4+2 Space on North Street

4+2 Space on North Street - Thoughts on observing the usual in an unusual
way.
By G. H. Diel

It is a beautiful early Fall morning in my little town. My daily walk
usually takes me up and down North Street, it's an important secondary
thoroughfare here, semi-joining east and west parts of the town . if you
know your way around. The section of the street I'm on is straight for the
most part, level, before about three-quarters of a mile further up will
begin it's steep climb, treacherous on an icy winter day, hill leading to
Colby College, today, however the street and hill are flanged by beautiful
color changing hardwoods. As usual, my head is filled with thoughts of 4+2
space.

Unexpectedly, a growling car horn, clearly weakened by a loose
connection--one of those short 'beeps' people give trying to get your
attention--startles me, and I turn to see my friend, Roger, pulling up. He
has pulled over to the parking spaces, illegally and on the wrong side of
the road, heading up the street to Colby College. The driver's side window
is down and Roger is hanging out the window like a cheerful troll, one arm
folded over the side of the aging F-150. Roger is smiling, toothless, as he
almost does, hating his dentures, ready to break into his trademark
semi-maniacal cackle at the least provocation. His family and friends think
nothing of his quirky personality, nor do I.
Shaking his long white ZZ Top, throw-back, beard and hair, like some aging,
time-machine ravaged Farah Fawcett, spastically his hand shoots straight up
and unscrews and unseen light bulb from the air. He was forgiven, as always,
this is, after all, Maine.

"Hey, Richard," he said waving his hand toward me still clenching the
invisible lamp, welcoming me aboard.
"Hey," I said reflexively, instantly recognizing his voice.
"Want a ride?"
"Thanks, Rog, not this time, I'll walk . exercise you know, and I patted my
increasingly rotund mid-section.
"Gotcha, dude. See you later. Carpe Diem," he says, rolling up his window,
simultaneously checking over his shoulder for any stray police cruiser, he
heads up the street, his rusty white truck becoming ever smaller, as he
moves away at a good clip in the twenty-five mile and hour zone.

In a minute or so, Roger and his pickup disappeared over the crest of Colby
Hill.

I can't wait for winter, the snow, the scraping, dead batteries, the
rock-hard icy car seats .. what a life.

Ever have a sense of karma, Feng Shui, deja-vu, I dunno, whatever it is,
that feeling that something is out of place, or in-place, but you can't see
it? It's there, but, then again, not there? I was having one of those
moments this morning as I stood in the breaking sunlight on the this crisp
New England morning, watching Roger's truck morph into nothingness. A
coolish breeze washed over my face.

"What the hell am I looking at?" These were the exact thoughts, the words in
my head, that came to me that morning.
"Did I really just watch Roger and his truck get smaller then disappear."
"What the hell ." I thought, pausing, confused.
"Flatland!"

To be Continued

See also Itzhak Bars, [Only registered users see links. ]

This corrects some glaring typos in the previous post, sorry. Bad form ...
my apologies. GHD

4+2 Space on North Street - Thoughts on observing the usual in an unusual
way.
By G. H. Diel

It is a beautiful early Fall morning in my little town. My daily walk
usually takes me up and down North Street. The street is an important
secondary thoroughfare here, semi-joining east and west parts of the
town--if you
know your way around. The section of the street I'm on is straight for the
most part, level, before about three-quarters of a mile further up will
begin it's steep climb, to a hill--treacherous on an icy winter day--leading
to Colby College. Today, the street is flanged by beautiful color changing
hardwoods. As usual, my head is filled with thoughts of 4+2 space.

Unexpectedly, a growling car horn, clearly weakened by a loose
connection--one of those short 'beeps' people give trying to get your
attention--startles me, and I turn to see my friend, Roger, pulling up. He
has pulled over to the parking spaces, illegally, and on the wrong side of
the road, heading up the street to the college. The driver's side window
is down and Roger is hanging out the window like a cheerful troll, one arm
folded over the side of the aging, rust-pone, F-150. Roger is smiling,
toothless, as he almost always is--hating his dentures--ready to break into
his trademark semi-maniacal cackle at the least provocation. His family and
friends think nothing of his quirky personality, nor do I.

Shaking his long white ZZ Top, throw-back, beard and hair--like some aging,
time-machine ravaged, Farah Fawcett--spastically, his hand shoots straight
up and unscrews and unseen light bulb from the air. He was forgiven, as
always,
after all, this is Maine.

"Hey, Richard," he said waving his hand toward me, still clenching the
invisible lamp, welcoming me aboard.
"Hey," I said reflexively.
"Want a ride?"
"Thanks, Rog, not this time, I'll walk-- exercise you know, and I patted my
increasingly rotund mid-section.
"Gotcha, dude. See you later. Carpe Diem," he says, rolling up his window,
and simultaneously checking over his shoulder for any stray police cruiser,
he heads up the street. His 'sort-of' white truck becoming ever smaller as
he
moves away at a good clip in the twenty-five mile and hour zone, sparks
flying from a dragging muffler.

In a minute or so, Roger and his pickup disappeared over the crest of Colby
Hill.

I can't wait for winter, the snow, the scraping, dead batteries, the
rock-hard icy car seats .. what a life.

Ever have a sense of karma, Feng Shui, deja-vu, I dunno, whatever it is,
that feeling that something is out of place, or in-place, but you can't see
it? It's there, but, then again, not there? I was having one of those
moments this morning as I stood in the breaking sunlight of the crisp
New England morning impassively watching Roger's truck morph into
nothingness.
A coolish breeze washed over my face.

"What the hell am I looking at?" These were the exact thoughts, the words in
my head, that came to me that morning.
"Did I really just watch Roger and his truck get smaller then disappear."
"What the hell," I thought, pausing, confused.
"Flatland!" ...

To be Continued

See also Itzhak Bars, [Only registered users see links. ]

This corrects some glaring typos in the previous post, sorry. Bad form ...
my apologies. GHD

4+2 Space on North Street - Thoughts on observing the usual in an unusual
way.
By G. H. Diel

It is a beautiful early Fall morning in my little town. My daily walk
usually takes me up and down North Street. The street is an important
secondary thoroughfare here, semi-joining east and west parts of the
town--if you
know your way around. The section of the street I'm on is straight for the
most part, level, before about three-quarters of a mile further up will
begin it's steep climb, to a hill--treacherous on an icy winter day--leading
to Colby College. Today, the street is flanged by beautiful color changing
hardwoods. As usual, my head is filled with thoughts of 4+2 space.

Unexpectedly, a growling car horn, clearly weakened by a loose
connection--one of those short 'beeps' people give trying to get your
attention--startles me, and I turn to see my friend, Roger, pulling up. He
has pulled over to the parking spaces, illegally, and on the wrong side of
the road, heading up the street to the college. The driver's side window
is down and Roger is hanging out the window like a cheerful troll, one arm
folded over the side of the aging, rust-pone, F-150. Roger is smiling,
toothless, as he almost always is--hating his dentures--ready to break into
his trademark semi-maniacal cackle at the least provocation. His family and
friends think nothing of his quirky personality, nor do I.

Shaking his long white ZZ Top, throw-back, beard and hair--like some aging,
time-machine ravaged, Farah Fawcett--spastically, his hand shoots straight
up and unscrews and unseen light bulb from the air. He was forgiven, as
always,
after all, this is Maine.

"Hey, Richard," he said waving his hand toward me, still clenching the
invisible lamp, welcoming me aboard.
"Hey," I said reflexively.
"Want a ride?"
"Thanks, Rog, not this time, I'll walk-- exercise you know, and I patted my
increasingly rotund mid-section.
"Gotcha, dude. See you later. Carpe Diem," he says, rolling up his window,
and simultaneously checking over his shoulder for any stray police cruiser,
he heads up the street. His 'sort-of' white truck becoming ever smaller as
he
moves away at a good clip in the twenty-five mile and hour zone, sparks
flying from a dragging muffler.

In a minute or so, Roger and his pickup disappeared over the crest of Colby
Hill.

I can't wait for winter, the snow, the scraping, dead batteries, the
rock-hard icy car seats .. what a life.

Ever have a sense of karma, Feng Shui, deja-vu, I dunno, whatever it is,
that feeling that something is out of place, or in-place, but you can't see
it? It's there, but, then again, not there? I was having one of those
moments this morning as I stood in the breaking sunlight of the crisp
New England morning impassively watching Roger's truck morph into
nothingness.
A coolish breeze washed over my face.

"What the hell am I looking at?" These were the exact thoughts, the words in
my head, that came to me that morning.
"Did I really just watch Roger and his truck get smaller then disappear."
"What the hell," I thought, pausing, confused.
"Flatland!" ...

To be Continued

See also Itzhak Bars, [Only registered users see links. ]