Saturday, October 8, 2011

staring contests at the Grand Canyon

They never expect it. They think I'm like all the others. Wrapped up in something else, not caring. Blind to them. No,  no. I'm different. And when they realize I'm different, doing something different, they can't believe it. Believe that I care enough to look back at them. 

Children always got their eyes open, they're always looking, and usually it's no adult looking back. Then, there's me. I'm fascinated with them. I look back and they can't believe I'm noticing them. Dumbstruck, they look longer at me and I'm still there, with them, on that page, riding that wave as long as they'll let me. I always wonder how long they can hold out for before looking away, that's a true test of character. Can you stare as long as me? But they can't. Unless they're babies. 

Babies can stare like owls or wolves. They lock eyes with me and won't drop and it's me and them, staring and staring, staring at each other. That's the best. 

Kids aren't noticed nowadays, maybe they never were. They dance to their own rhythm, to their own song and their mothers, fathers, great-aunts don't give a rats ass, long as they aren't causing trouble. Kids want adults interested in them. 

So when we lock eyes, me and the kiddies, it's a great time we have. I know they love it. 

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