Musings of Professor Fox

I really never know what to write until something hits my brain in a way that says, "you need to talk about this, if only to work through it for yourself." On occasion, I actually listen to myself, and if someone else can relate (just one someone is all it takes) then I feel the effort was valuable. My two worlds often collide: my scientific/researcher persona and my creative/writing persona. I would explain it in terms of the Marvel and DC universes, but if you know me in real life, you know I really despise all movies DC. So, I would hate to attribute any part of myself to a metaphor that I do not like. World 1. My brain loves to digest and process all things math and science. From a very young age, I got along with it all with the exception of biology (and really only when we had to start dissecting stuff *shudder). Chemistry, Physics, all Mathematics. Love, love, love. Nailed A's in every class I took. Even back in the day when we did "times tables", you kno...

 once upon a time  time was a figment figment of a people  people who loved loved to engage engage and inspire inspire the spark spark of a dream dream of a world world in a pen pen on the page  page to the end end of the time time that was once 

 the night flew by without notice conversation engaging as the barriers disintegrated leaving each other  open and vulnerable to chase whimsical transgressions into the dark horizon  over five-minute hours as dawn faraway broke gently into their soul-baring revelry 

 the trees in the forest  are placed ever so  delicately by random chance offering  umbrage to the smallest traveler on the unmarked  paths winding and twisting  over and under deadfall old becoming new  with natural sincerity

  The day was unusally calm for mid-September in the Rocky Mountains, but she would not complain. Serena Michaels was bound and determined to make it home at least once during these crazy pandemic times. She had her bus ticket in hand, and made her way from the office, where she had the most wonderful chat with the kind ticket agent, to the platform where the great steel beasts were parked awaiting their passengers. The compartments underneath Bus 1023 were open, and the driver was guiding passengers to place their suitcases according to their seat assignments. Since Serena had requested the very back row, she quickly moved to the farthest compartment, stowed her single suitcase, and then moved toward the door. She would keep her backpack with her since her entire life and career were stowed safely in the padded compartment. Her laptop. She never let it out of her sight. Looking back quickly to remember the compartment number, R4, she walked toward the front of the bus and climbed ...

Planted long ago, the tree had seen many seasons come and go. He marked time as his world cycled from wet and green to frozen and white, and he always looked forward to a nice winter nap when the leaves finally finished showing off their rainbow colors and floated to the ground. At some point, the curious-looking two-legged creatures living behind him started planting friends for him. Cherry and Peach and their sisters were his favorite. They always spoke the kindest, and they brought the funny little buzzing creatures that landed on each blossom during the wet and green time. They would occasionally buzz around him, but since he had no flowers, they quickly got bored and moved off. His favorite time was during the really warm part of the cycle. The smallest of the two-legged creatures would spend hours playing in the soft green stuff at the base of his trunk. Occasionally one of them would stand really close to him with their head pressed against his bark and utter strange incantation...

  The temperatures are fluctuating, and the skies are dark in the morning which signals the start of another January semester. I will admit to feeling the same feelings as a professor that I once felt as a student: excitement, apprehension, nervousness, fear of the unknown. Added to the normal issues faced in the academic environment, we are in, what, month 22 of the COVID-19 pandemic? Since I just turned 50, I have set myself some goals for the next decades, or at least as many as I'm given. One of these goals is to "justttttttttttt do something". In light of that, welcome to my space of exploring my inner mental monologue. -Professor Fox

The older man summoned his son to inspect the ground where the newlywed's house would be built. A fine plot of land set at the edge of the valley. His new daughter-in-law would be able to sit at a specially designed window seat facing south and observe a rainbow of colors as the seasons progress: white in the winter, greens of all shades in the spring, deeper greens and golden browns in the summer signaling harvest, and a rainbow in the fall as nature shed her leaves. “I want to show you something that I learned too late in life,” the father said as he pointed to four stones he had placed, one in each corner of the foundation. As they walked around together, the son noticed that words were carved into each stone carefully. Beginning in the northwest corner, the young groom saw the word “LOVE” in red letters. The father spoke, “Love is an important foundation for you two to build your life upon, and since the normal color associated with love and passion is red, well, I had it paint...

  The hours flip by—much like the card clothes-pinned to the spokes of my childhood bike frame offering an exhilaration and feeling of speed.   I sit and ponder the feeling of hearing the thwip-thwip-thiwp in rapid succession as each contact briefly touched the aluminum and let go.   The calendar taunts me from the top of my desk. 2022. Fifty years ago, I started this adventure poor, naked, and cold.   Along the way, I met a partner so imperfectly perfect that my life was altered irreversibly and set on a path full of joy and sorrow, agony and ecstasy.   Never had I thought to gather such emotion and meaning from a single word— a fundamental, foundational change both inwardly and outwardly.   Tipping the imaginary hourglass on its end forcing the unnumbered grains from one bulb to the other, sliding unaffected through the neck to reside in a new home.   Day after day, week after we...

  AN ODE TO THE MAP November 2017 The thing is the map, and the map is the thing. What to include, so its praises they’ll sing?   Nations we’ve built, on starving and sword. On the paper they go, with ink and accord.   On the subject of borders, as they change and they grow. We ponder quite often just what they should show.   Yes, the thing is the map, and the map is the thing. What to include, so its praises they’ll sing?   As time marches on, the medium does change. To the masters of old, it sure seems quite strange.   As the Other sits down at the desk or the table, with the click of a mouse, she creates a new fable.   The thing is the map, and the map is the thing. What to include, so its praises they’ll sing?   When author and worldview meet to define, A piece of reality sparks a design. Since data are placed with precision and care, the effort’s not lost, if you take time to stare.   Yes, the thing is the map, and the map is the thing. ...