I don't paint
I haven't colors or brushes.
If I lived in the library
I would swim through the
waves of stories,
letting them wash over me,
pausing only at the cobblestone
storefronts displaying perfect
imagery.
There would be morning sunlight
and afternoon showers.
There wouldn't be smells, but
aromas. Fresh baked
bread
amazing pastries and clocks
that only run backwards.
zc
They stand out against the
darkness of the woods. They are
stark-white birds with long legs and long, curved bills. They tend to stay gathered, no matter in
flight or feeding on the ground, they are always many and always together. I wonder at their boldness, not blending in,
unafraid of nature’s teeth. Their
concern seems only food, for the only time they do not feed is in flight, and
that is to simply hunt for the next food source.
Here's the odd thing. As I was watching these birds, there was a
brief flash of light from deep in the woods.
It almost looked like a flash from a camera, but I know for a fact the
woods back there are way too thick for anyone to be tramping around. There are thorns, tripping vines, and poison
ivy. Only once, long ago, did I venture
back there. Never again. Not to mention the various varieties of
spiders and snakes. No thank you.
Just about the time I started
second guessing myself, thinking maybe I just imagined it, a second and third
flash occurred, in the same spot. There’s
no way it is lightning. The sky is clear
with not a single cloud for miles. I
wanted to keep watching the spot to see if it happened again, but there are
other things I need to accomplish. I
picked up my phone to call my neighbor, thinking maybe he’s seeing the same
things I am, but before I finished dialing, I heard and felt a sonic boom. A few seconds later there were two more. The same number of booms as flashes. These must be connected.
Whatever it was, wasn’t enough to
scare the birds. They just keep picking
at the ground.
I’ve got to go check it out. Be right back.
I once knew a cat named Stewart
Wobinski. He was very familiar with the
Vulcan mind-meld. He had a dog and a
human and lived in Washington, by the ocean.
He was very cat-like and spent much of his time watching the birds on
the balcony.
I remember, when it was time for us
to part company, he climbed into my suitcase, pretending to be a shirt. Because he was shedding, the cat hair didn’t
give him away, but I immediately noticed an absence of buttons. His plan of escaping with me didn’t work.
I’ve never been back, but
sometimes think of him closely watching the birds, becoming quite frustrated at
the invention of sliding glass doors. He
could plainly see what was right in front of him, almost taste them, but
nothing more. I expect he dreams of
someday having a suitcase of his own.
Whenever the USS Enterprise was
in danger, some off-camera crew member would flip an imaginary switch, and
invisible deflector shields would come up around the ship. Nothing could hurt it. Nothing got through unless it was a direct
hit from a sponsor's commercial.
For some carbon-based units, a
glass of wine lowers their deflector shields.
Their defenses come down and not only are they suddenly vulnerable, but
they too can fire photon torpedoes without any recoil.
A second glass can have the
opposite reaction. Deflector shields may
suddenly become visible and become erratic, popping up, or dropping down
without warning. No alarms, no simulated
computer voice, nothing.
A third glass is the same as
being hit by phasers on stun. Suddenly
you're speaking Klingon.
The one thing the military
doesn't tell you is that amongst the few good men are an amazing number of
morons. Civilian life isn't the only
place you find stupid.
Retirement communities that
advertise a lifestyle, often house little Hitlers, who have been left in charge
to run things. It is both sad and
unfortunate.
For some strange reason, really
dumb, or just mean people ferret their way into positions of power. I can't explain it, I'm just hoping Heaven is
the exception.
ZC
Use your indoor voice. Most of us are familiar with that. Almost all of us have an outside voice,
but lately, I've discovered there is also a lake voice, over which, there apparently
is no control.
A lake voice is a much-amplified
sounding voice. It can clearly be heard
over great distances, and over the objections of annoyed neighbors. Change day to night, and the lake voice
becomes even louder.
A library voice is three decibels
lower than an indoor voice, while an actor in a theater must exceed the level
of the standard outside voice. There's
an actual formula used by directors, but I don't have it with me here. It's a complex math thing, involving stage to
back wall of the theatre distance, times the number of patrons, divided by an
estimated number of anticipated sneezes, coughs, and candy wrapper crinkles.
The volume at which a deaf person
speaks is regulated by the facial expressions of the listener. A mother's volume has multiple variables,
such as, number and age of children, at home or away, and the severity of the
damage.
The cause for most concern can be
detected in the calm, controlled voice of a parent, directed at a specific
child. “Wait until I get you home, Bobbie-John.” Using both first and middle names reduces the
need to increase the volume.
Side note:
Lake voices are never hostile, or threatening, no matter how many children. Although alcohol is usually involved.
Many years ago, I was into a phase when I found the Three Stooges entertaining. My Mother and Sister picked up on this and started giving me Three Stooges memorabilia for birthdays. One item was a bottle opener. Whenever the metal portion of the opener came in contact with the metal bottle cap, the opener would ask, “How about a beer?” in the voice of Curly, of course.
Like I
said, that was many years ago. The
reason I bring it up is because all these years later, the thing still
works. It can’t be much more than a
flat, little watch battery inside. It
should have died out years ago. That got
me to think about how we, as people, shut off.
Our heart stops, our circulation system fails and for the most part,
that’s it. We shut off.
But
what happens to those of us who don’t just instantly snap off, but somehow keep
a trickle of spark, much like this bottle opener. I can imagine lying inside a coffin, no
feeling whatsoever. No pain, no need to
breathe, just an ongoing stream of thoughts running through our mind. How bizarre would that be? There’d be no panic, no sounds, just enough
electricity left in us to think.
It
could be quite odd to just have a running conversation with yourself, about
anything at all. You could discuss various
philosophies, remember significant events in your life. Relive bits and pieces… Just keep thinking until your battery finally
reaches the end of its thoughts. I would
guess the final thought to be, why the pillow?
I'm
sorry to be an ashtray in an antique shop.
Not only do I now have a feeling of being useless and unwanted, but also
of having a terrible history, spreading deadly cancer to everyone in my past.
Such
a horrible thing I have been. I don't
really remember choosing to be an ashtray.
I used to think I was hot stuff.
Thick, green glass, all gleaming, reflecting the office lights. My tall, mahogany pedestal holding me waist
high. Cigar smokers loved me. There was always plenty of room for their
stogies.
I
always got the office gossip first, and their closed-door meetings were quite
intense. I could tell you some stories,
boy.
The
thing is, now everyone just walks past me.
Some even point at me, like I'm some kind of freak. "Hey, look... an ashtray." Boy, some people can be such jerks.
I
miss my pedestal. We were buds. We went everywhere together. Some girl bought him right away. Why she didn't want me too, I don't
know. What's she going to do with an
empty pedestal?
Probably
some artsy thing, who knows?
I
really have lost all track of time in this shop. It seems like it's been a few years since I
first got here. I'm not the oldest,
though. That goofy, hanging lamp that
runs drops of oil along those strings.
She's been here forever.
It
is kind of hypnotizing watching those droplets of oil. Geez, I hope I'm not losing it. I need to get out of here.
Left here for hungry creatures,
who
escape inside their heads,
when
choosing their reality
should
pick this blog instead.
Zobostic
There is a certain beauty with horses, both on canvas and in photographs. There's a majestic feeling, almost noble, until you find yourself actually standing right next to one. In real life they are much larger than you might think. Their movement, even if slight, puts you on high alert, for they could, without even knowing, knock you over, or step on your foot.
They have more of a scent as
opposed to a smell. That's not the same
as horse sense. Most people don't even
have that.
In real life, I do not get
nervous standing next to a canvas, and I
don't seem to worry looking at a photograph of a horse. It's too far removed from actually being there. As I type this, I suddenly notice a mosquito snacking on the back of my hand. To that mosquito, I must be the size of a
horse. Is he concerned about my
size? Is he at all worried that a slight
movement from me could ruin his day? Nope. He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered.
“Hay! I don't mean to be a nag, but stop biting me."
I know it should be, Hey.
I was just being whimsical.
She asked if I wanted a baked potato.
I thought it was a loaded question.
They guessed that the giant key was for the winding
staircase.
It seems a feeble attempt to sum up an entire book with just a title on the cover.
The scary version.
You have been here on this planet for some time now and you’ve seen STUPID seep into every aspect of humanity.
Whoever said, “There’s no cure for stupid” was right. Every business, every group or organization,
at one time or another, becomes infested with stupidity. Really dumb ideas or decisions can quickly
result in unintended consequences.
My concern deals with AI.
People are designing it, building it, creating it, and very quickly it
will be in every aspect of our lives. Exactly
what is to prevent stupid from infesting AI?
Can there be
safeguards? Are we able to build doors that only GOOD can open?
I doubt it will be a nuclear war that ends us, but rather
something really stupid.
It was a day not unlike any other
day, except maybe last Wednesday. It was
a little like that day. I remember, it
all started in the wee hours of the morning.
Still somewhat half asleep I made my way down the hall, and as I passed
the front entrance, I noticed a shadowy figure standing on the other side of
the frosted glass. Of course, my first
thought was, it must be darn cold for that glass to frost up like that, but
then the shadowy figure knocked on the door.
I knew right then that I had a choice to make, answer the door, or continue
on to the bathroom. I decided the front
door would have to wait.
Anyway, that was last Wednesday. This is now – today, and except for all that other stuff, today, so far, is different. Don’t get me wrong, my neighbor is still standing at my front door, but today I opened the door to see what he wanted. He was holding a shovel and asked me to join him in digging a hole. He said he needed to dig a big hole in his back yard and that it was a two-man job. I told him I would have to go to the hardware first and buy a shovel, unless he had an extra one. He didn’t.
We knew the hardware didn’t open
until 8 am, so we sat at my kitchen table and looked through the day’s
newspaper for a shovel coupon. We didn’t
find one. My neighbor suggested we take
turns using the same shovel, but I said that would defeat the two-man aspect of
the task, as one of us would always be just standing there watching the other
guy dig. He was quick to volunteer to be
the guy standing and watching, but I wasn’t falling for that one.
I made us some coffee, and as we
sat waiting for 8 am, I thought I’d ask him what he was going to use the hole
for. He strangely changed the
topic. He asked me what kind of coffee
beans I used. I showed him the little
pods. “I don’t know. They come bundled up in these little
pods. I have never cut one open to see
what they look like.” He said that was
very trusting of me, and that he would never consume something, not knowing
what it was. “I know it’s coffee. It smells and tastes like coffee. If I drink it too late in the day it keeps me
awake at night, and it goes good with doughnuts. What else do I need to know?” He clammed up and we just sat there quietly,
until he asked if I had any doughnuts. I
didn’t.
***
We found the shovels on the back
wall of the hardware. He picked what he
thought to be a good one, and I suggested that he should pay for it. That way, after the hole is done, he could
keep the shovel and the next time someone asked if he had an extra shovel, he
could say yes. When we got to the
checkout, he discovered he’d left his wallet at home. I had to pay for the shovel. Then, just before leaving the store he says, “You
should buy some work gloves too. You don’t
want to get any blisters.” After
learning that he didn’t have any gloves either, I ended up buying two pair.
We were both quiet on the ride
home, until I broke the silence. “So,
what is the hole for?” As he was the one
driving, he didn’t want to take his eyes off the road, but quickly shot me a glance
and cleared his throat. I kept waiting,
but he wasn’t saying anything. Then
finally he said, “Once we start getting too deep, we’ll have to prop a ladder
against the side wall to help us get back out.”
“Are you telling me I needed to
also buy a ladder when we were back at the hardware?”
“Of course not. I have a ladder.”
“So, what’s the hole for?”
“It will all become clear after a
while.”
I didn’t like the sound of that
and started to think of ways to get out of this whole thing. “Is what we’re doing legal? We’re not burying a body, or anything like
that, are we?
He mumbled something, but I didn't understand him."
***
to be continued
There is a distinct difference between, I've got your back,
and I'm on your side, and it's not a
location preference.
Where are you, and where are you from, deals with both
location and time.
Add to either of these, an accent or different dialect, and
basic communication can develop verbal potholes.
Partial sentences or incomplete thoughts also turn into detours
or roadblocks. Misunderstandings can
flourish in this atmosphere. Foreign
road signs and north arrows won't help this recipe for disaster, even at higher
elevations.
Breathing life back into a dying conversation usually takes
skilled professionals. Emergency
personnel trained in sorting out the fake punt attempts from the short hops to
second sometimes even aren't enough.
That's why I'd like to introduce you to the fully electric
metaphor mixer. It blends, it chops and
dices verbs, nouns of any size, and without if's, ands or buts.
Order yours today.
Operators are standing by. Not nearby,
but just over there.
Not offered in any store.
Most colors available. While
supplies last. Hurry don't miss
out. Ask for it by name.
The one - the only, Meda-Mix.
90-day money back, not available in all locations. Shipping and handling will be added at
checkout. Taxes, fees and extended
warranty issues handled by small claims court.
Do not use Meda-Mix if you have a studder or cannot stand on one foot
for extended periods. Meda-Mix has not
been approved for languages containing more than 6 consonants in a single
word. Avoid connecting a GPS to any
Meda-Mix. Avoid children, just as a
general rule.
The instructor asked me to wait a minute when class was dismissed. After everyone left, he said that he liked the way I think outside the box, and that he has an assignment for me.
I didn't say anything but just waited to hear what it was.
"I want you to find a cure for gravity."
At first, I thought he was kidding, but he wasn't.
"I'm serious. If anyone can, it's you."
I looked at him for a second and then asked, "When do you need it?"
That all happened towards the end of last year.
Just last week I went into the campus library and checked out every book they had that contained the word helium. There were almost one hundred of them.
I tied them all together with bakery string, then tied the other end to my backpack, knowing that anyone with good willpower cannot break or untie bakery string. At the first sign of a slight breeze, I floated up over the administration building, across the quad, and then quickly out of sight.
I have yet to come down, so I have no clue what grade I'm
getting.
I had my coffee black this morning. It stayed hotter much longer and wasn't bad. I didn't really miss the cream.
Maybe there are other things I could change up today, shake things up a bit. Not as drastic as wearing shoes without socks. That's too far out there for me.
I just took another sip. I think it's growing on me. No, really... look at this, something's growing on my hand, where I just touched the coffee mug. What is that?
It looks like a little coffee bean plant. What the heck is happening? Now what's this... It's sprouting from my lip. My lips touched the mug and now...
What you just read was the last entry in Hector's notebook. Mrs. Ramirez has been trying to tell the police that this giant shrub in her kitchen is her husband. She seems legitimately distraught.
Police officers declined when
she offered them coffee.
There are assorted trinkets, figurines and small objects placed
about the bookcase shelves, interrupted by Grisham, Fitzgerald, and lesser-known writers
with something to say.
The cobwebs stretch across the
time I've been absent. There is no music
playing, and that in itself is noticeable.
It's like my being here is disturbing the quiet.
These shelves are an
archeological dig into my time here.
Items that were important enough at the time, now are simply interruptions.
Tied to each one is an emotion, a
distant memory of something or someone.
Not always obvious, though one in particular seems to reflect a sadness,
something best not remembered.
We have such fun
at hide and seek,
I never cheat -
I never peek.
I turn around
and count to ten,
Then when I look
he's there again.
We laugh and laugh,
his timings great -
It never fails,
he's never late.
My shadow knows
my every thought
Even toys
that I have brought,
Then when I greet
a brand new day,
I find he's left
and gone away.
But he'll be back
with me tonight,
The moment I
snap on the light.
Every time
he hears that click
He's here beside me
just that quick.
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 headfirst 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
“We should do something to help.” Wanda replied, but
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 I…
But suddenly 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 had not 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 bottom, 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 said, “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 did not 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.
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
Last night I dreamt of a great treasure that fate was sending
my way. I was, however, surrounded by people who were colored by greed
and infested with bad intentions. It felt like I was a plain and simple
fish swimming in a tank of sharks and tricksters.
I began to question if any such treasure was worth thinking
the worst of people. I didn't even have it yet and it was already effecting who I was and my sleep. Perhaps, for me, the treasure was my
ability to reject it; to hold fast to my own belief that most people are good
and decent.
The moment I came to that realization I began to feel better
about myself. No longer was I tossing and turning, trying to get back to
sleep. A great calm came over me and I felt good.
That morning, I explained to my wife and children the dream about
fate' s plan to deliver a great treasure to me and my realization that I needed
to reject it.
My wife looked at me with intense disappointment and left the
table. My two girls told me I was lame, insensitive to their needs and
was only thinking of myself. Then they too left the table.
As I sat there looking down into my cereal bowl I began to
wonder how, when floating in milk, the cereal manages to stay crunchy.
Maybe if I knew how that was possible, I also could float about in riches but
still remain steadfast to my principles.
What I needed was to seek out someone who was wise. I
was not smart enough to solve this for myself. While pushing my cereal
around with my spoon I tried to think of someone I knew who was very, very
smart.
Some twenty minutes later I noticed my cereal had sunk to the
bottom of the bowl and I was now late for work.
It wasn't me.
Years ago, there was a TV show called Treasure Hunt.
Contestants had to hunt through various boxes to find the treasure. Back
then, people found that to be entertaining.
That show must have been a favorite of Microsoft programmers, for as I attempt to find my way around Windows 10, I discover they have hidden key functions in various boxes. Even the boxes are hidden. Well-hidden.
I grow weary searching for things that in Windows 7 were
obvious. Key functions followed logical thinking, there was a natural
progression, but Windows 10 has been designed to include insane configurations. There are no intersections, only roundabouts and no signs
indicating which exit to take.
I expect the rational explanation would be attributed to my
age. I'm old. If I were 35 years younger, my education would be
less, my life experience would be less, and my cognitive inability would be more in
line with today’s programmers.
I'm just saying...
Humans were not given keen senses. There are many animals who possess a sharp
awareness of their surroundings, but humans do not operate at that level. It is with that in mind that I tell you the
following true story.
It was a hot evening in Florida. The humidity was high, and tempers were
short. Several senior ladies were
sitting out on lawn chairs, mostly complaining about how hard life was at their
age. While everyone was talking, and for
most of the past hour, Mary never joined in the conversation, but just kept
knitting. Her clicking knitting needles
had started to get on everyone’s nerves.
Louis came outside carrying a tray with a pitcher of fresh
lemonade and several glasses filled with ice.
The ladies’ chatter only stopped long enough for each to take a glass
and thank Louis. Mary just kept
knitting.
Finally, Beth said, “I don’t recognize that shape, Mary. What is it you are knitting?”
All Mary said, however, was, “It's not done yet.”
Everyone just let it drop and went on with their talking,
until Cloris couldn’t stand it anymore and jumped in with, “That is really an
unusual shape, Mary.” Hoping Mary would
then reveal what she was knitting, but that didn’t happen. She just kept knitting and said, “It's almost
finished.”
What little breeze there was didn’t amount to anything in the way of cooling things off. The sky was clear, and the moon fell brightly on the group of ladies. The rest of the community was quiet.
Without so much as a BOO, a very large alligator came
lumbering from between the houses heading towards the group of lawn chairs. The only sound was coming from its breathing,
but somehow it was just enough that it got Mary’s attention.
“Now it's done,” Mary announced to the group, and took the
edges of her knitting and with one swift movement, stood, bent forward, and
pulled the long, cylindrical masterpiece over the snout of the gator.
“It’s a muzzle.” She smiled and sat back down.
The End
