sometimes i think too much

it's funny...

there are times
that you're head is
just swimming with ideas
just brimming with all of the possibilities...

some of them good,
some of them bad...
you team up a whole lot of "i'm going to's"
with one or two "i won'ts"
plus a couple of "don't even try to make me's"
and one "nuther thing"....

they flip flap around in there
all at some stupid moment
when you might be flip flopping around....

you don't have a pen,
a picture,
or a paper,
nor even the time or a net to capture them,
so you just let them float around freely.

they make you pretty excited.
happily amused,
you chase them around
and play with them a bit...

toss them around back and forth
hoping you can just keep them alive
long enough to find someone to tell them too...

it doesnt' seem like it should require
too much concentration and thought,
but really,
it's a lot to juggle with!

walking and thinking,
taking care of tasks along the way -
it requires quite a bit of coordination.

so much that when you finally have the chance,
someone FINALLY says "what are you thinking about?"
all you can come up with is
"um, nothing..."

funny that with a brain that is full,
free thoughts are still smart enough to find some way to escape.

stop stepping on my toes

I wasn’t there more than ten minutes before the man was talking to me about my feet.
It wasn’t the first time, he approached me once before – at the Corcoran.

I was there for the Robert Frank exhibit....

He came up to me and said,
“I can tell by the way you stand that you’ve
studied ballet.”

“You’re right,” I answered.
Little did he know I had been the funniest,
clumsiest ballerina on campus.

I tried to concentrate on the
images before me, a miner and his wife.
But he stayed right beside me and continued to
press.

“Did you see all of those beautiful photographs of the
young ballerinas?” he asked,
pointing to the other end of the
room.

“Yes,” I replied quite clippish. “The are. They are
beautiful.”

“I can tell by the way you stand, that you’ve studied
ballet,” he said. “Am I correct?”

“Yes,” I answered impatiently, I
thought we had been there already.
“A very long time ago.”

“Now, let me guess, second position, right?” he continued with his enthusiasm.
“No wait that would be wrong. On second thought, make my answer third!”

“It was a very long time ago,” I repeated. “I’m not sure.”
I was mad and sad and had not interest of talking of myself.

I continued to keep focus, my eyes fixed on the series
of photographs before me, a story of stark black images of the sooty coal miner
coming home to his from a day in the dark.

His face nearly black; his wide eyes and pearly white smile lit up the image. You could see
clearly how happy the man was to be home. Happy to be in her arms. Happy to be
stripping off his nasty dirty clothes to soak in the bath she had drawn for him.
As he soaked, just a few feet away, she’d put the final touches on supper,
listening to the stories he told of his day at the mine.

That’s where I wanted to be – not Pittsburgh, really, just somewhere cozy and comfortable, safe and content. Instead I was here, trying to shake some boar there beside me, talking to me about my
feet.

But like I said, that was months ago.
Tonight, it was sort of similar, but not quite the same.
We were at a G-Fine in Georgetown. It was an art opening. Lost and Found - a collection of discarded objects.
They had been reconfigured, fused together, taking new shapes.
Magically transforming the ordinary into art.

He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around. At first glance I didn’t recognize him.
I guess that day I had never really paid attention...

Curly red hair, thick bottled glasses, beady eyes, and a Pillsbury dough-like smile –
Just the sight of him made me a bit queasy.
Pervert, I thought, for no particular reason.
Poor guy, he was probably harmless.

“I really like your shoes,” he said. And that's when I remembered the Corcoran thing.

So he was there, I was there.
Once again he had snuck himself up on me.
And once again my feet were the point of his conversation.

“Thank you,” I said uneasily.

Truth of the matter is I wasn’t sure I liked them myself.
But his vote of confidence pretty much clinched the idea that maybe I didn’t.

I had liked them earlier that day - the shiny, red pair of platform Mary Janes...
When I put them on I thought that they were really saying something...

What they were saying exactly, I wasn’t sure,
but with me not really having much to say for myself these days,
I had kind of hoped they might inspire something.

That was hours ago.

Instead they had inspired the wrong sort of sentiment
and there I was standing trying to figure out
how I was going to shake this sort of man
who had nothing more about was me and my feet.

“Do you ever watch Sex in the City?” he asked.

“I don’t have cable,” I said,
averting my eyes to the cable that connected a gas pump to a bowling ball.

“You should! That show is all about shoes!” he said passionately.

“I’m sure it is,” I answered, pretending I knew nothing about Carrie and her long-term relationship with Jimmy Choo.

My discomfort was beginning to be contagious.
The disinterested crowd surrounding me
was growing more interested
and they were all staring down at my feet.

I tried to find some direction to divert to,
a little breathing room...but the place was packed.
Not a speck of white space to be found.

The wine man manning the wine bottle tried to come to my rescue.

“Here, let me top this off for you,” he consoled, filling my Dixie cup up to the top.
Clearly this crowd was familiar with this fellow who had nothing to speak of but feet.

“I think you’d relate well to the main character,” he said.
“I mean she has some really great shoes.”

“I doubt it,” I told him, gulping down the wine.
“We probably don't even share the same shoe size.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he replied.
“Besides, yours are clearly more functional.”

I looked at him – strangely I’m sure.
I wanted to tell him that he was wrong.
I wanted to tell him that these shoes were not functional,
that they had already gotten stuck in my bike spoke,
and they tripped over cobblestones.
They made too much noise, and hurt like hell to boot.

But more importantly, I just wanted him to go away.

So I just kept staring at him.
My cheeks were flushed, my pulse was high, I’m sure my nostrils were flaring.
Like a bull ready to charge, all I could see was red – and not just my shoes. I wanted my Xanex.

“Relax,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Perhaps... if you were in my shoes,” I barked, “Then maybe you’d know!”
Fully aware of the fact that he wouldn’t.

“Okay,” he said, arms up in the air.
Then he turned and walked away.

And I stood there in the “Lost and Found” exhibit, hating to be lost and found all at the same time.
Hating the fact that I had been in these shoes all night and I had absolutely no idea what was wrong.
Hating the fact that even if I put on a different pair tomorrow...
I still wouldn’t know – whether I walked a mile in them or not.

I finished my wine and went home.

kaboom

She couldn’t understand why he saw snake-bite kits in his sleep. But that’s what he said to her that morning. He opened his eyes momentarily and muttered, “We really should get a snake-bite kit.”

“How strange,” she thought, for they hadn’t even seen a snake in weeks!

With the exception of the few who slithered around an old used car lot...but were they snakes or were they weasels? When animals wear pants, she has a tough time telling them apart. Yes, a snake-bite kit seemed strange, but she made a note of it nonetheless.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll do it.”

It wasn’t long later when she believed she had discovered the answer.

It came to her in her book, page 153:

BERNARD MICKEY WRANGLE’S FAVORITE HOMEMADE
BOMB RECIPES

The hearts and diamonds bomb:

Take a deck of ordinary playing cards, the old-fashioned paper kind, cut out the red spots and soak them overnight like beans. Alcohol is the best soaking solution, but tap
water will suffice. Plug one end of a short length of pipe. Pack the soggy
hearts and diamonds into the pipe. On pre-plastic playing cards, the red spots
were printed with diazo dye, a chemical that has anunstable, high-energy bond
with nitrogen. So you’ve got some nitro of sorts, now you’ll be needing
glycerin. Hand lotion works nicely. Glug a little lotion into the pipe. To
activate the quasi-nitroglycerin, you’ll require potassium permanganate. That
you can find in the snake-bite section of any good first-aid chest. Add a dash of
the potassium permanganate and plug the other end of the pipe. Heat the pipe. A
direct flame is best, but simply laying the pipe atop a hot radiator will turn
the trick. Take cover! The Woodpecker used a hearts and diamonds bomb to release
himself from McNeil Island the first time that he was confined
there.
(Tom Robbins, Still Life
Woodpecker)

He was planning on blowing something up!

Admittedly, she was a little uneasy about the idea. Playing with fire was fun and all, but she didn’t want anyone to get hurt.

Immediately, she confronted him. “I’ve figured you out!” she cried. “It’s right here, in my book, right before the Froot Loops and Bat Shit Bomb!”

She showed him the page.

“I know your plan,” she said. “And I just want to say…that I think I’m willing to help, just let me think about it a little bit more.”

And so she went off to think about it. And then she thought and thought and thought.She thought for so long and so hard...she thought her head might nearly explode. But then she figured it out.

“That’s what we’ll do!” she said excitedly. “We’ll plant thought bombs! We’ll blow them up into tiny pieces! We’ll deflate bad ideas and make room for the good ones. We’ll become the pyromaniac prozac of the nation!

“We’ll blow up those bad thoughts of the past, that haunt us in the present, and push us away from the future:

The thoughts that come with rainy days? Boom! Gone.

Those thoughts one gets when they quit quitting smoking? Squash. No more!

Those thoughts you think when you wake up in the morning after having one more than the one too many? Whabam!

Those thoughts I get skipping the sidewalk, crossing the block where there's one name plus another? Kaboom!

Thoughts that accompany uncomfortable silences, discouraging reflections, ‘I-don’t-cares’, unpaid bills, counted calories, sour milk, dirty laundry, smelly feet, and Sundays - All of them, blasted! Blown off this planet forever!

Thoughts of self-loathing, apathy, loneliness, bigotry, anger, revenge, jealously, isolation, frustration, hesitation, hopelessness, destitution, and grief will become putty in our hands – actions made powerless by the fatal reaction of quasi-nitroglycerin and potassium permanganate!”

“Woo hoo! We’ll be dropping thought bombs all over the place!” she exclaimed. It was time she decided, to get down to business.

“Okay, you keep cutting out hearts,” she said. “I’ll take care of the diamonds!”

Excitedly, she ran in search of scissors.

She wondered what sort of outfit a brain bandit such as herself might wear...

“Whoa! Silly girl,” he said. “Clearly, you aren’t playing with a full deck! I have no intentions of throwing bombs – at people, places, thoughts, or anything else! I just think a snake-bite kit would be a smart to have – for when we camp.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling somewhat deflated. It was just starting to sound like fun. “Are your sure?”

“One hundred percent certain,” he said.

Damn, man...detonated! Her plan had blown a fuse.

"Perhaps you are right,” she said. “I mean, if we take away the bad thoughts, we’ll never appreciate the good thoughts. How will we know if we aren’t feeling bad thoughts, or if they aren’t even there to be felt? That could be very misleading. And how would thoughts appear on an endangered species list? What in the world was I thinking?”

“Shut it,” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

She picked up a pen and put it down on paper. She scribbled ‘snake-bite kit’ on the grocery list, right under soy milk and coffee.

52 card pick-up

Last night I dreamt that I ran into an old lady in a wheelchair on the street. Well, not literally - I was walking, she was rolling, and I didn't crash into her or anything like that.

She looked like she was having a hard time with it all - her arms were tired, the streets were busy...
I was pretty busy myself, but the sight of her concerned me so that I stopped heading my direction and decided instead to head in hers.

I smiled. "Please, let me help."

She looked at me - not mean nor malicious, but untrusting and untouchable. It was clear she found me far from charming.

"I'm fine," she said, clutching her things. "Please go."

"I'd like to help," I offered. "And I happen to be headed your direction. So please?"

She quarreled with me and for a little old lady - she put up a good fight. But each profanity she uttered and spit she spat required more energy than the last. When she knew she couldn't afford to waste anymore, she gave in.

"If you must," she articulated impatiently, "then fine. But let's go. I haven't got all day."

She didn't have all day, but that its how long it took for us to get there. I rolled her along a smooth cemented sidewalk along straight streets that never ended. Cars passed parallel. Lights changed from green to yellow to red. Traffic rarely ever intersected with the old lady, me, and her chair.

She was cautious and cranky. At times I considered leaving and letting her go on her own, but something inside me was too frightened to run off. I pushed along quietly hoping that by not interfering with her thoughts she might soon start to relax and not worry.

Without her ever uttering a "left" or a "right", I knew exactly where she was headed and that's where I took her - straight to the circus. We wheeled right in to the Big Top where I lifted her up in her wheelchair and sat her on the very top bleacher.

"There, now," she said with a smile. "This is perfect."

She was tired and her trust had slightly teetered. I was relieved.

Within seconds it seemed, though, her attention shifted from her faith in my face to the sack that sat in her lap. Feverishly, she unzipped it and rifled though its contents.

As she searched through the sack, bits of fric frac fell, slipping through the slats of the bleachers, falling down to the bottom of the tent.

I tried to keep track of what dropped, knowing that once I was certain she was situated, I would be crawling along the surface recollecting her things.

Finally from the bottom, she pulled out a deck of cards. I helped remove them from their box, set a blanket cross her knees, and left her to shuffle.

She was ready to play bridge by herself on the bleachers.

I started down to the ground to retrieve her things, nervous that should I return with less than everything, she would accuse me of trying to take everything from her.

It was dirty and dusty down there and her things had landed in spots my arms could not reach, but I tried. The first thing I rescued was a familiar old beaten up padlock. The key was right in there in the hole.

"Strange, isn't it?" a man said from behind me. He was older now and a little gray, but I knew him instantly.

"She's left it open like that for years. She was just to damn nervous that one day she might get careless and lose the key."

I smiled and nodded. I remembered.

"I know," I answered. "But what good is a lock should you lose the key? I think not ever being able to get at it is far worse than if it should be gone forever. I mean, nobody likes to lose things."

A few playing cards fell to the ground. I looked up to where she sat, concerned.

His eyes followed mine. "It just doesn't make sense," he said pointing up to the top bleacher."She didn't mind me holding all the cards - all of them! She'd hand over every last one in a heart beat. Even when if we were playing, she didn't seem to care if I knew what she held in her hands."

More cards fluttered down from the sky.

"It isn't just now," he continued, "She's always had trouble handling all of them herself - too determined to ask for assistance..."

"So the key, one day I see that she's all worried about losing it. So I asked her to give it to me. I promised to keep it safe - that she wouldn't have to worry anymore about losing it. And you know what?"

"She wouldn't do it." I answered. Four more cards fell.

"Exactly, she wouldn't do it! So instead she spent her life running around with a lock that never lost its key. Useless!" he said angrily. "I don't understand how you can expect to keep anything safe when you leave the key in the lock!"

"I think this lock is very useful," I said. "It all depends on what you are trying to keep safe."

I pointed to a storage shack there underneath the bleachers.

"If you put the lock on the outside of that door, leave the key and walk away the chances are good that someone will go in while you aren't watching. They'll clear you out while you are gone. And all you are left with is your self."

Cards and more cards continued to fall from up above. It made me so nervous. I wanted to go up and help her, but I continued to talk.

"But from the inside the lock works perfectly. You can go inside and close the door. Lock the door, leave in the key - the only person you have to guard it from is yourself. Not only are you protecting all of your things, but you are protecting yourself as well. And what could possible be more valuable?"
He looked at me at me a little funny. As if he were seeing me for the first time, though I'd know he'd seen me dozens of times before.

"I guess you have a point," he said. "I never thought of it that way."

I laughed and smiled. "Girls are funny like that," I said.

"No," he responded. "Just you."

The final card fell and I knew that all 52 had finally fallen because I felt them as if they were her years that she shed onto me one card at a time.

I wanted to give them back. I picked each of cards up, along with the padlock, and headed back up the bleachers, but by the time I got up there she was gone.

light up one's life

Hugh Frances Hicks collected light bulbs.
Containers that create and contain light.

Screw in.
Switch on.
Turn off.

When speaking of a standard bulb, "exquisite" perhaps might not be the first word that comes to mind. But old doctor Hugh might argue with you that light bulbs were just that: exquisite.

With their sleek shape their careful curves of thin glass --dainty and delicate, yet still able to support a surge strong enough to light up any given space.

Carefully coiled wires strategically slated to orchestrate and conduct a series of symphonies of sight. And aside from their smart craftsmanship and their innovative design, Hugh knew too, that a bulb's ability to spotlight and shine - to make visible the beauty of others - had stirred more souls than the Mona Lisa ever did.

"How can a picture can say a thousand words if it's too dark to see it?" he'd ask.

He had 75,000 in all.
I don't think you need ME to tell you, that's some serious wattage.
They came in all shapes and sizes, all working in wondrous ways - some were simple and ordinaryOthers were quite extraordinary...a few were far from great.

Ten thousand of these bulbs had been cited as "special", symbolic of 79 years of bright ideas that had clicked on up over top of his head. Hugh prided himself as being a man of many ideas. For years he coupled each idea with a bulb that shared a similar sentiment.

A dentist by trade, plenty of these pertained to teeth.
But some were much more personal...

• Like the day he got the idea to propose to Beverly - with that he tucked a bulb from the original torch on the Statue of Liberty - no two women filled him with more pride or passion...
• There was the Frances Fly Trap, a carefully bent paper clip he tactically crafted to keep the zipper on his pants from falling down. With that he stored a bulb from the London Bridge. I see London, I see France...
• There was his "not so bright" idea of testing the strength of duct tape by securing one of his friends to a wall. It seemed like a pretty neat experiment until ole Virgil started to suffocate. Hot dog! Who knew? It is impossible to breathe when swaddled in 92 pieces of duct tape. To that dumb inspiration he attributed a headlamp light liberated from Hitler's limousine.
• Which leads us to bulb #911 -thank heavens he had already invented an emergency hotline. Assistance came quickly and Virgil is still with us today. That bulb belonged to Baltimore County Hospital's first ambulance.

Some were huge, illuminating bulbs that blinded its audience. He tied those to far more fantastical concepts --like the U-Haul Mover's Balloon Bladder, or his Inside/Outside Hangover theory, or Storyboard Scrabble - these were inventions and ideas that people just weren't quick to pick up upon or easily embrace.

"I can't see it," they'd cry.

"Of course you can't see it!" he'd explain. "You're staring straight at it! Not all things work best when so carefully watched. Look at it from another angle and perhaps you can work through those blind spots."

Yes, they brought light to his life and it was collecting these bulbs for 50 years that kept him out of the dark.

And who would have known!

Not me, had I not met his ghost that night in the Post.
It's the closest we came to being acquainted.

While he talked to Tim, I skimmed The Metro section and saw that he had passed:

"Hugh Frances Hicks, Light Bulb Collector. Died May 9, in Baltimore. Age
79, no cause of death was given."

Good night, Knight Light!

hold the onions

last night I dreamt that people were built
In the same manner that he made the veggie burgers -
just like burger king,
we could be served up any which way that you like it.

instead of push up bras and personalities,
we were more concerned with whether
we were dressed with lettuce and tomato,
and whether or not we were tucked inside a toasted sesame bun.

cheese?
yes please,but hold the onions.

perhaps people really are kind of already put together that way,
as the ingredients are plentyand the combinations endless.

the fact that we were all reduced to being a bunch of burgers
wasn't what troubled me in the dream.
it's this next part...

i was in my dressing room slapping on some sesame seeds,
debating between adding some sprouts or romaine,
when someone showed up with a special delivery.

he had brown bagged a bunch of envelopes
Which he happily put in my hands.

"i shared your secret recipe to those that you hold close,"he said.
"and I challenged them to change it.
i think you'll find their feedback fascinating."

i got upset.

"now why did you go and do a thing like that?"i asked.
"i mean, even I don't know what I'm made up of.
at least not completely. who knows now?!?"

sure, i thought i knew what to do to make myself taste better,
but i hadn't a clue as to what my basic patty was made of.

"well then do what you wish," he said.
"i thought it might be helpful."

and he left.

"open it," tara told me."and then you'll know."

but i couldn't. it made me nervous.
and i didn't want to know.

i was worried about what i might do
if i learned that he might like me better with ketchup.
would i stop wearing ketchup and opt for mustard instead?
would the two taste terrible together?
or if mom thought i could use a little more relish.
would I pack on the pickles each time that i saw her?
and then would I still be the same with pickles and ketchup
as I previously had been without?
what if god forbid someone recommended mayo,
could i ever get used to the smell?

i just wasn't sure.perhaps, i thought
the person who preferred pickles on their patty
might find the mustard monger to be quite complimentary -
it shouldn�t have to be such a clash of the condiments.
perhaps.

But like i said,i just wasn't sure,
I just wasn't used to tackling toppings.

I flushed the brown bag down the toilet
then I walked into the kitchen and pulled out a pot.

surely, i considered,
i could come up with a condiment that no one had ever considered.
I mean isn't that how the secret special sauce got started?_________________________________________________

boys and beans

"You never came back for your beans," he said to me.
He startled me sneaking up on me like that.
"I was in a hurry and needed to go." I told him. "You were talking to your boss when I came back for the beans. I didn't want to trouble you."

"No bother. I went to the back for better beans and I came back, but you were gone. I looked for you in the frozen foods, but you had already checked out."

"I was in a hurry and needed to go." I repeated. "And really, the bin beans were fine. Sorry to cause you the trouble."

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Produce Man at the Saratoga supermarket has stopped staring and has started talking.

Frankly, it's become a bit unfortunate.

I thought it would be better if he talked. Rather than just stand there and stare, which is what he was doing for a while. Even when I said "Hi" to him he wouldn't answer. He'd smile - but still, just stand there and stare, slowly fixing his fruit…his arms elbow deep in melons or apples or broccoli.

I hate going grocery shopping when he's there.
And he's ALWAYS there.

Why can't we have a creepy butcher instead?
Then I'd never see him. Or perhaps at least not notice him.
Standing and staring, standing and staring....

Oh don't be silly...
He stares at everyone. I'm certain of it.
Everyone who's a girl, or female at least!

He's perfectly harmless.
Perhaps I'm just quickly creeped.

So just the other day he decided to talk.
He saw me selecting green beans from the bin around 10 that night, when the store was close to closing.

"Don't bag those beans from the bin," he had said.
"I will go to the back and bring you better beans. Those have been there all day."

I thanked him and told him it really wasn't necessary.
I didn't need many beans, and the beans I had bagged were not bad.

He shook his head no.

"Finish your shopping," he said. "I will go get you better beans.
I will come find you in one of the aisles."

I didn't.
I finished my shopping in a hurry and checked out with my original bag of beans.

"My beans would have been better," he told me.

"I'm sure your beans were better,
but the bin beans really weren't bad." I said.

"Of course my beans are better,
but you went with the bad beans instead," he said again.
"Today you take home the better beans."

"But I don't need beans today," I told him.
"Today I'm here for tomatoes. And these tomatoes look great!"

"But the beans are on sale. And they're fresh."

"Fine," I said frazzled."I'll take the beans and the tomatoes.
You're right, they're beautiful beans.
Besides, having too many beans certainly can't be bad."

"Of course not," he said.

I hadn't had this much trouble with beans and boys since the 4th grade.
But perhaps you've heard this one before…

I was the nerdy new girl at an elementary school out in California. I was a "brown bag" lunch girl by choice, but while we were moving into our new home, my mother made me sign up for the "hot lunch" program.

On my first day, I got my tray. I ate the green jello, forked a few train tracks through the mashed potatoes, glugged down the chocolate milk…I must've eaten the main entree as well because all that were left were the vegetables - a generous serving of green beans.

At the time, my ten-year-old taste buds were fans of few vegetables.
Done with my nutritious lunch, I picked up the tray and headed for the trash can.

"Stop! Right there!" an appointed cafeteria cop bellowed behind me.
"You aren't going ANYWHERE until that tray is clean!
Hot lunchers have to finish everything on their plate before they are excused."

I panicked -- I had been enrolled in Alcatraz Elementary.
I hated green beans and outside there were some monkey bars calling my name.

All eyes were on me as I returned to my bench and sadly stared at my single serving of green beans.

That's when I saw him....Danny Mendez, the obligatory super-sized student of the 4th grade.

"Psst! Slide over here," he offered.
"If you'll be my girlfriend, I'll eat your vegetables -- every day!
Whatever you don't like, I will eat it!" It was love at first bite.

Fast forward fifeteen years...I became a vegetarian.