/ motion

I taped my knee, and then taped it some more, and then I spit on the ground and had two shots of amaretto, because I have no more patience for healing, and it is long past time I got up and ran it off before it started hurting me, and jesus did it hurt when I started, taped so tightly that I was using only 1 muscle on my right side, one obviously connected to my middle toe, and so I lifted my skirt and pulled off all the bandages, stuffed them into my pocket and ran it off before it started humiliating me.

I come from a long line of animals skilled in the use of improvised tools, and not more than a few faucets growing up were rendered practical by an adjustable wrench, not more than a few fuses kept their currents flowing by way of a well-placed screwdriver, not more than a few marriages were held together by spit and shine and the threat of Jesus Almighty. But goddamn, the amaretto only lasts two miles, no matter how many proofs you swallow whole, and at the very, very end, I felt like walking.

Walking is good for when you want to slow down the motion blur to an almost recognizable haze in the cold, misty torrent, and look, there on the marble path is a puffball, and there are some salal berries, and there is the ubiquitous madrona bark that reminds me of peeling the crape myrtles back in Texas, wondering if they could feel the pain that brought me the thrill that perhaps she swallowed a fly. I come across a kingfisher, and it flies across the lake. I hear a pileated woodpecker and spy it between the red cedar boughs. I realize that I am merely seeing these creatures, not assigning them any symbolism, and that is new for me, like growth, because I get so bored when things just are. I hate the word 'thing.' I hate the verb 'to be.' It is a hateful thing.

Running uphill presents a lovely pain, one that reminds me of the soreness following recovery. Downhill is another matter entirely, reminding me of when I put up the retaining wall, one of the river rocks fell and took off the index fingernail of my right hand, a cruel injury because it prevented me from pointing at the deformity of others without some taste of poetic justice. I shook my fist for an entire summer.

In October, the frogs are not ready to bury themselves into the loam, nor is it warm enough to do anything but wait for burial. You can walk right up on them in the grass, pick them up and remember all those wive tales about warts. Can a frog give you warts? my son asked once. I suppose if he has warts, I said, and I told this joke to the frog, who by now had gathered enough warmth from my hands to realize there was more pleasant company to be found underground. He jumped and I reminded myself that there is nothing symbolic in mother nature. The mother of necessity picks up her children on time.

The otters were out today, and two took up on the floating dock. I have my camera phone, but leave it in my pocket. Cameras are wonderful for capturing the moment and even more wonderful still for RUINING THE EXPERIENCE.

I find that if I scissor-step, my knee doesn't hurt at all, and I run sideways up the hills, and sideways down. The rain on my lenses prevents me from seeing anyone pointing out how foolish I look, and the ear buds keep me from hearing their laughter. I scare up a pair of mallard drakes, and it doesn't mean anything. I take off my shirt because the rain is going to talk to me whether I consent or not. There is a deer walking through the baseball field and I envy all four of her straightforward knees.