Semi-Daily Scribbles

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  • STOP/START

    Previously…

    Dedicated to Darla's fatal flaw of falling in love so damn easily.

    Lives are changed forever as two strangers stop to look the other over, parting the tide of pedestrians along a busy city street. This has to be a meant-to-be thing, yeah? Twin flames and all that gooeyness. Who knows for sure? Maybe the missing piece has finally found its way home. All it took was one good catch and the promise of setting a fire beneath your bum. There are, needless to say, a bunch of different versions of us tucked away in my breadbasket, like the one where I go:
      End to End    
    MORTON ABERNATHY! YOU WILL STOP THINKING AND START DOING. 30 minutes is all it takes to yank the dream from its comfy little cocoon called YOUR HEAD and turn it into words.

    This is what love is all about and I am full for the first time in years.

  • Bromide

    BromideThe complicated is what we're here to unravel. Demystify. Drag from out of the moist, murky shadows and acknowledge the well-meaning intention that turned out to be a terrible idea. But hey, you tried! Try, try again to find the lesson embedded in today's shitty situation. You and I are good and bad and weak-willed and strong-minded / strong-willed and weak-minded, whole and broken and forgotten and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with all the other lonely flesh vessels who could use a kind word today.

    Hold out your hand.

    I want to give you something.

  • What the Oldsters Say

    The dream is meant to be given up just when all the Big Ideas roll in; a most inopportune time. The verdant years of youthful pursuits give way to ass-numbing commutes. Behold, the careerist is born, and Art is an old-fashioned name. Ambition whispers, but the tease is brief and weariness cuts off any outbursts from that fabled, fickle muse. Pear

    40 years on and the dream is hauled out of storage. What's left of time is thin and trickly, but the well of experience is deep. Memories are bullet points. The vision returns, its edges obscured, and the way is made ready so unlike before.

  • Morton’s Great Worry

    BluePreviously…

    But damn, Darla, those rabbits I'm always chasing are cute buggers, but when I catch them–which is not often by the way–they're all fanged and foaming at the mouth and their pinky eyes are big ol' weep holes of blood. What does it mean?

    Oh yeah … and what does it mean when that guy who took over thinks coal mining or logging or working the line are the jobs of the future? I'm feeling so 19th century, Darla. Is that why I'm having these god awful satanic bunny dreams?

    I don't know. I guess it's like what the kids say about sexuality. My humanity is fluid.

  • gold

    GoldPreviously…

    and you can imagine the thrill and quiver along her spinal column when darla varney opened the front door and looked down upon the welcome mat and saw a special delivery with return sender's name ort abernathy on the front of the 2-day mailer

    darla ripped at and teared apart flexible cardboard after which gold was revealed and darla's pulse pounded double fast because this man knew her heart as well as her snacking preferences and he was really quick and efficient at setting up vendor booths/stalls since darla and ort both had a lot of opportunities to set wares out on tables for sale or barter because their main source of income came from the swap meet and artisanal crafts fair circuit

    enveloped in the comfy yellow blankie of bliss darla's feet lifted off the ground but nobody saw it happen

  • A Chance of Scattered Acts

    May 11th, 1996 was the day we met. Me in purple velvet bell bottoms bought at The Potter's House and a little, lacy cami (a doily, really) to cover the upper bits. You in lederhosen and a grey t-shirt with the name Stuckey's stamped in red letters across the chest. A downpour, a shallow stoop, a battered black square of canvas stretched over the doorway of Archie's Shoe Repair served as cover to keep fat drops of rain off our faces. We scattered toward shelter at the same exact moment. What were the chances? No random act, this. You remember, don't you? The way we met happened just so.
     
    You said: Downpour

    Seems we didn't listen to the weatherman today.

    I said:

    No. But then when is that guy ever right?

  • Awareness / Knowledge / Admission

    SaharaThe awareness of the brain lost in thought, the knowledge of the body at home in this lunchtime dream drenched in milky sunshine, is preferable to the bite and sting of the early rise, the long bus ride, the musty insides of the shoe repair shop. Lara Milford, on this day, decides to go by the name of Sahara Snow. And the reverie follows the same script as Lara's/Sahara's favorite cinematic romance. The admission that a tried-and-true 120 minute formula is the best means by which to establish a happy life and a positive self-image.

    We are, all of us, such unreliable narrators of our own lives.

  • It Took Three Rings

    The Filchers don't care. You are just in their way. We're not real to them. Things, though. Things breathe, and feel, and transmit messages to us when we're fast asleep. Take that house on the corner, for example. It whispers a reedy greeting each time you pass by. "Hallooo Yoo." Things know us by how we use them. They remember us by smell and by touch. The doorbell of the house on the corner never forgot how you rang it and ran when you were eight years old.

    Hallooo Yoo.

    The door opens.
    3 Rings
    Tiny bumps erupt on a borrowed body.

    What? You waiting for an invitation?

  • Oh, beautiful …

    FallenTrump.
    Not my first choice, let me tell you.

    If you have your shit together and house in order, whoever occupies the Oval Office will have minimal effect on your day-to-day. If you struggle to put food on the table, Trump will have minimal effect on your day-to-day.

    We are all plunged into a stupefying alternate reality / parallel dimension / bizarro world / episode of The Twilight Zone.

    Pray to the old gods and the new, and *don't touch that dial, America.

    *<insert old fogey reference as desired>

  • For Love & Money: The play’s the thing.

    Harry ChestHarry Potter and the Cursed Child is not a play. It's a rehearsal script. Something hardbound but not a literary work like, say…oh I don't know…The Cherry Orchard. The rehearsal script is a cash grab, but it's also the foundation for (by what I've read on the InterWebz, anyway) a fantastical stage production. Plot holes be damned! Who cares if the world-building and rules of magic (ahem — Time-Turners — ahem) in the seven Harry Potter books are tossed in the ash can? Rowling's wizarding world in all its iterations is great fun. Truthfully, though? The Potter story arc could have been wrapped up in four books. House-Elf history and wand lore is just so much filler that distracts and detracts from Harry's journey. HP&TCC in written form is equally unnecessary, but I'm sure the theatrical performance is a special kind of magic all its own.