Peach Pit

There's a book my mom told me about a while ago in which a boy carried around a peach pit wherever he went. I forget why. 

This boy was separated from his family somehow but as an adult his sister met him by chance and knew it was him when she saw him playing with a peach pit, worn smooth from years of her brother holding and turning it over and over in his hands. 

- Something like that. 

I think I would lose interest in a peach pit very quickly and lose it or get rid of it, and envy the boy for keeping it his whole life, long enough to wear it down smooth and almost make it a part of himself. 

I've recently been thinking of uncomfortable lumps of thought as peach pits. They have all these jagged edges that jaby heart, my soul, my brain while I think of them and, like the peach pit I cannot let them go. 

But almost like a rock in a stream (though that would take forever and a day), the more my thoughts touch and wash over the peach pit, the more the sharp edges erode. Bit by bit, the little thoughts that come with the big weight smooth out and I am left with a smooth peach pit that has become part of me because I eroded it myself with my own repetitive thoughts. The weight of it is always there, and it takes up space, but it doesn't jab into anything like it used to. 

And I'm not talking about eroding a stone with repetitive happy thoughts. I'm referring to what authors describe as "turning the thought over again and again in her head."  My thoughts need to be thought, but each time, it's for the better, because my thought clump, my heavy sharp rock, my peach pit is going to hurt a lot until my thinking runs its course. 

Tar Bubbles

My mom just taught me that when it gets hot enough, the black stuff workers put on the roads to fill in cracks (or whatever they put it on for) gets really pliable and the air underneath them expands and "tar bubbles" form!  She was bending over popping them and had to point them out to me. I guess this was an exciting part of her childhood and it didn't come up for her to share it with me until I was 20. They're not very spectacular. Not even as good as bubble wrap. When you press on them, they just kind of deflate gently. 

The cool part, though, is that something that makes up our road system, which we trust and love (in spite of traffic, bumps and construction), melts in the heat!  I think of roads as strong and firm. But tar isn't. I suppose its elastic properties fill cracks while preventing new ones or something like that. And that discovery makes me like roads more, in spite of those ugly black tar lines. 

Folks, it is hot out. Hot enough for the paint on the roads to melt and transfer onto the tires of moving vehicles. I forget to look in winter but I'm almost positive someone cleans the paint off the roads that gets tracked around by cars driving over lines at intersections and such. 

I wonder if car manufacturers have a formulated "eau de nouvelle car" that they use to drench the interior right before their finished product leaves the factory. 

It has to be secret because if it wasn't people would be spraying it in their cars 'till kingdom come and not need to buy a new one because the scent is so important to the authentic feel of a fresh ride. But, man, if there were candles, air fresheners, deodorants, that would be a world one step closer to the perfection toward which it likes to strive. 

The shoe store smell is another nice one. 

I recently learned that it takes 100 chinchillas to make one chinchilla coat. 

I think coats should be made out of road kill. They would be just as effective, and, if caught in time, tissue deterioration would not be a problem. 

Today I ate some nice, I offensive pasta salad. Afterward, I realized that the meat in it wasn't chicken. It chewed too easily. 

I had just eaten tuna,

My worst enemy. 

I was cheered by the thought that tuna isn't always watery and smelly. And actually sometimes it's even alive.  

I have a teacher who often begins her answers to questions with, "it's called.." And I find this to be derogatory and dismissive. 

For example, "do we get a list of things we need for state boards?" ... "It's called, make your own List and jot it down as you go."

 I'm not sure if I should confront her in front of the class in order to gain their support or one-on-one. 

The actual solution is to appreciate her uniqueness and realize that I probably have annoying quirks like that too. 

Dang.