Last night, my ankle had an out-of-body experience.

I was grotesquely intrigued. But rather than stare all night at it, I did what I remembered you should do when an edema, or swelling, occurs; I also became somewhat tickled at the word “edema” – I may have known a drag queen by that name, once – I put heat on it, first, for several hours. And then, ice.

I think “nice flip-flops” is an oxymoron.

I told her No, believe it or not. Because once when an electrical storm blew threw town and took out the lights, I used the left flip-flop to find the bathroom cabinet where the flashlights were kept. Hot pink, you know, tends to have a shine, a glow about it.

And, for the record, I really like my shower curtain.

I checked the first one to see what room number I was going to be in, and then, strolled to the classroom. This was going to be fine, I just need to get more sleep, that’s all. I opened the door, and there that sat, nerves pinched, bright-eyed (I think mostly nerds take summer classes at 8:oo in the morning, right? I mean, I did), and all but one student had already purchased the text book.

That time I almost met Harper Lee.

We pulled out of the parking space, too intimidated to meet her. At least, this is what we said to ourselves, heading further south towards old friends who hadn’t written any works of “staggering genius” (yet), and a mile of sand that wouldn’t care what questions we asked. We told ourselves, Look at us – what we have on, we’re wearing traveling clothes (for me that was pair of exercise pants and a Golden Girls overshirt).

He’d just always wanted a hearse, he said.

And this passage was so perfectly southern, so bitterly southern, that …it finally upset me. Warren had, all those years ago, in his novel about a corrupt politician, written down so clearly what I’d been trying to say myself. I guess that’s why I couldn’t: he’d already used the words.

Ah, Wilderness! Ah, Bottle Rockets!

So, anyway, here’s how you played, and don’t try this at home (unless you have cows, and thus, a large pasture). You’d have your own cigarette lighter, no easy feat in a family of non-smokers – thankfully, we had grills and Buckstoves – and you’d track your opponents down, zero in on them, as fast as you could, light the bottle rocket and throw it at them.

Part Two: Aunt Lola

“I am living,” I argue. I’m upset now that I almost died, and that she’d waste such time on cliches. I’m hysterical at this point. She remains gentle; the dead, in my dreams, are always so gentle. She won’t tell me what I almost died from, what almost was responsible for taking my life; instead, she implies that I am not appreciating the normal, the mundane, and the ordinary.

The monk on a yellow motorcycle.

I know, up ahead, is a shrine. It’s a popular tourist attraction; the front half of the shrine, but I know that behind the altar, is the place the true believers can go. We are told to approach the steward at the second door and say, Java Est. He will let us into the private room.

The monsters in my mouth.

A lot, apparently. The horse panicked and kicked Jene in the genitals four quick and nearly lethal times. His mother, desperate to save him, should a fifth and sixth kick be imminent, immediately jumped the fence, grabbed her son, and tore his trousers off to inspect the damage, much to the wild-eyed amusement of all of his friends, who stood there, a mute audience. At least until school started back, at which time they introduced to the student body a new nickname for Jene which was…

Keeping up with the Jeffersons.

Even though I love the idea of having my own parking place on the Web, truthfully I must say, and if anyone at Wordpress is reading this – here’s my Piece of Honesty For The Day – I’m enjoying Wordpress so much that I think I’m going to keep my blog here, for now, anyway.