Ducks Go Marching

Running along the Charles River, originally named the Massachusettes River by Captain John Smith, history comes to mind. The Harvard Sails drift to the welcomed wind suppressing the damp humid New England summer air. Tourists and locals alike try their hand at canoeing and kayaking down the river, holding pace with the ducks that inhabit the body of water daily. It is almost as if we have taken a few steps back in technology and its refreshing to see.

Travel is not by hybrid cars and tesla mobiles. It is by boat, and although this travel may be for leisure over necessity, its still reminds us of a younger day. The ducks move in twos, fours and small schools. They turn their face down, and rump to the sky - diving for food and cleaning their beaks. Hundreds of years ago we would find Native Americans and English settlers bathing themselves alongside the winged land creatures. Have the the animals adapted over time, or do they carry about as they always have, withstanding the test of time and proving fit for Darwinism? Why have we changed so much to where the only time we grab a paddle and an oar is to grow our shoulder to fit better in a slim fit Brooks Brothers button down? Running shoes look like billboard advertisements and eyes flock to the woman who's bra barely covers her breasts augmented with silicon.

After the sun drops low and the moon replaces its glow, exercise will cease and alcohol sales will increase. Rather than calming down and preparing a family dinner, we drink alone. We part our lips to the bottle and the smoke to calm our overworked brains. We rent our overpriced apartments to impress our guests, rather than building shelter for our loved ones. More people live alone void of love and care, only to fight for the paycheck and buy another pearl. As I search through my iPhone for an app to order delivery food, I notice the ironic name "seamless" as I feel I have seamlessly lost touch of reality. Checking emails for late night tasks and notifications from various social media outlets and online dating, I fear social entropy taking over.

Shoes stack up like mounds of dirt, and designer denim garnishes the shelves as much as our daily appearance. We skip a meal to make sure Versace stops by for the weekend. We skip the second meal to make sure the 31 inch waist doesn't flirt with 32. Xanax hits the pallet where the multi-vitamin should have laid, and the eye cloth blocks out the colors of the night.

Still, the ducks swim, they clean, they share food together. They frolic naked next to the family they have loved and grown to know...well. Their feet flap happily and bare against the soft current of Boston's elegant waterway. Tomorrow brings no stress as long as the river runs wild, tomorrow is not a day to be feared, but a day to love.

Breath.

Dog In Heat

The air is hotter than most nights, cooler than some. There is that damp feeling in the air, one you feel you can wring out, twisting your fists like a portable dehumidifier. Covers are not necessary and the down comfortable lays beneath you like a mat covering the floor for drying paint. The expectedly stale room feels comfortable without a fan, paying homage to the infrequent but penetrable breeze creeping in through the window screen. The pillows are still cool enough without the touch of body heat, they're pleasing for the time being, but soon my scruffy 4 day shadow will change that.

I breath in, out, counting sheep and avoiding clock-watching. Its too late for novel reading and too early for email chatter. Technology fails to serve a purpose - a rarity in 2013. I could watch porn. 

Breathe slows down and the relaxing and freeing feeling extends from my hollow lungs and enters my bloodstream. Flipped on my stomach grasping onto the pillow formed in a vague shape of a female companion, I squeeze. Wave of breeze. The momentary relief halts as quickly as it entered but my paced breath keeps me calm like a panting dog in Augusts Arizona heat.

There is a gap between my body and the faux memory foam mattress, its been widening throughout my brief tenure here. Like an opposing gravitational force, the gap defies Newton and lifts me upward. The height is negligible to the naked eye, the strange passerby glancing in on my supposed slumber like Bill Nye. The presence of a third party lingers over your shoulder, but a lack of neurological synapses prevent me from verifying its existence and I move forward amicably. My time in consumed with inactivity and the focal point of relaxation.

There is a slight tingle in my toes that caused a ripple affect hitting a tidal friction spot at my waist and settling there. It lingers and feels funny, almost tickling me and I laugh.

STONED.