I hate the clouding of my vision in my right eye, the inability to read properly, the constant feeling of eye-strain, the inability to judge height and depth which leads to me tripping over kerbs.
Strangely though as the date for my cataract operation draws nearer, I find myself savouring some of the cataract induced special effects.
round the candle flame –
Maria stands on the hill top, counting stars.
Maria fumbles with her wedding ring.
pushes back a curl.
and, Maria goes back to the hill top counting stars.
mother mourns over
Here he is, on time. Every morning, I meet him to buy the newspaper. He waits for me; waves his hand. I’d like to pretend I don’t see him, but just seems pointless. He stares at me. He has a hello for me, then it’s always the same old story: earthquakes, threats of nuclear war, decadence, mortality, injuries, ailments, his religious and patriarchal childhood. Words and rhythm never change. I feel a tightness in my chest. I am elusive. I try to shut him up him. I keep hoping he will change interlocutor. He looks at me. Clearly, he doesn’t know discretion. I tell myself that Socrates also accepted the cup of poison hemlock and drank every last drop.
a raven circles dark
I watched her working in her laboratory. My friend Sheila, the chemist.
She lifted a conical flask containing a colourless solvent and added a reddish brown amorphous substance to it. She placed the flask on the retort stand and lit the Bunsen burner underneath adjusting the flame just so. After a few minutes she dipped a thermometer into the solution to gauge its temperature. Satisfied, she measured a white crystalline compound on the balance and carefully added it to the flask. With a glass rod she stirred the solution till the colour was uniform. Finally she poured two test tubes of another white solvent into the bubbling solution on the burner. Having attained the desired consistency she poured the decanted solution from the conical flask into two beakers and turned to me.
“Care for a cup of Darjeeling tea?” she asked as she handed me a beaker.
the sugar baron complains
Every Day …
… I’m a different person. Every day, I wake up in the body of a terrestrial. I’m myself, but at the same time I’m not. I pass from a man to a woman. At first, it was hard, but now I make myself more agreeable. Has been like this since analogue television was experiencing its maximum moment of activity. The radio signal was spreading freely in space at the speed of light and wasn’t absorbed by cosmic dust or clouds. It could be intercepted. My prime objective was studying Earth and collecting data to transmit to my home world. From the body I’ve access to a mind: most of the information I need are there waiting for me. I’ve made mistakes in the past, but now I’m being careful:
I can more easily mask my surprise and ask fewer questions;
I complain about the boredom of daily routine;
I laugh at bad jokes too, only because I’ll never be able to understand Earth’s sense of humor;
I pay attention at allergies;
I don’t dance in syncopation movement any more;
I certainly eat a lot more cereal now;
I’ve learned the plot of Romeo and Juliet.
But above all, I’m done looking for the truth about God, but I realized that if God spared Keith Richards it’s because he’s probably also a fan of Rolling Stones.
every year Miss Universe
an Earth woman
Members of the Physics Club met on a Saturday evening to discuss, debate and deliberate on important developments in the field. I called the meeting to order.
First, we decided on the agenda for the Meet. While some wanted to discuss quantum mechanics and string theory, others wanted to debate the advisability of using dill pickle in their cheeseburgers. The latter turned out a hot topic but after half an hour of discussion no consensus was reached.
The meeting after this turned into a free-for-all with some of the choicest epithets cloaked in technical terms being bombarded as though with a cyclotron on the members. One person f’rinstance hurled on another a most unsavoury differential equation which loosely translated into dolt. When I reprimanded the guilty party he turned on me and called me an opprobrious formula which I have yet to simplify and solve. If it turns out to mean what I suspect it does I’ll have to express myself firmly to him with suitable permutations of letters of the alphabet.
After this the chaos theory was well proved and all I can say is that the entropy of the group as a system tended rather to rise. So also the tempers.
It ended with me limping home with several lumps on the head.
the photo noise deciphered as
an ad for Coke
When Glibb X came across a cloud of smoke appearing out of nowhere and decided to step into it for a lark he little knew he was stepping into a time warp. That’s the fancy word they use for a crack in space-time.
Suddenly Glibb found himself falling with a thud to the bottom of a molehill. When he looked up he knew there was something different in his surroundings. And that’s putting it mildly. Because the concrete metropolis around him had been replaced by a prehistoric setting. And he knew about prehistoric settings. He had seen ‘em all in Hollywood blockbusters.
Even as he looked up a couple of Neanderthals wielding clubs turned the corner. One of them spotting him shrieked in horror and almost fainted. Then he collected himself.
“Do you see what I see?” he asked his equally flabbergasted companion. The companion could only say weakly, “Gee, I dunno…”
This interested Glibb immensely.
“Do you fellows actually speak English? The Queen’s own English?” he asked the Neanderthals.
“Listen, wise guy,” said the taller of the two cavemen. “Kindly desist…refrain from making racist cracks.”
Glibb blushed at the compliment and said, “I’m from millions of years in the future. We didn’t know you chaps were so advanced as to speak English.”
This had the cavemen slapping their thighs and guffawing.
Then the shorter man said, “But seriously, we two are school dropouts. The dudes with the degrees speak a more advanced language.”
And they were still laughing when they disappeared in a puff of smoke.
my time machine too small
for a Brontosaurus