"AH, THE WORLD! OH, THE WORLD!"—Herman Melville, "Moby Dick"
Thank goodness for laughter.
Combine giggling with one temporary tattoo of a praying mantis and a bottle of wine, and I think you'll find a young woman can be ready for anything: Fung Wah buses to Beantown; dark beers or classy wines (okay, also Carlo Rossi) with old friends; suicide bombings aimed at a darling V.P.; a controversy surrounding the discovery of a dude named Jesus' tomb; phone calls from people I've never met; kisses as light and airy as white wine; and standing around as if waiting for some giant to breathe.
I still can't finish this stupid Sunday crossword puzzle I've been carrying around since New Year's. And every time I write on it now, the paper just gives way so you can't even etch in the boxes anymore. Time to throw it out and move on. Some things just can't be done: No use forcing it.
Have been told I'm open with people in a limited way; as if I'm a declassified document with all the good parts blacked out. It would have been advantageous to make a discussion of this, but my "ssshhh" irritated him; my silence fanned.
She reassured me. While she spoke, I made eye contact with a beautiful branch on a gnarly-ass tree on my block and answered, "That's exactly what I needed to hear."
There was so much laughter and I don't know where to begin explaining it all. Then we shook hands, like superheroes might after averting disaster. I couldn't get enough of anything that was going on. I kind of just stood there, knowing it would be sad to forget any detail.
I am intellectually tickled. May the shenanigans shenan and igan indefinitely. I can't help wondering about things as I grin while riding underground. One musing: Supposedly you can't articulate thoughts from the collective unconscious. It's too deep. So we have to deal symbolically. Is that what glossy gossip mags, E-cards, and text messages are for?
"I need to say something," she said, wet snow falling fast around us as we stood at the entrance to the subway. But we never got that far.