My Grandfather Field Clock

 

It's how I knew it was 6:57

 

More of a Honk than a Squeak

 

I am sitting in a chair out in some field.  On my lap is a clipboard with several sheets of paper.  I am writing something.

Off in the distance I see you walking towards me.  I keep writing but every now and then I look up to check on your progress.  You are getting closer.

As you walk past me you are close enough to glance down to see what I am writing.  At that exact moment I am writing down the time.  It is 6:57 am.

As I watch you get further and further away, I can only imagine you are wondering why I am sitting out here writing down the time.

I am still writing, and it is just under an hour when I notice a second gentleman walking along your same trajectory.  As it is not a well-worn path through this field, I can only assume he is following you, perhaps trying to catch up to you.

Again, as he passes, he looks down at my clipboard to see what it is I am writing.  It is at this point that I find it reasonable to assume people are curious, for both men have looked to see what I am writing.

I didn’t immediately notice it, but this person did not continue on.  He stopped directly in front of me and is still watching as I write this.  This, of course, makes me self-conscious and so I stop writing.

Seeing I am bothered by his presence, he turns and walks on.  Now I am wondering just how much of what I have written did he actually read.  If he read enough, he now knows he is heading in the proper direction to catch up with the first person, and he is now aware that the first person pasted my location at exactly 6:57 am.

Am I now an accomplice?  Simply by being out here in this field have I placed the first man in danger?  Not having been instructed by some second party to sit out here I doubt I am some pawn, or that I have been duped.  This location and time were of my own doing.  I discussed it with no one.

If this is some elaborate scheme, I wonder how good I would be at describing each of the men that passed me.  I doubt I’d do very well.  The only thing that sticks out in my mind, and it is because he stopped right in front of me, were the second man’s shoes.  They were very large, even oversized, red clown shoes, with yellow laces.  And they squeaked with each step.

zc

 

Starry Starry Night

 

I thought I’d try engraving one of these posts just to see what would happen.  Turns out, no matter what font I use, I still need to come up with something blog-worthy to write about.

One of the things I’ve noticed, not that I’m trying to change the subject, is the amazing amount of stuff inside a book that I never read.

Of course, I read the main story, and usually the dedication page, but never do I read all of the blah, blah, blah added in by the publisher or their legal team.

 

 

Who has time to read all this, and why bother?  It doesn’t advance the story, there are no plot-twists, or cliff hangers.  It’s just all blah, blah, blah…

They don’t seem to do this type of thing in the art world.  I mean, never have I looked at the back of the Mona Lisa and seen some fine print warning about copyright laws or some frame builder taking credit for the wood around the painting.

 

I’m just saying…

 

 

 Note:

Although this post was made with

Engraved font, that style did not transfer

over to this program, so when reading it

please close your eyes and imagine the correct font.

Thank you

Roads Scholar

 

It's Always Something

 

Yesterday was one of those absolutely sleepless nights.  I lay there wide awake, getting more and more annoyed that I wasn’t falling asleep.  The temperature was perfect, it was quiet, and I was sure I had reached the end of my day, and yet – there it was, more day left.  The only difference was it was the dark part of the day.  The part usually designated for dreaming.  I was being cheated out of my dreams.

Okay, so maybe that last part wasn't exactly true.  I had spent a good part of the daylight hours day-dreaming what our country would be like if certain things happened.  Maybe more nightmares than dreams, I guess you’d say.

That must have been it, between the time change and the threat of total chaos running rampant, I must have gone to bed too worked up to sleep.  Well that’s just great.  Now if whatshisname gets in, I can expect the next four years to be comprised of tossing and turning, not to mention tossing my cookies.  Yikes!

I may have to join IA, insomniac’s anonymous.  I’ll need a sponsor.  I’ll need their 24 hour hot-line phone number, so I can call them whenever I feel myself starting to nod off.  No wait, I guess it would work the other way.  I would call them during the night when I was lying there staring up at the ceiling.  But then they’d get no sleep either.  That doesn’t seem fair.

Now THAT is going to keep me awake.

I Rest My Case

 

In the wee hours, when I am the only one awake, I use my old Webster’s dictionary.  It doesn’t ding when I open it.  It doesn’t accidently ring with a wrong number.  I get to keep working and everyone else gets to keep sleeping in.  The house remains quiet.

Here’s the thing; I can’t take a picture with it, I can’t look up the latest news headline, and I can’t talk to it.  All it can do is show me the correct spelling of words and what they mean.  Yes, perhaps you’re right; these are things I should already know.

Well – I can explain that.  You see, being a writer – my words are my tools.  There are more tools than will fit in my toolbelt.  I can only carry so many tools around with me.  Just like a carpenter may carry with him a hammer, a level, a square, tape measure, and one of those flat pencils that won't roll away when he sets it down.  I have to lug around very heavy nouns, extremely fast verbs and many, many conjunctions.  That, my friend, is just the tip of the iceberg. 

That doesn’t take into account the insane amount of punctuation needed to construct a single paragraph, and there could end up to be thousands of paragraphs within a simple story.

So you see, Timmy – unlike the carpenter who has to carry enough tools to build a ranch style house, a writer must carry tools adequate to construct story upon story, and not just with straight lines.  There are also twists and turns and even without a door he can find himself in a jam.  

 

I rest my case.

Question

 There is an office full of

theoretical physicists.

The boss walks in...

What do they do to look busy?

😕