Double tap my heart,
to send a telegram instantly.
Like me with a thumbs up or wink
to send my followers atwitter.
Share my picture perfect smile
in your book of empty faces.
Pin my affection like a job posting
to your super secret board.
Retweet my words and proclamations
with hashtags as your emotions.
React to my detailed life; an open book,
don't forget to make it all about meme.
And choose which emoji represents your love:
ignore and de-friend all others.
To The Corner of My Mother's Coffee Table:
I don't like you.
I get it. You have a purpose to support the southwest corner of the oak piece that houses past issues of Good Housekeeping and aged coffee rings--noble profession, really.
I mean, how could we live without you?
Oh, let me tell you! It would be glorious; immaculately wonderful! They say there is no such thing as perfection, but your absence would make perfection tangible, reachable.
Do you even realize how many toes you've bruised? Nerves you've upset? Fists you've clenched? Swears you've birthed?
You, sir, are the corner of pomposity.
You are ninety degrees of negativity.
The bottom twenty-five percent of practicality.
A quarter not worth twenty-five cents!
The wrong of all right angles!
In case it was not spelled out for you: I DON'T LIKE YOU. My shins, my toes, my hips, my sense of touch, my strong filter of profanities all feel the same. We detest your pretentious, arrogant existence.
With all the rage of a stubbed toe, I smack you in farewell.
Shall we meet again? Undoubtedly you will show your cocky face one shadowy, barefoot night because that's who you are: unforgiving and intrusive.
I hope that one day you burn like firewood in the deepest ring of hell.
An innocent, abused bystander
Everyone's made that walk. When life gives you too much to carry and it's hard to put one foot in front of the other. Mine happened in autumn, when the leaves fell like memories, coating me with the emotions I didn't know anymore. As I walked down the street, they littered the path with suggestions of what could be's.
Libraries. Either your love them or you hate them; it's nearly impossible to be passive about the place.
Can you imagine all the stories waiting years to tell their tale? Do they come out at night and talk to each other? At dusk, when the sun's rays carry the dirt and hard work of the day, can you hear whispers from the books on the shelf bursting to tell their story?
At night the stacks are alive with characters. The shelves no longer house books and paper pages. No. They play host to the young Hamlet who sits in a corner with Sigmund Freud. A pained look settles upon the young man's face as the psychiatrist nods, pensievely stroking the hair on his own chin.
In the U.S. history section, near two discarded books with matter-of-fact covers, a Puritan woman shakes her head vigorously with a woman's rights activists. The Puritan can barely make eye contact as her aggressively white starched bonnet hides the chagrin in the woman's cheeks.
A loud clash and burly yells echo from shelves that transition from Classic Literature to European History. The brave Odysseus, in his sandaled feet and tattered toga, still emulates bravery as he fights off the brawny, able-bodied vikings. The alluring Penelope looks on, gripping a burial shroud which is not yet completely weaved.
When one reaches the lobby, between the wings dedicated to the audiovisual and children's literature, many colorful characters pop off the pages to tell their tale. The young and effervescent Peter Pan flies above the shelves with his stout sword, constantly attacking the Pirates of Penzance and they sing and dance about the annoyance. Talking dogs, witches brewing cauldrons, cats knitting mittens, and skinny characters with funny hats gather around Harry Potter as he searches for something, gripping an old locket around his neck with one hand and a wand in the other.
Just on the other side of the check out desk, where the thick leather bound reference books are held, a variety of animals lurk, some draping themselves over the stacks while some hide in the shadows, with only their glowing eyes giving any sense that they're there. An aged man wearing red suspenders, a polka dot bow tie, and pocket protector, with a protruding belly, walks around the library, speaking in numerous large words and grasping a heavy dictionary in his hand. His thick black glasses sometimes slide down his nose, but it doesn't stop him from providing a variety of synonyms to other characters in the library
Everyone wants their story heard.
It was a cold February day from my perch on the library's third floor. The heat pumped into the building making many forget the frosty temperature on the other side of the brick walls. Not me. I liked to sit near the window. Windows lead to possibilities.
Today a trail of footprints wound around the trees that stuck out of the fresh blanket of snow. Shadows of the campus buildings hovered over their path and the faint whistle of the winter wind could be heard playing its flute.
That trail. I couldn't peel my eyes from the two sets of footprints weaving in and out of the trees. When winter hides the path, you're not afraid to make your own.
I wondered: were those the footprints of siblings having fun? Did it ignite a spark of love between two friends as they chased each other through the snow? Was is a father and child seeking a sledding hill?
Then a yearning began to grow inside. How I wanted my own adventure out in that world of possibilities. Would there be a new friend in that snow globe for me? Would a deer skip through my quiet world and arose my curiosity? Would spontaneity grab ahold of my gloved hand and help me build a snowman? Would I slip and fall and have a humiliating story? Would I fail that chemistry test because I chose to walk out on studying? Would this decision change everything?
Windows may lead to possibilities, but walking out the door of intention is a lot harder.
For so long it's been me: me and my shadow.
We scaled mountains, drove 2,000 solo miles, hiked through national parks with trees larger than skyscrapers, and ate at a quiet table for one.
It was the only one to watch me stumble upon the walls of stone as high as the sun and marvel at the rivers that run as wildly as the mustangs on the shore.
At times I'm sure she stood beside me, wishing for a slap in the face at my stupidity or wanting to applaud the destiny I've made my own. I find her silent song comforting. It alone knows the courage of my soul.
While trying to find a pair of walkie-talkies in a deep and crowded kitchen drawer, a member of my family exclaimed in agitation, "Junk drawers! You can only find things when you're not looking for them!"
It struck me with amusement: is that not how a writer lives and breathes?
Life is a junk drawer. You're busy finding your keys in order take the kids to school when the best sentence pops into your brain and a storyline begins. Instead of your keys, you're now tracking down a pen and scrap of paper to record the fluttering thoughts as the children lose their shoes and complain in the background.
Well, welcome to my junk drawer.
This blog reflects the author's original works, photographs, and musings unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced or distributed without permission unless directly linked to this website and credit to the author/photographer is given.