Chase the Ball

Birth to death, we're all stumbling forward, crawling, trying to walk upright. Briefly, someone stands and walks without falling, “Look at me! I know the way!” and then they're lost. We wonder why, how, what is it, what does it mean? Gods are blamed or credited to fill in for our lack of understanding. The sun is a ball of hot plasma, not the god we thought it to be. We were foolish then, but now, we have faith in gods word. Pick one of the one of the 5,000 gods to which we attribute the mysteries. 

That will change, everything does.

 “God is a metaphor for that which transcends all intellectual thought”. 

For now, we stumble, make up answers and Gods. We follow those who appear to stumble less, until they do.

Dogs get it. Be happy now with the sunshine on an upturned belly, thankful for the food in the bowl. No concern for origin or outcome. Right now is all there is. 

Chase the ball joyously, tomorrow never comes.

Hat Drill

As Carla and I were getting ready to go out for dinner, I glanced into the mirror and thought for the 1,000th time just how much it sucks to have my hairline start in the middle of the top of my head. I was disgusted with my shiny double forehead.

Yelling impatiently backward: “You ready?”

Carla shouted back: “Ill be right there, I'm just going to grab a sweater in case Ned puts us under the vent again and tries to freeze me.” Then she came down the three stairs from the main house into the great room addition, sweater in hand.

Going over to the hat pegs and selecting the “newsboy cap”, I said: “This makes me look like I should run an Italian Deli in New York. You like it?”

Carla: “Yes, it looks good” Switching hats, I asked: “Or do you prefer this ball cap? No, everybody and his brother wears these things. How about a nice Fedora? Or maybe this wide brim Panama?”

Carla, was tiring of the ritual and eager to get to dinner. “I like that last one best. Wear that.”

As I immediately hung the Panama back up on its peg she questioned me, sounding frustrated: “So which one are you going to wear?” Walking impatiently toward the door to leave, I answered...”None of them. You know I hate hats!”

It was an excellent dinner anyway, Ned's Trout Piccata is the best. Sitting toward the back of the main dining area, my head illuminated the dark corner as if someone had just oiled my double forehead. I could see my distant reflection in his big mirror across the room. “I've really got to get myself a hat.” I thought to myself as the waitress brought me the check.

Silver Circles

Twin circles of twisted silver bear witnesses to every moment of my adult life. Although I've never taken them off, that's no longer possible, even if I wanted to. Not anymore. Either my hands have gotten thicker or the bracelets have shrunk.

Scanners yell and point at me in airports and government buildings. I guess that could be the result of personality analysis software but I think it's the bracelets. They're every bit as much a part of me as a child's favorite blanket.

Those bracelets saw me place my hands gently onto my Grandfather's chest as he lay motionless on a mortuary table. I whispered my last goodbyes. They gave a tiny puppy something to chew on as she squirmed for unfettered freedom. That good girl grew to be my best pal for 17 years. Now she's been gone for more than twenty. Those bracelets hung loosely as I held my lover's hand, both of us nervous under the piercing glare of a Justice of the Peace. He transformed us from two into one. They often jangled like bells when I would salute an Air Force superior, catching the sun as well as his disdainful glare at my unauthorized adornments. Oh well. These days, they hover as I stir soups over the stove or share an embrace with my wife, like those spiral rings, warm, familiar, reassuring.

Each second of the passing hours of my life since my early 20's, they've circled my right wrist, silver rings that traveled every road with me. One day, I will cut them off and hand one to each of my two daughters with a request: Size them to fit. Have them soldered shut, end to end, full circle. Fused into memory rings that accompany you on your own journeys. There will be a time when I won't need them anymore. Take them, let me walk with you, through them, together every step of the way. 

NYC

Cold black mouth, tongue of rails.

Throat clearing scream blows urine breath.

Cinders hide in eyes narrowed to a slit.

Subway riders board the cattle train to Broadway.

Dirty legs extend from cardboard boxes,

shielding homeless people from monsters.

Like covers over a child's head.

Handsome men stroll hand-in-hand,

pausing to kiss and laugh.

They walk off quickly, wrapped up in shared secrets.

Food smells stake out their territory, mugging the passing crowd.

Gangs of stores change image and intent,

just one block down.

Everything changes just one block down.

If I Turn Into That Guy...

If I turn into “that guy” ...you know, the guy or lady in the grocery store, who stops their cart in the middle of the isle, neither left nor right, oblivious to the fact that people traffic is trying to go up and down both sides, most of us programmed to stick to the right... They weren’t allowing access for others to pass, they picked dead center. Apparently it never crossed their minds that someone, or several someone’s, may be behind them and want to get by. Carts parked in the center, backs, asses, and elbows on both sides, studying, evaluating, meditating, over a can of crushed tomatoes on one side, and some Mac and cheese on the other. Of course I can speak up, to whatever degree, but that's not the point.

I swear right now; I'm not going to turn into those people.

It was worse at the entrance to the store. Two older ladies had pulled their carts out of the horizontal stack, and met in the middle of the doorway. Past friends, seemingly engaged in an over-the-top love fest of “when was it” “low long” “we need to” ...lots of gushing. Those of us who were trying to enter started to stack up. I'm sorry to be so negative, but just how fucking clueless can people be? It was the fucking entrance to the store!

I bet a nice stun grenade would clear a path.

Then there was the older lady in the express check-out lane. you know, ten items or less. Her purse was the size of most carry-on luggage, and she wasn't sure where she hid her wallet in there. After digging for what seemed like an eternity, she found it in a small compartment, inside a larger compartment. Apparently she was out of cash and didn't really know how to use her credit card properly so she had to write a check. Where is that checkbook anyway? Two forms of ID please. She produced the necessary check and IDs in excruciatingly slow motion as I wallowed in evil thoughts and an urgent need to pee. When all of her transactions were completed and paid for, the lady in question couldn't simply push her cart out of the way and put all her checks and IDs back in their respective holders elsewhere so the express lane could move again. No, she had to do all it at the register, just to make sure that she held the bottleneck tight for as long as humanly possible.

I've never beaten an old lady (she was probably my age, everyone my age looks old to me) but I can definitely understand the attraction and entertained myself with that fantasy until she was done.

Anyway, I'm starting to feel better, venting and all, but still, if I turn into that guy, or maybe pull a Bruce Jenner and turn into that woman, please humanely euthanize me.

Print out this post and consider it to be my permission slip.