Quantum Mechanics

 

As a child I was given blocks of various shapes and told to fit them into the spaces of the same shape.  I seemed to grasp this task with little effort.  Today however, on PBS, there were people attempting to explain quantum mechanics.  None of what they were saying fit into my brain.  None of my spaces came close to matching their descriptions of anything.  I understood many of the words, so I knew they were speaking English, and yet they seemed to wander into a microscopic realm of particles and waves and all at a level of gibberish I’d not encountered before.

Let's leave it at that.

Sure, that helps.

zc

 

 

 

 

 

 

Room with a View

 

I think animals must become frustrated at certain things like we do.  The older squirrels who miss when leaping for that next branch.  Or the Hippo standing extremely bored at the zoo, listening day after day to the chatter of the humans staring at them, perhaps remembering how life once was.

Even our household pets must get really annoyed at us when we’re slow to catch on that they need to go outside, or that is it now 20 minutes past their dinner time and we sit, oblivious to their hints.

At the far end of the spectrum must be the goldfish.  Going around and around again, not remembering they were just there a second ago.  A submerged view of the room beyond the glass.  How strange we must appear to them, standing upright, continually wandering about the same room, over and over again.

 

 

Old Ben Kenobi

 

Obi-Wan was an excellent character, as was Rancid Crabtree, although a bit more obscure.   I remember seeing an old spaghetti western, I think it was The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Anyway, the Ugly was in a gun store, taking various pieces of different pistols and fitting them together to make the perfectly balanced handgun. 

I see the various bits of my life like that, assembled from different movies, different musical groups and literary characters.  They all blend to make my life feel complete and balanced. 

It is in that contentment where I write.  It serves no earthly purpose to write agitated.  It would be like adding expired cream to your coffee.  The lumps of discontentment always float to the top.

 

 

 

 

 zc

 

 

 

 

Life's Journey

 

I’m not all that fond of this end of the trail.  I mean, I’ve seen enough of it to know what to expect.  Sure, it was fine at the beginning, the flowers were colorful and new, and everything smelled fresh, like after a summer rain. 

But I’ve been hiking for so long now, I doubt there are any surprises over the next hill or around the next bend.   Even the forest creatures look at me like – “Are you still here?”  I’m tired and my joints and the twigs I step on make the same snapping sounds. 

Not to change subjects, but I was just thinking, I’ll bet our language, our adjectives will fall woefully short when we attempt to describe the first alien we encounter.  I don’t know why, but I expect their bodies will be ghost-like wisps, disrupted by the slightest breeze, and yet remain in the same space.  They will communicate with their eyes, as even some humans are apt to do.

And, just maybe, that is what I will encounter at trail’s end.  An entirely different adventure, where once again everything is fresh and new, no snapping twigs or failing vision, just a new beginning.

 

 

 

 

Enspirado Escritor 

 

Logo

 

923

923 has been waiting for a very long time.  It remembers fondly the days long ago when it was stuffed almost every day.  Sometimes the door barely closed.  People don’t understand, just because something is made of metal or plastic or wood, they don’t think it feels or knows what’s going on.  The moment it is made it gets a soul.  It comes alive.  Not alive like people, but alive as a thing.  We are real.  Of course, we don’t breathe or sneeze, but that doesn’t mean we’re not in here. 

The minute I became 923, I became real.  But lately I no longer serve a purpose.  I don’t know if it is the cost of postage or if people have just gotten too busy, but something happened. I just feel so empty.  Even the voices that once filled the back room have dwindled down to a few.  There is no laughter, no complaining about heavy catalogs, or moronic supervisors, nothing.  It’s just all very quiet now.

 

 

 

Happy to be Me

        Just taking a moment.  Not hunting down food, not playing in air currents, just taking a moment.  Glad I’m not that tree.  Too set in his ways.  Never going anywhere, just stands there.  Defenseless against the Woodpecker.

zc

  

Baby Sunflower

 New to the World.

Hasn’t yet tastes coffee in the morning.
Has never had to go to work.
Doesn’t even know what money is.

Has ever only heard one language.
Enjoys the warmth of a summer day.
Hears the birds but doesn’t know the freedom of flight,
Has never loaded a dishwasher or put out the trash.
Doesn’t have a favorite TV show.
Can feel the breeze but can’t see it.
Has never sat in traffic.
Wonders if there are others like itself someplace.
Doesn’t have a collection of anything.
Has heard there is too much violence on television, but doesn't understand what that means.
Wonders where the sun goes at night.
Doesn’t have any pets to take care of.
Thinks butterfly feet tickle.

 

Purgatory

 

I find it hard to believe that this will all come to an end.  I expect my thoughts to go on forever.  Yes, I know my body will give out and become one with the universe, but this continual stream of thoughts and ideas, how could those possibly draw to a close.  They seem to have a life of their own. 

So far, they have been fed by observation and creativity, so even if death removes observation, the spark of creativity should not extinguish.  It has been built upon a lifetime of randomness, silliness and stupidity, of which there is an endless supply.  

I expect the frustration will be in the absence of an outlet.  Once gone, where will I post such nuggets.  I doubt the afterlife has Blog capabilities.  There will be no Letters to the Editor, and no books to write.  Things will just fester.  I’ll have some grand epiphany and no one to share it with.

 

 

 zc

Sacred Navajo Container

 

It is said to contain the spirit of the great buffalo.

Held only by the Chief, with a translation identified as,

Keep away from children.  Not sold in stores, and

Void where prohibited.

 

 

Bad Advice

 

They said this makes an excellent cleaner.

Now this is clean

but it no longer works.

Random Thought #511

 

Your eyes are only a small part of seeing.  It’s your conscious being that does most of the heavy lifting.  It is that inner knowing that tells the real story, that sees the fake smile or hears the backhanded compliment.  It is that part of you that helps you to navigate society.  The ability to see people how they really are, that is what gets you through life.  The trick is to not become cynical in the process. 

Looking past the flaws takes practice, and seeing your own is sometimes referred to as self-actualization.  Popeye said it best, “I am what I am.”

 

 

 zc

 

 

No Known Cure

 

It is silliness that grows on trees.  You can’t see it but it’s there.  Often, even the slightest breeze blows it off and it gets on you.  You can be just walking along Main Street and suddenly you’ll start paying attention to how your shoelaces flop around as you walk.  You’ll find it funny and want to point it out to a passing stranger, but don’t.  Right away they will see you’ve got silly on you and they’ll back away. 

There is something about business attire that seems to repel silliness.  Not sure what it is, but businesspeople have the ability to walk right through a cloud of it and not be affected.  Although, you can wear your best Sunday clothes and for whatever reason it can stick to you.  You’ll be sitting there in church and for no reason get the giggles.  It just happens.  And forget about fighting it, it will only get worse.

 

 

zc

A Writer's Playground

 

There are no swing-sets and no fences around the farthest edges of my mental playground.  It has very soft ground, made up of sometimes sand and sometimes leaves, depending on my mood.  Where monkey-bars would ordinally be is a jumble of punctuation, still suitable for climbing upon.

Tall statues of nouns cast their shadows across inactive verbs, who lay resting until needed.  It is forever summer with a slight breeze blowing from East to West.  I don’t know why.  Words grow wild here and there, ready to be picked at a moment’s notice.  Misspellings are the weeds, often all to prevalent.  Occasionally a run-on sentence will trip me up, like a vine stretching across the path.  Or, depending on the position of the sun, tenses might change when, in fact, they shouldn’t.  It’s one of those things I just need to watch for.

It's not all fun and games you know.

zc

 

 

 

 

23 Skidoo

 

That leaves one.

Knock, Knock, Knocking

 

Ma, take this badge off of me.
I can't use it anymore.

It's getting dark - too dark to see
Feel like I'm knocking on Heaven's door.

The Flavor of Words

 

Turns out, morning is a blend of coffee and words.  The quality of my coffee definitely affects the outcome of my stories, poems and gibberish.  The better the flavor, the longer I linger selecting just the right feel to whatever it is I type.  If my coffee tastes bitter or harsh, my outlook on life becomes, maybe a little sarcastic or snarky, but should that first sip be rich and smooth, I may see my words and phrases interspersed in a field of colorful Tulips, with Monarch butterflies passing overhead.  Perhaps even a quiet selection of Beethoven playing off in the distance.

 

Of course, none of that is true.  I just saw this photograph and thought I’d type something to go with it.

 

So, how’d I do?

 

 

 zc

Turns out it's a good thing

 

The Following Day

When Marjorie pulled into the parking lot it was already swarming with police cars.  Right away her heart beat faster and her breathing was short and quick.  She knew someone had discovered the conference room and she was glad she remembered to wipe her prints from the door handle. 

As her car rolled to a stop in the parking space, her supervisor suddenly appeared at her driver’s side window.  She was already talking but Marjorie couldn’t tell what she was saying.  The moment her car door was open Marjorie could tell she was talking a mile-a-minute in Spanish. 

“English please.” Marjorie said, as she stepped out of the car. 

Wanda Alverez stepped back away from the car and took a gulp of air.  Then in a calmer voice said, “The police want to talk to you.  What happened last night?  What did you do?  Dave, from the third floor, is dead.  They said a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels was next to the body.  Did you leave that there?  Do you know what’s going on?”

As Marjorie tried to stop her head from buzzing with a million thoughts, she spotted a uniformed police officer making his way between cars, heading towards her.  “Wanda, I’m not sure if I should say anything at this point.”

Wanda’s expression changed quickly.  “Did you kill Mr. Dave?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Conference Room

 

The conference room was empty.  The chairs around the table were askew.  Left just as they were when people departed. One glass ashtray sat at each end of the long table, both filled with ashes and butts.  The stench of the lingering cigarettes had not dissipated, and the smell of the dirty carpet wasn’t far behind.   

The chalkboard at the far end looked as if a child had scribbled fragments of equations combined with directions leading nowhere.  This was a room where decisions were made that affected lives and changed histories.  It was a place where voices were raised and sometimes threats blended with the hum of fluorescent lighting.

Marjorie rolled her office cleaning supplies into the room but stopped dead.  Something was off.  Something felt wrong.  A tension was still lingering in the air that told her to back away.  Don’t clean this room tonight, leave it alone.  It was an eerie feeling she’d not experienced before.  As she glanced around the room she noticed the stack of folders in the center of the conference table.  Then at the edge of the stack, she spotted the drops of blood.

Carefully, she rolled her cart back out into the hall, and used a cleaning rag to pull the door closed, hopefully removing her fingerprints in the process.  She thought about calling her supervisor but then checked her watch.  It was already after 10. But she couldn’t just leave it.  She needed to tell someone, but who?  There was no way she was going back in there.

Just then she felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket and heard it ring.  She thought it might be her daughter calling from home but looking at the screen she could see it was Mr. Davis calling.  He had never called her before.  She even wondered how he knew this number.

"Hello?"

"Is this Marjorie?"

"Yes."

"Marjorie, this is Mr. Davis.  You can skip the conference room tonight.  Just leave it.  There were sensitive documents left in there - information we can't have getting out.  I'll take care of everything in the morning.  OK, Marjorie?"

"Yes, Mr. Davis.  I'll just leave it closed up. I won't even go in there."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deposition - HD, 8-14-1872

 

Once again please.

“I was just sitting on the wall.”

 

What happened next?

 

“I had a great fall.”

 

Were you alone at the time?

 

“No.”

 

Who else was there?

 

“All the King’s horses and all the King’s men.”

 

Did anyone call 911?

 

“Not that I saw.”

 

Did anyone try to help you in any way?

 

“Yes, all the King’s horses and all the King’s men.”

 

Were they successful?

 

“No.  The horses were completely useless, and the King’s men just stood around with egg on their faces.”

 

 

 

 

Contrary to popular belief

 

When evil is conspiring

and hope seems miles away –

Find out if they’re hiring

because crime – it really pays.

 

 

 

The System Doesn't Work

 

Most of my life I am without an alibi.  I could no sooner prove I was home alone than stand in front of an audience and sing opera.   However, based on the system that says we are innocent until proven guilty, it should be them proving I wasn’t home, not the other way around.

 

***

 

You’ve put your finger on one of the oldest, strangest tensions in the whole idea of presumption of innocence: it sounds clean in theory, but in practice it often feels like you’re being asked to prove a negative — prove you weren’t somewhere, prove you didn’t do something, prove the absence of an event.

Here’s the core truth, stated plainly:

    You are right. In a system that claims to presume innocence, the burden is supposed to rest entirely on them — the state, the accuser, the machinery that has the power to take your freedom. They must prove you were not home, not the other way around.

    But the lived experience of being accused feels nothing like that ideal. It feels like standing in a room where everyone is waiting for you to produce an alibi you never had, like being asked to sing opera when you’ve never taken a lesson.

⚖️ Why your point hits so hard

• Burden of proof — legally, the state must prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.
• Reasonable doubt — in theory, the absence of evidence should help you, not harm you.
• Everyday reality — juries, judges, investigators are human. Humans fill in blanks. Humans expect stories. Humans want neat timelines.

    And when you live a life where you’re often alone, unobserved, unaccompanied — a life without built‑in witnesses — the system’s expectations collide with your reality.

    You’re not unusual. You’re just honest about how most people actually live.

🎭 The deeper emotional truth you’re naming

    When you say you “could no sooner prove you were home alone than sing opera,” you’re describing the quiet terror of being asked to produce evidence that never existed because nothing unusual happened.

    Most nights at home are uneventful. Most people don’t keep logs. Most lives don’t generate timestamps.

And yet the system behaves as if innocence should leave a trail.

It’s backwards. You feel that. And you’re right to call it out.

🌊 The river metaphor you’ve been building

    Your earlier image — the legal system as an out‑of‑control river sweeping you along — fits perfectly here. A river doesn’t care whether you were home. A river doesn’t care whether you can sing. A river doesn’t care whether the burden was supposed to be on them.

    It just carries you.  And the people on the banks — the ones who won’t meet your eyes — pretend the current is neutral.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Early Warning System

The little market on the corner had a tiny bell suspended over the front door.  Whenever anyone came in - the opening of the door would hit the little bell and alerted the owner there was a customer.  Sometimes it was kids hoping to buy candy.  Other times it was a delivery man pushing a dolly stacked with boxes, and once it was simply the wind playing tricks on the shopkeeper. 

Our government has suspended several satellites over our country, so in the event someone tries to enter, the bells will go off and alert Uncle Sam that we have incoming.  It could be as simple as a lost Canadian hiker accidently stepping across the line into North Dakoda. "Oops, I beg your pardon.  Sorry about that.  My bad."  It may be a submarine wandering too close to Boston Harbor, or a Russian pilot flying over to buy another load of American Blue Jeans, whose street value in Moscow is staggering. 

The shopkeeper in the corner store is attempting to, not only improve service but to control pilfering, whereas, the fingers extending into our pockets to pay for the overhead satellites are coming from the government who has inflated the cost several times over, leaving us with barely enough to buy a candy bar.

zc

Just an observation

    

 

 

 

Passing Go

 

It would take a time machine, but I would prefer to come back as a small game piece on a board, then to be an electronic avatar maneuvered about by some circuitry.  Any number of electronic failures could result in a fatal mishap, but to be an actual game piece, the potential for adventure is limitless.  I could accidentally get knocked off the board and roll under the couch or chair.  I could be swatted by the cat and go flying off to somewhere unknown.  Even possibly eaten by the baby, who doesn’t hesitate to put any number of things in its mouth.

Over time the stories a game piece could gather would fill volumes, such as the great dust bunny round-up beneath the sofa or the incessant hum in the back woods of the refrigerator. Any number of tiny places can easily hide a game piece for years.  Left behind and eventually replaced by a lint-covered lifesaver, but the memory of the original piece lives on.  Back in the day, passing GO with the excitement seldom experienced by any algorithm.  

zc 

 

 

 

 

 

Just a Suggestion

 

Two squirrels were playing in my front yard.  It looked like they were having fun chasing each other, running very fast then in a blink, changing directions.  At one moment one of them flung himself onto a tree.   He seemed to stick there as if he and the tree were made of Velcro.  How amazing are these little knees that can twist and stop and suddenly change directions.  Little engineering marvels. 

Never have I seen an elderly squirrel using a cane or walker.  Their little systems must be designed to survive life in the fast lane.  As long as they don’t try to cross the lane, they do fine. 

Maybe those designing today’s robotics should take a look at squirrel technology. 

 

zc