floundering, failing, forgiving — living
This, the last day of the dumpster fire year, I’ve begun to dismantle the Christmas decorations in my head, tidily putting them away. Before actually doing it, I’m using my alone time to sit robed at my desk before sunrise to jot down a few thoughts floating between the ears. The fact that I’ve had to use the bathroom several times should go without mentioning, but in the very real event that this is published months from now, we can all be sure of the reason for it.
Yesterday morning I used a snowblower for the first time in my…
A Stark Mystery
The taxi screeched to a stop in front of us. Helen and I climbed in, leaving the disheveled, uneaten pizza behind with any hopes of another slice. I was going to be hungry, but only slightly more important, Christmas was disappearing. We needed to crack this case, and the driver needed directions.
Just when I was going to ask, a bus careened through the intersection right in front of us. Believe or not and you will because this is part of the story, it was the Partridge Family bus again!
“Follow that bus!” I shouted at the driver.
We were…
A Not Entirely Rabid Wholesome New Crush
The very first season of Survivor premiered in 2000 and has been surviving twice a year ever since, all of which I had never watched, ever.
But like all you people I used to know, binge watching any program that promises a tiny glimmer of entertainment has become as normal a routine in this household as sleeping. Sometimes I do both at the same time.
We have just finished Survivor Season 2 (after completing Seasons 28, 20, and 1 respectively), which is Colby’s debut on screen and into my heart once past the cornea stage. I make no apologies, the…
Part I
Not this many words, kids. You're welcome. Sorry?
Although none of you have found the magical love of reading (yet), I know you will one day cherish my words to you when I can longer be there as support, a guide or to listen. You may one day pick up my writings and letters (written to you) and feel, once again, my love — and perhaps it will keep the darkness from setting in.
You’re independent kids now, young adults. …
to Stupid Poetry
Unsophisticated, awkward
A gently awful poem
Clever, silly, nonsensical
Absurd poetry at home
"Comment on this post, then read and get engrossed. We’ll add you as a writer, your ego…
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I” tripped on my foot and fell into a tree
Traipsing and invariably tripping through the swamplands and dense forestry is what I do, it is who I am now.
There was a time, most of my life, where I hadn’t stepped into the wild, being content to take a few photographs from afar. After acquiring a hunter-fisherman husband in my late 30’s, I began following him on his excursions, a dedicated clumsy pack mule of sorts.
A stupid poem
Or tread water, or float randomly while swallowing microbes that will probably give you the runs.
Perched on the seat of the canoe, at a full stop in the shore’s sand, I mentally began operation extract. A mere few seconds later, the canoe tipped and I was dipped into the water like a large cone into a bowl of sprinkles.
Operation extract became fully clothed knee crawl struggle out of the cold muck. Thankfully, I had sleeved my phone to my chest, the only real casualties my pocketed earbuds and last remaining shred of dignity.
“You weren’t exactly moving, so I got out —I didn’t know it was going to tip!” …
The onset of psychosis.
I hold your hand and drive, the miles too long, too short. You speak to me your disordered, disastrous thoughts. I keep your words floating in the air between us.
“You have an aura of light, you are an angel that is love.”
“Then you can trust me, that I love you, that I will help you.”
“Yes.”
You speak to me your world, a world that I cannot see. Your eyes wild and dancing, far away from me.
Our minds can wreak such havoc, can defiantly destroy. Stay close, stay here my son, my beautiful boy.
Your hand in…
Hot Air and Memories
“Tell me a story from your childhood.” he said, his voice close to my ear as we lay enfolded in each other for the full thirty seconds before I move my body away.
“I can’t remember a thing.” I told him. He knows this is only partially true. I remember an assortment of things — of times when I was a child, encased in the clouds.
Me: “I was riding my yellow banana boat bike on my birthday, a bird pooped on my head.”
Him: “I’ve heard this before.”
Me: “Yeah, well its a good story.”
Breathing.
Me: “I was…
Laura Johnson
Yammering bits and some blathering. Humor is my first language, my second skin, and my hello.
