Saturday, 5/1/10 - Where Stories Come From

There are so many stories to be told.

Stories of campfires on distant worlds. Stories of youth and maturity. Stories of mothers and sons and fathers and family and friends and ...

So many stories.

When I first started telling tales I thought that it would be impossible to contribute one new one each day but I was wrong. The problem is not in writing a new one each day it is in stopping the flow of long enough to share one and only one per day.

Much of what you read here is not written, it is merely being relayed to you through me. The stories are being told by the characters themselves. I am just the scribe.

Someone asked me if my stories were true and where they come from.

Yes, all of my stories are true. It's just that sometimes the truth is just an individual thread woven tightly into a fictional tapestry. So, when I tell you of Evelyn sitting on a rock in front of a campfire on a green planet in a galaxy at this time unnamed, you can believe what I am telling you.

To answer the question about where stories come from I will have to tell you about places where things happen differently.

Stories come from the place where time is irrelevant and events fold one upon the other like a paper fan. From a place where the chicken and the egg occur simultaneously and the story is born at the exact moment when the chick, seeking release, presses its beak againt the shell and the first crack appears. In that instant there are beginnings and endings and changes and momentum enough for a million stories.

Stories come from the silent spaces between clock ticks. A timeless place where it is neither now nor then. It is the point on the timeline where you can see both ends: where past, present and future embrace.

Stories come from the the unmapped place where north, south, east, west, up, down, left, right, forward, backward, inside and outside all converge. The point where compass needles freewheel and where a carpenter's level shows true regardless of its angle.

Stories come from the place where the other side of the coin is the same as this side of the coin. Not that the coin has two heads or two tails, it has only one of each but when you turn it over you see the same side - the exact same side.

Stories come from everywhere and from nowhere. They come from the physical world around us and the fantasy worlds within us.

But, for me, stories come mostly from the characters themselves.

When things are quiet people I have not yet met cup a hand to their mouth, lean in close to my ear and whisper. They know me and they know that a whisper's soft tickle is more effective at getting my attention than a shout's cold slap. Once they have my attention I listen closely to what they have to tell me.

I sit unmoving as they talk. I ask no questions for I know that given time they will share all. I also know that they are fragile and that it is taking all they have to stay here and talk. If I interrupt my breath might blow them away or burst them like soap bubbles in a storm.

Some tell me their stories slowly, pausing to remember or to allow the significance to catch up to the spoken. Others tell them with a desparation as if the tales were hot coals that they have been holding onto and now that someone is listening they can put down those embers and dip their hands into a cool, clear stream and instantly be healed.

Invariably the characters become intimate friends. Our first meeting is the telling of tales but, like good friends, we never get too far along without checking in with one another. Some expand their tales, others just come and sit beside me. At times we all gather together, one happy family, and through our gathering invite others to join us.

So come along with me, meet my friends, listen to their words and find the truths that they have chosen to share.

Friday, 4/30/10 - Slipping

"Talc! Talc! Use de talc!"

The six girls tittered behind their hands as Frederic yelled at them.

They had all grown up with the circus and each knew the importance of dry hands. Sweaty hands could cause them to slip and when you are swinging fifty feet above the ground, sweat meant death.

Frederic had repeated this to the girls and now, seven years later, Tina still smiled silently every time she approached the talc bowl for in her mind she still heard Frederic yelling, "Talc! Talc! Use de talc!"

With showtime in two hours she was finishing up her practice session with Jon when he dared her, "No net tonight?"

"What?"

"We are good together. No net." He gave her the same look that had made her fall in love with him two years ago. "What do you say?"

"I don't know."

"The crowd loves it: dimmed lights, drumroll and the ringmaster taunting them with tales of tempted fates. It will be fun. Besides, we are good and you know it."

She thought about it and tried to quash the feather of doubt tickling her insides.

Jon raised his eyebrow and she conceded.
_______________________________________________

"Ladies and gentlemen! Turn your attention to the center ring..." With the house lights dimming, spotlights illuminated a procession of twelve strong men. As they moved into the center ring, the crowd was told that the final act of the evening would death defying feats performed fifty feet above them on the flying trapeze.

As he spoke, a drum rolled and the twelve men removed the safety net from below the trapeze.

With the net removed, the spots dimmed then went out leaving only the ringmaster with his tophat and tails illuminated. He lifted his tophat and when he pointed it up toward the darkend air above the ring two spots sprang to life and illuminated Jon on one small platform and Tina on the other platform across the ring from him.

Tina gripped the bar and swung down and over toward Jon. At the end of the arc, she let go of the bar, spun around and gripped it again before swinging back to her platform.

Jon performed the same move and returned to his platform.

From here, the routine became more and more difficult with Tina and Jon changing places, swinging together or Tina letting go and floating weightless until Jon swings in and pulls her free from gravity's grip.

Tina swings out again and joins Jon on his bar.

"I know," he informs her before reaching out and grabbing the other bar as it swings within his reach. He pulls away from her and they return to their platforms.

Tina wonders at his comment but puts it aside, times her next move and steps off of the platform.

She releases her grip on the bar, flips once then reaches out and finds Jon's hands right there. They complete the swing and when Tina sees her bar moving toward them she prepares to release. "I saw you with Peter," Jon tells her before releasing her to the other bar.

They part and Tina considers ending the routine. She can signal that something is wrong, climb down the ladder and be done it but when she looks out she sees Jon is alreay mid-swing. She raises the bar, steps back on the platform and launches herself at the proper time.

"Did you think I was stupid?" was Jon's next question. Through the rest of the routine Jon calmly recounted his observations of Tina's infidelities.

Tina remained silent, neither confirming nor denying the accusations.

With only only the two most difficult moves remaining Jon asked, "Did you think I would let him live?"

The calmly determined way that Jon spoke these words almost caused her to lose her grip. Jon held her firmly.

They spun apart once more and returned to their platforms.

As they prepared for their final move, Tina looked into Jon's eyes across the distance and shook her head. No, I cannot do this, she signaled to him. He only nodded once, Yes, you can, before he stepped off the platform and threw his legs in front to gain momentum. He did this three times, swinging higher each time.

Tina watched him arc closer then retreat, synchronizing her timing with his. At the right moment she locked her eyes with his and stepped off of the platform.

She felt herself fall then rise and release the bar...

... the ground appeared then the darkness at the top of the tent. Three times she spun before she reached out to Jon. As she opens her outstretched hands to Jon she feels the air moving cool over the sweat on her fingers.

Thursday, 4/29/10 - A Brief History of Biots

The term "biot" refers to any bioligically engineered machine and is a contraction of the words biological and robot. The first biots were simple algae grown to counteract pollutants in the environment.

In 2021 Chinese scientists engineered the first true biot by integrating a biological CPU module into a portable communications device. One primary benefit was the elimination of batteries as the biological components were "fed" through chemical interactions between the device and the user.

As with all technology, advancements occurred rapidly and by 2025 almost all computing devices utilized biot technologies. Most advancements in the engineering and manufacturing of biots was designed and tested by biots themselves.

Biots had something that no prior computing device had ever possessed: the ability to learn.

In 2028 it was discovered that the primary manufacturer of biot components had been using human stem cells as the source of biological material.

There was a public outcry and human rights groups lobbied for and secured rights for all biot devices. The primary directive of the biot legislation was that no device could be disposed of in an inhumane manner.

As a result, old biot devices were recycled and their biological components grafted into a large public information network. Mollified, activists turned their attentions elsewhere.

And while they were otherwise occupied, something went wrong... very wrong.

Wednesday, 4/28/10 - The Moon Is Full Tonight

The moon is full tonight and, like I do on most full moons, I take the unfinished grass basket down from the mantle, study the strange designs and think of Carlton 'Sonny' Welsh.

The first thing you notice about Carlton Welsh is the sky blue eyes shining like sunny southern days below his puffy white-cloud eyebrows.

That, and his smile.

Carlton is a soft spoken, uncomplicated, southern farm man of 72 years. Where most farmers age in creased leather and rawhide, Carlton is burled walnut: solid, warm and weathered.

I first met Carlton at Evans Park. He was sitting alone on a bench under a large oak tree weaving an intricate design into a grass basket.

I stood apart from him admiring the patience and precision of this powerful man as he coaxed the delicate grasses into the emerging patterns.

"Very nice work."

His response was slow in coming but was not unfriendly, "Thank you, kindly."

I watched for a while longer before he set the basket aside, dusted his hands on his jeans and then extended one to me in greeting.

"Name's Carlton," he said, "but most folks call me Sonny."

Over the next few weeks I watched Sonny's progress as he completed that basket and started another.

We didn't talk much, just exchanged greetings. Mostly, I would just join him under the tree and watch him work.

It was never a question. Whenever I visited Evans Park I knew Sonny would be there. Unlike me, Sonny could not leave. Being a ward of the state assigned to Evans Park Adult Facility, Sonny was not considered capable of taking care of himself.

When I asked if he liked Evans Park he indicated that he liked it, "good enough. Besides, where would I go, anyway? Farm's all gone."

I started volunteering at Evans Park several months ago after meeting one of the residents on the street. As I passed she pleaded with me to help her. She was lost and scared and she wanted to go home.

Through her sobs I was able to determine that she lived near a church. I scanned the horizon and found a steeple. We walked in that direction.

After a few blocks she pointed and with pure delight let me know that was where she lived.

Sitting behind a rusted chain link fence, the building looked more like a warehouse than a residence.

I followed her in and the nurse at the desk started machine gunning questions at this poor woman and yelling that everyone was worried and the police had been called and...

... and then she noticed me - and the demeanor changed.

She asked if she could help me. I indicated that I had just helped this woman, whose name I later found out was Anna, find her way back here.

She thanked me and told me how worried they were and that I should have a nice day, good night.

Except, I wasn't ready to leave. "May I ask the name of this place?"

"Evans Park"

"And Evans Park is an adult residence?"

"Yes."

"And at Evans Park you provide assistance to the adult residents?"

"Yes, sir, we do."

"And might you be looking for volunteers?"

That question brought down her guard. "Sir, do you understand the extent of service that we provide to most of our guests?"

"Yes, I believe I do."

"Then, yes, we would love to have a volunteer."

I am a firm believer that you are always where you are supposed to be. My path crossed with Anna's for a reason. I was about to find out why.

It didn't take long to realize that Evans Park was just a box that they threw unwanted adults into until God finally gave up and took them back.

The residents were fed, clothed and bathed but they were neglected in every other way. As no one ever visited the residents of Evans Park, I took it as my job to just talk to them. I would sit with each resident for five minutes and just let them talk.

Each person shared something different and each had a separate, unfulfilled request. One woman wanted cigarettes. Another woman wanted fresh fruit. "They only give us canned fruit," she complained. Anna told me of her favorite movie, The Sound of Music.

Each time I visited I would fill my pockets with things they would enjoy: cigarettes, candy, fresh fruit. I even brought Anna a copy of The Sound of Music that she could watch in the break room.

They all looked forward to my weekly visits. All, that is, except for Sonny. He seemed not to notice if I came or not. And even though he had no request that I could fulfill, I still spent five minutes with him every time I visited.

One week I had to work late and didn't arrive at Evans Park until dusk. As usual, Sonny was under the tree weaving his basket. It had been a full day and rather than stand, I decided to sit on the bench alongside Sonny.

We sat quietly for a few minutes. His big hands working the supple grasses slowed and finally stopped. He placed the basket aside.

"I don't belong here," he said. "But they can't let me go because I know too much."

I was glad that he had started talking but I was not sure where the conversation was going or how to steer it over to a happy place.

"The moon is full tonight," he continued, "they come from behind the moon when it's full."



For the next several minutes I listened to Sonny tell me about his alien abduction. There wasn't too much to tell, he explained, because the government tried to erase his memory of the event.

Sonny remembers seeing the alien ship come from behind the full moon and land in the field "across the creek". He remembers being brought aboard but almost nothing after that.

He does remember very clearly the visit he received from the "government men" the following day. He remembers being taken to a building and being questioned over and over about what he saw.

Then he told me about the light. A bright light that the government men shined in his eyes to make him forget. "It was some kind of laser and it hurt to look at it. Not your eyes, though, I hurt your brain!"

In the dim light I could see that his shoulders were shaking. This big man was crying and there was nothing I could do.

I was still trying to decide how to respond when he stood up and apologized.

"No, no, that's ok. You can tell me anything," I assured him.

He continued, "They know that you know and they will come and ask you questions. Don't let them use the light on you..." He was almost wailing at this point and I didn't know what to do. He kept repeating "... no light... ... no light..."

I thought of slapping him but if he decided to slap back I was in for a big hurting. So, instead, I slipped my arm around his shoulder and whispered, "It's ok, I won't let them use the light."

With a sudden intake of breath, Sonny deflated. He went silent and all of the tension slowly drained out of him and his shoulders sagged. He looked completely drained.

Without another word he stood and started walking inside.

"Sonny," I called after him, "your basket."

"It's for you. I was making it for you but they won't let me finish now."

And then he said something very softly that sounded like, "Learn to read." Then he turned and left me sitting there holding his unfinished basket.

When I returned the next week Sonny was gone. The only information they would give me was that he was transferred. Since I was not immediate family and not his legal guardian they could offer nothing more.

I tried for several months to find Sonny but no one outside of Evans Park has any record of a Carlton Welsh.

I continued volunteering at Evans Park until I took a job in another city.

My work keeps me moving and in each new city I volunteer at an out-of-the-way adult facility. In each one I seek out that one solitary resident. On nights with a full moon I sit quietly and wait for them to tell their story.



And each time the story is the same.

Tuesday, 4/27/10 - Please, Don't Leave Me!

Please, don't leave me.
Stay.
Don't go.
Please...

These words are not mine. They belong to a woman I work with.

She has not spoken these words aloud in the office but I know she thinks them.

I am concerned about her. She has a problem and it is affecting her and the rest of my girls.

I call them "my girls" because we are like family. We all get along well and there is nothing we wouldn't do for one another.

Sure, they report to me but I try to be their friend and not their boss. I really do care about each of them and I feel responsible for them. I want to help them both in the office and in their personal lives.

I want them to feel like they can trust me.

My problem is that I am not sure which of my girls is so troubled.

You probably want to know how I know that there is a problem if I don't even know who has it. When you know people as well as I do it's easy to see how they manifest their problems.

This time it is staples!



There are staples in every document. And not just one staple, sometimes there are six or seven staples crowded together on the edge of a page.

Lately, I have been finding two and three staples in single sheets of paper.



All I can think is that one of my girls had been traumatized by the loss of someone close to her and this is her way of expressing her fears. Maybe it was the death of a parent when she was a child. Or maybe it was rejection from a boyfriend during adolescence. Or a divorce - it could have been her parents' divorce or possibly her own. It could be anything but it is being neurotically expressed through excessive stapling.

I noticed this several months ago and have been listening for anyone using the electric stapler in copier room. When I hear it ka-thunk more than once I casually walk that way and listen for further stapling. So far, I have only found people doing routine stapling. Nothing out of the ordinary.

From the way the staples are arranged, I don't suspect that my girl is impaling the documents with the sharp tines of the staple or using force to hammer them in. No, I believe that she is gently and almost lovingly pushing the staples into the pages. She is probably chastising them and apologizing at the same time, "If you would just stay, I wouldn't have to punish you like this. It's not my fault. You make me do this to you."

Sometimes the staples are all in one corner. Other times they are arranged down one side, or across the top or bottom.

Sometimes they are spread evenly around the edges. And still other times they are haphazardly punched any which way on the pages.

I have also noticed what I can only refer to as an aggregated arrangement where the first page gets one staple then, right next to that staple is another one that affixes the second page and next to that a third staple that affixes the third page. Each additional page gets another staple - right next to the previous one.

What is most troubling is that in addition to staples elsewhere on the page, there is often one, and only one, directly in the center. If I had to guess, I would say that this one extra staple is, in her mind, affixing the heart so that it cannot leave her.

It is sad.

I know that she is hurting inside and I want to help her. I want to tell her that it is ok to let someone go.

I want to tell her that love is not holding on to someone.

Love is letting go.



At the same time that our staple usage has been increasing, our tape usage has been decreasing.

I wonder if one of my other girls is having a problem with commitment...

They are my girls and I care about them.

Monday, 4/26/10 - The Magical Beautiful People Machine

If I tell you this, you gotta promise that you won't tell anyone else. OK?

No, really, you gotta swear that this is just between me and you.

The reason that I don't want anyone to know is that I am gonna be rich! Not just wealthy, we're talking rich. Big rich, like Bill Gates rich or Warren Buffet rich.

If you can keep a secret and you have a few bucks to invest then you can be rich, too.

Here's the deal: I have a machine that makes anyone beautiful.

REALLY!

It's simple, too. People just stand there, I use my machine and like magic they are instantly beautiful.

I tried it out today on total strangers and it works great!

What I did was I took a black curtain and I set it up against a wall in a small room in a church. I put some lights around the room and I asked people to come in, one or two at a time, and stand in front of the curtain under the lights.

They all came in grumbling about how they were not pretty and that their hair, teeth, eyes, nose or ears were not perfect but when I used my Magical Beautiful People Machine on them, they were instantly transformed and every one - without exception - was radiant.

I will admit that I do not know how this machine works. I didn't actually build it myself.

I bought it.

It's called a camera and it not only makes the people in front of it beautiful, it makes the person behind it very, very happy.

If you don't believe that this machine works then, here, just look...











See what I mean? It is just amazing!!!!

Another thing this machine does is it makes people young.

Here, look, these people said they had been married for 65 years. How can that be when they look so young and so vibrant?

To me they look as happy and in love as any 20 year old couple.



I'm telling you, this machine works. It's amazing!

If you ask me, we should get a military contract for these machines. Give one to every soldier and have them aim it at an enemy and BAM! the enemy is suddenly beautiful and the soldier is incredibly happy.

Now, if you have a few million dollars to invest then I can make us both rich...

Sunday, 4/25/10 - Fictimized!

Photo opportunities seem to be happening one day after I post. Photos for my Eternity post happend the following day and now, a photo for yesterday's Ficts and Factions post happened this morning.

I was on my way to work and thinking about how excited I was to capture the shots of the osprey for the Breakfast Is For The Birds post. What I didn't realize at the time was that when you live in a town with more lakes than houses osprey are commonplace and are considered a nuisance by the locals.

No one living here will get excited about a picture of an osprey when all they need to do to see one is step outside.

I guess that is how they tell the locals from the tourists...

As I drove the two miles to the office I scouted for osprey nests. They are easy to spot as they are normally quite large and in unobstructed spaces like the tops of dead trees or on top of light and power poles.

I was able to spot eleven nests - while I was driving!

As I looked for an even dozen I spotted a huge owl on top of a power pole. Within two seconds the car was parked and I was outside with the 200-400mm lens mounted and aimed up at the owl.

The last thing I wanted was for the thing to fly away before I had a chance to get a few shots.

I made adjustments to the camera by instinct because I didn't want to take my eye off of the bird.

No matter what it decided to do, I was ready!

But what it decided to do was sit there.

And sit there.

And sit there.

It wasn't even moving it's head...

... or blinking...

Pushing the zoom to 400mm I saw this:



I could almost hear the people in the nearby houses talking.

"George, come away from that window!"

"No, Martha, come look! We got ourselves another crazy with a camera shootin' that darned plastic owl!"

"Now, George, them's just tourists. Pro'bly from New York and never seen nothin but pigeons before."

So, yes, I had been fictimized. Someone had placed a plastic owl on top of the pole to keep the osprey away and I fell for it.

So, after a good laugh at myself I finished the drive to work.

While waiting for the morning guard to arrive and open the building I shot something a bit more real.

Saturday, 4/24/10 - Ficts and Factions

Let's talk about ficts and factions, ok?

Webster's lists both words but does not include all definitions for these words. It defines "fict" as an abbreviation for fiction or fictitious and Webster's only includes dissentious cliques in its definition of faction when, in fact, there are alternate definitions for both words.

Let's review them.

A fict is a fiction that we try to pass off as a fact.

68.7% of all ficts contain percentages when, in fact, no survey or analysis was ever done to calculate the percentage being reported.

Most ficts contain the the words "all", "always", "most", "none" or "never".

Advertizers use ficts to tell us that we will be better by using their product when, at best, we will just be less able to afford other things that promise to make us better.

Any movie or story that is "based on a true story" is a fict.

If it comes out of a politicians mouth it is always a fict.

Factions, on the other hand, are facts that we try to pass off as fiction.

Writers imbedding actual life events within a fictional work would be a faction.

Factions often occur as questions. "Do you really think that I would be stupid enough to fill in the blank with something that you were in fact stupid enough to do?" is a good example of a faction.

Now that you know these words you will be able to identify ficts and factions in your daily course of events.

Friday, 4/23/10 - Love Song

I could have written you a love song,
but we both know that would be wrong,
because words are not the language that we use,
between me and you.

Morning headlines, sharing news,
and puzzling over crossword clues,
we both know the word for nine across.
Did you know that without you I'd be lost?

I could have written you a love song,
but we both know that would be wrong,
the words that I would write could not be read,
in silence there is nothing left unsaid.

Alone in this hotel room,
I wish I could come home soon,
your laughter is a sound I long to hear,
even when you're not I feel you near.

I could have written you a love song,
but we both know that would be wrong,
because there is no music and there is no melody,
that could possibly,
accompany,
you and me.

Have I told you that I miss you,
and all the little things that you do,
the unselfish ways that show how much you care,
I am aware,
you're always there.

I could have written you a love song,
but we both know that would be wrong,
because what I feel for you's too deep,
and words are not the language that we speak.


With all this cheese I should have given you some crackers...

Thursday, 4/22/10 - Wired

After having mentioned in an earlier post that it is getting more difficult to get a landscape shot without having wires running through it I just had to stop my car on the side of the road and grab this shot.

Wednesday, 4/21/10 - I still love you Iris Moon

Before I tell you about Iris Moon, I will tell you that there are no images to accompany this story.

I do, however, have some images from this morning that would have been perfect for yesterday's blog. What do you think?







I still love you Iris Moon

What damned fool puts eighty candles on a birthday cake? At this age I can't even get enough breath to spit. And if I did find enough wind for all of those candles I would probably just end up blowing my dentures onto the damned thing!

Lighting all of them required some planning. That means that Laura coordinated the effort. Even as a child she took control. Lord knows, she could get me to do anything she wanted. But that is probably because she was Rose and my first child.

As I look beneath the birthday pyre I see that the cake is home made. It is a little lopsided and covered in purple icing.

And I know one person whose favorite color is purple.

The inferno on the cake is dim compared to the big, bright eyes and exhuberant smile on the girl dressed in purple sitting across the table from me. Her excitement tells me all I need to know.

You don't get to be eighty by being stupid.

"Cristel, there are a lot of candles on this cake."

"There are eighty, Grampa Joe. Just like you!"

"Well, that sure is a lot. How about you and your friend Amanda help me blow them out? And I will tell you what, when you are eight years old, like you and Amanda, you get one birthday wish. When you get to be eighty, like I am, you get THREE birthday wishes. If you two help me out, we can each have a wish! On the count of three, one, two, three..."

As I watch these two eight year olds lean in to blow out the candles I am transported back seventy two years to when I was eight and there were only eight candles on the cake.

"...Happy Birthday dear Iris, Happy Birthday to you!" We all clapped as Iris leaned in to blow out the candles on her cake.

This is the first time that we have ever had a cake in class and Stuart Rosen said that Mrs. Moon had to go through holy heck to let us have it. Actually, he said that she went through holy H-E-double-toothpicks but I don't talk like that.

He said that our teacher, Mrs. Woods, didn't want us to have the cake because then everybody would want one on their birthday and some of the kids were poor and their parents couldn't afford it.

I don't believe that. Mrs. Woods is nice and she would want us to have cake.

Stuie is my best friend but he lies a lot. He said that Mrs. Woods has kids. That's not true, Mrs. Woods is a teacher and teachers don't have kids!

He also said that he saw his parents doing it and that they do it all the time. That's just dumb, parents don't do it. Well, maybe when they were young but not now. That's just gross.

Iris is new. She came to school in the middle of the year because her father works for a company that makes them move a lot. It's not like Timmy Decker's dad; he was in the Army and they moved a lot. Timmy said he didn't like moving and he wished he live in one place like we do.

Not me! I would go anywhere. I would start with the A's: Alaska, Antarctica, Africa...

While everyone is walking around and talking, I am sitting at my desk watching Iris Moon and thinking that she is the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world.

"Hey, whatcha doing there, lover boy?" I slam my book shut but he had already seen that I had written "Iris" a hundred times on the page.

"Cut it out, Stu." I made the mistake of telling Stu what I thought about Iris and he's been ribbing me about it ever since.

"Lover boy! Lover boy!" He taunts me for a while then turns to someone he likes to pick on more - Natalie Evans. Stu calls Natalie Peter Pans because two years ago on the field trip to the museum she peed her pants. "Hey Peter, where's Tinkle?"

He laughs but the joke isn't funny anymore. I tell him to leave her alone and he doesn't look happy about that. Stu can be pretty mean sometimes and I will probably pay for this later.

Mrs. Woods lets us have fun for a few more minutes then it's back to lessons.

On the walk home after school, we are a half-block behind Iris and her friends when Stu starts running up to them. Not knowing what he is up to, I take off running after him.

Stu is faster than I am and he runs up alongside of Iris and points back at me. I stop in my tracks because the next thing I see is Iris punching Stu in the nose and Stu falling to the ground. Iris glares back at me then stomps off with all of the other girls laughing and screaming and trying to catch up to her.

I stand over him and see that his nose is bleeding. "What was that about?"

"I thought it would be funny if I told her you were in love with her."

I wanted to scream at him and punch him myself but instead just looked at him on the ground and said, "Actually, it WAS pretty funny. How's the nose there, Joe Lewis?" I helped him up and gave him my hankie.

There was no way to undo what was done. Iris probably hated me but I still got woozy whenever I saw her.

During the last week of school before summer vacation I learned that Iris would be moving away. She had only been here for eight months and already she was leaving.

I was hoping to find a way to talk to her to tell her that what Stu had said wasn't true. Now, I would never get the chance. I just wanted to cry and the only place I could do that was The Fort.

The Fort really isn't a fort at all, it's just a ring of dead trees that are overgrown with kudzu. You can walk all around it and not know that there is an open space in the middle. To get in you have to crawl under the wall of kudzu. Once inside, it's quiet and you can see the sky.

I sit there crying, missing Iris before she is even gone.

At the sound of rustling in the entryway I wipe my eyes. The last thing I need is to have Stuart see me crying. I am just about to tell him to go away when I realize that it is not him crawling in, it's Iris.

She seems as startled to see me as I am to see her. We are both stammering and staring at each other.

She finally manages to say, "I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone knew about this place."

"The Fort? How did you find it?"

"Is that what you call it, The Fort?"

We started talking and she told me about how hard it is to move all of the time, to not be in any place long enough to make and real friends. Tears filled her eyes as she told me that she would be moving again.

We talked for a long time and she smiled when I promised that I would be her friend no matter where she moved. We could write letters and be pen pals.

It was getting close to dinner time and we both knew we had to go.

"Was it true?" she asked me.

"Was what true?"

"What Stuart told me," and she gave a little laugh, "before I punched him."

At that moment the whole world dropped out from under me. I wanted to say yes, yes it was true but I couldn't even breathe. I was so afraid that I would become Peter Pants - right here, in front of Iris.

I would like to tell you that I kissed Iris Moon but that would be a lie. The truth is that I stood there like a zombie while Iris Moon walked over and kissed me. On the lips!

Iris moved away before the start of fourth grade and we did become pen pals. We wrote faithfully through grade school and into high school. Communications became less frequent in college.

Iris married first. She invited me to the wedding in San Diego and I declined with best wishes claiming that the trip from the east coast would be too costly on a new teacher's salary.

I married Rose the following year.

After marriage, our communications were pretty much just Christmas cards and an occasional short note.

I haven't heard from Iris in many, many years now.

Maybe it's just an old man being silly but I will admit that I still think about that kiss and I wonder what it would have been like to really kiss Iris Moon.

I mean no disrespect, I loved Rose and I miss her dearly.

I never thought about it before but they were my two flowers: one cultured and cultivated, the other wild and free.

And after all of these years I can still say:

Yes, I still love you Iris Moon.

There is clapping and the smell of smoke and the past falls back to where it belongs.

"Grampa, why are you crying?"

"Because I am very happy, Cristel."

"What did you wish for Grampa? I wished for..."

"Shhh, little Cristel, wishes are best kept secret."

Tuesday, 4/20/10 - Eternity

Many believe in life after death.

I won't argue this belief from one side or the other and I will concede that basic laws of physics support a continuous but changing progression.



If you remember your high school physics then you recall that "matter cannot be created nor distroyed, it just changes form." This means that the seed that you planted did not "create" matter out of nothing, it took everything it needed from the world around it to become a tree. And when you cut the tree down and burned it you were not "destroying" matter, you were just taking what existed and redistributing it in different forms.

It is easy to conclude that our physical components will not be destroyed, they will just change form. The same could be said for our energy.

But, for me, the missing piece is "consciousness".



For one to appreciate life after death then one must be conscious of life before that death (and, presumably, the life before that one and the one before that one...). If one emerges into a new realm without knowledge of an existence in prior realms then it seems to me that it would be a completely new life and not a continuation of a prior life.

The value in a next life, to me, would be if it benefitted from the prior life and that in each iteration we experienced things that made us better.

Life after death? Maybe there is, maybe there isn't. We will all find out one day.



What concerns me more is this life before death and the full appreciation of all that it has to offer.

Do something nice today.

Monday, 4/19/10 - Creazassion!

One of my father's nicknames for me is "Gargadoon". Another is "Warpo (the missing Marx Brother)" but let's just stick with Gargadoon for right now.

The name came from the movie Brigadoon. Not that there is a character, town, food or anything else called Gargadoon in the movie. No, the name Gargadoon is a strange conglomeration of Gregory and Brigadoon.

OK, I know what you are thinking: that my father is pretty weird.

And, yes, he may be but guess what? I got much of his crazy creativity so I understand and appreciate the way his mind works.

Sometimes it is hard to keep up with him and the associations he forms seem to come from nowhere but if you think about them long enough they inevitably reveal some underlying mental brilliance.

My mother isn't that quirky and for the longest time I couldn't understand how she could be so nice and so giving all of the time.

Just once I wanted to see her tell someone off. You know they deserved it and you know she had to think it but her expressions and her responses never revealed it.

I think that it is called compassion and she has more than most.

So, thanks to my parents, I have creazassion - a creative crazy compassion.

I tell you this so that you will understand why I find these flowers interesting.



And why I find this lightpole reaching through these leaves and into the clouds worthy of a picture.



And why this stack of barricades is worth saving and sharing with you.

Sunday, 4/18/10 - Seeds (and nuts)

My sincere apologies for yesterday's ramblings. There really was a coherent thought there - at least there was one in my head, anyway.

The purpose of this blog is to act as a scratch pad for ideas and to discipline myself to photograph and to write every day. Because of time constraints, these posts are just seeds for larger works (and I may just be nuts).

So, here, have a few seeds.





And while you are nibbling on those, I want to share an experience from my drive home today.

It was a nice enough day; a lot of clouds but the temperature and humidity were fine. I was driving along as I usually do: windows down, cruise control on and the radio off.

As I started up an overpass I heard a scraping noise. It was a hollow sound like someone's canoe had fallen out of their truck and was being pulled along behind them.

It kept getting louder.

I looked in my mirrors for another vehicle but there was no one around.

Being on the up side of an overpass I assumed that the noise was on the road below and it was just gettng louder as I approached.

But something was wrong. If Doppler was right then whatever was making that noise was coming at me mighty fast...

... and there it is...

... was ...

... gone!

In a split second a jet appeared alongside my truck and then was gone.

This thing was inches over the treetops and running right beside the road.

When I tell you that he was close to the ground and close to the road you might be thinking that I am taking liberties to make this post more interesting. If I tell you that they were close enough that I could tell that the pilot needed a manicure would you believe me?

With the noise subsiding and my heartbeat getting back to normal I settled in for the remaining hour of the trip.

Then, there it was again, that hollow sound. That sucker was coming back!

I start fumbling for the camera and swiveling my head to try to locate the source of the sound. The camera was in the case and I would not be able to get it out in time.

It didn't take long but this time there were four - in perfect formation. They flew a little higher than the first jet but along the same route. About a half mile ahead of me they flipped on their smoke machines and were leaving trails when they pulled up into a wide, graceful arc. Four parallel lines curving up and away.

The approaching exit was marked "airport exit" so there must have been an airshow going on.

I dislike war and all things war related but what these people were doing with these machines was art and it was beautiful! There was no time in my schedule for me to stop but it did pique my interest and I will watch for upcoming air shows and make plans to attend - with my camera, of course.

And now back to your regularly scheduled program.

Saturday, 4/17/10 - Understanding

This week I rented a room on the other side of the hotel.

It has a balcony that overlooks the slowly vanishing Cypress Gardens attractions. Every day there are trucks and cranes and a little more of the park is taken down and hauled away.

This morning the sunrise caught one of the water slides and turned it golden.



It was a nice going away shot because the slide will probably not be here in another week.

As I looked at the park from the balcony I noticed the sunrise reflected my truck's rear window.



I enjoyed the view for a few more minutes then headed down and out to work.

On the drive I listened to Pat Metheney's Dream Of The Return from his Letter From Home album. The song is one of my favorites but, because the lyrics are in Spanish, I have no idea what is being said.

I suppose that it is a broken hearted love song because the few Spanish words I do understand from the song are:

sueno = dream
corazon = heart
novia = girlfriend

Couple that with the title and it is a pretty safe bet that it's a love song.

What I find amazing is that the song is very emotional even though I cannot understand what is being said.

The song carried me the few miles from the hotel to the lake.




While I was looking for things to photograph I kept thinking about "understanding". I wondered if you understand this picture-a-day blog (that has somehow morphed into a story-with-pictures-a-day blog).



I wondered if you understood why I chose to take this picture and then why I chose to share it with you.

I suppose that sometimes an image or a story will resonate with you the same way that song resonates with me.



Then I thought about people that I don't understand.

I am working at a college this week and I can honestly say that I don't understand the students. Their clothing, hair styles and musical tastes seem strange to me.

But then, I suppose that when I was their age I looked pretty strange, too.



It is funny but I look at that picture and I don't understand. What was I thinking?

Oh, I remember... I wasn't!

Friday, 4/16/10 - Breakfast is for the birds

I am not much for breakfast. Especially at 6am.

So, rather than take advantage of the free breakfast at the hotel I just grab a cup of coffee and head out to do some photography.

I mentioned that I have been going to the same lake every morning to see if I could capture pictures that are new and different even though I am in the same location.

At first I thought that I would try different pictures of the dock. Maybe start with an overall shot...



... then something a bit closer.



It was ok until a passing plane's contrail caught my eye.



I decided that the dock theme might work so I tried another dock and tried to show how, depending on your position, the morning can be very colorful with the reds and golds of the rising sun or almost colorless.



I was liking the idea of color and colorless and saw this tree that was almost golden BUT there were wires in front of it.



I thought that it might make a nice topic to talk about how our landscapes are all adorned with power lines.

As I looked for a vantage point to highlight the wires I noticed that there was someone sitting on top of the power pole.



As I walked up a little closer, he eyed me from one side...



... and then from the other...



... before deciding that he didn't enjoy my company.

What I hadn't noticed, and what is hard to see in this picture because of the wires, is that I was disturbing his breakfast.



Off he flew and I decided that I had enough pictures for today's blog and I headed back to my car.

As I rounded a large live oak tree I noticed my breakfast companion sitting atop a dead pine.



He saw me coming and started making threatening gestures.



Now, so you don't think that I was right up there harassing this poor bird, take a look at how far away I really was. (Aren't zoom lenses great?)



Even being that far away he wasn't comfortable with me being there.



So he took his breakfast and headed for a more private location.