As Soon As the Pins Get Airborne

Today. Today, I feel like running away. Perhaps, Argentina. Perhaps, Zimbabwe. New Zealand. Cote d’Ivoire. Salt of the Earth type stuff. Detach the soul from all I have collected; rice spoons, antique projectors, plastic Pussy Willows, decade old poems about girls (or boys) long forgotten. And that bed. Where, for 8 years, I have carved a static crater of monotony, letting nothing bloom.

So.

In my dreams I caravan over the bumpy African savannas among wild herds and cautious packs and planet-sized tusked giants. I am either doing something useful like distributing water filtration tubes to Villagers on the outskirts or something futile, fabricating rocking chairs out of Quiver Trees or stringing leis of King Protea.

In Africa, I’d be far enough away to erect my brain like a pop tent and unzip the windows, sealed for far too long. Be present in the sound of a breeze drifting along fields of golden daisies, lacing between each petal and grazing each stem like a new lover, attentively.

I can hear the elephants too. They say that African elephants live for around 7 decades, until their molars wear down and they starve to death. Every thing dies some time, some how. I just hope it isn’t painful when I go. Starving to death. Depressing.

So. Something fun.

Maybe I’ll escape to the Santa Monica pier and spend afternoons bending long balloons into Stegosauruses and Christmas tree shaped hats and watch children whack their parents with pink balloony swords made by me. And parents, they started out as happy, adventurous couples in love once didn’t they?

But most couples never make it to breaking up balloon sword fights. We are only ever meant to have it work out with one person in our lives when thinking of forever.

On watching heartbreak. The heart, usually soaring, is weighted with a stone. The wings, to keep from fluttering, snapped off and plucked raw. Make soup out of the carnage. Nice, easy, comfortable, safe soup. Sit around at night in pajamas flicking channels. Vow to never be hurt like that, again.

I digress.

At least on the pier, I could laugh so hard I might choke on pink cotton candy and die with a full belly, cracker jacks and hotdogs with ketchup only.

I could fucking crawl out of my skin some days. And on these days, I yearn to scram just as all of the juggling pins get airborne.