Night Lights 6

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

In the Time of Feeling Fragile

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

As If Shading Its Eyes

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

Achoo!

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

Here flies the banner…

Photo by Roman.

… of the Frost Queen and Her consort,
the Earl of Autumn.

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.

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Photo by Roman.

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?

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Photo by Roman.

A drama fruit, a diva fruit, the apple of my eye?

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Photo by Roman.

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

The Old Family Home

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