Friday, May 27, 2005


Don't Panic

I have been remiss in my missives. Things have been trying and tiring. I was disheartened by the news from the physician supervising my renovations that I will not be off the bloody hobble-sticks until the second week in June and then only to have the reconstructed limb wrapped in a pneumatic storm trooper boot for an additional two weeks bringing the grand total time spent in varying stages of active crippledom to eight months. Fortunately due to the intervention of some determined friends I was rousted from the house for a trip to the cinema. Oh, how lives can be changed in only two hours through the magic of Hollywood or its foreign/indie equivalent. I saw Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. After being cheered by the delicious absurdity of the Golden Age of Musicals style dolphin number one question leapt immediately to my mind. Where have you been all my life? No, the answer was not 42. My long suffering media-fed friend was right, I need the cable. (Don’t be coarse.) Had I cable television I would have had the BBC at my fingertips and not have had to wait until now to even know about… him. Martin Freeman. (sigh) So, I’m a gushing fan-boy. Well, not literally, my hands are chastely and industriously busied with the keyboard… but he is adorable. Now, this is not enough to make my life come true, but in a landscape of under-emoting ersatz pretty boys and lackluster lotharios it is so heartening to see something that expands the heart and delights both the eyes and the mind. An avatar of possibility. I haven’t felt this way since Fellowship of the Ring, but they were hobbits and hobbits aren’t real… and no matter what Cassandra Claire says, the humans/hobbit height difference makes the geometry nearly too tricky... nearly. But, Arthur Dent is human, in fact the narrator specifically says he’s five foot eight. Martin must be around that, right? I know, a wee bit tall for me, but heck, if he promises to where the darling pajamas for me I’ll deal. And before you think me completely unrealistic and off my nut, I’ve already looked into it… unlike Sean Astin this one is not already married.

Friday, May 20, 2005


beer boggled key bashing

on to whom does the wreckage fall
unto whom does the calling come
half blind and divorced of grace
twitching damaged and ashen faced
bidden to clamor over our own debris
the wake of comfortable ruins
left by our own self-reckoning
we must rise and heed the word
the cry too often gone unheard
of another just alike and more alone
having lost so much
and having yet so little to show
for the effort and pain
needing most importantly to know
what there is that can be gained
from the savaged smoldering plain
that was a flawed but annointed Eden
just a conversation or two ago
there is no answer to be given
no two minds nor hearts alike
but each field is tilled in turn
in its destiny a blaze
an anachronistic pyre
of flower and fruition
those who have survived
owe the harvest of tuition to
the others as they come
just as crippled broken battered
maybe healing is a gift exchanged
that each patient becomes a physician
self-forgiveness only coming to one
through the journey of the mission
that it be fostered in someone else
the future only to become tangible
when placed into new trembling hands
with assurances that all is possible

Monday, May 16, 2005


like the weather

Grey, grey with a slightly eerie glow to it, that is the color of today’s sky. Alas, where is spring? This is May not December. It’s enough to make one a little squirrelly, all this grey and damp. Thanks to the gods for liquor and pills.

Thursday, May 12, 2005


The Job Offer

Once upon time there was a boy dark of mood, followed by clouds, that saw beauty in death and made beautiful and horrible pictures of monsters madness and life in decay. One night a woman from the government came to the town where he lived, a place climbing back from crumbling industry and out of its generations thick coat of smoke and ash. She told the boy that she knew his secret. She told him the government knew his secret. Then she offered him a job. The boy looked up at the woman from under his coffin black bangs. Eyes large and dark like fresh dug earth searched, narrowed with intent then went soft with confusion. The woman stared down at the boy and shook her head slowly. When after a sullen silence he asked, she assured him that of course he had a choice. For some time they stood this way silent, staring. Despite her interest in his secret the woman was nonetheless disturbed by the boy. She told him that she would return in three days for his answer.

The boy wandered the great cemeteries of his smudged and ashen town. Options, strategies, plans and possibilities tumbled over each other in his mind. Occasionally, happening upon aggrieved mourners he would secret himself behind a nearby monument, intent on there activity, cheering his troubled soul, lessening their burden.

At last the final midnight came heralding the breaking point between the days of deliberation and the day of reckoning. It found him sitting on the steps of a crumbling mausoleum, a resting place for a baron of dashed and dishonored fiefdom, for his squandering kin, but not for the boy. He knew there was no choice, there never was.

The following afternoon the woman from the government returned as she had said and asked the boy his answer. He shrugged, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his shapeless black coat. His eyes, just visible below the broad brim of his day-wandering hat, were focused on a point far from the woman, far from the room in which they stood. Although she tried to hide it the woman’s impatience edged towards a level the boy could sense even in the more usual way. Whether it was to be done with her business or simply out of his presence he could not tell. They stood there for some time until at last the woman asked if he needed more time. Time, he knew time offered no hope. Time only delayed the inevitable. The boy shook his head. He turned away from the woman and from behind a chair pulled a large bag. Battered, half empty, it had been made to fight some long ago war and appeared still more defeated once slung over the boy’s low shoulder.

The woman looked at him, triumph and uneasiness battling across her brow. She opened the door and mustered a stiff but nearly convincing smile. The boy wasn’t convinced, but then he never looked up. Hat low over his face, shoulder hunched against his burden, eyes cast low he trudged through the doorway in silence. The woman followed closing the door behind her. The smile sliding from her face it became clear that uneasiness was winning the war.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005


Why must I bear such things?

ACK! Even NPR is awash in reports of the christianist extremists marching jack-booted and brain-dead across the classrooms, courthouses and legislatures of our decreasingly great nation… And I can’t find a reasonably priced lion delivery service ANYWHERE!!!

Well, at least the sun is coming out, finally, grudgingly, as if forced to do so by the breaking results of an exhaustive media investigation.

Perhaps summer really will come. Perhaps all the pieces will fall into place. Perhaps I will walk again, dance again… preferably with a handsome man… in a beautiful place… far away from all this tedium. Ah, it’s all sounds so reassuringly cinematic.

Sunday, May 08, 2005


buzzed'n'scrawlin' again

it's a new order
an old sound
a new song
folly gone wrong
and come back around
a hobbled hero
an author's conceit
finding open arms
friendly words
a liquid hearth
and open hearts
warm and welcoming
ribald and rousing
a kiss of conspiracy
and a hand soothingly laid

Friday, May 06, 2005


the bitter taste of gloom

You can’t trust anyone. The world is in chaos. The end is near. OK, maybe I’m exaggerating. Overworked and under medicated is never a pretty combination. Especially when you throw in sexual depravation, impinged self-sufficiency and carousing withdrawal, well, I don’t have to tell you how cranky, bitter and potentially violent that can make one. I may have to go out into the public and beat people with my crutch while cursing them as hell bound ill-bred putrescent ruins to elevate my self esteem. Hmmm… just thinking about it made the day suddenly seem brighter.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005


same as it ever was

The computer network is a tool for cruel torture. Well, the one in place at my place of wage-slavery certainly is. Cruel sick psychological torture. Not to mention the physical evils being worked upon my person by the biblical flood of stress hormones coursing through my veins and eroding my vital systems. How? How can this be done, you ask. By what method? In answer I offer the following example.

click on icon to open directory
proceed to age at the customary rate for your milieu
die of old age
be reincarnated and renter the world in the typical screaming wailing fashion
continue upon your life’s journey until finding yourself in the throws of a metaphysical crisis
seek out an establishment such at the Shirley MacLaine’s Past Life Regression Hut
begin regression “therapy”
remember being happy and five
remember previously referenced screaming
remember that your former self was attempting to open a file
leap off of couch
rush back to former self’s computer
sit at desk
see directory open
click on icon for file

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