Hard to do without fingers

I would have to think that paradise is different for everyone.  As our likes and dislikes vary - so must our conception of the ideal.  Following this line of thinking brings me to my particular concept of Heaven.   

For me, Heaven isn't a place that exist somewhere up in the clouds but rather lives as an entity within our spirit.  Perhaps it is our spirit.

It isn't somewhere to go once we stop living this life.  It is Life itself but without the physical attributes.  Heaven triggers a feeling of calm within us.  It is that spark of mental reassurance when we are standing in the midst of indecision.  

One can often glimpse a bit of Heaven in the eyes of another.  Friend or stranger matters not, the spirit transcends boundaries, borders and languages.  It permeates our soul, bringing us to awareness beyond reason.  

Bits of Heaven can be transmitted through a smile or a touch.  It travels freely through memory like the pleasant fragrance of home cooking, the vision of a playful puppy or hearing the giggle of a child.  It flows to the surface at the sound of distant church bells and it warms us when winter winds bite.

My concept of Heaven is that we eventually become one with this spirit, to travel freely from smile to smile, to glide in and out of hearts, leaving hope and love in our wake. 

We join the universal awareness that finds no star too distant, nor any moment uninviting.   Free to circle those we have left behind with warm memories that they not grieve our passing but smile at a moment once shared. 

I believe we simply blend with the Human Spirit, picking up small bits of love and hope as we go and depositing them with those in need.

I don't believe that we float about wearing halos while we spend an eternity trying to learn the harp. 

zc

No Matter How Bad the Music is

As I see it - the radio personality sits in a sound booth, talks and plays music.  As they do this and depending on his or her comfort level, the office chair moves.  It rolls, swivels and may even recline just a little, depending on the success of the station and how much they spent on the chair.

So far – no problem; the minor movement of the office chair does not affect the broadcast transmission -

 unless it squeaks.

Now, however, assume for the moment that you, the listening audience, are sitting in a moving car.  You are traveling along the interstate at 75 miles per hour.  This means your car antenna is also traveling at 75 miles per hour.  You are not only going fast but up and down hills and mountains, around corners and depending on your sense of direction, there’s an occasional U-turn.

Notes:

All measurements were taken at 68° F

The average person talks at 125 to 150 words per minute

Your speed on the Interstate = 75 mph

Speed of sound = 767 miles per hour

Your speed converted = 1.233 miles per minute

Conclusion:  It is not possible to outrun your radio.

Why Architects should learn...

what it takes to change a light bulb.

Action Figures

We have been action figures this past week.  Our arms and legs have been in constant motion, while we jumped in and out of our little action figure car.  We zoomed here and zoomed there, turning our heads from side to side and munching up little action figure meals.

Now we must climb back into the box and sit quietly while our batteries try to recuperate from the over charging we did at the action mall.

It isn’t often we get to see both ends of the rainbow at the same time but yesterday we stopped in to visit with a friend who had to spend their week laying on their back, staring up at the ceiling of a hospital room.  

For what seems to be a lack of imagination, they don’t hang artwork on ceilings.  There are no Goyas, or Grant Woods.  No funny photographs or still-lifes.   There is just a simple narrow gauge track running in a loop, where trains of curtains are drawn whenever they want your view to change from the ceiling to some other non-creative direction.

We ended up in a house filled to capacity with other laughing, smiling action figures.  We all talked about our lives and our plans and on every wall; no matter where we looked there was art.  

There were paintings with brilliant colors in bold frames; there were photographs of family members who had long since lost their “Action” status.  There was hugging and hand shaking and promises of fun in summers to come.

Now that I am resting and recharging back in my box I ponder the possibilities of rainbows without the rain.  I try to imagine hospital room ceilings painted with fields of colorful lilies or even empty frames where one might bring in pictures of their own loving action figures. 

Pulling both ends of the rainbow closer together isn’t easy but if enough action figures got together - who knows? 

zc

The Final Frontier is a Vacuum

            Shortly after the Klingons had been abolished from our Solar System, Captain Kirk found himself wandering the halls of the Enterprise.  He was annoying the Kitchen Staff and giving recommendations to the chief.  He was down on the laundry deck helping to fold sheets but doing it wrong.

          No matter where he went or what he tried to help with he was in the way.  He wasn't needed in those other departments but he was bored.   He was at a loss as to how to spend his time.  

          After all, there were no Planets to save and no civilizations to rescue.  The television show didn’t show all the episodes when the Captain, Bones and Spock had nothing to do.   Sponsors were reluctant to buy commercial time for what they referred to as -  dead air.

           Currently, I sit below the observation deck at this computer writing these posts.  It seems a nice gesture, you know, it gives the crew something to read other than the Captain’s Log. 

          Boredom is one thing but being bored in space can get to a person. 

Maybe I'll clean the carpet again.  It's hard to tell  just what it is those Romulans have tracked in.

Making Believe

         Last Tuesday I wandered back stage.  I saw the vast array of building materials, lighting fixtures and knick-knacks that fill the small rooms, storage areas and rafters of our local theater.  There were miles of moldings - wide and narrow, large sections of flooring that would extend into rooms never to be seen.  

Baskets full of doorknobs, some turn of the century while others designed for a simple Oliver Twist; they sat next to teapots, muskets, and stacks of books leaning on televisions and moose heads.  

Closets were packed with overcoats and feathered hats with wigs piled next to cigar boxes that held an assortment of mustaches.  An old cookie tin held a variety of stick-on tattoos; some suggesting a military history while others indicating an allegiance to a cause or a bold proclamation of independence.   

One wall was peppered with an assortment of beards and toupees for those plays requiring fur-bearing actors. 

          It is a wondrous place filled with potential and anticipation.  It is a place where lines from a sketch are lifted from the page and transformed into bedrooms, back alleys, hideouts, or a grandmother’s kitchen.   

Jars of dust and spools of cobwebs sit on a back shelf waiting to create just the right atmosphere, while wooden signs painted with indiscernible languages lean against the wall.   

          Do not, however, believe that back stage is paved with wide aisles or meandering lanes, for it is not.  Barely navigable and dimly lit passageways wind around tripping hazards, skill saws and mannequin limbs.  

It is not a destination you’ll find in any brochure.  

The SET…

          Set builders are tasked with challenges of interpretation.  Using bits and pieces they must build what the playwright has only alluded to.  Five-sided rooms screwed together with imagination and lacquered over with gallons of illusion hide the reality of extension cords and duct tape.

         Windows that once looked out over a lake now gaze down on an apartment across the street or face the alley out back where sounds bring life to sinister shadows.   Understandably it takes a village to raise a curtain.

         Limited by available space, doorways leading down to the gardens oft time require the actors passing through them to make immediate right turns, for instead of gardens, less than a foot of stage remains behind the door.   A sudden drop-off can give a completely new meaning to the phrase, “Break a leg.”

         This has been a glimpse into my activities this past week. My first experience at building a set has left my muscles sore and my body aching.   

I spent the entire day building walls and steps in very confined spaces, hanging windows that looked out onto nothing more than a backdrop all the while avoiding the reality that I was simply a volunteer.  I was not back out in the workforce earning my way but simply making believe.

Even though I have seen the smoke and mirrors I will still be drawn into the magic - the moment the lights dim and the curtain goes up.

zc

Things Remembered

          “As Gregor Samas awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.”

          That is the opening line in The Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka.

          As the Audi rested in the driveway during the summer I kept what I thought was a close eye on her health.  Full of oil and loaded with top of the line gas I exercised her around the block once a week, like you’d take a fine racehorse out for a run.  I wanted her to be fit and ready to face another winter.

          Soon after I began to drive her full time I noticed an exhaust smell inside the car.  “Nertz.”   I took her to Tuffy Muffler and informed them that I didn’t want to spend much on the repair.  I only wanted a Band-Aid.  I was thinking along the lines of maybe a $50.00 repair - there you go Sir, have a nice day.

          I soon found out that THEY were thinking, $1000.00 and oh by the way - we don’t have the parts.

          Annoyed at the lack of enthusiasm they showed in trying to solve the problem, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  At lunch time the following day I went to the grocery store and bought one of those large, aluminum roasting pans.  They are meant to be disposable.  Once you have roasted your turkey for your Thanksgiving meal you simply toss this roasting pan into the trash.

          This is flexible sheet metal, I thought to myself and it is resistant to heat so why not use it for a Band Aid?  So on Saturday morning; armed with my roasting pan, my tin snips and trusty car jack, I set out to fix the Audi.

          I pulled the Mustang out of the garage and pulled the Audi in.  I jacked it up as high as I thought safe and spread out a tarp.  I was ready. 

I knew that to just crumple a turkey roaster around a leaking muffler may be giving more credit to my crumple abilities than they deserved so I grabbed a handful of garbage ties and twisted them together making several long wire straps.

          I should mention at this point that when I pulled the car into the garage there wasn’t a lot of room on either side.  Sally’s Jimmy was on one side and the cement step leading up into the house was on the other.

          I opted to approach from the cement step side, so I laid on my back holding my turkey roaster, garbage ties, tin snips and flashlight and I scooted myself under the car.  It was soon apparent that I had not raised the car up as much as I should have.  It was a very snug fit and I had very little maneuverability.

          Having done as good a job as I thought I could, considering the amount of room I had, I now tried to scoot myself out from under the car.

 I was stuck.  I lay there on the garage floor - wedged between the bottom of the door panel and the cement step.  Kicking my feet in the air and waving my arms I tried to wiggle and twist to flip out of my predicament.

 It wasn’t working.   That’s when I remembered The Metamorphosis and this poor kid who had awoke to discover he had turned into a gigantic beetle and was kicking his many legs in the air as he tried to right himself.

          Ahhhh - Memories