Boomers

Anything's Possible

Hooky

For whatever reason I had awoken agitated.  As I dressed for work I mentally ran through all the miserable things waiting for me when I got to the job, I could envision the scowls on the morons I would have to deal with all day and I could already hear my stomach growling.  I knew I should make myself some breakfast but I didn't.  I just got into my car and blended onto the freeway with all the other morons heading off to their pathetic lives.

I glanced down at the radio but really wasn't in the mood to listen to anyone blabbering.   By the time I reached my exit I had convinced myself to take the day off.  I'd deal with the consequences tomorrow.  Today, I told myself, I'm heading to the beach.  I just didn't feel like dealing with any stupid today.

As the sun wasn't even up yet all the parking spots along the beach were empty.  I pulled into the first end spot, pumped four quarters into the meter and headed down the walkway along the row of tee-shirt shops, bars and restaurants.  The first place open was Sandy's, a poorly lit bar that smelled of ashtrays and stale beer.

The only one I saw was a cliché standing behind the bar wiping a glass with a bar towel, so as I walked in I asked him if he was open yet.  "Open 5am every day." his voice neither cheery nor welcoming.  I picked a barstool where my back wouldn't be towards the door.  I always felt more comfortable if I could see my surroundings.  I remember I had heard years ago that Doc Holliday or someone like that always sat facing the door.  Not sure why but I always remembered that.  It just seemed to make sense.

I was now on my third drink and nobody else had come in.  Don't you get any regulars in here? I asked.  Kirk, the bartender looked up at the clock.  "They'll start wandering in here pretty soon, maybe half hour."

I found it odd he had not asked me anything, where I was from, what I did for a living…nothing.  I finished my drink, paid my tab and headed out to find someplace a little more lively.  Kirk was not objectionable; he was just missing a personality.  I wanted to spend my hooky day with someone alive. 

to be continued

The Death Sentence

Death lay dying.

The End

First Attempt

From across the room the mantle over the fireplace looked quite festive.  Tall, medium and short candles illuminated delicate Christmas decorations, while garland ran along the feet of moronic looking elves.

Christmas music filled the dead spaces of the room, while the aroma of cookies wafted into nostrils, around boogers, tickling nose hairs and giving those on diets a slight wobble.



OK, so maybe I won't write a new Christmas story.

Finally

A cure for the comma impaired

The Bottom of the Pond

        In the excitement of chasing the turtle - nipping at him and dancing in circles, Mr. Fox hadn’t noticed just how close to the pond he was getting. 

        Larry, although a very slow turtle, had been chased by foxes before.  He knew to keep making his way to the water and he could easily slip down to the bottom of the pond and be safe, for he had never seen a fox at the bottom of the pond.

        Watching all of this from two branches up, Wendy Crow flicked her long, black tail and cheered Larry on with raspy caws.

        At the water’s edge Larry quickly slipped below the surface, stretched out his legs and swam between the reeds to the safety of the murky bottom. 

        Well you can imagine his surprise at seeing four fox feet paddling just overhead.  He couldn’t believe it.  That crazy fox had followed him into the water and was now trying his best to swim down to the bottom.

        Unlike the turtle, however, Mr. Fox couldn’t get himself below the surface.  He floated, no matter how much he kicked and tried to swim, he stayed on the surface of the pond.  He was getting very frustrated and was quickly starting to wear himself out.

        Just across the pond swam Nancy and Wanda, two young ducks.  Wanda, at noticing a fox just across the way swimming in circles said to Nancy,

        “If he learns to swim in a straight line we could be in trouble.”

But Nancy didn’t hear Wanda’s comment as she kept plunging head first down to the tasty reeds.

        Although being entertained by all of this, Wendy Crow noticed a slight look of panic in Mr. Fox.  She soon realized that he wasn’t still trying to chase Larry, he was trying to get back to shore, and wasn’t having any luck.

        In her loudest voice ever, Wendy sent out a distress caw.  “Help!  Help! She cried.

        From across the lake the two ducks conferred. 

        “What does she expect us to do?” asked Nancy.

        “We should do something to help.”  Wanda replied, but Nancy had already dove back down for another bite of food.

        Mr. Fox was quickly becoming exhausted.  He was trying hard to keep his head above the water, but his wet heavy fur and his tired legs were slowing him down.

        As he was swimming in small circles, every few seconds he could see the close shoreline.   Oh, he thought, if I had only been paying attention…

        But all of a sudden he didn’t have to swim anymore.  Something was pushing him up out of the water.

        His legs were hanging free while some mighty force was pushing up on his stomach.   If he hadn’t been so frightened he would have enjoyed the ride.

        Whatever it was it was helping him back to the shore.  When he was close enough for his feet to touch the bottom he made a running motion with them.  As his claws dug into the muck he quickly pulled himself free and up onto the grass. 

        He lay there trying to catch his breath.  He wanted to shake the pond water from his fur but he was too tired to stand.   The warm Sun felt good and soon Mr. Fox was sound asleep.

        “That was mighty nice of you.” Wendy said to Larry, as he turned to go back into the pond.

        “We have to help each other.” Larry said.  “When it comes right down to it, each other is all we have.  Your part was calling for help.  When I heard the panic in your voice I knew Mr. Fox wasn’t still chasing me, he was trying to save himself.”

        Wendy asked,  “I didn’t see those two over there helping at all.”

        Larry looked over at the two ducks across the pond. 

“Some of us help by just staying out of the way.” Larry replied, and with that he slipped back into the cool pond water and disappeared down to the bottom.

        Wendy hopped up to a higher branch.  She was getting hungry for some fresh berries, and really didn’t want to be hanging around when Mr. Fox finally woke up.

        He can just go through life thinking it was a miracle that saved him, she thought.    And maybe that’s what miracles are, just everyone helping when and how they can.

        And sure enough, as Wendy flew up above the shrubs she spotted Mr. Scarecrow.  He seemed to be pointing towards some fresh, tasty corn.

        Now that helps. She thought.

                                                     The End.

       

       

It's Not My Fault

          The power of my subconscious has suffered a brown-out.  Although my thoughts should be the central control of my life, my mind doesn't know if these thoughts are real or imagined.

          I find that I am not yet willing to take full responsibility for my life.  I must blame others.  That seems to be my strong suit.  It's what I'm good at.  If this isn't a desirable trait, don't blame me.

          

Note:  Written on a Sunday night.  school tomorrow,

homework due, not ready...

...and there at the Pearly Gates

            My torment stems from rejecting my own nature while pursuing an elusive knowledge of self.  No matter the path I take there seems a familiar sameness which only highlights my limitations.  I am often elated to discover a new beach, only to recognize the existing footprints as my own. 

            It is that sameness that drives my frustrations.  I am not growing or advancing but treading in a reflecting pool; adding even more lines to the face looking back, wearing this tiresome journey like an unacceptable grade issued by some predisposed professor. 

            I do not anticipate any sudden awakening at trail’s end, where a flood of knowledge and understanding overtakes me, but instead the simple passing of time will have lessened my stature, perhaps curving my spine with age and there, at the gates will be some plywood hand indicating:

You must be THIS high to proceed.

This, for some strange reason, I see as my finally.

Unknown Consequences

A chloroformed intellect must rule my dreams.  Upon waking I can neither explain nor justify nocturnal occurrences.  It seems that an exaggerated form of word association threads unrelated events like a raft and allows them to drift out beyond safety markers. Although morning’s reflections shows no abnormalities suffered, a lingering irrationality permeates like stale gin.   

Void of contracts or rebuttals, today shall be spent in analytical review of things and events leading up to the evening’s slumber.  What could have possibly spurred such realistic and volatile dreams as to plunge me deep into the depths of my own familiarity?  Seeing myself as I truly am, stripped of the varnish of civilization, all the while presenting false arguments in a setting designed for nothing short of failure.

 Stifled and found in contempt I am tethered to a harsh reality and consigned to life.  There is nothing but life in all directions.  Each and every avenue filled with the choices that life offers; while just there, in the shadows, the unknown consequence of choice. 

  

This isn't one of them...

We are traveling together, you and I.  Born within a proximity, placed here on the same planet, and now this message is possibly our first contact.  Of course we know nothing of each other, aside from our ability to read and write in this language. The rest are assumptions.

If you wander about within this blog you'll most likely discover me to more positive than negative, more observant than adventurous and with math skills ending at my little finger.

You, having sent me nothing in return, leave me to assume a multitude of contradictions.  You have an amazing life, but for whatever reason, do not believe it to be noteworthy.  You dream in color and simply assume everyone does as well.  Part of you wishes you could turn the clock back, while your reality says, once through is enough.  You don't want to do any of this again.

Of course, if we have met at some point, neither would have recognized the other.  Maybe I was the circus writer you noticed one day, changing tents.  Maybe it was you I overheard at the lunch counter telling someone, that was the last straw.  Who really knows if our paths have ever crossed, or ever should?

It's all together possible that in person we would be like matter and anti-matter.  O-well, doesn't matter.  The odds are this invisible electronic moment is all we have.  This is our here and now, our yearbook, photo album and resume all embedded here in +'s and -'s. 

If, by some quirk of fate, we do meet, you should know the following:

I ignore dress codes.  My drinking preference is Coke and not Pepsi.  I believe politicians to be equal to, though no better than, mosquitoes.  I was born with an endless supply of commas and I'm not afraid to use them.  The Princess Bride will always and forever be the best movie.  I enjoy flight but not flying.  I like people but not crowds.  I believe rap music should be seen and not heard, and I'm not all that keen on the seen part.   I'd like the wonderful moments in life to last forever. As this isn’t one of them I’ll end this here.  After all, I was much older when I began this blog.

zc

To a Far Away Place

Thinking of far away places does not necessarily suggest a discontentment with here. It is with that foundation I continue.

I have forever had a longing within me to explore conversations with those at foreign Cafés, drinking recommendations while attempting to consume questionable menu items. It is the toe in the pool, anticipating the uncomfortable chill all the while hoping to be awash with warmth and enlightenment.

I have not yet been to Italy, though it surely leads the pack with flair and impressive landscapes. It sets upon the Earth, as does a great book sitting quietly on the shelf at the library, not hidden but simply there for the taking. One must discover it, build a passion for it, and of course have a library card.

It is in my dream of Italy that I sit at a sidewalk table listening to a local telling me the history of his village, the unexpected excitement at his sister’s wedding, and of Giuseppe, his loyal dog, presently asleep at his feet. In truth, such an encounter would contain communication stumbles, background noise, and various fumes from traffic and from Giuseppe. However, this story is mine for the telling, and reality has been edited.

Neil Armstrong must have thought about far away places and maybe with a deafening silence replacing street noise and forgoing the sidewalk cafe.  A silence not unlike that currently shared by our ancestors. They are stories no longer told, as the tellers themselves remain checked out. It is not my intent to draw any correlation between death and space, except to suggest silence as a common denominator.

Every Friday for years, I have dragged cans down to the curb, cans full of silent wrappers, motionless advertising, and exhausted toothpaste vessels. Silent containers transported to vacant hillsides, where circling birds hunt for bits, morsels tucked in corners, wadded in cellophane and food remnants disfigured by microwaves.

It is the avoidance of this silence that makes here tolerable. There is a certain comfort in knowing that the falling tree makes a crashing, thunderous noise, even in our absence. We need not see the darkness to know upon closing the door the light has gone. It is a faith-based refrigerator upon which empires have been built.

Limitations to our comprehension of far away places stand like sturdy fence posts at the edge of our imagination. We can neither see over nor climb such a fence, just as we can never fully know who built it. Instead, we make noise. We cry as babies, and squawk as teenagers. We build televisions to chatter back at us when we sit alone. We press cell phones to our heads, like seashells that are full of friends and appointments, all the while knowing that eventually we ourselves will be scheduled for a Friday pick-up.

Side note:  I started this thinking about travel and far away places and somehow ended up talking about death.  Maybe it was one of those questionable menu items that altered my journey, or maybe death is simply the farthest away place one can go.  Farther perhaps than Italy.

A Sign of Age

Some point north

some west and east

those pointing south

I like the least –

Eyebrows, as we all do know

should stay in line

as they do grow –

should not bush out

like caterpillars

as if they're combed

by roto-tillers –

A sign of age

I’ve heard some say

when eyebrows head

the other way.

zc

Time is not Linnear

I have been contemplating this for several weeks and have attempted to imagine the multitude of paths leading from this single thought.  All I have discovered are the limitations of my knowledge, and they are staggering. 

It remains a frustrating endeavor, that of not coming close to any conclusions worthy of conversation.  One recurring thought, however, is the elusive knowledge of how to exceed the speed of light.  Apparently some nuggets of truth are simply beyond human comprehension.  There are divine passwords, unhackable, perhaps written in the universal language of all planets, communicated by neither sound nor gesture.

Air exists.  We need not see it to know the chute will open.  Time is a human construct.  It is our stick with which we verify the depth of the river.

Time, void of measurement, removes even the awareness that the river exists.  It would be stepping blindly, never knowing if we were already at the edge of the riverbank and finding ourselves suddenly being swept downstream.  At that exact moment the water within the river and the air beneath the chute are one and the same.  

The unmeasured passage of events are nothing more than two empty hands circling wildly about. 

Not For Sale

The colors of the old painting were muted tones, almost appearing dusty.  The chair in the painting was a wooden rocker with an elderly print material on the seat and back.  Just looking at it I could feel the uncomfortable squeak and hear the springs jabbing me.

The employee manning the register was multi-tasking; eating her sandwich while playing Angry Birds on her iphone.  I could hear them as they flew through the air and then exploded. It made me happy I no longer had employees to be concerned with.

The antique store smelled old and the wooden floor was warped and creaked.  I looked back up at the old painting.  I could see by the price tag they had no idea what they had.  I wanted to reach up and snatch it off the wall, buy it as quickly as I could and head for the hills.  My problem was my ethics.  I'd feel like a crook.  It would haunt me, I know it would.

The little bell hanging over the front door tinkled; someone else had just come in.  The employee didn't even look up.  Just as easily it could have been someone leaving, and with anything tucked under their coat.  I felt bad for the owner of this store, whoever they were.

Now that there was someone else in the store besides me, I grew concerned they would spot the painting, grab it and not think twice about ripping these people off.  Then again, I knew what I was doing.  I was justifying buying it.  I was telling myself I was the "good guy" in this story.  I reached up and lifted the painting from the wall.  I'd simply take it to the register and ask to see the store owner.  Maybe they were in the back room, or next door.  I'd offer them a fair price and if they went for it, I'd feel good, they'd make more money and everyone would win. 

I stood there at the counter for a moment, waiting for the girl to look up.  She finally did; she looked to once again pick up her sandwich, then looked at me as if I were a disruption to her busy day.

Annoyed, she said: "Can I help you?"

I wanted desperately to tell her she was fired, but obviously I couldn't.  I lifted the painting up and laid it on the counter.

"I'll take this."  I pulled several twenties from my wallet and counted out the exact asking price, plus tax.

As she rang it up I wanted to stop her, I wanted to stick to my original plan of asking for the owner and negotiating a fair price, but this employee had pushed my buttons, now I was the one bothered, annoyed.  This isn't how you treat customers, I thought to myself, as an interruption.   "I'd like you to wrap this if you don't mind, maybe heavy, brown paper if you have it.  And tie it with some twine or tape it real good.  Thank you."

After she completed the transaction she pulled a large sheet of butcher paper from under the counter, carefully flipped the painting over and laid it onto the brown paper. She cut the price tag off and handed it to me, then as she started wrapping it I noticed the back of the frame was stamped with, NFS, with a signature scribbled next to it.

I instantly knew that it had been marked not for sale. I held my breath waiting to see if she would notice it, and if she did, would she know what it meant?  Just then the second customer, who had come in moments ago, walked up to the counter and was standing right next to me.  He was also watching the clerk attempt to wrap the painting.

"You've cut the paper too short," he said, trying to be helpful. The girl gave him the same annoyed look she had given me.  She then lifted the painting slightly and pulled the paper completely out from under it.  "I'll start over," she grumbled, and ripped a much larger piece off the roll under the counter.

"That should be plenty." I said, as I quickly attempted to give her a hand wrapping it.
The man next to me then asked if we would flip it over so he could see it before we wrapped it.

"I'm in sort of a hurry," I said, as I kept wrapping.

When it was all wrapped I carried it out to my car and carefully laid it in the trunk, on top of an old army blanket.  I got in and just sat behind the steering wheel, staring back into the store.  I wanted to drive away, make my get-a-way, as they say, but I just sat there.

This is wrong, I muttered.  After the other customer left the store the clerk walked over, locked the door and flipped the sign over.  It said out to lunch.  I knew she had already eaten her lunch; she just didn’t want to wait on any more customers.  I felt bad for whoever it was who’d hired her.  What a miserable employee she was.

 I couldn’t bring myself to drive away with the painting.  I would sit there and hope the owner of the shop would show up before it got too late.  What I hadn’t counted on was what happened next.

to be continued…

At the speed of yesterday

Code Blue

         It wasn’t at all how he thought it would be.  He had always believed that Heaven was this marvelous and amazing place, floating somewhere above the clouds, free from criminals and crooks, mosquitoes and politicians. It was a place where no one ever got sick, or stole your lunch money; a place that never handed out homework or gave tests. 

          Could he have been wrong all this time?  He knew he was dead and he knew everything was completely different, and yet here he was, standing on his tiptoes, his fingers clutching onto the window ledge, peering in to catch a glimpse of… what, he wasn’t sure.  He just knew he was supposed to wait until he was called, then he could go in.  This was not a good situation, mostly because; well… he didn’t like waiting.

          As he relaxed his grip on the edge of the window and once again stood flat on his feet he looked down to see just what it was he was standing on.  He was surprised to see nothing was there.  There was no floor, no fuzzy carpet or cold ceramic tile.  In fact, he could see all the way down to the…  Hey, he could see himself lying on the operating table.  He didn’t hear any of the machines buzzing or beeping, and he couldn’t hear what the doctors were saying, but yep, that was him, and not only that, he no longer was afraid of heights.  Being up there didn’t bother him in the least.  In fact, being up like this, absent of all the fear of falling, was really fun. 

          Now there were too many doctors and nurses leaning in, he couldn’t see what they were doing.  He wondered what all the commotion was.  It was then he could hear what he thought was a beep, but it was far away.  Suddenly there was another and another.  The beeps were louder and seemed close.  He could feel himself drifting back down towards his body.  The jabber from the doctors annoyed him, it was interrupting the beeps.  Hey, he could hear the doctors.  But they still sounded muffled.  Suddenly he felt himself take a breath.  His lungs hurt, but the rush of oxygen felt good.

If you're blue and you don't know where to go to, why don't you go where fashion sits...

Putin on the Ritz

Man Cannot Live by Bread Alone (But let's try)

Dear (Contact us) @Kroger's

You have remodeled the store by us and it looks great.  My concern is with the habits of your employees.  I went in today to purchase some fresh bread and to use the bread slicer.  When I got there, however, a lady was vacuuming crumbs and things up off of the floor in front of the slicer and then, using the same vacuum hose end, she opened up the slicer and vacuumed inside the slicer and all around, exactly where people place the loaves of bread to be sliced.

I could not believe what I was seeing.  Everyone in town walks around outside with their big convict shoes and then walks on the floor of the store, the same floor she was dragging the end of the vacuum hose around on and then rubbing it all around the inside of the slicer.  How disgusting is that?

I did not buy the bread. 

Thought you should know.  Please say something to whoever holds your training classes.

Thank you,

Sincerely

Z. Corwin 

PS
When packing groceries, soft items like tomatoes and bread should not be placed under can goods, six packs of anything or 40 pound bags of water softener salt.  Please add this to your class curriculum.  

Bits & Pieces

One Giant Step for Mankind

 

 

 



The Wooden Ship

In the very beginning it wasn't even aware of itself.  It was new and smelled like a lumber yard.  In what seemed like no time at all, it took on the fragrance of varnish, and it felt the sensation of floating, perhaps it was a combination of the mild movement of the water and the fumes from the varnish, it wasn't sure but the sun felt good and its bones were getting stronger.

The day the sails were installed I would have to say was the day she awoke completely.  Suddenly she knew she was a sailing ship and you couldn't see it, but she was smiling.

 

In the months that followed brass fittings were installed, glass polished and a final coat of varnish applied to railings.  She was the gem of the marina and was photographed from every possible angle.  Colorful flags were strung and banners announced her début.

 

She was enjoying the attention but longed for the open water.  She couldn’t wait until the day she could catch the breath that would push her through the rolling waves and she would feel the salt spray along her sides.  Already she was tired of watching the others head out to sea in the morning, leaving her quietly moored, sitting alone until sunset when she would spot the colorful sails dotting the horizon, making their return.

 

She was not an orphan for long, however.  A family took to her as if she were candy.  The children ran across her deck, up and down.  They hung from the rails as if she was a jungle gym, and the laughter came in constant waves.  She wanted to show them all what she could do out there, but he seemed timid, unsure of how to be a sailor, almost afraid to let the shore slip from view.

 

Over time the family would venture farther and farther from home, but the tone of the conversations had changed.  Something was wrong.  Laughter from the children was almost nonexistent, and arguments lit like distress flares, suddenly blanketing the area in uncomfortable silence.   Some of the storms were so great that even the ship herself felt she might not weather them.

 

As a teenager the wooden ship knew she was still in her prime.  Her sails still crisp and white, her hull was sound, but her spirit felt somewhat tattered.  Concerned for the family that no longer showed up on weekends and holidays she remained tied to her slip, quietly waiting, hoping for a return to the adventurous spirit that would take her out to sea, and far from the doldrums of safety.

 

It was a Saturday morning, early August when he returned, although by himself.  He spent the day removing things from cabinets, taking coolers from on deck and setting them onto the pier.  He cleaned the glass and wiped the entire deck.  He checked the ropes, making sure all sails were secure, and then had placed something on her stern, though she couldn’t tell what.

 

By late evening he and all the family belongings were gone.  She sat quietly rocking in her slip as she had when she was new.  Wondering just what he had done at the stern. She looked to the Lynn Ann, a wonderful ship moored directly in front of her.  That’s it, she though; He’s given me a name.  She was excited but also frustrated at not knowing what it was.

 

When the tide comes in, she thought, I’ll rise high enough to see my reflection in the large windows of the marina manager’s building.  And so she waited, but by the time the tied had lifted her high enough the sun had set.  She could see nothing in the dark.

 

The following day, once the thought of her name had again returned, she glanced back at the windows of the marina building.  As she focused on her reflection she tried to pronounce her name.  Was it Greek?  Italian?  She wasn't sure.    

                 Rofelas

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

The Desert - Really?

 

 

 



Left behind

 on a window ledge in the basement of a church.



How does this happen?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Alex...

 

 

I'd like to buy a vowel.

 

 

 

Detroit metro craigslist > Oakland co > for sale / wanted > general for sale

Vowel - $1 (Clarkston)

---

Date: 2011-06-15, 2:58PM EDT
Reply to: your anonymous craigslist address will appear here

---

 

For sale, one Vowel: It has been in my family for years. Who would sell such a thing they ask, and sometimes why.

Sorry, no I, O, U's accepted.

It should be noted, this vowel is not rare. There are others out there, some exactly the same or even better. This is not necessarily the best deal on a vowel, but even so, at this price I don't expect it to last.

If you are local you can arrange for pick-up, but if not, postage will be added.

• Location: Clarkston
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests



We were delighted to see that...

under the front lawn there were hardwood floors.

How Exciting is That?

At the beginning, it's all measured out, how much life we get, how much we get to see and of that, how much we get to understand.  We're given only so much excitement and only so much grief.  It's measured just how many breaths we get to take and there seems a formula to the ratio of tears to laughter within a lifetime.

The problem comes in when people try to hold onto their youth.  Try as they might, the truth is they cannot.  It would be like trying to hold on to a gentle spring shower.  It makes you feel good, it's pleasant to look at but like all things in Life it has a beginning, a middle and an end.  You can capture it on film, and you can project the image onto a movie screen, but the feel is not there, the gentle breeze is missing and the lovely sound, although played back with digital wizardry is never the same.

If youth were something we were supposed to hang onto it would have a handle, with a comfortable and ergonomically correct grip.  It would be light weight and fastened in such a manner as to never come off or loosen.

There would be youth-handle surgeons for correcting slippage issues or gripitis.  There would be separation consulting professionals trained to deal with accident victims.  And each youth handle would come in sizes and colors that match exactly to the individual.

And here's the important part; there would be a little screw-on cap at the end of the handle, because stored within the handle would be a variety of pills.  There would be pills you could take to add extra silly to your life.  There would be adventure pills, foolish curiosity pills, wild abandon pills, goody-twoshoes pills, and of course know-it-all pills.

As these youth handles would have nothing whatsoever to do with the government there would be no warning labels or caution stickers.  And of course there would be no handy, color coded chart indicating which pill is which, although taking a cue from nature, you may want to avoid the bright red ones with the yellow stripe.

 

That's when I saw them...

   We were cleaning things out and donating clothing.  I had gone down to the basement and into the cedar closet.

   I gathered up a handful of shirts and came back to get some winter coats...

   That's when I happened to glance down and see someone's bare feet.

 

 

 

 

 

OK, so maybe that's bear feet.

 

Either way - it surprised me.

 

 

 



The Hackneyed Poet

 

If I'm to tell a story
If it's  a tale you've come to hear
Then follow me, my feathered friend
For the beginnings way back here.

Twas a time before the grammar police
Would stop a speeding verb
When a sprinkling of commas
Wasn’t rare or that absurd

I'd love to weave a mystery
Leaving clues behind the salt
But never in the kitchen
Or locked up in a vault

No bumps beneath the carpet
No cover-ups for me
If I'm to be a writer
I'll need a place beside the sea

A loft with such a window
The view would hardly fit
I'd write villains in the shadows
all the drunks would be well lit

It would be in the first person
Though not the first upon the scene
Or perhaps it's  no who-done-it
but an adventure more serene

A quiet retrospective
Informative and lite
Though I couldn't do a travel log
I'm tucked at home each night


So maybe it’s a writer
I'm not supposed to be
but just a hackneyed poet
Left to stare out at the sea.

Zobostic Corwin

 

 



Results of the hearing test are in...

 

 

 

 

 



Just how aware?

I found this shady spot under an amazing oak.  The grass was park-like and I loved the quiet.  Pushing all the running chatter from my mind was an on-going process, but then I noticed the smallest of distractions; right next to where I had set my books down was an industrious camp of ants.  They were all very busy; each one seemed to be in a hurry.

My eyes followed a line of them ascending the oak I leaned against.  I turned a little and looked back at the tree.  The line of ants wound around each piece of tree bark and they appeared to march single file and with such determination.   Just up a bit a giant colorful moth clung to the tree.  The quiet footsteps of the ants that passed just next to the moth didn't awaken it.  It wasn't without color, but the colors were muted.  I tried to imagine what it would be like if I had to hang onto something while I slept.

I remember reading in a Carlos Castaneda book how the moth was considered knowledge by the Yaqui Indians.  How that came to be I haven't a clue, but what became suddenly aware to me was my inability to curtail my mental chatter.  I hadn't stopped for even a moment.

The thought about moths being associated with knowledge led me to wonder about the general awareness the insect world might have.  How odd it must be to be even partially aware of humans, such gigantic creatures who seem to go around oblivious to their plight.

It must be some kind of awareness that causes roaches to scatter when the lights come on.  Suddenly they know they can be seen.  They become aware their color is different than the color of the floor or wall they are against, and now the giant creatures can see them.  Was it over time they became aware?

The amount we don't know or understand is staggering.  But then there must be an evolution to knowledge with rules and time schedules of its own.  I expect we are in the infancy of our knowledge as it pertains to those we haphazardly step on or swat with our newspaper.

 

How sad are we?

 

 

 

 

 

 

What the cop sees...



The Stare

 

 

 



Street View



Wait... Wait... Don't tell me.