In the midst of a Monet

......or in a blur of blooms

For some, siblings are the strangers you grew up with. You share the back seat, maybe the dinner table, maybe a bedroom. Plus DNA. But that's if you have siblings. I do not, so for me parents were the strangers I grew up with.

And they were pretty strange. As was I. Then I became an even stranger stranger than I was before when I began a new life few would choose with a new brain few would pick.

Speaking of strange, today I got a text that began, “Hi, I'm just a simple robot.”

So how does one stay more or less healthy? You know how some docs prescribe "Take two before breakfast" or something like that. Well, my prescription for myself might be, "Write this before breakfast." And so I am.

The frame, the corner, the curves. The second prescription might be, “Write this before lunch and dinner and after dinner.” And so I will.

Once I was in my right mind which was my write mind, too, and then I wasn’t anymore, and had to learn to write again. Though how would one “learn” to write?

Something unexpected. A blur of blooms, pink and scarlet, perhaps. Knee-high maybe. Like landing in the lushest meadow or in the midst of a Monet.

Plants and people have the same A’s, T’s, C’s, and G’s in their DNA strings. I don’t know what that means, but that’s what my search engine says. That said, plants can’t uproot themselves to escape being eaten. Neither can many humans. Brutal billionaires are taking more and more, keeping more and more, and leaving less and less for the rest of us.

Monet said, he “perhaps owed becoming a painter to flowers.” He also said he “hoped to paint the way a bird sings.”

Claude Monet