Flung

 

March 29, 2021

 Greetings from the far flung,

 I have flung only a few objects.  Before we wander in, I’d like to identify there is a distinction between throwing and tossing and flinging.  We all have thrown a baseball or tossed a football.  Flinging is a whole other thing. 

 I’ve flung back the blankets, flung off a bad mood, flung myself into things.  Now that I have said ‘flung’ three times I feel like maybe that’s not a word.  Flinged? 

 You fling a boomerang.  I flinged a boomerang.  Ok, flung. 

 My first trials with flinging the boomerang were ill informed.  At the time, identified here only as ‘pre-Google’, I had to rely on drawings I had seen in a book in the library.  If you need to Google ‘library’, I’ll wait, and steep in the irony. 

 Anyway, armed with vaguely sketched diagrams of aboriginal Australians wielding elbow shaped wooden thingies, I went to a wide space near where I lived and gave it a whirl.  So to speak. 

 There are more satisfying things to fling.  A frisbee, at least some of the time.  Darts perhaps.  A witty retort.  The maiden flight of the boomerang was short, in fact cartwheeled longer on the grass than travelled in the air.  With practice, I eventually got it to wobble hundreds of yards away, which is interesting to watch but not really the point.

 The appeal of the boomerang, in theory, is that if you throw it correctly it might come back and you somehow catch it.  I vaguely remember that I accidently got mine to fly in a circle and the concept of trying to catch it sent me running in the other direction, making little girl squealing noises.  The boomerang is really an exercise apparatus, since you do a lot of running in various directions.

 Many years passed before I had another boomerang, a souvenir of perhaps questionable quality.  Ever the optimist, I went to the nearby soccer fields, determined to practice flinging and catching so I could impress my friends.  Really, none of those images were realistic, it turns out; in fact the only verb that proved true in that sentence was ‘went’.

 I flung the boomerang out into space, fully expecting it to arc loyally to my vicinity.  Instead, I recall wistfully, the boomerang whirled over the tree line and vanished.  I like to think it is still flying right now.   Part of me is proud I set it free, and I know it will be happier out in the world.  The other part of me feels silly for writing that last sentence.  It’s a stick.

 Turns out that some boomerangs are not designed to return.  That may sound like I am being sarcastic, and I am, but only coincidentally.  Some boomerangs are flung to knock down wild game, not simply cause a young man to run away screaming like a little girl. 

 My expectations about flinging were based in unfounded confidence, which usually serves me well, except for Algebra exams and parallel parking. (Still some dispute about parenting results.)  So, I am familiar with that brief ache of disappointment as I watched my boomerang spin off to some other destiny.  I remember saying: “Huh.”  It’s interesting how the unexpected can inspire such philosophical thoughts.

 The lesson of the boomerang might be that one should research the technique of flinging, consult with other successful flingers, practice with them, and develop the skill necessary to enjoy the activity. 

 That’s not what I thought of as I looked at the tops of those trees this morning, the last place I saw my last boomerang.  In fact, I giggled like a little girl.  I am going to get another boomerang and futz around and see what happens.  It should go way better this time.

  

Hope this finds you having a fling,

 

David