caveat emptor

In The Beginning (Paraphrased)

In the beginning Bob created the heavens and the hotdog, and the hotdog was good, what with the onions and mustard and sauerkraut. Mmm, the hotdog. And Bob said, "Let there be beer," and there wasn't beer, so Bob had to run down to the liquor store and buy beer, and it was cheap, and not very good, but there was plenty of it, so that was good. And Bob said, "The game starts at five. Be here by four thirty," and all the people rejoiced, except Danny, who could not be there because his truck had a flat tire. And at halftime Bob made nachos, and they were ok. Nothing to write home about. Amen.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

The Things They Never Warned You About

All the things they never warned you about, as far as you can remember, are meeting today across town planning how they're going to torment you in the next fiscal quarter. They're meeting in a well-appointed conference salon in an upscale hotel. There are glass pitchers of ice water on each table, condensation building on the smooth, sweeping curves of the pitcher until each drop swells in mass beyond the tenuous grip of this negotiation of inertia, friction and viscosity and snakes, gathering other drops along the way, down the pitcher and into the black, silk napkin folded and placed for just such an occasion. I'm not allowed to tell you what all these things have planned for you, since these are things they never warned you about. I'm them too, after all. We all are, except you, of course. Don't worry, though. It's not going to be that bad. You can take it. You always do. If it makes you feel any better, remember that there is no fate, no doom. There is no reaper, grim or otherwise. There is no judgment day or punishment. There is only this gentle rhythm of inhaling and exhaling for as long as it lasts. And after that? No one knows. Some might tell you they know, but they're only guessing, as far as I know.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

Garden

Life is a garden in which experiences grow, some wild and some by design. An untended garden, overgrown and untamed, can be interesting for a while, a pleasure the artistic eye, a novelty, an aesthetic delight. More often than not, however, it becomes unhealthy and ugly, with good things choked by strange weeds, out of control. Intentions plant seeds. Actions tend the fragile shoots. Most of us cannot afford to hire out the gardening, we must care for our own plot of life. As for me, I've planted too many things. The weed vines snake around my ankles as I rip at them as fast as I can, though, to be honest, my mind often wanders. Mostly I'm dreaming of some new seeds to sow as the vines reach my knees, others coming from every direction to snare my hands or reach for my neck. They're actually pretty, in their own way, these tendrils trying to pull me into the underbrush. What was I doing, anyway? Do you remember? Was I planting new flowers? Maybe some tomatoes or watermelon? The shade is a relief from the heat as the sun disappears from the view of my unfocused eyes, hidden by this leafy canopy. The dirt is moist and cool as I sink in, pulled by the strong embrace of roots. I wonder where we're going?

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

Remembering Hard Afternoon Rain

Days like this I like to remember big daytime rain, water pouring from the sky more in streams than drops, a seemingly endless deluge on a warm, still afternoon. I love the stark danger of violent storms that rage all around but pass leaving you unharmed, the thrilling threat of wind, lightning and thunder. What I'm talking about now, though, is calm rain that falls straight down, heavy and unrelenting. I can remember walking in sneakers and jeans – soaked through – gym socks sloshing, shirt clinging to my young man chest and back, wet, dark hair stuck in hanging strands on my face and cheeks, and the rain doesn't stop. We are mostly water, this whole planet, even these bodies. Water everywhere all the time, the theme of our wet world. We cannot long bear to be without it. From space it's probably hard to believe that people die of thirst on this boggy sphere, that parched skeletons are etched by blowing sand in deserts that stretch from horizon to horizon. Today I remember rain so dense you could almost swim up to see from whence it fell. Do you remember that kind of rain, filling your footprints in the mud as soon as you take a step? If you close your eyes, can you still feel it falling?

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

Alone and Accidental?

It's a thing I think about from time to time, the possibility that we might be the only living things ever in the universe. What if we are just an isolated coincidence? Imagine it: There has never been life before and there will never be life again. One day some planetary cataclysm will wipe us out for good and that will be it. No more life. Ever. I can't decide how that makes me feel. Lonely? Insignificant? Important? Lucky? I don't know. Maybe it's not true, of course. Maybe the spaceships start arriving tomorrow. Maybe there are gods and spirits and aliens and wonderful beings we've never imagined, or horrible monsters even our nightmares never dreamed. Maybe we were put here by distant cousins who are on their way back. Maybe pointed eared scientists with green skin (or not) are approaching cautiously. Maybe Klaatu barada nikto and whatnot. I don't know. But what if? Suppose it's just us, just a temporary anomaly. That's cool, right? I guess it is. Seems a little sad, though.

Hello, friends. I'm glad to be here with you.

Later. Love.

Book Bag

This is how it happened. She was sitting, her head in a book, in a café at a table that held a cup half full of lukewarm coffee and a plate empty but for dark crumbs from the rich brown bread of her former sandwich. She finished the book and, without realizing anything had changed, closed it and placed it on the table beside the plate. With the hint of a sigh and – though she didn't recognize it at the time – a small smile, she lifted the cup to her lips and looked out at the bright day, a breeze playing in the hair, skirts and jackets of passersby. The coffee was good, if growing cold. She closed her eyes and thought for a second or two about the end of the story, the last paragraph of that book. There were three more unread books in her bag, her precaution against the recent threat posed by her unoccupied mind, a defense mechanism that had served her well at various times in her life, the hard times. She didn't want another book, however. She glanced around the room at couples, friends, families and loners, performances of many kinds for many reasons, some of which she might guess and some she never could. Perhaps you missed the important thing, however. She didn't want another book. The waitress came by and offered to warm up her coffee. She thanked her but she didn't want any more. She thought she might go for a walk. The waitress asked if the book had been good and, smiling, she told her about it for several minutes, making full eye contact and engaging eagerly with the beautiful young waitress. A moment later, alone again, it began to occur to her that something was different. It had been a long time this time, months, but she was through it, at least the worst of it. She felt… happy. Well, content anyway. Peaceful. She was able to stand alone in her own mind without words or noises or tasks to keep her safe. She dropped the book in the bag stood to go, throwing a few dollars on the table for the busy beauty and, shouldering the bag, headed for the door. The heaviness on her shoulder, a comfort for so long, seemed bothersome now, limiting. Maybe she would drop it by her place and grab the small purse from its long resting place on the table below the coat hooks. Maybe she would call a friend or even her brother, see if someone wanted to have dinner or see a show.

That book bag stayed there, those books unread inside, for a nice long time. It sat through a couple of apartment moves, two wonderful relationships and the beginning of another. It didn't sit forever, but it really was a nice long time. Longer than usual.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

Our Band

Like most famous "garage bands" we never actually played in a garage. Dave met Antonio in their common agent's waiting room where they scribbled the outline of a band business model as they waited for Sam, the agent, to finish his lunchtime two-mile treadmill run. They put out feelers in the industry for a drummer and bass player and I was sent to them after a couple of weeks by my former label as a negotiated arrangement to get out from under a penalty clause on on my last band's contract. Josh was hired by the three of us and our two managers after about thirty auditions and seven sessions with his lawyer. People call us a garage band, though. Gina, the marketing exec, decided we should spin ourselves like that.

"It fits your style," she said.

"What style?" Dave asked.

"Oh, you'll see," she said. "We're still working out some kinks in your sound and personalities, but I think you're going to like them."

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

This is What We Are, Like it or Not

You could have been born a rock or a drop of water. You could have been a sea cucumber or a parking meter. Would that have been better, I wonder, to be a cucumber cucumbing along the bottom of the briny sea? It's not a choice that's given you, what you're going to be when you're born. By the time you have a chooser the choice has been made and there you are, a radio antenna in the middle of a corn field in Indiana with nothing but flat plains and corn as far as the eye can see, not that you have eyes, mind you. If you could have chosen, what would you have been? A Galapagos Tortoise? That would be a good choice, I think. A grommet? I don't really even know what that is. Maybe that would be ok. Grommets are probably important for something. It's nice to be important, or so I've heard. I wouldn't want to be a toilet or an orthodontic retainer. I wouldn't want to be a star-nosed mole. I find their noses too creepy, and, although they do have vestigial eyes, they can see no better than a radio tower. How do I feel about having been born me? I don't know. It's ok. It would be been cool to be able to fly, I suppose, but I also enjoy writing. Probably there are no flying species that write. It's ok, then. How about you? Are you content to be you? Would you rather be something else? A dragonfly? A hubcap? Jelly beans?

Hello, friends. I'm glad you're you, for what it's worth.

Later. Love.