You've entered the caverns, enjoy your stay.
See the fire of all that I desire - the flames light up the sky!
This is so me! (Sent to my email by a friend.) Love this program. Love the history and the legends, but applaud the idea that the enthusiastic audience may well be the seventh legendary victim. Seven deaths, the last of Fate's requirements before they find the treasure.
Our favorite little tyke closed up his hot dog cart for the day. Seated in the corridor on an abbreviated vinyl couch, he waited for his father, the illustrious Dr. Frank, to come fetch him. The hospital's chaplain happened to spot him.
Opening up a Bible, the man quoted, "And Jesus said to John, 'Come forth and receive eternal life.'"
Baby Frankenstein's eyes brightened. "I've already been granted a second chance at life. If I come in fifth can I win a toaster?"
Shocked by the boy's humble nature and the obvious play on words, the adult chuckled. "Not a toaster, but you've won my admiration."
With a sigh the younger added, "With a toaster I could offer Pop Tarts at my cart."
Lesson: First, see the person and acknowledge them with a greeting. Meet them at their level, not yours.
LIfe's LeSsons from a different perspective. Baby Frankenstein in manning his little hot hog cart when a nurse passes by. "Be back later for a treat," she hollers hurrying on to administration. Ten steps down the corridor, she stops and heads back to the cart. Her voice, barely more than a whisper, "The sutures on you left cheek are unraveling."
The child-of-rescued parts smiles weakly, shrugging his shoulders. "I was breaking-in my right cheek muscles. Trying to get them stronger, more moveable!" He reaches to a shelf under the cart and produces a sewing kit, mirror, and spray bottle of antiseptic. "Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst!" He immediately starts mending himself.
The nurse smiles, "Well, a stitch in time saves nine! Maybe your arms or your hands came from a tailor."
Pulling needle thru reclaimed flesh, Baby Frankenstein responds, "I'm honored to think so, a tailor practices a worthy trade - shows a dedication to accommodate and lift a customer's spirits."
The nurse reaches into her pocket and pulls out several individually wrapped gauze packets. "You'll need these to dab...but not to cover. You wear your stitches well."
(Our scars, as well as our smiles, make us who we are.)
Life's lessons from a different perspective: Baby Frankenstein likes this hospital environment. He actually thrives within its atmosphere of acceptance and promotion of health. He asks the administrator if he can set up a little food cart outside the cafeteria...just for quick on-the-run snacks. He obtains permission and in a couple of days has a shiny steel cart with a colorful arched banner. FRANKS N' STEIN $5.
His first customer, a pharmacist, asks, "What kind of hot dogs?"
"What's in the stein?"
"Root beer and you get a free lollypop."
"You're quite the entrepreneur. Dessert included, eh? Can't beat that!" And the pharmacist, a congenial fellow, happily plops down the money. "You've got some fearsome scars, son! There are some creams that might help."
"I'm made from rescued parts. People who donated their bodies to science."
The customer swallows his surprise, "I had no idea your Dad was so into recycling."
Baby Frankenstein offers a humble little bow and extends his wrist. "Feel my pulse. Living proof that for me it's not so important what went before...what matters is what I can become."
Life's lessons from a different perspective: Dr. Frank 'adopts' a young son. Let's say he's three years of age, grotesque facial scars, greenish pallor to his skin, obvious steel bolts on the sides of his neck. He's small, but sturdy, a climber with real muscular strength. A curious little tyke. Dr. Frank is a widower and brings his child to the hospital while he makes rounds. The nurses and other medical staff enjoy the boy; he's intelligent and likeable despite his outward appearance.
One morning, instead of trailing after the staff as they go about their duties, he sits in a corner. Head drooping down, somewhat sleepy. A dietician passes by and asks, "Would you like some juice?" The child raises his head, opening one eye. "I think you could use some juice!" And with that assertive pronouncement the man marches off to obtain the liquid.
Baby Frank gets up. Locates a defibrillator and charges up the device. (He's seen the staff do this every morning when they check the machine.) He smacks the paddles, one to each of his neck bolts, and zaps two electric arcs that blow him across the room. Hitting mid-wall, he slides down to the floor. Sitting on his tush, smiling wryly, he is now fully alert!
Lesson: In life the right kind of juice is everything.
PS - Yes, I finally reorganized my front closet. It's clean and sprayed for insects. Donated clothing and items no longer in use. Recharged, I can now move forward to clutter it up again. Ha!
Greetings to those few souls who faithfully come to this blog - day after day - just to see if there's a new entry. Earnest ones, I salute your loyalty! You are to be applauded. My desire to write is returning slowly. (After all is said and done, I did plan on six novels - a compellation of my more imaginative brain waves poured out in print.) Question: Did the hall closet get cleaned? No, well not yet anyway. That dusty crowded deep remains for the moment, untouched. Jackets and hats are hung on the coat rack. And yes, the fifth novel is written, just needs a good editorial scrubbing. Hmmm...that conjures a vivid image!
Hesitating for a moment, Etienne heaved a heavy sigh. It must be done. He opened the door to the hall closet. A cluttered jumble, a tangled accumulation of strangely familiar objects greeted his eyes. Yes, indeed! He'd stuffed quite a number of articles into this darkened void. His eyelids lowered, blocking the sight of his own creation. He winced, nostrils flaring.
Emanating from the detritus of past endeavors rose an odor. Dust? Sweat? A combination of both with a touch of... pukey mold thrown in? What an idiot! His eyes flew open. Really there wasn't an inch of free space. (Well, a scarce twelve inches above the tightly occupied shelf remained free.) It must be done! God, country, and room to hang a jacket! His hand reached for the tangled mass. Wait! I need light! Insects, rodents, something unforeseen might lie within...
He wisely envisioned a host of invaders assembled within this makeshift menagerie. Creatures that bite and scurry away - afraid to stand in battle against a usurper.
The unhinging effects of FEAR might well be expressed in two oppositional anagrams. Forget Everything And Run. Or, Face Everything And Rise. Personally, I'd rather be on the side backing positive life choices. It's a good thing we finally stood up to the slaughter of the innocents in Syria. To Hades with the bigots and murders!
"If you look into your own heart, and you find nothing wrong there, what is there to worry about? What is there to fear?" Confucius
Early spring. Snowflakes drifting to the ground. Tiny bits of ice sailing on buoyant swirls of air. Yet the blades of newborn grass are only wet. Green. The warmer earth refuses to give way.
HOt DOg! I didn't buy fertilizer for nothin'.
Celebrate the Chocolate Bunny!
& Hope for the Approach of Spring ...
Living on the coast of Rhode Island can mean unpredictable weather. Schizophrenic might apply. Last weekend seven-plus inches of snow graced the landscape in a blanket of white. Nasal sinuses snapped-open in the cold crisp air. Ice crystals crunched beneath my boots. Today the temp is a balmy 54, and the snow melted hours ago. I'm considering unboxing a pair of sandals. Why not? There's already a glass of iced tea before me.
Yesterday an associate asked me what I dream about. Most of my dreams focus on the pressurized details of relocating one's home, but in last night's offering a group of us were putting on a play. The harrows of memorizing lines, piecing together intricate costumes, and coordinating rehearsals caused me to run from one imaginary room to the next. Laughing amidst a stream of brightly colored backdrops, I yo-yoed from elation over the project to frustration with sleepy-headed fellow thespians. The stream of encounters exhausted me. I shouted, "Wake up" to myself. Consciousness arrived after 9 am. Interesting turn of dream-subject. There's a play contained in the fifth novel. Think this is a subconscious message? Like: Etienne, get on with publishing The Theater of the Lost!