A place for fog ...

The edge of collected images seems to dull in the passage of time and daily distractions. It is in the silence where they beg to appear from back in the line. Tilted heads leaning to be seen to the side of the even administrations that only have one purpose and that are born to tunnel vision, they stand perfectly straight—perhaps necessarily, though they are, without any personality, solid colors. Clear. Obvious. Styrofoam.

Notes sing and the fingers back there in the line snap, heads nod, hips move, and words rise like a melodic phoenix to remind something in me that rhythm is the jukebox of the heart, so I sing to remind those tilted heads they’re not just in line, they offer a place for fog where the world softens in meaningful nostalgia, and they remind my feet they’re not just for shoes, for walking.

CONDIMENTS IN MISUSE (just another rant)

Someone will say it’s the way your parents initiated their 

use. Others will point to 23 & Me and insist that it lies 

completely in your genes, because some people eat cilantro 

and taste soap and others don’t. One rogue group believes 

it’s a matter of aesthetics: the color of the condiment trumps 

all.

Watching someone put ketchup on a hot dog, for instance, 

causes me to wince and imagine the unimaginable: what the 

mix of ketchup and dog might taste like. There are states 

that I’m told have laws about ketchup use: shall only be used 

on fries. Which, of course, makes perfect sense. Would or 

could you say that someone who misuses a condiment has 

no taste no taste? And there are those who commit even 

more serious breaches, like putting mayonnaise on a 

dog. This is so far over the line I’d forgive anyone who water-

boarded such transgressors.

There is no constitutional right or protection against 

condiment misuse. While I know the government has its 

priorities (like creating a Space Force or dealing with anyone 

who is a shade darker than the President), I think a new 

branch of federal agents called The Condiment Cops should 

be seriously considered. Assigned to all stadiums and public 

venues, these CC’s could mete out instant justice when they 

identify misuse, an approach I think everyone would relish.

Mixed use, of course, would have to be contested in the courts …

Bronx Cowboy

My genes were trained from an embryo to go Cowboy.  Now of course it all seems so incongruous; 'Bronx Cowboys"- but there it was, in Black and Fuzzy white; Hop-a-long, Poncho and Cisco, Roy Rodgers, the Lone Ranger (who was hardly "lone" Tonto always had his back) And lets not forget the John Wayne flicks...

And then a Deputy Sheriff ... no boots.

Gal gone?

They were never automatic, her visits. Sometimes often, sometimes infrequent, but always upon appearance came a respected welcome; four-legged royalty who seemed to set aside the “wild” part and dare proximity for a snack. Her swaying and circling, and the occasional paw scratch on the ground showing a bit of anxiety and impatience, seemed more like an attempt at communication. That one could whistle and hold up an arm and then find her racing from some unseen tall grass was, for me, anyway (and I suspect for others as well), a sign that our friendship was still present and quite active. We were the “pets” grazing past her territory and paying the toll with a variety of “tributes.”

It has been a month since “the gal” has visited, responded, or been sighted. Hopefully she is nursing a new brood and is much too busy to collect our infatuated faces and smiles. But she has been longer absent than any other span, and she hasn’t left a note, nor any indication of what is happening with her.

A group of golfers awaits with hopeful curiosity that she’ll show again, take some time to abate the concern, and confirm that it wasn’t something we said …