Inner Doodles

 The swampy pit is now a veritable lake. The Earth's crust breached, giant rocks adorn the edges of the water. The only sign of life is the neon yellow vests operating CAT and surveying the work with poised grunt. Not a snapper to be seen. A golden mess of straw lines the muddy edge. I had almost forgotten what that lighting could look like what with our onslaught of gloomy days. The neon vests are almost done covering up their mess. My entertainment will come to an end. I suppose there is always the news... If I want a more dismal source of occupation. Would you rather be a snapping turtle with your mucky home unstuck? Or would you rather be governed by the squalid few who ignore their people gone amok?

 The water people have unearthed all sorts of things. Mucky slabs of asphalt and black clay form a new alien planet that once was our pit. I have yet to see the snappers, but I imagine that the CAT will gently relocate any critters. Not sure if this helps me sleep at night, or proves me naive. Mist has coated everything in cold droplets. It's a stew and tea sort of day.  I've started a new regimen to keep my aging muscles and bone from turning to brittle. Chief Mate walks in on me squatting on Facetime with a friend. "Want to join us?"  He freezes, eyebrows raised, and walks slowly backward out of the room. It's an answer of sorts. Today my muscles feel used and important.  The CAT has come to rest and so will I, tea in hand, to watch the squirrels scurry in the cold drizzle. 

     Zoom back in session. Moods already swinging. It is good to reconnect with the world. (Right?) I grow weary of "better than nothing" "doing our best" mottoes, but it's all we've got. My meditation skeleton has a succulent growing from his crown. It died.       Men in neon vests, white helmets and masks are inspecting our mud pit. The place where giant snapping turtles emerge when it floods. The men point, grunt, stomp. Their boots sink quickly into the squishy ground. I would love a job that isn't tethered to a computer screen. It's what I love about teaching. Now my soul is being sucked into a foldable glowing box.      The men make their way up the steep wet leafy hill to their truck with a water droplet on it. I suppose this means they are water management. They bring out a yellow CAT, which slides and bumbles across the ridge of the pit. It lifts and moves large flat metal sheets one at a time for traction. Lift, place, roll forward, lift, p

     Four. Legs spread wider than a quarter. Floating across the carpet towards me. Towards Chief Mate. Popping up in the middle of a movie. In the middle of playing. One even jumped out of my music binder towards me.      Spiders symbolize creativity. Much like the web, creativity is circular, interwoven. Ideas come to life, are destroyed, and begin again. A spider often weaves a web daily. Sometimes multiple times a day as their webs are destroyed by hikers, birds, and the like. Creation, destruction, creation.      I get it, universe. I have hermited long enough. It is time again to create. But could you please stop launching your eight legged muse at me? I have enough to fuel the fire as it is. 

Practice Praxis complete. Armed to the teeth. Or brain, as it were, with knowledge, of sorts. Early, emergent, fluent, prosody.  One cup of coffee, now on to the tea.  Praxis at home lacks a proper pat down. Mirror in hand, they will scan for folly. Only to find loose LEGO & Ollie. Practice Praxis complete. Oh, but to sleep...

Here we sit - or stand if you have a tall drafting table type desk, or if you're pacing with your phone, or outside having a smoke, leaning on the bricks in the rain (I hope you've got a warm rain jacket tonight) - it's 2021. A new year.  And yet, it doesn't feel so new anymore does it? When I leave the house I do my check: wallet, keys, phone, mask, sanitizer. The latter two no longer seem bizarre. I no longer feel as if I stepped into an Bradbury novel. Now it is unusual to see an unmasked person. I try to release my tension when they approach. Is it rude to cross the street? I remember learning to cross the street as a young girl. "Watch out for that man with a crazed look in his eye, he reeks of alcohol from here." Now we all have crazed looks in our eyes, and the only smell is our own breath. It's time to wash the masks again.  At least it isn't Handmaid's Tale.  Cat talks more and more each day. Demanding the wet food be available at all seco

(This was meant to be published on 11/6/2020. Better late than never?) My fingers are clenched on the edge of my seat, as I'm sure are yours. I've stopped counting days and they've stopped bleeding into one. The New Times routine has taken root. There is comfort in routine. No more need to count the days anymore. But I find myself counting other things. And there is only one count that matters today. My neck can't possibly hold any more tension. Not without me being rendered helpless on the floor again. The school gave the kids steppers to keep them active. I got myself one, too. There's yet another count. Tapping my feet doesn't give me steps, but bouncing on the yoga ball does. How many steps can I make before the votes are in? Pacing helps. I think? Or maybe it feeds the madness. There is only one count that matters today. Please let it count.