Semi-Daily Scribbles

The Shadow Side

Brandi never wanted to travel that meandering middleroad, where life shrinks and grows and folds in on itself to reveal the early-warning signs of wrinkles and wisdom. Only fresh starts and big payoffs would do. Brandi hated the thought that her life could be reduced to a monotonous crawl of sameness from day to day until all her days had been used up. No! Brandi's world, filled with first-times and ageless faces, was the dream that would not stay inside its tight little circle of light. The ideal spilled over into Brandi's every thought, every action. She would make it her life's work to throw open the doors of the unknowable. Perhaps then Brandi would come to see herself as the travelers on the long middleroad did. They saw a blur. A shapeless image. A shadow by their side.

12

In a galaxy far, far away (i.e.: in one of time's many iterations) I am 12. I watch a new hope unfold. It is bigger than the screen in front of me. It surrounds and drowns out all other thoughts. The picture starts over at high noon so no one is late and no one is early. I get home right when I should because I never left. All I have to do is be still as the last fold turns into the first story ever told. I listen once more with new eyes.

Expedition

We don't want to know you but you've served your purpose well
You embarked on an expedition to find riches for me
Made it home with a bit of flesh left on your bones
Paid your dues plus interest
Fulfilled your obligation
Exploitation never varies its tune
Credit earned does not make a statement true
Thievery keeps me at #1
My youth forever in bloom

Mementos

 

 

Sandy, covered in mollusk mucous, smelling of the low tide. Treasure! Vital is the grit, the tang, the salt sea mist on taffy-pulled lips. Slap and slurp of the flip flop lost in the tide pool. Slime trails anoint mementos that come home in pockets and glove boxes. Display found objects in a prominent spot. Magic mile markers remind us we were once on the road. We stopped long enough to let the waves rush in to meet us.

Population

Progress is marked with fields sprouting water towers. Migration marches on, while the population standing on two legs overruns the one cowering on all four. What was once wild is now paved and striped as yet another stretch of the endless mile.

Sign

Just turn it off.
There is no reason to look.
There is no reward in outlasting the masses
by standing outside in the rain all day.
I don’t speak of it, won’t speak of it.
There is no incentive I can give
that would make you
pound down the will
of those caught in your wake.
Shake it off and shake loose the rocks.
It was just a joke to begin with.
Now it’s ending in misquotes and record sales.
That’s not applause you’re hearing.
It’s the sound of reason cracking.
It’s the sound of empathy breaking.
It’s the sound of your wayward
steps leading you further and further
from the trust you’ve buried away.

One more reason to walk past
your face the next time I see it
hiding behind the caution sign.

Detour

The old man who owns the convenience store at the end of the block gave me a few words of advice this morning as I dashed in to pick up half-and-half and tampons.

"If you're just concerned with putting one foot in front of the other," he said, "then it's the detour you'll always want to take. There's no better view and no quicker way to get to where you didn't know you wanted to go." As I thanked him, dropping my change into a cleaned out cat food tin next to the register, I thought about where I could wander with my bag of essentials. Before I realized it, brain tangled up in thoughts of a romantic escape, my feet stopped moving forward. I looked up. Nope, this was not my apartment building. Judging from the scenery, I'd walked several blocks out of my way. That's when the shopkeeper's voice boomed in my head.

"Funny thing, advice. Always best to ignore what you've been told if you want to get any value from it." I closed my eyes hoping to chase away the riddles, or at least find myself in familiar territory when I opened them. Neither of these things happened, and, to make matters more annoying, it began to rain. Drops turned to splats, which joined up to form sheets, but I did get to read the sign on the building before my glasses fogged up.

Maps and Atlases for the Traveler Who Intends on Getting Lost

My feet began to move again, up five steps to a landing, and through a glass paneled door.

Wanderlust

Gil had been on the road for the last five days. Of course he had a GPS, a map, and an atlas, so he couldn't use getting lost as an excuse. He told himself a tale of self-discovery and wanderlust that he thought would impress the folks back home, but he knew better than to add too much of a flourish to the truth. Gil was no poet, and his people would agree. It made no sense, but Gil admitted to himself that he couldn't stop. It felt wrong to pull off the highway, except for refueling and unloading. He felt as though he were made the designated road warden by an authority older than the redwoods he passed in the night. Gil also needed to hear the sound. The low rolling, humming thump that lulled the troubled parts of his mind. The comforting slap of treads on tarmac, or the satisfying pop and crunch of loose gravel, assured Gil that the road was still there. It hadn't been turned into a transfer station or retreated into his head as an unfulfilled dream. He was the warden. Gil needed to drive in order to prevent the byways from escaping.

Wonder

It is a voice that does not stay in place. It sighs, and sometimes roars. The sound is high over head, and then in my face, moisture hitting my skin. The voice scolds me for leaving, and starts in on its rhythmic tirade:

Slap you senseless. Slap you senseless. Hush. Hush.

I try to explain it is not my intention to keep away forever, but the voice does not listen. How can it? Its purpose is to mark the passage of time by screaming out the number of each beat of my heart. The voice, deep, sonorous, light as mist, is good at mimicking the wonder and beauty of life. But with a rolling crash and a well-placed wave, the voice knocks me back, drags me down, and makes me swallow my words.

Foreign

Mateo made a valiant attempt to clear the tchotchke from his apartment. Clutter collected dust, and dust attracted microscopic critters, and Mateo was scared shitless of the magnified pictures of dust mites that manufacturers of HEPA filters liked using in their advertising. Dusty corners were also attractive to spiders. Many a web had been spun between the raised arms of the flamenco dancer on the top shelf of his pressboard bookcase. So one day, Mateo decided the porcelain lady and her dapper partner, the egg and chick S&P shakers, and a touristy souvenir from Argentina were all headed to Goodwill. Along with these useless things, he'd filled three grocery bags with clothing and kitchen items, and was on his way out the door, when something toppled to the floor. Mateo stared at it as he fumbled with the bags. Taking a deep breath, he set down his castoffs, and reached for the piece of kitsch. Mate was no longer considered exotic or foreign. Mateo got his in teabag form from the corner bodega. He'd never even used the cuia and bombilla. They had been placed on the bookshelf after a package came in the mail a year ago. It was from his father, who Mateo hadn't seen since he was 11. Though Mateo never considered the man a parent, he always accepted his dad's gifts, and made the effort to write thank you notes regardless of how flummoxed he was by the gesture. Not every parcel had a return address, but the mate gourd was sent from a place called Calle Lavalle. Mateo thought it sounded nice, but he had no intention of ever finding out for himself. He was content with the image of a broken old man, wandering the earth, sending his only son junk in the hopes of hitting on something Mateo would actually like. Nothing clicked at the time, but as he walked over to the bookcase with gourd in hand, Mateo realized useless things sometimes fill a purpose.