This week the smell of sweat at its premature peak of sourness has replaced that of cherry blossom and dusty summer zeal, and by the time the linden trees deliver their addictive yellow marvel that would justly need a more accurate name than the generic ‘flower’ – one that should extirpate that slightly saccharine prettiness and romantic trauma-drama-flower-power – , my olfactory sensors shall hopefully cut their eye-teeth and allow me to regain elan in recognising each natural stage of the richest season by smell. On the other hand, blue eyes always have the hardest time accommodating to the feeling of hardly bearing a flashlight that continuously jeopardizes the main attribute of that babbling pair of jelly spheres – seeing. But the sun quits being that pervasive and irreverent at times, giving space to wreaths of clouds gently enfolding over the sky like candy floss over 90s faded denim. And while I was gradually losing my physical self to my favorite drug – silent contemplation of fugitive images which I still can’t fully comprehend, let alone describe, reality stroke in my most vulnerable nook, reminding me of how that of whom we do not speak always finds paths to overbalance our awfully fragile (in)sanity.
50 minutes later, I was wrapping a cold towel around the fluffy flesh of my daughter’s perfect pink body, then packing her in a second towel, green and slightly rough at the edges, then I searched the episode of Bugs Bunny’s 51 and a half anniversary on youtube (the dance of that skinny hare usually cheers her up immediately), trying to temper both her terrified screams and my muddleheaded horror and anxious countdown of minutes left to the next thermometer check, to see if her fever fell at least one bit under 39.6 degrees C. I don’t think I ever felt quite as bad as yesterday evening, and that’s nothing compared to how she must have felt, not being able to understand or verbalise the state she was in, at the brim of fiery unconsciousness.
All that my clueless mind needs to super-glue to its layers of undesired experiences is Bugs Bunny’s final line, at his 51 and a half anniversary: “Oh gosh, I’m sooo unimportant!” – and if we remove the bunny-eared sarcasm in it, it’s probably the naked truth one can surely tell. Play this on repeat and make it your bedtime prayer: I am so unimportant, so bloody unimportant, and take care of those that are important to you first, because I have an increasingly acute intuition that it’s the only way that you can actually grow out of the curse of everlasting insignificance.
*Wearing self-made top (yes, I bold-ed it, how pathetic. The point is that I can make similar items on order, just ask for it at firstname.lastname@example.org – a timid start for the growing pains that my design activity shall have to overcome, step by step), thrifted skirt, Jeffrey Campbell litas, Topshop bag, vintage earrings, Swatch watch, Six sunglasses
- Sugary blue
- All you need is a little push