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From the first time Popeye strode across the boards of a black and white pier, his blimpy forearms and clenched fists gyrating in piston motion, I was hooked.
Our high school was a cavern of shadowy hallways interrupted by windowed classrooms on either side. I stowed my lunch in my locker each morning and stepped into the melee of bodies traveling down the halls in trudging rhythm.
Springtime renders me temporarily insane. Year after year, I wake on a warm morning in April and imagine I’m young and energetic and full of tireless vigor. The beautiful weather puts impossible possibilities in my brain and sends me rushing into chaos.
On an ordinary, carefully organized morning, I experienced a terror only 21st Century humans can understand. The gnawing, tingling anxiety. The panic of possible consequences. The sheer helplessness of knowing I was all alone, without assistance from anyone else on earth.
Hear that wind? Not too loud—just a pleasant puff of air that slides across your ears like a whisper. Like pursed lips blowing syllables of fresh thoughts that tickle and excite.