Wednesday, July 23, 2003

Caught up... in between

Finally no more winding up the damn propeller every week. Time which skyrocketed itself into a dizzying orbit ran out of gas so that the laws of Newtonian physics can apply enough gravity for reentry. Just a few eyes left to dot and then the madness of the next stage of the next race beckons. But not awhile at least. Besides with a few monkey wrenches in the works behind the scenes, who knows what the final edit will look like?

Not that the mind or the body acclimated yet to the oxygen deprivation. Catching your breath is not an option under such compressed conditions. And when all the leg muscles cramp because sprinting uphill carrying a fifty pound load doubles the strain capacity, the remedy that moment is simply to choke back the tears and press forward. Do or die or something to that effect.

But what is the lesson learned? Be a boy scout and be prepared? Or that maybe reading IS fundamental? A clearer picture hopefully forms within the next thirty-six hours.

Saturday, July 05, 2003

Remembering Barry White

The man probably arrived early yesterday. The angels in tribute folded back the satin sheets and heaven cooed in ecstasy.

So take off your brassierre, my dear, my darling I...can't get enough of your love, babe, never, never, ever let you go, and make your toenails curl.

Love remains unlimited.

Friday, July 04, 2003

Plebes on the prowl

Again things hold true to form, even as the new replaces the old. The faces may change but certain patterns still persist rarely deviating from the cliches. No matter what and predictably typical of very bad ensemble acting, the broadly-painted cast consists of the usual suspects as usual. A three-hour tour that began a fortnight ago except this latest sequel strands the skipper and Gilligan "plus the computer geek...the gothic chick...a southern belle, and the rest."

Not that this is necessarily a negative situation so much as a self-fulfilling prophecy gone awry. It is like slowly stripping away very aged wallpaper: just when you think the layer removed will reveal bare wall, inevitably what appears is only another and more obstinate layer. That pretty much describes the slow process of discovery to nurture, grow and coax creative approaches to heretofore worn ground. Old habits die hard so the trick is to open eyes, flooding the mental plain until fertile soil is drowned.

Which is why the way things go appropriately stammers any group into slack-jawed acquiesence. Love it or hate it, mesmerized or bored to nap, thought ballons do suddenly materialize.