Saturday, November 22, 2008

My So Called Fishbowl Skull

It is then after so many weeks, they meet again, peaceful with each other. The tide draws itself upon the beach, gradually turning the sand to face the open horizon. Into his hands he breathes a few shallow words which spin and bump into calluses and witch wrinkles, only to be set free with a tickled sneeze and not with a great tumult.

Over her shoulder a stranger makes noise with a dog, both jogging to miss one another, both stepping on the others feet as if by intent. She lets her cheek scratch on her mothers woolen scarf and says goodbye to every yesterday, the man and his dog. And just as the wind slices in from the town, bursting out of the maze like city design, lost since the night cracked into morning, she pulls him closer to her and laments that he may believe it was the wind which motivated her crush.

His pockets catch and retain particles of the sand from around them while her slight movement eloquently phrases her feelings through lilting jawlines or feet twisting where they are placed, carving knots into the sand. He is grateful for her company and observes respectfully and for experience. The beach mingles cheerfully with the suns rays and it sparkles deeply into the distance.

He gets lost then into the ocean to breathe the salty air broken free as waves crack against rock. He leaves her on the beach as alone as she was before this morning and twirls into the shallow water, moving outward and deeper, experiencing for the first time what it must be like to be his brain as it floats in cerebrospinal fluid. His brain, in turn, rewards him with a runner's high, a note of gratitude for the mutually enjoyable experience.

Together, the fish and the fishbowl, feed to brim on this full-bodied experience, emancipated from the everyday.

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