girl

The brown-skinned girl upstairs has a heavy footfall.
I hear her bang-bang-bang-bang-bang across the ceiling.
Always a count of five, she scampers with a rhythm that is musical.

I’m annoyed.
But in everything, I look for purpose and reason.
So, I am screwing up my courage,
               to decipher her meaning in my life.

She is the little girl in me who got stepped on.
I walk through life with unhealed bruises.
I attract people who bruise me more,
               perhaps because I hide the ones already there.

She has me trapped in a symphony of running feet.
I’ve been running all my life.
I run to find my home, a place I can never seem to find.

I’m not one to report noisy neighbors.
But I’m so easily annoyed by things I can’t control,
               which is everything, of course. Confounding.

On a path to nowhere, she runs. I run.
I ran here to escape the love that binds me.
Distance, it would seem, is not the fix I keep aiming for.

She is wild and free. How I wish I could be wild and free.
Maybe I’m jealous? Because I can’t start over.
I can’t remember his face, the one who hurt me so.

Let my hair fly in the wind.
Let my dress flap around me.
I’m not running because I’m scared.

I’m running because I’m free.

i am dog

In looked so nice when
I was out. Out looks better
now, though. I am dog.

Now out, looking in.
Plaintive expression. Do I
smell bacon? I am dog.

xenization, part 2

 Here is the history of my homes:

1958-1959 Durham, NC
1959-1964 Nishinomiya, Japan
1964-1968 Wellesley, MA
1968-1973 Gainesville, GA
1973-1980 Misenheimer, NC
1980-1981 Jersey City, NJ
1981-1983 Cedartown, GA & Aragon, GA
1983-1984 Misenheimer, NC
1984-1985 Thomson, GA
1985-1993 Statesboro, GA
1993-1998 Morrow, GA
1998-2002 Jonesboro, GA
2002-2004 Scottsdale, AZ
2004-2006 Morris Plains, NJ
2006-2008 Phoenix, AZ
2008-2010 Memphis, TN
2010-2012 Eagleville, PA
2012-2013 Duluth, GA
2013-2015 Peoria, AZ
2015-2020 Phoenix, AZ
2020-2024 Brunswick, GA

Cue Johnny Cash. "I've been everywhere, man, I've been everywhere."

fitbit

When my Fitbit died, I stopped walking, which wasn't a smart decision. Yesterday, my new Fitbit arrived. I got it charged and put it on. Then I felt the urge to walk. I decided to take a bag of trash to the dumpster and pick up my mail on the way back. When I went outside, I realized it was later than I thought - just after 9 p.m. But I was determined, so I set off.

Our parking lots are not well lit, so as I walked, I was paying close attention to any movement or sound. Having watched or listened to hundreds of shows on murder, I know how these things happen. I mentally planned escape routes. lol

I made it to the dumpster, then backtracked to the mailbox. My mailbox is on the bottom of a column. As I bent down to open my box, I felt my back go out. NO!!! I got the mail and stood up. I knew immediately I was in trouble.

My back injury dates back to 2005 when I was lifting a box of books and bending over to place it in the trunk of my car. If you had told me then that I would be dealing with it for the rest of my life, I would have jumped off a cliff. Now, I'm used to it. For now, Aleve and a heating pad are what I need to slowly recover. But I'm always aware that it can happen without warning. Once it happened when I was stepping into a skort!

Anyway, I started my walk back. The buildings in my complex are long, with two entrances each, 12 apartments for each entrance. My apartment is in the fourth building from the mailbox. (There are many more buildings in the opposite direction.) I made it to the first entrance of the first building and could go no further. I walked to the staircase and sat down. I didn't have a phone, so I couldn't call anyone for help.

Just then, a car pulled up. I was desperate. I walked over to the driver and explained my predicament. I asked if he would PLEASE give me a ride to my building. He did! As we slowly drove along, it occurred to me that I had just gotten in the car with a complete stranger, the subject of many murder stories. Oh, well, I thought. I've had a good, long life. If he murders me, at least I'll be out of pain!

But he didn't murder me. He was a perfect gentleman. I thanked him profusely and staggered into my apartment. I'm now at the Aleve and heating pad portion of the program. And I have slept SO MUCH!!! I am on the mend - for now.

violet

 I met a Frenchman in my dreams, on the banks of a water feature. The grass felt cool under my bare feet and I was looking out across the landscape of trees and rolling hills. He was at a gathering hosted by my neighbor and came over to talk to me, thinking I was at the gathering, too.

Dreams progress in stops and starts, so it's no surprise that I was then giving him a tour of the house I was staying in. I explained I was just there until my publisher found more appropriate lodging for me. The house was huge but had very little furniture. My belongings were strewn about.

When we got to the master bedroom, it was vast. We walked through it to the master bathroom, which was separated into a his and hers design, each with its own closet.

Then we were sitting on a sofa in the living room talking and drinking wine. Was he hungry? We went in the kitchen, and I threw something amazing together. What was it? I don't know. Dreams are funny. We sat on kitchen stools at the counter and ate our food. Then he cleaned the kitchen while I sat on my stool and drank wine.

Next, he had found my brush and was behind my stool brushing my long, gray hair. It needs washing, I said. Then he was coloring my hair, using blonde and violet colors. Then I was looking in a mirror admiring my new cut and color. This part of my dream flashed by, unlike the hours I used to spend at the beauty parlor when I was still coloring my hair.

We sat on the sofa and talked some more. Then I said I was tired and went to bed, leaving him in the living room. (What?) I was almost asleep when he slipped into bed beside me. May I sleep here, he asked. Can you behave, I asked him. I pointed to the other side of the bed. It's a big bed, I said. He moved.

My dog woke me up then, pulling me away from the Frenchman in my bed. Isn't it always that way? You find a man who speaks with a French accent, who happily cleans the kitchen, can color, cut, and style your hair, and wants to sleep in your bed, and WHAM! You wake up.

meditation on ants

Two weeks ago, I was being occasionally bitten (stung?) by an ant as I lounged on my living room sofa. The ants were probably attracted to whatever crumbs I dropped. I had nobody to blame but myself. But I also noticed one or two ants in my bathroom. They seemed to be coming up from the door frame. I ordered ant traps.

My sister and I both have Zen Color, a coloring app, on our phones. She discovered it first and told me about it. There are multiple categories of pictures to color. Her favorite, I think, is any that remind her of our time in Japan. My favorite category is Mystery. There is no picture when you start. It gradually appears as you color it. The other day, a mystery puzzle featured colorful ants in a beautiful meadow.

I got bored and added another game to my phone which requires me to find dozens of random items. It's like Where's Waldo, but a little more sophisticated. And on my list of things to find in almost every puzzle? Yep. Ants.

All of that made me think about Biblical references to ants. When preachers talk about it, they're usually extolling the virtues of hard work and industrious ways. But I usually think of it in terms of the collective strength of those ants. I once gave a prayer before a banquet at a professional conference in which I said that a single ant can carry items that are many times its weight, which is amazing. But a colony of ants can move mountains. I wanted us to think of ourselves as a colony of ants, working together to improve the lives of our young people.

Tonight, I was listening to James Taylor's October Road album. In the song September Grass, he sings,

Do you see those ants dancing on a blade of grass?
Do you know what I know, that's you and me, Baby?
We're so small and the world's so vast,
But we found each other down in the grass.

Ants. Maybe they were biting me to tell me to get up off my butt and clean my house. Or maybe they were reminding me of who I've found down in this grass. You. And you. And also - you.

stalked

A bald eagle stalked us on our morning walk today. I should say that the eagle stalked Priscilla and Jackson. I'm sure the eagle detected that I was a load too heavy to maneuver. I first noticed the eagle as he rode the currents above the lake. What a magnificent wonder it was as it tilted this way and that in the air, catching the changing currents of the slightly breezy day.

 

Suddenly, the eagle swooped down in our direction, arresting its dive just above us, clearly studying us. It rested on a small updraft, balancing itself in slight adjustments of its wings and body, staring at us. At only 11 pounds, Priscilla probably looked like a perfectly delicious breakfast. Or maybe Jackson, at 16 pounds looked the better selection. More meat. But eventually the eagle decided against an attempt and flew off across the narrow part of the lake. I watched as it soared back and forth, surveying the ground around the edge of the lake. Finally, I lost interest and continued our walk around the lake, intent on stopping at the cove where baby turtles had recently been born. Last year, only one survived, but I still see it almost every time I scan the water there. It's not big enough to swim out into the lake. There are bass and huge carp in the deeper water, not to mention really big turtles, and don't forget the alligators!

 

But only about 2 minutes later, as we approached the turtle territory, I saw the shadow of a large bird appear across our path just ahead of us. I glanced up and the eagle was back, just behind us and above our heads, measuring (I think) the difficulty level of a Priscilla or Jackson purloin. Again, I gazed up at the beautiful creature with its signature white head. I was mesmerized, even while I was pondering a potential fight with an eagle, because over my dead body would it be taking my babies. Can eagles sense a protector's determination? Maybe. It eventually flew off again and didn't return.

 

cinnamon rolls

So I'm standing at the stove and I'm carefully and artfully spreading white icing on cinnamon rolls to take to my just-moved-in-today upstairs neighbors. Suddenly I hear a sound that startles me because it sounds like it's coming from INSIDE my apartment. It's a metal-on-metal tinkle sound.

I stop, activate my innate, serial-killer-tracking-superpower, and listen HARD for about 30 seconds. Nothing. I go back to my icing and hear it again!!! I stop, alarmed now, and decide to just stroll through my apartment to see if I can hear it. Master, master bath, master closet, Living room, dining room, hall, guest room (Y'ALL COME!), guest bathroom, coat closet, and finally the patio. Nothing but birds and a neighbor's dog barking his usual "WHERE ARE YOU" bark that signals that his parent is not at home.

Satisfied that chopping, hacking, and bloodletting are not about to commence, I return to my cinnamon rolls. Immediately, the faint tinkling begins again. WHAT IS THAT!?!?! Then, I see it. I'm wearing a silk, floor-length caftan that has a laced up section at the upper chest. The ends of the laces have decorative beading, the metal of which is gently hitting the handle of the oven door as I apply icing to the rolls. Cue my eye roll to go with the cinnamon roll.

My imagination is prolific in its ability to transform the ordinary into the worst possible horror. I'd like to blame it on Stephen King, but I was like this long before I read The Shining - and everything that came after.

I ate a cinnamon roll before I took the rest upstairs. I felt this was fair compensation for the 3 months I probably lost off the end of my life. (This really won't age well if I'm visited by an axe murderer tonight.)

 

day of biscuit (fiction)

On the northern edge of Greenville, on the lefthand side of Highway 17 as you drive north towards Dunkerton, there is a burned out shell of a building that used to house the local jail, back when three cells were more than sufficient to house the occasionally out of control members of the small town. The new county facility opened for business in Slaterville in 1992, prompting Sheriff Utter to retire six years after he probably should have. He locked the front door of the jail building and took the key with him, knowing that nobody would be following in his footsteps in little Greenville.

For nine years, that building sat empty until the Frazier twins took up residence in the building when their Pop kicked them out for smoking reefer in his double wide. Pop tolerated a lot, but he did not approve of illegal substances and certainly had no intention of losing his entire property in a drug seizure if either of his boys did something stupid. Mama Frazier cried for three days until she figured out where the boys were staying. After that, she took to bringing them fried chicken and biscuits whenever she could get away with it. To the boys, hunkered in the old building with no electricity or water, her visits felt like jail visits and they were always grateful to see her - and the chicken.

It wasn't until the beginning of winter arrived that the twins discovered that living without electricity was even more challenging when the thermometer dipped below freezing. And that's how they came to build a fire in the outer office and, well, you can guess the rest. The Frazier twins survived, but they moved on down to Alabama to live with an aunt who didn't know any better than to take them in. Her house burned down too, but that's another story.

When Shelly ran out of gas that day, her car coasted to a stop just a few yards from that burned out shell of a jail. She cursed, berating herself for not getting the gas gauge fixed, for not filling up at that last gas station she passed, for not saying NO when her sister asked her to drive down to Greenville to pick her up, and most of all, for choosing the particular shade of green painted on her nails. It was ugly. And now she would have to walk down the highway until she reached civilization with her dayglo nails advertising to the world that she had no taste. Well, maybe not. Maybe she could call June and she'd find someone to bring her five gallons of gas. It was worth a try.

day of noodle (fiction)

Hisashi strolled through Takashimaya Yokohama looking at various sale items. He was early, so he looked over the flower selection, making a mental note to pick up roses on his way out. Maiko would be surprised and pleased.

He turned the corner and spotted Ginza Tenichi where he was meeting Ottokar, the German architect working on final changes to his company's new building. Hisashi had been assigned to entertain him until he completed the project. The bartender approached him as soon as he sat on his stool. "Your best daiginjo, two cups, and keep it coming."

Later, he would think back to this moment and realize that he had killed Otto before the man ever walked into the bar. But in the moment, as he scrolled through text messages from girls who wanted to own him, he was oblivious and resigned to another tedious night of entertaining the boy genius from Dusseldorf.