• me about the same time and place of the story

    Two Little Hands

    My life’s decades are the number of fingers on a well-formed human hand, not including the thumb. We could say the last five years1 have been the thumb, half-a-thumb, anyway. I pretty much finished off the first four fingers and skipped to the next hand to use the index finger then jumped back to the thumb on the first hand as though an afterthought. These last five years have been opposable. Does that work in this context? Opposable? Do I need to explain?2 The details of what make this so are… what they are and don’t matter other than they make up something that is opposable. One fifth of one…

  • The Fog of Boredom

    Boredom is not necessary, neither is it illegal. Resorting to subjects, verbs and objects that are illegal often serves as boredom’s potent antidote. For a while, anyway. Until one becomes bored with whatever illegal activity, hormones will surge, chemicals will churn life into the dull grey soft matter that is the hardware of consciousness. We are children squishing ants on the front porch. Nothing wrong with that, even kind of addictive. And it never gets old until we do. Let’s turn things up a notch. That bird over there needs a rock thrown at it, we think, and throw one in its direction not intending to hit the target, which…

  • gargoyle not from pottery barn

    It wasn’t a squirrel. It was a gargoyle, I could tell the difference easily. I fell in love with it immediately. What a concept. Who would have thought of placing a gargoyle at the edge of a roof about thirty feet above a suburban lawn? Perhaps a gargoyle would think to do so. More likely the gargoyle would do so without thinking. What thought was required? Just do it. It’s the natural thing. Which is probably why our gargoyle looked so naturally positioned. Source: Flickr Creative Commons He is not of clay or plaster, we have learned. And we have named him Vesparo, not knowing his real name or if…

  • A-Rod, a strike-out before the strike

    Somebody had shelled out some big bucks for this family outing. It wasn’t me. I never is. It was probably Grampa and step-Grandma. It’s what they do. It’s amazing and wonderful, so generous, so memorable. The Ballpark in Arlington was new. No scuffs on the polished pavement floors, no bumps or chips along the glistening walls, no hinges squeaking in the stadium seats so clean they might as well have been sanitized for our protection.  I remember entering the stadium through a glorious corner gate that is probably architecturally aligned with first base. St. Peter comes to mind. But memory enhances visual associations with emotional experiences, good, bad, and to…

  • A Similar Thing

    The radio said a Cessna made an emergency landing ont the same side of the freeway I was driving on minutes earlier. This happened in Gallup on the way to Salt Lake City from Dallas. So, I have convinced myself I can make something of it because one can take such liberties in poetry, the way a gull dives for food at the stern of a ferry while crossing the bay. A similar thing happened five years later while driving back from cold nights in San Francisco, the sea made me homesick for the coast of Texas, Baytown, where I cut my foot on the beach. There, I saw two men…