Pink Sneakers on the Go

 “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. 

Isolated.  

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.

Lunatic.

Teetering on the precipice.

Again.

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 29^th or w/o April 5^th.  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!

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.

Sigh.

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 1^st or the w/o March 8^th, 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! 

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. 

Again.

Next blog post:  In two or three weeks, sometime the w/o Feb 8^th or 15^th 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!

 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 10^th or 17^th, 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!