THE MEETING
(a piece of flash fiction)

The tall, lean man stumbled into the room.  It was too dark to see much of anything.  His squinting pushed his eyebrows down into the frames of his coke bottle eyeglasses.  An eyelash got caught in the frame.  The pain was brief, yet unwelcome, as he tried to get his bearings.  As his eyes watered, the room grew darker, unnaturally dark.

The voice came from all directions.  It was high-pitched, inexplicable, certainly not human.  Disoriented, he tried to pinpoint the origin but was unsuccessful.

“There, over there, look.  Hurry, or you will miss her.  I can’t tell you how important this is, please listen to me.”

“It is too dark to see.  What is this?  Who are you?  How did I get here?  What do you want with me?”

He started to feel dizzy as he sensed it, the draw, the implied come-hither look from a woman he could only sense.  His rational mind fighting a losing battle with his caveman brain, he steeled himself, trying to turn his fear into anger.

He struck a boxer’s stance, left foot forward, perfectly balanced with clenched fists as he imagined what sort of creature might be in the room with him.  Suddenly a gentle tap on his shoulder and two handmaidens, illuminated in dull beige light, appeared before him.  One pointed to the other and then dissolved into nothingness.

The remaining entity looked deep into the man’s eyes.  She is beautiful.  Those are the most piercing eyes I have ever experienced.  As his fear diminished, he knew that his little part of the world would never be the same.

He tried to remain calm, enraptured by the floating apparition.  She casually pointed to her left and then disappeared into oblivion.

The man suddenly found himself in a room full of unfamiliar people.  Those to his left were frozen; the people to his right were moving in exaggerated slow motion.  The music, so loud, was suspended on a single power chord (maybe one of those Lillith Faire chords?).  With a short wave of his hand, the man was able to silence the music.  It was then that he saw her.

One moment in time, unlike all the others, novel and unexpected.  He didn’t recognize her, but he knew she was responsible for this.  She was the puppeteer, the power broker, the instigator.

Waves of energy were radiating off her, seeming to intensify as they traveled across the room.  Bliss, pure bliss.  What is this?  Who is she?  He grew more intoxicated as he realized she was not frozen; she was moving toward him.  She walked in a reckless, destructive manner; her approach calculated and mesmerizing.

“Your life as you knew it is over,” a detached voice said as the woman drew closer.  “I must tell you to listen to her, the stakes are very high.  Of course, you can do what you want, but I strongly suggest you pay attention.”

The man, confused and fearful, sensed he was in trouble.  His intuition (some would say a spirit guide) told him to ignore the bizarre voice and run.

“She is going to be more of a problem than a solution.  You don’t need this.  The devil wouldn’t manifest as a demon; it would look like her.”

The battle of words and wits continued.  “Grab her right now.  Kiss her and tell her how long you have been waiting for her.”

“No, you idiot, don’t do that.  What the hell is wrong with you?”  “She is going to be gone soon; you are probably never going to see her again.  Ask her if you can kiss her.”

“Can’t you see what is going on here?  You must run.”

Just as the woman reached him, she turned her cheek and continued on her journey.  He could feel her presence as she walked across the room and out the door.  He found himself breathing heavily as the people in the room came back to life.  No one bothered to ask him if he was OK, if he was in need of assistance.  After a few minutes, his breathing returned to normal, and he started to collect himself.

You are reading a dreadful tale, one cautionary in nature.  A story where the actors all die before the climax, and no one can figure out the point. Consider every ex machina ever conceived, synthesize them, and then hit print.  That is what the tall, lean man with the coke bottle eyeglasses was left with.

The man spent years trying to rationalize an irrational encounter.  He finally convinced himself that he met the face of creation, an otherworldly creature traveling through space and time.  He kept his tale to himself, not wanting to bother humanity with his anxieties.  He simply deemed himself unlucky to be at the same place and time as her.  He knew the odds of such an encounter were astronomical, but he refused to give it any profound meaning.  He stopped asking why a long time ago; his only issue was that he couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

 

The Mirror
(a piece of flash fiction)

I once heard that if you stare at a mirror long enough, your face will eventually disappear; it will fade into one that you had in a previous life.  The same people who told me this also believe that the world is infested with demons of varying degrees of wickedness.  The implication was that you better have a Bible by your side when you start your quest.

Author’s Note: I don’t own a Bible.

Yesterday was a bad day.  I was trying to write, but I couldn’t think of a damn thing to type, so I gave up.  Ten beers later, I gave in to my temptation.  You know what I did, right?

I stood in front of my reflection for a long, long time.  Nothing, nothing, and more stillness, and then it happened, the surprise, the thing I never could have imagined.  As I stood there trying to get my old, ragged face to fade away, I realized something, a notion both curious and profound — a thought at once deeply disturbing, elusive, and yet powerful.  I couldn’t move, paralyzed with both frustration and anticipation.

Sure, I have missed her every day since I met her; I came to terms with that a long time ago — what a disturbing lesson, the fact that you can meet someone only once and miss them.  The mirror told me something different, though, something that…

As my concentration deepened, I still saw the same old face that has always looked back at me; the big difference this time was that I realized that I was alone, really alone.  As I began to contemplate my fate, the mirror started to curve in on itself, enclosing me in a cylinder.  It was terrifying.

I knew that not only was she never going to be beside me; I knew that there was never going to be two sets of eyes looking back.  I knew that the cold, harsh breeze to my left was going to remain.  The goosebumps forming on my arms grew in lockstep as hope diminished.

It was then that the mirror told the whole story; it was only then that the image and the demons responsible for generating it began their exposition.  This is what they said; spoken in an unnatural verse, untamed and chaotic.

How does it feel?  Tell us, please.  Do you still miss her?  How bad does that make you feel?  Look again, if you have the guts.  Do you see it? 

 What is the problem?  Are you not ready for the truth?  Steel yourself, you pathetic human.  We can not feel sorry for you; even if you deserved our sympathy, our thoughts mean nothing.  They change nothing.

Look back…way back, and you will see the truth, the only nonfiction of your meaningless life.  We can tell that you understand.  Now you must go.

The next thing I knew, I was struggling to lift myself off the floor. My body convulsed as I was overcome by their message.  I passed out, not waking until the following day.

Cause and effect mean nothing to me now.  Linear consequences to actions are nothing more than fanciful notions like unicorns, pixies,  and soulmates.  I instantly knew what the demons meant; their message was simple and straightforward; they wanted me to realize that I missed her before I met her.

 

The WRB Project

I am apparently managing a rock band that is currently getting airplay in Norway.  I say apparently because I know next to nothing about the business side of the music industry.  I do know that many musicians are in dire financial straights right now due to the pause in touring.  It is tough to make money from CDs, streaming, or mp3 downloads.  The musicians I know all tell me the money is on the road.  They have to tour to generate income.

So, how did I, an illusion conjured up by some other guy, get to be the manager of a rock band?  As always, there is a story.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  I am a big fan of the movies of Wes Anderson.  He is an auteur, and I greatly appreciate his vision.  Last night I rewatched The Grand Budapest Hotel.  During this viewing, I was paying particular attention to how he framed each shot.  I was also keeping an eye on his use of color.  For our purposes, the setting is a drab, empty dining hall of a once magnificent hotel.  You are asked to imagine me as F. Murray Abraham sitting across from Jude Law as I tell my story, such as it is.

My tail begins in 1979.  It is early morning, before the start of school.  I drive to Billy Bessant’s house to pick him up so that we can get a run in before the school day begins.  In the fall of 1979, I was a senior, and Billy was a freshman.  We were teammates on the cross country team.

That is how I met Billy, also known as William R. Bessant, the WRB of The WRB Project.  My only point is that we have known each other for a long time.  I also knew his brother (great guy) and Dad (a true character who always brightened my day when I saw him).  We can now move the story forward forty years or so.

A few years back, I ran into Billy and his wife, a woman known affectionally as Yoko (not her real name), at one of my favorite restaurants.  I had only seen Billy a few times since I left high school.  I knew he had been in some bands, and I knew he played bass.  He told me he had been making music in his home studio, and he offered me a CD of 7 or 8 instrumental tracks.  I took it home and listened to it over and over.  Each song was good, professionally done.  I liked the music.

Had I met Billy a few years earlier, I don’t know what would have happened.  I certainly would have listened to the music, but I might not have had any ideas on how to get the music heard.  That leads me to (of all people) Pattie Boyd, a woman who is famous for her marriages to Eric Clapton and George Harrison.  For reasons unknown, I read her autobiography some years ago.  I probably read it because three beautiful songs were written for and about her: Something, Layla, and Wonderful Tonight.  I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

After reading that book, I decided to read Clapton’s autobiography.  When I finished the book, I took a deep dive into his music.  I was familiar with most of it, but I wanted to see what else was out there.  I dialed up YouTube and clicked on a random Clapton playlist.  As I was working with Clapton as background, I glimpsed the screen.  All that was there was a picture of him with a guitar.  No video was included.  Also, the picture did not shuffle through various images; it remained static—one solitary image for hundreds of minutes of music.

After I had listened to Billy’s CD dozens of times, it occurred to me that I could create a channel for his music and post a video of each song.  I had no idea how to do that, but I figured it must not be difficult.  So I set up the channel and immediately came across a big problem.

Billy was always known as WRB.  I did a Google search and found hundreds, if not thousands, of people or groups going by WRB.  No one would ever be able to find Billy’s music if he went simply by WRB.  As a long-time fan of Alan Parsons, Joe Perry, and The Simpsons,  I knew what to do.

How many times have I referenced The Simpsons in a post?  Too many to count.  It wasn’t hard at all to find a relevant quote for this post.  Homer is definitely versed in music, and in one episode (Homerpalooza), he schooled his kids on the history of rock and roll.  Here is his insight.

Grand Funk Railroad paved the way for Jefferson Airplane, which cleared the way for Jefferson Starship. The stage was now set for The Alan Parsons Project, which I believe was some sort of hovercraft.

That is how The WRB Project was born.  There are no plans for a hovercraft, but I am not opposed to the idea.  If any manufacturers are reading this, leave a message, and I will get back to you.  The WRB Project Hovercraft does have a nice ring to it.

The first “videos” I posted were nothing more than pictures cycling through the screen like they do on an electronic picture frame.  They were easy to make and presented no problems when I posted them.  Then an exciting and unexpected thing happened; people started to view the videos, lots of people—hundreds and then thousands and then 10s of thousands.  It was time to up the production value.

I always wanted to learn video editing.  The opportunity had never come up until I decided to take a hard look into making videos for the music.  I started watching tutorials and reading everything I could get my hands on.  Before long, I built myself a new computer to handle the load.  Video editing is very resource-intensive; it brought my old computer to its knees.  The new one is doing fine.

We shoot the videos with whatever cameras we have available.  I have found that the camera on my phone is better than anything I have ordered off Amazon.  We shoot everything in one take with a budget of zero.  As you might imagine, COVID hasn’t helped the situation.  It has made shooting very difficult; many of the things I want to do have been put on hold.

I just checked the views for The WRB Project, and the total number is approaching 40,000.  That is about 40,000 more than I thought we would get.  It’s not that the music isn’t good; it is. It’s just that it is easy to get lost in the shuffle in today’s market.  I have heard people argue that if The Beatles were a present-day band, there is a chance their music would go unheard and unappreciated.  Such is the lot of an artist in the world today.

If you happen to be in Norway (or have an internet connection), there is a radio station in Bergen that has Say Goodbye in heavy rotation.  The song is being played 12 times a day.  As of yet, I have not been contacted by any agents for Norwegian supermodels, but hope springs.

As of today, The WRB Project is composed of WRB (Billy Bessant), Justin Thompson, and Stickman (Richard Palm).  More music is being created, and I hope the fan base continues to grow.  The guys deserve it; all three are incredibly talented.  If they weren’t…well, you get it.

 

An Open Letter (she knows who she is)

Hello,

I don’t need you to write me back.  I am conflicted about that.  [You can’t believe the problems I had writing the next couple sentences.  No matter what I tried, I could not get them right.  I have decided to punt.  I will simply eliminate those words, end the paragraph in its original form, and move on.]  As it goes, I am helpless when it comes to what you might or might not do, so do as you will, be it your worst (or your best), I am in no position to bargain.

I guess the main issue is, “why?”  I remember you asking me that question years ago.  Of course, I couldn’t tell you at the time.  In retrospect, I think the answer is pretty damn obvious, and it would have been redundant for me to say anything.  Unfortunately, I am old enough to know that The Old Scratch is usually in the details.

If I recall correctly, you once said, “I don’t understand why you are so upset!”  Just so you know, I was upset, distraught, agitated, you name it.  More than that, I was mad as hell.  I guess you are still waiting for the “why,” aren’t you?

When I lived in that place back east (you know the one), I could sit at a table with 9 other people and quickly realize I was the 10th most interesting person in the room.  When I left and returned to Hillybilly Land, that was no longer the case.  I quickly realized there was no one to talk to, no one to have a reasonable conversation with…and then, out of nowhere, came you.  Meeting you was unexpected.  What is the opposite of hyperbole?  Whatever it is, I believe I have mastered it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  Yeah, I searched around, and the only thing I could find was “understatement” in the antonym lists.  There should be more options, don’t you think?  And yes, I do know what hypobole is, but I can’t bring myself to type it (even though I just did).

As you know, I used to be in the business of mentoring special young people.  Why would I do such a thing?  It is straightforward; I had often thought about how different my life would be if I had known the adult version of myself when I was a teen.  I didn’t know any such person, and I suffered because of it.  I certainly do not blame anyone; how could they have known what I was thinking or what I was capable of?  They couldn’t.  Nothing to see here; let’s move along.  Let’s talk about you and the impact you had on my life.

I tend to pride myself on my ability to recognize raw ability. It was clear to me that you were very talented.  That part wasn’t hard to figure out; I was more than willing to invest my time and energy into such a person.  And, yeah, I really liked having you around.  The complications came later.

It never occurred to me that I would wake up one day to a revelation, an unexpected and unwelcome one.  It wasn’t my intention; I never should have let it happen.  It is all my fault.  I certainly knew better.  I just didn’t realize what was transpiring until I was out of the shallow.  I vividly remember the morning when I knew I had let something unacceptable happen.  It was a flash, an insight that still makes me shake my head.  It arrived just as I was standing up and putting on a shirt.  Damn it all.

So, this is “why” I got so angry.  I am a person that does not allow himself to look forward to things.  Maybe it is a Zen influence; perhaps I just figured out long ago that it is hard to be disappointed if you never look forward.

Against my better judgment, I was looking forward to that night.  The last time we were there, I got inspired; I mean really inspired.  I had such a good time with you that I went home and wrote eight chapters of a novel I had been working on.  I couldn’t stop typing.  I was curious to see if the same thing would happen that night.  As the story goes, we never made it there.

I was so disappointed, but not in you.  It was all my fault.  I knew better.  I still don’t understand how I got in that situation.  It never should have happened, and that is entirely my doing.  The problem is that sometimes we find ourselves as passengers in our own lives.  There is no fork in the road to consider or wheel to grab.  Time simply compels us to act even though we are oblivious to the consequences.

Then, of course, came the hard part.  I decided that I had to do what was best for me.  You were well on your way; you certainly didn’t need me.  You were on the proper path with a future that would be as brilliant as you wanted.

As you get older, you will understand that the only thing each of us can do is our best, especially when we are out over our skis.  Did I fail you?  I don’t know.  I did what I thought was right.  Was I right?  I have no idea.

I have often written about a problem I have with the universe.  Evolution and natural selection make it clear that the universe is not cruel; it is simply indifferent.  When something like this happens, it makes me take pause.  I am always inclined to link indifference to cruelty; after all, I have firsthand experience of what happened.  I can’t see a single reason why such a fiasco was orchestrated in the first place.  People always say everything happens for a reason.  Really?  I will sit patiently as I wait for the universe to give me any insight it feels fit.  Before I go, I must admit that I told a lie earlier, not a big one, just a little white one.  The Old Scratch isn’t usually found in the details; The Old Scratch is always in the details.

 

 

Say Goodbye

Here is the latest from The WRB Project.  This song is getting airplay in Norway.  Give it a listen, I think you will like it.

 

 

The Immigrants
(a piece of flash fiction)

 

Rosemary had no idea what she was doing.  The thing is: How is someone supposed to know they might get burnt when they have no idea someone threw a lighter in the campfire?

It was just a simple request, more of a suggestion really, made to her writing group. “Write a 500-word story about an immigrant family from somewhere in Latin America.  My best friend came from a Latin country, and I want to write something about her so…500 words…GO!” Listen closely: Youth is not the only thing wasted on the young; innocence and trust are also gambled away on those who are not savvy enough to know better.

You’ve heard the old saying, right?  That it is better to be lucky than good?  Rosemary, simply stated, got very lucky.  She hadn’t done anything to deserve her good fortune; it is just the way of the universe.

Let’s look at the circumstances of Rosemary’s situation.  How many warlocks do you know?  How about witches?  Know any psychic vampires?  What about aliens that take human form? Don’t worry, as far as I can tell, most of these people (people?…really?) are just hanging out and trying to do their best to fit in.  Poor, young, innocent Rosemary had no way of knowing that her writing group was composed solely of the most incomprehensible array of paranormal entities the Western World has ever seen.

The Warlock got the request first, followed closely by the Psychic Vampire (you guessed it, no one had to even call or text him), then the others.  They all had to work in unison; multidimensional entities that create reality by simply tapping on keyboards have to keep close tabs on each other.  If not, things can get messy quickly.

The guys (geez, guys?) got together and had a lengthy discussion on what to do.  A couple of the beings (the ones having bad days) fought with the more moderate faction of the group.  They all knew the consequences; they write it, and it happens, simple as that.  Luckily for Rosemary’s friend, the rebellious spirits decided to settle, and the tone of the meeting turned to one of acceptance, love, and generosity.

The stories were written; rainbows, bunny rabbits, unicorns, glitter, and lottery winnings populated the pages.  Purposeful, happy lives lived, friendships made, families created (you get the idea).  The heroin-addicted zombie (a guy the others wouldn’t let near Rosemary) was told he needed to sit this one out.  They gave him a topic about a conflicted Christian heavy metal singer who becomes a serial killer in his spare time.  He excelled at his task.

Some years later, Rosemary brought her friend, a beautiful young girl named Desi, to a meeting of The Flash Fiction 500 Friends.  Desi lit up the room when she walked in.  She looked happy and healthy.  The entities composing the group took little pride in their accomplishment, though; they had long since moved on to other topics.  That night, Desi used a small portion of the proceeds from her latest lottery winnings to buy dinner.  Had the guys known she was going to do this, they all would have ordered dessert.

 

 

 

More Wisdom from Cliff Stoll

As often happens, I write on a particular topic and then find something else to add a few days or weeks later.  Well, it happened again with Cliff Stoll.  I had seen his TED Talk, but I had forgotten a few critical statements he made near the beginning.  This is what he said:

The first time you do something, it’s science.  The second time, it’s engineering.  A third time, it’s just being a technician.

Cliff was explaining why he wasn’t going to talk about things that happened in the distant past.  He took this position despite the fact most people probably showed up to hear him talk about his days running down KGB computer hackers.  But, as the story goes, he had been there and done that.  After all, he is a scientist.  The curious (and scientists are the most curious of all) are always in the market for the novel.

I decided to write about those short statements mainly because I ran into Buford Lister the other day.  I was at The Red Cat Café thinking about what Cliff had said.  I knew I needed to write something about it, but I didn’t quite know what.  That is when the following happened…

I should have known better, but I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.  Of course, he would be there; where else would he be on a Tuesday morning.  I shouldn’t have been surprised when I looked up and saw him approach my table, his crooked smile more of a snarl.

“Mind if I sit down?”

I let out a big sigh. “Whatever you please, just don’t start your usual ranting.  I have told you hundreds of times before that I can’t help you.”

“All right, all right.  I just wanted to see what you are up to.  You appeared to be deep in thought, and I suspect it had something to do with me.”

“Typical.  You are not the central focus of my existence.  I don’t spend all my time thinking about your life’s arc.”

“Sure you do, most of it anyway.”

I took out my notebook and showed Buford Lister the short quote from Cliff Stoll’s TED Talk.  He almost started to smile as he read it.

“Yeah, that’s a nice insight.  Unfortunately, your friend there didn’t go far enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What he didn’t say, and what I am positive that he knows, is that when you do something more than three times, when you do it over and over until you get old and tired…”

“Ugh… I know exactly what you are going to say.”

“Of course, you do.  How do you think I know it?”

“It wasn’t the appropriate time or place for him to say what you are thinking.  He is a nice fellow; he wouldn’t want to insult the audience or make them feel bad in any way.  His talk was meant to be uplifting, not some sort of nihilistic Buford-Lister-inspired fiasco.”

“The fact remains, more than three times, and you are nothing more than a trained monkey, a mindless drone living out its days at the carpet store.”

“Not everyone has your mindset, you know.”

“Well, that is a mighty good thing, don’t you think?”

“Of course, it is.”

I sat back and watched Buford Lister hand the server his personal celebration size stein.  She gave him a half-smile as she glanced at the clock.  I could tell she wanted to say that he should at least wait until noon.  I was glad she bit her lip.  It was just as likely that Buford Lister was in the middle of a three-day bender, and I didn’t want to hear about it.

We sat in silence for a while.  I took a long hard look at him; he wasn’t aging particularly well.  I wasn’t going to tell him, but he had the look of a man who had been doing the work of a mindless drone for decades.  The bright eyes of a child prodigy (and he certainly was a mathematical Mozart) had faded into those of a beaten-down monkey.  Sure, he had become perhaps the world’s most accomplished poker player, but it was all mindless repetition.  He hadn’t experienced anything new or gained any real insight in decades.  And he knew that playing poker was the worst profession in the world, the greatest possible waste of a person’s time and talent, and that is precisely why he chose to play.  It wasn’t possible to make the world a better place by sitting at a poker table, which conveniently made it impossible to fail at a former child prodigy’s life purpose.

Buford Lister gave the server a thumbs up as she sat the giant stein down on the table.  He made sure not to make eye contact with me until he finished his beer.  It didn’t take long.  Of course, he immediately ordered another.

Was he trying to make me feel sorry for him?  There was a vacant look in his eyes, one of a man defeated by decades of the universe’s uncaring stance.  Still, though, there was a glimmer of humanity (slight as it might be).  If you look closely, you can usually tell if someone has given up.  I was reasonably sure he hadn’t, even though I couldn’t quite figure out why.

Between you and me, his life has been an abject lesson in grotesque spirit-crushing.  He knew his luck hadn’t been the best and that he had done a few things worthy of regret.  He also learned at an early age that the universe was indifferent to his plight.  As I watched him chug his beer, I found myself hoping that it would never dawn on him that he had wasted his life.  I hope that he somehow forgets that he was born with the ability to take the genius of Mozart and translate it into inexplicable mathematical insight.  My wish is that the alcohol dims the pain enough for him to get through the day.  After all, that is the best I can do for him.

 

 

Kellen

The morning was spent on his usual routine, hair.  There…it finally looks perfect.  He got the desired look, the one of a douche-bag, the kind that drives the young (and sometimes not so young) women crazy.

Kellen climbed into his beater RV, not a Corvette or a Mustang.  Sure, he could have just as easily chosen a dump truck but this sick son of a bitch, ever a slave to self-amusement, had to get an RV right out of a third-rate camping advertisement.

He put in a cassette of Rudy Vallee music (jerk) and headed down the road, feeling good, feeling full of himself; (and why not?) he was a stone-cold pimp wannabe on his way to raise some hell.

There, there, my, my…what have we here?  He pulled the RV into a parking lot, lowered the driver’s window, and took a quick look at her (possible victim?…maybe). No, intended victim.  After a second or two, he knew all he needed to know.  He closed the window, shut his eyes, and sent himself into a psychic trance.  It was Remote Viewing time.  There she is in front of the mirror earlier today…yes, yes.  Finish your breakfast, think about what you are going to do at work today.  Perfect, deliciously perfect.

 Kellen, a dry land Aquaman, was able to call on the birds and the turtles and such to do his bidding.  Such is the luck of the draw.

Bright sun, so bright.  That is good, lots of glare, lots and lots of glare.  She won’t have very good vision in this sun.  Sure, her hat will help her a little, but it won’t be enough, not nearly.

He knew where she was going; that wasn’t an issue.  The problem was trying to convince a pretty little bird to off himself just so Kellen could get his jollies.  As he got older and his reputation grew, he found it harder to get the avians to do his bidding.  They always did what he wanted in the end, but it took more and more of his energy to control their little minds.

Keep going…yes, open the door.  Now little bird, now.  The window shook as an object dive-bombed the bookstore in a disgusting act of coercion.

Startled, yes, she is shaken. “Oh my, poor little bird. Oh no, you’re badly hurt.  No, you’re….”

Kellen smiled to himself as he watched her get a dustpan.  That will inspire her.  Instead of just drinking whiskey tonight, she will drink whiskey and write.

And write she did.  It took her months to get the cadence and the word order just right, but she eventually nailed her poem about a dead little bird.  Would she thank Kellen if she knew what he did?  No, I think she is a lot like me; if she knew what happened, her hatred of Reverse Vampires would be as deep-seated as mine.  I don’t like those idiots one little bit.

 

 

Cliff Stoll

To a mathematician, I’m a pretty good physicist… To a physicist, I’m a fairly good computer maven. To real computer jocks, they know me as somebody who’s a good writer. To people who know how to write … I’m a really good mathematician!

Cliff Stoll
Wired.com 12/18/19

 

Cliff Stoll sells Klein Bottles (more on that in a bit).  Sure, he has done a lot more than that in his time.  Go ahead and Google him.  Do yourself a favor and watch a few of the Numberphile videos that pop up.   You will not come across a more interesting person than Cliff Stoll.

Cliff Stoll jumps in the air when he gets excited, and man, is he excitable.  Years back, he gave a TED talk, a very good one.  Seek it out.  Try to count how many times he jumps in the air while imparting his particular type of wisdom.

There are so many different ways I can address this incredible man in an essay.  He is a Ph.D. astronomer; his work in that field could take up an entire essay.  How about the story of him and the KGB computer hackers he caught in the mid-’80s?  Well, a lot has been written about that ordeal.  At that point, during the birth of the internet, no one knew what a computer hacker was.  Even still, Stoll caught them, and they were brought to justice.

I mentioned Klein Bottles in the first paragraph.  Ever seen one?  Have any idea what they are?  Pictured are some examples taken from www.kleinbottle.com, the site that Stoll owns.  Simply put, a Klien Bottle is a 3D representation of a four-dimensional, non-orientable, one-sided object of zero volume.  Simply put, that is…

 

 

Of course, its 2D counterpart is the ubiquitous Mobius Strip.  Below is an example.  That object has only one side.  Don’t believe me; cut one out and draw a line down the middle.  If it is two-sided, the line will never end where it began, right?  Draw a line and see what happens.

 

 

Klein Bottles have always fascinated me (and yes, they are composed of two Mobius strips).  I have one sitting on a shelf in my library.  There aren’t a lot of things more remarkable than Klein Bottles.  Oddly, though, this short essay is not about Klein Bottles and Stoll’s long fascination with them.  This essay is about something else entirely.

I was talking to my niece the other day.  She was telling me about the essays she has to write for school.  I told her about a class I took some time ago on the topic of essay writing.  I told her that I like to bury the lede and put my thesis statements at the bottom of page 17.  Being the good uncle that I am, I did not advise her to do the same.  I am not sure that eighth-grade English teachers or standardized test graders would be amused at such a tactic.  She readily agreed.

So, this essay is a bit unusual for me.  I put the thesis statement, the real point of the essay, in the epigraph, right there at the beginning.  As a reminder, here is the quote from Stoll once again:

To a mathematician, I’m a pretty good physicist… To a physicist, I’m a fairly good computer maven. To real computer jocks, they know me as somebody who’s a good writer. To people who know how to write … I’m a really good mathematician!

What is the big deal about this?  Well, it is something I have known to be true for decades.  I know that if you are an archaeologist who understands statistics, you are considered to be a brilliant scientist even though to a Professor of Statistics, you might be seen as pedestrian.  That is the way of the world.  I shook my head in agreement the first time I came across Stoll’s quote.  You have no idea how true it is.  In my experience, I have found this to be the way of the world, academic and otherwise.

I think that mathematicians, in general, view the mathematics of physicists as sloppy at best.  That is unless you are Edward Whitten, the only physicist to be awarded the Fields Medal, one of the highest honors mathematics has to offer.  And suppose you are a physicist who is an absolute whiz with computers. In that case, it is easy to be considered a computer genius until real computer people show up.

And on and on and on it goes.  One person’s genius is another’s dullard.  When I read what Cliff Stoll said, I was glad to learn that my insight is more widespread than I thought it might be.  I was happy to know that I wasn’t the only person who noticed this.  After all, one person’s leap is another’s baby step, and in the land of the blind, a one-eyed person is an exalted leader.  And on and on and on it goes.

 

 

Air Effects: a second-person account of an individual who picks up an almost empty can of air freshener.

 

You are in your upstairs library; you appear to be reading Proust.  Your thoughts, though, are not on the text.  Let’s begin there.

Things seem normal until you put down a half-eaten madeleine and pick up a can of Febreze (old book smell can sometimes be overwhelming). Then…well, then things get stilted and awkward.  As you slowly squeeze the nozzle, you can see each of the individual droplets as they slowly exit the cylinder.  You not only smell them, but you can also feel each unique sphere.  Preoccupied with childlike innocence and amazement, you do not notice that the walls are beginning to lean in.  Even worse, the heat suddenly radiating from your chest overwhelms you.

Are you having a stroke?  Probably not; you seem healthy enough.  Maybe you fell in love, and that is what this is all about.  Ahhhh yes…love is powerful enough to warp matter and slow the flow of time.  Didn’t you read that somewhere?  What was straight and simple becomes slanted, geometrically unstable.  Do you really need me to tell you that you are in love?

You must listen to me:  Time and space are part of the same thing; separate them out at your own risk.  The fact that everything is in slow motion and the walls are warping is no coincidence.  The warmth in your chest?  Good luck, you are going to need it.

You…you and your logical mind, is all this too much for you?  What, you think you are some sort of Vulcan, Spock incarnate?  Look around you; the walls are closing in; they are bending at strange and severe angles.  Do you even realize it is also getting darker?  Open your damn eyes; it is getting darker.

It is totally dark now, not regular dark but intense black light dark.  It is pervasive (how unusual); the light seems to be piercing you, invading your essence.  You feel it…you don’t like it…not even a little.

The smell, that’s it!  It is the smell!  The scent of the Febreze reminds you of what Chris was wearing the night you met.  Unfortunately, your deep insight isn’t helping matters.  The walls are so close that you can reach out and touch all four, five, six, seven (what…seven walls?).  You wonder how this is possible.  There were only four walls here a few minutes ago, weren’t there?

You realize the scent that is ostensibly responsible for this fiasco is dissipating.  In your troubled mind, this means that Chris is also fading away.  People like you love metaphor; in a certain sense, you live by it.  Do you even realize the can is still in your left hand?  You do?  Then squeeze the trigger.  What?  Is it empty?  Oh no…

You have just experienced something rare, an unimaginable event at the intersection of your understanding of space and of time.  The Fifth Dimension, the one of pure love and joy, opened up (ever so briefly) around you.  What now?  What of you?  I know exactly what you are going to do next, you are going to buy more Febreeze.