Author Archives: sittingpugs

About sittingpugs

Bamboo is my favorite plant to eat. I can write with both hands. The Atlanta Falcons are my favorite football team.

Des fleurs violets

I went to the wedding of a really good friend on Good Friday.  The weather was excellent — sunny but not hot, breezy but not windy.  I was motivated just enough to take pictures of two sights I wanted to behold in the moment and in the future:

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What was supposed to be a ceremony for 2020 was postponed twice on account of the state of global health.  I had to make sure that the dress I got for the occasion still fit — it did.  It has pockets.  I don’t think I’ll have another opportunity to wear it, mais ce n’est pas grave.  I’m fairly certain the groundskeepers of the venue did some pollen-blowing because none of the stone surfaces I’d looked at were covered in yellow powder.  Coupled with the mask, my sinuses were very happy (but my eyeballs ended up feeling drier than I was expecting).

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Happy Easter… buy all the sugary treats for at a discounted pice tomorrow.  And then in a couple of days, July 4th merchandise will be everywhere.

Drop the Net

Under a moon-less night, illuminated by one under-achieving street lamp, the net of the basketball hoop shone like a neon pink sign.

Hello and welcome, all who venture into this four-sided rectangular space.

The man with the bag of discarded fish heads pushed upon the gate surrounded the basketball court.  His eyes darted around, searching for surveillance cameras, other night-dwellers, and general signs that he should take his burden elsewhere.  But, he was alone, so he sat down on one of the moss-covered benches just outside of the street lamp’s light.  The bag hit the ground faster than his thighs reached the bench.

He wished he could throw it in the river or in a dumpster or anywhere that would swallow it up and let him forget he was being paid the price of a princess’s frivolous weekend to relocate a dozen fish heads.  Salmon, trout, sword, shark — he didn’t know and didn’t care.  He’d hauled worse smelling and heavier things before, but something about this particular delivery made him feel unexpectedly uneasy.

The man looked up at the basketball net and wondered what would be the worst that could happen if he hoisted the bag into the hoop.  He knew it wouldn’t fall through.  Was it worth it, though?  To risk being seen or leaving innocent day-dwellers to deal with a sack of steadily putrefying scales, eyes, and teeth.  The man remained on that bench and considered his illusory options.  He didn’t really have but one, which was to continue through the city until cement gave way to dirt and chuck the bag into a well.  He made a mental note to be more discerning with his next assignment.  No more transporting materials that can decompose and emit unpleasant aromas.

~!~

I have no idea what inspired this piece of writing… the mental image of an outdoor basketball court at night and a bag of fisheads manifested, and out came the rest of the words.

Not to be old-fashioned but

Yes, ma’am, I have a past
I was young and overly optimistic
that first love or young love
would be forever.

Yes, ma’am, I have grown up
I have done right by biological crafting,
I mean, what kind of man would I be
if I had done anything less?

Yes, ma’am, I’m walking on the outside
Though, I know you have fast reflexes
and not to be old-fashioned but
can we lay out some promises?

No, ma’am, I don’t intend on dying
but you never know when dire circumstances
come crawling and I want you
to be taken care of
if the battle takes me down with it.

Yes, ma’am, I’ll eat more than a caesar salad
I can wait for a lavish ceremony
and even when the whole room needs me
I’ll find my way to you.

In the form of paper or a painting
or a bundle of red balloons.

— yiqi 26 March 2022 8:39 pm

This poem was inspired by the film A Journal for Jordan (Denzel Washington, 2021).
JFJ
Pic cred: Amazon

Bon Voyage, Monsieur Ryan

Don’t cough, what bright spotlight through this here window pane.
It is the tweet and Matt Ryan is no longer the sun.
Go fly, fair son, and be still with the plentifully stunned.

Go forth, go forth, wherever you will,
Unwind stiff muscles and refute all the shame
Or if now be not a good time to peel off game gloves
Then I’ll no longer dream of playing for an ornithologist.

~!~

The Atlanta Falcons have announced that their quarterback for more than a decade is stripping off the humidity of the south’s red, black, and white for mid-western climes in hues of white and blue.  No longer a predatory bird will Matt Ryan be; instead, he shall become a mammal — a colt.  Even though his football days, weeks, months, and years in Atlanta can coldly be summarized as a refrain of so-close-and-yet-so-far, and it was often painful to watch the Falcons play in the last several years, the good times were really good, weren’t they?

I’ll treasure always the picture of the pig he drew me when he was a rookie.

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PS. Yes, there is a reason why the opening of the entry sounds familiar.

So That’s why they call it a bundle of joy

I saw one today and it saw me.  By “it,” I mean a human child referred to as “a bundle of joy.”

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I had just spent a couple of hours catching up with a friend I haven’t seen in several years.  The weather was excellent, I felt “normal” again, like myself again.  It’s become subjective whether or not there is such a thing as “normalcy” anymore, or at the very least, it’s become much harder to depend on predictability in day-to-day life.  Yet, for a few hours on a Saturday, doing what I love doing (reading and writing at a non-Starbux coffee shop) coupled with good conversation, I was able to slip back into my preferred “default” self.  Not the self of pessimistic solitude, but that of intellectual fulfillment and ease.

After my friend and I parted ways, I had a moment with a stranger when I was walking to my car.  I noticed a motorist reversing and going the wrong way out of the parking lot, and vocalized to no one in particular, “You’re going the way, you’re going the wrong way.”

This stranger, who was sitting by a staircase and taking a smoke break, had heard me and remarked, “Oh, they don’t care, they do it all the time.”  I trotted over and inquired how many Starbux products could he buy if he had a dollar for every time he saw someone exiting incorrectly the parking lot.  A very short chat was had.  I bid him a good day and proceeded to my car.  I took the usual route back to my bachelor pad, and as I approached an intersection flanked by restaurants and other businesses not half a mile from the coffee shop, I happened to look left outside of the driver side window.

Initially, I didn’t focus on any one person having lunch on the patio…until my eyes landed upon her.  This small human with a head of brown curls, and who clearly had just learned how to stand (and probably walk) within recent weeks, was looking and pointing at me.  She was giggling too.  I whipped my head back towards the windshield to see if the line of cars in front of me had moved or not — it hadn’t.  I returned my gaze to where the little girl was standing, and her face was oozing with cheerfulness.  I waved, her dad waved, she waved, and then her mom waved…and then the cars in front of me started to move.

I have a Mashimaro sticker on the driver side door, maybe she was mesmerized by its iridescence.  Maybe she liked my sunglasses.  I have no idea why she singled me out (and from the distance of 1.5 car-lengths no less), but at least now I know why anyone would call a baby, an infant, or a young child “a bundle of joy.”  Inexplicably, I felt honored to have caught the attention of a vessel of soft tissue, blood, bones, muscle, nerve endings, tendons, and unbridled curiosity.

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