In plain sight

  

It is one thing to develop a secret formula and an all together different thing to know where to hide it.  Most of us would wrap it in a plastic sandwich bag, (Zip-Lock) then wrap that in tin foil and hide it under the rock by the mail box.  Nobody I know has ever looked under there, not even the mail man, who by the way took a blueberry pie from Mrs. Clemens’s kitchen window.  I saw him do it and when I asked him about it when he finally came around to delivering to my house, he said he didn't, but he still had traces of blueberry on his face.

But being as it is a secret formula and not just some general formula, the hiding of it becomes almost as important as the thing itself.  Therefore a great deal of thought needs to go into finding the perfect hiding place.

Some of you have already guessed what the problem could be.  How will we, the hiders of the secret, remember where the perfect place is?  After all, we’ll need to retrieve it sometime and when that time comes we certainly don’t want to be floundering about looking all goofy because we can’t remember where we hid it.

I can tell you what those Google people did.  They had a secret formula and they hid it right on their Web Site, under Secret Formula.  I guess they figured – who would be crazy enough to just type in: Secret Formula?

HA!  I did, and here is what I found,

The thing of it is, if she gave him the pie it would be one thing but to just take it, as if it were set there on the window ledge for anyone to just come along and bite, well that’s a whole other thing.

It just seems wrong is all I'm saying.

The way I heard it

There’s a small plaque on every dashboard of every spaceship.  They are not easily decipherable of course because they’re written in alien, but what it translates to is:

Please Don’t Litter

They take this very seriously and never in history have we found anything they have left behind.

What did take place some time ago was this alien, we’ll call him Larry, well he wanted to let us know that they had been here and the only thing he could think to do was to pile up some rocks. So he did.

Unfortunately, just like here on Earth, there’s always a jerk, someone who just has to mess things up.  Outer-space is no exception.  Scooter, having seen what Larry did cast an alien spell on an animal that happen to be walking by.  This will show these Earthlings who’s boss, he thought to himself.

We know through scientific research and stuff that the animal that happened by on that day was the common house cat, and we further know that the evil alien spell prevents this species from throwing up on tile floors.  It always has to be on carpet.

So now you know.

A Song That's Never Sung

Had I been born a gargoyle

I’d hover over head –

watch the world just down below

and the top of every head

I’d spot the ones without a care

and see those with a fool –

I’d envy all who had a dream

and drop a little drool

I’d feel for all the lonely hearts

a sadness and a love –

and hope the best for them to find

and do it from above

For most pass by and never see

me perched here on the brink –

they go about their merry way

and never stop to think.

Had they been born a gargoyle

and I was passing by –

I’d be polite and pause to glance

a little towards the sky –

I’d make a face as I looked up

perhaps stick out my tongue –

and sing the praise of gargoyles

the song that’s never sung.

Interactive Art

Of course there’s a name

There’s always a name. 

That isn’t why I vote.  I vote for the person who best fits my idea of an ideal candidate.  It needs to be someone who fills in most of the blanks, leaving me with just enough comfort in not knowing the answers to the questions left unasked.

I have a general idea of what will get us back on track and what is right and good.  If a candidate pushes the majority of the right buttons then I feel safe in leaving to chance the remainder.

The problem with any and all elections is that the chance and remainder part is critical, and that ultimately affects the outcome of us all.

REMOVED

It isn’t a place or an object of some kind, but it is more than just an idea.  It is very real and I have shared it with a few close friends.  They seemed very impressed and suggested I put it here on my blog, sharing it with the rest of you.  Of course I had my doubts about doing it, for all the obvious reasons, the primary being the government.  The moment they realized this was for real they would swoop down and snatch it up.  There’s no telling what they would use it for.

Anyway, I’ve had several in-depth discussions and now, although still somewhat reluctant, will share it with the rest of you.

The following 9 pages have been removed by Interpol, in

cooperation with the US Government.

 Ref:  Regulation 18.775 C&D

And U.S. Communication Code 9JL6-11

Catching the Bouquet

 

It is that exact moment when something stops going up but just before it begins to fall.  It is a moment in time when time itself blinks.   Probably Newton or one of his chums had a name for it, but apparently it isn’t an important enough aspect of this story for me to stop and research it. 

Anyone paying attention to life has noticed that it isn’t just bouquets that pause in mid air.  This little blink of life happens to each of us 1000 times a day.  It takes place in our thinking, within our actions, and is not subject to our input.  It is an activity outside of our control, and yet it has great control over our fate.

Within the smallest fraction of a second we weigh the various aspects of a decision and make our choice.  If we second guess ourselves we waver a bit but the blink has already occurred.  Our path, as some have put it, is predetermined.  That predetermination all takes place within that momentary blink, absent of time and rational thought.

If we were to zoom in and examine the inner working of the internal blink we’d find strong similarities between our cognition and the suspended bouquet.  Not subjected to any force field, and held in place only by the reality of being, our unconscious takes over.  For that split second it guides us; it directs and influences our desire.

To date, the only visualization or proof of this activity is the defragmentation the brain goes through at the end of each day.  We see the bits and pieces of this process discarded in the form of dreams.  All too often we awake in the morning thinking how odd our dreams had been.  In reality all we were playing throughout the night were the broken fragments of the day’s CD’s.  A snippet from this one and a blip from that one, all run together as if it were intended to make sense, not unlike this blog.

Grasping this concept is much the same as catching the bouquet.  It suggests a potential for the course of your life to take a turn.

Author’s note:

As I don’t usually think things like this - I can only assume it contains a modicum of truth.  I mean, why on Earth would my subconscious make something like this up?  I don’t believe I am gullible, and certainly not that clever.

Based on that – I’m just going to go with it.

Real Life Application

A Balance in All Things

 

 

Diet Pepsi

 

 

The Garage Sale Tuba

 

            It was elegant and the craftsmanship far exceeded that of any European sports car.  My desire to buy it was strong and immediate but my inner voice kept reminding me that not only did I not know how to play the tuba, I also had no room for it in my apartment. 

            Somewhat mesmerized, I just kept staring at it, my reflection as well as my thoughts becoming distorted at its curves.  It had been polished and polished again and the Sunlight revealed its flawless complexion.  I thought how it must weigh down any musician daring to strap it on like suspenders, their knees buckling under the strain and with each deep resonating note played their spine reverberating like a tuning fork.

            A small white tag hung from the felt lined case but was angled downward.  I couldn’t see what price such a piece would demand.  I could only speculate that a mortgage would be involved with payments exceeding my monthly wage. 

            One of the three ladies holding the garage sale had noticed that my gaze was locked onto this musical sculpture and in my peripheral vision I could see her moving toward me.  Still, I did not acknowledge her presence but remained visually lost in the bends and turns - flowing then returning, winding about as if unsure of where they should be.

            She had said something to me but I didn’t immediately process it.  I was just aware that someone had spoken and I should look up and respond.  I should force myself to break my focus but knew if I did the moment would be lost.  Rational thinking would take over and dissipate this sudden and perhaps irrational passion.

            “Do you play?” she spoke again, her words shattering the bond, my face once again feeling the warm breeze of the day.  I looked at her.  She appeared genuine.

            “You looked to be deep in thought” she said in a much softer tone.

            “I was at the Rose Parade, walking behind a float.  It was a giant cowboy hat made out of wheat, with a fancy hat band made of deep red roses.”

            I looked back down at the price tag, hoping the breeze had flipped it over so I might put the thought of buying it out of my head completely, but it hadn’t.

            “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked, looking at me like we were at a school reunion and was trying to remember who I was.

            Her two friends were smiling at me and suddenly I felt as if the tuba had been a giant lure and I had just been hooked.

                        It’s odd but I hadn’t smelled the coffee until she mentioned it.  It smelled good but it seemed strange to be offered a coffee while standing at a garage sale.

            “Cream and sugar?” she asked as she turned to walk back up towards the garage.

            “Just sugar,” I said, following her like a new puppy.  She was wearing light blue jeans with a navy colored sweatshirt.  Her sandals made me think of the beach; in fact, I think I could see sand down along the bottom edge of her foot and running along the stitching of the straps.  I almost said something but thought better of it.  We were not close enough to the ocean to still be walking around with sandy feet.

            Her two friends were now with another customer who was examining an old steamer trunk.   For a moment there I thought I heard a Russian accent.  It stuck out in my mind because she sounded like Natasha on the old Bullwinkle show saying moose & squirrel.  Great, now I’m going to have that stuck in my head all day.

            As we entered the garage I wondered what the heck I was doing.  I didn’t even want coffee, but now she was already pouring it.  The ceramic mug had a logo but the way she was holding it I couldn’t make it out.  I glanced around at the garage.  It was almost too clean.  In fact, except for the aroma of the coffee it even smelled clean.  The floor had been painted a battleship gray and didn’t have a tire mark or oil spot anywhere.

            “I’ll let you add your own sugar” she said as she handed me the mug. 

            “Thank you,” I said – slipping my finger through the handle and turning it slightly to see the logo.  It said North Shore Realty, so I took that as my opportunity and holding up the mug asked, “Are you a realtor?”  She smiled and said, “I have to step into the house for a minute, please excuse me,” and she disappeared through the door.  So there I was standing in some stranger’s garage having coffee.  I had a strong impulse to just set the cup down and leave but a sudden loud noise, like some foghorn sounding, echoed off the walls of the garage and startled me.

            I hurried back out into the drive and saw someone with the massive tuba wrapped around them like a giant squid.  They hit another note and I could feel the sound waves pass through me.  My heart sank.  What were they doing with MY tuba?  I watched as they worked themselves out of it and gently laid it back into the open case.  It must have been heavy as they seemed to be struggling with the thing.  I’m sure they had their grubby little finger prints all over it by now.

            I was hoping they were going to just walk away.  I stood there sending them mental thoughts; walk away… Walk away… leave, you don’t want it.  That’s when I noticed the coffee lady had been standing right next to me, in fact, very close to me.

            “I wish people wouldn’t handle it,” she whispered.

            Without thinking I blurted out, “I’ll take it?”

           

            Crap, I said to myself, what have I done?  My thoughts flashed to my checkbook register but the numbers weren’t in focus.  As I tried to envision what I had left in there the figures I was seeing seemed to float off the page and kept changing places with each other.  Was I having some kind of stroke?  I shook my head trying to clear the fog and almost spilled the coffee.

            I felt a hand gently take hold of my arm and as the lady leaned in she softly said, “I think you’ll be very happy with it.”

            Now I had to go over and see the price tag.  The other person had walked away and my mysterious host suddenly had a polishing cloth in her hand and was hurrying over to wipe it down.  I must have been right about the fingerprints.  As she ran the soft cloth around the giant tuba I leaned down and flipped the price tag over.

            FREE   -   I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Still leaning over I said, “Are you kidding me?”

            “Not at all, it is free to a good home, as they say.”

            I was absolutely stunned.  As I stood back up I handed the coffee to her and said, “I’m sorry but this isn’t right.  I can’t just drive away with this beautiful instrument and not pay for it.”

            She smiled.  “The cab driver will explain everything.”

            That didn’t make any sense.  “I have my car,” I said, looking down to the street.  My car sat right where I had parked it, why would she think I needed a taxi?

            She closed the lid of the tuba case and angled it up so I could grab hold of the handle.   “Here you go.”

            I didn’t protest anymore but lifted it up and walked down the drive.  I leaned it against my VW bug until I could get in and lower the top.  Once I had the top down I scooted the passenger seat all the way forward and then lifted the instrument up into the back seat, leaning it down across the back of the front passenger seat.  There wasn’t an inch to spare but it would travel just fine.

            As I got in behind the wheel I looked back up the driveway.  I didn’t see the coffee lady and the other two women were still standing by the steamer trunk talking with their potential buyer.

            I drove to my apartment all the while wondering what I was going to do with this thing.  I guess I’d just have to figure that out when I got there.  

           

                        That evening, after going through the day’s mail and putting my dinner dishes in the sink, I dragged a kitchen chair over to the tuba case and sat down in front of it.  I un-did the three latches and lifted the lid.  I couldn’t help but smile.  There she was, this magnificent tangle of gleaming brass that seemed to be a visual symphony all her own.

            I noticed a small pocket in the felt lining of the lid.  It had a business card partially sticking out from it.  I expected it to be from some music shop or maybe from the last person to tune this thing, but all it said on it was, Middle C – A – B-Flat.

           

            I had no idea what that meant but in looking at it I noticed it spelled out the word cab.  Maybe this is what the garage sale lady was talking about: The cab driver will explain everything.  Too bad I don’t know how to play middle c, or right or left c for that matter.

           

            Pulling at the silver mouth piece it easily popped off.  I scrubbed it with hot, soapy water and dried it with my dish towel, then set it on a paper towel to let the inside dry completely.  While that was drying I headed over to my computer to do a little research.  It shouldn’t be that difficult to find out how to play three little notes.

            I couldn’t have been more wrong.  Although there is a flood of musical information on the Web, I found nothing remotely close to showing me the key positions needed that would produce the desired results. I was going to have to just put this out of my mind for a few days and then come back to it later.

           

            It was coming up on four weeks since I had brought home the giant paper weight, still in its case on my living room floor.  I wasn’t any closer to knowing how to hold it, let alone play the thing, but I did have a plan.  Yesterday I called the music teacher at Crawford High School, a Mrs. Linda Daley and explained my situation.  Today, at lunch I am going to meet with her and one of her students who will show me exactly what I need to do to produce those three notes.  I was excited but at the same time a little nervous.

            When I walked into the music room there were three people sitting up on a stage area, one lady who I assumed was Mrs. Daley and two men, one in a suit and the other dressed in a white shirt and tie but wearing a sweater vest instead of a sport coat.  I didn’t see any music student so I figured I had just walked in on some other meeting.

            The lady saw me as I came through the door and held up her hand, signaling the man in the suit to stop talking.  She stood up and her voice almost echoed as she said, “Are you Randy?”  I nodded and took another hesitant step toward the stage.  “Please, come on up.”  The sweater vest guy stood and pulled another folding chair over.

            “I’m Linda Daley; this is Mr. Alex Hampton and Mr. Will Scott.  They will be joining us today.”

            Sweater vest guy extended his hand to shake mine but the suit just stared at me and then, even before I sat down he asked, “Did you bring it with you?”

            “I drive a VW bug; it’s not that easy to bring anything along. So no, I don’t have it with me.”

           

            They seemed disappointed but still eager to talk.  “Like I said on the phone, I was just hoping someone could show me how to find three notes on the thing.”

            “Middle C, A and B flat?” The suit said.

            “Yes,” I said sitting down and pulled the business card from my pocket that I had found in the tuba case.  Mrs. Daley took it, looked at it and handed it to the sweater vest guy.

            “What’s going on?” I said.  “Is there some problem?”

            Mrs. Daley and the suit looked at each other and then over to the sweater vest, who said somewhat grimly, “This is it, and he reached across handing the card to the suit.  There’s no doubt.”

            That afternoon the three of them told me an amazing tale, a fantastic adventure that sounded like they had taken it from some children’s book.  When they started telling me I thought they were going to suggest that I had some genie trapped inside my tuba who was going to grant me three wishes, but that wasn’t even close.

            What I do remember is the part about the Russian sorcerer and his three assistants.  Three women forever linked to him.  As they were telling me I couldn’t help but to think of the three ladies running the garage sale and I recalled hearing a Russian accent from the two standing over by the steamer trunk.

            My thoughts were running wild as they were telling me this incredible story but then when sweater vest started talking about a magic potion my thoughts flashed back to the cup of coffee.  I couldn’t remember if I ever took a sip of it or not.  I don’t remember tasting it, only smelling the aroma and feeling the hot mug in my hand.  I couldn’t remember if I took a drink or not.

            They were still talking but I was not listening.  My thoughts were back recreating the garage sale and I was trying to visualize the faces.  I don’t remember ever seeing the face of the person who had played two notes on the tuba and I can’t remember where they wandered off to, I only remember them walking away and then me blurting out, I’ll take it. 

            Suddenly suit guy leaned towards me and snapped his fingers.  It startled me.  He obviously could tell I had not been paying attention.

            “Never play those notes in that sequence.  Ever.” and he leaned back in his chair.

            Sweater vest cleared his throat and asked, “Would you consider selling it?”

            Suddenly I was wishing I had been paying closer attention to what they all had been saying.  I looked at him but wasn’t quite sure what to say.

            “We can give you $3800.00”, the suit jumped in, sounding a bit too eager.

            Mrs. Daley’s attention turned to him and she quietly said, “We can’t bring it in here.”

           

            “I’m just going to keep it for now, I said but I want to thank you for…”

            “$5,000.00” the vest guy interrupted.

            I stood up and plucked the business card from the suit, who had been fiddling with it the whole time.  My foot steps echoed as I walked across the music room back to the door.  I could hear them whispering but I didn’t care.  I just wanted to get out of there.

  To be continued...

           

"Wait a minute... I think I feel something."

What began as a life of discovery, of wonder and amazement has over time evolved into me, day after day, discovering this couch.  I travel no farther than the den, plop myself in front of the television and explore all known creation.

Through the television I get to travel to foreign lands, visit with people of all persuasions and witness cultures quite different from my own.  Limited only by human imagination it is all very exciting, however, my true experience is quite void of taste, smell, feel and movement.  I am a slug.  Every hour of every day I sit here, having walked no further than the distance from my bed to the couch.  I do not climb or swim or run marathons. I see activity but never participate.  I watch adventure movies but have no adventures of my own.

This isn’t even that nice of a couch.  It is old and worn out in places that have suffered years of fidgeting and rearranging.  There are random lumps and odd indentations.  There are stray bits of things down between the cushions; things that my wandering fingers occasionally discover - like bits of Kleenex, cracker crumbs and out of date coupons from the days when I used to get a newspaper, and things that without extracting them completely shall remain a mystery.

Once I viewed this couch as if it was the Millennium Falcon and I was Harrison Ford kicking the TV into hyper drive whenever a commercial came on.  But then - with a click of the remote I am suddenly transformed to some talk show and there sits Harrison talking about his latest movie or some political movement he supports.  I see him as he is now and I see the age on his face.  He has gotten so old.

It is this kind of discovery that makes me wish I had, so many years ago, replaced my television with a 52 inch mirror.  Would I have sat here for a lifetime watching myself squirm and fidget on this non-flying couch?  Would I have really traded in my sense of taste, smell and adventure for nothing more than a remote control?

I truly have squandered my time here.  I, myself, have become the crumb beneath the cushion of life.  I am that indiscernible bit, that foreign object to be ultimately felt by the fingertips of the creator.

“Oh, here you are.  Have you been down there the whole time?”

Snarly Attic Dwellers

I had not been up in the attic in several years; mostly because of the spiders and wasps I had seen the last time I was up there, and more recently because of what we’d been hearing.  Strange, loud noises had been keeping us awake.  Neither of us was excited about opening the ceiling panel in the hallway or pulling down the fold-out stairs in the garage.

The realtor told us we were going to have to have whatever it was cleaned out before the For Sale sign went up.  That was scheduled to happen next weekend so we had to get it done this weekend.  She suggested we hire an exterminator but we didn’t want a nasty chemical or pesticide smell wafting through the house.

Saturday after breakfast I pulled the car out of the garage and moved the trash cans out of the way.  I put my shop gloves on and reached up and slowly pulled the cord to lower the stairs. Even though there were windows at each end of the attic I could see nothing but dark as I looked up.

I got my flashlight from the toolbox and clicked it on.  I started making my way up the stairs very slowly, all the while trying to keep the flashlight aimed up towards the darkness.

Halfway up the stairway I heard a heavy sounding thud coming from the attic.  Obviously I either frightened something or simply woke it up.  In either case I expected to see a set of eyes looking back at me once I got to the top.  As it turned out I didn’t have to wait that long.  Before I could even take another step there was a face looking down at me from the opening in the ceiling.

Startled, I fell backward landing flat on my back on the garage floor.  My flashlight went flying and for just a moment I was seeing stars.  I really smacked my head hard on the cement floor.  Somewhat stunned I watched as this thing examined the top step.  It looked like it was trying to figure out the ladder.  It was some kind of snarly attic dweller and now it was attempting to come down.

I wanted to jump up and run out of the garage or just scream to scare it, but I couldn’t move.  Had I damaged my spine?  Why couldn’t I move or yell for help?  Paralyzed I watched as this creature reached down, testing the top step with its weight.  It stopped for a moment and just looked at me.  It seemed to know I was hurt and no longer posed a threat.

I thought I heard a low growl and then for sure I heard another thump coming from the attic.  There was more than one of these things up there and any minute the one looking at me would figure out how to come down the steps.

I hadn’t been actually terrified since I was a small child.  I don’t recall what terrified me then but I now recall the feeling.  We both knew I was helpless for the moment and the only thing in my favor was the attic dweller’s apprehension over the stairs.  As it put a little more of its weight on the top step, I noticed a bead of drool coming from the corner of its mouth.  The drool was ever so slowly making its way down towards my face. 

I tried with all of my might to squirm out of the way but nothing was happening.  The connection between my thought process and my motor skills had suffered some kind of disconnect, and the more the thought of being paralyzed sunk in the more I panicked.  If I was sweating I sure couldn’t feel it.  I couldn’t feel anything.

I heard the top step give out a little squeak as it took the full weight of the thing.  That squeak was enough to startle it and it backed off, although not enough to alter the course of drool that was now several inches in length.

I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down.  The moment my eyes were closed I noticed the sound of the 9 am train.  It ran every Saturday morning at the same time. 

The tracks were on the far side of town so the only time we could hear the train was when everything else around was quiet or if like now, you closed your eyes and knew what to listen for.

So Okay, I knew it was 9 o-clock.  How did that help me?  It didn’t.  Big deal, I figured something out; something useless.  I knew having this mental conversation was my way of delaying opening my eyes.  I didn’t want to see how close the drool had gotten.  Then again, I didn’t want to just all of a sudden feel it on my face.

Again the top step squeaked and again I heard that second thud coming from the attic.  What was going on?  I couldn’t stand it.  I opened my eyes.

So why weren’t they open?  Come on – even paralyzed people can work their eyelids.  What was happening to me?  Why couldn’t I open my eyes?

My imagination was now in high gear.  I’m laying here on the garage floor, I can’t move and now I can’t see.  There are at least two attic dwellers, one of which at any moment could itself fall directly on top of me.

 

 



Hey!  What's on my cheek?

Is that drool?