Ponderances, Thoughts:

Jean Cocteau

I could be a Huxtable. I could be delusional, like someone that thought that John Wayne was the “greatest white male” that “saved the world.”

How’s that for delusion? Illusion. Conclusion. Quoting a text, particularly several words or sentences at a time, tends to hold a kind of

comfort inside of me. Quotes, like two claws, like some kind of security-blanket, putting more emphasis on the text in-between. A ‘guardian,’

perhaps, lighting up the phrase like hands holding candelabras at the entrance hallway of a castle (ala Cocteau’s Beauty and The Beast).

The ‘unquote’ is not, and never will be, a dead end. I would like to suggest sentences in Ghost-bustering references to the pack of fools

that become hen-pecked by guilt after taking a road trip vacation with one’s parents and “calling out” their countless mistakes to them afterwards

in ways that would’ve made one wonder if it were practiced before-hand. “Dad, this path you lead makes me feel awkward,

and it surprises me that it doesn’t make you feel awkward too. Your repetitive insight and complaints about gold-hoop earrings

that Mom wears makes me feel annoyed, like a swimmer’s ear infection.” “Mom, why does your lipstick have to look hooker-glaucus?

If you whisper throatily to another stranger again, I am going to absolutely scream. By the way, tea and muffins don’t really go that well together, do they?”

I stood looking out of the dining-room window, Doritos in hand, counted thirteen trees while the neighbor’s actions appeared to be

‘possibly violent’ against the dog that was frolicking in the yard. Just as anger can blow out the lamp of the mind, so can heavy drinking.

Nature, today, as green as “original” Palmolive. Liquidambar styraciflua blooms, reminds me of cauliflower, falls heavily to the ground.

I never see them fall, but witness them in many locations. A small white Hentzia palmarum jumps upon a bloom that has fallen

on the back of my car. I watch as it watches me. I sneeze three times. I had a dream last night that I found a tiny turtle.

It was only about a half of a pinky’s size. I remember seeing its eyes open and close, very weakly. It was lethargic-acting, but I

tried not to worry, thinking that perhaps it had just been born, and this is how all turtle’s act when they are born. I kept thinking about

what to do with it. I thought of water, a tank to put it in and food to feed it. I heard someone around me, although unseen, say: “...they also eat mashed potatoes.”

Making Model Embryos