If Only

 

If only there was more time

If only he hadn’t had a gun

If only she hadn’t said what she did

If only he’d walked away

If only they’d never met

If only they could do it all over again

If only it hadn’t begun

The Laments

Rising late, he moves like he feels old as stone. Boiling water for tea in the kitchen, he coughs out the night’s dust. His hacks echo through the house, debilitating his soul, and leave him wheezing and gasping, his eyes tearing. Sipping tea, he takes his meds and vitamins.

In his living room, he sits in his leather recliner, a gift from his wife before she died, and opens his notebook, recording the day by time, activity and amount. Then he turns on the television to the news, and surfs the net on his laptop, bemoaning the world’s news while shouting, “You fucking piece of shit,” at his computer when pages fail to open and videos don’t run.

Tiring of this when then noon has come, he laments his life, plans his meals, and decides to dress and go wash his car. There are things to do.

He just doesn’t want to do them.

Chick-a-boom

I sing to my cats.

I don’t want to. I feel pressured. They follow me around like they expect something. I give them food. They sniff it and turn away, a definite, non-verbal, “No, that’s not what I want.”

They do like being petted. But if I’m petting one, the others become petty and jealous. They’re like, “Hey, why is he getting petted? Pet me.”

And I tire of petting the cats. It’s hard work stroking bellies and backs, and scratching chins and ears. The cats never want it to end, grabbing my hand if I try to pull away. It’s also hairy work. Or furry work, I guess. I suppose there is a difference between fur and hair.

So, I have a repertoire of songs I sing to them. My current favorite is “I Can’t Get Next to You,” by the Temptations. If you know the lyrics, then let me tell you, I change some verses to make it more relevant to the cats. Like, I sing, “I can change the litter box, just by waving my hands.” I also substitute “cat” for “girl.” So, I sing, “Cat, you’re blowing my mind. Cause I can’t get, next to you.”

One thing I always sing as I hear it in the song is “Chick-a-boom, chick-a-boom. Chick-a-boom, boom, boom.” And I dance to that part.

The cats are leery about it. They watch me with an expression that asks, “What’s wrong with this fool?” Sometimes, they raise a paw in warning. (I call that a pawarning.) They say, “Watch it. Stay back. I have claws, and I’m not afraid to use them.” I can tell you that this statements is true. They’re firm disciplinarians with their claws.

The singing amuses me. The cats don’t find this as amusing as me. Neither does my wife. She says, with dour expressions and deep sighs, “Not this, again.”

Now, since I can’t change the litter box just by waving my hands, I have go do it manually. Because, even though these felines are indoor and outdoor critters, they’re civilized. They only ‘do their business’ inside.

Chick-a-boom, chick-a-boom.

A Personal Plea

Okay, I’m coming out.

It’s true confessions time. I suffer from the ravages of a condition that affects everyone. Most of us struggle to cope with its impact, and most of us fail. This condition will kill more Americans, indeed, more people, than anything else in the world, except, maybe life. We call this condition, time.

Humans deny time’s effects because of the work of time-deniers. Time-deniers will tell you that there’s nothing we can do about time, and spend huge sums of money to promote and reinforce their beliefs. They want us to believe that we have all the time in the world. Statements like, “Sure, I have the time, I can do that,” and, “I’ll make the time,” permeates our popular culture. When someone pushes back, “I don’t have the time,” others immediately become edgy, asking, “Are you sure?”

Because of the time-deniers, time and its effects are not seriously addressed. Indeed, many popular culture avenues mock the problems with time. “Time is on our side,” Mick Jagger sang, while clearly knowing – I mean, have you seen him recently? – that time is not on our side. Jim Croce understood the problems with time, and wished for time in a bottle. Styx, clearly being ironic, sang, “Too much time on my hands.” Chris Martin of Coldplay understood time, noting in the hit song he penned, “Clocks,” “Confusion never stops, closing walls and ticking clocks, gonna come back and take you home.”

We pretend to do something about time by constantly measuring and marking its passage. This lulls us into a false sense of security that we’re safe from time. Yet, we’re not. Time waits for no one, but because of the time-deniers’ work, few people in the world are attempting to do anything about time. Yes, there are individuals and groups struggling to kill time. Most have limited results. Instead, most end up keeping time, or marking time.

The time has come to push back. The first step is to recognize that time is a problem. The second step is to recognize that we can do something about time. To do that, we must quantify the problem. Time inequality is just one visible but large aspect of the issue, and it’s a good place to start. Some people have too much time on their hands, while entire races, nations and segments of people keep running out of time. Why should we let that continue to pass? Surely, we, as an intelligent species, can come together and redistribute time more equitably among all.

You can help. I’ll be posting a petition to the world’s governments, political leaders and technology titans to form a consortium to fight time. Please, sign the petition and spread the word. Socialize our cause. Help stop time before time stops you.

 

The Next Step

The next step arrived as an epiphany during a cataclysmic night of grief. He arose to think it through, but not much time was spent on that. More instinctively than intellectually, he knew what he was going to do.

Some second thoughts came when he checked the nets to see how much the next step would cost, and compare that to his assets. It would almost wipe him out. But the decision felt right.

He closed his heart around that and embraced it with his mind. Stepping into the hygiene, he cleaned his body and compiled fresh clothes while devising his action steps. His home systems weren’t sufficient for something as complete as he contemplated. He’d need to go to a clinic. Cleaned up, he ordered a fresh bulb of sugar coffee and sucked on it as he chased decisions on the webs. Dozens of clinics could do the work. Prices were comparable – of course – on the standard net, used by the vast majority of middle-classers like him. The gold net and platinum net served the wealthier classes. They would be much more expensive but they would probably provide the best service. He could have it done on the stone net that served the poor, but quality suffered.

There was the dark net.

The dark net scared him. However, he liked its optics for covering his actions. The scheme called for continuous duplicity, and living dual existences, really.

But he wanted to do this. Ceran was killed, murdered, damn it. No one knew who did it. It seemed painfully random. But he wanted to find her killers. Not for justice, but vengeance. So, he would become her, having his body and face modeled to look like her. Then he would live as both of them on the nets, to keep everyone off-balance, and find her killer.

Yes, it seemed like the correct and perfect next step.

He should have realized that was apparent to others, as well.

Double Bonus Day

I’ve made one thousand posts on this site since I began posting in May of twenty sixteen. This is also National Donut Day. To honor these two events, I’m having pancakes.

I will probably drift down toward Puck’s Donuts in downtown Ashland and linger. The smell of freshly fried donuts blending with the wood smoke of pizza places, grilling burgers and onions, is maddening and delicious. If a town can be said to wear a scent, Ashland’s eau d’ cologne by the Plaza is Puck’s Donuts.

Maybe I should start marketing and selling food scents.

Cheers

Electric Cars

Those hybrids and electric cars are really quiet. You don’t even hear them pull into the driveway.

No wonder IP camera sales are up. People want a warning that others have arrived and visitors are imminent.

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