Fifty-Fifty

 

 

Eventually even the most sophisticated of machines fail.  Man is no exception.  When his resisters falter, he ends up buying more than he needs, weather it is clothes, food or garden supplies.  His control becomes an issue.  In the event his capacitors malfunction, which can be witnessed whenever he consumes alcohol, balance and coordination are affected, as well as vision.   Should both resisters and capacitors go at the same time, which is rare but can happen, he gets red tagged and placed into a clinic where other humans try to repair him.

Whenever repair attempts fail, a lack of spark can be noticed.  The individual will not work.  Their ability to get started just never happens and this inaction affects those around him.  It is at this point they must be removed from society for their judgement comes into question.  Some of these defective people end up in prison or they go into politics.   It is usually a 50/50 kind of thing.

Stuck Together

 

I know there is distance between us.  That part doesn’t bother me.  It’s the silence in that distance that gets to me.  The more time that goes by without a letter, email or phone call, the more that silence expands the distance.   It is the silence that festers.  It chips away at the wall of daily activity we build up around ourselves until finally a substantial piece breaks off, exposing the void, the vacuum within the distance that nobody talks about.

I must admit, sometimes I dig out your old letters and read them all over again.  It’s just like seeing the actors in your favorite movies.  They haven’t aged, they look the same, they still wear the same clothes, even though years have gone past.  Rereading your letters seems to place patches on the chipped wall.  It doesn’t matter that it is old news.  When I’m reading it, I imagine you were doing it just a couple days ago, not three or four summers back.

Maybe this is what they call getting stuck in the past.  Am I stuck?  Have I not moved forward?  I just did laundry yesterday.  I remember doing that.  That’s moving forward, isn’t it?  My clothes are clean, I have combed what’s left of my hair.  I don’t think I’m stuck.  Okay, so maybe I look older in the mirror, but I bet if you are reading some of my old letters, in your mind I look the same as I always have.

Just maybe, we’re stuck together.

 

Snow Day

 

 

Of all of the whispers left unheard

the most unimportant was June 23^rd

Down from the North swept a wind from the skies

Channel 4 claimed- it was a surprise,

and came with it snow, so out of tune –

never before had it happened in June.

A blanket so thick, but that wasn’t the fright –

nothing that fell on that day – was white.

There were ribbons of green, sparkles of blue

flakes iridescent – I swear it was true,

Hillsides of paisley – branches of pink

I saw colorful snow and had nothing to drink.

Rooftops were orange, gutters were brown

A rainbow of winter lay on the ground –

A snow-day was called for, children rejoiced

A communist plot – somebody voiced,

but what I remember, and my journal will show

what came on that day was more panic than snow.

zc

Perfect Pitch

 

 The students in Mrs. Harper’s class that had perfect pitch were always placed in the front row, unless, of course, they were too tall.  The ones who could actually sing seemed to automatically stand out.  They were good, they had confidence and stood tall.

I had what was known as perfect catch.  All Mrs. Harper had to do was give me that look, and I knew.  I could easily pick up on the slightest facial expression.  I would instantly know if I was to sing softer, or stop singing all together, you know, just move my lips.

You see, even the music department came under the No Child Left Behind mandate.  She couldn’t flunk me or boot me out.  All she could do was to toss me the look, and I would catch it.  I had a mute button and she had found it.

It was this unspoken communication between Mrs. Harper and myself that unfortunately led to me being on the chartered bus heading to Washington.  Our entire class had been selected to represent all other schools in the region.   I had no idea what to expect and didn’t really panic until word came down that Mrs. Harper had gotten the flu and wouldn’t be coming on the trip.

What happened on the evening of our performance has become a legend.  The story has traveled throughout the entire school system and ultimately passed through various school districts.  Many find the story hard to believe and most believe it to be some elaborate fabrication.   I am here to tell you that everything you are about to hear, in fact actually happened. 

It's a Flip of a Coin

 

Given a choice between being in escrow or being in remission, I’d chose remission.  Finding a lucky penny or discovering a lose tooth, I’d pick the penny.  I would sooner watch boxers attempt to lace up their own gloves than to see them hit each other.  And given a choice between watching television or reading a book, I’d select the book, as long as it wasn’t a TV Guide.  And by the way, I see no reason washing machines should agitate.

 

Just now, as I look into the woods, I notice the dark between the trees.  It has always been that darkness that shelters scary.  The tentacles of our immigration weave themselves between those trees and as they get deeper and deeper into the woods, life becomes more and more scary.

 

Only a shrill scream, the kind that sends goosebumps through your very being could possibly draw you deeper into the darkness, foolishly believing you could rescue, thinking you’d get there in time - imagining yourself the hero.

 

The harsh reality is that a stranger, whose office walls are filled with achievements and proclamations, will deliver your final scare.  That is when you’ll realize the scream is coming from you, and nobody is coming to your rescue.  The only word on the next page of your calendar is bleak and you’re beginning to question the luck of that penny.

 

A loose tooth can wiggle in any direction, but luck can only be good or bad.

Still Left to Write

 

I grow weary of whiskers

I tire of hair –

How nice it would be

to have my face bare,

No need for a razor

twood be nice I bet,

No nicks, cuts or bleeding

from my stupid Gillette –

Whose silly idea

when designing mankind –

To have fur on his face

match his behind?

Don’t get me wrong

I like opposable thumbs,

But a mustache and beard

everyday seems quite dumb.

When I finally expire

and my mind stops its knowing –

My face underground

I bet will keep growing,

So don’t let my coffin

burst at the seems –

Bury me please

with some fresh shaving cream.

 

The Elimination of Douglas Fry

This is not a blank sheet of paper I am typing on; it is simply a rectangle of white space on my monitor.  The computer has eliminated the need for paper.  Also, there is no longer a need to put film into my camera, Today’s cameras no longer require it.

Algorithms are eliminating our need to think.  Information is calculated and processed faster than you can say abracadabra.

Alexa has eliminated Funk & Wagnall’s and email makes the Post Office look like The Pony Express.  Snap Chat, Zoom, emoji and Texting has removed us from each other.

We are the things being processed.  We are tracked, scanned and followed every minute of the day.  Our cars communicate with satellites.  We are interrupted with questions and left with multiple choice responses, poor, good, very good, excellent.  And by the way, there isn’t a human at the other end reviewing your answers. 

Your supermarket, drug store and Mr. Fry are very familiar with what you buy and how often.  You are sent coupons designed to bring you back into the store.  Douglas Fry is not a social worker who will help you when you run amuck.  He is not the prison psychologist you spill everything to.  

Douglas Fry doesn’t care about you.  He is a figment, a shadow that doesn’t require the sun.  He is that running commentary in your head.  He is the one telling you you’re being followed.  He is a feeling of impending doom, as well as your personal look-out, and at this moment in time you believe him to be two steps ahead of you.  He is not.  

There is a system in place that will soon eliminate Douglas Fry altogether, and once he is gone you will better understand Mother Nature’s sense of urgency in removing us from this planet.

 

Abracadabra -

Game Over

The Forever Letter

 

This snail-mail letter may become a collector’s item.  As the digital age progresses, this method of communication dwindles.  It is a costly system to operate and time consuming in its process. It is with that in mind that I hereby create what I expect is history in the making.   

Witness, if you will, a Postmaster General sitting at his large mahogany desk, void of In Boxes and Out Boxes.  Only a smattering of #2 pencils and one, maybe two Bic pens laying silent in the absence of hustle and bustle.  He has nothing to fill his days, in fact, he spends the majority of his time sending emails to his cronies, who – unlike him, have oodles to do and usually become annoyed at his electronic interruptions.

Even junk mail has evolved into unsavory bytes and non-magical pixels, serving only to annoy and pop-up with the frequency of teenage acne.

Citizens, snail mail is a vanishing force, no longer capable of pushing the envelope.  It is up to us, not to save it, but to simply enjoy its final flickers.  Trust me, it will be stamped out before you know it.  The mailbox at the curb will slip into the shadows of yesterday, ground up with old, recycled stump speeches and promises of a better tomorrow.

Take action now.  Print and mail this to someone, anyone. Use that forever stamp before forever follows the path of the Lifetime Warranty.  Become a part of something bigger.  Keep this letter in the air, if only to help our Postal System go down with a fight.

 

Respectfully,

Ann Arkey

Before sending this letter back out into  the world, mark it to keep track of its adventure.  Simply put it into a new envelope with every mailing.

                         

 

140 IQ

 

The company that makes this bird feeder pays big bucks for an engineer to design a squirrel-proof bird feeder.

They spent days coming up with that plastic dome for the top to make us squirrels slide right off.

I simply jumped up from the ground.

Bunch of Yahoos

 

Why can’t anyone tell me what happened to my favorite blog?

For years I was following zobosticleft2write.blogspot.com and all of a sudden - it’s gone.  That stinks.

They keep telling me that Google is full of the smartest people, but after a stunt like this, I’d lump them together with all those other Yahoos.

Smart – my foot.

Sorry for being so blunt.

Left Out

 

Forever I was picked last when choosing sides.  Then one Saturday, Mitch and Craig were picking as they always did, and I was just sort of hanging back, waiting once again to be playing Left Out, when Craig called my name.  I couldn’t believe it.  I wasn’t sure I had heard it right, so I hesitated before running to join my team.  Someone slapped my shoulder and said, “That’s you bud.”

I couldn’t figure why he had called me.  All I knew was I was excited to get out onto the field and give it my best.  Most of that morning was a blur.  They scored, then we scored, and somehow I was holding my own.  So far I hadn’t made any blunders.  I was thirsty and getting tired but I didn’t want this day to end.  I was having the time of my life.

And just like it was one of those Hollywood movies, we came to the last of the 9^th.  If we could get one more out on them, we’d win.  I can still hear the loud crack of the bat and see the ball come sailing in my direction.  This was it.  If I caught it, I’d be a hero.  If I fumbled it, I would never hear the end of it.  My name would never be called again.

Everything about that day has been a mystery.  I have been told I caught the ball and that we won the game, but you couldn’t prove it by me.  I never got to keep the game ball.  I don’t really know who has it at this point, but I do have a copy of the picture that made it to the front of the Sports section.  My name doesn't appear anywhere but it shows my glove, still wrapped around the ball and laying right where I dropped it.

If anyone reads this, I’d at least like to get my glove back.