- Home > Archive: May, 2017
There’s a thousand answers to who she is.
The eternal anima living in my dreams and psyche.
She visits in different guises and
alternately goads, berates and defends me.
She is maddening as she is elusive.
I only want to be loved by her.
And she only wants me to confront the burden of self.
Carl Jung describes the anima as being the feminine part of a man’s personality.
This is the part of the psyche that speaks to you in dreams.
After all the years cooked in the kettle of time,
things aren’t much different from day one, dog one.
Your thoughts still make your actions,
your actions still decide your destiny.
And the way you treat your mother will always
be a measure of you.
Thanks to her you have life,
unpolished as it is.
Friday night, workin’ the stoop.
Thinking over the odds.
Lady luck don’t give a…
She’s fickle, Mickey’s in a slump.
Put his last 25 bucks on a hard 10.
Felt pretty good, this time it came back around.
Had a hot hand, you know how it goes.
A little walkin’ around money for the weekend.
It’s funny how children are born fully realized.
They grow from out of focus infants to complete beings.
In a matter of minutes, it seems.
Childhood is just the soil they are planted in.
She’s only three and already something of a scientist.
Using “Actually…” with great finesse.
Explaining birds to a small captive audience.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Gone to weddings, everyone.
When will they ever learn?
Max opened her letter slowly, dreading what it might say.
It was only one page.
There were the usual turns of love and longing,
but the handwriting was sloppy and distracted.
He knew and actually was rather relieved.
I wish to sing the praises of those souls who are not known, yet do a lot.
This is in contrast to the well known “somebodies” who are known simply for being known and actually do surprisingly little.
I’d rather be a do something nobody
than a do nothing somebody
any day of the week.
Today’s rant completed.
They built themselves a flying machine.
A bird with a wind up mechanism that flapped its wings.
It was the only time they all had that year.
It flew towards the lake and was lost in the weeds.
Mickey tried with all his might to stop it from becoming the story of their time together.
Sometimes we desperately want to control the narratives we remember.
Jimmy’s teacher told the class to write about what their parents smelled like.
He hadn’t seen his father in a dog’s age.
Remembered his grandfather reeked of pipe smoke and Aqua Velva.
He walked up to his mother and gave her a hug.
“What’s that for?”
“You looked like you needed it.” he inhaled.
Big hands, almost masculine.
Very skilled at turning ideas into costumes and clothing.
Long hours at the drawing tables and sewing machines.
Headaches and pain were her constant companions.
Ballroom dancing was her favorite diversion.
Made her own blue polka dot dresses to wear to the clubs.
The music and movement melted all the hurt.
For smooth full-leg penetration, tight grip and all ‘round fastening satisfaction at office and home insist on Wilson Jones staplers and bright steel staples.
“Huh” thought Lizette.
Reaching for her lipstick (Lady Danger, vivid bright coral red).
Smacking her lips and noticing Bob from accounting whose shirt seemed
tighter than usual.
“Someone’s been working out.”
That’s the actual copy on a box of Wilson Jones staples. It was so hilarious I decided to turn it into a prompt. A bit over the top, I know.