Or maybe it’s a red light. But I like moonlight better.
Final cut’s on paper.
Over the weekend, I was in the position of having one of the finest compliments paid to me, after an illustrious–though unplanned–performance:
“You really know how to fall. That was awesome!”
“Thanks. When I realized there was no stopping it, I just gave in to it, and tried to make it artsy. I’m glad someone was watching to appreciate it! Maybe I should reconstruct it so we can get it on film.”
Time elapsed in such a way that, between realizing only one leg went with my torso, and that I’d surpassed my center of gravity, I had enough time to keep my head together, enough to keep it from bouncing off the pavement, as my body eventually–and most certainly–merged with motor oil and concrete, in a prone position.
I’m quite pleased it worked–and I scored style points, as well. Who knew the strap of such a colorful and versatile bookbag could be such a hazard?
Diving, sliding, falling… all the same once you give into them and enjoy the sensation that comes while experiencing them. (Nevermind any lingering pains afterwards–for they can be remedied by ingesting mass quantities of perfectly-roasted marshmallows, as long as one’s survived an incident.)
(This is great, though, as my Guadalupe River scar has disappeared on that leg, and I was lamenting the loss last week.)
Btw, I learned that Jeep owners/drivers, like truckers and drivers in the Outback of Queensland, do a wave when driving by one another in opposite directions, but my informant refused to share the most authentic wave with me, claiming that there isn’t one (with a vaguely discernible and menacing wink). Rather than resort to violence to learn a secret I may not be prepared to guard, I decided that Jeep shotgun riders should most definitely do a two-arms-up-and-flailing thing when the top’s down. Believe me–it just feels right.