REPORT A PROBLEM
Soft fur, gentle rumbling of what? The cat sleeps, and the door is open. Leaning to the right, propped up on her elbows, she is drifting. Her attention wanders and so does the rest of her. Into the refrigerator where last night's pizza waits, the compost bucket where last week's salad grows fur, and attempts to make its escape, into the garage where the mail lays scattered on the floor, and back to the living-room where, propped on one elbow, a woman reclines, contemplating her cheese bread and tea. There's not much left to say. It's like writing haiku, eh?
Enter antagonist, a 6-pound dog named Two-bit that the neighbors chased from down the block, or the 10-pound black cat, Jake who is here only as a tourist, and perhaps to get some food. Both have upset the softly purring rumble of the First One. Who was really present on that day? Is anyone here now? What ever happened to King Lear, and where is Goneril with a white beard, when you need her? How can the flibbertigibbet get hers? Is it Puck or a less generous spirit inhabiting the weak? Battle the wild-ways, and enter once again from stage-left.
Declaration of Egregious Popish Impostures. "Indistinguished space of woman's will", the spirit of the text rests still in the whispers. The accent will not hold, the agent is but a piece of rakish foolery. Kneel before the hourly breath that seeps from cautious hands. Do not laugh for this cannot be other than what we have endured. This can be naught, but Shakespearian influenced prose. Speaking brightly and in honor, there is no further cause for enduring. Be not familiar, be not bright, it is for France that the loving sister cries. I never yet touched bold and cautious convenience.
"Take the shadow of this tree for your good host." Let my branches surround you & hold you in your hour of need. There is nothing here, but the clinking of chains, & the clash of swords to be oppressed and fear the coming of the prison guards. Sing like caged birds, they will. To tell the tales of gilded butterflies. The pack of grapes that stand upon your table reclining in their wooden bowl, peeled gently by the good servants who know not ere they work for thee. Eat dried oats if this is what will nourish your soul.
Compassion away, you don't know where the wilderness will take you. We find what we can when we can. Compassion for self & others is just another option in the day. God's spies aren't here on earth to count your sacrifices. Be who you can, when you will. There will be no blinded, or guiltless pleasure. Willow bent in your hand there is more than an exalted edition. The lady is not well, though she holds birds in her hands. The walls are for thee. Master meaning, before the drums strike. It will be no more. This is tomorrow's interlude.
Treason is for you. You, before the taste of bread should touch my lips. My honor heralds and my sickness grows. The conveyor will sound the trumpet & Roland's story will be told. Treason's tooth parts the widow's lot. Nobility reports to no one. The cautious youth lasts only through mirrored breath. Conspire before you see the dust cancelled in the fading sun. My best arm rests here for thou. Inspire and spurn. Tree-fish thoughts speak trumpeting to resound. Save this practice by the law of war. In the vulture's hand, read your evil. Hate is not worthy of you.
Relish the moment, or catsup it. I the moment, transported by woeful dissolution, I stand entranced. The essential bellowing cancels tomorrow's tale. The tale begins and ends in shame and cries for medical support. Your lady died after the poison, married in an instant. Do the god's shake the heavens? Do they list in nightly repose? Self-slewn Cordelia cannot grant reprieve. Lessons learned in nightly screaming. The great king moans in his deep loss. Only in grief, can the mirror fog, or the feather stir. Stay a while and hum. Rock with me to an old air in gentle breeze.
"Vex not his ghost" I always thought I liked three-toed sloths. The opening paragraphs of the "The Life of Pi" confirms this intuition. Nothing like a three-toed sloth to make my afternoon naps appear active. Hot months in Brazil not withstanding, they are "upside-down yogis, deep in meditation". Normally, there is a miracle in the aged hard-taught window. As the bumper sticker reads, "Suffering is optional". In what form does the skull reside. What does death believe? Where does the shadow of deep emotions lurk. House-lizards, a brief, yet catastrophic window into the daily-lives of those from warmer climes.
Read some of the 100-words entries from September 11. I don't know what possessed me, but there I was, drawn by a morbid curiosity. What was it like for all those other people? We all have our stories, all want someone else hear our story. I was at the pool, coolly swimming laps. Splash, splash, splash, turn, repeat. Fragments arrived as swimmers arrived late with words that didn't add up. A plane off course in New York, ran into a building. Two planes collided mid-air, another plane off-course. The laps continue as we try in communal isolation to understand.
Contrite blessings. Religious words only soften the lesson of daily hysterics. Hippopotami can outrun you on land. There is more to this mystery than you have had reason to know. Why did they close off the street? What are they digging for this evening? What will they find? Spotted deer antlers pierce the castle's crumbling ramparts. There is no way for you to watch the smaller birds' butter knives. Do you know where the elephant's body-parts are stored? Touch the inside of an elephant's mouth. It's oddly and surprisingly sexual. Warm and wet. Do you know where they hail from?
Fish. Flakey flesh. Fried? festering? finning? For forty-five furlongs, Fred found fastidious flibbertigibbets, frantically fanning the funny flamingo. Flight fails fiddling food from afar. Fussily fathering formal or fleeing finks. Alliterations loose their appeal before long. It belongs to the land of irrelevance. Too often, the word "and" creeps forward. We want to say so much. We want to express more than we can take in. Hunt for a while. Where there is something to say, the limit arrives, where inspiration fails, the limit runs in the opposite direction. Is it spicy? Where is the yoghurt? My head burns hot.
Mighty predators slink in, tails held low. The paws cover eyes while hostility wanes. Look into social rank and fornication. The realm of the animals. Nervous about rank, they sniff briefly. No decision is really necessary. What else can, or must we retain of the future? Let me bathe. Then we'll be on even footing. Lavender bouquet. Ganesh travels by rat? Shiva, lord of the dance, travels to Ireland. What is in your 'god-house'? The dust settles and the tail flicks. Daring for violence and carelessness. Does it tell what it holds? Do you know where the priest sits?
Intuitive understanding, waiting just incase someone needed to be heard. Waiting expectantly to love whatever or whoever should come. Review the welcoming. A piece of chocolate. What is prologue to the past. Return, resurrect, reflect. The tiny knitted toy captures her attention. Wishes for fortune. So how can I read to support the learning. The passion is real, but what of the story? If death comes, where is the wandering? Elbow ache, muscles pout. A confusing deportation from Eden. Still less comes everything less. Perhaps a bath will bring the universe into balance. Cool water. All pity and all hope.
Like ants – but that's so cliché – yes, but they really do look like ants there, crawling out of a station or anthill one after another fanning out in straight lines in all directions. Perhaps to gather food and return again to the station. The only thing that speaks against this interpretation is the scale and timing. The halting rhythm of a monolinguist speaking her second language. A constant search for "le mot juste" encased in mal-conjugated verbs and reversed grammar enrobed in a fairly good approximation of a French "ummm". More than this I do not know.
Bright yellow gerbera daisies, orange petaled roses, blue irises peek out of his backpack nestled with an orange, a banana and a hard-cover book on boat building. Why, whenever I leave my journal at home do the words flow, and the observations seem more stunning. The petals on the yellow roses have started to loose their perk, and fall off one by one. The ample rose hips sway in the breeze. Blue & blue striped socks have me thinking about her writing socks, and I long for something with a little more passion. Eight ways to burst a landlocked quandary.
Dahlia woke that morning with a splitting headache, and the faint fleeting memory of a dream where nothing was as it seemed. The memory fled before she could gather it into words to hold in her basket like dying flowers or scraping tree branches. She reached to it, but found it was gone. What was it? A military campaign, flying teacups, the fine & sweetly scented lavender flowers dropping to the earth. Addled mind, chorus of flies. What was the whisper they appointed? Why would they run away? Be here now or never. My sleeves are drawn back in readiness.
Candied sugary things like this or the other thing simply cannot be viewed from a distance. If we are done or undone, the wisdom of this or the other thing cannot be viewed on the wending pathway that he had seen under the dotty endlessness. Coarse and brazen dragonwidth has more magic from you or me or the other girl just as magical as the guideposts we’ve lost along the way. Who knew? At the end of the day, there’s a portion of the endlessness that cannot be truly sticky or shocking. Emotional rationalization has seen me running. So much.
Anything that takes you out of yourself is true to the extent that it touches the end before it reaches my sedan heedless of creation and misanthropic listlessness. I am often listless in my stream of consciousness. Why do the pilgrims always go to the same spaces. What is this or the other mention that holds us tight and leaves us without mention of anxious umbrellas. What didn’t make it to the top sellers? Have we overlooked something important here? Where does god figure in all of this? Oh night of Christian expectation and exploitation. If this were the place.
So if I cast my eyes on my reading, there’s something about Joju & how he was slain by a dog. I think it was more Buddhist stuff about killing the Buddha if you meet him. Supreme violence at this and nothing and more. The emails continue to roll in. The peas are blossoming and the dog sleds are all hooked up and ready to go. Arial skiing training facility is a swimming pool to practice the flips and turns and motions sensing. Eighty-three bottles of beer on the wall now. Drifting along the freeway. Six more words to go.
Dog and lizard chandelier, bedside mission for future belief. The day after the festival, a deer slid half-way down the bobsled track. He was enjoying himself and halfway down the skyway before the axes fell and the bicycle pandered to the squirrels lifted through gold-bonded belief. What do you think about the wanton sex life of the panda before the bible wars. If we watched your ministry would we see anything more than this? Have you considered all of your options? What did you want before the time fell? Better than boycott, free speech tells us what to do.
Candidly, I never really thought that you or your mother would be able to make the cut from the regular belief. There is demand for cold-cooked crabs. What do people eat for Christmas? Who started eating the crabs? Reasonable crab to eat for tradition. I would love some fisherman’s warf crabs boiled, cracked & cleaned & dipped in oil & vinegar. Yum to blessings and crab sharing. Bodega bay knows what the shore will support. If only there were some real shared concepts for the mealtime benefit. I want some mashed potatoes. What about you? Fashion has never known better.
New York & Los Angeles are crime-ridden and riddled with homelessness and panhandlers who knew which pattern to institute. If you knew how the village ran, you’d move over too. Block the crime days, block the angelic police folks when they attempt to know the criminal ocean liner. Do you want to profit from crime, or lock the young men in prison before demographics get their claws in on the energies? How many ways do you know the truth? Drugs are an important factor, but we’ve relaxed by now and we know better than you. Victims know how to drive.
I’ve lost many months of 100 words. Who knew that they would not be kept? Who knew that words collected would drift into memory before they drifted beyond your escapades? If we figure out how to fry the shallots, we’ll know the truth sooner than ever we thought. The tingling bits of Christmas cheer. Glaciers in Greenland seem to be forming lakes that leak into the ocean, but this trend knows no stopping, and earth is warming before we can even craft the adventurous future. Fifteen scientists want to survey the news and know about the pelicans. Faster, better, fuller.
Gizmo gear gots ta go! If we makshift the fortune or handcraft the candles, there might be missiles elemental in their truthiness. Ah, a real word from the big guy. Haven’t had holograms to see the fighting or the buzzing and who is calling now? The world is full of warcraft and the wise ones know how to envision future beauties. Handles on the shagland. Home coming belief for you and the other guy. Hand picked creations and an ocean of ransomed sorrow. Wrapped games have gams of gently rolling rasta fries. Can you see it before tomorrow. Had shielded.
--motions for you or momma. Windows beyond your vision for one day or many. Have you centered dance-light pictures here? What lasting impression will they make before the time has gone? Why all the questions, really? It seems that if we knew more of what our intentions and what our aims were, we might think we knew more. Isn’t that a sticky wicket? Not even in range of more of this. Maybe I’ve ‘gotten’ the separation thing, and can therefore stop doing that? Enough for this go-round to let me try another trick for the next decade. Where is future?
Chilly as a norway winter, my eyes reach out toward your mysterious foreground. Can you see your breath in your own house on a sunny afternoon? Does the tea really rise before you in great waves? What is the future of the rising star, and has Mars really been the beneficiary? Can you shuffle on down to the great Northwest? What were the windows windows into? How much witnessing is necessary before we float away? I am wondering now if I might try a whole entry with not a single question. Would it flow as easily? Somehow I doubt it.
Caffeinated fantasies. I gave up sugar and caffeine for the month of December. -- really not the month to give stuff like this up, if you ask me. Temptation abounds, and the really yummy things of the year all appear in great quantity with heaping mounds of sugar, caffeine, or both. Handily cordoned away, piles of sweetened goodness wink at me from holiday windows and tables decked out in wild red, green and silver regalia. So many opportunities – languishing in early autumn, I chose the mother of all sugar months. This will pass, and then, a new dilemma for me…
Standing before you, my face begins to wrinkle, my hair is falling out, my hands look like my mother’s hands when I first looked at them and recognized her mortality, when I saw the creases and wrinkles on her hands, and knew she would not live with me forever. My breasts have not stood unsupported in long this many years. My legs and back and arms are powerful from repeated asana practice, from swimming, from biking, but before I really follow it all, much of this will fade, and this being will be just a memory for all of us.
I try to imagine the story his father told of the talking telephone poles. When the pole outside my door, the one that could have warned us when a man had broken into our car, the one that has had so many stapled lost cat and community announcements stapled to its worn and slowly decaying belly that the metal must be part of what holds it up. This pole has been prodded and inspected and mounted for cable and telephone and electricity men who occasionally make things worse. With a view of the big street, it has seen the cars.
Racing up and down the street on secret missions, each encapsulating some unknown goal. This pole has seen fights and plots and comings and goings. It has stood there, perhaps since 1941 – since before the second world war, before the US invaded so many countries, it still stands, watching over the houses here, watching families created, grow & and leave home, watching old men and women leave too, watching young families leave for bigger houses. The groceries, laundry, purchases and refuse, the comings and goings with bags and packages. The hobbies that land us each in a new space.
Handiness is not the harbinger of little minds, nor a hobgoblin of things to come. It is simply the ability to make things that once worked work again, with some sense of capability that goes far beyond what we usually allow. With hardly a nod to This Old House or any other East Coast haughtiness, the handione simply and unselfeffacingly makes things go. Heroes of the lonely house-maiden, they move their skills forward with blinding aplomb, & usually without even flashing a crack. We ain’t got none of that around here, but we sure know what good they can bring.
The Tip Jar