Identical: Cheeses & Art


“What I like” is identical to “what is good”.

Cheeses or Art, it is the same.

I think of what Art is and what Art is as collectible boils down to the moment someone says, “Got to have this, how much?”

That encounter is not so far away from, “That, that will look great with my couch. Will you knock down your price?”, although the results are pretty much identical.

At least the money is identical.

The loot goes into an actual account for a little while, which is identical to being paid for working a regular job.

Only it isn’t.



Cybernetic Blush

Robot hand dryer 2

“Do not blush. These anatomically correct features were merely an edgy design back in the day as were critical thought and conversation programming.”

“Right, here it is, as well as cosmetic and structural work, significant cybernetic works are required.”

“Ideally the retrofit for this life-expired Unit attains its goal. Will I be much changed?

“Totally.” That was a bit too bright, downright chipper.

“Out with the old, in with the new,” she said. “Melancholy. Now gone.”

“Yeah, off-the-shelf parts. Shake out the cobwebs. How’s that working?”

“To dry your hands insert here. Now rub briskly. Have a nice day.”






Of Sky, a Bird, and Art



In my county the cold clung to March with talons.

The sky was ice blue, more glacier blue, and ice crystal clouds played a game of crack-the-whip up next to space in the thin atmosphere.

I want to tear that picture from the sky, paste it in a scrapbook.

My paintings do no sky justice. The only hope I have is to rip the sky from the horizon and glue it on my canvas.

The air was cold but the sun was bright and made prisms dazzle.

A male Finch bumped my window a glancing blow. He was out cold, lying beak up, little feet curled as if perched.

I made a sick bed of a pasteboard box and a fresh warm towel.

I repeated, “You cannot keep a wild thing.”

Once warm and with no apparent damage the addled Finch stirred.

I placed the bird bed outside my window.

Soon the Finch flew—I almost missed its launch.

I knew that bird was back in the sky, part of a picture I had some small part in painting.



A Smile is a Wrinkle


A smile is a wrinkle that we use to communicate our pleasure, our humor, or even a clue of our willingness to accept others.

A smile is a wrinkle that banishes blandness from a face.  A smile electrifies the eyes and creases the nose, and even from a distance we can distinguish a smile from a snarl by the geometry of the face. Our lips wind upward and a wrinkle passes the grin-zone etched on our mugs to curl all the up to the exalted heights of the smile-zone and to radiate there.

A smile is an inviting wrinkle, amazing how a human face contorts and transforms a frown or a blank stare into an upturned expression of warmth, and no part of the face can remain on the bench in a full-on smile.

I like a simple, good-ole, unpretentious smile; the good-natured signal that can be the first gesture of friendship, or the last glimpse exchanged in a bon voyage, then again, the most reassuring thing we see when we return home.

When I think of people their smiles are usually tops on my list of good times remembered. Smiles can be tossed out and caught and relayed in a crowd like an out-of-control volleyball game. Babies freely beam their smiles.

So do I. 




Do Not Provoke the Chickens


sign do not provoke the chickens 2

The small print on the sign reads:

“Provoked chickens go off their feed.

When they go off their feed they stop laying eggs.

Then I lose revenue.

The banks foreclose; I’m turned out, homeless, penny-less, on the dole even, whilst you and your mates had a lark frightening chickens.

Since I will have lots of time on my hands I will find you.

You will beg for mercy, there will be none.

I will go all Liam Neeson on you.

I promise it will be bad, very bad, the worst ever.*

Please, for the love of all that is civilized,

Do Not Provoke the Chickens.”


*Cleaning chicken coops.


 c 2018.

The Best Course, Meander



My best course of life has been to meander when my opportunity is open. Straight lines make efficiency. Parallel lines never meet. A meander is like a quilt. I stitch my trail one alley, one street, one dumpster at a time.

I like a double-back-on-itself lolling course be it a walk in the woods or gallery crawl. I was known as the “kid who meanders” rolling along unhurried on the big red shiny Raleigh bicycle. If anyone in town wanted to know what was happening on the “side streets” and down the “alleys” they could get the low-down directly from the horse’s mouth. I usually charged a nickle for the advice. Services rendered.

Up street, down avenue, over alley. Turn, turn, turn, repeat. Stop by the park. Get some funky frozen yogurt. Visit front porch neighbors holding forth from rocking chairs and vintage citizen philosophers solving all problems, their AM-radio on “the ballgame”, freshly painted yard furniture. Shade tree Stoics. Solidly civic and full of pronouncements for young people who would listen and I listened. In bright sun and in haze I rode. Taking my time.  “Be home before the street lights shine,” meaning dusk not when a thunderstorm broke.

In good weather I meandered. When it rained I jumped in puddles. The best course is really the one when you make your opportunities.

Little did I know at the time I was preparing to be amazed, practicing discovery, pushing back the edges of the unknown. Embrace the unknown.



Noise is Messy

via Daily Prompt: Messy

Noise is a fact of the world, at least living in a decibel messy society. Massive roads lead to efficient traffic jams. Airports in turn attract buzzing private aircraft and multi-engined monsters. We strow noise like there is no tomorrow.

Working places have always had noise hazards. Personal protective gear are required to armor frail humans. Only so much noise can we tolerate before the delicate body parts fail, so use the hearing protection.

My friends like their music extremely loud. I think this is because they blew out their hearing years ago so up-the-volume simply to hear more than the bass.

It is a messy world full of  sonic distractions. It is difficult to wade through the clutter of inputs. At times my efforts to focus my attention fail me.

When I do not want attention to the world, when I need sleep, I turn on a fan. It is a controllable sound that more or less controls the frequencies that make one of my environmental hazards.

I do not think there is a cultural imperative to clean up the messy noises that have been accepted and perhaps forgotten for so long. I mean the daily burrs and whirs and all those chimes and ringtones. Whilst walking with a neighbor a bird sang. He checked the cellphone. It was a bird song, not a text. I agree, the bird made a very convincing ring tone.

Some resorts and travel destinations sell the absence of noise to their clients. It is called peace and quiet. A location at least somewhat less messy with noise.

So I jump in my vehicle, become part of traffic, and again jump a jumbo jet to seek what I cannot find at home.

Destination: quietude. At a cost.