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The flower pot stood on the hill. It stood a little crookedly as it was on the side of the hill. It might have been a clay flower pot. It looked like one. But it was most likely plastic. What was it? A twelve-inch pot? The sun shone on it casting a shadow that floated as a sun dial around the pot giving indications of the time. I wondered briefly how long it would take me to learn to tell time by the flower pot. There was nothing growing in the pot. It was simply the wrong time of year.
The flower pot stood on the hill. It was the wrong time of the year for standing on the side of the hill. Last summer it was probably an explosion of flowers of one kind or another. I donít remember. I donít take note of that kind of thing. It just passes by like a boat on quiet water. I cannot remember the names of flowers or the spice plants you grow. Even If I ask after them or look them up, the information slides from my mind like ice sliding off the roof of the car during a melt.
The flower pot stood on the side of the hill. It was shivering no doubt in the bright sunlight. It was one of those days where the sunlight lies about the temperature. The flower pot was caught out naked in the cold, trying to draw into itself for warmth, feeling the sun but also feeling that the sun was not going to be enough, was not even close to being enough and the flower pot cursed the sun. It cursed the sun for not being enough and it cursed the sun for going away when the house shadow covered it
My sweater has pills. Those little fabric balls that show up on some sweaters. It is a nice sweater, Sherpa lined with a zipper up the front. It is warm. I have worn it continuously for three months now, ever since I got it for Christmas. I took it off to wash it and immediately put it back on. I wear it with a t-shirt and it keeps me warm even for occasional dances outside to get the mail or what not. On warmer days it is all I need for a trip to the grocery. I have run out
I was going to talk about the pills on my sweater in my last entry but I ran out of words. Truth be I ran myself out of words by going on about the sweater. I think I like it. I wear it a lot, covering up my favorite Woot t-shirts. But I have been thinking about buying a sweater shaver to get rid of the pills. I used to have one so I know they work. They are like a regular electric razor except the holes are bigger as is the compartment to collect the shavings as you work.
The night is slowly sifting into the room like an inquisitive fog, pouring into corners, lying heavy on the tables, and soaking into the sofa. My eyes grow dim in this light and cold settles in around my shoulders. The clock slowly measures out the seconds and I roll a butterscotch candy around in my mouth. Itís melting will also measure out seconds of another ten minutes of my life. Past, irretrievable and not all that well noted or remembered. I lift the butterscotch over my lower left molars and stretch my eyes open trying to see into the fog.
I seem to remember fresh peaches cut up in the ice cream. Maybe I have imagined this, made up the red bellies of each sweet slice embedded in the cream. We had a Jersey cow and my father milked her every morning before he went to work. That was the cream we used in the ice cream freezer, so rich that flecks of butter churned up as the ice cream froze. I remember the peaches and strawberries too. Have I made these memories up or were they real? I could ask my mother. She has asked me to visit her.
I dreamt I had a new job again. These work dreams are dreams I have often. I miss that part of my life. True I work now but I work mostly alone and I miss the crowds of people I used to work with. In this dream they made my office in an old elevator that looked like it might fall down the shaft at any moment. Then they showed me two other offices and it seemed my work was sorting out which office I would use or how I would rotate between them. One co-worker recommended the elevator office.
The cow. The cow lived in a converted hen house with a slanted roof. I donít remember what happened to that building. It must have been torn down at some point, or just burned down. I remember the burning of another building, the outhouse. Perhaps that was when we got indoor plumbing in the new house. The outhouse was torched. At one point, before it collapsed in on itself rats began running out of the burning building. I remember my father stomping and chasing the rats back into the fire. I could hear the rats screaming as the outhouse burned.
The Jersey cow lived in the barn. I think we called it the barn because the cow lived in it. My father built a manger in the barn and he most likely built the barn, a slanted tar-paper roof kind of building. My father would milk the cow in the morning before he went to work. One day he got the idea that I could milk the cow in the morning and woke me up early the next day and took me out to the barn. He set a stool down behind the cow and sat me down to milk.
My father had an idea that I could milk the cow in the morning so the next morning he got me up early and took me out to the barn. He set me on a stool near the udder. I was to milk the cow. Only I had no idea how to milk a cow. I theorized that I would squeeze my fingers in sequence forcing the milk out the end. I tried my theory but it only annoyed the cow and my father. He picked me up by my collar and threw me out of the barn in disgust.
I remember sailing out of the milking barn in a long lazy arc and landing on the ground unhurt. I was disappointed. I had expected I would get some kind of instruction or be allowed more than five seconds to learn the milking process. But it was not to be. To this day I donít know how to milk a cow. I suppose my failure saved me from many early mornings in the barn, washing the udder, feeding and then milking the cow. Still I would rather have had the work than to become such a dismal failure so quickly.
I look over at my computer and do something I havenít done before. I lean over to my left and coax it into my right hand and haul it into my lap. All this time I have been able to touch it with the fingers of my left hand but lacked the strength or the confidence in my left arm to do the job. Victory! When I lived in my old house, there was room on the end table to put the computer, I think. Or there was room on the floor near my chair. It was always at hand.
In this memory my sister and I are stooping in the dust puddle at the corner where the driveway connected with the road. We are playing in the dust with short sticks. I called my sister today. When I called my mother she didnít answer. I made 9 calls over a period of about two and a half hours. Sister said not to worry that my mother had just been over to her house. ďShe probably lost her phone again,Ē she said. And then she thanked me for calling every day. It seems like such a small thing to do.
Iím listening to the Drone Zone again. I am almost tired of listening to it, almost ready to strike out in new directions again. Almost but not quite. My stereo of choice seems to have become a set of Blue Tooth headphones. The Vandersteens and the fancy amplifier whose name I have forgotten sit unused. I am not going to get rid of them. I may want them back again. In fact, I am thinking about asking my grandson if he still wants the speakers I gave him. He will probably want to keep them. I just want to play.
Beware the ides of March. This is the earwig I am playing with now, the old crone pointing bony finger and all. This is no doubt not really what happened. It is probably something from a Shakespeare play. Didnít he write a Julius Caesar play? The members of the Senate are crowding around Caesar and stabbing him to death. This way no single may will be blamed. It will be the will of the people. Some say Caesar was ambitious. Does this sound like the actions of an ambitious man? Shakespeare. Was he an ambitious man? Or was he accidental?
Then there is Saint Patrickís Day. On this day we celebrate the death of yet another man, Saint Patrick. I donít know much about Saint Patrick except that he wore green clothes and a Pilgrim hat. He hung out at bars with all his friends watching TV and drinking green beer. This is where he rested after driving the snakes out of Ireland with a crooked stick. It was a lot of work. You have no idea how much work it is to drive a snake into the sea with a short crooked snake but thatís what Saint Patrick did.
Mable from next door came over to give us a gift card for a restaurant downtown. This was for letting her plug into the generator we rented when the power went out. Like us, she had a sump pump that needed to run periodically to keep her basement from flooding. I went out after she was here. I went out to take out the garbage and to check on the mail. Her daughterís car was there, the one with the chunk missing out of the front right fender. She had left her purse in the car. I thought about it.
When the power went out Mabel actually bought a generator of her own. It was the cutest little thing. I immediately fell in love with it. It was about the size of a small cooler and put out 6.5 amps. I would have bought one myself except our sump pump takes 9.5 amps. Hers probably does too, but the generator worked. Well the generator worked about twice. Then it broke. The starter rope pulled right out of it. She bought it at Harbor Freight. I donít know about that place. Iívenever been there. Chinese knock-offs if you ask me.
Itís raining. Raining raining raining. I could just repeat the word raining 99 times. I could start over and repeat it 79 times now. I could repeat my repetitions of the start over and how many times are life. Sixty-one for anyone who is truly interested. The sump pump has been working valiantly all day. It makes me crazy, the sump pump. Raining raining raining. I know the sump pump will fail. It is not a question of if but rather a question of when. What do people on boats do who rely on bilge pumps and such? Raining. Raining.
I had a thought earlier today about a 100 words entry. But it has escaped me. It is running down the road on spindly little legs splashing in random puddles. Running, Running. It does not want to be captured. All I have left is the memory of its two-dimensional stick-figure back turned to me as it ran away like the gingerbread man. What had I done, I thought, to deserve this? Why would it want to run away from me like that? How did it get out of the door? It was too short to reach the door knob.
So now I have an idea of a series of 100-word entries based on repeated words. Gerunds seem to work well. Raining. Running. How about sitting or writing. Thinking. But I am sleepy. Sleeping. Hailing a cab. Hailing hailing, hailing. The cab never stops. It moves almost imperceptibly to avoid running over me. It might have been my imagination. The driver may not have changed course. He may have run over me, killed me on the spot. Killing, killing, killing. It is just my imagination that I am still witting and writing. Now if it had been a driverless cab.
The hailing man is still chasing the cab. Running Running. I had a dream about this last night. I cannot quite remember the details. I donít think I was hit by the cab. I donít think I was running in the dream time either. It would be killer if I could remember my dreams better. Maybe. It might not be such a big deal after all. I might have dull, boring, pedestrian dreams. There are some drugs you can take to alter or enhance your dreams. I remember the dreams I had when I was on the nicotine patch. Colorful.
This time itís me running down the street. Or perhaps it is the idea of me running down the street, the same street, with the same puddles, the same over-stuffed garages and barking dogs. My pant legs are wet from splashing and my whole body feels stove up from the running. I am not in good enough shape for running. Even the idea of me knows this and knows it would be wise to put the idea back in the story running and not me. For Godís sake not me. Oh look! In my sock feet. What was I thinking?
Now I am sleepy again. I should not fall asleep now. If I do I wonít sleep tonight. If I donít sleep tonight I will have trouble teaching tomorrow morning. Do you have any idea how hard it is to teach over the phone when you keep falling asleep? Yet it is so tempting. Perhaps I could let the idea of me go to sleep. Then he might dream a dream, bring something back from the dreamtime. What does he return with? It is a small furry animal. It looks like it is a Pokťmon. Is the color slightly wrong?
The implication is that the Pokťmon allows direct conscious access to the dreamtime. I consider this. Perhaps it is not conscious access because from what I have observed the Pokťmon players are not truly conscious. This is where all he Pokťmon players pile on me complaining that I am maligning them unfairly. The idea of me is crushed by the weight of the idea of the angry pile of Pokťmon players. I am flattened like a cartoon character run over by a steam roller. Is there an idea of someone to pump me back up? Or do I stay 2-D?
I am running, trying to catch up to my stream of thought. You were in the kitchen. I heard you open the box of cookies. Of course there is no box of cookies in the kitchen. It is merely another idea of something. This time it is the idea of a box of cookies. Like the ice cream. I fell asleep momentarily and passed through the dreamtime. Before my passing I had the idea of you offering me a small scoop of ice cream. In the dreamtime, there was a truckload of ice cream. Pallets of boxes of ice cream.
The idea of me is outside again in the rain and the mud. Why donít I ever dress the idea of me appropriately? Of course it is hard to dress for rain and mud. It is possibly the worst of conditions to have to prepare for, or to react to. I am in the dreamtime again in the rain and the mud. The rain and mud has been turned on its side and I am spinning it on the end of my arm, spinning it with my mind because it is only the idea of the rain and the mud.
I am gone back into the dreamtime, just for fun. There is a boat, the idea of a boat, and it is stuck in the mud. Half of the boat is buried in the mud. I pull the idea of the boat out of the mud and the hole where it was beginning to fill with rain. Why is it always raining in the dreamtime? I put the boat down and the idea of the boat returns to its normal size. The rain water puddle also changes so that it is a lake. The boat sprouts a mast and sails.
I find the idea of myself flipping in and out of the dreamtime. This makes me curious. Could I travel like this? Could the idea of myself fly to other countries? The idea of myself can fly in the dreamtime but if it arrived in another country it would still be in the dreamtime. But I am flipping in and out of the dreamtime. I could flip in, travel and then flip out at some other place, witnessing the idea of me there. So I flip into the dreamtime and decide to travel to Bolivia. I flip out in jungle.
Iím up late and doing the Sleepy Time Tea thing. Actually I am up early and hoping to catch some real sleep before I have to get up in the morning. Iím feeling ok actually. Not a bit sleepy. If I could stay like this, Iíd just stay up all night but I know it doesnít work that way. At least it doesnít work that way for me. I get punished in the morning when I am up late. It is awful. I spoke to my mother yesterday. She said to have my body sent home. She would bury me.
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