Four Letter Word

What really matters
as the days tick by
speeding up
like each one is in a race
against another
What color of hair you had
Now that it’s gray
should you dye it
Gray is a pretty
absence of color
black tinted with
white
the presence of all colors
So maybe at the first sign of one
gray hair
it’s time to quit
expecting someone to hire
someone other than a redhead
with big
breasts
Maybe it was time to quit
long before
it ever got started
Working that is
at a four letter word kind of
job
What isn’t a waste
as the days tick by
speeding up
like each one is in a race
against another
Let’s be honest
What really matters
What color of hair you had?

Image credit: Mel_Ann

That Quiet Noise

It was a soft continuous rain going on all day and was very pleasing when all the other noise was eliminated. Then the trash man came around the corner and the minutes had to pass while he got finished with his work before the rain could be heard again. It took awhile because he was so loud and it’s a slow process — stopping, lifting, clanking, moving on down the length of the alley and around some corners and back up the main street parallel with the alley but in the opposite direction.

The rain might have stopped before he finished but it didn’t.

White noise is useful to cover something annoying or something that you don’t seem to notice until it stops and then it’s hard to understand how it was stood while it was going on if it’s unpleasant — like the motor of a vent fan or a hot water heater doing its thing heating up more water.

“Phew,” the mind says and the body relaxes having been unaware that it was tense while all that quiet noise was incessantly, though so vaguely and unappealingly present.

Meditation has one concentrate enough to grasp all those tiny sounds and pick them out separately from among each other — distant sounds too, like trucks on a freeway miles away — focus.

Trains are easy to pick out and a nuisance when close but somewhat pleasing at a far, far away distance. They can sound romantic that way — not so romantic if they’re far too close and continuous but intermittently unpredictable all day long.

It can be understood which way a motorcycle is heading if someone is clearly listening — with intent on hearing. “There another goes, a little closer,” it’s perceived.

The routine tick of the hot plate suggests it’s still turned on — what does someone do that cannot hear? Those tiny noises help to orient and pace and warn.

The clock goes off at 4 pm, though it was accidentally set but has been left because it’s a good reminder that things need to be sped up if they are to ever get done within that same, now shortened day — and the chime is pleasant for a midday interruption.

Quiet and/or subliminal and incessant noises are like being slightly hot, or a little too cold and putting on another blanket or taking one off — another “Phew — what was I thinking to let myself get so hot or cold?” Or, “I’m sure glad that noise is over now I’ve noticed.”

Soft, continuous rain, on the other hand, can feel like just the right blanket whether it’s too hot or too cold and be a certain kind of comfort in the middle of an otherwise annoying, subliminally noisy kind of day.

Chanting, “The rain in Spain” can be a comfort too.

What’s the difference that makes something annoying or not? Maybe it’s a matter of whatever state someone is in when the incessant thing begins.

She said, “I was afraid when I was little, to try to go to sleep upstairs unless my mother was at her sewing machine that was upstairs too. If I heard the machine going, I knew that she was up there with me. I learned to associate the sound of a sewing machine going with feeling protected. So a sewing machine is a soothing sound to me now.”

It might be possible that a water heater noise could make another someone happy — but it seems that it would always be preferable to listen to the rain.

 

Credit: Image by Markus Spiske from Pixabay

Something Quite Unusual

Her skin was purple, the lightest shade more like a white that had been tinted, that would appear as a purple haze when lighting was just right. Her hair shone like a yellow daisy with marshmallow-colored streaks highlighting the top most layers. Her skin had a blush to it that could only be referred to as a mellow shade of lime because that was what the Sun brought out in tanning for the time spent daily planting vegetables, herbs and trees within the space that was a garden. A bright orange, bibbed and bowed apron with harvesting pockets covered a white gauze dress that was for purpose to let air and light flow freely through and it waved and fluttered as she danced about in merriment, jumping for joy as she went about her daily chores. And one could slightly see the silhouette of her tall and slender body showing through it if they looked hard at her when a light came through it from behind her. She liked to sew and garden and would very often be prancing to and fro, from one task to the other like a ballerina — bugs and bees and butterflies making sure to keep her company — and a little dog named Puggles curled up in a ball on a blanket near the door sleeping because he was old and feeble and couldn’t dance like she could any more. He just waited for her, patiently, because he knew that later they would snuggle and she would kiss him.

Mostly she just whistled or spoke in a secret language to the critters all about her. It was generally very quiet except for the preferred music of the air and tree leaves being moved by it or the rain tapping when it fell — which seemed to be quite often. Bugs spoke too softly for any other ears to hear, but she could and together they made a kind of chorus — the bugs with their sound, the birds theirs, humming bees and her harmonizing whistle accompanied her dancing. She was something quite unusual and if anyone ever saw her, they never did again because she moved about the span of space and time so freely that it was a miracle to catch her in the first place — she was hiding in a secret place that she refused to release the address of mostly because it wouldn’t be where it had been, the next time.

She didn’t like to cook much but loved to have some pretty dishes with blue daisies painted on them and a teapot that looked like a rabbit. She always thought she’d have a soiree but as she knew, she was seldom in the same place long enough and people for the most part didn’t know quite how to find her or how to keep with where she went if they ever managed to. So, instead of wasting time cooking and washing dishes, she ate raw fruit and vegetables over the sink to catch the drippings and just spent the nights snuggling Puggles and looking at her pretty dishes while reading a book with pretty pictures formed by written words.

There was another purple person she kept running into in the margins but they never seemed to be in the same space long enough to know if they could really get along. She thought she caught him dancing and for a split second she heard a whistle, but poof, he left her dimension almost as quickly as he entered. She always kept one or the other of her magenta eyes out for him just the same and was always delighted when she thought she saw his colors fading in and out or moving in the clouds above — thinking he might be on the look out, hoping to find a way to see her too and maybe they could each stay a little longer.

Puggles was ready to snuggle and she was through with her chores and the purple man had failed to show up on that day. She ate her dinner, over the sink of course, and grabbed Puggles after he ate too and they both plopped on the bed and pulled up the multi-colored patchwork quilt to warm them. Puggles wanted to be on the top because he got too hot if he got under it — so she got him made comfy and grabbed her book and turned the light just on the book so she could read it.

Tomorrow they would do the same thing for the most part over again because they liked to. There was plenty of spice and lots of things nice and all of the colors of the rainbow. They would dance and sing and garden and Puggles, of course, would sleep curled up in a ball on a blanket near the door so he could keep his sleeping eyes upon her while she floated about the garden in her white dress. There were many chores to do and all of the time in the world to do them and there was nothing to be sad about. They had everything they needed.

She kissed Puggles goodnight, patted him on his head and said she loved him and offered that they wake up happy in the morning. Puggles licked her face and closed his eyes, scrunching just a little to make himself more comfortable. She read a little and turned the light out, scrunching just a little too.

 

Something Quite Unusual

Honor Of Labor

What can only be said of something that is blue is nothing like what can be said of something that is purple or is that a lie? Purple can only be because of blue and so on through the spectrum. There are three primarily exclusive colors and if they are spun around on a wheel fast enough they make white light — that isn’t truly white. Seems that black is the only thing that can be trusted as it is the absence of any of the others when light goes missing. So the truth is there, it’s really a matter of seeing.

Wavelengths.

Isn’t it interesting that veins look blue until they are opened or pierced. As it turns out it’s a matter of how light travels through the skin. Blood is always some shade of red.

Did the submarine in the Fantastic Voyage float through red or blue blood?

What does it mean to be a blue blood? — People who stay out of the sun, people who don’t have to labor, people who set themselves apart by avoiding intermarrying Moors who had darker skin so their skin remained light and their poorly refracting red blood through their lighter skin made them look more blue in their whiteness — so they become more noble by extraction of the things that made other people lesser by their own and seemingly everyone else’s interpretation. It started in Spain.

So why does everyone want a tan or do they?

It might be a good thing to do in respect and honor of labor.

 

fantastic voyage