So now that the politics thingy is finally so overdone
no one really seems to cares any more-
like planning next year’s Mardi Gras-
the moment this year’s Ash Wednesday done-
in a hotel in Majorca
with all the carnevalist “Captains” of the companies
to execute manoeuver critique,
while partying hearty,
the new political candidates
(Hillary vs Ivanya?)
to discuss when they can start the new campaign for:
President/ senator/representative/ judge/ dog catcher/ fill in the blank.
I have a question:
This is the New Year, huh?
So what shall we do with it?
Yes, that is a real question.
THE real question,
if you ask me.
And one that I have been thinking about for quite a while now.
Like since about last Easter.
When I re-read a passage from one of my favorite books-
Lose Weight. Get Laid. Find God.
And discovered what I,
at my age-
(they have info for every year)
“absolutely have to do with the rest of my life”
or something like that.
And that I…
Do it last year, I mean.
Oh dear, oh dear.
But that I did,
experience a whole lot of wonderful beautiful fascinating things
there’s still that little buzz in the back of the head,
probably sponsored by life coaches
and how to pages,
and Swedish furniture houses,
“Hey, Magivering is all good and well,
and seems to work for you-
no money owed,
no one in jail…
To which I answer:
Writing, music, people watching.”
Life is good.
But now, it’s that famous time of year.
The time when the gurus want you consider your life,
and feel sad
because you don’t spend enough time contemplating your navel or whatever.
Lose weight. Get laid. Find God
assumes you haven’t.
you must be doing it wrong.
And so you think,
and make enough lists that trees are endangered,
It’s about two minutes into the New Year,
and you have already broken all the rules you set down for yourself,
irritated the cat and dog,
and a few neighbors,
(singing finiculi finicula)
and have decided
if this is the new year,
maybe you’ll just stay in bed for a while.
Like until hubby,
who also shows no sign of
reaching anything above a minus three on the Richter scale,
gets out there
and puts two tea bags,
no, make that three,
in a bizarre dancing giraffe tea-cup,
brings it to your bedside,
that’s when it hits you:
I’m sick of cleaning, washing, driving people places-
Yada, yada, yada.
It’s not my goal in life to be a chauffeur for a neighbor’s sick goldfish,
paint the fence on both sides,
fill in for every musician in the world,
as a favor,
and have them still pocket the gig money.
I’m fed up.
And I won’t take it any more.
Wasn’t that in some film somewhere ?
Which means I probably owe copyright fees,
And why, while we’re on the subject,
won’t my otherwise fantastic husband
just accept that it is the natural-born role in life for men
to clean, wash, and drive people-
I mean, really…
he is so darned good at finding parking spaces
Just get together a group of a couple over the one drink limit men,
preferably from the Hunsrück mountains-
Hunsrücker spend so much time running up and down hills,
they are in great shape,
so there is no chance they will kill themselves with the booze.
Then you gather them together,
put them on the back seat of a car,
they all suddenly know exactly where a parking spot is.
Especially if it is actually half filled by
a motor cycle,
with markings insinuating its driver is
and has very mean friends,
who are members of a very large very mean motorcycle group.
Or, of course,
it is one of those spaces filled with garbage containers
or is the over wide entrance to a fire department,
the police station parking lot,
be still my heart,
the ministry of education,
where you actually can park,
since no one ever comes to work anyway,
since they are all “working at home”
Unless, of course,
one of them decides to come in one day-
like for the minister’s birthday.
Which means you have a fifty-fifty chance-
either they see you,
and have you towed,
or they have been celebrating,
and don’t see you,
or do, but it doesn’t matter, since they are taking a cab.
The parking carousel.
Round and round we go.
It’s more than a bit like Russian Roulette, if you ask me.
Or maybe musical chairs
hey guys in the traffic and city planning office:
so when are you going to do something like they do in other countries with great success:
namely uneven and even license plates-
one day odd,
next day even.
Odd or even, not both.
Or maybe a lottery-
five bucks a ticket-
the prize is a parking spot for a year.
meanwhile back at the ranch-
or actually here in Gutenberg Land,
on “throw new years resolutions out the window” day-
here is an absolutely genial idea-
Since this wash, cook, clean, brush your teeth trivial bit
has been going on since Akk and Ooga the cave people
had to wash the dino blood off the wall,
and find a way to park their leased bronto SUV,
and a new recipe for baked bean and dino pot-
Yes, I know dinos and cave men don’t co-exist-
the dinos died out, because all the cave people were Methodists,
and the dinos were put in the Wednesday night potluck beans..
Didn’t you all learn anything at school?
And then, of course, the eggs were gathered,
to decorate for Easter,
in the Mary and Martha circle,
this has been-
since the days of Akk and Oog,
and always will be,
I almost wrote living,
but it’s actually more like-
the necessary existence stuff you have to do,
to have the time for the
and this, to me, is the crux of the matter-
the reason we waste our time in watching boxing, the Indy 500, and politics-
like a murder mystery I started,
while in the throes of singing on the holidays-
anything looks better, even struggling with a plot,
when you are fighting a chest cold,
allergy to some allergy food that was hidden in your supposedly allergy free,
with the aid of …
that line in Bach Weihnachts Oratorium you have to practice another two hundred times
till you finally can manage it
without breathing in the middle,
with the aid of a gardner,
who isn’t really a gardner,
some fancy bits swiped from a potted panto and an inspector calls,
a sudden mental picture of writing while lying in a hammock,
on a south seas island,
your sexy husband holding the keyboard-
while gently fanning you with a palm frond,
and pouring you ice tea
and feeding you teeny tiny intricately shaped cookies,
with silver pearls as deco
baked that morning,
just for you,
wasn’t that too many hands
Ever since a girlfriend gave me a very badly written bodice-ripper to read-
you absolutely have to read this-
(it turned out to be soft-core porn)
but at least the man was intelligent…
but if the lady,
instead of fainting at the sight of a man without a shirt
Suddenly became a business woman,
in a black stiff formal business suit,
writing a plot line,
and then picking up her husband,
and flying off to finish a book,
while he is at a conference,
on a desert isle,
by the name of….
And if somehow,
you find you have gotten the Bach Oratorium line long enough,
gotten makeup on,
and the long black formal fish and soup-
Actually, I wore black A-line,
with mutton sleeves,
so I looked like one of those weird christmas angels-
which is probably why Steven Moffat wrote a Dr Who series
about the weeping victorian angels.
Truthfully, I met him once at a writers’ convention
at a section on Sherlock
and whether doctor Watson was a woman,
(and I taught him all he knows- don’t you wish)
So back to reality:
In the last couple of days,
Harold and I have found some neat cheap places to travel to,
and a way to finance it-
tbree great projects for me, and more for my math honey,
too bad mathematicians always look for places where they can ernestly talk about math,
who are known occasionally to attend a few quick lectures
and then it’s off to the beach in Hawaii,
(actually Cancun I did my research)
instead of an intercity hotel in downtown Detroit.
Not griping- I can always find time to read,
an empty conference room to sing,
and time for tv directed Pilatus for the physically challenged.
(and unattended donuts, unfortunately)
Which is why I usually stick to exploring-
I actually love exploring.
I try to find a different place to write each day,
a place with quiet,
who are we kidding here-
just make that a cheap coffee shop,
where I can spend my planning stages.
Later I tend to stay home,
and usually find I have made eight separate cups of tea and forgotten to drink them
when I find I am in the throws of …
What was that topic again?
New Years Resolutions.
Hope yours are doing well.
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