Mop Up (2)

“The thing about you newbies coming in here wanting to save the nation, is you are not too long from graduation, either from college or the public sector. You may have done great things, won some fights, started improvements, but this place is another country. The dangers here come hard and fast, without let up. The pressure is always on. The illusion of them and us soon dissipates, and one realizes all the training is inadequate. What is done here is about lives, every life depends on success within these walls. I have not seen any troglodytes slipping into the sewers, and I mean you no disrespect. I hear good things about you, Jacob. There is crossing at the borders all over this estate. I have put in the time, it has cost me dearly. I can be your friend, or I can fade from your presence, I hoped we could find some common ground. I might be of assistance as I wish someone would have been to me when I came in with the bright shine of fool’s gold,” said the shorter man, his voice sincere and understanding, “By the way, I am Thomas. If you like, we can go get some supper or dinner if you prefer.”

Jacob smiled, “Steel, that is a category I was not expecting of you, Thomas. You are the first person I engaged, and I see I was led precisely where I should go. Forgive me if I blasted like a cannon. I am not like most of these politicians. Also, I have a lot to learn. College is not life and corporations are blood-sucking leeches. Aw, hell, the military is not even what it seems, it is a great place to lose hopes and dreams. See the world, from one tin can to the next, and come home to find a family different from who you left behind. I lost a marriage that way, missed too many funerals to count. The man took most of me and no one understood, all in all, I only wanted to do good. I am here to put paid to some debts, serving with all my soul. God is my pilot, but I find He does not say much, and I could use an ally. Supper is fine, Georgia was my home once upon a time.”

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Well, I guess I will ride while I can. Can we say, “Unexpected.”

Mop Up

“Why are these people in positions of power?” Asked the gray-suited man with a crew cut, wire-framed glasses that show-cased his aquamarine eyes, and a body so draped that it spoke of frequently missed meals.

“They were elected, then elected again and again,” said the short solid man with shoulder-length locks, deep brown eyes, and a smile sliding into a smirk. His suit was some designer everyone recognized when the name was spoken.

“Well, sir, I would say it is time to dump the yellow bucket before anyone mops and fill a red one with fresh hot water with plenty of suds. The floor our nation rests upon must be pristine if anyone is to accomplish things of lasting worth,” the reedy man said decisively.

The fashionable man shook his head, “You know money has the scent of delight even if it is dirty. You try to scour these halls, you best be prepared for a formidable fight.”

“The people who dispatched me believe I have the credentials, experience, fortitude, hardware, and insight to do whatever it takes to make this august institution a better one. I have a history of doing what is necessary to never disappoint anyone’s trust,” light sparkled comet-like off his lenses, “If you intend me trouble, I advise you go back to your swamp. We need no troglodytes around here. The days of parasitic prey upon the public are now coming to an end. I mean to start something so revolutionary there will be talk of the Spirit of Washington rising again.”

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

I wish I would work with this, because it is a good start. It is doubtful I will though. I like beginnings, I can create them easily. Middles are impossible.

 

Unspecific Thoughts*

There are days when writing feels like the first day in a new school, dressed in homemade clothes, and being beaten up when we arrived at the bus stop. It is not easy to walk into the big crowded room and have a tallish stranger direct us to a seat, sometimes with the warmth of a December snowfall.

We take out our notebook, the same one we used two years running already, but the paper is new, even if our Moms tell us that we should more often erase instead of beginning new pages. Some of the kids make signs at us like we are monkeys at the zoo, and others just smirk and focus on their desks.

We settle in to learn, knowing it is why we must be humiliated like this again and again.

Ah, forward, today we approach the page, and we grovel humbly seeking a word, subject, name, anything to give us a start. We know we can do it because we have written countless times before, but nerves may set in reminding us, no one has to like it. We try to smile, it does not matter, but who does not love adulation? Do not all of us want our spot in the bright lights with waves of applause?

Maybe we dart outside the lines and try to go out of bounds, to preserve the effort, to stop the clock. The clock that often yells, “Time is running down. Will we busy ourselves figuring out all the things we must?” New methods, forms, addresses, compatriots, styles, genres, and we are so overwhelmed, the words hide in the mental caverns and will not show up.

Today, we would skip, paint, cook, vacuum, scrub tile, anything to avoid writing because even when we leave it, running away, the work is us. We cannot divorce ourselves because we were born to it. It is as real as our birthday and will follow us to the moment of death. Writing is inside, outside, besides, over, under, around, everywhere, everyone, how, what, when, who, where, if, but, and by now, it should be known, writing never lets us go. It may be unwilling to care for us, but it is inevitable, we shall care for it, and there will be no escape.

Celebrate, celebrate those lines we drew out of the well, ones we harnessed that they mean our meaning and present our thought. It is hard, words are obscure, can be obnoxious in their games of hide-&-seek. Every line, sentence, is a victory, a hard-fought battle won.

Never Give Up! Allow no gags around our thoughts. Never drown our heads in buckets of apathy. Show up, dig deep, overcome obstacles, persist, because the world needs the words of the thinkers, poets, novelists, biographers, memoirists, journalists, artists, those who are attentive beyond the surface and dance with the indivisible invisible. Conscious thought is in high demand throughout the world, in our land. We must be courageous and keep going even when our hearts become frosted with feelings of cold. Light the fire and go, go, be the ones who experience, hear, know, see, and stand forever for freedom for even the least. Lift love a banner of work, over every land, and all peoples. Be a voice, authentic and meaningful, in this and all times.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

20170214_Lady with Cancer Tattoo_Pastels

It Ain’t Over

In December of 2013, I needed a watch. I had a Samsung Galaxy S3, but I have always needed time at hand because I do not do time. I ordered an Invicta from Amazon, and it was damaged when I got it. I saw something somewhere that the Samsung Gear would be released in December. It would have a pedometer.

At this point, I weighed in over 200 pounds. I found out the date of the Gear release knowing it would sync with the S3, and I went that day to Best Buy and got one. That changed my life.

I used the pedometer and an app called MyFitnessPal and journaled in a notebook each day. By the end of 2014, I lost over sixty pounds.

Losing my mother and my beloved Hope caused extreme stress and threatened all I had done. More recently, I have fallen back into my binging due mostly to depression and feeling less than worthy. I have gained some weight. Now when I need support most, MyFitnessPal has begun predatory pop-up ads. I will not deal with advertising. I took the app, after almost seven years, off my devices. I still walk, lots of days over 20,000 steps. The pain I experience makes this a trial.

Now, I am not counting calories for the first time in ages. I know what to do. I am trained. So, I am working this in a new way. If I can avoid the binging, I will lose back down, but I am a sweet nut. Nutella, Airheads, Peppermint Patties, Hershey’s Chocolate, we could go on, binging is hard to give up.

Understand, I have worked so many programs since I was a teen. I know nutrition, I know exercise. Most of us do, the thing is staying stabilized emotionally so we can work the loss. Eating is comfort, consumption is companionship, food is the reward. This is a battle for our lives. Make no mistake, fat cripples, and obesity kills.

Today, I wanted to drive to Douglasville, go to Dairy Queen, and have a Large M&M Blizzard. I had a headache because I was craving so hard. I took a nap. I later made a glass of Almond Milk with Pure Honey, mixed and mixed and mixed. I did not have that over 1000 calories of Blizzard today.

It is the small victories added up over time that win the war. I am going to take that frigging hill again. You can too. We should never die young.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Millions’ Space

Should the need arise
I might give a look inside,
But I would close doors
Regulate you to spaces
I consider safely exposed.
I am well aware this mind
Of mine is awkward
A bizarre landscape
In an alien multiverse
Where mutated creatures
Roam amid dragon fantasies.
These thoughts by millions
Circulating at a million mph
Dump me into molten spaces
Where I hardly find enough energy
For escape velocity and then
Drop me in oceans of clarity
Again swallowed up, but eject
Me into forests where I flee.
There is no scale on which
To map the vastness where
You might make yourself
Sojourn, perhaps coffee, cake,
Then off and away, to more
Comfortable tenancies among
Those more likened to who
You are prepared, meant to be.
Trust my knowledge, stay clear,
Avoid this devastating destitution.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

This is in answer to the second day (yesterday) PAD Challenge prompt, “Space” on Poetic Asides. I am a bit behind due to some turbulence with the poetic engine on board, but I hope I have it recalibrated into a modicum of functionality now. The prospect remains somewhat uncertain. I need a bit of the “Scotty” touch.