Wit & Whim

Living where I do, I now regularly meet with a most pesky form of individual: the panhandler. Especially on our street, but often also on walks, I will be approached by individuals asking me for money, with cigarettes being the second most favourite request. There is always a pattern when they approach, such that, anytime now when I hear the phrase "sir, may I ask you a question," my internal dialogue responds "here we go again." Before any mention of money is made, I am given the first story. This story establishes why the person is in such dire straits. The variety of stories I have heard on this front are quite remarkable; this is the basic story, meant to engage. They may not have eaten in five days. They came to the city to visit family, but their family was gone when they got here. They are gathering money for a sick family member. There are many initial stories. The interest always comes with the details. It may just be perverse curiosity, but I always li

I must clock in at work in just a little more than three quarters of an hour. For some reason, one entirely unknown to me, I find it difficult to relax in the time before I leave for the day. I will work somewhere between eight and nine hours, and instead of using the last hour beforehand, I always blow it on restless pacing, interwebz surfing, or staring off into space. No matter what I do, I can be fairly certain that I will not really enjoy it. I am always glancing at the clock--much more often than I really need to--and counting the minutes until I need to leave. On the bright side, I am never late. On the negative side, this has become something of a major time suck for me. I am going to try, however brief the time I am given for the task, to spend these restless moments writing from here on out. I have neglected to restore my old hard drive, so I am cut off from all of my old stuff for the time being, but I can go ahead and start again, start fresh. Three minutes have passe

Maps give the illusion that there are no more secrets, that everything has been discovered, and that all is well ordered. But there are places and things that those maps do not show. I know. I have been there. This morning I left home with the intent of finding Immanuel Lutheran Church, where my friend Winston would be preaching. I left home in plenty of time to get there and mingle before the service. Unfortunately, I knew but loosely where I was going, and I did not have any maps in my car. After a smooth beginning on the wide, well marked, roads of the city, I departed onto the infinitely wilder, narrow, arrow straight yet somehow winding, roads of the country. The signs became smaller, and went by much too fast for a careful perusal. Despite my great care, I was soon lost on the back roads, little more than a single lane wide, with not another soul in sight for miles. It was there, lost in the fields of Indiana, that I found a place not marked on maps. A strange and wonderful