Persistence of a Polaroid

Life is life a circle because things come back around like the LP and portable photography.
I remember the first gen Polaroid flip-ups, like clunky transformers, hand-held photo booths. Magical really.
I came across one of these polaroid prints of antiquity, its still in good shape and I do not look pretty.
On the back, the yellowish bottom, the date caught me, written as three slash ninety-one.
I'll show it to you if you listen.
Three stand shoulder to shoulder in a dirt driveway. Behind them peaks the front of a pewter sedan.
Tall weeping willows fill the skyline behind them. A low white farm fence, the corner of an eave, two spilt terra cotta pots overgrown with happy green weeds and the three people squint at you in the hazy sun. Three shades of blondes together dis harmoniously.
The older man and woman wear black and white bright tennis shoes, the only formality their stiff posture, hands buried as fists both deep in the front pockets of their jeans.
A teen, she is fifteen, stands to their left holding a wildflower in her hands as though she has been twiddling it amused. Her babydoll dress is a full vase itself, her black tights do not shadow or slim her weight-but she smiles slightly and honestly in comfortable slippers.
The couple look as though they have been betrayed in some way.
The man with a mustache, dark denim jeans and Joe's Tavern black sweatshirt stands slightly behind and in the middle of the mother and daughter who bear no resemblance-which I know because I was there.
And I don't remember all the details...it looks to me like nowhere I'd want to be.
Such is the nature of a picture, to capture time and always have the same version of telling it as it was and not how it should be.
I happened to be looking for another photo and I think it was a Kodak, but for some reason that Kodak moment was meant to be lost and I decided to find out a little more about the inventor only to discover he passed away in March of 1991. Full circle moments always find you, and with a Polaroid, it will most certainly come back around like a full circle moment and it seems getting them lost is much harder than it sounds.

Image By Piercetheorganist at English Wikipedia (Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Five score and no more-ish

And I will do your list of one hundred things I love-
not because you told me to, that it would be good for me
to see these things in one safe place, like little word containers
as an apothecary, or even better a library, or that I'd thank you later for these little remedies
that remind, like lists, such as to-do's and guests and people and inventories.
No, I will do this list simply because I like lists and I don't like forgetting, or not trying, or not crossing something off when it was hard or good.
I don't like erase, like undoing, preventing, delaying until another day of de-laying.
So I will use perma-ink when thinking about this lovely list of things I love like-
deep belly laughs that sound unstoppable, rain of rooftops, rain ripples in puddles, grey days, fog, the heater on with the top down, reading, reading with a blanket and a cat, mornings alone, the first cup of coffee in the pot, the smell of fire, watching a fire, a fireplace with socks and a good book, Smokey, felines, horses, dolphins, the ocean, waves, sun, The Moon, clouds, stars, berries, camping, green, blue, birds, typewriters, antiques, art, ghosts, internet, technology, photography, warm cinnamon, green apple anything, soft blankets, firm beds, the smell of barbeque, cool san in between my toes, warm grass in between my toes, trees-redwoods, weeping willows, monkey pines, Monterey pines, pines, certain watches, certain shoes, smart dapper men, my hair drinking the sun, chills, a perfect sentence, great poetry, e.e. cummings, Italo Calvino, Umberto Eco, Herman Hesse, Aldous Huxley, William Faulkner, Jorge Luis Borges, Nikoli Gogol, Anton Chekov, Boris Pasternak, music (so much more music it counts as four), Steamer Lane, Tamarack, Big Basin, Prague, everywhere I've never been (that's easily another 10), libraries, the smell of books-old and new (that's two), learning, listening, hearing, seeing, walking, feeling loved, waxflower, a great story, a great smile, a good soul.

Image By John Dalton, 1808 / Джон Дальтон, 1808 ([1] here / здесь) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Rushing River

Nysa County Sheriff's Department reported the discovery of a dead body floating down the S. Lette River, a popular camping and fishing destination during the summer months. Even though it was summertime the body was blue and bloated, the ice pack had been particularly good that year prior to the thaw. Forest Rangers were advised to notify in person any and all campers of the incident and remind them of being safe and responsible. The cause of death and identity of the body were unsolved.

The white haired child points and dips her little big toe into the flowing river water. She taps the surface with a tiny slap before jerking her naked leg back onto the bank. A half smile sneaks up to her face as she cranes her neck around to see if any adult eyes may be monitoring her moves. Aside from the quiet gurgles music notes dance among the trunks carried from some distance, the only company nearby the little body in an orange bathing suit with a brown belt in the late afternoon sun was a black dog sniffing and digging up rocks with his nose behind her.

"Hercules!" she whispered.

The dog was at her side before the exclamation point attentively wagging his tail. The little girl patted the top of his head, grabbing his soft ear in her palm always reassured her. The little white girl with her pale freckled skin and the shiny black dog, purple and wild stood like the illustration in a fairy tales book at the side of the Rushing River, something magical was about to happen, the music echoing from the nearby campsite predicted so.

The little girl put her arm around the dogs shoulders and was saying something into his ear, his head was cocked to the left and they seemed to be in involved in a conversation...it's a shame how many of us neglect this skill or simply lose this ability with atrophy.

Her right arm dropped to the ground as she fished around through the rocks, the dog closely watching each rock she dismissed. Finally, one stone in particular the little girl rubbed in between her hand before dipping it in the water. It looked as though she were going to keep it before she suddenly with a spasmodic jerk thrust the rock into the water, immediately inciting the dog to retrieve it,
"Go get it Herk!"

Again, the dog was in the water nearing its target before the girl could finish her command.
The dog made it just outside the rapids, raising his haunches before diving down and disappearing for a long moment then reappearing, repositioning his body toward the shore and paddling with all his might, he reached the shore and before shaking dropped a stone at the girls small feet. She squealed in delight confirming it was the rock she tossed and praised the proud pup.

The dog and the girl sat next to each other watching the water dance and sing entranced with the show of the massive melting ice flow churning white and sapphire.
The next second a flash of white-blond hair, a streak of orange, a thunderous splash, water fell in on itself and it was as though she were never there- were it not for the nervous black dog racing down the bank, circling, barking and prancing.
A tiny hand or twig, broke the surface enough for the dog to know where to go and he dove off a small ledge after the nearly drown frozen girl turning slowly from white to blue and whose contracted muscles gave up helping her fight for the direction up.
The swirls of water ate around the rocks hungrily, only the sharp water was happily slicing through life.
Minutes passed, the girl and dog were gone.
An hour later searching voices or disharmonious song came echoing from the treetops.
Pahhh-if----uuhhnnnneeyy!
Peh--suh--neeeeee!
Paah--tiff----eyyy!

The girl shivered next to the dog's limp body downstream in a patch of sun. Scrapes on both legs that did not hurt, her chest ached and waist sore from being pulled by her brown belt, a small canine tooth puncture on her side poured diluted blood down her side as she lay quietly humming to the dog who was not dead, just dog tired.

Image by By Phil Mieszkowski (talk · contribs), Merced River in Yosemite, California, 2007 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

His Rescue Human

He squints at me, he trusts I will be there squinting back when he peaks. There is no warmer hug, this is a soul kiss.
I feel the adoring heat of his glare anywhere he happens to touch my body with his searching eyes, content to be resting only on his favorite sight.
When life has me tangled in all its sticky strings, he helps unravel the yarn enough to let me take one deep breath and notice I am never alone in this web.
Battered and beaten, he pours all healing into me, it roars through my marrow and melts my stiff icy pain. I try to do the same yet I am inept.
Bloody, broken and brave, he protects and guards against anything he may deem suspiciously dangerous-to either of us-expecting nothing but safety and (my lap) some security in return.
Electric touch exchange, plugged in to each other, we alternate our currents as needed, the recharging makes me live longer, I can feel it with every smile.
The first and last thing I see every day, never ending is never long enough-for this one of nine nows that we share between animal worlds.
We recognize each others (like) ness, knowing we will always find each other again.
Each and every now and again-so often-i am-immortally in love with this divine feline who chose me to be his companion. I didn't know how lost I was until he found and rescued me (from me).