Driving I-95 N. And Recycling.

recycling_logo-green

Tuesday.
Drive home.
A torrid August afternoon.
Waze signals an express track: 22 minutes.
Reality reports something else.
Traffic inches forward.

The car in front is a late edition Mustang hard top.  Driver and passenger wearing baseball caps. A empty Marlboro pack is tossed out of the passenger window, skips once and lands on the simmering asphalt.

That’s bullsh*t.

Traffic snakes ahead.
A butt is flicked out the window, and lay smoldering on the shoulder.

Pig.

The A/C is blowing, but I’m hot, from the inside-out.  I loosen my tie.  Unbutton the right shirt cuff, and then the left. And roll-up my sleeves. I sit.

Here you go again, with another demonstration of Fuller’s Celtic inclinations: irritability, intolerance and irascibility.  You bathe in it Man. It is your Oxygen. [Read more…]

Running. To 7:20 am.

running-black-white

It’s 2:44 am.
A Full Moon.
Its lambent lighting caresses the earth’s surface.

Parched.
I trudge downstairs.
Hands greedily reach for ice water.

Eyes pan down to the second shelf.
I reach for the container and lift out two of the largest.
Driscoll’s Finest Raspberries from Watsonville, CA.
The tongue savors the sweet nectar from the red drupelets.

On to unfinished business.
A partially started, uninspiring mess of words following yesterday’s run.
Old fruit aging in the back of the crisper.
I drag the cursor down to select the entire passage.
And hit Delete to bury it.

It was 6:51 am. Yesterday.
I was half way through the run.
It came as a Mind-Pop.
I need to get back by 7:20 am.
But I’m too far out on this loop.
I must get back by 7:20 am. [Read more…]

Running. With Tug-o-McWhopper.

run-running-shadow-thoughts

It’s 4:26 am. Hump Day.

The scale works, with its condescending blink-blink-blink.
Down B*tch. Down.
It flashes Up.
Up 8 lbs since the last running post over a month ago.
Wow.

I turn to the morning papers.  Headline: Burger King has reached out to McDonald’s with a 1-day cease-fire offer to combine the Whopper with the Big Mac to create the McWhopper. Wow.

I shift uncomfortably on the couch.

Don’t care? Don’t want to? Too hot?
Where’s the disgust? The fury?
Riding Apathy Road here.
Wow. [Read more…]

Rescue (85 sec)


When South African filmmaker Dave Meinert took into his life a Great Dane puppy, whom he named Pegasus, he was told that the tiny canine might not live very long due to her difficult beginnings in a squalid backyard puppy mill. With this in mind, Meinert set about documenting Pegasus every day for six months as she walked or tried to walk on a treadmill. He then compiled the footage together and created an incredibly touching time-lapse film entitled “The Pegasus Project.” Meinert discussed the project in an interview with Fast Company.

“Rescuing her was a way for me to be sure she’d be looked after,” Meinert says. “For me, she had already been born—nothing was going to change that. By rescuing her, at least I could be certain that she wouldn’t be discarded.” Rather than dwell on the negatives about her life, he says, “I decided to make a record of the healthy days as a way to celebrate them.”

And also note that today (August 26th) is National Dog Day.


Source: Laughing Squid

Driving I-95 S. With all things Sacred.

traffic, cars,highway,drive

4 am.
The windows mist up and clear.
Wipers, never short of stamina, never lose their rhythm, clear the morning rain.
The soft click of the back and forth, lull me into a gentle place.

Waze signals 10.5 hours in front of us.
I’m the first to carry the baton.
I’m pressing to slingshot over the GW Bridge ahead of rush hour.
Rain, highway warning signs, road construction.
Truckers, tourists, insomiacs – all being squeezed, four lanes into one.
We clear.

We fly out of the shoot and enter the NJ turnpike.
The right hand makes slight course corrections.
The right foot steady, to 82 mph.
Makin’ time in Summer time.

Susan sleeps in the back.
Eric snores to my right.
But for the hum of the engine, the cabin is quiet.
A thin stream of light lines the horizon, dawn stretching to lift Night.
Quiet? Not.
More like Levithan’s Unquiet – words and thoughts crash into each other.

It’s Eric’s Senior Year.
Mom and Dad are dropping off their precious cargo and deadheading back.
The Melancholy Bus rides again. [Read more…]

Rollin’ with Tumbleweeds

tumbleweed

He called looking for a sounding board.

I’ve been offered a job.  We’d have to move North…

I push my chair away from the desk, lean back, and lean in.

More money….Bigger job…Great company…

He’s a kid again, bubbly about his shiny, new red Schwinn.

I’ve been here for 14 years. I’m stale. I need a change.

Like the Blue Moon, he beams down triennially with the same bright light.

The kids are in college. They’re not holding us down here any longer. Jane tells me to do what I think is right.

He’s seeking counsel from a Corporate Gypsy, who’s been unwavering in the triennial counsel: “Go.” But he doesn’t interrupt.

But…

Here it comes. The Gates are coming down… [Read more…]

Driving I-95 S. In Delirium.

light-hand-sunlight

It’s Tuesday Morning.
2:30 am.
I’m up.

It was my first morning thought, an omen. Susan sharing research about insomniacs and the early onset of Alzheimer’s. Bullsh*t. Research is Bullsh*t. I shake the thought like Zeke shaking off after his bath. Ears flying. Body quivering. I’ll decide when I’m losing it, not a minute earlier.

I’m mindlessly ripping through the morning papers and then turn to blog posts. A vacuum with indiscriminate digestion. A few morsels hang.

There’s Doug’s Law:  “You can have information or you can have a life, but you can’t have both.”

Bullsh*t Doug. Bullsh*t. I’m going to have it all. I’ll burn in it. I’ll wrap, and wrap and wrap myself in information and light up. I’ll sparkle like a Roman Candle. Red. Green. Blue. White. A shower of color.  Up up up, lighting up the darkness.  You’ll cheer Doug. You will.

And then there’s Psych2go with new research:  “Believing you have slept well, even if you haven’t, improves performance.”

There you go.  I just need to believe I have slept well on 4 1/2 hours of sleep. And, voila, I’ll be rested and operating at peak performance. Really? What unmitigated bullsh*t. I’m drowning in bullsh*t.

It’s 5:00 am. I get up from the couch after 2 1/2 hours of vacuuming, and the room spins. The ship pitches. My left hand reaches for the wall, touches the cool latex paint – I close my eyes and lean in with my shoulder.  The gnawing pit in the stomach twists – God, shower me in Dramamine. [Read more…]

Driving I-95 S. With Small Gestures.

Katharina-Sieverding-face-eyes-close-up

He’s not there every day, but many days.
It’s a five-second human connection.
But like tree sap, the resin sticks, and it’s impossible to wash off.

I pull up to the security gate.
I swipe my card.
The gate lifts.
I glance to my left.

In winter, the door is shut, the glow of the lamp is a beacon in the pre-dawn hours. He’s there, head down, turning pages of the morning paper or a paperback. He’s approaching the end of his overnight shift.

It’s summer now, the door is open, he’s standing, motionless.

I used to offer a “Good Morning!
I gave up on him after a number of intermittent attempts.
He failed to reciprocate. I was left empty.  I refused to start my day in a ditch.

Now the morning contact is wordless.
One man’s eyes fixed on the other. A recognition. An acknowledgment.
But no more. A Cold War.
But Not. [Read more…]

Driving I-95 S. Playing Catch-Up.

lights-highway-drive

5:25 am. Yesterday. Any day.

I-95 S.

Left hand at 11 o’clock.

Finger tips on right, spinning dial. Playing Russian Roulette with one of 4,378 tunes. DK is Living large. Letting it land where it may.

Left foot tapping. Tapping. TappingLet’s go Man. Let’s go. I’m tailing a black limousine in the left lane doing fifty. A yellow light glows in the back seat. A Suit reads the morning paper.

I re-grip the steering wheel – swing right, accelerate, and swing sharply left. Lynyrd Skynyrd…’Cause I’m as free as a bird now…

The limo is back in my rear view mirror.  I drift into a collage of Vine clips, stitched together with snippets of blog posts, movies, books (6 in flight) and highlights from my binge watching of Netflix. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. You are gulping them down. Gasping for air. Faster and faster.  And then the Nimbostratus. Katrina Kenison, on her Magical Journey, An Apprenticeship in Contentment: “Thirty, forty, fifty – how could three quarters of my life by over? Where did it go?
[Read more…]

Driving I-95 N. With Sparks.

lights-driving

There’s a difference.
When your bones hurt,
And when they’re just tired.
When they are looking to heal,
and when they are looking to get set down.
These Bones are aching, to get set down.

Sparks.
The week’s reflections as I ride up I-95.
They light warm fires of gratitude.

Yes, Mary. It is the work.
My work.
Work that I’ve made for myself.
Work that I’ve chosen to claim my life.
My adult life.

And then, a final spark,
for Mary,
who has brought me Home,
and to my handsome life.


I don’t mean it’s easy or assured, there are the stubborn stumps of shame, grief that remains unsolvable after all the years, a bag of stones that goes with one wherever one goes and however the hour may call for dancing and for light feet. But there is, also, the summoning world, the admirable energies of the world, better than anger, better than bitterness and, because more interesting, more alleviating. And there is the thing that one does, the needle one plies, the work, and within that work a chance to take thoughts that are hot and formless and to place them slowly and with meticulous effort into some shapely heat-retaining form, even as the gods, or nature, or the soundless wheels of time have made forms all across the soft, curved universe – that is to say, having chosen to claim my life, I have made for myself, out of work and love, a handsome life.

– Mary Oliver, Wild Geese


Notes: