Sol's Random Stories

How many bridges already crossed? Some day far away from now, perhaps the final bridge is so beautiful we no longer care where it goes, or whatever is there. Myriads of paths lead back to one shadowed portal. Perhaps beyond? Asking for a friend.

The rarest of dreams, all things shimmer from their own inner light, stain-glass colors alive and pulsing, you as well glowing yet awake, aware of each moment as if it's always been so bright, as if you're the dream, real-time by celestial design.

It was some kind of broom closet, Jarret Lee Franklin realized, trying to focus his eyes in the dark while keeping himself very still. He worried his breathing could be heard, taking the shallowest breaths. This was a fine package, Franklin thought. Managed to wrap himself up real good this time. It was the easiest job. Bust the window, get in, find the dope, then split. Five minutes in-out, tops. Small pharmacy in the sticks, all quiet mini-mall, easy. Didn't count on getting sliced thru the window. Didn't count on can't find the good stuff, losing time, can't think. Didn't count on some silent alarm. Then Franklin heard the siren approaching, then stop. That's when he jammed into the tiny closet.  Probably it was over, he thought, but he could hide and hope for a miracle. Remaining very quiet, Franklin could hear footsteps outside now, then the unmistakable scratchy clatter of a canine's paws on tile flooring. Franklin didn't even breath. This was bey...

(solsrandomstories.blogspot.com) (THAT is St. Peter's Door? Wow. I expected something more cloudy? Ethereal, profound? This looks more like the back door to Heaven, what the...? Anyway, doesn't matter, better not blow it, eternity, mine, is on the line. Hard enough to understand being dead, if that's what this is, still not sure. Maybe I don't really want to go up those steps. This interview is no slam dunk. What choice do I have? Let's hope, there is always mercy. Here goes.)

Did it matter if he was awake or not? Harim gazed deeply into his reflection, the various imperfections tagging the image authentic, although they never bothered him much, the scar above his brow, dark wrinkles under his eyes, forty-four years, days, hours, minutes, Harim saw it all in lingering detail, his mirrored image framed in decades. Was this some interim measure of a man? Some mid-way scorecard reflection of merit or judgement? Did it matter that Hiram stared only into a brick wall?

Maria Elena Macias was five times blessed with daughters. Then a tragic turn, with her husband Humberto passing suddenly, soon after their last child was born. A very sad time of hard opposites, arduous logistics for Maria, and a resolute promise to her husband their lives would continue forward. Maria and her family did survive and prosper, a small inn they ran together provided steady livelihood, and Maria also had plenty of time with her five children. They couldn't have been more different from each other, these five girls. And, Maria was often just exhausted from that difference. While two daughters were stubborn, another was bossy, the next was cranky, the next, critical, and all were competitive. Her five daughters never stopped arguing with each other! It was always some kind of drama, constant conflict was just their style of interacting. Yet, their mom worried how this would go in the future, after she was gone from them.  All of this worry was tested with no warning one ...

(solsrandomstories.blogspot.com) Whatever spark of divine lightning or universe-crossed puff of God's breath, or whatever unknowable chemistry of matching elements into compounds of living organisms in endless forms, all infused with the same creation current pulsing into new beings every moment passing but actually one unending moment, and we're in it, the illusion of motion as if there is something called time passing, the forceful train forging forward, and we're on it, hanging out the window, earnestly looking ahead.

Marsha raised her hand to wave, out of habit. But that only made her sadder. She knew her dear friend of forty years was no longer at the window waving back- a new reality Marsha couldn't accept. Only a week before, they met for their customary morning coffee and pastry, her friend loved the scones, and Marsha had the bear claw. Then late at night an aneurysm struck. Marsha's dear friend never came out of coma, and now she's gone to where Marsha can no longer sit with her in comfortable repose, talking about all things in their busy lives. Where is my friend now, Marsha wondered, knowing the destinations we desire, but knowing so little else. ( solsrandomstories.blogspot.com )

Somewhere. One thing affects another thing then another on and on it all finally ends at the other side of prediction and your sensibility signposts of the galaxy have been tampered or turned around so that nowhere is up-down or left-right you can't lose this bet black-red high-low you can't go odd-even fast or slow where you haven't first been in dream or worse there's no course but retreat into the future before it's too late for returns without receipts it's after-hours anyway come back yesterday it will be great to re-negotiate yourself some better terms because no one would sign up to this hot mess fine madness one thing affects another thing then another after that who knows all gone soon enough. Somewhere.

Jose-Louis chuckled. Life has funny moments, he thought. Or, you look to make your own moment. Bad enough, it's a freezing day to be out working. The obviously irate young man walked up aggressively, like the driver rushng up to the crosswalk, and braking hard. His waved his arms in frustration, lips moving fast  The area's WiFi provider had been down for hours, Jose-Louis was one of many technicians sent out to change that status before vigilante groups formed. Standing in his tub, he started to maneuver towards a cluster of towers, but stopped, looking down. The angry man was still raving. Jose-Louis nodded once, imagining the steam coming out of the angry man's ears, like a dopey cartoon dragon. The unhappy character was flat-out shouting now, his round face flushed. Jose-Louis just continued to nod and smile. Then, the young man turned around and stormed away. Jose-Louis, hearing impaired for the past decade now, is used to patiently helping folks interact with hi...

Sophie liked school, second grade was going very well so far. The naturally cheerful child also really liked the bus ride there, twenty minutes of fun to start her day. Sophie being the first kid on his route, Mr. Hill, swung open the doors seemingly with his broad grin. She and backpack hopped up, and Sophie took her seat behind the driver, her mom on the porch waving. It seemed to Sophie that she had always known Mr. Hill, her daily driver since kindergarten. The first thing she remembers noticing about him was his hair under his driver's cap.  It was black and curly, just like hers. Sophie loved talking to Mr. Hill, as the bus slowly filled up with more kids. She would say hi to friends, but stayed sitting behind him. She had all day to talk to her friends. Sophie liked how Mr. Hill seemed to like talking as much as she did, and so the two chatted away, Mr Hill always asking questions, yet also seeming to know so much about what Sophie thought and felt. It meant a lot. Growi...

You can't save the world every day, or any day. It's the small miracles that sustain us, fortifying a reason to hope. The kind shopkeeper pretended not to notice the crop of red curls and bright face peering into his window. Proud baker for decades, he knew well how to keep his head down as he worked, his bakery the public stage for his art. But, how could he not notice her, the curious child, passing with her mom nearly every afternoon. This time, the two lingered, the mom re-checking some groceries in her bag. The little girl was all eyes, looking everywhere, and at the glass cases of baked yummies all in rows, trays full of blissful daydreams, delightfully alluring creations only pure desire could amplify. The baker suddenly stopped- a voice in his head said: make today different. Before he knew it, his arm motioned to the child, come in! At first the rosy-cheeked girl was startled, stepping back, staring at the baker. He motioned again, as she lit up with a grin. Pulling ...

Cornucopia of blessings. Gratitude is a soft shade in a mossy forest. Hope is a sword of steely light thru canopy of uncertainty. Fear is a sibling always near, part of the family. Thanksgiving, because we don't know why we've survived, why the ages have not covered with dust the dream of humankind, this everlasting Bounty.

You simply let her go. The only sensible thing left to do, not that sensibility is a value in matters of love and tortured passion. You knew what you were signing up for. The nervous uncertainty, the weeks of roller coaster adrenaline. Hold onto both your hat and heart, but you didn't, knew you wouldn't, it's just not part of the ride. Put your self-pity aside, you both had your fast fun. No lasting promises made, no dreams co-fashioned to cherish. These are hard, shallow times, hundreds of millions are lonely, lost, wandering. You simply let her go, she does the same, now move on.

They called themselves Three Musketeers. They acted more like the Three Stooges, but it was all good. Mario Torino, David Williams, and Mikey Mathas, usually the neighborhood trio, so if you saw one, you always asked about the other two. Bolivian immigrant, Black American, and Greek immigrant, best friends, good boys all three. The minor trouble they ever got into was 10 year-old dumb, typical mid-'60's style, the last great L.A. generation- that's another story, another day. One summer vacation morning, a Musketeer had a few bucks, so as was the pact, all three headed to the nearby family grocery. Mario and David always chuckled about how they were followed around by the eyeball owners. Mikey noticed he wasn't followed so much, but he didn't have the word for it then, just understood it, thought it mean, unfair. As the trio neared the door, Mikey suddenly got a half-mad, half-crazy impulse. Too late not to pull it off, it just felt too right. As his two...

No one's reading this, no one's writing. Nonetheless, visualize a small, deceptively empty box, square with mirror walls, ceiling, floor. There was a door, but it reflected away, gone, you can't see it anymore, or even where it was, so, no in or out. Beyond this mirror cube is Nothing. Within the cube, the entire Universe expanding into its own reflection, the only direction is outward yet within six surfaces, repeating infinitely, past pixels of existance no one will see.

Margaret Norman was always very organized. She just felt it was important, all things in their place. Margaret also knew her place in the world: her long-time administrative job at an escrow firm, and, in her tiny home. Forty-nine, happily unmarried, she was satisfied to live her quiet, simple life. Yes, there were a couple of boys, but that was the problem- Margaret didn't babysit. She had no patience with immaturity, no desire to be a fully grown man's nursemaid or mother. Men need one or both, she concluded long ago. Just the way it was, and her life was full enough, she truly believed. But everything changed one very ordinary June day. Everything she knew as her little life changed with a knock on her front door. That day she met the artist. Looking out her window, she didn't see an artist. She learned all of that later. What she saw was an older man- disheveled would be a compliment- spectacles atop his sparse hair, smiling, holding a gas can. A week later, full tank t...

"Nothing good about airports.", Carol thought, "Nothing!" She glanced up at the schedules. At least her relay to Sydney, Flight A16, was leaving on time. So much 'clock drama' in airports, Carol thought, who needs it? Restless, her mind wandered about- twenty more minutes to kill. She chuckled softly to herself. That's always been a funny phrase, "killing time". Why do we say that, Carol wondered, time isn't alive. Is it? "Excuse me, do you have the time?" The voice startled Carol out of her thoughts. Turning around, there was a man standing there, but not too close. Funny, she didn't see anyone walk over. In an instant Carol noticed he was stunningly handsome, impeccably dressed in black suit, lush lavender tie. His face, serenely calm, his smile disarming. Carol had to focus. "The time?", she repeated, but that too she thought an odd question, airport clocks everywhere you look. "It's 11:35. Is your phone ...

Successful businessman Hirako Takeuchi loves the fact that no one knows or suspects a thing. It's all blessedly anonymous. Better that way. Life had been so wonderful to him. Beginning with only an idea and drive, Mr. Takeuchi over a decade achieved a literal empire. He felt immensely fortunate and grateful, and never forgot his early days. He felt compelled to return his good fortune to others in some way. So, every Thanksgiving, he finances two thousand full turkey feasts, and his team has a network of  agencies to distribute to the most needy families. Ensuring his own anonimity, Mr. Takeuchi wants for folks to realize and believe that their unexpected bounty came from God's grace, because actually that would be true.

Always amazed with my clever hound's formidable smell powers, how clearly supercharged compared to my own limited sense. Dogs smell around corners, thru walls, three football fields away, and buried a foot down. Dogs rule their world by nose. The evolved sense must have also been life-saving for earliest humans to this oldest critter-friend, detecting both distant food and potential foes. Smell survival, maybe the difference deferring our own extinction. Would humans even be here if not for our canine allies?

Pandemic Thanksgiving. Sometimes, we're unexpectedly thankful for hope that a happy surprise brings, a bonus.  The worn out rubber ball banged the wall and rebounded straight back to Robbie's glove, re-captured with a stinging clap. Then, again, same. Bang, caught. Bang. Nothing else to do. All of Robbie's friends couldn't come out. He already had his dinner, and outside now, he noticed the rapidly darkening sky, the winter nights coming up sooner, colder. Then, in a loud instant, an uptairs window slammed shut. Standing behind the window, an obviously upset and glaring Mr. Hill, a neighbor.  Robbie froze, staring upward, Mr. Hill disappeared. The lad felt bad. He didn't get why his neighbor looked annoyed. He liked Mr. Hill, always took his trash bag downstairs to the dumpster, his elderly neighbor didn't get out much. Then suddenly there he was, Mr. Hill, he walked over to Robbie. "Look, why don't you bounce your ball on that wall, instead?" He p...

The Lyft driver pulled closer to the curb, Jason jumped in after exchanging names, then settled back for the twenty-minute ride home. The business meeting downtown went better than expected, new client likely, Jason tried to call his wife but no answer. He settled down into the seat cushion, his hand falling to the back seam, when he felt something. Digging down slowly into the crease, he pulled out a thin, black cell phone. Jason paused before mentioning his find to the quiet driver. It's oddly very much like his wife's phone, Jason thought, turning it over in his palm. Wait. It WAS his wife's phone! Wow! What're the odds, he mused? He knew his wife had some errands to run, this would explain her not answering his calls. Jason hits the power button, the phone comes on. But, then he  started to think. He'd never looked at his wife's phone before, why would he? Just like why would he think she waa going anywhere besides an errand? Could he even get past the phone...

Who ever really knows what critters may alert to, why they act as they do? Mysteries go forever unsolved, as with our household drama, and the two main protagonists, Biscuit and Curly. The latter critter was the queen of the house long before upstart puppy Biscuit showed up, far too cute and thoroughly annoying. Aloof at first, Curly wanted nothing to do with the brash interloper. Bisquit didn't mind Curly's rudeness, he still wanted to make friends. But the cat wasn't about inter-specie socializing- the chemistry was all wrong. They kept their own space and distance, there was minimal trouble. One day, exactly at noon, a thunderous earthquake briefly but harshly jolted our Southern California region. Complacent as we've become to such events, this one was a real arm punch. No danage for us, thankfully, and we eventually found BOTH our kids huddled side by side under the same upstairs bed. Fear can be an interesting motivator. There's no explaining it, but since tha...

Not your usual ice cream truck. Odd shaped, and the small motor sounded off-timed, like a cheap drone about to buzz into the side of a garage. No one was certain about the truck's route,  it came around only two afternoons, Mondays and Thursdays, also odd. No pied piper happy tune speaker music. Although a hundred old stickers cover the truck, only a small menu, maybe five things to order, all frozen, all a dollar. Big Stick, Drumstick, Double Orange-Cream Stick, Snickers Bar, and Fudge Bar. That's all. No soda, candy, or chips. Lew was the driver. Tall and thin, he'd climb in and out of the ice cream truck like a giant human insect, maybe a mantis. Lew had this certain talent, had it all his life- also a thing he can't talk about. As pecular as strange gets, after he'd hand you your choice, Lew stared at you hard for two seconds, then said a number. Usually a big number, two digits. Not always. Yet, no one paid much attention to Lew. At the same time, no one wanted...

He heard the shards of pain in her words, the shattered pauses to collect breath. He knew full well the grief he was hearing, he's for sure been there himself. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes now talking together, mostly she spoke, telling the sad story again. Her elderly mom was suddenly hospitalized, she heard late, then was blocked from visiting. Covid. No exceptions allowed. Anguishing with her and all reasonable options exhausted, the hospital staff could only monitor and report the elderly mom's rapid decline. Higher fever, coma, in a few hours her beloved mom was gone. Now she's calling family around the country, but felt more in shock herself, ready to collapse. He spoke softly to her, evenly, even as her own voice darkly panicked, and she felt a failure for not arriving sooner. He recalled how she always took the best care of her mother, how she sacrificed her own life, how much her love and respect meant, and how her mom was certainly shielded by this know...

Can't compare anything to ocean. The vibrant air full of promise, refreshing power, world-traveler wind, and cleansing ions. The way your eyes can relax at the wide, broad distance, unobstructed, all horizons are realized and happily far off. Franklin's young, divorcing parents couldn't agree. She wants the apartment near the beach. He, wants the new job on the other coast, downtown highrise condo life. Franklin tried it for a month, didn't work out at all. Too scared of the balcony, elevators, traffic, nowhere to run. Sent back, his parents worked it out, all happy. Can't compare anything to home.

Everything has a life. A few chapters in the biography of a truck's vehicular dharma. New and slate blue-grey off the factory line, delivered to a dealer in El Segundo, where it sat for months in a crowded sidestreet lot full of trucks. Pandemic. No one bought much for over half a year. Then, the new truck, heavily discounted, finally got sold to a small delivery company, joining their modest fleet of vans and trucks. The daily miles racked up quickly as business got better, the truck wore down plenty in a year of long, prosperous shifts. Not prosperous for the truck. First, air conditioner problems, twice. Then, a brake-line issue. The truck was down a few weeks getting fixed, so when a mechanic made an offer, the delivery company let it go. Mechanic uses it as his main ride, eventually took it to the body shop for a new look. Still rolling strong, all good and happy, 78k miles. Everything has a life.

The drive-thru speaker crackled alive, the familiar employee's voice said, "What can we make fresh for you today?" Our "dogmatic" routine several mornings a week for many months now, my poochie and I share the same breakfast, and the young lady who's always on this early shift knows the order: bacon-egg burrito, bacon-egg roller (mini-burrito), both no cheese, no sauce. Widgie gets the roller, minus most of the flour tortilla. But, this morning my dog wasn't with me. On a last moment whim, I decided to request the usual order, and have some fun. Then, my turn at the window, the friendly girl asks, "Where's your doggie today." "Oh, she's right there, on her favorite pillow.", I replied, pointing my thumb over my shoulder. The poor girl leaned out slightly, looking closer into my back seat.  "She's having one of her invisible mornings, silly dog.", I casually said. Both of us behind masks, her eyes got big just for...

Some folks quietly thought she was just being foolish. But she saw it as a close call. Close to disaster. The big date loomed up too fast, probably it seemed fast because Megan was conflicted, tense, pensive. Everyone said she shouldn't marry anyone until all her worries had passed. But twenty-eight year-old Megan Martinson was feeling heat from every direction. Her father had seemed too reserved about the wedding, Megan felt something was on his mind- she valued his opinion over anyone on Earth. But he was a clam. Smiling, he would only say he wanted his daughter's happiness, only. Her closest friends were gung-ho on Victor, the groom, and Megan's boyfriend of six months. Small business owner at twenty-nine, he seemed ahead of the game with a bright future. So, what happened? Why did Megan cancel everything a week before the wedding? It was all over Petey. No, not an old boyfriend, Petey was Megan's beloved parakeet. Victor had announced- without a smidgen of compassio...

It's just an old bench. Myra Elias passes it almost daily on the way to her school librarian job in a nearby town. She may not look directly at it, and that's fine. Was it really a whole decade ago now, when she sat there Saturdays with her wonderful grandpa, who she called "Saba", not uncommon in "gift of G-d" Netanya, Israel, where many old Sephardim families resided. She sat with her Saba and listened to his funny stories, which always followed after some Torah reading. Myra remembers sometimes drifting off, her grandpa's soothing, lyrical voice continuing as she closed her eyes, the blissful afternoon feeling so peaceful and dreamlike. The long, ornate bench was unusual in every way, and in these charged thoughts so intermingled with feelings of sadness- she missed him so painfully- that driving by each time, she held her gaze ahead forcefully to the road, until well down the street, memories past. But, like her bittersweet recollecting, Myra Elias i...

Nightmares, multi-shaped, whatever it takes, they slip under the bedroom door, or thru the sliver of window all at once, or a glowing face in the dark, smiling but not good, you simply have no control at all on what happens next.

No matter direction when that fork in the road springs up to stab you sometimes all choices are bad sometimes the best move is backing away slowly while you can reverse course force a path if needed heed your gut feelings second brain consult because you know more than all that ignore experts think on your own dime.

Zechariah never cared much for his own name. It hasn't done him any favors in life. In school, anything that was alpha-order, he was last. At work, at the very bottom of the log. Even short version, Zeck, ends with some stuck phlegm. A lifelong peeve, minor and dormant perhaps, but funny how old things re-surface. When came the day for Zechariah to help his aging folks into their new and very nice assisted-living apartment, the residence manager asked if his folks went by any nicknames. "Why yes, yes they do. They're Zorro and Zelda!"

Roland could make a list of people he could blame. Actually, he has that list. He'll tell you it's all because he cares too much. Let's others take advantage. Deserves the work promotion, the wedding day, the life in the magazine. Not his fault his last girlfriend cheated. Or, that it went on for a whole year. That's the proof that he cares, he says.

Everyone in her family saw it coming. Especially her Aunt Beverly, who had the most blunt reaction: "Honey, just don't. Don't!" But Becky couldn't hear a thing from anyone, you know how that goes. You love someone, what are you really doing? You are maybe loving your own sunlight? That can blind you. He had it stacked up. Handsome. Successful, whatever it was he said he did. Didn't constantly talk about himself. Becky was basking in something, doesn't mean something good. Her family was quiet, then concerned, then alarmed. They all saw somebody else. A phony. Top to bottom. Take away the flashy car, you have left a slick talker. Charm to the horizon of your vanity, he knew how to pivot the attention to you. But, it wasn't real. His smile, conniving. Two months and almost twenty-five thousand dollars later, he vanished. Becky has a ton of money, fortunately. That isn't the problem, or the solution.

Is sleep the only real time machine? Which dream is the portal to another realm? How can it be known- by the fabric of the scene, or by certain physical laws bending? The paths of dreams are illuminated by the breaks in the canopy of possibilities, the softened light filtered by branches of experience. Then, upon waking, are you certain which side you're on? Or, does the same dream continue?

Doing one-armed handstands on a highway may not demonstrate your brilliance, or safeguard you to old age. But, does every single free moment in this life require purpose?

The flight you missed. The proposal you declined. The job you turned down. The time you never left town. The friend you didn't call back. The promise you forgot. The chance you ignored. The risk you denied. The choice you guessed. The clue you overlooked. The key you lost. The date you skipped. The crash you avoided. The flight you missed.

My father, gone five years now, especially when we all were younger, was a man like most men: a package of good and imperfect, great, and contradicting. Often, difficult to track. My father was reflexively kind, giving, and also with occasional trigger temper, or inexplicable reactions I had to decipher, sometimes clueless on my part, or late understanding something. My father, with his and our family's brutally harsh history, could only do his best, no therapist or relief for support. Our family kept its sanity intact, somehow, including suffering thru many hard moments of conflict and disunity. My father was spontaneously affectionate, hugging and kissing all of us frequently. As I am with our son, same, and hopefully not as complex, but probably also the same. What great good life fortune I've had, first and foremost, the treasure of my parents.

My father's big hammer, always heavier than memory, its unwieldy weight was hard to control, had to choke up on the handle like a baseball bat. Important tool for a lad, a real hammer worked so much better than all the hard objects we've used in its place, shoe heel, rock, etc. So it was worth the slight risk involved with sneaking it out of my father's big tool chest, but I knew he really didn't mind. Immensely useful, the hammer always represented opportunity, something to do, make, fix, or just effectively bust up. We made our own skateboards back in the day, I made several over the early summers- the hammer was essential. Nails, screws, whatever worked, I got better at it by my second board. No nails, better screws, better wheels, but the big hammer was always near, lord over all. Sometimes the multi-task tool wasn't so useful, especially factoring in some dopey operator error, countless banged thumbs and hands, painfully missed targets, all part of the learning...

Acceptance does not mean approval. Disapproval does not mean judging. A scripture states: "Therefore let us stop passing judgment on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister." Romans 14:13, timely today, as judgements from every group and faction are launched in waves as barrages of arrows against a massed enemy. Painful irony, we are all that enemy.

Every man knows her. She's the dangerous smile, the slight attention, you're always left wanting more. It was the encounter you would've skipped, an episode unrealized, if you had any sense. Every man has felt the jabbing eye-poke of interest unreturned, it happens as a boy in grade school, the burning chagrin, embarrassing yourself before friends. No different now, just add the credit cards and attitude, low trouble always nearby, the prickly sensation of vague distrust, arguing, deceit, every man signs up for it, once, not twice if you learned. Every man knows her, the heat is unmistakable, the injury complete.

Would you take a train going back in time? Your life in reverse, but no one disembarks, no windows open, you may only witness the hours rewind from behind unassailable glass, in silence no less, all speakers mute, no soundtracks as this train has nothing to say, everything to show, would you go?

(Why did I think I would be happy? I do know better. He felt too good, too fast. Nowhere to go, no common ground. Then, there's now, after it's over, why did I bother? What was that strange, month-long diversion really about?)

Value, a relative term. What we value defines us. Circumstances determine value. Our cool modern world of convenience allows for the forgetting of value. What we take for granted could fill someone else's whole day. Afar, Ethiopia, 13-year-old Aysha trudges eight hours, round trip, to collect water for herself and family. Globally, tens of millions of women and girls, same, every day. Water. Value, a relative term.

It's still pitch black night, the pulsing colors are peripheral and subdued, that scheduled fright may pass my future door as I've already seen my own death mask, spinning free fall down a hidden jungle hole, powerful mushroom coursing thru my trusting sensibilities, every moment has its own sliding panel secret room to slip sideways into another corridor realm, its only one house but you're already lost in the cellars of ancestors, the compass broke when worlds cooled down and green became the new red, you were there, you just don't recall that room at all, the mushrooms discuss me in hushed tones, I'll be okay they've just decided, a few more hours of this fantasmic reverie, and I'll find the exit, the turnstile and stairs back up to the bright sidewalks of day.

If you'd fall thru a cobalt-blue sunset It would be a slow-motion descent First arcing out over day's last edge Past cascading lights mirged to wedge You deftly to a darkened side of world Until upside down now you're hurled  Across ocean tops a flight of spirit Charged currents of ions you merit  We've seen all the previews, it's a way Out of this mad maze malaise in play All souls unaffected are left behind There's no saving this old humankind If you'd fall thru to the next dimension Cobalt-blue sunsets compel attention An epoch of cold distance star to star Helps not at all to know where we are Slowest-motion descent, far to near Days to decades, then all disappear.

They weren't always this close. In fact, these good boys started out rivals on two sides of an old fence- a real live bark-fest of noisy, pointless drama, as every day they'd argue over nothing, racing up and down the long fence, the only barrier between their imaginary jousting. Black Snout was the lucky pooch, rescued as a pup by a kind Tuscon family and their two kids. Life was good, all the love any hound would howl to the moon about. Brown Snout had it rougher. He stayed outside. All the time. No matter how hot, cold, wet, or windy. A broken down shed with half a roof was his backyard home. Some days there was water or food, some days not. Brown Snout's owner drank. The two competitors patrolled their yards, tolerating each other when not arguing, their days passed quickly over a year. One chilly, March morning, at sunrise, Brown Snout's thoughtless owner piled his old pickup with stuff, then drove off. Never came back. Just. Like. That. After two days of constant ...

What if you could change the colors you see, alter the natural spectrum at will, blues and greens to yellows and reds, purple to orange, lavendar to lime, and the world all around you, seen thru this new pallet of vision, how would it change your thoughts or impressions? How would the artist re-think the blending of novel tones and shades, new lights and old shadows? How differently would you feel about being alive, or hearing a fading sunset, or how would your sense of touch be affected, or tastes and aromas of foods or flowers all in new hues? Would new textures also emerge, new dimensions of our soul re-colored, glowing with incandescent life?

Mythical eyes  of the sun  as drifting  swans in fiery  yellow orb  silhouette. Suffered year nearly over what else can happen now? Have we not learned to never ask that question? The sun burns as bright on the other side of night when shadows cloak the best secrets lost to memory's darkened sky  dusk horizon.