Chrysanthemums

As technology advances - new words are coming into use.  
To make room for these new words in the Oxford English Dictionary - some words, the ones too silly to be in there, should be removed.



This, of course, is just my opinion.



Z. Corwin

Inside the Box

I cannot, within the span of this lifetime, complete all of the thinking I have left to do.  I am afraid I am going to run a bit over.  I hope that is all right.  

It isn’t that I have been slacking off or anything.  I mean, I’ve been thinking during the week and on weekends and holidays.  I am all the time thinking but there just isn’t adequate time - if you know what I mean.

         Even when I am reading books about what someone else has thought - I’m thinking, what were they thinking? And television, well of course I’m thinking while I am watching television.  Mostly I’m wondering how on Earth this garbage gets put on the tube. 

         Anyway - after having done the math on my expected life duration, minus that which has already passed, and then calculating that into my remaining questions - well there you have it.  I am over by at least eight point two years.

         Avoiding any puns about thinking inside the box, let’s consider for a moment that a person could, after having passed over, continue on with their thinking.   I would have to think that their new surroundings might influence their perspective just a bit.  Most likely their initial thoughts might run toward that machine, the one that told the doctors all brain activity had stopped.  Boy are they in for a surprise.

         But seriously, after we hang up this coat and wander down the all into the bright light, who’s to say we’re not still thinking about changing the furnace filter or hooking up the garden hose so we can wash the car?  I mean, we are not actually a very complex creature.  

We’ve existed on Earth for hundreds of years, given more land that we need and we’re still killing each other over boundaries.  One group processes our food through chemicals while another attempts to find a cure for why we are dying off. 

         One bunch of us munches down the rain forest while another studies the changing weather patterns.  And just when our library shelves are full of closed books we open Windows and read our filtered history and slanted news through computers - like penned up veal being fed probabilities and outcomes.

         I guess that if I were to just write off those last eight point two years and simply call it a day, whenever that day comes, I too could rest peacefully without all the stress and hubbub and just mentally focus on a flat line with a study hum in the background.   You know, just to give that machine something to think about.

zc

Only Use

a glass hammer

on rubber nails.

A Simple Country Poem

Little hope for city folk

who leave the robin's song unheard -

and scurry on their busy way

saddened by a hasty word -

No cricket's chirp nor bovine sent -

no moonlit nights

or gentle breeze -

can city time be so well spent -

without such Earthly harmonies?

Z. Corwin

Faculties

I sat quietly yesterday morning on one of the little padded benches at the mall.  It was our rendezvous point and I was first to arrive.  It wasn’t a minute later when two elderly men came walking up to the bench next to mine.  They appeared to be brothers.  One held a canvas book bag and a newspaper while the second explained to the first that he would be close by looking in and out of the near-by shops. 

As the first old man set his things on the bench he looked up at his brother, acknowledging the fact that his brother would not be sitting but wandering about.  Then again the wandering brother stated the exact same thing over again as if he had no idea that he had just said that. I looked at the man who was now sitting.  There was quiet desperation in his expression.  He flipped his newspaper open and drew it up close to his very substantial glasses.

I didn’t see him diving into the top story of the day, so much as I saw him trying hard to be anywhere else.  Wherever he was reading about I would guess he was mentally placing himself there, if only for a few minutes.   He kept looking at the article but I could tell he was listening and very much focused on where his brother was and how far away he was getting.  They were apparently taking care of each other in Life’s later years but the burden had obviously shifted and was now all one sided. 

As I gazed up at the ceiling and skylights I began to think about the architect who had designed the angles, arches and passageways for sunlight way up there, where most scurrying shoppers rarely look.  I wondered if, while sitting at his drafting board, or computer, he envisioned a couple of old men sitting - waiting for someone and looking up.   I wondered if he intentionally thought to entertain us with light and shadows while we waited.  

As much as I played with that thought I knew that I was simply avoiding what was really nibbling away at me.  What would become of me if something ever happened to Sally?  I was already a gray-haired old man sitting here on the bench at the mall.

We all plan to take care of each other as long as we can.  As we know, the holes within the fabric of today’s community are quite large and people slip through them on a daily basis.   Without the right, coherent response at the right time, people find themselves being shuffled off into agencies and programs, being handled and fed by charts and timetables.

The obvious challenge is to see how long we can hang onto our faculties.  Other internal systems may fail and send us on unexpected adventures but when the bulb starts to flicker we start that downward slide into grilled cheese and Jell-o at a 3 PM feeding.

Down at the entrance to the store I could see Sally making her way to our rendezvous point.  My spirits immediately picked up.  We would go home, enjoy lunch together, having what we wanted and when we wanted it.   

Later I would go down in the basement to my workbench.  I would gather some ½ inch Pine and build a sturdy box with heavy latches and trim.  I will use it to keep my faculties in.   

Perhaps with a metal plate on top indicating that they are all here.

   You know - just in case.

Momentary Items

Had I the time and talent I would learn to strum and old front porch guitar.  I would make up songs as I went along, entertaining anyone who happened to linger.  

If I had the resources I'd travel down south.  I would sit in local cafés just to listen to the slow, southern accents, feeling my own blood pressure and stress level calm down.  And I would have some pie.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I have this running list of things that fall under the category of, one of these days.   Over the years some of the items on this list have changed.  Even the ones that have held on the longest haven't always kept their original position.  

As my personal likes and dislikes change, my list makes priority adjustments.  The time of year also affects these items, for as July and August draw near my desire to head to southern states diminishes.

I have no inclinations towards space exploration, sailing, mountain climbing, or exploring religious philosophies.  The items on my list have always been the simple pleasures, like finding the perfect cookie, learning Italian or to photograph someone's face for a chance of capturing unsullied human expression.  Maybe simply sitting with friends and hearing about the things on their list.

As most of you know, the one thing that has never fallen from my list is to take a little time every day to play with words.  For me the written word holds all of the treasures found within human thought.  Its bounty extends beyond all margins, in soft, colorful strokes or can be as sharp as a single word expressed in a harsh, regrettable tone.  

Words, when arranged just right, can evolve into brilliant stage plays that pull us through rivers of emotions, even though we never once leave our chair.  Words, when sinisterly manipulated by advertisers can gnaw away at us, forcing us to remember their product.  

I believe there to be an agonizing plight in the Hearts of true poets.  It is a weight never lifted, a passion fueled by both love and rage.  It is perhaps their very soul slowly leaking through the tip of the pen, leaving behind what some would see as excess droplets of ink but are in fact small fragments of momentary items that once resided on the back pages of a list.

Blueberry.

Life at the Waiten Sea

          We are headed into the five Wednesdays of January.  It is a bleak, bone-chilling and dismal span of time, void of tinsel, grog and good cheer.  It is the stark reminder that Life goes on.

          A sea of humming computers, clacking keyboards, and the exchange of vacant pleasantries slowly fills each of these days until we find ourselves searching desperately for an escape hatch.  

           The daily paper fails us as it only peers into the dregs of humanity.  Television provides a barrage of blathering pitchmen interrupted by feeble one-liners and canned laughter.

  

          Throughout these vast stretches of boredom a few of us reach out, if only briefly and hold hands.  Not, of course in the physical sense but by means of letters, e-mails and phone calls.  We momentarily lock fingers with a few words, placing our own little stepping-stones across the calendar.  

           Others opt to join organizations or to live vicariously through the exploits of their children.  Some of us simply dive head first into diets and focus upon self-improvement.  

          In the past I have chosen to tell stories; fabricated adventures in fictional places such as Oak Valley and Putrid Sound.  I have dabbled with ideas involving sock puppets and magistrates and have sometimes blended reality with fiction that I might solicit responses from those too long quiet. 

          I am thinking that 2020 should not just be another stretch of empty Wednesdays.  We should grind it up and form it into a rich, usable work of art.  It should come alive with laughter and music and nonsensical chaos.  

         We should roll it out before us like a new carpet and run through it with bare feet - giving carpet shocks to everyone who thinks life is to be taken seriously. 

Zobostic Corwin

         

Hard to do without fingers

I would have to think that paradise is different for everyone.  As our likes and dislikes vary - so must our conception of the ideal.  Following this line of thinking brings me to my particular concept of Heaven.   

For me, Heaven isn't a place that exist somewhere up in the clouds but rather lives as an entity within our spirit.  Perhaps it is our spirit.

It isn't somewhere to go once we stop living this life.  It is Life itself but without the physical attributes.  Heaven triggers a feeling of calm within us.  It is that spark of mental reassurance when we are standing in the midst of indecision.  

One can often glimpse a bit of Heaven in the eyes of another.  Friend or stranger matters not, the spirit transcends boundaries, borders and languages.  It permeates our soul, bringing us to awareness beyond reason.  

Bits of Heaven can be transmitted through a smile or a touch.  It travels freely through memory like the pleasant fragrance of home cooking, the vision of a playful puppy or hearing the giggle of a child.  It flows to the surface at the sound of distant church bells and it warms us when winter winds bite.

My concept of Heaven is that we eventually become one with this spirit, to travel freely from smile to smile, to glide in and out of hearts, leaving hope and love in our wake. 

We join the universal awareness that finds no star too distant, nor any moment uninviting.   Free to circle those we have left behind with warm memories that they not grieve our passing but smile at a moment once shared. 

I believe we simply blend with the Human Spirit, picking up small bits of love and hope as we go and depositing them with those in need.

I don't believe that we float about wearing halos while we spend an eternity trying to learn the harp. 

zc

No Matter How Bad the Music is

As I see it - the radio personality sits in a sound booth, talks and plays music.  As they do this and depending on his or her comfort level, the office chair moves.  It rolls, swivels and may even recline just a little, depending on the success of the station and how much they spent on the chair.

So far – no problem; the minor movement of the office chair does not affect the broadcast transmission -

 unless it squeaks.

Now, however, assume for the moment that you, the listening audience, are sitting in a moving car.  You are traveling along the interstate at 75 miles per hour.  This means your car antenna is also traveling at 75 miles per hour.  You are not only going fast but up and down hills and mountains, around corners and depending on your sense of direction, there’s an occasional U-turn.

Notes:

All measurements were taken at 68° F

The average person talks at 125 to 150 words per minute

Your speed on the Interstate = 75 mph

Speed of sound = 767 miles per hour

Your speed converted = 1.233 miles per minute

Conclusion:  It is not possible to outrun your radio.

Why Architects should learn...

what it takes to change a light bulb.

Action Figures

We have been action figures this past week.  Our arms and legs have been in constant motion, while we jumped in and out of our little action figure car.  We zoomed here and zoomed there, turning our heads from side to side and munching up little action figure meals.

Now we must climb back into the box and sit quietly while our batteries try to recuperate from the over charging we did at the action mall.

It isn’t often we get to see both ends of the rainbow at the same time but yesterday we stopped in to visit with a friend who had to spend their week laying on their back, staring up at the ceiling of a hospital room.  

For what seems to be a lack of imagination, they don’t hang artwork on ceilings.  There are no Goyas, or Grant Woods.  No funny photographs or still-lifes.   There is just a simple narrow gauge track running in a loop, where trains of curtains are drawn whenever they want your view to change from the ceiling to some other non-creative direction.

We ended up in a house filled to capacity with other laughing, smiling action figures.  We all talked about our lives and our plans and on every wall; no matter where we looked there was art.  

There were paintings with brilliant colors in bold frames; there were photographs of family members who had long since lost their “Action” status.  There was hugging and hand shaking and promises of fun in summers to come.

Now that I am resting and recharging back in my box I ponder the possibilities of rainbows without the rain.  I try to imagine hospital room ceilings painted with fields of colorful lilies or even empty frames where one might bring in pictures of their own loving action figures. 

Pulling both ends of the rainbow closer together isn’t easy but if enough action figures got together - who knows? 

zc

The Final Frontier is a Vacuum

            Shortly after the Klingons had been abolished from our Solar System, Captain Kirk found himself wandering the halls of the Enterprise.  He was annoying the Kitchen Staff and giving recommendations to the chief.  He was down on the laundry deck helping to fold sheets but doing it wrong.

          No matter where he went or what he tried to help with he was in the way.  He wasn't needed in those other departments but he was bored.   He was at a loss as to how to spend his time.  

          After all, there were no Planets to save and no civilizations to rescue.  The television show didn’t show all the episodes when the Captain, Bones and Spock had nothing to do.   Sponsors were reluctant to buy commercial time for what they referred to as -  dead air.

           Currently, I sit below the observation deck at this computer writing these posts.  It seems a nice gesture, you know, it gives the crew something to read other than the Captain’s Log. 

          Boredom is one thing but being bored in space can get to a person. 

Maybe I'll clean the carpet again.  It's hard to tell  just what it is those Romulans have tracked in.

Making Believe

         Last Tuesday I wandered back stage.  I saw the vast array of building materials, lighting fixtures and knick-knacks that fill the small rooms, storage areas and rafters of our local theater.  There were miles of moldings - wide and narrow, large sections of flooring that would extend into rooms never to be seen.  

Baskets full of doorknobs, some turn of the century while others designed for a simple Oliver Twist; they sat next to teapots, muskets, and stacks of books leaning on televisions and moose heads.  

Closets were packed with overcoats and feathered hats with wigs piled next to cigar boxes that held an assortment of mustaches.  An old cookie tin held a variety of stick-on tattoos; some suggesting a military history while others indicating an allegiance to a cause or a bold proclamation of independence.   

One wall was peppered with an assortment of beards and toupees for those plays requiring fur-bearing actors. 

          It is a wondrous place filled with potential and anticipation.  It is a place where lines from a sketch are lifted from the page and transformed into bedrooms, back alleys, hideouts, or a grandmother’s kitchen.   

Jars of dust and spools of cobwebs sit on a back shelf waiting to create just the right atmosphere, while wooden signs painted with indiscernible languages lean against the wall.   

          Do not, however, believe that back stage is paved with wide aisles or meandering lanes, for it is not.  Barely navigable and dimly lit passageways wind around tripping hazards, skill saws and mannequin limbs.  

It is not a destination you’ll find in any brochure.  

The SET…

          Set builders are tasked with challenges of interpretation.  Using bits and pieces they must build what the playwright has only alluded to.  Five-sided rooms screwed together with imagination and lacquered over with gallons of illusion hide the reality of extension cords and duct tape.

         Windows that once looked out over a lake now gaze down on an apartment across the street or face the alley out back where sounds bring life to sinister shadows.   Understandably it takes a village to raise a curtain.

         Limited by available space, doorways leading down to the gardens oft time require the actors passing through them to make immediate right turns, for instead of gardens, less than a foot of stage remains behind the door.   A sudden drop-off can give a completely new meaning to the phrase, “Break a leg.”

         This has been a glimpse into my activities this past week. My first experience at building a set has left my muscles sore and my body aching.   

I spent the entire day building walls and steps in very confined spaces, hanging windows that looked out onto nothing more than a backdrop all the while avoiding the reality that I was simply a volunteer.  I was not back out in the workforce earning my way but simply making believe.

Even though I have seen the smoke and mirrors I will still be drawn into the magic - the moment the lights dim and the curtain goes up.

zc

Things Remembered

          “As Gregor Samas awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.”

          That is the opening line in The Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka.

          As the Audi rested in the driveway during the summer I kept what I thought was a close eye on her health.  Full of oil and loaded with top of the line gas I exercised her around the block once a week, like you’d take a fine racehorse out for a run.  I wanted her to be fit and ready to face another winter.

          Soon after I began to drive her full time I noticed an exhaust smell inside the car.  “Nertz.”   I took her to Tuffy Muffler and informed them that I didn’t want to spend much on the repair.  I only wanted a Band-Aid.  I was thinking along the lines of maybe a $50.00 repair - there you go Sir, have a nice day.

          I soon found out that THEY were thinking, $1000.00 and oh by the way - we don’t have the parts.

          Annoyed at the lack of enthusiasm they showed in trying to solve the problem, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  At lunch time the following day I went to the grocery store and bought one of those large, aluminum roasting pans.  They are meant to be disposable.  Once you have roasted your turkey for your Thanksgiving meal you simply toss this roasting pan into the trash.

          This is flexible sheet metal, I thought to myself and it is resistant to heat so why not use it for a Band Aid?  So on Saturday morning; armed with my roasting pan, my tin snips and trusty car jack, I set out to fix the Audi.

          I pulled the Mustang out of the garage and pulled the Audi in.  I jacked it up as high as I thought safe and spread out a tarp.  I was ready. 

I knew that to just crumple a turkey roaster around a leaking muffler may be giving more credit to my crumple abilities than they deserved so I grabbed a handful of garbage ties and twisted them together making several long wire straps.

          I should mention at this point that when I pulled the car into the garage there wasn’t a lot of room on either side.  Sally’s Jimmy was on one side and the cement step leading up into the house was on the other.

          I opted to approach from the cement step side, so I laid on my back holding my turkey roaster, garbage ties, tin snips and flashlight and I scooted myself under the car.  It was soon apparent that I had not raised the car up as much as I should have.  It was a very snug fit and I had very little maneuverability.

          Having done as good a job as I thought I could, considering the amount of room I had, I now tried to scoot myself out from under the car.

 I was stuck.  I lay there on the garage floor - wedged between the bottom of the door panel and the cement step.  Kicking my feet in the air and waving my arms I tried to wiggle and twist to flip out of my predicament.

 It wasn’t working.   That’s when I remembered The Metamorphosis and this poor kid who had awoke to discover he had turned into a gigantic beetle and was kicking his many legs in the air as he tried to right himself.

          Ahhhh - Memories

            

20 Minutes Out

            I could feel the plane slowly losing altitude and then I heard the ding.  The fasten seat-belt signs came on.  The pilot made the announcement that we were 20 minutes out and had been cleared for landing.

            The flight attendants came through and made sure our tray tables were up and our seat backs were all the way forward.

            From this point on we were to stay in our seats.

            I remember the moment the pilot said 20 minutes out because it was the exact same time I knew I had to go to the bathroom.  

           I began mentally calculating the 20 minutes needed to land the plane, then whatever taxi time was needed to get to the gate.  After the plane came to a complete stop we would hear everyone unbuckle their seat-belts.

            The aisle people would stand first and get their carry-on from the overhead compartment.  Then they would just stand there.  Everyone would have to wait until the outside worker maneuvered the rolling gateway up to the plane and then he would open the door. 

            Eventually I would be able to see heads at the front of the line file out but each row would wait for the middle and window seat people to scoot over, stand up and then retrieve their carry on.

            This was going to be a very long process and that’s if nothing went wrong anywhere along the way.

            Assuming I made it that long - I still had to go single-file off the plane, traveling only as fast as the slowest person in front of me and then I would have to scurry to locate the closest restroom to that particular gate in the airport.

            All of this was running through my head when I felt the plane touch down.  I closed my eyes and held on to my armrests as the pilot gave it full flaps and applied the brakes.

           Just for a second I felt a glimmer of hope knowing that 20 minutes had ticked off the clock - although the moment I closed my eyes a vision popped into my head. 

               

          

           

The Right to Die

I need to make a serious attempt at separating my audiences.

My propensity for cranking out this gibberish sometimes a lot of the time causes me to appear as a babbling lunatic.  

This occurs when the wrong hemisphere of my brain tries to create an intelligent, cohesive work and the end product (far from hitting its target) lands on the wrong audience.

I sat at lunch the other day trying to avoid thoughts of pie and cake.  The way I do this is to occupy my mind with even more gibberish.  I pick a topic at random and then just start writing about it.  88% of the time I crumple and then hook the finished product off the wall - making a last minute basket to save the team.

Unfortunately, I sometimes think, “I wonder if Karen, at the paper, would be interested in this?”  But instead of sending an e-mail to ask a simple question, I send her my ramblings.

Well, I have learned that this is not a wise practice.   She printed my last one, just as I wrote it.  Yikes.  

I’m sure it was the topic that caught her attention, but wouldn’t you think that as an Editor she might come back at me and say, “You know Zobostic- This piece you wrote about, the right to die never comes to any conclusions.  You mix up your references to the Constitution with the Bill of Rights and in general you pre-amble all over the place. This  article deserves the right to die.”

Nope.  She just prints it. 

Well, I have learned my lesson.  YOU guys are the only safe audience.  You are used to this sort of nonsense and take it as it is intended: to fill time while you’re waiting for the bathroom so you can get ready for church. 
(A wild guess on my part).  

Anyway, I shall not make that mistake twice.  I can only assume that the newspaper reading population of Mule’s Breath will now give me a wide birth at the supermarket checkout line.  They will avoid eye contact in restaurants and murmur under their breath after I leave.

 I’m not really sure which hemisphere of my brain is the one that has gone out of warranty but I suspect there is a defect and there are no replacement parts on order.

I'm just saying...

Returning to the Scene

Within the findings there are small bits of truth, although not enough sometimes to build any relevant philosophy or even enough to establish a strong footing within a debate.  Nonetheless, they are there, each as pure as if a first year law student had stood before his class and spoke them aloud.  

They are simply small bits of believable truth lying there amidst the larger, more blatant fabrications and colorful exaggerations. 

Behind the black robe nods of acceptance disguise thoughts of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  Lunch is but moments away and only steps across Main Street sits the Gavel Cafe, where judges and lawyers alike banter around those bits of truth, being careful to remove from their teeth the tiny fragments of gristle. 

The adversarial system produces actors, set designers, and writers of half-truths.  Not wishing to illuminate with dialogue - we quietly fold the corner of our napkin over that bit of gristle, that we not acknowledge its existence.  

The gristle of our society gets ground up and processed.  We place the black hooded napkin over its face and then look the other way as we release the trap door. 

Riding home at days end we feel the cool, smooth leather seats that came as an option on our New XK Mega Ride with All Wheel Do-everything - only now noticing the small imperfection on the passenger's seat where a momentary slip years ago had sent Elsie falling against the barbed wire.

Our focus being captured by this flaw causes us to run amuck; our right front tire catching the edge of pavement, sending our new XK off across the gravel shoulder over the short stretch of grass and into one of many wooden posts supporting an old barbed wire fence.

Surely, a moo point now.


zc

Harmonic Facilitators

There can be no harmonic facilitators within an isolation-grouping factor of 6.  

As basic as this seems it is often this foundation that is overlooked when establishing a parametric gram chart.

Example:  There are 30 pieces of chocolate in a candy dish.  Mary sits across the room from the dish watching a daytime soap on TV.  

The room is the waiting room of a local practitioner. Enter one stressed housewife toting 3 small nose minors.

Is the practitioner a:

1.                Doctor?

2.               Dentist?

3.               Lawyer?

4.               Counselor?

or

5.               BMW Mechanic?

Those of you who have worked parametric gram charts before already know that the candy dish is green.  The rest of you have been bogged down with semantics.  The term, Housewife, snagged several of you while Nose Minors captured the rest. 

I submit the follow exercise.  Do this on your own time.  Do not cheat and work the problem in division multiples of Z by 41.

Nancy lives on a rectangular property.  Her bathroom window faces the west side of her neighbor’s garden.  There are more tomato plants than onion, why?

This post was to show you how lost I felt all through high school.

Which is why the school had bars on the windows

and took our belts and shoes every morning.