Today was for the worms, whatever that means.
Endless mist, rainy sunshine, moist earth. Mud is everywhere--on sidewalks on cars on buses on the skirts and pants and shoes of those who walk too close to the curb. Yes, today is a day for worms.
I think too hard.
I don't freelance.
Instead, I stay awake until 2:30 a.m. listening to Florence and the Machine while sketching some sort of bohemian costume for apolitically-correct version of "Rapunzel." My arms twitch as the lyrics propel themselves from my $10 speakers. My right hand is marinated in lead, my tracing paper with smudges.
"Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father..."
I thought I was pretty fantastic, but the truth is that I was wearing Charlie Brown boxer shorts and binging on Reese's Miniature Peanut Butter Cups while sitting cross-legged on my desk chair.
I am being just as lame this evening, only I'm wearing a magenta-colored sundress (despite the downpour) and masticating a banana, which is much healthier than the five pounds of processed "peanut butter" I ate over the weekend.
It's supposed to rain here the next few days. I don't mind it being dreary, but I do miss the sunsets in the evenings. The rain makes me miss home, where I typically curl up on the couch and watch the windows slowly fog up. I wasn't able to cuddle up with my polka-dotted comforter today, however.
No, I had three final projects due today, and graduation tickets to pick up. It was a busy day that had me traipsing between my residence hall and the Memorial Mall. I traipsed a funny little dance in order to avoid the twisting squiggling wriggling writhing worms on the cracked pavement.
My umbrella was discooperative.
And, yes, I am fully aware that "discooperative" is not a real word. I have a fetish for made-up words such as "confusement" and "congree." It's a hobby of mine. My inspiration? The lovely Galinda/Glinda from "Wicked." (Words include "confusifying" and "disgusticified.")
Anyway, back to the discooperative umbrella.
Unbound, my umbrella is a raven with a broken wing. The skeletal framing is delicate; the thin fabric yields to the wind. Like a spiderweb, it collects minuscule drops of water. Before I enter a building, I shake them off, thrust the umbrella in a downward motion just as I drain water from chip brushes in the scene shop. When I close it, I handle it as if it were a bat; a wet bat with a broken wing. It is grotesque.
I don't find worms appalling. Not live ones, anyway. Just ones that are dead, fried, petrified. Plastered to the sidewalk days after the sky opens. Death to non-arthropods. I no longer dance to avoid them, but stroll atop their corpses.
It's still raining out. Hours later, it is still raining. The worms are probably still twisting squiggling wriggling writhing, though they should be sleeping.
It is dark, their day is over.