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flailing affection and the truth of it.

As though I were trying to read a wet newspaper, trod upon and wind blown, wrapped briefly around and about my face as I am, albeit an important one, merely an obstruction in the way of its fumbling path, words are blurred (are slurred)…sweet, transparent as the bag from box wine that sloshes warming under his arm, violently jostling his baby booze. clumsy purposefulness, too much on me like damp wooden drapes, word splinters plenty but not penetrating. He gazes at the me’s he sees and we brace him, drunken fawn, limbs awkwardly anchoring sways, more weight sharing than a seemingly intended embrace.
“Do you realize how much older than me you are!?  You are SOOO much OOOOlder than me!  You are SIXteen, SIX-TEEEEN years older than me, Jen! You could be my mother! But I am so fucking attracted to you! hahahahahaa (confounded laughter)"

I leave the bonfire occasionally to lie in a field and look at the stars.  Can I see my life up there?  I breathe into the earth, cold behind me, escaping into the stars and dirt. 
THIS is time travel. Not a phone booth, a pod, no gears or beep-beep-boop-beep panel.  Feeling cool grass and solid ground cradle you into the starry night.  They come together, and both sides are infinite.  There you are, back and then and back again and small and huge

And oh I went swinging!  Ha ha ha haaaaaa! Time travel, and I am NOT high. 
…Someone once accused me of (“oh, yeah, she’s feelin’ it”) being high because I walked with arms open, looking up and welcoming a sunrise sky, trying to embrace somehow the multi-colored clouds changing as we walked lower Manhattan sidewalks in the early morning after a night, nights, actually, of revelry and adventure and new friends and stumbling upon old.  Click click click and I strut with my high heels until I start skipping a bit.
Yes, I said revelry.  And yes, sometimes I skip.
My name is Jennifer Violette Avery, and sometimes, when the mood strikes, I  darn well throw a step-hop-step-hop in the mix.  I might swing my arms, too.  But that depends on pedestrian traffic. 
I wasn’t “high”.  I was Jen.             I was happy.         I wasn’t sick. or betrayed. or abandoned, that day.  I was just, Jen.  And the sunrise was glorious.

I sat in the second row. There’re two other ladies in the theater.  I am mostly content, sharing my moment with them, in this the only theater that would have played The Artist before it won a mainstream award, (more specific “here” being the same town that will probably be showing Joyful Noise until May), at 1:45 in the afternoon, they are probably on my same page.  Alas, as the picture played, I found myself going through the milliseconds of regret, reproach, and resolve, for laughing out loud and seeming to be the only one.  Usher out the private argument of “Damnit, that was FUNNY!  Oh, you people just don’t know…” and get on bathing in this movie magic.
I loved the film.
Walking out of the theater onto the scenic city streets with a small but more than Mona Lisa smile…my secret knowing how much to appreciate this day…I was on a high (see?) and I couldn’t go home yet.
It was my day off.  I had many points of business to take care of, so I took myself to The Hair of the Dog to take care of them.
Sitting, remembering the last time I was there, thinking ever so fondly of my hero nerds, my awesome boyfriends, enjoying the same deck, and first-er-second-um-third-okay-what DO you have!?-choice beers during Oktoberfest before we walked the bridge, crashed a ghost stourey and cut a rug on golden feets.  
I sat in sweats and sporty "fight like a girl" cap as I took care of business and recorded payment or reservation confirmation numbers, along with my Jack rocks and a view and the liberating tease of a January spring day.
Shut the Mac, pay the tab. Still too beautiful to go home.  

Earphones; walking soundtrack:  This story is of a girl, a woman, plainly dressed and curious, unassuming but radiating something…She’s walking and smiling (wider now)

Deciding against the obvious bridge view at sunset, 
she instead walks down to the docks.

and it’s almost night, now. Dark blue grey dark blue gray with a hint of fuchsia tangerine.  Peek a boo stars.

Goat Rodeo play her on her way.  It’s getting colder nearer the water and the night.
Rounding the condos a giant Christmas tree is revealed. Made entirely of string lights, and long over due to be taken down, it glows, misplaced beauty.  She walks slowly around the thing until stopping in the muddy yard, close, admiring it.

To the water. Opaque river, hear it slap and swash the pier columns.  Walk down the walkway  “Hey Mr. Walkway, walk down me I’m the walkway”  to the sleek private boats parked there.

There’s a hill, with a playground on top.  No bathrooms around.  I should just head back to the car, head on home, stop at a gas station. It’s been a lovely walk.  Call it a night?
But...there are swings up there.
But … I gotta go.
erf .
Hello, River. Soundtrack still going as I go. Aah, Nature and Music.  Now climb the hill and set up my computer on the pebbles and press play.  It just so happened that my ITunes was set on my last purchased album.  So as I began to swing, (fully expecting to do this for maybe 5 minutes….expecting, also, for someone or something to interrupt me), to The Green Album.
Try to say "wee" without smiling.  
don't try too hard.

I got my first record player in middle school. I left for college having only acquired 5 records:
Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake.
Halloween Horror Sounds. Sounds on one side, a narrative on the other.  LOVED it.
Top Gun, (which I stole from the jazz teacher at my mother's dance studio. sorry Julie.)
The first original genuine no money back guarantee Muppet Show CAST ALBUM!!!!!!!!
Tragically, although I brought the Muppet album with me to a place of higher learning, I wasn't as bright as the sun, which melted my precious in the back seat of my car.  
I also had a cassette tape of Styx.

I was swinging, creek, creek, creek, creek, extend, bend, extend, bend, exteeend, bend, exteeeeeeeeend, bend… I was 8 and 38 all at once, swinging through songs of my childhood, for maybe an hour, giggling occasionally at how silly and fabulous this moment was. I needed this day.

My name is Jennifer, and I swing. I skip.  I dance.     I sing.        I beat cancer.    I marry and I divorce.   I risk.  I hide.      I  suffer, I celebrate.  I rodeo.  I cook. I create.   I laugh and I laugh and I laugh....
I love greatly, truly, deeply.      I flail.  

I survive.

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