From Evernote:

Do You See Me Standing Here?

"The path is level now; no bumps," said Casey. I looked out back. It was true. The ridge was filled with a huge pile of pebbles, chalk-white, and you could form the path with a rake any way you wanted. 

I began with a short trip, then a slightly more distant objective occurred, then a concurrent series of errands, and before too long I was at the library swimming pool. I had not meant to go to the library swimming pool. I would not be home until later than I had anticipated. 

I better text Lady. I have the message on my iPhone, but there is a local provision for routing, a community Wi-Fi resource which requires sufficient study to justify the clerical assistants plus health insurance for all. 

The Interconnectivity manual is on a screen like at airports, but not in columns or on a grid. It was a series of sentences, actually, which is fine but each was modified by another and contradicted by a third, with the implicit understanding that any failure to follow instructions was the sole responsibility of the patron. 

Two figures appeared gliding in the background behind the text on the screen. I hastened to ask if they might answer one question. 

"Yes, I suppose," wearily said he. "'Metonymy' and 'synecdoche' are, in fact, more or less synonymous by now. A part for the whole, a piece for the object, a suggestion for the idea. Each means what the other suggests, though one intends and the other portends allegory." 

"What should manifest to the discerning eye," added her, "Is that our feet, neither of our's, are actually standing, in your pre-sense. And so you may consider what you've learned so far a gift horse."

I looked closely at the screen and they dissolved in accordance with the effort. I had assumed -  incorrectly, as it happened - I might be allowed to select the question. 

Wait, here's Lady Kale herself! I rush to her. She is angry. 

"You should not flash bad grammar and usage," she says. "Everyone may of course see it." 

"Wait, do you mean my text to tell you I would be late? But I never sent it! I was trying to learn how just now."

"Your text is available generally as you thumb it," she said with some resignation. "Didn't you read the instructions?" And she pointed at the screen. 

"Sorry," I said. 

The Syndicate

The Syndicate, bless it, has laid in child care playrooms in many schools and business establishments, large and small. We would alleviate the gender imbalance in the workplace, it was said. Now mother and father each be free to attend boardroom or lathe.

They build many products of all sorts, the Syndicate, and here they were giving back to the workers who had manifested dream in worthy product, plus a little less for the taxman come April.

There are strange blocks for the very young to heft and assemble. Larger than Tinkertoys or Legos and smaller than bricks.

The children are very curious. They handle the blocks. The parents drop the children off and are gone until the afternoon. The children walk and run and play outside and they build with the blocks back in the playroom.

The linchpins by which the blocks connect resemble the Syndicate logo. Isn't that cute? Cute, Syndicate! The Monitors, always smiling, one to every five children, are most helpful. Here, did you notice? Can you see?

Other monitors are not smiling, but no one sees them. They are monitoring, all the same. They watch the children over electronic video monitors; the cameras are so subtle you would hardly notice them in the playrooms.

The rooms of the hidden Monitors are up and away from the playrooms. Each one watches the children. One has shown a preference for chocolate. That one, when handling the couplings shaped like the Syndicate logo, notices a strong aroma of mocha. An onsite Monitor cautions the youngster not to place toys in his mouth.

There is a current running through the linchpins. It is quite pleasing, actually. But some of the blocks can deliver a noticeable shock. Not very pleasant, but insufficient to cause a yelp.

By a strange coincidence, toys in the shapes suggestive of the products or symbols of the few remaining rivals of the Syndicate are the conductors of the mild shock, whereas a pleasant tingle emits from the linchpins. This is not noticed.

In later years, there was immense and inexplicable brand loyalty everywhere the playrooms had been in operation, which was almost everywhere. Visitors from other realms found It really quite puzzling. After all, the products of the Syndicate were mostly mediocre and less. And almost nothing was spent in.research and development by the Syndicate.

It is all really quite puzzling.

Original Thought us, after all, only an attitude.

From Evernote:

Mr Oberon

Looked much like a dumpy matron. Fiddled among his peach orchard in a droopy Panama hat. Had bizarre notions he considered meant he was an Original Thinker, did Mr Oberon. 

Conversations went much like the one with Smithy, the village mechanic. 

Oberon: It's the oil companies, They want to sell more oil, so they conspire with the automakers to build larger-than-needed crankcases. The pump can suck up a quart as well as three of them. 

Smithy: And what happens to your bearings and valves while that quart is in your filter?

Oberon: You don't understand! Oil pumps can pick up as little as one quart off the bottom of the crankcase!

Compost in trees. Not the cause, but effect, he declared. Not the root but the blossom. Thinking down limits your vision. Tied his garbage in bundles wrapped in soil from the garden center onto the branches of his peach trees. Let others do it the old stale ways, he declared. 

No peaches that season from Mr Oberon's orchard. Like most Original Thinkers, he sought near and far in an ever-widening perimeter from where he stood for the cause of his crop failure. 

Sat by his phone. Watched it, even. Had written to the local press about his idea for matchmaking. A complete and thorough survey must be conducted of all young adults and the results should be graphed and weighted and catalogued according to will and deferences, character and preferences, appearance and references. Marriages would be performed by computer, with text notifications, such as:

Congratulations! You have been found worthy to wed _________, and the ceremony was duly performed during Cycle 12 at 1100 hours this date. 

No more rival fights, mean girls, locker room lies, embarrassing date or prom nights. Kids won't even have to learn to dance in order to simulate sex; the matter is taken out of their hands, so to speak, with no more angst, tears, or loss. The relief of automating such a fraught function as mating will clear up complexes and completions overnight. 

He had emailed the suggestion and included his phone number. Mr Oberon had, despite his forward thinking, one of the last land lines in the village, so he remained in range of that instrument day and night, expecting a call at any moment from the school board, a think tank, perhaps one of those chirpy frothy morning tv shows. 

Mr Oberon consulted his copy of the paper, permanently folded to that day's Letters to the Editor page. 

Yes, yes, the phone number is quite correct as given. 

From Evernote:

The Artists

We have achieved the essential in the aesthetics of art. All who encounter our public sculpture respond in dramatic and predictable moods. They are sad and then glad and either reaction is formed out of magical material using masterful and inspired technique. 

Our team is good. The Queen is proud of us. 

As we proceed, other moods - anger, disappointment, uncontrolled merriment - are set out in the park and all react as expected, including the artists themselves. 

Next we learn that  mood and manner determine actual personality, then character. We can create art which in turn generates a nation of Polyannas or Timons. We design a gloomy Sunday, and in time, actual Nietzsche clones. 

The Queen has a word with us. It would be ever so helpful were you to - and so of course we do. 

What was it you wanted? They call their wives from the store. Oh, sorry I missed the appointment. Shouldn't you be at work? Where did I leave my auto? The big guy from the island; what was his name?

The projections from the royal accountant are not reviewed, nor are the crop futures. Trends are nonsense, like cloud pictures. No public statement by the Monarch or her court is contrasted with the previous editions, because yesterday doesn't exist. Yes, of course it doesn't. 

The queen is most happy with us. I don't know why. She praises us for our sculptures. One of us - I forget the name - asks me, "What's a sculpture?"

Our principality was very powerful once; most warlike and appeasing in turn. We were a most sanguine sort, albeit depressed at times. Perhaps you've heard of us?

I forget by what name we were called. 

From Evernote:

Here for Tests

He was very professional. Told me what he intended. He would remove my left leg and place it on that desk right over there. It was somehow comforting, such precision. 

I didn't quite catch the diagnosis, the symptom he hoped to alleviate; indeed I wasn't sure there was a symptom and whether removing my left leg would cure it. 

I assumed he meant to replace the leg. 

The operation is the 20th, I told Niki J. Hey, I said, today is the 20th!  

We were here for tests, I thought. Oh, well, all the staff seems so unconcerned. Probably just a routine procedure. They inspire a lot of confidence, these professionals in white suits all about us here. Best to allow them to do their jobs. Not my place to interfere. 

I'm really not worried.