I like books.


I live in a small town and enjoy writing about the inhabitants. I spend most of my time perusing through used book stores looking for that one great book that I don't have; consequently, I have rooms filled with books. I am a book addict.

Saturday, September 03, 2005

Too much exposure, maybe not a bad thing.

I am a writer, my inspiration comes from people; therefore, I watch humans constantly, at the mall, at the grocery store, at the stoplight, at school, and the park and everywhere else that I go and there are people. If there are no people, I watch other animals like, dogs, cats, birds, and even crawling on the ground things, and sometimes, I get to see the different animal worlds collide, by choice or by accident. So it was, one breezy afternoon a day or so ago, that a young girl was standing under a tree.

The tree, a majestic oak, and it was whispering, the leaves about to turn loose, the limbs creaking as if arthritic, and the trunk so ready to be bare, to let the world see it’s erotic bark, its bumps and curvatures and those indentions and those scars and all those things that have happened over time, the secrets only the tree knows. But on this day, she was providing a shade to a half clothed freshman. I know she was a freshman because they are so easy to spot with their sweet smiles and their beliefs still whole and their mama’s warnings about the evils of life still fresh in their minds.

She was drinking one of those trendy energy drinks, as if freshmen need energy, hell they can go for days on raw hormones like estrogen—no sleep, gotta breed, no sleep, gotta find a man, no sleep, gotta find the secret to breed and amongst all of that needing to breed is the residual, which translates too much movement and too much searching and too much of those rituals that come with the breeding process. Those things I have long forgotten, thank the gods.

I watched her, standing against the tree, trying to be cool, her shirt more than half unbuttoned, her mother would die, and her perky breasts like two pointed hills advertising ripeness, and her smile, though lacking the confidence to match those breasts still there and suddenly a giant insect being chased by another giant insect aims at the girls breasts and down the shirt it goes and the pursuing insect flies away and the girl looks relieved that the other insect flew away but was innocent in knowledge of the intruder, but suddenly she must feel the scratchy legs of the insect snuggled between her perky breasts and she wants to scratch but that is what old women do but then she feels more than itchy legs but crawling legs and she screams and jumps and reaches in and pulls out the startled bug and young boys gather and she pulls off her top and her breasts are white and she knocks the offending insect off and there she is living my pre-graduate school dream, naked and everyone seeing except in my dream, my breasts are not tempting, not perky, and in my dream I am not tempted to comment on how beautiful those breasts are. Damned if I were younger and still had my girls with their nice form and all of that, but I am not young, the girls have succumbed to breasts feeding two children, gravity, and god only knows what else, so I just admire other females’ breasts and while the girl blushed, she puts her blouse back on, people quit staring but it is no use, they still have the girls breasts in their minds, imprinted like a photograph.
She walks away from the tree, her face red, and she has learned that during certain times of the year, the tree lean isn’t romantic, isn’t seductive, but is dangerous and if you are going to lean under a tree, be ready for interloping insects, and possibly be ready to be seen either naked, partially naked, or doing the not so cool ants in my pants, or cicadas on my breasts dance.


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