Timbre #62: What You Don’t Do

Just lost weight while sleeping. Can’t believe the results.

I also dreamed of rolling up to a polished cement park that I’d never been to, but I somehow recognized. Then I convinced myself of the idea that a few of the bowls had been finished since my last visit. You know?

Recently finished for years now … Chris Cope stretches a WSVT egg into some kind of extended quiche. Photo: Rhino

A group of people I recognized were standing at the roll-in to the clover. I sped toward them, grabbed Indy (not frontside) and touched my helmet and both re-caps to the ground as I practiced Smythe’s art of the downhill slide. Of course I changed it to fit my own style and tendencies, because above all, I am an individual.

I giggled hard while I was sliding on my knees and head because it was funny to me. I could just spin around and keep skidding forward. I also thought it must be funny looking to the group of people who were standing there, ready to take their clover carving runs.

Never did get to smile together with those folks, though, because as I looked skyward—or rather, up—I noticed two things: the autumn leaves on the avenue where my parents live had begun to change and then fall off. Also, there were a handful of white biplanes flying south while trying to pull banners behind them. I say “trying” because every time the wind picked up, the banners whipped and the fleet would move backward.

That was interesting to me.

I didn’t see what the banners said.

Raney Beres keeps back pain at bay by stretching them hamstrings. Photo: Helge Tscharn

After that, a really big plane was launched from a nearby airport that’s not really there. I said, “Whoa,” to a faceless someone who was definitely catching my vibe, catching my drift, or catching something heavy.

Cain was being raised, we agreed.

The plane, I deduced, was part of an aircraft company demo. To show its versatility in maneuvering evasively, the aircraft took evasive maneuvers. I thought that the corkscrew turns were a bit much for the large, fixed-wing beast, but I also thought the pilots must know what’s best.

They had guns in the cockpit.

The plane spun so quickly, however, that it split in half—not the long way, though. Where it had come apart, there was a bright rocket-looking light. The plane went down quickly, and I wondered if it was a dream. Me and the person who’d been catching my drift, skated down the damp, leafy avenue toward a street named “40th” to see the wreckage. To stop, we dragged our tails on the ground while grabbing the noses of our boards and kicking our front legs this way and that.

Claus Grabke Smiths plants over PVC and under vert. Photo: Alec Schroeder

Traffic was light. There was already a guy stringing up yellow tape around the charred hunks of airliner. When he saw us with our skateboards, he frowned and held up his hand—speechlessly commanding us to come no further.

Moments later, he yelled over the wind, “He who travels fastest goes alone.”

My companion nodded, and turned to me and said, “It’s not what you do. It’s not even how you do it. It’s what you don’t do. And what you don’t do is anything that isn’t fun.” Then, just like that, he tic-tacked off into the horizon.

I turned, looked at the houses, and wondered how the plane missed hitting them.