Sometimes I Am Creeped Out by Myself
Warning: this is going to be long-ish. But interesting (if I do say so). So I invite you to read this nonetheless.
I was standing on a rock this past Saturday with my boyfriend (hereby known as Kristian, because that is, in fact, his name). We eventually had had our fill of that rock (I forgot to tell you, it's the rock in the picture above), so we started off towards another one. We went separate ways because, momentarily, I was absolutely convinced that if I jumped off the ledge, I would weightlessly glide onto the road.
An insane impulse recreated from childhood. I promptly sat myself and Kristian down on the rock, as if to ground that flighty instinct, and the period of my earlier life (when this would've been seen as more appropriate) tumbled out. As it will now.
Every weekend during the summer (from when I was around 8 to 14), my dad and I would drive up to the house we mortgaged for cheap but didn't use. He would mow the lawn, and I would have free reign of the 10-block radius (half of this was just pure deer...like deer concentrate). No video games and bored with the assigned reading, I roamed. This included a cemetery at the end of our street (a literal dead end), a patch of woods across from the house separated by a deep ravine, and a middle school playground and soccer field beyond those woods.
A separate blog post is needed to reflect about how I spent a good chunk of my formative years in a cemetery and a playground that almost never had any other children in it.
That string of trees along the ravine pretty much grew out of cigarette and joint butts. They bedded the ground like pine needles. 9-year-old me had a morbid fascination with smoking, and, later, the ravine.
Just as a visual aid, the middle school had filled in part of the ravine to place the playground and school on top of it. A straw of a pipe sort of let the stream through.
It was a routine. I'd slap the tic-tac-toe rollers that looked like toilet paper, worm through the torn fence, stare at some pack of Newports and stray beer bottle, and stand at the edge of the ravine. I think I could fly across. I could. One foot closer but my dad mowed the front lawn.
The other week I forgot I had a face. My friend had mentioned my face and I'd stared at her as if I'd just become self-aware. When I was a kid I would dream in third person but my face was just a sheet of blur.
I get into fits of hysterical laughter over peanut butter jars and other miscellaneous items when I'm cooking. Tea kettles, for instance.
Go nuts. Overanalyze the hell out of this.