A Memory of a Dream



“No need to panic,” assured the the fixer of all things rural & urbanic.

“All in a day’s work,” cried both the clerk & soda jerk.

In other words: perspective rules the day. Better yet, relativity rules the day. Every day. Unseen. Untasted. Unheard.

Einstein’s pet, which he describes thusly: “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour and it seems like a minute. That’s relativity.”

Yet, embossed on the other side of the coin, countering – augmenting? {again: relativity} Einstein’s analogy is this ditty: “Two men say they’re Jesus. One of them must be wrong.” Dire straits, indeed.

One. Or both. Who really knows?

Jesus is a silent partner. Some hear Him. Some can’t. Or don’t. And instead hear only the din of silence.

A ‘silence’ that one has to have faith truly exists. Has anyone ever actually seen it? Tasted, touched or smelled it? Heard it, even. Or: ‘unheard’ it … ‘non-heard’ it?

Such is the improbable dilemma posed by the infamous tree in the forest falling on deaf ears. I can report that neither myself nor Mr. Heisenberg detected a sound while observing the event … his mere presence upsetting the atoms to no end.

“Do you think he’s right?” Guy’s really blowing my mind. “I’m here but, if someone’s watching, I’m not here?” What’s up with that?” asks Adam, the atom society’s spokesman, in his best Major Major voice.

“Odd thing is: he’s more or less right,” chimes in Mr. Tree.  Kind of. As in: when one of us happens to blow over for some ungodly reason – all 40 some feet of top heavy timber timbering down in an instant – the silence is indeed broken.

“Yet. We can only hear if each other crashes to ground. We can’t hear ourselves do so. Only a different tree – a living, upright tree can detect the demise of another. But not its own self.”

So to partially answer the age-old question: “Do we make a sound?” With a question …

“A sound?” “Really?” “5 tons of dense, living wood slamming into solid ground.” “Sound runs the full spectrum – from dog whistle to train whistle. But, whatever the parameters: “Yeah – We make a freeking sound.”

“But … no need to panic. We wouldn’t do so if you were around. Couldn’t do so if you were around. Instead. Just listen to the rustle of our leaves”

A quietly comforting soft silence. Timeless. As enveloping as it is ephemeral. Evoking a gauzy memory of a dream.

NOTE: The above, in response to the word-of-the-day ‘panic’ while weaving in a different daily prompt: ‘silence.’ PS … I graciously invite constructive criticism from YOU … re: this story. Overall thoughts? Specific or not … thanks … pr.


What is but what should never be

One Christmas when I was a kid my sister bought me a record she knew I liked.

“Elenore,” by the Turtles.

I loved that record. Played it over and over.

Then one day, I dropped it. Got a big scratch in it.

I put a nickel on the turntable’s arm. To help it ride over the scratch.


It worked. For a while.

Then, I had to tape another nickel on top of that nickle.

It worked for another little while.

Until it didn’t.

So, I took the nickels off. And, at exactly the same spot and in the middle of the exact same word, the needle would jump 3 rings over. Skip an entire stanza and start playing again like nothing happened.

I listened to it anyway. And got used to it skipping an entire stanza of what was supposed to be there.

But because the system had all the right components -An expensive turntable; a quality needle; top notch speakers – I kept thinking that it might just fix itself. Stop skipping. And play how it should.

Instead the groove just kept getting deeper and deeper.

Until I could barely bring myself to listen to it any more.

I haven’t thought of this remembrance from my childhood in years.

And until just a few moments ago, wasn’t certain why it suddenly popped into my mind.

Then I realized:


And even though I keep thinking it won’t – because it shouldn’t …

And even though I keep thinking that it might fix itself …

The record still skips …

The groove keeps getting deeper and deeper …

And even though I still love it …

It’s becoming more and more difficult to continue listening  …




Humphrey Bogart, JFK & The Twin Towers


The Laws of Physics. Immutable. Unbiased. Opinionated. Not ‘sometimes X causes Y.’ Nor ‘most times an apple, if dislodged from a tree, will fall to the ground. More or less.’

Hard work. Day in; day out. Keeping our daily Game of Life safe, clean & fair. Ensuring that the designated 75mph speed limit on a certain stretch of highway is appropriate and devoid of any hairpin turns. That the milk poured over your cereal ends up on your cereal – and not on your ceiling. That the throw from outfield to home plate eventually loses its momentum and ends up in the catcher’s mitt instead of the bleachers.

A full-time job if there ever was one.

Overworked and underpaid {unpaid, in actuality – for to whom could a check be written? Pay to the order of ‘The Laws of Physics?’} who could blame them if they collectively convened their anthropomorphic selves now and then in some after hours club and after a hearty meal, a few pints and some lively debate they decided to build a few sick days into their contract? Some time off here and there to simply stay home with the family. Pop some popcorn. Plug in a few old movies. Chill out and recharge.

A sunny day in Dallas. A slow turn. An open car. A dressmaker armed with an 8mm movie camera capturing the chaos. A bullet that – in mid-air -slows down, turns, slows down and turns once again. Piercing flesh and bone and yet emerging pristine.

A sunny day in New York City. X melting Z. Lightweight aluminum slicing through stout and sturdy steel. Fire hot and intense. Yet neither hot enough nor intense enough to incinerate either a cloth bandana nor a paper passport.

“Honey, will you pass me the remote?” Asks immutable Law #1 as he kicks back in his recliner to observe how the world is getting on without the guidance of either himself nor his fellow Laws.

The weight of approximately 15 floors of steel and concrete being sufficient to pancake the 85 floors below.

Black smoke indicating an oxygen-deprived environment. Yet still hot enough to melt steel. And have it remain molten. Underground. Flowing like lava. Starved of oxygen. Weeks later.

“Oh my gosh. Bogie was the best. ‘the start of a beautiful friendship.’ Classic line.” In the opinion of Law #2 who decided to spend his time off revisiting old black & whites.


The hole left behind by the 2nd plane. The very same plane whose thousands of gallons of jet fuel poured throughout that floor and floors below. Yet this unidentified woman – circled in red – is able to stand at the point of impact. Unharmed. Unscathed. Unimaginably alive.

Equally incredible is the fact that the aluminum plane which sheared these steel beams creating the hole where this woman stands, dispersed its fuel throughout and transformed uncooked steel beams into Al Dente noodles, left in its path no wake vortex.


novortexbetter vortexshould

Photo #1) What was seen.                             Photo #2) What would have been seen

had the Laws of Physics not called in sick.

Perhaps Sir Issac Newton, in some written-but-yet-to-be-discovered addendum to his original Laws, penned, in his immaculate handwriting a concise and easily understandable explanation of some of the more curious events woven throughout 11/23/1963 & 9/11/2001.

Perhaps even something as elegant and flowing as Einstein’s E = MC squared.

Or perhaps, there’s a more sinister equation at the heart of at least one of these ‘where were you when’ moments in American History:

The chemical equation for Thermite.

Perhaps yet, it was even he who granted well-earned days off to the very Laws he discovered.

As a way to stump layman, physicist, scientist, survivor and victim equally.

To play into and become the riddle. Watching the Wheels go round and round. Accompanied only by the sound of Nero and his fiddle.

“What do you want to watch next?” Comes the inquiry from Law #3.

“The Wizard of Oz.”

“One of my favorites.” They all applaud in unison.

And … we’re off …

NOTE: Written both as a response to the word-of-the-day prompt: ‘Stump.’

As well as ode to the memory of 911, it’s victims and the truth {whatever it may be}

















Hello again … and again…


Twice upon a time, a set of twins opened their eyes. Blinked. Opened their eyes again. Blinked. A test run for the next 500,000,000 times each would repeat the process for the next 80 years. Returning again and again to recharge and renew their precious and intricately wonderful windows to the world.

So alike were they, their parents gave each the same name: “Bob.” Spelled with the same letters, but capitalized differently – as a nod to the inescapable fact that they were, regardless of their similarities, separate and distinct creations.

So in sync, so attuned to each others everything, “Bob” and “bOb” even blinked in unison. Yet, neither every knew. How could they? One never saw the other blink. For a tiny portion of each day, each never saw each other at all.

“Brother ?!”

“Whew. There you are !”

“Brother ?!”

“Whew. There you are !”

And on and on they shared the same dialog. Experiencing the same fluctuating flood of emotions over and over each time they saw each other anew: sad / distraught / lost / abandoned / happy / relieved / found / rescued.

Years later, on a camping trip, the brothers met their future wives. Twin sisters. Sue and sUe. Each was prettier than the other, depending on who was doing the looking. For brother Bob, it was always Sue. For bOb, it was always sUe.

Throughout the years, their relationships remained as fresh and exciting as on this day they first met. For it was the same with Bob & Sue & bOb & sUe as it had always been with Bob & bOb.

All eight eyes. All blinking in unison. Every 5 seconds experiencing that same discomforting / comforting fluctuating flood of emotions over and over each time they saw each other anew: sad / distraught / lost / abandoned / happy / relieved / found / rescued.


NOTE: In response to the prompt-word-of-the-day: ‘recharge.’



Plop Goes the Weasel




“Plop goes the weasel.” So the childhood rhyme does not state. More like ‘pop,’ but who am I to differentiate? Merriam? Webster?  To say either would be to both lie & exaggerate.

I’m just this singularity of a soul still dwelling in the same body from years of ol’.

Both having grown a tad since way back when. “I’m going to be a GENIUS someday,” so claimed the sticker on my sister’s bedroom door, written – no less – in pen.

Who’s to say she was / is wrong? It’s her music. Her dance. Her song.

From my perspective, she may be right. And I’m glomming on to her admonition. With zero guilt, remorse nor contrition. For I got this gift of transposed fancy flight. A kindly sort of hind sight / blind site puling me too & fro both loose and tight.

Still: ‘I have no dog in this fight.’ Just my fingers tapping out the dish they’re being served not later; not ‘then’; not ‘when’ but right now as each letter and word alight.

Some may say “What in the heck does any of this have to do with ‘plop?’

I say: pretend you’re a passenger. Along for the flight. A twinkling star on a starry night.

If you’re game for a game then let’s wrap up this tome:

“This old man, he played ten;

He played knick-knack once again,

With a knick-knack paddy-whack,

give a dog a bone,

this old man came rolling home.”

NOTE: The aforementioned SOCW {stream-of-consciousness-writing} in response to: ‘Plop,’ word-of-the-day-prompt.

A Shoeless Joe Jackson




“Twinkle.” What a bright & shiny, happy little word. Some images that immediately pop into ones head upon hearing it: A diamond; A little star; the glimmer in someone’s eye who just spotted their best friend / lover / child / pet peek their head around the corner.

A love from far away. A happy thought that just made your day. One little piggy; two little piggies … one went to the market. The other stayed home darning socks in the night with only the face in the jar by the door and a sliver of moonlight as company.

Speaking of toes ALA the aforementioned little piggies reference, ‘twinkle’ has also been known to be employed as a modifier of sorts to toes enmasse. To signify a sort of sparkling lightness on such which an individual may possess. Either via a natural dancing rhythm or, to hint at a less-than-manly-man’s sexuality.

Additional twinklers {if I may be so bold as to offer a new variation to love, honor and hold}  include: A bijou. As well as a bijouterie wherein said bijous gather together in a singularly intense twinkle-fest – each trying to shine brighter and best. Become a live-in resident VS. an overnight guest.

A summer sun shower casting twinkling rainbows. A Shoeless Joe Jackson twirling on the tips of his toes.

Not a worry in the world.

For tomorrow is a long way away. Nothing but a twinkle in the blinking eye of later on today.

NOTE: A simple little story written over the last 15-20 minutes or so. Crafted around the one-word Prompt of the Day: ‘Twinkle.’



Ra Ra Sis Boom Ba OR how to iron something without actually ironing something …



Photo One: Ra on his throne with the sun disk over his head.

Photo Two: ‘The Whole Concoction’ as referred to in story.


Drive around with no thoughts of garbage picking nor finding anything worthwhile &/or simply different that you might pull over and stick in your car while thinking ‘who knows, I might be able to use this someday.’


After finding said ‘different’ thing that you ‘might be able to use someday,’ – in this instance, a 1/2″ slab of serious rubber infused with thick threads making it nearly impossible to cut with anything less stout than a sawzall – unearth it from the bowels of your storeroom, dust it off some and lay it out in the driveway.


Place wrinkled item (s) in a new, shiny, black garbage bag and place bag on top of piece which you never thought you might find, and if you did find it, harbored vast amounts of doubt that you would end up actually putting it to use ‘who knows when.’


Place a thick piece of tempered glass on top of contents of garbage bag which sits atop thick slab of previously unearthed and dusted off rubber mat.


Do nothing. Don’t peek inside bag to see how things are progressing. Don’t drag the whole concoction to a different part of the driveway thinking that this will never work unless you proactively lend it a hand. Addendum: Only under 2 designated circumstances is it permissible to relocate the whole concoction by dragging it to an alternate spot on the driveway: 1) If whole concoction is in the exact route your car will need to travel if, for some reason or another, you simply have to leave the premises for a few moments. OR: 2) the sun is no longer cooperating and said concoction needs to be relocated to enjoy the full onslaught of its rays.


In reverse order {as it would prove to be most difficult – not to mention ridiculous – to try to do so otherwise} disassemble the concoction you so painstakingly assembled a scant 30 – 60 minutes ago. A time frame wholly dependent on a variety of factors: a) both the amount and severity of wrinklege of which object of ironing was afflicted. b) the intensity of the Sun’s rays on this particular day. And, c) any number of other yet-to-be-discerned variables, any of which might {or might not} exert either a minor or major deleterious & not discovered-before-it-was-too-late scenario which rendered the entire aforementioned 30 – 60 session both null, void & moot.

SEVENTH STEP {Optional}:

Dance a Happy little Dance in Honor of Ra, The Egyptian God of the Sun.