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2004-08-09 - 4:41 p.m.
Truthfully, all I've really ever cared about is bouncing.
Back in Gymboree I'd sit in my mom's lap happily observing, but not playing with, other children until the trampoline was free.
Then I was a leaping, bouncing, whirling dynamo. I relentlessly poinged and plinked, springs screeching, until someone made me get off the damn thing because it was time for snack or nap or going home.
As a baby I broke the springs in my crib from too much bouncing and, even at 25, I cannot contain myself in swimming pools. While other people do cannonballs, play Marco Polo or swim laps I remain in the semi-shallow end rhythmically submerging myself in the turquoise smell of chlorine.
It's a miracle that I still have knees, really.
I find hardwood floors to be excellent bouncing surfaces. Linoleum is sufficient and marble is poor. Bouncing is difficult in sand and has a short-lived glory on freshly cut grass. With the proper treads the playa is excellent.
It's not something I think about, I just do it. The slight bend in the knee, the persistent crunch of the ankles, the off-kilter, imbalanced mayhem of being a little to free, a little to child-like for this body. Most people don't get it. And really, why should they?
It's just me expending extra energy, pouring out some uncontainable joy or anxiety, burning a hole through this thing that weighs me down, leaving footprints on this planet which one day, maybe, will be the stars.