The Tortoise and Ricochet Rabbit

I am the control and I am the variable, in this, my life.
The control is the tortoise that plods ever onward.
The variable is ricochet rabbit: Bing, bing, bing!
Racing hither and to, crissy-cross on my tightropes, laughing, crying and changing, the variable has lived many lives in one, from nothing to something and in between.
The control is unimpressed.
The variable cannot be repressed.
For all my experiments, I still hold only pieces and bits.
In the canyon below my high wire are broken dishes and my shiny assumptions that counted as truth yesteryear.
Once upon a time I saw truth as something to be sought.
The bloody shards below mock this idea of truth.
We have no truth, only moments of letting go of our precious baubles and learning to celebrate their smashing. Spirals, angles,  trajectories, and time, affect our truth.
Our peeping eyes disagree on what we see.
Truth lies somewhere in your buoyant step, after, after, and after the baubles smash in little tiny bits.

Shake it UP

I am surprised in the mirror.
I am so still.
Inwardly there is the noise and activity of a convention, and still I am still except for my twitching eye.

I Have Other Shares To Fry

I found my replacement to clean house for the rich, old Stockbridges, years ago. Although the work was easy and the pay was good, slow paced, chatty Lindy was a much better match for lonely Mrs. S, than I was. I am a busy worker bee with no time for chit chat.

Mrs. S. says I have trouble "sharing," by which she means gossiping.

I would share my last sandwich, and I intend to share my songs with whomever cares, but I make a concerted effort not to gossip. I am the one who supplies fodder to gossip about---the gossippee perhaps. But back to songs.....

I don't know how or why I hear songs in my head, but because songs come to me, I feel an inherent obligation to share them, and as I've mentioned before, it feels as though a song is a captured bird unless you let it fly free into the world.

Whether people except my (re)gifts is entirely not my business, but for my part I must share.

Word Rebels: A Short Short Story by KD Rouse

“Words are all we have.” - Samuel Beckett-

Oscar managed to push the dictionary under his bed before his mother came in.

 “Acks?”  she asked,  “Test 2moro.”

“I hate Acronyms!” said Oscar. “Why can’t we use whole words?”

“2 Slo” said his mother. “Law sa acks betr.”

“They aren’t even real acronyms,” said Oscar with disgust. “Do you know if a word disappears, we lose the only way to describe something. Like an animal going extinct.”

“U hav 2 try,” said his mother. “Law.”

“I think people should be able to talk the way they want.”

“U betr Behav. Arest’d” she said with some concern. Acks as the Universal Language was adopted in 2057 and was taken very seriously. Anyone who could not master Acks, or even worse, refused, well…They were cracking down.  

Words are beautiful, delectable, delicious, said Oscar dreamily.

“Shhhh!” said his mother sharply. “No! Law!”

“No law, “ repeated Oscar. “I like that. No law! Up with the word!”  He knew he had found his calling, but said goodnight in ACKs to please his Ma-ma!

Silicone & Ashes: Some Falls Hurt Worse Than Others

Despite being plagued with bouts of depression, I believe in the power of the mind.
You are what you think, what you take in physically or spiritually, what you feed your mind and soul.

The tightropes say its all in the balance.
If you detach from your body, you float away. That doesn't help.
If you detach from your spirit, you just rot. There won't be anything left to keep except silicone and ashes when it's time for you to Blast Off on Your Date with Death. .
Watch sprite-ly dancers on high wires and aspire to dance across.
 But for now: Danger Will Robinson!
Straddle this wire if you must, and scootch across if you have to.
Don't look down.
Just get across, across, across and do not fall from this one.
It's a loo-loo.

Company Loves Misery

Misery can sometimes appear to be your friend.
If that is what you know and it's kept you company when you think there is no one else who could understand, much less deliver you, you can inadvertently prolong your friendship with Misery, clutching it shamelessly when it threatens to leave.
What makes you remember to let go are smiles and laughs that angels deliver to you with love through love.

You reached out to me, a stranger, gave counsel,  made me laugh.
You never even know how it thawed my mind's frozen darkness, giving oil to the Tin man with your kindness.
Misery slinks away defeated when you laugh. Laugh. Smile and Laugh, Bearded Baby Sourpuss. (& Take Your Meds.)

Purpose and Chaos

"Man is but a reed.... but he is a thinking reed."
                                      -Blaise Pascal-

"I think therefore I am."
                                 -René Descartes-



I feel therefore I am.

I get pissed off therefore I am.

My heart aches. My mind is sore,  then I am reborn, therefore I am.

When an em-path, and a chameleon, these tests of being are crucial in checks and rechecks.

I exist. Now, what to do with it?

Why am I?
Do I make up my reason to be?
Or does my purpose exist and its up to me to travel my hills and dales to find it?
Do I know my purpose, secretly, and am afraid of what lies ahead?
Is my purpose in me or in the world or both?
Could it be anything or is my purpose specifically tailored for me?
Do we make up our purpose, us busy, buzzing bees?
Back to the question: Does everything happen for a reason?
Looking back I see purpose and chaos dancing.
I see they could never change unless one had the other. We could never change. Demolition, decay, heartache must tear down for the Spring of Purpose to come to town. We enjoy the fruits of our labor at harvest and hunker down for the chaos and death of Winter, only to begin again.

Me and St Pete

I have imagined God as a game show host where we all go down the chute to hell (Father, Son, and Game Show Host by KD Rouse)
I had a day dream about playing "Defend Your Life" with St. Peter at the Gate too.
"Well, " he booms like thunder. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
All I can think of is "Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz. Oh what a relief it is."
 I see him scowl and all I can think of to say is "I''d rather fight than switch."
"Excuse me?" he roars.
"This tastes like butter!" I exclaim.
St Peter reddens so I keep trying.
"You're in good hands with Allstate." I chirp.
"Enough!" he yells.

I warble "Have it your way!"
"Do you not understand the gravity of this occasion?" splutters St. Pete. "Your immortal soul is at stake."
"SOOOOUUUUULLLLLLLL TRAIN, " I sing. " Save 15% on sole while quantities last, " I say.  "We cook your steak to perfection."
"Lord, Lord," says St. Peter, with his face in his hands. "Why hast thou forsaken me? I get all the crazies."
"Fear not, " I say, "For the angel of the Lord is upon you."
St Peter snorts. "You don't mean you do you? It's up to me if you get your wings and so far I haven't understood a wor..."
"Fly with me!" I sing. "Come fly with me!"
"That does it!" yells St Peter. "Century after century I've done this. GO on, Go on in. Let HIM deal with you. I quit!"

I Know What I Want At This Juncture

I know what I want for this next era of my life.
I continue to need freedom to write, therefore, I need $.
I realize I"ve had it with worrying about how to pay my basic bills.
I've decided I do not want to perform out as a singer/songwriter at this time.
I want to place songs with successful singers and unknown stars.
I do not want to be a librarian although I almost have my Master's in Library and Information Science from UNC-G. The time is not wasted however. I am using this new information to organize my thoughts, prioritize, understand my values, and learned more about communication. Besides school, I write.
I considered going to Grad School for writing but I didn't want to be told what to write or how to write. I just want to write what I want. Plus at the end of library school, I can be a librarian with a job if my writing endeavors never translate to money. I am prepared to be a cheerful librarian. I love the library, but I don't think I will have to work there. I think I will have experienced some success by then.

Entirely Different.

Walk with me, before you help me back on my rocker.
I am a new sack of sugar. Entirely Different.
I am an inch shorter, scarred and yesterday I was still beaten down and battle worn.
Today  I am Entirely Different.

Blue & Red, Red & Blue

Wordless instructions for air conditioning and heat are depicted by red and blue, or is it blue and red? Like right and left, I can never remember.
Your hands are red and raw, and your lips are blue, if you are cold.
Water can be blue and many other colors and if you are eaten by a shark, the water runs red.
Fire has red and blue flame.
You might feel blue if you are hot,  your face flushed and red.
Our blood is secret until it spills red.
We are called Blood-bloods and red-blooded.
Hot, cold, red, blue. Which is which?
Only your thermostat knows for sure.

Untangled Strings

A tangled mare's nest of thoughts is not a good environment for much of anything. If you write out a thought one by one pretty soon they are appeased and can leave.
Writing brings untangled strings.

Fountains, Trees, Stars

The  fountain's flow is illustration of balance without nets or tightropes.
Trees give and give and cheerfully use our left-overs.
Stars cheer us on.
They shimmer and twinkle, tempting us to dream.beyond our tiny skulls and bones.

How Long?

I am eight and my stomach hurts, hurts, hurts. I am getting fevers. I remember 105 like a crazy dream. Dr. Shaver is mean and asks me questions. My sisters are at home and I don't know the right answers. He's getting angry. "When was your last bowel movement?" he snaps. I am bewildered. I don't know what this is. I wish my big sister was here. "Bowel movement," he repeats. I am clearly bewildered. "BM!" he yells. "CaCa, Poo-poo, Doo-Doo! Poop! How long?"
Now I understand what we are talking about but I still don't have an answer. I didn't know you were supposed to measure it or even notice it.

Dr. Shaver is angrier. "How long?" he demands. "Once a day, a week, a month! How long?" I don't know so I guess the right answer. "One month," I say, hoping I chose the right answer so he will stop being mad.  He is more mad and leaves the room.
They corrected my crooked urethra at Children's Hospital. The hospital doctor is nicer but he still asks questions: "Why didn't you tell us it hurt when you peed?" he asks. I don't know. I don't know. Maybe no one ever asked.

Eating Waffles on the Fence

Do things happen for a reason?
Many people think so.
I like my past ever so much better if its true.
Still I waffle on the fence. Do they or don't they?
I think we have to graduate from this life before I know for absolutely sure.
It could be a mix of intention and chaos is what I say still, if I were pressed on the issue.
I never intended to be a waffler of fence sitter, but there you have it.

The Gamut of a Gamut

If you were to walk the gamut of a gamut, and examine both ends, you would find yourself back where you started. I walk my tightropes point to point through spiraling ellipses.

What SIde to Fall

Walking on my tightropes, I wobble, and sometimes fall. There is no net. The trick is to wobble and fall on the "better side."
Our children do better if we fall on the side of (slight) neglect rather than excess.
Small children want your love and attention more than they "want" a new car or a fancy house. Older children care but don't get it twisted. A baby, a child, doesn't know the difference between owning and renting a house.

Fall on the side of compassion over "justice," I say. Justice is subject to human judgment, and people in the justice system have agendas, and care more about power, prestige, and money than human well-fare. Can you imagine fining a homeless woman for being in an abandoned building? Fines and court costs to the hapless bum who is caught drinking a malt beverage in public? Oh please. Doesn't it seem strange that everyone caught in the "Justice" system here is poor, and black or toothless white people? Does it not seem strange, day after day, the courtrooms are filled with the same people. No suits. No ties. Plenty of smack down.
Seasoned jail house lawyers abound, knowing as much about law as any attorney, but they are caught on the wrong side. Hide from "Justice" children.  Run! Hide! Once you enter the circle of misery, you'll never get out.

Teeter totter as you will, but don't fall in "Justice!"

Bing! BIng! BIng! Ricochet Rabbit!

When you have lazy synapses or some such, and the joy juice just does not flow, you try a new med.
The cartoon cat eats the mouse, and his body bulges in mouse shapes every which where.
First you are the tin man, warm oil trickling and tickling your head, taking a new med that seems to be working.
Such a relief. A blessed relief.
But it also takes time and then you are a cartoon cat, bulging in the most unexpected places. The cat has gone and swallowed Bing! BIng! BIng! Ricochet Rabbit! Stick to mice, you silly cat, but in the meantime, the blobs must settle before you join the Others.

Why Doesn't Sharon Share?

"This has apparently become kd rouse's personal therapy page, not fans of Sam Moss. I cannot listen to it any more. I'm out."----Sharon


I think about my indescribable friend, the late Sam Moss, and what he would say about my experience with his fans. If it were just me, the Sharons of the world, would beat me down. I would be so upset that I don't think I could share my personal tributes, my stories of  Sam, that I started well before he died, although it is done.

I would be astonished that the Sharons of the world are very nice people with lovely quotes on their web sites and many friends, but these Sharons would rather have a pure nothing stagnant tribute to Sam than have it sullied with my stories and emotional outbursts.

I have been scolded and slapped down basically for sharing.
Sharing sounds so much like Sharon.
Why doesn't Sharon share?
Let her put her precious things on display, and let me be the Sharon for a change, and snipe and scold and slap down.
Let me break her good intentions to bits for a change.
Let her spend hours and hours of her life writing, and let me be the Sharon who needs only seconds to roll my eyes in disgust, disregarding, disapproving, judging.
Let me be the one to reach into her world and tell her what a stupid selfish girl she is.

I could never be a Sharon though and the Sharons can't be me.

The Sharons write a poem or two that is too precious to share.
Sharon can't risk sharing because she knows there are other Sharons that lie in wait to jeer and spit.
I ask Sam about this Sharon, wanting to know where she had fit in his kaleidoscope world.
Sharon who? asks Sam. Remember, don't let the shitters get you down.
Don't let the shitters get you down.
Don't let the shitters get you down.
Don't let the shitters get you down.
I repeat it like a mantra and hope my sharing bone hasn't done been eaten by the Sharons, the Sharons, the many, many Sharons.

Carbon Bags and the Trick of Three Clicks

Aliens call us "carbon bags of mostly water."
How can we argue that?
But we are two-sided creatures, our real selves hidden in flesh, peeping out behind our eyes.
Our houses of flesh are just houses after all, and will succumb to the ravages of time just as any house of sticks or bricks.
We don't realize our two sides are divisible by 3, Father, Son and Holy Ghost, for we are taught to leap into the arms of a mixture of truth and lies, and we forget to run from men in white shoes who have all the answers. White shoes are not the answer.
Oh Dorothy! You've had the Ruby Shoes All Along!
You coulda, woulda, shoulda known, silly girl...

How could she know though?
How could she have known that with just 3 clicks, she could have been home like she wanted.
But how lost the rest of us would be, us Tin men, Totos, Scarecrows, and Cowardly Lions, if Dorothy had not taken the long way around, living, sharing, learning, while she kept on.
In the flesh, the long way around is the only way possible, and shoes are only shoes.
It's the person wearing the shoes with the power, but wearing shoes, even ruby ones, is not enough.
The person in the shoes has to know what they want even if they somehow know of the trick of the 3 clicks.
The person in the shoes has to be absolutely clear of their destination, meaning they must blunder and fall, fail and crawl, bail and bawl many miles, learning what to keep and what to throw away, before a clear destination is visible.
We are born explorers, we "carbon bags of mostly water."
When we stop, we decay and die.
Clicks make a better story, but the power is within.
Choose, at least, to die first and then decay.
Live it up while there's time, for we are only 3 little piggies after all, in our little houses, in our flimsy, little houses.
Dance, dance little piggies! Dance over-time! Someday, later or sooner, the wolf will be at each our door. Our jig will be up.
The Piper Must Be Paid!