Don’t go out there.
They watch and wait
for you.
I noticed them trying
to get in.
So far, the screen
has stopped them.
But they are many in
number,
and nothing survives
in their path.
Listen, and you’ll
hear them –
I’ve heard them use
your name
They know about you
I mean it.
Don’t go out there.
It’s not always a straight line. I try hard to keep a balance between my opinion and the simple gibberish I crank out. The nonsense I spew forth comes from the silly side of my view of life. I’ve always found it difficult to take things seriously. That statement alone temps some people to jump in with, “Yes, but what about…” And then they’ll rattle off some horrid atrocity and then wait for my reaction.
My tendency is to see the bigger picture. We are all going to cross the same finish line, so why not make the journey as fun as possible?
The thing that nudges me to one side of the line or the other is the fact that I am human. I am going to have off days, There are always going to be things I can’t fix, or correct. However, because the powers that be have seen fit to leave me completely unsupervised, nothing prevents me from snagging the line with my foot and dragging over to where I’m more comfortable. So, no matter what it is, I can still pull it over to the fun side.
Oh sure, I may break
a few germarial rules along the way, but my permanent record is already
laminated. No bad grades or harsh
comments can be added to it. Ha Ha
If I could change anything, I would begin with the simplest correction: the misconceptions my teachers carried about me. They mistook my curiosity for defiance, my questions for confusion, my silence for ignorance. I wasn’t dumb; they simply weren’t good teachers. The first reform I’d make is to reclaim the truth of who I was — and who so many children still are — misread by adults who never learned to see beyond their own assumptions.
From there, I would turn to the education system itself. We burden students with dates of wars they will forget and facts they will never use, while leaving them unprepared for the world they must enter. I would replace trivia with tools: how to balance a checkbook, how deceptive advertising works, how to avoid the legal system unless absolutely necessary. Schools should teach young people how the world actually functions, not how textbooks pretend it does.
I would change the way political candidates debate. The current spectacle rewards performance over substance and obscures more than it reveals. I would rebuild the structure from the ground up, making transparency a requirement rather than a slogan. Special‑interest groups would lose their shadowy influence, and campaign contributions would no longer be the quiet currency of power. Democracy should not depend on who can afford the loudest microphone.
Some changes would be small but meaningful. I would designate a single day for trash pickup so neighborhoods aren’t interrupted by a weeklong procession of trucks. Civic life should feel orderly, not perpetually disrupted.
Other changes would be structural. Drug companies would no longer be allowed to bury side effects in microscopic print, and insurance companies would no longer dictate what doctors can and cannot do. If insurers insist on influencing medical decisions, then they should share the liability when those decisions lead to harm. Power without accountability is not a system — it’s an imbalance.
And finally, I would build into my system the most important change of all: the ability to change again. No reform is complete if it cannot evolve. No structure is sound if it cannot adapt. The world shifts, and our solutions must shift with it.
These are small coins, perhaps — pocket change. But gathered together, they form a different kind of currency: a vision of a society that sees clearly, teaches honestly, governs transparently, and treats people with the dignity they deserved from the start.
zc
To some it is the sound of chirping birds. Others appreciate the sound of the coffee pot starting for the first time. To the factory owner it is the loud and varied sounds of the machines coming to life. To a rare few it is the alarm clock screeching that sleep time has ended and that great adventure was simply a dream.
But to Carrie Wilson, today anyway, it was going to be her voice. For this morning she would begin her first day at KLMP Radio. Her’s will be the voice coming over everyone’s car radio as they sit in traffic. She will announce the weather, introduce the sponsor’s products, and unbeknownst to her, give the breaking news of the explosion at the Pine Crest Mall that will end up changing her life forever.
Carrie parked
in the dim lot behind KLMP, the sky still deciding whether it wanted to be blue
or gray. The building itself hummed faintly, as if warming up its throat before
speaking. She sat for a moment with her hands on the steering wheel, listening
to the muffled world outside: a delivery truck downshifting, a lone bird
insisting on being heard, the soft tick of her cooling engine.
She whispered her first line into the empty car, testing it. “Good morning, Pine Crest. This is Carrie Wilson with your early rise and shine.” It sounded almost real.
Inside, the station smelled like burnt coffee and old carpet — the scent of a thousand mornings that weren’t hers. The overnight DJ, a man with headphones permanently denting his hair, waved without looking up from his screen. He mouthed good luck as if she were heading into surgery.
At 5:59, she slipped on the headset. The studio lights glowed a soft amber, like a sunrise made of electricity. Her
heartbeat synced with the blinking red ON AIR sign.
And then, at 6:00 exactly, her voice — steady, warm, unaware — became part of the town’s morning music.
She read the weather. She introduced a sponsor’s new breakfast sandwich. She smiled when she didn’t need to, because smiling changed the sound of her voice. She felt, for the first time, like she was inside the day instead of watching it happen.
Then the station Manager slid a note under the glass. Two words, scribbled quickly across the page. Breaking News.
Carrie read it, at first to herself to make sure there wouldn’t be any words she might stumble over. As she read about the explosion, her first thought was of her sister, who worked at Forever 21. Her heart sank as panic suddenly took hold of her.
The station Manager
began tapping on the window of her booth.
“Read it!” he shouted. “Out Loud!”
What I have built here is a Blog worthy of passing down to my heirs. It has taken years, toiling over a keyboard that seemed bent on misspelling everything that came along. I kid you not.
Here’s the thing… I only used the original 26 letters I was given at the beginning. More than once, I was tempted to add a few of my own, but I resisted the urge. Considering the great number of possible combinations these letters could be arranged in; it was amazing I didn’t become frustrated and just give up.
I expect if this were Europe, hundreds of years ago, my Blog would have been made into some great statue in the center of town, where it would stand for years, surviving wars and pigeons and various political leaders. Possibly even a fountain, where citizens would toss their coins and make their wishes.
I think I’ll stop
here. I’m going to fix a refreshing
beverage, relax and try to imagine what a Blog statue might look like.
zc
The next time you
find yourself transported into a crossword puzzle,
Before I continue, I’d just like to say, there was nothing wonky in my Rice Krispies this morning. It was all the usual snaps and crackles as always. But as I sat here thinking about what I’d write today, I could mentally see myself lifting off and into the workings of a crossword.
I should mention here, I do not now, nor have I ever worked crosswords. I find them annoying. They bring me down, (and across). I don’t care to search for the words that fit into the spaces or match up with the ones already there. Bah Humbug.
So why my brain was sending me on this particular adventure I didn’t know. What I can say, with some degree of accuracy is – the moment I began to analyze it, it went away. So what is written here is simply the residue of a passing thought.
There you have
it. Today’s gibberish.
Enjoy your weekend
Zc
Hospitals are very different after hours. Other than the beeps and moans coming from occasional rooms, there is a silence thicker than the paint on the walls. It isn’t a dormant quiet, it is alive and pulses right through those wandering in places they shouldn’t. It attaches itself to you and in so doing, keeps you glancing over your shoulder, for that feeling you are not alone is very real.
Corridors become
longer than they were in daylight. There
is an absence of purposeful choreography, void of clipboards and charts. Your own footsteps are the only interruption to
the silence, the quiet so heavy it almost requires a gurney, and empty nurse’s
stations stand as motionless as the cadavers in the basement.
There are visible
signs
I’ve become
surrounded by things that let me know I’ve grown old.
I saw a new space
adventure movie and all of the astronauts looked as if they were 12.
I took a drive
through downtown and the cops walking the beat were not much older than
astronauts.
I feel I have traveled
beyond my shoes. My knowledge is
yesterday’s knowledge, and my opinions are no longer solicited.
I have the value of a
paperweight in a paperless society.
zc
Mechanical ability, blended with literary aptitude allows someone with these skills to construct a solid foundation, able to support a multi-story suspense novel.
Not unlike a suspension bridge spanning some raging and turbulent plot twist, allowing the reader just enough suspension of disbelief to make their way across. Welding two dissimilar thoughts together can often become frustrating, causing the writer to unwittingly change tenses. The middle of a bridge is no place for a stumbling block. Trust me, I have some experience with this.
I once carried a concept across several paragraphs, containing a few loose translations. The resulting calamity was not pretty. Main characters were injured, stunt nouns walked off the job and, well let’s say, I learned my lesson.
These days I leave
the serious writing to the professionals.
Blogs are like the smoky bars of yesterday, where old writers hang out, crushing
out one-liners like smelly, smoldering cigarettes, and discarded ideas lay
crumpled around rum-stained tables.
zc
Life at the molecular level might be very exciting. Even though nobody would be standing still, maybe there’s music. You never know. I don’t think we can assume that because we hear it, the sound waves just stop as life becomes smaller and smaller. I’m not suggesting the lyrics would make any sense, but I expect you could dance to it.
I wouldn’t care to be
an atom surrounded by people in lab coats.
I have heard about the cruelty of animal testing, so for sure, I wouldn’t
want to be separated from my family, only to have some scientist split me. People can be so harsh.
travel along the open road. There are U-Turns
and cul-de-sacs and sometimes just dead ends.
Here is what it gave me.
I can’t say that I always focus directly on the target. I tend to keep an overall view, which sometimes gives me the ability to see things that others might miss. By doing this, however, I myself may appear as though I’ve missed the boat. But being left at the dock is not all that bad. I still enjoy the ocean breeze but without all that motion.
I’d have to admit, there is a very particular smell at the dock. I believe one could be blindfolded and still know where they are, just based on the scent.
“Wow! I’d say we’re at the dock.”
“You’re right. That’s exactly where we are.”
See what I mean? The same can be said for sound. Put your blindfold back on and just listen. Now have five people walk across your kitchen floor, one at a time. They can be different heights and different weight, some can have black curly hair while some might have no hair and be wearing a hat. Almost 10 out of 10 times you’ll be able to identify the one wearing golf shoes.
For some of you it
may take a little practice, but you’ll get it.
zc
I expect there to be cookies in Heaven
No Brussel Sprouts, no Spinach leaves
Just cookies from the oven,
No crunchy carrots & creamy dip
but warm and chewy chocolate chip.
zc
There are more
branches than birds
Less stories than
words
More books than are
flicks
Fewer dogs than are
ticks
More water than beer
More days than are
years
More questions than
answers
More walkers than
dancers
More thoughts in my
head
Than people not dead
More smiles than frowns
Less coffee than
grounds
More pockets than
dollars
More echoes than hollers
More ticks in a clock
Than boats at the
dock
More notes in a horn
Than hats that are
worn
More whispers than
shouts
Less guesses than
doubts
More chalk on the boards
More bullets than swords
More stupid than
smart
More stops than are
starts
More whiskers on
kittens
Than snowflakes on
mittens
More headstones in
rows
Than fingers and toes
More bad luck than
good
More plastic than
wood
But when all’s said
and done
There’s only this
one.
There was a bird upon
the bench
without a
hammer, without a wrench
said he knew a carpenter mouse
for a bite of cheese
would build him a house,
Without a nail or any glue
the mouse he knew
just what to do,
"There will be a porch
and a backyard swing
and an inside shower
should you want to sing,
bur Mr. Crow they'll be no roof
until there's cheese
I need some proof."
"I haven't got your cheese as yet,
but I've seen some cheddar
I can get."
"I've dealt with Crows like you before,
you promise me someday you'll pay
I build your walls and add a door
then you up and fly away."
"Trust me, you will have your cheese
I'll bring so much that you'll get fat,
I have one more addition please,
I'd like a fancy Welcome Mat."
Before you get
dressed
Before you get on the
freeway
Before you sit in
traffic, squinting into the sun
Before you walk into
work
Before you look at
the pile of work on your desk
Before you face the
day ahead of you
And before the boss walks in and asks if you’re
done yet…
Remember the Scout
Moto
The envelope was wedged in with many others. Nothing about it stood out. It was just another correspondence laying quietly in someone’s In-Box. Because it was a holiday weekend, nothing had been touched in several days. I’m sure that if anyone had known what was in the letter it would have been hand-carried to Clara Norris immediately, and the whole ugly mess might have been avoided.
But it wasn’t and now
three people were dead, and one lone woman stood at the entrance preventing
anyone from leaving. She held no weapon,
but with one hand on the doorframe, she had a look on her face that no one dared to
challenge. Was she keeping them safe
inside or preventing what might happen if they went out? Even Joseph, the custodian who has known her
forever, wasn’t able to read her face.
He kept his distance across the lobby, mop in hand, just watching.
Finally, building up his courage, he rested his mop handle against the column and simply ignoring all warning signs, walked up to the woman blocking the entrance and in a calm, rational voice said, "Please, just answer me this. What is it this writer thinks he's doing by starting all these stories and then just leaving us hanging? I personally don't like it. Is he ever going to go back and finish anything? I'm not sure what we're supposed to think."
The woman looked Joseph in the eye and said, "Well, have you seen what's in the letter?"
"Joseph took a step back, looking a little puzzled. "No, according to the beginning of this story, it hasn't ever been opened. Haven't you been paying attention?"
"Look, I can't do it all. I'm here in the story with all of you, I can't be just someone out there reading it. I have stuff to do. I'm guarding this door and so far I don't even know why."
"Should we look ahead and see what happens?"
"We can't. He's still writing it."
"OK then, I'm going back to my mop. Good luck."
"Yes, you as well."
zc
