Lying around on a snowy evening

Kurt Vonnegut and Pumpkin.

                                               

         Because It’s All Material

My intestines went on holiday. Food passes through them in a tsunami carrying leftover debris. It’s a microbial cleanse. I should be happy. Eupeptics pay health spas major bucks for this experience. Otherwise, I’m in fine fettle. The sun shines. The dog romps. Optimism reigns as long as I don’t venture too far from the loo.

The etymology of looky-loos, those with a prurient interest in purgations; specifically, the private lives of others — the demographic of the memoir market. Let purgations lie. That’s what I always say. Lying and damn lying purgations.

Maybe purgatory is just a WC for what your soul doesn’t need.

                                                                                                                                   ~ 01/27/2014

No Reason

     Ferdinand and Yolanda were flying low over the Arctic tundra. Their wings beat in rhythm, whoosh, flutter, flutter; whoosh, flutter, flutter. The sun was setting over the horizon and they had yet to find a place to land. There was a cool updraft from the ocean, but they were looking for a rocky embankment to land and make a nest. Below them, lumbered a wobbly polar bear. He stopped to stretch and his shadow lengthened making him look twice as big. With a sharp squawk, Ferdinand warned Yolanda to fly higher over the bear who, with the spring thaw, was ready for some supper be it salmon, seal or fresh surfbird.
     Whoosh, flutter, flutter; whoosh, flutter, flutter. Each beat of their wings sent them cruising deeper into the grey, darkening sky. Soon it would be nightfall and the edge of the moon peered out behind them.
     Pituk, a young Inuit boy stomped out of the lodge. His big brother had shared his blubber dinner with him but wouldn’t let him use his knife. Pituk crossed his arms and his caribou skin coat sent a pouf of the comforting scent of animal sweat into his nose. No one thought he mattered, he thought when a lone, white-tipped surfbird feather floated down from the heavens. He looked up to see the moon rising, “I do too matter,” he thought, “And this is all mine.”

 ~*~

Photo credit:

 http://cgiss.boisestate.edu/~matt/