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It's been standing right in front of me my whole life, but I never saw it until recently. I've been craning my neck to see around it, and all I did was make my neck sore looking for a more appropriate truth. There were even a few times I ran away from it. I would assume it was gone and forgotten then focus in my new direction, but it was still there blocking my way to a path that was mere mirage. Turns out I only had to take one step to embrace that which would surround me with me.
In one of my entries last month, I mentioned something about monkeys ruling the earth. I have received several emails which have assured me that monkeys are already in control. One in particular, comprised of just one sentence, upset me a great deal. It said:
‘Eek eek eek, eek eek; eek eek eek eeeeeeeeek!"
I can't be sure, but I think it was written by an actual monkey. It included a picture of a banana and a human joined in an unnatural way. To you Bunky, and to all of the other monkeys I have offended, I am truly sorry.
It was a stark and dormy night. Under the artificial suns perched atop steel posts, the two golfers glared at each other—one to intimidate (
You can't beat me
), the other to intimate (
I will beat you
). Nine back, nine to go. The Woodsian comeback then began in force. Birdie, par, eagle, birdie, birdie, par, birdie, eagle paired with a full complement of pars from foe. One more to go. As club arched and concentration deepened, a flash in the sky blinded all eyes. The lights flickered and then fell along with rain. It was a dark and stormy night.
Even though her fingertips had hardened to fend off the harsh, they burned from the heat and friction of the rock. Her attempts to bring her flailing legs under control were useless; the spindly things had become selfish in this time of crisis and were trying to save themselves—damn the torso and its extensions. Two feet above her, she saw a ledge twice as wide as the pittance which now saved her from gravity's incessant grasp. She sucked in a dusty breath that gnawed her tongue and clawed her lungs. Now was the time. There would be no never.
Allie, an alligator always after an appetizing apple, ambled along Auger Avenue. An apple, amidst an animal argument about affixing an antenna atop all abodes, averted Allie. As all animals around awed at an ample anteater and awaited an acceptable agreement, Allie attuned, assessed accessibility, and acted. After an age (apples are apt at avoiding aggression and alligators aren't always attentive), appetite appeasement abounded. Afternoon arrived, and Allie approached an alcove absent any aggravations. Allie avoided action. Asleep and almost alone, Allie accidentally awoke another. An addled asp, always angry about abrupt awakenings, arched against Allie's ankles and accosted. "Assssssssssssssss!"
Infomercials are evil. I'm not sure what makes me watch them till all hours. It's not like I'm going to buy The Original Super Duper Ultra Fantabulous State Of The Art Made With NASA Technology Dishwasher Safe Smaller Than A Salt Shaker Easy Clean No Stick Convenient Time Saving Blender Juicer Chopper Milkshake Maker Meat Grinder Pet Groomer Make Your Life Easier 3000 XZ Recommended By The World's Top Chefs All For One Low Price Of 6 Easy Payments Of $19.95 Order Now And Get A Free Cookbook With Complementary Lobotomy. I guess I just like to laugh at them.
Let's get this over with. Sleep is just around the corner. This is basically a microwaveable TV dinner entry. It won't take long to cook. The result isn't going to taste that good, but it's at least something to get through today with a little sustenance. Methinks football has jellied my brain for the day. Somehow the concussive hits transferred from the game through the screen and hit me in the head. The day seems as if it didn't happen. I probably won't even remember writing this in the morning. Too long have today's not seen tomorrow's. Whatever that means.
The clutter is everywhere. In the bedroom. In the sink. In the bathroom. In the fridge. In the closet. In the brain. When small rebel groups of mess join forces into a clutter coalition, I'm irked. Having to walk, or cook, or look, or think around it is the most annoying thing in the world. If I don't have a place to place my glass, better watch out ‘cause things are fixin' to fly. (Yes, I know that the phrase "fixin' to fly" agitates those followers of Strunk, White, and the like, but it's the way I talk. Sue me.)
Water from the fire truck glassed down the street. Several flashing lights gave the impression of a loud, raucous incident, but the only sounds that made it to my ear were the intermittent static and squawkles of radios and the low conversations between those who hushed the flames. It was a storm with lightning and no thunder. Fire and water—two amazing forces able to create and destroy others and each other. I walked down the sidewalk and looked at the controlled chaos that now rests as a snapshot in my mind. But in the picture, the water still flows.
1101 1100 0000 0110 0111 1100 1011 0101 0111 1111 1000 1001 0001 1001 0010 1111 1000 0010 1001 0101 0010 1101 0110 0101 1001 0011 0110 1100 0010 1100 1010 0010 0011 1111 1000 1011 0010 1010... Oops. Sorry about that. I forgot to turn on the binary translator.
I know that was lame. But as I always say, when all else fails, go with the binary translator joke. You can always count on it. (HA! I'm on a roll. Somebody stop me. No, really. Please stop me. This is getting way out of CTRL. See what I mean.)
This may be entering a realm filled with chickens and eggs, but I'm going to venture there anyway.
I think there is truth to the saying "You never have a second chance to make a first impression.", but it presents problems. Let's say Nice and Nicer meet. Nice's mood is sour, and he says something unbecoming of his moniker. Nicer takes offense, and replies with an insult. Each thinks the other is a poopy head. Nice's impression of Nicer is based on an incorrect impression the other way.
That doesn't explain it well, but like I said, chickens and eggs.
Neck in neck, my mind races
With your beauty.
The moonlight intruding the room
Up against your skin.
Cold toes warm the heart,
Can count on them to chill no other.
Eyes sparkle beneath lashed blinds.
They always do, when,
I see them not.
I will not pray to your alter,
For change is not my desire;
Like too many pennies
Prattling in pocket.
Why does your breath hold?
Are you awaiting
Four words from lips?
Loose your air.
Sweet nothings are naught this night.
Speech has been taken
By the dish and spoon.
I'm convinced good writing is a living thing. It breathes and eats and sleeps and thinks. A story or poem that is bland is content to lie flat on the page and wallow in its plain. But words that perform well are truly alive. They appear to rise from the page. It's easier to get lost in mountains and valleys than a moor. I feel as if I can scoop them up off the page and hug them, and squeeze them, and cuddle them, and kiss them, and love them, and call them George. I ruined a book doing that.
I feel like I've been sacked in a bag full of tired. I am so close to sleep that I can only manage a whimper of a yawn. My jaw muscles are just too weary to gape enough to have one of those fit a fire pole in my mouth yawns. The thought of stretching out underneath warm covers makes me giddy. I hate my hemisphere's retreat from the sun, but there are not many things better than burying myself beneath blankets that shut out the freeze and the light—not to mention any monsters whose stomachs grumble for fear.
Here's something that's fun to do. It will only take a few minutes and a calculator.
Pick any two digit number.
Multiply it by 5.
Subtract your age.
Add the number of times you brushed your teeth yesterday.
Take that number and scramble the digits in whatever order you see fit.
Multiply by 1.
Add the number of times you have to spin around before you get so dizzy you can't remember your name.
Turn your calculator upside down and see if it spells a word.
Wasn't that fun? Try it with another number and you'll get the same result.
If I had enough money to build a house with whatever amenities I wanted, here's a small sampling of what I would choose. The first would be a sink beside my bed. I hate getting up in the middle of the night to get some water. I want a room with glass walls and the floor is grass. Maybe have a small lemon tree growing in the corner. I also want a room where the walls are giant printer's trays. And of course, I would require several secret passages. Would having it built entirely of Legos be asking too much?
Those schooled enough to know have a complaint that one of the problems with the public these days is a short attention span; it's an opinion I agree with. But I also think there is an intertwining problem which doesn't get the same publicity and that is a short creative span. Both have played a part in a vicious cycle which has led to shorter, less entertaining media. I am tired of reading movie reviews which say that a movie is great, but it is too long. If the movie really is that good, it can never be long enough.
The three man sub drifted through the inky ocean. Its passengers had stopped looking for signs of life and begun looking forward to their lives out of the non-infested waters. Charlie thought of the sun and anything to pacify his appetite besides the sardines he was munching on his meal break (breakfast, lunch, and dinner had no meaning at those depths). The creature moved so fast that none of them knew it held their protective steel can, until the roof peeled back and water rushed in. Just before he was taken by all, Charlie thought
I am what I eat
Cleary Lane ended in front of the house numbered 124. The shanty's yard was a ragged weave of sticker bushes and ivy. Rusty chains hung from the porch's warped roof where a swing once swayed anyone with lemonade and daydreams. A round push button doorbell dangled from the door frame like a springy eyeball from gag store glasses. Dust, which seemed thick enough to bury treasure, spiraled up before him as he opened the door, letting the hot breeze in and the cold spirits out. He thought a sneeze approached, but realized it was only the possession tickling his soul.
Holidays, especially Christmas, shouldn't be so stressful. A law should be enacted which bans stress during times when there should only be joy and happiness. I get time off of work, and instead of being able to enjoy those few extra days, I instead spend them worried about getting things done. I would almost rather work than spend my time doing what needs doing. Granted, most of the stress has been delivered by UPS. That's Usually Procrastinates Syndrome to you. I'm sure I'll learn my lesson one day. Then again, I keep putting off studying for it till next year.
It wasn't too long ago that the tree was vivacious. It used to play in the wind, its leaves dancing to the clear aria. The sun rose high and beamed life down upon its branches. Now the sun hugs the horizon; the wind does not blow warm. The leaves detach and fall to the cement where they will be blown by passing cars and crunched by hurried feet. The sight of bare trees used to make me sad. But I find that there is beauty to be seen when the camouflage has been stripped away, leaving the tree's true form.
I... well... you see... gate... um... bah... er... uh... orcs... then... but... and... what about... oh yeah... blah... yadda... oliphaunt... icky icky icky phtang... hobbits... I... um... thppt... ack ack ack... fire... hmmm... the... ooh ooh ooh... you know... precious... you see... well... gobble... ah... um... I know... fwing... dark... and then... well... er... I... aaaaaaa... sword... ga ga goo goo... grrrr... gee... but... um... uh... ni... shabba dabba ding dong... zwoop... blah... horses... and... ring... unbelieveable... oh... gee...
At this point, that's all my overwhelmed brain can come up with to describe my viewing of Return of the King.
One thing that is better than new car smell is new book smell. Part of it is chemical as a result of the process that produces the paper, but it also contains an earthiness that prickles the nose. A small whiff brings with it anticipation of the new adventure as well as urgency to take step one from page the same. Unlike new car smell, which soon succumbs to too much fast food or accidents on the way to the vet, new book smell fades into old book smell. Books are the perfect bottle of wine—tasty new or old.
Normally, I work better under pressure; its force pushes me towards the finish line even when fatigue is pushing back. But sometimes, the pressure is so great that it pushes me too hard and I stumble along. The feet work independently; the breath becomes accelerated hitches. It is hard to break the wide tape when I'm more worried about falling flat on my face. I never stop though. I think that realizing the finish line while risking scuffed hands and knees makes the accomplishment much more gratifying. I can take the pain of falling, but not the pain of failing.
The week has been too hectic, the sleep too absent, to formulate one train of thought. I've got cabooses in the front, engines in the middle, and boxcars having a spot of tea and crumpets in a field of poppies, discussing everything from Garbo to Gadot to Gallileo. The crystal clear one track mind has been beaten with blunt nothing and cracked until spider webbed. Efforts to orient the express and get the choo choo to Chattanooga are pointless because Thomas can't go to Georgia at this hour. Midnight is well past his bedtime. He's been taken by the Z-train.
I tromped through bushes and their protective trees. You passed right by the weeping willow which concealed your shadow. He stopped and raised an ear as if he had heard a breath from behind him, but then continued on his dark path. I tried my best to proceed with lighter steps, but leaves crunch just as loud whether stomped or tip toed. If you had stopped for just a second more, you would have known you had been followed. He looked up at the branches and stopped again—his future known. I turned my head. Your eyes widened. He fell.
Shirts and pants and dresses and coats shuffling by in a thread blur. The
click click click
of the rack—as normal as breath—fills the air. Hundreds of lives hung in plastic bags—all colors, sizes, ages, and conditions, waiting to be returned to whom they covered. Out in the real world, they will see each other in passing but rarely get the chance to chat. Those they adorn are too concerned the clothes and what's under them rather than what's under the skin. They must wait until soiled, and then they can reunite with stories of their idiots.
Last times are so difficult. Last time to close the front door before moving; last time to see you; last time to breathe—all sad endings and new beginnings. I just don't know if a last time is harder when expected or unexpected. If you see the end near, there is time to plan; time to say goodbye. But stretching the farewell can drain even the fullest of hearts. Agony's length is not present when whisked away before having time to wipe the eyes and clear the mind, but there are always things left unsaid, left undone. It's just left.
Use of a semicolon
. The semicolon, stronger than a comma but weaker than a period, can assume either role, though its function is usually closer to that of a period. Its most common use is between two independent clauses not joined by a conjunction." --University of Chicago Press.
The Chicago Manual of Style
, 15th ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003.
This excites me more than it should, and more than I thought it could; that is, if you had told me ten years ago I would someday explore this book with bright, child eyes, I would still be laughing.
"When you made ugly faces, did your mother ever tell you it would stick that way?" he said, grasping the tip of the slippery eel in the cave's mouth. The paralyzed eyes above it agreed with tears.
"Don't worry, my tools are clean."
The first incision traced the line of the lower lip, the second along its matching upper. Shimmering lipstick oozed out. The final cut encircled the tongue at the end of the forceps. He melded the three together with steady stitches.
"When that heals, your tongue will always stick out. You should have listened to your mother asshole."
Things are different today. For one thing, the air is much brighter than normal; the streetlight sleeps when the sun is out. The street below is alive with thoughts of last night events. All across the world, old calendars are tossed away and replaced with a new agenda and promises of growth and transformation. But why do so many wait for the year to change, to change? Too often, resolutions swoon and faint within days; and before the new year has a chance to take its first breath, it is strangled by the obsession of failure. Things are different
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