Head-dibs

"I, ________, beginning to be enfeebled in body, and fearing that I may soon be palsied in mind, and having entered upon that course of drinking from which I have not resolution to flee; do make and publish this, my last will and testament-- Having been made in the image of my Creator, capable of rational enjoyment, of imparting happiness to others, and of promoting the glory of God--I know my accountability. Yet such is my fondness for sensual gratification, and my utter indisposition to resist temptation, that I give myself entirely to alcohol and its associate vices, and make the following bequests-- My property I give to be wasted--knowing it will soon fall into the hands of those who furnish me with liquor. My reputation, already tottering on a sandy foundation--I give to destruction. To my beloved wife, who has cheered me thus far through life--I give shame, poverty, sorrow, and a broken heart. To each of my children--I bequeath my example, and the inheritance of t

[Well, that's enough weekend.  Back to the real world . . . ] Doing what the moon says, he shifts his chair Closer to the stove and stokes it up With the very best fuel, a mixture of dried fish And tobacco he keeps in a bucket with crabs Too small to eat. One raises its pincer As if to seize hold of the crescent moon On the calendar which is almost like a zodiac With inexplicable and pallid blanks. Meanwhile A lobster is crawling towards the clever Bait that is set inside the clock On the shelf by the wireless—an inherited dried fish Soaked in whisky and carefully trimmed With potato flowers from the Golden Wonders The old man grows inside his ears. Click! goes the clock-lid, and the unfortunate lobster Finds itself a prisoner inside the clock, An adapted cuckoo-clock. It shows no hours, only Tides and moons and is fitted out With two little saucers, one of salt and one of water For the lobster to live on while, each quarter-tide, It must stick its head t

It is those moments of sheer stupidity (perhaps the better word would simply be “thoughtlessness”) that reminds us that we are not gods. I have been trying to get the upper hand on my “corporalita” (specifically, physical health and fitness) by finding a routine at the gym (it’s been more than 25 years since I’ve made regular appearances, so I’m starting all over again). The other day, I made my appearance with every intention of walking on the treadmill. As they were all taken, I sat on a recumbent bike, to wait until a treadmill was open. Like the treadmill, the bike as much potential for a workout, so I thought I would try something different, so I confronted the bike. As many already know, the treadmill is programmed to provide the user a number of pre-set options to take one through one workout or another; or, the user may manually program his or her own. I use the “Forest Walk” preset (at present, a 40 minute walk, speed 3.0 at 1.0 unit of incline). The computer panel blinks a

I'm glad I'm not an elevator repair man because if I ever made a mistake, I'd be wrong on every level. Amazing what one learns from the creases and folds of a cowboy hat . (Dexter, I'm thinking of you, brother). Have you ever wondered how boards are cut from trees? Here's a sculpture to inform you. The case that helped forensics consider the science of fingerprinting . "Patience and Tranquility of mind contribute more to cure our distempers [than] the whole of medicine." (Wolfgang Amadeus  Mozart, written in English, to Johann Georg Kronauer, a language teacher, 30 March 1787)

Recently I’ve been reading about Leonardo DaVinci and have been intrigued by his style of observation: he did not merely “observe,” but he “examined” everything--even things considered mundane--from at least three perspectives. He was fascinated by what he saw. I thought to test his style and went for a short walk on break the other day. I was astounded at my discovery. Outside, I accepted the challenged to learn from a cloud of gnats. Yes, gnats. They could not be examined against a light background, so I positioned myself to cast them against a dark background. The gnats did what they do best—the tumbled and jumbled silently in the air, their aerial acrobatics about 6 feet from the ground, rising and falling in an 18 to 24 inch range. I could only imagine how they must have sounded to each other, or what they were doing (but one can guess). I watched the cloud. These little bugs so small they were barely discernable as bugs, only dots, rising and falling in the air, doing what co

Question: Jesus says, “ No one has ascended into heaven, but He who descended from heaven: the Son of Man ” (John 3:13); but, the Bible says, “ And Enoch walked with God: and he was not; For God took him ” (Genesis 5:24); that “ And Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven” (2 Kings 2:11) and “ Enoch was translated that he should not see death ” (Hebrews 11:5). So which is it: has anyone ascended into heaven, or not? Answer: Interesting to note what Jesus says in the previous verse: " If I told you earthly things and you do not believe, how will you believe if I tell you heavenly things ?” (John 3:12). Jesus’ statement about ascending into heaven is in the context of a conversation and is not some independent mystical inculcation. Jesus is speaking with Nicodemus, a teacher who has not understood the very lessons he should be teaching. Jesus says, “ You must be born again ” (John 3:7). Nicodemus shows his confusion, “ How can these things be? ” (John 3:9). Jesus repli

1 Against the stone breakwater, Only an ominous lapping, While the wind whines overhead, Coming down from the mountain, Whistling between the arbors, the winding terraces; A thin whine of wires, a rattling and flapping of leaves, And the small street-lamp swinging and slamming against the lamp pole. Where have the people gone? There is one light on the mountain. 2 Along the sea-wall, a steady sloshing of the swell, The waves not yet high, but even, Coming closer and closer upon each other; A fine fume of rain driving in from the sea, Riddling the sand, like a wide spray of buckshot, The wind from the sea and the wind from the mountain contending, Flicking the foam from the whitecaps straight upward into the darkness. A time to go home!-- And a child's dirty shift billows upward out of an alley, A cat runs from the wind as we do, Between the whitening trees, up Santa Lucia, Where the heavy door unlocks, And our breath comes more easy,-- Then a crack of

Midsummer lies on this town like a plague: locusts now replaced by humidity, the bloodied Nile now an algae-covered rivulet struggling to find its terminus. Our choice is a simple one: to leave or to remain, to render the Spanish moss a memory or to pull it from trees, repeatedly. And this must be what the young philosopher felt, the pull of a dialectic so basic the mind refuses, normally, to take much notice of it. Outside, beyond a palm-tree fence, a flock of ibis mounts the air, our concerns ignored by their quick white wings. Feathered flashes reflected in water, the bending necks of the cattails: the landscape feels nothing--- it repeats itself with or without us.

Apple now has more cash than the US Government . The last time I laughed (I mean really laughed) was a couple of weeks ago. I laughed so hard, I nearly passed out--twice. We were watching "Enterprise," and the Klingons were experiencing the holodeck for the very first time. The Klingon captain (Volok) gave the officer a geographic survey of the home planet for the experiment. The next scene is looking over the shoulder of this knife-wielding, growling, be-fanged alien as he surveys his home planet. He points and says, "I can see my house from here!" I nearly died--I just wanted to share that with you. It was funny. 7 ways our earth changes in the blink of an eye. Lessons in Leadership: The PBS documentary, " The Greely Expedition " relates following account: "In 1881, 25 men led by Adolphus Greely set sail from Newfoundland to Lady Franklin Bay in the high Arctic, where they planned to collect a wealth of scientific data from a vast area of th

Last November I finished writing the first (and very rough) draft of my first novel. Since then, I have been stuck in “revision-land.” I am somewhat happy with the result, but there is still so much more to do. I actually let the work sit untouched for a few months before I even picked up my little red pen for editing autoposy. There is blood everywhere. Right now, I am tweaking plot and characters before finalizing all the bad grammar and other errors. Got some great stuff going in—very excited about it, but still a ways to go. I hope to have a “presentable” second draft by Christmas.  Until then, enjoy Anne Bradstreet's (1612-1672) poem, "The Author To Her Book": "Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth did'st by my side remain, Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad exposed to public view, Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judge). A

This summer I went swimming, This summer I might have drowned But I held my breath and I kicked my feet And I moved my arms around, I moved my arms around. This summer I swam in the ocean, And I swam in a swimming pool, Salt my wounds, chlorine my eyes, I'm a self-destructive fool, a self-destructive fool. This summer I swam in a public place And a reservoir, to boot, At the latter I was informal, At the former I wore my suit, I wore my swimming suit. This summer I did the backstroke And you know that's not all I did the breast stroke and the butterfly And the old Australian crawl, the old Australian crawl. This summer I did swan dives And jackknifes for you all And once when you weren't looking I did a cannonball, I did a cannonball.