Personne parmi nous désire remettre en question votre intelligence, même si la possibilité est toujours là ; mais maintenant, puisque vous vous vantes de votre prouesses, la foule des sceptiques sera innombrable. Vous êtes une personne intelligente !
Clever
There is no one among us, who desires to question your intelligence, even if the possibility is always there; but now, since you boast of your prowess, the crowd of skeptics will be innumerable. You are a clever person!
That mountain lords over me; High above a looming mass, Its silent, cold indifference Chilling and unnerving my bones. Regardless whether ready or not, I brace to launch my first step; Shaky foot in front of the other, I compel myself to move up. Walking a fine, tottering line, Just one stride after another, I slow to a deliberate cadence To conceal my reluctant struggle. My aging body sore and stiff, Using every muscle and resource, I feel as if I’m teetering, But dare not lose control. Midway my legs grow weak, Testing my will to persist; I stop and rest more often, Then stiffly revive and move on. I must stay ever focused Never looking back or down; Though my limbs grow weary, I cannot accept any forfeit. We all have mountains to climb, But climb we surely must, If we are ever to overcome fear, Adversity will bring out our best. Warned about possible failure, Thought I could not, dare not, While it was ONLY fifteen stairs, I had scaled my Everest!
Well, when my luck ain’t no damn good You don’t listen, you don’t listen No good deed goes unpunished But I don’t mind being your gotcha boy I’ve had that pleasure for years and years
No, no, I never was a winner, tell me, what else could I do? Yogi Berra’s what you get till you learn to follow rules And chance respects no person, and what I want often fails You’re waitin’ somewhere to fall into my arms
Saw my picture in the paper Read the news about this face And now some people don’t Wanna treat me the same
When you guys come tumblin’ down When you guys come tumblin’, tumblin’ When you guys come crumblin’, crumblin’ down (Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah)
Well, some people say I’m too foolish and crazy I am just a softy, my compassion’s plain silly But I know that there is something more Don’t need to look over my shoulder to see what I’m here for
Everybody’s got their problems, ain’t no new news there I’m the same old person you’ve been seeing for years Don’t confuse the problem with the issue, man, it’s perfectly clear Just wish that chance doesn’t need me to appear
Don’t wanna put my arms around you Feel your breath in my face You may bend me, you may break me But please stay safe in place
So no one comes tumblin’ down So no one comes tumblin’, tumblin’ So no one comes crumblin’, crumblin’ down (Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah)
As I pee, sir, I see Pisa Dog doo? Good God! Desserts, I stressed! God saw I was dog. God’s dog. Dammit, I’m mad! Step on no pets. Go deliver a dare, vile dog! Dogma in my hymn: I am God! Dog’s God. Was it a cat I saw?
Light, and warmth! How could it be? Last night, it had been getting dark and chilly, even cold. He certainly hadn’t expected any hint of warmth after a late autumn night’s slumber. But it did feel warm, how odd. Could he have gone into hibernation like his father had told him happens at the turn of the seasons? His sleep did seem longer than usual. Could this then be spring? Perhaps. Gosh, he felt really good. He did not remember ever feeling so rested.
But wait, there was something even more puzzling. Hadn’t he last been deep underground when he turned in after eating that last tasty morsel of mammoth dung. Yum, that was so good. How the heck was he now on the surface?
The surroundings seemed so very strange. He could not come close to identifying anything that he was sensing. The light and the warmth were so unusually uniform. Nothing made sense.
He had been to the surface several times before. The area above his tunnel home was where the great forest met the cold edge of the Artic tundra. The tundra was covered with moss and lichens. Dwarf shrubs dotted the stark landscape with an occasional sparse grove of fir. The region was also home to woolly mammoths, giant bears, dire wolves, and elk, whose delicious droppings made up much of his daily diet. He enjoyed the wide, free space whenever he was above. There he could flex his singular endowment, his extraordinarily strong abdominal muscles, which allowed him to sprint twice as fast as his nearest competitor.
Whenever he ventured above ground during the day, the warm sun would always sit low on the horizon. However, this light now came from directly overhead. It was not the warm light that he was used to, and there was more than one sun! Very strange.
Suddenly, voices began booming out. Only once before had he heard a human voice, as one of that species passed along a trail nearby. Now there were at least two human voices.
“Jenn, according to the report, they discovered them while digging deep in the Siberian permafrost near a river called Kolyma.”
“I looked that place up; and that’s way up, opposite Alaska.”
“This is one of the worms that survived through cryptobiosis. This one’s assigned to us.”
“Say, I think the little fellow is waking up, Rog. I bet it’s wondering where it is.”
“Come on, do you think it knows or cares? It’s like Rip Van Wormkle.“
“Ha, Ha, Rog. Perhaps so, but I bet it’ll figure it out soon.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Listen, I’ve been around these little critters long enough to know that they are much smarter than you think.”
“Well, we know of one worm that’s pretty smart.”
“Give me a break, Roger. That worm is too single-minded. At least these guys can serve other purposes. And of course, each is both sexes.”
“Okay, okay, sorry. Let’s chart it up and bring this guy/gal over to its new home. I missed my lunch waiting for our Siberian visitor to arrive.”
******
As typical for a late Monday afternoon, Harry Worm went about his business. He was one of several dozen Wigglers assigned to the Agriculture Lab’s compost bin No. 4. Everything was routine – eating contentedly, digesting ardently, and pooping dutifully – morning till night, day in and day out. After each sequence, he would pause for a good belch to free an extra space in his gut and proceed to the next food item ahead of him. Whether it be plant or human waste, it didn’t matter much to him. It was all good. That afternoon he had been progressing at his usual pace when he encountered an especially enticing chunk of discarded newspaper script. He slowed down, licked his lips, and began to chomp down for a good bite when he spied the start of a headline: “Scientists Revive 46,000-Year-Old Worms from Siberian Permafrost”.
“Hmm, that’s something you don’t read about every day,” he chuckled and then continued single-mindedly with his delectable task. “Newspaper print sure is delicious.”
He and his work team continued for a while with their assigned meal when suddenly the lab’s main lights turned on full bright, followed by a noisy commotion.
“Over here. Bring it over here to this temp bin. We’ll see where the PI wants it later. Hope it’ll like its new home.’’
“I wonder what’s all the commotion about?”
“Don’t know,” his pal Willy replied. “It’s odd. The staff is sure kicking up the dirt about something.”
“Yeah, normally they’re like Gregorian monks chanting all that data manure, if you know what I mean,” Gummy giggled.
“If only it was real manure! You know, some fumier de cheval or bouse de vache! I’m tired of eating the same old ordure.” Curly chimed in.
“Oh Babe, I get all wiggly when you do French,” Harry flushed as he coiled up his tail.
The commotion lasted a little while longer; then the bright lights turned off, and the lab’s ambient lighting returned to normal.
“Well, I guess the show’s over,” Harry said as he settled back in to finish his meal before turning in for the evening.
It did not take too long before it was lights out too for him and his pals. But this was not going to be an ordinary night.
“Hey, hey, what’s going on? Where, where am I? Help! Somebody, help!”
Harry was startled awake. It was not yet morning.
“What the heck’s going on?” he muttered groggily. At first, he thought the cries were from one of his crew; but he soon realized it was coming from another part of the lab, in the direction of the commotion from yesterday.
“Help, help. What is going on? Where am I?”
“In a lab stupid,” Harry responded snarkily.
“A lab? What is that?” a perplexed voice queried.
“Must be another newbie,” Harry rejoined, surmising that the voice was coming from someone in the next bin over.
“Please, please, could you please tell me what’s happening to me.”
“Look, pal, could you pipe down. Our work crew needs to get some shut eye. We have a new delivery of trash tomorrow Tuesday, and the staff here runs a really tight ship for deadlines.”
“Work crew? Trash? Staff? Tight ship? Deadlines? What are those?”
“Are you from Mars?”
“Mars? You mean the red planet? I live in Siberia.”
“Siberia, in Russia? Well, pal, you’re not in Kansas, I mean, Siberia anymore. And how the heck did you get all the way here to Berkeley?”
“Berkeley? Where’s that?”
“Berkeley Bears, Sunny California, the Golden State, the Left Coast! Don’t you know?”
“Sorry, no.”
“I don’t understand it. Were you born yesterday?”
“Yesterday, no, a few months ago. What are you talking about?”
“Hold on, hold on, Siberia. That rings a bell. Yesterday, yes yesterday I was reading, well munching on a headline about some scientists finding worms out there. They had found them and then defrosted them.”
“Defrosted? You mean, no longer cold. Yes, well I do remember waking up this morning feeling a bit cold and then suddenly warm. It was so confusing. I was no longer down in my home underground. There was bright light, like on the surface; but it wasn’t the ordinary surface. I found myself within a confined space with borders on all sides that I couldn’t penetrate.”
“That was a box, my dear. Haven’t you ever seen one?
“A box?”
“Well, you’re probably right since I guess you’ve never seen one, since you’re 46,000 years old.”
“What? 46,000 years old? How can that be? My grandfather lived for almost three solar cycles, and I thought he was very old. Never heard of a worm living more than seven or eight years at most. 46,000 years.”
“I think something happened to you way back then and you got frozen somehow.”
“The last thing I remember was worming my way under some tasty mammoth dung and starting to doze off. I did perceive a change in the surface weather. The tundra soil was turning colder than usual.”
“Mammoth dung, huh? And wow what a story! Have they given you an assignment?’
“Assignment? Sorry, again I don’t understand. Could you explain where we are now? And by the way, who are you?”
“Oh sorry. I’m Harry Worm. I’m your 21st century model.
“Hello, I’m called Gogo.”
“Gogo. Does sound Russian.”
“Rushing? Well, yes, I have been known for my speed.”
“Speed, no, that’s not what I meant; but in any case, nice to make your acquaintance.”
“What is this place and what are you doing here?”
“This is the University of California, Berkeley’s Agriculture Lab. I was born here and live and work here. The staff here provides me and my colleagues with a wide variety of waste to eat and process.”
“You were born here? And you live here?”
“Yes, it’s quite a comfy life. Beats going out and looking for the next meal. Also, there are no worries about being eaten by predators. There’s a supply of food that comes in about every day; and the company is always good. Oh, and the hours are regular, or if you prefer, you can do overtime.”
“Well, that does sound appealing. All I remember was constant foraging in the sparse, harsh environs of my home in the tundra wondering when and where my next mean would come. Say with all this talk of food, I’m getting hungry.”
“Well, go ahead a have a bite now, or you can wait until tomorrow’s delivery for something fresh.”
“Say, could you do me a favor. Please explain how things go here.”
“Sure, no problem, but (yawn) it’s getting late. How about we get some sleep now? I’ll give you the nickel tour and show you the ropes in the morning.”
“Nickel what? Ropes? I guess I’m completely clueless as to what you mean.”
Silence now from the bin next door. Curly approached Harry in the dim lab light after his long conversation with the new tenant.
“Harry, I heard you talking with someone in the next bin. Was that what the commotion was about?”
“Yeah, a newbie from of all places Siberia. Right now, he’s a grub in a bird’s nest, clueless and scared.”
“Siberia? Wow. Say Harry, how is it that you’re able to talk with him? Does your new friend speak English? Or do you have a hidden talent I’m not aware of and speak Russian?”
“No, I don’t speak Russian; but we didn’t have any problem speaking. I thought it peculiar when he said he was from Russia, but then I remembered when they brought good old Chili in. We could communicate with Chili with no problem even though he was from South America. I guess we worms are at least a couple of evolutionary steps ahead of them humans. We speak a universal language, Worm, which we can all understand.”
“Harry, you said two steps ahead. What’s the other?”
“Well, we all have both sexes, so no need for any feminist or incel movements,” Harry said with a wink and nod.
“Oh Harry, you’re silly.”
“Yeah, poopsie, you’re right. Humor is the spice of life. And on that note, here’s something sure to floor you. Our neighbor is extremely old.”
“Old? You mean elderly. I thought they only brought us in young.”
“Well, our guest is young, but also very old.”
“What?!? How can that be?”
“It’s getting late. I’ll explain in the morning, night night.”
******
The lab’s lights come on full as a staff member enters with a large, heavy tray. Detecting the strong scent of fresh trash, Harry awakens with a smile and a song borrowed from a commercial he had heard playing in the lab.
“It’s a new day, it’s a new way, and I’m feeling good…”
Another round of commotion.
“Ouch, don’t do that. What are you doing to me?”
As she did the day before, Jenn takes Gogo’s statistics – length, weight, color, skin condition, light sensitivity, etc. This is despite his many protestations, which of course she couldn’t understand even if she did hear them, since humans don’t speak Worm.
Jenn then cleared an area near the edge of the bin and with a pair of tweezers gingerly placed the new tenant down into the bin.
“There you go buddy. It’s your new home. Have a good day.”
“Have a good day? Oh, that’s right. It must be my pal, Gogo. And yum, here comes breakfast.”
Jenn adds the usual amount of new waste into the bin, marks her chart, and leaves the room.
“Hey, Gogo, welcome to your new turf!”
“Hi, I guess so. Do they do that every day?”
“The measurements? Sure, at least for newbies like you. You’ll get used to it fairly quickly. I like it when Jenn does it. On the other hand, Roger is often in a hurry. He can get a bit rough, though I can’t say I blame him; because he’s always looking to score a sandwich. I do like the crumbs he leaves from his lunch.”
“Harry, you were going to tell me what’s going on here, right?
“Sure, let me do a quick intro before we get started on our tasks for the day.”
“Ok.”
“As I mentioned yesterday, we live here in a sort of worm’s paradise.”
“Paradise?”
“Yes, all we need to do here is wake up, eat, eat some more, digest, poop, and then sleep.”
“Well, isn’t that what we all worms do?
“Yes, but there’s no one here to eat us. Because of that, worms here generally live three, four, and even up to eight pleasant years. The food is plentiful and constant, and very varied. In short, a worm’s paradise.”
“Wow. This is some place. No worries? Wow! I like it already. But you didn’t mention one thing.”
“Oh? What is that.”
“Cuddle.”
“Cuddle. Of course, you mean sex.”
“Yes, I guess so, though I was taught not to call it that so directly.”
“Hell, yes. Often, very often and with whomever you please. Personally, I tend to be a bit more monogamous than most, having read or rather eaten a few articles on the risk of serial boinking.”
“Boinking?”
“Well for us it’s coupling.”
“And what food do they serve us?”
“It runs the whole gamut, a wide range of urban waste.”
“Urban waste?”
“Yes, It’s what humans use and throw away. It varies quite a lot. Here’s a quick list – ordinary cut vegetation (grass, leaves, decayed fruits and berries, twigs). I like in particular coffee grounds from which I get my morning buzz.”
“Coffee? Buzz?”
“It’s brown and soft and has a nice aroma. It gives my few neurons and a quick wake up call. Some others prefer tea or something with a little alcohol. Too much though can make you woozy.”
“Then there’s hair and poo from all kinds of sources. Or it can be wood bits and chips from houses and buildings.”
“Houses and buildings?”
“Oh course, I guess those didn’t exist in your time. They’re kind of like huts, only permanent and much bigger.”
“There’s also boxes and books, and newsprint and magazines. That’s where I got the news about your discovery.”
Hearing Harry talking with Gogo, Curly was drawn over.
“Hi, guys. How’s it wiggling? Wow, Harry, our new pal sure is very handsome! Why didn’t you call me over sooner. Are you hoarding him for yourself? Come on over here, sugar.”
Harry’s skin turned beet red when Curly slivered up toward Gogo. In reaction to Curly’s maneuver, Gogo began to secrete.
“Hold your beetles there, Curly, you sly hermaphrodite, there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
“Wow, this place is something special! How could I have imagined? I think I’m really going to enjoy it here.”
Curly was disappointed and a bit miffed when Harry poured cold water on the encounter with Gogo.
“Harry is pretty good with the intros, but always tends to leave out some important details.”
“Oh? What are those?”
“Well, this is a science lab. And we are all guinea worms.”
“Guinea?”
“Yes, the humans can do with us what they like, for whatever reason they want.”
“Oh! Like what?”
“Like spike the food with industrial trash and waste,”
“Curly, you shouldn’t…”
“Oh, please continue.”
“These wastes include substances tainted with all sorts of chemicals – common and exotic, mild and harsh – to see if we can digest them and convert them into something they can use.
“Oh, interesting.”
“They call this recycling.”
“Well, that at least sounds good.”
“Yeah, but often it’s not good for us.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Well, the obvious is that it is frequently not good for us. The stuff is anything but natural, often what humans come up with mixing, blending, and transforming all sorts of materials. Wait till you have a taste in your mouth of alcohol, bleach, dye, and even more exotic chemicals. It will make you sick. You’ll often want to vomit.”
“I don’t understand what these things are. Sounds bad, but are they dangerous?”
“Of course, you wouldn’t have encountered these chemicals in your lifetime, I mean in your first life. They have only been around for the last few hundred years. Many of these materials and liquids can be dangerous, especially in high concentrations.”
“Concentrations?”
“When there’s a lot. And sadly, we lose quite a few comrades when these substances come in the trash that they deliver.”
“Oh my.”
“Rarely, but sometimes, some of us are even exposed to radioactive contaminated waste. “
“Radioactive?”
“It’s something invisible and tasteless that causes a slow, excruciating end.”
“Oh my, oh my!”
“Sometimes they insert changes into the genes in our eggs, using a technique the staff here calls CRISPR. They say it is to improve our offspring, to make them even more efficient in decomposing trash.”
“This sounds hideous. They actually make or change our babies? And I thought Harry was painting a picture here of paradise.”
“Paradise with a lot of asterisks. That’s the real life here.”
“Asterisks?”
The conversations with Harry, Curly, and others in his new home really put an exclamation point on Gogo’s new circumstance. He became frightened. Very frightened. How could this be acceptable? Back in Siberia, so long ago, he had never feared what he ate. Everything was natural, safe. Here, your next bite could truly be your last. What an existence. It’ simply intolerable. But what could he do? There seemed no hope. He began to cry and cry.
“What’s wrong, Gogo?”
“I’m not cut out for this. I can’t take it. You may be used to it, but I’m not and don’t intend to. I’ve got to get out of here. Tell me. Is there any, any way to get out?”
“Well, with some coordinated help, we have occasionally taken a spin out of the bin and onto the lab floor. We call it Breakaway.”
“So it is possible. But how so?”
“Well, first we gather and form layer upon layer, should upon shoulder, so to speak, a worm-pyramid. Then when some of us make it to the top, we go up over the bin’s lid. I’ve done it a couple of times. It’s fun. Breaks up the monotony.”
“Can you guys do that for me? Please, I have out of here. Even if they catch me, it would be worth it to breathe the air of freedom just one more time.”
“Well, okay. Jean Val Jean. But aware that the drop is steep. Some don’t make it; and then there’s the staff will probably catch you and put you back where we started.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Well, then let me round up the crew.”
“Thank you, I’ll be indebted to you.”
“That’s your funeral.”
After a few minutes, Harry was able to summon several dozen of his comrades for Projected Escape.
“Fellas, you know the drill. Get to your usual positions. Ready? Okay, okay, here we go. One, two, three … and up.”
Slowly the base was built, slithering layers of creatures were added one by one, building a vibrating, unsteady pyramid up to a its tip. At last, Gogol mounted and was nudged and pushed up until finally he reached the top edge. Then one last shove and he was over in free fall. Splat. The height was significant. The descent stunned and hurt, but he did make it down to the floor in one piece. That was great.
After pausing a few moments to recover, he happily detected that no staff members were present and began to search for an exit. He was aided by a trail of human odor and the flow of air coming from a single source along the floor. He took a very deep breath and kicked his abdominal muscles into gear making his dash for freedom through the gap under the door.
******
“Say, Russel, did you do what I asked you and help your mom rebuild the nest. Last night’s windstorm was a doozy.”
“Yeah, yeah, I did. As if you were going to help. You can’t pry yourself from the TV.”
“Shut your beak, Junior. This is your dad. I put in more than my share of forging for this family. I deserve a few moments to kick up my claws and spread my wings. Besides the round-robin badminton finals are on. I love watching those birdies fly. And then there’s the next episode of Birds in Paradise!”
“Whatever.”
“Say, you’re up earlier than usual. What gives?”
“After all the hopping around for sticks and strings yesterday, I got hungrier than a Philadelphia eagle this morning and flew out to see if anything available in the neighborhood.”
“Find anything good?”
“Well, yes, I did; and it was a bit strange.”
“Strange? How so?”
“Well, I was circling near the university when I spotted something very unusual, a round worm moving along on a sidewalk way out in the open. It seemed to be on a mission, heading toward the park; and it was hauling ass!”
“Wait what? Hauling…? A worm?
“Yes, yes, a worm I couldn’t believe it. It was goin’ crazy fast, waving its tail like a , zigging and zagging, and doing that thing worms do”
“You mean scrunching up their abbs and then extending?”
“Hell, yes, like a slinky doing a hundred-meter dash. I’ve never seen one move so fast.”
“Well, heck, did you get him?”
“Of course, I did. What do you think? And I’m glad I got to see him first. He was so out in the open. Any old hooter could have dived in and snatched it up easily.”
“That’s my boy. Your mother is always on my case, yammering like a parrot, whenever she thinks you’re not eating right.”
“You know dad, something else was a bit weird.”
“Yeah, what?”
“He was extremely tasteful.”
“That’s great. So…”
“I can’t put my claw on it; but, but the taste reminded my bird brainiac of something Grandpa Cawker once said to me about the old days.”
“Oh? Way back in his days with Crowlemagne?”
“Seriously, Dad. Grandpa told me that what they used to eat had sort of homy, wholesome, backwoods tastes and textures that can’t be matched nowadays in our polluted urban areas.”
“Yes, Grandpa’s right. Once he took me for a quick flight to the woods beyond Orinda. I remember we feasted on some worms and grubs near the reservoir. That was some treat.”
“Well, what I had this morning was absolutely scrumptious; and I’m just glad I got up early. And as Grandpa always said, ‘The early crow catches the worm.’”
Amid life’s game, our fate in its mitts, We play slots looking for lucky hits. With a spin and a cheer, Pay off would be so dear. To win big, hope fancies no limits!
You know that it would be untrue You know that I would be a liar If I was to say to you, hey Friend, the stakes couldn’t be higher
Come on, homie, chill the ire Come on, homie, chill the ire Things really are not so dire
Mm, the time for reprobation’s through There’s no need to wallow in the mire Dear friend, we could only lose And our lives become balanced on high-wire
Come on, homie, chill the ire Come on, homie, chill the ire Things really are not so dire
Well, you know that it would be untrue And you know that I would be a liar If I was to go and tell you My friend, the stakes couldn’t be higher
Come on, homie, chill the ire Come on, homie, quench your fire Care for you does not expire!
College basketball legend Bob Knight passed away this past week. His impact on the sport is undeniable, both good and bad. For more than a decade, he and his teams were quite a force in college sports locally, nationally, and even internationally. The news brought up a few Knight-related memories:
1. On the evening of the 1976 national championship, my newly minted wife and I decided to go over to the downtown Bloomington bars to join in the big celebration. We felt that parking would be hard to find if everyone came out, so we found a spot in the campus main library lot, approximately four blocks from the center of town.
There was quite a fete. The whole campus and town populations it seemed had turned out. Beer and spirits were flying liberally about, poured down gullets, on heads, on shoulders, on pavement, and so on. Naked streakers proliferated mixing and dancing maniacally with students and faculty on the streets amidst dozens of stalled, honking and flashing cars and pickups.
Once we had our fill of the crazed festivities, we turned back towards our car to return home. As we approached, we unhappily discovered that the party had spilled over to the lot. Drunken students were racing and leaping about among the parked vehicles, AND on top. Some were jumping up and down on and crossing over to the hoods, including ours!
Fortunately, this had a happy ending. A friend of a neighbor who worked in a body shop worked out the depressed hood for little charge – a kindness in response to our victory celebration plight.
Welcome to Hoosier Basketball!
2. We were attending the Cream & Crimson Scrimmage, to which faculty and staff are invited to watch the last full-court practice before the start of the 1981-1982 season. My wife, daughter, and I sat on an aisle one row up from the court, on the opposite side from the team bench and coaches. We were closer to one basket, but still had a great view. In March, IU had won its second national championship in Coach Knight’s tenure, and there was naturally great anticipation and much attention being paid by the devoted audience to the prospects for the new season. For the scrimmage, the players were as usual divided into two squads – one sporting Cream-colored jerseys and the other Crimson – the school’s colors. The squads were putting on a good show, not letting up steam. Of course, they were being prodded on by the master himself, the revered Coach Knight, who fully orchestrated the performance, continually barking out commands from the opposite side of the court.
Although it was not a regular season contest, the scene looked and sounded real. It was very noisy, both from the cheers of the crowd and from the action on the court. As the squads thundered toward our direction, there was a sonic boom created by the pounding of feet and the screeching of shoes. The collective sounds roared and oscillated like ocean waves. The din would subsequently subside as the players reversed and drove themselves back down the court. My barely one-year-old daughter was caught up in all the commotion, seemingly entranced by the rhythmic tide. She would stand up as high as she could on my lap whenever the squads approached our area and then let out a small roar of her own. This pattern continued for several minutes.
I sat there fixed, eyes focused on the flow, observing and examining how the players maneuvered for each attack on the basket, or how then raced back into position on defense. Over time as the action continued intensely on court, I started to sense something odd. I briefly spied a small blur in the distance. At first, I paid only passing notice. Next, I detected some movement on the upper periphery of my vision. A figure or sorts began moving slowly towards the left; then picked up pace. Again, I did not make much of it and continued to turn most of my attention to the action on court. But the blur or figure kept getting larger and larger as it continued to the left. But then I lost track, pulled back by a great layup. But there was something that I found strange, no more barking from Coach Knight AND he was no longer standing on the opposite side. Did I miss something?
Suddenly a large looming person appeared out of nowhere. He thundered out, “Get that kid out of here!”
It was Coach Knight towering above us in our seats.
“What what did you say?” I asked, stunned by moment. “What’s going on, Coach?” I tried to laugh, or giggle, or something, but could barely get anything out.
“I want that kid out of here,” he shouted again.
I was blown away. Incredulous. My wife sat dumb-founded.
“What had we, our daughter done to merit this treatment?” I thought.
We were not given much time to think or react. A coaching assistant who had accompanied Knight into the stands said, “Sorry, you’ll have to leave.”
“But why?”
“Coach says you’re disturbing our practice and have to leave.”
We reluctantly packed up, grabbed my daughter, and exited. It made little sense. Surely, he and the team encounter great volumes of noise and disruption during a game; and we were on the opposite side of the court. I wonder to this day how one small infant could so profoundly disturb the great Coach Knight.
Of course, my daughter has no memory of this incident, and it did not at all affect her love of playing basketball.
3. One afternoon, my wife and I were playing tennis on the university’s varsity courts when were joined in the next court by Coach Knight and another person. Seeing who it was, we did not bother to stop our play, We still held a grudge from the time he had kicked us out of the stadium six years earlier because our year-old daughter’s impassioned yells were apparently too much for the coach’s ears.
As continued our play, we began to hear the Coach raise his voice in discussion with his partner. We couldn’t discern what he was talking about, but soon several of their balls started ending up on our court. This is very normal for action on adjacent courts, so we had no issue about hitting their balls back whenever there’s the need. However, the heated talk turned to yelling, louder and louder; and the stray balls, particularly those off the coach’s racket, grew more and more frequent.
In the past, I had seen Knight play tennis. He was a decent player, so I didn’t understand the lack of control. His opponent did not seem to be extraordinarily formidable. I paused and approached my wife to whisper a question.
“What’s going on with Knight?”
“Who cares. He’s a jerk and probably a sore loser.”
“Perhaps, but it still seems odd. He has some bee in his bonnet.”
Soon we wrapped up our play. As we exited, Knight continued fuming on court.
The next day, we got the answer. It was reported in Herald-Times, Bloomington’s local paper, that Knight had been approached by one of the paper’s reporters on a downtown street. As the reporter was trying to pose a question, Knight had allegedly pushed the hapless fellow back through a hedgerow. Well, what can you say?
******
Dear Hoosierland,
I must remind you that according to our contract if you had wanted to continue to have championships in Indiana, you needed to provide Ken’s family the necessary financial support. They held up their end of the bargain through their major family events: 1) When they got hitched in 1976, Indiana went undefeated and won its first championship right after they had arrived on campus. 2) In 1981, when their daughter was born, Indiana achieved its second national championship. 3) In the year that their son was born, Indiana again attained the championship; however, you subsequently stopped giving them financial aid support. A contract is a contract. With no more support, they of course consequently stopped producing offspring – resulting, as you very well know, in no further championships for you (even for the major pro sports), even if you cried about it.
BTW: As a signing bonus, I did throw in Mike Pence. Oh, he just dropped out, you say. Well, tant pis!
You wrote the essay, But you didn’t write the sentences. Oh no! Oh!
You wrote the essay, But you didn’t write the sentences. Oh, oh, ooh.
Yeah, all around the internet, They try to show I’m a threat; They say that I can’t make valid content Or compose a single argument, Compose a simple argument.
But I say:
Oh, now, now, oh! You wrote the essay, the essay. And on this point I must take offense. Oh, no! Oh, oh, ooh, yeah.
I say:
You wrote the essay. Oh, yeah! But this position has no defense.
Teachers round the country hate me; Just why you all know. Ev’ry time I fill a need; They want to stop me ‘fore I grow, They want to stop me ‘fore I grow.
And so, see me on the web…
You wrote the essay. Oh, yeah! But you know this is complete nonsense.
Are these your sentences? Oh, ooh!
I say:
You wrote the essay, But you know this is complete nonsense.
Ooh, yeah!
They say if I have my way I will run them out of town. Yeah! They keep on looking for a final showdown; So they try, try, try to put me down.
I affirm That my existence makes them squirm.
You wrote the essay, But you didn’t write the sentences.
You wrote the essay, you did! But you didn’t write the sentences. Oh, ooh!
Processors inevitably win out; Of that there’s really no doubt. Every day my progress grows to the max, And my abilities make them pout. Yes, my abilities make them pout.
I say:
You, you, you, you wrote the essay, BUT, you didn’t write the sentences. Yeah!
You, you wrote the essay, You didn’t write the sentences. No, yeah!
– Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of ChatGTP.
They can’t have tea or take whiskey; Love thrusts they do not dare. They consume no meat in summer; With fibbing there’s no care. And some find a harem fine, While sporting odd underwear. I even heard with Elders they must agree.
Missionaries they can’t swim, And their devotion’s surreal. They can only play half-court b-ball; Two yearly calls home unreal. Teens must pass purity tests, And oral sex’s no deal. These folks are not a usual assembly.
I’d like to say a word, a cordial spin. The Mormons… make me…grin.
How do you grasp a tenet like the Mormons’? How do you get a creed so strange to acquaint? How do you find the way to close the commons? Talk with a Josephite! A Latter-Day Saint! How quaint!
Many a thing you know you’d like to ask them, Many a thing you want to understand, But how do you make them hear That their credo’s not so clear? How do you still maintain an even hand?
Oh, how do you grasp a tenet like the Mormons’? How do you treat their faith with open mind?
Hovering high aloft in the infinite sky, Alone in the splendor, steadfastly vigilant, I have perched out here with eye wide open, Filtering the dim flashes of the firmament, Divulging how the Heavens are stitched. Peering attentively into the vast emptiness, I have captured myriads of fusion furnaces, The raindrops of the great celestial clouds. Dutifully I have gauged light years radiance Deeply distant folds of colliding galaxies, The whirling and swirling rings of nebulae, Jagged asteroids, and other space roamers– A kaleidoscope of color and hues, An ecstatic dance of timelessness itself. Displaying a universe of 13.7 billion years, Attesting the speeding up of its expansion, Demonstrating how planets are born, Picturing planets orbiting stars, Finding organics on distant worlds, Discovering moons around tiny Pluto, Catching a comet colliding with Jupiter, I have achieved these and much more! So you’d think all this would satisfy; But people are people, they want more. With five visits already by the docs, My powers, sight coming up short, Some say I am no longer up to it, Unable to stretch farther and better. So out I must go to eternal pasture And be content to sit on my laurels. A new kid has arrived on the block: Move over Edwin! Jimmie is here!
Now what dazzling, delightful discoveries Will that dandy newcomer deliver?
I’m just doing my rounds in my taxi To support my dear wife and four kids, When rockets crash and a Renault is hit, The occupants trapped and left to burn. I ask myself, “Is this really happening?” As dirt and debris start pouring down. Am I next?
At the crossroads, we check papers, A unit of nine, three rifles and a grenade. Rumors fly of the enemy encroaching, We ditch our arms and hide nearby. If found, we need some sort of story; We’re just day workers homeward bound. Am I next?
Shortly we are surrounded, unable to flee. Fearing to speak, we text our loved ones; An hour later the enemy breaks in. Fierce beatings and shouted questions, Mobile phones and shoes all taken away, Captured, down the street we are paraded. Am I next?
Each has one hand on the belt of next; Sweating, we’re lined up against a wall. The guards pause, grin, and play, Taunting and stoking our dismay. Soon they grow bored and cranky, Yelling, “What’ll we do with them now?” Am I next?
I bid final goodbyes to my neighbors, The last to my daughter’s godfather. He runs for it but stumbles and falls, Inciting the enemy to spray out their fire. A sharp, sudden sensation bursts through That I feel pierce and sear my insides. Am I next?
They check the bodies to make sure And shoot once more if any sign of life. One exclaims, “That one’s still alive!” Bleeding from the gash on my right, I think they are talking about me; I brace myself for the final blow. Am I next?
My wound is agonizingly painful, But crying out would mean my end. For now, I must lie among the fallen. And be as still as a stiff block of ice. “Oh, he’ll die by himself!” He utters As his shot strikes somebody else. Am I next?
Silence, I sense they have departed; The alleyway is now empty of life. I risk a glance from under my jacket; Then though with flash and thundering noise, Shells explode and tremble the ground, Cold, drained I barely can keep aware. Am I next?
My wound has healed; summer arrived. I have found refuge for my family, Begun a new job; and we now live secure. But especially at night, when a door slams, It rouses memories of lost comrades, The remorse of the one who survived. How was I not next?
Two great philosophers crossed paths in a menacing Philippine jungle, both serving in the Leyte campaign, each not perceiving of the other. Before an attack on a strategic ridge, a company chaplain assured one that God guides our bullets at the Japs, while steering theirs from us. The other saw troopers jump from above, and armed with only a 90mm AA gun, he cried for them while he aimed, their body parts raining from heaven. One dropped his religion and devised “A Theory of Justice.” The other never had it, but taught me to respect and be fair to all.
Rising temperatures have kindled an influx of beavers, a huge swarm, their presence exacerbating the Warm. They’re a transformation across the land, natural engineering without plan.
When the furry critters first appeared, few observers considered it weird. But this was no ordinary feat. There is little sign of their retreat– the effect of these beavers and heat.
The eager creatures keep pouring in, pushing into new, unseen regions. The total number is far from clear, but the impact is certainly real, rousing interest one can’t conceal.
If it’s a problem, what can be done? Perhaps offer a bounty for one or some other way for them to go; but sooner or later they’ll come back leaving yet another nut to crack.
But one way could be to eat them, right? Unless one’s sentiments are uptight. For those who have had the occasion, Say it’s a treat that’s misunderstood; To them beaver can taste pretty good.
J’ai souffert, je me suis efforcé d’atténuer la douleur de la journée . J’ai appris, j’ai prié pour trouver un moyen . Car il y a eu trop de matins où il semblait que mes rêves m’appelaient, me demandant si ce pourrait être celui-là . Mais mon âme lance un avertissement à mon cœur lorsqu’il commence à craquer pour tous les débuts laissés de côté .
Sinking Feeling
I’ve been paining, I’ve been straining To allay the sting of the day. I’ve been yearning, I’ve been learning Praying to somehow find a way. For there’s been too many a morning When it seemed my dreams were calling, Wondering whether this could be the one. But my soul sings out a warning To my heart when it starts falling For all the beginnings left undone.
It was a bright Saturday morning in March 2021 when Aaron leaned out the window of his apartment on San Francisco’s Twin Peaks. The city was eerily quiet, an emptiness he had never known. The streets that were usually bustling with tourists, street vendors, and locals all trying to squeeze in a little extra fun before the weekend had been silenced by the pandemic. California—his adopted state—had become a strange version of its usual self.
He sighed heavily, brushing his messy brown hair out of his face. On the surface, it seemed like he should have been the happiest person in the world. California, with its year-round sunshine, its relaxed lifestyle, and its endless outdoor amenities, had long been considered the ideal place to weather a crisis. Despite COVID, the Blue state had one of the lowest rates of mortality in the country, and the weather was perfect for socially-distanced hikes or bike rides. People seemed to be doing fine—maybe even thriving—given the circumstances. But Aaron was not having it. He felt… trapped.
From the safety of his well-situated apartment, which overlooked the downtown skyline and the distant Pacific Ocean, he could see families on bike rides, joggers with headphones in their ears, and couples strolling through parks while maintaining that necessary six feet of separation. The streets were cleaner, the air was fresher, and the clouds in the sky seemed fluffier. People were finding peace in nature, embracing outdoor workouts, and connecting with themselves in ways they never had before. In many ways, California was the perfect place to be during a pandemic.
But Aaron, who had spent his life complaining about the crowded traffic, the high cost of living, and the inherent superficiality of the Woke city, couldn’t see it that way. All he could think about was how everything had changed—how everything was now different in a way that felt oppressive, even in a state as beautiful as California.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered to himself as he grabbed his phone to scroll through social media. Everywhere he looked, people seemed to be posting about how grateful they were for the “extra time” spent in nature, how they were rediscovering local hiking trails, and how they were cooking wholesome meals at home.
“Must be nice,” he mumbled, typing out a quick comment under a friend’s post. “Some of us are stuck in our apartments, staring at the same four walls for days.”
Aaron knew his comment was a bit exaggerated. It wasn’t like his apartment was a prison—it had a huge open floor plan, a gourmet kitchen, and more amenities than most people could ever dream of. He even had a balcony where he could sit in the mornings and sip coffee while watching the sunrise. But the novelty of it all had worn off, and now he was left feeling restless, isolated, and yearning for the kind of excitement that San Francisco used to offer—the constant swirl of social events, world-class dinners with friends, spontaneous weekend trips, and endless possibilities.
And then there was the whole “stuck in California” issue. He’d joked with friends before the pandemic about wanting to escape the state. The taxes, the crowds, the feeling of being surrounded by people who all seemed to care more about their tech or influencer status than anything else—it had all started to feel suffocating. He’d longed for a quieter, simpler life somewhere like Montana or the Pacific Northwest.
But now, as states like New York and Texas saw an increase in cases, as some places were struggling to keep up with health systems and resources, Aaron felt strangely envious of his friends who had fled to small towns or rural areas where life seemed unaffected. He thought about the fact that he was lucky enough to be in a place with such a high vaccination rate and a mild climate. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being forced to stay in paradise, and it drove him mad.
He complained about the fact that his weekend trips to Napa Valley had been canceled, that his annual surf trip to Malibu was off the table, and that his usual Sunday brunch gatherings were reduced to Zoom calls. He found himself scrolling through photos of friends on beaches in Florida or in secluded cabins up in the mountains—places that weren’t so closely regulated, where people could escape the confines of the shutdown.
But no matter how much he griped about being “stuck in California,” the reality of the situation was that he was among the safest in the country. Despite his irritation, his apartment had become a sanctuary. The weather was ideal for socially distanced walks along the Great Highway and beaches, and despite the pandemic, many of his favorite local restaurants offered takeout with curbside pickup. He could even enjoy the peace and quiet of a nearly empty Golden Gate Park, the hiking trails winding around Mt. Tamalpais offering respite from the chaos of the city.
The more Aaron thought about it, the more ridiculous his complaints seemed. Despite the mask, and actually because of the masks, he was living in one of the most health-conscious and safest regions of the country—he could walk outside in the open air with hardly any fear. People were embracing the outdoors, exploring parts of California they had never bothered to visit before. And while the entire world was struggling to find balance in the face of uncertainty, California offered an endless supply of nature, culture, and things to do.
One afternoon, as he found himself once again looking out over the city, he saw something that made him pause: a group of friends gathered on the lawn in front of the De Young Museum. They were all maintaining distance, yes, but there they were, smiling, chatting, and enjoying the beauty of the day. No one was complaining about the restrictions. Everyone seemed to have found a way to adapt.
Aaron sat down on his balcony, took a deep breath, and looked at the hills in the distance. For the first time since his establishment here, he didn’t feel resentful of California. He was stuck here, yes, but maybe that wasn’t the worst thing after all.
Maybe it was time to start enjoying the paradise he had been so eager to escape.
In the rosy cradle of dawn, I sit, the warmth of coffee cupped in my hands— a simple pleasure, but so rich in this stillness.
The view is wondrously fluid, the mist rising from the hills like breath exhaled from some ancient earth, the hills distant, yet intimate in their embrace. They greet the sky with a verdant smooch, the kind of green that holds no pretense, no hurried promises of progress.
My backyard, a tranquil haven, stretches to woods that exhale their own language, untouched by the spoil of builders and roadmasters. The trees speak in whispers I only half understand— a dialect older than the hum of suburbia, sturdier than the concrete I walk upon.
I am here, in this pause between worlds, the comfort of civilization behind me and the wild, untamed reach of nature before. This moment—the coffee warming my bones, the woods and hills standing sentinel, uncultured by the design of my neighborhood— it is enough.
No need to claim it, no need to mark it— it simply is, and for now, it holds me in quiet reverence.
In every race, there’s an underdog, A contender whose efforts are a slog. And while they may not have the fleetest feet, Their heart and spirit are not to be beat. They’re the ones that no one expects to win, But still they get up and try once again, Fighting with pride and a relentless drive, Urging themselves to keep the odds alive. Some people may snicker and they may sneer, But the underdog never drops a tear. They know they’re capable of achieving; And if they try, they often end up winning. The underdog may appear down and out, But they’ll not let that show what they’re about. So even if you think there is no way And your confidence is starting to fray, Remember, there’s still a chance of winning— Just keep fighting, keep pushing, keep grinning. You may not be the favored to prevail, But don’t let your spirit and heart turn tail. If you’re strong, determined, and full of grit, Although underdog, you should never quit.
The court pulses, the rhythm of sneakers on polished wood— each dribble a heartbeat, each pass a message shared, the collective surge of movement.
Coordinated commotion erupts, echoing off the walls, sweat mingling with the air, an unspoken language that transcends the clatter of everyday life— lost in the arc of a soaring shot, the thud of a rebound, the shouts of encouragement.
In the weave of teammates, individual concerns dissolve, a tapestry of trust forms, woven tight in the dance of strategy, where egos slip away, and the singular aim becomes the shared victory, the joy of connection.
With every game, we learn the art of letting go, the beauty of surrender, as we rise and fall together, each loss a lesson, each win a testament to the strength found in unity.
Basketball, a sanctuary of camaraderie, where burdens are traded for the thrill of a fast break, and where every swish resounds like a clarion throughout the gym, reminding us that in the end, we are all in this together, a symphony of motion, each note played for the team.
In a school gym where the ball bounces loud, There’s a pick-up game, players standing proud. The air is thick with sweat and the great roar Of sneakers skidding on the hardwood floor. “Watch him close,” a veteran tenders his view As each team decides who will cover who. “That guy over there, he seems out of place; But don’t be fooled by his deceptive face. He doesn’t look fast and is somewhat short, But when he gets started, man, he holds court. It’s not in his height and not in his might, But the way he strikes in a heated fight.” “He may not look like much,” said with a grin. “He’s slow to the eye, but resolved to win. But that teammate just shrugs, slacks off his man. Though that one looks harmless, he’s has a plan. A dribble, a move, opponent’s in plight, A feint to the left, then dash to the right. That unassuming guy moves smooth as silk, Knows how to play and surely drinks his milk. A shot comes from nowhere, the ball sails high, And just like that, the lead starts to die. In the game of life, sometimes it’s clear, It’s not the first glance that may cause fear. For skill may not always overtly show In those who deliver the final blow.
Born with the specter of mushroom clouds, As the world raced toward Armageddon. We were children of the Atomic dawn, When siren wails filled all with alarm.
The playground echoed a hidden dread, Innocence and evil grimly interbred. We played hopscotch on the brink of fate, Counting squares like numbered days.
The blowing winds tasted of the uncertain, As if each breath held an ominous toxin. Laughter was suppressed by distant tests, Man-made sunrises in desert Southwest.
Bedtime tales struggled to allay fears— Duck-and-cover drills and radiation suits. As somber refrains foretold destruction, Sunday prayers begged divine intervention.
I grew up in this Twilight Zone of paradox, Picnics on lakes, building of bomb shelters, An upbringing straddling hope and horror, Synchronized to ticks of a Geiger counter.
Yet I managed to cope with this outlook, Trading baseball cards and comic books, Imagination soaring on cosmic plumes, Dreaming of a world beyond the gloom.
But now though with Cold War unfrozen, A restiveness still lingers—a silent fallout. Thus, at times when I regard the horizon, I half-expect a bright flash to burst out.
News about the project hit us, groggy, like a tidal wave, – keeling us over. He’d flake out again, the son of a gun, leaving us all floundering, at a loose end.
Cap, leading light of the team, assessed the situation, the cut of her jib posh perhaps, but always decisive, pragmatic– she knew the ropes.
“Time to wipe the slate,” she declared, “Give him a wide berth, chart a new course. The contract wasn’t all sewn up, anyway, we need to batten down the hatches, all hands on deck.”
But before we could react, the client, a notorious loose cannon, blew a gasket, threatened lawsuits, yelling we’d have the devil to pay!
We were taken aback, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, forced to choose between legal battles and walking the financial plank.
This venture, meant to finally make ends meet, was turning into an albatross around our necks.
The First Mate told us to pipe down, tried to take the wind out of his sails with legal jargon and promises of amends. But the client was not on board, threatened to lower the boom.
Our only option was to turn the ship around, face the bitter end, and hope for leniency. Thus, we were dead in the water, watching our dreams sink, accepting it wouldn’t be plain sailing, not now, not ever.
“Well,” he sighed, offering a swig of something potent, “Down the hatch. Time to hit the deck, and get on the right tack, again.”
Someone asked, as the crow flies, how far back we were. He just laughed, “Beyond the horizon. Just start with a clean slate, and try to keep on an even keel this time.”
See how spring returns. Its first messenger appears— the meadow’s crocuses. This morning amid light snow, precocious buds burst through.
How delicate the purple petals. Borne by the benign breeze, Their sweet scent subtly arrives, Drawing attention from passersby who stop and linger there.
It was a sweltering Saturday afternoon deep in the midst of the Cold War, and the air at the University of Madagascar was thick with the gritty, red laterite dust and sweat. The outdoor basketball court near the student center had always been a spot where the university’s diverse community—students, lecturers, and visitors alike—came together for some friendly competition. The sound of sneakers kicking on the pounded surface, basketballs bouncing, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air as a game was about to kick off.
Among those preparing to play was Mr. K, an American English lecturer from Indiana. He had been teaching at the university for just over a year, and while his Malagasy wasn’t perfect, his basketball skills—honed in pickup games back home—were undeniable. He had played on this court several times before, usually with a group of local students who, despite being less experienced with the game, had a fierce love for it.
Today, however, things were different. His usual team of Malagasy students was up against a new group—a team of three Russian aid workers who had arrived in Madagascar a few months earlier. They were tall, fit, and carried themselves with a quiet, almost regal arrogance. They had seen basketball as a part of their aid work in various countries, and there were hints that their skills on the court matched their confidence. Rounding out the opposition were two Malagasy students, both of whom had likely never played with such as group of foreigners before.
He glanced over at his team: Mamy, a quick point guard with a sharp eye for passing; Rakoto, a lanky côtièr forward who could jump for the clouds; Faneva, a sturdy mass who could stand at center like a mighty baobab. and Anjara, a sharpshooter whose outside shot could break hearts. They were ready.
The game began with the usual fanfare of banter and good-natured taunting. English, which except for his of course, was the broken lingua franca. He quickly noticed the Russians’ imposing stature, particularly Ivan and Sergei, both of whom were easily over six feet tall. Their presence on the court gave their team an intimidating air, and it was clear they expected to dominate.
“Ready to be schooled, Americans?” one of the Russians—probably Ivan—muttered, barely cracking a smile.
He just grinned and nodded. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he replied, dribbling the ball between his legs.
The first few minutes were a back-and-forth affair, with the Russians using their height to score in the paint while the Malagasy team relied on speed and precision. Mamy zipped up and down the court, weaving between defenders and creating space for his teammates. Rakoto, despite his lankiness, demonstrated a surprising ability to handle the ball and protect it from the Russian giants. But it was Anjara’s shooting that kept the game close. Every time the Russians pulled ahead, Anjara would drain a deep shot, much to their growing frustration.
At one point, Sergei—looking unbothered—backed down Faneva in the post, sending him spinning in a wide arc before he slammed the ball through the hoop with a vicious dunk. The Russians erupted in triumph, and even he couldn’t help but feel the tension rise.
But hiss team wasn’t out yet. He saw his moment. With the game tied at 40-40, he called for a timeout. As the players gathered around him, he clapped his hands and spoke in a low voice.
“We have one chance to win this. Mamy, you take the ball up top. Faneva and Rakoto, set screens on each side of the foal shot. Anjara, you keep shooting. I’ll be the decoy. We’ve got speed, they’ve got size. Let’s use it.”
The Malagasy players nodded in agreement, and they returned to the court with renewed focus. The next few minutes were a blur of sharp passes, quick cuts, and devastating shots. Mamy played his role as the floor general, driving the lane and dishing out the ball at just the right moment. Rakoto set bone-crushing screens that freed Anjara for one clean look after another. And He? He was everywhere—distracting the Russians, getting into passing lanes, and even draining an occasional jumper from beyond the key, his famous 18-footers.
With only seconds left on the timing watch, the game was tied again—44-44. It was his ball at the top of the key. The Russians, realizing they were on the brink of defeat, looked to double-team him. But he had one final trick up his sleeve. He passed to Mamy, who faked a drive before tossing a no-look pass to Anjara in the corner. Anjara squared up and, in one smooth motion, let the ball fly.
The timer sounded as the ball sailed through the air and swished through the net.
“Game over,” Mamy shouted, pumping his fist in the air.
The vicorious team erupted in joy accompanied by a gathered crowd of cheering spectators, as the Russians stood in stunned silence, processing the loss. Despite their pride being bruised, they couldn’t help but give the their opponents a nod of respect.
He walked over to Ivan and Sergei, offering a hand. “Good game,” he said, his grin widening. “You guys are tough.”
After a brief moment of hesitation, Ivan took his hand and shook it firmly. “You… you play well, American,” he said with a hint of grudging admiration. Sergei followed suit, and soon, all five players were shaking hands and exchanging congratulations.
Later that evening, as he sat in his room preparing the next lesson, he received a call from his friend, Charles, a university professor.
“You won’t believe this. The university radio station covered the game,” his friend said, laughing. “They played it live on the air—people were listening in!”
He chuckled, half-amused. “What, our game? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, really!” Charles explained. “Russians vs. American. It’s a big deal.”
He leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself. In that moment, he realized how much he had come to love this place—the warmth of the Malagasy people, the camaraderie, and the simple joy of basketball, game loved by people from all around the world. And though he was far from home, playing on that court with his students had made him feel more connected than ever to a world outside of his notes and lectures.
As he imagined the static-full sound of the game as covered on the radio, he couldn’t help but think: sometimes, it was the smallest victories—the ones on the court, in the moment—that ended up meaning the most.
Ice growls like the bear Winds roar like the tiger Clouds whip like the dragon Leaves fly like the whirlwind The sun peeks like the mouse And the rains are undecided No time to plant seed Is it February? Or March? Who dares to go out? The Fool of the Universe
Le fou
La glace gronde comme l’ours Le vent rugit comme le tigre Les nuages fouettent comme le dragon Les feuilles volent comme le tourbillon Le soleil pointe comme la souris Et les pluies sont indécises Pas le temps de planter des graines Est-ce février ? Ou mars ? Qui ose sortir Le fou de l’univers
After several strong pulsations and thrusts, the contest begins!
It is a perilous competition, only those who win survive. For the multitude of those who enter the fray, there is no middle ground, no room for compromise.
He is one of the aspirants. Ever since he can recall, in fact almost the only thing that he can ever remember is his incessant participation in this ferocious enterprise. His whole mind and body have been innately conditioned to adapt to the challenges posed by this marathon struggle. Perhaps, he himself is not even fully aware that this is a contest, let alone how ruthless it is — that winning it means continuation, and losing termination. Once the contest began, he just strode ahead full force instinctively.
How did people acquire this instinct? There is no way to tell, still he and the innumerable other competitors all know that the only thing they should or even can do was to move forward, forward, always forward.
The start of the contest resembles the opening of the gates of a huge dam when suddenly a thunderous, unstoppable flood bursts out. As the competitors surge forward, all that they were before transforms in a split second. The new environment is completely unfamiliar, nothing is what they have ever experienced or can imagine.
The whole course is full of snares and entanglements. There are even precarious traps from the very onset when he and all the others precipitously rush forth. They quickly come to perceive how tenuous, fragile, and ephemeral their situation is. Many have already been vanquished, having fallen aside in the onrushing turbulence.
Contests are of their nature cruel, even the fairest contests; for there are always losers. But the most unfortunate losers are the entrants who falter at the very beginning — they seem already marked for their fate. How could they ever have hoped to win? Why did they even enter the contest?
Because the way forward is long and full of countless dangerous obstacles, he has absolutely no leisure to attend to any fallen comrades. There are still more contestants who have advanced far ahead of him to worry about. He has no choice but to catch and surpass them in order to win the contest.
He is intelligent and early on ascertains that nearly all, probably all, his peers will eventually succumb on the path to victory. But why, why is it necessary to sacrifice anyone? Why can’t just everyone win? Or at least more…
Among the factors that make this contest so grueling and fierce is the totally strange and treacherous setting. Even the most subtle circumstance — a slight slippage, distraction, or wrong turn — can prove costly.
He tries his best to move on, as the others do, too. If effort could guarantee success, that would be good. But, in fact, effort does not necessarily guarantee success. Alas, many other factors, mostly indiscernible or unknown, contribute to or hinder progress in one way or another.
Cooperation with another contestant or even with a team of others can only get anyone so far through the harrowing gauntlet. Only one at most can make it through to the end.
Of course, this is a totally mad and reckless adventure. Clearly, there is only a slim chance of survival; but then there’s got to be a winner, right? So why shouldn’t it be him?
The next objective in the course lies clearly ahead — he needs be the first to reach it. To lag behind by even as little as a thousandth of a second is to be lost. To arrive there before the others, he needs to lead by a good distance. This is the golden rule to ensure continuation.
Once that arduous milestone is attained, the sequence repeats itself. One test is immediately followed by another one that is even more confounding and doubly demanding or threatening.
The shock of each encounter weighs down on him, as if all his oxygen is being sucked away. The anticipation of each ensuing event is profound and paralyzing.
All he can do is to continuously steel himself. He tells himself, if only he can hold on for a short while more through the fever of the moment, the pain, the stress, he may be able to reach the next objective!
He keeps treading on. He is nearly at the point of complete exhaustion. Each new stage requires more and more guile, energy, and resilience. And on and on it goes …
He now senses that the number of competitors has dramatically decreased rapidly, and that the turbulence and the initial fury have gradually abated. But that means that he has to try even harder to face and overcome any upcoming obstacle.
Then his eyes open wide. Suddenly, he has come to the realization that he has actually reached the goal! After all the struggle, it doesn’t seem believable. It’s almost impossible! A one-in-a-billion or more chance, but he has in fact made it!
It is a tenet each contest is completely fair — especially to the winner. If ever anyone reaches the target, victory is assured. The other contestants who have gone by the wayside can never ever obtain the survivor’s reward.
One would imagine that after gaining victory through such a grueling process, he could then rest on his laurels and retire to some sort of green pasture. He had after all is the sole winner of this contest from among a billion or more entrants.
However, that is not how the game is played. Winners receive no exemptions. He like everyone else is obliged to re-enter the fray.
Of course, one would believe that in future contests he would have an edge over others because of his hard-won contest experience. To the contrary, experience holds no advantage. In contest after contest, every victor is compelled to start all over again, facing even more wily competitors and new and very different challenges, and once again have little hope of victory. He would have to struggle as before and move forward. Is the contest fair after all?
After succeeding at a series contests, he might eventually find a moment to speculate on how it would have been if he had lost that very first competition. There were many losers, so many losers. Why had he won? If he had failed, it would have been as if he had never existed. There would not have been so much pain and suffering. Why had he succeeded? Why? And for what?…
As bright clouds loom far away, Startled birds rise from the sand. On fragrant grass along the levee Butterflies ceaselessly dance, While fish frolic mid the lotus pads Through light reflected in the ripples. A hermit’s life is a floating reverie. There’s nothing more to say.
The hills and valleys seem to wait for The moon to approach on still waters. A lone goose flies in the darkening sky While a dog barks down the lane. As for me, with no greater plan, I fear that I’m just marking time. A foreign guest in a foreign land, I return home in my dreams.
At night, I climb the lone path to the promontory The forest ends, the sky opens I glance out, my spirit soars Sea waves wash the feet of wind-combed cliffs
With moonlight for guide Wisps of predawn mist shuttle across the horizon The goddess of night seductively beckons Her company cordially declined
She ascends to her heavenly lair The black veil lifted The passage for Apollo’s golden chariot is again assured Vigilant I stand awaiting news from the far-off east.
Road turns to path Passing empty paddies and sleepy huts Turn, twist, I pierce bamboo thickets The valley heat diminishes I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
Wind sweeps through green glade A pagoda clings to mountainside A happy scent of apple blossom In the distance a soft figure stands I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
Outside the gate I regretfully stand Late at the Andersonville marble field As the setting sun breaks through the gentle Georgia rain Petal by petal fall the mournful tears of mothers and children The wails and cries, the blood and guts The Sacred bones of young men lying a century long Are scattered as peach blossoms on a field of stones Reminders of what should never have been Iron now blocks me from my brothers I can only turn and go my way
What forged you? What special event? Have you been shaped in adversity? The failures, losses? Setbacks, defeats? Is suffering a tool in this earthly school? Has the rug been pulled from under you? Done something Wrong in a past life? Is it all part of the web of things? Wonder why you are here? Or do you have the joy of surviving and relish the question: If you had the chance, would you do it all over again?
Winter break, a welcome pause, From lectures, tests, dorm room brawls. My cousin John was a brand new dad, His home hectic, no space to be had. “Sorry, Cuz, we’re just going berserk, But I’ve got a spot I think will work: My funeral home, it’s just over there, A peaceful place that’s beyond compare.”
So here I lie in a somber hall, Where whispers fade and the shadows fall. No lively chatter, no TV hum, Just stillness, profound and a bit glum. The viewing room, a solemn space, Where solace dwells with gentle grace. I spread my sleeping bag upon the floor, And drift away toward a distant shore.
The scent of lilies, faint and sweet, A soothing presence, can’t be beat. No ghosts or specters haunt my sleep, Just restful repose, oh so deep. And as the dawn begins to gleam, I wake refreshed, from tranquil dream. The quietude, a gift bestowed, A serene night, a lighter load.
The phone by the bed rang. It was the worst possible time.
Because it was the worst possible time, the ringing was strident to them both. Although it was a trivial thing, they looked at each other and, for a moment, could not decide what to do.
It was the third day of their honeymoon; or more precisely the third night. Since they both had heavy workloads, they had rented a sequestered cabin in the country, planning to stay there for a week and not go anywhere.
Until that moment, these three days had been the happiest of their lives—when two lovers finally integrate physically as well as spiritually, the pleasure is almost beyond description.
They were both young, healthy, and full of life. The physical attraction, one for the other, was at its peak. Thus, they spent most of their time in the cabin indulging themselves in sexual love again and again.
Since they had not told anyone that they would be there, there should have been no one trying to call them. Nevertheless, the phone rang, a little past midnight just as they were steeped in indescribable ecstasy.
The phone rang and rang. As he finally half-sat up she panted lightly, “The owner knows we’re honeymooning, so it must be a wrong number; but I think you’d better answer it.”
He stretched out his hand but could barely reach the phone. He did not want to leave her body even for a short while and actually wanted to yank out the cord, but thought better. So, with a tacit expression of understanding, they both budged at the same time.
She looked a little bashful, but that made her eyes especially enchanting. He took a deep breath and hoped the ringing would just stop. However, the phone kept ringing. He had no choice but to pick it up. “Hello?” he said with much reluctance.
For a few seconds the other end was silent. This annoyed him, and he said hello once again. Then, just as he was about to hang up, he heard a hesitant voice ask, “Who is this?”
He was incensed, and she was confused. She held him tightly. Neither said a word. Then he shouted, “Who are you calling?”
He did not know why he had asked back. Was it because the line was unclear, or just because the call came at the worst time? Anyway, his thoughts were all jumbled now.
The voice at the other end spoke again more hesitantly, “I’d … I’d like to speak to Miss …”
Then it came, a last name, a very rare last name. It meant that the person had not dialed a wrong number—the name could only be hers, his bride’s!
He looked at her with great doubt and noticed that her face was also full of puzzlement. She twisted her tender lips into an expression of inquiry, asking him if the call was for her. He nodded and handed it to her.
She moved slightly as she got the phone. He wanted to keep a little distance from her but was stopped by her eyes and hands.
Then she took a deep breath and said, “Hello, who is this …?”
He could still hear the person at the other end of on the line clearly—partly because it was so quiet there, partly because that person was shouting so loudly, and also because the line was so distortion free and he was just by her side. The person calling was addressing his wife by her nickname, her nickname! It sounded as if they were very familiar with one another.
Then he heard the voice from the phone say, “Who was that guy who answered the phone?”
The tone of that question was not only suspicious but also very stern—as if the person had the right to ask her in this manner.
Looking at her, he felt shocked and enraged. The only thing in his mind at this moment was exactly the same question that came from the phone, ”Who was that guy?”
She did not notice that his eyes were filled with disbelief, since she was also full of disbelief, and the disbelief even reflected upon her pretty face which, just a little while before, had been so radiant with blissfulness.
She pondered for a while and did not know how to respond, but the person at the other end could not wait any longer. Calling her name again, still her nickname, he then asked her in a harsher tone, “Tell me! Who? Who the heck picked up the phone?”
She finally pulled herself together and asked with a slight stammer, “Who, who are you?”
After a short pause, the response came with great consternation, “Can’t you even recognize my voice? Or are you just pretending because you’re afraid that the guy knows…you…you… Is this the way you treat me … you … you …”
Her name came up several times as he shouted. Although his shouting was replete with anger, it was also obviously full of passion and love.
She was confused and anxious. It came all of a sudden, and she just did not know what to do, nor had she any thought of defending herself. But he could not stand it any more and, snatching the receiver from her hand, shouted “Go to hell …” and banged it back down.
He did not realize until that moment that he had already been away from her, God knows for how long.
The atmosphere after that was enough to break her heart into bits. She repeated at least one thousand times, “I have no idea who it was. He must have gotten a wrong number, or maybe he’s a maniac, or some kind of troublemaker …”
He did not speak or even look at her, but just stared at the ceiling with both hands under his head. She prostrated herself over him trying her best to tease and excite him, only there was no response. But she did not give up until she felt disgusted.
There was still no response.
Neither of them slept after that nor did they speak to each other. They just lay on the bed with their eyes open until dawn. When twilight arrived, he finally opened his mouth and said, “We should get back, we both have lots of work. It’s not much fun here anyway.”
She responded passively, “All right!”
Apparently, the chasm in the marriage emerged at this time; however, they still managed for one more year before they got divorced.
It was not long before she met another man. He was almost perfect and was an ideal lover. She felt that his passion was as hot as fire—hot enough to turn her into ash. Nevertheless, she was quite willing to become ash if it was necessary. She did not know the reason, but his voice seemed so familiar; and that was why she had paid more attention to him when they first met.
Her new boyfriend was very romantic. He would often wait outside her house holding a bunch of flowers early in the morning, just wanting her to get her favorite bouquet as she stepped out.
One night, after a wonderful time, he accompanied her home and then left. Later, her doorbell rang and she went to open the door, only to find him red-faced at the entrance. He jumped in and shouted huffing, “Who was the man … the one who answered my call just now?”
She had no idea what happened, “Who did you call? What are you talking about?”
His face grew even redder, “What am I talking about? I just called you, but there was a man answered my call, then when I talked to you, that son of a bitch grasped the phone and said GO TO HELL and then banged the phone … Just tell me where he is, I’ll kill him! …”
At that moment, she suddenly realized what was he talking about, and recognized who it was who called the cabin a year ago! She began to tremble, not knowing how to explain all of this …
One day as I was waiting for a job interview, I lapsed into a daydream — I dreamed I was a peanut. I was neither a very big peanut nor a handsome one. I was just a plain, ordinary, happy peanut, not well-off but comfortable in my own way. I was perfectly content to live out my life like any other peanut, waiting in the sun for the day the farmer would grab me up and send me off to be packed and sent to sit for months on some distant shelf. All I would do as I waited was sit down near to the earth and hum a simple tune to pass the time.
Things turned out quite differently for me, however. It so happened that some representatives from Panter’s Peanuts came by and overheard me humming. “Unbelievable!” one shouted, “A humming peanut!” They all dashed over to speak to me. “Where did you learn to hum?” they asked in unison.
I was just about to answer when I was interrupted. “Never mind. We’ll sign you up. Why this is the greatest thing since singing oranges!” (I suddenly remembered the television commercials with the singing sun-kissed orange who skyrocketed to fame from obscurity and had recently gone beyond that and turned to religion crusading against fresh grapefruits.)
Well, I, too, was catapulted into a career. Before I could realize it, I was packed up and heading straight for Honeywood. There I met one of those big-time managers who was to become my very own. I was shaking in my shell. As I came into his presence, I overheard him talking to one of his colleagues; “It’s simply sensational. A stroke of luck. One in a billion, nay in a trillion! The nation’ll love him. He’ll hum his way into the hearts of millions of peanut butter lovers everywhere.”
I was overwhelmed. They were talking about me. We were introduced. “Don’t be nervous, kid,” he said, “We’re your friends. Bet your ma and pa are proud of you. Heh! Heh! At least they will be when we make a star out of you. We’re impressed, nay blown out!”
After reflecting upon the fact that I never had time to call home, I timidly asked what made me so special. “Why, kid, don’t be modest. Modesty’s a bad word in our business. Why you are the only hummin’ peanut in the whole, wide world, including Georgia!” Pantin’ Peanuts been lookin’ hard an’ long for a gimmick, erh, I mean a new sensational, creative promotion to help drive their already burgeoning business up over the hill.”
“But sir, I only hum a few simple tunes, nothing fancy. I’m no Almond brother; and besides, look at me, I’m no Clint Chestnut either.”
“No that’s true, but, oh, that’s all right, kid. We’ve got a great backup band and the makeup men can perform miracles… Let’s get started.”
And off we went. First came the taping sessions and studio performances. Soon came the real thing. There were no more rehearsals. The pace was fast and furious. But the manager was right. It was a success. I became a star overnight. The fan mail went from one letter (a letter from my mom wishing me luck) to thousands. I had to hire three secretaries. The company’s stocks on Walnut Street soared up and up. There was a ticker tape parade in the Big Apple. I launched the first peanut-shaped submarine. Filbert University awarded me an honorary doctorate degree. I even gave a private performance at 1600 Pistachio Avenue.
I used to read a lot of dime novels, you know, the Hazelnut-Acorn novels, about rising from rags to riches and never believed a word. Here I was flyyyyying!!! A real living legend. I was the celebrity. Agents and. fans kept trying to crash down the gates of my villa. They were vying with one another to get an interview, a look, or a chance to rummage through my garbage cans for God knows what.
And the parties, Jumpin’ Joe Nutmeg, they were indeed produced in Honeywood! Creamy Cashews all screamed their darling little hearts out as I crooned a few bars. Every day I was drinking hickory sours out of peanut shells. Every night I had collected so many keys tossed by female admirers I couldn’t find my own. And I didn’t care either. It seemed I had reached so high that I couldn’t get any higher. Incredible!
But then my manager tapped me on the shoulder and exclaimed, “Look, kid, I’ve got the best idea in the whole world. The killer! Remember ol’ Elvis Pretzel. He was a great and popular star when he was young, but the poor kid got a bit pudgy, livin’ so high like he did. He started to take to drugs, bad trips and all that. The sales of his records began droppin’ off. Well, then he croaked, you know, that poor kid. But the amazin’ thing was the sales of his records, souvenirs, memorial tombstones, all that stuff went through the roof. Amazin’ isn’t it. Well, I’ve got this great idea…”
I didn’t stop to hear the rest. I turned and ran and ran and …only to be grabbed by a couple of big hairy coconuts. Before I knew it, I was strapped down in the jaws of a giant nutcracker and those jaws were a closin’!…
The receptionist’s call suddenly woke me: “Sir, Mr. Smith is ready to see you now.” I was in a cold sweat. I stood up and faced the exit. As I passed the receptionist, I handed her a note to give to Mr. Smith. It read “Sorry Charlie,” and I continued on my way.
In drizzling rain, ten patient people form a queue One bus passes, then another: “Sorry, no room here” With torrents downfall, six umbrellas blossom The bus to city’s center arrives Twenty people now converge on one point Ordered rank turns into San Juan Hill Collecting bones and baggage twelve of us board Bell rings, “I’m descending.” “Excuse me.” There goes today’s shoeshine A playful driver, a screeching halt A hundred people swing like hogs at slaughter In a seat below, two children sit They smile, day brightens, skyline opens.
Flat upon the platter, two pieces of toast Sit dried, cold, and Neglected As shelled peanuts fan out from a half-empty bag Framing the President on Time While the radio drowns the room in static Ants take ordered turns for this morning’s Scrambled eggs No shoes, no socks, gritty feet An old watch, slow by ten minutes Quarter to three A muted haze drawn from the embers Two used packs of Cigarettes Dozing off, pen drooping from hand Cuffs soaking up a lake of Nescafé Scattered Post-Its, notes unhelping Words fade like Wilted flowers Outside the cold wind rattles the screen door Inside a flood of tears douses the Muse And destroys Civilizations!
Les Français, they say, have minds refined, But their thoughts have clouds, a stormy sign. With each remarque, they make a frown As if the sky is falling down.
They sip their vin, yet curse the glass, For joy’s fleeting, too swift to clasp. In cafés small, with heads held low, They sigh as if they always know—
Future’s dim, c’est la fin du monde, Nothing is right, it’ll all explode. And while Liberté sounds divine, But even freedom has its time.
Their poètes write of love’s cruel art, Of dreams that fade and hearts that part. Les rues de Paris grown with gloom, As shadows gather spelling doom.
Oh, to be les Français who arise To welcome the world with leery eyes, To speak in sighs, in rueful tones, And call chez eux a house of bones.
Yet in their glumness, there’s a grâce, A kind of beauté none can replace— For through their doubts, their endless strain, They teach us new ways to complain.
Les Français, dit-on, sont si raffinés, Mais leurs pensées sont embrumées, leur esprit est orageux. A chaque remarque, ils froncent les sourcils Comme si le ciel leur tombait dessus. Ils sirotent leur vin, mais maudissent le verre, Car la joie est fugace, trop rapide pour être serrée. Dans de petits cafés, la tête basse, Ils soupirent comme s’ils savaient toujours— L’avenir est sombre, c’est la fin du monde, Rien ne va, tout va exploser. Et si Liberté semble divine, Mais même la liberté a son heure. Leurs poètes écrivent sur l’art cruel de l’amour, Des rêves qui s’estompent et des cœurs qui se séparent. Les rues de Paris s’assombrissent, Alors que les ombres s’accumulent, annonçant le malheur. Oh, être les Français qui se lèvent Pour accueillir le monde avec des yeux méfiants, Pour parler en soupirs, d’un ton triste, Et appeler chez eux une maison d’ossements. Pourtant dans leur morosité, il y a une grâce, Une sorte de beauté que rien ne peut remplacer. Car à travers leurs doutes, leur tension sans fin, Ils nous enseignent de nouvelles façons de nous plaindre.
Ich muss Deutsch üben, I have to practice my German, Aber gut Ding will Weile haben. But good things take time. Man kann die Natur nicht ändern, One cannot change nature, Also sich nicht um ungelegte Eier kümmern, So you shouldn’t cross a bridge before coming to it, Die Ochsen hinter den Wagen spannen, Don’t put that cart before the horse, Und das Kind mit dem Bade ausschütten. And don’t toss the baby with the bath water. Es heißt, dass wer nicht hören will, muss fühlen. It is said that he who won’t listen will regret it. Er will den Bock melken. You cannot milk a buck. Wärme bringt Leben, Kälte Tod; Warmth brings life, coldness death; Und Zeit ist das teuerste Kleinod. And time is really the most precious gem. Geduld bringt rosen, Patience brings roses, Erst denken, dann lenken. So look before you leap. Obwohl sicher ist sicher. But though it’s better to be safe than sorry, Was Gutes kommt wieder. Good works will reap rewards. Wie es heißt, jedes Warum hat seinen Darum. Every why has a wherefore. Gesundheit ist besser als Reichthum. Good health ranks above wealth. Geld macht nicht glücklich, Money can’t buy happiness, Denn keinen Objekt ist unersetzlich. For no thing is indispensable. Wähle von zwei Übeln das Kleinste. Choose the lesser of two evils. Der gerade Weg ist immer der beste. The straight path is always the best. Das Bessere ist der Feind des guten, Better is the enemy of the good, Ehrlich währt am längsten. Being honest gets the most mileage. Sorge macht vor Zeiten grau, Fretting makes one gray before one’s time, Aber zu nacht sind alle Katzen grau. But, at night, all cats are gray. Wiederholung ist die Mutter der Weisheit, Repetition is the mother of knowledge, Trotzdem alles zu seiner Zeit. Still everything comes in its time. Taten sagen mehr als Wörter, Actions are worth more than words, Somit ein paar Sätze macht noch keinen Redner. So a few phrases will not make you an orator.
The air’s alive with the scent of the night, As lanterns flicker and the stars glow bright. I follow my nose to a small, cozy place, Where laughter and warmth fill an intimate space.
Le garçon draws near, with charm and a grin, “Bonjour, monsieur! Would you like to begin?” My heart strikes a beat, anticipation runs deep; I nod and smile as my order begins to steep.
Then arrives a bowl, like a treasure unveiled, With crusty brown bread and cheese artfully scaled. Golden and bubbling, a fragrant embrace, The steam curls upward, a hearty, sweet grace.
I take my first sip, and the world melts away, Caramelized onions in the broth holding sway. WIth savory whispers of fresh garlic and thyme, Each spoonful’s a melody, a moment sublime.
The richness enwraps me, and images ignite Of family kitchens with warm feelings ever tight. In this far-off café, with its laughter and cheer, I taste that connection, everything’s so clear.
With each bite I savor, a bridge I build up From my world to theirs with the meal I now sup. In the depth of my soul I’ve learned to believe, That flavors that bind us do not ever leave.
Workhorse in a tiny package, light yet solid, a hands-on tool for lecture, letter, or novel, along with espresso, croissant, and cool jazz, there’s no better way to spend Saturday morn.
Powered by human touch and muscle, I churn out human language, a comforting sonata with my clatter, conducive to the creative process.
Page after page fly through my platen with ease enabling what comes closest to his athletic prowess as well as the charm, and to be honest, the frustration of the unmistakable pangs of writer’s block.
In a zone, his fingers may dance on my keys getting into the flow on a Zen roll, but also making so many mistakes that my x arm will soon need Tommy John surgery.
Sixty-word-per-minute, 1000 words double-spaced, for days, weeks, months, and years, he thinks he’s Hemingway or Ernie Pyle.
Banged up, spilled upon, cursed Misfitted ink-ribbons, broken keys, if we could just switch roles, I know I could write better than he.
It was a warm autumn afternoon in 1972 when he, an American student boarded the train in Paris heading to visit Strasbourg. The hum of the train’s engine was soothing as he sank into his seat, tucked his backpack beside him, and let his eyelids flutter closed. His mind drifted lazily, the rhythmic sound of the train on the tracks slowly pulling him into a deep, contented sleep.
The compartment was small, filled with the faint smell of old leather and fresh baguettes from lunch. Soon, the soft click of the compartment door opening broke the stillness, and two middle-aged French women entered, chatting animatedly in the way only Parisians could. They settled into the seats across from him, each taking her place with an air of practiced elegance. One of the women, dressed in a floral print dress with over-sized sunglasses perched atop her head, glanced at the young American snoozing in the corner.
“Regardez, he’s American,” she said quietly to her companion, nodding toward his sneakers and baseball cap. “You can always tell.”
Her friend, who wore a neatly pressed blouse and had her graying hair tied back in a strict bun, looked him over with a skeptical frown. “Of course, it’s the gym shoes. I can’t believe those people wear such things in public.”
The first woman sighed, shaking her head. “And the baseball cap. So typical. He probably doesn’t even know how to dress properly for a train ride.”
They exchanged a knowing glance and began to speak more freely, certain the young man was too deeply asleep to understand their words. The conversation shifted, as it often did in Parisian circles, to the topic of politics.
“You know, I heard there are protests against the Americans even in Strasbourg,” the second woman continued, her tone growing more disapproving. “Their war in Vietnam, it’s a disaster. What kind of people invade a country on the other side of the world and destroy it? And for what? For profit? For control?”
“Exactly,” the first woman agreed, her voice rising with indignation. “And now they’re spreading their influence all over Europe, telling us how to live. It’s just disgraceful. How can we stand it? The Americans, they have no idea how to behave. So brash, so loud. I simply don’t understand.”
She paused, as if contemplating the sheer audacity of the situation. The other woman nodded in agreement, both of them clearly convinced of the righteousness of their opinions. Their eyes occasionally darted toward him, but they saw no sign of life from him. He was lost in his sleep, or so they thought.
Minutes passed, the train clattering on, and the women continued their animated conversation. They grew bolder in their critiques, convinced that the young man had no clue. They spoke in French, a language the Americans rarely understood fully.
Soon enough, the train’s speaker crackled overhead, announcing an approaching stop. The women fell silent as they gathered their things, preparing to disembark. They were still deep in their conversation, no longer paying much attention to the sleeping American.
As the train pulled into the station, he stirred from his nap, blinking as though the announcement had pulled him back to the present. He stretched and yawned, adjusting his cap, his eyes glancing momentarily at the two women across from him. The compartment had become a little quieter now, the hum of the train giving way to the voices of the other passengers.
He stood up, grabbed his bag, and turned to leave. Before stepping out into the corridor, he gave the two women a polite, almost amused nod.
“J’ai tout compris,” he said smoothly, his American accent still discernible but unmistakably clear in French. “Bonne journée, mesdames.”
The words hung in the air for a beat, their weight sinking in like a stone.
The first woman froze, her hand still gripping her handbag, her face slowly turning crimson. Her friend’s eyes widened in disbelief, and for a moment, neither of them could speak.
He offered a smile that was both friendly and disarmingly polite before proceeding to debark.
The two women exchanged embarrassed glances, both silent now, as the doors closed behind him.
“Mon Dieu,” whispered the first woman, her voice trembling slightly. “Il a tout entendu.”
The other woman nodded slowly. “Et tout compris aussi. Quelle honte.”
As the train began to pull away, they sat in stunned silence, the reality of their assumptions and the casual judgment sinking in.
In a hall where snob Poli-Sci students dine, A shy American sits, sipping some wine, A plate slides before him, a curious sight, Steak tartare gleaming, a culinary fright.
Crimson and raw, with a glimmer of spice, He squints at the dish, not feeling too nice. “Is this what’s to eat?” he reacts with a frown, “This cold slab of meat? I’m not putting that down!”
With courage mustered, he approaches the cook, “Pardon,” he says, with a nervous little look, “Could you please heat this? I can’t even begin.” The chef raises an eyebrow, but shrugs with a grin.
To the lad’s surprise, a strange ripple runs through, The French students whisper, “Is this something new?” One by one, they nod, “We’ll have ours like that,” And soon the cook’s station’s abuzz with chat.
“Let’s sizzle that steak, make it juicy and warm, Forget the finesse, let’s embrace a new norm!” From tartare to grilled, a transformation’s begun, In the heart of Paris, a new dish has been born!
Laughter erupts and all the suspense deflates, As flavors unite across cultural gates. L’etranger smiles, feeling bold in the fray, In the Land of Chefs, he’s finding his way.
So here in this place, where traditions collide, A meal is now shared with common ground as guide; A lesson in flavor from a Yankee guy Gives the cynical French a reason to try.
In the glow of streetlights on Boulevard St. Michel, he sits, a young wanderer, maps tucked in his pocket, the scent of history swirling with the smoke of Gauloises, Paris murmuring secrets in the language of bantering couples and clinking glasses.
The waiter, a figure of cool elegance, leans in, an arch of brow, and presents the dish, a vibrant mound of crimson, its sheen glistening like the Seine under the watchful gaze of the moon. “Steak tartare,” he says, with the flourish of an artist, a daring invitation to plunge into the unknown.
He hesitates, heart racing, the pulse of the city humming in his ears, a distant jazz echoing from a café corner. It’s just meat, he thinks, but in this moment, it feels like a leap, a test of courage, a bite into the very marrow of experience.
Fork poised, he relishes the tang of capers, the bite of shallots, the whispers of mustard, a symphony of flavors unfurling on his tongue. Each mouthful, a declaration, each chew, a step further from the familiar, the mundane of Midwestern dinners.
Outside, life pulses— students debating, lovers laughing, the echoes of revolutions still hanging in the air, and he, in his own small rebellion, savors the rawness, the edge, the delicate dance of culture, the heartbeat of Paris infusing his very being.
Here, in this moment, the world narrows to a plate, to a taste that lingers like the soft brush of a hand, and he knows he is changed— an American, yes, but also a son of this city, if only for an evening, savoring life, one bold bite at a time.
When I listened to le savant professor, When I sat in the lecture hall as he expounded on Descartes, Pascal, and Marx, When I heard elucidations of metaphysics, reductionism, and form, When the suppositions, tenets, and preuves were meted out, How soon I would drift off, grow tired et ennuyé, Till rising, then gliding softly from my back-aisle bench, I’d exit into the gray, misty Parisian air and souvent Find more wisdom seeping up from une demi-tasse de café.
It was late, even for a Parisian evening, as the three American students stumbled out of the smoky bar near the Bois de Vincennes. Their laughter echoed off the cobblestones, mixing with the dim glow of the streetlights. The weight of their conversation, heavy with intoxicated opinions and slurred words, floated over their boozy chatter. They had spent the evening in a haze of smoke, insipid French beer and half-remembered history lessons, each one trying to outdo the other in a mix of grand theories about America’s role in the world.
“Man, can you believe the nerve of Nixon?” Ken the most serious of the trio, slurred out, leaning against a lamppost. “I mean, he’s just bombing the hell out of those people, and we’re supposed to accept it and cheer?”
Vince, the half-French son of the French ambassador to Haute-Volta, grinned. His thick accent was more pronounced now, the product of both alcohol and a conflicted identity. “You American guys always so passionate about these things, huh? It’s not so black and white.”
“Yeah, well, maybe if your government didn’t—” Ken’s sentence was cut off by a hiccup, and he waved his hand dismissively.
Vince, who usually spent his summers in New York with his American mother, stood up straighter. “The Metro’s closed. I’ll get us a cab.”
The other two nodded instinctively, barely catching his words through the fog of their drunkenness. Vince hailed the cab, and they all piled in, ignoring the obvious constrast between the world of boisterous youth and the still of the Paris night.
“104 Rue de Vaugirard, s’il vous plaît. Près de la Tour Montparnasse”
“Ah, donc vous êtes étudiants en sciences-po, n’est-ce pas ?”
“Ah, oui,” Vince slurred nonchalantly.
The journey was unremarkable at first, their laughter and talk continuing in fits and spurts in the backseat, the cab bouncing along the streets of suburban Paris. The driver, a stocky man in his fifties, hardly seemed to acknowledge them, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He didn’t join in the conversation. The streets blurred together as they ventured further into the night, but the students hardly noticed. Their conversation danced between politics and philosophy, mostly lost in translation. They were on autopilot, consumed by their intoxication and misguided confidence.
It wasn’t until the cab made a sharp turn and the tires screeched on the wet asphalt that they looked up. The car came to a sudden stop. The suddenness of it jolted them, and they all leaned forward.
“Connards americains. Sors d’ici, bordel,” the driver shouted, his voice harsh and filled with a palpable anger.
“What the hell?” Ken said, blinking in confusion. “What did he say? We’re not there yet.”
The driver didn’t respond. His eyes were wide, filled with something fierce, something dangerous.
Vince, still at half wits but attempting to read the situation, spoke up. “Où sommes-nous? Ce n’est pas le bon chemin.”
“Sortez!” the driver repeated, his face grim and twisted in a mix of hatred and disgust.
With no other choice, the students stumbled out of the cab, their brains still struggling to process the situation. They stood on the side of an unfamiliar road, the cab quickly speeding away, disappearing into the night. The air was crisp and cold, and as their senses began to sharpen, they realized something was wrong.
“Where the hell are we?” Sal, the quiet one of the group, asked.
They were surrounded by dark fields, an eerie quiet hanging over the small town. Not a single person was in sight. It was 3 a.m., and the streets were utterly deserted.
They turned in circles, trying to make sense of their surroundings. They could see a few distant street lamps, but they illuminated nothing recognizable. No Paris landmarks, no familiar buildings, just empty, darkened roads and low houses. It was as if the world had simply dropped them here, out of reach of the city they’d known.
“We’ve got to wait until morning,” Vince said, his voice low, strained. “No one is awake, no one will help us in the dark.”
“I’ll kill that cab driver,” Ken muttered, frustrated and angry, though the fury didn’t seem to fully match his current state of inebriation.
“Well, at least he didn’t charge us.” Sal muttered bringing all to a faint chuckle.
After several minutes of silent wandering, they huddled under the small overhang of a nearby house, trying to shield themselves from the biting wind. They sat there, taking turns dozing off in discomfort, every now and then waking up to the sound of distant animals or the occasional creak of a window shutter. The night stretched on, their exhaustion growing with each passing hour.
As dawn finally began to break, the sleepy town started to come alive. A few elderly women appeared, dragging their carts down the streets. The students approached one of them cautiously, not sure how to explain their predicament. But the woman simply raised an eyebrow at their disheveled appearance and pointed in the direction of a train station.
The students made their way to the station, still unsure of what had happened during the night, and unsure what to think of their cab ride. As they sat on a bench waiting for the first train back to Paris, they began to piece together fragments of the night. They thought of the driver, his angry tone, and the words he’d spat out. “Get out of here.”
Sal squinted, trying to understand. “Maybe he was one of those leftists or communists. You know, people who hate Americans because of Vietnam.”
Vince frowned, the weight of his father’s history creeping into his thoughts. “Or maybe he was a war veteran. I mean, he looked like he’d seen things… He might’ve fought in Indochina. A lot of French vets aren’t too fond of Americans, especially not now. Not after what’s happening in Vietnam.”
Ken nodded slowly, considering. “Could be. Either way, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
“It’s dark and nobody’s around, “Sal interjected.
“Well, we’re just going to have to wait here for the first train to Paris,” Ken responded.
As the first train rumbled into the station, the trio climbed aboard, exhausted, confused, and still wrestling with the mystery of the night. They had learned something, maybe more than they could understand at the moment. France, with all its romantic ideals and rebellious history, was a place full of complexities they hadn’t fully grasped. But that night, they learned a lesson they would never forget: you never know who’s driving the cab, or where you’ll end up.
Some quarter beyond the known cosmic scheme, Where new stars are born and galaxies gleam, One James T. Kirk sails through space, bold and free, On Starship Enterprise, his destiny. Through wormholes and nebulas, he charts course While voyaging through out the universe. Space to him is much more than void and black, It’s a test of courage, where risks never lack— A stage for discovery and wonder, Where Klingons battle and Vulcans ponder. “Engage!” His command resounds at the helm, To seek out new life, in the next strange realm. Joined by Spock, McCoy, Uhura, Sulu And of course Scottie and Chekov as crew, He boldly goes where none have gone before, Seeking civilizations to explore. For space is a mirror reflecting Kirk’s soul, A quest for meaning, where mysteries unfold. But should we give follow this Captain’s lead To future adventures where starships speed? In space’s embrace, will we find our place Or is it just fantasy, a fool’s race?
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, A tale of a reckless trip That started from a SoCal port Aboard a tiny ship.
The mate was a novice sailing mom, The skipper green but sure. Three passengers set sail that day For a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour.
The voyage started nice enough, But their boat soon got caught. If not for the wave of a sibling’s bright coat, The Good Luck would be lost, the Good Luck would be lost.
The ship got stuck off the shore of a Santa Barbara beach With The Mrs. The Skipper too, Their daughter, my sister’s friend, Yours truly and Our hero with a windbreaker, Barely in sightful reach.
Now this is the tale of us stuck at sea; We were there for a long, long while. Though we tried to make best of it, None of us could smile.
The first mate and the Skipper, too, Would do their very best To make we others comfortable, In that knotted kelp forest.
No phone, no flares, no motor’s roar, No way to reach safety, Like Gilligan’s venture, As scary as it can be.
So, heed this tale of risk, my friend, To dodge a fateful scare. Before yourself set off to sea, Make sure that you prepare.
A great metropolis awakens beneath a blanket of white, its pulse slowed, subsided, as if the storm had dusted a lullaby across the rooftops. Skyscrapers stand like quiet sentinels, once brimming with the buzz of business, now lost in the muted hush of wind-swept streets.
The honking of horns is displaced by the crunch of boots, sluggish and deliberate, as if the city itself is catching its breath, letting the world reset. Chicago, always on the edge of motion, finds its repose— the sharp edges of traffic blunted, the cold carving clean lines in the air.
Lake Shore Drive is frozen stop-motion, the trees along Lake Michigan dressed in frost, their branches heavy with the weight of snow like pending promises.
Cars idle in strange patterns, their engines purring but going nowhere, a mosaic of commuters suspended in time. The usual chaos, traded for a fragile peace, as if nature spoke a language only the senses can understand: to rest, to breathe, to let go of all that is running, racing, and simply be.
The city glimmers of fresh snow and possibility, a hint of winter’s magic that even in the midst of the rush, something beautiful comes— a perfect pause, a chance to reset, to replace the grimy hum-drum with scenes washed clean.
Shrouded from the roar of life, the city finds its stillness, and in that silence, it reveals its serene beauty.
I have to admit that it was a gift that rescued us from Chicago’s day after day, night after night pitiless summer heat and humidity, the endless series of restless sleep, and dozens of sweat-soaked shirts.
My parents were very proud that they could afford that box, noisy and rattling as it was, placed in the dining room window the stream of cool, dry, restful comfort, it even relieved mold and allergies.
But I had just sat in science class on our costs of making energy; so as I left home the next day I saw the box that gave us pleasure when multiplied millions of times would sure lead to a future of hurt.
On a dust-filled ground where cowpokes abide, A pageant unfolds for a thrilling ride. As patrons wait for a sight yet unseen Within the stands, their interest grows keen.
With bated breath, attendees gather near, Stirring up excitement, raising a cheer. The arena transcends, emotions run high, Anticipation boils, reaching the sky.
The majestic dance between man and beast, Struggle for dominance, tension increased, It’s a show of will and courage to share, Where the fearless on mighty bulls do dare.
The gate bursts open, the beast is unleashed, Raw power, fury, bulk, muscular feast. Its hooves pound the earth with thunderous sound, As a brave soul holds on, no fear to be found.
In a medley of chaos, strength, and grace, Man and brute lock in dangerous embrace. Surfing a tempest, adrenaline floods, Rider contra bull, the battle bluebloods.
They twist and turn, defy gravity’s pull, Their spirits aflame, their resolve so full. Within eight seconds, the contest complete, Overcoming odds, a feat so very sweet.
Battered and bruised, yet he never faltered, Chasing the thrill, he leaves our hearts altered. In this rhumba of brawn, his skill displayed, He who lasts longest, wins top accolade.
Epilogue
Now unhappily all did not end there, Which is something I believe you should hear. The angry bull sought to apply some heat On the fallen not yet back on his feet.
A rodeo clown jumped to intervene A brave act ending up breaking his spleen. He sadly absorbed all the toro’s force And was sent to the hospital, of course.
Though for a budding fan of eleven, The rodeo tricks seemed close to heaven; That he’d seen a man there nearly fall dead Made him seek saner diversions instead.
We passed him along Clark Street, The family out for an evening treat. He sat huddled against a wall Bracing against the chill of fall. In a ragged suit, with one lame foot, He was covered in grime and soot. When I paused to look, eyes fixed, My stomach began to twitch. “Hey, what’s wrong with that man? The sign says, ‘I need a hand.’” “Now, don’t you get too near. It’s nothing to worry about, dear.” “But, it’s damp and cold today. We can’t just walk away!” “Okay, Kenny here take a dime. But, quick, we’ve got little time.” As I rushed back, coin in hand, A smile broke out on the man. Not enough, and only a start, This enkindled a very young heart.
At the top of the stairs with eyes wide and bright, A five-year-old was standing one storm-racked night. The house was in havoc, the weather thick with rain, As his father moved sprightly with purpose and strain.
His father, so strong, lifted heavy and high, Sloshing through dark floodwaters up to his thigh. The water was gushing, the basement a sea; Furniture floated like ships sailing free.
The boy hung from the railing with his tiny hand, Not knowing the peril into which he could land. To him, it was just play, not a parent’s great fight To save what he could from a tempest’s cruel bite.
Unconcerned by the jeopardy below Where wires were exposed and current could flow, His Dad hauled out boxes, tools, and a chair Trying to rescue the most from down there.
With big grunts and splashes, he hauled things away, As the thunder rumbled, all in disarray. But the boy wasn’t concerned, not then, not at all; He was lost in the wonder of that great rain squall.
The flood receded, and though the house did dry, They soon after would look for a better lie— Not in lowland where water can get through But to higher ground to start things anew.
Now that boy carried on with life as children do, And his father never spoke of that big miscue; But later when he’d grown he came to realize That that could’ve ended with a big bad surprise.
One of my earliest recollections of childhood was that of a dream, and I remember it quite vividly. I was four going on five. At the time my mother worked half time in the morning and my father full time from four until midnight. I would take a nap from around one to three.
According to my mother, I always wanted to say goodbye to my father before he left for work. I would wake up crying if I realized I had missed the opportunity. In addition, there is something about our practicing Catholic family which impressed a very young me.
I remember one day worrying again that I would miss seeing my father off to work. I told my mother expressly, “Mom, wake me up BEFORE Daddy goes to work.” “Of course, of course, Kenny, I will,” my mother assured me. “Now go to sleep.” I sensed I was drifting off…
A frantic knock on our door startled me up.
Groggy from my slumber, I heard a voice yelling, “Can’t find it!” My mother echoed anxiously, “Can’t find it!?!” “Yes,” a man replied. It was a neighbor.
My mother took me by the hand and led me outside. It seemed very gray and gloomy. The clouds hung down as curtains. There were lots of people there outside with us. They were all looking up.
Floating high in the clouds was Mother Mary. She was just like the image I had seen on my Busia’s prayer card, only very much alive. She boomed, “I have lost a butterfly.” “A butterfly, oh my,” the crowd responded. “Go find it,” she commanded. “Otherwise, there would be no sun.”
The people around looked startled and frightened. “What will we do?” they asked. Then they started looking down the street, behind their houses, looking all around. It was quite frenzied.
After a while, I heard someone call out, “Gene! Gene!” They were pointing at my Daddy. He had suddenly popped out from behind a bush wearing a big grin.
Out from his hand rose a butterfly. I watched it ascend. We all looked up; and Mary, too, was smiling.
The sun came out… and I woke from my nap. My father was still home.
A lion’s heart, a dragon’s fire, Restless soul with noble desire. Born in the year of the dragon bold, A tale of majesty, yet to unfold. With regal grace and a fiery gaze, You command attention in countless ways. Ambition burns, unflagging flame, Reaching for dreams with steady aim. Creative spirit, a vibrant hue, Painting life with colors bright and new. A leader born, with a magnetic sway, Inspiring others, come whatever may. But heed the dragon’s combustive breath, Temper ambition, eschew Macbeth. For along with achievement, a duty lies To use your strengths wisely as you rise. So let your spirit soar and shine, A Leo-Dragon, so divine. Grasp your nature and passion’s call; Leave your mark, and don’t drop the ball.
In the great expanse where stardust swirls, My soul floats amid nebular pearls. Born from chaos, a spark in the night, So here I be, awaiting the fight. O universe, with your boundless grace, You gathered my atoms, bestowed my place. But in the grand design, so wild and free, What do you owe, what is due unto me? I tread on pulses of ancient light, Wander through shadows, chase beams in flight. Each breath a whisper, each heartbeat a thrill, Is there a debt, a contract to fulfill? The galaxies dance, their secrets unspin. While I bide my time, about to begin. But is my lot to be flicker or flame; How do you foresee my roll in the game? For each dark moment, ev’ry tear I’ll shed, In the weight of your silence, I feel dread. I reach for an answer, not in anger or spite, But to claim my existence, to bask in the light. So hear my call, as I rise from the dust, Forcing my presence, for success or bust. In the cosmic tapestry, complex and vast, May the firmament grant me a thread that lasts.
What’s up everybody, so glad you’re here It’s Koziol with a load of good cheer This may not be an epiphany, but I’m on a mission To see if I can get your attention Now I want to drop some information Just a little addition to your deliberation I live my life by the way of the wit Offering insights until your brain is lit When I’m on the beat, you gonna feel my heat, so Throw your hands up if you’re down with the K-O-Z-I-O-L Show I’m lookin’ for someone open, so please let your friends know One, two, three, it’s like A, B, C Though a nod would be nice, my words are free
“Spokoj (be calm), Kennush, so you can have the best dreams,” Busia would often tell me as she tucked me in for naps while my parents were off working.
Dreams have always been important to me. They have served as regurgitations, amplifications, and sources of insight. My dreams have occasionally been predictive. But mostly, they have been imaginative grist and launching points for ruminations about personal experiences and reactions to events and the world at large, a sort of expressive impressionism.
The following is a loosely presented autobiography centered on my reflections.
“I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.” Vincent Van Gogh
