If I Were a Pirate I'd Know

        You go through life thinking that it will never happen to you, but then ZAP!  There you are, sitting across from someone asking you to find the value of R.   I gave them the ole’ blank stare, but they did not budge; they just kept waiting for me to answer.

          Like I’m going to know algebraic equations.   Just tell me what folks would generally pay for an R and I will be able to determine its general value.   Just a guess, but I would say an R has greater value in Italy than say… Canada, but add in someone with a brogue and the value goes through the RRRRRoof.  

          Math and I have never made friends.  Like I’ve always said, there are three kinds of people, those good at math and those who aren’t.  Even in school the instructor would give me a story problem, and I would instinctively tack on another chapter.   The only thing I learned was that math teachers have a negative sense of humor.

          In addition, if I had to make my living calculating electrical depletion through a 7” 12 gauge wire, a 1-amp resister, and a 1” X 2 “X 3” copper bar, well you would have to count me among the ohm-less.

“So you see, Timmy, if you reverse the equation, then R becomes 25, and N stays in Chicago - missing the train completely.” 

Bucket List

Had I the time and talent, I would learn to strum an old front porch guitar.  I would make up songs as I went along, entertaining anyone who happened to linger.  If I had the resources, I'd travel down south.  I would sit in a local café just to listen to the slow, southern accents, feeling my own blood pressure and stress level calm down  (and I would have some pie).

Somewhere in the back of my mind I have this running list of things that fall under the category of, one of these days.   Over the years, of course, some of the items on this list have changed.  Even the ones that have held on the longest haven't always kept their original position.  As my personal likes and dislikes change, my list makes priority adjustments.  The time of year also affects these items, for as July and August draw near my desire to head to southern states diminishes.

I have no inclinations towards space exploration, sailing, mountain climbing, or exploring religious philosophies.  The items on my list have always been the simple pleasures, like finding the perfect cookie, learning Italian, to photograph someone's face for a chance of capturing unsullied human expression, or simply sitting with friends - hearing about the things on their list.

As most of you know, the one thing that has never fallen from my list is to take a little time every day to play with words.  The written word to me holds all of the treasures found within human thought.  Its bounty extends beyond all margins, in soft, colorful strokes, or can be as sharp as a wedge of cheese, expressed in a harsh, regrettable tone.  Words, when arranged just right, can evolve into brilliant stage plays that pull us through rivers of emotions, even though we never once leave our chair.  Words, when sinisterly manipulated by advertisers, can gnaw away at us, forcing us to remember their product.  

I believe there to be an agonizing plight in the hearts of true poets.  It is a weight never lifted, a passion fueled by both love and rage.  It is perhaps their very soul slowly leaking through the tip of the pen, leaving behind what some would see as excess droplets of ink, but are in fact small fragments of items that once resided on an old and tired list. 

Not all that philosophical

Reflections

My concern is about that old man.  He follows me -

always there, with his worn clothing and

ragged manners.

He seems to know me.

His hands are course - having gripped

the wooden wheelbarrow handles over

years of dirt and rock.  His shoes

like those of a barbers -

worn with miles -  yet

having gone nowhere.

He concerns me when I look at him.

What is it he wants?  Where is he

going?  What thoughts are hidden

behind those eyes?

I just may confront him

the next time we

shave.

They’re Contagious

            Standing at the kitchen counter threading olives onto a sterling silver pick  gave me a momentary flash of my Dad trying to show me how to put a worm on a hook.   

        I hate fishing and I never did do that whole worm thing.  It gave me the Willies. 

        So much so that even the remembrance of it caused me to hesitate putting those olives into my Martini.  But I did it.

            I think that once you’ve had the Willies you never get rid of them.  They may lie dormant for several years, but trust me, they’re still there.   

           I’ve looked through many a medical book to better understand the Willies and much to my disappointment I got even more Willies seeing some of the photographs.  A doctor I’ll never be.  

            Different things give different people the Willies.  What might give me the Willies may not affect you at all.  Other things might send you right through the roof, while I just calmly place my hand over my beverage, keeping the plaster dust from contaminating it.

         I’m not sure if our Willie susceptibility levels differ do to our DNA or if it is simply a random, Darwinian phenomenon. 
  

         Now you see?  The last two words of that last sentence, seen together like that  just gave me the Willies all over again.

            Its sort of like seeing someone chew on a piece of tin foil.  There, see what I just did?  Now you’ve got the Willies.

Left Alone

There is a self-serve ice-cream bar

at the Mall.

I watched a person fill the small container

with two healthy scoops

of Vanilla.

Then, walking so slowly -  with

such deliberation -

choose topping after topping.

Hot fudge, sprinkles - chopped

peanuts and tiny M&M type candies -

Half way around and the hand holding the cup

could no longer be seen.

Covered with Caramel - dripping with Hot

Fudge, and shredded coconut.

He was leaving a trail for all to follow.

His face held signs of various samples.

He had paid his money and now

determined, was going to get his

money’s worth…

I sat and watched

from a distant table -

A child

on tip-toes - reaching…

he wasn’t.  He was at least 60.

He was involved with his project.

Consumed.

The kid inside him had found his way to

the surface -

and his wife was still off shopping.

In Summation...