Hi all! 😊🖐

Sitting here listening to a Beatles 100 best playlist has me in a very chill and relaxed frame of mind.

I’m safely tucked away from anything the outside world can throw my way. Well most things anyway,

I know I haven’t posted anything for an inordinately long time. Corona virus, Family, my Dad’s Alzheimer’s, my Niece and Nephew’s daycare etc etc.

Anyway…

I won’t dwell on any of that, for the time being.

I would rather focus on writing something suitable for a blog.

Life, what is it and how can I acquire one?

No, I know how to get one; the better question is when? lol!

I really hope that everyone that, happens on to this page and has stopped to read this, is keeping safe, happy and healthy.

It’s a, generally overcast day, not raining (yet) and many degrees cooler than it; has been, of late.

I came back from grocery shopping, a little while ago. I shot a short video, of my drive home, if you are interested.

And…

Here’s a short video/slideshow that I made from random videos and images capture in the past few weeks:

I will try to add more content very soon.

Take care of yourselves,

~Cliffy

SURVIVOR

The sparkling, frosted mountain bathed in dawns first light

beams through the mist like a lantern’s glow in dark of night

It’s craggy peak juts skyward like a huntsman’s spear

Omnipotent survivor of a bygone year

 

 

 

Can you dance on the ceiling?

That’s my recurring dream…

I’m leaping out of my seat in a massive sports arena, as the final whistle blows.

The delirious crowd leaps to their feet.

The Vancouver Canucks have just won The Stanley Cup.

As the players take turns parading Hockey’s “Holy Grail” around the rink,

The suddenly awestruck fans fall silent.

Four oddly familiar. yet strangely different, figures have suddenly appeared at centre ice.

Now though, I can see who they are. They are far older than I remember them; well, two of them are anyway.

Music echoes, from the rafters and wraps me in it’s comforting cocoon.

I blink and now find myself upside down, taking in the scene from high above the stage.

A bevy of sequinned dancers gyrate to the heady beat and, caught up in the moment, I join in.

Paul and Ringo look much the same as they do currently.

John is wearing his familiar, spherical lenses. His hair though, is now very long and silvery. Rock’s answer to Gandalf or perhaps Dumbledore. Equally as magical at any rate.

George is practically bald, with just a fine scraping of grey stubble at his temples and peppering his chin.

These are not the young lads of the sixties, but they’re every bit as lively. Grinning joyfully and playing their instruments with gleeful panache. Looking closer I’m, suddenly aware that Ringo’s snare drum is The Stanley Cup and he’s striking it with a pair of hockey Sticks. George’s guitar is aglow pulsating with alternating red, blue and green hues, his haunting riffs so mesmerizing.

John and Paul are doing their finest, “Everly Brothers inspired” harmonies.

The fab four, the glorious, incredible, Beatles are “Rockin’ The Roj” (Rogers Arena)

I don’t ever want to awaken from this amazing dream!

Summer Time

Clear blue skies, tropical, sun-drenched beaches,

the heady scent of surf, sand, sunscreen and youthful exuberance rising out of the social conscience, and accompanied by a timeless, cocktail of Jimmy, Buffet and the Beach |Boys.

We thought it would last forever.

Open Your Eyes!

Odd as it might seem, this old world of ours is trying to shake off the past nine, insane, months and fling us headlong into some new semblance of normality. Whatever that means!????

Don’t let that fool you into relaxing your, guard. This Covid-19 pandemic is far from over. In fact we are knee deep into, what experts are calling, The second Wave.

People, in record numbers, are tuning out the experts and throwing caution to the wind.
By attending massive gatherings, ignoring social distancing, abandoning their face coverings, frequent handwashing and in general, their common sense!

They are endangering not just themselves, but everyone around them.

Tough times call for tough measures, folks.

To those that are staying the course and following the safety protocols, I thank you with all of my heart! ❤️

Please, be patient and for the good of all humankind, stay safe!

~CLIFFY

Sunny Disposition

Wow!!

Just when I thought this rainy weather would last ‘until June, sunshine came to Port Coquitlam today!

My boots seemed rather miffed, this morning, when I bypassed them and made a beeline for my running shoes.

Yes, the sun was accompanied by subzero temperatures, but as I proceeded to partake of my morning constitutional, there was a distinct bounce in my stride and a hint of a smile on my face.

Alexa, my mobile, electronic assistant, informed me that there was a 0% chance of precipitation. She hasn’t been that certain in a very, long time.

Below are just a few of the photos I took today.

Well that’s about it, just wanted to share the sunshine with you guys! Hope you all have some wonderful things to smile about too.

Bye for now,

Cliffy😁

Rainyday Freewrite

Hi my name is Cliff

I reside in a hole in the ground.

Well, okay, that’s not true in a literal sense.

In truth, I live quite a comfortable existence, in a house.

I am not a member of the affluent society, per se, but I am muddling along in a decently, middling sort of manner, I suppose. Middle-class mucker, that’s me. Lol!

How are you doing? Well I hope?

I am fairly okay, all things considered, but I don’t exactly know who I am. What I mean, by that, is that I don’t really understand myself from a metaphysical standpoint.

It is my mental processes you see. They are not functioning in a proficient manner. My words feel trapped. in a vacuous chasm. Frozen, immobile. Incapable of rational order or comprehensive cadence.

I have restarted this silly, little, free-write exercise countless times. (Which, in itself, defies the very purpose of this expedition.) I’m vowed and determined to post whatever ridiculousness I end up with, this time.

Frustration, angst, anxiety, doubt, disappointment, aggravation, and fear all rear their hideous little heads. Well, annoyance anyway.

I want to pen a perfect piece of prose, a scintillating script, or at the very least, a readable record of my problematic process.

Words within words within words within…whatever!

Ah sweet addictive alliteration, at least I have you to fall back on.

My nephew, Jaxxy, is chuckling away at the tv screen, one of his favourite (kids) YouTube videos. I should feel some guilt about that, but he seems to be enjoying himself, and possibly even learning a thing or two, so what more could one ask of one’s electronic childminder? It’s not a frequent habit, he lives a very active lifestyle.

We’ve nowhere to be, It’s still raining cats and dogs outside, and our little puppy, Lucy, is chillin’ on her little doggy bed. Snoring up a storm.

I am writing this shambles of a blog, primarily to test out a new Bluetooth keyboard, but also as a means by which I might shake loose a few rusticles and cobwebs in my clunky, old brain box.

As you can probably tell, the keyboard works quite adequately.

My brain, on the other hand? Quite another story

A writer must write,

so write I do. (Well, it resembles writing if you step back far enough.) At any rate, I had a go, didn’t I?

I’d sooner it be some cohesive, coherent missive, a tantalizing text, but alas t’ was not to be.

I think I’ll go join Jaxxy in front of ”The Tube”, and try again anon.

Bye for now,

Cliff 😁

OVERSIGHT (word prompt)

What was I thinking, trusting Smedley like that?
Take my Tux to the cleaners, pick up my uniform, post my letter, and meet me at the cricket green, by 1:00pm, I’d instructed him.
A simple enough set of instructions, wouldn’t you say? A ten-year-old of average intellect would be more than capable of performing such tasks. Bernard Smedley on the other hand, who can say?
Well… By 2pm our team was down to the final third of our batting order, and I Was fidgeting, listless and bored, in the dingy old clubhouse. I glanced at my reflection in the plate glass window. A man of slight build, thinning salt and pepper hair and slightly sallow complexion, stared back at me. My basic blue business suit with a, rather dapper looking,  grey and white speckled, silk tie, looked as out of place as a spacesuit in a sauna.
Where on earth was my man Smedley?

I punched in his number for the eighteenth time in as many minutes. “The client you seek is not currently available”, said a mechanical sounding voice, again.
Then as if by magic, in he shuffled, with all the urgency of a doddery old tortoise. No, wait, what am I saying.? Some tortoises actually win the occasional race, don’t they?
“Smedley”, I growled, “where the devil have you been all this time?”
“Sir”, he gasped, His cheeks were a most, alarming shade of chartreuse, and he was teetering unsteadily as he struggled to catch his breath.
“You look like you’ve just completed a triple Marathon, with a cart horse on your back, my dear chap!.” I exclaimed.
Bernard Smedley sighed almost imperceptibly. “Closer to the truth than you might suspect, Sir.” The quizzical expression on my face obviously urged him onward in earnest. “Today’s assignments were, dare I say, a tad challenging.”
I shot him one of my patented scowls through the handles of the, plastic, shopping bag I’d been scrutinizing. “Challenging” I asked? it was hard to disguise my incredulity.
My Butler, to his credit, had somehow managed to compose himself, and despite his, obvious discomfort, was now, standing there, ram-rod, straight.
“Well Sir”, he began, “Your Cricket uniform was not in evidence at the London residence, so I thusly concluded that it must be ensconced at the country estate. Since Davis had the Bentley in pieces, presumably performing routine maintenance, I gather, and since Madam is using the Rolls Royce on her, erm procurement venture to Harrods. I availed myself of a schedule and endeavoured to intercept the number 43 bus. The public conveyance was three minutes and forty-six seconds late, by the way. Not to worry though, Sir it only took me three hours to get there. Your Uniform was not there, by the way. So I borrowed a motorbike from one of your Gardeners. In hindsight, it might have been fortuitous had the, charming fellow, thought to have informed me that it was almost out of petrol. Still, those five kilometres required of me to push it to the nearest petrol station were quite invigorating. When I arrived at your dry cleaners, the obstinate service clerk patently refused to oblige me with your Tuxedo, even when I promised him an extremely unpleasant visit from your solicitors, if he should fail to do so.

It was at that point that I discovered my, most egregious, oversight. I had inadvertently abandoned your letter, back at the estate. The journey back there was quite uneventful, by the way. I’m beginning to quite enjoy motor biking”
How I’d listened to the, whole, ridiculous tale without laughing myself silly is, quite honestly, beyond my comprehension.
“So”, I said, finally, “what’s this?” I pulled a wooly white jumper, and a pair of white painters trousers out of the bag.
“Those,” he said, pointing sheepishly at the offending articles, “are the nearest I could find to a Cricketers ensemble, at such short notice, Sir.”
I simply smiled, poured him a cup of tea, and we sat and watched the remainder of the match together in companionable silence.

.

The Murderer Did it. – Part 2

At the, not so, spacious headquarters of, Cribbs & Cribbs Investigation, an old, though tastefully adorned, office space in the West-side of Downtown Vancouver, Dave Cribbs slammed down the phone.
His wife rested a comforting hand on his shoulder“ How’s our favourite Chief inspector today?”
“Arggh!” Cribbs jumped to his feet abruptly. “ Just as obstinate as usual- Says he can manage, just fine without me.”

Suzanne sat down at the uncomfortably tidy desk and silently studied her partner’s ruggedly handsome profile. Things had been quiet lately, Not Even a run-of-the-mill, domestic case to occupy his supple mind. As a valued former employee and frequent police consultant of note, it rankled him not to have been called in on a big case like this.

“Don’t stress it, Hon, he’ll come around eventually, he always does.”

Dave Cribbs, who was staring vacantly out of the window at the bustling street below, shrugged resignedly.
“Yeh, maybe. He’s too proud for his own good though.” He thought about it for a moment then added “They’re bound to need our help on this one, right? The department’s swamped at the moment, and massively understaffed.”

The news had broken earlier that morning. Henry Davison had met his end between midnight and three AM last Saturday. A toxicology report had determined that a lethal dose of a powerful, fast-acting, barbiturate had been administered just prior to death. The medical examiner, had corroborated that, after a detailed examination, a corresponding injection site had, been discovered, between the third and forth toe, on the victim’s right foot. It was deemed, highly unlikely, to have been self-administered.

The headline had set the news world abuzz with wild theories, conspiracies and far reaching speculation. Tales of Secret trysts, disgruntled former business partners, a business rivalry, a dissolved marriage, disinherited offspring, and Davison’s last two years of seclusion all made the rounds.

Two days later, a folder with a copy of all of the case files lay open on his desk. Dave chuckled to himself as he recalled the conversation with Chief inspector Reginald Stubbson of The West Vancouver RCMP detachment. For Stubby, as he was referred to, in hushed tones, amongst his underlings, it must have felt tantamount to pulling teeth. Having grudgingly admitted that he had a, temporary, manpower shortage, and that Cribbs could be of some minor assistance, he had dispatched the necessary documents in record time.

Reports from the first officer on the scene, including his interview with the cleaning lady a Mrs. Doris Rhattenburg. She, who had, tearfully, recounted, at length, the shocking, discovery of her employer’s body. The folder also contained photos of the crime scene, obligatory interviews with Davison’s next of kin, toxicology and medical examiner’s reports.

Having perused the notes and reports, Dave turned his attention to the photographs. Henry Sinclair Davison, had been a ruggedly handsome man, whose athletic build and six foot three inch frame, must have been an imposing sight. Even in death, his chiselled features and robust physique, were strikingly apparent. To Cribbs, It was not a huge surprise. Before his self imposed exile, Davison had been an avid outdoorsman, equally at home in the wilderness, as he was in the boardroom. His exploits in the jungles of Africa, and the ragged peaks of the Himalayas had been documented at length, and replayed in a continuous loop on all the major news outlets in the days following his untimely death.

Suzanne Cribbs, who had been peering over her partners right shoulder at one of the, more revealing, photographs, let out a low breathy whistle.

“Well now,” She said, “there’s a man who died in his prime of life.”

*********To be continued

The Murderer Did it

Hello Friends, I am back!
Sorry there haven’t been any entries in February, well, until now, that is.
There’s some very odd thing called Family, that has kept me preoccupied for a week or two, but while I have a moment or two to my self, I thought I would spend them with you. Hope this post finds you all happy and healthy.
Heres just a wee snippet of something I have been working on, any feedback/words of wisdom you could impart would be most welcome.
Thank you,
Cliffy 

THE MURDERER DID IT (A Working Title) By Cliff Lewis

“It’s murder”, he declared boldly.

“What are you talking about?”

Private Investigator, and retired police detective, Dave Cribbs, had a crazed expression painted across his, chiselled visage.
“Murder!”, he repeated emphatically.

“Are you reading one of your silly stories?” Enquired the woman seated to his left in the restaurant booth.

“What? No, don’t you see, it’s as plain as the nose on your face!”

“Well now that’s a lovely thing! My nose is perfectly proportioned for my face shape, thank you very much!”

“No”, said Dave, ignoring the look of indignation on the woman’s face, “look at this!” He waved a rumpled newspaper. The gleam in his eyes was intensifying with every passing second.

“Potatoes 45 cents a pound?”

“No, no the other side.” He wrenched the newspaper from his wife’s tenuous grip and flipped it over.

Suzanne Cribbs scanned the article with an expression of polite disinterest on her petite, some would say, pretty face.
“Yes”’ she said, I see that you have an overblown imagination.

The article in question, outlined the story of a 68 year old multimillionaire recluse Henry S. Davison, who’s naked, body had been discovered cold and inanimate in the bathtub of the locked, ensuite bathroom of his West Vancouver Mansion. A primary investigation had suggested his death was by natural causes. The Police are awaiting results of the Medical examiner’s report, but have found no suspicious circumstances.

Mrs. Cribbs sighed.
“I know we’ve been without a case for a week or two, but this is ridiculous. You might not be aware of local statutes, dear, but you cannot, possibly, be suggesting we investigate death by natural causes?”

Dave Cribbs stabbed the article emphatically
“Except it’s not natural causes, read the fine print.”
“How ‘bout just saving me the trouble, and outlining it for me?”
“OK.” The great detective cleared his throat with exaggerated gusto.

“Multi Million dollar mogul publicly announces he’s severing ties with his money-grubbing family, aka cuts them all out of the will, adopts the life of a hermit, then two years later, is found dead in his bathtub.”

He pounded on the table, with such a force, that the salt cellar toppled, causing a diner at an adjacent table to drop her fork. She snorted, glared in his direction for a full second, then stormed out.

“I’ve been on the job long enough to know a murder when I smell one, Suzanne, take my word for it, this,” he tapped the paper again, “is definitely one.”

His wife held her tongue, but a fleeting smile crossed her lips.

There was no denying her husbands uncanny powers of deduction though.

Cribbs scowled, but withheld comment. After all, despite his keen senses, he had nothing concrete to go on, yet.

They finished lunch, and strolled casually down the block to the offices of Cribbs & Cribbs Investigation.

Several days later, Private Investigator David Cribbs was proved right.

.>>>>> To Be Continued <<<<<

CONVERSATION, WHAT’S THAT?

So,

I’m sitting in a crowded café, with the lilting tone of The Beach Boys in my earbuds, faced with the leisurely task of writing something, at least, halfway interesting for today’s blog.

Someone is screaming from a table nearby, I assume it is from pent up excitement, and not some real emergency. Other than that, the only thing I hear is the indecipherably, merged rumblings of the coffee shop’s clientele. Its kind of comforting in a strange way. Different at any rate, from the all too silent surroundings I’d occupy, at this early hour, at home. There, where the ticking of a clock, the dull hum of the refrigerator or the drone of the furnace, can seem like a hundred elephants thundering across the living room floor.

If you suspect that I’m stalling here, then you would be correct. I’m dithering around, as I wait for the caffeine to kick in, and for inspiration to strike. That obviously hasn’t occurred yet, Lol! Oh and yes, in case you’re wondering, I was, indeed, just tittering to myself. The women at the next table appear to be measuring me up for a straight jacket. I’m not concerned, just merely amused and, somewhat, gratified that I have provided them with a moment’s entertainment.

So anyway…
Have you ever wondered how this world of ours keeps functioning? As I glance around me now, I see very few people that don’t have the dull glow of a smartphone, or tablet, screen reflected in their glazed eyes. (I must, in the traditional of serious journalists everywhere, include yours truly, as I stare at this display, and strive to impart some sort of meaningful missive.

The only exception to this internet inseption, seems to be a rowdy bunch of pensioners who are engaged in an ancient rite, which I believe was once referred to as conversation. A few are even reading newspapers. How unique that seems in this age of electronic pacification.

Actually, upon further investigation, I find myself in the awkward position of amending my previous statement. There are a multitude of multitasking millennials who seem to be texting and verbally conversing with their table mates simultaneously. Perhaps our future is in the hands of a far more capable bunch than I initially suspected.

I am not judging, merely observing.
I find myself staring at my own devices for an inordinate amount of time. Oh well, such is life.

Now as I swallow the last dregs of cold coffee and stop to review this rather pathetic blog entry. I must sadly bid you all adieu and farewell. Perhaps next time I will have something important to say. 😉
Keep smiling, and if you made it to the end here, thanks for reading my blog.

I love you all ❤

~CLIFFY