There are days when it seems like the only objective of the world’s existence is to annoy you.
Like days when you are saturated with an overdose of pillowcases.
A disease really, afflicting society from top to bottom. Pointing to so many evils lurking beneath the surface.
What is the overdose of pillowcases — you ask?
Why, this curious phenomenon, of course! I say.
Every time you buy a sheet, a comforter, a duvet, or anything remotely related to a bed, it comes with 2 pillowcases.
Until, well after you are sufficiently stocked up, you realize you have too many…
There was once an ant called Phil
By temperament he was quite tranquil
One day Phil caught a fever
He needed a fast reliever
So, Phil was put to bed with some Nyquil
Charlotte was the mafia queen of Village Spider
She rarely gave a raise, was quite the miser
Her employees were filled with hate
They didn’t feel the slightest distaste
When Charlotte was gobbled up by a cat called Schneider
There was once a child who hated crickets
Seeing them, she would run into thickets
One day behind her there was a creak
The child jumped high with a shriek
Berkeley grad, is how he introduced her
to all his friends and family
Saying, implicitly, this is the reason why
she’s in my life, this is the reason why
you should meet her, see her, know her
Saying, implicitly, this is her worth,
not some of it, but all of it
Berkeley grad, this is why she
should be acknowledged, should be loved
Nothing else she’s done is enough
She bleeds — it’s not worth it
She writes — it’s not worth it
She fights for the world — it’s not worth it
She dies for beliefs — it’s not…
You have memories that aren’t yours.
Other-worldly, they sing to you. They cry to you sometimes. But mostly they just beckon.
Come, they say, come back to us.
You remember being a particle-wave, a light being, floating dreamily across, drifting, warping the continuum, until all you can do is laugh at the twin jokes of space and time.
And yes, how you laughed.
But silly, greedy you, you always want more.
You hunger for the senses you chose to leave behind. You lust again for what was once yours, and once given up.
You gave it all up willingly then…
Golden prism in the lake
Playing peek-a-boo with me
Glinting merrily in the sun
What are you trying to tell me?
Old soul girl sitting on the shore
I want you to enjoy life a bit more
Out there, where the past and present combine
That’s where home is, for which you pine
Resting back upon the lazy afternoon
The sun at its peak in the sky
Glinting lazily, it tells me to slow down
It’s worthwhile, my dear, take your time
Life, it will wait for you, my love
Fret not, hurry not, watch not the clock so much
No one prepared me for the heckling crows.
The movies showed the crows portend evil. Often sitting on the stone pile next to the creaky old gate. Silhouette captured against a murderous scarlet sky.
That one eye following you wherever you go. The Monalisa effect, they called it.
But no one prepared me for the heckling crows.
Oh, there was that one time that a crow flew into aunt’s kitchen, just as they were frying pieces of fish for Sunday’s family lunch.
It smelled of fish and grease and turmeric. And it hung in the air, hinting at the aftermath…
Sleep recedes like Stonehenge raining on me. Each massive piece rocking me in tidal upheaval to the world of here and now.
And I say words I never thought I’d ever say. Or hear anyone else say, for that matter.
“I am so glad she spit on my face!”
If she hadn’t, I might not have woken up. And then the poor baby would’ve suffered more.
That’s how my Fourth of July began. With the cat spit on my face, I got up, bewildered and frightened. What had she ingested ?
The lights revealed the dismembered remnants of a glow…
LP, they called it. Such a bland, formal name. A name that creates power distance even before you finish saying it. A name that wears a tie to dinner.
Records, we called them as children.
But they were so much more, weren’t they?
Sexy shining black discs, almost like they were extra-terrestrial, even from conception.
Grooves etched with delicate care. Perfection disguised in monochrome. Playing groovy tunes.
Tunes of rebellion, you say? But of course.
Tunes of breaking away. Like a teenager. With angst at its peak. You’ve got to belt it all out. And the record plays its part.
I watch him from behind the cover of a bush.
He is entranced, in some faraway place my mortal eyes cannot perceive. There is the tiniest hint of an upward curve to his mouth. Not quite a smile, but certainly the suggestion of inner joy.
There’s a glow behind his eyelids, making me want to partake of the cinematic unfolding happening behind the screen of his closed eyes.
Again, I am to be left out.
He is emaciated, the skin on his lower ribs clinging on with desperation for life support, yet with a loving intensity that silences and stills…
When did it start?
Perhaps when we kept walking past the tacky gold chandelier, mumbling: we must replace. But never getting around to it.
Tacky life and tacky relationship always in the way.
Distaste breeding chasm like a pair of pliers prying apart the fixture.
By then it can’t be fixed of course.
Take away the tacky chandelier but you can’t take away the tacky everything-else. Which is now tattered in addition to being tacky.
And so, we stage another Regal Walk-away.
The solution to all problems. Just walk away. Look back, memorize, breathe, leave. The code to emotional untangling.
“Do not go gentle into that good night, but rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light.”