Lost

... Lost: Inspiration
May have dropped on a cement walk during a storm in the morning on Schit Street
A chance it will be found battered on Phucku Cres.
or trampled on Soulpimped Ave.

Inspiration will be of no use to anyone if you don't have the knowledge of how to operate.
***so please return to Emptyhead Industries on Fruit Road.

rotten potatoes

The Vegetable sorting job is one of the worst jobs I have had. I have scrubbed inner city toilets, washed unknown chocolate colored smears off walls, and harassed families over the phone for money. Sorting potatoes is definitely in the running for worst job. Arrive before the sun rises and wait alongside the chain smoking grumpy old men. Then when your shift begins your spot of two feet in front of a conveyor belt spits out potatoes of all shapes and sizes. First you have to get over the nauseating motion sickness attributed to the fast forward of the potatoes while your eyes are darting in search of the rotten ones. Once you have survived the motion sickness without incident (up chucking breakfast over potatoes) the tiredness of standing begins to take its toll. The occasional glitch with the machine provides a short rest but usually means a longer sorting period with potatoes piled up in waiting.

Okay, the positive. I feel good knowing I am going to get a pay cheque. Funny. I go to school like I am told. I get a degree like I am told. I apply for jobs like I am told. I remain patient like I am told. My degree got me a job sorting rotten potatoes. Well actually, the degree wasn't mentioned, just a match of desperation meets desperation. They needed help asap and I needed a job asap. I works out some how. Another long day tomorrow, 7am to 8pm. We travel about an hour to work. I am scrambling right now to make enough gas to get there again tomorrow. Damn gas prices. If it wasn't out in the boonies I would walk or ride a bike (if I had one). Time to rest. These 'young' grandma feet are aching and my back is screaming. Best get some sleep or there is no way I will make the 12 hour shift.

Away Room

A Monday. A tornado encircling our area again. Potential tornado weather for the rest of the day.

I went to see my grandson. So great to see those little smiles. Human reminders of why we are here. Simple and reoccurring miracles revealing what has endured the test of time – purity. I feel remnants of this time are carried in the center of us. Saving us from self destruction.

I didn’t get the job. My heart sank for about five minutes. Then I just made a fresh pot of coffee and sat outside buried in thought. Thoughts. Mind drugs. I thought of a friend that found me the other day. Last time I seen her was when I was in a boarding school. We arrived around the same time and both carried the same look on our face – afraid and timid. We were around seven or eight years old coming from homes that provided enough life experience to ensure a full understanding of survival. After a few days we established the washroom as the 'away room'. A place where we could talk about home and anything else going on at the school. During one of our away moments she produced a small brown paper bag. The kind used to pack our snacks. She had her hands wrapped around the neck of the bag and blew into it like a balloon. Then took a deep breath in then out again. She sat for a moment and then handed the bag to me. I didn’t ask her what it was but when I took it I could smell nail polish. Then I realized what she was doing – sniffing. I had seen my cousin do the same thing with shoe polish back home. I hated the smell and it gave me a headache. I don’t remember how I let her know I didn’t like it but I do remember making a face when I brought the bag to my nose. That was it. I watched her eyes change as she continued with the bag holding it at the bottom and breathing in and out. We didn't talk. I remember feeling sad as I watched her fade away from me. I thought of the boy who would wander the streets smelling like shoe polish. My uncle told me he poisoned his brain and before it could explode he jumped off the power building falling onto the cement. I wasn’t there but my mind always carried an image of the boy standing on the edge crying as he jumped to his death. Drugs terrified me. Losing my mind wasn’t so inviting then.

It was good to hear from her. I was told she had passed on years ago. Why would anyone say that? I guess the same reason they would say that about me. Most are shocked to know I am still alive. Another life, another time. Wow how far we have come. Another day with more writing and more resumes to send out.

Life Passions

Today there is only one thought lingering in and out of my day so far....passion for life. This is so important. The dreams that excite you each morning. The butterflies that quiver the center of your being each time you think of reaching for more.

Today, all I have to do is believe I can have this in my life again. To be passionate about something, anything. I love to write. I love to create lines of my uneducated poetry, ranting maybe but still written thoughts...mind paintings. I love to wander into the life of a character in an unfolding script. I love to read the words of writers from centuries ago sharing emotions, fears, and realizations with the world and oblivious to the fact that these same words would be sitting in front of me .... in 2008! Amazing. A legacy. Their passion. I just want to keep this thought today.

Just hoping the power won't be disconnected anytime soon. Or the phone for that matter. Still looking for a job. Still writing down my ramblings.

'cursed with inherited sadness'