Here's what I know

 

The thing that struck me was a truck.

 

 

 

The driver pulled onto the grass and then walked over to see if I was smushed.  

 

 

 

At best, I could give a description of his shoes to the sketch artist.

 

Make Way

 

That should be enough.

Home for the Holidays

 

It has to be very important for a wild turkey to take flight.  Their preference is to walk.  I believe it is the Thanksgiving holiday that has made them so skittish.

For the most part, it is the general decline of service that keeps me from flying.  Airports have become the bottleneck of travel.  A heavy blanket of suspicion covers the entire area, as everyone is looked upon as a criminal.  Individually filmed, scanned and patted down, we are funneled through a process that removes our shoes and belts and confiscates our fingernail clippers.

We are made to carry papers to prove who we are, where we live and by the way, what is the purpose of your visit?

 

“Thanksgiving.”

Why so skittish? 

 

Vomit - more vomit and sometimes Y

 

When I hold down the backspace key my entire word document disappears one letter at a time, very quickly.  Sort of like Packman, the curser runs along the sentence and munches up each letter.

I have heard tech people say that nothing on your computer goes away forever.  It is all retrievable.

Now I’m wondering where this curser goes to throw-up all these digested letters.  Are they in a steaming pile, like compost, someplace, waiting for some low-level FBI agent to sort through it, searching for evidence?

See...        

Not all my thoughts should be written down.

 

The Tracker

 

The footprints stopped at the edge of the pond.  Did they just continue into the water?  Larry wanted us to hold our breath and swim down to the bottom to see if the prints kept going.  I got Larry's attention and pointed to the other side of the pond.  “Or we could just walk around and see if the prints come out on the other side.”  Larry agreed and so that’s what we did.

We were surprised to see two sets of prints coming out of the pond on the far side.  Larry suggested they apparently picked up someone while they were beneath the water and then the two of them came walking out.

Part of me thought Larry was an idiot, and yet I couldn’t explain the second set of footprints.  How was this possible? 

Larry kind of wandered off.  Not sure where he was going but I figured I was better on my own anyway.  Then, as I was standing there, just being quiet, the two culprits came walking back.  They were obviously surprised to see me.

Oh, did I forget to mention

that I'm a racoon?

and we can't go again

 

 

            We climb into office buildings; we climb into cars, busses and trucks.  We crawl around this life as would insects, keeping our secrets, playing with our food, ever mindful that once the ink stamp on the back of our hand fades - the ride is over.

 

 

The Plan Isn’t Working.

 

            It’s all busy work, designed to keep us occupied, keeping us from pestering each other.   Shuffle papers, file them, retrieve them, and flash their charts upon the wall and point at them. 

 

The cuffs on that suit, they are too large.  Are you a salesman?  Because if you are - you shouldn’t be wearing cuffs that draw such attention.  I find they distract.  My attention has been drawn from that chart you’re pointing at down to your cuffs.

 

            “What do you mean, I’m pestering you?”

 

 

A Fragile Balance

 

            During Tuesday night’s dinner the mechanic’s potatoes were touching up against the green beans.  This was all too much for him to deal with and harsh words pulled a blanket of quiet over the evening.

 

            A recollection of that event was written onto line twenty-four of the FAA report, following an investigation of what should have been a routine fuel line replacement.

 

 

 

Moments in Reflection

 

            I was across the street from the barbershop and the Sunlight was hitting the window at such a peculiar angle that I would have sworn there was a French Poodle sitting in the first chair.    I had to be sure of what I was seeing and without thinking, stepped out to cross the street. 

 

            Just as the wide chrome bumper of the bus caught my leg and sent me sprawling to the pavement, I noticed my cuffs.  They were too big.

 

 

 

Destined to be Neighbors

 

            There were contraptions with straps, springs and various sized handles here and there.  There were two clipboards at the end of the bed and a Morphine drip operated through a black box, which was flashing several small lights.

 

            What seemed like a constant blur of nurses poked, charted and measured throughout the night, until one of them said she had come into the room to check on me. 

 

            “I’m fine in comparison, I said, pointing to bed 28b.  I was only hit by a bus.” 

 

            During Thursday’s visitor hours, a lady entered and sat along side 28b holding an array of flowers.   Looking over at me she asked if he had woken up yet.

 

            “I don’t believe so, I replied.   Can I ask what happen?”

 

            She laid the flowers on the empty chair across from her and looked back at me.  “He’s my husband.  He survived the plane crash last week.  I knew he was due in from his trip on the afternoon flight so I was running all my errands in the morning.  I wanted everything to be perfect when he got home.  I even had the barber in town trim up Fi-fi’s hair.  He love’s his Poodle”.

 

A Change of Menu

 

            Removed from intensive care meant a new room, a new roommate and closer to being released.  The only fly in the ointment – it was a full house.   The only available bed was down in the Crackers Ward.  That’s what the nurses called the Psyche Ward whenever the Doctor’s weren’t around to hear them.

 

            Mental patients were not plentiful here but they did warrant their own area.

 

            “You’ll be fine in here for a few days.” The Orderly whispered, as they rolled me over to the bed by the far wall.  “You’re roommate has been sleeping all day, but I expect they’ll wake him for dinner”.

 

        It was like something you’d see on TV.  I awoke, kind of blurry-eyed to a circle of Doctors looking down at me.

 

            “What happened?” one of them asked.  “Do you remember?”

 

            “Only a little.” I said.  “I remember the Candy Stripers bringing in our dinner trays.  My roommate was sitting up and all seemed fine.   Then, as if someone had twisted the wrong two wires together, he started screaming that his applesauce was spreading out on his dinner plate and was about to touch his carrots.

 

            He began ripping plugs out of the wall, knocking over equipment and then something exploded, knocking me down here to the floor.

 

            That’s the last thing I remember.”

 

 

 

Guilty – with an explanation

 

 

            Welcome Mitch.  How was your transition?

 

            “Transition?”

 

            Yes Mitch.  You have left the life you once knew.  You are now here at the Pearly Gates.  I see by your chart that you were an aircraft mechanic.

 

            “Yes.”

 

            You can relax Mitch.  There are just a few things we have to cover and then you can go in.

 

            “OK.”

 

            It looks like you had a few issues you were dealing with down on Earth.  One in particular dealt with food.

 

            “Could I go back and try again?  I think I can get it right if…”

 

            Sorry Mitch, but your hand stamp is completely worn off.   That ride is over.

 

            “But I can explain.  The applesauce, it was moving on its own, heading straight for the carrots.”

 

This has been an experiment in story telling, showing only snapshots of events and letting the reader piece them together as they gather the facts.

 

I may try this again but may not put them down in sequence.  Let me know what you think.

 

 

 

 

Have a Great Week

 

 

Zobostic

Choices

 There were so many choices

of what I could do for a living...

I'm amazed I didn't think of this.

The Letter

         Hidden from view is the name and address of the intended recipient, as well as the return address. 

    Tucked inside could be almost anything.  It might be a map to hidden treasure, or the latest pictures of the grandkids.   Typed and folded into this envelope could be the news that Guido has been found and is alive and doing well.

    It is possible there are important test results in here, but unfortunately the wrong address has been written and this letter will travel much farther and a lot longer than it ever should have.

    There can be both hope as well as disappointment inside.  Maybe it is Scott's wish-list to Santa. 

    The seal that secures the envelope suggests it isn't a business but more personal.  Possibly some attempt to be fancy, or perhaps simply someone not trusting the glue that comes with the envelope.  Then again, it may have come from a time when this type of seal was common.  Placing the first letter of a family name, using fancy scrollwork was a sign of importance or status.   Then again, it could be the letter was just an excuse to play with melting wax.

Unless there's an encore

 

It isn’t painted on the sides of their bus.  It’s not in any case and it doesn’t come with a stand and there are no cords running from it across the stage.  It is nothing the band members can practice. 

Some audience members bring it with them in anticipation, while others get it once they are there. 

It is made from bits of music, the volume, the lighting and special effects, but mostly from other audience members.

It can go away as fast as it shows up or it can last for as long as your memory holds out.

It is both a feeling and an attitude.  The more popular the band the greater the excitement.  Sometimes it is uncomfortably loud, and sometimes the smoke and lights and pressure of it all make you wish it could go on forever, yet a part of you knows this one is their top, most familiar song, so it must be the grand finale.  They will stop at the end of this one.  The roar of the crowd will die down, the light show will fade out and when the smoke clears the reality of getting out of the parking lot will set in.

Now what is he doing?

 

Sometimes he just takes pictures of stuff.

        What for?

Then he writes something about it.

        Like what?

Like this magic thing can duplicate the Sun.  It can make light out of nothing at all.

        What's so magical about that?

So maybe he writes about what the light shines on, or maybe he writes about who is holding the light.  Is it a burglar or some kid exploring a cave.  Then again it could just be laying on the floor of an elevator, left there by a repairman who only thought he had fixed the problem. 

        Sounds like a bunch of gibberish if you ask me.

Well, who asked you?

by the way, this is the 100th. post
for February.

This could be a new record.

  I still think it's gibberish. 

There is a difference

 

    There are a few here that contain only lame ideas.  Many have type-o’s and spelling errors built into them.  What I am hoping for is to find the one that holds a truly good story.  A story that starts off great and slowly builds in excitement.  It will have wonderful and believable characters, people you’d like to know, and adventures that take you away from your daily problems and make you hesitant to set the book down, even if only to have some dinner. That’s the one I’m hoping to pick next.

Question:

How can a pen have a type-o?

I'm sorry, but were not taking questions at this time.

So very long Married

 

I woke up this morning

and climbed out of bed

I cut myself shaving

and off fell my head

Honey bring me a mop

and those towels you bought

I’ve cut myself shaving

and it’s worse than I thought

Call into the office

let them know I’m alive

Though I’ll be a bit late

by the time I arrive

My ears can still hear

my nose can still snore

But my vision’s a close-up

of my feet and the floor,

I just bought these towels

I'll grab rags instead,

Oh leave it to you

to cut off your head.

Ho Ho Ho

 

The tree is long gone, the batteries are dead and a change in the weather has pushed out all memories of the season.  Now is when the lines between good and naughty once again become blurred.

I'm just say'n 

My money is on the socks

 

I eventually figure out the simple things.  The thing of it is, as I’m sure you can see from this blog, my brain doesn’t have a Northern or Southern hemisphere, and its right side is all on the left.  It has never been wired for math or carpentry, and plumbing – fuhgeddaboudit.

My thought process is much like a sock that’s gotten bunched up inside a boot.  It causes me to be a little off kilter, and to see things from an angle that is partly covered in shadow, but not an interesting shadow, like in some cool black and white photograph.  No, this shadow is like the muck I accidently stepped in and is now stuck to the outside of the same boot containing the crumpled sock.

This has always been my destiny.  I have adjusted it as best I can, but the simple truth is… sometimes my thoughts run amuck.

Besides math, plumbing and seeing the world as it is, I only have one question and that is WHY?

I checked the numbers on this blog yesterday and there are over 200,000 of you, in 90 countries that view my gibberish, and I haven’t been able to figure out why.  What’s the attraction?  Is it like fishing?  You keep checking back to see what you’ll pull up next?  What has he written about today?  Is it the likelihood of tachyon particles really existing, or is it the annoyance of crumpled socks?

No one will be seated once the performance begins.

 

Just as a runner keeps a Band-Aid in their pocket, in case they get a blister on their foot, I keep a piano reed in the event I’m up on stage playing and a reed splits. 

Bothering me more than a split reed, however, is the constant hum from the overhead lights.  I’ve often been accused of humming along with the tune being played.  How can they possibly think it is me humming?  It never fluctuates, there is no tempo, no change in scale or anything else.  It’s just a flat, annoying hum of electrical current passing through harsh, unflattering lighting.

There is never any mention of it in the program they hand out before the concert.  It talks about everything else, why not this stupid hum?

Maybe I’ll get here early and just write in every program, 

IT’s Not The Piano Player!

 

Okay, maybe I better not.

 

 

 

This is the wrapper

 

I've already eaten the fortune cookie.

The fortune started off with -

We regret to inform you...

I just crumpled it up and tossed it out.

It didn't sound like it was going to be 

up hill from there.

Old Friends

 

    It is never about the author.  It is only great stories that secure a spot in the bookcase. The office becomes the campfire, the stories become the familiar faces gathered around.   The better the stories, the warmer the fire.

    Previously read adventures, like already burnt logs add to the atmosphere and together waft a mystical vision, which as it turns out, is the steam rising from damp boots.

 

Contraption

 

If you are going to build a contraption There are

nine things you'll need.

1.     A license from your local assembly board.

2.    Directional schematic of internal movements.

3.    Standard contraption supplies.

4.    A self-winding digital timer.

5.    Smoke alarm (battery operated)

6.    Vodka & Scotch tape.

7.    Background music.

8.    Adequate lighting & ventilation 

9.    At least two volunteers. (One under 150 lbs.) 

Tech Talk

 

The smaller and more compact cell phones become the more our words must be compressed in order to fit inside them.  Back when telephones were attached to kitchen walls and had long cords hanging from them, words and sentences were electronically elongated so they could slide through the cord.

As technology has advanced, so have the methods of verbal compression.  It is during the compression phase when a series of computer chips manipulate and sort the various languages, so no matter what language is spoken into the device, that same language comes out at the other end.

AI uses similar methods within the Alexa system.  It has been designed that no matter which language you speak, that is the language you will hear Alexa using.  Several different nationalities within the same room will all hear Alexa in their own language and no one will be the wiser.

From the World of Science

 

    It’s been said that shadows move at the speed of dark.  Studies at the University of Arizona have shown that when light vacates a room there is a momentary transition prior to dark completely enveloping the area.  The human eye cannot adjust quickly enough to see this transitional period.

    The laws of physics indicate that the speed of light is such, that it’s departure creates a particle vacuum that instantly draws the dark particles into the void, thus assisting whatever dark movement is self-generated.

The Gallery

 

It was in the last room, at the
very end of the hall, to the right
of the emergency exit door.

It was entitled: A Fog in Bloomington

This makes the fifth time I have returned
to look at it.  I just wish I could afford it.

Socks and Bonds

 

There are certain things I expect to find when digging a hole.  Dirt tops the list, followed by rocks, tree roots, worms and stress.  The stress shows up when digging a financial hole.  The worms show up whenever you haven’t paid back the money you owe.  They are the people who make their living from pestering you for the payments and calling them worms is being kind.  Some resort to harassment and threats, causing even more stress.

The other side of the coin are those people who dig holes for the purpose of hiding their money.  Untrusting banks and fearful of hackers, they gather their assets around them, standing guard, weary of every shadow, and every strange noise.  Again, more stress.

Some of the most put-together people I’ve met have been broke and homeless.  They are relaxed and usually focused on only one thing, their next meal.  They still have a certain amount of stress in their lives, but it resides somewhere deep inside of their very worn shoes, maybe down by their toes.

 

 

 

 

Number Two - all the way

 

I, in my declining years

having seen my life go by

shall keep with me a pencil

and write until I die

I doubt they’ll be a keyboard

though stories I’ll still share

I keep them all around me

and pull them from thin air.

A number two won’t fail me

I’ve never seen one crash

when I run out of commas

I’ll simply put a dash.

Scribbled in a notebook

stretched just out of reach

to me a perfect sentence

is a day spent at the beach.

I know I’ll still have stories

right up to last call –

I hope when I am put away

there’s a sharpener on the wall.

                                          zc

My Canvas

 

    I draw from my ink well various adjectives, nouns and verbs and scatter them about this page.  As you see them now, is exactly how they landed.

 

    Between the spaces of white ink and brown paper is the image that previously lived within the well. It could possibly appear different to each person, but the flavor is sure to stir common memories.

 

    It is neither landscape nor portrait.  It is not the city, or the country.  This image is free of walls that would require windows.  You have brought with you the only door needed.  Passing through it may alter your facial expression, albeit momentarily.  By that, I’m suggesting you may smile upon seeing it for the first time.

 

    I have, in fact, seen strangers smile, and I can tell it is this image they have thought of, for it is a very familiar smile.

 

    I have used very narrow brushes in its construction and have removed any splatters of excess ink to avoid confusion and possible shadows.   Exactly what remains on this page is the complete image.

 

 

                                                               Zobostic Corwin

 

 

Not Sure Why

 

A white horse with wings.  Surely an odd choice for a Logo.

 

Mr. Clean.  A goofy looking bald man.  Nothing whatsoever to do with cleaning.

 

Mr. Peanut.  Walks with a cane and has bad vision.

 

A stubborn mule and a smelly elephant represents the two parties of government.

 

A jumping deer, a logo for farm tractors that operates where there are no trees and no deer.

 

An apple with a bite out of it represents electronic gadgets that have nothing to do with fruit.

 

Gecko, no correlation to insurance.

 

Arby's has a hat for a logo.

 

Frito Bandito, makes reference to a thief.

 

Aflac has a duck, not sure why.

 

Tidy bowl, a guy in a rowboat.

 

Elk represents both Butter and insurance.

 

Lacoste shows a crocodile.

 

A clamshell represents gasoline.

 

Cheetos and cornflakes have tigers.

 

A guy with wings on his hat represents flowers.

 

A dog is a logo for a bus company.

I'm so confused...

 

Am I going to need a lawyer?

 

It was the water droplets on the leaves that made the trees look as if they were loaded with diamonds.

Then the loud screeching of the train coming to a stop drew my attention from the leaves, and the mixture of steam and smoke reminded me that being a passenger on a train was not all that exciting.  I didn’t like being jostled and the seats were not all that comfortable.

I stood out of the way, watching as the passengers got off the train.  I didn’t know what he looked like, so I held up my sign that read, Zobostic Corwin.  Hopefully he would see it.  All I knew about him was that he wrote a blog, and something that he had written had caught the attention of the Feds.  I was to pick him up and escort him into our office for questioning.  That’s all my boss would say.

On the ride in he tossed a few questions my way.  I explained I was not in the loop.  "My only instructions were to get you to the office."  Neither of us spoke for some time and then he said, “It could be that I violated that i before e rule, or it is altogether possible I left a participle dangling and someone tripped over it.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that." I said.

 

    "It's too many commas, isn't it?"