Channeling Aldous Huxley …

thinkerYes, Virginia, a person can over think … or wait, can they? Can a person really over think something? Is it possible to spend too much time pondering a decision?  (Note, if you cannot answer that question from the get-go then you are clearly an over thinker and this post might send you into a thinking induced coma.)

I mean we’ve all seen the crazy lady in the grocery store that has to smell a dozen cantaloupe before picking one out only to decide at the check out that she really doesn’t think it’s ripe and therefore doesn’t want it after all.  (Oh, was that you – sorry – but come on already!) Yes, Virginia – a person can over think …

And then there’s the other crazy lady at the table opposite you trying to decide between the New York strip and the bone-in rib eye. (Oops, that was you too?  Again, I apologize but unless this is your last meal could you just decide so the waitress can make her way over to my table please.)

And let’s not forget the crazy lady at the paint store who can’t decide between white umber, Nantucket white, white dove, white linen,picket fence white, ashen white … I mean for the Love of God … it all looks the same when it’s on the flippin’ wall!!  (No don’t tell me? You again?) Again, yes Virginia – a person can over think …

Ugghhh … it’s been an odd couple of days … I have been thinking too much, my brain is spent and I need a soma holiday.  Aldous Huxly where are you? Oh, and for those of you that don’t quite get that literary reference, don’t worry … you’re not alone … I doubt the crazy lady did either. 

Today’s post inspired by my twisted up brain and The Daily Prompt: From the Top: “Today, write about any topic you feel like — but you must reuse your opening line (at least) two more times in the course of your post.

Cow shit and leather – old leather …

cowboyNostalgia can be lovely. Of course it can be horrid and more than unpleasant as well – but that can be said about most feelings. Especially ones that conjure memories, be them pleasant or not.

There are songs like that for me – ones that instantly transport me to somewhere else … an old boyfriends car, an 80’s dance floor the statue of Mary I knelt beside on my wedding day … but I don’t have any sordid flashbacks. And for that I am thankful.

Food can do that too. Places. Tangible items. Smells. I imagine a lot of people correlate mothballs to old people – I know the mere mention of a mothball makes me think of my marmalade eating, pearl wearing, English grandmother … the smell of Jean Nate of my mother-in-law … Drakkar Noir  the first man my mother dated after her divorce – to which, I might add, makes me want to vomit anytime I inhale the smallest whiff of the nasty black bottled cologne … Continue reading

Something as small as a blackberry …

older couplePicture a busy street. One crammed with four lanes of commuters cruising along at 55 mph. Add the bike lanes. Add the sidewalks.  What do you see? Is your imaginary sidewalk empty?  Or did you see the runner? Did you see the children walking with their parents? Did you see the dog and his owner? Did you see the woman in the wheelchair sitting peacefully beside her companion?What do you think of the things that you see? Or do you, for that matter, think at all.

 Years ago I was the runner on that busy street and I was lucky enough to observe one of the most beautiful things that I have ever seen. Although it wasn’t until very recently that I came to realize just how fortunate I was to have experienced that particular moment … the path I used to run winds alongside a river. It’s a popular path and in all truthfulness you’re just as likely to see an Olympic athlete pounding the pavement as you are to see a father walking with his four year old on a tricycle.

It was early August. The air, although hot and sticky, still managed an occasional breeze thanks to the river. And my disposition, while far from lovely, was not totally rotten; though I feared it would start to decay if I didn’t complete my standard run … Continue reading

When you see dirt under someone’s fingernails …

nails3Children – young children – don’t notice the dirt under someone’s fingernails … especially when they’re handing you a slice of birthday cake. And if they do, they don’t think much of it other than that the said someone needs to wash their hands.

When I was young – say six, seven … nine, ten – my summers were spent at my great aunt’s and uncle’s house. And it was there, amongst the honey bees and clover, that I developed my raw patriotism. It was there, where buttered white bread (and every now and then a can of creamed spinach) was served with every meal, where Marty Robins’ and Loretta Lynn’s voice echoed from the record player, where us kids (my cousins and I) jumped off river rock into “our very own” swimming hole, where people took their hats off during the National Anthem, where men shook hands with boys, where dirt under someone’s fingernails, to the young child that I was, meant only that they needed to wash their hands … Continue reading

Ah the sound of the grade school recorders

imageI’ve always s wondered, or even marveled a bit, at people who grew up with music – think violins playing, grand pianos (not that there’s anything wrong with Pandora) … there’s something magical about an image of a properly dressed youth practicing their instrument of choice (albeit for hours on end) … but you know what I mean. Don’t get me wrong, I did my stint at the keyboard – like just about everyone else I knew growing up – but eventually my Sony Walkman and sports and boys took over my spare time and so, I don’t have any overly fond memories of music being played when I was younger … Continue reading

I don’t think Robert Frost was talking about foreign language –

roadsLike everything else in this world, the term – or definition if you will – of being lost has many different meanings. And I imagine that most people’s minds can easily recall a time when they were literally “lost” – like they took a wrong turn while driving (Myself, I was terribly lost one morning about eight weeks ago when road construction forced me to take the road less traveled and well, that particular road wasn’t that serene landscape that Mr. Frost’s poem depicts).

BUT. The kind of lost that seems to surround me lately is less concrete than the kind brought on by the asphalt jungle that surrounds me. Continue reading