Tag: just goofing around

The Knowledge

Listening to sudden sirens outside, he wondered where they were going, and what sort of emergency prompted the sirens during the night’s darkest trenches. He didn’t know, and would probably never know.

What he knew, he thought, wasn’t much, about anything. He knew a little, pretended to know more, and bullshit about knowing much more. But when reviewing what he knew while staring into the dark hours dedicated to sleeping, he knew he didn’t know much. Didn’t know what was going on with his body, his mate, his house, or politics, nothing really, not even when more was revealed. In fact, he decided, he could probably fit what he knew into the tip of one little finger.

He didn’t know if it would fit into the right or the left better. He assumed they were pretty much the same, but he didn’t know.

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The Days

It happened on a Monday

I thought it was a Sunday

not the change I sought

When it came Thursday

it was supposed to be Tuesday

the man told me, that’s what I’d bought

I hunted Friday and found Saturday

a tattered day if I ever knew one

So I hung onto Wednesday

the only real friendly day

drunk like another day doesn’t matter.

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The Animals

One cat hissed at another. The other responded with a wail. Tails went down. Assuming combat stances, they circled one another.

“Stop,” the man said, “going past them. I don’t need this today. You two have lived together for over two years. When are you going to stop acting like animals?”

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Bowling Pin

On some days, he feels like he’s a target, maybe a bowling pin, set up and knocked down. If that was so, someone would have to be setting him up and rolling the ball that knocks him down. He wonders, the gods don’t bowl, do they?

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Traffic Jam

As I was walking together, I developed a new game concept. I’d come across a small traffic jam. Traffic jams are rare in our little town. Most are small. Parades and school letting out are the usual problems.

But other places have traffic jams, which helped me develop (meaning, daydream about) my Traffic Jam game. Like Clue, the players move, but in this case, they move from corner to corner and street to street, collecting information and making guesses about what’s going on. In Traffic Jam, it would be stated as, “Don, in a gray Mini, stopping to make a right hand turn from the left hand lane.”

That’s all I got.

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The Secret Hour

We’ve voted in our house, and agree that we should have a secret hour – that extra one that doesn’t show up anywhere but in your sleep – every night. (Amusingly, it’s called setting the clocks back to conceal the deal the Feds made with the Time Fairies.)

The vote was unanimous and not a surprise that the cats all voted for it. We had to wake them up to vote. As Papi summarized, “If it’s food or sleeping, I’m all for it.”

We know better than to actually advocate for a secret hour every night. There are dangers associated with having the Time Fairies come each night to give you the extra hour. One, your time isn’t infinite. Those hours come from somewhere.

Two, and more worrying, for every hour they give you, the Time Fairies own you more.

Most worrying of all, the Time Fairies are thin-skinned and petty. They’re wont to go for revenge at the slightest perceived insult. You must be careful not to piss them off.  I’m sure you’ve seen some of their victims, listless as they wander around, craving sleep that will not come, not able to die because it’s not their time, but without the energy to do anything, because the Time Fairies own their time.

 

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I Live In My Writing

I live in my writing,

an odd place to be,

but you’d be there, too,

if you see what I see.

 

I live in my writing,

and lose track of time,

at least in this world,

but, to me, that’s fine.

 

I live in my writing,

enjoying the ambiance of life,

it’s an unlimited existence,

and has far less strife.

 

I live in my writing,

and some are dismayed,

so am I, really,

because I never get paid.

 

I live in my writing,

it’s a solitary existence,

and maybe existential,

but at least it’s consistent.

 

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The Optimistic Writer

He’d died, but he didn’t know it. He’d been writing his novel, and then editing and revising it. It wasn’t until he’d finished it that he came up for air and discovered he no longer had a body, and wasn’t a part of anyone’s earthly existence.

As far as he could ascertain, he’d been dead for several months. Probate of his meager estate was concluded, his clothing and personal items given away, and his name moved from one set of records to another. The cause of his death wasn’t clear. It seemed that he couldn’t see that, no matter how he tried to view it.

After some reflection, he wasn’t too concerned. Being dead meant no more concerns about money, health, politics, and the environment. He didn’t need to worry about being killed crossing the street or shot by some madman with a gun. The worst part about his death appeared to be that he was out of coffee.

That was going to put a crimp in his plans. On the other hand, he had a new novel idea.

He couldn’t wait to get started.

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The Secret

“Magic,” she said.

She saw his eyes narrow and his facial lines smooth out, a typical reaction (although some laughed in scorn (or disgust) and others often swore and walked out on her). This reaction was considered the polite one, but he’d probably already decided that she was a nut, and that he would leave.

But he was still there now.

“Magic,” he said in a bland, heavy voice.

“Yes, magic. Magic is everywhere, and in everything, but magic takes different forms. Magic is universal, but the magic you have and how you use it can be different.”

Ah, a rarity. Pupils widening, his eyes opened a millimeter. The light in his brown irises changed.

“Consider water,” she said. “Broadly, water is the same everywhere, a transparent and tasteless liquid chemical substance with the formula H20. But water varies, doesn’t it? Water can become ice. Water becomes snow, hail, and steam. Sea water, tap water, and river water are different, aren’t they?

“Our magic is akin to water in this way, it has different forms and qualities. You have to find your magic in you and learn how to use it.

“That’s the secret to success.”

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Finding Himself

He’d been in darkness for so long, he’d last track of who he was. Questions plagued him about the value he put on himself, his purpose and goals, maddening lack of motivation, and most of all, who he was . He was so lonely, never seeing others. Sometimes he heard them and yearned to be part of the conversations and celebrations, but he never seemed to have the courage or strength needed to make that change.

Then, one day, the Earth moved in a starling way. He felt a hand on him. It drew him into a light.

“What’s that?” someone said as he blinked against the unaccustomed brightness.

“A wrinkled old ten dollar bill,” someone else said. “Woo hoo, I’m rich. Beer’s on me.”

 

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