I got tackled off a bar stool

And thus got kicked out of a bar. This was my first time ever getting kicked out of a bar!! I'm actually quite proud of myself. I've been kicked out of a Meijer, but that's easy because people are uptight at Meijer. Especially if you go around plunging stuff with a plunger and then setting the stuff in different parts of the store. The staff's outrage is so silly, because what else are big box stores for? Plus it's not like I was hurting anything. I can't think of any more times when I've been kicked out of retail or some other venue.

Anyway, that's it this week. Last week I was still ill (and a crazy person), so no posting then.

Here's the rule: Get kicked out of a place, but don't get the cops called on you. The ultimate in classy fun.

A bit of fiction.

Lilacs bob outside my window. They smell like paper smeared with honey. The shadows try to sweep the bits of sunlight from my desk, but they stay put. I put my hands in the sun to warm my fingers. I weave the warmth with my fingers, twisting them in the air. The creases in my fingers look deep, like fault lines. Imperfections in the foundations of the land, pushing and pulling, shaving crumbles off each other. Maybe my fingers will dry up and crumble into a pile of dirt. Maybe they'll push into each other and form strong mountains. I fold my hands together tightly to imagine what it would be like. My knuckles form a little range of hills. Not too impressive.

There are toy trains all over my desk. I pick one up and admire its detailed body. I drive it over my knuckle hills; its wheels turn smoothly and it navigates my hands with steady and reliable precision. I look around for some track to set it on, but I think my son has taken them back to his room, leaving only this one engine for me. I roll it up and down the desk with my palm.

I'm still in my bathrobe. Tying it seemed like a nuisance, and besides, I'm enjoying the touch of the sun. My stomach has stretch marks. More faults. The lilacs have calmed down a bit, enough so that the bees are having an easier time landing on them and searching for nectar. Their little warning-colored bodies crawl clumsily over the blossoms, then are lifted by buzzing, iridescent wings up into the sky. They fly higher and higher until I can't see them anymore because the bright light wipes everything out of sight.

I lean my chair back from the desk, trying to follow the bees' flights for as long as possible. I have my foot flexed and hooked onto the back of the desk and I'm balancing some tea on my chest with almost complete no-handed success. I shouldn't have sweetened the tea, because soon, a curious bee wriggles its way through a hole in the screen and dips into the tea. It carries its sweet, herbal liquid back out the hole to tell the others. I take a sip. I think the bees will like this, and imagine a batch of tea-scented honey. A couple more bees come in and dip into the cup. I think about my son, similarly humming back and forth in and out of rooms, slamming the screen door, coming back in to show me this trinket or that frog, offering me strong opinions. His favorite thing to do is ask me questions. They are small but hard, like the beaks of birds, pecking. Most recently, "Why daddy has more keys than you?"

I should've put the cup back on the desk. Now, the bees are coming in and out in a steady stream, filling the room with yellow noise. One decides to land on my stomach instead of the lip of the cup, and in a panic, I flail to brush it off. My foot slips from the desk and I fall backwards with a crack. The cup spills over my shoulder and soaks my hair with tepid tea. I am surprised the bees seem unfazed. I lie on the floor, watching as some blood mixes and swirls with the tea. The bees are still coming in, floating their tiny bodies up and down to siphon and carry the liquid to the hive to be turned into something golden, sweet, and translucent. I feel the sun warm my face. Just a little accident. I will get up in a second.

The bees are starting to fill the room now, as it's easier for the bees to collect the sugared tea now it's pooled on the floor. I see little feet patter toward me through the haze of fluttering bodies. They exclaim, "Mommy!" I squint to try to see the feet better, but they're still a bit blurry. The feet say, "Mommy, bees. Mommy, bees!" I see a little body sit and begin to cry.

Yesterday I was told my body was the only thing that had any value. This morning, I woke with a little boy bringing me his trains to play.

Whatever. Who do you think you are, TIDAL BASIN?

Haven't taken photos in a long time. Got the itch this afternoon because it was so pretty out. DC has a lot of blossoms not just in the tidal basin. So, I avoided the sweaty tourists and their manufactured serene romance while trying to ignore other tourists and took a walk in my neighborhood. Found a lot of neat stuff.




Here's the full album. I've helpfully captioned almost every one! (HA!)

I feel like this is the point as a writer that I should post something inspiring about renewal, romantic about the sun, or melancholy about life renewing and leaving me behind. There's also the classic enjoy-the-moments-you're-in posts, as well as the SPRING CLEANING ZOMG TIPS posts. It's tough with such regular cycles such as the seasons to not post something that has already been said about a bajillion times. But it does encourage me that almost everyone, every single year finds new joy and wonder in each of these new seasons. That we don't get bored like a kid who's over his new toy. The change of the seasons - the coming of spring, especially - always piques our interest, tickles our fancy, and otherwise prods at the hibernating brain and thawing body. Spring brings out the best in us, year after year, and I feel hope for mankind that we are always ready to show that best to the world, we're always happy to renew our subscription to anticipation and joy free of cynicism.

Spring is the inside joke everyone still finds funny years later. Spring is the the next story by your favorite author. Spring is the feeling of freshly-cut toenails. Spring is your favorite guitar riff in that one song. Spring is that moment right after a sneeze. Spring is the top of the ferris wheel.

Rule: Enjoy lots of cliched feelings of spring.