Have a beautiful day. <3 to you.
C.A. MacConnell
1/31/2016
Photos: Yellow Springs
I may go here today. I like Yellow Springs. Xenia too. I have a special hiding place in Xenia. I call it my spiritual ground. I go there when I'm confused and lost sometimes, which is a lot of the time. I have a vivid imagination and often, what I believe is not the reality. It can be fun, and then again, it can be unbelievably painful. Oh well, it is what it is. I'm me. Guess I'll have to deal. Ha. Small town vibe of these places kind of reminds me of Roanoke, Virginia. I could totally set up shop in a house on the Mill Mountain Parkway in Virginia, close to the Appalachian Trail, and only leave for oatmeal, walks, and the occasional trip wherever. I think I'd like a dog, a horse, or maybe I'll just sponsor a cheetah and a wolf somewhere. I would never have a pet turtle, though. When I was little, my bro would catch them, and I would set them free.
C.A. MacConnell
1/29/2016
This Place Needs Cleaning
-- short story, fiction. First version published in 'Analecta 25: the Art and Literary Journal of the University of Texas at Austin.'
This Place Needs Cleaning
My name is Otis Moperandi. I call myself that a lot because I forget things, things that are unimportant like names, directions, the day my Pop blew his brains out. It’s a fitting name because I’m a grade school janitor, and I do a lot of mopping. But the thing about it is that none of those kids with their plaid skirts, books tucked under their arms, ponytails slicked back, ties hanging from their necks like extra limbs -- none of those kids know my name. And none of them know what I’m really capable of. When I push a mop around, to me it looks like I’m pushing somebody’s head across the floor with a swoosh, swoosh. When the mop’s wet, if I touch her, it feels like what someone’s insides might feel like. I’ve never felt insides, but I’ve felt raw chicken, and that seems close. Smooth. Clean. When I’m done mopping, the floors shine like my Pop’s bald head used to shine.
I work slowly. No sense in rushing. Got to do a job right, plan out which corner of the room to start at so tiny feet won’t make tracks before it’s dry. By the time the bell rings, I stand back, hide in the broom closet, watch the kids rush in. The halls are quiet and smooth. Pretty.
There is this one boy I watch. His name is Freddy Hammock. It’s a fitting name because when he walks down the hall chewing on a Fruit Roll-up, his fat body swings from side to side like a hammock. Today, he does this very thing, holding his books in one hand, the Fruit Roll-up in the other. His skinny best friend, Tyson Mahoney, swaggers behind him, saying, “Gimme a bite of that will you?” Tyson is his only friend, really.
Freddy chews and chews while some girl yells at him, “Freddy, you’re as big as Mt. Rainier. And someday, you’re gonna blow.”
Freddy stares at her and chews.
In the closet, I arrange the cleaners by color. I set up the mops, the brooms, hanging them on the wall like my own little art. That boy Freddy, he should stand up for himself. He just sits there and chews. Bet he couldn’t get this floor shining. And his face, it needs cleaning.
I listen for the sound to die down, for the doors to shut. I always put on my hat before I leave. The hat was my Pop’s, and it’s kind of crushed now, but it’s all I got from him, so I wear it. It reminds me that I’m Otis, and I can go home.
All I have to do is walk across the street, shuffle really. I like to shuffle. I like the sound of my big feet brushing across the cement, kicking at stones. Sometimes, cars honk at me, me and my slow ways. Got to do a job right. That’s what Mom used to say to me. She’s sick now though, sick as a dog. I don’t visit her anymore. I don’t like dogs. They’re messy, messy like kids.
Home. The first thing I do is take off Pop’s hat, feel my own head with my hand, shuffle to the bathtub, strip down, then shave my skin smooth, clean, pretty. All of it -- my arms, my legs, my face, my head, my eyebrows. Then I get dressed again, put on my long underwear, my white overalls. Next, I paint things white. I paint cereal boxes, my toothbrush, the sink, the windows. I buy plants and paint them. Sometimes, they die, but they die white and clean. All is white. The house looks like skin. My name is Otis Moperandi.
I can’t find anything else to paint today, so I put on Pop’s hat and shuffle to the market. You can get there if you walk down First Street, pass the bums that sleep in an abandoned bar, pass a coffee shop where some guy named Fly hangs out and plays his guitar while he sips at Mad Dog, and turn the corner. Queen Anne Street. The market’s there. That’s where I get my pasta. Pretty.
On the way back, I go a different way. I pass by my school and watch the kids at recess. The girls play hopscotch. Sometimes, you can see up their skirts when they throw stones and jump. The boys play football. All except Freddy, who just sits on a log, sweats and chews his Fruit Roll-up. Sometimes, Tyson waves at him, when no one else is looking. Tyson is too skinny for his pants. They look like they might fall down, fall off, leave him naked. Freddy is too fat for his pants and white shirt. Someday, they’ll both split. My head’s splitting. Splitting with a headache. So after Tyson yells, “Touchdown!” and Freddy holds up his Fruit Roll-up at him for support, I shuffle on. When I move away from the fence, it looks like it cuts up their bodies in tiny pieces. But it just looks that way. It’s not real. Funny how that is. Things aren’t always what they seem, like rear-view mirrors. Objects are closer. I know that because Pop used to take me on drives. I don’t like to drive, though. It’s confusing. I forget where I’m going. I like to shuffle. I hold my bag of pasta. I got it at the market. You can get there if you shuffle past Key Arena, pass the fountain where kids play and get all wet, pass some skateboarders in the park. They shuffle too, shuffle and swagger like Otis. I feel my hat on my head. My name is Otis Moperandi. I can go home.
Home. I paint the pasta box white. Better. I boil water and feel it. Ouch. Seems like I’ve done that before. My finger remembers the feel of a burn. I pour the pasta in -- Mostaccioli, because that kind of pasta cooks slowly. No sense in hurrying. I grab a big spoon, stir, and watch it. Sometimes, if you watch things, they cook slower. It grows softer in the pan. I paint the spoon white, wait for it to dry, and stir on.
I set the table. Fork on the left. Knife and spoon on the right. Just like Mom told me. Plate is in the middle or to the side of all of it. I can never quite remember that part, so I just eat out of the pan. Less to clean later. But I eat slow, slow and smooth. If you don’t, your stomach might flip out, flip over. You might puke or something, like my Mom always does. One pasta tube at a time, I eat. I tilt my head back and drop a piece down my throat, swallow it like a pill, like Mom swallows pills. No need to chew. Freddy does enough of that for both of us. And I always stop eating before I’m full. It’s always good to be just a little bit hungry. My body’s so thin, sometimes I think I could float. Sometimes I think Tyson could float too. But he never does. Freddy holds him down, holds him down like a weight, lead, like you’re stomach feels if you eat too much. Disgusting. Fat. Fat as my Pop was.
I curl up on a white, vinyl couch, wrap my cold body in a white blanket, a soft, white blanket. It’s time for Otis to sleep. When I sleep, I have a dream about me and my mop, wiping the whole world with her, wiping off trees, houses, faces, erasing them. In the dream, I have my hat on. The hat is kind of crushed, but I wear it. When I wake, I paint Pop’s hat white, and make sure no hair has grown back on my skin. Mom’s hair is long and white. She’s got enough for both of us. I put on my hat and shuffle.
I have all the keys to the school. Janitors are important. I open the front door, walk straight, then left, past the little boys’ room, then left again. It’s good to be at my broom closet. Feels like home. Feels like when Pop and I would play hide-and-go-seek, and I would hide in a closet. Pops are scary when you’re little. Especially when they’re big and fat. Sometimes, when you’re away from home, you tug on a leg of pants, look up, and it’s not your Pop’s face. It’s someone else's face, and you know you’re lost. You gotta find out where they are. And sometimes you cry. And there’s no one to help you, so you just sit and wait and look for some familiar face. You forget your name, where you live. You forget the exact time when you let go of your Mom’s hand. Then you shuffle and search, search for her. She’s probably in the bathroom again. Her stomach is probably funny again.
So I look in my closet and everything is arranged, arranged the same way that it was the day before. Perfect. Perfect as a Mom’ s bedtime story. Perfect as pasta that you get from the market. You can get there if you shuffle past kids who are zipping up their flies outside the Key Arena, turn the corner, pass skateboarders who bum smokes and sleep in the park, pass a hippie who hangs outside of an abandoned bar, playing his guitar, pass cars honking, cars honking at a mad, wet dog named Queen Anne. First Street. That’s where the market is. That’s where I get my pasta. Pretty.
First, I pull the gum off the underside of desks. Those little, dirty kids stuck them there and didn’t even think of Otis. Then I sweep, sweep up the mess like cracker wrappers, Fruit Roll-up wrappers, papers, pens, erasers, chalk, barrettes, a note from Christine to Jess that says, “Do you like me? Check one” and there are three boxes for Jess to check -- “Yes, No, or Maybe.” Jess checked "Maybe." And there’s a note from Cary to Lisa that says, “Freddy is a fat pig.” Cary’s the one that said he looked like Mt. Rainier. Cary likes to eat pickles. That’s all she eats. I don’t like pickles. They smell. They’re green as a sick face.
Next, I clean the blackboards, make sure all the writing is gone. Make sure to knock all the chalk out of the erasers. Makes a nice, white cloud when I knock them outside. White cloud against black sky. Like smoke. Like steam. Like steam when cold rain hits the warm streets. Like steam from hot water in a white bucket. Like white paint splashing against night. Like I’m fighting the night. Like a steam fight. Like a smoky bucket. Like a knocked-up cloud.
I fill up the bucket with soap and hot water. I feel the water. Ouch. My finger remembers the feel of a burn. Something like a dream. Burns erase skin. I erase faces. My finger is skinny, skinny as a chicken bone.
I pull the mop from its hook that’s labeled, “She goes here,” and stick her in the bucket. Don’t forget to put up the “Caution: Wet Floor” sign. It’s not like anyone’s around, because it’s the middle of the night, but I always put the sign up, just in case. Got to do a job right. I begin mopping. Swoosh. Swoosh.
When I’m done, the floors shine as white as Pop’s old, white Chevy used to shine when he was done cleaning it, and I handed him my report card. He said, “You never do anything right, boy.” He wasn’t a bad Pop, just big, bald and fat. Pops are scary sometimes when they’re big and fat. When they get mad, their faces turn all red like a cherry Fruit Roll-up. He’d be proud of me now, though. My name is Otis Moperandi.
The kids are coming in and I’m ready for them. The bell rings, the doors open. Out of the doors pours a mess of hands on books, books on backs, lockers slamming open, slamming shut, feet tap, tapping on my clean floor.
Freddy Hammock walks in last. His Fruit Roll-up is cherry, red as a cherry. Tyson Mahoney trails behind him. They live near each other and ride the same bus, so that gives Tyson a reason to be near him. So the other kids don’t know. So he doesn’t look like he’s actually Freddy’s friend. I know this because I watch them. I listen. I listen and watch like a good boy, like Mom watches out her window in the doghouse hospital. She’s in the doghouse.
Freddy reaches in his pocket for a candy bar. “Here,” he says to Tyson.
“Thanks, Fred.” Tyson rips it open. He’s poor. You can tell by the way his clothes hang on him. The only reason he’s here is because he’s got some big brain. Freddy feeds him.
“Tyson Mahoney, sounds like baloney!” Cary yells at him, tugs on his tie, and runs. She might be able to float too, she’s so skinny. Wonder if her stomach is funny like Mom’s. Her hair is short and brown. Without braces, she’d even be pretty.
“We better hurry,” says Freddy. Back and forth, his body swings.
They pass right in front of me. They don’t even notice because I hide in the back of the closet and the lights are off. Otis is good at hiding. They don’t even wave. That Freddy, his face needs cleaning.
Silence, except for the sound of the Science teacher, who patrols the hall. I know because I can hear the faint sound of his footsteps. He doesn’t shuffle. Sounds more like a tiptoe. Sounds like the way Mom walks, quiet, soft, careful. Wouldn’t want to mess her stomach up. So I wait in the closet until they’re gone. The footsteps, that is.
Shuffle to the market to get my pasta. You can get to the market if you shuffle past an Arena on First Street where a hippie honks his car that’s been keyed, pass an abandoned coffee shop near the park, pass some smoking bum who yells, “I can fly!”, pass some wet kids who skateboard in the fountain, pass a fat, white woman named Queen Anne who hangs out of her shirt, plays her guitar next to a mad dog that sleeps, then sips at a puddle, then swaggers, then zips around the corner. That’s where the market is. That’s where I get my pasta. Pretty.
So on the way back, I stop at my school, and watch Freddy as he sits on a log and chews, his fat rear end hanging over the log he sits on. Tyson plays tag with Cary, Cary who only eats pickles. If they held hands, I wonder if I could blow them away with a cloud of chalk that comes out of erasers when you knock them together. I hold my pasta and stare. And Freddy stares back. He stares at me and chews. Kids look scary sometimes when they’re big and fat, scary as Pops. When Freddy stares, he stares hard. He doesn’t blink. His cheeks move around, like they’re stuffed with pickles, like he’s storing something in there for later. For Tyson, maybe. Maybe he’ll throw it all back up and feed it to his skinny friend.
That Freddy keeps staring, like he wants to talk to me. And he gets up, walks straight through the middle of the football game. Jess misses a pass because of it. Christine sees it happen and giggles at him. Cary punches Tyson in the arm. “Freddy’s moving,” she says. “He looks like a whale.” Tyson nods.
Freddy’s fat body moves back and forth and he keeps walking right up to me. And he keeps chewing. Then Freddy swallows, puts his hands on the fence, hooks them there, and says, “Mister, you want a cracker or something?”
I point at my bag. “I got pasta,” I say. “It’s white and it’s pretty.”
Freddy nods. He likes food talk. “I know what you mean. Hey, you okay, mister?” A button pops open on his shirt.
“My name is Otis Moperandi,” I say.
“Hey, Otis.” Freddy’s got cracker crumbs on his chin. He pulls out another Fruit Roll-up. The bell rings. He’s gotta go.
Freddy waves goodbye and swings his fat body. I stare at the back of him and follow. That boy should stand up for himself. He just sits there, unable to move anything but his lips without breathing hard, breathing as hard as Pops do when they’re mad, when you’re playing hide-and-seek and they’re mad and they’re chasing you and they find you. And Mom’s puking again. Pop’s cleaning his Chevy, telling you you got bad grades. Mom’s calling you for dinner. It’s pasta she got at the market, which you can get there if you pass a mad, wet dog named Bum who sleeps in front of an abandoned bar with a sign that says, “NO KIDS,” swat a fly, pass a big, fat woman on First Street where the coffee shop is, pass smoking, honking cars that zip, pass hippies that wait outside the Key Arena for a band called, “Queen Anne and the Wet Kids,” pass a coffee shop where artists swagger, sip, and play in puddles. That’s how she got there. That’s where she’d go when Dad was hungry again, big and fat as Mt. Rainier. And someday, he was gonna blow. And he did. Blew his head right off. And Otis had to clean it up.
So, I follow Freddy until he goes to class. Then I go to my broom closet and wait. The dry mop hangs there. Bet she misses my grip. I twist the head off the mop and wait. Got to do a job right. No sense in hurrying. Freddy’s last class is English. I know because I watch, and I listen. I throw my pasta in the garbage. Not hungry anymore. Wouldn’t want to mess my stomach up and get all sick like a dog.
Since Freddy’s the last one out the door, the slowest, since he can’t breathe, it’s easy. Easy and smooth. So, when the other kids are gone, I yell at Freddy, “Come in here, boy. I got pasta.” And so he does. He swings right into the broom closet. He fits in there, just barely. I shut the door. Shut it fast and quiet. His face needs cleaning. I hold my mop up at him. Pops are scary sometimes when they’re big and fat. I could take the mop and hit him with it. I could hit him bunches until he shuts up and stops chewing. No sense in hurrying. Got to do a job right. I could find sharp things, things like a knife, and cut his neck. I could tie his head on the end of the mop and push it around. Swoosh. Swoosh. I could push his face around on the floor all night, rub it there. But everything would get all red, red like a cherry Fruit Roll-up. The floor would get all messy. I wouldn’t like that.
When my arms get tired, I hang the mop back up. Looks like an upside-down head is stuck on the end of the mop. Eyes are stuck open, staring at me. Mouth’s open too. When I move away from it, it looks like that face is chewing. But it just looks that way. It’s not real. Funny how that is. Things aren’t always what they seem, like rear-view mirrors. Objects are closer. I know that because Pop used to take me on drives.
“Mister? You okay?” Freddy asks me. “My mom’s gonna get mad.”
“Name’s Otis,” I say.
“I know, Otis Moperandi,” he says, pulling crackers from his pocket. “You want some? I got to get home or my mom will be mad.”
“It’s always good to be a little hungry. You could float, like Otis. Yeah, you better get home. When moms get mad, their stomachs get funny.”
Freddy nods and swings his fat body out the door. “See ya, Otis.” He waves his fat hand, then drops his crackers on the floor, not even thinking of Otis, who’ll have to clean up those crackers. He may be in trouble tomorrow. It’s okay, though. That’s my job. This place needs cleaning.
I get out my paints, paint my face all white, paint over my eyes, my mouth until it all disappears into white, white as chalk dust, white as chicken fat, white as shaved skin, white as a Pop’s bald head, white as a Mom’s face when she gets knocked up with disease, white as steam, white as smoke, white as a burned finger. This little pig can stay home. This little pig won’t have to go to the market anymore. You can get there if your skin is smooth. Bare even. You can get there if you know what insides feel like, if you always stay a little bit hungry, if you shuffle, shuffle and swagger like Otis. Smooth. Clean. Pretty. I put on my hat. It tells me I’m Otis and I can go home.
-- C.A. MacConnell
This Place Needs Cleaning
My name is Otis Moperandi. I call myself that a lot because I forget things, things that are unimportant like names, directions, the day my Pop blew his brains out. It’s a fitting name because I’m a grade school janitor, and I do a lot of mopping. But the thing about it is that none of those kids with their plaid skirts, books tucked under their arms, ponytails slicked back, ties hanging from their necks like extra limbs -- none of those kids know my name. And none of them know what I’m really capable of. When I push a mop around, to me it looks like I’m pushing somebody’s head across the floor with a swoosh, swoosh. When the mop’s wet, if I touch her, it feels like what someone’s insides might feel like. I’ve never felt insides, but I’ve felt raw chicken, and that seems close. Smooth. Clean. When I’m done mopping, the floors shine like my Pop’s bald head used to shine.
I work slowly. No sense in rushing. Got to do a job right, plan out which corner of the room to start at so tiny feet won’t make tracks before it’s dry. By the time the bell rings, I stand back, hide in the broom closet, watch the kids rush in. The halls are quiet and smooth. Pretty.
There is this one boy I watch. His name is Freddy Hammock. It’s a fitting name because when he walks down the hall chewing on a Fruit Roll-up, his fat body swings from side to side like a hammock. Today, he does this very thing, holding his books in one hand, the Fruit Roll-up in the other. His skinny best friend, Tyson Mahoney, swaggers behind him, saying, “Gimme a bite of that will you?” Tyson is his only friend, really.
Freddy chews and chews while some girl yells at him, “Freddy, you’re as big as Mt. Rainier. And someday, you’re gonna blow.”
Freddy stares at her and chews.
In the closet, I arrange the cleaners by color. I set up the mops, the brooms, hanging them on the wall like my own little art. That boy Freddy, he should stand up for himself. He just sits there and chews. Bet he couldn’t get this floor shining. And his face, it needs cleaning.
I listen for the sound to die down, for the doors to shut. I always put on my hat before I leave. The hat was my Pop’s, and it’s kind of crushed now, but it’s all I got from him, so I wear it. It reminds me that I’m Otis, and I can go home.
All I have to do is walk across the street, shuffle really. I like to shuffle. I like the sound of my big feet brushing across the cement, kicking at stones. Sometimes, cars honk at me, me and my slow ways. Got to do a job right. That’s what Mom used to say to me. She’s sick now though, sick as a dog. I don’t visit her anymore. I don’t like dogs. They’re messy, messy like kids.
Home. The first thing I do is take off Pop’s hat, feel my own head with my hand, shuffle to the bathtub, strip down, then shave my skin smooth, clean, pretty. All of it -- my arms, my legs, my face, my head, my eyebrows. Then I get dressed again, put on my long underwear, my white overalls. Next, I paint things white. I paint cereal boxes, my toothbrush, the sink, the windows. I buy plants and paint them. Sometimes, they die, but they die white and clean. All is white. The house looks like skin. My name is Otis Moperandi.
I can’t find anything else to paint today, so I put on Pop’s hat and shuffle to the market. You can get there if you walk down First Street, pass the bums that sleep in an abandoned bar, pass a coffee shop where some guy named Fly hangs out and plays his guitar while he sips at Mad Dog, and turn the corner. Queen Anne Street. The market’s there. That’s where I get my pasta. Pretty.
On the way back, I go a different way. I pass by my school and watch the kids at recess. The girls play hopscotch. Sometimes, you can see up their skirts when they throw stones and jump. The boys play football. All except Freddy, who just sits on a log, sweats and chews his Fruit Roll-up. Sometimes, Tyson waves at him, when no one else is looking. Tyson is too skinny for his pants. They look like they might fall down, fall off, leave him naked. Freddy is too fat for his pants and white shirt. Someday, they’ll both split. My head’s splitting. Splitting with a headache. So after Tyson yells, “Touchdown!” and Freddy holds up his Fruit Roll-up at him for support, I shuffle on. When I move away from the fence, it looks like it cuts up their bodies in tiny pieces. But it just looks that way. It’s not real. Funny how that is. Things aren’t always what they seem, like rear-view mirrors. Objects are closer. I know that because Pop used to take me on drives. I don’t like to drive, though. It’s confusing. I forget where I’m going. I like to shuffle. I hold my bag of pasta. I got it at the market. You can get there if you shuffle past Key Arena, pass the fountain where kids play and get all wet, pass some skateboarders in the park. They shuffle too, shuffle and swagger like Otis. I feel my hat on my head. My name is Otis Moperandi. I can go home.
Home. I paint the pasta box white. Better. I boil water and feel it. Ouch. Seems like I’ve done that before. My finger remembers the feel of a burn. I pour the pasta in -- Mostaccioli, because that kind of pasta cooks slowly. No sense in hurrying. I grab a big spoon, stir, and watch it. Sometimes, if you watch things, they cook slower. It grows softer in the pan. I paint the spoon white, wait for it to dry, and stir on.
I set the table. Fork on the left. Knife and spoon on the right. Just like Mom told me. Plate is in the middle or to the side of all of it. I can never quite remember that part, so I just eat out of the pan. Less to clean later. But I eat slow, slow and smooth. If you don’t, your stomach might flip out, flip over. You might puke or something, like my Mom always does. One pasta tube at a time, I eat. I tilt my head back and drop a piece down my throat, swallow it like a pill, like Mom swallows pills. No need to chew. Freddy does enough of that for both of us. And I always stop eating before I’m full. It’s always good to be just a little bit hungry. My body’s so thin, sometimes I think I could float. Sometimes I think Tyson could float too. But he never does. Freddy holds him down, holds him down like a weight, lead, like you’re stomach feels if you eat too much. Disgusting. Fat. Fat as my Pop was.
I curl up on a white, vinyl couch, wrap my cold body in a white blanket, a soft, white blanket. It’s time for Otis to sleep. When I sleep, I have a dream about me and my mop, wiping the whole world with her, wiping off trees, houses, faces, erasing them. In the dream, I have my hat on. The hat is kind of crushed, but I wear it. When I wake, I paint Pop’s hat white, and make sure no hair has grown back on my skin. Mom’s hair is long and white. She’s got enough for both of us. I put on my hat and shuffle.
I have all the keys to the school. Janitors are important. I open the front door, walk straight, then left, past the little boys’ room, then left again. It’s good to be at my broom closet. Feels like home. Feels like when Pop and I would play hide-and-go-seek, and I would hide in a closet. Pops are scary when you’re little. Especially when they’re big and fat. Sometimes, when you’re away from home, you tug on a leg of pants, look up, and it’s not your Pop’s face. It’s someone else's face, and you know you’re lost. You gotta find out where they are. And sometimes you cry. And there’s no one to help you, so you just sit and wait and look for some familiar face. You forget your name, where you live. You forget the exact time when you let go of your Mom’s hand. Then you shuffle and search, search for her. She’s probably in the bathroom again. Her stomach is probably funny again.
So I look in my closet and everything is arranged, arranged the same way that it was the day before. Perfect. Perfect as a Mom’ s bedtime story. Perfect as pasta that you get from the market. You can get there if you shuffle past kids who are zipping up their flies outside the Key Arena, turn the corner, pass skateboarders who bum smokes and sleep in the park, pass a hippie who hangs outside of an abandoned bar, playing his guitar, pass cars honking, cars honking at a mad, wet dog named Queen Anne. First Street. That’s where the market is. That’s where I get my pasta. Pretty.
First, I pull the gum off the underside of desks. Those little, dirty kids stuck them there and didn’t even think of Otis. Then I sweep, sweep up the mess like cracker wrappers, Fruit Roll-up wrappers, papers, pens, erasers, chalk, barrettes, a note from Christine to Jess that says, “Do you like me? Check one” and there are three boxes for Jess to check -- “Yes, No, or Maybe.” Jess checked "Maybe." And there’s a note from Cary to Lisa that says, “Freddy is a fat pig.” Cary’s the one that said he looked like Mt. Rainier. Cary likes to eat pickles. That’s all she eats. I don’t like pickles. They smell. They’re green as a sick face.
Next, I clean the blackboards, make sure all the writing is gone. Make sure to knock all the chalk out of the erasers. Makes a nice, white cloud when I knock them outside. White cloud against black sky. Like smoke. Like steam. Like steam when cold rain hits the warm streets. Like steam from hot water in a white bucket. Like white paint splashing against night. Like I’m fighting the night. Like a steam fight. Like a smoky bucket. Like a knocked-up cloud.
I fill up the bucket with soap and hot water. I feel the water. Ouch. My finger remembers the feel of a burn. Something like a dream. Burns erase skin. I erase faces. My finger is skinny, skinny as a chicken bone.
I pull the mop from its hook that’s labeled, “She goes here,” and stick her in the bucket. Don’t forget to put up the “Caution: Wet Floor” sign. It’s not like anyone’s around, because it’s the middle of the night, but I always put the sign up, just in case. Got to do a job right. I begin mopping. Swoosh. Swoosh.
When I’m done, the floors shine as white as Pop’s old, white Chevy used to shine when he was done cleaning it, and I handed him my report card. He said, “You never do anything right, boy.” He wasn’t a bad Pop, just big, bald and fat. Pops are scary sometimes when they’re big and fat. When they get mad, their faces turn all red like a cherry Fruit Roll-up. He’d be proud of me now, though. My name is Otis Moperandi.
The kids are coming in and I’m ready for them. The bell rings, the doors open. Out of the doors pours a mess of hands on books, books on backs, lockers slamming open, slamming shut, feet tap, tapping on my clean floor.
Freddy Hammock walks in last. His Fruit Roll-up is cherry, red as a cherry. Tyson Mahoney trails behind him. They live near each other and ride the same bus, so that gives Tyson a reason to be near him. So the other kids don’t know. So he doesn’t look like he’s actually Freddy’s friend. I know this because I watch them. I listen. I listen and watch like a good boy, like Mom watches out her window in the doghouse hospital. She’s in the doghouse.
Freddy reaches in his pocket for a candy bar. “Here,” he says to Tyson.
“Thanks, Fred.” Tyson rips it open. He’s poor. You can tell by the way his clothes hang on him. The only reason he’s here is because he’s got some big brain. Freddy feeds him.
“Tyson Mahoney, sounds like baloney!” Cary yells at him, tugs on his tie, and runs. She might be able to float too, she’s so skinny. Wonder if her stomach is funny like Mom’s. Her hair is short and brown. Without braces, she’d even be pretty.
“We better hurry,” says Freddy. Back and forth, his body swings.
They pass right in front of me. They don’t even notice because I hide in the back of the closet and the lights are off. Otis is good at hiding. They don’t even wave. That Freddy, his face needs cleaning.
Silence, except for the sound of the Science teacher, who patrols the hall. I know because I can hear the faint sound of his footsteps. He doesn’t shuffle. Sounds more like a tiptoe. Sounds like the way Mom walks, quiet, soft, careful. Wouldn’t want to mess her stomach up. So I wait in the closet until they’re gone. The footsteps, that is.
Shuffle to the market to get my pasta. You can get to the market if you shuffle past an Arena on First Street where a hippie honks his car that’s been keyed, pass an abandoned coffee shop near the park, pass some smoking bum who yells, “I can fly!”, pass some wet kids who skateboard in the fountain, pass a fat, white woman named Queen Anne who hangs out of her shirt, plays her guitar next to a mad dog that sleeps, then sips at a puddle, then swaggers, then zips around the corner. That’s where the market is. That’s where I get my pasta. Pretty.
So on the way back, I stop at my school, and watch Freddy as he sits on a log and chews, his fat rear end hanging over the log he sits on. Tyson plays tag with Cary, Cary who only eats pickles. If they held hands, I wonder if I could blow them away with a cloud of chalk that comes out of erasers when you knock them together. I hold my pasta and stare. And Freddy stares back. He stares at me and chews. Kids look scary sometimes when they’re big and fat, scary as Pops. When Freddy stares, he stares hard. He doesn’t blink. His cheeks move around, like they’re stuffed with pickles, like he’s storing something in there for later. For Tyson, maybe. Maybe he’ll throw it all back up and feed it to his skinny friend.
That Freddy keeps staring, like he wants to talk to me. And he gets up, walks straight through the middle of the football game. Jess misses a pass because of it. Christine sees it happen and giggles at him. Cary punches Tyson in the arm. “Freddy’s moving,” she says. “He looks like a whale.” Tyson nods.
Freddy’s fat body moves back and forth and he keeps walking right up to me. And he keeps chewing. Then Freddy swallows, puts his hands on the fence, hooks them there, and says, “Mister, you want a cracker or something?”
I point at my bag. “I got pasta,” I say. “It’s white and it’s pretty.”
Freddy nods. He likes food talk. “I know what you mean. Hey, you okay, mister?” A button pops open on his shirt.
“My name is Otis Moperandi,” I say.
“Hey, Otis.” Freddy’s got cracker crumbs on his chin. He pulls out another Fruit Roll-up. The bell rings. He’s gotta go.
Freddy waves goodbye and swings his fat body. I stare at the back of him and follow. That boy should stand up for himself. He just sits there, unable to move anything but his lips without breathing hard, breathing as hard as Pops do when they’re mad, when you’re playing hide-and-seek and they’re mad and they’re chasing you and they find you. And Mom’s puking again. Pop’s cleaning his Chevy, telling you you got bad grades. Mom’s calling you for dinner. It’s pasta she got at the market, which you can get there if you pass a mad, wet dog named Bum who sleeps in front of an abandoned bar with a sign that says, “NO KIDS,” swat a fly, pass a big, fat woman on First Street where the coffee shop is, pass smoking, honking cars that zip, pass hippies that wait outside the Key Arena for a band called, “Queen Anne and the Wet Kids,” pass a coffee shop where artists swagger, sip, and play in puddles. That’s how she got there. That’s where she’d go when Dad was hungry again, big and fat as Mt. Rainier. And someday, he was gonna blow. And he did. Blew his head right off. And Otis had to clean it up.
So, I follow Freddy until he goes to class. Then I go to my broom closet and wait. The dry mop hangs there. Bet she misses my grip. I twist the head off the mop and wait. Got to do a job right. No sense in hurrying. Freddy’s last class is English. I know because I watch, and I listen. I throw my pasta in the garbage. Not hungry anymore. Wouldn’t want to mess my stomach up and get all sick like a dog.
Since Freddy’s the last one out the door, the slowest, since he can’t breathe, it’s easy. Easy and smooth. So, when the other kids are gone, I yell at Freddy, “Come in here, boy. I got pasta.” And so he does. He swings right into the broom closet. He fits in there, just barely. I shut the door. Shut it fast and quiet. His face needs cleaning. I hold my mop up at him. Pops are scary sometimes when they’re big and fat. I could take the mop and hit him with it. I could hit him bunches until he shuts up and stops chewing. No sense in hurrying. Got to do a job right. I could find sharp things, things like a knife, and cut his neck. I could tie his head on the end of the mop and push it around. Swoosh. Swoosh. I could push his face around on the floor all night, rub it there. But everything would get all red, red like a cherry Fruit Roll-up. The floor would get all messy. I wouldn’t like that.
When my arms get tired, I hang the mop back up. Looks like an upside-down head is stuck on the end of the mop. Eyes are stuck open, staring at me. Mouth’s open too. When I move away from it, it looks like that face is chewing. But it just looks that way. It’s not real. Funny how that is. Things aren’t always what they seem, like rear-view mirrors. Objects are closer. I know that because Pop used to take me on drives.
“Mister? You okay?” Freddy asks me. “My mom’s gonna get mad.”
“Name’s Otis,” I say.
“I know, Otis Moperandi,” he says, pulling crackers from his pocket. “You want some? I got to get home or my mom will be mad.”
“It’s always good to be a little hungry. You could float, like Otis. Yeah, you better get home. When moms get mad, their stomachs get funny.”
Freddy nods and swings his fat body out the door. “See ya, Otis.” He waves his fat hand, then drops his crackers on the floor, not even thinking of Otis, who’ll have to clean up those crackers. He may be in trouble tomorrow. It’s okay, though. That’s my job. This place needs cleaning.
I get out my paints, paint my face all white, paint over my eyes, my mouth until it all disappears into white, white as chalk dust, white as chicken fat, white as shaved skin, white as a Pop’s bald head, white as a Mom’s face when she gets knocked up with disease, white as steam, white as smoke, white as a burned finger. This little pig can stay home. This little pig won’t have to go to the market anymore. You can get there if your skin is smooth. Bare even. You can get there if you know what insides feel like, if you always stay a little bit hungry, if you shuffle, shuffle and swagger like Otis. Smooth. Clean. Pretty. I put on my hat. It tells me I’m Otis and I can go home.
-- C.A. MacConnell
1/28/2016
Photos: Play
"Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see." -- Hebrews 11:1
Free. This is how I want to live. :)
C.A. MacConnell
Free. This is how I want to live. :)
C.A. MacConnell
F'n Rad Baby On Board
I was going about 40 mph. I know because I looked for once. The speed limit was 30. I glanced up at the car in front of me -- a black Mazda sporty type that was as shiny as a spoon, if the spoon were black, and the Mazda Man had one of those yellow CAUTION signs suction-stuck to the back window that read this: "BABY ON BOARD." So I kept my distance, thinking about not wanting to rear-end that baby.
Well, we crept up to the next light, and as soon as that fucker changed to green, Mazda Man tore down the street like Evel Knievel, pealing out and all. He had to be going about 60 on the twisty, turny back road that it was, and I was shocked, because by then I was going 45, and it was a struggle for me to make the turns, and Mazda Man left me behind like I was some bad habit he had chucked for good.
Which brought me to these questions: Was the baby driving? Or, was Mazda Man teaching his baby to drive like a madman? Did Mazda Man want his baby to become a cop? Or a criminal? Was the baby even in the car? If the baby wasn't in the car, why was the CAUTION sign still up there? I guess he wanted us all to be careful and watch out for him, but he sure as hell wasn't watching out for anyone else.
Good luck drivers. Be safe. There are babies out there.
C.A. MacConnell
Well, we crept up to the next light, and as soon as that fucker changed to green, Mazda Man tore down the street like Evel Knievel, pealing out and all. He had to be going about 60 on the twisty, turny back road that it was, and I was shocked, because by then I was going 45, and it was a struggle for me to make the turns, and Mazda Man left me behind like I was some bad habit he had chucked for good.
Which brought me to these questions: Was the baby driving? Or, was Mazda Man teaching his baby to drive like a madman? Did Mazda Man want his baby to become a cop? Or a criminal? Was the baby even in the car? If the baby wasn't in the car, why was the CAUTION sign still up there? I guess he wanted us all to be careful and watch out for him, but he sure as hell wasn't watching out for anyone else.
Good luck drivers. Be safe. There are babies out there.
C.A. MacConnell
1/26/2016
Their Kind
I've seen their
kind.
The redhead
and the walker
can't look me
in the eye.
There's no need
for makeup
or sunglasses
on a steel
grey day.
I am here,
as always,
half-dressed,
half-opening
these tricky
blinds.
-- C.A. MacConnell
kind.
The redhead
and the walker
can't look me
in the eye.
There's no need
for makeup
or sunglasses
on a steel
grey day.
I am here,
as always,
half-dressed,
half-opening
these tricky
blinds.
-- C.A. MacConnell
1/24/2016
The Lost River
The Lost River
The Lost River, located at Natural Bridge, Virginia, is so named because its source and destination are unknown, despite desperate attempts by many to locate them.
So close.
They could hear the rush of water.
They imagined the stillness of its end,
but the true body, the beginning,
remained unknown. For many years,
full-chested men
set out on reckless rides
with restless horses;
the beasts grew tired
from the miles and the whip
and soon, they loped
with half-open mouths,
lips flapping to the breath game,
long teeth chomping to spit,
white foam lathering bits.
For decades, strange men
drank to exploding rock,
leaping over logs,
splashing through fallen leaves,
coughing up the muck of dreams,
hiking deep into the evergreen,
hunting, killing, searching
for the River’s source.
So close.
Later, some bit nails or scratched skin.
Others clawed at cheeks and chins,
and the wicked chase
drove them into mad fits,
a red-faced, grownup colic.
They cut permanent grooves,
carving into anything worth carving.
Names, initials, and the mess
of battle fields
spelled out the truth –
chicken scrawl showed the dates,
the horrible instants
when bone by bone, they suddenly
gave up.
Dropping the dynamite, struck
into tired, tight-lipped statues,
forced into stone silence,
they checked the sky,
guessing the weather
for the hard ride home.
So close.
And they returned to families
with no news, no notes, no souvenirs, no clues,
not even a single penny.
Some made fists, kicking their kid legs.
But in this startling quiet, the brave moment
when the forest settled,
just when all lost men had slipped away,
perhaps then came life.
Right then, the forest Natives, the watchers,
grew restless, finally waking, rising up
from their hiding places,
the glowing, fire-lit caves,
creeping out of thick shadows
like smiling, winking, slender, so-close-blue
flames. So close, so rich, they lived inside
the swallowing art of wet secrecy.
Together, big-eyed, camouflaged
by unknown homes,
they studied the damage,
knowing the truth,
that the River’s source was always present,
resting inside the mystery, the silent time
when the noise of horse men ended,
when the laughing trees whispered,
They are still coming.
C.A. MacConnell
The Lost River, located at Natural Bridge, Virginia, is so named because its source and destination are unknown, despite desperate attempts by many to locate them.
So close.
They could hear the rush of water.
They imagined the stillness of its end,
but the true body, the beginning,
remained unknown. For many years,
full-chested men
set out on reckless rides
with restless horses;
the beasts grew tired
from the miles and the whip
and soon, they loped
with half-open mouths,
lips flapping to the breath game,
long teeth chomping to spit,
white foam lathering bits.
For decades, strange men
drank to exploding rock,
leaping over logs,
splashing through fallen leaves,
coughing up the muck of dreams,
hiking deep into the evergreen,
hunting, killing, searching
for the River’s source.
So close.
Later, some bit nails or scratched skin.
Others clawed at cheeks and chins,
and the wicked chase
drove them into mad fits,
a red-faced, grownup colic.
They cut permanent grooves,
carving into anything worth carving.
Names, initials, and the mess
of battle fields
spelled out the truth –
chicken scrawl showed the dates,
the horrible instants
when bone by bone, they suddenly
gave up.
Dropping the dynamite, struck
into tired, tight-lipped statues,
forced into stone silence,
they checked the sky,
guessing the weather
for the hard ride home.
So close.
And they returned to families
with no news, no notes, no souvenirs, no clues,
not even a single penny.
Some made fists, kicking their kid legs.
But in this startling quiet, the brave moment
when the forest settled,
just when all lost men had slipped away,
perhaps then came life.
Right then, the forest Natives, the watchers,
grew restless, finally waking, rising up
from their hiding places,
the glowing, fire-lit caves,
creeping out of thick shadows
like smiling, winking, slender, so-close-blue
flames. So close, so rich, they lived inside
the swallowing art of wet secrecy.
Together, big-eyed, camouflaged
by unknown homes,
they studied the damage,
knowing the truth,
that the River’s source was always present,
resting inside the mystery, the silent time
when the noise of horse men ended,
when the laughing trees whispered,
They are still coming.
C.A. MacConnell
Hairline
Sweaty-wet wings live
In the front row, near
Your temples.
Some tips hover now, reaching out,
Sharply.
Some settle down, half-covering your
Eyes. Some shoot the dark,
Wrong way, no more
Than bars against the skin, making homes
On a smooth brow bone.
You run a hand through the chaotic,
Flyaway hair. Maybe you just rolled out of
Somewhere, a place
Where only her breath
Moves
The part of you
That is wheat.
C.A. MacConnell
In the front row, near
Your temples.
Some tips hover now, reaching out,
Sharply.
Some settle down, half-covering your
Eyes. Some shoot the dark,
Wrong way, no more
Than bars against the skin, making homes
On a smooth brow bone.
You run a hand through the chaotic,
Flyaway hair. Maybe you just rolled out of
Somewhere, a place
Where only her breath
Moves
The part of you
That is wheat.
C.A. MacConnell
1/23/2016
Photos: Jeffrey & Bella
Jeffrey and Bella
Jeffrey's Bench
"I never even think about it. I just do what I want." -- Jeffrey, when asked if he worries about his illness returning. Today at dusk, he sat down next to me at a picnic table, and we took in what was left of the day's sun. Bella just got out of training. She's four. Turns out, Jeffrey used to live in Virginia. Different parts, but we were there at the same time. As we talked, I noticed our southern accents came back.
C.A. MacConnell
1/22/2016
1/20/2016
Photo: Brave Ones
Nature has no expectations. Nature exists, grows, supports us, and shows us how to "just be."
I want to be one of the brave ones.
C.A. MacConnell
XO
When to Wait
So I was on my way down to the gas station to hit up the 50 cent vacuum. I thought I had plenty of time, since I wasn't due at a work meeting for an hour or so. Well, I believed everything was all in order, and when I pulled into the gas station lot, I expected everything to go as smoothly as caramel syrup. Delicious. But then I noticed that a suspicious-looking girl was already parked next to the vacuum. I could hear the vacuum running, but she wasn't using it yet, which was strange.
Oh man, she was taking her time pulling out each floor mat one by one. Slowly, ever so slowly. Picture an injured turtle.
I decided to analyze her floor mats to size up my competition. They were filthy, covered in what looked to be straw. That's right, straw, like she had just fucked a scarecrow in that Chevy. I shrugged, figuring she'd be done soon.
Oh no, after the first five minute vacuum, she put in two more quarters for another round, scrubbing and scrubbing the floor mats.
Leaning back in the front seat of my car, I checked the time. Still okay, but it was getting a little tighter. Turning my head, I watched a few cars head into the car wash, wishing I was on my way through like them.
But Chevy girl was still going at it. Every now and then, she looked my way with her "day-after-walk-of-shame" enormous sunglasses on, but even then, she didn't hurry. That's right, she was picking off pieces of straw one by one while the vacuum was running. Maybe she was still a little loopy from the night before, I dunno, but it sure seemed like she was trying to clean up something dirtier than I could imagine. Actually, I could imagine it, but I'm not sharing.
Finally, she finished.
I hopped out of the car and asked, "You done?"
She looked up and said, "Yep, thanks!" Her face held a deep reddish hue, like blueberry tea.
Thanks? Thanks for what? For waiting and not complaining? Hell, she was there first. But I could tell that she felt bad for taking so damn long. From the look of her shredded, muddy jeans versus her makeup and shirt, which were still half-put together, I could tell she'd had a rough Saturday night or something. And I could also tell that her cleaning was more than cleaning. It was to cover up some other mess. I knew that "next day after the war" look. Just my guess. Or maybe she just got back from a four-hour long church service and had a roll in the straw with a preacher.
So I quickly finished vacuuming, and then I headed over to the car wash. I put the code in, and everything seemed to be running smoothly, but after "press the start button" began blinking, the screen went blank, and it read this: "Sorry, the car wash is temporarily unavailable." Now, the problem was, I had already paid, I had already driven in halfway, and weirdly, I had just watched three cars glide right on through, no problem. So I backed out of the wash, which was tricky, and I went inside to ask them what the hell.
I explained my situation to the worker. He didn't know what to do, so he found another worker. He knew what to do, so he went outside and worked his magic, resetting the car wash, and I pulled in a second time. This whole process, between the vacuuming and the washing, took about an hour.
Then I had about fifteen minutes to get to my meeting. Thinking I was a smart go-getter, I decided to take the highway to cut out time. Right when I got on the highway, all cars came to a complete dead stop. I sat in traffic for about 45 minutes, barely moving. The whole scenario was strange -- it was a Sunday evening, sunny, and the traffic should've been light. Not so. Backed up for miles. It was getting later and later. The meeting had already started, so I just inched along the highway, listening to talk radio.
When I finally crept up to the scene of the accident, I saw a fire truck, a slew of police cars, and when I looked over on the side of the road, I could see a car resting in the woods. The entire top of the vehicle had been pried off to get the person (or people) out, and the car had obviously flipped over several times. I wondered about whoever was inside. I wondered if anyone was alive. I swallowed hard. Of course in my lifetime I've seen wrecks before. I've seen bad wrecks. But for some reason, this one -- that lone, empty, destroyed white car in the woods -- really terrified me. What grabbed at my heart was the eerie scene's stillness. There was no sign of life. And it terrified me because I suddenly realized that if it weren't for the slow vacuum girl, the malfunctioning car wash, and my long waits at the gas station, one of the people that they pried out of the wreckage could've been me.
I shivered a little, driving on, thinking about angels. I made it to the tail end of the meeting, and I realized that my time is now. As for the setbacks, the happenings that seemed like delays? Perhaps they saved my life. We've all heard people say, "Live each day as if it's your last." Aye, swallow it all, bite at the beauty, and allow the universe to show you when to lean back and wait.
C.A. MacConnell
Oh man, she was taking her time pulling out each floor mat one by one. Slowly, ever so slowly. Picture an injured turtle.
I decided to analyze her floor mats to size up my competition. They were filthy, covered in what looked to be straw. That's right, straw, like she had just fucked a scarecrow in that Chevy. I shrugged, figuring she'd be done soon.
Oh no, after the first five minute vacuum, she put in two more quarters for another round, scrubbing and scrubbing the floor mats.
Leaning back in the front seat of my car, I checked the time. Still okay, but it was getting a little tighter. Turning my head, I watched a few cars head into the car wash, wishing I was on my way through like them.
But Chevy girl was still going at it. Every now and then, she looked my way with her "day-after-walk-of-shame" enormous sunglasses on, but even then, she didn't hurry. That's right, she was picking off pieces of straw one by one while the vacuum was running. Maybe she was still a little loopy from the night before, I dunno, but it sure seemed like she was trying to clean up something dirtier than I could imagine. Actually, I could imagine it, but I'm not sharing.
Finally, she finished.
I hopped out of the car and asked, "You done?"
She looked up and said, "Yep, thanks!" Her face held a deep reddish hue, like blueberry tea.
Thanks? Thanks for what? For waiting and not complaining? Hell, she was there first. But I could tell that she felt bad for taking so damn long. From the look of her shredded, muddy jeans versus her makeup and shirt, which were still half-put together, I could tell she'd had a rough Saturday night or something. And I could also tell that her cleaning was more than cleaning. It was to cover up some other mess. I knew that "next day after the war" look. Just my guess. Or maybe she just got back from a four-hour long church service and had a roll in the straw with a preacher.
So I quickly finished vacuuming, and then I headed over to the car wash. I put the code in, and everything seemed to be running smoothly, but after "press the start button" began blinking, the screen went blank, and it read this: "Sorry, the car wash is temporarily unavailable." Now, the problem was, I had already paid, I had already driven in halfway, and weirdly, I had just watched three cars glide right on through, no problem. So I backed out of the wash, which was tricky, and I went inside to ask them what the hell.
I explained my situation to the worker. He didn't know what to do, so he found another worker. He knew what to do, so he went outside and worked his magic, resetting the car wash, and I pulled in a second time. This whole process, between the vacuuming and the washing, took about an hour.
Then I had about fifteen minutes to get to my meeting. Thinking I was a smart go-getter, I decided to take the highway to cut out time. Right when I got on the highway, all cars came to a complete dead stop. I sat in traffic for about 45 minutes, barely moving. The whole scenario was strange -- it was a Sunday evening, sunny, and the traffic should've been light. Not so. Backed up for miles. It was getting later and later. The meeting had already started, so I just inched along the highway, listening to talk radio.
When I finally crept up to the scene of the accident, I saw a fire truck, a slew of police cars, and when I looked over on the side of the road, I could see a car resting in the woods. The entire top of the vehicle had been pried off to get the person (or people) out, and the car had obviously flipped over several times. I wondered about whoever was inside. I wondered if anyone was alive. I swallowed hard. Of course in my lifetime I've seen wrecks before. I've seen bad wrecks. But for some reason, this one -- that lone, empty, destroyed white car in the woods -- really terrified me. What grabbed at my heart was the eerie scene's stillness. There was no sign of life. And it terrified me because I suddenly realized that if it weren't for the slow vacuum girl, the malfunctioning car wash, and my long waits at the gas station, one of the people that they pried out of the wreckage could've been me.
I shivered a little, driving on, thinking about angels. I made it to the tail end of the meeting, and I realized that my time is now. As for the setbacks, the happenings that seemed like delays? Perhaps they saved my life. We've all heard people say, "Live each day as if it's your last." Aye, swallow it all, bite at the beauty, and allow the universe to show you when to lean back and wait.
C.A. MacConnell
1/19/2016
Mimi's Plan. The Secret To Top Notch Health
Mimi was my grandmother, and at 95 years old, with her body and mind perfectly intact (photographic memory) until her last breath, she passed away three years ago. But what is interesting about her top notch health is that she never cared about any kind of beauty or health regimen. She absolutely hated to cook. In fact, she loved salt, cookies, regular Coke, potato chips, the fattiest cheese around, coffee (with Equal), BLTs, eggs, hamburgers, fries, goetta, sausage, whatever. She never cared about fat, calories, cholesterol, and she didn't drink much water, but she wasn't overweight at all. She was always the perfect weight. In fact, I never saw her drink water, and she didn't drink much of anything at all. Amazingly, her skin was lovely. I think her beauty secret was that she never worried about anything. Of course she did constantly pray for others, but as for her own health and diet, she just did whatever the hell she wanted. All the time. Each day she lived. She smoked for forty years before she quit. She enjoyed many cocktails. She never exercised a day in her life. Whenever she saw a jogger, she'd say the following: "They sure don't look like they're having any fun."
Now I might not follow her eating habits, and I exercise, and I don't suggest this route for all readers, or any, for that matter, ha, but there's something to be said for the wisdom behind that kind of living, and I do agree with her motto: love others, less worry, don't try so hard, let it roll, whatever works for you, who cares, more fun!
Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell
Now I might not follow her eating habits, and I exercise, and I don't suggest this route for all readers, or any, for that matter, ha, but there's something to be said for the wisdom behind that kind of living, and I do agree with her motto: love others, less worry, don't try so hard, let it roll, whatever works for you, who cares, more fun!
Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell
Roadside
The Jaguar is broken
down,
and in the traffic's face,
I am making
wolf eyes,
feeling the speed of machine
cheetahs,
because no honest beast slows down,
and the hot air burns any cheek,
like sun-beat bars on a steel cage,
and the closest
rest stop
is five hundred tracks away,
and I wonder
where you are killing
lunch.
C.A. MacConnell
down,
and in the traffic's face,
I am making
wolf eyes,
feeling the speed of machine
cheetahs,
because no honest beast slows down,
and the hot air burns any cheek,
like sun-beat bars on a steel cage,
and the closest
rest stop
is five hundred tracks away,
and I wonder
where you are killing
lunch.
C.A. MacConnell