Not Whole Cloth

One thing about the Declaration of Independence that isn’t widely known is that Thomas Jefferson had to present the document to Congress for approval. Congress debated over this and made changes. In total, Congress made eighty-six revisions to Jefferson’s masterpiece, eliminating 480 of his words. The most striking changes were that Congress removed all references to “the execrable commerce”—slavery.

I found this rather interesting that Jefferson would word it this way, since at the time, he had dozens of African-Americans as slaves.

But the removal was mostly fueled by political and economic expediencies. While the 13 colonies were already deeply divided on the issue of slavery, both the South and the North had financial stakes in perpetuating it. Southern plantations, a key engine of the colonial economy, needed free labor to produce tobacco, cotton and other cash crops for export back to Europe. Northern shipping merchants, who also played a role in that economy, remained dependent on the triangle trade between Europe, Africa and the Americas that included the traffic in enslaved Africans.

So it would appear that in the Constitution at that time, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal … did not apply to everyone.

On A Side Note: During the Revolutionary War, brides did not wear the traditional white wedding gown when married; they wore red as a sign of rebellion.

Please tell me, why do I feel the need to spread my guts all over the internet? Why can’t the orange and yellow pills I take make me sedated enough to shut up? Is that blasphemy? I’m sorry if it is. Here goes the story, please listen.

I got my covid vaccine yesterday (is this too personal, I don’t know), and I’m completely and utterly destroyed. I have a fever of 102 degrees, I’m sweating like I’ve just run a mile in under five minutes (which is impossible, right?) and besides sweating like a pig, I also have chills. This poses a problem as I was supposed to get drinks with a friend tonight (margaritas, no less!) and that had to be cancelled because of, well, I suppose, my disease.

My friend (different one) told me that this means I have a strong immune system. Excuse me? One that’s burning me alive? Yeah, okay. I’m about as ready to get up and out of bed as I am to take the LSATs.

Please tell me what this is (God, or anyone who’s read this far)? I don’t know how science works. They put a shot in my arm and at least I’m pretty sure it’s not a government chip. So it goes.

This is where you tell me, this is the internet, we’re not doctors, we’re writers. I know! And I shouldn’t be saying this. But for some reason, even though I can’t really sit up, I’ve managed to open my laptop and write something. Are there going to be typos? Of course, sis! It’s my writing and my disease and I’ll do it how I want to.

And then there’s the predicament of my next vaccine. If the first one is this bad, am I to expect an early grave? I told my friend (different than the aforementioned two), I’m going to die with the second dose! But, we must prevail for science. As I sit here writing this, I wonder if this is what it is like to burn in hell. It’s that bad!

I started reading a book this afternoon... wait, this isn’t a diary! Anyway, that’s my question. Please tell me what this is, and my need to say something. Is it a “strong” immune system? The devil? Mental illness (definitely that)?

But we’re writers, not scientists, unless someone is (or a doctor), in which case, I’m really surprised you’ve read this far! Congratulations to myself, I’m useless and tired.

If you were me you would understand my need for wide shoes. The wider the better, which of course makes high heels a pipe dream. Never will they find their way onto my wish list. It’s a harsh reality, but I have accepted Jimmy Choo and I will never date. Stilettos may have a certain bewitching appeal; transforming the calf muscle into a sex machine for some. This is a journey I and my eleventh toe will never walk. But we don’t mind.

Yes. You heard me right. I have eleven toes. Five on my right foot, six on my left. The sixth toe on my left foot sits up all high and mighty on top of my pinky toe with an air of authority. This is why I decided to give her an appropriate name. I call my eleventh toe Queen Elizabeth. There is no other toe quite like her. Not that I’ve seen. If she was in a line up, if pressed, I am aware one might describe her as a cross between the ring toe and the pinky toe, but that would be an unfair assessment. I’ve always considered any reference to a half breed to be derogatory, with good reason. I suspect you would agree. Queen Elizabeth is just one of a kind. Of life and limb, we were born into this world together and when we go out, a few bonus phalanges will go out with us.

Isn’t it true parents are known to count all the fingers and all the toes when they hold their newborns for the first time? What if my mother thought she had counted wrong on the day of my birth? I can’t imagine she was in the least bit concerned at the revelation because when I was growing up my mother never made me feel any kind of way about Queen Elizabeth. But there were repercussions. Kids can be cruel. When I got teased by the kids down at the lake, my mother would confront them claiming they were just jealous because only Kings and Queens were born with extra toes. If anyone tried to protest her explanation, she would stand up and stare them down with a predictable “off with their head” kind of vibe. Beyond fearing my mother, I suppose the novelty of my eleventh toe must have eventually worn off since if there were any lingering whispers in between splashes about me and Queen Elizabeth, shade only came from the Eastern white pines bordering the lake.

Years back, it was Aunt Francis, my father’s mother’s sister, who said at the Thanksgiving dinner table, “Why don’t you take her to a surgeon and cut that damn thing off already?” My mother disregarded the question as if Aunt Francis hadn’t uttered a word. Instead she politely asked not one but two change the subject questions, “Will you please pass the dinner rolls?” And. “Aunt Francis what are you grateful for this Thanksgiving?”

From across the table, I recognized the death stare lingering all over my mother’s face.

There would be an extra seat at the table the following year.

Perhaps Aunt Francis had not grasped that in our house we had always been and will always be an “embrace your God given gifts” kind of folk, and that way of thinking goes hand and hand with gratitude. So when Momma said to me, “What are you thankful for,” this past Thanksgiving, I replied,

“I am thankful for the designer genius of Orthofeet sneakers with stretchable uppers and extra wide toe box.”

Momma then winked at me and I winked back while wiggling my comfortable eleventh toe.

#FICTION

An avalanche of ugly.

Stormy waves of smack.

Sink-holes of loneliness.

Scratches on your back.

Putting up “The Good Fight.”

(As you always do.)

Surviving all the Whack-a-Moles,

from Midnight to High Noon.

Grace is how you do it,

graceful as a breeze,

gently pushing clouds around,

scattered piles of leaves.

Pouncing like a warrior

who also knows ballet:

Strong & fit, bit-by-bit,

you make it all the way.

I’m proud to be a friend of yours,

standing by your side.

Win or lose, it’s you I choose,

to fight against the tide.

Copyright 2021

Lonely

Pale lemon sun chaperones obscurity.

standing on sidelines watching, while

others bide time smelling the roses

but I am unable to unpack

trappings of my emotional baggage.

Solitary moon meanders around me

as I trudge miles in my despair,

loneliness mutilating my soul.

Vertigo of night strikes without caring

as I stumble on precipice with tears

thrashing my throat in delusions.

Alone

Whistling alone, I stroll down the street,

reflections of life flow in silver streams.

Reaching out to touch damp soothing rain,

roaming freely from all cares of my world.

Waking early in morning to ride sunshine,

tide of inner thoughts in esoteric spirit.

Feeling the space around me in whispers,

standing alone in my own footsteps.

Savoring the taste of enveloping silence,

breathing deeply to unlock my universe.

Watching others walking on by, leaving

me alone in lulling reveries to explore

blossoming meditations of a dreamer.

Give me wind that blows

I will turn and lift a drink

From those depths below

Give me wind that blows

I will find those depths in me

To quench thirst in you

Give me winds that blow

I will pour myself across

Deserts of your heart

Give me winds that blow

I will make you green again

Where droughts left you dry

I'm not a hippie,

I ain't Prada trendy either,

My department store is a dumpster or that one thrift shop that should be to all men, GoodWill...or occasionally you'll see me at a bargain bin.

I'm not a punk,

Goth is dead,

Screamo-scene is only sleeping,

And popularity is in your head. And as a Raver without a scene,

I'm lable-incapable but i cannot refute the bad, common name for cultural mutts like me,

Coined hipster in this lack luster modern society.

Sadly urban dictionary says that is the nomber that best fits me, so i guess I'll embrace it..

Hence forth, I'll be:

"THE HIPSTER CELEBRITY as, you've probably never heard of me before!"

Works for me, as I am trying to be a good sport about this class-less classification. It matters not in the end.. so I suppose that is now then! 

Haha!