My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Browsing Category Food for Thought

Things That Go Bump in the Night

by on ·Food for Thought, General, Strange Happenings

A strange thing happened to me this morning. Talk about weird occurrences.

As I often do while lying in bed between snoozes, I had a flash of inspiration. It was around 4 AM. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my laptop, and hurried to the dining room table. Before taking a seat, I switch on the kitchen light but leave the dining room light off. My concentration is sharpest when I’m writing in a dimly lit room. I set the laptop on the table, open it, and begin typing. I’m anxious to save the thoughts in my head to the hard drive before I forget them.

My fingers are burning up the keyboard, and I’m enjoying myself in the creativity zone. The early morning hours are my favorite time of the day; it’s when I am most inspired. It’s quiet outside and indoors. For the time being, no noisy emergency vehicles are flying up and down the streets with sirens wailing. No neighbors chattering or children playing loudly outside. The phone isn’t ringing. The TV is off. In my bliss, I recall a line from a Christmas story – “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” I glance at the clock. It’s 5:12.

Satisfied that I have saved my story ideas to my hard drive, I click on Facebook and scroll down the page. Then, I click my photos. The first image my eyes land on is a favorite picture of my mother that I posted last Saturday in observance of what would have been her 95 birthday. I decide that I don’t want anyone to steal that photo. (Of course, I realize it’s already too late. Everyone knows that once a picture is posted on social media, it becomes fair game for anyone who wants to copy it.) Still, I decide to delete it. I select the image and tap the delete button on the keyboard. A message on the screen warns me, “Deleting this photo will also delete the post.” Additional instructions about how to delete just the photo and not the post are available if I click “Learn more,” but I don’t click it. Thanks, but no thanks for the warning Facebook. I delete the photo, my message, and all of the appreciated comments from my friends and relatives.

As soon as I delete the post before I even lift the finger that pressed the delete key, I hear a sound like something has fallen near me in the room. Without turning my head, I swing my eyes toward the sound. I am sitting at the dining room table in front of the door leading into the kitchen. The kitchen light behind me and the light on the laptop monitor is the only illumination in the otherwise dark room. And I know the only other person at home is asleep in the bedroom, so I ask myself, “What was that noise?”

I have a pair of 8-by-8-inch canvas African art pieces hanging near the door leading into my apartment, so I think that perhaps the hook came loose, and one of the pieces fell off the wall. I lean back in the chair, reach for the light switch on the wall and flip it on. Then I look toward the door. And I see it, the source of the noise.

The little wooden bird that perches on the console table with my other ornamental animals, a parakeet, and a turtle (my menagerie, I call it), has fallen to the floor. I wonder, how did that happen? Is it possible that the stems on my philodendron plant had a sudden growth spurt and tipped the bird over? Nah. But maybe so. A few days ago, while watering my plant, I picked up a stem extending to the floor and gently laid it over the bird. The stem on my house plant isn’t strong enough to knock a wooden bird or any other inanimate object off that table. I’ve got to stop reading Stephen King.

My rational and imagination wrestle over the issue.

Fact – Immediately after I deleted my mother’s photo, the bird fell (or was knocked off the table by something). Nothing has ever fallen off of that table except one time after a house guest accidentally bumped the table while walking past it. So, how did the bird get off the table and onto the floor? It didn’t fly.

My mother, for religious reasons, did not observe birthdays. I do. Last Saturday, I posted a photo with a message acknowledging mom’s birthday on Facebook. The post generated several kind comments and “Happy Heavenly Birthday” remarks from my friends and relatives.

Imagination – During the days that the birthday message for my mother was posted on Facebook, could it have been transmitted beyond the grave? Did mother see it?

“You know I don’t observe birthdays.” She used to repeat that so often I can still hear her saying it. “But ma, I do,” I’d reply. Did mom’s spirit flick the bird off the table as a playful yet ghostly way of showing me that she knows I continue to acknowledge her birthday?

Okay, enough with the spookiness. Still, I need an explanation. That bird has perched on that table in the same spot for years and has never flown the coop, so to speak. No one was stomping downstairs in the hallway of the building. There was no large truck rumbling by outside. I didn’t feel an earthquake, tremor, or anything that would cause the building to vibrate. The only movement in the room was my fingers tapping on the keyboard. No matter how I try to come up with a reason for how the bird wound up on the floor, I can not. Guess I’ll have to settle for it being a fluke. Stuff happens.

Halloween is two days away. I wonder, are the ghosts (even the holy ones) and goblins already haunting?

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Thought-to-Text Software, You’re Lying!

by on ·Food for Thought, Technology, The Writing Life

Last night, during one of my occasional insomnia episodes, I wrote an entire novel in about 20 minutes. Anyone who has struggled to write anything worth reading will tell you that sometimes composing a single concise paragraph can cause brain strain. So imagine writing an entire novel while lying in bed. I know it sounds hard to believe, but I did that last night. I was proud of my creation. I imagined a best seller. Okay, maybe a best seller is a stretch. I’d settle for making the shortlist for the First Novel Award.

Before the naysayers start shaking their heads, let me clarify.

Some people count sheep to try and force themselves to doze off; I write stories. The novel I created last night was in my head. I considered jumping out of bed, rushing to the computer, and trying to recreate the tale, but I knew from experience that the masterpiece would vanish before I could pull the chair to the desk and sit down. I’m sure of this because it has happened to me more times than I can remember.

Like Tony Morrison and other noted authors I’ve studied, I do my most productive writing in the middle of the night. So, sometimes I climb out of bed around 3 AM, go to the computer, and begin pecking on the keyboard like a mad woman. The goal is to get my thoughts saved before they vanish because I know I’d be fooling myself if I waited until morning, thinking I would remember every detail.

So last night, I got an idea as my conceived novel was dissipating into my subconsciousness. It was more like wishful thinking. What if – I thought, considering all of the fancy technological devices that do everything from responding to voice commands, “Alexa, play Mozart,” to robotic vacuuming our floors – there was a device that responded to thought commands? For instance, take last night, when that remarkable story created itself in my head; how nice would it have been if I could have used telepathy to send that novel to a device on the nightstand that would record my thoughts? Then, in the morning, I could set the gadget next to my computer, push transcribe, and have those thoughts reproduced onto my computer screen.

It would work similarly to voice-to-text software that is already available. So why not thought-to-text (TTT software, or better yet, let’s call it Ms. T software)? What a help that would be for writers. We would merely need to compose in our heads whatever we want to write, be it a poem, article, or novel, and send those thoughts to Ms. T. When we are ready, Ms. T will transcribe those thoughts into language, send them to a computer file, and Walla!

Instead of manually typing the words dictated by the device, we would issue a voice command, “Transcribe.” Initially, folks like me who are fascinated by technology might want to sit in front of the monitor and watch as our story transcribes word-by-word, line-by-line onto the screen, giving us a finished manuscript in minutes instead of hours or years. Then, of course, we might have to go back and clean up the document, proofread and edit it just like we do with voice-to-text software. Voice-to-text or speech recognition software turns spoken words into written words. It’s pretty neat. I use it occasionally, especially if I’m in a hurry to produce a typed document because, like the average Jill, I speak faster than I type.

Maybe, my concept of thought-to-voice software is far-fetched. But, if nothing else, it is a strong plot for a sci-fi novel.

I am a never-say-never, nothing is impossible kind of person. And considering the speed and innovativeness of today’s tech geniuses, I would not be surprised if, during my lifetime, someone didn’t invent a thought-to-text device. Think about it; law enforcement officers might be able to do away with lie detectors. But, unfortunately, like every other well-intended invention, Ms. T could spell trouble in the wrong hands. However, for honorable people, what a boon it would be!

Who knows, perhaps a brilliant and beautiful mind is already working on a TTT program.

“Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it is more interesting.” – William Randolph Hearst

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The Gift: Contemplating the Black Doll, White Doll

by on ·Food for Thought, Lifestyle and Culture, Race Matters

“Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.” ― C.G. Jung

In this Sunday’s Washington Post Magazine, Damon Young wrote a column titled, “Someone gave our daughter a White doll. How do we, um, “disappear” it?” Young’s column is published weekly on the inside back cover of the magazine in the space previously utilized by Gene Weingarten, a former syndicated humor columnist for the paper.

Young, a noted journalist, has written for numerous newspapers and other publications and is also the author of What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Blacker: A Memoir in Essays. In addition, he is the winner or nominee of several awards, including the NAACP Image Award. He has earned his props.

Since Young began publishing his (humorous?) perspective columns in The Washington Post Magazine, I’ve read many of them. One that impressed me, entitled “The Whitest thing I’ve ever seen,” was about the infamous Will Smith slap at the Oscars.

The column in today’s paper flashed me back to an afternoon decades ago, sometime in the mid-1980s. One of my former employers, Harper (Note: I am using pseudonyms for my employer and all of his family members) and his wife had invited me to their home to visit with his adult daughter, Sandy, and her first child, a daughter Ashley. If I remember correctly, Baby Ashley was around three or four months old.

Sandy’s husband, Nick, may have been there too, but I don’t remember seeing him. I had an excellent relationship with these people and had met Sandy on a few occasions before when she had visited her dad from her home on the West Coast.

I could go on about the genuine friendship I had with this family. I liked them a lot, and I feel those feelings were reciprocal, but I want to cut to the chase and reveal how this ties in with Young’s column.

Before visiting the Harper’s home that day, I had contemplated what gift to buy for the baby. I figured that perhaps baby showers and the couple’s friends had already brought numerous presents for Ashley. However, I wanted to give her something unique, so that’s what I got.

After I gave Sandy the nicely store-wrapped gift box during my visit, she opened it to discover a beautiful black baby doll for Ashley.

Some people might question my gift choice, but I saw it this way. Although Sandy and her husband are white, I felt they would have no problem with the black doll. (For my readers who may not have noticed from some of my previous posts, I’m a black woman. Now, back to the topic.) I usually bought black dolls for my daughter but wasn’t bothered when she was gifted white dolls (as she sometimes was). My cousin, Andre, had even sent her a Cabbage Patch doll when he was in the military and stationed in Germany. I still have that doll in my home.

If I were right in thinking that Sandy and her husband were as open-minded and socially conscious as Sandy’s dad, then I knew they would see nothing wrong with diversifying their daughter’s doll collection.

Sandy thanked me and expressed her appreciation. Several months later, I don’t remember whether Sandy sent me a note or if her dad delivered the message, but Sandy wanted me to know how much the child was enjoying her doll. Ashley is a grown woman now, and the doll — I don’t know what became of her.

After reading Young’s column this morning, I was a bit irritated and had some serious cognitive dissonance going on. I was questioning my gift choice all those years ago while at the same time feeling disturbed by Young’s reaction to his daughter’s white doll.

I saw no harm in my choice for Ashley’s doll collection, which I figured would likely grow as she would. But talk about second-guessing a done deal. Young’s column had me wondering if my idea had not been good despite how it seemed at the time. After I left the get-together, did the Harper family react the same way the Youngs had toward the white doll? Did they contemplate what to do with the black doll? My gut feeling says no.

Click on the link to read Young’s column, “Someone gave our daughter a White doll. How do we, um, “disappear” it?” And, since I am always curious to know what my readers think, I’d appreciate your comments on this post.

 

 

 

 

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Clearing Headspace of Rambling Thoughts

by on ·Food for Thought, General, Humor

I am a contented introvert and don’t mind admitting it. I can socialize without awkwardness, but I’d rather have my privacy than interact with a crowd. Unlike extroverts who draw energy from social gatherings, I’ve never felt the need to surround myself with people. I prefer to enjoy my solitude and be alone with my thoughts at this stage in my life. I found it interesting to learn that, according to Business2Community.com, some celebrities have been identified as popular introverts, including Harrison Ford, Warren Buffet, and Anthony Hopkins. I chuckled when I read that Hopkins said, “We are dying from overthinking. We are slowly killing ourselves by thinking about everything. Think. Think. Think.”

I admit I do, do, do spend much time in my head, and if it’s true that overthinking leads to procrastination – well, bingo! That explains a lot.

I don’t just think about contemporary things; sometimes, I contemplate the past. Take the declaration made by historical figures like the alleged promoter of personal freedoms, Patrick Henry, who said, “Give me liberty or give me death.” But, of course, that has me thinking, “Wasn’t Henry a slave-owner?” Go figure.

Speaking of death and briefly putting sarcasm aside, I must vent about something. (That’s one advantage to having your own platform.) I can’t stop thinking about the most recent tragic shootings in Buffalo, New York, and Uvalde, Texas. What kind of deranged person shoots down people shopping for groceries and little elementary school kids like he’s playing a violent video game? Some folks say that the perpetrators are (or were, in the case of the Uvalde shooter) mentally ill. Do we know that? DO WE KNOW THAT, or is it just a lame excuse alleged because the act was so unconscionable? I think such evildoers are mad with the world, and because they are dissatisfied with their life, they can’t stand to see anyone else happy. Undeniably, misery loves company. I don’t care what the killer’s race or ethnicity is. I don’t care what political or social mandate they endorse; there is no justification for the cold-blooded, ruthless killing of anyone, especially children. Killing people is not a black or brown thing. It’s not a white thing. Maliciously killing someone is an evil act, regardless of who the moral degenerate is behind it.

God – if S/He is still alive – must certainly be disappointed in humankind. As if the original sins are not enough, centuries of people have added a multitude of unnatural transgressions, keeping the hellfire burning. I imagine that contemporary Moses will have at least 2000 Commandments saved on a computer tablet instead of ten inscribed on two stones whenever there is a world reboot.

Every time I scratch my head, I think about hair. Hair is a sensitive subject for Black women. It’s one of those topics that we aren’t supposed to talk about in public, like politics, religion, and sex. But Black women aren’t the only ones who wear the fake stuff. According to the Ultimate Looks blog, “Hollywood hairstylist Priscilla Valles, whose clients include Kylie Jenner, Chrissy Teigen, and Christina Aguilera, estimates that 97 percent of all female stars wear hair extensions — both onscreen and off.”

I wonder how some folks would cope if the fake hair industry suddenly went bust? Can you imagine how many celebrities and wanna-be celebs would lose their minds if they could no longer buy those long tresses? Never say never, readers. It could happen. Anytime there can be a shortage of toilet paper, paper towels, and even baby formula – baby formula, for God’s sake! So then, what’s to prevent fake hair from suddenly becoming unavailable? I imagine that some of you readers are saying, “don’t even think about it.”

After seven straight years of going to the gym three days a week, my routine got canceled by the pandemic, and I haven’t been back. My wallet appreciates the rest, but my body is punishing me by puffing up. Although I exercise at home, I am not as driven to stay on a sixty-minute, tri-weekly schedule as I used to do. When Coronavirus shut down everything, I had two months of credit remaining on my membership, but I suspect my credit has expired since I have yet to return.

Tamper-proof packaging has gone too far. I understand that the Chicago Tylenol murders in ’82 prompted the wrap rage, but now it takes a village to open a factory-sealed package, like that bottle of eye drops I recently brought. I struggled for several minutes to get the clear plastic shrink band off the cap before I could finally grip and tear its perforated edge. And then, as if removing the shrink band wasn’t tricky enough, the cap presented another challenge. I was twisting it and snarling like a pit bull mangling a chihuahua. The lid wouldn’t bug until I grabbed a pair of pliers off the shelf. Even with the pliers, it took several teeth-gritting, forceful turns before the cap loosened. I know that tamper-proof packing is to prevent wrongdoers from tinkering with products and protect young children from ingesting detergent pods and other poisonous substances. But what’s the point of safety sealed packaging if consumers can’t open the products? I wonder if the CDC Injury Center keeps track of how many people wind up cut and bloodied while struggling to open blister packs, clam-shell hard-plastic, and heat-sealed items. And OMG, the irony of the situation is that there is a prize created for products with the hardest-to-open packaging – the Oyster Award. Don’t take my word for it; ask Google.

And while it’s on my mind – I’m not a big fan of the idiot box. But, except for a couple of all-news channels, I have one favorite TV program, The View. I am so happy that the show is nominated for nine Emmy Awards. I can hardly wait until September to see how many of the golden statues they’ll win. The cohosts are intelligent and entertaining, and their hot topics always give me something else to think about (besides a preposition at the end of a sentence).

(Artwork for this post created by Khalil Brown-Royal.)

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Unscrambling the Mystery of the Chirping Eggs

by on ·Food for Thought, General, Humor

When I was a child, I would listen with earnest to hear if my bowl of Rice Krispies would snap, crackle, and pop as the TV commercial claimed. As an adult, I’m still curious about usual sounds, and I find the stories associated with some of them amusing. For example, my cousin, Vanessa, told me about an interesting event a couple of days ago.

She said that her daughter, Destiny, removed a few raw eggs from the refrigerator and was preparing to boil them for breakfast when the eggs began making a chirping sound loud enough to be heard throughout the room. They both freaked out.

I’ve never heard chirping from previously refrigerated eggs like I told Vanessa, but hardly anything surprises me anymore. I had no reason to doubt her, so I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting for a dramatic finish to the story. I thought – if Vanessa tells me that they covered the eggs with a warm towel and within minutes little chicks hatched from them, I’ll tell her to video the chicks and contact CNN immediately. But alas, no such drama happened.

Her resourceful daughter consulted the ultimate practical problem solver, Google. It turns out that it is not uncommon for raw eggs to chirp when there is air escaping from them.

Still, that didn’t stop me from imagining what might have happened if those eggs had hatched. Although I wasn’t there with them, we all would have been jumping up and down and pulling out our hair as if we’d entered the Twilight Zone. That vision cracked me up. Pun intended.

News crews would be scrambling to get to their home, and after being assured that mother and daughter did not whisk up a tale, each station would try to be the first to break the story. No yolking. Another pun. (I couldn’t resist.)

I’ve yet to have first-hand experience with chirping eggs. (I don’t want to either.) But I’ve grown used to hearing various unusual sounds in my home. I wish that I could unhear some of them

There is a harmony of intermittent sounds that are unnerving and downright annoying. Most occur in the middle of the night.

I hear hammering on the metal pipes behind the wall and suspect that poltergeists are causing the disturbance. The wind blows the Venetian blinds through the open window and bangs them against the sill, waking me with a start. The random pop of a closed plastic water bottle on the nightstand, a running toilet, or leaky faucet – drip, drip, dripping are all nerve-wracking. But of all the annoying household noises  – groans, creaks, buzzing, gurgling, hissing, skittering, and humming there is one exasperating sound that beats the others.

It is the fantasy Gremlins that live inside my pillow. No matter how I punch, turn over, or fold my pillow, I can hear them. Think about the high-pitched squeal heard when an inflated balloon is loosely tied or the lip on a balloon is stretched, allowing the air to escape as the balloon deflates. That’s the sound I hear inside my pillow some nights. No, it isn’t Tinnitus. That’s been ruled out. When the pillow Gremlins get too annoying, I’ll put in earplugs or earbuds and let a book or music on my iPod lull me to sleep. I understand that feathery pillows are the worse noise makers, but mine is a memory pillow. Go figure.

Unexplainable noises are attributable to so many things. For example, I’ve learned that stray electrical signals caused by Smart TVs, electric wall clocks, and other devices can emit a low-frequency constant hum. But I don’t find any of those as interesting as chirping eggs.

So much for the things that scramble our nerves in the morning or go bump in the night.

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