Up at the hot springs

above the river racing

to the lake below.


The Shoe Gene

A couple of days ago, I attended a “downsizing how-to” luncheon, and one of the presenters asked this question:  “just how many pairs of shoes do you really need”?  Well.  That brought to mind a few memories and a couple of current closets.  Memory first.

Not so long after Bob and I got together, he volunteered to help my mom and dad move from their home into a condo (little did he know!).  This was not so long after Imelda Marcos’ gigantic shoe collection had been big news, so perhaps Bob should have been prepared for what he came upon.  My mom had the shoe gene, the same one Imelda had.  Bob carried out box after box after box of shoes, so that by the end of the day he was looking at me askance–did I inherit the gene, he wondered.  Was the closet in his home that I was about to move my stuff into going to be large enough?  Perhaps ought he get himself gone?  He didn’t, and I fit.

So then, however, there is my sibling.  While claiming that the rule of the closet is one goes out for each that comes in, my sibling’s closet has a rather large (make that very large) collection of shoes within it.  I think the rule was formed way too late.  Enough about that.

Then, there is me.  As you are now aware, my closet contains old stuff.  As a shoe example, my shoe shelf holds my Birkenstock’s that I bought back in the 1960’s after Reagan maced the Berkeley campus, causing me to drop my new camera in my haste to get away and I felt the need to make a statement (yes, OK, that’s another story).  Anyway, there they are, still happily in my closet, not having been worn a whole lot during their fifty-plus year residency (good symbol, though).  You may not know (or believe, perhaps) that for most of my life I have avoided wearing colorful things.  Well, it is true.  I have over the last decade or so, however, been expanding the color chart by way of shoes.  I have blue and white polka dot shoes, purple shoes (more than one pair, even), blue and white striped shoes, lovely bohemian print shoes, turquoise shoes, and many others.  I am finally making a color statement, with my glorious feet.  Which means, however, that I have also, rather late in life, broken out with the shoe gene.

So.  The answer to the question the presenter asked?  Many, many, many!


Attempted poetry, again

Future Storms

It is when I think

of past storms and of laughter

that my eyes form tears.

Those wet eyes and cheeks

come also when I

think of past become future.


The Nose Knows

The phrase “no one knows what the Nose knows” has a bit of history in my family and is a phrase that is probably best forgotten.  However, today as I was out walking, I saw something that brought the phrase to mind.  So, apologies to the old Nose, here is the story–today’s version of what the Nose knows.

So here comes this gorgeous black and white mid-size dog, walking proudly down the sidewalk, with her human in tow.  The dog held her head high and sniffed the air to be sure all was well as she led her butler down the road (yes, I know this was not a cat, but I think dogs have butlers too).  She was clearly the Nose, and rather proud of it.  People moved out of her way as she strutted along confident that she had everything under control.  The Nose knew exactly who she was and where she was going.  It was truly a sight to behold.

So pardon me, my family, but the Nose today brought smiles and fond remembrance of phrases gone by.


Time, Re-bottled

Thinking again about time.  And memories.  I know the two are linked (see Time, in a Bottle), and it seems time to revisit that link.  Start with the idea that there is no Time.  None.  Then, who am I?  Where am I?  Am I in a when?  If so, how are whens formed?  My theory:  whens are time.  And they are created by my remembering something that happened to me.  Remember enough whens, and you have my time.

Time, then, is personal.  Each of us remembers something, creating a when and putting it in a bottle.  Stack those bottles and you have your time.  My time is not your time, not at all.  But, there may be memories of shared whens, and it might feel like we share time too.  But all we share is one bottle, one memory, when our personal times came together.  Even though there may be more than that one bottle, more whens in which we shared a moment and created a memory, still, my time is mine and yours is yours.

There may be whens  we would like to share with another person.  To create such a plan requires some common construct of “time”, so we can say, “meet me at the corner tomorrow at ten”.  We have to have a shared idea of what “ten” is for that to work.  So, we humans have constructed an elaborate structure that we have agreed to use so that we can create shared memories.  These can then be bottled and so become personal time.

This theory may explain why time seems to slow down and speed up.  The more bottles of memory I save, the slower my time.  We can choose what we want to remember, and that choice can be made at any point in my personal time–immediately and forever, or forgotten until remembered in some future when.

The important thing is that my whens are mine.  Time is personal.  But I can choose to sometimes place my time within that superstructure that allows us to share a when and hence a memory.

And no, I have not been drinking.



I forget the past

but remember the future

in all its glory.