December 2011 Darts

Millpond Dart: It is said that time marches on. If true, I would say it marches in a formation of individual seconds, platoons of minutes, companies of hours, brigades  of days and divisions of years as expressed in decades, and larger yet, in centuries. Its cadence is rythmic. Time does not tire, it marches on. Time marches in front of our eyes as if we were the ones watching from the review stand. But not so. In the end, it is our time we’re watching, and how we spend it is under review.  It is a march without an about face, but it is about face. Spend it well.

Millpond Dart:  “I wanted my light to burn brightly,” he said with chagrin and a sigh.  “That’s hard to achieve when you start out with such a dim view of yourself.”  He smiled, tipped his glass, his hat and then his waitress.  As he was walking to the exit, the waitress called out to him and said that that was the saddest thing she had heard in a long time.  “Blame it on my dog,” he called back.  ”Your dog?”  she asked as he was about to go outside.  He turned, looked back at her and in his final quip said,  “Yes, all my life I’ve been dogged by that insufferable melancholy.  Can’t stop feeding it either.”  He again tipped his hat, realizing he had also tipped his hand.