I do not want to write a thing. I don’t want to design. When it comes to creativity, I’m ready to resign. My efficacy’s at an end. I have no further drive. No further motivation to prove that I’m alive.
I’m going to eat chocolates in front of the TV. No schedules to live up to. Now all my time is free. I have no excuses. Your aid is not required. To end this conversation, I will just say I’m retired!
Crossing the room or traversing the plain, one foot goes in front of the other again. It is the business of shoe after shoe to follow each other through sand, dirt or goo.
They have easy going through fields filled with clover, but when they meet something they have to climb over, their task is much harder. No reflecting or browsing, for climbing up hills is ten times more rousing.
They pump up the blood, these mountains and ramps. They irritate arches and instigate cramps. They cause blisters, pulled muscles, and wear a girl out. That’s why I don’t often saunter about.
You won’t often find me walking out there with the wind to my back and stirring my hair.
For although there’s less scenery, I do not care.
I prefer bed or hammock or chair.
The punch of youth deserted me a few birthdays ago. My pace is not so rapid, my activity rate slow. Though I’m really rather crafty at covering up my laziness, the truth is the sharp edge of life has dissolved into haziness.
My fashion style has graduated from shabby chic and Goth—
loose batiks and rebozos that provide forgiving swath
to obscure a body settling into a comfort zone
that leaves room for a donut, popcorn or a scone.
I do the things I used to do, though in different proportions. I exercise within my pool with minimized contortions. My parties have grown smaller with the menus simplified, and when I am out shopping, I am easier satisfied.
No longer do I seek out that perfect styling mist. “This will do,” I soon decide, and cross it off my list. I put off a few years ago my three nights on the town. The nights I used to dance away, I love to lay me down.
Sorting through a milling crowd has become a bore.
My friends have dwindled to a few, but I enjoy them more. Swinging in the hammock has become a meditation. Looking at garden denizens a form of education.
Life filtered down is full of grace. I love its sway and hush. Who knew that it would be such fun away from life’s mad rush?
He called his dad a troglodyte, his sisters, basket cases, although he was not brash enough to do so to their faces. He felt himself the underdog—blamed for everything. He felt his wings were clipped, although he dreamed of taking wing. Someday he would spring the trap and he would show them all. But until that day, he’d simply hang out at the mall, checking out the chicks and panhandling when he could. He knew he could do great things and some day he would, but no one gave him chances. The Mexicans and Arabs with their Virgin Marias and their half-moons and their scarabs were taking all his jobs away. He didn’t even try. Why should a decent white guy bother to apply?
How dare his dad declare that he has nothing on the ball? He is kept plenty busy holding up this wall. When the other wall is built, his life will come together. He’ll get some fancy job and break the family tether. Get a real cool crash pad and party with his friends. He’ll make some just as soon as this foreign invasion ends. Time enough for school once Trump takes out the trash. Then he’ll ace his classes and rake in the cash. He’ll show every idiot who claims he is a bum that he is the genius. He’ll show them who is dumb! Those guys who hang out at the mall in every sort of weather? If we could read their thoughts, they just might be birds of a feather.
I’m feeling lethargic, no gumption or drive. If you saw me now, you would doubt I’m alive. I’m flat on my back in a bit of a bind, looking for energy that I can’t find. So though I need coffee to wash down some Bayer’s, my cats are on top of me, piled in layers. Obstinate creatures, they simply won’t move. They laze around daily with nothing to prove. And what must be giggles just come out as purrs. I need me some whips and I need me some spurs so I can herd cats from their comfy position that they have adopted as part of their mission to make sure that I do not deign to stir, remaining inert under bundles of fur.
My daydreams lack a focus. They float by like a cloud. It is as though much logic is simply not allowed. Should plans besmirch my reverie, I’m sure to blot them out, for my thoughts are vagabonds—aimless, without a doubt. A mortarboard and tassel lurk far within my past, and I fear the plans they made simply didn’t last I lie here in my lounge chair, getting too much sun. I should raise the umbrella, for sunburn is no fun, but I cannot stir myself. I’m simply far too lazy. Retirement would be easier if all the skies were hazy!