Holiday

It started about three weeks ago. I got the call and I couldn't resist. Lord, I tried, but I answered anyway. 

I pulled the door open and stepped inside. I waited until my eyes adjusted, leaning on the front counter. 

"Just sit anywhere, sweetheart."

She brushed past me with a pot of coffee in her hand. The smell of it kick-started a rumble in my stomach that I was sure everyone in the place could hear. I picked my way down the crowded counter and found a booth. Why here? It was too crowded and I don't like being this near to people. I could feel filth emanating from every one of them. The guy sitting at the next booth reeked of alcohol and stale cigarettes. I tried to fight off the revulsion, telling myself to calm down. I don't do well in confined spaces.

"You're so fucking uptight I can smell it on you," the man in the next booth said in hoarse whisper. "You need to relax." It was him.

"What the hell happened to you?" I asked him, "You look like shit."

"Yeah, well, things haven't been going so well. I need you to do something for me," he said with a grin.

I stared at him, wondering if there was even a remote chance I could get myself out of this situation.

"Not a chance," he said. "I'm a god, remember?"

"Well, what could the great almighty Pan need with me. Run out of booze? Need a whore or two?" 

"After all I've done for you, this is the thanks I get?" He tried to look hurt but succeeded only in looking like he was trying to pass a gall-stone. 

"You're not a god, you're a figment of my imagination. You're a dream that torments me periodically. You're too much pizza and gravy, that's what you are." I'm not sure if I was castigating him or myself.

"Yourself. I'm a dream, remember?" he said dryly.

"Why me?" I whined. Its another one of those things I dislike about myself. 

"I'm not fond of it either," Pan said, "regardless, you're all I have for the time being. The fact that you're crazy is an inconvenience but I can work around that, too."

He stood up and the diner dissolved into a pastoral setting and I found myself leaning against a tall tree, heavy with leaves and a pear shaped fruit. I reached up for one, only to have my hand slapped down. Pan appeared before me, no longer looking like a homeless man but worse. His fur was matted and in it bits of meat and twigs mixed with dribbled wine and unidentifiable detritus. 

"Pay attention. I have a plan. I have no intention of hiding in here any longer and you, my squirrely little friend are going to help me."

I sighed a heavy peal of resignation. He was right. I'm completely crazy and whenever one of these apparitions decides to take control, I can't seem to stop them. Pan was particularly bad news for me. I wondered, briefly, what life would be like if I wasn't nuts, but that thought dissolved when Pan asserted himself.

I woke up this morning in a motel. Apparently, I'm in Syracuse. The headache is only now just wearing off and I have to find a way home. I've got no money, of course. He spends it all and leaves me none. I hate him, sometimes. I really do.

On the up side, it seems that I'm married now. I think she's a dancer. She snores like an ox but she smells very nice. I wonder if she's ever been to Canada.

Do It Again

Jackson moved into the light, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. Somewhere in front of him a voice spoke, saying, "Not this time."
He nodded and shuffled off to the corner, trying not to let the others see his disappointment. He leaned against the rough stone that defined the cell and, with his back to the others, shook loose a sob coated in phlegm and bitter tears.
"Jackson?" It was Raleigh. He felt her hand on his back and the touch provoked more tears and he turned and buried his face in her shoulder.
"Maybe the old man can help, this time."

There was a garden in which people gathered and reminisced about life and love, dreaming of the day when they could return. They swapped stories of their past lives and the people they knew and had known as they strolled past the fig tree that defined the centre of the world.
Underneath the tree, the breeze that silently swept away the bad memories was warm and encouraged serenity, calm and reflection, and it was here that they found the old man. He was always here, chatting away the days under the protective arms of the tree, usually surrounded by a crowd of advice-seekers, acolytes and admirers. They drifted away as Jackson approached, without looking at him, without saying anything. He was getting used to the way they ignored him. Only Raleigh and the old man spoke to him.
"What is it this time?" the old man said as Jackson slumped beside him on the bench.
"Why won't they take me?" Jackson said.
"How many times do I have to tell you, you're just not ready," the old man said patting Jackson on the knee, "You stink of regret and sorrow, you ooze a melancholy sap from every pore of your body and you can't look anyone in the eye. No one wants to be near you, except Raleigh, and she's as bad as you. You're just not ready. You need to take some time off, go on a retreat or something. You need to relax."
Jackson nodded his head but held on tight to his desire. The old man sighed and sat back. He absently picked at the hem of his robe and then clasped his hands together, his thumbs pointing up. He up-ended his church and said, "And there are all the people," with a giggle to himself.
Jackson stirred beside him.
"What?" he said.
"Nothing, Jackson, I didn't say anything." The old man sat forward once again and turned to face him.
"You just don't get it, son. The whole idea is that you go back with a clear conscience and an empty mind. You don't have room in yours for a mote of dust, you're so cluttered and confused. What is it that you can't let go of? What's made you so sad, so heavy? It's only life. You go, you get to see some neat stuff, you stock up on some anecdotes and you come back. I don't understand what the problem is."
Jackson shuddered to attention.
"Only life?" he said, "That's what I can't understand. You say it's only life but it's so much more than that. It's meaningful and grand, sad and sorrowful. It's intense and ripe, it's catastrophic and it's elemental. It's the most profound experience I've ever had. It's not some sort of divine amusement park carousel that you climb on for fun. Everyone around here thinks it's such a gas to be born and to live, when it's the most precious gift any of us has ever experienced."
"An amusement park carousel? I like that. Jackson, you have quite a way with words," the old man beamed at him.
Jackson refused to be baited however, and sat silently until the old man relented.
"Alright," he said, with a grumble, "One more, but I'm not kidding when I tell you that if you don't lighten up this time around I'm going to be very displeased with you when you get back."
Jackson jumped up even before the old man had finished speaking and ran to the gate. As he jostled his way to the front of the line, the old man turned his attention to Raleigh.
"And you. What's your problem?"
"Me? I got no problem, old man. I just came by to say 'Hey'."
"Why don't I believe you?" said the old man.
"Because you're a suspicious old coot, that's why. But thanks for letting Jackson go back," she said with a small smile, "He really does take things so seriously. Maybe this time he'll have more fun. He's such a lump when he's here. I like him, though."
The old man clapped his hands together and laughed, "Oh, good," he said, "That makes my day."
"Don't make fun of me," she cried and launched herself into the old man's lap.
"Never," he said with a laugh as he wrapped her in his arms. He sighed as she lay her head on his shoulder, and thought once again of Jackson. His normally bright luminescence was dulled for a moment.
"I like him too, my girl" he said in a quiet voice, "I like him, too."

Manitoba, 1976

At 5:23 the sky is a deep blue/black and the air is cool, slightly tainted with the smell of yesterday; not awake to the desires of the new day. You sleep through everything.

I leave the car idling and go into the supermarket, with you safe under the effects of too much alcohol and pot. The secretive whispers that escape your lips leave me curiously unruffled because I understand the tone, if not the meaning. It's been three days of silence, impressed upon me by the empty horizon and the memory of loss.
The lights in here are bright and unforgiving. I realize that I must look exactly like I feel, and impishly decide to strut a little more and slouch a little less.
"Can I help you?' a girl says from behind the counter which is strewn with the evidence of too few customers. Three or four magazines lie on their backs, portraying a world of luxury studded with the embarrassments of a public life. An empty bag of potato chips spins on its axis as I breeze past and answer, "Not unless you've got a cure for needless suffering, or a remedy for heartache," I say.
"Pardon me?"

I hate driving at night. My eyes have never been good and the twinkling of far off houses, the lights left on for safety and to fend of the riot of night, only confuse my depth-perception. Everything seems more relevant in the pre-dawn hours, before the sun can burn away the melancholy of sleeplessness. That should be a bumper sticker, I think, while looking for a box of crackers that doesn't have the words 'low salt' on the front.
In the middle of the aisle sits a man, with his back to me, on an upended box, pricing cans of soup to put on the shelf. The snickering recoil of his gun is the only thing I can hear above the music being piped down from the speakers above. He looks up at me as I approach and, suddenly self-conscious, straightens his back as the gun's patter picks up speed.
"Morning," I grunt and he nods in return.
"Can I help you find something?" he says, and I pause, wondering what it is that I'm looking for.

The sun flashes across the dash, as I crest the hill, leaving another town behind and before the light of day can identify me, or you for that matter. We're beyond all that now, I think. You murmur in your sleep and try to turn away from the light, but not before you crack one eye open and say, "Where are we?"
I don't answer and you are asleep again before the question can settle there between us, awkward and undisguised, looking for all the world like a guilty child, born into a family of want.

The Mountain Stream

The trail wound down to the bottom of the gorge and without a second thought I walked straight into the stream that snaked across the bottom. The girls squealed in excitement when they saw the water but had second thoughts about stripping down and diving in as C.G., and the hulking, brooding man-child he was baby-sitting, broke from the cover of the trees. Instead, they walked along the bank until they found a good place to sit and dangle their feet. They are Patience and Faith, not Wanton and Lurid. I quite like them.
I call them my Lotus Eaters because of their endless ease and because they've never shared a bad thought between them. They've followed me around for most of my life, making repeated attempts to steal me away from the others and they sometimes wake me in the middle of the night to talk to me about the way I behave. They are as good as it gets. They show me the world as I would like it to be, but I'm a suspicious sort and they get frustrated with my negativity. And with Pan.
I saw them tense as Pan strode by. He makes no pretense about what he'd like to do to each one of them.

They are all with me now. They are my advisers, my mentors and my agents provocateurs. They are a motley collection of random thoughts and, at the same time, an organised team of interpreters.
There was a time when they were completely unaware of each other. It was in a time of complete disorder and confusion that I assembled them and brokered a truce. I asked them to come together for the purpose of finding someone I lost many years ago. I brought them together to track him through time and space, memory and forgetfulness, suffering, torment and grief. He's been missing for some time and I need him now, more than ever.

Ikkyu squatted at the edge of the stream and siphoned water for his kettle. As he set about building a small fire, I was, once more, impressed with the economy of his movements. He does everything with purpose and his temper is serene even in the face of danger. His musings are always concise and to the point and he never lets the boisterous attitudes of his forced compatriots interrupt the smooth flow of his thoughts.
"What is this place?" he said to me as he set the kettle in the flames.
"This is where I last saw him. Maybe twenty-five years ago?" I looked at the girls, and they nodded. They were here, too, although it wasn't me they were shadowing at the time. They followed me home that night, abandoning their post, thinking that I needed them more than the man who brought me here.
"And the one we're looking for?" Ikkyu watched me wince at the memory.
"This was the last place I saw him. I was hoping to find a clue or something." I looked around, not knowing how to begin to search.
I turned at the sounds of a scuffle and saw C.G. duck a swing from the animal he was shepherd to. This where he was born. He sprang into being at the edge of this stream, fully formed and raging. I couldn't control him then either. The flush of memory had provoked a fit of anger and C.G. was losing control of his charge. I watched impassively, as the Doctor tried in vain to soothe the beast, but the words he whispered into his ear had little effect and it wasn't until Pan held out something to him, that the child quieted and became subdued. I couldn't see what it was that the god had produced and so I stood to get a better view. The billowing form of the child began to deflate somewhat as he was held in check, mesmerized by a small mirror that he grasped in his massive fists. Pan turned to me then, and said, "You're an idiot. Get off your ass and get that old man moving or there's going to be trouble. This quack," he pointed to C.G., "doesn't know shit. Bringing us here was a foolish idea."
I looked at the Doctor and he was nodding his head.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I thought it might be helpful, but I didn't anticipate this reaction."
They all stood, staring at me, waiting for me to make a decision, and I looked from face to face.
The girls were frightened and fidgeted, holding hands and leaning on each other for support. The Doctor sat on his haunches, breathing heavily from the exertion of trying to control my rage. Pan stood in the middle of the stream, his hands on his hips and with a look of disgust on his face. Even the two headed dog was quiet, both heads avoiding my eyes.
From behind me, I heard Ikkyu clear his throat.
"Well," he said calmly, "I've finished my tea. We can go now." and he stood up, packing away the kettle.

I was sixteen the last time I was here and it looks exactly as I remember it. The stream that starts somewhere in the mountains above me, wanders down the valley and underneath the thick forest that covers both banks. It is beautiful. We camped here, after a long day of paddling. I was exhausted.
In the middle of the night, I woke to the sounds of some animal prowling around just outside the door of the tent and I sat up, trying to separate the sounds of the night from the chattering in my head.
The girls found me then, and soothed my fears, pushing me towards sleep and when I woke up all was quiet. I could sense him, then. The brutish beast that had been born by the coals of a fire left untended. He was awake, too, and I felt a terrifying realization grow inside me as I discovered that with the arrival of this beast, something else had left me. I'm still looking for him.
The connection I had, for so long unrecognized, to the world around me was shattered and in the aftermath I was disconsolate; the only comfort I felt coming from Patience and Faith, who upon discovering me in that fragile state, held me and wiped the tears away, telling me that I could survive this, that I would survive this. I did, barely. But it marked a new passage in my life, a new method to be learned. Without trust, my psyche splintered into pieces and the disparate aspects, previously held together by a common goal, came to me, one by one, to demand a reckoning.

They needed an answer. I thought this might be a good place to start.

Tempus Fugit

I woke up this morning to one of those startling realizations akin to remembering that there's a math test this morning and I haven't even cracked a book. As I swung crazily between dreams of exalted idolatry and being chased by a really big toad with a taste for blood, a thought careened into existence and demanded to be recognized.
"Last week went by very quickly," it mused.
"So?" I said, "they all do," I answered. "Leave me alone or help me with this big fucking frog."

I woke up feeling relieved that the frog was gone but unnerved that that persistant thought was still with me. I aquiesed and said, "All right, let's have it."

The memories of my childhood reside in a portion of my brain that is overstuffed, dusty and mostly ignored. If I need something I can push open the door and, after a sneeze or two, find what I'm looking for and get on with my day. The vault that contains my more recent doings is closer and doesn't seem so busy. The one that holds last weeks agenda is pretty near empty and if you whistle into the cool air you'll hear an echo. The point is that while every day was an EVENT when I was seven, most things don't register these days, unless it's really big.
With little experience in deciding what needed cataloguing, my seven year old brain made copies of everything and filed it away. As I get older, and more cynical I might add, the need to examine everything is less critical. As a by-product, I have less and less to mark the passage of time. When I pause to wonder what I had for dinner last Thursday, my brain makes a big show of trying to find it, knowing all the while that it never added that to the records, having already filed thousands of reports that went unheeded. If no one is going to come looking for it, then why do all that paper-work?
Caught with it's pants down, my brain makes a few suggestions and hastily changes the subject. The net effect of this phenomenon is that I can't remember Thursday, at all. I can't remember most of last week. Most of April is gone too. Sure, I can tell you that it's 2007 but if you need a detailed itinerary, giving evidence of my whereabouts for 2006 you're out of luck. Where has the time gone?

The interupptive thought smiled to itself, knowing that it had triggered a domino-like effect, and it sat back to watch it's trickle-down. I wished briefly that I was still asleep, even if that meant dodging the corrosive spit of a two hundred pound amphibian.

Taken to it's logical conclusion, it seems likely that by the time I'm eighty-two, I will have forgotten decades worth of doings. My grandfather lived in a reality that looked a lot like 1972 for the last decade of his life, simply because his brain thought, "What's the use? He'll never come looking for '86." His inner librarian was on holiday and so it took him completely by surprise when he turned ninety and I heard him say, "So short, so short." He was refering to the impression that without his knowing it, life had carried on without him.
And maybe that's a good thing. If everything we ever did was stored away, easily accesible and readily remembered, life would be long but we would all die of exaustion before we hit sixty.
On the other hand, a long and well documented life would prevent the often-heard, little-understood cries of remorse for not paying more attention to things as they happen. If life is so precious, why is it that so many of us can't remember what we did with the biggest part of it? Just because we've done it before doesn't mean it isn't worth taking note of it. What we had for dinner last night was probably pretty good, but even if it wasn't shouldn't we log that so we never have to eat it again?

Descent

He stretched out his hand and wiped away the condensation that had formed on the mirror. With one hand he pulled at the skin that hung on his neck and with the other he dragged the razor across his cheek, cutting away the ugly, exposing the desirable.
When he had washed away the remnants of his natural self, he applied the after-shave that the girl at the drug store had recommended. He didn't care for the scent but felt that it was necessary to arrive slightly before he arrived. Someone once told him that women have a more acute sense of smell than men and that memories can be manipulated into fond remembrances with the proper attention to detail. He might have made up that last part.
He dressed slowly, checking and re-checking his reflection in the mirror and when the shirt he was wearing refused to hang squarely off his shoulders he took it off and it fell to the back-up to perform. His socks, examined under the cruel light of fluorescence, appeared faded but the only other choice was a pair, so thread-worn that he was afraid that one, or the other, might unravel at the wrong moment. He whispered a silent prayer that she would be too occupied to notice.
A final inspection proved that he looked as good as he was ever likely to. He wondered what it would be like to see perfection staring back at him but he quickly smiled away the criticism. Self-doubt kills the soul.

He waited at her door for more than ten minutes, at first thinking she might be in the shower and did not hear the bell. His arm began to ache. He awkwardly balanced the flowers he had purchased that morning as he switched hands, almost dropping the bottle of wine. He remembered that her favourite wine was a Beaujolais, that she liked to drink it cold and that more than one glass went straight to her head. She had turned away from him at that point and he lost the thread of the conversation. He moved closer to the group of girls she was with, but was nudged aside when two men slipped between them, to sit at the bar. He wondered if she might have annexed her comments and added the stipulation that she preferred the wines produced in the Burgundy region rather than the Rhone. It was of no consequence, really, as the bottle he held gave no indication of the region in which it was harvested.

"Nelson?"
He was startled out of his reverie by her voice, coming from behind him. He turned, with a smile, and saw that she was coming up the stairs that led to the apartment next to the one in front of which he was standing. He quickly checked the number on the door and realised that he must have read the address wrong. Granted, he'd only had a instant to glean the information from her driver's licence when she presented it to him, more than a week ago, at the super market. A driver's licence was required when paying by check. He cursed his poor memory, making a mental note to be more attentive in the future.

He felt foolish, standing so close to her, separated only by the railing, and couldn't think of anything to say.
"Do you know Peter?" she asked as her door swung open.
"Peter?"
"That's cool," she said, "He's a really nice guy. Have a good night," and she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

Nelson stood for a moment, considering his options. He'd already made a potentially devastating mistake and their date hadn't even started yet. Then he made up his mind, walked down Peter's stairs and up hers, to her door. He rapped sharply, stepped back and cleared his throat. He went over, in his mind, the introduction he had prepared, dropping the "My name is Nelson" part, as it appeared that she had remembered his name. He found that very encouraging.

A Punch in the Nose

As facile as it sounds, when the television reporter wrapped up his commentary with, "It seems you can never really know anyone," I was struck by the bare truth of it. I thought about it for a moment. I didn't like the idea that the bonds I've made and the friendships cast from experiences and trials over time might be something I had imagined. I struggled to defend my perceptions. I had an existential moment, you might say. It happens.

I heard the t.v. go off and then there was a knock at my door.
"What time is it?"
I shrugged off my malaise and looked at the clock. "It's two."
"Really?" he said.
"What? Yeah, really. Look for yourself. The clocks right there."
"I guess it could be two o'clock."
"It's two o'clock."

The expression on his face made me wary. He was fucking around with me but I wasn't sure what the joke was. I hate that. He's smarter than I am and he knows it. He has a gentle way of chiding my sometimes torpid thought processes, of nudging me awake, of clearing away the nonsense I get caught up in.
I shrugged off the feeling of suspicion and returned to the problem at hand.

If I could hear the thoughts of every person I passed, I could measure it against their facial expressions and begin to read the truth in the lift of an eyebrow or the curl of a smile. I could be ready for the hurried change in moods and detect the lies before they take shape and are spun into an excuse. I could save time by sussing out root of the problem and separating the layers of rationalizations from the kernel of truth. I would never need to pause, rewind and remember what happened two weeks ago. I would know with absolute certainty what people mean when they say, "Oh, that's nice."

"Nice weather," he said.
"It's supposed to rain," I answered mechanically. I watch the weather channel more than any other. Rain, this afternoon.
"Looks good, now." he persisted.
"Well, it's going to rain," I said.
"I don't think so," he said.
I looked at him, and noticed that his eyes seemed brighter and that the edge of his mouth was quivering, almost sliding up into a smile and I realized that he was pushing me into a corner. I mentally checked for clues in the seemingly benign remarks he had made about the weather and didn't see a connection. I hate feeling stupid.

I was repulsed when I read Sartre for the first time. Freedom is a sad idea in a world that has no use for you. I was supposed to think he was the 'answer' so I muddled through the rest of it. I finally put it down and resigned myself to Jung. There are too many mysteries and I really don't have anything else to do, do I?

I looked up and realized that he was standing over me and I heard him smirk when he read the last line. The one about too many mysteries. I reviewed it myself, trying to find the humour in it.

"You contradict yourself," he said.
"I suppose I do," I answered.
"That's good. Contradiction is very healthy. It stimulates reason and nullifies certainty. I hate certainty."
"I'm glad to hear it," I said.

Certainty is something I gave up on, out of pure frustration, and I have to admit that I don't miss it one bit. Once you accept that nothing is certain, disappointment turns into wonder and doubt turns into anticipation, hope seems real and dreams take on a seismic attitude, channeling suspicion and churning out the sort of giddy glee that makes people want to punch you in the nose. Luckily, I can always see it coming.

"Oh, you're a peach, lad, a real peach," he said, laughing out loud, and I heard the door shut and the television go on, again.

The First Meeting

The Lotus Eaters shook me awake to a full house. Patience and Faith, bless their frosty hearts, searched through the pile of clothes on the floor and found me something to wear while Ikkyu struggled with the coffee maker.
"Three scoops," I yelled as the girls manhandled me into a t-shirt.
"Jesus, what a madhouse."
The Great God Pan hustled in and with a pinch to any bottom unwise enough to present to him, he let the dog out, narrowly missing the huge jaws of one of the heads as they passed by, knocking over the plaster Buddha on the table near the door.
I heard a hiss from the closet and wisely detached myself from the Lotus Eaters and went to the kitchen. I found C.G. cracking eggs into a bowl, more shell than I care for, and took away the knife he was wielding over an innocent pound of bacon.
"What the hell are all of you doing here?" I yelled, but no one payed any attention to me. Even as my temper flared, I could hear the killer in the closet respond in kind and he neatly kicked the door off the hinges. With a chorus of screams the girls fled and C.G. made a dash to the bedroom, only to emerge a moment later with my hulking doppelganger, subdued, for now, and breathing heavily, his hands in Jung's.
"Michael, you must control your rage. Him, I can control. You? Not so easy."
"Sorry, C.G. What's going on? Why are you here? And why did you bring Ikkyu? You know he's not good with electronics."
"Me? I brought no one. You brought us. Tell me, my friend, what is the fuss?"
I looked at him for a moment and it dawned on me that I had called this impromptu meeting. I had caused the 'fuss'.
Pan loped down the stairs, each hand holding a bone, to which were attached the frenzied and frothing heads of Cerberus, who wanted to play.
The room quieted as they gathered around and I felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny. The coffee pot grumbled it's last and I automatically reached for a mug.
"All right. First, I drink a cup of coffee, and then we go find some place a little more spacious. I have a bit of a mystery on my hands and I need everyone of you to help me solve it.
The room erupted in chatter as the girls squealed their approval, C.G. whispered something into the killer's ear and Ikkyu searched his memory for something profound to say about the nature of the unknown. Cerberus alternately barked and gnawed on his bones and Pan loudly farted his approval. The room broke up into fits of howling laughter until the obnoxious fumes made them gag and I silently pictured a place in my mind. Seconds later we all stood in the middle of a clearing, a hundred yards wide, full of spring flowers and a dusting of morning fog.
The freshness of the breeze was a relief from the close confines of my apartment and everyone fanned out in a wide circle, fading slightly as my attention turned to Pan, who stood, hooves wide apart in a stance that spoke of stern disapproval, and I looked away, up at the sky. He was silent for a moment and then said, "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"
"Yeah," I said, hesitantly. "I will. I just need a few minutes to think."
"Well, don't take all day," and he sauntered over to where Patience and Faith were kneeling over the Daises that sprouted from my imagination. He patted Faith on her full rump and as she reached out to slap his bearded face he ducked, with a laugh, and reached out to her sister. Patience smiled at him, but prudently backed away.
I stood, feeling the grass beneath my feet and closed my eyes and smelled the sweetness of the foliage on the wind and I wondered if this could work. They were rarely together, the disparate elements of my personality, and they didn't always mesh comfortably. I had no choice, though. I needed every one's help with this one.

I did need their help, every one of them, including the sullen giant, my raging alter-ego, whose sole purpose was to destroy me. He worried me the most. I looked around the clearing and found him, brooding under the eaves of an enormous Weeping Willow. He was staring at me in the way that Cerberus stares at the dead; with hateful desire and hurtful longing. I looked away.
This was going to take courage, and that's something I can't always count on.

It's So Good to See You

A simple case of mistaken identity. I made it worse by playing along. I guess I just wanted to be that person; the one who could make his face light up like that. He was so animated, concerned and trusting that I wondered who she was, the woman he thought I was. When I finally had to admit to him that I wasn't her, the confusion, and then anger, that I saw in his eyes made me want to take it back. I am her, I wanted to say, but it was too late for that.
I remember thinking, I could be her, I could be that for you, but even as that thought was born, I realized how crazy it sounded. Maybe, I am crazy. Who would do such a thing? Who could pretend to be someone else just to experience a moment of togetherness with another human being?
The problem is, is that I don't know who I am. I thought I could get a glimpse into the life of someone who was cared for and worried about, instead of being me. I wondered, for a second, if I could simply assume that identity and hope that it would catch and hold, like the wick of a candle, and feel the illumination he reserved for someone else. I'm going to be remembered, now, as that crazy bitch who tried to be someone she wasn't. I can already hear him telling his friends about it.

"She pretended to be somebody else. What the fuck is wrong with people?"

I know what's wrong with me. I try too hard. I tried to give him what he wanted, even if it was just for a moment or two. I tried to care, even if it was wrong, and I tried to make him feel like it was okay that we hadn't talked in years, which is probably more than he would have heard if he'd met the real thing. I made it easy for him to get away with not keeping in touch. I told him that it was okay that he hadn't been around. I let him off the hook, which is more than he deserved. He couldn't see that, though. All he could see was the deception. If he'd looked harder he would have seen that I'm not a bad person. He was so focused on the lie that he couldn't see the truth behind it. And now? He'll never know. He walked away like I had ceased to exist. I'm nothing to him.

All the way home, I kept thinking about it. I daydreamed about the day that I see him again. I dreamed that we would meet and he would smile, in recognition, and pull me to the side of the stream and say, "You're the girl I met here, last year, aren't you? How have you been?" and I could say, "Yeah. I've been good. How about you? It's so good to see you."

Gourmet

Nelson woke to the sound of his father's laughter. It was such a rare sound that for a moment he had no idea what it was. It wasn't until he heard his mother's voice answer that he remembered that he was in trouble again.
"Don't laugh. It's not funny. He made a bloody, goddamn mess all over my kitchen. It took me two hours to clean it up."

He was surprised that there was so much blood. It had unnerved him for a moment, but with a shrug he reached for another corpse, reminding himself that his mother often put paper towel down, under the cutting board, to sop up the 'juices'.

"It was like walking into a slaughter house. He had them lined up in a row and was working on them like some sort of mad scientist."

This provoked another howl from his father. Neslon smiled to himself in the darkness of his room where he had been since his mother came home from her jazzercise class. He wondered if his father would come in and sit on the edge of his bed and, with a smile, tell him not to scare the old bird like that. Then, they would laugh at her hysterical reaction and with a wink his father would say, "Now, how about some dessert to go with that dinner?" It seemed as likely as hearing his father laugh.

The house grew quiet and for a moment Nelson wondered if that was it. Then he heard his mother's voice again and he winced into the darkness.
"Would it kill you to take an interest in this family? All I want is for you to pretend you care about us every once in a while."
"What I care about is coming home to a hot meal. Do you think you could do that for me? I work my ass off every day for the two of you and I'd like to come home to a hot meal and some peace and quiet."
"Well, welcome to my world. What do you think I do all day? I work and then I come home and do you think all I want to do is clean up this goddamn pig-sty and cook a meal for you? And where were you? It's past nine. How many beers have you had? You think I wouldn't like to unwind after work? No, I get to come home and find that little monster playing Frankenstein in the kitchen."
Nelson sighed into the sheets. He'd only made things worse. He was so sure that his mother would appreciate him trying to help. The idea had come to him as he watched television a few days before, lying on the floor, trying to be quiet. His father pushed the buttons on the remote randomly and paused to watch a squat old lady put a plate of food down in front of an enthusiastic audience. His father had said, "That looks good. Why don't you ever cook like that?", to which his mother replied, "Just bring me the frogs."

Norman's Loss

I heard the bottle drop from inside, where it sounded like a gunshot. All I could see through the doors was Norman circling the pile of shattered glass but I could hear Sophie wail into the night. They had been doing the huddle on the sidewalk, trying to hide their prize from the sharp eyes of the rest of the crowd and now it was splattered all over the pavement.
Norman's instincts took over first and he veered away from the mess without another word. Perhaps he knew there was no use bemoaning the disaster and still time to find some more money before the liquor store closed. Sophie was still keening into the wind and hadn't noticed that Norman was gone. She flailed her arms, making the most of the drama. When she noticed she was alone she stopped abruptly and shuffled after Norman without another sound.
I waited.

No one came to investigate. The wind howled down Cumberland and what was left of the tattered bag flapped, pinned under the glass.

I got up from my post and with a shout to my boss I pressed the security tab and the doors opened. I took a quick look around and didn't see a soul. Most of the glass was still in the bag which was dissolving in the rain and the booze but I managed to pick it up and drop it in the bin on the street corner. It was an ugly night; cold and windy with the rain coming down at a forty-five degree angle. That explained why no one noticed Norman's loss except for me. I stretched my hands to the sky, straightening my bent back, tired from four hours on the desk. It had been a slow night. When a storm comes in fast like that, the beds remain empty. It's a sad thing but most of the homeless find themselves too far away to get to the shelter and some of them even like to be out in storms like this. I can understand that. The wind and the rain will wipe the streets clean and you can't deny the hand behind it. Sometimes it can be a wonderful thing to behold. The force of it supersedes the will of the people and we all become one, indistinguishable and every one of us feeble and destitute. I like that.

With one last look up and down the street, I opened the doors and went back to my desk laughing to myself as I thought about it. Taking shelter in the shelter, I mean, when there is no shelter from the levelling hand of God. Norman was too drunk to pay attention to the message but I heard it, loud and clear. That's Norman's loss.

Every Dark Night Ends With the Sun

The dog sat looking at his master, nervously pawing at the hand that hung from the arm of the chair. He was a shameless flatterer. He couldn't understand what was being said, obviously, but it didn't stop him from recognizing that the attention he was receiving was, at best, the lazy sort of regard. He hoped that by pawing at the hand and quickly standing, tail wagging, his message would be transmitted; I'm a good dog and you want to pay attention to me. He needed the attention.
It's a natural behaviour for a dog, I thought, but then dogs are simple creatures, whose reliance on their masters is necessary for their survival.
I decided I'd had enough and went to find my coat.

The night was warm, which was a cheerful notice that the unstable weather was abating. The uncertainty of the last of the winter months has an unnerving effect on everything. I was anything but cheerful, myself. I'd played at getting along for too long and drank too much. The fresh air helped my perspective and I walked along the street feeling my spirit lighten with every step. I was startled to hear my name being called and turned to see a girl running along to catch up with me. My mood darkened for a moment as I waited, not caring to pretend at civility, even for a few more minutes.
"Can I walk with you?" she said. She was breathless and I wondered why she had departed in such a hurry to catch me.
"Sure," I said. "You've had enough?"
"I've had enough," she said, falling into step beside me.

This life is the only game in town. You're playing whether you want to or not and the only difference between you and the winner is your methodology. I've been playing poorly for so long that I've racked up a considerable debt. That is the unfortunate side-effect of bluffing for too long. Eventually you bet it all without even looking at your cards, knowing that you can fool most of the table into giving you want you want. That doesn't make you a good player, however, it just makes you a good liar.

The hum of the distant highway settled into the background as I sat on the step and finished my last cigarette. The quiet at night is good for unwinding and replaying the day's events but nothing ever gets done until the sobering sun is up and the rest of world is open for business. I undressed for bed and made my list; don't beg, don't feign interest and don't lie. Every day has a lesson, I thought, as I fell into a restless sleep.

The Cool Light of Dawn

Out of the cloud of dust sped Gord's pick-up. He skidded to a stop near the barn and yelled in my direction.
"This where you put him?"
"Good Morning, Gord. Yeah, that's where he is." I chuckled to myself.
Gord swung the door open and disappeared inside. Then all you could hear was the yelping of his seventeen year old son, David. It was the same hoarse voice that had wakened me the night before and scared the shit out of Becky. He was so drunk, he barely recognized me, nor did he complain much when I dumped him on the floor of the barn, about a half hour later. It took me that long to chase him down on the four-wheeler. At the time I wasn't too happy with him, but now, just as the sun was coming up, and as his father cuffed and pushed him into the back of the truck, I had to laugh at the how ridiculous he was.
Gord was furious. I could see the anger in his flat eyes as he strode towards me.
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I'll see that he re-pays you for any damage that he's done, and that he never does it again."
"Gord, please. He's lucky I didn't shoot him. If it hadn't been for the moon, I might have." The truth was, that I had known who it was long before I saw his bare ass flashing in the emergency lights that come on when they sense movement in the yard. And the fact that he'd been croaking Becky's name over and over again, in his half-man's voice, skipping in and out of range as he tripped through the corn stalks.
The sound of retching could be heard from the back of Gord's truck and Gord shut his eyes and put his head down.
"If we could keep this between us, I'd really appreciate it." His embarrassment was palpable, both from the sound of his voice, hushed and urgent, and from the barely discernible spread of a flush across his cheeks and neck.
"Of course, Gord. This is a family concern." I said, carefully. You don't antagonize a man like Gord. His pride carried him straight as a post and when it came to his son, his demeanor was often on the verge of cracking, his barely held fury sparkling just below his rough features. He was a very proud man.
As he spun the truck around and pointed it up the driveway, I saw a desperate hand reach up and clutch the side and I could barely hold my laughter in check. That boy was about to have a very bad day.
I heard the door open and shut behind me and Becky said, "Is he gone?"
"Yeah. He's gone." I turned to my youngest and levelled my best stare at her.
"What?" she said, too innocent, too quickly.
"I'll tell you what. You're playing with fire, young lady. Don't think, for a minute, that I don't know what's at the root of all this." I pointed to the chair behind her and she sat down sullenly, refusing to look at me.
"I didn't do anything. It was David. He's just a stupid kid." she said and I marvelled at how easily she lied to me. I wondered for a brief moment if my own mother could read me as clearly and I decided that I owed her an apology, the next time we spoke.

I don't know what I'm doing wrong. The boys, before they grew up and started families of their own, were never this much trouble. I could read their expression's so clearly; they were transparent to me and as if they realized this, they never tried to sugar-coat the truth or lie their way out of trouble. I try to fill her with the same set of principles and morals that the boys accepted without question but she resists every attempt I make to instill in her a sense of self-awareness and pride. I sometimes wish her father was here. He might have been able to get past her defenses, but without him I'm on my own. I'm losing control of this one and I don't know what to do about that.

I sat for a long time, watching the horizon, watching the light change over the field, before I got up and went in to start breakfast. We sat, saying nothing, until it was time for her to get ready for school. And when the door slammed shut and she was gone I breathed a sigh of relief, happy that for a few hours I could pretend that my life was a simple one and that as I grew older and wiser, things made more sense to me. If only it were that easy.

The Slow Walk Home

She swung through the market, happy and light. She wore a peasant skirt and flip-flops and an enormous bag was slung over her shoulder. She stopped at each and every stall to pick up a peach or inspect some radishes, buying what she thought was fresh and cheap. There were tables set up at either end of the street and in them mounds of handmade trinkets that the vendors swore were made in Guatemala by poor women trying to supplement their income. She knew they had been made, here, in some domestic workroom, in the basement, when the kids were asleep and hours before anyone else came home. She picked out a pair of earrings for herself and a second pair for her sister, who loved jewelry, especially if it was made in the poor countries, exotic and hot. She stopped at the coffee stand and drank a latte, standing beside Mr. Espresso (very urbane) and Ms. Cappuccino (tourist stamped all over her) and then marched on to the newsstand to get a copy of The Reflection. It contained an ongoing series of meditative exercises to combat bad skin and intestinal problems. Then she sat, to reflect on the disassociated and the weak-willed, on a bench that overlooked the small park sometimes confused for nature. When the tower clock struck five she stood and put her bag over her shoulder and walked down Murray Street, crossing Dalhousie, until the foot traffic thinned and the houses were residential, once more. She reached into the giant bag hanging from her shoulder and took out her keys and opened the door.

I know where she goes. I know where she lives. I understand her worries and her fears. The cyclical nature of her humours is evident in the way that her eyebrows move and the sharply defined creases around her mouth twitch in anticipation. I worry about her and I'm afraid something bad will happen to her when she least expects it. She has so many problems at home, things you and I might never have to contend with. I suppose that you might say she's no different from anyone else in this city, slowly collapsing under the weight of her mortality, but I say she should be spared that. Isn't that what redemption is for? I've heard her prayers to God, intercepted and deciphered. She calls for help and she calls for courage and she calls for an end to the perversion she sees around her. Just like I do. She's just like me. I know I can help her. I know so much more

My Good Reason

She didn't even cry.

It was hot. The sky was cloudless and there was no wind at all. I kicked at the grass, digging a trench with my foot and leaving an 'M' for their left fielder to see, when the inning ended. If it ever ended.
I took off my glove to let the sweat on my hand air-dry and Black Lung Larry yelled at me to put it back on. The effort it took him to shout across the field provoked a coughing fit that made everyone in the bleacher shift uncomfortably on their seat. It was hard to listen to his gurgling breathing and see the expectorated phlegm that always followed one of his shouted encouragements.
I looked over at his son, Geoff, but he didn't seem to notice or care that his dad was hacking up a small piece of lung by the dugout. Maybe he didn't. He didn't care about much, except baseball.
A sharp crack caught my attention and I looked up just as she took the ball in the nose. She'd put her glove down as it skipped toward her but it caromed off a divot three feet in front of her and jumped her glove.
I started running before the ball hit the ground.

Her name was Joelle and her family lived in the trailer park on the highway. I had been in love with her since the first day I saw her. For reasons that seemed perfectly logical then, the teacher liked to seat the class in alphabetical order. That meant that for two years we sat beside each other. When the news that Mrs. Myers would move to the sixth grade along with the rest of us was read aloud to the class, I looked up and said thank you to the ceiling tiles. That gave me another year to work up the courage to speak to her.
As I remember it now, I didn't learn a thing in those two years. I was occupied by the complicated mathematics involved in maneuvering myself into the space next to her when we sat on the floor for the interactive reading sessions that took place every afternoon. I could have spoken to her, I suppose, but it never occurred to me. Really.

Middle school brought it all to an end. Things were very different there. The teachers spoke to us like adults. No longer the gentle foster parents to our blooming intellects, they sometimes didn't remember my name. No one ever forgot Joelle's name. The first song I ever wrote was called Joelle. As was the first story. And my bike.
Without the assistance of the alphabetically challenged Mrs. Myers, Joelle drifted out of my daily routine. The unfortunate growth spurt that followed squeezed my eyeballs into an oblong shape and I couldn't see the board from the back of the classroom anymore. The letter that my mother wrote, asking that I be allowed to sit at the front of the class, ended my lack-lustre performance in the rotating chair game that Joelle's random seating choices had created. Every day she sat in different seat and every day five or six boys rumbled for the one closest to her.
I make fun of her, sometimes, because she was so completely oblivious to what was going on around her. She thinks I'm exaggerating. I'm not, though.

It took me more than fifteen years to ask her out on a date, during which she confessed that she always thought I didn't like her. I never spoke to her and even after she'd made it clear to her girlfriends that she would sit beside me during the interactive reading sessions, a request which they all found odd, I didn't pay her any attention. She remembers her knee touching mine. That memory is seared into my brain as well but the flush of panic and excitement it caused me, she mistook for discomfort and dislike. I laughed so hard when she told me that, that I had to leave the table.

I was crossing the baseline just as the dust settled and the blood began to flow. She had her hands cupped underneath her nose trying, vainly, to stop the flow. Black Lung Larry surprised me by beating me to her; he didn't do anything fast. He was crouched beside her and looked up when I skidded into third. He told me to get back into the field. I looked around and saw that no one else had moved from their positions on the field. I slouched back to the field as Black Lung Larry helped her to the bench and I tried to ignore the laughter coming from the stands. Black Lung Larry's kid, Geoff, called me a doofus and the game was on.

For years, I believed that everyone knew I had a crush on her, except her. She tells me that the only person she remembers being there, was me.

She taught me that anyone can re-write a memory. You just need a good reason.

In the Eyes of the People

He read the words again, not sure if he was translating correctly. When he was satisfied that he knew their meaning, he stood and with a gesture to Martinez, he strode into the main hall. It was the only room that could make him feel small.
The vaulted ceiling disappeared into the darkness above, but it didn't ease the apprehension he felt walking under the eyes painted there. He was careful to keep his face impassive, careful not to betray any sign of emotion; it was a practiced calm and fooled no one.
He stopped in the exact centre of the room, where the tiles had been worn to a dull sheen and that no amount of polishing could restore. His father had stood here, nearly thirty years before and held his head high as the bullets, smuggled from the camps hidden deep in the forest, ripped into his chest, his face and had pierced his right hand, leaving a perfectly round hole that was a clear and certain sign that he had the right to rule. That alone had put down the rebellion, spread the story and deified the man.
He waited and when he saw Martinez nod in his direction he spoke. He talked about the signs he had seen, the dreams that had held him captive for three days, the milky eyes that transmitted the gods wishes through telepathic means and then he fell silent.
There was no movement in the hall. Every breath was held tight between the lips of his people, his accusers. Minutes passed and then in the darkness above there was a flash of light and one of the eyes opened, then another, until all seventeen flooded the hall with the light of their purity, their remorse and their anger.
For long minutes, the room was held in stasis, outside the effects of time. Martinez' gaze never left his face and his finger never left the trigger of the pistol that was levelled at his President's head. After two or three minutes had passed he began to relax; the longer they waited almost always meant a resolution that would spare the man.
In those moments he seemed almost human, Martinez thought. Sweat creased his forehead and stained his shirt and he wavered, very slightly, as the effects of the sedatives struggled against his muscles, clenched tightly and protesting a lack of oxygen. Then, very slowly, the hue of the light changed and a soft amber glow began to infuse the room. It was the signal Martinez had been waiting for and he thanked the Gods for guiding his hands and raised the pistol into the air.

Thinking. It Could Save Your Soul.

My long lost sense of humour turned up last night, wearing nothing but Mu-Mu and quoting Sufi poetry. As it settled in, after filling the laundry basket, I began to reflect on the last couple of months and now I see things in an entirely new light.

According to Bahá'u'lláh, our terrestrial life is a proving ground, of sorts, for our faith. Personal development is paramount in determining how close we get to sit to God when the recess bell rings.
I like that.

In the womb we slowly develop the tools (and limbs) we need to manipulate the outside world and by deduction, the tools we develop in this life will be a benefit when we shake loose the stink of this realm.
It was pointed out to me, recently, that our intellect, of which we are so fond, has no conceivable purpose to us now, as far as survival goes. For example: The Basarwa, or Bushmen, a people who have lived in approximately the same area for more than 22,000 years, have never felt the need for microwave ovens, Tomahawk missiles or vegetable steamers. These things simply aren't necessary for their survival. The only thing threatening them is the developed world, who see them as backward and standoffish. The Bushmen, however, just want to be left alone.
The argument I allude to indicates a purpose connected not to this world, but to the next. Think about it. Thumbs in the womb serve no purpose, but they still develop, well ahead of their necessity. It stands to (some) reason that our overly clever brains might have something to do with the next scene in our ever developing drama.
I don't mean to say that we'll need microwaves in the afterlife, although it might be nice if we have to heat something up in between genuflecting on the Almighty's smarts and thumbing our noses at those poor souls on the wagon train to Hell.
The argument goes that if we develop our intellect rationally and with a forward view, it might serve some purpose down the road. In that sense, the enormous amount of brain power we use to make life easier here could be better spent developing our capacity for self-realization.

But before you all toss out the baby with the bath water, think about what this says about the afterlife. It looks to me, if I was to accept what Bahá'u'lláh has said, that he might be guilty of a little wishful thinking.
While he would freely admit to having no idea what the Supreme Being has in mind for us, he's come up with his own vision of the afterlife and has been warning us to get ready for it. What if he's wrong?
What if God, while basically a nice guy, gets a kick out of watching things blow up? We were made in his image, after all. Maybe our intellect is an anomaly; an offshoot or mutation that survived because we also developed the ability to stand upright. Maybe our intellect just tagged along on the coat tails of some other genetic mutation and its appearance was accidental and serves no purpose.

It's interesting to think about the reasons for the development of the intellect and, although some of us seem to be putting it to good use, most of us won't. I, personally believe that we've just hit our terrible twos in our psychic development and that we've got a long way to go before we come close to gaining admittance into the ever-loving arms of the Creator.

In fact the question is moot, for me, because I don't believe there is a Creator. I told you my sense of humour just got back from a whirlwind tour, didn't I? It's barely finished unpacking and here I am putting it to work.

I Missed a Spot

"Do you have an extra cigarette?"
I looked up from my paint brush and saw one of the welfare shut-ins, dressed in track pants and a t-shirt, with a hopeful look in his eyes. I get asked everyday. The contract to paint the building was paying the bills but I was spending the rest of it, right here, handing out cigarettes to every second person who walked by.
I stood up and stretched out my back. Hunched over for most of the morning, I wasn't in a good frame of mind and getting tired of the constant interruption.
"Nope. I ran out this morning." I was telling the truth but they never believe me when I tell them I'm out. If I had one and didn't want to give it up I'd simply say, "No."
"Hey, you missed a spot." he chuckled.

A few minutes later I heard the woman in apartment fourteen launch in to one of her tirades against her children. Apparently, she believed that the reason she was stuck in the endless loop of poverty, living amid society's broken and battered refugees, was the fault of her children. The kids immediately began to wail, their voices echoing down the halls of the dilapidated building.
I reached down and turned up the volume on my iPod to drown out the noise.

Yesterday, I was entertained by a freely offered guide to which building in the projects had the best quality drugs.
"You know that red building, at the end of the street?" said my guide.
I said that I did.
"Don't ever buy pot in there. It's all skunk, man."
"I'll keep that in mind." I say, turning back to my work; seventy-five feet of chair rail on one of eight floors.
He nodded seriously, as if he had just saved my life and it was all in a day's work.
He closed the door behind him and, right on cue, the volume of his stereo went up until I wondered how he could hear anything at all, anymore.

Day after day, I find myself face to face with teen aged mothers, drunk and disorderly malcontents, drug dealers whose doors swing wide a couple of times every hour and elderly grandmothers who have been lost, discarded and forgotten in a world where few work and anyone who does is a chump.
There are other stories, too. There are the unfortunate accidents, that have resulted in near destitution; some of the residents need help and will never get it. It's also true that some of the people who live here are hiding out. They're hiding from their sorrows and from their inability to cope in this world. They hide from creditors, their families and from the light of day.

Most of my days are like that. Some of them are better.

I could hear someone tapping on the front door of the building, as I changed floors, and saw cigarette guy grinning at me. He'd found someone who would give him some smokes.
"Thanks, man. It's freezing out there." he said when I let him in. Why he had gone out without his keys was a mystery. He wasn't even wearing a coat.
"You found a smoke." I congratulated him.
"Yeah, I got two."
"Good for you, man." I said as I turned back to my paint pail.
"Here." He said. "One of these is for you."
He handed me one of them, precious to him, I supposed.
"We got to take care of each other, man." he said with a smile.
"Thanks." I said, surprised, and he was gone down the hall.
I went back to work, thinking about why someone with next to nothing would go out of his way to be nice to me. I know people with lots of money who wouldn't do that. It was refreshing in a place where the Darwinian rules of nature are so fearsomely observed. I have to admit that this place scares the hell out of me, for reasons that have nothing to do with the violence that is so common, here.
"Hey." he was back.
"Hey." I answered.
"You need some matches. I found a pack. You can keep them." He tossed them at me and disappeared again.

On the other hand, people are people, and like anywhere else, you'll find something good if you look hard enough.

Simple Sleep

The sidewalk was a muttering mess of drunken girls and hopeful boys. Their loud cursing and jostling was a wake up, to me, after an evening of relative calm. I walked the line of empty cabs until I reached the one in front and I pulled open the door and got in. As I swung the door shut, a hand held it and a face appeared in the opening.
It was distorted by hours of carelessly downing shooters and flushed with a near collapse of self-control. She tried to focus her eyes on my face and, somewhere, in the rickety assemblage of recognition and preservation she realized that I wasn't who she expected to see.
I said nothing. The seconds passed as her weakened synapses struggled to connect, and finally, she said,"This is my cab."

We joked about it, the cabbie and I. He told me that it had been a bad night for fighting and arguments. As he dropped me off in front of my house, I tried to recollect what she had said, right before her legs gave out.

I had said, "This is my cab." mimicking her tone and demeanor. She weaved to the left as she tried to process the words I had spoken and somewhere in her fogged brain she understood that I was mocking her.
"Don't ap a tor this is condition to go." she said.
I have to admit that I laughed at her, out loud. Not at her slurred words and the broken text of her understanding, but because of the indignant look she gave me, assigning every last harsh word anyone had ever spoken to her a subtext that hurt her feelings, as unjustified as the first time words had cut her down.
Don't misunderstand me. I'm not cruel and careless with strangers. I understand that sometimes our real reasons for getting blind drunk disguise themselves as a desire to have fun and celebrate rather than to crack open long held grudges and release a bit of steam. She'll survive but she won't feel very good about it, later.

I put the key into the lock and I felt a wave of sorrow pass by me, seeking a home, somewhere to rest. I shrugged it off and closed the door on it. I'll get my turn, just not tonight. Right now, the balm I seek is simple sleep.

May My Feet Find Purchase in This Rocky Soil

Nelson pulled into the Fifth Wheel and parked his car across the lot from the idling transport trucks. He felt like a trespasser, an outsider, and the sullen looks of disapproval he received from the occupants, a waitress and her only customer, reinforced that feeling.
His exaggerated politeness failed to impress the waitress when she came to take his order and, desperate, he decided to tell her a joke.
"What has four legs and a moustache?" he said, hopefully.
The girl sighed as she picked up the menu.
"Nothing on this menu. What can I get you?"
Nelson ordered a smoked meat sandwich and vowed to keep his mouth shut until he was done his sandwich.
The girl placed his order with the unseen cook and went back to her conversation at the counter. She smiled as she sat down across the counter from the big man, who was wearing a hunting jacket and a thick down vest that reflected the dim light, causing him to glow slightly.
Nelson squinted his eyes and moved his head back and forth, creating streaks of colour and blurry washes of light that smeared the interior of the diner with a much more hopeful ambiance, he thought. He opened his eyes all the way and found the trucker and the girl staring at him with no sign of indulgence in their eyes. He quickly looked down at the table.
The shellacked surface was transparent and Nelson saw that trapped there,forever, inside the table top, were leaves, all brightly coloured, advertising a variety of local trees. He let out his breath in a slow whistle as his eyes darted from one leaf to the next, ignoring the names printed under each.
"Those leaves are the reason so many people come up here, in the fall. We get a spectacular show, all around us, every year."
Nelson looked up and saw a woman holding his food, not a girl, like the distracted waif at the counter, but a vibrant and full-bodied woman in the prime of her sexual awakening. He smiled and let loose the predator inside.
"I suspect they come here just for a sight of the most beautiful woman in town." he purred.
"Well, aren't you observant. Here's your sandwich, sweetie. If you need anything else, you just call out my name. I'm Isabel." said Isabel as she set down the plate in front of Nelson.
Nelson took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he openly took in every inch of her full figure.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Isabel. My name is Nelson. Can I ask you if you know a place where someone like me might find a drink and some pleasant company?"
Isabel frowned down at Nelson, not at all disturbed by his perusal, and said, "What you need is someone who can show you the sights."
"I was just thinking the same thing, Isabel."

It has been said that a man, in his last hours, gains a clarity of mind that allows him to reflect openly and honestly about his life. Sometimes, the raw and emotionless reflection affirms a lifetime of intention in a positive way and sometimes a man gets a chance to contemplate the decisions he's made and is allowed a final breath to atone for the way he's lived. Nelson didn't get a chance to do either, as it happened. He did, however, learn one final lesson about obsession. He also learned that time and space don't mean a thing to the hounds of retribution and that vengeance travels faster than the speed of a 1978 Pacer.

Nelson whispered the words to a song that had floated free from the distressed tissues of his brain but couldn't remember what it meant nor did he notice that it was disassociated from any purpose. His head lolled forward and through his swollen eyes he glimpsed shuttered exposures of a woman methodically poring over the pages of a book on medical procedures.
He no longer felt the biting pinch of the ropes that held his ankles and his wrists, though he had rubbed them raw, trying to escape in the first hours of his confinement. His pleas were exhausted and his cries didn't have the strength to pass his split and bloodied lips. He could no longer count on his tired muscles and his arms jerked reflexively away from his body, although she hadn't touched the crackling end of the cattle prod to him in some time.
He gurgled the words, roughly cadenced, against some internal metronome that had escaped damage in the preceding hours, cordoned off in a remote corner of his brain and where the pain had yet to find purchase. Although he couldn't discern the meaning of the verses he mouthed, somewhere, down the seldom used paths in his brain, images associated themselves with the words and he found himself, crouched in the dirt, in the back yard of the house where he grew up.
From behind him, he heard a voice calling his name and when he looked up he saw his mother, pinning the laundry to the line and then shunting it out over the yard and his head. He leaned back and looked up at the sky, blue patched clouds and layered streams of gauze describing a beach front complete with white capped waves coming in, and in his imagination, a dog whose name he couldn't remember.
"Nelson," called his mother, "I think it's time you came in, now. I think it's going to rain."
And then he felt a jolting shock that rocketed up his spine and propelled him into that sky completely untethered by the weight of his body. As he rose into the heavens he looked down and saw his mother, her head back and her hand held up to block the light of the fading sun, and she held up the other hand in a wave and said, "I'm sorry, Nelson. I should have taken better care of you."
Nelson didn't understand what she meant by that, but by then he had stopped trying to condition his vision with meaning and he released the breath that he had been holding and felt lighter than the air.
Then, coming from a long way off, he heard the heavens expand and contract and he recognized the oscillation of words as they were forming.
"You still don't recognize me, do you?"
Nelson tried to turn his head toward the voice and felt another wave of pain explode over his head and run on tendrils throughout his extremities. He was in a small room, quite bright, and peering into a woman's face, her eyes cold and without compassion.
"Isabel." he spit out the name that came to him.
"No. Not Isabel. My name is Loreen, Nelson. It took me a very long time to understand why you treated me so badly. Eventually, I just gave up on you. Imagine my surprise when you walked into the dinner. You walked right into my arms after all these years. And finally, I can make you pay for what you did."
Nelson's head reflexively snapped back and in the early light of dawn Loreen saw that he was gone. There wasn't any sign that he had heard her admission and there was no longer any sign that he could feel the pain she was inflicting on him. With a final sigh, his body slumped in the chair and would have fallen to the floor had it not been bound. Her eyes hardened as she realized that he was going to escape her and she let out a cry of frustration as his lifeless body relaxed. Nelson left her again.

"Nelson, I'm so sorry."
"That's okay, mom. I didn't really want to go to the museum, anyway. Ritchie Clark said he went there once and it was pretty boring."
"But, you've been looking forward to it all week. This is all your father's fault. If he hadn't taken the car we'd be there by now. I should have asked Mrs. Plaintree to drive us." His mother stopped and Nelson looked up at her.
"I know what we can do."
"What?" said Nelson.
"Let's go to the Palisades and get some ice cream."
"Ice cream?" Nelson tried to inflect his voice with the just the right amount of innocence and yearning.
"Yeah. That would be a nice treat, wouldn't it?" she said, her words dissipating into the air as the light faded to black.

Loose Ends

When the old woman passed away there was no one to call, no one to inform and, worst of all, no one to take care of the funeral arrangements. When Perl found an address amongst the old womans belongings for a William Berber in Smith's Falls, he had the operator check it and he had the telephone number in minutes. When Mr. Berber arrived, less than an hour later, Perl finally allowed himself a sigh of relief. In his business, loose ends spelled disaster.
William Berber was prompt in his arrival and equally prompt in pushing aside Perl to stalk from room to room, seemingly looking for something. When Perl asked Mr. Berber if he wanted to see the deceased Berber grunted. Unsure what that meant, Perl asked again and Berber said "No, I don't want to see the deceased."
Confused, Perl followed Berber around the house, worried that he might have pulled one of those figurative ends loose. When Berber's hurried search failed to turn up what he was looking for, he strode to the bottom of the stairs, tucked behind a mouldy armchair, and pulled on the door handle only to find it locked.
"Open this door." said Berber. He didn't turn when he spoke. He simply waited for Perl to comply, staring at the thinly panelled door.
"Exactly how do you know the deceased, Mr. Berber?" asked Perl. He searched the ring of keys in his hand for the one that would open the door.
"Didn't." was all Berber said.
"Well, Mr. Berber, I'm sure I can't let you into that room. I assumed you were a relative and had come to handle the funeral preparations. You understand, I can't find any living relatives of the deceased." Perl took a step back as Berber wheeled around and pushed past him.
Perl breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that the man was leaving. He followed Berber into the kitchen but drew himself up short when he realized that the man was rummaging through the drawers, and he became alarmed when Berber took up a knife and returned to the bottom of the stairs.
"What are you doing, Mr Berber? I can't allow you to do this. There are considerations to be met, Mr Berber. Who will assume responsibility for the affairs of the deceased?" Perl's voice rose in alarm as he stammered out his objections but Berber ignored him and wiggled the knife into the lock.
"I have a key, Mr. Berber." Perl shrieked, more alarmed at the break and enter taking place right in front of him than the dead body being ignored in the next room.
Mr. Berber turned and snatched the ring of keys from Perl's hand and quickly found the one that fit the ancient lock.
"Perhaps you can tell me what it is you're looking for, Mr. Berber. I have inventoried the entire house and made a list of all the valuables. I assure you that there is nothing of interest in that room, sir." Perl bounced up and down, trying to see over Berber's broad shoulders and his progress with the lock. With a snap it opened and Berber tossed the keys behind him, only missing Perl by an inch or two.
"Mr. Berber. I insist that you stop this at once. I will be forced to call the police if you don't tell me what is going on, here."
Berber forced open the sagging door and was gone up the stairs before Perl finished his complaint. From below Perl could hear Berber methodically upending boxes and pushing aside the many coatracks, hung with winter clothes that likely hadn't been outside in years.
Then, the noises stopped and shortly, Berber came down the narrow stairs with a large vase in his ape-like fists.
"Mr. Berber, I did not invite you here for a looting spree. A woman is dead and there doesn't seem to be any one who will take this responsibility off my hands. I expected you to do that." Perl looked up Berber as he brushed past, silent and grim, his hands wrapped around the thin neck of the vase.
"I can't allow you to remove anything from the house, Mr. Berber. I must insist that you give that to me." Perl attempted to run around the massive bulk of Berber before he could reach the door, but Berber simply manhandled him aside and was outside before Perl could stop him.
"Mr. Berber, I'm calling the police if you don't return with that piece right now." Perl yelled at Berber's back.
Berber stopped, at that, and turned to face Perl, who hadn't expected his plea to be heard. Berber held up the vase with both hands and said, "Belongs to my mother. Don't care about nothing else." and he walked off.
Perl ran to the telephone, fully intending to call the police and have them stop Berber before he got away, but as he picked up the receiver he looked out the window and noticed a passenger in the truck Berber was climbing into. If he hadn't been sure of the identity of the woman stretched out on the bed in the next room he would have sworn that it was her, sitting on the seat of Berber's truck.
Berber handed the woman the vase as he got in and Perl saw her clutch it to her chest. She said something to Berber, who simply nodded in answer and then he put the truck into gear and was gone.
Perl stood with the reciever in his hand, staring out the window, wondering what he should do. Finally, he roused himself and put down the receiver. He looked around the room dejectedly and then he noticed something he had passed over before.
He went to the mantle and picked up a dusty photograph that rested there. In it, he could see the deceased as she must have appeared in her teenaged years and beside her there was a girl who shared the exact same features. "Twins" he said to himself. That was the obvious explanation for the uncanny resemblence between the poor deceased and the woman in Berber's truck, thought Perl. He smiled to himself, happy that he had solved the mystery but then he remembered where he was. This was not the time or the place for levity.
He returned the photograph to the mantle, methodically straightened his shirt and jacket, adjusted his necktie and lastly, carefully returned the room to its pre-Berber state. Then he bent to pick up the ring of keys Berber had thrown at him and he locked the door at the foot of the stairs.
Everything was, once again, in its place and if he could somehow forget the rough and tumble intrusion of Mr. Berber, the stolen vase and the mystery of the woman in the truck he could be satisfied that everything was as it should be. No more loose ends, he thought. In his business, loose ends spelled disaster.

In Memory

Two years have come and now gone. When I woke this morning, I sat on the edge of my bed and I wondered how I ever made it this far. I still don't know.

Nothing will dull the ache that I feel. I don't have the words to describe it.

I do, however, have the words to describe the love I still feel. It is ever-present. With the light of each new day I remember the light of days past and with it the memories of Beth. The pictures I have can show me the smile I miss. I can remember the day it was taken, where it was taken and why. I remember what she said to me and I remember how I felt looking at her, being with her and being in love.
More vivid is the feeling of her near me. The feeling that your senses supply even when you're not looking for it. The nearness, the touch and the quiet assurance that comes from being with someone who has changed your life in profound ways. If I close my eyes I can feel her, still there, chatting about her day, laughing at my bad jokes and then, for a second and sometimes more, I can feel her slip her hand under my arm and take my hand. She's not so far away.

I got up and I made myself a cup of coffee and sat at the desk and wondered what I could say that I haven't already said. Then I realized that words aren't neccessary. That all I need to do is shut my eyes and she's there. She always was and she always will be.

The Scorcher and the One Punch Wonder

"Here he comes."
I turned to see Brian coming down the stairs. He paused, looking around, and when he saw me, he set his shoulders, as if he was bracing himself, and then he waved.
It was a curious thing, that wave. His face was rigid with anger and yet he waved at me, as if he were caught half-way between the two extremes that had defined our relationship since I married his sister.
"Brian." I nodded to him as he stepped onto the platform where I was waiting for the ball return to spit out my ball.
"Fuck you." he said just before he swung his fist and caught me on the side of the head. I didn't bother trying to get out of the way.

Twenty centuries ago the Greeks entwined the heat of summer with the brilliance of Sirius. I like the expression 'Dog Days of summer' because of the lyrical association with our canine companions. Dogs have the right idea when it comes to dealing with the heat.
I looked out over the lake for a long time with nothing more on my mind than the easy contemplation of the luxury of rest. The trees sizzled in the breeze and the water undulated hypnotically, both lulling me towards sleep. Occasionally, I looked around and for a few moments I wondered about getting up and going to the house for a beer. I decided that a swim would be more refreshing and hauled myself out of the hammock.
I dove into the lake from the dock and when I surfaced she was there, treading water and watching me. She smiled at me.
When the bonfire began to sputter and most of us were asleep in our chairs or crowded into one of the two cabins, I took her hand and we melted into the darkness.

I understand Brian's concern. Rather, I understand, in a general way, what he means when he talks about the fierce and irrational feelings of anger and machismo he falls victim to when he feels that something is threatening his family. I'm not much of a threat, really.

I've always believed that growth comes not from the simple lessons we pass along to our children but from the horrors that penetrate the psyche as life unfolds, revealing disappointment and sorrow, standing in stark defiance to the hopes and dreams most of us will take, unfulfilled, to the damp earth. The true measure of a meaningful life is the desire to continue after all hope has been eradicated. Once the needless and uncertain belief in the right to happiness is extinguished, the wonder of simply breathing casts a clear light into the recesses of the mind.

It is important to remember that the dog days of summer are short but full.

Another Kick at the Can

What is most remarkable about the end of 2006 is that we appear to have survived at all. The news yesterday, the 'litany of shit', as Gordon put it, detailed horror after horror and yet here it is the second of January and life goes on.
In that vein, so also does the endless need to lighten my load via this space, A Thousand Words (with Rob) and the newest edition to my slowly developing empire, the Mourning Kitchen.
My New Year's resolution might be to post a little more frequently than I have in the past couple of months but I'm too old to make promises I can't necessarily keep. I'll give it a shot, though.
I hope everyone celebrated the passing of the year appropriately and is looking forward to a fresh start, this morning.
Everything looks the same but something feels different. That bodes well for us all, I hope.