On some days, he feels like he’s a target, maybe a bowling pin, set up and knocked down. If that was so, someone would have to be setting him up and rolling the ball that knocks him down. He wonders, the gods don’t bowl, do they?
Traffic Jam
As I was walking together, I developed a new game concept. I’d come across a small traffic jam. Traffic jams are rare in our little town. Most are small. Parades and school letting out are the usual problems.
But other places have traffic jams, which helped me develop (meaning, daydream about) my Traffic Jam game. Like Clue, the players move, but in this case, they move from corner to corner and street to street, collecting information and making guesses about what’s going on. In Traffic Jam, it would be stated as, “Don, in a gray Mini, stopping to make a right hand turn from the left hand lane.”
That’s all I got.
The Secret Hour
We’ve voted in our house, and agree that we should have a secret hour – that extra one that doesn’t show up anywhere but in your sleep – every night. (Amusingly, it’s called setting the clocks back to conceal the deal the Feds made with the Time Fairies.)
The vote was unanimous and not a surprise that the cats all voted for it. We had to wake them up to vote. As Papi summarized, “If it’s food or sleeping, I’m all for it.”
We know better than to actually advocate for a secret hour every night. There are dangers associated with having the Time Fairies come each night to give you the extra hour. One, your time isn’t infinite. Those hours come from somewhere.
Two, and more worrying, for every hour they give you, the Time Fairies own you more.
Most worrying of all, the Time Fairies are thin-skinned and petty. They’re wont to go for revenge at the slightest perceived insult. You must be careful not to piss them off. I’m sure you’ve seen some of their victims, listless as they wander around, craving sleep that will not come, not able to die because it’s not their time, but without the energy to do anything, because the Time Fairies own their time.
I Live In My Writing
I live in my writing,
an odd place to be,
but you’d be there, too,
if you see what I see.
I live in my writing,
and lose track of time,
at least in this world,
but, to me, that’s fine.
I live in my writing,
enjoying the ambiance of life,
it’s an unlimited existence,
and has far less strife.
I live in my writing,
and some are dismayed,
so am I, really,
because I never get paid.
I live in my writing,
it’s a solitary existence,
and maybe existential,
but at least it’s consistent.
The Optimistic Writer
He’d died, but he didn’t know it. He’d been writing his novel, and then editing and revising it. It wasn’t until he’d finished it that he came up for air and discovered he no longer had a body, and wasn’t a part of anyone’s earthly existence.
As far as he could ascertain, he’d been dead for several months. Probate of his meager estate was concluded, his clothing and personal items given away, and his name moved from one set of records to another. The cause of his death wasn’t clear. It seemed that he couldn’t see that, no matter how he tried to view it.
After some reflection, he wasn’t too concerned. Being dead meant no more concerns about money, health, politics, and the environment. He didn’t need to worry about being killed crossing the street or shot by some madman with a gun. The worst part about his death appeared to be that he was out of coffee.
That was going to put a crimp in his plans. On the other hand, he had a new novel idea.
He couldn’t wait to get started.
The Secret
“Magic,” she said.
She saw his eyes narrow and his facial lines smooth out, a typical reaction (although some laughed in scorn (or disgust) and others often swore and walked out on her). This reaction was considered the polite one, but he’d probably already decided that she was a nut, and that he would leave.
But he was still there now.
“Magic,” he said in a bland, heavy voice.
“Yes, magic. Magic is everywhere, and in everything, but magic takes different forms. Magic is universal, but the magic you have and how you use it can be different.”
Ah, a rarity. Pupils widening, his eyes opened a millimeter. The light in his brown irises changed.
“Consider water,” she said. “Broadly, water is the same everywhere, a transparent and tasteless liquid chemical substance with the formula H20. But water varies, doesn’t it? Water can become ice. Water becomes snow, hail, and steam. Sea water, tap water, and river water are different, aren’t they?
“Our magic is akin to water in this way, it has different forms and qualities. You have to find your magic in you and learn how to use it.
“That’s the secret to success.”
Finding Himself
He’d been in darkness for so long, he’d last track of who he was. Questions plagued him about the value he put on himself, his purpose and goals, maddening lack of motivation, and most of all, who he was . He was so lonely, never seeing others. Sometimes he heard them and yearned to be part of the conversations and celebrations, but he never seemed to have the courage or strength needed to make that change.
Then, one day, the Earth moved in a starling way. He felt a hand on him. It drew him into a light.
“What’s that?” someone said as he blinked against the unaccustomed brightness.
“A wrinkled old ten dollar bill,” someone else said. “Woo hoo, I’m rich. Beer’s on me.”
Final Words 2
The dyin’ man
in the dyin’ land
said with his dyin’ breath,
“Life is a like a buffet.
You can get in line,
and shuffle by,
or decide where you start and end.
“So, if you don’t mind,
I just died,
but this is my beginning,
not my end.”
Final Words
The dyin’ man
in the dyin’ land
said with his dyin’ breath,
“Life is not a fantasy,
it’s always been a test.
“I’ve done some harm,
caused some alarm,
and failed more than one person.
“I had some dreams,
and made some schemes,
but never found my purpose.
“But now I lay me down to sleep,
I’m about to close my eyes,
say what you will ’bout me,
I don’t care, I died.”
The Landing
Through dint of concentration, manifested by slow walking and constantly watching the cup, I can usually carry a cup of coffee across the room and not lose any.
It’s on the glide path to the table that I usually lose some. Yes, sometimes I miss the landing.
Michael Seidel, writer 