The Right Height

“Would you like to go to the top of the Empire State Building?”

“No, I’m afraid of heights.”

I wasn’t always. I seem to have become afraid of anything that is higher than my bed or a step ladder in the kitchen. I’m fairly okay on an extension ladder trying to lop off a dead limb on a tree or to inspect the roof. Anything much higher and I run the risk of expelling myself to tempt death – the thought occurs.

What’s so fascinating about death?

It’s well worth considering and I think that because I have considered it quite well that the thought of something as tiny as an unseeable particle of some matter that is thought to be devastating can’t seem to touch my psyche. I thought about death so much for so long before March 13, 2020 that I was relieved when an invader was thought to have been discovered that could knock out half the population in a matter of weeks. It brought me back to life.

It’s been almost a year now.

Everyone is still afraid of death. I think everyone just likes being afraid. It’s primal. It’s easy. It’s base to be afraid.

How many movies are horror?

And everyone likes obeying.

Except me. And one or two or three other people that I know.

I wanted more room for crafting and my mattress was getting old and was too big. I tore it apart for its parts before I had anything else to sleep on and have been suffering ever since.

Until today.

I got a $7 blow up mattress. I’m in heaven. It’s just the right height now to not be tempted to expel myself and I can stand up without having to bend my knees too much.

I’m happy to be alive now. And, I’m not too afraid of death. I’d still like to live to be 108 – but who am I to say.

Funny what $7 can do to make me happy as I sit here atop it typing.

Let’s Start Over

He blew her some kisses but they were emoji kisses. They would have to do.

“I truly wish I shared your optimism.”

“Me to,” she replied, virtually – hoping to stave off his reasons for wanting to go on to some place that might be a little more like heaven – or some place that wasn’t at all, anything.

“On your last note, seems a little presumptuous. The end may be glorious.”

Who knows what is to come? Certainly some may think they do. Seems more fitting to wait and see. Braver anyway.

Today the little space heater quit all of a sudden. “Well, there that goes,” she thought and her next thought was, “I guess it’s time to invest in a wood burning stove. Get off this lazy sit expecting electricity to never fail and for products to last longer than a season.” It was only 55° F inside – but clothes and blankets can get rather cumbersome.

More expectations of ease.

It turned out the kitties had roughhoused around the plug and pulled it out. She could go back to being lazy and wasting some more money.

“Wood can be free. What else can be free? Hmm.”

She was drumming up ideas for how to get out of the matrix – the coming nano, cloud connecting, reset, AI, jab matrix. She wondered how she could become invisible – elude and evade the enemy.

“It’s always something – electricity and appliances failing or jabs coming.”

London bridge is falling down.

How to be happy. Just be happy.

She was also wishing that he was free. She was wishing that she could say, “Let’s start over. Let’s try it again. This time, let’s be happy.”

Jingle Bells.

He wasn’t a kind to be very happy. Some people are just made that way. He was inclined to be encumbered with depression. She could be too if she wasn’t careful.

Art. Art saves a person’s soul. There is truth in art and truth is what will set the spirit free. Making it especially.

Maybe he needed to make some art.

Hopefully the sun will come around again tomorrow with its warming rays and brightness. Or perhaps some rain. Either way – maybe tomorrow we can all start over.

Let’s start over.

Image by Myriams-Fotos from Pixabay 

Nothing But Disappointment

It might appear from another perspective that someone’s life had been nothing but disappointment.

Especially if that someone had kept so much to themselves other than the visible appearance of struggle.

Having not had the remnants of large success, it might seem to have been a triviality of existence.

Another perspective altogether – someone she’d never known – if they’d known, might have thought that, indeed, she had lived large and had remnants of success. But the people she knew, she was sure wouldn’t see it that way. She was sure they saw her as a refugee – not in the same world that they were.

She didn’t like their world so much.

There had been love and romance and beautiful things.

Just no children to speak about it to others after that life had left them alone in the world.

She woke in the middle of the night after just barely having nodded off. It was Christmas Eve. She couldn’t sleep. She’d eaten half a box of Whitman’s chocolates to soothe herself – a present to herself. She felt lonely or some sort of existential ambiguity that was making her feel a need to wrap her arms around something other than thoughts – so she went to her closet and there he was.

Bar – looking her right in the face – waiting.

How had it been decided that Bar was a boy?

She was one when he came into existence – at least to her existence – but one isn’t having existed long enough to know that something else exists – is it?

Perhaps.

She seems to remember him always with her – in a little doll stroller or in her bed being tucked in with another littler bear riding on his tummy.

She tried not to show partiality, but Bar was her first love. The littler brown bear was a love too, but somewhere along the line, he went missing. He was a boy too. Where had he gone? She missed him.

“You’ve lived such and interesting life.”

“Yes…I have,” she replied to the one that said that.

Someone saw.

Some things just need to be saved. Bar. Bar had been with her all her life – less one. What a faithful little bear he’d been. She would never abandon Bar.

Bar spent the night riding on her tummy – a string of colored Christmas lights working as a nightlight.

Bar made her cry, for the realness that he had tucked in with his stuffings.

Christmas came and went – again.

Image by Iván Tamás from Pixabay 

As Nothing More

“Use your indoor words.”

Fuck

Shit

Damn

Something was always in her way or going wrong or falling off the table she was passing

because her hips were wider than the small aisles she’d created to have all the things she wanted at her disposal.

@#*%!!!

Use them all if you must.

Use them outside, just the same, if you want to. The neighbors likely cannot hear or aren’t listening.

Maybe GOD hears all words as nothing more than nonsense anyway.

image credit: How Data Reveals The Words Candidates Used To Stand Out At GOP Debate

Pick It Up

* see red edit below

So sad

this frame that used to hold such a beautiful picture of potential

crooked, sideways now

bent with aches and pains

can barely stand up

As the picture is released to fall in tatters to the floor

and can’t be picked back up

mind

can you please pick it up for me to see once more

or twice

before we are a picture no more.

* I must apologize. I found this written in an old journal of mine and thought I’d never posted it. Only because one of you visited this post, and I went to see what I’d written there – did I discover that I had. This one is posted exactly like I’d written it in the journal. I like this one better. Funny how similar the header images ended up being. 

Header image by ShonEjai from Pixabay 

Sunday Morning Doodles

The kitties are in, bouncing off the walls making circles around each other while trying not to hiss. 

I’ve been outside — in spite of the fact that my hair is salt and pepper frizz this early in the morning and most of any day — to bury yesterday’s kitchen scraps. I hope no one is looking — other than the GOD I know who clearly takes me as I am — the kitties do too — they never say a word that sounds a bit like judging. Sometimes they do hiss, but mostly at each other when Mr. Shire is in the front yard and they can spy him through their giant peering glass. They are jealous that he is out there and that it isn’t them — at least that’s the gist.

Mickey curls up on the rug that he has ruffled — one paw hanging over the hump that he created — then lays his head on it and stretches out to his full length. Lucy oversees him.

Everyone has settled. It’s time for Sunday morning doodles.

A cup of coffee to start. And then another — as many as it takes to prime the engine. Yesterday the floors were vacuumed, swept, mopped and one was painted — again — because it was buffing off to show the under color that was making it look dirty all the time. Some things just needed to be straightened so that all of the congestion in the noodles could be freed of their congestion. 

It’s hard to create when so many things are laughing. The dust is hard to see without glasses, so it might be willing to wait another day — but it’s still laughing in the background making a very unpleasant rattle. 

It feels safe in this little cocoon that has been created just for that purpose — to feel safe. The world seems far away and, if the media is kept off, one would never know of any chaos — so the media stays off. The music is birds or cars racing by — sometimes a train. It’s so soothing to listen to the conversations of all the birds. They seem busy — and so always happy. 

Mickey is still on his hump, staring into space. Lucy likely went into the bedroom for her Sunday morning doodles — her high perch is in there.

The engine has been started but it’s still a little slow. Maybe there is a need for a cookie while there is still doodling going on — something to soak up some of the exhaust of the coffee that is rumbling through the pipes.

People must be getting out of church — more cars a speeding by. It’s time to do some doodles in the journal room where all the papers are.

Don’t sweat the small stuff and it’s all small stuff. Don’t bother stuffing ballots — nothing like that ever works. A cocoon with painted floors works much better in the long run and the short run too.

Image credit: Ms. Spoolteacher 

Fallen From Trees

Sticks.

Oh, it is wonderful to have this machine to type on and go back and delete or rearrange — unlike the mess of paper with scratch-outs and arrows and white paint and sometimes illegible handwriting.

It seems to be a thinking machine.

Some machines think too much. Sometimes we don’t use the k’noggins or k’noodles we are blessed with.

Isn’t it a pity. Isn’t it a shame, that we so seldom play with sticks anymore, along the way? It was so fun in those days we did.

Come to think of it, I do still play with sticks. I sometime hold them in my hands and break them up into little bits when putting them into compost heaps or hugelkultur beds. I like the texture that they are and their colors and all the animals living upon and in them. Those are usually the ones that have fallen from trees. Little limbs too old to hold their own weight anymore, dried beyond repair — a little too much like me. It’s nice that they can crackle.

It’s a joy to play with sticks.

Sticks and stones. Sticks don’t last as long as stones. Stones can wait for another day. Play with sticks today.

Isn’t it a pity
Isn’t it a shame
How we break each other’s hearts
And cause each other pain
How we take each other’s love
Without thinking anymore
Forgetting to give back
Now, isn’t it a pity

~ George Harrison

header image credit: Patrick Dougherty; stickwork.net

So Many Lies

“There is no reason why they, or anyone, should surrender and accept.”

The young person walking by heading for school could just as easily have been a boy or a girl — covered from head to toes with black fabric clothes — all labeled, of course, with symbols — fashion being more important now, it seems, than ever.

The hair was under a hoodie and the only visible part was possibly some glint of eyes had they not been looking down to the ground. Had they even not been looking to the ground, (or possibly at a phone in the hand), it would likely have been too hard to see even the eyes due to the proximity of the hoodie’s drawstring-cap-edge to the black, draping-scarf-type mouth and nose covering’s beginning that met only far enough apart to allow for a sliver — like a burqa.

The non-disclosed gender looked like a zombie walking, covered in black — or someone very scared. 

The next one in line, heading the same way, did appear to be a boy — though his hair was very long. He was wearing a blue mask — the kind the hospitals are doling out. He was carrying an instrument of some kind in a case and the question seemed obvious, Is it a mouth instrument or a type that didn’t require any breath at all? That young man seemed a little less scared than the first one since he had on shorts and a short-sleeved T-shirt . All that skin exposed to the elements seemed brave in comparison to the black-covered zombie boy or girl.

There were younger ones behind the fence lining the edge of the sidewalk they were walking on. The children were playing out on the grass, waiting for the bell to ring. Some had masks on, others didn’t. They seemed perfectly happy either way.

It’s been seven months since the alarm bells rang from Wuhan. It was March that the states started setting stakes and making schooling even more unusual.

Who can be fooled this long?

The bell rang. It was time for fake stories of history and life — brainwashing — their parents had already been.

The person watching got busy laying more pavers for making traversing the front yard to the back yard less dirty. While she was still out there, a very big man with his young daughter came strolling along that same sidewalk — across the street from her and headed the direction of the school. Were they late, or scheduled for a second session so that desks can be six feet apart?

“Why,” she wondered, “has it been so hard all along, and not in any kind of school budget, to make smaller classes so teachers wouldn’t have more than they could handle? It’s been a huge fight for so long. From where had all the money come, all of a sudden, for these smaller-than-normal classes?”

So may lies. So many lies.

The little girl with her father was wearing a mask, the blue kind like the hospitals are handing out — the cheap ones — the ones lying all over parking lots with what everyone is afraid of is germs and sickness in the making.

The very large man, who was extremely overweight, wasn’t wearing a mask.

“Wasn’t he worried he’d get sick and bring it home for his daughter to get sick latter?”

Nothing is making sense.

Another man drove by twice — once this way and the next time the other. He was in an open, electric golf cart with his hair blowing. He had his blue mask hung from his ears going under his chin — perhaps so he could get it up quickly once getting to somewhere that the germs are more of a threat. In the meantime, he could virtue signal.

Brainwashed zombies don’t seem able to see the lies. Thinking is not in fashion and doesn’t come with a label. Designer masks, however, do and there is so much money to be made — best to get in on that gold rush while money still might matter.

Image credit: Gustavo Apiti Couture makes every mask to-order