2:13 in just-laying time

I've had dreams of insects pouring out of unexpected places, like the tips of my fingers and those unimaginably deep holes in my three cushioned couch. They invade, armies of them, and like Enders Game alien forces weave elaborate formations around my body, but never bite nor do they sting. Aha, so just threat with no painful consequence you're inner Jungian shouts as he flips through his leather bound journals and puffs an extended breath from his pipe. It's always fear of the future or unresolved issues of the past. But as i took a break to lay, just lay, in the university grass today, i felt the ants begin to crawl up my left leg, scamper across my midsection, hide themselves in the crevices of my shirt. For 20 minutes in just-laying time (which is about 4 minutes of normal functioning future-driven time, for reference sake) i continued to smack sections of my body attuned to the tingling sensation of something foreign, thinking i could warn them off, scare the critters and hope they tell their friends. How disturbing is it to hope to lay, just lay, and be continually bothered by other beings' agendas. Or is it me disturbing myself with the slapping and kicking and constant notice of their presence. Maybe it's time to learn to let the creatures crawl as they may, nestle in my present shorts if need be, for a moment of shelter from this october's Indian Summer sun, because in a couple of just-laying hours i'll be on the go again, and they will have taken to the force of gravity and movement, eventually shaken off.

The woman and the washboard

The man with the harmonica is perched as a symbol of all the good and bad and beautiful in all of my relationships. As his hand moves up and down clickity clackiting my thoughts out on a worn out washboard, glasses perched atop his bridge, dirty jean hat countering the many rumors and projections of his supposed "professorship" or "research position". No one gets an interview, no one gets a word, but we all have forged quite the relationship with this man, thinking, egotistically, that it is only ours. I watch as students morph into momentary cartoons as their feet lift a little higher, arms swing a little harder, smiles stretch a little wider for that 30 by 30 foot square of university pavement. I let my delusion get the best of me, thinking that he values me as much as I him. I dance, you see, every time, without fail, and he nods, and his eyes smile (mouth still busy harmonicing of course) and we prolong our moment as best we can, me to the beat of my shoulder swings and bouncing hair, him to the humming and strumming, complementing each others' art. I think, "yes, now. this is the time. this is the time when i should finally stop, and talk, and break the routine we've established, push it further, find out something new." But my feet have shuffled and sidestepped me on, and suddenly, out of the direct line of his magical influence, it seems so silly, so farfetched, so i keep on walking. I could talk, you see, clarify his role, tell him i like it, point at his importance. But such risk running is not actually part of the confidence i exude. What ifs come shooting to the surface - what if he doesnt in fact notice that im the one dancing for and because of him, that smile just the reaction of a self-involved man? what if he has many other boppers, millions of boppers, counting me as just another number? what if he's not the man behind the music that i expect him to be? and mostly, what if it's in the not talking that everything exciting and mysterious lies? There are no expectations, not even projections, that come to mind. Just speculation based on past smiles and head nods, the extended relationship, the fact that we built it all on top of a teetering jenga set, and one wrong pull may bring it all crashing down. Such is the game. Tense and fun and full of potential for disaster, which is, in the end, the final expectation. I still can't get myself to stop, change routes, or walk straight on through. Still, i'm increasingly disappointed on the many a days that he's not there. Such is the game.