Dauntless & Dainty

     Stepping out into the powerful sunlight forces my eyes shut.  My neck strains downward as the sun bounces off of the loose blonde bun secured at the nape of my neck.  My hand eeks its way into a weak surrender over my eyes, refusing to expose my fair, freckled skin to the sun even though it had already been slightly rouged from a previous summer adventure.  You would think this ebullient sun and these cloudless skies every day would coincide with mental clarity.  As I glance to my right, hand sternly placed on my brow, I notice that the street is empty.  This seems like the right time to start walking.  I jerk my leg to the right, taking a hefty step to start my meandering.  Hoping the August sun will bake away all of my melancholy thoughts, I take slow steps.  The only weight I feel is the heaviness of my own breath.  All I hear is the clicking of my heels against the brick sidewalk.  My eyes glaze over in a trance, staring into the white heat of the sun-drenched path.  My destination is meaningless, the meditative walking should soothe my aching soul.  A solid four blocks pass by, in a blur of brick footpaths and intersections when suddenly I am struck by the sour sound of my name.  It is not shouted, but simply stated in a calm, soothing tone.  This tone is appallingly familiar and it rips through my ears and pounds in my skull.  You ask how everything has been.  You ask why I'm so dressed up.  I fail to answer you, my eyes transfixed on your sunglasses.  In a forced squint, I am able to see my reflection.  My bangs swept across my face, my painted lips, my jet-black eyelashes; I cannot remember dolling myself up.  As you stare at me, awaiting a response, I stare down and notice the crisp, bright red dress hugging my body.  This dress looks unfamiliar, a nauseating feeling takes hold of me.  I look back up at you, and you ask if everything is ok.  Nodding, I smile and feel my right leg take a small step, then my left, until I am several feet away.  I whip my head around, and stare into the white hot summer yet again.

     Smile pasted on my face, my steps grow stronger, more forceful.  I can hear my footsteps for what seems like hours until eventually my feet seem to be hitting dirt and rocks.  Looking in several directions, I realize I have reached the river.  The weather is fair, but the area surrounding the river is empty.  The large, flat rocks usually plagued with joyful people are bare.  As I run my hands through my bangs, I grab the band securing my bun and rip it out of my hair.  I walk tenderly upon a flat rock kicking my heels off into the running water.  Pulling my dress off over my head, I rush into the river.  Enveloping my body in the cool water is the warmest embrace I have ever experienced.  Submerging my head, I let my hair float wildly around my face.  Eventually I allow my head to break the surface.  Staring at the riverbed I noticed a group of people standing on the rock where my dress lay.  I glanced left, then right and noticed people in both directions, on the riverbed, as far as the eye could see.

Disclaimer: this is fiction.

Rambunctious Rambling.

Summer is not my season.  Just stepping outside turns me into a quivering pile of goo on the scorching sidewalk.  I yearn for the autumn months, for the wool sweaters and falling leaves.  I long for chilly nights and wearing knee-high socks, skirts, and letting my wavy strawberry locks whip lovingly across my face in an autumnal gust.  For now, I will sit in my apartment and sing/dance to almost every song on my ipod.  Of course, it's Shark Week so it's hard to be yearning for much more than a comfy couch and a show about which bait is preferred by the Bull Shark (the shark responsible for the most human deaths).

Most of my pictures from my Sicily trip have been uploaded onto my Flickr account, so feel free to peruse.  I am taking the original film pictures and compiling them into some hand-decorated Moleskine albums.

My 21st birthday is in a month and I must devise a plan for celebration.  I haven't really celebrated my birthday in a few years so I'm thinking this should be a good one.  I want to have a party at my new place but my roommate is against it, so perhaps I can convince a friend to throw me one.

Speaking of birthdays, a mighty happy birthday to Stephen R. Horton.  His fatherly teachings have given me so much over these two decades.  I'll never forget when we had our first game of catch, or when we would shave our stubbly faces side by side at the bathroom sink every morning, while I strained on my tiptoes just to see my entire cherubic face in the mirror.  If it weren't for him, I wouldn't know how to talk to girls or tie my tie every morning, thanks dad.