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.
I measure her cat food with care from the vat, but she has such an aptitude, my little cat for flushing out lizards and others like that. With delicate paw thrusts, she gives them a bat ’til they barely know where it is that they’re at, then unleashes her claws for a more severe pat.
Be it lizard or bird or scorpion or rat, she defeats it as though it were merely a gnat and lays it out nicely on my front door mat: one scorpion sting less or a feather for my hat, then returns to the stool where she formerly sat, licking her chops, and that’s why she’s so fat!!!
Few easily attain the goals that are their aspiration without initial effort that requires perspiration. Most of us must labor to gain what we desire, but although we go in circles, each circle spirals higher.
I’ll tell you of a man I knew by name of Gassy Dan. It’s true he was a glutton—a mountain of a man. A sopper-up of every bowl, a scraper of each pan.
He wasn’t the most pleasant guest to ever grace one’s table, for his appetite was something of legend and of fable aa he gobbled up more than his share whenever he was able.
Once seated at the table, though, he never had enough of pork chop and of gravy, still he’d commence to huff and puff about some gossip with language rude and rough.
With his slanderous assertions, his posturings and brayings, his sanctimonious protests and all of his trite sayings, he punished all our eardrums with incessant oral flayings.
Thus the rumblings at our table as we commenced to sup were not his gastric gasses growling like a pup. His borborygmus rumblings came from farther up.
The Ragtag prompt for the day is borborygmus. bor·bo·ryg·mus (a rumbling or gurgling noise made by the movement of fluid and gas in the intestines.)
This is for Marilyn–not a poem! Written over three years ago, it predated the “Me too” movement, but fits right in with the climate today of”one step forward, one step back.” Which will it be by the end of this political “reign”? Hopefully, if a woman winds up on the moon it will be literally and not figuratively.
On “The Honeymooners,” Ralph Kramden (played by Jackie Gleason) had a phrase that those of us of a certain age can’t help but remember. “To the moon, Alice, to the moon!” he would rasp at his wife (played by the inimitable Audrey Meadows) whenever he had no less predictable comeback to her never predictable jibes. Of course, the idea was that this was how far he would knock her. An upraised fist often accompanied his threat.
The audience, of course, would roar. So hilarious this empty threat, for America knew that Ralph would never make good on the threat. Even Alice never flinched–supposedly because she, too, knew those words signaled an empty threat. But underneath those words and the fact that viewers found them to be so hilarious, was the idea that such threatened violence was funny–and, somehow, that such treatment of his wife was a…
At Rudy’s Scrap and Salvage, you’ll find the junk of dreams. Sewing machines with treadles and pants burst at the seams that you can mend upon them. Dining sets with mismatched chairs. In his clothing section, shoes seldom come in pairs.
Lovely one-eyed dollies and lop-eared careworn rabbits, uniforms and costumes, surplices and habits. Little pails of misplaced parts like nuts and bolts and widgets. Chairs fit for a giant and little chairs for midgets.
Crankshafts, axles, handlebars for 50’s era Schwinns. Housegoods by the bushel and tools by the bins. Whoever was responsible for making all these things would barely recognize them with their scratches and their dings.
It’s a place for dreamers, for artists or inventors— those a few steps out of time who lack corporate mentors. Those bent on handing back our junk with which we tried to part as startling new inventions or else objets d’ arte.
Taking worthless bits of junk and making priceless treasures is, I must admit, one of my most primary pleasures. You can keep your Bergdorfs, Neiman Marcus or your Saks. I prefer my treasures in orange crates or gunny sacks!