The old school.

Long,  long ago,  I had a breath-taking affair,  that went quite unrequited.  This affair was my secret dalliance,  her name was Sarah,I pined for Sarah and occasionally,  she would sweetly,  smile or hugged me.  That was tantamount to, an intimate moment.   Accordingly I often fantasized about her.  She was friendly,  as I said,  and I lost my faux virginity, in a blaze of glory.

Then,  Eureka, we had a date.    I was so passive-aggressive, so shy,   but she,   in  her days of in a one-sided relationship, constantly hurt, waiting for him to call.   I had a song to always remind me,  of her.   “Day after day.”  I was, lonely  but hopeful.  So it was not only me  but her as well.   I was the better guy,  at least, to me.

I know that sounds,  crazy, but that is the way it was.  So, I started seeing others surrogates for a time.  These nice girls were surrogate lovers.   I finally found another a girl,  in fact,  she was more than that,   she became my first hard copy girlfriend. She was beautiful with long black hair, cascading down to her lower back.   She was an heir to my affections.  We cuddled,  held hands and went to the Senior Prom.   She and I remained constant, but my going into the service,  was just too much.   It was hard, but life goes on.

My virginity was willfully taken by a young woman,  about my age.  One evening,  I am going home,  and I had an epiphany,   She wants more than someone to watch  T.V. with.  I was happy and nervous, at the same time.   I was 24,  going on 25.  She was sitting in my lap,  those,  ministrations,  wooed me.  Her eyes holding me prisoner and that was it.   My aut0-erotica partly banished.    Like Steve Martin,  I had my purpose!!!   lol,

She upset me,  as we were driving back towards the base. She was complaining about something and I yelled at her. She felt guilty and so did I, eventually.   When I went back to weather school,  she was constantly calling ME and it felt rather good.  I was going through,  a delayed puberty,  with hormones holding  me at bay,  and it felt like ‘The Stockholm Syndrome.’  Who was I to complain?   I remember that she  and I, were bowling.   I sucked,  and she had games of 240 and 260.   I bowled a 140 game.   Some guy was watching us, and said,  “she should go pro”.  I said, “she already is.”

I did see Sarah again.  She and I went to breakfast and I said to her,  “let’s take a trip to Fayetteville, Arkansas”.    This was spontaneous and it was cool!  We had a great time!  Though short-lived,  because she had to have surgery.  I was on a roll.  She told me,  “What you need,  you have already found.”  Meaning her,  but my shyness,  cost me, something very special.   Life goes on.

Up and down, like a pregnant pause, that having more than one context. and for another time.  Now, as certain as death and Texas!  lol.  You feel me?   Anyhow, this subtext is beautiful. Back on Earth!

I always wanted to visit my old church,  but not at about 11:00 PM…  Needless, to say I did!!   Of course, the Minister had since passed away.   There are  a lot of memories in that real estate and more are to come.      As I scan across the street,  I see the old high school and I start walking slowly.   The cool air penetrates my armor as I continue on.

About half-way to the school,   I stop!   I notice a place where we used to ice skate. Unfortunately for me, I on my back with realizing,  any kind of skating is not my bailiwick.   Memories of first love was imprinted on my emotions.  The Gazebo and the ice rink still there.

Curiously,  I notice,  that the front entrance is slightly ajar.  As I approach,  there is a kind of de-Ja Vu.   My heart races, as I step inside, a war room of hormones,  full of peace and the irrevocable heat of days now irretrievably gone.     Now my life gets weirder.  A warm breeze now replaces the coldness outside.  I notice a locker,  with a lock and it is secure.    The combination lock has to be least, sixty years old!

As I notice, a combination lock and  as I twirl the dial, I hit the jackpot. The lock opens with a click and the locker door comes open.  I look below and then above.  On the upper shelves are a few books,  neatly arranged and I reach for the highest, of them.   As I open that book, the card with the names of past owners are faded but the dates still discernable.  On the back of the card are a few more names and below,  is a kind of message,  that I assume is addressed to someone.

I return the book  to it’s original place,  shut the locker and fasten the lock.   As I turn around, the door across the hall is cracked.  The old classroom door squeaks open.  A few of the original desks are decorated with love notes, etched into the wood.  As I look around,  I see an empty bed.  It is meticulously made,  with a white comforter, with tiny red Wolverines.

A paradox now happens.  Where it was hot, it is suddenly  very hot, with a light cooler breeze that meets my face.  I follow the draft to the bed,  where I repose and laying there,  I fall into a dream,  where a smiling face, greets me.  All of a sudden,  I feel a warm pair of lips on my own.  Not sure if this were a dream or the real thing,  I see a face.   It is much older but has a face I do not recall,  but as the light becomes lighter,  I recognize an angel, putting a hand over my mouth and whispering.  “Where have you been?   All of a sudden,   the face appears clearer and I mention her name out loud.

Many years had passed,  but it was like yesterday.  Of faces familiar and in a school I never attended,  but it all comes back.   A sea of words,  replaced by our awestruck faces;  we together and say,  “how have you been?”  She just smiles!

 

The Cat and the bag.

Kind of ironic,  I think.  A pet,  finds happiness in a plastic bag.  She finds intrigue there.  Simple,  safe and happy.   This cat is younger than  the other cat.   Baby is everywhere I go,  she rests at the door until,  I come in.

I am not sure of who the pet really is.  She sleeps in the day,  and treats the room as a kind of ‘Disney World’.   I am sure has broken the sound barrier, as she glides across the room and making a lot of noise.   My first inclination is to tell her, to behave.  But when I ponder this,  I am happy in her noise.

She is like a light house,  esconsed on a hill,  a guidepost of what lies ahead and unconditionally  watches our for us.   She has a responsibililty to her sub,  a quiet recollection of harmony,  and I like marmalade,  adding flavor and robust reminders, through her play.  At times,  she uses her to paw,  to get my attention.  And she wants me to rest,  while she nestles next to me.  I felt her paw on my elbow,  many times,  reminding me,  of what matters most in this world.

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My other cat,  already 15,  is a bit more sedate in that regard, but man is she a sweetheart.  I swear,  she has two purr motors.  She purrs and then she seems to add a purr and loves to cuddle in my arms.  As she looks around,  I mention her name (Lacey) and her heads move over to my head, as if hugging me.  Really cute in that way.  A real lover,  happy in her affair. And this, after the redolent balm of friendship.

Two types 0f anchors,  equally good,  each with their own plastic bags, a place like a harbor, the boats and bags, coming in and out.

Lacey1

 

 

 

 

Oh Very Young…. We love as we pass.

Amazing-Autumn-Leaves-New-hd-wallpaper

Perpetual Autumn leaves must fall,  the inexorable push against the seasons affect us,  one and everyone.   From Terry Cloth to Mr. Clean,  we can fix most things if we really want.   Those memories like the multi-colored leaves of each season have not perished,  they have changed form like the lines on our faces.    We are not vexed by circumstance nor are we really cheated.   Our sentience,  our journeys, with the cascading highs and the lowest of lows,  these are milestones not millstones.   Interrogations of self-awareness,  floating like tinsel in song and in prose.

To my 1974 classmates.   The pretty blonde is older than us.   Be of good cheer! Bless you all!!!

We have traded the wind for flight.  We walk less suredly but we walk none-the-less.   The fingerprints of our lives,   immutable and distinguishable,  yet that is not the totality of our essence.   That is not what makes one unique because we are born constantly,  born in altered states.   We learn to be humane by embracing humanity,  learning the crush of mother nature,  yields to us gems of exquisite taste and discovery.

The laughter of a merry grandparent,  the inexplicable statements uttered from the lips of infants.    The boulder that is a footstool and the wash….  perpetuity of reconciled grace.   Goodness is a stanchion, a rock of it’s own.    Buttressed by the hum of a bee delivering nectar,  a butterfly exhibition or a savant,  relishing  chords before him or her.

saVant

Even our sweat culled in diligence and purged by the vapors before,  the scene clears as we let go of preconceptions.   The delineations between self-aggrandizement and the muck and mire we consider self-gratifying.

The sheer beauty of a waterfall and all around it the greens of sustenance and rapturous good looks.    Fairies are born here and muses gush from Geisers to outerspace.   Indivisible worlds so feint,  yet thriving with the same energy like rippling muscles and gravity waves.

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We are bound to create or at least appreciate the dunder and the spate of good fortune that follows even the least fortunate.    Our awarenesses are platforms which we climb,  and amber a testimony of a moment in time.   We are time and outside of it.   Our brains synaptic marvels beyond the ken of most,  save for the shards of inspiration that are spiritual and sublime.    The Higgs particle in each of us embodies the spectacle of complexity and awesome sighs of a groaning mountain,  suffused with energy,  kissed by providential bursts of warmth.

In a soup kitchen lies the answers,  and beauty misinterpreted.    The old server with a smile on her face and the broken hand accepting a penance.   NOT a handout per se,  but charity upon charity,  hope balancing out inequity.

A time of cleansing, a spiritual parthenon way upon a hill.   The caste system stemming from a dandelion and the blowing tumbleweed that seems to have no function.   It is the burst of creation without cognizance and steel forged by the very same benevolence.   Be benevolent.

autumn_rain_by_raycrystal-d4m7b3h

Do you know where you’re going to?

Dianna Ross had it right,  but we struggle against the obvious.   The same reality that life is a transient soul a waiting place for something else.   Like I cannot prove to you anything that you are unwilling to accept and the only certainty is deduced from what I believe I know.   I am not seeking approval but at an ear.   To hear my passionate regard for most everyone who has an honest take.   Not the cogitations of mindless babbles trying to sell a book but the real crisis that is every day life.

erma-bombeck-4Muslims killing

In the abstracts our dreams provide a kind of nexus,   to examine our world.   The only deducible result is that we better pay heed to the needs of others.   This idea that we are somehow original is funny because everything we have imagined,  has been thought about before.    It is kind of like salad dressing and choosing between French or Ranch.   We have people who would place their soul on the line just to prove to you that their choice is somehow unique.    None of us are,  exceptionally original.   That is the pride of the status quo.  That some equal would tell us what we already know.   Elucidating on a variable that was somehow hidden.

The brutal reality is that we are created to create.   Our effervescence can be misconstrued as divine intervention but I am sure that a sovereign god does not need endorsements.   Like saying that we know something that God wouldn’t.     OMG Larry,  I never knew that!  ok,  sure!

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And how do we know the answer when we do not know the question?   Last night I dream t that some bad individual was going to take my life.   I hid beneath the ATM drawer,  half suspecting that my location was known.    That person knew I was not in support of him and I think he respected that, given the circumstances.

As things unfolded I spared my own life.    For anyone familiar with ‘Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs’  is aware of my conundrum.   For anyone still in doubt it was my sense of fairplay that gave me street cred.   I was able to parlay a take into resolution,  both preserving dignity while saving my life.

I would like to believe myself being in the final and most basic sense as Freudian and as classical and pragmatic as Socrates.    I hate mean people and even if I disagree with a lifestyle,  I would fight for it as saying to bullies,  “Bugger off”.

So what does this mean?   Well I see far too many people pretending that the Emperor’s pecker is not exposed and willing to attest that his rainment is fine and original.  Joan of Arc had nothing to lose but everything and any soldier of any country who is not diabolic,  sees the intrinsic value of a single soul.

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Men would say a ‘penis’ is of the devil but a labiA is not the objective.    They ARE wrong on both accounts.   The demon is in the details and a patriarchal take on decency.  My heart breaks at the lonely soul with no place to live and the idea that others look down on them.   I look down on those who look down on them.    I realize they had no more of a choice than the man in the moon and just maybe that man may know something we don’t.   Afterall,  he loves the Moon and that is his reality and ours but a nuisance to be discarded.

If I sound like a rambling idiot, your perception may be right,   All I know is that suffering goes on unabated.  The teeth of death spares no one but divinity and I am not even sure if that is true.  I believe God respects the questioning soul because I believe he rather tires of obsequious fools.    Letting a witch die was as much a lack of their own  virility as the perverse notion as that young women peeing as she dies hung on a hickory stick.    If you want to locate evil,   it is not Harry Potter or that name who cannot be mentioned but our own infidelity to our own most passionate values.

People who say sex does not matter are abject liars.    Everyone wants to believe that there is some quintessential probity to a random collection of meteoric imaginations.    Fallacious conclusions are less battle worthy than dandelions in an EF-5 Tornado.    And politicians like rock stars find their quarry in the missionary position and that their rewards in intimacy is beyond the ken of ordinary people.

Like the ill-fated garden in LA to the guard in the Wizard of Oz are the implacable assertions of a slave owner on the 4th of July.    In too many occasions women are pussy on a stick.   A most sumptuous carrot of all.   A viking grabs her by the hair and conquers her while oppressing that same valley with an air of the King’s English and the voluptuous boob jobs on a modern day Barbie Doll.    Misogyny  in a mask of velour and beheading the soul of exposure.    Your member truly does depict you and women see the depth of the valley and the intercourse of fairness.

hELIREErotic Fresco Painting From Pompeii

My next excursion will be the scent of papaya that wafts from the nature of nature and not the moralistic reverberations of hypocrisy.

I would rather have a woman a lot like me.   Sexually inclined and not afraid to be a women and not afraid for me to be a man.   The others are trying to protect something that is not real.

The honest man acquiesces to the notion that the eyes are that flame.   That transcends time and understands her more than any player could hope to.

Quiet Desperation. Rewards Found in Shadows.

I feel pain and many times not even my own.   As a younger man I was working as a Forecaster at McGuire AFB in New Jersey.   One evening the weather observer blew past me and basically seemed to ignore me.   About an hour later she asked me how I knew something is wrong.    Her husband was high on crack and tried to shoot her with a shotgun.

I cannot remember how many times especially with females that I sensed this desperation.   A kind of pervasive fear that riddles with the soul with uncertainty and knowing that people do not understand.   Those who think they know depression and anxiety or to get over those things.

They assume much and without any comprehension of who I am and what I do for others.  The best medicine is compassion.   A feeling heart that is vulnerable but equipped.   It comes as no surprise at the misogyny directed at women and those perceived to be weak.   Most men could not bear pregnancy and yet they carp at women as the weaker sex.   We are both the weaker and stronger and we know what the rules are for that.

We struggle to find things we can color as black and white and a way of a common ground that makes us better,  whole and deluded.   Unfortunately there are the parasites who willfully and aggressively open up scars and believe they are doing good.

To those,  we just walk away,  confidently but with humility because this is an anathema to haters.   Knowing we know where they are coming from.   Two still equal two,  yet the contrary spirit inherent in all of us,  wishes to play the devil’s advocate.

The tears of a friend spent towards a person especially a man who is trusted is almost sacred.    A girl and a friend I knew in Germany was near suicidal following a rape and resultant pregnancy.   She was lost and afraid but I just listened and told her that it is her decision,  whether to keep or abort.   She said I was the only one who treated with real respect.   Not strong opinions and judgments and love that is platonic and still sexually charged.   Without the sex.  Trust.

She decided to not abort and the baby was given to a mixed couple who the Army decided could not have kids by other channels.   Here were people who touched my heart in different ways and all where touched by some kind of angel.   I need to find her again as this was long ago.

The point is that we should listen.  Drink in the moment and appreciate the flavors of experience which if decided to be shared are a nectar so sweet,  that is permeates our brains with compassion and heart.

Give me this.  Take to a place where prying eyes dim. ‘

Give me the honesty to know the time on the clock.

Take me to the door that blesses our entrance,

to the sublime nature of harmony and the steady beat of time.

Give me the mind and the heart to hear.

To move past the shadows

and into the purple throes that fill me with wonder.

sunnude

JungA

To Grandmother’s House We Went.

There are those times as a child when certain memories come back like yesterday.   For those of us with doting Grandparents these times are even more special.   Grandma and Grandpa lived in near Wellsboro,  PA.   The town was one of those factory areas with lots of farms, and lots of old dirt roads.

Charles Chips

In the early days going to Grandma’s house there were a few nostalgic places along the way.  One was an area that was flooded and a dam built where there used to be farms and one of those were owned by our extended family.   Next was the old store just before we turned onto the old Route 6,  the road my grandma lived on.

sock monkey

The road was semi-paved and long and the old store was torn down a few years later with my only recollection was a new road was put in it’s place.   The old road also marked the nearness of Grandma’s place and a sense of magic and an accommodating environment.   Grandpa was always a bit annoyed at Grandma’s eccentricities and she had a few.   But in th end,  his love was born out for her even though Dr House probably learned snarkiness from him.

He used to show us the severed finger he suffered while working on an old car that collapsed as his finger got in the way of the hitch.    He wore his infirmity with pride and he was also very keen to my dad’s mistreatment of Mom.   Grandpa seethed with an inner rage and a few choice words from time to time.

Dad’s father was a bit of a jerk also and his sister would tell how he was beat by own his dad and thus the cycle of abuse was passed down.   That inner rage like an old tire tube,  slowly leaked it’s venom and poisoned what would have been an ideal childhood,  all things considered.

Staying at the house was the feeling that dad was powerless there and that he could only go so far pushing my mom to tears.   Something about being patriarchal and fair.   But Grandma always had the Charles Chips Potato Chips,  cases of soft-drinks and a few cookies to boot.  She was in love with her children in the sense that her world revolved us.  From the sock cookies to her love of the Pennsylvania Amish.   I remember light switches that read, “Outen the Lights” and other relics of a different time in the midst of the present.

I remember one time when Grandpa and Grandma visited us in Fairbanks, Alaska.    The bitter cold was relieved by their presence and true to form,  Grandma,  who my dad despised,  was able to help give aid to my mom’s beleaguered spirit.  This is where my anxieties deepest fissures stemmed.   The memory of my dad on top of mom was a knife threatening to hurt her (kill her) if she ever did whatever she allegedly did.

Being the only child old enough to remember much,  it as though something was relentlessly scratching the blackboard in school.   I dangled like an ornament precariously situated on a branch and Christmas a kind of detante against the ongoing drama and virtual cold war.

But back at her mom in Pennsylvania was a place of peace,  a lean-to and suspending sanctuary against the bitter winds that blew like an angry wind.   The best was staying over at Grandma’s during the summer and a few times during Christmas break.   I used to watch the traffic on the new Rte 6 and when there was snow,  the crunching of tires and the slow procession that followed the ruts in the snow packed ice.

The chiming of the old grandfather clock and the old black and white TV that sat below it.  My mom told as kids that they put a kind of tri-colored flimsy on top of the black and white picture to get color TV.    The only cable back then was the one that towed your car out of a ditch.

Speaking of ditches.   While still very young I was in the front seat of our old blue Ford stationwagon while mom and dad were inside.   I decided to go with my first driver’s education class and put the car in reverse and it slowly rolled down the driveway and onto old 6 and against a barb-wired fence.   Beyond that fence was about a twenty foot drop.   My dad was sheepish at his thoughtlessness and I was pretty scared myself.   Afterwards was a warning and a laugh from grandfather that dissipated the pressure of that event.

The old Grandfather clock croaked out the time,   it’s face made of copper and ornate arms which  spun slowly,  methodically and predictably.    Calming the tempest in a generally unfamiliar way.   The stairway seemed much longer than it really was and the excitement of the old house gave it a kind of haunted house feel.

Grandma’s heart seemed in synch with the old time keeper and my grandfather sat in his chair and winked at us.   He had a quiet power over us and though 70ish he was no one to mess with,  He was a steadying force in the family,  truly a great man in my eyes.

I really feel that he loved Grandma even though his first wife died pretty young.  Reminders of her were her spinster sisters,  kind of like the Baldwin sisters in The Waltons.   He was also a pretty good ball player and played in the industrial leagues that were common then.

Both of my grandfathers played semi-pro baseball and probably where I got my athletic skills.   My dad did too though he opted for working hard and there is nothing wrong with that.   The problem is he was terribly conflicted and full of inner rage.   He never went to my sporting events and he missed something special when I was in high school upsetting the number one wrestler in the state of NY in my division (105lbs) LOL>

But Grandma T’s house was a kind of sanctuary and better when the cousins showed up.   We rigged an old crate and used a small beach ball and played basketball.    The excitement with the prospects of going to our Aunt and Uncle’s House on the Dairy Farm.   Days were long with chores and all and since it was a novelty,  the fact that it was work was not a problem.

After eating during the spring and summer we played Little League Baseball.   With tons of catchers mitts and other types of baseball gloves we would head off to the park.  Even cousins who were girls played baseball and this was true even at the fair they had each year near Blossburg in a towned called Roseville.   It was Hooterville with our telephones inside but they were party lines.   Yeah they did exist and long distance calls in the states, a few miles away were expensive.   No cellphones then unless the cans with the string attached could be considered thus.

On our way home we would stop at the Farmer-in-the Dell Creamery were absolutely delicious fresh ice cream was served.  Too bad but that place was bought out and leveled in corporate America’s siege of small farming communities and forcing farmers to find jobs in a world that was decreasingly hospitable to the menial-minded laborer.

The only time it was tolerable was when I had my 17 year old girlfriend Marci along for the ride.   We stroked each other’s hair and cuddled for the long ride.   I was pretty happy at that time.    I remember waiting at her parent’s house one day and the song by Gordon Lightfoot ‘Sundown’ was playing.    As she emerged to come downstairs,  her long flowing black hair felt right at the moment.   I was pretty happy with that too.  Of course.

As my dad and my mom’s mom grew older my dad actually conceded that it was a nice time though he hated going because I think,  it reminded him of what he never really had and the world is sadder when you cannot feel that way about Grandma and Grandpa.

Detroit. The Real Decay. Ourselves?

“The attraction of horror is a mental, or even an intellectual, excitement, but the fascination of the repulsive, so noticeable in contemporary writing, can spring openly from some rotted substance within our civilization …”
Ellen Glasgow

Think about it.    We have a form of pornography that is almost passe.   It is a horrible sin to show a nude butt or breasts but we let psycho-social imagery of young girls provocatively dressed and then brutally assaulted and maybe beheaded or otherwise violated.

We yawn if someone is brutally murdered.   And then talk about sexual deviance and ignore the greater sexual smut.    It is…   misogyny.    It depicts nubile young women as sexual objects and then murder them in a frenetic bloody massacre.    We then try to figure out why children and young people become so perplexed.   A sociopath sees a target rich environment and apologists make every excuse for that aberrant behavior.

When the truly horrific happens,  we were far too busy talking about help,  charity and sponsorship.    Where were we when a poor bullied child is sobbing and sitting on a floor in the middle of the school?   Do we call it teen angst or do we analyse the problem and get that confused person some help?

Then stories like Casey Anthony (talk about a sociopath) or Tanya Harding happen,  or Tiger Woods,  OJ Simpson and The Fish that Stole Pittsburgh and when we can’t get enough of the slanderous,  especially the sexual,   we go even further and become transfixed over the almost cult-like feel of one of these scandals.

At the same time,  sexual and physical abuse go unchecked.   We moralize,  we rant and we talk about justice and let the poor bugger die of exposure  to the cold because we were too busy with Foxy Knoxie Amanda Knox.

Yet do we try to understand and fix the root of the problem?   Do we get the person convicted of sexual deviancy a way to get better?   Or do we release these people back into the mainstream to do what they do?

Where has mercy and love gone?  We talk of no tolerance but we arrest a kid using a banana as a gun and missing that AK-47.   Teens mug and kill a feeble 90 year old and then spend weeks on a questionable murder,  in a time with potentially sociopathic cops, charlatan evangelists and parents more eager to settle out of court than helping the victim.

People say there are no rehabilitating murderers and sexual predators and yet we leave unstable people to roam the streets and they don’t even need a gun to cause a lot of heartbreak.    What do we do for the victim and why the victimizer did it in the first place?   Many times the perpetrator was hurt in the same way.   If we are consistent we realize a huge problem.    That easy fixes usually are Hollywood fantasies.

As soon as the hype dies down,  the victims are virtually forgotten by the media.   Trayvon Martin is still dead.   The poor old 90 year was yesterday’s news.   Media has become a breeding ground for narcissistic and delusional circus freaks.   They exploit the story and then do absolutely nothing.   The killer continues to kill and the sexual deviant continues his or her deviancy.

No solutions, no ideas of when some relief may come and just waiting for a chance to editorialize even more.

Seeing Nancy Grace huff and puff about the latest scandal or crime,  one gets the feeling that these crimes are the highlight of their day.

That we can talk about tolerance (or the lack of) for opposing ideas even if they are in the majority.   Wrong will always be wrong but we lack the courage to call wrong wrong and right is really right.