What's 60 minutes, give or take,
If both my eyes are closed,
To claim the loss of undreamed dreams
Who've never been supposed?

We pull and stretch the skin of time
Despite the shouts and moans.
Illusion masks our impotence...

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In an old episode of the TV series Wings, brothers Brian and Joe Hackett are piloting a plane cross-country with pals Antonio, Lowell and Carlton, an ancient elf who continually whines out questions such as, “If we had descended from kangaroos instead of chimps, would we still need pants with pockets?”, and “What do you suppose they do with those little pieces of metal they punch out when they make a flute?”. About halfway through the flight he asks Antonio, “If a monkey were to bite you what sort of medicine do you think they’d make you take?”

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I find my CD collection starkly lacking in contributions from The Steve Miller Band. I blame Tom Brokaw. He has nothing to do with musical acquisitions in my house, but as scapegoats go he’s convenient and lives far enough away that physical retribution seems unlikely.

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Writers have the luxury of time and self-editing, whether responding to an email or preparing a piece of dialogue. All the “ummms” and “uhs” can be surgically removed from a conversation and the most fractional wit made to appear whole and spontaneous. An extended absence from the human race has left me ill equipped for handling a more rapid exchange.

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For years the authorities and media have been hounding me with questions. I’m certain you’ve all heard of the incident in which I hit a parked car on the left side of the road when I was sixteen years old. It was in all the paper.

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Lucy Satterthwaite began frantically threading her embroidery machine as the footsteps drew nearer. Her ancestry had prepared her for this moment, but she had hoped it would never arrive.

A quick pass through the eye of the needle, then load the computer program.

Sliding the CD back into its storage slot she heard a dull “Thud” as the one-eyed dwarf misjudged his distance from the workroom door.

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For the past couple of years a cheap electric guitar has leered at me from the corner of my computer/drawing room. My fingers and I finally had a long talk where we decided it was either time to learn to play the thing, or drape a jacket over it so it couldn’t make fun of us.

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Love has grown weary from over exertion. The word, I mean. The concept actually lost all relevance in the Sixties, about the time Coca Cola decided they’d like to buy the entire world an ice-cold beverage. It’s far too common to hear someone mention their “love” of the late Farrah Fawcett’s hair, a particular movie, or French fries, and in the same breath proclaim an unending affection for their children. I always wonder how much therapy is required when said child realizes his or her parents are as passionate about them as they are a crisp golden potato wedge.

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Rocks don’t need maps. It’s not that rocks don’t experience movement; they simply don’t experience a choice in manner or direction. Wind, water, the whim of some child, or adult with too much time on its hands, who wants to see how many times a stone will skip across the pond are a rock’s major modes of transportation. All requiring no pre-flight plan. And it turns out that Simon & Garfunkel were right.

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Before starting this, or any, exercise program it’s important to consult your tailor. When you invariably throw up after your first workout you’ll want to be wearing an outfit that resists staining. This is also the reason it’s important not to eat Spanish rice sooner than 2 days prior to starting your routine.

Trust me on this one.

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As a young idealistic college student, majoring in Coors and 8-Ball, I would frequently gaze out my dorm room window and witness some ill-mannered, unshaven, filthy species of subhuman strolling across the campus green. Invariably, this beast would have a cheerleader on his arm...

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Nothing new 'neath the fiery ball,
No matter how your weigh it.
Not a thought that's left unsaid,
Just diff'rent ways to say it.




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“Breathe, Dammit! Breathe!”

Ron Harper shouted this command like it was a set of instructions, as though I had made a conscious choice to stop, or simply forgotten how.

His much younger and much larger brother, Darrell, had just hit me in the throat with a wild pitch and my 7-year-old windpipe took this as a sign to take a well-earned break. Darrell was about 5 years older than me, had gone through puberty in the womb and somewhere along the line had, apparently, misplaced his neck.

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My new business card:




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A shutter and some overalls make tricks of
light and shadow dance and sometimes
catch the smile behind the
squint.

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Chain-smoking, sweating profusely and pacing maniacally my father felt certain he had cleverly disguised his anxiety by humming softly and casually to himself. A little over three years earlier he had almost lost his wife and first child during delivery, but they were in a hospital this time. Surely, a host of doctors and nurses could keep better track of a small woman and newborn than the clerk and night manager at Western Auto.

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In an effort to plot the route from fetus to my present state and location I will be recalling particular episodes and scenic pullouts on the journey. What fears pointed me in a specific direction? Or, failed to? How have desires and distractions affected the landscape? Who put those mountains in the way? And why is there more than one brand of vanilla wafer?

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Years ago, never mind how many, in small town Midwestern America, everything was closed for business on Sunday, except church. I could never understand why, if god wanted me to rest on the Sabbath, I was spending so much time struggling with a Windsor knot and looking for my other dress shoe. A paradox I still wrestle with, periodically, if I feel a need to exercise. When I questioned my father about this dilemma, always the philosopher, he responded, “Keep quiet…and find that shoe.”

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If piece of mind wished to be found it would probably rest itself in the shade of a leafy maple, or wander a busy thoroughfare until someone gave it a lift. Instead it skips, mischievously, just out of reach beyond anxiety, nostalgia and blistered feet.

Anxiety was waiting impatiently in aisle 17 of the local supermarket. Beans as brown as the shiny bag that encased them, for $7.99 a pound they promised to be my best friend.

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