I don’t like enclosed spaces or rooms that are too small.
Elevators? Closets? Small caves? I hate them all.
A cellar where no air moves is a place I won’t be found,
and can’t imagine spending days low beneath the ground!
I have a fear of smothering someplace where there’s no air,
so I won’t go spelunking, even on a dare.
And though I know gold jewelry’s expensive—nothing finer,
nobody would have any if I had to be the miner
who went below the ground to try to free it from the stone;
for if left up to me, I’d simply leave that gold alone.
I’ll remain above the ground in the sunshine and the breeze—
not venturing below the ground where sometimes when I sneeze,
the earth and stones might start to move and bury me alive,
streaming down around me like hornets from a hive.
So, no matter what the riches that down there might be found,
I’ll spend my life in penury, here—above the ground!!!
The Prompt: Nightmare Job—In honor of Labor Day in North America, tell us what’s the one job you could never imagine yourself doing.
The Prompt: The Mirror Crack’d—You wake up one morning to a world without mirrors. How does your life — from your everyday routines to your perception of yourself — change?
Every time I walk past it, I look into the glass
and notice how my hair looks and then survey my ass.
I cannot help but look at it, every time I pass—
criticizing how I look, both fuzziness and mass.
And in my deepest feelings, despite my brains and sass,
I can’t avoid this feeling that men must find me crass.
And so I guess I really feel that it would be a gas
if you took away the mirrors from this self-critiquing lass!
The Prompt: Pains and Gains—Do you agree with Jane Fonda’s favorite exercise motto, “no pain, no gain?” Is it impossible to attain greatness without considerable hardship?
I think that it is possible to attain greatness without considerable hardship in that all the effort you go to to achieve what you achieve is often in an area where hard work becomes play. I have sat up all night writing or doing art for most of my life for the past thirty or more years and it wasn’t hardship because I loved doing it. In fact, I was compelled to do so. I’ll bet you anything that Jane Fonda enjoyed all that hard exercise. I, on the other hand, prefer to exercise my hands typing on keyboards or maneuvering flex shafts or paint brushes! And with my sort of exercise, an occasional Margarita doesn’t hurt!
She: What is the most dreaded disease of hockey players? He.: i give She: Chicken Pucks!!! He: (facepalm emoticon) She: What is the most dreaded disease of Narcissists? He.: I give She: Me-sles. She: The most dread disease of martyrs? (Promise, last one.) He: ? She: You-rinary tract infections He: (headbang emoticon)
Note: This Skype conversation actually occurred the same night as the 3 Margarita conversation posted yesterday; so no, I’m not drinking Margaritas every night. Also, I mix very weak Margaritas, so they are not totally to blame for the silliness above. Around one or two in the morning, my mind usually gets on a jag and the best way to deal with it is just to hang up on me, which happened soon after this string of unfortunate jokes. Corny, but I still get a kick out of them. Yes, they are all original. I wouldn’t blame them on anyone but my own past-midnight mind. Judy
The nourishing environments of still water and the forest floor both bloom in circular beauty. Whether the tiny orange “flowers” were flowers, mushrooms or another type of fungus, I couldn’t determine and I was too far behind our guide to ask. The forest floor is in a Lacandon Reserve in Chiapas, where one of the few remaining members of this purely Mayan village led us though the forest. The cycle of nature is clearly portrayed as life springs forth from decay. The still pond is actually a still inlet of an Amazon River tributary in Peru.
Weekly Photo challenge: Bring together two of your photos into dialogue. What do they say to each other?
She: maybe I need to take Frida (the Akita) to the snore doctor.
She: Perhaps she has sleep apnea. She sounds like a lion when she sleeps.
She: Have you ever heard her snore?
She: Do you miss it?
He: Miss your zzzz’s
She: You miss my snores? Sweet.
She: I miss snoring for you.
He: That’s the first line of a poem.
She: I’ll write a poem starting with “I miss snoring for you,” if you will, too.
He.: I’ll try to remember to do so tomorrow.
You Say You Miss My Snores
I miss snoring for you,
stepping on your shoe
when we don’t dance,
miss that glance
from your alternate self
you keep on a shelf
when you aren’t with me.
How can it be
that both of us choose
to leave our clues
with no tether,
He: it just blows me away how you can come up with something like that, so achingly beautiful, in less than five minutes!
She: Ah. You inspire it.
He: I muse you whilst i amuse you
She: Ha. That is exactly it!
She: What you just said couldn’t have been said more succinctly or more briefly. It is the tweet
She: sweet tweet of poetry—sweet bird of absurd
(After this, the conversation digressed. No more shall be said.)
Update: “He” has written his version, as agreed. You can see it here.
I was having a conversation with a friend in a restaurant many years ago when it became obvious to me that the woman at the next table was taking in everything we said. She had that waxy glaze in her eye and that unmoving stance that just signalled eavesdropping. When I ceased talking and fixed her with a steely stare, she started, blushed, and immediately admitted, “I really wasn’t trying to overhear your conversation. I just sort of over-listened.”
The Prompt: Head Turners—We often hear strange snippets of conversation as we walk through public spaces. When was the last time you overheard something so interesting, ridiculous, or disturbing you really wanted to know what it was all about?