Your Love Song is My Battle Cry

There are some people you meet in life who inspire you to be a better person simply because they exist. Jens was one of those people, as is his brother George.

As George's friend I came to know Jens in parallel. Jens and George were not their given names, only what they called themselves when they were young. And actually, it was Jens Peter, pronounced Yens Pay-tuh. That is an amusing story in and of itself, but right now it's not important. Besides, it is not my story to tell.

He was an amazing human, Jens was. Kind, sweet, thoughtful, and gentle, but sufficiently manly. The kind of guy mortal men wish to be. To my observation Jens had life pretty much all figured out. He was unflappable, always even-keeled. It just seemed like Jens was rarely ruffled by the twists and turns of life.

I understand that people often act differently in various situations, but in my interactions with Jens he always appeared to take everything in stride. In truth, Jens often seemed rather amused by the ups and downs that come with living on this planet. The smiling twinkle in his eye when confronted with some obstacle or challenge conveyed something along the lines of, "Oh, this is happening? Let's do this!"

As we do when we reminisce about our friends who have gone away too soon, I could go on and on about Jens. I will readily admit that as an only child I have often idealized friends and friends' siblings simply because I lacked my own. Let's just say that George's older brother was definitely the kind of big brother I would have wanted if I'd had one. That's not the point of this story, though, but it should say something about Jens' character.

I was an idiot twenty-five years ago. I was in my early twenties, a time when we're all convinced we know so much and yet have such a tiny grasp on what it all actually means. In retrospect, I was exceedingly clueless about so many things! I was learning to negotiate the world and Jens inadvertantly gifted me with a kernel of knowledge about perspective and grace.

Jens was getting married. He asked me to team up with his friend Tatum* and sing during the ceremony. At the time, I was definitely not wedding singer material. I was in a loud and aggressive band, but I was also a closet acoustic singer/songwriter type. I had become obsessed with Bob Marley and was learning some (way too many) of his songs. I had just learned No Woman, No Cry**. We met up at Tatum's apartment. After a few pleasantries and a bite to eat we got to work.

"We have a couple songs in mind, but do you have any suggestions?" Jens asked.

"Sure," I said, knowing I was ready. I remember feeling that it was like kismet or magic that I had just learned the most inspirational, touching song I knew at the time. "Let me play you No Woman and see what you think." Jens smiled politely.

In my mind, this was a song that was uplifting. It was an ode to women. To me, No Woman, No Cry was a song that reminds us that together we can get through anything in this world. In short, this was a song of encouragement, the strength of womanhood, of love and, maybe marriage, perhaps more. To me, it was the perfect song. It's got the whole notion of for better or worse baked right in. I mean, the refrain is "everything's gonna be all right" for crying out loud! Again, I thought it would be perfect.

At least that's how I saw it.

I sang my heart out, wringing emotion out of every note in the melody. As I remember, Tatum sang along, adding a nice harmony. Jens listened, smiling appreciatively. When I finished, I felt like I'd given one of the greatest performances of my life.

"Wow! That was great," Jens said. "You really did that song justice."

"Thanks," I said. Jens kind of chuckled to himself and took a sip of beer 

"Wonderful work," he said after a moment. "But I don't know if it's the right fit," Jens replied. It was then that Jens taught me a fundamental fact about art appreciation, particularly in terms of song lyric interpretation.

Evidently, Jens was not single when he met the woman he was about to marry. He was so taken with her that he immediately set about figuring out how to break up with his then-girlfriend. In his kind-hearted manner, he needed some extra support to let her down easy. The solution for Jens was to turn to some musical inspiration. He listened to one particular song over and over all night long. I'm sure, by now, you can guess which song helped Jens muster the fortitude to end his relationship.

"You can see why we might not want to have you sing that song, right?" Jens said.

Of course, I understood completely, but meanwhile my mind was blown. A song I saw as an ode to women and perseverance was the ultimate breakup song for Jens. Now that I am grown-ish, it is such an obvious notion that we all see things differently, but at that point in my young life I hadn't given it much thought. Jens really opened my eyes that day. He helped me appreciate how we can all have different perspectives and still get along. And he did it with such kindness and finesse, never crushing my enthusiasm or undermining my passion.

I am grateful that I was lucky enough to know him for a time. We lost touch as the years progressed, as you often do in life. I regret that after George's wedding a few years later we never again crossed paths before he passed. Yet this memory and a few others we shared shaped me in ways I couldn't have imagined at the time. I know I am a better person just for knowing him. He taught me that what is a love song for some may be a war song for others. You just never know.

12-31-19

*Not her real name.

**The history of this song is another story in itself!

Most Precious Gems

When you decide to go and move seven hundred sixty-nine miles away, a return visit to the old home state is a gift of faces you've not seen nearly enough or nearly as often as you'd like. Yet there are time constraints and invariably not enough time. Schedules conflict and prevent reunion or the moment is simply fleeting, perhaps a quick handshake or hug that fills up the heart when a lengthy conversation is impossible. But it is all these moments, however brief, crammed into so few hours that mean the most when you tromp back over the horizon and feel the indifferent jabs of loneliness pierce your psyche during the sleepless nights that come more than you'd like to admit. It is then that the sweetest memories and moments unfurl like a flickering reel from an old movie projector in your mind and provide a semblance of peace.

Afterall, it is moments that bring us together and make a lasting impact on the trajectories of our lives. And these moments are few.

You know the ones, the fun times, the shared times, the times that make for friendships you never imagined. All the times that result in stories that we laugh at later, even though they may have been incredibly trying to our souls or excruciatingly horrible at the time. The more life-threatening, jaw-dropping, or revolting the better!

In life, the moments that seem so awful when they are happening usually end up being the most memorable, or at least noteworthy, later on, especially when they are shared with family or friends. Let us not forget the occasional workplace misery shared with co-workers, (co-conspirators one and all), eye-rolling and exchanging inside jokes at the back of the meeting. These are your people! They help make life great.

These folks are the ones you miss the most. They are the ones you try to honor with your deeds as you move onto a new path, out into a world where you seldom see those old faces. Sure, you'll have new stories to tell, eventually, but it'll take some time. So, (and I know I'm repeating myself here), these moments are few. They may be small, seemingly insignificant moments in life, but they matter most. If you can cringe while you laugh about it as time goes on, then you have succeeded.

No one laughs about those times you followed all the rules. No one tells stories about the time everything went smoothly. We talk about the remarkable moments, the surprising moments, the moments full of groans and exasperation, the moments that are full of calamity and panic. These are the times we are thinking of when we double over and roll around on the floor in uncontrollable laughter. If we are lucky, hilarity ensues when we talk about all those dumpster fires we have lived through. The best stories, the ones worth retelling, are usually about gigantic and magnificent lapses in judgement.

We don't talk about the times we head home early and get a good night's rest. We talk about the fact that we're lucky to be alive and how absolutely shocking it is that no one got (permanently) hurt! If we are fortunate enough to live through our mistakes we learn from them and they become our badges of pride. These moments become our experiential honorary degrees of life lived to the fullest. These are the moments that make for the stories we tell over and over. At the very least, these moments crack us up and that's not nothing.

They are rare, these moments. In the grand scheme of things there's not much worth taking seriously, but these short moments should be.

12-27-19

Sutra for the Pessimistically Optimistic

Wherever I go,

There I am,

But a change of scenery is life-altering.

Literally.

I can't change time,

But I can get up earlier.

I can't change someone's tune,

But I can play a different song.

I can't change which way the wind blows,

But I can change course.

I can't do anything about everything that is wrong in the world,

Because that is insane,

But I can make change.

I can't change people's minds,

But I can change my shoes.

So,

I think I'll go for a run.

12-18-19

When We Dare to Cross the Stars

In some future, after we nearly annihilate ourselves for the seventh or eighth time we may just grow beyond our petty differences and finally, once and for all, learn to cooperate in the interest of our species and planet. Wouldn't that be swell?

In this new spirit of collaboration, we may just learn to focus our untapped energies and vast intelligence in a way that will allow us to figure out how to visit distant parts of our solar system, our galaxy, and the far-flung universe. It will surely be a new and bold era for the human animal. It is exactly the kind of moment that makes us so prone to believing our own hype. Mastering space travel will be just the kind of moment that gives us inflated egos and allows us to presume that we are somehow masters of all the realms. Again.

To be fair, in the past we have often considered this planet to be our own personal sandbox. Wherever we have gone we have shaped and cajoled and generally done as we've pleased without regard for why, or if, we should. We have rarely asked the permission of the colonized if we could come ashore and start mixing it up. If we dare to leave this planet and travel through space, crossing galaxies to distant stars, it really will be a daring risk worthy of admiration, even if it is self admiration. At that time, how could we not look upon our future creation as anything but marvelous and maybe preordained in some way? It would be easy to assume we are the top of the heap. Of course, we would be wrong.

With a little luck, this great future human moment will be a much greater success than merely taming physics and jet propulsion. In that moment we will harness our greatest strengths, abandon our most glaring weaknesses, and step into the role of intergalactic ambassadors. We will absolutely have to work together. This will be an endeavor requiring complete dedication and effort from all of humanity. We will need to quell our raging egos. It will require us to think and act altruistically.

But, I mean, let's be honest, a lot has to happen before then. This is assuming that we don't completely obliterate ourselves and our safe-ish little home, which is even right now, hurtling precariously through space. Let's just agree that there are a lot of moving parts. This is also arrogantly assuming that we will be the first to cross the stars. There's just as much likelihood that we will be visited by some technologically advanced species before then. If that be the case, one can optimistically hope they will regard us kindly and treat us gently, like a favored lapdog. (Pessimistically, of course, there is a not un-large fear that an alien visit would result in what could only be described as a certain kind of karmic equalization.)

All that aside, when we go, and knowing humans as I think I do, we will go, (given the opportunity and proper motivation, as well as the actual technological advances this necessitates), we will need some guiding mission statement. We will require a set of agreed upon norms to help us navigate not only the vast distances of space, but also the (hopefully) inevitable interactions with other intelligent beings. It is necessary that we shall not venture forth until we have some very sound laws or principles governing our behavior and exploratory adventures.

Essentially, what I'm saying, I think, is that we can't just cavalierly strut onto the surface of another planet and bend the inhabitants to our will. (I mean, unless that's our thing, which, come to think of it, the sweep of our history kind of leads one down that path... Hmm?)

I believe we will be a better species by then. We will have to be, if we are to learn anything from the previous seven or eight near-annihilations we will have lived through by then! We will have a better sense of how to build a world that values everyone. We will know that imposing our demands on others rarely works for long. We will have learned, by the grace of all the gods, how to care for Earth's flora and fauna as though it were an extension of ourselves, because it is. We will have to understand that trying to trade a few glass beads for an entire planetary body just ain't going to cut it this time! The colonizers of the past are no example. We will have to be at an elevated level of intelligence by then.

Or Heaven help us!

So, that is why, even as we are generations away from this potentiality, I offer my own two cents to sort of get the ball rolling. Who knows how long it will take to come to some sort of agreement on how to interact with intelligent life on other planets. In short, we need ground rules for whatever ground we touchdown upon. Afterall, no matter what we want to believe, the universe is not our personal oyster ripe for the shucking!

More importantly, as we prepare to make this leap we will (eventually) no longer identify as Earthlings for this will surely be a one way trip. We will have need to stay in touch with what makes us human. As we venture beyond the limits of our imaginations, forever severing the bonds that tie us to this planet, our humanity will be the only thing we have left. Hopefully it will suffice. I'm not sure what these guidelines will be called, but I am calling them:

The Interstellar Travelers and Expeditionary Laws on Encountering Planetary Life

1. Be not a conqueror, but tread lightly as a friend.

2. Stand not in judgment, but seek knowledge and understanding.

3. Act not to exploit, but to trade fairly with other worlds.

4. Remember that it costs nothing to be kind.

5. Always keep in mind that advanced technology is not a license for subjugation or oppression.

6. Give no pretense of divinity, but act with humility as a mortal should.

These are just a start. Not a bad batch of ideas in my opinion. One could even adapt and apply them to our interactions here on Earth while we wait for our rockety future. Sure couldn't hurt!

See you after the next cataclysm.

12-13-19

#17,435

The clock is always running,

As it was before,

And will be evermore.

And these priceless few,

Fleeting moments each,

All that we will get.

The overwhelming mystery,

Possible surprise endings,

Hanging over our heads,

Just out of reach,

Like some perpetual Damoclesian horror.

Yet,

We consciously conscientious beasts,

Rather than embracing finitude,*

Choose instead to forget.

We ignore the warning signs,

Pretending immortality,

Wrapped up in our daily functions,

As if they mean anything at all.

We should,

Instead,

Unravel our souls,

To revel in the beauty that surrounds us.

We should stop for one single second,

And know,

Feel,

Hear.

There is love extending and reflecting,

Between us all,

Endless opportunity to make right now,

This moment,

The only one that counts.

Because what else is there?

12-6-19

*It's a word. Really.

Not Reserved for a Thursday in November

We take for granted all that we have,

all the blessings bequeathed to us,

fortunes placed at our feet.

We wake up in our beds,

each day secure in our homes,

with smiling family and friends to greet.

Material things aside,

love is what matters most,

in this life that can be so fleet.

Think of those who have much less,

alone, insecure, tossed out,

discarded like things obsolete.

Give thanks for your luck,

every morning and night,

for all that makes your life complete.

11-28-19

Carpe Every Other Diem

Tomorrow is another day, until it's not.

That sounds like something the late, great wordsmith Yogi Berra may have said. At first, it sounds ridiculous, idiotic even. Yet perhaps, at second glance, it seems as though it may have a deeper meaning, albeit unintentionally so.

There's a fine line between genius and hogwash, it would seem.

Whether brilliant or simpleminded 'tis a reminder to make the most of right now because later ain't guaranteed. Don't look back with regrets, right? But here's the rub-a-dub-dub, this life we live is chock full of big responsibilities. There's just so much to do, so many requirements and demands on our time. I mean, it's a lot. Like, so, so much! How can one even start to live life like you're dying? (Um, duh, by the way!)

It is enough to make one feel a bit overwhelmed. For instance, how would one really, like actually, go about wringing the most from every day? Just thinking about it makes me fancy a nap. There are certain expectations. Bars are set high. There's too much pressure. And if one were to, say, not make the most of a single day or maybe a bunch of 'em, what then?

Guilt.

Ravaging and raging guilt, because what excuse is there? None. The message to get cracking is clear and constant! No rest for the weary or wicked or whiny or whatever! Live fast, die stupid, and leave people with questions at your wake. At least make your mark on the sky like some gassy frat boy who crop-dusts a birthday party at Applebee's. Paint the town red or at least mauve. Sleep when you're dead!

No thanks. It's exhausting. Furthermore, this is not a plan for lasting health.

Believe me, no one has bigger dreams than I do. I've heard whispers, (in my head), that I have grand delusions. That is truish enough. You could say I have squad car goals. (Is that the right phrase?) I am looking to use up every iota of every minute of every day. But then, of course, there are times when I just want to sit. Rest awhile on my laurels or lack thereof. You know, sort of write an I.O.U. to myself for living my best life at a more convenient time. I admit, it is a kind of a Hedbergian approach to milking life for all it's worth.

In all seriousness, (as if that's possible), big dreams, aspirations, challenging goals, these are important. It's good to want to make something of yourself. And it is a worthwhile endeavor to avoid wasting days when you can. But maybe the marrow of life is not just about filling our days to the brim. Perhaps it is more rewarding when we just experience the moments.

Maybe the true measure of a life well-lived is how present and connected we are on a regular basis. That trip to Morocco sounds fabulous, but sharing a loving moment with another human being is immeasurable in its importance for our souls. Plus, and maybe more importantly, all this go-go-go stuff is just plain tiring.

That is why I am pleased to announce my new campaign for responsible most-making of our lives. It is based on the notion of alternately seizing of days supplemented by alternate days of like, not. It will be rolled out next month or perhaps the next. I'm not sure exactly. I'm too tired to figure it out right now, plus like, I'm making everything from scratch for Thanksgiving, so I'm super busy.* I'm all about that YOLO** pie crust!

11-22-19

*That is an entirely false statement. I mean, there's stuff I need to binge-watch on Netflix. Then there's the matter of borrowing someone's credentials for Disney+...

**You only live once.

What Are You Going to Do About It?

Kiss your kids. Hug on your family. Hold the ones you love close to your heart. Feel their souls pulsing against yours. It is fleeting.

As a reminder, we are all headed to the same destination. Whatever comes next, there's no point in arguing. No matter which side you come down on, it's still the end of this part of the journey. In other words, all arguing, bickering, grudge-holding, shouting, demeaning, oppressing, or annihilating one another is pointless. Our little battles, our meaningless territorial stakeouts, our vapid victories, and vicious vicissitudes are less than nothing when compared with the very rock beneath our feet.

We are dust mites with mighty egos!

So, be totally present with the love in your life or go find the love that still eludes you. Go toward the good and kind. We cannot control the chaos, but we can muzzle our rapier-like tongues. Let us harness our brawny-dumb muscles. We must holster our rage and face the universe with our highly-evolved, though miserably under-used, intellect.

We are all in this together. Let's act like it.

11-15-19

St. Mark's Blues

To some,

It appears that the water is rising.

Others say,

No,

It is the land that is sinking.

But as the flood inches closer to your door,

Eager to swallow everything you know,

It is,

In reality,

Too late to argue.

11-14-19

To Our Veterans

Thanks doesn't seem to be enough.

Not for you who,

Signed up,

Volunteered,

Willingly put your lives on the line,

Gave all.

Your sense of duty is remarkable.

Your service is beyond compare.

You stand guard,

Night and day,

So that children can play,

So that liberty goes unmolested,

So that freedom rings without restraint.

You who go into battle,

You who make us safe,

You who walk toward danger,

You who,

Without question,

Deserve our unwavering gratitude.

Thank you for what you have done,

For what you do,

For who you are.

As citizens,

It is all we can offer,

Knowing that it doesn't quite,

And will never,

Cover our debt to all of you.

11-11-19

After a Year

This morning, it smelled of smoke outside. Another wildfire? I wondered.

It made me shudder on a day like today. Maybe it's just some olfactory manifestation of memory one year on. Maybe just coincidence. Regardless, the memories came back.

A clear blue sky, cloudless. That's how these stories always begin, right? But it's important, because the immaculate, clean, pure sky is such a contrast for what's to come. It's never good. We look back on those pristine moments longingly, wishing with all we are that it could somehow erase the horror that came later.

It was windy. Bright and sunny. There's that blue sky again, swept clean of lingering fog and agricultural particulate. As I made my way to the office on some errand during my prep time I noticed a strange cloud. It seemed to originate from the very horizon, like a volcanic plume. It was due north and visible right between the main office building and our gymnasium. That's not right, I thought.

The southern California valley where I grew up, surrounded on all sides by rugged hills covered in waving grasses, dense shrubs, and a scattering of oak trees, as it was, created something of a regular tinderbox. These hills became a Hellscape every fall as the fierce Santa Ana winds whipped the flames into the sky, creating panic and apocalyptic scenes. (And still do today.) Now, I was looking at something familiar, but it took me a moment to recognize the frightening sight. My stomach dropped. I asked a colleague nearby what they thought.

"Just a cloud."

"With the wind, though?" I said. "That's no cloud."

All summer fires had been igniting and threatening all around the northern California valley I now called home. Here was another. Easy to dismiss as just a typical part of California life. I asked around, but no one had heard anything. I finished my task and went out to check again. Indeed, the plume was growing, filling the sky with darkness. I tried a quick search on my phone before returning to class and found a mention of something called the Camp Fire, out near Paradise.

"I've been to Paradise" was once something I liked to say in conversation. Back when I was young and adventurous, (read: dumb), I'd gone with friends for a chance to jump off cliffs and, maybe, drink beer in the sun. We meandered our way to a place called Buzzard's Roost. On the way we'd stopped in town for, um, supplies. It dawned on me that it was pretty cool to actually get to visit a place called paradise. I was certain that it was an amazing thing. I was struck by the notion that others should know it actually existed and that you could, like, go there!

Now, years later, it was on fire. There at school, I knew it was bad, but not the full extent. Only later would we all learn that Paradise pretty much burned to the ground. Harrowing tales of survivors fleeing the inferno have been widely reported. Eighty-five people perished and one can only hope their suffering was short in duration. By that afternoon, the smell of smoke was obvious everywhere around my campus more than eighty miles away. The north wind pushed the smoke right down into the valley, draping a suffocating blanket over our part of the world for weeks.

In the end, Paradise burned down and it's not some Joni Mitchell song. It happened. It's hard not to hear that, to see the devastation, to mourn the loss of life, to wonder just how it happened. To wonder, What in the Hell is going on? It is easy to jump to conclusions and think that the sky is falling, especially when last year, it really seemed to do just that. Everything seemed to be burning. Everywhere.

A year later and the town of Paradise is rising up, remembering. Paradise is not lost. It is resilient. But how far toward the brink can we go and still recover? Every tragedy takes a little bit from us all, the cost to replenish our souls a little heavier every time.

It's hard to imagine the amount of strength and determination those who survived must have. They are miracles. It is unfathomable to think of the sorrow and pain the families of those who weren't so lucky must feel. These things are never easy and have long term repercussions. It's also not hard to see the whole thing as a lesson on something a whole lot deeper.

11-8-19

Puzzle

Sleepless.

Coffee for one,

In the dark.

Left to my own devices,

I drift,

Without purpose.

Oh,

My soul's companion,

How I miss you when you're away!

You may be in the next time zone,

Or over by the Bay,

But it may,

Just as well,

Be to the far side of the Earth,

For all the ache I feel.

Like the lovelorn,

On deserted coasts,

Waiting for ship's return,

Or the pioneer,

Writing unanswered letters day after day,

I am less,

And missing my best piece,

Without you here

11-6-19

Travel Writing from Earth

10.31.2019- 23:27h

SETI Array, Hat Creek Observatory, California

INTERCEPTED NEAR-EARTH UNIDENTIFIED SOURCE TRANSMISSION #934,546,721.u.f.o.;

(Translation)

TRANSMISSION BEGINS:

"Global position, 38.5805° N, 121.5302° W

Report Status: Normal

Summary on infiltration and observation of traditional ritualized disguise donning, transit pathway ambulation, followed by randomly selected domicile visitations, and saccharine packet transactions after dark, (which I believe is referred to as "Halloween"), by speaking two-legged animals.

Smallish speaking two-legged animals opt for a variety of disguises with which to portray various versions of other speaking two-legged animals. These disguises may pay tribute to living and deceased speaking two-legged, even four-legged animals or fictionalized versions of speaking and non-speaking animals, especially those imbued with unnatural or extraordinary powers, as well as apparently frightening creatures of imaginary status. (Although, it should be noted that a small percentage of the speaking two-legged disguise wearing populace selects costuming apparel that is surprising in their resemblance to our own large eye/large-headed appearance; resulting from ROSWELL, Earth Year: 1947?)

Tradition also appears to encourage decorative embellishments of participating domiciles in a variety of non-essential bric-a-brac, (I have deduced that this is a fancy Earth word for junk), primarily in shades of orange and black. A supplemental activity of this tradition seems to be focused on various rotund, gourd-like Earth vegetables, which are not ingested, but often given disfigured faces and lit from within by some sort of primitive lighting device or even fire, and then placed on/near domicile entry points.

The tradition seems designed to support community bonding with subtle threats and/or rewards requirement:

e.g. Small, speaking two-legged animals ambulate on transit pathways to multiple domiciles of unfamiliar, non-familial speaking two-legged animals at which juncture there is banging and/or ringing of domicile alert system by smallish speaking two-legged animals to encourage unfamiliar, large speaking two-legged domicile resident animal to emerge and begin interaction. When domicile portal is manually opened the phrase "HAPPY HALLOWEEN" is typically uttered by domicile resident, while small two-legged animals in disguises often reply at excessive volume "TRICK OR TREAT," at which time saccharine packets are dropped into pouches. This may be followed by inquisitive speech from domicile resident RE disguise and "how cute"/"how scary" small two-legged animal appears in said disguise. Transaction appears complete as domicile resident admonishes small speaking two-legged animals to observe safety precautions and to maximize enjoyment.

Small speaking two-legged animals are typically accompanied by familial large speaking two-legged animals, often and also with speech of excessive volume admonishing small speaking two-legged animals to observe safety requirements, to exercise caution, to wait until return to primary domicilie is complete before ingesting any of the saccharine packet contents, to ambulate at a moderate pace, and to "FOR CRYING OUT LOUD>STOP> I SAID STOP>JUST STOP OR WE WILL GO HOME RIGHT NOW<DEVONTAY," etc...

Tradition seems to last for one to two hours of Earth time before the transit pathways become unfrequented by speaking two-legged creatures of any type. At this point, the gourd-like vegetables are extinguished and the domiciles are often darkened, with the groups of speaking two-legged animals returning to prime domicile with large quantities of saccharine packets.

Further monitoring of darkened domiciles may reveal encounters of two-legged animal aggressive conversational interactions with speech in regards to the need for general hygiene and the rest period being past optimum time for beginning. There are also often complaints from small speaking two-legged animals in regards to ingesting abnormal quantities of saccharine packets and excessive volume speech along the lines of "GOD> YOU NEVER LET ME DO ANYTHING." This may be followed by negotiations of some kind or another that lead, typically to compromise or the display of excessive speaking volume statements by large two-legged animals like, "TWO> I SAID TWO OR ALL OF IT GOES INTO THE GARBAGE>OLIVIA." At various times, these excessive speaking volumes lead to the wailing and additional moisture production in occular organs of small speaking two-legged animals within the domicile.

Summation:

The tradition is supportive of the speaking two-legged animal community, but seems to be rife with stressful situations that often lead to two-legged animal sadness, frustration, and excessive speaking volumes. It has many similarities to other speaking two-legged animal traditions:

i.e. general and frequent large familial gatherings, individual celebrations RE revolutions around the local star, and the Earth cold season tradition of the obese red-suited speaking two-legged animal that is a gift dispenser for many small speaking two-legged animals.

Conclusion:

Speaking two-legged animals of planet Earth are very simple, but also oddly complicated."

END TRANSMISSION.

11-1-19

Why I Love to Run #57

In the wee hours,

as morn whittles away the night,

In that darkness,

a little before dawn's light,

It seems crazy,

but it's when I like to run.

I can move like a ghost through the world as I get my workout done.

And even more is the random chance to see,

The rare and perhaps extraordinary.

Why just this morning,

as I ambled down a cold,

empty street,

I had the opportunity,

shock really,

to suddenly greet,

A creature that I couldn't believe was actually real,

It bobbed along the asphalt like a little lost seal.

Now to be sure,

my edge of suburbia is basically a swamp.

It's crisscrossed with waterways where all manner of animals tromp.

But I was stunned and so was my little friend.

We both stopped in our tracks to silently comprehend,

How we came to meet in this random way,

Staring dumbly at each other with not a thing to say.

And then the little beast turned tail and fled,

With survival in mind,

Or possibly dread.

It tottered away in a wobbly flash.

I gave chase,

of course,

but I'm no good in a dash.

I was hot on its trail,

like a dog on the scent,

But I lost that perp,

I had no idea where it went.

I was left with nothing,

just a story to tell.

At least the rest of my run went well.

It was like something straight from a police blotter,

This morning,

when I came face to face with an otter.

10-29-19

Right Where You Stand

Right where you stand, that ground you walk upon, imagine the innumerable things that little piece of land has seen.

Perhaps it is sacred ground, hallowed, even. Maybe the ground you tread is the site of some notable historic moment. Or maybe, like me, it's just one of the millions of square miles of Earth that has, since the beginning, been silent witness to the turning of the universe. Just a piece of Earth's vast acreage, somewhere on the outskirts of any ol' town, like Sacramento, say. Imagine if this unassuming dirt could talk. Just imagine. Go back through time. Go back, back, back.

Darkness.

Hmm, just before the spark that ignited infinite galaxies. Perhaps that's a bit too far. OK, moving forward with a bang a few billion years...

Through those years, this material that will become unassuming dirt is surrounded by molten rock, thrust upward, exploding into a hellish landscape of unstable existence, only to be subsumed once again by cataclysmic upheaval and endless reformations. In time, long slow time, it cools, collects dust and volcanic ejecta. Then, with the atmosphere cooling down, water starts to fall. This is something new! This water floods the land and eventually there is darkness once again, but in the darkness there is movement. The presence of wiggling and bumping. Yes, an eager bumbling and thrashing about! Life in fits and starts. A fumbling toward something else, something rEvolutionary!

But in the meantime, floods and dry spells. Greenery covers anything with dirt in small threads at first, and then the myriad of growth from shrubs to the tallest trees take root, spreading far and wide. This is the land, telling about lifting up, crashing down. Volcanoes always threatening.

Given the ability, this spot of land could tell tales of the unfolding of time. Oceans coming and going. Mountains rising and falling, with new peaks stretching toward the sky. More volcanic rumblings. This spot could tell of meandering riverbeds, drifting this way and that, unhindered by man. It could speak to the cycle of flood waters that doused this land with fertile soil and made an Edenic garden, swollen with potential, like the rivers themselves, so swollen with silt and the glittering flakes that will one day drive future man insane.

If given opportunity, this spot could converse factually about prehistoric beasts, sagging under their own weight, lumbering toward extinction. It could tell of a time when woolly mammoth and saber cats passed, uneasily eyeballing each other, unaware of the two-legged threat just around that ice sheet. It could describe the flora and fauna of millennia. It could mimic the song of the yellow-billed magpie, the desperate wail of the coyote, and the low, satisfied grumblings of the occasional bear.

Given the chance, this ground could attest to the coming of the first humans to this valley. How they walked gingerly onto this spot, exploring, adapting, surviving, following the deer and the rabbit. It could bear witness to the comings and goings of these new creatures and how they settled into this place and gave it a name, Natomas, though the ancient name, unknown to all but the very Earth, remains unspoken. This ground could share how these humans made feasts of acorns and how they passed in and out of the world, like the clouds, for thousands of years.

It is possible that from this very spot the beginning of a new era could have been witnessed as tired, half-starved men on horseback ventured past. This random location could tell of tall-masted ships that appeared floating on the rivers to the south, first one, and then dozens. In time, this ground would relate, how new people from every corner of the globe, stricken with a golden fever, infested the land, driving off the first people, chasing away the animals, and constructing a new domain. This ground would also complain about how they all: Just. Kept. Coming.

And how they come here still.

This ground could tell stories of leviathans to rival the dinosaurs that came chugging and gasping into view, lurching down from the mountains, blasting black smoke into the sky. It could describe the whistles and bells of the riverboats, and how, if the wind was just right you could hear the churning of the paddle wheels in the everflowing rivers of silt all the way over here. It could describe the new-fangled gasoline-fed vehicles that putt-putted with abandon hither and yon. This patch of uninteresting earth could describe with wonder how those vehicles changed their spots faster then any animal this ground had ever seen.

This land, if gifted with voice, would describe how it was turned and tilled, grazed and fallowed for years. It could describe with hilarious detail how the people ran in a panic as some nearby volcanic giant blew its top for the first time in ten-thousand years, reminding them that this world is impermanent and prone to sudden change, but usually it's almost imperceptible. It would speak enviously of parts of the valley that received raining bits of smoking lava while it received none.

It would whine about being scraped flat and smooth, creating a long, straight gash that buzzing birds used to touch down out of the wild blue. Perhaps, this ground would casually tell of its meager brush with fame when silent film star Buster Keaton flew in on one of those buzzing birds and jumped out onto the dirt, walking on shaky legs across this very spot to make a movie.

This little plot, it could describe the comings of roads and highways, the rise of downtown buildings that rival the distant mountain peaks. It could spin yarns of roving youth on BMX bikes looking for thrills. It would relate tales of surreptitious figures lurking in night-shadowed fields looking to shotgun beers from cans that they squashed and left to deteriorate. This land, if you could hear it, would tell of new houses and families growing up nearby. It could relate, in detail the coming of an immense structure that brought basketball and loud concerts, along with thousands of vehicles and shuffling feet to this quiet corner of the city. This patient ground would tell of calling out the name displayed on its side, Arcoa Rena, but to no avail. (Yes, the land understands language, it just can't speak.) This ancient land would talk disappointedly of being saddled with a mute behemoth, frenemies from the start.

This ground, it could talk endlessly about the loneliness of this outpost north of the city, except on game days or when Ozzy came to town. It might share the stories of lonely travelers streaking past on the highway in the grey light of dawn, how they gazed at that improbable arena in sleep-deprived disbelief, wondering why on Earth it made sense to anyone to build it there. This random spot on a randomly lucky planet in a random and unstable universe could tell so much, if only it could speak. It could describe current events or how it watched its neighbor, the arena, take on a new name and then, one day, go dark, how more identical homes sprouted, and a little school was built right here.

This ground, so old and wise, might chuckle a little when one of those same early morning travelers, all grown up, came to work at that little school many years later.

This ground, a potentially excellent conversationalist without vocal capability, might relate how strange it is to see all of time, knowing that in time everything will change. Surely, this ground would speak confidently on the subject of how one day all of it will crumble, and shuffle, and be riven into dust only to be reformed into the next patch of land. And this little bit of earth would smile, if it could, thinking of all the stories it will tell then.

10-25-19

Yeah, I Read the Book

I'm a certified book lover,

All the truths we can discover,

It's been my habit for quite some time.

All these novels and rhymes,

A distraction divine,

I love every word some authors write.

But it hit me tonight,

Between the eyes just right,

As to why I have read all of these books.

It wasn't the knowing looks,

As I perused tomes on wizards or crooks,

And other assorted and strange topics.

Both of Miller's Tropics,

90s authors strung out on ironics,

And numerous works of non-fiction.

I had no idea it was not my own edification,

But for the coming education:

Yes, the learnin' of my dear little spawn.

They speak with knowing yawns,

Of adultish rights and wrongs,

But they don't have the depth to dive in.

As if there's no better time to be alive in,

I mean they missed cassette tapes and the drive-in,

And they believe every thing they think is correct.

Fortuitous preparation in full effect,

On far ranging subjects I can direct,

My little ones to the waters of truth.

And with scientific proof,

We can learn and debate, forsooth!

We develop sound arguments of reason.

So, all those pages of love and treason,

Dangerous archaeology in every season,

Have prepared me well for just now.

When my middle schooler wonders why and how,

And my high schooler is just, like, wow!

I know the library of my mind will have the answer.

10-24-19

A Friendly Ear is Hard to Find

"I need to find friends my own age," Sebastian Tindelbaugh says to no one in particular. Sebastian, considering himself a great, if not marvelous, conversationalist, remains steadfastly unconcerned with audience. He believes that listeners will gather 'round in the manner of Twainian story-tellers or street performers, who seem to accrue a crowd like weeds to a garden left untended.

"It's on about now," he continues, "that you find yourself kind of alone, not lonely, mind you, just sort of in a deficit of familiar faces. As a veteran of the world; I mean fifty-six is gettin' on. I'm pretty well established, but I've noticed that the trusted comrades, all those folks who knew me when and well, have started to shuffle off or just, maybe drift. Nothing can be done. This is the way of the world. We ebb and flow, you know?"

His question, low-rent rhetorical, of course, goes unanswered. Sebastian Tindelbaugh shifts uncomfortably in the momentary silence. His big-box brand sneakers squeak quietly under the strain. He is all too aware that his athletic socks are digging into his shins. He clears his throat, mindlessly scratching the paunch drooping over his waistband like a Quebecois fur-trapper's trophy of pelts.

"We're all on our own adventure, you see," Tindelbaugh states. "Sometimes you have traveling companions, but then, I don't know. There's a fork in the old road or something. You go one way, everybody else chooses their own path. Maybe they're lost. Maybe you are, but not for long, right? Anyway, you find the forest is unfamiliar and populated with new folks, different, though not unfriendly, but they're on their own adventure too, so, like, you're speaking different languages. Everyone is a stranger. It's hard." He sighs. Looks around. No one seems particularly interested.

"You do anything long enough," he presses on. "And you become an oddity, maybe. They. Younger folks is who I mean, no offense, mind you. They look at you as sort of pleasantly out of touch or maybe, uninformed, like I haven't lived on the Earth for some time." The word pathetic pops into his mind, but he refuses to utter such a thing. Sebastian Tindelbaugh absolutely refuses to attend pity-parties, even his own.

"Pay attention, now," he says. "This is important," he nods knowingly, but doesn't wait for any response. "There's a difference between being stubborn and knowledgeable, sort of, uh, well-versed, you know? I mean, I'm not over-the-hill, I still got a lot left in the tank. I got some things to share, but too often, I get treated like some kind of dinosaur. I'm not, you know? A dinosaur. I'm-"

"Like I said, your order is all ready, sir," the kid says, interrupting. The kid sets Sebastian's sandwiches on the counter and turns to help the next customers without another thought.

"Thanks," Sebastian says, blinking back the, what is it? Tears? No, never! The isolation? "No one listens anymore," he says quietly.

Out in the car, his daughter opens her sandwich, shakes her head.

"I said no cheese!" she complains.

"Must'a forgot," Sebastian replies.

"No one listens anymore," she mocks, though it's pretty clear she has someone in mind.

10-18-19

Bar Soap

It's a body-wash era,

This modern world is.

So,

I know,

It's old-fashioned,

But to me,

There's nothing,

Really,

Quite like a fresh,

New bar of soap,

Representing cleanliness,

Beginnings,

Second-chances,

Not to mention hygiene.

A fragrant,

(Though unscented),

Bar of soap,

Recently unboxed,

Birthed deliberately from cardboard,

Reliably waiting,

Shower silent,

In the morning darkness,

Is a revelation.

That is,

Of course,

If,

(And it is a questionable if),

You have taken the time to replenish,

Previously,

Over the course of spouse-away days,

With no one to go and retrieve.

Each morning,

In bleary-eyed suffering,

Showers of soap scraps,

Tiny slippery slivers,

So difficult to hold onto,

Turning the act of cleaning up into a weird,

And frustrating,

Game of hide and seek.

So,

There you are,

Blindly rinsing shampooed hair,

Reaching across the gulf,

In the black rain of a pre-dawn shower,

Suddenly recalling the dire suds condition,

The leave-it-for-later lather roulette,

In short:

The self-imposed lack of soap.

And you are stuck,

Wondering if you've let yourself down,

Contemplating the whole,

Shut the shower off,

Half dry yourself then scoot,

Feet on towel,

Totally exposed,

Across bathroom to cupboard,

To negotiate cellophane and damp cardboard,

Then shuffle back to shower,

Freezing,

Facing a future of soggy,

Disappointing,

Already-damp-towel,

Only to have fingers find that you,

Have indeed,

(Thank the Almighty!),

Remembered.

10-17-19

Random Haiku #1

Infuriating,

seasons change without regard,

for poor souls like us.

10-15-19

Upon the Shelves in the Warehouse of My Mind

I believe that if you don't have anything nice to say...

I believe you shouldn't interfere in the lives of others.
I believe that you should mostly mind your own business.
I believe that if what you're doing works for you then you should just go on and do it.
I believe that we too often worry about what others may think.

I believe that on their deathbed no one will regret learning from their mistakes,
Or offending the neighbors,
Or staying up too late.

I believe that even if you don't like something,
Or disagree,
Or disapprove,
That you should still mind your own business.
Stay in your own lane,
If you will.

I believe reality is far stranger than fiction.
I believe you should believe what you want to believe,
Because it doesn't make any difference.
People will either agree with you,
Or they won't,
But I believe you can't worry about that.

I believe in truth.

I believe my opinion matters,
Sometimes,
But not always,
Actually,
Probably never,
Except to me.

I believe in justice.
I believe in right and wrong.

I believe in the good that resides inside us all,
Well,
In some people.
I believe most people are OK,
But some,
Hmm....

I believe that,
Sometimes,
You should keep your mouth shut.

I believe I forget that advice all the time.

I believe in the universal connectedness of humanity.
I believe we are stronger together.
I believe some people just don't get that.
I believe we have to help ourselves.
I believe you should lend a helping hand.

I believe we should not build our success upon the backs of others.

I believe hard work makes a difference.
I believe that sometimes hard work isn't enough.

I believe there is more than one way to do most things.
I believe some people are very particular about how things are done.
I believe that's called being obstinate.

I believe in honesty.
I believe in reckonings.

I believe your prayers are your own business,
As is who you love.

I believe age and experience are correlated,
But experience is not always dependent upon age.
I believe wisdom is achievable at any age.
I believe our society has a tendency to glorify youth,
Except when youth runs counter to established beliefs.
When that happens youth is viewed as being spoiled and ungrateful,
Misguided,
And under the influence of unsavory ideas.

I believe children are more capable than we give them credit for.

I believe that I now know less than I did.
I believe that I once had an over-inflated sense of my understanding of the universe.

I believe that love is just about all that matters in this life.
I believe that if you are charmed enough to have love in your life,
Well,
Congratulations,
Celebrate and thank your lucky stars.

I believe that you should always speak up for what's right,
Not what's popular,
Always.
I believe that is a difficult thing to do.

10-10-19

Mike & Gabe Hash It Out for the Umpteenth Time

"I'm so disappointed!" Mike grumbles, observing the invading tanks rolling across yet another border. "We never do anything anymore."

"It's all part of The Plan," Gabe says, making note of the battalions of soldiers involved in this latest incursion over what is essentially an imaginary line. "Who even uses tanks these days?" They both bank right to avoid an incoming air assault squadron. Moments later, their faces are ominously illuminated as the incendiary bombs erupt in what a crayon company might dub Apocalyptic Orange.

"All we do is watch, observe, maybe perform some minor interventions; very minor," Mike complains, ignoring Gabe's question. Small-arms fire sprays from alleyways, echoing off the buildings that have not already been reduced to rubble. "Remember the old days?"

"Don't start with the old days crap! This is the mission," Gabe says, changing altitude and angle for a better perspective. "What's that one thing that one guy wrote that soldiers in the movies always recite?"

"The 'do and die' thing?" Mike responds, nonchalantly taking evasive action to avoid a rogue RPG.

"Yeah."

"Tennyson."

"Right! Lord Tennyson, funny man," Gabe smiles. "Anyway, he had it on the nose. We just do the mission. It's not up to us to ask questions."

"So, your take is we just follow orders no matter the outcome?" Mike huffs, avoiding a column of dark, billowing smoke roiling into the sky.

"Do you see another way?" Gabe replies, taking notice of a well-executed flanking move on the part of the invading military. Opposing forces are in disarray.

"Obviously, I adhere to the Word of law, but when it comes to questionable outcomes, I'm not sure," Mike admits.

"You follow orders every time and you know it, because you know the stakes if you don't!" Gabe scoffs. "You've seen what happens when these things are questioned."

"So, whatever the directive you will just follow it blindly?" Mike says, unable to ignore the agonized cries below. He shifts to a higher position to cut the noise. 

"Well, you're technically in command, so yeah," Gabe says, his passively-aggressive tone patently undisguised.

"Here we go," Mike sighs.

"What? I'm just sayin' what's true and factual," Gabe says. "You're in command, so you call the shots. You're the one everyone looks to on these matters and..." Gabe trails off.

"Go on, say it!" Mike demands, just as an antiaircraft round goes off in the airspace nearby.

"Nevermind," Gabe says, checking his wings for flak damage.

"Say it!"

"Fine! You get all the press! None of the rest of us ever get mentioned." Gabe says in a rush.

"That isn't true in the slightest and you know it!" Mike chastises.

"Well, partly," Gabe responds, sullen, pretending to focus on a skirmish far across this latest battlefield. "You're usually the only one who gets the recognition. The rest of us are just kind of lumped together."

"C'mon, Gabe," Mike says. "All those accounts and writings are subjective. These things change over time and the real truth will come out. What we do isn't about glory and fame. It's about right and wrong. Good versus evil."

"Good versus evil, really? Then how come you don't do anything to set the record straight?" Gabe asks.

"What am I supposed to do?" Mike questions. "Start shouting from the rooftops that teamwork makes the dream work? That despite what you may have heard I am not the one in charge?"

"Exodus, 23:1, Mike!" Gabe says. He spots a platoon surrounding a family compound full of unarmed civilians. "Minor intervention?" he asks.

"I'm not spreading a false report!" Mike shouts. "Besides, you get plenty of press, Messenger!"

"Don't get mad," Gabe says. "What about that compound?"

"Negative," Mike says. "Just leave off the false report stuff, Gabriel. Besides, it's not like you don't have your own things."

"Like what?" Gabe asks innocently, maneuvering away from what can only be called an atrocity. 

"Oh-ho! So, now you don't like to toot your own horn, is that it?" Mike asks. "I'll leave it at that. Go ahead and take care of that bomb falling over that school," Mike points.

"That's such an unsavory thing to bring up," Gabe replies in disgust, performing a minor intervention.

"Well, you started it," Mike reminds. "I mean, I could be just as irritated by the fact that you kind of stole some of my thunder and you've never done anything to dispel the myth," Mike says, casually changing the trajectory of a few bullets, thus saving the lives of seventeen people fleeing the invasion. "That bomb you redirected hit a tank, by the way."

"Um, yeah, whoops," Gabe says. "As to who started it, Mike, are you kidding?" Gabe asks indignantly. "You're like millimeters from being The Holiness Itself. I mean, the stories are legend. You are virtually totally responsible for defeating the greatest scourge this side of Paradise! Even Jesus is in awe of you!"

"The Lord rebuke you!" the Archangel Michael says, raising his sword for the first time. Simultaneously, several dozen enemy combatants below have a change of heart and lay down their weapons as they each individually experience what would be described as epiphany by religious folk and cowardice by the likes of General Patton.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Gabriel pleads. "Don't get all I'll cast you out! on me!"

"I'm just kidding," Mike says with a laugh.

"Not funny," Gabe says.

"All I'm saying is everything gets confused, watered down over time," Mike says. "Like these folks down there. They'll see what and who they want. They'll see you or me or some other version that coincides with their belief system."

"To every season?" Gabe asks.

"No, not at all. It's just all so, so, so..." Mike searches for the words.

"Confusing?" Gabe asks.

"Sometimes, yes," Mike admits.

"I know," Gabe agrees. "I think things are just as confusing for the All-Seeing. I'm pretty sure we're off the map in terms of prophecy!"

"Seriously?" Mike asks, changing into a brilliant purple-blue light, the better to soothe the dying.

"Oh yeah," Gabriel says, raising his trumpet and striking a divine pose at just the right angle as to be haloed by the hazy sunshine. "This is an unprecedented time. Like no time ever before, actually. Well, that time when all the revolutions broke out was close, but really, this is all just flat-out bonkers!"

"Are we talking Armageddon time?" Mike asks excitedly.

"Don't get your hopes up," Gabe replies. "I don't even think They know what to think, like maybe They think just riding it out is the best course of action."

"Hmm," Mike hums. He is distracted by the destruction and suffering below. "Sad."

"Sad, indeed," Gabe agrees. "You ever wonder if it will change?" They fly higher, allowing others to take their place.

"I like to think maybe," Mike says.

"Even after all this time?" Gabe asks.

"Yes," Mike replies. "What else can I do?"

"You know, if you really want to do something," Gabe prods.

"Yeah?" Mike says.

"You could put out the word that we are many," Gabe tells him.

"You mean the archangel thing?" Mike asks.

"Yeah, archangels, plural, like specifically you're not the only one," Gabe says.

"Seek not the glory of man, Gabe!" Mike says, sending a nearby missile back toward its point of origin.

"I had to try," Gabe says sheepishly, spinning the horn on his finger and disarming the latest volley of artillery so that it crashes back to earth without detonating.

"Really, with the horn, though?" Mike asks. "You totally stole my thunder and you know it!"

10-9-19

Those Needling Thoughts

Each day is a chance for recompense.

At most,
That something matters is the hope.
That it all adds up,
In the end,
To something just north of trivial in scope.

The heart chases wild dreams.

At what point are they considered foolish?
At what point delusional and mulish?
And to what point can disillusionment be tolerated;
Passion and desire subordinated?

The mind makes mountains.

And they crash into the insatiable sea,
Carelessly,
Meaninglessly,
Ceaselessly.

Body and soul transitory.

So while I breathe I flail and bash.
I can be too rash.
One day æther and ash.
Forgive me,
Even as I refuse to spare myself the lash.

Universal truth.

All that is amounts to nothing.
So better it is to strive,
To be considered a never-was,
Rather than a never-tried.

10-8-19

October Mornings

Against a blood-orange sky,
Silohuetting distant peaks.
Drowsy Sierras rise and shine,
Shaking night from their summits.

Valley-bound,
But with each new day,
A glimpse of mysterious mountains,
Hulking,
Vast,
A child's idealized mountain range,
Painted with Halloween's pallette,
Everything appropriately October.

10-3-19

It's OK, It's Just the End

What are you supposed to do when you are no longer useful? Delinda Strunck wondered. That's what the lead panelist had said, without really saying it, in his calm, unconcerned voice.

"We find that you are unviable as a contributor to the common edification of society and are, in fact, a burden on the systems of support."

This can't be happening to me, Delinda thought to herself.

She was bound and jacketed, lying on a gurney, for her own safety, supposedly. Eyes bloodshot, unfocused, tears tapped out. She felt hollow. Her mind unspooled the sad movie of her life over the past few years.

Depressing, but unremarkable.

An endless parade of jobs, each one worse than the last. Her career as a teacher ended the moment interactive cerebral implants, (ICI), were finally efficient. The glitchy unreliability of earlier models resolved, once and for all, by BrumCon, the global AI collective responsible for ninety-four percent of all products and services. Now people merely uploaded files to learn anything and everything.

Want to learn a new language? Just purchase the software!

She'd been a restaurant attendant, vet technician, and a crematorium sweep. She'd spent time as a street ambassador for a series of small towns in the lower-Canadian upper-midwest. Delinda had worked as a professional funeral attendee, coffee shop greeter, and, punitively, as a DMV clerk. Each bit of employment eventually wore her down or evaporated.

Then, she'd been injured when the bus she was travelling in was hit by a mega-train. The foreign subsidiary insurers went bust. Medical debt overwhelmed her. Her credits dwindled. She lost her apartment. She couch-surfed until her friends disappeared. Finally, she ended up in a government shelter with no hope, where her name was added to the list.

Robots were supposed to make life better, but now, liquidation was the only option for many, including Delinda Strunck.

That's what the Governmental Operational Necessity Reassessment (GONR) Panel called it, liquidation. It was, in the words of the panel's literature, "a humane resolution for humans without further societal prospects or contributions."

At some point, aggressive unemployment, the unending homelessness that followed, all the hopelessly addicted masses became too much for societies across the globe. Rootless and useless folks, deemed dangerous by the governments of the world, posed a threat to the well-heeled and over-privileged. Something had to be done.

Solutions were sought.

Rules on child-bearing, birth control, reeducation, retraining, relocation, voluntary imprisonment, involuntary suicide, all met with limited success and mostly varying degrees of failure. With rising threats and ruling class hysteria, some countries disintegrated. In some, tyrants took matters into their own hands. Others simply devolved into wholesale civil war and from there, wanton slaughter.

Delinda stared at the ceiling, she knew it would all be over soon. She replayed her morning, waiting for her appointment with the GONR Panel. It was surreal. She found it hard to believe that this was happening to her.

She'd always been such a hard worker.

"You ever wonder why they teach all that dystopian literature in school?" the attending security-guard asked no one in particular. The waiting room was full, but there was no response. Delinda glanced at the guy, his name tag read: Khalil. Delinda noticed the administrative assistant behind the security screen glare at him and shake her head.

"What's the matter, Annette?" Khalil asked, shrugging nonchalantly. "It's a fair question," he argued.

"That ain't protocol, Khalil," Annette reprimanded. "This isn't easy at the best of times, but your questions don't help. Just stop!" She shook her head again and then went back to scanning her interface and checking off boxes. Khalil waved his hand dismissively. He looked around, caught Delinda's eye.

"You know it's true," he said, approaching cautiously. He stood directly in front of her. She secretly loathed him. His arrogant youthfulness. His purpose. "Come on, admit it. A hundred years ago it was all Rowling, Dahl, Alexander, Steinbeck, Morrison; old dead writers. Now kids just upload all them books about broken futures."

"I was a teacher," Delinda replied. "I know."

"Well, imagine that!" Khalil said before continuing. "Except most of those books are about broken futures we already passed. I think we're doing all right," he said, before adding, "Things are getting better, right?" Delinda looked around the waiting room at all her placid, luckless companions, all of them buckled into wheelchairs, and straightened her shoulders.

"Really?" she asked indignantly. "Maybe you should read the room."

"It's like they're trying to prepare us for something or, like, it's all a joke," Khalil conspired. The conversation didn't go anywhere because Annette called Delinda's name and Khalil rolled her into the hearing chamber while humming to himself.

All through the hearing, Delinda's heart beat loudly in her ears. Her eyes refused to focus and her vision was spotty. She felt short of breath. She was sixty-one, with skills and education for jobs that no longer existed. She knew the panel's determination before she heard them say it. She was resigned to her fate. She had no arguement for not being useful.

Liquidation of a wasted life.

But now, awaiting transfer, her heart stopped and she felt a suffocating horror. The tears came and she fought with herself not to lose control. She didn't want to be one of those cases she'd heard about that had to be dragged away, pathetic, balling, reduced to the lowest animal instincts. She felt as though she might start screaming uncontrollably. She wanted to be understood. She wasn't a burden. It wasn't fair.

None of this was fair!

Khalil appeared again. He looked into her face. His sympathetic eyes and kind smile made her feel less afraid.

"I know this is difficult," he told her.

Khalil had been there in the beginning, leading her into the panel hearing. And now he was here to escort her into the preparation room. He offered her a sedative.

"It'll give you some peace," he said. She took it. She was still terrified, but her body felt numb, heavy. Her mind lost its sharpness. She felt unbothered. The fear would wash over her and then drift away. None of this felt real.

"Hey, don't look so scared," Khalil told her after attaching the intravenous lines and securing the straightjacket around her torso. He secured her to the gurney. "It's OK," he assured. "It's just," he looked around and then whispered something that sounded like, "the end." He moved away from her to attend to something or someone else.

Delinda started to panic again. This was crazy! She didn't want to go. Not like this. Everyone acted as though this sterile, complacent termination was totally normal. Humans were supposed to fight for life until their very last breath. She wanted to plead for mercy, but her mouth wasn't working. The more she concentrated on resisting, the more she sank deeper into the cocoon of numbness.

What's the point? she wondered. I'm no longer useful, no longer useful, I'm no longer.

Khalil returned. He looked down at her and the lights dimmed. He wheeled her forward into the liquidation room. She was sinking deeper. A darkness descended upon her mind and emotions. She concentrated on her breathing. She was just trying to remain dignified, even as she knew there was no hope. Some other words the lead panelist said came back to her.

"It is of this panel's opinion that this course of action is preferable to a tragic and slow demise on the margins of society."

"Don't worry," Khalil whispered again. "It's not the end." Her eyes widened and he nodded knowingly with a finger across his pursed lips. The gurney caught on some mechanism that pulled her forward, away from Khalil. He waved and turned his back. She bumped forward. The chamber closed and a robotic arm connected the tubes to the death machine. It was all so fast, efficient. Instantly, she felt a cool rush in her muscles. Delinda felt a lightness in her body, despite the darkness erasing her mind. It will be OK.

She was gone.

...

The afterlife was different than Delinda Strunck expected.

Darkness lifted and Delinda felt herself slowly climbing out of the hazy numbness, like wandering toward a light in twilight-shrouded woods. Soft sounds of voices in conversation hummed nearby. Her eyes began to adjust and her vision cleared, but confusion clouded her mind.

Delinda found herself in a rough hewn village. The smell of a wood fire drifted into her nostrils. People milled around conducting various tasks and business. She was resting upon a cot in a ramada of some kind, open on three sides and covered with fresh, green branches. Someone hovered next to her, but Delinda was groggy. Nothing was making sense. She wasn't certain, but sure was pretty sure she was still alive.

Shocking information.

"Oh hello," the woman said. "My name is Rosalie. I am a doctor." Delinda made no move to speak. Rosalie smiled and continued quietly checking Delinda's neighbors. When she finished, she knelt down beside Delinda.

"I'm just going to check your vital signs, if that's all right with you," she said. Delinda nodded. Rosalie finished. "You seem to be in good shape. Probably a little disoriented. Do you have any questions?" Delinda considered this.

"Where am I?" Delinda asked. Rosalie looked around and smiled.

"Welcome to the Great Beyond," Rosalie said with a flourish.

"Excuse me?" Delinda replied, more confused than before.

"A poor attempt at humor. This is Arizona, or at least it used to be. You probably know it as the Southern Exclusion Zone. This particular settlement is known as Green Valley," Rosalie told her proudly.

"So I've been sent to die slowly of radiation poisoning?" Delinda asked. Rosalie laughed again.

"Oh no," Rosalie said. "Let me upload the welcome packet to your ICI." Rosalie made a few taps on her portable interface. Instantly, Delinda's brain saw the quick history of the Southern Exclusion Zone.

The energy wars, unstoppable migration from the equatorial regions of the Earth fleeing global weather-related disasters, technological dependence, the slow shrinking of livable landscapes,  civil unrest, and the ever-widening gap between the wealthy and the not-so wealthy. Of course, there was the Palo Verde nuclear meltdown a half century in the past, an event that was greatly exaggerated, but used as an excuse to create the Zone.

"What now?" Delinda asked.

"We lost our teacher last month. So I guess that's why you're here," Rosalie replied with a wink. "You'll be put to good use."

10-4-19

The Wild at Your Door

The wilderness is closer than we think,
The animals,
The wild things,
Our closest link.
Despite our best,
To pave the rest,
Habitats expand instead of shrink.

In they creep in the dead of night,
Or boldly in the morning light,
Coyotes on the patio,
Frogs make a cameo,
The natural world flexes its might.

No boundary between us and them,
They come and go on a whim,
Architecture's not prohibitive,
Animals are freely distributed,
This manmade landscape is not so grim.

Carelessly we've walked the earth,
Moving on when there is a dearth,
Measuring the things we need,
How it's grown or if it bleeds,
And how much it could be worth.

And after everything rusts,
The hardy survivors readjust,
To a world without me or you,
'Tis sad,
But probably true,
The wild things will grow right out of our dust.

9-29-19

Unapologetically Me

Where does it end?

An age old question. One which the ancient sage of Seacaucus, Entrypio the Meh, called The Grim Inevitable, which appeared as a great-walled warehouse full of low-cost auto parts along the interstate. So, no one's quite sure.

We don't like to consider it much, but we know. It's the same place everything ends. Where all souls finally rest.* Everyone from friends to my dad to David Bowie.

David Bowie lying in a tomb somewhere seems like a joke. Afterall, how could such an outsize being sent straight from outerspace ever be anything but totally alive? Because like you, like me, like Maya Angelou, and yes, (sorry to break the news), even Elvis, we will all slip away. And that sucks.

So, before then, let us be who we are meant to be. Always.

For instance, I have a sweet tooth, but it isn't Snickers that satisfies. What really makes me drool is a certain pop sensibility. I am a fan of most music, but sometimes, all I really, really want is a zigazig ah! I was born this way. Sue me!

My first recollection of singing along to a song is belting out the lyrics to the "Theme from The Greatest American Hero (Believe It or Not)." I wish I could say it was "Immigrant Song" by Zeppelin or even a KISS song, but alas my first true love was an AM radio staple. Alternately, I was instantly hooked on The Beatles, but had to learn to love The Stones, so I've got that going for me. However, it's always the most saccharine-drenched tunes that make me feel like I'm living in a musical. I might just break into a sweet dance routine as I burst into song!

It's just who I am.

And that's who we should all be. The person we are meant to be. I wish the global policy was do unto others as you would have them do unto you. In my opinion, as long as you don't step on someone else's crops you should plant whatever you want, water it well and let it grow. Whatever your deal is, own it. Haters be damned!

If only it were that easy, right?

Let me get to my point, if I have one. It is this. In an ever-changing universe where things feel and appear to be more chaotic and ridiculous than ever, it's good to have a little something that feels familiar. Something that feels safe and maybe, if you're lucky, gives you a bit of a sugar-high.

Take for instance, Blink-181's** new album.

Yes, they are still around. This record shows clear evidence of maturity. No one's taking off their pants on this record. Likewise, the juvenile jokes are not as much of a focal point as they once were. Still, this is a collection of songs that makes you wonder why anyone would ever belittle all the small things. It is an album that makes you feel as though nothing has fallen to pieces, yet. That is satisfying. Sometimes we need a little respite from the storm, even if it means hiding in a heap of pop trash!

More than that, here is an example of being true to oneself. No disrespect, but no one was clamoring for a new Blink record, really. (I mean, other than Blink fans.) But they went ahead and made one anyway.

We are nothing unless we are being unapologetically ourselves. You, me, whoever! Living true to your own heart is the path to a life well-lived. I mean, what's the point in worrying what the neighbors might think? Just get on with the show, you know? We shouldn't waste time tormenting ourselves over what others might think or say. That's their problem. And we waste our precious time thinking about all the woulda-coulda-shouldas.

To sum up: just go do your deal.

Be you, but don't be a dick about it. If creating something makes you feel good, do that. If launching yourself on a dirt bike over a sand dune gets you hot and bothered, then ride on, man. If writing makes you happy,  then go and write. No more excuses. Get started. And if that pop-trocious song on the radio makes you feel secretly happy, well, then raise your voice and sing it loud and proud.

Afterall, there are no points for arriving safely and quietly in the grave.

9-27-19

*Save for Keith Richards, who will be the last witness to Armageddon.

**Of course I know it's actually Blink-182, but it's 181 since Tom ran off to search for aliens. Maybe he's onto something...

The Thing That Didn't Happen

Friday, September 20, 2019
Dawn
Groom Lake, Nevada
Approx. 80 miles northwest of Las Vegas

AKA: Area 51

"This is a federally restricted area. Turn back immediately," a terse recording blares from a nonthreatening arsenal of speakers affixed to each of the multitude of aggressively swooping helicopters overhead.

Dark mountains, silhouetted against a sky painted with brilliant streaks of orange, conceal the exact nature of the threat. Security cameras posted at close intervals across the landscape indicate that a merry band of yahoos, stirred up by wacky Internet trolls has, indeed, descended on the most well known secret base in the United States of America.

The raid on Area 51 has begun.

"Multiple bogeys proceeding north-northwest from southeastern quadrant, west of Gate 5," a detached voice crackles over the radio. Inside a darkened and well-secured room, an array of blurry, closed-circuit monitors verifies a large crowd moving, amoeba-like, across the desert landscape. Security specialist, 1st class, Rupert Bindlestaf, eyes the monitors nervously, glancing at his commanding officer, General Callahan. The General, lips curled, brow wrinkled in disgust, shakes his head.

"Go round those idiots up," he barks. "Every last one is about to spend the weekend in jail."

"Yes, sir," specialist Bindlestaf responds, turning to leave.

"Bindlestaf, don't do anything dumb," General Callahan says.

"Yes, general," Bindlestaf replies.

Alarms squawk all across the isolated airstrip, setting lockdown procedures into motion. Buildings and hangers, impenetrable on a typical day, become hermetically sealed self-sustaining bunkers under the threat of breach. Security personal move out to meet the waddling masses in nothing sexier than Econoline vans. The experimental thermo-magnetic hovercraft stay safely parked seventeen levels below the surface.

Specialist Bindlestaf unhurriedly straps protective gear onto his body while nibbling on a stale apple fritter from the break room. He checks Twitter and chuckles at something the president has tweeted in the wee hours of the morning. Everyone else has already geared up and headed toward the crowd. On a TV, there's a news report about tropical storm damage in Texas and another storm about to hit Cabo. Bindlestaf fondly recalls his time spent partying at Sammy Hagar's bar in the Mexican resort town on his recent vacation. Distractedly, Bindlestaf reaches into his locker and grabs his weapon and then, fritter finished, he sets off to locate a ride.

Out on the flat, dusty grounds of the facility the sun has risen and the sunshine illuminates nothing more than a typical runway. The people in the mob, surrounded by security staff, seem disappointed. There's nothing to see. Not up here on the surface, anyway.

Bindlestaf approaches in the only vehicle he could find, a golf cart. As his colleagues are beginning to load the trespassers into vans, Bindlestaf surveys the perimeter. He spots a second group of people running across the dry lake bed.

"I'm gonna need some back up," he speaks into his radio, jamming the accelerator into the floorboards. He sets a course to intercept this new group of intruders. There are about sixty of them. He expects that they will be reasonable and compliant when they see he has a weapon. At least he hopes so. He takes a quick look to make sure he hasn't actually lost his rifle again.

"Oh no," he murmurs. Sitting beside him in the golf cart is not his normal rifle, but one of the alien-tech weapons all security members are issued at the base, just in case there is a Code Green. (Code Green being shorthand for "aliens have landed and they want their stuff back," of course.) Bindlestaf looks up. He is right on top of the group. He can see the whites of their eyes.

"Stop!" he shouts. "You are trespassing on a federally maintained and operated facility. You are all under arrest!" The crowd slows down, but they just go around the lone security officer in his golf cart.

"I said stop!"

No one listens. He looks at the rifle that isn't supposed to exist and considers his options. After a moment, he flips the plexiglass windshield down, picks up the alien weapon, pointing it out through the front of the cart, and smashes the accelerator down. He angles around, trying to get in front of the group. He turns to confront them and is about stop when he hits a large crack in the dry earth, causing the golf cart to lurch violently to the right.

That's when it happens.

Bindlestaf's finger slips. A quick beam of white hot light is emitted from the weapon. There is no sound, rather the absence of sound; every sound for miles. In the millisecond that the weapon goes off, forty-two people in the crowd just simply disappear. No ashes, no screams. Gone. Rupert Bindlestaf is in shock. General Callahan, watching on the monitors grinds his teeth and exhales angrily. "Of course," he growls.

Far across the dry lake bed, a large-lens camera and a crew from Vice catch all of this on digital video. The producer is already duplicating the images. Without a word, the crew instinctively begins packing up. Soon the world will know about that one time a soldier inadvertantly gave away government secrets.

9-20-19

What Can Last

Out here,
The world goes on forever.
This desert,
Seems to last forever.
So clean,
Despite the dust.
It is pure,
Unmarred,
Impurities burned away,
Lifted by the sun's rays,
Evaporated.
All that is left is what can last.
Fearsome creatures great and small,
Impenetrable growth,
And stone,
Written with lost dreams,
A wry commentary on impermanence,
Written by someone unknown,
Unknowable,
Lost to time.
All that is left is what can last.
This stone,
This arid sky,
Stretched from horizon to horizon,
Forever.
Let us rejoice in this strange,
Dangerous,
Beauty,
While we're here.

9-18-19

Tuesday Long Ago

On a Tuesday long ago...

Everything changed,
Chaos reigned,
And we've slowly tried to put it all back together.

That's impossible.

In our minds,
That day is never far away,
Powerless we watched,
Confused and gutted.

When I listen,
Really listen,
I can hear those engines,
Improbably loud and low.

When I close my eyes,
And allow my mind to go back,
I am witness once again,
The horror of the moment is still palpable.

Of course we won't forget.
How could we?

9-11-19

Just Hold On

Ruts and potholes lie ahead,
Every journey underscored with dread.
We soldier on with grace and poise,
At times capitulating to mental noise.
Fear's fretting and sweaty hands,
Invade thoughts and impose demands.
It's easy to feel overwhelmed,
Imagine boarding the boat Charon helms.
But across the River Styx lies uncertainty,
Only Death and no guarantees.
This life we lead is valuable,
Because each and every soul is fallible.

We must take our risks and carry on,
Shouldering ahead until the dawn.
There are days on days that feel like night,
Our only hope is to remain in light.
Times when the way ahead seems wrong,
When we merely hold on until the dawn.
Just hold on.
Just hold on.

9-8-19

Inspired by a Sunrise

Look up!
Look around!
This drudgery is not life's purpose.
We are missing the point!
The meaningless tasks we engage in,
The petty annoyances,
The things that just don't matter.
Enough!
Take a look at the glory to be found,
All around you,
Every day.
Work can wait,
This moment cannot.

9-5-19

In Another Time

These children of mine,
They cold call me on the past,
Asking about when I was young,
But nothing comes to mind.
They think I'm lying,
But I'm not.

Not really.

Sometimes situations arise,
Prompting sudden recall,
Buried memories surface,
And I share;

Carefully.

But mostly,
Everything is gone,
Wiped clean.
It was a different lifetime,
I say.
All those experiences that made me,
All those moments that built me,
And nearly killed me,
Happened in another time.
Every time I learned a little more,
About the world,
About myself,
Brought me here,
To you,
I tell them.

They eye me skeptically.
They seem to think I'm hiding something.

But those times seem to be erased,
Or at least eclipsed,
And really,
That is as it should be.
Because,
Now that you are here,
I say,
Nothing means as much as you.

All that transpired,
In a time before you arrived,
Matters not at all.

And it's true.

But of course,
They think I'm lying.

8-30-19