suggested feeding & shingles shots

Cell phone:  distraction savior & charismatic apocalyptist conveniently contained in one handy device as a necessary frenemy.

Platform:  marketplace of projected characterizations.  

Suggested feeds:  zombie dodgeball.

Concentration:  already-difficult trait made obsolete by technological progress. 

	Feeds are capricious veins that swell up in black hole dimensions of escape while universally veg-searching for triggered reasons to be obsessively unproductive. 

During a brief spell, suggestions were stuck on disaster footage:  a cruise ship taking out a harbor structure with people either running away while waving their arms or pausing to document their demise — or aerial footage of jack-knifing semis as if a rogue drone was hovering & waiting for something viral-worthy to randomly arise. 

Step Right Up

	Touring was, fundamentally, a private excuse to cast a wider thrift store net as a codependent reward for surviving public performances. 

On this below occasion, I found a series of recreational disasters painted on wooden shingles — another one of those stops when I probably should’ve bought them, but didn’t. In such instances, I merely take a phone pic so I have something new to regret later. 

Change can be refreshing.

	I’ve custom-titled the below above-mentioned passed-over pieces & followed up with a personalizing tangent to generously share within our small world:

Avalanche with Matching Tuque

In high school, I joined the ski club. I’d never skied, but learned they were yellow-bussing for a weekend trip to an all-night ski-a-thon. A gym teacher chaperoned. I rented gear at the slopes. When I turned it all in the next day, one of the poles was shaped like the letter L. I haven’t skied since — at least, not on purpose. 

set to “Come Sail Away” by Styx

Thirty years ago or so, a fishy alcoholic offered me & a friend use of a small dinghy. We took it out, neither of us knowing how a sail worked. We started drifting towards open water. While outwardly denying panic, we accidentally veered back just close enough to the beach to jump out, walk it in & tie-up somewhere. Saved by a fluke. Insert sundry metaphor of life here.

Incident at Boat Fence

When I was a kid, I was taken along on a few duck hunting trips with a waddle of beering patriarchs. We’d have to get up at 4am, drive to a flooded ricefield & lift the boat motor over submerged barbed wire farm fences. They supplied me a Jr .410 shotgun. My uncle made the shells in his garage. I only shot it a few times at duckless water & usually just fell asleep in the bow under a tarp until drunken laughing or shooting started. 

Afterwards, we’d go to a diner for eggs & coffee so they could soberly deflate. It was the only part I liked. 

	Escape. Survive. Repeat.