Love, It Does A Body Good

"They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore."

Dark, faceless warrior -
the 21st century human ideal

As a planet dies, so does the social fabric that holds it together. It has forever been man's folly to believe in the power and force of his will. Leni Riefenstahl understood this very clearly in her Nazi propaganda film "Triumph of the will". But it's not just Hitler who wanted his will to triumph over the world, there are many who follow in his footsteps to this day in one degree or another. In fact, I'd peg it at three out of every four. But that sort of bravado is short-lived in the time of the universe and at some point will vanish from the earth forever as we become one with said universe.

But the battle of wills is not one between man against man, but rather man against nature - a battle that cannot be won. We love to make defiant speeches and impassioned pleas that rally the crowds against what we perceive as nature's injustices. But that's sort of like leading a rally to make the earth flat. So until we realize our folly, war will be the norm and peace considered the insane. And the longer we war with our nature, the more it consumes us.

The siren of hysteria wails louder as we continue the hopeless struggle, drowning out words of reason - or compassion. It's not the man with the open heart we revere, but the man clad in black armor carrying the sniper's scope - for in him we see true salvation. "What would we do without him?" we ask. "His guns make us safe." Which makes a man of peace an implied threat to us all, one to despise and disdain - and ultimately to shoot. But I ask you, have you ever healed a broken heart with a cold, metallic gun?

Patton, the famous coward -
he'd risk his life but never his love

"For every boot of the booted warrior in the battle tumult,
"And cloak rolled in blood, will be for burning, fuel for the fire."

Another part of our social fabric disintegrating is that of our daily interdependence on one another. I read the story of a woman suing her university for not providing her with a job after she had completed her courses. It's a ridiculous case but her contention points to a larger issue: we all make a social contract with one another in order to survive. If we fail to honor that contract, then what have we? Any society at all? Are we nothing but bribed savages waiting to show our true faces?

If we say a job must be required for living, then it is incumbent to provide that job. You say I must earn my food, therefore you create a de facto contract to provide food if I'm willing to earn it. But it doesn't work that way. We play a game of musical chairs: we require everyone to have a chair to survive but the number of chairs always comes up short. What sort of insanity is that? We bribed savages look the other way as long as the bribe keeps coming - but we sing a different tune when all the chairs are taken and are left in the lurch. Some plan, that.

As the illusion of an economic social contract ever existing comes to light and we reveal ourselves as the every-man-for-himself savages we are, the more blatant is our disregard for the suffering of our fellow man. We instead turn to the hope of the triumph of the will, that each person can make it on his own, needing no one. This puts all the blame on those who die. But I ask you, does a dog-eat-dog world truly serve the common good?

In a savage world, one's morality
is determined by whether one lives or dies

"In that day I will also make a covenant for them
"With the beasts of the field,
"The birds of the sky
"And the creeping things of the ground.
"And I will abolish the bow, the sword and war from the land,
"And will make them lie down in safety."

It's the illusion of love, isn't it? Love is the only true social fabric, all else destined to tear. Let me describe to you a people whose fabric is disappearing: they are increasingly edgy, growing in fear and hate and desperation (and their music sucks). They withdraw from reality into blind bubbles, hoping against hope the truth will never find them. Their hearts and minds become closed and conservative, never trusting in themselves or the life provided to them. Sound like anyone you know?

Though we fight to make the earth flat, a dominion of our will molded as we see fit, the truth of its roundness resides in us still. And though we know the one human overriding desire is love, we fight against that as well, failing to build on the one rock destined to last. I can certainly say - and others will loudly chime in - I have not been one to honor love well. But love is the only game in town, so what choice have I but to make it work? When we were first put on this planet, it was a paradise. That dream still exists as well.

In the end, it's the inevitability of love. The triumph of love. That which is the illusion of love and that which is truly love will be revealed forever, a shining truth no one can hope to deny. Dreams will be admitted for what they are: realities of love yet to be, unforsakable as water to a body. Hope will lie in the joy of knowing we work in mutual cooperation, never ordained but never disdained. And the future will be that of a flower that lives forever, the beauty of growth and self-discovery, unlocking ourselves as the planted seed. I ask you, do you truly have faith in anything which is not love?

It will be the dawn of a New Beginning

"And the work of righteousness will be peace,
"And the service of righteousness, quietness and confidence forever."

---------------------------

Terminator Damnation

Trust me, this is NOT where you want to end up in life

I'm in the parking lot of a cheap motel, the kind you only see on the edge of town, never on prime parcels. From long habit I've strategically placed myself with both an exit and a vantage point covering all incoming angles. Nighttime means nothing to the Terminator but it helps me feel safer with the cover of darkness. By virtue of my necessary positioning, I'm forced by the dumpster and the stench of its foul refuse forces me to tolerate it to the point I become one with it. How fitting considering the trash my life has become.

My hand shakes as I pour the nutrient powder into the half-filled glass of water. I don't try even try to stop it anymore after all these years. Especially after yesterday, having spotted the Terminator still on my trail of nineteen years. It's lone sentence to me echoes still in my disheartened ears: "Because I will never tire". Long ago, when the chase first started I asked it from the safety of the opposite bank of a river shore why it was so sure it would catch me. Its matter-of-fact reply has weighed on me ever since, dragging along like an increasingly weighted ball and chain.

Life on the run is the same as running from life. There's no settling down, looking to build a dream or start a home. Thoughts such as those are but a faint footprint on the shores of eroding sands of time. I can see the world, but never be a part of it. Sometimes when the cyborg was near, I mixed in with other human bodies to disguise my body heat from its infrared detectors. I can remember the smells of life and what old feelings it brought back and I wanted to stay with my planetoid compatriots in eternal harmony. But with a shameful Terminator on my trail, my place could never be among them - or anywhere.

In blackmail we trust

It's 1:31 AM, waking after two hours "sleep" spent tossing and turning in fitful dreams with the Terminator's unstoppable hands reaching around my neck to finally choke the life out of me once and for all. I can't get these visions out of my head! I have no safe place to run to. No human can help because only those chased by the cyborgs admit the cyborgs exist and thus only we know their true destructive power. It's a secret that even if told cannot be heard. Foolishly, I did try long ago, hoping to find reasonable ears but mine was a story no one wanted to hear - a story of a force of death unacceptable to human aspirations of vanity.

There's a yin and yang to the run, times when you almost believe you're safe and times when you believe the truth. It's times like now, having spotted it still on my trail with my very eyes that shatter any idea I can escape its relentless pursuit. Stomach pains like dancing demons with manic pitchforks stab me uncontrollably. Food turns to acid, rising up in my throat, boiled and churned in my frantic worry. Over and over I ask myself, "Where is safety?" but the answer never comes. I tried praying to God, I tried hating God, I tried ignoring God - but the Terminator is the god in this world and its say is final.

I'm withered now, my youth sacrificed in the chase. I was an idiot to challenge the Terminator and its worldly masters. Does any decision made in anger not bring regret? But how could I have not been angry? How could I have not resisted to live in a world insisting on chains? I thought I could be free on the run, never realizing the running brought its own set of chains. In small consolation I note at least these chains are of my own making and not theirs - but it was a fateful day I ran from the Overlords' domain with no real plans for survival.

The life unlived

Here I am again, helpless and alone in the world with no ties that bind - and no ties of support. Looking back, I can see provoking the Overlords' anger was unavoidable if I were to grow. But where was my love? I kept it chained in my heart as well, crying for freedom just as I do now. I refused to give in and too late I see that was my only path to freedom. No matter how unjust the fate of the Terminator may be - no matter how cruel or sick and even eventually self-defeating for its makers - I don't see how I can escape its fate while alone.

Do you know what it's like to never sleep in the same place twice? To have every footstep always be one of trespass on another's property? To look over your shoulder in every meal, knowing the distraction of eating could be fatal? I'm more alone than can be explained, it is for me alone to know - even if never completely understood. This life is all I know but surely there's a better way.

The Terminators were invented to control the people. We were not to be trusted to do the right thing - a suicidal belief shared even by us. So in our wisdom we silently allowed the making of the controlling cyborgs, a "necessary evil" we vainly hoped. But whether for better or worse, all living things must grow and we found ourselves consumed with an insatiable need for more and more of the machines to keep our way of life going. Those still comfortable remain stubbornly blind, clinging yet to the religion of Terminator salvation - but it's not hard to see where it's going to lead us.

Dawning of the true force of the Terminators

I see billions of humanoid skulls stacked as mounds in a landfill, the pseudo-sight of the Terminators undistinguishing between man, woman and child as eyeless drones slaughter the helpless humans. Fires will blot the sky in oily smoke to poison human breath. Rage will overflow into the streets decrying a death already chosen yet only then coming to fruition. The folly of human power will collapse in on itself in a dearth of love or compassion. As it's happening, the words "It must be this way, there is no other way" will be spoken and agreed to and the Terminator beasts hailed in last ditch desperation and fear. These things will happen because we said they could never happen - allowing us in our minds to then engender it.

What have I done? Betrayed by own mad hand yet again, pouring poison into the well of love. Only a deceived soul could do such a thing. The nightmare began with a lack of self-trust so maybe that's how it will end. Those who can trust themselves will survive, those who can not will not. We will see in the end whose decisions can be trusted. What is the path to self-trust? I do not know first hand, I see it only in my art. Like the cyborgs, I'm missing a vital human component. Maybe that's why we secretly built them: as one gigantic expression of our inner selves.

--------------------------------------

"If any man have an ear, let him hear. He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword. Here is the patience and the faith of the saints."
Revelation 13:9-10

Man Fails To Read My Blog, Loses $4,000

"Everybody gets something out of every transaction."
-Joe Mantegna in "House of Games"

In a previous posting I discussed Con Men and Religion, religion being defined as bullshit one makes up in order to feel good about oneself. Now, I certainly understand the desire to trust, it's a natural human instinct predators take advantage of. But one cannot safely trust in this world without an equal measure of self-honesty. If one insists on lying to oneself, expect your trust to be betrayed. A Fort Worth retiree learned that lesson the hard way recently.

The scam was a classic one and the perpetrators were professionals. An elderly Hispanic woman claiming to hold a winning lottery ticket said she had no idea how to claim her prize. She used the old "You look like an honest man to me" trick. The retiree even helped with his own self-con warning her to watch out for muggers. Now, who doesn't like to be told they are an honest person and then get to play the role of protective hero to boot? And in exchange for receiving the woman's compliments and good wishes, the man emptied his bank account.

An accomplice showed up dressed in a sharp and respectable manner. No rebel he but rather a man of good standing in the community, no doubt. Con men are always clean cut - that always means something to the self-deceived. He too wants to help: helping to "prove" the ticket is a winner and also to help cash it. In order to prove he wouldn't run off with the winnings the woman herself could not cash, he offered up good faith money of $12,000. This then made the retiree feel obligated to put up his own good faith money, the said $4,000.

He's showing me his cards.
He must trust me!

Complaining of hunger, the woman had them drive to a donut shop. The retiree went in and when he came back out, they were gone. Variations of this con have been used for over a century now. It continues to work because there's never a short supply of people who need to feel good things about themselves - even if it's false. The clean cut con man repeatedly affirmed to the retiree they were doing the right thing and God had sent them to help the old woman in her hour of need.

The family of the retiree was deeply embarrassed by the entire episode but wanted the story publicized in hopes of avoiding further victims. I suspect they had no idea how long the "good faith money" scam has been in operation, though. But like Michael Jordan, you can't hope to stop it, only (maybe) contain it. There's lots of guilty people walking around - mostly capitalists looking to atone for their dog-eat-dog philosophy (but not to give it up, of course!)

Even if you don't like the answers you get, it's always best to be honest with yourself. There's never an advantage to lying about anything. All lies are destined to die.

Watch and learn (check out Part 5 to see the actual "short con"):

The Canard of Racism: No Such Thing Exists!

Hate-ist Pat Buchanan running for
Grand Dragon Republican Nominee in 1992

When I first moved out onto my own I lived on the edge of town with a few other scattered trailers and Derek was my closest neighbor. Derek, though he had his faults, was a bit of a free spirit, which always appeals to me. And his favorite saying was, "Everybody's the same on the inside." It comforted me that he knew that so I wouldn't be alone with that knowledge. Little did I know then how rare that knowledge would be.

When God looks down into our reality, souls have no color. Nor do they have religion or nationalistic identity or any other rot we decide to make up and call real. We are just souls. Souls with different characteristics - and in different states of health - but the differences God sees are ones of beauty, like the differences from one flower to the next, each one unique in what it has to share. And whoever considered that beauty to be unimportant?

It's an eminence front, it's a put on

We did, of course. Because we're morons. There is only one race on this planet: the human race. So how the fuck can you be a racist with only one race?? Why do we continue to pretend that's even possible? It's beyond absurd for one human to point to another and say, "You're not of my race!" One may claim such a thing. One may even believe such a thing. But one can have no true sincerity in saying such a thing. It's like denying your own existence.

The term racism has become synonymous with the word hate and it's understood to be pretty much interchangeable. But labeling that hate "racism" somehow makes it more palatable, giving it an air of unwarranted legitimacy. "Oh, he's not just a regular asshole, he's understandably discomforted by someone outside his race." Wrong. He is a regular asshole because there is no one outside his race. The day we truly make progress on "race relations" is the day we stop using the word "racism".

The ultimate hate crime

We could get technical and try to pry open everyone's head to get the exact term. Terms like "skinism" or "culture-ism" or "you're-different-than-me-ism". But who's got time for that? Let's just call it what it is: "hate-ism". And I think that puts things in a vastly truer light if we start using terms like he's a "hate-ist cop" or someone's yelling "hateful slurs" or conducting "hateful profiling". I think the hate-ists would find it far more distasteful to be referred to in those more honest terms.

The reality is hate-ism is just a cover for insecurity - which makes us all hate-ists to one degree to another. Now, it's true if everyone thought just like me the world would be a vastly better place for me. (First off, no one would be trying to run my life and the necessity of trust would be realized as a vital founding component of any society - but I digress). But with no two people alike it leaves us awash in a sea of differences, exposing each of our own strengths and weaknesses.

It's no secret Texas is an unabashed source of hate-ism. Sure, we hate on blacks but hey, let your hair grow too long and suddenly you're of another "race". Say you're for peace and you're of another race. Or be a liberal and become the modern Jew. This is perfectly demonstrated in the clip below with Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper discussing the hatred encountered while filming Easy Rider (yup, those guys in the cafe were sharing their unscripted feelings):

There's another term for someone who's insecure: loser. What classmates did you respect in school? Certainly not the insecure ones who never stood up for anyone (including, ultimately, themselves). And that's what hate-ists are as well, losers. Whether hiding behind a badge or a bible or plain ol' bullshit, we need to call these people out - even if we call ourselves out in the process. Truth - it does a (global) body good!

All I know folks, is in the end, I don't really care why your goddam fist is hitting my face, I just know that it is. And for that, I'm going to snap your fucking neck and break your goddam back - in the most permanent way possible.

This public service announcement brought to you by Mrs. Robinson (Jesus loves you more than you will know)

If Charles Manson Had Been A Banker

I can destroy how many
lives as a banker?? Cool!

News of the Tate-LaBianca murders has spread outrage across the country. In response to a growing clamor for action, Charles Manson, the mastermind behind the deaths, and his "family" were called before Congress today. Congressional representatives vowed to teach Mr. Manson and his ilk a painful lesson by inflicting the severist possible of tongue lashings. Rep. Barney Frank was quoted as telling the monster, "There's a great deal of anger in the country, much of it justified."

Mr. Manson seemed to mollify legislators by admitting, "It is abundantly clear that we are here amidst broad public anger."

Rep. Michael Capuano pulled no punches, boldly declaring outright his thinking Manson's acts were "illegal " and "cannot believe" Mr. Manson had not been prosecuted for them. Some observors did detect a suppressed smile on Mr. Manson's face when Rep. Capuano stuck out his tougue and bluntly informed Mr. Manson, "America doesn't trust you anymore."

Rep. Brad Sherman also frothed with righteous rage at Mr. Manson's use of private aircraft, which created a sonic boom during the funeral of his victims. In what had to be a very painful moment for the family, Rep Sherman unequivocally fumed to Mr. Manson, "You could sell them."

After the gruesome and bloody murders were committed, Rep. Paul Kanjorski seethed with news Manson Family members had rifled victim's pockets. In a most urgent tone, Rep Kanjorski admonished, "Please find a way to return that money before you leave town."

The House Finance Subcommittee
posed for a portrait after the hearings

Fiscally concerned Republican Rep. Gresham Barrett seemed mildly upset at the Manson Family's implied selfish behavior with the money taken, timidly suggesting it might possibly be donated to help the victims' families. Clearly noting he was not speaking for himself, but rather his constituents, Barrett complained they "simply have not seen the evidence that the money you were given is working or making their lives better."

At this point, Manson chaffed under the heavy criticism (which many pointed to as a sure sign change for the better was on the way and absolutely no need existed for passage of choking and restrictive laws to prevent further seemingly criminal acts like those committed by the Manson Family). Mr. Manson indicated in a quite factual manner the need for a highly rewarding bonus structure to prevent future egregious acts, regardless of the behavior or harm his family may inflict.

Rep. Barney Frank sharply repudiated that claim? "This notion that you need some special incentive to do the right thing troubles people."

Mr. Manson dismissed the obvious ignorance that only a non-Family member could hold, thusly explaining the need for a bonus structure: "It's complicated."

In a surprise appearance, Bette Midler, who lost her entire fortune in the California real estate crash, sang these words to Mr. Manson and his family:

It's the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance;
It's the dream afraid of waking
that never takes the chance;
It's the one who won't be taken
who cannot seem to give;
And the soul afraid of dying
that never learns to live.

Ms. Midler's singing visibly disturbed Mr. Manson who stormed away from the table decrying what he called a ridiculous furor over a few dead bodies and it wasn't as if he created a global economic crisis damaging the lives of millions, throwing families out into the street, saying only true monsters could do such a thing. Manson declared his support of family values was self-evident.

Fellow Manson family members.
Would you a buy a used car from those faces?

Troublemaking protesters intent on debasing the very foundations of the rule of law were arrested, tasered and dragged from the proceedings. These vicious and wild-eyed monsters having the temerity to point out the passing of Congressional acts repealing the "Murder for fun" statutes, which some fringe elements assert may have had some slight and inadvertent influence on allowing Mr. Manson's murders for fun. Although many legislators present voted for said repeal, they did not let that diminish their outrage - with many highly paid and comfortable-for-life pundits declaring this to be brave acts of integrity on the congressmen's part.

In final statements, several congressmen also claimed to be "Shocked! Shocked!" at news of gambling in the back of Rick's Cafe Americain. Mr. Manson's lobbying firm - who called the grilling of their clients "unparalleled in American history" - also passed out videos explaining and defending the unforeseeable consequences of sticking a knife in a human body. As a fair and balanced, non-judgemental human and all around non-thinking good guy individual of the blameless media, this reporter has included the video below:

You can trust us now!

Lamentations Of A Working Man

They literally told me this was "life"

Dear God,

You've never been there for me before, why should You start now? But I got nowhere else to turn. Do all roads lead to death? I can't see what You're good for, God. I really just can't. Is there something I'm supposed to figure out that my brain just can't know? I've been working on it me whole life and it ain't come to me yet. Maybe I just can't figure out this puzzle. Maybe this has all been a waste of time. Truth be told, I don't think it would be right to call it anything but that.

Pop said I had to get a job even if it "kills ya". He said he wouldn't stand for having any bums in the family and if I died in the street then that's what I deserved. Can't be no other way, he always said. So I always had me a job even though the job was never me. And funny thing is, now I look back on it, Pop always hated his jobs too. He just passed that on like all parents do.

I've always been a working man cuz of my Pop. If I had tried something else and it failed, he'd a killed me and not thought twice about it. And when I look around me, I sees more people like me Pop than I see otherwise. First time I really settled into a job was when I was sweeping out the newspaper building. I bought me a beautiful car with that money, finest kind. But when I found out my boss was lying to me and stealing money from me and I went to get it back, well, I didn't have a job no more. See, that boss man was just like Pop, he knew I had to have that job, and I was just supposed to look the other way cuz the job is king.

I don't believe in Beetles

Where was You then, God? Should I have let that man cheat me? Is it really a sin to stand up for yourself? Tell You the truth, God, it sure do seem that way. I lost my car and had to buy this old Beetle with no heat or air. I found another cleaning job at night and when I drove home on those cold winter mornings I had no way to stop the ice forming on my windshield going down the road. I had to drive with me head out the window. Pop and the boss man and God all wanted it that way. You'd think one out of those three would like me.

I did everything after that. Bussing tables, throwing papers, cooking breakfast, back to cleaning again, driving a cab till I got robbed. See God, they told me that's what You wanted. That we got this world all set up just like God wants and if you don't tow the line you deserve to die then die again. I don't have no way of proving them wrong. I couldn't see no way of living without a job, either. Do You want me to die on the street, God? Is that Your plan? That's a mighty tough one. But it's the only one I can see You got for me iffen You want to disagree with Pop and everybody else.

I was hoping something somewhere along the way would happen. Now I think about it, I don't know why. There's just nothing here and never will be, will there? Just me and my fellow man and the hell we make. So I doubled down, stuffing down all my feelings like never before cuz I got to seeing they weren't of no use anyhow. I took one of them factory jobs, something I always fear'd cuz they steal the soul and put your mind in an iron cage with no hope of freedom ever again. But then, I figured, God ain't gonna give me freedom anyways so it must not be of any import.

An Auschwitz by any other name

Now it's nine years later. I got me those factory benefits and they gave me an official number they could call me by and I tried to represent myself as an upstanding citizen Pop and God could be proud of even though I was dying on the inside. Seems to me at that point, life was just about picking how you wanna die. But I made a good go of me act. Even latched onto a girl and we was gonna build our lives on my factory job and I had to pretend like I could keep on plucking them factory chickens till I die. None of any of that was real. The harder you try to do the right thing, the worse things get.

Lost my girl when gas shot up to $4 a gallon. We didn't have no extra money any more and we got to fightin' and hatin' each other so off she goes. That $4 gas changed me life. It let me know they can kill ya anytime they sees fit. Landlord at the apartment started billing me for his water. Insurance guy said he wanted more money and showed me how the city gonna take my car forever if I don't pay up. I hear everyone around me bitching about this, saying it ain't right, but then they get just like Pop saying this the way it gotta be. God don't love none of us.

But I'm at the end of me rope now, God. You be the most hardest ass person in the universe! Me hands are broken from all them years plucking chickens, making them birds so other peoples can eat 'em. My hands ain't no good for nothing now. The factory lawyer said I'm a bad man for trying to take money for my hands. The deciders just looked at the car he was driving and the car I was driving and just knew he was right. I can't hold no job now. I'm more tired than I ever been before. I tried hard. Harder than You ever did, God! Harder than Pop ever did too!

There's a reason why "lawyer" and "liar" sound so much alike

I don't want to die like this. Me hands all mangled up and never knowing love. I can't live doing what they say. Can't live doin' otherwise either. I don't get this. Round and round it goes in me head, never stops, trying to figure out what this is all about. If You gonna talk to me, God, now's the time to do it. I don't expect You will. You ain't seen no cause to do it before and Lord knows I needed You then too. There's never been a crumb of meaning in anything I done. All I wanted was just to be left alone, to breathe and feel like a person. But I don't know how to make money at that. And money is the real god ain't it?

This girl told me once the reason a person suffers a meaningless life is cuz he was one of the soldiers that put a nail in Jesus. So if You just put me here to suffer, God, all this makes sense. But if You tell me You wanted me to live, I don't get it. I don't get how You can say You wanted anyone to live...

God is a concept by which we measure our pain

What The Fly On The Wall Saw

Does it seem incongruous to be making Molotov cocktails while secretly dancing to the Go-Gos?

Can you hear them?
They talk about us,
Telling lies,
Well, that's no surprise!

Sorry fucks! I'll show them. "We need your particular kind of genius, Rollie." Ha! Thought you hit my blind spot didn't you? "Oh, just flatter the idiot! He thinks he's a genius!" I AM a genius - which means I'm smart enough not to show you all my cards. And which also means your sorry ass will never see this Molotov cocktail hit you upside your arrogant ass head!

Hollywood nights,
Hollywood Hills
Above all the lights,
She had all the right skills

You people really think you got it all figured out, don't you? Hiding in your high-rise towers, licking the treads off the killing tanks and staying oh so appropriately inebriated. Yeah, dude, you got the game rigged in your favor. But there ain't no end game to it! Yeah I know, you're thinking you'll bow out before your time is due and it all comes crashing down. Heh - that's funny. I would KILL to see the look on your face when God sends you back to clean up your own mess!

Lady, when you're with me I'm smiling...
Touch me and my troubles all fade

God, I love this storage room! This must be the same sense of power terrorists get hiding in their caves. Live where they expect you to and they know where to hurt you. But hide in here with my radio and I'm just fine - if that goddam KLUV DJ would just shut his goddam mouth and stop talking over the music. You're not clever, dude! I'm marking this cocktail just for you! That'll teach you an appreciation for art.

Waiting for the break of day
Searching for something to say...
Sitting cross-legged on the floor
Twenty five or six to four!

This is my secret place, my Tabernacle, my Holy of Holies. I remember the trip across the desert. We all knew it was something special, something to mark you for all time. But it was too much! God, it was too much! Life had far more meaning than we ever expected working in those fucking mud pits. We all just sort of wigged out. And the pain, the searing pain of dying in the dry desert sun. I couldn't hold the line. I've never held the line...

Just a small town girl
Livin' in a lonely world
She took the midnight train going anywhere...

Damn, it still gives me goose bumps. The song...the movie...the dream...the power of life. No one knows what I hold in my hands. Neither the dreams nor the disasters. Stupid fucks at the shelter wonder where I go. Hehe, I saw you try to tail me that one time! You thought it was bad luck losing me! That's the art of it. Make them think it's on them, nothing deliberate. Stings like a bitch, doesn't it, Eddie! I knew after the break I'd "miss" on the 5 ball! HAHAHA!

Bang a gong!
Get it on!
Rextasy!

Oh, shit! Who the fuck is coming in here this time of night. Get your shit some other time, dude! (Or maybe it's a chick! But it never is.) You're interrupting me and this is my time, twitface! Jesus, haven't you people hogged enough of this goddam world already? Better head this off at the pass. No one ever really suspects I'm living in here but sometimes they get that "there's something wrong with this picture" feeling and need their fears allayed.

Really want to know you!
Really want show you!
My sweet Lord!

Whew. Those two guys have problems of their own. Could care less about me. Regardless, they think I just got tons of shit to take care of and am using the radio to help me pass the time. What kind of loser lives in a storage unit? I live in a world too pathetic to suspect. But it makes the desperate world around me crystal clear. So no one wants to hear what I got to say, eh? OK, fine. Get a load of Puff the Magic Bimmer blowing up in your fucking face. That'll get them to notice my "particular sort of genius."

And when your looks are gone and you're alone
How many nights you sit beside the phone?
What were the things you wanted for yourself?
Teenage ambition you remember well

I don't know what to do..."Hey, lady, wanna share my cot at the shelter? How 'bout my low rise condo at Mac's Self Storage Units?" I'm trapped like a dog, going out of my fucking mind! I can know, but I can't say. I can say, but I can't know. But if I combine what I know with what I say they'll know everything. Every fuckup I ever did. I hate it when they think I'm stupid. I hate it when they think I'm smart. They never know when it's just me from when it's me throwing a boomerang at their empty heads.

My Maserati does 185
Lost my license
Now I don't drive...
Life's been good to me.

I'm gonna blow up all their precious shit. Makes them madder than hell! That's when I'll OWN them. When you sell your soul for your toys it makes it pretty goddam unbearable to watch 'em go up in smoke! Their whole fucking lives will center around nothing but catching me and protecting their holy fucking shit. I can't have a personal life, well, neither can you, buttmunch! I never told you to get a job! I never told you you don't deserve to eat! I never told you to go off and die! Who the fuck are you to tell me ANYTHING, you ignorant fuck! If you actually KNEW anything, you wouldn't be telling me anything at all!

But still they lead me back
To the long winding road
You left me standing here
A long long time ago.

Damn, that's the same song that played while I was driving around, skipping the prom in shame after committing social suicide. I can still see the sunset...

Dear God, please let me die. I don't want to be here anymore. Nothing I do does any good anyway. She's out of reach now...and if she finds out about me blowing shit up, she'll know it's because I need her. I'll be exposed before all the world. "He doesn't really care about justice. He just misses me."

Letters are written, never meaning to send

When Terrorists Attack, People Pee Their Pants!

Emotionally, I'm a twelve-year-old

The problem with living in a bubble is the same as holding your breath. You can do it for a time - but not forever. But the cool thing about holding your breath is that it suspends reality. One can live underwater or walk through a poisonous cloud or a whole host of acts that allow one to separate from reality. And for many people that's the definition of success: separating from reality.

America is like one big, giant juicy bubble. In poorer parts of the world children are sold as slaves or live as de facto slaves in filthy factories. In other places warlords starve and rape as means of control. The disease of despair is spreading every day. Dreams come into this world stillborn, with life nothing more than one long struggle for survival until a final meaningless death. But in America, kids only have one question on their minds: "Can I please, please, please have unlimited text on my cell??" No wonder they want to take us down!

9/11 could have had a silver lining, bringing us out of isolation and into the world community (don't confuse intervention with interaction). May I humbly suggest it's in a person's national interest to see his neighbor is well fed. That way he doesn't get conked on the head in the middle of the night for his food. Others define our national interests differently - that of a bubble point of view, that we can live happily in our own little world as the rest of the world rots around us. But I prefer a plan that includes actually surviving.

Why would children with as bright
a future as theirs ever attack anyone??

But that's just me, never the pragmatist. "Dumb ol' Harry. He never gets that survival is not practical!"

But America did not learn from 9/11, take its medicine and start to heal. Instead, we retreated more into bubbledom. "We'll show them damn terrorists what we're made of! We'll pee our pants but good!" And just to prove bubbles are a good thing, we created the greatest economic bubble in history. Take that, Bin Laden! We may be homeless but we be high fivin' in victory! Only losers face reality and America loves a winner! Just ask anyone who's still eating: Keep the bubble alive!

But what will the glorious future of our bubble lives look like? After one attack we peed our pants:

Even Moses has to show proper ID

We made our airports sacred, with signs saying: "Take off thy shoes, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground!"

Followed by other sacred commandments to ensure our very survival such as, "Thou shall carry no liquid greater than 3 ounces lest the plane drop mightily from the sky" and "Thou shall honor thy random strip search with all thy heart and all thy mind and all thy soul."

And now that we've been attacked we are like so totally smarter now and can spot them bad guys just by looking at them! Uh huh, oh yeah! Innocent until proven guilty? Kiss my ass! We'll arrest your ass first and find the crime later. The answer is just a waterboard away! Terrorists don't respect civil rights - neither should we!
But what happens after the next attack? Guess we shit our pants then!

Me so scared! Keep me safe!

No one boards a plane without first reciting the Pledge of Allegiance - both forwards and backwards (that goes for you too, traitorous infants - might be dynamite in those diapers). You will also be required to say "Mohammed was a pussy" and eat a slice of ham.

All loyal Americans will also set up surveillance cameras in their own home to prove they are patriotic 24/7. Voting will no longer be secret so we can find out who's voting for commies and social welfare. We can then "re-educate them" in special Haliburton camps. A Department of Hysterics will be created to "keep us on our toes" to ensure we don't "start down the slippery slope of civil rights" again.

Flag tattoos are required because "no true American would object". "Xenophobia" is declared an official religion. Chuck Norris is elected President of Texas and renames Austin "The Octagon".
After the third attack, we basically just drop our pants!

Questioning the President is treason!

The Robespierre Party rises to power instituting a "Reign of Terror on Terror". Terrorist hunts are conducted nightly with mobs of angry torches. It will be deemed a truism: "If your house is on fire, you must be guilty!"

Airplane travel will be restricted to government agents only. Don't question them! They are on a mission from God to keep us safe! (Wildly popular movies will be churned out showing painstakingly rights-conscious government agents blowing up only bad guys and tending their orphaned babies - as if it could be otherwise!)

Anyone who didn't set up self-surveillance cameras after the second attack is arrested for "hiding something." Also, anyone caught not smiling happily to live in America is taken to the ever expanding Haliburton re-education camps. Haliburton stock takes off. Keep the bubble alive, baby!

After the fourth attack we're running stark naked down the street!

How the Republicans retake power

In a desperate appeasement to keep the terrorists happy, Bin Laden is elected President. We convert into an Islamic state, extend our work hours to make up for time spent in the daily calls for prayer and pass a law only priests may hold government office.

Military induction is mandatory as is goose stepping in solidarity. All mail and email must be submitted for approval which is never granted - only terrorists want to communicate with each other! All unpatriotic art will be burned to keep our children's minds "pure". The word "peace" is voted the most dangerous word in the English language.

Sirens wail day and night in perpetual fright. Scientists "discover" a terrorist gene. Babies are tested, those who fail are destroyed to keep "the next Hitler from being born". For unity's sake, all thought is banned and a special new "mind blanking" pill is distributed by Haliburton, the sole remaining corporation. Ultimate victory is declared "just around the corner" until the very end.
So be practical! Be a puppet! Capitulate your way to safety!



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The Operatist

Eat your heart out, Kinkade

The village was nestled high in the Bavarian mountains. Its stunning beauty was the kind travel agents hundreds of years in the future would rave about, bringing sticky fingered children and gawking tourists who would absorb the beauty, digest it and look for the next edible bite to consume and eschew. The surrounding forest was magical in its reflection. Passing through its inviting trees, one kept expecting to find mischevious elves or gleeful fairies or even a gingerbread house to eat. Among the brooding, dark Germanic forests, this one glowed bright - and the source of that light came from the luminance of this isolated and untouched village.

Fate had curiously blessed this mountain oasis with opera - or rather, one could say opera made this secluded retreat an oasis. As the rest of the world worshiped hard steel and punctured chain mail and the charge of snarling horses into battle, the lives of the villagers centered around the release of grand, soaring operas, written as if they had their own personal channel from God. Like a beam from the heavens was their "Operatist", as he was dubbed. And though his operas would never know the light of day of the greater world, it made them no less true or wonderful.

This ray of light I shine on thee

"Opera day" - the day new music was announced - was more eagerly awaited than food, water or air to breathe. Rumors circulated on how close the latest masterpiece was to being released, a communal orgasm shared by every living soul. Solos and riffs echoed in the villagers' voices for weeks afterwards, amazed at their good fortune of hearing the true word of God. Can it be? they wondered. Can what we hear really be true? In a world that trained for war, the Operatist's burg trained for dance. Hearing the driving beat and infectious rhythms, the tears and laughter of exquisitely expressive violins, the sheer triumphant joy of that exact moment, they were helpless to do otherwise. "Stupid smiles" were the facial norm - yet only to an outsider was any explanation required.

Perhaps these operatic flights were a delicacy for which this dark age was not yet ready. Over the centuries, guilt had swept the world into despair, recoiling in slow motion horror with the realization of having crucified its savior. These diseased and dirty people imagined witches and heretics in every corner, figments of their own guilty souls. What meaning could life have now? Oppressive religion hammered itself into the land in arrogant mockery of the true Word, but its false hope for redemption only gave rise to mad priests with mad souls. It was a time of sorrow for an inexcusable act - but even sorrow can't last forever.

A song from the edge of time

Funny how sometimes something everyone knows is true is never said. There was no special beam of light shining down on the village the naked eye could see and yet every villager knew it to be there. Its portal lived in the great white ivory tower on the edge of town. The Operatist never claimed to write any opera but merely recorded what he heard in his ear. He said the trick was to never insert any of his own notes. But to hear this dictation from God, the noise of the world must be kept out. So only in this remote refuge did light creep tentatively back into the world, making the forest around it glow and the eyes of its inhabitants bright in the reflection.

Sadly, the Operatist who brought joy to the world could not bring that same joy to himself. To no villager could he speak his name, forced to remain unknown in a world not yet ripe for living. And though his music was pure, he himself was not, lusting after the teenage virgins he spied through the third floor window of the insular tower his art demanded. Despairing of love, unable to communicate freely with a hostile world, he turned on himself, ending his life of beauty and horror. Ultimately, his flower never took root - maybe in a later time he'd find a more receptive globe.

Songs from times of pre-history remembered once more

Alchemists thrived during this time, claiming to turn lead into gold - never understanding that if true, then gold itself would become worthless with its abundance. Alchemy sprang from the vain hope of finding good from evil and then to undo the harsh fate of their withering lives. But it also spoke of a belief in a magic unarticulated, a distant echo just out of reach of hearing ("Do I dare believe such a hope?"). That even with the despair of their deadly deed, life still held out an olive branch, calling them back, praying they would listen and stop breaking the heart of their Maker. But letting light back in the world would not be so easy.

Warring Samurai, Foreign Barbarians and American Drone Killing

His ambitions didn't match his karma

As warlords went, Yabu wasn't much. He had his own territory but he was never his own man, always a lieutenant general, never the supreme commander. In the wide open era of the Sengoku, there were those content to serve and those filled with raging ambition. Yabu was in the latter group. Knowing he was mentally outgunned by the top warlords, he reasoned he could make up for that with sheer treachery. He may not be able to out-think you, but he could bribe a cook to poison you. Such were his plans for advancement in this weary world.

The problem with making your bed with treachery, though, is you never get a good night's sleep again. Yabu's soul frayed around the edges, never leaving his winter of discontent. Yet he saw only one friend in this world: his ambition. And because his treachery served his ambition, he couldn't kick it out of bed. Self-conflict like this is what made Yabu always be a second tier warlord. He lived in a snake pit of asps, his life consumed by the need to constantly dodge their bites. Malcontents like Yabu always incurred a fatal decision trying to operate from such a poisonous base.

But on this spring day, Yabu was still master of his domain, his treasonous plans yet to be unmasked. And unless his liege lord was present, Yabu held ultimate sway in the villages and farms, his commands obeyed unconditionally. News came of foreign barbarians washing ashore from a ship wrecked in the previous night's storm. Foreigners at this time were considered part curiosity, part cattle. Unless one could prove useful in the power struggles vying across the country, what use could one possibly have?

Gunnery tactics developed by me

The foreign barbarians had proven useful with the introduction of the gun. Warlords who adopted this new technology could quickly gain the upper hand. And as intermediaries for trade with China, bringing much desired silk to the Japans, the foreigners proved useful in that as well. But a few measly sailors washing ashore - from a country with no established connections no less - counted as much as the lives of insects.

The sailors, however, did not share those same feelings, carrying the Western values that every life was sacred. But with their rude manners and arrogance, they did nothing to acquit themselves of the title of barbarians and were quickly thrown into a hole. As punishment and to ensure future obedience, one sailor had to be chosen for death. The sailors refused to choose so the samurai dragged one of their own choosing out - and thus we come to the Night of a Thousand Screams.

Yabu's choice for execution for the boy was to be slowly boiled alive. This sort of torture greatly excited Yabu. For a few precious hours he could give voice to his tormented soul as the boy was raised and lowered over and over into the scorching vapors. The cries of a doomed fate mixed with unbearable pain also scorched the souls of any who heard them. To Yabu it was a symphony, a chorus of sweet agony to be cherished. He only wished there could be a way to keep the boy alive longer.

These idealists who think their lives count!

As the light of dawn brought a merciful end to the horrific howling, the villagers peered into one another's passing eyes as if to confirm the mutual repulsion of Yabu's rotted soul. Their only consolation being of that it was a barbarian's death and not one of their own. Had Yabu tried this trick with a fellow warlord, the infamy of it would have brought a swift retribution by appalled samurai eager to let him know he had gone too far. But Yabu held unwavering and doubtless confidence none of his countrymen would question the death of a mere barbarian - someone who by his very nature of being foreign probably deserved to die anyway.

----------------------------------------------------

LAHORE: Of the 60 cross-border predator strikes carried out by the Afghanistan-based American drones in Pakistan between January 14, 2006 and April 8, 2009, only 10 were able to hit their actual targets, killing 14 wanted al-Qaeda leaders, besides perishing 687 innocent Pakistani civilians. The success percentage of the US predator strikes thus comes to not more than six per cent.

Figures compiled by the Pakistani authorities show that a total of 701 people, including 14 al-Qaeda leaders, have been killed since January 2006 in 60 American predator attacks targeting the tribal areas of Pakistan. Two strikes carried out in 2006 had killed 98 civilians while three attacks conducted in 2007 had slain 66 Pakistanis, yet none of the wanted al-Qaeda or Taliban leaders could be hit by the Americans right on target. However, of the 50 drone attacks carried out between January 29, 2008 and April 8, 2009, 10 hit their targets and killed 14 wanted al-Qaeda operatives. Most of these attacks were carried out on the basis of intelligence believed to have been provided by the Pakistani and Afghan tribesmen who had been spying for the US-led allied forces stationed in Afghanistan.

At least we can console ourselves with the thought foreign lives don't count and wrap ourselves in blind faith slumber of our President. But I can tell you with 100% certainty these murders will come back to haunt us in the worst possible way.

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Boston Cop Suspended For Incompetent Racism

Boston police crack down on jaywalkers
and suspected Yankee fans

Breaking news from Beantown:

The fallout from the Henry Louis Gates Jr. arrest continues: the Boston Police Department has suspended an officer named Justin Barrett for using a racial slur in reference to the Harvard professor in an email, the AP reports:

After learning of the slur, Commissioner Edward Davis put 36-year-old Justin Barrett on administrative leave pending a termination hearing.

A person with knowledge of the case, speaking on condition of anonymity because the person is not authorized to speak publicly about it, said Barrett, a member of the National Guard, used the racial slur in messages to guardsmen and to The Boston Globe.

The AP omits the phrase Barrett used from its article, but the Boston Globe reports that the phrase was "jungle monkey," and that the officer used it while reacting to the media coverage of the arrest

Commissioner Davis later expanded on his outrage over the officer's comment. "Comments like these will not be tolerated. They make us look both foolish and ignorant and we hold the highest of conviction regarding racist talk. Either you call the perp a porch monkey or a jungle bunny but mixing slurs into an idiotic phrase like "jungle monkey" puts us in the worst possible light."

When questioned what the police department's officially preferred slur was, Davis replied, "Moon cricket." In an effort to further explain the department's torment over the inept slur, Davis expounded: "Just imagine as a white person if someone meant to call you a 'Peter Brady' and instead called you 'Peter Partridge' - a character that did not even exist on the Partridge Family! Not only would I as a Cracker be offended, the speaker would also bring unending ridicule upon himself. I hope the Moon Cricket in question can appreciate the delicate position our forces are in, realizing that each officer receives very serious race sensitivity training on an annual basis, and find in it in his black heart to forgive us for calling him a 'Jungle Monkey'. Oh the shame!"

Unclaimed by two races
and possibly one gender

Further complicating matters is the backdrop of the continuing firestorm of whether Michael Jackson died as a black man or white man. The white Birther Movement furiously contends since he was black at birth Mr. Jackson can only be buried in a black cemetery "far, far away from our white womenfolk." Black Separatists however angrily retort Mr. Jackson was seen openly "drinking from whitey's water fountains" without challenge and lived his life in a bubble "just like any of them soccer Mom bitches." Recently, however, a third group entered the discussion claiming that in fact Mr. Jackson died as a woman. An upcoming trial is expected to sort this out but the court is having a difficult time finding a jury of Mr. Jackson's trans-raced, trans-gendered peers.

_______________________

Black & White - Three Dog Night

And You Thought Every Life Was Precious

You count Jessica - for now

We all remember Baby Jessica who fell down the well. The thought of that baby dying was simply unbearable. No expense, no amount of manpower was too great to save her. To let that baby die would have been to rob meaning from every life. Who looks upon a single cell in their body and says to themselves: that cell is not precious.

And neither does God say that of a single human soul.

But the eyes of men see things differently if that soul joins the military. In America, we view soldiers as toys. We have airplane toys and tank toys and soldier toys - and it just ain't no fun to get all dressed up for war with no place to fight. "Peace through strength" is nothing more than war undeclared. Peace is a byproduct of trust, not mistrust. But we like to say we're always using our soldiers for good. Yet there's an inherent danger in using people - no matter how strong any conviction to the contrary.

This from CNN

CNN has a heartbreaking report of a U.S. soldier who served in Iraq and Afghanistan and was subjected to multiple bombings. Despite serious injuries, he was repeatedly sent back to duty. Doctors now believe that the bombs were slowly destroying his brain. He was eventually sent back to the U.S., but the full extent of his injuries were never treated, and he ended up committing suicide, police believe.

Oh, I know all the false arguments - they are the arguments of children and cowards. He signed his life away. That's the price of war. It's a soldier's duty. He knew what he was getting into. But it's not the voice of responsibility making these arguments, it's those who either from fear or disdain or some other foul motive deem a human life unimportant. Suppose it had been Baby Jessica who had joined up and committed suicide. Suddenly, she's not so precious.

When a firefighter rushes into a house to save a baby and dies, it is an act of true heroism. But it's a different story when we as a people go around deliberately setting fires to houses and then use the desire of firefighters to serve against them. That needless risk of lives from unnecessary fires is a tragic waste of life. We know that is wrong and live in the constant terror of discovery causing an undeclared conspiracy of guilty silence and righteous propaganda to continually reinforce the rightness of what we do. Like you can really fool God in the end.

The difference between a woman and a girl is that a woman knows the difference between a man saying "I love you" and "I love using you". Girls who parade around in women's bodies end up on Oprah talking about what dogs men are and getting wild applause. There's also a difference between those who support our soldiers and those who support using them. You can hear very passionate speeches getting wild applause for "supporting" the troops with the speaker being oh so careful to parse the word "using" from his stated desires. But the proof is in the pudding.

Doesn't he know he's not supposed
to be a person anymore??

We treat our soldiers like shit. For the most part we despise them no matter how many bake sales we hold to assuage our guilt. If we truly supported our troops we wouldn't be wasting their lives in fires we ourselves started halfway around the world. So rather than face up to our own treachery we throw away lives in the name of freedom though it achieves no freedom at all. Like the witch burners in the Crucible, we fear the ending of our insanity, for what will be said of us then? Talk about a case of the truth setting us free.

I know what it's like to be thrown into the trash, to be put into a dark corner of the world and declared of no value - a soldier used up is put in the same hell. I can live die scream or cry - it matters not to the world around me. I'm no Baby Jessica. Just another dead body found in a dumpster on a winter morn. That's when you see your "supporters" in their true light. Threaten them with exposure to the light and they all come scrambling to cover the asses, but it's what you do when no one's looking that truly defines you.

Every soul must fight for its survival and it's the job of everyone to help with that. I've posted before on the high suicide rate of Iraqi veterans - a situation that has not improved over time. Parse it however you like, but our wars are not about making the world a better place. Our soldiers are good people who can't live with the acts they've been asked to commit. We suffocate their feelings with words like freedom and patriotism and duty - words most people have no right to even speak.

Decided suicide is not painless

Some soldiers have decided to fight back. The fearful and the cowardly will call them traitors. I call them uniquely brave and freedom fighters. You can read about them at the Courage To Resist website. These soldiers must fight against peer pressure, a gutless nation's scorn and military law to preserve their souls - which is the only fight that counts.

___________________________________________

It's Always The Eyes That Speak Loudest

Not Debby, but similar (to when I knew her)

There are many things I remember about Debby. The way her bangs curled across her forehead drove me mad, making her seem vulnerable and delicately precious. It would not have been a loss for me to give my life for her, but a gift. A thousand men would form a ring around her to protect one as precious as she, taking however many bullets it took to keep her safe. Debby was the Holder of Dreams. And what is life without dreams?

Approaching Debby was like approaching a hurricane. By the time I cut through the winds of emotions my head was spinning so badly that whatever I had in mind before was completely wiped out. I always stood naked before Debby. It's hard for me to describe that experience. It was as if I were standing before God on judgement day. This is who you are, revealed in full. In Debby, every dream, every fantasy of life came true. The sheer, uncontainable joy I felt was only matched by the stark terror of it.

What hope has the monster?

The only way I can describe spending a moment with Debby is to say it was like winning the lottery or getting the news your book is a bestseller or some other moment of endless life, to know you will live forever. Yes, it was to walk in Heaven on earth. I could hardly keep away from her and she dominated my thoughts and feelings night and day; long suppressed hopes came to life, erupting in my sleep. All my life I'd waited to meet her, knowing she was out there experiencing life in the same way I was, believing in the light. It was a meeting, but also a reunion.

My first year at church camp they held some sort of kiddie dance and I heard the Beatles for the first time. "I want to hold your hand" it was, and it struck me like a thunderbolt. "Yes, that's it!" I remember remarking to myself. It happened again with Debby. What exactly "it" was I cannot define to this day. But there is far, far more to life than meets the eye. Magic does exist. If you don't know that, you don't know anything.

A stairway to Heaven

Walls and barriers came flying off between us like heated lovers shedding their clothes. Our unspoken truths were already known. Like water seeping from a dam, the more truth that came out the more truth had to rush out, the urge too irresistible. A word was forming between us and that word was "Yes". The world is an illusion, life is an illusion, all history is an illusion - but this was real. I asked it if was love, the answer was always Yes.

What I wanted most was a conversation with her eyes. For both of us to sit cross-legged and explore each other's eyes, laughing and groaning at whatever we found. No words need pass between us, they could only interfere with our talk. Debby's eyes were deep and old. A dreamer's eyes, of course. I ached for them and hungered for them, literal food for the soul. What a grand adventure it would have been to stare into the eyes of Debby Hanssen. Eyes that held the midnight sky and all the universe beyond.

______________________________