To continue the vehicle metaphor from a few days ago, it seems like my writing engine is starting to warm up a bit. The cobwebs hang from the block, blown backward by the force of the fan, and one by one, they drop away.
I’ve actually found myself wanting to write new poems, or songs, or stories. I’ve felt a need to do something for me lately, and writing is my natural first choice. That sounds selfish, but I’ll let it stand. As much as I’ve chastised myself to think otherwise, it’s okay to be selfish sometimes, and in the area of creativity, it may occasionally be essential.
I’ve been thinking a lot about our friends who live in the area of the Crystal Fire; they haven’t lost their home, but the last few days have been very stressful for them as the winds shift the fire toward and away from them. Fortunately, it appears that firefighters have complete a fire line on the edge of the fire closest to them, and containment numbers continue to creep up. With luck, hard work from multiple fire teams, and continued cooler weather, hopefully the fire will no longer be a threat to anyone after the weekend. Robyn & Chuy, our thoughts are with you, the family, and the animals. Be safe. To those who have lost their homes, I can only imagine the devastation you feel, and as weak as the sentiment may seem, my heart goes out to you, as well.
This is National Crime Victims’ Rights Week, as well as the 15th anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing.
This week, I honor my wife, who was in a building two blocks away from the Murrah building when the truck exploded.
The shock wave blew in the windows and threw her to the floor. She was several months pregnant with Logan at the time.
Some people say she’s not a victim because she wasn’t actually in the Murrah building.
Tell that to her fibromyalgia and PTSD. Tell that to the shards of plate glass embedded in the wall behind her chair.
I was in the grocery store today — the same one as before. I was wearing my Pink Floyd shirt with a prism on the front. The title of the album associated with that prism was printed across the top. The courtesy clerk took special notice of it.
“What does your shirt say? ‘Dark Side of the … Movie?’”
I faltered, but regained my composure quickly.
“‘Dark Side of the Moon.’ It’s one of the best selling albums of all time. Came out in 1973,” I said.
“Album. Huh,” he said.
Being the non-violent type, I just walked away.
I’m sitting in a bathroom stall and some guy comes in, talking on his Bluetooth headset. Not a care in the world, he keeps talking while he does his business.
Is he going to flush? I wonder. That would totally clue in the person on the other end.
He flushes and continues his conversation, bypassing the sink on his way out.
Ick, I think. He must really know the person on the other end. Either that, or neither of them have a sense of propriety.
Oh … pardon me, but I have to set the smartphone down. Time to flush.
The car idles as my stepson and I wait in line at the Walgreen’s drive-through. A fancy SUV waits in line ahead of us.
“Look, it’s the Wal*Mart dude!” he says.
“Who?” I ask.
“You know, the Wal*Mart dude. That yellow smiley face guy. On that car’s antenna.”
I look up and see a faded yellow antenna ball smiling down at me, a 70s cultural icon, rendered in three dimensions and impaled on the antenna of a $70,000 gas guzzler. In my stepson’s generation, the smiley face has been co-opted by the world’s largest retailer.
Have a nice day, indeed.