tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-367341621683090112024-02-19T01:54:17.050-08:00The DoghouseA digital pamphlet on music, astronomy, philosophy, green olives, etc. Josh Urbanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06279725212195688662noreply@blogger.comBlogger499125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-13472198056638393652022-12-14T12:23:00.001-08:002022-12-14T12:23:50.789-08:00A Sub(stack)tle ReminderSeason's greetings, y'all!<div><br /></div><div> Anyone still over here? A quick update: I'm a real "Rustburger" now, as we say 'round here. (Beats Baltimoron.) I said hello to one of the neighborhood horses while checking the mail this afternoon. </div><div><br /></div><div> The Glenn Miller Orchestra just played up the street, the stars shine brightly here in the country, there's a vintage telescope an hour away that's about thirty feet long, <i>and </i>I've got two pairs of overalls. </div><div><br /></div><div> Country life is good - and the new home for the blog is even more fun. If you haven't been over yet, come join in the festivities over at <a href="http://www.JoshUrban.Substack.com">www.JoshUrban.Substack.com</a>. (It's free, of course.) There's generally three blogs a week: A story on Monday (Dr. Electro is at it again), an essay on Wednesday, and a space/earth theme on Friday. </div><div><br /></div><div> This site is up for now, but that's not a guarantee. Hope to see ya at the new place! There's many adventures to have together. </div><div><br /></div><div>- <i>Josh </i></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgE7NbwiHj6ipp0c0xQKIZiVdQn0q7lGZmxOESvH38V9-Bs9Z6TBrU4Q3CJYO8OOyxXCXQ9ru4h9Vu59W2g2AcE-2zMkYKEmV_HpCHNwilm6QJKZMeWJdJEd8lqxdxqQNPP7nJg8Xn0eqoZrvGhhkwhr86KbH73jTrwd0z_GO8qeSduT-ssV3hPspxi" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgE7NbwiHj6ipp0c0xQKIZiVdQn0q7lGZmxOESvH38V9-Bs9Z6TBrU4Q3CJYO8OOyxXCXQ9ru4h9Vu59W2g2AcE-2zMkYKEmV_HpCHNwilm6QJKZMeWJdJEd8lqxdxqQNPP7nJg8Xn0eqoZrvGhhkwhr86KbH73jTrwd0z_GO8qeSduT-ssV3hPspxi" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div> </div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-14960030865409630232022-01-19T06:44:00.002-08:002022-01-19T06:44:09.415-08:00Moving<p> Howdy, folks!</p><p><br /></p><p> I am moving. In several ways. My DC area house closes today, and I have set sail for saner environs. It's become madness there. And then, let's try a new blogging home! Come on over to <a href="http://JoshUrban.Substack.com">JoshUrban.Substack.com</a>, and of course, <a href="http://TheObservatory.Locals.com">TheObservatory.Locals.com</a> </p><p> I've been on this platform for over a decade. It's hard to believe, and it sure has been nice with you all. But now Google has gone "round the bend" with their censorship and restriction of information. I don't say anything that would run afoul of them (yet), but that's a game I refuse to play. </p><p> As such, it's time to set up shop elsewhere! Come on by, it'll be fun! I just posted the first thing on Substack - a <a href="https://joshurban.substack.com/p/wolf-moon">walk under the full Wolf moon</a>. </p><p><br /></p><p> Thank you all for the great years, and sincerely hoping we can continue the fun together. Hope to see you over there! </p><p><br /></p><p>Over 'n out,</p><p><i>- Josh</i></p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-4527091892801327512021-12-03T08:27:00.002-08:002021-12-03T08:27:48.189-08:00Hello, world!<p> Hello everyone! </p><p><br /></p><p> I'm hanging out with my buddies over at Woodbine right now on Zoom, and we're talking about meaning and purpose. I thought it would be fun to show them how to blog. Man, I'd sure love to read some life advice - and boy could I use it! Here's to hoping that this inspires a few new bloggers. Let me know if you need help setting up your own!</p><p><br /></p><p>- Josh </p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-18878774134793754522021-12-02T08:27:00.002-08:002021-12-02T08:27:09.864-08:00Splinters instead<p><br /></p><p> Hey folks! </p><p><br /></p><p> I was about to write a "review" of some incredible music I just saw. The criticism was going to be wrapped in theological nuance, a fishhook in a bible, Cain's murder weapon a virtuous pillow. Instead, I'm going to spend ten minutes writing a song. It'll be terrible - I haven't written seriously in a few years. But better to start rough framing a humble shack then to lob those easy stones towards another man's castle. </p><p> Those same stones don't give one splinters like the beams of real progress can - but man, they're awfully cold. </p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-41723389338648635742021-11-29T19:15:00.001-08:002021-11-29T19:15:03.357-08:00Looking West <p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 18pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters from Josh</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-5b44ad2d-7fff-d67b-4732-ad3741d75e7c"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Looking West Letter 66 11/30/21</span></p><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Howdy, folks, and a happy belated Thanksgiving! I’m jotting this from high atop Long Mountain, aka “the backyard” of my folks at their new place. Here’s the scene and some fresh country air for you: The sky is wintry azure to the north, but cold gray clouds provide cover right above me. A November wind stirs the grasses and rustles a few remaining chestnut oak leaves on it’s way up the mountainside. There’s something bracing in it - a Sunday preacher demanding of the observer as it does the pine trees it sings in: let go of anything that needs to be blown away. And these trees do, keeping only what is absolutely necessary. Grizzled, bent, and some would say stunted, they keep watch over the valley below as a train whistle echoes up from unseen rails. Although the environment is harsh, perhaps the trees are the lucky ones, getting to spend their days watching the sun arc from ridge to ridge, and nights gazing into infinity. Countless winter snows and summer storms have worn these rocks, and there’s something ruggedly wise about this quiet spot I sit, with just Brother Wind as company. Casting my eyes to the blue distance, I look west 60 odd miles towards the hulking ranges of West Virginia. A quiet road loops at the nearer feet of the mountain, and some part of me I can’t even describe stirs, longing to follow the endless double yellow line towards lands imagined. Have you ever felt that way, too? It’s hard to say exactly what it is, but it’s similar to the wish of flying. What an excellent vista to make a heart glad on a Thanksgiving holiday! I sure am grateful for a lot this year, and especially for these </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and the opportunity to chat with you. The cold makes it feel extra festive. I hope your “turkey day” was meaningful and festive, and here’s a mountain toast to the past year. We sure have been through a lot, and an extra toast to handling it with grace and tenacity. Now, it’s time to lumber on down the mountain like a plaid bear (forget about grace there!), crunching the dry oak leaves, peering carefully at the steep slope to find sure footing, duck through the mountain laurel groves, slide on some more leaves, jump the stream, and head back inside to warm up. It’s a long walk, but a delightful one. I hope you’ve enjoyed our hike. Until next time… - </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Josh</span></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-69227695221878629912021-09-20T17:32:00.005-07:002021-09-20T17:32:57.825-07:00Letters From Josh, Vol 63<span id="docs-internal-guid-80939ae5-7fff-f9bf-c620-749eca5e90e6"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 18pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters from Josh</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Falling Curtains Letter 63 9/20/21</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Howdy, folks! There’s a delicious cool in the air this evening. I took a quick stroll, looking comically relaxed and seasonal in plaid shorts and funky socks. It was time to bid farewell to Summer. The last light was in the sky as the sun set on this second to last day of the season. The Equinox is Wednesday, and with the approaching autumn, pumpkin spice everything will be in style. (I’d grumble, but I’m “basic”, and love the flavor.) Ambling along, I listened to the bugs singing in the gathering dusk. The cicadas reminded me of summers long ago, getting a sweet treat on Connecticut avenue as a little boy. I’d revel in the experience, playing with my brothers in a timeless evening, and looking back, I wonder if I knew how fleeting seasons are. A wood thrush flitted and called deep in the woods, ready to turn in for the evening. Mother Nature seemed to be beckoning all her children: “Time to come home and get some dinner.” A ripping, plopping sound: an acorn tore through the leaves and hit the ground. The White Oaks are putting out a bumper crop this year, and near the forest pond, the deer rustled away from this twilight walker. They’ll be feasting on the bounty soon. Along the road, a patch of yellow wildflowers bloomed with the faintest perfume of a season finale. The crickets have changed their tune, too. They sing a beautiful, quiet song, ushering in the Change. And all around, the air was the bittersweet temperature of a pool about to close. “But mom, just a few more minutes in the water!” “No, no, it’s time to come in for dinner.” Soon, the Harvest Moon will rise, and I must be off to find her. It seems important to say hello. Enjoy the little things! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Until next time...</span></p><ul style="margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 0; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Josh</span></p></li></ul><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p></span><p> </p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-73453047612154687862021-08-15T15:39:00.002-07:002021-08-15T15:39:56.405-07:00On Rivers and Crossings<p> <i>"I've got to cross that River Jordan</i></p><p><i> Lord, I've got to cross that for myself</i></p><p><i>Say nobody here can cross it for me</i></p><p><i>I've got to cross it by myself." </i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p> Sunday evening arrived with the stillness of a held breath. The rough-hewn path beckoned me down the hill and through the meadow , where even the whine of the occasional mosquito was startlingly loud in the soupy air. </p><p> There's something about Sunday evening which stands up to remind me that there's a week ahead. My generation shrinks from this, calling it "The Sunday Scaries". Whatever. This feeling was illustrated by nature, as the path led directly to the Potomac shore, terminating in a river to cross.</p><p> Thoughts crowded around my ears like the gnats above the fragrant grasses. I'll be moving across that river (eventually), and perhaps this will be one of the few remaining summer Sundays to spend on the gravely banks. A good friend of mine has just crossed another sort of river. He was like one of the old oaks that stretch their arms out over these meadows. He had seen much lighting in his life, and laughed with an oaky mirth. His eyes would gleam out of his weathered face, waiting for me to get his joke. He lived at the retirement home. I'm not sad that he gets to rest. He's earned it. I sure will miss him, though. A forest ought to have oak trees in it. </p><p> I plopped down on a washed-up railroad tie, the perfect seat for a wandering spirit. An enormous yacht plied the bathwater-still river. Observing from my humble chair, my first instinct was to write it off as a major headache that I wouldn't really want if I were rich. How Cain of me to scoff at this nautical Abel enjoying a lovely Sunday on the water. </p><p> The damselflies flitted through the still air, and finally it was time to go. A walking stick presented itself to me from a pile of driftwood. STEP-STEP-CLOMP through the packed shells and sand, winding back to the path through the meadow. Somehow, the stick was more than a bleached twig - it seemed to have the spirit of adventure in it. It fit perfectly. </p><p> The gray evening sky let some light through, illuminating that stern Sunday feeling: Some are gone, some are to be helped tomorrow, some challenges will rear up like sharks from the water. Perhaps I can poke 'em in the eye with the walking stick...</p><p> Friends will be missed. Storms will come, and so will the rays of hope. A man stands alone, and the path winds forward into the unknown. There are rivers to cross. </p><p><br /></p><p>What a blessing.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><i><br /></i></p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-69297472175407494762021-08-10T08:02:00.003-07:002021-08-10T08:03:01.712-07:00Letters from Josh, Vol. 59<p>(After a two-month hiatus, I've resumed writing to my senior buddies in assisted living homes across the area. It's neat to connect with words. I thought you all might enjoy, too.) </p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 18pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 18pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 18pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters from Josh</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-2b51ef8a-7fff-4917-8d69-d46dd52b620b"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Endless Summer Letter 59 8/9/21</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Howdy, folks! It’s been a little while. Josh Urban here...DJ and science lecturer who occasionally plays at your community. Perhaps we’ve never met, and maybe this is your first </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters from Josh. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Created over a year ago, this was my way to bring a little joy during the lockdown, and has turned into a fun project. If you’re reading this for the first time, welcome. If you’re an old friend, welcome back. I like to bring my buddies with me through words, so buckle up! I’ve hiked down to the local park, and am sitting on the back porch of historic Mt. Aventine, with it’s lovely Potomac river valley view. Nathaniel Chapman, best friend and business partner of George Mason, had this plantation house built directly across the river from Gunston Cove, Mr. Mason’s estate. A descendent of his, Percy Chapman, would bolt from the property when Union Soldiers showed up to arrest and execute him for spying. (He escaped.) Today, bloodshed and misery have been gently and gratefully replaced by lush nature, peaceful and quiet. (As I write this, the A/C unit kicked on with a clatter as if on cue. D’oh!) The thick summer air hangs hazy and humid over the river. I feel like a fish, swimming in an endless summer. And, if a fish had ever pondered the immensity of the ocean, so too must he have felt like I do now, immersed in the hazy nostalgia of an August afternoon. Have you ever felt this </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">spirit </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">of Summer</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">for lack of a better word? Christmas has it, spring does, too. The aching melancholy of an autumn rain is not to be overlooked. But </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">summer, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">man...The timeless singing in the trees, the too-short loves, and the Sun, the Sun. Brash at midday making colors pop, and lazy in the afternoon, a mellow baker, kneading the dough of thunderstorms in a mighty kitchen of an immense sky. He’s even felt at night, the city concrete radiating noontime memories to the sweating pedestrians. The goldfinches, flitting through the meadow below the porch like little pieces of this light, chatter gleefully about how good it is to have the gift of an endless summer afternoon. The A/C unit shuts off, as a breeze toussels the leaves of the wise old poplar tree. I gaze across the Potomac river, and wave. Happy August, everyone!</span></p><br /><ul style="margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 0; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Josh </span></p></li></ul></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-86325265335371002942021-07-26T12:59:00.000-07:002021-07-26T12:59:20.081-07:00Another one<p> "Hey Lois, ya home?"</p><p><br /></p><p> "Come in!" </p><p><br /></p><p>We sit and chat. She's written for years, weaving stories of the past in with humor for her nephews. "Have you ever tried a blog?" </p><p>"What's that?"</p><p><br /></p><p>So I'm showing her. Hello, world!</p><p><br /></p><p>- Josh</p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-39752954278115350292021-07-10T06:38:00.004-07:002021-07-10T06:38:22.048-07:00The Dot<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> There it was again. It happens every year, usually in July. Summer was resplendent in her party dress, the sunbeams crept through the forest with misty greetings, and an achingly beautiful scent wafted through the dewy leaves this morning. Yet, at the height of power of this kingdom, suddenly, when all was fair and green and growing...a breeze, almost imperceptible, a breath of cool, of change, the black dot of Chaos in the white Yang symbol. Summer took a nap, had a weird dream, and waking, brushed it off...almost. “This will all end. Winter is coming.” The music of the birds blasted over the dance floor, and a blue sky was nearly able to smile away such notions, but...the Dot is always there. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-7f4fae1d-7fff-7abd-d3bb-81514abad410"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Perhaps this realization makes Summer’s perfume all the more poignant, propelling her stilettos over the dance floor late into the sleepless nights. Without limitation, this Eden would degenerate into a disposable, meaningless ease. Free refills lose their charm after the fifth time. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I was hanging out with some senior citizens recently. We had just finished bingo, and got to talking. “Would you want to live forever?” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Absolutely not!” was the emphatic reply. Interestingly, nobody said “well, maybe for another thirty years.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I think they’ve got a better grasp of seasons than I do. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-1994704121032799242021-06-24T20:41:00.003-07:002021-06-24T20:46:29.367-07:00Strawberry<p> The Strawberry Moon was riveting. I gaped at the sight through binoculars, and the brilliant searchlight stared back at my wondering eyes. The orb hovered in the summer sky, a sight both comfortingly familiar and eternally mysterious. The landscape was ancient, great lava plains barren save for imaginary echoes. Astronomers of Old fancied them to be seas, and named them as such. "Sea of Crisis. Sea of Tranquility. Sea of Clouds." But there's nothing there, except for the loneliness and cooled basalt. </p><p> The night breeze rustled the holly tree behind me, and grew to a chorus in the nearby forest. Unseen animals rummaged through the dry leaves, and the night was alive, brimming with potential, restless in the fresh air. Luna gazed down, and I stood in the dewy grass, awestruck. </p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-4229268152706390242021-06-22T19:57:00.001-07:002021-06-22T19:57:26.308-07:00Scorpio Moon<p><br /></p><p><i>"Modern Man does not see God because he does not look low enough." - Carl Jung </i></p><p> The Moon is in Scorpius. It hangs low in the early summer sky, a giant gold balloon, caught in the treetops by an invisible string. Ruddy Antares, alpha star of Scorpius, blazing with the intensity of the June days that preceede it, glitters in the background. The starlight reaching my eye is old. Columbus was sailing around tonight's photons left the star, 554 years ago. </p><p> A Barred Owl hoots in the distance, and the dog next door fusses at some critter unseen. I gaze up from my front yard, the dewy grass transformed into an observation deck into Infinity. It's a sight many can see, but few notice. </p><p> I work with old people. Actually, I today I worked with <i>people. </i>You see, Time is a strange thing, how it renders us frail. I think it's easier to treat people as <i>residents, </i>or <i>the Elderly. </i>Working at an assisted living home forces me to confront the tempoary nature of my relative youth. I helped a 96 year old version of myself the other day. He had his suspenders, and his home built table. He needed help getting a screw unstuck, so there I was, pliers in stronger hands, doing what he couldn't. I helped him because it was the Right thing to do, and perhaps I'm putting a favor in the bank for the not-too-distant future. I left his room glad to have assisted, and with another reminder of perspective. It makes sense that people my age might treat the aged as something unrelated to their lot. It's just easier to avoid the thought of how quickly time passes. </p><p> Today I played cribbage with a resident friend. I dropped the Ms., and just called her Jean. </p><p> She lost her husband a few months ago, and really doesn't come out of her room. I've been twisting her arm to come play cards, and we're having a blast (and she's coming out of her room.) For a few minutes today, I forgot that she was old, and that I was going to be. I think she did, too. It felt strikingly normal at the table. We yelled and bickered and talked trash. "Sixteen for two." "Sixteen isn't fifteen, Jean - what are you talking about?" "it's a PAIR of eights, son! Geeze." I started to win, and gloated heartily. </p><p> She wasn't a grieving widow. I wasn't a staffer providing an activity for residents on the second floor. I was...losing. Again. (I've never won, actually.) We laughed and bickered some more, two <i>people </i>enjoying the Miraculous "Ordinary." </p><p> This phenomona is all around...Just like the Moon, a great golden balloon, with it's string caught in the summer forest, smiling down from Scorpius. I guess these observation decks into Infinity abound. </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-80956074450494092372021-06-13T05:33:00.001-07:002021-06-13T05:33:52.341-07:00Sleepwalking<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">1:33 AM's dim yellow numbers softly lit the room. "Huh, I wonder if the sky has cleared" I mumbled groggily to myself, stumbling out of bed. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-7d253deb-7fff-1e9c-f25b-71277e83170a"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> It had!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> There's something delightful about a well-practiced eccentricity. The phrase "man, I could do this in my sleep" applies especially well in these situations. Still only half awake, it seemed a good time to test out a new arrival in the growing arsenal of telescopes. I had actually built it for a friend, but it had returned after about a year when they weren't getting proper use of it. (Telescopes should collect starlight, not dust - that's a maxim 'round here and with my buddies.) </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The summer Milky Way flowed high overhead, a soft glow of innumerable stars. And there, peeking out behind the tall pine tree, a cosmic lighthouse shone out along the shore of this celestial river. Saturn! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> But, the pine tree was in the way. Lugging the telescope this way and that, playing the game of strategic angles and not waking the neighbor's dogs, I stole through my front yard like a total weirdo. It was great. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Finally, I had a shot! For the first time since the winter, Saturn swam into view in the eyepiece. Of all the things to observe in the universe, this ringed planet is unparalleled in its perennial </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">punch. Every time. Especially if one hasn't seen it in a while. (Or before. Showing this with "sidewalk astronomy" outreach has been a highlight of my life.) </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> So there I perched on the side of a small hill in my yard, the neighbor's dog still asleep, the telescope threatening to fall off the edge, my logical mind suggesting sleep would be helpful...and Saturn, a tiny dancer with a hula hoop, the palest yellow against a velvety sky, pirouetting in a timeless dance on the shore of the Milky Way, almost 800 million miles away. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wow. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I drank my fill of this sight, put the scope back, and drifted off to sleep. High above my slumbering roof, the stars twinkled and Saturn spun 'round and 'round. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-85454906484654948542021-06-08T05:10:00.005-07:002021-06-08T05:10:47.883-07:00The Singing Trees<p> </p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 20pt; font-style: italic; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Excerpted from my weekly "Letters from Josh" publication for my senior buddies.) </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 20pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 20pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters from Josh</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-dd1598e1-7fff-69c0-63f7-34795318e967"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Singing Trees Letter 57 5/30/21</span></p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Howdy, folks! How ya feelin’ over there? I’m a bit dusty and sweaty, and the bathroom has no walls. That’s right, I took a sledgehammer to ‘em tonight, preparing for a complete renovation. While that’s worthy of metaphor and philosophical discussion, I’d like to take you on...a bike ride, or at least an imaginary one. </span></span><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> That’s right, “all of the sights, none of the sweat.” </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> It was my dad’s birthday. He wanted to go on a trek with his sons, so despite the 90 degree weather, Sunday afternoon found the four Urban men rolling down the hill, crossing Duke street, and setting out on a three hour adventure. “Click click click” went our gears, downshifting to tackle the overpass flying over Telegraph road. The May sun bleached the sidewalk, and a few cars drifted lazily on the highway below. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> There’s a certain solitude that lives amongst the bustle, and is one of my favorites. A warm wind washed over my face, calling me forward to experience the Unknown in the Familiar. If the flow of the city is a great river, a bicycle is a leaf swirling in the eddies in the unnoticed pools by the shore. We wound under railroad bridges and through thickets, marveling at the din caused by Brood X, the trillion-strong cicada mob. They flew through the air, littered the pavement, and throbbed incessantly, great hordes a few blocks away, and then right above. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Click click click” went our gears, shifting off the busy street, plunging down a leafy path to meet Holmes Run. A million little kids played in the questionable water, yelling with the invincible joy of summer. “Oooga Oooga!” I cackled as I sounded the clown bike horn bought expressly for the occasion. (I can be a pill, although a jolly one, I like to think.) Families strolled with picnics, dogs sniffed the wayside, and an angry young woman stalked by, wrestling with something in her mind. I hope she succeeds, and commend her for starting in the first place. Ahoy! A monster hill! Who puts a stop sign at the bottom? “Let’s blow it!” The graffiti on the railroad underpass barked slogans from unseen hands, and a tunnel lurked even deeper down a flight of stairs, a door to the underworld, or at least to the other side of the tracks. Warehouse doors lined a quiet street, sleepy faces readying themselves for Monday. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The cicadas sang on in the warm May afternoon, and our gears went “click click click” in reply. Oh, how I relish an adventure. </span></span></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-47271075416066880602021-05-31T19:17:00.006-07:002021-05-31T19:25:23.949-07:00An Observation of Venus<p><i>Hey folks! I have a new astronomy community over at Locals. Come <a href="https://theobservatory.locals.com/">join the fun!</a></i><a href="https://theobservatory.locals.com/"> </a></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">An Observation of Venus</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-3cb6675c-7fff-52e1-4a56-4233f829eba6"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Memorial Day ‘21</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“See these eyes of green? I can stare for a thousand years.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Hear the roar of the crowd, pressed together like innumerable matchstick men, ready to ignite at the right words. Dizzy with vertigo and pressure, the stage flexes slightly as you stride across it to take the microphone, peering down into Times Square, New York City. A special convention has been called to hear your thoughts. The world is waiting. What do you say?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Most of the time, I come up empty. That’s bad for a blogger and podcaster. But tonight, I should like to share with you an observation of Venus. It’s an evening star this time of year, looking like an airplane following the liquid silver of the Potomac river, mirroring a clear sky at dusk. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Crunching along the gravel road, my brain throbbed. It was a day in Hell. The old people I work with can be mean or pleasant, uplifting or heartbreaking, just like any of us. I think the focus is sharpened for me, because they invariably die, sooner rather than later, and often go insane, scratching at chronically bloody faces and sobbing to go home. “My parents are calling! I need to go meet them!” (This is not a metaphor for death, simply a wish of a mind wracked with dementia, believing me to be the obstacle of seeing a cherished relative approximately 138 years old.) Mix that with 90 minutes of “B-13….I-27” and you’ve got a lot to think about. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> A chorus of gray treefrogs greeted my wondering face. I plopped down on an ancient millstone, once worked with enslaved hands, my back to the plantation house. Gazing out across the now-still fields, sprinkled with early fireflies, my eyes settled on the Virginia shore. The gathering twilight settled over the land like my great grandmother’s popcorn comforter, soft, authoritative. Blinking red beacons signaled to airplanes that there was more there than met the eye, and I had to concur. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Life sure can be </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">complicated. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Taking the view in front of me, I pondered: I’m moving soon, across this very river. The past and it’s memories faded like the sunset, and the beacons signaled a path forward towards new lands. I’ll be sitting this summer out, getting ready for the journey ahead, yet previous summers whispered of good times and regrets only half realized in the murk. White clover blossomed pale in the evening, scenting the air as bugs danced a strange courtship in the air, and one crawled up my ankle. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> And there she was - Venus! Blazing in the sunset, beautiful to behold from a distance, toxic in person, not unlike some celebrities. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">do we gaze to the heavens, or at least to the opposite shore of the river? </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">captivates us? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I was watching Bevis and Butthead the other day on YouTube. I thought I should do something else, so I watched a talk on Heidegger, the German philosopher. (Then I watched some more Bevis.) He talks about the mystery of </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Das Sein, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">or “being” in English. It’s weird it all exists as it does in the first place, and then one leaps to the Zennish question “well, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">who’s watching it?</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” Consciousness sure is weird. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> My gaze traveled 150 million miles to Venus, and then five miles across the river to Fort Belvor. “ZIP! ZAP!” Back to Venus, and it’s pearly cloudtops, hiding the surface upon which metal spacecraft endure only a matter of hours before melting into puddles. Now back to the clover with it’s gentle scent in the night air. “Who’s observing?” Perhaps the act of noticing the Universe is to experience our capacity for doing so, and to engage one of the profound mysteries of </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Das Sein. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Extending one’s hand out to touch a wall defines the house </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">our body.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To quote the other YouTube viewing...</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We’re there, dude!” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> At the end of the day, so what? I got up from the millstone, and shot a glance over the plantation house’s roof. A light shone from an empty room, and a star called Arcturus twinkled orange 36 light years away over the dormers. That house holds a lot of baggage, as empty as it is. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Crunching back down the now-dark cedar lane, the thoughts continued. Do these questions even matter? I stated long ago that “I’ll never figure “It” out.” After spending many years on the Search, I’d have to agree. But a new idea bubbled up this evening. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> A definitive, all-encompassing, popsicle-stick simple motto might prove elusive. Indeed, it’s often frustrating and futile, trying to cram everything into oversimplifications like “Life is Good.” But what if the Search moves one </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">closer </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">to the answer, and that’s preferable? The Ultimate answer may be unobtainable, but vicinity to the Truth seems preferable. Milton defined Hell as a distance from God. Making progress on that gap sounds prudent. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I’d prefer not to die (I think.) Too bad. I’d </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">definitely </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">prefer not to spend my final days tearing at open wounds, seen or unseen, surrounded by wadded up tissues and ghosts. Perhaps I have some say over that, and perhaps not, but I’d like to </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">look at where I’m going. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As such, I’ll continue to pay attention, to notice, to search, to </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">observe</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Venus dances over the silver ribbon of the river, a haunted house broods silent on a hill with a single light burning, and my footsteps crunch on along the road. Hey, looks like it’s going to be a beautiful night for stargazing. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Clear skies,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Josh </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-27490428056772401112021-02-01T06:50:00.004-08:002021-02-01T06:50:54.545-08:00Nailpolish StoriesHey there, crew!<div><br /></div><div> Well, I stumbled across a marvelous place the other day...Nailpolish Stories! There are two rules for writing: 1. Base your story off the color title of a nail polish. 2. It must be <i>exactly </i>25 words. </div><div><br /></div><div> Oh man, I had to try! </div><div><br /></div><div> My grandmother asked me a question the other day. "<i>Why </i>do you want to move?" Sometimes 25 words says it better than 2500. </div><div><br /></div><div> I'm flattered to be featured on the site. Check it out - it just went live.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://nailpolishstories.wordpress.com/">https://nailpolishstories.wordpress.com/</a></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-11867846454955577622021-02-01T06:45:00.004-08:002021-02-01T06:45:55.063-08:00Dr. Electro XV: Sadistic Santa<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">Previously on Dr. Electro: Henry observes a sinister meeting taking shape, and is startled by an unseen door opening behind him. Dr. Electro and Crew get a move on, while Mabel and The Old One hit the road, walking deeper into the mystery. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-d330610a-7fff-9b67-f284-5e1c55eee8c3"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Electro, Episode XV: - Sadistic Santa</span></span><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What the?!” Henry exclaimed, his outcry becoming quickly muffled. With a quiet thud, he was down and...inside a giant cloth sack, the zip of tape sealing hopes of escape. The opening door he had heard a split second ago was the squeak of bad news. “Ho ho ho!” boomed an alarming voice. “Who are you? Why am I in a bag?” yelled Henry. “Just call me Santa Claws, pops. Take it easy, and stay on the good list, OK? I take the bad kids to the North Pole. Watch out I don’t hit you with a candy cane, capisce?” With another maniacal laugh, this sadistic stand-in started to drag the entrapped Henry across the roof. Bump bump bump over the cracks and wires, scraping the threshold, and thankfully, into an elevator instead of stairs. “Who’s there? Who’s that?” Henry yelled, still muffled inside the bag. “...Elves, boss. Shaddup.” A sinking feeling in his gut matched the motion of the elevator, and Henry guessed correctly that they were headed...next door. A blast of wind and rain hit, signaling the open door, and the alley pavement bit up through the sack as “Santa” dragged Henry across to the Tower, and the waiting League meeting upstairs. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fake Santa failed to notice two sets of eyes that weren’t sleeping, though. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Mabel and The Old One lurked behind convenient garbage cans, galvanized like the will of the two women who watched this abduction with alarm. The door of the Tower building snapped shut, nearly licking its chops, and the spectacle was gone. “Who’s in the sack? And...why Santa?” “I’m not sure, Mabel. But something will turn up. Can’t you feel it in the air?” Mabel had to admit it - there was a certain...electricity. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Just then: voices. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Blimey, the whole city is dark, old chap!” Mabel tensed, some menial worker deep in her brain warning “Ma’am, you’ve heard that before.” “Rutherford, I think this must be a </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">cover </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">for something” Electro suddenly spat out, clearing the alley where the women watched from behind the garbage cans. Mabel recognized the group now, and sharply whispered a pet name for our venerable hero. “Sparky!” The men froze. “Mabel?” “Over here!” “...Sparky?!” With a muffled guffaw, his compatriots pointed first to the trash cans, then to the mortified Electro, dimmed down in front of the boys. Murphy was especially gratified, feeling part of the crew at last. His expensive shoes were properly scuffed beyond Club standards, and now he wasn’t the only one with a weakness. Settling into this delicious new role of sleuth and Ordinary Man, he strode with the gang to rendezvous with the unexpected allies and Electro’s sweetheart. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To Be Continued… </span></span></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-63745799826166432552021-01-25T06:47:00.007-08:002021-01-25T06:47:52.812-08:00Dr. Electro - Episode XIV: Up On The Housetop <p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Electro, Episode XIV: Up On The Housetop</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-eb53e6e4-7fff-95d1-03f4-e5ab3c20b126"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Henry ran and jumped. The cold iron of the fire escape greeted his determined grip as he hoisted himself up to the ladder, which reacted with an alarmed shudder to this surprise visit. Up and up went Henry the clock keeper, climbing into familiar territory as the ground grew distant. Finally, he gained the roof, and peered down into the window opposite. Lamplight streamed out in an ominous yellow, interrupted occasionally by the cloaked figures as they all jockeyed for position around a great table in the center of the room. Suddenly, everyone sat down hurriedly, with a frantic rustling, and an eerie still descended. The creak of a carved oak door made Henry shudder, watching on the ledge across the alley, and even seemed to impress a dread upon the seated Members. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The Head Man glided in, obvious in his rank by the deference bestowed upon him by his petrified lieutenants. “So, gentlemen, it has begun!” A slow grin on his face signaled that it was time for jubilation, no matter how forced or grim, and a hurrah was mustered. “Come, come, gentlemen, although we strive for the Silence, we could at least give ourselves two more cheers. Things are best in threes.” As this observance was made, Henry </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">heard a door close behind him.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Below Street Level, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the bohemian room was empty, with incense smoke the only movement in the quiet. Mabel and The Old One drew their coats tightly, the rain taking on a persistent chill as the hour grew later. Steps echoing off the slumbering facades of the buildings, they wound their way further into the blackness of the night, and deeper into the mystery. “I just love a good stroll!” the old woman intoned, her words startling Mabel out of a reverie. “I see you’re worried, dearie. I used to worry when I was young.” “What’s going on, exactly?” Mabel asked her guide. “Why the power outage? What’s the League? </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Where </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">are we going?” The steps continued to echo, and the blank faces of the houses offered no helpful small talk to soften the blow of the Old One’s silence. Eight...thirteen...twenty steps passed, as Mabel began to count, suddenly having time to feel nervous. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Union Street </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">was growing smoky with Noah’s cigarettes, and Dr. Electro’s pondering. A man of action, Rutherford was growing restless, but it was Murphy who had the good idea (for once.) “Why don’t we take a few of your men here to make a little gang, and we follow where the broken wires go?” he asked. “Jolly well!” Rutherford sprang up, and even Electro was jolted to earth and to action. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be continued...</span></span></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-76883418835379764772021-01-03T10:53:00.002-08:002021-01-03T10:53:23.465-08:00Victorian Moon<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;">Victorian Moon</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-1b92d3ad-7fff-8005-12be-8088b7edb00f"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The Cold Moon loomed up through the forest, as big as a new idea, resplendent in purple robes of dusk. I saw it looking at me, and so I looked back, gazing upon this last tradition of the waning year before turning to walk inside. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The fireside almost kept me there, its warmth persuasive over the hours, but I had already set up a telescope in the yard. Its namesake was waiting just outside the door. The chill descended upon my upturned face, crystalizing my breath and the fireplace’s point, inducing a waver in resolve. But there was the telescope, pale in the moonlight, ready to turn a green glass eye skyward. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> An ancient landscape awaited in the eyepiece, silent and fixed, like characters frozen at the end scene of a movie, and what a show it must have been, a few billion years ago. Fire and brimstone were etched in rocky echoes, and lava flows cooled to a peaceful gray of a matured age. All of it was serene and forgotten now, lunar dust filtering onto an ancient scrapbook. Does the Man in the Moon have any regrets? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Midway through a scientific perusal of satellite geography, the moonbeams did what they often do, and plucked Reason out of my head. Perhaps you’ve been robbed of your senses by these silent pickpockets filtering through the branches, softly, softly. Many songs written, a love professed, and summer scenes remembered after the moonbeams steal away those earthly weights we call Logic and Sense. The clouds turned the sky soupy, and suddenly, the Moon gazed down with the face of a young woman, immortalized in a Victorian painting. The glow surrounding her visage, the mysterious half smile, emblazoned on the shifting clouds was now greenish, now sepia. Gone was the harsh reflected sunlight, replaced with a vintage phosperence of yesteryear. If one could have caught the sparkles of the waves of a hundred summers, and suffused them into the gentle orb floating in the midnight sky, the explanation would give even the most cynical telescope operator pause. Doubtless he would dismiss the story, but if the owls hooting deep in the forest were to glance over, they might see him reminiscing about something he wasn’t even sure existed. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Vignettes of noontime laughter on a beach, filling stations at the dawn of the automobile age, running through verdant fields, great great great grandmother’s oatmeal raisin cookies, and what a child thinks adults must talk about after bedtime almost appeared on the ephemeral light. The gnarled branches of the oaks reached up to snag a few of these photons, but like hands that try to hold on to memories, the light ran through their grasping fingers, leaving them empty as a locket in a pawnshop. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Above all of this, the Vintage Moon gazed down with that enigmatic smile, floating on in the midnight sky. I waved goodnight to this Victorian lady, and ventured back to the fireside. Although I had been robbed by the moonbeams, I was richer without so much of that stifling supply of Sensibility. I still don’t know what to make of it, but perhaps that’s the point the Vintage Moon was making. Like listening for echoes in a seashell, it’s good to sink one’s hands into the sands of Imagination, if only to build a small castle that gets rinsed away by the sunrise. I’ll be watching for her next month. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-17934977295172371322021-01-03T08:46:00.001-08:002021-01-03T08:46:13.789-08:00Dr. Electro, Episode XIII - Suspicious Minds<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">Previously on Dr. Electro: Henry feels the thrill of the hunt, and trails the League on their way to meet Professor Waverly. Mabel learns a bit about her late uncle, and how the League espoused a great Silence. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-c7dbcd7e-7fff-0eaa-5bbd-3e50b59acc6c"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Electro, Episode XIII - Suspicious Minds </span></p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “I wonder if this is the doing of those chaps we saw in the sewer? The Club of Inquisitive Thinkers or something” Rutherford mused aloud, as Dr. Electro pensively eyed the wiring puzzle, his brain as lit with the electrical impulses as the dormant warehouse power station was dark. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Something </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">was amiss. “The League of Inquiring Minds?” Noah interjected, a note of alarm in his voice. “Yes, jolly well, that’s the ticket!” “Oh no, those guys are bad news. I’ve only heard snatches, but from what’s told, they’re far more powerful than they used to be. The whispers seem to all mention </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">silence </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">as a motive.” </span></span><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Those piddling geography club members?” Rutherford retorted disbelievingly. “Got a stupid enough name” Murphy added. The socialite was way out of his depth, and the way he spat the word </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">stupid </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">betrayed his wish to add something pithy and gritty to this conversation among men’s men. “Oh yes…” With that, Noah ignited another cigarette, and the flare illuminated a concerned eye. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alleyside across town, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Henry ducked in, filling most of it. The procession had come to a sudden halt at an empty storefront. An idea of a glow, then the feeble gestures of shadows and candlelight on the wall appeared inside, their size and wild motion far outpacing the usefulness of light, not unlike a midnight fear brought about by misreading a bill. The ancient doorman leaned, wheezed, and opened, the cloaked figures scurried inside, swallowed by a waiting elevator. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The street returned to blackness, and Henry frantically tried the door, to no avail. Squinting through the dark, he could just make out the fire escape on the neighboring building. Blessed with long arms and a spot of good luck, he decided to employ both.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Below grade, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mabel crunched on a cookie, as her hostess continued. “The League was always talking about </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Great Silence, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">although we were never precisely sure what they meant. It just seemed to get worse at every turn.” Growing increasingly agitated, the old woman abruptly stood up from the table. “And there was a Frenchman involved somehow.” Mabel stopped mid-crunch, remembering the telegrams she had been receiving, and the map of France still papering her warehouse table. “I think we should do something” she said quietly. “Eh? Alright then!” With a tremendous woosh, action crackled in the air, the old woman’s many shawls billowed behind her, and she whisked towards the door. “Now?” “Why, yes! I love a good misty night! I think I know where to start.” With that, they were off. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be continued...</span></span></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-86870663982403903752021-01-01T16:10:00.002-08:002021-01-01T16:10:13.532-08:00Happy New Year! (And Dr. Electro)<p>Heya, crew! Happy New Year! Here's the latest letter I sent to my senior buddies. I hope you enjoy it, and best wishes for crushin' it in '21!</p><p><br /></p><p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters from Josh </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-99bff6db-7fff-5897-7130-61d4b7c12c1a"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> A Roaring ‘20 - Letters from Josh Letter 38</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Howdy, folks! Jazz is the spin of the evening as I sit down to write you a review of one roaring ‘20. Louie weaves his magic through the air, blending with the steam from the teacup, and a nearly-full moon graces the winter sky above the forest. What a year it’s been, eh? I saw a note from an acquaintance, saying “good riddance” to 2020, and it gave me pause. </span></span><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I know it would sound Pollyanna-ish and the height of denial to chirp merrily about “lessons learned” and leave it at that, so a more nuanced look is needed. If I were to measure the year, I’d have to give it the dimensions of 2x4 inches...of insanity...crashing down on my head. WHACK! BOOM! If 2020 were a geographical feature, a canyon would be appropriate. Gazing into its depths, I’ve seen death, rebirth, unimaginable strength, quiet everyday fortitude, despair, the danger of the petty tyrant, and the hope of the Individual aiming towards the Good. If 2020 were an animal, the Raven from Poe’s epic would be suitable. There it perches, but upon a clock this time, croaking a new phrase: “Fix what’s right in front of you.” </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I turned 35 this year, and feel like about twenty extra candles should have been added to that cake. The primacy of Responsibility (as opposed to happiness) revealed itself, and a shining example through all of this has been...you all, my dear friends. Your fortitude. Your patience. Your resolve. The way we’ve been able to lean on each other has sprinkled a bit of gray in my beard - perhaps they’ll end up seeds of wisdom one day? I resent 2020 the way I glare at a barbell at the shuttered gyms - it’s </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">so </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">heavy, and often crushing. But man, does it make men out of boys. For the hardship you’ve had to endure, I’m sorry in my heart. For the lessons you’ve brought me, I’m grateful in the same. And, to our friendship I raise a glass! What will 2021 bring? The only thing that’s certain is: we’ll be able to handle it. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Here’s best wishes that there’s some fun stuff in with the challenge, too. And here’s to you! Speaking of fun..</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Previously on Dr. Electro: </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Henry tails a sinister bunch (which is </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">not</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> recommended by the CDC), and Doc figures out the power outage is city-wide, a big deal times ten. </span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-4125f47e-7fff-0eaf-ffda-0a7327cb224c"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Electro, Episode XII - Silence and Shadow</span></p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The big man’s eyes gleamed in the dark, the realization of the hunt bringing a new life to his stealthy tread. If the tingle in his nerves could be packaged as a coffee, the blend surely would be named </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Call To Adventure, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">featuring graphics of bears, eagles, men in flannel, etc. Henry was on the case, his first technically, although millennia of unlikely heroes before him had prepared for this moment. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> These wisps of ancestors seemed to flit like ghosts around his ears, silent encouragement to face what Needed To Be Faced. Down the opposite side of the street he crept, keeping to the deepest of shadows, although the outage made the boulevard inky overall. Evil crackled in the hushed tones of the group of cloaked figures he tailed, and among the snatches of conversation, he heard: “ah, won’t the Great Silence be delicious!” and “let’s hope Professor Waverly knows what he’s doing.” “Oh sure, don’t doubt Waverly. To the Tower!” On they hurried, the Cloaks and their unseen tail, a lumbering, silent piece of wall with gleaming eyes, all drenched in shadow. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Below street level, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mabel found the conversation starting to simmer as she pressed “So, my Uncle?” The English basement, cozy with it’s tapestries, took on the gleam of mystery and import as the old woman began to weave her tale. “Yes, yes. Many years ago, when people </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">thought </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the world a safer place, I was a young woman, and your uncle a dashing, handsome man. We would take long strolls down moonlit avenues on spring nights. The linden trees would bloom so sweetly, and I so madly in love with him, that I’d wander and listen to his philosophical prattle all night. I think he was nervous around me, and kept talking so he wouldn’t have to kiss me, but I enjoyed his ideas just the same. Granted, whenever he got </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">too </span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">in the weeds or mixed up Jung with </span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nietzsche</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I’d have to set him straight, but </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">gently, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">dearie, because there’s nothing as fragile as the Male Ego.” “And the League? What about them?” As the clouds snuff out the glow of the moon, a shadow fell over the old woman’s face. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Ah yes...They were all about The </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Silence</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Some believe, falsely, that there’s only </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">one </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">right idea, and conflicting ones are </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">noise. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The League started to advocate for silence, first in the Libraries, but then we realized that was just the start. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be continued...</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-69838563173895835152020-12-29T17:19:00.002-08:002020-12-29T17:19:41.395-08:00Dr. Electro, Episode XI - The Doctor In The House<i><span style="font-size: medium;">Previously on Dr. Electro: Henry the Clockkeeper ventures out to investigate the power outage, Noah and Dr. Electro are also unsettled by it’s extent, and Mabel partakes in an increasingly subversive tea.</span></i><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> Dr. Electro, Episode XI - The Doctor In the House </span></b></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">
The smoke from Noah’s cigarette sparked a thought in Dr. Electro’s brain. “Say - you don’t think your boys blew the breaker, do you?” Puff, puff…”nope”. “Something bigger?” “Perhaps.” “I’ll take a look at it. I’m good with things like this.” “Really? All I know is that you popped out of the floor, man.” Although it was dark, Rutherford’s sharp intake clearly painted the picture of indignation that his friend’s credibility was questioned, even if the manner of entrance was...unconventional. “Now look here, old chap! This is a first rate fellow - an expert, the creme de la creme! His genius flies among the rarified air that..” “Look, let me just take a look” Electro interrupted his friend’s indignantly effusive praise. Noah squinted, and relented. “OK, fine. This way.” There was a flashlight, a short journey through a ghost town of twisted metal and snaking wires, and there they were at the main hub.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> High voltage applications have the same air as venomous snakes, in that one knows the poison is ready to strike with extreme prejudice, yet this understanding is felt more than thought. The main distribution box glared from the wall like an angry octopus or industrial medusa, inspiring a tingle of electricity in the spines of the onlookers, yet any voltmeter would have read zero. (That was, in fact, the problem.) Electro stepped up to soothe the troubled beast, a lightning whisperer in his element. The cares of the day, and even the chill of the sewer adventure, fell away as this sleeping panther seemed to crack an eye and stare back. Electro was in his zone. The only sound was his concentrated breathing, and he realized why his giant, deadly patient lay sleeping. “Noah, you’re right. This breaker is fine, sport. The problem is out there in the City. This puppy is fine.” To prove his point with his life, Electro reached out and patted the slumbering beast. Stepping back, he realized he was sweating profusely. Tingling danger will do that to a man. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>Across Town: </b>Henry excitedly lumbered out from the alley. Peering into the unnatural night with the scrunch of his earnest face, the barely discernible tread of muffled feet and shuffling cloaked figures met his attention. A bolt of adrenaline hit his massive frame, and his feet went into stealth mode as they began to follow the mysterious group. “Now that the power’s cut, we can install the Tower” he heard a sinister voice intone to a colleague. <i>To be continued...</i></span></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673015221770561797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-91995357477828774412020-11-30T05:18:00.003-08:002020-11-30T05:18:37.282-08:00Dr. Electro, Episode X - Ooops, They Did It Again<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters from Josh</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-c1ea3d6b-7fff-2860-12fd-609b4f8ad7d2"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Happy Thanksgiving 11/24/20 Letter 33</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Howdy, folks! I’d like to say not only “HAPPY THANKSGIVING”, but also </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Happy FRIENDSgiving.” </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You see, it’s the celebration of Turkey Day with the family you choose - friends, that is. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Thanksgiving 2020 finds me incredibly grateful, as strange as that sounds. Sure, it’s been a year that could be best described using the lyrics to </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Full of unwashed socks, triple-decker toadstool and sauerkraut sandwiches with extra arsenic sauce, and cuddly as a crocodile, yet...in this gunk of the soul, there have been remarkable examples of perseverance, strength, and beacons of hope that have lit many a dark night and twisty road for me. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> These sparks of hope I speak of, are, of course, you all. The </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">patience </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you’ve demonstrated has shown me how to be an adult. The connections we’ve been able to maintain, and in some cases, forge, have shown me that the Worldly conditions and prevailing winds of current events have little to do with genuine expressions of humanity. The purpose I’ve found in doing what I can, with what I have, to fix what’s broken right in front of me...has led to a deep sense of meaning and satisfaction of doing work I consider to be Good. For all of this, and more, am I grateful this Thanksgiving. Please know I’ll be raising a glass to you all this year with heartfelt thanks and appreciation. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Of course, it will be a Thanksgiving wish to celebrate holidays in the very near future without this stupid COVID stuff. But - I never would have known just how strong we all are, and how brightly we can burn, without this great darkness. I’m impressed. Here’s to you! </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Another thing I’m grateful for - this fun little series of </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Electro. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hope you’re enjoying his adventures as much as I am. Let’s check in on our fantastical little land, shall we? And best wishes for a peaceful Thanksgiving. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Previously on Dr. Electro: Mabel has tea with an acrobatic lady of mature age, while Henry the Jane Austen-reading clockkeeper puzzles over an unexpected power outage. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Electro - Episode X - Ooops, They Did it Again </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The house lights had joined the strike in the street, and quit as well. Henry fumbled for a match, thinking he might as well read Austen by candlelight. “Seems </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">right</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” he mumbled to no one in particular, as the clock overhead ticked louder in the dark (don’t they always?) Something kept gnawing at him, though, as he squinted at the pages. Answering the call of this mental mouse, he lumbered to the window, and peered out at the darkness. The scale of the outage widened his eyes. The entire city appeared to be cloaked. His boots echoed on the floor, the door creaked, and swung shut. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pride and Prejudice </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">lay open and unfinished on the table. Darcy and co were left to contemplate the glowing ember on the end of candle wick as the waxy smoke spiraled up in an empty room. Henry was off to investigate. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Back at the Union Street Warehouse</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, Dr. Electro, Rutherford, Murphy, and their mysterious host Noah, head arc welder, were all suddenly greeted with that boisterously sullen visitor - the ill-favored cousin who arrives at Thanksgiving trimmed in a black feathered cape, only to sit passive-aggressively quietly in the corner, a gale of “Oh, fine, fine” that must be contended with if the day is to go on. The visitor, of course, was pitch blackness - a power outage. Cries, and an occasional crash resulting in muffled profanity made their way closer to the group, as a harried worker appeared holding a light. “Sorry, boss, we blew the transformer again. We must have taken out the electricity on the whole block! Cranston thought we </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">might </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">get away with running more juice through the welders tonight, but guess he was wrong. We’ll get this fixed up right away.” With that, he vanished back into the blackness. Noah lit a cigarette, the match flare illuminating a face that was thoughtful, and not entirely convinced that Cranston’s boundless optimism was the cause of the failure. “Hmmm…” he muttered, taking a drag. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Have a cookie!” </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the old woman intoned. Mabel was glad to accept. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Your uncle loved these. We used to eat them when we were plotting against the League of Inquiring Minds.” “You knew my Uncle?” “Oh yes. And he would be so proud of you. In fact, you remind me of him. And, it’s high time you showed up. I think the League is back.” </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be continued...</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Josh Urbanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06279725212195688662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-24621867314868133182020-11-16T16:34:00.001-08:002020-11-16T16:34:12.177-08:00Dr. Electro, Episode IX - Teatime on a Rainy Night<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters from Josh</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-5b9a06f9-7fff-1001-4110-d302f0b3a4a8"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Gearing up for the Holidays 11/16/20 Letter 32</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Howdy, folks! Now </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">this </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">feels like November. The trees have all but turned in for a long winter’s nap, and the fire of Autumn has simmered down to an ember of oak here, a flame of hickory there. I’ve got some excellent news: a friend of mine named Josh just had a baby boy named Josh, which means...us Joshes are fast taking over. And we ain’t Joshin’ ya! I can’t wait to meet him. Nothing like a baby, right? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Speaking of fun things, I’ve been hard at work in the shop building a tiny train set - a magical Christmas village that I’ll be bringing to the retirement home I work at to show the residents. So far, it’s not </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">quite </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">magical yet - it’s mostly plywood, actually, but it’s getting there! A bridge over a future skating pond has been fitted, and hopefully the mountains will be installed this week. Did any of you have a train around the Christmas tree? I just love that tradition! And speaking of Christmas, I’ve been straining my brain on what to do during this upcoming holiday season. It seems a worthy topic: how can we make the best of the times in these uncertain ones? I don’t know. But, I do know this: my favorite part of Christmas is the sparks of magic I see when people are kind to each other. This gives me hope, inspiration, and the strength to carry on. Yes, I love the songs, the smells, the gatherings, the hearty handshakes and santa babies, cookies and eggnog, and even the traffic. Things will be different this year. How can we find gold in the darkness? Something gives me hope: any holiday celebrated in the season makes that a central message: Salvation’s birth in midwinter, Light’s enduring hope...So, if we had to pick a day to make better in challenge, well, we would do well with Christmas or Hanukah. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Their point is one of hope at the darkest point. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What can we do about it? For starters, I propose a Christmas card exchange. Drop me a note, or send an early card, and say you’d like a Christmas card. I’ll send you one! I’ve got a giant box of ‘em at Walmart, and I’m READY, man. Let’s do this! Looking forward to corresponding! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> And now...</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Previously on Dr. Electro: Murphy, Rutherford, and Dr. E. meet Noah, head Arc Welder at a giant warehouse, while Mabel slinks and lurks in basements. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Electro, Episode IX - Teatime on a Rainy Night </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “That must be Mabel!” </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">a voice enthused. Her eyes adjusting to the candlelight, Mabel scanned the room, but was only greeted with a pair of...slippers where someone’s head should be. “Yes yes, it really is!” exclaimed the voice from near the floor. Mabel dropped her gaze, and saw the source of the welcome. Two bright eyes gleamed up from the gloom, as a wreath of gray hair fell the rest of the way to the flagstone. Mabel’s gears were still jammed. Suddenly, the owner of the voice sprung spryly off her bench, and right side up. “I was doing headstands on this new piece of furniture my husband built for me! Keeps my brain sharp! Want some tea?” “...Sure!” A kettle bubbled cozily on a wood stove, and Bohemian tapestries graced the walls. The smell of cookies and incense hovered, a bulwark against the gloom that pervaded the streets outside. Mabel hung her coat by the door, and for the first time, realized it was heavy not just with the rain, but the weight of the World, too. Much lighter, she sat down for tea with her mysterious hostess. “I’m so glad you found the place” the old woman sparkled at Mabel, and they began to drink. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Central City, Clocktower. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Henry was also having tea, although it was the smell of time and clock oil that danced in the air, not cookies. He eased his massive frame into the small chair at the kitchen table, and absent-mindedly surveyed his calloused hands. The escapement had needed work today, and the grime of years was still impressed upon his skin. Now the giant hands reached across and picked up a copy of </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pride and Prejudice. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Henry was, by nature, first mechanical, and then, closely second, inquisitive - a perfect temperament for a man tasked with keeping the city on time through a careful watch on gears. The dutiful TICK TOCK of the five story clock was a heartbeat of his days, yet as the years marched on as surely as the cogs in the timepiece high overhead (and he made sure of that), he thought it might be nice to find a lady to share in a few of the ticks and the tocks. Even a mantel clock can echo something fierce in an empty house. And so, he was broadening his horizons with Austen. He’d always found that in clocks, more could be understood if one just tried. Suddenly, the street lights went out. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be continued….</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Josh Urbanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06279725212195688662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36734162168309011.post-44484654507988101342020-11-12T06:16:00.005-08:002020-11-12T06:16:42.793-08:00Dr. Electro, Episode VIII <p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">Letters from Josh</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-a0ed3682-7fff-af11-f6a8-f5156b7c75a7"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Bobbing across the Deep 11/10/20 Letter 31</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Howdy, folks! How’s everyone doing over there? We’ve got lots to talk about today - a new installment of </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Electro, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">plus some philosophy and astronomy. Pull up a chair - it’s good to see you! </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Well, I buried a friend yesterday. This was, obviously, a ‘bummer”, to put it mildly. However, there was something transformative about this event. I saw how much he was loved. I marveled that men who he had coached in high school in the 60’s returned to pay their respects, and realized that what you do </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">does </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">matter. More importantly, I saw that it’s possible to live a life that justifies the terrible cost associated with living. I’m sad at the loss, but absolutely encouraged and inspired to </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">make “it” count. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After the funeral, I loaded the telescope in the car, and headed out for a spontaneous observing session at a dark sky site nearby. I felt like I was a ship on an ocean of Infinity, folks! Man was it needed, too. So, I set up on this porch that’s cleverly called </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the star deck. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Ha, what a delightful bunch of nerds we are, right?) It was only me and the owls to keep company. When it’s that dark, you’re extra thankful for gravity. I mean, sure, it’s the thing that breaks dishes, but a few cracked plates seems a small price for remaining on Earth, and not hurtling into the blackness that stretches overhead. I sometimes think if I tripped and fell, but </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">upwards </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">instead of down…</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Anyway, the stars glittered, and the telescope conducted me many leagues across the Deep last night. Peering into the eyepiece, I glimpsed a tiny ghost..no wait, two...maybe three? It was the glimmering of Stephan’s Quintet, a group of galaxies where some of them are over 200 million light years away. Anyone remember the beginning of </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s a Wonderful Life? </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There’s the galaxies/angels talking about George Bailey, and </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">that’s </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">what I saw!...! WOW! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> As my ship bobbed like the cork of an ant’s bottle of wine on a mighty swell, the mist from the nearby creek started to creep onto the field. It rose with mystery, and I sat back and marveled at the Distance. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> And now, with the splendor of the stars still etched in my mind, it’s time for..</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Electro! We left Murphy at the door, ushered in by a short man long in mystery, while Dr. E. and Rutherford converged on the scene via the sewer. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Electro - Episode VIII - Noah’s Arc </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Entering the door behind the short man, a marvelous scene greeted Murphy, lighting his bewildered face with an electric blue. The giant hulk of a warehouse was far from abandoned, yet it’s age leant a majesty to the industry stretched out before him. Great metallic shapes loomed out of the murk, with an army of workers welding, cutting, grinding, and assembling vague forms in the gloom. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> All of this was strangely quiet, furthering the air of mystery, and Murphy wondered why he hadn’t heard anything on the street outside. “Best step this way, guv’nor” a voice at his elbow urged. Murphy jumped in surprise - the short man had materialized unexpectedly - and then ducked, as a giant I beam started to swing silently where he had just been standing. Following the foreman, for that’s what he appeared to be, they wound their way past great piles of steel, machinery, scurrying workers, and all lit by the flickering blue of the arc welders. They reminded him of industrial fireflies, illuminating the oily night with their spark, the acrid smell of hot metal stinging his nostrils. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “ORPHANS?! I do declare!” a British voice thundered as they emerged from under a tunnel of great iron beams, everything still strangely hushed. A tall, gangly man in rusty overalls peered quizzically over his glasses at the strange pair that had apparently just emerged from a sewer grate in the floor. “Hallo, chaps!” intoned the hearty Englishman, greeting Murphy and the short man. “Quite a little party here!” Exchanging a round of handshakes, rusty overalls attempted to clarify the murky matter in what was already a confounding environment. “I’m Noah, head arc welder on Project Dynamo. Welcome. And you are?” “Rutherford, by Jove!’ exclaimed Rutherford. “This is Dr. Electro. Now, what about these orphans?” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Uptown, on a quiet street </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mabel strode slowly and deliberately through the drizzle. Any artist would have jumped up in a fit of inspiration - the scene cried out to be captured in an oil Nocturne, but the street was empty, save her cigarette smoke that mingled with the fog. The click clack of her heels echoed on the steps descending to an English basement, shrouded in gloom. If the smoke had eyes, they would have been surprised to see the door swing open. Someone had been anticipating her arrival. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be continued...</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Josh Urbanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06279725212195688662noreply@blogger.com0