Some day

 

    Some day I want to write a story that is just like a Rubik’s cube.  Every word would be interchangeable with another.  Alter a sentence and suddenly the, who done it, changes. Flip around a few paragraphs and just that quickly it becomes a love story, or some wild tale of adventure.

      Of course, there’d have to be electronic bookmarks reminding you, not only where you left off, but who was who and what they were up to.

        The text itself would be illuminated.  No more need for a booklight, or table lamp.  Squeeze the bottom right corner of the page and it becomes an audio book.  Just close your eyes and listen.

        The index gives several options of voices and languages.  For a few dollars more, they’ll be an automatic page turning feature, synchronized to your specific reading speed.  Not yet available is the anti-gravity package, allowing the book to simply stay wherever you release it.  No longer will there be a need to hold it.

    Some day.

He was a Turtle

 

 

        He was old and lived in this lake all his years.  He was familiar with the rocks, the bottom and the sandy areas.  He knew where the tasty reeds were and where his children and grandchildren played. 

        The years had caused him to slow down.  He was always tired and seldom missed an opportunity to climb upon the downed tree.  He loved the warmth of the sun and often just fell asleep while listening to the birds singing.

        His wife, of so many years, was never far from his side.  Lately, she’d been concerned that he’d been running out of gas so often.  She just knew something wasn’t right.  Even his little turtle jokes had lost their spark.  He didn’t seem to laugh much anymore.   His left front flipper had been bothering him, even though he never complained, she could tell.

        Last Saturday, when a shaft of sunlight had awakened her, she said to herself, this s a sign.  She swam over to her husband and told him he had no choice anymore; he was going in for a checkup.  I’ve made an appointment for you at the Shell station on the corner.

    

 

The Beetle and the Red Umbrella

 

    With no rain predicted, the beetle took shelter beneath the red umbrella.  I noticed him right away, so I asked him why he was so concerned with rain that had not been predicted. 

 

        “I can feel it.” He said. 

"Are you always right?"

        “Mostly.”

"Well, I can see the clouds from here and those do not look like rain clouds."

        “Word spreads fast through the grass, and the word is that a storm on the other side of the mountain is heading this way.”

    "Should I be worried?"

    “Why should you be worried, you’re the one with the umbrella.”

        As we talked, he made his way along one of the spokes to the outside corner.

    "I see what you mean.  Those clouds look harmless.  I don't suppose you could get me a drink of water."

I couldn't believe he wanted me to get him some water.  "Look, I said, just get yourself on the top side of the umbrella and you'll have all the water you want."

    "Looks like you might be right, I see the clouds are moving in."

    "You'll have to excuse me.  I'm heading inside."

    "Me too.  I'm tucking myself into this corner."

    

 

 

 

On this Blog

 

If you read one post a day -

by the time you finished

it would be

Monday, October 28, 2030

Now I'm not so sure

 

We have this park bench at the edge of the lake.  Occasionally, I just sit and quietly watch life going on.  There are fish I can see from the bench, turtles lined up along a log getting some warm sunshine, and a good array of birds.  Some of the birds’ dive and catch the smaller fish.  Some sit on branches, wings outstretched, drying their feathers after their swim.

Every now and then I wonder what it is that sits and watches me.  It isn’t all the time that I feel like I’m being watched.  In fact, I can usually tell when there are eyes on me, but not always.   I’m not really paranoid, it is just me sitting on this bench, wondering about it. 

I know the turtles know when I move about.  The slightest sound and they scoot for safety into the depths of the lake.  The birds near me also are quick to fly off if I stand or if my phone rings.   They seem to startle easily.  I seriously doubt the fish bother to look up through the water at me.  Not sure what I’d even look like to them.

Off to the left of the bench, running along the edge of the lake are thick woods.  I know for a fact there are coyote eyes sometimes watching me.  There are deer, skunks and wild hogs.  Probably some things I’m better off not knowing.  I’m not too concerned with rabbits.  They come out in the open and just ignore me.  They need to worry about the hawks. 

I think what is watching me is my younger self.  Back when I sat at my desk in the office, shuffling accounts, and reports, I was mentally seeing myself already sitting on this bench.  Some might say daydreaming, but I think I may have actually been seeing me sitting here.  Who knows, maybe that’s what daydreaming is, a glimpse into the future.  A private showing, a sneak previews of coming attractions.

Then again, something to my left just snorted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It says here...

 

I should be running my spells

through spell check.

Only then

 

    There isn’t a dress code and no association.  A simple code of decency and honor governs the land.  There are no armies or police force, and the absence of greed has dissolved any remaining fragments of government.

     Everyone smiles, is nice and polite.  All mean people have been escorted off the planet.  All factories that consume resources or pollute have been closed.  Advertising has been completely abolished.  It is only when I hear the Post Office has reduced the cost of stamps that I realize I’m dreaming, and I wake up.

 

Holding it all together

 

    When I see it from a great distance, it appears as a winding river, yet it is not the color of water.

 

    A little closer look and it comes off as a road, working its way through a neighborhood, although there are no houses.

 

    Adjusting the focus leads me to believe it is nothing more than a hairline crack, a flaw in need of attention.

 

    Slipping into the molecular level I find it to be a shadow of an idea I once had as a child.  It seems to be dissipating as I watch it.

 

    If I squint, I see it as a thin line of stars, each one a light year apart, stretching out beyond the Milky Way.   Perhaps it is a crack in the solar system, in need of Astro adhesive, by 3M. 

 

 

 

Take away

 

I enjoy dining out

all my friends make it real,

Your restaurant’s trendy

it has a young feel.

The menu’s extensive

something for all –

You’ll save us a table

as long as we call –

The volume of music

still allows us to talk,

While the big screen TV’s

show sports round the clock.

I gave you one star, because

here’s the thing –

Hogs and not waitresses

should wear a nose ring.

 

 

 

The Third Rail

 

I understand the third rail holds all the power.  Avoiding it should be a high priority on everyone’s list.  I thought about this as I was waking up this morning and saw my cane leaning against the wall.  That, for the most part, is my third rail.  Should any event happen involving that cane, my power goes away.  My life jumps the tracks.

Some philosophies suggest a balance in all things.  That odd, shaped rail is my balance.  It controls the horizontal, the vertical and adjusts the wobble in either direction.  It is the stabilizer that keeps me on course.  No GPS required.  I can travel in any direction as long as the wobble is held in check.

It’s a stick, people.  A simple stick controls this complex human being.  A piece of wood.  It is the book of matches under the short table leg, keeping the red wine from spilling onto the white tablecloth.  Both the cane and the matches are blended into the definition of precarious.   To me, that is as far from balance as you can get.  It will always be the unseen tension, the barely noticeable static in the background, best said by the Beatles, “Living is easy with eyes closed.”

 

 

 

Brake shoe ?

 

maybe

It's something we eat.

 

 

While sitting in the driveway, getting some Sun, I began to wonder what it would be like if all the various birds I was seeing would suddenly come over and join me.  They would all be standing around my chair and for whatever reason, we could understand each other when we spoke.

I thought about the various people I encounter during church service every week, each with their own peculiarities, quirks and personalities.  I expect the bird population to be no different.  Some might be friendly, others a little stand-offish, sprinkled with one or two know-it-alls, some maybe a tad arrogant, and maybe one or two just a little ditsy.

I can imagine an old Crow, having been around the block, so-to-speak, still living in the past.  Recalling the good old days, when corn was free for the picking, and smokestacks were far and few between.   A bird could breathe easy back then.

When I considered all the personality types, and experience levels, I realized there’d be no way I could carry on an intelligent conversation with them.  We’d never have a common frame of reference, and they’d never understand any reference to Birdseye frozen peas.

 

 

It seems to work

 

My grandfather got drunk

and fell face-first into a bowl of

Rogaine.

Cliff hanger

 

I was stuck.  I couldn’t reach the next edge to pull myself any higher, and I wasn’t sure how much longer the edge of my boot would stay on that tiny lip of boulder below me.   Mark was giving me words of encouragement from the next higher plateau but also kept suggesting I hurry, as the storm was moving in quickly. 

I tried to not focus on how much my muscles were aching, but they seemed to be keeping my attention.  Suddenly Mark cried out.  I yelled up to see what the problem was but got no response.   I called him again, and still no answer.  Whatever had happened had now left me alone, stuck on the side of this cliff.

Now the primary thought in my head was just what was waiting to greet me at the top?  Was there something up there that had hurt or killed my friend?  The only way I could possibly climb back down would be to release the safety line presently clipped to my harness.  I had no clue if it was still affixed to Mark or if someone else was now pulling it tight.  The only thing I knew for sure was that I couldn’t stay in this position any longer.

 

 

 I'll be right back.  I need a new ribbon. 

Clothing Tag

 

This tag was attached to a shirt.

The back of the tag shows
the back of the shirt.

Is it me, or is this the dumbest thing
you've seen all day?

The Miller Academy

 

And now

the end is near,

and I must face

the student body -

They kicked

me out of here

reports that I

was truly naughty,

I drank my share of beers

and not at all

in a shy way -

They said

the choice is yours,

to hit the highway.

My grades

they were askew

I failed each test

there is no question,

the beer, I did ingest

was warm and cheap

gave indigestion.

I belched in study hall

and might I say

not in a shy way -

Oh yes, I made a choice

I chose the highway.

 

                   Frank Sinatra 

 

The Farmhouse

 The wind played an eerie tune

and forced the shadows

to dance uncontrollably.

The rain wouldn't be far behind.

Those gathered in the den

we're uncomfortably quiet,

until the upstairs floor

began to squeak, as if

someone was walking around

up there.

The feeling was -

anything could happen,

and was about to.

Shoe designer moves to the Beach

 

Philippe Fillop

buys Hotel Del Coronado
(and plans to relax dress code)

 

  

Borrowed from Hogwarts

 

this rhyme

 Wolves and cigarettes come in packs.

Thunder always comes in claps.

Ice cream comes on top of cones, 

while packages can  fly with drones.

Coffee comes in little pods, 

while winks sometimes they come with nods.

A corpse can leave in Ziplock bag, 

toes are sometimes draped with tags,

They mark when you are out of time,  

with no ink left to end 

Sorry - but this blog isn't my favorite

 

An unwelcomed visitor

 

There is a fine and sturdy dog that keeps me company and has for years.  Just by looking at him, I know he is of nobility.  There is knowing in his eyes that is immediately apparent.  Smarter than people give a dog credit for being, and often I am concerned how much he relies on me to be the one making the proper decisions.

I always said, before anyone should have a pet, they must be smarter then the pet.  Now that philosophy is coming back to bite me.   Had I known when I got him just how smart he was, I would have given him a more appropriate name, something fitting his personality.  Unfortunately, I didn’t.  I named him Boxcar.

It is a name he knows to be his, and he will forever be Boxcar.  It is far too late to change it now.  It first came about when I noticed him jumping down from an open boxcar, on a train that had stopped at the intersection.  He didn’t seem to belong to anyone, and just came trotting down my street as if he knew right where he was headed.  As he got to my house, he came up the walk and stepped up onto the porch.  I was sitting in the wicker chair, and he simply curled up next to me and went to sleep.  It was like he knew this was where he should be. 

The more I got to know him and the longer we were together, the greater my fear grew that one day he would just trot off down the street and be gone from my life.  Maybe I had put more into this relationship than was normal, but it was how I felt.

He never bothered anyone who came over to visit me.  He would wag his tail a little but never really showed much interest.  That was until I was paid a visit by Mr. Stiles.  I don’t even remember what he was selling, but Boxcar got a low growl started and the more our visitor came into the room, the more Boxcar let his feelings be known.  Knowing this wasn’t his normal behavior, I told Mr. Stiles he should probably leave.  He didn’t argue, as Boxcar was now standing and not looking at all friendly.

To this day, I’m not sure if Boxcar didn’t like toupees or bowties, or if our visitor was simply sinister, but Boxcar was having none of it.

 

*******

     Even the Rabbit Knew

 

Just two days ago, when Boxcar and I went for our usual walk, I saw something I never would have believed had I not seen it for myself.  I should mention here that Boxcar doesn’t wear a collar and I never put him on a leash.  He just isn’t the kind to run off, chase cars or bother other dogs.  He simply walks along side of me, going where I go, at a pace I like to walk.

When we reached the park, I took a break on one of the benches and gave Boxcar a drink of water from the bottle of water I carry.  He didn’t drink much but preferred to just lay next to the bench.  As I sat there watching other walkers and kids on bicycles, a rabbit came out from under the bush.  I noticed it about the same time as Boxcar.  I didn’t move.  I didn’t want to startle it but was curious to see what Boxcar would do.  I hoped he wouldn’t see it as lunch.

Boxcar twitched an ear but otherwise just laid quiet.  The rabbit, however, came right up to Boxcar’s nose and I could swear they touched noses.   How on earth was this possible?  How could this rabbit know that the large dog before him was gentle, in fact harmless?

Also watching this strange event was a lady and her dog, from over on the walking path.  Her little dog was barking like crazy and tugging to get free of his leash.  The lady, like me, couldn’t believe what she was seeing.  She looked like she wanted to come closer but there was no way she would be able to control her dog.  She tugged on his leash and headed down along the path, occasionally looking back at us.

I should probably be writing these things down.

An Odd Encounter 

 

        Saturday morning, I am sitting in my wicker chair on the front porch, with Boxcar curled up next to me. We are just watching the neighborhood wake up.  A few are getting into their cars and driving off, while others are walking down their driveway to pick up their newspaper.

        Keep in mind, this is not the woods. I live in a simple, little house, not in town but I can see the intersection and train tracks from my porch. Anyway, what I was not expecting was a full-grown hawk to swoop down and land on my porch railing.

        At first, I thought maybe it was going to help itself to some of the food in Boxcar’s bowl, or maybe drink from his water dish, but then I realized that couldn’t be the case.  Hawks eat live things, not dry, crunchy nuggets. I just sat still and waited to see what it was going to do.  Boxcar didn’t at all seem interested, although I’m sure he heard it land on the railing.

        I was wishing I had my camera but knew if I stood up to go and get it, the thing would fly off.  I also knew that Boxcar was way too large for that hawk to attack, besides, it appeared content to just sit there looking around.  Every now and then it would wipe the sides of its beak on the wood rail, like it was cleaning it or something.

    So far, none of my neighbors had noticed it sitting here.   Finally, it lifted off and positioned itself on a branch just next to the railing it had been on.  I figured if it could move around then so could I.  I went into the house and got my camera.  Here is what was so interested in us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Stay tuned for the next exciting adventure.

 

 

We are the Pelicans

 

    The beach is more crowded than it has ever been.  We spend our time in a long line, gliding over the asphalt, our wings almost touching, searching for that tasty parking spot.   Waiting and watching, avoiding that Stingray, ignoring that old, lumbering Barracuda.  Around and around, until we finally spot one.  Then, from a great distance, we plunge face-first into the cold vacancy.  Smiling, our hunger satisfied, we rest our wings and quietly bob with the waves.  The sound of someone’s boombox crashes over the rhythm of the ocean while a sharp scent of salty sunblock drifts past.  It is no day at  the beach.

 

Public Service Announcement

 

In case you were wondering.

Cancer didn't get him.

 

Believe it or not. his mustache caught fire

then quickly spread to his nose hairs.

I hate to see things like this

 

Keeping a rope like this isn't very nice.

Ropes are made to be pulled on and swung from.

They need to be free, so they can tie boats to

the dock, or horses to a post.  They should be tied

and untied a thousand times.  A good rope should

be dirty and frayed, maybe even cut in half

then tied back together again.

Not kept in some jar to be looked at.

I'm sorry, but this just makes me so mad. 

Quiet Please

 

It isn't mandatory that cemeteries are quiet, but it is rather a product of fear.  Nobody wants to be noticed when walking past.  Even the postman avoids wearing squeaking shoes as he cuts across to the next street.  If we can pass unnoticed, then we're safe from being next to join the gathering.  No one talks about it, but everyone fears the unknown.  It's human nature.

Accidently dropping a book onto a tile floor, while in the library, sends an uncomfortable shockwave throughout the building.  It is the feeling of that shockwave that, in a cemetery, gets magnified whenever someone uses their outside voice. 

There exists an odd correlation between an undertaker and a librarian.  An unwritten volume adjustment has been a key part of their education.  Their indoor voice becomes their final exam. 

 

 

Not a loafer

 

It wasn't school that taught me about life.  I learned by paying attention to which direction my shoes were pointing.  My heels showed my history, but my toes noticed whenever I was coming up to an edge, a drop-off or if I needed to make a change in direction.

I heard a song about fixing a hole where the rain gets in.  That wasn't what stopped my mind from wandering, but what set me to thinking about the type of person who can sing, when the rain was getting in.

That was the direction I wanted my shoes pointing.  For me, textbooks were the cracks that ran through my door, and kept my mind from wandering where it should go.  School was simply a business.  They were there to make money.  It didn’t matter to them if we learned or not.  My shoes and I were on our own.  No student loans required. 

 

A reasonable expectation of privacy

 

While waiting for the bus at 4^th & Washington, I counted nine cameras pointed in my direction.  What on earth could be so interesting about me?  The more I thought about it, the more I realized there wasn’t anything I did that was worth watching.  There were cameras on light poles, attached to buildings, and over the intersection.

Then I thought, maybe it was the bus driver they were concerned about.  He shows up here at the same time every day, maybe he’s doing something he shouldn’t.  I tried to think what it could possibly be.  It is possible he isn’t requiring exact change from his customers.  Then again, he could be allowing people to stand beyond the white line while the bus is still in motion.  But it would be extremely hard for those cameras to see the feet of people on the bus.

It could be that the driver waits until someone running to catch the bus almost gets there, then he takes off, but just a little.  Then the person starts running again, but the driver does it again.  He takes off, pretending to leave, but then stops.  That is very frustrating, I know.  My friend would do that to me in his car.  I’d just be reaching for the door handle, and he’d zoom forward, just a little.

Suddenly a puff of exhaust was choaking me up.  I looked up to see my bus pulling away.  I couldn't believe this has happened to me again.  While standing there daydreaming, I had missed my bus.  That’s when I knew, it was in fact me the cameras were watching.  They were looking for idiots.  I was somebody's entertainment. 

 

Services to be held Fryday

 

The Fast-Food Artist

who painted with words

showing cows eating buns

and French fries in herds -

Died yesterday, outside of camp

is now laid to rest, under a lamp.

Mourners lined up, in shock and disbelief

carrying with them small packets of grief.

Ahead of them all, his childhood pal

Karen, his wife, a super-sized gal.

The price of his artwork, expected to rise

and with every purchase, an order of fries.

Ice in his Pepsi, caused him to choke,

he may still be alive, if instead had a Coke.

Current Events

 

 

This end should have been sticking into the wall.  It wasn’t.  Somehow the music was still playing.  We all heard it, and each of us could see the plug lying on the floor.

Maybe the song selection had some effect on the speed of the electricity traveling through the cord.  It’s altogether possible that music with a faster pace would have ended the exact same time as when the plug came out of the wall.  This, however, was a very slow song.  It sounded rather lazy, with the melody just sort of meandering along, so whatever electrical current remained in the power cord felt no sense of urgency, so even though the connection was severed, the slow traveling juice was enough to…

 

Never mind.  Even I don’t believe that one.