Notes from The Home

Prodded on by your generous and foolish acceptance of my fancy-ass version of the I-have-nothing-to-say entry, I’ve decided to unload more perfectly meaningless information.

For instance, my house smells like a funeral home. (Speak of being dead, huh?)
Saturday, I purchased white lilies with pink centers. At the time they were long narrow buds. Now they are monstrous, yawning blossoms big enough to look like they’d eat a house cat if I had one. And they…They stink. I hate to admit that. I would like to tell you the scent of heaven wafts through my living room, but funeral home is what comes to mind.

I can’t throw them out. I am tender with plants and stones. Perfectly capable of shooting dirty looks at helpless beleaguered mothers with crying babies, a teenager with leaky headphones on my bus whom I call “Heavy Metal Deaf Boy” and anyone within audible range talking on a cell phone. I am perfectly capable of eating fellow-mammals fried up with onions and sliced fungus. I cannot murder a plant. Even one that was, for all intents and purposes, dead when I bought it.

I will not ever sleep in a room where my feet are towards the door, or a window is behind me. But I forget to lock my door at night.

I swear like a sailor but will not use terms like “download” or “interface” in any sense unconnected with computers. I hate the term, “twenty-four seven” because it’s prison language – origins quickly lost, grown fashionable and used by those who have no idea of the painful hell it refers to.

There now. I think I’ve dispelled a little of the calm. Thank you for your patience.

Posthumously yours, LJ

If there’s an inspired topic left in me, it’s sunk so far into the Bermuda Triangle of my subconscious it might as well be a pickle fork from the cutlery set on the Edmund Fitzgerald. It’s walked the gang plank. It slipped out through the hole in the hull. It’s covered in barnacles and is now home to tiny one-celled creatures who have no idea there is any “me” up there in the daylight world.

I have cravenly taken to posting my friend’s art. Not that I don’t love it and didn’t want to share it. I did – but just between me and you, I’m also coming up empty on the topic front.

The problem is that I’m calm. Calm. I think that’s what it is. I’ve observed other people in this state and believe that is the description for it. When I’ve experienced it myself, because it is alien to me, it is usually followed by the uncomfortable thought that perhaps I am not merely “calm” but am actually deceased. It’s just that I haven’t fallen down yet.

So. I haven’t fallen down yet. And it’s been quite some time. I have to conclude that I have passed through the dangerous stage (deceased but still moving) and have made it to “calm.”

And I have to tell you, I’m disappointed. Really. It’s nothing to write home about.
It’s nothing to write about at all.

Thank you for checking the site. I’m sure I’ll return to my usual overexcited, over-opinionated, over-sharing self any day now. And I’m sure the universe will oblige by sending a cream pie in the direction of my face if I use up one more word bellyaching about life becoming too peaceful.