12 September 2016

My Neighborhood

I felt safe in my neighborhood.  Of course I did  – it’s why we moved there.  We had children who wanted to ride bikes on the sidewalks, we had a dog to walk at night and I had my run that freed my mind every morning. That run was my lifeline.  I thought I would fall apart without it.  I thought that running was saving my life.
I came to know the others on my route.  A short wave to one, a nod to another, a smile for the grandmother with her pink visor.  I didn’t know their names, or where they lived, but they represented a safety net – I counted on them.

Unshelved

I am not known for being hesitant to offer my opinion.  I would stand on a street corner and pass out opinions to unsuspecting passers-by if they would just stop hauling me off to the pokey for doing so.  But I have found I am reticent to offer them up online.
The primary reason is that people on the web, in venues like these, don’t know me.  I have many bad qualities; not proofreading my typo-ridden comments is the least of them.  But I have some good qualities too.  Without knowing those, and the layers that form me and my opinions, I would not care to be judged as a whole for some of my harsher criticisms.  I’m not cruel, but who knows how our words are perceived once we throw them out there for the world to read, even with the best intentions behind them?
To summarize, I’m a coward who still worries that the popular crowd won’t like me.

The Queen Bed

Many years ago, during high school, I helped my girlfriend Samantha and her mother Barbara with their garage sale.  Barbara, an admirer of antiques, had carefully scoured sales such as hers to decorate her house.   Her prized possession was a marvelous oak queen-sized bed, lavish in its intricately carved design.  Alas, having recently remarried a man who stood 6’5”, with a son on the way and a newly purchased home, a queen bed would no longer suffice and all was to be sold.
In great condition, the bed was priced accordingly.

PlumeNotes: Mac(Daddy)Beth

To know Shakespeare’s words – to truly live them, you must drink them in, swirl them around like intellectual mouthwash and allow the greatness to run down your throat, filling every cell of your being with the heartburn of his genius.  Some spit out the heady liquid into a spittoon of ignorance, followed by a swig of mind-numbing pablum to remove the lingering taste of the mysterious and, to them, the forever unknowable.
Shakespeare is no franchise, dear Reader; he is a singly owned, top of the line, trendy boutique that never closes.
To demonstrate Shakespeare’s luminosity, I present the Tome of Preeminence that is: Macbeth, the Naughty Scot. Stick with me, dear Reader,  and remember: what doesn’t give you a migraine makes you insufferably literary.

Ten

I say we met in a bar, he says we met in a restaurant.  I think it sounds funnier to say we met in a bar – a couple of Irish and all that.  He thinks it sounds unromantic, like we were a drunken one-night stand, which we weren’t.  Not even a kiss until the third date.  And it was a restaurant, there’s that too.  But we did meet – that part I remember.