Why does this red wine look green?

The answer is a simple application of physics.  It's approaching at a rate fast enough so that the Doppler shift has turned the red wine to Green. Either that or some other color, and it's receding fast enough to become another red. Because we are observing the wine with the rather antique but still impressive 200-inch lens at Mount Palomar, we can take a few ancillary measurements and see what they can tell us.

For instance, we can compare the size and color of the wine as it was on April 7, 1972 to see if it's approaching or receding. Other records may reveal if it is accelerating or under the influence of other celestial bodies.

 I read once it was considered  inadvisable to pour the contents of a red wine bottle in the presence of a black hole. As the molecules in the liquid compress, it goes through an unwanted phase change, ruining its distinctive nose. Since then the wine is reduced to a fluid of electrons, it's not much use in making a sauce or providing refreshment. It's probably best to keep the wine moving at a relatively congruent velocity for purposes of consumption.

I couldn't help but notice each stair had a different rise.

It was actually quite obvious, because mounting a staircase is like a dance. There is a rhythm reenforced by the spacing of the risers which results in the pacing of the ascent and descent. So, should a rise's metrics act inconsistently, a step literally results in mis-step.

As I write this I'm accelerating toward one of those oddly paced steps. I have reached for the banister. I've slid betwixt the balusters. I twist, I tumble, but I have technically not fallen yet.

My toes are pointed downward. My nose is arcing skyward, my arms unfurl my coat like membranes of a flying squirrel. And then: the finial, heavy and oaken, was loosed from its newell. It was roughly the size of my head. In fact, it was making an attempt to replace my head. 

I think I will just rest here a while and think a little. Just rest. Like treading water only treading treads.

Frenetic

Why is it that when I take a book off the shelf, other books want to follow it and be read as well? Not only the proximal tomes, but there are visible rustlings all along the shelf. Quartos are especially eager. Bits of labels and notes flutter down, their adhesive tape long since degraded. The shelf is unstable. There is only one book that refuses to move - the Laws of Zoning and Planning. I go to see what's holding it in. Pulling on it trips a switch, and a hidden door opens to a room full of clichés. 

I can fall, I know it

I can fall, I know it. I can just lean forward a little to make it happen. 

Falling is simple, anyone can do it. 

I can see where I'd be falling. 

The ground looks soft, except for a few pebbles, which I don't think I'll hit. In fact, I bet I could twist so I don't hit those pebbles. 

I did it once, I know, although it is hard to remember. The wind is calm, a good time to fall. I just have to put my mind to it. 

My left foot is a bit more forward than my right, and that means, if I start to lean a little to the right, I can get a little rocking going. Then if I rock a little more, in time with my movement, I should be able to build up some momentum and it can go into a kind of positive feedback loop, where all the work will be done for me. When the time comes, I can use that asymmetry to go into a twist and miss the pebbles. 

The plan is solid. It only takes the will to do it. 

Unemployable Feathers

Lakes hold a special fascination for the dry.

The subtle lapping water, often carrying leaves and pine needles with it, the delicacy of the wetness, which is not at all like the pulverizing crush and spray of the ocean, coyly invites one to join it in its gentle pulse. Lake plants, growing richly but stopping inches below the surface, cluster by the rocks and in submerged gardens which can be best discovered with a submerged foot.

There are days when the partched air rattles the cane curtains and dust balls scatter over the newly swept patios.The corners of my mouth hurt. I don't need much convincing. The lake is audible. Water striders are practicing their moves in pairs by the roots of the shrubs by the water's edge.

Most people would prefer cautiously wetting their feet, imagining that the feet would convey a sense of what a more complete immersion would be, but I prefer the whole body approach. I step back. I make sure there are no floating branches or hidden rocks. I slick back my hair. A hot breeze eggs me on. I rise. I straighten out.

But I do not sink. I am repelled like oil off the surface of the lake, as if it were made of rubber.
The force of it bends my nose. I reach my hand into the water to use as a salve. Oddly, I hold a palm full of water like a melted ball. As I squeeze it, it acquires a clay-like texture and weight, which is not unpleasant. I found that I was floating away from the shore, which would be disturbing if I thought I were going to sink, but I rather felt that the situation was under control. The mass in my hand became birdlike. It grew down, a beak, and a tiny pulsing heart. Claws scrabbled at the ball of my thumb. Gently, I released the bird, and blew life into its feathers, whereupon it passed away, flopping over the water's surface. Now I was alone. I also had lost sight of the shore and the sky was a uniform mottled gray.

11/07/07