Confessions of a Cuckoo Clock in Quarantine - March Musings

 “One day I will be free”.    

Each chirp echoes a melody.   A symphony of “I’ve got to be Me”.  


Whether alto, staccato or a trill, it’s more than just a shrill.


 A cappella of emotions set free.    


It’s a fly by the night coup of pecking my way out.


Cramped.  In a corner.  In my cage. 


To make matters worse, I’m just a tad claustrophobic.


I’m leery of hopping off the edge.  Do I dare peek around the ledge? 


To say that I’m trapped would be a disservice to propagandists of mistruths worldwide.


I’ve lived my entire life conversing with The Walls.


All four of them.


The daily chitter chatter has reached a crescendo.  Misunderstandings and squabbles around the clock.  Rehashing the same old grievances.  I’ve got to break free and spring my way out.


Embroiled in a cold war of nuclear proportions. 




Frosty stares and icicles that maim. 


They’ve shut me out.  Their silence pains.


So, IF you think that YOU have issues sequestered at home in Loco Lockdown, Think Again.


It’s time to compare notes.  


Oy vey.


Here we go again.


Cuckoo was clearly not having the best of days. 


The incessant musings and incoherent ramblings of Chirp stuck in the Box were enough to make one go insane.  Day in and day out, the nonsensical gibberish was right on schedule, hourly lamentations of “woe is me”.


The conundrum is real.  


There are two of us imprisoned in this scenario.  One is real and the other is clearly delusional.  Crackers, if truth be told.  


I’m mired in the sludge of quarantine quicksand.  How to conquest the Everest?  


Rappelling my way out has been quite the challenge this pandemic year, and yes, I’m fully aware that my verb of choice has me propelling feet first in the opposite direction, but that is precisely my point. 


It’s been a struggle.


Confined in a space smaller than a suitcase is akin to suffocating in a jar, sans light, with the lid screwed tight.  To make matters worse, the instructions on how to break out are pasted on the other side of the looking glass, ineligible digits of numerics and expiration dates.  


Just another roadblock to add to the list. 


Deciphering the code would take the equivalent of the next hundred years.  And, who has that sort of time on their hands? 


Whoa, hold on a sec.  Lucky me!  I’m one of the zillions of disgruntled guests under lock and key serving time in The Lockdown Inn.


It’s a test. 


On the scale of A to Fail, I’m borderline.




Teetering on the precipice.




The roadmap out is a puzzle of paths pointing in all sorts of directions of which way not to go.


And then there’s Cuckoo, bemused and twittering about the events of the day.


Freedom of squawk.  With a social media account.  


For now. 


They say that birds of a feather flock together.


And, so I ponder.  Do I dare ask? 


That.  Dreaded.  Question.   


Are we one and the same?


It’s up for debate, but in the meantime, I’m shuttered at home with a cranky old bird that’s stark raving mad and I’ve got to break out for a gulp of fresh air.


The drama continues…


Next post:  In two or three weeks, sometime the w/o March 29th or w/o April 5th.  It could be a tad earlier or it could be a bit of a wait.  No one knows.  It all depends upon the moods of Humour and Inspiration.  That is, if they’ve not hi-tailed it across the pond, elated that they’ve received the freedom of vaccine and are now taking a well-deserved holiday from the monotony of routine.  To say that I’m just a wee bit envious would be an understatement.  Stay tuned!!


Stay home, stay safe and catch up with your reading!!  

Update (as of May 1st):   Next post will be up very soon.  There was a tad bit of an unforeseen delay.  


Singing for my supper!

So much to see and explore!


Confessions of a Cuckoo Clock in Quarantine: February Musings

Sometimes all that you need is a sip of solace and a mug of hot tea.  Comfort in a cup. Not quite the same as a hug, nor a shoulder to unburden yourself on, but the next best thing that helps soothe and heal.  I’m at a loss for words as to what exactly is in the forecast for 2021, but from what I’ve seen so far, it’s not off to a promising start.  First of all, the magic of Abracadabra failed to greet me on New Year’s morn, as guaranteed by The Guild of Things Will Be Alright Association.  I suspect that this could have been Fake News, propaganda disseminated into the stratosphere, just to appease the discontented masses.  


The Fairies overslept, all right, nodding off and on throughout the night.


Their slumber hindered any hint of progress of crawling out of the Year of Isolation.  


Better Days Ahead was just another slogan plastered to the Wall of Don’t Roam Far Away from Home.




One month down, eleven more to go.  I’ve spent the better part of January mopping up the mess on the kitchen floor.  Buckets all lined up like ducks in a row, gushing and overflowing with what can only be classified as remnants of leftover sludge from a year we’re all so desperate to throw curbside.  


But, let’s not get overly dramatic with the cinematics of yet another Emmy worthy performance of the mini-series, “Tears, Fears and Uncertainties”.  After all, I’m sequestered in Le Apartment, with space at a premium, so I haven’t an inch of shelving left to display yet another statue.  It’s best then, that this was a limited series, a year-long run of a show that should have been cancelled from the get-go.  Who knew?  But then, hindsight is 20/20. 


The sequel has been put on hold.  For now.


In the meantime, I’ve got more pressing issues at hand.  Contemplation is curled up in a corner pondering on how to heal and forge onwards, whilst Reflection is looking back, wondering how it all went so wrong.  Time to get out the wipes and start anew.  That is, if they’re back in stock.  


The incessant chirping that continues to keep me up at night is yet another annoyance on my list of grievances.  


Tick tock. 


Once I manage to get the state of the world under control, I’m determined to catch up with my reading.  The bestseller, “Confessions of a Cuckoo Clock Gone Mad” has been flying off shelves this pandemic year and I’m eager to secure a signed copy.   My bookshelf is groaning with a plethora of self-help manuals, all dog-eared and loaded with tips and tricks for digging out of quarantine quicksand.


Must compare chapters with Snoopy on “It’s a Dark and Stormy Night”.


To add insult to injury, I came close to another wipeout, skidding and skating on my linoleum floor.  That darn dust!  But wait, there’s reason to celebrate…


Looks like the Fairies came through, after all.


Come hang out with me in loco lockdown, as I count down the days in quarantine quicksand.  There’s light at the end of the tunnel, and there should be, as I’m a wee bit (err…. A LOT) claustrophobic and am always searching for my way out of the darkness.  There are better days ahead, some just a tad more challenging than others.  All is good though, as the Fairies sprinkled a smidgen of glitter to help guide my way.  


Next post:  In two or three weeks, sometime either the w/o March 1st or the w/o March 8th, no one knows exactly when.   It all depends upon the moods of Humour, Inspiration and Imagination.  


Stay home, stay safe and catch up with your reading! 

Seahorses Dancing on Waves - Day 1 of Scribbling Towards the Light

It’s the first day of the New Year and I must confess that I’m somewhat of a discombobulated mess.  I’m not quite certain as to exactly what I expected would transpire once the hands of time traversed the path of midnight and ushered in 2021.  Plotting and dreaming of my escape from The Year of Isolation, I envisioned a miraculous leap back into the “normal” of yesteryear.  Was it not so long ago since we gathered, feasted, promenaded, embraced and – egad! – even paraded sans face coverings when out and about?  It feels like a zillion time zones away, yet it was almost 365 days from yesterday when the globe spiralled into the abyss of the unknown.

So much has changed.  Nothing remains the same.  Yet, it’s all so familiar in a strange sort of way.  I can’t even comprehend, let alone explain, the magnitude of it all.  It’s been quite the journey navigating these uncharted waters.  I’ve spent weeks, not to mention months, drifting off course, struggling my way upstream.  The debris of splintered paddles scattered every which where.   Sink or swim was the mantra that I recited every day.  The incessant rain was quite the drain on my psyche and soul, unleashing the predictable torrent of you know what.  The basement's now flooded and mopping will keep me occupied for the remainder of the month or at least until the floor caves in and I've then got an entirely new set of issues.  At least I've a surplus of buckets...

I expected a whole lot better from the month of January. 

Surely I am not the only one hoping in haste.  After all, we are only a few hours into the calendar of new beginnings and Hope should be granted a chance.  Optimism and the promise of a better tomorrow loom on the horizon.  Do I dare believe?

I had envisioned a mirage of a miracle.  A fairy dusting of Abracadabra to make everything all right and re-set the pause button back to “normal” with an instantaneous reversal of all of the tidings that had spilled sorrow into our now foreign world. 

Was I asking for too much?

The Welcome mat lay outside my door. 

The De Novo to a brand new tomorrow.

Yet, no one was more disappointed than I when Hocus-pocus did not knock on my door and greet me on New Year’s morn.

Looks like the fairies had overslept.  Or, perhaps they were just following Stay at Home orders to shelter indoors.

Nonetheless, the inevitable gush filled more than a few buckets.

So, dear reader, allow me the privilege to indulge in back-paddling to the distant depth of the capsize, where I made the acquaintance of one of Poseidon’s seafaring companions, a kindly old Seahorse that so graciously carried me on its shoulders through the tumultuous waters of yesteryear.

The months long sojourn was an ebb and flow of whitecaps and resilience.  The circling sharks added yet another element of suspense to my tale.

The boulders are no longer jagged, just pebbles on a sandy beach, stepping-stones that have traversed the path of midnight.

Starting anew. 


Next blog post:  In two or three weeks, sometime the w/o Feb 8th or 15th or perhaps a tad earlier or later.  No one knows.  It all depends upon my faithful old companions, Inspiration and Creativity.  In the meantime, my daily meditations and journal jottings are aids that help guide my way to new beginnings.  Stay tuned for more of my series:  Chronicles on Scribbling Towards the Light.

Stay home, stay safe and catch up with your reading!


Journalling Towards the Light

 The countdown has officially begun.

It’s a stampede out there, or would be, if we were not all hunkered down at home, sheltering from the rain of 2020.  Safe in our lockdown place, we grew to embrace an entirely new space.  Working from home became the new norm.  Zooming from room to room now part of the daily routine.  A hop around the globe in minutes time, connecting with loved ones far and near.  A huddle with memories in lieu of hugs would just have to suffice.  Who ever imagined that cuddles and entwines would be so treasured and rare?

Hindsight, of course, is 2020.

Once again, I’ve unintentionally veered off track.  Typical.  It’s been that type of year.  The scuttle is real.   The hunt for 2021 agendas is on and it’s a marathon of a sprint to secure that coveted diary.  Hourglasses, calendars and almanacs all lined up in a row.  There are truckloads of lemons of malfunctioning 2020 agendas all piled up in the scrapyard of yesteryear.  It’s immensely satisfying, not to mention, gratifying, to finally kick those Chronicles of International Disaster to the rubbish, where they now fester and wait their turn for curb side pickup.

Hallelujah and Welcome 2021! 

As you might have guessed, dear reader, the agenda for this week’s blog post was none other than keeping up with Time, hence my delight to reveal this Year’s musings of heralding in the light.

Pencils sharpened, quills dipped in inspirational ink, 365 days of blank pages await…

The hope of tomorrow is a dawn that has just traversed the path of midnight. 

Let the healing begin.

Next post:  In two or three weeks, sometime the w/o January 10th or 17th, perhaps a tad earlier.  No one knows.  The Quarantine Series blog posts of 2020 have been retired (for the time being but will still re-appear from time to time) and have been replaced with the Scribbling Towards the Light Chronicles.  Stay tuned for another year of reflection, contemplation, hope and gratitude.  All, of course, generously sprinkled with a touch of much needed laughter and humour (where applicable).  

Stay home, stay safe and catch up with your reading!

Quarantine Calendar: The Spin Cycle of Socks on Day Who Know What.

 I’m trapped in a merry-go-round the clock ride with no reprieve in sight, banging and clanging in a suds infused barrel that’s clearly spiralled out of flight.  I’m flailing, failing miserably on navigating these uncharted waters.  Not even a glimpse of a mirage or a lighthouse beacon.  I’ve either apparently lost my mind or am stuck in the spin cycle yet once again.

I’m right on course, that is, of course, if I’ve actually drifted off course.

The map is one soggy mess, washed up shore on an island that’s on the other side of somewhere.  Or, was that on the precipice of nowhere?

No one knows.

It’s no longer of use to me, as the border is shuttered and I’m unable to paddle to the outskirts of the perimeter to retrieve the waterlogged blueprint that could set me free.

In the meantime, I’ve no choice but to cling on to the remnants of my threadbare socks.

Welcome to Day Who Knows What of 2020 Lockdown.

The automatic timer has apparently gone bust, a malfunctioning lemon for which refunds have been piling up in the dust.  And, there’s 28 more days of combustion and confusion smirking in the wings.

Let the countdown begin.

Re-set to renew.  Or was that anew?  I knew this cleansing was coming…

The dratted re-set button has a glitch of which I’ve no control over until at least mid 2021.  Another whirl at wading out the storm.  My thoughts are tied up in knots, not to mention the tangled mess of my socks, ravaged bits of colour and yarn scattered every which where.

Pre-wash, Wash, Rinse and Spin have propelled my reality into another dimension.

I’m all wrapped up in the saga of my skedaddled socks.  They’ve taken a hike and scampered off to whereabouts unknown.  Just like me.  Gone missing for the past three months.  At least I’ve an excuse for my disappearance.

Sequestered at home for months on end, I’ve been itching for a getaway, a change of scene and an escape from my unstructured routine.  The monotony of the same old drudgery was weighing on my soul and I was longing for a reprieve.   An outing.  A diversion.  A holiday.

Until the inevitable, yet predictable, sequence of events spiralled me in an entirely different direction.

Oi vey.  Be mindful of what you wish for.

To make a long story short, one does not want to be caught in a panic during a pandemic in which one embarks on an unexpected five-day hospital stay.  Nope.  Nada.  Not me. 

“Ha! We’ll see about that!” chortled Chaos and sidekick Topsy-turvy (formerly known as the Gremlins of Travel Disruption and now out of a job due to Stay at Home orders).  Ever so clever, the enterprising chameleons repackaged their game and threw me for a loop in the most unanticipated of ways. 

Next thing I knew, I was being wheeled out of Emergency, having undergone surgery, with my bothersome old gallbladder kicked to the curb.


My 4:00am summons to lounge at “Le Wellness Spa”, aka The Curative Fix & Stich Holiday Inn, better known as The Hospital, had fortuitously arrived, an invitation that I will forever be humbled and grateful for.  Enough said.

A bucket-load of rejuvenation was the kick-start to a fresh start…

Skating at the edge of the pond, I’ve slid off topic once again.  The spin cycle is almost complete and one can only siesta for so long.  The Spring Equinox is just around the bend, heralding a mend with the promise of a long-awaited vaccine.  This celebratory news is the healing salve of miraculous cheer for a year like none other.

In the meantime, I’ve more immediate issues underfoot.  There are icicles on my tootsies and I’m hopping around barefoot.  My dash to the dryer to rescue those missing socks resulted in a tumble that left me with a few sore ribs and a round of vertigo.

Touché 2020!

Those darned old stockings have hightailed it on a flight out of here and have catapulted themselves into the New Year.  Eager to cement new imprints of their footprints, they’re always one step ahead. 

As for me, I’m just rolling with the times.

The countdown has officially begun…

One more post to go before the leap into 2021.  Next post:  Sometime the w/o Dec 28th.  Stay tuned for yet another posting of “The Quarantine Series”, before I jump into the New Year and forge new imprints of a brand new compilation of musings and impressions.     


Self-help guidebooks for Cuckoo Clocks: Week 19 in Loco Lockdown.

It’s Week 19 in Loco Lockdown and I’ve got a lot on my mind.  I keep forgetting that it’s gone missing, having wandered off to whereabouts unknown.  I haven’t a clue as to where it currently resides, perhaps somewhere more stable, where one is able to reflect and subside on images of mirages.  I must confess that I’m in quite the bind, as I can’t remember what exactly I can’t find in my chaotic mess.  A self-help book or two would certainly come in handy but, alas, those manuals are currently out of stock, having gone out of print around the time when my mind took an unexpected tumble off the shelf. 

And, speaking of time, well, that’s a parallel story, currently orbiting around my alternate universe. 

Not only do I fret about my sanity, but I’ve now had to squander countless hours tracking down the hands of time.  Whoever said, “Time Flies”, must not have been privy to the uncharted flight path of the split seconds that randomly shake up the structured order of our topsy-turvy world.

And, since we’re on the topic on flying, thought that I should skip that extra layer of fable for my tale.  After all, the clock is ticking.  The countdown has begun.

There’s just one issue.  My cuckoo clock has gone missing.

From what I’m able to surmise, there must have been one quell of a scuffle.  Remnants of feathers and sand were scattered everywhere.  An abandoned hourglass was wedged in the crack near the edge of the ledge, forever stuck in quarantine quicksand.

Looks like the patriarch of our flock has flown the coup and bird-napped reliable Chirpy along for the ride.

Could it get any worse?

Day 142 was not going according to plan.

But, what’s a plan without an agenda and we all know that 2020 is a malfunctioning bust.  It kyboshed my long anticipated excursion to the land of lederhosen and accordions, forcing me to abandon my one year sojourn.  But, who’s counting, as the days all blend into one.  After all, we’re all sequestered at home, lounging in pyjamas, engaging via board games on Zoom.  I’m itching to get away, but alas, the border is closed and there’s no way I’m able to jet away.  The only other option to get out of town was to sail in a different direction.  

I had no choice but to succumb to the lure of the trails of the Rain Forest.  All signs pointed directly to:

So, where was I?  I seem to have misplaced my train of thought.  Can’t recall what exactly I was hoping to convey as I’m slipping on marbles in my frantic search for my missing glass slipper.  Wait.  Hold on a minute.  It's Cuckoo that's gone AWOL.   Whatever.  Either way, they’ve both taken a hike.  I’m suspended in time, playing the guessing game.

And, since I’m on stand by, might as well sip on a martini and indulge in some multi-layered Black Forest cake. 

My pumpkin is a tad delayed.  Must be stuck in rush-hour traffic…

Next post:  In two weeks, sometime the w/o September 14th, Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday.  Stay tuned for more updates on going cuckoo in quarantine!

Stay home, stay safe and catch up with your reading!

Be on the lookout for Chirpy and all of those missing cuckoo clocks!

UPDATE:  Ran into a roadblock or two, hence a tad bit of a disappearance for the past 3 months.  Will update in latest post to be published Dec 19th, 20th or 21st.  Stay tuned!

A Crack in the Quarantine Bubble

 It’s Week 18 in Loco Lockdown and it’s time to break free.  I’ve been sequestered for far too long.  Winter was just a flash of a distant memory and the sizzle of the lazy, hazy days of summer will inevitably drizzle into an autumn chill and then I’ll be stuck at home for the remainder of the year.  I’ve gone crackers under the covers and am gasping for a breath of fresh air.  I’ve got to crack open my snow-globe and weather the storm.  Make that escape and flee.

There’s just one problem.  Those men in the white coats are trailing me. 

I’ve long suspected that I’ve gone cuckoo in quarantine as I’m forever slipping and sliding on all of those loose marbles that pop up in the most inopportune of places.  I’m perpetually hopping a jig to a symphony of my own melody.  And, let’s not forget all of my imaginary friends, all clearly exempt from the two metre social distancing rules.  Inspiration and Imagination brought Creativity to the table, weaving tall tales and fables that entertained us to no end.  And, of course, no banquet was complete without the presence of that ever so debonair and charismatic Fly on the Wall. 

Those were the days.

But alas, restrictions are gradually being lifted, ushering in a smidgen of normalcy to my edge of the pond.  To make matters worse, I’ve run out of essentials and need to replenish my hoard.  After all, I’m down to my very last square of you know what.  Must shatter the ice, dip my toes in and test the waters.

A sea of masks stared back at me.

My first train of thought was naught with fear.  Are these hooligans who were caught in a jam and are now on the lam?  Perhaps I’m not the only one on the run. 

A gamut of emotions peered through the plethora of face coverings.  Who are these faceless beings with those expressive eyes?  The saying that “the eyes are the windows of the soul” couldn’t ring more true, as there was no need for babble or small talk.  Their eyes spoke volumes.  A collective decibel of comprehension solidified our bond. 

Out of sight, out of mind.

There’s safety in numbers.  Catch me if you can.

The shattered shards of my splintered sphere were a liberating breath of unfiltered air.

My mask has set me free.

 Might as well park myself on the bench and crack open some nuts…

 Next post:  In two weeks!  Sometime the w/o Aug 31st,either Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday!  Stay tuned for future updates on Stuck in Quarantine Quagmire in Loco Lockdown.

Stay home, stay safe and catch up with your reading!!