Semi-Daily Scribbles

Year of the Rabbit

Curiosity is no crime. Language barrier? No such thing. But from time to time we wander into uncertain terrain. Let us hope we've crossed paths with an opportunity to learn and make a new friend. The alternative evokes images of a cookfire with a pot of something simmering in need of a good tater or two.

Occupational Hazards

compliance implied
an exclamation points north
methodology

debate
copy
paste
a specialist in process
implementation

manage the mayhem
revision as decision
candidates come cheap

My supervisor said we sometimes don't get a choice in what we do, and I thought: Really? We don't? Says who? Just like uncle Joe used to say: There's always an escape hatch. Are you gonna crawl through it, or not even bother to get away? Well, right after she made that comment, I decided to haul my ass right on out of that job that I only took because I didn't have to transfer buses twice just to get there like I did when I worked at The Filet & Ale.

**note to self**
I can choose the next adventure, even if my hair smells like fryer grease at the end of the night.

You Are Knot Trying Hard Enough

You're better off finding a trusted civilian who'll listen to your (what usually are very amusing) existential crises, and maintaining a lifestyle where your body and mind are allowed to perform at peak proficiency. Sorry, I hope that didn't come out sounding all preachily privileged because, you know: You are perfect just the way you are! And get yourself a hobby. Animals are good to have around, too. But please don't pay hard-earned cash money to be told to eat a salad once in a while. Mom told you to eat your vegetables, probably many times, and for free even.

Eyes Don't Lie

Sometimes when I talk to you, your eyes are distorted by a liquid shimmer.

"I'm not crying. You're crying!"

A dead guy once called that rheumy-eyed stare "the puddly look of nostalgia."

Are you reliving the past when you look at me? I have to admit there was something oddly familiar the first time I saw you, banging on the side of the vending machine in Bldg. B to loosen a scrunched and skewed bag of Cool Ranch Doritos so it'd drop down into the tray.

Stories We Tell Ourselves

Storytellers and makers of beautiful things sometimes deal with the downside of creativity. Maybe this next bit will come off as triggering, but artists don't always have an easy time on this rock. For some, these trips around the Sun are white-knuckle rides. One way or another, we all stick around for as long as we can, so it's best to focus on the joy and memories and stories and beauty that's been left for the rest of us to hold in our hearts.

Offer

I'll offer to entertain. Maybe slake a thirst you didn't know you had. Come sit beside me and let's repeat all those first time feelings they say can never flow through us again. If we're going to chase down a dream, Hope says the impossible is as good a goal as any.

Choices

Maia stood in line at the Bean & Book, mug brought from home in one hand, thumb of the other tucked inside the waistband of her jeans. She tugged on the denim so it wouldn't rub against the rash on her belly. Dairy products gave Maia hives, but milky, sugar-packed and pumpkin-spiced coffee was her ultimate autumn weakness. Fake milk turned the whole experience into a total letdown, so Maia was careful not to drown herself in her seasonal poison of choice. She shuffled forward without thinking until her nose was an inch away from the dark blue suit in front of her. Maia's index finger kept her thumb company inside the waistband. The door opened and leaves rode the chilly gust. Heads swiveled, coughs were muffled, a throat was cleared. Orange and brown leaves floated to the scuffed tile floor.

"Uh, hello. Aren't you Maia Towey?" Maia's back stiffened and she pulled her fingers out of her pants. She looked up at the tanned, stubble-free face that stood in line behind her. Maia considered her options. She wondered how weird it'd be if she didn't answer.

"I haven't been called that in a long time," Maia finally said to the man who blew in with the wind.

Pass the Hot Sauce

Pepper.
Mixed with ink.

Throughline -
Commuter spills it.

Signs.
Used to confuse.

Jolt

But why is it comfortable to be numb? No one likes to think of herself as a dolt. You need to trust your senses when top secret messages fall from the sky. How else are we supposed to figure out the meaning of life? Don't you want to know? Do you find any of this the least bit interesting? I'm fascinated no matter how you answer that. Tell me what energizes you each morning. And since you're a cough--wiseass--cough I know what you want to say, so don't.

Breakfast on Elk Street

I'm a grown woman, for God's sake. I can leave the house for ten minutes and go for a walk. Can't they understand that?

And then he runs out of the house, barefoot and clad in too-large-for-his-skinny-frame neon green pajamas. Maia and Pookie walk by this house nearly every day; she's never seen the boy before. 4'7" or thereabouts, longish, uneven sandy blonde hair, blotchy caramel-colored skin, those funny see-through braces on his teeth as he stands on the sidewalk smiling and staring.

"I sure like your dog," he says. "I wish we could have a small one like that." Pookie waddles over and licks the boy's toes. He laughs. "Yeah...toes," the boy says as he laughs some more. "We can only have big ones." Just then a black sedan pockmarked with rust pulls up to the curb in front of the boy's house. A man of muscular build dressed in a black t-shirt, black sweatpants, white crew sox, and bright orange sandals gets out from behind the wheel. He carefully balances two to-go cups and two packs of Marlboro Reds and kicks the driver's side door shut with one of his orange feet. "Hey Jim," says the boy to the man. The man nods once as he eyes Maia and her dog. The boy runs back up the walk to open the front door. Over his shoulder the boy calls to Maia. "See you later." Pookie barks as the man enters a shadowy hallway. The boy follows the man inside; his pajamas glow in the dark. The door closes behind them and Maia whistles softly for Pookie to pick up the pace. Maia notices the For Lease sign in the boy's front yard as she and the dog continue on their way. A sharp whiff of sweet autumnal decay is carried on the breeze as maple leaves sway high above Elk Street.

Gary dips a piece of toast into the steaming mug as he looks through the slats of the beige vinyl shades. He's glad Maia is doing something about her weight.