Makyo in My Mind
hallucinations of the unconscious eye
Other half of my short life
In short story form
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
The Sun is Shining Brightly
I'm at a university building or something, on a concrete patio with steps descending down into a green area. It's past midnight, but there are people about. The sun is shining brightly. No wonder it's dark in the mornings, I think to myself.
I decide to walk home, since it's been since childhood that I traveled this town on foot. Nonetheless, I follow some main roads at an alarming pace. I get off an exit ramp that empties right out into a dangerous intersection (which happens to be an on-ramp), but then veer left into a dirt valley, where there's a smaller road for bicycles only. One goes by, with rider. I mentally note that I haven't been here since I rode my bike here with my dad when I was a kid.
It's forest here, but it's also winter, for all the leaves are long gone, even from the ground. There's a small rise in the ground surrounded by a wooden fence. A small path leads around it. I see a woman down it, stretching or something. I have a flashback of falling on the other side of that fence and calling to my dad for help, as if I couldn't get back over it or around it. I wonder why I might have acted that way, and decide to walk around to see.
I run into a steep hill, though, with dry bush-like trees growing out of it, and lots of tree roots sticking out of the dry dirt. I feel like I climbed up here just a few seconds ago. Maybe I did. A little kid, scuttles down my left side, riding the steep slope with the heels of his tennis shoes, grabbing onto twigs on his way down. Same age as I would've been when I would've played here. I'm actually amazed that children still play here, that it's still a safe neighborhood.
I try to climb up, but I'm too big, and the bushes are in my way. I head to the right a little, where there are fewer bushes are more roots to grab onto. My hands find the top, corner-like ledge, and I hoist myself up.
A little girl is there, poking at a turtle. The turtle doesn't have a shell, however. Instead, it's in a soft tube that it can roll into a ball. Nearby is a larger tube that the turtle apparently wants to make its home, but a hamster is inside of it. The turtle keeps rolling into the tube, and the hamster keeps wrestling with it until the turtle rolls out. I'm unsure of who I should be rooting for in this battle, and so I leave it.
It's still the middle of the night, and yet still the sun is shining brightly. I go to a party store, the only thing that's open, someplace back on that campus. It's a small store, and I walk around it a few times before I pick something up. I don't remember what it is, but it's not even food. I'm next in line at the counter when three girls pull up behind me. One of them makes a comment to the effect that they're about to get hit on, because the man behind the counter is Mexican.
I get to the counter and the guy starts asking me all sorts of random questions...and here I was planning on just giving him my $3.13 (for that's what my item cost) and getting out of there. The questions were of the telemarketing type...invasive and impertinent. Finally he rings up my $3.13 item. He wants me to count the money out on the counter, so I confidently put the bills down one at a time. However, when I put the first bill down, it's a 5-dollar bill, not a 1-dollar bill. Nonetheless, I put the rest down, counting, "1, 2, 3, 4...times 5...is 20. So you owe me $1.69 in change." That's what I say as my mind somehow goes from 20 bucks to 5 bucks, and incorrectly subtracts $3.13 from $5.00. I realize this and try to correct myself, however, to "No, $1.67." The guy happily rings it up. I know it's not right, but I don't care anymore.
He gets out an application-type sheet of paper, wanting me to sign it. It has all the questions he asked me on it, with my answers, all in pencil. I didn't even notice him writing this all down, either. Pretty well done, too. He asks me a question about food, to which my answer ends in the word, "Mexican," but since it was at the end of my sentence, it's moreso muttered. He takes slight offense, mocking the verbal tone I gave the word "Mexican." It doesn't phase me, however, and I don't feel like explaining myself. Instead I just perk up my tone and say, "I like Indian, Mexican..." and leave with my item.
It's the middle of the night. I should be sleeping. But the sun is shining brightly.
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