I hope to someday
construct a single, free-standing thought, strong enough to support an idea
from the conception of a story, all the way through to its conclusion. It should be able to withstand any plot
twists that may occur while adding support to any suspension of disbelief.
ZC
I am always surprised when I sit down to write but nothing comes to me. As vast and complex as this universe is, and as crowded as our planet has become, you’d think I’d never run out of gibberish, and yet – here I sit, writing about the fact that nothing springs to mind.
Maybe while we are waiting for me to get an inspiration, I'll share a riddle with you. There is this young girl, working in a candy store. Her name is Roberta. She has dark hair that always has a blue ribbon in it. She is five feet, six inches tall and has two brothers, both are on the high school wrestling team. She is very pretty and friendly to all of the customers. What do you suppose she weighs?
Try to figure it out, don’t just scroll to the end looking for the answer. If you have already figured it out, then you are probably way too advanced for the level of my gibberish. You may want to move on to a more sophisticated periodical, perhaps The Onion, or The Upstart Crow. I do believe, however, that I am a couple rungs above The San Diego Reader.
I would avoid
anything associated with newspapers or journalism, as the amount of tarnish on
their reputation is beyond restoration.
OK, fine, I have procrastinated long enough. Of course, the girl working in the candy
store spends most of her time weighing candy.
Now see… wasn’t that worth waiting for? PS, making reference to The Upstart Crow being a periodical was a diversionary tactic, designed to slow you down.
ZC
We’ve never been a one-ply family. Downsizing into a retirement facility is going to move our walls in closer, eliminate many of the rooms that now accompany us, and it will add sights and sounds we are not use to. Truly an adjustment.
Instead of a full-size kitchen we will utilize a self-heating spatula and an oven mitt. Outside views will be restricted to no more than 44 feet, with limited peripheral views not to extend beyond our neighbor’s flower bed on one side and the clothesline on the other.
All television volumes will be controlled by the front office, as will each room’s thermostat.
Group activities are required to include at least one disgruntled resident and one sympatric complainer. Any and all disputes will be resolved with rock, paper, scissors.
Happy hours should not start before 11 am.
Poetry is not restricted to the page.
Sometimes it is just standing there
waiting for you to notice it.
See, do you hear that?
Our cow, Lucy, will only go into the barn if we play Cat Stevens music. When ever the music stops, she comes out and will not go in again until we start the music back up. Strange but true.
attraction to Cat Steven’s music. She did not hesitate
to inform me that it was not all Cat Stevens
songs she
liked, but one in particular, but the minute
she hears
him singing, she trots in here, just in case
he sings her
favorite.
I
asked which one was her favorite and she said,
Into White, was her all time favorite. She liked the
melody and the sound of it in general. She did go on
to say she had no idea what the lyrics were
about and
asked if I might explain them to her.
After
I read them, I too had no idea, but I just
said they were outside the realm of bovine
understanding.
To which she replied, “You don’t know either,
do you?”
I built my house from barley rice
Green pepper walls and water ice
Tables of paper wood, windows of light
And everything emptying into white.
A simple garden, with acres of sky
A Brown-haired dogmouse
If one dropped by
Yellow Delanie would sleep well at night
With everything emptying into white.
A sad Blue eyed drummer rehearses outside
A Black spider dancing on top of his eye
Red legged chicken stands ready to strike
And everything emptying into white.
I built my house from barley rice
Green pepper walls and water ice
And everything emptying into white
No clue.
I was very young at the time. Most of my thoughts were of myself and of what I wanted. I was selfish and cared very little about what was going on in the world. My car was my entire world. I had found it, fell in love with it and paid for it myself. It wasn’t much but to me it was everything.
Henry, at the gas station, was wise in the ways of cars. He is the one I bought all of my gas from and he would always make suggestions on how I should take care of it and what to watch for. I remember he was always saying to keep an eye on the tires. According to him, those were the most important parts. “You don’t want a blowout at high speed.”
I recall the first time it was put up on the rack. Henry wasn’t saying much and I had very limited resources for repairs. I was a nervous wreck. That was, of course, only the first in a long line of visits to Henry’s garage. It seemed there was a relationship between the mileage going up and the number of needed repairs going in the same direction.
It was on a Saturday morning when I got the call from Henry, he said we needed to talk. I thought he was going to tell me the gas prices were going up again. He always felt bad whenever he had to raise his prices. He knew how hard I was working and that I didn’t have much money to begin with. The only other thing would be to tell me that my car was ready. He had it in his garage for the last two days, fixing something in the transmission.
As I walked up to Henry’s, I could hear the country music coming from the garage. He loved his country music. When he noticed me walking up the drive, he wiped his hands on a red shop towel, reached over and clicked the music off. Yikes, I thought. This must be serious. I followed him into the office. I sat on the plastic chair across from his desk. So far, he hasn’t said anything. That was making me feel a little queasy.
“How bad is it?” I asked. This was the first time my baby had stayed by herself overnight. I was already scared. I looked over at my car. She was still up on the rack, Henry’s rolling toolbox sat open and there were tools and parts everywhere.
As Henry went into his speech about his limited resources, and not having the latest technology, my thoughts were wandering to me sitting on the front seat, my Magic eightball gearshift knob, my fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror and how much I wanted him to stop jabbering and just tell me how much I owe.
He must have noticed I was sitting there daydreaming, for then he just came out with it. “I can’t fix it.” That did it. That snapped me back into the moment. “You can’t fix it, or it can’t be fixed?”
I could tell this was bothering Henry as much as me. I thought for a minute his eyes were tearing up. “It is going to cost more to get that car running again than the thing is worth.”
My heart sank. “I think I’m going to be sick.” I said.
Henry didn’t respond. He just sat looking at me, like he was a doctor and had just told a family member that he couldn’t save the patient.
Suddenly, I wanted to hear his country music again. I wanted to hear someone else singing about loss and heartbreak. About pickup trucks and loyal dogs.
I glanced out into Henry’s work area. The image that jumped into my head was Henry’s diagnostic machine showing a flatline. I had lost my best friend. I stood up and just sort of started walking back home. It was like I was in shock. I had not even thought about what to do with the body. I had no idea how to make the necessary arrangements.
About halfway down
the driveway I heard the music come back on behind me. I didn’t recognize the song, I was just glad it
wasn’t Willie singing. On the Road Again.
ZC
