2002-02-01 || 4:23 p.m.

|| lizard belly pirate ship ||

for future sensory perception: the cold steel of airplanes. whales. wheat fields. hot asphalt accompanied by melting tar. lined paper for handwriting practice. the ticking of analog. rotary phones. tartan skirts. shawls. canadian cold snaps and tiny islands. teepees. chicago basements. the dwellings of polish grandmas. felt tip pens. hibiscus plants. ant lines. origami. paper hearts. sucking color from popsicle sticks. board games on carpet. curbs. banana seat bicycles. kites. porch swings. hammocks. hot chocolate drunk from bowls. fireplaces. brick. rooftops. shooting stars. rowboats. coffee when camping. childhood sleeping bags. double dutch jump rope. elephants. pony rides. windbreakers. fishing. panning for gold. snowmelt rivers with muddy bottoms. lizard bellies. fishing.

fishing: every weekend from age seven to eleven i went fishing with my dad and sister on our boat, the nemo. it was small and raggedy and sequined with fish scales. we collected freckles and squid ink, opal eyes and half moons, and my favorite part was the getting exhausted and sleeping in the small cabin on blue cheap carpet, inhaling the smells of my father.

my dad is the most magical man. his heart is pinned to the sky with the big dipper. my dad reads darwin and richard henry dana and dreams of south america, of icy passes, of pirates and the divergence of species. my dad has old feet and hair growing from his ears and when i come to visit, when i give him his haircut in the backyard he says he can't believe this is his body, this old pockmarked sun damaged carcass, leathery and arthritic. and when i follow him into the bathroom to make sure his hair looks all right i can see it in his eyes (the most beautiful eyes. cornflower blue. blue glass suspended in milk.), the flash of recognition just for a second, there in the mirror, of a twenty-two year old pirate prince who never expected to get to this funny point of time.

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