✍️AN ENTIRE AFTERNOON SPENT IN A GARDEN
"Plant now, sow later," Cliff repeated to himself. It was his mantra to push forward in the frigid winter. A voice cut through his thoughts—"what the hell are you doing mate? It's colder than a witch’s tit out there." Cliff's uncouth neighbor Bart bellowed from his window.
"Plant now, sow later!" Cliff yelled back.
It was cold. And it was colder than normal. The weather person on the news called it unseasonably cold. But colder than a witch's tit? Well of that he couldn't be sure. Cliff waved dismissively at Bart, a “thanks for caring but kindly fuck off” gesture. Cliff would be in this garden as long as it took to plant these bulbs to their correct depth and distance apart.
He didn't have the instinct that Eunice had for it. She could dig the holes, drop the bulb, and carry on an engaging conversation at the same time. Cliff would stand by her side holding the satchel of bulbs, listening to Eunice wax poetic about any little thing. Cliff had to concentrate. He printed directions and held them in his shaking gloved hands.
Dig 6" down.
He'd fold the paper, shove it in his pocket, and dig. Then he'd pull the paper from his pocket.
Place the bulb in the hole root side down.
He'd refold the paper, shove it into his pocket, and place the bulb. He went on like this for every bulb planted. It was a very tedious process, but Cliff needed it to be perfect. Eunice would be coming home in the spring and she deserved to see her garden in full bloom. “Oh didn't I do such a wonderful job planting this season?” Eunice would ask. And Cliff would agree, Eunice had done a wonderful job. And this wasn’t a lie, not really, because she had always done a wonderful job. "Do you think Bobbie will like the try when she comes to visit? Tulips are Bobbie’s favorite." Eunice would ask.
Bobbie didn't visit anymore, and she never cared for tulips. In fact she hated the garden and all the time her mother dedicated to it instead of her.
“I think she'll love them." Cliff would tell her.
✍️DESCRIBE A RITUAL AND THEN INTERRUPT IT
I use my fingers to wipe whatever scum this is off the inside of the googles. I push the lenses to my eyes and I really push; I push hard to make sure the seal is there. No water can get in past the rubber to touch my eyeballs. I check my watch and press the start arrow. I plunge my head under the water and push off the wall with my powerful legs.
They hurt sometimes but I am still sure they are powerful. They are thick and they hold me up even when nothing else in my wants to. My hands are pressed together in what some--but not me--might call a prayer pose and I'm stretched out to be the most water dynamic I can be. I'm sure someone will come along and correct me and tell me what word I need there--what word it is that means aerodynamic but in the water, but for now I will leave it. My body pierces through the water.
My head surfaces and I take a nice slow inhale. I stretch out and reach my arm as far as it will go. I turn my head to the other side, and bring my other arm over, stretching as far as I can reach. Breathe in, reach, breathe out, reach. My legs kick and my arms reach, moving me forward.
It's a 25-yard pool. I reach the end of the lane pretty quickly. If it were a bigger pool could I go on? I may never know. I turn around, plunge my head underwater, and push off again.
The whistle blows. Stop swimming. Where ever you are, you should stop. I inhale.
✍️A LEAP INTO THE UNKNOWN HAVING A CHARACTER DO SOMETHING YOU WOULD NEVER DO YOURSELF
So there's no itinerary? Scott stares straight ahead, clenching his abs tight to absorb the impact of the rough road. Where the hell was he headed? He had a ticket with a destination and nothing else. This was living. This was true adventure. This was early onset stress-related bowel disease. If that wasn't a thing before, it was now. Scott would write it up in a medical journal when he got back.
On god, how would he get back? It was a one way ticket. Focus on the horizon, Scott. Try not to vomit. He wasn't sure if that worked for rough bus travel or it was just for rough seas, but he really wanted to maintain his cool exterior.
This was by far the roughest Scott had ever roughed it. One summer in college he had camped in Yellowstone. But not in a tent, he stayed in a cabin with indoor plumbing and he ate at the commissary. Or what he thought was the commissary but were a few different general stores. It was all very nice actually. Scott longs for Yellowstone in the face of these rough gravel paths and foreign language signs.
Oh the hubris to go anywhere and not know the language. The chatter of fellow bus passengers was irritating white noise, chipping away at Scott's confidence, as he realizes these sounds are a full language he ignored, knowledge he flat out refused to gain.
The bus comes to a dul halt. There is a thud as the engine cuts off, Scott doesn't know enough about old buses to understand if that sound was appropriate or not. Are they at their destination or did they break down? The chatter from other passengers doesn't help him decipher which on it is.