Vaticanated Mystery

You know how colors in the modern world are adorned with evocative, picturesque, poetic names? I wish I had that job, naming colors. Take yellow. Bumblebee lemon banana peach corn cream Tuscan sun butterscotch canary gold daffodil mustard dandelion pineapple blond(e) trombone eggnog flaxen. And so on. Hold that thought. I exited my building from the side door by the stairway between the first and second floors. I walked up a small set of stairs to ground level, to traverse a snow-covered sidewalk. The snow had both melted and been packed down. I turned left, the roadway to my right, and spied yellow somethings littering the snowscape. I had seen these a day or two earlier and did not pay them much mind. This time I stopped and picked up one of these adornments. Who put them there. What are they, these yellow dispatches from elsewhere. How did they get to their seemingly random positions in the snow. They looked like peelings, of paper or plastic. Picking one up, I concluded it was a paint chip. A morsel of yellow paint, separated from the object it had adhered to. I stopped. Turned around. From whence I just walked, near the building, I saw half a dozen yellow bollards that surrounded and protected a utilities box. The yellow bollards alert drivers and prevent an accidental crash into the electrical utilities, causing danger and mayhem. However, the bollards were not quite yellow, not uniformly. Bits of yellow paint had flaked off, exposing steel-gray. Hence, the paint chips in the snow. Or so it seems, lacking more or better evidence. A mystery lingers: how did the yellow paint chips become airborne and land on the snowy sidewalk and adjoining landscape. Wind. Hard to believe. Even a fierce wind. Wouldn't other damage be evident. Placed by human hands. Doubtful. Who would go through the trouble. Ever see the flag of the city-state called Vatican City. Yellow and white bands. This sheds absolutely no light on answers to the aforementioned questions about the paint chips. (I could be wrong. Maybe plastic shavings, not paint. Perhaps enamel or some sort of coating, clearly not weather-resistant, or the bollards would not exhibit exposed portions as if zoo lions or tigers were using the bollards as scratching posts.) New colors: bollard vaticanate sneeze pee popcorn kernel caramelite bunion callous fartish strawstrewn toothstained maltanned sweated toasted oolong dentured custard flame sunsplashed parchment nicotined diapered lamped earwax caution amberesque . . . 
 

something fishy

Exiting my Nissan Sentra, I walked on the crunchy snow in the parking lot. I like that squeaky, stiff, yet hard rubbery sound when the snow is packed and the temperatures are frigid. Reminds me of a dentist putting a filling into a cavity. Though it is after 10 p.m., the lot is brightly lit. Security cameras are strategically placed in a corner and on the sides. Wait. Stop. Rewind. Step back. Is that a fish? It is. A dead fish, mouth and one eye open on its side, scales silvery in the January moonlight. Bloodied in the middle as if shot. The nearest body of water, a lake, is a mile away. This Surprise Fish Presence (SFP) sparks a gazillion questions, some you are already formulating, others being fished from the open air of my imagination. Aside from the obvious how and why it got to this spot, there's the who placed it and was it by accident or on purpose. Was it a coded "sleep wit da fishes" warning? To whom? Not likely me. It wasn't snoozing near my car and its apparitional appearance preceded my parking in this spot anyway. I suppose someone could have gone to the regional market (we don't have a fish market as New York, Boston, Tokyo, San Francisco, and Omaha has have), bought a bass or perch or whatever my Piscean Poseur is, and dropped it, tossed it, placed it, planted it. Maybe it's performance art. I do not know the answer to any of these questions or to any of a myriad queries associated with this Neptunian Mystery. This terrestrial sighting, um, spawned a stinging array of additional questions upon finding the SFP gone two days later. Gone as if never having put in an unannounced, uncamouflaged cameo in the first place. This bothers me more. Did I dream or delusionally fantasize the Unidentified Fishy Observation (UFO)? I did not. It was there. I have no corroborating evidence, no cellphone photo. My observation is evidence-based reality, or reality-based evidence. It was there, staring at my two eyes with its dead-pan unmonocoled cyclops of a visage (other eye peering blindly into the icy snowpack). I was there, and so was one dead unfake fish. It was. Believe me. 

dial me up and down (DMUAD)

On the fire truck it said, "Dial 911."

Makes sense. Remind people how to contact the fire department. Police vehicles have it, too. But let's face it: by now, who doesn't know that you dial 911 for an emergency. I know, I know: you don't dial anymore. you press buttons or touch a screen.

Got me wondering: what are the others? (They are called N11, or N-one-one codes of abbreviated dialing.) You've seen or heard of most or all of them:

211: Community information and services

311: Non-emergency information on local municipal government services

411: Directory assistance; in the old rotary-phone days, you'd call "Information"

511: Traffic information or non-emergency police information

611: Telephone company customer service and repair

711: TDD and other services for the hearing -impaired

811: Information on underground public utilities

You knew I'd go there. It's inevitable. But just the same: what are some others that are missing? Try these tri-numeral concoctions on for size:

123: Advice on decluttering and ordering.

456: More of above. (Advanced)

333: Advice from angels. In some area codes, advice on triplets.

666: Demonic advice and suggestions; how to ruin your or someone else's day. Often busy. Call again. Or the hell with it.

777: Lucky numbers for lotteries, engagements, weddings, divorces, conception, meetings, stocks, etc.

789: See above. (More Advanced)

38D: oops!

007: Espionage services. Fees may apply. In some area codes, connects to bondage services.

321: Launch services for emerging business ventures.

247: Exact time in your location or any requested location.

031: Tells which months have 31 days.

030: Tells which months have 30 days.

028: C'mon. Really?

420: Instant lassitude. For free. No side effects. Legal in all area codes.

041: Suggestions for April Fool's pranks.

214: Valentine's resources, support, crisis center.

050: Provides names of U.S. states and their capitals in alphabetical order. Available in 37 languages.

222: Facts, myths, legends, more facts, tragedies, more tragedies regarding The 2nd Amendment. Not NRA-approved.

660: All things Willie Mays.

069: Yin and yang meditations, education, guidance. In some area codes, the same, for Reciprocal Carnal Pleasure (RCP). 

012: Instant resources associated with Twelve Step programs.

013: Instant resources associated with Thirteenth Step dilemmas, issues, successes, failures, guidance, etc. Not a dating resource.

108: Guided meditations, chants, mantras, or prayers with mala or rosary beads.

the human brand

What are you wearing

It's waterproof, windproof, too

No, what are you wearing

Yeah, no, the jacket, my gloves, the scarf

No, really, tell me

Do you like it

Yes, sort of, yes

Ombre Spicebox Rouge Rogue

Really

Really

Is it showing

What do mean

Can you tell

I can tell

Can I try it

Sure, did you shower

Your deodorant

HideNSeek

Makes scents to me

What about body odor

Mine

What about it

Yours, your body double

My doubled body

Yes, that

Dusk grapefruit coffee ginger seasalt lemon rose vanilla smoke maple clementine

No, not quite

Oak bergamot verbena tobacco dawn nutmeg black pepper sandalwood cardamom ocean

Hardly

Rosewood agarwood orange blossom sage pimento musk orris cacao mancera twilight almond

Not at all

Pekoe cactus pine sugar fern noon mint fog anise river pistachio gardenia cherry

More like it

Maybe

Top notes

Subtle

Yet bold

A statement

More like a hymn

Pour homme

Or femme

Finis

Fine

The Tell-Tale Clock

In the sunlit hallway, walking to what was hours earlier her room, I felt a coat of grief draped over my shoulders. This is going to be hard. Keep walking. Through the doorway, into the familiar room, where her stray molecules lingered and danced. Be quick. Jesus to his disciples, 'Let the dead bury the dead.' Scant days after the vigil, our shared presence and prayers, the mottled hands, her painted nails, the dry gulch, the vacant room.

A worker on the clock, I placed into a cardboard box artifacts curated from the nightstand's three drawers: greeting cards, hotel-sample-size packets of shampoo, sugar packets, a broken rosary, empty purses, photo postcards, 'rake' combs, hairbrushes, single mints in cellophane, toothpaste, skin creams, shoes, slippers, a keychain, crucifixes, an outdated page of monthly activities, an empty wooden box with ribbon and broken-seal sealing wax.

Do not tarry. The walls closing in. Trudge onward. Keep or toss. Toss or keep. Atop the nightstand, take and keep the plaster Jesus that silently kept watch with us, a family relic hearkening back to Dad and his holy rituals. Toss the shoes and slippers. Leave for donation the ones gifted at Christmas days earlier. Not as hard as I thought. Keep the exquisitely framed July portrait with her and the kids and me. 

From the closet, take a black and white sweater, a green patterned blouse, two vases, five plastic hangers. Leave the nightgowns, sweaters, pants, blouses to be cleaned and donated. Leave the incontinence underwear. Back to the nightstand: toss the dessicated red cyclamen and Christmas bouquet of cut bright flowers.

After a rapid-fire mental Ping-Pong, I grabbed the bedside alarm clock, hesitated in mid-air, and placed it in the carton. Take it. Keep it. The white still-ticking clock I bought so she could see the time, the hour and the minute, to face her as she lay in bed, sleeping, so much sleeping, or awake and awaiting a call, a visit. The alarm never used unless by accident. Why set it. And was it day or night. She barely knew. Black readable numbers. The relentless red second-hand stuttering its staccato circuit. Tick-tock-tick-tock.

From the bed, let's not forget the Creamsicle-colored luxuriantly soft blanket, a gift she cherished to no end, at the end; and the similarly velvet-soft gray pillow I got her for Christmas, which she may not have ever lain her head on. 

That clock. Why keep it. To what end. Take it out of the box and toss it. Toss it in the trash and walk out, carry the box to the car, put it in the trunk, and drive away. 

Which I did. 

Mostly. 

The box in the trunk. Drive around for 20 days. Open the trunk. Lift out the box, ride the elevator to the top, open the door. Open the box, retrieve old greeting cards to get addresses.

And the clock.

Tender time bomb tolling, o sole mio, stoic sentinel.

Tell-tale heart.

Hello, Mr. or Ms. Clock, you new resident on the Formica faux-marble countertop, the peninsula between my kitchen and living room. No man-woman-person is an island but is a peninsula, it has been said and sung. 

Which way to face it, where to place it. Do I muffle the roar of its ticking, wrapping it in a towel in a closet or in a bureau. Or under the floorboards. Or remove the battery. 

Smother it. Smash it to smithereens with a sledgehammer. 

What then.

What then. 

A silence, hollow or fulsome. A stillness saturating the sacred hours. Unsaid, unspoken. 

Inhaled, exhaled.

Hallowed.

Then sifted and settled. 

Into gentle spring rain.

Or, for now, perched on the peninsula, a presence a few yards from the ashes, across from the red-blossomed amaryllis, pattering.
 

My Last Hurrah

Give it one more try. Let's go out with a bang, shall we? One more shot. A last fling. My last hurrah. Throw caution to the winds. Three sheets to the wind, one more time. Some equation. Unmoored, head-first toward the shoals. Huzza. He who laughs last. Cries: "Hooray, hurry, oh hell." Gonna wait till the midnight hour. It'll be different this time. I promise. A look in the mirror: "No more." My swan song sung. My dregs done drained. My last hoorah. Hand over flame. How long, lord? The firing squad at dawn. Last requests? Sink or swim. Sunken treasure. Abandoned ship. Grace unnamed. Surrendered me. And salvaged self. We white flag waved. All aboard. We sure set sail. Wind at our backs. Into the sun. Under the wing. My first hurrah. Our shelter from the storm. Your brooding love. Our anchors aweigh.

Twelve Commandments of So What - Do Nothing

I once heard someone say: “So what. Do nothing.”

The “so what” was said to mean: whether you are addled, rattled, depressed, ecstatic, thrilled, terrified, despairing, or discontented, you are not the leading actor in your idiosyncratic, spotlighted melodrama. It’ll pass. You’re a speck of dust on an orbiting pebble in the cosmos. This reminded me of an off-the-cuff bit of wisdom a mentor breezily passed on to me decades ago: “Nothing matters very much; most things not at all.”

The “do nothing” part was said to mean: face it, feel it, suffer it, humor it, ride it out, don’t escape it. Otherwise, it will sneak up on you anyway when you least expect it. What is “it”? Any tide of emotion. Anything.

With all that in mind, here are my Twelve Commandments of So What - Do Nothing:

1. You shall pause, reflect, and shrug your shoulders.
2. You shall look at where your feet are.
3. You shall look up into the sky at midnight on a cloudless night in a deep forest.
4. You shall follow your breath, in and out, in a quiet space.
5. You shall accept and honor your self, with all your diamonds and all your rust.
6. Remember this day as holy, fleeting, and precious.
7. Restrain your tongue, pen, and Send button. 
8. Don't do the next right thing — not yet.
9. You shall let it come.
10. You shall let it be.
11. You shall let it go.
12. You shall smile.