So much stuff pushed and shoved into so many boxes so that it will all fit in one crammed-full car and be stored in a tumbling pile in a garage somewhere so that it can be unpacked topsy-turvy into a new room with new people but all of the old clothes and bedding and shoes and “miscellaneous desk needs” will remain intact as my old life turns into a memory etched in my apparel. How do I have so much stuff even though I move so frequently and each time get rid of another deeper, older, more dear layer of…stuff?
Archive for the ‘by Fannie’ Category
I’ve been dreaming of sharks swimming in circles above me. The sunlight that makes it down through their swarming bodies sparkles in ever-changing pockets. Shark DNA sequences too swim around me. I flounder as I reach to grab these sequences and in doing so, try and trace back those letters to one of those swimming sharks. I’m no water creature though and the more I try, the more the elegant CTGCCAATAGTAs flit just out of my grasp, those double helix devils. The simple matching game is made so much harder than previously imagined! Speak to me sharks! I beg you.
So many words running around me all day every day. In the form of thought or verse, reading or writing…it’s just one long continuous and continuously varying stream of words. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t possibly take any more in – I’m saturated, overflowing, practically bursting with words – and yet there’s ever more to read, digest, mull over, thesaurize and expound upon. Is it one of nature’s cruelties to make the cure for too much word-ness be to write out words? Maybe I have the wrong strategy. Maybe I should take up meditation. Others’ words have told me
I always like working in libraries when I do, but even though after a particularly good library session, I think to myself that this will be the turning point, this will be the day when I start to work in the library all the time, well, it never pans out. Libraries eliminate so many distractions, certainly not all, but a large number of small ones, which usually build up into uber-distracting noise. I don’t munch or cook or get caught up cleaning or organizing. Sure the computer’s alluring nooks and crannies is there, but that’s about it. Biggest nuisance: peeing.
Sometimes I write to God. Though, I’m still not sure if I believe in him. He’s no cloud-dwelling dude with a long beard. Instead I like the idea of him as someone who is greater (in the sense that he is a soul that hasn’t been compromised by being in a human body) and therefore someone who I can speak to and easily connect with. I always feel better when I think out loud, and who better than someone who is there but not there there. I wonder though, is God sarcastic? Sometimes I get the sassiest responses from him!
In an old barn with cowboy boots, flannel and too much denim to count…it doesn’t matter your age, where you’re from or what you look like. You swing with the elbows of strangers and jostle against neighbors as you doe-si-doe. Grins emerge and shouts of joy abound. The temperature inside rises. I’m holding the leather-gloved hands of a motorcycle punk as we promenade around the room; I’m “barreling” with a group of young hipsters who sneak outside the barn to have a smoke; I’m waltzing with the caller because why not ask an overall-clad character to dance? This is home.
Sometimes her poo smelled like kitty litter.
She always ended up causing produce cascades in the grocery store because she tried to steer the cart with one hand.
She was in the habit of biting her top lip as she searched for exact change, exclaiming in triumph when she had it.
Her favorite color changed biweekly so she had acquired an eclectic mix of brightly colored stuff Craigslisters envied.
She wandered into used bookstores because she loved the haphazard arrangement of books found everywhere.
She collected all-sized jars without lids, to “keep herself open.”
She cried hard and laughed often.
How are you today?
Your kelp tassles tickle me and earthen beds plow me under.
And from what I’ve tasted, you have been oh so productive.
Your trees dance in the light breeze and puddles sparkle with joy.
If only on days like these I could be as vast and fulfilled as you.
My toes miss you on all this concrete
And my eyes are sore from the glory of your sunsets
But oh how happy I am to meet you each day.
With each new view, new smell, new thing you show to me, I am grateful.
I walked into the store today, scratched my beard and walked out. Didn’t have whatever I wanted. Across the street a homeless man with a mane of unkept beard beckoned. I shuffled over.
“You got a light?”
I searched my pockets. Couple bottle caps, loose coins and a crumpled receipt.
“You got any change?”
My hand groped back around the pocket. I dropped some coins into his cupped hand.
“Wanna grab some food?” he asked.
I hesitated and thought about my afternoon plans. She could wait; the waves would wait.
“Sure. Don’t have but a couple of bucks though.”
Her hands were firmly pressed against the sink rim as her arms braced her body, sagging, between them. She stared uncomprehendingly at the pile of precariously stacked dirty dishes inches away.
She’d had enough. There had been too many “last straws” in the haze known as “recent.” First it was the mail, the forgotten groceries, the unnoticed dirt and grime. The endless dishes that he never touched. The wailing baby.
“Will you please get her” she hoped with an exhausted sigh.
Newborn on hip and snot-covered two year old clinging to her jeans, she found a crusty sponge and began.