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Prose for a Holiday. |
MOSTLY I THINK by Daniel Skellenger In the evenings, when I come home from a hard days labor, I sometimes turn on the television, as if to receive a greeting, a salutation. I sometimes strive for neither, for I may simply read the days mail, if there should happen to be some, whether it be a letter, some advertisement, or a bill I fear to open. There are times I will draw a bath, and while soothing my aching body I may read a book that has sequestered my attention. I do these things sometimes, but mostly, I’ll lay on my couch, and think. I think of the strangest of things, that at times, seems not to have relevance to another, yet they do, for they are all in my mind, cobbled together, patiently waiting to be thought. I may think of a toy soldier from many years past, or the smell of mothballs, in a box of old clothing, in an attic somewhere. I think of a grinders ax, pituitary, rudders, match boxes, CAT scans that have nothing to do with cats, and of a beautiful, sensual woman. I think of cuddling, smooching, Sarah Brightman singing Don’t Cry for Me Argentina, of cinnamon, an aching heart, of a newborn that first becomes aware. I’ll sometimes think of my quaint log cabin, nestled in a glade, surrounded by a vast forest, where gowned in winters dress, are tall tamarack, blue sculptured spruce, splendid red cedar, on occasion a few birch, their white bark interfusing with the fluffy fresh snow. Inside the small lodge, my mood is serene and warm. The fireplace is stoked, aflame and stoic, compelling shadows to arch, bow and sway as they wrap around soft edges of light. The hewn chinked logs glimmer through the marsh yellow lacquer, they being mute, yet hearing, depending on mood, laughter, song, or weeping. Above, beams and girders give solid substance, as is their character. In the low open loft, a down filled bed is shrouded by a billowing comforter. In opposition the room, set oil lamps, one to each side, their ocher flame giving balance to the blaze in the tinderbox. The musky odor lingers, interlarding with maple syrup, a baking loaf of bread, and melodious pipe tobacco. They waif the warm air, constrained and home bound. Pictures of memories, set for easy viewing, adorn shelves and pieces of furniture. Treasures are placed for touching, for fondling when the mood steals in. Throughout, are ladles and spoons, a throw rug or two, a vase with a flower or more, a few small paintings, a patient guitar, a napping animal for my pleasure. It's a cozy shelter. A place to sit on quiet evenings, and think. I may think of otter, slipping through a cool deep pool, in joyful abandon, or of windmill in the country, unattended, unused, uncared for, its purpose defunct. Rusty blades bent, a few missing, forever stilled. I’ll think of balletomania, beach bums, transformers, neon, curry, tell tell signs that are not posted, and of luxurious silky hair. I think of auburn, fingers tenderly combing, of suffocating kisses. I may think of light rays caressing foliage in autumn, as the sun whispers over the horizon, their colors and hues dancing ore' window panes. I’ll think of Idaho, her beautiful mountains, the roaring streams, an elk in a meadow, a moose in a marsh, a single flower in dispute with an adolescent spruce, or huckleberry bush. I may think of a tugboat on a foggy bayou, its Cajun navigator watching with concern, the radar scope, for specks and ghostly blimps that tells and sometimes not, of objects in its path. I’ll think of the galley, smell spices, herbs and staples, cooking Creole style, or of a dock in seclusion. where I may sit, and calmly think. I sometimes on a Sunday, watch a ballgame in season, or go for a drive, looking, seeing, viewing things as I pass by. I see the same things in reverse on my return trip, if they the are still in sight. Mostly though, I just look out of my window, at home, at familiar sights, and I think. I may think of sheep that have frozen during a frigid arctic blizzard, their cold ridged bodies dumped in a gully, or ravine, and how in the spring thaw, they become carrion, or pools of maggots. I’ll think of a tree, its bark scratched by a deer in velvet or rut, or of a pond with a diverse orchestra, of a child, lost, alone, hungry, and how, there are millions who do not care. I think of banyan trees, hot biscuits, dorolops, baccarat, pork chops, whippoorwills that do not whip wills, and sensuous lips. I think of rubies, pouting, smothering. I may think of billowing cumulus clouds riding air currents, blending with buoyant permission, another. At times on a free day, I’ll vacate my bed, shower, cook a light breakfast, then sit with coffee and think. I may think of a brook, running, seeking a tributary to join the mad rush southward, or of a meadow, a gorge, falcon eyes and mice. I’ll think of evenings by a campfire, the flickering flames cajoling my attention, to ponder. A tranquil place to stare, to think. I may think of a mortally wounded soldier huddled in a cold damp trench, his heartbeat fast fading. I’ll question governments, politicians, leaders who should lead, man’s senses, mine included. I think of bayonets,castanets, banty roosters, cellar doors, thimbles, tickle chains that do not make you laugh, of a fragile warm heart. I think of valentines, progeny, acquiesce, a communion in rapture subscribing to harmonic vows, and eternal love. I think of children on drugs. Of how they will inherit this earth, and the responsibilities thereof. Of children crushed and mangled in the revamped steel, plastic and glass of wrecked automobiles. Of the redundancy of paradoxes, forever unfolding, and how it is all pragmatic, but makes no sense. I’ll think of demigods, religious zealots, of God Buddha, Mohammad, Apollo, Isis, and Aphrodite. Of baseballs, footballs, basketballs, soccer balls, bowling balls, tennis balls, cannon balls, golf balls, volley balls, cotton balls, ping pong balls, dust balls, goof balls and I wonder, what is it with this ball thing we humans have? I think of eyes so captivating they pull into a void where part of you never returns. I think of what would happen, in a crowd of a million people who all passed gas, then were someone to light a match, or what would happen were aliens to show themselves with demands? I’ll mull over a padded room where you are allowed to scratch the scabs in your mind, undisturbed, and think. I'll go for a walk. Sometimes far, sometimes near. I will see something that captures my attention, then reach out and grasp it, or simply touch it, then disregard it, for I’ve felt the experience I sought. I may say hello to an acquaintance in passing, or beckon a dog to come near to give knowledge of my caring, and to receive the same. Mostly though, I walk, and I think. I’ll think of lobsters, squirrels, rabbits, deer and elk, who were at the wrong place at the wrong time for the benefit of mankind. I may think or Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, James Dean, John Kennedy, Marilyn Monroe, and of Jesus. I’ll think of flowing teardrops washing sorrows from saddened cheeks. I think of tulips, hexagons, spoke shaves, my family, cattails, bald headed eagles who are not bald at all, and of sweet feminine odors. I’ll think of cinnamon, honeysuckles, lilacs, of gliding through a flowery vale, where a heavenly bouquet transcends an ambrosial dream. I think of snow cones, pine cones, ice cream cones, pea pickers, flea pickers, cotton pickers, pickle pickers, peach pickers, corn pickers, guitar pickers, nose pickers, of pedophilia, hemophiliacs, pyromaniacs, necrophiliacs, naugahyde and bestiality. I may think of riding a glider high in the sky, with divorced feelings, for the Earth below. I may think of the stars, the Universe, mayonnaise, thoggolthorps, syntax, a Blue Moon that is not really blue, and female companionship. Of hand holding, quiet evenings, strolls and monogamy, I’ll think of an eighteenth century surrey, a winter sleigh from the same era, of poetry, music, paintings, writings, masterpieces that give us joy. I think of smiles, handshakes, hugs and kisses, laughter and love. Yes, I think of all these things, and an infinite number more, but mostly My Dear, when I think, I mostly, think, of, YOU!!! PLEASE BE MY VALENTINE |