An afternoon with the ol' boomerang yesterday... the heat is unbearable and I refuse to leave the shade until the last minute. One throw, that's it, I'm too hot for this crap. But the boomerang has the power of the potato chip: I can't resist compulsive tendencies after the first bite. My objective: to throw with considerable force 45 degrees into the wind at perfect gradient, then stand still and wait for the glorious moment when it soars right back into my gentle, loving hands, like magic, like the world has meaning and order and symmetry.
Fucking thing never soared back. Alas, life is chaos and destiny is a cruel joke. In the park - as in life - we have no way of knowing what we're going to get when we let go of the boomerang, what plans it has in store, whether this chiseled weapon will return out of love or with the intent to slice off our head. In actuality, it has no intent at all. It's an inanimate object made of wood. Instead, one is forced to ask: Did I intend to slice off my head, deep down inside? I'm embarrassed to say that I kind of feared the boomerang in the past, like my future would be revealed if I touched it or something - I mean, there's quite a bit of potential meaning for a piece of wood that's thrown high in the air, only to return! No crystal balls this time, but I did learn one truth: Some things just won't come back full circle, even if you think you want them to.
