9:09 a.m. - 2010-11-16
Baton
My internal landscape has always flourished rich with colors never duplicated here on earth. From birth, I have felt a bit alien, out of my element. Timing, imperceptibly off. Hopelessly shy, yet thirsting for attention, external affirmation from any unlikely source. A social contemplative, I carried my audience in my head. They doted on my smallest achievement, applauding wildly. Blushing, I picked up my baton. I must have been about nine. I was tall for my age with too-short bangs and long, ash blond braids. I was very serious about my twirling. I had learned some maneuver that dazzled the fans in my head. Weaving tanned fingers, long for my age, about a loom composed of summer, hollow metal and the scent of dry eucalyptus, I rehearsed my physical mantra, feigning a twirl. And they bought it! Squealing with delight, they let me know that no one had ever handled the silver wand with those rubber coned tips, the color of chewed gum, as adeptly as I. And I curtsyed demurely, there on the front lawn with the Roosevelt Hotel looking on. And the air was magic.
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