"Li-bary"

There's a middle-to-elderly-aged woman here at the library who came to tell stories. The library has a story-time program. No one came.





FleepFlop by the grand markee

Today, I walked to the library. I always get strange looks, but today was special, me singing Man Man choruses out loud, playing the keyboard parts in the air, with the gusto required for Man Man.
But I got strange looks. I wish it was a busier sort of route, because I might get more.
The library, at least the branch I go to, seems to be the hang-out for those who don't have internet or computers of their own. And they have the worst public manners.
I must have browsed the whole biography/autobiography section, because I got a crick in my neck. They also had the smallest Stephen King collection I've ever seen at a library, and it's a pretty fair-sized library. Only about 6 books of his, none of his most famous.
On the way home, there was a tree branch in the road. Drivers actually braved on-coming traffic instead of this branch, that blocked the whole east-bound left-hand lane. I thought about going out there and picking it up, but I didn't. Maybe I cost myself some karma there, or something. It doesn't really matter now. But I kind of wish I'd have done it.

I took this picture of a possum. It's probably been laying there for a couple of weeks.

Ivy, Fly, and The Single Sight

An ivy confused me once, I didn't know how to plant it.Where are the roots? Surely, grown into my house, into the window screen.So I cut off a piece, and threw it on the ground where I wanted it, but it died the next day.

I wonder if flies try to fly up my nose when I sleep. Or if bugs try to crawl in my ear when I dream.And if I never bathed, or moved, or ate for a year, would I have flies and bugs living in my ear?Would I take root and grow into my mattress and blankets, like an ivy on a house, spoiled like a child not spanked yet.Would I thrive and green a new kind of weed, or would my roots have been hidden from myself, planted wrongly, and die?

I wonder if a fly ever drinks from my eye, quenching a thirst for a different kind of sight, kaleidoscopic eyes becoming a headache.If he could be granted a single sight, he might be able to have a monogomous relationship, turn on the right street, add the spices to the right stew, instead of spending all his time making the obviously wrong decisions.

If I could drink from an eye, I'd choose the the eye of insight. What's under that dress? What's behind that thing they said?What could stand against me from becoming the ivy that I wanted to be, growing and thriving where ever I wanted.

But that's not a very comforting thought to my current sight. So I'll try to grow and live in the ears of the world, whispering my song and eating the wax that acknowledges my presence. I'll never cut off my roots again, assuming that my roots are my arms and my lips.

More Truthful Than You Think

The young man raced down the field. His pads were sticky with sweat, but he ran.
He had the ball.
His enemies crashed all around him, like waves to the shore, and he, like the tide, pushed them back away, free to run. He neared his goal, closer and closer by the yard as he sprinted.
Then came a vision; a golden, calm sea of meaning, and there were people all around him on the shore, and no one was running, just smiling.
"What the hell am I doing?" he asked himself. And he stopped in his tracks, his opponents and comrades flying past him, not anticipating his immediate halt.
He lay down on the plastic ground beneath, urging for real grass, and the stadium grew silent, in shock at this horrendous display of apathy.
The crowd starting booing, and chanting obscenities at him, threatening to burst out of their seats and kill him. He stood up, without the ball or helmet, all forgotten. The coach stormed out to him.
"I quit," he simply stated.
Soon, a shot rang out, silencing the crowd once again, then turned them to yells of approval and grunts of satisfaction. He was dead, shot through the skull. His life ran out onto the fake grass, the crowd not letting him completely quit.
"At least SOME part of him is still out there," someone says through the din.
He is mounted on the post, for all to see, with the words "DO NOT QUIT" pinned to his naked chest, the team's colors now disgracefully stripped from him. And there he stays, as a reminder.
"DON'T YOU DARE BE DIFFERENT."