Susan Ivory, much to her husband’s pleasure, is seduced by technology.

The other night, my husband Shaun watched as I finished up the chapter I was reading on my phone. His bemused look switched to a full-fledged grin as I did a final check on my email, scanned the next day’s schedule and weather, and then told my phone what time I wanted it to gently sing me awake. Shaun beamed as he told me how happy he was that I had finally fallen in love with a cell phone.

It wasn’t always like this. I have to admit that I have done my fair share of kicking and screaming in resistance to all of the technological advances that have been made in the last couple of decades. In fact, if it were entirely up to me, the world would still be communicating by tin cans and string or possibly Pony Express. I have to reluctantly admit that it’s a good thing they didn’t put me in charge. 

When I first met my husband, his most treasured possession was his fully programmable, luminous-faced, water-resistant-to-one-hundred-meters Dive Watch. It didn’t really matter to him that he had never been Scuba diving, let alone barely dipped his toes in the Pacific Ocean. What he loved, was that aside of his fancy calculator, it was the most high-tech device he could find.

When the first barely affordable cell phones came out, he simply had to have one. My new husband, who viewed me as an extension of himself, insisted that I had to have one as well. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with this new-fangled gadget that had been thrust upon me. So I dumped it into my oversized bag and lugged it around with me, hoping desperately that I could figure out how to answer it if it dared to ring.

As the years passed, cell phones grew smaller and even more complicated. I had just finally mastered talking on the phone when they started to add new features like cameras…and something called “text.” My husband and young daughters immediately embraced the concept of texting and kept sending me messages. I would marvel at how quickly they could type out full sentences without even looking, while I would painfully stare at the numbered key pad, searching for the corresponding letters to tap out. I learned to abbreviate the messages I wanted to send. I would type one word queries or commands such as “where”, “come” or “when” relying on them to figure out what I was talking about. Eventually, little sliding keyboards were invented and I could finally find all the letters. Texting became more and more part of my everyday life.

Nowadays, I can’t imagine life without my trusty phone. I have it with me constantly. I carry on multiple text conversations with friends, pause to read books or play games, take pictures, keep a journal, my shopping list and anything else I need to keep track of. Sometimes, I even make phone calls.

While I doubt that I will ever become a complete technophile, I’m content with the places technology has taken us. I’m even just a tiny bit anxious to see what comes next. Just don’t tell my husband…I don’t think he could handle the excitement

Photo Credit

Microsoft Office Clip Art Collection

The Transformation of a Technophobe is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Reaching up from this muddy pit
My hand finds the first rung
I’m not letting go of it, my feet still stuck
Screaming at the top of my lungs
From this first rung on the ladder
I will not be thrown
Everything in me screaming, you can’t do it
Everyone around me laughing at my attempts
No comfort, no friends when your down this low
The first rung is all you have
Yet I climb, slapping for the next rung, I will ascend
Out of this frothing mire
I will not let go, beaten down time by time
I find myself alone, beginning again
I shake myself from my own doubt
Now I find myself afraid to succeed
What will be required of me?
No more easy carefree existence
The struggle becomes necessary to stay on the ladder.
At the bottom, swimming aimlessly in the lost masses
Who cares what you do?
As you climb out, everyone looks at you, they are encouraged by your rebellion
To climb out of their own mess, to take the challenge of living again.
This first rung, the hardest, taking the most courage to live beyond
The lies spoken to you from those in your youth, and by your lovers
Who are no longer there.
Discomfort at having to leave your habits, your friends.
Not everyone will follow you up,
Most times, no one will.
You will have to meet those who are climbing on your way up.
You see they left the mire long ago,
Every now and then glancing back to see the despair
Which they escaped so narrowly.
So I cling, to this first rung, by tenacity, hard to define
This first rung is life, this first rung is mine.

Photo Credits
Microsoft Office Clip Art Collection

First Posted At Opinions Of Eye on March 8, 2011

Guest Author Bio

Drew Sager
I grew up in Hawaii so I have a healthy love of the beach and the outdoors. I’m a free loving self educated Carpenter, Photographer, Poet, Nature Lover and Musician.

Blog / Website: opinionsofeye.blogspot.com

The First Rung is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

I am getting bald! Chei! The reality first struck me as I shaved my rough jaw at the barber’s two days ago. The barber’s gossip mirror made the revelation. O, how I hate mirrors. That is why I don’t own one. My visitors after grumbling their displeasure always made do with the shiny surface of a CD plate or my laptop camcorder. Fine people don’t need mirrors, I always tell them. We already knew how good we looked.

On this day however, the poke nosing mirror in the barbers shop, the type that made your head bigger than it actually is, decided to carry out an assignment no one had asked it to. O, how I hate that mirror. It wasn’t all bad though. The mirror did a good job initially. It first showed me my soft dark lips made more inviting by the strip of mustache just above it. The barber had just shaped the mustache out and hey I was feeling like Prince Hakeem…Coming to America, remember?

Then, there was my not too pointed and not too flat nose, which sat there like the creation of a master sculptor. Nobody has my kind of nose in this world. O! My special nose. I have doubled checked on my parents and I am convinced neither of them gave me that. It was a special gift, my strongest proof that on the morning of my creation, God was in a very happy mood. With my nose, OBJ might just have garnered the primary requirements for being described as ‘Handsome.’ You just didn’t read that and I suggest you do not quote me because when they come around throwing charges of defamation like naira notes at an owambe party, I will deny I ever said it. O, how special a nose.

Did I ever mention to you that I had sexy eyes? Well, now you know. The barber’s mirror confirmed it. I am not just bragging. Eyes that tell a million tales. O, how many dames have I scored with those eyes. The spectacle in the eyes is their ability to modify in diameter depending on the occasion. That’s what they call squinting in English I suppose. Those eyes started having medicated eye lenses over them since primary four. Now, I hide them from public view with big dark glasses. The celebrity kind. Those that look like items off a welders tool box. Wouldn’t want to cause a stir in public you know, with chics starring and walking into gutters. Believe me, it has happened before. But even with the glasses on, I still cause the stir. Ever seen Sean Combs, I mean the American record producer and rap artist, also known as Puffy, Puff Daddy, and P. Diddy? He looks kind of like me when I am wearing those glasses.

And these eyebrows. Wonder brows. Amazing sight. The eighth wonder of the modern world. Never carved by any razor blade, yet so perfectly curved. Bushy patch of jet black hair, that runs in semi circular fashion over both eyes and rendezvous at my nose ridge. Are you shocked? Yeah, indeed my eyebrows meet. Even the barber was impressed or was it appalled? Whatever, just know that you will not find too many of my kind even on Google earth. Special me.

Just as my euphoria was about touching the roof, the barber’s mirror then spoilt everything. The next thing it revealed was a long stretch of hairless skin. This can’t all be my forehead I initially wondered. Jeez!!! What is happening? The place looked like a deserted patch of land ravaged by desertification. What I was seeing was the Kalahari not my head. Not the remaining part of my fine boy face. This mirror must be playing a trick.

Where did all the hair go to? O God, I am dead. As I looked at it, I could swear the hair had retreated by at least close to an inch especially at the edges. So I was going to end up looking like Daddy after all? Ewu Chi m oo! Gregor Mendel’s law in action…for my head? Na wah oh! This was what my classmates in vet school would have called a case of “frontal alopecia.” And just imagine, I had this secret fantasy of keeping an afro like Wole Soyinka when I am forty and see it turn grey as I approach seventy. Pipe dream!

But wait a second. Bald is good. Yeah. Bald is cool. Bald is beautiful. Bald is sexy. Most successful men I know are bald. I think it confers some kind of manliness. Cool, manly me. Isn’t that something to cheer about? Check this out: cool, manly, fine boy Sylva. Complete picture. Perfect picture. Are the ladies listening?

What am I saying? Life is not a perfect walk. Nothing is perfect. Perfect is nothing. Things happen along the line. Things we wish were just dreams. Things we wish we could change. Things we can’t change. But in most cases we fail to see the beauty in those things. We pitch ourselves against ourselves. We struggle to make it perfect. We end up hating ourselves. We fail.

I imagine me at forty. Not with the Soyinka brand afro. On my extremely cool low-cut. A fitting designer suit hanging down perfectly. I would look into a mirror and remember that first day the barber’s mirror showed me a glimpse of the future me. I would smile. Fine bald daddy Sylva. No regrets. Thank Goodness I am bald. And oh, did I mention I am going shopping for a room mirror? I need to keep track of this hair retreat process.

Photo Credits
Microsoft Office Clip Art Collection

Guest Author Bio

Sylva Ifedigbo
Sylva Ifedigbo, a Nigerian creative writer and freelance journalist is the author of The Funeral Did Not End, a collection of short stories coming soon from DADA Books Nigeria. He lives in Lagos Nigeria.

Blog / Website: www.nzesylva.wordpress.com

I Am Getting Bald is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

A man in the midst of addiction finds momentary serenity in the storm.

I’m remembering what Michael told me earlier that day. He’s my new therapist. Crack cocaine and bad juju is no way to live, he said. It’s just a party, I said. If you do it every weekend and the weekend starts on Thursday and ends on Tuesday, it’s no party; it’s a way of life, he said.  Face it, man, he said, you’re an addict.

I’m no fuckin’ addict, I said. I don’t get high by myself.

I’m lying through my teeth. The truth is I have been getting high whenever I can and then getting people to come over. People? Who the fuck am I kidding? Hookers with more dope is who, but really, I’m no addict, I’m just a guy with things to talk about when he gets high.

If I’m a addict then you better be very good, I had said to Michael that morning. I’m no walk in the park. He looked at me, waited. Is that your way of saying thank you,  Charlie?

Something, maybe a decision of some kind took place inside a shrug. After another moment he rolled up his sleeve and showed me the track marks.

I left his office, relieved in a spooked kind of way. It might have been because it was finally in the open for me. Or maybe it was because he hadn’t pulled any punches, had left me no room to hide, and even so, had offered his help. Maybe deep down I thought that if he had made it, maybe one day I would too. Walking home across the sunlit park that the local junkies call No Man’s Land, I felt better than I had for a long while.

Later that night I went out to get more dope so I could wait for Diego’s “big shipment, great shit” to arrive even later that night. I took my mountain bike, bought in easier times, because my car was in the city pound, the victim of a speeding ticket, a bad attitude and a house downpayment’s worth of unpaid parking tickets. I put on my black silk jacket, check out my cool in the hallway mirror and go to the park.

The rain came in hard that night but even so the park was crowded. No Man’s Land was open for business. Frenchy, another dealer I know, saw me coming. Hey, man,  you look like you been rode hard. The usual? Yeah.

Yeah.

I grab a hard hit after I score, let it take over and begin the inside drift to somewhere else, hit another one for the road, mount up and head back. On the way past Michael’s office I’m thinking, I ain’t no fuckin’ addict. I ain’t goin’ to no meetings.

Diego, my main guy, finally showed about 1:30 talking crap about flake and bricks of blue crystal. He pulled out a mess of mother of pearl, took my money and left, sayin’ he would see me after awhile but to be careful this was the best shit I had ever seen. It turns out that he was right about one thing; it was good shit, good enough to damn near kill me that night but not quite good enough to keep me from going down the road on a crack cocaine run that would last four years.

I bumped into Michael at the park during that time. He was doing something he called Iron Shirt, some kind of martial art that involved taking heavy hits to the chest as if he were a catching a baby and laying it down to sleep. I was still in the wind, still looking to get high. Our eyes met briefly, and held. He smiled sadly, shook his head once, or so it seemed and then he went back to his exercise of taking violence and accepting it so thoroughly that it became not only his own but was transformed into the most gentle and disarming of movements, a setting aside, serenity in the storm.

I went over to the dopers on the other side of the park, scored another rock, smoked it, scored a bunch more. On my way home I saw Michael one last time; he was still working out, he seemed to be not of this world.

The next day I put in a call to a friend of mine and we hit the road, south to Texas. When the dope ran out and the money was gone, somewhere south of Amarillo, I remembered Michael’s slow turning movement, his transformation in the motion of it to something different, gentler, stronger by far, a presence in the moment, an awareness long sought but never found, entirely unknown to me. Whatever it might have meant in the memory, and to this day I cannot tell you what it was, I made another phone call this time to the people I had long ago abandoned, accepted what was demanded of me and checked myself into a treatment center on the edge of a broke-down north Texas town, a brown grass place where the sun burnt the day like the fires of medieval hell and the night air brought scant moments of relief.

During the rare summer nights when breeze was up, I sat on the hillside, clean for the first time since I was a teenager, adrift with the endless Texas sky. The night wind carried hints of distant pine forests to the east. I found myself dreaming of the possibility of one more rodeo, of doing whatever it would take to build a second chance, of holding tight to the possibility that my war was over, and despite having lost every battle, something important had been won, that I would be allowed to make peace, to start out again as if for the first time, that I could leave No Man’s Land forever in the rear view and make a new life. Some days it works that way. For the other days when it is rough, I just have remember to keep it tight.

Photo Credit

“As free as the coulds in the night” John K. @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.

No Man’s Land is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

A man meets a woman and writes a poem. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

When I got to the bar it was nearly empty. The usual? Yeah, I said, a draft and a Jack back. An old bartender once told me that it was a man’s drink so that’s what I’ve ordered ever since. I suppose I like how it sounds. Sometimes it makes me feel like I’m starting out for the first time.

It’s past midnight now and I’m coming down the stairs, tapping out a hopscotch memory, just tapping to beat all.

Rebecca saw me tapping and she laughed. She told me, when I asked her, that she was here with her partner, she told me she wanted to be a photographer. Why not, I thought. If she specialized in self-portraits she could make a good living.

Something about her reminded me of a photograph I once saw of a dusty Guatemalan hill town. The photographer was looking at the church at the end of the dirt road. The setting sun, caught at the edge of the frame, lit the bell tower like fire against the night sky. What held my eye though, were the two figures embracing in the recessed doorway of a flowered garden wall. It appeared they were local kids hiding out, stealing a kiss. Maybe they were talking about times to come. It was the kind of photograph that Neruda wrote.

Steely Dan played something about reeling in the years and for whatever the reason I reached my hand out across the bar and Rebecca and me, we started dancing. We laughed and then we did it some more. On the way home, I noticed that the trees were turning green.

I wrote this poem later that night. I told my friend Peter about it. In fact, I read it at an open mike poetry reading at the bar a couple of nights later. When Rebecca found out about it she was furious. Peter’s girlfriend told him that Rebecca felt violated.

I guess romance is best left to the Guatemalans.

Photo Credit

“the Loving -renegade- @Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.

Dancing After Midnight is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Mandy’s Tune is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Even in a tropical paradise there are bugs — big bugs, biting bugs, stinging bugs, pesky bugs. But it’s still paradise.

I never squished bugs when I was a kid. Not just because I disliked the sensation of their plump little bodies popping under my shoes  but because the idea of their green guts exploding in every direction was repulsive to me. Another reason was — and still is — I kinda like bugs.

Good thing I spend the majority of my time on the Caribbean Island of Roatan, Honduras. Yes, we have bugs here! I get asked so many questions about bugs on Roatan that I posted a story about them at my website and I even gave bugs their own category Roatan Vortex Bugs.

Now, I will admit they can be quite annoying at times. I can never leave anything that vaguely resembles food on the counter for more than a minute or two, thanks to the tiny sugar ants that will come marching in to cart it away. I swear their itty-bitty bodies must be mostly made up of noses — they can sniff out a snack from a mile away. And for some reason unknown to me, they prefer WinterFresh toothpaste over FreshMint.

Then of course there are the mosquitoes buzzing around my head when I’m trying to sleep. Or making a quick landing on my toes while I’m reading a book or watching TV. Okay, I admit it — mosquitoes I will squish! I even keep score of how many I manage to annihilate on any given evening.

As for the bigger bugs, they qualifyy for a whole different level of respect. Recently I had an up-close and personal encounter with a tarantula. I had no idea that one (a rather large one) was hanging out on the ceiling beams in my loft bedroom, where I was watching TV from my bed. My first clue came when I felt something land on my head, then scurry away. Oh yeah, I did the heebie-jeebie dance when I caught sight of it on my headboard.

Once the hairs on the back of my neck and arms settled down, I took some pictures of the tarantula, and sent it on its way—outside!

I try to keep things in perspective when it comes to bugs for a few reasons:
One is that if I fear encountering them, I’d drive myself crazy! I’d have to leave Roatan. And even then, short of living in a glass box, with only filtered air coming in, and eating the food stuff fed to astronauts in outerspace, I still wouldn’t be able to avoid bugs.

Another reason is that bugs have a purpose!

I’m no scientist (by any means) so I don’t know the technicalities of it all. But I have watched in fascination as cutter-ants, strip a lime tree of it leaves, piece by piece. For a while that tree looks horrific, set against a backdrop of other foliage that is tropical and lush. But then the most amazing thing happens — within a few short weeks, new leaves begin to grow. I swear that once pathetic little lime tree is now putting on a better show … of full, healthy, glossy leaves compared to the neighbouring greenery.

Where I’m from in Canada, the seasonal changes take care of discarding the older spent leaves when they fall from the trees. Perhaps on Roatan, in the absence of seasons, the cutter ants are helping out.

I don’t think bugs are here to torment or scare me, and I’m sure they’d much prefer I left them alone so they could go about their business. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fan of having a house full of bugs, and do what I can to get them to leave.

The biggest challenge is when my Island dog Mona brings home some fleas. I’ve tried various chemical assaults on them, but found that the chemicals irritate Mona more than the fleas do. Regularly bathing her and a nightly combing with a flea comb seems to work the best.

The one bug that I haven’t mentioned yet is—the scorpion! I haven’t had one in my house for over a year now, and for that I am grateful. But I still check under my pillow every night, just in-case a scorpion decides to take a nap there. I even check under my pillow when I am in Canada. The odds of a scorpion showing up there is nil — but they have earned an extreme level of respect from me. And yes, I resort to chemical warfare with scorpions. I’m not proud of that, but I do apologize to them as they take their last breathes.

And as for my dog Mona—she knows to be respectful of big bugs too!

Photo Credits

All photos © Genny Ross-Barons

Bugs are Okay By Me is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

When the past is gone all that’s left is the story.

You called out of nowhere, asked me to come get you, asked to let you live at my place. I told you that the only rules are no tricking while you live here and all the sex and dope we can stand. After a time the sex becomes vital, inescapable. It’s almost as if there is no dope. It’s almost as if we’re in love.

Every sensation gets locked in. Made exquisite by the next toke, time freezes, there is no next day. Eventually it’s too much of everything; feeling, stupor, guilt, rage, dope, sex, then, inexorably, not enough of anything. In the end there is nothing left but drugs, waiting, violence.

A fight gets out of hand one night. There are police and social workers, restraining orders, resentment, rage and an unholy sense of having finally become one of them, the junkie nightmare right here on Sixth Avenue.

You come to my place every night. There is always something missing when you leave. When we fight about it you tell me it’s because I see other women, other hookers. What do you expect? I’m high and that’s what I do when I’m smoking shit. Damn it, Sweetheart, that’s how I met you.

One night you call Tio, one of your drugstore cowboy, movie guy losers to score. Turns out you get high with him using a forged check of mine to get the money to buy the dope. He calls me the next day because the check bounces and he’s pissed. He wants to call the police. I tell him why bother, it will just fuck up his sex life.

I wait up for you every night. And, you come over every night. You go out to score, come back hours later with stories and not very much dope. One time you don’t come back for days. When you do come back the story is fantastic, something about a Hell’s Angels’ tribunal with justice meted out to your enemies.

Every word is a lie.

I throw you out for the last time by putting all your garbage bag suitcases on the street, shutting down the house, selling all the furniture, leaving town, leaving the country.

You may be young and a stone junkie hooker but we both know that what has happened here was not so simple. You own a piece of my darkest, highest places, my deepest failures. For all that it wasn’t, it was a true thing.

In the hours before another fragile dawn I miss you.

Photo Credit

“The Effects of Rain”  mdpNY @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.

Damn, Sweetheart is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

There is a phenomenon on the Island of Roatan, nestled in the Caribbean Sea, off the coast of Honduras, that I learned of soon after coming here — time stands still. Not to be confused with the classic science-fiction movie “When the earth stood still.” But I’m sure if you looked hard enough some comparisons could be made.

It’s hard to keep track of time on Roatan. In my former life in Canada pretty much everything was scheduled, I had it down-pat. Monday to Friday belonged to my employer. The alarm was set to go off every weekday morning at 6:30 AM. Coffee always took first priority, and actually that hasn’t changed, but that is where the similarities end.

I liked my job well enough. I was quite proud of what I achieved in my career as a structural package designer. I know, many of you are saying, “huh.” Definitely not a mainstream career choice, but it was rewarding. And still, I longed for the weekends, those two days a week when I didn’t set the alarm. Those two days when I could work in my garden (in the summer, of course.) When I could spend time with family and friends, or just go for a long walk with my dog.

The thing was, I had a lot of stuff, and I had to maintain the pace that I did because I believed that my purpose in life was to acquire more stuff.

And then I came to Roatan…

I still wake up most mornings by 6:30 AM, actually quite often earlier so I can watch the sunrise. But I don’t set an alarm anymore, I don’t need to, I wake up that early because I want to, not to pursue more stuff — stuff just goes mouldy on Roatan if you don’t use it regularly enough. It also requires using up time and energy to dust stuff I used to have that was just for looking at — aka knick knacks, objects d’ art, status symbols — you get my drift.

I do have things to do each day on Roatan. And some days I’m extra busy, but that’s okay because everything I do here revolves around Just Being. That was the first phase of the “three months ago” phenomenon.

The second phase is not having a seasonal point-of-reference. It used to be that no matter the event — big, small, or somewhere in-between— I could remember how long ago it happened based on whether it was in the spring, summer, fall or winter.

Starting the garden in early May, digging in the soil that crumbled between my fingers, the frigid days of winter had released their grip, the blanket of snow and muddied ice all but gone. Longer, warmer, sunlit days were doing their part to soften the land. The determined crocuses had already pushed their way through weeks earlier, soft, velvet purple blooms, to impatient to wait for the snow to be gone.

It was a warm July evening when we had the party outside on the back deck, to celebrate my daughter coming home from college. While in the background, the sound of crickets chirping, the flicker of tiki torches bending to the gentle night breeze. The scent of citronella, used to ward off mosquitoes, wafting by.

I remember it was October when I started that new job. I can still smell the crisp frost tinged air, and enjoyed the glorious fall colours of crimson and gold, as I commuted through the countryside on my first day.

It was an icy day in January when I skidded off that same road and landed in a snow bank—only my pride was hurt.

There were chores to do according to the season too!

Spring cleaning, summer yard work, fall gutter cleaning, winter furnace maintenance.

While, on Roatan, it’s always summer, my point of reference is lost.

I was working in a garden-bed, clipping spent hibiscus blooms, trimming back ginger plants, and adding compost to the soil. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself, when I considered what a great gardening season it had been, and realized it was the middle of January.

The leaves don’t come off the trees each fall. The jungle foliage is always lush. There is no need to pack away the t-shirts and bathing suits and replace them with scarves and winter boots. The hummingbirds never migrate to warmer climates, and the chickens don’t seem to care what time of year it is either. I can just as easily see a mother hen being followed around by her young brood in April as in November.

So how do I keep track of time?

I used to fret that I had no idea when things had happened. I couldn’t even remember an event had just been the week before. But this is Roatan, and fretting about such things is a waste of time. Quite honestly, when living a life of Just Being it doesn’t really matter.  So I don’t worry about it anymore. No matter what I’m talking about, no matter what the event was, if asked, I just say, “It happened three months ago.”

Photo Credits

All Photos © Genny Ross-Barons

Three Months Ago… is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

July 12, 2010
I say that writing just flat out sucks. What to do? Sit in the chair. Stay in the chair. Write something. Rewrite something. Listen to someone who can really write. Like Ray Wiley Hubbard. He says that without love we are all “just a wastin time”. Got it Mr. Hubbard. Goin’ back to work now. Words, do your stuff.

July 12, 2010 (Later)
I say that writing just flat-out sucks. Again. It obviously requires that one needs to listen to the silence whispering. FB, you got that? Linked in? Apple Mail? Pandora? I’m just sayin’…

July 12, 2010 (Later Still)
Writing Sux Part 3: “I have walked through God’s green pastures and seen the rich blue skies/I have seen the fall of man and the kingdom hidden from his eyes/I have heard the roar of thunder and felt the lightening bolt/And when I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I take along Samuel Colt.” Or in my case, a MacBook Pro. Goin’ now, Mr. Hubbard. Goin’. Gone.

Tarmac Meditations # 25: Writing Sucks is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN