The Doors wild, dark refreshing, probing, satisfying. Unique, theatrical (respect, reverence) glorifying, worshiping, adoring illustrious, eminent, legends.
In sleep’s dimmest darkness, it is there. The figure stands in the open closet, not moving. And she barely sees shadow and still silhouette and in her room. Until she realizes it’s only the mischievous night.
Faces in the folds of a curtain in the afternoon sun. In fleeting shadows behind vibrant light bulbs. In vision specks after sudden sneezing, in opening of the eyes during night’s reign. And, in my heavily medicated presence, the faces are everywhere.
Sweet, the sweetest sound ever made. The whisper from your lips, calling my name. Never in the world, has there ever been, a sound so sweet.
My sister and I grew up on all things camp – TV, film and even some music. We watched the funniest shows like Gilligan’s Island and Batman. It was hilarious getting animated, emulating an exaggerated karate chop through an imaginary smoketrail or holding Vick’s up to our eyes, so the vapor made us cry fake tears.
I am yearning for carefree, childhood trips with the family, watching monarch butterflies flitter around on the mountain hills. The current plot twist in our lives makes me ache for pure, unadulterated silly joy. Thanks, Covid-19.