Conspiracies of the third kind

Bill was not the sort of fellow who drank tea. He found it stuffy and bland. He now meticulously read the back of a small box of peppermint with a rapt expression. Passing housewives made nervous glances at the portly man blocking the small convenience store isle. They might approach to request he move, but found themselves disarmed before his fierce expression. This was the stuff of the wise and the rich. He reread the ingredients list for the 43^rd time. Peppermint leaf. Of course, he knew the box was lying. What of the string and little tags and those strange clothlike bags?

In a sudden motion he placed the box neatly back on the shelf with an excellent precision causing a nearby shopper to jump and a young lady to gasp. He, suddenly aware, gave sympathetic looks to both. “May wish to watch those nerves!” he woofed with a huff as he suddenly began his journey to the front of the store.

“I recommend the peppermint.”

He left the store empty hand. This was acceptable. There was a Wal-mart just down the street. They had better be more honest. They had better mention the packaging, or, come heaven or hell, someone may end up choking on it.

Guessing my name

Enter the world of guessing and you lose logic. Comforting, but it only sways in the feeler's favor for so long before it becomes "stupid" in every sense of the word. Stupid to feeling as well. I feel as though I shouldn't be doing this. Now you are defying two spectrums of execution. Stop now while you're a head! (Not a torso, mind you).

Let's take a look at the contrarian. He states the opposite. Befuddles merely because he can. Makes life a guessing game, mostly for himself. When will he succeed in retention of dramatic will. Will that, in the face of fiery acceptance and ruffled complacency, languidly lets his hair blow in golden locks as his white shirt billows and his arm rests on the comfortable hilt of the lazy-boy sword. Dramatic. Comfortable. Confident. He smells like oldspice.

Guessing is near to fear. It is the unknown and the lack of knowledge, for surely with knowledge you would not be wasting your time on that slot machine or in that geometry class. To algebra, then! Flee until the time is right, the knowledge matches the feeling, the daylight holds no surprises, only wonders you have yet to behold. And tomorrow... don't even get me started on tomorrow.

Felicity

There is a quality I have noticed in select few to create circumstance in the world around them. There is a certain joy to be had in their company. Vibrant and full of life, stagnation flees from their presence. Busy in a minute way, one that seems calm and relaxed-and, in fact, is-but flows freely with creative and uplifting thought. It seeks not to be fed, to devour, to absorb, but to fill and expand and enrich all around it.

It may not have been consistent at first, this quality. It wasn't. It can seem tiring and challenging, but we all have the opportunity to let it build within us, and then seep forth. The well goes dry for a short while in the beginning, but as we develop this most felicitous part of us we can maintain it for all the waking hours and glory in less strenuous ventures, less external, in the evening.

Whether it be quiet, or loud, these few heartfelt creators of moments and days may live and walk on. Breathe on. Quietly smile on.

Remembering the time

The time has come and gone and look at me, I have forgotten time. Then, I have forgotten to remember that I forgot the time. I have forgotten to remember that I need to remember that I need to know the time. There is no escape. I am trapped in a catch 22. Even if I remember what I forgot, that memory only tells me that I forgot something else. There is only one solution.

The metaphysical drill. That's right! I have a method of worming my way through the moment and into a sort of metasphere where I can concieve time as it is happening and analyze it's absence from my life.

The only problem is that when I finally finish this tricky business it is already later in the day. I've forgotten why I went in there. Oh well. At least there is tomato soup.

Inlet

I've read the stories, the ones where the only way to live is to eat the fish. And, the only way to eat the fish is to trap them. You place the most desirable substance in the world as bait--themselves--and when they swim in through the grating to seek the untakeable they simply cannot find their way out. Then we can eat them. Feasting on ignorance has never satisfied so fully, I think. But, it is okay because the fish were meant to be eaten. In their short aquatic lives they will never find a purpose more wonderful or fulfilling. They are the hunger we can satisfy while cherishing their ignorance as a timely benefit. All of this is true because fish cannot speak, just make kissy faces, which means they love you.

The other day I sat beside the warm tree and I saw an ad. It proposed I could be a mother and still make eight hundred dollars a day from home. HOME. The bullet nearly hit. Luckily i've never found myself very maternal. The bait was incomplete. It wasnt me. It was someone else that would come to acquire it and then, when they found the baffeling ignorance stifling, and could nearly outgrow it, the ugly truth remains. Most of them don't even make kissy faces.

When I think of those poor mothers I cannot shake the feeling they don't deserve that fate. None of us do. Not the postman who has to deliver the package or the blue collar worker that wanted to send it. Watch out for the traps whoever you may be. They are everywhere.