I think about my eyes - all seeing, all knowing (except for the forehead who knows even more but is pompous beyond belief), the window to my soul - who I am sure greatly appreciates having a window. Can you imagine a windowless room? Enough to make you depressed and a depressed soul would be the last straw (not that a repressed soul or simply a pressed soul would be a walk in the park either). I hope that my eyes enjoy their vantage point from up there on my head - looking down on the rest of the body, seeing "everything" but almost definitely feeling a bit left out as I doubt they are ever invited to parties. At least they have each other, although I have a sneaking suspicion that my right eye thinks the left one is a dweeb.
I am concerned about my belly button. Does he wish he was an outie and more a part of the outside world? I imagine he must feel like he is stuck at the bottom of a well, hoping and praying for someone to help him out, or at least stop and talk for a while. I do contemplate talking to him, but I'm having a hard enough time socially right now as it is.
I think about my neck. The connection between the head and the body, the brain and the heart, that thing and that other thing and the north/south connector between the prospering towns of Lower-Southern Chin-ville and Upper Northern Chest-town. I see it acting as the canal that allows all trade and the economy to continue smoothly for the body and quite enjoying this role. I imagine it saying "I know I cause you pain sometimes, but think of me as a bridge, if for some reason a bridge analogy is of particular benefit to you" - necks are nothing if not a bit confusing, especially in their use of incomplete metaphors.
I often dream about my spleen and I can almost hear it say "none of you - not you, or you or even you, know anything about me, the spleen, or what I think or feel! You are all about the "amazing" heart and those freakin' kidneys, and no one has any love for me. I just get so angry sometimes I want to rupture or tear a little bit and then maybe, just maybe, I'll get a little bit of your time. You selfish little..." Man, does that spleen go on and on or what? Between you and me it is definitely no heart or even a liver, and that's saying something.
I think about my knees - I'm sure they are like the chin for my legs except they are far more liberal in their views especially the ones pertaining to dating before marriage. Good ol' knees- I feel badly for them for all of the times I've used them to better myself or to land on when I wanted to give my butt a break. I'm sure the knees know their day is coming when they will inevitably become creaky and they will get the final laugh, a long, slow, creepy laugh that will make me want to run away, which I won't be able to do with my creaky knees, which will lead to more creepy, old knee laughter.
I often am quite forgetful as I am preoccupied with my toenails. Somehow, despite all of their wear and tear, all of the daily abuse, the accumulation of misuse and abuse, the cracks and chips, they remain, far and away the happiest and gleeful body parts. Not only are they a beacon of hope and cheer, but they also send a message to the rest of the sniveling parts from far and wide that no matter how down on your luck you think you are, there is nothing a smile can't cure. Got to love those effervescent, smiling, breaking-down-the-stereotype toenails! These are not your grandfather's toenails - those, tough-as-nails, toiling in the fields or the coal mines, those bluish, moldy and bloody toenails - these nails have it good and they never stop smiling.
I think about my freckles. Do they see themselves as rocky islands floating in the sea of my skin, or more like splattered ketchup or possibly each freckle is part of the collective whole all working together to take over the tyranny of my skin. The other possibility is that I am over thinking this.
I love my hair and I can almost hear it saying "Woah! Check me out! I'm curly, I'm glossy and I know my way around the block, if you know what I'm saying. Sure you can temporarily restrain me with a hat or a bandana or, if you are in the mood, a fancy cloth made of the finest Arabian silk, but you can't keep me down forever. Yes, I may be receding, and a few more of me are turning gray and for some reason some of my relatives have moved into previously uncharted territories like the nose and the ears, but I am still the flag on this flagpole. Those rumours of my demise were greatly exaggerated." Note to self- stop giving the hair a turn at the podium.
I think about my blood. It is quite possibly the best thing to have coursing through my veins and believe you me, it knows it. My blood knows it's value and is constantly threatening to go on strike if not given a new contract with more perks. The last negotiation involved every other Sunday off, bereavement leave when white blood cells die and free dental care. I argued that dental care made no sense and refused to sign the deal on principle alone and as a result I spent the next two weeks in the hospital due to some rare blood disorder. Every once and a while I will grow tired of this situation and look into replacing it with a younger, cheaper and something less likely to stain fluid, but I always come crawling back. Lucky for me my blood really digs my veins and, to a lesser degree, my arteries and it always wants to stay.
I think about my knuckles and I pity them. Everyone, throughout the ages, has seen them as low-intelligence brawny fighters who settle things with harsh and punishing blows. Maybe we all have it wrong. While I too have fallen prey to this stereotype from time-to-time, I can imagine the knuckles on my left hand saying to the right hand knuckles "Oh mon cherie, you look dazzling tonight in the moonlight with your eyes sparkling. Je t'adore. How I long to hold you again and dance as one. I dream of the two of us, at the grand ball, dressed to the nines and whirling around and around and around as a hush falls upon the crowd. You are my buttercup, my angel and une femme par excellence." Stereotype shattered. Boom.
I am under the impression that my heart is so overly sensitive, that the veins and arteries have to "walk on eggshells" all of the time when they enter or exit the heart. Everyone is probably hyper-aware of the heart's emotions and that it is figuratively wearing it's own heart on it's own sleeve (if a heart had a heart and if it had sleeves - I know, I know, too many ifs). I once imagined the heart as a popular figure - sort of a go-to body part for love and dating advice and one who had a very popular call-in radio show. I'm not sure what happened to that heart, because the one I have now is a bubbly mess constantly on edge of losing it, almost like it has had it's heart broken. I'm looking at you pancreas.
I think about the small of my back. There it sits far below the rounded, fleshy shoulders and just below the bony spine and between the love handles and above the bum. Despite being geographically isolated I know that this small, seemingly inconsequential spot is aware of its importance. I'm sure that it sees itself as that special, out-of-the-way, off-the-beaten track hangout that isn't in the guidebooks. If you are lucky to know someone who tells you the location, you will be in for the time of your life. The small of the back is a secret, and it likes it that way, and if you go, you will never be the same.
I have some strong beliefs about my teeth - always clicking and clacking and chattering. Those guys just never shut up and they are providing an unwanted soundtrack for the body. While everyone else is trying to get some shut-eye, those teeth are either constantly making noise or chewing. Having said that, I'm sure the rest of the body hopes that those teeth are taking their job as the gatekeepers to the body seriously. And they are, I'm sure. They strike me as no-nonsense, bad-ass, bodyguards interrogating each and every morsel, particle, drop of liquid or any other foreign substances before they can enter "the shrine". Those teeth are all bad cop and no one gets in easy. It doesn't matter who you know or what sort of money or fame you think you have (that's right kale and quinoa, even you), everyone has to impress those teeth or else it is no dice.
I think about my appendix (something I've luckily never had to do before). I'm sure that he the sort of guy who just sits on the side of the road in his lawn chair chugging cold beverages watching the traffic, looking like he hasn't shaved for a few weeks. All of the passersby do their best to avoid him, not because he looks dangerous, but because he appears to be teetering on the edge of insanity and he just might burst at any moment.
I love my fibula, tibia and femur. I can just see those three "stooges" keeping the rest of the bones in a constant state of laughter what with their vaudevillian prat falls and other comical hi-jinks. When they are "on" these funny bones never stop vying for the next big laugh, but when the lights go down, and the show is over, I can almost feel the three of them huddled together and sharing their innermost feelings and thoughts that are just so neurotic and paranoid and oh
I think about my knees - I'm sure they are like the chin for my legs except they are far more liberal in their views especially the ones pertaining to dating before marriage. Good ol' knees- I feel badly for them for all of the times I've used them to better myself or to land on when I wanted to give my butt a break. I'm sure the knees know their day is coming when they will inevitably become creaky and they will get the final laugh, a long, slow, creepy laugh that will make me want to run away, which I won't be able to do with my creaky knees, which will lead to more creepy, old knee laughter.
I often am quite forgetful as I am preoccupied with my toenails. Somehow, despite all of their wear and tear, all of the daily abuse, the accumulation of misuse and abuse, the cracks and chips, they remain, far and away the happiest and gleeful body parts. Not only are they a beacon of hope and cheer, but they also send a message to the rest of the sniveling parts from far and wide that no matter how down on your luck you think you are, there is nothing a smile can't cure. Got to love those effervescent, smiling, breaking-down-the-stereotype toenails! These are not your grandfather's toenails - those, tough-as-nails, toiling in the fields or the coal mines, those bluish, moldy and bloody toenails - these nails have it good and they never stop smiling.
I think about my freckles. Do they see themselves as rocky islands floating in the sea of my skin, or more like splattered ketchup or possibly each freckle is part of the collective whole all working together to take over the tyranny of my skin. The other possibility is that I am over thinking this.
I love my hair and I can almost hear it saying "Woah! Check me out! I'm curly, I'm glossy and I know my way around the block, if you know what I'm saying. Sure you can temporarily restrain me with a hat or a bandana or, if you are in the mood, a fancy cloth made of the finest Arabian silk, but you can't keep me down forever. Yes, I may be receding, and a few more of me are turning gray and for some reason some of my relatives have moved into previously uncharted territories like the nose and the ears, but I am still the flag on this flagpole. Those rumours of my demise were greatly exaggerated." Note to self- stop giving the hair a turn at the podium.
I think about my blood. It is quite possibly the best thing to have coursing through my veins and believe you me, it knows it. My blood knows it's value and is constantly threatening to go on strike if not given a new contract with more perks. The last negotiation involved every other Sunday off, bereavement leave when white blood cells die and free dental care. I argued that dental care made no sense and refused to sign the deal on principle alone and as a result I spent the next two weeks in the hospital due to some rare blood disorder. Every once and a while I will grow tired of this situation and look into replacing it with a younger, cheaper and something less likely to stain fluid, but I always come crawling back. Lucky for me my blood really digs my veins and, to a lesser degree, my arteries and it always wants to stay.
I think about my knuckles and I pity them. Everyone, throughout the ages, has seen them as low-intelligence brawny fighters who settle things with harsh and punishing blows. Maybe we all have it wrong. While I too have fallen prey to this stereotype from time-to-time, I can imagine the knuckles on my left hand saying to the right hand knuckles "Oh mon cherie, you look dazzling tonight in the moonlight with your eyes sparkling. Je t'adore. How I long to hold you again and dance as one. I dream of the two of us, at the grand ball, dressed to the nines and whirling around and around and around as a hush falls upon the crowd. You are my buttercup, my angel and une femme par excellence." Stereotype shattered. Boom.
I am under the impression that my heart is so overly sensitive, that the veins and arteries have to "walk on eggshells" all of the time when they enter or exit the heart. Everyone is probably hyper-aware of the heart's emotions and that it is figuratively wearing it's own heart on it's own sleeve (if a heart had a heart and if it had sleeves - I know, I know, too many ifs). I once imagined the heart as a popular figure - sort of a go-to body part for love and dating advice and one who had a very popular call-in radio show. I'm not sure what happened to that heart, because the one I have now is a bubbly mess constantly on edge of losing it, almost like it has had it's heart broken. I'm looking at you pancreas.
I think about the small of my back. There it sits far below the rounded, fleshy shoulders and just below the bony spine and between the love handles and above the bum. Despite being geographically isolated I know that this small, seemingly inconsequential spot is aware of its importance. I'm sure that it sees itself as that special, out-of-the-way, off-the-beaten track hangout that isn't in the guidebooks. If you are lucky to know someone who tells you the location, you will be in for the time of your life. The small of the back is a secret, and it likes it that way, and if you go, you will never be the same.
I have some strong beliefs about my teeth - always clicking and clacking and chattering. Those guys just never shut up and they are providing an unwanted soundtrack for the body. While everyone else is trying to get some shut-eye, those teeth are either constantly making noise or chewing. Having said that, I'm sure the rest of the body hopes that those teeth are taking their job as the gatekeepers to the body seriously. And they are, I'm sure. They strike me as no-nonsense, bad-ass, bodyguards interrogating each and every morsel, particle, drop of liquid or any other foreign substances before they can enter "the shrine". Those teeth are all bad cop and no one gets in easy. It doesn't matter who you know or what sort of money or fame you think you have (that's right kale and quinoa, even you), everyone has to impress those teeth or else it is no dice.
I think about my appendix (something I've luckily never had to do before). I'm sure that he the sort of guy who just sits on the side of the road in his lawn chair chugging cold beverages watching the traffic, looking like he hasn't shaved for a few weeks. All of the passersby do their best to avoid him, not because he looks dangerous, but because he appears to be teetering on the edge of insanity and he just might burst at any moment.
I love my fibula, tibia and femur. I can just see those three "stooges" keeping the rest of the bones in a constant state of laughter what with their vaudevillian prat falls and other comical hi-jinks. When they are "on" these funny bones never stop vying for the next big laugh, but when the lights go down, and the show is over, I can almost feel the three of them huddled together and sharing their innermost feelings and thoughts that are just so neurotic and paranoid and oh
so melodramatic.
I'm having such a struggle with my elbows these days. Let's call it a difference in opinion. Those elbows believe that there is a God who not only created all life on earth but who also daily provides order to the universe and who watches over us all. Yes, those elbows believe that there is life after death and that how we live in this life will lead us either towards a fiery eternal existence in hell or a time of infinite joy in heaven. On the other hand, I believe that they are just elbows and the last time I followed an elbow blindly I spent three weeks in a Texas jail.
I am daydreaming about my calves and can imagine them lamenting about the poor state of the economy, because what are calves if not painfully and predictably negative about inflation, employment rates and the value of an ounce of gold.
I think about my jaw, clenching and unclenching, keeping things alternating between being tight-lipped and allowing my mouth to gape open giving the impression that I'm not all there. My jaw is just biding his time waiting for the perfect moment to unveil his secret. To be honest, my jaw really freaks me out.
I am taking some time out of my busy schedule to look down at my heals and I see that they are cracked and white. I can hear them saying "Would it pain you to rub a little ointment on us from time to time? And a soak in some nice, warm water with some Epson salts would really hit the spot too. Attacking the calluses with a pumice stone would really show you care as well. Hey, we are not too picky - we'd even settle for some of those not-too-expensive soft heal inserts for your shoes. And, while we have your attention, you should really think about cleaning out the garage - not to take your wife's side, but we've seen the garage and it is mess. Just sayin'. And not to sound all naggy likes those ankles up there, but you should consider cutting back on your salt and sugar intake. As much as we dislike the state we are in as heels, all cracked and not-taken care of, but it is in our best interest if you stay around for the long term."
After all of this time, I can finally see my bladder for what it is. He is an extremely grouchy gunslinging cowboy with a hair-trigger temper and an intense hatred of rabbits. Oh yeah, and he also collects urine that is excreted by my kidney, but I'm pretty sure he wishes we will all forget about that.
I'm having such a struggle with my elbows these days. Let's call it a difference in opinion. Those elbows believe that there is a God who not only created all life on earth but who also daily provides order to the universe and who watches over us all. Yes, those elbows believe that there is life after death and that how we live in this life will lead us either towards a fiery eternal existence in hell or a time of infinite joy in heaven. On the other hand, I believe that they are just elbows and the last time I followed an elbow blindly I spent three weeks in a Texas jail.
I am daydreaming about my calves and can imagine them lamenting about the poor state of the economy, because what are calves if not painfully and predictably negative about inflation, employment rates and the value of an ounce of gold.
I think about my jaw, clenching and unclenching, keeping things alternating between being tight-lipped and allowing my mouth to gape open giving the impression that I'm not all there. My jaw is just biding his time waiting for the perfect moment to unveil his secret. To be honest, my jaw really freaks me out.
I am taking some time out of my busy schedule to look down at my heals and I see that they are cracked and white. I can hear them saying "Would it pain you to rub a little ointment on us from time to time? And a soak in some nice, warm water with some Epson salts would really hit the spot too. Attacking the calluses with a pumice stone would really show you care as well. Hey, we are not too picky - we'd even settle for some of those not-too-expensive soft heal inserts for your shoes. And, while we have your attention, you should really think about cleaning out the garage - not to take your wife's side, but we've seen the garage and it is mess. Just sayin'. And not to sound all naggy likes those ankles up there, but you should consider cutting back on your salt and sugar intake. As much as we dislike the state we are in as heels, all cracked and not-taken care of, but it is in our best interest if you stay around for the long term."
After all of this time, I can finally see my bladder for what it is. He is an extremely grouchy gunslinging cowboy with a hair-trigger temper and an intense hatred of rabbits. Oh yeah, and he also collects urine that is excreted by my kidney, but I'm pretty sure he wishes we will all forget about that.
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