The Origami Bird

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The Origami Bird

There once was a bird who lived inside a paper house. The walls were so thin that he could hear everything from the other side. Afraid to make a sound, he sat by himself, stiff in an armchair.

On the days that he would fly from his window into the deep blue sky, he could not be there fully. Instead his mind was trapped inside the origami house, wondering what his neighbors were doing.

He wondered if they would be fighting about who would do the dishes. He wondered if he could smell their worm casserole through the walls. He wondered if he could hear them laughing and talking with friends late at night.

So consumed was he by these neighbors that he forgot where he was going. He forgot about the sky and its magical feeling of infinity. He forgot about his hunger for worms and mice. Instead, he stayed inside and listened to the lives around him.

His neighbors had children together and raised them to be strong. They had birthdays and wedding celebrations and dinners with guests. His neighbors would sometimes listen to loud music or shriek over the phone. There never seemed to be an end to their stories of excitement.

One day, when the neighbors were unusually quiet, the bird got an itch to find an adventure of his own.  When he got up to go to the window there was a sharpness in his side. He lifted his wing, but could no longer remember how to fly.  He hoped for the sky.  He hoped for the best. But when he looked down, his wings had turned to paper.

 

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The Dress

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Soft colors of a thin fabric always hide first.

Do they bleed through to the back? Or do they stick stuck to the middle?

Inked on the inside of an empty dress, printed patterns collide.

They struggle against the wrinkles. They relax against the formed.

Curled into coarseness, they gently fold backward.

 

 

Adbusters Magazine

Hi readers,

A political object piece of mine is going to be published in the next issue of Adbusters Magazine!   If you would like to purchase a copy, the magazine can be found at newsstands in all English-speaking countries, Barnes and Noble or Borders. You can also purchase a digital copy on the magazine website.

 

A Woman

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Rules For Using A Woman

Before 40 years of age:

  • Always refer to a woman as ‘sweetheart’, ‘dear’, or ‘Miss’. Even if you don’t know her. This will make her feel delicate and soft spoken. If she tries to tell you otherwise, call her something else.
  • Talk about her legs/weight/appearance even when she can hear you. She will most likely think this is a compliment since a man is giving her attention.
  • Tell her she is beautiful, but do not compliment any other aspect of herself.
  • Allow her to work in the same positions men fill, but don’t bother to pay equally. She will be grateful enough for the experience.
  • If a woman does not want to have children with you, remind her that it is the most important thing she can ever do in her lifetime.
  • When seeing an attractive woman in the workplace, on the street, at a party, or virtually anywhere you happen to be, don’t hesitate to grab her by the pussy.

After 40 years of age:

  • Expired

Donald Trump Once OK’d Howard Stern Calling Daughter Ivanka a ‘Piece of Ass’

The Recycling Bin

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The recycling bin had far more promise. Stories of late nights with loud company drained each glass bottle with a sense of nostalgia and purpose.   Those bottles deserved to be re-used and immortalized so that its energy could keep circulating for years to come.

The recycling bin was a tragically glamorous presence. Sure, used up empty products threw themselves at it – hoping to find the fountain of youth in a more promising afterlife. But the recycling bin was suave. He had but one purpose in life. To save money for the tenant.

Every week the recycling bin lured glass bottles and plastic containers out of their comfortable refrigeration. Subtly reminding them of an almost out-of-date expiration, he made the process seem whimsical and for ‘the good of the community’. Never mind that most of those spaghetti sauces were still good, the recycling bin was able to convince almost all of them of a better life ahead.

If not recycled, he coaxed, an object’s very presence and soul might not live on to contribute goodness to society.

Although the sentiment was understandable, there was something about the trendy ‘go green’ sticker plastered onto plastic that made me think of a salesman more than a do-gooder.

 

The one object that was never good enough to be recycled were the jelly jars. I loved the jelly jars. As a dying breed, they were all the more exotic. They were thick and old fashioned with an unself-conscious air about them. They were not delicate in the same sense as a vanilla bottle. I had a feeling that if any kind of fight broke out, the jelly jar could hold her own. Her presence was too tough for recycling.

 

“You can’t come in here,” the recycling bin shut down as soon as he saw a beautiful jelly jar heading his way.

“And why not?” The jelly jar balked.

“You don’t belong with the others.” Pregnant looking wine bottles with decorated cursive lounged in the sun. A Coldwater Creek catalog bristled.

“You belong over there,” the recycling bin pointed to me.

I stared at the ground. I knew, even though I couldn’t see her, that she must have been disgusted. No one wanted to be with me. Week after week when the used goods were sorted out, everyone always hoped they went with the recycling. I waited anxiously for her dreams to shatter.

“Good,” the jelly jar said instead. “I’d rather be trashy than miserable.”

 

News Story:  http://nypost.com/2016/09/07/this-guy-can-make-a-garbage-bag-look-good/

 

The Blue Blanket

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There once was a dark blue blanket that sat on the edge of a little girl’s bed. The blanket was so soft it felt as if a thousand kittens had died just for its existence. The little girl had begged for the blanket until finally her parents gave in.

As soon as the blanket was purchased, the little girl refused to let go of its comfort. Every day she carried the blanket to school, wrapping herself tightly while on the bus. She walked with the blanket. She played with the blanket. She even ate dinner with the blanket. At last, when she had retreated from life too much, her father threw the blanket into a basket and put it in front of the house for their annual yard sale. “It’s become a crutch and you’re not as strong because of it,” he answered when the little girl pleaded for him to reconsider.

The blanket was found by a childless couple who had been together for a very long time. It was folded neatly into a perfect square with a couple of threadbare pillows and a heating pad. The wife immediately took it out of the basket and with great exclamation declared that this would be her new blanket. It was large enough to cover her California king sized bed and hide the ugly orange comforter her husband had gotten her ten years prior.

She bought the blanket for only a dollar. “Why so little?” She asked the man behind the cash box. “Things that are too delicate rarely last,” he smiled.

But it was delicate because it was good, she thought. She dumped the blanket onto her bed and smoothed out its wrinkles. It covered every ugly blemish on the antique puff. Its fabric was like heaven to her fingers and she thought of how she could spend her mornings lounging in it with a cup of coffee and the paper.

But as soon as she pressed her palms against the softness, the fabric ripped. Not a wide rip, but a small one at the edges.

No one will notice, she thought to herself.

Her husband came home later that day and was surprised to see the blanket covering their bed. “It’s so soft,” he rubbed his fingers against the material. As he got into the bed later that night, he pulled the covers up to his chin and tucked the blanket neatly under his beard. Although not as warm as the comforter, there was something about the fabric that tickled him. He pulled the blanket closer to him and when his wife did not give up her portion, he pulled harder. The softness did not stretch.

Instantly another rip creaked at the edges.

All night the couple fought over the blanket until its material had so many tiny rips, they couldn’t possibly justify salvaging it.

“What do we do?” The husband looked down at the blanket.

Suddenly, the wife remembered the man from the yard sale. “We have to throw it out.” She said. “It was just too soft.”

http://blogs.wsj.com/atwork/2013/10/14/simon-says-toughen-up/

The Desk Lamp

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There once was a lamp who could bend in any direction. He originally thought of this as a blessing. But with so many decisions in life, he could never decide which direction to go. Should he look to the curtains? Or should he look to the sky? He turned to everyone for advice.

“What are you looking at the coffee maker for?” A ball point pen asked one day.

The lamp continued to stare vacantly into the eyes of a Cusinart. Maybe he was heading in the wrong direction. The lamp turned its metal spine against the coffee maker.

“Where should I look?” He asked the pen.

“Why don’t you look out the window. That’s where all the happenings are going on,” he pointed his cap to the outside world.

Once again, the lamp shifted its position. Now he could see the ocean. Its waves lapped at the sand, reminding him of a large golden retriever lapping at a dish of water. The lamp hated retrievers. They were too obedient and had such little mind of their own. What if their owners told the dog to sic him? He had no doubt the dog would do it. How could someone be so blind?

The lamp beamed down at the water, content to see its steady pull and push throughout the earth. The lamp began to wonder about the fish and the sharks and the whales that lurked beneath. There was a whole other world, with different organisms and different choices to wade through. The ocean was always changing. Like all of the people, it breathed in and out, never content to stay in one place. The very enormity of change seemed impossible for the lamp to grasp.

“No, no,” a picture frame called out from the other direction. “You don’t want to see the ocean. It’s too big. If you stare at it for too long, you’ll go blind – losing yourself to the vastness of life. You want to stare at me. I’ll never overwhelm you.”

Once again, the lamp changed positions. It now stared at a silver frame with a small child sitting on a miniature sized wooden chair. The chair was made for small children.The picture frame was also small. It was no bigger than the palm of a human’s hand. The photograph – even smaller. Although the details of the picture were pretty and well defined, the lamp knew that his view was too cramped.

“But if I look at the picture, my world is too small,” the lamp protested.

The pen and the picture frame looked at one another and shrugged. “There’s nothing we can tell you,” they said in unison.

The lamp shifted. He stared at the never moving picture. He stared at the ever growing ocean. He thought about the retriever.