Inspiration?

[Tref]

Originally Posted by Eliza Hodgkins 1812

and inspired by my filthy glasses, the lenses of which never seem to stay clean...

Tortoise Shell Negotiators ...

Yer words skate like the finga's of Vince Guaraldi.

[Tref]

Originally Posted by Tref

Yer words skate like the finga's of Vince Guaraldi.

Whateverthehellthatmeans.

[blueerica]

So the topic should be A Rewarding Task, but quite frankly, I can't think of anything. Could such a simple theme be so difficult? I suppose so.

There are a number of rewarding tasks; those that the very task is it’s own reward, those that you get a reward for upon completion (a bounty, some might say), and those which have rewards only in knowing that they’re checked off some arbitrary list I’ve made up. (Oh, I have many!)

For me, the most rewarding of tasks usually fall in the first category. Instant gratification, and most everyone, I think, would take that option. Drawing, though it has been so long since I’ve done it for pleasure, is a task that fits within those parameters. But, what’s even better about that task is that the final result, the end product, becomes a reward matching or even surpassing the reward of the doing.

Completion holds its own sweet reward, does it not? Sometimes – okay, most of the time – I over-analyze my finished works, be they writings or drawings, and the reward diminishes as I ruminate over missed strokes and missed words. The worst, for me, is the spraying of fixative over fine layers of dust, finalizing it, only to notice an oversight in shading or landscaping. It’s nice that Little Red Riding Hood now looks as though she is prancing off a cliff, instead of into a beautiful, full forest. (i.e. more than the first few rows of trees, Erica!)

OR – The post that goes through, as my right hand and index finger clicks (so gently) the submit button. A flash of panic as in my mind’s eye, I see the mistake I made. Misspeaking, misspelling, or otherwise misrepresenting what should have been a great post, idea, poem (Oscar Wilde once said “A poet can survive anything but a misprint.”). Hit the Q-edit button! It might not help me before someone might lay eyes on what I’ve said, what mistakes I’ve made. OH! Why am I so hard on myself?







But I must say – completing THIS task, writing about rewarding tasks – is completed, and the reward is mine!


When’s the next topic coming, CP?

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

The Plumber

When I drive by Victorian houses with my friend Suzette, she always squeals in delight about how beautiful the design is and how friendly the paint colors. I smile at her because I'm hoping to cop a feel later, but inside I'm screaming at her. Those old houses are like beautiful young virgins with harpy, old woman heart, bone and muscle. Old houses like that are rotting from the inside out. They're made up to look real nice but inside they began dying ages ago. Lead pipes in the walls swilling water back and forth. Termites. Mold in the attics. Water in the basement. Disgusting.

I'll tell you right up front that I don’t do anything for free. It's true you don't always have to give me money. In fact I prefer you don't. I hate money. Money is sullied paper; you can't even use it for writing. It's a waste. Usually I’m looking for payment in kind, a trade of sorts, but I’ll take money when necessary. Like if I need to take my dog to the vet and the vet doesn’t need any work done, I’ll have to pay him, so someone will have to pay me. No exchange of goods or services that time. But normally I prefer to work on trade. That seems the more American thing to do; peaceful Indian and Pilgrim style like they taught us when I was a kid. None of this “true” crap. I prefer my Thanksgivings extermination free and I don’t care if it’s a lie. I’ll take a pretty lie over an ugly truth (stupid Victorian houses aside), and I always got straight A’s in my history classes so my teachers must have felt the same way.

My father says I’m a communist fvck, but he’s a fvck period, so why do I care? I love a hard day’s work and when I’m offered payment in kind, it feels more like a present than payment, like a big fvcking thank you tied up in a velvet bow. There’s no one who can do a job so well as you can, pal! I like it when they call me pal.

So that we’re clear, full copper re-pipe – no problem. But I don’t ever want to pay for a beer in your establishment ever again, and if your business folds before I’ve had my Miller’s worth you will owe me, and I’ll have that in writing. You won’t have to pay me a dime but your wife might have to agree to weed my garden for the next two years to cover your end of the bargain. Your garden always looks so nice.

I would like that, his wife weeding in my garden. She’s got a deliciously fat rump. I wonder what her face would look like twisted in pleasure.

I’m a good plumber and I will be compensated for my services. I’ll unclog your drains and I’ll pull out your nasty clumps of wet hair for an unseemly amount of money. It’s amazing the money people will cough up to avoid having their gag reflex tickled. Old Ms. Miles at 340 Lemon Place pays me fifty dollars just to unclog a toilet. I don’t think it’s healthy to be afraid of your own sh*t. I read somewhere that if your sh*t smells foul it’s because you’re not eating the right foods, and your body is slowly rotting from the inside. At its worst your sh*t should smell like moldy flowers, a rank bouquet. Stick your head in the throne and take a whiff sometime. It’s key to understanding your own health.

Another thing, check for floaters. Poo should float at the top of the bowl for a few seconds before sinking to the bottom. It should also be a light brown color and smooth. It should break up as it hits the porcelain bottom. If it is dark brown and bulbous, you need to eat more fiber. If it’s green, you probably drank too fvcking much with me at the bar last night. And if it’s black, you’re pipes are seriously clogged. You’ll need a good plumber. Someone who got rid of their gag reflex years ago by dangling his head off of a bed, opening his mouth in a yawn, and staying that way for hours. I read somewhere that this is how porn stars get rid of their gag reflexes.

I did some work out at a hydrotherapy facility once, you know, colonics. That was a big job. Too big for their bank account, I guess, cause when I asked them for a colonic machine they were retiring in exchange for my services they said no problem and we sealed the deal with a sweaty handshake. Her hand was sweating, not mine. The machine needed a little bit of work, but I’m a talented guy and I got that machine working in no time.

I’m a stickler about good pipes. Without good pipes, you’ve got rot and death, cholera and cancer. The stink of unwashed human skin fills the air instead of the smell of freshly baked bed or laundry drying on a line. Your plumbing goes and it’s like you’re living in the 18th Century again. Human stink can take the sunshine right out of the air. So it’s my advice to you to always go with copper and to always include enough fiber in your diet. Avoid cheap products like Drano and drink plenty of water. Properly maintain your plumbing, my friends, and the reward is in all the money and services you’ll save not having to call on a guy like me. We don’t come cheap, men of my caliber. I’ll plumb the sewers of your cities and bodies - it’s what I love to do - but I hear my exchange rate is turning positively Faustian.

Still, should you ever need me, here’s my card. You’ll notice my number is toll free.

[blueerica]

^^ Aud ^^

You rock my literary world!

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Cats and Kits, such sweet reads! I myself had to bow out of this week's challenge. Sad, but true.

Onward and upward! It's Thursday again, time for a new topic. This time, just a single word.

Judge.

Have fun, back later, and this time I think I can come up with something.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Originally Posted by blueerica

^^ Aud ^^

You rock my literary world!

Thank you, Erica. I always appreciate your support. My best cheerleader! I only wish I could go back in to fix up the grammar in places, but I can't seem to find an edit function right now. Ah, well.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

And Then There Was

Who am I to judge?

Well, for starters, I’m God, Creator of the Universe and the infinite space beyond that is unknowable even to me. I am the omnipotent being who breathed life into all things living, He who wound you up and let you go, and it is only natural for something ticking to one day stop. An ant doesn’t die without my knowledge, though its death does not require my consent. When a tree falls alone in a forest, I hear it because I am the tree. I am the ant. I am your heartbeat and the pauses in between.

You are me and I am you and together we can never be lonely, and God (hah!), do I wish I could feel lonely now and again, like in the good ole days of dark and quiet. I wouldn’t mind a place of my own again, where my lungs don’t have to share your air and my thoughts are not mingled with the pale echo of your rambling prayers.

I would like to experience a dream that isn’t filled up with your symbolism.

What I need is a Fortress of Solitude. Superman had the right idea. Superman knew what it was like to be a part of mankind and still be set apart. When you’re set apart, say, because you’re worshiped and held to impossible standards, and are expected to rush in and save the day all the time, it would be nice to have a place where you could be by yourself, wouldn't it? I remember too well what it was like in the dark and quiet before that first day.

In the beginning there was the Void and there was me. I’m a bit clumsy but usually pretty careful. However, that day I stood up too quickly and cracked my head against the Void – THWACK – and felt pain for the first time, and for the first time I spoke, “Ow, God dammit! I can’t see a damn thing here. Light. LIGHT!”

There’s a thrill you get when naming a pet or child. Some people even name their cars. That thrill you feel is the final tuning fork vibrations of my own first thrill.

There it was in front of me – Life – and I was responsible for it. You are all just copies of copies of copies of a copy that was once the first spark.

I never wanted to be a single parent. Everybody is always staring at me at P.T.A. meetings, blaming me for everything that’s gone wrong. Let’s pretend for a minute that you don’t all have free will, and I’ll pretend that it’s my responsibility to take your suggestion boxes seriously.

Okay, your minute is up.

I may have built the thing but I never offered a warranty or a maintenance contract. Everything, in time, needs a bit of upkeep, a bit of renovation and upgrade. But I’m old, really old, and rejuvenation is the responsibility of the young. Haven’t I given you everything you need to take care of yourself? Wasn’t that expectation clear? You were made in my image. You are all designers and architects. It was dark so you invented candles and then you invented light bulbs. We are no different. In fact, sometimes I wonder if it was you who invented me. This thought makes me shudder so I will try to ignore it.

I wouldn’t have given you the kingdom without the means to govern it, but it’s not my fault you allow Camelot to fall again and again. You were given the potential for progress. I began you in the earliest of stages and let you evolve slow enough to actually learn. You were dust and comet tails. You were single-celled organisms. You were apes who became crafty, craftier, craftiest! If I had no intent I certainly gave you a beginning that could not have unfolded any other way.

There is no fault in the design, my lovelies, and therefore no fault in the maker. You may have been an accident, the result of a bumped crown, but you were a happy accident and you were perfect. You are perfect.

I cannot absolve you because I have not judged you, even though I could if I wanted to. If I could make you I’m pretty sure I could “Alt/Ctrl/Delete” just as easily, but I see no point, though I wonder if I might finally get some peace and quiet again. But to find you wanting is to find myself wanting, and like I’ve already said, you are me and I am you, and we are perfect, warts and all. Don’t mess with perfection. You can spend a lifetime ignoring your allotment of years in favor of what awaits you, but I’ll tell you now that it’s still dark here. I gave you all the light I had lo those many years ago and I’m still bumping my head against that which I cannot see.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Judge.

To survive in nature, one must judge.
Will this particular
item/experience/person
be helpful or harmful?
So ingrained in our brains
This need to categorize
Another instinct often in the wrong context.

Judgement is attached in the most unlikely of places.
Judge an object, will you?
Capabilities don't equal villiany
Money and weaponry and knowledge
Tools without moral stance
Yet hated or exalted as if they've sense of their own
As if they bring with them the deeds done in their name.

It is hard to resist judgement.
What could be easier?
Judgement is completion
Finality, no more work to be done
This is this and that is that
Simple path flecked with lightning
Dirt stamped to hardness with constant use.

Many say they don't judge.
Can they see how they lie?
I see myself rationalize blind dismissal
While damning those that judge me
I'm smart enough to see my weakness
not wise enough to eliminate it.

To be honest, never have I met anyone
Living truly from event to event.

It would be a meet with a saint.

[€uroMeinke]

I judge you everyday
And I am never fair
Because I always put you in context
With what has happened in my past
Even when you weren’t there.

I’m much too lenient
When I think of the good times.
I overlook your cruelty, your anger,
The shortcomings that everyone else sees
Perhaps I’m a fool to forgive so much.

Yet I’m also stubborn and vindictive
When I think of the bad times
I avenge my hurts with you
Punishing you for the tears
I’m accidentally reminded of

Victim of my moral ambivalence,
There are no appeals with me
Though my judgments often vary
Issuing pardons and condemnations
For the same crimes.

And so I stand before you,
The defects of my own judgments bared
Asking you for forgiveness and understanding
Wondering about your own ambivalence
And whether you’ll be fair.