It is Wednesday afternoon. This morning was white with snow and frost, but the day is clear, sunny, and bright. Kind of reminded me of the Beatles song," Here comes the sun...its alright". All the remnants of the cold melted away into little wet puddles. Especially on the little burnt red brick path that leads around my garage to the backyard. I'm standing next to a mound of matted brown, yellow, and green grass and to my surprise, there in the center forming a semi-circle are crocus blooms. The petals are light violet-blue and the stamens are orange. I see the flowers, my sense of sight differentiates them from the grass, and my mind contemplates what type of flower I am seeing. This thought evokes an emotional response. Crocus are an early spring bloom which mean warmer days are inevitable. There is a swelling of hope, gladness, even joy. I feel the petals and they are very fragile, I know as soon as the sunsets they will fold together, retreating within to survive another cold night, until the sunrise rejuvenates them, again. The next morning is Thursday. Like the crocus, I find myself drawn back within against the cold, gloomy, damp fog and mist.
It is so damp that little drops of water condense on the branches like transparent pearls. The two seasonal titans of winter and spring are still slugging it out in an annual grudge match. Even though winter lands some hard last desperate blows spring always wins in the end. By the end of the day spring has indeed triumphed and the sunset this evening turns the landscape into a flame of orange and pink. There is no more awesome moment as the experience of the last glorious glow of gold just before it disappears behind the globe.
Friday I am asked by my boss to move a broken down car off our premises and take it to its owner who has a business down the road. I climb into my mechanical armor and pick up the Geo Metro with the mech's strong arms, and carry it down the road like a craddled baby in its mother's arms. All the other cars going up and down the road respectively slowed down and passed, giving me plenty of space as I swaggered down the road after dropping my load.
I am wandering into the garden directly behind my house. The water fountain lady of plaster shyly looks away, embarrassed, because she has not poured any water from her vases all winter long. The waterfall of brick has brought forth no gurgling, birds have not bathed in its peaceful flow. The goldfish in the pond do not dart about the lillies, playing hide and go seek.
An awful tower of darkness and foreboding has mystically appeared in my backyard in the same location as the crocus blooms. I am unaware of the intents of whoever malignantly placed it there without asking my permission. You may be sure there will be hell to pay. Nobody builds a tower for dominance, war, or oppression in my back yard and walks away without some amputated limbs, crushed skulls, or plenty of ventilation. I must dress in my best battlegear and face them on the field of battle.
Purgatory, a place somewhere between, where one waits until they pay for services rendered, so they can be released to their destiny. My wife, Heather, and I wait in the local car dealership service waiting room while our Prius has major front end work done. There is an unspoken rule that the captives of waiting room purgatory understand, without talking about it, no one there speaks to one another. You may grab a magazine, read a book, surf the web, watch television, but for God's sake don't talk to one another, nod understanding, or acknowledge one another's existence, this is taboo. Every so often, a guardian will come through the pearly service doors and call someone's name, they are the blessed who will next leave the prison of solitude. They, stoic and silent, walk toward the door and enter into bliss. The rest, left behind, continue to wait, we have no other choice, we wait until our names, too are called, and we too ascend.
Full Metal Grocery Store Video Game could be the title of the newest gaming experience. Each player has his weapons of choice; grocery cart, little basket, debit card, AK-47, and my favorite alien death ray sabre. Four lanes of cheap, sales coupon laden, stock, everything you need in life, from anchovies, radio drip coffee maker, or nylon slip and slide. The gamers move back and forth up and down each aisle, racking up points for picking off their kids when they try to climb to the top of a stack of groceries in boxes. Each new department is a new level, most dangerous of all are the zombies in the frozen meats, they will gnaw on anything. Finally, you gather all your prizes at the checkout and are rewarded by paying the cashier, hopefully you walk away with some points left in the bank. Stupid game!
Friday I am asked by my boss to move a broken down car off our premises and take it to its owner who has a business down the road. I climb into my mechanical armor and pick up the Geo Metro with the mech's strong arms, and carry it down the road like a craddled baby in its mother's arms. All the other cars going up and down the road respectively slowed down and passed, giving me plenty of space as I swaggered down the road after dropping my load.
Purgatory, a place somewhere between, where one waits until they pay for services rendered, so they can be released to their destiny. My wife, Heather, and I wait in the local car dealership service waiting room while our Prius has major front end work done. There is an unspoken rule that the captives of waiting room purgatory understand, without talking about it, no one there speaks to one another. You may grab a magazine, read a book, surf the web, watch television, but for God's sake don't talk to one another, nod understanding, or acknowledge one another's existence, this is taboo. Every so often, a guardian will come through the pearly service doors and call someone's name, they are the blessed who will next leave the prison of solitude. They, stoic and silent, walk toward the door and enter into bliss. The rest, left behind, continue to wait, we have no other choice, we wait until our names, too are called, and we too ascend.
No comments:
Post a Comment