I see what you've done. How clever to turn pain and repressed memories into a cottage industry. Now what? Do you expect the same old monster mash-ups to keep the mobs from breaking down your door? Which, come to mention it, lay off the ringer, will you? There is no invitation forthcoming. You will not enter my house. Is this heart-to-heart getting through? I know you lack atria, arteries, veins, and ventricles to make the pump go tick-tock. I don't hold all that against you, but I really must hang on to my ¢¢. They're all I've got while I watch you rake in donations from your fan club. There's an easy bunch if ever there was one, but then you did handpick each and every sucker, bloodless huckster that you are.
Semi-Daily Scribbles
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The season was upon her, and Darla Varney was ready. She worked year-round to deliver the goods to her patrons. Plus, Darla had a reputation to maintain. A patroness of the arts herself, Darla was a maverick among fellow crafters/hobbyists who worked the circuit alongside her. Darla wasn't afraid to mix media, let's just say, and was pleased with her recently completed Tank Series: plastic models she'd assembled and customized to represent scenes from works of literature. For example, a Churchill Mk. VII designed to look like the Peqoud, or Anna Karenina's date with a train with the train being a T-72 M1. One guy, not a regular, who stopped by the booth last year even placed a special order–a Ford 3-Ton M1918–reimagined as a Hobbit Hole. The name on the bill of sale was Morton Abernathy but he told her to call him Ort. He mentioned his interest in historical dioramas and that made Darla's heart flutter. Or maybe the palpitation had more to do with Ort's passable resemblance to Darla's father, Bertram. She missed him. Her dad had been the one responsible for getting Darla hooked on model building. The boys were really good builders, too, but they were more interested in ripping things apart. Everything put back together again, of course. Sometimes even better than before. That was Teddy and Toby's gift, to set things aright. Darla felt the trickle of sweat graze her left eyebrow. She had no time for sickness, not with the marketplace back in business. Darla dabbed at her forehead, grabbed the extra saw horse propped against the couch, and walked out to meet her loaded down pickup. No germs or unpleasant memories were going to waylay Darla Varney on the first day of swap meet season. -
The years get out of order sometimes. Stack them sky high until they scrape the bottom step of heaven and still '88 breaks formation. Swoop down and call it home. The key to the mystery broke off in the lock. Forgot it while it was happening and now '88 wants a second chance. It says it can tell me how this was all supposed to go. Don't want to know. Just need to keep time from skipping a beat. Such a sad task it is to add up lost moments. -
There's magic stoppered in those dark shiny bottles. Thing is, not everyone gets a swig of the wisdom. A lot of folks swallow the hook and well-rehearsed line and thank their luckies they sidestepped the pain. Little secret? The pain is what loosens our spines and gets us up on out of here. Here is not at all a bad place to hang, but take the deal when it's offered. Slake the thirst you wish would go away. Fluidity has a bitter afternote, but unpleasantness is a damn fine thing to help you figure out what you want. Magic in action. Be sure to fill up for the long road ahead. -
Oh to go where there are big antlered animals and the glisten of fish in every stream. Where winter is without a doubt wintry. Did I ever tell you I used to can homegrown vegetables? Pack it in, pack it out, leave no trace. Careful how you tread. Just leave me a clearing far from the grind and upheaval. I'll know the way when I see it. -
focus don't force. emit don't absorb. aspire don't retire. reflect don't project.Her fingers were red and calloused from the long needle and the heavy thread. Day turned to night without Darla Varney's permission. No wonder her eyes were red and dry. The strain was no good at all, so Darla turned on the floor lamp next to her chair. Better. The letters she embroidered in the dark were neat, even, and most importantly, legible. No one would buy a tea towel or throw pillow covered in sloppy, crooked nonsense. Darla didn't take her craft lightly. Everything she put her hands to had to be positive and uplifting. Days were drab enough and people were preoccupied with life's little distractions. Darla knew what it was like to never hear the kind of encouragement she stitched across book bags and cushions. It was important to Darla Varney to take notice of as many people as possible. One never knew the reach of one's kindness, but Darla did her best every day to see how far she could cast her light.
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Madness ensues when you bring your own bear to a New Year's Eve soirée. It's not a party anyway until you've wrestled the large hairy mammal standing watch over the bar. The white goes flying and red ruins everything. Kick the year off with twisted limbs and a heart on one's sleeve. If the beast doesn't get the best of you, it's all uphill from here. -
Winter weather smackdown due to blow through any time now. Chilliness at which others may scoff but, hey … I live in Texas. Extra layers will be added to my toilette for the rest of the week. I'd take extra hair; wooly, like Santa's, if it'd disappear as soon as the temperature warmed up. A big, bushy beard's not a bad place to stash a flask. 80 proof cocoa should do the trick to keep the color in my cheeks and my knees from locking. -
Experiences make us who we are. Choices must be made. The outcome? Something happens, it always does. Right or wrong or unexpected beyond belief. The reasons why we do things line our faces, whiten our hair, cloud our eyes. Then we know more than we ever thought possible. Good times are locked safe and tight in a storage bin inside our mind. Not-so-good times we wear on the outside as skin. No better armor. Every memory a keeper.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 