Semi-Daily Scribbles

30

wedding bells sound the news your body's been found
scatter rice
throw the dice
vegas resounds with tourist traps and vice
while the tides rise along the left coast
fishing boats are lost at sea
now it's just you and me
to navigate this soundscape
without your discordant chords

How To Qualify As A Human

Sometimes it takes a kick in the teeth to realize the thing you were good at as a kid is the antidote to being:
afraid, bored, cowardly, destructive, early, fretful, greedy, humiliated, indignant, jaded, kiboshed, late, misunderstood,
needy, obstinate, puerile, querulous, recreant, sad, tormented, unkempt, vitriolic, wishy-washy, xenophobic, You, zombified.

Venting on NYE

For me, 2023 never really got out of the blocks. On a global level...?

Wars.
Environmental Disasters.
Mayhem of Every Design.

I'm nursing the sniffles and excited about a repair person coming over this afternoon to clean the dryer vent. What better way to ring in 2024? I'm catching a back to basics vibe for the new year. No declarations of losing weight, crossing off <fill in the blank> on Ye Olde Bucket List, changing careers. More like a literal and figurative cleaning of one's house. This past year has been one of accumulation, but not necessarily of objects and experiences that will propel me on my path. I need to get back to the work of creating rather than procuring. There's a lot of stuff cluttering my closets and noggin. So, over the next 12 months, I shall focus on the things that truly matter: Family, Friends & Cupcakes. This paired down list will keep the important stuff prominent in '24 and beyond.

A Meditation on Misfits

My boss gave her team the holiday assignment of declaring the Island of Misfit Toys plaything with which each of us most identifies. That's some heavy stuff to ponder during these days of candles, cookies and EoY merrymaking. Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer is a stop-motion meditation on learning to love broken things, namely, ourselves.

Or is it?

There's a lot to unpack with a bird that doesn't fly. Why? Why does this bird not fly? Can it not take to the sky? Has it ever tried? Does its fishy tail prevent it from circling on high? Is it a lifestyle choice? Oh my.

This flightless bird doesn't clarify if it is incapable of taking flight.

Perhaps this is all an attempt to be something other than what it truly is.

Comfort only comes when it dons someone else's skin.

Besides, who am I to question why The Bird that Doesn’t Fly refuses to live up to its potential?

slipshod

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Too Pure

In Junior High (ages me right there using that term) we got to do work rotations in the school office. What a lucky day that was when you got assigned mimeograph duty. The cranking of the machine! Silky, glistening paper rolling out thanks to your labor!! The smell!!! Bottle that shit, man. Oh, the soothing, boozy, candy coated aroma of the ink coming off the cylinder is exactly the balm the world needs right now.

Our Bodies in Reverse

Selective memory has atrophied the ability to see situations clearly.
But do we not do the things one ought to do?
Like?
Like paying bills.
Playing it safe.
The What-If Game takes up more and more of our time as we find ourselves stuck in a groove from decades ago just like the old timers we once despised.
The mirror is not going to become kinder as we try to pass by without stopping to stare, so best to call that reflection what it really is.
The version of you that was never supposed to come true.
Is she still in there? The girl who'd eat the world for breakfast and serve it up as something transcendent for tea.

A Story Unfolds

We stared at a map on the wall
During a break from paying our dues
Just you and me and the man in the tree
Lens focused on capturing what cannot be seen
A howl from the other room warned of a time to come
That would define us all too soon

Like brilliant silver light from a dying moon
Like a tangled romance getting bad reviews
Life doesn't always fit the narrative you choose
And love isn’t a commodity to be consumed

We eventually stopped staring at that map
Found a road that’d take us where news traveled slow
Like a pattern on the loom we began to emerge
To live our lives without the urge to edit and reframe
We are like a vine that can’t be trained
Disparate threads wind their way to disarray

Like brilliant silver light from a dying moon
Like a tangled romance getting bad reviews
Life doesn't always fit the narrative you choose
And love isn’t something to be misused

Fold back the corners to align the pattern
This highway is long and the journey rough
The signs marking the coastline invite you to stay
But only if you don’t mind perpetual sunshine
And if you can find the throughline along the way

We never found our destination but ended up in heaven all the same
The sea still roars, waves crash even when no one’s around
The two of us left behind the blinding light of recognition
Forever to wander the sacred enclaves of truth and intuition
The stars burn for you and me in our perfect patch of desolation
No song sweeter than the murmurs that call us home

Like brilliant silver light from a dying moon
Like a tangled romance getting bad reviews
Life doesn't always fit the narrative you choose
And love isn’t something to be refused

Watch Your Language

Bitti is broken. Art is her tether to this tenuous moment, and he packed up and left town last week. Where does our mind wander when dreams die? Do we become the catalyst of our own demise? Bitti loves what she loves and accepts the risks. She got what she asked for, so she has no right to curse the universe when it dropped her wish off at the door. We get what we ask for, so pick up a dictionary when you beseech The Unknown for a favor.

Arrhythmia

So traumatized Chuck still works the mines.
A poet's soul with hardened arteries.
The company doesn't pay Chuck for his turn of phrase and artist's heart.
It's a tough task to write the perfect stanza when crafted in the arc of a headlamp.