Monthly Archives: March 2017
There’s something enchanting about the wee hours of the morning. I often awake at that time to read, write and explore ideas. I take advantage of the silence. The world is asleep. No one to talk at me. It’s so quiet I can hear the train of thought pulling into the station.
I once asked a psychic why I loved books and ideas.
“It’s from a past life,” he said. “You were a cartographer and loved to explore. Now that the world has been explored, you put your love to explore in the world of books and ideas.”
I don’t know whether his answer is true, but it explains my love of books and ideas. He also told me some personal things that I had never shared with anyone. How did he know these things if he was faking it?
I believe in reincarnation, but I know that it is not true. (The previous sentence makes sense to the initiated.)
And now to spend time with some ideas who are eager to meet me.
Somewhere in my aura is a sign with the words:
TALK TO ME. TALK TO ME. TALK TO ME.
Only people who are occasionally buried by squirrels can see this sign.
There’s a woman who comes to the Northern District Library, every day, after she digs herself out from where a squirrel buried her. She has short gray hair, a pointed nose, and a pointed chin. She wears black horn-rimmed glasses, and looks like a spinster librarian I used to see when I was a kid.
She sits in a chair, in the study area of the library, and occasionally shouts out an irrelevant sentence—well irrelevant to those around her. Her words must mean something to her . . .
“It works with children and parents.”
“My brother-in-law is sick and can’t come over Saturday.”
“Find ways to reward yourself.”
These are some of the sentences she has shouted out. Her shouts are sporadic. She may go an hour without shouting a single sentence, and then shout two sentences five or ten minutes apart. There’s no method in her madness. Between the sporadic shouting of single sentences, she sits and stares into space. Sometimes she reads a newspaper. We library patrons ignore her when she sounds off, and pretend she did not say anything. I have never seen her talking to anyone. She shouts into space. She never stays too long, and usually gets up and leaves after several intermittent shouts.
The other day I heard her say, “Don’t rape anyone here. Go to Madison Square Garden.”
Like everyone else, I ignored her.
“Did you hear me? I said don’t rape anyone here.”
I looked up from my book. She was looking at me! She was talking to me!
“If you’re going to rape anyone, then do it at Madison Square Garden. Don’t do it here. Did you hear me?”
A voice in my head said, “Don’t say anything.” I didn’t. I looked at her, but sat trembling with terror thinking, “Oh no! What is she going to do next?”
“You do all your raping at Madison Square Garden. Don’t do any here.”
Then she got up and left.
Whew! What a relief.
I don’t know her name. I never gave her a name before, but from now on she is Miss Madison.
I made an appointment to see a metaphysician. I’m not sure my health insurance will cover the cost, but I want to get that sign removed.
There I was minding my business and simply being a black dot. Suddenly, this guy was in me! I don’t know where he came from. I don’t know how he got inside me. I was not sure what to do. I wanted to call the black dot police, but they don’t exist. I started moving the shapes inside me by making music with my wind chimes and crystals. The shapes danced. That kept him distracted. What a relief when he suddenly left!
“So, where have you been?”
See the black dot?
I was inside it.
“Inside the black dot?”
“But how could that happen? It’s so small.”
It appears small on the outside, but the inside has no dimensions. It’s like our brains: small outside and vast inside.
“What made you go into a black dot?”
I don’t know. It just happened. I was staring at it while breathing deeply to relieve stress and relax. Suddenly, I was inside it. At first darkness, but only for an instant. Then vividly colored geometrical shapes and patterns, dancing to melodies from wind chimes and crystals, surrounded me. Not only did they surround me, but they were above me and below me. There I was, suspended in black space while brilliantly colored circles, squares, triangles, rectangles, rhombuses, trapezoids, pentagons, hexagons, heptagons, octagons, nonagons, decagons, cubes, cylinders, pyramids, cones, and many mandalas danced pranced strutted and waltzed before me beside me above and below me. How mesmerizing! I could have stayed there and watched them forever.
“Why didn’t you? Why did you leave?”
There aren’t any bathrooms inside black dots.
The subtitle for this blog is, Where Are The Transit Officers When You Need Them?
The incident took place last night on the northbound subway ride between the Eglinton and Finch stations.
I was minding my business reading a book. I could feel someone staring at me. I looked up and saw a man walking towards me. Hatred and madness waltzed in his eyes. He stopped in front of me and dropped a crumpled candy wrapper on my shoes. Then he walked to the doorway beside me and glared and mumbled something.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“I’m not talking to you, you fucking ___________,” he said mumbling the last part.
He said that he was not talking to me, yet he continued to glare at me and mumble. I could not understand what he was saying, but I knew he wasn’t telling me how much he loved me. There were lots of vacant seats, but he chose to stand beside me, glare, and mumble.
Naturally, the transit officers were somewhere else being concerned about my safety. I was scared, but I thought, “I’m gonna ignore him unless he hits me.” I like to think that I took the high road, but, in fact, I am a coward.
The man was about 6 feet tall (1.8 meters) with a medium build. He wore a black baseball cap, black waist-length jacket, black jeans and carrying a black bag. Was he a Tamil or Sri Lankan? His skin was dark chocolate. How silly that he is darker than I am, but he is considered brown, and light-brown me is considered black. Duh?
Occasionally the Dark Chocolate Menace (DCM) would stop mumbling to loudly burp at me. He would resume his loving mumbling after the burp. He burped several times.
As the train approached Finch Station, DCM stopped his glaring and mumbling and burping. He walked from the doorway on my left, to the doorway on my right down the train a bit. He left the subway through that doorway. I kept my distance, but I could see him looking at other people with hatred.
DCM went up the stairs from the subway level, of the Finch Station, to the second level. Beside him was a young man who looked like a student. When DCM and the student got to the top of stairs, DCM shouted at the student, “Stop fucking around! Stop fucking around!” The bewildered student looked at DCM, and then walked away.
DCM took the escalator from the second level to the third level. Beside him was an Asian woman. He looked at her and said, “Do any of you people look different? You all look the fucking same.” The woman said nothing.
On the third level, I was ahead of DCM, but I kept looking back because I was concerned about my safety. DCM started walking quickly towards me. He was almost running. He got ahead of me about 10 feet (3 meters) and stopped. He turned towards me. I stopped. He raised his fist as if he was about to punch me. Oh, the hatred, anger, and insanity in his eyes! He screamed, “Fuuuuuuuuck!” Then he dropped his fist, turned and ran to the escalator. The escalator goes to the fourth and bus level. He ran up the escalator, pushing people out of his way, and boarded the 199A Finch Bus eastbound which was not the bus I was going to board.
I breathed relief and wondered, “Why do I attract so many people who are missing bacteria from their yogurt? Does like attract like?”
Let’s pretend that you are reading a lengthy blog. Let’s pretend that the length of the blog does not bother you because you find the blog engrossing. You want to keep reading. You have to keep reading. You must keep reading. The words make you smile. The words make you feel good. The words inspire you to go on to do great things.
Let’s pretend . . .