Writing

Through The Looking Glass

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The reflection in the store window followed my every movement. The Edges blurred, the detail faint yet, familiar. I paused and peered deeply into the glass; It was my Father, it was my Sons.

Writing

A Drifter’s Lament

With each step, the gallon of water in his hand seemed to grow heavier. In the other, he had a large plastic bag. It was heavy and cutting into his palm, but it was worth it; the bag was filled with cans of food, given to him by a generous family at a gas station a few miles back. Like a Christmas present, he didn’t want to open it until he found a place to relax, where he could savor this special moment. This unopened bag gave him something to look forward to, which was a rare feeling these days.

Ahead, dark clouds were gathering and on the radio at the gas station, he had heard there was a chance of rain. Experience had taught him that with the rain, cold weather would soon follow and that he needed to find an overpass quickly. He liked overpasses as there was usually a flat spot near the top where he could be dry, warm and stay hidden from the prying eyes of others. Unfortunately, there were none in sight and as the radio predicted, it was beginning to rain.

Between his old heavy backpack, the gallon of water and the plastic bag, each step along the litter covered highway was difficult and growing harder as the mud was beginning to cover his worn shoes and seep inside, filling the gaps between his toes, which were making a squishing sound with each step.

Once, while walking, he had found a five dollar bill and to this day, he had trouble keeping his eyes looking ahead as he was afraid that he might step over a twenty or something. This had become an obsession for him and he found that occasionally he would become so focused that he would wander onto the highway, looking up at the last second as a car came speeding by.

At night, he dreamed of finding a lost wallet full of cash. He pictured himself in a hotel room, soaking in a warm bathtub full of white suds with bubbles floating in the air. Then he would lay on the bed wrapped in the soft blankets, warm and safe, where he would drift off to sleep; no longer afraid of being harmed by others who may discover his hiding place and take from him his precious food and the last of his possessions. He could finally breathe and be at peace, if only just for a night.

It was starting to rain harder now and he wished for some kind of shelter, anything. He was looking forward to eating soon, as through the plastic, he could see a can with a picture of pasta covered in a delicious red sauce. One of his favorites, heated or not. But not yet, he had to keep going.

He always walked against traffic, afraid of being hit from behind by a distracted driver, who was digging around in the floorboard for a misplaced diamond ring or something. Occasionally, he would look into the drivers eyes as they approached. They all had somewhere to be; someone waiting for them. He would smile and occasionally wave, but most would just look away, pretending not to see him.

The rain was running down his neck, giving him chills as it spread across his back. Lightning was filling the skies, beautiful but deadly as he was the tallest object in sight. He outstretched his arm, daring the storm to find him, secretly praying that it would.

To his dismay, it was now the middle of the night and he had still found no shelter. The rain had passed and as expected, the temperature was falling. He was in the middle of nowhere.  He finally accepted that it was just going to be a long, cold night and the pasta would have to wait for the sunrise.

It was too dark to look for money now and he was able to hold his head up as he walked. He liked the break. Staring at the ground constantly made his neck ache. With an old blanket over his shoulder and a faster pace, he found he was able to keep somewhat warm and decided to push on, searching for the lights of the next town. He hoped that maybe things would be better there, that maybe something good would happen. Maybe.

Writing

Karma; I’m Now a Believer

The World: Hey Michael, Karma called looking for you.

Me: Crap! What did she want?

The World: I don’t know, but she was really pissed!

Me: What did you tell her?

The World: I told her right where to find you.

Me: Why would you do that? You’re not still mad about the…

The World: Uh huh, I told you I would get…

Me: Seriously?, Gawd…

Writing

The Modern Prometheus; Trump, Bolton and The Political Experiment That Haunts Me

About 5 years ago, I was watching one of the TV news channels, when this bitter sounding man began speaking about world conflict. He was providing critical analysis about the way in which America was influencing the world politically, and he didn’t seem very happy about the way it was currently being conducted. I remember being surprised at how quickly I developed a dislike for him. He was antagonistic, argumentative and seemed itching for a fight with whomever would give him the opportunity. I also remember that I didn’t like his mustache, it made him look “dated” and old, but it did seem to complete his overall persona as a grouchy old curmudgeon.

Over the following years, I would see him return to the news channels, usually as a guest commentator giving his personal views on the world situation, and without exception, he would scare the hell out of me each time. Ultimately, I concluded that he was the harbinger of World War III and that I was very thankful he was only a commentator and had no “real” power or authority. I remember thinking to myself, “Thank God this guy is not in charge of anything, he’d land us in the middle of a war”. “This guy’s” name is John Robert Bolton and he was America’s ambassador to the United Nations under George W. Bush.

And so it went until last week when President Trump made the same John R. Bolton the National Security Advisor-designate, effective April 9th, 2018. This is about as real as it gets and to me, this is a problem. Barring a brief moment of sanity by President Trump, John Bolton will begin scaring me to death on a daily basis on April 9th.

It’s a fine thing to be bold and resolute in your convictions, provided you temper that passion with patience and a desire for peace. I have observed neither quality in Mr. Bolton. For that matter, I don’t see those qualities in President Trump either.

President Trump (who I voted for) is acting like a petulant child as he conducts America’s business; hiring and firing as if our government was his personal TV game show. His behavior, while initially tolerable, has become grotesque. This unorthodox political experiment has created a monster of sorts.

Electing Donald Trump and taking a break from the “usual politics” initially sounded like a worthwhile endeavor. Unfortunately, it has been disappointing and is quickly becoming intolerable. I’m afraid that our attempt to breathe “new life” into an antiquated and dying political system has resulted in a Frankensteinian outcome that we neither expected nor desired. I, for one, will not make the same mistake twice.

 

 

Writing

The Twilight Muse

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 Unbound, the Muse joyfully dances and frolics in the sleeping mind of the dreamer, casting aside all thoughts of fear and doubt, she puts forth the glorious possibilities of human existence, painting their dreams with a colorful palette of emotion and light.

Emerging at twilight, she adores the night’s skies as the waxing moon releases her from earthly bonds and with chains cast aside, she is free to explore, to create, to wander the resting minds of all she encounters.

While the Artist paints, the dreamer dreams, who, while lost in the warmth of her inspiration and feeling of absolute joy, still catches a glimpse of life’s infinite potential in each delicate stroke of the master’s brush.

Her canvas complete, she tries in vain to gently awaken from slumber all who desire to remember her canvas before the darkness yields to the chaos of the morning’s light.

For the Muse knows that all dreams do flee as the rising Sun, ever so jealous, chases them away from the depths of the dreamer; Their intimate encounter lost to the stars, forever.

Again, she whispers to the dreamer, pleading that he arise as she is anxious to peer deep into his eyes, hoping he remembers with lasting joy, all that She has shared.

Sadly, the dreamer resists, wanting only to delay the morning’s looming chaos, seeking refuge beneath the warmth and comfort of the sheets, which protect the dreamer from reality as a warrior’s shield protects the warrior from harm. Her memory fades, the painting is lost; all that remains, hidden deep within the cluttered human mind, now lost to consciousness.

The waning Moon watches the folly unfold and like a shepherd tending his flock, summons home the Muse as the Moon must now yield the night’s slumber to the rising sun. The Muse now weary, lays down her palette, envious of all who dream; a desired gift denied, as a Muse can have no Muse. The Moon, in love, watches her from afar and with gentle voice begs she seek solace and allow her weary soul the respite so earned.

As she closes her eyes, wrapped is a blanket of stars, the Moon whispers in her ear, “O’ sweet Muse, joyous peace has eluded your soul for far too long.” The waning Moon smiles as she finally sleeps,  and with the tenderest of love, sends a Muse to joyfully dance and frolic within her dreams.

.

 

Writing

A Man Falls Into a Hole…

“This guy’s walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can’t get out.
“A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, ‘Hey you. Can you help me out?’ The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on.
“Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, ‘Father, I’m down in this hole can you help me out?’ The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on
“Then a friend walks by, ‘Hey, Joe, it’s me can you help me out?’ And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, ‘Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.’ The friend says, ‘Yeah, but I’ve been down here before and I know the way out.'”

Aaron Sorkin

Writing

Words to live by

The next time you’re facing a question of value; should I buy the quality shoes or spend the extra money for the better “this or that?” Remember this: If you have a $10 head, buy a $10 helmet. Translation; You’re worth it!

Writing

I Used To Be A Parent…

To be a parent to a child, I had no idea what to do. No handbook to guide me, so of course, one became two. Then two became three as my sanity waned. When three became five, sanity then ran away; it’s face now on a poster, wanted for escape.

All grown up, they’ve since moved away. They’re chasing their dreams in the most excellent of ways. We cherish the moments when they call or come stay, but we seem more like friends, than parents these days.

Oh, and sanity called me just the other day, to say hello and see if I’m ok. But at the mention of grandchildren, sanity groaned in pain, then just like old times, hung up and fled; as some things don’t  change.

To be a friend to my children, I have no idea what to do. No handbook to guide me…

 

Writing

It’s About Time

What do we know about the concept of time? It’s like Bigfoot, we think we’re sure, but no, not really.

We see time as linear, moving from left to right; yesterday, today and tomorrow. We “feel” it’s passing and measure our lives by the idea of past, present and future.

Yet, what is “time”? I’m sure that there is a technical definition, but at best, it’s just speculation.

We named this phenomenon like we do everything else that frightens us. A name that makes it human and softens the edges. He’s “Father Time”, a wise old man.

We make jokes, idioms and metaphors using time; “time for a change”, “time out”, “time heals all wounds”. Suddenly, it’s not such a scary subject, I mean, we speak of it every day.

Calling “Time” time is like calling “God”, Uncle Bob. Our old and dear friend, always near, always warm and friendly.

Imagine rising above the earth and looking down. Then, imagine time as a ruler that stretches from one end of the earth to the other with each year marked on its surface, say from the “beginning” of “time” until present day.

A billion years reflected on a ruler and there we are, taking up about 1/8 inch of the length. The entire span of human existence compressed into a visual picture. We are but a grain of sand on a vast beach.

Now, back out into space away from the earth and our existence becomes even a smaller percentage on the ruler of the universe. That’s time…

We fight to live a longer life, but in the grand scheme, does it even matter? To a butterfly, life consists of about one month. For us, 77 years. Yet to each species, it’s the same; a lifetime. That’s time…

It is thought that if we could speed up an object beyond some “point” that it could disappear from our eyes and now be in the future. Is time actually linear or does it exist in another way? Maybe time is just happening all at the same “time” but in parallel universes…

One could easily cramp their brain imagining the possibilities and at the end of the day, not even being close; who knows…

I guess its just a waste of time to wonder. For Time, like good Ol’ Uncle Bob, exists on a level far beyond what we are capable of grasping with our young human minds. So for now, since time isn’t of the essence, I think it’s time to visit a Pub and kill some time pondering the mysteries of life.