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Father’s Day is June 17th this year. It has been five years since my father’s death.

He died on the 22nd day of the 6th month of the year. I was born on the 26th day of the 2nd month of the year.

This number connection haunts me a little bit. Every time I see the number 6 and two 2’s, I think of him.

He was exceptional at math, and I never was.

We were not very close. I loved him and he loved me, though I never felt like I lived up to his expectations. I felt like I was always a little too slow for him.

He died a slow death.

A couple of weeks before his death I finally got the courage to confront him with my feelings.

By this time, he could no longer reply.

When I bent down to kiss him that day he struggled with all his will to kiss my cheek in return. I couldn’t remember the last time he had done that.

I knew in that instant my words had sunk in, and he wanted me to know that he loved me.

Now, I’m left wondering whether he chose to die on a day that would keep us connected.

The letters have fallen off the page. The syntax and punctuation fled long ago.

They are now echoing loudly in the distance.

The pages are all unbounded and scattered in the wind. Everything had been numbered.

This might be useful and mean something to someone who knew the counting system.

Now all the imaginary characters in all the unbounded stories can write their own future, as they create their present.

The universe has no copyright laws. Individual fame gets washed away, and all the bits and fragments will recombine somewhere else in someone else’s mind at some other time.

A new thing will be created. It is intelligence transformed.

Memory of the old thing still exists  somewhere in the past. The trail is overgrown, most likely lost.

The new future is being written as I write. Time marches on.

 

To never grow up means to have non-stop flights of fancy.

“Peter Pan” boys revel in their freedom.

Girlfriends are disposable. The ocean is full of fish.

The boys cast their lines to see what wondrous creations they can catch.

It is all for play, no deep thought is reached or given.

Their true love is the state of boyhood. Their desires are all acts of a physical nature, from arousal to relief.

Feelings for others is not required.

Always on the move, always out for pleasure, always gone before they have to reckon with any consequences.

These boys range in age from young to old. The title “boys” applies to their mental state more than anything else.

 

P.S. — This post was inspired from reading tabloid magazines while my daughter got her nails done this afternoon.

 

Mother’s Day is not a happy day for all. Some have memories of being abandoned or  neglected by their mothers.

Some have problems from being over-mothered.

Some mothers are accidental and some are planned.

Some mothers had no choice, and some were forced.

Nature can give or take mothership away. Some grandmothers are given a mother extension.

The Holy Spirit seeks to comfort those left out of love. This comfort is often pushed away.

I’m a mother with a heavy load, and I’ll never be a grandmother.

The Holy Spirit hovers around me trying to help and humor me. I’m trying hard to have an open heart.

I’m lucky in that my mother was a good one.

 

 

I’m under the weather and having dark thoughts caused by all the media madness that surrounds us.

One story has children being killed, starved, and denied access to basic human needs.

The next story has a celebrity shaving his head. The juxtaposition is thoughtless to say the least.

I need to turn it off.  Our human obsession with rubber-necking is ruining us all.

I stop to eat some pears in syrup. I’m waiting for my head cold and sore throat to pass. My leg is slowly improving.

I’m anxious to get back to work to hopefully help some children.

The days of summer are ahead, and lengthening my media-free time is my goal.

My thoughts are turning lighter, though I’d almost welcome a sun eruption to wipe away all the vanity that passes on our screens, and this includes my own.

I have to focus on all the good that technology brings to us. I have to have faith that the good can conquer evil.

Channels of power control our human flow, our exchanges, and our lead positions.

The masses below trust and follow. All struggling to make a key connection.

Money is king, greed is the engine, and hopes of a better life fuel the upward flow of bodies.

Bodies that are willing and ready to be the moving parts.

Zooming ahead, racing forward, cutting corners, and leaving tons of waste behind.

Their tracks cut deep, mowing down obstacles in their way. All is done to reach the sky.

Have they forgotten that food comes from the land? Maybe, they have plans for lab grown food or pills, or maybe they don’t need food.

The oxygen thins at high elevations. Do they wear masks?

I’m immersed, entwined, entangled with the Earth.

Engulfed in its ethos, sunk in its mud, swayed by its winds.

Raindrops are on my head with the Sun holding court behind the clouds.

I’m a mere mortal hypnotized by all the raw power surging around me.

My body tremors. I will not relent. The blood in my veins was born fighting.

The history of who I am and where I came from is embedded in every fiber of my being.

I don’t want to let my predecessors down.

My body aches, my tears stream down. My morale has been savaged.

I stand alone, and yet, I stand.

Now that I’m living in real time, all the maladies of age are coming round.

My left leg is giving me trouble. My doctor ordered a hip x-ray. Everything looks fine.

I might need physical therapy. Epsom salt soaks is what I’m settling for right now.

On top of this, I lost my voice this past weekend. Congestion and mucus are messing things up.

I keep assuring my daughter that I will live. Though, to be honest, her need of constant care is wearing me thin.

In the past when my stress piled up like this, I’d turn to the numbers, convinced I could rewrite the code of my life. This approach just made things worse.

The other day the identity property of addition got stuck in my mind. Something plus nothing equals something was my take-away.

The good news is that I’m back where I started, which is not such a bad place to be.

Sitting outside in the sun helped my spirit. I would have liked to have gotten down in the dirt to pull weeds, but my leg will need a little more time to heal.

I don’t know why I titled this entry — Out of Sync: Never on Cue. It just felt right to me. There was no need for reason.

As the breezes stream past me, feelings of loss can still reach inside and twist my heart.

All the reasons for my choices are not clearly rooted; sometimes impulse had the upper hand.

No matter how hard I try to keep spite from rearing its ugly head, it still can strike me out of nowhere.

Yesterday is gone, and focusing on today will hopefully dim any regrets obstinately holding on.

I pray that optimism will pave the road in front of me, and consideration of others will help guide my choices.

In the end, I will not run away. I will stand up for myself.

I never knew that the word ‘poach’ could mean to sink into mud until I looked the word up today.

I’ve always associated the word with eggs. A poached egg is one that has been cooked either above a simmering liquid or cooked within it.

The word can also mean to gain access to something illegally by trespassing on someone else’s property.

Reading the definition gave me a creepy feeling.

My husband’s nickname for himself has always been ‘Mud’. However, I have never called him this.

The madness that I have been pulling myself away from these past several years definitely had given me a feeling of having my mind and soul trespassed upon.

The old French word ‘pochier’ means ‘to enclose in a bag’.

Thoughts of being some kind of bag or egg or egg sac toyed with my mind during my years of paranoia.

Now, it all seems so laughable, and yet, the question of whether I really was a poached egg did cross my mind as I read the definition.

The weirdness and absurdness of it all leaves me no alternative but to shrug it off, and force myself to get busy doing something else. Maybe forgetting it is the best solution.

It does not help matters that the letters of the word ‘poach’ adds up to 43, and the digits of my birthday, that is quickly approaching, adds up to 34.

I was saved when I realized that the word ‘grace’ also adds up to 34. I have decided that I will dwell with the idea of aging with grace, and forget about all the negativity.