We yearn and lust for that which we must possess. Yet, intangible things exist that we may never touch nor hope to own. Embrace but never feel, inspire but never control. The old places. The forgotten people. The breathtaking vistas of imagination born of nature. We are diminished so in its vastness.
First Breath, First Light
The inhabitants having gone,
this mighty structure, desolate now.
Once the center of learning, vaunted wisdom to unlock.
Now a pale shadow, reminiscing hope and dream.
Few come since the Great Move.
Mostly dust and creeping plant move o'er the floors.
"I can remember my awe, regarding it in the old place,
inspiring size and the regal shapes hand-carved into legendary landscape."
Grim silence abides there now, a warden to its prisoner,
the Great Move having diminished it.
"Return it to the original ground!" we cried in vain.
Over the far hillock, stone towers peer.
Dawn's sun caresses the central dome.
I sigh. I am here. Again. I descend.
Scraps of light scamper over smooth walls,
within the great hall.
Majestic ceilings arcing to the sky,
shadows masking true heights.
Statues of the ancients, the learned, the wise,
the carven masters reach, lecture,
reenacting their worldly achievements.
Such quality in engineering, integrity preserved.
No marble cracked or granite crumbled.
Not a single sign of youth's petulance,
the indignation of the shallow-minded.
"Were there wards on this place?" I asked.
"An unseen caretaker discouraging the wicked from
assailing our hallowed place?"
A new thought emerged in my limited brain.
"Was it taking care of itself?"
The Great Move had changed all things...
Familiarity of the strange washed over me,
a familiar yet fresh reality arrived.
Possibilities leapt, poured as if from newly struck spring.
I smiled widely. I could leave now.
No longer the pilgrim, the seeker.
My thoughts shape my world,
carefully I ponder creation.
I sat on the marble steps, spat in the inch-thick dust.
The halls of the wise lay behind me.
Gentle winds lift my hair.
Soft sunlight tenderly tans my cheeks,
the face, now one radiating clarity.
The old places, aligned in memory,
repose under the shroud.
I embrace the idea of this place,
this sanctuary of the coarse hills,
of the wind-carved stone and hardy shrubs,
of the stinging sand, of my great move.
Hit the road, one chapter at a time
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Erosion
A man owned clothes that did not fit,
feeble-minded, sharing a moronic wit,
carved his living with ghosts each day,
human husks, innards rife with decay.
Withered confidence and lack of valor,
lines etched his face, an ashen pallor.
Drudgery replaced his given name,
lodged in a rut, every day the same.
Then, a distant uncle decided to die,
one whose passion was to fly,
aloft on printed words he soared,
so assigned them to one nephew bored.
He knew naught to think of the gift,
picking through titles, sort and sift.
Interest bloomed within the third hour,
spreading tenderly as a yearning flower.
At night he'd sit in dim light,
reading each volume, pages gripped tight.
Dust-cloaked phone on a lonely shelf,
an avatar of his former self.
Desperate to tell all mankind
of things he'd read that opened his mind.
He longed to share each bizarre thought,
brain against body, to the end they fought.
But, too late.
The decay did spread,
too far into his heart where it had bred,
mulitplied to a number fantastic,
he ceased, book in hand, smiling,
in his chair of plastic.
feeble-minded, sharing a moronic wit,
carved his living with ghosts each day,
human husks, innards rife with decay.
Withered confidence and lack of valor,
lines etched his face, an ashen pallor.
Drudgery replaced his given name,
lodged in a rut, every day the same.
Then, a distant uncle decided to die,
one whose passion was to fly,
aloft on printed words he soared,
so assigned them to one nephew bored.
He knew naught to think of the gift,
picking through titles, sort and sift.
Interest bloomed within the third hour,
spreading tenderly as a yearning flower.
At night he'd sit in dim light,
reading each volume, pages gripped tight.
Dust-cloaked phone on a lonely shelf,
an avatar of his former self.
Desperate to tell all mankind
of things he'd read that opened his mind.
He longed to share each bizarre thought,
brain against body, to the end they fought.
But, too late.
The decay did spread,
too far into his heart where it had bred,
mulitplied to a number fantastic,
he ceased, book in hand, smiling,
in his chair of plastic.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Can I Count On You?
I read a comment to a recent facebook post that instantly set me thinking and eventually to writing. The contributor commented on friend invitations he receives from people he hasn’t seen in many years or at best are acquaintances. What happens after you accept them, if you in fact do, is the really compelling moment.
What does happen? Almost always, it is silence. No messages or questions or phone number exchanges. Just silence. The contributor wondered aloud, how to understand the idea of the “friend collector”.
We’ve all read about and maybe even participated in the “friend clean-up” exercise on facebook. You scan through all the faces populating your friend list searching for people to eliminate. What are the criteria you use? Here’s a brainstorm list:
- Don’t really know this person
- Never was their friend in the past
- Their posts annoy the hell out of me
- They pissed me off on facebook
- They never communicate with me
I would bet the farm that the last bullet is the least frequent reason someone gets un-friended. I think about my friend list and the amount of time I spend communicating with all those people and the bottom line is that its impossible. No one can effectively communicate or uphold relationships with that many people.
In the past I’ve mentioned Dunbar ’s Law to some friends, also known as the Law of 150 that states you cannot maintain strong personal relationships with more than 150 individuals. The number is linked to size of the brain’s neocortex which can limit group size. “the limit imposed by neocortical processing capacity is simply on the number of individuals with whom a stable inter-personal relationship can be maintained." I read about it in Malcolm Gladwell's book "The Tipping Point", one of my all-time favorite reads.
After that number, the strength of the relationship erodes rapidly and what develop are sub-groups or cliques of like individuals. “Like individuals” is openly subjective so there could be all types of connective tissue that bind the sub-groups together like location, career, family, recreation, etc.
The amusing part of this link is that Dunbar ’s theory has roots in the study of primate groups. Primates are highly social and to maintain their connection, their relationships with one another, participate in social grooming. You’ve probably seen clips of apes and chimps picking fleas and assorted fur-dwelling creatures off their peers. This grooming is their social connection and maintains their relationship. It always reminded me of the human dynamic of the barber shop or beauty salon.
Now with facebook and other social media, we socially groom one another with status updates, comments, posting photos, joining the social gaming legion along with a host of other online socially lubricating vehicles. It’s very successful at raising the friend-o-meter. When I played Mafia Wars for a few months I monitored my friend count daily. Then one day my wife asked me why I was now friends with some women who sported bikinis in their profile pictures. I said that they looked awfully good in those swimsuits, so why not?
After the swelling in my face went down, I evaluated the real reason I friended them or accepted their invitation. It was completely artificial. The only value added was to the size of my imaginary Mafia that was duking it out in cyberspace with other artificial mobs and their army of artificial friends.
So, I got out the feather duster and cleaned the seldom used delete key on the keyboard and went to work. So where do I stand today? I don’t do the gaming thing anymore and I’m much more discerning when it comes to friendship acceptance or extending invitations to others. But the question of retention comes back full circle.
Should there be a grace period after you get connected with someone that expires? Imagine a countdown clock for communication. Picture a dashboard clock, counting down the days, hours, minutes and seconds before you and the friend will be disconnected for all time. I love it.
In the end the quality of our relationships with others comes down to our ability to communicate. So a massive friend list with whom you do not communicate with is kind of like staring at the stacks of books in the library. Just because you see them all there and can point to the name on each one doesn’t mean you know or care what’s inside.
Do you care what’s inside? Or are we just counting?
Friday, January 28, 2011
One Way Street chapter 1
I nearly dropped my cell phone attempting to parallel park the car. My Malibu
I don’t handle stress real well. Normally, I favored grinding my teeth until chips of enamel dotted my tongue during a stressful moment. Every once in a while I would launch into a curse-laden tirade, but I usually did that when no one could actually hear me. I needed people to think I was in total control at all times.
Between the challenge of parking and the dolt on the other end of the phone, prattling on about nothing important, I was pretty frustrated. I hadn’t had any lunch yet either so my restless stomach wasn’t helping.
“Uh huh,” I assented into the phone for the fiftieth time. At some point I needed to cut this caller off before he wasted any more of my life. The sun was settling in behind the row of buildings sitting perpendicular to the street where I had parked. Its rays blinded me making my phone call all the more annoying.
“I see. Well, I wish I had more time to consider your problem,” I said, “but I really need to run…” The caller ignored my hint and continued to ramble.
“That’s it,” I thought to myself. I grabbed my keys and got out of the car. I walked around the rear of my Chevy to get my bag out of the trunk. Siren wails caused me to look up quickly, but the sun made it almost impossible to see at first.
“Stop or I’ll shoot you, kid!”
Shielding my eyes with one hand, I moved to the sidewalk to avoid the police car that I couldn’t see just yet, but I knew it was coming the wrong way down a one-way street. I could hear the engine rapidly accelerating in a lower gear, the transmission about to shift. That’s when I saw the outline of people running down the sidewalk toward me.
They closed the distance so fast, I stumbled back against the side of my car as the cop and the perp ran past me. The squad car roared by a second later. I felt a slight burning sensation in my right ankle, but it receded into my subconscious as I watched the police car abruptly cut left and run up over the curb. The cop hit the brakes but still hit an apartment building with enough force to deploy the airbags.
The runner ran smack into the car, his chest and face slapping the warm hood. The cop that gave chase expertly applied his handcuffs, ending the pursuit. The guy driving the squad car opened door and slid onto the street holding his nose. Blood leaked from under his fingers, dripping off his chin.
My ankle reminded me that it was injured and I crumpled slowly to one knee. Now that the excitement was over, I tried to remember what had happened to my ankle. I remembered stumbling into my car but I didn’t think I turned an ankle. I pulled up my pant leg when I saw the bag under my car.
A dull black handle extended from the mouth of a brown paper bag. The lower half of the bag was stained, as if it were wet. Forgetting the gash on my ankle, I reached my left arm under my car, and grabbed the bag when something hard connected with my shoulder. I dropped the bag and slammed onto my back, tumbled completely over, coming to rest face down on the pavement.
I pushed up from the concrete and looked up at my assailant. The sun had fallen behind the row of buildings on Cale Street. I got up as fast I could, my chin scuffed from smaking the sidewalk.
“You don’t want no part of that,” he said. “Get up outta here.” A lanky teenager wagged his finger at me as he stepped towards my car. He wore baggy jeans, a black Atlanta Falcons jersey, and a cap angled to one side.
“That’s my car,” I said getting to my feet. He thrust his palm into my chest, pushing me back a two steps.
“I told you what to do, man. Now get.” He placed his right hand under his jersey and held it at his waist. The threat of a gun froze me in place.
“Hi, DaShaun.” We both looked over to see a smiling cop with a bloody face standing close to the teen, DaShaun. He jabbed his nightstick into the kid’s stomach. I heard all the wind go out of him just before the cop cracked him across the back of his neck. DaShaun went down in a heap.
“Double-crossing us, D? We waited for you for an hour,” the cop explained as he put handcuffs on his dazed captive. “When you didn’t show, we decided to check out your crib. You guys are really stupid. Now where is it?”
DaShaun couldn’t manage more than a series of deep coughs, his eyes rolling in their sockets. “How ‘bout you think it over in the back seat before you go for a ride.” He dragged DaShaun away.
The other cop now approached me. “Are you alright, sir?” he pointed at my shoulder where a large, dirty boot print decorated my white shirt.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I think that kid wanted to steal my car or something,” I said.
“Sir, did you see that scumbag I was chasing drop or throw anything? This is very important to our, uh, investigation.”
“I really couldn’t see much when you guys were coming down the street. The sun was so bright coming off the top of the buildings, I didn’t figure out what was going on until you passed me by.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t see anything else?” The cop stepped closer, one hand coming to rest on the grip of his gun. “You’re positive about that? Take your time and think hard.” Keeping his eyes locked on mine, the cop dropped to one knee and then took a peek under the car. He stood up and took another step closer to me.
I looked away for a brief second but was drawn back to his eyes. His brows creased in displeasure.
“Where is it?” he hissed in my face. I could smell alcohol on his breath.
“I didn’t see anything officer. If I did, I would have told you,” I lied to him, not altogether sure why.
“I didn’t see anything officer. If I did, I would have told you,” I lied to him, not altogether sure why.
“I have your license plate, guy, and that means I can find you,” he jammed his index and middle fingers repeatedly into my chest as he whispered, “any...time…I…want.”
I nodded, knowing if I said anything it would come out sarcastically and he would beat the hell out of me. There wasn’t a soul in these row apartments that was going to rush out to the aid of a stranger being knocked around by the cops.
It turned out to be the right choice. He jogged back to car. His partner had cleared the airbags, stopped his nose from bleeding, and had both prisoners in the back seat. They roared off, continuing the wrong way down the one-way street.
I examined myself for a minute, making sure none of my wounds were serious, and they weren’t. I became acutely aware of how silent the street was or had now become after what had occurred with the cops. I looked from door to window to balcony and didn’t see anyone stealing a glance in my direction.
I decided that I need to do two things first. Get the bag and clean the cut on my ankle. I understood why the cop didn’t see it when he knelt down to check. When DaShaun kicked me the bag fell against the inside rim of the passenger side, rear tire. I reached around pulled it out. I heard a sloshing sound. I saw that that the black handle was connected to a cloudy, glass sphere filled with a foul looking liquid. I saw a large crack in the sphere and made the connection to the wet bag.
I picked it up carefully and headed in the general direction of the office I was originally going to visit. My ankle started to throb with each stride I took toward Cale Street, suggesting the damage might be worse than I thought. I was about to turn left onto Cale when a rusty screen door swung open, nearly hitting me. A woman dressed to young for her age with dyed red hair leaned out from the doorway.
“Get in here, quickly. They are waiting for you.”
I didn’t stop but slowed my pace and said, “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, you fool,” she said, “Turn that corner and those friendly policemen you met earlier will be taking you for a ride. Stop walking!”
My body obeyed though I never had seen this woman before in my life. I resisted the urge to peek around the corner and instead, found myself walking into the doorway. The woman closed the screen and interior door. Since the corridor was only wide enough for one person, I walked in slowly, waiting for directions from my hostess.
“The room at the end of the corridor, quickly now,” she instructed me. I could her chewing gum as we walked. A dimly lit but tidy kitchen held a small table with two chairs, the usual appliances, and an odd, three foot high door beside the fridge. I could tell by the marks on the floor that the fridge normally blocked the door, but had been recently slid aside to reveal the portal.
“You guessed where we are going, I see,” she said. “Please watch your head inside. There are many low beams with hooks and nails and things poking out ready to hook your clothes or catch an ear.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you until you answer some questions.”
“We don’t have time for this…”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Maybe not, but I know what is inside that paper bag you’re carrying. There are people outside my door who would do such things to you,” she shuddered, “death would be a blessing. So unless you have a longing to find out what they are, we should be moving.”
I nodded to show I would do as she said, still unable to comprehend who would want this cracked fishbowl on a stick that badly. We ducked into the corridor behind the fridge. I heard a footstep on the kitchen linoleum and looked back over my shoulder in time to see someone close the door behind us. I heard the fridge scraping back into place.
“Don’t bother with that. Keep moving,” she ordered. I couldn’t believe I was really doing this.
Surprisingly, I was able to come up out of a crouch and needed only walk stoop-shouldered to avoid the ceiling and occasional beams. A series of dusty light bulbs spaced too far apart illuminated the corridor of wood studs. We were behind the walls of the buildings I had parked alongside. I couldn’t believe how quiet it was. “In this city, I didn’t think there were spaces this quiet,” I mumbled aloud.
After some steps up and later back down, we made our way to a set of gray double doors with no handles to turn or push. My guide stepped forward and knocked loudly on the dented metal. She wrapped an irregular pattern three times over. I knew it must be some kind of code. “Where the hell am I?” I asked myself.
Swinging silently outward, the doors released a wave of foul smells, most notably, rotting garbage and human waste. Two men wearing blue coveralls and caps directed me into the back seat of a jet black Lincoln
There was no way to keep track of the route the driver selected. It felt like we doubled back on our route several times. I don’t ever feel carsick or seasick, airsick. You name it, I can handle it. But this ride through the Bronx was turning my stomach. The combination of the hot garbage smell glued to the inside of my nostrils and the tablespoon of bile that leapt onto my tongue had me doubting if I could keep breakfast down.
My suffering ended abruptly when the Lincoln
Surrounded on three sides by the soaring blocks of stone, including a smaller building that probably served as the home of the resident priests, I might have been transported to deep within the Vatican. No sirens, horns beeping, rap music blasting, just a muted hymn emanating from the church. The silent men in the coveralls showed me to an ornately crafted door with a small, stained-glass window carved in the shape of a crucifix. The door led into the back of the church. They didn’t follow me in, but I noticed them getting into the laundry service truck instead of the Lincoln
As I passed soundlessly down a dim hallway along a crimson carpet, I frowned outwardly when I realized how passive I had become over the last hour or so. Why was I blindly going along with these people? I morphed from being prepared to fight DaShaun over the right to my car to a docile sheep carrying a paper bag. Granted, I felt better now that I was inside a church, but this was really out of character for me.
I wasn’t allowed further time for introspection. Blocking further passage in the hall was a stout priest wearing the simple black shirt and pants of the Catholic order. He appeared to be a Hispanic man in his early fifties. He wasn’t tall but had broad shoulders and a full head of black hair. He struck me as being compact and powerful, though time had encouraged his chest to start sagging toward his midsection. I came to a stop and he closed the distance, placing both hands on my shoulders.
“So you made it,” he said smiling, “I am Father Gilberto. I am very happy to meet you. Please, come to my office and we can relax.”
His voice sent reassuring sensations into my brain. I replied dully, “Thank you, father,” and lurched along the carpet. We entered a door with an arched frame. Father Gilberto showed me inside and indicated a chair opposite his desk for me. He then closed the thick door, cut perfectly to match the curvature of the door frame.
Opulent wood decorated every facet of father Gilberto’s office. Hi desk, armoire, the molding, trim around the windows, a pair of massive bookcases all gave me the impression of power and wealth. “Father must know how to use this room to his advantage,” I thought, and noticed how long he was taking to settle into his chair behind the desk. Movements so deliberate to allow me to absorb my surroundings fully.
I then noticed an array of framed pictures and newspaper articles featuring father Gilberto on the wall behind him. The priest was photographed either shaking hands or standing arm-in-arm with past mayors like Ed Koch, David Dinkens and Rudy Guliani, borough officials, Al Sharpton, George Steinbrenner, Cardinal O’Connor, and other local personalities. The framed articles all ran headlines like, “Hero Priest Rescues Orphans” or “Limitless Generosity of St. Michael’s” and “Priest Has Cleaned Up His Streets”. Father Gilberto was more of a local legend than a spiritual advisor.
I remembered seeing a news clip of him after the blackout in 2003. One pocket of tenements in the Bronx near his church didn’t get their power back as quickly as the others. The heat that August was oppressive, so father Gilberto had ushered them all into his church, arranged donations of food and water be delivered by local merchants. He convinced the local YMCA to open their doors for use of their pool and showers and the laundry service that handles his priestly vestments and linens for the rectory to do the same for these people for an entire week.
I didn’t watch the eleven o’clock news all that much, but father Gil was one of those community figures that didn’t let a couple of months pass without doing something newsworthy that the networks or the papers flocked to en masse. My brain functions resumed their usual patterns now and I began to inwardly analyze what was happening.
Father Gil must have been observing closely. He chose that moment to dive into conversation. “So you must be wondering what in the blazes is going on here, eh? Well I will say you are one lucky fella today. Those cops you ran into are some of the worst sort I’ve ever seen in this city. If you ask me,” he said leaning across the desk and lowering his voice, “they’re not even real cops.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise.
“That’s right. I mean what would a police officer want with a wet paper bag wrapped around a dirty water globe? Am I right?” he asked.
“Father, I don’t know what you’re talking about or what’s in this bag, but I do know I want to get rid of it and just get back home.”
“Where’s home, young man?”
“Queens ,” I said.
“Working up here?” Father Gil asked.
I nodded. “Yup. And after what’s happened today, I think I should just head back home.”
“I don’t blame you. Let me have that thing.” Father Gil reached across his desk with both hands. I passed the wet bag to him, happy to be rid of it. I was surprised to see how gingerly Gil handled it. He placed it on a wire metal rack on the credenza behind him.
“You’ve done a fine service for the faithful of my church and for me. And though I am grateful, I have one favor to ask of you.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Do you know where the local precinct is?”
“Yeah. The 47 on Laconia
“Well,” Father Gil said, “I would like you to deliver something for me. You see, I have a dear friend who lost his brother, a fellow cop on September 11th and I, uh, have a gift for him. I’d bring it myself but I have so much to attend to here and I just know he’ll be emotional. I’d rather talk to him afterward. Give him some time to compose himself you see.”
I found myself nodding and before I could verbally agree, Father Gil was rising out of his chair, shaking my hand. “God bless you, son. The Lord favors the selfless and today you have truly been that.”
Father Gil handed me a small package wrapped in rough brown paper, tied with a shoelace. I’m sure he noticed the furrowed brow that made up my what-the-hell-is-this-face because he spoke quickly.
“I know. Not much of a wrapping job, but what's inside is what counts.”
We exchanged a few pleasantries and then I was out that back door again, the men in coveralls waiting. This time we rode in the laundry truck. I stood in the spacious back section just behind the driver and passenger seats. Metal racks lined the inside of the truck. They were stark empty but they gave me something to hold onto for the ride.
In ten minutes we were back at my car. I stepped onto the street and looked back into the van's passenger window. Father Gil’s man looked at me with all the expression of a flounder and then the truck moved off. I walked over to the car. There was a ticket on the windshield, pinned like a mouse under a lion’s paw flapping helplessly in the breeze. I shook my head and grabbed the ticket. “It figures,” I muttered to myself.
I drove to the 47th precinct. I parked illegally and put the ticket back on my windshield. Entering through the faded front door, this building reminded me of a dilapidated school. It probably was a tired, old school that had become overcrowded and the city claimed it in order to add a police precinct without putting up a new building. I left my package with the duty officer sitting behind the bullet-proof glass. As I turned to leave, I heard him page the cop whose name was written across the front of the box.
I got back to my car, grabbed the ticket and hopped in the seat. I needed to get home. A stiff drink was in order after the day I had. An explosion rocked my car. I looked over my right shoulder, witnessing the precinct house burning. Flames blasted from every window and door. The roof collapsed seconds later.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Halcyon Days Ahead!
In keeping with the warm weather theme, I present you this little tale of warm weather sailing. It had ought to be enough to keep the snow's chill at bay! Enjoy.
"Halcyon days ahead!" Shouting my mantra as the craft slipped across crest and settled in trough, repeating the rhythmic pattern of sea travel. A long journey lay ahead. Hardship to be sure, but also joy and freedom. I yearned for rigors and tests, imagining the rewards to be gained.
Brilliant boasts like "Tame the bloody sea!" could be heard if any sailors close enough there were. Sails puffed out slapped by a stiff breeze on our clear star-strewn night and land no longer in sight.
The subtle changes are a dark wind, numbing my lips and cheeks. Eight weeks of illness isolated on my ship. I skirted the shoals of sheer cliffs of stone. Islands with no beach, welcoming me with sharp crags and jetties. Panic gripped me when I spied reefs beneath the waves again and again. Fatigue dared to steal consciousness. But the rigging remained taut, sails filled, so I choicelessly steered south powered by the salty breeze. My stomach churned in a nest of rot.
I re-focused on a sunlit glade, blue-green waters lapping my tanned face. How long had I slumbered here in the waters? I had always wanted to believe in magic, wished for it as a youth. I knew, I just knew magic flowed through the earth, the sky, the water and through me.
The glade's detail, so convincing in it's depth made me proud. Proud that I could hallucinate so completely. I stood, a foreign object amidst perfection and waded out of the pool and onto the sand. Color exploded in the surrounding thicket. Frond of palms, ferns unfurled, one bright yellow bird. It cocked its head indicating curiosity. A curt nod and then it was aloft, spiraling to the sun, leaving me grounded. My naked feet tickled as I staggered amongst feathers. A toe imprinted soft wax.
I sailed on, unable to ignore my severely cramping stomach. Buffeted by a minor gale, my sun-bleached hair whipped unto my eyes and caught in my mouth leaving the dry crackle salt grease taste behind. Pink and crimson overlap the horizon as I give chase o'er the sea.
Sails fell slack as night stretched over me, arching her sleek back across the sky, dampening the red blaze of the sinking star. Resting her shoulders on the horizon, her arms spread north and south. Her charcoal screen pinned to the sky morphs to deeper shades of black.
I watch. I am mesmerized. I do not steer. I do not care. Picking up her head from the horizon line, two flaming blue star-eyes shine briefly, then wink out. The dark is now thick and hopeless. No wind. I take in the sails preparing for my own sleep. Lying upon the quarterdeck, the craft picks its own course. Weeks become months and no beach to moor.
"Halcyon days ahead!" Shouting my mantra as the craft slipped across crest and settled in trough, repeating the rhythmic pattern of sea travel. A long journey lay ahead. Hardship to be sure, but also joy and freedom. I yearned for rigors and tests, imagining the rewards to be gained.
Brilliant boasts like "Tame the bloody sea!" could be heard if any sailors close enough there were. Sails puffed out slapped by a stiff breeze on our clear star-strewn night and land no longer in sight.
The subtle changes are a dark wind, numbing my lips and cheeks. Eight weeks of illness isolated on my ship. I skirted the shoals of sheer cliffs of stone. Islands with no beach, welcoming me with sharp crags and jetties. Panic gripped me when I spied reefs beneath the waves again and again. Fatigue dared to steal consciousness. But the rigging remained taut, sails filled, so I choicelessly steered south powered by the salty breeze. My stomach churned in a nest of rot.
I re-focused on a sunlit glade, blue-green waters lapping my tanned face. How long had I slumbered here in the waters? I had always wanted to believe in magic, wished for it as a youth. I knew, I just knew magic flowed through the earth, the sky, the water and through me.
The glade's detail, so convincing in it's depth made me proud. Proud that I could hallucinate so completely. I stood, a foreign object amidst perfection and waded out of the pool and onto the sand. Color exploded in the surrounding thicket. Frond of palms, ferns unfurled, one bright yellow bird. It cocked its head indicating curiosity. A curt nod and then it was aloft, spiraling to the sun, leaving me grounded. My naked feet tickled as I staggered amongst feathers. A toe imprinted soft wax.
I sailed on, unable to ignore my severely cramping stomach. Buffeted by a minor gale, my sun-bleached hair whipped unto my eyes and caught in my mouth leaving the dry crackle salt grease taste behind. Pink and crimson overlap the horizon as I give chase o'er the sea.
Sails fell slack as night stretched over me, arching her sleek back across the sky, dampening the red blaze of the sinking star. Resting her shoulders on the horizon, her arms spread north and south. Her charcoal screen pinned to the sky morphs to deeper shades of black.
I watch. I am mesmerized. I do not steer. I do not care. Picking up her head from the horizon line, two flaming blue star-eyes shine briefly, then wink out. The dark is now thick and hopeless. No wind. I take in the sails preparing for my own sleep. Lying upon the quarterdeck, the craft picks its own course. Weeks become months and no beach to moor.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Fourth Street
Fourth Street is narrow,
lined with some other generation's rust-red brick tenements
that loom four stories high.
On summer nights there's heat,
such heat as you'd think hidden steam kettles boiled,
big as boulders wheezing steam from below.
Balconies and windows,
decorated with sweat-streaked folk,
rubbernecking above Fourth Street,
yearning for the messiah breeze
that breaks promises anew.
Apartments built, some say
suited to bake as giant dutch ovens,
cooking the mewling babes and scar-knuckled providers the same.
Ice melts in tea pitchers and gin tumblers faster
than the sole scoop of vanilla on a hot plate.
Pavement shimmering, soaking up the day's heat,
lazily releasing its searing power past sundown.
From the fourth story balconies,
the apshalt moves, a twitching, ponderous lava flow.
The pack of tongue-lolling dogs trot
across Fourth Street, paws lifting in silent agony,
eyes scanning for something cool,
a puddle or old shade.
lined with some other generation's rust-red brick tenements
that loom four stories high.
On summer nights there's heat,
such heat as you'd think hidden steam kettles boiled,
big as boulders wheezing steam from below.
Balconies and windows,
decorated with sweat-streaked folk,
rubbernecking above Fourth Street,
yearning for the messiah breeze
that breaks promises anew.
Apartments built, some say
suited to bake as giant dutch ovens,
cooking the mewling babes and scar-knuckled providers the same.
Ice melts in tea pitchers and gin tumblers faster
than the sole scoop of vanilla on a hot plate.
Pavement shimmering, soaking up the day's heat,
lazily releasing its searing power past sundown.
From the fourth story balconies,
the apshalt moves, a twitching, ponderous lava flow.
The pack of tongue-lolling dogs trot
across Fourth Street, paws lifting in silent agony,
eyes scanning for something cool,
a puddle or old shade.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Chestnut Tree
Today's post is a story that was inspired by the shrubs in front of the house where I grew up, a William Shatner movie and a twisted walking stick. Hope you like it.
The Chestnut Tree
I remember when I was a kid in grammar school. I used ta walk home on a dusty road shaded by tall trees behind old man Sutton's fields. His land lay beyond Pa's place so I'd sneak in there all the time. Reason being, old man Sutton had a big old tire swing in the corner lot. It was a good hundred yards from the barn where the farmer worked on his machinery.
There was all kind of noises coming from that barn. All manner of hammering, banging and the old man cussing! That's how I knowed he was coming. When the banging and the hammering stopped, and all that was left was the cussing, he was coming.
I'd jump off that tire swing no matter how high, and then scrap up all my books and high-tail it home. The man would be sputtering down the slope, wheezing and cursing up a storm. I never worried that he'd catch me. He was in no shape to catch a kid. I'd wave and laugh and jump over the stone wall heading for home.
When my Pa found out that I had been fooling around up there he warned me. He said, "Don't go over his place no more. That old man is wicked. If he gets his greasy hands on you, he's liable to punish you in some god-awful way!"
Pa scared me good. It kept me out of that field for a week or two. But I couldn't stay away from that swing in the giant chestnut tree. The arms stretched away like a super octopus and I pretended I was a brave diver, swimming into the depths like I was in a story written by Jules Verne. It was all I could think about in school all day.
But my luck changed one day. It was spring. I'll never forget that day. In school they were explaining why President Wilson was getting us involved in a world war. A war so far away it didn't make any sense at all. But by the end of the day I was convinced that America had to kick the krauts the hell out of France or Europe or somewhere across the ocean. Besides, they were cheating, driving boats underwater and sinking innocent ships by surprise.
So I was walking home, expecting to find kraut soldiers behind every tree or turn in the road when I came to old man Sutton's field. When I saw the tire swing I thought about them pictures I wasn't supposed to touch with my dirty little fingers, else I'd smudge em. Like the one of the fighter pilots in their leather jackets. I scooped up a handful of rocks and boarded my plane.
Soon I was airborne swinging out over the countryside. Each trip out I zoomed over the real long grass past the base of the tree. The grass that I knew was full of snakes and banana spiders. The return swing went back so far I was facing down, looking at my scattered school books. I remember following the rope up, my chin rubbing them coarse fibers staring at that monster of a knot. It had to be the size of a melon, strangling the crooked arm of that old chestnut tree.
It was real quiet. Just the sound of the rope creaking and the pretend noises I made, imitating the plane's engine whining through the clouds. I imagined kraut soldiers crawling through the grass to reach the allied base. I grabbed up my 'grenades' and bombed their hidden bodies in the long grass. Each pass outward I rained hell upon 'em. I used all my ammunition convinced I greased 'em all. All that was left was to fly home and get my medals.
I started hot-doggin' and showboatin' flying in all kinds of crazy spins and loops. The blood rushed to my head from hanging back so far out of the tire. But when you're flying your victory flight you're allowed to have some fun. You just risked your neck in enemy territory, right? I felt like the greatest pilot in the sky! And then, wham! Something smashed me in the back and I went sailing off the swing. I hit the ground hard, bouncing off the gnarled roots of that old chestnut tree. I ended up in the long grass.
I got scared because I knew those banana spiders made you real sick if they bit you. Darrin Simpson got bit by one last month and missed a whole week of school! But then I got scared about what hit me so damn hard. I tried to get up but I ached all over. So I rolled to one side to see what I coulda hit. It was the first time I ever saw old man Sutton up close and it scared me worse than anything.
He stood over me in a pair of faded green overalls, ripped and patched on the legs. He didn't wear a shirt and his huge belly puckered way out in front of him. He was hairy all over like one of those banana spiders! He held a wood handled shovel with the business end all rusted through.
I remember worst of all was his eyes. Black like mama's onyx earrings, they shone like polished glass. He stared at me a long time. I don't how I kept from crying!
Then he laughed out loud, real loud from deep inside that huge belly. Seeing his black rotten teeth made me shiver all over again. He pointed as his laughter quieted a little and I followed his crooked finger. A hairy banana spider perched upon my bare foot. I screamed in terror. It bit me and then scuttled into the grass. I screamed some more and then things started looking fuzzy. Sutton moved toward me, raising his shovel over his head. Then it all went black.
I woke up in the smelliest, dirtiest place I'd ever been to. There was filth on the floor and furniture. I was in a room with a couple chairs and a couch that was smeared with oil or grease. Newspapers and clothes lay all around me. I made to get up but my legs didn't do what I wanted. They felt all tingly. So did my arms. I couldn't move nothing! Things came into focus a little more and I started to panic. My breathing sped up so fast I was gasping. Old man Sutton snorted kinda like a feisty bull who thinks you're gonna walk across his field. He had been sitting in a chair the whole time, but he blended with the garbage like some kinda camouflage for a dump.
He just sat there staring at me, not saying a word. I wanted to apologize or beg or say anything to escape that crazy house. Time sure picked a bad place to stop working, cause it felt like forever.
Sutton finally made a move. He reached into a pocket in the front of his overalls and pulled out a small brown bottle. He smirked and pushed himself up off the cruddy chair. A piece of newspaper clung to the back of his thigh for a second and then fell to the floor. He stepped toward me, unscrewing the black cap off that dirty bottle. I fought to move but the spider bite or the shovel strike or both had left me paralyzed. I tried to scream again but my jaw didn't listen. Instead I made this mewling sound like a creature that can't use words or maybe had its tongue cut out.
Sutton reached out one hand and squeezed my face causing my jaw to drop, my mouth falling wide open. He shoved the bottle onto the back of my tongue. Bitter liquid sloshed down my throat. My body reacted now, a gag reflex and some tremors and such. Sutton broke his long silence.
"Stop squirmin' boy. This here's good fer ya."
The bottle emptied itself quick. He must've been an expert at forcing medicine into an unwilling person's mouth. Probably had practice with dogs or cows, or maybe, with other kids he captured! Thoughts of a cauldron in Sutton's dirt floor basement filled my head. I pictured him lowering me into his cannibal stew like in that story I read about some savages living in far away jungles!
Sutton released my face and put the cap back on the bottle. He started swaying and stuff started fading out again. I was sure it was for the last time. Only then did I manage to whisper one word, "Mama."
I woke up. Laying on the ground under the chestnut tree, I started coming to. I propped myself up on my elbows causing my head to throb. My books lay where I had left them. They had all blown open with pages flapping in the breeze. That wind pushed the tire swing in small arcs, the knot creaking softly. Away in the barn I heard old man Sutton banging and hammering.
The Chestnut Tree
I remember when I was a kid in grammar school. I used ta walk home on a dusty road shaded by tall trees behind old man Sutton's fields. His land lay beyond Pa's place so I'd sneak in there all the time. Reason being, old man Sutton had a big old tire swing in the corner lot. It was a good hundred yards from the barn where the farmer worked on his machinery.
There was all kind of noises coming from that barn. All manner of hammering, banging and the old man cussing! That's how I knowed he was coming. When the banging and the hammering stopped, and all that was left was the cussing, he was coming.
I'd jump off that tire swing no matter how high, and then scrap up all my books and high-tail it home. The man would be sputtering down the slope, wheezing and cursing up a storm. I never worried that he'd catch me. He was in no shape to catch a kid. I'd wave and laugh and jump over the stone wall heading for home.
When my Pa found out that I had been fooling around up there he warned me. He said, "Don't go over his place no more. That old man is wicked. If he gets his greasy hands on you, he's liable to punish you in some god-awful way!"
Pa scared me good. It kept me out of that field for a week or two. But I couldn't stay away from that swing in the giant chestnut tree. The arms stretched away like a super octopus and I pretended I was a brave diver, swimming into the depths like I was in a story written by Jules Verne. It was all I could think about in school all day.
But my luck changed one day. It was spring. I'll never forget that day. In school they were explaining why President Wilson was getting us involved in a world war. A war so far away it didn't make any sense at all. But by the end of the day I was convinced that America had to kick the krauts the hell out of France or Europe or somewhere across the ocean. Besides, they were cheating, driving boats underwater and sinking innocent ships by surprise.
So I was walking home, expecting to find kraut soldiers behind every tree or turn in the road when I came to old man Sutton's field. When I saw the tire swing I thought about them pictures I wasn't supposed to touch with my dirty little fingers, else I'd smudge em. Like the one of the fighter pilots in their leather jackets. I scooped up a handful of rocks and boarded my plane.
Soon I was airborne swinging out over the countryside. Each trip out I zoomed over the real long grass past the base of the tree. The grass that I knew was full of snakes and banana spiders. The return swing went back so far I was facing down, looking at my scattered school books. I remember following the rope up, my chin rubbing them coarse fibers staring at that monster of a knot. It had to be the size of a melon, strangling the crooked arm of that old chestnut tree.
It was real quiet. Just the sound of the rope creaking and the pretend noises I made, imitating the plane's engine whining through the clouds. I imagined kraut soldiers crawling through the grass to reach the allied base. I grabbed up my 'grenades' and bombed their hidden bodies in the long grass. Each pass outward I rained hell upon 'em. I used all my ammunition convinced I greased 'em all. All that was left was to fly home and get my medals.
I started hot-doggin' and showboatin' flying in all kinds of crazy spins and loops. The blood rushed to my head from hanging back so far out of the tire. But when you're flying your victory flight you're allowed to have some fun. You just risked your neck in enemy territory, right? I felt like the greatest pilot in the sky! And then, wham! Something smashed me in the back and I went sailing off the swing. I hit the ground hard, bouncing off the gnarled roots of that old chestnut tree. I ended up in the long grass.
I got scared because I knew those banana spiders made you real sick if they bit you. Darrin Simpson got bit by one last month and missed a whole week of school! But then I got scared about what hit me so damn hard. I tried to get up but I ached all over. So I rolled to one side to see what I coulda hit. It was the first time I ever saw old man Sutton up close and it scared me worse than anything.
He stood over me in a pair of faded green overalls, ripped and patched on the legs. He didn't wear a shirt and his huge belly puckered way out in front of him. He was hairy all over like one of those banana spiders! He held a wood handled shovel with the business end all rusted through.
I remember worst of all was his eyes. Black like mama's onyx earrings, they shone like polished glass. He stared at me a long time. I don't how I kept from crying!
Then he laughed out loud, real loud from deep inside that huge belly. Seeing his black rotten teeth made me shiver all over again. He pointed as his laughter quieted a little and I followed his crooked finger. A hairy banana spider perched upon my bare foot. I screamed in terror. It bit me and then scuttled into the grass. I screamed some more and then things started looking fuzzy. Sutton moved toward me, raising his shovel over his head. Then it all went black.
I woke up in the smelliest, dirtiest place I'd ever been to. There was filth on the floor and furniture. I was in a room with a couple chairs and a couch that was smeared with oil or grease. Newspapers and clothes lay all around me. I made to get up but my legs didn't do what I wanted. They felt all tingly. So did my arms. I couldn't move nothing! Things came into focus a little more and I started to panic. My breathing sped up so fast I was gasping. Old man Sutton snorted kinda like a feisty bull who thinks you're gonna walk across his field. He had been sitting in a chair the whole time, but he blended with the garbage like some kinda camouflage for a dump.
He just sat there staring at me, not saying a word. I wanted to apologize or beg or say anything to escape that crazy house. Time sure picked a bad place to stop working, cause it felt like forever.
Sutton finally made a move. He reached into a pocket in the front of his overalls and pulled out a small brown bottle. He smirked and pushed himself up off the cruddy chair. A piece of newspaper clung to the back of his thigh for a second and then fell to the floor. He stepped toward me, unscrewing the black cap off that dirty bottle. I fought to move but the spider bite or the shovel strike or both had left me paralyzed. I tried to scream again but my jaw didn't listen. Instead I made this mewling sound like a creature that can't use words or maybe had its tongue cut out.
Sutton reached out one hand and squeezed my face causing my jaw to drop, my mouth falling wide open. He shoved the bottle onto the back of my tongue. Bitter liquid sloshed down my throat. My body reacted now, a gag reflex and some tremors and such. Sutton broke his long silence.
"Stop squirmin' boy. This here's good fer ya."
The bottle emptied itself quick. He must've been an expert at forcing medicine into an unwilling person's mouth. Probably had practice with dogs or cows, or maybe, with other kids he captured! Thoughts of a cauldron in Sutton's dirt floor basement filled my head. I pictured him lowering me into his cannibal stew like in that story I read about some savages living in far away jungles!
Sutton released my face and put the cap back on the bottle. He started swaying and stuff started fading out again. I was sure it was for the last time. Only then did I manage to whisper one word, "Mama."
I woke up. Laying on the ground under the chestnut tree, I started coming to. I propped myself up on my elbows causing my head to throb. My books lay where I had left them. They had all blown open with pages flapping in the breeze. That wind pushed the tire swing in small arcs, the knot creaking softly. Away in the barn I heard old man Sutton banging and hammering.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Seventh Sudanese Vessel
The seventh Sudanese vessel
sailed near the coast of a wind-blown,
sea gull-bombed, colorless lighthouse.
The lighthouse had six bulbs
rapidly rotating on a swivelly axis.
The other six Sudanese vessels cruised the high sea,
not with flax, mind you, but chopping along open water,
skipping along swimmingly.
The seventh Sudanese vessel had no masculine on deck,
only neuter, exceptin' for the captain.
"Is someone paying attention to the heading?" asked the captain
who smoked a fine Turkish cigar. He loved his cigars,
oh, especially the Turkish ones. No one answered the captain's query.
'What a number for a Sudanese ship," laughed the captain.
"Seven, yes. Seven! I'll get a seven tattoo, I think!"
The seventh Sudanese ship spun and drifted and twisted
and rocked and everyone was there. Not everyone
had a Turkish cigar but they were content, regardless.
The lighthouse's six bulbs shone brightly but no one
could tell at high noon and the cigar smoke was thick.
The seventh Sudanese vessel accidentally maneuvered the coral reefs
and the lighthouse helped them as much as possible,
though not so much as the sun.
"Soon we will hit the mother lode," thought the captain
stroking his beard and puffing his cigar.
"Flax and cigars. Yes, Turkish ones."
sailed near the coast of a wind-blown,
sea gull-bombed, colorless lighthouse.
The lighthouse had six bulbs
rapidly rotating on a swivelly axis.
The other six Sudanese vessels cruised the high sea,
not with flax, mind you, but chopping along open water,
skipping along swimmingly.
The seventh Sudanese vessel had no masculine on deck,
only neuter, exceptin' for the captain.
"Is someone paying attention to the heading?" asked the captain
who smoked a fine Turkish cigar. He loved his cigars,
oh, especially the Turkish ones. No one answered the captain's query.
'What a number for a Sudanese ship," laughed the captain.
"Seven, yes. Seven! I'll get a seven tattoo, I think!"
The seventh Sudanese ship spun and drifted and twisted
and rocked and everyone was there. Not everyone
had a Turkish cigar but they were content, regardless.
The lighthouse's six bulbs shone brightly but no one
could tell at high noon and the cigar smoke was thick.
The seventh Sudanese vessel accidentally maneuvered the coral reefs
and the lighthouse helped them as much as possible,
though not so much as the sun.
"Soon we will hit the mother lode," thought the captain
stroking his beard and puffing his cigar.
"Flax and cigars. Yes, Turkish ones."
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Are We Reaching You?
The book lies next to the phone,
its pages full.
Names and numbers scrawled in pencil and ink,
clinging to the worn sheets.
Slips of paper peer out from between each page,
some falling free to the floor,
daring to be ground under heavy heel.
The book is wearthered,
beaten black.
Alphabet tabs bent,
some broken.
The binding grows weak,
near to failing.
A thick, red rubberband labors to hold it shut.
Sitting beside the phone.
The dusty, sun-yellowed phone.
He enters the room,
stops and sees the book.
Stares at it,
loathing builds in his heart.
Lip curls into sneer,
cursing silently.
He turns away,
abandoning the book again.
its pages full.
Names and numbers scrawled in pencil and ink,
clinging to the worn sheets.
Slips of paper peer out from between each page,
some falling free to the floor,
daring to be ground under heavy heel.
The book is wearthered,
beaten black.
Alphabet tabs bent,
some broken.
The binding grows weak,
near to failing.
A thick, red rubberband labors to hold it shut.
Sitting beside the phone.
The dusty, sun-yellowed phone.
He enters the room,
stops and sees the book.
Stares at it,
loathing builds in his heart.
Lip curls into sneer,
cursing silently.
He turns away,
abandoning the book again.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Content and Committment
I've been struggling to actively write this blog because I have been dedicating most of my writing time to writing projects. I have two novel ideas, fiction stories that I wouldn't apply a tag to at this point, a short story that I'm struggling to stay interested in long enough to finish and of course, my big fantasy novel that I've been writing since 1989.
I've finally accepted that those original stories for TBFN (The Big Fantasy Novel) just aren't that good. It took a long time to allow myself to criticise what I had created. That's the crazy thing about creating characters and stories. They are deeply personal. It's one thing for someone else to reject or dismiss what you've done, but when you finally do it yourself, well that's a feeling that you'd much rather avoid. So I will continue to write using the characters of the TBFN but the stories need an enema.
Can you ever use the word enema and not remember Jack Nicholson's portrayal of The Joker? "This town needs and enema!" he so marvelously shouted!
In the end it is healthy because even bad writing is still writing and one must write to get better at it. And of course continue to read others works. I've always found inspiration to write when reading an author's captivating story. The kind where there's an aha moment when the theme is revealed or the plot twists in an exciting way or the protagonist succeeds. Though I admit that I do root for the bad guys on occasion. It adds to the conflict and tension in the story when the evil element edges ahead.
So I'm either going to shorten my blog entries and make them more infrequent. I'd like to commit to writing every day on writing projects and the blog is more self-serving. It's a different method of entertaining an audience than writing fiction and less rewarding, I think. I'd rather tell a great story than ask you to read what I'm thinking about. I heard a great quote yesterday. It appeared during a panel discussion about writing that I downloaded from iTunes.
It went like this: "You don't write to tell someone how to feel, you give them something to feel about." There was my aha moment. I feel like I'm trying to convince a reader to agree or disagree with me while blogging. But crafting stories has the payoff readers really crave.
Maybe I'll post short stories on the blog and see how rewarding that is! If I do post a story and you read it, please give feedback. I have thick skin and welcome both positive and adjusting feedback. You like the term adjusting feedback instead of negative or criticism, didn't you? I like it too. It's more accurate. You give me feedback about what didn't work and I adjust accordingly. Perfect.
Ok. Enough rambling. I have writing to get to now. Write you all soon.
I've finally accepted that those original stories for TBFN (The Big Fantasy Novel) just aren't that good. It took a long time to allow myself to criticise what I had created. That's the crazy thing about creating characters and stories. They are deeply personal. It's one thing for someone else to reject or dismiss what you've done, but when you finally do it yourself, well that's a feeling that you'd much rather avoid. So I will continue to write using the characters of the TBFN but the stories need an enema.
Can you ever use the word enema and not remember Jack Nicholson's portrayal of The Joker? "This town needs and enema!" he so marvelously shouted!
In the end it is healthy because even bad writing is still writing and one must write to get better at it. And of course continue to read others works. I've always found inspiration to write when reading an author's captivating story. The kind where there's an aha moment when the theme is revealed or the plot twists in an exciting way or the protagonist succeeds. Though I admit that I do root for the bad guys on occasion. It adds to the conflict and tension in the story when the evil element edges ahead.
So I'm either going to shorten my blog entries and make them more infrequent. I'd like to commit to writing every day on writing projects and the blog is more self-serving. It's a different method of entertaining an audience than writing fiction and less rewarding, I think. I'd rather tell a great story than ask you to read what I'm thinking about. I heard a great quote yesterday. It appeared during a panel discussion about writing that I downloaded from iTunes.
It went like this: "You don't write to tell someone how to feel, you give them something to feel about." There was my aha moment. I feel like I'm trying to convince a reader to agree or disagree with me while blogging. But crafting stories has the payoff readers really crave.
Maybe I'll post short stories on the blog and see how rewarding that is! If I do post a story and you read it, please give feedback. I have thick skin and welcome both positive and adjusting feedback. You like the term adjusting feedback instead of negative or criticism, didn't you? I like it too. It's more accurate. You give me feedback about what didn't work and I adjust accordingly. Perfect.
Ok. Enough rambling. I have writing to get to now. Write you all soon.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Got Entitlement?
I remember a movie from the late 80's called "The Blood of Heroes". I thought it was hideous. The only merit to be found was in the action sequences. The plot, shallow and lacking originality tempted the viewer to stop watching at every moment. The only redeeming quality I could latch onto was that title.
There's been much debate about who heroes really are in the 21st century. Heroes, role models, mentors. These descriptors are bandied about daily and ascribed to the unworthy. Do you remember the professional basketball player Charles Barkley stating "I am not a role model"? Never had a truer statement been spoken. Barkley may have been a stud on the hard court but hardly a representative for model behavior. Bravo, Charles for that ounce of self-assessment.
Unfortunately the beat goes on and youths and adults alike speak, dress and behave in the manner of people they seen in movies, on television, performing sports or - steady yourself - active in politics. What is the criteria for these selections? Mass appeal to a demographic could be one. How about newness? A fresh voice or face or fashion becomes all the rage in our all-access society.
I think it's a boatload of bologna. As shallow as "The Blood of Heroes" plot. As ridiculous as calling Barkley a role model. Now take my hand. We're going to jump off from here into a new thought. As my son Jake likes to say, "Ready. Steady. Go!"
Picture yourself in a crowded place. The kind of place where you are jostled. You step on people's feet as often as you are bumped from behind. Are you the kind of person who goes out of your way to make room for others while going where you want to go? Or do you just steamroll into people regardless of any sense of reason? Most of don't. There's always the occasional person going upstream against the crowd or the person who is desperate not to be separated from their group for fear of being lost or the family terrified of being split apart in the crowd. I've been an actor in all those roles at some point - yes, even the idiot walking foolishly upstream against the waves of humanity.
But in that moment I didn't feel entitled to walk that path. Instead, I was urgently seeking something. An exit. A bathroom. A lost friend. I didn't inconvenience others because they were less important than me. And that's where all the rambling up to this point has been leading to - the entitled human.
You meet them all the team. They're memorable in their arrogance. The self-appointed most important people in the world. "Just imagine how fortunate you are for having been insulted and mistreated by me!" they think to themselves. And I have no doubt that these people think these kind of thoughts. The look can't be concealed in their faces. In their eyes. And I am an expert on people's eyes.
If you want to see if you're an expert on people's faces, take this little test and see if you can beat my score of 15 out of 20! http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/humanbody/mind/surveys/smiles/
So my thoughts burrow deeper into the origin of this kind of behavior. Treading upon other's dignity is such a foreign concept to me that I need help in understanding it. I guess if we were primitives fighting for survival, fighting for shelter, food, water or fire I could understand the disregard for strangers. But we live in a modern society where excess and waste surround us. We do not want for the necessities to survive. We want for luxury and status. Acceptance and envy. This is why we place little regard for those we don't know. It is not capitalism or industriousness or Darwinism or any other label. It is base selfishness and abhorrent in all its manifestations.
I can't elaborate now but it's been a struggle to post regularly and this topics been eating at me since the Rascal Story shared by my brother. Yes, people on Rascals are people too, but I think they're susceptible to the syndrome I've detailed. Maybe it's all a defense mechanism. I'm not sure. All I know is that the eyes don't lie.
There's been much debate about who heroes really are in the 21st century. Heroes, role models, mentors. These descriptors are bandied about daily and ascribed to the unworthy. Do you remember the professional basketball player Charles Barkley stating "I am not a role model"? Never had a truer statement been spoken. Barkley may have been a stud on the hard court but hardly a representative for model behavior. Bravo, Charles for that ounce of self-assessment.
Unfortunately the beat goes on and youths and adults alike speak, dress and behave in the manner of people they seen in movies, on television, performing sports or - steady yourself - active in politics. What is the criteria for these selections? Mass appeal to a demographic could be one. How about newness? A fresh voice or face or fashion becomes all the rage in our all-access society.
I think it's a boatload of bologna. As shallow as "The Blood of Heroes" plot. As ridiculous as calling Barkley a role model. Now take my hand. We're going to jump off from here into a new thought. As my son Jake likes to say, "Ready. Steady. Go!"
Picture yourself in a crowded place. The kind of place where you are jostled. You step on people's feet as often as you are bumped from behind. Are you the kind of person who goes out of your way to make room for others while going where you want to go? Or do you just steamroll into people regardless of any sense of reason? Most of don't. There's always the occasional person going upstream against the crowd or the person who is desperate not to be separated from their group for fear of being lost or the family terrified of being split apart in the crowd. I've been an actor in all those roles at some point - yes, even the idiot walking foolishly upstream against the waves of humanity.
But in that moment I didn't feel entitled to walk that path. Instead, I was urgently seeking something. An exit. A bathroom. A lost friend. I didn't inconvenience others because they were less important than me. And that's where all the rambling up to this point has been leading to - the entitled human.
You meet them all the team. They're memorable in their arrogance. The self-appointed most important people in the world. "Just imagine how fortunate you are for having been insulted and mistreated by me!" they think to themselves. And I have no doubt that these people think these kind of thoughts. The look can't be concealed in their faces. In their eyes. And I am an expert on people's eyes.
If you want to see if you're an expert on people's faces, take this little test and see if you can beat my score of 15 out of 20! http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/humanbody/mind/surveys/smiles/
So my thoughts burrow deeper into the origin of this kind of behavior. Treading upon other's dignity is such a foreign concept to me that I need help in understanding it. I guess if we were primitives fighting for survival, fighting for shelter, food, water or fire I could understand the disregard for strangers. But we live in a modern society where excess and waste surround us. We do not want for the necessities to survive. We want for luxury and status. Acceptance and envy. This is why we place little regard for those we don't know. It is not capitalism or industriousness or Darwinism or any other label. It is base selfishness and abhorrent in all its manifestations.
I can't elaborate now but it's been a struggle to post regularly and this topics been eating at me since the Rascal Story shared by my brother. Yes, people on Rascals are people too, but I think they're susceptible to the syndrome I've detailed. Maybe it's all a defense mechanism. I'm not sure. All I know is that the eyes don't lie.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Diners, Eavesdropping and Contributions
I ate in a diner this week. I can't think of a place where I enjoy spending time away from home as much as when I'm in a diner. There are things about the diner that'll be predictable no matter where you are.
There will be at least a few people in the diner that know all the employees intimately. If you listen closely, their conversation is about their lives, what's important to them. Yes, sometimes its mundane baloney, but they are the regulars. Regulars earn respect in the diner. They sit at the counter. They get free refills.
Breakfast is served all day. Probably the biggest hook for me is breakfast at all hours. No 10:30am cutoff at the diner. Anyplace I can get strong coffee, eggs and bacon whenever I want them is on my list. Some of you who know I am dieting for my run at Survivor can rest assured, I ate as healthy as possible at the diner! I wanted bacon so bad. I could smell it. Not ordering bacon in a diner resulted in physical pain for me. But I didn't order it. Instead, I said a small prayer for pigs everywhere.
Stay as long as you want. There was a diner in Queens. Fresh Meadows, I think that I always felt like they wanted you to hustle and get the hell out. It was a busy place, so I got it. But I only ate there out of necessity. Typically it was when I was traveling with my boss because they had a decent matzoh ball soup and he digs that.
There was a diner in Parsippany New Jersey that I could walk to from my apartment back when I was a young pup. I would cross route 46 with my newspaper, pen and notebook. On my days off, I would spend two to three hours there at a clip. That was when my time was my own. No responsibility to anything but work and myself. I was very free but also wasteful. I could have done so much more with myself. I didn't value time as I do today. Anyway, the staff in that diner knew my name. They knew where I was from, what work I did. My order became unspoken. I would sit down, say hello and 6 minutes later, voilla, there it was. Fresh and hot. I got free refills, too.
There was a man sitting with about five women in the diner I visited this week. They were chatting when a man and his son, a four or five year-old from the looks of him, strolled in. Pausing at the table, they looked at each other and then the man with his son said, "Lou? You're Lou, right?"
What followed struck me.
"Yes. Yes I am."
"We did your driveway. About fifteen years ago?"
"I'd say that's about right."
"Holding up ok?"
"Me or the driveway?" Five ladies chuckled quietly. So did I.
"Both."
"Driveway's good. But I've got cracks and bumps like frost heaves on my knuckles and my knees."
"Nah. You look better than all that."
"Mind explainin' that to my knees?"
The paver and his son grabbed a booth. The guy with arthritis went back to his lady friends. I stared into my coffee. I've lived in the same town for over six years now. If I went into one of the local breakfast joints, would someone strike up a conversation, similar to the one I mentioned with me?
I reflected on my nomadic life up until the last ten years. Where are my roots? What's my legacy? How many more times will I move? Will I ever build relationships that are older than my car? There's something to be said for staying put. For investing in where you live. That old saying, "Work where you live, not live where you work" harkened back to me.
I read an article in the newspaper about Petricone's Pharmacy in Torrington, CT. They've been there for generations. The article impressed upon me the sense of community and service to those you live among. Joe Petricone Sr. commented that he loved that town. It motivates him to provide something his neighbors needed.
What do I provide to my neighbors? I pay my taxes. I mow my lawn and keep a decent yard. I put up a fence to keep my rugrats from running into the street. I pick up all the loser lottery tickets, beverage cans and McDonald's bags that get tossed on my lawn or on the curb around my property. But what value do I add? What's my contribution?
I think I'm good for more. I think we're all good for more. No matter how busy we think we are.
There will be at least a few people in the diner that know all the employees intimately. If you listen closely, their conversation is about their lives, what's important to them. Yes, sometimes its mundane baloney, but they are the regulars. Regulars earn respect in the diner. They sit at the counter. They get free refills.
Breakfast is served all day. Probably the biggest hook for me is breakfast at all hours. No 10:30am cutoff at the diner. Anyplace I can get strong coffee, eggs and bacon whenever I want them is on my list. Some of you who know I am dieting for my run at Survivor can rest assured, I ate as healthy as possible at the diner! I wanted bacon so bad. I could smell it. Not ordering bacon in a diner resulted in physical pain for me. But I didn't order it. Instead, I said a small prayer for pigs everywhere.
Stay as long as you want. There was a diner in Queens. Fresh Meadows, I think that I always felt like they wanted you to hustle and get the hell out. It was a busy place, so I got it. But I only ate there out of necessity. Typically it was when I was traveling with my boss because they had a decent matzoh ball soup and he digs that.
There was a diner in Parsippany New Jersey that I could walk to from my apartment back when I was a young pup. I would cross route 46 with my newspaper, pen and notebook. On my days off, I would spend two to three hours there at a clip. That was when my time was my own. No responsibility to anything but work and myself. I was very free but also wasteful. I could have done so much more with myself. I didn't value time as I do today. Anyway, the staff in that diner knew my name. They knew where I was from, what work I did. My order became unspoken. I would sit down, say hello and 6 minutes later, voilla, there it was. Fresh and hot. I got free refills, too.
There was a man sitting with about five women in the diner I visited this week. They were chatting when a man and his son, a four or five year-old from the looks of him, strolled in. Pausing at the table, they looked at each other and then the man with his son said, "Lou? You're Lou, right?"
What followed struck me.
"Yes. Yes I am."
"We did your driveway. About fifteen years ago?"
"I'd say that's about right."
"Holding up ok?"
"Me or the driveway?" Five ladies chuckled quietly. So did I.
"Both."
"Driveway's good. But I've got cracks and bumps like frost heaves on my knuckles and my knees."
"Nah. You look better than all that."
"Mind explainin' that to my knees?"
The paver and his son grabbed a booth. The guy with arthritis went back to his lady friends. I stared into my coffee. I've lived in the same town for over six years now. If I went into one of the local breakfast joints, would someone strike up a conversation, similar to the one I mentioned with me?
I reflected on my nomadic life up until the last ten years. Where are my roots? What's my legacy? How many more times will I move? Will I ever build relationships that are older than my car? There's something to be said for staying put. For investing in where you live. That old saying, "Work where you live, not live where you work" harkened back to me.
I read an article in the newspaper about Petricone's Pharmacy in Torrington, CT. They've been there for generations. The article impressed upon me the sense of community and service to those you live among. Joe Petricone Sr. commented that he loved that town. It motivates him to provide something his neighbors needed.
What do I provide to my neighbors? I pay my taxes. I mow my lawn and keep a decent yard. I put up a fence to keep my rugrats from running into the street. I pick up all the loser lottery tickets, beverage cans and McDonald's bags that get tossed on my lawn or on the curb around my property. But what value do I add? What's my contribution?
I think I'm good for more. I think we're all good for more. No matter how busy we think we are.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)