Panoramic interactions filtered through the sound of struggle mingled with the scent of silence cast a shadow on the scene. Eyes and ears and mouth and fingers focus on the fellow feeling filling designated spaces all around and in between.
Swirling river bed’s aroma steeped in energetic flavors salted with a touch of kindness constitute a hearty paste. Add a pound of mountain cabin, mother’s kiss and robin’s whisper where a hint of moonlit forest shivers in the aftertaste.
Senses stir beyond the blend more than minds can comprehend.
(in the style of “Fire and Ice”, with apologies to Frost)
While some are satisfied with rice, however bland, I much prefer to pay the price for hearty fare that’s basted twice to blend a tantalizing brand of seasonings that suit my taste; uniquely wrought, precisely planned tomato paste that’s fresh, not canned.
For when the pizza’s tossed by hand and not in haste, the cheese and pepperoni stand like sentries poised to spark demand. Ingredients don’t go to waste and every sharply honed device contributes to the flavor laced through every slice wherever placed.
In a split-level duplex on Denver’s west side where the gold dust and booze overflowed from the previous century, someone appeared at a newlywed couple’s abode.
“Did you see what just happened?” The unison chant broke the silence as, bolting awake with adrenalin pumping, they sat up at once and described an identical take on the bold basement visitor’s last fading flash that remains an indelible clip in this vividly witnessed and oft-replayed film even fifty years after the trip:
At the headboard, a rustle of taffeta stirs in the mystical opening scene as an elegant lady comes slowly in view from the rear as she glides in between man and wife unaware that we sleep on the grave of society superimposed on a future dimension with tenuous thread, its connection as yet undisclosed.
Like Miss Kitty, complete with a bustle and hat, she is dressed to the nines for the day in a matching plaid number befitting her role as a fashion plate walking away.
Then she ever-so-gracefully raises her skirt, stepping down from the foot of the bed, still not floating but moving with purpose and poise through the wall of the closet ahead.
“I am never upset for the reason I think.” – A Course in Miracles
When the hairdresser clips you entirely too close; when your child shows a penchant for sass; when the seminar speaker is waxing verbose; when your hero falls flat on his ass … and a flood of emotion’s creating a stink in your mind, STOP! Consider the fact that you’re never upset for the reason you think. You can choose how you want to react.
If you scrape off the crust of resentment or rage, you’ll uncover a cowering imp that is clutching a plagiarized script. On the stage, he’s an icon. Exposed, he’s a wimp. His persona’s all hype — “too ferocious to tame” — but he only appears to exist in the absence of love. Simply call him by name, “little fear,” and he’ll fade into mist.
You wooed me with your promise that conveyed an image guaranteed to please the crowd. Your haughty head, as yet, remains unbowed but flashy trinkets, trips, and games we’ve played have given me a reason not to trade. Can’t help myself—I’m programmed to enshroud complaints in realism. (I’m not proud.) You’re powerful and rich. You’ve got it made.
As Helen Keller said, “God never shuts a door without a window opening.” But fools like me won’t choose stability instead of you because, confined to ruts, we’re operating on a hope and wing. You devil, Microsoft, you’re killin’ me!
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