Oh My Feet

I've been restoring my family photos, as you may recall, one hundred years of photos. Not so many back in 1912 and lots more in 2012, however, there are many in between.

They have been scanned from old prints, but mostly they have been scanned from old slides, so there is some restoring wok to be done. When I say restoring, I guess, I pretty much mean cleaning. 

I can sit at the coffee table for hours working on them. I can sit for so long that my feet go to sleep. I completely lose the feeling in my slabs of meat. Everything finishes some where around the middle of my calves, that is the feeling it gives me. It is very strange, especially when I stand up. Then "I" feel like I start a quarter of a way up my body. Only the top three quarters exists. It's weird, like an amputee, like a land mine victim, or as I imagine they may feel. If I looked down and saw bloody stumps I wouldn't be surprised.

Hovering man, a new X-man, a new Avenger. He floats above the ground on a double dead feeling… oh er… cushion of air.

Then the pins and needles start and that hurts, hurts in a good way, hurts in a coming back to life, vital kind of way, restoring of blood flow way. And I kind of like that pain, it is the only time I can vaguely understand masochists… or something.

The sun is shining, it is a lovely Sunday morning. Blue skies.

And a sick boyfriend lying on the couch behind me. Poor baby. He's wrapped in a blanket his iPad in his hand, so he isn't so sad, reading his gadget news, or nerd news, as I like to call it.

"What are you doing," he says. He's looking up at me, having stood up, with his big, brown eyes.

"Just getting my feet to work again."

His eyes slide down to my feet. He looks back up at me, smiles, then he looks back to his iPad.

He’s handsome, my boyfriend.