witness to an accident

Of an evening, the progeny, the lady, and the tramp all went to a free, out-of-doors concert featuring the burgh's symphony orchestra. It was quite pleasant (with the exception of the swarms of mosquitos down by the river): McDermott sang a few chestnuts; the strange man who wears the colourful blouses, daisy-dukes and pork-pie hat played second baton; the little ones had fun. The place was packed, and finding parking near at hand was impossible, but aside from that and the blood-suckers, it was not a bad outing.

Once the family had all bundled into the car and were safely on the road, the real danger began. They came to a stop at a red light behind a car with British Columbian plates. They remained there for a good part of the succeeding green light as well while the driver ahead sat, immobile. The friendly, one-short-honk was duly applied, and when the driver still didn't move, the tramp, who was chauffeur, pulled out to pass. That, of course, is when the man in front finally moved, changing lanes so he was still ahead, then moving back into the original lane, all without a single signal. At the red light, he stopped about one-and-a-half car lengths from the stop line, so the family passed and pulled up well ahead in the other lane.

"Let some other driver sit waiting behind this weirdo,"  thinks chauffeur-tramp. Then, suddenly, most unadvisedly, the man from British Columbia throws his car into reverse and drives with full acceleration smack into the car behind him.

Yells of angry disbelief rang out, and the family shot out of there, not wishing to become victims of stab wounds that night. Upon arriving home, the tramp phoned non-emergency police to report this strange event. No one else had phoned it in. The erratic behaviour of the man from British Columbia was described. A statement would have to be taken in person since no record of this incident had been reported. The call was ended. Puzzlement tugged at features creating a confused grimace on the face of the reporter. A piggy-wiggy squealed dementedly in the distance.

"But," thought the tramp, "that accident was meant for us...!"

Eateemores

"Daddy," said the little man, "are you 'fraid of Eateemores?"
"Of what, dear?"
"Of Eateemores."
The little man had a serious, probing look in his amber eyes.
"Well now, ah, it's sort of hard to say," replied that big man, confuddled.
"When there was a Eateemore and it was going to PRASH! into the monkey but the duck flied by and stopt it."
"Eateemores?"
"Yes, I'm 'fraid of Eateemores because they fly in the sky and are very big Daddy, and the Eateemores can hit your eye and then it would be put out and hard to see!"
"Ah-ha!" said the big man. "Yes, I am afraid of Eateemores too, but since I can do nothing about them, I try not to worry too much about them."
"You should be scared too, but if you stop the Eateemores it would be very amazing!"
"Look out! Here comes one now!"
"Silly," said the little man, inclining his chin to the fading rays of the sun and waving his arm above his head "there is no Eateemores up here now!"
And with that, they returned to eating their yoghurt.

on crying

First, the details begin to pile up. Sensory information wrinkling the brain, thoughts and impressions yielding still more thoughts and impressions, some got at by means of reason, some intuition. Maybe this is all relevant: trust the mind and believe in yourself; however, at some point a decision has to be made. What action can be taken in response to all this thought? The mind is a juggler performing on a unicycle crossing a high-wire. Practice and a will to achieve have made these giddy heights possible, but who can still the wind? Balance! Trust yourself, trust what you know, but acknowledge that adjustments will be necessary.

Suddenly, all this thinking has confused the action, and unforeseen circumstance has blown in through a hole in the big-top. The mind has become entangled in a web of memory, fear, and broken thought. Things are indistinct: a motley tumbler now struggles to free herself. Where once there was confidence and joy, now vexation and despair.  But the time for her to pick herself up is forever now. When the decision to take action was postponed, it may have been out of fear, laziness, or a simple desire to hold on to a moment, to have time to weigh thought and feeling just a little longer.

In his skewbald doublet and hose, and cock-a-doodle cod-piece, Hamlet's own ghost relays something of this conundrum. Wait and weigh too long at your peril. "Reason will not cling to solution, I will end up lost in confusion". Crying is okay. It's natural. It relieves the tension, and is cathartic. Crying also cleanses the palette of too much thought in too little space and time. Try it some time! The sooner you do, the sooner you can act with reason and relative confidence. I wish that I could cry right now. Come cry with me!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wa0c8CD1Jw

walleye

You have a deadline that's moving like a cosine function on the tangent you are off on. There could be minutes left or seconds, right? So you have to move quickly, dress slickly, carry a blade and be sharp. Just grab your hat and travel light.

"Daddy! Alfie needs you to save his fishing rod! It's stuck in a pine tree!"

Immediately the bow snapped, its two splintered ends twirling uselessly in the air, trailing twine, and falling inert on the heath. The arrow hung there from his hand, the point lost from sight in the gorse.
Time's up!

To catch a fish, perchance to eat.

literal skullduggery, sneaking about.

Hello to the words on the page! When we meet it is like pictures in the mind; it is like slipping behind a mask made of smoke and speaking in the voice of a stranger; it is transformative. Thank you words, I am flabbergasted, amused, and terrified. We are trapped inside the fortress of the skull, protected yet besieged. Following the cyphers, the little black blotches that drip down into the cellars of memory, we traverse time inside an invisible cloak woven from the strands of someone else's hair. Don't toss the garment off too quickly, to reveal oneself here is to forfeit knowledge and break the spell. Besides, the path lies marked out before us. All we have to do is follow and all is revealed.

is you is or is you ain't misbehavin'?

We might as well continue posting, dear Earthling readers. Why, stopping would be like admitting defeat. It may be the case that admitting defeat has some virtue, but if one looks around at the state of human affairs today, a realistic approach to life appears no more useful than any other. It is hard to live a life of repressed emotion. The doctors will prescribe pills to bridle the symptoms. These pills have a mellowing effect upon the spring and neap tides of feelings. However, increased anxiety is often a side-effect. The doctors will prescribe pills to rein in the anxiety. Getting up in the morning may become somewhat of a struggle. There is medicine that doesn't come in pill form. It helps to rejuvenate the stultified imagination and return feeling to an otherwise emptying life. Here is an example:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCQfTNOC5aE

buzzing in the ears

They have asked why "good enough" is not "good enough". They wonder what might be required to make "good enough" an acceptable option. Olympic athletes refuse to accept "good enough" until all possible attempts at something better are made (with the exception of some badminton players). Non-athletes do this too: lawyers, doctors, artists, musicians. Those who rise to the top, find a place in the collective consciousness of an era, a lifetime, a decade, a weekend, all refuse to live with "good enough". Do they not?

Is there always a dangling neuron rebelliously sparking in the brain-stem of a human being, even after some great accomplishment has been achieved, greater heights have been reached, telling the human being that to settle with that accomplishment, however lofty, is to accept "good enough"? Or, if the mountain has been scaled first, or fastest, or without oxygen, or while hopping backward on one foot, why does that same doubtful neuron wonder why it hadn't been done better?

There is room for improvement, and this is a good thing. There is a balance to achieve between improvement and acceptance. So often, attempting improvement is overwhelming and acceptance, at the realization of this fact, receives a powerful lashing from an electrified ganglia. The result of imbalance is a fall. The outcome of a fall is often injury and sometimes death. An injury can be healed, death is inevitable. Healing and growing is better than dying and rotting. Healing and growing are "good enough" and allow a return to balance.