melting down to nothing

the deinstitutionalization of debbie

It gets so lonesome out there when you realize you have given up on life. Anchoring yourself to the fear and allowing it to gain control of your soul. So desperate for help, but at the same time unable to allow those who love you to see you this way. Pushing them away, praying they go away, and save you from your demons all at the same time. So many people, all crying for help, yet who really hears them?
I met Debbie at a party that had gotten pretty wild. She was well past drunk and had poured herself into my trusting arms for safekeeping. I carried her to my truck and drove her back to my place. This was after asking everyone that was not horizontal if they knew where she lived. Nope.
I took off her pants hoping she was wearing panties, seeing that they were soaked with beer I thought it was the right thing to do. I managed to get an old pair of PJ’s back on her and tucked her into my bed. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted, having that entire good vs evil angel shoulder experience but in the end I’m a nice guy. I retired to my study where I wrote until dawn. I finally crawled on the lazy boy and caught some z’s about 5:00 am.
I awoke to the smell of bacon and a song. I remember she was singing a Jimmy Buffet tune that I could not place at the time. I opened an eye and tried to look into the kitchen. She was wearing one of my dress shirts, which is movie love 101 in my book. Sexy does not cover this apparition. We made small talk and ate some pretty tasty food, during which I could help to notice her eyes. Deep green that beckon every part of my being to know her better.
The next month was spectacular. If a movie of my life could be made this was the stuff. Pan in, fade out, laughter, love, passion, it was all here. In a word, it was perfect.
We moved her stuff in on July 4th and the explosions in our bed were beyond belief, bordering on earth shattering, they still make me smile after all these years.
The first time it happened was right before Thanksgiving, she was excited that she’d be cooking the dinner and finally meeting my parents. It was Wednesday night and I was running late from my teaching position at Purdue but had stopped for flowers. When I came in to the house it was eerily silent, and that never happened. A rock and roller, the stereo was always on loud whenever she was home alone. I called for her but heard nothing. I walked room to room and found her curled into the fetal position, rocking back and forth with wide eyes. I rushed to her and took her in my arms, and tried to get her to communicate. But only tears could be returned. I begged her to tell me what had happened. It was as if jolts of electricity would hit her causing her body to pulse. I held her in my arms until the sun came up and she never could tell me what had happened. The next day I awoke and she was in the shower, I went to her and she looked me deep in the eyes and said, “I don’t want to talk about. I’m fine now, trust me”.
Over the next few years these “events” repeated and grew in frequency. I had searched the web and found what I suspected was the cause. Even though she would not allow me to bring the subject up I believed she was suffering from panic anxiety and depression. I had no one in her family to ask question of, they had all past on. Other then these bad days our life was complete, and good. Later I would learn she was bi-polar and a host of other things.
The night I had her committed was a battle but not as you might think. It was not I wanting her to go; she made me take her to the Western Institute which we had always called the nut house as kids. She answered their questions as I sat holding her hand; the only surprise was when she answered yes to the question of whether she had ever been committed before. They placed her in a 72 hour lock up and told me I should bring some extra clothes tomorrow when I came to visit.
Its lonesome out there when you push away those who care, repelling all attempts by friend or family to reach out. It is a self made prison to which one holds the key, only without comprehending it or perhaps for lack of desire. It can go from minutes to months, years to a lifetime and each day is as horrible as the day before. The comforter on your bed often lives up to its name far longer than the suggested eight hours a day. You screen your calls, imaging you know just what the caller will say should you fall for the trap and allow them in. Messages pile up in the voicemail until they are months old. Later when they stop communication you grow sad or angry that they have turned their backs on you. These were all things I learned over the next four years. She spent more time institutionalized than at home and our lives were shattered. I tried to explain where she was too many times to friends that grew weary and vanished. My days were spent thinking of her and my night viewing macaroni pictures she had made in art class.
The days melted into years and I found myself facing the truth. Debbie was not going to come home. She told me she felt safe having other make up her mind for her. I kept up the visits but the sadness of seeing her like that effected me to the point that I felt as if I was becoming like her, and that scared the hell out of me.
On my last visit I watched her from the hall as she interacted with the others, and she was happy. I left a picture of us with the charge nurse along with a note telling her that I wouldn’t be back, and that if she ever wanted to come home I would come for her.
She never called and my life filled up with living, choosing for myself to enjoy, not fear this life we have. I miss her but understand that she needed something I couldn’t give her.
Today marks the 14th anniversary of our meeting and she is still locked up, wasting away but safe.

Quoting Ms. Garland

"For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul."

-Judy Garland

nightime

The neighborhood slows as the cover of darkness glides over us, and in the distance the last call for children is sounded. Families regroup in varying degrees of unity as the exterior world yields its hold. Porch lights, one by one began to flicker on, casting shadows of doubt while lighting the known. Like a snowball gathering speed, the boundaries of time pushes forward, and with it the night meal comes and goes. Children busy themselves brushing and praying as this bedtime waltz is danced with parents of every silhouette and size. Rapidly, every head shall be cradled in the safety and softness of a familiar pillow and this neighborhood shall be silent.

Or will it? For if you listen, there is still one sound in the lonely darkness here. If you hold your breath, you may hear it. The beating of a heart filled with hope. Filled with love to give. Filled with the possibilities of new moments yet to come. Beating solely because it knows that somewhere, out there, is the heartbeat of a girl that knows my ways, but not my face, who has touched my life, but not my skin, and that my dear friends, is all one can hope for tonight in a place called life.

The Day Thomas Pierce Changed

Henry Yost was a nice man. He didn’t drink, take drugs or chase women, but that all changed after he met me. My name is Thomas Pierce and this is but a small serving of my life.
I first encountered Henry Yost while he was jogging past my home. I had fallen from the steps leading out to my mail box and although not amusing then I do find it some what humorous now. He was the third person that had seen me laying there and the first to offer help. At 83 years old I’m not as agile as I once was.
He started dropping by to check on me a few times a week after that and even though I was a royal pain in the ass he seemed to enjoy my company. It wasn’t long before we became friends. That would be my first one in over forty years. People and I don’t see eye to eye, and I’m set in my ways not wishing to disprove the old dog principle.
The truth is I’m a writer and after my first book was published I saw a noticed change in the way people treated me. My wife of 18 years began to spend money as if her very life depended on it. The day I got a bill from McManus Men’s wear for boxer shorts was the last day I spent with her. Being a briefs sort of fellow she was kicked to the curb. Then there were the children, yapping at my heels like small useless dogs, seeking to gleam the treasures of my work. Both had good jobs but quit after hearing I had been given an unprecedented advance for my 2nd novel. Even my friends treated me different, especially the their tempting wives, and I suppose in looking back I shouldn’t have bedded so many of them.
“Ruins of Helen” sold over 12 million copies and changed my life forever. I had once taught history to spoiled children whose parents spent far too much time inventing free love. With names like “Freedom” and “Rainbow” I checked out and started writing full time. Screw those people was my mantra.
My second book “Low Tides in Spring” stayed on the New York Times number one spot for 32 weeks, another first. Life was busy fighting off the fame they desired to heap upon me. I was a private man and wished to stay that way. I had to drive to another town to buy groceries for Pete’s sake. This happened just as Helen was being shown on the big screen. It won best picture that year. That caused me to move again and I have a lot of books so packing isn’t much fun.
I finally ended here, on Juniper Street in a quite town where everyone believes I’m a simple retired History Professor. I had started using fake pictures on those silly dust covers on all the rest of my books. Seventeen in all, eight made into movies and the public clamors for more. I watched “Field of Dreams” and ended up buying a gun.
I haven’t published now for 8 years, although, what I feel is the best thing I ever wrote is finished and sits in box on the floor. It’s completely different from anything I ever did. My worry is that when it does get published the public shall start seeking me out again. Screw those people.
Any way, I’ve gotten off track; I wanted to tell you about Henry. He was as pure as the driven snow, what ever the hell that’s supposed to mean. Had a good job as a CPA, he even did the books for the local Homeless Shelter pro bono, a real gem. Maybe it was just that I was lonely and let my guard down, but I don’t think so. He’s one of the finest men I had ever met. He didn’t date; to shy if you ask me, so one night I told him I wanted him to drive me to a local watering hole for a cocktail. He agreed on the condition that I not compel him to drink, so I lied. He sipped the first drink like a girl, but once it was down the second was gulped.
The next day we woke up in a hotel suite, both of us had a little pay for play friend lying next to us. I was afraid he’d be angry with me but smiled and thanked me for the best night of his life. I believe I had a small tear form.
From then on we’d spend a few nights a week running with women that aimed to please, he even smoked some pot with me one night. We talked until dawn about the world, about history, life, love and even some strange ideas about connect the dots food products for children.
Henry had come out of his shell and shined for the very first time. And he could roll a joint like nobodies business. We shared many a fine time in the lost art of social intercourse. He had some many ideas trapped inside, good ones worth exploring. It was during this time that I found out I had cancer.
Henry knew all along who I was but never brought it up, so I did. He had many questions of why and what it was like. Would I ever write again? He even showed me a few of the things he had written, though rough, still very good concepts. He just couldn’t grasp why I had hidden from the public and laughed at the things he would have done. Curious lad he was. He kept my secrets and I his, he was instrumental in getting me through my radiation treatments without the public finding out.
My prognosis isn’t good they tell me. But I have lived a full life and even though it’s been one full of regret I am satisfied. Henry moved in to keep an eye on me and I truly appreciate what he does for me. Christmas was coming and I hoped to survive long enough for my last one. I did. Henry got me a new dictionary and I gave him a letter.
The novel “Green Hues on a Blue Day” was published before I died. It was declared the best new work of the century and everyone is talking about it. The world wants to know everything about its author, Henry Yost.
That was my gift to him on my last Christmas. My publicists helped me get my “discovery of a talented new writer” rushed into print after many hours of convincing Henry that this is what I wanted. I argued that even if he never wrote anything of his own he would be set for life and could lead the life I had shunned. He could see first hand the what and whys of a writer’s life. I finally won his reluctant approval by telling him I’d burn it if he turned me down. The only two people in the world that know the truth of this novel are Henry and I, and half of that equation died, taking his half of that secret to his grave.

Thomas Pierce 1923-200_
(how should I know Henry, fill it in when it happens!)

the wallflowers

So long ago, I don't remember when
That's when they say I lost my only friend
Well they said she died easy of a broken heart disease
As I listened through the cemetery trees
I seen the sun comin' up at the funeral at dawn
The long broken arm of human law
Now it always seemed such a waste
She always had a pretty face
So I wondered how she hung around this place


Hey, come on try a little
Nothing is forever
There's got to be something better than
In the middle
But me & Cinderella
We put it all together We can drive it home
With one headlight


She said it's cold
It feels like Independence Day
And I can't break away from this parade
But there's got to be an opening
Somewhere here in front of me
Through this maze of ugliness and greed
And I seen the sign up ahead
At the county line bridge
Sayin' all there's good and nothingness is dead
We'll run until she's out of breath
She ran until there's nothin' left
She hit the end it's just her window ledge


Hey, come on try a little
Nothing is forever
There's got to be something better than
In the middle
But me & Cinderella
We put it all together We can drive it home
With one headlight


Well this place is old
It feels just like a beat up truck
I turn the engine, but the engine doesn't turn
Well it smells of cheap wine and cigarettes
This place is always such a mess
Sometimes I think I'd like to watch it burn
I'm so alone, and I feel just like somebody else
Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
But somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
I think of death it must be killin' me


Hey, come on try a little
Nothing is forever
There's got to be something better than
In the middle
But me & Cinderella
We put it all together We can drive it home
With One Headlight

Baby Girl

Will Hoge-Baby Girl

May the sunlight find your face
Even when the rain does fall
And get back on your feet again
Every time you slip and fall
Keep your heart wide open
And always taking in
And even when it's broken
Be strong enough to fix it up again

Oh little baby girl
Sweet little baby girl
I wish I could hold your hand in this great big world
Oh little baby girl

And I hope your hands are steady
And never need to make a fist
And I hope that when you're ready
You get one never ending kiss
And I hope that deep inside of you
There's a sweet eternal song
And I hope the words are pretty
And that you'll always sing along

And I hope your friends are many
And your laughter's always loud
To help you when you're lonely
And pick you up when you're down
I hope your eyes shine bright love
And learn to see the light
Take the time to listen
Decide yourself what's wrong or right

Oh little baby girl
Sweet little baby girl
Be strong in this great big world
Oh little baby girl

love unreciprocated

The light from the sun filters through the trees, and lands on your face. I smile and brush the hair back from your face. Your eyes smile back and we drift off into a slumber matchless to anything I have ever known. Later on in this most breathtaking day I awake and find you curled up in my arms. I gaze at you sleeping, scanning each feature upon your face. Tracing them with my finger on your skin, and my heart skips a beat.

In my mind I see you, this loving person in a cage, your hands out stretched, reaching for the key to your freedom, which hangs from the branch of a tree just out of reach. You try many times to touch it, to have it and the freedom it stands for, but you give up, and accept your sentence. And only I can see the other key that lies within your reach, the one that hangs on my heart. I try to verbalize, to get you to understand the ease at which your quest for love can be found, but my words resonance in silence. Suddenly I hear you stir and I am drawn away from my visions and back to the most satisfying of times. Shhh, I whisper and softly stroke your face, a small smile comes through, then fades, leaving me feeling something I have never before felt in my life. The sun has almost finished setting into the sea and I realize that I could lay here forever as the warm breeze flows across us and never tire of such bliss. The male crickets begin their calling out to potential mates as I smile, and view your face in the growing moonlight that is now filtering thought the trees.

But soon, you will again kiss me goodbye and return to the life that you long to escape. Or so you have said. I will be here alone again, waiting for your scraps. Angry at my own foolishness for allowing myself to be a man stranded upon this island of love unreciprocated. I know when you leave, you’ll go home where you will be surrounded by riches beyond comprehension, and I understanding they mean more to you than I do. Yet, I seem unable to change it. Blind, and helpless, my own key calls to me, but I refuse to even reach for it.

Now, on the days I see you I soar. On the days I don’t, I pile them behind my heart, where they began smelling of lies, and become unbearable to view. A Dorian Gray portrait of lonely days existing in my heart. The sad days currently out number the happy. And when you do grace me with your presence and presents I feel cheap. But somehow the hopefulness still masks the lie and I smile, falling in love all over again. Finding I am grateful like an alley cat desperate for a bowl of milk, all the while hating myself for what I have become. Wondering how I could let myself fall prey to your touch and attention. Then another day comes when we bask in the sun like lovers with a future and I am buoyant. Still, I let you take my heart and hold it carrot like in front of your own. And like a puppy trying to please his master I shamefully follow you, never fully retaining the knowledge that I am being used. I do know I am a fool, I know you will never leave him but I am locked agonizingly in your hourglass, feeling the sands of your time run through my fingers, and like a man without a country I long for a home.

tears

The ground was beginning to cool as water cascaded down the hills and into the mountain. Storm after storm had hit McKinney’s Creek bringing complete saturation of the summer baked terrain. The water rose up deep inside the cavern, often inches an hour. Coming to life she did what she did every year, just as she had for tens of thousands of years. As if filling with tears inside, the rain rushed to join the water table, bringing the flood. Still, a few diehards held high hopes that somehow, someway she would still welcome them back. But nature won, as she often does, and sadly, the many passages dug out by the loving hands of the masses flooded. Cave City’s South Lead Dig went under on December 27th, 2006 at 2:35 pm

time to love

She opens the door and walks through, in her mind she was thinking about the dry cleaning and whether she would have time to make it to the gym today. It was 5:00 and quitting time simply marked the moment she’d start a new batch of tasks, still, she was out of there.
He was walking down the street, heading towards his sisters house where he was going to watch the kids for her so she could shop No big deal, he loved those two kids almost as if they were his own, only without the sick part where he would have slept with his own sister. . He just had one quick stop.
She reached for the door to Quincy Cleaners just as he was. He smiled at her, and opened the door. She smiled back………
funny how our eyes can take in a version of a vision that no one else sees and how it starts that chemical process that makes our hearts float and our minds race........

Writing

A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.

Thomas Mann (1875 - 1955)

No Failure

Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.

-James Baldwin-

Gambini's Money

I know I’m not suppose to tell anyone this, and certainly some folk are going to try and convince you that I have a death wish, but really, it’s more a matter of getting it off my chest. Mind if I smoke……….thanks. I used to work for a group of Jersey businessmen who, not only bent the rules, but turned them over there collective knees and spanked them beet red. Oh, I did my part. We all did. Me and Bernie, we were in for the full pound, screw that penny.
It’s said through the eyes and not words that once a member of the Gambini’s you’ll never go back to your own, unless in a fifty five gallon drum or a wooden box. But I beat the odds, I’m here, almost twelve years later and I’m ready to sing sweeter than a canary returning alive from the mines. You got any beer?
Louis Gambini ran his “family” tighter than any one in the past, present and future had, although I may be speculating some on the later. He knew things that even the Man Up Stairs couldn’t know, just take my word that. His empire was worth over 750 million dollars and stashed in so many off shore accounts if they were all on a single island it would sink into the sea. Lucky Lou was indeed blessed, so much so you’d think he’d never miss a lousy 10%, but I’m getting ahead of my self. You got any food?
Anyway, me and Bernie had got a call from Ernie Halverson, he’s Lou’s accountant, and he had been drinking a little. Seems he was getting ready to be taken upstairs and entertained by three of Maggie’s best girls and needed me to take a certain book…what, oh?.. she’s Lou’s social director….yeah, no problem. Any way, this certain book turned out to be some kinda coded combination to Lou’s fortune, and old Ernie let the wrong head chose unwisely for him. Lets just say a copy of this book fell onto a turnip truck and no one was the wiser. This? It’s a Smith and Wesson, 357. Yeah no problem.
So where was I? Yeah yeah yeah… so Bernie had this sister, Becky who turns out was a total computer wiz, but it was her old man, Carl, who had just returned from the service, and get this, he was a code breaker, I swear! Any ways, it takes us what, maybe eighteen minutes and badaboom, we’re all set for life. Not a full one, but one with penthouse views, and maidservants.
They took Carl and Becky down first. Found them in Vegas, and lets just say if they’d smoked, they could have done it from their throats. Bernie made it two years, but they got him in some backwater joint off a Caribbean reef. I’ve never seen a man sink but I heard it he went like a rock. Poor bastard. So, that leaves me, well me and Maggie, I mean you didn’t think I was smart enough to make this haul on my own did ya? She and I, well, we used some of the money on the French Rivera to get a more youthful look through the wonders of plastic surgery. We spent eleven great years together, in the sun, out in the open and fearless. She always made me smile, seemed like when she’d open up the glass doors every morning that the sun stole its light from her eyes. I loved that woman more than life itself, so when she died last week…What?…no, nothing like that, it was cancer, yeah………How much do I have left?…..Ha-ha, wouldn’t like to know…………..

Hearing Harry

Hearing Harry

Although these are my words, I have only collected them along with the feelings and lessons learned over my time here on earth and arranged them into the story below. This IS NOT the story of me. It is rather, a melting of many people, including a friend named Harry. This is their combined cry for help, again NOT MINE even though it is written as if it is. Please accept my apologies in advance should you find yourself buried within the verbiage below.
After five years of not dealing with this subject I know its now time.
Dedicated to Harry
Sometimes, when the loneliness grows like moss on a boulder, and I wander through these empty late night halls I sense a profound, almost eternal incompleteness inside. It’s as if I live, grasping at the edges of passion, seeking truth for more than a fleeting moment, always coming away with only strands of reality in my dirty hands. Longing for something that eludes me, as if attempting to mix water and oil, no one has ever completed me fully in the ways etched upon my heart by the dreams and hopes within. The pain, feeding upon the loneliness turns to despair and together they have calcified the portals to my heart. Sealed tightly against most melting factors, it simply beats, without chance to again feel. The dark nothingness becomes stronger day after day, consuming my ability to cover the raw ending of nerves left exposed by the cruelty that is sometimes called life. And then, it happens. No longer able to pretend that I am in control I stumble on something that masks itself as peace, hiding among the sheep, clothed as comfort it calls to me, and I step towards it. Like the first ray of sun after the storm it is beautiful, but the smell reeks of death, yet it goes undetected inside my nostrils. I reach for it, and find that I have been deceived, that the line I stand across is final and unending, it leads away from life as well as the wonder it had all along. I had been blind to it while in it, now the images of flowers, and summer days build and I know I have made a fatal mistake. I have rushed head on into deaths arms, and I am sorry.
I wish I had known this then, when he did reach out to me. I miss you buddy.

Fondly Fondled

Her hands, although older, were still so very capable of bringing a full smile to my face. Fondling me as I drove her back from the airport, she started by running her finger along the top of my ear, and tucking back my hair. This produced a tingling that rushed to the receptors in my brain, then back out at nano-second speed to my manhood, and heart. My face lit up, feeling her eyes on me, taking me in as if about to test ride a wild stallion. The years had been good to her. She was still an amazing woman, and I tried to recall why we had ever parted in the first place. The day dream fell away as I felt her breath on my ear, causing me to change lanes. She kissed it softly, stroking me again and whispered, you need a haircut. It was sooooo sexy that I almost pulled over and let her ravage me again along the road side. The first time that happened, she took my virginity away, adding another notch to her cowgirl belt. And while I had offered up little if any resistance I still have a scar from it. As we continued down the hiway, Petty, played with the words of love. She had slid over next to me, her mouth moved along my neck as if nibbling a cob of corn, reminding me that I would most likely end up with a few well placed hickeys. Her hand nimbly unbuttoned my shirt, allowing her hand to glide in, and brush against my nipple. Her hand turned, and she pinched me playfully. At the same time her tongue had entered my ear and was gently moving in little circles. I was now guilty of driving while erect.
Her hands soon unbuttoned my old 501’s and freed Willie, breathing new life into him in ways I had forgotten about. Moving up and back down on me she cooed, vibrating her throat making me look at the toll booth man with a crooked smile of apology. I said she was just happy to see me, trying to offer an explanation to the obvious. She giggled as I accelerated away from him and back out onto the road. Later I found a lonely county lane outside the city and pulled over; turning the key I joined her.
She stayed longer than I had thought she would, and that made me happy, I’ll never turn down the opportunity to spend time with her. But when we actually examine our relationship, both of us know we are looking for more than great sex, which sounds like I’ve lost my mind when I reread this, but it’s the only thing we really have in common, and we both want social intercourse as well. And who knows, next time maybe I’ll get to show her the sights.

You and I

Jason Mraz-you and I

Was it you who spoke the words that things would happen but not to me?
Oh things are gonna happen naturally
And taking your advice I'm looking on the bright side
And balancing the whole thing...
But often times those words get tangled up in lines
And the bright lights
turn to night
Until the dawn it brings
A little bird who'll sing about the magic that was
you and me
Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
What you and I spoke of
Others only dream of
the love that I love
See I'm all about them words
Over numbers
unencumbered
numbered words
Hundreds of pages
pages
pages forwards
More words then I had ever heard and I feel so alive
Now you and I
you and I
Not so little you and I
anymore
And with this silence brings a moral story
more importantly evolving is the glory of a boy
cause you and I both loved
what you and I spoke of
and others just read of
and if you could see now
well I'm already finally out
and it's okay if you have go away
just remember the telephone works both ways
and if I never ever hear it ring
if nothing else I'll think the bells inside
have finally found you someone else and that's okay
cause I'll remember everything you sang
you and I both loved
what you and I spoke of
and others just read of
and if you could see now
well I'm already finally out of words

melting with the better half

(Modern English)---I Melt With You


Moving forward using all my breath
Making love to you was never second best
I saw the world thrashing all around your face
Never really knowing it was always mesh and lace
I'll stop the world and melt with you
You've seen the difference and
It's getting better all the time
There's nothing you and I won't do
I'll stop the world and melt with you
(You should know better)
Dream of better lives the kind which never hate
(You should see why)
Dropped in the state of imaginary grace
(You should know better)
I made a pilgrimage to save this human race
(You should see why)
Never comprehending a race that long gone by
I'll stop the world and melt with you
(I'll stop the world)
I'ave seen some changes and it's getting better all the time
(Let's stop the world)
There's nothing you and I won't do
(Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you
The future's open wide
(Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you
(Let's stop the world)
I've seen some changes but it's getting better all the time
(Let's stop the world)
There's nothing you and I won't do
(Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you
The future's open wide
hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm
I'll stop the world and melt with you
(Let's stop the world)
You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time
(Let's stop the world)
There's nothing you and I won't do
(Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you
(Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you...

never ending move

I followed the thin gray wires from my house out the back door. They led across the freshly plowed field before disappearing into the barn. Through the barn window, I could see at least two of them. Surely, Jimmy would have sent more than this I thought, but now was not the time to try to psychoanalyze the crazy bastard. I drew my weapon, aimed at the electrical meter on the back of the house and squeezed off three rounds. The first shattered the meter glass and exited out the back. They’d later find it stuck in a tomato juice can in the refrigerator. The second round hit the main feed and everything went black. The third one was simply to put some ground between us. Rolling under the flatbed truck, I waited. When I had walked through my house, I had seen a couple pounds of C-4 waiting to welcome me; to bad for them, their lookout had blinked. Now I was hoping that by cutting off the electricity they would have nothing to set off the charges with. I needed my house for at least another 20 minutes. I heard the barn door creek as the first huge lug of a man came charging towards the house shooting continuous rounds into the old wooden structure. I had already attached the silencer to my weapon and he went down fast and quietly. More shots came from the barn, whizzing past, heading towards some random sudden stop.

The other stayed put. It was now a waiting game, one in which he could be reasonably sure his man had not killed me since no communications came. No, he knew I was still out here, and without the power being on he had the darkness working for him just as much as I did. They’d later find him in the loft, out of bullets and ready to go into their custody. Jail seemed a better then facing me without bullets.

I waited a couple of minutes, and crawled to the end of the truck. Standing up I could see the flicker from a lighter as he headed up into the loft so I made my move. Inside the house, I worked very quickly. I pulled up the loose floorboard in the dining room and lifted two suitcases out. Opening the first one, I pulled out and set up a timer gun which would shoot a round every ten minutes to make sure he did not try to follow me. The second one left with me………

Being a fugitive from both the underworld and now the witness protection program was going to hard, but I was not left many choices. I walked down the street and unlocked a non-descript garage I rented. I got in the old truck and pulled out, heading south, finding myself on the run again.

New Indiana Jones in2007

'Indiana Jones' to Begin Filming in 2007
Dec 30, 1:02 AM EST
George Lucas said Friday that filming of the long-awaited "Indiana Jones" movie will begin next year. Harrison Ford, who appeared in the three earlier flicks, the last one coming in 1989, is set to star again. Lucas said he and Steven Spielberg recently finalized the script for the film.
"It's going to be fantastic. It's going to be the best one yet," the 62-year-old filmmaker said during a break from preparing for his duties as grand marshal of Monday's Rose Parade.
Exact film locations have not been decided yet, but Lucas said part of the movie will be shot in Los Angeles.
The fourth chapter of the "Indiana Jones" saga, which will hit theaters in May 2008, has been in development for over a decade with several screenwriters taking a crack at the script, but it only recently gained momentum.
Lucas kept mum about the plot, but said that the latest action flick will be a "character piece" that will include "very interesting mysteries."
"I think it's going to be really cool," Lucas said.
At the inaugural Rome Film Festival in October, the 64-year-old Ford said he was excited to team up with Lucas and Spielberg again for the fourth "Indiana Jones" installment. Ford said he was "fit to continue" to play the title role despite his age.
Ford played Indiana Jones in 1981's "Raiders of the Lost Ark," 1984's "Temple of Doom" and 1989's "The Last Crusade."
Lucas praised Ford for breathing life into his character.
"Mostly it's the charm of Harrison that makes it work," he said.
———
On the Net:
Lucasfilm Ltd: http://www.lucasfilm.com
Tournament of Roses: http://www.tournamentofroses.com

body and mind

“Youth is the time for adventures of the body, but age for triumphs of the mind.”

Logan Pearsall Smith

70 40

“To be seventy years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than to be forty years old”

Oliver Wendell Holmes

most beautiful

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.”
Albert Einstein

another man's road

“We can’t reach old age by another man’s road. My habits protect my life but they would assassinate you”

Mark Twain

madness

“There is no genus without a mixture of madness”
Seneca, the Younger, Roman Philosopher

habit is......

“Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man, but coaxed down stairs a step at a time”

Mark Twain

screwy post

Jimmy Buffet.


Why Don't We Get Drunk

I really do appreciate the fact you're sittin' here
Your voice sounds so wonderful
But your face don't look too clear
So, Barmaid, bring a pitcher, another round of brew
Honey, why don't we get drunk and screw.

(Chorus)
Why don't we get drunk and screw
I just bought a waterbed filled up for me and you
They say you are a snuff queen, Honey, I don't think that's true
So, why don't we get drunk and screw.
(Instrumental)
(Repeat chorus)

tonight.........

Bob Dylan
Tonight Ill Be Staying Here With You
Throw my ticket out the window
Throw my suitcase out there too
Throw my troubles out the door
I don't need them any more
'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you.

I should have left this town this morning
But it was more than I could do
Oh, your love comes on so strong
And I've waited all day long
For tonight when I'll be staying here with you.

Is it really any wonder
The love that a stranger might receive
You cast your spell and I went under
I find it so difficult to leave.

I can hear that whistle blowin'
I see that stationmaster, too
If there's a poor boy on the street
Then let him have my seat
'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you.

Throw my ticket out the window
Throw my suitcase out there too
Throw my troubles out the door
I don't need them any more
'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you.

possessions

“Each person is born to one possession which out values all his others- His last breath”

Mark Twain

sands of time

Like an aging picket fence weaving along a white sand beach in a place of such timelessness, your beauty knows not where to end. Sprigs of wide bladed grasses pushing towards the life giving sunlight that also lights your face, exposing your features to my eyes. Which in turn, reminds me of how you are my life, of what you mean there, and why I could never draw another breath with out you in it. A sea bird passing overhead, calling out for nourishment, for either belly or soul, longing for both in the long run like I. Wave after wave rushing in, lingering, pausing for its one moment of equilibrium before being pulled back home, remixing, never to be exactly the same, leaving only one mark that is absorbed in those sands. We too, are like that in one another’s lives, soaking up the good, fearing the bad, but none the less a canvas of marks, of high tides, and of the low. Washing upon the face of the other, this dance of land and sea, of you and me, a road map in this journey of love, and of life. The fine lines, now lit by the sun show me the way, reading your face, understanding the path, the past, the present and the future.

the twain rolls on

“When I reflect upon the number of disagreeable people who I know have gone to a better world, I am moved to lead a different life”

Mark Twain

pencil-thin

Jimmy Buffet

Pencil-Thin Mustache

Now they make new movies in old black and white,
With happy endings, where nobody fights,
So if you find yourself in that nostalgic rage,
Honey, jump right up and show your age.

I wish I had a pencil-thin mustache,
the "Boston Blackie" kind, or a
two-toned Ricky Ricardo jacket,
and an autographed piture of Andy Divine.

Oh, I remember bein' buck toothed and skinny
Writin' fan letters to Sky's niece Penny.
Oh, I wish I had a pencil-thin mustache,
then I could solve some mysteries too.
Oh it's Bandstand, Disneyland, growin up fast,
Drinkin' on a fake I.D.
And Rama of the jungle was everyone's Bawana,
But only jazz musicians were smokin marajuana.
Yeah, I wish I had a pencil-thin mustache,
then I could solve some mysteries too.

But then it's flat-top, dirty bop, copin' a feel'
grubbin on the living room floor;
They send you off to college to try to gain
a little knowledge,
But all you want to do is learn how to score.
Yeah, but now I'm gettin' old, don't wear underwear,
I don't go to church, and I don't cut my hair;
But I can goto movies and see it all there,
Just the way that it use to be.

That's why I wish I had a pencil-thin mustache
the "Boston Blackie" kind, or a
two-toned Ricky Ricardo jacket,
And an autographed picture of Andy Divine.

Oh, I could be anyone I wanted to be,
Maybe suave Eerol Flynn or the Sheik of Araby.
If I only had a pencil-thin mustache,
then I could do some crusing too.

Yeah, Brylcream, a little dab'll do yah,
Oh, I could do some crusing too.

again, and again, and again

Implosion was emanate, fueled by his mouth, her skin rippled with each passing lick, soft and gentle, each one teasing, thick and timely. Pulling his hair as if guiding a horse drawn carriage, she steered him into those zones she loved touched. The backs of her knees, now damp and raised above him, making her feel all the more naughty. Her breath now a pant, as if no air was left in the room, each one, timed with each lick, she moans out, and growing louder, and louder she comes so intensely that she becomes limp, like a rag doll, laying there, smiling as he raises up, and in a single graceful motion, slides up, on and in her. Slowly, commencing to move in and out, touching his tongue to hers, the heat of their passion builds, like steam in a volcano, the lava of their love grows, waiting for impending eruption, enjoying, toying, they make love in a way she had never tasted before, never like this, never so sweet, never so intense, never so pleasing……she moaned again, and again, and again, and, then again, her eyes rolled back as she moaned once more, once more as he groans her name long and slow.

killing me

This song came to me, that when I knew I was high!


Roberta Flack-Killing me softly


Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style.
And so I came to see him to listen for a while.
And there he was this young boy, a stranger to my eyes.

Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

I felt all flushed with fever, embarrassed by the crowd,
I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud.
I prayed that he would finish but he just kept right on ...

Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

He sang as if he knew me in all my dark despair.
And then he looked right through me as if I wasn't there.
But he just came to singing, singing clear and strong.

Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

He was strumming, oh, he was singing my song.
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...
With his song ...

frozen heart

Frozen from your world
Set adrift, and cast to sea
Looking for redemption
In a three part harmony

now that I'ved lost everything to you

Cat Stevens
Wild World

1. Now that I've lost everything to you
You say you want to start something new
And it's breaking my heart you're leaving, baby I'm grieving
But if you want to leave take good care
Hope you have a lot of nice things to wear
But then a lot of nice things turn bad out there

Ref.: Oh, baby, baby it's a wild world
It's hard to get by just upon a smile
Oh, baby, baby it's a wild world
I'll always remember you like a child, girl

2. You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do
And it's breaking my heart in two
'Cos I never want to see you sad girl. don't be a bad girl
But if you want to leave take good care
Hope you make a lot of nice friends out there
But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware

Ref.: Oh, baby,baby ...

3. (Instrumental)
(Instrumental)
(Instrumental) , Baby I love you
But if you want to leave take good care
Hope you make a lot of nice friends out there
But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware

Ref.: Oh, baby, baby ... (2x)

The Blokes

The Long And Winding Road
(Lennon/McCartney)

~~~

The long and winding road that leads to your door,
Will never disappear, I've seen that road before
It always leads me here, leads me to your door.

The wild and windy night the rain washed away,
Has left a pool of tears crying for the day.
Why leave me standing here, let me know the way

Many times I've been alone and many times I've cried
Anyway you'll never know the many ways I've tried

And still they lead me back to the long and winding road
You left me standing here a long, long time ago
Don't leave me waiting here, lead me to your door

But still they lead me back to the long and winding road
You left me standing here a long, long time ago
Don't keep me waiting here, lead me to your door
yea, yea, yea, yea--

nilsson

Harry Nilsson.


Everybody's talking at me

I don't hear a word they're saying

Only the echoes of my mind

People stopping staring

I can't see their faces

Only the shadows of their eyes

I'm going where the sun keeps shining

Thru' the pouring rain

Going where the weather suits my clothes

Backing off of the North East wind

Sailing on summer breeze

And skipping over the ocean like a stone

against the wind

Bob Seger and The Sliver Bullet Band, “Against the Wind”.


It seems like yesterday

But it was long ago

Janey was lovely she was the queen of my nights

There in the darkness with the radio playing low

And the secrets that we shared

The mountains that we moved

Caught like a wildfire out of control

'Til there was nothing left to burn and nothing left to prove

And I remember what she said to me

How she swore that it never would end

I remember how she held me oh so tight

Wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then

Against the wind

We were runnin' against the wind

We were young and strong, we were runnin'

Against the wind

The years rolled slowly past

And I found myself alone

Surrounded by strangers I thought were my friends

I found myself further and further from my home

And I guess I lost my way

There were oh so many roads

I was living to run and running to live

Never worryied about paying or even how much I owed

Moving eight miles a minute for months at a time

Breaking all of the rules that would bend

I began to find myself searching

Searching for shelter again and again

Against the wind

A little something against the wind

I found myself seeking shelter sgainst the wind

Well those drifter's days are past me now

I've got so much more to think about

Deadlines and commitments

What to leave in, what to leave out

Against the wind

I'm still runnin' against the wind

I'm older now but still runnin' against the wind

Well I'm older now and still runnin'

Against the wind

Against the wind

Against the wind

Still runnin'

I'm still runnin' against the wind

I'm still runnin'

I'm still runnin' against the wind

Still runnin'

Runnin' against the wind

Runnin' against the wind

See the young man run

Watch the young man run

Watch the young man runnin'

He'll be runnin' against the wind

Let the cowboys ride

Let the cowboys ride

They'll be ridin' against the wind

Against the wind ...

ripe

Ripe with juice, her words run down my face as I bite them. The tang, overwhelming in texture and truth fills me with pleasure. Each bite, fresher and fuller than the last, I become gluttonous. My belly swells with their delectable flavor, but I do not stop. Like a horse to water drinking in their meaning, learning more of who I am from her non stop banquet of words. This is inspiration at is finest. This is what I thirst for. Addicted I must have the fix that pulses threw my veins………..

words to live

Youngblood’s, “Let’s Get Together”.


Love is but the song we sing,

And fear's the way we die

You can make the mountains ring

Or make the angels cry

Know the dove is on the wing

And you need not know why

C'mon people now,

Smile on your brother

Ev'rybody get together

Try and love one another right now

Some will come and some will go

We shall surely pass

When the one that left us here

Returns for us at last

We are but a moments sunlight

Fading in the grass

C'mon people now,

Smile on your brother

Ev'rybody get together

Try and love one another right now

If you hear the song I sing,

You must understand

You hold the key to love and fear

All in your trembling hand

Just one key unlocks them both

It's there at your command

C'mon people now,

Smile on your brother

Ev'rybody get together

Try and love one another right now

Right now

Right now!

The Most Painful Day of the Year

Sitting here waiting for the end of this seemingly endless precession of rail cars a sweetness comes over me. Like that gentle breeze we have all read about, passing over our bodies while lifting up our hair. My mind has drifted off, sending me to another place and time in my short life. For only 3 or so seconds I was transported to a time and place where my lonesomeness had not yet been born.

I can still remember most of them, although some are nothing more than a name on a list, a mark of my conquest, never shared with anyone. I do not name names when I kiss and tell. From this list, only some are remembered completely. Their touch, smell and taste, right here, never fading, some how remaining separate from the rest. Remembering the way they moved when I was in them. Some I miss, and some miss me, and still others I would still die for, but there was only that one that really mattered. I sit and stare; lost in the vibration of the train I recall that year, it had started in spring.

The dingers’ rose and traffic rumbled back to its business at hand. Somehow I retained a small piece of that long forgotten happiness. A smile curled the edges of my lips as I headed home. As I drove through the older neighborhoods of town I continued to reach back into that often-sordid bag of my past.

The Springtime of sexual awaking-

I thought about the wonders of seeing the ground pushing bulbs and shrubs towards bloom. I could smell the warmth of the earth, as a spring shower would dust the ground, sending its scent of freshness all around. I could see blue skies, with distant clouds bellowing, puffy white and pure. The days as a teen spent falling in love with young girls, still learning about our sexuality one day at a time still made me hard. Tender moments spent licking one another’s cracks and shafts. Rabbit like raw humping keeping time to the rock n roll anthems of our time. Our nudity so new, the shyness fading to an unbridled freedom to fuck. With each stolen moment, and with each kiss we swore to an unending love all the while holding hands between smokes.

The Summer of love-

The swimming holes filled up quickly with the boys and girls of that summer. Heavy drinking and pot gave the courage to explore many uncharted seas. Relationships came and so did I. Of the many loves that summer one stood out and still owns major real estate of my heart even now. Flirting with one another she made me feel things the others hadn’t, and in that summer of love we educated one another in ways that still make me smile. Lovers learning the ways of their bodies, boys becoming young men as girls stepped towards real maturity, wishing that we would never leave. But unlike Pan, I could not fly.

The Fall from grace-

Watching the sun slowly speed up, heading to its summer equinox, Fall rounds the corner. Leaves burning in piles, while giggling children run hoping the shrinking daylight can be altered. I spent that fall completely in lust with an older girl that introduced me to the naughty side of the tracks. We would lie under the trees and listen to the sounds of migrating birds while leaves fell on us. Many times we did this naked, and if your in Rome. She opened doors to me that defines who I sexuality am today for the most part. Twisted and playful she showed me secrets I treasure yet share freely today. Growing erect and standing firm I schooled long and hard in her ways of love. Quaaludes or mushrooms set the many a mood that fall, and when I woke up I found it wasn’t a dream.


Winters of our discontent-

Ice cold, frozen wastelands stood sentry that year, and I lived in many places staying warm. Allowing strangers to hold my heart in exchange for a few quick fucks, I was on a path to sexual freedom man. I had the world by its tail but didn’t we all in our teenage years? I slept around and got no rest, content to just lick and learn. One day I ran into Mrs. Summer, you remember her, the heartland Baroness. The rush of both being with an old lover that had learned so many new things to pleasure one another with was sweet. The sex was in the top 3, having both quit our jobs in order to stay naked and connected once or twice. If I could hold this one today I know she would say to me, borrowing the Uncle Cracker line; “I polished up your halo, and you dirtied up my soul”. Soul mate number one she was.

The honk of his horn startled me, hitting the gas I looked back and drove away. My 3-second slice of past lovers and friends was through. Another day, another laugh all the way to the bank. I drove towards my empty house not wanting this day to sink in. I fought the varied attempts for that thought, that recollection of the past to hit. But I do remember her and this day so long ago and I miss her in a way that can never be corrected. Death can do that, robbing any way to touch her again, sealing the heart to remember her forever, never being able to detach fully and step back into real life full of real people. I didn’t want to remember but I did.

We had started a life together, and for the very first time I was truly in a committed relationship. I was 17. The world was perfect and over the years our love grew, as did our son. She was a beautiful mother, a great wife and a kind, naughty yet nurturing lover. I loved that I could get away with telling her that she was a Mother, and I fucked her, thus, I was a bad motherfucker. I was also a great Dad and a true husband. I loved her like my very life depended on it. It turned out, one day it did. That day is here again and I know I will have to write away the thoughts once more. I remember so clearly how she worked to unbuckle me as the jeep began to sink. Pushing me towards the shattered windshield I realized she was just sitting there, not struggling to get free. I turned back, and I went for her seatbelt. She looked at me and somehow I knew. I found the steering wheel had impaled her. She said I love you, and the last bubbles left her. The man who had run us off the bridge pulled me out, and even though he saved my life I still hate that he did in to many ways. Anyway, now its tomorrow, I made it one more time baby. You’d be proud of our son.

Words

The white paper was tightly bound around the green tasty filling, which was now hanging from my lips. Standing James Dean proud the crisp sound of the safety match across the back of my 501’s becomes joined by the fresh flame. Introducing the two of them, they begin their dangerous dance and in moments I am reduced to a fool with his weapon.

Multiple colored words weave in and out my brain. Some touching, rubbing together, creating friction, starting sentence structure while others lay in mid air, useless to me. I reach out, almost touching the word “FUCK” but it slips between my fingers as it floats past. Soon the words overtake my will and my fingers defect to them, now doing their evil work by typing this nonsense up.

I curl up on the sofa, listening to their arguments of what they want to be, and how they wish to be remembered. These words are crazy, but I listen and wait. “Clouds of smoke”, three of the words that formed a partnership early on are attempting to win over the “Seasons” group, which consists of “summer”, “autumn”, “winter” and “spring”. I don’t know why, but Hubcap” is pissed at this. Grumbling can also be heard from “Texture” as well as “Pigment”; still I am unable to break this hideous code.

I look left, but not at “Right” who is watching me closely, I spot something that may help me with my escape. I ask if I may get a fresh pen from the desk drawer, now to busy with their infighting I am allowed with the wave of the “Hand”. Sweating it, I carefully reach down, taking the jumbo gum eraser from the drawer. Its time to erase these bastards from my mind.

This Simple Man

This simple man, who writes to battle the pains, many deserved, that have collected around my heart. I have had my fair share of troubles in life but at the same time I am so blessed, I can still see, feel and dream, while others have been lost to drugs, or alcohol, or have just made poor choices. Understanding pain opens the door to the healing process and I use my ever-increasing knowledge to express myself. So often as I write, I began to cry, and my emotions overtake me even if what I am writing about has never happened to anyone I know. I think I am able to place myself in the shoes of others, taking on their pain, letting it spill out on the page. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing to do or not, I’d never hurt someone purposefully, but when the idea comes, I become a man possessed, I seem to channel that pain, it becomes part of me.

Honey Tribe Concert Review

Honey Tribe
A Concert Review

The band cranks out song after song, as what’s left of the 60’s love children gyrate at stage center. As if attempting to relive something from their past, each seemingly longs for a taste of immortality, even if its found in a drop of sweat from the very talented Devon Allman. Front man for a hauntingly pseudo-reincarnated Allman Brothers Band called Honey Tribe, it is indeed sweet as. Part way through this opening acts repertoire Mr. Allman takes us back in time with ever so subtle licks from “Travelin’ Man”. Their beat and drive is pure Allman through and through. One can see not only his famous fathers musical savvy coming through, but his uncles as well. This band is out to have fun and they want to take us all along. Their new “album” is entitled “Torch”.

Too Short The Day

“I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see. The longer I live the more my mind dwells upon the beauty and wonder of the earth”

John Burroughs

Reno 11-26-06 Pictures

The Hand Of God

Here's a picture taken from my hotel in Reno Sunday 11-26-06

Shadows and Sunshine

“Most of the shadows of this life are caused by standing in one’s own sunshine”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

He went to Paris

A Jimmie Buffet Classic

He Went To Paris

He went to Paris
Looking for answers
To the questions
That bothered him so
He was impressive
Young and aggressive
Saving the world on his own
The warm summer breezes
And French wines and cheeses
Put his ambition at bay
The summers and winters
Scattered like splinters’
And forty-five years slipped away

He went to England
Played the piano
And married a actress named Kim
They had a fine life
She was a good wife
And bore him a son named Jim
And all of the answers and
All of the questions
Locked in his attic one day
Cause he like the quite,
Clean country living
And twenty more years
Slipped away

Well the war took his baby,
Bombs killed his lady
And left him with
Only one eye
His body was battered
His whole world was shattered
And all he could do
Was just cry
While the tears
Were a falling
He was recalling
Answers he never found
So he hoped on a freighter
Skidded the ocean’
And left England without a sound

Now he lives in the island
Fishes the pylons
And drinks his green label each day
Writing his memoirs
Losing his hearing
But he don’t care what most people say
Through 86 years
Of perpetual motion
If he likes you he’ll smile and he’ll say
Just some of its magic
Some of its tragic,
But I had a good live all the way

He went to Paris
Looking for answers
To questions that bothered him so

The Death of Pain

The Death of Pain"

A short rambling made up story"
By s.redenbaugh



The cheap metal wheel spun, striking a small piece of flint, which produced the flame that brought a red-hot tip to the joint that now fills my lungs with an ever expanding smoke. In my lungs that smoke swirls, brushing against the fine cilia fibers, sending waves of euphoric bliss straight into my brain. Like a bullet, these freshly clipped, primo Humboldt buds draw smooth as silk. Expanding my horizons as well as my mind and lungs. I smile, exhaling and look out the window.

The rain is falling, cascading down, stripping the leaves from the trees. Pushed into the street, which is empty, they float along the gutters and then disappear, into a system that will someday carry them to the ocean where they will no longer be my concern. The only concern I seem to still have is her. The radio noise from the condo next door is loud, and the singer is expressing how bad he feels about his woman leaving him. This cuts deep into my weary mind, and it feels as if my beating heart is in that gutter, drifting away from me.

Now my memories of her are all that remain. Even after two years I think about her every waking moment. Once I even called my girlfriend of nine months her name in the throws of passion. She moved out that night. A flood of others have come and gone because of my inability to move on, they all brand me damaged goods, and for understandable reason. A soul mate cannot be replaced by quantity. It can only be dimmed by quality. No amount of smoke, nor liquor, or other drugs can erase them. No amount of nameless sex partners can bring me peace. Her image is burnt upon my retinas and I can no longer live this way.

Without a coat, and in the falling rain, I walk to the cliff where she had died. The sheared off trees tops and brush are still visible where her car had shot off the road that night. Moments of madness rush my thoughts and death seems all that could relieve the inferno of pain with in me. I lean over and hold my arms up, lifting my hands, I begin to cry out “take me, me. Why didn’t you take me?” And then in that single moment I am back to that night. I am again just waking as the car begins to skid out of control. I can still see the fear in her eyes as the first tree rips the auto apart, her hand reaching for mine, fingers, briefly touching, then nothing but darkness, nothing but sobs, nothing but death. And then, unlike the thousands of other times I have stood her and replayed that night I leap.

Did you hear that?

Both small and large children ring the doorbell and shout out their greeting seeking sweets in exchange for not killing us. “Trick or Treat” so casually tossed out, meaningless to oddly dressed human children attempting to get free candy from strangers. What’s next? Running with scissors? How can this be, and where are their parents? Some of the older children are dressed as older children as they try to blend in with the others who have at least attempted to pass as pirates and princesses. Is there a type of “bah humbug” greeting for those of us would wish this night would end? 364 of the rest of the nights in this year would land one in jail for asking “would you like some candy little girl”? Go figure. Anyway, happy spooks and goblins

This Old Farmhouse

This Old Farmhouse
A cold short story


This clapboard farmhouse sits waiting for winter, absent from the warm days and cool evenings of autumn. No more children will run past her windows laughing as if the sun will stay forever. The chill of the air, lightly scented with burning fires will cut into the weathered siding, digging deeper into the small cracks, starting its never ending quest of removing another undetermined amount of paint from her sides. Soon the rains will beat against her, adding layers of rust on her hinges and the exposed heads of nails, as she begins to swell like some aged ship reintroduce to the sea. Many creaks in her floor will return while others head south. She will change, this home, this sanctuary from the storms. Fires inside her will start as each log placed into the wood burner attempts to counter the exterior wind driven freeze. She will be both hot and cold, wet and dry, safe and dangerous as she stands firm in facing those elements of the winter as they pound against her. Her doors will increase width; temporally sealing them tightly to each exterior doorjamb, most certainly causing their use as designed to fail. Drafts will seek ways around her walls, sneaking in and bringing forth small cold spots, chilling the surrounding air as if to remind us of where we are.

This clapboard farmhouse, built in 1832 by Great-Grandfather Levi for his new bride is still home to his descendants, I, his great-grandson have kept the home fire fires burning a long time, and though life here is not unpleasant, it is extremely demanding during the cold months when the snows come. For the last 27 winters, each one has left me snow bound, trapped inside for weeks at a time. Unable to retrieve water from the tap, forced to melt snow for drinking and cooking. One year the back porch where I have my writing studio caved in, 7 feet of snow turned into a glacier and advanced half way into the kitchen before the spring thaw came. Lost a lot of my stories not to mention it made the house cold as the North Pole. That was the year my girlfriend Jill had decided to stay the winter with me. We both took sick that year and for a few weeks I was bedridden, not sure that I would recover, Jill claimed that’s as close to death as she’s ever seen a man. Her blankets would pile up on her chair and could be found covering most of the sofa. Her green quilt, the one with the embroidered brown and red leaves became her cocoon, traveling from room to room. My needs for fresh air became a flash point for conflict, and the next 3 or 4 months we fought over whom holds control of the temperature. That also left a lot of time for getting back into bed and making up.

I can still remember that year we spent here together. Funny how winter can change us. It was the next year that she had made arrangements for a more southern location where she thought the two of us would bask while winter did its thing. Since I spent every winter there writing, a disagreement broke out and didn’t end up leaving us in a happier ever after kind of hallmark moment. She left for the winter and I stoked the fire more than ever before. Two stubborn fools we were. She said she be back in the springtime and left.

It was the coldest winter ever recorded that year, reaching minus 15 for 3 straight weeks. My wood was running short even though I had tried to conserve, I had no choice but keep it burning. Had it gone out, death would come in days from hypothermia. In the mean while, I had been very productive writing that winter; with no one to spend the day with I immersed myself in my stories. One story in particular was most certainly the greatest love story I had ever written. A tale so beautiful that each time I read it I cried tears of joy. Back then I did all my writing on my trusty old Underwood typewriter because of the power going out so often. It was about mid December, near as I could tell when I started burning the chairs, most of the firewood was gone and the stockpile outside on the porch had become much to wet to catch fire. I moved the logs inside and every couple of days I would try to burn another one, pulled from the igloo like stack I had built from them around the fireplace. I had already chopped up the butcher blocker cutting board that had stood in the kitchen first, mixing it with the remaining wood, getting three days heat from her. After that the picture frames went, then the headboard and dresser. I had burned every door, all the cabinets, and even part of the wooden flooring. The clothes burned ok but smoked awfully bad, but not as much as the mattress had. I was down to one old wooden chair, and boxes of my writings. It didn’t look good. The boxes went next, and I had to stop eating, having burnt the food as fuel, but not in an ingested way. I had kept her blankets, bundled up in them all, I found myself faced with life without my stories, or death and the chance the world would read them. One by one, a story was pulled apart, page after page kept me alive. The tears became like ice on my face as each one caught fire. The day I burnt that love story all I could think of was her, and the reality that I most likely wouldn’t live to see her again. Thoughts of how horrible it would be for her to open that door and find me frozen like an ice cream ran through my mind, with each moment, and each page I tossed in to burn I formed a plan. I would type her a letter on the back of one of the last pages telling her not to come in, but to go get the sheriff because I didn’t make it. Most everything was now burnt.

As I lay my head down, covered only by the blanket with the embroidered leaves, and with the one page note pinned outside on the door I began to dream. The last of my fuel cast its glow, as the final chapter of the most beautiful love story ever written burned. The dream I had was with me on that beach she wanted me to go to, in swim shorts sipping a nice cool drink, smiling at her, thanking her for her thoughtfulness.

I drifted in and out of sleep over the next few days and I felt deaths icy claws pawing my face. The room had long grown cold. Peaceful thoughts filled my mind. The shivering had past. Numbness blocked any feelings I should have had. My eyes could no longer see although they remained open. I was near death.

Somewhere in my mind I heard her voice, telling me to hold on. Demanding that I not die. In the dream I heard her say “Don’t you fucking die on me”, it was so real that even the smell of smoke was present. The words were like heated water enveloping every part of me. I could taste something warm on my lips. Then I felt my finger move, and that’s when my eyes focused and there she was. The tears in her eyes changed quickly to a sparkle as again she cussed me out, this time for scaring her so badly. She told me she thought she had lost me forever. She had returned and was saving my live at that very moment.

I made it through that winter, losing only the first finger on my right hand to frostbite. The one I hunted and pecked with best. And the very next winter I learned to write in shorts, sipping Mi-ties on the beach as I made every attempt to recreate that love story, only now, she’s on every page.