The Necklace

Image
  “SHE WAS one of those pretty, charming young ladies, born, as if through an error of destiny, into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no hopes, no means of becoming known, appreciated, loved, and married by a man either rich or distinguished; and she allowed herself to marry a petty clerk in the office of the Board of Education. . . .  She had neither frocks nor jewels, nothing. And she loved only those things. She felt that she was made for them. She had such a desire to please, to be sought after, to be clever, and courted.” —THE NECKLACE Guy de Maupassant    France, 1884 (pic by Grok) Read this short story here:  https://americanliterature.com/author/guy-de-maupassant/short-story/the-necklace

These Dreams

 What goes on behind closed eyes? Whatever it is, it’s strange. Dreams are places you live another life. For example, at that place between asleep and awake, there is a sudden flash of understanding, then it’s gone. That place is called Never-never Land. Some people remember their dreams, few are inspired by them. But dreams are not relegated to sleep except by common usage. Dreams are synonymous with thoughts, ideas. I can’t say I’ve fallen out of bed inspired to do much except check the plumbing, but I’ve had ideas. 

Once, while still in my single digits, I made a Monster-Kicker. The idea came to me after unwelcome monsters that snuck through my door while I slept. Necessity is the mother of invention, after all. A boot mounted to the end of a stick was affixed on a hinge. The contraption activated by a pulled string tied to the doorknob. When the door opened, the intruder would be subsequently booted back into the hallway. Well, that’s how it was supposed to work, anyway.


One dream I’ve had was to write a book. I can’t think of how many pages I’ve written over the last 35 + years, but I’ve filled entire volumes with handwritten material (the pic is only a sampling of six years—other journals are in storage or lost). While nothing is intended for publishing, I’ve written a pile of books. I can somewhat relate to Benjamin Franklin, who while writing his autobiography, often failed to remember if he’d written this or that because he was not near his personal library at the time to check. And he was no slouch when it came to making his ideas come to fruition.




Popular posts from this blog

Rock Me, Epictetus!

The Smooth-flowing Life