Communication (written Thursday, communicated Friday)

Obfuscation, lack of clarity, omission, absence, distance and the glossing over of all of the above. Hazel was having one of those days where it seemed she was an alien in a foreign land where commjnication was impossible and nobody seemed to connect. She tried to warn the cleaning lady that she was upset about paying a lot for a little, and ended up talijng about how makeup tends to clog your pores. Lunch wit an old "friend" was lacking any connection - no acknowledgement of time past and the events they had missed. Phone calls to people providing services were unclear and connections were hazy. The narcissism of seemingly every person (herself included, she acknowledged...) was overwhelming. where were the connections? Did anyone care enough about other people to look past their own noses? And, was it too much to ask that the the death of a mother-in-law be mentioned and sympathy expressed over a luncheon salad? It had been a while, but this was the first time they had seen each other since all that crazy. Really - it was impolite to dwell, but Hazel felt it worse to ignore. Was Samantha really that uncaring, or was she just too obsessed with her own issues to realize how hurtful she was being? Nothing connected. Hazel felt deaf. Alone. Ina bubble of observation without contact.

Until - darling Max called. He understood, and she understood him. And there was that connection she had been missing all day. Everything was made better now. The phone call, and a few olives and a glass of wine...And a little James Joyce, as weird as that sounded. A peace entered her bubble, and it no longer mattered who else she connected with. And the babble of the disconnected ceased to exist.

Up the Tree

The crows were definitely up to something, thought Hazel as she and Rupert walked up the street. They had clearly made the giant eucalyptus the club house and the crows were in residence. What did you call a huge group of crows? she wondered as she tried vainly to move Rupert on to "the next incredible spot that must be examined carefully and with great patience through a completed series of sniffing and scratching procedures." When Rupert was in investigation mode, he would not be moved, and Hazel was loathe to pop off his head by tugging too hard on the leash.

The crows were definitely up to something. The croaking sounds they made was always disturbing, but today there was a flurry of activity - branches falling and leaves floating more gently down. Were they building condos up there and arguing about the home owners association? Imminent domain? Was there a squirrel up there making his case for staying in his hole? In any case, Hazel wanted Rupert to move so they could put the tree behind them. Nothing worse than being hit with crow droppings from 200 feet up...

Hazel looked up the official name for a big group of crows the minute they got home. A murder of crows...seemed appropriate. Poor squirrel.

Sunset

Solar flares were being reported by all the astronomers and related scientists. Reporters fretted about GPS failure and communications over the North Pole and poetically discussed aurora borealis sightings in Finland and Alaska. But the sunset was spectacular. As was the sunrise for those who were awake enough to look out a window at 6:15. Pinks and blues spread dancing across the sky, tossed by the wind and highlighted by a crystal clear day. Beige stucco houses glowed in the reflection of the sky. Even Hazel's shadow was better than usual. Taller, maybe, and definitely with better hips. A stiff wind was blowing and the huge flag waving over the gas station almost made Hazel feel patriotic as the sun set.

Rupert was feeling frisky too, and as they headed out for their evening walk, his ears were perked up as he prances along - his shadow was looking exceptionally handsome as well. The wind, often his nemesis, was on his side.

It was a hopeful night. The "unicorns" in the attic had been quiet, and new work opportunities were on the horizon. The energy pounding the earth from this solar flares was working. Even without a single New Age bone in her body, Hazel felt renewed. As the pinks and blues faded toward deep purple and then black, there was a new hope in the air.

"Unicorns" in the Attic

Hazel and Rupert were enjoying morning tea and newspapers in the living room when the skittering noises began again over their heads. It was not at all reassuring to see that Rupert didn't even perk up his ears. Dogs can be incredibly lazy after breakfast and a walk, especially if the heater is on and blowing in their general direction.

Based on where the noise was coming from, whatever it was was behind the door leading to the attic storage and crawl space. It was pretty cozy up there. And leak free since last summer's construction project. Honestly, Hazel had been contemplating making it into a secret meditation retreat. But now, it seemed someone had beaten her too it and she was banging on the ceiling with a broom handle. Not that it mattered.

It was fun to imagine a lost unicorn up there, churning out rainbows and munching on jelly beans, but harsh realities meant that it was probably some sort of rodent. Hopefully a cute one...maybe he will go away on his own, sensing Hazel's dismay? She guessed that was a pipe dream, and imagined instead a little neon mouse sign inviting the family to move right on in...

No more peaceful meditation in the attic!

Rhubarb

Rhubarb woke up with a crick in her neck again. The sun was shining through the leaves and while the dappled grass was beautiful, it was too bright and it was too early! Rhubarb was really too hungry to notice.

Rhubarb and her friend Francis had planned a field trip to the arboretum for breakfast so she needed to get up! She quickly brushed back her hair with her extra long tongue and threw on her best spots.

Waiting for Francis at the crossroads, Rhubarb reached up into the branches for a snack. She felt bad scaring away the birds, but her stomach was rumbling. The leaves the leaves were a bit dry and crunchy but they would have to do. Francine was late. Rhubarb sighed deeply and cranes her neck to see if her friend was coming over the hill, but saw nothing but land and sky.

She didn't even really want to go to the arboretum. For once, couldn't they go somewhere else? She was so tired of eating leaves. Giraffes were supposed to like leaves. Her whole family loved leaves, but Rhubarb was different. She loved to eat flowers instead. They were delicious. And beautiful. She knew she looked ridiculous with her legs all sprawled out and her neck twisted down to the ground. She saw all her friends doing that move down at the watering hole which was why they never went for a drink when the laughing hyenas were there. Maybe yoga would help. Probably not...

Where was Francis anyway?

Bar Americain

Champagne cocktails at the bar
The same dark, smoky bar artists rested
Their elbows on when
Ideas were currency and
Everyone could afford a drink.
Eyes staring at me from the mirror ask
What are YOU doing here?
I'm waiting, I say, for some
Goddamned inspiration.
But in the meantime,
Doesn't my hair look great?

House Guests?

It was no longer hypothetical. Someone or some thing was in the house. The decorative pine cones were out of place in their cut glass bowl, and the dog food bowl had been kicked or otherwise transported clear across the kitchen floor. Rupert would never be capable of that. Enthusiastic bowl licking, yes. Complete bowl repositioning, no.

At first it hadn't seemed like such a bother. It was more a fun little mystery - a house guest, if you will, who didn't quite understand all the rules of the house but was otherwise alright to have around. The silver hadn't gone missing and the 48" flat screen TV was still firmly affixed to the wall. Doors stayed locked and the bumping and scratching sounds in the attic could easily  be ascribed to generalized house settling and seasonal bird nesting under the eaves.

But now it was personal. The little rubber wild boar figurine Hazel had gotten in college as part of a gift the cast and crew of Godspell had given her at the end of their successful fun; the little piggy that had faithfully stood watch by the bathroom sink, perched on the windowsill along with the little goat and lion figures that had come along later - that little piggy was missing! She had fished around in the drain and come up with nothing but the requisite hair clog and had finally cleaned up the basket of hair accessories that was still hiding scrunchies from the mid-90s at the bottom in a futile search. He was gone. And someone or some thing had taken him. And she wanted him back.

Morning

She was quickly loosing all feeling in her left leg. Hopefully, that irritating tingling sensation in her hamstring would go away soon and she could really focus on the article she had just found in the Economist. Someone had just discovered the humanity gene (?!) in lab rats, and the idea of gangs of the mangy little devils appreciating art and protecting their loved ones while on "field trips" to the pantry was hysterical, to say the least. Not to mention the disturbing thought of a "humanity gene" itself. The tingling had reached her toes, and she was starting to feel a draft. The idea of moving was not appealing however and her mind pushed past the discomfort and wandered into the world of rodent philosophy and benevolence where interior decoration and support groups proliferated.

The dog was watching her from the doorway with those pitiful eyes. He never came in the bathroom, but was effective nonetheless in finally pulling her from the throne. Finally. Wad some paper. Clean up. Stand up. Put down the magazine and enjoy the pain and pleasure of releasing nerve endings and blood flow forcing a tingling sensation like no other. Time for Rupert's walk.

New Direction, Same Density

While a vocabulary full of funny words is important to maintaining a sense of humor in these dark-ish times, it behooves one to actually put all those words into sentences. and sentences into stories, or progress reports, or whatever it is that one is working on. After an extended hiatus, this blog is getting a new life. The theory is to write a very short story or observation every day for a year. Call it Project 365 if you like. I call it keeping the procrastination and excuses at bay in the form of a slightly public New Year's resolution.

Please to enjoy.