Barry sat silently at his desk, brooding. There wasn’t much to be done about it. Once the ink was on the paper, it won’t ever go back into your pen, or inside your head.
He stared at that page, examining the shapes and studying the curves and angles he had marked on paper. He breathed in some air, slowly, through his nose, and gently rocked backward. The two front legs of his chair lifted off of the floor. Balancing himself, crossed his legs but otherwise remained motionless, except for the continued slow motion of his diaphragm. Now he concentrated his eyes to out of focus and began to slowly rotate his pen between his thumb and forefinger, forcing his eyes to stay out of focus. Then, suddenly, he snapped himself out of the trance; laid the pen down softly, as if in repose, on the small round table along side his phone and his coffee.
What to do, what to do?
When ink animates from paper, when imagination intersects with the real, when the heart is thrown asunder, what is there to do.
Barry felt his life had unhinged, felt like it was a shattering mirror flying off into space. He picked up his pen and began to squeeze harder, gripping it ever more tightly, thinking his grip on life would thereby become stronger.
Nadine was asleep in her bedroom now, her eyes moving rapidly under closed lids, dreaming, dreaming about rising water, water she could not control. She tried to steady herself, tried to regain control of her own life, tried to navigate her body using the palms of her hands like a rudder. But the rising water, the fast currents, pulled her hands deep below the surface, like an oar plunged straight down into rapidly moving water, and she spun wildly out of control.
Then suddenly she walked into his life, asked not why he was brooding, but instead asked how he was doing; her face belying the passion he had just scripted for her.
“I’m fine”, he replied. “I’ve got a busy day.”
“Me to”, Nadine replied. “Can’t stay, this, that and the other thing.”
“Me to.”
And with those words, she walked back out of the coffee shop, and Barry continued the story.
He began to write out of despair and desperation, how he violently smashed two rocks together inside his head. He described how he built up a powerful momentum, a momentum which was irreversible and beyond his control. In his mind, the violence went on for weeks, until a small spark was created.
It was this point, give or take a week or two that Nadine returned to the coffee shop. That was the miracle of the spark, as Barry came to know it. Neither dream nor fiction, it was a genuine remission from his trychosis.
Barry wanted more, much more, but reminded himself  how far he had to come. As he considered the depth of his trychotic despair, he apprehended his next step toward recovery had to be to accept this spark. He had to comprehend it, though it was incomprehensible. Had to experience it, though it was beyond experience. He had to search thro

Since time is linear, why do we wear wristwatches that go round and round? We occupy such a minute portion of space and time, a mere nanosecond of cosmic history. Clearly I believe what I’m wearing on my wrist is woefully inadequate, not even close to measuring up to the task of making the most of our time. I’m thinking spiral, the kind that occurs when you drop a coin in one of those donation contraptions at the supermarket, the ones that send the coin on a journey traveling around and around in a spiral of increasing speed until it drops into the till, time having run out for that nickle. That it remains in space and time, just out of sight, well, that’s another mystery for another writer.

So what we need is a watch that represents the way we experience time. First, we need a starting point for our different wristwatch. That’s easy. The moment we enter space and time, get taken off mothers life support, our birth. Second, and this is the tricky part, one that requires a leap of faith, to borrow some concepts from accounting and tax law. We need to know how long we’ll be staying. As difficult as that may sound, there is an answer. Should we happen to stay on past our actuarially provided life expectancy, we continue on borrowed time, time I might add that will not have to be paid back, a debt that we get to take with us. And what about an earlier exit? Well, haven’t you ever read the fine print on your birth certificate, the boilerplate stuff on the reverse side, about the maker having the right, without prior notice, written or otherwise, to call the loan? That's right folks, the sentient time we spend here on the planet, is subject to that clause, No. 37a, if memory serves me correctly. It has been a while since I last looked.

Ok, so far it works for me. Now what is this wristwatch supposed to look like, how does it work, what is the margin of error, how is it to be made so that it views like one of those supermarket donation contraptions I mentioned earlier. No problem, it’s just some sort of holographic illusion that looks just like the one in the supermarket, you being that silver thing spiraling around and around, clearly occupying a precise point in a larger three dimensional image, one that is our very own; unique and complete. As far as margin of error, please refer to No. 37a. We could even add some sound effects; yes, the sound of traveling through time. I like that. And the best part about it is how the revolutions go forward at an increasingly accelerating clip, just like the real deal.

So what do you say, I’m sure there must be a techie or two out there who could pull this off. I’ll be the first to order a few. What a great gift, perfect for any occasion.

FROM IN BETWEEN TWO LIVES

NOTE : These were written a few weeks apart, first ‘To my grandchild’ in anticipation of his birth, and then 3 weeks later ‘My Dad left’ when he rapidly succumbed to unexpected pneumonia. I put them together only because my grandson was born on the day of my dad’s funeral. Not sure if they should be integrated into a single piece.

Part I
My Dad left yesterday. I didn’t actually see him leave; it was more like I helped him pack.
And on the following day someone new was scheduled to arrive. Such is the way of the world. I don’t believe souls are involved in some sort of metaphysical relay race, but when death and birth occur so close, it hits me like whiplash. Best I can do now, is to hold on tight to the parts of my life that are blessed with a peaceful inertia. Nothing remains still in the universe.
My Dad seemed content to be still, the last time I saw him, lying in his bed, arms and legs so thin he appeared as an image of an Auschwitz survivor, which of course he was not. And still, very still, except for when he moved the sheet with his bone thin arms, covering precisely only that which he felt needed to be covered. His thighs, but not his ankles.  His chest, but not his shoulders. Precise, all his motions were very precise.
The sheets, for some unknown reason, required constant adjustment, which my father executed with exquisite efficiency.
When I arrived, Robin and I, his response to my booming, “Hello Dad” was a broad welcoming smile, followed by an outstretched arm, which grasped my own. He encircled my wrist and slid his hand upwards toward my elbow, and then back down, as if he needed to feel the fingers on my hand to be sure of the body part he was touching.
The effort tired him out and we moved a bit closer to allow for a gentle pressing together as I sat on his bed, each of us knowing this would be the defining moment before he left.
On the floor, the unused cannula made a gentle soothing noise, a white noise. I lifted it up and offered it to my Dad. He brushed it aside, as if it was the last item that had to be packed before he left. The next day he left.
Death is not poetic. It is the end of the recording, the part when the needle lifts off the record, or the tape runs off the spool with a soft flapping sound.
We would all be fortunate to exit life’s stage in such a manner. This was his reward for a lifetime of placing the needs of his children ahead of his own needs, in each and every moment of his life.

Part II
To Belay a Climber: The procedure of securing a climber by the use of a rope; a climber is on belay when the belayer is prepared to lock off the rope connecting the climber and the belayer  in the event of a fall, and off belay when the climber has reached a secure place and the second may discontinue the belaying process.
 Where it all began doesn’t matter. How it began, well, probably it began with a kiss and a gentle caress. Such was your beginning, my first grandchild. And, in the coming days, weeks, and months, you were kept safe and warm, on belay, by an umbilical cord. The other end, securing your safe journey, was your original belayer, your mother, Marisa. Backing her up, protecting her, keeping her safe, was your dad. That’s the way it was at the beginning. And as you grow, this idea, this physical construct existing in your mind, will continue to keep you safe, while those at the other end of the rope will change over and over, as will the nature of the connection between you and your climbing partners.
Life is like climbing. But in place of focusing intently on the three-square meters that always surround you as you scale up the face of the cliff, in life you must focus on the time and the people that surround you. Aim your compass high, towards the highest part of the mountain you can see. In this world, we are all blessed with an uncanny ability to achieve most of what we are able to conceive for ourselves. I could spend hours of our time detailing all those who have kept me safe every time I shouted out the climbers opening question, ‘on belay?’, and heard the reassuring reply, ‘belay on’, followed by my own expletive, ‘climbing’, and the closing words, “climb on, have fun!’ When climbing, you always need to believe there is a hold. Sometimes you have to take a chance. You might find yourself halfway up the side of a cliff, high above the deck, with no easy retreat, no foreseeable way to move upward. You stand there, tense, probably scared by the uncertainty you face. You try your best to find a way to rest, before you make your move, knowing life won’t let you stand still. Maybe you need to take turns with your hands, holding on first with one hand, then the other, fighting the burning sensation that is building up in your muscles. You know your heart is racing, but you feel nothing, only the danger you face. Maybe you feel for the first time that it’s not your earthly body that matters. Maybe your earthly body is all you’re thinking about. It makes no difference. 
‘I’m going for it’, you shout out to your belayer below. You wait for the response: your dad, your friend, your wife, your coworker, your partner, your god. It doesn’t matter who has the other end of the rope, as long as you’ve chosen someone. You don’t have to wait long. “I've got you, go for it’, comes back the reply from your belayer. You make the move around the corner of the rock, taking a step into the unknown. You're not looking up or down; instead, you're fingers are feeling blindly around the corner of the rock, surveying the surface for something secure to grab hold of. Anything is better than nothing, any port in a storm. A tomorrow is all you want. You feel something; you lock in a single finger, then the next. Soon you have a hand-hold, and you step off, climbing up and around the corner. You can see the top now; you know you are closer now. The way forward is in focus is again; clear, if only for a moment. You’re at a good spot now, and you take a well-deserved rest. You are on a ledge, hundreds of days from your birth, hundreds of days from your death. Here, you can rest; here you can think, here you can use your hands as you wish. You wipe the sweat from your face, comb your fingers through your hair, and secure yourself on this new ledge.  “Off belay,” you shout out to your belay partner.  “Off belay” comes back the acknowledgement. Now it’s your partner’s turn to join you. You arrange your gear and build your anchor. Now it is your turn to be the belayer, and your partner’s turn to climb. “On belay’, you shout out to your partner. ‘Climbing,” comes back the response. ‘Climb on!’

F

Fear was not a factor! Trucks couldn't just fall off the edge of the earth. But what did happen to the street cleaner truck after it traveled off my block and out of sight?

To find out, I got on my bike and followed it down Brooklyn’s East 2^nd Street to the end of the alphabet, all the way to Ave. Z.

It was one of those trucks that didn’t really clean anything; instead it was designed to simply move all the street detritus to the curb, the result of its two high-pressure spray nozzles, one on either side.

When we both arrived at Ave Z four secrets of the grown-up world were revealed to me in a brief but enlightening moment as I watched driver tether his truck to a fire hydrant and proceed to go inside a barbershop for a haircut. They were, as follows: finite capacity, multi-tasking, job perks and spinning a job description.