the Outlet

2011-04-15T10:00:00.000-07:00

Where is Green in winter?
Green darkens, shrinks,
stiffens into needles.
Green waits
in the hearts of trees,
feeling
the earth
turn.

--Joyce Sidman, Red Sings from Treetops

2010-07-24T16:26:00.000-07:00

of it we never took notice before

so small efficient and loyal
then cut, it’s alive! grows putrid to catch
infection. yuck: oozing white mess
levied with pains from the growing

red flesh now severed. we call that healing?
yep, we’re all cut. some are cut through,

left angry, weeping because we’re all whelps,
plus—we miss the uncut heart and

of course we never took notice before.

2010-02-25T17:49:00.000-08:00

Over the wintry
forest, winds howl in rage
with no leaves to blow.

--Soseki Natsume

Uncle Ron

2010-02-02T21:32:00.000-08:00

From the clouds, the land looked quilted, woven with green and gold thread. The roads were silver seams. Along the seams people traveled from home to home celebrating holidays, healing sickness, bringing food during drought, giving long embraces when children were born, delivering gifts when lovers married. No thorns or thistles grew in this soft blanket, reinforced by the soft bellow of cattle. Here and there something hid underneath the quilt—it bulged up slightly but the crops grew just the same, keeping it hidden. All small squares were tightly sewn together, one square mile each.

Between 1st Street and Lincoln Road a square of farmland was split up the middle with an irrigation canal and a new railroad track running side by side, creating a permanent barrier between the two plots of land. On the tracks, slow heavy trains carried potatoes, barley, and wheat. The sloshing canal, ten feet wide, delivered clear water filtered by grassy banks to the fertile crops which huddled alongside it. The railroad and the canal worked together, carrying wealth back and forth across the valley.

Years passed unnoticed. The railroad and the canal were successful. Crops grew in plenty and the trains carried it away. Crops grew in plenty, crop prices fell; home prices climbed. Big corporate farmers got more efficient, crop prices fell; home prices climbed. More lovers married, more children were born, years passed unnoticed. Crop prices fell; the farmer sold the land to a real estate developer.

An estate was developed. Two estates: Mobile Home Estates on the west side of the tracks and Cloverdale Estates on the east. The mobile homes were trucked in on big wheels and dropped side by side. The sides of the homes were fitted with plastic skirts that concealed the wheels underneath. Trailer hitches were hidden by flower pots with wilting plants. Shallow holes were filled with leaning fence posts to divide with chain links the few feet of space between trailers. Large guard dogs entertained children and protected toolboxes. Aluminum car ports were erected. Aluminum sheds were erected. Aluminum television antennae began to deliver loud signals, first grey and then in color, to the hard-working inhabitants of Mobile Home Estates. Large holes appeared in Cloverdale. The holes were filled with firm footings of reinforced concrete. New homes with basements were built. Homes in Cloverdale had wooden siding painted with color, and were filled with wooden bookshelves, wooden tables, wooden cabinets, and warm carpet. Small trees were planted in anticipation of immense growth to be witnessed over multiple generations. Rocks were replaced with topsoil mixed with grass seedlings. Fresh shingles and clean glass sparkled under blue sky.

From the clouds, the look has changed. Cropland is replaced with alley, drive, lane, loops, and cul-de-sac, making indistinguishable the silver seams. The canals run lower every year, the tracks less used. Like ants, cars spread the seams and line up for busy errands, digging up what lies beneath.

---

Ron lives in Cloverdale and doesn’t listen to his parents, who tell him that Mobile Home Estates is off-limits during bike rides. His girlfriend lives there. Her name is Taylie. She has brown hair, always in a braid. She wears sneakers, T-shirts, and freckles. She fights hard and likes Ron.

Taylie is a quarter Native American and a quarter French. Grandparents on her mother’s side were an unlikely couple. Taylie’s parents were also an unlikely couple. Her mother was probably the most beautiful woman in the state and her father was bald on the top with a bad comb-over. He was also confined to a wheelchair. When Taylie’s parents were young the community pulled together some money through bake sales, sewing and craft sales, and farmer’s markets to help them afford a new place to live. The casino on the Shoshone reservation also helped. It wasn’t the man’s fault he couldn’t work, the community said. Their new home was a mobile home in Mobile Home Estates, the newest community in the county at that time.

Now Ron and Taylie attend different schools, different churches, and their parents shop at different stores. The two friends stay away from Taylie’s house as much as possible to keep Ron’s parents happy. “We don’t mind the girl, but we don’t want you wandering around her neighborhood. Bad influences are there,” they say while leaving for work.

Ron watches television while they go. He listens to the radio. After a productive morning, he searches for Taylie. He meets her where the tracks meet the canal. Over the years they’ve spent most of their time near the canal telling stories, building forts, floating boats, looking for fish, laying Abraham Lincolns on the tracks to be flattened by the next train. Taylie suggests a new activity every day. Between the two, Taylie has the brains, but Ron isn’t far behind.

Ron uses his brains for reading magazine pictures. They give Ron an idea of all the things he could have but doesn’t. Ron watches more music-TV, looks through more magazines, and makes a mental inventory of all the things he should have but doesn’t. Ron tells Taylie that one day he will have it all. He can’t think about anything else.

“Of course. You’re smart enough,” answers Taylie. “Just…be patient. The best thing is to focus on your schoolwork. You don’t seem to care anymore.”

Years pass. Ron behaves patiently. His frustrations grow faster than his body, and neither grow as fast as his ever-growing clothing size, which are now far too large for his body. It is his style. His friends follow his style and everything else. He finds a new type of music that speaks to his frustrated desires.

"I know you want to suceed, but it'll be hard if you don't do well in school," Taylie reminds him.

Ron tells Taylie that she doesn’t know what she was talking about, that rappers make a lot of money and don’t need school. One evening Ron and Taylie decided to spend time at her house. While walking up the wheelchair ramp Taylie’s strange neighbor Tom calls after them.

“Have you two seen my cat?”

“No,” Taylie and Ron answer at the same time. The neighbor Tom looks tired, anxious, and dirty.

"My cat has disappeared. I can’t live without my cat."

Ron tells Tom that if the cat is that important, he should find it fast before dying.

“What do you think I’m trying to do? Huh?” Tom the neighbor wanders away quickly, every few seconds taking a look under imaginary things. “Smart-aleck,” Tom says under his breath.

Ron gives a short laugh at the crazy neighbor and follows Taylie inside.

“We haven’t seen you in a while Ron. Welcome back,” says Taylie’s father warmly.

Ron says thanks.

“How are your parents?”

Ron shrugs but doesn’t say anything.

“They’re good to let you visit us finally. Tell them we missed you.”

Ron and Taylie make their way to Taylie’s bedroom. She shows him all of her college brochures.

“It’s never too soon to prepare. I think I can go to a good university if I keep my grades up. I might even get a scholarship because of my Grandpa Rabbit-Tail. Look at how nice these places are! These have excellent chemistry programs, and these have really good Biology teachers. There are so many choices.”

Ron looks away from the vinyl records in his hands to glance at the college brochures and pretends to show interest. Taylie’s father looks in from the hallway.

“We’re going to the corner store to get some bread. We’ll be back in half an hour. Think we can trust you two to hold up the fort ‘till then?”

“Bye Dad,” was the last thing she ever said to her father.

Ron didn’t wait long after Taylie’s parents drove away before making unwelcome advances on her. Ron was unsuccessful and stormed out of the house. The events of the evening left Taylie in a sour mood. When her parents came back home she had already showered. Her beautiful mother came in to check on her before going to bed. While lying in bed, Taylie decides to break off the relationship with Ron and plans to do it the next time she sees him.

The next evening is the next time she sees him is, a warm summer evening. She rides to his house and leans her bike against the large willow tree in Ron’s front yard. She can feel the cool blades of grass reach around her flip-flops to tickle her feet. The boys in the house, Ron’s friends with baggy clothing, start to trickle out the front doorway. His friends spend their time at Ron’s house, having less parental intrusion.

Ron is the first out the doorway, and does not look happy to see her. He looks at her as if she is from an enemy gang--an imaginary gang--or worse: a threat to his manhood.

“Ron, I need to speak with you in private.”

“That’s Ronsta to you, woman,” says one of the boys standing behind Ron, bending his knees as he says it while tilting his head to the side to match his New York Yankee baseball hat, which is also off to the side to protect his left ear from sunburn. This boy isn’t interested in baseball, or any other kind of sport, which is clear by his scrawny white body under his baggy clothing. When he says “Ronsta” he flings out his hand. This makes his excessive amount of fake jewelry bounce, while his clothing threatens to fall off his shoulders and waist.

Ron says that his friends are allowed to hear anything she has to say. Taylie states that their relationship is over. Ron slaps her. His demonstration is a claim of his superiority, but the claim is not complete until he calls her a name referring to female dogs while the onlooking boys make noises of victory.

Taylie rides her back towards home tearless and relieved. She passes the homes in Cloverdale. The yards have large trees. The homes have wood siding and wood bookshelves and clean windows. She crosses over the border between the two estates, the railroad tracks and the canal. The canal runs dry and the railroad track is covered in weeds, having nothing more to do here.

She arrives home and parks her bike. There is no room in her mind for distractions, so she barely notices the conversation she has with her neighbor Tom. The neighbor is unloading his rusted old van and has a metallic container under his arm. During the conversation he gives to her a golden locket and Taylie thanks him. Inside the gold locket are pictures of his lost cat and his lost wife, one on each side. The picture of Tom’s wife doesn’t look pretty, and Tom’s cat doesn’t look healthy.

“You are a good girl. You deserve a better life than the three of us had,” says Tom.

“Thanks.”

Taylie walks up the wheelchair ramp and goes inside, locking the door behind her.

Her mother greets her and gives her a long hug. She noticed Taylie’s stress. She tells her mother about the breakup and her feelings of relief. Her mother, too, feels relieved. Taylie goes to her room and sits at her desk and places the locket on top of the stack of college brochures. Colleges all over the country are interested in having her attend their school.

Taylie takes a long breath. The oxygen stretches her ribs and feels cold in the corners of her lungs. She holds it in for as long as she can and releases it. It feels like she hasn’t breathed like this in years—or ever. The only sound is the ticking of her alarm clock. For some reason the ticking brings her to her senses. She realizes something isn’t right about the locket Tom gave her. She can’t think of any reason why he would give her the locket. He had worn it for as long as she knew him.

Taylie was too overwhelmed to notice the conversation with Tom, and is now too far away to hear Tom lighting the suicidal fuel in metallic canisters in his mobile home. The explosion destroys Tom’s home and sends an aluminum support beam through Taylie’s bedroom wall. It misses her clock, misses her vinyl records, but strikes her from behind, piercing her heart, killing her.

Ron and his friends do not hear the explosion. It sounds much like the video game they are playing. They remain oblivious to the incident. They are still celebrating Ron’s superiority by giving each other high-fives, guffawing, drinking beer, braying, and emitting odors.

2009-12-29T14:39:00.000-08:00

Jane married. Her new husband’s grandfather had no teeth, and said “Go live near the Armstrongs. They have an ox. You can use the ox when they are not. With the ox you will plow the dry ground and plant things that grow.” Jane’s husband agreed.

They moved to the Armstrong’s land. With time they had their own small cabin on the other side of the dirt road across from the Armstrong’s. The cabin was made of logs. Jane wondered where the logs came from--there weren’t trees in this part of the country.

Instead of trees the land was filled with small bushes which were always dry. Every living thing looked dead. Here, the dirt looked deader than the dirt in other places. Where there weren’t crispy bushes growing, the clay dirt was cracked like the skin of a dehydrated reptile.

The most prominent feature of Jane’s new neighborhood was the ever-present sunshine and heat. Nothing would grow here if not for irrigation. It rarely rained. It seemed like summer all year long. It was hot and dry inside and outside, morning and night, summer and winter. The heat was penetrating. Even the rocks sat in dry sockets, not the usual cool wet underbellies filled with worms and sow bugs.

Jim Armstrong, the man that lived on the south side of the dirt road separating the two families, was a distant cousin to Jane’s husband. He owned an ox. He farmed plants and collected rusty plow tools. He had a wife, but Jane didn't know her name. Jane and Jane's husband referred to her as Jim’s Wife. That name seemed sufficient because there weren’t any other Jims around to confuse things.

Jane crossed the dirt road to visit Jim’s wife. After a few hours Jim came charging through the front door. His neck was covered in dirt mixed with sweat. The children scattered, afraid. Jim was rarely home in the afternoon.

“New blasted horse is no good. Slowest creatur’ just when you wanna go fast. I whip an’ whip an’ he just keeps a walkin’ like it’s a holiday. The Bailey’s are out of town for some reason or other. They’re always a runnin’ around the valley, tootin’ their money. Let’s see what you have a cookin’. Nothin’ good again, huh. Le’ me taste it anyways. Nasty! That’s bad stew. Hope it weren’t the good cow that went to make that stuff. But none of them cows have been good cows for years. I got to write a letter to Blaine down at the co-op. You have any ink? That stuff’s expensive. Don’t let them varmit kids of yurs spill it again. Art projects ain’t worth a poop. Hi Jane. I see this year’s crop is turnin’ out all right for you and the husband. He’s a worker, he is. Plenty of runoff from the mountains this year. Wife, you get to the writin’ of what I say. You got the better handwritin’ anyway. Write this: ‘Mr. Blaine, I got me a hundred pounds of potatoes an’ extra alpha, some good canned peaches too. Trade me for that plow extension that just came in. You know, the big one. My ox can handle ‘er. You know, I own an ox.’ Now le’ me read whachya wrote there.”

Jim sat at the small kitchen table, set his hat on the table, and was silent for a long time, reading. Jim’s Wife reached across him to clear the bowl of unfinished stew. Her hip touched his arm. He twitched away. The twitch was habit.

They had many children. The children were still hiding. Jim, having lifted the lid on the stew pot, let out the stew’s aromas. Eyes of the hungry children began appearing. The hungriest—and smallest and youngest and least accustomed to Jim’s humor—braved a journey towards Jim’s unfinished bowl. Jim yelled at the boy, told him to wait, spanked him, said something about saying grace and having no gratitude, and the boy cried into the worn fabric covering his mother's knees.

Jim continued reading. Finally he signed the paper and shoved it into his pocket and said “I do own an ox. A good ox." Jim put his hat on his head. "I’m a goin’ to the post office. Gunna stop at the Albertson farm an’ pick up them peaches. I’ll take this here bread for my supper. Don’t want none of that stew. Any clean canteens? Did'n think so. One of these days I’ll die of somethin’ growing in these dirty dishes. I’ll be back after sundown. Quit yur crying, little one. You got what was comin’ to ya. I’m talking the good horse."

The door opened, letting in a blast of light and warm air, and letting out Jim. The door slammed. The good horse galloped away. Jane looked at the chair Jim was sitting in, now covered some of the dust that Jim brought in with him. A few minutes later the oldest daughter came in the house from her hiding place and reported that the ox was dead. Jim’s wife sighed, and then sharply told Jane to scram back to her own house and mind her own business.

Jane went back to her own house to mind her own business, crossing the dirt road, having said nothing the entire visit. She could see her husband’s fields growing in the sun. How different it looked now that it had been plowed and planted. No more dry earth. Still, the cabin was dry--and hot. She saw her husband inside toweling off her only son who was wearing a wet pair of swimming trunks.

Jane’s husband looked at her and smiled, put the child down, and kissed his wife.

“I just saw Jim bolting out of here.”

“He’s going to the post office.”

“He just went yesterday.”

“He wants to get a plow extension from the co-op.”

“I'm sure he will find an extension useful.”

“I doubt it,” said Jane.

She liked this time of year. Her husband spent more time around the house while the crops needed less maintenance. She noticed her husband had made the bed and had started cooking lunch.

“Did you two go swimming?”

“We sure did! We were reading when I noticed how we both smelled. I thought some good water would do the trick.”

“It did.” They kissed again. The boy squirmed.

“Jim compliments your farming skills.”

“How unusual.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I forgot to ask," said Jane's husband. "Did you read Uncle Dan's letter yet? How is everyone at the ranch?”

“They are just fine. Uncle has rounded up a few dozen more horses. He has three set aside for you, and an empty ranch house, and a lot of fertile land which never needs irrigation. We should go.”

Jane’s husband looked towards the Armstrong’s house, calculating his answer. He saw the family across the road, all but Jim, gathering around the shed where the ox laid.

"We should eat lunch. Our clothes are still wet."

Jane waited for the response to her suggestion. Then her husband spoke, "We'll leave after they're dry. We should pay respect to the ox. We owe the ox."

"The ox is dead."

This was a big deal. Jane was not joking. Also, she was good at minding her own business. Jane's husband frowned. "Hmmmph. Then we leave now, before Jim gets back."

2009-12-09T20:56:00.000-08:00

.
soil and oak, both toil, but

oak alone can reach that shelf, that topmost shelf.
oak sees soil’s legs are short, his torso is abrupt. Poor choice, says
oak, who finds a pie on top that shelf with views of sky. up there,

oak spies a Wealthy life.

oak eats the pie and drinks sunlight which helps him grow.
oak suggests, you should try some—get your own.
oak dies the day soil tries to choose a taller height.

soil eats oak, tastes pie.

Why not live where it's warm

2009-12-03T20:32:00.000-08:00

.
?

On behalf of the loyals

2009-12-01T18:44:00.000-08:00

I'm a loyal fan. I'm looking for a new baseball team to support, but I'll not jump on the bandwagon like a fairweather fan. I don't support teams just because they are winning. In fact, all teams for which I cheer have losing seasons consistently.

I choose these teams for two reasons. One, I'm a loyal fan. Two, watching the game is about much more than enjoyment. Granted, watching my team get crushed by the opposition is disappointing. Sometimes the crushing is so severe that we loyal fans are immortally wounded. Maybe even immorally wounded.

During these times we loyal fans remind ourselves that we must keep going forward. If we don't, our pre-purchased non-refundable season tickets, ten year's worth, will be wasted. We loyal fans will keep going to the games, leaving our embarrassed wives at home, with painted bare chests and gigantic foam hands. Honorably, we will always buy nachos and occasionally yell explicits.

My teams consist of great guys--fathers, husbands, community leaders, and Olympians. As a loyal fan, a true fan, I have the right to brag about these men. I will do this, when we win, by dancing in the street, dumping my drinks on your white shirt, hooting, hollering, littering, starting things of fire, waving my arms in the air, and requesting a plethora of high-fives. In other words, when we win—when we win—the team and I get to take full pride in our accomplishments. We deserve it. I especially deserve it, due to my extreme loyalty.

Loyally is the only way to support a sporting team. Fair-weather fans watch sports as if the game isn't important and hence will never have the satisfaction I get from watching the underdog come from behind late in the game and pull off the glorious victory, like when…

Well, enough reminiscing. But doesn't it sound fabulous? I've chosen the less-excellent team, so the next big win will make up for those get-rich-quick investments, for example, and all other bad choices I’ve made in life. Yes, sporting is about life.

In life, when the boss cuts your pay, makes you work the holidays, hits on your wife, and repeatedly unplugs your computer monitor, do you switch your loyalty and quit? Do you leave and work for the new boss who pays twice as much and who never touches your power cord or your wife?

No. A loyal fan never quits! We loyal fans know what it means to stand tall, to weather through oppression, to fight the good fight.

Fairweather fans: enjoy your snooty new office equipment and free health insurance. You should have been loyal like me, wearing my original autographed 1976 brown jersey on top of my green business suit and displaying old trading cards. But no, you had to be on the bandwagon, enjoying yourself.

2009-11-23T17:30:00.000-08:00

united
we stand just beneath
the swinging gold powers
we’re all so tiny in grandfather’s clock
Pendulum prized old jewel
sometimes on their side
sometimes on ours
both sides try
both sides fail
to make it stay
and then we all trade
places red rover over the border
--on a hinge the Pendulum swings called--Antietam--Israel--Waterloo
--the 38th Parallel--the 28th of June in Sarajevo
--China’s Wall--Berlin’s Wall--the middle white aisle in Senate’s hall
blood runs red from uniforms blue
united and small we stand dirty
wet boots on tired old shoulders
reaching leaping building
tall towers some try
using rope like a
floss-sized
noose
some die
both guilty
both justified
it swings then back then forth
in grandfather’s clock
we all fight
united

2009-11-21T21:32:00.000-08:00

.
At last I find you, at night I find you.
I rush, my arms I use to reconnect.
Against your lips and perfect cheeks I press,
Caress, and hold you, and lift you at your waist.
You let me. You smile. I smile, you let me.

You and I were there together, at last,
But you won't remember, can't remember
My haunted dream last night, which would be true,
Me with you, if I'd found you. It would be,
But dreams cut short. You forget me.

Fertile Spring

2009-11-20T11:57:00.001-08:00

.
Winter's white cloak leaves.
Silent truth makes fresh their mess,
Dead with muddied rot.

(Jumbled Haiku from Winter's Mess)

2009-11-17T13:19:00.001-08:00

'Taken' is the film we finish watching in the big city movie theatre. After the film, we eat as much of the large pizza and buffalo chicken wings as we can. Failing to finish, I end up with a few wings and pepperoni slices in one of those white to-go boxes.

Walking is such a burden with a full stomach, almost like being off-balance, leaning to the left.

Nights on the city streets look like nothing else, except for a weekend night on the city streets. Mostly locals, mostly young, always wealthy, never satisfied with one bar per night, people roam from one place to another smelling poorly and acting someone else’s age. The same is true this night.

I see an unusual man under the glow of flashing neon beer signs. He wants money—it appears he needs a haircut, a shave, and new clothes—and for money he is asking everyone in sight, apparently desperate enough to brave the strong smell of hairspray and hard liquor.

The way he moves from person to person reminds me of the way a senior in college moves when bouncing from booth to booth at a career fair. Then I remember one college class in particular.

The economics class, which had the highest concentration of Libertarians west of Stockholm, reported that fifty percent of the homeless have drug or alcohol problems, mental illness, or criminal records. I was about to ask the professor if he knew who made up the other fifty percent, because I assumed that it must be people who don’t have drug problems, have no criminal records, and quite possibly are children and families, but the class moved to the next subject so quickly, never to return, as if the problem were solved, being attributed to poor choices.

I thought 'Libertarian' would be a good name for hand soap. At the same time, I made a mental note that there were impoverishing consequences for choosing to be mentally ill.

My leftover food in a white box—which keeps changing colors under the neon Bud sign—is all I have, and I am confident this college-fair-impersonator isn't interested in food. No, I'd been warned, he wants money for alcohol and drugs.

Still, he keeps his eyes on the white box.

'I don’t have cash. Pizza?' I ask.

He takes it. His brief but sincere expression of gratitude is cut short while he rushes to a safe enclave to eat. He opens that to-go box in the same way I opened that white envelope containing my first job offer—ferociously.

Winter's Mess

2009-11-13T10:23:00.000-08:00

.
Muddied, dead leaves rot.
Winter's fresh cloak makes silent
Their mess with white lies.

2009-11-08T21:40:00.000-08:00

..

“Decide,” said Dad
Inside our house, “or there’ll
B3 unhappy people—you
Me, and your mother.”
Right then I felt my insides
Bite. Arranged marriage. What a
Waste, never to chose my own wife,
Taste the freedom of a
Poorly-informed decision. “I’m
Sorely afraid that she’ll make me
Sick.” I said. And then, so
Quick, Dad points at Mom. “I was
Denied that freedom. No chance to
Decide for myself. I didn’t think she could
Satisfy me. But our love you can’t
Buy, or Consume like candy. You think in a
Bar you’ll find someone like her? Maybe.
Far from likely. Trust me. When you’re
Done loving choice, start Producing love, choose
One choice: to love. And love that choice.”

(Transposed from The Vending Machine)

2009-10-31T13:24:00.000-07:00

.
Time passes. We're now
The product of past seasons,
Praying to see Spring.

2009-08-29T18:30:00.000-07:00

.

Not a ball and chain,
but security during
Winter wind and rain.

2009-08-22T10:12:00.000-07:00

.
They call you barren, obstinate and proud.
I call you clever. Steal you dry, that seed
Will swell and spread while filth covers your head
With foreign leaves, Dead brown, orange, and red.
Oh! They moan and fret, regret, but don't let
In that eager seed. You clever dirt, you.
No. Don't let in that eager seed or
You might find what living Life can mean.

2009-07-25T20:18:00.000-07:00

.
Shift in pitch
On stormy swells and liquid knells
Make sailors sick.

Keeping eyes on calm horizons are these weathered men

No longer; now
Distracted by the silent sly
Grey fog and mist

They pray for mill
Stones and a chain, a hearty chain
To stop the pitch

And drag them down
To promised calm where siren songs
Have made their graves

Free from pitch and sway.
Oh, give them that horizon red, and take away that grey!

2009-07-18T20:47:00.000-07:00

.

Green,
A pleasant thing, they say.
On leaves in trees at spring,

In low mountains with clean air,
By private meadows with flowers,
Far from city care;

Peaceful moss on tired logs,
In clear ponds during rain showers
Filled by small turtles, frogs.

The cool color that covers everything
Impossible to glean, fills the heart all day
With warm unpleasant envy.

2009-07-13T22:11:00.000-07:00

My Childhood Home I See Again
--by Abraham Lincoln

[I]

My childhood's home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it too.

O Memory! thou midway world
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,

And, freed from all that's earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.

As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-tones that, passing by,
In distance die away;

As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar--
So memory will hallow all
We've known, but know no more.

Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.

Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.

The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.

I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.

I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs.

[II]

But here's an object more of dread
Than ought the grave contains--
A human form with reason fled,
While wretched life remains.

Poor Matthew! Once of genius bright,
A fortune-favored child--
Now locked for aye, in mental night,
A haggard mad-man wild.

Poor Matthew! I have ne'er forgot,
When first, with maddened will,
Yourself you maimed, your father fought,
And mother strove to kill;

When terror spread, and neighbors ran,
Your dange'rous strength to bind;
And soon, a howling crazy man
Your limbs were fast confined.

How then you strove and shrieked aloud,
Your bones and sinews bared;
And fiendish on the gazing crowd,
With burning eye-balls glared--

And begged, and swore, and wept and prayed
With maniac laught joined--
How fearful were those signs displayed
By pangs that killed thy mind!

And when at length, tho' drear and long,
Time smoothed thy fiercer woes,
How plaintively thy mournful song
Upon the still night rose.

I've heard it oft, as if I dreamed,
Far distant, sweet, and lone--
The funeral dirge, it ever seemed
Of reason dead and gone.

To drink it's strains, I've stole away,
All stealthily and still,
Ere yet the rising God of day
Had streaked the Eastern hill.

Air held his breath; trees, with the spell,
Seemed sorrowing angels round,
Whose swelling tears in dew-drops fell
Upon the listening ground.

But this is past; and nought remains,
That raised thee o'er the brute.
Thy piercing shrieks, and soothing strains,
Are like, forever mute.

Now fare thee well--more thou the cause,
Than subject now of woe.
All mental pangs, by time's kind laws,
Hast lost the power to know.

O death! Thou awe-inspiring prince,
That keepst the world in fear;
Why dost thos tear more blest ones hence,
And leave him ling'ring here?

2009-06-30T21:04:00.001-07:00

.
At it all day is he
With three minutes to sit
Under gnarled old tree,
Feeling free, loving grass,
Thanking the breeze,
Thinking dirt is soft after
Teaching it honesty,
Finding respite in shade,
Resting sore hands and worn,
Loving Rich watermelon is he.

Yes, his young successors
Avoid dirt, neglect trees,
Think less of grass,
Withdraw from breeze,
And assess melon to be
A Poor choice for filling
Full bellies at play, having been
At it all day.

2009-06-26T14:01:00.000-07:00

.
Black bark and vibrant
Spring leaves--this old wise tree with
No house to clutter.

The Road Not Taken

2009-06-25T17:32:00.001-07:00

.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

--Robert Frost

2009-06-20T16:33:00.000-07:00

.
The urn, he has enough to spare
When the ladle removes and shares.
The urn pours, he's clean now that he cares.

He trusts the black towel, he gives to it plenty.
But now there's cold chrome reflecting where
The blood-red hearts should be, now empty.

2009-06-14T20:45:00.000-07:00

.
Feel inside; try to
Fill round holes with this season's
Shiny squares you buy.

Seeds

2009-06-02T17:12:00.000-07:00

.
Sunflowers love and dream of the sunlight
and follow the warm glow
and everything bright

Inches each day into sky is their breach,
With ups and outs they grow
to ambition they leach.

So quickly time passed with Heads wide and tall,
Wrinkled necks thin and bowed,
Tears are dry seeds, they bawl.

Sunlight has made heavy heads
and dry soil for final resting beds.

The Fish

2009-06-02T16:48:00.000-07:00

.
Although you hide in the ebb and flow
Of the pale tide when the moon has set,
The people of coming days will know
About the casting out of my net,
And how you have leaped times out of mind
Over the little silver cords,
And think that you were hard and unkind,
And blame you with many bitter words.

--William Butler Yeats

Editors

2009-05-25T17:46:00.001-07:00

.
Through multi-colored lens
The story clears
When looking back.

We’ve buried all the bones
Since taking smears
While looking back.

Lovebird

2009-05-22T15:13:00.000-07:00

.
Caged
Bright-feathered
Lovebird fakes a lovesong
Alone. Her instincts wait and ache for him
to arrive. She sighs with eyes fixed
on the door, and cries on the floor. Save her!
The bright feathers
Droop and fade
While she
Dies.

Hummingbirds

2009-05-16T11:05:00.001-07:00

.
I saw hummingbirds
today. Although late in Spring,
at least they've returned.

Pyramid

2009-05-11T21:14:00.000-07:00

.
Rock-
Hard Leaders
Grind us with oppression.
In mid-air we're forced to conform, faces shorn.
Hanging and dangling, we're held captive in
Uniform. Wait--attached to their heartstrings
With care, we're spared.
Nothing down
there but
air.

Invention

2009-05-06T22:12:00.000-07:00

.
Textbooks on Kindle,
But I'm still stuck in winter
fishing with wood sticks.

A Snake

2009-05-06T21:30:00.000-07:00

A Silent thief,
from the shadows
uninvited,
Breaks in. Almost

Motionless.
No! The dark
silhouette
moves closer.

He'll take all,
Everything
Most precious.
But he can't see:

She, too, sneaks
to slice his
face. She'll use
sharpened steel.

May #1, Still Unidentified

2009-05-04T22:25:00.000-07:00

My friend Brandon and I are the coolest people in the neighborhood. His kid brother is the third, which is why we didn’t invite anyone else to our trampoline camping night. Also, experiences with gravity and giant trampolines has taught that more than three people sleeping on a trampoline results in too much unintentional and unconscious contact during unpleasant hours of cold mornings. Three is a good number for these things.

I spot another falling star. We've spotted hundreds during tonight’s meteor shower. This one shatters on its way to earth causing a silent cascade of sparkling light.

The back yard which houses the trampoline is fenced and private. The starlight makes the grass look mysterious. There is no moon and the air is still warm. A perfect night for star gazing.

A flash of light frightens us out of our dozing conversation. Seconds pass and I still can’t determine the source, and my eyes still haven’t adjusted back to the darkness. We’re all scared, and the adrenaline in our blood is making it difficult to speak evenly. Still, someone offers their theory: lightening. We search the sky but see nothing but stars. There isn’t a cloud in sight from horizon to horizon.

On the fifteenth second after the flash we hear a disturbing sound louder and deeper than thunder, but definitely not thunder.

We don’t say a thing. We sink ever so slightly more closely together in the trough of the trampoline canvas. Faces down and mostly covered, we wish we weren’t special enough to hear that, see that.

The air is cold now.

Finally, someone dares to speak while the other two scan the dark lining of the fence for fear of unknown eavesdropping predators. Anything is possible now.

Our hushed voices find enough confidence to spend the next few hours postulating the source of the mystery.

We all agreed that the entire sky was lit, so it was impossible for us to determine its location. The booming sound was so loud. Its delay in reaching our campsite suggested a location far away.

Brandon and his brother weren't Boy Scouts. So, being the only Boy Scout present, I offer my knowledge that thunder takes one second to travel a mile after a lightening strike. After speaking, I remember that I didn’t learn that from scouting adventures, but from an unpopular girl at school recess. I keep that part to myself. Not caring how wrong this theory could be, we use it to conclude that the sound originated from at least fifteen miles away, narrowing the location to somewhere in the city centre, in the suburbs, or on the other side of the foothills in the middle of nowhere.

Then Brandon’s kid brother offers a far more profound analysis on the history and evolution of sonic science and other dealings with physics, which he shouldn’t know at such a young age, confirming my earlier suspicions about the credibility of an education through the Boy Scout program.

Theories of aliens and UFOs, secret government projects of nuclear proportions, etc., keep me frenzied. I want to go inside the house now because it’s cold.

April #4, Frogs

2009-04-30T21:40:00.000-07:00

I find a tadpole in a stagnant pool. There are others too. They are pea-sized. My shadow momentarily protects their habitat from the blazing sunlight. They pretend not to see me. Now I see hundreds in the shallow water, but I only take the one. I put him in a fishbowl.

I don't know what tadpoles eat, or if they eat at all. Weeks pass and the small wiggler grows legs, then arms. He stops wiggling and climbs out of the water, his body now almond-sized.

I do know that frogs eat flies, and that frogs need to eat.

There is a fly in the living room right now. I've never seen a frog eat a smashed fly, so I try to catch it alive. I'm unsuccessful. However, a whip from a kitchen towel brings down the fly. I scoop it up and drop it in the fish bowl.

Confirming my earlier suspicion, frogs don't eat smashed flies.

Then the fly revives! It must have been stunned, not dead; not for long. The tiny frog attacks the fly with his tongue in a split-second, then swallows. The frog is satisfied, and I am a satisfied master.

Looming behind my grinning face is the fear of having to regularly provide for him. His meal was the product of my luck and his instinct, and I can control neither.

So, my green friend takes a bike ride with me back to his green tadpole pond. The fishbowl, the bicycle, and I are still alien to this place. Again my shadow covers the entire habitat. I release him to the wild, doubting his survival and hoping I haven't crippled him.

2009-04-30T20:53:00.000-07:00

.

Hot
Desire
Is the Liberator.
Takes us new places; we meet new faces.
Ennobles, emboldens. We grow wings,
It compensates empty spaces, fills our heart,
Then breaks our heart,
And never
Lets us
Go.

Pearl

2009-04-29T20:31:00.000-07:00

.

The essence of man
is buried deep,
A small pearled jewel
‘neath water’s reef.

When firmly engaged--
committed right--
His essence will yearn
and burn for light.

Forever has lived
this tiny jewel,
Forever it fights
the worthy duel;

Sees future and past,
from both it speaks
Back to the man, his
essence complete.

(for Niels)

Repose

2009-04-28T12:10:00.000-07:00

We’ll watch in time as life
Corrodes to crimson rust.
We’ll hide, but still sun’s light
Turns diamonds into dust.
We’ll save beasts two by two,
Then earth will eat, digest.

Nature paves her way.
She crumbles life
Consumes the light
Breaks everything in two.
Destruction is her play.

When all have tasted death
Some unheard song will sing.
When lights have turned to dark
Some unseen lights we’ll see,
And two shall mold to One
In Resurrection’s ring.

With Nature still preserved,
Her mark of death
Hides in the dark,
Still making two of one.
But power now reserved.

We’ll own her life in play.

Fully Exposed

2009-04-27T16:44:00.000-07:00

.

All things are mayflies
Dying in hot summer wind.
We're fully exposed.

Jaded

2009-04-26T22:47:00.000-07:00

Why is this so difficult? Others have it worse. It must be difficult for me because I'm totally unprepared. Seeing my infant daughter in the hospital breaks me, but it shouldn't.

Remembering that it could be worse, how hard others have it, being told about biblical Job, isn't helpful. I feel depressed that others have it worse. Unfair.

My daughters rests her head against my chest. Her tongue is swollen to maximum capacity. The uninformed nurse suggests I feed her from a bottle. I wonder if my nurse if visually impaired. Blood is flowing from the wound under my baby's tongue.

My back is sore, but I keep holding her because she won't be comforted any other way. I spent the night in a hard chair, never sleeping. My wife slept on the cold wood floor. We weren't expecting to stay the night; the baby was expected to be healed by now; nothing was going as expected.

Between fits of pain and bleeding, the baby sleeps in my arms against my chest. I learn that she probably isn't sleeping, she's probably collapsing with exhaustion. It's been days since the baby has eaten anything. Her eyes roll, then close for another collapse. The only medicine she has is Tylenol and antibiotics. I think it's time for a new prescription.

The baby doesn't recognize the person who just entered the room, so she clings closer to me. While the newcomer performs a new procedure the baby cries a new song. A new cry that screams "Stop it. Why won't someone save me?" Then she collapses.

They keep moving her in and out of the ICU to make room for new patients. The multiple moves keep the baby's anxiety fresh, and also results in the ripping of the IV from her foot. Blood now from her top and bottom, her bed is soiled. The nurse has now provided me new sheets after three hours.

The antibiotics give her diarrhea. It finds its way to my pants, of course; I don't have another pair. I clean her up. She hates being put on her back--so untrusting now. I hold her to my chest again and the blood flows to my sleeves. I smell her breath. The potent odor of rotting flesh--of wounds unhealed--should never come from a baby's body.

We're both a smelly pair, neither bathed in days. We do our best to clean the mess, but the swelling continues anyway. Her exhaustion gets worse. Her blood clots get worse. Her heartbeat: irregular, leading to more procedures, leading to more haunting sounds. I can't tell her it'll all be okay. She's too young to understand; she thinks it'll go on forever. I don't know what I would say anyway.

Exhaustion reaches me. I blaspheme. Then again with real intent. I'm dizzytired. My arms can't hold her anymore. She's only getting worse. I fear the worst.

My wife takes over, so I make my way home on public transit. It takes longer than it should. I'm covered in mess. People give looks, I have violent thoughts.

Finally, I'm home. It should feel bigger because it's empty, but it's as small as ever, as expensive as ever. Work at the office is piling up, unlike my checking account. No help from Above. Others have it worse and I don't care. I'm broken. Life's unfair...blasphemously hopeless. I know God's there; I no longer care.

I remove my shirt to find my under-garments stained blood-red. I apologize to Him. I hope He forgives. Meanwhile, maybe I'll find and help someone worse-off.

Over Exposure

2009-04-26T09:06:00.000-07:00

.

Trust is the mayfly
That dies in hot July wind.
Over-exposure.

Exposed

2009-04-24T15:46:00.000-07:00

.

He hides disguised,
Mysterious,
With half-told tales,
Sweeps His shadows.

The rightside’s
looking right.
The leftside’s
looking left.

The upside:
He’ll be revealed.
The downside:
It’s far too late.

We’re outside
looking up;
He’s inside
Looking in.

Poem #2, Princess

2009-04-18T10:57:00.000-07:00

God, catch her if she falls.
She feels your love with Faith, and trusts.
Surprised, she falls so fast,
She thinks and trusts you'll save. You must!
She Hopes the landing’s soft.
How can you watch without disgust?

Sharp rocks do wait below.
They break her fall.
They make it fast.
Her body once was soft.
The rocks did strike their blow.

Then ‘round the rocks she’ll rise,
With wounded friends on bended knee.
The process now so slow.
Less Faith and Hope, more Charity
Her scars should make her hard
To you. Is not this what you see?

She’ll heal and try again!
Her steady rise,
Recov'ry slow.
The rocks below: so hard.
She's at the ledge again.

Dear God, please catch her when she falls.

Poem #1

2009-04-15T20:36:00.000-07:00

God is a Conservative
In fewer ways than one;
Keeps the Course, respects old ways,
Just like his firstborn Son.

"God’s behind, far in the past"
To those who love the Same,
Name things all the same, conserve
Like old men growing lame.

Fundamentalists He loves
To chide; they'll fall away,
Chasing dark and different gods
They make with minds of clay.

Churches He's protected, kept
Like fruit left in the Sun.
God's a real Conservative,
An ardent liberal One.

April #3, Less Wind

2009-04-14T20:50:00.000-07:00

Now a teenager, I'm finally old enough to drive. It's just a Ford Tempo, but it has air conditioning. On trips to the Mississippi, air conditioning is a must-have. The river is only miles away now. What will this new place look like? I don't know what to expect.

My viral distaste for the incessant Idaho wind led me to complain about every other aspect of Idaho life. The sage brush stinks, the cows are dumb, the houses are ugly, the farm equipment is rusty, and so on. I suppose Dad has had enough because he arranged this service vacation for me and my brother.

So far I'm surprised to learn that every other town between Idaho and the Mississippi looks exactly the same, minus the sage brush. Cows, paint-needy houses, and farm equipment weren't unique after all.

I'm excited to see the Mississippi River. Stories of Tom Sawyer grow thick in my memory the closer we get.

Then we arrive at our service site to find a stack of wood siding waiting to get nailed to a horse barn. A service vacation inconveniently includes service.

It's hot outside, and humid. Horse manure never had so many airborne flavors. I can't remember my nose ever feeling so warm and wet. The morning sun is still behind the trees, but I'm sweating already. When the sun finally peaks, it pays special attention to my black hat and black shoes by giving them extra heat. My wet skin attracts every insect in the county. This feels like work. Where's the vacation? I miss my paper route.

Hours go by, then days. At every heartbeat I swat a fly, the spare time is filled with smashing mosquitoes, but always too late. Their red mark is painful after scratching through my moist skin. They're buzzing in my ear, in my nose, in my eye. What happened to the adventure?

In desperate irritation I exclaim my profound annoyance.

Dad stops. He smiles. Then he says "makes you wish for a little wind."

I agree. With his seven calculated words he successfully ceases a lifetime of weather complaints.

April #2, Wind

2009-04-13T21:13:00.000-07:00

My twelve year old body shivers against the winter wind. I ache from carrying the paperboy bag on my shoulders. The weight of the papers makes my bicycle feel unsteady, like the seat will break or the tires will pop. It's hard to get any momentum against the unrelenting wind. I should have worn gloves.

I'm the only living thing outdoors. How could it be dark at this time? A warm glow from a subscriber's living room window is offset by his cold scowl. His paper is late.

I take extra time to show him how much I care about his paper. Then a wind gust catches a Kmart ad and sends it to a wet gutter. I chase after it with fifty pounds on my shoulders testing my balance and spinal strength. The shoe souls feel mushy from the extra weight.

I bend down to get the ad from the gutter and wind takes advantage by throwing me to my knees. I catch myself with my left hand, but the ice-cold gravel draws blood. The paperboy bag breaks open and more papers take flight.

When against me, the wind blows in only one direction; against paper, it blows in seven. While it has me distracted, the wind throws some coarse dirt into my wet eyes.

By the time I'm composed, the subscriber on the warm side of the window is colder than ever. Now his paper is late and wet.

Who shops at Kmart anyway?

With more force than necessary, I cram his paper into the box, bending its hinges. I include the Kmart ad, colored with my blood as a bonus.

I mount my bicycle and press into the wind. I curse it audibly. The wind is criminally annoying. Every day it blows against me.

Dickinson Encore for Easter

2009-04-11T19:19:00.000-07:00

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,

As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear.

--Emily Dikinson

One must first taste nectar to thirst for it; first be victorious to crave its company. Whether now or from another life, we all have felt success.

Eventually, we all will find reason to feel like the dying solder on the abandoned battlefield of a meaningless war. But this Easter we celebrate because we all will be victorious. We all will wear purple, fly our flag, and march in the parade.

April #1, HDT-Venom

2009-04-10T17:50:00.000-07:00

I have always held a lower-than-average opinion of Henry David Thoreau, so when I discovered that a nameless Wikipedia contributor had giving him credit for inspiring and influencing the political thoughts and actions of Tolstoy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Gandhi, I decided to reevaluate him.

At first glance, Thoreau appears to be the only person in history to successfully beat Martin Harris in the World’s Ugliest Beard contest. Being an intellectual and philosophical man, he would resent my shallow judgments almost as much as I resent his work being called intellectual. Standing in the worthy shadow of Emerson, Thoreau graced our planet with Walden Pond, a book as deep as a dry puddle on the flat pavement.

Apparently unemployable, Thoreau scavenged off the mercies of Emerson by living in Emerson’s dilapidated spare house on Walden Pond. From here Thoreau teaches the human race some important lessons:

#1 To decrease the complexities of life, try Simplifying! things

#2 When Thoreau gets hungry, really hungry, he wants to eats stuff, even animals

#3 Words should be read with as much care as the writer gives when writing

Personally, I started with #3 by reading his book with the level of care he used while writing it, which led me to accomplish #1 because I Simplified! my personal library by donating the book to a local thrift store. (The publisher further Simplified! the process by including Civil Disobedience in the same volume, Simplifying! my disposal process.)

But placing my heartless Venom aside, our culture's extravagance has created an economic mess. If instead simplification was the mantra of our generation we might have avoided the hunger that poor Thoreau had to face.

His words whisper from the past like the annoying brat in school that always claimed "I told you so." I imagine this trait earned Thoreau a few black eyes in his schooling days, which probably explains the real reason he went off to live by himself.

2009-04-04T11:34:00.000-07:00

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant-
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind-

--Emily Dickinson

March #3, Pigeons

2009-03-21T21:16:00.000-07:00

The graceless air rats called pigeons are the embarassing cousings from the Columbidae family. Nature confusingly prefers these animals to others by endowing them with the ability to fly and with a bonus feature of inextinctability.

My most heated pigeon dilemma occured in a tall building which had a residential unit on the top floor. Because the building was still in construction, this top floor residential unit was nothing but four walls of windows. The unfortunate pigeon found its way into the construction site but couldn't find its way out.

I attempted to frighten the pigeon out the door. It wanted to escape--as evidenced by multiple pigeons-shaped dust marks scattered about random windows--but had accepted the fact that it was trapped.

Because it wouldn't cooperate, it was my duty to slay the beast. I don't habitually kill things. Even detestable spiders find themselves led out of my house unharmed. (Unless I ever find those big brown fuzzy ones. Those I vengefully kill instantly even if it means using my bare hands or feet.)

The act was difficult. I had to recruit one of the office workers to help me. He would chase the pigeon towards me while I waited with a broomstick and adrenaline. The process continued for over an hour, and I believe the bird had a good understanding of the threat for at least the last 55 minutes. The broomstick finally made contact. It only took once. The lump on the cold cement floor was my answer to Nature's preference.

March #2, Cats

2009-03-21T19:45:00.000-07:00

I heard the worst details about our neighborhood cats from a stranger on the other side of the world.

I heard the details while I sat in a large English dining room lit only by natural afternoon sunlight shining in from bay windows, which provided pleasant lakeside views. Apart from the bay windows, all of these aspects were very unusual to England.

At the head of the table, with her back to the windows, sat a middle-aged woman who had just finished explaining that she had lived in the same small neighborhood where I came from, and knew all about Celia Allgood, the dogs, and many other life-long neighbors of mine. The world felt small again, but I still had a hard time believing it, until she provided irrefutable evidence regarding the neighborhood cats.

Oh what horrible things were done to these cats, she exclaimed. How they were treated in such inhuman ways! During this time I wondered if she preferred to have cats treated in human ways, but my thoughts were cut short by gruesome rumors of cats buried neck deep, lawnmowers, and detailed physical examination of the bodies that even Leo da Vinci would find unnecessary.

It's easy to imagine how a cat could find itself experiencing premature cessation. When sensing danger, a more modest animal will flee. Felines smugly insist that Danger is the out-of-place object and (with a hiss) will insist that Danger should flee. Danger is often a fast-moving Honda which, by nature, has listless momentum when confronted with the offended ego of a cat.

I was very familiar with the boys who behaved inhumanly. They were former friends of my older brother. This English woman slowly breathed each of their names the same way Voldemort said the word "Muggle."

Sensing that the injustice was keeping this woman awake at night, I did my best to put her at ease by explaining that the two ringleaders of the anti-cat club have since had a great deal of losing arguments with the Law (non-cat related), and have even had their shameful mugshots printed in the local newspaper. My attempt was successful, and she seemed to have lighter shoulders.

The last time I saw this well-traveled woman was in an English church parking lot. She was waiting for people like myself to exit the church so she could make an announcement. I asked her what news she had, she told me she had decided to join the Army. Given her age and physical condition, I imagined her at best as a civilian secretary in a bunker on an island somewhere. I asked her how she came to such a dramatic decision and she said it was inspiration from heaven. I heartily encouraged her, although I couldn't imagine what use she could be to the military.

Months later I discovered that it was The Salvation Army that I encouraged her to join, which made much more sense after recalling how often she felt offended by her original church.

March #1, Dogs

2009-03-13T11:47:00.001-07:00

Celia Allgood, who lived across the street from my childhood home, had no legs and nearly a dozen dogs.

Her house smelled like warm wet hair and dog food. One of the dogs, aptly named Buttons, was the ugliest, meanest, most unpleasant beast imaginable. Buttons was the butt of family jokes, and we thought of clever ways to stab him with needles or sew him to train tracks. I don't know if I will ever fully understand why Celia kept company with this four-legged hobgoblin.

Paralyzed and widowed, Celia was the eternal dog-loving fountain of needs: turn off the sprinkler, find the missing dog, mow the lawn, chop the firewood, open the dog-door, change the light bulb, till the garden, defend against evil dog snatchers, etc. Her requests always seemed to interrupt the most important activity of the day, so my whole life was filled with Celia-avoiding strategy.

This attitude changed the last time I ever saw her. One evening she requested my service and I was too old to play dumb. During this visit Celia surprised me with a smart, pleasant, and conversational demeanor. And she gave me a gift--something warm for me to wear while in England.

Ignoring the habit of avoiding her, I carefully inspected her gift in my hands, thinking what a great job I'd done at turning my high-potential childhood into a dog-hating fountain of wasted video-gaming hours.

And I wasn't the only one avoiding her. As far as I could tell during my brief and unwilling visits over the years, the wall-covering collage of old family pictures stopped being replaced around the mid-70's.

I'd never met them before, but these family members were much more visible after Celia's death. Dividing assets is always a big task and requires the most heated passions to accomplish. The dogs were not assets, of course, but were divided still the same. They lost all value the moment Celia died. Then they disappeared--Buttons too--blanketing our neighborhood with creepy silence.