat is reduced to gentle warmth, and I concede to the evening.
I began to realize after abandoning my perch yesterday that in a month or so my color will blend with the terra cotta pots that line the rail of my afternoon retreat. Eventually my skin won't pale to their bold clay tone. My legs will respond with a showy bronze hue of their own, blending with the clay as if to say to people below, "It's only us chickens up here." And it is. Their fresh green contents will hurl leafy stems skyward to obscure any additional vantage from below. I and my scheming brain of dinner ideas and miscellany projects will be concealed by a primitive system of camouflage.
