Graveside Meeting

"We left Dr. Pea in the past!!!" Marcus was clearly a bit worried when he shouted this, but it didn't seem to bother Mr. Burton. "Yes, this is true," was all he could say in reply. He was fascinated by the graveyard they had landed in after passing 95 years and 10 weeks into the future.
"No, Burt, do you realize what this means!? We're stuck in the future with no Xenon, and the only guy who knows how to get us back to the present is stuck in the past! All this on top of the fact that Herb is still stuck in some alien spacecraft somewhere between here and that mysterious planet Mirth!"
"Earth," corrected Mr. Burton, "and your shoe's untied." But this was quite impossible, as Marcus realized when he looked down--stick men don't wear shoes.
"Alright, look, you and I, Burt, are going to go searching around this place until we find a lawn gnome or xenon or something! Norman, could you stay and watch the time machine?"
"Hm?" asked Norman, his mind elsewhere, "Oh, yes...yeah, I'll do that."
Marcus and Burt walked off as Burt began jabbing Marcus with his arm. "Does this bother you?" he asked. Marcus took off Burt's hat and stomped on it, then continued walking. Mr. Burton just laughed and followed him, putting his hat back on.
Norman, meanwhile, was contemplating the significance of July 5, 2009. "Why here?" he thought..."Why this day?" He decided to check the gravestones to see if there was some significant name or date somewhere. He rounded the corner of a nearby moselium and was startled to see a very pretty stick-girl standing by a large stone. She turned and saw him. Her eyes caught his. He smiled. She smiled back. He blushed. "Uh...hi."
"Hi," she said.
"Uh...my name's...Borman Nufor...er, uh...Norman Bufort..."
"My name's Jessie."
And they shook hands.
"I've never seen you before," she said, "are you new around here?"
"Yeah, I'm from the past," he replied. Jessie looked confused. "Well, basically," he said, "one of my friends was kidnapped by aliens, so we built a time machine to save him, and then left a scientist in the past after being chased by a blast-happy farmer...and, uh...and now we're here."
"Oh," she replied.
There was an awkward silence. Norman Bufort quickly killed it. "So do you live here?"
"In the graveyard?" she asked.
"No...uh..."
"No, I was visiting the grave of the woman who saved my life. A year ago today, I was riding my bicycle, and I lost control. I ran off the road down the side of the hill, straight towards a river of white-out. I thought for sure I was done for, but then a strange-looking elderly lady rode her bike in front of me. Turns out she just happened to be riding by the river looking for washed-up text that day. When I hit her, she fell in the river of white-out instead and was swept away. Her husband pulled her out downstream, as I found out later...but it wasn't until today I finally found her--I'd been meaning to thank her for quite some time." She turned to the gravestone. "Too bad I never got to thank her in person...Thank you, Mrs. Mary Lee Furbus."
"Wait, did you say, Furbus?" Norman said, shocked. Marcus and Mr. Burton walked up about this time.
Marcus began, "No sign of Xenon, Norman--"
"A girl!" yelled Mr. Burton, interrupting Marcus, "Hello, GURL! I'm Mr. Bluggle!"
Jessie looked confused, "Mr...?"
"Burton," finished Marcus, "is his name. And I'm Marcus."
"This is Jessie," said Norman, still staring at the gravestone,"She was here visiting the woman who saved her life...who just happens to be--"

"Herb's wife!?" Marcus completed the thought. "Herb doesn't have a wife!"
"Who's Herb?" asked Jessie.
"Our friend from the past who's been kidnapped by aliens," replied Norman, "this doesn't make any sense. Unless--"
But he didn't finish his thought. At that moment, a time portal opened up a few gravestones away. "It's me!" shouted Mr. Burton. And sure enough, out of the portal jumped a second Mr. Burton holding a canister of Xenon.
"Everyone into the time machine!" He yelled, "there's a monster chasing me!" Right on his heels came a gigantic, sharp-toothed worm, snarling viciously. The others didn't need prompting. As quick as they could, Norman, Marcus, Jessie, Mr. Burton, and Mr. Burton 2 hopped in the time machine and filled it full of Xenon. Zooming back in time, they narrowly missed the jaws of the worm, and as they vanished into their time machine's closing portal, Mr. Burton shouted, "Cool! I have a time clone!"

The giant worm remained in the graveyard of July 5, 2009.

Earthling Delivery

"I feel like my insides have been disintegrated," Norman said as he stepped out of the time machine.
"And that's saying something," laughed Mr. Burton, "seeing as how stick men don't have insides!"
The four time-travelers stumbled onto the grass of 1914. They had been transported to exactly the place Dr. Pea had predicted.
"Here we are, fellas. We've reached the farming community of Bundles on April 26, 1914."
Marcus looked around at the cool night air. All was still. "So what is the significance of this pla--"
He was suddenly cut off by the eerie siren cutting through the silence. The four quickly dove behind a bundle of hay as a bright light filled the sky. Peeking over, they watched as a spaceship came and shot a beam down to the ground. Norman recognized it: "Guys, that's the exact same spaceship that took Herb away!" he whispered. At that moment, a tiny baby wrapped in a blanket descended the beam and came to rest on the grass.
"They returned Herb as a baby in 1914!?" Marcus said, his silent tone still conveying the deep confusion they all shared.
Norman thought, then shook his head. "No...no, wait...Marcus, do you remember the story Herb told us about...oh how'd he put it...how he 'came into this world'? And how, when he did, his father--Mr. Furbus Sr.--came and chased away the aliens--and that's how he found him?"
Marcus pondered. "Hm...yeah, I think so. But what are you saying--you mean, Herb was telling the truth?!"
"Has he ever told us something that wasn't true--in some weird way?"
"Well, no, but...I thought that maybe, since, in this story, he'd just been born and all, maybe he didn't have all the details right."
"Haha!" said Mr. Burton, "Herb Furbus is an alien!!!"
"Well, that would explain why he looks different than us," said Dr. Pea.
"Of course!" said Norman, suddenly remembering, "As Herb was being taken up into the UFO, he shouted out 'take me to Earth!'"
"Earth!?" Dr. Pea shouted a whisper, "I've just recently been studying astronomy--many scientists theorize that Earth is much like our own planet of Dot!"
"So Herb is from another planet!" Norman said, "That's really weird!"
"Is that why he smells funny?" asked Mr. Burton.
"How do you know he smells funny?" asked Dr. Pea, "You don't have a nose."
"Hang on a sec," said Marcus, "was this the only reason we came back to April 26, 1914? To learn about Herb's past?"
Dr. Pea got out the time formula. He jotted a scribble, then said, "You know what, I think there's more to this. Look. 856 + 92 = 948, right? Well, according to X + n = Y, we went back in the past 77 years. But suppose we combined 77 with 948, and went that many years into the future?"
"We're supposed to go 1025 years into the future!? How can that possibly have anything to do with Herb? He'll have great great great great great great great grandkids by then--"
"No he won't," interrupted Mr. Burton, "no wife, ergo, no kids, ergo, no great great great great--"
"Okay, maybe you're right," said Dr. Pea. He scribbled some more, then said, "here. Take 52 (weeks) into 948, you get 18 years and 10 weeks. Which, when put with 77, means we'll go into the future 95 years and 10 weeks. What is that...?" He typed it into the time machine, "...July 5, 2009."
"Are you sur--"
"I'll go see if I can't find more Xenon--we're going to need it if we're going to make an extra trip--" and Dr. Pea ran off into the night.
The three were left behind the bundle of hay. Marcus looked back to where baby Herb was lying on the grass.
But the spaceship was gone.
"Didn't you say Mr. Furbus chased away the aliens?" he asked Norman.
He was answered by the explosion of hay right by his head--they were being shot at! "Get outta here you rotten aliens!" came the booming voice of who they could only assume was Mr. Furbus Sr. "And leave that poor baby-creature alone!"
Norman realized what was happening. "He thinks we're the aliens!" He said. Suddenly, he and Marcus found themselves being pulled into the time machine by Mr. Burton as more shots exploded behind them. "Time to go!" said Mr. Burton.
"We can't leave Dr. Pea behind!" yelled Norman.
But they did.

Martin Learns To Dig and Mr. Burton Tags Along

"A lawn gnome?" asked Marcus. "We're getting Xenon from a lawn gnome?"
"I don't understand it either," replied Norman as they made their way to his garden, "but I just happened to run into him this morning. He offered me Xenon."
"How odd." said Marcus.
As his house came into view, Norman thought about how strangee it was that he was taking a trip to his own garden to get fuel from a lawn gnome for a time machine so that he could go back into the past to save his alien-abducted elderly friend. Thinking about Herb made him wonder a bit. "Herb's been gone for quite awhile now. Are you sure we have time for all this?" he asked.
"Why not?" Marcus replied, "Once Dr. Pea finishes building the time machine, we'll have all the time in the world--Literally!"
"So you've returned!" shouted the bearded garden figure as he jumped out from behind Norman's tulips.
"Yes. Uh...turns out we actually need that Xenon, uh...Martin."
The lawn gnome looked at Norman and Marcus suspiciously. "Do you have my dirt clods?"
Norman immediately remembered Martin's proposed trade. "No," he said, suddenly having an idea, "but I can teach you how to find your own!" He ran inside his house and returned with a small pink and green plastic shovel that was exactly the right size for Martin. "Just dig anywhere, and you'll find some dirt clods."
"Really?"
"Really."
With that, Martin accepted the shovel and gave them a metal canister full of Xenon. Marcus and Norman quickly made their way back to Dr. Pea's laboratory.
"You know he's going to dig up your whole front yard, right?" said Marcus. Norman decided he'd worry about that later.

Back at the lab, Dr. Pea was just making the final adjustments on the time-machine. Norman and Marcus came in with the Xenon. "Ah! The fuel! Excellent! In that case, gentlemen, we can go whenever you're ready!"
"TIME TRAVELING!"
Marcus and Norman fell to the ground as Mr. Burton tackled them both. "I LOVE TIME TRAVELING! BETTER THAN CRUMBLY SHOESTRINGS, IT IS!"
Dr. Pea, who had just got the Xenon canister as it flew through the air, gave a scolding look at Mr. Burton. "How much do you know, Burt?"
"Well, pretty much everything, minus the nothing I forgot to hear. I've been hanging from your ceiling pretending I was a pterodactyl, and I literally over-heard all about Mr. Herb's adventure with aliens! I want to go!"
Dr. Pea was about to suggest otherwise, but Norman (who found Mr. Burton's odd company very amusing) said, "Sure you can, Mr. Burton!"
With that decided, the four hopped into the time machine.
"Everybody in?" asked Dr. Pea.
"Check!" replied Norman Bufort.
"Check!" replied Marcus.
"Cash!" replied Mr. Burton.
"Are you sure this thing is safe?" asked Marcus.
"Not at all!" said Dr. Pea. And with that, they blasted backwards in time to April 26, 1914.

The Time Formula

"Herb Furbus has been kidnapped by aliens!" These were the words that interrupted Dr. Pea's meticulous study of a dung beetle. He wasn't disappointed at having to stop his work, however--he had previously been trying to research time travel, but had gotten nowhere. A dung beetle study was second best at the moment. He turned around, pleased by the intrusion, and saw Norman Bufort running towards him holding a crumpled piece of paper.
"Hello, Norman! What can I do for you?"
"You can help me figure out what to do, Dr. Pea! I was on my way to Herb's house, and as I got there, an alien space ship came and took him away! All that was left was this piece of paper Herb had written on!" Norman handed Dr. Pea the piece of paper with the words "when I came" on them. Dr. Pea examined the paper, then turned it over.
"Great Scott!"
"What is it, Doc?"
"How could I have been so blind!? Look, here, on the back of the paper! Do you know what this is!?"
Norman Bufort looked on the back. It was a rather random looking math problem: 856 + 92 = Bundles.
"I have no idea," replied Norman.
"It's a formula!"
"How so?" Norman said. He wasn't exactly sure it was the best time for dissecting nonsensical math problems, but seeing as how he had no better course of action to get Herb back, he decided to humor the good doctor.
"It's the formula, Norman! The one I've been looking for! This is the formula that explains how to circumvent the space-time continuum in a 4-dimensionally efficient mechanism!"
"What?" said Norman, a rather confused expression stuck on his face.
"Let me break it down." Dr. Pea began to write quickly on his chalk board. "Look at it this way. Each letter in the alphabet corresponds to a number, where A=1, B = 2, Z = 26, right? Right. So, if this is the case, then you can reasonably assume that these numbers stand for letters. If you take 26 into 856, it goes into it 32 times with a remainder of 24. The 24th letter in the alphabet is X. If you do the same with 92, you get a remainder of 14, which is the letter N. Add up all the letters in B-U-N-D-L-E-S...2 + 21 + 14 + 4 + 12 + 5 + 19 = 77. Divide 26 into 77...remainder of 25...Y!! X + n = Y! That's the formula, where X = miles per second, n = the number of seconds, and Y = years! In theory, if we travel at 856 miles per second (which is approximately 2.5X the speed of sound), propelled against a sustained resistance for 92 seconds, we'll be able to create a time-vortex enabling us to travel four-dimensionally to an exact time and place! We're to travel 77 years into the past!"
"But 856 + 92 isn't 77! It's...uh...(carry the one)--"
"948. You're right. There's some correlation there. See, 948 divided by something must equal 77...which means...yes, yes...ah-ha! A = 948 / 77! A is our trajectory, or the angle at which the time machine must face when we "launch" so to speak!"
"But we still don't know where to go!"
"I think we do! I think it's in this formula! See, if you draw Bentalagorus's Time Spiral over the word Bundles, this is what you come up with. D, of course, is equivalent to 4. If you add the L and the N, it equals 26 (14 + 12). Then, subracting top numbers from bottom numbers, you get U - B (21 - 2) and S - E ( 19 - 5)! We're to go to the city of Bundles on April 26, 1914! You said Herb wrote 'when I came' on the front of this paper, right? Right, so obviously, he wants us to travel to this place and this day in time! And this formula is how we'll do it!"
At that moment, Marcus came in through the door. "Where've you guys been!? I've been waiting for hours to go to Miller's!"
"Something's come up," replied Norman, "Herb's been abducted by aliens, and we have to go back in time to April 26, 1914 to save him or something..."
"Oh," Marcus said, "Okay. Well, I guess Miller's can wait."
"We'll need fuel once the time machine is complete," said Dr. Pea, "but I don't know where to get it."
"How do you know what fuel it needs?" asked Marcus.
"Easy," replied Dr. Pea, "X + n. Xn is another name for the element Xe, or Xenon. But I don't have any."
"I know where we can get some," replied Norman.

Martin is a Good Name for a Lawn Gnome

It was a normal afternoon. Norman Bufort was quite happy. He, Marcus, Herb, and Mr. Burton were to take a trip to Miller's One-Point-Two store, where everything goes for $1.02. As Norman stepped out of his house, however, he was surprised to find a lawn gnome in his path.
The best stories always begin with a lawn gnome in someone's path.
Well, Norman didn't see anything special about this lawn gnome at first. He had plenty of lawn gnomes in his garden. This one looked like the others, save for the Bermuda shorts and the ukelele he was holding. But as soon as this one said, "Hey, I got an offer you can't refuse," Norman knew things would never be the same.
"What do you mean?" Norman said.
"I'll trade you some Xenon for a dozen dirt clods." (Lawn gnomes, if you didn't know, have a thing for dirt clods.)
"Xenon!? What's that?"
"It's a noble gas," replied the gnome.
"I don't think I have any use for a noble gas," replied Norman.
"Suit yourself," replied the gnome, "but if you ever change your mind, just drop by the garden and ask for Martin."
Norman Bufort thought about how that name was quite a good one for a lawn gnome, but after that, he didn't think on the tiny plastic man anymore. Instead, he went to go find his friends. Herb's house was the closest, so he went there first.
As he approached, he thought he heard a low humming sound. The closer he got, the louder the humming became. Beyond the hill in front of him, a faint yellow glow pulsated close to where Herb's house was. Norman quickly ran up the hill, and the sight before him shocked him. There, hovering in the air, was a UFO. Beneath its round hull, a bright blue beam of light shot to the ground, and in the middle of that beam Norman could see Herb being lifted into the space ship. "Woo-hoo!" screamed Herb, "Take me to Earth!"
Norman quickly ran after the UFO, having no idea how he was going to save Herb from its grasps. He was too late. The UFO flew off into the sky with Herb inside, cutting through the air with the sound of an eerie siren. Norman was left behind in shock. His elderly friend had just been kidnapped by aliens right before his eyes! Norman looked to the ground and saw a piece of paper. Apparantly, it was the last thing Herb had written. On that piece of paper were the words, "When I came," but that was all. Norman looked up at the sky. The mystery had only begun.

Norman Bufort's Buddies

They say a man is more what he is (than what he isn't) when no one else is looking. But then, a man is not much alone, either. You've had the privelege to see what Norman Bufort is like by himself. However, someone pointed out to me the other day that, while Norman Bufort is quite a happy fellow, it seems like he can't really be that happy if he hasn't got anyone to share with. This is quite true. Therefore, I think it is about time I answered the question that has probably gone through your mind at least once: Does Norman Bufort have any friends? The answer is undoubtedly yes.

Here, I will introduce you to Norman Bufort's friends. As I mentioned before, his best buddy (who got a toy airplane for him when Norman was only 2) is Marcus. You may find it odd that Marcus is a red stick-man. That is only because Marcus is quite a colorful character, yet just as whimsical as Norman himself. An interesting side note: Marcus is the one who's been taking all the pictures of Norman Bufort in the previous posts--Marcus, you see, is a photographer. But you may ask why he doesn't have his camera in this picture. Well that is easy: It is obviously because Norman was using it to take his picture.

Norman Bufort loves learning. That's why one of his good friends is Professor Peiaatchdei (pronounced Pee-YAYCH-dee). Norman just calls him Dr. Pea. Dr. Pea is quite a smart man, though a bit absent-minded. But sometimes, absent-mindedness is the best quality of a genius--it allows him to stumble across discoveries no one else would find in a "present-minded" state. For example, Dr. Pea has recently stumbled across a formula that will eventually lead him to the invention of a time machine. You can see it right here in this picture: 856 + 92 = Bundles. It may not look like much, but that's going to be important later on. But that's a story for another day.

Mr. Burton is Norman Bufort's third friend. Mr. Burton is a milk man. He delivers milk to Norman Bufort in bottles. Mr. Burton is quite a strange character. He really doesn't make any sense at all. Random statements are his speciality, and Norman Bufort gets a kick out of it. I'm convinced that some people exist on this planet simply to provide laughter for others. That's their purpose. And Mr. Burton (who Norman just calls Burt) is one of those people. He doesn't make much sense at all. But no one holds that against him--making sense isn't for everyone.

Last but not least is Norman's mentor and grandfather-figure, Herb Furbus. Herb is always saying somewhat strange things as well, but not quite in the same way as Mr. Burton--being older, he sees life quite differently, and that fascinates Norman. Why, just the other day, he said, "You can't catch a fish with your hair." And of course, he was right. But Norman thought about this for quite some time and realized how true it was--sometimes that which is profound is disguised by that which seems silly. (If you're wondering why he's the only one who isn't a stick man, well...that's just how he is. I'm sure that's significant in someway, though in exactly what way, I'm not sure).

And so, these are Norman Bufort's friends. For now, that is all I have to reveal. But there is someone just around the corner who Norman Bufort has yet to meet...

Some Good Things Must End

Some good things must end, and the pain of that ending is often overbearing, so much so that the sadness of losing such a good thing outweighs the happiness of its past duration. Forever after, then, those good memories are mixed with the sadness that they are "then" and not "now" anymore. But they did happen, and just because they're over doesn't mean all good things must end. Perhaps good doesn't end. Perhaps it just leaves this realm, graduating into a more eternal, fitting one.

(This was a thought I sketched out after seeing the movie Finding Neverland.)

The Beach Ball

We try and try so hard to cling to life. But life, you see, doesn't fit in a clenched fist. The harder you try to squeeze and hold on to life, the more of it is forced out of your hand through the constricting grasp of your fingers. You can hold so much more of life when you hold on to it loosely, with an open palm. But then, maybe life isn't really something we can hold. Maybe, instead, we're supposed to just touch it. Life is . . . like a super-extra-large beach ball. You can put your hand on it and play with it, but you can't really hold it--not even in your arms. But you can touch it. And really, that's the best way to receive its joy--by touching it, throwing it, sharing it with another.

Haunted Potential

I went to a house this evening, tucked away from the street in quiet trees that know secrets. A tire swing was out back. It was a house of possibilities--paintings decked the walls; old books and furniture graced its quiant insides. It was all quite elegant--a house of mystery and intrigue--a house where things could happen. Its residents informed us of the supposed ghost they had "living" there with them. It was in their mind, of course, but with their surroundings, it was not an incredibly unlikely story. The house had history--back before our time and the time before that, a man built it for his wife, making it as perfect as possible. As he neared completion, she passed away. He never lived in the house. But perhaps, just perhaps...
There's always more to the past than memory can hold.
Across the street, there's a large church with high columns and old windows that holds just as much history as the house. It, too, looks like a place where things might happen. Throw in a few neighbors behind closed doors, a wooded ravine, and a railroad track, and there's even more possibility for a story's birth.
But it's that house that has me captivated. Paintings and mirrors and aged furniture. One of the cabinets opened by itself as I walked by. Ghosts always open things for a reason, to get people to notice something important; something overlooked. The basement windows below the house were large and frosted--I did not dare go to look in for fear that my reflection would give way to someone else's features behind the glass. In daylight, it was quite a peaceful, wonderful house. But a house with a past loves the potential of mystery--especially the haunted sort.

This New Day

I am Twenty.
Today, I have much to celebrate.

• I am celebrating that I have lived one-fifth of a century.
• I am celebrating the second anniversary of my 10th birthday.
• I am celebrating the fourth anniversary of my 5th birthday.
• I would celebrate the 10th anniversary of my 2nd birthday, but I don't remember that one.
• I am celebrating that I have lived for 240 months.
• And I am celebrating the end of the teenage years. 20 is quite a nice age.

Here's to this new day, and all those that follow.

The Last Day

Tomorrow is a new stage. Today is the last day of being 19. The most interesting thing about this "last day" is that there is to be a full moon tonight. Things happen under full moons: the tides change, more wrecks happen, more babies are born. But in stories, it's always under a full moon that changes occur. A werewolf changes from man to beast. A swan changes into a princess. A puppet changes into a real boy. Well, perhaps not all of these took place under a full moon, but why not? So here lies my inquisitive statement: Is a change to be hoped for tonight? Will I wake up in new shoes? It's the last day of being a teenager today, so on to being a man with a boy's heart. What change awaits with the rising moon?

P.S. The pictures and tales will return soon enough. I hope you have not minded the wordy delay.

Tasting Outside

I've seen more lilies. Pink lilies, purple lilies, yellow ones, fuschia ones, yellow and fuschia ones (or fuschia and yellow). And then, of course, the bright, sunshine orange ones. All vivid and wild, even in a garden.
Walking by the grass the other day, I was fascinated by the dew. It sparkled on the tips of the green blades like stars of some hidden universe yet undiscovered--one accessible only to those willing to fall through the grass into the portal.
We went on a hike this morning. A nature walk of sorts. One of our members did not enjoy it. Too many bugs for their taste. And their neck hurt the whole time. Everyone else quite enjoyed it. "Obviously you can see I did not enjoy it," said the unhappy one. "I think you missed something," said another. You see, life is a like a nature walk. You can focus on the obnoxious bugs and the unforeseen pain, but you'll miss something if you do. You'll miss the sunlight and the trees and the joy. It's worth putting up with the bugs.

Aging into the Future

One grows. One cannot avoid it. Time drives forward, and cannot be stopped. Growth is inevitable. So I have seen over the past days:

• A few days ago, I went with my cousins to see Herbie: Fully Loaded. It made me feel dated/old/aged: As it turns out (having loved Herbie as a child), I was the only one of our movie party who had seen the original Herbie films of the early 70s. Having been born in '85, you wouldn't think this feeling would come to one so young. Alas, days pass: this is a true statement.
• One of my younger cousins was telling me all about their planned-out future. The more she told of that future as if it were set in stone, the more I thought about how mine only looks more and more vague as the days do pass. "Why is it that the older you get, the less you know about your future?" I asked. My other cousin answered, "Because your future is happening."
• Speaking of the future, which is inevitably preceded by the past, I realized recently that, if this aging or gaining of experience or living the future (whatever you want to call it) is happening to me, it is happening even more to those older than me. The future is even more upon those who have lived longer. Considering how modern technology has sky-rocketed only within the past 20-30 years, it leaves me in awe to think that my generation and the generation that follows does not really have any idea of what life was like before we existed. This is to be expected, of course--one cannot experience what one has never known--but just think of it: To learn of how things were is a wonderful thing. Some things the generation before us had are things we now miss, such as the slower pace and the peace that came with it. Everything's so fast nowadays. One click, and my thoughts are published on the web. I thought on this generation-divide the other day while my grandfather showed me pictures of my great great grandparents and their lives, following time up until present day. We are not as wise as we think if we cannot look back to glean insight from "then" for the life before us.

Swans, Swings, and Lilies

Not all writing needs a point. Throughout my recent experiences, these three things have stood out to me: the grace of swans, the peace of swings, and the beauty of lilies. Together, they make a Setting--a scene where things could happen, or where life might grow. Therefore, I will write.
While sitting on my grandmother's couch, I looked to my left. On the table, there were three wooden swans. Their necks twisted in a frozen dance. It made me think of the first aspect of the Setting: the once unbroken surface of a glassy pond that now ripples with three snow-white swans that glide across the water towards the bank from which one watches them. That one could be you. I pictured me.
On my walk this morning, I saw a wooden swing hanging from two strong yet worn ropes. It hung from the boughs of a massive oak, or maple, or some tree that could bear the weight of peace. Let us now put that swing in our Setting--it is the seat from which one watches the swans, beneath the canopy of that tree. Be it you or me that sits, our Setting above the vivid grass by that pond of glass with three white swans and a swing is almost complete. We lack only the lilies.
I once thought only tiger lilies were my favorite flower. But having recently opened my eyes to the number of different sorts of lilies there are, and how wonderful yet mischievous they look, I've decided that yes, tiger lilies remain my favorite, but only as a part of a bigger category of flower. There are those stripped orange lilies--the ones called tigers. But I saw another lily yesterday that was a mix between orange and red and brown and pink (if you can imagine), and it had black spots. I called it the cheetah-lily. It looked like it wanted to eat me, and I thanked it for its hunger--it made it look all the more lively. It smiled at my thanks and let me pass on the condition that I keep its image in my head and put it in a picture. So here's the picture:
Sitting on a swing that hangs from the branch of an old and wise tree (whose identity is irrelevant), you look through the overgrown tiger and cheetah-lilies that grace the water's edge. Sailing through the water like three clipper ships, the swans make their way towards the shore, their necks acting as the white masts, their feet as the ambitious rutters of direction. They make for the bank of lilies on which you gently sway in your chair with no legs. What happens when they get there is something I have not yet imagined. I'll leave that up to you. If I were in that swing, though, I think I would listen for the words of the three swans. They might have more to say than either you or I could think up on our own.

Basket-weaving.

Woo-hoo! I weaved a basket yesterday. One might think such a task sounds quite boring and inevitably long-winded. Well, perhaps it's not for everyone, but I quite enjoyed myself. Along with my brother and two of my younger cousins, I weaved a basket. My own. It is one thing to look at a basket someone else has made; it is quite another to hold a basket you yourself have constructed, and take pride in the work behind it. Things made seem to me more significant than things got.

Things To Come

I recently discussed things with Norman Bufort, and he decided it's about time I told his stories. So, while I don't have time at the moment, rest assured you will soon hear all about his experiences in time travel, his encounters with aliens, and his interactions with some lawn gnomes in his front yard...among other things. Oh, and he said something to me that I thought might be of interest:

"Just think--anybody you don't know could end up not being a stranger: The proverbial 'next guy' could be your newest friend."

Peetzah Mahn

Plumbers who fight giant turtles. A blue hedgehog and a double-tailed fox against the creations of an evil scientist. Banana-loving monkeys who battle alligators and have a thing for barrels. A pink marshmallow whose arch-nemesis is a duck-like King. These are the masters of the video game world. But none are like the infamous Peetzah Mahn.
From humble beginnings as a delivery boy for Jeetza's Pizzas, Pete Mahn had always loved pizzas. One day, however, the evil Glut Tony invaded his pizzaria, kidnapped his boss, Jeetza, and created an army of evil partially hydrogenated baddies. Taking up his destiny as a Supreme hero, Peetzah Mahn must face such dark foods as Grild Cheez, the Anchovios, Hamburgenie Diablo, and ultimately, Glut Tony himself. Slapping bad guys with his pizza slices, throwing his hard-crusted pizza-pies like deadly frisbees, and complete with pizza-cutters and pointy bread sticks, Peetzah Mahn takes up the challenge with his friend P. P. Roni. Utilizing the health of garlic sauce, Peetzah Mahn will battle the evils of Glut Tony and his cholestering minions, without missing a single delivery to his customers! With twenty-three levels of pizza-melee, navigate the cheez-slinger to Glut Tony's Fat-Vat-Factory and rescue Jeetza.
When it comes to the ultimate video game experience, Peetzah Mahn delivers!

Norman Bufort Watches the Sun

One person once thought, "I think I know what love is like--it's like wanting to stare at the sun." But that person wasn't Norman Bufort. The tiny person sitting on that cliff above a sun-drenched valley didn't try and look the sun in the eye. No one can do that without becoming blind. Norman had no intention of becoming blind. But the light the sun gave, he quite enjoyed. It cascaded through the trees and slid up the side of the cliff to meet him with warmth and peace.
And he smiled.
Norman Bufort smiles a lot. This was one sunset among many that he sat with, quietly cheering the sun goodnight. He didn't have to stare it down to enjoy its waning light. All he had to do was to put himself where the light was, and look across to all the other places it reached. He knew he was small. But he also knew that the sunset was glorious, and that he was priveleged with a front row seat.

Perspectives

These are some statements that I have thought up over the past few years--they serve well in justifying what some would deem undesirable qualities:

• I'm not slow, I'm thorough.
• I'm not gullible, I'm trusting.
• I'm not afraid, I'm cautious.
• I'm not forgetful, I'm just good at letting go of the past.
• I'm not confused, I'm just awaiting enlightenment.
• "I'm not weird, I'm misunderstood." (composed by one of my brother's friends)

Summer Lullaby

The cicadas chirp gently in the summer dark. I sit here in the stillness, staring at a door that separates me from the outside air--separating me, perhaps, from the infinity of space that is beyond that divide. I feel a tug to run and fling that door open, to dive into that summer song and be swept away into the night on the wings of a soothing lullaby. It's that ambient noise that serves as the backdrop for those First Kiss conversations--the kind of talks between he and she that end in a new beginning. Or perhaps it's the serenade to which a dreamer looks at the sky and thinks, "I love. And it is good that I do." Even more so, it is the whisper of peace from the lips of a Gentle, Magnificent God--gentle enough to create such a sound, magnificent enough to draw us to Himself through such a simple chirp. On the song of serenity goes, and yet here I sit on the wrong side of the door. It's funny how often we're on the wrong side of the door, remaining without venturing beyond.

Norman Bufort's Fascinations

Another day in the life of Norman Bufort: These pictures were taken randomly throughout this particular day. He was quite happy, and mostly so when he was outside in the sunshine. Here you see him playing with a toy airplane. His old friend Marcus got it for him on his 2nd birthday--who knows how long ago that was...
Norman Bufort played with the plane for quite some time, zooming it around at arm's length, round and round in circles. He did it so much, he got dizzy. Right when the plane was ready to land, he had to turn around and go the other way so that he wouldn't be sick. So the plane landed somewhere else--someplace just as good. It was all in his imagination, anyway, so as long as it landed somewhere, he was happy.
Soon after, he put the plane up. He decided he'd walk with the afternoon's gentle breeze, down a road he'd never been down before. There were all sorts of trees and vines and bushes full of squirrels and chipmunks and not just a few bugs. The dragonflies were his favorite.
Norman rounded the corner and found himself at a fork in the road. In the middle of the fork was a big pile of sand. He walked over, a bit curious, and realized a turtle was walking by. He looked down at him with fascination. "Hello, Mr. Turtle!" he said.
"My name is Guibo," he replied.
"Guibo. Well, could you tell me which way I should go?"
The turtle looked down both roads, then said, "I was trying to decide, myself."
So Norman Bufort decided to sit down with the turtle and ponder the choice as well. They sat there for hours, pondering. Finally, Norman Bufort asked, "Why is there a big pile of sand right here?"
The turtle looked at the sandpile, then at Norman. "Why not?"
And Norman Bufort agreed.

Mirror Creek

I took this picture on a summer day, hiking with my brother, grandmother, and a few cousins on a hidden trail. This "creek" was off to the side of the trail, though it can hardly be called a creek. The water, you see, was quite stagnant. However, in reflecting the light, it becomes quite beautiful. I think it is quite an apt analogy--God is in the business of making stagnant, putrid things into splendid masterpieces, and this not in and of themselves, but because they allow themselves to be transformed in reflecting His Light.

And it is eternal love that binds the mirror with the Source, the Source with the mirror:
"One has a glimpse of a country....Every one there is filled full with what we should call goodness as a mirror is filled with light. But they do not call it goodness. They do not call it anything. They are not thinking of it. They are too busy looking at the source from which it comes."
-C.S. Lewis: Mere Christianity

Norman Bufort

Not much is happening in my life today. So I decided I'd tell you about somebody else. Meet Norman Bufort. That's his name--first name, middle name, respectively. His last name is of no consequence. It could be Jones, or Smith, or Bernstein--whatever you like. Norman Bufort is an everyman. He's a stickman. Well, actually, he's not a man at all--he's more a teenager, or a boy...or maybe he's quite old. I'm not really sure. But I don't think it matters. Norman, you see, is a simpleton--in the best sense of the word. It doesn't take much to make him happy. He's fascinated by bubbles and fire flies and red balloons. He counts his toes sometimes. I know it doesn't look like he has any, but if you look closely...well, you can't see them, but they're there.

To sum it up, Norman Bufort is someone I admire quite a bit, even though he's not really anyone I actually know. He's the personification of simplicity, and you'll hear more about him more later on. For now, meet Norman Bufort.

Disclaimer: Any similarity to any real people or actual stickmen is strictly coincidental.

A recent truth.

Enjoyment does not require possession. Possession does not ensure enjoyment. Not everything must be possessed to be enjoyed.

A previous thought.

To lose hope is to lose.

A simple statement.

I'm a writer, despite my lost works.

up from the ashes of loss

So here I am, inspired by a recent amount of pain to post my thoughts for the world to see. I just accidentally deleted a great deal of my past writings off of my computer in trying to save them, all because I was so eager to get them back--too eager, in fact. And when you're too eager to possess or re-possess something, it normally just slips through your clutching grasp. As a self-declared writer, losing past works is a severe blow. It's like pieces of my mind have been erased, and there is no retrieval. But then I realized that those things I lost were the things I never shared. Hence, inspiration. Herein, I seek to share. What is a writer if he does not share what he writes? What is an artist if no one sees his paintings? We create to relate--so here I am, sharing, relating. I'm a human just like you, and it's about time we stopped hiding things. We're not so alone as we think--I'm finding this is true the more and more I give and share of myself. This is me, sharing...