He took a cursory look at the damage. Just a paint scratch, really—one that could probably be removed from his back bumper with a little turpentine. Taking a look at the vehicle that had rear-ended him at the street light, he doubted that it had insurance, so it was a good thing that he’d already decided that there was no need to file a claim or to persecute the offender. It would make a good yarn once he got to the office and a perfect excuse for his being late.
“Better stay on the sidewalk after this,” he yelled at the back of the toddler pedaling his toy car quickly away from the scene of the crime, his little friend in the toy patrol car pedaling down the sidewalk after him in pursuit, red light blinking, siren wailing as they rounded the corner.
The prompts for today are yarn, being, cursory, and persecute.
I just planted this hibiscus a little over a week ago and this is my first bloom. I think it is my new favorite. I planted another new one as well but can’t remember the color. I’ll share a photo when it blooms again as the original flower faded and fell off.
Marriage is “legal tender,” a permit to fuse— a government license for a couple to amuse. Some cohabit without it, in a sort of ruse which causes all the neighbors to gossip and accuse. If they were more nondescript, perhaps they could just use masks or garments to disguise, to obscure and confuse their detractors, but alas, there’s no means they can use. At six foot six, identities aren’t possible to lose.
I think my cousin’s sons might be taller than six foot six, actually. Next to my sister Patti, they seem to tower. Their photos are used for illustration purposes only. Neither to my knowledge has committed any action to make the neighbors gossip.
The words of the day are tender, neighbor, nondescript and fuse. And the links, in case you want to play along, are below:
When I’m in the mood for moping, with no energy for coping, reticent to kowtow to boss or parent or guru, when I’m feeling less than zealous, down-at-soul, depressed or jealous, concerned with what I seem to lack, I go and lie upon my back in bed or hammock or in pool in water steaming, tepid, cool.
The point is getting horizontal on a surface that is fontal, foam or tightly woven and hung in a garden, loosely slung. And there I dream or inspect trees for butterflies or birds or bees. I watch their habits, or I dream joining that unconscious stream that says the world is not my biz. Only what is closest is.
And I pull inward to a world where all the universe lies furled. Then, enlivened, I get up to write or play with dogs or sup, rejoining that space and clime I’m meant to live in for a time. I do what I have power to
to civilize this human zoo.
“Think globally,” they used to say.
“Act locally.” Still true today.