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Just one unremarkable week of
Ghostbusting, dog walking and painting in black.
Pizza with anchovies and Lo Mein, too.
Napping in between dreams of green snake infested
hotels, not much reading but that's
just as well.
In the city of Townville a small boy died.
Townville, where demons walk in the form
of adolescent boys with a fetish for firearms,
Townville, where Blossom and Buttercup failed
to arrive to save the day
or a little boy in a coma.
Did he dream?
In those four days, he lived out his life
in a Superman costume then,
returned to Krypton.
All this happened in a week,
Just one unremarkable week.
Ghostbusting, dog walking and painting in black.
Pizza with anchovies and Lo Mein, too.
Napping in between dreams of green snake infested
hotels, not much reading but that's
just as well.
In the city of Townville a small boy died.
Townville, where demons walk in the form
of adolescent boys with a fetish for firearms,
Townville, where Blossom and Buttercup failed
to arrive to save the day
or a little boy in a coma.
Did he dream?
In those four days, he lived out his life
in a Superman costume then,
returned to Krypton.
All this happened in a week,
Just one unremarkable week.
The Bones of Dead Animals
Here I am on the deck, on this windy warm day, on the eve of the anniversary of The Fire. There's no trace of it that I can see. I used to find plastic dinosaurs in the dirt, melted and disfigured, casualties of that February day. Like today, it was windy that day and the flames spread quickly. It's funny how some childhood memory can embed itself in the psyche. The mind, like an oyster, makes a pearl of it, something I can live with. Two of my neighbors are fond of bonfires. They have enormous pyres in their backyards, ready to light. I took my dog out one night last week and I could see flames through the woods, glowing in the dark like a beacon for that sylvanian creature whose woods are being destroyed. A part of me wants it to rise up out of the trees, ancient and powerful and protect the trees and the nocturnal creatures that bring the bones of dead animals to my studio door. It was strong enough to survive The Fire all those years ago. Even now, I hear it whispering
The Fairy Ring
I was digging around my flower bed at daylight when everything looks mysterious and new. Might as well call it a fairy ring since it's surrounded by the woods. Once the sun burns off the night, the magic evaporates. The surrounding tree sentinels are only trees, the oracles are only spiders, and all that remains of the flowers that bloomed in the spring are dry, withered blossoms, their colors long faded. The magic only lasts about an hour every morning. So now, I'll group my paintings in the shed and try to find a common thread, the thread that leads me back to my enchanted forest.
Somewhere Else
I've finished cleaning and painting the closet behind my bed and am now using it as an office. I've come full circle now. When I was thirteen, I used hide out in the tiny closet in our dining room for privacy. I'd sequester myself with an eight-track tape player, turn on The Beatles, and write in my notebook to escape the dismal world of the '70s because, despite Star Wars and the nostalgia of avocado green appliances and burnt orange carpet, the '70s were dark times, punctuated by serial killers, blackouts, and a nuclear disaster. Once that door closed behind me, I was somewhere else. The desire to be somewhere else has never gone away. My first somewhere else was Savannah, Georgia. Even before I'd seen it, the name appealed to me and I wrote the first sentence on a yellow legal pad with a red Flair pen: "My story begins in Savannah, Georgia during a hot, unmerciful summer." And, nine years later, it did. I started to SCAD during a hot, unmerciful summer. Now, my
Submechanophobia
I had a disturbing dream once where I was swimming in a large pool and, on the bottom of the pool was an enormous mechanical sea serpent, whose head was partially submerged like an alligator. Those glowing yellow eyes, mirrored on the water's surface, were every bit as terrifying as the mechanical shark that swallowed Quint in Jaws. When I thought about it, I knew where the dream came from. I had gone to Disney World the summer before and I had noticed that the 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea ride was showing its age. Some of the underwater creatures were starting to fade. I think the ride itself had nested in my subconscious mind. The sea serpent, whose coils foreshadowed dread, reminded me of the gold dragon on my grandpa's library table. The head of the beast was revealed to be a silly thing with google eyes, like a fugitive from the Small World ride. Still, some grotesque monster had formed in my mind before the big reveal. Neither the Disney creature nor the one in my dream
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Is this a prose or were you journaling a moment in your time?