I am tipsy so forgive me, I think too much. I try to wind all my feelers, as if they were twine, into a ball, contained as twine is often and necessarily contained.

But these feelers are not twine, they cannot be wound into place. Appropriate is four syllables, which by themselves could be lovely and sweet-natured, strung into one boring, time-consuming word, not matter, not the things that should matter, nothing to be eaten, drunk, played with, caressed, etc.

These feelers reach out everywhere, touching everything, cheekbones and boundaries and the cloth of the nearest jacket. They want to feel the heat of your skin after you are kissed well. They want to sense the vibrations your laughter causes when it is let loose freely. They cannot help but catch the hum of the factory at night, the hum of the hairnetted locals who will bake and ice and package the pastries we so lightly purchase with whatever change we have in our pockets.

I could go on and on about my feelers, these invisible awkward embarrasing greedy appendages of mine, what they can do, what they would do if I let them do what they would do. Sometimes you should, too. Just a reminder.




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