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Blue was a ball of joy rolling down a country road. Come a curve and blue just went around it, neat as you please. There was nothing going to bother blue today. Up hills and down into cool valleys blue went in his fuel efficient manner because blue did not run on fossil fuels. No blue was powered by my imagination and that is enough to keep blue going for another thirty years or 100 words whichever comes first. Blue slowed and pulled off to the side of the road to rest under a shade tree and eat a sandwich.
Red was a hard plastic ball laying on the sand at the beach. Was he laying or lying? He was probably lying. It is almost always lying. Everything lies like that. Even red who was a notorious liar. Red would spend hours at the beach talking with strangers and telling them the most outrageous lies. You see that man over there, the one with the hat? He murdered his wife. I saw it happen. No, I could not go to the police. I would be next if I did, but he chopped her up and put her in the freezer.
Yellow was sad. Yellow was crippled with grief. I read recently there were six basic emotions, but the list did not include love or hate. It included sadness but not grief. I think there is a shade of difference between sadness and grief. Sadness may not cripple you but grief will cripple you. Grief will break you in so many ways and leave you to find you are still broken long after you think you are healed. Yellow was crippled with grief. All yellow could do was hang over face down waiting for the grief to pour out of him.
Green was having a good day at the beach. So many of these colors end up there. People take them, particularly the primary colors other than blue. Blue has the ability to move itself. The other colors have to wait for someone or something to take them and a lot of them find themselves at the beach. They can be moved by tides or tornadoes. Tides just drop them at the beach again. Tornadoes are likely to leave them anywhere. They are messy that way. Some just get run over by cars on the road and flipped into the ditch.
Yellow is getting wet. Yellow is so close to being up under the deck where it is dry but it canít move there. It waits for a gust of rain to drive it up beneath the deck. It has fantasies of being under the deck, playing in the dirt there, pulling the legs off bugs. Obviously this is just a fantasy of yellowís because yellow has no fingers to pick up bugs and pull off their legs and as you can see there is a very good reason yellow has no fingers because it isnít nice to pull off legs.
Watching the squirrels out on the deck fighting over the food. There is a tension between that and the way we live. The line separating us is so thin, so much more fragile than we realize. We worry about being hit by an asteroid, about global warming, but give no thought to the possible collapse of our civilization, a thing that happens regularly every few hundred years. It leaves people like me to die of starvation if I make it that far. And so I watch the squirrels fight over the food supply as they scatter it on the ground.
My brain darts and skitters like some nervous rodent. I hear you stirring stew in the pot. I earlier watched you cutting up the meat thinking that it was once part of a living organism thinking that is still home to countless living organisms thinking that we do not continue as human organisms without consuming other living organisms. This alone is an argument for something but it is an argument I turn my face away from. I do not want to make the case. I donít want to be that advocate. I will be quiet. I will eat the meat.
The Christmas tree is still lit up from the Skype call to my son. We will put the tree up and decorate it tomorrow or the day after. Time in here gets all skewed around as I write entries days late. I am up and about, doing things so I donít go crazy. I have to keep moving because I donít have my speaker projects any more to keep me busy. But I have other things. I have the piano. That is a project in a way. It keeps me occupied for a part of the day. It is important.
It is important to stay occupied so death does not overtake us too quickly. Nevertheless, it will overtake us all eventually. It is voracious this death. It overtakes not only us, but everything. It will swallow the entire planet without so much as a belch. It will overtake the universe. There is some question about whether the universe will start over at that point or whether it will once again become something without form and void. I suppose it started up once before so it will start up again. It will be destroyed and created again and again without end.
Now I am close to panic. I am about to catch up on my 100-word entries. When I am done I will have nothing left to do. Without an entry to complete I donít exist. I must turn my thinking around. There are more things to exist for. I used to be a poet so I can write poetry. I am sure I still remember how that is done. I just went through a spell where I wrote too much junk poetry and the poems got mixed up and I could not sort the good ones out from the junk.
I am confused. I donít know what I am supposed to be confused about. It is me. It is my own restless resistance to just about any external stimulus. And the wind blows snow around the house. It intrigues me how you can use the word ďandĒ to introduce a totally new idea and not necessarily as a conjunction. Was it coordinating conjunction? Was that the term I was fumbling for? It is another scary morning. It is only scary because I have not started anything. But to start something is to block out everything else and that is scary.
The Santa mug scares me as it is lowered from your chocolate stained lips. It is more empty than full, the cold porcelain face staring out at the world. Yet the head is empty. There is no mind to consider the infinite emptiness that lays within those boundaries. The Santa mug knows not that it knows nothing. Some would say the Santa mug doesnít care and is not capable of caring. It is not the mug which concerns me, but my own head and my own thoughts that have no way to consider the infinite patterns that lie before it.
My fingers are cold. Also my feet are cold. Why arenít my ears cold? Maybe they are. Maybe they have become numb. I went outside. That was a mistake. I was already cold. It is twelve degrees out there and it is windy. It sucks the life right out of you. I was taking some cookies to Mike and Jean, our neighbors. Four cookies. What for? It seems like not quite enough. Mike opened the door. I said it was cold and he invited me in. I declined. He was busy painting something. He is perpetually busy, always doing something.
Gold clouds drift over the trees in a lavender sky. The sun is going down somewhere, quite possibly in the direction where I am looking. I once had a compass application on my smartphone, but I see it is no longer there. Maybe I was trying to clear up some space for a recorded book. That is the most likely reason. It was probably not much use. The application probably didnít take up that much space. I could put it back on. Then I would know whether I was watching the sun go down or merely a reflection of it.
I can smell the food you are cooking. I can smell dinner. What was it you said you were going to fix? Salisbury steak, I think. Salisbury steak is not steak at all it seems. It is hamburger mixed with French onion soup. Iím sure it has other ingredients, but that is what I recall from our conversation about it. You have been making cookies and fudge for three days now. So we have been eating cookies and fudge for three days. I am not sure what to make of this binge. In part you are doing it for me.
I took the picture I use for my entries several years ago of a table in my living room. It shows an Audio Nirvana speaker, a Gato Barbieri CD, and a Craftsman measuring tape. I was building speakers at the time. I built a lovely pair of speakers, but didnít use the Audio Nirvana drivers. I found some much better ones made by Tang Bang or Tang Band. A quick internet search tells me it was Tang Band. My grandson has those speakers now, but with the Audio Nirvana drivers. I donít know what happened to the Tang Band drivers.
I turn up the music and I am almost immediately sorry. I am immediately almost sorry? It is some dense heavy handed playing of the deep left side of a piano. Left to myself I might go ahead and listen to it, but I donít want to inflict it on you. What do I do, change the music or put on headphones? By the time I decide the music changes itself. There is a lighter track on this cd. It is not an absolute delight but it is enough to keep me from going to the headphones to protect you.
The leaves were buried beneath the snow, wet and pressed together. It was a good place for dead leaves. It was not a place for a live me. I could not have breathed there. I would soon have become dead like the pressed leaves. More likely I would have heaved myself up out of there in a panic, rolling over and up on my hands and knees, my hands buried in the snow and my kneecaps getting wet as the snow soaked through my pants. I push myself to my feet and survey the snow field. It goes on forever.
Itís getting late and my battery life is down to an hour. Thatís enough time to find out if I am going to write anything here tonight. Iím waiting for your call, wondering if Iíll be able to hear it over the headphones. Actually it is more likely to be a text. It could have already come. It is to let me know whether I should expect company for dinner or whether I am on my own. If I am to have your company, we will most likely eat out. If I am on my own I am not sure
The stockings are hung right over the fireplace where the chocolate will melt if you light another fire. You so like lighting your fires. Even if they are just the paraffin woodchip logs. I donít think our tiny fireplace could hold much more of a fire. Iíd be afraid to light a real fire in it. The first house I owned had a huge fireplace in it. I could build large fires and heat the place to an uncomfortable level. My second house had a moderate sized fireplace with an insert. I removed the insert and put in gas logs.
The bug crawled slowly up the blade of grass. The grass was green. The bug was orange and black. I will not detail the arrangement of orange and black because that would give away the bug and right now I want to give the bug some privacy. The blade of grass is longer than those around it. Perhaps the mowing machine missed it. Or maybe it just grew more quickly than its neighbors. It doesnít have the jagged top where the mowing machine would have cropped it. That would seem to indicate either a fast-growing grass or several mowing misses.
Iím scared. Iím afraid of the block-like shape of the day behind me, although to be sure Iím more often afraid of whatís ahead of me. The house across the park has a fringe of light that can only be Christmas lights. It is blurry for me as most things are. They tell me I have cataracts and that I must have surgery to have the lenses of my eyes cut out and new ones sewn in. Iím afraid of this surgery so I live for now with a slightly blurry world that gets more blurry as time goes on.
I should just put this away now. Youíll be home soon and Iíll be afraid to be under the headphones when you come home. This makes no sense since they are the headphones you got me for Christmas and you will be happy to see me using them. Then too my laptop is nearly out of battery life, although it has enough to last until you get home. Iím wearing fat clothes. I have gained a lot of weight over the past six months. My regular clothes just wouldnít fit me today. And Iím thinking about dinner, what for dinner?
The dog lies in the kitchen, near an exterior wall and not near a heat vent. This makes no sense as it is winter and you would think the dog would seek a warmer place to sleep. But the dog is not a real dog. It is plastic or plaster, a casting of a dog that took your fancy so that you brought him home explaining that we would not have to walk him or clean up after him. You named him Banjo and put a holiday hat on him. He looks real enough that several visitors have been fooled.
My eyes feel raw and goopy this morning. It seems to be one of the prices of growing older. There are many such prices. It is a game we play. Like driving an old car where things quit working or fall off. Do we replace that right side rear-view mirror or not? Do we fix that gage that we never looked at? At what point do you give up and just junk the car? We donít get to decide with our bodies. Well, most of us donít. Our bodies decide for us, or we have a fall or catch pneumonia.
The weather has been kind so far this winter. Here in Michigan it is not always so. I am sure I Ďve been feeling the gentle nudges of global warming as we repeatedly break temperature records on both sides of the range. Iíve only used my boots one time this year so far. They are a short boot, more of a hiking boot. It is the boot I chose and I have not been sorry. I donít spend that much time trekking over the tundra and these boots seem up to the jobs I have to do, mostly clearing the car.
My coffee is getting cold and the cup is nearly empty. I could get a refill, but it is awkward. I have to get up with the laptop and mouse and find a place to put it. It used to be easier. How did I manage it before? I think I used to just put the lumptop on the floor and get up. That seems a simple solution right up until you step on the laptop or slosh coffee on it. I think thatís what Iíll do this morning. put the laptop on the floor, not slosh coffee on it.
You have gone home, ducking your head beneath the cold wind and snow. And I worry that I have stopped writing poetry. I worry. I worry about things I donít do. I suppose that is better than worrying about things you actually do. Or perhaps I should worry about those things I do. Up there a canvas is stretched. I take up a brush, dipping it in ink and scrawl ďI should.Ē Across the canvas. I consider signing it. I have never signed a canvas before. So many things I have not yet done. I have yet to go home.
You have taken your IMac into the dining room. I think it is an iMac. Maybe it is an iBook. No it is a MacBook Pro. I ask you. That is how I know. How I know what they call the damn thing now. There are so many names. You take it in there to charge it. You come out with a garbage bag to collect ornaments from the tree. I have my headphones raised above my ears. I lower them now and it is like going into a different room. I cannot hear even the ambience of this room.
Itís dark out and I feel the darkness seeping in around my eyes. Downstairs Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer in on TV. I pause a moment to consider this, but I canít get much consideration out of it. The muscles in my chest and back feel tense. Iíve been playing the piano again. That would account for that. Not that I play particularly well, but I was playing loudly. I tend to play loudly. Itís because I donít yet have much control over the volume. I try, but then I lose the notes altogether, playing a cardboard piano at that point.
Last night I dreamt I was writing. There could have been a lot of dreams in there but in one of them I was writing. Not so well either as I recall. I was obsessing over mortality or something of that sort. I do enough of that while I am awake. I wanted to make New Yearís resolutions but I didnít really get a chance. Of course I will diet, but that is easy for me. It is harder for other people like quitting smoking was hard for me. But I also wanted to resolve to write and play piano.
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