Remember to breathe

Sometimes trouble wants to be your friend. Look to the left, look to the right, stare straight ahead, oops, you didn't look behind your back. And so it goes.

Just might get some sleep tonight

Condo politics. For so long I've lived alone. My children are grown. Past lovers and roommates are doing intermittent cameos in my dreams. And the neighbors loved me as a recluse. No noise. No problems. No trouble. But now I'm alive. I step out into the sun. A woman and her son live with me. I love them both.  I love the change. I love hearing their ambient noise upstairs, downstairs, outside and in my heart. One neighbor doesn't share my happiness — my bliss. She's come undone over life's noise coming from my residence. Loud footsteps. Laughter, piano harmony accompanying my lover's song, condo-children hanging out, playing, reenacting Viking conquests outback by the river.

The friend of the devil is a friend of mine

I've written of Crazy Bob. He works as one of the condo maintenance magicians. He's not swift in the ways of plumbing, electrical troubleshooting or carpentry. He excels in pulling trouble out of his hat. Condo-neighbor gossip. Condo-children hatred. Condo-visitor abhorrence. Crazy Bob lives for trouble. He massages it, he manipulates it; he's never far from it — trouble.   

Here, there and everywhere

A failed twenty-three year root canal. Infection. Pain. Root canal redux. Dental bills. A death in the family: my mother's husband succumbs to Alzhiemer's. Family politics; family bullshit. Car repairs. Stress. Gas prices. Rent. Food costs. Pension blues. Turn around. Hello trouble.

Better run through the jungle

Maybe if I sing about Jesus. Scuff my feet. Throw peace signs at the lions and tigers. Resume my craving for watermelon and buckwheat cake.  Crazy trouble, sail away, sail away, cross the mighty ocean. Leave me to take care of my home, my family and the Vikings pillaging the river island.

Better look behind