random bits

Do you ever have random memories pop into your head?  she asked.

His smile was a response, she knows he does not.  Her question was not a real inquiry anyway but, rather, a polite intro to her own reverie.

“I was remembering a very hot August Sunday afternoon.  I was about 9, out on the small porch on my grandparents’ apartment in Revere, Massachusetts.  

The small portable radio is at my side and I am laying on a thin bath towel. on top of the splintery wood floor. When I look up the sky is fragmented into uneven bits by a criscross of  wires that look like they have been there as long as the sky, but that couldn’t be.

‘Love is higher than a mountain, love is thicker than water . . . heaven’s angel, devil’s daughter.’  (Two separate women?  two sides of the same woman?)  Do I never hear that song anymore because it is so awful, or because i have fabricated it?

I feel like the big girls, my cousins who sun themselves by their outdoor pool, who Drink Soda and Talk About Boys.  I like to pretend I am becoming indoctrinated and try to ignore niggling questions like “How do they lie there uncomplaining and baking for hours at a time like glossy game hens?”  and  “Does anyone actually find this fun or is this the modern day Emperor’s New Clothes?”

I am bored but I don’t have the energy to get up for a long time.  The sun erased my will.  Eventually I do go inside, away from the too-intense sunshine and too-friendly hornets.

My mother begins, ‘Don’t let the screen door…’

whump.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I understand why the older ladies start wearing shawls.  Once you are marginalized, no-one gives you their heat.  No-one wants to touch you any longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He loved her for her quirks.  The way her sounds of pleasure were small questions (“Oh?  Oh?”).  But mostly, for the things she was not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She looked at the flags and wreaths adorning the gravestones with a grimace – the popularity contest doesn’t even end with death!

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Some

Dear unsated self,

I’d like to introduce you to Some. Some is better than None. Some is even sometimes better than All, because it may mean moderation. It may mean not exhausted, not tapped out, not 0 to 60, not over-caffeinated, not unrealistic, frustrated & whining.

Some is your friend. Some is the real world. Some can be cause for celebration in some contexts. Some is the down-to-earth, working class, worn but comfy couch of the sanctuaried mind. Some laughs with you.

Embrace the Some. Invite Some in, try it on like a new-to-you fleece vest. Close your eyes. There. Some wants you to remember the journey. Memento vivere. Some is the truest legacy.

Not Overheard – well, except for her & me

Me: Is there, like, a disorder where, unless you write something down, it feels like that thing isn’t official, or really real or something?

Care Provider: Oh, probab . . .

Me: Wait, no, actually, is there a disorder where you feel compelled to write lots of things down in order for them to be official and on the radar and “real”, but you struggle against it b/c you’re afraid it means you’re a freak?  Cuz I think have THAT one.

Care provider: Hmm.

Names

For a long time there was only one name I’d ever have wanted to change my name to.  (If I wasn’t a cheapo, of course).  It was a real name I came across when doing data entry as a faculty assistant in grad school the second time, about 15 yrs ago, before dropping out the second time.  Her name was: Ginny Champagne.  Ginny Champagne!  I mean, a name that incorporates two drinks!  I hope her middle name is Kahlua.

Anyway, the other day I came across a rockin name that’s a close second for my most wanted new name: Althea Wolf.  Ah, the things I could have accomplished if I’d been Althea Wolf.

And I Feel Fine

Last night I dreamt Nick Nolte released a cover of REM’s “It’s the End of the World (and I Feel Fine)”, in a country-western style.  I was listening to it on a 45 LP.  It was pretty good.

The album cover showed a close of Nick staring soulfully into the camera, wearing a ribbed blue scarf.

Yup.

buzz

Sometimes I like to creep myself out, and let my imagination run wild and tell itself spooky stories.  Yesterday morning I was driving without any music, NPR or podcasts on and without the youngster chatting in the back – rare.  I could hear a faint buzzy hum in the front of the car.

I told myself that it was the a mega-hive of yellow jackets that had begun building itself under my hood.

One like this, whose image you can find while happily trolling the internet.
Image

Or this doozy.

Image

Ahem.  So, in my story it’s a massive nest I’m unaware of and I get an urgent call from a friend in need and have to drop everything and drive cross-country by myself.  I’m cruising along, then I get tired.  I pull off the road and take a nap.  I wake up because something is tickling my lip.  When I wake up I’m covered two-deep in yellow jackets.  Aiyee!

This is one of the reasons why I haven’t been super successful at meditating.

Tahini Weenie

Much as I love bright colors, I’m realizing I would be wise to start building a tahini color-only wardrobe (excepting, of course, the teeny weeny tahini bikini).  This is because I like tahini smeared liberally upon my lunch, and my snacks, and it is damn gloopy.

So each day I end up with tahini speckles around the neck of my shirt, all over my rack, and inexplicably on the right thigh, only.  It doesn’t rub out nicely with a paper towel and a bit of water as my pals iced tea and yogurt do.  It kind of soaks into the tiny spaces between threads in the weave of your clothing, then takes a break to gather its energy so it can laugh at you.

Tahini. . .now with more gloop!

Tahini. . .now with more gloop!