Imprinting

I am working on an imprinting machine and it’s kind of like Konrad Lorenz did with his ducks. Only this time everyone that wants to feel better about themselves can go through my machine and be imprinted with a more powerful, confident personality. It’s slightly painful but you forget that immediately because you take steps out of this machine into what is now sunshine and everything about you is more powerful: your arms your legs your heart your brain the way you look the way you feel the way you move. People pay a lot of money to go through my machine but I don’t take it. Actually that’s a lie. I am like Robin Hood. I take the money from the very rich people but I don’t give them as much boosting as I give to the people who have no money but are just very fragile and need it. The boost. The key measurement is compassion. No compassion, no boost. I don’t think I’m God I’m just very smart and the machine has been extraordinarily successful. In my old age I’ve decided that I am only going to allow women to use it. I just think it’s a better bet in the long run. Frankly, testosterone gets in the way some of the time in allowing people to be compassionate, humble, and kind. Life is too short. I want to be prudent in using my machine.

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!

 

 

 

My House

Flash 2 My House

 

 

 

I live alone people think but in fact my house has so many inhabitants I have to be careful when moving through it. There are many men lurking about in my closets and bedroom all of whom seem angry and hungry. The kitchen contains some young ones with damp, slightly curled hair who cook gravy. I happen to hate gravy unless it’s on turkey which is tasteless without it. So many things are. I walk slowly through the detritus of my life so as not to stumble over hillocks of bodies and chirping young friends who think I am hopeful so I am. To them. I need young friends. The doors are unlocked and the flowers wander in and out flagrantly fragrancing the hours and the hallways making memories melt into the cracks and settlings of bones and earthquake reinforcement. People ask don’t I want an elevator but why would I when I can wander in an elevated state up and down and sideways into the dining room where the chairs are always filled with brilliance and I can sit with the thoughts of so many nights, so much laughter, the best wine, and no gravy.

Car Wash 1

Just as I was trying to keep my front tires in alignment on the slightly rickety, vibrating tracks of the car wash I felt my passenger door open and a splash of warm water on my arm and saw a curious pair of smokey eyes in the face of a man of unknown age but of great beauty. I reached over to touch his cheek and wipe some of the water away and he pulled my hand to his ear. “Touch my ear!” (but not in English) he said and electrically we slid through the rinsing and sudsing and and finally the great blowing which opened his door and though he grasped my finger, the baby one, he was sucked out of the car and into the blower and then I was outside and raring to go.

Dinner

Light the candles, dim the lights, serve the good wine, make people laugh, tell them to go home after 2 1/2 hours, go to bed, drink water, pet your dogs, Dream of passion.

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.