Sunday, September 11, 2022

Week in Seven Words #584

This covers the week of 3/28/21 - 4/3/21.

In her isolation, she has unraveled. She flails at imagined terrors, as they press in on her from beyond the apartment walls. 

Dozens of daffodils swaying by the field.

The vaccine website is a test in reflexes. New appointments wink into existence and are just as quickly snapped up.

One book stands out as a suitable gift. But even as I buy it, I get the feeling that it won't inspire enthusiasm.

A rainy haze on the river.

Visiting parts of the park I've neglected for a while, like catching up with old friends. Which trees have fallen, which paths are overgrown, and is the stream still full and flowing?

After creating a video message in another language, I review it multiple times, convinced that I've made a major grammatical error or mixed up two words in an unintentionally filthy way. But it seems OK.

Monday, August 29, 2022

Week in Seven Words #583

This covers the week of 3/21/21 - 3/27/21.

The season begins with crocuses, progresses to turtles.

Spiky seed balls plinking on car windshields and roofs, as if the trees are defending against an invasion.

Interesting to see who comments on the new glasses and who seems not to notice.

Two skateboards. On one, a young man holding a leash. On the other, a bulldog at the end of the leash. They skim along at a relaxed pace, both of them looking cool and poised.

Her brain is largely hijacked by alternate realities, other versions of herself that command her thoughts.

The superstore is a comforting place because it never seems to run out of anything. It promises abundance.

They all look like they go to the same hairdresser. Their hair is in the same ponytail, some threaded through a cap. They all wear yoga pants, short jackets, and big sunglasses, and they clutch a coffee in one hand, a phone in the other.

Friday, July 8, 2022

Week in Seven Words #582

This covers the week of 3/14/21 - 3/20/21.

Brown, crunchy, bristling paths, a clear view of buildings through bare trees.

Her relaxation: Diet Dr Pepper, feet on ottoman, British period drama.

His desk: cigarette burns, a ball made out of rubber bands, a lamp with an oversized bulb that gets too hot too quickly.

Sometimes it feels like we're on the deck of the Titanic, the music playing as the water rises.

Wiser in some ways, more bewildered in others.

The water has been drained from the basin, and a girl slides inside to explore the mud-encrusted bottom. Her dog barks frantically from a nearby bench. It's restrained and can't keep her in sight. It can't protect her from whatever awaits her in the mud and the smashed leaves.

Tense muscles seem to break apart slightly in the steam.

Friday, April 29, 2022

Week in Seven Words #581

This covers the week of 3/7/21 - 3/13/21.

In the largely empty bookstore, a teenaged boy walks in a slow, wide circle while reading out loud to himself through a mask.

A riveting sax solo brings joy to this corner of the park.

Today, there's frost in their relationship. It keeps their sentences clipped and cold.

Two seals circle the small tank without pause or release, as the demented bells jangle on the hour.

First new pair of glasses in a while, and I like how they look.

A crackling cloud of seagulls electrified by the promise of food.

Crusty buildings, haggard strip malls. The brownness of late winter and early spring, everywhere brown, waiting to be relieved by flowers, leaves, anything green.

Saturday, March 12, 2022

Week in Seven Words #580

This covers the week of 2/28/21 - 3/6/21.

We're caught in traps of compulsive behavior – web surfing, phone scrolling, screen watching.

What looks like ice on the lake is only the glare of sunlight.

The eyes always come out too large in the drawings. Large, placid ellipses.

His body shakes with his need to talk, to have someone listen.

A land melting into mud and puddles that seem like ponds.

Months from now, I sense this worry will seem superficial, a distraction from larger problems.

A golden retriever finds us as we sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the sunlit bench.

Thursday, February 17, 2022

Week in Seven Words #579

This covers the week of 2/21/21 - 2/27/21.

Two people at opposite ends of a room. They're holding books, but they aren't reading. When will they talk to each other?

It's the first time I've been to synagogue in a year. The room downstairs has been organized into islands of chairs. Some islands have one chair, others two. The service is quieter.

Birds taking off and landing on the feeders, while nearby a chunky squirrel stares, waiting his chance.

The slip squish of mud. Everywhere mud. Most people grumble, but one kid is discovering the joy of a puddle in a field caked in mud and slush. He's not the one who will be washing his clothes later, which is part of what makes him happy.

Sitting in the pool of warmth from an outdoor heater, the cold air pressing in but pushed back.

Our relationship has cooled from genuine warmth to superficial friendliness.
Tired of online events. The small, detached faces, the audio that fails, the lack of energy, the lure of other browser tabs.

Week in Seven Words #578

This covers the week of 2/14/21 - 2/20/21.

We used to sit in this room with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the lamplight on the red couch.

They don't have sleds, but they do have bellies, so they slide down the hill head first, eyes squinting against the dazzle of sunlight on snow.

Beyond the dense branches there's light, white and faintly purple.

The silence of snow falling. At the bus stop, he says a brief prayer.

She's gained access to the roof, and from there, she feeds birds.

The fact that I have a good night's sleep is worth commenting on. I don't take it for granted.

Without his job, his days have turned to jello.