The weaker week

In the course of human events, the ancient world was rife with conflicting schedules for the unit we call “the week,” from five days to ten days, with some societies choosing alternating numbers of days in the week to balance the year. In the so-called “West,” it was a Roman Emperor, Constantine, who endowed us with a much more reliable measurement, standardizing the week into seven days….which, of course, made him look like a super genius. Constantine, who appears to have been a wee bit of a super narcissist, stole the idea from the ancient Hebrews, Babylonians,  and other empires….and God.

The average man or woman in 322AD, in the area influenced by the Roman Empire, went to work on “A” and might go shopping on “H.” The Romans were less original with their days of the week than just about any other civilization ever to wake up from a bed in the morning. This might explain why there were so many murders among the imperial family, who must have taken the blame for not exciting workers into more production on “Day E,” and for the shopping day fiasco “Black F,” our predecessor to “Black Flag,” which is always a nasty surprise to insects, infidels, and 16 year old Snowflakes…

And while everyone- including the Hobbits, elves, unicorns, My Little Ponies, Democrats and Cybermen- could rationally argue which day Christ was born in Bethlehem, and which calendar should be consulted for that….and which day is the true seventh day…and which element should be used to calculate when a day is officially over…and which calendar is the most accurate for predicting the end of the world…there is  enough history revealing how corrupted and inaccurate ancient time-keeping was that it is simply a waste of time in the end.

What does not make sense is that the names used for the days of the week in much of the western world is still attached to long forgotten pagan mythology that makes little sense to use in the 21st century. And while there have been mostly forgotten attempts, like those by Pope Sylvester, to change the names to more reasonable and useful references, none has shaken, nor officially changed the days of the Western World.

Strangely enough, Sunday, the first day of the week now, is closest to some semblance of usefulness. Sunday, like Son-Day, the day celebrated as the day when Christ rose from the grave, at least makes a bit of sense. Monday, on the other hand, sounds like “Mun-day,” the Day of The Mundane.

Many of us have to get up early and go to work on this Monday, Mundane Day, not nearly as happy as Son-Day, because it is most likely to be the least exciting day of the week. Hence, it is more appropriate to rename it “Munday,” short for “Mundane Day.”

Tuesday…well, who knows what in the world that refers to, other than it is “Twos Day.” On Twos Days, we know that it is the second day of the standard Western workweek, still so far from the weekend. Twos Days are good days for Two For One specials because we…those of us who must take time to stop into a restaurant to eat our meals while working in our fields…are more likely to succumb to this two-for-one deal as it is early in the week, and we are still hungry from the terrible day we had on Munday (Mundane Day).

The third Day of the week, sometimes called Hump Day, which is not helpful for the chronically single, is Wednesday, which makes absolutely no sense. No one I know says “Wed-ness.” Can I get a Wed-ness that it is Wed-ness-day? Wind, yes. Winds-day- that I hear all the time. Of course, this Winds-Day is the day when it can go  either way- good or bad- being the third day of the work week, and the day when you do not know which way the wind blows, nor which way the week will blow…

The fourth day of the week is Thursday, or “Turzday.” I prefer those who pronounce it in the latter form, as it reminds me of just how frustrating the day can be. Turz is like Turds, and while it is not Friday, you can certainly smell it from here…

Back in the day, I remember the lads talking about “getting fried.” Well, if you have a really terrific job, you don’t have such pathetic days. But if your job is a pile of Turds, Fry-day is the day you either eat all the fried chicken, chickfry (deep fried breaded anything fried in the same grease as fried fish), or some other ghastly grease-enriched gastrointestinal adventure…or….because your brain is so “fried,”you need to go do something stupid like watch every season of Deep Space Nine until your eyeballs bug out, or you collapse like a three-toed sloth on the bedroom floor…

And then, there is Saturday. What can you say about Saturday? Nothing bad, surely. It is a good day to relax from all the hectic work days. Some of us do have to work on Saturdays, but even then, there is something uniquely pleasing about Saturday that says to us that it is a good day to sit at some time. So, Saturday is not too far off from Sat-ur-day, or sit down and do nothing so stressful as what was done the previous five days. But then again, some of us do not have this freedom.

And that is a shame. There should be some kind of freedom to call a day what you will, as long as somebody out there relates to the idea. So, Turds Day might be more popular in Ireland than in the USA, where it is more like to be The Day After Hump Day, or Humpless Day, which is not good for just about anyone.

While there is currently no mass movement to change the names of the days of the week…this post should inspire you to come up with your own ideas for new names for the days of the week. After all, how long is the western world going to be writing “Wednesday,” when practically nobody pronounces it that way?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

hidden

she hides in plain sight, her brown blending with other brown…but the earth suddenly not so horizontal, she appears at second glance. it was only because I stopped to attend to my own nature, that she appeared at all…

which begs the question…what else did I miss on my journey?

it is a question many ask as we grow to a certain age, or pass into an unplanned quadrant, or suddenly find ourselves- without a spouse, without a plan, or without a head of hair. i found myself with one last planned appointment…on my way to nowhere, caught by a passing glance…

…somewhere between someone’s somewhere, and no network’s anywhere.

…on a road regularly driven in the center, to avoid wandering off the edges and falling precipitously hundreds of feet below to end up as  an unexplainable statistic in this year’s road fatalities. one does not simply drive down the road, but rather eases the vehicle gently down her surface, avoiding eye contact with any strangers. unless they are standing along the road waiting for time…

to change some horrible deficiency. for this unfortunate soul, nature was kinder to her than any resident, even if it longed to cover her with a creeping vine.

but her vacancy is no stranger to these ridges…scattered among the thorns and thistles, they appear like an occasional page in a picture book…or in a theatre, a historical set the stage manager has forgotten to remove. and while the green screen still covers most of the countryside, offering  possibilities, no one wants to invest in building anything here, except memories of a mostly forgotten past.

 

 

 

 

a microsecond of time…

….you enter. And, everything changes. The world outside changes. The world inside changes. Time passes without your knowledge. You watch clips of randomly passing lives-

…the old lady who can’t quite keep her teeth in…the old man with sagging pants and a belt flapping down as he walks…the 14 year olds giggling as they pass a boy with the face of Venus, complete with the nearly exploding volcanos…the mother, slouching against the buggy, her eyes tearing, as her two boys run like errant drones into the grocery aisles…the disappointed, hat down, and eyes staring at the floor, glancing up, trying not to make eye contact…and the selfie queen, smiling for her unseen audience, her face painted with too much red, flashing sudden smiles…

and you slow down, because time feels like it has slowed down.

you cross to the right side, passing the corner hospitality cart where a frumpy-but- smiling woman tries to hand you a small plastic container of a mini chicken croissant. she continues, even after  you shake your head, and turn away…an onslaught of clothing carousels threatening, as a faster vehicle rips through the dangling arms and into your way…

…survival. you remember more from “the list,” that crumpled paper lost somewhere in the parking lot…or blown across the berm…until you see…the figure. as much as you desire to look away, you cannot, you must not. like blackened pools with nothing floating on them…they do not stare, they pierce….and you must look, but your mind tells you to turn away…turn away. don’t get involved. this is not my concern.

but it is…you feel it in your gut, the ache, the pain. the well. the tender-pained well. you touch more than a surface. I cannot look away, even if…but you do not want to. you see her for where she is…the tattered threads at the end of her left coat arm, the scraped lip, the eyes that open too wide for just a second…then close to protect…you are near her, she makes no move to look up. you can hear her breathing. you can feel her breath. like stale tuna. you want to look away. you want to escape, you want to find time again. where is time? it is nowhere. she is here and you cannot look away, because she is pleading. but there are no words in her eyes. so you walk, and turn to look, and the figure is not there…she is walking away.

….and you drive back into the sunshine, four grocery bags on the back seat.

as night invites himself in, the lights dim, and you find yourself yawning in the mirror. I have bags under my eyes. my eyes. you notice the gray hair on your shoulder, and wipe it off. time slows. you see beyond the mirror. you see her sitting on that bench, the coat, the arm. you see her walk away, never turning back to look. but you look. in your dream now. in the waking night. in your thoughts now.

I cannot forget.

and as you lay down, curled up in blankets, all alone, you pray…because it is all you can do. and somewhere in the distance, separated by space, not by time, another figure awake on her bed…unseen tears on her face…

in a microsecond of time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

in the void of time

the world is cold, and unafraid,

but that world won’t let you go

the weight of my hands on this clod of dirt

as i stand before your throne

it’s not the Hill of Tara nor a piece of my mind

but a picture of you going home….

warmth, rush over me

hide me in the nothing 

the everything, the all you are

in the void of time………..

finger to tablet, lips to screen

you can kiss it a million times

before these eyes see another flower like this

they will be digging them inside my mind

and as the fierce wind blows, and the fire grows

there’s a silence of a different kind…

warmth, rush over me-

hide me in the nothing,

the everything, the all you are…

in the void of time…………………….

warmth, rush over me-

hide me in the nothing,

the everything, the all you are…

in the void of time

the edge of something greater

He asked me if i was taking pictures of the backpack trail…

“Yes,” i said, scanning the map.

He studied something inside the posting board…where maps, rules and regulations, and various other government printed fodder suffocated, unable to breathe the moderate breeze skipping across the dock parking lot.

“I was looking for a trail map,” I admitted, though not in chronological, nor priority, order.

“Nice day.”

“You could say that.”

Quickly in the car, quickly down the drive, and out again to a table- picnic table- sitting at the edge of the lake. No trail here. No signs here. Only the feel of something greater…pulling at the tides of my heart. I sat. Alone with the sound of the waves, the wind, and a pounding in my head..

As when spring arrives suddenly, so the hardwoods faded across the water. The chill would come, and fires at this side would light the night with warmth. But none would ever be this warm again.

Looking behind me, my inquisitor saddled up like a pack animal, herding with four or five others, as they made their way for the far parking lot edge where the backpack trail resumed northward toward the lake’s end. They filed into the thicket, but like a run on sentence.

They vanished, just as a boat outfitted with senior citizens veered south, entering my camera view…

and like college students out for a weekend party, they squealed and exclaimed in the unintelligible language only a suddenly-going-senile crowd might understand.

timelessness washed over the shore, and over me, and I bathed in it, washed in it, and dried off in the wind. memory etched in my soul, it was time to move on. time to get back to work. more time to pursue the sweat of your brow, longing for another moment of timelessness, on the edge of something greater.

bookends part 3

In the meantime of the day, when the clock just doesn’t quite strike a primary number, Albert assumed a cup of Java into his routine. It sat before him, it sat beside him. It even sat between his legs. But when the clock struck four, the cup sat empty, save for a few charred remains of the day.

And so our common man took his common seat among the passengers aboard the yellow train for the north. And here, as he fiddled with his laptop zipper, our little man counted. Three, four, five…six- fields filled with a ripe brown that reminded him of his cereal.

New Forever Flakes…crispy even with a bowl of milk. The finest breakfast you’ll ever have…

“I say, do you mind?” a voice insisted, leaning forward.

“I do not.” And with that, Albert handed over a section resembling the Financial Times. He smoothed the front page, then folded it aright.

“Thank you.”

“No. Please don’t mention it.”

They stared and he stared back. He fiddled with the zipper, flipped his wrist- still not Five. A tray came forward, launched somewhere behind him, rolling.

“I say, a cup of that,” the voice demanded.

Stop the bleedin’ cart! Stop the bleedin’

“And you, sir?”

“The orange fizzy- you know.”

But before she could gather his euros, Albert twisted the bottle and drank a gulp. It burned with satisfaction, wiping away the dry coffee within his mouth…

“Best pay…”

“Yes. Thank you,” he managed.

Albert sat with his nose downward.

An unintelligible mumble squawked through the dingy speakers.

They’re drunk again. I swear it…I’ll tell Izzy. She’ll tell her brother, and then-

“Nice day?”

And who are you, you little thing? Can’t be more than twenty. Pretty though. If I were your father, I wouldn’t be letting you on trains-

“I didn’t want to bother you- but, you look sad.”

What a deduction! She’s a genius. Sad? I had my Lucozade, why would I be sad? Would you be sad if you had your Lucozade every workday on the train home? 

“Sorry…”

“No…it’s all right,” Albert managed. “I’m quite happy. Brilliant in fact.”

And then, this dark eyed female actually smiled. I know, I know. She’s but twenty or twenty one I’d say, but…

“I’m Tessa.”

“Al…Albert,” he creaked.

I hate to admit it, but she reminded me of someone. Now you may as well know that I enjoyed her company, just as I enjoy your company as you read this. But- and this is a serious but- she meant nothing to me. Alive in her presence- yes, but not a few sods burning the night away. I may think of you, dear reader, and ponder, what do you think of me? 

“Savage!

All pretense lost, she launched out like a submarine. Her vocabulary was attrocious. Simply attrocious.

“Like you’re a real one, aren’t ya?”

She took a breath. Did I hear a wheeze?  

“Real what?”

“Sexy beast. What- God, you must be forty. But- my mam, she’d kill for a look at you.”

I swear I felt my-

“Do you mind? I’m trying to sleep!”

The Voice, interrupting this precious girl. Can you imagine? And, he smelled of brie. I know. I know- brie- is there any worse smell than that? A toilet perhaps?

“Yer a devil of a man,” Albert fumed. “You might sit elsewhere.”

The Voice rose to meet him. He reeked as his breath approached. But as he leaned forward to step out into the corridor…he saw it. A single old photo. Fallen on the floor. His shoe went to cover it, but Albert had seen it. The Voice shrugged, then scooted the picture farther back under the table.

“Your girl?”

He looked away. There was no more need to quiet him. He stared out the window.

I reached under the table with my own limb and pulled it backward. Reaching down, I held it firmly in my grasp…but not soon enough. Not when the dark eyed girl saw the image…

XXX  XXXX  XXX

I withheld part 2, as it is brewing in Museland, like a peppermint tea- strong but purposeful. I confess this is great fun, but I fear it is more serious an endeavour than I intended. Now it means something to me.

Again, I’d like your comments, insight, reactions, philosophies…