Author: whoisfenton

One day last December I was out in the garage looking for something, exactly what I cannot recall. There upon a blue tarp sat a solitary lizard, poised to leap away as they often do. The garage is pretty cold, maybe 45 degrees or so and thus an unlikely habitat for the cold-blooded reptile. When it didn’t immediately scurry away I wondered if the cold weather had caused its internal engine to slow and stop.

Being a simple person of obvious intent, I just walked up and *poked* it with my finger. It just sat there — no leaping up and screeching like some freakish tiny alien. Poke, poke. Nuttin’. I made a point to come back later and remove the poor little dude from the artificial conditions under which he had clearly perished.

The next day I go out and he is GONE. Not on the floor upside down; not wrapped in some spider’s deadly embrace; but nowhere. Vanished. Gonzo.

I subsequently read about iguanas in Florida temporarily freezing in a cold snap and falling out of trees, cold and lifeless as stones. But mirabile dictu these lizards regain life as the temperature warms, none the worse for having been frozen. I would be remiss if I failed to note that Falling Iguanas is a great name for a rock band.

So this “dying” is the reptiles way of surviving when air temperatures refuse to cooperate, a cool adaptation <the editor apologizes>.

I hope I see my winter lizard in the spring, waking like the flowers and trees to become one with the great world.

You can imagine that 2020 was a tough year for those of us trying to find those parts of life that are positive, hopeful and interesting. It would be easy to shake our puny fists skyward and decry the complete lack of spontaneous kumbaya singing in the neighborhood. But then, just when all is lost and we are about to succumb to the snarling beasts of despair, a little magic occurs on the mall in Washington D.C. In the midst of a sudden and fairly intense snowstorm, a large and impromptu snowball battle ensued. Total strangers began hurling snowballs at each other in the largest outbreak of inner children in recent memory. Human beings putting down their differences for a moment to engage in play, for no other reason than to have a bit of fun.

Imagine that.

The riddles whispered
By the far sea
And empty shell
Reveal primal words
In secret song.

The heron’s mad glance
Offers subtle hints;
Sly knowledge
In scribbled pages
Of an ancient book.

The slow round turtle
And winter lizard
Care little for us;
Our ponderous clouds
Dapple the sun
In streaks of gray.

Sunlight and birdcalls
embrace no such ego;
The stitches on the loom
Enfold the world
Like wings.

I have always liked this phrase, sometimes called “day-dreaming”.  It is different from having a short – look! a squirrel! – attention span or being “distracted”.  Sometimes the thoughts you are lost inside are the ones that matter, and the rest are pulling you back to immediate reality.

This morning I was making a bowl of oatmeal, noting the steady rain outside the kitchen window.  No big deal, right?  But then I noticed a small puddle on the driveway making wave upon wave of concentric ripples, spreading the energy of falling raindrops into perfect circles, over and over again.

Momentarily lost in this little act of physics revealed, I nearly forgot the oatmeal but saved it in the nick of time.  Was I distracted by the rain or the oatmeal?  What is lost and what is gained?

You would think I would have learned by now that my attempts at cooking often produce strange, and sometimes dangerous, results.  The latest entry in the book of Fenton’s Fantastic Food Failures started one isolated afternoon when I spotted a slab of tuna in the fridge. Yum. I decided it was time to expand my famously limited food repertoire and let’s face it — there was no one around to stop me. Hey, it’s a fish in a pan, what could go wrong?  Had I been more attentive to the universe I would have heard the distant chortling of Larry, The Patron Saint of Bumbling Fools.

Anyway, put a pan on the cook-top, add a small amount of oil and let it heat.  Remove the fish from the fridge, unwrap it from its clear protective wrapping and slowly lower it into the oil.  I wear these giant mittens while dealing with hot oil, having been subjected to the painful Droplets From Hell on more than one occasion.  I have clearly advanced far beyond that primitive, unevolved form of one-celled kitchen paramecium.  I am up to 8 or 9 cells, minimum.

With the ringing sound of spatula and tongs, let the cooking begin!  Ok, so far so good.  I am positively *beaming* with culinary pride when I notice a new and unexpected phenomenon.  The fish seems to be forming this clear bubble on the surface and not really cooking all that well.  Maybe turn up the heat a bit, flip it over and…  no, the bubble grows ever larger like some weird protective membrane.  Almost as if it … uh-oh.  This fish had a SECOND layer of clear plastic wrap which was now melting, making the whole concoction inedible, a feast worthy of the trashcan. I turn off the heat and glare disapprovingly at the now ruined carcass and its plastic friend.

There’s a reason my food repertoire is “famously limited”, and it seems to be related to plastic. Larry, on the other hand, is having a great time.

We were younger back then
The way it used to be
Before time took it away
To a past we remember
But can no longer touch.

It was right here
An open book
With well-worn pages
Initials carved
In the old tree
Memories fading
Like the morning mist.

Change knocks on our door;
And unwanted guest
Bringing shiny gifts;
Once accepted they remain
And nothing can be
As it was.

We are alive in time’s river
You and I and the rest
Forever moving round the bend
The distant shore reveals
The secrets of the forest
Forever lost, now found.

Contrary to popular opinion, disruptive technologies do not descend on us tsunami-like without a tsunami warning system. We don’t just wake up one day with teleportation devices in every room. Rather, they arrive in fits and starts while the economics of change does its dance, touching its teeny risk-averse toes into the inevitability of time. Yikes, that’s cold.

Electric vehicles have taken that journey, a drunken walk of success and failure, attempting to replace the entire 120 years of infrastructure that supports the internal combustion engine. Human beings have had many generations to become comfortable with an engine that, may I remind the reader, relies on thousands of these little EXPLOSIONS to drive a metal piston up and down and then IN ADDITION requires a Rube Goldberg system of gears and pulleys to translate that up and down motion into circular motion to drive wheels. I mean it’s incredible it works at all. Of course back in the day it disrupted the advanced horse and buggy technology, with much neighing and gnashing of teeth.

Tempus begins fugiting all over the place and when something comes along to possibly replace this engine, and there is fierce resistance for good reason. It is not just the engine that is being replaced, but significant parts of the entire automotive supply chain from manufacturing plants to parts providers to gas stations to car dealerships. This is a very big deal. We tend to forget how much of our world is tied to the car. We may own the car, but equally, the car owns us.

Electric cars have far fewer moving parts and thus in theory will require less maintenance. They can be “fueled” from home. They are more environmentally friendly. The electric motor generates more torque quicker than the gas motor.

Of course there is an infrastructure to build, battery technology must continue to improve and prices come down, but to me this seems like an idea whose time has come.

Here is the past / future of transportation as I see it:

So we have a long way to go. Let the disruption begin!

I know nearly everyone who walks is familiar with the below iconic image. We have been taught that it represents a portion of the road reserved for bike use.

However on closer inspection it is clear (to me) that the being depicted is Not Of This Earth, with its weirdly misshapen head and three mismatched limbs. Also of note are the rings or hoops that provide propulsion using a type of physics well beyond our meager understanding.

You make ask: why have these invaders placed their symbols in nearly every city and town on Earth? After extensive research involving many flagons of mead, I have determined that they are in fact a diabolical map, hiding in plan sight. At some predetermined time a signal will be sent out and the alien invasion triggered. With a clattering of gears and unfurling of leathery wings, the hellish hoards will descend upon us.

God save us, and bring me more mead.

I saw a frog today;
So small it might
Have been a beetle,
Hidden away from
Our sky-borne gaze.

Such things seem
Mere footnotes,
Yet whisper a story;
As large as the world,
Defying the egos
Of monuments and men.

Earth is vital and alive;
We are given a choice
To betray or guard;
The closed fist
Or open hand.

Perhaps these memories
So fleeting yet eternal
Are tomorrow’s seeds
That open the book
Of everything.