Sometimes I have to

remind myself,

out loud,

that I am safe.

That nothing bad

is really going to happen

to me.

My body tells me

otherwise —

heart pounding,

skin clammy,

mouth dry,

pits sweaty.

Some ancient code

is preparing it

to run like mad

or scratch & flail

& scream.

The code was programmed

back when sabre-toothed cats

lurked behind every tree,

& it hasn’t been

updated since.

Now the dangers

are mists,

or ghosts of cats,

with no actual bite.

I’m safe.

I’m safe.

I’m safe.

[scs_alt]

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Those times when the teacher brought us outside to play kickball

or some other team sport were torture.

I lived in dread of them, because the first thing she’d do

is pick two team captains — the sportiest, most athletic kids in class —

and then they’d pick their teams.

Oh, the shame and humiliation of standing there, naked,

as the group around me grew smaller and smaller,

added one by one to one team or the other,

inevitably leaving just me and one other klutzy girl

for last.

[scs_alt]

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Remember those old TV ads with Mr. Whipple,

policing the supermarket lanes to ensure

no stray housewives were surreptitiously

squeezing the Charmin?

I don’t think I ever once bought Charmin

(I’m a recycled toilet paper kind of girl)

but it’s the first thing that popped to mind

at the word, “squeezed.”

That’s the power of media culture —

it twines itself around our neural networks.

Who knows what thoughts are truly yours?

Our perceptions are squeezed.

[scs_alt]

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They came in little, narrow, paper-foil packages.

Astro-sticks? Astronaut sticks? The name escapes me,*

but I remember my brother and me tearing them open

and biting into them with glee. Chocolate or peanut butter flavor,

like an imitation of an imitation of the real thing.

The chewy things didn’t taste very good, really,

but we loved them, loved imagining the astronauts eating them

above us in space. So much cooler than tuna casserole!

I cringe to think of the polysyllabic ingredients they must

have contained. We didn’t care.

* A Google search revealed that they were, in fact, Space Food Sticks, by Pillsbury.

[scs_alt]

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There’s an amazing art store in San Francisco,

with a paper room that will blow your mind.

Rows & rows of flatfiles, racks lining the walls

with paper of every imaginable color,

weight, texture, & pattern.

An artist’s paradise.

But caveat emptor.

If you want to buy paper, beware.

Have an idea in mind

of what you’d like to come home with

before entering the paper chamber.

I made the mistake of visiting

with an empty mind,

figuring I’d browse

and score a treasure trove.

Instead, I left empty-handed,

too bedazzled to make a decision,

overwhelmed by choice.

[scs_alt]

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