“Your tongue. I need to make sure it’s out of the way.”
“Ummm, let’s see…right now I think it’s somewhere around Playboy’s January centerfold.”
“Ok, I see it now. Wow, look at that! You mind if I make a copy?”
“Go ahead and take that one. I’m done with it anyway. Oh…and while you’re at it, could you do me a favor and stick in a few pages from that National Geographic I saw in the waiting room?”
“Sure. Which ones do you want?”
“I especially like that mouth-watering article I saw on harvesting mushrooms. I think it was somewhere in Wonderland. Or maybe it was Oz?”
“Humm…I hope you don’t mind my asking, but have you seen a neurologist lately? I’ve heard that they strongly recommend replacing all brain pages left over from childhood, and it sounds like you really need to get your map layer updated…”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll look into it…but right now I’m trying to save up enough to get my new subscription to Sports Illustrated installed. Apparently there’s a space problem, and they may have to lengthen my face if I want to include the Swimsuit edition. Which is okay with me, but I’m not sure how my girlfriend is going to like it.”
“I know what you mean. About a year ago my wife went through that same procedure when she decided to add a subscription to Oh! And I haven’t been able to look at her since…”
(I could go on, but I think I’m also running out of page space.)
She ran into the bathroom, closed the door, stuffed teddy into the toilet, then closed the lid and flushed. But teddy was too big to flush, and the toilet began to overflow. Frustrated, she opened the lid, pulled teddy back out, ran into the hall, and threw him downstairs. Which was too bad for kitty, who was sleeping on the bottom step, and caught the full brunt of teddy’s fall. Hearing kitty screech, Mom immediately dropped the egg she was holding and ran from the kitchen to see what happened. And dad, dozing on the front porch, also heard the noise and came rushing in. What they found was startling. At the bottom of the stairs lay a soggy teddy, and up above, hand on hip and glaring down at them, was their six-year-old daughter Kim.
.
.
“So, how’s that for a start?”
“Come on Dad, that’s stupid. Besides, it’s way over 100 words!”
“Look, you asked me to write a sample story to go with your drawing. So I did. I’m sorry it’s too long. But that’s no big deal. Just find some words you don’t like, and erase them. Or, even better, write your own damn story.”
“Very funny. Could you at least give it an ending?”
“Sure. How’s this?”
Kim looked down at her parents, shrugged, then returned to her room, packed some clothes, and left that night to join the circus.
“You know what, Dad? You’re an a**hole!”
“Maybe. And that reminds me…do you think she’ll need money for bus fare?”
* * *
I have to credit my six-year-old daughter for the “Kim Possible” drawing, which she did a few days ago. But I’ve been instructed to point out that she was not a participant in the fictional ‘drama’ depicted above. (Which, sadly, consumed 239 perfectly good words in the telling.)
Who knows? I’m only conscious of my thoughts after they’ve been ‘thunk.’ and envision my conscious ’self’ as though a camera, clicking pictures of what’s happening within a narrow field of view. And only after the fact.*
Much like a computer monitor, which displays just a tiny fraction…the ‘viewable’ portion…of countless terabytes of digital processing taking place, unseen, within and beyond the computer. None of which depends on whether the monitor is displaying anything or not…or even if it’s turned on, or off. But ask the monitor, “who’s running the show?” And it’s likely to reply:
“It. Is. I.”
Yet the keyboard and mouse are not so easily dismissed. They are the input devices…without which the computer has no way to receive computable instructions. And they often rely on the monitor, (an output device) to provide either the stimulus or feedback needed to decide what they should input for processing (like get another web page, or email…or respond to the one displayed). So if you ask the keyboard or mouse who’s running the show, they’ll look at you like you’re nuts and say, obviously…
“It. Is. We.”
Eventually I’ll tire of ‘computing’ and decide to quit for the day. I turn it off and start to leave. But before closing the door, I generally look back to say good night to the computer (which resides under the desk and ‘mindlessly’ does what it’s told to do, sight unseen), and the monitor, keyboard and mouse…who live ‘atop’ the desk, and are always in view.
“Goodnight kids. Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
And you know what? They never acknowledge, or answer me. Of course I assume that’s because I’ve turned them off. I mean, after all, I’m the one who’s in charge here.
“I quit. Couldn’t handle it anymore. Too much screaming and yelling going on.”
“Where you work? Who the hell is screaming and yelling in a research center?”
“Almost everyone. At least lately. The work we’ve been doing has become increasingly controversial. A few people think it’s too dangerous to continue and want it stopped. Most others, including me, disagree and want it to continue. I was about ready for a change anyway.”
Yesterday the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals found in favor of Ms. “Slim” Pickens, a Bay Area masseuse who claimed her employer was unwilling to meet her special work requirements. It has since been learned that her supervisor has now reluctantly agreed to allow Ms. Pickens to work entirely nude by phone from home.
Those who argue that they have no choice but to somehow salvage an unsustainable way of life are absolutely right. They really do lack any choice in the matter…until they’re able to see otherwise.
But we, being much smarter than they, seem capable of doing whatever we like, which includes making changes as the need arises…even if it means changing our way of thinking.
It’s very much like the Flat World mantra: Don’t go near the edge or you’ll fall off. And who does that apply to? Only those who believe it. All others (we smart ones, for example) are free to sail around an edge-less world.
Put another way, an empty closet can secretly ‘house’ any monster (or skeleton) you care to imagine…until you dare to open it.
But that still leaves the question: Who’s we, and who’s they?
That’s an easy one. They almost always agree there’s an answer (whatever it is). We, seldom do…agree, that is.
* * *
If you can figure out what any of that means, please let me know…
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Write about a lost thing that shows up again in an unlikely place. (An irresistible ‘prompt’ from Mattie’s Pillow)
Lost
I was around two years old when my father left for Newfoundland. He bought a small, isolated cabin located deep in a remote inlet on the south coast of the island, and planned to spend the winter there working on a book.
He said he would call as soon as he got settled and made his first trip for supplies to the nearby fishing village. The village was only about ten miles away by water, but it was a thirty mile trek overland. And since all he had was a rowboat, even the trip by water would take at least four to five hours, each way.
It’s got a windshield, steering wheel, tires…what more could you want?
“Well, how about profitability?”
“Sorry man, at a starting price of around $2,000 they had to leave that out, along with the power windows.”
“So…I guess they must use mainly volunteer labor?”
“Yeah, mostly.”
“Then how’s this going to become the ‘blueprint’ for the car of the future?”
“Well, it starts at the grassroots level…beginning with your local church. You see, everyone’s got to pitch in. Get on board, so to speak, and do some serious praying…”
“Come on, cut the crap. I’m serious. I mean it’s exactly the kind of thing we should be doing here. So why aren’t we?”
“That’s the multi-billion dollar question. For all the money we’ve recently dumped into the GM/Chrysler black hole, we could have bought around seven million of these Tata Nanos.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“Of course I am. After all, who would want seven million of these little fuel-efficient things running around, when you could pocket a worthless 17.4 billion dollar I.O.U. instead?”
“You’re sick.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Spend too much time trying to be logical I guess. Maybe I’ll give up math and take up drinking. I think that’s the formula the Romans used…”
His office was on the third floor of a two story building.
At least that’s the way it felt sometimes. Like last night, for example, as he jumped from the chopper and ran for the trees about fifty feet away. Within a minute the chopper had disappeared into the night sky, and he was approaching the highway on the other side of the trees.
Within three minutes a car slowed down and stopped about 30 feet away. The passenger door opened slightly, a small package was tossed out, and the car quickly pulled away. As soon as it was out of sight, he retrieved the package and checked its contents: cell phone, passport, a sizable roll of local currency, and a phone number. He called the number, then hung up after the first ring.
Twenty minutes later a small van approached, pulled over at the same spot, and flashed its lights. He moved from the trees to the back of the van and climbed in. About an hour later the van pulled over and stopped. The driver tapped on the partition separating them, signaling that it was clear to go. He got out, looked around, then quickly walked across the street and entered the lobby of the Maxima hotel.
It was deserted. He walked over to the check-in counter, paused for a moment, then pushed the plunger on the “Ring For Service” bell. He liked the symbolism. What better way to announce that the first round of this convoluted assignment was about to begin…
“To tell you the truth, I thought it was pretty limp. But I loved the graphic.”
“Yeah, me too. At least it suggests a permanent cure. Which is a lot more than I can say about anything else I could find on the subject.”
“I know what you mean. I remember a friend of mine had that problem. It was driving her crazy. She tried everything. Even that holistic ‘candling’ technique you mentioned in the article. But nothing worked. After about a year she just couldn’t take it anymore and OD’d on sleeping pills.”
“Ok. That’s enough. I really don’t want to think about it anymore.”
“So…what do you want to do?’”
“I don’t know. The music’s pretty good. You want to dance?”
“It sucks. The aim of the first sentence is to arouse curiosity.”
“Ok, how about this: James Foster would walk a mile for a cranberry muffin. Doesn’t that make you at least a little curious?”
“Not really.”
“Well what am I supposed to say? I can’t tell the whole story in the first sentence.”
“Let me give you an example: James Foster used to hate cranberry muffins. See the difference? It immediately raises a question: Why didn’t he like them, and what made him change his mind?”
“I see what you mean. But it wouldn’t be true. He’s always loved them.”
“It was just meant as an example. I don’t know what he likes or dislikes. I’m just trying to make a point. Write whatever you want. I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wait a minute! Maybe I’m just trying to get into the story the wrong way. What if I started out with this instead:”
I have a wonderful blue ribbon named Nancy.
“You do? No kidding? How long have you had her?”
* * *
And so the story began…
__________________________________________________________________
Sometimes everything is clear, but still makes no sense.
The lineman stood looking at the snake hanging out of an old switch box. He studied it for awhile, amazed at how it had been able to squeeze through a knockout in the bottom of the box and grab the mouse.
He reached over and pulled the mouse from the snake’s jaws and held it up by the tail. Not a very pretty sight, he thought, as he popped it into his mouth and began to chew. Ummm…a little rubbery, but not all that bad. After he swallowed the last of it he reached into his pocket, pulled out his knife, unfolded it and began cutting the snake into small, bite-size pieces.
Randy and his friend Matt were sitting in Randy’s living room watching a local news report about an unidentified lineman from the power company who’d “cannibalized” a snake while working in someone’s backyard. Apparently a neighbor had seen the incident from across the street, and caught most of it on his cell phone video.
“That sure does look like it might be Bob Ritter,” said Randy, as he took a swig of beer and winked at Matt. “He really is one strange character. I remember driving down 223 late one afternoon and seeing his truck pulled over by the side of the road near the old Johnson place. As I drove past I could see him bent over something that was lying on the ground. I slowed down a bit, thinking he might need some help. But he stood up and waved me on. That’s when I noticed that he was holding something bloody in his hands. Read the rest of this entry »
New study confirms cell phones responsible for permanent memory loss.
“Damn! That must be why I can’t remember Broderick Crawford’s name anymore! Next thing I know it will be Sophia Loren’s that’s gone!” With that ghastly thought in mind, he immediately pulls his cell phone out, gives it a kiss, then drop-kicks it over the bridge railing. As he watches it arc into the air it begins to ring.
Playing an excerpt of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, the phone drops nearly a 100 feet to the water below, and sinks quickly to the bottom. A little over a second later, hand outstretched, he enters the water behind it. Unfortunately the river was only two feet deep at that point, and when his body was recovered it took the coroner’s assistant a good five minutes to remove what was left of the phone from what was left of his face.
* * *
Probably not the best way to “kick” a dangerous habit.
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Mix equally 1/2 tablespoon of cinnamon and honey. Soak two small gauze pads in the mixture until saturated, apply one to each of your eyes and wrap a diaper around your head to hold in place. This won’t interfere directly with your imbecility, but will spare you from seeing the consequences of being blindly stupid for up to 8 hours.
* * *
If you don’t have honey and cinnamon handy, a cyanide pill will produce a similar result. It will also act more quickly, and the effect generally lasts a bit longer.
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There once was a king who had everything. Except happiness. One day he decided to search the kingdom to find the happiest man. He would then walk for a day in the man’s shoes, and thus hope to learn the secret of his happiness.
After an exhaustive search the happiest man was finally discovered and brought, smiling happily, before the king.
Unfortunately, the man wore no shoes.
The king was found several years later sleeping happily and shoeless under a freeway overpass near Lake Woebegone, MN.
Be Honest? Don’t listen to others? Do the right thing? Look out for yourself? What the hell does it mean?
He sat there, looking at the screen. Nothing. No thoughts, no ideas. The only thing he could find in his mind was the faint sound of an aria coming from the apartment downstairs. “Symbolic,” he thinks. “I’m trying to get my mind wrapped around something said in a dark 16th century Danish castle, and it’s kicked back listening to a sunny 17th century Italian opera.”
He closed his eyes, leaned back, and gave in to the rich, luxurient sounds from centuries ago. And in doing so, he understood.
* * *
To thine own self be true? Simple. Ignore the thoughts on top…and listen to the music below.
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At 6:30 AM the alarm went off. She reached over, pushed the snooze button and began curling back to sleep. She was almost there…then remembered a conference call was scheduled that morning. Reluctantly she threw the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
That’s when she first sensed that something wasn’t quite right; her feet touched the floor sooner than expected, as though the bed was lower than it should be, and her legs seemed lighter than usual. She stood up and began moving toward the bathroom. That’s when she noticed it wasn’t only her legs that felt lighter, her entire body felt that way. ”I must still be dreaming,” she thought, as she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.
Two birds are sitting on a powerline, facing in opposite directions.
One bird is looking at a sunny green hillside dotted with grazing sheep and a few scattered horses near the top. The other is looking over a busy street in the town below. The first bird suddenly drops from the wire and flies to a clump of trees high on the hillside. The other stays a little longer, then swoops down over the street and lands on a parking meter.
My name is Mrs. Cuthbert, and I want to report some obscene behavior across the street from my house.
Around 5:00 AM his cell phone began to ring. Chris reached down from the bed, grabbed his pants off the floor, rummaged through pockets until he found the phone, flipped it open, checked the number (it was Chuck, his next door neighbor), then pressed the “talk” button:
That’s the feeling I had last night in a dream. Somehow, I’m on a steep trail walking through tall trees and dense undergrowth. As I climb, the trees begin to thin, and the soft layer of soil and pine needles transforms into an uneven trail of stone. As I pass up and through the last of the trees, the trail simply disappears. What lies beyond is a steep, boulder-strewn slope to the mountain peak above, surrounded by wide-open sky.
I stop briefly to catch my breath and consider my options. Ahead it’s exposed, barren and trackless. Behind lies the security of trees, lush vegetation, and a well-worn path. The temptation to turn back is compelling. But I remind myself that I’m here to discover something new. So I continue to climb.
But soon a feeling of emptiness begins to grow. With each step I take, a little part of me seems to stay behind. When I finally reach the top, and take that last step, I feel as though my entire past has been stripped away and left scattered on the rocks below. And that’s when I discover something new. . .
A clear, fresh and uncluttered point of view.
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That morning she’d left a message for him at the front desk. “I’ve got it!” it said. “Meet me at the used bookstore at Provinski Square. Make it a little before five. When you get there, buy the green copy of Great Expectations (it has a small piece missing from the top of its cover). Make sure they put it in a bag. When you see me coming, leave the store, turn right and walk toward the subway entrance. I’ll be right behind you. Have the bag under your arm. I’ll exchange it with my copy (which contains the codes you need) as we pass through the entrance area. Once we’re inside, you head toward the information kiosk, and I’ll continue to the escalator. As soon as I’m out of sight, leave the station and walk across the square. You’ll see a black Yugo parked on the other side. The driver will be standing next to it. Get in the car and he’ll take you where you need to go.”
Then follow it wherever your imagination takes you. No rules. Just unbridled creativity.
It may not turn out to be great literature. But who cares? The aim is to practice weaving thoughts and images into readable material, regardless of content or length. It's a great way to improve basic skills by doing lots of uninhibited free-form writing.
Try it. It's fast, easy, and fun. Or should be! (If not, then you need to work on your attitude, as well as your writing.) -- WRL
"Don’t live your life to impress other people with your talents. Rarely will anyone care, and you will suffer disappointment.
When you stand up, high upon the citadel, and proclaim your worth, the sheer volume of silent salty air that results will rust the shine on your jaw before you can close it shut again.
Live life to quietly impress yourself and you will have no end of fun and discovery."
Posted by William Lawson 
A Poet’s Epitaph
