She was at the torture chamber, or, The Office, acting as the boss, of course. She looked down at the foot traffic twenty floors high. She was on top of it all, and just because of a perfectly symmetrical face. What a bitch! She stood up from her leather chair. She arched her back. It was perfection, her symmetry, with just an exaggeration painted on her cheeks. Of course this, and only this, is what I’m speaking of. I always try for a little finesse and would never say, “Her tits too!” So …
She gracefully walked to her office door, and stopped. She found the perfect angle to hold her face, right there. Her employees saw her movements, they always did. Every single step was written in some leger, somewhere. So they tried, they had to focus. They had to be at their best, or perhaps death embarrassment would befall them all.
These so-called strolls always excited her. Every hour on the hour, she did this. As she moved, it was complete horror. Soon, that office had people believing they were in a well-oiled …hell!
The people, her employees, couldn’t take a moment to wipe their brow. They were terrified. She was doing her thing. Then it went faster …it sounded like earthquake p-waves, or the noise before the shaking …because …
As she leaned against her office door she lit a smoke right below the No Smoking Sign! Just this ---set the fear at an absolute maximum level. She’s reckless, everybody thought. I hate to repeat, but, all because of cute cheeks?
Then of course, it got really hot in her hell-box. Her employees were all men. They all had either ‘had’ her or had dreams of saying they had ‘had’ her: Crude! Horrible atrocities were fantasized. That alone should have brought A Death Sentence! She laughed at that thought and ran her hands down her curves. After all, she interviewed everybody personally.
But, to her satisfaction, barely, they were climbing the ‘ladder’ like rats chasing their tails on treadmills. The others fell off and died. But she just punctuated her cheeks and laughed as they fell.
But just like her business, always with a smile, so kind; she was into embezzlement banking ---for the most part. The vulnerable of course, she liked most of all. She even wrote a best-selling book, “How to fuk people so easily when you’re a witch!” It was a big hit, huge. She was somehow able to blur the genders and men loved her book too. It was perfect, she was perfect.
She drifted off, just slightly, as she heard the blur of computers clicking away. She pulled herself off her office door. She quickly turned back to her desk ---her mirror was probably over there. She kicked her feet up on her desk, took her earring out and finally the phone call came in loud and strong,
“Yes, of course, I want him to suffer ---horribly. I’d like you to gently thrust it all the way through. You are capable of a little finesse, no?”
“Your husband will feel everything.”
“Perfect.”
The End
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
A Desperate Plea
We must be careful you and me. Yes …I’m sure you agree, “Very careful,” you probably say too. Me as a writer and you as a psychologist; can we continue on the path together? Even if the path is getting treacherous ---of course it’s terrifying, sometimes, but after a while, we’ll be somewhere else. Don’t you agree? We’ll have made it, “don’t you think?”
You have to see how the path meanders in our lush green surroundings. “It’s beautiful!” But yes, sometimes the path seemingly looks like an illusion? ---hitting and missing, but usually only for a moment, not, “Get Out!” like you might say. That dead-end you see can simply be called a bridge instead.
“But what is the bridge to us, to connect or separate?” you might say. You might willingly leap across the bridge to keep the distance between the two of us.
But: “Below the bridge is a creek where the rocks are mossy and slippery; sharp and dangerous. It’s very dangerous,” I say, so desperate, just wanting to go back ---back to those nights where our moist breath on each other’s neck removed the past and also the future, as we lived … Now!
“We could fall on those mossy rocks below or a fate perhaps worse,” I continue, “We’ll slip and take two maybe three steps back, or you’ll look at your life without us."
We’ve walked quite a distance without an impasse, until, and it is only this hand-bridge with a few slippery obstacles that are now in front of us. We can’t take a step backwards, not now, please, not ever! I’m scared.”
“But …Aren’t creeks like this one that rejuvenate us formed by mad storms?” You say. “But isn’t that the contradiction in every system.” I say, and, “Look at that beauty as the creek repeats its beauty constantly.”
“But if we do, we must cross the bridge, past the slippery rocks below ---together." “No,” you say, and also, “look at those jagged rocks just underneath the surface waiting for a slip. That’s terrifying!
“Yes,” I say, “like me, they’re desperate; I saw the desperation immediately after I heard it. But …they’re just scared. Can’t you see that they’re trying to stick their heads out of the creek for a breath of air?” I try to explain. “We must also inhale deeply …decisions should come slowly.”
But, you might say, “The path is one skip and a hop away …from the stifling love I forced on you?” “But it always takes two,” I say. So the Writer cried not after the skip but after the hop across the mossy rocks and the hand-bridge ---as he realized he landed on the other side without her.
And while on the other side the writer could hear her ask, “What does the future around that corner look like for you?” And quickly he said, “It doesn’t look very bright, not without you. So ...nightly, I’ll scream at the silvery moon, “I love you.” And I’ll hear a dreamy return, “I love you too,” somewhere, as we continue on the path …together?
The End
You have to see how the path meanders in our lush green surroundings. “It’s beautiful!” But yes, sometimes the path seemingly looks like an illusion? ---hitting and missing, but usually only for a moment, not, “Get Out!” like you might say. That dead-end you see can simply be called a bridge instead.
“But what is the bridge to us, to connect or separate?” you might say. You might willingly leap across the bridge to keep the distance between the two of us.
But: “Below the bridge is a creek where the rocks are mossy and slippery; sharp and dangerous. It’s very dangerous,” I say, so desperate, just wanting to go back ---back to those nights where our moist breath on each other’s neck removed the past and also the future, as we lived … Now!
“We could fall on those mossy rocks below or a fate perhaps worse,” I continue, “We’ll slip and take two maybe three steps back, or you’ll look at your life without us."
We’ve walked quite a distance without an impasse, until, and it is only this hand-bridge with a few slippery obstacles that are now in front of us. We can’t take a step backwards, not now, please, not ever! I’m scared.”
“But …Aren’t creeks like this one that rejuvenate us formed by mad storms?” You say. “But isn’t that the contradiction in every system.” I say, and, “Look at that beauty as the creek repeats its beauty constantly.”
“But if we do, we must cross the bridge, past the slippery rocks below ---together." “No,” you say, and also, “look at those jagged rocks just underneath the surface waiting for a slip. That’s terrifying!
“Yes,” I say, “like me, they’re desperate; I saw the desperation immediately after I heard it. But …they’re just scared. Can’t you see that they’re trying to stick their heads out of the creek for a breath of air?” I try to explain. “We must also inhale deeply …decisions should come slowly.”
But, you might say, “The path is one skip and a hop away …from the stifling love I forced on you?” “But it always takes two,” I say. So the Writer cried not after the skip but after the hop across the mossy rocks and the hand-bridge ---as he realized he landed on the other side without her.
And while on the other side the writer could hear her ask, “What does the future around that corner look like for you?” And quickly he said, “It doesn’t look very bright, not without you. So ...nightly, I’ll scream at the silvery moon, “I love you.” And I’ll hear a dreamy return, “I love you too,” somewhere, as we continue on the path …together?
The End
Monday, November 1, 2010
TEA and Harmony
It had been a very difficult morning: The rudimentary knowledge of where waste flows, anatomically, made it necessary for the woman to take four more showers. She couldn’t seem to separate where the pipes went, or …gently now, she’s ‘one who needs a little help’.
So, angrily, she poured a splash of pine-sol diluted with some water, and plunged her mop in her bucket. While ankle-deep in her own waste, which she could only blame on her own ignorance, she thought out-loud, “I really should be a senator. I love TEA, just love it.”
And, this is where it gets really interesting, all of the aforementioned events happened in a place, a state, where a bright-eyed young woman, sort of like the woman described above, has a chance at a senatorial seat, but we hope, for obvious reasons, not this woman ---especially.
But at second thought ---this particular woman is a bright-eyed young woman, and also, considering …absolutely everything else, she just might have a chance at a senatorial seat ---but only when she is using!-The Devils Herb!
She seeped her tea, standing over the hot flames, waiting. She was hurting. She needed her ‘tea!-and was so excited at the prospect of ‘tea-ing to excess’ this evening with her friends, she practiced the effects of the devil herb, while looking at her SCREAM in her mirror.
Quickly though her throat was sore. She looked at her Mayan calendar and wondered, ‘Will my ‘tea’ party buddies arrive before the world is destroyed’?”
She was having a ‘so-called’ ‘tea party’ this evening. The party was for the extremely exceptional, she thought. Considering everything, they all had their chance at a senatorial seat, theoretically.
As the other user’s started showing, it was difficult for our hostess to control her excitement. First it was Christine who brought over her sweet apple pie laced with her ‘choice of poison’. And then sweet Nancy and her trusty Crack-pipe, and then O’Donnell who was always ‘Packing’, and ‘Greg without balls’, started “TEA-ING' ---and with one swift slice, since joining, had his testicles removed ---“to make a life-change for abstinence!"
Her ‘TEA Party’ buddies sat in a circle. Her friend that brought over the delicious apple pie wrapped the tea-kettle in a proper-looking towel. The hostess grabbed the ‘tea-kettle’ and splashed some of the contents of her ‘make-up’ case into the kettle. And passed it on,
The others did the same,
But soon, the one who brought over the delicious apple pies, looked over at the hostess, “this tea isn’t doing crap,” she loaded her Crack-Pipe. “Do you know how much energy it takes to run a senatorial bid? I don’t think TEA is going to cut it.”
I wrote this because I care
Editor and Chief
The End
So, angrily, she poured a splash of pine-sol diluted with some water, and plunged her mop in her bucket. While ankle-deep in her own waste, which she could only blame on her own ignorance, she thought out-loud, “I really should be a senator. I love TEA, just love it.”
And, this is where it gets really interesting, all of the aforementioned events happened in a place, a state, where a bright-eyed young woman, sort of like the woman described above, has a chance at a senatorial seat, but we hope, for obvious reasons, not this woman ---especially.
But at second thought ---this particular woman is a bright-eyed young woman, and also, considering …absolutely everything else, she just might have a chance at a senatorial seat ---but only when she is using!-The Devils Herb!
She seeped her tea, standing over the hot flames, waiting. She was hurting. She needed her ‘tea!-and was so excited at the prospect of ‘tea-ing to excess’ this evening with her friends, she practiced the effects of the devil herb, while looking at her SCREAM in her mirror.
Quickly though her throat was sore. She looked at her Mayan calendar and wondered, ‘Will my ‘tea’ party buddies arrive before the world is destroyed’?”
She was having a ‘so-called’ ‘tea party’ this evening. The party was for the extremely exceptional, she thought. Considering everything, they all had their chance at a senatorial seat, theoretically.
As the other user’s started showing, it was difficult for our hostess to control her excitement. First it was Christine who brought over her sweet apple pie laced with her ‘choice of poison’. And then sweet Nancy and her trusty Crack-pipe, and then O’Donnell who was always ‘Packing’, and ‘Greg without balls’, started “TEA-ING' ---and with one swift slice, since joining, had his testicles removed ---“to make a life-change for abstinence!"
Her ‘TEA Party’ buddies sat in a circle. Her friend that brought over the delicious apple pie wrapped the tea-kettle in a proper-looking towel. The hostess grabbed the ‘tea-kettle’ and splashed some of the contents of her ‘make-up’ case into the kettle. And passed it on,
The others did the same,
But soon, the one who brought over the delicious apple pies, looked over at the hostess, “this tea isn’t doing crap,” she loaded her Crack-Pipe. “Do you know how much energy it takes to run a senatorial bid? I don’t think TEA is going to cut it.”
I wrote this because I care
Editor and Chief
The End
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
One More time
With a sigh she eased back in her chair and put her feet up on her desk. She kicked folders of contracts off her desk without too much concern. She looked out the window and could see the faces of the people below. She closed her eyes and was quickly at that special place ...as long as her eyes stayed closed.
She was there for quite a while when she saw a filthy man sitting on a concrete block. He had his legs crossed. He rested his arms on his thighs looking very comfortable. She was too excited to be comfortable. She became more excited from the distraction and wondered ---is this place where I’m supposed to be?
She didn’t want to get disorientated. She was in the mountains, in a foreign land, and knew it could become …quickly bizarre. These mountains splintered in all different directions. Cuts seemed hacked out of the land with trees living on the edges, over a hundred feet high. It was, indeed, the place she dreamed of.
The mountains and the foreign land were like a drug to her. She was happily smashed. It was hard for her not to be inappropriate and suddenly laugh. But now, her third day in the mountains, completely alone, she finally had an obstacle: The filthy comfortable man.
She had to be sure this was the place where she was supposed to be, she approached her impasse and spoke, “Hi,” the man just waved and smiled. The names are unimportant if not irretrievable.
“Hi,” she says again. The man smiles, again. So now she really needs to know ---“Is this the place where the bus stops?” -She asks. She needs to get out of here, now! She sees huge rain clouds climbing the mountain behind her. “Is this the place where the bus stops? Please Sir!” The man just smiled. Now she’s irritated. “Sir? Sir?”
The man stood up, and bowed. He cleared his throat, “you shouldn’t worry about the rain. This happens. It visits me here in these mountains, this time of year almost every day.” He opened his arms wide and took a deep breath---collected himself, “The bus comes here, yes, but maybe not today.” He sat back down.
Of course now she’s worried. The filthy comfortable man took notice ---stood up and started talking:
Today Miss, thousands of feet above the sea, the clouds collect greedily in the east waiting to do their life’s work. This is what they do Miss. They wait until conditions are perfect and start their way to the sea, west, with understood purpose. They coax and then overrun the weak to form a strong unified front. They’ll need indescribable strength, because they’re artists, starving, for one last chance to display their talents. Growing, their form turns almost orb-like. With incredible power they change moods and the topography below. And then the light show follows with thundering lyrics. The plants all stand erect wanting more.
She stood erect, her back stiffened, “You recite a poem you wrote to me? It's because you care. Don’t you?” The man smiled again. Just then a “Roar” was heard. She jerked. It wasn’t a bus, but a passenger van roared into view. Their world darkened too as the rain came pouring down. The man bent over to shield the young traveler.
She and the filthy comfortable man jumped aboard. The passenger van roared off amongst the rain, the other people inside, the filthy comfortable man, and the woman that needed to leave ---right now! The man turned to the woman, and smiled, as the rest of the travelers stared at the driver.
The driver of the passenger van quickly turned away from the road to a person on his right, “now it’s all by memory. Now with this rain,” he said with a slight shrug, “it’s all by memory!” Spoken while reaching for a Coca-Cola bottle without any breaks in his words. But still, he reassured everybody ---somehow?
All the people in the passenger van, on the margins traveling fast, were thankful that man had his hands on the steering wheel. This is what he did. He brought people where they had to be, safely. He could prove it 'one more time', he thought, and just smiled.
The End
She was there for quite a while when she saw a filthy man sitting on a concrete block. He had his legs crossed. He rested his arms on his thighs looking very comfortable. She was too excited to be comfortable. She became more excited from the distraction and wondered ---is this place where I’m supposed to be?
She didn’t want to get disorientated. She was in the mountains, in a foreign land, and knew it could become …quickly bizarre. These mountains splintered in all different directions. Cuts seemed hacked out of the land with trees living on the edges, over a hundred feet high. It was, indeed, the place she dreamed of.
The mountains and the foreign land were like a drug to her. She was happily smashed. It was hard for her not to be inappropriate and suddenly laugh. But now, her third day in the mountains, completely alone, she finally had an obstacle: The filthy comfortable man.
She had to be sure this was the place where she was supposed to be, she approached her impasse and spoke, “Hi,” the man just waved and smiled. The names are unimportant if not irretrievable.
“Hi,” she says again. The man smiles, again. So now she really needs to know ---“Is this the place where the bus stops?” -She asks. She needs to get out of here, now! She sees huge rain clouds climbing the mountain behind her. “Is this the place where the bus stops? Please Sir!” The man just smiled. Now she’s irritated. “Sir? Sir?”
The man stood up, and bowed. He cleared his throat, “you shouldn’t worry about the rain. This happens. It visits me here in these mountains, this time of year almost every day.” He opened his arms wide and took a deep breath---collected himself, “The bus comes here, yes, but maybe not today.” He sat back down.
Of course now she’s worried. The filthy comfortable man took notice ---stood up and started talking:
Today Miss, thousands of feet above the sea, the clouds collect greedily in the east waiting to do their life’s work. This is what they do Miss. They wait until conditions are perfect and start their way to the sea, west, with understood purpose. They coax and then overrun the weak to form a strong unified front. They’ll need indescribable strength, because they’re artists, starving, for one last chance to display their talents. Growing, their form turns almost orb-like. With incredible power they change moods and the topography below. And then the light show follows with thundering lyrics. The plants all stand erect wanting more.
She stood erect, her back stiffened, “You recite a poem you wrote to me? It's because you care. Don’t you?” The man smiled again. Just then a “Roar” was heard. She jerked. It wasn’t a bus, but a passenger van roared into view. Their world darkened too as the rain came pouring down. The man bent over to shield the young traveler.
She and the filthy comfortable man jumped aboard. The passenger van roared off amongst the rain, the other people inside, the filthy comfortable man, and the woman that needed to leave ---right now! The man turned to the woman, and smiled, as the rest of the travelers stared at the driver.
The driver of the passenger van quickly turned away from the road to a person on his right, “now it’s all by memory. Now with this rain,” he said with a slight shrug, “it’s all by memory!” Spoken while reaching for a Coca-Cola bottle without any breaks in his words. But still, he reassured everybody ---somehow?
All the people in the passenger van, on the margins traveling fast, were thankful that man had his hands on the steering wheel. This is what he did. He brought people where they had to be, safely. He could prove it 'one more time', he thought, and just smiled.
The End
Friday, October 22, 2010
Building Mountains Inc.
James Redburn made it to work at the usual time, one hour late, which for him was ---right on time. Unfortunately the need for punctuality was no longer needed. His business had slowly slipped into total obscurity, almost completely forgotten now. The skyscrapers kept going up around his once very popular and successful business, The Station, making it more and more difficult to even …see.
It was time to move to plan B, before it was too late. The dust from the construction of the skyscrapers transformed The Station into the perfect environment just ripe for a fatal attack of tuberculosis. The coughing inside The Station was almost nonstop, with their mucus being thrown around, making all their thoughts ---stuck …as if in concrete. James grabbed the phone. It was time to put plan B into action:
“Hello, can I please speak with the engineer, John Brickhouse?”
“I’ll connect you, one moment please.” .
“This is John Brickhouse.”
“John Brickhouse the engineer?”
“Well, I do write plans, produce schematics of all sorts, if you will, add and subtract, multiply divide and get down to the bottom line, that, when all combined are under the umbrella of what people call engineering work.”
“Great! Yes, so, um … are you also a person who can push and pull ingredients into what we’re going to build? ---A person that's looked into the molecular world? ---A person that can produce gasoline at any given time, and burn down those bridges that try to stop us?!?"
“This sounds very ambitious.”
“I know that. Nonetheless, my ideas are expansive, all encompassing, amazingly powerful, but so visionary! I believe this Mr. Brickhouse, I really do. I’ve called you today because you come highly recommended in your profession.”
“What? I see. Thank you ---I believe is obligatory. I do know a person that can help me in that microscopic world like you’ve described.”
“Excellent! I’ll also need a botanist, geologist, I mean, people who understand plants and rocks, and many other professionals, like you Mr. Brickhouse.”
“Okay, what is it you’d like me to help you build?”
Inside James’s home he stood up and stretched out his arms as far as he could, “A Mountain, a mountain Mr. Brickhouse.”
“Wow! Okay. But, who are you …really?” With both elbows on his desk, Mr. Brickhouse asks.
“Let’s just say I’m a person who cares.”
“Okay …what would this mountain be for?”
“I want to grow all different types of plants, which could possibly help discover cures for viruses, diseases, and also fungi where it’ll grow. Who wants to feel horrible? ---when you don’t have to? And, of course we’ll grow marijuana ---that helps too! After every day we'll have an evaluation on what else to grow. Huh? What a world we can create. This mountain will be for a place for the people.”
“Yes, Mr. Redburn. I know what you mean, but …unsavory.”
“When it’s for the people, is unsavory the word you really want to use? No ---So ...Mr. Brickhouse, let’s call our new business, ‘Building Mountains Inc.’. What do you say?!”
The End
It was time to move to plan B, before it was too late. The dust from the construction of the skyscrapers transformed The Station into the perfect environment just ripe for a fatal attack of tuberculosis. The coughing inside The Station was almost nonstop, with their mucus being thrown around, making all their thoughts ---stuck …as if in concrete. James grabbed the phone. It was time to put plan B into action:
“Hello, can I please speak with the engineer, John Brickhouse?”
“I’ll connect you, one moment please.” .
“This is John Brickhouse.”
“John Brickhouse the engineer?”
“Well, I do write plans, produce schematics of all sorts, if you will, add and subtract, multiply divide and get down to the bottom line, that, when all combined are under the umbrella of what people call engineering work.”
“Great! Yes, so, um … are you also a person who can push and pull ingredients into what we’re going to build? ---A person that's looked into the molecular world? ---A person that can produce gasoline at any given time, and burn down those bridges that try to stop us?!?"
“This sounds very ambitious.”
“I know that. Nonetheless, my ideas are expansive, all encompassing, amazingly powerful, but so visionary! I believe this Mr. Brickhouse, I really do. I’ve called you today because you come highly recommended in your profession.”
“What? I see. Thank you ---I believe is obligatory. I do know a person that can help me in that microscopic world like you’ve described.”
“Excellent! I’ll also need a botanist, geologist, I mean, people who understand plants and rocks, and many other professionals, like you Mr. Brickhouse.”
“Okay, what is it you’d like me to help you build?”
Inside James’s home he stood up and stretched out his arms as far as he could, “A Mountain, a mountain Mr. Brickhouse.”
“Wow! Okay. But, who are you …really?” With both elbows on his desk, Mr. Brickhouse asks.
“Let’s just say I’m a person who cares.”
“Okay …what would this mountain be for?”
“I want to grow all different types of plants, which could possibly help discover cures for viruses, diseases, and also fungi where it’ll grow. Who wants to feel horrible? ---when you don’t have to? And, of course we’ll grow marijuana ---that helps too! After every day we'll have an evaluation on what else to grow. Huh? What a world we can create. This mountain will be for a place for the people.”
“Yes, Mr. Redburn. I know what you mean, but …unsavory.”
“When it’s for the people, is unsavory the word you really want to use? No ---So ...Mr. Brickhouse, let’s call our new business, ‘Building Mountains Inc.’. What do you say?!”
The End
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Talking with Trees
... James drove to a park to watch kids play baseball, just to dream and watch on the park’s thick green grass.
But at the park, instead, he struck-up a conversation with one of the locals:
He sat down next to a huge Sequoia Tree, “you guys don’t like to go anywhere? Do you?”
“What?” The Sequoia Tree just laughed. “Can’t you see how big we are, we’re everywhere. We’re beacons helping people find their way.”
“Yes, of course, but …wish? You must! ---wish! How about a dream? You must have had the dream to travel?!”
“No ---no way. When we’re here, when we go anywhere, we stay there! That’s how we’re made. I don’t take the fog’s crap, the wind’s crap, nobody’s!” A plume of fog hit the huge Sequoia...Smack! The tree just sighed. “Ah …”
The grass where James was laying on sloped, to eventually level off to a baseball field. His line of sight was straight towards home plate. He saw the catcher crouching there, and behind him, the umpire, calling balls and strikes. Some kid hit a baseball so far James had to get up and throw it back. James was back on the thick grass …
“But …we put smiles on faces.” The tree continued proudly.
“Yes. Yes you do.”
James started to drift off to sleep. He was almost asleep, but suddenly awakened. He turned to the Sequoia Tree. “You’re made how you’re made. Isn’t that right?” He sat up this time, at full attention, hoping the tree could answer all his questions.
“You see, we’re part of something, all of us, together. You must understand. Traveling would be such a travesty of disloyalty to my friends, unthinkable. To leave them would be so cruel. Sometimes they need to talk too. But you guys, um, are different. I don’t understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we’re just here. It’s okay. We’re always here.”
“Yes you are.”
“Yup, we’re just here ---the ultimate life-artists. We don’t feel a need for approval.”
The fog was completely gone. The winds too, for a moment, gone. The sun hit James’s eyes. He felt a little too warm. His emotions juggled. “But you guys compete! I’ve seen it!”
“I don’t understand?”
James was quite not James. He was almost asleep. But he kept speaking, “The ground underneath you; I sometimes see it rise from your roots. You guys need a lot of space. Are you fighting?”
“Liberalism, conservatism, socialism, capitalism, communism, and sometimes with a little fascism mixed in, we’re all these things, plus more. We live with our brothers and sisters in acres, and they’re never straight. Only you guys draw straight lines. You’ll never find a straight line in nature.”
“Ya, we like neat and tight ---a box?”
“We don’t like to be boxed in, and then we do. We’re the place, probably the only place where the best thinking comes from. We’re the park, the place where the green grass is at, the place to go picnicking with lovers. We always hang out in leisure wear. It’s comfortable here. It’s always symbiotic, with us and everybody else. We get along.” James heard other trees cheer. The grass stood erect.
“I wish we could be more like you guys.” James said, with nature drooling out of his eyes.
“You are what you are.”
“Yes, I am what I am, but right now …I’m here! Aren’t I!?! I’ve dreamed of this. Thank you!”
James was asleep. The giant Sequoia Tree bent over to shield James’s eyes from the sun. The Giant Sequoia Tree cared.
The End
But at the park, instead, he struck-up a conversation with one of the locals:
He sat down next to a huge Sequoia Tree, “you guys don’t like to go anywhere? Do you?”
“What?” The Sequoia Tree just laughed. “Can’t you see how big we are, we’re everywhere. We’re beacons helping people find their way.”
“Yes, of course, but …wish? You must! ---wish! How about a dream? You must have had the dream to travel?!”
“No ---no way. When we’re here, when we go anywhere, we stay there! That’s how we’re made. I don’t take the fog’s crap, the wind’s crap, nobody’s!” A plume of fog hit the huge Sequoia...Smack! The tree just sighed. “Ah …”
The grass where James was laying on sloped, to eventually level off to a baseball field. His line of sight was straight towards home plate. He saw the catcher crouching there, and behind him, the umpire, calling balls and strikes. Some kid hit a baseball so far James had to get up and throw it back. James was back on the thick grass …
“But …we put smiles on faces.” The tree continued proudly.
“Yes. Yes you do.”
James started to drift off to sleep. He was almost asleep, but suddenly awakened. He turned to the Sequoia Tree. “You’re made how you’re made. Isn’t that right?” He sat up this time, at full attention, hoping the tree could answer all his questions.
“You see, we’re part of something, all of us, together. You must understand. Traveling would be such a travesty of disloyalty to my friends, unthinkable. To leave them would be so cruel. Sometimes they need to talk too. But you guys, um, are different. I don’t understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we’re just here. It’s okay. We’re always here.”
“Yes you are.”
“Yup, we’re just here ---the ultimate life-artists. We don’t feel a need for approval.”
The fog was completely gone. The winds too, for a moment, gone. The sun hit James’s eyes. He felt a little too warm. His emotions juggled. “But you guys compete! I’ve seen it!”
“I don’t understand?”
James was quite not James. He was almost asleep. But he kept speaking, “The ground underneath you; I sometimes see it rise from your roots. You guys need a lot of space. Are you fighting?”
“Liberalism, conservatism, socialism, capitalism, communism, and sometimes with a little fascism mixed in, we’re all these things, plus more. We live with our brothers and sisters in acres, and they’re never straight. Only you guys draw straight lines. You’ll never find a straight line in nature.”
“Ya, we like neat and tight ---a box?”
“We don’t like to be boxed in, and then we do. We’re the place, probably the only place where the best thinking comes from. We’re the park, the place where the green grass is at, the place to go picnicking with lovers. We always hang out in leisure wear. It’s comfortable here. It’s always symbiotic, with us and everybody else. We get along.” James heard other trees cheer. The grass stood erect.
“I wish we could be more like you guys.” James said, with nature drooling out of his eyes.
“You are what you are.”
“Yes, I am what I am, but right now …I’m here! Aren’t I!?! I’ve dreamed of this. Thank you!”
James was asleep. The giant Sequoia Tree bent over to shield James’s eyes from the sun. The Giant Sequoia Tree cared.
The End
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Somewhere Else
The sky looked like it had freckles today, as the clouds exaggerated the blueness of the San Francisco sky. And with the fresh autumn breeze from the west, it made San Francisco California echo a pleasant rhyme. People suddenly stood frozen, and looked up into the skies. It seemed with these particular conditions a smile was just an easy reflex. They just happened. At least James Redburn thought so, and took notice of this by going for a walk. He was inspired.
As he walked, his eyes raced down one of San Francisco’s hills to another, which always provided him with a better view than the last, previous …incredible view. He thought of traversing all of San Francisco’s hills, but time was ‘different’ for James today. It was hard to ‘keep track’, as the sun crept across the sky providing James with a different …’take’, on the already previous incredible views. Nonetheless, I still believe he walked all day.
At dusk, James took a break atop a freeway overpass as the people raced in their cars, below …somewhere else. And, since he had seen and felt so much on this pleasant fall day; now, the thoughts and the happenings of the people below, somehow, drifted up to James and could be seen as easily as pages in a book. He had obviously traversed to a faraway place ---somewhere else:
In a posh neighborhood of San Francisco a man was rubbing his red and swollen face. Just this morning Mr. and Mrs. Smith fought. There were arguments about this, about that, and then, it got so ugly Mr. Smith got slapped.
In the Haight-Ashbury district, in Golden Gate Park, under shrubs, deep in the park where Ken Kesey had pulled up in his moveable acid-test bus decades ago; today in that park a homeless man stabbed another, killing him over symmetrically smashed tin-cans, and a sandwich.
In a dilapidated district, Mr. Chung reminisced, sometimes with tears, with any empath, about the unshaven man who wore rags, who just got stabbed, that brought in thirty pounds of symmetrically smashed tin-cans at 10:00. Mr. Chung felt gloom.
The good looks of William Johnson, a stock broker, with his blonde curly locks and blue eyes, which reminded his friend of the picture of Jesus Christ hanging in church windows across America, and also the world ---got bored. He no longer loved decorating his charming Financial District condominium with his college fraternity memorabilia. The beer mugs on his mantel piece were now in no particular order. He also couldn’t stomach to watch another up or down tick at his brokerage house. He was ‘passed over’ this year for the week trip in Hawaii given to the best sales-person.
In that District, called the Financial District, where billions, maybe even trillions of dollars are passed to him and her and back again couldn’t help either. Even the green-back thought about being somewhere else. No one wanted to eat, go to the movies, the plays, and or all forms of entertainment. It was redundant misery. “Tomorrow is another day,” someone in that posh district said while pulling their Crate and Barrel blankets over their head.
Two young lovers seemingly with enough passion between the two to fill the overwhelming hugeness we all feel, became stale. “Why aren’t we more like Jewels and Adam,” was no longer spoken by other lovers. Jewels was now begging Adam. If they were somewhere else, maybe, who knows ---it could have been something else?
Finally James left the overpass. He wished everybody had enjoyed the pleasant autumn day.
The End
As he walked, his eyes raced down one of San Francisco’s hills to another, which always provided him with a better view than the last, previous …incredible view. He thought of traversing all of San Francisco’s hills, but time was ‘different’ for James today. It was hard to ‘keep track’, as the sun crept across the sky providing James with a different …’take’, on the already previous incredible views. Nonetheless, I still believe he walked all day.
At dusk, James took a break atop a freeway overpass as the people raced in their cars, below …somewhere else. And, since he had seen and felt so much on this pleasant fall day; now, the thoughts and the happenings of the people below, somehow, drifted up to James and could be seen as easily as pages in a book. He had obviously traversed to a faraway place ---somewhere else:
In a posh neighborhood of San Francisco a man was rubbing his red and swollen face. Just this morning Mr. and Mrs. Smith fought. There were arguments about this, about that, and then, it got so ugly Mr. Smith got slapped.
In the Haight-Ashbury district, in Golden Gate Park, under shrubs, deep in the park where Ken Kesey had pulled up in his moveable acid-test bus decades ago; today in that park a homeless man stabbed another, killing him over symmetrically smashed tin-cans, and a sandwich.
In a dilapidated district, Mr. Chung reminisced, sometimes with tears, with any empath, about the unshaven man who wore rags, who just got stabbed, that brought in thirty pounds of symmetrically smashed tin-cans at 10:00. Mr. Chung felt gloom.
The good looks of William Johnson, a stock broker, with his blonde curly locks and blue eyes, which reminded his friend of the picture of Jesus Christ hanging in church windows across America, and also the world ---got bored. He no longer loved decorating his charming Financial District condominium with his college fraternity memorabilia. The beer mugs on his mantel piece were now in no particular order. He also couldn’t stomach to watch another up or down tick at his brokerage house. He was ‘passed over’ this year for the week trip in Hawaii given to the best sales-person.
In that District, called the Financial District, where billions, maybe even trillions of dollars are passed to him and her and back again couldn’t help either. Even the green-back thought about being somewhere else. No one wanted to eat, go to the movies, the plays, and or all forms of entertainment. It was redundant misery. “Tomorrow is another day,” someone in that posh district said while pulling their Crate and Barrel blankets over their head.
Two young lovers seemingly with enough passion between the two to fill the overwhelming hugeness we all feel, became stale. “Why aren’t we more like Jewels and Adam,” was no longer spoken by other lovers. Jewels was now begging Adam. If they were somewhere else, maybe, who knows ---it could have been something else?
Finally James left the overpass. He wished everybody had enjoyed the pleasant autumn day.
The End
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Memos and Messages
In Room 103 he was laying there dead. His eyes were dilated. It might be five more days before he will be discovered, in this inactive state.
Under the shadows of San Francisco’s Transamerica Building, in a much smaller building, where the dead man lay, another man stood on a ladder seemingly unaware of the inactivity in Room 103. In his hands he held a hammer and nail, and a notice, and was positioning himself so that he could display it. After three ‘whacks’ from his hammer, the notice, now readable, read: Now celebrating the third day in our building without a murder or suicide.
Just at that moment, James Redburn walked into the apartment complex. Quickly now, he ran over to the man on the ladder. He grabbed the end of the ladder to stabilize it, “Are you sure of that? Three days without a suicide or murder?” The man on the ladder just looked down at James and smiled.
James searched back in his head; he thought of last year, he could only remember the dozen or so murders, and also suicides, that happened all in that one prolific day. He couldn’t remember ever having three days pass without a murder or a suicide. And, he thought, “That’s not even including accidental deaths!” So …It was good news for James Redburn and all the other occupants that lived under the shadows of San Francisco’s Transamerica Building.
It was such good news for James he had the urge, actually the need to tell somebody. So James ran to his next door neighbor. They had become close, as of late, and had traded keys with each other ---just in case. So James let himself in and saw his friend resting on the couch. He sat down right next to his friend and exclaimed, “Can you believe it ---three days without a murder, and also, three days without a Suicide! If this keeps up I might extend my lease. Wow!”
Soon though, as is the nature with James, he stated moving backwards. With his exceptional memory he started to get into the specifics of that one prolific day, the day with the dozen or so murders and also suicides. First he remembered the electrocution. With a morbid laugh he started, “Remember, we all stood outside at midnight waiting for the energy to be turned on. The poor bastard shorted- out the entire building. I still can’t believe it!”
And then then he talked about the second murder that day, and then, the second suicide. James was relentless, not missing a single murder or suicide, one after another horrific murder and suicide.
And to make things worse, if he didn’t ---‘quite get it right’, he’d back up and start from the beginning. James got into every frigging morbid detail. He didn’t stop his monologue for an hour ---Straight!
Soon though, since James isn’t a complete idiot, he realized he had been ‘going on’, with barely a breath, for at least an hour, but hadn’t gotten a response from his next door neighbor. He felt a courtesy had passed him by. He quickly got up, apologized, and let himself out.
He walked down to the man that stood on the ladder, “Geez ---that guy up in Room 103 is really pissed at me. I thought we were friends. He won’t even talk.”
“Huh!”
“Well, I told him about the notice you posted, you know, the three days without a murder or suicide. And, well, I guess I talk too much. I don’t know?”
“You mean the guy up in Room 103?”
“Ya, 103.”
“The guy in Room 103 is fuking dead. I’m waiting here for the coroner.” James looked like he had been cheated, “Well, does this notice about the three days without a murder or suicide? ---Does is still count?”
“Of course it doesn’t, I was trying to cheer everybody up. The guy in Room 103, who at this particular moment I can’t remember his name, nonetheless, was a man who we all loved so much.”
Following his caring motivations, and figuring out the man’s name; at the funeral, James gave a long-winded eulogy.
Under the shadows of San Francisco’s Transamerica Building, in a much smaller building, where the dead man lay, another man stood on a ladder seemingly unaware of the inactivity in Room 103. In his hands he held a hammer and nail, and a notice, and was positioning himself so that he could display it. After three ‘whacks’ from his hammer, the notice, now readable, read: Now celebrating the third day in our building without a murder or suicide.
Just at that moment, James Redburn walked into the apartment complex. Quickly now, he ran over to the man on the ladder. He grabbed the end of the ladder to stabilize it, “Are you sure of that? Three days without a suicide or murder?” The man on the ladder just looked down at James and smiled.
James searched back in his head; he thought of last year, he could only remember the dozen or so murders, and also suicides, that happened all in that one prolific day. He couldn’t remember ever having three days pass without a murder or a suicide. And, he thought, “That’s not even including accidental deaths!” So …It was good news for James Redburn and all the other occupants that lived under the shadows of San Francisco’s Transamerica Building.
It was such good news for James he had the urge, actually the need to tell somebody. So James ran to his next door neighbor. They had become close, as of late, and had traded keys with each other ---just in case. So James let himself in and saw his friend resting on the couch. He sat down right next to his friend and exclaimed, “Can you believe it ---three days without a murder, and also, three days without a Suicide! If this keeps up I might extend my lease. Wow!”
Soon though, as is the nature with James, he stated moving backwards. With his exceptional memory he started to get into the specifics of that one prolific day, the day with the dozen or so murders and also suicides. First he remembered the electrocution. With a morbid laugh he started, “Remember, we all stood outside at midnight waiting for the energy to be turned on. The poor bastard shorted- out the entire building. I still can’t believe it!”
And then then he talked about the second murder that day, and then, the second suicide. James was relentless, not missing a single murder or suicide, one after another horrific murder and suicide.
And to make things worse, if he didn’t ---‘quite get it right’, he’d back up and start from the beginning. James got into every frigging morbid detail. He didn’t stop his monologue for an hour ---Straight!
Soon though, since James isn’t a complete idiot, he realized he had been ‘going on’, with barely a breath, for at least an hour, but hadn’t gotten a response from his next door neighbor. He felt a courtesy had passed him by. He quickly got up, apologized, and let himself out.
He walked down to the man that stood on the ladder, “Geez ---that guy up in Room 103 is really pissed at me. I thought we were friends. He won’t even talk.”
“Huh!”
“Well, I told him about the notice you posted, you know, the three days without a murder or suicide. And, well, I guess I talk too much. I don’t know?”
“You mean the guy up in Room 103?”
“Ya, 103.”
“The guy in Room 103 is fuking dead. I’m waiting here for the coroner.” James looked like he had been cheated, “Well, does this notice about the three days without a murder or suicide? ---Does is still count?”
“Of course it doesn’t, I was trying to cheer everybody up. The guy in Room 103, who at this particular moment I can’t remember his name, nonetheless, was a man who we all loved so much.”
Following his caring motivations, and figuring out the man’s name; at the funeral, James gave a long-winded eulogy.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Traversing The Unknown
One day, a man who lived amongst nature, as much as a modern man can live amongst nature, dragged a chair to his north facing window and stared outside in almost …defeated awe, at a particular mountain that was somehow able to scrape the skies:
“I see an air brushed photo-shopped masterpiece, with technicians working right in front of my north facing window. Every detail and contour is meticulously attended to. A chemist, a scientist, lives their life through a microscope, only to see the invisible for the rest of us, I now understand their motivations. This mountain must have a telescope backwards ---into time.”
“But it’s way out there, so incredibly high, untouchable …?” He thought. Why his life had brought him to this view he couldn’t tell you. But through his north facing window it just sits there. It never moves. Never! When it’s not straight up, it slowly rolls upward in perky voluptuous mounds. This mountain reaches over eight thousand feet into the blues, as his ashtray gets filled with a bad habit, as he stares …in awe.
An artist, a poet, an engineer, wants to blast through it, just to see the other side. Why? Its consistent bravado makes people do the most ridiculous things. After seeing the mountain people talk to themselves, almost in tongue, while shaking their heads, “Does any of this make sense? Does this world make any sense?” They ask, with thoughts that eventually travel above and beyond the mountain. Sometimes these thoughts linger for days, and change lives.
But isn’t it obvious? ---it just sits there. Perhaps this one particular mountain answers all of our questions? But the man is crippled by the view, only able to stare at it, and with all his angst he speaks, “Everything is utterly senseless!! This world, this life, it’s ---‘non-sensical’.”
But still the man has thoughts about climbing ---the un-climbable? But he can’t even take a step towards it, “Why would I? Why would anybody? Who cares? But how can it be, how can anything just …be? ---sitting there so contently?”
“This Peavine Mountain is ageless. The winds come by everyday and wisp the wrinkles away. It has no gray. I imagine if I was up there at the summit, I’d hear pages of the past fluttering in the wind, for all eyes brave enough to climb to the summit to read ---the truth.
The story is there. I’m sure of it. But how much more gray will I have digested from this life until I get the courage to climb it? You see, just now, I’ve decided to climb it ---someday! Yes someday!”
But, as of late, the man as kept his blinds shut. They’ve been shut for days. But it builds and builds, and then he can’t help himself. His hand cramps readying to pull the draw string on the blinds open. The blinds seem to talk to him, ‘Just a crack and you’ll be able to reach into the Blues’.
The man sits for seventeen hours staring out his north facing window.
“Now it’s three thirty in the morning. I’m tired. Nonetheless, at first light I’m going to take that first step. Today is the day! I’ve made my decision. I’ve decided on nothing, except to take that step. This will be completely visceral. I’ll let it soak me through. I’ll be soaking wet if I can make it. I won’t record a thing from A to B, except which lingers in my mind. I’ve got all I need; a backpack, water, tuna fish in cans. I just have to remember to bring a can opener. I’ll go north, and north by north west. I’ll make my own path with tremendous audacity. I must tell all that I’m courageous! I’m sure no one has attempted this before. And when I reach the summit, I’ll scream. I’m sure I’ll hear an echo as far away as the Celestial Empire. There’ll be no name to this incredible endeavor, no formats, just me and a mountain. Formats, names, titles, now that would be ridiculous, don’t you agree? They have rules.” He started:
At first the adrenalin made him seek shelter to relieve himself, again and again. He could sense all this violence had brought together all this beauty. And one wrongly placed step, he thought, would be the end of him.
The peak seemed to throw their seeds here and there. Where the cliffs went straight up, completely erect, they left huge boulders. He could still hear the mountain sighing. It was tremendous power finally released. And when he looked down at his feet, little rocks shone. The little rocks were left on the voluptuous symmetrical floating mountains between the erect ones ….
But James Redburn never returned from his hike.
A few days later, after the echoes of wanting to hear another’s tragedy reached thousands; the invisible eddy took the press to the base of the Peavine Mountain. The masses needed a little ‘pick me up’.
A man with a pencil tucked behind his ear started talking. The group gathered around him: “The prolific writer, James Redburn, who was never read, took a hike up the Peavine Mountain Range just last week. A blue so blue, that when at the top the color seems different from one eye to another. He probably raised his hands when he made it to the summit, if he ever did. And from our investigations, we’ve discovered James Redburn slipped and fell repeatedly. The rescuers have now called off their efforts. The snow drifts have covered all that’s happened. Sorry, no more questions. I have other pending investigations, thank you. Our prayer’s go to Mr. James Redburn ---WE CARE!”
The End
“I see an air brushed photo-shopped masterpiece, with technicians working right in front of my north facing window. Every detail and contour is meticulously attended to. A chemist, a scientist, lives their life through a microscope, only to see the invisible for the rest of us, I now understand their motivations. This mountain must have a telescope backwards ---into time.”
“But it’s way out there, so incredibly high, untouchable …?” He thought. Why his life had brought him to this view he couldn’t tell you. But through his north facing window it just sits there. It never moves. Never! When it’s not straight up, it slowly rolls upward in perky voluptuous mounds. This mountain reaches over eight thousand feet into the blues, as his ashtray gets filled with a bad habit, as he stares …in awe.
An artist, a poet, an engineer, wants to blast through it, just to see the other side. Why? Its consistent bravado makes people do the most ridiculous things. After seeing the mountain people talk to themselves, almost in tongue, while shaking their heads, “Does any of this make sense? Does this world make any sense?” They ask, with thoughts that eventually travel above and beyond the mountain. Sometimes these thoughts linger for days, and change lives.
But isn’t it obvious? ---it just sits there. Perhaps this one particular mountain answers all of our questions? But the man is crippled by the view, only able to stare at it, and with all his angst he speaks, “Everything is utterly senseless!! This world, this life, it’s ---‘non-sensical’.”
But still the man has thoughts about climbing ---the un-climbable? But he can’t even take a step towards it, “Why would I? Why would anybody? Who cares? But how can it be, how can anything just …be? ---sitting there so contently?”
“This Peavine Mountain is ageless. The winds come by everyday and wisp the wrinkles away. It has no gray. I imagine if I was up there at the summit, I’d hear pages of the past fluttering in the wind, for all eyes brave enough to climb to the summit to read ---the truth.
The story is there. I’m sure of it. But how much more gray will I have digested from this life until I get the courage to climb it? You see, just now, I’ve decided to climb it ---someday! Yes someday!”
But, as of late, the man as kept his blinds shut. They’ve been shut for days. But it builds and builds, and then he can’t help himself. His hand cramps readying to pull the draw string on the blinds open. The blinds seem to talk to him, ‘Just a crack and you’ll be able to reach into the Blues’.
The man sits for seventeen hours staring out his north facing window.
“Now it’s three thirty in the morning. I’m tired. Nonetheless, at first light I’m going to take that first step. Today is the day! I’ve made my decision. I’ve decided on nothing, except to take that step. This will be completely visceral. I’ll let it soak me through. I’ll be soaking wet if I can make it. I won’t record a thing from A to B, except which lingers in my mind. I’ve got all I need; a backpack, water, tuna fish in cans. I just have to remember to bring a can opener. I’ll go north, and north by north west. I’ll make my own path with tremendous audacity. I must tell all that I’m courageous! I’m sure no one has attempted this before. And when I reach the summit, I’ll scream. I’m sure I’ll hear an echo as far away as the Celestial Empire. There’ll be no name to this incredible endeavor, no formats, just me and a mountain. Formats, names, titles, now that would be ridiculous, don’t you agree? They have rules.” He started:
At first the adrenalin made him seek shelter to relieve himself, again and again. He could sense all this violence had brought together all this beauty. And one wrongly placed step, he thought, would be the end of him.
The peak seemed to throw their seeds here and there. Where the cliffs went straight up, completely erect, they left huge boulders. He could still hear the mountain sighing. It was tremendous power finally released. And when he looked down at his feet, little rocks shone. The little rocks were left on the voluptuous symmetrical floating mountains between the erect ones ….
But James Redburn never returned from his hike.
A few days later, after the echoes of wanting to hear another’s tragedy reached thousands; the invisible eddy took the press to the base of the Peavine Mountain. The masses needed a little ‘pick me up’.
A man with a pencil tucked behind his ear started talking. The group gathered around him: “The prolific writer, James Redburn, who was never read, took a hike up the Peavine Mountain Range just last week. A blue so blue, that when at the top the color seems different from one eye to another. He probably raised his hands when he made it to the summit, if he ever did. And from our investigations, we’ve discovered James Redburn slipped and fell repeatedly. The rescuers have now called off their efforts. The snow drifts have covered all that’s happened. Sorry, no more questions. I have other pending investigations, thank you. Our prayer’s go to Mr. James Redburn ---WE CARE!”
The End
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Bouquet
The word, “Leave,” staggered him to his knees. Immediately thereafter he bought a plane ticket to the world’s deepest woods to study plant propagation and leaf circumferences, and then, he told himself, “to the world’s next deepest woods.”
For the next fourteen years of his life, millions of leaves passed through his hands, yet one day, while deep in the woods measuring a leaf he heard the words, “Go to the place where you know where all the, ‘No Left turns are at’! Go home, please, there’s love here.”
From words blowing in a strange west wind, and after countless measurements of leaves and grafting of plants, producing all sorts of mysticisms, he hoped that once again he could have the mysticism of love. A smile slowly embraced his face, and he began moving home.
Home was a place where ‘hero’s from novel’s’ held up in little hovels, home for him was where all the people wore bouquets in their hair, home for him was San Francisco, California. He would settle there for the remainder of his days, he was sure now. He didn’t even have to aim his car after he heard those words ---blowing in a strange west wind.
He didn’t press the accelerator. It pulled him ---but only briefly because he blew an engine rod and had to take an alternate route home. But undaunted, he made his way to the nearest Amtrak Station. He would continue with his journey while taking in the sights while sitting in an Amtrak Train.
While on the train it began to rain, which he understood through clever eavesdropping on his traveling companions that it had happened often this year. The conversations on Market and Main streets, and in the food-cart, sounded with a familiar rhyme, “Had been an extremely prosperous and bountiful year, yes?” and or, “this particular rainy season it really (Really) rained a lot,” and he dreamed of wild flowers blooming all around and near his home, and after that last anxious turn he saw that the hills surrounding his home were such a green, a green which he had never seen before, and from that day on he no longer had to concentrate on the exhaling of his breath, it easily released itself.
And when he saw the skyline of San Francisco he was finally able to let his rifle, which had saved him so many times deep in the world’s jungles and world’s woods ---with the safety latch pushed tightly in the no longer needed position. No more was there a need for the man to have his finger constantly on the trigger. He was safe, and finally …He was Home!
The End
Monday, July 19, 2010
Petroleum
This letter (Below), inside a manila envelope with the heading, "Don't read but me!" was found on Market Street in San Francisco, California U.S.A:
Dear Jane,
I made it safely to San Francisco to head up the new special work project. Yet, concerning the incredibly dangerous nature of my profession, or more precisely, the dangerous unpredictability that follows my profession, since all our actions are performed when we ---Don't know what we're doing! I, as well, have decided to proceed without a moment of forethought, and or, reasoning, in an effort to start this new special work project just as random, just as unpredictable, as is the nature of my profession, and also, of course, the people in my profession, and, moreover, according to almost everybody, if this is done, this could, with a very high probability, lead to total failure, and maybe, just a little, but not a Federal (State only) catastrophe. And of course, we can, 'live with those numbers', nonetheless Jane, I'll try to get, 'as much out of it', as I can, just like you advised me,
Jane, you know me, and you know I work for BP! They care there.
Jane, I've included in this letter a picture of us at last year's anniversary party (Above photo). Also, I forgot to tell you; I'm drunk!
Love 'ya
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Mother's Blunt Instrument
Recently on a vacation motivated by my traveling companion’s thoughts about, ‘tons of unparalleled joy’, plus many, “Let’s go’s," we packed our things, the dog, and put the car in drive. And for the next four hours, with me behind the wheel, the exclamations from the passenger seat kept coming, “finally, out of that gloomy, horrible … frigging cold!” Nonetheless:
I didn’t want to leave. Did the fact, as my traveling companion expressed, “This gloomy, horrible …frigging cold!” actually exist? I was skeptical; actually, I had downright diametric thoughts from those icy views. I wanted to stay where I was. I was happy. And to my traveling companion I expressed these thoughts every hour in their presence, verbally, “It’ll change,” I’d say. But the car was already in drive, with me depressing the accelerator. Nonetheless:
We left. Once there, I wished I had never …left. I soon realized my new environment resembled what I thought was ---not good!? And the hubbub concerning the locals was, “Oh yes, this unbearable condition is normal for this time of year, enjoy!” Nonetheless:
I thought this ‘Normal’, should have contained a little, if not a lot, ‘ab-normalcy’, to be …Okay. Because this ‘Normal’, was what I call ---never-ending, hellish, or, just unbearably hot! Nonetheless:
The sun beams above seemed to hook into you, and followed you as you moved, when you know ---that’s probably not true. But that’s what I believed, and when my traveling companion, who at one time considered this place, ‘tons of unparalleled joy’, waffled, and now said, “Geez it’s hot here!” I was confirmed of these views of our new environment. Nonetheless:
I saw this hotness, stop all thoughts, with physical activity, considered by me, to be suicidal, and soon, the feelings of desperation were cascading all over me. So I expressed myself out-loud to my traveling companion, “Let’s go home ---Please!” Nonetheless:
I thought …if I was ignored, or if my traveling companion didn’t think as I thought, or completely agree with me, and my last and only options were exhausted, I would, ‘in all truth’, try to dispose of my traveling companion, and in my hand at the grisly scene, I would hold the ‘so-called’ ---Blunt instrument! Nonetheless:
The End
I didn’t want to leave. Did the fact, as my traveling companion expressed, “This gloomy, horrible …frigging cold!” actually exist? I was skeptical; actually, I had downright diametric thoughts from those icy views. I wanted to stay where I was. I was happy. And to my traveling companion I expressed these thoughts every hour in their presence, verbally, “It’ll change,” I’d say. But the car was already in drive, with me depressing the accelerator. Nonetheless:
We left. Once there, I wished I had never …left. I soon realized my new environment resembled what I thought was ---not good!? And the hubbub concerning the locals was, “Oh yes, this unbearable condition is normal for this time of year, enjoy!” Nonetheless:
I thought this ‘Normal’, should have contained a little, if not a lot, ‘ab-normalcy’, to be …Okay. Because this ‘Normal’, was what I call ---never-ending, hellish, or, just unbearably hot! Nonetheless:
The sun beams above seemed to hook into you, and followed you as you moved, when you know ---that’s probably not true. But that’s what I believed, and when my traveling companion, who at one time considered this place, ‘tons of unparalleled joy’, waffled, and now said, “Geez it’s hot here!” I was confirmed of these views of our new environment. Nonetheless:
I saw this hotness, stop all thoughts, with physical activity, considered by me, to be suicidal, and soon, the feelings of desperation were cascading all over me. So I expressed myself out-loud to my traveling companion, “Let’s go home ---Please!” Nonetheless:
I thought …if I was ignored, or if my traveling companion didn’t think as I thought, or completely agree with me, and my last and only options were exhausted, I would, ‘in all truth’, try to dispose of my traveling companion, and in my hand at the grisly scene, I would hold the ‘so-called’ ---Blunt instrument! Nonetheless:
The End
Friday, June 18, 2010
It's in the air
The winds came from a diametric direction today. Maybe within the winds a cure could be heard? But just as quick as the cure was heard, and perhaps more importantly ---just as it was felt, the winds went ninety degrees diametric from their original position, and the people had no other choice but to follow a possible cure. Because suddenly, at that precise moment ---everybody begged for a cure too! When it wasn’t a big tease, confusing everybody, as the winds whipped in circles, it really was quite simple: Music was heard!
And then it finally happened. Soon the energy-source of the cure got stronger and stronger, much more confident too, and finally burst through the wind. I mean it drilled a hole right through it. Now it couldn’t be denied. The people were ecstatic (Picture Above). “I think it’s going to be alright!” was heard.
Could vibrations in an ear drum actually cure the saddest of the sad, or those who are, ‘just a little blue’? Everybody dreamed this would come true. A procession was soon formed. The saddest of the sad were at the front of the line and the hierarchy continued as the last person was, ‘just a little blue’.
Everybody in the procession held burning candles, all appearing to be one candle, like undulations of waves lapping against a forgiving shore. It was beautiful. You see, spring had finally arrived, with summer not very far behind, and didn’t want to blow a single candle out. And you know what: Even if it wanted to it couldn’t!!!!
The procession was pulled to the energy-source that could cure. Well …that’s what everybody wanted the music to do. Could it? ---was the only question left after so many ...debates. I guess nobody was aware that it was already coming true. Yes it was! I mean, just look at the above photo.
Abruptly the procession stopped: A man with an unsymmetrical face with his lips pressed against a saxophone was the source. A smile quickly emerged on everybody’s face. His mouth, his cheeks actually were collapsing and expanding, pushing in and out the refreshing musical air. A miracle was being heard. The street rhymed. It all made sense. Everybody walked closer to hear, feeling better than better with every step as the man with the unsymmetrical face came into view.
People were no longer scared; the music actually was the cure. Market Street was being cured by music. Everybody saw it all now. Each and every problem on the people’s faces stopped swelling and begun to shrink to an understandable level.
A hat was sitting down next to the saxophone player. People formed a line to count to ten, then longer, while dropping dollar bills into his hat. “You’re the cure man!” The saxophone player lungs seemed to grow from all the attention. A miracle, a seeable actual miracle was happening from a man simply blowing wind into a saxophone.
So on that day a man with an unsymmetrical face that looked different from the left, as compared to the right ---Which most people didn’t want to look at all, was the cure, and the sounds from him went past and further than ours and yours mere Market Street. You just had to reach out to the person to your left and right, and unconditional love affairs seemed to have potential!
The End
.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Together
We must be careful you and me. Yes …I’m sure you agree, “Very careful,” you probably say too. Me as a writer and you as a psychologist; can we continue on the path together? Even if the path is getting treacherous ---of course it’s terrifying, sometimes, but after a while, we’ll be somewhere else. Don’t you agree? We’ll have made it, “don’t you think?”
You have to see how the path meanders in our lush green surroundings. “It’s beautiful!” But yes, sometimes the path seemingly looks like an illusion? ---hitting and missing, but usually only for a moment, not, “Get Out!” like you might say. That dead-end you see can simply be called a bridge instead.
“But what is the bridge to us, to connect or separate?” you might say. You might willingly leap across the bridge to keep the distance between the two of us.
But: “Below the bridge is a creek where the rocks are mossy and slippery; sharp and dangerous. It’s very dangerous,” I say, so desperate, just wanting to go back ---back to those nights where our moist breath on each other’s neck removed the past and also the future, as we lived … Now! “We could fall on those mossy rocks below or a fate perhaps worse,” I continue, “We’ll slip and take two maybe three steps back, or you’ll look at your life without us. We’ve walked quite a distance without an impasse, until, and it is only this hand-bridge with a few slippery obstacles that are now in front of us. We can’t take a step backwards, not now, please, not ever! I’m scared.”
“But …Aren’t creeks like this one that rejuvenate us formed by mad storms?” You say. “But isn’t that the contradiction in every system.” I say, and, “Look at that beauty as the creek repeats its beauty constantly.”
“But if we do, we must cross the bridge, past the slippery rocks below ---together. “No,” you say, and also, “look at those jagged rocks just underneath the surface waiting for a slip. That’s terrifying! “Yes,” I say, “like me, they’re desperate; I saw the desperation immediately after I heard it. But …they’re just scared. Can’t you see that they’re trying to stick their heads out of the creek for a breath of air?” I try to explain. “We must also inhale deeply …decisions should come slowly.”
But, you might say, “The path is one skip and a hop away …from the stifling love I forced on you?” “But it always takes two,” I say. So the Writer cried not after the skip but after the hop across the mossy rocks and the hand-bridge as he realized he landed on the other side without her.
And while on the other side the writer could hear her ask, “What does the future around that corner look like for you?” And quickly he said, “It doesn’t look very bright, not without you. So ...nightly I’ll scream at the silvery moon, “I love you.” And I’ll hear a dreamy return, “I love you too,” somewhere, as we continue on the path …together? The End
Making Murder Into a Natural Occurrence
As the mountain slid quickly down to valley at another lower elevation the trains plus the mist seemed to be in limbo right there. And ‘right there’ was where they had recently relocated the train’s turnaround station.
On that quick difference of elevation I had been stopped in my tracks on one of my many walking expeditions, motivated, or more precisely, forced, by anxious dreams of my alarm clock buzzing the next morning, and so, I began prowling the streets of my neighborhood to relief myself of this with a vigorous walk.
And at this time, was exactly the time, when I noticed the trains spinning around in the mist on that quick elevation change as the transportation workers chucked out passengers in twos, which were no longer passengers, but were now …corpses?
And so, with the view of these murders, all my thoughts turned… mystical. But murder often has that effect, especially a well organized attack to make it look like a natural occurrence. But now the slaughter was visible right through my tired eyes.
Therefore, I should be thankful that I was walking to cure myself of these insomniac nightmares of my alarm clock buzzing, but I’m not, and therefore, maybe I am, because my anxiety had made me aware of this, now obvious, murderous fact.
And so, being a humanitarian as I had grown to be, maybe always, probably since day one of my life, I promised the city that I lived in, and also loved, that I would in fact …try to stop the killing. You see, not only were the dimly lit trains through the mist now visible, but the sound waves of screams from murder seemed to glide right down that step difference of elevation, without any hesitation, directly into my ears. It was lyrical, profound even ---Murder/Death!
But, and this is without a single follow up question needed, it was about the murderer’s selection process that had everybody fascinated. Nobody was sure who was going to be next. Were you killed because of eye color, hair color, not enough color, skin tone, monotone, bi-tone, too skinny and or fleshy, and I can think of a million other reasons about why we were all so confused and at the same time very…fascinated.
Soon though, the hopelessness came and it was palpable. Even hugging a loved one became labor intensive. Nobody wanted to release their grip, but me of course. I had my philanthropy work to do. But very soon, I’m sure because of innuendo and conjecture, plus perhaps murderousness, soon the train’s turnaround was rerouted right through each and every district in the city. It was convenient, very easy indeed to get transportation as the trains crossed over each and every intersection in the city. It dissected the city into T’s, upside and downside T’s. It didn’t leave a person Behind and that was nothing but NEW! ---so I began to cheer them on. I began to cheer the murderers on!
The End
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)