What on Earth.

Somehow, somewhere along the line most recently, I seem to have lost my pharyngeal (read: gag) reflex and now the soft palette at the back of my mouth has mutated away from being made of private productivity and coy colour that it was, before. All of a sudden I'm sticking my fingers, the middle blistered, way back in my throat and nothing is stopping me from going until I puke out all of the shitty sounds and words that are in my brain and body.
And this is strange and violent and I cannot tell what changed but something must have, right? And I cannot even tell if this is, you know, right, or O.K., but hell, the pants I am wearing today are salmon and I have to do something with my time other than writing about development anthropology versus the anthropology of development or something like that which I cannot even remember.
!

Announcement

Finding things to do at work other than work is still a job.

I have bitten my hand, at that soft bit where the bone is deeper, the imprint where my thumb bone reaches back to the rest of my wrist. I see that the imprints from my teeth look an awful lot like a pair of lips. Open and sultry, almost begging for rusty lipstick, hair from yarn, and a little loving. This, I find amusing, like a commercial for soap that cleans both the dishes and the skin. I look down at it again and see: two small moles, just above, pale brown and looking back at me from the most perfect spaces.

So, I am waiting for class but did not do its readings (they were historical and I just do not have the patience for that, now) and suddenly I cannot speak using contractions and want only to lay on the grasssssssssssssss.

tree>car

We should be so lucky. To start the day with an enormous breakfast and also learn to fasten my accordion to my bicycle, though it looks much less French than it sounds, is to be full and free. Am I right?
But here, here is where it happens:
We are in our bedrooms at night and we hear:
A) A dancer colliding with all of our fine china.
B) The certain death of one upstairs and to the right (if you are, in fact, observing from the tree's perspective).
C) A car meeting the front porch.
D) What on Earth? Maybe the end of it.
E) That, that was a real fall.

And so that great tree on our front lawn that gave us big flat mushrooms for hats and blueprints for tire swings fell hard and suddenly we had on our hands a block party! It is the most exciting thing to happen all week (it happens to be a Sunday, which may be the beginning or the end but who's counting?) and then I feel like a kidder who just won the jungle gym lottery or a teenager who has been left home alone for a few days for the first time. So we climb, a little bit. There is some broken glass from the back left corner of a car called "HOPFER" and I bet Hopfer's going to be straight pissed when he learns "TREE>CAR" even if it's just a tail light, though the way the tree hugged the car otherwise might indicate some kind of collaboration. I hope for the former, mostly.
The authorities show up and tell us to stop having fun but they are laughing a little bit, too. I am bitten by something which hurts worse than a bee sting, maybe a tiny vampire, and later Byron finds plantain at the bottom of the tree. I chew it a little and swallow a little of its water before turning a small piece of the space on the outer side of my left leg, between by shin and my calf (I do not know my anatomy), into a small swamp. It is connective and I somehow feel a little bit more powerful because the tree is kind of part of me through this tiny red hole in my leg that begins to swell and bruise.
So, the light on the tree is beautiful and perfect and everyone is taking photos (digital) except for us who are too busy scavenging pieces for shelves and keepsakes and can you even guess how many wooden spoons you could make from this half tree who just came to abandon its ancestry like me? Not that it's on purpose, or anything.
I imagine that a baby was born with that blue, blue light shooting from center of the tree and splitting away its third.