scribbles

(a scene of three boys sitting side-by-side like the Wise Three Monkeys)

The tree monkeys giggled at their own antics. The first primate, in a dark blue t-shirt and shorts, covered his eyes, bored. Next to him sat two hysterical chimps bursting at the seams. The middle one of the bunch, the red shirted one, tried to contain himself but could not mask his cheery eyes; his face aglow. The third one, with elbows on bent knees, was defeated by his own hilarity. It was hard for the threesome, minus one, to keep straight faces. This shameless riot was caused, not by their infectious laughter, but by the poor soul behind the camera – a diminutive man speaking a choppy talk and maintaining an appealing grin; never keeping his bobble head steady - the mocked tourist with scrunched-up eyes. Such wise (evil) boys!

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(a scene of ballerinas back stage before their performance)

Adorned in pristine bell skirts and white floral headbands, the ballerinas assembled behind a massive stage curtain, lowered. Two stood coolly, veering their eyes off-stage. Around them an assemblage of angelic dancers mingled in anticipation - bent torsos, loose shoulders, and hair parted straight. It was grace at-the-ready. At the forefront of the class, a reflective prima ballerina. Her mind, fluent: each step, flow of motion and posture unfolding in thought. Her focus now in-tuned; her initial pose set when the giant curtain began to rise to an ovation of theatergoers...

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Dead End Street

How many people do you know who live on a dead end street? I sometimes wonder if the person who coined that phrase “Dead End Street” actually lived on a dead end street. Our house, if you could see it through all the trees, rested on such a block. Visiting a dead end street would be like visiting the dead at the cemetery. For those unaware, such houses cast their own entity, like a foul stench. Some days I feel my house alive as if the walls were collapsing upon themselves or moving inward on me like a vice.

Sometimes I would feel that I was born to die in this dreadful place. It's drab, gloomy and stinks of mildew in the mornings.

It is a dump. The house I live in is a dump. Normal folks never live in a dump. Normal folks have gardens in their back yards, friendly neighbors, and fine plate settings. Normal folks would have brightly colored walls, a pool in the back and an embroidered framed cloth with the words, Home Sweet Home near a sunlit window. But oh no, nothing like that in my dump. In my dump not a single picture frame hangs on its walls. Not one lousy frame! Dump Bitter Dump would be the words defining my house.

Now If a solicitor would come calling, our listless Fred, our brave mutt, would hardly bring alarm to such a daring cretin. Fred would simply amble up to the fence, give you a long, lazy look-over before retreating back into the shadows...

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In death I was alive. An essence enveloped by a light of love. I felt as a babe in the caring, protective bosom of its mother. It was love eternal. A divine warmth carried me, in gentle, invisible hands, into a fantastic scene: before my eyes the roaring rage of the sun, fixed in the blackness of space, appeared in waves of orange-red flames. Above me a choir of sweet angelic voices seductively called for me to retire to my celestial home. At a distance an assemblage of familiar faces with fine white garments, stationed at the end of curved path, summoned me with outstretched arms toward a broad, towering threshold. At its ends, its massive gates were opened wide; supported on either side by two majestic pillars of exquisite gold, reaching high into the eternal obscurity of the universe...