I’m feeling a little… ravished today. I think that’s the word I want. Let me go check… Hahaha. Nope. Definiely not the word I want. I should delete that opening line and start over, but this is apparently a post about how my mind works. Let me try again. What I meant to say is… *checks dictionary and thesaurus*… okay spent. As in tired out, bleary, debilitated, depleted, weary, worn out. And maybe also as in bankrupt and unable to pay debts but that is fodder for another post…

And speaking of posts, I read one today that I really liked. It was a stream of consciousness written in 11 minutes in the middle of the night by Jim Mitchem, appropriately titled Eleven Minutes. I liked it partly because it’s fun to see how interesting minds work, and partly because it felt good to just read something so free flowing and without pretense.

And that made me think of how I miss being purposeless. Not all the time, of course, but sometimes. Just wandering. Without regard to destination.

Okay, so right there. Typing that sentence, I thought, maybe I should link to one of my posts about playing hooky and going to the beach, or hiking the San Francisco coast, or being serenaded by a rapper on Telegraph Avenue, but I’m not going to do that because this isn’t that kind of post. This is a purposeless post. I just decided. It’s a wandering post because I just finished a week where there wasn’t nearly enough wandering… and that week came after two other weeks that were very much the same.

And if I’m going to wander, then maybe I’ll tell you to go listen to Rufus Wainwright’s “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” because I love that song and something about the play of his voice with the music seriously tickles my amygdala… My Amygdala. There’s a song in there somewhere. Or a limerick. Not sure which.

I have a friend who thinks in limericks… okay, he doesn’t actually think in limericks, but he can write one at the slightest provocation. I think that is an astonishing talent. Like juggling or yodeling or knowing what shoes to wear.

I’m giving up on the whole shoe thing, by the way. I’m just going to wear moccasins. When I was a kid, I had a pair of moccasins that looked authentically American Indian (as imagined in the mind of a 6-year old with new moccasins). They were awesome and I wore them with everything – shorts, jeans, dresses, pjs – and everywhere. I wore through the soles. (Because these did not have rubber soles. They were authentic, remember? I felt every pebble and crack I stepped on. I thought that made me more stealth. I kept an eye out for buffalo, and cowboys, and a good sale on scalping knives.)

Scalping knives… Yeah, not going there. Except to say that I was a badass at six. Ask anyone.

I also had a crush on my teacher. Or wait, no, that was seven. Second grade. Mrs. Gray. I don’t remember anything about her except that I thought she was beautiful. She wore her hair long and down unlike all the other teachers, and one time she got very sick, but still came to school. She was feverish and shivering and so I laid my coat over her lap, and then a bunch of the other kids donated their coats and pretty soon she was festooned.

I think that’s the word I want, but after the whole “ravished” incident, I better go check. Hang on… Okay, yes, I’m liking festooned, as in she was adorned with or as with festoons. That’s right. Brightly colored 2nd grade coats. I got home and told my mom about it and my mom said, “We better wash your coat, honey,” which was the right thing to do, I guess, but totally beside the point.

Uh-oh. Did I just make a point? I don’t think that quite rose to the level of an actual point, but I’m at risk. Time to stop.

Have an awesome, pointless sort of weekend, y’all!

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