Time To Leave

Not that anyone will care
It’s time to leave this realm of
likes and loves and cartoon emotions
and the sickness that ensues from
waiting on a roller coaster ride
for the dopamine hit at the height of
where it reaches that insanely high peak
Insanity
A Play
Fake
Gamble
Negative engagement
Breeding more
Negative engagement
for a third party’s,
(hidden in the shadows),
profit
Shysters
Snake oil
Salesmen
Online universities
Illusions
Delusions
of grandeur
I
Me
My
Mine
Money
Pavlov’s poor little doggy
Shocks and treats
and more
and more
and more
shocks without treats
the treats are tweets
Silent bells and whistles
and guaranteed manipulation
“Sad”
the new salutation from a
President
who’s high as a kite
on his tweets
Nobody ever really meets
Where’s love hiding
Somewhere in the shadows with the profit makers?
It’s time to leave.

image credit: jaronlanier.com

The Candy Bar

Bernadette didn’t want to turn around and pick the thing she dropped off the ground so she left it as rubbish for someone else, or the world and earth to deal with. It was a wrapper from the candy bar she was eating and it was just too much trouble as it blew some in the wind, farther away from where she was still walking forward. She was fat too, so it was hard on her to bend that far to pick it up and now it meant that she would have to backtrack. She was already wishing she’d taken a taxi or the bus to get the candy bar. She didn’t know how to pick things up with her toes and she still had on her shoes. If there had been someone near that cared they might have offered a snarl or sneer or a few words of encouragement but there wasn’t — so who would ever know except for Bernadette?

Bernadette kept walking and left the wrapper on the ground.

Is “fat” appropriate or should it be said that Bernadette is overweight? Perhaps the truth is actually Bernadette is Bernadette — her weight has nothing to do with who she is or how she should be described except that it was obvious that it was one of the reasons she wouldn’t turn around and pick that piece of trash back up. Wasn’t it? Obvious? It could also be a reason someone could say, “See, fat people are lazy.” Is that racist toward whatever race heavy people populate? Is it profiling. Is it stereotyping? 

Who cares if Bernadette is fat or overweight or just whoever she is? Who cares if she lets her candy wrappers stay on the ground wherever they accidentally, or on purpose, land?

Of course, we only saw her leave just one.

How can we all live and let live no matter what somebody else is doing? Who’s the judge?

Someone said lately that they were having trouble understanding why people always say they’ll pray for some catastrophe. She was having trouble understanding how the person praying hoped to change whatever God was planning to do or why, if it was his will to let a hurricane wipe out a bunch of people, how could a God like that be considered good. She had a bunch of other statements that revealed that she was very confused about how people can claim to believe in God but not let God be God and try to change his plan with a prayer instead of being grateful for whatever God decided he or she wanted to do. She did also say that God was likely a he because if God were a she, she would have done a better job of making up the world.

Who knows?

If it’s God’s will to let Bernadette have her own free will than who are we to judge Bernadette for leaving rubbish on the ground or eating so many candy bars that that might be why she got fat?

It’s nobody’s business what anybody else’s business is, is it?

Or is it?

If there aren’t some kind of rules the world might get filled with candy wrappers.

 

image credit: Candy Wrapper Backpack

Enough Time Later

Not looking in a mirror is reassuring. One can maintain beauty much easier inside their own mind if there is no external negative input. That also begs for staying locked up in the house.

There can be tracks in the mind — ruts and gutters, potholes and corrosion —  but the mind is easier to trick if a decision has been committed to to believe there is beauty and a mirror might disturb that kind of committed persuasion. So, a mirror is best avoided — at least until or if any ruts, gutters, potholes and/or corrosion get mended or a new road is provided.

“Mirror mirror. I have decided that I am beautiful. What say you — you’d better say it’s true or I will break you into a million pieces. So there. Take that. So, now what say you?”

The mirror glared back a distasteful answer and she decided to wait to crack it — give it time to think of a better answer. Maybe if she asked it again enough time later, it would see her in a more favorable way. In the mean time, Mirror was skirted. “You’re not going to get any company from me,” she said to herself, knowing Mirror couldn’t hear and wouldn’t care if it could — not that it had anyone else to talk to — after all, she was locked up in the house alone so there couldn’t be any negative input.

That’s not really true.

She had just come back from getting groceries, (after several earlier conversations in her mind while skirting Mirror), and she had showered her body and washed her hair before going. Because her hair was so kinky and frizzy after washing if it wasn’t blown dry and curled with the curling iron, (and it was far too late in the day to do all that), she put on a bandanna and some pink cheeks and pink lips and brushed on some eyebrows to replace the one that had long ago gone missing. She gave Mirror a chance to glance her and Mirror said it was enough and that she might be favorably glared at by the people who passed her in the grocery store if she would just smile politely and assume that they were only thinking good thoughts as they probably wouldn’t look at her much anyway.

She had lined up at the garden register where the handsome man she likes who has a girlfriend but she still enjoys him is and there was a fancy-made-up lady just before her chatting away and he was being rather friendly but not as friendly or in the same way as he usually is to her. Once that lady was finished and gone away his “HI! How are you!!?” made her day and she couldn’t wait to get back to tell Mirror that Mirror had been right and the pink cheeks and lips and penciled eyebrows had been enough.

But once she got back, she wasn’t as interested any more in what Mirror had to say. She had other things to do and that is just as important to how beautiful someone can feel, (or their mind can think), they are as what a mirror has to say — because, if they’re busy doing things they love, beauty leeks out into the thing being done and then the thing that’s been done can be stared at instead of at a mirror.

Getting things done that are liked or even loved in their doing seems to have a way of mending gutters, ruts and potholes — and far better than waiting on any better favor from a mirror.

Happy conversation from a handsome grocery clerk, doesn’t hurt a bit in mending beauty either.

 

 

Hard Being Brave

Two women and a man
One behind the door
The other walking in
unannounced
The man standing between them
with his face on the floor
One victim
One not going to be
she leaves
being brave is free of wasted days
The sex Kat stays
and stays and stays
to live a life of
mostly wasted days
because it’s hard
being brave.

image credit: In Africa Leadership is Woman

In The Pond

There were snails fully engaged in eating all the dead debris around the iris in the pond because winter had made the iris’s life fade away — at least until spring comes again. The snails are a great waking up food for the turtle brumating in the same cold water that was just barely warming up a little now that spring was getting closer.
“Hello Buster,” the lady pulling the iris apart said to the turtle lurking in the water, slowly waking up with the warmer weather and water and coming out to bask whenever her still-stiff and somewhat sleepy body was able.
Buster didn’t say anything back because Buster is a turtle and hides because she is a pond slider and it is her automatic inclination to race away from humans or anything big lurking around making any kind of movement.
Here the lady was with her hand in the pond fetching the huge iris clump out, taking the food away — the snails. She put it right back in once she realized that turtles like to eat the snails that are eating the dead debris and that the little lumps all over the iris were, in fact, snails.
Before she put the iris with the snails back in the water, she pulled it apart to make it possible for more irises to flourish so more snails could come along to eat more dead debris next fall and winter while Buster slept and then there would be plenty of snails for Buster to eat when she woke up again the next time.
In the mean time, as more irises grow and cover the pond the slider slides into to hide, the shade the proliferating irises make once they grow green again in spring, keep algae from growing as much as it normally would when there is also lots more sun.
Turtles don’t like algae, so it seems, but snails do a little and they especially like the dead debris the dying irises leave. It’s a good thing because as it turns out, the turtle likes the snails quite a lot — so, therefore, the more irises, the more dead debris, the more dead debris, the more food for the snails to eat. The more food for the  snails to eat, the more snails there are and that leaves as may little snails as a little turtle can likely ever find enough time to eat before she goes back to sleep.

Image credit: The Mystery Pond In Japan Looks Like Monet’s Paintings

Equal By Appearance

Measuring up
Thank God for Nature’s beauty
to remind that equal isn’t equal by appearance
Some have more
Some less
in their present beauty but are still
beautiful
Rough wood
A knot upon it
beautiful burl hidden inside
Bugs in
bugs out
beautiful bugs
How to accept the ones that are always
and forever more
than equal by appearance
After all is by
no or an accident
divine
Though even still
unequally reminding
that measuring up can never find
the proper measuring cup

image credit: Image by Tom6667 from Pixabay

The Little Boy

The little blonde-haired boy was squatting on the bare brown dirt, digging with one stick and planting another, like he was transplanting trees. His mother and her friend stood there above him talking.

It was nice to be talking face to face and standing outside in the sun being warmed by it.

“Are you planting sticks?” His mother’s friend asked of him.

“Yes,” the little man said and planted another one in the same hole so that now there were three planted in it. He then scooted over a few feet, still on his haunches, to rake some leaves on the sidewalk with the same stick he was using for planting. Imaginary ideas about what a stick tool can do can be more expansive than what is thought to be able to be done with ones that are bought with dollars.

“I’m raking,” he added to get more attention.

“Is that fun?” the mother’s friend asked.

“Yes.” He was hopping in his squatting so that he could move the leaves around without standing.

His hair was very long and his mother was telling her friend that he had decided to chop it all off on his upcoming birthday.

“A boy cut?” the friend inquired.

“Well,” the mother cut across her chin with her hand to indicate, “about here,” she said. “His father is tired of people asking him if he is a girl. It’s because he’s so cute that everyone thinks he’s a girl but if they would watch him for a minute, they would see that his movement expresses very much being a boy.”

“He’s pretty,” the friend elaborated. “He’s so pretty. Maybe he just needs to pull his hair up in a man bun? Maybe that would work?”

“We have done that. They still ask.”

He was a very pretty little man. His features were fine and beautiful. He was definitely going to stay good looking as he grew. His nose was pointy but quite little and very pretty. He was sweet but that was because his mother treated him so sweetly. The whole family was the same way — kind and soft in their demeanor and all so happy to always be together — where one went they all did. The friend was somewhat wondering what it might have been like to have had several children. Likely hers would not have ended up so kind because her edges were a little rougher even though she always would have been kind — of that she was sure.

The family was purchasing a big swath of land — 40 acres — planning for the future so that they could all stay close together as they aged.

“Darn! I was always hoping your older girls would rent my house so that I could leave and go somewhere else.”

The little boy piped up and said, “I’ll come live with you!”

She was touched. “You wouldn’t like that,” she said, “you’d miss your girls too much.”

He was the only boy with three girls older and one younger. And, he was very much loved and they were all very sweet to each other — the older ones taking such good care of the younger ones.

His mother said, “You can come and live with us. There would be room for you to build a little something.”

Yes it was very nice to think that she had a friend like that.

“When Malcolm said he’d found some land, I told him I didn’t want to more out of town. We’re a big part of taking care of Grandma and my parents are getting older and you’re getting older.”

The little boy’s mother lowered her hand, palm up and pushed it forward as if she was sending out an offer to her friend across the table — the one who was also getting older — as they were sitting at the table now still talking but out of the afternoon sun. The little boy was shelling pistachios and eating them one by one beside them.

Corners of the older woman’s mouth went up into a soft smile as her body warmed at the thought that someone cared that she was getting older.

 

** work in progress

 

image credit: Stick Fence

To Let Go

There is a history in old things. Some people don’t like them for that reason and buy only new to avoid having to deal with any feelings old, used things evoke.

My own home has hardly anything new in it.

Because Mom liked to save things, we had furniture stacked on furniture with few voids — every space became consumed eventually — as we all grew and nothing seemed to leave. It may be that because of that, empty space leaves me feeling uncomfortable even now. It was also likely because of that aspect of childhood that I ended up in a career arranging things. It became my job as a child to organize because, after awhile, everyone could see that I had a knack for it and so, as with all things someone does well, it becomes expected of them.

Lucky for me that I loved to do it.

When the old farm house my mother was living in changed owners and the caretaker was given all the old antiques that had been it it since its beginning, Mom and I went traipsing through a string of used shops all lined up in a row in one section of a nearby town and found replacements for everything that went missing with the caretaker. We had so much fun and ended up becoming friends with one of the shop owner because she got so much from them that it took a few trips to decide on things and each trip we spent time visiting. They delivered the entire lot once everything was picked out.

It may even have been the stories that they told that helped her pick the things she did.

In those days, old things hadn’t started fetching the kinds of prices they do now days — so we were able to refurnish her rented house with her measly money. Most all of those things ended up in one or another of her kids’ or their kids’ homes after she “conked out”, as she always called it — “I’m dibsing this to you for when I conk out,” — would be what she’d say and that person’s name would go on it or on a list.

Some of those things I had to let go of when I left California to move to Arizona. I corralled any friends who needed things and let them pick and choose for free and anything left was offered to another friend I had who rented a space in an antique shop who did special effects on things and then resold them. I loved her work. She picked the things she wanted, we decided on a price and after she gave me the money, I gave her all the rest of the stuff — whatever she still wanted — for free because, well, just because and I wasn’t going to move it so what else was there to do with it but make both of us happy.

There is always a bittersweet feeling letting history go but if it gets a good home, all the better and not so bitter.

There was one table, an oval one, that I had purchased used and made a faux marble effect on its top and painted the legs purple. It had pride of place in my big California house. I hated to part with it but it was really big and I had no idea what I would be living in once I got to Arizona, (I like to take a lot of risk. At least I used to.) I only took small things that could serve multiple purposes and were easy enough to carry around by one person.

That table, a dear friend took and it ended up as the table in the space her husband liked to be in and as his sprawling work station with papers and clutter all over it — little patches of the faux finish peeking through. That was his space and it kept clutter and stuff from all over other spaces she didn’t want it and it was tucked back in a corner where it wasn’t easy to see. I have an image of him friendly-flipping me the bird while sitting at it one time that I visited. So, the history of that table lives on and on. They aren’t together anymore but I think he took the table with him.

Right before my mother died, she asked me if I thought about renting her old house — she loved it so much and wanted to think of me in it. I said, “Mom, I would never be able to get over you if I did that.” She looked up at me and said, “I know.” So many times I almost wish I had — 20/20 hindsight. But, I would not have had the life I’ve had, good and bad and God only knows what I would not have been able to rise above if I’d stayed. California will always be home though and I very often miss it and especially my mother’s old home and the little wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling used-furnished abode we spent a lot of time in too before we all moved up the street to the big old farmhouse where all the space got filled as well.

Filling empty space has been a thing my family excelled at and I was, am, no exception. But while my mother, on the one hand, would stick new pictures on the wall wherever there was an empty space, I would learn to try to make them make more sense and have a rhyme and reason to where they did get placed. And I would eventually learn a little bit more about editing and letting go of things so that there could be a few empty spaces for a place the eyes could land to find a little peace from utter chaos.

All the things that come and go are touched and leave a fingerprint while in the person’s custody. Finger prints can be erased. What the touching does is anybody’s guess but I think that might be why I like old things — history travels with them, perhaps. And I love that very continuity and the sense that life just might go on. I know I sense my mother in the things she left and that is such a bonus and a comfort after all is said and done — any nuisance of clutter or the burden of the baggage of old dolls aside. I’m glad to have my mother still with me, one way or another.

Cooked Or Raw

Are carrots better cooked or raw? 

Better how?

Better for us?

Cooked.

But they taste sweeter raw, right? 

Depends on how they’re cooked it would seem. Carrot cake is pretty sweet.

Yeah, but that’s not just carrots. That’s a whole bunch of other stuff. 

Well, you need to be more clear.

How much clearer can you get than are carrots better cooked or raw? 

Well, as I asked, better how? And then you said for us, which implies nutrition and not how they taste. So there is confusion there as well.

Well, it would seem that if they are more pleasing, i.e. sweet, they might be better for us since we should be designed to want what is good for us right? And we usually gravitate to things that are sweet.

Should and usually. Therein is some of the trouble. And besides which, it depends on how they are grown. Some carrots end up bitter and are sweeter then, after they are cooked.

Are bitter carrots better for us than sweet carrots since bitter carrots have to be cooked to be good and all carrots are better for us cooked than raw and if bitter forces cooking, couldn’t bitter be better than sweet from the start?

Well, now you’ve really stumped me. Bitter isn’t always bad because, after all, you know the old saying, “Don’t forget your bitters”, so it could be that bitter could be good. But I’m not sure if bitter carrots are better or not. They certainly aren’t better tasting — at least not to me — but, following the don’t-forget-your-bitters line of thinking one could easily be fooled. They probably can’t hurt you. At least not much.

Bitter carrots might not be able to hurt you much but bitter people sure can. 

That is true.

Well, maybe the trouble is that people are bitter because they don’t have enough sweetness in their days and they should eat more sweet carrots or carrot cake or just get more vitamin A.

A conversation about what makes people bitter might be a conversation better saved for another day. Carrots were tough enough.

 

image: Vegan Carrot Cake Recipe

 

 

 

On The Morrow

Not tonight, I’m tired. I’m just not going to do it. I’m the boss of me. It doesn’t matter what you say or what you think. I don’t care. You’re not the boss, I am.

What’s that you say? You want me to or you don’t fancy one way or another if I do it or if I don’t. You couldn’t care any less but if you could you wouldn’t.

Do what, you ask? Well, write, of course. What did you think I meant? 

This is all you get whether you wanted anything or not because I’m just too tired. I worked all day and did a lot of shopping and got up late to start with — and now it’s time for lying down and sleeping or watching borrowed movies — besides which, I worked on several drafts that ended up in Nowheresville and I can barely hold my head up from all that heavy lifting.

Goodnight my friends and enemies. I’ll catch you on the morrow.