My best friend consists of finely ground soft and hardwood soup, dried. At least he does this hour. He contorts to my way of thinking, only to bring me pleasure. Through dry lectures, he can spring up and down, or become a bird, or a plane, or a note, or a canvas. Easily manipulated. Childish in structure, yet endless in function. I don’t know what I’d do without him in “1492” or “Quien conoces que esta un subjuntivo?” He is my escape from mediocrity, solitary, and clinical insanity.
He gets me in trouble. He laughs and snorts when, “Pay attention!” comes flying in our world. He is a terrible blender-inner. As much as we try to get him to look like a note card or assignment, he is a pineapple tree in Alaska.
I can’t play with him at home. It just isn’t the same. I want to rock, rock, rock! Not tree, tree, tree! He’s cool though, happy to sit in my back pack. Occasionally, when doing homework I’ll give him a doodle. He expects nothing from me, despite me needing his escape.