Stage Fright

 Turn the doorknob left or right,

I wonder should I tug or lean –

The window tells me day or night

The music for me sets the scene,

Other actors know their lines

It is quite rare they miss their mark –

Someone didn’t move the chair

I stumble blindly in the dark,

A muffled chuckle from the crowd

Then lively laughter fills the air

Houselights on, so all can see

This clumsy actor laying there.

 

The Home

 Walking on a winter’s trail

A cold and starry night it was -

Snug inside my fur-lined gloves

Fingers wrapped in cozy fuzz –

Winter boots around my feet

Woolen socks seemed just the thing –

With scarf tucked in, I felt complete,

Then I heard my cell phone ring.

Who dare intrude on such a walk

and break the stillness of the night –

Who feels compelled to have me talk

I’m sorry, but this isn’t right.

Between my teeth I bite my glove

and slip my hand from where its warm 

A senior's somehow wandered off

a searching party has been formed

describing me as old and gray

said to search both far and near,

I calmly tuck my phone away - 

enjoying quiet while its here.

 

 

 

 

How sad would that be?

 They simply have a gift for finding it.

I’m talking about the sand.
No matter what the terrain, no matter how far removed from anything,
they suddenly come up with sand.
Enough to build their houses, their tunnels, and caverns.
Ants just know where to look.
I don’t see it.  I’d have to drive 50 miles to the beach to find sand.
They come up with it right next to my sidewalk.
I see their houses out in a field of dirt and weeds and trees.
They manage to locate sand.  Tiny grains – all they need.
I wish I could find anything that easy.
Oh, here’s something I need, right here.
And there, over by that thing, I could use that.
This is a fine place, maybe I’ll build here.
I seriously doubt there are any homeless ants.
Even in the city, downtown by the subway stairs -
there’s a small anthill. Someone lives there.
Out along the edge of the road – an anthill.
Never have I seen some lonely, unwashed ant
sleeping in a heap against a building, other ants just
walking past, ignoring them.
How sad would that be?

Blogworthy

 That which I consider blog-worthy tends to fluctuate depending upon a variety of influences.  A current example of that would be this particular article here.  I didn’t set out to write it.  It was just a very early hour, I couldn’t sleep and so far I haven’t really said anything.  Consequently, this will never make it into the blog.

Even if I end up writing into this some awesome drivel that has substance and deep meaning, it’s too late.  I’ve already lost interest. This will never be anything more than scrap paper, and that’s if by chance I accidently push the print button.  Not too likely.

I am more prone to push delete.  Unbeknownst to most, there exists in cyber space, a large, flexible, web-like basket that catches all deleted items.  It makes no difference what it happens to be, a doctoral thesis, a Shakespearean sonnet or Wanda’s shopping list.  Everything ends up in the same place.

I have never seen this delete cyber basket but I have heard stories.  I am told it is constructed of a stretchy, gauze-like thread, whose surface, under a subatomic microscope would look like billions of tiny fish hooks, almost Velcro like in appearance, but more stickie than the surface of a Gummy Bear left abandoned in the driveway, in August.

That’s why, whenever Google is asked to retrieve anything from a deleted file, specially trained technicians, wearing eleven finger gloves, must reach in – a flashlight between their teeth, and carefully locate and extract said document using coated kitchen tongs.  As you would imagine, this is a very time consuming and expensive process.  Safety glasses and hearing protection are mandatory, along with a pre-signed waiver, releasing Google from any real or imagined retrieval mishaps.

In fact, the more I think about it, it’s best to just print the thing off and use the backside for scrap paper.

 

Feel free – push PRINT now.

Word Math

 There is a small wire basket on my desk, it holds my pens.  There are currently 17 pens and one Sharpie in the basket.  The unknown factor at this time is how many words are in each pen.  I believe a reasonable guess would be that a person could expect to get 14 pages of writing from each pen, not counting the Sharpie.

With standard spacing and normal size font, a person should be able to get four good-sized paragraphs per page.  That equates to 10 sentences per paragraph, or 400 words per page.  14 pages times 400 is 5,600 words.  That’s 56 paragraphs.

Assume for the moment that you could find an average student.  Not some over achiever but just some normal looking student walking around campus, a vacant expression on their face, perhaps, searching for the cafeteria.  You stop them and offer them 10 cents a word to be a stringer on the school newspaper.  All they have to do is bring in stories of life on campus.

Okay, so Joe Schmo accepts the task and starts bringing in stories for the school paper, the Sometimes Why.

This is a large campus of a major university, so obviously you have a need for more than just the one stringer.  Let’s say you have 9 stringers total.  That’s a potential of 50,400 dimes you will need to pay your staff of reporters.

Now the advertising department, the ones tasked with selling ads to generate revenue are hitting up the pizza places, the pubs, the local car dealerships and the bookstores.  Each one needs to run ads in the Sometimes Why in order to keep the paper afloat.  In order to entice these business to place ads in the school paper, the circulation department needs to show adequate circulation.  They must be able to show how these advertisements will be seen by thousands of potential customers.

Here's where the Sharpie comes in.  The graphic arts department will need to draw up charts and graphs, with population density, timelines, distribution points and yearly projections, adequate to convince the small business owner to invest.

Meanwhile, somewhere across campus, a sinister plot is afoot to ban the use of Sharpies, suggesting their fumes wreak havoc with the math gene.

 

 From what you have been told, answer the following;

1.    Where was Joe Schmo headed?

2.    What is his current major?

3.    How many pizzas will need to be sold to cover the
        cost of an ad in the Sometimes Why?

4.     Does a black Sharpie and a red Sharpie smell the same?

5.    Could it be the smell of the Sharpie that caused the math error in
        jumping from 4 paragraphs equaling 400 words?  How many words
        per sentence is that?  I'm sorry, but that just doesn't smell right.

I Had to Know

 I can’t believe this is the first time this desk drawer has been pulled out all the way. Up against the back of the drawer, stuck between the back wood panel and the bottom panel was this business card.  It’s kind of an odd card, no name or business, just a phone number.  I was very tempted to call it just to see who it belonged to, but I first wanted to try and think if there was anyone in my past I didn’t, for whatever reason, want to contact.  Nobody came to mind right away, so I set the card on the coffee table for now.  I’d think about it some more first.

The following morning, I took a second look at the number. (844) 877-3456.  I don’t know why but it looked very familiar.  It must be someone from my past, maybe from school or an old job, I just wasn’t sure.  I don’t even know what part of the country the area code 844 is from.  If it were some insurance guy, then the name of the insurance company would be on the card, but there’s nothing.

Right after lunch I’m going to just call it and see who answers.  I just hope it isn’t some turkey from my past.

The Science of Quiet

  The rain brings down with it a certain quietness.  There is a noticeable absence of squawking from the crows.  Even neighborhood dogs seem content to snooze instead of bark during a gentle rain.  Perhaps, beyond the elements that make up a water molecule, there are silent additives, heretofore undetected by scientists and chemistry teachers.

These miniscule sound-deadening molecules, once striking an object, spin out a spiderweb-like blanket of non-noise.  This affects the insect world, until of course, it stops raining.  It is at that point we are again able to hear the insects, and the chirp of local birds.

It is these sound-deadening additives in water that allow ventriloquists to drink while successfully operating their puppet.

Think about it.  It makes sense.

Chocolate Chip

  

I’m certain my spirit guide is extremely overweight.  They keep nudging me towards the cookies.  

I’m not really sure that’s allowed.

Winds Across the Cornfield

 For as long as there are whiskers

and tires bumping curbs,

they’ll be windsocks in the cornfield

directing all my words,

Tie shoes on the dance floor

is music to my ears –

quarters for the Jukebox

with songs I’ve heard for years,

When at last there’s no more whiskers

and Good-Years all are flat,

The winds across the cornfield

won’t remember all of that,

You and I will smile –

knowing that we tried,

It’s then you'll point at me and say,

"Hey, your shoes untied."