Remember yesterday when I said it would be available really soon? I meant today.
Blog
Crumbs
I’m a little bit messy
In life and in love
Memories splatter
Over walls and stale cloths
Across my shirt
Down my chin
A touch here and there
Fragrant reminders
Of a life I missed
Stick to my lips
Crumbs, ravaged
Forgotten details I pick up
Again and again
QPD – What A Week/Month/Year
It’s been a whole half a year.
And what a year it’s been so far.
Its almost time for mid year reflections. I guess it can always be time for reflection but this year I’ve been very focused on moving forward, how to get there, making goals, setting intentions, visualizing …
All the things.
I even have a journal made to help you set goals and intentions and act on them.
But I’m also exhausted, especially right now.
It’s been a week, even with the holiday. It’s been filled with good and bad.
Lately, all I can think is how very tired we should all be and how willing we should be to hold each other accountable and to demand change.
After all, change is the only constant. I’d argue that it’s the root of most fear.
How are you feeling as we come up on half a year? After this month? This week?
You Are Not Gossamer
“My confidence is gossamer.”
“Gossamer?”
“Gossamer.”
“That guy was pretty confident I guess.”
“That guy?”
“Yeah, the heart guy. The big monster one. Like an olden days Kool-Aid man.”
“I don’t think … Gossamer is a word. It’s not a person or monster or whatever you’re talking about.”
“No offense, I know my Bugs Bunny. Maybe you mean another word?”
“Maybe you have the name wrong. My word is Gossamer.”
“Google it then. Let’s see who’s right.”
*furious typing*
“Gossamer, thin, delicate, insubstantial.”
“And, right there, Gossamer. Big red heart dude.”
“Huh. Ironic.”
“Yeah, also, have you met yourself? Your confidence is not “gossamer”. You’re not a wilting flower or silk blowing in the wind.”
RDP: Gossamer
QPD – Mother’s Day
Happy Mother’s Day. Today’s yoga practice was “Rose Yoga”. Fitting.
Detour
I could think about what we’d done but what good would it do?
Everyone is just here for the main act.
Liquor and beer rain overhead as the crowd surges to the music. Food from the buffett Matt so graciously supplied disappears.
Buffett a la Matt, we called it.
After all, it was what he wanted, to be recycled, given back to the Earth.
“Have you tried these meatballs?!” The guy stumbles then graces the ground with undigested chunks.
Matt meant cremation, we know, but times are tough. Eventually his remains will make it there.
This is just a detour.
I’m sorry, I do not know how my brain got here.
Word Count 100
For Friday Fictioneers
QPD: Cinco de Mayo
Cinco de Mayo.
Sitting in the sunlight relishing in the cool breeze and trying to find a little peace.
I have to go into our office tomorrow, just for the day. I haven’t gotten ready for work in over 6 weeks. I’m not sure I want to start again.
How are you doing? Are you working? How has that been going?
Dough Boy
I haven’t done a stream of consciousness write in a long time. I didn’t time this one.
If you haven’t read these before. This is a stream of conciousness write with very little editing (so apologies for anything that doesn’t make sense). I pick a prompt, usually a word of the day, turn on some music and just write whatever comes to my head for a set time (usually 10 minutes).
Music: Ghostpoet
Daily words: Image and Dough.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
It’s lips curve downwards and it’s nose hooks right under those skeptical eyes. Made in your image but it’s not you.
It’s soft and stretchy, moist and sticky. Strings of dough stretch from one lip to the other as it mocks my humanoid appearance.
A spark forms in my belly and spreads like wildfire. Before I realize the scope of my ideas, my limbs begin acting. My legs carry me forth, my arms swing out wildly. My fingers pinch at its doughy arms, pulling away long pieces and tossing them into the endless span of existence below us.
They can’t work fast enough, its sticky being pulls at the hairs on my arms and legs. Doughy fingers work their way through my hair, ripping me back.
I could try to frantically escape but something tells me this is like quicksand. It envelops me. Moist strings pry into my mouth, holding my tongue and filling my lungs.
You are dreaming. You are dreaming.
My jerking body flings onto the floor. Pizza boxes scatter and cower from my cries.
I’m alive.
A stray pepperoni sticks to the bridge of my nose. A menacing reminder encroaching on my vision.
Maybe I’ll lay off the pizza.
