Observations of the Random Kind

Once again, I don't like my previous post, but have nothing of interest to write about. To improvise is to bullshit, and I can do that, anything, to push certain writing down a notch.

I have a notebook I carry around with me, always, every second, without exception. On the first page I've titled it as such:
Observations Of The
Human Watching Kind
~
Capture Of Personal
Fleeting Thoughts

Much like the start of this entry, in all my writing notebooks I have a starting 'explanation' page. I worry that if I don't put in a sub-clause title / reason for the writing, should I kick the bucket unexpectedly, my writings could be sorely and severely misinterpreted!

When I was young, Harriet the Spy was my hero, so I blame her for the Human watching. I can be anywhere, found scribbling little observations down at random. In a line for a movie, on a park bench, bathroom stall at Target, on the river bank, in a money bank. Doesn't matter, like a pistol in a holster on my hip, I'm always ready to fire down anything that catches my fancy. I was strolling through my notebook this morning and in my humble opinion, some of my observations are rather funny, some just weird, and some just quirky old me.
Today, I thought I would share a few recent notes...............

~ "My haircut is coldddddd honey" whined a man standing outside in line for hockey tickets in front of me. He did have a military short haircut, and it was quite cold outside, but he received no sympathy from the woman. She said, "It looks a hellava lot better short and I told you to wear a hat!"

~I witnessed a five alarm fire today and was amazed by the rainbow created by the fireman's water. Rainbow over fire, beautiful. I wonder if anyone else noticed.

~ The teenagers piled into the car, giggling from the nights dance festivities. I asked the required Mother questions. How was it? Are you all sober and free of illegal substances?  Did anything happen at the dance I wouldn't want to know, but your obligated to tell me? And with that final question all of them but Shelby laughed. Maintaining my hip, no one will get tossed in jail for telling me the truth rule, I pressed for explanation. Whispers and more giggling. Finally, one brave and bold teenie bopper stepped up and said, "Tonight a whole bunch of the boys nominated you as the official M. I. L. F.  of the 9th grade"
For once I found myself speechless, wordless and musical chords of the Mrs. Robinson theme song bounced ear to ear. Sweat pants and flannel for all future school functions. Shit. Shouldn't I get a tiara, a sash, or a bikini for that title?

~ This evening while reading Walt Whitman a new and refreshed sense of word loathing came over me. Once again, I abhor the word poet and poetry. He uses those words like a shield of supremacy and arrogant sword of importance. While I embrace the beauty of his word smithing, his use of the word poet, feels like a self indulgent abuse of purpose.

~ On Meeting Ben's (My Brother)  girlfriends Mother.
This is it, I've discovered the holy grail to all things insane. With her, the image of crazy cannot be ignored, denied or even guessed upon. The actual visual only compliments her insane aura.
With her erratic white hair defying the very notion we call gravity, the spastic arm movements and constant shifting on her heals I could have assessed a wildly quirky character. Nope, that wasn't all.

Her verbal talk came out fast and unpredictable, I could barely keep up, comprehend and understand half of what she was spewing forth. With the wild white hair, the spazzy body movements, the truck driver banter and constant foot movement I could easily give a whacko sticker to her...........

BUT............the creme de le creme, the icing on the psycho ward entrance fee, was the single roaming eye. That eye that constantly shifted it's gaze from nose to ear while her one controllable eye stayed firmly locked on my amazed gaze.

I could barely take the pressure of this meeting. I didn't know if I should fall to the ground in remorse over my wicked thoughts or laugh to the high hell. Political correctness sunk into oblivion. My compassionate side was frozen in bewilderment. And the writer in me etched every little detail in my thoughts for future use. To think I disregarded T*** when she warned me her Mom was 'different.'

If this new girlfriend makes it, I'm going to need something strong, really strong next Thanksgiving....................


"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."           ~Ernest Hemmingway