I live daily in smiles and gaiety, it be the nature of the job.  How do you do? Looking good! While trying my best not to snob.  It’s not the intent to go snobbery’s way though silence is often construed.  But giving a care when denying the quest of remembering the mostly dead crew.

Images hear I of spring.  Glorious season of change.  Rebirth, renounce, re-anything just simply reminders of pain.  To mourn a loss in person not so good for the socialite call.  Hence I write it all down, renounce with a frown and chase the blues to the ball.  Pardon me while I am bleeding, excuse the stink in my eye.  Oh how was your day?  Oh mine? It’s ok, notice ye not the piteous reply. Moving within the same madness, reflections all view the igual. No soy la que quire el platica, sino el silencio sensual. One need not worry their insight and think my soul inherently gloom but giving a care when denying the quest of remembering the mostly dead crew.

What meaneth here this nonsense?  Who need take the time to dispel?  Again worry ye not, the girl’s not gone to pot just know her heart’s in a swell.  Meandering down to the watering hole in knowing the questions do fly.  Barista not wanting to filter the irritable look in the eye.  Giveth me the drink I choose Bessie, ask me not the cordial reply.  Just leave me alone, drink my blackness down cold and a lemon loaf too on the fly.  Don’t worry your pretty head Bessie, Jack think not your joy now subdued.  But giving a care when denying the quest of remembering the mostly dead crew.

•√•

So I’m not really one who enjoys the abstract–not in art, nor music, nor prose.  But sometimes it just works, at least for the writer, in this case me.  The nonsensical lyrical presentation above is vehicle for the swirling of thoughts, the allowance to pull together the mushroom cloud and compact it to the location of its present state.  The idea is to “let a little of the air seep out of the balloon” of grief. The above writing is not reflected of the pure thoughts within me.  Not “pure” as in “clean.”  But pure as in my own.  The writing is muddled, influenced and therefore hiding.  After all, isn’t that what the abstract allows, obfuscation? Isn’t the above more fun to read, albeit perplexing, but more fun than finding this page and having me write: Hi, my name is Rivka and today sucks!  Quite frankly, if I am at the place where that statement is all I can say, I assure you I will remain silent.

Breaking it down:

Today is May 16, 2015.  The Bent 4 became the Bent 3 on May 17, 2013.  On May 16, 2013 I had dread upon my heart for what I perceived to be the failing health of my son.  On May 17, 2013 my perception proved true. None of these facts make me feel the better in writing them down.

Tomorrow, May 17 2015, my niece graduates with her undergrad degree and a dear friend of our family will wed.  Both celebratory occasions will occur without our physical presence though our hearts are joyously united to their happiness.  We, the Bent 3 are still not fully adjusted to our outcome.  So sorry to disappoint.  Actually, just as I wrote the sentence down I realized I am not sorry at all.  Sorry I’m not sorry.  I don’t mind that my sorrow offends, let it.  I don’t mind that I’m cloistered and blue, for giving a care is not my intent while remembering the mostly dead crew.

Tags: bentrivka, brain tumor, cancer, coffee, Cole Bent, family, Lyrical prose, military mom, mourning, nonsense, sorrow