|I first noticed l'objet de memoire in the shadow of my wheel|
Winston do you remember what you've lost, do you value what you've found?
Little Winston, age two and one-half, was being pushed along the path in a stroller by his mom. In the middle of one his many, seemingly endless, terrible twos tantrums, he launched his purple woobie off the back of the stroller. His tantrums were so dramatic, frequent, and loud that his mother didn't notice the wayward purple woobie.
Winston did, instantly, though, which caused him to scream louder. Winston screaming louder was not enough of a distinguishing event to cause his mother to seek out its cause, let along to look for the now missing woobie. Winston, his sense of loss growing into what would one day blossom into a borderline sociopathic complex, tried to turn his head around 180 degress to look for the woobie, but it was already falling farther and farther behind them as they continued rolling on down the path. His little fists were trembling furiously, flying in small spasmodic arcs.
|Winston's woobie coming into focus|
Winston's woobie sat there in the middle of the sidewalk in the bright sunshine. If it could see, it would have found itself gazing in the general direction of the Superstition Mountains, or perhaps Four Peaks. But he could only sit, awaiting his fate. Would Winston return somehow to retrieve him? Or would the gusty wind blow him into the canal, which would then wash him downstream into the generating station, where his diameter would exactly match a vital port where he would lodge and cause far-reaching consequences? Perhaps a dust devil would lift the woobie and carry it over to the Evelyn Hallman park nearby, where it would fall on top of a bronze creosote sculpture, causing a happenstance surealistic juxtaposition photographed by a passing cyclist, who would be forever changed and take it as a sign of something significant from the universe on par with the doll floating in the canal among the foam pliers.
|The Grand Woobie of Coincidence and Symbolic Fate|
It's the purpleness of the grips that seal the deal. Any other color of woobie abandoned by Winston would have been ignored by this blogger, but not the purple woobie of fate. I cannot just ride past this one without stopping and wondering. Winstion, did your mommie notice the woobie had gone missing before too long, turn around, go back, and retrieve it? They have a way with wayward woobies. I once saw a mommie in the supermarket backtrack three aisles to retrieve a ratty blankie.
Or did the winds of random fate snatch the woobie up, toss it across the desert city, and take it on to other unknown great adventure? To be dropped in some poor kid's yard, to be found, to be treasured? Napolean, George Washington, Hemingway, what woobies did they lose as kids in their terrible twos, what woobies did they find?
Oh Winston, I want to fast-forward forty years to see what you become. Do you happen to remember the small purple guy, the wayward woobie you discarded on the bike path, and how did it affect you? I'm sure you've forgotten, I'm sure you'll disavow him, but will you have really, should you deny the little purple guy who brought you only joy until you threw him away in a burst of mindless anger? Your disavowal lacks sincerity. I saw him there in the sunshine, and in purple imagining scribe hashmarks around the horizons of your yearnings.