Traces of Our Placing

Rock On, Photo by BradensEye featuring a token of her natural inclination

There are stories in anything we do. I think that most of us wish to be a lasting memory. The sashay you make simply sauntering along any street. Whereby any number of heads are forever amended, filled with new fantasies. How you stepped out of the camper van with your sundress tossing the young handsome lad’s attention against the heat of the sun’s rays beating streaks in competition with your wide smile. That cursory stooping at the puddle of stones strewn about to meet your feet on the ground as you fastidiously found yourself compelled to carve a signature ‘phrase’ of yours with one pebble to a small boulder. I’ve got no clue what age it was that I picked up on the ingrained trait of leaving a mark. Yet, I fervently believe that apropos traces of our placing can ornament our improvement.

You are right to smudge it that way ~Margaret Atwood, You Begin, from Selected Poems II (1976–1986)

It’s pronouncedly thrilling to be remembered wonderfully. To plunge through the pageant of contemplations any given day provides and choose where we’ll set our sights to hope to score. A briskly roving detour using Washington Square Park begets show-stopping dimples that don’t forget your third or fourth or fifth shimmy in the stifling temperature. They become an elected highway between the hellacious dissonance of tainted seductions sweeping your sanity askew. When we intentionally deposit durable indentions amongst the weeds of the rest of our sullied surroundings, we’re allowing some elemental control of that repetitively inferior critter we’ll call the tease. Living is loaded with its share of baited slumping. Crowded conundrums seemingly promising us incalculable couth.

Only, mysteries aren’t set up without sizeable failure. What brims a sense of specialness is the truth that it’s not an everyone’s game. It’s why variety is the spice and the reason that exquisite selection is the focus for collecting. I try to traipse as if everything is hunky-dory. When, very matter of factly, the world was never built in that mode of guaranteed gratitude. Instead, it’s culling the correct elbows with which you’re rubbing that’ll produce profitability. Rather consciously appealing to a platoon of irrefutably assured humans to envelop the hours you’ve got to waste. As we willfully travel to a certain grocery store versus a chain purely banging on saving your…