The Clock...

Perhaps my clock is beating with the same rhythm as my body...slowing when I do.  For the past few days, my old ticktock has not been keeping time...now off by six and one quarter hours.  What does that mean?  It means squat to the reader, but the reader is not in my time nor my space as we would not fit.  Aye, there is only room for one and, unfortunately, the reader is not privy to my shoes nor am I privy to theirs. 

So, why does the ol’ Bulova Westminster keep my time?  That is the grand question that I keep drawing.  Is this life imitating art with a twist?  This whole clock shit reminds me of a Twilight Zone episode (S05E12 Ninety Years Without Slumbering) in which the old grandfather clock had to be wound to keep the owner alive.  If the clock were to stop, the owner would die.  Do you believe that? *giggle Actually, the old man came alive when the clock died as he spent his life tending to it as if his life depended on it.  Had his belief remained intact, he might have expired when it did. 

Since I do not have the same situation, I can only ponder the synchronicity it has with my being.  It must be a bitch to have to move one’s arms so slowly...slow enough to hurt...slow enough to have to withdraw the dead limbs and hold a quarter to the hour for longer than need be.   As I look at the clock’s face, I question the validity of MY time.   This clock does not have to be wound, but the batteries may not be fully charged...today.  Time flies, but chickens do not.  I did have salmon today. ~ Arachne ~ June 30, 2014 in the p.m.     

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Hunting Breakfast~

In a half conscious state of *morning a night’s sleep, I decided to approach breakfast.  No, I am not and was not the stealthy hunter approaching wild animals gathered by a watering hole, but it might as well have been.  Half baked and feeling a bit far from myself, but there nonetheless, I proceeded to occupy the blender with fruits, nuts, and whatnot.  To me, this is a usual point in my day - a point in which I make something to sustain myself, for what it’s worth.  Fully loaded, save for the spinach, I watched as the food processor/ blender, with its great angry teeth, decided to do a vibrational dance on my counter top. Vroom, vroom, vroom, vrrrrrroooom...The base was jumping around the surface like a punk in a mosh pit doing The Toxic Waltz.  More awestruck than fear struck, I watched as the glassed-in house rotated a few degrees to the right.  All the while, the roof pumped up and down with a crazy **loco-motive action/reaction resembling a semi’s stack pipe’s exhaust cap in motion.  Not for anything, I was thinking to myself, why does “it” have to fuck with me?  Why today?  Things like this only happen in the movies and they are staged, but then again, I felt like I was only playing the role of the watcher who would wonder and ponder the results.  I now sip the concoction that I call my breakfast as I write this noise.

 * For clarification purposes, I was not mourning a night's sleep per se.


**I know locomotive is one word, but in this case, the contraption had a bizarre unknown motive for its behavior/reaction to the mix or what have you.

I wonder what lunch has in store for me.

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