Sol's Random Stories

Fragments, momentarily lucid. Hey, if that's the deal, this fate's sealed, then let's just go somewhere, no, I mean right now, don't need any reason, we'll use these words and woods for paths, I'll tag along, let's go, the moment's arrived! On our way now, it will be greener soon, cooler later, there will be many trees and kinds of plant and bush, most familiar but also strange things with no name, we're both barefoot, stepping carefully through the thick flora carpet with its hidden life, you never take wild for granted, or forget to be cautious, all creatures big and small, an instinctual humility of being, the pragmatic respect that some unknown danger may always be near, our humankind always intruding someone elses domain, yet we're going farther now, continuing where no maps may guide, but the sun is still with us, or rather we are still following, we're ascending slightly now as it descends down and west from overhead, a sloping pasteur...

When his chopsticks break bad, Jerome takes it personally. When he just misses the green light, he wonders if he's ever in sync with anything in this universe. When the cards don't happen for him in poker, it's because of uncashed karma, or random and heinous misdeeds from forgotten lives, if one believes in such lame and wishful rubbish- and Jerome does believe, as many folks do, or want to believe. Jerome often concludes, "We're all really agnostics, even the staunch atheists, it's just that no one admits the scariest of fears, that's too personal." Jerome has no idea what luck is or how it works, does anyone? He would doubt it, but Jerome is a true gambler, a skeptic by default.

A melancholy mist falls thru the late morning. Marla looks out into the bright haze for something unseen, or for nothing at all. The entire estate is still now, the vast mansion, sprawling grounds and gardens, there's not a sound. No bounding dogs or clambering children filling the air with joyful noises and busy, random fun. Marla's successful, workaholic ex-husband divorced her five years ago, then married his boss who eventually inherited her family's giant corporation. The dogs have since passed. Maria's three kids, grown and gone to three different states, have ittle contact with her or each other. None call their dad. The circles turn, the dreams burn down to foolish ashes, you just sweep them up, and toss them out along with the day's junk mail. Marla stays at home, nowhere to go, lots of time now to get there.

Simon thought of the news story he heard. Pandemic economics still an influence, employers are bribing workers to return to their jobs. Seems many folks learned to like staying home for fat gov't checks, and so much free stuff. "Who would have ever thought that?", Simon wryly chuckled. Then, his thoughts wandered- as they often did- to his father, also to an earlier America, maybe gone now. Simon learned about work from his father, but that's for another story, deserving its own time and length. Simon thought of how attitudes regarding work- particularly among many young folks today- have simply changed. Work, no work, no big deal to some- forget tomorrow. Other ways to survive. Authority in every form is challenged, no one wants to be told anything, which can make workplace a battleground. Simon wondered if America has lost both love of country, and the basic work ethic, each so vital. He recalled the rare times his father was briefly unemployed, how profo...

Don't mean to be one-eyed, just know things from the male view.  Will was grateful to be there on his first day, or, to be anywhere.  Either you are somewhere, or, you're invisible, a sort of half-death. When a man has a job, he feels connected to the busy real world. There's motivated blood pumping. Conversely, when a man has no job, he feels on the other side of the glass, dependent, uncertain. Waking each morning becomes a rude greeting of apprehension, worry for breakfast, gulp down more coffee, figure out your next move. Nowhere to go, friends aren't home, except your dear elderly neighbors, long past their working years, always home. Men can value their dignity with currencies of silent endurance, patience, hope. Swallow the pain, whatever happens, it's just a warehouse, two-wheeler, and trucks, endless trucks to unload. Now, hold your head steady for the putrid men's room mirror, your hands on each side: you'll get thru this first shift, no matter ...

The two friends stared into the silent screen above the bar, some football contest was underway, neither knew who nor cared. Their conversation went from work, to wives, to a documentary one friend saw, describing the topic to the other.  "It was interesting how they presented the evidence, it's beyond any doubt, if you follow the science. We came from the apes. You believe that, too, right?"  The other friend took a long draw on his still frosty lager, not answering right away, thinking quietly amidst the bar's busy din. "I wouldn't exactly say it that way. No. We don't come from apes.", the pondering friend replied. "We are apes. Still are. Never stopped. We're animals. Specifically, we're mammals, homo-sapien mammals. Apes. We are them." Both friends then just sat in silence, considering that fact, what it meant, or didn't mean.

Old toad mostly likes routine. Things staying the same as last time. No surprises or big noises. Old toad's day is spent quietly, eyeballing slugs to snatch up.  They're always near him and the water; you'd think they'd learn over a millennium of being lunch. Sometimes a fly would land right on old toad's bumpy snout, very dumb, some bugs, or just naive.  Most unlike you or me, o ld toad lives out its routines unconsciously, asleep or awake, ignoring time passing with no awareness or distracted mirror ego, by evolution's scheme, old toad sees little beyond the world of pond.

Darrel Johann, tennis trainer by day, Astrophysics student every other waking hour, bides his time, enduring an impossible schedule with little room left for any life. Yet, h is studies take him to the edges of existance, and playing around with persistant mystery is what others call research- but he loves every puzzling second of it. Finding himself embedded in a transparent fabric of universe that presents a sacred geometry of purpose, Johann stares deeply into the stars most nights, drawing out his own personal constellations of inquiry, creating his own conundrums of myth. Johann teaches tennis, a sport of angles, and velocity checked by distance, inertia and reaction. Plus, precise timing by the eye's call, which gives him an inner chuckle, since scientist Johann knows there's really no time at all.

Mack Brockton, despondant since his wife left and filed in one weekend, unemployed eleven  months, but he's no longer even looking now, spiraling down into a wretched trench of intractable depression, continues to inwardly turn his hard questions, like a Rosary, but they're all rhetorical: "What if God had a bad day? What if nothing worked out? What if our thoughts felt like spun cotton or burnt charcoal? What if there were no reasons? What if fear were free? What if nothing good mattered? Would colors go away? Would it all turn into a muddied gray? What if God had a bad day?"