Lonely as a Cloud

 

Loneliness enveloped him almost completely draining his spirit, enthusiasm, and desire for accomplishment. It was a heavy swampy slime that figuratively clung to his drained spirit, a debilitating and creeping, corrosive corruption, dragging him down as an endless series of scenarios played in his head. Each iteration involved his nonchalant approach strolling across that open battlefield of emotional exposure filled with giggling girls and wanton rejections too numerous to mention, the surviving victims slinking back to their corner, wounded having shown their hand and having had their advances summarily rejected, like Napoleon’s army half-starved and broken trudging precariously back to France after that terrible Russian winter shoeless and despondent.

 How could this task be accomplished without embarrassment and disgrace? There she stood radiant and beautiful beyond all measure, an angel landing momentarily on earth to be harassed by a Cretan such as himself. What would he say? What could he say? How do you catch a sunrise with all its glorious hues, or a butterfly gently lighting momentarily on a flower? And then there was the issue of a second sentence and presumably a third after that? It was exhausting to try to be nonchalant about something that was desired so deeply, to douse the fires of loneliness. It simply had to be done come what may. He straightened himself up and began his advance throwing caution to the wind; like a fish out of water, or an astronaut cut off from his oxygen supply, he made his way across that long wooden floor prepared to face an emotional gauntlet, with that awkward proposal on the tip of his tongue that the silver-tongued devils found so easy to present.

“Would you like to dance?” he stammered.

She smiled and said YES! Oh rapture, what bliss! Now there was only the task of clonking around the dance floor pretending to know how to dance. Relief and joy were all mixed up in a joyful mélange. They danced for the rest of the evening and the fires of loneliness were doused.

 

Jim

Apr. 2022

SERENADE TO MUSIC (Music by Ralph Vaughan Williams)

 

Listening to his piece of music I was swept away and brought to the watery bank in the Moonlight as the words touched me.  

Poco animato permeated my atmosphere. In my tiny space I was swayed and saw a beautiful moonlit indigo meadow.  

Angelic voices singing to those who listen. The dark and light dance together. My spirit ascends to the stars. 

Softly I am bathed in sweet sounds. Breathless and transported to stillness.

Georgia

Apr 2022 

Muses

 

This going to sound weird but I have more than one Muse. Having more than one Muse probably explains why my thinking can turn into a fractured fairy tale. I am just the vehicle for these fabulous Muses. At times it is quite enjoyable.  

Muse number one shows up every morning when I sit down with my watercolor paints and a very large teapot filled to the brim. My only obligation is to show up. There are days when I struggle to come up with ideas. This is my reminder that I am not supposed to think I am supposed to intuit. Being intuitive is not something I can do all the time but my Muse is so kind and generous and waits for me to get back into alignment with her.  

My second Muse is the writer. She shows up every evening when I sit with my computer to record the day’s events and sudden realizations and concerns. She is also very inventive with writing prompts. Thankfully my wonderful writing teacher Dr. Maxine Fisher provides lots of food for my writing Muse. My writing Muse and I are forever thankful for this opportunity.  

My third Muse is the sewist. She comes out at least once a week and she has me sew up table toppers, altered clothing and sometimes toys. She is so creative and forces me to think in more concrete terms like math and measuring and cutting and accurate sewing. Not like the freedom of the painter or writer.  

I am eternally thankful to my Muses for allowing me to be the catalyst for their creativity and permit me to have some of the credit.

Georgia

Apr 2022 

The Eventful Stroll

 

The world was a bountiful bouquet of flowers bursting with beauty and pent-up excitement, having been dormant for the long winter; now they were joyous and inquisitive shooting, squeezing and wriggling out of every corner. The trees were exploding in color like firecrackers on July 4^th night.

The morning had passed uneventfully as I walked through the neighborhood, cognizant of all the sounds and smells of spring around me. From the busy ants forming long supply lines on their mission of leaf building, to the buzzing bees busily attending their flowers and providing their cross pollination, to the skinny squirrels who had just barely made it through winter in spite of their impressive memories for hiding nuts. The world was coming alive again in the annual transition of seasons when I came upon a curious little bird walking vertically up the trunk of a tree! I stopped dead in my tracks never having seen such a spectacle before.

“Don’t you know that it is rude to stare human?” said the bird.

“Yes, indeed I am aware that it is quite rude and I apologize for my behavior but it is just that I have never seen a bird use such an unusual form of locomotion,” I said in dismay.

 “Do I try to tell you how to drive your car, which most of you humans do in a reprehensible and dastardly fashion?” tweeted the annoyed avian.

“Point well taken, but it just seems to me that it would be easier to fly up to your nest rather than walk vertically. That is all I meant to say,” I mumbled trying not to inflame my new acquaintance any further.

“Well, if in fact it was easier to do it that way, don’t you think that I would do it that way?” the irate little fellow expressed becoming more annoyed and flummoxed.

“Yes, I suppose that you are following certain instinctual protocols. One cannot fight Mother Nature. Please accept my apologies, Mr. Bird “.

“Instinctual protocols indeed! Do you think that you are the only species that can think for itself, human? I decide myself how to function best in daily life.”

“I fear that I have ruffled your feathers, no pun intended. I will be going now,” I exclaimed trying to avoid making the situation any worse.

“Just a minute human. Would you like to attend a tea party?” said Certhia the Brown Creeper.

“I would be honored if you don’t mind, however I am surprised at your invitation as I have annoyed you so. I do have some free time,” I exclaimed.

“Just give me a minute as I must ask permission of my guests whether I may bring a human into our little klatch as many of my guests are already in attendance and this would understandably prove a most unusual and surprising turn of events. Many of my associates believe that it is a blessing that your species has left the trees far behind in your primordial memory and with it your skill in transversing them has invariably suffered.”

At this juncture the bird began to sing in such a  beautiful voice that I was enchanted by its sound. Soon an array of different bird voices began to tweet and squawk simultaneously with a certain degree of excitement in their racket. I tried not to be insulted by their anti-human rhetoric.

Certhia turned to me now and said, “You are welcome to attend, I have given my word that you will be respectful of my guests and you must swear a solemn oath that you will never reveal to anyone the location of my nest. Do you promise?”

“I do indeed,” was my response. “But all I have to contribute is a corn muffin wrapped up in my pocket”.

“Your corn muffin will be most welcome and appreciated. We do not consume much food and tend to eat like birds,” said Certhia in a tongue in cheek manner giving me a side eye. “Very well then, we have a bit of a trek still before us,” exclaimed Certhia.

It soon became clear that the task before me would be difficult as my ascent up into the canopy was almost a straight vertical climb through a bramble of twisted vines and mosses. The sounds of the street traffic far below faded away as I ascended to previously unrealized heights and occasionally felt the gentle sway of the tree as a warm breeze blew through its branches. Far above I could see the brightly lit green leaves at the top of the canopy and looking west, Brooklyn was in my view. A machete and a tall ladder would have made quick work of this twisted gnarled mess, but that was of course unacceptable human behavior as this was all camouflage and the location was picked intentionally for its remote well-hidden setting. It all seemed a little extreme to my taste, but Certhia knew her situation much better than myself.

Finally, I could see a large old tree house with a twisted mass of twigs weaved in and out of each other not far above me. The structure was quite massive and out of all scale for my tiny friend as if a single individual were inhabiting Norte Dame Cathedral. My small friend Certhia had gone before me and now stood at the portal entrance to the nest inside the tree house and introduced me to her friends.

“Hello everyone this is an acquaintance of mine. He is a civilized human and has agreed to come to tea.”

Without saying anything I realized that the nest had been built inside an ancient tree house that although weathered and worn had been well constructed with dove-tailed joints, and as the tree grew it had remained intact, rising up to the heavens as the tree vaulted up and up into the sky. I looked around in the cavernous nest which was impressive indeed. It must have required a great deal of work from the little Brown Creeper.

“I must ask, did you build all this yourself Certhia? “

“No certainly not. All my friends that you see here and numerous others came to help me build it. It is quite impressive don’t you think?”

“Yes indeed,” I said avoiding any mention of the exterior housing of the tree house. The floor was covered in thick grass and the walls were made of vines weaving in and out of one another. The walls were covered with various attractive leaves horticulturally coaxed and pulled inside forming a living wallpaper. The Rotunda was painted with peeling sky blue paint and blended in with the sky visible through the aperture. It was presumably a relic of its past human inhabitants who had left their apple-cheeked youth far behind and if they were still alive, were now wizened, old grey beards, with no intention of climbing into treetops ever again. With some difficulty I was able to enter the space although my entrance was admittedly less than grand.

Already In attendance were the Cardinal in his impressive bright red plumage with an air of the ecclesiastical, solemn and meditative. To his right sat the Blue Jay. Loud and boisterous in his bright blue plumage, he expressed his opinions without being asked for them and was uninhibited about rustling any feathers. The Cardinal informed him those unsolicited opinions had little value but the Blue Jay ignored this comment having already moved onto his next dogmatic point. The brooding Black Hawk with his strict military discipline seemed ready to strike at the Blue Jay who had obviously annoyed him, his sharp curled talons were at the ready to launch like a nuclear strike. The beautiful White Swan Christie looking like she had just completed a photo shoot for the cover of Audubon Monthly sat unimpressed with the proceedings, preening her coat. Towering in the corner somewhat ominously crouched was the massive California Condor Jose who was visiting town. I sensed that he was nervous about my presence given his endangered status. Meanwhile the iridescent green and pink high strung Hummingbird appropriately named Edgy, fluttered about occasionally landing for a momentary rest, taking a sip of her tea and then was off again in her continual hovering stance, gauche and unable to relax. Dorothy Duck who was always watching her weight due to a high fat content complemented Edgy for her self discipline with no need to attend a gym or watch her diet. Certhia who had settled in now after her climb up the tree made sure everyone was comfortable and sated each with a cup of tea and something to eat. My contribution of the corn muffin took center stage centered on the bird feeder around which everyone sat in a large circle. On the deck was a bird bath but only Dorothy went for a swim presumably wishing to burn some calories.

Many subjects were discussed of which I had little interest in or involvement with, such as the blight of pigeons and seagulls both of which everyone in attendance seemed to hold in contempt. A main topic of discussion was new Cats in The Neighborhood which all in attendance were told to be wary of, giving their general location and a detailed physical description as well as a rap sheet of their crimes against the avian community. Certhia, as the master of ceremonies occasionally directed the conversation towards me so that I would not feel left out of the proceedings. The afternoon went by quickly and was much more pleasant than I would have predicted. As the party was breaking up, I said my goodbyes to all and received a warm goodbye from all in attendance as well as an open invitation from Certhia to come back in the future to visit. Climbing down the tree was more treacherous than climbing up, but I returned to “Terra Firma” before sunset and went home happy after a day well spent in good company.

 

Jim

Apr 2022

Sidewalks

 

A Tennessee sidewalk – when you can find one that is – is not all that different from one in New York City when you come right down to it, at least where its physical asphalt attribute is concerned. Until recently, it never dawned on me just how important a sidewalk can be. Like its counterpart, the road that often runs right alongside, sidewalks too can take you anywhere. I remember hearing a comedian quip one time that ‘everywhere is within walking distance; it just depends upon how far you want to walk.’

I love to walk. I do my best thinking when I’m walking. Often, I find my mind in overwalk as the miles accrue. It’s amazing how many great ideas come as I breathe in and subsequently go on the exhale, each one an endorphin wafting away on the wind.

Wait! Here’s one that I managed to hold on to. Dodging the oncoming Dodge. There are a lot of pickup trucks down here. Granted, not every make is a Dodge, but I do digress.

Driving is different down here. Actually, it’s a lot like boating. I’m not talking about the insane rain that comes, causing widespread flooding, but more the smiling and waving that comes from the unwritten maritime law. Boaters are exceptionally friendly folks. They wave to everyone, whether it be other boaters or maybe landlubbers along the shoreline, maybe some who long for sidewalks.

Tennessee drivers do that too, at least where passing pedestrians are concerned. Driver’s wave to me all the time. ‘Hey, thanks for walking on this scenic, winding country road,’ they tell me with a smile. ‘With little room for error for both of us,’ they warn already in passing, but I don’t hear that part. I’m too busy reveling in the glow of southern hospitality of which I am convinced really does exist.

Tennessee traffic lights are equally friendly. Here I am, driving down a country road and just ahead, the light is red, yet as I approach, this friendly little signal changes to green, almost like it knew that I was not from around here. ‘Welcome, to Tennessee, Tom from New York,’ it tells me with its brightest smile. I have never seen a traffic light smile, but what do I do? I smile back and utter aloud a heartfelt, “Thank-You.” I love Tennessee traffic lights.

A hawk hovers high overhead and I pause in step to admire its effortless flight. Where Hawk sightings were more of a treat in my former New York City area home, here they are in abundance. Admittedly, in the past, I rarely noticed, or maybe never took the time to admire something as simple and majestic as a bird in flight, but now in my quieter country surroundings, I slow down and bask in the moment of that beautiful sight.

And then I take a second to think to myself that maybe I am just growing old. After all, in my younger years, the only time I had probably taken note of any type of fowl was when I was wiping away the foul excrement dropped from above. Take note, by the way, that the ancient adage of good luck coming from this unfortunate incident is more likely legend.

Like the Old West.

Yes, I have taken another pause to ponder a moment from my unlikely sidewalk vantage point. I’m standing in what I might perceive as the center of Historical Downtown Algood. This tiny part of town reminds me a little bit of the old west. There are no stoplights here, only two stop signs. The main street aptly called Main Street bisects a raised walkway on each side. This elevated portion runs only a few hundred feet and is lined with a number of buildings that have obviously been around a while. Here is where you can feel maybe a tad of the history in historical. Most of the businesses appear mostly vacant most of the time with the exception of Red Oak Roasters, a trendy Starbucks like store that does a robust business. There is also the almost ancient Algood furniture store – housed in two separate, sizable structures – which does not. I admire the perseverance of
the proprietor, however, a kindly white-haired gentleman who is open for business six days a week; he smiles and waves at me each time I amble by. An infrequently used train track runs parallel behind the buildings on the south side before curving slightly east where it crosses over Main Street at an actual railroad crossing sans the safety crossing gates one from, say a busier metropolitan area might expect. There are red lights that blink and a bell that sounds to warn

drivers of an oncoming train. I’ve seen and heard this many times in my short time here but have yet to see an actual train. I don’t get it. Maybe it’s sort of a railroad version of the Emergency Broadcast System, the clanging bell tolling, ‘this is a test. This is only a test. Had there been an actual train coming…’ I shrug, and move along thinking that the only thing missing here would be hitching posts for horses. That would be a sight to surely complete my urban east coast take of the old west.

Just a few klicks north as the horse trots, alongside State Route 111, the great Davy Crockett once hosted a real life base camp. Personally, I always pictured the King of the Wild Frontier residing a bit further west of here. Looking across this parcel, one can almost imagine the rugged hardships he must have endured.

I can’t.

There are too many houses around.

Instead, I picture the humble man with the coonskin cap ringing a nearby doorbell. Having removed said hat, he then says something like, ‘pardon me, ma’am, but might I trouble you for the use of that there electric stove to heat up this ol’ possum.’ He holds the dead thing proudly before him. Mr. Crockett is smiling; the woman is screaming and the rest as they say is history.

On one of my longer walks, a five mile trek to nearby Cookeville, a quasi-college town that is home to Tennessee Tech, I make a pitstop at Books-A-Million, a Barnes and Noble type true book emporium. There is nothing really remarkable about this sort of superstore that I would consider to be noteworthy with the exception of an entire section devoted to Westerns. I am an avid reader, one who proudly boasts that I read everything from Steinbeck to Star Trek. This includes westerns, one of my favorite genres and one that is often overlooked in the New York City area. On more than one occasion, I would find myself in a Big Apple bookstore asking someone where I can find the Westerns. The reply always came with that confused puppy look, the tilted head that shows that they are really making an effort to comprehend. One college kid thought long and hard, stroking his chin with professorial expertise before asking me, ‘Dude, do you mean like Western Philosophy?” I sighed, shook my head and responded, ‘no, I mean like cowboys and Indians. You know, Yee-haw,” I screeched in my best cowboy dialect. ‘Yippe Kai Yay, Git Along, Little Doggies.’ It was at this point that I was about to raise my flat palm to my lips and offer up my best Indian part of the impression before I steadfastly stopped myself, erring on the side of politically correct caution in these super sensitive times.

I am still getting used to this idea of living in the country. Sometimes, I find myself feeling like a tourist. I was headed to work one morning when I found myself stopped beneath the overhead highway behind an oversized (maybe a Dodge) pick-up truck hauling a livestock trailer. What do I know about livestock trailers? I have passed them on an interstate more than once or twice on assorted road trips, I’m sure, but never took true notice. While waiting for the light to change, my eyes widened with such wonderment that only a kid at a circus might display. In that very trailer, a bull eyed me warily.

Well, this is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen, I shined with delight.

The bull thought otherwise. ‘You’re not from around here,’ his wide oversized eyes beginning to squint in derision accused.

I looked myself over.

My wide eyes of glee told me, it’s time to flee.

I stammered, make that whined, “It’s the red shirt I’m wearing, isn’t it?”

He nodded, the eyes thinning even further. He may have snorted too. He stomped his front right leg and began sliding his hoof along the metal floor of his temporary mobile housing. I was frozen in place, Carl Denham staring upon the great Kong tearing at his chains. I contemplated running the light, my love affair with Tennessee traffic lights now short-lived and finished.

And that was when it hit me.

I pointed forward. “The light, the light is red too, you stupid bull…oh, not stupid, I didn’t say stupid, who said stupid? Maybe it was the person behind me,” I pointed back with my thumb, risking the quickest glance at the woman in my rearview mirror.

She was putting on makeup.

Wow, I thought. People here do that on the morning commute too.

Something boomed.

I screamed.

The rest, however, was not history, but only a truck roaring past on the highway above, having hit a bump or pothole. It didn’t faze the bull though. He remained poised and ready. No southern horsepitality here.

The light turned green, truck and trailer turned left to enter the highway and I continued on to my posting of the day at a local elementary school as a substitute teacher. This is a new thing for me. My background as a production person in media back in New York is pretty far removed from the idea of now being an educator. Granted, my title comes with the caveat of uncertified, yet, I am so excited and grateful to stand before a classroom of kids and just be me (while I am trying to teach of course). It’s a learning process for all of us, teacher and student, though, I am sure that it is me doing most of the learning. Every day is different. Every school is different. At this point, I have reached the conclusion that being an uncertified substitute teacher is the same thing as being an uncertified farmer. Walking into a classroom for the first time seems to me the equivalent of showing up at someone’s farm for the first time. The farmer greets me with a smile, saying little more than, ‘thanks for comin’. Here’s the keys to the tractor. It’s right around back there,’ he points. ‘You can just take it on up to the field.’ Gracious, he nods and I’m left standing there with a blank stare and two words upon my lips.

‘And then?’

If I ever decide to write about my ongoing substitute teacher vocation, be it temporary, or maybe something more permanent, I am convinced that the title of the tale would simply read, ‘And Then?’.

Winding down the end of another long walk on another winding road, I decide that maybe a pit stop at the trendy coffee place in historic downtown may be in order. The window boasts fresh baked goods, and having hit the pavement for many miles and several hours, I have earned my reward in some form of confectionary delight. My feet may be growing tired, but my mind continues along its similar circuitous path and spins out another random musing. The New York contingent that I left behind has tried to convince me that there is no doubt that I will miss the two most basic elements of my former metropolitan existence, Pizza and Bagels. This is probably one of the oldest and overused axioms in the book of leaving New York. In the several months that I have been here in Tennessee, I have managed to sidestep this particular culinary cliché. Perusing the disappointingly limited array of bakery choices within Red Oak Roasters, I approach the kid behind the counter who is more than friendly enough and really wants to help me make an informed and satisfied decision before leaving. I sigh, already knowing the answer to the question that I am about to ask.

“You wouldn’t by chance have any Linzer Tarts, would you?”

He tilts his head, that confused puppy look etched so evident on his face, lifts his right hand to his chin and begins stroking it with professorial expertise thinking long and hard.

“Do you mean, like…from the Italian Renaissance?” he asks.

A Tennessee college kid is not all that different from one in New York City when you come right down to it.

 

Random thoughts on roaming walks.

Sidewalks not required.

Tom M

Apr 2022

SPRING

 

I wake up to a smooth melody of nature.   Singing birds have gathered by my window, reminding me of Spring.  I could hear this inspirational melody with lyrics whispering harmony and peace.  It’s a beautiful day where new adventures await—inviting me to succeed.  There is no time to waste; there is much more to discover, learn, and inspire.  Every day is a new beginning, and I’m the author of this incredible life journey.  I will be writing a new chapter every day in my book of life.

 

Cristina Infante

Tiger Lily

 

My favorite flower is the Tiger Lily. I am not sure when I knew this, the feeling of this favoritism has no beginning and no end. 

The orange ones with black speckles are my favorite. One must be careful with the hollow stems. They can break easily with a snap.  

When I make a trip to the flower wholesaler in the Bronx, I am sure to pick up at least two bunches of Tiger Lilys with partially opened buds. 

Warm water, a clean vase and some sunlight is all that is need to keep the orange beauties alive for about two weeks. 

Tiger Lilys symbolizes prosperity, confidence, pride, boldness, enthusiasm and excitement. 

There are Asian recipes that call for Tiger Lily buds especially in Tiger Lily and Soybean soup. 

 Tiger Lilys can be white, purple, red, pink, blue, cream, yellow and red all with black spots. They are indigenous to Asia and grow wild all over the United States. 

Tiger Lilys always makes me smile and takes me out of any loneliness I may have.  They are happy and sweet and beguiling especially surrounded by Babys Breath and so necessary for uplifting any decor and sour mood.  The pop of orange is charming and captivating especially on a dreary cold day. 

Today I will fill my clean vase with warm water and arrange two brand new bunches of Tiger Lilys to brighten my day and thwart any lonesomeness that may be lurking nearby. 

Tiger Lilys will help time to pass kindly with their charm, bewitchment and dazzle. 

Georgia P.