Except they aren't insects; they're our relatives!

I did a bellyflop into the pool. I created a splash, but not the splash anticipated while climbing the high dive, giggling to myself, eyeing the spectators below laying out on their towels on lounge chairs, line shirts open, straw hats and shades and lotioned noses. My powerful cannonball? How did you fail me? How did the elements of wind, of inner fears, of self-professed contortions catch me, unfold me and flay me against the water in such a horrid way?

My stomach was red for days. Yes. Communist. It and comrade internal neighboring organs rallying against me, tired of my poor decisions. The mind would no longer control from the frontal lobe. Nutrients were rerouted away, cut off going north of the neck and held in reserves by the kidneys. The mouth–once the wooer itself–was wooed to the stomach's cause and would now feed for the GI tract with no input from head or heart. It was both ingestor, investor and spokesman for the southern cause. I admit, I didn't even realize till too late.

My tough, tough exoskeleton would soon be swayed into serving against my holistic wellbeing, as well. Its amazing what the need for feed and fuel can do to loyalty. Of all parts of my body, it never dawned on me that the exoskeleton–my tough exterior to the world I refused to please–would in fact fall in line with the gluttony and immediacy of the stomach's creed, churned out in backyard presses and stuffed in pockets from students to embarrassed professions the whole rebellion over.

Work songs: stomach gurggles to me, but rallying cries inside.

Marches: all along the GI tract.

My thoracic cavity and innards afeared dissent spreading through the veins–the very veins of health and commerce now of attrition! My thorax was all a' mess.

Thorax? Exoskeleton? A bug? Yes. A metaphor? No. I am a bug. I am a bug that belongs to a community pool (and racket club, in fact). The irony, if I know anything about my human readership, is that while laying out in the sun in our own half-open linen shirts, sandals by our side, lotions rubbed in and draw strings tight on our waists, we too slap at bugs that buzz around us. Except they aren't insects; they're our relatives!

Oh!

so that I can go back and play

It was a dark and stormy night, somewhere. Here, it is beautiful. A cool autumn day. The katydids hum their work songs, the occasional breeze through the branches holding still green leaves. The machinations of traffic in the distant are a low drone. More so, I hear an occasional bird chirp, their tiny throats distilling a quiet, bell-like message to resonate within their territory and through the skies. We turn away–we, the planet–from more sun, on a path towards the shorter days, the circumstance of less heat, the distance from the sun's grace. But we're cheery. We know what we have to do. We have to dance!

Or not. I have to type. I have to take in the honeysuckle scent, redistribute the feelings and sensory experience into a prose form. I have to. It is my dance. Though my limbs don't move but so much, there is a motion, miniscule that occurs. Not unlike the slowly turning and returning planet orbiting the ball of great fury, I am typing and my innards, my bones, my spirit is slowly and nearly imperceivabley wrapping or orbiting a self-attained purpose. Which is to dance. Or stretch.

My dogs are barking. I am in a regional area with regional sayings. Still, when I say "my dogs are barking" I don't mean that my feet hurt. Instead, I literally mean that my dogs are barking and throwing off my concentration and concentric motion across the consciousness of the "to dance."

Crap. I better go check this out.

"Hey! Shussh!"

Okay. It was just dogs barking at dogs. No, though I live in a regional place with regional sayings, I don't mean that hurt feet were hurting other hurt feet. I just mean that the dogs were barking and I let them back inside to their lush dogs beds. Sometimes, as much as I think they want to be outside, they really just want to sleep on those big comfy beds, have me rub their bellies. Or go for giant, adventurous walks to far off destinations like the park. But to just be in the backyard? Of course, for me right now, in this moment, the backyard is the big adventure. No wait. No its not. That's why I'm still typing, hovering over the cathartic experience that comes from touching base with oneself, searching for a direct path into the future with reference to the past. I'm in a different place, but this typing proves the purpose of going for the walk, the stretch, the exercise; not the new scents, but the appreciation for how those scents sensed before relate to where I've been long ago with the accumulation of new experiences, new phrases, a focused ability to achieve the closeness to the sense of wonderment.

A cataclysm could happen anytime. A word like "cataclysm" could come up at any time. I consider this a warm-up? A reaching out? A reorienting of myself to the values that I know will get me to get my other work done. To make some income. I'll sit and stare at my hands for hours, knowing that I should do the things I should do. That there are benefits to doing them and consequences to not doing them. But still, I need a little writing, a little orbiting, exploring, warming up, to get to that feeling where I can get my brain as a focused ray, not unlike from the light of the sun? to get this other work done so that I can go back and play.

the amount of times I've counted on my hand.

My food will soon be in the oven, and I will use the timer to time both its readiness and my headiness, for my feeling is that this post could meander and go nowhere, but with a set limit of time in the back of my mind, perhaps I will cut through and focus in on something that takes me somewhere, connecting.

Within limitation, I think one knows they can travel most succinct. Baby steps taken in one direction can get you the furthest. Less wandering, more pondering between steps for a sure-fire foot forward.

I have a picture in my head. Its more than an image, its flush and filled out with foreground and background. Lots of faded green of prints of yesteryear, a checkered tie, red and white rayon against a white shirt hedged in by the navy blazer. Its a double-breasted blazer, and its magnificent. Its my own, my true blazer and I'm made ready and done up for a date. My hair is slicked back and my eyes are watery from too much flash as this was the best and last of many photo attempts. My upper lip has a discoloration for its been my first time shaving. I am soon off to the prom!

A late bloomer, I'm undeterred that its not my own prom, that I'm a chaperone to my niece, that I'm just turning 48 and only now beginning to grown in whiskers that need shaving to preserve my youthful look. I've come to terms that I'm a little different, a little weird, a little wild.

Of course, and as brought up in the first paragraph, this mental picture is in looking back. And its been 20 years since that time and place. I was slimmer back then, a little more weird, a little more wild. Now, I get tired easily. I have my own share of crops to gather and fields to reseed. I love tulips but in this frightening post-2038 future, the tulips are more rare than ever.

Oh? What happened in 2038 to warrant the marker of "post-2038"? Nothing in the grand scheme of things, nothing at the level of world-shaking. But in my own personal life, 2038 was when I got it.

It. I got it then. It was delicious.

Oh! Also 2037 was the year of the Dutch drought, and the poor tulips didn't fare so well. I'm sure, though, if I were to write this in 2040, that within the two year period all the tulips would be back and flourishing. Science has its way of melding with the heart's intent.

And also the heart itself; I have a pacemaker at this point in my life. Not for medical reasons, but in this scary, post-2027 future, people opt for pacemakers that some say are controlled by the government.

Yup. But people say crazy shit all the time. I just got mine put in because I had not yet purchased a new smart-heart-phone the previous decade, and lo and behold! my contract with Verizon was up and with the discount perks get affordable. Its amazing what we as a people can do in this amazing post-2019 cyber world.

2019? 2027? Just years, don't worry about them till they come up.

And get you.

I'll never forget though, the actually ver tumultuous years between 2015-2017, leading up to the feelings of relief and redemption found in 2019 and subsequently in 2027. "Pie-fights," you say? "What a wicked metaphor!" I reply.

I can count on my hand the amount of times I've counted on my hand the amount of times I've counted on my hand.

but I've already fabricated so much.

I am the rainbow. I am the bands of color united. I am the specific bands of color, the vibratatory display of light made visual at specific frequencies that is phenom known as color. I'm less a free-for-all drum circle at your college dorm room. I'm more the organized sound of ritual drumming found in communities all over, and to me, particularly wonderfully done in areas as the Ewe of Ghana.

Yes, Ghana. Where I met Rhea. She was working there through Blue Cross, Blue Shield. There was no organizational jurisdiction in that area–the coverage couldn't cover that far from HQ back in Jersey. But still, she was there canvasing, putting up flyers, instilling the power symbols of big, bold blue crosses and shields for future generations raised in the shadow of their bold fonts, and when, G-d willing, the "Double Blue" (as it would, G-d willing, one day be called) would come to dominate the planet.

Yes, Rhea. I called her Ghana Rhea, of course. Actually, her real name was Betty, and this story really took place in Denmark. But the truth is, I got gonorrhea from a girl working for an insurance company while overseas in Copenhagen that I met listening to Ewe ritual music from Ghana at the Womex music conference, and that she later took me to her dorm room where I joined in their drum ungoing Copenhangen drum cirlce, and would later contract gonorrhea, presumably from Betty (who I know refer to as "Ghana Rhea") but I've already fabricated so much.

...like a nudgey hound dog. I empthasize.

So the hum? The guy next to me humming. Am I as distracting to others as he is to me? He's fidgety. He needs to hydrate. He's staring at more women than me. He's wearing white socks and tevas. If I ever get to that point? Well, I'm sure its the natural order of things. All composite styles decay. Laughter and forgetting dissolve the friendly barriers between caring and not caring.

Now he's playing the beat with his coffee cup. He's ogling the fatties, too. This guy is not well. He's lonely and seeing women pass by in all sorts of colored pants and tops and its rainy outside; his focus is as scattered as the rain drops and he doesn't know how to make his next move, be productive, get it done. He's a pitter patter of the fallen. A decent into a kind of low-key madness.

He's not me. But I could be him in time. And why not? Everything I complain about him I project from myself, of course. Why wouldn't I? I am I? Okay? But lets see. I'm going to smile, take a deep breath, project a relaxed state to him, to myself, to my next line of written reasoning so that we (me and my mind) can come together and do the twist and go somewhere fun together.

Like Spain? Yes I do. I do like Spain. So? Go with it. With Spain. Spain of the imagination, home of Glass Eyed Joe, or Glass Jawed Pete? From "Punch Out;" he carried a rose in mouth. Or was that the Flamenco Don? Or the Don Hogan Pony Rider Express, trampling dirt roads past adobe huts and thatched roofs and thatched thongs on the beaches towards the Alamo on the Georgia coastline? Pre-nascent rum drinks and cocktails of tall wheat grasses. Custard pies of color, but not taste or consistency. Mud Honey played throughout the night?

I was once like you (the previous paragraph person). But I was taller and darker and full of piss and vinegar. I shared towels with minors. I laughed at television shows on penguins. I was culpable of mela culpea without understanding or spelling it correctly.

Oh, I fancied myself a good time. Me. A separate voice, from the paragraph two previous to this. And I am tall! Taller than a tack of.....ok. Time to pull back a second. And slow it down and get my posture together, and punch this fucking asshole in the head next to me if he keeps humming and looking over my shoulder? Maybe he is? Maybe he just saw what I wrote?

Are you reading this? Guy next to me? No? Well, are you reading this? Guy from the third paragraph from the top? A wink for me? A sly dog to sell from the pet store? Push the boundaries. Or pull back; same thing when a smile becomes the relaxed state you want. A shoebox diorama conglomeration with lego figures. A bottomless pit of circumstance. A fancied shoe polisher that also does dishes. The Hubbell.

Really, the guy next to me is a like a nudgey hound dog. I empthasize.

A saunter a sway.

Today is Tuesday and the bells are ringing. They are the bells of Tuesday.

They are made of bronze to signify the day and its placement in the hearts and minds of the people. Its like a middle period, agrarian, bronze-age feel to the people. That is what Tuesday feels like. Its a day that feels like the early advent of smelting has just begun and that new discoveries are ahead.

Wednesday has its own bell, a more refined bronze. More pure in makeup and sound. Thursday could only be a bell of iron, and Friday is a bell made of copper wire, with Saturday and Sunday bells ringing from prerecorded bell tones. Monday? People throw stones at each other in the center and their yells are the primitive bells.

Yes, its tiny I'm told. Their metaphor for each week day is, if metaphors could be measured in weight, miniscule. Yes. I grew up here in this village till I was old enough to run away. Why?

For one thing, the Lincoln logs I played with at the hey-day of boardgames were supplanted by walrus-tusk instruments and cordials after-bed humpback tourniquets. Tie it tight to stave off the flow to the nose ear eye mouth lungs. A liquid form of everything exists in a liquid form. Last chance to bite down hard on the last chance to bite down hard.

It suffices to say that I needed to stretch it out. Go for a walk. Get moving and grooving on the day, the work load, the load-in time, the laugh track for a new generation. So I ran away.

I left my wallet in Tampa. It had too much wad in it and I said, "No, I leave this behind." And I kept moving. A saunter a sway.

The Busuki variety. There I'm done.

It was blue, if it was red, if it was pink, or silver. It was in a color flux, and as we know, color is only attained in the reflection of light, so that this thing of perpetual changing color could never truly blame itself. It blamed the sun.

It sat on the man's desk neatly within itself, staring out the window at the sun and dreading todays appear in color, if it would change in front of the man it so adored. It hoped for nothing else to remain one color and one color only, so that in its steadiness, the man so very often absent, would stop running away and sit and spend more time with the thing.

"Oh, to be a thing of changing color!" bemoaned the thing of changing color. "If only I stabilized, the man would stabilize and stay with me forever. Oh, the pencils will finally stop laughing at me, the pictures stop posing in their lovely captured multitude of colors, the envy of the whole room. The lamp will stop making false claims that its light can cure me, for I know it would only leave me yellow and weaker than now!"

The thing wasn't always like this. Its earliest memories were only of life on the desk, no further back nor to any other place or state of being. The present condition was an expanding always; consciousness with memories never particularized to time, but forever lived and relived as lessons, boundaries enforced, the kind of breaking in a wild stallion receives. The thing had an "I" and the "I" first liked the pictures. It recognized in the many colors its own shifting many colors, though each color presented itself one at a time, sometimes two at most. It was in a state of staring, without speech, without motion, its attention trained to itself and back to pictures and back to itself. And in doing so, the thing realized that while it looked back and forth, the pictures only attention was to other pictures down the line of the desk and wall.

The object experienced a passing of time, as staring more and more at the colors in the picture and within itself revealed new details. With each new color, each new object on the desk, the thing recognized a cycle of consciousness followed by a period of sleep and an awakening back to conscious, a first look at the surroundings, and the presence of new details first experienced in memory and then seen in the surroundings.

The object became aware of a distance voice, a cooing, the man came into focus and then left. At another time, the man came back, within the thing's vision, and each time the man appeared it was in a changing color of body, in which the object recognized something more akin to itself. The man would frequently break up the cycle within the things' consciousness with his presence coming and going, imparting a second sense of time or marker within the state of consciousness for the thing to recognize.And tra la la la la.

It was the holidays. The thing had gathered that much over such a great period of time. The thing had divided conscious periods into many different quad and sub periods. In doing so, he felt disdain for the pictures, the pencils, the lamps, the other objects that cared nothing for the man of changing colored torso and legs. But mostly, the thing still hated the sun. He hated how it made him feel so good, but made him change in ways the man never changed, in ways more akin to the picture, with greens and reds and pinks and this thing would contain more than one color at a time, and then at times the colors were gone.

Oh screw it. The thing is an indoor Rhododendron. The Busuki variety. There I"m done.