Sol's Random Stories

I'm 117 years old, still going strong. You get this old because of attitude. What do you know about anything?

"I wasn't always anti-social. I've become so. How much can we tolerate? Trespassing is the norm, nowhere for us to go, accept away from any more of what humans call progress. It's killing us and our friends. Garbage, pesticide, plastic, nets and hooks, the habitat is spoiled for our young. So, I'm deeper now, away from even my own. More cautious, more alone, I've become so."

Darryl could hear the two voices in the room next door, a heated quarrel. "You had the great idea, 21st century! Why? And, why here?", the one voice chided, with a sharp tinge of anger. "Yeah, but you're the genius? Another reverse hyper-warp? Where would that have taken us, this time?", the second voice countered. "Not here, that's where!" Then, muffled sounds of more arguing. Darryl was puzzled. He was the only tenant remaining in the  boarded-up hotel, scheduled for demolition in two months. Maybe workmen, he thought. But then, absolute silence. Curious, Darryl slipped out of his apartment, saw the next door was ajar. Walking in cautiously, he noticed the walls were solid green, and there was only one other door in the entire room.

Some might call it selfish. Some might call it an accident. I made a mistake. I just wanted the pain to stop. I was depressed. I gave up my precious only life for this?

Clifton's Cafeteria on Broadway and Seventh was Jana's favorite place for a dreamily solitary lunch, grateful for time all to herself, a lunch just for one. Pushing her tray along, she went for her comfort selections like roasted turkey half--sandwich on dense, seedy wheat. Ceasar salad, plus a small bowl of chilled watermelon chunks, scoop of tangy pineapple cottage cheese. Luckily, her favorite table was free, in a darkened second-tier corner, near the tiny chapel with the enchanted ancient Seqouia forest display inside. It was always her own special delight as a child two decades earlier, when she would come to the  picturesque restaurant with her mom. Sadly, the chapel was locked up years ago. Jana's stray thoughts seemed to disappear into the little stream that passed by her table, one of many throughout the misty, rain forest interior of the historic local eatery. Walking back outside, squinting against the late afternoon sun, Jana noticed a small kiosk near t...

Most Friday evenings, I like to watch my friend Mitch's live art shows, and my dog watches with me. Last time, she asked me if my artist friend also paints his long sideburns. Just because messing with my dog is always good, I answered yes, yes he does. But, only one side.

The beer pitchers kept coming, while the three friends knocked down the pizza slices like they'd just left a famine. The casual talk turned to cash, currency, and then to the faces on the bills, the U.S. green money hit parade of founders, framers, and others. Charles, oldest and prone to speeches took over the counter. "Look, this is all I'm saying, they got these guys on the wrong ones. Washington? Father of our country? One dollar? One? Take our first President to the dollar store? That's clearly wrong. Lincoln, who many believe was our greatest, he's not feeling much better than George. Next, Alexander Hamilton, on the Ten-" Smiling broadly, second friend Sean cut him off, "You forgot one, bud. How about that Two-dollar bill? Jefferson?" "Yeah, okay, and that's just silly!" But, Charles had lost the floor as third friend Mike jumps in, "Andrew Jackson on the Twenty, he's got this bad scowl. And, old Grant on the Fifty...

Some mysteriously selected memory can remain in one's thoughts forever. Now middled-aged, Jerry still recalls the puzzling sight while walking down busy Broadway. His mom's hand pulling them along, Jerry must have been five or six. The Los Angeles morning sun already warming the sidewalks by ten, he'd often see the "mirror man." Probably some kind of European, as most immigrants were in the post-war  forties and fifties, he was a small man, neatly dressed in gray suit, white shirt. He always held in his palm a round mirror, and constantly spoke directly into it as he walked. His speech would become very excited, conversing with his mirror as if another person, usually in German, sometimes heavy accent but fluent English. The man would sometimes laugh, other times seem to argue, always  intensely engaged, self-absorbed. Jerry noticed how the man talked continuously, seeming to not even pause to breath, holding his mirror close, never glancing left or right. O...

What a common, salt-speckled pretzel becomes in his dreams.

It was later and hotter in the July afternoon. The two dads sat on facing crates in the garage with their cold Pabst in hand. The one dad- father to a teen daughter- continued his rant, as the other dad- father to a five-year old son- listened, imagining the future. "I just tried to give the kid something to think about. This boyfriend of hers, the longhair, they're spending every minute together. Too much. I told her, look at her mom and me- we have our own lives. It's better. Out of each other's way, right?" The listening dad didn't interrupt his friend with any comment, just staring down at the oily concrete. He imagined his own boy grown, with girlfriend, feeling a slight shudder at the fast-forwarded thought. Too soon. "I said to her, if you're okay pickin' each other's nose, maybe you need a new hobby besides each other. Maybe you need a little distance? But, you can't tell a teenager anything good, they don't hear it. She ...

The morning went well.  He jogged his Master around their block two times. He got a shank bone from a neighbor. He froze at the sight of a fat squirrel.  All the other dogs got barked at. The delivery man was rightly startled. A careless cat in the alley got chased. Nothing to do now besides basque in happy Mediterranean daydream under warm embrace of bright, Santorini sun.

The two brothers, Buddhist monks for the last two decades, had the same heated discussion, the same unresolved topic. Their positions hadn't budged an inch. For those who knew his characteristic impatience, Brother Bakti's name- which means obedient boy- was funny. Rebellious by temper, he obeyed very little, and that was part of the ongoing discussion: monk Bakti was tired of it.  The monastery, the life, all of it. After twenty years, he wanted out. Why? He would say because their Master would never allow Bakti any experience deemed worldly, irrelevant.  Brother Bakti was very devoted and committed when he decided his path, but now felt disillusioned, missing out. He longed to have some of the secular joys he thought about far too often. That was Brother Li's view- his brother's cravings were only clever Maya's tempting lures, while the monastic life of meditation and prayer needed no worldly experience. The monk would argue to his restless brother that sensory ex...

Earth's deeply hidden exception, slipped between primordial cracks and crevices of physics we pretend to comprehend, another realm with no time, little changes over milleniums in pristine underground cave grottos, where certain biochemical boilings began, bubbling up eventually into the multiplicity of nature's boundless example, our own peculiar humankind one of the curious exclamations, living for now on the thin surface of things.

The constant contradictions of time. Makes little sense, this age thing. Defying reason, chronologically sixty-seven, most days like fifty, and some days like twenty-five. Other days, seventy-five. Any useful aggregate of reason with all of the above? Unlikely. Many things are true at the same time, yet the days still take their turn. All things, age too, always in motion.  

Deep in our best mind there's a place, a sanctuary of safe haven, serenely landscaped by joy, time passing  as a friend walking, unhurried  by worry or mortal ambition,  a place in mind to escape, arrive anew, refreshed, undefined by a past better to forget: it's a place of no regret.

It's a fascinating, unanswered mystery. Can dogs see souls? Charley was a gregarious mix of who-knows-what breeds, his dad was never curious to find out. Charley's persona was basically Everydog, a very happy guy, tail always wagging, even as he slept. Happy dreams mean a dog is loved deeply and dearly, like us, the very same principles of joy and kindness. But, do dogs have perceptions far beyond our known limitations, sensing certain phenomena involving broader realms of reality? We know they hear a mile away, and constantly pick up scents we never smell. What else do dogs sense? Charley's dad was the best parent any dog could hope for, always thinking of his dog as his third child, the dad's first two grown with their own families. An enduring widow for years now, Charley has helped his grieving dad go forward. But it was the very day of his wife's passing that Charley's dad began seeing his dog very differently. As a final silver lining, Charley's ...

He doesn't understand why they do it, but Gorilla laughs every time. In almost all Superman episodes, it's his favorite scene: the bad guy empties his revolver, the bullets ricocheting everywhere, then throws it!  

The similar textures and patterns in nature, sometimes so eerily alike, or uncanny in character, or repeating in process as to suggest a Grand Artist of specific style, of certain technique and blending that becomes a signature theme, a Creator with ever-expanding canvas, yet most recognizable format, stars into galaxies, galaxies into giant clusters of perfect balance by gravitational dance, but little more than this is understood, we can only watch the show live, the Grand Artist working all around us.

2:12AM, the last guy just left, the market is empty now. Lights still blazing, air-conditioning chilling down the bodyless building. Refrigerated cases humming louder with no background customer chatter, all's good until 5AM first truck, first shift crew arrive. This is the market's three-hour break, the limbo hours. But then, trouble starts up in Dry-Pro. It's the yams and sweet potatoes again, they're staged too close, and the name-calling quickly escalates.

All one hundred being virtuosic imitators, Senator Parrot always answered questions like a leader.

"Talk it up, sure. But, leaves are leaves. Besides being first to know when it rains, what's the big deal advantage?"

Still smiling, he thought, "It's fine, I'm over it." Sloth didn't mean to take so long. He just had to think things over. But soon, they stopped picking him up for the Friday poker game at owl's barn.

No, not really, that's just a popular meme. Definitely not, time travelers don't have a certain look. They're like you or me, Roger, and I've long suspected you.

Coming back from somewhere in his thoughts, the farmer was embarrassed so many moments had passed, but no one was around to notice. Starting to rain now, he smelled the stacked hay and damp, chopped wood, wondering where the whole afternoon had gone.

Manatees possess vocal cords similar to humans, and could create sounds very much like human speech. Some scientists theorize they haven't developed speech communication because they lack ears to hear their voice. But Manatees know the real reason, and the scientists aren't close.

They were together sixty years. She adored him and their long partnership. Daily, he made her feel like they were secret royalty, his queen, her king, their decades together were uniquely rich, special beyond lineage or title. They also both fervently believed they had lived before, and were merely passing spirits thru dimensions of existence. Who knows? It was their favorite phrase. All things possible in this universe, they sincerely believed. The very elderly pair, devoted and inseparable, eventually passed at home, peaceably, within an hour of each other, family surrounding. And, just before new neighbors moved in next door, with their two regal cats.

Stuffed some fortune cookies for my boy, who stands tall and impatient in the frame of childhood's final door: "Every angry word you utter in life returns against you in some way." "Doing the right thing doesn't require a second reason, or consensus." "Lying to oneself preceeds all lies." "Be ever mindful of gut feelings." "Follow the natural cycles. When you are hungry, eat. Tired, rest." "Stop fear in its tracks- it's useful only to a point, then irrational." "Real threats are rare and obvious." Logic, a trusted battleground against dred." "First, see things as they are, no embellishment. Go from there."

"It's just, well, yumtious! With some homemade creme fresh and sweet berries? Honey, your friends will just move into your kitchen with sleeping bags!" Evelyn Boyer, world-renowned TV food show host and prolific author, was having a rockin' homerun show. "Oh my, I get so tongue-tied when I talk about food! Did I just invent another word? Yumtuous? Probably not, folks, it's just a twist on sumptuous, which is how I'd describe my next wonderful guest..." Boyer's voice faded as the show's producer took off her headpiece, relieved, for now anyway. The popular host seemed to be okay. So, the producer and Boyer- only days after the Eats Channel star's sudden, super-private hospitalization- were still the only two who knew what happened- Boyer's decade-long food secret.

"Try to see it like this: what turns a simple game into gambling is money. Or, any kind of gain like prizes, gifts, even winning a turn on a spinning wheel becomes real, illegal wagering if there's a penny of U.S. currency involved. If not, free Bingo." Richard Allen Decker was already getting bored stiff, hour one into day one of "Gambling School". The mighty Las Vegas Tropicana Casino's own in-house program. Decker cleaned rooms double-shift for six months, then finally got someone's nod. It was the lucky break he prayed for. Black Jack dealer, or Roulette, Decker didn't care what. But, Decker was also careful, wary. After six months, he had learned that the Tropicana management had their own ways. If they wanted to know anything about you, their security would find out, fast. He would have to do his best, glad to have no enemies. But, this first class was a big snooze. Going to be a long training if this is the pace- everything the instructo...

It was late. The boxing was over. The screens went to ice hockey, no sound. It was his fifth beer yapping now, as Ronnie protested, "Okay, I'm just trying to hang on to this globe, here, sir, it's spinnin' too fast, dude! What? Gravity yeah, I know there's gravity, but I wouldn't count on it! You always need a backup. Hey somebody, quick, tie me down to this bar, that should work!" Even the two stoneface bartenders were smiling now. The toasted regular was done for the night, soon someone will call his lonely Lyft back home.

"Rabies! You heard of rabies? That's the big deal!" The neighbor was practically shouting now. Molly was speechless. She didn't know him well, for several years now, not uncommon. One of the tiniest baby squirrels scurried along the old wall, as her neighbor freshly shuddered. "See? You're only encouraging them." "No, just feeding them.", Molly finally spoke. She held up the bag of peanuts. "Still don't see a problem here." Molly's look of calm but firm resolve was enough, the neighbor retreated to his door. Then, turning back one last time, "What about the salt, that's good?" Molly held up the bag again, "Unsalted!", just as his door slammed.  

I was that boy, no patience for jig-saw puzzles. Always wanted to assemble them with kid scissors, not because I'm in a hurry, but because I'm in control. Various puzzles of writing are similar, but pieces don't arrive pre-cut, and kid scissors are fine now, but risky.

Who ever would believe a tale about a tearful portrait? Art expert and critic Owen Oliver found the idea laughable. Countless works of art have myths attached to their often dubious history. This story of a crying Saint Monica, it sounded to Oliver like so many before. Someone sees something, perhaps after too much parrish wine, and soon the hordes appear to witness miracles. Skeptical by nature, Oliver scoffed at the myth's details rumoured down for a century: only certain nights of the year- some speculate according to the varying level of Saint Monica's cosmic pain- at deadstrike of midnight, say those who've witnessed, a slight, pale blue tear descends from the blessed Saint's eye, while wheeling, troubled heavens cry out in frightful unison. Most entertaining, Oliver nervously thought, going home after working late, about to walk past the darkened gallery chamber where Saint Monica's portrait slumbered, a stroke before twelve o'clock, no less, Oliver c...

The unfathomable enormity of space, the inconceivable distances between everything known to exist within a departing universe of expanding uncertainty, a space escaping itself, so that astronomy and cosmology become meditations of my own smallness in context, the smaller I become, the transient bravado consciousness returns to micro speck of nothing dust, soul debri, more flotsam for eternity- continuing as primary mortal or celestial mystery.

What earliest messages are learned, and incorporated into our sense of things? How the world works, how people react. Even how reality defines identity within moving boundaries of understanding, all we know, based only on intrinsically unique experience. Cheri learned that some people won't believe what she believes. Even when you look deeply into your own parents eyes, so they can really see you. Even when you know they cannot. Cheri tried several times, but her folks just shook their heads and laughed. Or sighed and smiled, saying "What will we do with our imaginative little girl?" But that was it, Cheri wasn't being silly, and despite what she may look like on the outside, the five-year old was sure about what she felt: that she wasn't just a little girl as much as she was really a turtle, like her old pal, Morton.

The Black Mountain Valley region rolled across a long swath of both forest and dry desert. It was large, tough landscape to monitor, seasonal fires common in the hot summer months. November had come around on Raymond Lee almost as an afterthought. He slowly climbed the ladder to his observation station, clocking in at the usual 6am time. Then, he made his initial scans of the surrounding ridges, sending in his first weather report with the vital stats. It wasn't a job for everyone. Weeks away from home. It was perfect, he thought, since he and his wife never wanted children. Her nursing job was always demanding, shifts changing. His solitary role suited him, as did his whole life. Decades ago, after the Army, he trained for his Wildland Firefighter certification. Working for the Forestry Service twenty-four years, Lee never imagined another job. Just made by the Almighty to spot fires, he believed. When his wife left him three month ago, he simply went to his job as he alway...

Four friends sat over their boilermakers, a lively banter between two: "Is it about knowing, or more about remembering? Because, we already know stuff. Just have to remember that we know.", the first one says with a note of assured certainty. "Know stuff. So, what do I know?", the second one asks, sipping off his shot. "You know the angriest dog in the world is chained all day and night to a damn pole. So then, what do I know?" The third friend says "You know that cute girl winking means there's a young dude behind you!" All laugh outloud, except the fourth friend, staring into his beer that's going flat. "Know things. Just remember. I know my wife sleeps with my neighbor- don't want to remember- I do, all day long." The four friends just sat in silence. There would be one more round.

Life in the small convent- next to her beloved, two-hundred year old Chapel, was wonderfully reverent and serene. Each day reaffirmed Sister Clara's calling, her most important decision made so many years ago. Sister Clara's daily routines in the community were a grateful blessing of giving, and her own prayers to God always gave thanks for her opportunity to serve others in need. The soft-spoken Sister felt fulfilled and useful to her Church, in the peaceful pace of faith's busy sacrifices, keeping only few simple pleasures of her own. Like, Thursdays for Sister Clara usually include a very special hour, pulling her most comfortable chair a bit closer: live-streaming this week's MMA bouts. Tonight, fan favorite Amanda Nunes- bantam-featherweight double-champ- will defend her title once again.

Part of the job, the monotonous nature of driving a vehicle- could be anything on wheels- along a certain route, along a certain schedule. Explained by no one, you learn fast: surviving means you accept mind-numbing repetition. The faces boarding change, and, there are the regulars. The stoic driver is the happiest, minimizing having to speak.  A few drivers talk their whole route, the entire seven-hour shift one long chat over many riders. Or, their own phone calls, good for passing time. Clifton Stanley almost never talked to anyone. It wasn't part of his job, he got paid to drive. For Stanley, talking was more monotony. He lived for the drive home, just glad routines and schedules were irrelevant again until his next shift. Bus driver Stanley never considered it, but he relished the exact opposite of routes: randomness. Living alone, his non-driving life was quiet, unstressed, he liked nothing better than tending to his living hobby of colorful companions. Feeling his own day...

We will ask the question, won't we? At least in our head, we ask it. Where? How? Why? Then, lamenting about it even being possible to end up like this, nowhere, with no one, nothing. But, Martin does have family. They're in Missouri. They don't know where he is. He says no one is looking or asking anymore. How and why takes  longer to explain. Shorthand is: busted life. Dope. Abuse. Parents who couldn't. Illness. Lost jobs. Unspeakable loneliness. More dope. No love. Crime. Streets. Here. That's how you get here, easy. Martin took three long months to cross the country. Warmer in Santa Monica. There's food. Many the same. Plenty of dope. His life has improved. In our head, or outloud, we rhetorically ask the question, knowing the answer, pretending, then picking up our pace.

Be glad for unconscious, random brain works. Imagine if you dreamed only about elevators, Persian rugs, roasted turkey, and fences. Imagine how old it gets, every night, one or more of only these. Celebrate mind's randomness.

Where does the mind go now when horizons vanish, when night renames the shadows into new best friends, when you stumble down to the sand again to recall that lost lover, the one you let slip thru the gate, if only you had paid more attention, now, too late.  

You keep your mass urban areas. Billion people cities. Here, we listen to underground streams go frozen to flowing, then frozen again. You measure time and mortality. Here, we know God directly thru cold aquamarine cobalt blue Aurora turquoise sky. You visit for weekends. Good to see you go.

Is it today's magical thinking, or tomorrow's established science? Moshe Levi doesn't know, and doesn't believe anyone else really knows. Skeptical of his own therapist, who believes the notion of ancestors screaming their tortured murders thru their descendents is magical thought, Levi shows up for his regular session. They've explored these pathways of experience as described by Levi: episodes of strange sensation, sometimes while asleep but also wide awake, and the almost convulsing, overwhelming feeling that someone- some other soul- was howling painfully thru Levi's physical body and brain, as if thru his very organs and veins and pores, a screaming outrage of silent anguish, killings of his past relatives, all doomed to their Auschwitz death. Levi felt all of this- it would come as short, very intense spells- like cursed demons crawling under his skin, then shouting out into the gruesomly distracted moment that only Levi feels more than hears. Two min...

Awakening again to the question: is a heart attack happening? Hal feels the same now each morning. His eyes open, and he instantly senses doom, old danger, threat, pulse pounding, shivering with sweat, still yet breathless, thoughts racing to nowhere, anxiety can have this low, muted voice but no face, no choice but to listen hard every moment, no place to go within the echo, Hal is never alone even when alone. Always unwelcome company in his head, a breakfast of silent dread, with black coffee  

The two friends sat at the long bar, grateful to hold their frosted mugs. It had been a whole year. The one continued, sharing about his family. "My father-in-law Norm, you can't believe this guy. Just had his 95th, still going. He was an airmen, Flying Fortress. You want to mention guts? He was that gunner in the bubble. What could go wrong, right? WWII and Korea. Lots of bombing missions. Saved the whole world, his generation did, no doubt, the historians say." The other friend urged him to continue, his own family rich with military heroes. He knew how talking about them made you feel. "My boy's grandpa is beyond amazing. He has beaten so many enemies for so long now. Cancer. Heart disease. Diabetic for years, he hooks up to a machine three times a week. He just keeps on going. Then, he gets a rare eye infection that cannot heal, so he lost that sight. Now, his hearing going, one eye, how he keeps his positive attitude, really inspiring to everyone." The ...

Vitally important, it was a talk he had with his impetuous son many times, long before the fatally impassioned wings of their flight had sealed the tale for eternity's mythical Gods to re-tell. The father spoke about balance, the measured approaches of reason, the reliability of logic to find your way home thru any intricate Labyrinth. "Of course", he acknowledged, "we must also know our mortality. Are we not feeling human beings, after all? Do we not seek freedom? But we cannot escape ourselves, son. Our desire is also our weakness. The middle altitude will save us, while too low or high will imperil our escape. Son, you must understand- there are no absolute freedoms. All, even the gods, have obligations that must be fulfilled. Even the Sun is duty-bound." Worried, the father went on with earnest. "Remember that the most defining decisions are best made by the steadier hand and careful thought. Go slowly. No rushing to foolish goals over passion...

The Oldest Bear went on with his bragging tales. The young ones were hypnotized with interest and wonder. All but one, who twisted and turned, not impressed with the Oldest Bear. This young one suspected the stories were exaggerated even more with every fresh audience of new gullibles. "It was harder long time ago, fishing. I was too hungry, restless, sometimes I just missed, frustrated, or too tired. Now, I just raise my big paw, left or right, and they jump up out of the water into my grasp. Easy!" The momma bears sighed. The young ones listening squealed and giggled. But this young one wanted to know what makes Oldest Bear so great. He quietly left the storytelling, disappearing into the welcoming woods to roam and hunt for a snack. This young one could find berries. What this young one didn't know was that the Oldest Bear had noticed his departure, and knew of his defiance. He actually favored this young one's independent nature, a leader's trait. The Ol...

Some beings come into this world quite different from their own- nature's last twist of signature uniqueness. Elena never suspected any difference early on- she more felt it like her skin. She knew the difference like earliest winds know the triumphant sunrise. Apart in kind, yet not unhappy about it, Elena loved her dear parents as any purehearted child, yet cheerfully felt their bewilderment with her ways. Yes, she liked to play with other kids. But felt just as fulfilled with an entire day alone with only the tall grasses, butterflies everywhere, and rolling fields of color. Or, alone again, among the silent, solemn forest giants. Certain days, when constellations favor, Elena could seemingly disappear into the softened loam of the enraptured afternoon, time perfectly still within the oldest Hands of God. At night, Elena breathed in the cold stars, and breathed out the warmly glowing galaxies that wheel across the limitless heavens- even darkness was a fearless friend. She...

The seminar was a packed house. The popular Doctor of Clinical Nutrition, Professor Herbert Lerner, cleared his throat one last time before beginning. "There is a compelling argument that the human immune system is really the Boss of the whole being. Not the brain. Not the heart, or other major organs. Yes, the heart is the Great Metronome, keeps time with that universal beat. And, the brain, it lets me know every day how clever and wonderful I am, the proper tip to leave, and play fun games like dreaming and memory. And, the other organs make up the band. All good in happy unison." Dr. Lerner went on, "But the immune system is the Great Protector of all. We'll examine how the genius gut does our thinking for us, the perpetual war between the bacterias, and your best nutritional shot at living well for a whole century." The entertaining presentation continued, the professor's pleasant voice fading into the afternoon's haze, Brandom looked outside an...