brisk

A brisk walk through a morbid museum; A sanctuary of things lost, love shatters hearts on the floor broken and besides themselves, fretting in a grey mist of constant tears and sorrow. There is a quickening of heartbeats and thumping internally, blood boiling and pounding like rabbit’s foot against a particularly percussive forest floor. Sweet tea in an aluminum can promises empty dreams of 90s nostalgia, because in a way sugar is a drug, complete with a tolerance and the mere fact that nothing will ever taste as good as the first time you tried it. It is then we are lead out Plato’s cave, awakened. But we can only come out once. There are many other caves, all of which we can come out to awareness and understanding, but only once will be that one true time. I am imagining a vast desert, ominous and empty, all with caves like huts across the barren wasteland. And what looks odd to us from this panning longshot is unbeknownst and ignorant to the dwellers inside. They are none the wiser and they remain in complacent darkness, accepting that yes, this is life and this is fine.

On a cool fall day I can walk as briskly as I want down local town park path without running the risk of profusely sweating. The fall is the time where I can most be myself. Where I’m not critically self-conscious to no end. I try to not get desensitized to the leaves changing, their beautiful colors waving as they die, sleep once more to withstand winter. Where in winter wind whips on all sides; It is chilling and frigid and frightening. The smell of the cool air, however, is incredible intoxicating and cannot be replicated on any holodeck or VR or candle. That smell of snow. A mild smokiness pervades in my memory, perhaps of something in Bloomfield having lit their fireplace to make even the most frozen outside occasions seem cozy.

Wind moves along my sides as I determinedly stride across to my destination. The faster I go, the breezier it feels. An untied shoe lace could be a catastrophic event, but I am undeterred. I am careful until I’m not. And when I’m not, I will hang my head with the shame of Catholic guilt and internally punish myself with a miserable dialogue before I become insensitive and desensitized to it. It’s something hard to break out of old cycles that are seemingly made of teflon and thick plastic. Like I’m helpless in a hamster wheel of my own creation.

sleepless

Sleepless toss n’ turning kind of night where the window’s open, but it’s too humid. Where the sheets are thrown off, but you’re paralyzed on account of yourself, worried that if you move just one whole inch, you’ll have to start this process all over again, this process of falling asleep. You are failing. There are noisy neighbors outside, though you can’t make out what they’re saying. The voices are raised and aggravated, but unintelligible as trash can lids sound like they slam shut in a repetitious fashion. A cat loudly meows, also disturbed. There is no guarantee of finding sleep after routinely rinsing the gastrointestinal cavity with whiskey, lips in between parched and sated, eyelids drooping but cannot find rest. It’s a sleepless night, it is hot, it is annoying, it is 3 AM. Flipping the pillow to access its cooler side is only a temporary refuge. The ceiling fan clicks in meditative trance. Darkness is moonlit (and streetlamp-lit) so that in this bedroom the shadows of things are very clear and only mildly ambiguous. The mattress is a raft now.

egg

Styrofoam decoy sits on a window sill half-gnawed by Fido. The colorful ovular decoration now his dispersals of white teeth mark indentations, interrupting the purple and green stripe aesthetic of what used to be a festive egg for Easter, bought at the 99 cents store, on sale no less. There are crumbs in the toaster oven that sit at the bottom forgotten. They have gone through many lifetimes of heating and cooling. Maybe one day they will be thrown out and given a proper burial and funeral procession to the garbage dump. This little micro-happenings happen all around us all the time. It would just be insane to think about it all the time. So as two eggs crack and sizzle in the pan on the stove at breakfast hour, the mind becomes excited and stimulated at the prospect of not only breakfast, but breakfast soon. Your mind on drugs surely tastes delicious with a little salt and pepper. Television pleas that may or may not have worked. It’s all a bit of a shot in the dark. Cloaked and insidious temptations. Egg yolks make many delicious treats like custard and tiramisu. Egg whites are good for marzipan recipes and merengues. It’s funny to me how all these things are factual. Who were these trailblazing kitchen chemists experimenting? Also, why are Easter egg hunts a thing? What community planner thought that one up? The things I looked forward to as a kid sure seem stupid now. I guess it’s something to do for young minds that need distraction and joy, something to look forward to as a prelude to a sugar rush. Chickens lay the eggs, the bunny is glorified, and Jesus is the Lamb of God. Guess this life is just one big farm that got lost in translation. Eggs can be used for evil as well as good. Like pelting someone’s car with them and ruining their paint job. These concepts seem so foreign to me now. What seemed acceptable teenage revenge is now – mindboggling of how much time and effort it wastes. There are so many other, better things to do in life. Like wakeboarding and snorkeling and a whole bunch of other summer water sports. Kerosene will always be combustable, but it just be used to light lanterns in a novel that takes place in 1801 and that’s okay. Skyscraper meltdown from nuclear heat, the boil and bubbling as the translucent egg white goes from clear to formative.

hollow

An empty crevice lies empty at the bottom of a tree stump. Notwithstanding repetition and redundancy to focus the matter at hand, but here is where items can be kept in storage with little or no security. The risk is 100% yours to take. But in an empty wood, where the cawing of crows harmonies with the flitter of other various birds and crickets as the sky begins to darken, maybe you can leave your stuff here and no one will take it and nothing will happen to it. I suppose it also depends on how long you leave it for. There is no rent on this hollowed out tree stump; Nature gives and nature provides. Nature meets herself where she is and doesn’t get stressed out or tries to impress anyone. What you see is what you get and then some. Because sometimes you get what you can’t even see, or remain ignorant to see in some cases. A bowl of mild salsa lies empty at an Mexican restaurant waiting to be refilled. Salt and lime linger on taste buds from tortilla chips. Stomach not hollow at present, but very full and requesting another margarita. Lysosome cellular regeneration and cleaning agents. Ninth grade biology seemed so impossible. It still does, but the memory is far enough away where I refuse to care. And even though I don’t and won’t, my mind is not hollow; I am not worse off for it.

cucumber

Cucumber rinds on the floor. The rhythmic sound of the peeler moving like a metronome to the 78, scratchy record of a Mozart Concerto. Perfect time is kept. A workout for the hands and wrist. Three movements. And when the peeler stops, the chopping starts; The slicing: Thin for the sandwiches, thick for the crudite. Vegetables that retain water; Or is this a fruit? It does have seeds. I never quite go looking for cucumbers, unless they’re pickles. I don’t much care for the taste. It’s light, I suppose refreshing; I know it’s good for me. But … there are so many other vegetables I’d prefer. Like carrots. If you take yourself out of reality for a moment, it actually is wild to think about the concept of fruits, vegetables, produce, plants; Like, you put a seed in the ground and water it and stuff grows from it that you can eat? Human engineering. Planet Earth Concepts. Facts that we take for granted. An overdue library book.

I once made zucchini bread. Well, I’ve probably made it more than once in my lifetime, but this one particular time I was making it, I was shredding the zucchini and thinking to myself how much paler and watery it was than usual. And that’s when I realized, I wasn’t shredding zucchini at all, but I had actually accidentally grabbed the cucumbers, similar in shape as they are. Little accidents, mishaps in the kitchen, make for conversational storytelling. I thankfully hadn’t gotten very far, and I don’t think the cucumber went to waste. Somebody ate it, maybe on salad or something. I don’t remember.

I don’t have patience to sit still for an hour with cucumber slices over my eyes. Does that even work? Is that like, a spa gimmick? It’s a lewk. But does it have functionality? Maybe I just don’t like my eyes shut unless I’m sleeping or meditating. Maybe I don’t like having to make sure they’re not going to fall off, or wonder what will happen if they do and I’m alone in the chair listening to a waterfall talk to a harp. Overactive mind. Electricity buzzing like a thousand distant bees. Florescence turned on in an empty office space. That deafening hum of elongated light bulbs. Tubes filled with energy. A man in a white dress shirt staring into empty space.