My Scattered Thoughts

Reginald Scarebrackets moaned thoughtfully upon receiving the belated Christmas card. “But it’s just now June,” he exclaimed, slicing the card open with his preternaturally lengthy thumbnail. “Gads!” A simply dreadful green panda bear clung whimsically to a cart and horse.

Reginald Scarebrackets placed the card carefully on his lime-green linoleum floor. He scampered off to the next room, only to return, breathing heavily, with tongs and a machete tucked into his cummerbund. Breathing through his nose (it whistled) he slow leaned forward, tongs outstretched, and attempted to grab the card with the unyielding metal fingers. Upon his 17th attempt: success!

Reginald Scarebrackets used the tongs to shove the card deeply into the roaring fireplace and then hacked the fire to bits with his startlingly sharp machete. He made himself some tea and had a quiet sob in his luxurious grey-green Winchester armchair.

“Christmas,” he said, then sat in silence for some time.

Sometimes there’s a sense that something’s not right.

A certain futility parked inside a growling sofa or recliner.

I’m not talking bedbugs.

Or am I?

Returning to the previous point, yes.

Inspired by a paving over of whatnot. All the whatnots really.

Can’t say there’s a point to it. Or can I?

Feel that sun just gambol in the brain. Raindrops tambour on the roof. The windows. All the cars in heaven.

There’s so much frustration in the world, sometimes, it’s hard to read a word.

There’s so much in the world, sometimes, it’s hard to think of writing.

Pishposh, the yeti’s in the marmalada. Can it be? Where else would this dancing monsoon come from? Who else would find the time?

Yes. Yeti yeti yeti.

“Bigfoot.”

(How is it doing that, anyway?)

Imagine that guy’s chagrin–Sisyphus, yeah, that’s it!–when the boulder just rolls up by itself, like he wandered inside some Mystery Spot. What’s he gonna do then, when his purpose goes rolling away? Does he even have any friends anymore? I imagine they got tired watching him roll that thing up the hill all the time, and then running after it, pell-mell, Jack-and-Jill-style. I mean, it’s tough getting a latte with someone who’s doing that all the time, you know? And would he even have time to drink it if it was to go’d? Imagine Sisyphus’ friend standing there, two cups of coffee in hand, just a little too hot, sipping one of them. And hell, after a while, just drinking the other one too. “See ya later, Sisy,” that friend would say. (Not the best nickname, sure, but what’re you gonna do?)

What I’m wondering, if that boulder just up and rolled up the hill, would Sisyphus run to the top of the hill and try to push it down the hill again? Or would he run off and get himself entangled in some other perpetual task, like emptying a river with a teacup, say, or stopping up the wind. Was it the task itself (i.e., boulder-rolling) or the quality of the task that engrossed him so (i.e., perpetual)?

Maybe he’d go sit and stare at some shadows on a wall or something. Or maybe he’d go try to win arguments on the internet, just saying.