It took every mantra I know to put the Sam to sleep tonight. Would that it had worked as well for me! I was yawning my way through Medicine Buddha by the time he finally succumbed, but now he’s mumbling sleep gibberish and here am I, braiding and unbraiding endless strands of thought, all ajumble in my heedless head. Sometimes having a sapient brain is SO much more trouble than it’s worth.
The rain calls me out, I step onto my little balcony, feel it’s myriad tiny, thrilling caresses chill against my bed-warmed skin. It tickles me, lures me to shed these human pretenses, step by step, down my stairs, past my sculptures and paintings, over the slate and out the door.
Slipping through the lush, wet leaves of my tomato vines, lapping the raindrops fresh and sparkling in the streetlamp’s gleam. Striding by the static, meaningless, lumpish shapes of cars and slinking down the street with all the surreptitious sovereignty of a cat. If a cat could be so delighted, so one with the water… Perhaps a tiger might know the urge to frolic so.
Velvet pawsteps, smooth muscles rippling, sliding from shadow to shadow in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the power, majesty and sheer enjoyment of inhabiting such a sleek, dynamic body, born to leap and slash, pounce and roll, stretch and drowse…
Those yappy, whining dogs next door wouldn’t stand a chance.
Or maybe I’d simply soak up the dripping, let pure, sweet osmosis pull the rain in, plumping every cell in my skinny frame until I tower over these puny dwellings humans huddle in. Laugh as the clouds fluffed against my face and soaked my hair. I’d step over the Church of the Watery Tart(OK, so it’s actually the Lady of the Lake, but really, what else can you call a church which erects a giant rocket over it’s Virgin Mary?) and set out on a glorious artistic mission.
Perhaps I’d carve Rainier into a giant, snowbosomed goddess and give her the Spaceneedle for a scepter. Or pluck all fifty thousand Starbucks from their streetcorners and recycle them into a giant mermaid to gussy up the waterfront. I s’pose I could really get too big for my britches(if I had any on) and hop over to the East Coast, snag the Whitehouse, wade the Atlantic and take the good old boys for a personal, face to face, heart to heart tour of Iraq.
A girl can dream. And it’s about time I did.