Into the forest I go. Green trees and thick brush, swarms of mosquitos do not dare touch me because this is my dream and I make the rules. Two taps on the back of the hand, back of the wrist, as I gaze at the full moon in the day time. Still here, still in this schtick, the experimental glass orb, Simpsons Movie. Same day sameness, alterating mind/body experience. Spectacular sundance kill, sawed-off shotgun with the ammunition being this word salad I spew off to you now. Too much self-awareness, too much reflextivity. Those who live in glass houses should throw no stones. Shattered preconceptions. Stench of the rot under the underbrush. The steady stream flowing downwards and that trickling sound, constant. Like a hum to the mantra. Like am ‘om’, to the mantra. Hiking stick and sneakers and merchandising mayhem. New Hampshire outdoors store, just outside the mountains. Mystified mistakes, lost at the crossroads, indecisive at the crossroads. A true disconnect needs to happen. You’ll know when it hits. You’ll know when it hits you. Modern marble mumbling madness. Line-dance conga line, high school prom. We were just kids then and didn’t know our privilege to be there in that moment, drinking sprite and Shirley Temples with extra cherries, to be picky with the dinner on our plates, and with plans for jello shots and alcohol later in the evening. Crying emotional about it. Just at a place of a mental break. I used to love smoking weed with you and finding peace walking laps around your street feeling like we were in a mystical storybook. The way the light of the lampposts hit the pines made me feel like I was in Midsummer’s Night Dream.
Singular cushion sits alone on a wooden, country chair. It is burnt orange, and worn by the looks of it. Like that cushion has seen a lot of action. A lot of butts have plopped down and sat there, in fact so frequently, that the original “oomph” this cushion once had in its pliant support and cushion-yness, now holds no longer. There is no give. It’s just kind of flat now. This rocking chair, where the cushion sits, is just now lilted by the wind from an unknown prairie; It is inside the enclosed porch, but the wind gets in through the screens – no windows. Nonna’s house had one such porch, just like the one I’m describing. If you were to sit in this chair, the creak would be profound at the start, nevermind the creaking that would ensue if you chose to rock the chair back in forth. I’m talking about the initial seating. The boards and chair would creak so loud you’d wake the house. Talk about a country alarm system. Cushions are not meant to last forever. This one should be thrown away. But if we threw it away, the store is so far to get a new one, how long would that take? How inconvenient, all for a cushion! I can see this homeowner now, taking the long, 40 minute trip to the center of town, to some general store and her being dissatisfied with everything they have, because of course, it’s not 1976 and they don’t make that color anymore. The manager says it’s no longer “in”. But she does not understand that concept because she is wearing Walmart floral chinos and a t-shirt, affirming that she is in fact, “The Best Grandma In The World”. She does not understand because it has been a staple in her home for a number of years and she’s always liked it, always thought it tied her home together. If that cushion was no longer “in”, was that some subconscious dig at how the rest of her house is “out”, out-of-date? Is she out-of-date? Old-fashioned? Waiting to die? Dying breed? Being trampled on my the bootsteps of more modern human beings and Americans and their liberal ideologies? She mulls this over as she considers the indigo-colored cushion. She cannot get behind it. Burnt orange is like the sunrise and sunset, so often blessing this Oklahoma town. Indigo perhaps native to nighttime, yes, but you can’t see an indigo cushion at night. Besides, it makes her tired just looking at it. Like to see it is Nyquil incarnate and suddenly just is going through her bedtime routine her mind. The punchy dialog of the cash register –
Swimming laps at the pool, treading water as a dive my head down under the water and resurface again to breathe. Notwithstanding the capacity of my lungs, I could live down there below the surface for hours. Clear, clean, crystal blue waters. The muffled and muddied sounds of reverberant screams and chatter in this indoor environment. The pool is not heated, but cool and cold against my skin, waking me up from a not-too-long-ago slumber. My swimcap is on and wrapped tightly around my head like the rubber menace it is. I remember as a young girl, feeling immense frustration at trying to get my whole head of very thick, very large and long mane of hair inside this glorified head condom. Treading water whether in motion or in place, I watch as my cupped hands pull the water back and propel me forward. Freestyle, head side to side, one arm after the other, legs kicking or out swimming frog-leg style. I remember summer swimming lessons at the summer pool. My instructor was a nice, young woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and a one piece bathing suit that was likely red in solidarity with lifeguard colors. I liked her. We would practice with kickboards and holding our breath underwater, as well as opening our eyes underwater. Everything I know about swimming I primarily learned from her, allowing me to partake in field trips and birthday parties, social visits and beach trips.
I'm seeing a spinning gear inside a grandfather clock. Some Wrinkle In Time-esque cartoon mouse escape route, followed by the clanging of midnight, the hands striking 12, the gong sounding off loudly. Wrenches and all sorts of metallic tools lay strewn across the workbench. A soiled rag, with black oil stains sits abandoned as a nuclear siren sounds. Something about our past catching up with us now. In this basement of four stone walls, I will never be safe enough. I'm counting down the minutes as I sort through dry beans into a bowl, placing the little stones and objects that don't belong to the side. Gizmos and gears on the wall, ticking or just staring, for decoration. Tetris blocks of multi-colors fall in jutted 8-bit fashion as I attempt to flip and fit before it's too late. Logical games of the mind become frustrating when the logic of actions cannot be found. A fleet of ships in the Aegean Sea; The memory shimmers like holographic dust. Mind like a brick in its stubborn determination. Seeing and hearing all evil now. As a treat. This brutal honesty scalawag pirate ship mentality, tastes like the smell of dampness, encasing on this subterranean space. Will there be a flash of light when it's all over? Will there be some step I have forgotten to take, one last line I have forgot to tell somebody? No one wants to die with secret sins on their lips. There needs to be absolvement, absolution. Even if your soul is dirty, isn't the impulse to clean it as best you can if given the choice? Nuclear meltdown, slow down. "These are dangerous days". ADD mindscape, undiagnosed, paranoid germaphobe. No eloquence in this mess. Cold, hard facts. Searching for answers. Down a darkened alley or street, maybe in Boston somewhere, where the light of the streetlamps don't touch the in-between spaces of the city, creating darker shadows. Mr. Fix It - Richard Scarry Fox, old Library computer game I could have played for hours. Lowly the Worm and that protagonist cat. Midnight Rescue and all those Broderbund games. Nostalgia research is in order.
There is a bud, burgeoning on blossom on the second bush to your right and straight on 'til morning. There has been a frost and the air is cold, the ground crunching with a thin sheen of ice as you step decisively forward. The sun will come out today and melt all this so that it will then make us forgetful and hopeful. And as the ice melts and turns to water, this bud will drink it all up, finding the warmest air pocket in which to blossom its head, and suddenly - POP; It has opened and is smiling, yawning toward the yellow orb in the sky. That orb we call Sun, that will painstakingly look toward with care in hopes of predicting future weather, as we look to astrological stars for hope and change and tips and clues and tricks to how to be, how to act, what to lean in toward within our own personal solar systems. Budding romance, budding friendships. Weed in little plastic baggies being crumbled into the teeth of awaiting grinders so that it becomes loose and dust-like. A tram-car to a different dimension for awhile. And I pray you please keep you hands, feet, and arms inside the vehicle at all times. Open window blowing breezes, birds singing Sunday song, it is easy to forget we are not alone.