Tag Archives: sporadic

Cross-road

Crossroad: (n) a road that crosses another road

I’m desperately trying to remember the formula. I’m sure it’s age-old—but one night I convinced myself that I came up with it on my own.

Having some time on my hands, I got in my car and started driving, attempting to get lost.

I wanted to see how much fun it would be to find my way back home. (This was long before GPS and also long before I had so much shit on my plate that I had free time.)

So I set off driving, tried to ignore the signs or the names of towns and made sporadic turns. Unfortunately, my internal GPS naturally had me drive in boxes, and eventually I ended up right back where I started.

So I put on my thinking cap (which, by the way, is much too large for the surface it serves) and I tried to figure out how to pull off getting lost without it becoming manipulative but also having a spontaneous feel to it.

I came up with a simple concept:

Drive one mile, turn right, drive another mile, turn left, another mile, turn left again.

Then drive another mile, turn right, and repeat the process.

After about forty-five minutes of this endeavor, I ended up not knowing where I was.

To discover what crossroad would take me back to my destination, I just kept turning left. Then I saw something I recognized, and in no time at all, I was back at home with people who recognized me.

Honestly, I do not know if this is an actual plan of action, or even if it’s worth this small essay.

All I know about crossroads is that they offer you another direction.

The power of this? If you’re tired of where you’re going, you have the option of getting lost for a while, until you can find yourself again.

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Bramble

j-r-practix-with-border-2

Bramble: (n) a prickly scrambling vine or shrub

Is the Universe a sporadic series of incomplete evolutions, or a well-constructed and defined object lesson?

It’s a damn good question.Dictionary B

Because if I were to believe that everything is spawned by chance, then I might be completely unable to make sense of anything around me.

But if there is some sort of reason, purpose or genius behind the way things are placed, then I have the glorious task of unraveling the mystery.

Why do roses have thorns?

And why do bramble bushes have prickly parts that make it difficult to pick the berries which often inhabit their vines?

What’s the message?

Is there a need for us to be discouraged in the pursuit of beauty and nutrition?

Are we to understand that blessing is achieved, rather than guaranteed?

Is the Creator trying to separate the perseverant from the lazy?

Because plucking a rose is risking a prick.

And hunting for berries might tear at your skin.

Is there a message here? Or am I reading deeper thoughts than intended into an evolutionary mishap?

I’m not sure.

But I can tell you, the pursuit of wisdom never fails us … even if there’s very little information to be uncovered.

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Amsterdam

dictionary with letter A

Amsterdam: (n): the capital and largest city of the Netherlands.

There are two things that tickle me about myself:

  • My sporadic moments of inspirational genius
  • And the remainder of my life, where I nearly drown in a pool of my own stupidity

So when I looked at the dictionary and saw that my word for the day was “Amsterdam”, I reached into the recesses of my experience to find what I knew about this city in Holland.

First of all, I am not certain whether you should refer to it as the Netherlands or Holland. If I were a native, I would certainly prefer Holland, instead of being called “the land of nothing.”

I guess what tickled me the most was that I have this strange collage of data-bits in my brain, ranging from Hans Christian Anderson, a little boy with his finger in the dyke, wooden shoes, tulips, rampant marijuana smoking and legal prostitution.

Trying to figure out how I would unite all of these ideas into a common theme for my essay this morning just produced a giggle-fest somewhere down deep in my soul.

I suppose I could be cute and say that Hans Christian Anderson was on his way to take a tulip to his favorite prostitute, sporting freshly-carved wooden shoes, when he came upon the boy who was in charge of protecting the dyke, who instead had become quite stoned, toking his bong, causing water to begin to flood into the community, so Hans, with great regret in his heart, stuck his tulip into the hole, realizing that he had lost his rendezvous with a lover, but saved a people.

Honestly, ladies and gentlemen … that’s the best I can do.

 

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