Late to the party bearing neither gifts nor apologies, Richard thought his presence alone would cause a stir. He'd been away; though, judging from the reception he received, no one missed him. He had counted on today's view to be an improvement over the cabanas, sand, and bedpans that filled the past 28 days. With sadness, and a dose of indignation, Richard made for the corner of the darkened bar, where he sat and wondered why he hadn't left his mark in better standing before he took a break.
Semi-Daily Scribbles
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The market had better light than the last one, and room for miles to stretch a pair of legs. Under the July sky, the barter and exchange that took place was fierce. It was like venturing into the wild without a musket or sharp ax. No way to protect yourself against a shady deal unless you knew precisely what you were not willing to bargain. There were rows and rows of misguided advice and helpful admonishments to explore on a day that smelled like adventure. As soon as your judgment had been stripped away, a nice lemonade stand was waiting to douse any suspicion. There is wisdom to be gained by watching a photo, or waiting for the wooden bird to take flight. The art of closing the deal takes a lifetime to perfect. -
"Busy is the new procrastination," Gregor said through a mouthful of burger. "Hey, I didn't mean that as a personal affront. I know you're working on things, and I'm used to you never being on time.""Thanks, I guess." As I sat down, I heard my belly rumble, so I reached across to grab a few fries off Gregor's plate. He quickly held his hands over the remainder of his lunch like a shield. Just then, the waiter came by with a Cobb salad, and set it down in front of me.
"I ordered for you."
"I see." Hungry, and now angry, I shoveled the food in so fast, I didn't come up for air until I felt my appendix scar rubbing against my waistband. It usually didn't do that.
"Bad mood, huh? You know, you'd be doing yourself a favor by eating small meals throughout the day. Might balance things out. Make you less flighty and forgetful."
"Flighty and forgetful, I like that." I'd loaded up my fork and was about ready to drive it home, when my patience and my appetite took their leave.
"Something wrong, Wendy?"
"Yeah. Remember that thing you always used to say? 'Shut up and make art.' I thought it was stupid, and made you sound like an ass. It took me a long time to figure out what you were going on about. Everyone's got problems. Don't let them consume you. Take that energy and turn your troubles into something positive, something beautiful. Do I have it right?"
"Sure, but I don't understand where this is coming from." Gregor was talking to his French fries as he lined them up in a row.
"I took your advice, and now you're taking shots at me for figuring out how to be happy. From where I'm sitting, this looks to be a no-win situation.
"You don't like Cobb salad."
"I like it just fine. What I don't like is thinking I've handled all my problems, only to be staring at the biggest one of all." I signaled for the waiter. "Check please."
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Freedom to roam the wide-open spaces and to understand the choices I've made.
Through motion of body and presence of mind, all things are possible.
No obstacle insurmountable, even Time. -
Mateo made a valiant attempt to clear the tchotchke from his apartment. Clutter collected dust, and dust attracted microscopic critters, and Mateo was scared shitless of the magnified pictures of dust mites that manufacturers of HEPA filters liked using in their advertising. Dusty corners were also attractive to spiders. Many a web had been spun between the raised arms of the flamenco dancer on the top shelf of his pressboard bookcase. So one day, Mateo decided the porcelain lady and her dapper partner, the egg and chick S&P shakers, and a touristy souvenir from Argentina were all headed to Goodwill. Along with these useless things, he'd filled three grocery bags with clothing and kitchen items, and was on his way out the door, when something toppled to the floor. Mateo stared at it as he fumbled with the bags. Taking a deep breath, he set down his castoffs, and reached for the piece of kitsch. Mate was no longer considered exotic or foreign. Mateo got his in teabag form from the corner bodega. He'd never even used the cuia and bombilla. They had been placed on the bookshelf after a package came in the mail a year ago. It was from his father, who Mateo hadn't seen since he was 11. Though Mateo never considered the man a parent, he always accepted his dad's gifts, and made the effort to write thank you notes regardless of how flummoxed he was by the gesture. Not every parcel had a return address, but the mate gourd was sent from a place called Calle Lavalle. Mateo thought it sounded nice, but he had no intention of ever finding out for himself. He was content with the image of a broken old man, wandering the earth, sending his only son junk in the hopes of hitting on something Mateo would actually like. Nothing clicked at the time, but as he walked over to the bookcase with gourd in hand, Mateo realized useless things sometimes fill a purpose. -
These are my six sentences to sum up a Sunday, a week, a month. June was slow out of the gate, but it found its footing on the 10th. Too many thoughts and words gummed up the works, and a productive May felt inadequate when held up to June’s exacting standards. The week has been a success in crossing bridges without the need for setting them on fire. The journey to connect my awkward steps is well underway, and adventures are vying for bragging rights. Today, however, was reserved for tea and synchronicity as the sun set on 30 new beginnings.
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Grant tried to remember the stages that mattered. First, there was birth. That was pretty major. School; he got to skip kindergarten. A stretch of straight A's, honor rolls, and accolades. Then he got the full ride. Pity the physics degree got pushed to the side. Grant wasn't around when The Haight was a non-stop happening, but once he got to university, he did his best to emulate the peace-love hippie aesthetic. This was the period where he spent a lot of time in trees, even meeting the woman he was to marry high up in the leafy boughs of a chestnut. That was the moment, the stage of his evolution, when existence ceased being a linear affair. Grant recalled losing his balance, his trajectory redirected, when the lady perched on a limb held out her hand and invited him to jump. -
Rebecca knew the word. The word was resolve. She didn't have any. Rebecca let another day pass in the house, fraught with drafts, and leaks, and plumbing that didn't work. A house falling apart, held together by promises. She finished packing a bag to spend the night in her car. Rebecca could always find a few restful hours and a couple of hungry ducks down at the county park. It was better than having to endure the house in the dark, with its constant berating and belittling. If only she had the resolve to evict the descendants who laid claim to her name, looking down at her from their tarnished gilt frames. Rebecca's blood was just as noble, although no one in the family ever lived up to his word.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 