As the snow began to fall later that afternoon, there was a moment, as I jogged through the park, that I realized it was about to snow. A sense. And then for next few minutes as I jogged along the bridle path, I thought I saw flakes. But I was never sure. I even pointed ones I thought I saw to my jogging partner, who did not seem to believe me. Or maybe she wanted me to run faster (She ran at a faster pace normally and normally complained of my slow one. But didn’t in this case–maybe because it was too cold to complain?)
So when the snow finally began really and truly falling, I realized I’d lost that feeling of anticipation. Snow was just snow. It had lost its wondered. And with that I began to feel as cold as my jogging partner

The park smelled sweet and I was sweet to. I’d been jogging several times a week here for years and my fantasy is always to have an affair. But not the kind you might be thinking–or maybe I’m being presumptuous.
I’m talking about just meeting up with a guy, during or after a run, while still sweaty and the us just stealing away behind a bald cypress and kissing there for just a few quick minutes. And laughing about it. In fact, the kissing would be interrupted by the laughter oftentimes. We’d be laughing because this was just as out of our respective natures, just as much for him as for me. That would be our “thing,” so to speak, that healthy dose of WTF that would send us into peals of laughter before anything more serious happened.

Guilt does makes cowards of us all.
So I just jog and fantasize and then I’m back into my real world, still sweaty and still able to get kisses from my real-life betrothed who isn’t so bad, not one bit actually.

I can laugh about it, actually.

Herald the heraldry from on High. Whatever that means. I happened to be at a fruit stand and there was a big sale on peaches. Someone happened to be blowing a horn at the time. Someone on a pedestal–the fruit seller of course, trumpeting attention the way he did with his medieval clothing and bowler hat and tendrils of cigar smoke roiling around his beard. He could blow a horn as well as anything.

I bought an extra batch of peaches that day. Hell, if I know what I’ll do with all of them. I don’t bake or particular like peaches. But other people do. Especially the fruit seller. And that’s good enough for me.

I want to start the new shampoo. But the old shampoo still has some left in it. It’s the same brand, just a different flavor.

The old bottle falls over so easily; its weakened, depleted. I know how it feels. But there is still some left, a potential for one last lather. So I for the old bottle, one last time. It doesn’t end well. I am forced to spin the bottle in my hand, centrifugal force moving the last bit to the tip.

It lathers. I rinse. I do not repeat.

But I do so with the new bottle.

A soap opera filmed in  split screen
A flute in a rock band (Exception: Jethro Tull and Marshall Tucker Band)

Belly button full of lint.

As useless as a useless ass

As useless as as a useless ass, with no place to go.

Ava drove me to this. This being a department store. An amazingly sedate Macy’s, with all the trimmings. It was Christmastime. I’d told her “Happy Christmas,” and she’d given me a “look.” And then I remembered; “Happy Holidays.” I amended. And then her “look” softened.
I was young postulant then, seeing her favor. I was desperate for it. She watched us as we filed into the order, taking note of our waifish beards and lanky figures. She knew we were kind-hearted. From her window I caught her studying us as we worked. Plumbing, gardening, painting, some of our chores sending up and down the well-worn path until out shirts were soaked with sweat.
It was a path we’d all chosen, to fetch her flowers and even berries. We took turn. When it was my turn her look had hardened. She didn’t like the way I smelled.
I told her I would fix that.
How?
But I didn’t answer. I just smiled. Later that day I went to Macy’s and bought some cologne. Nothing strong. Just enough. And new crisp, linen shirts that helped my skin breathe better.

By then it was Summertime and but I still said to her as she passed in the hall, “Happy Christmastime.”

There is no way to find the essence of a man but to get as close to him as you can. Wear his clothes, play his sports, shoot the animals he shoots. I did those things–better than him. And then I did even better. I became a billionaire. Now he wants to know my essence. But he is not willing to do the things I did to become one..

He doesn’t understand. He’s hungry, that’s all. You can’t reason with that. He wants food. Now.
But I can wait. I can be fed later.
But you’re different. You think about “calories in, calories out.”

We all have to eat something, regularly or else we die. Less immediate than oxygen or water, but food seems to give people the most long term grief.

Right there, on the lawn, on that picnic blanket. In front of everyone.
But instead I have to listen to career-talk; rap music lyrics, the taste of sesame seed oil vs just plain sesame seeds. I have to ask you about you things that are so boring that I find myself laying my head down on the picnic blanket.
A bird poops on my cheek. He laughs, grabs a wet-nap and wipes my face.
Who knew?

In the park, the mother saw her own baby pushing her own stroller.
Mother bent down, keeping in slow steps with the baby’s. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” Mother said.
The baby took received the shower of Thank Yous with complete aplomb.