Journal 31 - Divin' Duck

“If the river was whiskey, you know I'd be a divin'
duck” - words indeed to live by – even sober in the
waiting room or your daughter's pediatric care; she's
young and resourceful, able to bound back like a pro-
fessional drug-less athlete. (assuming they exist) What
is it about the fertile dense gravity pulling nature of
Louisiana? Particularly New Orleans. Accidental
discipline can't explain in the gifted talent-drawing
pull of NO, nor can accidental materialism. The
blues is against the predictable strictures of the
white-walled brilliant scientists. I've seen the fly
snipped by the quick flicking tongue of the bouncing
frog. Predictable in its belly-filling encore; I want
to believe there is a significant difference between
the fly and between me. Something more than mere
complexity of disparate organized cells. The fly can
see so much more, or at least more angles. These
asexual amphibian egg-like eyes are spooky in their
unblinking assertiveness. But how annoying to lick
and clean them every so often with your crazy
spiked legs – quivering in the cold dark corner of
the room where once couples danced with great wide
smiles on their un-reluctant faces – where happy feet
skipped round the room in art-inebriated joy,
heads tossed back in silly ecstasy forgetting the
heavy-headed task of dilly-ing out appropriate
political-laced rhetoric; heads with happy toothy
smiles of sweet carved pumpkins the night before
Halloween (when the hapless teenagers will happily
destroy the succulent jack-o-lanterns with the swift
destructive force of a military-laced booth). So
damaging to teeth – whether made of vegetable or
calcium – the gaps are there for all to see and
snide or sneer or cry or laugh. Laughter it seems
is common these days, laughter manages our lost
days with deceptive ease. What seemed so silly
to us yesterday has resurrected its severed head
with adolescent defiance, not what one would expect
after so many years. OK. Time to squelch bruised
apple heads.

4.7.09