Dining with Friends

Anybody remember going out with friends pre-covid? Getting together, everybody around a big table, the restaurant had to move things around so everybody could sit together, sometimes they’d even put us all in a separate room so our laughter wouldn’t disturb the other patrons?

Gosh, those were the days.

We’ve just begun to do that again. With a few, select friends, of course.

Not so in The Wild. Here friendships, when made across species, last forever.

Or at least while food resources are available to support group dining.

But even when resources diminish, we rarely hear squabbles, rarely witness arguments and aggressive, assertive discussions.

Most often they’ll snatch and grab, take what they can immediately get and run away.

It may not fill their bellies, and it will get them to the next opportunity.

When perhaps they can share again.

Any Two-Legs listening?

 

The Coyotes Are Celebrating now on Carmina

Entering Lindisfarne (2016) by Clarabelle Miray Fields

 
Before anything else, my deep thanks to Ann Christine Tabaka (aka @TabakaChris and Irene Søde Josefsen for helping me with my crafting and Søde for encouraging me to write poetry.

I’ve mentioned several times I don’t consider myself a poet. It is one of the most challenging forms to me, especially when I write something and am told it doesn’t meet any poetry standards.

“Well, I didn’t know such existed. Forgive me for attempting anything new.”

I shared my poetry with Søde and she immediately wanted to know where I’m published.

“Umm…I’m not.”

“Then get published!” she cried, and I was off…

…to Ann Christine with the said The Coyotes Are Celebrating and asking how to make it better.

“It’s pretty good as is. I wouldn’t change much.”

And she didn’t. And it got published. And Hooray!

 
You can read The Coyotes Are Celebrating in Carmina’s Sept 2022 issue. It also appears early in this blog’s history here.
A always, let me know what you think, and thanks.

“Disconnection from the 5 Love Languages” now on BizCatalyst360

I wrote in Blogging on BizCatalyst360 that Dennis Pitocco and the kind folks at BizCatalyst360 invited me to write the occasional thought-piece for them, that I’m happy to oblige, and that they’ve also given me the go-ahead for an Artists in Discussion videocast (I sent out emails to everyone interested and will follow up some time this week).

Most recently BizCatalyst360 published Disconnection from the 5 Love Languages, a piece about how we build relationships and specifically about making an outsider welcome when they join an existing, established group.

And as before, you can keep up with my BizCatalyst360 posts at Joseph Carrabis on BizCatalyst360.

As always, let us know what you think, and thanks.

The Alibi – Chapter 7

Read The Alibi‘s:

As always, let me know what you think.

The Alibi – Chapter 7

 
Rhinehold wore a Boston PD visitor pass on a chain around his neck. Every time Cranston held up his badge, also on a chain around his neck, Rhinehold did the same. Every time he did, the uniforms chuckled and let him pass.

The fourth time Mary Cucello, a short, overweight, mid-forties BIS Forensics specialist, broke the seal on a vacuum sealed bag. It sighed as air rushed in. She handed Cranston the enclosed white, disposable coveralls, gloves, and booties.

Rhinehold knew there was another term but they looked like booties to him. He almost asked if the coveralls came with mittens attached to the coveralls with string.

He stood waiting. The forensic specialist glanced at his pass, snorted, and looked at Cranston who was already descending into the garage’s blast zone.

Rhinehold reached towards the forensics supply unit. “What about me?”

Short, overwieght, mid-forties Mary Cucello slapped his hand away. “Read your pass, kid.”

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Matchmaking in Opieville

Long, long, oh, ever so long ago, I routinely gathered with friends to play music. One time and for no reason, I started playing America’s Muskrat Love except I changed the words to something far from the original.

People laughed, held their bellies, rolled on the floor, had tears coming of their eyes, gasped for breath, those with instruments put them down, …

It was a glorious time.

I remembered that on this night.

Two Opossum, dancing in the moonlight, doing it up and doing it right.

Or at least not arguing with each other.

Much.