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.