Henry V

I should be at a free library showing of Henry V. Instead, I'm here doing this. The presentation is one hour. Abridged. How do you successfully cut the Bard by two thirds?
Frankly, I wouldn't have gone anyway. I'm sick of Shakespeare. Outdoors, indoors, free, not free, modern, traditional, minus clothes, etc. There's too much of this guy out there. At least 8 of his 26 plays are never performed because, well, they weren't that good. People who attend these events are there to let everyone else know they appreciate culture. Forget that they don't understand what's happening. The appearance of sophistication is all that counts.
There are also too many acrobats out there. Unemployed, they hog our public spaces doing their flips and cartwheels, walking on hands. I'd like to see Shakespeare performed by acrobats. I haven't mentioned clowns because so many others are picking on them. When did being a clown become uncool? The Bard employed clowns or jesters. I'm guessing right about now some character is getting stabbed in Henry V.
I'd love to see Rooney Mara as Ophelia. Wonder how long it would take for her to remove her top.

Turtles and Worms

No one can tell when a turtle gets a leg cramp. The poor beast gets no sympathy. Baby animals scoot right past it. Amazing turtles haven't become extinct.
One day Oscar the turtle was complaining about this to Louise the worm. At least you have a shell for protection, she retorted. But you can burrow underground when danger comes, he pointed out. Both agreed at least no one organized hunting expeditions centering on them.
Just then, Alexander the rabbit came hobbling by. What happened to you? they asked. Hip replacement, he replied. I can't sprint or leap for weeks. Too much wear and tear running from predators and those damn dogs. I've put on three pounds since the operation. They all laughed when the irony of the situation hit them.
Up to now this has been a charming moral tale. But right then a group of fifth graders on a field trip burst through the bushes. One stomped on Louise, another tickled Oscar under his chin mercilessly, and a girl picked up Alexander and squeezed him so hard she broke his other hip.
A crow looking down at this just shook its head and flew off. Crows never cramp.

Do Not Tempt Me

I could smell Marsha's baked beans as soon as I left my car. My knees were shaking. She knows my weakness is her strength. Marsha is the baked bean queen, a composer of bean symphonies consisting of exotic beans gathered from her world travels.
I enter and race to the kitchen, wanting to hug the giant steaming pot on the stove. Some people use utensils. I mash my face right into the pile on my plate and begin swallowing so fast my mouth almost cramps. Napkins are an annoying interruption.
My taste buds are doing the tarantella. Marsha has enough beans stored in Tupperware to survive a nuclear attack. I must confess the last time I visited I used the bathroom and, crumpled upon the hamper, was her silk night gown, emitting a bean aroma. Temptation overcame me and I smothered my face in its exquisite material.
I pray there are baked beans in heaven. Tomorrow I visit Sauerkraut Sal, another genius in the kitchen. Need I tell you what his bath robe smells like?

Escape Route

How do I escape from the Catholic Church with its myriad of rules, Sacraments, hand holding and singing? I don't wish to confess to strangers in the dark and having the Body of Christ within me is creepy. Other religions don't tempt me. Humanism would mean actually liking other humans. Spirituality has no holidays.
I like nuns and priests. They smell good and seldom pick at sores. I cherish having someone standing over me making the sign of the cross. But Catholicism takes up too much time; I can't make sauce for my spaghetti.
I could run away with the circus, but then I'd have to join the union and learn more rules. Anyone who says I have the freedom to just walk away knows nothing about Catholic guilt. Periodically I have this compulsion to genuflect, slap on Holy Water and put ashes on your forehead.
Hold still.

Broken Lunch Date

I had a lunch date set up with a friend today and messaged her if I could pick her up around noon. She replied that she was instead going to the Meadowlands Fair, which I assume is at night. Strangely, I wasn't disappointed. I wasn't sure we had much to talk about and after getting my car serviced I didn't want to spend more money.
I wish I were more social. But I am who I am and I won't beat myself up over it. I can get some work done this morning. A library is showing Lincoln, which is a very long film. It's too hot out to do anything. Never depend on others to determine your mood. When I was younger I would have been incensed. I mean, if you tell me you've been planning to go to the fair and yet you agreed to have lunch only a week before, what does that say about you?
I've learned to distance myself from disorganized, flighty people. Life is too short.
Tonight, if it cools off, I'll go to Midsummer Nights Swing and watch others sweat on the dance floor. I am a writer and we observe. That's what we do. Now I'll head to Staples where I have a $5 coupon and a craving for printer ink.
I'll then have lunch at McDonald's, enjoy my ice coffee and read the paper. And not brood.

Floppy Hat

My floppy hat protects more than my ears from the sun.
It protects me from any expectations.
People see my hat and ignore my lithe, toned body
The hat conveys qualities such as old, slow moving, fragile.
Doors are opened for me, seats surrendered.
Voices are louder than normal so I can grasp instructions.
Teens treat me as excess skin and organs taking up their space.
Women smile benevolently, convinced I'm safe.
My eyeglasses add to the image of vulnerability.
Is someone here with you, strangers ask worriedly.
If I look vaguely confused, others run to help.
No one asks me anything, assuming I'm befuddled.
I look at home with fishermen at lakes.
Except I don't fish.
When I wear my floppy hat
People assume I have a charming, homespun philosophy.
What I have is a sweaty scalp
And a feeling respect is a bus that's long gone.
Which means I can take crap and still live with myself.
No expectations, no pressure.
Now, when I wear my baseball cap
I am nothing less than an intimidation warehouse.

Firework Fatigue

It's reached the point where I'm almost glad when it rains and fireworks are cancelled. Why does every cash strapped town feel it is obligatory to stage these displays? Then they jack up property taxes. There should be one giant Macy's extravaganza and if you can't get there, watch it on whatever screen is available.
Here's a fact: after the first five minutes kids get bored and want ice cream.
Every year I trudge down to Boulevard East amidst expectant families, like they're going to see something different. Crazies actually try using their car to get there, which leads to long, stagnant lines and lots of beeping. In this area there are many Hispanics who perhaps do not connect with Independence Day as others do. I wonder if any of us really think about what we're celebrating, besides a day off from work.
This year it falls on a Thursday, meaning fireworks start on Monday and extend through Sunday. The Meadowland Fair has their own shoot off, directly competing with Macy's. Too much splattering in the sky.
Fireworks are getting like face painting, which used to be charming and unusual. Now every street fair in every tiny hamlet has face painting. There are more kids walking around with colored faces than not. Removable tattoos are next. The forecast is rain today and tomorrow, leaving Thursday clear. Maybe God is sick of this too.