When God Winks

I am currently reading two books: “Book of Shadows” by James Reese and “Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage” by Alice Munro.
I always have several in the backpack.
The count was three as of earlier this evening before I finished
When God Winks” by SQuire Rushnell, a belated birthday gift from my sister
(actually, wicked belated :mrgreen: ).
WGW is a book that explores the deeper meaning of coincidence in our lives.

God Wink
; a personal signal or message, directly from a higher power, usually, but not always, in the form of a coincidence

My sister bought it for me simply because she and I are intensely familiar with God Winks.
There’s this.
Or this.
Or this.

The book goes on to explain that these instances of coincidence (or serendipity, if you like that better) are signposts from the heavens that we’re on the right track; cosmic signals that we are not alone.
I’ve had many “winks” in my lifetime.

A few years after I began writing, I entered a contest at Writer’s Digest.
Ten people could win $100 in WD writing books and a year’s subscription to Writer’s Market, a WD site that helps find a home for that oh, so lonely priceless manuscript.

Months passed and I forgot all about the contest BUT I was still writing.
I remember sitting at the computer one day and staring at the damned blinking cursor thinking, “What the hell am I doing? I can’t write. This is stupid.”
Feeling disgusted and totally unoriginal, I closed Word and checked my email.
Spam.
Spam.
Spam.
Word of the Day.
Spam.
Writer’s Digest.
Writer’s Digest?
Hmmm.
I opened the email and started yelling.
I won.
Ask my wife. I NEVER WIN ANYTHING. Truth.
A wink to be sure.
And hey, I’m still writing, right?
Now I pass the pen to you guys. I love coincidence and I love winks.
Tell me about one.
Come on, now. You have at least one if you really think about it.
If you haven’t, you’re not looking hard enough. 😉

MMM

 

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Zero for Zooz

Late night, Duke Street
the wet cobblestones shine and sparkle, bubble and squeak; and the dense fog rolls in
the clock tower chimes twelve
And it’s Zero for Zooz
Westminster.

Late night, Duke Street
the gauzy moon bleeds and drips, gaslights burn
and gossamer sheets of a hazy white sift through
the inimical clouds of night
the clock tower chimes three
And it’s Zero for Zooz
Westminster . . .

Sunrise, Duke Street
a languid sun cracks itself open and splashes some invisible and distant horizon with
salmon pinks, royal purples and bright orange crush
the clouds of night rest just beneath the hush of dawn
and the clock tower chimes in crystal silence
And it’s Zero for Zooz
and Westminster waits . . .

~m

Klaus Nomi (gotta love the bowtie)

I checked my “search stats” today and one caught my eye:

‘beer or smoke – which one is worse for you’

Hmmm . . .
I’d have to say neither.
What’s way worse is too much Klaus Nomi . . .
Too much Nomi will eventually fry your brain.
It’s Charlie Chaplin meets Gary Numan
And then some . . .
Yoiks. (or Yolks)
Happy Easter, folks.
No happy and snappy eggs for you. Sorry.
Hopefully, I’ll see you all back here next week.

peace, out . . .

~m

5 Miles to Vandmere

I’m sitting cross-legged on a mysterious and deserted beach with nothing but the sound of the incoming tide.
The ocean is dark, brooding and occasionally offers up a glimpse of a dying whitecap. There’s a slight breeze but for the life of me I can’t tell if it’s warm or cool, it just is.
The full moon is partially blocked by the numerous passing clouds but there are intermittent flashes of light, possible thunderstorms that illuminate the wide expanse of beach before me.
I can almost see the curvature of the earth near the horizon.
The sky begins changing day to night, night to day and the passage of 24 hours is not unlike the second hand of some diabolical and uncontrollable timepiece.

The wind begins to scream and I realize that I’m slowly beginning to disappear, grain of sand by grain of sand. I am but a slight aberration in the ground below me.
The image of a weather-beaten sphinx flitters around my dreaming subconscious mind.
It’s then that I see the shadow of a street sign of sorts in the water, roughly 10 feet from the shore. I squint hard trying to see it during the brief intervals of light.

It says “5 miles to Vandmere”, a place I’ve never heard of before.

According to Google, it doesn’t exist; and by the end of my strangely epic dream,
nor do I.
Maybe it’s a place I’m just not supposed to find.
I’m open to any interpretations.
One freaky ass dream, folks.
Should you see any signs for “Vandmere” email me a picture and send directions.
Maybe I should check it out . . .

~m

Three Little Pigs

I felt a need to lighten things up a bit here with something not so downtrodden.
I’m a huge fan of Christopher Walken and saw this video on Rain’s blog.
I just had to share it with you folks.

While I’m at it I’d like to offer all bloggers this very important card:

Yes, folks, it’s the Blogger Emergency ID card.
Print it out and use it.
It may come in handy someday all depending on your actual date of departure from parts unknown.
Kudos to the ingenious Moonbeam, a brilliant blogger (and a woman that has already printed out numerous copies of this ID card for her immediate family, butcher, baker and candlestick maker)

Have a bitchin’ weekend, folks.
Here in the Northeast we’re preparing for a deluge of Noah’s Ark proportions . . .
Now where the hell are the 4m Salties?

later gators,

~m

For here, or to go?

Alright, a guy comes into the store several months ago and asks,
“Hey, can I try some pipe tobacco?”
I say, “Yeah, help yourself.”

He proceeds to eat, yes, eat small handfuls of 4-5 of our blends.
I shit you not. Yeah, I’m dying and no one knows but me because it’s a Sunday and I’m working alone.
“Which blend has more latakia?” He asks, while munching away.
I show him and he asks for 2oz of said blend.
I ask (and I can’t help myself), “You want that for here or to go?”
God, he looks confused.
“To go,” he says.
I’m still laughing about it . . .

~m

Snow Day

Looks like tomorrow is destined to be a snow day.
I may not even venture into Boston.
Yeah, we’re talking about an ‘effin Nor’easter.
On the menu: snow blowing, cigars and cooking some risotto.
The little one and I may go see a movie (Sweeney Todd) in the afternoon if I can take care of the expected snowfall.
Lord knows, my snowblower is hungry . . . bow, bow, bow.
As of right now, school has already been canceled.
No need to wear the PJ’s inside-out.
I’m going to bed tonight with the glee of a high-schooler.
No school. No work. (with the exception of snowblowing the stoopid white shit)
How strange is that?
Yeah, I’m gone.

And now for something completely different . . .
from the Associated Press:

A man who mailed a cow’s head to his wife’s lover was sentenced to probation and community service. The man, Jason M. Fife of Hunker, “understands that in a civilized society a person cannot send a severed cow’s head to anybody,” said his lawyer, Henry Hilles.
The police said Mr. Fife, 31, obtained the cow’s head from a butcher’s shop, claiming he wanted the dried skull for decoration. Instead, he mailed it, frozen, so as not to alert parcel carriers to the contents, police said.

Wow, talk about a head “fetish”.

And now for something completely different and equally disturbing.

“I thought I was dreaming,” a Warsaw man told the newspaper Super Express after he visited a brothel and saw his wife among the establishment’s employees.
The paper said she had told her husband that she worked at a store in a nearby town.
The couple, married 14 years, are divorcing.

Divorce?
What a freekin’ surprise.
Off to make snow angels . . .

~m

*King

I turned around and there he was at the register.
It was all too brief an encounter.

“I read “The Shining” in 1977 when I was a freshman at Berklee College of Music. I’ve been a fan ever since,” I said.

{shake hands} (my hands were already shaking)

“Thank you,” he says (and eyes some cigars), “Cohiba! I just love saying that word!”

“I assume you’ll be at Fenway watching the asskicking tonight?”

“Yes, sir!” He says, smiling.

He paid for his smokes and walked to the door with nary a clue of how much I used to really love his stuff. I could almost hear myself saying, “Hey, I write, too!”

He turned and raised his hand and once again yelled, “Cohiba!”

Holy Crap, I thought, I just met Stephen King.
Truth . . .

~m

ps.
I’ve received several emails regarding me “losing my mind” after my last post.
Everyone can rest now. I found it this morning sleeping peacefully underneath the computer stand.
I hate when that happens. :0)
Thanks, folks . . . . (Mwwwuuuuuahhhhhhhahhahahahaha!)

Fade to Black

newspaper shifting, a cough, smoky conversation, HVAC, swallowing, scratching skin, paper, face, construction and squeaky brakes, jet engine overhead, train rumble underneath, a possible shift in the Matrix; I am utterly surrounded . . .

construction, machinery, car horns and moving earth, muzak, PA announcements, metal to metal <at 2K, wind and leaves, sniffles and sneeze, Treo ringtones and Blackberry blasts of email with water running and footsteps walking; I am not even at work yet

child screams on the train, and screams and screams and screams, animal, and I scream (silently), doors open as fast as doors slam shut, a kiss, a grumble, laugh and whisper,
<my mind>bluebird chirp, dog barks and cat purrs, whistling</my mind>, humming,
the envious sound of money, cash register bleeps and the phone rings, time perpetual; I am sonically losing my mind

saxophone, drums, cymbals and melody, bass, piano, guitar and violin all singing the blues, a fucking out of tune shithead soprano doing scales in a room next to a mystical piano tuner, trucks and buses, earsplitting motorcycles because “loud pipes save lives”, noise, pinks and whites but it’s fucking noise, noise, noise . . .

Sometimes I just want it all to STOP
and it does . . .

~m