CURLY CUES

Writing seems easier after clinging—pinchgrip—to one of Gaia’s nipples attached to a rope, thinner than your baldspot, and all you can think about is making it to the next quickdraw; to rope in and lean back for a small break instead of letting the burning in your forearms drop you— and the belayer slaps head-first into the rocks, then the weight between you equalizes until both of you are dangling like the curly cues on either side of Shirley Temple’s head, which means there’s no way back down so you hope and pray for some kind passersby to come and help, and when they do you laugh because you almost died, but because they are kind they ask, “Where are you from?” and, “What do you do?” and then it's their turn to chuckle when you say, “ Around here,” and, “A writer,” so then they wonder, “What’s a writer doing on a rock,” but you don’t answer because only you know what adrenaline can do for writer’s block, so you instead thank them for their help and you laugh with your friend about almost being vulture food on the drive back home, like, “Ha— hahaha— ha ha”, because, well, what else is there to do other than to just make light of it and then go home and write about it, because surely writing is easier than almost dying.