Life's Bone

I was pretty young when I found it was required that I read all this historical bullshit stuff about the constellations and all the gods fighting one another. They were pretty damn sick and on power trips, when you think about it.. For crying out loud! I was a young teen, I just thought about getting laid. Actually, the idea that some ancients were governing my sensibility about the night skies sorta pissed me off. I guess one could see some kinda Big Dipper in the sky. But when I was wrapped up in my teen girlfriend's arms, I was seeing images of Elvis. I had a girl friend once named Lily. I saw a bunch of stars I named after her. It was the constellation of Lily, and had nothing to do with some ancient gods. It had to do with finding ways to love her. This time of year, Lily's constellation is best seen just before sunrise. Liiy and I go out and look at it, then go in, and make breakfast. So much for the stars They can eat their hearts out for all I care..

It seems that back in November I posted the beginning of a story I called "The Momentary Drama". Comments on this were about wanting to know what would happen next. I believe I did post a continuation of the story, and then left it hanging again. So, I've been backtracking through my files trying to figure out if I ever finished the story or not. It looks like I did finish it, but didn't ever post it. It was the story of two people, Frank and Lisa, who 'bumped into each other one day'. It may be that I did post it in its entirety on one of my sites. If so, I can't find it. I might have changed the name of the story, and forgotten what I called it. But, in case I never actually posted it, I will post it now. If it is something you have already read, sorry, but I lose track of things. So here is the whole story for the first time...or maybe I am repeating myself. Oh, Well!!



The Momentary Drama

Well, basically, Frank lived alone. He had his habits. Rituals. He thought about women, but realized it would be a responsibility that could, in awhile, outweigh the pleasure. Lisa felt the same. She had her habits. Her rituals. She didn't know Frank, but, she too, thought it so complicated to try to live with someone else. So funny then, the way they passed each other every day along the sidewalk, on their way to wherever each was going. There were quick glances. Agonizing, when you think about it. Two people, each wanting the other, but too scared to think of the consequences. One day, they bumped into each other.
Of course, in bumping into each other, they both blubbered and sputtered their apologies simultaneously, all the while they each made silly attempts to brush off the other's jacket. They just kept brushing each other off with their hands, as they exchanged small talk about the neighborhood. She lived 3 blocks South of the old Roosevelt Hotel. He lived 3 blocks North.

The Courtship

Each day that followed, they kept looking for the other coming from the opposite direction. The first week or so of this, was like a courtship ritual that can only be compared to a National Geographic documentary on strange bird behavior. They would spot one another, and as they approached, they would appear to be deliberately dodging one another, making big obvious detours around one another. Then as they passed, they would turn and walk backwards for a few steps, and look back at each other. On one such occasion, Frank backed into a parking meter. On another occasion, Lisa, walking backward, tripped over the curb, and fell back onto the hood of a parked car.

How Acting became Being

Since it soon became apparent that this would continue to happen day after day, and they were finding it more and more difficult to avoid each other, their relationship began to change. Now, it seems they began deliberately bumping into each other. It was like a game of 'chicken'. Of course, neither would give in, so they collided. Then, they went back to the brushing each other off ritual, while engaging in small talk. It seems their paths crossed, or collided, always at the same place, beneath the glittering round yellow bulbs of the Roosevelt Hotel's marquee. The doorman at the hotel, seeing this same thing happen over and over, began inviting his friends to come by and watch Frank and Lisa crash into each other every morning. Soon, there was a daily crowd of a dozen or more people standing around in front of the hotel, looking up and down the street for a sign of Lisa or Frank. Well, Lisa and Frank appeared every day like clockwork, and crashed into one another again and again beneath the bright lights of the marquee, and they would then be loudly applauded by the on-lookers. They would then brush each other off excessively, as the crowd of spectators stood by watching, nodding their heads, and sipping their coffees to go.

The Getting Closer Part.

Frank and Lisa began to realize that they had a growing number of fans who gathered every morning by the Roosevelt Hotel. And Frank got the idea they should pass the hat after each of their performances. They did alright that day, pulling in 15 dollars. As they divided the money between them, Lisa mumbled something to him about how they needed to change the act up every now and then, so people won't get bored.
"How about if I run up to you like I hadn't seen you in years, and we hug and you give me your phone number?" Frank suggested. Lisa nodded.
"Ok, but let's bump into each other first, then we both fall down. And as we are helping each other up, we suddenly realize we know each other. But no groping," she added. Frank agreed. "Yeh, we need to build the act up slowly. Maybe we kiss, though." "No," Lisa said, "Not just yet. Just the phone number."

It gets Hotter...

The next day, the crowd began to gather again by the Roosevelt Hotel. They watched excitedly, as Frank and Lisa suddenly appeared walking quickly toward one another. They crashed beneath the marquee and fell dramatically to the sidewalk. Frank crawled over to Lisa, and tried to help her up. "Oh, My god! Frank?!!" Lisa said, looking at him with a startled expression on her face. Frank's jaw dropped in feigned surprise. "Lisa?!!" They hugged dramatically as the crowd began to applaud. Later, as they passed the hat, Frank asked Lisa for her phone number. Lisa smiled at a little old lady in the crowd. "What do you think I should do?" she asked the woman. "Well," the old woman said, "He seems to be a nice fellow." Several others chimed in. "Yeh, give him your number!" They made almost 40 dollars that morning. Now they not only had an act, they had audience participation. And Frank had Lisa's phone number!

And Hotter.........

Frank called Lisa that night. "What do you think? The kiss, tomorrow?" "Ummm.." Lisa hesitated, "Ok. But no tongue." "Ok," Frank agreed. "But what if I hug you, and cradle you backwards in my arms into an arch, and then kiss you like Clark Gable?"
"Hmmm," Lisa said, "I kinda like that. Ok, then I'll be Myrna Loy." "Great," Frank replied, "I was hoping you wouldn't say Vivien Leigh. But Carole Lombard would be hot too. Ok Myrna Loy, it is. See you tomorrow Myrna." "Goodnight, Clark."

The Performance

The next morning the crowd was even bigger. And the doorman had worked up his own scheme. He was charging a dollar per person to anyone wanting a place under the marquee where the action was. The crowd went nuts when Frank rocked Lisa back in his arms and bent over her and delivered a lengthy kiss. Frank was almost caught off guard, when Lisa faked a swooning limp faint in his arms. "Lisa? Lisa?!" he said, with an urgent voice, gently slapping her cheek with his palm, as though to bring her back around. They then worked the crowd from opposite directions, passing the hat. They met in the middle, and looked at each other. "Tomorrow, then?" Frank asked her. "Tomorrow." she said. They turned and strolled away in opposite directions, as the crowd mobbed the doorman for tomorrow's tickets.

The Dilemma.....

"Where can we go from here?" Frank asked Lisa that night, on the phone. "I don't know," Lisa replied. "We can't very well have sex on the sidewalk in the middle of a crowd of people." "Right." Frank answered. "Ok, what about this? I kiss you , you swoon, I bring you back to your senses. Then I start trying to hike your skirt up. And you resist, and say 'No Frank, not here.' So, then you take my hand and lead me through the crowd to the doorman. You ask him how much a room for two would cost. And he says something like, '63 dollars, plus tax.' Then we pass the hat." There was a moment of silence. "That's actually quite brilliant, Frank! But the audience can't come into the room with us." "No, of course not." Frank agreed. "Wait, I've got it!" Lisa exclaimed, "We go into the hotel, and disappear into our room, have sex, then after an hour or two, we go down to the lobby in our pajamas, and sign autographs."

The Plan Emerges.....

The doorman was more than cooperative when told of the plan. He even came up with the additional idea of having the hotel kitchen set them up with a table complete with linens and champagne brunch out under the marquee for when they came out of their room. He agreed to arrange all that for a mere twenty dollars.

Frank and Lisa clinked their glasses in their pajamas out there at the table on the sidewalk several times for the news photographers who had caught wind of their story and showed up. They smiled, and tried to answer fan's questions about what they had done in the hotel room. Mostly, their responses were vague, but inticing inuendo.

The Way It Played out...........

Suddenly, they were stars. They were on the morning news every morning in their pjs in front of the hotel, doing interviews.
A Tv producer tried to talk them into a reality show. A porn producer showed them a script for a film called "Room 69". They refused both of those. One morning, a limousine pulled up in front of the hotel, and none other than Steven Spielberg made them an offer they couldn't refuse.

Frank and Lisa got married under the marquee of the Roosevelt Hotel on live television. A number of their most devoted fans were members of the wedding party. In fact, the doorman was Frank's best man. Frank and Lisa went on to have two children. Every now and then, they show the kids a movie called "How Mommy Met Daddy", a Steven Spielberg production. It starred Shelley DuVall , as 'Lisa'. And, Ed Norton as 'Frank'. The story unfolded fairly true to character, although in the theatrical version they wound up in a little cottage in Monterrey with flowers in the yard, a white picket fence, and a loveable sheep dog. Fact is, they still keep separate apartments, prefer to have sex in motels, and don't have a dog. They still go down to the Roosevelt Hotel on Saturday mornings for brunch, and their children are well loved by their many fans who still show up to catch the performance.

As for the Roosevelt Hotel, business has never been better. It became a most popular destination for honeymooners, after being featured in the movie. And several other couples have since gotten married beneath the brightly lit marquee, and in front of a brass placard on the brick wall that says, "This Is Where Frank Met Lisa". Lisa still insists, to this day, that it was the other way around.

I want to share a story with you. A true story. A difficult story. If you are not sure you can handle a difficult story you should not read it. I wouldn't even write about it, except that a friend (Dee, blogging at The Eighth Dimension...see my blog links) posted a commentary by Keith Olbermann that was heart-wrenching. It was about Keith's father and his (the father's) failing health. You can view that video by going to Dee's site and checking out Olbermann's commentary. I am giving you a heads-up about the fact that it has to do with issues of health care, and the personal drama of death and dying as it affects us all sooner or later.
With that said, I would like to tell a story called "The Last Days of Bud".

The Last Days of Bud.

It had been a few months since I had pulled back into the hollow to visit my backwoods friend Bud. I had learned a lot from Bud in the years preceding this given day. A lot of backwoods survival skills. And also, the wood butcher's art. How to work with fallen trees. To build a habitat out of dead wood. To make furniture from such. Bud never cut down a tree. But, if the tree was down, he knew how to make the most of it. He was not an avid hunter, but he did take animals from time to time. He had a great respect for the woods and the creatures therein. If he took a deer, it was out of necessity, and with a certain reverence. Such details about Bud are an aside, trying to suggest what he was like in his life off the grid. So let's get back to this one particular day.

His hand-made shack was at the very back of a hollow. and when I pulled back there, I could see him out sitting on a large wooden stump he called his 'work stump'. A big chopping block, of sorts. He had his legs crossed. One elbow on one knee. One hand under his chin, as though lost in thought. As I pulled my truck over, and approached him, I was startled at his appearance. He had always been a skinny gaunt figure, but this was beyond that. Most of his shaggy grey hair had fallen out in a very strange way. Clumps of missing hair. Long strands here and there. I knew the issue in a glance, but asked the question anyway. "What's going on, Bud?" He turned his head away and spit and said "The cancer's got me, I reckon."

We sat around inside his shack, and he played a few tunes on his guitar. "Wild in my Soul" was one I requested of him. A song about a mutual friend and his problems with his girl-friend. I chimed in on the chorus. We were for a brief time, like dogs howling at the moon. On the table between him and I (A table he had hand-built, like everything else in the shack) was a single .22 caliber bullet. He laid his guitar down on his bunk where he was sitting, and picked up the bullet. He palmed it, and played around with it in his hand. "It's not as easy as you might think." he said.

I was reminded of one other evening, when Bud was in great pain with a bad tooth, and asked me to pull it. I couldn't bring myself to do it even though he put a pair of pliers in my hand. He went on to wrap the jaws of the pliers with cotton cloth torn from the shirt he was wearing. He tied these off with thread, and said, "I guess I'll have to pull it myself." And that is what he did. He pulled the tooth and then went to the wood stove, opened the fire-box and cast the tooth to the fire. "There! Take that!" was all he said before passing out on his bed.

So, now Bud was dying in front of me and he knew it. He thought about killing himself. As he said, 'It's harder than you think.' I did fix the hinge on the door of his shack. Something he asked me to do. It was a door he had made by hand and even the hinges were hand-carved walnut hinges. It was a big challenge for me to square his door. But I did make it better. It was the last thing I did for him.

My last moments with Bud were quite bitter. He was in a hospice facility whose goals were simply to help people die calmly. I sat there for about an hour watching his slow breaths. He was on a morphine drip by then. I was hoping he might wake up before I left. He finally did open his eyes for a moment. I told him I was there. I asked him if I could do something for him. He couldn't talk. But he slowly lifted his hand to the side of his face. He used his forefinger and thumb to gesture the sign of a gun and pulled the trigger. Then he disappeared into one of his last morphine dreams. I never wanted to kill someone as much as I wanted to kill Bud. Not out of malice, but out of respect. I couldn't. It is a thought that haunts me sometimes. I did attend his burial. It remains, to this day, an unmarked grave. For the record, his name was Charles Hollars.

My cyber-friend Ana Karakasheva (of Frida Dance Company, Plovdiv, Bulgaria) performs an entertaining improv with a tufted leather Chesterfield chair to music by Nino Rota. Camera by Elena (see There Were Swallows blog-link this page). The performance was recently posted on Youtube and I have posted it here for those who enjoy improv dance!

As a child it seems I had a wide-ranging interest in things that had mostly gone before me. The history of things. I found it hard to narrow my interests. Everything I experienced seemed only to beg the next question. As a young boy I flipped through photos in the National Geographic magazines, amazed at the variety of people and cultures. People living in worlds so completely different from mine. People whose dress, whose customs, whose mannerisms, and traditions were completely different from my own. I knew they were humans. And I was a human. But that only gave rise to the question of what is it then, to be human? So many puzzles. And even at this very moment I feel questions circling about in my mind. I am so curious right now about the way my fingers are making words appear on my computer screen. It seems so easy. As though I am on auto-pilot. The words just come out, whether spoken or written. I read what I am writing, and it is as though the words come from somewhere else inside me. I don't think and then write, or speak. It all just comes out of it's own will. I know it's my own will, but I am amazed at how smoothly words arrange into sentences and texts right here in front of my busy fingers. In conversation with another person it seems clear in the rapid-fire exchange of words, that neither of us are pausing to form the words said. They just spill out into the air between us like anxious dancers converging on a ballroom floor. And even as I write I have to pause to read what it is I have just written. It is often surprising to see what I said while my fingers were merely tapping on keys.

For years as a young man, I travelled a lot. Everywhere I went, everything I saw, provoked questions. So libraries were one of my favorite haunts. Big houses full of answers and the questions they provoke. Is it the mysterious that creates the longing to know? Or is it our knowing that leads us to the mysterious? I could live in a library quite happily poring over the vast history of man. Beliefs. Artifacts. Legacies. Answers. Questions.

One year, in my travels, I arrived in Kunda in northern Estonia. I stopped along a narrow street at an old cafe for something to eat. And it was there that I met an old man sitting alone sipping a soup and poring over some hand-written papers. He gestured kindly for me to sit with him. I watched him scribbling things on the papers in front of him, and asked him what he was writing about. He handed me several pages, but of course I had no understanding of the language the text was written in. He smiled knowingly at me, and then spoke in perfect English. "I write about the life before history. About what makes history possible. Pre-history, if you will." I nodded, but was not sure really what that meant. "Would you like for me to read for you?" he said. I nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, please." He took the pages of scrawled words back and began to read in a voice that itself sounded from long ago. His bony forefinger traced each word as he spoke it. This is the story he read to me:

Regarding the Origins of Wineah.
" Aragala and Wineah stumbled hand-in-hand through the swampland toward a dying sun. Driven by fear and the sound of wild dogs in the dense dark woods behind them. Wineah dropped to her knees in the black muck sobbing. Aragala knelt down and embraced her. "Aragala will take Wineah away", the god within him said to her through Aragala's frantic lips. The god entered Wineah and formed words in her mouth. "Wineah will go with Aragala." They were but two of many who were fleeing from the sorcerers. The ones who said that their words came from their own heads and not from the gods. The ones who proclaimed that there were no gods speaking through them or anyone else. The ones who said that words came from a being called The Self. Neither Aragala nor Wineah knew of such a thing within them. They knew only of divinations that directed their every step. For them, there were no thoughts, nor a self that owned them.

Their gods did, in fact deliver them from the people of The Self. And for many years they banded together with the others who had defected. Over time, however, their numbers dwindled. Their children left the encampments in great numbers on quests to find The Self. Aragala prevailed as a leader among the defected, his hallucinated divinations kept the band together over several decades. In the end, as he lay dying, the gods spoke through his mouth to the voice that called his name. "Aragala asks, 'Who comes to his side' "? "It is I." said Wineah, kneeling down next to him. Aragala's mouth opened slowly. "Aragala asks 'Where is Wineah?' ", the god within him said. Wineah bent to kiss Aragala's feverish forehead. "It is me. I am Wineah" she said softly. With that, Aragala died never knowing himself. Wineah lived on another two decades. While there is little historical evidence of how her life played out, scholars believe Wineah was a leader among women who guided many others to self-understanding. If not literally, then at least figuratively, she is viewed as one of the pioneers of early emerging consciousness. By way of her teachings, she became a legendary ancestor of the many things we now know about ourselves. And still, to this day there are those of the lineage of Aragala, who do not move of their own volition across the face of the earth, but are directed across it by the voices of their gods."

The old man laid his papers on the table and smiled at me. His eyes were dark and riveting. "Can you afford to buy my soup today?" he asked. "Yes, of course I will buy your soup." I never knew the man's name, but of course, I will never forget him, or the story of Wineah, who witnessed the emergence of modern consciousness several thousands of years ago. And such thoughts provoke even more questions about how our minds may collectively evolve over the next thousands of years. A thought that provokes yet another question. The question of whether humanity will have disappeared from the face of the earth by then.

Buttermilk skies, meadows, and a strange stop sign, along the river. Well, these are just some quick little snaps by me, but to see some truly breath-taking shots of Tennessee, please click on Dee's latest post!!!

I don't know where to begin about Caroline and Carl. I know both their families forbid them to see one another. I know I helped them escape the whole scene. I gave them money to go away. From time to time they sent photos of their journey. They were all over the map. On the run. The Golden Gate Bridge. Somewhere along coastal Oregon. A zoo in Calgary, Alberta. Chicago, on the waterfront. They seemed quite happy to be free, and together. It was mostly shots taken by Carl. Hand-held, and in the middle of a kiss. A way to remind me not to betray them. It's been almost 10 years now since the last photo. I haven't shared it with their families. They were atop a double decker tour bus beneath the Trade Center Towers. They both looked distraught. I think it was September 11, 2001.

When I think of the state of American politics today, two burning images come to mind. Nero's Fiddle. And Pandora's Box.

In response to a request by one of my readers that I write a really "mushy, mushy" love story, I had to go way back into my memories of young love to come up with something really hot! So, here you have it. Since it is somewhat auto-biographical, I changed the girl's name to protect her not-so-innocence. So, here we go!

Love at First Kiss

Neither Alice nor I said much as we strolled hand in hand down the lane toward our secret hide-out beneath the bushes by the pond. We each took quick scared glances behind us to be sure no one had seen us slip away from her little brother's birthday party. She had been forbidden to be alone with me. I had a bad reputation, it's true. But my feverish longings for Alice over-powered any fear of being caught. We crept quickly through the bushes along the bank of the pond our hearts racing. There, beneath the lilacs profusely blooming, filling the air with their intoxicating fragrance, I kissed her. It was our first kiss. And even today, I struggle to find a way to adequately describe it. How could I possibly describe that kiss? Her lips were so thick and soft. A warm and pulpish, quivering mass. So buttery. Milky. So soupy. So soggy. So sloppy. Like the mushy warm cornmeal gruel that my granny used to make for me when I was a child. So, that was it. In my emerging adolescent desire to break away from my childhood, I had transferred my childish longings for my granny's gruel to Alice's mushy lips!

I meant to publish, in one form or another, a collection of my stories last month. It wasn't meant to be. Maybe, I'll get back to it soon, though. So, I wrote up a little Valentine's love story. Yes, a love story! And only one person gets killed! So, if you need a love-and-mayhem fix, here is a quick read.

LOVE ME DEADLY

I'd never really thought about acting, even though I'd faked my way through school, and had the gift of gab at social events. So, how did I get where I am now? All I can say is, things can be really weird sometimes. And, I'd give anything for this one particular part in this play. So this is me now, standing in a long line of others, moving ever so slowly toward the casting room. Rehearsing in my mind, just how I would be when it was my turn to take the floor. I would be behind curtain, stage left. She would be behind curtain, stage right. Between us, a desolate city street, devoid of life. Suddenly she rushes hurriedly out across the stage, carrying a bundle of flowers in news-wrap. Coming right toward me. I walk slowly out, my head down, reading a book. We collide. Her flowers go flying. She runs frantically to pick them up. I run after her, and say, "Here, l'll get them for you." I run around picking up flowers. I hand them to her. She hands me my book. We smile, and nod at each other, then continue on our respective ways. We each take once glance back as we exit the stage.

So, basically, why I am standing in this line is to get this part. In the play, this one small part is the entire life of my character. That walk on. The collision, and I say, "Here, I'll get them for you." It's agonizing. I have one brief impossible moment in a romantic play, with the girl who is starring. As the story was written, I was just an incident in her life. Her story would unfold without me. I don't even know why I want such a part. It's torture, when you think about it. But, a walk-on with a line to say, is paid more than other wordless walk-ons. Plus, I was very into the existential angst I would have to muster up in such a hopeless moment. To, in one split-second collision, find, and then lose, love. To make that moment real. Oh, the humanity!

Well, it pays 150.00 dollars per performance. Not a lot of money, but then I am unemployed. And besides, you can sleep late in the mornings, and still pay the bills. So, this is why I am standing in line. Rehearsing my one thing to say. I don't even know if I will get the part. The part about the random guy who almost got the girl, but didn't. They ought to be paying more to anyone sincerely stepping into such a character. Such a character should get combat pay. But, with the economy the way it is these days, no one really cares about post traumatic girl syndrome. It's a job, for crying out loud. But, if you want the job, you are going to really have to act. Or, you are going to have to actually experience that moment. So, getting my simple line down was the easy part. The hard part was to really fall in love, and then lose it, in a split second. But I've been working on that. I've been meditating for several days. So, I feel ready. And, I really need the money.

So, finally they call my name. I was walk-on applicant # 134. It was basically an empty room except for the couch. A man and woman were sitting on the couch muttering things to one another as they examined my head shots. I cleared my throat as the woman looked up at me. She hands me a book, and directs me to an 'x' on the floor. The man stands up. He holds up his fingers. "Three...Two....and Action." I bury my head in the open book and begin slowly walking across the floor. My heart was racing. I felt unsure about where, exactly, I am supposed to be bumping into the girl with the flowers. So, I peeked quickly over the top of my book to see where I was going, and there, walking toward me, was the most beautiful young woman I have ever seen in my life!

I froze. I dimly heard the man's voice. "Cut. One more time. This is your last chance, Daryll,...ummm....Ackerman." I nodded and looked back at the girl as I returned to the 'x' on the floor. Last chance.....last chance....My heart was pounding. I took a deep breath and stared down at the book in my hands. "Three, Two, ....and Action". Somehow, my feet actually began moving. Dragging me across the floor to collide with destiny. "I can do this. I can do this." I said to myself, my eyes fixed in an intense stare down to the pages of words I could not read. In but a few seconds, I would smash into the girl of my dreams. My feet kept dragging me. Dragging me. Any second now, any second now. I am forgetting my line. Something about helping her. What was it? What was it? I shot a sudden uncontrollable glance up over the book. She was still 4 feet away. I fainted.

I awoke on the floor with the most beautiful girl in the world kneeling over me and slapping my face. It was pretty embarrassing, and of course, I didn't get the part. I was dejected for days. Not only was I still unemployed, I was a failure. Too scared to bump into the girl of my dreams. And, I did dream about her. Dreams that gave me goosebumps. In one dream she told me I could call her Phoebe, and that she was a descendant of Annie Oakley. And in another dream she appeared wearing a holster and a Colt six-shooter.

I went to several performances of the play. It was called "Love Me Deadly". It was agonizing to see the scene where the stupid extra crashes into my almost momentary girl-friend. I was sorta pleased to watch the final act. She finds out her 'Prince Charming' (the leading man) was cheating on her. She pulls a gun from her purse. The lights go out. In total blackness, you hear the shot, you see the flash of fire from the gun's muzzle, and then a final 'thud' on the stage floor. At first, I was a bit panicky. Maybe she shot herself! But then the house lights came on, and she is there standing over the body of the lifeless leading man. I stood and applauded loudly until I realized I was the only one doing so.

I waited over an hour in the alley by the theater's back door. Waiting for her. Numerous cast and crew members stepped out, even the leading man! Alas, she wasn't using real bullets after all! But, no Phoebe. I went night after night. I mean, not to the play, that is too traumatic. But to the back door in the alley, hoping to catch a glimpse of Phoebe, my dream girl. And she never showed. It became an obsession to hang out by that back door in the alley. I would go there at all times of day. Even at times when the play wasn't being performed. But, I never saw her again.

Until last night. As usual, I was leaning on the garbage can next to the door, patiently watching cast and crew exit, and disappear into the night. But, no Phoebe. I was just about to head home again, when suddenly, I heard a shot. The door swung open. It was thrown open, actually. So hard as to crash against the old brick wall. It was Phoebe! Frantically running down the steps. Throwing her coat over herself. Then, just as I was about to call her name, she tripped and fell to the ground. A small box she was holding fell from her hand and spilled out onto the asphalt. I ran towards her. "Here, I'll get them for you." I shouted. "...Daryll?" I heard her say. I picked up the box she dropped, and looked at the shells strewn about the alley. They were bullets. Live rounds. Not blanks. I turned to Phoebe who was getting slowly up. "Phoebe?" I said. She nodded. "Yes, I actually killed him this time."

So now, as I write, me and Phoebe are on the lam. So, I got the part after all. But it was for a different play. A play in which I got the dream girl. I have to go now. I must awaken my sleeping beauty. "Time to hit the road, baby." If I have the opportunity, I will update you once we cross into Mexico. She is so cute sitting up in the bed now. Stretching and yawning. She swings her little feet over to the side, and down to the floor. "Uh oh," she said, "Where are my slippers?"
"Here", I said, "I'll get them for you."

T.S. Eliot wrote that April is the cruellest month. I love the poem, but for me, it is February. In February, winter seems to have worn out it's welcome. And there is still some 60 days or so before I will smell the excitement of wet soft ground. My dog feels the same way. We both have cabin fever. I watch movies, doodle on the computer, read books to pass time. Life follows me all around the house. She has several bones to chew on. They lie here and there on the floor. Sometimes, I step on them in my bare feet. (You would not want to be here to hear what I said in such moments!) My dog and I do venture outside for brief periods. But she is frustrated because the ground is so hard. She likes to bury bones in the back yard. Let them soak up the musty moisture of the soil. They taste so good later. But that is not happening now. The ground is too hard. So, she gnaws away at her bones in the house. And she wants my attention. It is quite amusing. She likes to drop a bone down in front of me, and then look up, daring me to take it away from her. I get down on the floor and pretend I want her bone. I I growl at her and try to get the bone. She is very protective and growls back. It's a game we play in February.

On behalf of the pharmaceutical industry, I would like to re-assure everyone that a drug for you is coming soon to a pharmacy near you. Of course, we understand you are already taking a lot of pills, and still feeling like crap. I can only assure you that our self-sacrificing pharmaceutical chemists are working around the clock to provide chemical relief for the new maladies identified by the American Psychiatric Association in the up and coming revision of the DSM. (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.) Yes, we dealt with "Restless Leg Syndrome" promptly when many people were delusional in thnking they just needed to take a vacation. But our quest has only begun. Once we have introduced Temper Dysregulation Syndrome into the DSM we will be able to provide you with a drug to help you when you have that 'fed up', and "I'm not going to take it anymore" outburst. We also hope that broadening the spectrum of autistic syndromes will enable every family experiencing a child who seems ' somehow peculiar', to have more drugs. And for those parents who find themselves obsessively rubbing their fretted foreheads, or, any others who are worried about the way things are going, help is on the way, given major advances on the issue of Fretted Brow Syndrome. Do you find yourself biting your nails, now and then? Believe me, we are on it already. We just need the APA to categorize it, so your insurance company will cover it.

In summary, the pharmaceutical industry is your friend. So, we ask you to do your part. If you have a disturbing thought now and then, it may be something we can treat chemically. If you find yourself uninterested in the new season's television offerings, we would like to hear from you. If you think something is wrong with the government, or the insurance companies, please let us know. If you, or any of your family members, seem bothered about something, please let us know. If you sometimes think, that maybe in the the future you or a loved one may have some kind of problem, let us know. (Prevention is good medicine.)

Don't settle for a lobotomy. Help is on the way. Thank you. And God bless America.

Your friendly pharmaceutical industry.

After driving for about an hour through a freezing rain, I discovered that the hubs of my truck's wheels had been decorated with a 'sunburst' of icicles!

'Garbage Dreams' follows three teenage boys born into the trash trade and growing up in the world's largest garbage village, on the outskirts of Cairo. It is the home to 60,000 Zaballeen, Arabic for "garbage people." Far ahead of any modern "Green" initiatives, the Zaballeen survive by recycling 80 percent of the garbage they collect. When their community is suddenly faced with the globalization of its trade, each of the teenage boys is forced to make choices that will impact his future and the survival of his community.

This award-winning documentary by Mai Isklander is a must-see for those interested in environmental issues. I haven't seen it, but I have read about it, and will see it when I can. Here's a Youtube posted trailer for the film. (Opening paragraph of this post was snatched from a review during a Google search on the topic. Author, unknown).

I am not much up to speed these days. In fact, I am behind on many fronts. I feel neither alarmed nor depressed. I feel like I am sitting around with my soul hooked up to a battery charger. In the back of my mind, I have ideas. They'll start popping up before long. Meanwhile, I am enjoying comfort foods. Currently, it is Jambalaya and smoked sausage, while glancing between the tv and the window.

There are a number of clubs in Nashville where you can catch honky talk country music, bluegrass, rock, or jazz.
The Station Inn is a bluegrass 'pickin' parlor. It is a place where many renowned bluegrass performers converge and perform. There are many surprise appearances by the old time bluegrass pickers, as well as jams by local pickers.

The video below offers a good example of the kinds of talent that shows up regularly at the Station Inn.

Off the Wagon performs "Girl from West Virginia" and "Hot Burrito Breakdown." So, if you have time, enjoy a few minutes of bluegrass coming to you from Nashville, Tennessee.

As you may know, the past few days I have been holed up in my house since roads have been hazardous with all the snow and ice. For two days it was impossible to go anywhere. My own driveway was an empasse. Yes, I did get out and walk. It was quite beautiful. But, I spent a lot of time in the house admiring the winter scape from the window.

I watched some tv, but most of it looked like manic self-indulgence unchecked. The recent Grammy Awards being more akin to a meth high than a celebration of the arts, by way of example. So, at last, I resorted to comfort foods, a blanket, and a book. And it was as I lay there reading one of my favorite authors, Borges, it occurred to me how much I love to hold a book in my hands. It has a certain weightiness in my hands. I have to adjust my laziness on the couch in order to keep holding it. I have to turn the pages. And then I wanted to lie on my side and read. I have to adjust the way I hold the book. It was a wrestling match I found so familiar, and actually comforting.

I realize this is the way I grew up. I held books. I escaped into them. I wrestled with them. I loved to walk through the university stacks and just smell books. It was like a perfume to me. Maybe a mixture of the paper, the ink, the glue binding. Old books smell like the past they came from.

Young people, perhaps make the transition to cyber-space easier than I. I was born into a world of heavy, smelly books. I loved laboring to hold them and turn the pages. There is something special about holding a book. Turning its pages. I suppose a rose by any other name might smell as sweet; Borges, on an IPad may resonate as well as on paper. It's a generational thing. I grew up loving the book.

Some are old school. Some are new school. Some, like me, ride the fence. Cyberspace has its own kind of richness. I have made some friends there, that's for sure! I try to keep up, although I am woefully behind my children. I am their pre-digital parent, trying to keep up. I am amazed to see the things they do. I love the whole idea of cyber-space. But, I must confess my covert, guilty pleasure is to hold an old book in my hands. To lay it down sleepily upon my face. And fall asleep smelling the meanings I would read about tomorrow.

I would like to invite you to check the photos by my friend, Dee, of the Narrows of the Harpeth River. This scenic place is about an hour's drive for me now. But, Dee lives there!! So, if you want to see some Tennessee loveliness, please click on
The Eighth Dimension.