Shouldn’t You Be More Specific?

It was accurate, but not specific. I had to give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I had to give it acceptance.

It was not available for further comment until after the hydraulics demonstration and by then it was turning a beautiful shade of turquoise blue.

I was up to something, but I didn’t know what it was. I was most certainly still breathing though. I couldn’t hear the other guy who was me very well or I might have shouted.  I might have given him another elbow.

I made an heroic effort to be more specific.

By then it was sunset and no one was taking advantage of the porch swing, so I organized a position of royal entitlement and rocked and swung and rocked and swung.  It was very pleasant and a little purple and nearly acceptable.

But I still didn’t know what my survivor was going to say, so I enclosed the peanuts, which had become the vehicle, carefully in a spittle-proof jar. I wanted someone to think I was competent. I wanted him to know what I would not allow.

I was most certainly not still up to something, but I still didn’t know what it was.

So I readjusted the chair and attempted once more to achieve superiority in its company, but it only rocked and rocked. I expected it to fall over. It did not fall over.

Naturally the porch swing observed without comment.

But I wanted a comment. I wanted a comment and then another comment.

I was up to something, and it didn’t know what I was.

My survivor was still rocking.

I tried to be even more specific, but what he was doing was rocking.

Something came up to me. I was still breathing. It wanted to know what I was, so I became more accurate, but then it wanted me to be more specific. It wanted me to literally be there. But I couldn’t because I was, literally, here, offering peanuts.  Specifically. But it had become quite inaccurate. “I can, finally, accept that,” was what I imagined I was saying to myself, walking down the road, trying to remember what I had agreed to.