Stress

A Slice of Pi

Whooos to Blame

A far reaching mess

this splatter of owl -

a long-handled squeegee

and of course paper towel,

Both smeary and gooey

and without any bleach -

I tried wiping off

what I thought was a Screech,

A flurry of feathers 

still danced from the hit

while wee bits of carcass

weren’t budging a bit,

The crack in my windshield

I’m sure wouldn’t leak –

for plugging the hole

was a cute little beak.

 No birds were harmed in the making of

this lame and pathetic poem.

My reputation, however, may not clean up

so easily.

The Bird Bath

It's fine in broad daylight
they show up for a drink,
It's not at all deep -
no fear that they'll sink,

It's night when there's trouble
they splash until dawn -
up in the morning
 the water is gone.

I doubt it's the swallows
that's completely absurd,
it's too much to drink -
for such a small bird,

I doubt it's the penquins
and turkeys don't bathe,
Crows demand towels-
and are partial to shade,

Tis 3 in the morning
when I'm awoken from sleep,
when the waters  is gone
I hear, Cheap! Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!


Z. Corwin

What's Wrong with this Picture?

Who's There?

It wasn't my office furniture that made me feel comfortable or safe, even though I had spent a great deal of time selecting it, trying it out and making sure each piece was perfect.  It looked good and felt very comfortable.  Not at all like typical office furniture.

A great deal of time was also spent on the lighting.  There was nothing harsh or fluorescent and there were no dark areas, no corners or shadows shading potential skulduggery.  In a word, it was inviting.

But who now dare to knock upon my door?  And not at all a timid knock, but a knock of substance and persistence; forceful without being demanding. 

Again they knock.

It's not that I remain busy, too busy to be bothered with such things.  It's just a question of who.  Who, and at this hour,  dare to intrude upon my solitude?  Important papers I could have spread out here upon my desk...  A desk, I might add, I have paid a pretty penny for.  Massive and solid in it's construction, it stands as my fortress against compromise.  Never have I skimped on my surroundings.  Never did I fail to seek out the best quality, the top of the line, without - mind you, being showy or frivolous.

And they continue to knock.

Okay, perhaps one time I failed to upgrade.  Now I see the mistake I have made, now my cheapness has come back to bite me.

I remember the salesman tried to tell me.  He was persistent but at the time I could see no justification.  At the time it sounded like I'd be buying the extended warranty or paying for undercoating, obviously a careless waste of money.

No, at the time I did not see the need for adding a peephole to my office door.

As if it were yesterday

I don't even have to close my eyes to remember it.  I was out camping with a friend and being typical me, I never bothered to pay attention to my surroundings when it was daylight.

Fast-forward to 2:30 am (a guess). I'm quietly climbing out of my sleeping bag and making my way out of the tent to head for the bathroom, trying hard to not wake up Dave in the process.

I was smart enough to bring my flashlight and good thing, as there was zero moonlight.  As they say, it was pitch black, so the only illumination I had was the small circle of light on the ground in front of me, produced by my trusty, boy scout approved flashlight.

Not too far from our tent I came to the edge of the clearing.  From that point on it was woods and if you can believe it, even more darkness.  I mean darker than what I had originally thought to be dark.  Okay, you get the picture.

I travel in a short way, what I consider to be a safe distance and find what looked to be an appropriate place to answer nature's call.

Now all I had to do was to find my way back to the clearing and the tent.  Not an easy task for someone with my negative sense of direction.  I was taking short, quiet steps to avoid tripping while waving one arm about in order to keep branches out of my face.  It was during this awkward struggle to get back to the tent when I bumped into a large bolder.  I went to shine my light on it and nothing happened.  Either my batteries had died or the little light bulb had burnt out.

The only thing I could hope for at this point was to ease myself up onto this bolder and sit there until sunrise when I could once again see enough to find my way back.  So I carefully perched myself on this rock and I waited.

Not really having a warm, fuzzy feeling about being there, my nerves and frustration caused me to fuss about with the flashlight, maybe switching around the batteries might help.  Just as I started to unscrew the cap on the light I heard something coming through the trees.  It didn't sound like it was trying to be quiet.  It did, however, sound like it had four feet and was large.

I immediately stopped fussing.  I sat perfectly still and tried to breathe as quietly as possible.  Whatever it was had gotten to me now and was obviously sniffing at me.  I remembered I had not put on any aftershave in the morning, knowing I would be out with nature and didn't wish to attract any insects by smelling sweet.  There was nothing I could do about smelling like a tasty human.

My heart was pounding and now I was trying hard to just hold my breath.  Apparently I didn't smell tasty at all.  Whatever it was grew weary of me and wandered off.

I waited for what I considered an appropriate time for the animal to be a good distance away before I abandoned all politeness and started yelling for my pal back at the tent to wake-up.

He finally did and when he awoke he snapped on the light in the tent, which I could see just fine from my rock.  I quickly but carefully scooted back to our campsite.

When the sun finally did come up I saw the bathrooms just across the clearing, in the opposite direction from where I had gone.

I’ll never know what it was – and that’s probably a good thing.

I Remember

The streets weren’t cobblestone but the shoes I had on were.  Walking was very awkward and quite difficult at times.  We weren’t in Europe but the streets were narrow and the buildings quite old.   Two old men sat at a rickety table playing checkers.  One was chain smoking so they both were losing.  Off in the distance I could hear accordion music.  I knew the tune but couldn’t remember what it was called.  Anyway, it sounded familiar and pleasant so I wandered in the direction of the music.  No matter how long I walked or how far I went, the music seemed to remain off in the distance.  I found that to be odd and a little troublesome but even more odd was the fact that the whole time I was walking I could smell the cigarette smoke from the old checker player.

Just as there is a jet stream, maybe I had discovered an inner-city walking stream.  A low level current of air that flows between buildings on a set path, perhaps determined by not only earth’s rotation but also aided by the minor turbulence created by someone walking in cobblestone shoes.  Now that I think about it, it could be that same street level weather system that was keeping the sound of the music at a distance. 

After I rounded a few more corners I thought of an odd possibility.  Although not likely, it could be that the accordion player was walking as he played and was smoking the same brand of cigarette as he went.  That would explain the situation.  If the accordion player wasn’t wearing cobblestone shoes, he’d be able to walk just a little faster than I would, which would account for me never catching up to the music and always smelling the smoke. 

I felt good about this explanation.  I was proud of myself for figuring it out and stopped at a pub to rest my feet and have a beer.   Halfway through the beer I came to the realization that the occasional skip in the melody  I was hearing was due to the accordion player having to look down at the keyboard while he played and each time he did the cigarette smoke would get in his eye, causing him to stumble the tune a little.

OK, I remember now.  The song is called, Fascinating Rhythm.

                  

For my next trick...

In the absence of friends I have created an imaginary friend named Bloggie.  Knowing there are two nets, the second one being the Internet where Bloggie lives and the first being the large butterfly net they'll throw over me should I actually start talking to Bloggie, we keep our distance.

We don't talk.  I write and leave it at that.  As friends we haven't much history.  I attended a moronic high school, while Bloggie has been relegated to the school of thought.  But enough about Bloggie.  Anytime you want to meet him you can visit, www.zobosticleft2write.blogspot.com.

What I really came to talk about today is the humor of crows.
Many don't realize it but crows have a wicked sense of humor.  I remember one crow in particular.  When I met him he was living in San Diego.  His name was Juan and he had not only smuggled himself across the Mexican border but had then taught other crows how to get across.

Juan's humor wasn't slapstick or anything like that, it was more early phone pole humor - one liners.

The last time I saw Juan he was the opening act for a crow magician.

Once

"Once, there was a way - to get back homeward

Once, there was a way - to get back home

Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry

and I will sing a lullaby..."

Dear Diary

In the interest of accuracy I am writing this at the end of the week instead of at the end of each day.  That may seem like a less accurate way of doing it, but so what.

I stayed home from work on Monday and didn't even call in.   I went ahead and assumed that whoever they have manning the phones will eventually figure out that I retired several years ago.

My kid was pestering me to go to the zoo.  She wanted to see the new bear we recently got from China, so Monday afternoon we went to the zoo.  The traffic getting there was crazy and finding a place to park was no picnic either.  So we're walking, and walking, trying to make heads or tails out of the zoo map when we come to a split in the walkway.

A zoo employee sees our frustration and walks over asking if he can help.  My little girl chimes up and says we're trying to find the bear.  The employee looks at her, then at me and says, 
"Bear left."

At which point little Cindy begins to cry.

Monday doesn't pick up any from there so I'll skip ahead to Tuesday.

While making breakfast I had the opportunity to use both my cutting board and my never- needs-sharpening, cuts through anything kitchen knife.

I bought the Kryptonite cutting board from William Sonoma.  The claim was that it was impervious to cuts, scratches, stains and basically damage of any kind, even scorching.

It was while using this extremely blunt knife on this totally disfigured cutting board that I began to think about the total lack of quality and of the worthless guarantees.  It seems no one out there tells the truth anymore. 

I expect, however, had William Sonoma advertised this cutting board as an over-priced, low-end polymer, that had a life expectancy of four months tops, I wouldn't have forked over $67.00.

As far as the cost of the super-duper kitchen knife, I only have myself to blame.  It took me way too long to realize that with every shoe I cut in half, my cost was going up.

Fast forward to Wednesday: 

Dear Diary,

I signed up today for some extension classes being given by the phone company.

We went out to dinner Wednesday night.  I should mention here that I have a pet peeve.  I absolutely hate it when a waiter or waitress delivers the water glasses while holding them from the top.  The palm of their hand covers the opening of the glass while their thumb and fingers drape down the outside of the glass.  Trust me - there is no part of that glass I will drink from.

OK, so a part of me wants to remove that last paragraph because if I put this on my Blog, it breaks my rule about not whining or complaining.  On the other hand, if even one restaurant owner reads it, they just may train their employees in the proper use of a tray.  Yeah, right.

Never mind, skip ahead to Thursday.

Note:  Because I retired some years ago, I am considered by many to be old.

It is here that I will cash-in on that old thing and say, I forgot what I did on Thursday.

Maybe I should write these at the end of each day and not wait for the end of the week.

T.G.I.F.

New Entrance

Construction has been completed.

The main entrance to the Blog is now open.

Thank you for your patience.

NOW do you believe me?

         Just to the right of the clock is a small, hand-carved armadillo.  To the far left is a metal crow on a perch.  Neither of these should concern you, nor should any of the books.  It is the odd, bulb-like container you should focus on, for its contents are both rare and extremely valuable.

          Whenever a human is cremated the ashes fill a standard size urn.  The contents herein are not from any human.  What this container holds is an actual spirit, and the weight of this container when empty is barely discernible from its weight now.

          There are two pods tied to the lid.  They are from the Traveler’s Palm, found in Kenya.  It is the pods that keep the spirit contained.  They have been dried and have received a tribal blessing.  The spirit captured within this ceremonial vessel is the actual spirit of the clock.

                            (Yes, the one shown here)

          The spirit left this clock at just about 5 minutes past 7 and it hasn’t worked since.

      That, in itself, should be proof enough for you.

The Bed Crank

          He could hear the nurse’s station but couldn’t see it.  His view was limited to a span no wider than the doorway of his room, which meant he could see only a small section of hallway.  If he looked at the wall towards his feet he could see the black screen of the television hanging halfway up and to his right the blinds covering the window that overlooked the parking lot.  This had become his visual life; all his viewing choices had come down to these options, so mostly he closed his eyes and just listened to the voices out at the nurse’s station.

          Over time, as I.V.’s were changed, pills handed out or bed linens changed he began to match faces to voices.  He learned who the players were in this real-life soap opera, and he knew who was good at their job, who was on the verge of being let go, and who controlled the power.  It hadn’t taken him long to figure out the codes announced over the hospital PA system.  Some, like code blue, were obvious, but a few others were tricky.  Paging Doctor Firestone to ER meant that a fire had broken out in the emergency room and all fire protection personnel were to report there immediately. 

          He was never impressed by the seemingly endless parade of doctors who would take just two or three steps in and ask how he was from across the room only to do a quick about-face, heading off to bill the next poor soul.  They were all useless in his opinion, a waste of education, time and money.  His long-time family doctor had retired some years back and with him went the only true physician he had known.

          Fortunately, however, Douglas Moore had more going for him than his visual world.  He had discovered early on that from the phone next to his bed he could directly dial any other hospital room.  There was no switchboard involved and because he wasn’t making outside calls there was no record kept.  Once the nurse had made her rounds Douglas was free to dial room numbers at random, strike up conversations about anything that popped into his head and for the most part, say anything he wanted.  The challenge was remembering what number he had dialed, just in case he came across someone he wanted to talk to a second time.

          Such was the case with number 1127.  She had a soft, calming voice with only the slightest hint of a southern accent.  The first time Douglas called her room and she spoke in that gentle way - he knew he wasn’t going to trick this one.  He wouldn’t pretend to be a doctor or some guy named Ned that he had invented from the billing department.  This time, for this one, he’d be himself and in just a matter of weeks they had formed a true relationship.  Not only had they established regular calling times, but she would sometimes call him.  On those occasions, when his phone rang, his entire demeanor changed.  He would perk-up, even smile just at the prospect of answering her call, and when they weren’t talking, he missed her.  No matter what subject they covered, no matter who was pro and who was con, it didn’t matter.  He was in love.

          One morning, as the nurses made their rounds, he asked the candy striper pushing a cart if she could get him something that showed where things were.  He wanted a floor plan of the hospital.  He was hopping to casually make his way to 1127 and finally meet this person who had lifted his spirits and caused him to laugh once again.  Failing that, he’d attempt to meet her at the cafeteria and they could perhaps enjoy lunch together.

          His request was soon answered.  The candy striper brought him a copy of the latest hospital brochure, which included a fold-out showing the proposed renovation.  There was to be a much larger emergency room with an X-Ray lab attached.  A new wing was being added with its own Physical Therapy Department.  Douglas leafed through the pages hoping to see room numbers, hoping to get a clue as to where he was in relation to 1127 but nothing in the pamphlet identified room numbers.

          It wasn’t until the following day when once again the candy striper came in with a stack of magazines and newspapers for Douglas to pick from.  He pulled the brochure from under his phone has asked the girl to show him where room 1127 would be.  She set her magazines and papers down on the visitor chair and took the pages from Douglas.  After turning the page around twice, and herself half-way around, as if getting her bearings, she pointed to a location at the far end of the last page.

          “It’s here, on the 3^rd floor.  That’s the Psych Ward.  I believe there is only one lady in the ward at present, and she’s being transferred to a state facility for the criminally insane.  But we’re not supposed to talk about it.”

       She tried to hand the brochure back to Douglas but he didn't reach out.  A spark had left him along with his smile.  He reached over and clicked on his television and with the volume still muted he watch a helicopter view of the morning freeway back-up.

       Not long after the news was over Douglas clicked off the set.  From the corner of his eye he noticed a nurse enter his room, but he didn't bother to look up and wasn't in any mood to be fussed with.  

     "Its time to check your meds, Douglas"

     Douglas didn't have to look at her.  He knew that voice, that soft, southern accent, and none of the nurses had ever called him Douglas. His heart began to race as he felt a hand take hold of his but suddenly, remembering what the candy striper had said, a panic set in and his monitor began a rapid beeping...  until it didn't. 

   Z. Corwin

      

Diet.

and exercise...

Now what?

Good-bye Dave

August 23, 1945  -  July 31, 2018