Sweet Tooth
There are certain practices I’m anxious to curtail,
but I find my past attempts were to no avail.
Cookies placed before me vanish without a trace,
and if you’re toting donuts, you’d better bring your mace.
I should eschew both cake and pie, for I cannot afford it.
So just in case you plan to share, please change your mind and hoard it!!
The Ragtag prompt today is trace.
Fandango’s prompt FOWC is curtail.
And Daily Addiction’s is afford.
There is a commentary that goes with these photos. To see it and to enlarge them all, click on the first photo. The arrow on the right of the photo will take you to the next photo. Have fun! Morrie and I want to share our afternoon with you. He’s narrating.
Spinning Top
Is senility a resurrected prenatal state—
hearing the outer world
with limited stages of connection?
Or is it a journey backwards through a lifetime,
remembering details pushed into
the closets of the mind by daily tasks?
The hum of a life is deafening in this world.
Even with earbuds or headsets,
the noise of the world streams in,
wired direct into our consciousness,
quelling thoughts of our own,
wiping clean for the time being,
memories.
The whole world with us every minute
leads to no world of our own.
Barraged our entire lives,
more now than ever,
does senility offer a time before our death
to connect with our inner selves once more?
Relieved of the world,
do we spin like a top into that inner world,
remembering a lifetime lost to activity—
the resurrected adolescence of old age
evolving backwards into a dreaming time
wherein we joyfully wander ourselves again?
Some choose the rope, fearing a nightmare of senility,
yet some of us hope for a return to dreams of childhood,
relieved of all care, even for ourselves.
No one comes back to tell us which it is,
yet some of us?
We hope.
We hope.
For RDP the prompt was Resurrection.
Those wild cat rambles have done it. I’m up, all meds taken, sitting at my desk. Morrie is outside on the terrace, surveying the sunrise to no avail because it is obscured by trees and houses and somewhat behind us even if it wasn’t. I’m finally trying to eat the birthday cupcake John brought me yesterday. Sans the whipped cream topping, it is bland enough for my stomach to take. Imagine me scraping off the whipped cream! I like the dense texture of Mexican cakes. More like a muffin, actually.
Well, a “poppy” would have been more appropriate on this day of fireworks, but here in its stead, is another shot of a hibiscus:
Click on first photo to enlarge all and see slide series.
3:30-5:10 A.M.
The calicos are crazy,
my bed a high hill in their racetrack
that seems to extend down the long hall
from the living room to here and back.
They barrel over the bedclothes, over me,
leap to the desktop, rattling the glass case of a
pre-Columbian clay jug.
The white cat lies serenely licking against my side,
then rises to knead my breast with sharp claws,
nibble fingers as I type.le,∑ß`099w≥. (Her added comment.)
The grey cat has brought something to my bed––a masticated mouse, perhaps.
Quickly, I cover it with the comforter to save it from the cat,
who careens on into another adventure.
I pull back its shroud, dreading what I will reveal,
to find half of the cover of my Xtech Card reader.
From the computer beside me, its guts still hang connected,
the SD card from my new camera still inside.
This is the last time the young cats sleep inside!
For Cee’s Which Way challenge..Which Way? Down the hallway and across the bed:
Volatile
As reliable as fireworks on the 4th of July,
you ignite. Over what? Who could guess?
We shield ourselves as if from floating embers,
ward off the sting for others and ourselves.
You bright shooting stars leave your aftereffects.
We, below, contend with them,
and never fail to show up for your next grand display.
FOWC’s prompt is fireworks.
The Daily Addiction prompt is reliable.
Three hours at the doctor’s today, then returned home to a visit from John, my across the street neighbor, who brought me a birthday cupcake. Met Blue at Viva Mexico only to find neither of us have recovered from this curse. We shared a meal and brought most of it home. After eating even that small amount, I was so sick by time I got home. Fell into bed with a couple of kitties as company only to hear a very faint trill. Could it be the doorbell on the gate?
Called out and no one answered. Went back to bed only to hear strains of music. Opened the front door to find Pasiano and family—his wife Patty with the hugest bouquet of flowers and Pasiano strumming the guitar. Ishamel, their six year old son, was singing along as they all sang “Las Mananitas.” I’d bought Pasiano the guitar, made in the guitar town pictured in “Coco.” He had said he wanted to learn the guitar and I kept asking him how he was doing. Since the entire song was sung to him strumming the strings without any notes fingered at all, I take it that he hasn’t taken lessons yet, but such a sweet gesture, and they were all giggling and so pleased with themselves.
. This is my third serenading since I’ve been in Mexico. The first was on my sixtieth birthday, the second on my seventieth and the third, today on my 71st. Such a lovely custom. Awakened by Yolanda’s family with flowers and a gift, flowers and a serenade by Pasiano’s family at the end of day. Nice birthday.
Now, to bed for the rest of my birthday. Had lab tests today and hope to find out tomorrow just what this is. Thanks for all the good wishes. Sure do like all y’all!!!
