Please please may I have my own bumblebee bat?
Who would perch like an angel on the rim of my hat,
And flutter and fly and scare my dog, Nat,
That I’d cuddle and spoil and pet like a cat,
And save from his vanishing Thai habitat,
Cause endangered he’d love my cramped little flat,
Where I’d feed him cold mozzies and warm butterfat,
…or should I just get a turtle and leave it at that?
—
Prompt: Beer
Hello Wednesday,
Summer is coming and it’s nice to anticipate warm sunny days relaxing on the patio, maybe taking a break from tending to the garden, being served (why not? It’s my fantasy) an ice cold bottle of Danish beer. A crisp, cool lager that slides icily, fizzily down the throat and is one of the glories of being alive.
The problem is, while I like the idea of summer beer, I don’t particularly like the taste of it any more. I don’t like the alcohol weariness that accompanies beer. Yet the romance of beer beckons with more and more intensity as the sun moves higher in the sky.
“A beer is a beer,” my father used to say. He was an unpretentious man, who never failed to appreciate the icy luxury of a beer fresh out of the fridge after a hard day’s grimy work. He didn’t need or even appreciate fancy beers, though he harboured no grudges against those who fancied themselves connoisseurs. He loved beer culture, which is to say he was happiest when he could ensconce himself in a cosy pub surrounded by his easy-going friends. I like to think that is where he is now. With my dog at his feet, snatching up stray peanuts. Yes, I’m into flights of fancy during these days of isolation.
So I will stock the summer fridge with the things that satisfy me as a cold beer satisfied my father. I’ll sip and be delighted, whether it’s a cold white wine, a decadent vodka cooler (I love those), a non-alcoholic beer like Beck’s which I have just discovered and which is freaking delicious, or a frosted glass of clean cold water, in the spirit of being grateful for the truly fine moments in life.
Meanwhile, may I present a few of my favourite cartoons related to today’s prompt, “beer”?
—
Peace, love, and patience,
~~FP.
Prompt: Spit
“I’m not going out there.”
That’s what he said, so I got supplies together and made a meal with what was left. It looked interesting… perfectly seared steak and a new age salad. The salad was composed of bananas, chickpeas, and minced dandelion flower (for colour). He did not like it.
“I can’t eat this.” He spit the forkful of salad onto his plate. “What a waste of a banana,” he said.
The sun beamed through the window like a spotlight, illuminating dancing, fluttering dust specks. We ate early these days, to conserve electricity. I had suggested dinner by candlelight instead, but he snorted. We ate at five o’clock. It had to be right at five, since he discovered a rigid routine was soothing to him in these stressful times. He rose at seven, took Nancy for a walk, sat down to breakfast at eight, read email and the news online an until his light lunch was served at noon. In the afternoon he liked to watch legacy sports, football mostly, and nap. Another walk with Nancy took place before his dinner, the contents of which were starting to disturb his equillibrium.
“I can’t work like this,” he said after dinner. He wrote in the evenings, parked in front of the computer screen in the spare bedroom, set up as his office.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, against my better judgement.
“I’m hungry, for starters,” he said. “And this house is a mess. You know dust bothers me. I need peace and order. You know that. Did you clip Nancy’s nails?”
“Not unless you found the clippers,” I said boldly.
“Do I have to do everything around here?” he asked. He stood and came to me, standing in the doorway with a plate of dried apple and a cup of tea, his evening snack. He took the apple and the tea and closed the door.
“I need my privacy,” he often said.
I turned on the television and grabbed my stack of handkerchiefs. The sewing machine was broken, so I stitched all the masks by hand. It was time-consuming. He liked to have several in rotation, and he liked to give extra to his friends outside. So I sewed extra ones.
The TV show was about a young woman living in a strict, Orthodox religious community, where her marriage was arranged and her duties clear and inalienable. I envied her. Then she gave it all up to run away to Berlin and study music.
The world had gone mad.
But I, sat there in the sagging armchair with my stack of white cotton handkerchiefs, had not gone mad.
I put on a newly sewn mask, got a sweater, picked up the car keys and Nancy, and walked out to the old Saab.
It took all night to drive there. I had forgotten what salt air smelled like, and forgotten the sweet bitterness of a fresh lemon.
I pictured him at 8:45 in the morning, having foraged his breakfast, annoyed, opening his email program and finding my letter.
“Fuck off,” it said.
Prompt: Poverty
Hello Wednesday,
No, there is nothing fun about poverty. Poverty means you don’t have enough of the things you need, often compounded by being looked down upon for something that is not only not your fault, but that you struggle to overcome against impossible odds on a daily basis.
Ok, sometimes people cope with poverty with integrity, courage, and grace. Sometimes people without material possessions learn to appreciate what is truly valuable. I know that because I grew up poor and that happened to me. But those are stories for another time.
Meanwhile, I have a few of my favourite cartoons to present under the prompt, “poverty”, which does not mean that poverty is fun, but that the trappings around poverty can be gobsmackingly nonsensical and that sometimes we deal with suffering by poking our fun stick at it.
So, here we go:
See also:
—
Stay safe, everyone!
~~FP
Fluffy Pool 