IT’S THE FLING ITSELF

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Burnt.”

It’s interesting to see what comes to mind when I read certain prompts. Today, it went to things having nothing to do with what I would, or would not save/do were my house burning to the ground. As I read the directions – knowing I didn’t do the actual post to which this pings back  – I right away flashed on an episode from Northern Exposure; the episode I think of as the FLING ep.

In that story line, poor Maggie, whose house went up in flames, wasn’t able to salvage anything. She never had the chance to run in and grab those five items to take with her. It all happened when she wasn’t even there.

But what comes to mind, most, is when she was rooting through the wreckage of her life, (the prompt of today’s post) realizing, that at that moment in time, she  was homeless. Enter Chris, the local DJ and artist, philosopher, and however many other things he was to the community. He comes by looking for something for a creative endeavor after finding out from another local, that what he had in mind had already been done. There, in the remnants of Maggie’s world was an old, charred piano. He asks Maggie if he might have this, and she agrees. As the episode continues to its end, Chris, as often happens in Cicely, gathers all the residents together to witness yet another imaginative moment:

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Mellow Like Yellow

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Have You Never Been Mellow?.”

I suppose if I said they call me Mellow Yellow, it might call up that odd New York City time when a mayor recommended when and when not to flush. What? You never heard of that?

Would Donovan ring a bell? It’s what I was getting at anyway. Those were the days. Who worked? Who was still in school? No, it was all standing on the blacktop, thumb out, and making our way across country. It was the time of flowers in our hair, going back to the garden. Woodstock wasn’t a little Peanuts bird; it was that moment, that time out of time, when a nation of people gathered for… well if you can remember the number of days, then you weren’t there, so they say.  But most of all it was music that wafted out across a throng of bodies beneath a Mellow Yellow sun, groovin’ and movin’ and lovin.

Those were the days because when these days get me all in a “Dizzy Miss Lizzie” tizzy, I grab my headphones, plug in my MP3 player and zone out to that “Magical Mystery Tour.” Peace Out.

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