A spongy star rides a shiny black plastic pen full of ink for pouring out ideas. A camouflaged writing implement fails its purpose, sadly standing out from the grainy brown stained wood built for working. Cheap lollipops lounge on beige masking tape near a blue mousepad supporting a box of 5000 silver metal staplers ready to be loaded as ammunition into the strategically placed stapler. Pink adhesive post notes wait for a message, scribble or note to occupy their bare layer, ready to stick to anything valid, hoping to avoid the permanent slaughter if lost to the rubbish bin. A box of No. 10 Self-Sealing Security Envelopes lingers wondering if they will be the one successfully carried to literary agents and publishers, or will it only survive briefly as an SASE ready to be ripped up in frustration by its anticipating recipient?
My retirement plan is watching driftwood come ashore. I reckon some days I’ll have to float some wood myself to stay entertained.
The law is only respected if you believe in it, and usually the law requires fear. If you can get beyond that fear, then you are free to do what you want, at least as the law will allow…
Yes, yeah, maybe, kinda, sorta, not really, naw, no!
No smartphones and creative activities like:
Butter making, pasta making, painting , sculpture, crochet, cheese making, baking, pizza, gardening, woodcarving, riddle writing, flower arranging, hair braiding, candle making with honey, basket making, still life water colors, food pairings, etc.
When the water goes back and the rocks roll down: crash in again.
Subscribe to The Preservative: Progressive politics to save earth and humanity.
Tired, I get home, unlock the door. Turn on the lights. A murderous row of five freaks await me ready to rumble. Turn off the lights knowing I have a split second to hit the goon on the right with a left jab, flip round to kick the bits of the center bat-bearing oaf. Skull punch the far right freak and gouge the eyes of his neighbor center right, then back over to the left kick, punch, uppercut… he’s out and back to the beginning reach for that ear. Pull. Smack nose up into brain. Back to center. Smash, kick and twist the neck until dead. Three left. Back to right roundhouse to the conservative side, and clutch and yank the neighbor’s throat out. Two left. Pull their heads together: smack. Discombobulated. Again for two more rings. Now turn on the lights see what’s left. They hobble. No mercy. Glance the temple right hard and round over to trip, then bang the neck on the floor crushed. One more. Weave and wobble. Motherfuckers can’t touch me in my house. Grab the leg animal wrench the ankle, feel it crack left. Broken. Stomp twice. Double check. No breath in them but I am steaming and heaving deep. Reset and stretch. Turn of the light. Now what?
Group of people who go back to hunter gatherer ways with books some utopian vision that worked for some time to a point of blessed ignorance on the cusp of succeeding with patriarch/ matriarch seeing dream realizing, but then anthropologist or someone else and/or both on different paths ‘invade’ and a cover up to keep the dream alive. How far do they take it for the future generation before it all falls apart and why and for what?
Just Jay (Rainbow version)
And that’s a-ok