How to Live Life - a Series of Metaphors

Living Life is
driving downhill in a golf cart
but the only control you have
is a thread
tied to the steering wheel.

Living Life is
sitting cross-legged on a PE scooter
with only the reassurance of
the feel of a friend's hands
on your shoulders
that you will not
careen off course
or topple sideways.

Living Life is
Olympic curling
where the only control
over the course of the stone
resides in smoothing the ice
lying before it.

imagination disclaimer

This is just a shout out into the void of the vast internet out there :)

Although this blog is probably situated in a relatively private corner of the web, I recently realized that what I put on here probably won't make much sense. In a sense, perhaps it makes the experience of anybody fortunate to stumble upon this blog all the more intriguing. However, I must apologize for any confusing ramblings or notions that may be noted on this blog; after all, this blog is probably more for me than the general public, if you know what I mean. :)

Thanks to you all for your patience!

The Red Wheelbarrow

"The Red Wheelbarrow"

William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.


My Interpretation (not true)

   In an old farmhouse in the countryside sat an old red wheelbarrow; however, nobody knew it was old because of the new glossy coat it had been given from the first spring rain. The only hint of its antiquity was the rusty handlebars that Father had installed decades before. Despite this, it shone with happiness. The wheelbarrow hoped that someday its Master would come home and claim it.
   Back in its youth, the red wheelbarrow was surrounded by animals of all kinds: newborn lambs stumbling awkwardly with their unproportionally lanky legs, the proud rooster with his iridescent feathers strutting around with his head and tail held bristling.
   Now, the gamut of gamboling animals had been reduced to nothing more than a few simple and stupid white chickens. The wheelbarrow reminisced nostalgically, recalling the blazing summer days when it and its Master would travel to the creek, where they would spend all afternoon collecting plain old rocks to bring home to Master’s bemused mother. Those days are gone, thought the poignant wheelbarrow.
   Its Master had grown up, slowly ignoring the wheelbarrow’s prompts to play. Its Master had grown up, drifting further away from home. Its Master had grown up, putting on a strange uniform, never to return home, they said, until after eight years. Eight years came and went, but the wheelbarrow never stopped hoping.
   Someday, its Master would come home and sift his now calloused fingers through the collection of hundreds of miscellaneous rocks, and smile, remembering at last those long, yet short days at that forest creek.
   The chickens clucked softly, pretending to sympathize with the wheelbarrow’s melancholy yet propitious disposition.
   Someday.

Here is the real backstory: http://www.shmoop.com/red-wheelbarrow/

Happiness

Happiness is

lying on your back barefoot
in the middle of a travertine-tiled kitchen floor,
eating a handmade strawberry-jam sandwich, and
sipping milk from a permanently coffee-ring-stained white mug
at midnight
.

Observations - Fall

I'll leave it to you to guess what these mean ;)

silver and gold pearls clustered in groups of four, zipping along a boggy highway, the pair on the bottom pale reflections of their fog-piercing counterparts.

fluttering through the recently rained autumn air, chocolate, gold, and pumpkin spice leaves, from damp confines of the rooftop gutter, freed by benevolent janitor's tinny echoes of his (t)rusty rake.