Semi-Daily Scribbles
Carving out a corner to post random crap.
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I don't like the saying, "Safe as houses." Houses hide secrets in crawlspaces. They creak, and moan, and demand a ransom before they'll leave me alone. They shift on their foundations, too. Pieces big and small blow off in windstorms, or blow up when I plug in the back up freezer in the garage. Houses are also homes to non-human inhabitants. I spy a brown recluse in the corner. I hear voles constructing their nest in the walls. Sugar ants stay in step as they march all over my muesli. Unsettling structures, houses. They live their own lives with no concern for my safety. -
It can take a lifetime to find the place called home. We set our bodies down in one locale or the other, but that is no guarantee the heart and mind have hitched a ride. It is very possible that the pair set out to find their own favorite spot, and the soul hightailed it to the nearest oceanside retreat. On those special occasions, however, when the aforementioned parties have all pulled up to the same address, a transformation occurs. A shelf, a letterbox, a broom cupboard, or a patch of cool, green grass becomes the only spot in the universe where our light is allowed to outshine the sun. -
No amount of seduction was going to brick up the neglected areas that Amanda abandoned for a moment of renown. She wanted the fanfare, but left all the work to her contemplative relations. Amanda was a handful, yet light as luck. Her life was one open ended engagement to the next, looking filled in and impressive on paper, but it was all the shallowest of stunts. Amanda liked the sound of siren, but left it to her sisters to lure the reckless rich away from their well funded trust.
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mix me up the elixir
that turns hobbies into work
toil calls me a trickster, but…
freedom is the nicest perk -
It was heart wrenching to watch Clarence walk off the job, leaving a shell of exposed wires and unfinished corners. He laid the first stone, and poured the foundation, but his passion was trampled once he rolled out his plan. His structure would harbor no corners. It would not contain secret spaces where only shadows thrived. Clarence wanted roundness, and curvature, and rolling lines that gave one the feeling of infinity. No jutting planes to upset the flow of energy, for which he was constructing a home. He wanted to make sure lies didn't feed on the snatches of conversations that got trapped in the apices. Only exposure can get rid of unwanted houseguests. The Inspectors, however, required a set amount of false walls and secrecy, and told Clarence he couldn't build his circular world. That's when Clarence moved on in search of a more lenient jurisdiction, and energy found itself without a resting place. Energy sent a complaint, swift and unforgiving, that blew apart the unfinished corners and slammed the Inspectors against the sky. -
It is the smell of coffee that reminds me of fishhooks and big, fat night crawlers. My family had a large compost bin when I was a kid, which we called 'the worm box.' Eggshells, wilted lettuce, grass clippings, tealeaves, and coffee grounds. These were the items tossed and turned in the kitchen scrap heap at the far corner of the backyard abutting the woods. Brownish-pink earthworms, long and thick, were the bounty my brother and I hauled up from the depths of decomposition. Dad required wigglers amongst his other tricks when the nearby lakes needed their perch populations culled. A tuna fish sandwich and thermos of coffee were necessary items, too, on dad's expeditions. Having been a worm wrangler since childhood, I am still fascinated by my segmented, dirt-burrowing friends. I'm saddened I don't come across nearly enough of them in my current meanderings. I drink coffee, though. A lot of it. Without the deep, rich aroma of brewing coffee, it is possible I would have forgotten about earthworms a long time ago. -
Karla's grandmother served oyster stew every Christmas Eve in her harvest gold Limoges tureen. Karla loved the porcelain vessel, and hated its contents. Oysters were disgusting. The bivalves defiled the delicate china with its daisy and wheat motif. She always tried to decline the ladle of gray blobs floating in a buttery broth of milk, but her mother made sure her bowl was filled with the stinking mess. Karla knew one day she would display her grandmother's tureen in a china cabinet of her own, and she couldn't wait to break out the vintage table setting and serve something decent for her holiday meal, like grilled cheese and tomato soup. With a little chopped scallion tossed in the pot, Karla thought that was more befitting the holiday than the briny disaster her family insisted was tradition.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 