She couldn’t figure it out. Whatever angle she looked at it with, it just didn’t make sense. Like one of those stair paintings… they went nowhere despite looking as though they had a purpose or direction. And just like those stair paintings, she couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop trying to rationalize what could not be rationalized.  A sigh forced itself from her lips and she rested her left forearm on her forehead. She shifted on her bed of earth, drawing a leg up and opening her eyes to stare at the endless canopy of stars.

It’s a paradox, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon… because everything’s better wrapped in bacon. She smiled slightly at this thought, remembering the British Lit. professor it had come from.  At the time he had been talking of satire.  Certainly not about what occupied her mind now.  Bacon, she thought.  I haven’t had bacon in months.

How was it that something so maddeningly frustrating could keep her this captivated and leave her wanting more?  It was so unlike her.  The more she saw, the more she feared, the more she craved… It was different.  It was new.  It was frightening.  She wanted to know why and, despite her best efforts, could not begin to understand.

Knowing was becoming a matter of principal.  She was determined to make sense of it.  If that meant losing herself to it, then so be it, but perhaps then she could rest easy.

Man, I wish I had some bacon…

I saved a bee’s life yesterday…

It was a lazy day.  I was lounging on the hammock by the pool, texting Jason, and just thinkin’ about stuff.  I was about to go back inside; – the day was hot, and I was in dark jeans and a dark tank – I had sat up and swung my legs over the edges of the white rope hammock, just staring at nothing… When I noticed a poor insect had gotten itself into a bit of trouble in the pool.

I watched for a bit.  The water rippled in a circle around it, sometimes looking like a satin ribbon whispering in a breeze about its legs as it struggled to free itself from the clutches of its watery nightmare.  I stood up, checking the most recent text I had gotten on my orange, enV phone, flipped the phone open to its qwerty keyboard (which is awesome for those that don’t care to learn how to text via number pad…), and sent my response.  With a quick snap, I closed the phone and made as if to go back into the house, when I again noticed the poor bug that was struggling to survive.

It’s a strange feeling, watching something you know is about to die, and also knowing you have the capacity to save it.  Like playing God.  I knelt down at the edge of the pool, studying the now-confirmed bee closer.  It’s transparent wings were wet… useless.  Antennae barely keeping above the surface of the water.  Six black legs twitching furiously, dark, orange-yellow and black striped abdomen dipping down into the water as though it would be enough thrust to free it, yet its wings hung limply down its back.  It only succeeded in turning itself in a circle.  Every now and again it ceased its struggle and I wondered if it had finally given up.  No.  A moment’s rest to calm its screaming limbs that were quite possibly burning from exertion, before frantically, futilely trying to free itself.

Maybe it knew it wanted to live.  Maybe it was just a simple creature and all it was relying on was survival instincts.  I can’t pretend to know what goes on in the minds of bees, but I imagine this one was crying out, “Oh shit, save me!”  I took pity on it.  Why? I don’t know.  I glanced around behind me, knowing there had to be a dried up leaf I could use to scoop it up.  I spotted one with a nice long stem, picked it up, and reached out to the poor creature.  I didn’t know if the disturbance the leaf would create would cause my rescue project to swirl away from me, so I angled in from behind, dipping the leaf in and getting the bee stuck on its edge.

Success!  I placed the dried leaf on the concrete walkway around the pool and continued to watch this now-fortunate bee.  It seemed disorriented as it tried to grasp what just happened, and by what good fortune it was rescued.  If I didn’t know better, and if bees could feel emotions, I’d like to think it was grateful to me.
.
.
.
.
.

Oh… and I really… really hate my imagination.  Can’t do much to alleviate that burning desire for shower sex you so kindly put into my head.

It’s an odd, uncomfortable feeling when your own brain actually itches.

This is worse than that damned spot on your back that’s just out of reach because you can always ask somebody else to scratch it for you.  I think I may die if somebody were to really itch my brain.

Who wants to try it?

I stare down at the notebook resting against my knees. Blank. The top of my black, gel ink pen is tapping furiously against my chin. My brow is furrowed in thought as ideas, scenarios, descriptions, and sentences flow through my mind like a river. As ever flowing as a river is, it never stops, it is unable to be caught and held. Fleeting.

I lean my head back against the patio furniture, squinting against the morning sun that’s rising to my right. Clear blue skies… cloudless… with a temperature of already 90 degrees. It’s only 8:30am. I sigh. I can feel the need to write those ephemeral thoughts down on paper, the want to get them flowing through my pen instead of through my mind and lost to the void, yet as soon as I place the pen to paper, they vanish. Like seeing a certain star out of the corner of your eye, only to have it disappear when you move to focus on it.

I take the pen away and close my eyes. The thoughts come flowing back. Funny, they remind me now as a school of minnows swimming through the Niagara river. Their scales flash and twinkle up at me as the sun hits them while they swim along. Inviting me to join them; join in their fun. I go to touch one, but the moment the tip of my fingers touch the surface of the water, they scatter, afraid of being caught.

Perhaps I should have learned to fish before I became a writer.