They must have a Website

 

Even when the inkwell runs dry, the inside of the container remains black.  The darkness is permanent.  What’s been done cannot be changed.

I expect, having years of random thoughts spill out onto this blog will also leave a residue of sorts long after my mind seems at rest.

Should there be life after death, my spirit will continue to annoy anyone willing to listen.  Some say annoy, some say pester.  It seems my destiny to think.  Not necessarily anything brilliant, mind you, just an endless array of gibberish.  I think it’s an addiction.  Maybe there’s a group I could join, you know, get help to stop thinking.

 

I’ll look up Something.gov

 

 

Was this a test?

 

I was the first one in the lab this morning and it was already here, just floating above the table.  There was no sound or odor that I noticed, but as I moved slightly left, it moved.  If I eased over to my right, it moved as well.  It’s like it could see me.  It knew I was here.

What was this thing?  Did it just manifest itself from the chemical residue left behind from yesterday’s class?  Is it dangerous?  Suddenly I was sorry I arrived so early.  Where the heck is the instructor?  What am I supposed to do now?

 

 

There's little comfort in an oboe

 

It isn’t so much barometric pressure, or cloud cover.  Sometimes temperature has a little to do with it, but not always.  It is many things that combine to create that eerie feeling.  Its thick and hangs in the atmosphere like a wet sock.  No one is immune to it.   Horror films depend on it and writers, tucked away in their corners consume large amounts of coffee while under its spell.

Country music has ignored it completely.  In fact, there are no songs at all that sing of the dread, the potential gloom that eerie brings.  When it is eerie outside, a cold chill can run along your spine, a sudden shiver can hit you out of nowhere.  You keep looking over your shoulder, expecting the worst.  Your temper grows short, you’ve no time for that lame shopping cart or a visit from your mother-in-law, not today.

 

 

It's how we're made

 

We are designed to have some things slip through our fingers, to forget things now and then and to lose our grip when attempting to hang onto our youth.

 

 

The Sun

 

The Sun is the brightest thing in the sky.

It was formed about 4.6 billion years ago.

No one should touch it without gloves on.

If you do touch it, you should be checked

afterward for radiation.

You can adjust the intensity with these two

plastic things.

 

 

Bubbles at C

 

I discovered a friend.  It is a book, and it was on the last shelf, at the far end.  None of the books were alphabetical, I’m not sure why.  There were a couple things about this book that caught my attention.  Its location I found a bit odd, off by itself, standing there alone, away from the others, it seemed both brave and lonely at the same time.

Holding it, it felt substantial, but without being stuffy.  Even though it looked impressive, it didn’t feel pretentious.  I can usually tell when a book has been over-stuffed with $10.00 words.  This one felt down to earth, like maybe we had some shared experiences.  I find I can navigate around paragraphs and through rocky ideas better when the author and I have some common ground. Too many times, I have run aground on some shallow sentences and dropped the book like a rusty anchor.

The title, Never Wash Your Banjo, struck a chord with me.  It was silly and yet made sense.   The graphics on the cover were simple and maybe a tad Art Deco.  I flipped to the dedication and read it.  This book is a stray thought and has been written to no one in particular.  I loved it already. I couldn’t wait to read the first sentence.

 

 

 

Family Reunion

 

This is Scooter.  He has brothers and sisters but over time, has lost track of them.  It was through an odd set of circumstances that Scooter now finds himself in strange surroundings.  In fact, at the moment, he is very unsure of this tile floor.  It is solid but offers no traction.

A sudden and persistent rainstorm caused him to seek shelter, and a set of quick decisions, such as going left or right has landed him here.  Only Scooter knows what he has gone through, climbing over pipes and under cabinets, through sticky spider webs, all while under the cover of darkness.

Scooter has stopped in his tracks.  Suddenly he is in bright light, but it doesn’t feel warm like the sun.  It is odd and just a little scary.  He guesses it to be more like a 100-watt lightbulb.  He’d heard about those but until now has never been exposed to one.

Little does he know, Scooter’s next adventure will put him in contact with the completely different texture of paper towel.  Soft and pliable, and warmer than this cold, impersonal ceramic tile.  He will experience the feeling of movement, only to again find himself in unfamiliar surroundings, and hopefully reunited with lost family members.