Declaring himself a commodity trader, dabbling in sentimental feelings, he would up and say to someone: “Do you feel the majesty of a carrot plant? The bright tubular orange, the intricately green tiny filigreed top, the blue hue, over the dancing broken top leaves, sprouting like an inverted skirt, shaking in the breeze?”
Do you remember lying on your flat-flat bed that morning, stretching, squeezing the sleep from your muscles, mini-bending your lower back to drive out the dull lower-back pains, caused from oversleeping?
Remember seeing the colorful old German domed metal jelly jar lids, atop the squat round jelly jars? Such grace in a lid: the lid would make you keep the jar, for sure.
Do you have a specific place on your body’s skin which starts to itch first? Mine is just out from my left elbow.
And, of course, from childhood, the small plastic black-and-white cows, out standing in their carpeted living rooms or up on the couch cushions, their plastic legs hobbled together, walking, or peeping over the embroidered arm rests.
Ain’t it wonderful how nature throws everything away, but never wastes anything? How flowers are able to lose all their beauty before disappearing?
I’m sneaking up on a really good feeling.
That things are about to get really, really busy in the most fundamental way; the excitement that comes with stepping into a swift mountain stream and going into the flow. Full of fundamental promise and excitement.
Thinking of Becky’s homemade chocolate cake with orange cream cheese icing waiting on the counter, allowed me to easily make it back from the woods.
A Lady Bug Fall: In November, hoards of ladybugs emerged everywhere, across the Southern Appalachians—filling window frames, coming through cracks in storm doors. They’re too cute and helpful to be considered pests (though Becky overheard a hardware store patron complaining about them, and asking for poison). On the radio, a man advised , the lady bugs were innocuous, but if their carcasses accumulated indoors, they could become food for rodents.
Each passing day changes slightly. I feel like a mechanical structure, slightly, steadily changing my relationship with the universe, a slightly different face appearing daily.
It’s amazing what happens to a person, over time, over a night time.
What is there, besides the coming about, and the opening and closing of doors?
We are as old dogs, waddling about in our little living rooms.
If and when we fall, it will be in slow motion, like in the movies, when the giant space ships, ever so slowly, come to pieces.
Do you remember when Walmart didn’t carry food?
In the shower, she moved on.
Termite love, sliding across town, equalizing temperatures.
Old people are constantly, carefully, scrutinized for incapacitations.
I discovered this this morning: if you rinse your scissors with the same two fingers you cut up your oatmeal prunes with, both your pairs of fingers and scissors will be clean enough.