Itchy hands
Tuesday, October 9th, 2007Deprecated: preg_replace(): The /e modifier is deprecated, use preg_replace_callback instead in /var/www/html/0708.fueledbyrice.org/public_html/blog/wp-includes/formatting.php on line 74
I have sticky fingers. I went to the bathroom this morning, but there was no running water. I left without washing my hands. The morning hastes and I need my walk. So now, beneath the dessicating sun full of blaze and glory, full of itself, I feel itchy. At least my hands do. But these are the same hands i use to write. And writing itself makes me antsy.
I wish i had a camera to take a picture of the woman in the mansuit swirling her clothes in the murky river. I wish i could get a shot of the deaf woman who pulled up the leg warmer on my right leg and motioned in the direction of the wind, huddling her shoulders: cold. But i only have a pen, and my hands are itchy, so i write.
I perch like Buddha, pernisciously, on this narrow concrete ledge shuddering beneath the weight of scooters. The weight of my notebook balances on my knee and my concentrated gaze cuts the heads off of shocked passerbys. From my vantage point, there are only shoes, leather or green cloth, curled around mine, paused in reflection as a disclocated head appears in shadow on my pages. I look up and smile a few times to be sure im not being rude, then lean down again, putting the heads and torsos back in their respective places. Back to shoes and wheels and corners of notebooks.
Back to rivers. The one this bridge arches over steals kisses from the conceited sun, its rays sucked onto the waves like words rolled onto paper.
Words. There are so many i do not know. So i pull the other legwarmer up to my left knee to show the deaf woman i am grateful for her concern. She laughs and leaves, then comes back with two more women, the crowd pulling out and drawing in with her like breath, like waves with rippling sun on their backs. I tell them where i am from, what i am doing in thier river town, and where i am going today. They invite me to come to thier house and talk, though by now they are aware of the limits of my Chinese. Words. They do not matter so much. But what am i building a case for? What is my spin if all that one can say has already been said?
The morning is fast like an opportunity. I am morning amusement for the busy bridge passengers, hauling their loads in carts and tricycles. The sun makes the green moss in the river browner like the skin it lashes daily in cotton fields, reaching up beneath yellow headscarfs and straw hats to lick the sweat from a farmer’s brow, feeding its pet clouds with moisture.
We’ve had some great days for riding, but i worry that where there is sun, rain awaits on the dark sides of the clouds. Words written for worry.
Back to my shoes. Or shapes. Triangular black things connected to verticle stems shivering. Shape becomes symbol becomes meaning. They ask me to come with them. And i want to get lost with them in this village. i want to explore. i want to get intimate with the rural countryside. My hands itch as i check the time. I’m late. Its time to ride. Notebook in. Legs stand firm. I begin to run, high on imagery.