aging · Authors · Books · Craft · Disaster · Diversions · Fiction · Literacy

La Peste and other readings

There are 25 minutes left until the end, but I am stuck on Fr Paneloux. He is now dead, but I think he was suffering a crisis of faith. He came out and told the people they deserved the plague because their faith was tepid, more letter than spirit, if you will.

The bugger goes and dies, refusing the care of Dr Rieux, throwing up something red before his passing. Wonder if it was his doubt…

This got me thinking about the crazy evangelical rapturists. If you so in love with Jesus, go to him. Don’t sit and wish evil upon the land that you might be among the preordained number of the saved to witness the horror before being taken…up. Good Lord, what a morning.

I have been distracting myself from finishing the reading by contemplating the development of my Southern Gothic writers in my virtual library. Completely forgot about Eudora, so acquired thirteen of her stories. Made a stab at Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying as there has to be an antidote to Sanctuary. I may watch Cat on a Hot Tin Roof for a wonderful escape into Tennessee’s brand of SG. Have to see if any of Flannery’s stories are offered, maybe through the libraries. Some of her stories have been turned into film.

Also picked up Heavy by Kiese Laymon. It reads like SG, but isn’t fiction.

I will finish The Plague today.

Diversions · Fiction · Language · nanowrimo · Therapeutics · Uncategorized

That Nanowrimo Thang

It is here again, that nanowrimo thang. I signed up this year, and announced, even wrote a couple of chapters. Already too much pressure.

Trying to develop this habit for an activity I once loved as a child and engaged in effortlessly. I promised myself I would write if I got old enough to have done something, been somewhere. Here I am.

Allegedly, I just have to write something, e’r’day. Doesn’t have to be long, or even make sense, only written.

So, here goes, though late, but whatchugondo?

Think I need to change the background to commemorate the moment.

Fiction · metaphysics · observations · Religion · Sociology

Thoughts of The One

If the One had an eye, I can nearly imagine what it must be like, because of photography and graphic effects, to zoom, from the unknown firmaments that surround us, onto my doings on this earth. A macro-microscopic zoom. Of course, the One, if possessed of a brain or mind such as I am familiar with or can fathom, would need only to think, “Be,” and whatever thought of would come into BEing.

Whatever could make the One, the Creator of All That Is, directly or indirectly, interested in my doings? The time needed to focus on my shenanigans is unimaginable as the One is timeless and can Do or Not Do, as it wills, if It were possessed of a will as I can conceive of one.

Personallly, I do believe the One is not amused, if indeed the One possesses a sense of humor as I know it. My own sense of humor is pretty whack, but the One and I would likely agree that what passes for reality, the quality of interpersonal and international relations on this earth is troubling, not at all funny. Perhaps this is why horrors persist; the One has left us on our own, abandoned us, and we’re acting out our heartbreak and frustration at this eventuality.

For all the professions of faith, many folks act as if it is the case that the One has abandoned them, left them alone like the devil never did.

Class · Community · Fiction · Health and wellness · metaphysics · observations · Uncategorized

The Morale Officers

Ever met a Morale Officer? It is this officer’s duty to see that the troops are happy or, at the least, not dismally unhappy. To help maintain healthy mental and emotional behaviors while in the midst of struggle, the Morale Officer plans diversions and activities for the troops to help lift the oppression of battle and add a bit of light and levity to an otherwise brutal situation.

Once I quit my man, I discovered I had need of such an officer. It takes time to recover from a romance, no matter how long or short the affair. My man was raising his voice at me, calling me names. He couldn’t kiss me right. One night, he didn’t come home. I had to leave him.

I petted and cossetted that man as if he was a spring lamb, but he was never satisfied with me. He didn’t like the way I dressed (too modest), the way I spoke (to low and like a white girl), the way I ate (too international). He yelled at me to talk like a Black person, otherwise he wouldn’t hear or understand what I was saying. He actually seemed to want me to behave like a street woman. I had to leave him.

Having nearly lost myself, collapsed myself into his world, I needed to get me back. Whenever I feel like I’m losing my sense of self, I head to the library. Reading prevents the loss of self and can often help when regaining self is imperative.

I have to walk 20 minutes to get to a library in the local strip mall. The library doesn’t even have a bathroom for patrons. You have to go to Mickey D’s or Food 4 Less if you need the toilet. But there are books, videos, and free wi-fi, so off I go.

Along the main highway there is plenty of traffic, liquor stores and churches on every other corner, some homes, and many apartment complexes. I wonder how people live with their front doors so close to the sidewalk and pedestrian traffic, how they sleep with the constant traffic noises, how they breathe so near the pollutants of the road.

About midway in my journey, I pass in front of a large apartment complex, in front of which are usually a number of men. They stand around, smoking blunts and cigarettes, pants hanging way below their waists, profanities flying. Often, there is someone who is very high on some substance. They are said to be “on one.” Once, I encountered a brother draped over the trash receptacle that stands in the corner in front of the complex. His pants had fallen to his knees as he leaned his upper body along the side and top of the container. I was returning from the library when I saw him and stopped to ask if he as alright or needed me to call 9-1-1. I stood with him for about 5 minutes before a oouple of men who knew him came from the liquor store across the street and informed me that he was on one and proceeded to help him get himself together. After their arrival, I continued home.

When I pass, I always speak to any man I see. I don’t want a scene and it costs nothing to speak. It’s always, “Good morning/Good afternoon, Brothers.” The first time I did this, there was a visible change in attitude and I was greeted in a like fashion. Then, I began to get compliments. “God sure did bless you. You’re summery and stylish, and you’re pretty, too.” My favorite is,”You’re a real woman!” If the corner men could see my virtues, why couldn’t my man? “If yo man ain’t treatin’ you right, I will!”

They were so good for my morale with their ego-boosting comments. I started going to the library twice a day for a while, just so I could hear something sweet said to me while I worked to get that man out of my system and regain my sense of me.

The Corner Brothers, often high as Coota Brown, eyes red as crimsonite, sagging and looking crazy, became my Morale Officers. In passing, they treat me like a queen, pulling their pants up, saying excuse me, always with the compliments and sweet words like brothers used to use in the ’60s. With their help, and immersing myself in my books, I got that man out of my system, regained my composure, and took back my life.

In the most unlikely locations, among the most unlikey people, it is good to find Morale Officers on duty.

Diversions · Fiction · Health and wellness

Mud Bath

Shirley struggled into her swimsuit and waddled down to the river for a quick dip before the children were up and demanding her attention.

She sidled up to the river bank and edged over the rise, descending into a culvert shadowed by tree limbs.

Slowly, she lowered her girth into the cool water, careful to avoid the root tangle pouring from the bank. Sinking blissfully into the muddy waters, she began rubing the mud over her arms and legs, vigorously rubbing to provide warmth and sloughing, grabbing mud with both hands and rubbing it over here face and neck, then plunging into a slightly deeper part of the river, swimming out a ways to wash away all the mud.

Flipping onto her back, she floated freely, enjoyng the vivid blue of the sky, contrasted with the grey slate of the water, too dark to reflect the brightness of the sky.

In the distance, the calls for her floated high and clear over the rise. Reluctantly, she turned and swam toward the bank, pulled herself ashore, and started the short trek back to home, family, love.

ethnography · Fiction · Sociology

“Close the lid before flushing.”

Unwritten is the assumption, in some households, that you will flush a closed toilet and leave the lid closed upon exit. 

Once I learned the practice, searching for the logic of it followed.

It seems waste matter is aerosolized in the flush process. Invisible drops of raw sewage are deposited on all exposed surfaces.

My, my.

An imposing Anglo man, over six feet to my five foot nothing, sternly taught me the lesson of close the lid before flushing when I demonstrated my lack of knowledge by violating this toileting rule. I’d also left the top up. I never forgot his instruction. He gave an entirely new meaning to the term ‘anal’.

Visiting a girlfriend of recent acquaintance, I saw a sign posted in her bathroom. It read:

Close the lid before flushing.

Leave the lid down when you exit.

Clear instructions without the intimidation. Priceless.