Poem

I am using a friend's computer, so I am tentatively in the Twentieth Century again. HooHoo!!

When you look at a thing
Can you see behind it?
With closed eyes
can you, still,
Find it?


When you touch a thing
can you feel it's smell
Tell, what it might bring
What song it might sing?

When you hear a sound
Can you sense what you have found
The secret name it bears
The hidden words it shares?

Can you wander lost
Meander like a stream
Can you pay the cost
Of living your own dream?

Can you see the thing that grew
Inside yourself, that's true
Give everything away
Begin again a brand new day?

Looking Up

This time of day, when the eyes of the sun become soft and her lids begin to droop, one can see the hidden violet that lies in hiding in the furrows of fresh-plowed fields. The red in children's cheeks, the fir cone jewels hanging near heaven, the glowing bark of cliffside Madronas, all come out of refuge and present themselves to those who have the eyes and are unhurried.
This time of day, when the march of the clock is suspended for a blessed time, when breathing becomes an experience, when magic descends on wings of foregiveness, this time is the precious time.
All day spent in preparation is not wasted. Routines broken, hunger endured, television forgotten---this time, the last light of day, is the magic time. This is the last stand of the day.

I am being taught to look up---.

Rows of Poplar trees rake into the sky, marking the farm house oasis; islands in the vastness of the flat, fertile valley. I imagine they tickle the soft bellies of low clouds as they hurry to empty themselves into rivulets and streams born in the foothills and mountains. In summer their leaves rattle collectively; a moaning rustle driven to frenzy by the teasing wind. Undressed for the night of winter, they hum an unknowable tune, the wind blowing through their branches, transforming the long rows into massive, natural pipe organs. To me they look sad and bare boned. Skeletal fingers of a hand rising from the same ground that gives life to the bounty of potatos and cabagges grown in this valley.
At their feet I stand, looking at a clear blue sky fractured and framed a thousand times by criss-crossing branchlets. The early sunsets of winter transforms those trees into a reef of rose gold coral, with birds instead of fish swimming there. Perched at the top tips, swaying in the current, slowly rocking to and fro, the birds sing the last songs of the day; a good night lullaby to the fields and sky. The blue of that sky is changed, transmuted, by the alchemical color magic of the golden trees. The vibrant violet can be seen above, as well as below, in the furrows of the fields.
The warm end-day light seems to shine from within each branch, a tall lantern wall glowing in a blue night. In the east a ghost-cloud round moon rises above the dusk green hills. The slight knowing smile of the man in the moon beams down understanding; a wink of the eye, like a secret code. He and I are the holders of a sacred trust.

The Still Hawk

Once in a while we get to see something remarkable. It may come as a lesson or a consolation. I had been tossing internally with an emotional storm raging. This is what I saw that afternoon:

It was the third day of a vicious storm. Trees furiously flung their branches about; roaring, raging. The storm clawed at all that stood, whipping rain into confrontation, pelting the roof of my car. My car shook and trembled with the gusts.
I was smoking a cigarette, parked on Myrtle street, by a friend's house. Through the windshield I looked passively to the edge, where the last houses hunkered; next to the open, winter bare fields. The wipers were grunting the rain off the windshield, barely keeping up. Through the rain streaked window, I saw a large bird, perhaps a Hawk, hanging nearly motionless in the sky. Subtle wing adjustments kept it in a precise place, slipping through the gusts, unaffected by the wind and rain. The hawk was using the energy of the wind, accepting what he needed, elusive toward what might force him out of place. He stayed there, as if glued to an invisible post, fifty feet off the ground.

Seeing that, I thought about this lesson from nature. To me it felt as if I was given this experience to illustrate an attitude that I needed to just get through the storm inside of me. Unfortunately, I still am not able to weather those internal storms. After all these years, I still get tossed like salad when in turmoil. When will I learn? However, it was a comfort, back when I had noone to talk to about my troubles. For that I am grateful.

Hunting The Jaguar

This I wrote for a young man that I mentored for a couple of years. Though many people were concerned for this young man, it seemed to be a waste.

The Jaguar hunts at night. He hides during the day, sleeping. The faintest light is enough for him. His sense of smell is superb. He is at home on the ground and in the trees. He has only one enemy; Man.
To hunt a Jaguar, a man must become like the Jaguar. He must develop new senses and heighten the existing senses. Even the sense of taste is important.
The Jaguar, at ease in his body is ten times more ferocious than the average man. To hunt and kill a Jaguar, a man must become like the Jaguar; totally at ease in his body, fully aware, fearless and patient.He must call the Jaguar to him. This calling is soundless, it is done like a prayer. The man prays and the Jaguar comes.
Absolutely still in the night, fully awake and aware, fearless, the man calls the Jaguar. The Jaguar comes, slowly pulled by the man. The man, in his prayer promises the Jaguar a new life. He tells the Jaguar that he will eat his heart and that the Jaguar will live in the man's soul forever.

I gave the young man a Jaguar statue and this metaphor. Perhaps someday, I too will learn to hunt the Jaguar within.

A World Apart

The distance between my burrow and the bench where I now smoke my cigarettes is a world apart. Just a few steps, yet a world apart. I was sitting on that bench and marveled at the beauty of the morning; my garden in a state of demoralized neglect, wind tossed, now still; beautiful. The fresh light on the eastern bark of bare trees. My nostalgic memories of mornings in Mexico, tell me that a peaceful satisfaction, a sense of Home, has risen in my heart......
The feeling of completion; of satisfaction with what is; of the perfection in the imperfect. All those mistakes, errors and neglects for given. Given, in a brilliant moment, the redeeming Nod of Approval by God. In that moment, I died. Died and reborn.
Who am I today? Who is it that notes the difference, that weathers the storms? Who remains unaffected by the variabilities of my mercurial emotions; the damned depression and the flips to happiness? Who remains when I wish to crawl out of my skin? Who?

Your Secret Name

I think I wrote this about ten years ago:

Anticipation is my constant companion
And it whispers your name.

I am so close to you that I move
In you and I feel the world through
Your soul.

I see myself through your eyes
And am blinded.

I see you in everything.
Everything carries locked inside
Your secret name.

The Last Show

This I wrote today:

The intro to winter maple trees
Stand lonely sentinels on the boulevard.
Flame red and dew moist fresh
Blazing into the pale blue sky.

I admire their years' end show
A brilliant finale
A final stand
The last bow.

My heart flutters wild applause
I am the standing ovation
I am the curtain drawn
And the anonymous night,
The darkness safe
From prying eyes
And even the softness
Of candle light.

Rabbit Hunt

Another poem from the past:

Rabbit Hunt

He flickers like a candle flame
Coming to end.
The wild rabbit, wire snared.

Attempts to escape
Bring him closer to death.
His ebony eyes mirror my arrival.

I see his heart laboring in his chest
Livid flecks of blood on his black nose.
He knows nothing of wire
Or of me.
I know nothing of him.

I am not hungry, just
Playing, as he lies dying
I wish he would die, so
I can stop feeling
Frantic and so damn helpless.

A Treasure of Red Jewels

From a journal (wonder who I was so in love with, then?)

Beneath bare branches of a sleeping apple tree
A treasure of red jewels lies held
By frosty fingers of green grass.
Winter's first storm stripped
The last leaves and lingering fruit.

Instead, flitting sparrows
Hopping through branchlets
Jittering and chirping
This crisp dawn
Wane sun, cold blue sky
Exhaled breath visible.

All the sparkle of Christmas
Can not match the flashing twinkle
In your eyes nor
The satisfaction of our
Wordless witnessing
This early morning miracle.

The Apple Tree

My favorite apple tree lives close to me. If I want an apple, I cross the street and search for the treat in the jungle thick mass of leaves. As with most things worthwhile, one has to uncover layers to find the essence.

The apples are snap-crunchy and dam-bursting juicy. A delicate tartness married well to the sweet flesh.

We had our first frost and her leaves are dropping. I think of a woman; a silk dress and that dress sliding down her body, resting around her ankles. All year i have waited for the sweetness of the apples. Every day I rode by and admired her. I was hungry.

From My Journals

In the middle of a near-empty journal, one I started and dropped for some reason, I found this piece of writing:

How can I say "no" to you?

Can I say no to my own birth
Or say stop
to my beating heart
Easier to stay the rising moon
Or a raindrops' fall,
Tell the birds
to not love the wind
And still their song.
That babes should never cry
For the warm arms of their mothers.

How can I say no to you
When love rests in my bones
Can I turn them inside out
And scrape away your memory

Can I say no to melting snow
And stop the growth of trees
Dam rivers with my will
Or ask the stars to flee.

The There There

In the evening, I go to the channel to see the water, when the sun sets and the danger time; when the dark Empty hunts me. I go there for end day reflection. A ritual preparation for the long hours to come, a prayer for safety and sanity. Sometimes the vigil lasts all night, all long empty damn night. Sometimes, I can nearly hear It, scratching on my door. A slow scrape like the caresses of a hard-cold corpse. There is no refuge, only the escape of oblivion, sleep in snatches or stupor sold at sad cost. Even in the company of good friends, when my brightness burns bonfire hot and I am animated and quick, large, sharp and penetrating, It comes; taps my shoulder and reminds me that I do not belong here, that I have no home to go home to, that I live at the end of a leash; held by the dark Empty.

Looking over the channel, I spotted the rock-still Heron. He blended so well with the darkening that only by his reflection, his shadow on the water mirror, from the last-light sky, did I notice his presence. Some things can only be seen by their shadows. Unmoved he stood, as if he had been there long before and long after to come.
I like looking at water. It always fascinated me. The patterns of playing wavelets, the ripples and ruffles. The tiny whirls, water dervishes spinning languid, in and out of time, appearing and leaving. The long undulations of waves born by boats. The flow of deceptive tidal currents, fast and insistent, or the held-breath stillness of a silver-sheet surface-hush. I wonder of the hidden landscape that shifts the flow and causes these effects on the impressionable body of the water. Some things can only be seen by the effects they cause.
The water is my mind and my mine. I dig here for the lustrous glimmers from which my writings are constructed. Weavings of ruby hopes and diamond insights on a gold thread cloth of words and metaphor. Some things can only be understood by metaphor, never directly, but by the long, long way around, with the gaps as necessary as the There there.

Eyes of the Seal

It is a good place for writing. Bright and airy. The windows look over the channel. The water. The mystery of it. Water accepts everything. Boats, birds, trash, fish, runoff and thrown rocks, all benefit from it. Water asks for nothing in return. Just to serve. Today, ruffled lace dress with strong currents below. Other times, mirror smooth and reflective. Turbulent when pushed by storms. It demands nothing of the world. We've learned to respect water for this reason. It's acceptance is like the openness of a grave. Saint or sinner alike are held close by the grave; unquestioned, unjudged. As a lover, water calls us to join; to blur distinctions. We can flirt, dance and even hold close but for those not born of it, her children, this love can be deadly.
A seal surfaces. From the depths a round face with three black dots. Nose and two teary, world wise eyes. Slowly the seal turns my way. For a long moment our eyes lock together. My heart jumps in unknowable recognition.Those eyes, though jet black are soft and receptive. Of the water, like the water. Two deep black obsidian gazing globes, sent by the deep. My demanding, analytical focus softened by that accepting child-wise gaze. The water takes those eyes back into the deep. Though I breathlessly search for a returning, it is not until evening that another seal sees me. I like to think it the same as the one that morning. A lover's rendevous, at days' end.

The Guide

He was there, in a turbulent dream; a black man. Not the white of day, but the dark of the hidden, the obscure, the not yet uncovered. He the calm center; I the storm of emotions and of a mind racing without end. He showed me how to act. He showed me how to bear myself. How to bare myself. How to make the emptiness my friend and a powerful ally. Not demanding, not trying, not enforcing, not clinging, not manipulating, not hoarding. Just being. Just. Calm and aware. Filling the empty from the excess of myself. Constant, seeking to stay empty. A conduit, a channel, a river. Moving fullness into emptiness.
Every morning I call him. I put him on like a coat. I slide into him like a new pair of shoes. I see the world through his eyes. Accepting, unperturbed, still like a lake in a deep valley. Useful to all. Useless to my shortsightedness.
He promised me great riches. This too, I must accept, with empty hands.

They Have Come, The Culture Police

They have come, the Culture Police and deftly stolen our treasures. They snatched the innocent smiles off our children's faces and jammed them into boxes full of circuits and wires. From the hearts of lovers they tore the abundance of affection, enough to last a lifetime; enough to fall in love with all life. From the hands of fathers and mothers they erased the caring caresses that lay there fallow, enough for all the orphans and hungry everywhere. They shredded bonds of friendship and co-operation, replaced with promisary notes scribbled hastily on cheap toilet paper. Decency and humanity they replaced with manicured lawns and oil stained driveways. The warmth of the home they stole and left the coldness of an empty bottle and empty talk of winning. From the men they took the essence of manhood and left them the tantrums of two year old boys, and a facade of strut machismo. From the breasts of mothers they extracted the milk of nourishment, left them gaudy malls instead. They took the riot of growth off our farms and gave us bland white food, pasty and mealy and roughly handled.
Yet I have a secret. Underneath the shelter of the tallest tree, there on that hill, lies buried and protected a little box. Inside is a glimmering and a fragrance, that I kept shielded with my vacant eyes and dour face. In that box is a seed. In that seed is enough culture to bring back joyful life to all the world.

The Rabbit and the Kingfisher

He surfaced below me, looking just as startled as I. Furtively slid through the water, to the deep. One last glance thrown to me, from a safe distance. In his beak a single piercing silver flash. He swallows.
I think of the world. The world that I inhabit. For some unknowable reason, he reminded me to see and sense my place. Then I think of the universe and the unimaginable stretch of space and time. I try to fill it with my mind, forcing my presence out to sense my place in this All. My mind returns tired and defeated.
On the way back from my walk, the Rabbit is waiting by the sidewalk. Like yesterday, he lets me get within ten feet. I dare not get closer. With one eye regards me, then sniffs the ground or nibbles. I can't tell, it grows dark. I turn slightly, maybe rabbit etiquette calls for no direct stand-offs, so I mirror his slight side stance. He is the color of dusk. Grey with black and white flecks. I turn farther and cross the street, making a wide circle around him.
The world does not talk to us by television or radio. It talks to us in a language that we knew long before we learned to speak. A friend's loving regard speaks of the deep, as does the surfacing of the Kingfisher. A single flash of silver, though unseen, flashes between us. It lands in my heart, giving me the courage to cry.

The Rabbit

In the last light of day I walk. I leave my burrow, with its' dark corners and earthy musty smells and go to the open expanse of the channel. There I stand, a solitairy figure, leaning on the wind humming railing, looking out over the water. I am deep in thought. Writer's thought. To myself I describe what I see and at the same time describe the describing.
I am pensive and removed. I am in life and out of life. I walk slowly, painfully aware of my writer's aches, hours spent sitting, furiously whacking on the typepad, pouring phrases onto a virtual sheet. There's a rabbit! I freeze. I can freeze well, you know. Not moving, I do very well. The rabbit scumps away. He comes to a stop and sits watching, from a safe distance. Mostly he has his back turned on me, but is able to keep me in sight, just in case I am a wolf in manish clothing. We have a stare down. I do what I do. I imagine what it is like to be a rabbit. I touch his soft fur, feel how it feels to be compact sitting. It is getting onto dark, so he is barely visible. I imagine his long ears and think what this means. What is the world telling me? What does a rabbit stand for? What is the metaphor? Thoughts of a madman. The endless describing of the describing. The judgement and the sentence
Carefully, I walk backwards. Turn left and cross the street. I walk on the other side and when I come to par with him, he runs into the street, confused and then back on the sidewalk. He is my friend now, we have something in common. Confusion. There is one big difference between my new friend and I. He is himself. He is just-so, whereas I, I am just confused.

On Being (Open)

It is not easy, being open. Not like going to the store and unlocking the door and putting the "Help Wanted" sign out. Being open comes by degrees to most. Some have had single profound experiences that have radically changed their way of actuating. That, I guess is called Grace. In the little book of Not-Doing, it talks about subtracting, daily, in order to move to the destination. By subtracting from what we know, how we think, one arrives at the state of "full potential" or the "uncarved block". Why an uncarved block? Because it isn't set yet. It can be anything. It is in a state of, well, openness.
I am slowly coming to a minute understanding of the little book. I am, as I have confessed to you, Dear Reader, a dabbler by nature. A good starter, often brilliant, but I have no knack for the long haul. The unimaginable mediocrity of just tying my shoes is unbearable to me. I do it, but I do not do it well. So, when it comes to a disciplined approach to a field of study, forget it.
I am, slowly, coming to understand some things in the little book. I am coming to understand that it talks about openness. To be open to the natural self and the natural world. Not the world of television and news media, but to the age-old flow of life. I realized yesterday that this openness is difficult to maintain for a number of reasons. First, I must remember to be open. It is a conscious choice. Requires humbleness. Yeah, tough one for moi. Next, I need to take off the blinders. There are many mechanisms that conspire to keep me blind and unfeeling. Their tenacity and ingenuity are truly devilish. They exist in my mind and outside of my mind. All of society conspires to keep me closed. Nearly all of my mental processes conspire likewise. Then there is the courage to bear the beauty of this world. I sense in this a rushing torrent that I normally see only as a trickle. The beauty of a painting covered by the dirt of time, merely hinting at the bright colors contained therein. Details blurred, fine lines lost. Once that painting is restored, it shines. It is a (w)holy other experience.

Under the Knife

I went to do laundry. It has been piling up. It is raining and it is cold. I pedaled my bike to the laundromat. A big, black plastic bag tied to the back; inside, my clothes ajumble. I couldn't find the laundry detergent. I couldn't see. My eyes open, awake and I couldn't see. I've been crying. Today is a day for crying and losing. I lost the detergent.
Finally, I had to ask for help. I asked God to help me find the soap. I stood there, lost and confused. I knew where it should be, it's not there. I looked and looked. I had to ask for help. I almost gave up. With my belly I tried to sense where it would be hiding. That led me back to where it should have been. Is this just my imagination? It isn't there, I know that. I sensed again, paying attention. No, it isn't working. I am fooling myself with the belly sensing. I am playing at magic. I know what I know and I know it must be somewhere else. The sense was insistent. Pointing, pointing. I gave up and looked again. I found it, there, where I hadn't seen it before.
Doing laundry is like doing dishes. It is comforting. It is doing something to give me the feeling of order and progress. I was crying while loading the machines. Machines. I am a machine. I must come to life. Nobody was there, I was alone. I am alone. Nobody is in there, inside. The rain is not rain anymore. It is tears. The cold is not cold, it is loneliness. Everything is magical and points to my illness. The world is dead and somehow, somehow I must bring it to life.
While waiting for the washers, I read in the little book, the book of Not-Doing. It told me to use the empty, the nothing in things. The book is hard to understand, it makes no sense. Yet it has been around for thousands of years and something about it, about the crazy wisdom of it, I recognize. So subtle, so faint, so fleeting.
It is a day for crying. My tears mix with the rain. I am trying to understand what I feel. I think it is sadness, yet I don't know. Maybe it is happiness. How is it that after fifty years in my body, that I cannot tell sadness from happiness. This is absurd. At the bad coffee place I see a dime on the ground. I do not pick it up. I leave it. With my coffee I sit at a table, away from everyone. I look at the sad world. The rain and the cold. I am reading a book someone gave me. It was written by a poet. It is about a little donkey. I am overcome by the beauty of this man's writing. I am crying. My body is heaving from the repressed sobbing. I can't cry. What will they think. They will think I am sick and call the police. They will not understand that these words are cutting into me, that I am doing laundry and lost the soap.
It is a day for crying. For losing. For cold and rain. I cleaned my bedroom, washed the walls and dusted. The bed has new sheets, with lace borders. My bed is white. It is as white as a frigid arctic plain. Even the electric blanket turned to high won't warm my bed. At night I slide into the new sheets and wrap my arms around my loneliness. I might as well sleep with the rocks and wet leaves. My bed is empty. I am empty.
It is a day for crying. Here He comes, with the sure knowledge of a surgeon. I see the knife. I am begging Him not to do this. Can't I have a little fat, a little flesh? Oh God, please. Just a little to remind me of my self. He tells me: No. You asked to be alive. We cut away all that you use to hide, to distance yourself from life. Your skin is too rough, it keeps you from feeling. Your flesh hides your heart. You need to be painfully open, cut open, raw and defenseless.
It is a day for crying.

How am I Doing?

I am frightened. I am scared. White as a ghost with fear. I pretend to know, but the truth is, I don't know squat. I have been going to the wrong school, learning the wrong stuff. I have learned about war, not peace. About hate, not love. I have made myself hard, not soft. Closed, not open. Poor, not wealthy.
I am beginning to listen to the voice of my own conscience, my own truth. Though it is patient, it is also brutally honest. I throw tantrums, like a two-year old, I don't want to hear it. I don't want to. Hear it. I need to be emptied, so to start anew. I must learn how to live, come back from the walking dead.
Wish me luck.
---------------------
This week I rested from writing. Last weekend I wrote like a demon and it was exhausting. Soon I will start again. Thanks for checking in, my preciousnesses. Ta ta.

The Woman and the Fire Bush

A woman noticed a remarkable bush growing near the trail she walked when she felt well enough to walk. She had been sick for over a year with a painful and debilitating illness, that doctors were unable to name nor cure. The little bush had beautiful, shimmering leaves and she began looking forward to her walks, making an extra effort so as to admire the remarkable plant. After a month, she realized that she was feeling a tiny little better and had been able to walk daily and that just by being near the bush, she returned home with more energy and peace of mind.
She brought a folding chair to that place and would spend time with the bush. Gradually, she felt better and better. She was convinced that the plant had some kind of curative power and that it was of great help to her.
She decided to take the plant home with her. One day, when she felt strong enough, she dug the little bush up, carefully, so as not to harm the roots and carried it home. She planted it next to her patio. It was, though small, a beauty-full addition to her yard.She was enchanted by its' shimmering, nearly irridescent plumage of red-tinged green leaves. With the bush in her yard, she spent more time with it and improved faster still. Within a month she felt well enough to go out, be with her friends and even work a little. It was a miracle!
As she recovered, the little bush became sick. It lost the sheen on it's leaves and began to droop. She had neglected the bush and didn't give it what it needed to adapt and grow. One day she realized that it had died.

Another Talk with God

God? Oh, Gaw-wad, are you there? He doesn't want to talk to me because I thought it over and have a new angle. The bastard probably knows I'll have him over a barrel with this new approach. He is a slick one, I tell you, I...Oh, hey! There you are, I was just thinking how much I have missed talking to you. "You were, eh?" Shit, this is the problem with an omniscient deity, he knows what I am thinking. "Cut to the chase, I'm busy today." Busy? Busy doing what? Fucking things up in the mid-east? I don't care if he can read my mind. I'm not going to bow down to some tin-horn dictator unless my ass is being Guantanomized. I have a question, God. Nothing. Some hold music would be nice. Hel-loo, It's me! I have a teeny weeny question! Hello, hello, get the cotton out, Mr. God. "What's the question?" Never a good sign when he uses contractions in his dialog. Gotta be careful today. What'cha doin'? My best curious kid imitation. "Paying bills." What? What's he talking about? "I'm paying bills. Costs a lot to keep this rinky dink solar system running." Oh. I'm confuddled. God, I don't understand. "Paying bills, what's not to understand. I'm doing the utility bill, right now." I don't understand. "The utility bill to keep the sun running." The sun running? My confidence is evaporating; I have a queasy feeling in my midsection. "What's the matter?" I don't feel good, God. "Lonely?" No, I have a tummy ache. "How come?" He clucking damn well knows why. I ate too much, that's why. "Whadcha eat?" I'm stunned. He sounds just like a little kid. It's disarming. I ate five baloney sandwiches, God. Before I can check myself, I blab it out. Silence. Frankly, I am kinda glad for the silence, now. Maybe he is licking the stamp for the bill envelope. My tummy hurts. I got bread today. Didn't eat my oatmeal this morning. Went to have bad coffee and work on the Lannee story. When I got back, I wanted sandwiches, made from the bread, the honest neutron-dense bread. Went to the store with gusto and a real appetite. Holey Smoke, the baloney was on sale! Only cost a dollar thirty nine. Caught myself speeding home. Slice, slice. A quick anti-evil ritual over the mayonaise. When in doubt cast it out. Fumbling the baloney open. Sandwich constructed and happy, leg swingin' and lip grinnin', munching away. "Sorry, cellphone rang." It's rude to talk on the cellphone when you are having a conversation, don't you know that, God. Got 'im. Ha haa, neener neener. "I apologize, but it was for you." Somebody called your cellphone to talk to me? "Don't be so naive, you are less than unknown. I was getting the winning lottery numbers for you, so that you can get rich. How is that story going? Get a lot of work done on it? Huhnn, what's the matter, cat got your tongue?" The winning lottery numbers? Yeah, uhh, it's goin' great. "Whadzit 'bout?" The kid again. Oh, it's about .. how .. uhh, well .. it's about an alternative universe and their God is going mad and all the stuff around that...My tummy really hurts, now.

The Suchness of Lannee Prochaine (Part 6)

I was hanging out with the guys, in my spacious, new office. One of the first things I had done was get a big flatscreen installed. That used to be more difficult than talking sense to the Pope. Now it was a breeze. I just mention it, and it gets done. Rank has priv'ledges. I have a lot of new friends, nice guys, too. We are sitting around with cocktails in our hands. We don't actually drink or eat, but it is cool to pretend. There is a lot of that "Satan was in this room-- wow." going on too. Helps if you know famous people. "Yeah, we're practically buddies. He depends on me, says I'm his devil on the ground, yep." A little bragging, where is the harm in it, I say.
I got the flat screen on and my spotter demon is beaming live footage of Gabriel venting on the Energizer Bunny Mariachi Band, who just launched into yet another mind wrenching abomination of a song. Gabriel has, over the years, picked up quite a Spanish vocabulary and is practicing on them. The words, from what Spanish I know, are very, very vulgar. My, my he is doubting the manhood of the lead singer, a excessively mustachioed and portly howler. The insult just adds to the sense of dejection that is precisely called for in this croaking screeching, all about the loss of honor and a traitorous woman. "With more emotion, Manuel!" The guys are laughing to my witty jab. Oh, there he goes with the sword! Everyone is pointing at the Demon Slayer as he heaves the flaming sword around to the side and behind him, for a good swipe, staggering Mariachi ward, shouting obscenities, what was that one? Putrid son of a mangy, and is it pusstulating,? oh, yes, lets not forget the flea-ridden. You tell 'em, Gabriel. He misses the Mariachi! Unbelievable! A miss that spun him around and brought him to his knees! We're just hooting and whooping, high fiving and snickering, when I feel a chill tap on my shoulder.
Oh, God , it's him. Crap. My whole body tenses, yet oddly my hand doesn't. The glass falls to the lush carpet. I spin around, apologies ready. The room empties of sound. "Satan. Sir." I try to snap my voice to attention. Satan's face grows a smile. "Having some fun? No harm in that, Mogon, good to get in some relaxing after a hard days' work" He puts his arm around my shoulder and turns me back to the flatscreen, giving me a couple of manly shoulder tugs. I thought I heard him use my name. Did I hear right? Satan steps to the corner of the desk, where Aloran is sitting, throws a glance and a slight jerk of the head. Aloran shoots off the corner and stumbles aside. "Got anything to drink?" We are speechless and frozen. Aloran recovers quickest. "What can I get you, Sir." "How about a gin and tonic. Yes, that sounds good. Hey, is this one of those new Hitachi model 7000s? Damn son, you got some pull around here. Good man to know." He looks over at me and winks. "You want some lime with that, Sir?" Aloran from the back, at the bar. "Got any olives? How about two." Aloran brings the empty glass, stirring it with a clinking spoon. "Enjoy, Sir," handing it to him. "Hope it's to your liking." Suddenly, I don't like him. He's an asskisser, too smooth. Gotta keep an eye on him. Satan lifts the glass and offers "Cheers". Cheers all around and just as sudden as it stopped, the party is back on. We watch the Gabriel epic. He is chasing the last Mariachi up the hill, his lungs ejecting perversities. Satan: "I didn't catch that, Mogon, a needle dick bug, what?" "Fornicater, Sir" "Oh, good one, glad that Gabriel is keeping up on his education." Laughter. Gabriel is hacking the last demon to pieces, hurling obscenities with every heave. He stops, leaning on the sword, looking around furtively, disheveled and deranged. It is quiet. In the room the tension builds. Where are the Mariachis? Gabriel looks around triumphantly. "I've killed you, you-" the rest is in Spanish. "Mogon, Sir, what did he say?" I clear my throat loudly. "To put it delicately, he called them sons of festering dog feces." We all about fall out on that one. Satan is looking at me with something like admiration. I am glowing inside. "Here they come!" All eyes to the flatscreen. "There, up on the hill!" I can see them now, wearing black with pink trim. "Seven of 'em." "What's wrong with their hips?" They are running down hill and gyrating, hands flipping back and dipping down. "Oh my God, they are gay Mariachis." We are stomping and nearly on the floor. The Mariachis stop about fifty feet from Gabriel, who is looking at them in disbelief. Some are blowing kisses, others are suggestively swiveling their hips. The guitar players are frantically untuning their guitars. One of the trumpet players lifts a very suggestive phallus to his lips and blows a horrible crawk out of it. The band starts in on the first song, thrusting their hips in unison to the beat. Gabriel is more than furious. He charges into them like a bowling ball, strike bound. The Mariachis deftly scatter, then reform behind him. "They are quick!" Not missing a beat, they continue the nightmare serenade.

to be continued.....

A Talk with God

God? Hello? Hell-ooo! We have to have a talk, God. It's about money. Are you there? Silence. The silence of a drawn breath, the deep silence before an explosion of outroarious laughter. "You have money". He's chuckling. Oh, you smarmy bastard, I am so glad to bring some humor into your life. God, I have seven dollars and fifty three cents. No, I had seven dollars and fifty three cents until yesterday. Now I have five dollars and fifty three cents. More silence. I hate this waiting game. "What did you spend your money on?" What did I?--I bought a good cup of coffee! A bad cup of coffee costs a dollar seven. I wanted a good cup of coffee, so I had to pay extra. Silence. Coffee's not cheap, you know. Waiting. "You have plenty of money." I do not have plenty of money. I have--going through my pockets--five ones, a quarter, three dimes, a nickel and four pennies. Let's see that's five dollars and fifty, no---. Oh. I have more than I thought. I have five dollars and sixty four cents. That's all. "Seems like a lot." Seems like a lot? It's. Not. Alot, God. It's a lot of nothing. "You have more money, what about your tin. You have three hundred dollars in your tin. That's a lot." That's rent money! I am outraged. For next month! That's already spent! Waiting. "What did you have for dinner last night? Did you go to bed hungry, again?" The word 'again' is slimed over with sarcasm. You --- bastard. Don't pull this starving kids in Darfur bullshit on me. I went through that with the Ethiopian thing. I am broke. I need money. "What about the other tin?" Those are my laundry quarters. Those. Are. My. Lauuunn-dryy quarters. For doing laundry. That's what they are for. Laundry. I have to have clean clothes. "You have to -- Oh that's a good one--clean clothes. You, the biggest PIG since Porky, actually care about your appearance?" A Pig? Did he just call me a PIG? I'm not a Pig, I'm a damn good writer. I write. I'm busy writing. I write all the time. I get distracted, that's all. Well, OK-- So what if I am a PIG. I'm a damn good writing PIG. I am a broke Pig. I hope you are happy, you -- bastard. Silence. I look around at my pigsty. He's right, you know, maybe if I cleaned this dump up, money would come visit me more often. I need help. I need a helper. Quiet. I look at the missing, the chewing yearning inside of myself. The empty. The need and the deep empty. God, I'm lonely. I'm so, so lonely. Silence. God? Hello?

The Suchness of Lannee Prochaine (Part 5)

"I don't know where he is, Satan, this has never happened before. He's simply disappeared."
"How can he disappear, Lucifer, it makes no sense."
"I know. I searched everywhere, minutely, even. No trace of him. He's gone, somehow."
"He has to be somewhere, Lucifer, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Something new, something unusual is happening. Right after our last chat, I started to sense something different about him. I can't explain it. It was a mixture of hope and determination. He was telling me about the Change Agent. Raving about him, about his "suchness". What do you think that means, Satan?"
"I don't know. Whatever, it can't be any worse than what happened before. I wish we could get it right, get him stable. I wish we could find him, for one. Did he say anything else?"
"No, but I sensed something like remorse."

The whole place is in an uproar. God has gone missing. How can God get lost? It's like losing an elephant in a closet. Impossible. I am stunned. I am trying to make notes in my logbook. I can't concentrate. Satan has ordered all surveillance on his Lumpishness suspended. I took all the demons and devils off the case. No one is watching the Lump. Unless, unless Satan is up to something.

Squatting under the cedar. No thought. No thought. No interfering with what is. Careful. Just allow, just observe, open. Ah, yes, he is back. I feel him. He is the fine one, he hides well, is quiet. Doesn't stomp around like the others, flinging themselves about, making a mess. Where is he? Ah, he is good. He hides well. The newness inside is giggling. It points. Ahh, there you are, you sly one. What do you want. Tell me. You'll tell me when you are ready.
Looking, looking for the missing. Walking. Follow the yearning. The yearning is the way. Trust the yearning. There is beauty everywhere, on the ground; bring back the missing. Picking up the pieces, bringing back the missing. Create the gift. Careful! Beauty made from beauty. Under the tree, waiting for the missing.

"Lucifer, I have a plan. Tell me what you think. There is a change, a subtle change in Lannee. I think that maybe God is inside him, hiding. Something about Lannee fascinated God, something that we are not seeing. Perhaps this Human is the key to something God needs, something nothing else can give him. If so, then what is it that Lannee is missing? What is it that all men miss?"
"They miss the "Other"?
"Exactly. He needs a girlfriend. We have to get him a girlfriend."
"How, Satan? How are we going to do that? He doesn't talk, doesn't go dancing, even if we arrange the circumstances, he'll just walk right by. Forget it, it won't work."
"No, no. Listen, we create a girlfriend for him, one that will match him perfectly. She will be drawn to him and he to her."
"Satan, we cannot create like God creates."
"Of course, we cannot create from nothing. We can sing something into changing into something else."
"Still, we need a woman and that would interfere with free will. It is impossible."
"Perhaps, we don't need a woman. We need an empty vessel. I know who would be the perfect candidate. Trust me. I think this will work."
To be continued.......
Satan and Lucifer are playing matchmakers. Will this be the match made in Heaven for Lannee? Will he find his other, finally after so long? And who is that perfect candidate, the empty vessel? Come back, Dearly Beloved, for more.

The Pure Fool

If you ever get the chance to look into the significance of the Major Arcana of the Tarot deck, notice that the first card is "The Fool". In the Crowley deck, the fools' card is number zero, the Magician is number one. You probably wonder why I am bringing this up, my resourceful questioners. Aren't you? You are thinking, now what is that Roberto up to with this delicious tidbit of unformation? (Did I just by mistake or brilliance coin a new word? Unformation?) Well, there is a good reason for me to bring this up and it has something to do with the series of stories that I am currently plaguing you with. I have a new story idea that came to me last night and I am very exited about it.
I seem to be fascinated with the archetype of the "pure fool". Why, I don't exactly know. He is common in folktales, comedy acts and myths. Something about him screwing everything up, but in the end, saving the day has fascinated humans for a long time.
It is the pure fool that in the Tarot deck holds the highest position. The Magician, he who commands the Universe, as A. Crowley points out, is only, in the end, himself. The pure fool is universal. There is magic in foolishness, ask any clown.
My next story will also feature "the pure fool" and maybe that will put this to rest and we can got on to something truly useless. Thanks for checking in, my precious profundities. Ta-ta.

The Suchness of Lannee Prochaine (Part 4)

It was different before. Before the rebellion of the angels. The universe smelled sweet and that invigorating scent told of rightness, unity and purpose. It was a humming tune below awareness that gave existence an urge to dance, to surge. It was the song that demanded growth and wild expansiveness. We were all notes in that song, the notes and the singers, celebrating a grand task and great work. We were the fire that bent the rigid iron of the timeless empty. We angels, were the tools and the hands that built a garden of unimaginable splendor.
Then, by bits and scraps, God the Director began to change. The permeating smellsong gradually, little by little, took on a hint of sourness and then the rank stench of madness and dissipation, this over the course of billions of years. Death became the path to the horizon of collapse.
This had happened before, untold times. Only Lucifer, who had been with God for all of time, knew how many. It was a desperate time for us. We witnessed the decline of the Universe, a time of sickness and hopelessness. Some of us would survive, Satan had gone through several cycles, each time staving off the inevitable, learning more and more. But, the Universe would become a perversity, an utter horror and the angels (and devils) would have to watch the destruction, and suffer the billions of years of decline to blissful death. You see, once created, an angel only dies when All dies. An angel lives forever, during a creation cycle.
There is always one, a shortsighted one, a traitor. Gabrielle the Asskisser, envious of the place that Lucifer held, with God, initiated the rebellion. He urged on the madness of God, whispering into his ear, lies and damned lies. Gabriel held the sword of destruction. God, in an early moment of madness gave it to Gabriel, with Gabriel unprepared for its' power. Gabriel would prance around, waving the sword and daring anyone to fight. The power of the sword had corrupted Gabriel totally. That was the reason for the rebellion. It was to get the damned sword out of the hands of Gabriel the Lunatic. There had been many appeals to God over the behavior of Gabriel. God would not hear of it, saying that Gabriel was a faithful servant to him; all the while Gabriel stood around looking angelic and smugsmug. When God would go into "a time", a time of depression and retreat, Gabriel would start that prancing and sword waving again. We were all sick of it.
The singing of Hosannas is a precise skill that requires a deep level of concentration. It is the singing that creates the smellsong, that guides and supports the Universe. From the Holy of Holies, the gargantuan Throne Hall of God, millions and millions of angels sing precise melodies, perfectly orchestrated. Precision and perfection is of utmost importance.
So, you can just imagine what happens if a freaked-out lunatic, running loose, wildly swinging a flaming sword in the crowd of deep-trance singers---Chaos. Then, Rebellion. It wasn't a third of the angels that rebelled. Nearly all rose in outrage. Oh, Gabriel had a few hoodwinked, but that a mere handful. It was then that Satan, got his title. He accused Gabriel of High Crimes against God and banished him to a place where he could be watched and constrained. Satan then sung into existence a special kind of demon that follow Gabriel and that damn sword, keeping him planet bound and out of heaven and the Holy Hall. Some of us feel a little sorry for Gabriel. The demons wear gaudy outfits with lots of buttons and big, wide brimmed, upturned hats and strum out of tune guitars and sing horrible songs in Spanich. I mean Spanish, sorry. Yes, it is a cruel fate to be followed around by Mariachis, but he had it coming. At least it keeps him busy; trying to slay the source of his irritation. You gotta hand it to Satan, what a stroke of genius; those Mariachi demons.

So that is the story of the rebellion and also how Mariachi music came about. For which I apologize, but you have to understand the context and the importance of the difficulties we are facing. To be continued......

The Suchness of Lannee Prochaine (Part 3)

If there was any doubt, after the first week, it evaporated. This guy, Lannee, is a moron. An imbecile. A dummy. A retard. We got it totally wrong, about him. No need to worry, he is no threat. I have never been so bored,as doing surveillance on him. It is like watching rocks being rocks. He sleeps, eats, spends his time doing nothing and then does it again, the next day. Nothing going on in his head. No thoughts, except the basics; keep the heart beating, lungs breathing, check core temperature, make adjustments. No higher thought, period, at all. Even plants do more thinking than him. What does he do all day, let me bore the ways. He squats under a cedar tree, expressionless and unthinking. Then he goes for a walk. He collects trash. Brings it back by the armload. Carefully arranges it in a neat pile, with other trash collected days before and then, back under the cedar tree. Then another walk, more trash. More arranging. Squatting, walking, collecting, arranging. Oh, goes inside at night, eats and goes to bed. Wakes up in the morning, same time, eats breakfast and it is off to the cedar. Day after day after day, on and on and on. Rain or shine. Oh, once a week the town maintenance guys get the trash and he seems not to notice. He starts over on the pile.
I told this to Satan, who just left, agitated. I am making a note of the meeting right now, got to keep the dots and slashes in the proper place. "That is the most dangerous man alive." Auugh, Satan is behind me. I spin around. "Sir, you just left!" He is livid, eyes blazing. "Don't be a fool, time is not a limit. We are in terrible danger of a catastrophe of monumental proportions, if we don't act with the utmost care." He crooked his finger against his lips and squinted. Must be thinking, I was thinking. He disappeared again. I was getting dizzy. Just as I reach for the logbook, he reappears. That devil gets around. "I just conferred with Lucifer, he thinks this is him." I didn't know what to say. Finally I was able to squeeze out a short question: "Sir?" Profound, yes? Lannee the Lump some kind of threat? Impossible, I thought. Satans' head snapped in my direction. "Impossible?"
Before I could say "zip", we were standing about twenty feet from Lannee, just outside the overhanging limbs of the cedar. " Watch him carefully." Satan whispered, overly dramatic, I thought. Uh, then I remembered the mind reading. Sorry, Sir. I apologized silently. I looked at The Lump--- same same. "You see his left foot? He is turning it slowly towards us. He knows we are here." What? "Yes, that's clever. He is not afraid of us. He is letting us know." What? What? I was still whating when he whisked us back to my office. "It is good that you question, it shows you are beginning to grasp the severity of the situation. However, you must trust Lucifer's feeling on this matter. And mine too, I might add. Let's talk this over."

I suppose I should tell you some things about Lucifer and Satan. But that is for another day----

The Various Permutations of the Trickster

Important things are happening. They appear slight, but that is the nature of this world. Saturday my friend,Pat, bless his heart, brought me coffee. We sat, drinking coffee and talked about the week we had. I read him my poem about many regrets. He had written a poem, a poem about me. It talked of beautiful flowers and a dark room under the staircase. What is the thing about the dark room, Patrick? It is you, you know how you are.
NO. I. Don't. know. how I am. I am a mystery to myself. That has been a life long task, trying to understand myself. I am mostly baffled, that I know. What we have here is a failure to understand, beyond that comes acceptance. I can't even get to the starting point, much less run the race. You tell me what the dark room is, Patrick. Don't pop a trick on me and walk away.
Speaking of tricks, another friend is doing something. I speak metaphor, gentle reader. Gave me a flower seed to plant. The ground is hard and rocky. Not enough sunlight. Needs a special fertilizer. Difficult to care for, needs ingenuity, tons of patience and the right attitude. Slim chance of of survival, much less thriving. However, the flower is exotic and absolutely stunning. Its' perfume, exquisite. A rare, precious delight. The problem, once again is the gardener. I am the ground, hard and rocky. I am the sunlight, lacking. I am the fertilizer and the various limitations. I am the flower, dear reader. What a tricky friend I have. This was done to me before. It seems I am always getting tricked into growing. I have been marvelously tricked so many times, it makes me believe in the reality of the Magical, Mysterious Tendency.

For me to speak of this, indicates one thing. It is Reform Day! Yeay, Reform Day. I have started out right. I got plenty of sleep (perhaps too much). I got up and made oatmeal, which I plan to eat shortly. Made coffee for the jumpstart. And I made a list of tasks that I need to accomplish today. It's Reform Day and I'm going to do it right, this time.
First on the list is writing. Gotta work on that story. I have been slacking on the story, but it is cooking and Oh, what a marvelous mindfruck it will be.

Windy Sunday Morning

It is warm outside. My kitchen window is open, letting in the active air and the grumpy sound of the creaking fence. The wind is pushing the fence back and forth. I think of kids on a swing, pushed by their mothers. The tall fir tree that stands next to my little trailer is vigorously waving its' branches, getting my attention. It tells me to go outside. Go outside, Roberto, go. I feel a wave of sleepy sadness. The years' last maple leaves shiver in the wind. Every so often the tree lets one go. A fat snowflake falling past my window. It is falling time. Leaves are falling down, a blanket for the ground, a promise of food for roots next year and the one after. Another sip of coffee with a gust of wind. This gust was frantic, like a terrier shaking a stuffed toy. Tousled that trees' hair but good. It is falling time. Summer is going underground, waiting it out, the cold season to come. Somehow, I too, must go underground. I don't know how.

They Wander Lost

They wander lost, my old lovers
In the misty streets of my memories.
Bleached bones of the skeleton
That is my love life.

When I walk at night
By the side of a lonely street
They stand, wet and shivering
A cold look in their hard eyes.

I have failed so often
That failure has become
My eternal and only lover.

the Suchness of Lannee Prochaine {part 2)

Lannee Prochaine was born Annee Prochaine and within three months suffered a conversion. A member began to grow and a couple of Christmas ornaments, so to say, under the branch. On her birth certificate an "L" was added to her name and the "F", denoting gender, was replaced with an "M". She became a he and this was perhaps the first of a long run of confusions.
Satan was absorbing the meager file. "It doesn't make sense." I couldn't agree more. In all aspects Lannee Prochaine was more (or less) than unsuitable as a Change Agent. Jesus had received extensive Essene training as a child and in his twenties studied under Tibetan Monks. Siddartha was extremely well educated and with that nimble mind had caused us nothing but problems. Muhammed, the last of the Change Agents was the exception. I pointed this out to Satan, happy to add something to the brain storming. "Muhammed started out as an illiterate camel driver. An average Human at best." I noted. Satan looked at me thoughtfully. He was nodding his head slightly. "Perhaps we are seeing a trend." He closed his eyes in thought, steepling his manicured fingers before him. My head bobbed eagerly in agreement and I nearly began babbling about trends. Thankfully I was able to catch myself in time and composed my features to look as thoughtful as Satan. "We can't afford to make the same mistakes as with Mohammed. Still---" He paused. "This is either brilliance or utter madness." Satan arched his back and looking up, exhaled forcefully. I straightened my back in turn. "I tend to think madness, considering what we have witnessed this past eon. However, just in case, we must be vigilant. I will confer with Lucifer and you--" Satan looked at me gravely, placing his left hand on my shoulder, "You are my devil on the ground. Keep me fully informed." With that he rose abruptly and vanished.
I'm sure the promotion helped, but it was the memory of his hand on my shoulder that put the swagger into my step. My case load dropped from 1500 to one. Lannee Prochaine, the sleeper Change Agent would get my full scrutiny. I had been given a staff with three demons at my command. One was a high level mind reader, another a space bender. The third a spotter that would send me visual updates on Lannees' comings and goings.
Within a week, I was bored nearly to tears.

the Suchness of Lannee Prochaine

I had never been to a meeting this size. The Great Hall was completely full and even Beelzubub was there, way up in front with the other archdevils. He was in high demand,business here and there, spreading pestilence. I heard of a big cholera job he did somewhere in Africa. As a little sideline, sprinkled in some ebola. Wiped about haf the population. Beautiful. Dedication to the cause, I tell you. That tells you something about theimportance of this meeting. Of course he had his everpresent horde of dominions with him. Those flies were thick, as was the stench. I was glad to be in the back. I don't know how the poor devils in the front were breathing.
We were packed in there shoulder to shoulder, paunch to back. Long, orderly lines, row after row. I looked around. Must have been 100,000 case managers jammed in. Something big was brewing. A fly landed on my cheek. It was scurrying around at the end of my nose. I could strongly smell the stench of Beelzy on it. Yeah, that's what we call him. Beelzy.
I forgot about the fly when the commotion started. Something going on at the back by the great doorway. I craned my neck to get a look. A VIP procession slowly making their way to the stage. Some wayuppy, gotta be, I thought. Then I heard the whispers around me.Satan. It's Satan himself. You could feel the excitement. It rose to a roar as the Great Adversary, Lucifers' Lawyer, mounted the stage. He strode to the podium and held up his arm, commanding silence. Quiet came quickly, all you heard was the frenzied murmur of the fog of flies clouding Beelzy. Without a doubt, Satan endeared himself to all of us when he gazed on Beelzy and ordered him to go forth and spread Pestilece. He added that Beelzy had done great work and his presence was direly needed elsewhere. Everyone nodded heads in collective agreement. Those up front nodding with more enthusiasm. With much robe swishing and grandeur, Beelzebub slowly trundled to the great doorway, devils thankfully making way, a lot of way, for him and his retinue.
Yes, smell is important to us, to angels also. It was smell that started the whole thing, the rebellion of the angels. But I am getting ahead of myself. There he was on stage, the mighty Satan, he who debated so effectively and still does, with God. What an inspiration to me and so many others. As his glowing and penetrating eyes swept across the great hall, light moans escaped the mouths of the gathered. Satan the All Seeing, truly each one of us felt his eyes touch all and every one, collectively and singly. When he began speaking, he spoke slow and low. Our shivering bodies leaned forward to catch the nuances of his words, drinking the richness of his voice, swaying in rythm to his cadence. Truthfully, I remember nothing of what he said until I heard this short and cutting sentence: "There is a problem."
He paused, long and uncomfortably. We were looking around, to spot the problem, to seize it and render it done. We looked at each other in suspicion, then inside, at own selves. I didn't know what I had done, but I was profoundly sorry, nearly anguished. "Does anyone know who Lannee Prochaine is?" The sense of relief I felt was shortlived. I was grateful that it was someone else, not I, who was the problem. Lannee Prochaine, Lanee, no, I didn't know...
It was as if Satan was looking directly at me, accusatory. Doubt flashed in my mind. Lannee Prochaine, I couldn't think. A sinking feeling burned down to my gut as my trembling right arm raised itself, hesitantly and deaf to my protesting denials. Satan was looking directly at me. "Are you his case manager?" I mumbled and stuttered, confused. I was angry with my traitorous right arm, that rose to single me out, out of anonymity, to expose me to the glare of the Accuser. "Please come to see me directly after this meeting." Satan said 'please' to me. The shot of joy that went through me was more than elating. I was ecstatic. Then I remember Lannee Prochaine. Yes, he was my charge, but I was puzzled. Lannee was less than a nobody. How? Could ? HE? Be a problem?

Rolling Thunder

We had a doosey of a storm yesterday evening. I counted twelve thunderclaps. That is a record for around here. Normally we get less than about six. And this was rolling thunder. I haven't heard that in ages, maybe never. I hate to admit this, I was a bit frightened. I was making all kinds of stuff up in my head. I saw a lightning bolt slash through my trailer, punching a big hole in the roof and another in the floor. I thought about lightning rods and about when I used to live in Oklahoma, where lightning was common. There would be tornado warnings and we would have to crawl under the house, spend the night in the crawl space. My mother was very frightened by tornadoes. After a few years of that hiding, I refused to go into the bombshelter she insisted on having built, to take refuge.
I spent the time of the thunderstorm on my couch. It rained hard, but not much. The drops were fat and heavy. I think there was some hail. I listened to the rain and the thunder, made stuff up in my head and smelled the fresh, storm-charged air. It was cozy. The light was fantastic, as the evening light can be. With all that banging going on outside, inside of myself, I was at peace.
The writers' block threat level has been lowered to normal. I am working on a delicious little story. Whacky as ever, yours truly, grateful for your checking in; Roberto

It's Monday, Hurray!

Already Monday, reform day. Why don't we cut to the chase and admit that some things are better left alone. He's never gonna reform, we all know that. Who is he kidding. Only himself. He is an old dog and old dogs don't learn new tricks.
Woof woof, said the old dog in a toothless way. If I could just get up, I would give you a good gumming, you young whippersnapper.
In all truth, I have to put off reforming for at least a couple of hours, as I have a date, of sorts. My friend Ju Ju is taking me out for breakfast. I'm having hashbrowns and link sausage and toast and eggs. Yumm. Oh, fun. I'm wearing my new jacket and my dirty brown carharts, with the pink paint stains, with the rope belt. I will at least look like I am reformed. Hope they have good coffee.
I did manage to get some work done last week. Two hours, enough to buy tobacco for nearly a month. Mostly though, I assuaged the guilt. I'll do better this week. After all, it is the first of October and I lost my job, so I have to find some work to make the rent. I can't run a deficit for very long without having to sell one of my vast estates, you know.

Just back from breakfast with Ju Ju. I got sucked in by the propaganda at the Farmhouse. German sausage with potato cakes and fried apples. Sounds good don't it? It was in fact one of those cheap, overly salted and colored polish sausages that I couldn't even finish. The apples were from a can that they use for making crappy apple pie. What a disappointment. Ju Ju was the best part of the morning, bless her heart. I don't learn, except by repeated disappointment. Only then does it sink in. Oh, the coffee was on par with the meal.
Anyway, I better get to reforming. Ta ta, Lovies, thanks for stopping by. Get you a story soon, I promise.

Fried Potato Morning

Uh, the weather took a turn around here. I am wet. I went to have bad coffee and write. While at the bad coffee place, I got a hankering for fried potatoes, with carmelized onions and maybe a bit of bacon. I am having a diet revolt problem right now. The comfy bowl of oatmeal is not happening today. It isn't appealing. One problem was the sugar craze that befell me. It started out innocently enough. A friend came over for an afternoon coffee. Brought a package of bear claws, the kind that is commercially available and has no redeeming value. It was a great idea, we shared one of those evil bear claws. I forgot to send the other three home, part out of greed, part out of negligence. That night they began a sirens' song of sugary seductions. The devouring of the tree bear claws was pure insanity. In my favor, I submit that at least I did not just plop them down in front of me, I actually got up and took two steps to retrieve each. After that it was all downhill.
God help me, it got worse the following day. To the store and back with a two pound stash of sandwich cookies. Enough there for a three day binge. Also, a package of chicken. Pan fried chicken coming up. Devoured that chicken, too. Then the body began the inevitable bad treatment strike. This is how I got into the fix I'm in and the fix I need to avoid. Foibles and foolishness. Hey, on a bright note, it reminds me of a French phrase I just spotted and am thinking about feeding to the language hole in my brain. "Il est en retard." He is a what? Retard?! Gotta hand it to the French, always at the forefront of cultural change. Perhaps I am finally getting to the good words. How do you say "moron" in French? Seems the hole is a bit of a priss and won't eat "questionable" words. Lets me keep those in my pocket. Got a good one there, merde. Means "poop", but starts with an 's'. Don't want to say it, not here at this sanctimonious blog, but watch me merde my way to the next line: merde merde merde merde merde. See, no guilt.
o.k. that's all I can iflict on you today, thanks for stopping by and remember the terror threat level is mauve with flecks of lime green, so it should be safe enough in the back yard to bar-b-q the dog. Haute dog. I'm off!

Easy with the Easy

My brain must be thirsty. It is sucking in French words like a mental black hole. For example: Friday night was French lesson night. Every day that ends with a "y" is French lesson day. That evening, I happened upon a real useful phrase, one at least as useful as;" Sorry, I ran over your cat, but I have a great recipe for catsoup." Probably even better than that, so I set about memorizing it. I repeated it at least 15 times and satisfied that I had it in my head, got ready for bed. The next morning the English translation got sucked into the black hole, as did the French phrase. I remember neither. I remember everything else about the event, what music was playing, what time it was, even the web site I was on.
I have a hole in my brain. This is not how to go about learning another language, with a hole in my head. It seems I had similar problems learning Spanish. I had to first learn to hate Spanish before I started to even learn. That took four months. Only then did the black hole burp up a hope of getting it. So, don't say: "French shouldn't be a problem, as you already speak Spanish and French and Spanish are both Romantic languages. It should be easy." EASY? EASY? That 's it, I'm cutting that word up into teensy, teensy bits but not until I stomp on it, jab it with needles, hammer it but good, get it wet and use it improperly in a French sentence.

BTW, we are now officially into a category three writers' block. Weeping highly encouraged.

It's Saturday, Hurray

I slept in. I dreamt long and intricate. In the dream, I met a miniature dragon. I never met a dragon before. I'm not sure, but the dragon might have had four wings, not just two, like in the pictures. It had really vicious looking teeth. Yikes!
Maybe it was a toy breed of dragon, like a yorky terrier, but I think it also was young. The human caretaker (I hesitate to use "owner"), seemed impressed that it took such a liking to me. She said that that was highly unusual. Her name was Marti. The dragon acted very puppy-like. It fluttered in front of me and licked my beard. Must have had some food stuck in there from dinner or something. I didn't know what to do, when it was fluttering near my neck with that happy-toothy look on its' face. We happened to be going somewhere, across the street and she sent it to wait on top of a building. It caught something to eat on the way, and I got to see dragon dinner manners. To think that thing was just three inches from my neck-oid artery. Shudder, brrrr.
The dream was interesting from another angle. It was basically about another character, probably a doubleganger of mine, an alter ego. His name was Leopold. He was something else, let me tell you. Oozing and dripping charisma, that one. Very unconventional and unreliable. Basically I was running around doing damage control for his sake. "The show must go on", comes to mind.
There is a lot for me to contemplate, in that dream. All sorts of attitudes to try on, like in a clothing shop; humm, wonder how this looks on me. Plenty of stuff to fill the vacuum in between the ears, today. I understand that I need to internalize this character, claim him as my self, else he will run around in his unreliable way, making promises and flippantly breaking them. If I can manage that, then I get to also claim his extraordinary gifts. The dream as a warning and a promise. Good stuff for a Jungian therapist. Lots of work for me.

The leaf on my floor has moved to a high traffic area and is rapidly decomposing to dust and crumbles. It is laying in the very spot where I stomp around to cook and wash dishes. It's a goner. I have drained it. Next, it gets the broom treatment, when I am overcome with another fit of cleaning. That could be weeks, though. I have to go to the doctor to get some meds for this shameful condition. I just hope none of my friends ever catch me in the act.

How about a single leaf before I leaf you:
He said: "Forgive them Father, they know not what they do." I admit, I don't know what I am doing. Can I forgive myself, now, finally?
Au revoir, my precious ones.

I don't have a Job

I've been fired twice this year. That is a lifetime record for me, far as I can remember. I don't really count getting fired from the cafe and in reality, dusting at the Wood Merchant wasn't a job, as such. However, it does prove that I am fireable.
Now that I am unemployed, what will I do with all the extra time I have? Last week I talked with my good friend, Kevin, about the leisure class. We noted the oddness of who has leisure. The ultra rich have lots of leisure time as do the ultra poor. If I have to define myself, I would say that I fall into the latter category, yet, that isn't quite right. I note that we don't have any bombs falling in the neighborhood. That is a form of wealth. I do not suffer from food insecurity, that is a bonus. Money quickly goes to my head, it seems I do better with less money. I am afraid that when I have lots of money, I get in trouble. Right now, I don't have money for alcohol. Therefore, that works in my favor. Other than paying the rent, I need money for tobacco, bad coffee, good coffee and half and half. Oh, some sugar, too. Notice that they are all vices. All are a detriment to me.

At heart, I am camping. I have looked at life that way for a long time. My prized possessions are my sleeping bag, my ground pad and my tent. If it gets worse, that is the fall-back position. Needless to say, this computer becomes a fishing weight. Being paranoid enough for all of us, I have to orient myself in that way.
Which is sad, I know that. I struggle with it. I have one foot in the stone age, the other in the information age. I like to think that I am taking the best from each. Maybe so. Maybe not. I vacillate.
On another note, It Is Official Now: Writers Block has been declared. The hand wringing will begin at noon. There will be the added bonus of teeth gnashing and, if you order now, soul searching. Weeping will not be tolerated until a deeper degree of Writers' Block has been reached. Good luck, and may the under dog win.

Food for Thought

The iron kettle, the water and the fire. Fate or circumstances add the ingredients. Are we not like a slowly simmering stew? And yet, can we not decide what spices to add, how much salt and sweetness? With that, do we not give to our loved ones a rich broth and hearty sustenance?

Extra Letters

The first thing that strikes you are all the extra letters. They pack them in as if there was a sale at K-Mart and it was just too good of a deal to walk by. We will celebrate our Frenchness by over-letter-ation. One could say they are letterate. It happens in English too, not so much though, we are semi-letterate. None of that going on in Spanish or German. Poor bastards, can't afford it, I guess. Illetterate.
I was listening to an interview about education in Finland last night. Apparently, Finland scores at the top of the education ratings. Guess what? They don't let their kids go to school until they are seven. No kindergarten, mind you. Then, first, they teach them to "be in awe of themselves". Even though the kids are a couple of years behind, they catch up in reading within 4 months.
Did you hear about the (this is not a joke) Chekoslovakian motorcycle racer, age 18, that got into an accident, with a good jarring of his noggin, woke up speaking "perfect" English. Had to have somebody translate for the paramedics. Before that he only knew a few words of English. Didn't know who he was, didn't speak Check, lasted for a couple of hours, if I remember correctly. Chew on that one. No, I do not want whacks to the head to help with my French.
Is it writer's block yet? Not yet.
A single leaf:
A resting dog in the middle of the sun baked street, oblivious to the imperial destinations of human doings, that makes me smile.

Its Monday, Reform Day

I already got a late start on Reform Day. It is now one in the afternoon and I am behind on the agonizing. Can't even do that well. Damn.
I did get a chance to make an apology for my recalcitrant ways. I've been inspired by a friend who is taking a stand on honesty. So, I blew someone off yesterday, no excuse, I did it with full intent, especially someone that didn't do anything to deserve it. Having an active imagination, I could have woven a web of lies and fabrications. I have to think about it more. I am stuck in my thinking.

How was open no mike? We had it yesterday afternoon. It was fun. I made a real good rice salad, a painting of edible flowers, herbs and fruit and vegetables. I joked that it was a recipe of my Morrocan grandmother. It was fun to make, I focused my intent and cooked with love and skill. Annabelle read a piece she wrote about the loud Harley Davidson Motorcyclists that descended onto the valley for "Oyster Run", called the Vroom Vroom tribe. I read the "Balls I Bear" story. A couple of the guitar players played and we sang songs. It was also decided to rename open no mike to: The Gypsy Cafe. I like it.
Well, it is nap time. I may have to postpone agonizing for tomorrow, as I have managed to put this off like everything else.

A Single Leaf

That tree must have a thousand branches. They reach to the sky in surrender to winter. On one of those branches a single leaf remains. Though brown and frayed, it refuses to fall.
That is why I smile.


From that leaf that I wrote about, a marvelous richness unfolded. I can't tell the turmoil it brought me, that leaf on my floor. Not a bad turmoil, mind you. Still a shaking, an overturning and a new emptiness to fill. (One must make room for the new, my darlings). So I will be writing short prose pieces, suitable for a table near you. They will be called Single Leaves. I take the title from the Proety piece that first appeared. I hope to be the first to coin Proety as a illegitimate form prose/poetry writing. No point in being famous if you can be infamous, no? Ta ta, my precious ones.

What Gives Me Hope

What gives me hope? Ants give me hope. Bees, too. Ants and bees and schools of fish give me hope. Oh, flocks of birds give me hope. Ants, bees, fish, birds all of them give me hope. Why?
It is called swarm intelligence. If you don't know what that is, join the club, nobody knows. It can easily be observed, in action. You ever seen a school of fish, like on TV, how they all turn at the same time? Flocks of birds do that too. Now, just in case you think that there is some guy hollering "Right turn, hut", like a marine drill sarge(ant), think again. An ant colony is made up of individual ants that by themselves are about as smart as your average sock. They don't have leaders or supervisors. It is every ant doing antstuff, yet when there is a problem, they all seem to know, and respond very quickly to the problem. This is a real mystery to ant scientists, how they just know what to do, and do it so damn quick. All social animals have this "swarm intelligence". It is the "sum of the parts, greater than the whole" enigma.
Humans are social animals. Granted we are smarter than the average sock, some of us reach heights of smartness on par with, say, adjustable caps. Or Garden Party Hats with flowers and fruits, for the ladies, trying to illustrate, I am. But the ant analogy is apropo, none the less. (Uhh, I never used "apropo" before, this is going to be a good day.) I am hitting the heights of penning today, boy howdee. Gee, wonder if I spelled that right. Sure would be nice if these computers came with a gadget to tell you if you misspelled something. Well, maybe someday.
I better hurry, I can tell I need to build character, so it is nearly time to get a real bad cup of coffee. Oh, yeah, I know what you are thinking, my dear reader. You are thinking, how is he going to tie this into that damn "not-doing" crap? Aren't you? Yes you are, my prescient ones, I caught you at it! Well, good on you, I am proud to have you here with me, in this virtual forum and to have the chance to expound on the various manifestations of the sublime art. It is always comforting to have fellow seekers on the path. Given enough flashlights, we can light-up this dark place like a Rolling Stones concert. Alas, I must go, as I sense an imminent crash of character, unless I take remedial action. Ta-ta.

Oh, one thing more: I call these "single leaves". Here is one:

The bonfire fueled by the laughter of a circle of friends, that makes me smile.

A Feast for a King

This night I dined on bread and salad. The lettuce a gift from a good friend. The bread a gift from another good friend. The balsamic vinegar a gift from another good friend. Kings beg to dine at my table.

The Value of Things

A couple of days ago I suffered an attack of cleanitis. Usually I am able to head off these occasional episodes, using a variety of cures and distractions. Nothing I tried helped. I found myself in the middle of a fullblown episode, broom in hand, sweeping my carpet. It was humiliating.
It was triggered by a piece of trash that, like an uninvited guest, lay idly on my faux Morrocan carpet. The normal state of my floor is what I like to refer to as 'au naturale'. If I have dirt, pine needles, bits of debris, oogies and woogies on the floor, I like to think that it is a sign of my openness to natural processes, embracing change, if you will. Others might label it pigsty housekeeping, but I am reluctant to judge my attitude of 'welcoming diversity' in such a harsh manner.
Now, I have to confess that I am afflicted with a particular mental flaw. I have worked diligently to eradicate this failure of character from my inventory. I have failed so far. I like my floor swept. I admit it. There, I said it. And I can go long on this one, avoiding the inevitable, whiteknuckling my way through the cravings, standing firmly by my ideals, but every so often, I fail miserably.
The leaf that lay on my floor was the trigger. I found myself defenseless. The rigors of my training, no help. Years of dedication to my cause evaporated like vulnerable dew drops to a hot desert sun. I gave myself, willingly, to my compulsion. Perhaps it was deviously placed there by the Temptor himself, the same that lured Eve with his sly and golden tongue, perhaps it was just the vagaries of random chance that the leaf, that beautiful fallen symbol of summer passing, landed there to vex and hex me. And hexed I was. The spell of that leaf had me entranced. It opened a world of reflection, of insight, a glimpse into the anguished horror of beauty. Yes, beauty is just as hard to bear as depravity. Beauty can, by revealing itself, make you want to blind your eyes, blank your mind. If you are able to gaze at it, it is not real beauty. Real beauty shatters the self, scatters defenses, brings tears and waves of shivers as it touches every cell in the body. Worse yet, it can make you write poetry.
That leaf is my prized possession. All else that I own, my vast estates, my dumptrucks of emeralds and rubies, my golden palaces, worthless in comparison. I am a million times wealthier with that leaf, lying there on my carpet, by the door. A simple leaf.
And that was how I fell from grace. I failed to do nothing. I, the one that admonishes you, dear reader, to practice the sublime art, did do. I coveted. I cleaned. I celebrated. I reflected. I sinned, I admit. I did all that, to avoid the pain of beauty.
It lies there, where I so carefully replaced it after my 'episode', a reminder to my failure, my cowardice, my treason against this gift from God. I am not worthy. I am a cracked vessel. A shard at best. I have left that leaf there to remind myself that I am a hypocrite. I pretend to seek beauty, I write about it, speak eloquently even, but in reality, I am a hollow man, a despicable "do-er".
Gentle Reader, take this fall of mine to heart. Let me be the example of what not to do, when given the chance to see the world as it really is, open your heart to it, brace yourself for the jolt of actuality. Don't do as I did. Do not be distracted by useless do-ing. Practice the art faithfully and lead the way for me.
I will remain your humble servant;
Roberto Kiam

Balls I Bear, Gruff Gruff (end)

The bear let out a fiendish yell, but Tugg's teeth were clamped down well. The howling bear began to spin, with Tugg, determined, hanging in. The anguished bear could feel a tear and then another from down there. Tugg did what was he was bred for, Tugg tugged and tugged and then some more. By now the bear was in a state, a state of panic and when he tried to flee, Tugg tugged hard and off came that bear's future family.
With a sense of pride and great satisfaction, Tugg ran home with the proof of the action. He skipped to his dad's boat, carrying the prize, when Rick spotted him and said with surprise: Oh no, Tugg, you smell like crap and what is that roadkill you've brought back?
"A pair of bear balls for dinner I bring, for when the chow-chow bell goes ding-a-ling. There's one for you and one for moi; you can cook yours, I'm eating mine raw."
Tugg was grinning ear to ear, brimming full with doggish cheer. Rick was looking at that thing that hung bloody from Tugg's chin. "Get rid of that stinking mess, I'm getting the hose, you're getting a scrubbing from tail to nose."
And with that the story's done, a story about a true dog who won, by quickness, bravery and smarts, that arrogant bears' private parts. I will let you figure out what this story is all about. Every story is a metaphor, he who has the key, unlocks the treasure's door.

Who the Hell is in Charge Here

It sucks being God. It just sucks. Well, actually that may not be true, but I have anotion of ahint that it just does. It's disconcerting, for one. Not the God stuff, writing stories, I mean. I'm a little discombobulated right now. I had a meeting with my story characters, all in my trailer (it was hell getting that elepants character in, talk about togetherness--the nerve, insisted on bringing his trunk!) Anyway, we had to talk, cause I needed to head off what appears to be a mutiny.
The point is that I am the writer, the author. Notice that author and authority are first cousins. I am the authority and what I say goes. I make this shit up, It may be shit, but it is my shit. There will be no add-libbing in my stories. I put my foot down. It was the bear, the chicken shit moron bear, that's who started it. Not such a moron, after all. Anyway, he was crouched all the way in the back of my trailer, all fifteen feet of him under a six foot ceiling, in that tiny bedroom wringing his hands and talking about his precious balls and how he just isn't any good at rhyming. Of course, Tugg was on his best behavior, sitting there by my God-like feet, with that adoring look on his doggie face, cocking his head every so often slightly to the side and making cute sounds of agreement to everything I said. Every so often, he would look back at the bear and snarl: "I gettin' them ba- alls," sing-song-neener-neener like. That would launch the bear into another fit of hand wringing and crying, pleading and begging for his preciousnesses and trying to make deals about how the story should go. How the story should GO? I had lost my cool and boomed in a God like voice. I decide how the story should go. Not you, ME. This is not a democracy, I pointed out.
It just got weirder when the 150 foot whale fell out of the sky, flattened my garden and my truck. What the hell was that I said, looking out my window, right into a buggy whale eye. "Sorry I'm late, boss," he whaled out. OH, his breath was bad. And so much of it, too. I was just jumping up and down like a crazed world leader at that point. "What are you doing here?" I wanted to know. "You called a meeting of all your story characters, didn't you, boss?" "Yes, I did and I never wrote about a whale, certainly not about one in a spacesuit!" "Ah, but you will. Whales from the star Sirius. Serious, boss. Science Fact genre. Won an Peanutbody award." "A Peabody Award for reporting?" "Yeah, boss, that's it. Peabody. UHM, you got any plankton laying around, boss, I'm famished." "What's that banging and hammering?" I wanted to know. "Boss that would be the three legions of Roman soldiers setting up a portable fortress down the street, moat and all. Guess they are staying for a while. Lot of mouths to feed, boss." What? "Yeah, boss, the barbarians are in the Indian Village getting drunk and pillaging. You got some diplomattin' to do, boss."
It must suck to be God, just suck.

Balls I Bear, Gruff Gruff

This story is for my friend Kieran, who just turned ten. You can read it if you promise to unchain that small, quick and precious child and linger while I make these words your magic carpet ride. If you lack the leisure, perhaps you should look elsewhere for your pleasure. A casino may be just the spot, they deserve more of what you got.

Not just another day, this one smelled of promise and heroic feats, and more besides, delectable eats. A dogs' life is lived happily if he can roam, hunt and pee. The happiest dogs are those that spend the day, sniffing and not giving themselves over - to couches or chains, and names like Rover. Tugg was one such doggie, thinking dog-clear, self-true, crisp not soggy.
Along his favorite path he went, up a forest hill, time well spent, sniffing here and there. Catching the unmistakable scent of matted hair, arrogance, in short, a bigbig, brown Bear. Down the path he's coming, thought Tugg, I feel his claws on hard-packed ground ---a drumming.

Out of my way, you pansy cretin, else you'll get a righteous beatin', smirked the treetall bear.
Oh yeah? thought Tugg scowling, and growling slow, like from some cave below.
If theres not room for us to pass, you can kiss my champaign glass.Tugg answered politely, cheerful, though a little bit contritely.
You are a pesky terrier, that I see, and don't be crass, you have no champaign glass.
Ah, a moron bear you are, I spotted you from afar. I could tell by your beady eyes and the way you attract that swarm of flies.
You look like a mangey hound to me, another word from you, you'll see, I'll include you in my --- Uhhh, what rymes with "you?"
Stove pipe flue?
No, no, not that.
Dinner plans?
Yeah --- that's it --- I'll include you in my dinner plans.
Tugg could not help but smile. Like taking jerky from a little child.
So get off my path, or I'll swipe you with my paw and send you running home to your -- Pa.
Ha Ha Ha Ha, the bear chuckled at his own wit.
Now don't be a snit, said Tugg. In a little bit, you'll learn a lesson you won't soon forgit.
A snit? What's a snit? You're just making stuff up. I hate this story, this story is stupid. I'm a bigbig bear, not some rhymer. I tear down trees or rip them up and sometimes eat berries for dessert. Seasonally, mind you.
If you don't like this tale, you best turn --- and get off my path. With that Tugg started warming up his Bear killing motor, by kicking his back legs, scattering dirt far behind him.
Hey, I'm the bear in this story and I'm not rhyming nothing and not getting off this path. Said the bear.
You may be tall, strong and big, said Tugg, revving up his motor, but I will snap you like a rotten twig.
A rotten twig, that's a hoot, run along little doggy or I'll give you the -- shoe.

Tuggs' motor was now humming hot and fluid. He was nearly ready to go to it. He could hardly contain himself, this would be more fun than his chew-toy on Rick's shelf.
You're beginning to make me mad, said the Bear, considering you're the smallest meal I ever had. The bear lunged forward, smashing good, the spot where once Tugg stood. Then he realized his error, he's run under me, he thought in terror.
Now a bear has thick fur on his skin, not even the longest teeth will sink in. But there is a spot where he has no hair.
There, there, I spot them there, Bear balls with no hair. Noted Tugg, before his teeth sunk in.
In a flash the bear lost his grin. He let out an anguished cry, but Tugg hung on and said with a sigh:
Oooh, these bear balls smell bad, remind me of a Limburger cheese I once had.

to be cont.

Sick of Plastic

The level of poverty in my town is abhorrent.

They have taken the grocery money and bought paint instead. The houses look pretty but the children are licking the floor under the refridgerators for sustenance. It is all looks and no cooks. But, my oh my, don't we just have a good thing going? With our HD TV DVD EZ USD We are so poor that we can't afford whole words anymore. We can't pay attention to the very essence of life, our life.
Everything goes on the auction block. The slaves are bragging at the prices they fetch. They are paid in paper for a soul that is priceless. Even Faustus feels rejuvinated. His deal struck, more a wager, with a good chance to win. And ultimately did he not repent? Was there a clause, perhaps a Saintly Claus that let him off the hook? He had the smarts to trade for more smarts, not trinkets, and the devil thought, I'll swell his head so he won't fit through the exit door. The devil learned his lesson. Don't swell heads no more. Now he swells wallets. Fat with fiat money and pipe dreams. Dumb fucks.

The level of poverty in my town is abhorrent. I'm the only one to point it out, the stench of inflation and isolation. Of plastic burning the hands of those who took comfort in an easy bye. I am but one canary. I know what I miss and stomp my foot. But what does a lowly canary know. Birdbrain.

Nothing Doing

There is too much to do.

I am a packrat. I have way more crap than enthusiasm, oodles more ideas than time. I am working on a big project, by fits and gits. In truth, it is not a project, more of a tendency. It is essentially this: Doing Nothing (I am as serious as the math teacher who caught you cheating). If I could only do that, and do it well!
I know what you are thinking. Anybody can do nothing and do it well! Right? Am I right? OOhh, contraire, my dexterous brainulators, there is an art to doing nothing. How about an example. If you are doing nothing and are thinking: "I should be doing something," then you are doing something. You have yet to enter into the sublime, my busy friends. If you are practicing the fine art of doing nothing and you notice how well you are doing nothing, you are merely deluding yourself. You are doing. Something. You have yet to master the sublime, my dear dendritic coginators. You know the saying: "Mastery makes it look, ahhh, so easy."
I started by confessing my packrattishness. It is my personal suspicion that all the crap I own, interferes with my ability to not-do. It is, I believe, a reflection of my state of mind. Bluntly put, I am full of shit. Well, at least my head. My colon too, come to think of it.
Up to this point, I have been somewhat tongue-in-cheekish. I will drop that now and get serious. I is my hypothesis that most of the trouble I get into comes from doing, as opposed to not-doing. I also suspect that everybody else suffers from this affliction. Example? Look at the quagmire in Iraq. A bunch of people were so hot on doing something, that they stepped off a cliff and we all fell into a big heap of crap. Had we done nothing, it would have been about a thousand times better. I am pretty sure that if you analyze your mistakes, a vast majority of them were as a result of "better to do something, even if it is wrong." Seriously, take a look, a long look.
Am I saying we should never, ever do anything? Please. If you have an itch, scratch it. Know when to stop. So, in the spirit of not-doing, doo doo.

Jimmy Wright and the Woodpecker (end)

It was a homelessness Christmas for us, but we had the best Christmas in the world. We stayed with friends, the whole town came to our aid. We had clothes within hours, that very day. People brought envelopes with Christmas cards and money, invitations to stay at their houses, offers of lunch, dinner and friendship and more money. It was overwhelming, for me. I was the most effected by it all. I was in denial for a week. Betty and I went to see our house, there was no house. There was nothing but a bare hillside that dropped into the river. A big part of the bluff was missing, as if scraped off by a giant hand. Others were not as lucky as we were. Jimmy's cabin was pushed to one side by the slide, crushed.
I had called Jimmy at the hospital to tell him about what happened. He was doing fine, they had him on some drugs and he slept most of the time. He was ready to leave, but they were making sure. No woodpeckers in the city, he joked. We never talked about what was going on, with the woodpecker hallucination. I asked him what he planned to do. He didn't know. Maybe move somewhere else.
In January I sent Betty and the kids to stay with her parents. I was slowly coming around, I had been depressed after the excitement wore off. We were starting over, waiting for insurance money, trying to decide what to do. I joined my family in March. We started over with the help of her parents.
It was always hard to talk about Jimmy and the "incident". I was a little obsessed with the meaning of it, what it pointed to, things impossible to comprehend. The kids missed him, Betty was worried and I was humbled by it all. Who would have known that he would be so important to me, when all I really wanted was to be rid of him. I really should look him up and see how he is doing. Maybe he would move over here.

Jimmy Wright and the Woodpecker (part 5)

It was raining buckets when we decided to take Jimmy to the hospital. He was in such bad shape that afternoon, there was no denying something had to be done. He didn't even argue. I tried to talk Betty into staying at home with the kids, but she would not hear of it. One thing about Betty, she was sweet as honey most of the time, but she would get a certain hardness in her look and not even a bulldozer could move her. I had learned to be careful with her, like you could win a battle, but lose the war. As it was, we barely got out of the driveway, the ground was so soggy. Normally we would have snow in December. I guess we were lucky, with all that rain we would have had snow up to our roof.
Driving in that downpour was very difficult. I almost turned back, it was so bad. The wipers couldn't keep up with the rain and we poked along at 15 miles an hour. Even though it was late afternoon, the clouds and rain darkened the countryside, the headlights were nearly useless. When we got into town, it let up some, so the going got better.
It was another hour to the hospital. Soon as we were about a mile from home Jimmy had fallen asleep, probably the first good sleep he had in weeks. I hated to wake him, he looked so peaceful. As a matter of fact, we couldn't wake him. I didn't know what to do. Betty took charge. She marched into the emergency room and like some Army Commander had the nurses sprinting to the car, pushing a gurney. I couldn't believe it. Jimmy slept through it all.
We wrestled him onto the gurney and he didn't even stir an eyelid. We were there for hours, the kids asleep on chairs, with me missing my bed and Betty bristling with energy and authority. About midnight, we decided to get a motel room, it was late and I was, well -- it made sense to stay off the roads that night.
In the morning we called the hospital, Jimmy was still asleep. We got some breakfast and returned to town. I was anxious to get into work, it was nearly Christmas and though not as busy as fishing and hunting season, would be better to have an extra hand around. The rain had let up, so driving was much better. I stopped at the store to check in.
Soon as I walked in, I knew that something had happened. "Oh my Lord, you are alive. We have
been so worried, Mr Tillman, is your family with you?"
"Yes, they are in the car. What?"
"There's been a big mudslide over at the bluffs. The sheriff came by my house early, to ask if you were on vacation or something. They have been working all night, looking for survivors. your house was swept into the river. A section of the bluff got washed away."
"What!?"

to be continued....

Jimmy Wright and the Woodpecker (part 4)

I always felt guilty about my resentment of Jimmy. I asked around about him, what kind of guy, if he could be trusted, you know, I am a Dad and I want to know which way the wind is blowing. What kind of wild life we have in the neighborhood, more than woodpeckers of course. Wait till you hear about the woodpecker, but that's comes later. So, he checked out o.k., not a troublemaker, quiet, decent, a little strange cause "he's kinda hermit." Jimmy worked infrequently, mostly day labor stuff. I guess I was resentful because well, now we had three kids to feed and like I said, he was a little strange. I have to admit though, he could make the whole house rock with laughter. He would make these weird sounds, almost like a foreign language, to get Jason laughing and squealing, that would get Maggie going, then Betty would catch it, finally I broke in with my Hohohohos till tears flowed and bellies ached. We would finally settle down, sighing and snickering, when Jimmy would make another sound at Jason and the contagious laughter rolled around the warm house again.
After a couple of months, all things considered, I finally adopted him as a family member, more or less. Betty would take him a plate of food every day, if he wasn't hanging around, the kids skipping ahead, Jason belting out "Immy, Immy" all the way over. So I made it a point to spend time with him, to seek him out, when he got to hermiting too much. I admit, I would worry, we all did.
Jimmy's cabin, like I said was stuck in a bunch of trees, invisible from the road. It was very small with an old wood stove in one corner, bunk beds at the back. It had a porch at the front that used to be screened in. Sometimes I would head over there with a six-pack of beer and a pack of smokes, you know, guy time. We sat on the floor, backs against the front wall, waving away the biting gnats, blowing smoke in their faces. Jimmy wasn't much of a conversationalist, the beer helped to prime the pump, so to speak. About all Jimmy liked doing was fishing. He lived for and on fish. He told me that he never fit into society, that he didn't get along all that well with people. He understood animals just fine, but people were "odd". Which was a hoot, I thought him "odd". Heck, everybody thought him "odd". Anyway, one thing you had to give him, he was a superb woodsman. He owned only what was absolutely necessary, minus his fishing rod, which was his only luxury.
"Don't you ever miss people, you know, for company?" No, he had the river and the animals, they were his friends. Which is why that damn Woodpecker drove him nuts, finally, I guess. It was after Thanksgiving, when the rains started that the woodpecker came on the scene. Betty noticed it first, Jimmy was looking "frayed". I asked him about it. He said that he wasn't sleeping well, that there was a woodpecker in the neighborhood and it kept him awake with all that racket.
"Jimmy, woodpeckers sleep at night," I pointed out. "Not this one, this one don't sleep." Day and night the woodpecker would peck, you know, wood. By the middle of December, he was not just pecking on trees, he was banging on Jimmy's cabin. "If it weren't for you and your family, I would go live somewhere else, that damn bird is driving me nuts." Try as I could, I never heard the woodpecker. We all listened for it, nothing. Only Jimmy. Betty and I got very worried. "Honey, we have to do something. Jimmy is getting worse." I agreed. Something had to be done.

to be continued.....