Carving out a corner to post random crap.
near enough alike
love becomes a power tool
animosity
battling to breathe
lashing out to have my say
assassination
blood holds us in place
hard not to hear the outburst
inappropriate
sharpen angry words
a kick in the gut reply
argumentative
fighting to compete
aggression loses its fun
realization
Brothers until our days fray and unravel and leave us to wonder: 'Which of us won?'
hemmed in on both sides
shallow habits break my will
channel compassion
Rickety proposition that old give-and-take, especially when the taker tells your stories as her own. The taker pastes her name all over the dust cover and erases all mention of you. A true account? Sure. Yours though, not hers. She didn't live it, you did. Livid is how you must feel. You spoke in confidence and now your life is a stand-up routine. What do you do? Give a little less next time.
Darla's truck was hum-rumbling over patchy asphalt. 35 was her comfort zone through this bumpy stretch to the Prairie View, but she went for it anyhow, got the speedometer up to 45, and caught up to the rest of traffic that eschewed the Interstate. Darla whistled nonsense notes as she honed in on the mental picture of her booth set up and ready for the day's transactions. She had a few new items to add to her wares and hoped shoppers would respond favorably. There was no way to tell what was a hit or a miss until you laid it all out on the table. People liked dartboards and Darla brought a couple extra of those along. Darla had two more miles to go before she could unpack and pray for good receipts when she heard a thunk-thunking in the back of the pickup. A quick look in the rear-view mirror didn't reveal anything amiss but Darla signaled and eased her truck over onto the shoulder. She turned the engine off and carefully stepped out of the cab to examine the bed full of goods. Darla's preference for frontage roads meant she didn't have semis swooshing past her, or garbage thrown at the back of her head (happened more than once) as she yanked on cords and patted down tarp. It was a quiet morning with the birds off on business elsewhere. There was nothing loose or damaged from what Darla could tell until an unexpected sound broke the stillness. Darla was an inland dweller but she nonetheless heard big waves crash against rocks. The sea roiled and heaved and Darla's pulse quickened as her armpits got damp. She closed her eyes and swallowed the urge to gag/scream/cry, especially when a barn owl hooted after each thunderous wave. Darla pulled back the big blue tarp in search of the source of the sounds. She found the noisy apple crate (also for sale) and gently lifted out the one picture that was silent, or at least had its volume turned down. This was the reason why Darla set aside the oils and took a very long break from painting, even though she knew full well people who liked dartboards also liked 14.5" x 10" seascapes, barnyard scenes, and kids playing with puppies in a wildflower-filled meadow (three themes that looked good in basement game rooms, usually on the opposite wall from the dartboard.) Paintings were living, breathing things in Darla's hands. Oils tended to be louder than watercolors, but they all had a voice and they all wanted to be heard. Funny thing, though, when Darla thought about it. The pictures (Darla's "few new items" by the way) were quiet as mice back at the house. She definitely would have left them there had they raised this big of a fuss while she was loading up the truck. As Darla's anxiety leveled off just a hair, the yellow Lab puppy in the painting she held in her sweaty hands yelped. He was surrounded by bluebonnets, nestled in the lap of a doe-eyed, red-overalls-clad girl. She cooed and giggled at the puppy.
"We don't want to be sold," the dog said to Darla as the girl shook her head back and forth vigorously, long dark braids whipped across her cheeks. "It's not right." Darla worried this might happen.
It's not sinking in. The mess you made and the message left to explain it. Oil and what? Night and day are at it again. We may as well face facts: the world revolves around someone else's plan. Our best efforts to saturate the landscape with each other's blood isn't going to change the course of the river or the color of the sky. The skirmishes in which we engage won't even grab the neighbors' attention. So we continue with our campaigns. Collateral damage is all we hope to gain. Warfare is such a delicate art and terribly hard to give up.
Housework helps put one thought in front of the other, then I can focus on what needs to get done in a nice, logical way. You know, stay on top of bills, run errands, complete all of my art projects. One step at a time but boy does it make the day fly. I'm doing decoupage picture frames right now in various sizes using fast food wrappers. Talk about awesome color and texture! I'll take them down to the drive-in as soon as they're dry. How much do I need to charge for them I wonder? Maybe I should sell them in pairs. Little little. Big big. Big little little big. People like sets of things. Symmetry. Order. Order helps process the anger. Guilt, too. Keeping busy is the way to go! Working with my hands is such a blessing. Being crafty runs in the family. They were all so good with their hands I seem to remember.
Is anyone surprised by anything anymore? I think we've all become really good at being caught unawares for show. A pantomime of sorts to convey the general look and feel of what it once meant to be bowled over. For example: "Wow! I've never seen/heard/tasted anything like that before!" Or, "Truthfully speaking, I can't tell you the last time anyone made an impression on me. Wow!" Has the concept of uniqueness been sucked out of our very bones, leaving us to shamble about as dry empty husks? More importantly, do we not care because huskdom is easy? Here's where that rehearsal of reactions in order to come across as surprised comes into play–find a new shtick. Don't tamp down the tiny spark in your imagination that flares up occasionally like hives or hemorrhoids. Give it some air. Let the damn flame ignite already.
Clouds can't all be shaped like sheep, can they?
there are days when the book is best kept shut–just keep swimming—just keep swimming–and let others debate the definition of WIN. LOSS. reality is subjective. every dreamer is a champion and mediocrity is a !#@$%*& expletive. televise this. ready-set-tell me what you see. describe where it hurts. empires are built in the span of five minutes. believe it.
There is no magic. No need to live in seclusion with esoteric texts to break down. The library in your head works just fine. Go ahead, try it. Close your eyes and let memory transport you to:
– the cedar tree fort and the way its sweet pungency hit the back of your throat;
– the numbness in your toes and the tightness in your back from sitting all day in a very non-ergonomic chair at your first job as a receptionist at your uncle's construction company;
– the suppers of burnt toast and tea;
– pennies and blood and a fist to the face.
You can open your eyes now.
Broken messages have been discovered. They lie in pieces on the closet floor waiting to be recovered. A busted hinge, bloodstains on the carpet, a chalk outline, the town's on fire. Let's put on a good show now that the whole world's watching. Should make us a shoe in for a Lifetime Achievement award.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 