Pinhole's Blog

Day 2

2012-03-25T16:45:03Z

That's two in a row...and I'm starting to sweat.

Menu dilemma

A New Addition

2012-03-24T23:21:59Z

It seems I've sprouted a new blog...

Poetry Patch

Feel free to wander around. Be careful not to step in anything.

One Stitch...Nine Saved

2012-02-04T17:48:27Z

Glance back at Reality

To watch it rock and sway.

Reflective moments caught in time,

A mirror on the day.

Temporal waves that peak and trough

Like ripples on a pond.

Horizontal distances

Where shadows won’t respond.

Frantic minutes pass themselves

While never seen to move;

Seconds work at standing still

With nothing left to prove.

Endless youth, or sands of time,

No question who’s the boss.

When faced with Past and Future,
Look both ways before you cross.

Joyful, or Not...Make a Noise

2011-11-23T21:14:42Z

I’ve been silent for awhile; long enough, I suppose. Not that I’ve had any profound revelations to signal an end to my self-imposed exile, just thought it might be time I raise my hand and let the class know I’m still here in the back of the room.

I’d sit up front, but have always found it difficult trying to make sense of someone else’s scribbling on the blackboard. From back here the chalk marks blur and can represent anything…or, nothing, depending on what strikes my fancy. If you’ve ever had your fancy struck you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Although I’ve been quiet, I haven’t decided, yet, exactly how loud I might get. Maybe so still you can hear a Pinhole drop. Pinhole Drops…not a bad idea. I could market them as a deterrent for joint pain, vertigo, or name a Kardashian.

Have no doubt, at times I will be making noise. There will likely be shouts of gratitude as well as rage; screams of agony and pleasure; definitely whispers of embarrassment.

Before long you will all, probably, be begging for the reminiscent melodious sounds of silence.

Be Thankful for it while it lasted.

Proud Custodian

2011-08-07T16:06:53Z

A skeleton of old trombones
Comes dancing down the aisle.
A symphony that no one owns,
No license, only style.

A fan sits in the living room,
And puts on quite a show.
Its blades are caged in metal frames,
The air is free to go.

It passes through the old trombones
And notes are gently born.
Abundant wealth of noise, set free,
Enlightened by the horn.

It matters not, who buys the fan,
The breeze won’t stay for long.
And hold a songbird in your hand,
You’ll never own the song.

Yes, I can buy the instrument,
But not possess the sound;
Yet, being here with you makes me
The richest man around.

Merely a Suggestion...

2011-07-30T17:01:41Z

To make the most of efforts that

Enhance the use of space.

Take a breath then blow your nose

Completely off your face.

·

Oh, Amy...

2011-07-24T18:43:33Z

This afternoon I watched a bird through the kitchen window, a favorite bird of Iris’s and mine, perched sturdily on the narrow back of a wicker chair on Iris’s patio. My thoughts should have been far from mortality, but kept drifting to the news I’d heard earlier in the day of the death of Amy Winehouse.

How could this bird, with its spindly legs and tiny feet, defy the elements and remain poised on a thin rail…while sleeping? I have trouble remaining upright standing in a meadow, fully awake, leaning against a tree, yet this frail specimen possessed an innate power that kept it from wobbling uncontrollably and striking the stones below the chair.

Then it hit me. Not the bird. But the realization that the bird had balance. For all of her immense talent, it was the one thing that Ms. Winehouse lacked. And, as with most things in her short life, she lacked it on a grandiose scale.

I found myself watching the bird with the same absence of intention that I would watch Ms. Winehouse perform; mesmerized by the simplicity, baffled by the complexity and drawn to the mystery.

As I leaned on the sink to keep from falling through the glass, the little creature took flight, and my spirit lifted with it and soared lowly for just a short time. Returning from where it had fallen earlier in the day.

There are few things sadder than watching a beautiful bird fall, noiselessly, from the back of her chair.

Healthy Alternatives

2011-06-04T16:37:36Z

Smaller worlds with larger minds

Contain a population

Of wild and mythic creatures

Thriving on imagination.

“Chickmunks” sneak behind the rocks

And nibble at your nails;

“Squwulls” steal your breakfast crumbs,

Then flaunt their bushy tails.

Slithery and crawly things

That gravity encumbers,

Seem to shed reality

By soaring from their slumbers.

Take one magic hideaway,

And plant a wond’rous critter;

What is now a “Flutterfly”

Was once a “Cow-A-Pitter”.

Pay very close attention;

If you listen with your hearts;

Your souls will be a witness

To the truth a child imparts.

Genetics...Go Figure

2011-04-23T23:02:00Z

Apparently, some traits skip a generation.

To Market, To Market...

2011-03-22T13:54:00Z

I think I need an agent. I’m not talking Secret, or Travel, here.

I think I need someone to peddle my meager wares. On a good day I can ware like nobody’s business, but my peddler seems to be broken.

My imagination checks out fine. I have no trouble flitting from project to project, and back again, but I lack the focus required to market the finished product.

That’s probably what I really need: a Focuser. Someone who knows how to put one foot in front of the other and work in a straight line. I only know how to dance; and I don’t do that well, or in front of people…ever. This rather limits my social contacts and, as a result, my marketing avenues, or skills.

So I need someone with energy, direction and knowledge who would like a reasonable percentage of everything I make with their assistance.

A Focuser…one who will make us both wealthy…and solve World Hunger.

·

March-ing Band

2011-03-20T16:45:00Z

When I cry I like to be accompanied by a saxophone. Lamentations have more depth if a personal saxophonist is kept on retainer and always nearby.

But saxophonists don’t come cheap. At times I’ve had to leave the Bentley in the garage for a couple of days and take the Jag to the club, just to save money on gas so I could keep Phil close by with his horn. That alone was worth Phil forfeiting a blast, or two.

I hated to let Irwin go, but an accordion just isn’t the same. It’s too hard to look bluesy pumping an accordion. Anger and despair are two different animals and most of the time Irwin just looked constipated.

Laughter needs no accompaniment. A cheerful expulsion makes its own music.

If you find someone who helps you hit just the right keys to curve the corners of your mouth upward and make your midriff vibrate, reward them well and don’t let them out of your sight.

If you haven’t found the magic of laughter, yet, I hear Irwin is still looking for work.

·

Do You Believe In Mayjic?

2011-03-13T16:15:00Z

I want to play guitar.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want to learn to play the guitar, I want to be able to just pick the thing up and rattle off any number of Gilmour’s most intricate solos.

I want to be an adult prodigy.

Not at the savant level. I wish to still be able to order a cheeseburger at the drive-thru window and know if I’ve been given the correct change; and to understand why “under”wear is so aptly named.

But I could entertain the notion of a certain level of musical genius. Or, even musical sufficiency. Just enough to amuse myself, the couch and a couple of easy chairs. The thought of plying fingers to string and making music is so appealing I wouldn’t even mind the calluses; as long as I could pick them up at the local callus shop and apply them in an afternoon.

Would talent and ability hold more meaning for me if acquired over time? Probably. But a fellow with a bird’s nest for hair and a cheesy moustache has already proven that time is relative.

So, which way to the closest callus shop?

New Digs

2010-12-31T16:08:00Z

Through the auspices of a grant from the Shelly Bryant Foundation I’ve begun a new blog. The blog you are currently reading will remain online and, should I be struck by a random thought now and again, posts might appear, periodically.

But, for the time being, I’ll be concentrating on the new blog, the new job and The New Christy Minstrels latest reunion tour.

So I can now, also, be found at:

http://literaryscars.dynoblogs.com

Stop by and say “Hello” if you have the time and inclination. I’ll by nearby writing, drawing, or just whistling into a paper sack. Anything to relax.

Save Your Gas Money

2010-10-19T22:18:00Z

Cats that cough up chicken bones,
A toad that cannot dance.
A won’drous world to visit,
If you’ll only take a chance.

While scanning the horizon,
If your vision is askew,
You’re peering at the landscape
From a Pinhole’s point of view.

Soul Muzak

2010-09-15T22:43:00Z

The ease with which we catch a cold,

Or hold, or up, or ball;

A numbers game in nature that,

Bar none, affects us all.

Gravity and friction,

Games that everyone can play.

No need for predilection,

Don’t let rules get in the way.

Sit back and close your eyes

As Mama Nature calls the roll,

And contemplate the searing

Mathematics of the Soul.

Get a little soul, now!

Pinhole's Soul Patch

Pinhole's Soul Patch

Ringing Endorsement!

2010-09-13T19:20:00Z

“7 minutes after receipt of Pinhole’s Soul Patch the mole on my left buttock released its grip and employed its knowledge of gravity to return to its home underground. I’m thinking of ordering another patch to rid me of this pesky chipmunk on my forearm.”

Attila the Hun

”I wear my Soul Patch everywhere. I’m still not sure why.”

Ronald Reagan to

Margaret Thatcher

“Keeping a Soul Patch pressed firmly in my palm helps me think smarter…and makes the water taste better.”

Albert Einstein

Get yours while they last!!

(Not seen actual size)

A steal at only $1.95 $2.95 Autographed

Take My Soul...Please.

2010-09-11T18:03:00Z

Given the growing intolerance of our society, and the irrational fascination with celebrity, I find that if I am to continue living in the United States I no longer have need for a soul. Therefore, I’ve decided to sell it…a piece at a time.

To insure the devil doesn‘t get his grubby paws (or cloven hooves, whatever) on it, I’m offering these parcels at a reasonable price to the general public.

A portion of the proceeds will be directed toward efforts promoting global cooperation and glorifying adequacy, as I see fit. I’m keeping my conscience.

Be the first on your block to own “Pinhole’s Soul Patch”

(Not seen actual size)

A steal at only $1.95 $2.95 Autographed

Tell your friends! Tell your enemies!

At this point, it really doesn’t matter.

Affectionately,

Pinhole

A Cracking Good Time

2010-09-03T16:36:00Z

Grandpa didn’t cut the heads off of the chickens.

He would wring their neck, perform a smooth snapping motion and a surprised bundle of feathers with feet was sent bouncing across the barnyard. I still don’t know what these beasts had done to aggravate him to such a degree, but I vowed, at the age of four that if my Grandfather started cracking his knuckles, and darting his eyes in my direction, I’d soon be as far away as possible. When he had the dog put down the line between fear and respect began to noticeably blur.

This kind of introduction to death inspires a philosophical bent in a young boy. Play and self-analysis become important parts of the day. I’d be toying with my hamburger at lunch and find myself staring out the kitchen window at a pasture full of cows. Literally, as was so lyrically captured in The Lion King, the circle of beef.

”Don’t play with your food, Pinhole,” Grandma cautioned.

Responding was a waste of time. Grandpa and Grandma employed a monk-like economy of speech. If a nod or gesture got the point across their lips never moved. An evening of eye rolling, eyebrow raising and wrist whips was pretty entertaining, but if one of them really got angry you could turn off the television. Ed Sullivan had nothing to compete with the act in the living room.

So I pretended to eat and began watching a fly on the screen door. The fly seemed carefree and answerable to no one, though a little anxious. No one to tell it when to go to bed, no one to tell it when to get up, no one to tell it not to play with its food…food…then I remembered the primary staple of the fly’s diet and began to reconsider how fortunate I was to have a hamburger in front of me.

But as the fly found other things to do, so did my sense of gratitude. Before long my fork was handle deep in a stack of wax beans, one fourth of a corral keeping my potatoes from stampeding. As a second warning Grandma cleared her throat just as I heard the back door squeal on its hinges.

Sitting up as straight as I could manage, my eyes almost out of my head, I glanced at my Grandmother, “Did you hear knuckles popping?”

"So Close"

2010-08-20T14:22:00Z

Name I'd like to see on a Midwest grain elevator.

Song Sung, Whew!

2010-08-19T00:03:00Z

Everybody knows one.

That person who knows everything, has been everywhere, and if you tell them you’ve milked a hamster they’ve done it twice.

Casually mention passing through southern Nebraska on your summer vacation and they’ll launch into a series of anecdotes about how they majored in Nebraska at college, or actually invented Omaha. Make a simple off-hand remark about a National Geographic special you viewed on matadors and they will reveal, with a click of the tongue and a down-turned smile that implies a reluctance to share such information, “I’m a bullfighter.”

And you want to scream, “NO, YOU’RE NOT! YOU’RE A 57 YEAR-OLD ASTHMATIC WITH A PROSTHETIC LEG…AND YOUR HUSBAND TOLD ME YOU’VE NEVER BEEN OUT OF THE COUNTRY!”

But, we don’t. We roll our eyes and silently wonder what drives these exaggerated claims. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe they’ve had trouble making friends since they were little toreadors. Maybe they smacked their head on the doorjamb and now think that X-Men Origins: Wolverine is a documentary.

Whatever their motive we never call them on it. We listen, sometimes impatiently, to their tall tales and secretly wish them to be true. And realize that someone somewhere loves them, anyway. Even if they had the personality of a cucumber someone would take their side. And that’s as it should be. Because Neil Diamond was right.

Every garden grows one.

Sphere-onomics

2010-08-14T21:00:00Z

I’m not an economist, but reflecting on the recent financial collapse I believe there is a vital element the experts have overlooked.

Marbles.

Before puberty caught up with me I traveled in a well-regulated circle. A society driven more by Darwin’s imagination than by the concept of supply and demand. A sort of Midwestern “Lord of the Flies”.

As the market opens children gather clutching a small bag containing their life savings in denominations of “glassies”, “steelies” and “shooters”. Fortunes about to be won, or lost, around a makeshift court etched in the dirt of a vacant lot. While Bobby “Sure Shot” Mitchell cocks his thumb and squints into the circle you know you’re about to say goodbye to your favorite yellow cat’s eye. Your only hope is that in late trading you can make up the loss.

In fact, as a unit of exchange, hope was as valuable as your shooter. Everyone was a participant, and though some were wealthier than others, we all felt like we were in the game. If you still had your shooter, you knew you had a chance. A tool for shifting the tide in your favor and building your savings, along with your esteem.

So, my best guess as to what’s happened to our economy?

It seems to me we’ve all lost our marbles.

Closing Time

2010-07-09T04:53:01Z

Sales attract diverse clientele. Before permanently closing the gallery where I’ve been working since before Christmas, everything was discounted by 80% of its original price. This kind of sale attracts a sublevel of humanity thought only to exist on screen, or in celebrity memoirs.

During our last week a fellow wandered in who looked as though he had just awakened and realized his backseat was devoid of adequate artwork. If he had been pondering something when he fell asleep the previous evening behind his steering wheel, it wasn’t where he last left his comb, or whether he had recently purchased deodorant.

As he made the rounds of our most prominent displays he seemed to be counting the prints more than examining them for aesthetic value. With no obvious eye for category or dimension he thumbed the inventory like an accountant on speed. About an hour later he approached the counter with three matted prints: a portrait of Robert E. Lee mounted on his trusty steed, John Wayne striking a Madonna-like pose in full Alamo regalia, and Jesus Christ.

After he made his purchase I was too busy to wonder at the mental processes that led to those particular selections, but around closing time curiosity began stalking the cat. I can certainly appreciate eclectic taste, but am having some trouble with this mix. I suppose he could put Lee and Wayne in the back windows (Wayne on the right), and hang Jesus from the rear-view mirror.

I didn’t have long to worry about it because the next morning a lady came in wearing a live parrot on her head and asked if we carried talking canvases that would mount themselves on her wall at command. I asked the name of her pet and she said, “What parrot?”

I have a feeling that my next job (providing I find one) will seem rather pedestrian.

Well, Hello Dalí

2010-04-08T02:22:00Z

While rearranging prints last night in the gallery I accidentally put Syd Barrett and Vincent van Gogh in the same sleeve. Individually each artist is well beyond talented, extremely intelligent and certifiably nuts. Get them together and not only will discussions reach unseen heights, but the atmosphere will go from marginally insane to batshit.

I hadn’t realized my error until I turned off the music in the shop to close for the night and heard mutterings from the bin on the west wall. As I inched closer I overheard van Gogh,”…used to talk to a god, but I don’t remember its name or what it was in charge of. And now I’ve heard that they’ve made a telescope that enables mankind to see this god’s teeth, and it turns out they haven’t been brushed since Rembrandt was a baby. That’s probably how doubt was created. Who can place their full belief in a being that doesn’t practice proper dental hygiene? I used to know a fellow named Gene, and I always had to stifle a laugh when I greeted him on the street. What was his last name?…”

Normally reserved and not prone to fits of speech, Syd took advantage of a rare thought-induced pause in Vincent’s monologue to interject, “I have more gods than I need. I’d be happy to make you a loan of one, if you like. I keep them in small compartments for handy access.”

”Do you have a god to recapture innocence and absorb pain? If not, licking your paint brush can imitate the desired effect.”

Just for grins I slipped a copy of “The Persistence of Memory” into the bin as I left, and other than Dalí’s giggling things got really quiet.

As I locked the gate to the shop I heard a slurping sound, then van Gogh asking Syd, “How would you depict ecstasy; with daggers, or irises?”

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Easter "Earl?"

2010-04-04T14:13:00Z

"Earl?" seems to have really outdone himself this time...

Happy Easter!

World Poetry Day

2010-03-21T21:52:00Z

All our Mothers have a day
In May to call their own.
Fathers, too, possess some time
In June for lying prone.

Genuflect for vets, and for
Their service, if you please.
Even trees get special nods
It seems, for being trees.

In nineteen hundred ninety nine
The U.N. (others with 'em),
Declared the twenty first of March
A day of rhyme and rhythm.

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"Daylight Savings Account"...or, "May I Have Seconds?"

2010-03-15T15:08:00Z

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;
We've altered not the bones.

If minutes must be gathered and
Flung forward in a bunch,
Then do it while I'm fast asleep
Instead of having lunch.

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Run That One About The Monkey Past Her Sometime

2010-02-21T16:00:00Z

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?”

After Carlton explains to his fellow travelers that his mother told him there is no such thing as a stupid question, Brian suggests that he, “Run that one about the monkey past her sometime.”

The caption beneath this image on the internet claims that it’s a “Blobfish”, but I’m positive this guy slithered into the shop last week and inquired, “Mind if I ask a stupid question?”

My first thought was that he already had, though out loud I replied, “They tell me there’s no such thing, but let’s see what you’ve got.”

His offering, “If you were to frame a live chameleon what color matte would you use?”

I was just thinking that Carlton had been dethroned when later that afternoon what could have passed for Blobfish’s sister saunters in demanding a refund for a piece of artwork she received as a Christmas gift. Apparently, over the past 7 weeks she had given great effort to endearing herself to this particular print, but the image found her to be just as pleasant as did our designer/sales clerk. Upon being briefed of our 14-day return policy and shown the framed copy of said document on the front counter, Ms. Blobfish asked, with an edge to her voice meant to mimic a Lady Gillette, “Why would you have a policy like that?”

Please. Who talks in italics, anymore?

Carlton had a new superior.

At this point the painting begins to sob audibly, fearful that it will be forced to spend eternity with the Blobfish sibling and any spawn that might be involved. Taking pity on the defenseless piece of art, rules were suspended, the refund allowed and, as they say, “All’s well that ends well.”

But now I’m left wondering not only about how to frame a lizard, but what fate holds for any artwork that has failed to escape the lair of this pretentious bottom feeder.

So many questions…

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Nobody Calls Me The Space Cowfellow

2010-02-04T18:28:00Z

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.

I noticed this rock ‘n roll deficit as I waded through a stack of compact discs in search of some alternative listening choices for the back of the gallery. The glaring omission of any “Fly Like an Eagle”, or “Abracadabra”, stood out like a sore thumb. The very thumb I smacked while assembling those 24” x 36” frames.

I’m not sure if my dearth of “Jungle Love” is causing me to be uncool, or if the fact that I’ve never been “cool” leads me to purchase something like Perry Como’s Christmas CD instead of Mr. Miller’s master works. It sounds like the typical chicken or egg dilemma, but without the mess to clean up after the hypothesis has been tested.

As early as I can remember I’ve been like this. Not just indecisive and disorganized, but socially inept. Many of my peers were successful in adopting an aloof posture in the face of circumstances that left me in desperate need of a change of underclothes. When I attempted to manufacture a similar facade I usually came off looking either pained or constipated. By the end of the charade I was probably both. Still embarrassing, but saving big on laundry.

During my sophomore year in college embarrassment was replaced by 3.2% beer. Opportunities for humiliation weren’t dwindling, but with the aid of a six-pack I simply stopped holding myself up to such close scrutiny. Conversations with the opposite sex, which at best had been elusive, and at their worst fever inducing, became fluid and relaxed. Incoherent, but fluid and relaxed. At times I became composed to the point of near enlightenment, neither knowing nor caring what was happening in the physical world. Once, I was positive I witnessed a golden aura during one of these meditations while lying in the parking lot outside my dorm, but it was only creamed corn. Funny, it hadn’t been creamed when it was served earlier that evening in the dining hall. One of many minor miracles I felt too self-serving to report.

Later efforts to achieve any sort of “cool” status were greeted with similar results. Not a single soul has ever called me “Maurrrrrrice”.

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It's an Art...So to Speak...

2010-01-18T03:30:00Z

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.

During my sabbatical most of my friends took advantage of the opportunity to move, or change their phone numbers. Informed of my predicament my brother’s neighbors have been kind enough to include me in activities that give me opportunities to practice my social skills. In the past I’ve blamed an extra glass of wine for bouts of anti-social behavior, but at a recent gathering I found I’m able to be just as offensive before the cork has ever been loosed from the bottle. The most discouraging aspect to this discovery is that I will now have to come up with another reason to drink.

Inexperience breeds impatience, and I’m developing a permanent crease between my eyebrows while attempting to engage with the variety of customers parading through the gallery. Most times I feel like I’m thinking “with” my feet rather than “on” them.

Inquiring if I can help a middle-aged woman find something pleasing to her eye, I hear, “Mmmph!”. Given a couple of days, and enough breaks for several games of Addiction Solitaire, I might possibly come up with a feeble retort; but knowing my limitations I’m forced to just turn and walk away.

Later that afternoon, I make the same professional inquiry of a slightly elderly gentleman. He asks about a particular artist, but before I can answer his question he becomes a minor typhoon of information. Revealing more details than we have in our computers, his sermon slowly morphs into a free association fest of distantly related tales from the past, in no particular order. I began to feel blessed that he wasn’t doing the whole thing in rhyme, possibly the only redeeming quality to the experience.

Sometime later – I’m not sure how much later, because for the better part of the afternoon I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness – he winds up telling about his “brother’s plumber’s best friend who had a boil lanced and the infection spread to his liver and his skin turned the same color as the sunset in that painting on the south wall…How much is that painting, by the way?”

While I’m busy longing for the grumpy middle-aged woman, he catches me off guard as he makes the sudden claim, “To make a long story short…”, and I find myself muttering, much too loudly, “Too late.”

I apologize in advance to my brother’s neighbors, but I’m afraid I’m going to need a lot more cocktail parties.

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I Suppose It's Time

2009-12-02T00:02:00Z

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.

Here’s what happened. I was making a right turn on the north edge of town as I reached to set my stocking cap on the passenger’s seat beside a box that had overturned. As my right hand lowered to its task my left hand followed suit, veering my Dad’s ’69 Biscayne into a parked Buick in front of the local Librarian’s house.

Though I pressed for only a brief mention of the accident under “Court News” on the third (or what locals called the “next to the last”) page, this only served to foster continued rumor and speculation. Innuendo swirled around my growing silence. The paparazzi just couldn’t let it go.

Stories insinuating the occasion was the result of an altercation with my hamster, Ophelia, were completely unfounded. Sure, she nipped my finger, occasionally, and the previous Saturday I admired one of the guinea pigs at the Ben Franklin store in a neighboring town, but I didn’t pet it. I didn’t even lift it out of its cage!

And the .22 caliber rifle was on the back seat because I was on my way to go squirrel hunting with a friend. Contrary to popular belief, that wasn’t Ophelia in the box on the seat beside my cap.

I hope I can finally consider this matter closed.

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The Lotht Thimble - Prologue

2009-11-15T17:41:00Z

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. Muffled curses preceded the intruder into the back room of the dry cleaners.

Staring blankly at each other, Lucy finally broke the silence.

“You’re supposed to ask me where it is.”

”Where what is?”

”I can’t tell you.”

”Then why would I ask you?”

”Don’t you work for the albino that’s trying to obtain the secret?”

”No, I’m just here to get some pants altered.”

Lucy shuddered, knowing this would involve threading another machine.

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Coming Thoon!

2009-10-27T22:22:00Z

Thtorieth abound…thorry, er…sorry. Stories abound. Tales of clandestine societies with incalculable influence over the founding of The United States of America. Patterns of intrigue weaving themselves around a profession as old as civilization.

Fact

Sewing harkens back to the Paleolithic Era.

Originally, needles, like weapons, were manufactured from bone, ivory and thorns.

A child playing under a quilting frame in the basement of a Methodist church, while his Grandma pieced the item together with the rest of her guild, who bashed his shin on the leg of the frame and muttered, “Dammit!”, should have really considered, “Harken”, or a short prayer of some sort.

(Watch this blog for a possible Prologue.)

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Maybe A Nice Tweed...

2009-10-22T00:05:00Z

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.

By Tuesday it became obvious why the term “fret” was employed in describing the sectioning of the neck of the guitar. Fretting notes, fretting chords, fretting that I wouldn’t be able to control the bleeding at the tips of my fingers. There was obviously more to learning this instrument than I had anticipated.

As my left hand contorted, searched and wept intermittently, my right hand was trying to pick individual strings with little success. Honestly, I would have been thrilled to strike a loose thread on my sweater. The right thread might even have improved the tone quality.

My guitar is blue, so at least it looks good. As I’ve mentioned in the past I have a lap steel guitar, as well. It’s beige, though still an attractive piece of equipment. I’m thinking I should keep them together in the same corner of the room. This will make for convenient access, accent the aesthetic flow, and make it easier to hide both instruments under one jacket.

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Colored Water - The World of Zach Babat

2009-10-19T22:56:00Z

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.

”Miracle” is another term that in the 21^st Century is faced with quite a task in living up to its PR. From an unexplained medical phenomenon to the underdog high school sports team kicking the winning home run in the last lap, some would rather believe in supernatural intervention than give thought to a rational cause or lurking talent. And everyone knows that Miracle Whip is really nothing but tangy mayonnaise.

So what Zach Babat accomplishes with some pigment and a little H²O might best be described as “affinity”. A term not thrown around near casually enough, in my opinion. Mr. Babat paints an understanding of his subjects. Not satisfied to capture an image, his brush dips into the history, character and surroundings of the wildlife represented.

With mesmerizing technique and an instinctive use of light, Babat creates moments, not just paintings. He works his way into the world of the animal and invites us along. I encountered a grizzly once in the wild and found it invigorating. In fact, it invigorated the bejesus out of me.

Babat’s paintings have a similar effect on me. So many aspects of the work attack your senses it becomes difficult to look away. With each viewing a new discovery is made. With luck, we become invigorated, attuned and slightly overwhelmed. If your experience takes you even deeper into the soul of the animal, well then, that’s some incredibly tangy mayonnaise.

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And Awaaaaay We Go!

2009-10-14T01:05:00Z

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.

I am a rock.

Lately, it seems the Focus is gathering dust in the garage while I’m bandied about by wind, water and the whims of children and adults with too much time on their hands. Even hungers provide little inspiration or motivation. Reason appeared the other day, and was promptly shown the door.

Piloting this ship is all about weathering the storms. This isn’t a bad thing, mind you. If you dislike adventure you’re on the wrong ride. The tide is only an issue if you allow it. Just be happy on whatever beach you happen to wash up.

So where to next? Beats me…I don’t have a map.

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Keep Fit? Or Throw one?

2009-10-08T22:36:00Z

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.

Since the cat died, and I can’t hear her ghost laugh, I am finally able to wear shorts during my workout. This means I remain much cooler and have more freedom of movement as I step onto the deck for a cup of coffee as the DVD plays the stretch and yoga portions of the exercise video. No cream or sugar.

During the sculpt section it’s important to maintain some mental energy for hoping the phone will ring. If you have no friends who call at that time of day, or at all, a cell phone is well worth the investment in order to make the call yourself. Preprogram, if necessary, or you think your hands might be busy with coffee cup and Danish.

It’s imperative not to forget the cool down step. Listen to your body, but standing in front of the freezer deciding on ice cream flavor works for me.

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Comes the Dawn

2009-10-07T03:54:00Z

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, seemingly enthralled with every monosyllabic grunt the troglodyte uttered.

Being an ill-mannered, unshaven, filthy species of subhuman myself, I couldn’t help but wonder, “What’s he got that I haven’t got?”

The simple answer came from Crazy Neil, a fellow Trout Hall resident who lived in the 10’ X 10’ box next door.

“The courage to ask,” Neil informed me.

Apparently, Neil knew me better than I knew myself.

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Coming Out Of My Shell

2009-08-28T20:55:00Z

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

Shirts will be available soon!

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Drawn To Scale

2009-08-21T17:35:00Z

“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.

”Is he dead?” Darrell inquired.

This may have signaled the peak of Darrell’s intellectual curiosity, and under less dire circumstances it might have been a thrilling event to witness. But with Ron comfortably astride my chest, a nice breeze blowing through the park, and my brain busy wondering why my lungs weren’t getting any of it, it was difficult to try and throw appreciation into the mix.

Of course, I had no business playing ball with the big kids. Considering I tended to lose my balance at anything more challenging than dominoes, I honestly had no business playing ball period.

When my diaphragm finally took some initiative, and decided to contract, the look of panic began to ease from Ron’s face.

“You gonna be okay?”

A part of me has been trying to answer that question ever since.

It turns out that it’s only my internal gyroscope that’s out of whack. I can stand a broom on my finger, switch it from hand to foot to chin and back again. I can balance a chair, a pool cue, a small dog if it will hold still, and occasionally my checkbook. So when a friend of mine was having trouble with a decision, I had no trouble seeing the solution. Regardless of how unwanted, or unsolicited, my insights were, it was easy for me to tell her which way to lean.

But, as regards my own future, and this whole writing-graphics thing, I guess I’m still not sure I have any business playing ball with the big kids.

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But, Seriously...

2009-06-21T23:04:00Z

My new business card:

This should silence everyone who thinks I can't be serious about anything.

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