Muliebrity

muliebrity\myoo-lee-EB-ri-tee\, noun:

The state of being a woman.

Mother never told me it would be like this.  I hit my leg with my fist but it doesn't feel like me.

I look over at you; your hands on the wheel, ten and two. Always ten and two. I face forward again and close my eyes. It's so bright outside; I can see the shadows of the trees as we drive by them; as they slide over my eyelids. It's sunny and the windows are open just a crack. There had been talking; there had been the radio, but now there was nothing. Just the sun coming through the windows and the click of the highway and my eyes closing.

I sink lower into the passenger seat, put my feet up onto the hard plastic of the dash. Underneath is the airbag that would save me but break my legs. Send them crashing into my rib cage. I glance over at the speedometer and see we are going at around 70 miles an hour. Scrunched up like this, I am a bullet inside of a bullet.

Outside, the trees continue to pass with the time and my eyes run with them.

Zetetic

zetetic\ zeh-TEH-tic \, adjective; 

Proceeding by inquiry; investigating

There once was a girl who got up every day and was happy. Her first thought was of how rested she felt and how bright was the light coming through the window. Even when it was raining outside and the clouds covered the sun, she would notice how the window signs and the street lamps reflected off the drops of water and she appreciated the sound of it falling. There was nothing that could make her sad. She did not always smile, but she always meant to, and when she did it only vaguely made you think of mannequins. The kind of mannequins with no heads standing in store windows and wearing the clothes that you want. The kind with every outfit piece placed just-so and glowing with rightness and sharp with color.

Absquatulate

absquatulate\ab-skwoch-uh-leyt \,verb;

To flee; abscond.

I'm sitting here, yet flying. I close my eyes and feel the earth move. I am not stationary.

A woman comes in through the door to my left and I watch her approach and then pass me. How does she walk and not fall down? How are her steps so steady, so sure and set? And I am too afraid to stand? I put my head in my hands.

I will not move from this spot, yet I am always in motion. This sounds strange even to me but I know that it is true. My senses do not allow me to ignore the constant spinning. I see blurred edges. My eyes burn. Everything is in static. Nothing is solid: not an apple, not a wheelchair, not a doorframe. How am I sitting? I try not to question everything, but this is difficult.

Busticate

busticate\ BUHS-ti-keyt \, verb; 

To break into pieces.

It went into the wall and shattered. 

Or rather I imagine it shattering - for effect. When you throw something at a wall, you want it to break and scatter into a million pieces, large and small, but flying away from each other at unimaginable speeds. So that you know you'll never be able to put any of it back together. When you throw something against a wall, you want that to be final. So when all it did was slide to the floor, I only felt more angry. Just one more thing to be disappointed in. Nothing happens the way you want it to. You aren't even in control of your own destruction.

I consider picking it up again, returning to the same position, a certain distance from the wall and having another go at it, but that would have required further energy when I had already expended it all. There was none left for another toss. I had had my chance to cause an explosion.

Acme. I thought of Wile E. Coyote. Now those were some explosions - even if he did miss the intended mark, at least he got to see the fire, the smoke, feel the ground shake. Know at least he had done that much. The bird may have gotten away but the earth knew he was there. He covered the sun, created as much heat, blew something up. Such things are easier accomplished in cartoons. In cartoons, when something or someone was thrown at a wall, there was an almighty crash. Or a satisfying sluggish slide against the vertical surface, ending in a plop to the floor.

As if in a memory, you lean against the far one opposite and allow your body to slink into position and do the real life version. This you can do. This appropriately matches the energy left inside of you and the mood its absence has left behind. Your butt lands to the ground and your curved spine rubs its knuckles against the wall and it feels right. Finally, something feels right. 

Manumit

manumit\man-yuh-MIT\, verb;

To free from slavery or servitude.

There once was a boy who lived at home and although all the doors and windows were open, he couldn't leave. Instead he would wander the rooms, keeping everything in place. And there were a lot of things to keep. Stacks and piles of things, all of which he would try to keep in neat, little towers. He had to do this because often there was a wind. A wind that would rush through the windows and doors and if the boy was not careful, the wind would knock everything down.


The boy had parents but it was almost as if they were not there. The mother would continually walk in and out of the doors, bringing in more and more stuff, placing it on the floor, before going out again to bring in more. It did not matter what it was. Whatever was outdoors she brought inside and the boy would pick up the things that she put down and place them in a pile which he found appropriate. In this way, they were in constant motion. She bringing in and he putting away.


Now the father - the father did something different. From time to time when the boy's stacks would get rather high, and the wind would blow, some of the items would slip and slide and fall from the top to the bottom and clatter to the floor. And if the boy was not quick enough to pick this thing up and place it neatly back upon the pile, the father, hearing the noise, would get up from his chair, upon which he always sat, pick up the item and, without emotion, throw it out one of the many open windows. Upon watching it fly out of the house, the father would then laugh loudly for just a moment before turning and returning to his chair which waited for him.

The boy did not always see this when it happened, but if he did, he would slouch and shake his head and sometimes even a tear would escape his eye, but he would not blink. And then his mother would come through the door and place another item on the floor at his feet, prompting him to resume.

Zephyr

zephyr\ZEF-er\ , noun;

A gentle, mild breeze.

Earlier, I swept

the boards of my apartment floor

and the pieces of dust and hair

would cling to the fibers of the broom

and float into the air

 

I watched them fall

and wondered where they would settle

if they would settle at all

Later, I laid

On sheets dusted with fine fibers,

looking at them and sighing, I began

plucking them between my fingertips

and blowing them away

They would flutter back

onto the fabric and stick there

while I looked at myself in the mirror

As a strand of hair fell to the floor.

Gambol

gambol \GAM-buhl\, intransitive verb:
1. To dance and skip about in play; to frolic

If the horses could do it, why couldn't she? The day was cold and called for dancing.
The field open and littered with buttercups, yellow cups lifted up on thin stems; she tries to leap between them, but like dodging raindrops, this is impossible. She crushes them and they spring up again, only not as tall as before. She worries for them amidst her pirouettes. Would, or could, anything bad happen to her for stepping on such delicate and helpless things, so crisp and golden.
Before her mother can call her in from the afternoon, she quickly drops, falls among the blades of grasses, high enough to hide her, tall enough to tickle the blue of the sky, dapple the sun. The heads of the yellow flowers bend and reflect, highlight citrus spots on her skin. She closes her eyes and breathes in the onion grass. She searches with her fingers for the wide, striated blades of it. With a fist she wiggles and pulls and frees one of the fragrant bulbs and lifts it to her nose. A dusting of dirt falls on her face and lips. She scrunches up her nose and it falls away; she breathes in the sharp, earthy smell of the wild onion. Putting the grass into her mouth, she feels the groves of the blade with her tongue and then bites, snapping it in half with her teeth.
Her name is called. She hears the whap of a screen door closing. Through the vibrations of the grass, she can feel the approach of Snooks, the dog, before she can hear him. And then he is there, running over her and sniffing. He thinks this is a game. The girl is hiding and he has found her. In its excitement, the dog steps low on her stomach, forcing her to sit up and gasp for air.
"There you are," she hears her mother call.
"Here I am," she whispers.