small words, big ideas
“It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn’t use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like “What about lunch?” ―A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
1 Zen Bits and Bones
“If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable—what then?” ―George Orwell, 1984
1.1 Para Prose
some novelty can be expected; some expectations, novel
I wrote a story about an amnesiac, but forget where I put it. It’s a short story: Come Home. Says it all, although I’m still working on the title.
It’s a sequel I wrote on recycled paper. First one was: Recursive Function. It went on and on. I wrote it in long-hand. Well, at first left-hand, but that didn’t seem right.
It’s on lined paper. For a new angle, I gave it a turn. Now all the letters line up, like they’re in jail. There’s an edition with a semicolon in the tech section.
Both are biographies for the anonymous reader. I left the dedication page blank. It’s lined, so fill in your own spaces. Much like life.
My next story is Anything’s Possible, a love story about global warming. The uncommonly hot as a cure for the common cold; or why it’s better to pick battles while they’re still smaller than you are.
1.2 Angel of Ease
to be busy abstaining is not the not doing of refraining
I didn’t leap a tall building this morning. I’m not that super guy. I didn’t find the last irrational digit, and would’t even try.
Didn’t do two things at once, or even one thing twice. (Although when it comes to helpings, a second might be nice.)
I didn’t do and don’t plan to, but that doesn’t mean refraining. You’d think this more than onerous, but I can not-do without straining.
I have to be selective in what I choose not to do with a measure of intention. It’s easier to inventory omissions without the overhead of paying attention.
1.3 Wide Bowls
form finds function
Wide bowls are so pretty, balanced to never tilt. Porcelain or crystalline, wide bowls look well built.
Cracked bowls might seem silly, wearing a lace of glaze. But fit for what’s put in, they really rock display.
1.4 Pears
what I have depends on what counts and how I count it
I have pears. Some pears. Four. I have four pears. If you take away a couple, I have a couple. Yet I didn’t have a pair of pears before. Fewer pears, but something more.
Moving two from me to you creates a couple couples where a single quadruple used to be. You can’t take a pair as that’s four. Not a couple, but a couple more.
Now you have the pair of pears I never had before. I have zero pears. Zero number; not some or any. ‘How many’ is none. I have no pears. Pears I have, yet not a one.
1.5 Special
original, not typical
Rocks, socks, and water drops. Any closed link in a chain. Icon hearts, replacement parts, strangers riding the train. Swapping out still amounts to a value much the same.
Chess kings, guitar strings, sections of sewer pipe. Individuals are typical if usual for that type. Even pears—at least when they’re alike in being ripe.
Joy arrives when one derives that certain something special. Could be rare or common as air, but must be the original. They’re worth more than before and joyful when they’re personal.
First day of spring, a wedding ring ever dear to my heart. My baby’s socks, moon rocks, historical works of art. A winning ticket. This very minute. Specially set apart.
1.6 Dying Light Bulb
naming the darkness is finding a kind of light
When a dying light bulb pops there is a puff and hiss, and lingering odour of ozone, reminiscent of something spent. Call it the scent of metallic carrion.
I wonder about the flash, and rush of air that catches fire on a hot filament, severing the coil that lit but did not burn. Call it a burning bush in a bulb.
I imagine ancestral wonder, abutting the marvels of nature, saw no edge in human grasp, by calling it magic or miracle. Call it control by making a label.
Such was the task in the garden, to give name, to give existence in language for earthly wonders. And so we have wandered little from garden path to the myth of a dying light bulb.
1.7 Intro to Hex
discovery has its price
The hottest flames this side of hell flick from a hole on a hill nobody noticed much. Not until something started streaming out. People started changing. Not dying. It wasn’t that kind of invasion. ( Well, some did. Green globs aren’t edible. Discovery has its price. )
Most folks dummied down, regressing to primitive habits. Living off the land, writing haiku, eschewing the Internet. What goes for ‘primitive’ to others. It took some time to trace their habits to the hole. Habits for a long while ascribed to a fad diet.
It took a while to trace the hole as the source of green gobs of flotsam from another world. Meanwhile, they spread skyward into a net. Under its shadow IQ diminished, along with good reading light. The net effect was a negligible annoyance that meant re-routing traffic. Except for those under it’s shadow, for whom traffic was now a future invention.
This was more unsettling because what came out of the hill wasn’t in the hill. It came from another world. Some place that stood evolution on its head, engineering a way to lower intelligence. A very sophisticated way to become the opposite of sophisticated.
The hole is now guarded by these flames, hottest this side of hell. Guardian flames at the portal set to scorch whatever emanates from that other world. To burn with fury and burn forever. It says so on the plaque posted by the hole. Until something more flame retardant pokes itself out, the hill is secure.
The hole itself wasn’t a mistake. It was a happy accident of sorts. The result of a discovery that transformed human interaction. That would be the Way of the Hex. The Way is a catalogue of patterns. Hand shapes traced out in sequence while thinking, not saying, certain sounds.
Some sheep farmer ( it’s always a sheep farmer ) gestured toward his wandering stock. He had nothing in mind but what he later described as those eerie sounds, you know the kind made on a Theremin. Oooh eee aaaah ooh. A roar ripped outward, a tad beyond arms length, and through Eunice, his prize ewe, into the hill and beyond. It was from beyond that the green IQ altering globs flew.
As luck would have it, the shepherd recalled the sound sequence. Recalling the precise pattern of gestures was a matter of trial and error. Trials conducted, by then, under the auspices of men with dark suits, serious shoes, and a large pool of water. Something about water makes it impervious to Hex.
This blast into another dimension was only one type of Hex. A blast into the beyond. The hole isn’t in the hill so much as in reality. Cement can’t fill the void. Nothing fills nothingness. A nasty hot flame only helps with inter-world traffic control.
Other hexes are now known. Sounds of all sorts qualify, as do the strangest of gestures. What results is levitation, combustion, headache cures, and memories to vanish. So far no teleportation, mind reading, or raising from the dead. Although serious-shoed people are working on them.
There are hexes that make a person ignored. Invisible, after a fashion, like hiding from a school-yard bully. Another will slow every tiny bit of a person to a halt and leave it that way while the world turns at its natural pace. When one so frozen moves again, time has moved on for him or her. The Statue Hex is time travel of a sort, always forward, never aging.
Many spells seem half baked, as if needing another ingredient. A pop or whoof, shimmer, wail or stench. But otherwise no noticeable change. At least not in this world. It may be there was payback in the beyond. ( There was, and debts would mount. )
As seems to be in the genetics of humanity, it was the less humane of this grimoire that first found application. Trial and error accumulated a catalogue of delights — and horrors. People took to weaponizing the Way of Hex. Holdups and hostage-takings with Hex. Hex wars loomed. The world took to an uneasy peace. One where everybody could exterminate everyone else with a well-placed grimace. Schools of Thought speculated on hex sneeze, hexing between mirrors, and hymns for hex.
No hex ever required more than one person to cast. Gestures made by hand and eye movements can be difficult to detect. Especially behind dark spectacles. Cool looks that could kill.
There are counter-hexes and those versed in the ways of counter-hex hired out. Throwing up bullet-proof shields against those who would cast harm from afar. Politicians adopted counter-hexers into their entourages. Entertainers followed suit.
Outro was the name given to one who would counter-hex. Often as guard to somebody above his or her pay-grade. Protection against some unsavoury Intro hexer. Outros cast invisible walls of bulletproofing as the star exits the building. A wall of water would do the same, but outros are much more mobile.
Arthur is an outro. He isn’t very good at it, but so far there has been no real test of his skills. Arthur got the gig by being the only candidate to not die during the interview. It lasted less than sixty seconds. A few are still frozen and it will be an awfully long minute for them. Arthur was the one lucky enough to not be standing in front of a reflecting pool.
Also, Arthur’s left-handed. That puts a spin on his hex. They produce little more than a pop, or a wicked odour. Arthur excuses himself rather than acknowledging his hexing flops. It was one such flop that caught the attention of the wife of a well placed Minister of Misinformation. Things would never be the same again. Truth told, they never were to begin with. This was the Ministry of Misinformation, after all. If you can believe that.
2 Matters of Perspective
“We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorns have roses.” ―Alphonse Karr, A Tour Round My Garden
2.1 Web of Wishes
wishes won’t work unless we do
A web of wishes by a million monks cannot lift a leaf a hair’s breadth in the air. The sum of human hope cannot change a moment past or shift a summer breeze. Yet petition is making ready to make do. Petition to and the recipient is you. Petition for and desire leans into deeds (for all the good they will do).
2.2 Against the Rain
to keep on top, do not affront
How fast should I run in the rain to keep most dry? The least time for my head to wet against the sky.
But not so fast to move into a greater wall of rain. Protect the heart using the smart shield of my brain.
2.3 Hack
bound to keep others free
Adam Baum is a computer geek; hacks mainframes to have a peek.
No firewall can yet resist him. One day he hacks a missile system.
He could disarm every warhead or the just offensive nukes instead.
Tell the military about security? Would they even listen to me?
Or come a’knocking at my door; secret agents to settle the score.
Best to leave no evidence. Was never here and no footprints.
Adam leaves the hack in place, but looks to halt the nuclear race.
A shut-down code of his creation, disarming missiles of every nation.
They will find him eventually, this Adam bound to keep us free.
2.4 For This I Sing
even freedom has a price
I am kept for my song. Kept for my plumage. Kept because I am small and easy to keep. I am caged, but it is not a prison to me. For here in the deep, men sing and I answer.
My double breath-full song must be wonderful. When I pause, they run from the tunnels to carry me into the light of fresh air for my song. Mine, and they’re mine.
I do not rise with the wind or seek a mate. I do not need a nest or forage for seeds. Nor am I prey to snakes or hawks. I am clean and fed and full-throated with purpose.
Better to be the indentured harbinger of hazards in exchange for a life of clean? To fly high if briefly, or to sing of freedom? Depends which side of the cage is asking.
( coal miner photo credit Library of Congress )
2.5 Uncle’s Riddle
slowly going madly
I’m barricaded in the library. Uncle’s Last Will reads like riddles. Cousins crush to pound down the door. Everybody quiet or I’ll call security. I’ll wait for the thump of a battering ram. I’ll toss the place to find his dire read.
My silence meets with a rising hiss. Smoke snakes up the vent. A door slams and creaks open again. I’ll put my shirt over the floor vent, I will—find my phone—I will push the desk under the window.
No shirt. No smoke. No way to open the ledge window. Dusty index card, may be numbers. I’ll give you the library, you set me free. I’ll pull the alarm. I’ll pocket the card.
The phone in my shirt’s a smoky brick. But no alarm except one I hear, I hear no offer from the other side. I’ll bash the window with this brick. I’ll slide the card down the vent. I’ll slide out the atlas binding the doors.
A klaxon blasts all thoughts to bits. Bits of voice hit the door. Door slam demands be gone before we’re back. I’ll take the phone, the smokey shirt. I’ll take in uncle’s too-tidy library, his careful classification system.
Language section special topics. A 404 cannot be found, of course. Unless obscuring its-shelf, ha ha. I’ll use the atlas for protection. I’ll wait until somebody hears the alarm. I’ll bolt banshee free of the library.
Foolish ruse—tight as thieves, they tumble in. Atlas across, quick lock the door. I’ll snap the breaker and quiet the klaxon. I’ll saunter into town, intersection of hidden and plain site. I’ll ignore their siren screams. Hush.
2.6 P queue R
privacy is in going out or allowing in
Harold shifts his weight to the other foot. A post office stand-still. Eight people ahead. He already read through a personal letter, astonished people still send them. That and a flyer collected earlier from his box.
Another letter requires clarification, which requires queuing. And watching the clerk in the only open wicket whisper to patrons. Some sign. Some dig in pockets for documents. Not all recover the requisite treasure.
Harold holds a door knocker to trade for an expected parcel. He didn’t answer the knock yesterday. He doesn’t answer any day. Harold dislikes the world penetrating his space. Better he should enter it instead.
2.7 Færie Height
the work world passes around those won’t work with it
The in-laws, færie height and misplaced among the day-shift, measure their world on variations of what it is not. It is not fair. It’s not their way. It is not listening. Stubborn like that, the world presses on and those of the day-shift walk around them. I have tried to intervene. I’m told what I said isn’t what they meant. Yet I suspect I take their meaning even if—færie height and in no true measure—they do not.
3 Life at the Crossroads
“Crying is all right in its way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.” ―C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair
3.1 Vote
favouring the familiar
Oppressed for half a century, people forgot themselves. Staggering lost identity. Released, but feeling expelled.
Can one yearn for what’s forgotten, casting a conscious choice? Parties rolled dice of human bones, gambling liberty’s voice.
One candidate would advocate unions, the press and arts. Opposing stood the status quo’s familiar darkened heart.
No victory toll for liberty. Silence shackled the island. Born in a cage, yearn for the cage. Voters clung to their tyrants.
3.2 Goat Meal
categorical versus hypothetical
Emma Frayed is a geologist and part of a scientific team. Stranded in the mountains, their life became extreme.
Days pass, no sign of rescue. Rations dwindle down to none. Goats are spotted near the camp. The team could feast on any one.
They ask her help in luring a goat. Except the goat, all will live. Vegan Emma must eat her rules—or they may take what she won’t give.
3.3 Tradesfolk
fate favours those prepared to accept it
A century ago, in the oldest city still inhabited, in a ritual marking end of the work week, farmers still brought fare to market.
Across long wooden tables they slid fruits of the earth, drew back tools forged of steel and sweat, and sometimes passed between them unmonitored deals.
By mid-morning Luco’s stall was empty. It was always empty by day’s end, but seldom before noon. A day and a night to make their own choices.
A pocket of payment and a day and the night to spend it. The choice of moment was just that—momentous—and Luco chose this moment to play the long tables.
Seated, face down and arms forward, he pushed the small burlap of earnings across the table. There he shared the whisper song to seal the deal.
“I dreamed of being a galaxy, orders of magnitude away. To my surprise, I realize the stars are hours we count each day.”
Sitting up, his fingers unfurled a spokeshave with a stone blade. And with it, the trade of his monger’s stall for a place in the tower among the archers.
3.4 Alan, Sage, Luke, and Zola
touching the world touches back
Alan
Retired and feeling past his prime, Alan waded through fog of time. Some success of course, mixed with lows of loss. Yet ever puffing the next incline. Unrequited in frustration, Alan came to the realization that what’s now matters most. That life’s joys are exposed by living choices of our design.
Sage
When Sage found a place to the east, most friends were delightfully pleased. Others grumbled of loss. Now who’d cover their costs, or ensure their whims were appeased. But such contacts m’lady would lose, learning friends are folks she can choose. The ones who’re true will be there for you, to accept and encourage with ease.
Luke
A lad from a farm growing wheat, had a talent for mechanical feats. From lawn mower to tractor, he’d peg what’s the matter by hearing them ping, bong or tweet. In time this man settled down, as mechanic in a small port town. It was there a cruise ship, whose engine was whipped, he fixed so it pounds to a beat.
Zola
Raised with patriotic pride, Zola took success as proof that truth was on her side. Starry-eyed volunteering, helping those even unwilling, she urged them follow—herself as guide. But those she helped, helped her more to see that pride’s a path to war. When we touch others we feel the wonders of letting the outside world inside. Zola settled into a caring assistance made by tech overcoming distance. A listening outreach, letting others confess stories held righteous by their success.
3.5 Remains to Returns
what we do with what we have shows what we are
Moving the oak table, I bumped the light fixture into a crystal wave, transforming two of the cylinders. The clerk made a suggestion that took me by surprise, leaning in to whisper and look me in the eye.
Could be she was projecting personal experience. Then again, this might pass for common business practice. Take another box. Use the parts you need. Take the rest to Returns. Refunds guaranteed.
3.6 Triumphant
to the unhinged, reason is madness
There is one you cannot dispatch, the monger said with an even tone. Before the mad king and his court packed by partisans of last resort, she stood accused. She stood alone.
Infuriated by her lavish claim, the old fool’s oath so harsh that feeble minds turned away. There are those to this day who say even the executioner blushed.
In the eye of his storm, the market seller spoke swiftly to ensure, though her life appeared forfeit, his unhinging would yet be set, if reason would have the last word.
Beyond your grasp in this court, stands one who is your better. For m’lord, despite your gall, you can away with us—me or all—but never dispatch your successor.
3.7 Glossolalia
what we don’t know we fear
Sorry to wake you, sir. There is a development.
The surface is rock, but not all above is cloud. The atmosphere’s alive with foggy whale-like forms, like cetaceans in the sky. Some of our crew members speak with them: the Quarrian, of the once-lost Quarry people. They have no words outside their experience. To the Quarrian, round-square can’t be imagined or even said. Their glossary expands with encounter. New words for new worlds; a leap of language acquired upon contact. Moments ago Quarrian crew met sky-osaurs. Each added words, but we have no equivalents. They share sensory experiences with the aliens, like bees see ultraviolet to guide them to plants. Much more of a world might they see than we. Security says to suppress the indecipherable. Neither cloud creature or Quarrian will answer. Suppress which or the other—your orders, sir?
4 Wrestling Momma Nature
“I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.” ―Frank Lloyd Wright, Truth Against the World
4.1 Redwing
first sign or sure sign
Her chit-chit tier-tier-tier and the male’s shrill oak-a-lee mark avian space, on cattail stalks over wetland territory. A call to them. A sign to me.
They’re not the first to sing in spring. Still, their song is said to be light-house sure. For this, perhaps, they merit the epaulets of gold and red.
4.2 Seasoning
life is most visual when listening to it
Autumn amorous skunk, dark as days past and ever the scent ’er of attention, hasten behind mirthless pumpkins where red face maples leaves-drop and bare no more to wear summer.
Winter pitter-patter of a little sleet might be polite to deer mice torporing on burrowed time, though less so to icy slide-walkers who’d rather not have to shave their windshields.
Spring lilacs, swaying to the fuzzy beat of a breeze of bees awaiting their first swarm weather, are never as outdoor-able as May be shadows of looming bloom.
Summer squirrels burying summer under buttons of mushrooms in merry gold meadows, shared with a pride of dandelions and dusk, arrive as quietly as first star I see tonight.
4.3 Katja
happy puppy memories
No space, no place, no area. Nowhere to put them all. Placed on a shelf, they rock back-and-forth, and soon begin to fall.
Woof, doggy-dog. Woof, doggy-dog. Woof, say woof, say woof.
Good tunes, our fortunes, best I recall, were adventure. And laughter, we shared with us all.
( Katja, Katie, Moon Doggy Dog — from 7 weeks to 17 years )
4.4 Leaving the Circus
simple solutions are most appealing
You can’t resist the circus. It pulls out of town tomorrow, but what has your attention isn’t the clown running the show. It’s the outrage of the cage.
You can best a lock without a key, but the get-away won’t be as easy. A guard encircles the circus, rattling the cages every few minutes.
You’re as captive as the animals in it—until Ms monkey slips something incidental from her inventory. Giving the slip to Mr security and setting the simian family free.
Leaving the Circus as a declaratory story. There is a small town near a waterfront. It has a football field surrounded by stands, which are empty. The field has entrances to the north and south, each closed by a gate. On it is a travelling circus, which consists of a big-top, trailers, wagons, equipment, and rides. There are separate wagons for the animals: lions, tigers, monkeys, and elephants. The time of day is dusk, near dark. A male security-guard encircles the circus every hour. He carries a flashlight, shining it into the wagons and sheds and stands. A woman enters the field by jumping the gate to the south. She carries tools to pick wagon locks, which requires working inside of each wagon. The woman slips between bars of a wagon of monkeys. Monkey screeching attracts the attention of the guard, who runs their direction. One of the monkeys drops a banana outside of the wagon. The guard slips on the peel, knocking him out, giving the woman time to unlock the wagons. The animals, set free, roam through the town and gather along the waterfront at dawn.
4.5 Pavlov’s Pantry
it isn’t always clear who is on which rung of evolution’s ladder
Lady bugs by the dozens litter the veranda and I have to step over their carcasses or endure the crunch of tiny epitaphs. Perhaps there’s some warm migration or mating mission of which I’m unaware,else October’s innocent of their undoing.
I want to take a few gone-stale mixed nuts to the chipmunk who lives in the rockery and bounces home proudly to his family. Oh what a marvellous hunter you are, father. If it’s not crackers or bread crusts, we feast on delicious detritus of mix nuts.
You’d think other animalia of the estate would want a cut of the stale proceeds and do a little feeding-time surveillance. Seems not, although I do put the spoils under a wicker chair, out of rain’s harm, and still suspect the Jays of petty larceny.
Grocery pick-up is on the grab and go, except for when Mr decides to bark at me. At me! There—in my wicker chair, not his. Sitting and not fetching them foodstuffs. The ounce of him! So up and off I toddle to Pavlov’s pantry.
4.6 Rocky
intersection of life and path
Recall walking the trail-way with the pups two in tow, just past the intersection south to the old apple orchard, where that nice young couple took over the farm, as a gift from her parents despite no prior skill set, making a success of it until she drowned on their first ever vacation, leaving him lost in a fog of routine driving each day, delivering fresh pickings for squeezing into cider, pressed to say hello at that intersection where two large pilings, fit to tye up an ocean liner, guard the pathway on the east side of the roadway, the same day one served as turret bed for a ratty racoon, unafraid out at noon, preventing safe passage beside his chugging truck, pinned for an end faster’n we walk to phone the animal shelter, pleading please tend to rabid Rocky, colossus of posts, walking east, along the intersection of life and path.
4.7 Pseudo Farm
objects re-oriented
The farm is a class of place where the focus is mostly nature ( this translates to a lot of manure, the allure of which makes it a feature ). Contains animals and sheds ( most being unsaid, consider them background furniture ).
An animal, as a class of beings, has a set of features, like feelings, hunger, energy, and mood. Makes sounds, mostly crude, and other effects less appealing.
On dawn send ‘sunUp’ to everyone, set a countdown timer to ‘dusk’ ( treat ‘dawn’ as ‘firstLight,’ ‘dusk’ as ‘twilight,’ ‘everyone’ as animals greater than none ). Increment hours by one and cue the rooster, the day has begun.
The rooster is a kind of animal. On ‘sunUp’ follow script to be audible. Go to the barn roof, ‘cock-a-doodle’ the troops, increase your status as spectacle. On ‘dusk’ hop down to the barnyard ground ( under cover of dark, none can see that you are un-flying and yet un-flappable ).
The pig is a kind of animal, that says ‘oink-oink’ twice minimal. On hearing ‘cock-a-doodle’, waddle to the trough. If the trough is full, eat until this piggy’s had enough; else enter the shed, drink unleaded instead, this piggy becomes inflammable ( terrible mistake on piggy’s part, now served as bacon a la carte ).
The cow is a kind of animal, compared to the pig more rational. On ‘sunUp’ say ‘moo’ ( not entirely true, more like ‘mrurrp’ like a burp gone casual ).
The trough is a kind of tool, that’s long and empty too, until filled on ‘sunUp’ by the farmhand ( signed up to become a farmer — or rather, an ‘agriculture entrepreneur’ ).
5 Objects of Interest
“Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.” ―Philip K. Dick, I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon
5.1 Grapes
the grape has paths
Thimbleful balloons of sugar water around seeds that make me pucker, these low-hanging red-blue clusters transform to wizened snacks of raisins, good for salads or cookie decorations. I prefer mine less dehydrated, poured the colour of the original clusters.
5.2 Eclectic
in diversity there is unity
The love seat’s crush on the recliner, went unrequited as he had no desire, to kick back with any two seater, or sofa that doubles as sleeper.
With you beside me, together seat three. Her plea was gentle, supple. Discreet.
The recliner declined, but was open to friendship, for he’d already chosen another room member. Same cloth. The ottoman’s company he sought.
A room of diversity, the mirror reflected, works when each piece is uniquely accepted.
5.3 Vintage
what you see depends on what you seek
My father kept a vintage phone and a box I was told, as a child, is a camera. It says Brownie on it. Everybody asked whether they work. ‘That depends’ — and they’re compelled to inquire: on what. On what you’re looking for.
Mother’s answer made more sense. They’re good for collecting dust—and questions. But I knew she knew another reason, the one my father kept.
Today I have the camera and a sense of the answer my mother knew. I was looking for something of my father. Not hardware. The answer at which others shrug is not easily ignored. It depends on what you’re looking for.
5.4 Lazy Nature
Nature would have you stay as you are.
Try picking up a big rock. It doesn’t move easily. Now picture a soccer ball kicked to infinity.
Objects of nature prefer to stay as they are. Holding still when at rest and on the run, once begun. That’s the nature of objects, from atom to star.
Nature makes no effort to change in this way. It’s safe, in this sense, to say she’s lazy.
The Latin for lazy is inertia. Vice versa, staying the course unless the object is otherwise forced. So Nature is lazy to change the ways of her nature.
5.5 Outage
less careless appreciation
Whizzing tiny planets, easily taken for granted until they’re still and fill the world with silence. Wednesday’s world was too: reliant upon the electron to power the lines of life. No doubt heroic crews, scrambling for any clues, will trace the place in need of a splice or two. Until then I’ll do my part, silent in the dark, as miser of a battery and care for it less-ly.
5.6 Print Dept.
continuity of identity
The print department started in a much simpler age. That was before my time, of course. Mimeos were still the rage.
Indego ink to dot matrix to text layered with light. Survival meant adapting from vellum bond to byte.
Now with holographic printing all flow of ink has stopped. Instead of being a print department, we’re now a print-toy shoppe.
5.7 Sarah at Seven
tragedy finds a home in memory
Sarah’s seventh birthday bash saw Sarah blow life into two big, beautiful balloons. There was no third. Choking. Squeaking. Arms flapping around the room.
Parents, barking across the snow, pleading with Sara—seizing before frozen friends. We wanted to help. (We wanted to watch.) Watching was our mistake.
Sarah at 7 ages no more, and the mind’s eye never averts from balloons on a party floor. An awful accident, a bash turned wake. But bearing witness was our mistake.
6 We are Our Choices
“Choices made, whether bad or good, follow you forever and affect everyone in their path one way or another.”―Jennifer Spredemann, An Unforgivable Secret
6.1 Which Rather
were wishes facts, would we agree
Largest fish in a little pond or swimming in the world beyond.
Big person on a small campus or red dot on a blank canvas.
Jack of all trades or master of one. Old with wisdom or start out young.
A lone wolf or run with the pack. Top card played or highest in stack.
Were wishes facts, would we agree which is better or the best to be?
6.2 Show of Hope
the biggest lies we tell are to ourselves
Today’s performance: the East Street line. To my surprise, it’s running on time.
Recent protests and a show of force; peace-out my peeps, the truth is worse.
Back of the bus and sit on the EDGE, or flash the driver my courier’s BADGE.
EDGE: My medical case, a treasure chest to conniving eyes I’d have to pass.
BADGE: Plexiglass cage behind the driver, a seat some call The Lone Survivor. Its own side exit, if that need be, installed for those transporting vaccine.
The driver asks if I am a DECOY. That kind of question I’d rather AVOID.
DECOY: Driver leans forward, desperate to hear. A blank expression’s my only answer.
AVOID: The trials fail, it mutates again. I’m holding out hope of holding hope in. This isn’t a run as much as parade, couriers dispatched and put on display.
The driver pulls over, a wall to the side. I’ll take that case, now you don’t mind.
Open the door, hand over the CASE. or stay in place, keep silent and WAIT.
CASE: Riders turn rioters, that’s why this cage; hard-learned lessons of past rampage.
WAIT: ‘Last warning,’ mace can pressed to door, ‘my family is ill, can’t take any more.’ We’re all afraid, I start to explain. ‘Don’t gimmie that crap’a feel my pain.’
Trigger the case and hand it OVER or ignore the threat and feign COMPOSURE.
OVER: A ruse of force as empty as the case, blue dye would envelop the driver’s face.
COMPOSURE: Silence on silence, the driver retreats; the bus starts moving and plea repeats.
Keep up the pretence some greater GOOD or admit the truth that you MISUNDERSTOOD.
GOOD: A tool for others, mongers of hope, riding for show, a placebo to cope.
MISUNDERSTOOD: I see the strength of your compassion, the devil we know is less than imagined.
6.3 Last Commute
little wheels are as important as big hands
Toss the bag on over head rack. Hand combing hair still jet black. Last commute, sighed with dismay. Tension is high, unsafe to stay.
He staggers in holding his side. Message, password; must confide. Plot, summit — shouts next door. Falters out, blood on the floor.
Paper dropped, an old dialect. Whiff of pickles is what you detect. Investigate the noise next DOOR, or peek into the CORRIDOR.
DOOR: Might that provoke an incident, blood drops not seen as innocent?
CORRIDOR: Guards are working each compartment, now’s the time to make an exit. Dining car, mingle and LOST, or lavatory straight ACROSS.
LOST: Soldiers have the pathway blocked. You’ll be noticed, likely stopped.
ACROSS: Leave a help note somewhere in HERE, or wet a wad of tissue PAPER.
HERE: Anyone can find the note, and likely not the ones you hope.
PAPER: Wiping away the tell-tale drop, you spy a bottle of BLEACH and MOP.
MOP: The mop affords a passing grimace, as mopping would be too suspicious.
BLEACH: Peroxide makes spots disappear. Photograph the doc and wipe it clear. Stash the photo chip SOMEWHERE, in your bag or in your HAIR.
SOMEWHERE: To soldiers doing random checks a photo chip would be suspect.
HAIR: Black on black, dark of night, hide the chip out in plain sight.
At the terminal, a girl and beggar, both with Old Speak words to utter. ‘Mehe cucrunch, proclaims HE. ‘Da nebe saltube,’ whispers SHE.
HE: Cucumber crunch, pickle cup. Ploink the chip, the beggar’s up. Monitor news about the summit. No news — good news, no incident.
SHE: Salt tube is wrong, on second thought, but she runs swiftly, can’t be caught. Later a bulletin about the summit. It seems there’s been an incident.
6.4 Mind Frames
roles people play
When as nurse, mentor, or saviour, I am in charge and accountable. I am custodial, care-giving, rescuing; so please, seek my advice or favour.
When a coach, judge, or boss of you, I’m in charge and you’re accountable. I am directive, controlling, critical; so ask me what I want you to do.
When as partner, teammate, or friend, we are equals in charge of ourselves. I am cooperative, curious, sensitive; so ask for my interests or opinion.
When a patient, subordinate, or guest, you, as one in charge, account for me. I am submissive, compliant, needy; so wrap facts with gentle clarity.
When as rival, enemy, or competition, you are no way in charge of me. I am oppositional, adverse, defiant; so let the rules do all our talking.
6.5 Wiener Vendor
simplicity is a style and choice
Simplicity is a hardbound among battery gadgets. More natural, less ornamental. A baseball-gentle lifestyle. I recall the crack of a bat in the huddling world that was.
A fastball sent hurling into a home run. It ricocheted out, down a ramp, then was trapped under the sneaker of a hot dog vendor. A pair of souvenir seekers tracked the descent.
The vendor pondered what having the orb meant. Friends of the frankfurter and an occasional novel in the shade of an ancient van. Wanting salt, sugar won’t do. She returned the ball to the author of the new record in the old stadium.
6.6 Mind Over Mood
change your mind, change your mood
Know who you are and what you want. What’s seen depends on what is sought. We see not facts but as we are, blinded to objections by heart’s desire.
Can’t change facts, so adapt your view. Not all improves by attitude, but in most ways we are as happy as we choose to let ourselves be.
Develop your own sense of satisfaction, not from others or their reactions. Instead explore what’s possible based upon genuine obstacles.
Stories have sides: yours, mine, the facts. In what we know lies what we lack—what we believe that isn’t so. Stubborn illusion, more ‘no’ than know.
In failure start over, wiser than before. So if you must fail, fail forward. To learn from loss is to begin to win; not giving up on what might’ve been.
Adjusting is hard on self-esteem, true. But confidence does what it’s afraid to do. Act on principles, not choices most make. Mistakes by many are still mistakes.
Prepare, prevent; not repair and repent. Before it begins, win the argument. Ignore a slight rather than avenge it. Response in anger is speech you’ll regret.
People improve when they have models; ask what a wise person ought. Values are what you will or won’t. Don’t put your life up for others to vote.
Don’t let fear give small issues big shadows. Use preparation to cast light on tomorrow. Find options so, when there needs be, you can detour and enjoy the scenery.
What you say and do is the fruit of decision, but to others you are actions, not intentions. You’re what you do with what you have. If you do not live it, you don’t believe it.
Persistence won’t give up; never gives in. Winners don’t quit; quitters can’t win. Persistence endures when all else fails. Haste counts losses; patience prevails.
Success means getting what you want; happiness is wanting what you get. As we are helpful and to that degree, we often find that we are happy.
6.7 Polyptoton
those of the same root may take different routes
I think I hear a herald of angels, said Polyptoton, former member of their lot. A lot of them claim there’s no such thing as nothingness, but there’s something they forgot.
So pardon me for interrupting their decent choir of final descent. Lest they repent, there is no pardon from no where there is no assent.
( Polyptoton: words of the same root repeated in different ways. )
7 Playful Pastiche
“Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.” ―T.S. Eliot, The Sacred Wood
7.1 Domed
under the dome, all flesh is grass
Alien kids hold us under clear dome as we might capture fireflies in a jar to entertain with futility and failure, for which we oblige as is our nature.
nod to Stephen King in the spirit of Clifford D. Simak
7.2 Thread Softly
a noiseless patient spider
As a spider explores by threads cast silently about, so do I try various ventures, to find my life’s best route.
nod to Walt Whitman
7.3 Gifts of Nature
nature’s gifts are not owed to us
Even as life was being created, Nature anticipated gifts unique for each of her creatures. Strength to the elephant. Speed to the lion. Flight to the bird. To each, a special gift conferred.
Mankind heard and approached in plea. Dear Mother of Life, you’ve left out me. You gift every creature save your daughter and son.
Nature smiled in whisper. I leave out none. Yours are the greatest any might seek. Mind and voice. To think and speak.
With that, the human bowed before the creator of all. Thank you, Mother, by your gift I see. All that is useful is gift to me.
nod to Æsop
7.4 Old Pot
ode on a grecian urn
Old pottery is my legacy, like this piece from ancient Greece.
I wonder what the figures represent or what’s their intent, captured timelessly yet never free.
They are beautiful, that’s true, but I prefer to have answers too.
nod to John Keats
7.5 Displaced
if The Old Man taught displacement
A toy boat floats in a fish-tank. Heavy with coins, it barely floats. It floats by pushing aside water, an amount equal to its weight.
A great weight pushes a lot of water, which pushes the tank depth higher. Another penny will tip the boat over and coins flutter to the coral below. Pushing aside water to make room. Pushing water coin-size in volume.
But the depth won’t rise, surprise! The water level lowers by measure. Metal displaces more water by weight than the size of the coins combined.
nod to Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
7.6 Cat’s Life
“every act out of desire”
In all of life what you have done, since the first day you were born, has been some measure of desire. A bowl of milk, the feeling of silk, thrill of a chase, winning the race.
Even giving rewards with feeling, makes the act of charity appealing. In all of life what you have done, or at least what you likely would, is rooted in the purr-fectly good.
nod to Andrew Carnegie: “every act you have ever performed since the day you were born was performed because you wanted something”
7.7 Aquifer
natural consequences of not going with the flow
An aquifer runs through our hill, sliding tendrils along the sides. The well never runs dry, and the tea pot pours a perfect brew. But leave alone the mountain and her buried river. One developer rushed to finish for neighbours a few doors down, and found themselves on low end of a liquid lesson.
nod to Hans Christian Andersen, fairytales