*dictionary born

It started as code. Because I saw my mother shredding up my diary 

Do you know how strange that is?

All your letters 

     falling 

          little pieces falling 

I didn’t know who I was anymore 

I looked at her as she said,

“never put anything in writing!”

 It was my reality 

it was the big secret ….that I was. I didn’t know it exactly but what I wrote about any Sherlock could have strung together 

I had to recreate my world of cards 

      a dyslexic shredded kingdom that humpty could understand 

So, the words she later might have found she’d never could have interpreted their meaning but this was the foundation of what became The Dictionary…. and I am Electra —the Freudian complex of 

so this— that I vomit about in my stories and poetry and metaphoric rambles —it’s my dictionary of meanings 

that cannot get shredded to pieces ever again  

but it can ….get erased and deleted       

*phaze

The air is crisp surprisingly. 

Along the side of the road is this interesting pattern of leaves as they splash across the wind but the spray it causes is so full of iridescent that the shield of the lens across the eyes is welcomed as you can see the tiny lights that flicker if you watch 

The other day I saw the most peculiar thing. There was a squirrel wrestling a very big paper bag. I have known so many squirrels lately that their antics in personality never seem to cause me to scratch my head. 

They are really not intelligent in Maryland. 

By far, Detroit are the smartest, especially the black ones. The one missing the tail that I found laying on the sidewalk ….(the tail) and I later found the squirrel without a tail climbing a tree (very clumsily) The ones up in the north I find are in the middle— you don’t see many dead ones here but they may possibly not be any match for those Detroit ones. 

This is a round about metaphor 

      

 

let open to drop like 

into the allegorical canal 

those passages that once connected 

   us 

         you do not care,

 you were never there 

    your words upon my wall were never there at all

our conversations of forgotten dreams

a dimension has left the conversation 

that is the one I miss 

perhaps I saw what was never there 

Side street mystery; Post haste

It is at the post office where Pierre Reaux bumps into Faun

He looks awkward when all his papers go flying. Faun run to help him and when she gathers his papers he begrudgingly smiles. He wears a black hst. Somewhat fedora you might say, but on him it becomes another article entirely. 

Awkwardly he says,

“we might have got off to a bad start, Miss—Mizzz—“

“Just Faun is fine,” she coolly asserts the papers under his coat covered armpit like a friendly jab, “there you are, all sorted.”

She starts to step away but he follows her,

“excuse me—Mzz—Faun, madamme— I just wondered if I could talk to you for just one moment of your time?”

Faun paused just a step to look at him but continued to the yellow Volvo anyway, 

“Is there something you want, Monsieur Reaux?”

“Well….as you know my jurisdiction is only as far as the Canadian border—“

“Yet we find you here so frequently,” Faun stopped to smile now 

“Yes well…. You have the Sam’s Club and the Walmart….” he scratches his jaw thoughtfully as he tries to seem casual 

“You come here to shop at Walmart?” she looks at how he is dressed. Three piece suit and that trench coat was far from Columbo 

He is inspecting his nails as he smiles looking back up at her,

“not me, Mz Faun—but most of the characters I must investigate do tend to frequent such places.”

He says all this with his heavy French Canadian accent whilst twisting his mustache absently 

“So how can I help you today?” she asks now 

“You are still running the bookshop for the Bishops?”

She waits a moment to reply. She looks at his expression to read him. 

“I am. The chief of police over there could have told you whatever you’d like to know,” she watched his face.

“Have you remained in contact with Monsieur Grant?”

Faun sensed it was about him somehow 

“Why do you ask?”

“Because it seems he may need your help.”

Some notes; a side work I’ve been exploring

 

I have always been interested in art movements. When creative minds come together and a great renaissance is born is something to behold among art lovers. 

When we think of how minds shape cultures and what match lit the fire we search for those sources. We search because we wish to see how the ideas were born.

the bus to Sunflower valley continued

When she stepped onto the bus, the very spot she had been standing was at that moment struck by lightening 

It was a moment so electrifying to her senses that it struck her that maybe there was some force watching over her 

The bus driver cleared his throat as the smell of burnt wet leaves mixed with electricity seemed to highlight the present. Soberly he said,

“ticket.”

And for a minute he looked at the ticket oddly. Then punched it with the metal gun that endorsed it.

As she turned to walk towards the back of the empty bus, she heard the driver say,

“was starting to wonder if anyone was getting on after all.”