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 


A Scrappy Afghan

The idea that it’s a given that it is required to be done is daunting enough. Did that make any sense to you? It almost did to me. I just started typing and let my brain go.

I’m trying to think of what to write and just typing away hoping something will come out of the mess that is being typed. Say one true thing and go from there is what he said, Hemingway was it? Something close to that.

What is true today is that I’ve been crocheting a scrappy blanket and I got too far using just certain colors and then tried to introduce others as they accrued from trips to a thrift store, (and Walmart). Now there are too many rows of the original colors and it’s become quit a challenge to integrate the others in a way that seems cohesive and pleasing. It’s been my experience that it usually comes together well enough in the end if I go along with enough trust in my intuition.

It’s all I can do to not quit this challenge that I’ve given myself, to write something every single day for one year — not the afghan, it’s a nice diversion.

I do so want to give up and after this mess I may just do that tomorrow. For now I’ll call this “something” and let it go at that.

And then I’m going to block quote this excerpt and hope I don’t have internet police come hunting me down and the copyright isn’t being infringed because it seems that a lot of people who visit me are trying to write as well and this was good advice:

Number six —

writing. Every writer you know writes really terrible first drafts, but they keep their butt in the chair. That’s the secret of life. That’s probably the main difference between you and them. They just do it. They do it by prearrangement with themselves. They do it as a debt of honor. They tell stories that come through them one day at a time, little by little.When my older brother was in fourth grade, he had a term paper on birds due the next day, and he hadn’t started. So my dad sat down with him with an Audubon book, paper, pencils and brads — for those of you who have gotten a little less young and remember brads — and he said to my brother, “Just take it bird by bird, buddy. Just read about pelicans and then write about pelicans in your own voice. And then find out about chickadees, and tell us about them in your own voice. And then geese.”

So the two most important things about writing are: bird by bird and really god-awful first drafts. If you don’t know where to start, remember that every single thing that happened to you is yours, and you get to tell it. If people wanted you to write more warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.

You’re going to feel like hell if you wake up someday and you never wrote the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves of your heart: your stories, memories, visions and songs — your truth, your version of things — in your own voice. That’s really all you have to offer us,and that’s also why you were born.

Please do go visit to read the rest.


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.



The First Move

There was a deep missing. Hard to explain because it had never been in such a way as that it could be labeled properly. Any label could do — relationship, affair, confidante, liaison, soulful mate, intellectual equal — what could do other than to say there was a missing. Empty spaces don’t like — if they are such that can like — to be empty. Is that anthropomorphically labeling space as if it has a face?

What is the face of space. What is the face of time. What is space and time and their continuum that can pull all things together like humans that are missing something that needs to come back — be returned to its rightful position like it’s on a rubber-band — a string that is attaching one thing to another that are better off together?

Lets face it. Everything is complicated and intermingled. Gratitude is often followed by more favor which makes for being even more grateful. Complaining often sends others out further away leaving the complainer isolated and therefore unable or unwilling to see their complicity in their unhappy living — their own homemade pain.

The man whose cancer went away when he went home to die because his whole community came to see him before he did and showered him with love and attention. And while he was dying he decided to do some gardening since he was home dying with nothing else to do and his spirits lifted from whatever it was that gardening does to have an effect on lifting spirits. Cancer was no enemy of well intentioned meaning so it dissipated from no longer being needed.

Cancer is a cure.

Fear and emptiness seem to be holding hands and they are better off together and left way out on a string somewhere where nobody else is and then let go of. Hopefully they swing around themselves enough that they glomp on to other less well-intentioned things and get flung out far enough to reach the event horizon and fall into a black hole — never to be seen again.

There’s no point in holding on to a deep missing if it doesn’t have to be held onto when there are so many other options — like making the first move. So it might mean that something has to be flung out again to glomp on to the other things traveling to the black hole — no one will ever know unless they make a move.

Picking And Choosing

Vector is a thing with both direction and magnitude
Do I want to know
Not enough
It sounds complicated and might require the development of new brain cells, synapses or sheathing or all of the above
Picking and choosing is in order
Maybe something more fun can do the job since the job does need doing —
making new cells, synapses and sheathing for a longer, better brain life
— but can’t it also just be sort of fun like knitting or trying to figure out how to write a real short story or a novel or a thesis
I’ll just say yes and keep going
Writing is a great deal more fun than trying to understand maths
Vector is also a character in a Gru cartoon and there his direction and magnitude can stay where it is quite fun to imagine playing with him, not so much, and Gru
But cartoons aren’t real and they only seem to have dimension and go in some kind of direction by how they are designed
If there is anything about understanding magnitude or direction to make a cartoon, it would lose its appeal in a hurry if making cartoons was something being done to create
a longer, better brain life
So I shall stick to knitting, trying to write and will do like Anita Baker and continue to pick and choose.

I’m picking and choosing in terms of the stress factor. If it’s not fun, I’m not going to do it. ~ Anita Baker

Instead Of Shoes

Slippers and shoes.
Slippers are supposed to stay inside the house and shoes put on to go outside but sometimes it’s forgot and slippers go outside and get themselves stuck full of little stickers before it’s realized that slippers went outside instead of shoes.
By then it’s too late to bother changing.
The slippers full of stickers full of seeds get taken all around to be dispersed for growing more new weeds that then turn into stickers to get stuck in another pair of slippers that forget to stay inside.
Then the shoes by the door where the slippers forgot to stay are considered to wear again inside even though they are full of little pebbles in their treads. It’s either that or a new pair of slippers that will try to remember for once to stay inside.
Pebbles or new slippers? It’s a toss up.
Of course, the third option would be to go ahead and wear the stickered slippers in the house. It’s not very likely they will drop and grow as weeds in concrete floors. All that might be required would be to sweep.
The question then is whether to sweep stickers or pebbles.
Of course another option would be to go barefoot to the sink and wash the pebbles out of the treads of the shoes because there’s certainly no point in washing the slippers since stickers in slippers will never come out again unless someone sits and picks them out by hand.

All The Intersections

What is it like to be happy?
Isn’t it time to try?
So much of life is wasted caring about things that just don’t matter — like matching all the intersections perfectly on a quilt — though it can be fun to try.
Once the trying’s done though, might it be better to let go so that going on to something else can happen instead of getting stuck there doing nothing but matching seams on fabric in a place that nobody else might ever know.
Unless, of course, all that matters is that only yourself and whomever you point it out to can possibly know.
As it happens, there are a lot of things to try and trying to get them all perfect can be quite a challenge and possibly, just possibly, a little bit like wasting time.
Does anybody really have time to waste? Only if they don’t want to be very happy.
Even though happiness is not a certain thing, it’s better to look for it than to not.
It might even be better to believe that you have already found it and better yet when others you love can tell you that’s true.

Trying To Laugh

Kit the cat kept laughing at Bog the dog because Bog kept trying to laugh too but nothing came out but a bark.

Kit really wasn’t laughing as far as any humans knew, but Kit didn’t speak Bog’s language so thought that laughing sounded like meow and kept meowing wildly thinking it was laughing coming out and that sooner or later Bog would get the clue that chiming in meowing was in order.

Whatever was still funny Bog didn’t know but kept on trying to ask Kit what they were trying so hard to laugh at since Kit’s belly was heaving in and out leading Bog to believe that Kit was still trying to laugh.

It started out with Bill the bird getting out of his cage and Kit and Bog thought Bill was quite the star for getting free and started laughing out of nervousness that Bill would get found out and put back in his cage.

But then Kit couldn’t quit because once laughing gets started it’s something that goes on and on until enough yelling from a human puts the kibosh on it.

“Bark”, “Meow” went on and on until Kit and Bog were starting to strain their voices and then Morris the horse came whinnying into the conversation.

Bill was shrilling, Morris was whinnying and Kit and Bog were, by that time, getting laryngitis — so laughing stopped being funny and everybody settled down.

Kit curled up and started purring.

Bog tossed the ball off the wall while ignoring Bill the bird sitting on the curtain rod and Morris returned to the barnyard stall.

No humans had to intervene and everyone had fun for just a little while.

Just Be Nice

Nothing for Christmas
Not even coal
It’s okay
It’s just another day
The meaning of Christmas
It doesn’t have any more meaning than whatever meaning one makes it have
Long ago no kids made making it nothing more than another day easy
So I just let it be
as it goes by
A day like any other
Why fuss any day
Today, tomorrow, everyday
Be pleasing
A pine smell
Olfactory hallucinations
The mind’s eye
I can decide
We can make it up
Be good
Not naughty
Nothing has any more meaning than whatever meaning we make it have
Everyone can always
Just be nice.