Sunday, November 22, 2009

cold war on a hot day

Young Anna Belle looked laxidaisically distracted; day dreams brought about by the sheer heat of the midday summer sun. Her usual happy mood distracted; reflective of the pending hesitation felt by many during those days of summer 1963. The heart of the cold war era, always on the back of the mind of the local citizenry, would today be the day "the big one went off". The fears and collected dreams of citizens tuned into the atomic bomb channel which constantly told the public "this is just a test of the emergency broadcasting station" or "don't turn that dial". Fear bred fear and the young Anna Belle was not immune. Her inability to be cajoled into a peaceful mini nap indicator of the alarm that was soon to sound, awakening in the conscious mind the fear to beat all fears; complete armageddon.

A heavy topic for a five year old who trying to get a grasp on the basic construct of her world could not inhabit a peaceful one. Where the threat was real; tenable; we were under direct threat we were inches away from nuclear incineration. People would envision the horrors in their dreams to prepare them for the reality if this should coccur; the repeating dream of the mushroom cloud in the background of a typical suburb, a bit of a dictomy, considering the two extremes; peaceful mayhem. The conscious could lie for the unconsicous fears, but eventually, the exhaustion and fear wore out the masses and the common place became something to fear and dread. Paranoia whether real or imagined can work this way, coyly toying with the logical mind, fear wanting to master the complacency and state of mind.

For Anna Belle and her family, the cold war could not help but make inroads into their post war perfected world, a world where fear not only bred fear but slowly was unravelling the way of life which was solid and true. All tenets of the faith being questioned by the possible pending nuclear disaster to come, in thought or deed the brain does not realize this difference. The brain responds to fear, real or imagined; and certainly this pending disaster was made real by the constant reminders on the news, on the new media of television, in Time and Life magazine, on the radio.

For Anna Belle and her family, the threat was real just not discussed to any extent. The news media did enough to promote the very real fear mongering which hopefully would save our lives. We as citizens knew not much would be alive if we took a direct hit. We were a large Canadian city. Were there bombs pointed on us? If so, how many? How would we find out? How close were we to disaster, really? Just underneath the surface, the surface to air missiles, the breaking the sound barrier jets were on stand-by on the ready at moment's notice. Anna Belle would be playing in her backyard and heard overhead the sonic booms while flying at the 30,000 foot level. She could see them flying quickly across the sky and then boom they were gone into the blue beyond.

In this cold war era of fear brought about by the very real potential of complete annihilation or atomic disaster, the entire country was awash in fear. Complete distrust of anything, any neighbour, any action unnatural. Those who acting out of sorts in any way was dismissed readily without trial or jury. They became the enemy on the land and were to be mistrusted and watched.

The immediate need to find a face for the fear became typical of the nature of the human beast and the nature of the scapegoat. Anything which did not seem even remotely democratic in nature was questioned and scrutinized.

These heated dog days of summer should have been buccolic and languidly peaceful, yet there was a sound, unheard which wore on the collective soul. An young child such as Anna Belle could she would, never, understand the adult world. Of why people could think destruction, why they would want to do this. It wasnt in her Anna Belle mindset. The only thing which really struck fear in Anna Belle at five was the Saturday morning air raid sirens and the constant "this is a test" blaring not so innocently from the t.v. commercials.

There would never be a time at this time at the pinnacle of the cold war to let go of attentiveness of the moment, never to let down one's guard or defences for a moment. The cold war was an never-ending threat, what would it take to restore peace in a breeched and unbalanced nuclear world? Like an unwelcomed guest in the livingroom who would never go home. This looming and unwelcome presence a wholly unnatural thing, especially in the dream-like suburbs. What was a heavenly dream for the babyboomers became for a time a nightmare to be lived much like World War II and the constant air raids.

When the midday sun could now become the mushroom cloud spelling the end to all the endless days of summer, and the end of the world as all understood the world to be. As the endless and once happy sounds of summer, once so peaceful and serene now a constant reminder each balmy Saturday afternoon exactly at noon could spell disaster. No one knew the time or the place as it says in the Bible; "I come like a thief in the night".

Anna Belle was not thinking about the bomb but it effected her unbeknownst. If Anna Belle appeared despondent to her everyday surroundings it was not due to the air raid siren. She was feeling the angst of social taboo. In this background, the moment world inhabited by all five year olds seemed less of a threat than the adults felt, or did it? Soon the weighty midsummer heat would entice the sleep response, and all things were made dozey. Usually these dog days of summer would cause all to drift peacefully into sleep. In this moment in time, Anna Belle would become a little more worldly earlier than her five years could manage.

The year 1963. One more time Anna Belle awakened to her surroundings, nudged awake from the constant distant drones of far away lawn mowers and the paddering of Donna Weller's snake-like sprinkler left on past lunchtime. From where Anna Belle sat on the floor of her Toronto suburb she could clearly see the snakehead whipping around ad hoc. Even that uneven movement could not tempt her from her sleeplike staring out the bellowing white lace curtains breathing animatingly with each slight warmed summer breezy gust.

No shadows were visible at this high noontime. The sun, the superball protoplasm beating heat on the warmed planet from its mantled placement deep in the baby blue sky. Anna Belle's big blueberries eyes were half-lidded, heavy with sleep and near to dream-state. The natural summer siesta before lunchtime in the extreme summer heat when all activity was almost non-existent. There were now only ripples of movement of waivering pavement heat from the highway beside Anna Belle's house. The steady stream of zooming cars were hypnotically continuing the everyday lullabye sounds on this typical lazy Saturday in July.

Anna was thinking about how hungry she was becoming and remembering her usual attempts at begging cookies from the mennonite lady across the street. Donna's mom had probably made her cookies earlier than usual, this being Saturday. Anna Belle would have to wait til Monday to show up extra early for a couple of peanut butter or her favourite oatmeal raisin cookies.

Earlier today, Anna Belle had been playing quietly with her dolls and listening to the Ray Coniff singers, South Pacific musical, or the Lemmon Sisters on her family's phonograph in the livingroom. The endless waiting for her Mom to call her for lunch made her nod off while playing with her dolls. Anna Belle had already washed hands.

Anna Bell could now distinctly smell the mushroom soup on the stove and the broiled open cheese sandwiches. Then there was the fresh smell of butterscotch pudding. "Anna, time for lunch!" Anna Belle's mother called her into the kitchen. Anna yelled "Yippee!" and ran to the kitchen. Anna Belle's sister had gone to a friend's house for the weekend, and her older sister was away at camp for the week. Her Dad had gone over to the Wellers to talk with Mr. Weller about hardware stuff like lumber. Mr. Weller worked at the hardware store close to downtown. "Daddy will have to grab a bite when gets in later this afternoon were going to Morgan's at the Cloverleaf Mall to get you a new pair of runners". Mrs Pott's had noticed Anna Belle's shoes were wearing and decided a trip to the mall was in order; a nice diversion for the two of them.

This being Saturday and almost noon awakened Anna Belle atomatically. The early warning system for nuclear attack; the air raid sirens could be loudly heard each Saturday from their position in the middle part of the suburban Toronto. Soon they would be tested as they were every Saturday since Anna could remember. This Saturday not much was happening, there were no bikes or parades on this midsummer day. The Highlanders often marching on parade down the Westway each Saturday a.m. morning was always wonderful to watch for Anna and the neighbours in Etobicoke, but this Saturday was just to hot to do too much but head to the beach or the nearest pool, usually a kiddie pool in the backyard or play slippery snake. Anna Belle hated to be sprayed especially by neighbourhood boys who loved using their water pistols on the unsuspecting Anna Belle. Often Anna Belle would run home in tears, she hadn't learned the art of how to deal with brothers or boys in general. Anna Belle thought most boys were yucky accept Georgie her kindergarten teacher's son.

"Hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm" the loud drone of the Saturday early warning system was in full throttle. Anna Belle grabbed her ears. "Mommy, I hate that sound, why do they do that?" Anna Belle was frowning as she pulled in her chair at the 50's steel and arborite table. "Anna Belle it is in case of a nuclear attack". President Kennedy has been having an awful lot of trouble with people who rather us not have our freedoms" Anna Belle's mom said assuringly. "Don't worry, dear, it'll be over soon". After five seemingly endless minutes, the screaming air raid siren was silenced; at least for another week.

Anna Belle "I'm glad it's over mommy, it makes my ears hurt". Mrs Potts tried to change the subject, "Anna, would you like to go to Morgan's to get a new pair of running shoes?". Anna got excited at that idea. "Oh yes, mommy, that would be fun!" "Ok Anna Belle, we'll go as soon as you help me dry the dishes". Anna Belle rushed to get out of her chair and ran to the sink. "I'm ready!"

Everyone knew by the early sixties that there would not be much of a sliver of hope if Toronto became ground zero for a nuclear bomb. All those instructional films did not bely the fact that one could not hide beneath a desk and survive a direct hit. It was almost comical.

Without much fanfare, Anna Belle's school did have "the drill" and the teachers would teach everyone to get out of the school, like a fire drill. There was no hiding under desks, only once in kindergarten did Anna Belle remember her Japanese teacher showing how to cover the head with the arms over the head.

Earlier in the day Anna Belle's mother had been making macaroon coconut cookies, perfectly toasted with a small marachino cherry in the middle. They tasted so heavenly to Anna Belle and she loved it when baking day had made the weeks supply of baked goods. Anna Belle still recalled the warm butterscotch pudding just warm enough where there would be a skin on top of the pudding which Anna loved to eat. When things got upsetting Anna Belle would often think of food to placate her mood. It did for a time comfort the young girl. As far as food, Anna liked things that others did not like fat on steak she'd prefer to eat than the meat. Her favourite 50's meat and potatoes meals were always on time and appreciated. Anna Belle's favourite being mashed potatoes with real butter mixed with corn. Anna Belle did not recall margarine before the early 60's; to Anna Belle and family margarine was not invented The milk came in bottles delivered by the milkman in the early 60's. The Beatles were singing Twist N' Shout. Anna Belle could twist in her tunic as well as her sister's and her favourite Beatle was Ringo.

Anna could not wait to load into the silver bullet, her mom's car and head out to the mall. It was always special and she usually got a treat if she behaved herself. She was always a good kid, and never talked back or made a huge fuss. Anna was always curious, and if there was one thing slightly annoying about the young girl is that she always preficed her sentences with "why?". Her dad always had the answer "because, that's why". Anna would persist but would give up after the tenth "why".

Anna Belle loved her parentdearly, her sisters, her city, Toronto where there were always fun things to see and do, it was an exciting time in the booming city always under change, but for this brief time in the early 60's before the huge construction boom less than hurried, even by Toronto development standards. Anna Belle would walk her dog pollie the collie always accompanied by her older sisters. She loved being the baby of the family, but never felt spoiled.

Being there with her two sisters on an usual Saturday would mean a definite daily trip to the corner store after supper. There would be ratfink rings to purchase or superballs to replace the one that flung into the troposphere on more than one occasion. Anna Belle loved buying blackballs for a penny where she would help herself to the candy. She loved her new found independence, stopping off at the store before heading home to watch Superman reruns or Disney's Mouseketeer Club. How Anna Belle wanted to have mouse ears.

On this day the hottest of days, the parents would discuss going to Wasaga Beach cottage. When there would be a long lull between summer holidays each sister would get a quarter for a treat. Anna Belle would often get her favourite Jet orange with chocolate topping ice cream or her favourite chocolate, orange or red white and blue popsicles or fudge sickle at the corner store. Life was simpler and slower, little things much more appreciated way back when in the early 60's.

Anna Belle loved calling her friends on the phone. Her phone number was Cherry 917. Anna Belle was always happy to make house calls, calling her friends and going over to their home on her blue CCM bike and playing all day. Sometimes she was allowed to sleep over at her best friend's, Kathy D. Today all her friends that lived around her house, but today, she was doing her usual Saturday morning shopping chores with her mom and dad.

Dad decided to go out to the Beaver Lumber, hardware store with Mr Weller this Saturday. Anna Belle sang the commerical "Beaver Lumber, Lumber Beaver, Beaver Lumber" over and over again until Dad said "Ok Anna Belle, that's enough" Anna could get faceous at times as all kids often know how to push buttons. Anna Belle being no stranger to the art of bug. Anna Belle's dad was finishing the bar in the basement of the rec room. Anna Belle liked having the unusual luxury of having her mom exclusively for herself today; it was a rare occasion. Usually she would be going to Beaver Lumber pressing the various door bells, annoying the salespeople. Anna Belle did not get to see her mom very often as her mom was a nurse at the hospital. Anna Belle did not feel any need to go to Beaver Lumber and was happy to go shopping at the mall.

Anna Belle waited for her mom in the car while picking up a couple of items at the grocery store. Then Mom and Anna Belle went into Morgan's and over to the shoe department. "May I help you, Mam?" The clerk had clearly paid her undivided attention to our being there and we were served immediately. "What shoes do you like Anna Belle?" asked the mom. "Oh, I love, love love these," Anna ran and got the shoe with the plaid. After trying on the shoe sizer Anna Belle was happy to twirl around with the new running shoes. "Look how fast they can make me run mommy!". Anna ran up and down the aisle. "Easy Anna you'll run out of shoe rubber!". Anna's mom smiled a large smile. "Mom can I get a pair of Buster Brown's for birthday? "We'll see Anna Belle, you didn't scuff your old shoes, did you, we just got those in the spring." Anna Belle said "I kinda used them for brakes learning how to stop my new bike, Mom". Mom rolled her eyes, "Uh huh...hmmmm, oh dear...".

At the old store called Morgans, once Eaton's and now The Bay, Anna Belle stopped near the middle of the store, the candy isle. Anna spotted her usual favourite smarties, where she loved and always bought smarties. McIntosh toffee her grandfather would buy her at the local neighbourhood store, and she could save chocolate bars for years. Sometimes she would stockpile chocolate bars for so long they would have be thrown out. "Can I get smarties today Mom". "Oh sure Anna, but we got to get going soon, Daddy's going to wonder where we've gotten to". "Ok, Mommy as Anna Belle skipped happily holding her mother's soft hand.

In the car Anna Belle asked fervently, "Mom are you going to work this week coming?" Anna asked. "I think so, if the hospital calls me in dear" "Do you want to go to work Mom?" Anna asked her mom. "Well, we could use the money, but I'd rather be at home, until you are full time at school for another year. Mommy being a nurse is always in demand and it is a very special and important job". Mrs. Potts continued. Anna Belle interupted, "Mom, can I be a nurse one day? and "Can I see you at work sometime Mom?" Anna's excitedly enquired. "Sure Anna, I'll get Daddy to bring you over on my afternoon shift, I'll get off at 3 pm". "That will be really fun, Mommy! Can I watch a baby being born?" Anna sounded excited. "We'll see!" Anna's mom smiled at Anna.

Close to home Mrs Potts thought out loud "I wonder what daddy's doing, did Mr. Weller make lunch for him?" "I think daddy grabbed a bite at the Weller's, if not, we have some balogna in the fridge. That reminds me to cancel the milkman next week if I am working, I better leave him a note in the milk box." Anna loved playing with her dolls in the milkbox just by the back kitchen door. It would not be long before the milkman and the milkbox was boarded up for good, a thing of the past. Anna Belle would open the secret hidden door to the outside world, a giant world to her small dolls.

"Mommy can I get a Barbie doll for my birthday?" "Anna you already have a Ken doll. Can't you borrow Bethany's Midge doll or Michele's Bubblehead Barbie?" Anna's mom knew what was coming next. "Aw mom, I wanted a Barbie, so I can dress her up in her dresses. The dresses dont fit Ken." Mrs Pott's laughed and said "You're right, we'll have to see about this. Maybe you could get a skipper doll" retorted Mrs. Potts. "What's a skipper doll? Oh yah, skipper is Barbie's younger sister. But Mom...I really want a Barbie or Midge doll, I want to dress them in the same dresses as Bethany and Michele!". "Oh I see what you mean, dear." Anna's mom rolled her eyes. "We'll see dear, if you're good..." "Oh I'll be good mommy, I promise!" Anna Belle was so happy to have the same dolls as her sisters, it put her at par and she could feel important playing with grown up things.

The early part of the afternoon was still ahead of Anna Belle and her family and she decided to call on a couple of her friends. Sherry had gone to her cottage up north for the week, she had a Mrs Beasley doll and also had a hidden playroom under the stairs that had loads of toys. Also Cathy D. had been busy cleaning house for her large family and was too busy this afternoon. Anna Belle always recalled fingerprints on everything at Cathy's, with so many kids the place was always in disarray. Allfive of Cathy D's brothers seemed like football players, loud boys that pushed right past the girls, usually ignoring them. However they always called on Cathy to get the housework done. The mother and Cathy always appeared overwhelmed. "Maybe you can come over to my house tomorrow Cathy" Anna Belle said politely as she left her house and carefully crossed at the corner the busy highway. Then there was Donna down the street who had the mean boxer dog. Anna Belle did not like calling on Donna because of her mean dog. Donna was deaf and could read lips, it was fun to understand her and she liked her; she was terrified of the barking dog.

Anna Belle then decided to walk the long block to Kathy D's house after she called her on the phone. Kathy was busy today, having gone with her mother to downtown little Italy with her relatives. She would go to the Italians often on Saturdays and help the grandmother make pasta. They never had much furniture in their house, having bought a house and then waiting to buy furniture. It was the same thing with Angela's parents. It seemed a long time before they got any furniture. Most that was there was from the old country and looked ancient. Always the widow ladies wore black lace, Angela's mom wore nothing but black lace from head to shoe. Strict Roman Catholics Anna Belle wondered if one day she would wear all black lace too.

Maybe Kathy would be back later and maybe would come over for a sleep over. The only other person Anna Belle she could find to play with on this hot summer day was Jennifer next door.

Anna Belle did not like playing with Jennifer because Jennifer often treated her cruelly, not letting her play with her toys and told her always to "go home" after an hour and after the invisible mother in the closed kitchen would yell from the room something in another unknown foreign language. It wasnt Italian, that's for sure. The Italians were always were friendly and giving the shirt from their back. Anna Belle always felt right at home with Kathy but not Jennifer Hessand. Jennifer would often push Anna Belle literally outside from downstairs and slam the door.

Anna Belle tried to dispell her cruel treatment even at her young age, making excuses for her poor behaviour and temperment. "I guess it is her nap time". Anna had never met such a spoiled child. She had tons of toys to play with, a pink phone, a princess bedroom. Anna even had a full-size popeye boxing toy in the front livingroom the only toy in the living room which seemed odd to Anna Belle. Usually only boys had Popeye sock-ems.

The only other toys were in the play room in the basement. The house was always in darkness, quiet. Jennifer was an only child and terribly spoiled. Anna Belle recalls the time when Jennifer was called over to the garbage truck on garbage day, the garbageman saying he found a wonderful toy for his princess. Jennifer went running happily to the garbageman who handed Jennifer a bright pink lifesize poodle, wrapped in plastic wrapped. It appeared to be brand new. "Now give me a little kiss Jenny" Jenny said "I don't kiss garbagemen". She ran with the toy and slammed the door in front of Anna Belle again. From behind the door Anna Belle could hear Jennifer say "Go away Anna Belle, I don't want to play today". Anna Belle always felt that Jennifer felt herself to be much better than her. She wished she could change her, but she could not, she was died in the wool spoiled brat. No changing that breed of animal.

Although Jennifer had the most wonderful of toys Anna Belle did not like calling on her and only did so if her mom's insistance. "Anna Belle, why don't you call on Jennifer. You haven't played with your next door neighbour in a long time". "Ok Mommy, I'll go over to Jennifer's". Anna Belle sheepingly said, scuffing her new plaid ked runners.

Anna could never get up enough nerve to tell her mommy about how she was being so unfairly untreated by Jennifer and how psychologically cruel and callous nature towards her.

"Go Home, now" screamed Jennifer after the odd noise from the kitchen. "Ok I'm going, don't push me!". Anna Belle went up the stairs to the top of the stairs. She felt two hands on her back literally pushing her out the door. "And don't come back for very long time, maybe forever if that's too long awhile for you, too bad. I am going to be playing with Richie and he doesn't like you he only likes me".

Anna felt so hurt by Jennifer's cruel statements that she ran home with tears in her eyes. Anna Belle told her Mom who was reading at the kitchen table what had happened. "Oh I didnt know that Jennifer was being so cruel to you Anna. I am going to have a word with that family". Anna's mother dragged Anna Belle back over to Jennifer's "Mommy, I dont want to go" implored Anna Belle.

When Mrs Potts was on the war path Mrs Potts was on THE war path; no quarter given;"Anna Belle, I want to nip this in the bud immediately. It isn't fair how those two brats, Richie included are treating you. Mrs. Hessamd should know better for crying out loud. I know she knows about this, doesnt she? Anna Belle looked up at her mom with the most innocent of honesty; "I think so mommy, she's the one who says funny things, then I have to leave right away" Mrs. Potts retorted; "Oh, I see...".

As Mrs. Pott's knocked briskly on the storm door, Mrs. Hessand appeared in a dark shadow from behind the door. The door remained locked. "Can I help you" said Mrs. Hessand. "Could you please open this door, I'd like to talk with you." asked Mrs. Pott's. "I am afraid I cannot, I am not dressed." said Mrs. Hessand. "Well, I will give you a call in an half an hour. We have to talk about something important." Mrs. Potts sounded serious "I dont like the way your daughter is treating my daughter. "I have nothing to say" Mrs. Hessand said matter-of-factly and defensively.

"Well if that's the way it's going to be, fine. Anna Belle is not allowed to come over to your house. Since you do not allow Jennifer to come to our house, or she doesnt want to, I suppose you have already made this decision." Mrs Potts left in a huff and lead Anna Belle by the hand. "I'm sorry Anna Belle. I didnt realize what horrid people the people next door; some neighbours! What is wrong with these people! Something isnt right here. I am going to tell Daddy when he gets home. Mrs. Hessand is not going to get away with this."

Joe Pott's was Mrs. Pott's husband, he could talk the silk from a sows ear. Surely someone should find out was was happening at the socially inept and conspicuous Hessand household, Joe was certainly the man to get the job done.

When Joe Potts got back from the lumber store he said in his usually friendly phrase; "Is anybody home?". Anna got off her chair in the living room and ran towards the door full blast. She ran into the awaiting arms of her dad and gave him a big hug. "Hi Daddy!" Anna Belle blaired. "You'd think I have been gone forever or at least to war and back" said Joe. Anna's mother also acknowledged her husband's return.

"Oh, Joe, I'm so glad you are home. How did the hardware store shopping go, did you get all you want for the bar, and Joe, can we talk please?" Mrs. Potts said imploringly. "Oh I got nearly everything I need, I am just waiting for a sink, that will be in by next week." "Oh Joe, I'd like to talk to you about something, Mrs. Hessand..." Joe and Doreen Potts headed to the bedroom where all conversations of a personal nature were discussed and as far from the prying ears of the questioning children who needed to be protected from themselves. One thing that Mr. and Mrs Potts shared was the act of secrecy. Anna Belle knew early her place, and certainly did not question her parents methods. No always meant no.

Mrs. Potts began to tell Joe her husband how oddly she was being treated by the next door neighbour. "Joe, You know I am really concerned, Mrs. Hessand is being a horrible person, there is something wrong with her. I've heard many complaints from the other neightbours, I should have paid attention. It wasnt until today that I understood why Anna Belle was reluctant going over to their house. I so miss the pevious neighbours, the Kadings, even if Anna Belle packed her bags and tried to move with them. They were so loving to Anna Belle, the older Kading girls fawned over Anna Belle. Anna cried for days. Those Hessand are so frivolous and fake; they are an awfully odd lot too. I bet that she doesn't have a husband, or there's no husband, just a sometime lover who sends her cash from who knows where. She is so secretive, her lights off all day, never see her leave the house. It is like they are vampires. If there is a husband why does he not help raise Anna Belle like a real father. Her spoiled brat behaviour is coming from the fact she doesn't have a father figure. That girl is going to grow up to be just like her mother, and that is not saying much. Jennifer is spoiled horribly. She looks like a grown up, wearing makeup at age six. I am sure the mother is dying her hair deep chestnut brown. She is the most unnatural child I have ever met; almost unholy. I just don't understand why they keep to themselves so much".

Mr. Potts felt upset at what was being said "Don't worry Doreen, I am going to get to the bottom of this. Give me a few minutes to make some phone calls." Joe went into his study and closed the door. All members of the Pott's family knew what this meant; business as usual and business always meant just business. Mr. Potts would be unavailable for awhile. Everything in the Pott's family would be put on hold until the business was completed. You could hear a pin drop.

"Mommy, is daddy almost finished on the phone yet? I wanna go to the zoo to see the baby elephant today". Anna Belle asked the Mom. "No dear, soon. I think it would be a better idea if you stayed home today. Let's all go next weekend when the weather isnt so hot and your sisters can go with you." Mrs Potts sounded sincere. "Ok, Mommy."

For her young age, Anna Belle was far beyond her years, she had what the Irish liked to call "an old soul". Anna Belle found a colouring book that needed some colouring and pursued that interest for awhile. Finally the home office door opened and Mr. Pott's came out of the office. "Well that's settled, what's for dinner?". Mrs Potts called from the kitchen "I think you could start the BBQ Joe, and could you please fix me a drink, lovie?" Doreen could lay on the charm. "Right away, my dear, right away."

As the afternoon sun turned into the cool of evening, Anna Belle quickly forgot about her problems with Jennifer Hessand. Her perfectly pretentious spoiled brat was never on her mind much anyway. Anna Belle had the ability to forget about the other things she witnessed in the Hissand household for years.

(for the conclusion of this story please request in the comment section: only $4.99)

Why Writer's Write: Top Ten Plus Reasons

Writer's write for varied reasons, here are a few reasons to stew in juices and hot apple cider mull over with your daily brew full of the good old brew-ha-ha!

Often writer's write to give accolades, pay homage, copy, reflect, in the style of one of the great writers of the day, or the past or present. Wherever this soul connection comes from it often comes from the Heart of The Matter (Graham Greene) or is found in country of origin boastful Pride in being akin to the likes of the great writers du payee. Doth not pride goeth before the fall? Yet as we are idealists as writers and are mostly invincable. Finding one's voice is heady stuff like finding oneself rubbing literary shoulders with the likes of Margaret Atwood, Gabriele Roy, Margaret Lawrence, WO Mitchel, Roy McDonald, Leonard Cohen, Dan Needles, William Shakespeare, not to mention all those previously mentioned on my intro blog page (you know who you are; well, don't you?). And the circle of life like the friends of writers circle just naturally widens a little each day like the spreadsheet of time well-spent on this sedentary hobby or career (may not have a choice here) of the permanently afixed to the keyboard writer, a writer/s writer. Knowing as I do now the ins and outs of the revolving door never meeting the ground floor opportunity, never taking the elevator past the glass ceiling to the white collared room of Madmen in Gucci loafers. (There is absolutely nothing wrong with Gucci loafers, it is just a saying for us down on our writerly luck, I'm sure you'd understand if a silver spoon wasnt bred in your mouth).

Of course a much bigger reason than finding and flocking with birds of the same feather is the inordinate need for the writer to REDEEM him/herself at all costs. The redemption process is like a Saturn V rocket staging process. If you want me to discuss Ares VI rockets I will have to get permission from NASA. So writers in turn venerate, honour and esteem their readership audience with many kind sayings and free offers, much like any business. The readership is the supreme reason for writers to write (usually) in the first place. We are not writing just to think that no one would never chance to come across our words. Writers want to be, beyond all else, understood, in one form or another. It is, after all, a form of communication (Hello). One can only truly redeem themselves by this naked honesty to the pen and self, and then, hopefully, the writer will cash in if the need is real enough and the promo zealous enough.

It is very important to realize that the potential readership is highly educated, literary, arts and letters type persons. This being said, may I take liberties to comment on the state of writing today? One does not need, as a writer, any further entanglement of any kind, no encumbrance, or snares to the feet by those only interested in hounding writers as another occupation. As writers are vulnerable, and some choose only to read up and coming writers not with bated breath excitment at having accidentally stumbled into some really interesting reading, but rather take it upon themselves the mantel of finding anything illegal in the writer's context. A good case for the Agatha Christie Novel: Ten Little Writers or Then There Were None (Writers). Once a lawyer gets through the initial pounce the cat smiling proudly having caught the poor little mouse, (mouse represented here is actually the writer, the lawyer, the cat, hope this analogy is understood).

Yes, it would be a wise investment for a writer to take a good course in simply copyright law and the art of legalize and enfringement liabiliity. Nothing can be worse to deflate the ego than a civil or criminal lawsuit on the uninformed and thereby ignorant beginner writer than the slap and sting of torte law. Please understand that hopefully not all your readership is going to be lawyers following your everyword with a suit similar to the ambulancechaser, although it may seem this way. We are a nation of fault-finders, frivolous lawsuiters, and gossips, keen on destroying fine young writer's careers before they begin to take flight. Writers should use disclaimers on their blogs, etc., to protect themselves two-ways; from the lawsuits pending from copying others, and from others stealing their hard earned work. It is definitiely a double-edged sword, and double endemnity does not hold in Canada. Any suggestions on how to universalize this procedure or by making torte-friendly sites would be greatly appreciated! (said in humble hindsight).

It is always good to have on hand a few beer chasers to down the many sorrows of which pen is err to and which only pen can do, and as well as the thousand errors or more learned hands-on and the hard way; you "earned them bruisers". Wear your tat-bruises with pride, and rememberance: don't do that again!

Protect yourself writers, the time is indeed at hand and mouth, and you never know where the next online "pal" finds something to complain and sue about; how do you think the rich stay rich and in the top three percent? They arent as generous with their billions unless unto themselves. So beware writers; one must watch and be constantly viligant about every single word written. This is due to the many pending and potential lawsuits which could be your last draft(not talking the liquid variety here) and usually waiting like a lady in some locked desk to send out the lawyers letter. This of course reeks of censorship and/or excessive copyright scrutiny if not a police state. Especially if the writers are not, as yet, professionals.

As far as censorship goes; writers should never fear to tread where no man fears to tread because the treads are wearing thin and there really is, after all nothing new uder the sun. If you quote a borrowed word, you add footnotes and the orginating web address. This is not infringing on copyright then. No more on this topic, I can feel a burning sensation already. On to the next topic!

Being a writer means one is seeking a crack at redemption. Redeeming oneself in the writerly fashion is a way of setting right the many wrongs, the many rejection letters, the slowly building angst in a writer's soul, hell-bent on recovering not only unfinished business but finishing business and putting it away for the night, and finally getting much needed rest for long hours at minimal (if that) pay.

It is all in stride the slings and arrows the courgeous writer faces daily paralleling the scaling of Mount Rushmore with pickaxe alone. Not impossible, just terribly trepidatious and slightly inspiring for the weak-of-heart professions. Think battle mode of Goliah versus David or Modor taking on the Hobbits, Star Trek crew taking on the Klingon Nation. All come short of the glory of the writer's true pinnacle; a published writer with readership numbers to prove it; the writer's litmus test; the Pulitzer Prize, or someother big literary reward. This helps, but the true satisfaction for a writer is in the fact that someone appreciates their hard-won efforts, all the rest is icing on the cake of having "made it" as a writer.

Writers have, for many years had their dreams to sustain them and help them when they finally mount their fine steeds to the top of Mount Bookdeal. Writers envision a utopian world and others expound upon it, so writers are similar to designers in this way, and are on the forefront of everything new and fashionable. However, this being said, writers also tend to "niche" into a space which is highly defineable, and constraining, not able to break free of the shackles which describe their style and genre. How writers describe fine unicorned visions is not actually a case of whether or not unicorns do in fact exist, but whether or not unicorns are described in any detail, or are briefly sketched, in which historical time frame. Thus the branding of the unicorn novel or what is popular today, the gothic vampire novel. The popularity demanding the turn of the head of the writer to become merely popular if he/she would like supper tonight.

This need of writers to create elababorate on fantasy made reality by the mind adjusting to seeing the vision as real. The writer can become quite god-like in the ability to create worlds from a few strokes of a keyboard. This enpowerment is wholly publishing industry-driven. If there was not a JK Rowlings there certainly would be soon enough. The public was ready, and they ate it up, giving the industry the much needed boost it needed in the dried-up computer age. New markets need to be found if publishers are going to survive. The writer too, must trade one vice for another to live another day. There is not much artist flexibility or licence when it comes to survival; it is "do or die". This is the state of the art of writing today. Art writing has gone to the back shelves of the unconscious while commercially popular books have taken full reign; for now. Tables turn, tides change, the world does flipflop. But can the writer afford to wait til his/her style becomes "the style genre" of the moment? Doubtful. And with all visions the mind can conjure; the mind does not recognize the difference between fantasy and reality so says leading psychologists; so how and why do our conscious minds recognize how to portray a work of fiction? Why should we, we should continue to fantasize without regards to reality as reality sooner or later catches up with the dreamer. Did this not use to be the other way around? Must be we are living in the negative gamma world already, thanks to the insidious partical seperator; that particle smasher of hopes and dreams. Lets hope fantasy wins, unless it looks like a day at the Playboy mansion. Most feminist writers would indeed concur.

Redemption needs martrys, and one has had to suffer sin to be redeemed. That's why writers need a patron saint of redemption, and I think that would be Saint Needmoresleep Punchkeys of the Cloistered Late-Night at the Writer's All Night Cafe: Online 24 Blogger help for the Writer in Denizen Dweller residence of the photon screamers; witnessed in effigy every Friday night at your local watering hole establishment, crying for all to hear "Redeem yourseles" and then like a flash of the penlight, back to heaven awash with angelic hosts proclaiming; "Yes, we saved another writer, by giving them an awkward moment of spelling or grammatical erro feed. That's what happens when without the patience of a writer one succumbs to fast postings". With shame comes redemption, and all writers need redemption. They after all, have too many late nights where evil lurks close to the hand that bringeth forth evil or good. Pay heed writer to the vices of the writer and you'll be just fine says SAint SeeNoHearNoSayNobutwriteaboutit Angel/writer patron saint of writers who never get it right.

Perhaps, you, as a newbie, ?newbeant, or nascent nubile for the nile writer would like to fashion yourself after a writer that suits your style; your panache. No pancake makeup can remove that clown's face you are about to don. So you think you are the next Tom Clancy or Kenneth Folet to name but a few?

So as you and the other thousand million other clowns mimic the likes of Stephen King, or other top box office in the sales department of chapters and Amazon. You could even cash in on this zeal for flavour of the month club of writer wannabes (dont do this) by exposing other wannabe writers like yourself to a cheaper version of the Vanity Press. This drama unfolds when Buba knocks at your home converted to Kinkos with his baseball bat, and he doesnt want to go to Yankee stadium to bat a few for the old jipper either. YOu gyped him and he wants his exacting pound of revenge. So buyer and seller beware. The mean streets are only getting meaner with each starving writer thinking of ways to turn a yankee dollar in the new economy. Who says talk is cheap?

For some writers, writing is better than sex. There is a huge market for trash talk. Just not wholly up my alley. Thank god. I'm fifty...need I say more?

Writers recreate worlds where none has existed before, or shouldnt have if they tend to protect copyrighted material. However, all art is borrowed form somewhere, and should be or we would not have much to talk about in art criticism. We borrow, like a cup of sugar to return any part of the sugar bowl which may have been third party sugar. Keep it arms length and change every third word and there you go, Bob's your uncle, your homefree and free from a bad smell of torte law.

Writer's give meaning to past pain and down on their luck horrible experience. As a tool goes, writing is second to none for those in need of a good purge or two. What could be better than using third person when trying to get something off one's chest? The need to cleanse and heal has long been known in psychotherapy and is encouraged, as well as it should be, in art therapy classes.

Where there is a pain, you'll find a writer and a self-help guru right there trying to help in their own paypal way a way to resolve it. Writers must there fore RESOLVE THEMSELVES. One of the first things learned is that writers must get residual angst, commonly referred to as negative emotion. The emotions if allowed to fester become like pus-boils on the chest, distorting the milk of human kindness to sour dough bread yeast. Writers being a very sensitive lot, are "all about: the pain, the hurt, the repression. Please study the Stravinsky model from the Actors/Writers studio to understand this primal pain, etc.

The Writer/Artists need to write is releasing the writer from themselves, the bent ego which took to pen to self-medicate. Makes one feel free to understand how powerfully-driven this drive to RESOLVE or RELEASE the negative past emotions of the writer. However, like a word junking the writer soon finds more painful issues to write about, mull about and basically obsess about. Likening this effect to instant gratification, and you have the "Medium is the Message" of Marshall McLuluan's. Yes, writing is all about feelings and it can also, be about being an instant cash cow for the popular and professional writer. Have you noticed how much "wierder" and "wierdierer" Stephen King premises for his novels have become of late? After diving into a simple story about a prom queen Carrie, he proceeds onto all kinds of oddball oddies once the lid of the subconsicous repressed King came popping off the top of the horror maestro's head. Scary thought. That's the idea. Scarer and scarerer. No end in sight. How will I and my fear of deadmen in closets compete on the same fear level. I have got to get more fear, so I find fear. Cape Fear, any fear, fear for fear sake. When will this end? That's why I don't "do" horror, there is no end to how much the creeping seeping evil will invade my relatively "safe" world of the "here and now". Plus it creeps "me out", and I don't like to be "creeped out". Actually I did, in my day, but it is too much blood and guts now. I cant watch the opening credits of Dexter without a quick remote switcheroo to something safe, tried and true. Am I boring? You betcha!

Exactly where is a person going to find any good in all that bad like the occupation of writing? So for writers and anyone else who has written personal diaries, etc, the need to regurgatate and lick old wounds is a lifelong fetish. So, luckily for the writer the pocketbook does not suffer like the soul, people paying scads for a peer into the potentially endless stream of income of bottled up hurt (also known as latent s and m repressed kundalini snakehead lizard king...oh I found Jim Morrison!) the endless revolving mobiuus link of writerly angst and ennui which can continue ad infinitum until the end of Mastercard's reign and subsequent chokehold; fight, flight or write, your choice, choose wisely; choose to do the right stuff; Write Wrongs or Wrong Rights but Write Clown, Write!

To write is to writing what music is to musicians, embellishment, making the score ring with harmony of complex variety. And to write is to writing as art is to painting, expressing ones soul on canvas, or page to create an unique New York moment in the hurly burly world that zips by in a New York minute.

Writing should empower, enliven, and engage the unengageable and marry the unmarried into wedded bliss if not just for a Las Vegas night that stays in Vegas forever, a place where a writer's art beguiles and attracts legions of those like minded to pursue their own dreams, visions and quests.

Writers unfinished business "it's just business" needs are huge in the need to supplant the east river with more than just cement overshoes. Rather to spread the truth, by finding ways around the drone of boredom from endless Canadian winters that never end with too much syrupy maple sugar made from molasses from the deep south. Truly Canadians survived many a winter injesting sap from the maple tree, when all other food sources dried up. As survivors writers know the bare bones of survival mode and can do any other profession proud when it comes to attrition rate; writers never die, they just let other's continue to jabberwoky away about life's endless foibles, trifles and hypocracies. Writer's are for the most part, honest about their writing, unless they are deceptive. The truth will always out. Truth is an outie obviously, maybe abit passive-aggressive at times, but who is not in this day and age? So writers who appear are often friendly for a reason; they have to be friendly to survive as writers. And so much more friendly then other professions when it comes to competition. No one really wants to be a writer, they are more or less forced into the occupation via sweat equity.

Writer's unions can attest to the new world order of the writer's quandry today, with the amazing amounts of bloggers and wannabe's out there, the competition isnt going away anytime soon. All writers given free and equal access to the freedom of speech etched in stone and constitution. Writers are basically free to say what is on their mind in an uncensored universe of democratic ideal. If there is anyone in this room who knows where this is, please call me stat!

Often some writers use the net and other media to proseltize which means to expound and convert others to their way of thinking, be it religion or philosophy. In this case I say to these proseltizers; take an alkaseltzer; it will last longer than your career soon to be iggied. One thing the intelligent readership loathes is someone force-feeding diatribe down the throat without warning. Cod liver oil tastes better than that! So be smart; dont do the proseltzer thing newbies, it is a fatal error of the worse kind!

Also writers write to contribute any worthwhile human story, or antedote (not always appreciated when mundane and chronic) as a remanent of self. Like saying "I was here" or "Kilroy was here" some thing that base, but we all need to feel someone will remember us when we are gone, or at least try to, or happen to chance upon some long dead words from a dead person who once was as alive as you or what I used to be before I became a writer! Before i transgress, or transpire or forget what it is I want to write about (short term memory already? gheesh) I want to write down all trivial, innane and wholly cutesy sayings before I forget them. Isnt that nice of me? Bet you can't wait!

As a writer, I hopefully continue to refine the written line, elegantly continuing like the bent swagger of Tennessee Williams with white on white dress attire, and effected speech a way of being a poet/writer with all it's writerly magic arts. Writing akin to incantations of various sorts whereby there is power in the written word. Take the Bible for example (not proseltizing here you may think so) or whatever religiously significant book out there; writing as power.

Those who write know this and that is probably why they continue to write as I do not see any form of power coming in the terms of renumeration for writers today. There has to be another motivating force; it is the act of writing. Getting up each day at the crack of dawn. Seeking purpose in the dream and schemes you have sketched out in your mind. Drawing the preliminary outline, the flowchart "bubble" of ideas to spring forth gems that could one day; change the world forever. And if there is anything wrong with this, I think I will go to the Binder Twine Festival in Kleinburg and gossip about Stephen King being my cousin or simply go back to my gopher clerk job and just have a very long nap but look like I am working at my old redundant job.

jj 22 11 09

Friday, November 20, 2009

Dr. Joe Schmoe: Everyman's Dr For the Professional

Dr. Joe Schmoe: I am being interviewed by B.A.T. (Bill Anthony and Tom) today. Please feel free to call in on the requested comment section below. New input is always more than welcome is expected!

B.A.T.: Dr. Schmoe: I've heard that these earth "changes" such as global warming are causing a lot of problems with kittricks fungus, creating enormous problems, such as extinction of species on our planet.

Dr.Joe: Please call me Joe! Yes, Bill, it's true, earth changes are causing these secondary infection vector/virulent agents, etc such as the newly identified (thank gosh) kittricks fungus. However I believe primarily the problem with extinction goes much deeper than the secondary presentation of disease; in other words all these changes are fundamentally an element imbalance problem, and when I say "element" I mean the chemical elements are folding in on one another before our eyes, without anyone being aware of it.

BAT: How so Joe?

Dr. Joe: Well Bill it's like this; we have lost elemental intregrity. You may wonder what the term elemental intregrity is; let me tell you. EI is the disappearance of essential elements the cause of which is speculative at this time. I theorize that these elemental changes in the elements is due to the domino effect of creating new esoteric elements, such as the extreme atomic elements. These exotic elements are virtually "eating" the other lesser naturally occuring radioactive atomic elements. The disappearance of isotopes is case in point; why all of a sudden are we short of these essential elements for the atomic industry? Certainly it happened suddenly, if it were a case in point that the atomic plants were just needing overhauls this would have been prefigured and considered long before the pending shortage. Something smells rotten in Denmark usually is, and the govts are probably too proud to go out and request the public's help or assistance in helping to solve the engima. Typical defence posturing and paranoid thinking of the first kind. We made this problem, with our brain's will, or brain trust the creme made this mess and they cannot clean it up. Typical Humpty Dumpty scenario. Now they have to call upon the lesser gods to solve the mess. Tha't good now they need us. Now we can use our leverage to get more for the middle class instead all our govt tax dollars going into a huge snake pit in the ground hell bent on the earth's destruction!

BAT: Joe, you really think that some ways of thinking accelerate the bad and demote the good.

Dr. Joe: Absolutely Bill.

BAT: Is there a cure for this thinking? For this desire to create hell rather than heaven?

Dr. Joe: It is a matter of perspective. Some people are not coming from the "right" head space. They think differently than you and me common folk.

BAT: How so Joe?

Dr. Joe: Well they have set up a paradigm of a unmoveable pyramid scheme. If you look at the hierarchial chain of command you will see that the heirarchial business model is not sustainable when problem solving. It doesnt work; the hierarchial system doesnt work, it makes things worse, not better.

BAT: How so Joe?

Dr. Joe: Well it is like this Bill; you think of a pyramid. It looks firmly planted on the ground, correct?

BAT: Correct.

Dr. Joe: Well image isnt everything. Remember the pyramid was built on SAND. The foundation being weak means that the top strength and power lordism is weak. Sooner or later this hierarchial scheme will fail. It is bound to fail.

BAT: How so Joe?

Dr. Joe: Well Bill, it's like this; the hierarchial pyramid schemers fail to consider a lot of "outside the box" or "outside the pyramid" type thinking when they are arranging their pyramidial schemed world. In other words; the "pyramid schemers" did not think about the common bottom line very much; the well being of the earth and ALL that is in it. The first priority or what is termed in Star Trek as "the prime directive" was never a vital issue to the builders of this weak pyramid structure built on SAND.

BAT; But Joe, the pyramids have lasted for generations. They are the oldest known structure.

Joe: Bill no they are not. Although there is some speculation that the pyramids are maybe 6 to 10 thousand years old, it is more than likely less than 3 thousand years ago. Some thought the pyramids built not by the 18 dynasties of the Egyptian Pharoah Kings but rather some "alien" seed. This thought came about due to the extraordinary way the pyramids were constructed with tools and machines deemed far advanced for this early archeological age. (check the dates on the age of the pyramids; I may be way off, however, this is due to the fact there is much dispute Dr. Hawass etc) in regards to the true age of the pyramids. Anyway, the pyramid examples is just what I was trying to conceptualize; not only as an archelogical structure but as a business model as well. It seems our entire political system throughout time has been based on this model. Isnt it time to reverse or inverse the pyramid and topple the pyramidial scheme of things. It doesnt work for the benefit of mankind and the earth!

BAT: I agree Joe. There was the recent collapse of the world financial institution. Obviously the pyramidial scheme of things isnt benefitting the world and its people.

Dr. Joe: Exactly Bill! Now you get my drift! And there are manymore examples of how the pyramid scheme of things is ultimately corrupt, putting too much power in too few hands. But how would you propose we get back the balance found in the discovered imbalance found in pyramidial business model?

BAT: By examining the problems (all of them). Make a flow chart of the problems and backward engineer a new model?

Dr. Joe: Brilliant Bill! Are you sure you're not a dr too? We cant all be dr's according to the dr's. They be out of money and then who would support their greedy lifestyle which makes them feel so superior to us regular Joes?

BAT: I think you hit the nail on the head again Joe!

Dr. Joe: That's why I am a new classification of Dr. Like you said Joe, we must "backward engineer" a new model for success because the old pyramidial model if cntinued to be used will certainly ruin us all, Dr.'s and Brain Trust as well. As you can tell, they need us know, time to go to the table and get the best deal. In other words, the common man is in a very good position to propose changes in how we manage (and micromanage) our affairs. It doesnt have to be dramatic like a Russian Revolution of l910 for example. It just needs to happen or else we are no longer creme of the crop, but rather creme soup!

BAT: hahah! Joe, you're a riot. I love your "Jersey" accent.

Dr. Joe: You do? You should hear my girlfriend! haha!

BAT: So what are we looking at? What kinds of issues are priority right now?

Dr. Joe: Well Bill we have many priorities, but first on the agenda would be the environment because the level of extinction is too great. This means humans are next. You ever thought how "strange" H1N1? Even the ads said this is a "new" flu season. What the heck are the officials saying here? What makes this pandemic new? By "new" do they mean "strange" as in something they can't figure out? so they call it new? There is not definition here, no real explanation. Reminds me of the time I ask my doctors questions and I dont get straight answers. It was not like this a few years ago. Pose the question "Are we doomed" to a doctor. They will not answer. Silence. In this case silence is not golden, and I dont think we should take "doomed" lying down. Arent we suppose to "fight fight against the night, or rather "Rage, rage, against the dying of the light" Dylan Thomas (poet). If it is indeed light that is dying. With the odd things happening on the elemental front, one can assume that maybe this is a case in point. What else is the common man, the "citizen" to believe. We just dont know half of what is going on in top secret circles. Seems those in the "know" are just as confused (if not moreso) than us the common man (or common woman). It is time to reclaim our input and right to determine our own existence on this planet. We are not sheeple, never have been, never will be. And that is not the way of the frontiersperson or the voyageur, to be bullied by a few who "lord it over us" in defiant and cruelly callous ways, with no mind to our state of affairs or our entrenched rights in democratic constitutions around the world. We should DEMAND more input and results, making those in power legally accountable for their mistakes, and lack of insight; which creates disasters for the many. We need this input to save the few top 3 percent from theirselves, their greedy self-loving selves! Remember; we are the pioneers, the innovators, we should have integral and entrenched no questions asked rights which we dont have now for some reason. What is the reason? Too late to cry because we are so screwed up by ill-thinking and conception that we are going down with the ship because the "captains, generals, etc" made fatal errors, stupid fatal errors, from lack of insight? Is this ok with you. It doesnt sit well with me when can be so much better than the pea-brain thinking of a few old cronies. Good old boys! What if we are totally usurped at this time? From someone with lousey personal agendas? How would we know? These cult groups are real and deadly, they are really a scourge, and need to be examined by a doctor and remedy given. Someone needs to get to the bottom of this lack of communication and non-clear speaking. Our collective "need to know" is being wholly eliminated from the commonpersons (we are not common, I guess I should say here "citizen" rather than the archaic term "commoner", oh I hate that term! it is so belittlingly, like the term "person non-gratis", or "invalid", under God no one is "invalid" or "non-gratis").
We are all free and valuable. Dictomy persists, we need more input from more people. Thank goodness this is possible today with computers and opinions gathered, but it should go much further when it comes to vital decision making. What really gets my goat (No Get Goats) is the fact that the elite really BELIEVE they are ELITE set apart from us, more valued, more special, more intelligent, etc. They look upon us from a negative perspecitive, like the commoner is the enemy. Like the citizen common is the enemy. When and where did this negative way of seeing the masses come from? There needs a bridge here between executive and us Joe Schmoes, and I just don't mean Dr. Joe Schmoe either. I mean all of us Joe Schmoes of the world, all of us commoners need to have value and we need to demand this value. In a democracy we are suppose to have power, but for some reason we do not. We do not have any value as common democratic people because we do not demand it. Democracy must remain active and persistentially pursued. Once we slack off on the demanding our rights we slack off on receiving them. Greed from the corporate piggy wigs kicks in and they start building their executives-only world and then we are truly screwed. Too late to cry. So how do we become vocale? How do we initiate our power base? How do we, as commoners exercise our holy rollers, commoners as "players" placement in society? How?

BAT: Unions?

Dr. Joe: That creates a lot of animosity for the mucky mucks higher ups who greatly disdain ANY perceived threat to their power base. The mucky mucks dont want to share their toys. They are, after all, spoiled brats in the sandbox of toys. You wont get much unless you entrench your rights somehow.

BAT: Joe, I am beginning to see your point. How we are really required to establish the commoner establishment as a powerbase that should be equally if not more powerful than the top 3percent of Yes men Good old boys agenda.

Dr. Joe: You're a fast learner. You see the fence, now we must scale it. It isnt easy reestablishing in the extreme environment (politically speaking) we are in right now. It seems that there are political cycles, and they could be gauged. Maybe these pol cycles go along with other cycles like the nuclear, or tide cycle, something natural which we are, to date unaware of. Maybe when the earth gets imbalanced so does the political systems. Someone could find this out by doing a test on this subject model. If the two are established as having a co-relation what would this tell us about politics, human nature and the natural elements.

BAT: Lots. So, Joe...what is next important after we figure out where the missing isotopes and other elements went and how to get them back?

Dr. Joe: You're kidding, right? You want me to give away everything? You want me to freely give my ideas here without renumeration? Are you nuts. I have dreams. I want to eat. I have a plan, I have this plan for Scooter City for physically/mentally challenged people. I want to realize these dreams, and unfortunately for me, of the fiscally impaired these dreams take MONEY and MANWOMAN power! You get my drift?

BAT: Sure Joe! You're holding out for the highest bidder just like all the old cronies.

Dr. Joe: You think I caved, that I gave in to the cronies, that I sold out. Believe me Bill, that is further from the truth. The truth is, sometimes one MUST manipulate matter to become an grand "illusionist" to make things work. Remember the famous one liner by PT Barnum: "A sucker is born every minute". It is callous and cruel, but if you really need to eat, you need to eat. Survival mode kicks in. This is survival mode is a danger mode for the cronies. They know this and have zillions of ways of how to control the masses. Unfortunately for them, once we are dust they'll realize too late that they needed us. Their demise will soon follow. That is the law of cause and effect. Unfortunately. As in the words of Zed in MIB "Sucks, doesn't it?" Yes it sucks!

BAT. Yes, it "sucks". Any remedy for "suck".

Dr. Joe: Doubtful, but we are all working on it! Thanks for your interview today Bill!

BAT: You're welcome Joe. It has been an eye-opener. Hope to interview you in the near future, would this be ok?

Dr. Joe: (in thick New Jersey accent) Certoinly!

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Journey to Chicken-itza and Kitten-Ixlan

From the desk of Alantean Times by Alan-Tea-hen the Alantean godddess of Mod-ess-Tee, Supremo Sister of it Pray it Forward Jazz band ensemble; Mistress of Wonderland Ensemblage Reinactments in One Act; Precursor of Praise, Matron of Matronflies, Madmoiselle DePomPoms, Selectrix of Deliteful Indwelling, Chatelaine de Champagne House, Toll Booth Cookie Maven, Devotee of all Devotionals, Journals Anals and Plungers, Spatula City Fan Club, Messing with the wrong guy fixer, Snooper Scooper in Niagara Falls, Humpty Dumpty's Best Friend, Ocsar the Grouch's Only Friend, Wisewoman's Broad, Definitive Stone Soup Imbiber, Translator of Pleidian Idioms, Creator of Zinc and All that is in the Zink, including Bulldog Steel Wool, Newbian file Slave driver and of all things meaningfully Green and keen welcome. Those with Verdent merit; Mary Day Tripper of the Love Light Fantastic Orbs, Purveyor of Hidden Worlds where Green things cling-ons past minute, Holiday Haitus grass growers conventioners of all sorts, Win a winebago dreams and pink cadillac giveaways, silver gold bling finders, lost ring retrivers, grassy knolls trolls do their own thing, we let them.
When that pixy dust finally settles and the things come out to play and Tings and Sparklings ratfink ring now invisible in dusk light, by the light of the crystal balls, soft ringing from soft warmed breezes Shanook bells ring to gather in the far and near those we hold dear to us. As with all thi soothing our hearts ready for hearty light times to dance softly on upper tree branches and gathering nectar from small bees mouths, so many to feed. Will we have enough royal bee jelly tonight, our shall I have to order more?
As with a resounding "yes" to all our souls desires, our soulful sounds emaniate making real the unreal as from out of love come the serotonin love receptors. As natural as apple pie. Yes, the only word to be heard as all is right with the world and universe.
To those nascent light beings not made completely whole yet, still simmering ideas slowly on the backbrain burner; a goodly welcome friend! As you breath deeply the rich goodness such subtle gurgling spring-fed ozone light energy producing magic cojoles you to a state of blissful euphoria which seems that this is the way it should always be, but couldnt be for so long until the Green Song came back to roost in the Garden of Love. As we love collecting Blue Pleidians, once alien now known as friends that guide us, help us to get back to where we truly belong; we are aware of their knocking. Let them in, child! They who are knowing of their true Sourcing are always welcome here.

Truly, Love resides here, reigns supreme here, made to grow, like a Chia pet, made to know, like a wise white owl on the prowl so much more than any fear t quickly dispell all magic so we dont go there. Or woulds't you cause us not to believe? Never say never, the only double negative allowed on the plains of Civil.

Yes, I believe I know you, from the fairies tale, I believe? Yes, you are all things remotely resembling reassembling the spiritual pathways amiss by too much junk which had also wanted to cling to us. The Separators helped Reduce Reuse Recycle as much as we cared to Tune In, Turn ON, Drop Out, and we chose our future worlds wisely to inhabit in this way, beginning again from the beginning, a new life a new world ordered by a selection process second to none. Our dreams can come true here and now. Finally.

As the Cross-border shoppers got more crossed and decided to lift the border veil and just become less persnickity and all the while our great forebearers of the Long Lost Far Shore Really Real Living in a state of bliss parties that never end all things could be never-ending as our souls had previously told us this to be true.

Late, now open all night by the fabled gates, those who played in the park after eight heard the wishing sounds. Wishing stones read the wishes one by one and then tossed into the well, the dreams went down down down to almost the second level of the first part of the second multiverse. So when you called I was a bit preoccupied in a tattling tale rattling from the inside of the well. All betwixing worlds all is well now. So come to life and the light fantastic. Where new and old meets relative magic; all transformed by gleaners accumulated wealth that has no bottom feeders. Skimmers all! Floaters float not gloat like a mad goat for more, cause more is always available if you so wish. The wish never gets stale.
So add to this ambered universe of glitter power, ziggy stardust and all that, magic you can believe it, or imagine it, you've got it and so much more when you tune in to 108 fm, on the dial no more lonely nights all your friends are here. If you get overwhelmed at the massive inventory take time in the garden for some herbal tea and relax under the fireflies hoochie coochie dance. And don't forget ladies and gentlemen, tonight only is really every night and we just want to inspire with paint and canvas, the amazing array of creative zeal when we found slippery the seal, once thought lost back at the rail! Flipper too, and all those much loved animals await your petting at the petting zoo, where there is hand santizer that doesnt sting and is edible and safe for babies. So to do all to that, I raise the holy grail cup to a new beginning in the Courthouse and by the Lake, a brilliant stellar dawn of a new day; the rest of our lifes, a place of fine adventure!

Yes, we'll keep the light on, the tea kettle too, (latte if you'd prefer) as you gently turn on your love lights on, return to awaken once more your renewed consciousness, rebirthed on the banks, raptured in the tall grasses, given glory when glory was given; you wear that heart mettle on your chest to display proudly your return to the world of Kitten-itza-ixlan.

As these fabled twin worlds interact creating a marvelous recharge of potent subtle tachyon energy fields emerging light brigade we now have purpose. To the continuity of all and everything tuned to "g" my best friend commentator on the constant Ohm Channel. Yes, tex, remember, too that we do indeed, mind and thought and yes, we do leave the lights on all night if you so wish. So when the light twinkles periwinkle blue and colours of all kinds. As you become a clearer learner, the fog is gone!

So say yes to more crystaline and tangerine dreams cinematic wonders made kodachrome ready for reality publishing, your story on the face of the blank slate. You write the words that make your life shine just the way you want it to, without anyone messing with your drive, our your posts or any form of censorship get messed up then you can cool in the bethesda baths, a cool warm pool, where all ohm returns and you feel just fine again! We all get rough in the rough you know, this voyageur trail just makes us so derailed, and now, we know that rough isnt tough it is just rough and liable to be polished to be made as smooth as anything, so shiney you can see your reflection in the endless pool of refracted moon light.
remas that never ended as your world evaded your soul making you feel right at home; pivotal, experimental, more real than really here and now; A welcomed Bliss Aloha.

Passages are rightful, righteous. Meaning in this. Meaning: we all have a right to fair and just passage through life's stages. As we go through now, often the rough underbrush soon to be much more smoothly than possible all engines humming with powerful g machines that roar like a kitten;. To allow +-io+
these rights and not withold them should be a primo function of humankinds. Notice "kinds" as in what the Dalai Lama refers to as "My religion is kindness". So too can it be kind to alow the universe to unfold as it should without so much as a hint of agenda on the minty vapours in earth's garden.

The heady garlic smells awoke me to a protective evoking of the gods of all the microbials. At bay in the ebay-ence drawer, sock drawer top right, where the fancies are kept for those enduring nights of passion that just dont seem to exist much anymore. Could it be that they think me, of 50 years not worthy of love anymore? Not worthy of all things lacey and stringy hanging from me; ample as a Rodin? Fat just doesnt want to convert to energy like it used to; for some reason I am storing fat for the famine to come. The famine to come..

Then if it were now would look like this; teenagers adrift on a puff of cloudy fog, hemmed in bayou, around the lingering culverts and landing barges sweet scents of roxy smoke on the water. And subtle ramblings from the man with the guitar over there, on the far shore beckoning us to come forward to get off the horse on the merry-go-round with its cacphoey of hurly burly, In the Good Ol' Summer time classics, like Tahiti Treat and mom's potato salad. Dont eat all the marachinos, save some for the tall cool drinks in the shade!

And from the sagebush the berbal fresh air tasted sweeter than usual this late evening. The time was August l7th, 1976.And Dave was there, Greg and Celia, and you and Alantean, a couple old geezers, friends from the past, relatives of all kinds, smiles all, no sadness, no regrets we live on the far shore now right under the sign on Wonderland bridge that use to declare that "Dave has big balls". Which Dave. We ALL know which Dave. As Roy Orbison's "Only the Lonely" plays for a short time of recall, we move past that into a glory land like that but different, without the dead head dolls rolling (raining down actually) from Shirley Temple's old Hollywood house on the hills.

Her ultra-high frequency made her ears ache with a stabbing pain ache like a knife was being lodged and relodged in the ear cavity over again every 1/2 second, and the ringing, the damn ringing. "Could you get that please?" said Alanatean. "Yes, yes, right away dear, and I'll get you your breakfast too, what do you care for this morning?" said Come Back Boy. "What do we have left? NOt much I suppose, everyone being up this past weekend cleaned us out of house and home. We'll have to famine til the end of the month again". Alan-tean seemed ok with this, said rather blaise. "Yes, it looks like we down to barebones in mother hubbard's cupboard. "Hey CeeBee, do you remember the Gleaners statement under the bridge, "Dave has big balls"? Alana questioned imploringly..."Yes, of course, who would miss that. Unfortunately some ill-humoured citizen did not think that a righteous statement. Being so close to the cemetry and all. It sounds so sacriligious like when people walk their dogs through the tombstones and they do their business, you know that is wrong, just what is it that life becomes mocked by death. Shouldnt it be the other way around because it says "All matter never dies, it just changes into something else." "We can access this though?" Alana thought. "yes, we can". Certainly we must find how these things get past us, and where do they go. We probalby are sitting on our near and dear ones, near and dear to our heart. Why dont we notice them. ONly in with amber glasses on?" CeeBee "maybe, maybe". St Marcellus never complains, or St. Francis when your puppies does his business, but I personally don't like it. I dont really think it is fair to the living, the dead arent there they have risen and become the human butterfly soul. There is no telling how we can go beyond our old habits that really habituate a way of seeing that is less than the perfected ideal. I wonder what the Dog Whisperer would say about this" Alana grumbled. "You mean Caesar Milan"? "Yes, isnt he something?" He reminds me of, well, he could be.." CeeBee stated "Carlos". "Well yes, he seems to know more of subtle body communication. Do you think he would be good with spirits too, like a John Edward/dog shisperer/Carlos Casteneda? "Why not, CeeBee, ANYTHING is possible, and probably if we can think it, and even more. Reality IS stranger than Ficiton, why, reality is bigger than fiction. What has been is bigger than what is to be? "Maybe..hold that thought, I'll be right back.".

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Trade-In Dreams for Visions

Last Night
I didnt get to sleep at all
no no
well briefly too briefly
needing no briefs
to wreck havoc with my
peaceful slumber
nor wedges
wedged between us
wedgies get uncomfortable

This dream of a cap in a car
and a nother of being wher you are
when I was a civil war soldier
shot down
on the planes of some farmer's field
seeing the oh say can you see
sun come up at red dawn
my poorboy hoagy sandwich
was put to bed too soon
in the killing fields
time forgot
i am buried
under your house
like a poltergeist in
a Stephen King novel

my ears too sensitive to sound
i plug them us so the unblock
(does this make sense?)
hoome remedies
work best for me
being a hobo
i did all the rails
and rallied round the same flag
where you rest your cap'd head

odd numbers game
so synchronisitc
almost antagonistic
not meaning to be
but really
those bells and whistles
just wont quiet now
and so i said
just like it happened
the earth she moved
6.6 in Revelstoke

Time to trade-in or reinvent
the patterns are so repeating
we need new dreams and visions
with fresh ideas and scents
how will i find these
now that my visual inspiration has
the most muse of my heart
rendered me useless?

From this vast emptiness
of repostitory
reposting glory
those days are gone
like a flash
from a bat
whipping past my head
on a hot summer night
his bat skin was so tight
kinda creeped me out

as these memories last
maybe so long and are stored
like old beer bottles
under the cellar stairs
as I stare blankly at the wall
(nothing new in that)
she's a dreamer
(what's wrong with this picture"
would you prefer a beer
I'd give you that
Yes I will

So anyhow time to go
make a day a day
tie it up neat in a bow
hoping that I make a difference
which is more than just surface stuff
hoping beyond hope
i make sense why
the ear buzz
the memories
the fluff of dreams
got stuck

jj 16 11 09

Find Time

Time soon Found
since long forgot
a black and white photograph
Like Argamemnon's powerful Ergot
Or mayan blue Agate seas
by the Agean far shores
maybe Alantean
all those memories
held tightly with
left in a bell jar
by the memory window
reflecting back on the past
Waiting for the right moment
in this time
to awaken once more
to the persistence
of time and memory
precious memories
hopefully stamped
on our dna

to be here and now
as time's looming presense
not the present
but a force to be recognized
and recoined with
Over us
slowly ever so slowly
almost stop-frame slow
lapping waters
over our lap in the shallow pool
warm serene brook
fresh scented with ozone
and cedar
hear these soft waters flow
over sedona
river rocks
time worn
like cowboy chaps
smoothed over
through a grinding process
that thankfully
left softer than
corn silk
made holy
these memories
by time's engraving machine
by Louis Daguerre
and company

Time needn't ravish
or vanish
all the good you've done
Time heals all wounds
come undone
Time can create
a better dream
For all our forever tomorrows
are yet to be

jj 16 11 09

n.b. the following poem was inspired by yesterday's TCM (Turner's Classic Movie channel) movie called One Man's Journey with Lionel Barrymore (a classic!)

There will always be time to do the things
to do the things (thanks Harry Chapin!)
we have to do once they find us
like dishes in the sink
laundry on the floor
dust on the ceiling fan
We'll always have endless loop
droll never-ending chores
stacked one upon another
keeping us from ourselves
keeping us from our deep enclave
our place
our niche
our space
As time
so quickly takes away
subtracts and extracts
makes potent
makes important
gives heed to the real meaning
of all that is
and could be
if only
we'd stop
on our stoop
and smell the roses
take in a deep breath
into the centre of our being
hold for a moment
make it last longer
So make haste
time never wastes
make time
spent wrapped in snugglies
with lovies
love surrounds you
as time so quickly
feet on fast forward
to who knows where
but not here
like i'd like
you're gone
and nothing can be done

As the necessity is the abSOULute
and time is the regulator clock
timing precisely our rna encrusted
17 jewels
clockmakers know
the requirement
to meet obligations
cannot be compromised for a minute
not a moment
not a spark of a quark
Remember this as your cherished
baby cherubs
celestial angels
singing in the choir
awaken you to the magic here too
as they kiss your wounded cheek
gently reminding you
heaven isnt far away
as you awaken from the dream to this
so gently
so softly
the touch of the child
sweet kiss
you awaken dear mommy
to the lovely dream
to live again
knowing now
the importance of dreaming
the ever so dreamy
world of love
becomes Constance's dream
the Universe of Love
is yet to be
the world as we know it
so much more
than we can ever imagine
as it was always meant to be


jj 16 11 09

here is another inspiration from my feeling world today

Heaven Can't Wait

So I am with you
for only a time
gentle ones
kind ones
forever friends
What we have shared
you're always in my heart
in my mind
in my soul
held so close
I can touch you
even though
you are far away
you are right here today
deep in my mind
you're always in my heart
held upright so
held high
lovingly cherished
you know this to be so

No changing world
or worlds asunder
can render this to change
you are always in my heart
always in my soul
always propped up
to see beyond the fence
to see through the veil
to see all what is hidden still
over that wall
through the garden gate
over that grass you wanted greener
as i got the blues
knowing I couldnt keep up
with the Jones
or the Smiths
oh for crying blue whales
too blue to know what to do
you packed your bags
long before I left
your destination
not too final I had hoped

never getting any bluer
from a day without sunshine
a day without you
what could I do

than from my wanting you
but I couldnt get you back
stamped and returned
to sender
someone else had to take up the cause
because I knew not what was going on
with you

you are always in my heart
no matter what catacylsm
no matter how thunder asunders
or usurpership works
no matter the cool distant chill
of the pill that makes you thin
you still are you
I'm still me
i can deal with that

the times
they were a changing for me
with each step
walking past the arena
the lion hadn't bit me yet
as the loudspeaker droned
and pumped up sound
much larger than the roar
from MGM

This dream, my dream
was always to have and to hold
but you cant hold water
poured out of a vessel
not your own

that Beast
Truth's serene resolve
Perfected in ever way
so as not to appear from here
but from distant highway
maybe heaven
maybe a place like heaven
maybe a vision
who knows

The way it was meant to be
i thought was like Sherlock
before the changing seasons
whirlwinds of furies came
all seemed lost
on an endless
a mobius strip
which reads endlessly
I love you
no matter how
bent out of shape
the universe could get
did get and had gotten rotten
got love love
welcome home

jj 16 11 09

Sunday, November 15, 2009

What is it: Chaos in the Ordered Cosmos

Is there no way to change "what is" it
What is happening when silverware goes
mysteriously missing
pieces of silver
sliver of light
with true meaning?

the mock up rooked the worn world by "what is"
elemental interplay
essential epismology
exact change
exacting change
expecting chaos
ordered with the grilled cheese and milkshake
less than nothing but more than something

How in control this picture
whose transmission ordered by submission
our place
our placement
on this planet
our world
too worldly
viewed through the veiwfinder
or veered through the thoughtfinder
dumped if not streamed
exactly as deemed
by the gluten
the forgotten
once the shaking ceased
we could be ourselves again
before the realm
of Maximillions

by who's designs
by who's schemes
power knows no bounds
brought down by a ruler
with the teeter-totter
of one dangling lintel rock
keystone cop
tom foolery
the jest is on us
as we try to recollect
those pieces missing or lost

by who's dreams
the dreamer's dreams
created outside
who's box?
who made the template
we all contribute
during collection plate
maybe just a mite
but whoa that mite's got bite
an maybe
moxy proxy and roxy
white bobbysoxy
saddled with shoes
you can call your own
even if
you didnt make the elements
you still can put together
the pieces to the puzzle
unless by starlights design
the drive-in called you in
for late nights at the drafting table
to make something happen
to start
the engine
on new designs
and new physica unearthed
from our newest element
found on the latest asteroid

who ordered chaos
to make it
what it is
what is it
somewhat chaotic
somewhat chaotic-

on this planet
things defy description
which may
just make more
unanswered questions
as chaos must make more
of itself
as it balances
our need to know
with our know not to need
tto let it just be
an epitome
That great big E gig
the glue that binds
parts to scattered
you heard
answered in bits
partdefying logic
laughing in the face
of perreniality
each year we think we are safe
for another year
another day
another minute
another second
Chaos Reclaims us
tattered and torn
worn out
from our need
to make
sense of the storms

not that we want to believe
all there is is really nothing
no matter
no glory
no purpose in the madness
there is in a minute
an hour
a day
a year
a lifetime
ordered chaos
like the fly in the soup
you got it anyway

no matter
(but it does)
no means
(but there are)
no while away the hours
(every minute countsdown to zero)
whittled down to nothing
nothing is something
(less is more)
what's with the contradictions
is this a door?
a door of perception opened slightly
a jar is not a jar unless it is ajar
your car door
close the door
we're not ready yet

Whistler's mother
perched on her rocker
on top of old smokey
granny kitch is the most
how does this fit
like me a misfit
did chaos already get
the misbegot
a lost and found struggler
dangling on the line
(that's all we've got?)
are we all just fodder
for humongous groupers
(there's safety in numbers?)
no mind
most obliged
for your meal was real
even if you said it contain
copyrighted material
adjust for
wraths hammer
rafts from lot
lofts and lots
of powersway placement bars
top three would want it this way
can i say commi cameleon?!

bawe elements got the better of me
in the chemical admix that got
a tad too complex to fpreigure in the mix?
how these building blocks became
ever increasing
the load
the stress
weighty matters
(organic or inorganic?)
it all matters
matter doesnt matter
chaos wins

back at the ranch
tads road diner
fine cosmos fare
here in erie
chaos is known to eat
that's a start
to an understanding
of our little friend
always gets us in the end

the sun also rises rosey dawn
this morning
as the sum of the sun is not known
too few bricks to make a home
when those bricks get burnt
could all matter not matter
when we say nonmatter
it mustnt matter to matter
or does it?
maybe chaos is the beginning of the universe
the tick before the clock?

if this world means little or nothing
to the big eating party goer chaos bikers
"what is"
means reams
to those who try to dream past the drama
regurged rules
make me rehurl
as the whirlwinds of change
come crashing in this November
along with the sinking
of my stomach
and the Edmund Fitzgerald
"I feel sick"

What is it that has or holds the power keys to all
of destiny?
What is it that makes the day gray or blue
What is it that gives me the feeling I am
steering committee
deep in my being
a way to know
what is
a Way
to the
A way out
or a way in?
locked in television tunnelvision and preprogrammed thought?
can i call the police
for this thought derives from where? there? in that tube of a thing I call a tv? Brain waves for the taking, making, placesetting? train the brain to find less stereo-typical ways of thinking, create your own brand in the plastered world there is space on the wall left if just a bit, you cn always find more pieces of the broken wall
Gorbachev "Tear this wall down" a cry, a order, or plea? More space is needed for advertisement!

Lay low as the triumphant trumpeter swans
clear to midland
beckons with each scratchy sounds from St Elsewheres
hand bumps
(how can that feel good?)
as we go about our daily
(in the schemata of all that is "what is it" chaotic)
on these
errie summer shores
lanquid days
never end
no mans land
(that's why I'm not there)
too bad once I knew where I was going
where i once thought
you'd always begone like a flash
to the nearest cashcow
somehow didnt cut it
with me
but for a time only
that's all folks

ah ha
so nobody
no one
hardly anyone of us really gets
when we really want to hold onto
those whose tempest in teacupsbrag
a bit too much
havent got it all upstairs
because downstairs really
were holding their ankles
from the ascent
the mountain couldnt take
anymore than three percent
c ya latter
idle chatter
battling battler
lather and disolve
1 to 3 parrts
(what symmetry!)
knowing so much better
what's the heck's the matter
you're an amazing breed of animal
just not two peas in a pod
we two dont think at all alike
if we thought at all
it would have ended years ago
bye and bye
in the sweet here after
here and now
and then
when's then
so let chaos rule
when it doesnt feel like Sunday
when chaos rules
come mocking
on the door
what are you trying to do
claim your parcel
of eternity
(wouldst if i could but you werent true)
not to say it could be
just highly unlikely
so the crystal ball says
(who listens to balls anyway?)

Why would I think me a rook
when I gave you my all
but you wanted a better cut
for yourself
and dealt me out of the deal
without me knowing of course
was that fair
no not at all
but then again
who said
anything here
was fair
I've learned to accept
what i cannot be without
what is it
without the scorcerer's apprentice
without money power position
without professional rank
to confess
you dont know
diddlely squat

maybe you'll have a better chance
when given the roll
you'd probably prefer
to go out
knowing full well
you did little
but create
order out of the looming
night's toll
cunning culling games
when those with the most
tricks whens
what is it

Cautusly optimistic
most chart plight
dreaded blight
guarded flight
rising thusly
plane cant rise
timed just so
let it go
looking through tunnels
gives me bad vision
inner vision better
as i keep getting
blinkers to this here
the crap game's over
as to what to do with what it is
i don't know
chaos can really freak us out
worse than any horror
brains can conceive
the good the bad and the ugly
what we choose to do
is to focus on the good
1 out of 3
not the greatest of odds
in this three ring circus in
one act
chaos all around us
the bell tolls for thee
are you ready?
are you prayed up
and waiting?
for chaos reclaims us
what it is
may not be
if we think like this
one out of three
could be
the one thing
that saves us
from the other two
not chocolate
left over preamble
from a day where we lost it
on a bet, on a gamble
the tablewares
will we be able to handle
our new silverware set
in a box
like a coffin
maybe only ashen
labelled thusly
not much left of me
I'm already dead

as a zombie
what is your opinion
of the human trial
the errors far outweigh and smooth flow correction
going where
to what is it lands
far far away
who knows where
the truth is hidden now
after these layers
really got mixed up
when the rna sampling
quickly mixed up
before known
what it is
got dumped
and now there's no where to go
but into the chaos
how much will you give me for the key

all got to earn a dime
all got to make some time
all got to find the ryhme
in the chaotic reason
we have here
what is it
did you call me
or did i call you
something is calling anyway
not sure who or whom
maybe that bell
or the gong show
saved by the bell!

all those catalogues heaped on my desk
surfaced from where, what the
what is it
what are you saying
doing being
have you guilt
from treating me as less than
pleasant meet me in the middle
i least expect the best
the best of what is to be
en trance
you like new things
i got old too fast

so these new things

maybe they hold the key
to all those cutesy answers
pendingin the vending machine
in these hinterlands
moose heaes to beavertails
wooden nickelodeon
prospector's party
where gold flows
that temple of doom
what it is
and where it is going
where it can be
always on the move
keep one step ahead
the best you can do

do i really want to be
in another horror picture show
rocky thought schlocky
even for a kitchy commercial
pretty scary
you'd know that by now
how to convince
the old man
if it is going to be this bad
why not make a movie
and make money
the least I can do

for him horror is an ugly beast
but for me it is so second hat
like living it everyday
makes me think
maybe that's what war is for
creating horror for it is
what is it
only a movie anyway?

jj 15 11 09

the mystery unfolds assuredly