Semi-Daily Scribbles

The doctor's hand was cold and rough. 1Lillian was upset she had to put her favorite book down to humor the test-givers. She couldn't understand why they didn't accept her story. Dancers, drifters, and dreamers inhabited the grey lands where she was born. Everyone knows the last thing dancers, drifters, and dreamers do is stay in one place for very long. 1Lillian was skilled in the art of the toss, the bounce, the kick, the shuffle. These steps reverberated frontways and backwards to create the ephemeral perfect moment. Lucky plans are hatched in the chasm between ONE-MISSISSIPPI TWO-MISSISSIPPI. That's how 1Lillian ended up in a dull-hued waiting room with the hot pepper spark of retrocausality on her lips. She knew in the next cube over, 2Lillian was left in peace to read. Bittersweet comfort that was to 1Lillian. The far-flung Lillians would never meet, but each iteration felt her skin stretched thinner in the solemn hour of forgotten knowledge.

I lead a quiet life, although my responsibilities are important to the happiness of this earth. I watch over seedlings, and frighten deer away from Mr. Reginald's joy. I have no shortage of time, so the long hours suit me. Seasons change and I remain mostly the same. Mr. Reginald will come with the long-handled bristle brush to bring out the shine in my hair. I prefer nature's patina that looks so pretty with the jonquils at my feet. Mr. Reginald ignores my objections. Alas, we all make concessions. I am not ungrateful to Mr. Reginald for these many years of service, but the sun will soon set on my situation. When it does, I will walk away a sage. I shall wear my hair as I please.

Home was a concept Gary didn't grasp. He felt worry-free and comfortable standing in the middle of his dad's garden, where wisdom popped its head up once in awhile out of the black gold. Mostly, though, Gary felt jostled and rushed no matter where he landed. He operated on a five-second delay, so it was welcome relief on the rare occasions he caught up with himself. Dad's pea patch afforded Gary a break from the jagged fissures which tripped him up. He couldn't pitch a tent amongst the salad greens and call it good, could he? What did the word home mean, really? Gary lived in an efficiency apartment, and he felt as connected to that space as he did to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. In fact, the Milky Way seemed more cozy than his cold and rumpled hide-a-bed. He could save a lot of money if he moved out of the flat and paid his parents a weekly campsite fee. Gary was faced with hard decisions. He needed to pinpoint the source of truth, but that didn't leave much time for his job at the sandwich shop. Gary also needed to find a place where he belonged. He should have known better than to move into a building called The Homestead. It wasn't home. Instead, it was a big, brick box of gossip and boiled cabbage, neither of which got Gary closer to the prize.

Lisa took an interest in architecture. Designing the egress and ingress of a space was very important to her. As a child, Lisa would confuse ENTER with EXIT. The simple mistake showed the little girl a whole lot about life before she had a chance to take off the training wheels. Lisa watched the mourners pass from the other side of the brass knob, and her faith in doors had been forever shaken. Lisa was aware no one read anymore, so she couldn't trust signs to prevent mishaps like the one that scarred her. She vowed to use her degree and experience in the service of others. No passage, latch, or door built per Lisa's specifications would lead a girl down the wrong path. It took a special touch to keep the flow of awareness circulating in a natural pattern.

It's all medicine. Just depends on what you're trying to get rid of. But remember…there's no cure for bad taste.

I must have heard Doc say that a thousand times. Thought it was annoying, especially how she'd wink and nod her head at me when she got to the 'no cure for bad taste' part. I liked what I liked; Doc liked everything else. Other than that, we got along fine. It's tough now, though, looking at the row of medicine bottles. They don't stay filled for long. Instead of Doc telling me to eat good food, and read good books, I crush her horse pills and stir the stuff into Wheatena. If the meds don't knock her out, Doc likes it when I read cookbooks. She can't eat a whole lot anymore, so she enjoys listening to me rattle off the ingredients. I don't mind. Doc gets a kick out of it. It's just that I usually lose my appetite after reading the section on how to make head cheese. Guess I don't eat much these days, either. And if it isn't a list, I don't read. We're two old crows taking care of each other. We do our best.

…and on top of it, with my habits and prejudices and all, can anyone tell me why i must have variety in my life?? i hate choices. oh, horrible, horrible situation. my own damn fault to need more of something i don't want. what was it i wanted anyway…??? this is why a personal assistant would be helpful…

So went the internal dialogue that spiraled, and popped, and floated to the top of Hilda's muddled mind. She wondered if it was possible to cork the leftover thoughts which made easy things hard; things like how to read the menu at Waffle House.

CHEESE GRITS!

The easy flow of wine over at old Hilda's probably didn't help. She would need more than 28 days to clear up the fungus between her ears.