Another day, another confusing conversation with self about life and things relative to that which we think is relative. Okay, so maybe this is a bit too much of a thought process but I have to ask why is it that when I had over 500 followers here and over 500 followers on Facebook and then consider LinkedIn and Twitter why is it that I totter along with 4 visits on a daily twit? Can anyone explain that to me? Any answers?
Eric suddenly realized something was wrong. The hay smelled stale, rotted actually. How long had he slept, he wondered? Hours? Days? No, impossible, he had never slept for more than a few hours and if he had someone would have woken him.
He heard shuffling and mumbling coming from off to his left and then to his right. Suddenly, little brown noses poked into the cavity. Field Mice noses. Then he saw an eye blinking at him. “He’s awake!” a mouse voice said to his left.
“No.” A mouse voice said to his right.
Then the noses and the eyes suddenly broke out of the hay and there he sat being studied intently by two field mice, one from the left and one from the right.
“It’s impossible,” said the mouse to the right.
“Well, it is what it is,” said the one on the left. “I told you he was waking up.”
“Yes, you did but….”
Eric suddenly sat up. “Who are you? I don’t recognize either of you.”
“Good God, he can talk,” the mice said together. “I think we should tell the Queen,” said the one on the left. “No, I don’t think that is wise,” from the right. “She’s been bashing people on the head with her club. I don’t even want to go near her,” said the one on the left. “Besides we need more information,” they said together.
So it happened that Eric fell asleep for what appeared to be only a few minutes, but the reality was it was hours and days and months that had passed in a twinkling when Eric finally yawned and sat up in what was now a pollution of rotted hay for he had been left there as the others were unable to wake him. But then there was a shuffling noise in the far in of his den and out popped the faces of two who were his own age, except you had to consider he was actually over a hundred at the time, but not physically. Physically he was only 3 or was it 4. I’m not sure, maybe 5. Yes, let’s say he was 5 and be done with it except…..well….plus a hundred.
I often think of us, you and me, in terms of who we are. I have never come up with an answer to suit me.
What are we? Again, the same problem. Oh, I suppose we can talk about material items, flesh, blood, molecules, that sort of things but does it define us? I think not.
So I have decided that what we are is a collection of memories. We are thoughts. We are not future as the future doesn’t exist. We are not present (even though we think we are) because present is both past and future and future doesn’t exist so you cannot have present. Therefore we are past, and past is memory pushing against the present and the future which are both indistinct and perpetually indistinguishable. In writing I am dealing with thought about the future but the future doesn’t come into being until the present when I type or think out a thought that then becomes past as in memory. Even typing the word out. It doesn’t become until AFTER I hit the key and then the letters fall on the page but this is after and not before. Before is thought but doesn’t exit in the here and now until I help it materialize. The future is undefinable. It exists only because we think it does and yet if you die right now that future you thought about is not here.
And yet, time is accessible past and future to an extent with present being the focus. In essence we are time travelers without the awareness that we are.
I recall that I gave a slight sigh at his comment, feeling a minor depression forming somewhere in the back of my mind, deep in some rift of grey matter, and I turned to go. It was best to simply go at that point. To leave. To retreat. To leave this man alone before he confused me even more with his ability to see when he was blind and to know without being told. Odd, I thought, How like him he was to the rest of the world in many ways and yet completely unlike the world in many other ways. Too complex for my wee brain to handle and so I turned to go just as he spoke.
“Do you know there is little difference between a white piece of paper and a black piece of paper?”
I was at the Tampa Library earlier today and I stepped outside for a moment to check the weather. There I found a very thin, grey-haired man standing alone leaning up against a pillar near the front door of the building. I noticed that he held a white cane with a red tip on it that informed me that he was blind. We both stood there about twenty feet apart without speaking. I noticed that the cane was held lightly in his right hand and his left hand was hanging loosely with nothing to do . I looked again at the cane and, being someone interested in math, I was curious about the angle that he and the cane formed.
“Forty-five degrees,” he said without looking in my direction.
“What?” I asked, surprised by his comment as I had said nothing to him and wasn’t even sure if he knew I was standing near him.
“Forty-five degrees,” he said again, and then added, “You were wondering at what angle my cane was set from my body. It’s forty=five degrees.” He sniffed and wriggled his nose as if something had irritated it.
“But I didn’t say anything to you.”
“I know,” he signed. “But it’s a common question by those, like you, who are curious about angles and such.”
We stood in silence for several moments and then I added, “But I am the only one out here.”
He turned his head to the left and then to the right and said, “Yep, you’re right. I haven’t seen anyone out here for at least twenty minutes.”
The three dwarfs found themselves stumbling through a heavy fog on the slopes of Desperation.
“I don’t suppose it matters to any of you but,” began a voice tinged with a bit of sarcasm.
“Are you complaining about the mist again?” another spoke from somewhere in the moist film that surrounded them on the mountain trail.
“Well, yes. I can’t see a bloody thing. Can either of you?” The voice had turned angry.
“Well, get on with it, Grumpy. What exactly is the problem? You always seem to have more than one problem,” a third voice joined as its owner tramped forward stumbling over a small bush not seen by the speaker.
“Well, to begin with, my feet hurt. And, and my ankles are tired of being twisted this way and that by the unevenness of the path, not to mention the gravel that is everywhere along through here.”
“Be grateful for the gravel,” a third voice replied, coming up from behind the first two, “if you don’t hear it beneath your boots then you will know you have strayed off the trail and that, my dwarf friends, would be bad I think.”
“Well, I am tired of the whole thing and I want to sit and rest, maybe eat a cake or two. Anybody got any coffee left in their thermos? How about you Doc? Got any coffee left? And, for God’s sake, Sleepy, did you have to take a dump so close behind us with the wind at your butt?”
“When a dwarf has to shit, a dwarf has to shit,” Sleepy replied and cinched up his belt.
“Did you remember to button up your pants this time? I don’t want to walk into town with your pants unbuttoned as a greeting for all who might see you.”
“See us, not just me, you dope,” Sleepy corrected. “And, yes, I buttoned up my pants, thank you very kindly.
“Wind?” said the first.
“Yes, wind, I can feel it. Maybe it will push-off the mists. I actually think I can see the two of you now.”
“Maybe she did that.”
“Well, it would be about time she did something for us,” Dopey snarled.
“I’d be careful of what I said, Dopey, she well might be able to hear us and would retaliate by turning you into a statue.”
“Ha, I’d like to see her try!” And, with that statement, Dopey suddenly let out a very strange irk sound and froze in his tracks.
“Holy shit,” Doc said as he jumped back. “Holy shit.” He looked over at Grumpy who also was staring at their companion who had oddly gone rigid and appeared to be stuck to the ground.
GOD WENT FOR A WALK is a soon to be published book of poetry. It follows on The Widow’s Cliff and on Rabbit in a Box. Currently there are 129 poems in this collection. I will be adding and editing and posting here.
I woke to hear a rooster throw
Its head back to announce
The coming of the dawning day
Before a hungry cat did sudden pounce
And ran off all the silly school children
Who squealing terror passed me by
For they had ventured out with games to play
But could not stand to watch the rooster die
Nor understand as nature went her natural way
And watching wondered then I about it all
What place within this lack of walls
Should shelter me from asking then
For certain someone told me way back when
I thought it odd with all so very wrong
That God should simply take a walk
And fail to ask me to come along. June 19, 2013
What should I write about at 3:20 AM? Perhaps it is why I am awake. Well the plan was to be asleep. However, I am not. My wife will probably be out here in a minute or two with a disapproving look on her face, but it is what it is.
She has been sick, or perhaps it would be better to say that she has been in a great deal of pain since the middle of the night Wednesday. We went to the ER (emergency room) on Saturday more because of my being insistent than any other reason. They ran some tests, took blood, urine, blood pressure, oxygen level, you know, all the standard “we don’t know what is wrong with you tests but we gotta look like we know what we’re doing tests and comments.”
So, of course the winner is the hospital and the doctor because they will bill the insurance company (and us) some God awful amount of money for what little they did. I think that hospitals and doctors should get paid based on the reality that they accomplished something other than just looking like they accomplished something. If you hire a plumber they don’t come to the house and turn the water on, then flush the toilet, then go check the water meter, and then say, “Well, we checked this and that and we find you do have water, the toilet flushed, and the meter seems to be just fine so we don’t have any leaks, as far as that smell coming from the upstairs hall we think you have a dead mouse stuck in the wall. Here’s my bill.” Well, perhaps not to that extreme, but you get the point. =
Oh good grief…. I cannot believe I crossed two posts. What a mess. This post is about a writer named Ian….NOT Maggie. I already had posted that and somehow in the past when it went into draft the two were overlapping and so when I pulled this one up it was about Maggie…WRONG NAME… this is about IAN. So I have written this to cover IAN.
Ooops! I started this on Feb. 27, or so my records say. It went into the draft column and somehow was forgotten. So, here it is.
IAN I have posted three links below to him.