We are all on the same wheel

 

All the philosophers and all the scientists in all the world have only questions.  Teachers, professors and world leaders can only react or respond.  Hamsters can only run between the pages of invention. 

 

 

zc 

 

 

 

The Apparition

 

 

I saw her as she walked by and the camera obviously saw her, as here she is in the photograph, but trust me when I tell you, she wasn’t there.  Not in the way people are there.  There were no sounds of her footsteps, the shadow cast by the sun was going in the wrong direction, and although she passed through the air, the brim of her hat never fluttered, not one bit.

There was a definite something about her that not only caught my attention but caused me to raise my phone and snap this picture.  The area was a parking lot at a strip mall, but I have erased all the cars from the picture for clarity.  I can’t describe the feeling that came over me at the time, except to say – something here was off.  Something about this person wasn’t right.  Don’t ask me what, I don’t know.  But the feeling I had told me it wasn’t off in a good way.

 

zc

 

Out for a Walk

 

I just felt like taking a walk today, even though it is only a mental excursion, I need it.  I started at the edge of the woods, not sure why, just thought nature would be a refreshing change from streets and building and so-called progress.  It was a little cool starting out but I knew it would warm up during the day. 

It isn’t all that thick and overgrown right here, so walking isn’t a chore.  I did just step over a downed tree.  That got me to thinking about the ants crawling over and around the bark.  I wondered if they knew they were no longer traveling up and down, but now simply horizontal.  From their vantage point it must all look the same. 

I don’t even think about it when walking through the city.  When I encounter a downed building, I simply walk along the construction fence that has been put up to keep people out.  There are no fences around this tree, just more woods surrounding it on all sides.  Off in the distance I can hear a woodpecker working hard for his breakfast. 

I’ve had some jobs like that, beating my head against the wall just to make enough to keep food on the table.  Seeing it from the woodpecker’s view, the trees are his pantry and Man is the creature who doesn’t see it as a food locker, but just as something to cut down and haul away.  Two very different creatures on the planet, each seeing the world differently. 

That isn’t so much good and evil, but it made me think like that for a moment.  Often it becomes very difficult to see evil.  The woodpecker might see humans as evil, and yet we are seeing the woods as a resource.  Some in the city may see the corner bank as a pantry for their money, while those less honest might view it as a resource. Just one more thing to rob.

Being deeper into the woods I notice more the varying spots of light and shadow, as the Sun struggles to keep up with my journey.  The sounds too are not the same as when I began.  Birds, of course, singing and chirping here and there, but also the sounds of scampering.  The leaves on the ground announce the movement of squirrels and other animals as they make their way to wherever. 

It’s the same in the city, but instead of crunching leaves there are car horns and noisy garbage trucks.  No one stays put, for whatever reason they need to get over there, and now across to that side.  Obviously, it is no different here between the trees.  

I guess if there weren’t any noises it would seem quite eerie.  The same as walking downtown early Sunday morning.  Not a soul on the street, no traffic, just maybe the sound of your own steps echoing off the buildings. That is usually enough to trigger the imagination and elevate our senses.  Are we really alone out here, or am I being watched?

Okay, I going to turn around here, before I get too far along and start imagining some massive woodpecker waiting just behind those trees, ready to get the evil human.

 

 

 zc

Attitude Adjustment Center

 

A Prize - perfect for regifting

 

Maybe it was our fault.  We had gone there with very low expectations.  We’d been to this restaurant years ago and it was bad back then, so why should we think they had improved?  Here’s the thing… we won a gift card to this place during a contest. 

And I'm not talking about the food, although it would have had to come up several notches to achieve mediocre.  No, I’m referring to the continuous bombardment of hideous music.  Truly, it was a seemingly endless collection of the worst noise ever pumped through a cheap sound system there ever has been.

The record producers must be the same people who make those little gadgets that send out sound waves to repel rodents.  Those were actually my thoughts as I sat there poking at my food with a fork, this is awful, they must be trying to chase me away. 

If they had been brave enough to have suggestion cards at the table, I believe I may have said, know your audience.  99% of their customers were in their 70’s or more.  Hardly the folks who enjoy heavy metal or off-key rap.  But hey – what do I know?

 

zc 

 

Side note:
        There is a reason the place is empty during the lunch rush. 

 

 

 

The Score for this one is in the High C's

 

Without wheels the fog can still roll in.  A drunk can be rolled and yet he also is without wheels.  This following story is about a wheel.   It has never touched the ground and yet has traveled to the far edges of over there and back again. 

If it ever touched the ground, it would be a very bumpy ride, because the wheel I’m talking about is not smooth.  It is the one used to steer the ship.  It is rotated by hand, by the captain whose ability to navigate, make decisions and ultimately corrections to those decisions while wearing a little Captain’s hat determines the outcome of the adventure.

 

Here’s where the rolling fog comes in.

 

 

***

 

The fog doesn’t roll in like a wheel, of course—no tidy geometry, no spokes, no hub. It arrives like a rumor that forgot who started it. It seeps. It sidles. It curls around corners as if it already knows the layout of the ship better than the captain does. And that’s the trouble.

Because a wheel—that wheel, the one polished by a thousand decisions and a few regrets—depends on sight. On horizon. On the faint line where “over there” becomes “here.” But when the fog comes in, the horizon is erased as casually as a chalkboard wiped clean by a bored substitute teacher. The captain turns the wheel anyway, because that’s what Captains do. They steer even when steering becomes a philosophical exercise.

This is where the fog becomes mischievous.

It doesn’t just obscure. It suggests. It whispers possibilities that weren’t there a moment ago. A darker patch might be an island or a cloud or the memory of a cloud. A lighter patch might be open water or a trick of the eye or the ghost of a decision the captain hasn’t made yet. The fog is not content to simply exist; it wants to participate.

And so the wheel—your wheel, the one that has never touched the ground yet has traveled everywhere—begins to feel different in the captain’s hands. Not heavier, not lighter, but more… interpretive. As if the ship itself is listening to the fog and offering its own opinion about which way to go.

The captain, wearing that little hat that confers both authority and the burden of pretending to know what’s happening, rotates the wheel a few degrees. The ship responds, but the fog responds too, shifting in a way that feels almost intentional. Almost helpful. Almost mocking.

Because here’s the secret the fog knows:

Steering is never about certainty. It’s about choosing a direction when the world refuses to show you one.

And the wheel—bumpy, wooden, imperfect—was built for exactly that kind of moment. It was never meant for smooth roads or predictable terrain. It was meant for the in‑between places, the half-seen waters, the days when the fog rolls in without wheels of its own yet somehow manages to move everything.

 

 

 

 

A Statue in Winter

 

A statue in winter

when no birds sing,

without scarf or gloves

against winter’s sting,

 

No mug of hot chocolate

no band in the park

frozen in place

alone in the dark,

 

How it longs to be summer

from harsh winter’s dread

with the tickle of feet

from the bird on it's head.

 

 

          zc