Nothing

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I was advised decades ago by an instructor of a college course identified as  Magazine Article Writing,  to write every  day in the same exact spot for at least five minutes. If I have nothing to write about, then write about that. So here it is.

I was advised forty long years ago by an instructor of a college course identified as  Eng 104 Magazine Article Writing,  to write every single day,  parking myself in the same exact spot for at least five minutes. If I have nothing to write about, then write about that. So here it is.

I took a class on Magazine Article Writing, Eng 104 I think; We were advised to find a place to write and then to do so from this very same spot every day. The suggestion included the opinion that this daily activity should last for at least five minutes regardless of whether we have something to write about. And be sure he advised, to personalise the space.

I took a class on Magazine Article Writing in 1968. English 104 I believe was the catalogue nomenclature. Dr Alnut suggested that we find a place to write and then make it our own. A picture perhaps, an object from our childhood, a hand-made paper flower….We were asked to make a rule to visit this spot at least once a day and for at least five minutes. Writing was not to be considered obligatory nor was contact with that invisible part of Our Selves where Creativity hung out.

I took a class back in 1968 – I think that’s right – not that being right is in any way related to what I happen to be remembering at the moment; at least I don’t think so. I remember the class; it was all about how a creative writer can use all those extra hours to earn income so as to support the  quest for the poetry, the songs and the one-act plays with which we planed to make our mark in the world. Magazine Article Writing it was. That’s right. People pay for that stuff, you know. And Dr Alnut (appropriately named, ) required little more than to at least consider his suggestion. And that was? Find a space to be used for writing. That’s right. And make it your home for at least five minutes a day. You will know this place as Home he told us because every time you approach it you will see something in that spot that only you can identify. Perhaps you’ll see that dried up acorn that you kept as a child the day you ran away from home and you hid under the post oaks by the stream waiting for the rain to stop and you knew it was time to leave the shelter when the squirrels came out of their hidey holes and one of them scolded you for stealing its dinner. Only you would know that, right? There may be a snap shot of a girl who never knew she was your sweetheart or the boy who always smiled at you but never said anything.

Do this for at least five minutes every day. Whether you write while you are there is an option. Being there is a rule; the only rule. And if you write, leave one mistake unedited. That last one wasn’t Dr Alnut’s rule; that was mine.

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Overheard in an Alley

color029_sJPG_950_2000_0_75_0_50_50 Boy building a model airplane as girl watches. Robstown, Texas, January 1942. Reproduction from color slide. Photo by Arthur Rothstein. Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress

Voice One: The guy with the hair; what’s his name again?

Voice Two: I forget.

Voice One: They say he’s guilty.

Voice Two: Who says he’s guilty?

Voice One: Everybody.

Voice Two: Really?

Voice One: Yeah, really. So Whaddaya think?

Voice Two: About what?

Voice One: Is he guilty?

Voice Two: Who? The guy with the hair?

Voice One: Yeah.

Voice Two: Guilty of what?

Voice One: I don’t know, actually. It must be something awful.

Voice Two: Why do you think that?

Voice One: Well, because; He won’t defend himself.

Voice Two: Did he say why?

Voice One: It didn’t make much sense, come to think of it.

Voice Two: Okay, but what was it; what’d he say?

Voice One: Something about turning his head or something like that?

Voice Two: Could it have been about turning the other cheek?

Voice One: Cheeks, yeah. Turn the other cheek. That was it. Whaddaya think he
meant?

Voice Two: Well you were there. What did you think?

Voice One: Beats me.

Voice Two: Then why do you think he’s guilty? You don’t know what he’s guilty
of but you think he’s guilty. He doesn’t defend himself and you seem
to think that this is evidence of his guilt. And now that you’ve heard
his reason for not defending himself, you don’t know what he means
but you still think he’s guilty?

Voice One: Everybody else does.

Voice Two: What he said was that when someone wrongs us or metaphorically
slaps us across the cheek that it is better to turn our cheek and let
the offender slap the other cheek than to have our revenge with him.
His reason appears to be that it is better for only one person to suffer
than two.
And you know yourself that when you argue with someone it is rare
for anyone to come out on top.

Voice One: Well, I still think he’s guilty.

Voice Two: Why’s that.

Voice One: Because, Silly; everybody knows he’s guilty.

Voice Two: And that’s it?

Voice One: What can you expect from a guy like that?

Voice Two: A guy like what?

Voice One: Well ask anyone; everybody knows he was born in a barn.

Overheard in an Alley

color029_sJPG_950_2000_0_75_0_50_50 Boy building a model airplane as girl watches. Robstown, Texas, January 1942. Reproduction from color slide. Photo by Arthur Rothstein. Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress

Voice One: The guy with the hair; what’s his name again?

Voice Two: I forget.

Voice One: They say he’s guilty.

Voice Two: Who says he’s guilty?

Voice One: Everybody.

Voice Two: Really?

Voice One: Yeah, really. So Whaddaya think?

Voice Two: About what?

Voice One: Is he guilty?

Voice Two: Who? The guy with the hair?

Voice One: Yeah.

Voice Two: Guilty of what?

Voice One: I don’t know, actually. It must be something awful.

Voice Two: Why do you think that?

Voice One: Well, because; He won’t defend himself.

Voice Two: Did he say why?

Voice One: It didn’t make much sense, come to think of it.

Voice Two: Okay, but what was it; what’d he say?

Voice One: Something about turning his head or something like that?

Voice Two: Could it have been about turning the other cheek?

Voice One: Cheeks, yeah. Turn the other cheek. That was it. Whaddaya think he
meant?

Voice Two: Well you were there. What did you think?

Voice One: Beats me.

Voice Two: Then why do you think he’s guilty? You don’t know what he’s guilty
of but you think he’s guilty. He doesn’t defend himself and you seem
to think that this is evidence of his guilt. And now that you’ve heard
his reason for not defending himself, you don’t know what he means
but you still think he’s guilty?

Voice One: Everybody else does.

Voice Two: What he said was that when someone wrongs us or metaphorically
slaps us across the cheek that it is better to turn our cheek and let
the offender slap the other cheek than to have our revenge with him.
His reason appears to be that it is better for only one person to suffer
than two.
And you know yourself that when you argue with someone it is rare
for anyone to come out on top.

Voice One: Well, I still think he’s guilty.

Voice Two: Why’s that.

Voice One: Because, Silly; everybody knows he’s guilty.

Voice Two: And that’s it?

Voice One: What can you expect from a guy like that?

Voice Two: A guy like what?

Voice One: Well ask anyone; everybody knows he was born in a barn.

‘Tis the Season

Lee in Paradise

A true story as first told in 1956 by the person whose story it is and who prefers to remain anonymous.

(“What the…..Why is it so hot in here? It’s so damned hot I can’t sleep. What was I dreaming about? Damn it all to hell, shit. Sumbitch..

Shit, shit , shit, shit, shit.

I’m on fire!.”)

He opened his eyes. He was covered with ripped and torn pages of newspapers and magazines  all of which were burning;  the scraps of paper were ablaze, his jumpsuit was  afire,  he was  on fire.

He rose from his bunk, twirling, whirling, spinning around like a maddened dervish, pounding out flames, slapping his chest, stomping on the still burning pages, cursing as his seven noisy bunkmates yelled with laughter, mimicking their angered, vociferous victim as they had done at other fun times in previous siestas.

On his last spin his right foot connected with Cherry’s chin and the laughter stopped.

“What happened then? This Cherry fellow must have really been annoyed” I remarked.

“You got that right; within seconds both my arms were being pinned behind me by Cherry’s thugs. Within minutes I was being represented by a cellmate as Cherry himself conducted a kangaroo court.

There wasn’t actually a court; one of Cherry’s goons read the charge of malicious personal injury to our self-elected cell boss and stated that these charges could be reversed in hand-to-hand combat. If I could physically overcome the warrior of Cherry’s Choice in a battle for limited freedom and possibly for my life, they would quit harassing me.

Cherry declared himself as my opponent. We would spar during the evening meal which always took place in a larger cell referred to as the Day Room. There were three full cells in this cellbloc which held eight occupants each. I would have an audience of 31 inmates.

How could I do this? My hands were nearly useless. At least Cherry had a sore jaw which would help to even things up.

I’d been in a similar situation in a previous jail where I had been charged with loitering. Had it not been for the results of my participation in a one-on-one struggle for possession of my shoes, a contest in which justice had prevailed at the expense of my attacker’s consciousness, I would have been free by now. As it happened,  a new charge  would free me from the city jail only to find myself behind county bars; had I surrendered my shoes I would have served a scant week or more after which I would have been free. As it was I had already spent three months awaiting trial on new charges.

With the help of a couple of sympathizers my hands were wrapped in towels, though I realized that the cotton protection would be of little use; I needed an alternate plan.

As we were being transferred to the larger room I decided not to wait until after dinner and went back over my plan. As soon as we had been served and the trustees were gone I would charge with my feet. And I did.

As my left foot connected with Cherry’s patella my adversary shouted at the pain in his injured kneecap and fell to the floor. My moment of triumph was quickly interrupted however by those members of Cherry’s enterage  who had apparently formulated some alternative plans of their own. From the left I detected a sneak attack in progress. I whirled around to meet two new opponents and kicked the one on the left in the mouth; as he went down I grappled with his partner. Unable to use my hands I remembered some advice from a cellmate, ‘if you can’t use your hands, use your feet; if you’re too close to use your feet, use your teeth.’ And I dined on a greasy earlobe.”

Wresting the grisly gob of human flesh from its owner, the young warrior  spat it out. At that point the room became a cacophony of troubled screams and multiple blows to his head and body. As he went down he described  his head being stomped on and kicked about.

Darkness prevailed.

On the following day he awoke in a hospital bed. A nurse explained that he had been unconscious for 27 hours.

“What day is this?” he asked.

“Today is Christmas.”  Came the reply. “You have two Christmas presents.”

“Where are they?”

“First, let me show you what you look like” replied the lady in the nurse’s cap and she held a mirror to his face.

“So, what did you look like” I asked. “That was only a year ago. You look fine now”.

“I gasped. My heart sank. What I saw in that mirror was a badly beaten stranger; all my features were so swollen that I recognized only my hair. The nurse lady with the  mirror  informed me that the skin was not broken and that no stitches had been taken.

I continued to look at the stranger in the mirror, looking for something familiar. Eventually I asked for my Christmas presents.”

“You already have them” she told me. “For one thing, you’re still alive and secondly you’re being released on your own recognizance. Your parents will be here to take you home tomorrow morning. Merry Christmas.”

‘Tis the Season

Lee in Paradise

A true story as first told in 1956 by the person whose story it is and who prefers to remain anonymous.

(“What the…..Why is it so hot in here? It’s so damned hot I can’t sleep. What was I dreaming about? Damn it all to hell, shit. Sumbitch..

Shit, shit , shit, shit, shit.

I’m on fire!.”)

 

He opened his eyes. He was covered with ripped and torn pages of newspapers and magazines  all of which were burning;  the scraps of paper were ablaze, his jumpsuit was  afire,  he was  on fire.

He rose from his bunk, twirling, whirling, spinning around like a maddened dervish, pounding out flames, slapping his chest, stomping on the still burning pages, cursing as his seven noisy bunkmates yelled with laughter, mimicking their angered, vociferous victim as they had done at other fun times in previous siestas.

On his last spin his right foot connected with Cherry’s chin and the laughter stopped.

“What happened then? This Cherry fellow must have really been annoyed” I remarked.

“You got that right; within seconds both my arms were being pinned behind me by Cherry’s thugs. Within minutes I was being represented by a cellmate as Cherry himself conducted a kangaroo court.

There wasn’t actually a court; one of Cherry’s goons read the charge of malicious personal injury to our self-elected cell boss and stated that these charges could be reversed in hand-to-hand combat. If I could physically overcome the warrior of Cherry’s Choice in a battle for limited freedom and possibly for my life, they would quit harassing me.

Cherry declared himself as my opponent. We would spar during the evening meal which always took place in a larger cell referred to as the Day Room. There were three full cells in this cellbloc which held eight occupants each. I would have an audience of 31 inmates.

How could I do this? My hands were nearly useless. At least Cherry had a sore jaw which would help to even things up.

I’d been in a similar situation in a previous jail where I had been charged with loitering. Had it not been for the results of my participation in a one-on-one struggle for possession of my shoes, a contest in which justice had prevailed at the expense of my attacker’s consciousness, I would have been free by now. As it happened,  a new charge  would free me from the city jail only to find myself behind county bars; had I surrendered my shoes I would have served a scant week or more after which I would have been free. As it was I had already spent three months awaiting trial on new charges.

With the help of a couple of sympathizers my hands were wrapped in towels, though I realized that the cotton protection would be of little use; I needed an alternate plan.

As we were being transferred to the larger room I decided not to wait until after dinner and went back over my plan. As soon as we had been served and the trustees were gone I would charge with my feet. And I did.

As my left foot connected with Cherry’s patella my adversary shouted at the pain in his injured kneecap and fell to the floor. My moment of triumph was quickly interrupted however by those members of Cherry’s enterage  who had apparently formulated some alternative plans of their own. From the left I detected a sneak attack in progress. I whirled around to meet two new opponents and kicked the one on the left in the mouth; as he went down I grappled with his partner. Unable to use my hands I remembered some advice from a cellmate, ‘if you can’t use your hands, use your feet; if you’re too close to use your feet, use your teeth.’ And I dined on a greasy earlobe.”

Wresting the grisly gob of human flesh from its owner, the young warrior  spat it out. At that point the room became a cacophony of troubled screams and multiple blows to his head and body. As he went down he described  his head being stomped on and kicked about.

Darkness prevailed.

On the following day he awoke in a hospital bed. A nurse explained that he had been unconscious for 27 hours.

“What day is this?” he asked.

“Today is Christmas.”  Came the reply. “You have two Christmas presents.”

“Where are they?”

“First, let me show you what you look like” replied the lady in the nurse’s cap and she held a mirror to his face.

“So, what did you look like” I asked. “That was only a year ago. You look fine now”.

 

“I gasped. My heart sank. What I saw in that mirror was a badly beaten stranger; all my features were so swollen that I recognized only my hair. The nurse lady with the  mirror  informed me that the skin was not broken and that no stitches had been taken.

I continued to look at the stranger in the mirror, looking for something familiar. Eventually I asked for my Christmas presents.”

“You already have them” she told me. “For one thing, you’re still alive and secondly you’re being released on your own recognizance. Your parents will be here to take you home tomorrow morning. Merry Christmas.”

The Big Bang

big%20bang%20aftermath%20nasa
NASA simulation

Eternity occurred in an instant.

The memory of all events began simultaneously with the physical occurrence of the first event.

The physical takes forever. however,the Memory of Forever occurred in a trillionth of a second.

God beget His Great Self with the snap of His Metaphysical Fingers.

Every event but the first one is (was / will be) a response to the one before it.

And all other events throughout eternity were  a response to the first.

Time was unnecessary.

The  result was total Knowledge/Memory and total Love.

Since Time was unnecessary and because all events evolved from the first, the first was a response to the last.

But In Truth there was no first.

And in Truth there was no last.

In Truth it is the same to say that all evolved as to say that all was created.

In Truth the words “was”, “is”,” first” and “last” offer no Truth.

In Truth, Time is an illusion.

Synonyms of importance: Love, Forgiveness, Infinity, All, Knowledge, Perfection, Ego, God, Memory, Messiah. There are many more.

Enjoy Christmas,

Please.