Photo / graphic by Roman.
Where am I? My situational awareness is absent, reduced to warmth… comfort… bed… and as I begin to awaken I seem to rotate within some delimited space, falling toward a maximum probability until: I fit! That’s right. It’s night. I’m in bed and not at all ready for the day, which it is not. If you love me, I will sleep.
Yip
Photo by Roman.
I became ill several days ago. Oh no… I’ll not burden you with a mantra chant of symptoms: coincidental or otherwise, imaginary or all too real, amusing or gross.
So what is wrong and what of it?
How can I tell you? I mean… I do not know. Could be one thing. Could be another. Could be several things. A label would be idle speculation.
And so what of it…
Simply that it slowed me down… Yet that only made a small difference in what I’ve accomplished. No, this is not a triumph. Rather it is that I was already moving that slow.
–Yip
in search of…
Photo by Roman.
This was back in the paleodigital…
The volunteer coordinator briefed me: “She’s odd; she’s a medium.”
When I called for Madame N., there was a long silence on the line.
Then she replied: “Don’t worry. Someday you’ll find her.”
Alas. I wanted only her vote.
–Yip
Photo by Roman.
Oh! The glamour is not working!
Spurned by hummingbirds, absent flies and beetles, waiting for bees like waiting for Elijah… it shakes a spray of pollen tumbling down the wind that sparkle like tinkerbell magic… sadly, shyly, hopefully… so that life goes on…
–Yip
I have become as mildew… or mold… a fungus festering on the cold detritus of life.
My day was the day after dinosaurs when mushrooms grew to the size of trees… amid so much freezing dark death… it was a good time for decay…
Today not so much…
But that I have become as mildew.
— Yip
— Yip
Photo by Roman.
They say Her Worship is the polar bear’s pajamas. But the Mister, He’s not so much, being Her mister-right-now, not mister-right. It’s a sinister business, if I may beg your pardon, but I predict She’ll be with Winter before long, Whomever that may be, as sure as the world spins.
As delicate as a silhouette against a shade, it draws the eye. Are we voyeurs to witness a leaf slowly shutting down, its life draining away to the greater tree, dreaming a blaze of sun-burnt color? Is this a guilty intimacy or a sacred sharing? Or is it after all only tomorrow is another year?
A drama fruit, a diva fruit, the apple of my eye?
The social gossip of courtiers… we heard it on the grapevine… which way’s the main stem… it’s the happening scene… the carnival crowd, grifters and peasants… in this strange, strange land where even the area codes are alien and beg repeating.
–Yip
a spider’s meditation
Photo by Roman.
Our old web was never worth all that much. Mom always said that it never caught anything but dust and Dad and Dad was barely enough to sustain a clutch of eggs. You’d think a window web would prosper but no, it was a waste land. I had a whole passel of sisters when we hatched but now there’s just me. When you live in a desert, you make do. Between Mom and me, my sisters lasted a while. Dinnertime was always a family affair.
Nothing is left. Time to move on. Thanks Mom. You were great.
— Yip
no arachnids were harmed in the creation of this post
Spider light, spider bright,
Which web to weave tonight?
Silken threads to feed me here or
Webs of light for a feast of fear?
Photo by Roman.
Graphic by Roman.
This time showing the true state of the artwork.
Yip Abides 