Eye on Television

 

The story you are reading is true.  I’d say it happened just yesterday but then I don’t really know when you are sitting down to read it, so suffice it to say, it happened the day before last trash day.

 

We had a very old television in the back bedroom.  It was the opposite of a flat screen.  In fact I could barely get my arms around it to lift the thing and move it.  After some 35 years it finally quit working and so I figured – if I could muscle the thing out to the curb, surely the trash guys could hoist it up into the garbage truck.

 

I went to the basement and got my heavy-duty dolly.  There was no way I could carry the thing through the house and down the driveway; it had to weigh more than a Sumo wrestler after breakfast.

 

It had been wedged into an oak cabinet and so just getting it out of there and onto the dolly was a bit of a struggle. Once on the dolly it rolled easily down the hall to the front door.  I lifted it off of the dolly and carried just the dolly out to the base of the front steps and left the dolly there to put the television back onto once I was able to lift it and carry it out through the front door, across the porch and lower it gently back down.

 

I rolled it down the drive and set just the TV on the grass at the edge of the drive.  I carried my dolly back to the house and put it back into the basement.  Then I came up stairs to get my camera so I could snap a picture for this article of the TV sitting out there.

 

I stepped out onto the front porch with my camera and noticed the TV was already gone. 

 

Someone had already come by, scooped it up and driven off.

 

There was no need for me to worry about tomorrow’s trash guys not taking it because it exceeded the weight limit.

 

The only other time this happened was when we set one of those pre-lit Christmas trees out at the curb.  The main trunk of that tree was steel pipe and even though it came apart in sections, each section was incredibly heavy as each individual branch was also metal.

 

That time it was snatched up just as quickly but we did catch a glimpse of the person doing the snatching.  It was a middle-age woman in a Cadillac.  She was hoisting the sections into her trunk quickly and then hopped behind the wheel and drove off, as if she had been doing something wrong or perhaps just didn’t want the neighbors seeing her out trash picking.

 

Little did she know, we would have brought her out some eggnog and helped.

 

 

 

 

Eleanor Velasco Thornton

This bit of history compelled me to read more and discover just who this Eleanor Velasco Thornton was.  I know she was killed by a German torpedo but she was not at all involved with the government, the military or had anything to do with the war.  I understand that she worked as a secretary and was having a very secret affair with her boss.  It had to be kept secret, not because either of them was married but it was simply a difference in their class.  It was the social structure of the time that made it impossible for them to be seen together in public. 

 

            When her boss looked at her he saw nothing but beauty.  She was the ultimate as far as he was concerned but like I said, his station in life made their life together impossible.

 

            You may not have ever met her or have even seen a picture of her but you certainly, on rare occasions, have seen a likeness of her pass by.

 

            Over the years her likeness has evolved from a whisper to a spirit of ecstasy but truth be told, her station in life far exceeds ours.  She has surpassed her own history and has become an icon for the very class she was never a part of.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

Comprehending the Threshold

It was one of Thoreau’s ambitions to improve upon the nick of time.  I would rather conqueror that transitional moment between awareness and sleep.  Somewhere between fluffing one’s pillow and having no recollection of the bed a small mental switch gets flipped. 

 

The moment of waiting for sleep to arrive leaves me anxious, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa.  Each night I tell myself, “This will be the night.  Tonight I’ll stay awake throughout the entire transition.  I will see the exact moment when I fall asleep and then I will understand the process.  I will gain a modicum of knowledge about that threshold and I will know where to find it again whenever I wish.”

 

          I remember when light switches would make a loud snapping noise when they were flipped on or off.  Then someone invented the silent switch.  No more noise, just a smooth, quiet transition between light and dark.  I expect the person who invented that quiet switch had, only nights before, conquered that transitional moment that I speak of.  They must have seen for themselves the mechanism that takes us quietly into sleep.

 

          There must be some correlation between the old fashioned light switch and a hypnotist, as each required that snapping sound.  “…and when I snap my fingers, you’ll awake, feeling refreshed and completely rested.”

 

         Without fingers there would be no snaping sound and consequently no hypnotists - or if there were they would have employed the use of light switches at the end of their performance.

“…and when I flip this switch you’ll awake.”

 

          You may think this a foolish endeavor but who shall have the last laugh when there I am - wide-awake in the midst of sleep?

 

          Beyond this, I will attempt to comprehend how a hypnotist without fingers might flip on a light switch.

 

 

Truth be Told...

No camera will ever capture the feeling of Niagara Falls nor shall man experience flight as practiced by an Eagle.  There are small locks throughout the universe for which there are no keys.  We can pick at them but never successfully unlock them.  Some of Life's lessons however are in discovering just where the locks are. 

 

          We have structured our society in such a way as to facilitate corruption within positions of leadership.  We tolerate immoral and unethical behavior in our politicians, believing that the system is beyond our ability to correct. The evil inherent in Man seeps out behind closed doors; funds find their way into pockets while excessive taxes squeeze the masses into submission.   It appears to be an entanglement of locks that no combination of solutions can undo.

 

          It is with the passing of time that we grow complacent.   For in our youth we rally to fight injustice, we vote in hopes of finding a hero and we rebel that we may alter the general path.  Only wisdom illuminates the locks causing us in our age to sigh in resignation and focus upon things within reach.  

 

          I contend that a primary key has been in plain sight and that it is spelled out for us at the onset of the Constitution.  “We the people…” 

Old or young, rich or poor, it matters not.  We are the ones allowing the corruption and shenanigans to continue.  We are the ones allowing our taxes to be misused, misappropriated and wasted. 

 

          For those of you who read this and believe I am advocating an overthrow, I apologize.  Those who truly know me understand completely that I have written this entire piece simply to use the word shenanigans.  I love using that word.  

 

          Have a great week and don’t start any riots.

 

 

A Moment of Silence at the Intersection

Last Thursday I saw a flatbed truck the size of an 18- wheeler and it was loaded down with cars.  At first glance I hadn’t realized they were cars.  They were all various shades of rust and as flat as could be.  I’ve never seen so many flattened out cars.  I’m thinking there had to be maybe 80 of them divided into four stacks and each as flat as a loaf of deflated French bread. 

 

I made the assumption that these once gleaming showroom beauties were now on their way to the graveyard.  They were making their last trip through town but without the pomp and circumstance or even those little funeral flags.  This was just one last ride past the market where they used to fill their trunks with groceries and past the gas station where they would stop for a drink and a few puffs of air.

 

There had to be a lot of history passing before me.  Each in its time I’m sure became more than just the family vehicle.  On occasion it might have doubled for the upper balcony at the local theatre or a personal phone booth where futures were planned and great ideas hatched.

 

 

Why even now - if one could pump them up again into their original shape and look under the mats and in the ashtrays we might still find change for the meter, hamburger wrappers, or maybe even the 38 Special and cloth bank bag stuffed under the back seat.

 

It doesn’t much matter what faith a car is, they all get into Car Heaven.  It is a beautiful place lined with endless miles of smooth roads; where gleaming chrome never needs polish, tires never need air,and gas tanks never run dry.

 

In Car Heaven puffy white clouds of new car smell delightfully interrupt the brilliant blue sky and birds passing overhead always miss.

 

 

I can't prove there is a car Heaven of course.  You just have to have faith and believe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The $183.00 Kitchen Knife

 

 

          I notice the old board games have been revamped and are now being marketed as new.  Now having computer chips imbedded into them for sound and special effects they are appealing to today’s generation.  I never had Clue growing up but I have seen it played.  It, like Monopoly, was simply a flat, lifeless piece of cardboard that lay quietly on the table while the people playing the game added all the excitement.

 

          If it says “Interactive” on the box, you can bet that the price is 10 times what it was in the old days and for sure that little Monopoly guy is collecting a lot more each time the rest of us pass GO. 

 

          We were in William Sonoma last weekend and I happened to notice a toaster.  It had it’s own display table and looked as though it was bullet proof.  Made by Kitchen-Aid if I remember right and as toasters go, well…

I’ve never seen anything so over-built in my life.  It was truly impressive.

 

          I couldn’t help myself.  I flipped the price tag over and unfortunately let out a noticeable gasp.  Two hundred and fifty dollars before tax and dealer prep.  What in the world can you do to toast to have it be worth $250.00?

 

         Nowhere did I see the word Interactive.  I don’t believe it projected a hologram of the actual toasting process or came with an internal, computerized butter spray applicator.

 

          I do know however what you’ll need when the toast gets stuck and doesn’t pop up.

 

 

 

Ouch !

 

 

 

Nurses never answer bells

Curses, moans –

Screams or yells,

 

I see them just

When I should not –

 

Awakened for

A painful shot.



You'll Know it's Me

In tangled vines my shoe will catch

            and twist my ankle till I cry - 

            then sprawl me down upon the earth,

            where all trails end neath the sky -

            There's no adjusting fates of man

            though academics strike a pose

            no philosophic ever can 

            think beyond the great suppose, 

            Where all trails end beneath the sky

            I’ll leave a marker standing tall 

            accepting I’ll not question why

            just bid farewell to one and all 

            Etched in stone you’ll know it’s me

            with epitaph there greeted 

            commas sprinkled liberally

            always more than needed.

zc



Tourist Trap

Somehow I have gotten my foot stuck here within the sidewalk grate. A missing rung, no doubt broken off by some vandal, has left just enough space for someone like me, barely paying attention, to wedge firmly a shoe.

So now I am standing here at Lexington and 54th facing in the direction of my intended travel but motionless in progress.  Neither forward nor back can I now travel; and to withdraw my foot from my shoe has proven impossible for I have tried now on three separate occasions.

Not only uncomfortable as my right stuck foot is a good inch lower than my left but also I am unable to get myself out of the way from all of these morning travelers hurrying past me.   More than hurrying, I'd say, some actually bumping as they pass.   I can only pray they do not knock me down.  My ankle would surely snap and the sprawl of myself upon the pavement would create an even larger obstacle than I am presently.

I must not think about falling even though my left leg tires in
support of me.  Clinging tight to my briefcase I hope for one of these courteous pedestrians to stop and inquire, perhaps lend assistance, but I can see on their faces they are pushed by schedules and deadlines just as I... Oh my.  This situation has completely pushed from my mind my own meeting for which I will surely be late.   Who then could give the
presentation for I carry the charts and needed information.  Oh my, this isn't good.   I can imagine the faces encircling the conference table, some wondering where I have gotten off to, others annoyed at the waiting.  Oh my. Oh my goodness.

As I fight once again to extricate my shoe from between these steel rungs I find I inhale at a faster rate more of the exhaust fumes coming from the street.   They are making me somewhat queasy and ill balanced.   In hindsight I should have simply called for a taxi from my hotel.  I would
have arrived early at my meeting, enjoyed a selection from the muffin tray and sipped a warm coffee.  I would be free of this heavy overcoat as it would be hanging from one of the many brass hooks.

But for now this coat serves as a fine barrier between the early morning chill and me.   I surely hope to be free of this situation long before the sun breaks over the buildings, although I have already witnessed the line of shadow following it's mandatory course.

For longer than I care to dwell upon there has been a street person viewing my predicament.  From this distance they appear to be quite unwashed with sparse teeth and hair somewhat clumpish.   Obviously unbeckoned by schedules of their own they have focused their attention and energies on me.   The mere thought of this has caused me to hold even
tighter to my case and now along with the ache in my left leg my arms are becoming weary.

I find it truly amazing the amount of these New Yorkers conversing on their mobile phones as they scurry past.  If I could entice one of them to call into the conference room informing the others of my situation perhaps suggesting they send an office boy to assist me.   Yes, the extra strength pulling at my shoe is what is needed here and to inform them that I am quite stuck at this location.

But these people in their haste do not even slow.  They avoid
looking at me - afraid that the slightest eye contact would lock them into some unwanted obligation.   I am invisible to them and yet they must walk around to avoid me.

Did I refer to them prior as courteous pedestrians?  I would care now to withdraw that assessment.   My own annoyance I'm afraid is coloring my opinion.  I find them to be rude and without the slightest caring for their fellow man.

Here I stand in the midst of them obviously in need and not so much as a glance do I warrant.   I cannot believe that all cities are like this one.   Something-burg, or Any-Ville I'm positive would be a clamor with good-Samaritans.   Strangers willing to not only stop but to bend and themselves tug at my heel in an effort to free me.  Here in this city I remain pinned as bait for the homeless to eventually pick at my bones.

The sun now pulling beads of sweat from me bakes me through this heavy coat.  Its brightness squints my eyes smaller and my hunger has become more than noticeable, all the while the street person watches me from across the intersection.  Why does he not approach?  What is it that keeps him at such distance?  Is he perhaps waiting for nightfall?  Is it possible that I could be here all day and into the night as well? 

What if I were to yell out?  What if instead of my passively
standing here in agony I was to begin screaming?   I should not wish to be classified as one without sound judgment - a lunatic to be avoided at all costs.  But what am I now?  What have manners and breeding done for me on this day?  And what about the police?  Where have they been during my
plight?  Had I been screaming like some lunatic would they have come to question me, taken my name and question my reason for loitering here upon this spot?

I expect if they have not accosted my street friend there across the way they're not likely to concern themselves with a well-dressed businessman who has simply stopped walking.  

My goodness it's getting warm.  Far better I expect, than being wedged into this grate during a rainstorm, or in the dead of winter. 

Even though...

Maybe I should provoke the next to pass within rage - Lash-out, get them to look me in the eye.  Maybe I should bark at them with my hungry breath, sweat upon their sleeve, or simply stand hunched and stare at them, as does my comrade on the far corner.

What's happening to me?  I have gone from identifying with these busy New Yorkers to referring to a pathetic, homeless person as my comrade. I certainly share no bond with such a person.  I have charts, business meetings.  I am cleanly shaven, washed and am not without purpose, while
he...


And as I focused for the first time upon him, as I stood there
making my personal assessment of our differences, I noticed his left foot. 


It appears as mine, wedged firmly within a grate.

Imaginarian

Definition :

One who dreams, asks why and explores alternatives.  Usually an introvert but imagines they are not; eats healthy when others are watching.  One who continually examines society and culture by watching and listening to individuals.  

 An imaginarian places no stock in weather reports or soups and lives by a code of ethics that would never occur to a politician.

 

They find delight in the details of life and a noticeable absence of truth in product labels.  They are saddened by educators who have lost their spark, but encouraged by the Costco return policy.

 

They dream of someday owning a silent vacuum cleaner.

 

 

 

 

 

The Old Man

 

 

The old man in the cubicle -

with his white hair.

 

What about him?

 

Why did they hire him -

 

What does he do?

 

I think he’s in Customer Service, you know…

answering the phone.

 

Have you talked with him?

 

No.  You?

 

No.

 

What’s his name?

 

I think its Larry or Bob…

I’m not sure.

 

I’ve never seen him in the cafeteria at lunch.

 

I think he stays at his desk.

 

Kind of strange to still be working at his age –

don’t you think?

 

I guess.

 

I wouldn’t want to be working at his age.

 

How old is he?

 

He’s old for Pete-sake – look at him.

 

He looks lonely.  Maybe we should talk to him.

 

About what?

 

I don’t know.

 

 

Maybe he’s really one of the owners spying on us.

 

Ya, I’m sure that’s how he’s spending his days… spying on us...

 

 

You’re an idiot.

 

 

 

 



No Pedaling



 



Actual window display.

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 





 

 

I borrowed this picture from a blog I just happened upon.

I could not read the language the blog was written in but I really enjoyed their photography

and the photo of this bike.  I hope they don't mind that I'm using it here.

 

Thank you.