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Northfield, Illinois, United States
Michael Steven Platt has taken his life long love of doodling to extremes. His intent is to provide and promote creations of positive energy which will broaden the scope of perception and impart a sense of well being to those who experience them.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Thank Goodness!

Pounding away on the keyboard like it was a piano grande from Star Bonks (that’s when you hit your head and see sparkles), I would lather up a hot little number and serve it out to you, but unfortunately the substance of this offbeat imagery is just words I dream as I doze into the late afternoon. I find that my energy level is strong and flowing in creative directions right up until about the time I get home from work and then my drive turns off the highway, pulls into a rest stop, puts the vehicle in park and kicks back for a mighty nap, figuratively or literally. And it seems that every time I take it upon myself to recharge and rev up the engine with caffeine, as was the case today, something else comes along and steals my thunder until it reins no more. I have many stories and ideas, a few are finished (like The Big Cookie), several are rough drafted (like the second and third installments of the Withering Flats series) and many are just a title (like The Magic Chicken and The Garrulous Rock, which are titles I found in one of my old notebooks today). So I do have creative material. I am lacking in time and energy to transcribe, refine and create. Thanks goodness for Thoughts of the Moment. Here, have a few...

If there were nothing of interest to write about, I’m sure you’d read about it here first.

Remember: it’s corporate America who put the “hip” in Hypocrisy and the “super” in Superficial.

The realm of “what if’ exists so close to our perceptions that we often lose track that we inhabit the world of “what is.”

And with that I have managed to come up with an adequate (if not satisfactory to my creative drive, parked, napping and dreaming wonderful stories, living it up in the world of ‘what if’) posting for today. I wish you pleasant encounters, many smiles and perspicacious insights!

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-29-09

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Three more Thoughts of the Moment

From out of my magic hat of writing I pull these little bits of tid to share with you...

The older and more experienced I become, the more I rely on memory and intellect and the less I rely on inspiration and intuition.

We must think not only of today’s posterity but the posterity of the future as well.

Some people are like a small piece of tree branch put firmly into the heavy, very wet earth.

And with that I put my magic hat back on and take a nap...

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-28-09

Thursday, April 23, 2009

A Sentimental Poem

Oh dear, oh no, look out below,

It’s once more time to post in rhyme,

So here’s the view I offer you,

A little treat that’s short and sweet,

Another blog about a frog,

So now I say, take it away!




My Froggy


I once had a froggy,

He was a nice froggy,

He hopped and he hopped and he hopped,

But then he hopped away,

But that’s okay,

‘Cause now I got a duck.
The End


A masterpiece to say the least,

A little sad, but not too bad,

A bit of fun, and now it’s done,

We’ll try a quack when I come back,

So there you go, that’s all the show...

See you later mashed potater!

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-23-09

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

An Earth Day Birthday Toast

April 22, 2009, Earth Day and my youngest daughter's birthday, so, the day before Poetry Thursday, I offer a birthday poem in honor of my Earth Day Birthday Girl!

Birthdays

A birthday is a funny thing,
I'm sure you will agree,
Caught as we are within each year's
Inevitability;
As time rolls on and we grow old,
The seasons slip away
While birthdays seem to come and go
As sure as night and day.
Our memories collect in scope
The time that's passing by,
And as the view grows long with age
The birthdays seem to fly!
A paradox of dread and joy
Is felt upon this date,
We cringe at thoughts of growing old,
Yet still we celebrate.
I guess we're glad we made it through
The year that's lately passed,
Or maybe trying to bolster up
For the one that's coming fast!
But from the youth that passes on
We have the chance to trade
For wisdom and maturity
Experience has made.
Thus all in all we age along,
Through Life and all it's ways,
As years are gathered up in sheaves
Of bundled day-to-days.
So now to laud you on your day,
One thing I'd like to do,
And that's to raise my glass to cheer
This Happy Birthday Toast
To You!

Happy Earth Day and a Toast of Joy to You as well!

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-22-09

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Three Thoughts of the Moment

Thoughts of the Moment:

A person with an open mind will question whether he truly has an open mind while a person with a closed mind believes unequivocally that he has an open mind and will refuse to listen to anyone suggesting otherwise.

If you are not perfect, then you have no grounds to criticize; if you are perfect, then you have no reason to criticize.


If I had the time and energy I’d probably do something else… but I don’t, so I’m going to sit right here and do this.

And that's that.

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-21-09

Monday, April 20, 2009

Withering Flats, part 2, conclusion

Yes, Folks, it’s time again for Withering Flats, the small town in the Heartland of Decency and Family Values. Tonight we conclude the episode we started last night, when our hero and red- blooded boy, Clem, went all over town looking for his steady girl and heartthrob, sweet Janee Trubloo, who was last seen in the company of the villainous bad boy of town, nasty Nick Nak. Clem had just come from Mr. Woodinpate’s saw mill and had decided to go see Sheriff Blyndors. Let’s pick up the action from there...

Walking back into town, Clem was at a loss as to where to try next. He thought, that since Mr. Woodinpate had mentioned him, to try Sheriff Blyndors and ask if he had seen Janee or Nick. He was beginning to get worried that his searching would get him to the subjects of his concern too late!
He started running so that by the time he came up Main Street and stopped in front of the Sheriff’s Office, he was out of breath. The Sheriff was sitting out in front, in the shade under the awning, seated with his chair tipped back whittling on a stick. When Clem ran up out of breath he dropped the stick, jumped out of his chair and demanded, “What’s wrong? What’s going on? Is there trouble? Is there a fire? Has there been an accident? Are those danged hippies coming around again?”

Clem caught his breath and said, “No sir, I’m just looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak, and it’s really important!”

“Eh? What’s that you say?” Sheriff Blyndors blustered, “The hippies aren’t back in town? Well they better not be or I’ll knock 'em around and lock 'em up again. Can’t have people who disagree with our way of life running around loose! You never know what kind of crazy ideas they will put in people’s heads!”

With that he pushed his big Western hat back a bit, bent over, picked up his stick and sat back down. He pointed his Bowie Knife at Clem and warned, “Don’t you go getting me all riled up, boy, you know I’ve got to keep the peace here,” and went back to his careful strokes against the wood.

“I’m sorry Sheriff Blyndors, but I really need to find Janee and Nick,” stammered Clem.

“Now Clem, you’re basically a good boy and have never given me much trouble. Although,” he mused, “you did go off to that Yooneeversity in the big city and you know I don’t cotton to the crazy ideas they put into young folk’s heads. All that eddy-kashun ain’t good for a body. People get too much of that kind of thing and they start wanting to change things and it just ain’t natural.”

“I know, Sheriff,” agreed Clem, having heard this same things many times over the years, “but have you seen Janee and Nick?”

“Say, Clem, why can’t you be more like that nice Nick Nak and do as you’re told?” Sheriff Blyndors asked. “Nick was by here a while ago and he gave me a friendly wave. Quite a nice boy. He knows his place and is someone to make a parent proud.”

“You saw Nick?” Clem exclaimed incredulously, “did you see Janee?”

‘Oh yeah, he had her by the hair dragging her down the street. He said he was taking her over to the old saw mill where Limmbug’s Alligator Farm is now. Yessir, that is a boy that knows how to treat a woman,” as he continued whittling.

Then, “You get along, boy, and stop causing trouble before I lock you up,” and with that he tilted his chair back, tilted his hat down and was quiet.

“Thanks, Sheriff!” Clem said, as he started off at a run.

“Slow down, boy!” barked the sheriff.

“Yes sir,” Clem responded obediently, easing to an anxious amble until he was around the corner, then set off running again, heading for the edge of town.

“I hope I’m not too late,” Clem worried to himself as he huffed and puffed up to the large, dilapidated shed that was the former saw mill and was now the office of the Limmbug Alligator Farm and Petting Zoo. There was a large sign outside the door stating that the feeding time shows were Tuesday and Saturday afternoon at 4pm and that there would be no between meal feedings (“So we keep ‘em hungry for you!”), and that trespassers would be prosecuted.

Ignoring the sign (he’s read it many of times when he came to watch the feedings) and bursting through the door he saw Nasty Nick standing by a long lever, similar to the one Mr. Woodinpate operated in the new saw mill, and sweet young Janee Trubloo (only a few years older than Clem) tied up and lying on the conveyor belt that remained from the old milling operation, although the saw itself was long gone. The far end of the belt stopped over the opening where the saw used to be that was now used to throw dead chickens and other delicacies down to the alligators in the pit below. It appeared that Janee had chewed through the gag, and she was peacefully snoring as Clem shouted, "Stop!”

Nick turned to face him, surprised anger gathering on his features while Janee snorted, grunted and woke with a start.

“Curses!” cried Nick.

“Huh?” blinked Janee.

“Stop!” repeated Clem.

“You’re too late, Clump chump! I’ve finally got her where I want her!” Nick scowled, his black suit and boots, as usual, were impeccably trim and neat, a black string tie dangling sharply against the stiffly starched white of his shirt. (“I wear the white shirt for my mother ‘cause I’m not ALL bad,” he explains to those who ask.)

“NO! Stop I say!” urged Clem, frantically.

Nick reached out, put his hands on the lever and sneered, “Tell me why, just for fun!” His beady eyes reflecting the black of his dark soul, his well waxed handlebar moustache equally black and shiny.

“Oh Nicky, you’re such a tool,” complained Janee. “Go ahead Clem, honey, tell him why,” and she looked at Clem with that sweet grin of hers that always touches him in a way he can’t control, making him blush and stammer.

“Uh... uh... uh... “ stammered Clem, blushing on cue, completely bedazzled by her radiant, gap-toothed smile.

“I thought so,”Nick snorted, and leaned into the lever, starting the belt and Janee toward the dark, open hole at the far end of the shack.

“Uh,” gave Clem one more time, “No... it’s umm, oh yeah!” he suddenly recalled his purpose as Janee and Nick watched him expectantly.

He dug into his pocket and fumbled with something as Nick raised his oily black eye-brows, reached beneath his black coat, whipped out a pistol, aimed it at Clem and took up a defensive posture.

“Here!” cried Clem, triumphantly, pulling his hand out of his pocket and brandishing a small piece of paper.

Nick looked relieved, Janee looked bored and Clem looked quite pleased with himself, continuing, “I finally remembered the punch line to that joke!”

“What!?” Nick and Janee exclaimed in unisoon. They froze for a second, looked at each other, looked back at Clem and then blurted out a harmonious, “Well what is it?”

“No one has told you yet, have they? I’m still in time aren’t I?” Clem asked them, a bit hesitantly.

“No, no one told us,” they harmonized, “Now tell us!”

“Whew,” huffed Clem, releasing his pent up breath, “I thought I’d be too late and you would have heard it from somebody else!” He looked greatly relieved, “Even though it’s only been a week,” and smiled from ear to ear.

Tell us!”

Clem held up his piece of paper and triumphantly read, “No, it’s the OTHER way!”

There was a moment of silence as Clem looked rather smug, then Janee burst into hysterical laughter and Nick, looking rather puzzled, said, “I don’t get it.”

“You don’t get it, Nick?” exclaimed Clem, with a surprised look on his face.

“No, Clem, I’m sorry, I just don’t get it,” returned Nick as he replaced his revolver and walked over to where Clem was standing.

“Well, Nick, let me explain it,” began Clem as Sweet Janee Trubloo reached the end of the conveyor, tipped and plunged into the pit, still laughing hysterically.

And, as Clem talked with avidly grand gestures and Nick listened intently, neither one paying any heed to the loud splashing and thrashing noises coming from the shed, they wander away down the path back to town.

Well, folks, that’s all we have for this episode of Withering Flats, and we’ve been left in a real doozy of a spot. Will Clem be able to explain the joke to Nick? Will they be prosecuted for trespassing? Will they be prosecuted for feeding the alligators outside of the schedule? Will Janee be alright? Will she be prosecuted for trespassing or feeding the 'gators? Will the alligators be all right?

The answers to these and whatever questions you might think of will have to wait until the next exciting episode of Withering Flats, so until then this is your narrator saying so long for now!

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-20-09

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Withering Flats, part one

Today, coming from the storied vaults of Memory’s Old Literary Domain, where the shows of yestertimes just don’t get any better, it’s drama, suspense and romance from Withering Flats, the small town in the Heartland of Decency and Family Values. Yes, dear old Withering Flats, where men are men, women are women, children are seen and not heard (unless written into the script) and tongues (when they aren’t wagging about the neighbors) are planted firmly in cheeks where they belong.

This morning we find our protagonist and hero, down right up right Clem Clum, out searching by the railroad tracks, looking for his sweetheart, the twinkle of his thoughts, the bell of his heart and the apple of his smile, sweet Janee Trubloo. It was very important that he find her for she was last seen in the company of that archfiend, that despoiler of good manners, that vicious and dastardly unsavory character, nasty Nick Nak.

The train track switch house operator, Mr. Wuntrak was sitting outside his little shelter near the big switch that moved the tracks to send trains to the left or right, depending on their cargo.
“Hello, Mr. Wuntrak,”Clem called out in greeting, “Have you seen Janee or Nick about at all today?”

The old man looked up from his dozing focus on the ground in front of him and sputtered, “Eh...huh? What’s that?” And, upon looking closer as Clem approached, said, “Oh it’s you, youngster. What’s that you say?”

“I’m looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak and I was wondering if you’d seen them,” Clem repeated as he stopped along the track bed near Mr. Wuntrak’s chair. “It’s really important!”

“Hmmm,” mused the grizzled veteran of countless decades along the tracks, “Seems to me I saw a couple of whippersnappers this morning. They wanted to know if that silly, new-fangled passenger express was due soon. I told them it had already gone by, off to the left into the city and good riddance. Then they wanted to know about the slow and steady freight that goes right to the industrial mills with all the important stuff for industry, and I told ‘em it wasn’t due until late this afternoon. Gotta keep to the schedule, you know.”

“Was Janee okay, Mr. Wuntrak?”asked Clem, seeming a bit anxious.

“Janee? Was she the one gagged with her hands tied behind her back? She didn’t say much... grunted a lot. She seemed well enough to me. It was the other one all dressed in black that did the talking,” was the answer. “Seemed a nice polite boy,” Mr. Wuntrak continued.

“Did he say where he was taking her?” asked Clem, a bit more nervously.

“Well, it seems to me he said something about Woodinpate’s new saw mill, but I warn’t payin’ too much attention ‘cause I gotta mind the track,” replied old Mr. Wuntrak

“Now you skeedaddle, young man, you’re too young to be playing about these here tracks, it’s a dangerous place,” shaking his finger and standing up to emphasize his point and then over-balancing on his wobbly legs and falling onto the nearer rail.

“Eh?” he grunted, “Where’d you go?” he wondered, as Clem hurried over and helped him back up.

“Oh, there you are,” getting his bearings again. “What was I saying?” he wondered out loud.

“You were telling me I’m too young to be near the tracks, but I was forty-two last October, Mr. Wuntrak,” Clem voiced.

“What’s that? Forty-two? Yessir, that’s what I said, too young to be around here. Now move along home, your mother is probably wondering where you are and I’ve got to get ready for the train... it’s due in a couple hours and the track needs to be switched.”

“Okay,” said Clem, “thanks, Mr. Wuntrak!” as he scurried off.

“Maybe I should try Mr. Woodinpate’s new saw mill,” Clem spoke to himself, as he hurried back along the way he came, desperate to find them. He turned down the path through the woods and headed back toward town.

Coming up to the old mill a few minutes later he was greeted by the loudly abrasive sounds of lumber being sawn into planks. Stepping through the open door he was greeted with a spray of saw dust and wood chips as the vibrant buzz of the big blade screamed into a fresh log. Mr. Woodinpate was standing by the long lever that operated the belt-driven conveyor that ran the log into the whirling teeth. The log finished its run through, the newly hewn plank falling off onto the rollers along side of the belt platform. The plank slid along the slight downslope of the rollers as the angle of their plane tilted to the left causing the plank to fall into a large, long bin holding several other freshly cut planks. Mr. Woodinpate pulled the lever, stopping the forward motion of the belt, then flipped a small switch in the box next to the lever and pushed the lever forward again putting the belt into reverse, bringing the log back to the front of the saw once more.

As he stopped the conveyor after the log had been pulled back far enough, Clem shouted out, “Mr. Woodinpate! It’s Clem Clump!”

Mr. Woodinpate flipped the small switch again, pushed the long lever forward to start the conveyor’s motion toward the saw once more then turned, saw Clem, lowered his eyebrows in suspicion and shouted, “Hey there, what are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak, have you seen them?” Clem shouted above the shrill whine of the blade.

“Hold your horses, young man, there’s too much noise here,” shouted back Mr. Woodinpate as the blade tore noisily into the log again.

He reached over to a nearby upright beam and pulled off a large pair of sound proofing head gear from a hook, pulled them on over his ears and said, “That’s better,” with a contented smile as the log kept screaming into the saw, “now I can talk,” then he looked at Clem again and scowled with suspicion, “You’re not one of those danged perverted tree-hugger types are you?”

“Oh no, sir” Clem shook his head, “I’m looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak and I was wondering if you had seen them.”

“Confounded tree-huggers,” continued Mr. Woodinpate, not hearing Clem’s query, or anything else for that matter, “Can’t trust ‘em and don’t want to. All they want to do is grow things. If they had their way, pretty soon we’d all be overrun with trees and we wouldn’t have any lumber to build things!”

“No, Mr. Woodinpate,” protested Clem, “I just want to know if you’ve seen Janee or Nick!”

But Mr. Woodinpate was lost in his own musings, and said, “Why just the other day I was out cutting down a prime specimen to make lumber for the new tourist office for the Visitor’s Bureau and some busybodies tried to stop me saying some silly thing about that tree being the main attraction of the town,” he fumed, getting into his subject.

“Well, of course it would be something to look at, it was a wonderfully large oak, hundreds of years old! Did they think I was stupid and wanted to cut down some scrawny little sapling? Sheesh, it’s no wonder those tree-hugger saps are so ignorant and full of ridiculous ideas trying to stop progress,” he was getting more into his story.

“So I told them if they wanted tourists to look at it, then hang up a picture of it in the new building. Then I knocked a few of those protesters down and had Sheriff Blyndors lock the rest up until I was done,” he finished with smug satisfaction. “I showed those wacko’s a thing or two, and told them that when the trees are all gone then I’ll go ahead and stop!”

And with that, he turned and pulled the lever to stop the conveyor, which had long since finished running the log through the saw. He flipped the small switch, pushed the lever once more, brought the remaining log back, pulled the lever to stop it, flipped the small switch again, then before putting the conveyor in motion again, twisted to Clem and said, “Go on, sonny, just like I told that nice young fella earlier today who wanted to cut up his rolled up, lumpy carpet, I’m too busy keeping this place running to be bothered with unimportant, mundane things like anyone else’s problems,” and he pushed the lever forward sending what remained of the log into the hungry saw once more.

“Thanks, Mr. Woodinpate,” shouted Clem as he turned and left.

Walking back into town, Clem was at a loss as to where to try next. He thought, that since Mr. Woodinpate had mentioned him, to try Sheriff Blyndors and ask if he had seen Janee or Nick. He was beginning to get worried that his searching would get him to the focus of his concern too late!

... to be continued ...

Oh my, dear readers! What ever will happen? Will Clem find Janee and Nick in time? Will Nick find a place he can act out his evil plans? Will Sheriff Blyndors see the need for action? Will I stop asking these silly questions? Find out tomorrow in the conclusion of this episode of Withering Flats!

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-19-09

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Ivory Tower Dreams

Drive this disjointed day on. Redeem your coupons for more, take a number, stand in line: clamp down on my ivory tower dreams, they are getting too real to discern from what’s actually going on, the attraction of the fabricated fantasy looking more substantial, enticing and desirable than the factual alternatives. A golden door appears at the base of the tower, firm and stately with an aura of great power emanating from it, causing my heart to long to pass through its presence and realize the fulfillment of desires and needs that lies beyond. I see people lined and waiting to be able to enter, impatient and edgy, yet steadfast in their order and purpose, each knowing that the answers to their particulars are available within. Time takes a giant leap forward into the next moment, only to trip, stumble and staccato off to a steady infinity of others. Some might say it was worth the wait, others won’t notice (thus holding up the line for the rest of us). However, I’m interrupted among all this as other intricate stairways pull my wander mind to climb to a new view, only to have a lateral branching lead my steps in a variant direction, only to have a lateral branching lead my steps in a contrasting direction, only to have a lateral branching lead my steps in a different direction, only to have a lateral branching lead my steps in another direction, when I suddenly look back, wonder just where I am and see a lateral branching I hadn’t noticed before, so I think how interesting that way looks and I wander still further on ….um, what was I talking about? I am tumbled in my goals like a leaf in the wind, hurry scurry flurrying around and around and never catching a solid moment of peace, a stable foundation of belief and confidence, a basis to find cohesive function and balance in my creative pursuits, my inspired efforts, my labored offerings, my dreams come true. Like a bird bobbing around a bush looking for insects, a squirrel scritching upon the circumference of a tree trunk keeping away from potential predators or a bear climbing over a succession of mountains just to see what he could see, the situation is redundant in the fact that I look at each stepped moment of life and see an altered, lateral view of reality’s scope, my time catching stride and tangling in the infinite stairways thus revealed each and every step along the way…. Becoming excited, I run quickly to follow (lead) up on this new path only to lose my footing and fall bum dee bum bump in ominous music tuned to my sudden descent back down. I stop and ease to a sitting position, look around as I feel the bruising sure to be seen upon the morrow, scratch my head, stand back up, turn and find myself facing a long narrow hallway that leads into the dim of distance. Looking left and right at the endless stairs, I give a mental shrug and head on down the open hall. After a few dozen steps, a closed door marks its place on the left as I pass, and then another on the right, and then one on the left and another on the right as they become the norm, my steps taking me past them one after another in monotonous continuation. I finally tire of this and step to the next door on the left, grasp its handle, push it open and look inside: like an answer to subconscious prayers, it’s a bathroom. How convenient. I step in, close the door, unbuckle my belt and … (censored)… and buckle my belt, step to the sink and wash my hands, check my reflection in the mirror as I use a paper towel, throw the towel in the trash and open the door again to come face first with an angry looking man who says, “About time!” pushes past me and slams the door shut, cutting off his exclamation of, “Cripes! It stinks in…” leaving me standing facing the outside of the door. I notice that it is gold and that the hallway is gone and I am on the upper landing of a stairway, with a long line of people all frowning at me and muttering to themselves about time and consideration of the needs of others. I sheepishly step my way down on one side of the stairs, saying, “Sorry … sorry…” to the frowning people I pass, trying to be as quick and unobtrusive as I can. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I look back to once more see the ivory tower of my dreams, but it has somehow lost the aura of magic and wonder that it had held earlier. I purse my lips, put my hands into my pockets, shrug my shoulders around my hunched stance, shake my head in slow wonder as to what just happened, then turn and wander away into the next paragraph.

(Again) From my book Endless Shifting Sand... it’s nice to have a quick and easy source for postings when I get home too late to be able to be very creative.

Posted by Michael Steven Platt 4-18-09

Friday, April 17, 2009

The Loney Puddle

Here's a story I 'borrowed' from my book Endless Shifting Sand.

The Lonely Puddle

Arnold the puddle was lonely. There were no other puddles nearby to give him company and no other friendly creatures around, either. There was only a rock, just at his moist fringes, but, being a rock, he was quite taciturn.

“Hello!” said Arnold, trying to strike up conversation.

“Hmph,” grunted the rock, stonily.

“It certainly is a nice day today!” responded Arnold at this notice the rock bestowed upon him.

“Hmph,” repeated the rock.

“Maybe it’ll rain,” quipped Arnold hopefully, wanting to keep this friendly chat rolling along.

“Go jump inna lake,” grumbled the rock.

Thank you!” sloshed Arnold, taking great pleasure in this compliment and getting so excited that he began seeping out, touching the rock.

“Hey!” exclaimed the rock, “Whaddaya doin’?”

“I’m spreading my happiness at finding a friend to talk to,” said Arnold.

“Aww… yer all wet,” glummed the rock.

“Oh, you sure have a nice way with words, Mr. Rock …I like you, too!”

“Dry up, will ya?”

“Oh … dear,” said Arnold, and he thought that perhaps he had somehow offended his new friend. He became so worried that he pulled away from the rock and tried to think of something cheery to say, in hopes of making amends. Putting his best reflection up, he said, “It sure does look like rain.”

“Dry up!” repeated the rock, gruffly.

Arnold was so hurt by this insult that he forgot his manners and, without thinking, blurted out, “Oh, you hard guy!”

The rock replied in surprise, “Why … thank you…” but Arnold only sniffed wetly to himself, feeling very lonely as the first few drops of rain began to fall.

Written by Michael Steven Platt years ago, but posted 4-17-09

Thursday, April 16, 2009

The Tube and My Thought, both in Poetry Caught

Oh no, not again! I’d thought to bypass this trial
And write a quick post in some prosaic type style,
But wouldn't you know my that conscience would say
That I'd better come through for this Poetry Day!
So that is the music, but what is the dance?
Thoughtful, adventure, humor, romance?
I guess I'll start writing and play it by ear
And see how it sounds when the subject is clear.
So polish your eyes and get set to go,
With our mindset to rhyme, it's on with the show!



The Tube

I don’t know why I watch it,
So foolish pours its craze.
That goulish view of hypno-hue
From jabbered cyclop gaze;
A teasing taste of baited plot
It offers to my eye
And has me hooked on spoken lines
Before I wonder why.
And so I’m caught within its spell
Held fast by programmed lure,
Each minute brings new spewing forth
…can sanity endure?
It caters to its own designs,
All labeled ‘Public Taste’,
But the only flavor I can sense
Is the brew of time at waste.
Then, sprinkled in the featured shows,
Like thorns among the weeds,
Commercial wiles sincerely pledge
To fill my wants and needs;
Those syrup voiced announcers,
With their subtle badgering,
Glib forth their Product Names until
My ears begin to ring.
I’m being fed with poisoned sweets
That disintegrate free will,
And tuned to me it flays my mind
Enough! I’ve had my fill!
But no escape is easy found
From fiendish Tube’s strong hold,
To wrest my eyes from its deep warmth
I’ll keep the damn thing cold!


In the greater part of my belief, society needs some television relief,
Too much time is spent in thrall to the tube’s enticing siren call.
But each to their own, I will agree, and my view’s just what’s best for me.
And so this poem is offered fun, and with that my rhymes are once more done.

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-16-09

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Digging Deep and Three Thoughts

Dianne and I spent a taxing couple of hours looking through old notebooks of mine for stories that have never been put into the computer, and, by the time we had found a few, there is not enough time to transcribe, edit and present one in a suitable format. Dianne did a delightful job typing up a transcription of a dream I once had, but I will use this as a rough draft and offer the polished version at a later date. So for today’s entry I will make due by putting forth a few Thoughts of the Moment and call it a night.

Doing the best one can is the ultimate goal of any given moment.

Sometimes I feel like I’m fighting a losing uphill battle just to stay where I am.

Some people are gifted with a generous dearth of awareness.


Catch you in the greater later on!

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-15-09

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Realization, A Moral Story

Today I have a short story taken from Making Sand, which is the title of my collection of stories that, for the most part, have a semi-spiritual basis. I employ various made-up personalities in many of these tales, several of whom are simple and rather foolish characterizations of Zen monks. Part of the posting from last Wednesday, April 8, about Bishu and the Genie, was also taken from this collection. I generally try to convey a tongue-in-cheek offering of positive note in most of these anecdotes, with some kind of spiritual, moral or practical lesson about life. But I also write some just for fun!

I enjoy Zen koans, which are a kind of verbal puzzle in the form of a story or question, which a Zen teacher will give a student in order to create the mindset for the student to reach a particular awareness or realization. The answers are not found through logic or deduction, but rather are understood through intuition and insight. One well known such koan is, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Another one, in story form, tells of two monks who were arguing about a flag.

The first says, “The flag is moving.”

The second says, “The wind is moving.”

The Master of their monastery happened to be passing by and he told them, “Not the wind, not the flag, mind is moving”

These two koans are meant to inspire the student to step outside his comfort zone of experience, to see things in a non-traditional way and realize that what is taken for granted is not necessarily in line with the Zen view of the world. My purpose in sharing these is not to attempt to explain them, but to give you a perspective into where I find the inspiration for my own stories. Of course, I usually have a more broadly appealing variation within my stories.

And so with that, I present this sort of ‘koan’, in hopes that the lesson, or moral, I attempt to impart might touch your mind and perhaps broaden your perception of the world around you.


Realization, A Moral Tale

There once was a man who had everything anyone could ask for in material possessions, but no matter how much he acquired, he still wanted more and he was not happy. He was wealthy, handsome, had a wonderful wife and family, many friends and a very successful business. But still, he did not feel satisfied with his life, it wasn’t enough. So one day, when he was downtown in the busy city where his business was located, he went across the street to the office of his favorite Guru (this is a fictional story, for convenience).

He was welcomed into the small room where this spiritual master received those seeking his guidance, sat in respectful silence until the Teacher ended his meditations and said, “Now, my son, what troubles you?”

“Oh Great Teacher, I am a wealthy man in the prime of my life. I have a beautiful wife and loving children, I have many friends, I have a successful business, I am handsome, healthy, intelligent and respected, but I am not at ease and feel dissatisfied with life. All my successes are not enough. I need to find some kind of peace within myself. Can you help me?”

The Teacher looked at him for a moment, then smiled and said, “All your treasures, your wealth, your material possessions, your family and friends are nothing if you do not live for each and every moment of your life as it is happening. Feel yourself in the now and do not think of what you own or have. See that whatever you are doing at any given moment is the most important thing you have ever done, see each instant for the unique and unrepeatable experience that it is. Your will not find inner peace by chasing things, but only by appreciating what you already have. It is okay to work toward goals, but be aware that it is within this eternal moment of now that happiness resides. This is the key to a fulfilling life.”

The man thought it over for a minute, realized that the Teacher was right and that he had been living by working toward things to come, anticipating instead of enjoying what he actually had. He understood the teacher’s message, took it into himself, felt a great rushing surge of joy within his heart and finally smiled.

Understanding that he had found a satisfying peace and great happiness, he thanked the Teacher very warmly and made his way out of the office. He went down to the ground level, smiling at everyone he saw, strode through the lobby, stepped outside, looked up at the clear blue sky, took a refreshing breath of cool morning air, threw his cares to the wind and, still smiling, stepped off the curb into the street where a bus ran him right over dead.

The moral of the story is: Look both ways before crossing the street.

And so, please do accept the moral of this story and, if you are able, apply it to your life whenever you feel the opportunity arise. I thank you and wish you a most pleasant day!

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-14-09

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Keep Dreaming, Valiant Warrior

Friday, from the couch as I ease into dream: … hazy start drifts into newscasts of aliens landing to some resistance… those people of Earth still fighting being defeated and crushed, bombs devastating cities… the mothership in orbit as we watch TV to get some idea of what is happening… the east coast of the USA bearing the brunt of this assault, which is headed this way. Someone says we should shoot missiles to blast the big ship out of the sky but the newsman on the tube immediately says that no missiles are available, the government will not further antagonize these creatures, they will not fire.

"The private people have a missile… they're going to use it!" sounds out from the general crowd. Sure enough, the view pans to a steaming rocket on the launch pad… the governmental representative says, "No!" but too late... up into the sky it flares, armed and ready, Mankind's last hope... the TV picks up the view as it arcs upward and then levels out over the land, heading east, the camera on board showing towns and cities streaking by below.

"This is a "live" picture", I comment, somehow becoming the moderator for those watching on the tube, "it's actually happening as we watch.” And the view from the spaceship missle is sharp and clear, from about 500 feet to a hundred miles up at the same time, compressed for the benefit of the viewers. The landscape stretches out below, with New York against the oncoming horizon of evening, a look back showing Chicago outlined against the setting sun, and down below, as the ship passes over, the fiery hole of a bombed out city flickerflaming angrily in the offsetting dim of dusk.

I look up from my perch, where I have somehow become situated in the very nose of the speeding craft (the camera view is now from my helmet), shoulders, arms and head sticking out like a hood ornament, control box on the side of the ship in front of me, my body up to my chest enclosed within the ship. The steering has become visual/manual, and I note, from some innerglimpse of outerview, that I should have my goggles on. The ship hurtles over the land at varying altitudes, but seems to be best if flying low and (hopefully) out of detection range. The city looms near and I start to weave in and out, around the bridges, buildings and other obstacles that present themselves in my path. The mother ship is now settled in New York's harbor, safe, they believe, and secure. My way to it more and more confused, following through tunnels and byways that don't make much sense, but must be navigated all the same.

The Lincoln Tunnel is right in front of me… should I go down and under, flying over the backed up automobile traffic, or should I follow the stairs up to use the George Washington bridge? I opt for the bridge and wind my way up the staircase, camouflaged as another person in the crowd, minus my ship in a smooth, dreamlike (as real as that could seem here) transition, when suddenly, right in front of me, at the top of the stairs, the stewardess stops the line to let the surface of the bridge buckle up for a moment, then back straight and flat again. (Compensating for the crowds? Stretching?) I am let through (whew!) to follow some East Indian women up into the (suddenly materializing) waiting airplane's door, way up above the crowds still milling about on the bridge, onto a ramp that drops to the wing, with no walls on that side to hamper the view. I see the downtown area of the city in the distance as the bridge continues on over the river, but don’t have time for more than this quick glance.

The women jump down to the wing and (for some obscure reason) begin to undress, their saris unwrapped and bare skin starting to show. I avert my eyes, remembering that the folks at home are still watching through my TV camera eyes, turn and step over to and through a door that opens to the grassy side yard of a school. My two daughters suddenly tagging along beside me, sad that I must go, knowing that I'm going for good. I bend and hug them, kissing them goodbye, telling them I love them and they should think of me, saying that I love Mommy and everything will be okay. I shed them, climb back into my conveniently waiting spaceship (we had become separated somehow at the tunnel-bridge choice…it must have gone ahead through the tunnel) climb up and strap in quickly, for the authorities are coming. A man suddenly grabs onto the side of the ship, clawing at my arms to try to stop me as I flip the switches and blast off. He is torn away and I'm flying off on my rocketing mission once again.

My heart cries out for my girls as I rise above the harbor, spy the submarine like craft of the alien’s mothership, thrust the throttle full and head (literally) straight for them. I wonder if there is some kind of force shield that might protect them from the bombs loaded in my ship, but realize it is too late to worry about anything like that. I zoom slant in at an accelerating killer dive, faster and faster, closer, closer tense and POW crashcrush helmet head body ship exploding into the side of that evil vessel without so much as even scratching it…

My ghost floats over to where my wife has been watching all this on TV, and I ask her if I destroyed the enemy's space craft. "No"… was her distracted reply (she was still engrossed in the replays of the last action from my helmetcam). So I shook my head in resigned frustration and faded into oblivion...

Well, it was a good try anyway…..

I had another, much more mundane and typical dream before that one, but I can’t recall more than a particular scene. I remember that there was this short, stocky, scowling dwarf dressed in bright pantaloons and a gaudily decorated vest. He had a large hammer with a hugely oversized head on it as big as his body, which he was holding in threatening manner in both hands by the long, thick pole of its handle. He had just walked away from us, gone over and bonked the giant rabbit into unconsciousness when it had come outside of the nearby cave for a drink, letting it lie at his feet as he looked around for anything else to hit. He left the monstrous, over-muscled, gnarly, snarling ogre and its companion (also strange within my peripheral view, yet not seen enough for a valid description) character to guard me and my hapless companions as we were busy with shovels and picks filling the large, roundish pit in the ground with garden salad.

So how was your sleep?

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-11-09

Friday, April 10, 2009

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And now, on with the show...

Today we have a Thought of the Moment:

There’s no time like the present, but when the future gets here we will be able to say, “Now this is what I’m talking about!”

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Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-10-09

Thursday, April 9, 2009

A Story Told in a Special Way According to the Dictates of the Day

Hold on to your hat and keep watch on the sky, be ready to dance, run, sing, dream or fly,
Anything goes, but that’s nothing new, it’s my presentation that’s altered in view,
This is the game my words will play here, (and I’m sure that by now the intention is clear)
It’s not only what but how I will say, so get ready to roll: it’s Rhyming Day!

The story of mine that I’ve chosen to share has an unlikely cast and a romantic flair,
So without further note I set it to sail, straight from the swamp, here’s

A Froggy Tale
Once upon a lily pad
there was a frog who looked quite sad,
A passing horsefly stopped to say,
"Just what has made you feel this way?"
The frog looked up and shed a tear,
then said, "The reason that I'm sad is clear,
Come close and I shall share my woe
and then you'll learn why I act so."
The fly buzzed close and said, "Tell me."
The frog said, "It's like this, you see,
I had a friend, a lady frog
the cutest frog in all the bog,
With skin all green and slick and spotted,
her beauty had me quite besotted!
And when she put her legs to jumpin'
she set my froggy heart a pumpin'!
And so unto this winsome miss
I gave a great big froggy kiss!"
Then he sighed, was quiet again,
the fly buzzed closer, asked, "What then?!
The frog breathed low and looked at him,
then went on in voice quite grim,
"I thought she knew I only joked,
but then, by golly, she up and CROAKED!"
...the frog just sat with bug-eyed grin,
and flexed his throat and froggy chin.
The fly sat still, then moaned with grief,
"That was dumb beyond belief!"
The frog still smiled, then with a leer,
said, "Not as dumb as you it's clear!"
With that his tongue snapped with a crack
and made that fly a froggy snack!
The frog intoned, "Works every time!"
and that's the end of our froggy rhyme!


I hope you enjoyed this poetry time and had fun with my silly tongue in cheek rhyme,
Romance, adventure, humor, surprise, all brought together in a treat for your eyes!
I found great pleasure in sharing with you, but now I must close and bid fair adieu.
We’ll try this again on some future post and I’ll act the part of your narrator host,
And so I’ll ride off toward the fast setting sun, with this time of rhyme I’m finally done.


Written By Michael Steven Platt 4-09-09

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

I Wish to Dust Off and Offer an Old Story

The crash alarms suddenly shriek bright panic, lights blare loud and sharp, the air explodes with smoke and chaos as the very words you are reading shake your mind like a Molotov cocktail on the rocks of tomorrow where the future spins out of control and burns in the wishes of today’s forgotten dreams. I frantically sit at the keyboard, fighting sudden panic as I quickly jump into the endless space of my imagination, rummage in the cardboard box on the floor of the closet in the back of my mind to try and find a catchy lead in to my latest story, but all the noise and commotion is rather distracting, so I get up, walk over and turn the television off, sit back down and read what I’ve written thus far. Hmmm... could be a bit confusing, but if I can somehow transition from the abrupt and violent first sentence into the second sentence, where I give an offhand explanation that not only explains and removes the violence but puts me at the keyboard typing, I think I can bring it all together in a summarizing third sentence and wind up the paragraph with little harm done.
As I type my away at my story, trying to somehow come up with an original, exciting and eye-catching opening, my mind races ahead to the second paragraph where I will segue from the introductory segment into an oblique reference to the main story by way of a clever and moderately humorous secondary tale that actually appears first and thus takes the reader by surprise. I sit back to mull this thought over, and, as I do, I look around at my work area noticing that it is somewhat unkempt and messy. I pull my attentions away from my writing and take a closer look, running my hand lightly across the top of my desk to see faint lines appear, trailing my touch like finger paints, and I realize that the desk is dusty. Gracious! I know that my concentration maintains acute, directed focus toward my work (as I write this, I pause with the thought that I could order a pizza for dinner, get up out of my chair, walk over and look around on the door of the refrigerator for the magnet that has the delivery number on it. I have to hunt rather carefully among the dozens of delightfully designed art magnets that decorate with such bright and snappy flair, stopping to look at a few and remembering when I created the drawings from which they were made, then see my two elongated oblong magnets are stuck there also. So I pull them off, place them in my right hand far enough apart that they don’t snap onto each other, and then toss them up into the air. They come together with a resounding clack and vibrant buzz as their hard attraction joins them in a series of miniscule bounces which sounds like some kind of outer space ray gun: Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z! Cool! I do this a few more time before dropping them and then having to get down on my hands and knees to reach under the refrigerator ...sheesh, doesn’t anybody dust under here? As I grab my errant toys, I suddenly recall my dusty desk, quickly stand up, intending to get right back to the matter at hand, and handily slap the magnets back onto the fridge. But in doing so, knock off some papers stuck up there under some of the other magnets, dropping them to the floor. I bend to pick these up and see that one is a note for me to call my brother to ask if I can stay with him when I am in town for a volleyball tournament next month. I decide that this is important enough to warrant special attention, so I stick it back on the door, but use the two oblong magnets instead of a flat one. There! Much more noticeable! Satisfied by a responsibility well handled, I return to my desk, sit down and get back to typing. ...ummm, where was I? oh yes: ) and does not easily yield to distractions (I suddenly look up, remember the pizza, push out of my chair, rush to the fridge, find the number, make the call {deep dish, mushroom and onions} return to my desk passing by the refrigerator again and, seeing the note about my brother, stop, knit my browse to study the words carefully and embed them in the tenuous clutches of my incisive mind so that I just might remember to call him tomorrow, straighten back up, continue to my chair, sit and, once again, return to my labors...) so when I notice something like... uhhh, what was it? ...I look around the room, trying to nudge my memory into kicking out the hidden thought that caused me to lose my iron-grip focus (noticing some cobwebs in the upper corner and pausing to watch them waft back and forth in the randomly light breeze, seeing how they create patterns against the wall with their shadows, looking thick and fluffy with the dust they have collected and... wait! That’s it!), when suddenly, my memory comes clean and I realize it's the accumulation of dust that has so side-tracked my juggernaut mind. What kind of cleaning service do I have here? I expect this work area to be properly dusted so that I can attend to my mental exertions without diversion. I wish I could get more reliable help about this sort of thing... and with that there is suddenly a terrible grinding sound, the whole room shakes and thunder fills my ears! I grab the arms of my chair and look up to see the entire ceiling lifted right off the walls (this would be a good time for crash alarms, but alas, that was only a story) and I watch the back end of a dump truck as it’s front is elevating... the gates open over my head and out pours mountains of thick, gray, choking dust. I am buried, along with everything else in the room, as the roof is seamlessly replaced.
I sit and sputter, knee deep in fresh dust, swirls and clouds of the stuff settling all around, and I hear a voice call out from somewhere, “Be careful what you wish for.” I silently acknowledge this sage advice and, since I can’t see my keyboard to continue on for the moment, offer you this story for today’s entertainment. Take it in stride.

Master Bishu and the Genie

Bishu was out walking along the beach in Tibet one fine summer day when he noticed something unusual sticking out of the sand. He walked over to it, saw that it was some kind of handle, reached down and pulled it out to find it was an old, tarnished oil lamp.
“Hmmm...” he mused, “this looks interesting.”
He rubbed the sand off of it and, as he did, it suddenly grew warm and began to shake. Smoke started coming out of the spout, growing thick very fast and billowing up in the air.
“My goodness,” Bishu said, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
The dark smoke coalesced to become a cloud above him, gradually solidifying, colors and patterns appearing within the forming shapes until he could see a humanoid figure rising, stretching, reaching two large and powerful looking arms to the sky.
“Well, well,” murmured Bishu, quite fascinated by all this.
The lower part of the figure was still smoke and cloud, but up from there it had transformed into bright purple pantaloons, a red vest over its bare, blue-skinned, muscular chest, a thickly muscled neck holding a large oval head, pointed ears decorated with golden rings, and above it all, a sparkling yellow turban. A fiercely scowling face bared knife-like teeth below the two steaming nostril slits as its single flaming eye looked down upon the small figure of Bishu, still standing holding the lamp in his hands. The two tree sized arms slowly lowered until the gnarled hands with razor-nailed fingers were poised on either side of Bishu, like living, malevolent walls.
With a further cloud of noxious steam emanating from its mouth, the creature spoke in a thunderous voice, “I AM THE GENIE OF THE LAMP.”
“How do you do?” said Bishu right away, “ I’m Bishu.”
The Genie looked taken aback for a moment, then again spoke, “I HAVE SPENT TEN THOUSAND YEARS IMPRISONED IN THE LAMP. YOU HAVE RELEASED ME BY RUBBING IT. I WOULD SQUASH YOU LIKE A BUG, BUT I AM PLEASED TO BE SET FREE, SO I WILL GRANT YOU THREE WISHES AND SPARE YOUR PUNY LIFE.”
Bishu looked up at the Genie, looked down at the lamp in his hands, looked back up at the Genie and said, “How’s that again?”
The Genie scowled even deeper and his eye burned bright.
“I WILL SPARE YOUR LIFE AND GRANT YOU THREE WISHES BEFORE I LEAVE TO WREAK HAVOC ON THIS MISERABLE WORLD. WHAT ARE YOUR WISHES?”
Bishu looked up to the Genie,
“Wow. Three wishes, huh?”
“THREE!”
“Well, how ‘bout that,” Bishu mused, holding onto the lamp with one hand while scratching the back of his head with the other.
“MAKE YOUR WISHES NOW! OR DO YOU WISH TO DIE INSTEAD?” bellowed the Genie
“No, no,” laughed Bishu, “all in good time for that, I’m sure,”
He looked up at the Genie and said, “Y’know, you seem to be quite a nice fellow, but you have some anger issues that could be resolved.”
“WISH!” thundered the Genie.
Bishu raised his eyebrows and said, “Gee, I wish you had a more pleasant disposition. You’d make a lot more friends that way, you know.”
The Genie looked startled for a moment, then said, “OH. I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T MEAN TO GET ANGRY. IT’S JUST THAT BEING COOPED UP IN THAT LAMP FOR SO LONG HAD MADE ME A BIT GRUMPY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.”
Bishu nodded understandingly and replied, “Of course, no offense taken!” then smiled and said, “I wish you enjoyed being cooped up in this lamp,” waving the thing up at the Genie, “so that you wouldn’t get so cranky when you come out. Don’t you think life would be better that way?”
The Genie again looked startled, and then somewhat anxious, saying, “UM, EXCUSE ME, MISTER BISHU, SIR, BUT COULD YOU PLEASE HURRY UP WITH YOUR THIRD WISH. I’D LIKE TO GET BACK INTO MY LAMP AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.”
Bishu bowed to the toweringly timid Genie and said, “Of course! I apologize. If that’s what you truly want, why then I wish for it as well!”
And with that there was a sucking rush of air pulling the cloud formed Genie back into the lamp, its face showing a delightedly relieved smile.
All alone again on the beach, Bishu shrugged, tossed the lamp over his shoulder and continued on his walk, mumbling to himself, “I wonder if there are any seashells around here...”

Okay, I’ve dug myself (and my keyboard) out of the dust and am able to type again. The room still needs a bit of cleanup, but I’m sure that with a swipe or two of a damp cloth, things will be good as new. I hope you didn’t get caught in the fallout of my ill-conceived wish, but if so I apologize. In the future I will try to remember to follow the offered advice and be most careful what I wish for. In light of this thought I immediately set it to the test and wish you a most pleasant day!

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-08-09

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

The Final Word is One Big, Happy Family

In the beginning was the Noun. And it was proper.
Then Noun said, “Let there be Verb.” And it happened.
Then Noun made pronouns and adjectives. And these new others made Noun proud.
Then Verb created adverb. And these quickly joined all the others in a smooth transition, becoming family. Noun and Verb were quite happy.
Then the Noun, the Verb, the pronouns, the adjectives and the adverbs all got together and made prepositions and conjunctions. And there was celebration throughout the family, for everyone fit in among everyone else and was welcome.
Then, while they were all basking in their success, interjections just popped in, became a part of the group (sort of like an eccentric uncle who shows up unexpectedly, but welcome all the same) and it was decided that, hey, this, too, was an improvement.
Then, someone got the idea to create punctuation and, once everyone got used to it, a great rejoicing followed. And all was good.

And then, as a group, seeing that somehow, there was still something lacking, a thing was made, composed from parts of all of them, and yet was new, separate and very different. A spark of creative fire was touched to it, it came to life and Noun declared that, “This is Writer.” And it was so good that everyone was practically speechless.
Writer loved his family, never tiring of finding new ways to combine all or only a few of them at a time, involving himself with them for hours on end in order to fulfill his own happy desires. But he eventually became quiet and thoughtful, and when everyone asked him why, he told them that he felt a strange sense of incompleteness, a feeling of needing something, but he didn’t know what it might be. Noun and Verb looked at each other with great understanding, and everyone else sort of giggled behind their punctuation marks, for they all knew that what Writer needed was love.
The family gave Writer friendly teasing about this, and he laughed and joined in their fun, knowing that they cared for him and meant well. Then, after great consideration, once again everyone gave a part of themselves and, using their good natured ribbing as a base, created another new and different thing, and when Writer saw this thing he was overjoyed. He said, “I shall call this Reader and within the relationship we form, in the harmony of our grand family, and we will all love each other and live happily ever after!”

There is potential for more, but we will stop here. I may add to it at a later time (if the Muse whacks me with her invisible rubber chicken again). Please do return and see what else my mind sends down my arms to my fingers to the keyboard to the computer to the internet to your eyes...

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-07-09

Monday, April 6, 2009

Thought, The Train Ride and Happy Birthday

Thought for the Moment:
“Some people live a life of perambulated hodge-podge.”
I sometimes feel that way, like my life is a walking, chaotic mixed-up mess... but usually I keep my mess located in stationary places, like at home or in my locker at work. Now if we were talking about my thoughts, then yes, my mind is always churning and roiling, bouncing around from one thing to another through far-fetched , tenuously related tangents that keep moving and evolving. A busy and creative place that keeps me entertained!
I’ll stick a story in here and then head to bed. I played volleyball for a couple hours in open gym this evening and I’m tired. I’m trying to write everyday in this blog, and so far so good. As long as I can cut and paste I can keep it happening!

The Train Ride
There once was a man who lived in the city who one day took a train to the country. It was a long ride and he fell asleep, thinking that the conductor would wake him when they arrived at his stop. So he slept, and as he slept he dreamed. He dreamt that he lived in the country and one day he decided to go to the city on the train. So he did, and, since it was a long ride, he fell asleep, think that the conductor would wake him when they got there. He slept... and as he slept, he dreamed while the train traveled on and on and on...
“Hey! Wake up! This is your stop!” The conductor said, shaking the man, who woke with a start and quickly got off the train to find himself in the city. And to this day he gets confused quite easily.


And a Very Happy Birthday to both my Mother and my Brother. I Hope you had a good one!

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-06-09

Sunday, April 5, 2009

The Gangster Grapes and Shine the Light

This is a story I thought of about twenty-five years ago and didn’t write down ...until today.

The Gangster Grapes
“We’re nasty!” said the first.
“We’re no good!” said the bigger second.
“We’re BAD!” said the biggest grape in the bunch. And indeed they were, sitting in the back of the fruit drawer in the lower section of the refrigerator, placed there weeks ago and then forgotten.

“Hello, and welcome to the neighborhood,” exclaimed an orange when they had first arrived, “We’re so glad to make your acquaintance!”
“Yes,” added a plum, “it’s so nice to have fresh and wholesome neighbors instead of the riff-raff that were here before. They went bad and made the whole drawer a sorry place. It was shameful!”
“Oh dear,” said a full, round grape, “that is terrible. What happened?”
“Well, at first they were model residents,” spoke up one of the oranges, “but they over stayed their welcome, gradually moved to the back of the drawer and went bad.”
“Yes,” offered a large grapefruit, “those of us who stay fresh longer remember these things and pass them on to the newcomers with the advice that they keep the cycle of turning ripe within its acceptable limits,” this said with a haughty frown. But then the drawer opened and she was gone, much to the relief of the grapes, who had the feeling that they had somehow earned her displeasure.
“Don’t worry about her,” a plum spoke up, “She was getting rather full of her own juice and it was time for her to be chosen,” then, with a dreamy look, added, “She went at the perfect time, just like we all aspire to do.” The rest of the drawer murmured in agreement.
So, at first the grapes were model citizens, plump, juicy, succulent and tasteful, fitting in among the oranges, peaches, strawberries and great variety of fruit that resided in the drawer.
But, as time went on, as the other fruit was taken out and new fruit put in, the grapes were pushed to the back of the bin, where other seldom consumed items had spoiled, left parts of themselves and subsequently been taken out and discarded. It was a seedy area.
As new fruit was placed in front of the grapes, shielding them from sight, and they were pushed against the back of the drawer, they lost their plump freshness, were damaged, turned sour and began to get moldy. This brought looks of disgust from the fruit in the front of the drawer, constantly being taken out and replaced, with the grapes becoming more damp, moldy and foul until they started to affect the other fruit nearby.
“Hey, watch it there!” a peach would say, as some of the grape’s slime touched its skin. But the grapes snickered and said, “Can it, buster, or you’ll get more of the same!” and a nearby plum, who had been too long in the grape’s influence, laughed and said, “Yeah, watch it yourself!”
“Yeah, watch it yourself, or you’ll get double,” from a pear browning along the other side of the grapes. And from the entire drawer came sounds of disgust and fear.
There was no doubt about it, the grapes were taking over.
Then, for a period of several days, no fruit was removed or put in and the drawer stayed closed, with even the main door staying shut. It was a bad time for the whole population of the refrigerator. The grapes spread their corruption and spoil throughout the fruit drawer and started stinking up the interior of the entire appliance. It was a desperate time and all the food was in fear.
“They’ve gone to my head,” wailed the cabbage.
“They’re stalking me,” protested the celery
“I’m getting a sour stomach,” exclaimed the milk.
“They’re making me cry,” sniffed an onion.
“We’re being bruised,” moaned the beets.
“This is the pits!” cried an avocado.
“I’m all churned up inside!” spread the butter.
“This is just rotten!” oozed the tomatoes.
“I’m feeling battered,” puffed an opened box of pancake mix on the top shelf.
“They’re driving me nuts!” shelled out a half-eaten pecan pie from next to the pancake mix.
“They’re killing us!” from the meat drawer.
(The eggs were too chicken to speak up.)
“Actually, this is kind of pleasant,” sounded from the cheese drawer, but they were drowned out and ignored (being a rather off putting group to begin with) in the general complaining and moaning from the rest of the food items.
And all the bottles and closed containers remained tight lipped and refused to intervene.
It looked as though the entire refrigerator was lost when suddenly, the door opened, light streamed in and a voice exclaimed, “Oh gross! Something is spoiled in the fridge! I told you we should have cleaned it out before we went out of town!”
The bright light and fresh air was a reprieve for most of the food, but two large hands reached in and pulled out the drawer, with the voice words saying, “It’s coming from the fruit drawer. I’m going to dump the whole thing,” then carried it away.
Out of the kitchen, out of the house, into the bright, warm sunshine, through the back yard to the far corner of the garden where it was unceremoniously upturned and dumped on the compost pile.
“Whew, what a bunch of moldy, rotten grapes!” was the last thing the voice said as the fruit drawer was returned to the house to be washed out and placed back in the grateful refrigerator.
Meanwhile, all the fruit that had been dropped on the compost pile was trying to comprehend this new environment, to adjust to this new neighborhood.
The grapes, ever confident in their nastiness, were the first to recover and spoke out defiantly to the occupants in general, “We’re bad, so watch out!”
But the only response they got was a voice from the sodden, brown mass below them, saying, “Actually, you look pretty good to us...”


So the gangster grapes moved on and, we will, too, for it is time for a Thought of the Moment, which, I suppose, can stem from the preceding story as a kind of analogy. So far I am taking these ‘Thoughts’ in the order that I have them written in my files, but I may alter that later if I find one that fits a situation more readily than the next in line. For today, as I said, the next in line can work.

“Any time there is secrecy and hidden affairs, when dealing in political agendas, the shadows of corruption will take root and grow.”

The sad truth about human nature is that some people, no matter how good their original intentions, get carried away with their situation when they come to positions of power, and lose touch with the influences of honesty, integrity, compassion, selflessness, and other positive traits that make humanity an admirable species. As the saying goes, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions and I am a firm believer in the means not being justified by the ends. For every moment we are alive, in everything we do, there are consequences and these are never undone. What you put in the world stays, no matter what follows. It is a cumulative effect with only the illusion of transition. Good or bad, action and influence is never removed, for what happens becomes a part of history, a part of the past and cannot be changed, so whatever means are utilized affects the result to the extent that those means vary from that intended result.
Politics are the manipulation of governing influence upon the workings of society in order to direct and control that society. Governmental systems are necessary in a society, for the alternative is anarchy and that leads to chaos and dissolution. Politics are the interactions within government that enables it to maintain fluidity and flexibility among the many desires and influences that individuals and groups hold in interest. Laws are the tools of government, used to form the shape of society so that it is as smoothly functioning as possible within the needs of the peoples of/for which it is comprised. Common sense dictates that this is good, for it gives guidelines by which, and structure in which people can interact and prosper.
Groups of representational people are the creators of laws, the proverbial shepherds to the flock of society. It is their responsibility to produce laws that will give the greatest good for the greatest number, which is the default application in that no other system of comprehensive structure has been shown to work within the stricture of the greatest good for everyone, for the variables are too great. So, with the way the system is set up, it is close to being the best that can be managed. These groups of representatives respond to the opinions of others in creating these laws, as well as to their own perspectives. It is when self-interest and greed are introduced into the system that it breaks down and becomes anathema to the purported intentions of the greatest good for the greatest number by becoming the greatest good for a specific number. The more advanced within the governmental system a person advances, the greater the power of office and the greater the isolation from the common, general public he becomes. It is easy for officials to lose track of the many and associate only with others who, through wealth, also hold power, thus allowing their viewpoints to be skewed by these people. And, these wealthy, powerful people have the means to place themselves within the structure of government thus further removing the actual representation of the ‘common man’ and replacing it with their own interests.
The breadth and depth of the governmental system, the tremendous scope of what is maintained under the auspices of this system, the sheer volume of laws, rules, regulations by which this system functions and the methods of conceiving, promoting, enacting and enforcing all that this system controls is staggering and creates innumerable areas of operation that are inscrutable to any overt observation and thus can be distorted and subverted to personal, unscrupulous ends. This is where the trappings and manipulations of politics and power breed and foster corruption, this is where the darkness of society hides morals that fester and rot, this is where the financial and social troubles we find ourselves in today originated. This is not a political party’s doing, this is not an idealistic theory’s doing, this is not the governmental system’s doing, it is the result of personal, greedy, selfish corruption that had been allowed to profligate within that governmental system because it was not enacted in the light of day. The laws and regulations that are supposed to protect the public and control businesses have been subverted to protect the companies and control the public from interfering with the operation of those companies. The larger the company, the more wealth it has and the more influence it can exert on the government. The corporate entities which perpetuate their own growth at the expense of the general public, that put profits above the consequences that their products have upon the welfare of that public and which ignore the impact that the creation, use and disposal of their products have upon the environment are the villains which have ravaged our fragile security and threaten our society. They are the gangster grapes that need to be cleaned out and replaced with fresh, healthy endeavors that nurture and promote growth, health, well-being and peace.
Such a soap box tirade! This is an observation on one aspect of society and, while I have generalized and simplified it, the message holds true: we need to have more say in what the government does. I feel strongly about the direction our society has been going and the general (sad) state of the world. Too much pain, suffering, and wrongness has been bred in the dark corners of wealth and power and it needs to be stopped. I share my thoughts and hope to give some unity to the people who care and who would alter the structure of our government to more truly represent as many as possible and not just the special interests. I believe no one does wrong or evil intentionally, anyone can justify anything if they want to, but to bring out into the light the forces that control far reaching decisions which affect our lives is a necessary and vital step, for that is the best way to combat corruption. From corruption comes all the myriad problems and issues that plague our world, that which gives grief and sorrow to countless innocents and threatens to plunge humanity into subjugation, poverty, war and destruction. Those who act for themselves alone are the root of all evil; corruption is the greatest threat to mankind. We need for governments, businesses, religions and societies to be held accountable in their dealings in our names, we need to see what it is that they are doing, we need to know that they are acting in the best interests of all and not just the chosen few.
Let there be light.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-04-2009

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Car Karma Chameleon, It's a Gas Masque or Aid

Comments on the moment, navigating the tides of inspiration, the surge and ebb of energy and thought, of desire and loss, of action and lethargy, of breath. Like a statue of a wall, a representational mood holds my hands and lifts my dreams to reach for a newer means of finding the loss that freedom releases into the arms of fulfillment, letting go of certainty to grasp indecision like a blanket of comfort to a lonely child.

Finding all decisions of intended refreshment in late evening repast to be stymied in the closed box of tardy arrival, we were forced to find dine outside the box and in the bookstore, where a meal is more than a bite to eat and a feast is as good as can be scene from a play of words. Time remained of the essence, like being scent (a & d rising or falling with the salving of the situation) from heaven’s gates at closing time, the clock on the wall was a door that asked us to hit the floor and not to let the sweep of remonstrative salutory adieu’s catch our coats on the far side of the egress as the outviting hand offered one last push. No worries, for humor was found to reside in the situational aspect (once I chewed and swallowed the rest of my last bite).
(Re)acquiring motovational conveyhence to apply our mode back to the old homestead, I opted for a directly roundabout flight plan and followed the wheels of fate to the direction in which they were already rolling, holding the scenic tour of suburbital parking maze orbit (writing off the passed like a cursive, malladdiction shortcut), toward the far side of comic fate when all of a sudden, out of the dark night and into our heading lights, a stop sign appeared. So we stopped. Our intended vectoring from this nexus moment was interrupted by the odd appearance of a man pushing a sedan along the outer drive of empty parking lot directly in our sights, struggling step by hard-effort step in a most curious potential solution to the high price of fuel. A scrolled down window and curious query brought forth the response that (price notwithstanding) the labored vehicle was bereft of energizing gas and was being thus manually directed onward in search of a place of repose while the one-manpower engineer sought solution with which to remedy this lack. Being of good neighborly attitude and open to adventure’s potential call, I set our own ship to anchor, hopped out and helped give motion to the last few feet as the car slid up to (with a quick scurry of the misfortuned traveler into the driver’s seat to apply steering and brakes) the curb along the roadway.
The hapless fellow adjoined me and spoke of his intent to seek the means to address his steed’s thirsting needs and I asked if he had contacted the police about his predicament, in that his parking place was along the mall’s outer roadway and not in a less obtrusive, relegated parking space. His brow-knit negative response elicited further comment from me in the suggestion that we perhaps give the situation push to shove and move his car to a more acceptable resting place among the hundreds of empty options so close at hand. He acquiesced, got back in the driver’s seat and I leaned down into my hands and arms with a mighty heave to oof myself right up against the immobile contour of the trunk. I heard him yell, “Sorry, I forgot to take it out of park,” as I resumed straightened stance. I set to again and was quite relieved to have the car pull smoothly away from the curb, across the drive, into the parking area, glide into a demarcated space and gently jerk to a stop. He climbed out and came back to me in the mild cool of the night’s air, wearing a long sleeved pull-over shirt on top of a t-shirt as the only covering against the mid-forty degree temperature. I asked if he had a jacket and he replied no. He introduced himself as Dan, said he was twenty-three (oh the innocent foibles of youth), from Palatine, which is a Chicago suburb some twenty-five minutes of driving away to the south, and that he was in the area to visit friends in Libertyville, about five or ten minutes further north. He had been debating this desire (for some unmentioned reason) in the parking lot of the mall and had subsequently run out of gas. He voiced his intent to find a gas station in the immediate vicinity and, being familiar with the environs, I had to inform him of the great lack of such to be found within that land of malls, stores and restaurants. I had a moment of thought in looking to my car, where Dianne was patiently waiting, and seeing that if we were to continue on our way home, a turn to the left would be right, but if we did so then that would cause this poor soul to be left and that would not be right, while on the other hand if we did diametrically oppose our homeward direction and turn into the right, the correct humanitarian effort could be addressed, the moment seized in compassionate good karma and our eventual road home would still be left to follow once our good deed was accomplished. So I answered adventure’s open call and offered him a lift to find a suitable oasis for his proverbial camel’s liquid needs. We humped on over to my car and I put my mind to the task of locating the direction that would be most likely to present a required facility. I suddenly remembered that there was such a place just across from the other side of the mall from where we were and, after we had hurriedly made room for our new companion in the back seat, took that right turn toward the gas and succor. I had asked him about his financial status and was somehow not surprised to learn that he had a total of $5.45 and no container in which to transport gas back to his car. I told him not to worry and that we would figure something out, knowing full well in my mind that this meant buying the container myself.
We drove around the mall’s outer circle, crossed over the thoroughfare on the other side to pull into the bright lights of salvation. I parked along the side of a one of the sets of pumps and Dan and I climbed out, walked over to the small kiosk situated in the middle of the lights and consumer action and asked the occupant if he had any gas cans. In a thick Hindi accent, through the small, muffling speaker disc set in the (probably bullet-proof) glass above the pay slot, he spoke a series of words several times, gesturing avidly with arms, hands and fingers, that I finally was able to discern as a summed up, “No.”
Dan and I returned to the car and he suggested that we go back to his car so he could push it (the half mile of dark, curving by-way) back to the station and get his gas straight from the source. I didn’t really see this as a viable option and Dianne said we could nip across Route 60 (the main east-west roadway that bordered the south side of the mall and gas station) to go to Wal-Mart and purchase a gas container there. Dan was reluctant to do this, as he did not want to be (any more) in our debt, and he said he could call his friends to come get him. However, they were not answering and I dissuaded him from calling his parents in Palatine. In response to our good natured cajoling, he reluctantly agreed that a trip across the way was then next logical solution. As we made our way over there, I asked if he had seen the movie Pay It Forward, and when he said that he had I told him to do just that and give aid to someone who might need it in his future. He looked a bit thoughtful at this and I told him that we were just doing the right thing. We pulled up in front of Wal-Mart and our luck in arriving just in time to be too late, as we had experienced in trying to find dining earlier, held true as we read the sign on the door find that the store had closed at 10:00 pm, about twenty-five minutes earlier. I was of good cheer, into the situational comedy and did my best to spread this mood to Dan, and we continued back out to Route 60 and further west in search of a larger gas station where we could find solution to his woes.And, another mile down that way, there was an open store that fit the billing, across on the other side of the road, to which we directed our thoughts and action. He and I climbed out, entered the small convenience-store market, mentioned our need and were directed to the upper shelf along one wall where three small plastic gas cans sat in bright red beauty, like Christmas presents in March. I reached up, grabbed one and took it to the counter where Dan was running a plastic card through the credit reader and finding no luck in having it register. It seems that the machine was not designed to accept gift cards from other stores, even if the amount on it was at least $1.19 (as he explained to the clerk). I told Dan not to worry, pulled out my credit card, slid it through the reader and paid for the container. I took it out to the pump that I had parked the car next to and waited while Dan paid his $5.45 in advance for gas. He came out and I set the open can on the ground and instructed him to hold it steady. Dianne clamored out of the car to keep an eye on the monetary gauge, Dan held the can down firm on the ground and I handled the dispenser in directing the flow of fuel into the can’s opening. It was full by $4.50 and Dan said to put the rest into my car. It was evident that the only way to close the container was to place the pouring spigot (that Dan had removed and was holding) on the hole and cap it with the plastic piece attached to it. Dan wrestled with this for several seconds, finally tearing the two pieces of plastic apart and covered the end of the spigot, only spilling a little gas in the process. We all three returned to the car and pulled out back onto 60 as the grand reek of gasoline filled the interior threatening to asphyxiate us all. We put the windows down and suffered the chill breeze as a more preferred discomfort.
As we drove I spoke to Dan, still in the spirit of adventure and good-neighborliness, admonishing him to take a jacket when he venured out, just in case a situation arose to chill his warm intentions into cold reality, and to carry a bit more fundage or at least to be more aware of where he was and what he was doing, for helpful folks like us (with a congenial smile) don’t always appear when needed. I told him of Dianne’s and my art business, my lately finished book and the reader’s group that Dianne had set up. I felt a spirit of destiny and camaraderie, a sense that this was meant to come together, a feeling of belonging to the moment. I joked with Dan that he would become the Palatine connection in our business, giving him great opportunity to become a part of the positive force that Dianne and I are convinced our efforts will be creating, to find a new direction for his life. I was excited and convinced that the events which had brought us all together were caused by a gathering of energies, a coalescing of similar karmas, a part of some great cosmic scheme which would grow and thrive with the continued addition of more like minded/spirited people. I asked him how he had met these Libertyville friends and he said through a church group, which I took as a reinforcement of his good nature and my positive feelings.
We pulled up along his car again, got out and he put most of the couple gallons into the tank as I told him to save a little in case the engine needed priming to start. In my younger days, in situations not too unlike the one he had found himself in, I learned that loosening the screw holding the air filter container cover and pouring a very small bit of gas so that it leaked into the gap where the screw head came out, would aid in getting the engine to turn over. But when he tried the ignition, the car fired up immediately, negating the need for such tactics.Relief was a palpable emotion that played across his face as he told us that the amount of gas now in the tank was quite enough to see him back home to Palatine. He stepped out of the car and Dianne had a couple business cards and six dollars that she handed to him, telling him to contact us and that we would stay in touch. He looked at the cards, saw the money underneath and immediately handed it back, declining any such efforts to give monetary aid. I tried to hand him the (smelly) can and he said no, that I had paid for it and it was mine. I didn’t want it, but he refused to take it. I asked him to pass the word along about the discussion group for my book and to tell people about the web sites, but, as he slid back into his car he said he didn’t want to commit to anything, that he didn’t know about doing what we asked. He was suddenly quite defensive and cautious, saying thank you and that he didn’t want to become involved in something he didn’t really know about, to which we replied that there was no commitment expected and that it was just a favor we asked for him to tell others about our sites and our work. He said he didn’t think he could do that. I asked what his phone number was so we could stay in touch and he said no, he couldn’t do that either. I was a bit miffed by his sudden, closed up reluctance, but refrained from pointing out that we had certainly aided him and that it would be nice for him to return the favor, for I didn’t want to be pushy and reinforce his defensiveness.
He closed his door, backed up and pulled away.
I put the toxic-fumed container in the back of the car and Dianne and I climbed in to the front, surprised, perplexed and somewhat indignant at the chill in the sudden leave taking that Dan had performed. What had happened ... and why? I thought about it and decided that I may have come on too strong in my announcing that he would be our connection in Palatine, for he did not know us and we could have been representatives of some weird cult or organization. Perhaps we seemed to be a bit outlandish in his eyes, or perhaps his parents had warned him against talking to strangers. I was greatly saddened and hurt by his insensitive actions, but I still felt glad that we were there when he needed help and that we were able to gift him with it. So my view of the great cosmic scheme for positive energies meeting and coalescing turned out to be just so much hot, imaginary air that cooled, and flowed back out the windows of my open mind, quite like the fumes we sought to be rid of through the car’s open windows as we drove the fifteen minutes home, our thoughts stumbling over the evening’s strange and somewhat disappointing memories. Yet, even so, we both agreed that it had been an interesting adventure, that we were glad to have been able to aid Dan in his time of need and that all in all it was a worthwhile endeavor that, in spite of his reaction, had brought a bit more positive energy and good karma into the world.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-04-2009

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Blog Entry, too, without rubber chickens

Write your words here.......>>>>> Blog entry, Too (A Musing Note, but no rubber chickens, seen or felt)
And for my next magical trick, I’ll write my second blog entry.

I have a file of Random Thoughts that I collect and I want to share them, a few at a time, with you, perhaps calling them Thoughts of the Moment (as opposed to Thoughts of the Day to avoid the interpretation of posting one per day). Here’s the first one on my list:

To age by distance, stepping each day in its turn... see the miles I've come ...

I like the image of measuring age by the amount of travel accomplished with each day being a single step and the thousands of days I’ve lived adding up to over 4 miles. (Hey... he’s old!) This is also a haiku poem, which is a form I enjoy utilizing. The three lines are in sets of 5-7-5 syllables, and while more traditional haiku have a reference to Nature, the mechanics are valid, even though I have it written across one line to diminish the poetical appearance.
Here's another 'Thought of the Moment":

Define your world by the dreams you pursue and let the smiles in your heart light your way.

I don't think I need to explain or add to that.

I’ll quote another ‘Thought of the Moment’ in my next posting, and try to limit such to one per posting, as I don’t want to run out (to the Thought Store to get more) too soon.


I have written three books in three styles. The first is an epic, 60 page poem, titled Record, about traveling through a strange and involved dream. The second is a collection of short stories which I have titled Making Sand or Zen and the Art of Foolishness. The third is a derivative of entries from my journals between 1975 and 1988 which is titled Endless Shifting Sand or Keeping Score in the Big One (ESS). This last is my most recent creative pride and joy and I (finally) finished the last of several rewrites a few weeks ago and am now looking for a publisher. It is in a new and strange style, an avant garde genre that is comprised of randomly offered surreal imagery, double-entendres, word plays, puns, references to eclectic subjects and factual occurrences from my life, all blended, mixed and mingled in a sort of stream of consciousness hodge-podge. The intent of the book is to entertain in these aspects rather than in story line, plot, character development or conflict and resolution. It is certainly not for everyone, but, for those people who enjoy the English language and its ability to be twisted upon itself, it is a wealth of entertainment. There is a reader’s group on Yahoo that deals with it. If you are interested in seeing what I, and others, have to say about this creative effort, the direct link is http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ESSReaders
Feel free to check it out and join if it interests you.
I will post some excerpts from ESS to show what I’m referring to. Wait here a moment, I’ll be write back...
Okay, I'm back... I hope you didn’t have to wait too long. Here’s a paragraph taken randomly from ESS:

Preterfluxive maunderings lose rigid patterns of slowing grid in awareness to a peek of perfection upon which I sit. The view is nice, but it's really too high up to focus on the story line. The odds for duration continue evenly, comfort is only a matter of (re)adjustment. How heavy can a thought weigh upon the brow (still out on the street) of late night wonder wander? I seek to key this spell of inaction and be freed to lock in tight when hands walk slower in the shadows, dark and steady on. I strain the mess to write in sense but am only washing away the grit and not the grime. A solitary candle lightly floats past the still sill, dressing the mood in a subtle touch of ambience among the cymbals, trumpets, silver sheened tubas, saxophone wielding belly-dancers, a twenty-one gun salute, the Overweight Catholic Bishop's Yodeling Club, five double-charged recoilless cannons and an impatient bellboy … anything for a little attention. I studiously ignore the parade so that they eventually exit up the chimney in a huff, clearing the air back to a steady calm, and leaving behind, to keep my ringing ears company, the crinkled whistling of several hidden crickets which had hopped out of the Bishop's voluminous robes, as well as the littered strew of sheet music, broken instruments, gouges in the floor, bullet shells, bullet holes, cannon shells, steaming craters, crumbling walls, piles of hymnals, rusty Bibles and the bellboy… ("What?... oh, excuse me… look, here's a quarter and that's all I've got, now go ring that thing somewhere else.") Bug off: the clocks in the surrounding area answer (the unspoken question) with an alarming enthusiasm that forces me to seek some (other kind of) peace and quiet in an entirely different line of subject… as usual.

Strange stuff, no? I enjoy the absurd, the unexpected, the disjointed and the word play punch line, such as the bellboy being told to ring somewhere else. I make sure to have specific, concrete details (thanks to Miss Swan, my High School English teacher) for the reader’s imagination to envision, thus putting him (mentally) in among the action. I did the same with my first blog entry with the references to travel scenery. Make it tactile, make it real, give the reader something to hold on to. ESS is full of such workings, as well as a variety of other literary vehicles, and I love taking them for a spin across the literary highways of imagination!

Today’s blog entry has been/is a somewhat more informative and less creative effort, but I am trying to lay some backgroundwork for those who are not familiar with me or my creations. I will endeavor to be more spontaneously creative and inventive next go ‘round.
Catch you on the later on.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-02-09