Semi-Daily Scribbles

Wilma needed to scream. Her innards swirled. She felt her breakfast was about to leave the way it entered. Wilma wiped away sweat from the corner of her eye. Her long brown hair stuck to the back of her neck. The muggy, bumpy bus ride made the tumult inside Wilma unbearable. She estimated the length of black-matted floor between her and the nearest door. She hoped she could exit the coach in time. She felt fine earlier. There were no deviations from her morning routine. A sharp jab in her side made Wilma gasp. Despite the gastrointestinal discomfort, Wilma remembered the day's date. It wasn't just Friday. It was her anniversary. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breaths. Her stomach didn't lurch quite so vigorously. The muscles in her back began to unclench. An irritation of a different sort, however, jumped in to take over for the queasy gut. The Voice. It was Wilma's voice, of course, but it was Old Wilma. The Wilma who went under the knife and got shortened and clamped. New Wilma, trembling in her aisle seat, recalled all the fear and exultation of that May morning three years ago. Stomach trouble. Anxiety. New Wilma understood what was happening. She braced herself for the harangue that would begin in a few sec….

Youth. Beautiful. Lust. Amazing. Fat. Honest. Love. Epic. Bad.

Old Wilma never left. She liked to remind new Wilma of that fact, especially every May 2nd. Old Wilma knew what caused the most pain. She used the words that sealed her fate. She used the words that New Wilma still chased. Old Wilma wanted to know which of these words were hardest to swallow.

It won't do with you spending tea hunkered in the Fallopia japonica. There is no fooling anyone. The canopy barely covers you. I know you mentioned feeling less than human lately, which, of course, I don't understand one tiny bit. What I do know is your increasingly erratic behavior is making us all uncomfortable. You've even let your hygiene slip. You! "Mr. Never-A-Hair-Out-of-Place." Is it work? Has the stress of the promotion gotten to you? Why won't you take the pills the doctor prescribed? Please let us in that stubborn head of yours so we can help. There is another matter. Virginia came to me this morning wanting to know if I'd laundered her stockings. I don't do the wash on Thursdays. She nearly tore her room apart before I lent her a pair. Please do not make me ask. Just hand them to me.

Kurt loosened his grip and let dangle the cord that kept him tethered to his fellow buoys. He helped as many of the bloated floaters as he could. That was the whole reason why he held on for so long. Kurt was kind and liked to lend support in whatever way was right. Being helpful lessened the absurdity of his life. Kurt wouldn't have been happy with tidy stacks of days racked up in the end, anyway. His best friend was the flame that blazed in his skull. The time to say goodbye had arrived. Kurt hoped his compassion would count for something when the tourists found his bottle of notes washed up on a distant shore. The cold black water claimed him. Kurt went numb as all his pain and wonder sank to the bottom of the sea.

Gary was inordinately preoccupied with music. It was a major part of his day-to-day existence, and that was the problem. Gary was tone deaf and couldn't keep time to save his life. Despite these deficiencies, music nevertheless issued from his pores and filled the air around him. His head hummed with one concerto after another. 8th and 16th notes flashed and danced in front of his bloodshot eyes. Gary couldn't walk down the street without a passerby stopping to pick out the faint refrain coming from the open window of a brownstone. The source, of course, was never an open window. Songs clung to Gary's skin like sweat. He longed for a release from the constant barrage of bass and treble notes, but he dared not make his request heard. The god of music would be displeased. Bragi chose Gary to be his clarion because Gary walked a lonely road. He was a fixture in the places that needed poetry, like bus stops and plasma donation centers. There were still many pockets of humanity that did not sing Bragi's tune. The god needed help to enchant the lost and lyricless. Gary's beat was the out of the way places. He measured up to the task as well as anyone.

The current flows through the pie safe, and every Randall, living or otherwise, comes and goes as she pleases. We've established a link up and down the family tree, and our house welcomes all who enter. Uncle Rupert visits often. Without fail, he brings us ginger beer and Pall Mall cigarettes, and tells us about his adventures in Akron. He really likes 1953, but says our time is damn entertaining. Our great-grandmother Harriet leaves us pies. She rarely stays to chat, but her buttermilk is the best I've ever tasted. Fresh as the day she baked it, usually somewhere in the mid-1880's. As for me, I stick to the 20th century, mostly. I'm not one to rough it. The future is also open for perusal, but I haven't gone that route yet. For now, I'm content with the occasional relative-from-the-future who pops in. They've all been really nice. None of them speak or blink, which takes some getting used to, but they sure do like Harriet's buttermilk pie.

I have no food or water as I wander into an uncharted district lit by a full moon. Other travelers, too, have found this patch of dry land. Unlike most of the country, it does not seep and fester with the bodies of men and beasts. Many of the camp's inhabitants resemble corpses. They've gone without food, water, and shelter many more times than I have. I can play the lute and sing. Those gifts afford me a place around the fire, a cup of fermented goats milk, the heel of a dark, dry loaf. People don't want to forget they are human. Music helps remind them, remind me, we are capable of better. Less cruelty, at least. The lute was almost stolen last night. Don't know why anyone would bother if he can't play. Hard to sell, and not much good for trading. Ended up in a scuffle. Fourth finger on my left hand, little one on my right, smashed and broken. Better than the caved in skull the other guy got. The lute's just fine. Hope tonight's lot can do without accompaniment when I sing The Ballad of the Larch and Oak.