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0 � � � � � � � � � � � Angela�s whitelessness
Whistling a fiendish tune, Angela lowers her outer appendages, and plops off the rotting lover. To be an effective turtle, the scholars tell us, one must affect a certain alert disorientation, not unlike the semi-waking, trancelike state of some Yoga practitioners. Spiking out her stretchy eyelids�how it feels so pleasing to rub them on her shell�s edge as she pulses�she weightlessly flippers herself toward her secret hideout, her favorite place. Her aunts and uncles remain in line behind her, saying nothing. Decisions taste particularly sweet today, perhaps because the milky water is up. It is a knotty, woven basket of cypress roots, submerged in a tealike mixture of water, food, algae, etcetera. It is important not to make too much water too early, lest, to phrase familiarly, one�s style be cramped. There are notches on the grandest year of all, she says to her coterie of fish; one for every tree her lover is away. This unconcerned readiness remains a mystery to most non-carapice-carrying creatures; most attempts at it by those of a mammalian persuasion, for instance, result in carelessness, accelerated heart rate, or even a craving for sweet sediments.
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