Humm now, this is what I call, chillin with a purpose. Yesterday during my daily morning exercise. Mind you, there are tons of iguanas inhabitants to the lake; see them everyday as I walk by. Yup, Mr here just needed to relax a bit, chill, have his zen moment under the shade, get some breeze away from home confinement as it is Labor Day weekend, and the weird and yet field with gratitude summer winds down. Cheers!
It is I looking at the universe and wondering were July has gone and who gave you permission to introduce yourself, August. Four months to the new year, I heard. Hello, glad you are here. Hope you brought some good news.
As if I could touch the ending, the invisible lane hoping all the burdens wiped away by the artist brush stroke, would be left at the curbside. As if all, one heavy, embroidered year that has been 2020 tidily arranged on a bucket of rocks and left by a construction site, would be done on earth as it is in heaven at the click of fingers. But as scripted on the book of life, stories will be told and carried over at turn of the page and dropped like one hot BBQ chicken coming off the grill. It is a given. It won’t just be discarded like an empty suit or used paper napkin at the dinner table. It will still be there sitting in a corner, dejected like a maggot waiting for another soul to devour and moons to touch.
We are all anxiously awaiting the death of the doom, the apple falling in the bright night bringing joy to pupils who wished the year was here today so, they could bless the freshly minted with a smile, cuddle it as their best toy and won’t let go. They hope to ring in the old glory that once stood. I hear hearts pumping, loud, louder, kicking and gesturing like a Radio City Rockettes but time is the essence, it will tell. It won’t be stingy but I suggest we invite faith to trail right along to easy up our burdens.
Pretending we have not, fake it isn’t but real it will be with scores of uncelebrated milestones, places to visit, family reunions to settle. Unless we are Him and we are not, handicapped by our own shortcomings we wait patiently with ease, unable to remove the entangled rope but sitting quietly at the beach, we hear the sounds of the boombox, the new wave majestically washing ashore, the page turner that will give us a new tune.
Don’t call it a movie. A fib. A lie. Call it alive. Alive we are. Alive we will be, tomorrow is always here, a tale for the historians it is going to be. So, how you will tell the story to your grandchild, the script will dictate. Tomorrow!
Flicking through the three hundred sixty five pages New York Times bestseller, the title reads, when the world stopped, like a Broadway musical. An hand embroidered stitched letters on the back of a tablecloth.
It wasn’t me or you or they, it was us, all of us. It wasn’t black, white, brown, yellow, gray or pink, it was us. It wasn’t I speak Portuguese, you speak English, yo hablo Espanol, je parlais Francais, Io parlo Italiano, oh sorry no I don’t speak German; it was us. Yeah, who cares really?! It quivered. Who? What?! Us. The world. Stopped into complete oblivious, paralyzed from the waist down, naked like a prostitute on the corner street, baked like sweet potato left despondent on a dark alley by an unknown martian masquerading as Hercules.
The plot wasn’t without a hole but it was real. The town’s people were up and arms, mystified, ready to eat crow but came to their senses long enough to demand answers. Who in the name of the Holy Ghost could have committed such atrocity but it was too late. Hitting the break they couldn’t, the beast was already out driving like a drunken squirrel and stopping it, would have been as clever as trying to call a lifeline on who wants to be a millionaire. Huh?! Yup. A task. An episode. A job. Last I heard, whatever it was, took off line zippping down like Elon Musk spaceship leaving folks stranded on the banks of the river Jordan drum beating themselves to death. Who in the moon years would have the answer? But just like a flashlight, folks heard a cracked voice peeking through the bushes, turned around to see the town obnoxious chatty charley blabbing that miss Katherine might. She might, he said but why? “I don’t know, she might; cause she was the only one left boozenapping”, he replied.
ludlum drive 
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