Fun To Imagine

Why had he gone away. Had she pushed him? She thought she was just protecting herself and wanting him to step a little more forward, make a confession, get off of any fence. That’s what she tells herself now. Truth be told, she was fully frightened and couldn’t absorb the amount of exhilarating feeling she was being subjected to. She had to run. She might lose herself or smother him to death if she didn’t.

He had disappeared without leaving a signal in the opposite and same direction — the direction of protection. She tried sending smoke signals into the ether hoping that he’d see them. She wrote stories with hidden messages but he didn’t appear to read them. So, all that she could think was that it had been the kind of lie to herself that she had been afraid it had been from the start.

She reached out one more time just to give herself a privilege — like eating another cookie fully knowing that the cookie might just kill her in the end.

There seemed to be messages in the ether he meant for her to pick up too — ones that she had to believe he had decided to jump down on the wrong side of the fence that put him not on the same side as she — silent and loud ringing words that hurt her feelings. Were they meant for her or someone else — she couldn’t tell — “I wish I’d met you sooner so that we could have been together that much longer,” but he didn’t use her name and he hadn’t really been with her, ever.

She knew her own name by now. So did he. Why didn’t he use it?

Is it just more fun to imagine?

It certainly seems safer.

Rubber bands come back when you stretch them.


Image Credit: the ‘Great Explainer’



He Still Cared

“Are you okay?” he asked her in an email.

She forgot to ask him if he was as well but did say, “Warm greeting back.”

They would have to read between lines and miles of distance. She was wishing again that she could touch him. She was in a lonely playing ground — in a time of wanting touching — of feeling her breasts on his chest and of being able to sense the throb of his heart beating while they curled together trying to block the world out and find a space in time where only they were.

Somewhere they had, neither one, ever been and no one else was either.

Why was everybody standing still, watching and waiting for someone else to do a thing about it all.

She wanted to take his hand and run away — to a cave. That’s what she wanted to do about it. Nothing else made any sense.

There was no place to hide, nowhere to run away to where you couldn’t be found out — but a cave might do unless too many others had the same idea. Flight or fight — the adrenaline had kicked in. It seemed that lions were after them but these lions showed with guns and tanks of armor wielding needles and handcuffs.

What would they see next — a mushroom cloud that nobody expected.

She wished that she could be right next to him, for the end. She sensed the end was near. It would have to be enough that he still cared.






Thelma And Louise

Sitting in my cell, I am thinking about all the times I walked around the block, stopping to talk to neighbors and strangers. We probably never got much closer than six feet, but we didn’t think about it — at least I didn’t.  I certainly didn’t spit as I was walking. Now I miss walking freely without thinking. I gave it up some while back because I got lazy. Nobody made me. Now they are making me. They’re making me think about things I don’t want to while I’m walking. I want to think about the birds and trees and sky and about the dog on the corner that will come to greet me long before I get there. I have to think about not getting too close to someone old who’s closer to dying.

I’m old.

We’re all dying. I guess my preferred way of getting taken out by a bus is no longer much of an option because WE CAN’T RIDE BUSES at the moment so I can’t walk in front of one when the time comes.

I guess trucks are still running.

Didn’t they just tell us to hop on buses to help the climate? Now they are telling us to get off. They also said that hand sanitizer was creating super bugs but now the bug they want to kill that they are calling super needs us to use the bad, bad bug making hand sanitizer.

Two people just walked by my cell. They were seven feet apart if not eight. I guess they didn’t want the troops coming to knock them over and carry them away to a leper colony before they got back to their individual houses and their own imposed cells. They looked like they were marching.

There are satellites above in the sky where we can’t see them. And drones.

“Support the troops.”

We’ve gotten our marching orders.

I didn’t mind staying in until they told me to.

I liked my house. I liked my yards. I still do. I hate people telling me what to do and now all my friends are too — telling me what to do. “Stay inside.” “Listen to the CDC. They know more than we do. They are experts.”

Yes they do. I wonder what. What do they really know that they aren’t telling? They are expert at manipulating people.

I wish my friends had listened when I told them to quit using artificial intelligence. Now we’ve made our beds we are expected to lie in them. I didn’t make that bed. I made a peaceful life where I could try to grow my own food and keep myself happy in the little cell that I had made. I’ve never used an I-phone for all my business. I didn’t ask for wifi. I didn’t want faster downloads. I watch old VHS and DVD on appliances that plug into the grid.

I’d rather call my cell a soft cocoon.

Butterflies make cocoons.

I’m sure my cocoon will be destroyed before much longer in the name of what is good for all the rest. My friends will probably be standing on the other side of the gate cheering on the official story.

“Take her out. Take her to the lepers. She deserves it because she wouldn’t comply with her marching orders. She’ll just hurt the rest of us who are doing so much better because we’re obeying.”

Bah, bah black sheep.

I shall go the way I want to for as long as I am able. Thelma and Louise are somewhat heroes in my mind.



Just We Two

There was only one time that I knew that kind of love and it was a figment of my imagination — it was still wonderful.

And for hours you’re just gentle on my mind.

Years. And years.

I traveled in my car to where we were — hunting for you. There you were in the same safe place you’d been all along. We tasted wine. You introduced me to crepes on our trip up the coast to the mile long speedway race in San Jose in a little cabin cafe in among the redwoods. There was a cat outside the window grooming in a patch of sun. We sat there in the bleachers at the race in a beautiful breeze and melded into one. We came back down the quick way in the middle of the green zone. You slept some while I drove.

We marked Enduro tracks for your upcoming race. No one was anywhere for miles and miles — just we two and sidewinder snakes. I made tuna fish sandwiches in the little teardrop we had dragged along. You came in dirty and ate one and we talked and you went back out again for another round. I missed you while you were gone but I had books to read for a history exam and did it so reluctantly — waiting for the sun to make it a little too dark for you to ride. I put a bandanna around my head and went for a run, hoping the snakes were hiding — when I got bored enough with history.

I was busy making my own.

One time you took me out and we tested the track you’d marked. You were flying ahead of me, scarcely looking back — when I flew over my handle bars, you didn’t see. I got up and just kept going, racing to try to catch you. Because of that, I learned to be a little braver — I didn’t want to lose you. I lost you anyway — not that I ever had you — it was all a figment of my imagination — except for when you kissed me or held me to your chest so that I could feel your heart beat.

You weren’t who I thought you were but I loved who was on my mind and while I danced that dance of silly dreaming of what we might become, I loved every minute and still look back and thank you. You came along to save me from a dreary life without you always on my mind.


Image credit: Abajo Enduro

Crop Of Green

Looking out the window in the morning light, there was a path of glowing yellow sun beaming over a big crop of green. Yes, they were weeds — tall, tall weeds — weeds the bees love to dance around the tiny yellow flowers seeking inferior nectar until something better comes along.

There was the bright salmon orange of the bell-shaped flowers hanging like clumps atop the tall spikes of aloe veras proliferating as aloe veras do — also seeming to dance among the weeds that are the pioneers brave enough to break the hardened sand so other friends may follow. They know how to do everything but grow in rows — happy little things that people kill.

People are the pests.

A heavy dove finds a way to light on the topmost flimsy branch of a hackberry tree, not yet leafed out. Another one joins and directs gazing to a nearby nest — is it theirs? Are they pregnant? Will there be newly hatched chirps soon to feed? Doves have been down on the ground scratching and carefully choosing fine little sticks — the drying stems of small plants that have come and gone and left their debris for the next in line — even though there is a stray and hungry cat nearby. They have to build the nest.

The stray is fed hoping he won’t eat the birds but he eats the birds anyway.

Life goes on fear or not.

They don’t have supermarkets and supply chains except for what humans don’t consume and they don’t need toilet paper.

The world wide web of nature is their store but only what is left by not consuming.

Man is weak. Forage is replaced with stock markets. Soft sofas and entertainment are easier to digest until they kill.

The cats inside curl their noses up because they know if they do they will get something that they might like better. The cat outside eats whatever is put down for him to eat and gobbles it up quickly — lest someone else is in the wings. He made it through one bloody ear but doesn’t favor another. He might not make it through the awful pain that could come with the next event of unwilling sharing.

Only the strong survive — or the rich who can try to buy some strength. They have concierge doctors to patch their bloody ears so that they can avoid the toilet paper hoarders with their ugly coughs and sneezes.

Why is the lotto so successful? Oh, to be able to call for groceries to be delivered. It’s a brave new world that must be braved to make a nest.

The birds are good examples and the weeds that pioneer. They don’t think. They just do.


Image credit: Mr. Walsh

All The Jewels

All the jewels and gold are in boxes lined up secretly waiting their sudden departure — if she can remember where she put them when the fire comes. The teddy bear and doll might go first and forget the gold because all that matters really is remembering when remembering was something good to think about — like playing dolls with a sister. The sister is gone so the dolls may suffice to remind a fading old mind. Holding on to a thought is more precious than anything that might have to be spent for trade on something of necessity like toilet paper and how can gold be parceled? Silver is better — it’s already in smaller parcels but who will there be to trade gold into silver or who will have the quantity of toilet paper to equal a maple leaf — so better all around to have the doll and teddy bear.

She will have to work her way out of trouble — as usual. Or maybe she will finally meet a prince or win a lotto. Yes of course, those are thoughts that travel well too as there probably won’t be any kind of work for such as she — a crazy old cat lady. Might as well carry the dream of a prince or a lotto winning in her mind while she traipses around with a case with the doll and teddy looking for the job that never existed either.

There are trillions that magically appear to rescue revenues that get traded so confidence won’t waver for the rich and richer. What do they want. When is anything enough. Were they not loved as children?

Only love can save anyone from the madness of seeking the peace and quiet a soul may not be able to fathom because of such depravity. Love can’t be bought but trophies can be. What might look like love to others is all they’ll ever get.

All we’ll ever get because who was really loved as a child?

Well, the gold she has is what she has that someone who claimed they loved her left her. It must be that she was loved. She will believe she was. It’s easier to than not to. Say it enough and it is real. Of course she was. Is gold a trophy? Are Oscars made of real gold. Is gold really real. Who set its value? Will it serve what it needs to when it needs to?

Does anybody know what’s going on? Crazy world. Everyone with their hair on fire getting sick because they think they will and passing those harming thoughts along like they are candy to be shared like someone elses gold.

Drink water and wash your hands. Wash your hands. Wash your hands. Wash your hands and cough into your sleeve and don’t wear a mask unless you are infected and are sure you are infected. Don’t spit on the ground. Boys quit being boys for a minute please.

You can’t take it with you so you might as well play with dolls while you’re alive.




Love For Now

She always thought she would find love again … someday and that in her older older age she would have her love along for the ride and they’d be happy in their dragging about — their old bones — helping each other with kindness and care but more so passion for finally having found, at last, the love they’d always dreamed of.

Who’s to say that anything is better than another unless you live it.

Might he, could he, should he leave ahead of her, in the event there was such a one — would she spend her last days grieving — losing again — how many times by now.

Is it better to have loved. Certainly the ones before have left a little more than nothing in the end. Memories of what it feels like to wish.

“I wish he had really loved me instead of just pretending.”

“I wish he hadn’t left me standing in the water of my tears.”

“I wish I hadn’t cried so much for nothing.”

Might it be better all around to simply leave things in the clouds for others to stumble upon as they might or may and needs be — like a story of how it might have been or was?

What it seems is really true is that the wishing is for more time to get things right. More time to learn about what life is — why drinking hydrogenated water might be good or how to make it so that it can be drunk. For more time to make up for the time spent drinking to get drunk — wasted time the same kind as what was wasted spent on thinking love was found and of standing in puddles of its tearful and sorrowful remains for far too long.

It is best to simply love what is living in proximity and not go looking for it elsewhere.  Grass goes brown over there too if it isn’t loved enough. How is love better there than here?

Whatever stray cat jumps the fence and lays about shall have it — the ones inside too. Ants and bees and turtles and birds and whatever shows itself for needing something tender — they shall get her love for now.


Image credit: The GuardianClaws out! Why pop culture clings to the crazy cat lady





All The Good

Shall I eat the cookie or is it too bad for me and will it cause me to leave this world a little sooner than I might have?
It might not be so bad if eating one didn’t lead to eating the whole package and possibly opening the other one that was gotten in case one pound wasn’t enough.
Is anything ever enough?
Someone has so little control.
The bastardized sugar and flower melt in your mouth and turn into something like water in seconds and enter the life force — may as well take them outside and spray them with a hose for all the good they won’t have other than a momentary pleasure. The pleasure can last a little longer if all 16 ounces are eaten in procession or it can be stretched for hours if one is eaten on the main strike of the cuckoo clock.
The pleasure is constantly accompanied by guilt so what’s the good?
I’ll quit tomorrow.
Tomorrow I’ll eat sweet potatoes with cinnamon. Sweet potatoes are like candy vitamin A and might be the best hope against the latest virus scare.
Cuckoo clocks are everywhere.
Today the struggle will be whether to eat the last of the cookies or take them out to hose them.
It wouldn’t be very nice to throw them at the living things out there.
I guess I’ll have to eat them.

Image credit: OpenClipart-Vectors / 27421 images on Pixabay

In The Meantime

The ball went over the fence of the schoolyard and there was no way for the little boy to retrieve it — the gates were locked for safety just for such as that — cars were passing by on the street beyond the fence and gates.
A man stopped and got out of his car to fetch the ball and toss it back just as she got to her own gate with her keys to try to do the same for the young boy looking, grieving, hoping someone would come along and send it back.
She yelled across her fence to praise the man for stopping. The man lit up with a giant smile and got back in his car and rode away.
The bigger scheme of things.
Human blips and blobs that last for fractions of seconds thinking that we matter some. We do. We matter for fetching balls and holding someone crying’s hand and for the help we give to make a smile.
Oh, the teacher may have gone to get the ball in the long run, but why not one of us on the other side? If we can. If we see. While we can.
She just so happened to have been sitting near the window when the ball met her peripheral vision and she bounced, not unlike the ball, to try to rescue it since she could — since she was still able to stand up and walk and move in a little bit of a hurry. It might not be for long. It feels good to do good. It seems to make a day count as more.
They’re going by so quickly.
No one will remember that a bouncing ball was captured by a stranger.
Minute by minute. Second by second.
In billions of years what do they matter?
It would seem less lonely if something took us all out at the same exact time — we could all go away together — a meteor maybe.
As much as we seem to be trying to kill ourselves, it may not come in time for someone’s lonely exit.
It helps to do a good thing in the meantime.

Image credit: Fly Anakin