Comments Posted By ruby
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We went to a garage sale and there was this whole underwater outfit sitting there on one of the tables. I turned to Sherry and said to her, “We’re in the middle of nowhere and someone here is selling an underwater outfit.” “It’s a scuba outfit. Scuba equipment. That’s the name for the thing. You might as well call it by the right name.” I didn’t think about it; I wasn’t going to buy it so what the hell did I care. “You should buy that thing, you really should,” Sherry said. I laughed out loud. “For where, the fucking bath tub?” She smirked at me and wandered off to another table and I stood there looking after her. Then a voice behind me said, “Are you interested in the scuba equipment?” I turned to answer and nearly died right there where I was standing. Hershorn Sminder. If you had told me that I would run into him here in the middle of nowhere looking at a scuba outfit, I would’ve laughed pretty hard. But here he was standing right there and I had to say what was on my mind because I didn’t know how much time I was going to have to talk to him. “Honest to God, Hershorn, I thought you were dead.”
He smiled. “Everybody did,” he said.
» Posted By ruby On 05.23.2017 @ 3:13 pm
I had this one yesterday. Here’s a different take. I sit next to a guy at work who comes from the UK. They call women birds over there; I’m sure you’ve heard that. “This bird had flown,” is my first recollection of a Brit saying this; the Beatles, Norwegian Wood. I’m turning now to ask my Brit friend if it’s a good thing or a bad thing to be called a bird. Frankly, I’m not caring too much for it. What’s a man over there called? A bloke. It has a nice sound to it. Something rowdy; a guy in an unkempt suit, wending his way through the streets of London on his way to the pub. Very cliche. But let’s keep following him. He stops by a tailor’s on his way to the pub, for no other reason than to get a good look at the new bird they’ve got working there. No, more than cute. She’s beautiful, really. The way she slides the plastic over the newly pressed clothes is lovely. He imagines her doing the reverse with his clothes. This bloke on his way to the pub. On his way to love and unimaginable pain. You want to tell him to keep going, but he’s here in the story and you can’t have him just go on his way. Why should his life be any easier than the rest of ours, hey?
» Posted By ruby On 05.16.2017 @ 2:37 pm
The cat sits on the window sill of our place all the time, watching gulls and pigeons fly around outside. I don’t think he knows that he’s 22 floors above the ground, and I always wonder what he thinks the cars are that are moving below on the street. He’s a lot more interested in what’s flying above him, though, and when he sees them, his body goes into a pose that I imagine must be thousands (who knows) of years old. It’s something that happens to him that he doesn’t even think about; the way his eyes narrow and his tale starts twitching a thousand miles an hour and the way he releases this gutteral sound from way down deep in his belly. He knows he can catch those bastards, but what with this big window between him and these feathered things, that’s not much of an even match. He already knows what he’ll do with them if he catches them too; you can see his mind working a million synapses or something a minute. Then I pull down the blind and his mind turns to more attainable things. Like a nice can of Chicken of the Sea tuna, which isn’t really the kind of tuna he would choose if such a thing was possible. But he’ll take it. This is why cats have been around for so long.
» Posted By ruby On 05.15.2017 @ 2:30 pm
Wouldn’t it be great to go this way? I mean wayward. I think of it as a trip outside my regular life; somewhere that I don’t know anyone but am willing to nod and gesture my way into learning the language. Even at this late date in my life. It’s an idea I like because I’ve always loved the idea of reinventing myself. Not so much that I don’t recognize me at all; just enough to have a new start. When I was little, about 5, I was thinking one day about how much time I had to live; how much life there was ahead of me. It seemed like ages and ages and ages; so long that I couldn’t believe it. It made me so happy. There were so many things I didn’t know but knew that I would find out about, like how to drive a car and go to the store by myself and make friends without having to go to school to find them. Everything was so wide open and there, I couldn’t believe how happy it made me feel to be so young and so ready to go out and do anything. And when I think about it now, I can’t believe that someone so little could have thoughts that big. Which tells me that I’d been somewhere before where the time had been not much time to go. Because how can you know that you have all that time unless you’ve been in a place where there’s no time left at all? You tell me. Back to wayward.
» Posted By ruby On 05.03.2017 @ 3:46 pm
I don’t want to talk about this word. I want to talk about something else. I want to talk about my psychiatrist who I just found out killed himself. And he didn’t just kill himself; he did it almost four years ago. So I can’t even mourn or be shocked with other people because they already did that and they’re already past that and they’re going on with their lives and remembering him the way they want to instead of the way that I’m remembering him or thinking about him which is this way: Why the hell did you do this? I know you left a note and said something which I won’t say here in case somebody tries to look it up on Google because this is all true, but what the hell, you planned the whole damned thing out, as a matter of fact, I was reading where you told one of your patients that you were ‘going away.’ You hated euphemisms and bullshit and you were a pretty straight shooter so this ‘going away’ thing is really annoying–can you tell how angry I am at you? I even called someone who used to know you to try and talk about it but in the middle of doing that I thought Well, she’s been through this already and she’s getting better and you’re not such a bad memory any more, maybe she even thinks she kind of thought you weren’t too bad, so I’m not going to jerk her out of that and slam her into my present, which is my grief for what’s happened here. Okay, I’ll put scope in here just for the fucking hell of it.
» Posted By ruby On 04.27.2017 @ 1:44 pm
I feel my palms become more and more wet with sweat. I feel my jaw want to clench and want to express my emotions. But I can’t. All I must do is control the fear. Control the shock. What else is there to do when you confront a monster?
» Posted By Ruby On 04.26.2017 @ 7:34 am
What?? I have nothing to say! I’m in shock! I can’t believe you did it! I mean, I might have provoked you but that doesn’t mean you had to do it!
» Posted By Ruby On 04.26.2017 @ 7:17 am
This is what will happen. There will be a flash of bright light, eye burning. But it will happen so fast, you won’t know it. You will be ashes within seconds. If you’re lucky enough to be in the center of things, that is. If you’re 100 miles away, it will be worse. I don’t need to tell you that. You can look it up on Google and see what happens when a major nuclear weapon detonates and you’re within 100 miles of it. Not pretty. There will be radiation everywhere; radiation poisoning. Whole territories will be places where no one can live for years and years and years. People will be cut to bits from the breaking of all the glass everywhere. If you look for someone to treat you, a radiation victim, you will find no one because there is almost no one who knows how to treat it. If you don’t think about these things for yourself, think about them for your children. And as world leaders rattle their impotent swords and shout their threats, remember: They’ll be protected from all of it. And at the end of it, they’ll be sitting at conference room tables in Paris, signing peace agreements that won’t last for too long. While your life, the lives of your children, my children, all of it, will be lost because no real solution, no cheap solution, no solution that worked for those who profit, could be found. This is the glow we will all bask in.
» Posted By ruby On 04.14.2017 @ 3:23 pm
One time, a long time ago, I was standing in the window of a Fifth Avenue office building, somewhere up on the 8th or 9th floor. It was such a long time ago, I can’t remember which floor it was. I was watching the Pope, John Paul II at the time, go past in a parade. There were thousands of people on the streets, waving and cheering at him. I was standing in the window with a woman named Anita who was Jewish and didn’t quite understand the spectacle; I thought I wouldn’t either if I wasn’t a Catholic. When you think about it, that’s a lot of power that a man has. For me, he represented Christ here on Earth, even though he was riding in a car that must’ve cost who knows how much and surrounded by a force of body guards, none of which he probably wanted. Anyway, I was watching from this perfect position, when out of nowhere, this butterfly came flying into the window. A butterfly on Fifth Avenue in NY in the middle of a huge parade and all that noise. It fluttered in the window, and just like that, landed right on my left shoulder. A beautiful orange and black Monarch butterfly. I knew this because I looked it up afterwards. And when I looked that up, I found out that the butterfly is a symbol in Christianity. I think that made me believe that there’s a God and he’s watching over me. Not because of me. But because of my grandmother, who prayed hard for her whole family, including the non-believers. And there were plenty of those.
» Posted By ruby On 04.10.2017 @ 1:49 pm
I’m thinking of growing a beard because, as a female, I think it sucks that we (meaning my gender) aren’t allowed by someone out there to grow a beard. I have a certain kind of beard in mind; one of those close-cut ones that look like you didn’t feel like shaving this morning. Can you imagine if a woman walked around like that? (I can hear my mother asking the question right now). Okay. So if a woman wore one of those beards as a starter beard, meaning the beginning of a woman-beard trend, that would be the wrong kind to start with. Okay. So you’d have to stay in the house a few days or weeks, waiting for a real beard to grow. You let it grow. Would you look better as a female with a long beard. And would a long, blond beard be more desirable to men that a long dark beard? I see guys who love blondes; would they be extra crazy about blonde women if those women also had long blonde beards? These are the questions we need to ask today. Not whether or not the world is coming to an end, or the polar caps are melting into Florida, or we’re all going to hell when one of these lunatics running a country decides to make the Big Decision to kill us all. We can’t answer those questions or do anything about those things. We’re pretty fucked when it comes to those. But we ca wonder whether or not it isn’t time that women had the right to grow beards without being ostracized by society.
» Posted By ruby On 03.28.2017 @ 4:07 pm
A long time ago. In a run-down rooming house. Upstairs, where all the four children slept. Except that night, two of the older ones were gone, staying somewhere else. The mother was at work. The father was home. The baby was sound asleep in her crib. But the five, six or was it seven year old was awake. She never slept well; the TV downstairs in the living room was always on so loud, she couldn’t sleep. Sometimes she liked it though because it was kind of like she got to stay up late and she could watch tv without watching. Listen. That could put her to sleep sometimes. But this night, the TV suddenly stopped. It was quiet. She knew that he was the one who had turned it off; who else, no one else was home. And then she heard his footsteps. Slowly, because he was crippled in one leg. He couldn’t climb stairs like other people. As a matter of fact, he never came upstairs, it was too hard. But this time, he was coming. One step at a time. One. Then one. Then one. Why was he coming upstairs now? She put her hand on herself. He was coming up for this. For her. Yes. He had done that once before, she remembered. And every time he took another step, she screamed inside at what was coming.
» Posted By ruby On 03.16.2017 @ 3:02 pm
I see the first four letters but then I add two more: er. And I am sitting next to her at the hospital. She doesn’t talk much because she knows what she has and she knows what they’re going to tell her. There’s nothing much to say; there’s a show on the tv up on the wall in the waiting room and here, in this place, the TV is such an unwanted guest; so impolite and uncaring, ranting and raving on and on with judges settling your dog bit mine cases and you broke my wall cases and you set fire to my car cases and your honor, he owes me money, well know, he told me I could have the money and it wasn’t a loan. Then the commercials and the people talking in those; the dregs of the entertainment business, all in one place. Actors who’ll always do TV commercials and writers who’ll always write them and directors who hope that this will all turn into something huge for them, because directors have huge egos that allow them to think those kind of things. And it works, because I’ve seen more than a couple of TV directors go on to other things. Money, fame. I never met a single one I liked.
» Posted By ruby On 03.07.2017 @ 2:35 pm
At the old house, there was a dilapidated garage and a space between it and the house. There was a small patch of grass there, and if you laid down on it, you could look straight up between the garage and the house and see, on a sunny and clear day, a piece of the blue sky. It was like the piece of a patchwork quilt, which I can say now, but not then. Because I didn’t know what a patchwork quilt was when I was 5 years old. But I did know that when I looked up at that piece of sky, I saw God and hope and good things coming some day. There was no way to know when that day would be, but I could feel it coming, I could smell the air that smelled so good and sometimes, a plane would move across the blue and I would think about being on that plane and flying to wherever I wanted to. One day, lying there in my good Sunday dress, I felt as though go would lean down and lift me up and take me up there to get a better look. This was how I got away. Until I heard him banging on the window with his sharp knuckles that sounded as mean as the look on his face. How did he do that?
» Posted By ruby On 03.06.2017 @ 3:49 pm
I think of Florence when I think of rooftops. Florence Italy. One of the prettiest, deepest, most beautiful places you will ever see. Go see it if you haven’t. Get yourself on a plane, even if you wind up owing a fortune on your credit card, and get there. There isn’t a street or a shop or a church you’ll regret seeing. You’ll walk into a great big church and see something that one of the world’s greatest artist made out of stone. You’ll hear the Italian language, a beautiful sound that makes you feel warm and wanted. And when you take a seat in any restaurant, you will want to eat even before you see the menu. The smells, what are they? Just great food that tastes the way it smells. The waiter will make you feel as though you’ve known him all your life and he’ll regret you’ve never been there before because it means you’ve missed so much. But no worries, you’re there now and you will not be disappointed. It is impossible to be disappointed in Florence. And make sure you stand in a place where you can see all the colors of all the rooftops in the city. That is the glory of the place. And when you’re leaving, don’t despair. I promise you, as you will promise yourself: You will go back.
» Posted By ruby On 03.01.2017 @ 3:37 pm
He was a master at walking in a straight line when he was drunk. If he could’ve had some kind of school where he could teach that skill, he’d have had enough success and money that maybe it would have kept him from drinking in the first place. After he would get loaded on gin, he’d walk a steady line from the living room straight through to the kitchen, which was a pretty good walk for someone with a bottle of 90 proof in him and not much food. After he got to the kitchen, he’d sit down at the table and put his arm out to show you how steady his hands were. Nothing. Not a shake, not a movement. Holy shit. How does he do that? The Houdini of hooch, or whatever the hell you called what he drank. He was really proud of this ability. Which lasted for about another 20 minutes until he passed out. Then you’d get the quiet period between the pass out and the waking up so rip roaring drunk he couldn’t remember your name or that you were one of his kids from this marriage and not the last one or the one before that. Which of course we didn’t know about until after he was dead. Imagine your old man asking you if you’re Joan’s daughter and you don’t even know who Joan is. It was a good guessing game. Steady there old man. Don’t tell us too much.
» Posted By ruby On 02.28.2017 @ 2:44 pm
She has been seeing him for six weeks and now he’s even given her a ring. She lives in a time when this is called ‘going steady,’ which is a real big deal when you’re a girl. Sometimes, you even get a ring for that, but so far, he hasn’t given her one. You know he will, though, he’s that kind of guy. You look at yourself in the mirror and see, for the first time, all the great reasons why he wants to go steady with you. But here is what you don’t know: The reason he wants to go steady with you is very different from the reason why you want to go steady with him. Your brother fills you in on this when you tell him, just to brag more than anything else, that you and this kid are going steady. “Yeah, he wants to get into your pants and he knows that he’s got to make certain sacrifices in order to do that. Man, you are so clueless.” When your brother says this, you ask yourself two questions: Why is my brother always so mean to me? And, Is he right about this?
» Posted By ruby On 02.27.2017 @ 3:53 pm
How the relationship starts. Clever talk. Him impressing her, her impressing him. Then it gets a little deeper; who starts that ascendancy, or I think as some men might think, the slow descent into hell. I heard an interesting thing on a TV program. The woman says, “They asked a man what he was afraid of when it came to women. He said, ‘I’m afraid they’ll laugh at me.’ Then they asked a woman what would make her afraid of men, “I’m afraid they’ll kill me.'” That was one of the most telling lines in any show I’ve ever seen. The damned truth, sorry to say. And it isn’t just an American truth or a this country truth or a that religion truth. It’s the truth between genders all over the world. Men have the power; they make jokes all the time about who it is that really wears the pants in the family. But the truth is, they wear the pants and the armor; they have the firepower and the strength to break women in two. And if they don’t get what they want, well the passive ones find other women. And the aggressive ones force you to give it to them. Either way, the women lose. Agree or disagree? Care to banter a bit about that?
» Posted By ruby On 02.22.2017 @ 4:00 pm
He never wanted to go to school or get a degree, not even one from high school. He never dreamed about going to college or leaving home. He loved where he was, the land and woods and hills; the animals, the smell of the earth and the rush of the wind. He would run for hours in the woods; come home muddied with his clothes all torn. His mother would look him up and down and shake her head. She had made him, so she couldn’t fault him. He’d come the way she’d made him and there was no getting around it. His father had been the same; not one to live in the world with all the others, doing what all the others wanted to do. But if she thought too much about it, she grew alarmed and frightened. She remembered this child’s father, and in particular, the last night he had spent on thjs earth. When the shadow of this memory would sweep her brow, she’d touch her boy’s head and feel his hair and pull her to him, holding him tightly. Could she protect him, she wondered? Could she really ever protect him from anything or anyone? Could any mother? And like all mothers, she knew the terrible answer.
» Posted By ruby On 02.20.2017 @ 4:39 pm
It happens to friendships just the way it happens to marriages. You’re friends with someone for what, 40 years, and suddenly, you’re not friends any more. Maybe not suddenly. An erosion that takes time. One gets old and the other doesn’t. One likes living in the suburbs and getting gray; the other doesn’t. One has grandchildren to play with and the other doesn’t. One has a bad marriage, the other has a marriage that is still a friendship and a good one. And there’s a slow, quiet crumbling that you don’t even notice until it’s become a fissure that can’t be fixed. But the structure is still sound. Maybe this big crack won’t pull the whole thing down. Don’t be complacent that way. Think: It will come down. Try to fix it. Do something about it. Otherwise, the whole thing will fall. Friendships do that. I know.
» Posted By ruby On 02.14.2017 @ 3:47 pm
I am sitting on the deck of a ship. Don’t ask me how big or small it is. I’m on one of those deck chairs, fancy. White. These kinds of chairs always make me feel like a real traveler. So I’m sitting there, watching the ocean rush beneath the ship. It’s windy; my hat keeps blowing off, so I keep it off and let the wind re-do my hair, which needs it anyway. As I’m sitting there wondering what the next port will be like–a town in Italy–a man walks by that I am sure I have seen before. Not here on the ship, but somewhere else. Not during this voyage, but during another voyage, somewhere back in my memory. He stops at the deck railing and lights a cigarette; he’s not supposed to smoke but looks like the type no one will stop from doing it. He peers out toward the horizon; the smoke from his cigarette instantly disappears in the wind. You can tell that he enjoys smoking; we who have done it and quit know the feeling. He turns to look to his left; I’m wondering what he’s looking at because all that’s there is ocean. And then I remember. I know who he is.
» Posted By ruby On 02.06.2017 @ 6:17 am
Well you know that any word is going to lead to a discussion about the man who is going to be president within a few days. The man with the golf courses and gold rooms and expensive wives and small hands. The man who hates, well, the list is way too long. The man who is going to lead us into the abyss, an abyss from which it will be nearly impossible to climb out of. A man with no idea of the importance of the role he is about to play. The man who doesn’t know that if you say you hate someone (even if you don’t really mean it), then all the people who really do hate that person or group or thing will think, Hey, now I can go do something really bad to those people because HE SAID SO. It’s the HE SAID SO that is worse perhaps than the He himself. It makes no sense that you can come from that much money and not have enjoyed the benefits of some kind of decent education or met people who could teach you things that other people never have the privilege of learning. But there is no sense to any of it. Go golf yourself.
» Posted By ruby On 01.17.2017 @ 3:55 pm
She lives in a house that is much too large for her (so her relatives say). It was left to her by an old woman that the family knows nothing about. The two met fifteen years ago, on a bus. One was leaving home; the other was leaving a place she couldn’t remember. One said to the other, “Excuse me, could you help me remember where I’m going?” And the other decided, then and there, not to leave home after all. Here was a woman who needed her; how could she leave her alone? But this was of course why she had never had a life of her own. Always, when she was about to embark on something of her own–a love, a job, an anything–something or someone would come along to take it away so it could not be realized. Now here was this old woman, not knowing where she was going or where she had come from. This, she could not run from. “We’ll get off the bus at the next stop and see if we can figure it out together.” From this single moment came so much after. Including this fortress she had come to call home.
» Posted By ruby On 01.15.2017 @ 2:01 pm
What the hell does it mean? It’s times like this I wish George Carlin was still here so he could give us all a good lesson on what a shit word like this is supposed to mean. Seriously
» Posted By ruby On 01.13.2017 @ 8:41 pm
This is a word that the very wealthy want you to think makes getting poorer and losing what you’ve built for years all okay. Fuck them. Ask any one of them if they’re ‘downgrading.’ They’d look at you like you have twenty five eyes. What a stupid poor motherfucker you are, they’re thinking. Maybe you’re one of those people who thinks that people like them, guys with a shitload of money and (apparently) no worries or debt, maybe you’re a person who thinks, Well, God Almighty, there’s a smart son of a bitch. And may a smart son of a bitch like that, well maybe he can run a country. Maybe he can keep jobs in the USA and maybe, well, since he knows how to make money, maybe he can make money for me too. Well here’s some news: You’re an ignorant motherfucker if you think that. Especially if the rich man you’re talking about has red hair, lots of hotels and no moral sense whatsoever. But hey, don’t listen to this rant about him. Wait. Come back here in four years. No. Wait. Two years. When you can’t pay for your cancer treatments and you’re paying taxes for walls nobody needs or wants and your Medicare is all dried up. Except please don’t come here and bitch. I don’t want to hear it.
» Posted By ruby On 01.13.2017 @ 8:38 pm
Two quarts of milk. I don’t care whether it’s spelled differently or not. But this was on the shopping list I used to carry to the store every day. I can tell you the whole list if you want:
2 quarts of milk, a loaf of bread, 5 pounds of potatoes, and depending on the day, 2 lbs of chopped meat, 6 center cut pork chops, 6 cubed steaks. Most of the time, this was the list. There were never any deviations. We didn’t have money for deviations. The menu was more or less the same. Monday chopped meat, Tuesday pork chops (sometimes with sauerkraut, which was pretty good, Wednesday, cubed steaks, Thursday, something my mother would make if she was off, Friday, can’t remember, Saturday (now we were running out of money) either pancakes, milk toast or something really cheap, like beans and franks. But by Sunday, the paycheck would be cashed, so we’d have roast beef, maybe even a pie. And all of it would have been ten times better if the old man hadn’t been there. Except that most of the time, in the early days, he cooked it, so for that reason his being there made at least the food better. It was his company that made you wish you were anywhere but at that dinner table.
» Posted By ruby On 01.08.2017 @ 8:59 pm
Oh my God, are they ever going to change this word? How many times can you write about the same thing? Well, you can:
It was my cousin’s tradition to call his ex wives every New Year’s Day to wish them a happy new year and to see how they were. Four of these women existed for years; his marriages were spaced apart in such a way that all the women were about the same age, so the likelihood of their all passing from this world at the same time seemed well, unlikely. Seemed, I say. But as it turned out, they all died in the same year.
He was devastated.
“No one called me to tell me about any of this.” Telephoning at the time was the way news like this got from place to place. There were no posts on social media to tell you about the death even before the person who died knew it, the way there is today.
“Well, who died?”
“They ALL DIED.” He blew his nose and sobbed.
“Tom, you had a terrible time with most of these women.”
“Not all. Two of them I think I still love. Loved, that is.”
I already knew the answer. Beth and Margaret. Like two of the sisters in Little Women.
He had loved them both for years before and after he married them. And they were, in fact, sisters.
“Do you remember how that happened?” he asked me. He wanted to reminisce I could see, so I pulled a chair to where I was standing by the telephone and sat down. He was a great story teller. Just not a great husband.
» Posted By ruby On 01.04.2017 @ 10:25 am
It has been my tradition for the past gazillion years at this time of year to express all the things I plan to do in the coming year, then turn around and not do any of them. If I didn’t write it all down, it would bother me less. But there’s something unsettling about reading diaries from several years that start the same way and finish after about three or four weeks. Hopeful starts, full of ideas about how to change and losing weight and being done with this thing or that. I do none of them. I’ve wanted to weigh less for most of my life, but never have done it. Which tells me basically that I like being 20 pounds overweight for no reason. The one thing I did do was quit smoking, which worked out. The next thing is now to stop drinking any kind of alcohol and see what life is like from that angle of things. It will likely be better. I’ll likely be less depressed. But I know myself. I’ll start looking for another vice. That’s been my tradition, too.
» Posted By ruby On 01.03.2017 @ 9:21 am
Another word I think for slavery. To things you don’t want to do. People you don’t want to see. Words you don’t want to hear. Or look at it this way: Assurances that life will go on; that things we love will endure; that people we care about will remember us when they raise a glass to tradition wherever they are. Picture a room, full of friends and family. Reminiscing, talking, hugging, sharing memories. Picture them doing this just once a year. Dreading it at first on the long car ride to wherever these things are done. On the way, seeing the same signs and businesses, and some new ones. Seeing familiar places razed; new ones in their places. Commenting about it. “What happened to that place? God, it was there for years.” Never having gone in, but always comforted for some odd reason that it was still there. Something stirs, unsettles. It’s gone. But when you get to where you’re going, you’ll raise this subject as a small introduction to the festivities. And someone there will know all about what happened to the place and why. The story will be told as your tradition creates new stories and another memory becomes part of your life. Tradition. Blessed and beast.
» Posted By ruby On 01.02.2017 @ 2:02 pm
Of course. What else would you see on the first day of a year following one of the most horrific in your memory. If you want to be dramatic about it. 2016 will live in my memory as the year a woman won the presidency but was robbed of it by a foreign government and a military industrial complex conspiracy the likes of no other in American history. Yet she remains strangely quiet about it. It makes you wonder what they have threatened her with. Or (and this is the scenario I believe) she knows all too well how seriously ill her husband is. How clear it has been throughout these past several months that Bill is not what he was. I have seen the specter of dementia all too many times in my life. How it creeps into the life it alters almost unnoticed. Small things, insignificant things. Things you don’t make much of. There are so many people around you, reassuring you that the missed keys or the lost address or the date you forgot are nothing but the joker Age, making fun. But that is not what this is. Those around you know it; they hope for the best but the loved one disappears into something; maybe who they were when they were children. But how would you know? You were not there at their childhood. You resolve: This will never happen to you. But you have no say.
» Posted By ruby On 01.01.2017 @ 6:59 pm
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There she goes, turning that thing on again. She plays with it all the time; it’s not a radio or a record player, it’s something else. What they used to call a transistor radio. Small enough so she can fit it into her pocket. Years from now, people will smile at the novelty of the thing, but for her it’s a live saver; the world outside that she can never be part of. This is why no one can know that she has it; why she keeps it hidden in her room in a place that even her mother would be surprised is such a good hiding place. Even better than the ones where the old man hides his bottles when her mother isn’t home.
» Posted By ruby On 12.08.2016 @ 3:09 pm