Ever wake up and live out a day where everything was off-kilter, only to really wake up and find you had been dreaming all along? I don't know about you, but that happens to me a lot. Sometimes it takes minutes to get my bearings and come to the realization I am awake for real. 

Dreams within a dream aren't a unique happening for me. Hell, quite often, my dreams go three or four levels deep. The mind is indeed a mysterious instrument. 

One rabbit hole leads to another, which transforms into a nebula and finally blossoms into a tree with burning buds of expressive singularities, each one revealing a separate and distinct truth. Before long, there is no way to know which end is up and where the escalator to go down is located. Under such circumstances, it's easy to understand how reality and subconscious thought could become distorted, intertwined, and thus, confused.

Many of my best ideas take form during this dream state I experience more often than not. Perhaps my narcolepsy has turned my mind into a creative petri dish. If not, then what in The Nine Hells is going on? 

I often joke with my close friends and family the difference between dreaming and reality is:  Dreams are vivid and manifest at the speed of thought in a blaze of technicolor, while reality comes at us, grain by grain in black and white. Truth be known, my dreams are colorful flights of fantasy, and except when I'm daydreaming or allowing my mind to wander, I see most issues presented to me in terms of black and white. Dreams aside, color and imagery aren't the first things I notice. For me, ideas and concepts rule my roost. Luckily, everything within reality is a collage of notions or can be perceived in that light. BOC BOC BOC  

Chickens have a long history with me. During my high school years, I ran around in a paisley bathrobe, carrying a rubber chicken impaled on a toilet bowl plunger and called myself, Chicken Man. That bathrobe and plunger accompanied me up every height in the Green and Adirondack Mountains. Later, when my friends and I formed a paintball team, we named it, The Chicken Warriors. Yes, chickens caught my imagination early on and have crept into my thoughts ever since those formative years. 

What is this thing I have going on with chickens? Those fowl birds suit me to a "T." They are unflappable. Nothing seems to bother them, and they do as they please. If chickens want to BOC, they BOC without a care in the world. If you've ever tried to silence a chicken, you'd understand these critters only stop making noise when it suits them and not until it does. 

If not the dirtiest, then the noisiest members of the animal kingdom are direct descendants of the magnificent dinosaurs. A fact that explains why chickens swagger as if they are at the top of the food chain. You'll know what I'm talking about when you check out a rooster on the walk around a chicken coop. Don't give me any of that crap about roosters not being chickens. Anything with that kind of chutzpah has gotta be admired and not be deprived of its great namesake, just because it happened to be born male! 

Never heard of the term, chutzpah? I hadn't either, until I played the roleplaying game, Paranoia. My friends and I transformed that game into Chickenoia. We ran our version at a few regional game conventions back in the day. Sweet memories, for sure! 

Webster's defines chutzpah as having nerve, gall, self-confidence, audacity, or all of the above, at once. At root, it is about ignoring societal norms without regret or giving oneself away with the usual tells. A characteristic chickens definitely possess in spades. Paranoia uses the term as a character quality or stat and spells it out best, "Chutzpah is about somebody killing their entire family, and with absolute sincerity, cries to everyone about being an orphan." 

My writing style is much like my dreams, a series of rabbit holes that somehow come together with a modicum of continuity. One issue blends into another, until finally, a conclusion is reached for the moment. The imagination is as infinite as these rabbit holes I regularly visit. When one presents itself to you, jump right in and discover what happens. You won't regret the adventure of it all. 

Now, you know the rest of the story, "Alice In Wonderland," never told us about infinite rabbit holes. As the great philosopher, Forrest Gump, once said, "That's all I have to say about that." The brightening of the nightscape signals the time to bid, bon soir, take the last puff of my stogie, and tip my hat to all of you. Good night and good luck. BOC BOC BOC! 

As I look out from my new deck at the fast-diminishing light of this beautifully, rainy day, a stray thought occurred to me. I noticed the smoke of my cigar, swirling around the rafters above me, and the idea faded into the background of my mind, for a few minutes, anyway. After a gulp or two, okay, probably, five, big gulps, between puffs, the notion nudged at me, attempting to get my attention. 

It has been over a year, since I've had a proper roof, under which, to work. Yes, at last, I have a proper deck, with a covering and all. A couple of weekends ago, my buddies and family saw fit to build one for me. Decks without roofs are for the birds!

Darkness came to visit me, at last. Daylight is so onerous and oppressive. It wears on the soul. Whomever or whatever invented daytime should be taken out back and shot at dusk! 

Another poke. This time, reminding me of gaming. One of my favorite pastimes. With a cloud of smoke, swirling above my head in the pall of dim light, coming from the lantern on the table, next to my chair, I picked up my pad to scribble the thought down and whatever else came to mind. Nada. 

All of a sudden, the concept played coy and went dormant. Fine. I wasn't in the mood for writing, anyway. Doing nothing, was what I had set out to do, and dammit, if I was going to let myself be distracted away from that all-important activity. 

Of course, wouldn't you know it. Once I put down the pen and paper, the little nuisance teased me with two words in the form of a question. What if? Some of my best work begins with that question. I thought, "Alright, I'm here and will pay attention to you." 

My mind is that cat or dog, which doesn't want anything to do with you, until you've settled down to do nothing in particular. Which was what I had planned on doing. Nothing is something I like to do, almost as much as watching movies with my wife or gaming with my buddies. Almost, being the proverbial word on that point. It's my way of clearing my head and recharging my batteries. Both are needed to keep the creativity, flowing through me. Okay, what if, what? 

Still, the coyness remained and not an ounce more, spat out of my brain. Sometimes, my mind can be such a shit-heel. If I didn't need it, so bad, I might send it out for a tune-up. Then again, I wouldn't want to mess up the works. Besides, what sort of technician would get it right? 

While I wait for my mind to stop being such an ass-munch, I'll tell you about something I've been kicking around my brainpan. The idea isn't exactly engraved in stone, or anything, and I'll need my wife's blessing, but it seems like a decent possibility. My grandbaby will definitely be on board with it. She just loves everything about dogs. Did I spill the beans, or did I just fart? Hard to tell the difference, these days. Don't laugh, old age doesn't merely creep up on you. It pounces upon your sorry ass and sends every system into a state of shock! 

Don't believe me? Just wait, and you'll see. Time is a patient bastard, and like the casino house, it always wins in the end. 

Although, I don't have anything against animals in particular, nobody would've ever confused me for being a PETA activist, either. This contemplation comes as much of a surprise to me, as it will to anyone, who knows me. I'm not exactly sure what is pushing this idea through my mind, but it has been a recurrent notion over the past several months. 

The only difference, I suppose, is within the details of the ruminations. Yes, those specifics, within which, the devil runs amok. Among them are thoughts about the sort of breed, which would suit me and my family. Since the days of my misspent youth, watching Hee-Haw, I've been partial to bloodhounds, but border collies and golden retrievers have their coolness, as well. Of course, one can never discount the energy of a scottie or jack russell terrier. Except, how cool would it be to have a bloodhound, lazing about on my new deck? 

Another important particular is, what to name the critter? Bullshit would be the perfect handle for a bloodhound, but would my family accept the moniker? Shadoobie is another one, I've toyed with, going so far, as to have suggested it, back in the day, as the middle name for my first born child, who turned out to be a daughter. Yes, my wife put the nix to that idea, pretty quick. So, Shadoobie is available, and who could find such a magical name to be offensive or inappropriate in any manner? 

Like I insinuated, my mind has a way of taunting me. This playfulness, it has, can be so annoying, but, I suppose, it could be worse. Eventually, albeit, in a circuitous manner, my mental process gets to the point. 

When I thought about and wrote down the word, magical, a connection to, what if, occurred, in the form of, what if magic were real? Now, that's a question for the ages, or, at least, our times. Something magical has been missing from our civilization for a long time. With technology buzzing about, all around us, we've lost that sense of wonder, so intrinsic to the human condition. The deprivation of this sensation has been soul-crushing. 

What happens to a people, when achieving the impossible becomes a daily routine? Well, as the song lyric informs us, you can see it on the street, see it in the dragging feet. Not only do we take such achievement for granted, on some level, we stop trying, and a melancholia sets in. Humans are built to reach for the stars. Once that has been done, then what? 

Been there, done that, is not a satisfying slogan, by which, to live. It doesn't revitalize our spirits, nor do much for our souls. This ennui, that has set into our psyches, has taken from us, the lust for life, itself. It is something we should all resent, but sadly, most of us go through our daily routines like zombies, unaware of what is happening to us as a society. We don't tend to notice trends, until it's too late or too hard to turn them around. Another human trait, to which, we don't give enough of our attention. 

Magic is just what the doctor ordered, to cure what ails us. If I could do that, "I Dream of Jeannie" blink and change the world with one, swift poof, I'd lessen the hold, technology has upon our sensibilities. I don't know what would come of it, but the thought of doing it is, well, magical. 

If magic was a tangible piece of our existence, in other words, real, our outlook on life would be changed, forevermore. First, our idea of routine would be far from commonplace. Each and every moment would be an opportunity for surprise and astonishment. At some point, we would come to expect those things.

How beautiful would life be, if everyone expected and embraced the unexpected, every minute of every day? I daresay, there would no longer be dragging feet on our streets. The malaise that has inflicted many of our brethren would be cured, once and for all! 

Now that you can picture a life, where magic is real, I leave you, hopefully, longing for the rest of the story. As a bank of fog descends upon my compound, I bid, adieu, and take a bow. Good night and good luck!  

A while ago, while contemplating my next blog post and writing something or other, a couple of stray thoughts stormed the beaches of my mind. Like most ideas that surge up from my stream of consciousness, I didn't know what to do with them. Deep down, I knew there was a connection of some sort. I just had to think long enough to discover the connective tissue. As usual, I didn't jot them down, but placed the inklings on the back burner to simmer. I had to wait until something rose to the top, similar to what happens when a cream sauce breaks. 

Oh, I didn't tell you what the concepts were, did I? My mind churns in circles, hypercycloids, and other geometric forms, consisting of curves. Eventually, a point is reached, or the thought is lost to the void, surrounding my mental blackboards. Oftentimes, the notions make a resurgence, but sometimes, not. If my ideas are to ever feel the bright of my computer screen, they must be persistent.

My methodology never takes a straight line to get to its elusive objective. At times, I wish it would, but then again, that would be too easy, right? Nobody ever said, writing would be easy. Turns out, they were absolutely correct on that point. 

Curves have their natural beauty and symmetry, but are never direct. A curve can never be a straight line. If there wasn't a difference, things of this sort would all be called, lines. Useful information, a distracting absurdity, or merely mental masturbation?

No matter how many times I return to it, the answer to that last question gets lost in translation. Perhaps, my form of machine language operates at a different level, enabling connections that would otherwise never be made. The mind does work in mysterious ways, and mine, certainly proves the notion.  

The ideas that simmered on the back burner of my mind were; search and widget. Now, you can understand my conundrum. With so many possible concepts to choose from, which one connected the two notions in an interesting manner? As I went about my other writing projects(an author's work is never truly done), in the middle of jotting down a sentence, the cream sauce finally broke. One never knows when a breakthrough will occur, but must always be prepared to deal with the eventuality of something breaking loose and begging for attention.  

I interrupted my flow and took a look. Lo and behold, a champion had fought and forced itself to the top of the saucepan. As I peered at it, within my mind's eye, it glared at me in an angry manner. Probably a hostile, little bugger because I didn't immediately grab it up for some really, cool purpose. So, arrogant, it was, as well.

At first, I didn't know how the irritated buzzard connected search with widget. After a few minutes of eyeballing the curious thought, I knew it had to be what I had sought, in all of its interesting glory. My mind couldn't wait to discover the bounty of stories, which would surely come forth, once I noodled the problem through to some semblance of a conclusion. That's how my contemplations get from pen to computer, in however a roundabout manner it may be. Writing is always an adventure!

As long as I can remember, my process has always been more scatterbrained, than direct. No matter how you may classify my approach to content creation, a certain amount of logic has always underpinned it. According to fussy fans of an infamous coffee drink, I find it humorous to chant out loud for all to hear(in the spirit of any Christmas song worth its salt), the amount of nutmeg that must finish a glass of CAPPUCCINO is a whisker, and not a speck more, nor less. That exacting measurement(less ambiguous than an RCH, and I didn't think that even possible) is precisely the amount of rationality, underlying what I do.

Regardless of what anyone may think, this system, I call a mental process, gets the job done. It's just, not always in a timeframe I might prefer. The Police struck the right chord about this, when they chanted in one of their early eighties songs, "Too much information, running through my brain. Too  much information, driving me insane."

Thus, we have the reason behind the pile of notebooks I have stacked on the rack next to my computer. All of them are filled with scribblings that, most likely, will never make it to print, at least, not in their present form. Information overload is a problem all of us must face head-on, while avoiding a collision with Madness, itself. They do say, it takes a village of flecks and specks to make a gold nugget, don't they? 

What does all of this have to do with the price of tea in China? Sadly, not much. It's just how my mind churns out ideas. By the way, in case you haven't guessed it by now, the word in question is, perfection. Now, hold onto your hats. The ride ain't over, yet! 

My grandbaby, who, by the way, isn't so baby-like, anymore, adores the great outdoors. One of her favorite activities is to walk around the neighborhood. On her chosen route, she checks out every flower, looking for those not-so-elusive bumblebees. Surprisingly, she hasn't been stung, not yet, anyway. 

Lately, she's taken to going past this particular house, which has a box, labeled, "FREE." It is, or more accurately, was, chock full of all-manner of kids' toys. None of them looked like they had been used all that much. Now, my granddaughter can't read, but she instinctively understood the concept of abandoned property. She swooped down upon the goodies like a vulture to a fresh carcass. A lawyer in the making? Not if her mother has a say in the matter! 

However, this box seemed to represent to my granddaughter a treasure trove of kids' things, just waiting to be discovered. Her glimmering, blue eyes told the whole story behind her true intentions that her words couldn't come close to expressing. It's the same look my grandbaby has on her face, every time she goes into the toy department of any store. 

Every day, this week, she's taken me by this place to grab the couple of things she could tote away in her little arms, happy as a clam with her haul all the way back home. Today, after gathering her prizes from the treasure chest, my grandbaby stopped at a house with a planter box, filled with gravel. She put down her newly-discovered toys to root around in the bin of stones. 

Although it's a regular habit of hers, as she picked up one rock or pebble, only to drop it for another, on this occasion, a couple of questions stormed across my mind. What is it, she seeks? What's the difference between one stone or rock from any other? 

All of them looked pretty much the same to me. Clearly, the little one searched for something in particular. You could almost see the gears of her mind turn, as she weighed and measured each one she picked up, then discarded, until, voila, she had grabbed the exactingly, correct one.

Once satisfied with her choice, she kept the rock, grabbed her toys, and trundled along her merry way. I can't say I know for sure what my granddaughter sought to find amongst the hundreds of rocks and pebbles she hunted through in that box. All I can say with any certainty, is after pawing over them for several minutes, she walked away with a smile on her face that said it all, "I just found the perfect stone!" 

Is perfection something we all strive to attain, even with the smallest of things, from the moment we can walk and think? If so, what is it about the human condition that drives us toward something impossible to attain; perfection? I don't have the answers to those questions, but they are worthy questions to ask, nevertheless. 

Pondering about what to write next, I noticed the full moon, shining down upon my sorry ass. Moons like this have a way of spurring my creativity. Some may call it looniness. Anyway, it reminds me of those nutty, old ladies in the produce aisles of grocery stores, pawing every piece of fruit in the bin. If you think on it, you've seen the type.

Should nothing come to mind, imagine an old woman, wearing a perfectly groomed dress that has been out of fashion for decades, stooped over a bin of apples with an equally, out-of-style, overstuffed purse slung in the crook of her arm. She picks each apple up and brings it directly up to her bifocals. By the way, I do mean, right up to her glasses, so the piece of fruit almost touches her spectacles.

She then proceeds to turn the apple in the palm of one hand with the fingers of her other hand. This type of woman does this until she has found the one apple, she will purchase. After carefully bagging the apple and gingerly placing it in her cart, she moves on to the orange bin, which is the next caddy over.

These ladies will play the same tape, again and again, throughout the entire store, with every item they come across. In retrospect, under the light of the full moon, these elderly women weren't just killing time, as I once thought. They were and continue to be in search of the perfect widget. God forbid they find a dent in one of the cans in their cart, when they finally do get to the cash register! 

What does produce have to do with widgets? Well, to me, a widget is nothing more than an unspecified, and yet, idealized thing. It stands for all that could be perfect. The problem is not with the widget, itself, but with the ability of mankind to sense and touch it.

I contend my granddaughter and these old ladies are in search of the perfect widget, even if they aren't aware of exactly what they seek. Don't hold me to this theory, but their humanity, illogically drives them to seek out perfection in every endeavor they undertake. Therefore, widget seems to be an appropriate term for the unattainable object of human desires and drives. Since we can't actually make or find the perfect object, we do our best to hit the mark by coming as close as possible to it. Sound plausible?

Time to call it a night. Until we meet again, take heart, knowing, you've read the rest of the story behind the search for the perfect widget. You've thought about something, that guaranteed, none of your friends, family, and coworkers have contemplated, and hopefully, with a few, bonus laughs thrown into the mix. Good night and good luck!