GFK-PAD

Monday, 10/25/10 - Moved

2010-10-24T22:17:00.003-04:00

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

2010-10-23T23:04:00.004-04:00

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

Saturday, 10/23/10 - Warning

2010-10-22T22:25:00.003-04:00

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

2010-10-21T23:26:00.003-04:00

"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

2010-10-20T21:15:00.005-04:00

"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)

2010-10-19T20:19:00.004-04:00

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)

2010-10-18T21:50:00.006-04:00

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)

2010-10-17T21:10:00.005-04:00

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)

2010-10-16T23:10:00.005-04:00

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)

2010-10-15T20:23:00.005-04:00

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

2010-10-14T18:57:00.004-04:00

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

2010-10-13T20:46:00.003-04:00

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

2010-10-12T20:25:00.005-04:00

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

2010-10-11T21:33:00.001-04:00

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)

2010-10-10T20:55:00.004-04:00

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

2010-10-09T22:35:00.004-04:00

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

2010-10-08T23:16:00.001-04:00

Friday, 10/8/10 - Sights

2010-10-07T21:26:00.002-04:00

Waves of winter wheat
rolling up on rusting rails.

Conspiratorial cafe conversations
tabled until tomorrow.

Thursday - Life Stories

2010-10-06T21:56:00.003-04:00

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

2010-10-05T20:26:00.004-04:00

"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)

2010-10-04T21:43:00.004-04:00

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

2010-10-03T22:29:00.004-04:00

"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)

2010-10-02T21:45:00.004-04:00

"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)

2010-10-01T21:58:00.003-04:00

"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)

2010-09-30T21:53:00.005-04:00

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...

Thursday, 9/30/10 - Notes From Nostradamus

2010-09-30T00:12:00.005-04:00

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

Detective Jessop doesn't have time or the desire to help. If he stopped to help every panhandler he would be poor and late. As it is, he is only going to be late.

The Captain's rubber gloved hand turns the page."Looks like you found 'im, Jessop."

At first the murders seemed random, disconnected, but as the number and frequency increased, patterns, as unique as fingerprints, began to stand out beside the bloodstains and the gore.

Some of these details were presented in press releases, others were intentionally obfuscated or manufactured. Other than the killer, only three of his staff members knew which were which.

The handwritten notebook he is reading is genuine. It contains all of the correct details and even talks about the dice found with each corpse.

He closes the book and places it back inside the evidence bag. "So, where do we find our killer?"

"Crestmont Cemetery. Los Angeles, California."

"Our killer is dead?"

"And has been for twenty eight years."

The Captain would like to start rapid-firing questions at the deputy but he knows the best way to get the information is to let it come to him. "Explain."

"The guy who wrote the notes was Nathan Bresson. His grandson found the notebook several months ago when cleaning out the attic. He started reading it and was amazed that his grandfather could write horror so well. We found them when the grandson started publishing them online."

"You think the kid used the grandfather's stories as inspiration?"

"Not possible. The kid is seventy two years old, not in the best o' health and he lives in Anaheim."

"So, you think someone is reading the stories online and acting them out?"

"You would think that but the murders all occurred before the stories were published."

"Lay it out for me."

"Every murder was vicious. Victims were tortured, killed then mutilated. The methods were all different: cutting, burning, beating. What was the same was that each corpse was placed in an active pose. You've seen the pictures."

The Captain remembers pictures of "The Walker". The team had started naming the victims by the poses they were placed in. The Walker was found in his apartment, held upright by a series of thin steel cables anchored in a web-like pattern to the walls and ceiling. Skin was flayed open and left hanging in long strips where the cables screwed directly into the exposed bone.

"And each had two dice placed in front of them. We never told the media about the dice and we never knew what they meant."

No one outside of the department knew about the dice. There were six murders and eight confessions. None of the confessors mentioned the dice.

"Then the stories started showing up on the web. They were short and gruesome but each one gave a detailed account of the murder scene. One was so vivid that we went back to the pictures and realized that there were subtleties that we hadn't noticed in our investigations. We thought that we had our killer but all we have are more questions."

"Is it possible the notebook was put in this guy's attic?"

"You mean that someone in New Jersey is murdering people, writing detailed accounts and hiding the notes in an attic in California? That's almost as crazy as what the grandson thinks."

"What's that?"

"He thinks that the stories were prophetic, that his grandfather saw future events and wrote them down."

"What do you think?"

"I think that the stories were published somewhere else, our killer read them and is now acting them out."

"How many stories are there?"

"Seven. The first six murders occurred in the same order as the first six stories."

"Only one left? Any chance we can figure out who the next victim might be?"

"We are working on that. The problem is that the killer doesn't choose his victim, in the stories they are chosen at random by a toss of the dice."

"Explain it to me."

"In the stories, the killer keeps track of everyone that does him wrong. If someone bumps him on the street and doesn't say excuse me he puts them on his list. When he has six names on the list he rolls a die to determine who is going to be killed. He has another list that has six different methods: cutting, burning, beating... He rolls a second die to determine the method. A third is cast to determine what day of the week. In the stories he takes Sundays off."

"And we find two of those at each of the scenes?"

"According to the stories, he gives the first one to the victim before the murder, the other two we find at the scene. He uses the way the bodies are displayed as an indication of what the victim did to deserve this fate."

"Does the seventh story give us anything to go on?"

"Just that the victim ends up with his eyes and mouth sewn shut."

As they discuss the details and provide theories, an hour passes, then another. The two are no closer to finding the killer when they close up the office and head for the two lone cars in the dark parking lot.

As he takes a left out of the lot something rolls across the dashboard and wedges up against the windshield. Detective Jessop reaches up and retrieves the single white die.

The number on top is six.

Wednesday, 9/29/10 - The Sky Is Falling

2010-09-28T21:10:00.007-04:00

Again, I have a story for tonight but I am going to save it and present only an explanation and some pictures.

I am on the road for work, had just finished dinner at a restaurant and noticed that the sunset was looking promising. I decided to head to a nearby lake to photograph the sunset and its reflections.

I started driving out of the parking lot and saw one of the most vivid rainbows I have ever seen. I scrambled for the camera but the light changed and I had no choice but to head out with the line of traffic that I was in.

The skyline was cut by power lines so I searched for the nearest open parking lot in the hopes of snapping a few shots before the rainbow faded.

The whole process took under three minutes but in that time the rainbow had lost most of its punch but the sunset was really beginning to kick in.

Because these things change so quickly, I couldn't chance the ten minute drive to the lake so I stayed in the parking lot and shot the sunset from there.

Here's what I got...

Oh, by the way, not one pixel in any of these images was altered. Everything you see is exactly how the camera captured it.

Tuesday, 9/28/10 - Maiden

2010-09-27T23:36:00.002-04:00

The room contains none of the scattered haphazardry of women. There is nothing hanging over the curtain rod in the bathroom and what few toiletries are out on the counter are all neatly arranged. There is no suitcase, half zipped, oozing clothes onto the floor and no shoes poking out from under the bed or the desk.

There are no wrappers or crumpled tissues littering the counters or the spaces around the trash cans.

She wants to open the closet but she knows she will not. A maid attends only to open spaces and should never open closets or drawers.

But she wants to. She wants to open the closet to see clothes hanging evenly spaced on the bar and shoes arranged in pairs on the floor, heels together, left beside right, laces tucked. She wants to open the top drawer and see undershorts folded and stacked beside undershirts, socks paired and folded, not balled, and in the next drawer the crisp, creased t-shirts and shorts.

She will go through the motions of cleaning this room but there is little reason.

She takes the bedspread from the chair where he had placed it, fold upon fold, as if it were his own and he didn't want it soiled or wrinkled, and spreads it on top the fresh sheets.

Who is this man? she wonders briefly before answering herself. He is a prince.

She smiles at her silliness while laying out the spread.

Then it occurs to her that he could very well be a prince. The Waverly West is the best hotel in the city and the cost for one night in this room is more than she makes in a week.

She pulls a clean case onto a soft down pillow light as a cloud and lets her imagination float.

An almond eyed man with cinnamon skin enters the room. Excuse me, she says to him, shall I come back at a later time? No, he replies, please continue, I just need to grab a few things and I will be leaving. She continues straightening the room feeling his eyes upon her. Did you happen to see a book lying around here? he asks her. She does remember a book. There is one over here on the night stand, she replies. She holds it up for him to see. Yes, that is it, thank you.

He takes the book. Have you ever read Bradbury? he asks. No? Perhaps I could read it to you. Would you like that?

Yes, yes, I would like that.

And dinner? Tonight?

Yes, yes, dinner tonight.

Wine, miss? Do you prefer red or white?

I prefer something golden and summery like Dandelion Wine...

She smiles to herself again, dusts the top of the nightstand then positions the book in the same exacting way that she found it.

Monday, 9/7/10 - Face Value

2010-09-26T22:29:00.004-04:00

"Ashe? Talk to me, please." Ryan hears her crying on the other side of the door. "Just tell me you're alright. OK?" She doesn't answer. "Ashe, I'm scared. I don't know what to do."

He's been outside this door listening to her crying for over an hour. He tried calmly asking her what was wrong. He tried joking with her. He tried yelling at her. He threatened to break the door down and to call the cops. Nothing worked.

It would be easier if he knew what was wrong. If she would just tell him something, anything, then at least he would have the chance.

He takes out his phone and texts her: I LV U.

The crying on the other side of the door becomes a broken sobbing punctuated with hiccupy breaths and moans.

His phone vibrates her response: U CANT.

His fingers take no time on the keys: I DO LV U.

There is motion now just inside the door. "Ry, I'm a freak."

"Then you are my freak. Please open the door."

He hears the lock turning and waits while she slowly pulls the door open. Even with her eyes red and puffy from crying, he still thinks she's beautiful.

He is relieved that she has opened the door but he is still not sure what is going on. He wants to take her in his arms and tell her not to worry. He wants to tell her not to be afraid. He wants to tell her that he will take care of her and protect her from whatever is bothering her.

He wants to do these things but he is afraid so he says the only safe thing he can think of, "Thank you."

Ashley moves into his arms and melts there. "You can't love me, Ry. I am a freak." Her breath catches and the tears start again.

"Shhhhh, shhhhh, shhhh, it's OK." He rocks her gently. "Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. You're not a freak. You're the most beautiful person I know."

"No, that's just it, I'm not beautiful."

"Yes, yes you are."

She pulls away from him. "Look!" She makes a fist and holds it up to her forehead. "From hairline to eyebrow, one fist." She moves her the fist down. "From eyebrow to the bottom of the nose, one fist." She moves it a third time. "From the bottom of the nose to the chin, one fist."

He is watching but not understanding.

"That is what Mrs. Woods said in art class. She said that faces are divided into thirds. Each one the size of your fist." She takes her fist and runs through the motions again. "See? My face doesn't look anything like that. My forehead is much larger and my chin much smaller."

"That can't be right, it can't apply to everyone or everyone would look the same. And besides, fists are different sizes. According to that theory people with big hands would all have long faces."

"But we all did it and everyone else's face had those proportions. I was the only one whose face was different."

"Maybe that's why I think you are more beautiful than everyone else, because you are different."

While she dabs at her eyes and blows her nose, Ryan relaxes on the couch. She lies down beside him and places her head on his lap.

Ryan rubs her gently and listens as her breathing evens out then slows.

While she sleeps he makes a fist and measures from his hairline...

Sunday, 9/26/10 - Ya Gotta Wonder...

2010-09-25T21:40:00.005-04:00

Ya gotta wonder bout men
who go scouting for boys
and spend their weekends
just playing with toys.

Leaving their wives at home
when they're alone
with boys...

...ya gotta wonder bout men.

Ya gotta wonder bout men
who think that it's good
to spend time in pup-tents
with young boys in the woods.

I don't think I understand
how this appeals to full grown men
not boys...

...ya gotta wonder bout men.

Ya gotta wonder bout men
who tell you about
all of their friends
who are only cub scouts.

Dressing up to go to camp
in neckerchief and those short pants...

...ya gotta wonder bout men.

Ya gotta wonder bout men
Who think that it's fun
to spend all their time
with someone else's son.

They try so hard to be a dad
to the boy they never had...

...ya gotta wonder bout men.

Now, I'm not suggesting anything
I'm just saying I'm wondering...

...ya gotta wonder bout men.

Note: I just write what the voices in my head tell me to write. I found the humor only after loosening my neckerchief a little.

Saturday, 9/25/10 - Unfurled

2010-09-24T19:42:00.005-04:00

My friend, I came
with nothing to wave

With no rampart
clutched close to my heart

No pennant point to cleave
us from them or you from me

Stuck with neither decal nor pin
nothing to lose and less to win

There is no flag
when unfurled
that is large enough
to cover the world

So let me raise a colorless sheet
high up over you and me
to where it's blown by the breeze

Together we'll stand and hopefully
this lineless cloth will set us free.

Friday, 9/24/10 - A Table For None

2010-09-23T21:57:00.003-04:00

What would you like for dinner?

I don't care. Anything.

Why don't you choose?

I always choose.

No you don't.

Yes, I do. You always ask what I want for dinner, then you say that I never choose, then you say that I am the picky one.

You are.

No, I am not.

Yes, you are a lot pickier than me.

I.

What?

I am.

That's what I said.

No, you said "pickier than me" and it should be "pickier than I am".

Look, it's seven thirty. I don't want to eat too late. What would you like?

Anything is fine.

How about Chinese?

No, I don't feel like Chinese tonight.

See what I mean? OK, you choose.

No, no, if you want Chinese then let's do Chinese.

But you don't want Chinese.

Chinese is fine. Do you want to eat out or bring it home?

I don't care.

If we eat in then I don't have to get dressed.

You have to get dressed to go pick it up.

Well, if I have to get dressed then we might as well eat it there.

But then I'll have to get dressed, too.

OK, why don't I go and eat there and I'll bring yours back when I am done.

Very funny. No, I don't think I want to go out.

Do they deliver?

No.

I guess I can get dressed and go get it.

No, that's alright. Let's just make something here.

OK, what do we have?

Hmmm. Nothing really. How about some cereal?

OK, cereal is fine. I'll get the bowls.

Uh-oh.

Don't tell me, there's no milk, right?

Thursday, 9/23/10 - Words?

2010-09-22T22:32:00.006-04:00

NOTE: I did write stories for yesterday and today but felt that the images from both days deserved a space of their own.

Wednesday, 9/22/10 - Eleven Thousand Words

2010-09-21T20:19:00.004-04:00

Tuesday, 9/21/10 - Willn'ts And Won'tings

2010-09-20T23:18:00.004-04:00

all of the tale-ings
of the tryings and the failings

the passionate ranting
centered on can't-ing

endless almost-was-ing
followed by b-cuz-ings

reasonable don't-ings
justify the won't-ings

it's willn'ts that are given
instead of really living

Monday, 9/20/10 - No Complaints

2010-09-19T22:53:00.006-04:00

Do you enjoy what you do?

If you had to work all weekend, would you complain?

I worked all weekend and got to this evening and realized that I had no story and no pictures from today to share.

Most of the weekend was spent in the office converting millions of records from one format to another. Technical but at the same time creative. I considered putting a piece of code on the blog as something creative but decided against it. Most people wouldn't see the artful aspects of a bunch of code.

So rather than show you that side of what I do, I decided to show you one of the other things I worked on this weekend.

Madison and Kristen Brock (I think I have the names in the right order...). If you were lucky enough to work with these young ladies, you wouldn't complain either.

Sunday, 9/19/10 - Freud Was An Archeologist

2010-09-18T22:12:00.004-04:00

(dedicated to those sleeping with armchair psychologists)

Come in, you say,
sit down,
relax
and point to the couch:
leather, black.
Hands lie folded like doves in your lap
while the words you whisper
dig
into
my
past.

"I am" is the site you excavate,
With sickle sharp
question marks
to clear the space
while exclamation points detonate
through the granite crust formed with age.

What once lay buried is brought into the light
the darkest recesses of my head
split wide
you sift through the rubble trying to find
hidden secrets from an ancient time.

In my dirt on your hands and knees
wipe your forehead on your sleeve
while logging my history
piece by piece
a few clay pots
some bones
and teeth.

Now you'll feel better, I hear you exclaim
Reassembling myself, I nod through the pain
of a past that's been robbed
till nothing remains
so we make plans for next week
and more of the same.

Saturday, 9/18/10 - Clippings

2010-09-17T23:01:00.002-04:00

Nora wipes the back of her hand across tiny beads of sweat on her forehead.

Effects of the cold winter, dry and brown, litter the lawn in front of the flower bed where she stands sweating in the early afternoon sun.

She could remove the flannel shirt she wears over her t-shirt but ghosts of winter still haunt shaded areas of the flower bed.

The last of the cold weather has passed but warmth visits only for short periods during the day. In another week everything will be different but this is the not-still-winter-and-not-yet-spring time.

As she takes a pair of shears from the bucket with the rest of her garden tools she thinks about this time between cold and warm, between hibernation and growth, between what was and what will be and wonders which of the plants will survive and which will need to be replaced.

The dry cracking of the branch between the blades of her shears tells her all she needs to know.

Friday, 9/17/10 - Astro Boy

2010-09-16T20:14:00.004-04:00

I'd like to be just like Astro Boy
Doing good deeds just like Astro Boy
When I walk I'd squeak just like Astro Boy
And have crooks run from me just like Astro Boy.

I won't be square when I'm Astro Boy
Have points in my hair just like Astro Boy
Bad guys wouldn't dare when I'm Astro Boy
'cause I will be there when I'm Astro Boy.

I will fly free when I'm Astro Boy
With flames from my feet when I'm Astro Boy
I'll clean up the streets when I'm Astro Boy
By rounding up thieves when I'm Astro Boy.

Where injustice lurks I'll be Astro Boy
That's where I'll work when I'm Astro Boy
To put fairness first just like Astro Boy
The villains will curse when I'm Astro Boy.

It won't take long when I'm Astro Boy
To right all wrong when I'm Astro Boy
We'll all get along when I'm Astro Boy
And sing my theme song when I'm Astro Boy.

Yes, I'd like to be just like Astro Boy
It's long been my dream to be Astro Boy
It's hard to believe I'm not Astro Boy
When there's a hero in me I call Astro Boy.

Thursday, 9/16/10 - Setting Sails

2010-09-16T08:46:00.003-04:00

The receptionist doesn't hesitate before answering. "Room number six-eighteen. You must be Michael."

"Yes, I'm Michael."

"Your father is very proud of you; he talks about you all of the time."

"I do hope that he is not giving you too much trouble."

"Trouble? No, not at all. Your father is one of our favorite residents."

"I'm glad to hear that. Six-eighteen? That would be..."

"Six-eighteen is on the sixth floor but your father is in the social room on the second floor telling stories to his harem."

"His harem?"

"Your father is quite popular with the ladies. Always a gentleman: holding doors, pushing in chairs and quick with a compliment. And at our socials he never sits down - the ladies won't let him, they line up to dance with him - even those with walkers and wheelchairs. He makes each of them feel special."

Michael wonders if the receptionist is talking about his father, the bookish accountant with two left feet. "I don't remember him being much of a dancer."

"After all of your time on the water I would have expected you to know each other very well."

"Our time on the water?"

"Sailing. He's told us about how the two of you restored that old sailboat, about the places you sailed to and the adventures you shared."

"He told you about us sailing?"

"Yes, lots of stories about your trips together: Bimini, Belize, Barbados. But mostly about how proud he was of you. How no matter what conditions the two of you encountered, you always managed to find a way through it."

"He shared that with you?"

"Yes. It sounds so exciting and I really envy the time that you spent together - quality time. I wish I could do that with my children. It must be hard for you living in New Zealand and not being able to visit with him more often."

"Yes... New Zealand..." Michael considers where he is living and wonders why he isn't visiting more often. "So, my father is in the social room?"

"Elevators are around the corner. Up to the second floor. It's down the hallway on the left."

Standing in the elevator Michael feels a pang of regret at living only an hour away and not visiting more often. He pictures pennants blowing on the mast of a ship they never owned and wonders about the man in the social room on the second floor: a sailing man whose son lives far, far away.

Wednesday, 9/15/10 - Cleaning Up

2010-09-15T00:14:00.003-04:00

"Good Morning. In our show today we will be taking you to Hollywood to meet Patricia Alton, star of the new movie Broken Dreams. Then we're going to Down Under with musical guests Rancid. And back here to New York to talk with Cuzette Holman about her new book, her new baby and her new husband.

On the other side of our break we are going to meet three interesting gentlemen who, after being laid off, used what they learned on the job to start their own lines of skin care products.

Stick around, we will be right back."

"Our first three guests this morning are examples of the ingenuity and inventiveness that are such a part of the American spirit. After being laid off, each of these men started their own company producing unique lines of skin care products.

Let's have a warm welcome for our first guest, Frank Plotkin.

Good morning, Frank. Your company is called Grease Monkey. I'm holding a bottle of what looks like forty-weight oil but it's really a body wash. Tell me a little about the company and your products."

"Grease Monkey makes soaps, shampoos and creams that contain synthetic motor oils."

"Motor oil? It doesn't sound like washing with motor oil would get you clean."

"If we had used petroleum based oils that would be true but our specially formulated synthetics work gently to neutralize dirt and body oils then rinse away leaving skin and hair soft and smooth with no greasy film."

"Interesting. How did you figure out that motor oil could get you clean?"

"I had worked for years doing oil changes in a quick lube place. After twenty or thirty changes in a day you're pretty dirty. There's grease and grime and oil on your hands and your arms and even in your hair.

I tried using commercial solvents but they didn't work very well and they left my skin dry and cracked. I needed something that would cut the grease without ruining my skin. It sounds odd but grease cuts grease so as I was doing oil changes I tried rubbing some on my hands and I found that some worked as well as soap.

I experimented with blending different brands and different weights and found one that worked for me. I'd mix up a batch and put it in a dispenser by the sink at work. Other guys tried it and they all liked it better than the harsh soaps. After I got laid off I started Grease Monkey. We now employ 45 people at our headquarters in Baton Rouge."

"Well, thank you Mr. Plotkin, that was an inspiring story.

Like Grease Monkey, Le Menu provides bath and body products with a twist. Stay tuned."

"Welcome back. Our next guest is Henri Dulcet, creator of the Le Menu line of gourmet body care products.

Good morning, Mr. Dulcet. Like many businesses, your catering company felt the effects of the slow economy and was on the verge of collapse. Tell us how you turned that around."

"Le Menu had always been the premier catering company in Minneapolis. We had, at one time, employed over 60 people and were working on plans to open two new locations that would have required us to hire 40 more employees.

We started feeling the effects of the economy and put the new locations on hold. When things didn't improve we started letting people go.

Almost overnight we went from sixty employees down to six and from there down to two."

"So, how did you transition from food service to skin care? It seems like the two are totally unrelated."

"Not really. We always prepared our foods in ways that maximized the healthful benefits of each individual ingredient. By focusing on the antioxidant properties of fresh fruits and vegetables we were able to create dishes that helped clean your internal systems. We now use those same ingredients to clean your outside, too."

"I have here a sample of your Pineapple Strawberry Body Foam. Oooh, it's cold."

"That's right. To maintain freshness, our products are shipped to stores in refrigerated containers and sold not in the toiletries aisle but in the produce section."

"And I see that it has a little wire whisk attached. What is that used for?"

"Foams should be frothed before use. The whisk helps to incorporate healthful oxygen into the naturally balanced PH of the pineapple and to distribute the strawberry's gentle abrasives."

"Well, Henri, it smells good enough to eat! When we come back we will visit with our Eric Beasley from The Honey Pot. Don't go away."

"You've met two entrepreneurs who turned their prior business knowledge into very different, very successful skin care product lines. Let's now meet Eric Beasley.

Good morning, Mr. Beasley. Your company is called The Honey Pot. Let's see, Beasley, honey... I am guessing that you were a bee keeper and are now using honey as a base for your products."

"No, Ma'am, no bees, no honey."

"No? Then tell us what did you do before you started your business?"

"Well, Ma'am, I drained septic tanks."

Tuesday, 9/14/10 - Rules Of The Road

2010-09-13T23:03:00.003-04:00

The wind slicing down the dark street is cold enough to freeze your lungs and sharp enough to cut the breath from your throat.

The burners are on under the flat-iron stove and coffee is beginning to drip into the bulbous Bunn pots at each of the three stations. In a minute I will pour myself a cup but for now I am content to sit in the dark and wait for things to warm up.

The cafe won't open for another hour. It says so right on the sign. If I turn on a light customers will pull on the doorhandle and peck their noses against the cold glass until I open up and let them in.

Once they are in I have to wait on them and that's not my job. My job is to get the hash browns cut, the bacon and sausage fried up and the biscuits baked. I can do all of that in an hour, no problem, if I don't have to be running up front pouring coffee and flapping jaws with someone who, by all rights, should be home in bed sleeping.

No, best to leave the lights off. Mary can turn them on when she comes in if she wants. Or, she can wait till opening time.

From the way my breath is steaming you might think I was sitting here smoking. Gave that up years ago. Nasty habit, besides, city don't allow smoking indoors anymore. So, it ain't smoke, it's just cold. Too cold to be peeling potatoes.

In a few minutes the kitchen will be warm enough to start. Right now, I'll just wrap my hands around a hot mug of coffee and watch the traffic light change from green to yellow to red, and the crazy river of leaves and discards run like water before the wind.

The man passing in front of the window startles me. His black overcoat and hat almost invisible in the dark.

Even if he turns his head and looks, he won't see me; he will only see himself reflected in the cafe's dark windows.

I watch him as he walks to the corner and stops.

The walk signal is red but even from where I am sitting you can see that there are no cars coming from any direction.

The man waits a moment before taking an ungloved hand from his pocket and pressing the button to cross Pennsylvania Ave.

I can see the icy wind push at the hem of his overcoat and tug at his collar while he stands, unmoving, hands in pockets, waiting for the light to change.

9/13/10 - The Operation (rewrite)

2010-09-12T22:42:00.006-04:00

NOTE: The Operation on 9/10/10 didn't work for me. This one is a little more fun.

Amber knows as soon as the door opens that the old man entering is in the wrong office. Spending time directing patients was just one of the unforeseen drawbacks of being part of a large medical complex.

Stacked on the corner of her desk are maps of the offices. As the old man approaches she reaches for a map.

She smiles up at him and asks, "How may I help you?" The smile is important. She learned many years ago that if you smile, you can tell people exactly where to go. And, if you smile broadly enough, you can even tell them what to take along with them when they go.

"Yes, I have a one-thirty appointment with the doctor."

Brightening her smile she asks him if he is sure that he has the right office. She pushes a map across the desk toward him and explains that it is a big complex. If he would tell her the name of the doctor he was visiting, she would show him how to get there.

"Is this Dr. Miller's office?"

"Yes, it is."

"If you would check your book, I am sure you find an appointment for Watson, Melvin Watson."

Still smiling she checks the book and is surprised to find a one-thirty for Mr. Melvin Watson. "Yes, yes, I do see your appointment." Her smile falters a little but she recovers and apologizes.

He senses her discomfort. "Miss, is there something wrong?"

"No, but..."

"But?"

Maintaining the smile is taking some effort. "Mr. Watson, I'm very sorry but we might not have made it clear when we scheduled your appointment but Dr. Miller is not a general urologist, he is a specialist. The only procedures he performs are vasectomies. If you would like, I can call down to Dr. Patel's office on the second floor and see if they can arrange to see you now."

"That won't be necessary. I would like to see Dr. Miller."

He watches confusion creep across her face. It's his turn to smile.

"Miss..." he searches for a name tag.

"Glenn, Amber Glenn."

"Miss Glenn, is something wrong?"

She has worked for Dr. Miller since high school and in those seven years she has learned what he likes and, more importantly, what he doesn't like. Dr. Miller is not going to like wasting his time seeing this old man who is obviously not going to be needing his services.

"No sir, there's nothing wrong." She does the only thing she can think of and hands Mr. Watson a clipboard. "Please fill out the front and back of the first sheet then read and sign the second sheet." As he turns toward the empty waiting room she grabs a pamphlet to hand to him. "Oh, and you will want to read this as it will explain the procedure."

Amber doesn't know what he might have been expecting and she hopes that when he reads the brochure he will realize his mistake and she can send him down to Dr. Patel.

He completes the form and she watches for the signs of recognition on his face as he reads the pamphlet.

As he hands back the completed forms he asks, "Will I need to be shaved for this procedure?"

With her best smile in place she asks, "Mr. Wilson, are you sure that this surgery is the right one for you?"

He doesn't hesitate, "Oh, yes. I'm too old for children."

"That's exactly what I mean. You are..." She runs her finger down his completed form, "eighty-two years old."

When he smiles there is a little glint in his eye. "And, Miss Glenn, I am healthy and active. And I am too old for more children."

"If you don't mind me asking, how many children do you have?"

He chuckles, "I don't mind but I would prefer to tell you over dinner."

There are no words. She can't believe that this old man is trying to pick her up.

As she searches for something to say Dr. Miller comes out from the back. "Mel! How are you doing?" Despite the difference in their ages, the two men talk like old schoolmates. "So, you're finally going to do it, huh?"

"That's why I'm here."

The doctor takes Mel's paperwork and starts back down the hall.

Before following behind him, Mel smiles at her, "Miss Glenn, my phone number is on the paperwork. Call me and we will have dinner." He starts down the hallway after the doctor and adds, "And, Amber, the pamphlet said that you might want to wait a week."

Sunday, 9/12/10 - Harvest Time

2010-09-12T07:12:00.002-04:00

Today's story is part of a 24-hour writing contest.

The topic is below. I will post my entry here after it is submitted and accepted.

He stood on his tiptoes at the small cabin's rear window, staring
out at the deepening dusk, sensing the excitement in the town's
air. The cold wind seeped through an old crack, tickling his
chubby cheek, and a whirlwind of red and orange leaves made him
laugh. The corn stalks rustled in the brisk breeze, waving to
him. He waved back.

Behind him, Mommy was busy in the small kitchen and delicious
smells wafted his way, making his tiny tummy grumble with glee.
She was making lots of treats to tempt the town's children. After
all, she'd promised him a new brother or sister...

Saturday, 9/11/10 - Your Dream

2010-09-10T21:09:00.004-04:00

Focus on the road ahead
Glancing occasionally
Over your shoulder
Into the back seat
Where your dream sleeps
Cocooned in a carseat
Carried along
Safe and secure
Below the window line
Unable to see
Where you lead.

Your dream
As old as you
Is still too young
To be trusted
To steer
Or even to sit shotgun
Holding the map
Assisting
With directions
Left here
Right there.

Your dream is best
Kept
Strapped
In back
Distracted.

Yes, it's better this way
Your dream
Will only
Lead you
Astray.

Friday, 9/10/10 - The Operation

2010-09-09T22:48:00.003-04:00

Michelle knows that she appears unprofessional and even considers that her behavior might, to some, appear rude but every time she lets her mind go there, she feels a feathery-ticklishness and her giggles start anew.

She tries to distract herself with paperwork but her eyes wander up from her desk to the only patient in the waiting room. The sight of him sitting there sends a carbonated fizzing bubbly-upening through her.

Being the only procedure they perform, he can only be here for the operation.

In the nine years that she has worked as Dr. Minks' receptionist she has seen thousands of patients but this gentleman... a few giggles escape her ... cannot possibly need the operation.

And, if he doesn't need it then why would he want to have it?

Granted, it is more of a "procedure" than an "operation". Everything is done here in the office in less than 30 minutes with the prep-nurse taking most of that time to shave the patient. The vision of Sallie shaving this man adds hilarity to the humor and she cannot hold back the laugh.

What could this man be thinking?

She bites her lip as she considers that he might be thinking about Sallie and the shaving and that this may be the only reason why he is having the operation.

On the pre-surgical questionairre he wrote his age as sixty-two and his marital status as single. He looks much older and being single does not surprise her.

Laughing at a client, at anyone, is not very kind. Michelle knows this but she just can't shake the impression that this man has never had a date in his life.

She watches as the door to room number three opens and Mr. Timmons walks out a little stiffly. Sallie follows behind him and escorts him to the Michelle's desk to complete the final paperwork.

Sallie wishes Mr. Timmons well before picking up the gentleman's folder. "Mr. Wilson, are you ready for your vasectomy?"

NOTE: This was prompted by a billboard advertising a clinic specializing in vasectomies. I laughed at the thought of someone choosing their doctor from an ad on the highway. That thought was followed by the thought for this story. OK, some thoughts are better not making it to print. And, since I am already moving about freely in Wacky Town, I will continue with pictures that have nothing to do with the story.

Thursday, 9/9/10 - Elephants Are Easy

2010-09-08T23:28:00.007-04:00

"Perfect."

For all of her extravagance and spare-no-expense approach to business, Mrs. Herndon was frugal with her words and downright miserly with her compliments.

In her brusque manner she explains how the exchange will be made then, with no wasted words, she departs.

Sunrise is not for another hour but a celebration is in order. A martini would be nice but I pour myself a mimosa instead. In the dimly lit loft I raise my glass in a toast while looking directly into the eyes.

It's all in the eyes...

Twenty years ago I was nobody, just another starving artist waiting tables in a short-lived trendy cafe while waiting for someone to notice me.

The person who noticed was Mrs. Herndon, heiress to the Herndon Hotel empire. She was an extremely wealthy woman and, as I was to learn, an extremely adept businesswoman.

After dining with friends at Michele's on 18th Street, she decided to enjoy the warm spring evening and walk the three blocks back to her brownstone. She stopped in front of Rigel's gallery and watched as a new painting was being hung in the window.

The shop was closed but the proprietor asked if she would like to come in for a closer look.

The painting he was hanging, the one she was looking at, was called The Jaguar. She bought it that evening and in doing so, set in motion a series of events that would make me a very wealthy man.

Shortly after the sale of The Jaguar, the owner of Rigel's informed me that the person who purchased it had requested a private showing of all of the rest of my works. He had not told me who the purchaser was and, honestly, I didn't much care. If they had money then their name was unimportant.

I pulled together everything I had - 28 pieces - and brought them over to Rigel's on a Thursday evening. On Friday morning he presented me with a check for twenty-eight thousand dollars and a contract for the exclusive showing of my future works.

After signing, he told me who had purchased my work and asked that I try to keep the information private.

By the time I got home from Rigel's there were three messages on my answering machine asking for interviews and two from agents looking to represent me.

Being who she is, everyone watched Mrs. Herndon's actions and those who wanted to be like her mimicked those actions. If Mrs. Herndon bought my paintings then everyone wanted to buy my paintings. And the prices were suddenly staggering.

By making me famous she increased not only my wealth, but her own.

It became a ritual and a media event to have an unveiling of one of my paintings at the opening of a new Herndon Hotel.

I was relieved when she commissioned me to do an elephant for the opening of the new Herndon Hotel Dubai. All I could think when she asked me was that elephants are easy.

Standing behind her as she pulls the golden cord, I watch as the drape falls away from the frame and the proud elephant, trunk raised, is viewed for the first time. We smile for the cameras and listen to the applause echo throughout the hotel lobby.

I hear the praise. "Stunning". "Magnificent". "His best work".

Amid the camera flash, the clapping and the cheering, Mrs. Herndon looks over at me.

She is not pleased.

"It's not wild." It was a statement, a fact.

I started to protest.

"Just look at the eyes."

She was right.

"The zoo?"

I nod.

"I expect that it will be redone and this one destroyed."

Sitting in a shallow trench Assam, India I realize that elephants are not fearsome. Yes, they are large but they do not have the same predatory characteristics as the large cats, gorillas or raptors I have painted in the past.

Bored, I fidget with the camera sitting on the tripod beside me and wait for the guide to return from the bushes where he has gone to relieve himself.

The bushes rustle as he returns. I stand up and call to him to prepare the jeep. The response is a loud trumpeting and a rumbling of the earth. Instinctively, I dive down into the trench and the elephant passes directly over me.

The tripod tips over and as the camera hits the ground the shutter snaps.

I raise the glass and take another sip of mimosa before unclipping the single photograph from the corner of the canvas.

Perfect. She said it was perfect.

Wednesday, 9/8/10 - Caught

2010-09-07T19:57:00.003-04:00

"Anything for me?"

"Doesn't look like it, just a lot of stuff for someone named Current Resident. Oh, wait, here's something from the Clerk of the Court." She holds the envelope out to him then just as he reaches for it she pulls it back. "Has Jackie been a bad boy?"

"I'm bestest when I'm baddest." He takes the letter from her and opens it. "What?" He flips the paper over, scans the back side then flips it over to inspect the front side again. "It's a speeding ticket!"

"You? You are the slowest driver I know. What's it for, not reaching minimum speed?"

"Very funny. I'm not a slow driver, I'm a safe driver."

"Don't tell me, tell it to the Clerk. What's he got you down for?"

"Uhhh..." Jack scans the paper. "Holy! Two hundred and fifty six dollars!" He reads further. "For doing fifty one in a fifty mile an hour zone."

"That's crazy."

"That's what it says." He shows her. "I'm not paying it! They can't do that! One mile per hour over, that's ridiculous, cars aren't calibrated that closely! I can fight this."

She had been reading over his shoulder. "No, it doesn't look like you can fight it."

"What?"

"It says that your speed was reported by your vehicle and confirmed with sensors in the road and again by timers in the red-light cams." She reads further. "And you don't even have to write a check, they have automatically deducted it from your bank account."

"What happened to 'innocent until proven guilty'?"

"I guess they have enough evidence to prove you guilty."

"How do they know it was me? Maybe it was you driving."

"Good try but it says here that your key fob registered your fingerprint. Looks like you're busted."

"This is insane! I want a lawyer. I am going to fight this." He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through listings for lawyers.

"And what are you going to tell the lawyer? How are you going to raise reasonable doubt that you weren't speeding when they have all of this evidence?"

He puts the phone down.

"Face it, they got you."

"You don't think this is a little scary? One mile an hour?" He watches as she thinks about it. "What else do they know about me? About us? About anyone? Everyone?"

"You mean like you just looked up lawyers on your phone?" She folds the paper, puts it in the envelope and hands it back to him.

NOTE: This picture has nothing to do with the story. The picture is all about balance. It was taken just after sunrise using a very long exposure (1/6th of a second at F5.6 with an ISO of 400) to capture the streetlight's illumination in the background and filled in with flash in the foreground. The camera was hand-held and set to second-curtain-sync to eliminate the effects of shake on the foreground elements.

Tuesday, 9/7/10 - Contact

2010-09-06T22:53:00.006-04:00

In the flickering illumination of his cabin's holo-vid, Dave undresses. Before laying down he enters a code into the holo's keypad that will access a private library of personal vid's. He could access those provided by the agency but prefers things more intimate, more aggressive.

Aside from his libido, Dave prides himself in his ingenuity. Getting this vid on board unnoticed was not easy. Every computer system is monitored and any software not mission-related would have been deleted prior to mission start. The only independent systems were those inside the tiny probes that would be deployed, like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs, along the ship's passage through the galaxies.

Each probe contains a transmitter that constantly beams "hello" messages in the hopes that an intelligent life form passing nearby will recognize the mathematical signatures and retrieve the probe. Contained within are images of the earth, its location relative to the point of the probe, depictions of men and women, as well as samples of our art and culture.

All of that and Dave's vid.

In the holo-sphere, Dave's image stands above two couples. Clothing, what little there is, is made of black leather and gleaming chrome.

Dave likes being a part of the vid. He likes the way that his face is projected onto the main character. He scowls and the image in the vid scowls. He likes the way his movements are reflected in the sphere and how he can direct the actions of the other characters with his movements.

"I don't know. It just keeps repeating the same pattern."

"Bring it up on the screen."

The captain and crew watch as the object is magnified on the screen. They understand the importance of finding something created by another race. They understand that this ensures them a significant place in history and they don't want that history to be about the crew that bumbled the most significant artifact ever encountered in space.

They have been circling the object, recording it from all sides and sending the recordings back for analysis by their best scientists.

Every step checked and double checked both on board and back on planet until the order is finally given.

"Let's bring it into the cargo bay."

"Mr. President, we have been in constant contact with the alien vessel and we are prepared for the worst if necessary. They indicated that they found one of our probes and used the information encoded in it to locate us and to learn about us. They assure us that they are here as peaceful ambassadors of their people. And..."

The President watches as the General finds the words.

"...and they want to meet Dave."

"Dave? Who is Dave?"

"We're working on that, sir."

Monday, 9/6/10 - Chameleon

2010-09-05T21:56:00.004-04:00

The boy in the picture is nine years old. Summer kissed his sand colored hair and lightly toasted his fair skin. Glass-blue eyes sparkle above a beamish smile missing one front tooth.

I look at the picture, feel the familiar tingle then run my tongue through the space in my front teeth before turning the page.

With his dark complexion, hair and eyes, the man in the next picture might be Italian or Middle Eastern. An ocean of curls cascade out from under his headband and flow down over his shoulders and onto his peace-sign tee-shirt.

Only the top of the sign he carries can be seen in the photo, words fall away beneath the frame.

There is a feeling of a thousand insects crawling over my scalp. I reach up and push my long hair behind my ears and turn the page.

The next picture is of Narece, with two long e's - nah-ree-see. She will correct you if you pronounce it wrong. In the picture she is standing behind a podium, speaking, a single finger pointing up into the air.

Narece is a big woman, under five-seven and over three hundred pounds. Her skin is so black it appears almost blue in the stage lights. Her grey hair lightning-white by contrast.

Again, I feel the tingle as my penis retracts, my breasts enlarge and my body distends.

The door opens and the doctor comes in. "I see you've decided on Narece today."

"No, I haven't decided, I was just looking at the photographs when you came in. Thanks for knocking."

He ignores the barb.

Doctors seem to have the most difficult time with us. Our medical history is not our own. With each new physiology, we receive new diseases, new allergies, new ailments. Our DNA and blood type alter and they must run new tests and generate a new set of charts for each mutation. The only nice part for them is that for each, the charts remain the same. Narece's charts will always be hers.

Today he doesn't want Narece. "Would you mind becoming yourself?"

I look at him, feel Narece recede and the visage of him emerge.

He is not amused. "Very funny, now can you please be yourself long enough for me to do some tests?"

On the cover of the book I have been looking through is a picture of me. I look at the cover and replace the doctor with the man in the picture.

He is pleased. He thanks me and begins his examination.

I want to tell him that the person that is breathing in, breathing out on the other end of his stethoscope is not me. I want to tell him that things are broken - things he cannot measure. There are conduits that end abruptly and contacts that fire randomly, if at all. There are basic supports inside of me that are fractured, small pieces crumbling and falling away like motes of dust in a dark cave.

I want to tell him how each mimicked face erases the tiniest bit of who I was and replaces it with something, someone else.

I want to tell him that the inside no longer connects with the outside.

I want to tell him that I would like to do that - to be myself - but, I have forgotten how.

I have forgotten who.

Sunday, 9/5/10 - Say Beach

2010-09-05T07:49:00.004-04:00

Saturday, 9/4/10 - Your Last Meal

2010-09-03T22:23:00.003-04:00

The last of the coffee, last bite of sweet,
Push yourself back, picking your teeth,
Sated, content, the day is complete,
It's true what they say: you are what you eat,
I'd say you look well - your last meal was me.

Friday, 9/3/10 - Not The Falling Type

2010-09-02T21:55:00.004-04:00

We walk, chattering like magpies, down the long hallway. Our dark voices carom off smooth walls and return to us as someone else's laughter.

This is work, our conversation serious, but the echoes are punch lines to jokes we haven't thought to tell.

Our destination, at the far end of the hallway, is open blue sky. Progress is slow. Like globs of mercury we join and split in shiny clusters. Groups forming, taking on others, stretching, breaking. Liquid people forming and reforming in a forward flow.

A people mover's meshed grates slide beneath our feet and we move more solidly, more quickly.

The belt extends beyond the end of the hallway. Each of us knows that when the belt ends we will free fall down, many miles, to the sidewalk in front of the building. As we move out beyond the walls, we can see blue above and beside us. Far below, clouds obscure the earth.

I watch as co-workers are delivered over the edge, into the empty. They fall as they stood: siding briefcases, newspapers tucked under arms holding cardboard cupped cappuccinos. Straight down they go until impossibly distant clouds consume them.

It is my turn. Over the edge...

Unlike my counterparts, I hold no case, no cup. My arms seek the wind rising alongside me as I fall. Finding purchase, I use the resistance to stabilize myself, to tip my head down and raise my feet up, up, above my head.

I am no longer falling, I am flying. Those around me are still falling straight down but I am pulling away, gaining speed, adding distance.

You will be lost, they scream. Never to be found, they warn. I am hearing, not caring.

The sense of freedom, of flight, overwhelms me. Like a glimpse into heaven, I am filled with light and joy. I laugh at them falling straight down while I direct my flight.

Clouds arrive, pass and fall away behind me in an instant. Treetops rise rapidly and for a moment I fear that I have come too far.

I know that I am over South America. There is jungle beneath me, not the city sidewalks where the rest of the team had landed.

Concerned about hitting the ground too hard, I arch back turning rapid descent into parallel motion that tears leaves from treetops as I pass.

Fast, fast, too fast. I will hit the ground too fast!

Just before the point of impact I force my feet in front of me so that I will land on my back. I SLAM! into the soft earth. The impact jars me half awake.

Pillowed by the jungle undergrowth and the pillows in my bed, I fear that I have hurt myself and begin checking. With an odd dislocation, like reaching out your hand to help a drowning man and feeling the hand you take hold of is your own, I begin touching: my face, my shoulders, my arms, chest. Here and there, in bed and in the jungle, asleep and awake at the same time.

Then the laughter starts, bubbling up at the realization that where I am - thousands of miles from where others land - is a good place to be. I can still hear their worried cries and I want to tell them that I am not lost. I am here. I am happy. Very happy.

I giggle myself awake knowing that I am nothing like the others: I am not the falling type.

NOTE: Picture added 9/4 after laptop repair completed.

Thursday, 9/2/10 - Rules For Writing (part 1): Spelling

2010-09-01T20:57:00.003-04:00

Lewis remembers the bell signaling the end of class and Mrs. Reardon yelling over the din of chairs scraping back from desks and book banging into bookbags. "Compositions are due tomorrow! Remember, spelling counts! We're not chiseling on stone tablets anymore, use spell check!"

Unlike most of the kids who took this class because it was an easy way to raise their GPA, Lewis wants to be a writer and is learning as much as he can from Mrs. Reardon. He has worked hard on his composition and considers it to be his best work. Now, all that remains is to run spell-check before printing.

He clicks on the spell-check icon and is surprised by the number of words that have been flagged.

The program indicates that the correct spelling for the first word could be "Taws", "Twos", or "Teas". He thinks about the word and its meaning and decides to change it to "It was" instead.

The next word that was flagged could be spelled "billing", "bridling", "brisling", "broiling", or "grilling". He reluctantly chooses "brisling" and moves to the next word. His choices are "smithy", "sloth", "slither", and "slushy". "Slushy" is closest but in choosing it he feels that his original intent is being lost.

At the end of the first paragraph he looks at what is written.

It was brisling, and the slushy troves
Did gyre and gamble in the waves:
All missy were the borecoles,
And the mom rat's outrage.

He hears Mrs. Reardon telling the class that spelling counts and continues making the recommended changes hoping that she will appreciate the many hours that went into this writing.

Wednesday, 9/1/10 - Firmer Fruits

2010-08-31T22:04:00.005-04:00

Tiz enjoys the early solitude of Saturday mornings and the silent, still-dark streets resting beneath the lightening sky. The day will be warm but the morning air is chilly and she can see her breath misting the morning air as she walks.

She carries a shopping bag down empty sidewalks on streets free of the weekday clamoring of suburban commuters, across Bradford Street, past the barricades to the farmer's market on Wellington.

She walks the length of the cobblestone street watching vendors unloading, unboxing, unpacking. At the far end she stops at a stall offering teas from places she has never been, never heard of. The woman selling the teas tells her about the tea, its organic nature, its fair-market value, and the benefits of its healthful blends. She brews a pot and Tiz watches the leaves - at first dry and compact - unfurl, expand and bleed golds, greens and browns into the swirling water.

The tea seller watches as the scented steam carries Tiz to lush hills outside of remote villages where woven grass baskets are perched high upon heads over brightly colored dresses and bare feet that raise dust on sun-warmed, red dirt.

The tea is good. Tiz sips it slowly, scans the nearby stalls and looks up at the reddening morning clouds.

The market changes little from week to week but Tiz enjoys the process of moving between the stalls, inspecting the packages, the products, the produce. The tea is light in her cloth bag as she moves toward the musty ripeness of the cheese stand and samples of Emmentaler, Gruyere and Raclette. The nutty sweetness paints pictures of snow-capped mountains that reach up, way high, into clear, cool, blue skies behind her closed eyes.

The cheese adds some weight to the tea leaves in her cloth bag.

While running her fingers lightly over the patina on an old mantel clock she is told that it is an original, one-owner piece that still keeps perfect time. The winding key is taped to the back. She thinks of the clock sitting silent in a damp, cobwebbed basement - some one's grandmother's belongings moulding in boxes as the clock timelessly ages.

Wrapped in newspaper, it is added to her bag.

The fruits, sweet and firm, brighten the morning with jungle reds, yellows and oranges. She feels the moist air beneath wide, forest-green leaves, hears the call of a toucan as an imaginary parrot flies past a ring tailed lemur perched on a limb eating a passion fruit.

She is careful not to crush the fruit under the weight of the clock.

The only stall remaining is as wholesome and healthy as the American Heartland. She peers out over farm loads of freshness - corn, beets, carrots, tomatoes, onions, green beans, squashes - growing alongside a dirt road. Clouds of dust whirl up behind the 1948 Desoto she is riding in. Her father relaxes behind the wheel as the road runs arrow straight between the fields and off into the horizon. Sunlight glitters on the dust entering through the open window and settling on her gingham dress and on her father's fedora sitting on the seat beside her.

Only the firmest and most flavorful are placed on top of the things already carried in her bag.

Tuesday, 8/31/10 - Arthur's Axiom

2010-08-30T22:50:00.004-04:00

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."
Arthur C. Clark

It came to pass that man created life.

As might be expected, he created it in his own image. And, because it resembled him, he grew uneasy with its presence. He gathered together all he had created, found a suitable planet and populated it with his creations.

Being curious, man watched from afar as his creations established themselves and began to thrive.

Many years passed and man's creations began to follow in the footsteps of their creators. Sometimes, the directions they moved in were perilous. Other times, the environment threatened their existence.

Rather than allow them to perish, man intervened and in doing so, established himself as a God to his creations.

"Look," they exclaimed, "He comes from the sky! He flies! Surely he is a God!" They quoted man as best they could and repeated these words to each other in many ways. They used man's words as explanations for anything they did not understand.

Still more years passed and man's creations designed elaborate rituals around what they remembered man saying. They built temples to house their understanding of him and to give residence to his image.

And as man's creations progressed, they too advanced to the point where they could create life.

And, when they did create life, they created it in their own image. They then grew uneasy with its presence and searched the universe for a suitable planet...

Monday, 8/30/10 - The Blessing

2010-08-29T21:51:00.005-04:00

"Alice, have you noticed anything different about Gabe?"

"Different? Like what?"

"He seems... overly sensitive."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"And, I'm not sure I can explain it. Maybe I'm the one who is being overly sensitive. Gabe is a good kid. He is well behaved. He's incredibly bright, gets straight A's."

Alice knows where this conversation is going but asks anyway. "So, what's the problem?"

"Aunt Alice, why is Mom worrying about me?"

"Because she loves you, Gabe."

"I don't know what the problem is."

"So, what is he doing that has you concerned?"

"You're going to think I'm crazy but he finds things. Lost things. He's twelve years old and he has never lost anything. Ever. And if you are around him and you lose something, he finds it or tells you where to look."

Trying to make light of the conversation, "And you are complaining?"

"No! Yes! I mean, sure, it's nice to be able to find things but it's a little creepy that he knows exactly where things are. It's not like we go looking for something and he finds it. If you tell him you've lost something, he just tells you where to look.

"I don't understand why helping Mom find things would upset her. Doesn't she want to find them?"

"Yes, Gabe, she does want to find them. She just doesn't see things the way you and I do."

"He never forgets a name. And I swear that he knows people's names before he is introduced to them. It happened just this morning. We had stopped at the store and I ran into the Averys. I introduced them as Frank and Gloria but when we got in the car, Gabe asked if the Avery's were doing OK."

"I'm sure you had mentioned them before and Gabe just filed it away. Some kids just never forget anything."

"No, this was different. The Avery's lost a son two years ago. Gabe didn't know their last name and he didn't know about their son. Why should he ask if they were doing well?"

"I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation. You probably talked about it and he just filed it away. You said that he never forgets a name."

"Why doesn't Mom talk to me like you talk to me?"

"Because, Gabe, not everyone can speak and hear the way that we do."

"I don't understand."

"You have The Blessing, Gabe. I know it's hard for you to understand now but I promise you that it will get easier. And I will help you. Any time you need me, I will be there. Just talk to me the way you are talking to me now."

"Thank you, Aunt Alice. I love you."

"I love you, too, Gabe."

"You're right, I am probably worrying about nothing. Gabe really is a blessing."

Sunday, 8/29/10 - Recipe

2010-08-29T07:43:00.003-04:00

1 peck of smiles
1 large bag of laughter
1 bushel of sweet fruits
a few nuts
zest of lemon (or other bitter fruit)

Spread the smiles evenly across all faces.

Dust liberally with laughter.

With helping hands, mix the remaining ingredients together in a large park.

Heat slowly on a warm summer day until soft and bubbly.

Serve in large bowls.

Will stay fresh forever when stored in an open container .

The healthy sugars in this disk sweeten over time.

Although it is recommended that you make this dish often, the combination of leavening agents allow you to consume as much as you like, as often as you like without depleting the original amount. It has been observed that the more you share this recipe, the more you will have.

Here is what the completed recipe could look like.

Note: adjust the amount of nuts to your liking.

Saturday, 8/28/10 - Arrival

2010-08-27T21:14:00.003-04:00

The festival begins today.

Friday, 8/27/10 - Anticipation

2010-08-26T23:20:00.003-04:00

Take me home.
To family.

Thursday, 8/26/10 - Not My Job

2010-08-25T21:19:00.002-04:00

"Sir, can you help me, please?"

His answer was perfunctory but not unpleasant as he opens the side panel, removes the tire iron and carries it to the back of the truck.

Her voice is almost lost in the roar of the unbroken line of rubber-neckers traveling at break-neck speed as she asks him again, "Sir, please, can you help me?"

He lays the tire iron on the flatbed and walks over to the control panel on the other side of the truck. He has done this thousands of times and, if needed, could do it blindfolded. Pull the top lever down and it releases the brakes on the chains, push it to the right and the chains unroll onto the bed with a banging and a clanging that completely covers the thundering of passing cars and trucks.

"It's not my job!" he yells over to the woman, knowing that she can't hear him.

She says something. He points to his ears and shakes his head letting her know that he can't hear her.

Chains unwound, he hooks them to the front of the disabled vehicle and returns to the control panel.

"Please, can't you help me?"

"Ma'am, I would like to help but I have work to do. When I am done here, I have two more disabled vehicles to haul back in. And, seeing as it's Friday, there will probably be a few more before the evening is over."

"But..."

"Like I said, I would really like to help you but I have got to do my job." He pushes the lever to the left and the chains begin to wind back in. He finesses them until the slack is removed but they are not yet pulling the vehicle.

He pushes the lever up to lock the chains in place then walks over to confirm that they are securely fastened to the car. Next, he will use the bottom set of levers to lower the back end of the flatbed down to ground level and to winch the car up onto it.

Before he can bring the disabled car onto the flatbed, he has to put it into neutral and release the parking brake.

He steps over the chains connecting his truck to the car and stands beside the driver's door. "Ma'am, you are going to have to move."

"I don't think I can. I think my leg is broken. Can't you help me."

"I'm doing everything I am supposed to do. I'm not EMS, I just run the wrecker. Normally they are here and gone before I show up. Must be busy tonight."

He hears her crying. He wants to help but he could get fired for that. His job is to move the vehicles. That's all. "Ma'am, if you could just put the car into neutral and release the parking brake, I could get us moving. Like I said, I have two more waiting."

He checks his watch and realizes that he is spending too much time on this job. It's not how he would like to do it but the truck's hydraulics are strong enough to pull the car up even if the brake is set. If she won't move and won't help him then that is what he will do.

He starts back to the control panel on the truck then stops. He does feel bad for her, it's not her fault that the EMS guys can't do their job. "Ma'am, if it will make you feel any better, I will radio back in to dispatch that you are staying with your vehicle."

Tuesday, 8/25/10 - Conversations Before Carnations

2010-08-24T23:11:00.003-04:00

"Music."

"And..."

"How about Sculpture? No, maybe Painting."

"You need twelve credits. Minimum."

"Can I just do part-time, like a half term or something?"

"Not until after you have completed sixty-six credits. Are you sure about the Music and Painting? Last term all of your studies were based in the Arts."

"I like the Arts."

"But you haven't completed any of the core requirements. You can't graduate without them."

"Then maybe I will never graduate."

"Everyone graduates, some just take longer than others to get there. How about taking on some History this term?"

"I know enough about History. Lies told by the better warriors. It's nothing more than a series of justifications for atrocious behavior."

"OK, what about one of the Sciences? Perhaps one of the Physical Sciences."

"Me? The guy who is more Escher than Einstein? I don't think so. Besides, we both know that science only applies to the physical. It's transient."

"You like to think, how about Religion?"

"Same."

"What about one of the Languages?"

"Words. Just words that we attach to things."

"Philosophy. That's almost artistic."

"Oh, please. Philosophy is only thought expressed in language."

"What then?"

"Art! Art is the only pure form of communication. It transcends time, culture, language. Just look around here. What do you see? Art! Why? Because no matter who enters, they will understand, they will appreciate. Art is the only universal language and therefore the only language needed. Besides, I already know all I need to know about those other subjects."

"Knowing is not enough, you have to demonstrate that knowledge. You do that by being tested."

"Well then, test me. We both know that I know that material inside and out. It seems a waste to spend a whole term on something I already know. Can't I just test out?"

"Testing out requires department head approval and you can only test out of one subject per term."

"Can I apply to test out of ... oh, ... how about Philosophy?"

"You would have to talk to the department head yourself and convince him that you are ready to test out."

"I can do that. Who is the head this term?"

"Let me see... Hmmmmm, looks like you got lucky, the head this term is Buddah. You would have had a much harder time with Plato. He was head last term. I'll give Buddah a call and let him know you are coming. "

"Thanks! I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

"See? If you had taken a Language term you might be able to find the words."

"Very funny."

"So, you want to do every one of your lives in the Arts?"

"Yes, I really do."

"Whatever you do, you have to hurry, your next incarnation date is coming up and you have to have all of your subjects chosen before you head down there again."

"Writing... maybe in this next life I will choose Creative Writing."

Tuesday, 8/24/10 - Wrinkles

2010-08-23T22:49:00.002-04:00

Nichole turns and checks herself again in the mirror. She grins wide, her teeth are gleaming. Makeup adds just enough color without being obvious. A few stray hairs pushed back into place and the look is perfect.

She turns. Back is perfect. Turns again. Front is ... wrinkled! Oh, no, the look is ruined!

Probably happened when she was bending over putting on her shoes. The black ones - satin, with six inch stiletto heels and a single strap around the ankle.

She pushes at the wrinkles hoping to smooth them out and only making them worse.

She checks the clock hoping that there is enough time left to steam them out.

No luck. No time.

She had worked so hard on this look and now it's ruined.

There is nothing she can do; she is just going to have to go to work looking wrinkled.

She turns around again admiring the way the heels make her legs look.

The music in the other room ends, the crowd whistles and claps. She hears the first few notes of her opening number and then her name.

She wraps a long black silk scarf around her neck, checks her g-string and pasties, pats the wrinkles on her naked stomach and hurries from the dressing room and onto the stage where a single spotlight shines on a gleaming silver pole.

Monday, 8/23/10 - Raindrop

2010-08-22T23:22:00.004-04:00

Edward sits alone at the table and watches people outside the small restaurant rushing by in the rain. They're all carrying bags, briefcases and backpacks but very few have raincoats or umbrellas. He wonders at the manner of impractical things packed into the parcels that these people carry. Why not something useful like an umbrella?

He watches as Holly runs past the window and stops under the portico. She throws away the newspaper she held over her head and shakes the water from her hair and clothes.

Before they leave, he will give her his umbrella. His raincoat has a hood and he is only going one block to the subway, Holly will be walking three blocks to her apartment.

He fights the urge but as she enters the restaurant he checks his watch. It's not to see if she was late - he knew she would be late - but, to see just how late she is. Twenty-two minutes. Rain, three blocks, not bad.

"Daddy!" She gives him a kiss hello. Her cheek cold and damp against the side of his face. "This rain is awful!" She removes her coat and hangs it on one of the empty chairs then looks around, searching.

"In the far corner."

"Oh, yeah." She turns and heads for the ladies room.

Edward watches her. She is beautiful, he thinks, just like her mother.

She returns a few minutes later and studies the menu. "I'm cold and hungry. Something warm would be nice."

"So, how are you? How's the job?"

"Great! Great."

"And Chad, how's he doing?"

"Great." It was the same fake perkiness. "Have you had their homemade pot pie?"

Two things bothered him: Holly had invited him to dinner - supposedly to talk - and she wasn't talking, the other, which bothered him just as much, was that they called it "homemade" when it was made here in this restaurant. He could do nothing about the pot pie but he could find out about his daughter.

They decided on dinner, placed their order and sat a little uncomfortably.

"Honey, is everything OK?"

"Yeah, everything is fine."

He watched the way she shredded the straw wrapper, rolling each little piece into a ball then placing the balls in a small pile. "You seem a little upset. Is there something bothering you? Something I can help with?"

"Oh, Daddy, it's nothing."

"Well then, if it's nothing then it shouldn't be too hard for us to talk through and to figure out together."

She smiled at him, at his line. He was always so practical and she knew that he meant that they could figure it out together. It had taken her many years and lots of tears to understand that for Edward, keeping things working was his way of expressing love. He was never very good with emotions, hers or his, but give him a problem and he would demonstrate how much he cared about you.

"And how are you doing, Dad?"

"Great! Great." They both gave a half-hearted laugh at him mimicking her earlier response. "No, really, I am doing fine."

"Have you seen Mom lately?"

He told her about the lawyers and her mother's recent request for more money. "I'd give her anything. Why does she pay... no, why does she have me pay for lawyers? Why doesn't she just ask me?"

"She probably feels guilty."

The conversation eddies around the divorce before moving along to Holly.

"So, what's happening? Is everything OK with you and Chad?"

"Oh, Daddy, on the surface everything is fine. We get along well. Maybe too well."

"You get along too well?"

"You're not going to understand this but our problem is that he won't fight with me."

Edward considers this, waiting for more. When nothing else comes, he asks the only question he can. "And this is a problem, how?"

"I know it seems silly but if Chad really loved me then he would be man enough not to give in to everything just because that is what I want. I mean, he has to have some ideas or opinions of his own but he never expresses them. If I say the sky is green he will never say that I am wrong and that the sky is blue."

He hears what she is saying. It's not the first time he has heard these words.

"He has no opinions about anything. He says he doesn't care about what we eat for dinner, where we go on vacation, if we have children."

Her words are just echos.

"No matter what I say or do, he agrees. It's horrible!"

Edward knows what's coming next, he's heard it before. He wants to tell her now what he had tried to tell her mother. There were no words then and there are none now. Please, please, don't say that he has nothing inside.

"He's a nice guy but it's like there is no one inside of him. Sometimes I think that he would die without me telling him what to do."

Her words, her mother's words...

"Daddy, are you OK? You're crying."

He wipes the tear from his cheek. "No, baby, it's just a raindrop."

Sunday, 8/22/10 - Runic Scrawl

2010-08-21T22:45:00.005-04:00

Do you remember me?
I am The Kid who had The Dream.

Do you remember how?
The not-much-then is no-more-now.

Thin black threads and sleight-of-truth
Magic tricks held up as proof.

Wonder where the pathway leads,
Stepping stones obscured by weeds.

Stories spiral, out and in,
Reason captive in the spin.

Wealthy wielding golden might,
Children milking their birthright.

Early morning turns mid-day,
Aesop's hoppers working play.

Product of a dream-filled mind,
Human form empty inside.

Still thoughts run deep on higher ground.
Re-create forgotten sound.

Inter-pretend runic scrawl,
Learned to run and not to crawl.

Do you remember me?
I am The Kid who had The Dream.

Do you remember when?
The not-much-now was no-more-then.

Saturday, 8/21/10 - A Far Away Love

2010-08-20T22:16:00.002-04:00

Go ahead... do it... that's it, just below your left ear, pull a small patch of hair, straighten it... now, twirl it one way around your finger - good, yes - now, straighten it again then twirl it the other way.

I love when you do that with your hair. You probably don't even know you're doing it but you do it all of the time.

If I told you, you wouldn't understand. You wouldn't believe me. You would wonder how a total stranger could know anything about you.

But I know a lot about you.

I love you.

I've been watching you for a long time. It's my job - a very good job, an important job - and I would lose it if they knew how I feel about you...

How I think about you all of the time.

You are not the only one I've been assigned to watch, there are several others but they are not like you, they don't affect me the way you do. If they played with their hair the way you do I wouldn't notice. But, when you do it...

I would like to show you the pictures of you that I have taken. They are beautiful.

You are beautiful.

I especially like the evenings before you sleep. I like the way the steamy shower softens everything and makes it all look like a dream. Makes you look like a dream...

Like my dream.

And, after your shower, after you have dried yourself, I enjoy watching you lie on top of your bed, naked, reading... and twirling your hair around your finger.

If I could, I would reach out to you. I would touch your soft, smooth, tanned flesh. I would place my face close to yours, smell your hair - the hair that you play with all of the time.

Yes, yes, I would hold you close to me... feel your arms tighten around me as my tentacles, all eight of them, embrace you, caress you, wrap around you.

But, no, that is forbidden. I can never meet you. I can only sit in this ship, spinning around your planet, and love you from afar.

Friday, 8/20/10 - Skylines

2010-08-19T21:24:00.005-04:00

Crisscrossing heaven
From end to end

Across the sky
A man-made web

Wire fences
Hold back clouds

Above our heads
They keep us down

Stretched like lines
On a notebook page

For words of wisdom
They patiently wait.

Thursday, 8/19/10 - Shopping For Monsters

2010-08-18T22:59:00.003-04:00

"Clowns."

"Pardon me?"

"You asked what sells best. Most people want clowns. After that it depends on what is popular in the media. We had a big rush on vampires a few years back when the movie Interview With A Vampire first came out. That waned and now with Twilight we have vampires and werewolves. But, no matter what is happening in the movies, clowns are always a favorite."

"Seems strange. Clowns?"

"People are terrified of clowns. Probably started when they were kids and they just never got over it."

I look around the store once more then down at the little devil that I am holding. "I'm afraid that this is just not not doing it for me. I can't see myself being scared by this."

"What you see depends largely on which end you are viewing it from."

I turn it around, still not seeing what I am hoping for. "I don't know. I was looking for something with a bit more, ummm..."

"This model does have all of the features you requested." He picks up another one, looks at it, shakes his head then returns it to the shelf. "May I suggest something from this rack over here?"

"An implant? Oh, I would worry about that."

"Then we're on the right track."

"That does make sense, doesn't it?"

"I have the implant and, just like the personal take-along models that you have been looking at, this one is fully customizable. Let me see here..." He runs his finger down the questionnaire I had completed. "Your demon should have coarse, tufty hair on the eyebrows and ears. It should have scales on the legs and torso. You prefer paws with cracked, yellowed, craggy claws instead of hands. Add some razor-sharp teeth and a saw-toothed tail... All of these things can be configured on your implant, just the way you hate them."

He let's me think about it for a moment before confiding, "I chose to have red, glowing eyes and phlegmy breathing sounds installed in mine."

He pauses again as I look at prices. I hadn't planned on spending that much. "Implants are a lot more expensive."

"That's true but what's it worth to you to have your fears with you at all times ready to scare the be-jeeses out of you at any moment? And, just in case you were wondering if the implant would reduce the anxiety of losing your little monsters or having them stolen, the answer is no. The implant comes with the fear of loss and theft as a standard feature. The best part is that you know that the fear is irrational - you can't lose your implant and no one can steal it - so the fear is heightened by overwhelming internal conflict and confusion. Whoever designed this is brilliant! Really brilliant."

"I'm afraid that I can't afford the implant."

"That's perfect! I will go ahead and program it with all of the physical requirements you specified. While I am doing that, you can review the phobias you would like to have installed. The base package includes two standard phobias and 4 that you can select from this list." He hands me a long sheet that starts with Ablutophobia and ends with Zoophobia. "Or, you can choose from any of the pre-configured packages on the back."

I turn the sheet over and look at the packages. They all look good to me but I don't want to choose a package that would limit me. I want to be able to add new fears in the future.

My head is buzzing with questions that I am just too afraid to ask. Which makes me worry. Am I buying something that I really don't need?

Wednesday, 8/18/10 - Punctual

2010-08-17T22:10:00.005-04:00

... can't think of what to say
elapsed ellipses... hesitate

thoughts stapled somehow run on -
dashing dashes now long gone

sit waiting for what colons excrete:
to sweat, to push, to force, to squeeze;
semicolons set more easily

parenting protection of parens
(herding words like mother hens)

commas, sleeping, curled on the path
words slowed to silence as they pass

A capital stands alone as king
trailed by smaller underlings

[brackets] block and set aside
fenced in words they cannot hide

firmly erect upright upstanding
forthright loud and so demanding!

hunched and haggard under its own weight
is the mark of a question an unhealthy shape?

italics come from Italy
where in Pisa they learned to lean

things we say are bound and gagged
with marks in front and then in back
some curled
some straight
some going "stag"

ironic in the broadest sense
that the smallest mark
brings it all to an end.

Tuesday, 8/17/10 - Living Large

2010-08-16T22:32:00.004-04:00

As a diminutive person, I offered no resistance. Winds whistled past my once reedy self.

I was a minimalist who left no impression. Couches neither sighed nor sent up specks of dust when I seated myself.

What little of me there was had worn thin over bean poles and bagged bones. I set my sights on things much bigger.

The transformation started by inflating my dreams, ballooning them to enormous proportions, filling them with hot air, expanding and stretching them then letting them rise, bigger than life, into the sky.

From now on, everything will be bigger, including me!

My voice, once piccolo, is now a low basso profundo.

I have altered my geometry. From a series of points, lines and angles - from sharp-edged squares and rectangles - to circles and ovals. I am now a series of smooth flowing lines, there is nothing straight or pointed. If a turn is needed, it is not done hastily. This body flows, softly, slowly, with a lazy purposefulness. It curves outward and rolls comfortably back in - all ticklish - on itself.

Convictions have followed countenance and beliefs now require cathedrals, basilicas. Churches will not do.

Hair can no longer cover the head that has expanded to hold these bulky beliefs. There is no less hair, just more head. So much that it spills down onto my shoulders: head, neck and chest are one.

And how best to transport my transformed self? Your Honda Fit; I won't. Four wheels to carry all my weight? Wait. No way. I will require six or eight.

My girth is enveloped in mirth. I'm happily wrapped in bolts of fabric. My body sprawls so does my home.

Oh, how I impress now! Beds form a memory of me and couches are cheeky behind me.

Diminutive no more.

More is me.

Monday, 8/16/10 - Here. Now.

2010-08-15T21:11:00.005-04:00

This space is not a diary, it is a sketch book.

My life is wonderful but nothing that would interest anyone but me. Except for the things that make you stop...

... and wonder.

Since today was one of those days, I will tell you about it. Tomorrow we can return to more interesting things like what happens when science experiments go bad or what it feels like to live large.

Today's events started in 1994 when I met a man named Louis Ateek.

One of the first things Lou said to me - it may have even preceded "hello" - was that my Grandfather was watching out for me.

Wow! That was powerful! I hadn't really known my maternal grandfather- he died when I was young - and here was a total stranger telling me that he was watching out for me.

Lou's next comment floored me. He told me that I shouldn't be surprised that my grandfather was watching out for me because he had always wanted to move from the cold up north down to Florida where it was warm.

My mother always said that her father would have lived much longer had he moved to Florida.

Lou barely knew me and could have known none of this.

The reason that I was thinking of Lou was that I stumbled across a deck of ABOUKRA cards that he gave me.

Aboukra is the Arabic word for "tomorrow" and the purple box of cards says:

ABOUKRA
Reveals Your Future
Amazing In It's Accuracy
Leaves You Fascinated

I opened the box today, read the directions (it has been 15 years since I have used them), and used the procedure to determine my future.

Each of the cards contains two "disclosures", printed in opposite directions. You go through a process to narrow the deck down to three cards. The disclosures that are right-side-up are the ones that pertain to you.

One of my cards was blank (I told you my life was not all that exciting). Another told of the benefits of releasing grudges. I thought about this one for a long time because I can think of no grudges that I am holding onto.

I will tell you the third disclosure in a moment.

Since I hadn't spoken with Lou since 1996 or 1997 I thought it would be interesting to see if I could find him online.

He wasn't on facebook so I tried Google. And there he was. Listed on the Find A Grave site. Turns out that he died back in 1998.

It was late enough in the afternoon for me to brave the heat so I packed up my camera, jumped on the bike and headed for the trail.

Most times I head south on the trail. Today, for no particular reason, I decided to head north.

Along the trail are two churches within a block of each other. There were interesting cloud formations behind their steeples and I decided that on the return trip I would stop and photograph them.

I continued north, stopped for a drink of water and to take a couple of photographs.

I then headed south stopping at the first church and photographing the steeple and the clouds behind it

then onto the next church.

As I was finishing, a woman rode up on her bike and commented about taking pictures. She stopped and we talked about how beautiful the area is and she mentioned that she likes the view from the bridge and has gotten some very nice images from there.

The conversation did what conversations always do: it wound around and slithered this way and that way until I found myself looking at a book of raw-food photography that she had just published.

And it was amazing!

Her name is Sioux Hart. She is an artist and the book she was showing me contained photographs of raw food recipes that she wrote, prepared, designed then photographed. You can see her work at http://gallery.me.com/sioux.hart

We exchanged email and website addresses and pedaled off in opposite directions.

Things that struck me about our meeting:

I had decided not to bike today then changed my mind

I normally head south on the trail and today went north

As I stepped out of the house to start my ride I stopped to photograph a gecko that is there every day

I wave to everyone I pass but rarely have a conversation with anyone

The process of photographing the churches took less than 3 minutes

Had I lingered at any point or skipped anything, we would have waved but never spoken

I remember a conversation with Lou about always being where you are supposed to be. It seemed that Sioux Hart and I were supposed to meet.

As I rode home I remembered the third disclosure from ABOUKRA. It said that over the next 52 days I would meet people that would be significant in my life and that I would have good reasons to consider myself lucky.

I certainly didn't need ABOUKRA to tell me that I am a lucky man but it seemed very odd to me that having just read this disclosure I should run into Sioux Hart, a phenomenal artist with a wealth of experience to share.

Fifty one more days ...

Sunday, 8/15/10 - Different Perspectives

2010-08-14T22:21:00.005-04:00

Today's stories are purely visual.

Saturday, 8/14/10 - Estate Sale (a story in the making)

2010-08-13T21:49:00.009-04:00

The process of writing a story is not a linear progression from concept to creation. Often, it is a mindful muddling through murk and muck that results in something crisp, clean and clear. What you are about to read is one thought for a story that I dictated into a small hand-held recorder while driving. I have tried to include everything that was vocalized (including the pauses, the mutterings and the stutterings).

This is just the stream-of-consciousness that occurred after the initial thought and the tracery through its twists and turns.

I will write this story one day but it will probably be too long for this blog.

Enjoy,
GFK

Estate Sale

I would like to do a piece on an estate sale where...

... there is a portrait of the person who has died. Ummm. Annnd, it-it-it's a painting,... huh..., it's really quite beautiful. It's well done. Ummm. But, nobody pays any attention to it. It gets knocked over. It gets stepped on.

Ummm. This was the owner... of all the things that they're sorting through trying to find a bargain.

The amount of disrespect... shown... as they, as they rummage through all this person has left behind...

And, I don't know how to tell it.

From whose perspective? Ummm...

Or how to tie in that painting and give you the history on it. Ummm, such that their actions DO become disrespectful. Ummm...

I-i--ah-a-a-a if I tell it from their point it's just, you know, something in their way. If I tell it from the viewpoint .... maybe from the owner! who is dead but watching. Ummm, and - and maybe they're, they're -- ooooooh, that's an interesting thought! Maybe they're directing people to different items.

Maybe they can read people's minds - and, and, maybe not even read their minds but, but know who they are and know what they might be interested in and kinda lead them. Whisper to them that they should look here, open this drawer or, you know, look under this.

But in the process... ooooh! and maybe it's the painting that's actually watching them. And they can't leave until... duh, duh the dead person, their spirit can't leave until after the sale is over or until after the picture is sold - and no one wants it.....

And, maybe there's a conversation that goes on in front of the painting... baaaaaa, some people are talking disrespectfully about ... some of the stuff there and maybe the final comments are about how awful this picture is. How, how...... you know... I don't know, something... something not very nice about, about the picture or the person in the picture.

Ummm...

But, but that might work, that, that might do it. That might give me the opportunity to tie everything together if it's the owner, who's dead, who is now talking and directing people and telling them.... where the good stuff is. Ummm, ... And helping them find those bargains.

And maybe keeping other people away from them. May-maybe there's some people who are mean and, and they don't want them to own their things.

I don't know.

It's....

It could, it could work. We could spend some time on that one. Probably not going to happen in an hour. We'll save that for one of the longer works.

Or, uhhh, the longer thought periods. The work itself might still be quite short b-but it may take some time to get the perspective right and the events - each individual event that, that happens in that ... estate sale... ummm, e-e-each one has to be important, they can't just be, you know, a spoon or a fork, there has to be a story behind it that-that somehow ties to the person who's looking for it.

Ummm, a-a-and we ha-have to weave the two lives together: the-the dead person's life and their belongings with the person who is looking for the bargain and their life and how that plays in with them so that it is seamless. So that the two work together.

That will be a challenge.

An-and all of it building up and culminating in wha-what was hopefully going to be a release for this person who is dead ... but, might not in fact be. B-b-b it might be that the release they were looking for isn't coming.

Ummm, or maybe it is. Maybe, maybe that's it. Maybe they... have tied too much to them self and .... the realization that ... nobody wants them, they just want their things.

That might be the point at which the dead person finds release. It's because they were holding on, hoping for someone to want them and nobody really does.

THAT'S KINDA SAD!

But, ummm, it mi-might be the point of the story is-is to not hang onto yourself so hard.

Ummm, and, you know, to allow people to have the things they want and you can't force yourself on someone.

So, uhhhhhh-I-i-i-I'll work on that one.

Friday, 8/13/10 - Confession

2010-08-12T22:22:00.004-04:00

Father Michel Hidalgo stands in front of his office door.

Bless me Father...

Confessions always start that way. Father Michael had heard many confessions, and had used these words himself many times in his sixty-eight years. The only difference today was the ending.

... for I am about to sin.

He knows what the church says. He knows what the bible says. He knows what society says.

He knows that fourteen year old Juan Garces sits alone on the other side of the door. He knows what he is going to do with Juan.

No, what he must do with Juan.

He absently fingers the rosary in his pocket and wonders why God compels us to love one another then places restrictions on that love. Why He gave some people desires they couldn't control.

To a framed picture of St. Sebastian he thinks, "You had it easy, my friend. Your wounds could be healed."

He reaches for the doorknob but stops himself. If only he could stop himself, turn around and let the boy leave without this encounter.

Trying to compose himself, he takes a deep breath and looks out the window. It's the stone wall surrounding the cemetery across the street that he sees. And he thinks of Raul. Raul was older than Juan but softer, more emotional.

He had tried hard to show Raul the fullness of God's love but there was something inside Raul that just couldn't accept love.

Juan was different.

He would be different, too.

Holding the doorknob he waits one more moment considering the the sin he is about to commit, praying for guidance and wishing it was not so.

Raul, poor, beautiful Raul. If he had only been more gentle, less aggressive Raul might still be alive.

It wasn't his fault. He has tried to convince himself that it was not his fault. But, it was. He knows this and he lives with the sting of these arrows every day.

Now, there is Juan. Another scared, confused, lonely, beautiful boy.

Waiting.

Alone.

Just like Raul, Juan had confessed to Father Michael his interest in other boys.

With Raul, his advice was in line with society, with church teachings and with the word of God. By all accounts, he had done what was right. And Raul, unable to change, had taken his own life.

His advice to Juan would be different. If that is a sin then it is one that he can live with.

Bless me Father for I am about to sin.

He turns the knob and slowly pulls the door open.

Thursday, 8/12/10 - The They

2010-08-12T00:20:00.004-04:00

"Hello, Mr. Warner?"

"Yes."

"This is Aimee from People Power Employment Agency."

"Hi, Aimee, how did I do on my phone interview yesterday?"

"How do you think you did?"

"It's hard to tell. The interview was short, it lasted only about five minutes. They seemed to know a lot about the places I had worked and the projects I had worked on. They focused mostly on my PR work with the bank."

"Well, they just called me. They want you in for a face-to-face this afternoon. Do you think you can make it?"

"All depends on where they are located. You still haven't told me who they are."

"That's standard policy. It protects both you and them."

He wanted to say that it protected no one but People Power but after eighteen months without a job he didn't want to risk annoying anyone. "Where do I need to go?"

She gave him the address and directions. "You are in public relations so I probably don't need to tell you to dress well and to bring your portfolio. They were really impressed with your phone interview. You should have no problem in person. Just show them what you have done."

"Are you going to tell me who they are, now?"

"No, I think it best that they tell you."

"And this is standard practice?"

"No, at this point we would normally tell you but the client has requested that they remain anonymous until they speak with you directly."

He hears a hesitation in her voice. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"We normally don't make recommendations to our clients about salaries but this employer had indicated that a six figure salary is not unreasonable for the position." She lets her last statement sit for a moment before continuing. "And, Mr. Warner, the first figure is not a one."

A salary over $200,000? That's crazy! But it's his kind of crazy. He would probably be nervous if he had time to think about it but after agreeing to do the interview this afternoon, she called back and told him to arrive at 2:30. That left him only one hour to get ready. The drive would only take twenty minutes but he wanted to shower and run through his portfolio and include only his best work.

His best work was done for Bank of Boston after their creative financing techniques made front page news. His job was to coordinate a media campaign that made the bank look like victims to poor government oversight and over zealous investors.

His work was brilliant and the public, outraged by the first news stories, quickly came to see the situation from the poor bank's point of view and, for the rest of the bank's fifteen minutes of fame, the public called for legal action, referendums and stricter laws to protect their banks.

He never considered that he would be laid off after this level of success or, even if he was, that he wouldn't be snapped up by another PR firm. But he was laid off and no one came looking for him. All of his contacts were cordial but no one had anything for him. The placement firm couldn't tell him what was wrong. They claimed that they were sending his resume to every potential employer but recieving nothing back.

This was his first lead in eighteen months and he was determined to show them his best.

The street was typical downtown: coffee and sundry shops on the ground level and offices above. It woke at 6am with an in-rushing of commuters and went back to sleep at 6pm when the tide of people receeded.

He looked for a parking spot. Not finding one on the street he decided to pay whatever it cost to use the garage in the office building he was visiting. If they were willing to pay him a huge salary, they would probably have no problem paying for his parking.

The garage was almost empty and he was able to park next to the street exit. He popped a breath mint, checked his hair then his nose in the mirror, then got out and put on his jacket before grabbing his portfolio, shutting the door and heading for the street.

The receptionist greeted him by name as he entered then picked up the phone, pressed a button and told the person on the other end that Mr. Warner had arrived. She thanked the person on the other end, hung up and asked him to follow her.

The lobby was what he had expected in a building of this age. It was clean but worn and old. The furnishings were sturdy and not all coordinated. What he saw on the other side of the large double doors she led him through was like a door in Kansas opening into Oz. The hallway was bright, the carpets thick, and, if he wasn't mistaken, the artwork on the walls was all originals.

The receptionist offered no conversation in the hallway and, as with most people, she said nothing in their elevator ride to the top floor. When the doors opened she motioned for him to exit. The doors closed behind him and he could hear the elevator start its descent.

"Good afternoon. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

If the hallway downstairs was Oz then the elevator had taken him up to heaven. He stood unable to process what he was seeing. Blue sky. All around him was blue sky. Not only were the room's walls glass but the roof, twenty feet above them, was also glass. He felt a sense of vertigo pulling him over the edge.

"Beautiful isn't it?" The voice brought him back.

"Yes, yes, quite beautiful." He reached out and shook the hand extended out to him and tried not to look out as the man with the hand introduced himself.

"Frank Warner. Pleased to meet you Mr. Trask."

"Come in, have a seat." The conversation started out with small talk. Weather, sports, nothing personal. After a few minutes it got more serious. "I should probably tell you who we are and why we hired you."

He looks startled.

"I am going to tell you some things that might seem crazy to you. Bear with me, it will all make sense by the time I am done."

He listens while Mr. Trask tells him that his salary is $250,000 and that it is being paid retroactively back to the date that he was laid off.

"We were the ones that requested that you be laid off. We were the ones that kept you out of work. It's only fair that we pay you for that time."

It wasn't vertigo making his head spin. "That's very generous of you but what is it that you want me to do and why didn't you just make me an offer eighteen months ago?"

"We've had our eye on you for several years but we needed to be sure that you were the right person for the job. The only way to prove that was to see how you handled the past year and a half."

He was completely lost. "So, I guess you don't really want to see my portfolio?"

The other man chuckled. "There is nothing in there that we haven't already scrutinized. Your work with Boston Bank was brilliant. You took a company in the middle of a media feeding frenzy and made them look like angels. No, even better, you made them into victims that Mr. and Mrs. Normal Everyday could relate to. Quite honestly, Mr. Warner, we need you."

"Do I dare as who 'we' is?"

Another chuckle, "You're not going to believe this but we are Them."

"Them?"

"We sometimes do business as They but most people know us as Them."

This was just silly and he decided to have some fun with it, "So, you want to hire me. And, that would make me one of Them?"

"Exactly!"

He stands up.

"Please, sit, let me explain. We really are Them. We are the ones who say all of those things that They say. We are the Them that everyone refers to. The problem is that we are often mis-quoted. That's why we need you, to clean up our image, to do for us what you did for the bank."

"I don't..."

"Before you decide, I need you to know that you will have all of the funding you need, you will have full control over the PR campaign. You can do radio, TV, hell, put a ten story LED billboard in Times Square if you think that's what we need. Anything you need, you will have."

"Anything?"

"Yes, anything."

"Even access to all of the things that They say?"

"I would expect you to use those to promote use. If, of course, you think that would be wise."

"Could be interesting..."

"Oh, there is one little thing you should know."

"What's that?"

"From now on, you will hear things you say coming out of other people's mouths. From now on, you are the They."

Wednesday, 8/11/10 - Money For Nothing

2010-08-10T21:54:00.003-04:00

"Ron, why are we turning left when Gypsy told you to turn right?"

"Because there must be something wrong with Gypsy. She's had us driving in circles for the past ten minutes."

Before he finishes making the turn, Gypsy speaks, "Recalculating."

"Shut her up, please."

"OK, but do you have any idea where we are?"

"There's the highway right over there. If we run parallel to it, there has to be an entrance ramp. Once we are on it, we can call Jack and ask which exit to get off on."

He starts navigating toward the highway. When the street dead ends, he turns right. A few more turns and the highway can no longer be seen.

"Should we stop and ask for directions?"

"No, we'll be fine. Besides, take a look at where we are."

She had been pressing buttons on the GPS hoping to get an idea of where they were and hadn't noticed the decline. "Are the doors locked?"

"They lock automatically when you put it in drive." But, even as he says this he is reaching down to depress the door-lock button.

The area is too dark and deserted for a Saturday afternoon. There is no sky here, no trees, only tall sooty-black buildings that have crumbled up from the earth and are now falling back down. Torn and twisted chain-link fences lean like drunk men against buildings or lie sprawled on the ground as if tripped by the cracked and craggy sidewalks.

Garbage, glass and gaping doorways watch them pass.

He knows he is lost and reaches over to adjust the GPS. The car is only a few weeks old and had cost him more than most people made in a year. It had every conceivable option installed and, as a result, required a PhD just to be able to operate it. GPS's were nothing new, he's owned them for years but this one was not as intuitive as the others, there were just too many damned options.

Now, all he wanted was a map and he was stabbing at the menu options looking for a way to zoom out. There had to be a way.

"Look out!"

He instinctively slammed on the brakes. As he looked up from the dash, a dark blur moved in from his left, hit the side of the car, bounced back and fell into the street.

"You hit him! Oh, my God! You hit him!"

In one move he forced the car to a stop, threw it in Park and was out the door and leaning over the man lying face down, unmoving. "Are you OK?"

He kneels beside the man but is afraid to touch or move him. Is he dead? Did I kill him? He turns to yell to her to call 911 but she is already moving toward him with her phone in her hand. "Call 911."

A voice from behind them, "That won't be necessary."

The man lying in the street rolls over and jumps up, unharmed, as if he had not just been hit by a car.

"Wha..." she starts but stops abruptly when she sees the small crowd that has appeared around them. She quickly realizes what is happening and takes a step closer to Ron. Before she can take a second, a young man moves between them and just stands there with folded arms.

Beyond the man in front of her she can see two men move in beside Ron as he straightens up from his kneeling position. Like the man in front of her, the two beside Ron say nothing, they just stand with their arms folded.

Eleven. She counts eight in a circle around them, two by Ron and one in front of her. These men - or are they boys, she wonders - move with muscles rippling like stiff copper cables beneath loose t-shirts and tank-tops.

She knows that if she dares to look into their eyes she will see the same emptiness that occupies the buildings around her. She can probably handle the emptiness but she won't look because along with the emptiness is a hunger, fierce and primal, that will tear her flesh, snap her bones and consume her, hair, teeth, everything.

No one is moving. Her breath is coming faster and she can feel herself starting to shake. Tears gather in her eyes. "Don't hurt us," she pleads. To everyone, to no one, to herself. She is not sure.

"You could have seriously hurt my friend." A man in a red tank top moves from the circle around them to stand in front.

"But we didn't, your friend looks..."

Ron's words are cut short. "Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Is she a doctor?"

"No."

"Then how would you know if my friend is hurt?"

Ron stammers then stops.

"You could have hurt my friend. Do you agree?"

"Yes."

"You could have killed him, no?"

"Yes." Ron is not sure where this is going. His is afraid and thinks that if he agrees then in no time they will be back in their car on the way to Jack's house.

"And you, miss, do you agree that you could have killed my friend?"

"Yes, yes," she whimpers.

"Very well, then." The man walks around to stand on the other side of the circle. "Since you both agree that you were at fault and that you could have killed my friend what do you think is a fair price for a man's life?"

They say nothing as the man in the red shirt looks slowly back and forth between them.

Ron quickly reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet and removes the cash. "One hundred and eighty dollars. I have one hundred and eighty dollars."

"Miss, do you think that one hundred and eighty dollars is fair?"

Tears slip from her eyes. She tries to say something but can only manage a breathy squeak.

Ron takes a step toward her fearing some resistance. When no one moves to stop him he takes two more tentative steps and puts his arm around her.

She wraps both of her arms around him and burrows as much of herself into him as she can.

"How much money do you have in your purse?"

Her response is unintelligible.

"Let's look, OK?" He says this softly to calm her but loud enough for these young men to hear.

The circle of men around them silently parts as he walks her over to the car's open doors. He considers jumping in and driving away until he sees the broken circle reform around the car.

He reaches into the car and retrieves her purse.

Ron takes the papers from her, signs them and hands them across the desk. "So, officer, what do we do now, pick them out of a lineup?"

"No, no lineup. The best thing for you to do is to go home, relax and forget that this ever happened."

"And, you'll let us know what happens, I mean with the trial and what not."

"Mr. Roberts, there will be no trial."

"But,"

"There was no crime committed."

"No crime! They stole our money."

"No, you gave them your money."

"But, they threatened us!"

The response was calm but firm. "Did they have a weapon? A gun or a knife? Anything?"

"No, but..."

"Did they do or say anything that made you feel threatened?"

It was her turn to speak. "They didn't have to say or do anything, they looked like they were going to hurt us. They looked ... mean."

"I'm sorry but looking mean is not a crime."

"Whose side are you on?"

"Please, Mrs. Roberts, I am not on any one's side. I am just trying to determine if a crime had been committed."

"This is ridiculous! We were robbed!"

"Not according to what you've told me. If you will allow me, let's review what happened. You got lost. You hit a pedestrian. His friends came out to see if he was hurt. They stood around and you gave them all of your money."

"They told us to give them our money?"

"That's not," he flips through the papers in front of him, "what you told me earlier. You said that they asked what you thought a life was worth. Is that correct?"

"Yes, but they meant that if we didn't give them our money they would kill us. They weren't happy with what was in Ron's wallet, they made me give them what was in my purse, too."

The officer scans the page again. "It says here in your statement that they said nothing after asking what you thought a life was worth." He flips through the rest of the pages. "Oh, wait, they said 'Thank you' after you gave them all of your money."

"You don't get it do you? We were threatened and we were robbed! This is insulting and we're leaving." She jumps up, grabs Ron's sleeve and takes a step before realizing that he has not moved. "Come!"

As they make their way out the officer hears her jabbering on about hiring a lawyer and laughs to himself, "Boy, they sure like to throw their money away, don't they?"

Tuesday, 8/10/10 - Writing Is

2010-08-09T22:25:00.003-04:00

Writing is the inexact precision
of recounting events as they are created
and the take-you-by-the-hand escorting
of insightful blind-led-blindness
stepping carefully through overgrown underbrush
on ancient pathways newly trodden
that lead back to a remembered time
not yet arrived.

Writing is the secreting of words in people's mouths
and remarking with awed surprise
at the wit and candor of those same words
when coaxed out at a later time
in spur-of-the-moment conversations
scripted in advance.

Writing is the building of impossible ships
from spit and clay and seeds imagined
then captaining those ships
on crackling electronic rivers
beyond familiar horizons
to wait with composed impatience
for blight or bloom
contradiction or confirmation.

Monday, 8/9/10 - Gods

2010-08-08T23:26:00.004-04:00

Watched in awe as they drove by
Flags awave on long black cars.

Steel spined men with pin-hole eyes
Uniformed, all stripes and stars.

Thoughts moving to a past
Of made-up, make-believe, pretend.

Where every future fate is cast
By fairer gods and not by men.

Sunday, 8/8/10 - To Be or Want To Be

2010-08-07T10:14:00.016-04:00

You will never be what you want to be.

You can only be what you are.

The only way to become the person you want to be is to behave like that person. Think about the word 'behave' - 'be' and 'have'. To have, you must be.

Wanting is easy, you just have to sit there. Being is harder, it requires effort. Pretty scary, huh? Kinda makes you want to re-think what things you might want in life.

Even though being might be harder, it is not impossible. People do it every day.

Would you like me to tell you one way to transition from wanting to being?

Start by making a list of everything that you want to be.

I am going to use a lot of being words, like 'make', and avoid wanting words, like 'imagine'. Imagining is fine but you have done that already. You imagined yourself as someone else. Now it's time to become what you imagined, and that will require action.

Once you have your list together, prioritize it so that the thing you want most is at the top.

Now, put away that list and start a new one.

From this day forward, you are whatever you wanted to be.

Let's say you decided to be a writer. You made your list, prioritized it and writer came out on top.

You declared "I am a writer!", put away your initial list and started a new one...

Now what?

Now you start doing what every successful person has always done; you start doing.

I can see that look, you don't know what to do. That's OK, that is what your new list is for.

At the top of the new list write "THIS IS WHAT WRITERS DO". Beneath that, write down all of the things that you know writers do.

It may sound silly but one of your entries should probably be "WRITE" because that is something that writers do. Another might be "RESEARCH" or "READ". Whatever it is you think that writers do.

Now, comes the hard part, the part that separates those-who-are from those-who-want-to-be. Now, you have to start doing those things that are on your list. Not just today, but every day.

From now on, you ARE a writer. You know what writers do and you are doing those things every day.

As you gain experience as a writer (or whatever you have chosen to be), you can alter your list. You wrote your list before you were a writer, now that you are one you know better what it is that you-as-a-writer do every day. Maybe you find that sitting in a public space watching people sparks something creative in you. Add that to your list and do it often.

You will not have time to do all of the things you used to do along with all of the things you now do as a writer. Things will have to change.

Change is good.

If you are serious about being a writer then making time to do things writers do should be a priority. Use whatever method you need to set aside time to be what-you-had-once-wanted-to-be-and-now-are.

People will begin to notice that you are different. Some will be supportive others will be critical. If their criticism is helpful, use it to become a better writer. If not, thank them for their observations and continue being who you are.

If all of this sounds like work, if you make excuses for why you can't - if doing things that writers do does not bring you joy - then you may not really want to be what you thought you wanted to be.

If you were honest with yourself about what you wanted to be then nothing you do as that person will ever feel like work.

Too often, we are introduced to people only after they have achieved a level of success and recognition in their field. We see the money and the fame and they are so good at what they do that it looks easy. What we forget is that they were once where we are now. It is only through their hard work and dedication that they managed to separate themselves from all of the want-to-be's. Every successful person had to start somewhere. Just like you.

You may even find ways to prepare for your success.

As a writer, you may want to go to a library or a bookstore and observe people reading. You may want to look at the books that have been written.

You may want to find the section where your books will be.

And then locate the shelf they will occupy.

You might want to look at the names of the authors that will be beside you and push them apart, leaving a space just wide enough for your first book.

So, now you are a writer, you're enjoying doing things that writers do. If you want, you can go back to your original list, find what you wanted to be after becoming a writer and start your list of activities for becoming that person.

Hey, there is no law that limits what you can be.

To be or want to be: that is the question.

If you wonder if you are talented enough to be what you want to be then you might want to read The Myth of Talent by Craig Tanner or Dance (a true story) by a writer-photographer.

Saturday, 8/7/10 - Balance

2010-08-07T01:47:00.003-04:00

Terry holds his breath and tenses as the world rises then falls beneath him.

One less drink. That's all, just one less drink and he wouldn't be on this teeter-totter, things would be solid again.

One less drink. Damn! One less drink and he would be driving, Ellen would be nodding off beside him and he wouldn't be lying in the back of the SUV near the open hatchback door afraid to move.

He hears the wind blow through the empty window frames and feels the truck tilting forward, the earth rising. Insects of broken glass skitter forward across the floor as he pushes himself a little further backward toward the open hatch. The frame creaks as the wind subsides and the truck sinks back down.

He knows that a strong gust can push the truck over the edge. I can make it, he thinks, all I have to do is roll out the back. It would be easy enough. One quick move. Over and done.

But, in that move, other things would be done, too.

Without his weight, the truck would slip over the edge and free fall sixty or eighty feet into the river or onto its rocky bank.

He looks down at Ellen slumped in an odd position over the steering wheel. With one arm draped over the dash and through the missing windshield, it looks as if she is straining against the seat belt trying to reach something out on the hood.

The weak moon provides only enough light to turn the blood seeping from her head to black oil. She has not moved in several minutes and he cannot tell if she is alive or dead.

His first attempt to reach her caused the truck to pitch forward so that he he saw nothing but the blackness below. He quickly pulled back and has been staying still while calling her name.

If she wakes, I have to keep her calm, get her to move back this way. If she panics and moves forward, there is nothing I can do.

He closes his eyes and listens for passing cars. He prays that they see the skid marks, the broken guard rail and his damaged silver Lexus RS300. He imagines them yelling down that help is on the way and pictures the red and blue flashing lights of the emergency vehicles as they arrive.

"Ellen," he calls her softly but she doesn't respond. "Ellen."

The wind gusts and glass fragments swarm forward.

With a slow nod, the Lexus surrenders.

"Ellen!" As he rolls backward onto the scree, Ellen looks up toward the sound of his scream.

NOTE: There is only so much that can be done in the short time available for these posts. The picture is from tonight's photo shoot (the young actors were amazing). The story needs so much more to be complete. But then, this is just a scratch pad, a place to sketch ideas.

Friday, 8/6/10 - Wearing Out

2010-08-05T22:30:00.006-04:00

His pants show a darkened patch that runs down the length of his legs. The floor beneath him is marked with small puddles. Some are perfectly round on the stone floor's highly polished surface. Others, like fingers, point accusingly at him as he moves.

His age is evident in his awkward movements. He looks through the window at all that is living and growing outside then brings his attention back inside this house. This house. He once cared for this house, now this house cares for him.

He knows that he will not be here much longer. The thought of losing what little life he has left terrifies him, so he keeps walking.

"If I keep moving," he thinks, "and I am still working, maybe - just maybe - they won't terminate me." He knows the law. He has lived beyond his usefulness. They will come for him soon, maybe even today, because when you get as old as he is, they recall you and strip you of anything that still functions.

He wonders if terminating himself might not be a better choice. But, like him, the thought is short-lived. He is incapable of suicide.

He searches his memory and finds what he has always known, that he is an android. He doesn't feel like an android; other androids would not hesitate to return their working parts for redistribution to newer or more functional units.

Like all androids, he can think. But, because he possesses an Emotional Processing Unit, he can simulate human emotions. He was not given the mechanics to laugh or to cry but he can feel joy and sorrow.

Now, faced with his own death, he feels sorrow and wishes that he could cry. He thinks about how it will feel to have the power removed from his circuits. Will his memory be active while the rest of his mechanics are shutting down?

His memory circuits are good and he is confident that they will reuse them in another unit but he fears that they will wipe his experiences first. Without them, all that he is will be gone.

"This is me," he yells down the empty hallway, his circuits automatically calculating the distance between himself and the far end by sampling the delay between the creation of each sound and its returning echo.

"Another piece of useless information," he thinks turning left down an adjoining corridor, hoping, praying that today will not be the day.

Thursday, 8/5/10 - Healthcare

2010-08-04T21:59:00.003-04:00

Your physical health is a reflection
of how much you care
about yourself.

If you care about yourself
you will make healthy
life choices.

Mental health also comes from caring.

But mental health comes
from caring about others
and not so much
about yourself.

Total health comes from
balancing the two.

Wednesday, 8/4/10 - Light

2010-08-03T22:26:00.004-04:00

Still playing with light...

Tuesday, 8/3/10 - Impossible Shadows

2010-08-02T22:25:00.004-04:00

Just for fun, some studio photography.

Everything is straight out of the camera.

No Photoshop!

Monday, 8/2/10 - The Look of Love

2010-08-01T21:24:00.013-04:00

Have you ever wondered what love looks like?

Yup, it looks like a red plastic canning funnel.

But not always.

Sometimes, love looks like dishes that are washed and dried (by the same person who cooked).

Sometimes, love looks like a bag of chocolates or coffee beans (when there were no more in the house).

Sometimes, love is invisible and can only be detected in its silence, support and understanding (when they are needed but not asked for).

You see, love doesn't always have to shine like gold and diamonds to be real (or valuable).

When someone cares enough about you to give you a funnel (or coffee, or chocolate, or support), no amount of precious metal or sparkling gemstones will ever hold more meaning.

Sunday, 8/1/10 - Ration

2010-07-31T21:23:00.003-04:00

"You don't look happy."

"I'm not."

"Anything I can do?"

"Lend me some of your happiness."

"Sorry, I have plans for all of my happiness."

"I'm not in your plans?"

"You were but I am not hanging around if you can't be happy. It's easier to find someone who can."

"Well, that's really selfish."

"I'm selfish? Where were you when you were happy? You didn't come around or invite me out to enjoy those times. Now that you're down, you come around here hoping for some of my happiness. You might want to think about who is being selfish."

They look at one another: only one of them smiling.

"Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault. You do this all the time and if I wasn't so happy I would be upset with you."

"So, you're not going to help me out?"

"No, I'm not. Besides, I really have to get going, a bunch of us are headed out for some fun tonight... I would ask you to come but you wouldn't have a good time."

"Yeah, thanks anyway."

"Hey, it's not my fault. The government gives us each the same amount of happiness each month. You really should learn to ration."

Saturday, 7/31/10 - The Story

2010-07-30T22:05:00.003-04:00

"How dare you?" It had been a bad day and from the sound of her voice on the phone it was about to get a whole lot worse. "You bastard!"

"Den, what's the matter?"

"Don't you whats-the-matter me - as if you didn't know! How could you?"

"It's the story, isn't it?"

She mimicked him in an accusing falsetto, "It's the story isn't it?" Then, as if all of the air had gone out of her, she whispered, "How could you?"

"Den, it's not about you."

He hadn't finished before she started, "Debi? You named the bitch in the story Debi. Odd coincidence that my name just happens to be Deni -- one letter -- very inventive!"

"Deni..."

"Oh, so now I'm 'Deni', huh? Don't you mean Debi?"

He could hear her on the other end of the phone slamming things down. Nothing had shattered yet but that was probably because she was calling from her home phone and the things within reach of her desk were not fragile.

"Do you know how I found out? Do you?" He left the question alone. "My mother - the woman you said that you liked so much - called me in tears wondering what she had done to deserve to be called a 'three headed dog'. You called my mother a dog!"

"Den, it's just a story. It's not about you or your mother or anyone. It's fiction!"

Again, she mimicked him, "'It's fiction.' If it's just fiction then why use my name and why include my episode with the new blue dress?"

"I just picked a name for the character. OK, it was a bad choice but it had nothing to do with you. And what episode are you talking about? What blue dress?"

"You made fun of me buying that dress on eBay. I like that dress and it was a bargain!"

"There was nothing in that story about eBay or a dress."

"Oh, you were smarter than that, you disguised it as a teapot but I knew what you were talking about."

A couple of best sellers had piqued public interest in anything he wrote. His publisher had been looking for ways to capitalize on his instant notoriety and strongly suggested that he contribute one story to the syndicated literary column called 'Shorts'. He had reluctantly agreed.

His short had been published this morning in all of the major papers and on several well-read websites.

The story hadn't been out for an hour before his phone had started ringing. His first call, before 6am, was from his neighbor.

"Do you know who called me at six o'clock this morning to complain about this story? Jack. My neighbor, Jack. Do you know what he said between all of the expletives? He said that he was going to sue me for telling the world that he skinny dips every morning. He accused me of watching him. You've seen Jack; he's easily 350 pounds. Why would I wake up early to sneak through the yard and peek at him? But you want to know what's worse? You read the story, there's no skinny dipping in the story! There's no pool, no lake, no bathtub. Heck, there's no water in the story - it's set in a desert! Where he got that from, I don't know."

"You just made that up about Jack. He never called you!"

"No, I didn't make it up, he did call. And, do you know what happened when I went out for breakfast? Emily refused to serve me. She asked why, if I hated their establishment so much, did I bother to eat there. Couldn't get a haircut either because Carl thought the story was about him. The cashier at the grocery looked right through me."

"Well, that's what you get when you write bad things about people. I hope you're happy Mr. I-got-a-book-on-the-NY-Times-bestseller-list."

"Deni, the story wasn't about you. It wasn't about Jack or the waitress or the barber or the cashier."

"So, then, who was it about?"

"Me. The story was about me."

Friday, 7/30/10 - Shopping

2010-07-29T22:56:00.006-04:00

From the way she looked straight ahead while walking past his window, Adam knew that she wasn't ready.

Three, he thought, they always enter on three. Adam knew how people behaved; in this business, you learned a lot about people. Understanding them was just part of the job.

Part of that understanding was used to design this shop. The first thing he needed was the right location - close enough to be convenient but far enough away to afford some privacy. To be able to afford his services, clients had to be wealthy - very wealthy - but he only opened shops in the worst neighborhoods.

The woman passing by was dressed too well for this neighborhood. She could be here for no other reason than to visit his shop. She was just building up enough nerve to enter.

Adam looks out through the shop window and up at the sky set ablaze by the setting sun.

The bells on the shop door tinkle as she enters. As anticipated, she entered only after having walked by twice.

Adam greeted her warmly looking toward her face but not directly at it. People found eye-contact too aggressive. He watched as she glanced around the shop casually, often over her shoulder as if she had seen all of this before and she was just browsing.

She will tell me that she is shopping for a friend, he thought, they are always shopping for a friend. "How may I help you, today?" he asked as she picked up a small display model.

She continued to look at the model, turning it over in her hands as she answered, "I'm just looking right now," she said then hastily added, "for a friend."

She is not ready. He knows it and rather than offer his services, he gives her some more time. "Feel free to browse around. Take your time. If you have any questions, I will be right over here." He returns to his stool behind the counter and starts sorting through a stack of papers - the same stack of papers he sorts through with every nervous customer.

She returns the model to the shelf and continues browsing.

There are no prices on anything in the shop. Everything displayed is a simulation, their only purpose is to provide people with something to look at while they get comfortable enough to tell him what they want.

Six, he thinks glancing at his watch, it will take her six minutes to open up. He continues sorting papers.

"Excuse me, what is the price of a new one?"

He checks his watch as he puts two more papers in one of the sorted stacks. Seven minutes. Off by a whole minute. Damn.

He explains that the cost of a new one is prohibitively expensive and not at all necessary as he has the ability to repair any damage on the one her friend already owns. Pulling out a large black binder and placing it on the counter in front of her he offers to show her his three most popular services. She moves closer as he opens the book, flips forward a few pages then turns the book around to face her.

He points, "Our basic service is a complete cleaning and buffing. This is appropriate if your friend is not overweight, does not smoke or drink and has lived well, for example, your friend would have no criminal record.

"Our next level adds minor ding, dent and scratch repair to the basic service. This level does not include replacement of any parts." He pauses to allow her time to view the list of examples in the book.

He flips the page. "Our premium service is comprehensive. It includes all of the features in our basic and mid-level plans plus any replacement parts that are required. Unlike warranty service that only replaces parts that are defective, our service will replace all affected parts including those that are damaged through improper use, neglect or through normal wear and tear."

Again, he pauses to allow her to run her finger down the long list of covered items. "All levels come with a complete inspection guarantee. If, after repairs are complete, you fail an inspection, we will either complete the repairs necessary for you to pass the inspection or we will refund your complete purchase amount. And, I must tell you that we have been in business forever and have never had a complaint. I am not aware of even one failed inspection."

She is still not ready but he can see a man on his first pass by the shop. Rather than try to convince her to buy today, he will let her leave and think about it on her own time. She will be back. In the meantime, he will be able to work with the man that will soon be entering.

"If you tell me about your friend, I am sure we can choose the right service for them."

"Well, I'm not sure this is the right gift. I am just going to think about it for a while before I decide."

"That's fine. If I can be of any assistance," he hands her a business card, "just give me a call at that number."

She thanks him and looks at the card before putting it in her purse.

Adam's Soul Repair
Established in the beginning.

All work done on premises.

100% Money Back Guarantee

The bells on the shop door tinkle as she exits

Thursday, 7/29/10 - Pumping Gas

2010-07-28T21:15:00.007-04:00

Swipe

Credit.

Huh? I didn't have a pet...

Ummm....

No, I don't want more time.

I'll just press

'NO'.

How do I answer that?

Maybe I just type in

'N-O-N-E'.

I didn't have a pet!

I had allergies.

I did have a goldfish.

But nobody names their goldfish!!

OK, how about

'G-O-L-D-F-I-S-H'?

No!!!

I just want gas!

'YES'.

What????

I have no wife.

No first wife,
no second wife,
No wife at all!!!

'N-O W-I-F-E'.

Geesh!

Do I have to get married just to get some gas?

Wilma! How about that?

'W-I-L-M-A'.

You like that better?

YES!!!!

Another question!

How about one that I can answer?

Ah-ha!

Pizza! I paid for pizza!!!

'P-I-Z-Z-A'.

'ENTER'.

Finally!

No! I just want some gas!

Please give me gas!

'NO'.

No, I don't want your rewards!!!

My reward will be getting gas and getting out of here!

'NO'.

Yes!!!

I'm positive!!!

I JUST WANT GAS!!!

'YES'.

NOOOOOOOO!!!

No wash, no wax, no anything!!!

Just gas!

GIVE ME GAS!!!

'NO'.

AAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

Wednesday, 7/28/10 - Butt

2010-07-27T21:46:00.005-04:00

Like so many things,
His name was left,
Packed away,
Inside what was once his home.

So we call him,
By the street he occupies.

Today his name is Cleveland.

The grit he lives in,
Has worn down his language,
Leaving sounds,
More guttural,
More angry.

His words are blunt,
With too many consonants.
He uses them to bludgeon,
And to bruise,
Not to cut,
Or to pierce.

His words have no point,
No sharp edges,
They are just random punches,
Better for boxing,
Than for fencing.

Your morning latte,
Al fresco,
Sits,
As you watch him,
Pinballing,
Closer.

He hurls his hurt,
With such force,
That you look away,
Shy away,
Become afraid.

The thrust of his voice propels him,
Eyes darting,
First to the gutter,
Then receptacle,
Sidewalk,
Planter,
Until.

He stops.

Wordless.

Quick glances,
All around,
Then the quick snatch,
Of a cigarette,
Still smoldering,
In an ashtray.

And he is gone,
In a puff of smoke.

Tuesday, 7/27/10 - The Happiness Machine V

2010-07-26T22:05:00.011-04:00

"Mother, what is that?"

"Never you mind." The older woman's words are intentionally short. She has conceded enough and has no intention of letting her daughter talk her into leaving this behind. "It's mine and I want to take it."

"I know this is hard for you," she walks over and sits beside her mother, "but the new place is not that big."

"Well, then we will just have to leave something else because I am taking this."

"I'm not saying you can't take it with you."

"Good. Now don't you look at me like that, I'm still your mother and you're not too big for a spanking, young lady."

They both laugh at the line her mother has been using on her since she was ten. She reaches over and picks up the machine that is no larger than a toaster and made of hard white plastic. A couple of dials and a meter are set on the front side below a grill. The other sides are sculpted plastic that seems to serve no purpose other than decoration.

"So, where did you get it?"

The older woman remembers the young man who rang the doorbell and waited patiently for her to make her way from the back of the house to the front door. She remembers opening the door and almost fainting dead away at seeing her husband - five years gone - standing there looking exactly as he did sixty-five years ago.

He was even carrying the same General Electric AM radio - the white one he had given her in celebration of six months of dating.

She stood there staring with her mouth open as the young man started speaking. His words made no sense as her mind tried to understand how her eighty-four year old self could be looking at her twenty-one year old husband. But he wasn't her husband then; he was still only her boyfriend. Her "steady" boyfriend and not yet her fiancee.

Her mouth moved soundlessly. She finally managed to whisper just one word: "Jack?"

The young man on the porch asked if she was alright. The boy's words were not spoken by her late husband, the voice was too high and too jagged to be Jack. Jack's voice was pure honey: smooth and sweet and golden.

He asked again and she realized that he really didn't look at all like Jack. No, Jack was taller and thinner and his hair wasn't so red.

But the radio really was the very same one that Jack had given her. She remembers the many nights spent listening to the music and thinking about Jack and how much she loved him. She loved him so much she wrote his name on the corner of the radio then every night she ran a pin over the name until it was engraved there.

The young man on her porch was telling her about The Happiness Machine and holding out the old General Electric for her to see. He told her how this device created soothing sound waves across a wide spectrum of frequencies and how the volume of these healing sounds could be adjusted to allow her to place the machine in one room and still feel the effects in another.

He's trying to tell me that this old AM radio is a fantastic machine that can make people happy. She listened but laughed inside knowing that he thought she was stupid. She supposed that none of her younger neighbors would know what this boy was holding. With the switch to HD twenty years ago, there were no more AM radio stations.

She surprised him when she asked how much he wanted for his Happiness Machine.

Every night she reaches over on her nightstand and clicks it on. She turns the dial and listens for familiar sounds like the waves rolling onto the beaches of Maui on their honeymoon, or the fizzing of root beer floats on summer evenings at Coney Island, or the early morning sound of Jack's footsteps slowly retreating down the driveway and the quickening sound of them returning in the evening, or his hushed whispers breathily tickling her ear.

Now, her daughter was asking where it came from.

"I've had it for years," replies the mother.

"And what is it?"

"The young man that sold it to me said that it's a Happiness Machine."

"Oh he did, huh? A Happiness Machine?" She turns it over looking at all sides. "Mom, did you see that it has J-A-C-K engraved on the side?"

NOTE: Today's image is not mine, it was taken from the internet and modified for this post.

Monday, 7/26/10 - The Happiness Machine IV

2010-07-25T21:10:00.008-04:00

"He freaked! It was like watching a mad man." She hasn't seen him in over two weeks but the thought of him still raises her shoulders in a cringing, self-protective way.

Her mother reaches out and lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's OK, he's gone and we will be with you for as long as you need us."

"I don't know what I would do without you." Her fingers gently trace the space below her right eye. With the stitches removed the cut doesn't look too bad but it is going to leave a scar.

She knew that he had violent temper but he only hit her when she did something really stupid.

Her mother, as if reading her thoughts, spoke softly but firmly, "You're a good-hearted person. I know you wanted to help but there are just some people that you can't help. They require someone professional."

In the ten years that she had lived with him her parents never knew about their occasional fights. Being eight hundred miles away they never heard them scream at each other or watched as he sometimes turned their verbal disagreement into something physical.

They still wouldn't know if there hadn't been blood and neighbors and police. If there hadn't been court orders and warrants and threatening late night phone calls. If there hadn't been the machine.

Her fingers are still absently stroking her cheek. "The Happiness Machine."

"What?"

"That's what he hit me with, The Happiness Machine." She tells her mother about the machine: how she saw it and bought it on an impulse thinking that the manufacturer's statements about aligning energies made sense. She remembers the picture on the side of the box showing a typical room with a network of wiring in the walls emitting red waves of random magnetic energy. In the next picture the chaotic red waves were replaced with evenly spaced blue lines of the aligned energies.

"It didn't cost much but then, he was right, we didn't have much." She pauses. "Maybe it was foolish but I wanted so much for us to be happy."

Her mother listens without comment.

"I was hoping I could put it in the room and just turn it on - and maybe, before he knew it, we would be happy - and it wouldn't matter that I spent a few dollars on it." But that wasn't how it happened. He saw it and things got too crazy too fast.

She pushes the thought away and turns to face her mother. "Mom, do you remember a box, it was, oooh, about the size of a toaster with blue wavy lines on the side?"

Her mother thinks about it. They had gotten the call and were on the road within an hour. They arrived twelve hours later and started packing immediately. The move had happened so quickly that she doesn't really remember the details. Looking over at the boxes still stacked in the corner of the living room. "Which room was it in?"

"The living room."

"Well, all of the living room stuff is either unpacked or it is still in those boxes."

They both get up and start opening boxes.

"Here it is!" She holds it up for her mother to see then flips the switch to turn it on. A blue light next to the switch winks on. "It still works!"

The front door opens. Her father and brother come in carrying groceries. Her mother reaches out to help them.

She stands there holding the The Happiness Machine feeling all of those random red waves smoothing out, aligning themselves and slowly becoming row upon row of smoothly ordered blue waves. It's working, she thinks, yes, it's working!

Sunday, 7/25/10 - The Happiness Machine III

2010-07-24T22:39:00.006-04:00

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

He points. "There, under the end table."

"Oh, that. It's nothing."

He gets up from his recliner and picks up the object.

It is rectangular, black and about the size of a two-slice toaster. He turns it over looking for a way to open it. There are no latches, locks or screws visible on any of the surfaces. All sides are solid; even the edges are seamless.

No matter which way he turns it, there appears to be no way to open it.

He turns it over and reads the label on the bottom. "The Happiness Machine?"

The guilt she feels over having spent money is evident in her weak smile. "I know I shouldn't have but things have been bad lately. I just thought...".

His response is swift and loud, cutting her off in mid-sentence. "That's just it! You didn't think!"

He shakes the machine. It makes no sound. "I don't even have money for beer and you go and buy this! I can't believe it!"

She tries to gather enough breath to tell him that she bought it for him - to make him happy - but the words won't come. The tears gather in her eyes as she watches him lift the machine above his head.

His motion is a blur through her tears. The machine suddenly a broken mass of springs and wires. A battery rolls across the wooden floor.

She finds her voice. "Look what you've done. Are you hap..." The words fade away as she realizes that he is; he really is.

Saturday, 7/24/10 - The Happiness Machine II

2010-07-23T23:00:00.004-04:00

Sitting beside him on the couch she asks, "What do you want to do tonight?"

"Seeing as we have no money, how about we just stay home and watch TV?"

She wishes things were different. "OK."

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

He points. "There, under the end table."

"Oh, that. It's nothing."

"Well then, we have a nothing under our table - and it's blinking." He gets up from beside her on the couch and picks up the object.

It is the same size as a toaster but there are no slots in the top; with all of the switches, dials, gauges and LEDs, there wouldn't be enough room for slots. On opposite sides are grates that appear to him to be used for airflow. He holds the box up to his ear and hears the soft whirring of a small fan.

No matter which way he turns it, there are settings, displays, readouts and indicators.

He turns it over and reads the label on the bottom. "The Happiness Machine?"

The guilt she feels over having spent money is evident in her weak smile. "I know I shouldn't have but things have been bad lately. I just thought...".

She says nothing more while he carries the box back to where she is sitting. Placing it on the coffee table, he sits down beside her. "Do you know what you have here?"

"What do you mean?"

He leans forward and inspects the machine more closely. "I mean that this thing is pretty amazing. Look here..." He tells her about each readout and what it is measuring. His explanations are long and involve charged particles and energy transfers and something accelerating and laws of physics and... and... and...

She is pleased that he understands what he is looking at. To her it means nothing. She stopped understanding ten minutes ago but he is so excited that she can't help but be excited along with him. There is a little boy gleam in his eye that hasn't been there in years. "So, you like it?" she asks over the top of his explanations.

"This is great! Did it come with a manual?"

Friday, 7/23/10 - The Happiness Machine I

2010-07-22T21:58:00.004-04:00

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

He points to something that looks like a toaster. "Under the end table."

"Oh, that. It's nothing."

"Nothing? Honey, when I look in my wallet, that's nothing. When I look under the end table, that's something." He gets up from beside her on the couch and picks it up.

It is the same size and shape as a toaster. It has the same shiny chrome surface but without the slots and handle. There are no lights, no cord and no brand name emblazoned on it. It does have a small dial with a picture of the sun on it.

No matter which way he turns it, he sees himself reflected on its surface.

He turns it over and reads the label on the bottom. "The Happiness Machine?"

The guilt she feels over having spent money is evident in her weak smile. "I know I shouldn't have but things have been bad lately. I just thought...".

She says nothing more while he carries the box back to the couch and sits down beside her. "So, how does it work?"

"It balances the magnetic energy around us by ...".

As she tells him about all of the wonderful things this machine is doing, he is looking into its shining surface and seeing reflections of the room around them and the sun spilling through the curtains. He can change the angle and see the ceiling or the floor but no matter which way he holds the machine, he can see the reflection of the two of them sitting side by side on the couch.

"... it takes several days for the the full effects to be felt."

He smiles at their reflection then directly at her. "I think I am feeling it already."

Thursday, 7/22/10 - The Way Of Trains

2010-07-21T21:06:00.005-04:00

Tom steps up onto the platform. He checks his watch, 4:58, walks the length of the platform and sits on an empty bench.

He looks at the ticket booth then along both platforms and out along the tracks, first one way and then the other, squinting, hoping to see an approaching headlight. Taking a deep breath and sitting back, Tom allows himself a few moments to relax.

Behind closed eyes, Tom sees a pair of rails threading through his life. For him, there have always been trains.

His first train was an HO-scale Lionel Iron Horse. The site of it stopped him halfway as he raced downstairs on Christmas morning. He was four and the train was a gift from his grandfather.

His grandfather is gone but Tom still has the train and he still sets it up under the tree every Christmas. Over the years he has added several other trains to his collection but the Iron Horse - the black engine with a single headlight, front rake and working smoke stack, yellow coal car, silver tanker, green boxcar and red caboose - is still his favorite.

As a boy he would run to the station on Saturday mornings with his ticket gripped in one hand and his sack lunch in the other. He would board the train and ride to the end of the line where he would run ahead of the conductor pushing all of the seat backs to face the opposite direction, ready for the return trip.

He would sit in the train at the turnaround and eat his lunch, watching as the the seats slowly filled with a new set of passengers and the conductor made his way from car to car punching tickets.

And then he would ride back home.

Tom always clipped his ticket on the back of the seat in front of him and watched, station after station, as the conductor passed by without pulling it out, punching it and placing it back as he did for all of the other passengers. The first time it happened Tom was almost to the exit when he heard a deep voice call from behind him, "Son, you've forgotten something." Tom turned around and the conductor was holding the unpunched ticket out to him. He thanked the conductor, pocketed the ticket, and raced for the exit knowing he would be back next weekend.

Some boys would spend Saturday afternoons sitting in the darkness at The Capitol Theater staring up at the screen watching Hollywood stories unfold. Tom preferred to spend his time riding the trains, staring out the window and watching the world unwind.

There was a comfortable magic in trains: they could take you far away but never so far that you couldn't get home.

But that was many years ago. Boys grow up and life moves them to places too hurried and too crowded for the lazy comfort of country trains.

Tom opens his eyes to check his watch then closes them again.

His first job was in a high rise far beyond the reach of the small trains of his childhood. In a pressed three-piece suit and polished wing-tip shoes Tom would pack himself into subway cars with hundreds of other commuters. All seats taken, Tom would stand holding onto the overhead handrail and balance himself against the unpredictable bucking and pitching.

Through grime covered windows instructing him IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, PUSH WINDOW OUT FROM THE BOTTOM, the subway's third-rail sparking would provide brief flash-bulb illuminations of empty sooty-black tunnels.

But, as a boy, Tom saw all he needed through train windows: fields, factories and farm workers. In the summertime the wind would blow through the open windows tousle young girl's braids, give flight to their mother's feathered hats and flutter the pages of their father's newspapers. In the winter Tom's breath would fog the window making a colorful blur of all that passed outside.

Young Tom knew all of the stations by heart. Pick one and a direction, east or west, and he could tell you the name of every town strung out like pearls on the long silver chain of tracks. He could tell you, with breathless anticipation, when the train would submerge cool and dark beneath mountains and when it would surface again into the brightness of the day.

Subways never surface but their passengers do. Tom retired and moved back to the country. If the home he had grown up in had been available he would have bought it. He settled for another home only a few blocks away.

Every day he takes his exercise by walking down to the station. He sits for a while then walks back home.

He used to watch the people waiting on the platform and wonder where they were going and where they had been. He would sometimes buy a ticket and ride to the end of the line where he would fight the urge to run ahead of the conductor flipping the seat backs to the opposite position. He would then ride back home, watching out the windows, knowing the stations, holding his breath through the darkened tunnels.

Tom hears the rumbling and the long wailing sound. He opens his eyes and looks at the station clock. Time is frozen at 3:16, the ticket booth is closed, the platform littered with leaves. The sound is from the street below, not from the the tracks. He stands and takes a final look in both directions. No train will be coming tonight.

Or ever again.

He had watched several years ago as bulldozers excavated the tracks, like the bones of something prehistoric - like his own bones - from the earth. With no sense of reverence the rails were raised high - dripping clots of dirt and weeds - then dumped, clanging and banging, into trucks and hauled away.

Tom walks along the platform toward the stairway that will take him down one flight to the street. He will walk across the street, down six blocks then across and down three more to his home. He will enter, lock the door behind him, walk to the kitchen and help Maggie with dinner.

Tomorrow, as he does every day, he will walk back to the station, sit on the bench, close his eyes and wonder when he will go the way of trains.

Wednesday, 7/21/10 - Holy Roller

2010-07-20T20:50:00.005-04:00

Ok, to make this work, I am going to need you to participate.

That's right, this is not just a sit-in-your-seat-and-read post. No! This is a get-up-and-get-down post.

Before we get started I need to tell you that we are doing this on the shoulder of Interstate 75, just north of Zephyrhills, FL. I can give you lots of logical reasons that this is happening where it is but it's probably best to accept "mysterious ways".

You see, I was driving and writing the lyrics to this song and there, on the side of the road was a bus. Broken down. The occupants standing a safe distance from the road fanning themselves in the hot Florida sun.

Being a nice guy, I pulled over to see what I could do to help.

Turns out that this was the New Life Inspriational Gospel Choir from Fort Valley, Georgia.

As we talked about how I might be able to help them - lyrics still spinning themselves in my head - some of the members started humming, and swaying, and clapping... somehow, they were in perfect time to the crazy lyrics in my head.

So, here we are, on the shoulder of I-75 Northbound somewhere north of Zephyrhills, FL. There is traffic flowing by at 80 mph...

... the choir is humming...
Hmmmmm-hmmmmm-hmmmmm

... and swaying...
Hmmmmm-hmmmmm-hmmmmm
Llleft, rrright, llleft, rrright, llleft, rrright

... and clapping...
Hmmmmm-hmmmmm-hmmmmm
Llleft, rrright, llleft, rrright, llleft, rrright
Clap-clap, clap-clap, clap-clap

Are you ready? C'mon, just follow along.

Let go!

Get into the rhythm.

That's it, that's it! Sway with the choir.

Keep clapping, keep swaying...

Listen to them, now. In three parts! Harmonies! Rhythms!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
Ho-ho-holy roller
Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
Ho-ho-holy roller
Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
Ho-ho-holy roller
Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

They call me a holy roller
Rolling in my hot rod Ford.
Vrrrroooommmm
Goin' just as fast as I want to
And rippin' down the road for the Lord.
Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm

Now some folks say I'm a sinner,
And that I always drive too fast.
Go fast!
But the good book says I'm a winner,
So just move over and let me pass.
Beep-beep-beep

You say it's the work of the devil,
Turn my wheels just as fast as they'll turn.
They turn!
And that in hell I'll be burnin'
He's gotta catch me before I can burn.
No, no, no!

They call me a holy roller
Rolling in my hot rod Ford.
Vrrrroooommmm
Goin' just as fast as I want to
And rippin' down the road for the Lord.
Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm

Some folks say I'm a heathen,
I've fallen under some curse.
He's cursed!
But me I'm just thankin' heaven,
For this little piece of heaven on earth.
It's Hea-ven!

Now don't go try to be savin'
My soul just get outta my way.
Get out!
Cuz' I know that God'll be wavin'
The checkered flag on the judgement day.
Flip-flap-flap!

You know no cop ever stopped me,
I blow by 'em at a hundred and three.
Bye, bye.
No miracle, no it's nothin'
I got Jesus in the shotgun seat.
Be-side me!

They call me the holy roller,
I'm blowin' off all your doors.
Ka-pow!
You call me whatever you want to,
I just thank God he put four on the floor!
Shift-shift-shift!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
Ho-ho-holy roller
Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
Ho-ho-holy roller
Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
Ho-ho-holy roller
Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

You say that it is unnatural,
To use the right as the passin' lane.
Don't pass.
I say I wouldn't-a had-ta
If you shut up and got outta' my way!
Move o-ver!

You tell me that I should be thankful,
I should get out and get down on my knees.
My knees!
But I say that God knows I'm thankful,
For givin' me this hellish machine!!!
Burn rub-ber!

They call me a holy roller
Rolling in my hot rod Ford.
Vrrrroooommmm
Goin' just as fast as I want to
And rippin' down the road for the Lord.
Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm-Vrrrroooommmm

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
Ho-ho-holy roller
Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
Ho-ho-holy roller
Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Ooooo-Aaaaa-Aaaaa-Aaaaa
Ho-ho-holy roller
Roll-Ah! Roll-Ah!

Amen.

Tuesday, 7/20/10 - The Edge

2010-07-19T21:22:00.005-04:00

Do all writers stand this close to the edge, toes hanging over - unbalanced - the slightest shift in currents enough to send them cartwheeling, all arms and legs, down and down into the dark place?

Do they, like I do, fix their stares on that blackness, unable to look away, straining to see what is hidden within?

Do they give name to the shadows then repeat that name, over and over - an insane mantra or incantation to raise ghosts, spirits, visions - daring the demons or whatever lives or lurks in those depths to rise up - all horns and claws and fangs - to rend their flesh and scatter their bones?

Or do they quietly request, hand cupped to ear, that the darkness give voice and whisper its secrets?

Are we all maddened men on sad, sway-backed steeds stabbing windmills with words too rusted, too worn, too dull?

And are we all doomed to be consumed by the darkness that calls to us for the illuminations only cast by written word?

NOTE: This post is the result of having read some past winners of literary contests that I have recently entered. If what I read is an indication, writers are the saddest, most tortured group of individuals on the planet. Not a single nice thought in the dozen or so winning entries that I read. Not one. It made me feel bad for the authors. Then I wondered who would want to read someone else's tales of pain and misery and I felt bad for the readers. People that sad, that close to the edge - and I just wanted to lend them an hand, and push...

Monday, 7/19/10 - Two for the One

2010-07-18T21:29:00.004-04:00

The Crook

Wrapped up here with you,
I never noticed,
When the crook of your arm,
Stole my heart.

A Note On Wealth

If I had a penny,
For each time I thought of you,
I would be a wealthy man.

But then,

Just having you to think about,
Makes me a wealthy man.

NOTE: Both pieces are from my archives. The Crook was written 12/26/89, A Note On Wealth was written 04/15/90

Sunday, 7/18/10 - Not Yet

2010-07-17T21:24:00.003-04:00

In the not-yet-caffeinated comfort
and the not-yet-interrupted silence
of the not-yet-risen day
I pillow my not-yet-washed-brushed-combed head
inside the not-yet-unwound goose down cocoon
and consider the not-yet-discussed-or-decided plans
while anticipating the not-yet-made love, coffee, breakfast.

I am eager for the not-yet-limited possibilities
of this not-yet-started Saturday.

Eager,
yes,
but
not-yet-ready.

No,
not yet.