A place for thought.

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“Enter,” one word coming from no-where, or everywhere. I couldn’t point to where the sound came from but I heard it with everything, not just with my ears. I heard it with my skin, a very strange feeling. It could have come from my own bones or from somewhere near the moon, I couldn’t tell. I took one step toward the door, opening, orifice; it was the only place that looked like one could enter and for some reason I very much wanted to do what the voice told me to do. My first step gave me joy so I took another and another. The joy increased with each step. I stepped from what was once here to what had been there and there became here leaving no there behind. That there became here was not unusual, I was used to that but I was left wondering what had happen to there, which in past experience, is what past heres had become. The question passed quickly with nothing to question other than a fleeting thought.
“Come,” another sound heard with every part of me and coming from everywhere. I walked a path. Not a path of dirt, or concrete, or between the tall grass of a pasture but a path that told my feet where to step even though there was nothing there I had seen before and I had never knowingly let a path take control before. Looking back I understand now that all paths had brought me here, I had had no choice. I had no choice if I chose to be. I had always had the choice of not being.
“There,” the sound pointed. “That is your place.” I understood without a single question needed. I did what I had said many times but this time it was true. I understood completely. I had found my place. I walked to my place and stood there. I still stand in my place.

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Some people seem to know all the rules. They actually know why and how things work. A to B to C, like the golfer who looks away after the putt, picks up his bag and starts walking to the next tee without even looking at the hole. Well, he has to go back and pick up the ball but you see what I mean? I’m not a bit like that. I pick up a rock, hold it out at arms length, watch it drop and I’m still not sure it will hit the ground. There’s a reason. In my life I drop a rock and the rock is just as likely to fly through a window down the block as hit the ground so I watch it until it makes a nice rock to ground noise and then keep my eye on it for a minute or two just to make sure it’s content to lay there.
Today is a day just like any other day, which if you’ve been paying attention isn’t necessarily a good thing. When people ask me how things are going I answer they are going good, so far. The so far makes them smile but just in case they decide to follow me I want them to be prepared. You, my gentle reader, have already followed me this far which doesn’t add much to your credibility unless of course you’re just being nice then welcome aboard. I’m very much drawn to nice, it’s a wonder there isn’t more of it. Well, when I think about it I most likely just watch too much TV news; in real life I see nice all the time. The other day I was out for a walk and stopped at a corner. Not right on the curb but back five or six feet. I stood there deciding whether I wanted to cross the intersection to the East or to the North until I noticed a car waiting at the crosswalk to the East just in case I decided to go that way. I went ahead and used the crosswalk in front of their car, I didn’t want them to have waited in vain, but that’s a little too nice if you ask me. I like that kid who holds the door for the pretty girl and then he sees the old man coming and keeps holding the door for him and then the family with three children and then a group of school teachers; by the time he gets in the tables are all full and he has to go somewhere else, still smiling. I do think it’s a big deal. Being nice. It could be the most important thing in life. It’s hard to devote your whole life to it ‘cause it’s so plain. It doesn’t even really need explained; most people know how to do it even if they tell you different.
So, it’s just another day in Paradise, as they say. If some person holds the door for you and lets you go ahead of him (or her) say thanks, they live for that. It makes their day.

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“He’s huge,” Matt leaned back and tried to see the bird from beak to tail, he had to take a couple of steps back.
“The beak alone is the size of our car,” he continued to look from tail to beak in unbelief.
“First it’s a duck and the beak is called a bill. The bill is the only part that can be occupied or used for storage everything else is essential for flight.” Sally wasn’t even trying to conceal the pride she felt in the completed work. It had been five years in complete secrecy. Matt was the first person not a part of the program to be allowed into the hanger.
“Why a duck?” Matt asked still distracted by the bird with individual feathers that could be used to tickle the nose of a president’s face carved into Mount Rushmore.
“It’s a male Mallard,” Sally said, excited by his reaction. “It can do anything a real duck can do. It can fly, of course, but it can land on water or land, it can float or paddle on top of the water and it can dive into water and swim.” Matt could see the love in her eyes as she described her baby. “It can even pick objects up with its bill and deposit them into a storage container.”
Matt gave her a sideways hug, “it’s wonderful,” he said. “And that’s a word I seldom use. When is the test flight? And when can you take me up?”
“We plan a flight at the end of the week,” Matt looked disappointed. “I can show you the inside of the bill right now if you’re interested,” In answer Matt took her by the arm and led her toward the duck not knowing exactly where the entry point would be. As they neared the bird Sally tapped a point on a pad that produced a whirling noise from within the foul, the neck lowered and the bill started to slowly open. They stepped together over a very real looking under mandible but at that point Matt was no longer looking at a bird but at what could easily be the inside of a space ship complete with consoles of blinking lights and a view screen that peeked out of the duck’s left nostril.
“Amazing,” Matt mumbled.

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Reading from a print out, “What you said was: I intend, to the best of my abilities, to cut him into small bits of meat, to grind him into a pink mush and to plant him around my roses. Still reading from the long strip of paper, “you went on to say: If the roses die I will feel a tinge of remorse.”
“Thank-you, Mary,” the lawyer nodded to the stenographer and then stood in front of Patricia, still sitting quietly in her assigned seat next to the Judge. He looked her in the eyes, face-to-face and asked, “ do you deny making this statement?”
Patricia looked down at her hands, twisting nervously in her lap. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she refused to meet the eyes of the prosecutor.
The Judge turned toward her and said in a deep, soft, forceful voice, “Answer the question.”
She looked up from her hands and turned in her chair to face the Judge, “I was being sarcastic,” she said.

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On the other side of the two gray aluminum framed glass doors she stood with one hand on a handle, deciding if she should come inside. She could see us on the inside as we sat and sipped our drinks. She could see plenty of empty chairs sitting next to empty tables; there would be room for her. She started to push the door open and then, in her disappointment she read the word “pull” in pasted black letters along the inside rim of the door. Disgusted she pulled and walked into the room where we all were. She glanced at the man sitting at one of the larger tables, all alone, he smiled, she did not.
“Americano,” she said to the guy behind the counter.
“Tall?” he asked, already punching some buttons on the register.
“Twelve ounce,” she answered. “In a house cup, please.”
“What’s that?” he questioned not knowing what button to push.
“Ceramic mug?” she explained. “Not paper or plastic,” she offered as additional help. He left, talked to a few people and came back with a white ceramic mug in his hand.
“May I have your name?” he asked.
“You may use it,” she responded.
“What was that?” he asked with his fingers paused over the keyboard.
“You may use it. I’m going to need it later so you can’t have it,” she waited to see if he was capable of understanding, without conformation she added, “it’s Sally.”
He typed, while typing the five letters he said, “That will be two dollars and fifteen cents.”
“What is it right now?” she asked. He did not respond but looked puzzled.
“You said it is going to be two dollars and fifteen cents, what is the price right now?” she asked.
“Two fifteen,” he answered without understanding. She walked to a table for two and sat looking out the smoked glass windows at a world that continued to spin.