Buddy Cushman Art

engaging stories of hope and joy

I’m Sick and I recycle

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Okay, I admit it, I’m sick. You know, sick as in not feeling well. First the wife — sick enough to cancel a visit to her parents in San Diego, which is very sick. And now me, sick enough to cancel a visit to my local coffee shop: nearly as significant.

Anyway, I mention my physical condition because it messes with my thinking, feeling sick, that punky feeling that causes simple thoughts like “my butt hurts” to meander into cosmic wandering — “Have I been sitting around way too much in my life?” Or something like that. In other words, my already questionable thinking processes, which, when I feel wildly generous in my own self appraisal I consider “goofy”, tend to fall over into the land of stuperous. I’m sick, I’m tired, I’m cranky. It becomes more of not giving a rat’s anus kind of thing.

Having said that, my children, what better day than today to offer my opinions on how to solve all the problems of the world. It makes sense, my kind of sense. So digging deep, really deep into the cobwebby confines of my glorious mind — because we all have glorious minds my children (well, maybe not Bill O’Reilly) — here goes.

Yesterday — pre-sickness when I was able to romp and play and smell the flowers — I put out our trash can for collection. Here in Portland, Oregon they come around and collect trash only one day a month. That’s ilandfill_gas_conversion2t. It’s somewhat of a shocking thought, I mean, the streets must be teeming with garbage blowing into automobile grills and through peoples’ back yards, a dystopian nightmare of tea bags and pampers and diary entries ripped from their journals, last night’s heartache, that rotten bastard, perhaps another tender poem, like this: “I don’t very much like terrorists, I’ve got their names, I’ve made a list. So I will send a drone today and blow those motherfuckers far away”. Like that. Anyway, all those things on the fly, pushed by howling ghouls out of the Columbia Gorge, dogs running wildly, snarling at potential rivals, rats (still in possession of their butts) nibbling and gnawing and buboniking their whiskered way into the downtown streets. Oh, the humanity.

But wait. It’s not like that. It’s like this: blue sky, big puffy clouds tumbling along, clean white sheets and blouses blowing up a little in the breeze, Caucasian mom with clothespins in her mouth hanging the weekly wash, little darlings sitting in the grass, sun-rinsed, alive and full of promise. Yeah, that’s it, that’s how it goes in Portland. And you know why — you overflowing garbage can druids from the rest of the country. Because we RECYCLE here. The garbage trucks only come monthly. But the trucks that come for the compost — which includes not only yard materials but every single scrap of goodies you don’t clean off the plate ( and shame on you because there are kids starving in China, never mind Houston) and all the thick stumps of the broccoli you don’t cook, and carrot butts and all of it, goes in the green compost bin. And they come and haul that away every single week. And then there are the recycles. You — yeah you — throwing your junk mail and your diary pages and the great American novel that turns out to have been written before and cardboard containers and cans and glass and plastic — each and every thing that is blowing up and filling up and needing to be jumped on with two feet to be crammed down and fit into your garbage can — out here all of that stuff goes in the blue thing, and gets picked up every single week.

And smart people — you, Boston people, smaht people — people way smarter than me (and certainly you if you’re still reading) have figured out ways to use all of that stuff over again. All of it. And all of the compost stuff too. Yeah, all of that. So, yes Virginia, there is a Santa Clause and his name is RECYCLE.

So, in my pre-sickness, when I was still young and enthused and giddy with hope for the planet and the people in Washington and (rightly) for The Red Sox — which by the way reminds me, I live in Seattle Seahawk country, so, um, HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW??? — anyway, while I still had some of my health and my youth I hauled the one garbage barrel out on that one day of the month they come to get it. And it wasn’t even full. Not even close.

So, there is Solution Number One — Turn landfills into playgrounds, and Recycle bozos.

More to follow.


Author: buddycushmanart

This is my Blog, my opportunity to say what I think and write what I feel. The content has morphed in the two years of existence -- I began with personal tales of sillyness and drunkeness and soberness and times, places, and events within. Then I wrote a whole a lot of opinions about the world and its often sad shape, and how I thought we could make it better (re: engaging stories of hope). More recently I've taken to writing about this and that, including links to movies, Ted Talks, rock and roll, other writers' web pages, and more. These past seven years I have taken up the life of a painter, and my work can be seen on my web page ( www.buddycushmanfineart.com ) and my Etsy shop (www.etsy.com/shop/musicflower67). But I've been writing since I was just a young thing living on the Massachusetts coast, and storytelling is my home. I have a number of fiction works in varying degrees of completion, and have published two books of fiction in the last year, under the name W.B. Cushman. But it's here I get to share my whatevers of sorrow and hope, and hopefully, wonder and magic. Thanks for stopping in.

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