I hated this game when I was a kid. Also, fair warning: I am about to get all metaphorical life lesson on you. Fuck, I might even mention spirituality and the Navajo people. You have to be quick 'cause here's how it goes, pop! Here goes nothing: I feel as if I have always just pressed down on the game board. I can hear those little pieces rattling, the manic tictictictic as I search for the asterisk plastic pentagram thing. Just looking at this picture gives me agita.And the urge to fall asleep. I am tired. I cannot do it all. Yesterday on the bus I snored myself awake. When I opened my eyes there was a woman staring at me. She was carrying a plastic bag holding an entire unwrapped raw plucked chicken, and I was the weird one. I think of my dad who told me about Navajo rugs, how they each have an imperfection purposefully woven into the corner so that the Spirit can move in and out. I think of Leonard Cohen singing that there is a crack in everything which is how the light gets in. I think of the zit on my chin that will not go away, but I am pretty sure that is not God.
Of course the game would be no fun at all if it gave you 60 minutes rather than 60 seconds, too much time to put everything in its place. The thrill is in the pop, the fuck up, the crack, losing. Perfection not found in its place but in the space where something else ought to be.
Fortune cookie shit, I know. A long rambling diatribe baked inside a Pillsbury crescent roll buttered shiny. (On the back: your lucky numbers are 17, 43, 4, 60 and 26. If you win with those numbers please refer to my donate button, thankyouverymuch).
All this on a Friday.
I think I might get Zoey that game, only I will take away the plastic plus sign and place it in a box along with a lock of baby hair and her milk teeth.