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.....

Jimmy Wright and the Woodpecker (part 3)

After High School, I joined the Air Force and went to war. After that, I went to College, then I got married and worked for a few years. Then the kids came and then we all moved back to town. We bought a little, affordable fixer on the "Bluffs". The river had chewed on Warren Hill (up to the knees) and our house was about seventy five feet from the steep drop down to the river. That was the back yard and the view was stunning. Since there was no access to the river, it made the house affordable. And it was a two room cabin with a small attached bedroom on a gravel road out in the sticks, that helped also. Anyway, Betty just loved the place and all I heard was "cute", for weeks. Everything was squeelee cute, except me, I was manly. Betty always the diplomat. Oh, did I mention that I was very much in love with her?
I got a job managing a sporting goods store and life was good. Money was tight, with two kids and all, but we didn't mind much, it was enough to scrub, paint and fix, some clearing and raking, a small garden with flowers and tomatoes, a lot of herding the crumb snatchers, you know, it was cute.
Warren Hill looked like a giant, green, two level birthday cake, with sporadic trees sprouting on the steep sides and a pretty good crop on top. Across the road were more cabins, some tucked into the band of trees that edged the slope. So guess who lived about a city block from us? He was renting a tiny cabin, no electricity, no running water, he paid what he could afford. Jimmy had no steady job, no food, no friends and no clue. He had aged some, was taller than I remember, but otherwise looked the same. Lost boyish, mildly wild and a tad deranged, stuffed into some oversized and ancient overalls with a flannel shirt that hung flaggish off his bones. Betty adopted him the moment she spotted him standing in our dirt driveway.
"Honey, who's that?"
"I don't know." An itinerant scarecrow? A rag collector? Is that Jimmy? No! Yes! I recognized him when we got close. What was his last name? Damn.
"That's Jimmy, Sweetheart. Jimmy Fright, I mean Wright." I was flustered.
What is he doing here? From the back seat an eruption of demands to be set free of the car.
"Out. Out. Out." that chant from three year old Jason, who didn't talk much, but made up for it in volume. Maggie the five year old chimed in. Soon as the car door opened they were racing toward Jimmy and then began to pogo bounce in front of him. Jason started chanting again: "UpUpUpUp!" Arms extended skyward. Wait, let me hose the mutt off first..... I slowly approached Jimmy, reluctantly extended my handshake and introduced my family. The kids were behaving like salivating puppies and were trying to convert him into a standing playground. I was amazed and dumbfounded. Betty proposed: "How about a nice lunch! Can you stay for lunch, Jimmy?" A shy nod and flash of a smile.

to be continued......

Jimmy Wright and the Woodpecker (part 2)

As much as possible, I avoided Jimmy. I didn't want some snot-nose tagging along behind me. I was a loner or at least pretended to be. Every now and then I would see him and once I noticed he had a black eye. I asked him what happened. "Nothin' , I got hurt." He looked around edgy, like he was hiding. I demanded who smacked him. He kept quiet. Was it your Dad? He shook his head. He didn't want to tell me. I would find out.
If it was his Dad, there wasn't much I could do. If it was a school bully, I would fix him. I hated the bullies, so it wasn't a big deal. I started asking around. The word got out that I had some interest in Jimmy, so it wasn't long before Earl "The Weasel" Watson approached me.
"Heard you got a new boyfriend."
"What do you want, Weasel." We called him Weasel because he looked like a weasel from the neck up. Had a big body, though. Like a cross between a weasel and a hippo. So you didn't want him to get his mitts on you. His problem was that he was so damn slow. In a fight, you could duck around behind him, go take a leak, come back and he would still be turning around.
"Jimmy's your new boyfriend!"
I didn't see it coming and certainly Weasel didn't. He was visibly stunned as blood spurted from his nose and lips. Just to be safe, I stepped to the left, right hand ready for an encore.
"Fuck with that kid and I will give you more medicine."
The "F" word carried a lot of weight in those days. Of course, I had used it before, no less than ten thousand times, I'm sure. But never like that. As a kid I had discovered it early but unlike all the other curse words, it had a nearly religious impact. I never said it with conviction, not like that. I was shaking as I walked away. I had to run, to get back to normal. I thought about what happened for days after. I didn't remember smacking Weasel, it happened so quick. I even felt sorry about it, like it was someone else done it. Never occurred to me it might have been Jimmy. Yep, it gets weirder. I'll tell you about the woodpecker in a moment.

to be continued....

The Woodpecker and Jimmy Wright

When I think about what happened to Jimmy, I get this dislodging in my gut; a feeling or a suspicion that I am a stranger to my own self, as if the hat on my door peg, the hat that molded itself to me (and I to it), belongs to someone else. That feeling is so disconcerting to me, that I try to put it away, out of my head, yet that very avoidance seems to draw my mind back to this puzzle, again and again. It is a vague feeling as if I have forgotten something critical or took a wrong turn somewhere, somewhere where I don't know I am going.
I hope he is alright, I should go see him, but in a way I just want the memory to go away. I guess I am writing this to clear my mind and to express my fear that my 'take' on the situation, my point of view, was perhaps, wrong. I guess, I owe something to him, maybe an apology. Maybe something that will fix the situation.
You see, I had known Jimmy for well over thirty years. We lived in the same town, attended the same school, walked the same streets. I was a few years older than he and remember the first words I said to him. He was a little kid that lived somewhere in my neighborhood and even then was somewhat of an odd duck. He had that lost look about him, as if his parents had left him at a gas station on their way to another life. It was painful to see, the way he looked. I hated it. It made me want to hurt him, to get him away from me. Yet, at the same time, I would stick up for him, as he was a target for other kids, who no doubt, felt the same unease.
When I first talked to him, it was after I intervened in a one sided fight. Four kids had him cornered against the rear wall of the grocery store and were taunting and pushing him. I was curious who they were bullying, so I walked over to see what was going on. When I saw it was the weird kid, I shrugged my shoulders and was about to leave. That was when I saw his eyes. I saw no fear in them, just that lost look and something else. Something I have noted over and over, something undefinable. It released a kind of outrage in me, a resolve or stubborn streak. I shouldered my way past the cordon and stood there, next to him. I became very quiet inside, calm yet tight, like a compressed spring. I wasn't the kind to fight, I mostly avoided that but I was no wimp either. I could hold my own when angry. As I stood there listening to the distant protests of the bullies, I heard a rushing sound, loud and static, in my ears. I also heard the whine in their voices, the whine of fear, the protest of little kids who had a toy taken away. It probably was only a couple of minutes before they left. It certainly seemed a long time. I was in no hurry. When it was over, I looked at Jimmy and he said: "I'm sorry."
I shrugged my shoulders and told him it was alright. "No you worry." Babytalk. I walked home.

to be continued....

Reading by Intuition

Note: This piece I like a lot. It is meant to be read
slowly and
with a certain part of the brain turned off. It is a tasty piece and pretty, but we are not concerned with that. It carries an effect that is meant to be felt, intuitively. So, settle down and observe what happens inside. Settle down. Observe. Go slow.

It is a melancholy time of year. The festive colored shade umbrellas stand slumped over empty, wet tables and chairs. A lone black crow patrols the channel side deck, looking for scraps. A piece of bread dropped and left, half a soggy french fry. The water, gray as the sky, ripples gently and becomes a flag in the wind when boats pass by. For a while it undulates, then, as if tired, settles down to a frilly, ruffly quivering. Beads of moisture cling to everything. There is a subtle sheen on all. Even old, faded wood looks somehow fresh and rejuvenated. There is no distance in the distance. It is swallowed by the mist and clouds. They are pressing down, as if resentful of this space next to the ground, where humans and animals live, those not as tall as the trees that hold up the sky.
Sometimes even this gap does not exist. When there is nothing to see, vision must turn inward and we navigate by pure imagination and blind faith. If faith were not blind, it would not be the same, you see? You understand that there are spaces between things where common sense is extravagant foolishness? These are the tiny cracks in the world, that though tiny, can swallow whole, not just rivers and mountain ranges, but continents and galaxies. Do you think that is a path, the right path, you are walking on? It may be a long tongue and your comfy cave a maw.

What the crows don't get, the chickadees clean-up. The small is there in abundance. The small is Oh, so much greater than the grand. We make ourselves big and suffer from inflation. By being small, we can penetrate the All. Being big isn't worth a fig; being little is the answer to the age-old riddle.

Secret to a Long Life (end)

"France," corrected Henry, "Paris, France. The city of love." He was dreaming of France.
"You know anybody in France?" asked Jack, puzzled. "Have any friends there?"
"No, but I can make friends, all I need and then some."
He's lost his marbles, thought Jack. Gone daft. Hamster brained. Loco. Missin' some dishes. A few bricks shy of a load. All those ways of saying 'crazy', came to mind, as they stood out there in the street. He wasn't having fun like he thought he would. Not much point in needling somebody who's lost his senses.
"You hungry?" this after a long, long silence.
"Yes, I am," answered Henry, with a nearly angelic smile.

And they all Fall down

Last week I had a spontaneous thought that I would enjoy this fall. It was Monday and the seasonal mist was beginning to appear in the early morning. Notice that Mist is in the word Mysterious. It is mysterious, the shroud on the trees that lingers past noon. It arises from nowhere, like sleight of nature's hand and disappears into nothingness. I am superstitious about the fog. I think of it like a crystal ball where my own monsters can take shape. It is really spooky when it gets thick, so thick that it trims vision to what is at hand. The world shrinks. I know that there are mountains somewhere and New York, but it feels like it might all be gone. In the fog there seem to be sparkle lights. Tiny, tiny lights, maybe faeries or goblins. I know that these do not exist, yet I also know they do. I will get next to a tree if it gets overwhelming.

The Secret to a Long Life part 3

One July night, Henry dreamt that his house was burning and he barely got out in time. After the sirens, the flashing red lights of the police car and fire engine, the whoosh of water on blazing walls and roof, after the stars in the violet night faded and an orange sunrise brought a new, strange day, after all that, Henry still marveled at the vivid nightmare and wondered when four a.m. would roll around, when he always woke, so that he could have toast and coffee. He was hungry and impatient for daybreak.
Jack woke confused. He was up and going before dawn and the orange sun was pouring light against his drawn curtains. Then he realized that the sun rose at the front of the house, not the side. Outside it was windy and crackly and in the distance he heard sirens approaching. With a flash, he realized that there was a fire, a big fire outside of his windows. Henry's house! Henry's house must be on fire. He jumped out of bed and looked outside. Jack was about to have the best morning of his adult life.
He got dressed in a hurry and from the kitchen, watched the blaze licking up the roof, smoke and flames pouring from each window. On a special day like this, he decided to have pancakes and jam for breakfast, a meal that he reserved for holidays. He was humming and whistling, watching his breakfast cook and looking outside at the action. Breakfast was delicious, even if the cakes were a bit burned. He took his coffee to the front porch, where the old creaky rocking chair sat and he settled down to watch the show and gloat.
The firemen had little to do. This house was going to be a full loss. They just kept the flames down a bit and let her burn. Somebody draped a blanket on Henry's shrunken frame and a cup of coffee was brought by a neighbor. He held the coffee and stared at the beauty of the fire, knowing that the dream would end soon.
He stood out in the street, dazed, after the commotion died down. He refused help from the police. A firefighter had gone to talk with Jack, his neighbor, and Jack had assured him that he would make sure that the old man would be looked after. After everybody left and the day's business got under way, Henry still stood in the street, looking lost.
What mostly bothered Jack was that Henry looked like he wasn't all that upset. The loss of his house, all that he owned, minus his garden tools, didn't seem to affect him. Jack decided to talk to Henry, maybe rub it in a little or better, a lot. He strolled over to him, cup in hand.
"Glad you made it out, Henry. Looks like you lost just about everything." The smile on his face was one of genuine pleasure, not merely a friendly gesture. He was enjoying this, better than sitting on the porch. Henry nodded thoughtfully. In his dream, the guy he hated most was making friendly conversation. He wondered what that meant. "What are you going to do, now that you lost everything. You have no family." A double jab, that should get him redfaced.
What the hell, thought Henry, it's a dream! "I'm moving to Paris." He wanted to do that since he was a teenager. Paris, the capital of love and culture. He smiled with anticipation, a small smile, as he was out of practice.
"Paris, Texas? Who do you know there?" Jack discovered a tiny hole in his own armor of smugness.

to be continued.....

Revenge of the Juice

The good news is that apple juice, unless injected intravenously, won't kill you. The bad news is, that an attempted overdose may make you wish for something opiated, which will stem the flow and just make the world a lot better all around.
So it began, innocent enough, as I was dreaming of fresh squeezed, sweet and frothy apple juice, organically grown; windfall apples reprieved by my own hands from a truly rotten fate. Once again I mounted my faithful steed, Bikey, and on another Quixotic adventure, went gleaning.

It was a gooselygood day, a day that tickles your wellness bone and with an approving blue sky above, I rode down Caledonia street, past where the giant bamboo grows and the hill starts. Past where Patty lives on the corner of Park, (one of my favorite blocks), geese in the kiddie pool, Sliding rock hunkered down (Huh, you ain't movin' me), Snapdragon Hill, with the long garland of blackberry bushes at her feet and then onto Maple street, !carefull! stay out of the busy road and get on the sidewalk. Past the condo's where Kwami lives, past Janet's and past Myrtle street where Alan and Kevin have their houses. Past Chris', Past the little kid baseball field and past the little kid soccer field. Past Marylins' where I built something I admire, something whimsical, something fun.
Careful now, I look for traffic behind me, ready to cross the busy road. Woo-hoo, I'm in luck, it's clear for blocks. I cross and am nearly at the Hedlins. Nobody around as I pedal past Mary's house, not even the blonde Lab dog, that barks just to keep up decorum and checks to see if might be carrying a bag of Magical Fried Chicken. If so, she would display any dog's superior power of one minded concentration on the hand that holds the chicken.
I pedal past the potting shed, empty of workers, but full of fiesta sounds of Mexican music. Up ahead are the apple trees, two long files, like parade soldiers at attention. Red, green and yellow apples are just about piled on the ground. I load up the recycled Pepsi crate that serves me as a cargo carrier over Bikey's hindquarter. Some more into the saddle bags, and in a spiffy I am on my way, a session of juicing ahead.
Bikey the steed decides it is much more appropriate to turn into a mule, then into a donkey. I am just glad he's not an Ass, as I lumber homeward, back tire groaning under the strain. At Myrtle street, the attention deficit cherub pegs me with a good whack and my brain goes off track. Maybe I will go see Alan? No sooner thought formulated, deed in the doing. ADD is a lot of things but boring and efficient number not amongst them. Alan and I sit on the back porch, in the shade cast by big, tall trees, that offer a friendly shade. The day is not hot, really, it is warm warm. It is perfect in the shade, Alan and I agree. We talk.
Alan has a rare ability, one of the many reasons why I like and admire him. He knows how to listen. Not the run-of-the-mill listening, which is impatient and fleeting, rather a deep and grounding attention that is a lightning rod in turbulence. All my good friends have, to greater or lesser degree, this ability.
An hour later, back on my trusty donkey, I make a bee-line for home, where my one big drinking glass waits, ready to receive the liquid bounty. I filled the five gallon bucket with water. I own a cute basket, one with a long curved handle and I used it to bring the apples to my juicing station. I liked doing it this way, though less efficient, it adds a certain quality to the experience. Washing and paring the apples is done slowly and attentively. Into the juicer and into the glass, the red skinned apples tint the juice a delicate pink. I am not the only appreciative one. The wasps appear. We have an agreement. They can drink all they want if they are considerate of my feelings. I leave cut apples out for them when I am gone. I moved carefully, not wanting to accidentally trap one or pick up a slice of apple with a grazing wasp attached. It helps me to be more attentive. This attention feeds something else, what It is I am not sure.

The juice is tart-sweet and delicious. I drink a pint and juice more. I know that apples can give you the runs, but I don't believe it. Four glasses into it, I am sick of apple juice and I don't care if I ever drink another sip. That's when I have enough. The parings and pulp go to my compost barrel and the worms get to eat too.

Guess what happened within the hour? I like to think of it as a "cleansing reaction". Spin is the thing and it can help us to see the world in a different way. Mostly it helps us swallow a bitter pill, yes, if you invite the elephants into the house, they will step on the cheesecake.