It’s time to get it out again, that April Fool’s brigade of gawping little spectacles and pincushions. Plunked down to the dirt, straight down to where the sun don’t hurt, and it fades. In the moldy old crawlspace that smells like it always has; it’s damp and fecund enough to become its own ecosystem.
You breathe deeply and salute the millipedes (but run and hide from the centipedes). Your blood runs twice as fast, but it’s not from that overcheesed burger down the street. Then you wonder how long you can stay in this unfinished trap.
I’d say you can escape to that place forever, but you’d have to subsist on bugs. The water quality just isn’t the same as from the tap, and you never have dry feet. But at least you have yourself, and that’s what really matters anyway. Take away the frills and shouldn’t we all be so lucky as to call ourselves at home in a safe, secluded place that only your thoughts can occupy. Not the mailman, not the chef, not the computer repair person.
But then shouldn’t you let other people know about this spot? It’s near and dear to your heart, and you have so many things to show them. But you have this imp tugging at your shirt tails and poking your gut, threatening to do that for all eternity if you give away the secret.
WHARVED 