Archive Page 2

21
Jul
13

I wander

Nightmare02-grocery-aisles photo Nightmare02-supermkt-aisles_zps01b9f04a.jpg

Photo Credit: “Hard Shopping” by Ekinox

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It’s a funny thing, the business of balancing

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the time to day dream, to exist in a pure state of possibility, and to set about creating from the mind’s eye, to feel the joy of inspiration

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the time to work, to make money to live on mankind’s version of Earth

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the time to notice the strings of undone things about the house—don’t touch them, not even one, for they are not separate as they appear!

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the time to be tricked, to touch a string and to follow it like an endless rope that strangles the day

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It’s like wandering through supermarket aisles in a night dream – I see my list, it’s in my hand, and my intent feels strong and sure, but the floor becomes distant and the aisles are towering strange and resistant to aim and effort – I watch myself wander and gather extraneous things, deaf to my own instruction

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I find myself at the county fair on a ride with dead controls – I turn the wheel in my hands, it spins, loose, and I slam into task after task, each with a lock to get to the next level, each with a promise that it’s the last one – I watch my lips say And then you can day dream

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But when will I wake from the night dream? If I don’t, or worse, if I do, and still effect no strength of purpose, I will continue to wander the aisles carrying the list

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not feeling the quickening of my footsteps pounding or the blood pulsing at my temple

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just carrying the list

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to the grave

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Fin

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Click here for more on prompt “#378 – Wander” from other Sunday Scribblings participants.

04
Dec
12

between you and me and everyone at the bar & grill

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Photo from Favim.com, a fantastic place!

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They looked like a happy couple when they arrived, could have been new, like the blossoms and Kelly green of spring.

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Over bread and butter, their conversation and smiles were easy as summer coming in through a screen door.

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A bottle of red arrived as he took the BlackBerry® from his pocket and answered an email. The oranges and yellows of the candle flame consumed her mask. His thumbs flew over the keys like crows over a cut cornfield, harbingers of winter. And she sat haunted and waiting in the autumn chill, years and years of hurt falling softly round her feet.

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As winter comes in fits and starts, the evening was punctuated with emails. In the sun of his attention, she forced excitement in telling some story of her day or life, exaggerated gestures in expressing her ideas or discoveries. Otherwise she waited in the rain of ticking keys, ill at ease in the snow-showers of disregard.

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Even in the fierceness of winter’s bite, she never said an adverse word, as if taught not to at the stern hand of experience. Instead she sat stripped, like Hans Christian Andersens’ emperor, her confidence so long gone to tatters that it was of no use to her anymore.

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Outside, the snow fell slowly, lay fat and lazy and full of diamonds on the ground of this quaint ski town. Lamps atop garland-wrapped posts cast out warm, glowing circles that outshone the snapshot of sadness inside.

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Stores, now closed for the day, sparkled like little wonderlands, the starry lights round their windows promising hope for the tomorrows of our capitalistic land. Couples and families laughed their way to cars and hotels, and the locals walked with well-pleased intent.

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All of the town and its goings-on, all of it twinkled and pulsed in the dark of a vast, incomprehensible night, as a nano-blip on an infinite radar screen:

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One mixed message encoded into a feeble optical signal from a townful of transient bodies amidst transmuting tapestries of limitless perceptions of realities.

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One infinitesimal emission from this world and its little and large sadnesses and happinesses, its construction and destruction, its opposites existing together and happening at once or alternating with tides and seasons.

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Fin

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Click here for more on prompt “#348 – Between You and Me” from other Sunday Scribblings participants.

26
Nov
12

Peanut

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Photo from the IFAW website

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For Nova
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What did you think under that hellish sky
Midst the insane wind flying at your door,
Beating fistfuls of debris against it?
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What did you make of the depressive air,
The vicelike feel of angry greyness,
Of barren lifelessness pressing in?
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Did you sense danger in the disruption:
No key turning in the lock, no voice, no walk,
No food or water, just cold and dark
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What did you think when the water rose,
Leaving its darksome mark on the walls,
Leaving you to wait in its toxic ooze
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I know what you thought when the strangers came,
When they saw your muddy prints on the fridge,
And found you standing on top of a bed
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I know what you thought
I saw it in your eyes
Curious, wary, hopeful
I saw it on the news
You knew
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You let them slip the loop on
And lead you off the bed
I saw you understand
That they were saving you
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Where are you now, little dog, and what do you think?
Has your former way of life been somewhat restored?
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Or have you had to become
A dog of the universe
Like one I used to know?
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Fin
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Notes:

Hurricane Sandy hit the eastern seaboard October 29 and wrought a brand of havoc never before experienced there. It’s destructive power was greater than Katrina or Andrew.

On November 3, the IFAW—one of the many animal rescue organizations working the Sandy aftermath—rescued a little Shih Tzu they called “Peanut.”

Here are a few links documenting the rescue:

The first story of Peanut – 11/3/12

Link to a video that includes Peanut’s rescue – 11/6/12

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Click here for more on prompt #347 – Flood from other Sunday Scribblings participants.

19
Nov
12

Bathwater Blues

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Image credit
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Go back to the silence
The silence between the sounds
They say
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So many sounds
So many egos making sounds
The air struggles to hold them all
They tangle, droop down
Rats’ nests of sound-laden molecules
Dangling from waves like plugs on chains
Radio waves, microwaves
Thieves of peace
Refractors of paths
Devils, angels, spiders and flies
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Hush little baby, don’t you cry
Everything’s gonna be OK
They say
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Click here for more on prompt #346 – Silence from other Sunday Scribblings participants.

28
Oct
12

The Widow

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The Rainy Funeral from the movie “Sucker Punch” 2011, director Zach Snyder

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Years of decline

Months of care-giving

Weeks of hospice nurses coming and going

Days of waiting, listening to breathing

And when at last he leaves, she is shocked

Where is his body, how is it being kept, what are they doing to it, when can I see it?

She is wasted and white, won’t eat, subsists on the proteins in her tears

She venerates him, grasps at photos, keepsakes, correspondence, anything he’s written, anything that’s been written about him

She reaches out arms like a miser for gold, scoops mountains of memorabilia back to her breast, stacks it like bricks between the mortar of condolences, a despairing attempt at building him back alive again

She seethes and snaps, wounded and angry, clings and kisses, guilt-ridden and grateful

Loved ones mince their words into euphemisms and slither between suggestion and coercion

While high on a hill, between Life and Death, she stands cloudy and windblown, teetering between both doors, a feeble knuckle raised to knock, as her family waits below

Is love worth the risk of loss to Death?

Ask her at the alter and she would say “Of course,” because she couldn’t possibly know

Ask her as the widow poised between the doors, and her answer would be “Yes,” whichever door she chose

Fin

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Click here for more on prompt #343 – Risk from other Sunday Scribblings participants.

21
Oct
12

Following Curiosity

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An Amanda Hone acrylic on Stretched Canvas 20″ x 20″ (50 x 50 cm)
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A lanky, liver-spotted man hopped the bus at W 14th and 10th. He fixed his wild eyes on a seat and lurched toward it as the bus bucked traffic. A nervous little man with a red bow-tie moved a newspaper out of the way and Lanky sat down, nodded. Bow-tie’s mouth twitched.
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Lanky slid his carrying case off his shoulder, pulled out a small pad and pen, and set the case at his feet. He sat back, raked a hand through his long, salt-and-pepper hair, and flipped the pad open.
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Out of the corner of his eye, Bow-tie watched Lanky scribble madly, filling pages, flipping them over. He strained to see what exact words were streaming out of this free-feeling man, and he quivered with the frustration of being unable to make them out.
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At W 66th and Amsterdam, Lanky stopped writing and started going over his notes from the beginning. With rapid flourishes, he crossed sections out and jotted down revisions, some on existing pages, some on fresh pages, and some of those he crossed out and tore out of the pad completely, crumpled and tossed them aside.
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Bow-tie flinched each time a ball of paper hit the floor. His bald brow was moistening with anxiety, but he kept his hands clenched in his lap and his lips pursed.
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Lanky finished his odd notating and purging procedure barely prior to his stop at W 86th and Amsterdam. He jammed the pad and pen into his case just as the bus came to a stop. He nodded at Bow-tie and rose to leave. Bow-tie wimpered.
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Bow-tie forced himself to sit tight. He arched his neck to see toward the front of the bus. Just as Lanky reached the door, he looked back at Bow-tie and waved. “Enjoy” he hollered, and he was gone.
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In a heated blush, Bow-tie scrambled to the floor and snatched up every crumpled ball of paper he could see while the bus lurched and whined and hissed. He held the balls in his moistened hands, hoisted himself back into his seat, and feverishly began to unrumple them.
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Bow-tie’s face went from rosy to flaming red during the process of discovering the note papers were all blank but one, and it read, “If you want to know what I’ve been writing, come to 590 Columbus at 7pm.”
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An incendiary mixture of rage and confusion and resentment and curiosity fire-bombed a lifetime of emotional suppression, and yet Bow-tie emerged from the assault with knees pressed together, eyes staring straight ahead, and a decision.
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Instead of continuing on toward home, Bow-tie got off at the next stop and walked with precision back 5 blocks to 590 Columbus and was surprised to find himself standing outside the Riverside Community Center. He sniffed and went inside.
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Just past the reception area he saw a signboard outside an open doorway glowing with light. People inside the room were quietly choosing seats. Bow-tie went nearer. The large print on the sign read, “The ’Upgrade Your Sex Life!’ Course, With Dr. Morrow, October 17-19.” Below it was a photo of Lanky, and underneath that was an impressive list of his credentials in the field of psychology.
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Bow-tie’s face flushed yet again and in a subdued state of disappointment he turned to go, but in the turning he caught a familiar face. He turned back toward the glowing doorway and met the familiar eyes of his wife staring back at him. She turned beet red and looked away.
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Bow-tie turned heel, heeded his usual flight response but was caught right before the reception desk. A familiar touch, a familiar voice, “Join me, Darling?” Bow-tie froze. Another fire-bomb to his now tenuous emotional constitution: indignation and shame and fright and curiosity…
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Fin
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Click here for more on prompt #342 – Upgrade from other Sunday Scribblings participants.

07
Oct
12

Like magic

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Photo credit

The missing writing prompt. Slippery like spectacles, pens, wayward socks, car keys, remote controls, earrings. Near impossible to find.

The desire to search—measured against the value of the object and the time at hand—warps trickily into an obsession to search.

Stacks of papers and magazines are peeked under. “Bedaubed”, “mackerel sky”, “demons”, “trapped”, “jeepers”, “black-eyed”, “dripping”, “wildcat”… Not it.

A will toward methodical reasoning wavers above a deadly undercurrent of panicked movements from room to room.

Cushions, pillows, piles of clothes are snatched up and flung aside. “Dog-eared”, “debauched”, “jewels”, “machismo”, “shinbone”, “millions”, “revolver”, “gangling”… Oh, I know it’s here somewhere!

Cliché-laden babble escalates to profanity, serves no other psychological purpose but to fuel the craziness. “Jingle”, “rattletrap”, “scurvy”, “penny dreadful”, “creaky”, “tyrant”, “flibbertigibbet”, “nuclear”… Where the bleeding hell is it???

Headless dashing, scrabbling, digging in baskets, boxes, drawers, opening and slamming doors, cabinets… “Charming”, “badgered”, “troll”, “broken”, “bridge”, “stolen”, “pitch-black”…

A scream!

A loud bang!

Wits end is reached.

And still no sign of it. Like it never was, as if all along only imagined…

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Click here for more entries from other Sunday Scribblings participants.