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Silt

Everywhere he went, Larry left sand behind him.

It didn’t matter that he had never been to a beach.
Nor did it matter he never saw the desert. All across the office, the sidewalk and particularly his apartment Larry-shaped sandprints appeared, like the dotted line that follows Billy around in the Family Circus.

Old Jeb sat on the stoop watching Larry walk by. I asked him what was going on. For a song on my harmonica, told me.

Larry was settling, and like silt at a bottom of a mill pond, the sand was drifting to the floor. I thanked Old Jeb and continued on my merry way – content on having solved the mystery.

It just so happened on that day, I wore my nice white woolen suit to work. This was foolishness on my part as I was not used to wool and itched my way from nine to five. When I finally could stand it no longer, I found that Larry and I had something in common.

Guess I should probably spend more time on the beach.

Weekend Adventures

A remarkable time:

On Friday night, I held a feast.

Chicken wings, onion strings and Venison sausage, aged to perfection. There was singing and dancing. There was baseball on the radio and checkers on the table. It was a time of peace and joy before the wonders ahead.

The adventure began on Saturday. While the squirrels chased one another up and down the Maple trees, we set off on bicycles for the Forested Hills, and the Cemetery within. There we played hide and seek with partners immobile. Bemapped and bemused, we wandered across the yard, feeling like pirates on a treasure hunt. I got to meet e.e. cummings and view Snow White in her glass coffin, but Eugene O’Neil remained hidden from sight. The long day meandered into darkness, lit by the words of Alan Moore’s children stories.

Sunday was devoted to the religious experience that only a circus can bring. A husband and wife, 15 years my senior, wrapped themselves in silk ten feet above the ground, and hanging by only their ankles, gently kissed. Jugglers stood across from each other on top of broken glass and calmly spun and caught machetes flickering in the sun. Pirates sang of the joys of freedom, pillaging and… pirate things. There were Gymnasts, brass bands, and hoopers. A contortionist creeped the audience out, and a remarkable man with a flute got the silent, wondering children to laugh and play for ten beautiful minutes.

When it was over, I sat with my loved one and ate Ice Cream until it was gone.

A remarkable time, Indeed.

*p00f!*

I live at the bottom of the orange line. At times, this is not the safest neighborhood to be in. At times, I’m stretching my legs across Boston in the middle of the night where only those who are up to no good and feelin’ good are out and about. In my travels, I’ve never been molested, requested, divested or arrested –

Now, you might be sayin’ to yourself, “Self, what’s he doing out at the middle of the night?”

Easy. I’m not getting into trouble. How’s that? Why I have an invisibility cloak!

It’s a formerly iridescent brown winter coat, with a big white button pinned on it. Throw that thing on top of me, and regardless how fancy everything else I might be wearing, I suddenly look like a homeless person. It’s QuaMoflague!

Unfortunately, this invisibility seems to have invaded other aspects of my life.

And now, it’s time to disappear.

A rant.

Last night, I went to the Theatre, and realized how much I hate it.

It was so safe, this theatre. Big, comfortable chairs. A warm, rich hall. A proscenium. Funding that totaled millions a year in tax-free contributions. The patrons, grey-haired and professional alike, seemed to know one another and the actors. It was community theatre for the six-figure set.

In a lot of ways, it helped confirm my theatrical beliefs. In others, it turned my stomach. Perhaps I was Tired, Hungry and Cranky, perhaps I was just jealous, but my teeth continued to grind until the curtain went up.

I go to the theatre to be entertained, and I was. The play was well written, designed and acted.

I go to the theatre to be inspired, and I was. The physicality of the actors made me want.

However, for all the opulence, I wasn’t filled with wonder.

For the rest of the night and this morning, I’ve wondered why that is.

Perhaps Brecht has the answers. Perhaps Banksy holds the keys. Perhaps this isn’t my passion, after all.

If it ain’t, methinks I’m in a world of trouble.

Qouth Movement

I’ve decided I’ve had enough of growing up.

Don’t get be wrong, there’s something to be said about blossoming into a full grown person; but at the same time I feel like I’ve gone to seed.

I think it’s time to start growing down.

You know, re-examine my roots, see if there’s room to grow underground, like Willy Wonka’s factory.

Learn to play and to take myself less seriously.

I don’t want to abandon my responsibilities, just the stupid ones.

I can’t tell if this is a partial-life crisis or a good idea.

Want to read a joke?

A rat walks into a bar.

The bartender says "Hey, didn't I vote for you?"




I never said it was a good joke.