Friendship

In preschool and grammar school friendship falls into our laps. In the sandbox or on the swings, sharing a dump truck or a doll common ground is found. Parents meet, exchange numbers and invitations to birthday parties and slumber parties are soon to follow.

Has we age and reach our teen years the social pool has been diluted. The class of thirty that we knew fairly well has been absorbed into a larger class of five to six hundred. Friends that we have know since pre-school may not even attend the same high school. Old friends fade into the mist as new friendship develop from the fertile soil of athletics, scholastics and hormones.

Before much time as past college appears on the horizon. New friends and old are scattered across the country by the winds of change. New paths are chosen. New directions are found. Some relationships have survived the turmoil from preschool thru college. Others may be new but a strong foundation has been built.

Graduation and promotions, marriage and children, all of life's responsibilities become part of our essence. Marriage and parenting bring new friends and new circles. Some of the old have drifted away. Finding new circles to swim in. If we are lucky a few of the classics have survived. They have aged like a fine wine. Meant to be savored and appreciated.

As we move to new neighborhoods, transfer to new offices or begin second careers with new corporations the friendship cycle changes once again. Something is different though. The pool is no longer expanding but shrinking. New friends appear to be mere acquaintances. They are great for lunch, a movie, office gossip but the closeness that developed with relative ease through schools and careers has become more complicated. Everyone already seems to have a "best friend". The two o'clock in the morning the world is ending I need someone to talk to type of friend.

Those of us who have that "best friend" are blessed. We have made it through three or four decades with somebody who shares memories and history with us. That in and of itself is a precious gift and one we should embrace wholeheartedly.

Words

"You are a slob. Wait until you are older no girl will even look at you."

"You are so lazy."

"You are fat."

"You are so stupid."

How can she not see his tear filled eyes and the pain their words have caused him. How can she repeat the errors of the previous generation and treat him the way she was treated.

Her mother had always used words as weapons hurling them at the three siblings. She could remember hiding in the closet or under the bed anywhere to escape the pain of those barbs. Words are powerful though they are like time bombs. She thought she had avoided most of the damage but she was well into her thirties and still found herself crying in her sleep. She no longer lived with her mother but the potency of her mothers words crossed telephone lines could still cut her deep.

Yet, what she hated most about her mother she inflicted upon her only son. When brought to her attention she always brushed off the concerns of others.

"They're only words", she would mutter.

"He knows I love him," she would explain.

All the more reason for her to understand the power love gives to our words. The words of a stranger can be easily brushed off. There is no emotional investment. The words of a loved one however are filled with meaning. How can he at ten separate the wheat from the chaff. She calls him stupid, or fat, or lazy but doesn't mean it. How can he not become confused when she than says I love you and means it.

Lacking understanding he searches for the true meaning behind her words but only finds himself lost in tears of confusion and frustration.

Communication

There used to be conversation. Discussion. A decision needed to be made and they sat down and discussed their options like two mature adults. Sometimes one would compromise, sometimes the other. Somehow they always found their way to the middle ground where they could both accept the resolution to the problem.

No more. What used to be quiet conversation in the bedroom or around the kitchen table had regressed into territorial battles. Where had it gone wrong? Why had communication faded into the woodwork? Could they ever regain that early gift they had of mature teamwork? Or were they doomed to one of "those" marriages where they stayed together out of comfort and not passion. Where the children were the only thing left that they held in common.

He for one was not sure. In the quieter moments, late at night he would often find himself pacing the downstairs searching for a solution to their stalemate. If he was completely honest he could even pinpoint the origin of the impasse. It was his fault, because of his irrational obsession that required him to make the entire planet happy regardless of the cost to himself. As their marriage aged he found himself compromising more and more to keep the peace. He would agree rather than fight in front of the children. At first the compromises were over little things. What color to paint a wall, how to arrange the living room furniture.

The consequences of those compromises developed over time. His wife began to understand that if she started an argument she would usually get her way. In the beginning she was careful to pick and choose the times that she would break out her secret weapon. After awhile though she through caution to the wind and began to pick fights to have everything her way. She did not see it as manipulation. She saw nothing wrong. If her husband wanted to keep the peace by sacrificing his desires who was she to stop him.

For him the problem became apparent when the children reached school age. The disagreements intensified as came to the realization that their ideas concerning education were as different as night and day. He understood that while the education system was bruised and battered with parent participation it still worked. She on the other hand wand to toss out the baby with the bathwater and home school the children. He had no problem with home schooling if the parents had the ability to create an environment that stimulated the child's ability to learn. The problem was that he worked full time and he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that his wife did not have wherewithal to maintain the proper classroom. The issue appeared to be black and white someone would have to give in.

So it had finally happened a line had been drawn in the sand and all that was left was to see who would blink first. She was adamant about home schooling he was adamant about his children receiving a proper education. This is the straw that would break the camels back. He could give in and forever surrender his ability to voice his opinion or he could make a stand. Praying all the while that it would not be his last.

Ghost Town

So far I have kept my posts link free. That being said all rules are made to be broken and the following link made breaking this unwritten one more than worth it.

Ghost Town

is a site belonging to a Russian woman named Elena. Apparently her favorite past time is to climb aboard her Ninja motorcycle and cruise the former Soviet Bloc. What makes her site unique is that she does most of her touring in and around Cherynobl, also known as Ghost Town. The photos she has posted are erie and really made me stop and ponder the consequences brought about by some of the choices humanity has made. Several images have haunted my subconscious sense my initial viewing of her site. I will leave my opinions for another time so that anyone who decides to visit her site can see her photos from fresh eyes. I will say that viewing her photos brought to mind the poetry of T.S. Elliot especially the poem:

The Waste Land

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Could Have Been

Every family has their would a, should a, could a been story. Ours is no different.

In the early thirties my maternal grandfathers family moved to Los Angeles from Milwaukee. My great grandfather Herman purchased a storefront on Wilshire Blvd. in a part of town that came to be known as the Miracle Mile.

Herman and his son's Stanley and Arthur (my grandfather) opened a radio sales and repair shop. They worked hard and their business prospered. One day Stanley went to his father and told him about the wondrous new product he had seen. The television. He was very enthusiastic in explaining to Herman and Arthur how the salesman had convinced him the television was the future and the glory days of radio would soon fade. His idea was for them to slowly move out of radio sales and into television. While Arthur agreed and understood that there might be a future in television sales Herman would have none of it. Like a lot of people he felt that television was a passing fad and he was not about to mortgage his families future on a whim. Being the patriarch and owner his vote was all that counted and the family remained in the radio business.

Of course history tells us that television went on to dominate American culture. As so many others had, Herman misread the signs and ended up going out of business.

On a side note, Wilshire Blvd. and the Miracle Mile went on to become some of the highest priced real estate in Southern California. With a little bit of for sight my great grandfather would have been a wealthy man.

Origins 1

I was looking through some of my maternal grandmother's papers today. When she passed away most everyone wanted the furniture, jewelry, etc. I on the other hand wanted everything that related to family history. Letters she exchanged with my grandfather, with her relatives, her nursing license. Basically anything that spoke to me from the past. In reading through the material today I was reminded how a family's destiny is never set in stone but flows through time.

My great-grandfather Quinto emigrated from Italy to South Africa in 1899. He was a miner by trade and went to work the diamond mines. He left his family behind with the intention of having them move to South Africa once he was settled. He was not there very long before the Boer War broke out. He wrote to my great grandmother and asked her to remain in Italy until the war had drawn to a close. Once the war continued into its second year he decided that South Africa was not the place he wanted to raise his family. He discussed this with some of his fellow emigrants and found that several Italian families he knew were leaving for Lexington, Missouri. So he abandoned the diamond mines and headed home. He talked it over with my great grandmother and they decided he would head for the America first and find a home and she would follow. So Quinto left Italy and arrived at Ellis Island in 1901. From there he went to Lexington and found work in the coalmines.

My great grandmother Maria followed in 1902. She sailed with two children from Port Le Havre, Seine-Inferior, France on the La Lorraine. Being a relatively poor family they did not have a private room. They traveled in what was basically steerage class with blankets hung from the ceiling to offer some degree of privacy. Her children were Eligio 2 and Adriana who was just 4 months old. Adriana was miserable for most of the trip being both seasick and teething. The little family arrived at Ellis Island on June 7, 1902 and took a train from New York to Missouri. Where Quinto met them and they began a new life. My great grandparents had five more children that were born in Lexington. Most importantly (to me at least) my grandmother Elda was born there in 1906.

Career Free Write

The sound of yesterday's laughter still rings loudly within my ears. Unwelcome reminders of promises made, broken and left behind. Teen years spent in splendid adolescent isolation. Lost in world of literature oblivious to the surrounding sea of hormones. No time for extracurricular activities when books hid new and wondrous worlds to be explored. Worked for the Cask and Cleaver bussing tables and cleaning floors. Dropped in then dropped out of the local college found out law books did not hold the answers. Had a choice to make between school and a career when BofA came calling. Chose BofA and spent twelve years as a corporate serf earning an office without a door. Mergers dominated the early nineties and was merged right out of a job. Experienced the nirvana that is unemployment recording time with chalk marks on the wall. Then Magellan left for Venus so JPL was joined. Spent a year boxing photos from other worlds and playing softball with the techies. Met Sagan before he died and watched Galileo leave for Jupiter. More photos to be boxed until one faulty antenna send funding out the door. Temporarily rejoined the shuffling unemployed before cooking for the priests at Annunciation. Before the stars called again and Griffith Observatory was joined. Counting the cash and training the crew while watching the sun set in the Pacific. Took a test and joined the City of LA still counting cash but the benefits are better.

Phone Rant

I have begun to develop an outright hatred for the phone.

Growing up the adults around me limited their use of the phone to actual communication. Phone calls would last less than five minutes and actual information would be exchanged.

"BBQ at our house Saturday night."
"Bridge at your house Friday"
"Meeting at the lodge Tuesday"

The only exception would be those bi-yearly phone calls from long distance relatives. A rare hour would be spent on the phone catching up on the family gossip.

Now the phone has become a security blanket. People call at all hours of day or night. The calls serve no purpose, no information is exchanged and no connection is made.

"Hello"
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing. What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"blah blah blah blah"
"blah blah blah blah"
"blah blah blah blah"
"blah blah blah blah"
"Later"
"Later"

The above sounds like a conversation between bored teens but I expect that behavior from teens. I am referring to other adults who call my house with no real purpose. I know its rude but I have begun to screen the calls with my answering machine. Unless it seems important most calls I just ignore. Maybe I am slowly evolving into an unsociable being, so be it. If being unsociable means I can avoid inane conversation with know no than that describes me.

I guess in the future I will resolve to be more selective in choosing who receives my phone number.

Nana Part 2

Nana Part 1 was posted February 24th of this year.

In December she lost her independence. The change was gradual but soon her world had been reduced to her yard and the six rooms of her house.

The first sign of the coming loss was difficulty in finding her way home. After her weekly doctors appointment she called Dial-A-Ride for a ride home. Except once they were underway she could no longer remember where she lived. To embarrassed to ask for help she panicked and had the driver leave her off at Fifth and Duarte, which was a good mile from her home. She attempted to walk but could not remember in which direction she lived. Fortunately for her a friend happened by and offered her a ride.

The second sign came when she found herself away from home with no recollection of having left. One Tuesday morning she walked to her church apparently intent on attending mass. When control was returned to her, she found herself sitting in her usual pew, in an empty church wearing only her nightgown and bedroom slippers. Her grandson was by her side asking her if everything was OK. He took her by the arm and gently led her to the car.

The final sign came when locked gates were installed on her property and a deadbolt, she was unable to reach, was installed on the front door. In her more coherent moments she acknowledged that for her safety it was necessary. In her less coherent moments she found herself screaming at her daughter and her grandchildren using words she had never spoken aloud in her long life.

Her fear at times became so dominant that she would scream anything that came into her mind. One evening when her grandson was preparing her dinner she forgot what he was doing. When he picked up a knife, she began screaming. He attempted to calm her but she screamed even louder accusing him of trying to kill her. Before she knew it the sheriff was at her front door inquiring about her safety. Having forgotten about her screaming she had no idea why they were there. It took an hour and a phone call to her daughter to convince them that everything was OK.

In December when she went to bed she rarely if ever said her prayers. For the most part she did not remember how to pray or even remember her who God was. When she did remember God she found herself blaming Him for condition. After a lifetime of childlike faith she concluded that God was cruel and unjust and unworthy of her devotion. She embraced her doubt and refused to acknowledge his existence.

Purgatory in Ensenada

Summer 1982, there were four of us (two couples), who planned what should have been an exciting weekend in Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico. Instead it became most probably one of the worst weekends that I have had the misfortune to endure.

We drove down on a Friday night. The first clue we had that luck was not looking over our shoulder came when we stopped for dinner. No water (not that we would have drank it), no ice (ditto) and only warm beer or soda available for consumption. Being too hungry to move on we grinned and bore it. Eating our fish tacos with warm Mexican beer.

The next warning shot across the bow came when we had settled in at our motel. The couple we were traveling with had brought along a bottle of champagne, which they had kept on ice. For whatever reason the darn cork would not come out of the bottle. We tried everything but to no avail. Finally I was sitting on the floor using a screwdriver to slowly loosen the cork when the bottle decided to explode in my lap. My hands went numb and I was sure that I had lost at least one major body part. When I finally developed the courage to look down I expected to find myself sitting in a pool of my own blood. Instead I found that my guardian angel was being rather efficient, my lap was covered in broken glass but I had not received a single scratch.

The next day my traveling companion who happened to be Mexican informed us that it was traditional for tourists in Ensenada to visit La Bufadora (the blowhole). So we set off in the car for the blowhole. It was located about thirty miles outside of the city. Most of the country we drove through was farmland. The road, so called, was a two-lane highway, which the farmers treated as their own. They were all over the road ignoring their assigned lane. Several times we were almost run off the road by old jalopies being driven on the wrong side of the road. Close to an hour later we finally reached the parking lot. We walked for another half mile to reach La Bufadora. We stopped behind the provided guardrail and waited for the excitement to begin. There was a low rumble similar to thunder and then much to our amazement water shot up in the air from a hole in the cliff. We almost died so we could thrill to site of water pressure throwing moisture into the air through a hole formed by erosion. Needless to say we were somewhat disappointed after the big buildup my significant other had given it. It would have been much safer to read the travel brochure in our room which explained: La Bufadora (The Blowhole): A natural cave formed by marine erosion, throws a gush of water that rises up to 24 feet when the waves come into it, producing the sound associated to its name; an amazing natural blowhole that spews seawater and foam high into the air. Several photographs accompanied the explanation.

On our final day in glorious Ensenada we were pulled over by the police for a supposed traffic violation. Apparently, the police there have developed the habit of supplementing their income by fleecing the tourists. We could either stay until Monday or Tuesday when the court opened and deal with the judge. Or we could pay the police officer to forget the whole thing. Needless to say we paid the officer and fled Ensenada as quickly as humanly possible.

I Miss

I miss being up before my brother and sister on Saturday mornings, so I could pick which cartoons we would watch. We may have only had seven channels to choose from but they all seemed to have quality programming at least in my ten year old eyes. I miss watching those old shows while eating a big bowl or two of Count Chocula with lots of milk. I miss cartoons that were created for entertainment not half hour long infomercials.

I miss playing smear, pickle, freeze tag and all the other games we would make up. We would chase each other around the yard until our little legs could no longer move. Collapsing into panting heaps we would rest for a few minutes than get up and do it again. I miss spending hours setting up Lincoln Logs and toy soldiers only to destroy our handy work in five-minute battles. Or reenacting our own version of the Alamo (I was always Davy Crockett), using picnic tables for walls and broomsticks for rifles we would die spectacular, agonizing deaths as our position was overrun.

I miss sitting in my tree house on warm summer afternoons. Sipping an ice-cold coke (before they messed with the recipe) and reading the latest Hardy Boys adventure. I miss hiking in Monrovia Canyon still young enough to think that trails were for losers. We would go straight up hillsides and waterfalls and come home with the scratches, bruises and poison oak to prove it.

I miss going to the drive-in, all of us kids sporting pajamas. The smell of fresh popped homemade popcorn drenched in real butter can still bring a smile to my lips. I miss heading off to the playground between movies; swinging, sliding and chasing the merry-go-round, in our pajamas with a hundred other kids. None of our parents worried about us because no one believed anything bad would ever happen and it never did.

I miss sneaking out of bed after my parents were asleep and watching Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show. Back when he was on five days a week and the show ran one and a half hours. I miss all of the old stars that would drop in just to chat not because they had something to promote. Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Jimmy Stewart, and Lucille Ball you never knew who might turn up or what they might say, but you were guaranteed to be entertained. I miss the networks signing off at one A.M. Fighter planes would scream across the screen, while someone sang God Bless America. Flags would flap in the wind and a voice would announce that we had reached the end of the broadcast day.

Most of all I miss my childhood friends. David, Mark, Carolyn, Patty, Joyce, Mike, Fred, Ricky, David and Diane. We had some great times and some not so great times but I miss them one and all.

Keepsakes

In the corner of the room sat a hand made oaken bookshelf. The one his great-grandfather had built in his workshop more than fifty years ago. Pops, as he had called him, left the oak in its natural state with just a thin coat of varnish for preservation.

Two of the shelves held books, mostly science fiction and philosophy with a few classics thrown in for good measure. Cervantes, Hugo, Stevenson, Dumas and Stoker were well represented. A third shelf held a small collection of National Geographic's from the years 1959 through 1965. Most of the books and magazines were well preserved although they were covered with a light coating of dust.

The top shelf held his three most precious possessions.

There was an old fashioned lighter, that had been manufactured by Ronson at a plant located in Newark, New Jersey. The lighter fluid was refilled through a seal that could be found on the bottom of the lighter. It was set into a saucer shaped piece of crystal. The crystal was mounted into a sterling silver base and held in place by five sterling silver leafs. He was not a smoker; he kept it for the sentimental value for it had belonged to his grandfather, the same one who had built the bookcase.

Next to the lighter was a statue of the Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus. Mary had a pink dress with a blue cape and a white veil upon her head. Her gown, cape and veil are trimmed in gold. She has blue eyes and her feet are bare standing on a rounded white base. Jesus is wearing a simple white robe also with gold trim. In his hand he is holding a white flower trimmed in gold. While not an overtly religious person he kept the statue for its sentimental value. His great-grandmother had passed it on to his grandmother who had passed it on to him.

The final item was a simple leather box. The leather was old and cracked. It had once been a rich mahogany but the color had faded over the years. The hinges on the back of the box were simple leather straps. The box was rather dusty and was rarely removed from the top shelf. Inside was his most precious possession of all: his heart. It had been retired to the box years ago. Once a vibrant red his heart had faded until it resembled a red shirt after a month in the summer sun. Several cracks were visible; they appeared to have been repaired with masking tape. In the back of his mind he had always planned to place his heart back in his chest. He had planned to give love another chance but that time had never come. So in the box his heart remained waiting for princess charming to come along and heal his wounds.

Faded Photograph

A homemade frame protects the faded photograph; it resides on a bookshelf next to his computer. Weeks can go by without him giving it a second thought. Than out of the blue the image will catch his eye and he will find himself wandering down some long forgotten road.

He does not have any actual memories of the picture being taken. After all he was only three months old at the time. From what he has been told the image was captured on Christmas morning. He is wearing little blue pants and a white shirt. He has a blue knit cap covering the top of his head. Two things stand out when he observes his younger self, he had piercing blue eyes and quite a head of hair for a three month old.

On his lap he clutches his very first Christmas present. A sock monkey that he received from his mother, it is brown with a red and white striped vest and matching hat. He has clear memories of the monkey because it was his favorite toy well into his sixth year.

Holding him in the photograph is his father. Sadly this is the only holiday picture he owns of the two of them together. The image of his father always leaves him with a lump in his throat. His dad appears so young, vibrant and full of life. His hair is black and his eyes are clear. His entire face appears to have swallowed by his pride filled smile. It was Christmas morning and he was holding his first-born son. Life for the moment was perfect.

If only it could have remained so.

A Love for the Ages

He met her in 1953. He was twenty-two and just beginning his military career, he had no desire to settle down. She was forty-two, cynical and expecting nothing more from life than a bushel of lemons. Their age difference was not common for their time and the odds were stacked against them. Sometimes however there is nothing on this earth that can stand between a couple and true love.

They were soon married and what a beautiful couple they made; him in his dress uniform and her in a beautiful bridal gown. They honeymooned on the Carolina coast not far from where they had met.

She was content being the wife of a military man. He was everything she had dreamed of and assumed that at her age had passed her by. He was strong but gentle. He was handsome but not conceited. He was smart but not overbearing. He climbed the ranks without leaving bodies on the ladder behind him.

For his part he had never expected to marry. He always believed he was one who was destined to bachelorhood. However when the time came he embraced marriage with more enthusiasm than he had thought possible. The love he held for her grew beyond the confines of his heart. His love for her grew beyond space and time. His love for her he soon realized was infinite.

Children were never part of the plan. He realized this when they married. The fifties were a time of great scientific breakthroughs but it was not a time where it was deemed safe for a woman in her forties to have a child for the first time. He accepted this without question and they built there life together just the two of them.

He retired from the military as a Lieutenant General with pride, honor and his sweetheart by his side. They retired to a small Southern California community where they lived in solitary tranquility. On weekends they would walk hand in hand to a nearby lake where they would picnic on the shore. Maybe they would read together, discuss the day, or maybe they would just lay in the sun two people finding comfort in their silent thoughts.

When she turned ninety she developed emphysema and began a long but steady decline. He was there by her side each and every step. He drove her to the doctors, picked up her medicines and took over all of the household chores. At first his cooking left a lot to be desired but soon he was able to whip up basic dishes with ease.

As her condition worsened she needed to take oxygen on a regular basis. She grew to weak to manage the stairs in their home so each morning he carried her down stairs and each evening he carried her back up. He fed her and he bathed her. He combed her hair and massaged her limbs. If the weather was nice he would carry out on to the patio. There he would sit on a big cushioned rocker with her on his lap. He would gently rock her back and forth while quietly singing old standards. His love and devotion never wavered.

No one was expecting him to leave the earth first, least of all his lovely bride. However one morning he carried her downstairs, sat her on the couch. Turned to go fix her breakfast and dropped then and there from a massive stroke. After fifty years of marriage she was alone once again.

At his memorial a lot of tears were shed for him. None of them were hers. When asked she simply said there was no need to mourn because she would be seeing him again before to long. Two months later she joined her beloved on the other side. Together again for all eternity.

Party

Six P.M. he roamed the basement checking on the preparations for the big party. It was the first time his parents were allowing him to host a get together of his friends. He wanted everything to be perfect.

The sodas were on ice. Chips and various dips were strategically placed around the room. Stacks of albums were ready to go on the turntable. All that was missing were his guests. He checked his clock for what seemed like the hundredth time. He saw it was still early and he tried to relax.

Popularity was not his strong suit. Belonging to the chess club and the rocket club were not part of the proven path to popularity in any high school. He was not athletic so he did not belong with the jocks. He was not the best looking boy in school, which left him out of most social circles. Those few that drew closer to him found an agile mind and a great sense of humor. They also found that he was loyal to a fault. He forgave and forgot more than most people would or should.

Seven P.M. and his best friend arrived with the pizza. They spread the boxes of cheese heaven about the room and waited for the rest of the group to arrive. Conversation was easy between the two of them and they enjoyed a fierce debate concerning the merits of the Flyers and the Kings their two favorite teams.

Eight P.M. and his sister who was one year younger and much more popular came down to check out the "crowd". When she saw that no one had really arrived she rolled her eyes at her brother's rationalizations. She loved her brother but she never held back when she had something to say. She had attempted to explain to him that most of his "friends" were of the fair weather variety. She warned him that very few if any would show up. However, tonight upon seeing the shattered look in his eyes she wanted to find those "friends" and give them a piece of her mind.

Nine P.M. he sat on a bar stool wondering why no one had even called. Traveling the road of human nature without a map was proving to be difficult for him. He could rebuild his calculator. He could decipher trigonometry without breaking a sweat. The human mind though was an ocean of uncharted waters.

Ten P.M. the cheese and pepperoni had congealed into a greasy mass. The soda was flat and the sour cream dip was watery. No one had showed but his best friend. No calls, no apologies nothing. What hurt so much was not the no shows but the lack of explanations. It was as if to most of the world he was a non-entity unworthy of common courtesy.

kane and able

dark, infinite and empty
lights flicker
fireflies trapped in jars
starlight
guiding matter
through the cosmos
souls of light
inhabit this dimension
but what of dark souls
not evil
not empty
created
from dark matter
lights opposite
roaming the emptiness
between galaxies
living on dark planets
lit by dark suns
worshipping
their dark god
searching for meaning
in the absence
in the loss
of brightness
once remembered
mythology
legends of times past
united
until brother gods
kane and able
disagreed
and went their separate
ways

d.s. brueckner

Plato's Retreat

Wonder filled the eyes of every girl and boy
A cyclone came and destroyed all of the toys
The tears they cried filled a reservoir
Though no one knew what the tears were for
Someday the toys would all be found
Scattered upon the barren ground
But their search sealed their fate
Taking them through the twisted gate
Into Plato's retreat…

Fingers retreat down yellow walls
Echo's screams in darkened halls
A glimmer of light, a soul unbound
What was lost can never be found
A reflected image in broken glass
Dorian Grey in a Halloween mask
Lost hope ravaged their minds
Shattered families they left behind
Saved by Father Murphy and his bell
Before their souls were lost in hell
Beside the grave, beneath the tomb
No returning to their mothers womb
Life is now a hopeless cause
Street rats believe in a Santa Claus
Who drank all of the communion wine
He left his dented sled behind
They played their music good and loud
Floating above the thunder clouds
The rain fell for a day or two
While children floated in the empty pool
They saw the ship sink last night
Avenging angels on endless flights
Bowling balls broke thirty stairs
No one had a dime to spare
Beaten senseless by a winter storm
Lost in a fire no longer warm
Plato laughed as he locked the gate
Checking the schedule for tomorrow's date
Another patient will soon arrive
Caught between dead or alive
And Plato's retreat will ring once again
With the shrieks of the howling wind

d.s. brueckner

Islands

He lived his life as an island.

Coral reefs. Blue lagoons. White sand. Coconuts. Date palms.

The days were all warm and breezy.

The night skies were filled with ancient stars, who whispered stories in his ear while he slept.

Life was good. But life was also lonely.

So he built bridges. From his island to one nearby that seemed similar to his own. He enjoyed the visit and he traded some date palms for some pineapples.

He enjoyed the experience so much that he built other bridges to other islands similar to his own. Trades were made and stories were exchanged.

Life was good. Life was no longer lonely. Until the discovery.

He began to notice little things. When one of the other islands suffered minor damage in a storm he set out for that island and offered assistance. Sometimes his aide was needed other times he was embraced and thanked for the offer.

However when his island suffered minor damage in a storm very few of the other islands offered assistance. It was than he noticed that most of the bridges he had built were one-way bridges. They connected him to the other islands but very few of the other islands were actually connected to his.

He was not sure what to do with this most recent revelation. He sat beneath the full moon and he pondered. The sun rose again and still he sat pondering. Finally he came to the conclusion that he was not offering enough aide, or assistance. He resolved to work harder and to help more. No matter the sacrifice.

So as storms came and seasons passed he offered his help to one and all. Palm fronds here. Fruit there. Repair work here. No matter the crisis he was there to help.

However nothing changed. His help was appreciated. He received handshakes, slaps on the back and heartfelt thank you's. That was all though. When his island was in need very few offered assistance. Despite the bridges he had built he was still alone.

To be continued…

Summer of Goldilocks

Summer of '69: I was playing little league for the Arcadia Raiders. I was not very good and I was small for my age. So of course I played right field. Fortunately this was the era before overly competitive parents took over children's sports and ruined the fun for generations to come.

I digress.

The point of the story really has no relation to little league whatsoever. I bring it up only because the events of this piece happened when I rode my bike home from practice.

My mother was divorced and we lived on Mountain Avenue, which was a relatively quiet street in Duarte, California. So imagine the surprise in my ten-year-old mind when I rounded the corner and found our house surrounded by Sheriff Cars. One of the neighbors was waiting for me and took me into their house all the while explaining that my family was okay and that my mother would explain later.

It took several hours but my mother finally came over to pick me up. She was visibly shaken but appeared to be just fine.

What had happened was not horrible in nature but bizarre. Apparently a woman had escaped from mental hospital located somewhere in Southern California. After several days or weeks wondering the streets she found her way to our little neighborhood.

For whatever reason upon seeing our little white house she decided to move in. And move in she did. She fixed herself a meal. She stripped down and took a long bubble bath in my mother's bathroom. Naked she climbed into bed and fell asleep which was where my mother found her.

A regular Goldilocks she was.

The responding deputy was unable to reason with her. She cussed him out and swore up and down that it was her house and that he was trespassing. Negotiations actually took several hours but they were finally able to convince her to leave peacefully and we were able to return to our home.

However the consequences of that day were far reaching. In a neighborhood where my mother always felt safe enough to leave our house unlocked she began locking the doors. Within a year of the incident she sold our house and we moved to a new neighborhood.

On the Rocks

There was nothing left to say. No roads less traveled. He had left his ring in her favorite martini glass sitting on the bar. The one place they both knew she would find it.

She had always been a social drinker. Friday nights and sometimes Saturday brunch with the girls, a martini, a bloody mary, maybe a margarita or two. While he being the son of dysfunctional alcoholics rarely if ever found himself with a drink in his hand. He had done a spot of reading on the subject and found out that alcoholism was statistically higher in the second generation of an alcoholic family. While he accepted that not all statistics were factual he was not willing to risk his family or for that matter his liver and them being wrong.

In hindsight he found that there was not one particular event or moment that pushed her over the edge from social drinker to alcoholic. Loneliness, a miscarriage, her mothers' cancer fight any or all of the above could have been the straw that stirred the drink. In her eyes she was just fine. She could handle the booze and he was just jealous because she knew how to have a good time and he didn't.

They tried counseling but it was a spectacular failure. She was opened minded until her drinking became the topic on the table. When the subject was broached, the damn broke, and she ran out of the room with tears streaming down her face.

He did not hear from her until three that morning when she called from the local jail. Her car had wrapped itself around a telephone pole on the way home from the local pub. Fortunately no one was hurt. He bailed her out but she refused to discuss it with him. As far as she was concerned the one with the drinking problem was him, because he had a problem with her drinking.

The marriage disintegrated from there. He began sleeping on the couch, not so much to avoid her, but to avoid being woken up by her when she stumbled into bed. They rarely spoke. They were islands in the same current. Sharing sand but little else. He knew it was over. Nothing would change until she put down the bottle and he knew from experience that she was not ready for that.

He remembered the clear-eyed beauty he had married. How his love for her had seared his soul. Now his soul was filled with the damp embers of that forgotten feeling. He had no tears left to cry. No words left to say. So removed his ring and placed it in the glass. The symbolism of that action saying more than words ever could. He picked up his suitcase and walked out the door without looking back. Leaving her on the rocks.

Replacing bad water heater - $935.00

Replacing cold and hot water pipe underneath foundation - $2400.00

Marble bookend falling on foot - $1000.00

Week from hell - Priceless

Revenge of the Pickle

He stood in the corner of the weight room. The class was for high school seniors and somehow he, a junior, finagled his way in. Therefore he was below contempt and ignored. Well almost ignored because for some reason he had chosen to wear a dark green sweat suit, which caused most of the student to refer to him as the pickle behind his back.

In his hands he grasped a large brown leather medicine ball. But being an island in a sea of seniors there was no one willing to share the medicine ball experience. As his gaze traveled around the room he noticed me, off in a corner, warming up by painfully stretching various underused muscles.

He approached me and quietly asked if I would throw the medicine ball with him. I am sure my peers expected me to ignore the intruder but frankly I did not care what my so-called peers thought. I was a rather solitary soul myself and was not worried about my popularity meter. So we began tossing the ball about.

Right out of the gate he began telling me how great the Philadelphia Flyers were. Being a dyed in the wool baseball fan I had no idea who the Flyers were. But being Los Angeles born and bred I was not about to surrender bragging rights. So I informed him that I am sure that our hockey team was much better than the Flyers. Much to my chagrin I later found out that the Flyers were the most recent winners of the Stanley Cup and that the Kings were one of the worst teams in hockey.

This spirited debate led to us working out together on a regular basis. As the semester progressed he became more accepted by the other seniors who on occasion actually lowered themselves to greeting. However, neither our developing friendship nor the reluctant acceptance of his presence by the other seniors precluded us from playing a small senior prank on him.

On the Friday before Memorial day weekend I convinced him to run laps around the football field. While we went out the west door the rest of the class went out the east door. As soon as he hit the track someone turned on the sprinklers and soaked him to the skin. We all had a good laugh and he was a surprisingly good sport about the whole affair.

Until the following Tuesday that is, you see my Junior friend was the only student with perfect attendance in the class. Perfect attendance was defined by not only being present but participating in the days activities.

With this in mind we returned to the locker room that morning to change for class and one particular locker had a rather foul odor emitting from it. It was his. He had left his pickle green sweat suit in his locker over the long holiday weekend and mildew had begun the reproductive process.

In order to preserve his perfect record my friend insisted he would dress for class. Which is about when our teacher came into the room, searching for the source of the odor. He informed our stubborn Junior that his record would remain perfect and he did not have to dress for class. But no, that was not good enough for my new friend. He insisted that the record would only count if he dressed and participated in that day's class. Which he did, much to the dismay of the seniors who had to complete their fitness exam with him in the weight room.

Some say revenge is a dish best serve cold, in this case it was a dish served damp and mildewy.

Me and the Dodger's

Family lore says that my parents expected my birth to occur on or about September 11, 1959. Most parents of that era would have been at home waiting for those all important labor pains to begin. Signifying that their first-born son was on the way.

Not my parents. September 11th found them at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum taking in a double header. The were rooting for the Dodger's, Los Angeles's newest team, as they took on the Pittsburgh Pirates. The Dodger's won both games and if my sense of timing had been better I would have a great story to share concerning my birth at a Dodger game.

As it turns out my mother did not go into labor until October 1st, which coincided with the first game of the world series. Through out the afternoon my mothers room resembled Grand Central Station as nurses, doctors and nuns (it was a Catholic Hospital) visited with surprising regularity, not necessarily to check on my mom's progress but the progress of the Dodger's. The Boys in Blue lost that game to the White Sox 11-0.

Between games one and two of the series I finally decided it was time to make my grand entrance into the world. It was a very difficult delivery for my mother, at one point the doctor even came to the conclusion that he may have to chose between her or her unborn child (me). Obviously, making that choice never came to pass, as both my mother and I are still alive and well.

My mom was returned to her room with me in tow in plenty of time to catch game two of the series which the Dodger's won 4-3. Her room was once again filled with visitors, who could blame them with such a beautiful baby just waiting to be spoiled, but no they were just there to find out the latest score.

This pattern continued through out the series. My mother and I were kept in the hospital for several days to ensure that there were no complications. Coincidently, the world series lasted until we were released.

Every game day found various people from around the hospital visiting our room to share in the experience of Los Angeles's first world series. Which of course the Dodger's won four games to two. And thus began my love of baseball and the Dodger's.

Guardian Angel

About five years ago, I found myself driving home from work on a beautiful summer day. Nothing extraordinary had happened; it was just a typical day at Griffith Observatory. Before long I reached Los Feliz and found myself in traffic jam of epic proportions. Cars were backed up to the horizon.

If by chance you live in or have visited Los Angeles you know this is a common experience. Traffic jams are a fact of life.

As I sat in my car pondering how much of my life I had wasted inhaling car exhaust I began to feel rather sick. My head was hurting, I was having trouble breathing, and my chest began to feel tight. I thought for sure this was the big one and that I was about to give up the ghost in the middle of traffic.

At the time I did not own a cell phone so my first thought was to get out of traffic. I managed to make an illegal turn on to a side street. Part of me figured I should stop someone and have him or her call for help. The other part of me began a steady course of rationalization, its probably nothing, don't bother anyone you just have a bad case of heartburn.

Heartburn won so I tracked down the nearest grocery store to purchase some antacids. As I looked for the medicine aisle I began to feel worse. I was on the verge of asking someone to call the paramedics for me when I noticed a shopper in a nurses uniform.

Putting vanity and pride aside I approached her with the intention of asking for her assistance. I apologized for my intrusion and explained to her my symptoms and my fear that I was in the middle of a heart attack.

Rather than be put off her eyes filled with concern and she proceeded to lead me to the pharmacy area where they had one of those blood pressure machines. She checked my blood pressure and found it to be 210/145, which is very high for me. That really put the fear of God into me and I was all for heading straight for the nearest hospital. My nurse however suggested that I sit down and take some deep breaths and see if that would calm me and lower my blood pressure. I followed her instructions and slowly I began to feel better. After about ten minutes by blood pressure was almost normal.

I was perplexed as to what could have caused this but she explained that it was quite possible that being stuck in traffic had triggered some type of panic attack. I had never experienced a panic attack before but who was I to argue I was feeling better. I thanked her for her assistance and told her that I felt like I would be okay.

However as soon as she went back to her shopping all of my symptoms returned. I tracked her down and told her I did not want to be alone so she let me tag along while she finished her shopping. As long as she was within my sight I felt almost normal, if I lost sight of her up went the blood pressure.

Upon completing her shopping I went with her out into the parking lot. We sat and chatted awhile but I could not get over the fear that if she left all of my symptoms would return. My nurse did not feel comfortable leaving me but we could not stay in the parking lot all night. While discussing what I could do, I found out that she lived just down the freeway from me. Upon realizing this she offered to follow me home and to ensure that I arrived safely.

Before I returned to my car she reached into her trunk and handed my a teddy bear. She said that she kept extras there for patients who did not receive many visitors. Handing it to me she advised me to squeeze it if I felt panicky and it would help me get home okay.

With her following me I finally made it home safely. As for my nurse or as I call her my guardian angel that was the one and only time I saw her.

Postscript: as it turns out my nurse was correct I was having a panic attack. I have sense been diagnosed with panic disorder and am taking medication to control the attacks.

Mr. B and the Book Reports

Mr. B was my English teacher during my senior year in high school. To be honest though he really did not have to do much teaching. His class was basically a throw away class for those students who had completed their English requirements and were looking to kill 45 minutes.

The class was simply called "Book Reading". The requirements for the class were simple. Read at least one book a week and turn in a book report. Class time consisted of quiet reading and/or the writing of the reports.

Being an avid reader and somewhat competitive I asked Mr. B what the record was book reports in a school year. He informed me that the most reports he had ever received were thirty-one. No problem I told him, the record will soon belong to me. He wished me luck and I began hitting the books.

The previous record of thirty-one books fell before Christmas break. However I wanted to ensure that record was unattainable by future generations. So I kept reading and completing book reports and by the time May rolled around I had read over seventy-five books.

My biggest problem was scrounging new material to read. I had read most of the books in the school library and I was working so my visits to the public library were few and far between. Desperate times call for desperate measures so I began to delve into my mother's book collection. No big deal really, except for my mother's taste running towards Jacqueline Susann, Harold Robbins and Danielle Steele. Not the best writers in the world but they were essential contributors to my setting a record that as far as I know remains unbroken.

Whenever I approached his desk Mr. B would glance at the paper in my hand and roll his eyes when he saw the title of my latest book report. Every now and then I would mix in some classics so he would not think my mind was perpetually in the gutter. However, no matter what I read he did not comment nor make any mention of my choices. He would just smile and enter another mark in his ledger.

In fact the only mention he ever made was when he signed my senior annual. He wrote:

Darrell,

In spite of the fact that you've reported on more pornographic books than any other kid, I've enjoyed having you in my class.

Best Regards,

Mr. B

Reasons

Midnight. Somewhere out west where a small house clings to cliff face jutting out over the pacific ocean. All is quiet as he roams the hallways. He checks on the children. Sleeping in their cocoons, protected from the outside world by their parents love. A cover tucked in here; a brow brushed there, and then he leaves them to dream in peace.

He crosses to the master bedroom where she sleeps. Her face softened by the moonlight hardly resembles the mask she has come to wear. When did she become so bitter, he wonders. What chains were holding her heart in place preventing her from soaring amongst the clouds like she once did?

Once upon a time, or so the story goes, he possessed the key to the chest that shielded all of her thoughts. Now that chest was protected by a fire breathing dragon, whose fire scalded him whenever he drew to close.

Leaving the house he sat in his favorite chair letting the cool sea breeze calm the storm in his soul. He searched his memory for a remnant of the love he felt for her. But it was lost like a raindrop in a hurricane.

In the darkness he could hear the crashing surf erasing the debris left behind by today's swarm of tourists. He longed for the simplicity of sitting in the sand, salt water tickling his toes while he sipped an ice-cold beer.

Those days were gone though. The weight of his broken marriage was drowning his soul in self-pity. He had a choice. He could leave a note climb in his car and disappear into the northwest. No one would be the wiser.

However, he was anchored here by three very important reasons. His three children. They were the light of his life, his reason for living. The flame of love for his wife may have been reduced to embers but he would keep those embers alive for them and for yesterdays memories.