caveat emptor

Wandering Grandmother

I have read all of your submissions regarding my cognitive/psychic condition and have, following all the links and pursuing every line of reasoning, come to an ultimate and undeniable conclusion: I am the Maitreya. Go figure. Who knew? So, it is now my duty to teach pure Dharma to the world. I've added it to my "Things To Do" list and given it a priority of "Before I Die (Again.)" When I get around to it, you'll be the first to know.

And now, a true story I just made up:

We call her Wandering Grandmother. No one knows where she goes when she walks away over the hills to the south of the village. She stays gone for months. Once a year, though, she crests the hill and ambles slowly toward the shade of the giant, ancient oak near the empty, crumbling stone church at the edge of town. The people go out to greet her, bringing blankets and water and food. "Welcome back, Grandmother," we say. She laughs and reaches for our outstretched hands, grasping them for a long time with her shaky, rough, calloused hands. She holds your fingers with one frail hand and pats you softly on the back of your hand with the other as she tells you how much you have grown or how beautiful you are getting. Then she asks as many as have time to sit down and talk with her, because this is why she comes. She talks and talks and talks and listens and listens and listens. People from the village come and go, bringing warm bread or fresh milk or roasted potatoes or bowls of hot stew made from rabbit or venison. People bring more food and drink than Wandering Grandmother can finish, and she passes it around to the people who sit and talk with her. "Eat," she says. "Eat with me," and she laughs. At night she sleeps right under that tree, and the adults take turns making sure she is safe and warm until morning. After a few days, she stands to leave. We cry and beg her to stay with us. "You can live in my house, Grandmother," we say. "There is room." She embraces each person and laughs or weeps as she tells each one farewell. Then, taking nothing with her but what she brought, except maybe for a little fresh water in her pouch, she shuffles slowly away to the south. No one ever follows to see where she goes. "Out of respect," my father told me when I asked.

"Goodbye, little stony child," she said to me when last she was here, and she took me in her arms for a long time. When she let me go, she grasped my hand for a while longer. "The mountains stand and keep their shape in the wind and rain," she said. "The clouds do not. You are more like a mountain, little stony child."

"Thank you," I said, my cheeks flushing red.

"No," she said. "Be like the clouds." She put her hands on my cheeks so that I would look into her eyes. "Be like the clouds, little stony child."

I did not answer her. I could not.

Wandering Grandmother has been old for as long as anyone can remember. I think I know where she goes. I think a lot of people know, but no one says, out of respect. I cannot wait to see her again. I am trying to be like the clouds.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I want to express my appreciation and gratitude for your concern and kindness expressed in your responses, both in comments and emails, to my previous post. I am sincerely grateful for your thoughts on my behalf, knowing that each of us is filled up with cares and struggles of our own and that energy spent on the behalf of others is a precious and valuable gift. Thank you.

A Rare Post About Real Stuff

This is really, really, really hard to describe, so bear with me.

First, imagine there is a "magic phrase." It might be words to a song, or it might be a dialogue you've memorized from a book or a movie. You're not sure, because it's veiled from your perception. You can almost hear it. You can almost remember it. You can almost tell what the words are. Almost.

Now imagine that you are in a conversation with your boss. Or, alternately, imagine that you are listening to a song on your MP3 player. Or, imagine that you are writing a post for your blog. Or, imagine that you are reading a book. Or, imagine that you are sitting in a coffee shop and people are talking in the background.

Now, imagine a strange sensation that suddenly whatever words you're hearing or writing or reading, whatever words you're processing in your brain, suddenly morph, as far as you can tell, into this "magic phrase." You can no longer tell what the words are really saying. Instead, you are overcome with the déjà-vu-like sense that says, "Aha! That's it! These are the words of that 'magic phrase' I keep hearing!" The only problem is, you can't make them out. Every sound, even the rhythm, matches, as far as your brain is concerned, the pattern of this "magic phrase" you hear all the time. It doesn't even have to be words. Sometimes it seems to you that the guitar riff is "saying" the words of this "magic phrase" you always hear. Well, almost hear.

This sensation lasts for five to ten seconds. When it's over, the "magic phrase" is totally gone. You can't remember one tiny, little speck of it. It's completely gone from your brain, and you have no idea what it said. Also, and more problematically, you cannot remember what the real words were that you were hearing or reading or writing. You look down at them, or try to remember them, but they are completely unfamiliar to you. If you were listening to a song, you rewind it, trying to experience the sensation again. Nothing. The words are completely mundane and are don't seem even remotely similar to the words that triggered the sensation last time. If you were in a conversation, you have to say to the person, "I'm sorry, could you repeat that? I didn't catch what you just said." If you were talking, well then it's just really awkward.

Now, imagine that this happens to you five to ten times a day. So, you tell your doctor, and he says, "You must be having seizures." So, you go to a neurologist and get and MRI and an EEG. They are completely normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. The neurologist says, "Well, let's just keep an eye on it and see what happens." Then, you get a new position at work that requires you to think a lot more, and you start to notice it more often. Now it's happening maybe fifteen or twenty times a day. But, it's not getting any worse, just more frequent. Then you think, "Well, maybe it happens all the time, but I only notice it when I'm thinking and processing language."

I think the thing that really disturbs me is that, while it's happening, I really lose all connection with language. Language becomes meaningless gibberish to me. Sometimes I will try to mouth the words of this "magic phrase," and I will, while this thing is happening, think I've figured out the words. Then, when it's over, I realize that I'm saying something like, "other and with then again another for the with to for." Nothing. Gibberish.

I don't even know if there is one "magic phrase." When it happens, I always feel like it's "those same words again!" But, what if it's not? What if it's nothing. What if it's different every time? I really have no idea what to think about this thing. What is it? It doesn't feel like seizures to me. It feels totally cognitive, not physical. I'm completely aware, though distracted and absorbed, when it's happening. I have no sense of lost time at all. I'm a little disoriented when it's over, but who wouldn't be? It's disorienting, you know?

There's another thing. There's almost always a very brief emotional burst at the end. Many time I laugh for a second. Other times I tear up and feel very sad for a second. Then, just like the words, the feeling is completely gone. I'm just left there having no idea what I just heard or read or said or wrote and wondering what the hell is wrong with my brain.

So, there it is. Please, tell me what to do. Thanks.

Later. Love.

Post 400 on This Blog: Lies of a Political Nature

Once again my country needs me. There is, apparently, a cell of anarchist literati vandalizing conservative political science books in the Library of Congress with critical notation pointing out redaction issues and revisionist language. The group, whose calling card simply reads "ANTI-INTERPOLators" with the anarchy symbol in place of the initial "A," has really started to annoy Beltway insiders. My assignment comes directly from the Commander in Chief. "Scott, some of them books is real old. Marking them all up like that is unlegul and Evil. We need somebody to figure out who the people is and stop them. All we now is that they is probally leftys. XOXOXO. W." (Lest any of you get the wrong idea about the "XOXOXO" and the nature of my relationship with the man, I think he just thinks "XOXOXO" means goodbye.) So, I'm on the case. Something tells me, however, that I won't be able to find these guys. They sound pretty smart.

It's funny how people can surprise you. I always assume W. doesn't understand much of anything, but he's right about one thing. We are "leftys."

[NOTE: This post is not true. Please don't send Dick Cheney to shoot me in the face. Thanks.]

[ANOTHER NOTE: I am a fan of intellectual honesty and not rabidly or loyally liberal nor conservative. If you're a vitriolic and passionate Democrat and you stumble upon this post while Googling "DICK CHENEY SHOOT FACE," please move on. Thanks.]

It's probably best to avoid politics altogether; I know. Still, we can't do what's best all the time. "Best" is, after all, a comparative term. It needs contrast to be meaningful, right? I've been proudly providing contrast for best practices for years now, and I will continue to do so. You're welcome.

Hello, friends. How is you today? Whatever you does, don't be evil.

Later. Love.

Turtle Monster Problems and a Cow Joke That Isn't Funny

The voice of the turtle monster that talks to me from the passenger seat cup holder in my car each morning thinks I should seek psychiatric treatment. He's an alarmist. He's been that way ever since he moved from the glove box in my old Toyota into the cup holder in my Scion. The move was hard on him. I think he liked the glove box almost as much as he enjoyed the pointless little slot in my Ford Ranger where I first met him. What was up with that slot? It was below the radio and it wasn't the right size or shape for anything. I tried keeping my phone in there, but it always just fell out. The turtle monster loved living in there. In those days he used to tell me dirty jokes and stories about his turtle monster buddies and him from their days in the army of Dark Lord of the Netherworld. I liked him a lot back then; he was fun. Now he just nags me about seeking psychiatric help. If he keeps it up, I might set my car on fire in my garage one night to send him back to the Netherworld. Does that seem like an extreme overreaction to you? He's just really getting on my nerves. The voice in my left ear thinks I should go set my car on fire right now. I don't know. Sometimes it's hard for me to know which of the voices I should heed. At least the voice in my left ear never tells me to see a shrink.

I really shouldn't trouble you with the mundane problems of my personal life. Instead, here's a joke. Knock knock. Who's there? An interrupting cow. An interrupting cow who? Moo. Do you get it? I don't get it. When my daughter first told it to me, she was very excited and seemed to think it was hilarious. She couldn't even wait for me to finish saying, "An interrupting cow who?" She just blurted out "Moo!" I don't get it. Moo? Why is that funny? "I'm a cow. I say, 'Moo.'" Whatever.

Aaaanypoop. How's it going today? What's up in your world? Hello.

Later. Love.

When Irresistible Forces Meet Immovable Objects, Irresistible Forces Win

Signs of human life clutter my neighborhood. EF5 Humanity has torn a swath of construction many miles wide across the countryside. We sure as hell love to build things, don't we? Imagine if another animal wanted to start doing all the same things we do. Conflict would certainly result. There's just not room for the penguins to build their own New York.

It's a mistake, I think, to believe we can prevent climate change. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting we shouldn't do everything we can to prevent any adverse effect our byproducts might be having on the environment. I'm all for cleaning and improving and conserving and protecting, and I think we probably are contributing to climate change. I'm not making a political, environmental statement here. My point is this: Even if we stop contributing to climate change, climate change will still happen eventually. Coastlines will shift. Rivers will change course. Desserts will blossom. Forests will die. Mountains will crumble in cataclysmic destruction or disintegrate through constant, gentle bombardment by rain and wind and grit. It's going to happen. So, once we stop being a part of the problem, we still have a problem. I wonder if we can find new ways to live that move and adjust easily with the flow of planetary change. When the coastline changes, the animals just move over a little. New York and New Orleans? They're a little less nimble. Can we change that? What would it take?

People don't build buildings in the middle of the highway. Do you know why? It's because the changes in the middle of the highway happen fast enough to catch and hold our attention. If someone wanted to build a building in the middle of the highway it would have to be a very different sort of building indeed.

As much as we like to build things, you'd think we'd be better at it by now.

Hello, friends. What do you think?

Later. Love.

In Which We Discuss Theory, Science, Religion and Humanities

Modality in music is a formalization and systematization based on observations of musical mindset. Two octave scales containing the same eight intervals, heard in another mindset, can feel different in such a way that they push toward a different note for resolution, they lead the mind to two different destinations. These mindsets are modes of music. In our music today, we typically hear the Ionian mode, which we call the major scale, and variations of the Aeolian mode, which we call the minor scale. Dorian, Lydian, Phrygian, Locrian and Mixolydian are rarely heard these days, though you can pick them out occasionally with an astute ear.

Rock and roll music is as foundational to the culture of today as is Christianity. You may not be a Christian and you may not be a rocker, but you are, if you live in the Western World, affected by both in profound and undeniable ways. Even these influences converge into an inseparable synthesis. Rock and roll shapes and is shaped by Christian ideas. They are strange bedfellows, each trying to weed out the other. From the tension of these paradoxes spring wisdom, revelation and lyrics. Rock and roll will save your soul. It will never die. If we destroyed all the organs and smashed all the guitars, surely the rocks themselves would cry out.

Most anthropologists agree that hominid animals crossed over into what we consider humanity the first time one of them heard a noise and thought, "Dude, that sounded pretty cool," and then hummed it for the next few hours. The long-term survival of the species was guaranteed when the first toe was tapped. Today many work to answer the basic question, "What came first, the soul or the blues?"

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Nothing. I've Got Nothing.

I'm going to be completely honest with you, I really can't think of anything to write. Friday's post is, in some ways, the most important post of the week. Friday's post will sit here until Monday morning, representing for the attention span of the entire world the sum total of my writing ability. How many people, if this post is not good, will explore further to see if I have any skill or anything to say? Not many. So, this is it. This is, as Eminem is fond of observing, my one shot. This is my one opportunity. What will I do? I'm tired of living in this trailer.

Sorry, I forgot myself for a moment. I became Eminem's imaginary persona. It wasn't pleasant.

So, for those of you who are reading this and losing faith in me, I can only ask that you read something else I've written. If you're stopping by here for the first time and you've read this far and you're starting to think, "Meh," please, read more of my posts. I wrote one about dogs a long time ago. I wrote a few about a gnome. I've written a few poems and stories. Once I personified Personification. That's a little clever, right? I mean, they're no all slam dunks. Are there speilling errors? Yes. I dangle a few participles, and I mix a few metaphors. I omit words here there. I'm not prefect. I admit it. On occasion, I use too many commas, and some in the wrong, places. Still, there are a few clever things in here. They're just not in this post. (I originally typed "their" instead of "there" in that last sentence, but I caught it and fixed it.)

So, what can I do? It's Friday and I have to go to work. Nothing comes to mind. This will have to do. Years from now when you think about this post - and you won't - be kind.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Rant and Sketch (With Apologies)

If some madman created a film that would instantly kill everyone who saw it, the cable and network news stations would show it. If Hitler came back to life and made a home movie of his favorite moments of attempted genocide, the cable and network news stations would show it. If a homicidal maniac wrote a convincing manifesto attempting to persuade depressed and disaffected young people to take themselves and as many others as possible out in a violent explosion of self-destruction, the cable and network news stations would hire a professional voice artist to read it on the air with passion and conviction.

And millions of people would watch it.

Turn them off. You don't need to know. Watch reruns of MASH. Listen to music. Write your own manifesto about the joy and value of a long and full life. Just, please, don't support these people. If we all ignore them, they really will go away. They'll all have to go get real jobs somewhere. Maybe they could sell used cars or get hired as carnival barkers or become professional wrestlers.

Sorry. I'll be stranger and more ethereal tomorrow, I promise. On a lighter note, I drew a picture. The kid's name is Rohan. I was hesitant to draw the picture, because I don't think my rough sketching style is very flattering for children. I don't do pretty pictures. I just draw what I see. It didn't come out perfectly, but I'm going to stop before I make it worse.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: Epilogue. This is the end of the rough draft of what I'm toying with calling "Aphter, Part I: The Maker Song." Now I'm going to rewrite the whole thing. Wish me luck. Thanks for stopping by.

An Okay Post. No Big Deal.

It has been suggested to me that I should come out from behind my more obscure writing and be more present as a person here in my little web home. So, here I am.

Hi.

How's it going?

Bored yet? Me too. I'll be in the back if anyone needs me.

Chicken is the king of the new primitives. They call him Chicken because that's the name he gave them when they asked. They made him king because he is tall. Chicken understands the ancients better than anyone else. This is probably because he is so tall.

While wandering one day, Chicken and his people come to the cracked remains of Interstate 20. The people wonder, as always, what this giant thing might be. They stand on the shoulder and gazed up and down the highway, amazed at the work it would take to make such a thing. The king crosses to the median and, standing on the concrete divider, addresses them. "These long, flat stones were set down by the ancients to mark their borders. They had many tribes and kings, and these long, flat stones marked the edges of their lands. They would meet here and trade with each other. They had great festivals here, times of sharing. Mostly, however, they fought over these borders. That is what eventually killed them."

The people could see that Chicken was right, and they were sad for the ancients. They camped that night in the middle of Interstate 20. In the morning they crossed the Interstate. Why? To get to the other side, obviously.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 58. Sorry I haven't posted one in a while. I've been busy at work. I'm still wrapping up the loose ends of the story before I start rewriting. I'll probably make one more epilogue post. Thanks for stopping by.

The Song That Knows The Score

Verse 1:
This is the first verse
It might introduce an idea
Or possible a girl
This is the first verse (first verse)
It must establish the groove

Chorus:
As the chorus
I repeat myself
When the music stops
There is only me
Strip me down and lay me bare
And you will see
That though I am alone
I am not afraid

Verse 2:
This is the second verse
We don't expect much from it
It is free to simply be
Remember that idea from the first verse?
Remember that girl?

Chorus:
As the chorus
I repeat myself
When the music stops
There is only me
I am free to move against
Images you have of me
I am doomed to freedom
Just like everyone else

Bridge:
I close my eyes
When I want to stop seeing
I close my eyes
When I don't see you

Verse 3:
This is the third verse
It is shorter, more to the point

Chorus:
As the chorus
I repeat myself
When the music stops
There is only me
I cannot remember
Where I hoped to go
I cannot imagine
Where I may have been

Repeat Chorus:
As the chorus
I repeat myself
When the music stops
There is only me
I could paint a picture
You would recognize
If I named the picture
You would understand

The End

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - The world is a dance of happiness and sorrow, we all know this. We are capable of feeling both at once. Today we rejoice for Toadman and his wife. Over the weekend they welcomed their third son to the family, and they are all well. Today we also send our love to Wendy, whose father passed over the weekend. Life dances in a circle. If the dance ever ends it will, I believe, end well.

Skurry

The lunatic hitchhikers in this area are really getting careless. They're so scary looking that they never get rides. They just stand there beside the road covered in the blood of previous victims. You can see the machetes poking out of their coats. One guy actually had a sign that said, "Oklahoma Or Bust (Also I'm Going To Kill You.)" So blatant and lazy. What about the art of surprise? What about subtlety and craft? It really makes the drive to work depressing.

But, that's not what I really wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about something else. See below for details.

Now that I've been out of high school for one year, I'm really looking forward to getting together with my old high school gang tonight. We're meeting at the cabin at the lake to commemorate the two-year anniversary of the day we played mean tricks on that one creepy girl in high school, you know, the one everyone thought was a witch. She was so pissed, I swear. She was all like, "In two years you'll all pay with your lives!" all dramatic and stuff? Give me a break.

So, we're getting together tonight, me and Sparks (the big, dumb football player) and Trey (the quarterback) and Tina and Misty (cheerleaders) and Anna (cool, cute, smart). We'll probably just hang out, get drunk, pair up, take walks in the woods, go swimming (naked!) and joke about how stupid that witch girl was and how funny it was when we all teased her that one time and embarrassed her and pretty much ruined her life. We'll probably also joke about her threats to kill us all in two years and about how stupid she is.

I wonder what ever happened to that girl? Haven't seen her for a while, since that time in the hardware story when she was buying six axes. Six! Who needs that many axes? What a weirdo. I can't wait to mock her out loud again with the gang. IT'S GOING TO ROCK! Our gang is the coolest!

Hello, friends. It's Friday the 13th. Any special plans? Where? When? Do you generally lock your doors?

Later. Love.

I Keep Running Into Myself

There are a few things you can count on. One of those is this: When Mel Gibson declares at the beginning of a movie that he doesn't like violence and only wants to live in peace, he's going to kill many, many, many people in righteous anger before the movie is over. Mel Gibson learns over and over and over again the lesson that pacifism is okay to talk about, and it makes you seem deep and virtuous, but you eventually have to kill all the bad guys. If you don't, you won't have freedom or revenge or closure or something and the bad guys will destroy everything good in the entire world.

Could you tell a different story? Would it be true?

The man who lives in the clouds has never seen a clear blue sky stretching, unbroken, from horizon to horizon. He would swear to you that such a sky has never existed and never will. You cannot dissuade him. It won't work, but you could try telling him this story:

There was once a boy who found the whole world stinky. Everywhere he traveled, the smell was repugnant to him.

He went, in despair, to his father for advice.

"Son," his father said, "take a bath."

The man who lives in the clouds would understand the story, but he would not see that he is the boy. Very few people can.

If I could live for a day away from myself, what would I discover? Would I want to go back?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - In response to my Ghost Clown post from yesterday, kehlers wrote this. She suggests that love, squalor, and a weeping clown are the building blocks of great literature. If you'd like to write your own story of love, squalor and a weeping clown, I'd love to read it. Let me know about your story and I'll link to it. Thanks for stopping by.

Ghost Clown

Awkward? Sure, it was awkward. In the moment, however, staring into the weeping, bloodshot eyes of this drunken circus clown as he leaned over me and grasped my hand in his, I couldn't help feeling something for the guy.

"Michael!" he sobbed. "Michael, I've changed. I swear to God, Michael; I've changed." He looked pleadingly into my eyes, stricken in the grip of some distant memory. "You were right. None of us can ever own another person. We can't even own ourselves. You were right, Michael. Can't you see that I've changed? I love you, Michael."

It was too much for me, this poor disheveled clown. He was probably going to lose his job. He'd totally flubbed his juggling act and then stumbled in a drunken stupor into the audience screaming, "Michael! Michael!" His makeup wasn't even complete. He had completely forgotten his left eye.

"Look," I said, as he squeezed my hand like a vice, "I'm sorry, but I'm not Michael. I'm not. I'm sorry."

The words took a moment to reach him. His eyes lost their intense focus and his gaze spread like ripples on a pond. Suddenly, he snatched his hand from mine violently, falling over backwards with the momentum of the movement. A couple of young guys behind me laughed as he lumbered onto his hands and knees and then onto his wobbly legs. "You're the fucking clown!" he screamed at me, and he turned and staggered away.

I tried to act like nothing had happened. I tried to shake off the embarrassment and dismay and ignore all the faces watching me. I just wanted to put the whole incident behind me, but my wife was too freaked out.

"Who was that, Mike?" she asked, concern and trepidation in her voice.

"I have no idea," I lied. "Let's just watch the show."

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Being Concise And Yet Thoreau

I imagine Henry David Thoreau as being a lot like the character Dwight Shrute from the American version of the sitcom The Office. Some part of me thinks that Thoreau would, if you invited him over for a dinner party, spend the evening critiquing the practicality of the construction of your home and questioning the judgment displayed in the structure and appointments therein. Does anyone else get this impression from Thoreau?

That idea is neither here nor there. Well, it is there (in the paragraph above this one), but it is neither here (in this paragraph) nor there (in the one below.) And now, transitioning to another idea altogether, we proceed.

Because I am reading Thoreau, I have taken it upon myself to adopt, for the duration of this paragraph, a tone and style of writing which, although undoubtedly executed with less skill, is, as nearly as I can tell, reminiscent of the writing style of Thoreau. One would assume that this activity, being contrary by definition to my truer nature as a writer and as one given so often to observations frivolous and whimsical, would be objectionable to Thoreau on the grounds, first, that I am being to myself untrue and, ultimately, on the grounds that I could be perceived as taking liberty with or making sport of Thoreau and his work. Nothing, in fact, could be farther from the truth. One cannot help, contemplating the nuances of perception made possible by such an activity, bringing to mind the vanity of the Romantic poet, concerned always that all the world around him recognize his ambivalence to their opinion, striving always to perfectly inhabit the role of one who eschews such frivolities of fashion. Consider also the farmer, who being... uh... in every way... uh... indeed...

I'm sorry. I just can't go on. I can't. It's driving me insane. What amazes me most is that he feels the need to explain in such detail and at such length why he went to live alone in the woods. I mean, I read about a three paragraphs and already I could see that he would be incapable of living any other way. What I don't understand is why he ever came back.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 57. Thanks for stopping by.

Drum

The drums are the secret. I think we all suspected as much, but we never said so. A good drummer makes all the difference, pretending not to matter. These are the intangibles, the real keys. I remember David's guitar was slung to just the right length, and he moved with it like every concert you've ever imagined. He could stand like a rock star, with that look that says your mind is anywhere but here; it's looking in or peering out, but it doesn't even notice this place. This looks belies your hypersensitivity to every moment on the stage, the way every face turned toward you burns into your brain forever.

Paul played the bass and I played the fool. We lived, those days, in our own youth. We were changing the world with the same four chords everybody uses, with intermediate skills, with beginner's luck. We tried to build art from our collective lack of craft. We were hiding behind each other, except for the drummer. He took our intentions, our aspiration, and made them sound like music. If you closed your eyes, you could feel him doing something real, beating a story from his skin.

If I could have anything back, I'd have that drum playing behind me again. Ba boom. Ba boom. Ba boom. It would make all the difference.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 56. Thanks for stopping by.

On Aphter, For Those Who Care

Well, I've reached a sort of climax in my Aphter story, and I already have the vague outline of a continued story, a much larger one. I posted part 55 the other day, and I may post a couple more to wrap some things up and tease some things to come.

My next step, I think, will be to fix the existing story. The plot is very thin in places (having been made up on the spot in many cases) and some of the characterization and tone is not consistent. That's not to mention the very glaring spelling errors, omitted words and grammatical mistakes. (Well, I guess I DID just mention them, but you know what I mean.)

So, thanks to anyone who has read them and who has given feedback. I won't be posting my future progress here on the blog. Posting them here with the notion that a few people were reading them was a motivating factor to help me persist in the writing for the past few months, a real feat for a quitter like me. Now, however, I want to add some quality, and I don't want anyone to see it until I decide it is done. That's my more typical modus operandi anyway.

I'll be leaving the existing Aphter posts up for about another week, and then I'm going to take them down. Feel free to skim them if you've not done so, but don't expect much. Most of them haven't even been proofread once. They're uber-rough.

Well, that's enough narcissistic prattle. There are more serious affairs afoot somewhere; there must be.

Hello, friends. Thanks for stopping by.

Later. Love.

Final Agenda Item: Next Steps

I beginning to wonder if I've made a mistake. Should I have done this? It all started back in the garden, little round and smooth stones in a path that led across the shallow, trickling stream. You could step from stone to stone without falling into the water. I love those things. I was already out there, on the fifth stone, when I realized that they turned and did not head directly to the other bank. "What's this?" I wondered, and that wonder carried me away. About fifteen steps in, heading out into the deep part of the pond, I began to notice that each step was a little higher than the one before. "What's this?"

Up from the pond.
Over the hedges and the fence.
Through the tops of the trees surrounding the garden.
Winding in the wind to peek over the peak of the mountain.
Up into the blustery clouds.
Always one more step, just up and ahead.

And now I stand on this round, smooth stone high up among the drifting clouds. Where is the stone that was behind? What is the next step? Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of green or blue below, so far away. From this height, though it is day, I can see the stars faint in the dark blue above. What now? Up? Down? How long can I wait up here? I should keep moving, but I can't see the next step. I know, however, that I cannot stop here. Nothing is certain except this: You must keep going.

And so I close my eyes, breathe deeply the chilly air, and step...

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The Artist Considers His Oeuvre

In my dreams I become rich for something really stupid. In my dreams I don't have to work anymore. I can make a full-time occupation of trying to prove I can do clever things too. I'm not just the guy who made millions off of that stupid bumper sticker. (I know you probably wouldn't make millions off of a bumper sticker, but it's my dream.) You know the bumper sticker of which I speak. It's the one designed to add humor to those cars that are covered with leftist stickers about rights and the environment and choice and peace. It's the one that says, "My Other Car Is A Republican." I'm not limited to that one expression. I can also create smart stuff. I could also make a T-shirt for women with a humorous message on the stomach that says, "Hey! My boobs are up there, pervert!" between two arrows pointing up. I could make a window sticker for the back window of cars that says, "IF YOU CAN'T SEE THIS, WASH YOUR CAR!" You know, smart stuff. Intellectual. I'm not just the bumper sticker guy.

Does anyone else think it would be funny to wear a black T-Shirt that said, "Fuck the environment! LET'S GET NAKED!" with some random picture like maybe a muscle car or a motorcycle or a shark or a peace sign. I think it would be funny. I don't know if I would wear it, though. I'd probably make one of my kids wear it.

Sometimes I write poetry. Today? Not so much.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 55. Thanks for stopping by.

Driven: Automobility and Carma

When they are finally made available to the public, flying cars will have four blinkers: right, left, up and down. Old people will drive around on the ground with their down blinker on. Silly old people. Are they planning to burrow?

Lately, just for fun, I've been painting a reproduction of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel on the roof of my car. Many people find this annoying because I do it while I'm driving to work on the crowded freeway. Most of the other drivers are capitalist materialists; they have no appreciation for good art. They scream intolerant things at me like, "You're on the wrong side of the road! You're going to kill someone!" What ever happened to culture? Stupid cretins.

When the Flintstones are in their car, are they still pedestrians? Have you ever wondered this? I have.

Hello, friends. Tell me something good.

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 54. Sorry I haven't posted one in a few days. I've been pretty busy. Thanks for stopping by.

Breath, Update, Brandon, Truth, No Tumor and Hello

I'm taking a cleansing breath. In. [Pause.] Out. [Pause.] Ah. Better.

My mind has been otherwise engaged for the past indeterminate amount of time. Days at least. Possibly weeks. I don't know. I've not been commenting around much, and I'm not sure if that will improve much. I'm taking on new responsibilities at work. In spite of swearing I didn't want to do it, I'm moving, as I always seem to do, from a technical worker position into more of a technical management position.

You know what? It's just occurred to me that this type of trivia about me is completely irrelevant. You don't need to know it, and I already know it. My job's changing. I may not be around as much. Enough said.

Did you read at Brandon's non-blog that there might be a Brandon non-non-blog again soon, which is to say he might start non-guest-posting? I think that's what he said. That's cool. He's a good writer. I look forward to his return to regular contribution.

I was involved in an interesting group discussion about truth and fact the other day. The prevailing view of the group was pretty liberal and relativistic. It's true if it's true to you. A couple of guys in the group, however, were annoyed by this. The conversation went like this:

More Liberal Person:	If two people report different reports of the same event but believe them, then they are both telling the truth.
More Conservative Person:	They may both be telling the truth where honesty is concerned, but only one of them (if even that) is giving a report that is true, which is to say only one of them is reporting something that really happened.
MLP:	What really happened doesn't matter. Perception is everything.
MCP:	Perception may often prevail, but that is not the same thing as truth.
etc...

I think objective truth exists, but we cannot approach it. We live inside the tiny black box of our mind. We only see the light that comes into our eyes. We only hear the waves that come into out ears. We only taste and smell and touch those things with which we come into contact. We live in our heads, processing messages, synthesizing them into the perception of a world outside. Sometimes input is filtered or altered before it gets to us. This changes the only reality we know. Actual reality outside my box might be whatever it is, I can only make the best synthesis and judgment possible with the input I receive. If I do this with honesty, I have gotten as close to the truth as I can.

Eyes and ears do not reach out to see and hear. They are like a telescope. More powerful telescopes don't see farther away, they see their own surface more clearly.

Also, I can tell you with much greater certainty than I could before that I do not have a brain tumor. I never thought I had a brain tumor, but now I KNOW I don't have one. So, you know, that's good.

Hello, friends. Tell me what you're thinking. How are you?

Later. Love.