Oh hello. I wasn’t expecting any visitors but am always glad to have company. Welcome to my mind. This must be your first time here since you don’t look familiar. Hope your visit is enlightening. Since I’m not big on self-promotion and don’t charge admission, there’s no tour guide. But I’ll be puttering around in case you have any concerns or just want to look over my shoulder and kibitz. I will ask that you wipe your feet as I recently had the accessible portions of the floors refinished to strip off the plaque buildup.

There are a few things that need to be taken care of before you can begin. Nothing major, just some forms. You know, typical bureaucratic boilerplate releases that Legal needs to have on file for insurance reasons. Red tape, what are you going to do, right? Let me get the packet.

The first piece of paperwork is the standard NDA. This just ensures that proprietary ideas, thoughts, sights or funny quips aren’t released into the public domain prematurely. Read and initial there. Recording devices are prohibited. Initial there. Then sign and date on the bottom. And today is November 17th.

The second form simply states that you are here on your own free will. You were not coerced nor under duress. You can leave my mind at any moment. Sign and date on the bottom. I’ll need to get a thumb print next to your signature. Yes, a thumb print. Either one, doesn’t matter. It’s verifying you are who you say you are. Paper towels to wipe off the ink are on your right.

This third form is if you decide to stay for an extended period, you can do so rent-free. Yes, as long as you want. Oh, you’d be surprised at how many people come here with the intention of “just looking around” but end up hanging out for many months. Some even years. Don’t worry, with only using 10% of my brain, there is enough space to accommodate all long-term visitors. Between you and me, and I’ll deny I ever said this, Code Enforcement has never shown up, so the OSHA mandated maximum capacity rating is totally ignored. I’ll also need emergency contact information.

And here’s the last piece of paper. This is the Trigger Warning rider. It’s a generic, encompassing declaration because I don’t know what will upset people these days. Fairly straightforward. It absolves me from any civil litigation involving self-imposed, implied trauma you allegedly suffered as the result of being exposed to the inner workings of my brain or getting an answer that was contrary to what you wanted to hear. Okay, sign. And perfect.

Now about the amenities. No smoking or vaping in the facility. For your convenience, bathrooms are handicapped accessible and located throughout my mind. Restrooms were installed in response to all the people dumping on me. Part of life, I guess. Please refrain from putting feminine products in the toilets. Use the small trashcan under the vanity. The hand soaps are free of lye to prevent dermatitis. Breath mints get replaced daily.

If you come across panhandlers, don’t give them money. They’re a scam. As for those voices echoing throughout the venue, I know it’s easier said than done but ignore their negative commentary. Neither are sanctioned by my brain’s governing body and steps are being taken to remove both from the premises.

Please don’t touch the displays or rearrange anything to make it more to your liking. Remember: You break it, you buy it.

The gift shop closes at 4:00 p.m. sharp.

I’d appreciate it if you completed a short survey regarding your experience with the telepathic transportation machine developed by Dr. Jackson J. Youngblood which got you here today. This ground-breaking invention has literally opened minds. As with all modern technology, the potential for beneficial upgrades increases with input from actual users. Although I haven’t ridden in it yet, I’ve heard good things about the Youngblood Individual Knowledge Exchanging System (Y.I.K.E.S.) that people take to enter the minds of others.

Anyway, enough of this chitchat. Let’s get you started. The layout of my brain is similar to a bicycle wheel. We are in the central hub with the spokes radiating towards an outer walkway. Unlike a corn maze, there are no dead ends as every path leads back to this starting location. Please disregard the clutter scattered about. I used to do housecleaning on a regular basis. But over time, the slow accumulation compounded. After decades, my attempt at “shabby chic” now looks like an episode from Hoarders.

Each spoke has a specific theme. I’ve satiated my somewhat OCD tendencies with the spokes’ themes matching their identifying letters. Spoke A behind me focuses on Anamnesis. This starts with recent adulthood memories and proceeds back through my childhood, highlighting the associated growing pangs. There are separate kiosks for family, friends and miscellaneous recollections. Spoke B is Bravery. Not much to see here. I am proud of the quality, not the quantity on display. C’s theme is Crazy Ideas that never came to fruition while D covers Desires. Some content is repeated between C and D. Rest assured, exhibits in D are not morally compromising, but still NSFW.

E is all about Education gained from formal institutions and real-life occurrences. F showcases Failures, including setbacks and overall humiliation. Allow extra time to peruse Spoke F as there’s a lot to see here. G houses all things Glorious, whether secular or sacred. H is for Humor. This is a subjective spoke. I presents Information gathered over the years that is totally frivolous. It’s a catch-all vacuum. I don’t know why I can’t part with this information. Everything in Spoke I should be purged.

So, enjoy my brain. It’s not a bad place to spend the afternoon. I hang out here as much as possible. Before I forget, the tram back to the departure pad runs on the top of every hour. If you leave your contact information upon exiting, maybe I can Y.I.K.E.S. on over to your mind to compare content. I’m sure we have a lot in common.

I can become hyper-focused, ignoring my surroundings as one thought monopolizes all available grey matter. Out of neurological gear, my mind idles on the berm of life as the rest of the world speeds past. During such cerebral free spinning moments, time advances whilst I concentrate on a single bit of minutiae. This inattentiveness can result in bodily injury. One such incident happened when my family moved to Ohio.

Being the first residents in our neighborhood meant the surrounding houses were still under construction well after we unpacked. Abundant dirt mounds and half-finished structures beckoned me with promises of discovery this six-year-old couldn’t resist. Once the workers knocked off for the day, my explorations began. I rationalized it’s not trespassing if it’s not occupied.

Mom and Dad defined the Rules of Conduct while on my suburban safaris:

1) Watch where you’re stepping.

2) No vandalism/stealing

3) Don’t get hurt.

I agree to these reasonable terms and begin my adventures.

One muddy afternoon, my older sister accompanied me to survey the progress on the house next door, one I had frequented since it was a skeletal frame. Near completion, we compare its layout to our house with the hope whoever moves in has kids our age.

The reconnaissance mission finishes as suppertime nears. Having the tendency to drop whatever’s in their hands at the end of the shift, the workers leave behind a bonus obstacle course of building materials. Aware of these hazards, we are vigilant of where we’re stepping and weave around the rubble strewn across the floors. Joan and I navigate a path towards the doorless entry without incident.

Hopping over the last piece of debris, I lead the way down the wooden ramp connecting the threshold with the barren yard. Confident it’s gotten me out of the interior peril zone, the portion of mind responsible for safety disengages. It goes inactive so the section dedicated to food can check in and take the con. My thought shifts from danger to dinner. I build up speed down the incline. As I transition onto the ground, I’m obsessed over supper.

With my focus on eating, all other input, even that which isn’t necessarily frivolous, is ignored. So, the visual information regarding the piece of wood lying ahead is not received. The potential for harm is not conveyed because my attention is on if we’ll have meatloaf tonight. No evasive action is taken because I’m looking forward to the accompanying mashed potatoes if meatloaf is indeed the entrée. Lacking a directive to avoid it, my legs continue their course straight toward the lumber.

I plant my left foot hard and fast on the obvious board. So hard and fast that I didn’t feel the penetration of the nail sticking up from the wood. Another detail not realized due to my dinner preoccupation. The exposed nail is driven through my boot, shoe, sock and into my sole. My right foot completes its sequential step as planned, oblivious to the impalement its companion has experienced.

When I pick up my left foot, the board tags along. This hinders my gait. Stumbling jolts my mind, putting dinner on the back burner. My body dispatches the appropriate impulses which my brain now acknowledges. Collapsing to the ground, I emit a scream of pain followed by tears of regret. I just broke rules #1 and #3 of the suburban safari edicts. Individually, they could result in the suspension of future outings. Combined, they could result in a permanent ban on future outings. And there’s no way to hide a mistake like this.

Without her stride impeded by an unyielding 2x4, my sister quickly closes the gap. Being older and wiser, she knows the needed course of action - Jettison the attachment, get me home, emphasize it wasn’t her fault and let Mom deal with this medical emergency.

Joan approaches from behind, grabs under my arms and lifts me. She then simultaneously steps on both ends of the board and yanks my body upward. My introduction to the plank is accidental and unnoticed. My parting is deliberate and jarring. Joan drags me the remaining way to our front door.

As we burst into the house, Mom is already responding to my wails and Joan’s pleas for help. I’m escorted into the kitchen to begin triage. She peels off the layers of footwear to survey the damage. When my sock is removed, I take a break from sobbing to glance down at the injury. I expect a crimson geyser spewing forth like an open hydrant. But there’s no gushing blood, just an oozing hole in my heel.

I don’t remember going to a doctor. I’m sure I did. This isn’t something a dab of Mercurochrome and a Band-Aid could fix. Probably got a tetanus shot and antibiotics to stave off whatever late 1960’s infection was rampant then. I don’t even think I was bedridden for any length of time. The post-traumatic events are hazy. Out of embarrassment, or guilt, my brain didn’t archive the recovery since its absence caused the mishap in the first place.

By the time I was ambulatory again, the houses were finished and occupied. The possibility of future harm was eliminated because uninvited entry into occupied dwellings is illegal. However, the ability to ignore my surroundings and inflict personal damage carried over and is still strong to this day.

As a child living in Ohio, my world consisted of car rides through Pennsylvania for visits with relatives in New York during the holidays. These three states were my boundaries. I was predisposed to living life as a Northerner, to never venture south of the Mason-Dixon line. My paternal grandparents were the first people I knew who breached that barrier by traveling all the way to Florida for a vacation. To me, this was on par with the moon landing. Such an accomplishment in my eyes.

On the steps of their back porch were conch shells, souvenirs of their trip to the Sunshine State. I was transfixed by these shells. I’d gaze at their beauty, amazed an animal could sculpt such intricacies. I couldn’t believe they were found while you walked on a beach (although these may have been purchased at a roadside tourist trap). Plus, I personally knew who collected (or bought) them. I was proud of my grandparents’ proof they touched down in Florida.

These treasures piqued my curiosity, representing an exotic land beyond my realm, experienced only through books or my grandparents’ vacation slides and postcards. I imagined strolling along the ocean’s edge, picking up seashells like someone picks out oranges at the grocery store. I daydreamed of sporting a bronze tan in December; wondered how salty salt water tasted. The more I looked at the shells, the more they fueled my yearning to visit Florida. I didn’t know how or when I’d do it, but I was going to Florida. My grandparents were both the inspiration for this pipe dream and the role models for turning it into a reality.

When I was fourteen, an adult asked what I wanted to be doing in ten years. Instead of answering with an expected response centered around raising a family or pursuing a professional career, I said, “Walking barefoot on a Florida beach.” Not a very lofty aspiration. And not a reply that offers the inquiring person a chance to give me sage advice on how I go about reaching this objective based on his life experiences. This reply was just another manifestation of my desire to head south, following my grandparents’ trailblazing journey. I held firm that this prediction would come true.

And it did. I attended the University of Miami long enough to toss my tasseled cap in the air at graduation. I spent four years gathering shells on Miami Beach while building a solid base tan between studying the bare minimum needed to earn a degree. I can testify that salt water is salty enough to warrant that adjective.

I proved to myself that Florida was attainable. Less than two years after getting my diploma and with the confidence I can thrive there, I returned to become a full-time resident. This meant as a 24-year-old, taking off my shoes to walk on the beach whenever I wanted was a viable option. My dream was actualized. My ten-year-old prophecy was fulfilled.

Florida was home almost exclusively for three decades before I traded its ocean views and scorching heat for Virginia’s scenic beauty and seasonal changes. Although at times I miss being a Floridian, I very much enjoy living in the Shenandoah Valley.

As an appreciative homage to my grandparents for expanding my world, in every room of my house there is a conch shell that I found during my life in Florida. Thinking back on how I ended up there, it all started on my grandparents’ porch steps with me looking at their shells, unaware I was actually looking at my future.

Halloween has passed,

yet I remain in costume

portraying a hoax.

Hiding my spirit

behind a store-bought façade

of expectations.

Decorations stowed,

but I cannot shed this cloak -

a false persona.

Halloween has passed,

and I still pretend to be

someone I am not.

Even if obscured by overcast weather,

the Hunter’s Moon

still radiates.

It maintains a steadfast presence

until the building clouds, as they always do,

are dispersed by the wind.

Then the night sky is illuminated once more

so those fortunate enough to look up

will be in awe.

Ignore outside forces

attempting

to lessen your uniqueness.

Reject negativity,

both external and internal,

that questions your worth.

Share what you have to offer

to shine on others,

like a Hunter’s Moon.

Alistair Boyd was fired from his position as head of marketing for gross incompetence after only two months. An ad campaign costing $10,000,000 the supposed merchandising prodigy spearheaded was an utter failure. Swift backlash from the public, particularly parents, was resonating. The board of directors wanted immediate answers when market shares tumbled overnight. It eclipsed the Bud Light debacle. This will be taught in business schools as another example of why you shouldn’t alienate your consumer base.

The COO, Harmony Featherstone, is in full-blown damage control addressing the throng of media asking the same question: “Does Kellogg’s regret unceremoniously firing Crackle?” With poised diplomacy, she explains mistakes were made, that decisions were based on skewed data extrapolated from just one focus group comprised solely of witches. “So, it’s now apparent ‘Cackle’ was not a suitable replacement spokesperson as my former director assured me. And for that, I apologize. The lesson we can take from this is that thinking outside the box is not always the correct approach, especially when cereal is involved.”

Harmony emphasizes how important Kellogg’s reputation is and how she and her team are dedicated to winning back the trust of the customers. She assures everyone, “Kellogg’s has reached out to Crackle’s lawyers in hopes of turning the page by making things right. I, along with Snap and Pop, look forward to sitting down for a productive, face-to-face discussion as to how we can repair partnerships, put this behind us and focus on delivering a nutritious product that has been and always will be enjoyed at breakfast tables by families for generations.”

She finishes the press conference by mentioning, “Also, despite rumors being spread on social media, Circe the Black Cat was never in consideration for taking the spot of Tony the Tiger.” This is a lie.

In a conference room atop the headquarters at 1 General Mills Boulevard, Count Chocula is watching the press briefing with the Berry brothers, Boo and Franken. “And that’s why,” he declares, “we haven’t ever solicited advice from a coven.”

Returning to my desk, I realize something’s missing. “Honey, I don’t remember where I put my glasses,” I announce to my wife. She won’t know where they are because she’s been in the front room reading while I’ve been in the den at the computer.

“‘Where are my glasses?’ the lobotomy patient said absentmindedly,” she verbally lunges from afar.

To her credit, that was a great comeback. But I’ll keep my compliment bottled up for the time being. “Technically, if I was a lobotomy patient, I’d blissfully forget having glasses in the first place, so this conversation wouldn’t be happening,” I parry, attempting to negate her sarcasm with logic.

“But having a lobotomy wouldn’t correct your vision, so at some point you’d realize you needed glasses and here we’d be,” she ripostes, still out of sight.

My counterattack didn’t put a dimple in her vocal armor. Leery of fighting a war on two fronts, I relent to redirect my energy to the initial, pressing battle: Find the glasses I had on before getting a drink.

“Let me retrace my steps,” I acquiesce.

“Okay, I’m here if you need me,” she offers with a heavy, rhetorical overtone.

Despite compromised vision, I decline her assistance. “I’m good.”

Standing with beverage in hand, I survey the desktop, assuring my cheaters weren’t buried under the miscellaneous paperwork. Then I execute a 360-degree scan of the adjacent furnishings in the room to no avail. This means I had them on my way to the kitchen. I replicate and peruse the route taken when leaving the den.

Scouring the kitchen with the same meticulousness used previously ends with a similar outcome. Desperation creeps in which fuels an illogical urge to look in abstract locations for my wayward lenses. So, I check the refrigerator. Then the microwave. Then the bread box. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I contemplate inspecting the garbage disposal since there’s a one in a trillion chance my glasses fell in without me noticing them departing my face or hearing them hit a drain opening they couldn’t pass through unimpeded unless folded and orientated vertically. I snap back to reality, but still flip the switch for confirmation the chamber is empty. It is.

Hoping a view from a different perspective will yield better results, I backtrack to the den. Then repeat this roundtrip. Neither are fruitful. So, my glasses are lost forever, sucked into some transportational vortex to another dimension. Out of frustration, I put my hands on my head and feel the telltale plastic frame that’s been securely hitchhiking there the entire time.

I let out a sigh/“Dammit” combination.

From the other room, “What now?”

“Never mind, found them.”

“Good for you.”

I slide my specs into their rightful position on my nose. At this advanced stage of my life, would LASIK surgery be beneficial to eliminate the need for glasses, thus avoiding the possibility of repeating anguished searching in the future? Maybe. But first, where in the Hell did I leave my drink?

How I feel Autumn’s ache

of being forced to bid us “Goodbye.”

Of ceding the landscape’s rustic palette

to Winter’s overbearing, slate gray sky.

As Autumn remains dormant

slumbering under a fleece of melting snow,

waiting patiently for the moment to stir,

allowing Spring’s bounty ample time to grow.

Having endured Summer’s long, parched days

wilting from the incessant, soaring degrees,

then Autumn can burst forth once again,

regaling us with a kaleidoscope of earth-tone leaves.