Sol's Random Stories

Or one can easily leave the world with its troubles just for maybe a bit or long enough to ask the day's non-critical question here in the park where all answers are shaded and still only casually important: Do turtles make any sound or do they dwell in a shell of everyone's noisy business like when my dog gets up close to sniff just once I'd like to hear some dissent but they stay chill no matter what critter is near but you'd think the one on the bottom has something to utter.

It happens finally in the doorway of a store in the shopping center on the way home  from school both of you  so frightened, but smiling as if sharing a secret.  It's a jeweler shop  red closed sign nearly bright in the dusk shade Friday sun descending fast like your heartbeat quickened to the  moment like no other after so many  times imagined, re-imagined  and then it happens all at once like two new magnets not awkward not strange   but kind of perfect after fourteen years of furious waiting so sweet and soft with eyes closed better even than all the daydreams and so important- the very first kiss.

Favorite places are like anchors in our lives, sources of most comfort, safety, and restful rejuvenation. Home, nearby restaurant or pub, parks and other public areas, this is where we go to reconnect again. Douglas Park, on Wilshire in Santa Monica, is an old local favorite. But, I prefer its original name, Pueblo Park, before it was renamed to honor the great aviator Donald Douglas, manager of the on site plane factory, airfield, and movie studio lot in operation.  When more space was needed, everything moved to Clover Field, now the Santa Monica Airport, and the city established a unique park area, with ponds, waterways featuring beautiful succulents and bamboo fauna, along with many birds species, ducks, turtles, fish.  My dog's best park, there is always a serene mood here, even within this urban space. Lawn bowlers, fruit vendors, babies in strollers, dog walkers, and the pond critters. Typically just a tranquil day at this favorite place, everything slowed down just to ...

(Disclaimer and warning: author reserves all rights to make no sense whatsoever. See comments below.) Gallivanting about in their old suspenders and britches, those wily codgers made up their phony rigmarole just to hoodwink all the gullible ragamuffins. So, all the fiddle-faddle was fiction, a story, the kind of humbug meant to fuel the rumors and skullduggery surrounding the crashed jalopy in the vacant lot. Even Dorazela, the town's flibbertijibbit gossip, wasn't bamboozled by all the hullabaloo. At first, all were flabbergasted by the early morning accident, and how no one could find the driver. The mayor heard about the brouhaha in town, and became discombobulated upon learning that police were just lollygagging at the scene, collecting malarkey stories from folks who knew nothing. Obviously, with the car perched catawompass beside an old tree, the nincompoop driver had already skedaddled away somewhere. For some neighbors the crazy shenanigans were just too much drama for...

Feel compelled to write about this again because my suspicions have only grown stronger. It's regarding my pooch, my alleged Pomeranian Chihuahua, and I only say that because everything about her has been sort of questionable. We suspect she's not an earth dog. Yes, somehow she got teleported to a litter in a Santa Clarita suburb. We saw her, snatched her up, and brought her home at nine weeks, everything seeming normal and wonderful. But, then the questions. For example, every dog loves to be brushed. Not mine. You get a quick look of disdain, maybe some teeth shown and half-snarl. After ruling out any hidden issues, and the veterinarian literally shrugging her shoulders, I remained puzzled. "Hey, dogs are different, like us.", it became the explanatory mantra for Widget's peculiar ways; we trusted nature.  But then, more incredulous traits. I discovered that my dog isn't too crazy about bacon. Now, what earth dog doesn't go into absolute conniptions over...

The minutes and hours roll off into the absent afternoon, no work shift today, President's Day, and I have nothing to do. A gift at times, the day finds its own way without me, I just go along.  Stay off my phone, keep the doggie on my lap, that's already big improvement. It's raining outside anyway, for days now, we stand in the doorway, watch the downpour.  'No walks, again', she says in a low whine; as gray clouds pass, uncaring.

Succulents, very popular plants, but why do we love them so much? Is it the famous Fibonacci curve evidenced in most of these symmetrical plants?  In mathematics, the Fibonacci sequence is an integer- in this case, it's the sum of the two preceding numbers. This universal pattern appears so often with these remarkably represented plants, the same sequence is seen in structures of galaxies. You could call it the eternal design algorithm of the Creator.  With at least sixty major types of succulents, do we love them for their robust variety, with literally thousands of subtypes? My kindred succulent is the dramatic begonia, an explosion of color and grand entrance, a bloom of joy. Do we appreciate how these plants are never demanding or too needy? We should all have bosses like that! Typically watered only once or twice a month, cactus and other succulents never stress us out about our casual parenting. The water-saving ability of these plants is magical, and very clever.  ...

Suddenly, but only  for a moment between  panes of glass and an  accidental moon,  I slipped sideways  out of myself and into an unfinished rail station  in Needles, California;  it was fine, when the train  came we both got on, one ticket.

Sometimes, lessons come in pairs, unannounced. This is about a boy who essentially died, but keep reading, it gets better, after it gets worse. New January snow hangs onto the Oregon dawn, temperature very low. Only the full stillness of the morning prevails with a strict and crisp chill. The high ridge of old pines across from the family home, stark white, stare back at Tomasio on his porch.  With backpack and pole, he sets out to  his favorite creek, two miles north and midway up Gresham Mountain. The night had seen very steady snow, not heavy but persistent, there's more everywhere than usual which makes the journey precarious at a few points.  But Tomasio plows on, head down, determined to reach his spot before much of the earliest morning is lost. Tomasio has had his best luck around dawn; he often wondered the reason. Trudging forward, a mile away from home now, the ascent elevated, Tomasio was breathing harder, but keeping an easy stride, he focused on his boots, l...

It was a tortured call, then a few texts,  you can feel a certain screaming  inside now, but muted somewhere in  the body, echoes to an inner chamber,  only your limbs ache for no reason,  hugs vanished into ghosts of memory,  life changes in a single moment,  the sting is shocking and pointed,  awareness swift and embarrassed,  certainly everyone knew except you,  the plot was preplanned well,  there was no good time to warn,  the harshest lessons learned,  when your love goes unreturned.

I wasn't trying to lie, it was a mistake. But, I couldn't prove it. Mr. Griffin looked very disappointed in me. Only I knew I was telling the truth. That time. It all started the evening before, I'm walking home after baseball practice, and looking down by some trash cans I see stray firecrackers- seven total. Of course I took them to school the next day. Of course I showed them to some friends at recess, pulling out one I had in my jacket pocket, the other six tucked away in my folded wallet.  Of course I ended up giving them all to a kid at lunch who had some matches. He set one off just before everyone went back to their rooms. I was at the other end of the playground, so it was really just a pop; but I jumped like it was a foot away, and started worrying.  Within the hour, I was in the dreaded principal's office, sitting, waiting. But, resolute to my fate and wasting no time, I confessed to having them, apologizing sincerely sorry, blah, blah. As bad as the moment w...

Many predictable slang names for nature's wonder plant, cannabis sativa. Names like "weed", and "grass", they're amusingly self-describing. However, where did the old, colloquial term "pot" originally come from?  Some folks believe it stems from the longer Spanish word "potiguaya". Linguists suggest that the word "pot" may have been borrowed from this Mexican-Spanish term, referring to a drink made from marijuana leaves. Or, when leaves of the drink's plant are a topper garnish.  The term pot became popular in the 20th century, including among jazz musicians and other artists, various counterculture movements, and social recreational trends that became over time more favorable to cannabis use.  Potiguaya can also  mean when a wine or brandy has had the plant's flowers steeped in it. The word means literally “the drink of grief”, a bit odd, considering cannabis and alcohol can produce euphoria or just relaxation. Although...

Walking about for no reason, feeling unworried, carefree, Sandor quietly approached the old monk with a certain unnamed caution, as well as the customary reverence. You couldn't know what to expect with strangers.  "Good evening, father, the air is cooler now, today was so very hot and dry." The monk just nodded back slow and steady, like a long, practiced breath. Sandor sat down beside him on the tree bench, waiting, deciding not to speak again, at least for the moment.  A certain stillness came between them as if time itself had come to a pause, then the monk raised his head. His strong but soft, high toned voice broke the silent air, "So, you are just passing thru, you will leave tomorrow, bound for home. Yes, cooler tonight." Sandor was wide-eyed stunned and speechless. Okay, he thought, not looking for any parlor tricks or spiritual directions, however he was puzzled about how his personal plans were guessed so easily. But, before he could think, the old mo...

Trees, one thing about them, they are always doing things we don't see. Every tree is an entire world of activity and purpose. There is one particular phenomenon seen with many like species, or even among different species, called canopy shyness, or canopy disengagement. Among some groups of trees, they do not touch each other, instead forming a clever canopy with channel-like gaps.  This process has been studied for decades now, but scientists still don't agree about why this may happen. Some tree experts think it's a sort of social distancing, contracting disease may be prevented, or any parasitical danger, it would isolate its spread. Or, trees communicate amongst themselves via channels beyond our mortal experience, trees self-declaring their respective canopy boundaries.  Looking like machine-cut jigsaw puzzles, these special trees leave a certain respect between them as if by mutually realized design that only underscores how trees affect each other in grand and natur...

Maybe it's all just a refractory illusion, wholly based on eye structures and their functions. But, was there a first color my new brain registered, or noticed before others? Was it my mom's hazel eyes, or the first bright blue in a blanket? Was it the midwife's red hair, or maybe something on the wall, in a picture, an orange sunset across a clear lake?  When my new eyes fully opened, first focusing on objects and such, what color became my lucky hue, or, is it even meant that we could know, always favoring a certain color yet not recalling why? Do spirits or souls have their own colors? Now we're assuming upon even more assumptions, a double handful of rainbow.

Part 1 Very first memory, taking sips from a small glass, my father would mix some sweet kosher wine with water, probably on a holiday like Passover. The sharp kick of alcohol, even that miniscule amount, and the warmth down the throat, spreading inside. First few times it was consumed in quantity, and I actually got drunk, then pretty sick, was with some Cold Duck. Don't recall how we ever got a couple of bottles, with my old friend David, I think we were fifteen or so at the time. It wasn't easy, slowly draining a bottle of this bubbly crap while trying to play double solitaire in my mom's garage, the taste of it became more tolerable.  But, after a few times waking up feeling like morning meatloaf roadkill, you tell yourself it's just not worth it, but then you forget that fairly quickly. Perspectives can change at different ages, like old memories, they evolve. Fast-forward a few years later, after little interest in the subject, I re-united with alcohol in a whole ...

What can be gleaned from a quick look at the world's oldest tree? The Great Basin Bristlecone Pine (Pinus longaeva) has been deemed the oldest tree in existence, reaching an astonishing age of over 5,000 years!  These uniquely hardy, slow-growing trees can reach a height of 50 feet, with a trunk diameter of 154 inches. This tree endures in the harshest environment and toughest terrain. Super cold temperatures, petrifying winds, conditions that obliterate most life around them, these trees are also mythical in their ability to resist a horde of natural enemies and predators, elements, fires, or floods. These oldest species are found in California, Utah, and Nevada, in the White and Inyo Mountains. The world's oldest tree has a brilliant root system. It's mostly composed of highly branched, shallow roots, while a few large, branching roots provide structural support. If we humans, individually or collectively, could have such luck with longevity, I'd like to think the few...

Understand, cats themselves do not buy into the whole nine lives thing. That's obviously a human invention, and some cats might say not original. Cats are so universally more savvy than their human folks, it's nearly awkward. Cats have to dumb down to get our attention. My doggie does something very similar, but the over-eager wagging tail gives it away too soon. Cats read the room a whole lot better. They understand right away who the can openers are, the only-strokers, and especially those ignoring humans who can intrigue some curious cats to sheer distraction. Understand, in the cat world, we're always their toy of the moment, lucky gratitude expected. One of the very best things about cats is how these heavenly critters really don't always need us, and have their own independence of wild spirit. In a world that often needs us too much, cats remind us we're just not all that.

Two brothers, twins in their twenties, prepared their respective horses- coincidentally also twins- for the week-long trip ahead of them. One brother would journey thru the desert to a town that held an annual crops auction, to secure a price for their family farm harvest of corn. While the other twin went an opposite direction, thru some forest and meadows to their uncle's farm, to help bring in their wheat crop, as the uncle was still recovering from a bad illness.  After several days of travel, the brother in the desert noticed his horse was breathing hard, slowing down, although they had plenty of water and feed. Something was very wrong, so the two found some shade by a hillside, and the horse could rest up. But, things got worse very quickly. The horse soon was on its side, very obviously convulsing, in deep distress. There was no one in sight to help them, and the brother could only wait. Two hundred miles away, the other twin was nearing their uncle's farm. Suddenly, hi...

Do we really know what we know? How certain can we be, with so much mystery, so much yet undiscovered?  We typically call reality four dimensional— length, width, depth— and, one dimension of time. Yet, there is the intriguing possibility that more dimensions exist. According to string theory, one of the leading physics models, the universe may include up to ten dimensions!  Then, why do humans only experience four dimensions? Scientists theorize that the other dimensions are simply too small and fleeting for detection. But, no one knows yet, new clues are rare. The vastly undiscovered still eclipses all our collected knowledge combined. Yet, how can we explain the following? Do dimensions have secret doors? Is reality fluid and/or porous in nature? Harvey and Beth tried for a whole year, but pregnancy remained illusive. Then, it finally happened! The next eight months passed routinely, and their new baby was expected in two weeks. Nearly two years passed, the couple was so ha...

Well, I'm okay now, it was an hour ago. But earlier, while walking my dog, I was nearly injured. By a chunk of pizza. I'll explain. We're headed back up my block, hound and I, going back home, when I hear above me some very noisy drama.  Flying about in a group of five, seagulls, some tussle going on between them as they zoomed around, loudly squawking. Couldn't tell what was happening, I only thought, hey, you're all a couple of miles from the coast, short flight for them.  Then suddenly, a big thud thru palm fronds above, only a couple of feet from us by the curb, we walked over to look. Yup, no doubt. Heavy crust, pepperoni, about a half slice. That's what narrowly missed beaming us? Apparently, one of the birds had it, wasn't sharing, gravity took over.  Close call, could have been bad. Would have been the silliest injury ever. Serendipity comes in the oddest forms.

The universe remains unknowable for now. So, impossibly possible realms may dwell anywhere, dimensions unseen from here, and properties of physics yet undiscovered. O'Malley looked down at his child in awe. Three years just flew by like three months! He'd never known such joy and challenge, every moment held so preciously in the present, the delights of discovery, constant learning, like breathing with no thought.  Elias sat at the table with a bowl of berries, then suddenly turned to a small portrait on the dining room wall. "Papa", the infant said, then he repeated the word two times. O'Malley had never identified his father, or made any reference to the old photograph, so he was puzzled, but soon forgot about his son's strange, spontaneous utterance. Another year passed, and O'Malley again recalled what his boy had said about the old picture. So, before their day of hiking, when Elias came downstairs for breakfast, his father casually asked him how he k...

Since All Things Are Possible, maybe the direction of civilization can be mapped thru obscure sources. Like, the little signs folks post in their yards. We see a good variety every day, walking about as we do. True, my Pomeranian Chihuahua doesn't read, yet. But, we still note the contrast of messages our dear neighbors like to display. On a certain spectrum, you can see social attitudes trending from friendly to dangerous, understanding to demanding, and helpful to critically scolding. Do these signs secretly spell out our own destiny? Or, do we think too much, my doggie and I? Yes, she's catching flies while I'm catching clues, but it's still a very good relationship. It also follows that our kindest neighbors have the most approachable signs: like "Think global, act local. Please don't water our plants and flowers." Then, the signage tension ratchets up quickly as we turn a corner and see "Stop. No Pee Zone." And, the more realistic but terse ...

Nineteen. It was 1972 when I was that age, a world here in Los Angeles so different from now. One day, it was a beautifully colored dusk in warm July, the still palms sillouets against the clouds, rush hour traffic drone, but serene mood across the shimmering water. Sitting by my usual tree in Westlake Park, then came a big surprise. In one fairly scary and unexpected instant, two guys jumped out from behind a nearby bush, both commanding me to "FREEZE!" Well, I did just that, thinking I was getting robbed, but no such luck, so to speak. They were ununiformed officers from the notorious and elite Metro division, I later learned. But, their sudden and crashing entrance somehow didn't prevent my automatic response of flicking the glow end off the skinny joint I was smoking, and pop it down my throat. But, not quickly enough to go unnoticed, as the next thing I heard and felt was "He swallowed it!" Then, very strong hands tightening around my airpipes. "Spit ...

At 86, David often felt confused with things he saw and heard. He had to make new sense of new norms that seemed to change like the weather. Walking to the nearby park, it wasn't long before he saw a group of folks standing around a crying woman. Sobbing uncontrollably, her frame shaking with each shudder of grief that seemed to crush her, as the others tried in vain to console her. David didn't get too close to the drama, but a man standing beside the woman looked up and caught his stare. "It's her phone. The service is down. No one can tell her when it's returning.", the man explained, then looked off into the surging traffic. David nodded nervously and kept walking, a bit faster now to get away. How did things get like this, he wondered. When did it all change? When exactly did folks stop being free? At the park's entrance David saw a masked woman with a masked dog strolling across the wet morning grass. David chuckled to himself, thinking about how you...

Franklin didn't know it would be the last time, the very last conversation. A year had passed so quickly, and his mom's dementia had kept pace, Every visit, day by day, he saw her slipping away. But Franklin still visited often, although it became more difficult each trip. "The cab is here, mom, gotta go." Franklin walks to his mom's room with the lavender scent, with the doll collection and sachets in the drawer. His mom seems so small on her bed, sitting on the side, smoothing out single dollars from her purse. Franklin knew the routine, taking the handfull of bills as they hugged. He had learned to just accept anything she gave him, and then just stash it somewhere, because his mom won't remember, so any drama is avoided. He sees her struggling to clear her thoughts, and he feels the stabs of sorrow and anguish. They're so deep his whole body shudders in spasms of surrender, a visceral helplessness, he draws in one sharp, fearful breath. What good does ...

It was the persistent uncertainty of everything that caused Evelyn to so dislike this world, to feel its cold, unfriendly embrace. No place to trust, not much joy living alone so long now; mostly she looked for distractions.  Thirty-one already, forgotten in a cubicle in a big building in a big city, she blames no one, remains hopeful, although wary. But, too young to feel so disconnected. They met online, a chat room Evelyn dared visit on occasion. Some good conversation  started, and grew to something more over weeks of late night texting. Now, the first meeting in person, Evelyn finally agreed, with  mixed feelings of danger and anticipation. Both charged for a plan of first walking, then lunch, if things went that well. Now, waiting. Heart beating, and the constant second-guessing. Her life was just fine already, she thought. Why would Evelyn care to risk a disruption of her security? Now Ethan, her online friend, was almost fifteen minutes late. Maybe traffic? Shoul...

They are actually called funicular railways, this one a historic national landmark from 1901. Basically, Angel's Flight was a very short ride, with two cars named Olivet and Sinai, that ran in opposite directions on a shared cable. Originally, there were magnificent Victorian homes along one side of the hill, later sadly replaced with buildings.  What little I recall riding it with my mom- probably 1960, I was seven- included how scary steep it felt, the unwelcome lurching motion upward and downward, and how pointless it all seemed to me at the time.  Too much like how a roller coaster begins, the slow, ominous ascent, I wasn't a fan. We rode to the top, got off, waited a bit, then rode back down, my hand gripping my mom's the whole trip.  Then, we walked back across the street to Grand Central Market for groceries before the long bus ride back home. I recall this ride happened only a couple of times. There may have been more to see at the top, but we never explored anywh...

Brown recluse, the spider everyone fears, approaches a tall oak with cautious apprehension, as spiders move in their routine precision. Recluse eyes the scaly bark with a wary stare, rhetorically asking, "Tree, you're not afraid of me? Good, I'll stay. Your branches can save me. I'm starved, it's been three days or more, I've lost count." The tree is amused. "You are welcome. My list of fears is brief. Some creatures are not friends. Mostly, I fear for the health and wellness of my neighbor trees." Recluse is surprised by this answer, but puts the thought aside. There was a quick web to weave. Part 2 Hours later, belly no longer empty, Recluse rests, dozes, and dreams. In his dream, there are broad leaves like plates across a pond, clusters of tiny flies buzz about, and the morning's mist disappears into day. Recluse then dreams of trees in battle, thrashing about in unkind winds, then the calm of night's cool air. He was glad about the s...

With relatively simple rules, the complexity of the game is legendary. Watching the masters play, I recall that I'm skilled enough not to use real cash. At the top levels, there are so many factors to consider, so intricate the thought process when the best players compete for the high stakes and glory. But, poker can also be the silliest game. The random shuffle each time can result in some of the most inexplicable drama of unlikely imagination, just as crazy as silly, both, with no apologies. Like recently, I was playing for fun online. I got 2-3 on three consecutive hands. Then, I got back-to-back double aces. What the freakin' hell is that? It happened. Cards that defy reality. If that isn't some evil, giggling wizard of mayhem playing an organ of silly tunes and odd rhymes, then nothing is real. Poker never stops to explain anything. Folks get up and walk away. Heads just shake, or get scratched. Or, you wonder what you did wrong or right, maybe accidentally. Or, clubs...

With relatively simple rules, the complexity of the game is legendary. Watching the masters play, I recall that I'm skilled enough not to use real cash. At the top levels, there are so many factors to consider, so intricate the thought process and strategy when the best players compete for the highest stakes and glory. But, poker can also be the silliest game. The random shuffle each time can result in some of the most inexplicable dramas of unlikely imagination, just as crazy as silly, both, with no apolsogy. Like recently, I was playing for fun online. I got 2-3 on three consecutive hands. Then, I got back-to-back double aces. What the freakin' hell is that? If that isn't some evil, giggling wizard of mayhem playing an organ of silly tunes and odd rhymes, then nothing is real. Poker never stops to explain what just happened. Folks get up and walk away. Heads just shake, or get scratched, or you wonder what you did wrong or right sometimes, knowing neither, but you have a ...

Found a bottle of blood red nail polish in the alley. Got the great idea to brush some across my forearm, and scare my mom. I ran into the kitchen holding my arm and moaning. My mom let out a scream the likes of which I had never heard before. But when I quickly explained, she flipped to white-hot mad. That's all I recall, and then flying back out of the house, my heart in my throat! She never told my father that one, but I felt horrible and she knew it.

Not what one would expect it to look like, heaven's red door. What would anyone expect of the unknown? Any dream is as good as another, any fantasy made real somewhere in the fleeing universe, believe as you will.  Or, small chapel cove of stone and rock, chamber of final confession, hewn thru millenniums of suffering and grief, now the blessed relief of departure from this physical world- is there another? Or, as Krishnamurti and others believe, there is only thought. Or, just a red door, no eyehole, simple lock, behind it only trusting souls we know.  

It was nothing to him, hard work. Jack could work all day and night, grinning and carrying on, he outlasted men half his age with seemingly no effort whatsoever. Losing his dad at five, something snapped inside, he started working like his father worked, early and hard till late. No matter the project or effort, Jack seemed to thrive when others  reached exhaustion. By the end of his teens, he had saved enough for both a home and business, learning real estate, then got his state credential at twenty. By age thirty Jack's office was bustling with buyers, sellers, and listings enough for a small but growing sales team, and a new loan financing bank alliance. Then, one plain August morning they found him in an old freight elevator, after Jack went missing for two days. No note. All the while we toil over our little life plans, so much effort every day to be successful. But, no one ever knows what fate has already decided ahead for us. If you believe in that sort of thing.  ...

Because life is so very brief, let's be honest whenever reasonably possible. For example, it doesn't help my desire to awaken with gratitude when my phone alarm goes off at 4:45am. Yes, I do have the old Peanuts piano solo as my wake-up, the venerable Snoopy tune, always cool. But, after recalling the day of the week, and that it's a 6am work shift morning, my gratefulness for waking up is next. Some unknown and unnamed force in this immensely mysterious universe has given me another day of living. Another day in the light of my thoughts passing in a stream of random or subconscious associations. How can I dependably awaken without some alarm, even nice, charming ones, jogging me out of delta deep dreams as if consciousness is so much better, or a bit more sleep is just inconsequential? I could train my dog to wake me up, but no, she's okay with me getting fired for serial tardiness.  Maybe I can awaken to the wonderful ground root sounds of Gregorian chants, then segue...

How annoying is it to hear myself use the cliche so blithely, an unclever response to some throw-away query? Yup, turning 70 this May 9th, "It's just a number." As if this fluffle had any meaning, or helped me in any way with the mad and somewhat roiling stew of mixed feelings about this milestone. My dear buds have comical offerings of their own, most are approaching the age or already there, a few beyond.  "Dude least you're not on the wrong side of the grass!" "You look good for eighty!" "Remember, it's not how long you live." "Spend it all before you go!"  It's funny or maybe just routine how we all deal with aging awkwardly at times, other times, we feel a calmer grace.  Being so amazingly blessed to have my mom in my life at this age, what else even matters? So many of my dear friends miss their folks like a daily ache that never leaves, a lifelong, honorable burden, a pain that cannot be resolved.  All I want for ...

On certain nearby streets, they're numerous. Liquidambar straciflua, more commonly known as the American sweet gum tree. What a benign name! It's certainly not the tree's fault,  have to remind myself. Nature, intrinsically efficient, decides by practicality of design, so there is a purpose to every trait. No assignment to be the favorite of some other species, although that too happens.  Myriads of factors apply, choices of logical necessity and replication, evolutions in kind. A few times a year, this tree grows these obnoxious, hard and spiky seed pods. In a brisk wind, they all get blown  to the sidewalks by the hundreds , blanketing the block with menace, especially for my dog and me on our many walks. Made the mistake of trying to crush one under my hapless sneaker- painful surprise- they're inexplicably like rocks. No doubt, this tree has its good reasons. It's likely they're defensive against bird prey and other potential enemies, I get it. Protection of...

He couldn't have been over thirty. But, after some time on the street, it becomes harder to guess age. Absorbed in his effort, he put the finishing touches on his intricate chalk design, a glowing mandala.  His colored chalks lined up neatly above his creation, seven or eight vibrant pastels, some only small nubs left. While carefully making some very thin, white lines, not looking up, he asks "Spare change or food?" Entering the 7-11 without responding, only nodding which he doesn't see, I swing back the glass door to whoosh myself inside. Quickly grabbing the box of eyedrops I came for, then adding a hot dog and pizza slice, before my swift exit. Handing the artist his food, he replies simply with "God bless you.", and I am saddened that he's so grateful-- why? The art of hunger is a circular misery, uncertain like a daily maze, or labyrynth of curves. Walking home, I'm trapped in a fog of unsettled thoughts and cold air. Started this year with a v...

1833, November 12, an ordinary Tuesday for most, but sadly not for Andrew Hawthorne, in the hospital, likely his very last night in this world. The unsparing disease had progressed very quickly, the medicine just wasn't working. He knew full well that the end was at hand, while drifting in and out of consciousness, at least in no pain. Andrew was at the end of his days on this earth, and was grateful for his family who came to be with him at dusk. The final evening was peaceful. Then, at around midnight, everything exploded into noise and commotion outside, with many people suddenly in the streets, some shouting, or running. While Andrew slept soundly, his family rushed to the hospital room's window, and were frozen with astonishment. From the night sky came down a thousand stars, falling as if from a giant pitcher from Heaven! Folks poured out of their homes gazing skyward, as flints of light descended and disappeared in glorious splendor, a cascade of falling stars for the ag...

We're tempted to say the dawn came reluctantly that certain day, but that's merely more of our reflexive, dogmatic, and quaintly indefatigable projecting. Nothing more. The obscurely unremarkable star we call the sun doesn't 'feel' as is our experience, yet we would put our humanness on all that we need to draw more near or find more relevant. Miriam knew all of this, they're hardly new insights, nor was her realization that another Thursday too much like the last had begun. Staring blankly into her small closet, whether she wears this or she wears that doesn't matter to her at all-- just another annoying decision to make. Always neat and presentable, she steps outside squinting at the morning light. But she wants to keep her eyes tightly closed, just forget the zero job, forget the world, then step back inside to hide away for a day, a year, maybe longer.  Until Miriam can recall how to start over.

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, his 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.

But, there is lots of speculation. Some say Miss Keys the cat found God, praising Hallelujah! with abandon. Others surmise she is guilty of something, surrendered to you in full cuteness as her only defense. Still others guess she must've seen too many Bruce Lee movies, her striking pose ready to one-inch punch some mousy assailant.  Her dad Harold just chuckles every time and says, "It's that damn catnip!" But this feline dancer knows they're all off the mark, none of their theories have a clue. So easy to overthink anything, but what's a girl to do? When you're that disco diva throwing your paws in the air, like you just don't care!  

Rick woke up yesterday upset, sweating, he couldn't recall anything, but it felt like some dream had just played out, or some sound outside had jarred an image into a small panic.  Lately, Rick sometimes felt as if his most basic life force was slipping away. It felt like his chest slightly caving in, his breath shallow and labored, and then aching limbs.  Weak and nauseous, he knew something was wrong, but Rick tried to stay calm, drawing in the stale apartment air more slowly, concentrating on breath alone, his head spinning in a weird, semi-frozen motion. Was it his heart? Again? Rick recalled his upcoming appointment, a new Kaiser MD. He'll talk about his meds like the last MD, four minutes or so, order some new blood work, then see ya later, off to the next patient waiting thirty minutes, it's a long day.  The moments passed and his mental fog lifted, Rick felt the knot of ache in his stomach relaxing and disappear, the sickness also gone. Still weak, he decided bed ...