Scorched fingers

 

Of course, there are times I see something - snap a picture but later find myself at a loss for something to say about it.  

This would be a fine example.

 

 

zc

just below

 

In the world just below, the wind ruffles no feathers, insects never fly and time only lives in the imagination.

        Sounds pass in muffled tones.  Beneath the murky bottom is the unexplored, where shoes have been snatched from feet and never returned. Tiny air bubbles rise up through the mud and when they reach the surface they pop.  If you listen closely you can hear, “Just do it” followed by a giggle.

            ZC

 

 

 

 

So, what ever happened to Walter

 

Walter Drake is a nice guy.  Although well accomplished, he has traveled through life mostly unnoticed.  He is of average weight and height, with no distinguishing marks or tattoos.   He lives in a typical suburban home and works in an office full of everyday people.  He couldn’t be anymore beige. 

He doesn’t buy Lotto tickets, drives a used car that hasn’t any chrome to speak of, and listens to talk radio for his news, consequently, he has no opinions that are his own.  His life could be described as ho-hum, with one exception.  Walter is very superstitious.  

He always keeps his pocket change in his left front pocket, for in his right front pocket is his lucky coin.  On his keyring hangs a lucky rabbit’s foot and on the dashboard of his car is a little plastic cross, his mother gave him one day after Church. 

Walter’s only interaction with his neighbors has been polite waves, or a pleasant smile.  He remains absent from all social media and has never had an encounter with the police, for anything.  He has never even tried playing golf and finds most sporting events stupid.  In fact, Walter’s only real interest has been space exploration.  He has watched every lift-off and has read every Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson book several times.   He has sent money to PBS, to support the NOVA programs. 

If he could, Walter Drake would live in space, even though he remains fearful of navigating this world without his lucky tokens.  He finds the thought of distant galaxies exciting and seems to have little concern about meteor showers or ever being struck by a massive rock hurling at him with the force of a speeding Buick.   His superstitions do not appear to follow him into space. 

He thought about that one day. as he sat at his kitchen table, poking his macaroni and cheese.  Maybe he wouldn’t need all his lucky items once he was in space.  Of course, as he followed that train of thought, it led him to consider that here on Earth was the only place bad luck existed.  If that were true, perhaps the smart people at PBS could run a telethon in hopes of finding a cure for bad luck.

The letter PBS received from   Mr. Walter Drake caused them to contact the Happy Acres facility and inform them of a potential customer.  A complicated series of phone calls and interviews followed, culminating with Mr. Drake accepting guest accommodations for an unspecified duration.  Although not a fan of their game room, he did spend a great deal of time in the solarium, gazing up at the night sky.

 

 

  

 

 

 Z. Corwin

 

 

It's Magic and it's Real

 

Place a bowl of fresh potato chips on the counter.  Leave them there for a day or two.  When you return, you’ll find the chips are still there, but the crunch has disappeared.

 

No use looking around the floor, it isn’t down there.  The crunch is simply gone.  Vanished.

 

Even if every door and window were closed and locked, somehow the crunch escaped.

 

The only way I know to find the crunch is to sprinkle fresh Fritos around the house.  Then, late at night, with all the lights off, walk barefoot through every room.  As you travel, you’ll hear the sound of crunching.

 

That sound is the lost crunch calling out, trying to find their companion chips.

 

 

What?  Don’t believe me?  Try it.

 

 

You'll see.

ZC

In the Mirror

 

The camera can only see

what's there. 

Bits of Yesterday

 

Years later, hanging without fanfare or trumpets is a memory of days gone by.  Curled and yellowed photographs no longer tucked into an album, now squeezed together, shoulder to shoulder in a dark shoebox, as if standing in line, still awaiting recognition.

 

 

ZC

Inspiration

 

Can it truly be graffiti but also be art?  Is it not both vandalism and clever at the same time?   Should this person be reformed or admired?

 

I mean, who else would think to paint the bricks yellow?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Special Place

 

There is a place that I go where life is quiet and Nature is calm.  My thoughts are not cluttered with chores yet to be done or regrets of things past.  There is a noticeable absence of politics and advertising.  The clock doesn’t keep reminding me that, even though I am here, time has not stopped or even slowed.  But that’s okay. 

Everything I write appears organized and mentally cohesive.  Misspelled words magically arrange themselves into the correct order, and punctuation quietly does its job without a fuss.   Everything that scampers or flies past my window slows down just long enough to say, “Excuse me, sorry for the interruption.” and then keeps going. 

Stray tunes might occasionally slip into my thoughts but never do they get stuck and just keep repeating.  Just as quickly as they arrive, they are gone.  For whatever reason I see my desk clutter as artwork.  Each item is making a statement with its light and shadow and its potential function presently lying breathless.  No longer are they distractions but now simply friends who accompany me on this journey.

This wooden sailing vessel never requires varnish or mending.  The creaks and groans are simply for effect.  Forever upright, it slices through the waves undaunted, knowing its course and never questioning the stars.  The wind collected behind the sails are made of untold stories. I need only glance up to select the next in line.

It's where I go when left to write.

zc

 

 

 ZC

The Cost of Admission

 

    I’m not sure why I’ve always been a fan of the University of Michigan. It feels like something I was born with, like a childhood scar or a favorite song you never remember learning. Every football season I watch the Wolverines hike the ball, try to run up the middle, and immediately collide with a wall of opposing players. They gain half a yard — maybe. And still I hope for the boys to win.

    I’ve got U of M foam beer holders, a big block‑M flag I hang from the house on game days, and whenever I’m around my Ohio friends, I play the Michigan Fight Song just to keep the rivalry properly seasoned.

    I doubt I could ever cheer for anyone else. But here’s the thing: never in my wildest dreams could I have attended. My high‑school grades stunk like they’d been dead for years. My wallet was so empty that if you yelled into it, you’d hear an echo. I imagine those are the top two things the admissions people look for.

    Had desire to learn been the criterion, I would have breezed right in. That, in my opinion, should be the true cost of admission — the hunger to know things. But desire can’t be measured, not in any way that fits neatly on a form. So the gates stay closed, and only the wallets that don’t echo get waved through.

    Two years ago, in an effort to add yet another piece of Michigan memorabilia to my collection, I wrote to the University and asked them to simply write back. Just a letter, an envelope, a scrap of stationery with the big block M.

They must still be thinking about it.

Z. Corwin

Mrs. Henderson's Class

Each day was a true delight.  Mrs. Henderson had made her lesson plan and all her students were eager to see what came next.  Day after day, as a group, they traveled through geography, waded knee-deep into math and together built sentences and paragraphs using the letters they had learned and played with. 

The classroom was both a safe place and a pirate ship when it needed to be.   But it was no place for a dreamer.  Thinking outside of the box was unheard-of.   It wasn’t long until little Buddy was labeled as a troublemaker, a disruption and eventually Mrs. Henderson had written him off.  He was ignored and the classroom that was once filled with sunshine, now – for Buddy, was filled with dark clouds.   He felt like an outcast.  He was the square peg. 

The unfortunate aspect of the label Mrs. Henderson had hung onto Buddy followed him throughout his entire life within the educational system.  No matter where he went, people could see Mrs. Henderson’s label sticking out over the top of Buddy’s sweater.  Don’t bother with this one. 

But something quite unique happened over time.  What had happened to Buddy turned out to be his education.  For Buddy had the advantage of seeing how adults acted and how short-sighted they were.  Even how Mrs. Henderson had given up on him the moment he began to color outside of the lines.  That was an area beyond her comfort zone.  Something she had not prepared for and so she gave up.   

Buddy, the dreamer, eventually found his place in the world.  He changed his name and started a Blog.  Every day Buddy wrote about his observations and experiences.  He wrote fun things and of classrooms that turned into pirate ships.  He explored all of the places that had been roped off.  He looked behind the DO NOT ENTER doors and he followed the scent of well-traveled boots to wherever they went.   There were no limits, no teachers or supervisors.  Only his keyboard and his imagination.  For Buddy was a dreamer.

 

 

 

 

 ZC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stems & Pieces

There are things they never put on the recruiting posters.  There are secrets Uncle Sam doesn’t share with the unsuspecting public.   The reality of accepting everyone into their army is that the unsavory, uneducated and ill-mannered are only a few of the scrapings gathered up and dressed as one. 

The slogan, a few good men, is extremely accurate, there are only a few in the entire bunch.  However, once you are on the inside, after you’ve raised your hand to volunteer to serve your country, only then do you see the back side of the poster.  Only then are you threatened daily that if you don’t fall in line you will be sent to prison. 

It is there you become witness to the harsh reality that the ones who have advanced in rank haven’t done so through education, or achievement, but only through longevity.  In the military it isn’t the cream that rises to the top.  It is those who cannot think for themselves but simply regurgitate the rhetoric.  Authority without wisdom. 

A peek behind the curtain

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Droop Factor

 

There is a tug-of-war taking place every minute of every day.  On one side we have gravity, weighing in at 32.17 ft. at sea level.  On the other side we have one, non-galvanized finishing nail, supporting a framed photograph of a ½ ton pick-up truck, with standard options.

Even without knowing the tensile strength of the nail, I feel comfortable in projecting that over time, gravity will be victorious.  I say that based on the wood fibers currently surrounding the nail ultimately accumulating moisture, allowing the weight of the framed photograph of the ½ ton pick-up truck, with standard options to eventually exert the weight at such an angle as to allow the art work to slide in  downward direction, that being the same direction as the tug of the gravitational pull.  

Variables not calculated are the type, dimensions and weight of the frame, or the color of the truck. 

 

 

 

 zc

I think its the Monkey thing

 

Propagation

 

When I hear that word, I think of Catsup slowly making its way across the plate or slowly spreading over a hamburger.   The odd thing is it also refers to brake lights. 

Cars were just fine, then someone said, “Let’s add another brake light.”  Now we have them above the rear window, or going across the tailgate, or lighting up the children bouncing around in the backseat.  

We have an abundance of lights telling people we are stopping and the propagation of that invention seems to have spread much faster than catsup ever has.  Suddenly they were on every car being produced.  Like intermittent whipers.  “Hey, it isn’t raining that much, maybe we should only use the whipers now and then.”  And now, everyone has the option of keeping pace with the weather or not.  

So, what aspect is it that caused the automobile industry to suddenly spring into action?  Was it due to legislation over safety concerns or more of a monkey-see- monkey-do kind of thing.  

“Hey, they’re doing it, so we better.”

 

 

 

 

 

 ZC

 

A Baker's Dozen

 

The last donut in the box comes with connotations.  It is no different than a traveler with a carry-on, or a baseball player tapping his shoe to remove the dirt that becomes wedged between the spikes.  OK, so maybe it’s nothing like that.  The last donut taunts everyone who sees it.  “Take me.  I taste good, you know you want me.” 

But then there is that unseen guilt.  I should leave it for someone else.  Maybe there is someone here who hasn’t had one yet.  I know the minute I bite it, I’ll feel bad.  Who left just one donut here?  Someone should take it so we can throw the box away.

And maybe connotations was the wrong word.  A better word would be feelings.  Yes, that last donut is a filled donut.  It is filled with temptation, dread, remorse, guilt and maybe a sprinkle of joy, excitement and flavor.

When you think about it, everything would have been much better if, at the bakery, they had just left that last donut out.  Don’t make it a Baker’s Dozen, just put 12 in the box and leave it at that.   Everyone would be much happier.

 

 

 

ZC

 

 

 

 

 

That's just the way it is

 

I’ve noticed that whenever there is a flock of birds on the ground and something startles them, they all fly off in the same direction.  They have the wherewithal to know that multiple directions could result in airborne mishaps.

All of the birds take their cue from the first one to be startled.  Whatever that bird does, they all do.  Hopefully, it isn’t skittish Larry.  He’s been known to jump because a leaf fell from a nearby tree.  No matter how many times they’ve talked to him, he still jumps at the slightest sound or movement. 

It stands to reason, the more birds in a flock, the more different personalities there will be.  Every group seems to have a Larry.  Not sure why.

 

 

 zc

A quiet spot for Fishing

 

A Wednesday in July

 

There are little differences between you sitting there reading this, and me here writing it.  The first thing is I always tend to go first.  Yes, it would be silly to think of you reading it before I’ve had a chance to write it.  Not sure how that would work. 

Location is the other obvious difference.  Your weather, I guess, is different than mine.  We do seem to share the same tolerance for nonsense, which might suggest that you, as well, find this more entertaining than the silliness they put on television.

The news is the same year after year.  All of us fleas here on the same dog can’t get along.  So, is it human nature to be like this?  Are we doomed from the start?  Divide us into two teams but give us only one ball.  Of course, there’s going to be conflict, competition and fighting. 

Most of our differences I can’t talk about, simply because I don’t know.  Are you reading this on an iPhone, or a tablet or home computer?  While you’re reading are you also hiding from your boss, or eating a sandwich?   Maybe you are sitting on some sort of public transportation, a bus maybe?  A taxi or subway?  Just maybe you are eating your Boss’s sandwich.  No wonder you’re hiding. 

Let me just say, if it is something you found in the breakroom refrigerator, that’s tacky.  Stop doing that.  I expect more out of my readers.

 

That’s it.

 

 

 

 

Z. Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Good Movie

 

This is your only hint.

Distortions

 

I’m sorry, but that isn’t me.

 

That is nothing like how I look in my head.

 

Yes, I know how mirrors work.

 

I’m just saying, I don’t look like that.

 

That’s an old man looking back at me.  That’s nothing like I am.  I’m athletic, I’m full of energy and still believe I can do things.  That guy looks more like some old refugee.  He’s thin, has gray wispy hair.  What kind of mirror is that anyway?

 

Of course, I know it happened over time. 

 

No, I believe you.  I’m just saying I look much different in my head than that old guy in the mirror.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AIR and then some...

 

As a child I wondered what it was that was pushing the air and turning it into wind.   Whatever it is keeps itself out of sight.  You never see what is back there pushing it.  I know it has many speeds, from gentle breeze to gale forces, which is faster than breezes, and when it has ocean under it, waves get made.  Just like when there is desert below it, dunes are formed.  Air can do all of that, given the right push. 

Of course, there is an ugly side to all of this, the part no one cares to talk about, when tree branches get so shaken up by the wind that little bird nests fall to the ground.  Kite strings snap, sending a child’s kite to oblivion.  Not to mention when Betsy gets all dressed up for the school dance, but between getting out of the car and entering the gym, Mr. Wind makes a mess out of her hair, so when she walks in she looks like she has just left the spin cycle in the clothes dryer.

The other part of air we can't see are the different currents.  Some are very long and forceful, and some are different temperatures, which is strange, because there are also currents in the ocean and yet not pushed by anything.

What I see happening here is that the pushing aspect can be very specific.  It isn't pushing all the air but just this little bit, causing an airstream that travels through slower moving air.  That gets more complicated than my thinking allows for.  Just how can a force push only a specific section and not another? 

 

 

 

The Rising Cost of Staples

 

Taking Steps to Remove a Footprint

 

Without a portable time machine it is a difficult process.  Even with one it can become frustrating.  To unstep has never been successfully accomplished.  The weight exerted into the ground compresses surface dirt, gravel and possibly ooky things, such as worms and bugs, many of which do not survive. 

Ideal conditions would be along the shoreline, utilizing the wave action of the ocean to assist in footprint removal.  Less than ideal conditions would be fresh potting soil, just beneath an open window of a burglary victim. 

Early versions of a time machine can be seen in old western movies, where branches were dragged behind a team of horses, wiping away all traces of boot marks, tennis shoe imprints and high-heal puncture marks.

 

 

***

 

 

A field guide for the chronically present

        The trouble with footprints is that they are too honest. They tell the ground everything: your weight, your direction, your hesitation, your hopes, your shoe size. Even the most polite walker leaves behind a small autobiography pressed into the soil.

        Attempts to reverse this autobiography have always been clumsy. Early inventors of the time machine—the broom‑dragging cowboys you mentioned—believed that erasure was simply a matter of sweeping. But sweeping only convinces the earth to forget; it does not undo the moment when the heel met the world.

        More modern theorists insist that the only reliable method is cooperation with nature. The ocean, for example, is a master editor. It reads every footprint, nods, and then calmly revises the sentence. The tide is the closest thing we have to a benevolent proofreader.

        Less ideal conditions, of course, include fresh potting soil beneath the window of someone who has recently discovered their valuables missing. In such cases, the footprint becomes a witness—one that refuses to be bribed. Dirt has a strong moral compass.

        Some researchers have proposed reverse walking as a solution: stepping backward into your own steps with perfect alignment, heel‑to‑heel, toe‑to‑toe, like rewinding a film. But this only creates new footprints shaped like apologies.

        Others suggest that the only true way to remove a footprint is to replace it with a better one—something lighter, kinder, more deliberate. A footprint that says: I was here, but I tried to be gentle about it.

        In this sense, unstepping becomes less about erasure and more about amendment. The ground remembers everything, but it also forgives easily.

 

 

 

 ZC