Sunday, July 31, 2016
They come in many forms; hiding behind closed doors keeping the worlds at bay, save for the four legged furry creatures who became their children of choice. Sometime they manage to keep things together. Litter boxes cleaned and cleared, the fuzz swept up by one of those rounding robo things offering a poor critter a short ride into the broken mantle hanging down from the wall.
For the unfortunate ones with no place to call their own, those of us civilized folks walk right past them in the park, trying our darnedest to not notice the ammonia permeating from the soiled garments covered in things I dare not dream of identifying. Eyes covered, head hung low we rush along our way without a thought as cold hands rub over fur for warmth.
They’re not all off of their rockers you know. They just really enjoy the company of beings who know when not to bother others just as they wish to no bother us. So call them what you will: Bitch don’t ever, no matter how tempted, call that one a crazy cat lady.
Planning always gets jinxed by that oven refusing to heat up and stay the temperature its set to. Anything 400 degrees and below... those foods suck the most to create. On those nights we're lucky if everything finishes in an hour, it usually takes two. Grumpily tummies often lead to grumbler evenings till the food reaches completion. I truly hate my oven.
Finally, I reach the road which winds upward towards the wall. Just ahead of me is Zainab. She has become a true leader for the warrior-women. She is our voice, our conscious and the central motivating factor in our drive for freedom from our watery prison.
Quietly I approach her and as I come closer to her, she swiftly turns around as if in preparation to defend herself from attack. Hastily, yet very succinctly, I offer the warrior-women greeting code that was established when we began this clandestine project,
“If your sister is your hairdresser…” Immediately she withdraws and responds with a smile, “Then you need no mirror.” Zainab then focuses and calls out, “Zakiyyah, is that you?”
“Yes, it is”, I happily respond -- grateful that she knows my name. We smile, turn and together, we continue walking toward the wall.
Joshua hadn't yet looked up from cleaning his nails. In fact, he had finished a full two and a half minutes before, but he kept his gaze carefully downward and fidgeted his fingers, maintaining the pretense. This was his common practice when he wished to avoid what he presumed would be an uncomfortable, or at the very least, annoying interaction with another human being. His true friends recognized this about him. Delano leaned back, apparently having abandoned even the hope that he might still seem to harbor any humility. He couldn't help it; being right was at the very core of his life's aspirations. He waited for some acknowledgment from the other man, who still seemed to be trying to get his nails clean. Joshua breathed once, deeply and stared briefly out the window. He knew Delano was prone to some weird notions but this whole business about the Gods in the garden hammock seemed pure piffle. Not quite dumb enough to be naive, not quite intentional to be absurd, it just hovered in the vast middle ground of plain, un-decorated idiocy. Like a foolish idea heard once and cherished without the benefit of reason; yet in his own words it has his direct experience that he had met and spoken with God, or at least A God, whom he had accidentally woken up from his nap right there in the garden hammock. Joshua considered monetarily an attempt to look directly at Delano. He decided ungracefully to just keep staring at the trees waving lazily outside. "That's bullshit," he said, rather blandly.