Dusty's Tears

(Please start reading from 7/18/07)

“Yohimbine. Cute!” the officer said as he sipped the cognac. “I was once a taster for a drug company and we were looking at different recreational drugs.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about sir, unless my husband had laced the cognac before he went to the other world. He always was complaining that I wasn’t affectionate enough.”

“I’m sure that’s the explanation, ma’am. But don’t worry. They discovered that it doesn’t work for men like myself of middle eastern descent.”

Dusty went to the kitchen to get herself a drink. This day will be one to remember. Should she dare serve the officer some dust bunny cookies? These were cookies shaped like a dust bunny, made from ice-box cookie dough.

Dusty still had a serious problem here. The backup officers would soon arrive and they might bring cleaning equipment that even Dirty Hairy would not be able to break. Things were not looking good. She decided to try to persuade the officer that her bunnies were not really animals.

“Officer, I’m wondering if you would reconsider your desire to eradicate my bunnies?”

“I cannot do that ma’am. When I took my oath I swore to uphold the law. And the law says ‘no non-domesticated animals’ within the city limits.”

“But officer,” she said, remembering the Socratic method from philosophy class, “what is an animal?”

“Well, ma’am, an animal is something that isn’t a human and that moves around.”

“How about if you were to drop the glass of cognac? Would the falling glass be an animal at that moment?”

“Well, of course not, ma’am. It would simply be a falling glass of cognac.”

“And suppose that I turned on the TV to the Saturday car races, and a car ran from the right side of the screen to the left side of the screen. Would it be an animal?”

“No, of course not.”

“So tell me again, why do you consider my fair hair friends animals? Aren't they simply organic material that blows around?”

“Ma’am,” he said, getting very irritated by this time, “I’m not here to play word games with you. You have broken the law and you know it. The backup troops are coming and they will be bringing a Kirby special vacuum unit and your friends will be sucked into oblivion. If this causes you undue stress or trauma we will provide psychological services to help you through it.”

Again tears started rolling down Dusty’s eyes. The end was near. And nearer than she knew until she looked out the window and saw 5 or 6 official looking hummers were coming up her drive way.

A Drink

(Please start reading from 7/18/07)

Dirty Harry grabbed at the broomstick with his canine teeth and broke it in half as easily as a knife cuts butter. Dusty’s eyes were so filled with tears that all was blurry. The officer’s face turned red with anger.

And then, a torrential rain started, with lightning and thunder. It was a little over the top for drama, but I must say it like it was.

Just then the rain stopped as quickly at it started, and a shimmer of sunlight appeared. The officer once again caught the light reflecting off of Dusty’s blue eyes.

“Ma’am, I’m certainly not going to do much sweeping with a stub of a broom. Maybe I’ll take you up with that drink until my backup arrives.”

“What can I offer you? I made some lemonade recently?”

“That will be fine . . . unless you have something a little stronger." The office said, half joking.

Dusty remembered that she had been a chemistry major in college. She still had many of her chemicals, stored in the pantry. “Suppose, she thought to herself, that she drug the officer. How might that change his behavior?”

“Sure, officer. I have something stronger. Just give me a moment.”

Dusty raced to the kitchen and started to feverishly wash a glass. Her mind, filled with webs since it was twenty years since she had been in school, started to think about what chemicals she had and how she could disguise their taste.

She found a bottle of cognac that her late husband had received for being the bed pillow salesman of the year (more on him later).

Dusty’s tears had dried up completely by now and she put on (metaphorically) her drinking cap. Or is it “thinking cap?” she wondered.

She thought that she might shift the equation a little if the officer fell in love with her, realizing that love and lust were distant relatives and from a distance might even appear to be related.

“Now, for a challenge. What should I use?” She thought to herself.

Dusty had not only been a good student, but she and her girlfriends had a club in college called the Society for Ugly and Horny Women (UFHM). They would share recipes and substances for aphrodisiacs. She went through in her mind some of the most effective ones, and bingo, hit the perfect one for the occasion.

She instinctively reached for her bottle of yohimbine, and poured a little bit of the clear liquid into the cognac. Yohimbine is the main alkaloid of Yohimbe. As a weak MAO inhibitor and alpha-adrenergic antagonist, yohimbine may increase genital blood flow and sexual sensitivity for some people (lifted from Wikipedia).

She brought out a glass of cognac plus, and found the officer now sitting in one of her dusty easy chairs, with Dirty Harry still growling under his breathe (the dog’s breathe, that is).

One Fell Sweep

(Please start reading from 7/18/07)

Dusty noticed how the officer’s blue eyes picked up a gleam of light from the window. She realized that she had been a little argumentative and abrasive, and decided to take another tack.

“I’m Dusty, officer. May I offer you a drink?” As Dusty talked she realized that all of her glasses were coated with years of dirt and that the officer’s complaint might be further enhanced should he accept her offer.

“Ma’am, I’m just here to let you know that you may only have domesticated pets in your house. The dog is fine, but the dust bunnies will have to go.”

“Officer, to do that would like cutting . . . off my fingers. Perhaps I could apply for a zoning variation.” Or divine dispensation, she thought to herself.

“You are welcome to have your day in court, but until then . . . .”

At that the officer brought out a dustpan and small broom from his brief case and started to scoop up some of the rabbits.

Dirty Harry started growling and barking, alternatively. Tears starting rolling down Dusty’s eyes in a steady stream. Life had gone from bad to worst in one fell sweep.

The Bust

(Please start reading from 7/18/07)

Dusty was quite happy today. It was the birthday of one of her dust bunnies. One year ago she had discovered “Big Ears” in the corner of her bedroom. Most other woman would think to themselves that it was time to vacuum., and the especially diligent ones would pull out the vacuum and suck her up to oblivion. But Dusty had such a special place in her heart for these creatures that she had fabricated a holy vacuum hose so that she could still get the typical headache from vacuuming noise and smells, and, at the same time, preserve the longevity of her fair hairy friends.

Dusty’s doorbell rang. It had been so long since that had happened she didn’t recognize the sound. At first, that is. She ran to the door and peeked through the security peephole or whatever that is called. She saw a very official looking man with a badge.

“Oh, my God,” she thought to herself. “Should I open the door and expose my friends to the perils of fresh air, or do I pretend I’m not home and have an army of officials come back?”

It was quite a dilemma for Dusty. She decided to open the door, but to leave the screen door locked.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked.

“Yes, lady, I’d like to come in and talk to you about some illegal pets you seem to be harboring.” He replied.

“The only pet I have is my trusty pointer, Dirty Hairy.” She shot back.

“We have reports, lady, that you have some rather “unconventional” pets. If you wish to live in our community you will need to be like others. Please open the door or I’ll have to send for backup.”

“Ok, but please shut the door gently. I don’t want to disturb any of my friends.”

“Friends . . . that is exactly my point, ma’am. You are not like the others on your block. Perhaps you need psychological help.”

“I take care of my friends and you say that I need help. To what has this world come?” She said, remembering from school not to end a sentence with a preposition.

“Many people spend countless hours keeping their house clean. On the contrary, you spend your time as a curator of dirt. Can’t you see how wrong that is?”

“Is it wrong to care with souls who have a heart? And elegance, as well?”

Dusty and Bunny

Dusty loved dirt. Not just the kind in her garden, but the dust balls formed from the hairs of her shedding (and happily filthy) pointer, Dirty Hairy.

Since her husband, Softy, had gone to the other world, her friends tried to fix her up with more appropriate mates. They found the best looking, most intelligent, and richest men in the territory, but none could compete with her dirt fetish.

She vacuumed incessantly. Not to clean up, but just to let the neighbors know that she was doing something about “her problem.” Yet she was careful only to use her specially fabricated holy hose so that none of her dirt would be disturbed.

Sometimes Dusty would get lonely on a Saturday night and she’d take out her flashlight and magnifying glass, and search for a corner that had picked up the best looking dust bunny. She knew that, in time, each corner would “come into its own,” and create a haven for her pleasure and all the microcosms that follow such a fertile environment.

Occasionally Dusty would stray from home and find public spaces that were particularly rich with debris. Because she was very ethical in her behavior, she would never litter. In fact, she kept a pair of shoes at the front door of her sanctuary so that none of her bunnies would leave her domain. She believed that dirt was the result of life grinding life, and that to interfere with this process was a sacrilege.

Dusty grew dirt like others grow roses. She had some weeds in pots around the house, but only because they helped the process along. And sometimes, or so she believed, they’d bring spiders, which were her best friends. Each morning Dusty would jump out of bed to inspect all of her webs. She would not only revel in their growth, but would be thrilled to see what new dirt they had captured.

Dusty would have birthday parties for her dust bunnies. She’d “bake” a cake by carefully brushing Dirty Hairy, and added to that a little “dirt” from a weed plant, and then, for frosting, a little grease from a dirty frying pan. She’d light some candles, depending on the age of the bunny, and she’d let the candles burn down to their extinction, hoping that a little soot would cover her “Sistine” ceiling.

Dusty was happy. She lived with her friends and protected them as one would their own flesh and blood. She did have an arch enemy, however, and prayed incessantly that he would stay away from her street.

“Dear Dirt God, who art on Earth, give me this day my daily dirt, and keep the city cleaning crews away, or their vehicles broken, whatever it will take.” (Dusty wasn’t so good at writing prayers, but they still functioned well to keep her neighborhood in shambles.)

Dusty even painted her windows shut to make sure that none of her favorite bunnies would run away. As long as her dirt was safe, Dusty could live happily ever after.

Rectilinear Shadows

A common alternative to
being in the shadow
of another being,

is being in the shadow
of something that isn't a
being, but rather,

an answer, a formula,
a construct, or even
a rectangle.

Thinking problems are
equal to solutions, or
that now is the best time

for everything is
about being in the
rectangle's shadow and

not being patient
enough to wait for the
sun to pass overhead.

Shadow

Sometimes when the sun
isn't shining we are still lost in the
shadow of someone dear to us,

dear, but love/hate, because
we cannot walk alone and
find our own path.

Even when they go away,
they stay, watching over
our every step and action.

And then we quickly turn
and lose them for a moment,
only to be glad that they aren't far behind.

Levitation

I told my daughter
that I would never help her move
again. She asked if I had

lied, helping
her once again.
I told her

that breaking a promise
about the future
is not lying.

In any case,
she had a couple of
chemistry students

help move her couch.
I tried to interest them
in my ideas on levitation,

but they wouldn't consider it
an option.
I explained

that some
can move spoons
with their minds,

and that the difference
between a spoon and
a couch is minimal.

They seemed to be buying
the idea for a (short) moment,
but then, in spite of

their excellent education,
relied on their brute strength
rather than wishful moving.

I wonder who is holding up
all the levitating bodies
in the universe.

Time

We personify time,
saying that she comes and goes.
We start this and stop that,

because it is time.
We wait on her while
she fixes her hair

and puts on her makeup.
When we meditate,
we forget about her

until the bell rings,
when we're rudely reminded,
"it's time."

Fighting TV

I don't like fighting.
I do like
to turn on the TV,

but sometimes all I see
is fighting.
When we were kids

we wrestled with
each other a lot,
but we never

got hurt.
On TV, fighting
people are killed

faster than you can surf
through channels.
And when

the news comes on,
it doesn't get any
better.

I wish I could give
a friendlier report on
my dog,

who expired a rabbit
yesterday,
after a hard summer

of pointing
and sniffing.
Maybe some day

peace will rain down
and encourage us
to turn the other cheek.

Good and Bad

The Buddhist has
trouble discerning between
good and bad,

obvious to the rest
of us, they often
have unintended consequences,

surprising even
the most accomplished
skeptic.

The man lost his
only possession,
the horse he used

to plow the fields,
only to discover
the reaper, which

gave him great
wealth so he could
board the Titanic,

and so
the story
continues.

Not Ruth

Not Ruth, or no truth,
is certainly another option.
Perhaps she is so evasive

because she is not in hiding,
but rather does not (and never did) exist.
Could we live with truly

understanding the biology of
love or the inevitability
of death? Could we stand

to hear that we are below
average in everything, or
that our careless and

thoughtless acts had crippled
or killed good people?
Imagine a truthless

world where perceptions
are and will be as close
as we'll ever get to those secrets

we so yearned
to discover
in a previous life.

Diversified Truth

Another view,
and probably at this late hour a more
realistic one, is that

truth is diversified among
all things, great and small.
Each of us, in our

uniqueness, knows
stuff that no one
else knows.

Wisdom in not
an individual attribute,
but rather a collective conscious.

Truth

I just want to meet someone
who knows the truth.

As Socrates discovered
we know about one thing

but not another, and worse,
we don't know

how ill-informed we are
about so much.

I just want to meet
someone who knows
the truth, and, who,

in a kind and generous moment,
will be willing
to share it with me.

Followers

They search for their leader
looking for wisdom
and/or validation...

the kind that should
come from within
but is sought

from outside. Be
it one god or another
it is all the same

titillating our greed
with everything from
happiness to eternal salvation.

Amy and Clayton

Amy has been my
daughter's friend for 18 years.
Tonight was the celebration

of Amy's wedding to Clayton.
Actually, though,
it was the (local) celebration

of her celebration
in Florida
that took place

a few weeks ago.
It was in a boathouse
in Forest Park

(where they moved more
dirt that they did to
build the Panama Canal),

and they couldn't have
found a better venue
for joining family and friends.

I wonder who decides
such things as
who we marry,

and when we marry,
and where we marry.
We sometimes wonder

if computers will someday
think like humans,
but are we so sure?

Aren't we programmed
to make many of the choices
we believe need such long deliberations?

So we have two happy bright
and attractive 30 year olds (or so)
who got hitched (really hitched)

and now are talking
about having a baby
(I can see it in their eyes).

Life was not a breeze for them,
or for any of us,
for that matter.

But now they have reached a pinnacle,
and their lives are in (good) order,
and they will share it (in love)

with some little ones,
and with their family,
and their extended families

who are all still dancing at this late hour.
Best wishes,
Amy and Clayton!

Tigger

If you are wondering why,
not just any why,
but why this is called

Tigger, or even Tiger,
when she looks like
anything but,

it was copied, oh
very precisely,
from a 17th century

Japanese Tigger
painting, which
is not much of

an excuse for how
off she is, except
that the Japanese

never saw a Tigger,
not in the flesh,
as they say,

but only in the
"Art,"
that is. . . .

A Couple of Screws

After days of preparatory work
on the ceiling
it was time to raise

the drywall
and screw her in.
She was heavier that the drywall

that we had lifted
15 years ago,
or are we just that much weaker?

In any case, we had it in place after
a few tries when we discovered
we had to shave it here and there.

And then, after getting it up
and in place (no mean trick),
I realized that the screws

were on the kitchen table,
so Linda ran down the stairs
to find them,

only to not find them,
thinking logically and incorrectly
they'd be in a box labeled screws.

Sometimes I thought
management was hard,
but it is nothing

compared to manual labor,
where you'd give
your right foot

for another hand,
and then,
just for long enough to get in a couple of screws.

Mandala Sand Painting

In Tibet they'd drop
colored sand grain by grain
year by year

until the image
was completed,
only, when done,

to destroy the mandala
in a single stroke,
to shun attachment

and to emulate
the impermanence
of life.

Dark Side Nightmare

I thought that going
from teacher to dean was
a one way trip to the dark side,

only to discover that
there was a scarier
side going from dean to

the ranks of the unemployed.
Apparently I have a double
from the other side

shadowing me. It all started
yesterday when the local
hardware store called to tell me

that I had left some parts
for my pressure washer
on their counter.

They kept referring to me
as the teacher from the college.
I explained that I had been

to the store,
but not with parts from a
pressure washer,

and not with a little boy,
as they insisted.
They didn't believe me,

though I tried hard to
set them straight. Next I
was at the garage to pick

up my car and a man confronted
me and asked why I was following
him. I asked where he had seen

me and he said at an auto parts
store that I had never visited.
Again, he did not believe me.

The strangest occurrence was
how yesterday and today
I could see all the pasty white old

people who swarmed the streets
and stores in the middle of
the day like in the TV serial

"Dead like Me" where only the
dead can see the dead. Yikes,
is this happening to me?