Monday, 10/25/10 - Moved

This site has moved.

You can read the GFK-PAD posts at http://gregkaspar.com/gfk-pad

All posts from this site have been copied over to the new site.

Enjoy!

Sunday, 10/24/10 - Goals

It is the individual steps
on the road to attainment
that make the journey
worth taking.

Saturday, 10/23/10 - Warning

Red.

An unheeded warning

in a cup

colored with apple harvests

and promising sweet ciders.



Contents considered then consumed.

Quickly.

Too quickly.

Perceptions shatter,



in a river of sparks

that flows



back

to

red.

Friday, 10/22/10 - The Last Dragon

"Judy, come here."

"What's the matter?"

"You tell me. What is he doing?"

Judy joins Sam in front of the sink. Together they look out through the window into the back yard where Jason stands holding a curtain rod above his head.

Jason raises his sword above his head. The tip points to the heavens, home of the gods.

"Zeus, send down your light! Give me power to slay the last dragon!"

In answer to his request, clouds gather, darken then roil, angry at being called from the four corners.

Jason braces himself as an unseen hand hurls a bolt of lightning through a thin seam in the clouds.

"Looks like he's playing a game."

"By himself?"

"I guess he prefers to play alone."

Jason's body bucks. He fights to hold onto the sword as Zeus' lightning courses through the blade, into his arms, through the rest of his body and finally, into the earth around him.

"Oh, my god, is he OK? Look at the way he is shaking!"

"That's nothing. Wait."

A final surge of power streams down and knocks Jason off of his feet. His muscles, engorged with Olympian energy spasm uncontrollably.

Sam sees Jason writhing on the ground and starts for the door. Judy grabs his shirt and stops him.

"He's fine."

"He doesn't look fine, he looks like he's having a seizure."

With his body adjusted to his god-given power, Jason raises himself up from the ground. His new eyes can see many leagues and to the east he directs his vision.

There!

A glint of light. The rainbow reflection of something scaled.

He sets his feet, shoulder width, and waits.

"If you thought that was odd, watch what happens next."

"Are you telling me that he's done this before?"

"He's a boy. He has an imagination. Who knows what adventure he is conjuring up in his head."

"Judy, this is not normal."

With a leap and a tail-flick Nefrifth, the golden winged dragon, traverses the space between. In an eye-blink, Nefrifth has moved from the forest to unfurl his serpentine form only inches from Jason. The dragon's sneer reveals rows of razor sharp teeth. Acrid smoke rises from the beast's maw only to be inhaled through its distended nostrils.

Nefrifth points his chin up and lifts his massive head skyward. Jason watches the dragons move and slowly shifts his weight preparing for...

A spit of flame, from Nefrifth's upraised head two stories above him, chars the ground where Jason had stood.

"What's normal?"

"Baseball is normal. Jumping around in your back yard by yourself while waving an old curtain rod is not normal."

There is a reason that Nefrifth is the last dragon: he is wise. Jason has fought him before and the experience has taught him something valuable.

Rather than retreat, Jason raises his sword and races in between Nefrifth's feet.

"So, you would feel better if he were waving a baseball bat instead of a curtain rod."

"No, I would feel better if he were swinging a baseball bat... on field... with other kids."

A dragon's scales are toughest on its back and on its legs and they could easily break Jason's sword. His only hope is to hide beneath the dragon so that it has to lower its head to look for him.

And when it does, Jason can thrust his sword up under the scales on Nefrifth's chest to pierce the beast's bloody heart.

Sam places his hands on the edge of the sink and leans closer to the window. Judy moves up behind him and slowly massages the tight muscles in Sam's neck and shoulders as they both watch their son raise the rod and run under the apple tree.

Timing. It is all timing. Jason watches for the subtle shifts in balance necessary for the dragon to strike out with its foot.

Nefrifth tries a few times to use the sharp talons on its feet to slice Jason but with his head so high up, the dragon's attempts are futile.

Jason races back and forth between the dragon's feet daring Nefrifth to lower his head and look for him.

Watching his son race around beneath the apple tree, Sam considers his options.

"Do you think we should take him somewhere?"

"Somewhere? For what? He's just a boy."

Pulled in tight, concealed beneath Nefrifth, Jason turns to observe the dragon's tail. He knows that to maintain balance, the tail will always move in the opposite direction of the dragon's head.

Watching, waiting.

Slowly the tail lifts.

In a single motion, Jason turns and forces his blade forward into Nefrifth's eye.

The dragon's whiplike retreat and return knocks Jason onto his back. Nefrifth's razor teeth snap shut on an empty space as Jason pushes his blade up between the soft scales on the dragon's chest.

Judy raps on the window and yells to her son, "Jaaaason! Tiiiime for diiiinner!"

Thursday, 10/21/10 - The Happy Place

"Hey, Buddy, can you help me out?"

I am one of those people. You know, the kind that has "sucker" written on his forehead in big red letters. No matter where I go there is someone asking me for something. Even with all of the other people on the street, it didn't surprise me that he selected me to ask for money.

I watched him sift through the change in his open palm.

"Can you spare twenty seven cents?"

The number surprised me and rather than lowering my head, muttering something like "not today" and picking up my pace, I stopped and took a good look at this person in need of twenty seven cents.

He had on a worn tee shirt, shorts specked with paint and showing signs that he had at one time wiped his hands, dirty with engine grease, down the sides. His sandals looked comfortable, the way they can only be after too many years and too many miles. There was stubble on his chin and cheeks. In short, he looked like an average male on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

"Twenty seven cents?" It was such an odd request that I wanted to know more but didn't want to come right out and ask. "Not a dollar or just some spare change?"

"No, I just need twenty seven cents."

My fingers were finding the change in the bottom of my pocket. I was going to give him the twenty seven cents but before I did, I wanted to know what he needed it for. "And what are you going to do with twenty seven cents?"

"I'm going to go to the happy place."

I pulled my empty hand out of my pocket and with mixed emotions started walking away. "I'm sorry, not today."

I don't mind helping someone in need but I am not giving money, even a small amount, to someone for alcohol or drugs.

He took a few steps after me. "It's not like that."

"It's not like what?"

"It's not for drugs or anything."

I thought about it and considered what he could possibly get for a little more than a quarter. "So, what's it for?"

"The bus. I have a dollar and twenty three cents. The fare is a buck and a half."

We were only a couple of steps away from the bus stop, he might be telling the truth. My hand was back in my pocket. It was only a couple of pennies and a quarter. It wasn't going to make a difference to either of us.

I pulled out the coins in my pocket and poked at them with my finger, locating a quarter. There were no pennies so I added a nickle and handed him the thirty cents.

"Thank you." As I turned away he stopped me. "Here."

He held out three pennies. I put them in my pocket with the rest of the change.

As I started walking away a shadow fell across the sidewalk and behind me I heard the snorting dragon breath sound of a diesel bus braking.

Curious to see if I had been taken, I looked back. The man in the shorts was reaching up, grabbing the handrail and stepping up into the bus. I watched through the window as he paid his fare and took a seat.

The bus hissed and spit, sent up a plume of black smoke then angled away from the curb. As it eased into traffic I read the lighted marquee on back: #15: The Happy Place.

I have lived in this city my whole life. I have never owned a car. All of my travels have been by cab, subway or by bus and I have never seen or heard of the number fifteen bus with the final destination of The Happy Place.

As the bus turned the corner I could see the man with the shorts seated halfway back.

All of the other seats were empty.

Wednesday, 10/20/10 - A View From The Bridge (after words)

A View From The Bridge

Part 5: After Words

NOTE: In fairness to everyone who asked about this story, I have decided to include this afterword.

"It's time."

The voice on the other end of the phone is one that I hadn't heard in over two years. Since he hadn't bothered with pleasantries, I assumed that this call would be all business and it would be best if I kept it that way.

"Are you sure?"

We had agreed more than twenty years ago that when the time came, I would be the one to write the story.

"Five. There were five." His voice was shaky.

I don't often watch TV or listen to the radio. The only parts of the newspaper I look at are the puzzles. The rest is just too depressing. But, even as disconnected as I am, I had heard about the young people that were recently harassed to the point where they took their own lives.

The news affected me in the same abstract way as news of a distant tsunami or hurricane. For John, this was personal. I could hear the storm surge crashing within him, eroding the foundation out from under him.

"I have the note, I can fax it to you."

There were many things that I wanted to know. The most important, how are you, went unasked. I gave him my fax number and he said he would call me in a couple of days. He hung up and a minute later my fax line rang.

Like a necromancer, the machine dragged ghosts and things long dead back to life. I stood looking at something best left buried.

Over the next two weeks I wrote his story, the one you have read here. We talked every night, agreeing and disagreeing, working and refining, concealing and revealing until last Thursday.

"It's good. Good enough to publish."

I was relieved. This was the most difficult piece I have ever written as it contained something that was not imagined. What you read really happened and it happened almost exactly as it was related to you.

Our biggest point of contention was the second part, the actual note. To be able to recreate that note, to be able to express the same ill logic I had to go and stand on that bridge where John stood. I had to arrive there naked and cold with my feet bloody and numb. I had to look over the edge, into the darkness, and to want nothing but blackness.

It was neither fun nor easy.

I was going to call this an epilogue or afterword but epilogues come at the end and this story is not over. There is more to tell, a lot more.

All of the characters in the story are real: John, Shelly, the old man.

Shelly did marry the young Italian. They have three daughters and 'Uncle John" is godfather to all three.

The old man turned out to be not so old. He is only two years older than John and one year older than I am. Alcohol and living on the street just made him appear old. His name is Karl but John calls him Karma.

Sitting in the bandshell after the ordeal John realized that he owed Karl something for saving his life. When John fell, he fell not toward the water, but sideways, down the abutment. He attributes the direction of his fall to the fact that Karl was standing there, calling to him and trying to get his attention. Had he not looked over at Karl he would have been looking forward and he believes that his fall would have followed his line of sight.

John did not know how to thank him so he asked Karl what he would like most. Karl's response was immediate. He wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower, eat a hot meal and sleep in a comfortable bed for just one night.

John asked Karl to walk him home. On the way, they made a deal, Karl could live with John as long as he didn't drink. One drink and he had to go.

For the next year, they lived together, each helping the other through the rough spots. During that time, Karl went to AA every day and John joined SA, Suicide Anonymous.

In that time, Karl turned a part-time day-laborer's job into a full-time gig and was able to earn enough to afford a small studio apartment of his own.

As odd as it seems, John's attempt is responsible for saving not his own life, but most likely Karl's, too.

John lives in the same space he lived in back then, only now it is a condo and he owns it. Somewhere in the span of years the neighborhood gentrified. Old warehouses became desirable lofts, cafes and galleries opened on the street level and Starbucks moved in across the street.

John volunteers on a suicide prevention hotline. He is one of the only survivors on the line. Most of the others are families and friends hoping to keep other families and friends from having to ask themselves the same question every day. Why?

As I wrote this story there was one thing that bothered me.

John had thought through all of his motions. He knew where and when. He knew the date and time. He was meticulous about everything. He even worried about leaving his clothes at the top of the bridge because he wanted them to be found by someone who could use them.

So, why did he leave his apartment furnished, with clothes in the closet and food in the refrigerator?

I never asked John about it. Maybe because I already knew the answer.

Tuesday, 10/19/10 - A View From The Bridge (part 4)

A View From The Bridge

Part 4: Reason

Through closed eyes, John sees red lights blinking.

He tries to squeeze his eyes tighter to force out the light, to let him return to the dark place, but his skin is burning with icy cold. He tries to move his arms but they are held in place.

He tries harder, rocking from side to side, but his arms will not move. In a panic, he opens his eyes and forces himself into a sitting position. Light and sound flood into him increasing his panic. He starts to scream.

"Bad night?"

John snaps his head over to focus on the source of the voice.

There are no blinking lights, just a small fire in the bottom of a trash barrel. On the other side of the barrel is an old man.

"You scared me. For a minute there I thought you was gonna fall."

John isn't sure where he is. He looks around and sees that the sun is barely up. He hears the sound of traffic blending in with rushing of the nearby river. His body shivers with cold and he pulls his arms tighter around himself.

"Wh.." He starts to ask where he is, why he is here, who is the man across the fire. But, as his mouth starts to form the words, events start to seep back in. His walk, the bridge, his clothes...

His clothes! He looks down. Beneath the tattered blanket that surrounds him he wears his wool overcoat and boots. He thinks hard and cannot remember putting them back on.

He looks around again. He is sitting beside the bandshell in Bridge Park.

"We all have bad nights sometimes." John recognizes the old man as the same one from the alley on Fifth Street. He also recognizes the blanket he is wrapped in is the same one he gave the old man several weeks ago. It doesn't seem as warm out here as it did in his heated apartment. He slides a little closer to the barrel.

"The cops may come now. They don't like us to start fires but you looked like you might need it."

The old man gets up and places a few pieces of wadded newspaper into the barrel. "If they do come, you just stay here. I'll put out the fire and go talk to them. They know me."

John watches the old man as he starts to settle back down, changes his mind and walks over to the side of the bandshell. Seeing only his back, John is unable to tell what he is doing.

The old man returns and stands next him. Tearing a sandwich, the old man holds half of it out to John.

"Go ahead."

John reaches up and takes the sandwich. The old man sits back down, takes a bite out of his half and chews.

"There's this guy over on Fifth who gives me sandwiches sometimes."

Monday, 10/18/10 - A View From The Bridge (part 3)

A View From The Bridge

Part 3: Contemplation

John left is apartment at 1105 5th Street North at exactly 5:11 AM on Friday, November 11, wearing a long charcoal grey wool overcoat and a pair of black leather boots. Had anyone been walking down the street and noticed him passing, they would have seen nothing unusual. There was nothing alarming in the slightly hunched way he walked through the darkened streets bracing himself against cold gusts of wind rising off of the river a few blocks down.

Smoky tendrils of breath blew from behind the turned up collar hiding his face. He moved with the same determination as anyone out walking in the pre-dawn November cold. But on this morning, there was no one else out walking. The streets in this forgotten part of town were lined with run down factories and abandoned warehouses. No cars came or went. John moved along, a shadow bleeding into the blackness.

The clicking of his heels on the pavement was sharp and crisp; an even, measured rhythm that moved down Fifth then across on Bay to First.

Bridge Park sits on the corner of Bay and First. John moved through the park toward the foot of the bridge without hesitation. From under the bandshell, an old man watched and wondered who this stranger might be. Had the light been better the old man might have recognized the stranger as the man who often came down to the alley on Fifth Street to give him a dollar or a sandwich or, on cold nights like this, a container of hot soup or a warm blanket. No matter, the stranger was walking away and posed no threat. The old man pulled his blanket tighter around himself and drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

Having planned this for months, John knew that the only access to the bridge was by the roadway. The areas surrounding the bridge were fenced off - at taxpayers' expense - to keep vagrants from roosting in the concrete enclaves under the bridge. He made his way toward the street and stopped for a moment to check for traffic.

Cars coming over the bridge would be seen in enough time for him to hide. Cars approaching from the park area could be coming from any one of five streets that passed by or ended at the bridge. Any one could reach him before he had a chance to hide.

He waited, listening, until he was sure that no one was approaching. He then removed his overcoat and boots and walked naked onto the roadway leading up to the bridge.



John had run over this scenario in his head many times. Should he remain clothed until he was at the top or should he disrobe here, in the park, and leave his clothes where he knew that someone would find them and make good use of them? He always came to the same conclusion: leave the clothes for someone else to use.

He wanted to leave the bridge from the apex but, if someone drove by he was willing to walk off at whatever point he was at. He knew that it was not the height that was going to kill him, it was the hypothermia. By the time anyone could get to him, he would already be gone.

Without clothing, his skin bristled with goose-flesh and his muscles contracted. Fighting back the shivers that shook his body and squeezed the breath from his chest, John forced himself to walk slowly, deliberately forward, upward.

By the time he reached the top, his body was numb. His frozen feet were bloody from jagged pieces of glass. He wondered if he would be able to coordinate his muscles enough to be able to get to the edge.

But he was here, at the top. All he needed now was to climb over the guardrail and climb the cement abutment. On step from that point and he was free.

The cement which had looked so easy turned out to be quite difficult. His numb feet would not cooperate. his ankles would buckle under him as if his legs were asleep. He would crawl over the edge if he had to. At this point there was no turning back. He had come too far.

As with any well thought out plan, he had made contingencies. Ir there had been any activity on the bridge he would have gone back home and tried again on another day. He had hoped for November eleventh but was prepared to make changes if necessary. But here he was with only a few feet left to go.

Finally, he crawled up on the concrete on his hands and knees and forced himself into a standing position at the top.

Looking down at the river below, lights reflecting on its greasy surface, John realizes that he need only take one final step. The wind whipping around him threatens to push him from his perch. He steadies himself.

It is not time yet. He wants to take a final look around. He wants to say goodbye. He wants to do this on his own. The wind pushes him harder and his arms pinwheel as he leans forward with his face and chest out over the open...

Regaining his balance, he inches down the incline and braces his back against a girder and tries to calm his mind. I will do this, he thinks. As soon as I get a grip on myself I will just lean forward and take the next step in my journey.

For some reason, the thought of dying in a panicked state bothers him. He is making this choice and it shouldn't be upsetting to him. He is logical. He is rational. He is in control. He is not afraid.

He leans back harder against the girder as vertigo grasps him and pitches him toward the edge. His fingers claw the rusting steel and a large piece falls free and bounces onto the concrete then over...

He watches it fall in slow motion, end over end, until it disappears into the darkness.

Unconsciously counting, he listens for the splash, ...2, ...3, ...4, that he knows will never come. The sound of the wind and the sounds of the city will not allow it.

"Hey, Buddy, ..."

His body is wracked with chills and he fights to still himself. Some time ago he started crying but he doesn't remember when. Hot tears turn icy on his face. He tries to stop but feels himself slipping beyond the point where he has control over his actions. His body is no longer his. One step...

"Hey, ..."

Only one step and no more cold...

One step and no more tears...

One step and no more darkness...

No more politicians...

No more drugs...

No more crime...

No more Shelly...

"... Buddy ..."

... no more ...

"Hey, ..."

... no more ...

One step...

At 5:47 on the morning of November 11, John, cold, naked and bleeding, takes a final step and begins falling...

Sunday, 10/17/10 - A View From The Bridge (part 2)

NOTE: I have always wondered why movies are "based on a true story" and not true representations of actual events. If a story is worth telling, why not tell it correctly?

What you are about to read is as disturbing as it is disturbed. It is based on a true story and a note that I have a copy of.

This is the most difficult piece that I have ever written and in writing it I answered my own question. We sometimes deviate from actual events out of respect. And, out of respect, there will be no picture with this post.



A View From The Bridge

Part 2: The Bridge

Friday, November 11, 2011

By now you've realized that I am not coming back. Perhaps they've found me, or what remains of me. Or maybe the rent is overdue and you have an eviction notice for me. Whichever. It is not important. I will not be returning and that is all that matters now.

So that you don't think I am crazy, I will tell you why I have done things the way that I have. This was not a spontaneous act fueled by a manic mind. No, this was a well thought out, well executed act. Inevitable in a way that you will appreciate, I am sure.

Before you start shaking your head and lowering your eyes in a mournful way, let me remind you that where I am is where you will one day be. The only difference is that I had the presence of mind to choose the day and you, for whatever reason, continue.

You are probably asking why. Why would someone do this to themselves? Why in this way? Why? Why? Why? I will answer all of your questions in due time but first let me answer, why today?

Today is November 11. The eleventh day of the eleventh month in the eleventh year. For me, a day pregnant with symbolism. Look at the number eleven. Here, I'll print it for you to look at.


11

The number eleven consists of two ones. Individuals. Side by side. Parallel. Never destined to intersect. Close, but alone. Separate by design. Now, think of yourself. You came into this world alone and throughout your life you attempt to intersect with someone. Anyone. But, like eleven, you are destined to run parallel. Forever.

Oh, sure, you can meet someone. You can intertwine your life with theirs. You can force your flesh inside their flesh or open yourself to them. In the end, no matter how far inside of them you get, you are still alone. Still an individual. Still separate. Unary. Single. Alone.

But what about love, you ask. Go to the window and look out. Now, show me love. It's a big city out there. Where is the love? Down in the alley there is an old beggar with a bad liver. Is he love? Up on the Avenue are shops filled with expensive furs. Are they love? At the corner of Fifth and Eighth is a dandy black woman who'll do it for ten. Five if she is really bad off. Is she love? You can see the steeple of St. Andrews around the corner. Is that love? Crime. Filth. Apathy. Greed. Are these love?

So, then, what is love? Love is the smile that cloaks the gun that shoots us in the back. Love is the lies we tell ourselves to make the filthy truths easier to live with. Love is a contract with just the right amount of escape clauses, an easily manufactured remote-control situation with surround sound and payments that don't start for a year. Go ahead, flick it on, flick it off. Get bored? Don't worry, trade it in on a new model. Admit it, love is just a way to sell cheap cologne and lite beer.

But, love isn't why I jumped. That would be too dramatic. Too Hollywood.

No, I am a realist. Ask Shelly, my ex-wife, she knows how level-headed I am. When she wanted to divorce me to marry that young Italian guy, I didn't try to stop her. I never asked her to stay, never cried or moaned. If she wanted out then no amount of whining on my part was going to change her mind. We got close for a while. We pounded flesh then we separated. Married eleven years (symbolic, huh?). And when we split, we remained friends, good friends. We didn't hate each other, we just couldn't live together anymore. No problem. Like I said, I am a realist.

So, why did I choose to leave this life the way I did? I could have taken several other roads out of here. Why walk off a bridge? The news media will say that I jumped but don't be confused, I did not jump. I walked. Calmly. One step beyond the point where others would have stopped.

For me, walking holds the same symbolic value as November eleventh. Walking is something we do alone. We do it every day. We get up in the morning and we walk. We walk around our apartments, down the stairs, to the subway, onto the train, up to ground level, to our workplaces. We walk around and around getting nowhere. There are signs telling us where to walk, when to walk and how to walk. Walk. Don't walk. Walk to the left. Pedestrians keep right. And we walk within the guidelines laid out for us. Rarely do we walk anyplace new. We are afraid to take a step beyond our neatly marked crosswalks.

But not me, I am not afraid to take that one additional step. A single step beyond.

Sure, I could have slit my wrists but that's messy. I like things to be neat. Orderly.

Overdose is too imprecise. Get it wrong and you just get your stomach pumped and a ticket to see the shrink. Besides, I don't drink or smoke. I exercise and eat well. There is no way that I am checking out with some sludgy chemicals holding me down.

Gunshot? Any fop can suck on a bullet. Big deal. The really funny part about that is there are too many that don't succeed. Poor fucks try to buy out and they just end up too hurt to even get a second crack at it.

For me, it's something simple. Something natural. Something fool proof. For me, it's as easy as walking.

So now you know the when and the how but you are probably still wondering why.

The answer is simple: it's time. Yeah, that's it. It is time for me to exit. I'm sorry if you were looking for some sappy excuse like I have nothing to live for. Get real, no one has ever had anything to live for other than satisfying their own ego. Look at my life. It's a regular life. Nothing fancy, but I am not starving either. I have a job, a decent place to live, food on the table, money in the bank. What more could you ask for, right?

That's the whole problem, you see? Those are the lines that we walk within. Does he have a good job? Does he have a nice house? Does he have a nice wife? Kids? Cell phone? Mercedes? Rolex? And on and on and on. We get sucked into this materialistic world and we work and work and work to achieve things. Things that measure us. Things that we weigh ourselves against. The more things I have the better I am, right?

Wrong! It's wrong because you have no say in how you are measured. As soon as you get close to achieving, they change the rules. Last year's car isn't fast enough. Last month's beer isn't light enough. Yesterday's wife isn't social enough. Who decides this shit? What machinery is churning out all of these new goals day after day? And why, what difference does it make?

And we buy into it. We buy the new, improved product. We buy the environmentally safe version. We buy the hype, the lies, the glitz. For what? Where does it get us?

There is an urban legend that Walt Disney had himself cryogenically suspended so that when they find a cure for his illness they can bring him back to life. Why would he want to do that? Wasn't the first time around enough? Hadn't he amassed enough? What more does he want?

I saw an old lady being wheeled through the park last night. This bitch had on some serious jewels. Big rocks on her fingers and around her neck. She had a private duty nurse pushing her and an oxygen tube stuffed up her nose. There was spittle running down her chin and dripping onto her blouse and all them pretty diamonds. Hey, Grandma, call it quits, OK? Give it up already!

And then you have all these kids. Nobody wants them but they are too stupid to stop fucking long enough to realize that they even have them. Kids having kids. More kids than they have fingers to count them on.

What's really funny is the planned family crowd. Oh, you know them. They have their children at predefined intervals. They teach them to say please and thank you then they put them out in the world with thousands of street kids and wonder why they get creamed. One planned kid for every fifty bastards, they never had a chance. And what were the parents thinking? That just because they had a kid that the world was going to change overnight into something wonderful?

And it's not just here in this city. Oh no, it's in the small towns. It's everywhere. In fact, it's worse in most of the rest of the world. All these dumb, dirty people making more dumb, dirty people. For what?

The real crime isn't the small, stupid people. The real crime is the government. Our elected officials. What a crock. I wipe my ass with overpriced, recycled, bio-degradable paper while these guys print tons of propaganda on high-grade, virgin stock glossy. Then they whine about the ozone layer and the rain forests. I'll bet they all have nice redwood decks to sit on while they write speeches about how we all have to pitch in and help. They raise flags about their war on drugs then turn around and make deals that flood poor neighborhoods with tons of crack cocaine. Mr. Politico's only interest is his own interest. But, we vote for him anyway.

Old Walt has a big surprise waiting for him when he finally wakes up.

Me, I've had enough. I ain't waiting around hoping that it will get better. It won't. The filth of the earth has risen to the top and choked out all of the life.

The end of the world isn't coming. Things couldn't be that simple or that easy. Even Jesus could only take thirty years on this planet before he opted out. I already have him beat by sixteen years.

Why wait?

Sincerely,

JBS

Saturday, 10/16/10 - A View From The Bridge (part 1)

WARNING: This four part story is dark - very dark. As you read, just keep telling yourself that it is only a story.




A View From The Bridge

Part 1: The View

The day rises to kiss me
As black, as cold, as bitter
As last night's coffee.

Water, lifeless yet turbid awaits.
A flowing chiaroscuro of denigration
Inked with hate and smudged by reason.

Rise up, rise up they say,
And I shall, rise up,
Above these dark and muddy waters.

But first I must fall,
Slip below the viscous slime,
And give back to the depths,
That which they hold so dear.

Once purged of my filth,
And my final breath,
I will rise up...

And float,
Free of the life,
That drags me down.

Friday, 10/15/10 - Haiku II

Note: these were written twenty years ago. Enjoy!



Lost Change

Half seen silver glint
Of Washington's upturned eye
Winking of good luck.




Photograph

Icy metal click
Skyward flow of cresting wave
Frozen for all time.




Reincarnation

Part of god apart
Freely spinning unmeshed gear
Circling back to start.

Thursday, 10/14/10 - When Sushi Swam

Sitting at the sushi bar
remembering way back then...

When you were called in for dinner
not called in on the carpet.

When you had kicked the can
not had your can kicked.

When the ladders you climbed
led to tree houses
and a bird's eye view down your street
not to penthouses
where vultures down on the street eyed you.



When you stayed up all night
telling stories of imaginary monsters
instead of being kept up all night
worrying about real ones.

When you played games
like hide and seek
not where you were game
for those hidden but seeking.

When you laughed
until your sides hurt
instead of laughing
while you hurt inside.

When one hundred was a large number
and where you stopped counting
instead of being so small
that it doesn't even count.

When you pedaled around
your paper route
to finish
as fast as you could
not to run around
and never finish
routing papers.

When you drank
water cool and clear
from the hose
not where you drank
until you were hosed
because it was cool.

When things were boss
and you were not.

Way back then
when sushi swam.

Wednesday, 10/13/10 - Haiku

Note: these were written twenty years ago. Pictures are also from earlier days. Enjoy!



A Dieter's Guide to Haiku

Portion syllables
Each slice equals seventeen
A single serving.





Love Bugs

Seamless flying bliss
Copulation culminates
In a windshield kiss.





Rain

Innocent blue face
Holding its breath, turns to grey
And begins to cry.

Tuesday, 10/12/10 - A Morning With Trees

Anna lays awake and unmoving while the first of Przy's two moons sets in the northern sky. The second moon will rise with the sun then race quickly across the morning sky and fall below the horizon before noon.

Even in the dark Anna can tell that they are back. She listens hard, her closed eyes squinching tighter with the effort. And there, behind her father's faint snigger-snores she can hear their breezy breathings. They are close, right outside her window.

She feels the excitement hop-scotching through her making her want to jump up from her bed and race, bare feet flapping and pig-tails bouncing, to throw aside the window shades and stand there watching them with her hands clippity-clapping at their return.

But it is too early. She knows it's best to let her parents sleep and to let her visitors sit without being disturbed until the sun rises and they have set their roots deep into the soil.

Anna takes a deep breath and smells the green leaves and the sweet fruits. She remembers stories of places where children climb in trees or hang swings in them and she laughs at the thought. Imagine building a house in a tree. She thinks about how exciting it would be to go to sleep in a tree house and to wake up somewhere far, far away.

She giggles at the silly stories and secretly wishes that they were true, that trees really did stay in one place, that they didn't pull up their roots and move every night.

Leaves, close outside her window, chatter in the breeze.

Oh, she thinks, if they could only talk, what tales they would tell.

As the first rays of the rising sun breathe light into the day, Anna hears the sound of roots grunching through layers of earth, setting themselves in place for the day.

Come nighttime they will be gone.

Monday, 10/11/10 - Eight (by way of eighty eight)

The question was simple enough but Martin was having a hard time locating the answer. His ever-present smile faded and his brow descended like a wrinkled curtain at a Saturday movie matinee.

I watched him concentrating, biting his lower lip and absently pulling on his fingers, one then the next then the next, counting upward from some remembered point in time. I wish that I had not asked.

"I'll be eighty eight in October," he announced with the smile returning to his face. "But inside, I am going to be eight."

My concern over his odd response must have shown in my face.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

I have known Martin for several years. He is eighty seven and will be eighty eight in October. He has some minor health issues associated with his age but he has never shown signs of mental deterioration or dementia.

Part of me wanted this conversation to end. "I am not sure that I understand what you mean."

"Paul," he was still smiling but there was intensity in his eyes that hadn't been there earlier, "I have been living my life in reverse." He thought about what he had just said. "No, not like Dorian Gray staying forever young. Not like that at all."

I let him think. There were many questions but I had the feeling that if I just let him talk he would answer everything.

He surprised me with a question. "Do you feel smarter than you did twenty years ago?"

"Sure, I've learned a lot in twenty years."

"Do you feel wiser than you did twenty years ago?"

"Wiser?"

"Yes, wiser. Not smarter but wiser?"

"I guess so, sure."

"No offense but I don't think you are. I don't think any of us are. I think we are all born with all of the wisdom we need and from there we start losing it."

I was trying to follow along but he started speaking again before I could understand his meaning.

"I will die when I am ninety six years old."

"Don't say..." I started to protest.

"No, it's the truth. A gypsy woman read my palm when I was forty eight and she told me that I was half as old as I would ever be. She was the one who told me about the wisdom."

Martin held his right palm out to me and traced lines with his finger. "This is my life line, long and uninterrupted."

He showed me other lines and told me what they meant. I held out my palms to him.

"Oh, no, I can't read them. I just remember what she told me about my lines and what she told me about wisdom and how you only have so much space for things inside of you. She told me - and I believe it - that you are born with all of your wisdom intact. We are so full of wisdom that every new thing that we learn, every new word or fact, pushes out some amount of wisdom."

I wasn't following him. I let him talk on hoping to catch up.

"Like a glass full of water, anything you add will displace some of the water. Problem is that wisdom isn't wet, it spills out and you never even notice. What's worse is that we're replacing it with the knowledge and logic that allow us to justify all of the things we do that defy wisdom. Ask any child what is right or wrong and you will get a wiser answer than you will from any adult. The adult will give you a more informed response complete with reasons and rationalizations but a child will know, instinctively, what is right."

He paused, looking at me, waiting for some response. I still wasn't understanding. "So, what are you suggesting?"

"I'm sorry, what was I suggesting about what?"

"About wisdom and knowledge. It sounded like you were saying that they are mutually exclusive."

"I was?"

"Yes, and how the gypsy read your palm and told you that we are born full of wisdom."

"I said that?"

"Yes."

"Hmmmm, I don't remember."

Sunday, 10/9/10 - Fignals

Figs signaling
autumn's arrival.



Summer's sweetness
a fruitful finale
falling
into the waiting arms
of winter.

Saturday, 10/9/10 - Let There Be Light

Friday, 10/8/10 - Sights

Waves of winter wheat
rolling up on rusting rails.

---

Conspiratorial cafe conversations
tabled until tomorrow.

Thursday - Life Stories

Unlike a well written story, life is not an orderly series of events with a catchy beginning, conflicts in the middle and an ending where everything is neatly resolved.

Life is a black velvet bag filled with sparkling, multicolored gemstones. The bag opens at birth and we are free to reach in at any time and select anything that catches our eye: rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds. There are no restrictions except those that we impose upon ourselves.

There is no obligation to reach - or even look - into the bag. Some are content to stare at the velvet blackness, convinced that there is nothing there. And they are happy.

Others are overwhelmed. They take one stone and hold it to themselves for a lifetime. They assure you that this one stone is perfect for them; there is no need for another. And they are happy.

Still others reach in, take a stone, measure it, weigh it, count its facets, study it, categorize it, and when they finally understand everything about it, they place it nearby and select another. Slowly and methodically they create a colorful line of stones. And they are happy.

Some reach in with both hands pulling as many stones as they can from the bag. They spill them all around, spinning and laughing with joy at the rainbow they are walking on. And they are happy.

And, finally, there are those who see the bag and rather than move toward it, they move three steps away before taking a deep breath, two bounding steps and a final, diving leap, head first into the bag. They submerge themselves in the shimmery kaleidoscope of stones, spilling them over the edges as they swim back and forth in the stained glass brilliance. And they are happy.

No, a life well lived is not a story, it is a bottomless pool of sparkling moments spilled from a bag full of endless possibilities. Go ahead, take what you like; the bag can never be emptied.

Wednesday, 10/6/10 - This Is America

"Vespucci."

"What are we talking about?" Jack was one of those brilliant people that made declarations that to him seemed self evident but to everyone else just seemed like gibberish. If you asked enough questions you could normally bring his orbit close enough for you to get a glimpse of what he was talking about. No guarantees, though.

"Amerigo Vespucci. You asked what he had that we don't."

"He has Amerigo Vespucci? OK, help me out, is that his cologne, his shoes or his hairdresser?" We both watched Nicholai Purtsla - and it was Nicholai, never Nick or Nickie - take command of the room. Yes, he was good looking but not that good looking. Yes, he was wealthy but not that wealthy. So, what was it about him that women found irresistible?

"You don't remember second grade geography?"

"I don't remember lunch. Refresh my memory."

Jack drank the last of his beer and pushed the mug forward on the bar requesting a refill. He pointed to my mug. I drained the dregs and pushed it forward, also.

"Amerigo. Sound familiar?"

"America." I asked it more than said it.

"Very good. Amerigo Vespucci was a trader, navigator and cartographer. He sailed several times to South America after Columbus discovered the new world. Problem at the time was that Columbus didn't know he had found a new continent. Vespucci wrote about discovering a new world, and, when maps were drawn, Americo's name was placed on the new lands. No one questioned it, so it stuck."

The waitress brought two full mugs, set them on coasters in front of us, then swept away the empties."I'm not following you," I said.

"Like Amerigo, your friend Nickie has no claim. He didn't discover and doesn't own. So, rather than just hanging around wondering who owns these fine pieces of real estate, he just stakes his claim and writes his name on it."

"Keep talking," I urged him.

"We sit here looking and wondering if she has a boyfriend or a husband. We work on our lines, practice them in our heads, and wait for the perfect moment to deliver them thinking we will sound casual and cool. Inevitably, we sound jerky and off balance."

He lifted the mug to his mouth, took a hefty swallow then continued, "Our friend, Mr. Purtsla, doesn't think about what he is going to say. He doesn't care if she has a boyfriend or a husband. These things don't matter to him."

"So, what are you suggesting?"

"That we start being a bit more like our friend Nicolai. That we stop looking and start laying claim. Just look around, do you see anyone's name on any of these women?"

The bar is crowded. I look around thinking about what Jack has been saying and wondering if he has a point.

"Well...?"

"Actually, Jack, we don't stand a chance. They all have names on them. She is Aeropostale. That one is Hollister. And there's Pink..."

Tuesday, 10/5/10 - Balance (screenplay for the opening scene)

Note: this screenplay is an extension of a story that I wrote back on 8/6 called Balance.



The screen is black.

Headlights, small and distant, appear in the upper left-hand corner of the screen appearing to wink on and off as they pass under trees while winding down a narrow mountain road. The car's engine can be heard faintly in the background.

The sound of a party (voices talking, laughing, glasses clinking) rises up alongside the sound of the motor. The image of headlights moving down a mountain road fades and is replaced by a view of steps from ground level. A pair of high-heeled women's dress shoes descends the steps followed by a polished pair of men's shoes. The sound of walking is heard over the sound of the engine.

As they pass, the camera pans with them and the scene fades back to the car descending the mountain road. Party sounds fade, motor sounds rise. The camera is moving in on the car. It is still far away but there is now separation in the headlights as seen from above. It is more obvious that what appeared to be winking before is overhanging trees blocking the view.

The car moves onto a bridge. It's winding path through trees is now straight and unobstructed. The engine can be heard speeding up as the scene fades back to the party. The woman's shoes are raised up off of the street as she lifts them into the car. The gentleman's shoes move into the frame. "Buckle up," he says just before the sound of a closing car door. The scene fades back to the car on the mountain road.

The view of the car is much closer. View is of the whole car with headlights on the road in front. Gravel sounds as the car drifts onto the shoulder then back to the road. Camera hovers above the center of the road keeping pace with the car as it drifts across the line, onto the shoulder and back.

Scene fades back to the people leaving the party. Walking sounds are mixed with the engine sound and road sounds of the car moving down the mountain. Camera, still at ground level, follows the gentleman's shoes around the car, pauses as he opens the door then camera zooms in as he lifts his feet into the car.

The sound of the car door closing coincides with the car leaving the road and hitting a pine tree branch. The car swerves back onto the road. Camera is much closer. Reflections can be seen on the windshield. Only half of the car is visible in the frame.

Engine revs up. Sounds are louder, closer as the scene changes back to the party. Camera moves up from ground level, zoomed in, revealing details of the car door then up to the driver's window, inside past the gentleman's jacket and tie and over to where his hand is clipping in the seat belt.

As the belt is clicked into place, the sound is both a click and a crash. In three quick flashes the car can be seen leaving the road, flipping over (dirt flying out beneath it), and moving down the side of the mountain.

The scene is black. The sound of the clicking seat belt and the crash echo into silence.

As light slowly returns to the scene. Small scraping sounds can be heard along with a soft creaking and the sound of the breeze.

Camera angle is from down the mountain looking up at the underside of the car and the stars beyond. The car is balanced but rocking. A tire spins slowly. A small amount of dirt slips from beneath the car and covers the camera lens plunging the screen back into darkness.

Fade in on glass fragments on the floor of the car before zooming out to show more of the interior then panning to the driver buckled in and slumped over the steering wheel. The camera continues around to show the woman in the back by the open hatchback.

Moonday, 10/4/10 - More Perfect

"Jack, old pal, how would you like to do me a favor?"

"Depends."

"Would you be our best man?"

"What?"

"Meredith and I have decided to get married and we would like you to be the best man."

"Are you sure? I mean, you've only been dating for little while."

"When you meet the right one, you just know. Jack, I am positive that Mer is the one for me."

"What happened to Teri? You were pretty certain about her, what, three months ago."

"Teri and I were too different. She wanted kids and a house with a white picket fence. That's not me, buddy."

"But Meredith said she wants kids, too."

"Yeah, she thought she might like kids but we talked and she realized that kids just tie you down. She didn't really want kids."

"So, when are you planning this wedding?"

"We haven't picked a date yet. We just signed Mer up at the gym. She really needs to lose some weight before the wedding. Not much, maybe ten or twenty pounds."

"That's good. How much are you going to lose?"

"Me? I'm not signed up. Besides, Mer says she likes me with a solid build."

"Solid, huh? So, losing weight wasn't her idea?"

"She thinks it's a great idea. You only get married once and you will have those pictures for the rest of your life. Nothing wrong with looking your best. It's going to take some effort but it's worth it. Down the line she is going to thank me for suggesting it."

"What else is she going to be thanking you for?"

"Well, she already likes being a blonde."

"She dyed her hair?"

"Yeah. Wait till you see her. With it short and blonde she looks really great."

"OK. And the wedding is likely to be when?"

"Well, it won't be before November. The surgeon can't schedule her until late October and he says that the swelling and black eyes could take a couple of weeks to go down."

"Black eyes?"

"We want to have her nose done before the wedding. Pictures... you know."

"Yeah, pictures."

"Am I a lucky guy, or what? What did I do to deserve her? Every time I look at her, I can't believe how perfect she is. Really, she's just perfect."

Sunday, 10/3/10 - When Sorry Works (final)

"I don't know what you want me to say or do."

"I don't want you to say anything. And, you've done enough already." She places the magazine she is holding on the end table before getting up from the couch. "I'm going to bed."

Like her movements, her words are slow and tired as if delivering them is taking all of the energy she has.

"I'll be there in a minute."

"No," she thinks to say more but there is nothing more that needs to be said.

"No?"

"No." Her voice is soft, almost a whisper but it carries a finality that he understands.

She walks into the bedroom, closes the door and rests her head against the door frame. The wood feels cool against her forehead. She lingers a moment longer.

The warm summer night is still and silent. Curtains hang in open windows without moving. She winces at the gunshot sound of the door lock being depressed.

She hears him, indecisive, on the other side. "Jen?"

There is nothing left inside of her. All of her tears have been cried.

"Jen, please, talk to me."

She has no breath to speak. And what would she say, anyway? That she forgives him? That she believes him?

No, she can do neither. She has done both in the past. He is not going to change.

In the morning she will pack her things. And she will go. Just go.

The emptiness out there can be no worse than the emptiness in here. In her.

His voice, only inches away on the other side of the door, "Jen, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

In the darkness, nothing moves.

Saturday, 10/2/10 - When Sorry Works (part 2)

"Megan! Oh, my god, Megan!"

Rachel starts for her sister then stops. There's blood, too much blood.

Megan stands with her hands balled into fists, teeth clenched and brow set in a scowl. Her angered eyes are locked on Rachel's. In her rage, Megan doesn't notice the blood rushing from the cut on her forehead, down past her squinted eyes, and dripping from her chin onto the front of her uniform.

"Oh, Megan, I'm sorry."

Rachel's words stop time.

In an instant a million fireflies begin flashing around Megan's head. From far away an orchestra runs in reverse toward them, softly at first then building. An impossible chord racing toward crescendo inside a glittering swirl tightening on the cut in Megan's head.

Wispy tendrils pulling inward stop, reverse direction, then in a final, purposeful surge, contract into a single, blinding ray of pure white light.

When her eyes readjust, Rachel sees her younger sister smiling at her.

"Thanks, Rae."

Rachel is unsure of what just happened. Her mind can still see her sister's face covered with blood while her eyes cannot. She remembers tugging on one end of the hockey stick while Megan pulled on the other. She didn't want Megan using her stick and losing it the way she had lost her own.

"Mom said!"

"It's mine!"

Back and forth until Rachel, rather than pulling, pushed the stick at the same moment that Megan pulled. "Fine! Have it!" she yelled.

The sudden change in resistance knocked Megan off balance. As she pulled and Rachel pushed, the edge of the stick slammed into Megan's forehead opening a deep six inch gash...

...that wasn't there anymore.

Megan grabs the duffel bag on her bed and starts for the door.

"Meg... wait up. I think I'll come and watch your game tonight."

To be continued...

10/1/10 - When Sorry Works (part 1)

Beverly didn't notice that she had stopped breathing. She didn't feel her legs going weak and slowly folding beneath her. She didn't realize that she was sitting on the floor where a moment earlier she had been standing.

"Mom!"

She heard a voice, small and far away. Someone. It didn't matter. What did matter was the glass fragments spread like stars on the black marble tiles.

Her own voice, a single note resounding through the empty space between the stars in front of her, "Oooooooooooo..."

"Mom!"

The voice does not belong to the empty.

"Mom!"

It belongs to Doug... Doug... "Doug!"

"Mom, Mom are you OK?"

She looks at her son then back at the shattered crystal on the floor. No bluebird and now no nest. She should sweep up the pieces before someone cuts them self but she only has enough energy to sit and look.

Moments ago, her father's bird's nest glass sculpture was sitting on a high shelf. The nest was half of a piece that he called The Bluebird of Happiness. She had his sketches and, if he had lived long enough to finish, it would have been exquisite.

He died after completing the nest but before starting on the bluebird.

The sculpture was to be a gift for her, a single mother who worked hard to provide for her son. Whenever she complained about things in her life her father would remind her of the story of the happy bluebird. The sculpture was to be his constant reminder.

No day passed when she did not look at that empty nest. The love it held lightened even her worst days. Seeing it shattered took everything out of her.

"Doug, what happened?"

The boy tries to speak through his tears. "I-I-I was trying to h-help."

She looks around the room and notices the paper towels, the Windex and the ladder leaning at an odd angle against the shelves.

"I was going to w-w-wash the w-w-windows. The l-ladder s-s-slipped ..."

"Did you fall, Doug? Are you alright?"

"I'm f-fine, Mom... I-I-I'm s-s-sorry."

As Doug speaks the air in the room begins to vibrate silently. An electricity, like an impending lightning strike, causes the hair on their arms and on the backs of their necks to rise up. Light and sound begin to slow as if time itself was taking a deep breath and holding it.

Glass fragments begin to tremble and glow from within. A soft wind moves through the room carrying the scent of springtime rain and the sound of distant wind chimes.

Their skin tingles as the sounds swirl around them.

In a single motion, pieces of glass rise up, swirling and shimmering like a school of needle fish. Round and round, faster and faster, sending out rainbow colors of reflected light.

Chimes come together in a single chord and as time exhales the glass sculpture reassembles itself inside a spray of pure white laser lights as it moves back up onto the shelf.

To Be Continued...