On Learning to Count Times

To be new in the world, in whose world? How often are we new to ourselves despite our changes, our change-overs, our growths and losses, our minds changed out like changing your underwear, like fading the stain, like ignoring the granules in the bedsheets by brushing them off with your feet. Sometimes you don't wash. Sometimes you don't eat. Sometimes you are forced into a new body. Sometimes your body is forced to be you to some other's body. Whose world are you part of that you think you are in control of how you are a body in their reality? Do you really think that other people consider you to be real just because you have heat and a pulse?

As a kid in summer camp we spent a day at Madame Tussauds in Times Square, where they were going to be revealing a new figure with a pulse. Coming soon. I never knew there was an s at the end of Times until then, and who counted more than one time, and why were they all here, in wax.
Times Square =/= time's square =/= time squared but nobody gives that lesson to kids.

As a girl the back of the pedicure chair massaged me by remote when we used to prepare ourselves to be presented in ways we did not have notes for yet. We kneaded our bodies by robotics to kill the time. We did not know what was needed in our bodies at the time.

In the brain is an impulse but it is not electric nor kinetic nor seen: it is a relay, a signal, the synapse speaking on mute. It tells us pain. It tells us memory. It makes us sick. It makes us forget. We move ourselves not unlike the brain for although it can be seen it cannot be explained.

Here I am, walking away:
     my foot bone
     connects to my
     leg bone.

Here I am, speaking the words:
     my jaw bone
     connects to my
     head bone.

Here I am:
     my pelvic bone
     connects to my
     funny bone.

I buy a book of children's poems for $1 at the local library fair. The first verse I randomly open to rhymes the words "ache" with "mistake" and yet does not use either. The poem pouts with the childish magic of belief in an assumption of unproven logic. Denying the possibility of being untrue, the assumption is conviction, a power of mindset: "I bet."

If I
Were dry
And you
Were, too,
And it
To rain
A bit,
And home
You got
But I
Did not,
I bet
I'd get
More wet
Than you.

("Wager" by Mary Ann Hoberman, 1981)