What’s your favorite cartoon?
“Monsters lead such interesting lives.”
Chico’s Blog
Part 2
Meet Duke. A professor of literature. Originally from Maine; now teaching in South Carolina. Nasty divorces can do that.
Day in and day out, Duke played with words. Taught the words of others. Old words. New words. If he let it, teaching could fill every minute of every day. He had very little time for his own words.
Duke had a blog of his own, ‘theburntoutprofessor’. He had only posted 5 things.
5 things in 2 years. Wow! What a waste? No one was waiting on the edge of their seats for anything he had written. “Just write”, he told himself on many occasions. With pen in hand, all those words he played with were gone. All the things he needed to say evaporated into nothingness.
One night, he lay awake on his bed trying to come up with a fun idea for his senior students. He might have one student that didn’t have a social media account. ‘His blog’, he thought. He would have his students find a person on a blog site to write their class project about. Happy with his idea, he fell fast asleep.
A groan fell over his class as he shared is brilliant idea. They had all semester to find a writer and analyze their blog.
He gave them a time line as a guide. First on the list, find a blog. Then discover your person. That wasn’t too much to ask between Homer and Bryant. Right?
Sam was one of his most active students. She was smart, quiet, worked hard, and worked. Two weeks after the assignment, she handed in her blog choice and the blog she found; Chico’s Mom. She had even picked out a name for her assignment, Analyzing Chico. With a big smilie face and the word, ‘cute’, Duke gave her work back.
As he lay awake he wondered, ‘was cute really the right word’?
Every Friday, Sam submitted her work. She printed off the piece and her take on it. She was doing way more work than he felt was required. But that was Sam. As a professor, he liked students like Sam.
Her analysis’ intrigued him. He took it upon himself to look at this blog. There was a couple times he disagreed with her spin. But wasn’t that the best part about poetry? What does it say to you? What message do you get from someone else’s emotional battleground?
The Covid Lollipop. Shew! Sam had a whole different thought pattern. She prescribed to the idea that covid was a hoax and the pandemic was an economic weapon used to terrorize the world. The Covid Lollipop proved her point. At home testing was a waste of money.
He didn’t feel that way. Even now, he wouldn’t eat in a restaurant. Still taught classes with a mask on. The Covid Lollipop was entertaining. Cute. There was that word again; cute.
He almost sent her a message. Almost. Since Sam was reviewing Chico’s Mom’s work, he decided not to follow her.
Honor Thy Parents; Duke had never been religious and people that believed in religion blew his mind. It was so foreign to him to believe in a higher power.
He felt like he had an amazing childhood and it broke his heart to think other children didn’t. He wanted to send her a message and ask her about her ‘craptastic’ childhood. But.
As the weeks passed, he found himself waiting for her next post. Some were funny. Others sad. She alluded that she was working on other stuff. Would she post them?
He hadn’t looked forward to anything like he looked forward to the next post.
New Earth. He didn’t think Sam would choose this one. It wasn’t a poem. Her blog was titled ‘Poetry & More’. New Earth was a short story. It made him so mad that the main character essentially committed suicide because she didn’t want to live in a world void of God. What kind of stupid logic was that? He had written out a whole big message to her wanting to understand the reasoning. But.
Look at Chico. He’s so cute. There was that word again, cute. If she loved an animal as much as she appeared to love Chico, could she love a person the same way? None of her writing gave the indication that she was in a relationship.
All of Duke’s students did a good job on this assignment. Four said they hated it. Overall the feedback was positive. So much so, he was toying with the idea of making it a permanent part of his course outline.
Sam, of course, made an A.
Coffee was such an important part of Duke’s life. He got up every morning, turned the pot on and took a shower. When he stepped out of the shower, the aroma of brewed coffee hit him full in the face. It was amazing.
On this morning, he wasn’t greeted by that divine smell. Where was his coffee? To his horror, the pot had died. Great.
After he dressed, he wondered down the beach to a little snack shack. The one where Sam worked.
Finally, coffee. She poured his coffee as he sat on the patio listening to the waves. Now this was something to write about; as he closed his eyes absorbing the sound and smell of the ocean. As usual, his words got lost.
A new person had arrived. Close enough he could hear a voice over the waves. Far enough away, he couldn’t understand what was being said.
He was almost asleep. The waves were magic. “Professor”. Someone was calling his name. “Professor”. It was Sam.
“Yes.” He forced himself to focus on her smiling face. She looked elated.
“I’ve met someone you should me.” He followed her to the only other person on the patio. On the table, the ocean breeze was causing a receipt to flap frantically under a heavy pen. Steam danced off a hot cup of coffee in the cooler morning air. Under a straw beach hat sat a woman. The wind forced sprigs of red hair to cling to her hat and face. Her face had been kissed by the South Carolina sun.
Sam beamed as she spoke, “professor meet Chico’s Mom.”
Day Dreaming
What could you do less of?
Chico’s Blog
Part 1
Meet Ann. Ann lives a very quiet life in semi rural Kentucky. Ann always enjoyed writing. Mostly poetry.
Writing was a way to express all those things she wanted to say but couldn’t. Too often emotions were used as weapons. The last thing she needed was her moment of weakness – that second of vulnerability thrown back in her face. Mockery.
As far as ever making a living off writing; everyone and their blue green grandma thinks they can write. What’s the point of putting yourself out there? What’s the point in caring? When 99% of the world is more talented than you? Your grammar sucks. Your sentence structure is appalling.
To pass the time, she would loll away days at local festivals. Table after table was of people trying to sell a book. Art work. Carvings. Proving her point.
She didn’t have the money to self publish. Nor the talent to have an agent.
TRASH! Got filed away under ‘stupid dreams’. You work at a dead end job. You pay your bills. When you sleep, you dream very little about ‘the pie in the sky’. It’s not yours.
During a moment of sadness, she burnt a bunch. No good, no talent garbage. Burn it. Some stuff she couldn’t part with. It was put away in a trunk. Out of sight, out of mind.
One day a friend sparked an idea. Her friend shared a conversation she had with her therapist. She was being encouraged to journal. What an idea! Personally, Ann hated journaling. It was boring. There were other things she wanted to do. After a little research, the idea of blogging appeared. She had never blogged before. There were a range of sites from free to not so free. She chose a free one and got started.
Could her emotional battles help someone else? Or would it be just another social media disaster? And IF she was able to make a little extra money in the process, awesome. But an alternant income stream wasn’t her main objective.
Ann had people in her life that cared about her. The feeling ate at her that; as a person she was loved, but this desire she had to create wasn’t shared. How can you share and expect other people to believe in you when you don’t believe in yourself?
Ann tried other things; painting, drawing. She played with charcoal a couple times. It was super messy but great fun. She always felt that anything she drew was very childish. A 2nd grader could do better.
Chico came to live with Ann when a very close friend of hers got divorced. Her work could be broken into 2 categories: before and after Chico. He became intertwined with a lot of her work. He was the first thing she tried to draw. He was included in many pieces she tried to write.
The one thing Ann hated most was being ignored. She would share a piece with a friend never to hear a word. Then that same friend would say, “you should check this out”. Some days she felt like a yo-yo. Do I share? Who really cares? She knew everyone had full busy lives. It was natural that she prayed they’d have a little more time for her.
In her messed up head, she was very conscientious of ‘word vomit’. It happened once. A cashier asked her once if she was having a good day? She wasn’t and let it fly. Now days when people ask, ‘how are you’? Her answers range from; great to fine as frog hair split 4 ways’. No one cared about the truth.
The 2 books of work that survived the purge were entitled: The Destruction of Me, written before college. And The Reconstruction of Me, written during and after college. New stuff that she had written was collected into a book she was calling Remodeling in Progress.
There were only 3 people in her personal life that she told about the blog. In someways, it has done a world of good for her overall mental health. She knows she will never be able to pay the bills writing but it felt good to share.
There was a chunk of Ann in every piece that she wrote. Someday when all the pieces were finished, the reader would have a complete picture of her.
Broken
A dirt swatch
To sit and watch
An inner thrill
An outward chill
~
Day after day
Sit, watch, feel, pray
Rare days you fly
New sensations ply
~
Sleep came to my spot
This little map dot
Dreams of a time
When automation is divine
~
No one else involved
Problem solved
We can become one
Done
~
Never ending thrill
Shrill
Constant screaming
Lonesome beaming
~
An outward expression
Of an inward impression
Flying through the night
With utter delight
~
Fly in your direction
I’ll make a course correction
Race toward each other
Neither will smother
~
Screaming into the night
What a sight
No more emotions
No more commotions
~
Your vibrations wake
From my sleepy state
No flames of fury merging
No steal and bone urging
~
Keep screaming
Keep steaming
Head long into the night
Head long out of sight
~
I’ll watch
Count the notch
I’ll wait
Give in to fate
Winter Season
In walks mother
She spoke like a child, “I have a rumbly in my tumbly.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Have you eaten anything today?”
She smiled, patted her stomach and said, “I could stand to miss a few meals.”
“Well Chet, let’s go have some dinner.” He looked at his watch. “It’s 8:30pm.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“So I’ve heard.” He smiled.
They went over to Oscar’s house. They were just about ready to sit down to eat when a noise like a jet plane filled the house. “Oh, goodie. This night has gone to hell.” Oscar lowered his head.
His brother got out of the truck followed by an older woman. “Your mother?”
“Yes,” he hissed.
“Let me have some fun.” There was a faint knock at the door.
He looked bewildered, “what do you mean?”
“You go to the bathroom and let me open the door. Follow my lead, I promise I won’t do anything horrible.”
“No maw, you gotta do it like dis.” There came a thunderous pounding at the door. Oscar jumped. She squeezed his shoulder as the pounding repeated.
He quickly left the room. She screwed on her biggest smile and opened the door wide. “Howdy y’all. O’s in the bathroom. Come in. Come in. We are gettin’ ready to have a mouth full of sup-pa. Come join us.”
Otis about fell through the door and his mother had her mouth open so wide that she could have walked on her bottom lip.
“Who is it?” Oscar called from the bathroom.
“Oh honey, it’s your brother and I’m assumin’ your mother.” She shut the door as she talked and pointed them to the kitchen. “I’ve invited them to stay for sup-pa.”
“As you wish.”
“What do you want to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having,” was followed by the flush of the toilet.
The stunned family sat around the table filled with sandwich makin’s. “Help yourself,” she instructed.
The doorbell rang. This time it was Chet. “Hello, come in. O’s in the bathroom. We are just sitting down for sup-pa,” she raised her eyebrows. Then thought about how pointless it was since there was another vehicle in the drive. No, it was parked in the road? How rude! She thought. “Will you join us?” She took Chet by the arm and escorted him into the kitchen.
“No, Bell and I just ate. I just dropped by to check on the progress of the house.” He winked at her.
“When I get it done, you and Bell come over for sup-pa.”
“That would be mighty fine.” As Chet entered the kitchen, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. There sat Otis and Pam.
“Chet I think you know these folks?” She tapped him playfully on the shoulder, “of course you do. Silly me, you’re the sheriff.”
Chet swallowed hard, “Otis, Pam.”
Pam snorted, “a proper gentleman would take his hat off, or at least tip it when he addressed a lady.”
It was all Chet could do to hold his tongue. He wanted to say, ‘show me one.’ But he did tip his hat to her.
Oscar walked into the kitchen with his old work clothes on covered with dust and paint. He had a dish towel draped over his shoulder.
“See der ,” Oat roared, “women folk do dat?”
They call me wild!?
Do you ever see wild animals?
Christmas Lights
Winter Season
You were that girl?
Chet was having a really hard time with the whole she was the girl that summer story. Was she really? He finally asked, “Esther, tell us something about you.”
“There really isn’t much to tell. I have shared a little with Oscar. You all call her Widow Morrison but she was my great grandmother. Her son Cliff was my grandpa and his son Walter, was my dad. When I was five he committed suicide. So my grandparents took me in and raised me.”
“What about your mom?” Chet asked.
“She died of cancer when I was three. That’s what drove my dad over the edge. He couldn’t handle her being gone.”
“Do you need help taking the truck back?”
She laughed, “my old landlord was in such ah hurry to get rid of me that he told me to keep the truck as long as I wanted. And you know what, I’m gonna hold the jerk to it.”
“I’m just glad someone is living in the house. I did general maintenance. But it’s different when someone is living in a house.”
She waved her fork at him. “So you’re the guy we were payin’.”
“That’s me.” He smiled.
“Thank you so much.”
“You know, if I would have known you were coming, I would have had the house ready to move in to.”
“Thanks,” she looked at Oscar who was picking at his dinner. “I have had some amazing hospitality.”
He finally smiled.
After Chet left and the kitchen was clean, Oscar sat on the couch. Esther handed him a cup of tea as she sat with him. He laid back and opened his arms for her. Almost automatically she slid into him. She didn’t like it that he was laying on his right side. The beat of his heart was muffled.
“About the other night,” he whispered.
“What made you wait so long to want to talk about it?”
“I wanted to give you a little space. You were very upset.”
“Oscar, you know I can’t discuss,” he stopped her.
“I know. I need you to know that you scared me to death. I have never heard another human scream out in anguish the way you did. It broke my heart.”
“Oscar, I can’t guarantee you that will never happen again. If it does, and you are the one that finds me, what you did that night was perfect.” She snuggled a little deeper into the fold of his arm.
He laid his nose in her hair. There were no fruity smells. No overpowering perfumes, just clean wonderful hair.
He woke to the smell and sound of the coffee pot. To his dismay, she was gone. He found a note by his cup. ‘O, Don’t work too hard today. I know they kicked your tail yesterday. There is a bagel in the fridge with your name on it. Come see me when you get home. You know where I’ll be. Esther’
Yelp, he smiled to himself, he was pretty sure he was bitten by the love bug. When he got home, he did exactly what she had asked, he came over.
She jumped when he spoke; then let out a long breath, “you are much too good at being quiet.”
“Sorry.” He blushed. “Why didn’t you wake me this morning?”
“You were sleeping so soundly.”
He noticed that she had changed the flooring in the kitchen. It was a black and white checkered pattern. “Let me show you the bed room.” She had painted it beige; the wall behind the bed was grape purple. The boarder around the ceiling was purple and hunter green with a beige rope and ivy vine intertwined pattern on it. That purple wall had a gold set of ornate hooks holding up a large piece of light green material, framing the headboard of the bed.
He went home to change clothing; they worked scrubbing a while and unloading boxes a while. She was on her knees cleaning out from under the sink and he was painting the ceiling. He heard a rumble. “What was that?”
Star Trek craft
Poetry & More 