From down here they are no bigger than birds flying through the air. Standing on the tarmac, right next to a fighter jet you begin to understand just how massive and complex they are.
Steel instead of feathers makes all the difference. I can only assume that is the first thing they teach you, never use feathers when building a fighter jet.
I’m thinking it is
the feathers that allows the birds to be much quieter than the planes as they
pass overhead.
Millie didn’t appreciate your letter. She had built an elaborate web inside my mailbox and the moment the postman slid your letter into the box, her home got torn apart.
Her kitchen is still a mess, and her family room remains crumpled into a heap over there in the corner. I tell you, she wasn’t happy.
Ordinarily spiders just rebuild after something ruins their home, but Millie had thought she had finally found the perfect location, sheltered from rain and snow, out of the wind and yet still warm from the sun. With the introduction of electronic mail, there has been a substantial reduction in junk mail showing up in the box. Really, she thought she had it made.
Snack-size insects were still finding their way into the mailbox, so there was never any worry about going hungry. There was no place inside where her sticky web didn’t reach. The tiny bugs never stood a chance.
Fortunately, she was away when it happened, so there were no injuries. I found out when I went out to check for mail. She had just returned from her trip out into the yard. I opened the little door to the mailbox and looked inside. She was very angry, standing there with her hand, and hand, and hand on her hip, tapping her foot, her foot, her foot and her foot.
I
quietly apologized and slid your letter out, trying not to cause any additional
damage to her web.
Thanks,
by the way, for writing.
Dear Millie,
I never meant to topple your home. I didn’t know my words would arrive like a storm. If I could have knocked politely on the mailbox door, I would have. If I could have tiptoed past your pantry, I would have. If I could have asked permission to enter your beautifully woven world, I would have.
I hope your kitchen finds its corners again. I hope your family room uncrumples with dignity. I hope the snack‑sized wanderers continue to wander in. And I hope your next web—whether in that mailbox or somewhere new—feels even more like home.
With respect, The Letter‑Sender Who Meant No Harm
I am easily bogged
down in philosophical entanglements such as the Trolley problem.
“Out of the crooked timber
of humanity
no straight thing was ever made.”
Immanuel Kant
I
see much philosophy as verbal exits.
Nothing more than circular conversations leading to higher ground in
hopes of keeping your shoes dry. Non-ending
searches for solutions that don’t exist, sprinkled with catch phrases that are
nothing more than temporary detours.
We
have built dead ends and roundabouts into our language. Colleges and universities continue to gather tuition,
reflecting the image of big business, all the time knowing the path to
knowledge remains under construction.
As
new technology attempts to blend with ethical behavior, the trolley picks up
speed and finding solutions becomes more pressing. Eventually it is no longer people tied to the
tracks but our way of life.
ZC
I believe that one of the things that make it Heaven is the absence of everyday annoyances, like whiskers constantly growing from your face. People finally learn to be happy with themselves and with what they have. Without our bodies there can be no disease or pain or injuries.
There is no such thing in Heaven as war or hunger or overcrowding. No one has ever frozen to death in Heaven and there is no pain of childbirth, but simply a tinkling of a bell and another angle is born. Your neighbors sit on porches that never require painting. The idea of money is completely foreign, and severe weather events only happen on Earth. How we were while alive and how we treated others – that is our permeant record and the only thing that follows us.
Yes, there is music,
although not like you think. It is both
gentle and familiar. It is not specific
to any people or culture but simply blends with the quiet that is harmony itself.
He looked as we do. He spoke as we spoke, in fact, most thought he was one of us. Proficient with the language and mannerisms and knowledgeable with our individual distinctions. He blended in perfectly, with a personality skilled in both seriousness and shenanigans.
The problem didn’t surface until his doctor told him to cut back on his salt intake. Review of his diet shed unfortunate light on his propensity for Coca-Cola. The consumption of which was off the charts. Never had he been seen when he didn’t have a Coke in his hand.
The professional guidance he was being given was completely based upon him being as we are. But he wasn’t, and it wasn’t long before the reduction of salt in his diet began to have serious effects. And it was on the advice of his physician that Coke disappear from his regiment. This proved to be devastating, physically and mentally.
His desire to please
those around him led him to follow the advice given, even though he could feel
the negative effects taking hold. He
knew that any attempt to convince others that his system was different than
theirs would not be taken seriously, so he didn’t even try, knowing full-well he was headed for a startling diagnosis.
On Mondays and Thursdays
No matter the day
I walk into town
It’s a footpath away –
I buy up a butter, an egg
And some booze
I pick up a bread and
yesterday’s news
My cabin’s decrepit
A shambles to see
But just out of town
It’s a castle to me –
I have me a table, a chair
And a light
And some glowie-eyed
creatures
That show up at night
I’ve got me a pencil, a
pad
And some chew –
I occasionally spit
After writing to you
For all that I have
There’s just one thing I
lack
A friend with a pencil
To just write me back –
Someone with a table
A bread and an egg
A folded up matchbook
Stuck under one leg –
A friend who could write
With nothing to say
And send it to me
Just a footpath away –
Then I’d have me a tree
With an old tripping root
The one that I curse
When I fall on my snoot –
I’d have all the things
On this glorious day
For I’d have gotten letter
from a footpath away –
It’s on cloudy Wednesdays
I strike up a fire –
I click up the lamp
Only one click up higher
I take out the book
Though I’ve read it before
–
And flip where I left off
No - one page before
The hero was chasing
Though he seemed to be
late
A villain already
Across chapter eight –
Tuesday’s of course
I mop up the floor
I sweep out the corners
Like never before –
And I oil the hinges
That hang every door
I load up the washer
With colors and brights –
Gather my sweats, my
shirts
And my whites –
Sprinkle in soap
As the water floods in
Then float half a lime
In a small glass of gin –
It’s Fridays, of course
That I love to see
The air it is fresh
The wind, it is free –
It’s a gift that delivers
The weekend to me
By Saturday night
My mind is adorning
The weekly events
That make Sunday Morning –
I arrange and embellish
I garnish and splash –
Add too many commas
An occasional dash –
I end it when I’ve
Not a thing left to say –
And wait for reply
from a footpath away.
ZC
There is a large hotel along the freeway. Because they want everyone traveling this way and that way to see their lovely hotel, they place large flood light pointing up at their building.
Two things happen. Travelers at night can easily see the hotel, and any guests inside can never fall asleep due to the bright lights flooding into their room.
Fortunately, their gift shop sold aluminum foil.
