Half over-achiever, my other part is zen. Sometimes I concentrate on now, other times, where I’ve been. This morning’s evanescent. I can’t remember shit. I know I found my car key but what did I do with it?
Ameliorating circumstances? Sorry. There are none. I simply have no memory of what I have just done. I know I wrote a poem, but I can’t recall a bit. I haven’t the foggiest memory of what I said in it!
It’s said I have good judgment and a judicious mind, but as to short-term memory? I fear I’m in a bind. I remember blow-for-blow what happened as a child. My college years I recall well. My twenties are well-filed.
When I write, the memories pop readily to my brain. It’s only hours later that the memories don’t remain of what I have just written or the words that I have used. The present and my recent past simply are not fused.
So if you want a memory, please choose one in my past. The farther back, the better, if you want my reply fast. Fifty years ago are fine. The details I’ll relate. But details of this morning? I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.
I’m suffering from reluctance and a bit of perturbation that is interfering with my blog’s administration. Embarrassed for this rhyme, I’ve no proclivity to flout it. I’m sure my stats will plummet. There is no doubt about it.
We’ll ascribe the blame to Ragtag, for “orgulous” is the word they’ve chosen for our prompt today—a choice that is absurd. Who uses it in common speech, or formal speech, in fact? Any poem I used it in, I’d afterwards redact.
I’m not a jolly blogger. I’m delaying activation. I feel no need to add to my reader’s education by using words requiring their use of dictionaries. I prefer clear writing that requires no further queries.
It’s habit that demands that I find a way around this. But now I feel no further need to otherwise expound this. I’ve flailed around in writing this. I edit and I stumble. Tomorrow may they choose a word that is a bit more humble!
“In many countries, the phenomenon is so widespread that new terms have developed to describe it: bamboccioni [literally, big babies] in Italy, “hotel mama” in Germany, boomerang children in Australia, parasaito shinguru [single parasite] in Japan. These young men and women don’t leave home and don’t get married, because they only want to buy brand names and enjoy themselves and to live, as an ideology, at their parents’ expense. It’s nothing less than a pandemic.” https://www.haaretz.com/.premium-new-syndrome-grown-up-kids-who-stay-home-1.5336944
If more interest charges he wishes to defray, he needs to find a paying job without further delay. He should at once take heed of my excellent advice and give up on his former full-time job of shooting dice.
He might become a rose vendor, a troubadour or chef or become the famous author of a roman a clef. if only he would get a job, his parents would rejoice, but, alas, sheer laziness is his career of choice,
My father calls me hatface because of my addiction for wearing things upon my head because of my conviction that I look prettier in hats or hairdos most original to make me look exotic––French or Greek or aboriginal.
I wear my cat under my arm, my socks upon my head. Rather than be ordinary, I’d rather be dead.
Sometimes I walk my rabbit. When he walks on his hind feet, for sure, we’ve the attention of everyone we meet. My rabbit sheds his rabbit skin and wears a shirt instead, and me? I change my head socks and put bows upon my head.
Our skin is very pliable. It stretches like Band-aids, so Sis and I just pull it up in pretty little braids.
In sunlight, flowers surprise me by sprouting from my head. I never know what to expect when rising from my bed.
I have two patron blackbirds perched one upon each shoulder. They’d be perching on my head if they were any bolder.
A bluebird doubles as my kite, the string held in its mouth. Sometimes he flies me east or west, and sometimes we fly south. I’m a very special girl. I’m not at all predictable–– a miracle that Jackie Hurlbert found me this depictable!
Your directional demands are wearing rather thin. They’re wearing out my eardrums. Getting beneath my skin. Must you demand in public? Must you always nag? Have you all the answers in your Mary Poppins bag? Must you simply always be so self-sure and so stolid? Is there no effervescence in your dependably solid? You always quote statistics, so I would like to hear what is the percentage of the facts you know, my dear, that you think would fit if you stuffed them up your rear?