Boring is Bad

B O R I N G     I S      B A D

One has to be a pupil before one can teach. But that doesn’t mean that once one becomes a teacher they stop learning. These processes usually go hand in hand. Show me a teacher that has stopped learning, and I would recommend for one of his pupils to take his pulse, I assume it would be found that he has been dead for the last few years. If he were a music teacher, I would ask his students to restrain from making any deadbeat remarks, or if he runs the school paper the journalist better not make any deadline comments. The teacher is always learning because of outside influences; books, newspapers, T.V., radio, and also people smarter than the teacher. The process of teacher-pupil is a two-way thing. The teacher can actually learn something from his students? Of course! It doesn't necessarily have to be about the subject he teaches, but about behavior and attitudes at the very least. But does it stop here? Of course not! There are many things a teacher can learn from his students. He soon finds out that a homework paper is a dog’s favorite food. He learns that it was much more fun to be a student than it is to be a teacher. He learns many things. Sometimes even about his own specialty. Of course not! (Oh, sorry…  I was getting sort of used to saying that…)

Some of us will never learn. Some seem to never lose hope. There are still people who have never heard of Murphy's Law. Others, though they have heard of it either don't believe it, or don't see the sense in it. These people are lawbreakers.

It’s not a good idea to make Mr. Murphy unhappy by breaking his law. This is a very serious crime. Lack of negative thinking is an epidemic that is ruining our society. Although when there is a lot of negativeness around, it makes me almost look positive, and I wouldn’t want to be known as a Pollyannist. Still, I think it’s an obligation to be firm with these laws.

We should have separate jails for Murphy's Law breakers. Or maybe we can stuff them on the shuttle and leave them on the moon.

If this becomes practice (and it probably will since I mentioned it), I think I'm going to break the law of Mr. Murphy so that I can ride aboard the shuttle. While a ride on the shuttle is not worth the sacrifice of having to spend the rest of my life on the desolate moon, I figure it is worth the chance of trying to take over the flight and change courses. Success would mean spending the rest of my life on one of the sunny Venusian beaches.

I really do need to take a trip. A long trip. Maybe around the world; or at least around the block. Maybe if I just walked around the room a few times.

I need change… I have a dollar, but I want a gumball. That's the way life is; you can have more or less than you want, but never exactly what you want. Like that old ancient saying goes:

"You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you get what you need."

Was it John Wayne or Mick Jaeger who said that?

"The grass is always greener on the side of the fence without the dogs…"

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, unless you're a bird watcher."

                — Sayings from the book of Rhumit.

Actually I could never leave my humble abode (be it ever so humble.) I am truly a homebody, or is that a homely body?...

Change can be upsetting, disorienting, and yet unavoidable. In school I hated changing classes between periods, even when I was leaving classes I hated. I like my moods evened out throughout the course of a day. If I start out feeling miserable at the start of a day I would just as soon stay miserable throughout the rest of the day. I hate up and down days, like school used to be — good class, bad class, good class… I hate that! Why can't the educators even things out by making everything either all good or all bad. I would prefer not to have them all be somewhere in-between, because that would be too boring. It's fun to cry about how much you hate something, or even, once in awhile, exclaim how you enjoy something. But what's there to say about something that's average? And I don't mean average in the way the critics use the term, when they say a movie or play was average, they really mean to say it was bad. Because after almost every movie a critic rates as average, he or she strings out a long list of shortcomings. Now you know, that after so much interjection and thought going onto ways to tear someone apart, he or she must have had fun.

The way you can really tell a movie is average is when it is just called "average," and there is nothing else. There is nothing to say about something that is really average. So average is boring, worse than bad, and even worse than good. It leaves you with nothing to reminisce upon. Nothing to sharpen your claws, and polish your verbal expletives on.

How about the average teacher? Does the average teacher really do more harm than good? The average teacher bores his students and leaves them with nothing to say, so they go away empty, which many of our children do today. This empty is bad. Sometimes empty can be good, because it is usually the want of mankind to fill anything that's empty. Empty is incompleteness. As the young person steps out into the world, empty of experience, sometimes this rawness, this emptiness, leads to bold intentions and radical conclusions. Before the mind is shaped in conventional ways, this is the time when all great geniuses make their most significant gifts to mankind. When the mind is full of traditional rationale, no new abstract thinking will tend to enter. It's in the process of filling that mind when all the great revelations occur. In this manner, it is usually the young mind, the empty mind, which is the best. The young mind cannot fall back on past experiences and so does not readily fall into the ruts of conventional thinking. If that young mind happens to be that of a genius, then it can lead to uncharted territory and break-through for the enlightenment of all mankind.

But a bored mind, empty or full, can only lead to stagnation. Education is not a joy to the student of an average teacher, so although that student may possess the potential skills to make that bold step to a level higher than the typical person, he never feels the urge to, that hungry desire that is so necessary has not been honed. If a hungry child, bored with the daily feedings of oatmeal, had a choice between eating oatmeal or going to bed hungry, I would pick a short bedtime story. Bored minds lose their hunger for knowledge.

You might say a bad teacher can only be worse. He leaves students with a bitter taste in their mouths. But herein lies the difference between bad and average; when something has left you with no taste, you don't search for that experience again. In this same way, the bored mind no longer searches for more knowledge. But how long would that same person leave a bad taste in their mouth? Most likely they will search for something to eradicate that bad taste. A pupil who has had a bad experience in class is left frustrated, angry – with a bad taste in his mouth. After a while he looks for something to change that frustration, search for something to rid his mouth of that bitter taste. The only thing that can change his distorted or misguided knowledge is clear insight into more reliable knowledge. Truth as opposed to lies, but the teacher doesn't have to lie to be unfit, better yet-- enlightenment as opposed to confusion. When the mind is confused it searches for logical paths to sort out the confusion and make sense of small parts of the total picture, even if the picture, as a whole, is incomprehensible. The student might take it a bit slower the next time around, sorting information bit by bit, instead of in confusing lumps. But for him there will be a next time.

Most people, when turned off by a religion or even diocese will go find another and not just give up on God, knowing that it’s the frailties of man that can distort the views of the big picture, even when the big picture itself has never changed.

The divorcee is always most vulnerable to another romance right after the separation. Is that because the divorcee is looking for another bad experience? Of course not, but they are looking to right a wrong. When you've had a bad love affair you search desperately for a good one.

But wouldn't it be best to have that original love be good? Isn't the same true for teachers?

Teachers are all-important. Even when they are on strike they are teaching... They have a direct hand upon our future. Teaching is more important for us than anything else, for it is what separates us from the insects. It is what led us to the present day, modern world. The building of knowledge through teaching. I don't need to be an Einstein to use his equations, because they were taught to me. I didn't have to try to work them out myself with an inferior mind to that of Mr. Einstein. I didn't have to invent and design my typewriter to be able to make use of it, either did the company who made it. That knowledge was passed down to them, leaving room and time for them to make improvements on the original and thus making a better product. The automobile is the classic example of an accumulation of many individual inventions all put together into one package that without any one of the many would not lead to the same final product.

Teaching doesn't start in the classroom (At least not in Strongsville.) From the moment a child is born he is learning and being taught and influenced by everyone around him. His brain is forming and growing from the start. Even the best teacher can only do so much when there is no cooperation from home. Parents should be aware of what

goes on inside their children's school and classes. Parents should take heed in pointing out the fact that they believe a teacher to be bad. This doesn’t mean that they should automatically take the child’s side, because many times today I see the parents defending their child’s bad behavior and this only teaches their child that bad behavior is acceptable. The parents have much more influence over their children than can one “bad” teacher can have. Let them know that there are good teachers out there, and help guide them when they most need to have a good experience in education. I think a good teacher is delighted to have parents take a constructive interest in their children's learning.

And if a teacher is boring your child, rescue him from the sea of tranquility (No – Don’t send him to the moon!) but show him that learning can be a wonderful, almost magical, experience. Learning can be fun. Otherwise mankind would have never made it this far.

Teach your children well …   (Please don’t Nash your teeth Mr. Graham)

Sincerely,   

èim  Uhr

P.S. A single cell in the brain may have

        direct contact with 1,000 others. A

        single teacher reaches 1,000's of

        young minds …

What are we teaching???

School Daze

A Day in The Life

A DAY I N THE L I F E

I am listening to the radio, trying to write. I remember how unsuccessful that has been for me in the past, so I turn it off…

God, the silence is killing me…

I lean back on my chair, carefully so as to prevent the tablet from falling off my knee. The distant sound of a barking dog and the infrequent passing of cars, echoes in my head. I can hear an indistinct ringing. Not sure if it's church bells or in my head, I block the sound out. The dog continues to bark…

The smell of oil penetrates my nostrils from the oil heater at my feet. Thank god it also penetrates my bones and gives me momentary warmth and protection from the cold.

If there is such great warmth in Hell, then is heaven frigid?

There are two table lamps in the room I occupy, for in this room no overhead light exists. I write in shadows, as the light from these lamps barely succeed in chasing away the darkness.

I like the light…

I thought I could hear the wind rustling through the rafters, but it's just another passing car. I wonder what it would be like to be in that car. Though I cannot see the street below me, I wish I was a passenger in that car I hear moving by, living in his or her world – a world that I will never know or have a chance to understand.

Would that dog please shut-up!

I look at the typewriter on my desk in front of me, smiling at its presence. I think of all the work involved in first writing everything in longhand, half printing and half writing, only to later two finger type it all over on a fresh piece of paper. What a waste! I don't mind the time involved, I just hate to see another fresh, clean piece of paper dirtied… What a waste. Maybe I should start using my computer. But the dust has settled nicely on it and I hate to disturb it.

The blackness that engulfs my soul comes out by way of words and spreads out to cover and taint a nice white piece of paper in the form of black. From white to a slowly growing blackness filling the page. Words defecating on the pristine white of the page, changing it forever

Maybe I should change my font color to red, or something more happy…

It's a shame that there aren't more outlets in this room so I could plug in all my lamps. It's a shame there aren't more outlets in my life so I could put to use a head-full of ideas. I can barely afford to allow two of the plugs for lamps, I need my typewriter and radio, for I am running out of sockets. My radio is off and I'm not using the typewriter, but to exchange plugs on a temporary basis, just for another couple of lights, would only be extra work.

I get tired even thinking about it.

I am glad that dog has stopped barking.

The heat from the burner feels good on my body, just as the light feels good to my eyes. I gaze upon the masses of books about, most of which are scattered allover the floor. The biggest and heaviest of the hardbacks are presently being used to straighten out a crinkled poster in the middle of the floor. I think it's a picture of mass nudes on a beach, but I'm not sure, seeing as it has been a long time since I had last seen it. It takes a long time to straighten out wrinkles in a poster unless you could bend them in the opposite direction for a period of time. But I am in no hurry and I don't mind things a bit wrinkled, a little bent out of shape.

I wonder if there is snow outside. These past days have been so cold. Running the heater continuously is a temptation, but then I would need a steady flow of oil…

Then there is the matter of the smell…

Even after getting up to look out the window, I still cannot tell if there is snow. Even the small amount of light the two lamps shed make the windows look like mirrors, so the wall behind me is all I see when I look out. I notice that the dog has not barked for quite some time as I listen to another car whizzing past. I imagine the zagged tire marks he leaves in the imaginary snow. I'm sure the snow covers those tracks before he can see them in his rear-view mirror. No one will ever know he has been down this street.

Possibly the dog has stopped his incessant barking because he has escaped and found his way to the street… the car… in such a hurry…

I have a globe in this room. The Earth. Smooth. Mostly blue. I look at it and wonder at all the water. So much water, and I – never to have seen an ocean. The land has freckles, spotted with names and bumps, but the water is smooth and a consistent blue, with fewer words written on it. The words and the land dirtying the perfection of the blue. It's a nice globe, except for the land and the writing…

I wish I would turn back on my radio, but I know I really don't want to. It's funny how my radio just sits there next to my filing cabinet, in which this article will also sit upon completion. God knows when that will be! I know that if I were to open that top drawer of my filing cabinet all the way it would topple over, probably on my radio, which really wouldn't matter because I bet if that cabinet fell it would crash right through the floor, taking me and everything else in the room with it. My own private sink hole. The top drawer is the heaviest, mostly filled with supplies. If only I would keep the heavier things in the bottom drawer there would not be the fear of it falling over. I wish it could be better arranged but that's the way things go. Some day I will learn. I hear floors are expensive.

The football pennants and the posters in this room give it a sort of presence. The various posters have a pretty wide range of topics and scenes. From spaceships to oceans and other worlds, from kittens to feathered friends, and robots and lasers to baseball players and fields. Life to death.

I would like to see if there is snow outside, but I dare not turn out the lights so I can see out. I notice a slight headache as I look to the time on my watch. I can almost hear it ticking, but I can't hear that dog that's always barking. Time doesn’t really tick, it ebbs.

I close my eyes, feeling a bit funny, but not abnormal.

If I felt fine – I wouldn’t pay it. If I felt more funny – I wouldn’t laugh. If I felt… If only… I… felt.

My stomach is about ready for a beer or two as it's about time for me to get ready to go out for the night.

I wonder what I'll do tonight?

                                                                                 ‘Til Later,

       èim  Uhr

                                    P.S: Maybe I'll see you tonight…

                                           Bet you won't recognize me.

Silence and I                        Should I let it show?

               Secrets

A Brown Cleveland

A    W I N D Y    L O S S

The wind? The wind. The wind! The wind… ah, the wind. I was never so conscience of the wind. It wasn't unbearably strong, or cold for that matter. I just noticed the wind especially because it was… different. That's all, just different. How, I'm not sure. Trying to describe how the wind felt that day would be like trying to explain the feeling of love. Ah, but these unexplainables were so dissimilar. Unlike love, I understood that wind. I couldn't describe it, but yes, I understood the evilness of that wind. Just as you don't have to be a philosopher to feel love. I understood that wind without ever having felt it before.

Evil.

Evil like no man ever knew. Like no man could ever know. Without blood nor flesh, soul or heart. Evil could now be conceived to its fullest extent. To feel all the destruction possible, without ears or eyes, and whisper it in the night. The wind did not and could not talk, and yet was heard. It could not see, yet always hit the weakest side of the house and blew off the leaf with the thinnest stem. Lacking flesh and mass, not a day went by that its presence wasn't felt.

To blow from seemingly no source, to move about freely with no aim but its own ...

To be the first life giving gasp of a new born: to be part of the relief and joy after finishing a race; to pillow and support huge D-C 10'S; to give each bird it's flight; to cool a hot brow on a hot summer's day; to glide a ball, through the sky, with which the children play; to play with a kite above the trees; to carry a child's escaped balloon up and off to some place unknown; but also having the power and will to destroy any town.

To some days relax and simply play dead, to roll ocean waves and watch the seagulls overhead, to fly freely, to know no bounds, to have sinned, to shake and crumble, setting whole cities to rubble, to be the wind. The wind.

Tonight the wind is evil. Tomorrow sane. To be anything. At any time. Except plain.

Yes, the wind. It was the wind on that special night that caused such calamity and pain. A stream of oxygen and carbon dioxide molecules that had such a fateful result on the actions of a few, but the lives and hearts of many. An absolute wind that brought a final climax down upon the heads of those expecting more. Without wind this day might have ended better…

This wind had directly caused the watering of many people’s eyes by irritation, in a way not so subtle that had stopped progress short of reaching the goal. These tears were not from irritation, but from sadness. Tears wasted on grass that didn't ever need watering.

The loneliest creature in the Universe feel down to his knees with head in hands before the people that had put so much trust and hope in him. They offered him no condolence as they could only think of that wind. The dreaded wind! The wind that blew in that lonely man's face and carried his tears away in the breeze.

The man was now alone. Once the center of attention, now he stood alone. He hated the wind the most. For it was the wind that had stolen the chance of heroism from his grasp. Blame it on the wind. The wind, how it blew so cold today…

It was the wind that blew his straight, seemingly good kick back and stopped it from crossing over the goal posts, dropping inches short. The kick was strong and true, but the wind prevailed in the end as the football fluttered short.

On the last play of the game the field goal that would have won it was not to be. For the wind. Without eyes, ears, mouth, or feelings, it was the wind that made the choice. The wind chose the victor on that cold day in January and sent the home team and fans away with heavy hearts.

Intercepting your affection,

     èim  Uhr

P.S. I threw a party the other day. It was an all sports party, and all had a good time. I pitched my spiel about getting rich by raising foul (fowl) to the baseball players, but they walked away as I struck out. I passed a stock tip to the football players and they rushed right out to contact their brokers. The tiddlywinks player flipped when he received my invitation and thus couldn't make it suffering from a slipped disc. The hockey players checked out and made passes to the waitress, who claimed they had no goal. Polo players rode by but only waved from their cars, claiming they were hoarse. Some bowlers rolled in telling the sad story of their days in the gutter. Basketball players dribbled wine from their glasses and food traveled from their mouths to the floor as they talked. The only really bad thing that happened to upset me was when I served my best wine to the tennis players and they found fault with it, but no love was lost. The swim team came in and got carried away doing breast strokes, which was okay by me but the husbands of some of the women didn't like it. It was a party that lasted to the wee hours of the morning, except all the gymnastic people insisted on leaving precisely at 10. Some very suspicious money was changed hands but the monopoly players claimed to know nothing of it ­– yet were seen making token gestures of peace to the chess players, who had quite a knight in my humble castle. The baseball players, and basketball players dramatically ended the party by fighting over what a foul was. Finally a hunter ended the discussion by shooting them (the bird), and all went home happy. And so I said my goodbyes to a lot of gamey people.

Hello            T.V.(I'll never watch another game)

Windy

Penmanship of fools

This is  a rough continuation of last months piece...

Costly Pen

What did one balloon say to the other balloon?

"The rising cost of living is killing me!"

Ha, Hal But inflation is no laughing matter. I can’t believe the way prices have been rising. Even yeast keeps going up and up.

Inflation is out of hand, I know. I was just into this discount store, which used to be a little dime store the last time I was there. I went to purchase some pens. Five or so years ago I bought ten pens in this same store, when it was a dime store.

We used to have dime stores, and now our “big discount” stores are dollar stores. That’s an inflation rate of 1000%!

So after running low on ink I took some money and entered the store expecting to buy more pens. But I couldn’t find that ten pen for a dollar special they had last time. And this time I was smart enough to bring a dollar and five cents, the five cents extra for tax, which I managed not to have the last time. Then I had gotten past by telling the counter girl I would bring the five cents next time. But this time I still ran into trouble again. My ten pens for a dollar special was nowhere to be found. So I looked around for six or so pens, anticipating paying fifty cents, hence enabling me to buy two sets. But the cheapest bargain I could find was one pen for fifty-three cents, and even these pens had ink seeping out their backs and were half out of ink. Subtract from this the half of the ink that always ends up on my hands and I would be getting a quarter of pen’s ink to put to use. This didn’t sound like a deal to me. So I went up to the stock boy, who was marking prices, and asked him about the ten pen special. I don’t know if I forgot to wipe the toothpaste off of my mouth that morning or what, because he just laughed at me. 1 was not in a humorous mood.

In my anger I finally found a decent pen for a buck and stormed up to the checkout line. I placed the pen down and handed my dollar and five cents to the lady, somewhat older than the girl who was here last time, I would guess by about five or so years.

She reached out for my money, gazing deeply into my eyes, and for a minute I thought it was love at first sight when she said, "Haven't I seen you before?"

I got all choked up, but before I could say something witty like, "Um… no, I don't think so, I usually dress with my shades pulled down," she barked out "That'll be One dollar and seven cents!"

I handed her my dollar and nickel, not fully in control of my senses. I was busy contemplating what style wedding ring she would prefer, as her voice rang in my head, and I did not hear the words, just the melody.

"You’re two cents short," she said as I started to come back to reality.

I managed a muffled, "Wha ... " as the ring for her finger seemed to be growing in size.

She looked somewhat upset. "That's One dollar and seven cents — seven cents tax, and you only gave me One Dollar and five cents!" she spat out, her enunciation very clear even through her spittle. “I need another two cents.”

I could see the ring I planned to give her in my dreams WAS growing. It was taking the shape of a noose and coming for my head, I knew that only quick talking and a little luck could save me now.

"Bu… But I don't… " I stammered in my most suave turn of phrase, as my hands dug deep into my empty pockets, feeling only the lint there. I prayed for a lot of luck.

"Wait a minute... " she said with an air of recognition, "Now I remember. Five years ago you were short five cents on a pack of ten pens special."

She reached over the cash register and pushed buttons for what seemed to be an eternity. "That'll be seven more cents please." she smiled.

I carefully reached my hand up to the counter…

"And you can't get away this time by saying you'll bring the money tomorrow because today is my last day ... " she rambled on…

...1 grabbed hold of the pen with trembling fingers and took off in a full sprint for the exit. I ran through three security guards and a cop in the street as a crazed lady screamed bloody murder behind me.

"Stop thief! Help! Police! A robbery, help!” she wailed on.

I gave the policeman a straight-arm as I headed out the door, kicking the gun from his hand as he pulled it from his belt. I shoved the pen into my pocket and ran off down the street. People were chasing and hollering, dogs were barking and sirens were wailing as I made a clean get-a-way.

I never stopped running until I was into my house and safe from pursuers. I plopped down on the nearest chair and pulled out my "hot" pen. I had paid A dollar and five cents for a pen that had let-loose during the chase, and now my pocket was stained with wet ink. Well, black goes with anything. Good thing it wasn’t a blue pen. Even the drops that fell upon my white pants really don’t look too bad. 

This was a pen that I had risked life and limb for as I ran from the law in a narrow escape. I made it, but the pen didn't.

And to think now I had to go back to that store to demand a refund for the defective pen.

I tried the pen anyways and it at least writes (as you can see), though most of its insides are still in my pocket.

So not knowing how long this pen will last will force me to keep my hands clean and save and scrape until I can gather together enough money to be able to go back to that store to purchase another pen (the lady did say it was her last day). So I keep my fingers crossed, hoping the pen will hold out, and I'll make my articles as short as possible to try to save ink. So I would end it here ... but I still have so much to say. The story goes on, how I wish it did end here.

I went to bed that night dreaming of murderers and car thieves. I hardly was able to get any sleep what with all that running.

And it wasn't until late this morning, after I was up for over an hour, that I finally got fully awoke when I opened up my mail. I found a letter from "that" store with a credit card in it.

A pamphlet also came with the letter, describing all the great uses of my new "Super Card" and ways to spend more money with it.

The smile faded, rather quickly, from my face when a small piece of paper fell from the envelope. As I bent to pick it up I could see that it was a bill.

Yes, seven cents was charged to my account. But then I noticed the total due at the bottom and that smile that left me before came back… upside down.

"There must be some mistake!" I thought aloud.

I waited for an answer, but didn’t know what to say…

I owed three dollars and fifty-eight cents! I went for my coat, psyching myself up to go back to that store to demand an explanation for that extra three dollars and fifty-one cents.

Then I noticed that the total did add up to three dollars and fifty-eight cents! It was a good thing I had noticed this before I marched back down to that store and made a fool of myself.

Sure, they were only charging me seven cents from the other day. But then there is the tax on that seven cents, which brings the total up to eight cents. The other three dollars and fifty cents is for the service charge.

                                                  A credit to be yours,

èim  Uhr

P.S:

Now I don't have to worry about having the correct change when I go to that          store. I can always charge my pens. 

Credit???    

           Are pens a Major purchase?

My bill is small...

If I can't pay my bill maybe I'll give Jack a call

A blast from the past...

A FRIENDLY DRIVE

I was driving down the road the other day, when I flipped out. It wasn't a new song on the radio. It was the curb that caused it. Before I knew it I was doing summersaults.

My car landed right side up and I staggered out. I, literally, spit glass out of my mouth as I gazed disbelievingly at my car. People stopped and were asking me questions, but I just alternated nodding and shaking my head without listening to them.

My car ... me?

Not a bruise. Not a cut. The glass didn't even cut the inside of my mouth. Not one thing was wrong with me… No, I wasn't wearing my seat belt.

As my brain finally started excepting messages my eyes were sending it, I noticed my windshield lying a few feet from the car, shattered, but nearly whole. My newly bought side mirrors were, naturally, broken off. There was mud allover my car as luckily I had rolled on grass instead of pavement. The passenger side of the roof was smashed in a bit, my door was bent in, and the right rear fender was smashed.

Someone said I must have been listening to the radio to hit a rock and roll.

Somehow I got the idea of trying to start my car. Since no damage was done to the hood or anything under it, I got the car started without any trouble.

I ended up driving the car home, with no windshield in below freezing temperatures. I shook all the way home, partially from the cold and partially from shock.

One the way home I thought of something that Winston Churchill once said, one of my favorite quotes—

 "Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing happened."

I made it home without getting pulled over, even though it's illegal to drive without a windshield.

I can still remember (in flashes) that sensation of turning upside down and rolling. Things flashed by so fast. I saw parts of my life in quick, unrelated glimpses. Then, in mid roll, I thought to myself, "This is a dream."

Microseconds later I realized it wasn't a dream, that my car was rolling over and I was in it, and that I would be late for work. I wondered why it rolled. Was I rolling up a hill? Through lanes of traffic? Was I dying? Had I ever lived? Was my car paid off? Did I have clean underwear?

A feeling soon to be forgot, but a time long remembered. If the feelings that one has during an uncontrollable moment in one's life could be totally recalled, I doubt if many mistakes would be repeated. But the only thing that is truly remembered are the after affects, and they never seem to be quite as bad.

Yes, how easily feelings are forgot.

Trying times can test us and show what we're made of. I'm not sure what I'm made of, but I know that I don't like tests.

It sounds unusual, but I think Cicero made a lot of sense when he said,

 "There is something pleasurable in calm remembrance of a past sorrow."

Maybe it's just the fact that the adversity has been survived, and it makes present adversities seem conquerable. Something Friedrich Nietzsche said helps shed light into Cicero's statement:

       "What does not destroy me makes me strong."

You are stronger from living through past sorrows. Also past troubles seen through memory's eye always are less sharp and out of focus then is the pain of present problems.

Remember the lesson of the day — Brakes, steering and even good friends can fail. To remain strong without becoming bitter is the trick. Friends don't care about your failures, and they care only to beat your successes. The best one can ask of a friend is to tell the truth when you need it, also to lie when you need it, and to listen nearly as often as they talk. Many times I find myself praying like Marshall de Villars.         — "God save me from my friends

                  I can protect myself from my enemies."

I expect distress from my enemies but when it comes by way of friends it is unbearable. I guess I just have to learn something that Agnes Macphail put well by saying,

“Do not rely completely on any other human being, however dear. We meet all life's greatest tests alone."

I guess when you have news that makes your life miserable the best thing a friend can do, from his point of view, is to exclude you from his life so you don't make him share in your misery.

"Heaven for climate, hell for company." — James M. Barrie.

Half my friends are in heaven, and the rest just have their heads in the clouds.

Dearly befriended,

èim  Uhr

P.S. It's funny the way

       one thinks of friends

                          in times of sorrow. I

                          can usually think of

                          them, but I can't talk

                          to them. 

Drive me away                                       RIP or RID(rest in drive)

                            We all crash alone