A shadow walks

On the crimson sunset horizon a shadow walks. The destination is unclear as it meanders stopping here and there, stooping to pick at some unseen curiosity in it's path. Nighttime darkens, the shadow obscures.

Remote viewers, they pervade themselves, tasked with unveiling the secrets of tomorrow. Learned to interpret their strange surroundings in a land of fantasy. They went to many times and locals, not always on our earth. Past 2024 they could not budge. At least they never told.

Pockets were left, at times in places least suspected, of life. Pockets where the winds had not descended to tint with their radioactive recklessness the juice from stems and bugs. Pockets where bacterium still lavished, the odd mole still dug to chew a root.

Blame is hard to attribute. Mother earth will bloom again, some day. Minds of creatures with brains subtle enough to undermine their own achievements, geared for tribalism which flourished for the odd millions of years. Minds of creatures who learned too much for their passions to eschew, blew themselves and mother earth to smithereens.

Years had passed, those journeys around a sun unfazed by the niceties of awareness. Maybe. Years in which the radioactivity had mellowed, skeletons of an age gone by obliterated by wind erosion, picked clean by blowing sands. Cities, those piles of rubble, hiding the skeletons, places to avoid if you where one of the few, if you where one of the few unlucky ones, hidden in one of mother earth's pockets. She kept things in her pockets.

Morning comes. The shadow walks on stooping to pick at some unseen curiosity in it's path. Does it look for pockets to eek out a sustenance, to cherish the resourcefulness of mother earth? Or does it simply meander, forlorn?

The itch

It wasn't always easy to navigate the challenges of life. All institutions had their flaws, nursing homes among them. Divine guidance was helpful. He was just itchy. Daytime wasn't bad, but night came and it started. Slowly at first, a little itch here, a pin prick there. By the time he crawled into bed and said “Night night” to his cats the itch would begin to consume him till he was a bundle of nerves, scratching here and there, waiting for the next electric prickle to strike. No use. He'd get up and make a pot of coffee.

He used Nix, thought it was scabies. The conscientious care givers at the home said no, they'd done tests, she didn't have scabies, it was psoriasis. She had a scaly white scalp and fingers thick and cracked with thick dry white skin. Red blotches on her back and legs. It had started a month before Christmas, after her room mate had scabies. They washed the clothes, washed the walls, stuck the stuffed animals in garbage bags and hid them, and gave them the treatment. It never went away. She didn't know, her dementia mind couldn't fathom it. She pulled her hair out, said it didn't itch though. She didn't know.

A few days after he used the Nix the itch was gone. He slept the sleep of abandonment, dreams of cupcakes floating over fairy landscapes, awoke refreshed the whole world to explore. Then came the time for the daily visit. His feet would not go through that door. Anxiety overtook him, the remembrance of that horrid itch filled his being numbing his mind black. He couldn't think. He sat on the bench outside.

Oh what to do? What would a sane person do? He phoned the nursing supervisor. Of course he got the answering machine. Left his message, “I got itchy, had pimple bumps, used Nix, it went away. Could my dear wife possibly have scabies? Please phone me.”

His phone rang. The nursing supervisor said no it wasn't scabies, the doctor had said so. He said maybe I should go see a dermatologist. I hummed and hawed and said my wife was not improving. He said she was refusing her medicated cream. I asked if maybe she could see a dermatologist for a different solution. Was a brilliant manoeuvre on my part, if I can so say. He said yes if I would accompany her, as she was prone to refusing these escapades into the unknown. In my glory I said “Yes, for sure” and thanked him profusely.

With this unforeseen outcome at my disposal I got up from that bench and marched happily through that door. Found her in the rec hall and gave her a big kiss. She grinned from ear to ear. I know I'll pay the price, but it isn't scabies. Maybe.

Arrested views

I've not had much to say of late, at least not out loud. My prostate keeps my vanity in check with excruciating pain six minutes out of every hour as I curse the learnèd idiot who invented brachytherapy. As a humongous captive grizzly swinging his massive head side to side in woe at his predicament, I seat on my throne swaying my noggin to and fro in anguish that this is my punishment for crimes against the arrested views of humanity, and not at all sure it will not last for all eternity. It does make one question their faith in the doctors who say in three more months all will be normal. Does it end with a whimper or a bang?

So, in my reconciliation with the powers that be I set forth my will and testament in proof that I have seen the light. Oath under torture has been viewed as constitutional by many constituencies.

1. God created the earth in six days about four thousand years ago.
2. Evolution is a myth.
3. Man was created to have dominion over all living things.
4. Global warming is a hoax.
5. Oil was placed in this earth for man to use.
6. Supply-side economics and posterity with rock bottom taxes is key to mans' success.
7. Democracy and the freedom to bear arms will speed us to the second coming.

I set forth this treatise in surety that our omnipotent and forgiving father reads Google+. Also I promise to never tune in to CBC Radio ever again. Such progressive views have obviously got me into this mess. I'll just have to get used to reading The Sun with the sunshine girl. By immersing oneself in the wisdom of the right, those cravings for the avante-garde will soon wear off.

Please wish me luck.