Pretty Sounds & Procrastination

© 2010 David Parker

Lately my hands and my brain have been very busy making What-I’m-Going-To-Do-With-My-Life out of interdisciplinary arts, education, wooden dreams, ideals that turned out to be not so far gone as I’d imagined, and other people’s money. I’m still only just on the brink, but I’m beginning to fall in love with the sound of pieces coming together and stars aligning. (It’s like this deep, celestial ripping sound—like when a torrent of rain peels itself from the sky.)

And when I haven’t been doing that, I’ve been trying to convince Ruthie that she’s not afraid of the dark, a task almost as difficult as trying to convince myself that I’m not afraid of failure. And I’ve been wondering if maybe it’s not so much about pretending not to be afraid as it is about accepting the darkness and the failure that makes the fear piece go away. And I’ve been noticing how all-of-a-sudden Ruthie grew so tall and so smart, which is painful in the hurt-so-good way of falling in love. And I’ve been promising myself to write, but I generally tend to put that off until tomorrow, which always seems to be the most convenient time to accomplish most tasks.

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Present

© 2010 David Parker

Small. Like a ballon let go, a tiny-tiny o, so tiny-tiny you can hardly see it. Just a second ago, it was in your hand, your fingers tight-grasping the little string. You wound it around your baby finger just to be sure. What was it? You can’t even remember. What it was to hold it. What it was to feel the tension of the round, red globe bobbing happily on the end of the string that slipped, unsnaked itself between your fingers, carried away on a breeze that felt like breath. It was a parting favor. While you were holding it, you could only think of holding it. Now that it’s gone, you can only think of how beautiful it is against the clouds. Brave. Alone. Red. And though the sight isn’t particularly singular, your heart does that thing where it tightens a little bit because you know. You’ll never see it again.

What is it about the present that makes everything else feel irrelevant?