but i had a boat!

It’s one of those days… you know the kind;

like when you think you’re playing 7-card stud, and it turns out you’re playing razz.

A pile to peruse

I have a lot of things in my head that I kinda want to write about, but haven’t. Thoughts that might comprise a post; but none of it has been like… formed.

We took an aquarium trip last month that I meant to download the pictures from; then there’s a John Williams post on the back-burner- John Williams the composer that is. I wanted to talk about how sensual the Samuel Adams site is, even for a non-beer drinker. Talking about beer is a lot more appealing than drinking the stuff, in my humble opinion.

I might have considered making mention of the weather in correlation to mood. Or considered commenting on my irresponsiveness the last couple weeks. Or discussed, once more, the sweetly retarded aspects of being in love.

I could talk about the ants. Yes? I don’t know… fascinating but creepy-crawly. (We recently survived an infestation.)

Or I could discuss my daughter’s new-found discovery of phone-power & her fondness for calling anyone, anyone at all, at any hour. This has made the last few days interesting, and I only moments ago fielded a gentle request from a friend’s mom that Sierra not call before 6 a.m.

I’ve been thinking about the wild-fires in California, wondering at the climatic conditions that allowed 800 wildfires to be roaring across that beautiful state so early in the season.

And I have blog pals on the mind, too. Everyone’s living their own life, and it’s such a crazy spectrum of experiences if you glance at it for a moment: This family is expecting a baby, this family has lost someone; this blogger has had terrible luck with break-ins of both car and apartment; this blogger has an exciting project going where they can show their art-work in an online gallery; these two bloggers have changed domains, this blogger has changed residence.

Wow.

And I think I’ll come back to the ants here, cus I can’t help but draw a metaphoric comparison between the scurrying industry, the purpose and perfectly unconscious absorption of the ant it its daily life as she goes about her daily tasks, and then the bigger picture (maybe not so very much bigger?) Of us. We. People: So very caught up in our world, the drama’s unfolding therein. There are things that ripple across and touch many of us at once from time to time, but from above it must look like so much chaos resolving itself in brief but beautiful designs that disintegrate once more before you can even see how each microcosm is connected.

So what do I do? I think I’ll post the pictures here and there, create my own little chaos. Cover everything and nothing, leave a big old pile here to peruse, if you so desire…

It’s the summer, after all, and if my ears do not deceive me, my daughter is making more inroads on the telephone.

I do so hope she hasn’t called 911 out of pure sociability… again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Artist of the Portrait

With a failure of imagination, I say
“Illustrate a book.”

Full up with understanding
that if I went dancing into mystified air
with my portal, your painting,
it would be tragedy to
invite everybody there.

“your imprint detached itself from the great cloud, giving up

forgetfulness and unknowing, taking up memory and knowledge,

wearing once again the clown suit, cheering me from my great longing,

pushing me back from the edge of the hollowed out place

where the tangled mess of old toys, broken screen doors,

rusted refrigerators and old tricycles waited.”

We try to slot you into familiar context-
market our wonder
reproduce what resonates
in the tired, pillaged heart.

I’m better for you staying
out of the open meadow;
close by the twisting forest,
obscured by dark.

For I can only see
the vibrant star of morning
under the purple shadow
of twilit skies.

Bewildered memories fill up
my mind before these visions:
That such elusive wonders could meet
ordinary eyes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

*art work and linked words are by artist Rick Mobbs of Mine Enemy Grows Older. This is a tribute to the artist

….12:21 pm?!?

hi

I’m awake. Sorta.

Old wisdom isn’t necessarily bad wisdom

I’m a pretty staunch believer in a few of the old proverbial wisdoms. These little gems tend to ring true for me:

1. He without sin may cast the first stone.

2. To thine own self be true.

3. Fuck ‘em if they cant take a joke.

I iz noT bLUFFing

The sound was off, but the television still flickered, casting odd shadows on the dark walls as he sat at his computer. With a grin, he pushed the ’submit’ button, and the latest, whisker-faced horror appeared in its full throttle cutesiness on screen.

“That should do it.”

He rose to turn off the television but paused for a moment. It was the muppet show, one of the old, classic episodes.

“Odd.”

He paused to watch a moment. Muppets on Sci-fi? Surely a programming fubar. He reached once more for the dial and suddenly saw that down in the corner of the screen, Gonzo was finally making it with one of the buxom chickens. Feathers were flying, the cameras began to pan away from Kermit’s antics and toward the sweaty, hook-nosed tussle at the side of the stage.

Molo stared fascinated and repulsed. “That’s nasty!”

High pitched, maniacal laughter suddenly filled the room, though the sound on the t.v. was still turned all the way down.

A face glowed onto the screen, faintly pink and prominently snouted. Molo began to feel his body transform irresistibly.

“No. Stop it! NOOOOO!”

“Too late… ” said the sickeningly sweet Henson creation. “You see, I like the look of you, Molee…”

In mere moments the metamorpheses was complete. Molo pattered to the bathroom and climbed up on the counter. His eyes, once shrewd, were now googly. His limbs were ridiculously thin and flexible. Hair had been replaced by a synthetic blend in child friendly colors, and his entire person was made out of felt.

“Change me back!” He roared at the blonde swine batting her lashes at his new exterior.

“Not yet… first you must have the chance to experience muppet ecstasy.”

“I’ll never…! You can’t have me!”

“Oh, I can’t?”

Molo muppet felt a strange sensation overcome him as invisible threads moved him away from the mirror and toward the battered 70’s retro couch with mustard stains. It was oddly sensual to have no volition. He felt himself sinking into the mindless tug of muppet compliance, but caught himself and began to struggle.

Piggy sighed. “For now, you may watch.”

It was alarming to have no power, to feel his head focused forward, even as he closed his googly eyes stubbornly. He could hear them filing into the room, the small nasal mutters of the Doozers from Fraggle Rock. He wouldn’t look but he knew something unspeakably horrifying was about to transpire.

It began with her soft sighs, and the rustle of felt. Soon she was squealling and asking for more and the Doozers were politely intoning. “Your turn. I’ve had a go.”

“Yes, yes!” screamed piggy. “Oh, give it to me, give it to me, my little green men!”

“With pleasure.” They chanted in unison. “With pleasure, Miss Piggy. Again! Again!”

“Molleee….. open your eyes!” She called.

Molo clenched his tiny, fingerless fists and refused. For hours it went on, until he must have slept. In sweaty, troubled dreams Rolf was playing “76 Long-bones” While Fozzie gummed Mokey’s nipples, and Kermit took Foz from behind, saying, “Hi-ho, Kermit the frog here…”

The quiet is what woke him. When he cautiously rolled one lid back he saw that he was sitting in a circle of muppets, and all eyes were on him.

“Are you okay?” Said a gentle little brunette from Sesame Street. “We heard the sounds, she must have ridden you pretty hard.”

“I didn’t…” he gasped.

“She’s impossible to say no to. I still have the scars.” sighed Grover.

“Where am I?”

Molo looked around. There was a table in the center of the circle. Cards were arranged on the table. Cards and chips. Cards and chips and fried food.

“Is this a seance?”

The muppets all laughed. An androgynous thing with antennaes put her hand on his thigh, and he jumped.

“Relax man, it’s just a game. Just a good game of poker.”

“Poker?”

He saw suggestiveness in every act. The soft rhythm of Elmo’s voice as he explained the rules seemed purposely sensual. The slap of the cards, the taking the giving, the ruthless dominance of the big-blinds, the helpless slavegirl aspect of the short stacks. It was just all wrong, all wrong.

“Fold.” He whispered, again and again.

“Deal.” Came the merciless voice.

He was on the big blind. It was getting really dangerous. He could feel the pig’s breath on the back of his neck. Somehow, someway she was engineering this. Somehow she was getting her way.

The little brunette that he’d made the mistake of trusting put him all-in.

With an air of perfect defeat, he threw his cards in. “Not playin’ that game.”

The muppet girl leered at him, as she turned over her cards:

7 of clubs, 2 of diamonds.

“That’s what they call… a bluff.” she smiled.

“Who are you?” Molo moaned.

“Mary Sue Muppet, but of course!” She curtsied and her shirt fell off.

“No! No! No!” Shouted Molo. Lunging he grabbed hold of the little muppet kitten licking her paws under the table. He pushed its face in swiftly, fluffed its fur, and wielded it at the table of evil muppets. They lunged back gasping.

I iz MOLO. Nawt a Muppet! I iz Leaving this Evil Playse!

“Why is he talking like that?”

“I don’t know, but I’m scared.”

“U tak me homes! I are omgTired of NitermareZ! Releese Molo!”

“Drop the cat.” came the voice of Miss Piggy, all sweetness gone now.

“NeverZ!” Molo muppet grabbed for a half-gnawed lemon rind, and placed it on the kitten’s head like a jaunty, yellow hat. “Me so cute! Mewz, mewz! Y u fuck wit me, huh?”

The muppets around the table grabbed their heads and began to moan. The cuteness was defeating them.

“Y it kanz u hold me heres?! Omfg, home goes now!”

“Alright! Okay! Just stop talking like that, please! You can go home!” Piggy waved her hand in the air, and suddenly Molo shot up to four times his height. Scrambling, he kicked muppets left and right in his hurry to get out of this terrible world.

And then he was waking up.

“I iz home?” he muttered. “I iz home now? No pig sex?”

“There, there. ” said a voice. “You’re okay. It was all a dream. Don’t worry. You’re just sick. Very sick. You have a little virus is all.”

“Virus?” His eyes flew open.

No longer googly eyed, but still recognizable by the leer, the brunette smiled down at him. “Yes, just a little brain-bug. You’re going to be fine.”

“Oh Noes!” said Molo.

“O Yes.” She said. “O yes, o yes indeed. LoL.”

announcement

I’ve decided to turn this into an ‘All Sex, All the Time’ Smut Blog featuring muppets in compromising positions and extemely off-color jokes about men who love unicorns, not wisely, but all too well.

What, you don’t think I’m serious?

Try me.

Tuesdays

And with a tired look
I turned to better ideas
rolling up my sleeves with
infinitesimal care.

Nothing is more than a dull throb
on Tuesday morning.

Rise. Wash. Eat.
The triumph is in base mastery
over raw material.

The alternative?

If I should sit, silent, waiting
one minute more,
what should become of me?

I mark this thought passing
as it comes with shuffle feet and wanders by.

Could I sit forever
waiting for impetus
that never comes,

held aloft by ideals that
this morning with its false promise
should be deferred
for personal desire?

I’ve stopped listening for it.

“There is an old sound to Tuesday mornings.”

I am unsure of anything,
unsure who speaks to me.

“I thought it would be easier than this.”

Pull a book out, open it up.

“It’s not supposed to be easy.”

There it is; the blank, wide stare.

“Try and remember…”

Both faltering now, and winning.

“Try and remember… who you are.”

I turn now, the cold swivel a definitive shove
to all forms of false comfort.

I won’t forgive hope its destructive qualities.

Not on a Tuesday.

Just concentrate on details
till the day dissolves
to small, strained absolutes.

when the sun shines

Love falls out of my hands, and into my lap.

I’m lucky. Lucky? I get in my car, and think if I could just drive:

To the tree. To the bridge, and out where the sun is making the horizon fail-safe.

If I could just be no-one I would be myself. Voices push and pull, and the sun on my hands on the steering wheel feels right.

It’s not another life, it’s the first one- getting stronger the more miles I get away from anything I’ve tried to become.

I devise a plan. Step by step, beginning tomorrow. Engineering a getaway like a smart girl.

Already there’s holes in the plan, though.

Someday I’ll get in the car and drive. Maybe. Someday. Maybe, when everything’s right and I’m taller. A little taller. When I have it all figured out.

Maybe, someday.

Maybe tomorrow.

an aside

If you’ve never sneezed while eating a bite of oatmeal, believe me when I say it is  ‘a memorable experience’.