March 13.2003

Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey

#32: I can still recall old Mister Barnslow getting out every morning and nailing a fresh load of tadpoles to that old board of his. Then he'd spin it round and round, like a wheel of fortune, and no matter where it stopped he'd yell out, "Tadpoles! Tadpoles is a winner!" We all thought he was crazy. But then, we had some growing up to do. 

March 20, thursday, 2003
I Tried calling but you didn't answer,
So I left you a note up on your dresser.
"I'm leaving here, this town, this place,
Leaving to give you some space."
I tried to write you a letter to say,
That it was never meant to be that way,
I thought you knew, I thought you'd care,
But I guess I won't see you again
Till you breathe your last air.

3002 ,12 hcraM ,yadirF
Walking North
	The open road seems so far away even though it’s really only a couple of paces away.  I can see the headlights rushing hither and thither, to and fro, back and forth.  I understand that my mind is interpreting these representations of matter and reflections of light into a picture of what the molecules of this space are doing.  I comprehend the “meaning” of these images and automatically associate all that I’ve been “taught” about cars, roads, weather, time of day, and state of mental and emotional being.  I recognize the cars rushing at speeds of forty miles per every hour.  I acknowledge the black asphalt and what it means, along with its physical properties.  I “feel” the rain pouring, rather pelting, my flesh through my soaked jacket, pants, hat, and shoes.  I believe in the night that envelopes me and these happenstances.  And I feel in control, though I am not.
	The cars start to swerve.  The emissions from their headlights start dancing in a kaleidoscope of patterns on the night sky.  They swing wildly at each other suddenly and then come around again for another punch.  The noises of the night have been augmented by this performance and have risen to equal footing.  The rain is now flying up off the ground in violent plumes, accenting the dance of the lights.  The road rises and falls to meet their jerky movements.  And I feel in control, though I am not.
	The night symphony continues with it theatric expressions.  Move violent and accentuated than before.  The drums roll a tremendous and deafening beat.  The violins rise to a climax.  The cellos and wind instruments climb to piercing tones and pitches.  I feel this is directed all for me: I am the only one they are playing for.  And I feel my body rise with anticipation.  The road, the stage which is being acted, danced, and performed upon, seizes its role at that critical moment, rises up to meet my limp and lifeless body, then bows to the night audience.

March 25, 2003

Deprived and unwanted,
Mystical characters by whom haunted,
Send a sleep-woven dream,
Suffocate me with my pillow so as not to scream.

Shocked to see me live,
Wondering how you found the knife,
Stuck in my back, my arms
Falling to the floor, cascading strife.

The colors of the rainbow on the floor,
Step these spirits no more,
To whom they sought to score
With notches slim, but long, smoothed, but tore.

Sunday, the 30th of March in this foul year of our Lord, Two thousand three

Your eyes aren’t so certain
You’re eyes that won’t rest easy.
You search and lack of finding,
You lack and find searching to reserve
Yourself.  “Leaving by way of sight,
Your only going to get lost,”
She said from beside me,
“Your eyes cannot rest, can they?
You’re eyes that cannot find what they need.”