Author Archives: MAGIC WOOL
HAPPY NEW YEAR 2018 🎡
Sunday Story ~ NO GO
Deep South
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The Law of Clusters
One of the enduring puzzles of astrophysics is how mass is distributed among a population of stars at their birth.
If humans are the stars and mass is good fortune, then yes, how is it distributed? Clunkily, is the answer. Or with luck if you want a glass half full view point.
Astronomers wade deep into theory, clamoring for the need for ‘next-generation’ telescopes and whatnot suggesting answers are only out of reach of our current technology.
Thereby neatly side-stepping the obvious conclusion which is there is no universal understanding for clusters of any age.
But you feel ‘em. I know I got royally ‘Clustered’ in September. All I did to provoke cataclysmic change, inadvertently, because that’s the point here, the clustering happeneth whether you like it or not, was to make some plans. I had tempted fate. I had taken on the Laws of Physics with my audacity.
If I could make a histogram of the stellar masses that make up the ravages of even a single day you’d see rectangles in tangles.
No universally agreed upon descriptive exists for such a collision of logic and illogic.
The scientists’ findings demonstrate the weaknesses of man. We want answers when we keep changing the question.
When I was ‘Clustered’ in September, one by one my intentions were rent asunder, I cancelled work engagements, I cancelled my hopes of reaching distant Serbia for the wedding of cousins, and then I was cancelling all my utilities accounts at my former residence in Key West, which was rather unluckily blown away in a storm.
Luckily, one might say, I was not home at the time. I was safe, north west, waiting on news. News that dribbled in and always changed and always a smidge for the worse.
Luckily, by any standard, a friend, a real-life fairy princess with a heart of gold sent word she had a room for me. From my new view I sip from the glass half full. Gratefully unclustered.
ON THE ROAD
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Road Trip
‘You do have a generator?’ Asked a guy checking in at Fort Myers, ‘but it doesn’t work?’
And he lost his mind. The power was not yet off, the storm had not yet made landfall. Emotionally the toll is what you pay in panic.
Since moving to Florida I’m asked, ‘aren’t you afraid of hurricanes?’
‘No,’ I reply, ‘they are fun in the Hamptons.’
But in the Keys, with Irma the wrecking ball, the situation was different. Main St., Key West is usually bustling with girls in bikinis, instead there were men with hammers.
Q, my excellent friend & former US state department policy analyst, from his spy headquarters in Virginia guided me to gas while others found none and booked me grand hotel rooms when friends slept in vans. Thank Q!
From Fort Myers I drove into Georgia, mostly on the shoulder which we were encouraged to do, nonetheless we crawled. Southbound was army Humvees, propane trucks, work trucks and no passenger cars.
One night in Cordell, Georgia and I awoke to a flat tire. At a gas station I offered $10 to a man. He was indignant. ‘I’m sorry,’ I squirmed, ‘it’s to say thank you.’
He beckoned his friend and they fixed the tire but refused any money. I hung with their wives. Tampa residents originally from Brazil, the ladies toted babies in Batman PJs and they all had big sparkly green eyes. ‘We are making a road trip vacation out of the storm.’
Perfect attitude.
Those who remained on the Keys are resourceful and tough as the nails they hammer. They stayed so as to rebuild. They are remarkable people. Those who can help did. I’m not a contender as I have a broken back from a car crash. I can get around but I cannot clean an island. Formidable friends are doing exactly that.
It’s been a week and the news from Key West is life is rough. No deaths but lots of cleanup. Their motto has always been: One Human Family ❤️
Go To Mama
I heard this great story about local kids from Bahama Village, which is considered the poorer section of town, read: black. Ernest Hemingway’s famous domicile, with its graceful second floor balconies and tended gardens and six toed cats sits on the cusp of Bahama Village and after one too many nights of ruckus he stormed outside and ordered the miscreant kids from Bahama Village out of his swimming pool.
‘Enough of this!’ He bellowed at the children, ‘You’re in my swimming pool every night. I’m calling the police!’
The kids, a posse of ten year olds were unfazed by the raging man, and one of them said, ‘You’re supposed to be this famous tough guy. Why do you need the police?’
The answer made Mr Hemingway laugh so much he said, ‘Stay in the pool! Swim whenever you want.’
Today the Hemingway House, along with all of Key West and environs, is under siege from hurricanes, tornadoes, sea surges that will cover all of the island. It’s a good time to have a second floor, and I hope the cats, from the quadrupeds to the intrepid humans who have stayed, are nestled high.
I wanted to stay just to see it all. I’m curious that way. Meanwhile all my friends were harping on me to get out of town. But I was throwing a book party and I was mono focused and not catching up with the threat level. I was phoning friends Tuesday morning gathering RSVPs and one and all told me, ‘Fuck off and pack and get the heck out of town.’
‘Pussies!’ I declared and bought a box of crackers and figured I was good to go. But still the pals clamored, threatened, cajoled. I said NO!
Then I got a phone call from little Miss Pacific island girl herself, Kate Hall Feist, granddaughter of James Norman Hall, co-author of Mutiny On The Bounty. Kate, who is part Tahitian and can out-canoe any native, has an island of her own, inherited from her grandfather. This girl knows about tropical weather and she was not taking no for an answer. ‘Teeny, get out now!’
We are friends since high school, and these days we speak maybe once a year. Life is busy, you know how that gets.
Kate phoned and put down her graceful claw filled paw and ordered me off the island.
As soon as I relented the angels went to work, including my Bama dude who texted, ‘Go To Mama’, and friends from all over time and space in my life moved almost as one to guide me through the steps to get out of harm’s way.
Thank you to the angels, you know who you are.
I am very lucky and I am very grateful. I am in Birmingham, Alabama safe and sound in a beautiful house with wonderful friends, a sweeping park for a garden and a generator!
I know the Hemingway House staff have stayed and I wish the best for every living being on the island currently under massive strafing and battering from Irma the Whore, the storm of the century. Good luck my friends with much love from Ox.
The Law of Warriors
Shooting Range
Three days of rehearsals and one performance. He could do it. He had done it before. He was a professional. In so far as his commitment to the craft. Twenty years in, at least, and still the day job at the nursing home paid the bills. He didn’t mind. He loved his job. He loved those sweet doddery old people and he always made a point to make them smile. Naturally he pocketed their strongest medications, all the nurses did and even traded amongst each other. But at night, for plays he’d signed up for, he was a star.
She did not feel like reviewing the play. But it was her job.
He loved the acting so much he maintained the fantasy he would ‘get somewhere someday’. His elastic plans stretched with the years where nothing changed. Unless you count the paunch, the thinning hair, the doughy skin. His hopes and beliefs were his only fuel to watch his weight, otherwise he’d be a whale, he giggled at himself in the mirror, wrapped in a towel and seeing an adoring audience in front of him, clapping, cheering. He bowed. The towel slipped to the floor.
After the show they met and went for a drink and a chat.
‘I’m sorry I talk so much,’ he said, winding down a near hour rant.
‘No problem,’ she replied, ‘I’m being paid.’
He frowned.
‘I was joking,’ she soothed.
He excused himself and she noticed him chatting too long with a waitress on his return.
He sat down and said, ’Do you like cocaine?’
‘I don’t know,’ she smiled, concealing her discomfort.
‘Sweetie,’ he unctuated, ‘Let’s go to my place and shoot up? And let’s bring that hot chick with us?’
‘Great,’ she lied.
‘Sweetie,’ he said, already sweating, ‘Don’t put this in your article.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she said.
He left to negotiate with the waitress and she unobtrusively escaped. On her drive home he texted, ‘hwer u?’
She wrote back, ‘shooting stars.’
image by Marko Miladinović