Obsessive Researcher

I am always trying to figure out how to do things faster and more efficiently. Even though I consider myself to be old now I’m still working on the efficiency routine. I should have a clipboard and a pencil and a list of things to accomplish however I have nothing but two dogs that I need to feed and a house that seems to be constantly needing attention. I noticed this morning that rather than making oatmeal and putting egg whites in it I could take a hard boiled egg and chop it up and put it in the oatmeal prior to microwaving it and in that way I would save myself so much trouble because I already had hard boiled eggs in my fridge. So I plopped the hard-boiled egg cut up into the bowl of raw oatmeal and added milk and half-and-half because I am a sybaritic woman and turned it on for two minutes. Then I removed it from the microwave and luckily I was wearing my glasses because the entire thing exploded like a bomb in my kitchen. They were literally bomb fragments on my ceiling made of hard boiled egg. If I hadn’t been wearing my glasses I don’t think my eyes would’ve survived. When this happened it made such a loud noise that I literally shrieked something I haven’t heard myself do ever in my life. I backed away from the microwave with caution thinking it might happen a second time and I had a long debate with myself over whether or not I should eat the oatmeal despite the fact that it had exploded.

 

This is the problem with being an obsessive researcher and an analyst. When unusual things happen 

You stop and think about why did they happen and try to understand what the result of this happening was and what you should do to avoid this in the future.

 

It’s pretty obvious what I should do to avoid this in the future. It was still pretty damn exciting. In my kitchen an explosion that sounded like a 28 gauge shotgun going through the ceiling and all it was was a remnant of a hard boiled egg. That’s my day!

 

 

 

Virus

Child’s Game

“Hold your breath!”

passing a graveyard we said

In the back seat of a 57 Ford

gravely

acknowledging the dead.

Now, out walking, I hold

my hand over my mouth

careful to not breathe in

air of living people

passing.

Starfish

No Safe Place 3

Attachment

Last night between midnight and one am a Starfish

The last

crept through my dream of a beach in Maine. It was pale and

faded. I couldn’t feel it. Because the starfish is losing

its ability to function normally, dreams may have to

be revised.

 Starfish are Echinoderms, belonging to the class Asteroidea,

soon there will be

starfish only in certain tide pools located in certain

cool climates with freeflowing water. The starfish may not

exist in dreams.

The starfish

will not know what happened to her.

Passports will be unavailable

for marine invertabrates.

Yesterday I spoke with another single

person about the numbness that happenes

with detachment and I thought of the starfish,

unable to attach, their tube feet operated by a hydraulic

system which is now obsolete just as human connection.

The Northern Pacific Sea Star is considered one of the 100

worst invasive species. Very comparable to what the

Human is and has done to our oceans and

all the other starfish.

Second Floor Window

 

Second Floor Window

 

People have always asked me

if I live alone? I think I must seem like

a pack animal. The urge to

gather warmth around me so obvious

to others but I remain oblivious.

From my own personal observation

I notice

my happiest times

are when I am alone reflecting

on the canopy of a tree, or

perhaps

a glimmer of ocean from a second floor

window as the rare is infinitely more

compelling

than the commonplace.

Here in summer, many prefer the full on

blast of ocean houses carrying past their

front porches

boatloads of revelry or roars of lionlike

testosterone gargling along from the

Maserati’s of speed boats.

I have always

preferred the second or

third row of houses far enough from the

ocean to avoid the damaging sea spray and

near enough to catch a glimpse of shiny

magic

out the second floor corner window while

standing on a low stool.

 

Last Night I Saw My Friend Vanish

Last night no one knew if it was

the sun setting or the moon rising

but it was orange: hung there by a

wire moving around our sky, currents

of warm air lifting and lowering its round

shape enough to light the narrow, soft roads

crisscrossing the sandy summer peninsula.

One young woman pushing her

old cruiser bike silently, leaving Book Club late after

a chat about amphibians, taking the

long way home, blond hair falling in a

triangle down her back, white Keds glistening,

she thinks of fall when everyone will be gone

and suddenly there in the mist she becomes

invisable except for the sound of one repentant

bicycle spoke grinding it’s rhythm until she’s home.

This Afternoon

I like young old men.

Men whose twinkle never faded like some

lust or the memory of really good vanilla ice

cream. I like the round muscle of their arms,

the temptation of golden skin,

and the quick way they look at me for

what seems like a long time while we are

kissing. Each time I open my eyes there

is that gaze, eyes so clear and full of intent.

I don’t know what to do with that gaze.

It never varies. I’m so unused to direct

and constant I’m checking it, closing my

eyes and then quickly opening them again

like a child thinking it will be gone. The kiss

goes on and on like undulating waves in

a warm climate with hopeful palm trees

that clap their fronds for any passion seen

below.

I think it’s over but something like

one finger on my cheekbone

begins the spiral again.

It would not be sensible to want this

on a regular basis but everyone does.

Desire and to be desired.

We all wait.

A remembered afternoon in summer.