My Wondrous Sky
There I was, alone, lying on my side, basking in sunlight, amid the chaos of a busy city street, minding my own business. In my peripheral vision I could make out the wavering, jumbled festoonery of mankind passing by, back and forth, sometimes repeatedly, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly — as a form of recreation of some sort, I imagine. They did this, rather disturbingly, day in and day out, rain or shine, over and over and over, again. You get the picture.
As mentioned earlier, over the smooth ridges of time, the sun was bright and bold on this particular day, causing spectacular reflections of both light and shade, thereupon creating a kaleidoscopic adventure of color, luminosity, and vibrancy; seen askew by me within its slow dance. These were the good days, as the trample of soles ran rampantly around, and at times, directly on top of me. No one really cared, one way or another, of my position in life. It seemed to me, at the time, that they — the big people — were not truly cognizant of my place of rest and relaxation. No real bother, because, occasionally, a furry creature — practicing his (or her) acts of rampant quadrupedalism — would pause and excessively sniff me from a point of shared tangency, which would (more often than not) result in an orbiting nose, circling and circling over me like a friendly moon … until another unique (and potentially prosperous) scent would quickly draw its attention, leaving me to wallow in my own solitude. Woof and bark, my friend. Woof and bark.
Legs from this perspective — especially human legs — are a rather intriguing phenomenon. More often than not, they’re on the move; these vertical, curious enterprises of varying fashion, mobility, and degrees of nakedness. From my particular place of rest, I was left to wonder and question their shapely elegance: Where did they come from? Where do they lead? And what did the rest of them look like at the lower extremities as they disappeared into these things I eventually learned were often referred to as “shoes”? I personally would never speak the word, for my deformity — in terms of what I look like in comparison to “normal” human form — had left me with half of my face missing. Fuck the creator.
Over time I had learned to forgive, forget, and understand. I really did not know the difference between us (that is, between human and me) at the time. It was not until a much smaller, more delicate, version of the human species curiously stopped short in her steps, so near me. She was a young girl, maybe ten years of age. She instantly began to scrutinize me, deeply, attentively. My curiosity subsequently piqued as she began to lean forward, twisting and turning her head in my direction. It felt as if she were … reading me. At that exact same moment, there was an overwhelming, shared sensation of oneness that pushed away the surrounding cacophony of hectic confusion that continued to flood past us both — a flurry of movements that deep, down inside I oddly felt was driven by … me. Which may sound a little pretentious, I know. However, I do have my reasons. More on that later.
The little girl then proceeded to do something that caused me to instantly feel as though my life would be changing forever. You could see it within the sparkle of her eyes. An enthusiasm found only in discovery. She had won. She bent down, squeezed me between two of her little fingers and brought me so close to her face that I thought she was going to eat me. However, she just flipped me over — my, oh my, did the world I once belonged to begin to look so differently, and distant. Weirdly, I began to feel more human than ever. Our sight lines were beginning to run parallel in ways I never dreamed. Then things gradually went dark … sounds began to muffle … movements changed. It started getting warmer. Her footsteps began to press forward with an enthusiasm recognized by the way of her rapid breathing, intermixing with all the insulated echoing, and incongruent debauchery, of human hubbub that was happening around us.
It felt like at least ninety-nine steps, with various tonal shifts and acoustic bouncing, before I heard a light door close — an interior door — as the sounds of her steps softened. Everything was much quieter now. I could still hear the cushioned acoustical spikes of sirens, vehicular grind, and chatter—however, the overall essence of the space we now occupied felt more peaceful, an oasis of some kind. Then I felt her clasping touch again as she brought me out of my softened cave into the dawning light of a cube-like setting. There were walls, a floor, a couple of windows, and a ceiling! I had never seen, or known, such grandeur of hospitable surroundings before. Deep down inside, however, I knew that I would miss my occasional natural baths, achieved by the fall of water, in the form of untold droplets, from a puffy sky above. This concern had quickly entered my mind as she placed me — right side up — on a wooden shelf, amidst some leering dolls, situated beneath a most interesting, upside-down tree; curiously stationary in its bilateral symmetricity. Then things got really weird after I suddenly heard a sharp click … at which time the fronds of the untouchable tree began to rotate in unison, and, altogether concerningly, in constant acceleration. I gradually let that go, as the hum and breeze began to sooth me in rhythmic freedom.
During the next several months, I began to surprisingly realize that I was not actually alone in this strange, new world. There were others just like me, in exact shape, in exact size, in exact weight, and nearly in exact color. There were, occasionally, minor differences — especially in regard to our varying degrees and definitions of cleanliness. As time went on clicking, I started to feel sensations that could only be described as a claustrophobia to my surroundings. What had begun as a solitude of existence evolved into two of me, then three, then seven, then twelve, then more. Eventually there was a crushing (at least for me, being at the bottom) mound of us sitting on this little area of a shelf, which had only increased over time. Then the most monumental day of my circular experience occurred — a day that I will never forget. It was a cool day, the twelfth day of the month of February. I knew this because in the reflection of one of those perfectly-edged branches from above I could see the distorted image of what I would eventually learn — by listening with my one ear — was something commonly known as a calendar: A way to count and chart the number of times the sun had risen and fallen. For what purpose, I did not know.
On that apocryphal day, I was disturbingly squeezed into a rather close-fitting — frightfully dark — paper tube, bookended by my resemblant colleagues. Forty-nine of them, to be exact. This I knew because I began to count the familiar sounds at their inception; much like the daily paths of the sun.
It remained quiet, eerily quiet, until we were moved as a group … at which time we all began to shockingly sense an exodus from our sanctuary … out of the room, down a long hallway and some stairs, out another heavier door, back into the unmelodious metropolis awhile … then into another dwelling … and then ultimately placed atop a flat surface. An alarming stillness remained while we sat on that balanced surface which we could not see … a place — we would later learn by way of vaulted prison talk — where we were exchanged … for two quarters.
The dreaded day had finally befallen us. The day that was so often spoken about deep within the dark corners of the world; on again and off again, for years upon years, until it happened. The world was no longer making cents.