jack has built a tent for head rushes and a better rendition of overhead lighting: it is draped in blue bedsheet and build upon an upended bedframe, with a low-grade incline to one side and a glossy print of otis redding taped to the closest wall. the boards from beneath the once-bed have been wedged between the bureau and dresser, in a ratchet-wrench timber pile. it is extraordinarily befitting of grey socks.
as christmas comes closer, i am experiencing lip-biting feelings of insufficiency — the sort that can only be remedied by the footwear antithesis of my wet birkenstocks, that is, five inch green velvet high heels. there are eight days until stephen and i take our red eye to chicagolands for dorm room floors and homecomings, though his has little sister banners and mine has long lost melissa. i want to grab my knees over the midwest and laugh at the stewardess for once; i am glad not to be flying alone. maybe we will purchase the prepackaged snacks and trade for cookie preference.
sid arizona was here this weekend. we gave him handfuls of candy and i became suddenly aware of my long-term commitment to all things reed. someday (maybe years from now), sharing these things will be natural and i will stand laughingly on the vent in november as naturally as i grabbed onto the stair rails in kfac. right now, though, i cannot shake the waves of smallness, and i often feel on the sidewalks much like i did when the interactive educational robot film at the OMSI star wars exhibit blasted artificially intelligent fire extinguishers into the audience. the blonde children in front of me gasped and slid to the floor; the tallest one put all four fingers in his mouth and huddled to the side against his father. i sat up straighter and fingered the slight moth-hole in the elbow of my sweater. now, on this peapod second floor, there is a bubbling beaker stamp on the back of my right hand, but it has faded too quickly to be explicitly worthwhile.
