Semi-Daily Scribbles

eyesight blurred
joints knotted and locked
calvin surveyed his domain:

large field littered with car parts and livestock
in the deep shadow
by the brook with its rainbow sheen
broken door
window screen
rotted timbers surrounded a garden of
mole holes and yellow fungus
calvin wandered over his
paradise misplaced
wondered where he'd lost his touch

not much left to keep calvin satisfied in the
beyond and back

My nightly guests, gauzy shamblers that they are, request hot cocoa filled mugs upon arrival. I don't dare skimp on the dark chocolate shavings and marshmallows, either. And there must always be dunkers. Tonight is a sugar cookie night. I devote the time to blend and roll, fold and bake because my transparent brethren are well worth the effort. We trade in sugar and foresight. We sate what the other craves. I pay sweet tribute to my ragged travelers, who come from nowhere, and live within whisper distance of me. The leader of my mug-clutching clan hands me a slice of the future on a napkin. Dates and coordinates are committed to memory as I'm given the next step to do with as I will.

Tossed out in plain view for everyone to scratch his head and state an opinion.

This is exactly why Georgette recoils when she is asked: "What are you working on?" She doesn't much like: "When's it gonna be done," either. But the dd/mm/yyyy one isn't as intrusive as "The What Question." Georgette's creative, and that very creativity leaves her in a tailspin much of the time. Her work is comprised of so many components that labels are futile; definitions the cause of major anxiety. Elements are constantly in motion, or they keep within strict parameters. Notes go sharp before they turn flat. Muted colors are vibrant with just the right word. Plus, the whole kit and caboodle relies on a person's willingness to not believe what she sees (or tastes.) Georgette's projects are thought experiments with a bunch of twisty predicaments chained together and–it deserves another mention–lots of moving parts. Georgette can't explain her dreams, she can only attempt to draw them out into the light. She'd be ecstatic if the "What's" and "When's" were to die a quiet death, though she can muster a "How" if her experiments are going particularly well.

Gary bristled when his mother, Catherine, made the suggestion he be more relatable. He asked for clarification: relatable to what? Catherine told her son 'people.' Start with people. That'd be good. Gary cringed at the prospect of a spit-shined and lesser version of himself. He knew what he knew; couldn't "unknow" Euclid's theorem and all the nifty proofs that followed, for example. He would continue to use pusillanimous whenever he damned well pleased. Gary had this conversation before with his mother. Catherine believed her only child would live out his days with nought but big words and mathematical brain twisters as his only form of companionship. Gary accepted his mother's concern because there wasn't anything else he could do. Catherine Q.'s view of the world would never change. She'd continue to see Gary's solitary pursuits as abnormal, unhealthy. But it wasn't like Gary never left his room. He was head groundskeeper of the family's award-winning botanical gardens, and had just mulched the sunflowers before Catherine hit him with the relatable thing again. Gary liked his life especially because the majority of his interactions were with inanimate objects. He'd long ago built up endurance to survive amongst the planet's other, more quarrelsome, inhabitants.

To prove she will not be wedged, artistically speaking, into any form of pigeonhole, Darla Varney creates storage cubbies in addition to her works constructed from rags, rocks, and scrap metal. Darla's little chambers are popular with the flea market crowd. Nice, roomy squares to hide treasure. Dark recesses to hold keys or Cabernet. Everyone has things they like to display in a half-hidden way. Secrets left out in the open are effective conversation starters, much like Darla's fine selection of craft items, which she reminds shoppers make excellent cube fillers.

Darla rented a stall at the local flea market. Every Saturday and Sunday she'd pack up her wares and ask the sky for a weekend of brisk sales. Darla knitted potholders, crocheted doilies, and wove rags into rugs. She polished river rock to make paper weights. Wood scraps got sanded, words lettered carefully, and lacquer applied to preserve Darla's wisdom:

CHOICE DEMANDS FORETHOUGHT

REFUSE TO BE A FLESH BILLBOARD

EXTINGUISH THE FAME

Darla asked the rainclouds for patience once her tables were set, and a long line of buyers for her handcrafted truth.