Sentimental Journey

Gonna take a Sentimental Journey,
Gonna set my heart at ease.
Gonna make a Sentimental Journey,
to renew old memories

Alfred, resplendent in his fifty-year-old Sears catalogue suit, whirled around the large, rather elegant room. He was twenty-one again, with his entire life ahead of him. Smoother than Fred Astaire, handsomer than Gene Kelly he still had the moves. With Doris Day serenading he felt as if he could dance the night away.

Got my bags, got my reservations,
Spent each dime I could afford.
Like a child in wild anticipation,
I Long to hear that, "All aboard!"

“Remember Liza, New Years Eve 1944 when we first heard Sentimental Journey. I was fresh off the boat from the European front, still in uniform, alone in the big city. And you were a volunteer with the New York City USO. Our eyes met, my heart skipped a beat and I knew the remainder of my life would be spent wooing the girl of my dreams. How we danced that night Liza, oblivious to the crowd, the noise, two souls dancing as one to the sounds of their own big band. Creating a world which had not existed before the moment our fingers touched first touched.”

Seven...that's the time we leave at seven.
I'll be waitin' up at heaven,
Countin' every mile of railroad track,
that takes me back

“Remember our wedding. Saint Domanic’s filled to overflowing with army buddies and apparently to be the entire eastern membership of the USO. You were so beautiful. White dress, hair freshly coifed and laced with jasmine. There was not a princess, nor a Hollywood starlet who could have held a candle to you. I was more afraid at that moment than I had been in any foxhole in Europe. One look from you though and my fear was vanquished. Then as now I have always stood tall with you by my side. Sipping champagne at the reception I remember the bandleader called us out onto the floor for our first dance as a married couple and the song, of course the song was Sentimental Journey.”

Never thought my heart could be so yearny.
Why did I decide to roam?
Gotta take that Sentimental Journey,
Sentimental Journey home.
Sentimental Journey

“Excuse me, Mr. Jenkins. I am sorry for interrupting Mr. Jenkins but I have to lock up. Please Mr. Jenkins it is time to go.”
Suddenly aware of his surroundings Alfred stopped dancing and looked around him. The room was empty except for the nervous attendant, a large amount of flowers and a copper colored casket where his sweet Liza lay.

There was no reminiscing. No Sentimental Journey. His Liza was dead and a long empty stretch of cold and lonely days stretched out before him.

Mumbling an apology and suddenly feeling all of his 85 years, Alfred gave Liza a kiss on the forehead and with tears streaming down his face headed for the snow filled night.

Gonna take a Sentimental Journey,
Gonna set my heart at ease.
Gonna make a Sentimental Journey,
to renew old memories

Five Degrees of Weirdness

Manda flung down the tag gauntlet leaving me with little choice but to expose my more reclusive side to the world. So without fanfare here are my five degrees of weirdness.

1st Degree: I am not a people person. I know that is surprising coming from someone who has social anxiety but it is true. Trust me. For most of my life I have found that more often than not time spent alone or lost in a good book is preferable to time spent with the majority of humanity. Present company excluded of course.

2nd Degree: I cannot read a newspaper that someone else has read first. Not sure when I picked up this habit or why but a paper must be in pristine condition when I get to it or the reading of said paper loses the enjoyment factor. Even weirder is that this only applies to newspapers. I am a regular at the local used book store and I have no problem reading old magazines while waiting at a doctors office.

3rd Degree: I write my best poetry or stories when I am sad, stressed, angry or depressed. Give me dark clouds, floods, earthquakes, tornados and my pen never stops. Fill my world with sunshine, rainbows, birds singing, children laughing and I might as well use my pen as a toothpick for all the writing I will be doing.

4th Degree: I have never had many male friends in my life. One or two scattered about the years. While platonic girl friends have been around since I was a little guy. Not sure why this is. Maybe the whole jock mentality a lot of guys have. Maybe the whole locker room humor thing. Maybe because my mother has always been one of my best friends besides being the worlds top mom. Of course this also has posed a great deal of problems for romance in my life. Most women I have known do not handle male/female friendship well, not well at all.

5th Degree: I have always felt a bit left out of the whole religion lifestyle. Friends and relations talk about mass or services as if they have had a personal meeting with God. I on the other hand have always fought to stay awake and gagged on all of the hypocrisy. One on one I experiance God on many levels. Within organized religion though he is a mystery to me. I crave that social inneraction with fellow believers yet the spiritual path I have traveled to date has been one of solitary meditation where fellow travelers have been few and far between.

In the Eye of the Rising Sun

Another unplanned, unexpected and completely unwanted absence from the throne.

It seems that the little demons that infected my nose and sinuses were not content with territory already conquered, they were greedy and wanted more.

Christmas morning I woke up with my eye resembling a tequila sunrise that had been left half finished resulting in a rather odd and bizarre mix of colors. Oranges and reds blended together to form colors that were never meant to be displayed in the human eye. No crunchy stuff thank god but itchy beyond belief at one point I actually considered if the resulting damage would be worth sticking an ice pick in my eye to relieve the itch. And the pressure. I felt as if my eyeball would explode out of my head shoot across the room and remove the angel from her perch on the Christmas tree.

Of course with my eye contemplating various forms of implosion reading and writing were both not only out of the question but far removed from my thoughts.

Which brings us to the present. While my left eye still looks as if I have been on a week long alcoholic binge the pain, pressure and itchiness have left hopefully for good. I am still not myself but close enough to the real thing to begin living again.

Wheezing Murmur's

After surving an up close and rather personal Kodak moment shared between me, my doctor and a room full of nurses I thought my week could only go up from there. Of course as in most instances of wishful thinking life had an all together different plan.

In no particular order:

The base of the garbage disposal came loose from the drain trap spewing water and half ground food through out the cabinet beneath the sink. Reattaching the disposal was easy. Cleaning the floor and the cabinet was a pain in the ass.

While cleaning the refridgerator the large glass piece that covers both vegetable drawers exploded in my hands. Shards of shattered glass covered the floor for three feet in every direction. Virtually every surface was swimming in the stuff except for one notable exception: me. Despite my presence at ground zero not a single piece of glass impacted my flesh. Not a scratch. Not a cut. Nothing. Should have played the lotto that day.

Than of course what Murmur rant would be complete without medical complications.

I seem to have developed a trifecta of illnesses. A sinus and ear infection plus another round of bronchitis. To complicate the issue even further my body does not seem to agree with Avelox which was the reccomended treatment. I have been having liver pain plus pain in my left shoulder joint and right knee. Could be exhaustion from all of the pre Christmas activities or could be a reaction to the meds. Waiting to hear from my doctor on that one.

Which in a nutshell is why the Throne has been vacant for close to a week.

in the grays skies of mourning

beneath the darkness
madness comes in many forms
seeping through fractures
dropping from rafters
growing within rotting floorboards
bacteria of the soul
fractal patterns of insanity
searching for molecular access
insidious desperation
propagation required
future generations
of faux lunacy
eggs of lucidity
buried within the seepage
of hearts shredded
rendered bits of flesh
providing sustenance
feeding melancholia
immune to the onslaught
of good living through chemistry
devouring useless chains
of ssri’s
discarding wisps
of vaporized sanity
leaving chem. trails
of madness
in the gray skies of mourning

Colonoscopy and the City

Today was a day of excitement.

Today was a day of thrills.

Today was memorable.

Why, because I was blessed by the god's and provided the opportunity to experience my first ever colonoscopy.

The excitement began yesterday at 12:00 PST. As all solid food was removed from my diet and 27 hours of clear liquids began. Of course it might have been a bit more pleasurable if the definition of clear liquids included vodka, gin or rum but from what I understand the doctors are a tad particular about alcohol intake before any surgery. Including this one. Which is rather odd because usually someone has to be drunk before they allow their nether regions to be explored by a stranger.

As if clear liquids were not exciting enough a Fleet Saline Chaser was added to the mix. Supposedly there is a medical purpose for this torture, something about cleaning the pipes before the test. However, with the vast collective knowledge of the human race you would think one person somewhere would have taken the time to make a pre surgical laxative that did not leave you gagging for hours afterward.

Needless to say most of Tuesday was spent visiting the porcelain throne not posting to Murmur's.

Which in a twisted sort of way was a good thing. By the time I arrived at the clinic where the procedure was scheduled to be performed I was half asleep. So time flew by.

Skipping over unnecessary and I am sure unwanted details the bottom line is that I passed with flying colors. One small polyp that was removed and will be biopsied for safeties sake. Other than that my colon was cleaner than whistler's mother.

searching for truth between third base and home

we stood in the front yard
having a catch
I was seven still learning
to throw
skinned knees missing teeth
barefoot and tan
summer bliss
having a catch
with my dad

soon

darkness found us
and you
were no longer here
gone for years
I stood alone
a world gone silent
an empty tomb
emotions buried
beneath a marker
that read
“why dad, why”

once

staring up at twenty
learned about life
from the words of others
pigeon tracks
upon the printed page
no dad primed
with real world answers
no father explaining
the differences
between fucking
and making love
left to divine the truth
amidst the lies
in letters sent
to penthouse magazine

Hysteria

Today the pending execution of Stanley "Tookie" Williams was apparently the only news worth covering in the eyes of the media.

This is not a rant on the pros or cons of the death penalty.

It is a rant on how the media tends to go off the deep end with a story.

Yes controversy surrounds the death penalty and its implimentation. If that was the focus of the media coverage I would have nothing to say.

Through out the day some stations especially one local radio station stepped over the line seemingly intent on contributing to the creation of a story rather than neutrally reporting the facts.

On several occaisons various reporters and on air hosts speculated that the execution of Mr. Williams may lead to unrest in the streets especially in the Los Angeles area.

The air was filled with "what if's" without a single fact to back the question up.

Was the Los Angeles police department on tactical alert: no.

Were the mayor or other elected officials coming on the radio, requesting that the populace remain calm: no.

Were community leaders calling on their neighborhoods to respect the peace in hopes of quelling expected riots: no.

Apparently the radio station in question felt it was their civic responsability to inform its listening audiance of pending unrest that existed only in the mind of the program or news director. Ignoring the facts that they themselves were airing in their news segments and running instead with wanton speculation.

Just one more example of reality being sacrificed to the rating gods.

Christmas Was.....

Christmas was once upon a December the one time of year when differences were put aside.

People took a moment to see the world through the eyes of compassion rather than through the glare of competition.

Communities and churches strived for inclusiveness rather than wave the flag of exclusion.

Meals of celebration were open to all rather than limited to those who shared genetic markers.

Some may laugh, claiming that world never existed, that Christmas is just another corporate holiday where cash is sacrificed at the altar of commerce.

A holiday adopted by the early church for simpler conversion of the pagans to the new faith.

A holiday adopted by Charles Dickens in order to cast a light on those less fortunate.

A holiday adopted by Coca Cola turning Santa Claus into just another corporate icon.

The cynical amongst us are correct in stating that the Christmas we romanticize never truly existed. In doing so they are missing the point.

It is not so much the celebration that is being romanticized but the ideals that were celebrated.

Let the cynical amongst us joust with the windmills of angst.

While the rest of us strive to manifest the ideals of yore.

Saved

Thanksgiving Eve, I was on disability from my then employer recovering from recent knee surgery. Nothing major or so I thought, a scope to clean out some old debris was all. In reality it was my third surgery on the same knee and rehab was taking longer than planned. My range of movement and flexibility mimicked the movements of a mime performing the old trapped in the box routine. My doctor had me in physical therapy four days a week, which included a daily bike ride.

I was living in North Hollywood at the time and the area was home to several excellent bike routes. I spent most of my time riding in and around Griffith Park. For those of you who are not familiar with the Los Angeles area, Griffith Park is a huge tract of land left to the city on the condition that the land be preserved as is for future generations. Which for the most part it has.

On this particular ride I changed my normal routine and rode to my favorite used bookstore: The Iliad. A great place to browse with several overstuffed couches and books to suit every readers taste.

A quick aside: The Iliad happens to be located adjacent to The Odyssey Video Store.

Upon finishing my browsing I hobbled out to my bike and began the ride home. Now in hindsight the following incident would most probably have been avoided if it wasn't rush hour and if I had chosen to ride with the traffic instead of against it.

I had ridden maybe two blocks stopping at each side street before crossing without incident. I approached the third block stopped and observed a car waiting to turn onto Lankersheim. Traffic was heavy and I made the mistake of assuming that the driver would be awhile. Without a second or even a third thought I left the curb.

Unfortunately the driver of the car decided that the very small gap she saw was just big enough for her car, she accelerated and apparently she never even saw me.

Her car hit me broad side. My bike and I slid under the car and my beautiful face seemed destined for a rather painful introduction to her right front tire. I closed my eyes and did my best to prepare for what I assumed to be imminent impact.

Suddenly, instead of sliding under the wheel my body was being jerked to a stop. I opened my eyes and her tire was coming to a stop well short of my head. For a moment or two I just kind of hung there in a daze. As I began to pull myself together I came to the realization that I had never hit the ground. My gold chain and crucifix had caught on the bumper and prevented my upper torso from becoming a pancake.

When it was all said and done I walked away without a single serious injury. A sprained shoulder, a burn on my neck from the chain along with various bumps and bruises.

The next day upon my arrival at mom's for Thanksgiving dinner I headed straight for the kitchen, gave her a hug and a kiss and thanked her for the gift that saved my life.

The Gift

My mother has gift buying down to a science. She asks me what I want and than buys it. Even though the gift is a known entity she insists on waiting for Christmas, wrapping it up and presenting it with all the pomp and circumstance the holiday requires.

Only once in twenty-five years has she broken with tradition, the gift I received that Christmas still means more to me than all of the others combined.

To understand the gifts value a little background is necessary.

My mother you see is not a religious woman. For the first twenty odd years of her life she was a card carrying Catholic. She was baptized, made her first communion, was confirmed and she even went so far as to be married in the church.

She was if anything comfortable in her faith, at least she was until she divorced my father and eventually remarried. Which led to her being informed by the pastor that she was no longer allowed to accept communion. Her attempts to explain that my father was an alcoholic and an unfit parent fell on deaf ears. The church "graciously" allowed her to attend mass but participation was not an option.

My mother chose to no longer attend mass.

With that in mind she baptized the three of us and sent us to Catholic school. She dropped us off at mass each Sunday and picked us up when the service was over. She however would only enter a church on special occasions: baptisms, first communions, confirmations, weddings and funerals.

As I grew older I began to question my own beliefs and my spiritual journey took me down a variety of paths. I continued to attend mass with my grandmother more out of respect for her than faith. I never disowned the church as my mother had likewise I never developed the blind faith of my grandmother. For me religion was something to be explored, to be questioned but to never be accepted at face value.

With all that in mind about fourteen years ago I began wearing a silver chain with an old crucifix on it. I no longer remember the reason. It may have been a gift from a girlfriend or just something I picked up. Over time the chain became tarnished and the crucifix began to look as it had survived the two millennia since Christ's birth.

The Christmas season arrived and I presented my mother with my usual list.

Christmas day: and with it the usual family festivities. I gave my mom and stepfather their gifts and when the whirlwind of wrapping paper died down my mom presented me with a very small box.

I was stumped, confused, bamboozled and speechless. My mother had broken with tradition. I knew that none of the gifts on my list would fit in such a small box consequently I had no idea what was in the box. I must have sat there for five minutes in a vain attempt to unravel the mystery of the present.

My wits eventually returned and I opened the gift. The wrapping paper had been covering a box that resembled the type that rings come in. I knew it wasn't a ring so confusion still reigned. When finally I managed to clumsily open the box I was stunned.

Resting inside was a fourteen caret gold crucifix and chain.
My mother the affirmed agnostic had purchased a crucifix for me. My mother is not one to show emotions but when she saw the joy on my face I swear I saw a tear or two in her eye. As I thanked her she vainly attempted to hide her feelings by explaining she had only bought it because she was tired of seeing the old one around my neck.

I removed my old crucifix and chain replacing them with the new one.

In the fourteen years since I have only removed the cross and chain for x-rays and surgeries.

And I can honestly say that this gold chain once saved my life but that is a tale for another day.

originally posted 4/2004

discord in the key of pain

a pearl handled hairbrush
curly brown hair clinging to its bristles
collects dust on the bathroom floor
an old black shoe with a broken strap
faded and missing the heel
lies forgotten at the foot of the stairs
envelopes and documents are strewn about
like leaves on a cold winter lawn
covering the desk three inches thick
bone white hangers
empty of human flesh
hang in the closet of her memory

she left without a note or reason why
no sordid explanation of love for another man
no empty, discarded bottles
reflections of loss in an alcoholic haze
no reason, no lies
nothing but an empty heart
shredded by her departure
while tears of blood
pool together
filling the emptiness
she left behind

Momdate 12.5

Good news on the mom vs. cancer front.

The faslodex appears to be working in the way its creators intended.

Faslodex is not designed to eradicate the cancer. Its job is to prevent the cancer from spreading by decreasing the amount of estrogen receptors in the patients system.

When she began treatment moms receptor count was over 1300 it has been reduced by the faslodex to 130 which according to the doctors is excellant.

Her primary battle at this time is maintaining a certain quality of life. Because of the cancers location she has quite a bit of pain in her hips, lower back and ribs. The extreme nature of the pain more than anything else has made life difficult for her. The amount of medication needed to eliminate the pain would leave her basically asleep for most of each day which is no way to live. Currently she balances her medication dealing with some pain in order to enjoy life as much as possible.

Her pain management doctor is going to be conducting some tests to determine if she qualifies for an implant that will block the pain to a certain degree, reducing her need for meds and improving her enjoyment of life. She will be undergoing tests this week and if she qualifies will find out the details hopefully before Christmas.

a question of meaning

red

yellow

orange

gold

dancing upon on the winds of change
one of many flying untethered
discovering horizons once closed to them
autumn’s leaves disperse in chaotic migration

far below
anchored to the earth
by chains of wood and pulp
an army of trees cries out in anguish
where will your journeys take you
why must we be left behind
one of many in a forest of sorrow
come back to us children
bring back stories of the world
tell us of the great beyond
the mysteries of our creation
share with us the meaning
of all that is and yet to be

silly trees
our path is one of contemplation
our return is impossible
meanings of creation can only be found
in our returning to the earth
from which we came

Nana's Last Drive

Before nana became tangled in the insidious web of Alzheimer's there were incidents that were either early signs of the disease or the normal changes that come with age. As with all seniors citizens there came a time when her driving skills began to erode and we as a family were left with deciding when the keys should be taken away.

We were luckier than some of the families who have been in the news over the last several years. We waited longer than was prudent to take away the keys; fortunately God or fate was smiling on nana and us because when the unavoidable happened no one was hurt.

On a bright Thursday morning she climbed into her car with the intention of driving to her Senior’s club. Her garage was attached to the house while the back wall of the garage faced the street. In order to leave her property she had to back out of the garage and loop around the house to reach the road.

Her journey began innocently enough she started the car and allowed the engine to warm up. Her car had a manual transmission and when she put it in gear she bypassed reverse putting the car into neutral. When she depressed the accelerator nothing happened. She must have slipped into panic mode as she than shifted into drive with the engine fully revved. She left skid marks on the floor of the garage a teenager would have been proud of and went right thru the wall.

Just beyond the rear wall of the garage were three trees. Somehow she missed the three of them as she continued to careen across the lawn.

Separating the lawn from the sidewalk was a red brick and wrought iron wall about two feet high. She passed through the wall easier than a hot knife through butter and into the street.

Her street was fairly busy most hours of the day fortunately no one was coming in either direction. As she crossed the street she managed to regain some control over the car turning the steering wheel hard to the right. She made a u-turn jumped a curb, flipped the car onto the passenger side door coming to rest in the middle of her own driveway.

When the police arrived she was sitting on the passenger door calmly asking for someone to help her out of the car. She walked away without a scratch. The only casualty: her driver's license.

Nana Part I Revisited

November 26th was the 9th anniversary of my grandmother’s passing. For reasons lost in the hallways of time my siblings and I always called her nana.

In 1993, three years before here death we had heard of Alzheimer’s but did not understand the seriousness of the illness. Nor did we understand how debilitating the disease became before deaths sweet release.

Until one has experienced the devastation wrought by this illness first hand it is impossible to understand the stress and strain it puts on the family, the caretakers and anyone who comes into close personal contact with the sufferer.

When nana was first diagnosed I had the response that I am sure quite a few people have. It could be worse; she could have had cancer or something else equally horrible. I thought what is Alzheimer’s but the gradual loss of memory.

Wrong.

As the disease progresses not only does the patient’s memory go but eventually the mind can no longer remember motor functions. Limbs become useless appendages drawn into claw like rigidity. The patients are no longer able to speak, feed themselves or perform the most basic of bodily functions.

As the end draws near they are little more than a spirit trapped in the husk of what once was a vibrant human body. Even more horrifying is that even at this stage of the illness brief lucidity appeared to return to nana’s eyes. On some primal level she was still self aware and understood what her existence had been reduced to.

Following is a piece from February of last year in which I tried to see the onset of the illness through her eyes.


In November her memory had begun to fade. Television left on when she went to bed. A burner still lit even after she had finished her meal. Keys left in the door upon her return from the store or mass. It’s nothing she thought, just old age catching up with me.

She would sit in the front window, late afternoon sunlight streaming over her shoulder warming her bones. On her lap sat a bible, King James version, which she would attempt to read when the day's work was done. Often she would find herself looking around, frowning, and struggling to recall what it was she had just read. Returning to the page no longer seemed to help, as she was fast becoming unable to recognize the simplest of words. So she returned the bible to the shelf promising to try again tomorrow.

She continued to attend Wednesday meetings at her senior club but the conversations became increasingly frustrating. A friend would ask her about yesterday's events and her mind would draw a blank. She remembered her childhood, she even remembered driving from Missouri to California in 1926, just her and her best friend exploring the back roads of America.

For the life of her though her memory of current events was nonexistent, which filled her eyes with tears of frustration. So she withdrew from the club and began spending her Wednesday afternoons at home, sitting in front of the television watching reruns of The Golden Girls.

What scared her the most was not recognizing the friends and family that she was closest to. One Sunday she went to mass with her oldest grandson. He took her to breakfast and to the grocery store and helped her put away her purchases.

She was sitting with him on the back porch drinking coffee when suddenly she had no idea who he was. Why is this person on my porch? Who is he? Should I scream? Should I call the police? Before she could act irrationally her memory returned to focus and she remembered who he was. It did not happen everyday but when it did it took all of her self-restraint to sit with the person and pretend that everything was perfect.

Her life was becoming a daily battle, fighting as hard as she could to hold on to her memories. It was a battle she found herself losing more often than naught.

She mailed her payment to the gas co. but forgot to put the check in the envelope. One morning she found her glasses on the butter dish in the refrigerator and had no recollection of putting them there.

The money counters from her church called asking about her most recent donation. The envelope she had deposited was filled with tissue paper, in looking around her house she found the twenty-dollar bill she had meant to place in the basket wadded up and thrown in the wastebasket.

Each and every night of that November before she fell asleep she said her prayers and asked God to spare her the loss of her memories. Please Lord, anything but that. But being a Christian woman who always placed her faith completely in her creator she would end her prayers with a solemn "thy will be done."

JFK

Forty two years ago today a nation lost its innocense. When John Fitzgerald Kennedy was gunned down in Dallas America was brought kicking and screaming into the reality of the modern world.

I was only four years old at the time. Despite the dearth of childhood memories the long weekend that followed stands out in my mind.

My mother not unlike most women her age was a greatly admired President Kennedy and his wife Jacqueline.

When he was assassinated her world was rocked to its core. For four days she shut down and was glued to the television. I remember because for four days I was not allowed out of the house. We even ate our meals in the living room which was never allowed in our house.

She cried along with the nation when John saluted his fathers casket.

She cried when along with the nation when taps was played at Arlington.

She was shocked along with the rest of the nation when Lee Harvey Oswald was gunned down by Jack Ruby at the police station.

John Kennedy was president in an era when our heros were allowed to remain larger than life. Adults understood that everyone had faults but no one expected those faults to play out in the living rooms of the nation.

Today John Kennedy would probably lose in an election for president. Rather than except him as Arthur in Americas Camelot the press and the bottom feeders would find great joy in tearing him down.

Thanksgiving Memories

I love Thanksgiving. The food. The family gatherings. The laughter and the shared memories.

Memories. For some reason I can only remember two Thanksgivings between ages four and twenty-one. I find that odd since I have such a great love for the holiday.

Thanksgiving 1969 stands out for reasons outside of the day itself. My step-father's sixteen year old daugher had died the previous week in an auto accident. His two sons were both in the military and were allowed home on grievance leave. Scott the older brother was home from Vietnam while Mike was stationed stateside.

The celebration itself was lowkey. Immediate family only. There is one picture from this Thanksgiving of everyone except my mom gathered around the table. Golden turkey in the foreground. Mom was obviously the photographer.

Thanksgiving 1973 stands out for the sole reason that it was the year of my mom's rebellion. Working full time left little room for preparation during the week. Thanksgiving eve usually found her still up at two or three in the morning prepping food for the big day.

Her goal each year was to have the turkey on the table by three in the afternoon. This year was no exception and after hours of work a beautiful bird was gracing the table with all the trimmings. The children and wives were at the table forks in hand ready to eat. The men however, were nowhere to be found.

Mom found them still in the living room, eyes glazed over, glued to the idiot box. Hypnotized by the days football games. Communication was impossible. Though my mom attempted to pry them from the television longer than most women would have.

Finally in a fit of frustration she moved behind the television ripping the power cord from the wall. Startled back to reality the men were unable to mount a protest before she stomped from the room locking herself in her bedroom.

Fifteen minutes of groveling by my step-father ensued before she would come out of the room and join us for dinner. The cord of course remained hidden until all of the guests had left.

Needless to say it was the last Thanksgiving she had to announce dinner more than once before the men came running.

The Can Collector

I saw the can collector today
lying in the street
sleeping, not
men in uniform stood
and knelt
around him
it was than I noticed his bike
twisted like a child’s toy
beneath the stained tires
of an SUV
hefty bags torn
aluminum cans strewn
about the road
recyclable tombstones
candle less memorials
honoring the passing
of a simple man

dream

in the darkness he listens for her
on the edge of dream filled sleep
her perfume fills his room
jasmine on a summer breeze
he feels her spirit come to him
though he has never seen her face
he knows just how she will respond
though he has never kissed her lips
he takes her in his arms
loving her through the night
in the morning he awakes alone
turning over with a sigh
someday, maybe more than a dream
but today the dream will do

Nicknames

My parents and most of their friends had nicknames that had stuck over the years. For some reason this crossed my mind today. Not sure why. Maybe because most people that I know do not use nicknames and I was wondering about that, if it was a generational thing, or if there was some other reason.

I cannot remember most of them but a select few still stand out.

My step dads best friend was always Hawk, I did not even know his real name was Jim until I was a teenager. If I had to guess I would say it came about because of his profile, which was very hawk like.

Another friend of my step dads was called Moose by everyone, they bartended together and he always introduced himself as Moose. His real name was Don but I think his nickname came about because of his size.

My step dad was Jaybird to everyone. Not much mystery there as his name was Jay.

My mother was known as Bomber by one and all. I never gave it much thought but after my step dad passed away I finally asked her why everyone called her bomber. Turns out that her nickname had an actual story behind it.

My parents and a group of their friends were driving back from Del Mar (a racetrack just north of San Diego) when they stopped for dinner. It was a typical surf and turf joint along the coast.

After a day at the track everyone was relaxed and having a good time. My mom had stepped away from the table for a moment when a woman came and sat down practically on my step dads lap.

He was always good at the deadpan reaction and according to legend he just looked at her and said can I help you with no expression of surprise what so ever.

The woman looked him in the eye and said, “Why don’t you drop that Blonde Bomber you are with and come away with me.”

Of course he turned her down. She left before my mom returned to the table, when she did my step dad just looked at her and said, “What are you drinking Bomber?”

Everyone at the table broke up over that and from that day forward she was bomber.

Clouds of Despair Cover the Sun

Clouds of despair cover the sun
Darkness brought to the winters soul
Where will the wicked run

Prophets cry, end times have begun
Worry not for whom the bells toll
Clouds of despair cover the sun

Bitter webs of sorrow will be undone
Cast the sinners deep, into that sulfuric hole
Where will the wicked run

Risen spirits what have you done
Failing to attain your heavenly goal
Clouds of despair cover the sun

For man, God sacrificed his only son
Holy blood burned on altars of wool
Where will the wicked run

Child of heaven the chance is gone
Your future has come black as coal
Clouds of despair cover the sun
Where will the wicked run

tarnished

his heart is filled with sorrow
his mind is so confused
he cannot understand the problem
he feels he is being used
who is behind it
he doesn’t know
it could be almost anyone
here he stands
a broken man
hiding from
the midday sun
he cannot stand the loneliness
he cannot hide the pain
his eyes are red and swollen
from tears that fell like rain
he wants to scream at someone
his shouts fall on deafened ears
he wants to save tomorrow
he has lost so many years
once he held the brass ring
only it was tarnished rusty and old
he tried to make the caged bird sing
but its song had already been sold
for a nickel to a beggar
with broken teeth and mind
who tried to use that bird’s voice
but fate was none to kind
thru it all his heart had faded
like sycamore leaves in the fall
he listened closely to the wind
his name is never called
once again he is left alone
crying for the world to see…..

The Merry-Go-Round

i sit and i watch
stars at night
thinking about
what's wrong
thinking about
what's right
a war torn country
a terrible sight
children running
from the dark to the light
my heart is heavy
with insignificant pain
what i feel
just isn't the same
my problems few
compared to theirs
some day’s it just seems
like no one cares
as i sit in a park
on a merry go round
a place for children
to spin round and round
i want to cry
i can't find the tears
i want to run
from pain always near
for some love is the answer
a light at darkest noon
for me love is a fear
of leaveing to soon
some can't understand
that, emotions are real
not something tarnished
made from recycled steel
i want to run
into the arms of a friend
i want to hide
‘til time begins to bend
i want to capture some moonlight
dancing on waves
i want to walk thru sand
a moment to save
i want to live without questions

with no soiled explanations
talk to whom i please
with no emotional citations
i want to live in solitude
lost in a fantasy
i want to sleep in the rain
escape reality
i want to be a boy again
no pressure to bear
playing with soldiers
dirt in my hair
riding a merry go round
singing a song
watching the moonlight
and crying…

alone

original post 1/15/04

Words

Words. Innocent in appearance, little more than random sound waves human imagination has attached meaning to. Sounds in reality are guttural in nature nothing more than grunts and groans of hairless primates striding the planet with a sense of superiority.

Each of us can return to our past identifying points along the path of time where words greatly affected our lives.

A song playing on the radio when a first kiss is shared lyrics speak to the moment seem expressing feelings when the heart has been struck dumb by passion.

A word, sentence or a passage from a book captures a reader within a tornado of emotion, lifting them up and depositing them in Wonderland beside the Cheshire Cat who with a self-satisfied grin welcomes us to his world.

Buried beneath the babble of a toddler words begin to form unnoticed until without warning a “dada” or “mama” without warning springs to the surface capturing for the parents a moment of pure bliss.

Vows exchanged when two are joined as one. Love flows on the river of words shared before the world, emotional wings lifting the spirit of all in attendance.

Words within a eulogy shared with friends and family members can through their power create an image of the dearly departed which brings them back to life for at least a brief moment leaving the congregation in tears, friend and stranger alike.

Used as a weapon though words can create lasting scars, cut deeper than a saber leaving behind a pestilence that eats away at a persons soul for days, weeks, months, years, even decades.

Few of us understand the power of words. We have been brainwashed by the childhood nursery rhyme. Repeating it as our personal mantra every time we are hurt by the insensitive words of others.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.”

A truer rendition would read:

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words leave deeper scars.”

We all carry scars with us, inflicted by friend and stranger alike. From intentional damage to casual use words damage the psyche regardless of intention.

“You are so stupid. When I was twelve I was so much smarter than you.”

“You sure have put on weight since I last saw you.”

“That hairstyle just does not fit your face.”

“Passed up for another promotion, I guess you are just another drone with no hope for a future.”

“(Insert name here) had a better life before you came along. You just do not belong. Go back where you came from.”

“What makes you think (insert name here) really loves you. I have known them for years and they never could love someone like you.”

“I expected more from my son/daughter-in-law. You do not belong in this family.”

The list goes on forever. The self righteous amongst us laughs off the pain of others. Their contention being words are words and should be ignored. Words they say only have power invested in them by the listener. Ignore the words and presto chango no pain.

If only life were so easy.

Hurtful words from a stranger on the street may be laughed off without much difficulty. Problems arise with friends and family. When we give a piece of ourselves in friendship, in family or in love we invest a certain amount of trust. We remove a few shields and hope for the best.

Soon enough sore spots are learned and those who want to take advantage will dig in ripping away at damaged flesh. In-laws, siblings, co-workers any one of them could take advantage of a weakness or confidence and with only words reduce a person to tears.

Greater risk comes when we expose ourselves to others associated with a new friend, family member or co-worker. People who may not approve of choices made and lash out at a threat recognizable to them alone.

Logically words from these strangers should be easy to ignore but in reality they to are not. Human nature cries out for acceptance and regardless of the situation be it dating, working or marriage we want to be accepted into the circle of our new group. Without thought we lower our shields further and further from our home base. Including more and more unknown factors until the words of a casual acquaintance of a casual acquaintance have the power to damage and destroy.

In the end words are not what lifts us up nor are they what tears us down. That honor belongs to our fellow homo sapiens who as they have shown through out history can take any discovery benefiting mankind and twist it into unrecognizable weaponry that can destroy and maim without conscious thought.

soul song

a gentle whisper caresses the night

an erotic perfume hopscotches the breeze

a taste of strawberry on warm fingertips

fear released once bound in darkness

a mumble, half heard sigh

only a dream, a fantasy

a star wish come true

in solitude

sailing upon the quiet

reality is a filament

casting moon glow upon the stage

fractal events cleanse scars

from a heart evolving

wandering a landscape

marked by ruins of trust

bitter sands of hope

an oasis where pity

wallows in pools of dust

forty days

forty nights

for spirit death

making way for a phoenix

rising from cold ashes of truth

on updrafts of hope.....

morning sun fills the room

with cold harsh winters light

pillow smushed beneath graying hair

a taste of the dream still lingers

tantalizing senses long dormant

despite the solitude

despair he once felt has scattered

before the breeze

for somewhere beyond the horizon

he has heard his soul song

an adventure a waits

if he has but the courage

Morons Amongst Us

In the name of convenience (so called) we have ensured that the least qualified, least intelligent and least capable of an original thought have become the quicksand in which our daily lives have become mired.

While the average Joe or Jane can site several real life examples of institutionalized behavior from their daily routine, we feel as if we are helpless before this onslaught. Unfortunately, we may be correct.

With the Paxil crisis now extending beyond fourteen days I had to take my anxiety by the horn and make the drive to my psychiatrist so at least two of the involved parties were capable of instant communication in the vane hopes that this might make some small iota of a difference.

It did not of course.

Before the words were even out of my mouth the office staff has a months supply of the Paroxetine prepared, bagged and in my trembling hands. Upon further exchange of information the staff has spoken with my pharmacist on the 4^th of November supplying her with a prescription request for the Paroxetine since the Paxil CR was still not available.

In medical terms the biggest difference between Paxil CR and Paroxetine is the controlled release and name brand of Paxil. The formula is almost identical. So my psychiatrist and his staff were shocked to say the least when they found out that the insurance company needed pre approval to dispense there by clogging pipes backing up my prescription.

Basically we had a long line of communication that could fail at any moment. I was in the office talking to the staff, who in turn were on the phone with the pharmacist, who was relaying her conversation with the blue binder-quoting drone on the other end.

It only gets better.

The question returned to rather or not Paxil CR 37.5 was near to being available. The pharmacist said no that it was still back ordered. She did have Paxil CR 25 though. Easy as pie or so we thought. Instead of two 37.5 pills a day he would just prescribe three 25 pills. For any logically minded person it makes complete sense. Regardless of the amount of pills it comes out to the 75mg per day I am approved for.

Foolish mortals that we are we made all of the wrong assumptions. It made sense to me, the office staff and the pharmacist but the insurance company was obviously using a different playbook.

According to the binder toting drone the answer was a big fat no. I was beginning to believe that David Spade was at the insurance company in his Capital One mode. His mantra like response was basically the patient is approved for two 37.5mg pills per day. If we give him 25mg pills he will only be approved for one per day. That was it. No matter the question he refused to be budged from this point.

In a rare show of courage by someone standing before a slow moving glacier the pharmacist kept attempting to discern some form of movement. She explained the math, the logic, the illogic, the quantum logic, and the paradoxic, in a sign sure sign of battle fatigue she even attempted to explain the US tax code. The drone and his blue book were impervious to all attacks in defeat the pharmacist surrendered and at least for today settling for a tainted victory was all we could hope for.

I have medicine now that while not being the best of all possible solutions it will at the very least return me to the land of the luke warm. And I know that the logjam was not the fault of my doctor, his staff or the pharmacy. The mantle of blame falls squarely on the newly devolved near sighted bureaucrat.

Gray

she said change your shirt blue is better than brown
so he wore blue
she said no tennis shoes your not eighteen anymore
so he wore loafers
she said I don’t like your friends
so he made new friends
she said clean the house I have stuff to do
so the house he cleaned
she said take care of my mother
so he nursed her
she said my sister is moving in
so he made room
she said support my decisions
so he kept the peace
she said your hair is too gray
so he dyed it
she said you never do what I ask
so he said goodby

Paxil, Paxil and Paxil

Typing posts with blurred vision and dizziness that should only be experienced by someone who has spent seven straight days on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras is not something that should be attempted by the faint of heart. Beside it is inherently unfair. At least a week of Mardi Gras can be considered a price worth paying for feeling this way. In my case though what the hell did I do and how come I don’t have any pleasant memories relive and be able to say with just a touch of sarcasm it was worth it.

My personal diagnosis is that either that the ear infection I have been dealing with is a particularly viral strain or Paxil CR provides more withdrawal symptoms for the buck than any other so called legal drug.

My hands are trembling. My stomach just spent about seventeen hours and thirteen minutes riding the roller coaster that holds the worlds record for consecutive loops. My left ear feels like the gremlin from the classic Bugs Bunny cartoons using his little hammer on my eardrum. And if science did not say it was virtually impossible I would swear that my brain was actually a large top spinning on a brain stem.

Ear infections will pass. It is the Paxil CR that is causing me the most frustration. Out of all the anti-anxiety meds I have tried Paxil is the only one who leaves me feeling somewhat human, a two thousand pound human but human nonetheless.

Early this year Paxil CR was briefly recalled because the CR part was not working properly. For some odd reason people who buy their drugs with expectations of a controlled release are disappointed when the release happens instantaneously rather than over time. Sometimes are expectations are just to high we want are meds and we also want them to work.

Apparently when our friendly neighborhood good-hearted pharmaceutical company returned the medication to the marked they did not consider that there might be a backlog of patient in need of their Paxil in CR form. So now those of us in need are well in need.

I have now been two weeks without. Anxiety is increasing at levels previously unknown to man. Xanex while a good escape vehicle is not a long-term solution. As the addictive properties of the big X make Paxil look like a bag of skittles.

I have checked all local pharmacies and at the suggestion of a good friend begun a search of Canadian pharmacies.

My last hope is going to be hijacking the Good Year blimp and flying across the country with the electronic sign reading “Free Rides for Paxil CR”, no questions asked.

Bad idea actually I hate heights.

What If?

The road to enlightenment despite the ranting and raving of false prophets is not one to be traveled with blinders on. No one said the way was easy nor promised wisdom without a price.

So many have promised; follow this path, stay on the straight and narrow, fervently pray for divine intervention therefore freeing man from the responsibility of attaining humility as he runs rough shod over this opulent gem we call earth.

In their so called inspired teachings we are led to believe that as long as we keep our eye on the prize we are sure to attain prime seating for the grand finale: Armageddon.

Then what? And at what price?

A difficult question to be sure. Following this path requires the asking. Have we as mankind been given this gift of life, only to struggle for eight or nine decades to attain the cosmic equivalent of a waiting room?

When you boil it all down that is the bill of goods we are being sold. Live a good life. Follow the path. Say your prayers for humanity. Humble yourself before God. And than my child your just reward will be #13,113,113,113,666 in the deli of eternity.

Sure streets are paved with gold. Angels sing on high. Prophets worship at the throne of the almighty and the common man still has to wait forever behind the holier than though just to find out where the restroom of eternity is.

Why do we continue as a species to sell ourselves short?

Why do we look out our window and say to ourselves the best that God wants for us is to come sit around heaven with him?

Why is religion beginning to sound suspiciously like somebody’s idea of the ultimate reality show? Whoever does jumps through these hoops with the most fervor will win an all expense paid trip to the after life. Whoopee. If eternity is nothing more than a bastardized reflection of our loudest teachers they can have it, I would rather rot in the ground.

What if heaven is not a place? What if heaven is the journey itself? What if death rather than a destination is nothing more than a change in scenery? No different than when Dorothy landing in Oz leaves the world of black and white behind and can suddenly see the colors that were there all along is she had only known where to look.

What if?

Ask your self that question. It is simple really only two syllables. Say it aloud – What if?

What if?
Life is not one road but billions of roads. As many roads as there are stars in the sky at night. What if each road was placed there specifically for are choosing paths for us to follow. The paths may be straight and narrow or broad and wide. There may be one-way streets and streets that are circles perpetuity. Highways that appear to go on forever but suddenly end around an innocent corner with no explanation but a sign that reads Oops.

Despite the tunnel vision we are being sold it is not the destination that matters it is the partaking of the journey that counts. Which means white robed holier than thou types who sit in judgment of others need not apply. This is path for those who do not live in fear of their halos shine being be smudged by a little dust of the road. Life is not for the timid. Those who claim to have all the answers need not apply because in their minds they have nothing to learn.

Remember the lessons learned in climbing a mountain rather that mountain be local or Everest are learned on the journey. Nothing is learned at the top of the mountain and a climber does not pull a house out of his or her ass and live on the peak for all eternity. They embrace the moment, take the lessons to heart and move on to the next mountain or the next adventure.

We have all seen movies about family vacations where everyone was so wrapped up in the destination that they forgot about the journey itself. They laugh at the Worlds Largest Ball of String. Passing it by with nary a though. What if they were missing a lesson? What if something could be learned from the Ball of String or the man who made it?

Maybe taking a detour to see the Worlds Largest Ball of String is not as crazy as it sounds. Ask yourself what drove the person to complete this particular task?

Was it ego did they just want to see their name in the record books?

Was it therapy maybe they could not or did not want to take medication for anxiety or depression so they wound string?

Was it meditation their own personal mantra that they repeated every night struggling to find the path that so many have trod before?

Was it loneliness woven in the hopes that others on the journey might stop by and say hello?

The answer will never be known if the time is not taken to get out of the car and ask the question.

Inspiration and wisdom can be found everywhere along the path of life. Lessons are there for the taking nirvana is for everyman. Not just robed leaders of various churches but all of us.

On this journey only three items are required and they are not sex, drugs and rock and roll. Although all of the above may provide distraction they are optional not required.

What is required is nothing more than an open heart, an open mind and an open soul. Nothing more nothing less, if one leaves themselves open to wisdom much will be learned if one is blind knowledge will pass them by.

O’ and more optional item that is not required but makes the journey a hell of a lot more fun someone to share it with.

We are taught by magazines, television and the movies that we should share our journey with the perfect specimen of manhood or femininity, which of course do not exist in reality, in the real world they are nothing more than cardboard cutouts for the easily distracted.

Remember a beautiful is soul is more important, a beautiful mind is more attractive, a beautiful heart is more desirable and finding all of the above in one place far more erotic than anything imaginations can create for us.

a slurpee and a dog to go

so many paths to wander
a road for every soul
a journey once unique
became a soulless travelogue
neon on every corner
pointing to the house of god
many different franchises
different menus, different words
the highway though is fractured
by minds in overload
no longer questing for eternity
just a slurpee and a dog to go

Summer of Goldilocks

Summer of '69: My world revolved around playing right field for the Arcadia Raiders. I was not very good and I was small for my age. Fortune smiled on me, no one demanded that the coach sit me down, as this was the era before overly competitive parents took over children's sports ruining them for generations to come.

I digress.

This story has no connection to little league or my skills whatsoever. Its relevance lies only in that the following events occurred as I rode my bike home from practice.

My mother was divorced and our home was located on Mountain Avenue, which was a relatively quiet street. Imagine the surprise than in my ten-year-old mind when upon rounding the corner I found our house surrounded by Sheriff cars. One of our neighbors intercepted me explaining that my family was okay and that my mother would answer all of my questions. Meanwhile she sat me down with a plate of cookies and milk to pass the time.

A few hours had passed before my mother was able to come get me. She was visibly shaken but appeared to be injury free.

What had happened was not in anyway horrible, it was rather a bizarre set of circumstances.

A woman escaped from a mental hospital located somewhere in Southern California. After of wondering aimlessly through the she found her way to our rather humble neighborhood.

Seeing our little white house must have caused the wrong set of neurons to discharge or the wrong chemicals to be released because she in her insanity moved in. She prepared herself a meal. Well fed she stripped down and took a long bubble bath in my mother's tub. Than naked she climbed between the sheets on my mothers bed falling asleep, which was where my mother stumbled across her when she returned from work.

A regular Goldilocks she was.

The responding deputies were unable to reason with her. She cursed them from hell to high water out and swore to the gods that it was her house and that my mother was the trespasser. Negotiations actually took several hours before they were able to convince Goldilocks to leave peacefully with them and we were able to finally return to our home.

The consequences of the day’s events were small, large and far-reaching. My mom spent most of that night scrubbing down the house and bleaching the bed linen.

In a neighborhood where everyone felt safe enough to leave their houses unlocked suddenly new locks were installed and being used.

Finally, within a year of the incident we sold our house and moved to a new neighborhood.

Originally posted March 2004

Halloween Haunt

Way back when in my wild and wooly days I made a point of getting a group of friends together each Halloween for a visit to Halloween Haunt at Knott’s Berry Farm. Each October as do so many other places now the park would be overwhelmed nightly by demons of darkness dressed in various degrees of gore.

A visit to the haunt required two ingredients for a great evening, a large group of friends and several adult beverages at dinner before crossing over to the other side.

The adult beverages are self-explanatory. A bit of alcohol reduces inhibitions and allowed everyone in the group to more easily buy into the whole haunt idea.

The large group increased the scare factor because you mixed in the added tension created by members of your own group attempting their own scares while at the same time being surprised by the blood covered ghouls inhabiting the park.

Two incidents stand out from my many visits.

In 1984 there was supposed to be a foursome attending, my best friend (bf) and his girl friend, myself and my significant other at the time. A wise man once said that nothing ever goes as planned. I ended up dateless because of the usual game playing that goes on when a relationship has died but does not know enough to give up the ghost. So I invited a friend from work (wf). Which made it the three guys and my best friends date that I had never met.

We went to dinner and than plunged imagination first into the park. Which is when the other shoe dropped. My bf with the date saw that Elvira was appearing and wanted to wait in line to see her.

If you have ever attended one of these events the sole goal is to hit every maze and scare everyone silly. Lines for show tend to be hours long and when you are paying big bucks for the evening you want to get all the bang for your bucks that you can.

My wf and I opted out immediately there was no way we were waiting in line for two hours to see anyone that night. Much to my surprise my bf’s date also opted. She said she had never been to the haunt and that she came to be scared not sit in line all night. Stubborn as always the bf told her fine he would see the show alone and meet up with afterwards.

The three of us hit a few of the lesser mazes building up to the good stuff. At the appointed time we went to our arranged meeting place and the bf never showed. We waited 45 minutes and finally gave up.

At his dates insistence we headed back to the mazes all the while keeping our eyes out for him and periodically returning to the assigned meeting place.

The best part of the evening came within the maze rated most scary. The three of us were walking along getting the shit scared out of us around every corner. The bf’s date kept digging her nails into my arm every time she got scared.

At one point when she let go. I felt a tap on my shoulder and a very realistic looking wolf man signaled that he wanted to take my place. I stepped aside and he moved in. She never noticed. The next time she was scared she grabbed wolfs arm without batting an eye. I was following along behind them laughing my ass off.

This lasted for about two thirds of the maze until she turned to say something to me. Her eyes were bigger than Sunday morning pancakes. She screamed and ran full speed through the rest of the maze without even pausing long enough to be scared. My wf and I must have laughed for an hour after that.

We never caught up with the bf until we got to the car and boy was he pissed.

A few years later I attended with a much larger group. There must have been fourteen or fifteen people and we were all a bit on the happy side. Not enough food at dinner but plenty of beer.

Halfway through the evening I began rambling on about how unfair the haunt was to its workers. Sure they got to spend hours on end scaring beautiful women and chasing them all over the park but that is only half the fun on Halloween. People also have a primal need to embrace fear and they were missing out. Who scares the scarer’s was my question and no one had the answer. For the rest of the evening I kept my eyes open waiting for the opportunity to do some scaring of my own.

My big chance arrived on a ride that had been turned into a moving maze. Or should I say we were moving while the monsters stayed in one place. The ride was called Kingdom of the Dinosaurs and it began in the laboratory of H.G. Wells where he had actually invented a time machine. Before the unsuspecting riders knew what had happened they were millions of the years in the past in the time of the dinosaurs.

The setup was perfect for my plan lots of corners and blind turns where I knew someone would be hiding waiting to scare us. Plus, I had my ace in the hole one of those light up roses that I had purchased for my date. I borrowed it from her and bided my time.

As we neared the middle of the ride I noticed that two cars in front of us the passengers had been scared by someone hiding behind a small wall, the monster had waited until the car was almost past to jump out. If patterns held he would not scare the next car he would wait for ours but the tables would be turned and I would be waiting for him.

Lit rose in hand I waited for my opportunity and for once my timing was perfect. As he prepared to leap I held the rose beneath my face and growled at him. The monster screamed, tripped over his own two feet and landed on his ass. Not only that but to add to his humiliation he dropped his flashlight which rolled down the incline to land at the foot of another beast. What made the scare even more entertaining is that every monster within one hundred feet of us began laughing. All their hiding places were given away which led to even more laughter by the passengers in our car. A scary ending to a perfect night.

Speaking of which I need to scare someone any volunteers?

Spirit of Mountain Avenue

A story such as this usually begins: “It was a dark and stormy night.” To clichéd, and inherently untrue, this story begins on a typical late summer night somewhere in the San Gabriel Valley. Santa Ana winds led a choir of coyotes and hoot owls through a series of haunting melodies. The air was dry the night was hot. Open windows no sheets or blankets on the bed was the recipe for late night comfort.

Stephen was eight years old. Four feet tall in bare feet with shaggy blond hair covered by a Dodger cap. Hazel eyes and a mischievous grin accented by a gap waiting for a late blooming tooth; completed the portrait.

Today had not been one of his better days. No one blamed him for the afternoon’s emergency. He blamed himself though. It had to be his fault.

When his four-year-old sister Lara was born his mom sat him down placing his fragile sister in the care of his toddler-sized arms. All the while explaining the importance involved in being a big brother.

“A big brother,” she said, “looked out for his sister protecting her and keeping her from harm.”

Four years had passed since that fateful day. His sister had grabbed his heartstrings and tugged for all she was worth. She brought sunshine to his life while the very foundation his life was built upon was shaken to the core.

For reasons he would not understand for decades, his father was drowning in a sea of alcohol.

He remembered how his dad had taken him to Dodger games. How waited outside the clubhouse hoping to catch an autograph or two. Or how on weekends with chores completed they would share a catch on the front lawn just the two of them.

Now day’s dad spent more time in his workshop than anyplace else. Repairing a car or two in between cans of Bud. He never listened to baseball, never laughed, never sat with mom anymore. He yelled a lot, drank a lot and late at night alone in the dark he cried a lot.

His father’s dysfunctional state had become so serious that his mom had taken him to the park and explained that with his fathers “sickness” he was now the man of the house and she needed help with his sister. He took pride in how much his mother trusted him. He would always look out for Lara.

Today had been a bad one for his father one of the worst ever. He was painting the garage, drinking too much and growing noticeably bitterer. Finally throwing the paintbrush down in disgust he left everything scattered about the driveway and locked himself in the workshop.

Lara was in the house with our mom or so everyone thought. While mom was ironing she wondered out into the backyard exploring. Stephen was out front trading baseball cards with a friend when he froze at the sound of Lara’s shriek.

He sprang to his feet oblivious to the trail of Dodger’s scattered in his wake. Reaching the backyard faster than he believed possible he found Lara sitting on the driveway, screaming, covered from head to toe in beige paint. Screaming for his mother he banged on the backdoor, not knowing what else to do.

Lara loved water. She would have, if possible played with or in water 24/7. Her mistake was instinctual seeing a can she assumed it contained water, which she poured over her head just as she had a hundred times before. Except this time of course the water was really paint.

His mother ran out of the house scooping Lara up without breaking stride all the while running for the car. She screamed for his dad who somewhat drunkenly joined her in the front seat holding the screaming Lara while she sped to the ER.

Lara was a beautiful baby; a local artist entered her photograph in a contest taking first place and it was featured in a local ad campaign. Her most striking feature by far was her long golden blonde hair. Hair which was now covered in brown paint and clumping together as the paint dried. Of even graver concern was whether or not paint had infiltrated her eyes causing permanent damage.

At the hospital Stephen remained in the waiting room feeding coffee to his dad, while his mom was with Lara and the doctors.

Guilt was beginning to manifest within his conscience. “Why was I trading dumb old baseball cards, I should have been with Lara?”

Watching his father sober up it never occurred to him that it was his father was to blame for leaving the paint can for Lara to find. Self-blame kept running through his thoughts until his eyes filled with tears and his gut ached with worry.

After what seemed like hours his mom emerged from the ER. In tears he ran into her arms. “I’m sorry mom, I’m sorry,” he cried. “Its all my fault I should have been with Lara not trading dumb old baseball cards.”

His mom wrapped his trembling frame in her arms. Hugging him tight she began soothing his fragile nerves. “Honey no, no it’s not your fault. You were playing. You were being a child. Your father and I are responsible for watching her. I did not expect her to get out of the house, I most certainly did not expect you to watch her.”

“But mom you told me, ‘sob’ you told me I was a big brother. You told me it was my job to watch out for her to protect her.”

“Honey you are a big brother an excellent big brother and you do watch out for Lara when she is with you. Today was not your fault. You did the right thing. You heard her cry found the problem and called for me. You did good son, you did good, I could not me more proud of you.”

He failed to notice the look his mom shot his father while hugging him. If he had he would have known someone else was to blame and he was in serious trouble.

“Where’s Lara mom? Can we see her? Is she okay?”

“It appears that Lara will be fine. They flushed here eyes and she will have to wear patches for a few days. At first look there does not appear to be any damage. The biggest problem was her hair. There was too much paint; her hair was one big-knotted clump. The doctors could not get the paint out so they had to cut her hair. Her beautiful long hair, at least my baby will be okay. She will be fine that is all that matters.”

Before heading home his mom had taken them for a drive through the local foothills. Lara always found car rides soothing and mom wanted her calm before heading home. Stephen was lost in thought, holding his sisters hand and praying she would be okay.

Arriving home his mom set Lara up on the couch with a pillow and her favorite blanket. She asked Stephen to sit with his sister and watch television while doing his best to keep Lara calm.

“Your father and I will be out back if you need anything.”

Before sitting with Lara he turned on the television and found some recent sitcom to occupy their minds. With patches on her eyes he could not tell if his sister was asleep or awake. He held her hand and described the action she could not see.

Stephen must have dosed off for a while, because he was startled awake by the feeling of being watched. At first he thought his mom or dad were back in the room but as he came to his senses he realized that they were alone. He marked the feeling off as a bad dream and turned his attention back to the laugh track on TV.

Without warning goose bumps erupted across the back of his neck. Again he was sure he was being watched and this time he was awake. He walked around the living room, checked the kitchen and the hallway and found as he expected that Lara and him were the only ones in the house.

Returning to the couch, he felt the same sensation again, this time was different though, this time a voice accompanied the feeling.

“GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out,” the voice had a menacing, rasping quality to it.

His first thought was that one of the neighbors was pranking on them. Quietly, he crept to the front door, eased it open and peered out. No one was outside and the street appeared to be buttoned up for the night.

As soon as he sat down again, he heard the voice, repeating its message like an echo in time.

“GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out.”

He looked at Lara but she still appeared to be asleep. He sat there wondering what to do and then he had an idea. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight. Once again he eased open the front door. He searched the entire front yard especially the garden located beneath the living room windows. Having been watered earlier that day he could see no sign that the dirt had been disturbed. No muddy footprints. Nothing.

He went back inside expecting to hear the voice again but all appeared to have returned too normal. No goose bumps. No echoes. No sound effects, just the television and his beautiful sister.

Thirty Years Later.

Stephen now 38 years old was visiting Lara. Time had moved on but nothing had changed. They were not only siblings but also best friends. At least once a week found them sharing lunch or chatting the evening away at one of their homes.

This evening found them discussing their childhood.

“Stephen, do you remember when we lived on Mountain Avenue and I poured the paint over my head?”

“Of course I do. You scared the hell out of mom and boy was she pissed at dad.”

“Do you remember when we came home, sitting on the couch and watching television with me? Lara asked.

He began to wonder where all this was leading. They did not often walk down memory lane and this is one road they had never explored.

“Well,” Stephen hesitated. “I remember watching television, although as I recall it was more by myself than with you. Sleeping is what you were doing.”

“Can I ask you a question, Do Do?”

That stopped him in his tracks. She rarely called him Do Do any more. When she was four though that was his nickname. For some reason she was unable to pronounce Stephen then.
“Of course Lara!” Ask away.

“Well that night, this is going to sound really strange and you are going to think I have gone loopy on you. But that night did you hear like anything strange?”

Stephen flashed back thirty years to that night. He could still hear that voice. Though he had convinced himself it was only a bad dream.

“I am not sure I heard anything,” he hesitated a moment, “well I guess the truth is that I thought I heard something but convince myself it was a bad dream.”

“Was it a creepy voice telling us to get out of the house claiming it was not ours?"

“That was it exactly. I could have sworn you were sleeping. How come you never said anything? Why did you bring it up now?

“Well,” Lara began, “I thought I dreamt it. Last night however I did dream about it, I was four years old again. Lying on that old couch. My eyes were covered but I was wide-awake. I heard the voice again. It was so real I had to ask. I thought I was crazy but now I know I am not. We both heard whatever it was.”

“I always chalked it up to a dream myself, now you have my curiosity peaked. I am going to have to do some research.’

Conversation, as it often does with family blended into other topics leaving ghostly voices for another day.

Another Day.

Stephen was surrounded by stack of microfiche containing the early records of his hometown. He had visited City Hall first and found the names of original owners of his childhood home. They were one of the first families to have settled in the area. Now he was ensconced at the Historical Museum in what he felt would be a vain attempt to attach significance of some type to the events of thirty years ago.

He was reading an article from 1901 and those very same goose bumps were beginning to erupt on his neck.

Apparently the Bartlett family (husband, wife and three kids) had settled in the area building the house in 1901. They had lived in the new home a week or so when tragedy struck. The family at Mrs. Bartlett’s insistence went on an overnight trip into the local mountains. Everyone seemed to have a good time. Hiking, exploring and picking berries for homemade pie.

The morning after they returned home all three children plus Mr. Bartlett developed high fevers. Doing all she could for her family, Mrs. Bartlett walked a mile to the nearest neighbors and asked if they could fetch the nearest doctor.

When she returned home she found the fevers had increased and the two littlest ones were barely breathing.

The doctor arrived and after examining the family informed her that by all accounts it appeared that they had contracted typhoid fever. The look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. There was no hope. To punctuate that thought the two youngest passed almost simultaneously.

At this point Mrs. Bartlett they say appeared to snap.

She began screaming at the doctor, ““GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out,”

The doctor had even used the words menacing and rasping to describe her voice. He left, promising to send out the mortician and to return himself to check on the rest of her family the next day.

He never had the chance. Later that same afternoon when the mortician arrived he found the door open and the four occupants of the house to have all died from the fever. He found Mrs. Bartlett sobbing in the backyard.

According to his report when he tried to offer comfort she just screamed at him, ““GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out.”

Those were her last words. When the sheriff came to the house to assist the mortician in picking up the bodies they found her hanging from the hundred-year-old oak in front of the house.

Stephen sat back a chill running down his spine and the palms of his sands suddenly cold and clammy. Until today his policy had been to leave the supernatural to the superstitious, now he didn’t know what to think.

Desperately Seeking.....

No not that.

A friend of mine and I were discussing television commercial slogans and what not. Before he left he planted a seed that has now grown to a full blown obsession.

What hair product used the slogan "I just washed my hair and I cannot do a thing with it."

I will be indebted to the person who can get this nonsense flushed from my brain once and for all.

category five

a gale wind blew
a category five passed
he raised himself from the floor
brushing away imaginary debris
where was his pride
where was his backbone
when had he become
nothing more than a
living, breathing
doormat

too many moments
of being beat down
being told you are wrong
every decision questioned
every thought ridiculed
before long
the inside of a shell
begins to look good
a place of sanctuary
where sanity
can be preserved

problems lie
within the arguments
themselves
his ego never large
allowed for errs
within his judgment
cracks in his assumptions
when the being opposite
does not allow
for their own human failures
the argument becomes
a circle
never ending
a merry-go-round filled
with meaningless words
going nowhere fast
leaving casualties
in its wake

beyond each explosion
he was left
with a feeling
just this side
of helplessness
before long
silence was golden
boarding up his psyche
against the coming storm
this was assumed
to be capitulation
unconditional surrender
when reality was
love had been torn asunder
and he no longer cared

Doubt

How does one respond when receiving an incredulous look from medical personnel, a pharmacist, social security representative, or just people I meet through out the trials and tribulations of my daily life?

In two and a half years of illness I dealt with several health issues concurrently. Each with its own course of treatment and each with its own debilitating affect on my daily life. The one thread that connects each of these issues is that for the most part the illness has been detected but no one can understand why I have what I have. There is theory but no fact. For diagnosis I fall to the extreme side of people who have the illness for no apparent reason which makes treatment that much more difficult.

My social anxiety and panic disorder actually preceded the rest of my health issues by a few years. Despite treatment, medication and therapy it is far from being under control. In my case the presentation of symptoms was later in life than with most cases. Despite my and my doctors best efforts we have yet to determine the initial events that triggered the onset of symptoms. No events that should have led to the development of post-traumatic stress. No great tragedies that have haunted me for years. In short I have all the symptoms but can point to no event that justifies the severity of my illness.

Next on my illness menu is renal papillary necrosis. Which in layman’s terms means that my left kidney is dying one cell at a time for again no apparent reason. In 2002 I developed severe kidney pain, which I assumed was a kidney stone. After a visit to the ER failed to turn up any blockage I was referred to an urologist. He scoped my kidney and determined that my left kidney was in the beginning stages of necrosis. Symptoms, which mimic those of stones because the dying tissue sloughs off the kidney and can cause similar pain. Primary cause of necrosis diabetes, however even diabetics rarely develop the illness now days because of improved care from modern urology. My urologist has not seen a new case beside mine in near five years. We have yet to determine why I developed this illness.

In April 2003 I developed bronchitis, which I have had on several occasions through out my life. Treatment always took care of the problem. Not this time. I have been to the allergist and no allergies were detected. I was checked for various digestive diseases that can affect the lungs. None detected. Regular appointments and testing from the pulmonologist have only served to show my bronchial tubes are irritated and inflamed with no obvious reason for its staying power. Tissue samples have shown no serious illness. Mucus samples have shown low level bacteria but nothing that should be affecting my bronchial tubes and breathing to such a degree. The other issue with bronchitis is that the primary long-term treatment is steroids, which do not play well with anxiety. In my case they are not even on speaking terms, which makes treatment much more difficult.

And finally on the hit parade is the most recent cause of my discomfort diverticulitis. Still in the testing stage but I have been told by more than one doctor that from at least the initial exams they are not sure why someone in their mid forties has developed an illness that usually hits people nearer to sixty.
Bottom line is that I have several illnesses that I am dealing with on a regular basis. No big deal really and I do not bring all this up for the sake of hearing myself whine. Primarily I am discussing this because of the reactions I have begun to receive on several fronts.

What started me thinking was seeing the gastro-intestinal doctor this past week. While examining me he was considering another round of antibiotics and asked about my insurance. I told him that at the moment I have no insurance that covers meds because I have just switched over to Medicare. He gave me a look and than asked what is a guy in his mid forties doing on Medicare. We had just gone over my history and he knew about the debilitation caused by the various illnesses but obviously he had some doubts. He than went off on a tangent about my age and why did I believe I have these various illnesses.

This was not the first time nor I am sure it will be the last time I deal with the doubt of others. Hell, some mornings I wake up look in the mirror and doubt myself whether the illnesses exist or whether it is all psychosomatic. I have been assured by my primary doctor, my psychologist and psychiatrist that my illnesses are not in my head but exist in the real world.

It is hard though. Sometimes I find myself wanting to lie when I talk to people and they ask the usual questions what are you doing with yourself. Well I am no longer working due to a virtual smorgasbord of illnesses. They give me a look and say something like you look great for someone who has been sick for over two years.

No I may not be the most ill person on the planet or even on my block. That does not reduce the effect the illnesses have had on my life. No more softball. No more bike riding. Swimming is a pain because the chlorine affects my lungs. BBQ’s are not the same because I can no longer handle being in front of the grill and I enjoy the grilling even more than the eating. Working now that’s a big one. It is difficult to work when you cannot breath well. Have panic attacks hiding under your desk waiting to surprise you and can not be sure when your kidney might decide that today is as good a day as any to give up the ghost.

So for you doubters out there, you know who you are. Whether you are supposedly family, friend, acquaintance, doctor or stranger. Until you have walked a day in my shoes please have the courtesy not to doubt my illnesses. It is either that or stay out of my life. I have enough stress dealing with my doubts, angst and anxiety I do not need your crap to.

Thank you and have a nice day.

quiet time

he watches her standing
on the end of the pier
eyes filled with laughter
wind in her hair
his mind questions
could this be real
unable to believe
how happy he feels
he never thought
he would live this day
with her by his side
him feeling this way
he never dreamt
he could trust again
he never believed
he could love again
still here they are
alone in the sand
a touch of the heart
a touch of the hand
softly kissing
its quiet time
no need for words
no need to rhyme
one deep breath
their spirits soar
no one could ever
pray for more
a quiet beach
a starlit night
holding each other
never felt so right

circumstance

she found herself to be
a victim of circumstance
lamenting an age
of mediocrity
an age in which
quantity mattered
more than quality
where reality
was scripted and sold
to the highest bidder
where taste and culture
had become nothing
more than a whore
spreading her legs
for Madison avenue

museums were her church
broadway her choir
confession held
beneath the smoky lights
of a beatnik bookstore
where poets engraved
the lining of her soul
with words of painful beauty
her bibles were many
knowledge her communion
hidden between the pages
of novels and travelogues
where her heart
found reasons to soar

in a world of plastic
face lifts and implants
where the uniqueness
of imperfections
was being swept away
by a society obsessed
with reflections
found in the funhouse
mirror of the corner boutique
she lived a simple life
a touch of makeup
simple, elegant clothing
designed to be practical
not for the runway lights
but for the office lights


on girls nights out
she meets various guys
in restaurants dance clubs
and the like
she has heard the same lines
over and over
I want a woman who is real
who can carry a conversation
who will fight me for
the Sunday crossword puzzle
none of these plastic
look at me Barbie dolls
a woman of substance
they take her number
but never call

often times
their paths will cross
she will hear them
chatting with the boys
eyes in their beer
tongues on the floor
watching the airhead parade
passing by
proving her right once again
most men want eye candy
a brainless lover
to satisfy their primal urges
not a woman
who would challenge them
not a woman
who would equal them
no they only wanted a woman
who would stroke they’re
ego all night long

it had taken many years
more broken hearts
than she could count
the lesson was learned
and filed away
destiny had placed
her on this shallow world
for reason only
fate would understand
never to be loved
only to be ignored
for being more
than eye candy
for the sweet tooth
of man