V, S, and I took a two hour break from work (and I am still on that break) to watch a ridiculous film (it must be a cult classic) that was an amalgam of Power Rangers, Austin Powers and Glee. Afterwards, we had a conversation about what it means to talk about nothing with someone. V explained it well: talking about nothing with someone is not just making small talk. It's making small talk even though you've talked enough that you should have moved past it by now. Not having moved past it by now means that you'll (most likely) never be friends. Therefore, you talk about nothing.
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Last week, DK told me that I've become 'weathered' over these years. What he meant is that my heart has hardened and shrunk in size, or so I would like to think, because it implies at least that my heart was once softer and bigger. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't. Last night I had a bad dream. I was screaming at someone and sobbing--the kind of sobbing that constricts your entire chest so that your lungs can't expand to breathe except in gasps. It was the gasping that woke me up. I wonder if everyone has these kinds of dreams, or is it just me, with all of my pent up anger and aggression and hurt feelings. Will I ever change? How long will it take? What does it take? Do I understand anything?
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Two weeks ago, H was filming me for her mini-film project and we were outside of Scully by Poe field. A small squarish insect with brown armored wings crawled onto me during one of our breaks, and I flicked it off automatically. The bug ended up landing just to the left of me on the concrete where I was sitting. And because it was such a beautiful day outside and I was feeling amiable, I put my finger in front of where the bug was crawling and the little thing got on, oblivious to what had just transpired between us.
It was the shape of the bug, or maybe it was the monkish brown of its coloring, that caught my attention. It had two little eyes and some iridescent patches around the neck, but for the most part, it was an understated creature designed to blend in, rather than to stand out. On a tree, it would have been invisible. On my arm, it was a little dark patch, and I could feel the light tickling of its legs as it moved around on my skin--a forgiving and intimate act.
The rest of the story goes downhill. When it was time to part ways, I put my arm on the concrete, hoping that the bug would crawl off. When it didn't, I picked it up, as gently as I could, and set it down. The bug crawled a couple of steps, stopped, and then crawled another couple of steps but something was wrong. It was moving slightly sideways instead of forward. Looking closer, I realized that I had injured one of its legs on the left side and possibly one of its legs on the right side when I picked it up. I felt sad and guilty, sitting there watching the insect hobble around, thinking that it would probably die soon. I hoped its brain was simple enough that it was only hurting and not suffering. But that could just be wishful thinking. I put my finger in front of the bug again, just to see if it would climb on a second time. It didn't.
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