A Cardinal in the Superstitions: Reflections on Nature and History

A. M. Palmer


The Superstition Mountains 


I had never before seen the crested head of the Cardinal in its glory — at least, not in person. Though familiar with the red birds, as most are by way of photos, I had yet to see them darting through morning air or perching in trees, distinguished by their regal bearing. These birds — specifically, the males of the species — contrast the earthtones of desert life, the rock formations and cacti that cover the land, and, in glorious fashion, accent the Arizona sky with their brightness — which is where our story begins.

Although the geologic features and plants here are rich in texture, they grant us a monotony of green and brown. Even when one proceeds into the Painted Desert, colors still blend with grace, rarely emphasizing one region over another. And this is where Cardinals of the Southwest best exhibit their beauty, in my estimation, adding bright color to an otherwise muted palette. I saw one for the first time in the Superstition Mountains.

Arriving from California, and the coastal chaparral of San Diego, I was comfortable with dull landscapes. The ocean was never far, with its raging glories and the sunsets I cherished for their drama. The native vegetation was mainly brown/gray, however, apart from gardens and cultivated spaces, as well as the beauty of the Anza-Borrego Desert in full-bloom. I look back on my former home with fondness and happily recall my years spent working in this environment. During that wonderful season of life, I was able to learn a great deal about local plants and animals, many of which I recall to this day.

As a park ranger in San Diego, I enjoyed the annual appearance of white pelicans as they migrated for the winter, mingling with the aquatic birds that remained year-round. Then, in 2023, the changing dimensions of life brought me to Southern Arizona. And with that, I found a new appreciation for the Lord’s unfathomable power and nature’s beauty. The giant aquatic birds have been replaced in my experience by the diminutive and bright Cardinals. And the lessons they convey are compelling.

Indeed, the sameness of our lives can give way as we explore nature. Meetings and electronic interruptions fade before its myriad forms, mountains graced with plants and animals beyond number, vast oceans, and the ongoing illuminations of sun. Upon arrival, I was struck by the dramatic vistas of Arizona, jagged mountains and buttes extending into the distance. I imagined travelers of ages past marveling at the landscape, admiring the environment that would, in many cases, kill them. A sense of hopeless wonder prevails here. If things go wrong, even in the slightest, the end can come with brutal force, no reprieve for the unprepared or the unlucky. Nothing brings this to mind like the Superstition Mountains, a land sacred to the Apache Nation.


Coffee Break Reflections . . .


As one enters the landscape, thoughts of the otherworldly become palpable, easily giving rise to imaginative speculation. During a coffee break, I entertain creative digressions, transforming colors of the natural realm into the pastel shades of a dream. Then, I return to the moment newly refreshed.

Up the perilous highway of the Tonto National Forest, I drove my class C motorhome one winter. My cat and I were headed for the campground at Tortilla Flats, so named for an event of the 1940s. By the grace of God, stranded workers had survived a terrible flood by baking tortillas, subsisting until the waters receded. Upon visiting the museum and giftshop in the small town, visitors discover numerous photos of Apache warriors and stories of the fabled flood. And lunchtime brings the flavor of outdoor barbeque accompanied by country music, a great draw for throngs of motorcyclists and tour groups. It is a place of sensory overload. Nestled at elevation, deep in the forbidding shadows of the Superstitions, the area is carved out of the mountains. And the floods are terrifying, as a road to the north made quite clear, having filled with snowmelt earlier in the week. Then, one morning, the less welcoming elements subsided, and a Cardinal perched in my campsite.

From the Audubon Society, we learn that these birds are abundant, being emblems for a number of eastern states and familiar to most people. The Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis) thrives in diverse habitats, from deserts and woodlands to urban parks and gardens in the suburbs, requiring only dense bushes for their nests and sufficient foraging. Insects and ground vegetation provide their diet. Fed by both parents, nestlings make their way into the world in roughly 11 days, and we find their species thriving from New York down through the lush regions of Mexico. And, of course, they enliven the Southwestern desert with their magnificent color and songs of courtship.

Still in awe of the sheer cliffs and forbidding heights, as my trip continued, Cardinals came to mind as I regarded the mountains and their cool shadows. How strange it was to find elegant shades of red darting through the Superstitions, taunting frail humans, creatures who succumb to the environment like wilting flowers. By contrast, these little birds have no trouble. I consider this as I heat remnants of morning coffee in the shadows of winter.

My trip ends far too soon. Sunlight of the season rises above the campground, and the perched Cardinal departs as suddenly as it arrived. With that, I pack my gear into the waiting motorhome and head for the highway.

Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter

By Kaitlyn Ramos


Unreasonable Expectations

I want to begin with sharing my eighteen-year-old dreams for the college experience. I believed it would be a time of fun, freedom, love, and all the benefits of adulthood. I expected to arrive at college and have instant connections with others. I believed that all the classes would be intellectually stimulating and enjoyable and lead me to a career that I found deeply fulfilling. Mostly, I desired to find a boyfriend who loved me unconditionally, and I would have a legendary kind of love and immediately have the dream home, career, and exciting life that I dreamed of. All of my hopes for college came crashing to an utter halt as instantly as I had believed they would flourish.
When it came to friendships, nearly all the girls I met were catty, judgmental, and downright mean to me sometimes. Everything I did and said just seemed “wrong” somehow. Joining a social club was supposed to help me find those deep friendships and feel accepted, but it was more of an all-out assault on my mental health, self-esteem, and priorities. I felt more alone than ever, save for one friend. That one friend became a shining beacon that I could hold fast to in the midst of all the disappointment I was experiencing.
Similarly, college classes didn’t meet my expectations either. Most were so boring I could have cried. We spent so much time discussing philosophical questions that seemed too pointless to bother showing up. Every class was simply a professor’s chance to have a platform to discuss their own interests. I also found I was lazier than I would have believed possible. I had no clue how to break assignments down and work on them consistently. I procrastinated on everything. The material wasn’t difficult but navigating completing assignments without severe external
motivation just wasn’t happening. I was disappointed in myself, but I also didn’t know what to do about it but just try harder…..I did try harder sometimes. I could never seem to be consistent. I was broken.
As for my dreams of love in college, it could not have been further from what I experienced. Every young man I met was some combination of gay, a player, or a complete loser. Or – they seemed utterly and completely out of my league because, in my opinion, I was below average and couldn’t hope to be with someone above average. I couldn’t handle the bar scene, which was where girls went to meet guys who didn’t attend the school. Bars were just too loud, too smoky, and felt dirty. I couldn’t be comfortable meeting anyone there. It seemed there was a chasm between what was available and what I wanted. I was a sensitive romantic awash in a sea of inadequate options and hostility.

Mourning for what I Lost
​
While I was stuck out of place in the trials of the college experience, I longed for what I’d had in high school. I had friends who I felt close to, and I had fun with. I wasn’t ostracized for being “odd.” While school wasn’t the most interesting place, the teachers appreciated me, and I had always managed to complete my assignments on time. I had friends in class who made the experience almost worth it. I also had boys who liked me, which seemed incredibly important to me. The unhappiness consumed me, and all I wanted was to have what I had left behind.
The summer after freshman year confirmed how bad the year had been. I spent my study abroad experience in London essentially alone, despite being surrounded by people I had spent the whole year in the same building with. My only friend got married to someone from her hometown and wasn’t going to be my rock anymore. My grades were dismal, and my parents were so disappointed. We all knew I was smarter than I was showing – what was wrong with me? But back at home were my friends. People who accepted me. People I enjoyed being with.
People who didn’t make me feel like I was an annoyance to put up with. And….there was a guy who claimed to love me, who wanted to be with me, and he wasn’t gay, or a player, and I didn’t perceive him as a loser. I dreaded the day the summer would end.

I Ran Away….

But it was time to head back into that world of darkness. My parents and I discussed the expectation that I would do better. We discussed a lot of things….but not how much I hated the experience of college. I’m not sure I really comprehended at the time just how much I hated college. In my mind, that path was the only option….until the day I had to go back to it. That day came, and I argued with my parents. I really don’t even remember what we argued about, but my dad took my phone, causing a feeling of a complete lack of control over anything in my life. I shattered … .and I ran as far as I could. I ran from my family. I ran from college. I raced toward what I wanted at the time.
I wanted to feel accepted and appreciated, and I wanted someone who loved me. I wanted my fairy-tale. And, for a while, I felt like I got that, though my relationship with my parents was fractured. But I also couldn’t imagine a world where I was anything resembling happy, and they were also happy with me. There were many times after that I regretted the impulse decision, but I was also stubborn and prideful and stuck to it for far too long.
I got caught up in a low-class lifestyle, married someone I never should have even considered dating, and piled up more debt than I care to admit. I didn’t stop going to school, but I did make bad decisions about school. I also didn’t get any better at attending class or completing assignments. I just barely managed to stay afloat in almost every way. I relied on someone who I thought loved me, but I found out they didn’t really know how to love, and I certainly wasn’t showing real love at that time either. I knew Christ, but I had forgotten Him. The person I chose to marry didn’t know Him at all and didn’t care to.

And then I Turned Towards Home

Even though I had devastated them with my behavior, my parents didn’t stop loving me. They didn’t love my decisions. They didn’t support my behavior, but they still loved me. They still sought me out. They didn’t disown me. They never treated me like I wasn’t their daughter. They didn’t alienate me, and I think that made all the difference. It took too long, but eventually my pride, stubbornness, immaturity, and penchant for fantasy faded, and I saw the shambles I had created. Mom and Dad had compassionately stepped in several times and kept me from completely going over the edge – but I was still in the bed I had made, and I wished I had never gotten in it.
After three years, I came to them and said I was finally ready to accept that I had been wrong, and I needed to get out of the mess I had made. They were there for me, as I knew they would be, but at a level I couldn’t have anticipated. Mom and Dad swept in like a fairy godmother with no questions asked. Aside from regret and bad memories, they made it all go away in what felt like just the wave of a wand. The gratitude I felt and still feel for their complete and total restoration of my life is profound. I didn’t deserve what they did for me. I deserved to have to claw my way out of that mess on my own – or worse, be stuck with it forever. But they showed me the love and grace of Christ when they covered my sins and gave me my life back.
I know that even after that I wasn’t a perfect daughter. I did try to be worthy of the second chance they gifted me, but I am also flawed and weak and have failed more than once. But now I know that even so, they love me. Their love and lessons have made me into someone who does try to do the right thing. Even as flawed as I am, I try to live according to what they have taught me is right. That second chance allowed me to move on into a career and family that do bring great fulfillment and make a positive impact in the world, and I will carry that lesson into my future with my own daughter.

The Misfit Team Earns Its Fries

By Angela Camack



The young artist awoke to a hazy summer New York Saturday sunrise (Click. Turner’s Sunrise Over the Sea). Sometimes images from art and sculpture clicked into Andrew’s vision like a filter, helping him orient himself to the world.
The weather would clear to be a blue-gold, but hot, day. He could think of many ways to spend it with the young woman still asleep in his bed. He certainly felt no desire to travel to Alpine, NJ to introduce Victoria to his father, Spencer, the man who had mercilessly found fault with him since he drew his first breath, it seemed. He couldn’t stand it if he found any fault in Victoria. (He’d have to rein in thinking like that. Anxiety was contagious, and Vicki was nervous enough). He’d let her sleep a little longer, but they’d have to catch a bus to be on time for lunch in Alpine. He knew how to drive but keeping a car in the city was ruinously expensive, and renting a car to impress his unimpressible father wasn’t worth the expense. It seemed like he’s been on the wrong foot ever since he stumbled into the world. Spencer expected another boy like Geoffrey, who played football and lacrosse, was socially adept and got grades good enough to get into business school without being too good, being nerdy.
Andrew was different, had always been and had always known it. He was easily distracted unless he was interested in what he was doing. But he could be happy alone reading or sketching, at which he was adept since childhood. He had trouble fitting in. Artistic visions began clicking into his mind as a child, which helped him develop an artist’s eye, but often made him react a beat late when he was with people. He asked adults endless questions about everything.
His behavior infuriated his father, who hated his absentmindedness and scorned his artistic ability. When Andrew was fifteen, Spencer slapped him in the Four Seasons restaurant. Andrew was so absorbed in the Picasso tapestry in the lobby that he didn’t follow his family to their table.
It was war from then on, and things worsened after his mother died when Andrew was sixteen. Spencer never went to any showings of Andrew’s work, not wanting to encourage him “wasting time doodling.” He refused to pay for Andew’s college education. However, the Art Education Gods smiled on Andrew as he entered the last class to have free tuition to Cooper Union in New York City. It was at Cooper Union that Andrew felt at home. Among Cooper’s artists, eccentricity was tolerated, even encouraged.
After graduation, Andrew got a job as a graphic designer at an advertising agency. His work had his full heart, as he made no difference between his “commercial” work on such projects as toilet paper advertisements and the caricatures he did as a student and his “creative” work,
It was time to get ready. Vicki was still dozing, clouds of russet hair spilling over her eyes and down her cheeks. (The filter clicked; Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Lady Lisbeth,) He gently shook her shoulder. “It’s time, Vix.” Big green eyes opened. “No, let’s stop the clock,” Vicky murmured. Andrew smiled. “You’ll have fun, Vicki, I promise. They’ll love you.”(even though they don’t love me, still chimed in his head).
Vicki sat up. “Tell me again, who’s going to be there?”
“My Dad Spencer, of course, and Geoffrey, his wife Carolyn and their two kids.”
Vicki closed her eyes. “Let me see. Geoffrey works as an investment banker here in the city and Carolyn volunteers part-time for Habitat for Humanity. The children are Geoffrey Jr., seven and Melissa, four.”
‘Very good.”
Vicki sighed. “I guess we should get ready now.”
“You will be great,” Andrew promised. He drew her back to bed for a little amorous courage-building for them both. Vicki dressed carefully, in a dress reminiscent of the '40's, an ivory dress with a modest halter and a flared skirt that accented her narrow waist. Andrew thought she was incredibly lovely. They left the apartment into rising heat and hopped on the subway to Penn Station for the bus to Alpine, NJ. From there, it was a cab to Andrew’s family’s house. Vicki felt a fist close in her chest every time she thought of the day ahead of them.
Except for the children tumbling on the lawn,Andrew’s family had gathered in the living room before Andrew and Victoria were to arrive.
“What does she do again?” Spenser asked.
“She’s a librarian at the New York Public Library, the main branch. That’s where Andrew met her,” answered Carolyn.
“Good Christ,” muttered Spenser.
“Hey, librarians do a lot of good,” added Carolyn.
“Well at least he’s not queer,’ said Spenser.
“Dad, we don’t want the kids to hear things like that,” said Geoffrey, “Look, Dad, it’s time to give Andrew a break. He put himself through school and got a job at a good agency. So, it wasn’t what you mapped out for him. He’s taking care of himself and now he’s getting married. Let him live his life his own way."
"Do we know anything about what’s-her-name’s family?" Spencer ssked.
"Victoria spent much of her childhood in foster care and put herself through school, Andrew said." Carolyn offered. "She doesn't know much about her biological family."
"Didn't anyone want to adopt her?"
"She was six when she got into the system. Older kids are hard to place."
Spencer shook his head. "What is Andrew getting himself into? Who picks up someone at a library?"
Apparently, Andrew did. Two winters ago, he was researching illuminated manuscripts, to possibly work the techniiques into a painting. His search led him to the New York Public Library's collction of the illustrated word. He had several appointments with Victoria after he got off work. She guided him expertly through his research, from books to websites that would hsve taken him twice as long to find on his own. Their appointments were professional, but he felt drawn to her by an invisible but strong thread. Her beauty was obvious, but so was her keen intelligence, wit and kindness. And something about her made him think she felt that strong string too.
But the appointments were due to end. Should he take the leap and aporoach her? He knew himself so well. He knew he was different. His relationships with women had never grown into love on either side.
"What can I give her," he thought one evening as he sketched a figure on a napkin, his usually deft fingers uncharacteristally clumay. "I can love her. Maybe that will be enough."
He returned to the library the next day, icy and cold as it was. and spent some time in the periodical room. When Vicki was due to leave, he went down the library steps and stood by Patience, one of the stately lions that guarded the library. He pretended to rearrange the items in his backpack. Was he being stalkerish?
He saw Vicki inching down the icy steps. She slipped anyhow, wavering between standing and falling. Andrew took her arm and steadied her.
"Oh, my gosh, Andrew! Thanks! Are you still researching?"
"No, I, I wanted to see you. I wanted to thank you for all your help. My-my research would have been twice as long without your help."
"I appreciate it. I was glad to help."
Now was the time to take the leap. (Click. A photograph of a gymnast, dismounting from the rings.) Would he stick the landing or fall in disgrace?
"I'd like to take you to dinner. As thanks."
Vivki's instinct would have been to demur, but maybe she was taking a leap too. "I'd really like that, Andrew. When do you want to meet?"
"Aren't you hungry now? You've been working all day."
"I should go home to ckean up and change."
"But you're beautiful now." (Too much, too soon. Don't you ever learn, Andrew?)
Vicki's cheeks turned crimson. "Thank you. I know a place not far. Their burgers are the best. And they have other things too."
Vicki and Andrew walked through the cold, breath puffing, like two locomotives, ro the Hold Fast Kitchen and Spirits, and everything moved on from there. They were soulmates from the start.
They had so much in common. They liked art, of course, and the same books and music. More importantly they shared histories, Andrew with his acornful father and difficulty fitting in, and Vick with her childhood from bouncing around foster homes Vicki understood Andrew's need to concentrate on his art, times when he spent all his free time feverishly working at his easel. Andrew understood Vicki’s insecurity despite her accomplishments, They called themselves "The Misfit Team," two shaky souls careening unsteadily through life, now together.
Wintet rurned to spring, fall, another winter, another spring. Andrew proposed and they began their wedding plans. Thus, the dreaded trip to see his family.
Three pairs of eyes peeked through the curtains when the cab stopped in front of the house. "So that's our little librarian.” said Geoffrey,” Damn, I've got to read more."
Andrew knocked on the door, having never asked for a key to the house. Carolyn let them in, the children running in after them. Vicki had seldom been in a house like this, with its lofty ceilings
and large windows. Thick rugs covered gleaming wood floors. Th furniture was old and well-tended. There were roses in a crystal vase. The paintings on the walls were undistinguiahed. Vicki womdered what Andrew thought of them,
Andrew did the introductions. Even at first glance Vicki saw the tension in Andrew’s face as he met his father’s cold blue eyes and shook his hand. (Click, Portrait of Henry the VIII by Holbein, showing the king to be stern and harsh)
Andrew introduced Vicki to the couple and their children. Carolyn was Lewis Carroll’s Alice grown into womanhood with a waterfall of shiny blond hair held by a blue band and a simple linen shift that Vicki guessed cost more than most of her wardrobe. She was kind, with questions about Vicki’s job and her life in the city. Spencer and Geoffrey were Alpha and Beta, both blond and blue-eyed with angular features. Spencer’s features were hawklike, eyes hyperalert, ready to pounce. He looked like he could smile graciously while judging your importance to the final degree. But Geoffrey looked like he could pounce if he had to but showed the possibility of kindness and true graciousness.
The children had been eagerly awaiting Andrew’s attention. “Uncle Andrew! Will you draw us? Please.”
Andrew smiled and sat on the floor with the children.(Click. Boy and Girl on a Hillside, Winslow Homer,) Taking the sketching material he was never without, he turned the children into superheroes, with magical strengths and powers. He looked younger and happier than he had been on this difficult day.
Andrew was called away as uniformed maid set out hors d’oeuvres and white wine. Vicki could see herself spilling food on the carpet. Rather than risk having to turn the cheese knife on herself she took bites the size of baby corn.
She was able to breathe a little as Spencer and Geoffrey talked about Andrew’s job. After a half-hour, a bell rang, signaling lunch. Without thinking, being the good guest, Vicki offered to help clear. Everything stopped as if the air had left the room. Vicki’s cheeks and throat flared crimson and the fist in her chest grasped harder.
“Please, I’d, like to wash my hands,” Vicki stammered. Andrew took her hand and led her down the hall. “You’re doing fine, Vix,” he said. This isn’t the real world for most people.” Vicki’s eyes began to fill. “Please, don’t be sad.” “I won’t” Vicki said shakily as she entered the powder room.
Carolyn squeezed Vicki’s hand as they entered the dining room. They settled to a perfect summer lunch; chilled vichyssoise, cold lobster with homemade mayonnaise, just-baked bread, grilled green beans with almonds and more white wine. Delicious, but Vicki was too nervous to eat much. Dessert was peach melba with raspberry sauce and vanilla ice cream.
The conversation moved to the living room, over coffee and brandy. Spencer continued to ask Andrew questions about his agency and its clients and asked Vicki questions about her job. Vicki talked with Carolyn about Make-A-Wish. But she was aware of how different her life was from Andrew’s. For all his differences with his father, Andrew was at home in this world, navigating it instinctively, dealing with the array of plates and silver at the table and aware of the rules that governed this rarefied world. Even the children were beautifully behaved. In some of the homes she had lived in the vichyssoise would have been on the ceiling five minutes after being served. Vicki had a lot to learn.
The afternoon wore on. Spencer was correct in his questions and conversations with Vicki, but she could sense the emptiness behind the courtesy, and she was sure Andrew did too.
Andrew checked his watch. “I’d better call a cab. I don’t want to miss our bus.”
Geoffrey rose. “No cabs. I’ll take you to the station,”
Courteous goodbyes all around, hugs from the children. Carolyn pressed Vicki’s hand. “I’m glad Andrew found you.”
Vicki felt the fist in her chest unclench. “Thank you, Carolyn. So am I.”
The trip ran in reverse, bus to subway. Andrew and Vicki leaned against each other on the subway like two rag dolls, spent and happy the day was over.
“You did great, Vix. I knew you would.”
“The kids are adorable. And I think Carolyn and Geoffrey liked me, “sighed Vick.
“Of course they did.”
“I’m glad to be going home,” Vicki’s stomach suddenly grumbled loudly. She and Andrew both burst into hysterical laughter.
“Let’s stop for a burger before we go home, And big glasses of red wine,” said Andrew.
“I may even order fries, “laughed Vicki.
“I think the Misfit Team earned their fries today,” said Andew.
The subway rattled on. Love may not conquer all, thought Andrew, but it helps. It really does. For once he saw no pictures or paintings, just the view ahead.

The Rocking Chair

By Celine Rose Mariotti


Tara Moynihan looked out the huge glass window of the Dobagdon Castle and the Irish countryside was so green and so inviting. Tara loved spending their summers here. Since she married Rory, every summer they spent their holiday in the Dobagdon Castle in the Northern part of Ireland. Tara went back and sat down in the big sofa chair and finished her tea. She heard a rocking noise and turned around to see that the rocking chair was rocking back and forth with no one in it. The ghost is still here, thought Tara.
Yes, Gilbert, the caretaker, had told her many times of the story of the ghost of Sweet Rosie McNally who died sitting in that rocking chair, many years ago. Rosie McNally was a young woman who had never married, and her only love had gone off to war and never returned. Most people in the area said she died of a broken heart, others say she killed herself, but some say that the angels came at night and took her to be with them because she was such a saintly person. Some people even prayed to her, as they believed she answered their prayers. Gilbert was one of them and he swore to Tara that he knew for certain that Sweet Rosie McNally was among the saints of the world. Tara watched the chair as it rocked to and fro with no one in it but the ghost of Sweet Rosie
McNally. She should probably be afraid of the ghost but then why would she be if she was the sweet person all the village people said she was. So, Tara decided to make herself another cup of tea and read her book. She was in the middle of chapter four and the story was really getting good. It was one of those gothic type mysteries. Tara took her cup to the kitchen and made herself the tea. While she was in the kitchen, she heard a bell ringing. It sounded like it was coming from the pantry, so she opened the door and looked inside but there was nothing there but canned goods and some gardening tools. Tara closed the door and went back to fixing her tea.
But then she heard the bell ringing. Tara opened the pantry door once again and still there was nothing there. She went to the back door in the kitchen to see if there was anyone outside the door and there was no one there. Then the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver to say hello and she heard someone crying into the phone, “Rosie McNally, the roses are blooming, come to the garden, sweet Rosie McNally.” Then the phone went dead and there was no one there. She hung up the receiver. Tara thought back to the summer before when she saw the ghost of Sweet Rosie McNally. At the time, the ghost would just appear and re-appear in the rocking chair or the rocking chair would just rock with no one in it. But this summer, it seemed the castle was more haunted than it was the year before. Tara fixed her tea and returned to the living room, sat by the window and tried to read more of her book. Her husband Rory had been out all day golfing with some of his friends. Rory was an avid golfer and once he got out on the golf course, he was there for hours. Tara felt herself getting sleepy and so she put down the book and curled up in the couch and went to sleep. She was awakened by a rattling noise. She got up and looked around and in the corner of the room she saw a little girl shaking a little rattle. “Who are you?”
“Deirdre”
“I have never seen you before.”
“Sweet Rosie McNally sent me to you.”
“Are you a ghost?”
“Aye, me be a ghost Miss Tara.”
“Were you related to Rosie?”
“Aye, me be her daughter.”
“Her daughter? I didn’t know she had a daughter.”
“Sweet Rosie was the best Mum you could have, she was.”
“Did you come to bring me a message from her?”
“Be at the church tomorrow night at midnight.”
“The church?”
“Aye, the church.” With that the ghost of the little girl disappeared and the rocking chair began to rock back and forth, and Tara could hear a light voice singing an old Irish song. She left the castle, got in the car and took a ride out into the Irish countryside. She had to get out of that castle before she lost her mind. Tara drove along thinking about the ghost of Sweet Rosie McNally and now this other ghost of her daughter, Deirdre. Tara thought back to the first time she and her husband Rory came to stay at Dobagdon. His father had just passed away and he was now running the company full time. She had just had a miscarriage and they both needed time away from their everyday lives. Rory spotted this private getaway in a travel magazine, he called and found out he could lease the castle from the government of Ireland, so that is what he did. Then last summer the government of Ireland sold him the property. Every summer they came here to get away and to rest. While she had seen the chair rocking to and fro with
no one in it almost since the first time she stayed here, and she often heard the ghost whimpering in the night, this was the first time the ghost seemed to be really making her presence known.
She drove by St. Stephen’s Church and decided to stop the car and go in and have a visit with God. She was sitting in the pew meditating and praying, when she looked up to see the kind, gentle face of Father O’Donnell. She had come to know Father O’Donnell well since the first summer they stayed here. She took a liking to the friendly priest and he liked her and Rory very much too.
“Tara, how are you today?”
“A bit scared Father.”
“Scared? Gracious me, dear Lord, did someone frighten you, child?”
“The ghost in the castle.”
“Ah, the ghost of Sweet Rosie McNally.”
“Yes, and her daughter, Deirdre.”
“Yes, her sweet little girl, Deirdre.”
“Little Deirdre told me to come to the church at midnight tomorrow. Why would she tell me that Father?”
“First, let me tell you a bit about Sweet Rosie McNally. She had a love who went off to war and he got killed. Some said she never loved again but that was not true for a stranger came to town and he was the father of little Deirdre. But this stranger went away because he feared the scandal of having been with Rosie and neither of them were married and this was in the late 1890’s. Life was very different back then, as you know Tara. Anyway, little Deirdre was about eight or nine years old when she came down with Rheumatic Fever which she eventually died from. After her passing, Sweet Rosie was
never the same and many think she took her own life though some say she just died of a broken heart. But when Deirdre died, she took her up in her arms and carried her to the church here. She put her near the altar, and it is said that she saw Jesus right there in the Church and that he spoke to her. That is probably why the ghost of the child told you to come to the church at midnight, because she died around midnight. When you come tomorrow, I will come here too, and we will see what it is that the ghosts may want to tell us.”
“Thank you so much, Father. I think I understand this ghost of Sweet Rosie McNally and why she continues to rock in the rocking chair. A mother who lost her child would die of a broken heart.”
“Indeed, she would.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Father.”
“I’ll be here my good child.”
Tara returned to Dobagdon Castle and she found Rory sitting at the kitchen table eating some fried eggs. Rory always had a voracious appetite. He looked up at her and smiled so proudly. She was his one and only true love since they were in high school. He loved her more every day.
“How was your golfing?”
“Very good, I met a lot of my old friends, and we had a pint or two and some lunch after we went golfing. Then we also took a ride through the country and went duck hunting. I’m pretty beat now. And you, what did you do all day?
“I was catching up on my reading. Then I took a ride in the country. Afterwards I stopped in the church, and I saw Father O’Donnell. We got talking.”
“He’s a good man. Reminds me of old Father Sayers when we were kids at St. Michael’s.”
“Yes, he does look a little bit like him.”
“Is everything alright Tara?”
“Yes, everything is fine. Why do you ask?”
“You have that worry look on your face.”
“Worry look! Oh, no I am not worried about anything, maybe just a bit tired.”
“You sure Tara?”
“Yes, I am very sure. Don’t worry.”
“I love you so I can’t help worry.”
“I love you too Rory.”
That night, Tara lay in bed next to Rory, and she couldn’t sleep. She heard the ticking of the clock in the hallway, and the chimes on the clock downstairs. The castle was drafty, and Tara felt a chill, so she got up and got an extra blanket to put on the bed. She was startled by the sound of someone weeping. Tara walked into the hallway and looked around but saw no one. She tiptoed into the room adjacent to theirs and saw the rocking chair in that room rocking to and fro and the outline of a shadowy ghost sat in the chair, crying like a baby. Tara didn’t know what to do so she quickly went back to her room and closed the door, and got in bed next to Rory, holding on to him ever so tightly. Finally, she fell asleep.
The next morning Tara took a walk around the grounds of the Castle. There were rows and rows of green hills, and she was looking to pick some shamrocks as she walked. It was so quiet and peaceful out here. Somehow the world and all of its problems seemed so many millions of miles away and she felt like she was in a little paradise of her own.
Dobagdon Castle once belonged to the Prince of Dobagdon and his family. The legend was that he loved many women and married a woman whom he didn’t love at all. He was never happy in his life and when a war broke out, he went off to fight in it and never returned. Later the family of Sweet Rosie McNally bought the castle, and they lived there for many years till Sweet Rosie and her daughter passed away. For many years, it was government property. Now it was a country estate and that was when it went on the market and she and her husband bought it and made it their summer home.
The day passed by rather slowly with Tara trying hard to find things to do to keep her mind off of going to the church at midnight. There was something eerie about walking into a church at nighttime especially when there is no one else around. But Father O’Donnell was going to meet her so that made her feel a bit better inside. Still, she was taking nothing for granted, and bringing her cell phone with her in case she needed to call Rory. He had no idea she was going there tonight.
Tara sat in the living room, sipped some tea and read more of the book she was reading the day before when she saw the rocking chair rocking to and fro with no one in it. She tried to concentrate on the book, and she was just turning the page when she heard the rocking chair once again, and it was rocking to and fro and she could hear the faint voice of someone crying. Tara sat there almost terrified. Suddenly the rocking ceased, and the voice faded away. She went back to her reading.
When midnight approached, Tara sneaked out of the castle and drove to St. Stephen’s Church. Father O’Donnell was in the little church waiting for her. They both knelt to pray for awhile then they sat in the pew and waited in the silence of the church. The candles were burning, and Father had lit them when he came in. He broke the silence.
“This sort of thing can take awhile. A tormented spirit might want to be sure we are going to welcome her presence. I did some research yesterday on the old Dobagdon Castle. It seems the Prince also had a child that died. His child died from smallpox. That was in the year of 1654. Sweet Rosie McNally and her family lived in the castle from the mid 1800’s to the early part of the 1900’s when Sweet Rosie and her child Deirdre both passed on. From that time on the government of Ireland took possession of the castle and rented it out for special occasions. It was just last year when they put it up for sale and you and Rory bought it for a summer home.”
“The castle does have quite a history Father. Sometimes I find old letters from ages ago, wrapped in old paper and stuffed in some of the bureaus. Last week, I found letters that a Princess Irene had written to her lover, a boy named Gallagher. They were madly in love, and it seems Princess Irene was forbidden to see Gallagher as he had a reputation for living on the wild side.”
“Hmm, in these ancient lands of ours, there is just so much history, so many legends, so much folklore.”
“Yes, there is Father.”
The candles began to flicker, the doors in the back of the church flew open, and the sounds of voices could be heard. They turned around to see the ghost of Sweet Rosie McNally, and her child Deirdre in her arms. She was walking right up to the altar. She stopped and looked at Tara and Father O’Donnell.
“Tara, I beseeched thee as you also lost a child and I know you can understand how it was for me losing my dear little Deirdre. I am glad that Father O’Donnell is here.”
“Rosie, I could always somehow feel your pain. And yes, I had a miscarriage. Rory and I are trying to have another child. We may have to go for what they call invitro. I also know you lost the love of your life as he died in war.”
“Yes, my sweet Brian was killed in war. I was never to see him again and my heart was broken till I met James. We never married but I had Deirdre and she was my everything till the Lord called her. But we remain between two worlds.”
Tara now addressed Father O’Donnell.
“You must summon the Lord for me, Father. I be a ghost forever lest you call on the Almighty to take me and my daughter up into His place in Heaven.”
“I can pray to the Lord for you, but I cannot summon Him. I may be a priest but these kinds of powers I do not possess.”
“You are a priest. Speak to the Lord and He will listen to you! Please I beg of thee.”
“Do what she says Father. She is frightening me,” whispered Tara, clutching the good priest’s hand.
“Alright, I’ll give it a try.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Father O’Donnell spoke as loud as he could so the ghost of Sweet Rosie McNally could hear his every word. “Lord Jesus, up in Heaven, take these good souls into Your Heavenly Home. Their spirits are tormented and haunted and they linger here somewhere between Earth and Heaven trying to find their way home. Please, dear Lord, take them into Your Heavenly Arms.” A silence befell them in the church. The tabernacle opened, and a burst of light came forth. A powerful voice spoke.
“Come Sweet Rosie McNally, and your little child, Deirdre, come with me!”
Sweet Rosie McNally carrying her child in her arms kept walking towards the open tabernacle. The light got brighter and suddenly the whole altar was aglow. When the bright light disappeared, so did the ghosts. The tabernacle closed and both Tara and Father O’Donnell knew they had witnessed some kind of a miracle. Tara went home and in the living room, the rocking chair was still.

DARYL
© 2025
By
Gerald Arthur Winter

Other than a week’s vacation over twenty years ago, Debra hadn’t been outside Manhattan. That had been late summer of 2001 when, like many New Yorkers, she desperately needed to get out of the city after 9/11.

She’d spent that week with her parents in their Margate beach house at the Jersey shore. It felt therapeutic to curl her bare feet in the warm sand, something comforting to grab onto and keep her from floating away.

Visions of the iconic landmark in Margate, “Lucy the Elephant” still invaded her dreams in nightmarish fashion long after her retreat from that 9/11 metropolitan terror. Yet, that haunting placoderm image was a comforting substitute for the tangible terror of seeing so many posters of missing friends and associates lost among the black, toxic smoke rolling away from that dark pit that had been The World Trade Towers.

From her youth, the Manhattan skyline Debra had known for the past twenty-five years had changed forever. With the twin towers gone, her heart had become Ground Zero of painful regrets that she’d kept locked away from both family and friends.

Debra was glad she’d returned and stayed in Manhattan for the next two decades because Manhattan’s concrete, steel, and glass was home where her artistic soul thrived.

Her high-heels clicking on the lower Eastside sidewalks always permeated her mind with montages of Gene Kelly tap dancing and singing in the rain, snow, or scorching heat.

Debra had sufficient doses of dramatic success in New York City from bits on “Law and Order” as a CSI to playing a judge in a recurring role on a popular TV drama. Though her name was not a household word with adoring fans, she was satisfied with her successful endeavors and decided to teach wannabe actors online by showing them how to present themselves for auditions.

Last week, the subject was The “Résumé” and the KISS Rule: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Make your introduction show as much about what you want to accomplish as what you’ve already done.

Today’s subject for Debra’s Face Book Messenger group chat was “The Headshot” with three actors eager to learn more before taking that crucial step to begin their pursuit for fame.

“Suppose each of you introduce yourself to the group and tells us about your professional goals,” Debra began the session. “I’ll be taking notes and getting back to each of you individually for a one-on-one chat, so I may interrupt from time to time with some questions to clarify for the group.

“Let’s begin with Allen. How do you spell your name?”

He responded, “A-L-A-N”.

“Tells us about yourself, Alan.”

“I’m twenty-two, just out of NYU, and want to make it on Broadway as a singer and dancer.”

“What experience did you have at NYU?”

“I graduated with honors from Tisch.”

“That must have put you in debt?” she said with an empathetic sigh.

“My husband is a successful trader on Wall Street . . . no debt,” Alan said with a confident shrug. “He wants me to have the best headshot money can buy.”

“That’s an illusion, Alan. Get a high-priced photographer if you like, but you’ll need to internally know what you’re selling about yourself first.”

“How’s this?” Alan said, striking a pose. “My WEST SIDE STORY Bernardo glare.”

The group chuckled and Alan seemed quite pleased with himself.

“How about you, Phoebe? What’s your background?” Debra asked.

“I’m thirty-five and want to update my headshot because I can no longer seek work as an ingénue or bimbo, but I don’t want frumpy parts either.”

“When was your last headshot taken, Phoebe?”

“I’ve kept busy on soaps, so I hadn’t had to go looking for work as long as my recurring role was active. It’s been seven years, so my headshot that got me my part on a daytime series was when I was twenty-five. Since my character was killed off, I have to start over.”

“You should all consider, not just your ages, hairstyles, and wardrobe for your headshots, but your expression that will reflect an attitude. Alan has the right approach. Ask yourselves, what do I want to project from my headshot?”

Another participant asked her, “When was your last headshot taken?”

Debra paused with reflection.

“I was very fortunate right out of Syracuse University under the guidance of Arthur Storch as a Musical Theater major.”

The others murmured recognition.

Debra told them, “I was always younger than my classmates in school so I graduated with a BFA at twenty-one, left home, and went to Manhattan on the bus from Jersey with my last fifty bucks from waiting tips at ‘The Mason Jar’ pub in Mahwah.”

“Weren’t you terrified?” Phoebe asked.

“Of course, but I got a job waiting tables in a sports bar three hours after arriving at Port Authority Terminal. I worked till midnight and crashed at a friend’s grandparents’ Upper West Side apartment. Next morning, on my way to my first waiting job, I applied for a hostess job at a three-star restaurant. I kept doing that until, a year later, I became a reservationist at THE SIGN OF THE DOVE.
Then I could afford to pay rent in the East Village shared with two roommates.”

“How did you pay for a headshot?” the third participant asked, but only her sound emitted, and her screen was blank without a visual. “Did you have sex with the photographer?”

Debra saw Alan’s and Phoebe’s mouths drop open with aghast.

Debra was momentarily stunned and perceived a muffled gasp from Phoebe and a glare from Alan that transformed him from Bernardo into Nosferatu.

A good look for his headshot, Debra thought.

“We have stated certain rules for this chat platform which we must all respect,” Debra said, composing herself with a deep breath. Suppose you identify yourself and turn on your visual with the rest of us.”

“I’d rather not,” the voice said.

“Please tell us your name and about your experience.”

“You know who I am, Debra.”

“I’m sure I don’t, but you’re not participating properly for this venue, so let me ask you to stand by while I finish with my notes for Alan and Phoebe then you and I can continue
one-on-one. However, that will cost an additional fifty dollars.”

“Whatever.”

Debra squirmed for a moment then took a deep breath.

“OK, Alan, since cost isn’t an issue for you, at your age, you should experiment with several looks. Get at least three different headshots, maybe more. Discuss them with friends and your husband then join me here again to show them to me for my input as well.”

Alan agreed and cheerfully signed off.

“Phoebe, you’ve been through this before, but with your professional experience you need to consult your agent to determine your plan together, then come show me your headshots. No charge.”

“Thank you, Debra. That’s what I planned to do, but you’ve given me the confidence to see that’s the best approach to restart my career.”

Phoebe signed off and left Debra facing the remaining blank screen with intermittent static.

“OK . . . we’re alone now. Please tell me your name and turn on your visual.”

“This is my headshot,” the woman’s voice said, turning on her camera, but slapping her headshot against the screen and concealing herself behind it.”

Debra froze as the black-and-white image wavered in her vision and she heard a group of young voices kidding one another between intermittent laughter. They were familiar male and female voices, six in all, because one was her own.

As if in a time-capsule, Debra felt an out-of- body sensation that transported her to the rented home she’d shared with five other Musical Theater undergraduates: Three guys, two gay, and a third uncertain.

Besides herself, there were Kristin and Beverly to complete the six occupants on the lease for their off-campus abode in Syracuse, which they whimsically called: “HELL HOUSE”.

One male voice she recognized as Mark, said in forced, dramatic baritone, “Debra, your first headshot, and it already shows your split personality.”

“What do you mean?” Debra mouthed the words she heard coming from behind her headshot from over thirty years ago, but the voice she heard emitting from the screen was her own.

Youthful, and light in spirit, her voice was that of a theatrical newbie filled with hope and dreams of fame and fortune.

The others remained silent.

From her past, Mark’s voice remarked, “Can’t you see it, Deb? The left half of your expression, the gleam in your left eye? See that curl at the corner of your bottom lip on your left. I can almost hear you growl. Now do you see it, Deb? It’s the evil side of your psyche.”

Her other roommates laughed along with Mark as he said, “The right side of your face is Debra, but the left side looks like someone I’d call ‘Daryl’, a babysitter who might drown a child.”

Debra felt her body shake. Her tremor radiated from her neck and shoulders, down each arm to her fingertips.

She extended her right hand to the laptop’s screen to cover that one glaring eye, but when her fingertips touched the screen, instead of glass, she felt paper, the back of a headshot photo stamped “November 1992”.

She felt her heart pounding up towards her throat when she heard a newscast on a TV in the background, Bill Clinton declaring his Presidential victory.

“Daryl!” Debra heard her roommates calling to her, but their harmonized, Musical Theater, melodic chorus didn’t come from the PC’s screen, but rather from behind her.

She turned around to see their familiar, youthful faces of inspired talent.

“Let’s see your headshot!” they chanted.

When Debra pulled the photo away from the screen to show them, she saw on the PC screen the specter of a middle-aged woman’s face for only a moment before it vanished.

Mark snatched the photo from her and motioned the other five to gather round.

“See your right eye and how it twinkles. Note your bottom lip, how it curves up towards your dimpled cheek. That’s your good side, Daryl, the quintessence of innocence and kindness.”

She felt breathless as if a yoke had been lifted from her craned neck.

Let’s call your right side ‘Debra’,” Mark said.

The others concurred.

She saw that Mark’s assessment was true.

“See how your right profile is sweet, compassionate Debra, who would teach others rather than perform. I fear her tender heart need be driven through by a stake, so the ever present darkness of her soul may succeed as our darling who might kill for the right part . . . as dearest ‘Daryl’.”

The Bridge

By Franz Kafka

I was stiff and cold, I was a bridge, I lay over a ravine. My toes on one side, my fingers clutching the other, I had clamped myself fast into the crumbling clay. The tails of my coat fluttered at my sides. Far below brawled the icy trout stream. No tourist strayed to this impassable height, the bridge was not yet traced on any map. So I lay and waited; I could only wait. Without falling, no bridge, once spanned, can cease to be a bridge.

It was toward evening one day—was it the first, was it the thousandth? I cannot tell—my thoughts were always in confusion and perpetually moving in a circle. It was toward evening in summer, the roar of the stream had grown deeper, when I heard the sound of a human step! To me, to me. Straighten yourself, bridge, make ready, railless beams, to hold up the passenger entrusted to you. If his steps are uncertain, steady them unobtrusively, but if he stumbles show what you are made of and like a mountain god hurl him across to land.

Jean Paul Sartre

“The Wall”

They pushed us into a big white room and I began to blink because the light hurt my eyes. Then I saw a table and four men behind the table, civilians, looking over the papers. They had bunched another group of prisoners in the back and we had to cross the whole room to join them. There were several I knew and some others who must have been foreigners. The two in front of me were blond with round skulls: they looked alike. I supposed they were French.

The smaller one kept hitching up his pants: nerves. It lasted about three hours: I was dizzy and my head was empty; but the room was well heated and I found that pleasant enough: for the past 24 hours we hadn't stopped shivering. The guards brought the prisoners up to the table, one after the other. The four men asked each one his name and occupation. Most of the time they didn't go any further--or they would simply ask a question here and there: "Did you have anything to do with the sabotage of munitions?" Or "Where were you the morning of the 9th and what were you doing?" They didn't listen to the answers or at least didn't seem to. They were quiet for a moment and then looking straight in front of them began to write. They asked Tom if it were true he was in the International Brigade: Tom couldn't tell them otherwise because of the papers they found in his coat. They didn't ask Juan anything but they wrote for a long time after he told them his name. "My brother Jose is the anarchist," Juan said "You know he isn't here any more. I don't belong to any party. I never had anything to do with politics." They didn't answer. Juan went on, "I haven't done anything. I don't want to pay for somebody else." His lips trembled. A guard shut him up and took him away. It was my turn. "Your name is Pablo Ibbieta?" "Yes." The man looked at the papers and asked me "Where's Ramon Gris?" "I don't know." "You hid him in your house from the 6th to the 19th." "No." They wrote for a minute and then the guards took me out. In the corridor Tom and Juan were waiting between two guards. We started walking. Tom asked one of the guards, "So?" "So what?" the guard said. "Was that the cross-examination or the sentence?" "Sentence" the guard said. "What are they going to do with us?" The guard answered dryly, "Sentence will be read in your cell."

As a matter of fact, our cell was one of the hospital cellars. It was terrifically cold there because of the drafts. We shivered all night and it wasn't much better during the day. I had spent the previous five days in a cell in a monastery, a sort of hole in the wall that must have dated from the middle ages: since there were a lot of prisoners and not much room, they locked us up anywhere. I didn't miss my cell; I hadn't suffered too much from the cold but I was alone; after a long time it gets irritating. In the cellar I had company. Juan hardly ever spoke: he was afraid and he was too young to have anything to say. But Tom was a good talker and he knew Spanish well. There was a bench in the cellar and four mats. When they took us back we sat and waited in silence. After a long moment, Tom said, "We're screwed." "l think so too," I said, "but I don't think they'll do any thing to the kid.". "They don't have a thing against him," said Tom. "He's the brother of a militiaman and that's all." I looked at Juan: he didn't seem to hear. Tom went on, "You know what they do in Saragossa? They lay the men down on the road and run over them with trucks. A Moroccan deserter told us that. They said it was to save ammunition." "It doesn't save gas." I said. I was annoyed at Tom: he shouldn't have said that. "Then there's officers walking along the road," he went on, "supervising it all. They stick their hands in their pockets and smoke cigarettes. You think they finish off the guys? Hell no. They let them scream. Sometimes for an hour. The Moroccan said he damned near puked the first time." "I don't believe they'll do that here," I said. "Unless they're really short on ammunition." Day was coming in through four air holes and a round opening they had made in the ceiling on the left, and you could see the sky through it. Through this hole, usually closed by a trap, they unloaded coal into the cellar. Just below the hole there was a big pile of coal dust: it had been used to heat the hospital, but since the beginning of the war the patients were evacuated and the coal stayed there, unused; sometimes it even got rained on because they had forgotten to close the trap. Tom began to shiver. "Good Jesus Christ, I'm cold," he said. "Here it goes again." He got up and began to do exercises. At each movement his shirt opened on his chest, white and hairy. He lay on his back, raised his legs in the air and bicycled. I saw his great rump trembling. Tom was husky but he had too much fat. I thought how riffle bullets or the sharp points of bayonets would soon be sunk into this mass of tender flesh as in a lump of butter. It wouldn't have made me feel like that if he'd been thin. I wasn't exactly cold, but I couldn't feel my arms and shoulders any more. Sometimes I had the impression I was missing something and began to look around for my coat and then suddenly remembered they hadn't given me a coat. It was rather uncomfortable. They took our clothes and gave them to their soldiers leaving us only our shirts--and those canvas pants that hospital patients wear in the middle of summer. After a while Tom got up and sat next to me, breathing heavily. "Warmer?" "Good Christ, no. But I'm out of wind."

Around eight o'clock in the evening a major came in with two falangistas. He had a sheet of paper in his hand. He asked the guard, "What are the names of those three?" "Steinbock, Ibbieta and Mirbal," the guard said. The major put on his eyeglasses and scanned the list: "Steinbock...Steinbock...Oh yes...You are sentenced to death. You will be shot tomorrow morning." He went on looking. "The other two as well." "That's not possible," Juan said. "Not me." The major looked at him amazed. "What's your name?" "Juan Mirbal" he said. "Well your name is there," said the major. "You're sentenced." "I didn't do anything," Juan said. The major shrugged his shoulders and turned to Tom and me. "You're Basque?" "Nobody is Basque." He looked annoyed. "They told me there were three Basques. I'm not going to waste my time running after them. Then naturally you don't want a priest?" We didn't even answer. He said, "A Belgian doctor is coming shortly. He is authorized to spend the night with you." He made a military salute and left. "What did I tell you," Tom said. "We get it." "Yes, I said, "it's a rotten deal for the kid." I said that to be decent but I didn't like the kid. His face was too thin and fear and suffering had disfigured it, twisting all his features. Three days before he was a smart sort of kid, not too bad; but now he looked like an old fairy and I thought how he'd never be young again, even if they were to let him go. It wouldn't have been too hard to have a little pity for him but pity disgusts me, or rather it horrifies me. He hadn't said anything more but he had turned grey; his face and hands were both grey.

He sat down again and looked at the ground with round eyes. Tom was good hearted, he wanted to take his arm, but the kid tore himself away violently and made a face. "Let him alone," I said in a low voice, "you can see he's going to blubber." Tom obeyed regretfully: he would have liked to comfort the kid, it would have passed his time and he wouldn't have been tempted to think about himself. But it annoyed me: I'd never thought about death because I never had any reason to, but now the reason was here and there was nothing to do but think about it. Tom began to talk. "So you think you've knocked guys off, do you?" he asked me. I didn't answer. He began explaining to me that he had knocked off six since the beginning of August; he didn't realize the situation and I could tell he didn't want to realize it. I hadn't quite realized it myself, I wondered if it hurt much, I thought of bullets, I imagined their burning hail through my body. All that was beside the real question; but I was calm: we had all night to understand. After a while Tom stopped talking and I watched him out of the corner of my eye; I saw he too had turned grey and he looked rotten; I told myself "Now it starts." It was almost dark, a dim glow filtered through the air holes and the pile of coal and made a big stain beneath the spot of sky; I could already see a star through the hole in the ceiling: the night would be pure and icy. The door opened and two guards came in, followed by a blonde man in a tan uniform. He saluted us. "I am the doctor," he said. "I have authorization to help you in these trying hours." He had an agreeable and distinguished voice. I said, "What do you want here?" "I am at your disposal. I shall do all I can to make your last moments less difficult." "What did you come here for? There are others, the hospital's full of them." "I was sent here," he answered with a vague look. "Ah! Would you like to smoke?" he added hurriedly, "I have cigarettes and even cigars." He offered us English cigarettes and puros, but we refused. I looked him in the eyes and he seemed irritated. I said to him, "You aren't here on an errand of mercy. Besides, I know you. I saw you with the fascists in the barracks yard the day I was arrested." I was going to continue, but something surprising suddenly happened to me; the presence of this doctor no longer interested me. Generally when I'm on somebody I don't let go. But the desire to talk left me completely; I shrugged and turned my eyes away. A little later I raised my head; he was watching me curiously. The guards were sitting on a mat. Pedro, the tall thin one, was twiddling his thumbs, the other shook his head from time to time to keep from falling asleep. "Do you want a light?" Pedro suddenly asked the doctor. The other nodded "Yes": I think he was about as smart as a log, but he surely wasn't bad.

Looking in his cold blue eyes it seemed to me that his only sin was lack of imagination. Pedro went out and came back with an oil lamp which he set on the corner of the bench. It gave a bad light but it was better than nothing: they had left us in the dark the night before. For a long time I watched the circle of light the lamp made on the ceiling. I was fascinated. Then suddenly I woke up, the circle of light disappeared and I felt myself crushed under an enormous weight. It was not the thought of death, or fear; it was nameless. My cheeks burned and my head ached. I shook myself and looked at my two friends. Tom had hidden his face in his hands. I could only see the fat white nape of his neck. Little Juan was the worst, his mouth was open and his nostrils trembled. The doctor went to him and put his hand on his shoulder to comfort him: but his eyes stayed cold. Then I saw the Belgian's hand drop stealthily along Juan's arm, down to the wrist. Juan paid no attention. The Belgian took his wrist between three fingers, distractedly, the same time drawing back a little and turning his back to me. But I leaned backward and saw him take a watch from his pocket and look at it for a moment, never letting go of the wrist. After a minute he let the hand fall inert and went and leaned his back against the wall, then, as if he suddenly remembered something very important which had to be jotted down on the spot, he took a notebook from his pocket and wrote a few lines. "Bastard," I thought angrily, "let him come and take my pulse. I'll shove my fist in his rotten face." He didn't come but I felt him watching me. I raised my head and returned his look. Impersonally, he said to me "Doesn't it seem cold to you here?" He looked cold, he was blue. I'm not cold," I told him. He never took his hard eyes off me. Suddenly I understood and my hands went to my face: I was drenched in sweat. In this cellar, in the midst of winter, in the midst of drafts, I was sweating. I ran my hands through my hair, gummed together with perspiration: at the same time I saw my shirt was damp and sticking to my skin: I had been dripping for an hour and hadn't felt it. But that swine of a Belgian hadn't missed a thing; he had seen the drops rolling down my cheeks and thought: this is the manifestation of an almost pathological state of terror; and he had felt normal and proud of being alive because he was cold. I wanted to stand up and smash his face but no sooner had I made the slightest gesture than my rage and shame were wiped out; I fell back on the bench with indifference. I satisfied myself by rubbing my neck with my handkerchief because now I felt the sweat dropping from my hair onto my neck and it was unpleasant. I soon gave up rubbing, it was useless; my handkerchief was already soaked and I was still sweating. My buttocks were sweating too and my damp trousers were glued to the bench. Suddenly Juan spoke. "You're a doctor?" "Yes," the Belgian said. "Does it hurt... very long?" "Huh? When... ? Oh, no" the Belgian said paternally "Not at all. It's over quickly." He acted as though he were calming a cash customer. "But I... they told me... sometimes they have to fire twice." "Sometimes," the Belgian said, nodding. "It may happen that the first volley reaches no vital organs." "Then they have to reload their rifles and aim all over again?" He thought for a moment and then added hoarsely, "That takes time!" He had a terrible fear of suffering, it was all he thought about: it was his age. I never thought much about it and it wasn't fear of suffering that made me sweat. I got up and walked to the pile of coal dust.

Tom jumped up and threw me a hateful look: I had annoyed him because my shoes squeaked. I wondered if my face looked as frightened as his: I saw he was sweating too. The sky was superb, no light filtered into the dark corner and I had only to raise my head to see the Big Dipper. But it wasn't like it had been: the night before I could see a great piece of sky from my monastery cell and each hour of the day brought me a different memory. Morning, when the sky was a hard, light blue, I thought of beaches on the Atlantic: at noon I saw the sun and I remembered a bar in Seville where I drank manzanilla and ate olives and anchovies: afternoons I was in the shade and I thought of the deep shadow which spreads over half a bull-ring leaving the other half shimmering in sunlight: it was really hard to see the whole world reflected in the sky like that. But now I could watch the sky as much as I pleased, it no longer evoked anything tn me. I liked that better. I came back and sat near Tom. A long moment passed. Tom began speaking in a low voice. He had to talk, without that he wouldn't have been able no recognize himself in his own mind. I thought he was talking to me but he wasn't looking at me. He was undoubtedly afraid to see me as I was, grey and sweating: we were alike and worse than mirrors of each other. He watched the Belgian, the living. "Do you understand?" he said. "I don't understand." I began to speak in a low voice too. I watched the Belgian. "Why? What's the matter?" "Something is going to happen to us than I can't understand." There was a strange smell about Tom. It seemed to me I was more sensitive than usual to odors. I grinned. "You'll understand in a while." "It isn't clear," he said obstinately. "I want to be brave but first I have to know. . . .Listen, they're going to take us into the courtyard. Good.

​They're going to stand up in front of us. How many?" "l don't know. Five or eight. Not more." "All right. There'll be eight. Someone'll holler 'aim!' and I'll see eight rifles looking at me. I'll think how I'd like to get inside the wall, I'll push against it with my back. . . . with every ounce of strength I have, but the wall will stay, like in a nightmare. I can imagine all that. If you only knew how well I can imagine it." "All right, all right!" I said. "I can imagine it too." "lt must hurt like hell. You know they aim at the eyes and the mouth to disfigure you," he added mechanically. "I can feel the wounds already. I've had pains in my head and in my neck for the past hour. Not real pains. Worse. This is what I'm going to feel tomorrow morning. And then what?" I well understood what he meant but I didn't want to act as if I did. I had pains too, pains in my body like a crowd of tiny scars. I couldn't get used to it. But I was like him. I attached no importance to it. "After," I said. "you'll be pushing up daisies." He began to talk to himself: he never stopped watching the Belgian. The Belgian didn't seem to be listening. I knew what he had come to do; he wasn't interested in what we thought; he came to watch our bodies, bodies dying in agony while yet alive. "It's like a nightmare," Tom was saying. "You want to think something, you always have the impression that it's all right, that you're going to understand and then it slips, it escapes you and fades away. I tell myself there will be nothing afterwards. But I don't understand what it means. Sometimes I almost can.... and then it fades away and I start thinking about the pains again, bullets, explosions. I'm a materialist, I swear it to you; I'm not going crazy. But something's the matter. I see my corpse; that's not hard but I'm the one who sees it, with my eyes. I've got to think... think that I won't see anything anymore and the world will go on for the others. We aren't made to think that, Pablo. Believe me: I've already stayed up a whole night waiting for something. But this isn't the same: this will creep up behind us, Pablo, and we won't be able to prepare for it." "Shut up," I said, "Do you want me to call a priest?" He didn't answer. I had already noticed he had the tendency to act like a prophet and call me Pablo, speaking in a toneless voice. I didn't like that: but it seems all the Irish are that way. I had the vague impression he smelled of urine. Fundamentally, I hadn't much sympathy for Tom and I didn't see why, under the pretext of dying together, I should have any more. It would have been different with some others. With Ramon Gris, for example. But I felt alone between Tom and Juan. I liked that better, anyhow: with Ramon I might have been more deeply moved. But I was terribly hard just then and I wanted to stay hard. He kept on chewing his words, with something like distraction. He certainly talked to keep himself from thinking. He smelled of urine like an old prostate case. Naturally, I agreed with him. I could have said everything he said: it isn't natural to die. And since I was going to die, nothing seemed natural to me, not this pile of coal dust, or the bench, or Pedro's ugly face. Only it didn't please me to think the same things as Tom. And I knew that, all through the night, every five minutes, we would keep on thinking things at the same time. I looked at him sideways and for the first time he seemed strange to me: he wore death on his face. My pride was wounded: for the past 24 hours I had lived next to Tom, I had listened to him. I had spoken to him and I knew we had nothing in common. And now we looked as much alike as twin brothers, simply because we were going to die together. Tom took my hand without looking at me. "Pablo. I wonder... I wonder if it's really true that everything ends." I took my hand away and said, "Look between your feet, you pig." There was a big puddle between his feet and drops fell from his pants-leg. "What is it," he asked, frightened. "You're pissing in your pants," I told him. "lt isn't true," he said furiously. "I'm not pissing. I don't feel anything." The Belgian approached us. He asked with false solicitude. "Do you feel ill?" Tom did not answer. The Belgian looked at the puddle and said nothing. "I don't know what it is," Tom said ferociously. "But I'm not afraid. I swear I'm not afraid." The Belgian did not answer. Tom got up and went to piss in a corner. He came back buttoning his fly, and sat down without a word. The Belgian was taking notes. All three of us watched him because he was alive. He had the motions of a living human being, the cares of a living human being; he shivered in the cellar the way the living are supposed to shiver; he had an obedient, well-fed body. The rest of us hardly felt ours--not in the same way anyhow. I wanted to feel my pants between my legs but I didn't dare; I watched the Belgian, balancing on his legs, master of his muscles, someone who could think about tomorrow. There we were, three bloodless shadows; we watched him and we sucked his life like vampires. Finally he went over to little Juan. Did he want to feel his neck for some professional motive or was he obeying an impulse of charity? If he was acting by charity it was the only time during the whole night. He caressed Juan's head and neck. The kid let himself be handled, his eyes never leaving him, then suddenly he seized the hand and looked at it strangely. He held the Belgian's hand between his own two hands and there was nothing pleasant about them, two grey pincers gripping this fat and reddish hand. I suspected what was going to happen and Tom must have suspected it too: but the Belgian didn't see a thing, he smiled paternally. After a moment the kid brought the fat red hand to his mouth and tried to bite it. The Belgian pulled away quickly and stumbled back against the wall. For a second he looked at us with horror, he must have suddenly understood that we were not men like him. I began to laugh and one of the guards jumped up. The other was asleep, his wide open eyes were blank. I felt relaxed and over-excited at the same time. I didn't want to think any more about what would happen at dawn, at death. It made no sense. I only found words or emptiness. But as soon as I tried to think of anything else I saw rifle barrels pointing at me. Perhaps I lived through my execution twenty times; once I even thought it was for good: I must have slept a minute. They were dragging me to the wall and I was struggling; I was asking for mercy. I woke up with a start and looked at the Belgian: I was afraid I might have cried out in my sleep. But he was stroking his moustache, he hadn't noticed anything. If I had wanted to, I think I could have slept a while; I had been awake for 48 hours. I was at the end of my rope. But I didn't want to lose two hours of life; they would come to wake me up at dawn. I would follow them, stupefied with sleep and I would have croaked without so much as an "Oof!"; I didn't want that. I didn't want to die like an animal, I wanted to understand. Then I was afraid of having nightmares. I got up, walked back and forth, and, to change my ideas, I began to think about my past life. A crowd of memories came back to me pell-mell. There were good and bad ones--or at least I called them that before. There were faces and incidents. I saw the face of a little novillero who was gored tn Valencia during the Feria, the face of one of my uncles, the face of Ramon Gris. I remembered my whole life: how I was out of work for three months in 1926, how I almost starved to death. I remembered a night I spent on a bench in Granada: I hadn't eaten for three days. I was angry, I didn't want to die. That made me smile. How madly I ran after happiness, after women, after liberty. Why? I wanted to free Spain, I admired Pi y Margall, I joined the anarchist movement, I spoke in public meetings: I took everything as seriously as if I were immortal. At that moment I felt that I had my whole life in front of me and I thought, "It's a damned lie." It was worth nothing because it was finished. I wondered how I'd been able to walk, to laugh with the girls: I wouldn't have moved so much as my little finger if I had only imagined I would die like this. My life was in front of me, shut, closed, like a bag and yet everything inside of it was unfinished. For an instant I tried to judge it. I wanted to tell myself, this is a beautiful life. But I couldn't pass judgment on it; it was only a sketch; I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity, I had understood nothing. I missed nothing: there were so many things I could have missed, the taste of manzanilla or the baths I took in summer in a little creek near Cadiz; but death had disenchanted everything. The Belgian suddenly had a bright idea. "My friends," he told us, "I will undertake--if the military administration will allow it--to send a message for you, a souvenir to those who love you. . . ." Tom mumbled, "I don't have anybody." I said nothing. Tom waited an instant then looked at me with curiosity. "You don't have anything to say to Concha?" "No." I hated this tender complicity: it was my own fault, I had talked about Concha the night before. I should have controlled myself. I was with her for a year. Last night I would have given an arm to see her again for five minutes. That was why I talked about her, it was stronger than I was. Now I had no more desire to see her, I had nothing more to say to her. I would not even have wanted to hold her in my arms: my body filled me with horror because it was grey and sweating--and I wasn't sure that her body didn't fill me with horror. Concha would cry when she found out I was dead, she would have no taste for life for months afterward. But I was still the one who was going to die. I thought of her soft, beautiful eyes. When she looked at me something passed from her to me. But I knew it was over: if she looked at me now the look would stay in her eyes, it wouldn't reach me. I was alone. Tom was alone too but not in the same way. Sitting cross-legged, he had begun to stare at the bench with a sort of smile, he looked amazed. He put out his hand and touched the wood cautiously as if he were afraid of breaking something, then drew back his hand quickly and shuddered. If I had been Tom I wouldn't have amused myself by touching the bench; this was some more Irish nonsense, but I too found that objects had a funny look: they were more obliterated, less dense than usual. It was enough for me to look at the bench, the lamp, the pile of coal dust, to feel that I was going to die. Naturally I couldn't think clearly about my death but I saw it everywhere, on things, in the way things fell back and kept their distance, discreetly, as people who speak quietly at the bedside of a dying man. It was his death which Tom had just touched on the bench. In the state I was in, if someone had come and told me I could go home quietly, that they would leave me my life whole, it would have left me cold: several hours or several years of waiting is all the same when you have lost the illusion of being eternal. I clung to nothing, in a way I was calm. But it was a horrible calm--because of my body; my body, I saw with its eyes, I heard with its ears, but it was no longer me; it sweated and trembled by itself and I didn't recognize it any more. I had to touch it and look at it to find out what was happening, as if it were the body of someone else. At times I could still feel it, I felt sinkings, and fallings, as when you're in a plane taking a nose dive, or I felt my heart beating. But that didn't reassure me. Everything that came from my body was all cockeyed. Most of the time it was quiet and I felt no more than a sort of weight, a filthy presence against me; I had the impression of being tied to an enormous vermin. Once I felt my pants and I felt they were damp; I didn't know whether it was sweat or urine, but I went to piss on the coal pile as a precaution. The Belgian took out his watch, looked at it. He said, "It is three-thirty." Bastard! He must have done it on purpose. Tom jumped; we hadn't noticed time was running out; night surrounded us like a shapeless, somber mass. I couldn't even remember that it had begun. Little Juan began to cry. He wrung his hands, pleaded, "I don't want to die. I don't want to die." He ran across the whole cellar waving his arms in the air then fell sobbing on one of the mats. Tom watched him with mournful eyes, without the slightest desire to console him. Because it wasn't worth the trouble: the kid made more noise than we did, but he was less touched: he was like a sick man who defends himself against his illness by fever. It's much more serious when there isn't any fever. He wept: I could clearly see he was pitying himself; he wasn't thinking about death. For one second, one single second, I wanted to weep myself, to weep with pity for myself. But the opposite happened: I glanced at the kid, I saw his thin sobbing shoulders and I felt inhuman: I could pity neither the others nor myself. I said to myself, "I want to die cleanly." Tom had gotten up, he placed himself just under the round opening and began to watch for daylight. I was determined to die cleanly and I only thought of that. But ever since the doctor told us the time, I felt time flying, flowing away drop by drop. It was still dark when I heard Tom's voice: "Do you hear them?" Men were marching in the courtyard. "Yes." "What the hell are they doing? They can't shoot in the dark." After a while we heard no more. I said to Tom, "It's day." Pedro got up, yawning, and came to blow out the lamp. He said to his buddy, "Cold as hell." The cellar was all grey. We heard shots in the distance. "It's starting," I told Tom. "They must do it in the court in the rear." Tom asked the doctor for a cigarette. I didn't want one; I didn't want cigarettes or alcohol. From that moment on they didn't stop firing. "Do you realize what's happening," Tom said. He wanted to add something but kept quiet, watching the door. The door opened and a lieutenant came in with four soldiers. Tom dropped his cigarette. "Steinbock?" Tom didn't answer. Pedro pointed him out. "Juan Mirbal?" "On the mat." "Get up," the lieutenant said. Juan did not move. Two soldiers took him under the arms and set him on his feet. But he fell as soon as they released him. The soldiers hesitated. "He's not the first sick one," said the lieutenant. "You two carry him: they'll fix it up down there." He turned to Tom. "Let's go." Tom went out between two soldiers. Two others followed, carrying the kid by the armpits. He hadn't fainted; his eyes were wide open and tears ran down his cheeks. When I wanted to go out the lieutenant stopped me. "You Ibbieta?" "Yes." "You wait here: they'll come for you later." They left. The Belgian and the two jailers left too, I was alone. I did not understand what was happening to me but I would have liked it better if they had gotten it over with right away. I heard shots at almost regular intervals; I shook with each one of them. I wanted to scream and tear out my hair. But I gritted my teeth and pushed my hands in my pockets because I wanted to stay clean. After an hour they came to get me and led me to the first floor, to a small room that smelt of cigars and where the heat was stifling. There were two officers sitting smoking in the armchairs, papers on their knees. "You're Ibbieta?" "Yes." "Where is Ramon Gris?" "l don't know." The one questioning me was short and fat. His eyes were hard behind his glasses. He said to me, "Come here." I went to him. He got up and took my arms, staring at me with a look that should have pushed me into the earth. At the same time he pinched my biceps with all his might. It wasn't to hurt me, it was only a game: he wanted to dominate me. He also thought he had to blow his stinking breath square in my face. We stayed for a moment like that, and I almost felt like laughing. It takes a lot to intimidate a man who is going to die; it didn't work. He pushed me back violently and sat down again. He said, "It's his life against yours. You can have yours if you tell us where he is." These men dolled up with their riding crops and boots were still going to die. A little later than I, but not too much. They busied themselves looking for names in their crumpled papers, they ran after other men to imprison or suppress them: they had opinions on the future of Spain and on other subjects. Their little activities seemed shocking and burlesqued to me; I couldn't put myself in their place. I thought they were insane. The little man was still looking at me, whipping his boots with the riding crop. All his gestures were calculated to give him the look of a live and ferocious beast. "So? You understand?" I don't know where Gris is," I answered. "I thought he was in Madrid." The other officer raised his pale hand indolently. This indolence was also calculated. I saw through all their little schemes and I was stupefied to find there were men who amused themselves that way. "You have a quarter of an hour to think it over," he said slowly. "Take him to the laundry, bring him back in fifteen minutes. If he still refuses he will he executed on the spot." They knew what they were doing: I had passed the night in waiting; then they had made me wait an hour in the cellar while they shot Tom and Juan and now they were locking me up in the laundry; they must have prepared their game the night before. They told themselves that nerves eventually wear out and they hoped to get me that way. They were badly mistaken. In the laundry I sat on a stool because I felt very weak and I began to think. But not about their proposition. Of course I knew where Gris was; he was hiding with his cousins, four kilometers from the city. I also knew that I would not reveal his hiding place unless they tortured me (but they didn't seem to be thinking about that). All that was perfectly regulated, definite and in no way interested me. Only I would have liked to understand the reasons for my conduct. I would rather die than give up Gris. Why? I didn't like Ramon Gris any more. My friendship for him had died a little while before dawn at the same time as my love for Concha, at the same time as my desire to live. Undoubtedly I thought highly of him: he was tough. But it was not for this reason that I consented to die in his place; his life had no more value than mine; no life had value. They were going to slap a man up against a wall and shoot at him till he died, whether it was I or Gris or somebody else made no difference. I knew he was more useful than I to the cause of Spain but I thought to hell with Spain and anarchy; nothing was important. Yet I was there, I could save my skin and give up Gris and I refused to do it. I found that somehow comic; it was obstinacy. I thought, "I must be stubborn!" And a droll sort of gaiety spread over me. They came for me and brought me back to the two officers. A rat ran out from under my feet and that amused me. I turned to one of the falangistas and said, "Did you see the rat?" He didn't answer. He was very sober, he took himself seriously. I wanted to laugh but I held myself back because I was afraid that once I got started I wouldn't be able to stop. The falangista had a moustache. I said to him again, "You ought to shave off your moustache, idiot." I thought it funny that he would let the hairs of his living being invade his face. He kicked me without great conviction and I kept quiet. "Well," said the fat officer, "have you thought about it?" I looked at them with curiosity, as insects of a very rare species. I told them, "I know where he is. He is hidden in the cemetery. In a vault or in the gravediggers' shack." It was a farce. I wanted to see them stand up, buckle their belts and give orders busily. They jumped to their feet. "Let's go. Molés, go get fifteen men from Lieutenant Lopez. You," the fat man said, "I'll let you off if you're telling the truth, but it'll cost you plenty if you're making monkeys out of us." "They left in a great clatter and I waited peacefully under the guard of falangistas. From time to time I smiled, thinking about the spectacle they would make. I felt stunned and malicious. I imagined them lifting up tombstones, opening the doors of the vaults one by one. I represented this situation to myself as if I had been someone else: this prisoner obstinately playing the hero, these grim falangistas with their moustaches and their men in uniform running among the graves; it was irresistibly funny. After half an hour the little fat man came back alone. I thought he had come to give the orders to execute me. The others must have stayed in the cemetery. The officer looked at me. He didn't look at all sheepish. "Take him into the big courtyard with the others," he said. "After the military operations a regular court will decide what happens to him." "Then they're not... not going to shoot me?..." "Not now, anyway. What happens afterwards is none of my business." I still didn't understand. I asked, "But why...?" He shrugged his shoulders without answering and the soldiers took me away. In the big courtyard there were about a hundred prisoners, women, children and a few old men. I began walking around the central grass plot, I was stupefied. At noon they let us eat in the mess hall. Two or three people questioned me. I must have known them, but I didn't answer: I didn't even know where I was. Around evening they pushed about ten new prisoners into the court. I recognized Garcia, the baker. He said, "What damned luck you have! I didn't think I'd see you alive." "They sentenced me to death," I said, "and then they changed their minds. I don't know why." "They arrested me at two o'clock," Garcia said. "Why?" Garcia had nothing to do with politics. "I don't know," he said. "They arrest everybody who doesn't think the way they do." He lowered his voice. "They got Gris." I began to tremble. "When?" "This morning. He messed it up. He left his cousin's on Tuesday because they had an argument. There were plenty of people to hide him but he didn't want to owe anything to anybody. He said, ' I'd go and hide in Ibbieta's place, but they got him, so I'll go hide in the cemetery.'" "In the cemetery?" "Yes. What a fool. Of course they went by there this morning, that was sure to happen. They found him in the gravediggers' shack. He shot at them and they got him." "In the cemetery!" Everything began to spin and I found myself sitting on the ground: I laughed so hard I cried.

POETIC ANTHOLOGY

By Royal Rhodes



GRANDMOTHER'S CRECHE

She was already old
   I remember well
and grew only older
   each winter we carried
the large wooden crate
   down from under the eaves.

She sat in her chair
   pulled next to the tree
to direct how we unpacked
   the familiar ornaments
and the oldest ~ a Santa
   stuffed in a felt boot.

And then we gingerly
   unfolded from newsprint
the few pieces left
   of the plaster nativity
figures she and her husband,
   dead now, had bought.

The years had been unkind.
   The shepherd's shoulder
was broken, a king's slippered
   foot hung from a wire,
and the archangel's wing
   swung dangerously loose.

As we scattered the matted
   straw around the stable's
cracked floor where an ox
   and a camel teetered,
she cupped in her cracked
   hands the tiny infant.

And we stood back
   as she knelt down
to place the painted child
   into an empty crib,
and then awkwardly rose
   and reached for a drink.

We remember such nights
   in the nights since
and know in some way
   how she must hold now
that fragile child,
   warm in her hands.
________________________________________________________

                              +
                              O
                            THE
                          SEVEN
                      ANTIPHONS
                      CHRISTMAS
                     LETS US SING
                SAPIENTIA * ADONAI
            LEADER OF ALL NATIONS
           O ROOT OF JESSE'S STEM
            KEY OF DAVID * O ORIENS
        ****COMING RADIANT DAWN****
       REX GENTIUM *  OUR EMMANUEL
       ALLELUIA    ALLELUIA    ALLELUIA
        **** O MAGNUM MYSTERIUM ****
    **** ECCE COMPLETA SUNT OMNIA ****
                              QUAE
                              DICTA
                              SUNT
                       PER ANGELUM
                     DE VIRGINE MARIA
            A STAR LET SHEPHERDS SEE
             MARY AND HER BABY SMILE
______________________________________

THE CHRISTMAS GIFT


The rote interrogation

by the postal clerk

had me sweating

as the aging line

behind me murmured.


"Does this parcel

contain anything fragile,

liquid, perishable, or

potentially hazardous,

lithium batteries, perfume?"


My initial quip

("Does that exclude

some Chanel No.5?")

induced a glower

and an arched eyebrow.


And so we entered

Phase Two Questions

about exact contents

of the poorly taped

and battered box.


"Does it contain

diagnostic specimens?

What DOT defines

as unreasonable risks?

Or 'dangerous goods'?"


"Commodities designed

for personal use:

a tube, a vial, or bottle?

Or something requiring

a 'secondary container'?"


My exhausted denials

were met with calm

questions on questions:

"Won't you feel better,

if you only confess?"


How could I explain

the singular contents:

a thousand hearts

folded from paper

and pierced on a string?


With a pitiful note,

pleading for love?

The clerk inspected

each heart, the note,

as if they were lingerie.


And after an hour

we resealed the box.

The clerk then smiled

and firmly stamped it:

"RETURN TO SENDER".

TUTANKHAMUN

By Daniel de Culla


Tutankhamun, a small bird of prey
This pharaoh of Ancient Egypt
Akhenaten’ son and his sister “the Young Lady”.
Alas! Alas! Alas! Ay that was the name of his vizier
His minister or favourite
He made him marry
As a child
With his half-sister Ankhesenamun
Daughter of his father and Nefertiti
The Great Royal Wife
Conceiving two daughters who died
At the first opportunity
While in the sands of the desert
The whirlpools danced
And the sun played in the brightness of the rocky ground
And the humps of the camels.
Enamored by the magic of the roads
Supported by canes due to his physical disability
And other real illnesses:
Osteonecrosis: death of the bones in his left foot
Scoliosis: curvature of the spine
Malaria or paludism
For playing erotically with females
From Anopheles mosquitoes
Like elephants do with ants
In the Valley of the Kings
In the desert area (Desheret, the “Red Land”)
On the western bank of the Nile
In front of Luxor, in the heart of the Necropolis
Who made him die young
At nineteen years old.
A friend of mine “Pasapoga”
Called that way because she likes dancing a lot
Who loves to study about prehistoric ruins
In love with Howard Carter’s studies
Famous English archaeologist and Egyptologist
She decided, one day, to travel to Egypt
To visit the tomb of Tutankhamun.
She was making her way to the sarcophagus chamber
Flanked by two statues of the pharaoh
When she felt a hand touching her breast
Without knowing if it was from one statue or the other.
On leaving the visit and reporting it
A tomb robber was arrested
His laughter betrayed him
In addition to the fact that she came out shouting:
-The gods and pharaohs are not worth a damn
Only their jewels and money.
From then on, because of the “Touching of the pharaoh”
She named the pharaoh as “Tocatetamen”
“TouchBigTits”
Even though he had not been.

Mirage in Smoke

by Keith ‘Doc’ Raymond
  
There are secret places within sleep where you can park déjà vu. It may be a memory from another life, or a place you’ve forgotten and only recall once you’ve seen it again. On rare occasions, though, there is a place where you have never gone stored in there. Your déjà vu happens in a place unlike any other. A place that does not exist.
You may go through your whole life and never encounter it. Or, you find it on a hillside during a bicycle ride through the city. You’ve never gone that way before. You freeze, losing balance, forgetting how to ride, and fall over. Only to look up from the asphalt with scraped hands and knees at a place you didn’t suspect existed.
You stand and marvel at the old house up at the end of the box canyon. It is white, but dirty. Not well maintained and looks abandoned. One of those Mylar wind chimes is in the window. A heart within a heart within a heart that moves in a breeze inside. It occasionally blinds you with the sunlight it reflects.
You lift a wet finger to see if there is a gentle breeze. One that would make the chime charm move. There is nothing.
You want to go up there, see who lives in that house, but you can’t summon the courage. Getting back on the bike, you ride on. Back at home, the house haunts you. You sit down and eat dinner with your family. Your father asks you how your day was. You pull out your usual teenage disclaimer, ‘Fine.’
“And what did you learn in school?”
“Nothing…”
“It can’t just be nothing.”
“Nothing I didn’t know already.”
Before your Dad can say something more, your mom grabs a hank of your hair and sniffs it. Pulling your head towards her, your neck at an awkward angle. “You smell like smoke. You smoking, young lady?”
“Nope, just out bicycling. Truckers blow their cigarette smoke on me at the lights.”
“Better that than wolf whistles!” Dad says.
“Yeah, those too.”
***
A few days go by, and you hope the memory of that house fades. But it doesn’t. In fact, just the opposite. Your curiosity rivets you. Not even the cute guy in the next row in class interferes with your daydream obsession.
You decide you must go. But you won’t go alone. And this isn’t one of those first date kinds of thing with him. You ask a girlfriend. She is reluctant, based on your idea about the place and where it came to you, at you. It’s not the mystery she’s accustomed to pursuing.
“Oh, come on!” you moan.
“What if there are creeps and perverts up there?”
You smile. “Sounds like your kind of place, after your last boyfriend!”
It breaks the ice and you both laugh.
“Okay, sure. How can it hurt?”
Sandy has a hand-me-down Chevrolet from her big brother. It’s beaten up, but it gets you where you want to go. So you and her drive there rather than going by bicycle. It’s on the other side of the Valley, anyway.
You guide her, and finding it again, pointing up the hill, the place gives you the willies. Sandy turns off the street and up the bumpy dirt road, which is a driveway to the house. The Chevy struggles in the fog, and at one point it wants to stall, but doesn’t as Sandy spins the tires to make it up the rest of the way.
You can’t help but look at the window with the heart in heart chime. It gives you the creeps knowing someone is up there looking through it at the beat up old car coming the hill, even if you can’t see them.
What are you thinking? Going to a stranger’s house with some crazy story about how you never been there before, but it’s just so darn familiar. Sandy walks behind you, almost cowering, as you trudge up and knock on the side door.
The screen door has a torn-off bottom half hanging at a diagonal. A dog yaps and you hear a deep dangerous voice say, ‘Shaddup.’ Then the dog yelps and does.
Great, they sound friendly…
The door creaks open, and a tall bare chested Indian stands in the doorway, the indigenous kind. His chest and arms are hairless. And he’s actually wearing buckskin pants. He looks at you, surprised. Two cute teenagers standing there, a little scared.
Then he seems to get it. “No. We don’t want to buy nothing. No girl scout cookies and no ‘dime a mile’ marathon pledge.”
You and Sandy laugh nervously. Clearly not dressed like girls scouts, in bell bottoms with exposed midriffs. You go into your spiel, and his face tightens, then relaxes. He nods sagely. You can almost see him wearing a bandanna and a feather sticking downward. He’s that kind of native.
“Come on in, then. Let me show you around.”
Sandy grabs your upper arm, and you want to say no, but your feet take you inside against your will, and Sandy follows. He and the house smell like stale beer, sage smoke, and sweat. Then you see his indigenous family moving around in the kitchen down the hall. They are listening to the tinny box radio on a shelf with a bent antennae, old timey jazz playing. There’s one of those Felix the Cat clocks with the eyes that beat out the seconds, right left, right left.
He takes you on a tour of the place. The familiarity in your heart only grows. And there are kids, crones, and braves who acknowledge you, sitting on mismatched couches. Their expressions tell you there is nothing weird about you traipsing around the place.
Your strangeness gives way to the feeling like you’re a visiting cousin. Sandy’s eyes roam around, getting bigger by the second. She wants to bolt, but hangs in there. Good friend.
Paintings from various tribes decorate the walls. The picture frames are more like sticks roped together at the corners. Some show warriors dancing around bonfires, others in masks and war paint. There are drawings of Kachina doll figures, sand paintings, and finally you notice one showing a scene of elders performing peyote rites. A shiver goes through you.
“Others come here, like you,” the big Indian says over his shoulder. “At first, we didn’t understand. Now we do. This is a power spot. Strong medicine.”
He leads you and Sandy back to the side door. Opens it for you, and lets you pass through it. Sandy digs her nails into your upper arm as you take the two steps down to the dirt path back to the car. She follows, more freaked out than when she arrived, but you have a great sense of calm having been there.
It is comforting. That place is for you. It provided a sacred kind of peace and answered the questions you hadn’t known to ask. You might have been a ghost haunting that house, an embodied spirit. And while you never were there physically, undoubtedly it was a place you visited repeatedly. And the occupants made a certain sense, a congruity you expected.
You turned before getting into the car, and he was there behind the screen door. He nodded, and waved once, and said, “A’Ho.”
Driving back down the hill, Sandy unleashed her usual verbal diarrhea. Relieving her anxiety by motor mouthing, while you stayed silent. “Don’t you have anything to say…” once she caught her breath.
“Just what I expected,” you said.
That shut her up. And you no longer were obsessed with the house up at the end of the box canyon on the other side of the valley. Sandy stayed away from you after that.
***
Years later, you went back to visit your parents, now with your own kids, living back east. On the way, you stopped at a strip mall across the street from where the house used to stand. You kept looking up at the box canyon, looking at the chaparral and scrub that filled the hillside. And you asked the old fella behind the counter whatever happened to the house up there.
He looked at you like you were crazy. “Never been a house up there in that box canyon, lady.”
“How long have you been here?”
“All my life. Never was a place there, ever. And I grew up near here, too.”
Old shivers you remember from that time returned afresh. You were too shocked to argue with the guy, packing your groceries. “Thanks, Mister.”
“No worries. Stop in anytime.”
You looked up at the security mirror above the door and saw him shaking his head as you left.
You wanted to call Sandy, but realized she died years ago. Like she never existed. Someone who kept you company when you were a loner in high school. And you never went out with that cute guy. He preferred cheerleaders.

END
 

THE MOST AWAKE AMONG THE DEAD

By Daniel de Culla


The near-death experience (NDE) came to me when, one afternoon, I went down to the beach of San Vicente de la Barquera, in Cantabria, when the beach was empty, the sea was rough and there was a red flag.
Drunk as I was on Hijoputa (son of the beach) brand honey brand, I went into the water, when suddenly, the waves caught me and dragged me towards the center of the sea, without being able to reach the sand of the beach due to the tiredness and exhaustion of my limbs that did everything possible to save me.
For me this was a lucid event, because I saw myself compromised with Death, since I knew that physically I would die if nobody came to rescue me, swallowing all the water of the sea with all its filth.
With almost no detectable heartbeat, and no breathing due to the water and algae that swallowed me, I traveled through a tunnel, observing a bright light, meeting a mythical being: Genghis Khan, who told me: -I'm meeting the neighbors; accompanied by Musk and Trump, who talked about the Big Con (big scam), and Frankenstein and Dracula, all of them united by mutual gravitational attraction, who were happy to see me alive, and talked about the NDE (Near Death Experience), listening to Genghis who told us:
-We live here now. Here and there, we live in a constant struggle between the Economic Damage Threshold (EDT), referring to the population density in which the costs of incurring in a genocide equals the benefits of not controlling the sale of weapons; and the Threshold of Action (TOA), referring to the population density in which a control action must be carried out, even by killing, to prevent the EDT from being reached.
I got away from these four firecrackers, addressing Genghis, the fertile man, who fathered more than a thousand children with his main wife, with minor wives and concubines that he incorporated into his flock thanks to his conquests, father of humanity, the “star cluster”, who had a goshawk peeking out of his fly, the most alert among the dead.
In the most plausible and arrogant way he grabbed me by the balls in the style that Musk and Trump do with women, forcing me to compose, in the shortest time possible, a poem, which I wrote with seaweed ink and a seagull feather on the back of a Nice of the north (Thunnus alalunga), but not before he told me:
-In the afterlife, the souls of mortals float in the infinite void like wandering stars; the ones that illuminate the most are those of psychopaths and serial killers, occupying the best places in stellar space. Those of other mortals are the turds that float in swamps, ponds, rivers or seas, and cling to water like ticks.
I was dumbfounded. And, when I tried to break the hawk's neck, he ordered me:
-Come on! Write the poem.
I answered him, making a mistake in my words, because instead of saying: "Yes, my star cluster," I said: "Yes, my star joke," without him getting very angry because I was about to drown completely.
This was the poem I composed for him:
GENGHIS KHAN RESURRECTED
Genghis Khan, remembered Mongol
“Mongolo”moron, psychopath par excellence
Great Khan, great dog of Yinchuan
From the Republic of China
Admired serial killer leader
From Eastern Europe
To the Pacific Ocean
And from Siberia to Mesopotamia
India and Indochina
He has been incarnated in some humans:
The favorites, the chosen ones
Since the times of the Printing Press
As we see it
In the History of the times
In our emperors, kings, tsars
Dictators, presidents and heads of state
Whose label is mass extermination
And famine
As announced to us, in his day
A dwarf King Kong
Who died for our sins
On his deathbed.
Already as a child, Chinguis Jaan
That was the name of the guy Genghis Khan
When he was going up some stairs
He got dizzy and fell to the ground
And his group of friends told him:
-Chinguis, don't be so mean
Be very brave
You were born to rape and kill at random.
He believed it wholeheartedly
Growing up among murders:
That of his brother and his best friend
Rapes of women
Whom he raped three times a week
Cutting off their clitorises with his sword
Making necklaces for himself
And for his warriors who killed the most.
He liked, well, what he loved the most
Was cutting off heads and watching them roll
Screaming these: -Bastard, murderer
You do nothing but nonsense.
His hatred of the Moors was infinite
As is shown today in the nations
Who elect at the polls, or outside of them
Serial killers to govern them
Before, for the desire to steal their jewels
And, today, to steal their oil.
He built pyramids
With corpses and mortal remains
As are seen today made
On the ruins of Palestine
Lebanon, Syria, Ukraine and other nations.
They say that, one day
He went inside his tent.
He peeked through a crack
Seeing one of his warriors coming
Who was approaching him
Fucking his most youthful mare in the ass.
-What did this great murderous Khan do?
He cut off the head of his youthful mare
Putting his brand new sword
In the backside of the warrior
His brand new sword, on the fly.
A fact that was praised by their conquered peoples
As today they praise the actions
Of these exalted serial killers
With rap music
Sound of chainsaws or sirens
For refugees and other uprooted people
Who hide underground.

Heating Up Hot Lips:
​Sexism in "M*A*S*H" the Movie

By Angela Camack
 
The movie version of Robert Hooker's book MASH was a critical and commercial success upon its release in 1970. The movie was based on the experiences of young surgeons, members of the 407th Mobile Army Surgical Unit during the Korean war as they operated on injured young men, sometimes failing in the attempt to save them. They questioned everything; the cause for with so many men were sacrificed and the strict Army rules and regulations, which often seemed trivial when compared to the demands of battle and its aftermath. They had no automatic respect for authority and had no problems defying it if the authority was wrong, overly strict or just plain annoying. The movie dealt with the Korean conflict, but mirrored the growing conflict in Vietnam, a !atter of concern for many people. War was shown as it seldom was in movies, with all the blood and gore found in surgery done on gravely wounded men. The doctors, Benjamin Franklin (Hawkeye) Pierce, Trapper John McIntyre and Duke Forrest,  reacted to the strictures of Army life and the stress of the operating room with (often dark) humor and irreverence, locker room talk and casual sexism.
And the surgeons were cool. Oh, so very cool. Their irreverence toward authority also mirrored changing attitudes toward authority that began during the 1960’s.“Coming at the start of cinema’s most famous decade, it is a seminal film of New Hollywood, and it bears all the hallmarks of its era: a strong anti-establishment sentiment, the foregrounding of morally ambiguous protagonists and, unfortunately a deep and unexamined misogyny” (Gittell).
     Hooker acknowledged that the irreverent, crude and sometimes sexist behavior of the Swampmen (so called because of the condition of their tent) was a response to the rigors of their work. The medical personnel at the 4077 were exposed for the first time to levels of extremely hard work, tension and frustration beyond what they experienced in civilian practice. They had to cope with their situation and do their jobs. The stresses caused their behavior in ways inconsistent with their civilian behavior. (Hooker).
However, the movie is much more sexist than the book. In the book, the Swampmen’s behavior is cavalier and at times, predatory. The nurses are seen as attractive prey, ideally available as sexual partners to the randy Swampmen. One nurse, Major Margaret Houlihan, manages to irritate them, as she rejects their advances for a relationship with Major Frank Burns, who is viewed by Hawkeye, Trapper and Duke as a bad surgeon, a humorless prig and a hypocrite. She is also unhappy about what she sees as the lack of Army discipline shown by the 4077. Burns and Houlihan share a devotion to strict adherence to Army regulations. Margaret is also seen as humorless and rigid and is the recipient of their pranks and teasing.
            In the movie, the Swampmen’s behavior toward Houlihan is much more intense and becomes cruel in overtly sexual ways. In the book Houlihan gets the nickname “Hot Lips’ because of one of Duke’s offhand jokes; “Hiya, Hot Lips … Now that I’m a chief too, we really oughta get together” (Hooker). In the movie, a microphone is hidden under her bed, broadcasting a sexual encounter with Burns. The entire  camp hears her asking Burns to “Kiss my hot lips,” earning her the nickname Hot Lips for the duration of her time at the 4077. Actually, she has lost her name before this incident; the doctors call her “O’Houlihan.”
 She is further humiliated when the Swampmen endeavor to see if she is truly a blonde, revealing a nude Houlihan in the shower, again humiliating her before the entire camp. In Hooker’s book, she is merely unhappy because the doctors are heckling the nurses as they walk to the showers.
            Also compare the story of dentist Painless Pole, who is famous through camp for his excellent dental work and for being a well-endowed ladies’ man (he has three fiancées in the United States.) One sexual failure convinces him he must be gay and immerses him into a suicidal depression. In the book, the Swampmen decide to bring him out of his despair by seeming to encourage him in his suicidal plan and holding a “Last Supper,” He is given a powerful sedative, arranged while unconscious to appear that he is coming from a sexual encounter and awakens in a much happier mood.
            In the movie, there is also a Last Supper. The doctors introduce him to Lt. Dish, whose beauty earned her the nickname to the extent that her real name no longer matters. She is married, and although  she almost succumbs to Hawkeye, she prefers to remain faithful to her husband. She does so until her last day with the 4077 when she is brought to Painless at his Last Supper. Lt. Dish has one look at Painless’ equipment and falls into his bed. Painless is cured and Lt. Dish comes out of the encounter smiling as she leaves the 4077, so it’s all good, right? There is no mention of the degradation involved in having a married woman offer herself to cure a man’s impotence and restore him to a healthy ego.
            Another exaggeration occurs when in the book Hawkeye and Trapper are called to operate on a patient who sustained a severe chest injury while training near Japan. The patient was a Congressmen’s son, who was told that the best surgeon for the job was (Trapper) John McIntyre. Trapper and Hawkeye proceed to the hospital to operate. Introducing themselves as “the pros from Dover,” they arrogantly present a list of demands to be satisfied before they can operate. This happens in the movie, but the doctors add an additional demand. They want a scrub nurse who can “work in close without getting her tits in the way.” (Lardner),This is a crude request that will demean any scrub nurse assigned to work with them, but the nurse who hears this only asked how they want the steaks they requested cooked.
            Why the exaggeration of the tamer sexual elements of the books? Perhaps because, for the first time, Altman and Lardner could. Beginning in the ‘60’s, mainstream movies became much freer in the way they could show explicit sexuality, language and violence, giving writers and directors the ability to present these issues more honestly. They also had the ability to challenge what was expected in movie making and what would have once been censored. The makers of MASH could show the events in the book with much more overt sexuality and language. The Production Code that governed what could and could not be shown in movies was replaced with the MPAA system, allowing nudity on screen and perhaps leading Robert Altman to see the shower scene as a “first amendment right.” (Gittell)
            The movie’s release also coincided with the rise of second-wave feminism. Feminists advocated for equality in the workplace and education. They addressed the issues of reproductive rights and domestic violence. They were a challenge to male domination in institutions and in the culture at large. This challenge drew hostility from some men and even some women.
            Margaret Houlihan is a lightning rod for this hostility. She is first of all a nurse and an officer. Even Trapper tells her, “Hot Lips, you’re a pain in the ass but you’re a damn good nurse”.(Lardner), She is immune to the doctors’ charms and takes it upon herself to judge their behavior, She is not what they desire nurses to be; sexual people first, nurses/officers second. She is an example of how women were changing and evolving.
            Women traditionally were seen as nurturing, tender and caring, willing to cater to men’s needs. The nurturing element of a woman’s character is, and always will be, important, but as a leader Houlihan needs to display other characteristics; the ability to be in command of the nurses and the recovery areas, to be responsible for the evaluation of people and situations,  decision making and to be in command of herself. These characteristics were traditionally seen as male, and for a woman to have these abilities was seen as unwomanly.
 Roger Ebert reflects this attitude in his review of the movie when he notes that Houlihan is treated cruelly, but such treatment is needed because she needs to learn  to feel more deeply about the wounded and that anyone with such a calm façade must be insensitive to the suffering around them (Ebert.) Why does he assume she doesn’t feel? Is it because she is not overtly “womanly?”
Also, Houlihan’s dependence on adherence to rules and regulations may be a coping mechanism. She is attempting to place some order over a chaotic situation. Her manner of coping may not be as freewheeling or as fun as the Swampmen’s but their treatment of her is out of proportion to her behavior. Even in the New Hollywood, with new freedom given to directors and writers, men had a “blind spot” for women’s equality (Gittell),
            By the end of the movie, the doctors’ pranks have had their desired effect. Houlihan ends  the movie as a ditsy cheerleader at a rigged football game the doctors arrange. Even then she is shown disrespect. Upon hearing the starting pistol, she exclaims, “My God, they’ve shot him!” (Lardner), whereupon the unit commander Henry Blake scornfully calls her a nincompoop. She ends the day meekly sitting by the men as they play poker. From the long looks she and Duke exchange in the operating room as he is told he is to go home; she has finally succumbed to his advances. Houlihan may look happy, but has she lost some of the strength and independence she showed as a diligent nurse and major?
            It is  notable that the television show based on the movie, running from 1972 to 1983, demonstrates progress in the acceptance of changes in women’s roles. As the show proceeds, Houlihan has become Margaret rather than Hot Lips. The actor who played her, Loretta Switt convinced the show’s writers to eliminate the nickname and to give the character strength and independence (Young). Her relationship with the surgeons is that of a colleague and comrade. She is still concerned with Army rules, and the doctors are still casual about them, but with mutual respect they can cooperate.
            So where does MASH stand in 2024? Many movies have been re-evaluated recently for what is now seen as sexist or racist content. Classic movies such as Avatar, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Gone with the Wind and Chasing Amy are examples of movies now being seen with new eyes, (Wittmer), and MASH is surely an example. What can we still take from movies like MASH? It is the first example of what would be Robert Altman’s directing style, and of the new freedoms in movie making. MASH shows changes in how leading men are presented. Once mostly suave, conservative and heroic, such as actors like Henry Fonda, James Stewart and John Wayne, the men in MASH are irreverent, crude and take pleasure in being unconventional. This type of movie icon led to characters such as Travis Bickle, Benjamen Braddock and the cast of Easy Rider. It is still an incisive, funny movie, well-written and acted. MASH reflects the concerns of movie goers toward the Vietnam War and cultural changes. We can enjoy the movie and be happy that, given changing ideas about women, we probably won’t see another “Hot Lips” again.

Work Cited

Ebert, Roger. “M*A*S*H.” Chicago Tribune. 1 January 1970.
Retrieved 22 September 2024.

Gittell, Noah. M*A*S*H at 50: the Robert Altman Comedy that Revels in Cruel Misogyny.”
The Guardian.22 January 2020,Retrieved 22 September 2024.

Hooker, Robert. M*A*S*H: A Novel About Three Army Doctors. Harper Collins, 2008.
M*A*S*H. Directed by Robert Altman. Screenplay by Ring Lardner, Jr. 1970.

Wittmer. Carrie. “10 Beloved Movies That Haven’t Aged Well.” Business Insider.
​29 May 2020.
            Retrieved 22 September 2024,
 
Young, Sage, How Loretta Switt Convinced the “MASH” Writers to Stop Calling Margaret “Hot Lips.” BestLife, 1 March 2023.

When Dracula Dined with Mae West

Creative Writing by LindaAnn LoSchiavo


= = = poem # 1 = = =

Jayne Mansfield Explains Why The Girl Can’t Help It

“I’m ‘that way’,” said Jayne Mansfield to the press,
“About my fella, Mickey Hargitay!”


Across America, most mothers hissed,
“Don’t be like her!”  A movie star famed for
Her simmering stoked sex appeal was not
Most women’s norm in 1956.


Was it a mystery, what sexpots do
Behind closed doors with Mickies, Ricks, or Dicks?


“The Girl Can’t Help It” played in the drive-ins.
Those steamed-up windows indicated fun
Was causing perspiration.  The theme song
Explained how sexiness turned bread to toast.
A symposium of screen stars proved Mom
Wrong.  As car springs swayed, we gave it away.



= = = poem # 2 = = =
Dracula Considers Writing a Memoir
 
His library contains expensive books,
Some autographed or leather-bound except
For his, whose memories are kept alive,
Poised on the empty dance floor of his mind.
The inkwell winks, inviting him to write
Without delay, lined paper his patient
Servant, recording wild deeds secretly.
Each season of the afterlife becomes
His outline, words like bones newly coffined.
Domestics unlock cobwebbed trunks, unpack
Undated mice-nipped letters, diaries,
Recalling sentences of women who
Kissed back, held hands, embraced in dark hallways,
Relationships creating lonelier
Nights after appetite had used them up.
Remorse nor pity rules his ragged realm,
Where he survives in sunless solitude.
Chapters completed, Dracula’s quill rests.
Indulging now in pleasure-crested pricks,
The Count reflects on boredom life-in-death
Inflicts on vampires.  Had he known his fate,
He’d still prefer it to an early grave



= = = poem # 3 = = =

Lon Chaney, Jr. and the Wolf Man’s Curse


From a blank page he bloomed – like wild wolfsbane.

Unlike Henry Hull, recognizable
Under his wolf disguise, make-up restrained,
Lon Chaney’s son kept his werewolf label
And prosthetics for five films, was fabled
As the original Wolf Man fans know.


Though he played villains and character roles,
Horror’s dark meat left stains – a lack of respect.

The Walk of Fame star owned by his Dad froze
Out the son – doomed by the moon after death.
 . . . . .
Note: Creighton Tull Chaney [February 10, 1906 – July 12, 1973] was given his stage name Lon Chaney, Jr. by Universal Pictures, who hoped this would confuse movie-goers into thinking his famous father Lon Chaney was starring instead in "The Wolf Man" (1941).
Six years before, Broadway actor Henry Hull portrayed the wolf man in "Werewolf of London" (1935) but wore less restrictive make-up.



= = = poem # 4 = = =

The Ghost of Texas Guinan 


“Mr. Guinan, I'll bet your little girl Texas was born
in the saddle and cut her teeth on a six-gun!” — — Buffalo Bill Cody



 Since Texas Guinan had an appetite
For wild, her feet detached from Waco's mud,
Wound up in Omaha. Auditions had
Begun for Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show.


 Pale horse, pale rider — -- hastening sunset.
If I keep robbing her of rightful rest,
Perhaps her death will never saddle up.

The time warp points to 1899.
Dawn broke as if it's roping scattered light.


A rifle shot by Annie Oakley grabbed
Attention — — but to Texas it translates
Brash promises of never hearing no.


When films were silent, heroism was shown
By how much good and evil fought onscreen.
Frail victims needed cowboys saving them.


But Tex rode roughshod over this belief,
Which scored new contracts in 1918.
For her they penned “Gun Woman.” She portrayed
The cowgirl sent to handle rescuing.


Before she mounts Bucephalus bare-backed,
She'll buckle up her gunbelt, knowing girls
Will take the reins by watching how it's done,
Strong knife arms swinging out to sever old
Restrictions Hollywood's boys' club imposed.

On camera, she'll hand roll smokes between
Two fingers, like scout's honor, execute
Her own stunts, thank you, and win back the ranch.


Refusing to play victims on the screen,
Be foiled by bullets, brave like Annie — — but
On horseback — --Texas Guinan blazed a trail
Through celluloid, always maintained a voice
In how she was portrayed, unique this way,
A heroine in every interview.


As organ music swelled, the silver screen                      
Replayed her derring-do, subtitles on.


If I deny The Reaper came to wrest
Control at 49, will she wake up?


The time warp points to 1933.
Westerns are not the way you left them, Tex,
When you starred in “My Lady Robin Hood.”
Once talkies had caught on, cowgirls were gone.

Producers wanted men as brave, rightful
Defenders of vast untamed prairie towns.


The hour of her untimely death reared up,
Then flung her, dazed, distressed, lifetime compressed.
 Pale horse, pale rider — — uninvited guest.




Her spirit hovers over Hollywood,
Where she's their only female shooting star.


Note: Mary Louise Cecelia “Texas” Guinan [1884 ― 1933] has a star on Hollywood's Wall of Fame.



= = = poem # 5 = = =

Mae West and the Spirit of Collaboration


“Men are my hobby,” Mae West liked to say. Well, during the Prohibition Era, politicians and the police made Miss West their hobby. Broadway was facing an atmospheric change and playwrights felt a cold front moving in.  Even though the Brooklyn blonde built a bullet-proof façade, inside there blew a silent wind, a shrill squall of protest against a patriarchal status quo.  It gusted and blustered throughout her life, when she hailed homosexual drama and brought it to The Great White Way, when she wriggled to Black music.

No, siree, bustah.  Whiplashing gale force winds didn’t suit da nineteen-twennies or da nineteen-toidies when civil rights kept its voice low. Whenever Big Apple officials felt a chill from someone’s big mouth, they scurried up north to Albany to hammer out leg-iron legislation that dragged mankind backwards. Like the newsreels, this America was black and white.

Came duh day when Mae t’reatened a hurricane and the weather-bearers yelled back:  “OK! Ten days in the Women’s Workhouse and a $500 fine.”

All the while, my muse’s weathervane kept twirling like a Rockette, then pointed due West, conjuring up the gray clouds of Mae’s obscenity trials and criminal history, dreaming it into life. Writing a play about Mae West’s legal woes was not a hobby. It felt as necessary as rain. When my breath beckoned, her curvaceousness sashayed all the way from a Cypress Hills crypt to Greenwich Village and bloomed in my room, darting around like a child, breezing through my notes. Dressed in silence, Mae listened like it was a lost art as her bejeweled shadow-hand gently unwrinkled the page as it once ran down a man’s tie. As the stars swarmed like the paparazzi, I made space in my mouth for her words.

Months later, her old villains, the purity police would be wafting in — now portrayed by better looking actors who came up to see her.

During rehearsals, the cast was summoning presence from absence, portraying jurors, judging her again. Mae understood that dramatizing is not unlike summoning a spirit. Because the theatre whittles reality down to the explainable, though the remaining mystery is the beauty an audience wants most to witness.

Suddenly, a cataclysmic Westian force swept all the furniture off the set and raptured all the dialogue up to the sky. Next day, a full house thunder-clapped the finale.

Hea’ dat, ya mug. Ya shoulda been there.​

Above: Painting by Josephine Wall

The following stories deal with the art of fear, the art of courage and the art of mystery. 

Two Flash Fiction Stories by Alina Kuvaldina

The Carpathians

Come with me. These mountains will keep the echo of your alien to my tongue name. This grass will gently cover the traces of your heavy steps. This peak will remind you how it feels to have a goal.
Come with me and take my hand. You will climb, and I will whisper to you about mavkas – the forest mermaids who live in these mountains. About their seductive voices and long braids. About their emerald eyes and delicate backs, uncovered by the skin. I will tell you why such curious and fearless boys like you disappear in these mountains. And I will tell you how forest spirits die dancing here.
Please, come with me. I know you never see the stars in your concrete cities. I know the air smells like smoke instead of juniper and mint there. Your cities are too crowded and their walls are too cold to heal your soul. Just come. We will wash the dirt from our faces with dew, we will learn freedom from birds and beasts. And when night falls, we will make tea from wild herbs over a fire.
Then I will tell you the tales of my people. I will speak and speak while you are examining every move of my hot from the tea lips. And when you finally stop me and ask why my most beautiful tales are always the most terrible ones, I will kiss you. I will kiss you, and my braids will get tangled under your hands. My cheeks will flush from your touches, my hips will open wider from your kisses, and my thin white blouse will fall to the wet grass. Then you could notice no skin on my back.


Encounter

In a corner of the bedroom stands a shadow. I have just woken up, sitting on the bed and examining it in the cool light of dawn. I cannot help but look. So, I watch and catch from the space around me songs of birds, the rumble of trams, and the breathing of the man beside me. I try to weave them into a single thread and grasp that thread with my hearing. Just to not completely fall out of reality.
The longer I look, the more details I notice. Now I can make out a black blouse, and there I discern a long black skirt. Black hair falls over black shoulders, dirty and tangled. There are dry twigs, dust, and pieces of last year's leaves in her hair. I examine them to avoid looking directly at the face. To not notice her empty eye sockets, and to avoid paying attention to her thin, toothless mouth. It moves as if she wants to say something to me. As if a scream tries to escape from her silent pale lips.
This is the fourth year she has come. The fourth year they all have come. Over so much time, you almost get used to everything. Although I still feel fear. I still shudder at their every movement, as if at a horror movie watched in augmented reality.
But the mute panic envelops me less frequently, as does my irritated eye-rolling when I notice the shadows in the corners of my rooms. I used to hate them. I thought they were to blame for everything. Because of them, society considers me strange, abnormal, and inadequate. Maybe even dangerous. Because of them, I fail to be like others.
Someone says I have to accept them. Only then they will stop coming. And I believed in that. I tried to understand instead of hating. I tried to replace fear and disgust with curiosity. I tried to accept that maybe they would never leave, and I had to live with them. So, I learned some compassion for them. At least, I am able to feel it sometimes.
So now, I sit, examining the shadow standing in the corner of my room. I glance furtively into her empty eye sockets. I know — she most wants to be seen. In such states, I sometimes just know. And I also know that I would like never to see her again. But I do not have a choice at the moment. So, I sit on the cool bedding, inhale the morning air, and think how sorry I feel for both of us. For her, whom no one wants to see. And for me, who sometimes cannot help but look, although I do not want to at all.
"But I can accept her now," suddenly the thought arises. "And she will leave. And we both will get what we want."
Then I slowly rise from the bed. My heart races wildly, shivers run through my body. "You have endured so much, and this won’t kill you," I reassure myself. But the truth is, I fear not death the most. I fear encountering something that will finally tear my already thin connection with reality. And then I will remain forever in a place where all my shadows live. In a place where things that I do not want to remember happen to me over and over again.
Nonetheless, I take the first step. I feel — I am ready to make this step. Its time has come. And the shadow, clumsy and heavy, steps towards me. I stop, fear paralyzes my entire body. She stops too. In this small room, one more step each would suffice to be within arm's reach of each other.
The most I would like to take my life back. To stop living in the past. To be the one who builds her own reality, not its victim. So, I inhale slowly and deeply. And, along with the exhale, I take the second step. The shadow mirrors my movements.
I look into her face and feel horror gather into a knot in my throat, then fall somewhere down into my stomach. I know that in reality, there is no shadow, and if my husband were to wake up now, he would see me alone, standing in the middle of the room and staring at the wall in terror. But for me, reality looks like this.
"I’m ready to see you," I whisper to her quietly. Every word sticks in my throat, and it takes an incredible effort to push it out. "I want to give you a name."

Nothing changes in the room. But I feel how the space wraps itself in calm. I watch as the toothless mouth on the face of the shadow bends into a ghastly smile. And I smile back. I know now she cannot do me any harm. I know I am stronger than her.
So I extend my hands towards her as if wanting to embrace. My fingers sift through her stiff, unkempt hair. They are trying to clasp around her neck. I want her to die. I want her to cease to exist. I have always wanted this.
But somehow, my hands do not obey me. They cannot clasp tightly enough to end it all. Once and forever. As if none of this had ever happened to me. As if it all had been just a terrible dream lasting three and a half years. But it does not work. I start to get irritated. Again and again, I try to put more and more effort into killing my shadow. But nothing happens.
Suddenly, I realize I have been feeling a chill on my own neck for some time. Pale, wrinkled hands try to clasp it. Terror pierces me. I scream. With a swift movement, I break free from the icy fingers, and a fraction of a second is enough for me to return to bed.
I am shaking. I cover my mouth with my hands to not scream and cry out loud. My body curves instead of a scream. My gaze falls on my husband, who is still sleeping, and a smile adorns his face. I would love to wake him now, to hold his hand and cry out loud until it is over. I would love to have someone who could be with me at any hour of the day or night and hold my hand every time I have to live through everything that my own brain does to me.
But the truth is, it is unlikely that a man who would not enjoy my weakness and his image as a savior and martyr could endure it. It is unlikely that a man who is ready to respect me and see me as his equal would be willing to sacrifice his own comfort, interests, and desires in the amounts that I so strongly wish for.
So, I sit, shivering, and my lips move as if I want to say something. As if a silent scream tries to break free from my pale lips. Right now, most of all, I would like to be seen. Seen by someone who would not be scared of how frightened and weak I can be. And could stay with me just like that.
Instead, I look at the shadow that slowly moves back to its usual corner. I scrutinize her dress, torn at the shoulders. Underneath, there is no skin. Among the patches of fabric, her innards are visible.
When the shadow turns her face towards me again, the first rays of the sun fall on it.
"Don’t give me names," I hear a voice, whether from outside or within me. "I already have one. It’s shared between the two of us."

Bio:
Alina Kuvaldina is a journalist and writer of Ukrainian origin. Her stories in English are featured or forthcoming in Exposition Review, Beyond Words,
​and Short Beasts. Alina currently resides in Germany, working on her first book.

TRUDY
 
By Jill Potter
 
Trudy and I had nothing in common other than the fact that we happened to be sisters.  She was a rebel who always seemed to find trouble and I was the quintessential good girl, always doing the right thing and eager to please.  So the summer I was home from college, I determined that our relationship was going to get better.
I was majoring in Psychology and I was pretty sure I had Trudy figured out.  At 15, she was short and stout with features that were blunt and a manner that was downright crude.  Other girls her age had boyfriends or at least crushes.  Trudy never talked about boys and she did nothing to make herself more attractive.  No makeup, pants that were too big and hung low around her hips, shirts that were often ripped or dirty.  There were only two possibilities.  Possibility Number One – she was a lesbian who hadn’t accepted her sexuality.  She felt isolated and alone because she didn’t want anyone to know.  Possibility Number Two – she was heterosexual but felt she couldn’t  compete  with other girls her age who were sexing themselves
up to be attractive to guys so she was subconsciously rebelling.  Either way, she was in pain and the rough exterior was some sort of cover up.   I would help her accept and value herself for who she was.   I was sure that with a little patience, I could help her on the road to self awareness and  change.  We’d always been sisters but now, I would work on being a friend.
Trudy was reluctant at first but I convinced her to let me tag along one evening when she was going out to meet her friends.  I soon found out that her friends were a group of teenage boys who gathered at the local tobacco shop to smoke and drink beer and rag on each other.  As they saw Trudy coming down the street, they started chanting, “Trudeee….Trudeee…she may get laid but not by me.”  I started to open my mouth to respond to this disgusting taunt but before I could say anything, Trudy was laughing and hitting them back with “You scum bags.  I wouldn’t do you with someone else’s cunt.”  I cringed and bit my lip.  This was my sister and her crowd and if I told them all off, I’d sabotage any chance I might have to connect with her.
They were a rambunctious group, all except for one boy who was introduced to me as Mickey.  He seemed like he didn’t belong.  He was quiet, didn’t speak unless someone asked him a question and didn’t join in on any of the yelling or teasing.  He just watched.  There was something mysterious in his eyes as if he knew something we didn’t.  I got the feeling that Trudy had a crush on him but it seemed unlikely that he’d have any interest in her.  He was a good looking guy, a little James Dean like but with dark hair and eyes and much too quiet and laid back for my loud, crude little sister.
            After nearly two hours of “hanging out,” I followed my sister and this motley crew a few blocks down the road to Brighton Beach where I fought off the advances of Georgie, a short well-built 18-year-old who told me I was beautiful and claimed he’d never been with a college girl before.  Every time he tried to kiss me, I pushed him away and he complimented me for being a “good girl.”    This scene repeated several times and required my full attention and when I finally looked up, Trudy was gone.  I asked Georgie if he knew where my sister had gone.
“Don’t worry,” he said.  “Don’t worry, you’re with me.”  After I pointed out repeatedly that she was only 15 and it was late, he told me she was probably with Mickey.  It cost me several kisses but he finally gave up some information.  No one knew much about Mickey but Mickey was a “good guy.”  He started hanging out with them a few weeks ago and he and Trudy would always take a walk when they got down to the beach and disappear for awhile but they always came back.  “Hey, maybe they have a thing,” Georgie laughed.  “She’s not my taste – you’re my taste.”  He tried to kiss me again but I pushed him off and again, he told me I was a good girl.
Trudy did come back and as we walked home, I questioned her carefully, still determined to find a way to get her to confide in me.  “So,” I said, “Mickey seems nice.  Do you like him?”   No answer.  She just shook her head as if the question was absurd.
“C’mon, Trudy.  I’m your sister – we should be able to talk about stuff like that. “
She stopped and looked at me.  She was silent for a few seconds as if she was thinking about how to respond.  Then she said, “we’re connected.”   Her tone and expression were so serious that I was a little taken aback.  But before I could say anything or ask any more questions, she was walking quickly back toward the house and I  went into a half sprint to catch up.
We’d lived in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn from the time I was born.  Our father inherited the house after his father died.  It was a small ranch built around 1910 that hadn’t been updated  in about 30 years.  
Our father worked the night shift at a local warehouse and kept saying he was going to put in a new kitchen but it never happened.  He had a workshop in the basement that seemed to occupy most of his free time but I could never figure out what he was working on because nothing ever got fixed.  Our mother worked during the day and once, I asked her why dad didn’t get a day job so we could all spend a little more time together.  She just said, “it’s better this way.”   It was a strange dynamic.  We were all very aware of my father’s presence but we hardly ever saw him since he was always sleeping during the day or down in the workshop doing something useless.  My mother seemed tired most of the time, like someone who had come to accept their lot in life but was actually desperate inside.  
Trudy and I got home close to 4AM and my mother was still awake, sitting in a chair in the living room with a book on her lap that was unopened.  Trudy just headed straight down the hall to her bedroom and nothing was said.  But I stopped and sat down on the couch with the expectation that my mother would want to talk about this.  She just looked at me with a worried expression.  “I know it’s late,” I said.  “ I’m sorry.  I’m trying to get closer to Trudy and I was with her and some of her friends.”  She didn’t respond.  After a few seconds, she got up and walked over to the window and looked outside. 
Then she said, “Please, just let Trudy be.” 
“I don’t understand,” I said.  “I’m trying to help her, to get closer to her.  Why do you never seem to care what she says or does?  You call me on anything I do that’s out of line.”
Again, no response.  Then after a few seconds, I saw her take a deep breath and sigh.  “You and Trudy are different.  I can’t have any influence on her.”
I couldn’t believe my ears.  This was her mother.  Now I was developing a whole new theory.  Trudy must be aware,  at least on a subconscious level, that her own mother doesn’t really care about her, has given up on her. 
“How can you say that?  She’s your daughter.”
She looked at me and just said, “Please Lynn,  leave her alone.”
I was dumbfounded.  Trudy’s problem wasn’t boys and it wasn’t girls.  It was feeling unloved by her own mother.  That’s what was making her so angry and rebellious.  Yet nothing she said or did could get her mother to intervene and show that she cared.  Well, to hell with it then.  Someone cared.  I cared.  
The following night, Trudy said she wasn’t going out.  She went to her room around 10PM and I headed to bed.  Our bedrooms were next door to one another and the walls were so thin that you could practically hear a pin drop in the other room.  I woke up a little before midnight to the creaky sound of an opening window.  I could have turned over and gone back to sleep but it had been a restless sleep so I got up and  looked outside to see Trudy slipping out  her window onto the grass below.  My adrenaline shot up.  She was all my responsibility now since no one else seemed to care. 
I threw on a pair of sweats, grabbed my keys and headed out the door.  
I followed her from about 50 feet behind.  I knew from her direction that she was headed for the beach.  She walked quickly, looking straight ahead like she was on some mission and time was of the essence.  As soon as her feet hit the sand, she picked up speed and headed straight toward the ocean.  From behind a dune, I watched what was now just a dark outline of her frame.  I waited for her to meet someone, probably Mickey, but she was alone.  She walked
knee deep into the ocean and started talking and laughing.  I couldn’t hear what she was saying.  I strained my eyes to see what I was missing but I was certain of it - there was no one else there.   Now another theory came to mind.  My sister was hearing voices – auditory hallucinations.  Maybe she was schizophrenic or maybe she was taking drugs.  I headed back to the house.  If she was taking drugs, there would definitely be some clues hidden in her room.   
I worked quickly going through her closet, looking under her mattress – nothing.  Then something strange – a crumbled newspaper article buried in the corner of one of her dresser drawers.  She never read the paper.  It was an old article from The London Times – 1936.  What the hell.  It was an original clipping.  This was bizarre.  I started reading and within seconds, my heart was racing.  My eyes moved quickly over the bloodcurdling story.    A wealthy London family was vacationing in Brighton and had brought their domestic servants with them to their Brighton home.  The servants were a brother and sister who had been in their employ for 3 years and by all accounts, the family had always treated them with kindness and respect.  On August 22, 1936, the husband returned from London and the doors to the Brighton home were bolted shut from the inside.  He rang the bell and banged on the door but no one answered so he climbed into the house through an open window to find his whole family had been slaughtered.  His wife, his sister in law, and two children had been brutally stabbed.  Their body parts and blood were scattered all over the house.  Next to each body part was a wine glass with remnants of each victim’s blood.  The authorities  believed the killers drank the blood of each victim and the case was dubbed The Vampire Killings. My knees were weak.  I sat down on the floor, took a deep breath and finished reading.  The vampire killers were never found but it was reported that
they had been spotted, nude and laughing, at the beach at midnight.  When police responded and approached , 
they dove under water and never emerged.  It was assumed they had drowned.   
Where did she get this and why would she want it?  I just couldn’t think anymore.  I was exhausted.  I put the clipping back where I found it and went to bed. I don’t remember having any dreams that night but I awoke in the morning with a strange feeling that was beyond my ability to describe.
In the week that followed, I tried several times to engage Trudy in conversation.  Like my father, she slept through most of the day.  She’d generally emerge from her room by 5PM to watch television and grab a few things from the refrigerator.  My mother never asked her to sit down at the kitchen table and eat with us.   One evening when my mother was out and my father was asleep, I sat down next to her on the couch and switched off the TV.  “Hey,” she said, “Fuck you.  What are you doing?”  “I want to talk to you,” I said, “just for a few minutes. 
I’ve been home from school for 6 weeks and I feel like we haven’t had any time together.”
“Crap.  You gotta be kidding me,” she said.
“I’m wondering how things are going.  It seems like you’re not hanging out with your friends lately and I thought maybe you and Mickey kind of liked each other so I’m just wondering if something happened.”
She leaned back on the couch and laughed.  “Everything is going the way it should be, sis,” she said.
“What does that mean? “
No answer.  She stared in my direction but her eyes weren’t looking at me. 
“What are you feeling, Trudy?” I asked.  “Are you angry?  If so, it’s okay and maybe you have plenty to be angry about. 
The trick is to find a healthy way to deal with the anger.”
For a second, she looked a little shocked.  Then she started laughing.  I was feeling defeated.  There was no way to get through to her.  When the laughing stopped, she looked at me with an expression so cold that I instinctively backed away.  “You know nothing.  You think you’re better than us,  acting so high and mighty and we’re just pieces of shit to wait on you hand and foot but it doesn’t matter.  There are forces in the universe to even the score.”
She wasn’t making any sense.  I had found no evidence of drugs.  My theory of mental illness, probably schizophrenia was the most feasible.  My heart was racing but I had to stay calm.  “Trudy, I don’t think I’m better than you and I never ask you to do anything for me.  I don’t know who else you’re talking about when you say ‘us.’  Mom and dad? “
I don’t know if she would have answered but just then, my mother walked in with a bag of groceries and glanced disapprovingly in our direction.  I got up from the couch and went to the kitchen to help her. Trudy switched the TV back on.
Every night before midnight, Trudy left the house through her window and went to the beach.  After awhile,  I stopped following her.  I was too tired and anyway, it was always the same scene, just a dark figure standing knee deep in the ocean laughing and talking to no one.  I was looking forward to going back to school, a little more than a week to go and back to some feeling of normalcy.
Then one night, Trudy knocked on my bedroom door.  I opened my eyes and looked at the clock.  It was 11:45PM.  “what’s going on?” I said.  She was smiling.  “Aren’t you going to follow me?”’ 
Oh boy.  She knew?  “What are you talking about?” I said.
She was smiling.  “Tonight will be fun,” she said , and then she was gone.
It was pouring outside.  I could hear thunder crashing too close for comfort and see flashes of lighting illuminating the walls.  She was even crazier than I thought if she was going to the beach in this storm.  What could I do?  I had no choice.  No one else was going to help her so I got up,  threw on a rain slicker, grabbed an umbrella and headed out into the storm.
There was no point anymore in hiding behind dunes.  I made my way through the downpour, stopping twice to fix my inside out umbrella, and headed straight down the beach to her usual spot.  The storm was raging.  A violent gust of wind ripped the already damaged umbrella from my hand and there was nowhere to take shelter.  I strained to see Trudy through the torrents of rain covering my eyes.  No sane person would be out in this.  With my hand covering my eyes, I saw her, the dark figure standing knee deep in the water but now illuminated every few seconds by the lightning that seemed to miss her only by inches.  She was facing away from the ocean and looking in my direction.  She was calling me and although her voice sounded faint amidst the crashing waves and bolts of thunder, I could hear her.  “Lynn – come closer, come with me!”  I started to approach and then another flash of lightning and I stopped.  She wasn’t alone.  She was with Mickey.  They were standing nude with their arms wrapped around each other and backing up further and further into the ocean against the monstrous waves.  She was going to drown.  I  rushed toward her and screamed her name but when I got to the water, they had already gone under.   There was no one to help and she was drowning.  She and Mickey were both insane.  Another flash of lighting and suddenly her face emerged at the top of a wave about 30 feet from shore. 
I saw only her face, freakishly large and illuminated for maybe only a second but an unforgettable vision of eyes that were cold, mocking, and evil. 
I stood paralyzed and the vision disappeared  behind the next wave. 
I have no recollection of how I got home.  My next memory was standing soaking wet in the middle of my mother’s bedroom, feeling her wrap a towel around me and hearing her tell me to calm down and stop screaming and tell her what happened.  I told her Trudy drowned.  She was at the beach with a boy and they went in the ocean and intentionally drowned.  She just stood there.  “Call the police!”  I screamed.  “Call dad!” 
“I will,” she said.  “Just try to calm down.” 
I saw her go through the motions and I watched her make the obligatory phone calls from a place that now seemed surreal.  The police arrived pretty quickly and we didn’t wait for my father.  I led them all to the spot where my sister and her friend had killed themselves.  There wasn’t much they could do.  They searched the area with flashlights for signs of their clothes or personal belongings but could find nothing. The storm had subsided but it was still raining pretty heavily. We headed back to the house where they asked questions, I answered, and they filled out their reports.
When they left, we sat down in the living room, soaking wet and drained of any human emotion that might still be possible under the circumstances.  “Dad,” I said weakly, “still not home.”  She nodded slightly and started stroking my hair.  She started humming a lullaby that I remembered her singing to me as a child.  I closed my eyes.   Then all of a sudden, a loud bang broke the moment of peace and my eyes popped open.  It sounded like it came from the basement.  Maybe my father was home.  Or maybe..,.could it possibly be Trudy?   
I jumped up and raced downstairs with my mother following close behind and yelling for me to stop but it was too late.  
The light switch didn’t work and I stood in a dark room, the only illumination coming from a small light hanging over my father’s work table.  The table, usually covered with tools, was bare except for two empty wine glasses. I heard my mother scream, “NO!  This one’s mine!”  The light over the table went out and the room was suddenly so cold.  Another scream and I felt my mother push me  down.  I fell hard and face down  to the cement floor, her body on top of mine.
            I woke up in the ambulance.  I was alive.  I tried to speak but my voice was strange and barely audible.  The paramedic  had sympathy and kindness in his eyes.   “Mother?”  I whispered.  He looked away and told me just to rest.  Only one more question. 
“What day?” I asked.  “It’s Sunday,” he said.  “No. Date” I pleaded, “date.” 
“August 22,” , he said.  “Please, just rest.”
I closed my eyes.  I had no more questions, no more theories.  I knew the answer.
 
END

The Death of a Great Scientist
​
By Goran Petrovic


Syracuse, Sicily, 212 BC


A beefy guy grabs the white hair
Of a man with a brilliant mind.
The old man shouts: “Don’t touch my circles!”,
But the thug stabs him from behind.


The thug whose mind is a shallow pool
With less than a handful of water
Smiles with a smile more bright than his helm
Because he has given no quarter.


The gods of knowledge are left to mourn
The demise of their cleverest son.
The gods of folly are mockingly dancing,
Having much, so much fun:


“Ha ha, how dumb you are, sons of Rome,
You’d build a country to last forever,
And yet you let oafs kill men of science
Who can move the earth with a lever!”


And so the curtain falls and raises
A question worth a million dollars –
How can mankind make a good world
If it favors louts over scholars?

From The Love Song of

J. Robert Oppenheimer


By Alan Catlin 



for Ed Sanders and for Tom Nattell

​

This is what he sees:
The future:


Concrete re-enforced by steel, sound proof bunkers, toadstools
of the Nuclear Age erupting everywhere along a stark, barren desert-
scape where the forests were, fields of crops, plain's grass;
Monolithic oblong watch stations, long narrow slits for gun
placements, tools of observation; these posts spaced evenly along
contaminated ocean shores glowing at night, not from plankton but
rotational remains, half-lives longer than the written history of man;
Spectacular sunsets, impossible coloring: viridian, burnt sienna,
Prussian blue, Kelly green, cobalt blue; chemical stains instead of
night fall;
Deserted cities, population centers, enclosed linked malls and
outdoor ones; remaining free-standing structures devoid of life, commerce,
human interaction, civilization; the giving and the taking of mercantile
life;
Underground passages, caves of the isolated and the feral, tribal
instincts renewed; uncontaminated food stuff the universal, precious
unit of exchange;
Night creatures crawling out from below under covering of
darkness. scavengers armed with rude implements, anything that may be
fashioned into weaponry;
Historical monuments, libraries, universities, all the literature,
art work, musical scores reduced to kindling, insulation, protective
covering from the sun, extreme elements of cold during nuclear winter;
Newly transformed, the human condition as a sideshow of freaks,
the deformed, the multi-limbed or limbless, those functionally blind or gifted
with extra sight, extra eyes that either see a past with no future or a future
with no past: nothing linked, nothing learned, everything new, only the basics
left: survival, food, water, sex;
Territorial imperatives.

Patron Saint
(Of the Misunderstood)

By Kenneth Vincent Walker



With strokes of
Genius, madness
Brother you where
The father of gloom
And the sunflower.


Dazzling fields of
Pure gold lavishly
Bathed in yellow
Lighting following
A brief sunshower.

Patron Saint of the
Misunderstood, and
Of the undervalued,
Rejected, neglected;
A genuine visionary.

Oh, Van Gogh your
Strength is innocence
Providing sustenance
Long before royalty
And the peasantry


Ever took notice.

LOVE REKINDLED

By Paul Lonardo
 
“I still haven’t heard from any schools yet,” Jodi said into her cell phone as she stepped into the house. “There just doesn’t seem to be any full-time teaching positions available anywhere around. I don’t know, Susan, I may have to move out of state.”
She stopped at the kitchen counter and placed the day’s mail on top of the growing stack that had been accumulating there over the past week or so.
“Sure, I can substitute all I want,” she continued, “it just doesn’t pay anything. That’s why I took that temp job with the state. It’s not great, but it pays better and it provides benefits. I’d rather not talk about all that right now, if that’s okay.”
It had been two days since she and Susan buried their mother, and Jodi did not even want to think about going back to work the following day for the State of Rhode Island Department of Corrections.
“I’m fine, Susan. Really. I’ll talk to you later on in the week. All right?”
After Jodi hung up with her sister, she stared down with a heavy heart at the assortment of mail—invoices from her mother’s doctors and health care providers, credit card statements, bothersome election year political advertisements, grocery coupon mailers, and department store catalogs. It was the same as always. There was no stopping it, the tide of bills and solicitations that washed up every day. And it would just keep coming, even though her mother was no longer there. It didn’t matter. No one seemed to care.
As she halfheartedly began sorting through it all, separating the junk from what required her attention, one envelope stood out among the others. It appeared to be a personal letter, with her name handwritten in tight cursive along with her mother’s address, even though officially Jodi did not live there. She had grown up in the house, but shortly after getting her teaching certificate and a job as a teacher’s aide in her old elementary school, she had moved into her own place. Last year, when she moved back into the house so she could take better care of her ill mother, few people knew it. She had even kept her apartment the entire time, maintaining residency there and getting her own mail.
Oddly, the first person who Jodi thought of when she saw the handwritten letter was Nick.
Of course, this was where she had lived when she knew Nick, though she realized it was crazy to think that the letter actually was from him. She hadn’t seen him since high school graduation, and it made her wonder why he had popped into her head at that moment. Sure, she had known him her whole life. They had gone through grade school together as well as high school, and although they never dated, nor were they especially close, she did think about him often. They had many mutual friends and their paths had often crossed throughout their school years. He was a real nice guy. Quiet. Shy. Pensive. Smart. And handsome.
She remembered him calling her once in high school and asking her out on a date, but she was seeing someone at the time, an older guy who was in college in Massachusetts. She always regretted not going out with Nick, not only because the guy she was dating turned out to be a snake in the grass, sleeping with every girl on campus while she remained loyal to him, but because she never got another opportunity with Nick. After graduation, he left to go to some small liberal arts college in New Jersey, where he majored in English and Poetry. Last she heard, he was living in Chicago with someone and trying to make a living as a writer. Thinking about him now, Jodi found herself really hoping that the letter was from him.
She realized how foolish she had been when she saw the return address. It was from Arianna Darling, little miss senior homecoming queen who married the class president, Tommy Burch, and was living a fairy tale.
Jodi wasn’t much for social media, and she didn’t even have a Facebook account anymore. She had lost touch with most of her classmates from Fairview High, and though there were some people she wished she had stayed in contact with, Arianna was not one of them. There was a mutual dislike between them that went back ten years, when they were in middle school, and it all had to do with a boy—Kyle Jensen. Arianna had liked Kyle, but he had asked Jodi to the seventh grade holiday semiformal instead. Ever since then, Arianna had it in for Jodi, always talking shit about her and just being a world-class bitch because she didn’t get what she wanted. Jodi never even liked Kyle and she only went out with him that one time. Now she had to put up with Arianna treating her like she was some kind of threat, as if she was afraid that Jodi might take something else away from her. Whatever. Jodi didn’t really care, but Arianna was the one who she always seemed to run into at the post office and the pharmacy and other places around town.
Fairview was still considered a small Rhode Island town, despite its population growth over the past several decades, but no one lived larger than Arianna Darling-Burch. Her palatial estate at the end of Crescent Lane looked down like a citadel from the top of Oaks Bluff, the highest point in town. Arianna could see everything that went on in Fairview, if she cared to look. What she really wanted, Jodi believed, was to make sure everybody saw her and the fabulous home that Tom Burch had built for her after he finished college and began working at his family’s mortuary.
There were numerous funeral homes in town, but Burch-Littlefield Memorial Chapel was the biggest and nicest in the state. They had remained family owned, and they operated several other funeral homes in the surrounding areas. Jodi did not begrudge the Burch family for their success. Quite the contrary, in fact. They ran an elegant, reputable business, and everyone who worked there was really nice. They had handled her mother’s arrangements, and could not have been more kind or understanding. To their further credit, they were wise enough not to give Arianna a position in which she had to deal with the families or the bereaved. If she was doing clerical, custodial, or any backroom work at the mortuary, Jodi thought they were doing the community a great service.
Assuming the envelope from Arianna contained a sympathy card, Jodi unceremoniously tossed it into the pile with the rest of the junk mail. She did not want anything from Arianna, least of all sympathy. Jodi thought any condolences from her would be forced and insincere, coming from someone who knew nothing about real loss, grief, or misfortune. She realized that seemed catty, even petty and harsh, but she couldn’t help it. There weren’t many people she disliked. She wasn’t like that. She always got along with everyone, but Arianna just rubbed her the wrong way, so she wasn’t about to cut her any slack. The constant personal barbs and half-disguised insults Arianna had hurled at Jodi over the years were calculated and intentionally hurtful. Besides, if Arianna was so sympathetic, why didn’t she bother to contact her even once during the entire time her mother was sick? She could have at least stopped by her mother’s wake, which she certainly knew about.
Jodi’s shoulders sagged as she looked out the kitchen window at the sinking sun. She’d visited her mother’s grave that afternoon, so her spirits were already low. And now seeing the letter from Arianna—it was enough to depress her. She left the mail where it was and took a couple of ibuprofen caps to knock down the throbbing in her head before it became a full-blown headache. She wasn’t hungry, so she just went to her room to lie down on the bed for a while. Not that she expected to be able to sleep. She hadn’t been sleeping well since her mother died. Even though Jodi had lived on her own before, it felt weird being in the house all alone after all those months of spending her days caring for her mother. She closed her eyes against the memories.
A short time later, Jodi opened her eyes and looked around groggily. She must have dozed off, because it was completely dark outside now. She mustered just enough energy to get undressed, set her alarm, and crawl under the covers. She would deal with it all tomorrow.
       ***
The next morning, when the buzzer sounded, she got out of bed without hitting the snooze button. She actually felt very refreshed for the first time in a long time, and after a light breakfast of some oatmeal and fruit, she arrived at work earlier than usual and with a bit of a bounce in her step.
The main offices for the Rhode Island Department of Corrections were downtown, but Jodi had to report to an old two-story building two towns over where pre-computerized files were warehoused. Her job was to input data on past inmates into the state computer system and include any updated information on the status of prisoners or former prisoners who were still alive. The work was beyond tedious and unfulfilling, but she had no choice and no other options at the moment. Her desk, along with an old computer they gave her, was stuffed inside an empty storage closet. There was no air conditioner, though the brick-and-mortar construction managed to keep most of the June heat at bay until later in the afternoon, when it was just about time to go home for the day. She worked virtually alone, so when she arrived and saw the colorful arrangement of flowers on her desk it made her smile.
It was ten minutes until eight o’clock so the two or three other full-time state workers assisting her on this project were not in yet. Her immediate boss, who was usually in and out—though mostly out—all day long, was there that morning. That alone made her feel uneasy. He had his door open, another portent of trouble. He seemed to be waiting for her, and when he saw her he stuck his head out and waved Jodi into his office. He asked her to have a seat in a serious, businesslike tone, his face countenanced with concern. When he summarily informed her that her position was not being funded for the next quarter, which had officially started over the weekend and meant that she no longer had a job, she wasn’t the least bit surprised. She fully understood that the job was temporary, but she still found the abruptness of her termination distressing, if only because of the timing, so soon after her mother’s passing. It just seemed so thoughtless and insensitive. She hadn’t been in the previous week, having asked for time off in order to be with her dying mother, but her boss must have known the status of her position then, and he could have notified her before she came in that morning.
Jodi just let it go. She didn’t care for the job, and she wasn’t going to miss it. She thanked her boss, who wished her well, and she walked out of the building with only a purple bucket full of red roses, white Asiatic lilies, and red mini carnations—her favorite—which had been left on her desk. She didn’t notice until she got home that there was no card with the flowers. She figured it had fallen off somewhere in transit, and that they had to be from Bob, Susan’s husband, who probably knew about her being terminated because he was the one who had helped get her the temporary position with the state in the first place. She made a mental note to call her brother-in-law later and thank him for everything.
As she stood in the kitchen, with the aroma of the fresh flowers filling the eerily quiet room, she suddenly felt a little dizzy and very tired. It was only nine-thirty in the morning, yet she was completely drained. The day had started out so well. She’d felt so good and so strong, but now her legs were like spaghetti and she thought she was going to pass out. She made her way over to the couch in the small living room, and as she sat there for a minute or two, waiting for the faintness to pass, she spotted a small white object on the floor at the foot of her mother’s recliner directly across from her. As she stared at the item, it slowly came into focus and she realized that it was a nasal cannula without the tubing. She didn’t know how she had missed it. She had meticulously cleaned the entire house and thought she had stored away or disposed of all her mother’s medical equipment and supplies.
Seeing it lying there now, the nasal cannula was a reminder of her mother’s increasing struggle just to breathe in the final years of her life and her dependency on medical equipment to survive. Jodi knew that she had also played a big part of her mother’s existence, though more on an emotional level, providing her with comfort, companionship, laughter, and being her personal sounding board and at times even a target for her mother’s frustration and anger.
Jodi felt a lot like that overlooked nasal cannula on the floor, discarded and alone in the room. Without her mother, she had no purpose. Her mother needed her, but Jodi also needed her mother. Now, with her mother gone, she was lost.
Her mother’s empty chair, which always had her gray quilted shawl draped across the back, was bare now. The oxygen tank rack and cart that would be nearby was gone as well. The skin of Jodi’s grief, which she thought had begun healing, was as raw and painful as it was the day she lost her mother. It was too much for her, and the tears came unabated, accompanied by loud, racking sobs.
Like a powerful storm, the sudden tempest of her sorrow passed quickly and revealed clear skies and the return of hopefulness and optimism. While Jodi certainly was feeling the effects of being on an emotional roller coaster the past few days, it was her nature to find the positive in everything and remain upbeat, so that was what she intended to do. She missed her mother a lot, and wished she were still there, but now, overcome by an overriding sense of enthusiasm, there was so much she wanted to do. And she could do it all now. She wanted to horseback ride across the plains of Montana, go rafting down the Colorado River, hike the highest peaks, and swim with the dolphins. She wanted to live. She wanted to be in love. After that, she would be at peace.
Jodi was so confident that things would turn around for her that she got up off the couch to retrieve the letter from Arianna Darling. If she could face that, she could face anything.
She was reaching for the envelope when she saw that there was another letter, slightly smaller and cream-colored, stuck to the back side of Arianna’s. It had been raining the day of her mother’s burial, and the two pieces of wet mail were adhered together.
As Jodi pulled the smaller envelope free, some of the paper tore away from the larger one in the process. The mailing and return addresses on the smaller envelope were professionally printed, and when Jodi saw that it had a California stamp mark on it, she did a double take, knowing immediately where it had been sent from. She had almost forgotten that she had applied for a teaching position at a charter school in San Diego several months before. Frustrated by the lack of local teaching opportunities, she’d sent her résumé out on a whim after seeing the job posted online. She never expected to hear back from them, however, and because she was caring for her mother at the time, she would not have considered taking it anyway. She eagerly tore into the envelope.
The letter was from the San Diego League of Charter Schools board of directors, who advocated for the thirty-eight member charter public schools in the county. They were offering Jodi a full-time position at the Kismat Charter School in Carlsbad.
As she quickly skimmed the letter, she was further informed that she had been selected from a vast list of qualified applicants from around the country, and that the position at the school would be available to her exclusively for a limited time. If she was available and interested, they provided a phone number for her to contact the dean of the school directly.
Jodi was giddy with excitement. It was almost too good to be true. Not only was this a fantastic job opportunity, but it was a chance for her to leave Fairview and start life over. She was so elated by this prospect that she didn’t bother to finish reading the letter, and instead immediately called her sister to tell her the news.
Although Susan was happy for Jodi, she confessed that she would be sad to have her sister move so far away.
“So, you think I should take it?” Jodi asked.
“Yes,” Susan said. “For lots of reasons. Don’t you?”
Jodi knew it was the right thing to do, but something told her to put it off, to just sit on it for a little while and think about it carefully before making any kind of decision one way or the other. That seemed liked the best course of action to take, and that’s what she did, folding the letter up and tucking it back inside the envelope, which she tossed onto the middle of the kitchen table like a discarded poker hand. Something told her that the stakes had been raised and that she was playing for her future. But she was all in.
Without any further hesitation, Jodi tore open Arianna’s letter and discovered that it was an invitation, not a sympathy card.
The bold print at the top read FAIRVIEW HIGH SCHOOL—5-YEAR CLASS REUNION.
Jodi had to think for a moment. Was it five years already? She had graduated in 2010, and it was now 2015. It was five years, all right, and it went by way too fast.
The event was being held at the Sprewell Mansion, an historical home in town that used to belong to a wealthy, prominent family and had recently been converted into a banquet hall and ballroom.
There was a web address where you could register and purchase a ticket in advance, so she went online to see who was going. As she scrolled down the list of classmates who would be in attendance, she barely noticed any of the names until she saw Nick Ryan.
She reacted immediately to seeing his name. She felt her face flush and her body quiver, as if he had physically touched her. She didn’t know what exactly was happening to her, but as unexpected as the feeling was, it seemed natural and real enough to her, and she was eager to see him. When she saw that the event was Saturday night, the upcoming weekend, she closed her eyes and blinked them rapidly to make sure they were in focus and that she was not reading the date incorrectly.
It was on June 21. The first day of summer.
Just five days away.
Something didn’t add up. She was able to see that Nick had bought his ticket more than a month before, while others had purchased their tickets even earlier. Jodi understood that her invitation had gone untouched in the mail pile for over a week, but that didn’t account for the delay. She hadn’t heard a word about the reunion all spring, and it didn’t take a genius to figure this one out. Jodi would have suspected Arianna even if she wasn’t on the reunion committee.
She had come very close to throwing Arianna’s letter out yesterday. Jodi was glad she had not, or she might never have known about the reunion. She just shook her head and dismissed the oversight, intentional or otherwise. It was just like Arianna to do something so devious. Besides, Jodi had a lot to do to get ready for Saturday night, including shopping for a new dress, calling for a hair appointment, and getting her nails done.
The first thing she did, however, was pull out her high school yearbook. It was on the bookshelf beside a bunch of old family photo albums, in virtually the exact same spot where it had been since the day she’d brought it home. She dusted off the cover like she was unearthing a time capsule. It had only been five years, but it seemed so long ago. The high-resolution photographs brought her instantly back to those carefree days where everything seemed to revolve around fashion and friendships, rivalries and teenage drama. She had enjoyed her time in high school, but when it was over, she was glad and never looked back.
Now, as she flipped through the senior class pictures and the faces blurred, the memories started to fade along with them. Then she stopped on the page with Nick’s photo. She looked at him and smiled. He was smiling back at her, displaying a set of even, white teeth and a dimple on one cheek that made him look like he was smirking. His face was narrow, with a firm jawline and square chin. His nose was classic Greek-shaped. His lips, with an upper lip that was slightly thinner than the full pouting lower lip, were eminently kissable. He was as handsome as she remembered him. She had never noticed that his eyes were hazel, however. She remembered them being warm and brown, but the green was so prominent now, picked up by the turquoise in the pattern of the tie he was wearing.
“What was I thinking?” she mumbled to herself. “Letting you get away.”
As she thumbed through the book, looking at the arbitrary photos taken of students around the school, it felt like she was there again, walking down the halls, inside her old classrooms. She found a photograph of her with her best friend at the time, Kathy DiNoble. They were laughing about something when the picture was taken. She had seen the picture before, but looking at it this time she saw something that she had not noticed until now. It was Nick. He was in the background, only a few steps away, and although his image was not completely in focus, she was sure it was him.
Jodi thought a moment, and then began to search frantically for another photo taken of her in Spanish class. She knew it was in the back of the book somewhere, and when she located it, she studied it and saw several classmates around her, including Nick. He was sitting directly behind her, and was much clearer in this photo. He was smiling, but he seemed unaware that a photographer was focusing his lens in his direction. Jodi thought he was looking directly at her instead.
She put a finger in the page to hold her place, and then turned over to the sports section and started flipping through the pages until she found the picture of her sitting in the stands during a swim meet. She and everyone around her was cheering, their hands raised enthusiastically in the air when the photo was snapped. Incredibly, Nick, who was on the dive team, was in this picture as well. He was on the high board in the foreground, stretching in preparation for his dive. His head was turned, and he once again appeared to be looking in Jodi’s direction.
Jodi looked at these images far differently now than she had before this day. Now, they were signs. Signs she had missed five years ago, and she was getting the distinct feeling that she was supposed to miss them at that time. She noticed them now because this was when she was supposed to notice them. She had never had any kind of intuitive perception like this before, but she was sure that her future, always lying somewhere ahead of her, vague and indistinct, involved Nick.
       ***
It was one of those dreams when you know that you’re asleep, and no matter how hard you try to wake yourself up you simply cannot. Only in this one, Jodi did not want to wake up. Her mother was alive, and she was back at Fairview High School.
It started out where she was running late and missed the bus. She was walking to school when she realized that she wasn’t wearing a top. When she arrived, the first period had already started and the front door was locked, so she went around back to find another way inside. The gym door was open and she just walked in. There was a class playing volleyball and no one seemed to care that she was only wearing a bra, and that’s when Jodi knew it was a dream, so she didn’t care either.
The next thing she knew she was in the natatorium, even though the pool was in a completely different building. That’s the beauty of a lucid dream; you can teleport yourself instantly anywhere you want to go.
As she walked along the edge of the pool, the water was completely still and the only light came from the shower room. She could see the steam drifting out and could hear the sound of running water.
“Nick,” she called softly as she entered. There were indistinct shapes in the mist. As she drew closer to them, she saw naked figures lurking about. She identified them as members of the boys’ swim team, even though none of them were actual students. Her boss, who had just fired her, was there. Gross. So was her cousin Steve, and his friend Darrin. And even a friend of her father’s who she hadn’t seen since she was ten years old, but no Nick. She tried not to look at them, but they were walking all around, and there was no way to avert her eyes.
“Jodi.”
Though she recognized that it was her mother’s voice beckoning her, she understood that it was leading her to Nick and she followed it. Then all of a sudden Jodi found herself back in the main school building again, in an empty hallway.
“Nick,” she called. “Where are you?”
“Jodi,” her mother’s voice, substituting for Nick’s, said. “I’m in here.”
The school library was directly ahead. She walked toward the doors knowing what was going to happen as soon as she stepped inside.
“Shhh-hhh.”
Jodi turned and saw Mrs. Carrie, the short, round-bodied librarian holding a pudgy finger in front of her pursed lips.
There was a figure lurking between two nearby shelves in the unusually dark library. As Jodi began to move forward, she knew it was Nick from his silhouette, posture, and Grecian nose. He was holding a book. She felt her heart skip when his bare torso came into view and she saw that he was only wearing his Speedo. He pivoted his head to the side to look at her and smiled, his left cheek dimpling and the green of his eyes sparkling. Holding a book of poetry in his hand, he began reciting a poem without taking his eyes off her.
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” he began.
Jodi recognized the opening passage right away. It was her favorite work by John Keats, who she knew all about, having once written an essay about the English Romantic poet who died from tuberculosis at the tender age of twenty-five. Titled Endymion, written in rhyming couplets in iambic pentameter, Keats based the poem on the Greek myth of Endymion, a handsome shepherd who was visited every night by the moon goddess Selene, who loved him.
“Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkn’d ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall…
It may have been only a dream, but it could not have felt more real to Jodi. Nick turned his entire body toward her and approached her in the same motion. As the book he was holding fell at her feet, he took Jodi in his arms, pulling her tightly against his bare chest. She embraced him, feeling his skin and the rippling muscles of his shoulder and back react to her touch. He didn’t say a word as he peered deeply into her eyes before bringing his face close to hers and pressing his lips against her waiting mouth. She instantly closed her eyes, not wanting the feeling to end, not wanting to wake up. She opened her mouth just a little and let his probing tongue inside. When he tenderly bit her bottom lip, teasing the sensitive flesh between his teeth, she let out a soft moan and dropped her head back, surrendering herself to him. She felt his wet lips and his hot tongue on the side of her neck and it was all she could do to keep from screaming. Sensing that she was starting to awaken from this dream, she struggled to keep it from ending. She was afraid to open her eyes and find that he was not there, that she was alone in her room. If she could make this moment last just a little longer, Jodi thought as she felt Nick take his hands and grip her gently on either side of her head, behind her ears. While he softly kissed her cheeks, her chin, and her forehead with scorching passion, he ran his fingers through her hair, over her entire scalp, massaging her head. He nuzzled his cheek against hers, her skin seeming to catch fire where they touched.
“No,” she called out in protest of the sudden wakefulness she felt. But it was no use. In a desperate effort to remain in this fantasy, she pressed herself firmly against Nick, her hands on the small of his back, and drew him into her with all of her strength, as if trying to pull his body through her own.
Jodi expected to awaken with a feeling of utter emptiness, but she was filled instead with such hope and anticipation that she could barely contain her emotions. Outside her window, the morning sun was just beginning to rise. This most ancient symbol of faith and resurrection diffused its light rays through the thin cloud cover to create a magnificent color scheme of yellow, orange, and red. It was beautiful and magical, and the imagery served to reinforce the meaning of the dream she had just experienced. She was confident that everything would be okay. Any worries she had about her life, her career, her lingering grief over the loss of her mom and all of her troubles seemed inconsequential in the face of what the future held in store for her. She was on the path to her destiny, and it was clear to her that everything that had happened to her up to this point was a part of that.
She got out of bed with nowhere in particular to go, but eager to start the day. The only thing on her mind was her class reunion, just a few days away.
 
       ***
 
It was reunion day. Jodi had done everything she needed to do, and as she began preparing herself for the evening, she was excited about the new minidress she had picked out—a sexy yet casual sleeveless rose print. She didn’t usually dress to impress, but she couldn’t wait to see how Nick reacted to it.
After she put on a little mascara and some lipstick, adding just a trace of perfume, she was ready to go. On her way out of the house, as an afterthought, she stopped and picked out one of the mini carnations from the arrangement which had held up the best and pinned it to her chiffon dress, realizing at the same time that she had forgotten to thank her brother-in-law for the flowers. She would have to remember to do that when she called her sister tomorrow.
It was a short drive to the Sprewell Mansion, and Jodi’s anticipation continued to mount as she got closer. After she arrived, she was walking to the main entrance from the parking lot on the far side of the property when a long black limousine pulled up the driveway and stopped near the front door. Arianna emerged giggling from the back of the car followed by two other girls whom Jodi recognized from school. She knew they had been cheerleaders, like Arianna, but she did not remember their names. Arianna was wearing a formal black lace gown and trying to balance the contents of a champagne flute as she walked. The other girls had their cell phones out and were taking pictures of themselves. Jodi watched as Arianna approached the mansion like she lived there, posturing on the walkway like she was strolling the red carpet at a Hollywood movie premiere.
“Look who it is,” Arianna said, noticing Jodi and waving at her like she was a long-lost sister. She sauntered over on her platform pumps and gave Jodi one of those fake celebrity hugs, putting her arms around her without touching her.
“Hi, Arianna,” Jodi intoned flatly.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” Arianna said. “You replied so late.”
“I guess I almost didn’t,” Jodi said, and left it at that. She didn’t want to give Arianna the satisfaction that she was even the least bit upset by the tactic. “Where’s Tom?”
“Oh, he’s away on business,” she said.
Jodi found it odd that he would miss his own class reunion and couldn’t help wondering if he had intentionally planned to be away rather than witness Arianna’s insufferable and supercilious behavior. “How convenient,” Jodi said. “Maybe he didn’t get the invitation in time. Or maybe he just preferred to be somewhere else.” Although this was only a counter jab in her ongoing sparring match with Arianna, Jodi realized that her antagonist’s seemingly storybook life was probably not as perfect as she made it out to be. This notion gave Jodi a great deal of satisfaction and put a half smile on her face.
“Nice dress,” Arianna said with obvious derision, not about to let Jodi get the last word in. “Hoping to get lucky tonight, Jodi?”
“See you inside, Arianna,” Jodi said, her smile never fading as she quickly turned and walked in ahead of Arianna and the pom-pom girls.
As Jodi entered the mansion, she followed the sound of the music up a large staircase. The banquet room and setup was typical of any formal catered affair, with buffet stations full of food and desserts, a cash bar, several rows of round tables, a small dance floor, and a DJ set up in one corner. There were a lot of people milling around, and after Jodi made a quick scan for Nick she began to mingle. It didn’t take long to notice that her classmates were gathered into the same cliques she remembered from high school, the same bands of friends gravitating together—the jocks with the jocks, the geeks with the geeks, the pretty boys with the pretty girls. And just like in high school, Jodi really didn’t feel comfortable with any of them, so she drifted among all of them.
She had been there a while, and was actually having fun, catching up with everyone, but after an hour, when Nick still hadn’t shown up, she caught a glimpse of herself in a gold gilt wall mirror and realized that she was really underdressed compared to the other girls. What if Nick didn’t like her outfit? She fought an urge to leave, to just go home. However, she knew this was where she needed to be. She just had to wait. In the meantime, she joked around with Kathy DiNoble.
“Remember that creepy male substitute teacher we had that time in cooking class,” Jodi began. “We were talking about what to make, and you suggested Sex in a Pan. He heard you, leaned over, looked right at you and said, ‘I prefer it in a bed.’” The two girls laughed and continued to reminisce until Kathy was called away by someone and excused herself to talk in another group.
Not seeing anyone else she wished to talk to and still no sign of Nick, Jodi decided to take a walk alone through the lower floor of the beautifully refurbished Queen Anne style converted mansion. The home had been built more than a century ago, and featured original wood and slate flooring and an abundance of chair rail and crown molding. The unusually-shaped rooms had different color schemes—blue, mulberry red, and cream—and were adorned with traditional Victorian-style furniture and decor. As she entered the library, she saw a formidable wall of books, ten feet high, stretching all the way to the ceiling, and a set of armchairs for reading in one corner. There must have been a thousand volumes on the shelves, many of them elegantly bound in leather.
Jodi instinctively found herself searching through the titles and authors for a book of poems by John Keats. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, and she thought for sure that she would not be able to find what she was looking for in the apparent random placement of books. To her surprise, however, she discovered a collection of English Romantic poetry, which included in it the works of William Blake, Samuel Coleridge, Percy Shelley, William Wordsworth, and John Keats. As she opened the book in the middle, there was the entire thousand-line, four-book poem, Endymion.
She began to read the lines to herself, recalling as she did the fragments of the dream she had the other night. She remembered being in the high school library with Nick, who was shirtless, reading this poem to her. The imagery made her smile. And made her heart flutter.
At that moment, Jodi felt someone nearby, and when she looked up she saw Nick looking at her with a whimsical smile.
“Hi, Jodi,” he said.
She just looked at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was really there or if she was imagining him.
“Kathy told me that I might find you over here.”
“Nick,” Jodi finally said. She felt her face flush and her knees weaken when she realized it was really him. “You have a shirt on.” She cringed inwardly as soon as the words came out of her mouth.
Oh, my God! Did I just say that?
The book she was holding dropped from her hands, falling open at her feet on the page she was reading.
Nick instantly picked up the book and glanced at the entry. “Keats,” he said. “Still your favorite, I see.”
“Yes,” she said in surprise. “How did you know?”
“We were in the same English class freshman year. You did that great report on Keats. I think you got an A.”
“You were in that class?”
“I don’t blame you for not remembering me. I sat way in the back of the room, a gangly kid, all arms and legs, a face full of pimples. You had all the boys tripping over themselves to get your attention.”
Jodi blushed.
Nick smiled. “It’s nice to see you, Jodi.”
“I’m glad you came home for this,” Jodi said, smiling back. “The reunion, I mean. I’m glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”
His eyes, looking dark green in the subdued lighting, conveyed both tenderness and strength. She was absolutely hypnotized by his piercing gaze.
“You want to grab a drink?” he asked. “We have a lot to catch up on.”
“I’d like that,” Jodi said as Nick tucked the book back on the shelf. She felt like she was on a cloud as she strode through the rooms of the mansion alongside him. He was taller than she remembered and he looked so good. He wore his hair longer than most guys his age. It was styled, and small dark curls gathered around his ears and along the back of his neck. The sharp, formal gray suit he was wearing was stylish, but understated. She thought that they looked great together, a belief that seemed to be confirmed when she saw everyone looking in their direction as they made their way into the reception hall.
It was like a dream. As Jodi and Nick talked casually over a glass of wine, they were frequently interrupted by classmates who suddenly wanted to say hello or chat, as if they had somehow gone back in time and became that popular couple who had dated all through high school and everybody wanted to be around.
One of the things they talked about were movies they had recently seen, and it seemed fitting enough when Jodi mentioned The Last Five Years, the Tony-award winning off-Broadway musical that had been adapted into a film. They had both seen it and enjoyed it, but their conversation was suspended when Robbie Turner and Brayden Cook appeared and started talking to Nick about baseball and the chances the Cubs had to get into the World Series that year.
“Do you know what the piece of dialogue most often used in American film is?” Nick asked her when the boys finally departed.
Jodi was going to answer, “I love you,” but stopped herself. She just shook her head.
“It’s, ‘Let’s get outta here!’”
It was obvious that Nick wanted to be alone so they could talk more personally. Jodi welcomed the opportunity. She wanted him to feel comfortable enough to completely open up about his life. The bar at a reunion was not a place for privacy. Besides, it was loud. They were close to the speakers and the dance floor. There were a bunch of empty tables at the far end of the room, so she suggested they relocate.
“So, how do you like Chicago?” Jodi asked once they were seated.
“Well, it takes some getting used to, that’s for sure. It’s so big. There’s so much going on. Parks and zoos and museums. The Magnificent Mile – Michigan Avenue. The arts and theater. The restaurants. Although the pizza, I don’t know. I was never a fan of the deep-dish thing. So overall, I would say it’s got its good points and bad points.”
Jodi thought fleetingly about the things that had held her back, the people and the lives that had moved on, leaving her behind, and she suddenly felt very alone. “Well, you made it out of Fairview. That’s something.”
“I don’t know,” Nick said, smiling and peering intently at Jodi, “Fairview has its good points, too.”
The look threw Jodi off a bit. It was overtly flirtatious, and she didn’t know how she should respond. She wondered about Nick’s girlfriend, and why he hadn’t brought her up yet in their conversation. “They say the women are beautiful in Chicago.”
“Is that what they say?”
Jodi wasn’t sure if he was just being coy or if he was deliberately avoiding the topic. However, since it was apparent that he wasn’t about to volunteer the information, she took it upon herself to find out more about the nature of his relationship with the woman who was supposed to be living with him. “Yup,” she began. “I also heard that you are in a serious relationship and living with someone.”
Nick’s eyes sparkled. “Was,” he said. “It didn’t exactly work out.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Nick.” Jodi felt awful. She neglected to consider the downside of the direct approach.
“No, it’s all right.”
She thought about pulling back and just changing the subject, but she quickly realized that they only had a limited amount of time. “What happened? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“Well, it’s kind of a long story.”
Jodi just looked at him and smiled understandingly.
“What I mean,” Nick continued, “is that it’s not very interesting.”
Jodi’s expression did not change.
“She left me.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and placed her right hand on the lower part of his left arm. “How serious was it? Were you planning on getting married?”
“I guess I was. She wasn’t. It never got that far. She pretty much preempted any plans I may have had for a future together.”
“Did she say why?”
Nick shook his head. “She didn’t have to.” He paused momentarily and averted his eyes. “It hasn’t been easy supporting myself as a writer. I wouldn’t have been able to support her or a family.”
“Does she work?”
“She’s a real estate attorney for a big firm in the city. She does well for herself.”
Jodi laughed humorlessly, nonplussed. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Nick shrugged. “I shouldn’t have even considered marriage,” he said. “I’m just not ready.”
“Did you love her?”
He wavered again. It was apparent to her that he had been hurt, and was unsure how to reply.
“I’m really sorry,” Jodi said again, lowering her hand to the top of his wrist. “It’s none of my business. Forgive me.”
“It’s okay. Really. I’m over it. It’s just difficult to talk about. As a writer, I guess it’s just easier to write about emotions.” He smiled and looked her firmly in the eyes. “How about you? There was a guy you were seeing all through high school?”
“That turned out to be a big waste of time. In a lot of ways. I was a fool. All he cared about was himself. I suppose I knew all along. That’s what makes it so stupid on my part.”
“I think you’re being way too hard on yourself.”
“Well, when my mother first got sick, he was never there for me. That pretty much tells it all, doesn’t it?”
Nick reacted by reaching over and gently placing his right hand atop hers, which was still resting on his other wrist. “I’m sorry about your mom,” he said. “I heard she had been sick. I sometimes hear from Stanley. He told me.”
“Didn’t he move somewhere out west?”
“Utah. He has a family in Ogden. His older brother, Donald, is still here though. Stanley couldn’t make it home for the reunion. Anyway, he told me that Donald runs into Arianna around town. She told him about your mom, so that’s how it got back to me.”
Jodi let out a small, knowing laugh. “I see her, too.”
“I know,” Nick said. “I asked her to pass word along that I was thinking of you.”
“She never said anything to me.” Jodi was deeply moved by Nick’s gesture but exasperated by Arianna’s obtrusive behavior, which was seemingly meant to keep her and Nick apart, beginning with the late invitation and now this.
“When I learned from Stanley that your mom had passed, I felt so bad. I had the reunion invitation, so I contacted Arianna and asked her to order an arrangement of flowers to send to you with my condolences. I figured you got them.” Nick pointed to the flower pinned to her dress “That carnation is from the arrangement?”
Jodi couldn’t breathe for a moment.
“Carnations are still your favorite?” he asked. “I know they used to be.”
“Oh my God,” Jodi began. She needed a moment to process everything. “You sent those flowers to me?”
Nick smiled warmly and nodded.
“There was no card. And they were delivered to the office where I used to work. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“Thank you, Nick. It means so much to me.” Jodi forgot all about Arianna and stood and wrapped her arms around him. Nick hesitated hugging her back at first, but she felt his arms gradually begin to envelop her. It was not a casual embrace. He held her firmly, and he did not seem to want to let her go. Jodi was overwhelmed by the sudden swell of emotion. She had never felt this way before.
For Jodi, even over the raucous music and twerking, gyrating bodies on the dance floor, it was like there was no one else around. Since Nick had arrived, she didn’t want to talk to anyone else. Her classmates were just part of the scenery, like the Victorian window treatments and antique furniture. They were extras in this romantic movie that her life had suddenly become.
When the room went momentarily quiet as the music tempo shifted, the timing could not have been more perfect. People began leaving the dance floor and couples began to drift in two by two as the opening chords of an instantly familiar and hauntingly appropriate slow song began to play. It was Frankie Valli’s classic, My Eyes Adored You.
“How about a dance?” Nick asked.
“You read my mind.”
He surprised her by taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor. Nick stopped and they intertwined, their bodies pressed together. Even with heels, the top of her head just aligned with his shoulder. She pressed her left cheek on the right side of his chest. He had taken his suit jacket off and she could feel the muscles under his shirt contract as they swayed to the music. His heart was beating in her ear. She felt comforted and safe in his arms. It felt as natural as breathing.
Funny I seemed to find that no matter how the years unwind
Still I reminisce ’bout the girl I miss and the love I left behind.
Nick rested his chin on the top of her head. Jodi felt his hot breath on her scalp. Suddenly, Nick kissed the top of her head. It was gentle and sweet, and at first Jodi wasn’t sure he did it. One thing she knew was that, more than anything, she wanted to feel his lips on hers.
My eyes adored you like a million miles away from me,
You couldn’t see how I adored you.
So close, so close and yet so far.
The song ended too quickly, and it was announced that the next song would be the final one of the evening. But even as Beyoncé’s 7/11 began to play and the dance floor quickly filled up, Jodi and Nick remained locked in an embrace for several moments.
Finally, Nick pulled back slightly. “It’s getting a little crowded in here,” he said.
“Yeah,” Jodi said breathlessly. It was all she could muster at the moment.
As they left the dance floor arm in arm Jodi felt winded, not from dancing, but from the passionate beating of her heart. She wanted very badly to tell Nick exactly what she was feeling, but with her heart pounding as it was, and practically gasping for air, she wasn’t sure that she would be able to speak. Part of her was also scared. While she sensed a genuine longing for her by Nick, she also felt a clear reluctance on his part to completely let go and give in to what he was feeling. She wasn’t sure what was stopping him, and part of her questioned if what she was reading from Nick were actual feelings for her, or maybe something else entirely. Was he spending time with her simply because he was on the rebound and she was making herself available to him? Did he perhaps have plans to get back together with his girlfriend at some point in the future? Jodi really didn’t know what he was thinking, but she understood that she had to be careful, for both of them. She did not want to get hurt nor did she want to complicate Nick’s life.
Jodi could not believe how quickly the night had gone by, but she wasn’t about to let Nick get away again. He’d told her his flight back to Chicago was the following day, so she asked him if he was available for breakfast and he agreed. She knew it might be her last chance with Nick. In actuality, it would be her first real opportunity, but it might be the only one she would ever get.
The evening had been such a whirlwind that when Jodi found herself back home after the reunion her head was spinning. She felt drunk, but she’d had very little to drink and even less to eat. She could hardly recall how she had gotten home. She had driven herself, of course, but she couldn’t remember anything about the drive or leaving the reception. She couldn’t remember if she said goodbye to any of her classmates. She had been talking with Nick the entire evening, and had made plans to see him at his hotel downtown the following morning, but everything else escaped her.
Nick had given her a good-night kiss. She did remember that. It was a simple kiss, nothing exceptionally dramatic, but she was too wound up to sleep, so after she changed into her pajamas she sat down in the living room in front of the television. She opened a bottle of wine and a box of Wheat Thins and began to flip through the channels. She was unable to focus on anything until she came across an old episode of the television series, The Game. She used to watch the program faithfully when it first came out. It was about a woman who makes a personal sacrifice to support her boyfriend, giving up an educational opportunity to follow him to San Diego, where he was playing professional football.
It was like a sign to Jodi that she should pursue Nick. She saw a parallel between the theme of the TV series and their lives. She would make any sacrifice for Nick, whereas his ex would not. Even the location was a point of relevance. This reminded Jodi of the teaching position she had been offered, and it prompted her to retrieve the letter and look it over again.
That’s when she saw it. The deadline. She must have overlooked it in her excitement to tell her sister about the job offer that day. The date by which she had to accept the offer was Monday, the day after tomorrow. She essentially had forty-eight hours to make up her mind and decide if she was going to move to California to take a teaching job and leave everything she knew behind.
Jodi felt the clock ticking on her future. She was going to have a future of some kind no matter what, but the one she wanted was with Nick, and it was so close she could touch it. Being with him all night after losing him for five years, Jodi knew she couldn’t be happy with anything else. It was really not like her. She knew it was crazy. But it was real. She felt something truly special between them. If she hadn’t, she would have already had her bags packed for San Diego. She had to find out for sure.
She recalled the famous quote by Sidney Harris: Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.
Suddenly Jodi’s cell phone rang, and she started from her position on the couch.
Nick, she immediately thought.
She scrambled for her phone and answered it before it rang again. “Hello.” There was a high-pitched squeal on the other end and Jodi had to hold the phone away from her ear. “Hello,” she repeated.
“Jodi?” asked a shrill voice she recognized as Arianna’s. “Are you alone? Or are you with Nick?”
She sounded drunk. Jodi heard the laughter of her girlfriends in the background.
“I’m home, Arianna.”
“That’s too bad,” Arianna said. “Nick was looking sweet tonight. You think you have a shot with him?” She heard more laughter in the background. “Have you seen his girlfriend? She’s gorgeous.”
Here we go, Jodi thought. It was Kyle Jensen all over again. Only now it was Nick, only Arianna didn’t want him for herself so much as she just didn’t want Jodi to be with him, or anybody else for that matter, if she could help it.
“They’re not together anymore,” Jodi said.
“He wants to marry her. He’ll never leave her.”
Jodi did not respond. She cleared her throat and remained silent.
“Well, I’m having a little after-party at my house. Why don’t you come by? It will be better than being alone.”
“That’s very thoughtful, Arianna.” Jodi began, “But I’m sure I’d feel even more alone being around you and your ilk.” She smiled as she hung up. She wasn’t thinking about Arianna, however. A memory of her mother suddenly came to mind as she recalled a conversation they once had involving Nick. She had forgotten all about it until that very moment.
Early one evening, not long after Jodi had moved back home, her mother made her open a bottle of wine. She often liked to have a drink after supper, wine usually, though she sometimes requested brandy, and Jodi would always join her so she wouldn’t have to drink alone.
Her mother, who never hesitated speaking her mind or offering advice to Jodi about how she should live her life and the guys she needed to avoid, had even more to say after a drink or two. She never liked any of the guys Jodi dated.
“You don’t even know him,” Jodi told her mother after she made a cruel comment about a guy who had taken her out to dinner the night before. “Or, for that matter, any of the guys I tell you about.”
Her mother waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t have to know them,” she said. “I can tell by their names. And by the way you talk about them. They’re all losers.”
She called everybody a loser whom she didn’t like.
Jodi had gone out to the kitchen to refill their wineglasses, and when she returned her mother was holding her high school yearbook open on her lap in the wheelchair. Jodi knew she had to have gotten up to take it off the bookshelf on the other side of the room. She wasn’t surprised, having seen her mother walking in the house before. Several times, Jodi had gone out for a short time and returned to find her mother on her feet. She would be looking and calling Jodi’s name, wondering where her daughter was and why she wasn’t answering.
Even though the emphysema had ravaged her mother’s health, Jodi admired how she didn’t let it take everything from her. It had zapped nearly all her strength, but it never deflated her robust spirit, which was always such a powerful aspect of her personality and remained that way right to the end.
While it was good to know that her mother could get out of her chair if she wanted, Jodi didn’t like her taking that kind of risk, even when she was just in the next room.
“Ma, I could have gotten that for you.”
Her mother continued to quietly go through the pages of the senior class pictures.
Jodi thought she was looking for her photograph.
“Who’s this?” her mother asked.
Jodi looked at the photo her mother pointed out and said, “Oh, that’s Nick Ryan.”
Her mother didn’t say anything right away. She didn’t even call him a loser, which was surprising enough to Jodi. Then, after taking a sip of her wine, her mother softly said, “Ryan,” as if testing the name out. Jodi thought there had even been a hint of approval in her voice. “He looks a lot like your father when he was that age.”
Jodi knew how much her mother loved her father, and since no one was any good for her daughter, Jodi was shocked to hear her mother say this about Nick. Jodi had never noticed any striking physical similarities between Nick and her father, but whether there really were any, she found it curious that her mother would even make such a comment.
“Your father didn’t want to get married,” her mother continued. “I knew him just about my whole life, growing up in the same neighborhood. He was older than me, and he always had lots of girlfriends. He would have stayed a bachelor, too, if I hadn’t straightened him out. But it wasn’t easy, that’s why we didn’t get married until I was forty, and why I had you and your sister so late. I was almost all dried up by then.” She started to laugh but then began to cough. When it subsided, she finished off her wine and held up the empty glass. “Get me another one of these, will you? My throat is starting to get dried up. Don’t want that.”
Jodi smiled at that memory, and thinking about her father now she recalled how much time she spent with him when she was a young girl. She had such fond thoughts of him while she was growing up. He was handsome, with rugged features. He wasn’t an exceptionally big man, but he was strong. She remembered how he would lift her up onto his shoulders with one arm. He was a concrete construction contractor and whenever he could, during the summer and on weekends, he would take her with him on his building projects. He would place a hard hat on her head and she would watch him and the men work all day. She was fascinated by the way they worked together, with their hands and using all kinds of equipment to build massive parking garages and pour foundations for buildings downtown.
Her dad would also bring her with him into the bars at the end of the day. He’d buy her a ginger ale and some pretzels or potato chips and she’d be happy just watching him talk with his guys while they were all drinking beer. Jodi could see how much fun they had together and how much everyone loved and respected her dad. Jodi loved being with him, too.
When he suffered a massive heart attack when she was fourteen, part of her died. Everything changed after that, and her mother was never the same.
Now, as Jodi got ready for bed, she thought about the day she caught her mother looking through her yearbook as they polished off a bottle of wine, and she wondered if her mother was trying to tell her that Nick was the right one for her. Since she could not ask her mother, she resigned herself to the fact that she would never know for certain, while her thoughts were of Nick as she fell asleep that night.
 
***
 
Jodi was in a panic. It was almost eleven o’clock and she wasn’t anywhere close to being ready. Nick was going to see her in full daylight and she wanted to look just right. She wasn’t big on cosmetics, so there were no shortcuts. She had gone to bed really late and she hadn’t slept enough, and no amount of makeup was going to take the place of that. She needed a little more time, though, so she called Nick.
“Hi, Jodi. Everything okay?”
“Fine, Nick. I just wanted to know if we could make it brunch instead. If not, I can still rush over if you’re in a hurry and have to catch your plane.”
“No, I have plenty of time. No rush.”
“I can be there at one o’clock. Definitely by one. That’s the Hilton downtown near the airport?”
“Yes. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
“One o’clock.”
“One o’clock.”
After hanging up, Jodi realized that it wasn’t that much more time, and she wouldn’t be able to transform herself into Helen of Troy that quickly, but it was plenty enough to get her hair the way she wanted it and to make herself look somewhat presentable. The last thing she wanted to do was scare him off after one night, when things seemed to have gone well. The morning after was always important, even though they hadn’t spent the night together. Luckily, she had the perfect outfit—a Vince Camuto blue ombre floral print dress. The fit and flare style complemented her body and showed plenty of leg.
When she walked through the revolving door into the lobby, Nick was standing off to the side, smiling. He looked relaxed, dressed in loose fit boot cut jeans and a gray button-down shirt. He walked up to her, placed his hands gently on her shoulders, and gave her a soft kiss on the lips.
“You look great,” he said. “As usual.”
“Thank you. Sorry if I inconvenienced you by coming so late.”
“It was well worth the wait. No need to apologize. I went ahead and made reservations. It’s pretty full in there. A lot of people in town this weekend, I guess.”
Over the next hour, they talked easily and laughed more than they ate. Although the conversation was light, not getting into anything too deep or complicated, they had a great time. The mimosa that Jodi drank made her a little light-headed.
“It was a lot of fun,” she said as Nick paid the bill and they got up to leave.
“They do a terrific brunch.”
“I meant last night, too,” Jodi said.
“Yeah. It was.”
There was a weighty silence as they left the restaurant, an emptiness that Jodi felt compelled to fill with something. “You want to go for a walk?” she asked.
That was a stupid thing to say, she chastised herself. We’re already walking.
“They have a really beautiful garden out back,” Nick said. “You’ll love it.”
They walked side by side through the lobby to the other end of the hotel, their bodies occasionally brushing up against each other. Jodi was aware of it, and she wondered if Nick was doing it on purpose. She actually got a little thrill each time they touched, like some progressive form of footsie.
Nick opened the sliding door for Jodi to walk outside ahead of him. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the colors and the fragrances of the trees and flowers instantly overwhelmed her. She felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz when she first emerged from her monochrome Kansas farmhouse into the Technicolor world of Oz.
“Amazing,” Jodi uttered softly.
“Isn’t it?”
The courtyard garden wasn’t exceptionally large, but it was breathtaking under a perfect June afternoon. It was sunny and dry, not a cloud to be seen. Birds were flitting and chirping among the hedgerows. The bees were active while fragrant perennials attracted monarchs and other butterflies.
There were people all around the grounds as Jodi and Nick walked in reverential silence. They wandered into a hidden alcove among a thicket of trees and tall shrubs, out of view of everyone, in their own secret garden. In the center was a low stone wall with a slow-dripping fountain and benches all around it.
Nick sat down on one of the benches facing the fountain and observed a sparrow and a robin bathing close to one other. Jodi sat beside him and they watched the birds bathe.
“You think we should be watching them?” Nick turned to her and asked. “They might want a little privacy.”
Jodi smiled back at him. As another bird alighted on the edge of the fountain, the robin flew away, soon followed by the sparrow. “Three’s a crowd,” she said.
Nick never took his eyes off her. Jodi knew he was the quiet type, with still waters that ran deep. He had a lot to say, but Jodi understood that she would have to be the one to initiate a conversation.
“So, do you miss Fairview at all?” she asked.
“Some things. I would say the people, mostly.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean. With my mom gone, there’s not a lot keeping me here. I may not be here much longer myself.”
“Oh yeah? Where are you going?”
“San Diego. I was offered a teaching job out there. You ever been?”
“Just one time. I attended a writer’s conference out there a few years ago. It’s really beautiful. You’ll fit right in there.”
His smile made her want to jump into his arms.
“When are you leaving?” he asked.
“Well, I haven’t accepted it yet.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s just a kind of inertia, having to uproot my life. I definitely need the job. And there’s not a lot of opportunity here, that’s for sure. How was it for you when you first left? Was it a difficult transition to make?”
“Well, I transferred to the University of Illinois, and I stayed there after I graduated for pretty much the same reason you mentioned. Career opportunity was a big factor.”
“Couldn’t you be a writer anywhere, whether it’s in Chicago, Rhode Island…or San Diego?” Jodi asked tentatively. “I mean, all you really need is a computer, right?”
“If I was a working writer, sure,” Nick said with a diminished grin. “As it is right now, I’m not quite there yet. I’m taking some graduate courses, I’ve written a book of poetry, but that doesn’t quite cut it. The academic community there is very nurturing. My former writing professors are great. They’re extremely helpful. And encouraging.”
“That is important. Your fiancée…girlfriend…I’m sorry, what was her name?”
“Forgive me,” Nick said. “I guess I never told you her name. It’s Ashley.”
“Ashley never provided any encouragement?”
“You know, I’m working at the university press, my loans are piling up, and I’m still trying to get my collection published, so I get it. I have a lot invested in my future, and I understand why she didn’t want to wait.”
Jodi looked at him for a long moment. Nick hadn’t answered her directly, and that was very telling.
“She didn’t love you,” Jodi said. “If she did, she would support you.” Instinctively she reached out and touched Nick’s hand. He just looked at her and, without saying anything, he placed his other hand on top of hers.
He smiled suddenly and said, “Enough about me. Let’s talk about you. I know how hard it must have been for you, especially the past few years, taking care of your mom. Compared to what you went through, I have nothing to complain about.”
“It wasn’t all bad. Being with her just about every minute of the day, we got even closer, and that was really nice. She was just so young to have those kinds of health problems. I felt so sorry for her. She depended on me for everything.”
“So she needed full-time care?”
“Well, yeah, the last year or so she couldn’t be left alone.”
“And you did it all by yourself?”
“I didn’t want to put her in a nursing home. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.” Jodi felt herself tearing up, but she managed to compose herself and continue. “At the time, I’d finished school and I had just gotten a teacher’s aide position at McCabe Elementary, but I started taking too many days out to take care of her. They were great there. They really were. They understood, but they had to replace me. They needed to have someone in the classroom. And I understood, too. It wasn’t like they could hold the position for me. There are a lot of teachers out there looking for work and not many jobs available.”
“That’s amazing,” Nick said. “You’re amazing, you know that? Not many people would have done what you did. After my dad left us, he never came around. I don’t know where he is. He could still be in town for all I know. After I left for college, my mom moved to Florida with her boyfriend. So much for a close-knit family, huh?”
“You seem to have turned out just fine.”
Nick looked at her, his left cheek dimpling as he smiled. “It’s hard to believe that you haven’t been scooped up yet,” he said. “It might just be that you’re too good for everybody out there.”
Jodi found herself blushing. In the same instant, she thought about her mother and smiled, letting out a little laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Nick asked.
“You just reminded me of my mom. She never liked anybody I dated. The infrequent times that I actually did go on a date, I made the mistake of telling her about it, or worse, bringing the guy home. She just wanted me home with her. I tried to get out when I could. Go to the gym, or just get out at night, be around people my own age, have some fun. But it never worked out that way. I would have my neighbor, Sherry, stay with my mom. Even if I just went out to market to get some food, my mother didn’t like it. When I was out, I would be nervous, worrying about her, and I would call her all the time to see how she was doing. It seemed like I watched everyone in town get on with their lives, finish school and start their careers, or get married and start their own families. Some of them did all of that. I probably missed my chance.”
Jodi paused and looked back at Nick, wiping the moisture seeping from one eye with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry,” she continued. “I’m talking too much. You don’t want to hear all this.”
“No, I do. I honestly do. It’s nice that I’m finally getting a chance to get to know you now. You did the right thing, Jodi. Your mom needed you and you were there. When you were young and you needed her, she took care of you. You couldn’t have done it any other way and been happy. It’s who you are. It’s what makes you special. And appealing on so many levels.”
Nick’s expression stunned Jodi. It was the most beautiful compliment she had ever been given. She was too choked up to speak for a moment. “Thanks, Nick,” she finally managed.
“I mean it. You gave up a lot. It was a big sacrifice. I imagine you might feel a little lost now. Like you don’t know what to do with yourself, having put someone else’s life ahead of your own for so long.”
“It’s funny you should say that. I did feel that way for a while. It was strange not having her around. But then one day I woke and I just realized that I have an opportunity to do whatever I want. Now that she’s gone, I realize there are so many things I want to do that I’ve never done before.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Just things.”
“Tell me. What?”
“No, you’ll laugh or think it’s stupid.”
“No, I won’t. I promise.”
She hesitated. “Like swimming with dolphins. Go horseback riding across the Great Plains. Ride the white water rapids down the Colorado River.”
“That sounds like a lot of fun.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely. Very adventurous. I would like to do those things myself if I could.”
“Well, you could,” Jodi said. “We both could.”
Nick smiled and appeared as if he was going to say something, wavering momentarily, as if he was second-guessing himself about what he was about to say. “You know,” he began, “I’ve often thought about you over these past few years, wondering how you were, what you were doing.”
“I’ve thought about you a lot, too.”
“I have a confession to make,” Nick began.
Now he was noticeably blushing. He had been looking into her eyes the whole time, but now he was peering so deeply that she felt a physical sensation. It was like a touch, only from underneath her skin, on the inside.
“I always had a sort of crush on you.”
“You did?” Jodi said, genuinely surprised and flattered by his admission, but it also fit with what she believed about how they were fated to be together. “You never said anything.”
“Well, you had that boyfriend, and I didn’t think you’d be interested in me.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re so beautiful.”
The sentiment in his eyes touched Jodi so deeply that she physically flinched.
“You know,” Jodi began, “I’m not sure if you remember, but you did ask me out once. I was with Paul, so I was probably home that night waiting for him to call instead of going out with you. I’ve always regretted that. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah, I do. I have another confession to make. I actually didn’t have a crush on you. It was a lot more than a crush. Even though I didn’t think you would go out with me, it hurt. I really wanted to be with you.”
As he was speaking, he began to move imperceptibly closer to Jodi. It was as if it was happening in slow motion. He started turning his head to one side. She saw the kiss coming, but it seemed to take forever.
“You’re so beautiful,” Nick said. “I’ve always loved you.”
When his lips met hers a fraction of a second later, kissing her deeply and tenderly, she felt the heat of his passion and she thought she was going to melt. She sensed a controlled hunger in Nick, which she understood now had always been such a major part of his personality. He had always been soft-spoken and reserved, and it is said that people who say very little often have very interesting and complicated personalities. With Nick, it was true that beneath a placid exterior lay a passionate nature. He was kissing her the way she imagined he wrote a poem—with delicacy and depth. It was incredible to think that she could possibly inspire such emotion in him.
Jodi, however, was not able to contain the intensity of her own simmering desire for him, nor did she want to. She pressed her lips tightly against his and moved her body closer to him, a silent offering. It worked, and he placed his hands behind her head and ran his fingers through her hair. It was just like in her dream, only she was sure that it was real this time. She closed her eyes, as she had in the dream, but she did it now so that she could fully enjoy the moment.
Letting her head drop back, Jodi exposed her neck while Nick removed his mouth from hers and began to nuzzle the sensitive flesh along her collarbone. His moist tongue slowly tracked up to her ear, which he began to nibble on. He made a sound like an aggressive puppy gnawing on a chew toy, his hot breath tickling and exhilarating her at the same time, sending chills down her back. She shivered in delight and let out a soft moan.
Nick pulled away slightly and looked at her for a long moment. He smiled, but did not say anything, communicating everything that he was feeling when he gently cupped the sides of her face with his hands and delicately traced his fingers back and forth along the smooth edge of her jawline. He gradually drew his lips closer to hers again and kissed her deeply, pressing his body tightly against her.
Jodi struggled to catch her breath. For a moment she thought she was going to faint from her desperate longing for him. But she snapped back instantly from what seemed to be a fading reality when, as he was kissing her, he began sucking and biting ever so delicately on her lower lip before releasing it. The pain was minimal. The ecstasy was interminable. Jodi opened her mouth and almost let out a scream.
“Oh, Nick,” she said softly as he tenderly began to brush his cheek back and forth against hers, her skin reacting to the closeness. A sudden rush of warmth enveloped her entire body.
When they finally broke away from each other, Jodi’s breathing was strained. She thought Nick was equally overcome by what had passed between them, though neither of them spoke until he leaned his forehead against hers.
“I have a plane to catch,” he said. His voice was cryptic and full of despair. “I’m sorry.”
It was like a bomb had dropped for Jodi. The harsh dose of reality instantly fogged the fantasy that she had immersed herself in during the short time that she and Nick had spent together.
“I know,” Jodi said flatly. She was so confident a moment ago, but suddenly there was doubt, and she just felt foolish. She wondered how she could have expected both of their lives to change forever after a kiss, even though she knew it wasn’t just a kiss. At least not for her. He had touched her soul in a way no one ever had before. You can’t kiss someone like that and not feel it.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Jodi said. “I’m the one who should be sorry.” She really didn’t know what she was saying. She was confused and disconsolate. She would sometimes talk too much when she was nervous or scared. “Maybe,” she went on, “if I had gone out with you in high school, things would be different now. Who knows? But you can’t underestimate how important timing is. Maybe it wasn’t the right time then. Maybe it’s not right now. It could be five years from now. So it’s not your fault that the timing isn’t right. Neither one of us is to blame.”
Okay, you can stop talking now, Jodi.
“I’m so glad we had this time together,” Nick said.
“Me too.” She had a lot more on her mind, but she didn’t want to embarrass herself further or make him feel any worse than he already did, so she just kept her thoughts to herself. Maybe what Arianna said about Nick never leaving his girlfriend was true, after all, regardless of what he had told her about the relationship being over. “I suppose I should get going,” she settled on saying, and then reluctantly started to pull away from him.
“Jodi, wait,” Nick began, clearly struggling to find his own words. “I think you’re great. I do. You’re sweet and thoughtful. And so pretty. If things were different, I think we would be great together.”
Jodi shook her head, unable to hold back. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m a writer.”
“So you should be alone?”
“It’s just that I spend a lot of time writing. And even more time thinking about what I’m going to write about. And it’s not the kind of occupation that is likely to provide a stable source of income. And for me, that’s okay, but I wouldn’t expect somebody else to live like that. Wealth, in and of itself, is not a goal of mine. It’s not how I define success. But some people have a problem with that, and look at an empty bank account as a lack of ambition.”
It was obvious to Jodi that he was referring specifically to Ashley.
“Not everyone is like her, Nick,” Jodi said. “I’m not like her.”
Jodi knew that if Nick got on that plane she would never see him again. He would continue to live in the reality he believed to be true, depriving himself of anything that his life may be lacking in order to suit this false personal ethos, condemning himself as the lonely writer. But it was his heart that he would be isolating. It’s sad, but that’s just how it would be. He would reside in a world without her. And her world would be devoid of him.
How could he allow that to happen? she wondered. How could she?
“I know we would be great together,” she said lastly. It was her closing argument. There was nothing more for her to say. She couldn’t make him stay any more than she could make him love her enough to want to stay. It was up to him.
“I don’t want to make this any more difficult than it is already. I admit, I did come home just to see you. I didn’t expect anything like this to happen, though; that’s also true. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. Maybe it is a timing issue, like you said. I hope you understand.”
“I guess so,” Jodi responded, blinking briskly to stave off the moisture that was beginning to dampen her eyes. “Who could have predicted this, right?”
Jodi felt she was being dishonest for saying that, because she had thought about it, and she thought Nick had as well. But he seemed to be looking for a way out now, and for all that she didn’t know, she realized that if only one person was in love, there would be only heartache and pain for that person. That was something that Jodi hoped to avoid. So maybe Nick was doing the kindest thing he could by letting her down easy.
They left the garden without saying another word. Nick took her by the hand, which strangely seemed quite natural after what they had been through. Saying goodbye was more awkward. They stood by the bank of elevators in the main lobby. From where they were standing, Jodi’s car was visible in the parking lot beyond the front door. This was a proverbial fork in the road. A choice was going to be made, and it would affect both of them for the rest of their lives.
They were face-to-face, waiting for the other to say something. Jodi almost did, but she only went as far as opening her mouth slightly. Instead of talking, she put her hands on Nick’s shoulders and pushed herself up on the tips of her toes as high as she could, barely reaching his mouth. She kissed him on the lips. Nick locked his arms around her and kissed her back. They remained this way as the elevator doors opened and closed and people came and went.
It was Jodi who parted, falling back onto her heels. She smiled as she looked up at him. His left cheek was dimpled as he smiled back at her. He had a far-off look and a twinkle in his eyes as she suddenly turned and walked out the door, never looking back. She managed to keep her emotions in check during the short ride home by not thinking about anything the entire time. She was too numb from what had happened. It was more like her emotions had been temporarily flash frozen, her heart chilled just enough on the surface to keep her from feeling anything. However, as soon as she stepped inside her mother’s house, her feelings for Nick began to thaw, and that’s when she was struck by the full sense of the loss and she began to cry. She just closed the door behind her and stood there with tears coursing down her face. She tried to tell herself that he was not hers to begin with, and that she could not lose something she never really had. The strategy did not work, however. She knew she would not be able to convince herself that she and Nick were not right for each other.
Crazy ideas began to enter her head: impulsive, irrational, ingenuous thoughts. She believed that if she drove to the airport and found Nick, she could convince him to stay to be with her. Another part of her considered booking a one-way ticket to Chicago and looking for a teaching job out there so they could be together.
Even as these ideas bounced around inside her head, one thing she knew was that she needed to leave Fairview. There was nothing here for her anymore. Not a job. Not her mom. Not Nick. Fairview always sounded more like the name of a golf course to her, anyway. She would hit the restart button and get on with her life in San Diego. She had already determined to take the job, and now she began looking forward to the new challenges, the warm weather, the Pacific Ocean, and doing everything that she dreamed about doing.
With tears drying in her eyes, she pulled her suitcases out of the closet and began to separate the things she would take with her from the items she planned to leave behind. The exercise gave her an instant understanding of how much junk she had and no longer needed, excess baggage from a part of her life that had come and gone. As she was going through her stuff, her eyes would puff up periodically as memories of her mom were stirred up. There were a lot of clothes that her mother had bought for her through the years, and she kept all of them even though she had never worn many of them. Her mother’s taste in fashion was not shared by her younger daughter, but Jodi hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings so she held on to everything her mother had ever given her, much the way she kept a box of old Christmas and birthday cards in the bottom drawer of her dresser. She figured she would probably need to replace her entire wardrobe, and that was fine with her.
Jodi had been meaning to give her sister a call, but she became so fixated on what she was doing that she simply forgot. She had been organizing and packing for close to two hours when her cell rang. She figured it was Susan, even though she didn’t recognize the incoming number.
“Hello,” she said, expecting to hear her sister’s voice.
“I thought a lot about what you said.”
Jodi couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Nick?” she asked with an edge of excitement in her voice.
“I think you’re right,” Nick said. “We would be great together.”
Jodi was dumbfounded. “But you’re on your way to Chicago.”
“I didn’t exactly make it onto the plane. I stopped at a Zales at the airport instead.”
“What?” At that exact moment the doorbell rang. Jodi stood there indecisively, unable to think or move. It rang again.
“You going to get that?” Nick asked.
“Yeah, hold on a minute. Let me see who it is.”
She opened the door and what she saw made her legs buckle. Nick was down on one knee, his face beaming with a warm, one-dimpled smile. His right hand, which had been holding his cell phone a moment earlier, now held a small black velvet ring box, which he extended in front of him, offering it to her.
As he slowly rose, the jewelry box was directly in front of her.
“Will you marry me, Jodi?”
She dived into Nick’s arms so suddenly that it knocked the breath out of him. She was squealing with excitement as Nick swept her off her feet, literally, spinning her around in a circle as she wrapped her legs around his waist and clung to him.
“Should I take that as a yes?”
“Oh Nick! You just made me the happiest girl in Fairview.”
“How about we make you the happiest girl in San Diego?”
“What?” Jodi asked. “Really? You’ll come with me to San Diego?”
“Why not?” Nick said. “I can write anywhere.”
Jodi invited Nick inside, and it felt as if her feet never touched the floor, though Nick was not carrying her. Still swooning, Jodi needed to have to sit so she didn’t fall down. Nick sat beside her on the couch and placed the ring box on her left knee. Jodi looked from the box to him with unbridled anticipation.
“Open it,” Nick said.
Jodi took a deep breath to try to compose herself. With her heart racing, she lifted the lid and revealed a magnificent princess cut halo diamond engagement ring with bead set side diamonds all around it. An involuntary squealing sound escaped her lips when she saw it. The aesthetic beauty of the dazzling object in her hand was outshined by the feelings it evoked in her, and that’s what made her react the way she did.
“If you don’t like it,” Nick began, “we can bring it back and exchange it for something else.”
“No, no, I love it.” A single tear quickly formed and dropped from her right eye.
Nick removed the ring from the box and raised Jodi’s left hand, slipping the ring easily onto her finger. “A good guess,” he said. “It fits.”
Jodi held her hand out and just stared at the ring for a moment. “It’s absolutely beautiful.” She turned back to Nick and kissed him deeply. When she pulled back, she said, “Thank you. This is the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me.”
“The most amazing thing is that I could make you feel that way,” Nick said.
“I thought you were gone forever,” Jodi said. “What happened?”
“You happened,” he said. “I guess I had been thinking that I needed to be complete and have everything all worked out before I could be in a meaningful relationship.”
“A lot of people today think that,” Jodi said. “They want everything in a partner but don’t want to put the effort in to help that person achieve it, and they end up alone.”
“Speaking of people who have everything,” Nick said wryly, “I ran into your BFF at the airport. Arianna.”
“Bee-atch Friend Forever.”
“She was there to pick her husband up. I had just walked into the jewelry store when I heard her call my name. She comes over to say hello, we chat a bit. Then she asks me if I’m okay.”
Jodi offered an inquisitive expression.
“Yeah, she asked if I had broken up with Ashley and if that was why I was slummin’ it last night with you.”
“She said that? ‘Slummin’ it’?”
“I swear,” Nick said, and they both laughed. “I didn’t respond. Then she tells me that she is friends with a woman from Gary, Indiana, which is twenty-five miles from Chicago, where the woman works. She writes down the woman’s number and gives it to me. Tells me I should call her sometime. Okay. I still don’t say anything. I just start looking in the case at the selection of engagement rings and I ask her for her opinion, which ring she thinks a woman might like best. I said that I needed to get one now and that I didn’t have time to look anywhere else.
“‘I thought you were already engaged,’ she says. ‘So you’re going to take the ring back to Chicago and pop the question. I get it.’
“Long story short, we look at everything they have, Arianna has the saleswoman take a few out, she inspects them, asks a bunch of questions, and she ends up selecting this one.”
“‘I’ll take it,’ I tell the saleswoman. So as we were leaving the store, saying our goodbyes, I said, ‘Thanks, Arianna. Jodi is going to love it.’”
“Oh my God!” Jodi said. “Arianna picked out my engagement ring? Did she say anything?”
“I just walked away and left the terminal.”
“That’s awesome!”
“I thought you might like that,” Nick said.
“I can’t believe all this.”
“Believe it. And you know what else? I think there are dolphins in San Diego. Yeah, I hear they have them everywhere out there. The Colorado River is not far away at all. The Grand Canyon. All the other Great Plains states: the Dakotas, Montana, Wyoming, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska.”
Jodi threw her arms around Nick and hugged him.
“Hey, why don’t we go out and celebrate?” Nick said.
“We could celebrate right here,” Jodi said coyly, batting her eyelids. “In private.”
“Yeah? Okay. I have some champagne in the car.”
“You brought champagne and left it in the car?”
“I wasn’t sure you would say yes. I was taking a big risk.”
“Just go out and get the champagne,” Jodi said with laugh and sent him off with a kiss.
She went into the kitchen to clean a couple of wineglasses as Nick went out to his car. He returned carrying two bottles of bubbly and a ream of paper secured with a binder clip.
“What’s this?” Jodi asked, taking the manuscript from Nick while he opened one of the bottles. She looked down at it and read the cover page. “The Captured Heart and Other Poems by Nick Ryan.” Jodi looked up at Nick, her eyes wide. “Your poetry collection! Is this for me?”
“You’re the only person I’ve given a copy to besides the dozens of unappreciative publishers who’ve rejected it already or who haven’t had the chance to yet.”
“Thank you so much,” Jodi said. She thumbed through the manuscript from the back to the front, stopping when she saw her name on the second page. The handwritten inscription read:
To Jodi,
A thing of beauty is a joy forever!
Your soul and visage are the most beautiful of all!
Love always,
Nick
Jodi looked up at Nick with tears of joy in her eyes. “I love you.”
Nick filled their glasses and they interlocked arms, taking a sip of champagne.
“I love you too, Jodi.”
They kissed, tasting the sparkling wine on each other’s lips.
For Jodi, things had gone from the bitter to the sweet over the course of one day, but it took five years and a reunion to make it all possible.
 

Three Luscious Poems by P.C. Scheponik



War Story


The sun was hot in the marketplace where the GI’s grew
like vines against the walls.
Young soldiers passing the time between battles,
waiting for the girls to call, with their thick, black hair
and silken gowns, collars high as cheek bones,
American dollars all around for the passing,
for the drinks, for the drugs, for the bedroom action
from the local girls, Asian pearls, ready for the taking.
The sound of the motorbike suddenly breaking in
as the elderly dink said with a wry grin,
“Five dollars get you plenty.”
The young GI, ready to get in, got on the back seat
of the bike and rode away, his mind already humping,
his unruly heart, thumping, when the driver pulled up
to the door, took his greenback, and called for the whore,
who peeked from inside, shy as a bride on her wedding day.
The young soldier went in, noticed the way he had to undress
her, the lack of hair on her smooth skin.
Tight as a dream, she did not seem to know where to begin.
But in a land of pungi sticks and children who explode,
the young GI did not care as he thrust himself deep inside
and rode the girl lying there like a new country open for trade.
It was not until years later, long after that deal and the love
he had made, and he was home again, in the USA, married
and father to a daughter of ten, that the Asian girl from long ago
would haunt his sleep, would not let him go from that village
where he handed her father five dollars to keep the motor running.
How could he know, at eighteen, hot with need, high on hooch,
that the poon tang that he made bleed on that white sheet, on that bed,
on that day, in that village, in that jungle, was only a girl of ten.








We Are One


I know we are one with this world, with this universe.
I have always known.
Maybe it is the Merlin in me–
the one who, in the end, after life, love, and honor
had betrayed him, returned to the tree to be forever more,
rooted in the matter of the cosmos, which I am sure
is God’s unerring mind–golden triangle, the infinity of Pi.
How the particle becomes the wave.
How the darkness becomes the light that becomes the darkness
again and again, like inscrutable mystery or second sight.
These realities eclipse the mind.
The search for meaning and the divine, in you, in me,
all our wishes, all our needs riding on the white-hot edges
of stars that dusted us into being, long ago.
The elements of our souls dance somewhere in between
the spaces that sprawl, separating quarks and neutrinos
as time crawls like Grandmother Spider across her never-ending
web. I can feel her footsteps, my alleles ring with her ancient song,
and I long to stop, to listen, and to sing, so completely overwhelmed.
Like I said, I know we are one.






The One Behind


I have always wanted to draw back the curtain to look behind,
to see the one pulling the levers, the one making the smoke and fire,
speaking those powerful words, creating the universe in my mind,
in that voice so much louder than the wisdom, the courage, and the love
that were never mine, save in the twister in my soul, swirling with promises
of going home, of being whole in a crystal ball world of witches and poppies
and monkeys who grow wings and fly in flocks like avenging angels.
Maybe peace begins where sanity stops– the hourglass turned bottom to top,
the sands running away with my life, and I, with no way to stop them.
Sigmund smiles at my dark edges.
Jung poles his gondola around my mandala pools.
Moses strikes the rock three times with his magic staff
until the rock bleeds the water that will wash him away
for daring to doubt, for trying to play God.
Giza points heavenward in the merciless heat of the daytime star.
The sphinx has run out of riddles, and I, on three legs, still reach one hand
for the curtain I cannot find–
haunted by the need to draw it back, to peer into that sacred space,
to see, at last, the real face of the one behind.



P.C. Scheponik is a lifelong poet who lives with his wife, Shirley, and their shizon, Bella. His writing celebrates nature, the human condition, and the metaphysical mysteries of life. He has published five collections of poems. His work has appeared in numerous poetry journals.​

Telltale
By Brandon Greer


“How exactly am I crazy, Rod?” Annabel said.
Her right hip shifted, her arms crossed, and she leaned her lower back against the kitchen counter. Mom used to strike that pose all the time, sometimes with her, sometimes with her brothers, most of the time with Dad.
“I don’t mean straitjacket crazy,” Rod said. He licked his thin lips and placed his hands on Annabel’s arms. She shrugged, and his hands fell at his sides again. He revealed a polished-white grin, but there were no smiling crinkles in the corners of his eyes.
“It’s just that you misinterpret what you see, and don’t listen to anyone if they say you’re wrong,” he said, “especially when it’s all just a misunderstanding. I’ve tried not to point it out, but you do it a lot.”
It had been thirty minutes since the party at his friend Art’s place, and they had spent twenty of them in the car. Annabel had found Rod and Madeline in the guest bedroom. Madeline
had leaned against Rod, her raven hair had tangled around his neck, and her face had invaded his. Rod’s large hands had gathered around Madeline’s waist. Madeline, who always displayed at least three-quarters of her B cup breasts, had also worn a skirt that, with little resistance, Rod could have hiked up for covert lovemaking. The minute the two of them had seen her, they had pulled apart, and to Annabel’s small relief, Rod’s pants had been zipped.
But it had been obvious that Madeline had excited him.
“If I’m crazy, what happened, then?” Annabel said. She grimaced and pushed her strawberry blonde hair out of her face. There was a quiet area of her mind that questioned using Rod’s words against him. But the vindictive regions of her brain filed away the term “crazy” for future arguments. It was a fair punishment.
“When you went to the bathroom, we started talking, and she was a little sloshed, so she spilled her drink on me,” Rod said. His voice became a whisper. His gray eyes traced a circle in the tile. “She wanted to help me clean it up.”
“I bet she did,” Annabel said. She stared at his shirt. There was a pink oval wine stain in the white area between the logo of a little man in a jester outfit and the text for the band “HOP-FROG.” At least he had some evidence.
“Well, since you were in the bathroom, and so many people were in the kitchen, we went to the guest bedroom,” Rod said. He leaned against the kitchen counter, crossed his legs, then made eye contact again. A cocky move.
“She got a towel from the sink, to wash the stain out,” he said.
“You were gone a long time,” Annabel said. She retreated further into the kitchen, to the sink. She chided herself for her mistake. Now, Rod could advance into her territory. He had used the same words when he had taught her chess on their third date. He had also admitted with that
white grin that he was the most aggressive chess player he knew. She turned on the faucet and hacked away at the dried-on residue on a red plate. Maybe the sound of the running water could drown out his bullshit.
“It was wine on a white shirt, Anna,” Rod said. “On my favorite shirt.”
The front of Annabel’s baby blue blouse turned indigo. Water from the faucet filled and overflowed a pot she had left to soak. She turned off the faucet and upended the pot. Water trickled outside of the sink, onto the Formica countertop. It ran to the mahogany bread box, the banana hanger, and the little bowl where they kept the peaches and plums until they were ripe. And they wondered why their apartment had roaches.
Rod’s hands looped around her waist. He rested his pointed chin in the crook where her neck met her shoulder. He slipped his hands under her wet shirt. The buckle of his golden wristwatch scratched her stomach.
“Just because Madeline and I are alone together doesn’t mean we’re going to just tear each other’s clothes off,” Rod said.
“That’s not what I said you were doing.”
“Then why are you so pissed?”
“It’s reasonable to be upset when my boyfriend is alone in a bedroom with another woman,” Annabel said. She picked up a santoku, a hooked metal nose, and ran it under the water. It was her favorite knife. It was sharp enough to cut a potato in two in a single slice.
“Kind of hurts that you think I’m out to fuck the first hot girl I see,” Rod said. “What does that make me?”
“Red hot. Especially when you throw tantrums.”
“I wouldn’t have to if I felt like I could trust you,” she said. She shrugged her shoulders backward, a rough movement. His hands went away. “You could have told me she’d spilled wine on you.”
“You were in the bathroom.”
“Not the entire time you were gone,” she said. She touched the tract of skin below her belly button. The watch had left a buckle-shaped indentation in her.
“Come on. Don’t be a bitch about this,” Rod said, his mouth almost inside her left ear. She flinched at the word. Her ex, Gordon, a surfer with curly blond hair and a semi-perennial tan, had started and ended their arguments with that word. She figured she would have found a guy in the five years since who wouldn’t call her that word.
She squirted blue Dawn on the santoku and scrubbed it with a sponge. Rod’s breath radiated on her ear. It made her face feel flush, in the same way she felt when she held her head under a blanket for too long.
She replayed her discovery of him and Madeline in her mind. Their faces had been so close. If Rod had bowed his head, they would have kissed. But what she had thought was Madeline’s hand exploring Rod’s muscular chest could have been her dabbing at his shirt with a damp towel. The towel had been the same color as Madeline’s rosy-pink skin. It was the same color as the one next to the sink. And their shocked separation, the faces they had made when Annabel had entered, that could have been a dance across the room to prove that they were not caught in some lover’s embrace. And Rod had explained to her that a lot of guy’s pants bunched up in the crotch.
Rod’s arms buckled around her waist again. His hot breath baked her ear. His hands returned under her shirt. The wristwatch stabbed into her stomach. It would leave a red mark. She bruised easily.
“Madeline’s a bitch anyway,” Rod whispered. “Why would I want her when I have you?”
Gordon appeared again, his mouth wide open, his finger against her chest. She could feel his fingers run through her hair and clench around her locks of hair, until her scalp burned. Annabel squirmed, shut off the faucet, and pulled Rod’s arms away from her waist. They hadn’t dated long enough for her to tell him about Gordon, about how he’d never hit her, but he’d come close. He’d pulled her arms until she felt them pop, shoved her onto the bed whenever he wanted her to calm down, tripped her with his foot if she hadn’t talked to him that day.
The arms returned, tighter than the last time. He pulled her against his chest. The watch dug into her soft flesh. His sudden movement made Annabel’s head lurch backwards. It collided with Rod’s nose, and he fell into wallpaper covered in flowering vines that formed small hearts. Now one of those hearts had small spatters of Rod’s blood in the middle of them. Rod held his bloody nose. He bared his teeth and ground them together so hard she heard his jaw go click, click. Blood spilled from his nose and dripped onto his shirt. It landed in the pink oval from Madeline’s spilled wine.
Regret slapped Annabel, as did fear of the look on his face. She slid across the kitchen counter, away from him.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”
Something the size and shape of a rock hit her in the stomach. Her breath evacuated. For a few seconds, she drowned in air, unable to breathe. Then, Rod’s fist left her gut, and she
gasped. Coughs burst through her frame, and spittle dripped out of her mouth. She wiped her chin. Rod’s large hands gripped the sides of her arms.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Rod said. “I don’t know what came over me. I just don’t. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
She tried to pull away, but he pinned her against the kitchen countertop. She looked up to see his nose gush blood down into the open grimace of his mouth. Tears streaked down his cheeks, like rain running off a window.
“I’m not that kind of guy, Anna,” Rod said. He sobbed. She tried to wrench her shoulders back, but his grip was too tight. “I promise, I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Let me go,” Annabel said.
“What’ll you do if I do?”
“Get out of here.”
“And if I let you go, what are you going to say about me?” he said. “You going to tell them all about your boyfriend who hits you? I’m not that kind of guy, Annabel.”
“I won’t tell anyone anything,” Annabel shouted. “Now fucking let me go!”
She kicked his shin, and his tight grip loosened. Annabel spun around, then grabbed at the kitchen countertop, as if she could pull herself away from him. He grabbed her around the waist again. The wristband of his watch reinserted itself into her abdomen. She stomped on his foot. She reached into the sink, her fingers grasping. Anything she could grab could act as a barrier between them.
“Stop fighting me,” Rod said. His breaths came in heavy gasps. “And we can talk about this.”
Annabel’s fingers returned the santoku. She spun around and thrust it out at Rod. He let her go and moved toward the entrance of the kitchen. He still blocked her exit. He held his hands in the air in a sort of “surrender” position. His face crumbled into a childlike sob.
“Why are you holding a knife at me?” he said through his tears. “I just made a mistake. I’m sorry, Anna. I’m so sorry.”
“Let me go,” she said.
His words were muddied, but she thought she heard Rod say, “I don’t want you to go.”
He would not move. She walked backwards, the santoku pointed at Rod’s face. Her one escape from the apartment was a window she couldn’t open. At least, she couldn’t open it and fend off Rod at the same time. Rod cleared his throat, wiped his face, and then stepped closer.
“Give me the knife, Annabel,” Rod said. Annabel shook her head.
He lurched forward. The santoku screamed in a blind slash at his outreached hand. The knife bounced off his knuckles and opened up a red gash. He screamed and leapt at her. With one hand, he grabbed the wrist of her knife hand. He slammed his other fist against her collarbone, again and again. The repeated strikes sent electric surges of dull pain across her chest. He backed her against the window. Annabel let out the beginning of a scream, but Rod slapped his hand against her mouth. He hit her head against the glass window, until she could feel it crack beneath her hair.
“Calm down!” he said.
“Calm down!” Gordon said.
The repetitive motion of the strikes against her chest and her head against the window disoriented her. All she could do was open her mouth, swallow the skin of his palm, and let her teeth connect. Copper blood raced into her mouth. She spat out skin.
He screamed. He reared back. And she, caught in the repetitive motion of fist against chest, head against window, thrust the knife out in imitation of that motion. She stabbed him once, twice, three times, and on until his stupid Hop-Frog shirt had become a red edition. Blood flicked onto the Formica countertop, onto the mahogany bread box, the banana hanger, and the little bowl where they kept the peaches and plums until they were ripe. With each stab, Rod became more sluggish, until he stared slack-jawed at the multiple wounds dotting his chest. He moved his lips as if to speak, but no words emanated from his mouth. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell face-first onto the floor. The epinephrine in Annabel’s head cooled. She let the knife fall.
Silence draped over the apartment. Rod laid on the floor, curled, his hands around his knees. He did not breathe. His fingers did not clench into fists. Neither did his hands encircle her waist. A silent fountain of blood pooled onto the kitchen floor. His white teeth would never flash again after she told him a joke. He would never shave with an old razer and then rub her face raw when he kissed her. He would never hug her or hit her or make love to her or swear at her again.
She noticed a noise that had been there along: the ticking of Rod’s watch. Muffled, like it was enveloped in cotton. Tick. Tick. Another noise escaped from her mouth, much like pleading, much like sobbing. She shut her eyes, a childish response, as if she could close them and block out the reality of Rod’s lifelessness. Even with her eyes squeezed closed, she could still hear the tick, ticking of the watch. Tick. Tick. She had murdered Rod.
She had murdered a man who had only wanted her not to leave.
###
An hour later, in the backyard of the apartment next door, Ms. Oldman let her cat out onto the back porch. Pluto’s fur was ebony, save for a patch of white on his chest and his sock-
like paws. Once those paws hit the concrete, he gave Ms. Oldman an angry glare, a cat’s default face. The light from the open doorway reflected in his yellow eyes and turned his pupils an ethereal green. He meowed, then bounded toward the fence. Ms. Oldman identified a gray gecko scrambling under it. Pluto caught something in his paw, reached under the fence several times, then gave up and perused the rest of the small yard. With a short meow, he bounded over the fence on the left side of the yard.
A dryer ran in the apartment above her. The click-clack, click-clack of jean buttons against metal had annoyed Mr. Oldman, but she had never minded it. The sound of a washer or a dryer was a sign of someone’s presence in a house. It was the kind of sound that could curb any sort of loneliness. Besides, the walls of her apartment muffled almost all other noise from the surrounding apartments. Mr. Oldman had just liked to complain.
The heat outside was like swimming through a blanket. Ms. Oldman meandered in a clockwise circle, to check the gardening boxes along the fences. The tomatoes had grown carrot-colored, and the potatoes sprouted healthy green leaves. It was the aloe vera that troubled her. She had fought the white speckles of mold on it for months. She had resolved to tear it out of the ground. But then, tugging at a plant in the humid Louisiana summer was a great way for a woman her age to pull something, fall over, and die of heat exhaustion. She would have to leave the moldy plant until Bobby could come pull it up.
On the left side of the yard, she heard a yowl, followed by something that sounded like a swear. Pluto dashed up and over the fence and landed by her feet. She knelt beside the cat. Had she still had her voice, she would have asked him if he was sad he couldn’t make a new friend. Instead, she tsked at the black-and-white cat and rubbed a hand through his fur.
Her hand came back bloody.
The pulled the cat into her arms. Pluto squirmed away from the sudden veterinarian appointment. She was no professional, but even an idiot could find an open wound. She investigated every inch of the poor animal, but she could not find any cuts or scratches. The burning in her ears subsided, as did her spontaneous thoughts of revenge against whatever might have hurt her cat. But she continue to examine the little beast.
The white patch on Pluto’s chest and his little paws were speckled with blood, enough that the hair stuck up in spiky tufts. Pluto had killed many rats, geckos, and once, a possum, but she had never seen this much blood in his nightly hunting. Besides, hadn’t she heard a woman’s voice on the other side of the fence? Maybe she was hurt. Or more likely, Pluto had gotten into some red paint.
She approached the left side of the back yard. Beyond the fence, a shovel scraped through dirt. She tilted her head, then placed her ear against the fence. It made sense to garden at night, given how the highest temperature this summer had been one hundred and fourteen degrees. But how did that explain the blood?
Whoever her neighbor was had not turned on her outdoor light. But then, Ms. Oldman had not turned on hers either. Despite the dim light from the apartment above them, she could tell that the woman next door had unkempt shoulder-length hair, some sort of light red color, and fair skin. The young woman hovered in some area between skinny and fat, the same area in which Ms. Oldman hovered. There was something wild and frantic about her.
Had she been forty years younger, she would have yelled out to her, “Guess you know where all the bodies are buried!” Just as a joke, really. The girl did not look like she could harm anything bigger than a cockroach. No, she had to be taking part in some Internet trend or something. Or maybe it was a Halloween decoration. That would explain the blood.



But why did she look so panicked?
The young woman’s back stiffened, and she turned around. Her eyes met Ms. Oldman’s for a second. The way the young woman’s viridescent eyes stared at her unnerved her. She could see the young woman’s fear now, how it mixed with desperate tension, like a cornered dog frothing at the mouth. And on the front of her shirt, the sides of her neck, her arms, and even spattered on her face, was a substance like the one she’d found on her cat.
Ms. Oldman ducked behind the fence line again. She snapped her fingers at Pluto, then dashed to the sliding back door. Pluto’s head stuck up, and he followed her inside the apartment. Ms. Oldman slid the door shut, then locked it.
It didn’t matter if that woman was burying her cat, filming a horror movie, or doing any other ordinary thing she could mistake as something sinister. Ms. Oldman wanted nothing to do with her.
She tucked a gray lock of hair back over her ear. Her heart had not pumped like this since she had identified Mr. Oldman’s body in the morgue. They had said he had been drunk and walking along the bridge above the Dupin River. And they had showed her his purple body, cracked with black veins, his eyes bulging out of his head, water still trickling from his mouth. And she had known then she was free.
She had not taken down all the pictures of him with Milly and Bobby. Milly now worked in Lake Charles, but Bobby had remained in town to take care of her. There were pictures of Mr. Oldman and the kids hunting or fishing. Pictures of them at the zoo. She had always taken the pictures. She hated to see herself in any pictures, thanks to how prominent her scar was. The only picture of her on the wall was from their wedding: black tux, white dress, altar, priest, the little bump that was Milly.
There was another picture of her she had hidden away in the back of the bedroom closet. It was a poster of her in a devil-red dress with a slit all the way up to the middle of her thigh. She held a microphone up to her scarlet lips. Her free hand, clad in a black opera glove, caressed her short, black hair. “Minnie Foster, the Songbird, singing tonight at Madame Lalande’s.” Mr. Oldman would never let her have it up, and sure as hell would never let their children know their mother sang at a burlesque. Madame Lalande’s had closed years ago, and she could not sing anymore. But she could never bring herself to throw it away.
There was a knock at the door, and the image of the neighbor with her blood-covered clothes popped back into her mind. As scary as she had seemed, there had to be some mundane explanation. It had to be an old woman’s imagination running wild. When Mom had been her age, she had insisted and insisted that they had buried her husband alive. Ms. Oldman had driven her out to the cemetery at least thirty times.
As for who was at the door, it was probably Bobby again. He had inherited his father’s flatfooted walk, his grizzled, pockmarked face, and his tendency to not leave a bar until he was too sick to keep all four wheels of his car in the same direction. Since his place was on the other side of town, he often crashed on the couch. Or he ranted to her about work or women or any of the other things he felt he needed to rave about.
She opened the door, and her heart started its devilish drumbeat again. The young woman from next door was there. She wore a heavy raincoat, zipped up to her neck. She had wiped the red liquid off her face, though her cheeks and chin looked flushed. Or stained. The young woman gave Ms. Oldman a smile, but her eyes held that same cornered-dog stare.
“Hi,” the young woman said. She stuttered a bit. “Sorry for gardening so late. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Ms. Oldman plastered on a smile and shook her head. She grabbed the whiteboard that hung from the nearby coatrack and opened the magnetic marker attached to it. She wrote on it, “I was up anyways.”
“Oh,” the young woman said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you couldn’t, well, talk.”
Ms. Oldman wiped the marker away with her fingers. The whiteboard was dark gray from many erased words. She would need to take some window cleaner to it. She scribbled:
“Not something easy to advertise. Haha.”
The young woman laughed, a painful sound.
“Really sorry,” she said. “Well, I promise I won’t disturb you again.”
Ms. Oldman nodded. She wrote on her whiteboard, “Good night.”
“Good night,” the young woman said. She gave her a small wave, then left the porch. Ms. Oldman closed the door, then ran over to the back door, unlocked it, and slid it open. She got on her tiptoes. Just over the left corner of the fence closest to the apartment, she could see the young woman walk back to her apartment, look both ways, and enter. Ms. Oldman peeked into the young woman’s backyard.
There was a large mound of dirt in the center of the yard. No flowers. No vegetables. No fruit trees. No garden. Only the mound. Ms. Oldman gritted her teeth. The look in the young woman’s eyes had frightened her, yes. But how could this woman think that she could hide whatever she had done because her only witness couldn’t speak? Whatever she was up to, she had every reason to be worried about the quiet old woman next door.
Ms. Oldman turned around and rested the back of her head against the fence. If her neighbor was a murderer, there was a chance she could murder her too. But then, curiosity had never killed Pluto. His investigations always led him to a mouse, a gecko, or a bird. Once, he had
frightened away a Rottweiler. Ms. Oldman pulled herself up again. She stared at the gate of the young woman’s fence. No lock.
She went inside to get her camera.
###
The wristwatch ticked. It took the form of the washing machine’s rocking as it washed her and Rod’s bloody clothes. It took the form of the water that dripped from the faucet of the bathtub. Drip. Drip. Tick Tick. She clasped her arms around her knees and sank deeper into the copper-colored water. Police had blacklights. They would find every trace of blood. They would find Rod in the backyard. It would be easy for them. And she had buried the body in her own backyard. What a great criminal she was.
She clung to herself because there was not anything else she could hold that could stop her shaking. She was in her living room, with two mustached Police officers, their eyes hidden under their caps. “There’s been a noise complaint, ma’am.” She was in a smoky, underlit Police station, handcuffed to a chair. She was in a courtroom, in front of a scowling judge with glasses and a beard. She pled her case before a jury of Madelines and Rods. They sentenced her. Guilty.
Guilty of all charges.
Drip. Drip. Tick Tick.
She emerged from the water to drown out the sound of dripping and ticking. A splash, a suction. The water wanted to reclaim her. Bathwater rained onto the black rug. Rod had bought the rug for her. She toweled off. Pulled the drain. The water in the tub exhaled a hideous death rattle. Annabel tied a towel around herself. It was time to plan the next move. Maybe the next three possible moves. Whatever they were, she could not stay here. She had to get as far away from Rod’s body as possible.
She passed by a window to the backyard. The blinds were open. She went to close them. Rod had never listened to her when she told him nocturnal perverts were always a danger. Her hand was on the wand when a flash from outside sparked in the corner of her eye. Lightning? No. Something artificial. Mechanical. Could be the nocturnal perverts brought cameras. With two turns of the wand, she closed the blinds and lifted one slat.
The woman from next door was in her backyard, silhouetted in the diagonal light above her. She had a camera. The woman gave a nervous look to the house, then fiddled with the black hardware around her neck. Another flash. Annabel looked further down. There, in a hole in her one-plant garden, was a hand. Rod’s hand. Captured forever on camera.
Despite the glass between them, with every blinding flash of the camera, she heard a click. Click. The mustached policemen knocked on the door. The jury of Rods and Madelines gave the judge their verdict. Click. Click. Drip. Drip. Tick. Tick. Guilty.
She was autonomous. Muscle and movement. She tore off her towel and went to the bedroom. She pulled a long-sleeved black shirt from her chest of drawers. Guilty of all charges. A pair of black leggings. She was dressed before long. She stopped by the kitchen. Grabbed the santoku. Held it close to her wrist. She did not need shoes. She did not need to do anything but wait until all the lights turned out in the old woman’s house.
###
Ms. Oldman slid the back door closed. Pluto meowed at her. She brushed her fingers against his head. She touched the lock on the French doors, but with the camera in her hands, the lock gave her more resistance than usual. She had to check the camera again, as if the pictures on it could change in the minutes it took to get inside. Milly had gotten the camera for her for
Christmas, and she still did not know how to work it. But the preview of the pictures that had flashed on the viewscreen were not too dark or blurry.
All she had to do was take the camera to the Police station in the morning and let them take over. Had Bobby left her the car, she would have gone right away. But it was the first of the month, the time Bobby loved to waste his paycheck on nights out at bars where he wanted to “score.” She knew better than to try to call him. On nights like these, he either ignored his phone or screamed at the first person to bother him during a luckless attempt to get laid.
She set the camera on her nightstand. Sleep would not visit her tonight. She crept into the living room, tripped over Pluto, and checked the locks on the front door. She had bolted them shut. She walked past the pictures that did not include her, gave a quick glance to the one that did, then journeyed to her bedroom. It held a king-sized bed, massive for her, but tiny for her and Mr. Oldman. There was an old chest of drawers with a crack in the middle of it. A small hole near the bottom of the closet door let out yellow light. She flipped a switch near the closet, took off her shoes, pulled off her robe, discarded her bra, and slipped on a nightgown. She turned off the lights and pulled the covers around her.
She could have murdered Mr. Oldman. There had been times she had wanted to. Every time she made his coffee, she had thought of all the stories she had heard of women who poisoned their husbands. An old family rumor was that her aunt had confessed that she had put strychnine in her husband’s coffee. But something like that would have formed too many consequences, even if no one had ever caught her. Even after what he had taken away from her, she could never have killed him. When he had wandered off that bridge in his drunken stupor, she could have laughed and screamed in spite of her lack of voice. But when they had showed her his body, shrouded in cold sterility, she had wept.
She turned on her side and hoped she would not dream of him again.
###
Annabel could have loved the old woman. If the two of them had caught each other’s eye or smiled in each other’s direction before that night, they could have been friendly. But the old woman deserved to die, not because she had seen too much, but because she had trespassed into Annabel’s life.
Her rational thoughts fought back against the justification. But the more vindictive regions of her mind won the battle.
Annabel tried the front door. Of course it was locked. No old woman who lived alone would leave her front door unlocked. But there was no harm in trying the back door. She crept around the building, toward the alleyway between the fences and the other yards of the first-floor apartments. Few of the gates had locks. But the old woman’s did. Annabel grasped the fence posts. Splinters dug into the fleshy parts of her hands. The pain did not register. Only the sound the gate made, crick, crick. She dropped into the backyard.
She inched to the sliding door. If it was locked, she could break the glass. To hell with whoever would hear it. At this point, anything was possible. She had already killed once. She could do it again, then run. Maybe she could go back home to Baltimore. Mom would not ask questions if it meant she could see her daughter again. As much as she loathed the comparison, she knew now how Rod had felt. To be caught in the act, to desire to commit any level of offense to retain the lovely self-image of innocence.
To her surprise, the sliding door opened. The apartment beyond the doorway was dark, but the light from her upstairs neighbor helped illuminate some of the room. She was in the dining room, next to the kitchen. Rod’s apartment was similar, a one-bedroom at a two-bedroom
price with the square footage of an efficiency. And, since this apartment was similar, she knew the door to her right was the bedroom. She slid the French door open, stepped inside, and pulled it back. It caught on the track and rattled. She froze. There was no sound. Only the tick, tick of an old grandfather clock on the wall. Tick. Tick.
Something crawled by Annabel, something hairy and dark. Whatever it was brushed against her leg. Annabel froze, and her heart beat out a rapid tattoo. A cat glared up at her with amber eyes. It rubbed itself along her leg, meowed, then disappeared through the small crack she had left in the door.
Annabel closed the door until it snapped shut. The light from the apartment above faded. It took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust to where the light was: The faint white light behind the curtains. The yellow light that shone through the closed blinds near the front door. The pale blue light that came from the bedroom. She crept over to the door and felt the walls with her hands, like a spider balancing on its web. She turned the doorknob to the bedroom and cracked the door. There was no faint snore. There were no TV sounds. The room emanated dull silence, the kind that beats and screams in the ears.
Her entrance into the room was so slow, it must have taken her an hour to open the door. When it was open, she could see the full scope of the bedroom: the king-sized bed, the night table with a dead lamp on it, the chest of drawers, the closet door that was a little too open. And in the bed was the drowsing old woman, her eyes almost closed. Annabel’s hand twitched, and the door struck against the side of the wall. The old woman sat up in the bed. She gathered the comforter around her chest.
Annabel could feel cold liquid terror seep into the air around her. She stayed stock-still in the doorframe. The woman’s eyes wandered through the darkness, until she met hers. And as the
old woman’s eyes contracted, she could see her fear turn into wretched horror. A low, gurgling moan released from the old woman’s mouth. A similar moan built from Annabel’s throat as well. It escalated until it became a wretched scream, a yell that propelled her from the doorway and into the bed of the old woman.
She was on top of her then, and the old woman’s face was drawn tight, her mouth agape, her moan turning into a raspy, quiet scream. Both of Annabel’s hands were on the knife, ready to plunge it down into the woman’s chest--
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound of the watch, muffled, like it was clothed in cotton, filled the air. Tick. Tick. Tick. Rod’s body lay on the floor of her kitchen. It lay in the dirt in the backyard. It lay on a bed in her heart, heavy. And the ticking continued, a steady rhythm, until it faded into the air, like a song that never ends, only vanishes.
Annabel let the knife fall. The old woman swallowed, which looked like it caused her great pain, and closed her mouth. She held her hand to her throat, both eyes on the knife. Their eyes met again. The old woman’s eyes traveled down Annabel’s face to the collar of her shirt. The woman pulled the shirt aside with her trembling fingers. She revealed her bruises, the bruises Rod had left, red and purpling. She bruised easily. Their eyes met again, and the old woman nodded her head. She reached for the covers and pulled them down. On her neck was an old, vicious scar, the kind of jagged wound a knife makes in unsteady, drunken hands.
Outside the bedroom, the grandfather clock chimed the hour, and its second hand continued to tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
THE END

Burnt Garlic
by Keith ‘Doc’ Raymond


“You! You done! You get out now! You no cook here no more!” cried the Chinese chef.
“But Tan...”
“No ‘but’ me girl. I told you. Last chance. No burn food. You burn garlic. That it!”
“Ah, give her a break, Tan,” I said, lifting my face and dropping my chopsticks on the counter. I was just finishing up my Mu Goo Gai Pan. “She was trying something new. I asked her to.”
Tan was blowing steam like a locomotive, red faced, as he stormed out of the kitchen. I could hear her pulling off her apron and throwing it on the floor, stomping her feet.
He turned on me, “You told white girl to burn your food?”
“I asked her to burn the garlic, it gives a crispy flavor to the chicken,” I said, and was lying, of course.
“I should never hire dat white girl! What do white girl know ‘bout Szechuan?!” He said, ignoring me in his fury. “Now whole place stink. Customer step in, turn around, walk out.”
“It’s not all that bad.”
The other people in the restaurant were lifting their heads. Paying attention to me trying to defend her, while calming Tan down. The slurping of noodles was petering off, a bad sign. I was losing the argument. Just then, a blur of auburn hair whipped past me, lashing my neck after the girl pulled off her hairnet throwing it on the counter between two burly guys.
“Here Tan, I don’t need that no more! I bet you’d take it out of my paycheck if I walked out with it. You know, you’re a chiseler! I worked hard for you, extra hours when Lu Xin no showed. He always arrived drunk from the Ma Jong parlor. Too drunk to cook. And this is the thanks I get!” She pointed her finger, waving it at Tan between the two guys, as they looked on incredulous.
Then she turned swiftly, and I watched her bottom as she pushed out the glass door, the bells tinkling. The good luck cats on the shelf seemed to wave goodbye more vigorously, as the door swung closed. Tan brought out the box of garlic chicken I ordered for takeout and pushed the bill towards me. Then he thought better of it, crumpled the bill, and shoved it in his pocket.
“No charge for you, Sonny. Probably taste like Guizhou, anyway. You come back soon, eh?” Tan gave me an unnecessary bow.
***
Back at my office, my secretary told me she liked the unique flavor of crispy garlic chicken. I avoided telling her the story behind it. “Oh, and by the way, the Inspector came by, said she had an update on your case.”
Inspector Hardigan, my friend and nemesis, always had some useless tips. I helped her out more times than I could count. Glad to see her finally returning the favor. Being a private investigator is not as glamorous as Hollywood makes it out to be. Besides, none of my current cases were mysteries, so her tip probably wasn’t either.
“I’ll call her later, I have to tail Mrs. Starkworth. It’s her shopping day, and her husband thinks she’s schtooping the kid that stocks at Trader Dick’s.”
“I had your Hawaiian shirt cleaned. It’s in the closet next to your cardigan.”
“Thanks, Della,” I said, checking my watch, heading to the closet to change. “I should be back by four.”
“Okay Boss. What do I tell Hardigan if she calls?”
“Take down the info, tell her I say thanks, and tell her to stay out of the Shanty bar. I’ll be there at six.”
“I can’t tell her that...”
“Whatever.”
***
I was adjusting the mini spy cam on my collar using the rear-view mirror in my PT Cruiser, when I saw Mrs. Starkworth parking her car in the parking lot a few slots away. She had a lusty grin beneath her designer sunglasses as she leaped from her Mercedes which only confirmed my suspicion (and her husband’s) about her shopping trips. Most likely the stock boy was packing her groceries, and not just the ones that go in the trunk.
Now all I needed was proof, that’s the greasy part of my job. It also kept me single, as I witnessed and documented all the travesties people make of their marriages. I tailed Starkworth into Trader Dick’s and watched her make a beeline to the fresh produce section. I blended in with the store clerks in my Hawaiian shirt, positioning myself to get a good angle on the two of them.
Standing in the aisle facing up several of their pricey products, I blended in, looking just like an employee. The spy cam had directional audio and being four meters away I could overhear them arrange their next tryst.
I was one step closer to a payday when an old guy poked me.
“Hey, can you tell me where the capers are?”
I was tempted to direct him to the mystery section at the bookstore next door, but I knew he was asking about those green pickled berries. “I’ll show you.”
“That’s all right young lady, I know you’re busy.”
Young lady?!
“Two aisles over on the bottom shelf.”
“Thanks.”
Now I’d need a sound engineer to dig out the hotel location from the recording. I had to film their meeting when the stock boy got off (double entendre intended). I’m sure glad Mr. Starkworth covered my expenses.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
Now what.
“Aren’t you the guy at the counter at Tan’s Szechuan?”
I turned and there she was, the cook, or rather the former cook. Her long wavy brown hair resting on her white blouse. Her blue eyes and freckles tickled an old memory, but it wasn’t gelling in my mind. She had several bags of fresh herbs in her hands which she juggled to shake mine.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
Her grip was firm, her hand warm, reinforcing the memory that kept slipping from my grasp.
“You look familiar...”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Looking around her, I saw Mrs. Starkworth moving off, clutching artichokes, heading toward the wine section.
“No, really. We went to high school together. You’re Sonny, Sonny…”
“Baker.” Now I remembered. The creature before me barely resembled the cute young thing I knew back then. Life had torn her up. The lines on her face were deep, she looked like she smoked and
went through a nasty divorce. I also recalled having a crush on her. She sat in front of me in a poetry class. In her youth, her hair had red highlights that drew me like a moth to a zapper.
“That’s right, Sonny Baker. Thanks for defending me back there. You know, I always thought you were a peach. Are you single?” She went on from there laying out her entire life story since high school. I’m not sure why people open up to me. It’s probably why I ended up being a PI. Anyway, it was clear now she had gone a bit crazy. She turned me off and made me sad at the same time. “So you work here now?”
“No, I’m a private eye.”
She looked around surreptitiously, then stepped in close. Her breath tinged with a hint of vomit. “So you’re undercover?”
I nodded.
“Cool. Hey, you still writing poetry?”
“Yup, roses are red, violets are blue, and now we’re through.”
“Funny. You always did have a sense of humor. Have a card?”
“No, I’m undercover, remember?”
“Oh right. See you around then.”
“Hope you land on your feet.”
“I always do.”
***
Later that evening, I was sitting in the Shanty bar, drinking the rot gut the bartender foists off on its customers as bourbon. Hardigan walked in looking sexy.
“You my date tonight?” I asked.
“We don’t have dates, remember?” Did I mention the Inspector batted for the other team? “You’re looking pretty miserable, Sonny. What happened today?”
“I solved a mystery and a case.”
“We should be celebrating! Bartender, another round, and I’ll have what he’s having. Hemlock is it?”
“Everyone’s a comedian. No, I saw an old crush from high school. Even defended her honor.”
“That bad, eh?”
“She was a mess.”
“I’m sorry, Sonny.”
I shrugged her hand off my shoulder. “That’s all right, Hardigan. Life isn’t fair.”
“Patricia, you can call me Patricia. Might as well, after all this time.”
“That was the cook’s name, Patricia. It was on the tip of my tongue all day.”
Hardigan took a long pull on her bourbon rocks and made a face. “Why don’t we head over to the strip club. Sounds like we could both use some cheering up.”
“Why? What went wrong with your day?”
“My perp skated.”
“More burnt garlic. Just like Patricia.”
“Here’s to good things happening to bad people, and vice versa.”
“You’re telling me.”
We drank in silence.
That night, it was cold in LA. The kind of cold that makes sunburns itch.
END

A MUSICAL UNION:

The Dynamic Relationship between
Voice Teacher and Singing Student

By Colenton Freeman


As a former opera singer and a very active voice teacher I have learned that the union or relationship between student and teacher is one of the most important bonds for an aspiring singer/performer. For the student it is so extremely important to find the right mentor and vocal technician/voice teacher at the very beginning. Oftentimes, this is not always the case and the young singer may have to search around until he or she finds a teacher with whom they more easily connect to personally, musically and vocally. The role of teacher, of course involves teaching the student a sound vocal technique, to assist in the development of becoming an artist as well as mentoring. The teacher is hopefully able to give a degree of confidence through the solidification of a sound vocal technique. One that will guide and assist the student in becoming a complete artist. In other words to impart the necessary tools to embark on and sustain a rigorous singing career, especially in classical music.

Clarity is of utmost importance in a teacher/student relationship. The student should be clear about what he or she would like from the teacher and the teacher should be clear about what he or she wants to accomplish with the student. This also involves an extreme amount of trust on both parts. Information is passed from teacher to student and hopefully the can student understand and digest this information and eventually make it a part of his/her soul and being. He/she should be made comfortable enough to always ask questions of the teacher and the teacher must always be willing to answer them.

The relationship between student and teacher requires time and patience. I feel that it is important to check every now and then to see whether the students are getting what they need from me. The needs and levels of development are constantly changing, not to mention the body and mental state. My students rely on me for technical, musical and also artistic advice. Sometimes they need guidance or advice on life itself. Naturally, the student has other forms of support through family, friends, spouses, agents, coaches, parents, therapists, etc. However, the main objective in the relationship with the voice teacher is to acquire good vocal technique which can give self-confidence and courage. I have found in my work with voice students on all levels is that the more they have command of their voices/singing the more confident they become as human beings. I see how their stature changes, how the body changes, their attitudes, the way that they walk into my studio. I see young students becoming young men and women.

„Classical singing, to those who practice it seriously, is a lifelong endeavor of self-improvement.“ (Dr. Jean-Ronald La Fond). This statement is so true. As a teacher of singing I feel that it is my obligation to convey this to my students.


Colenton Freeman
Adjunct Professor of Voice
Universität Kassel

Former Interim Professor and Lecturer of Voice
Hochschule für Musik Detmold

Voice Teacher
Lahn-Dill-Kreis Wetzlar School of Music

Colenton Freeman continues to distinguish himself in an international career that began with his professional debut in the premiere of John Eaton's THE CRY OF CLYTEMNESTRA  with the San Francisco Opera.  His European debut was at the Hamburgische Staatsoper where, on short notice, he performed the role of Don Jose in CARMEN:  A specialist in the Italian repertoire, his engagements have included the roles of Dick Johnson in Puccini's LA FANCIULLA DEL WEST with Opera der Stadt Bonn, the title role of Verdi's ERNANI with Stadttheater Trier , Riccardo in Verdi's UN BALLO IN MASCHERA with the Opera Theater of Annaberg-Buchholz in the former East Germany, and Lt. Pinkerton in MADAME BUTTERFLY with Stadttheater Giessen, where he had his first German "fest" contract.   Mr. Freeman was engaged with the Welsh National Opera as the title role of Verdi's ERNANI and as Lt. Pinkerton in MADAME BUTTERFLY.  He sang the role of Dick Johnson with the Niedersächsisches Staatstheater Hannover in Puccini's LA FANCIULLA DEL WEST.  Also a staple of his repertoire is the title role of Gounod's FAUST, which he has sung with the Städtische Bühnen Augsburg, the Landestheater Coburg and the Stadttheater Giessen.
 Other important early engagements have included a debut in Mexico City (Bellas Artes) as Calaf in TURANDOT and a subsequent engagement with Boston Concert Opera in the same role.  He sang the role of Enzo in LA GIOCONDA with the Opera Orchestra of New York in their Young Artists' performance as well as with the Lyric Opera of Chicago in a public dress rehearsal.  Mr. Freeman sang the role of Cavaradossi in TOSCA with the Boston Concert Opera and returned to the Opera Orchestra of New York to sing the role of Froh in DAS RHEINGOLD.
Colenton Freeman made his debut at the Royal Opera House/Covent Garden in London in Trevor Nunn's award winning production of PORGY AND BESS.  This production was also filmed for television and was shown on PBS in America.  A video recording made by BBC Television and Prime Television in London is available as well.  This production was also recorded with the London Symphony Orchestra for EMI Records with Simon Rattle as conductor.   He sang performances of PORGY AND BESS in the roles of Robbins and the Crabman in Berlin with the Theater des Westens.  Again through the media of television and recording, Mr. Freeman performed the role of George in the BBC-TV production of the opera THE VAMPIRE by Heinrich Marschner and recorded this role on CD for Virgin Classics and can also be seen in the video production filmed by BBC Television in London. 
As an orchestral and oratorio soloist, Mr. Freeman has distinguished himself in appearances with the Karlovy Vary Symphony (in the former Czechoslavakia), the Hamburg Symphony, the London Symphony Orchestra, the Atlanta Symphony, the New Orleans Symphony, the Indianapolis Symphony and the San Diego Symphony in which he worked with such conductors as Simon Rattle, Eve Queler and Garcia Navarro.  The 1995-96 season included concerts with the Puerto Rico Symphony as tenor soloist in Mahler's Symphony No. 8 and as soloist with the Winterthur Stadtorchester in Switzerland.  In the 1993-94 season, Mr. Freeman made his debut with the Radio Symphony Orchestra Belgium in Brussels and Antwerp.  In one of the highlights of Mr. Freeman's career, he appeared as soloist in a Gala Concert in San Francisco with Leontyne Price, Placido Domingo, Birgit Nilsson and, as Master of Ceremonies, Merv Griffin.
Solo recital and concert appearances include Weill Recital Hall (formerly Carnegie Recital Hall), Alice Tully Hall and Merkin Concert Hall, all in New York City.  His festival appearances include Glyndebourne, Santa Fe, Wolf Trap, Usedom, Echternach (Luxemburg) and the Cincinnati May Festival. 
Mr. Freeman was born in Atlanta, Georgia.  He is a graduate of the Oberlin Conservatory of Music, where he received the Bachelor and Master of Music degrees.  He did further post-graduate study at the Indiana University School of Music.  His teachers include Richard Miller and the Metropolitan Opera soprano Margaret Harshaw.  He has engaged in private study with the world-renown tenor Nicolai Gedda, in Lausanne, Switzerland. 
Other performances included the title role in Schubert's FIERRABRAS at the opera in Dortmund, Germany; as tenor soloist in Beethoven's 9th Symphony with the Stockton Symphony in Stockton, CA and concerts in Pesaro, Marcerata and Urbania (Italy).
The 1997-98 season began with performances as Riccardo in Verdi's UN BALLO IN MASCHERA at the Stadttheater Pforzheim and included concerts and recitals in Nürnberg, Freiburg, Frankfurt, Luxemburg, Flensburg, Berlin and at the Vaasa Music Festival in Finland.  During the summer of 1998 Mr. Freeman made his debut at the Bregenz Opera Festival in the role of the Crabman in Gershwin's PORGY AND BESS.  He was also the  recipient of a Stipend  from the Richard Wagner Society to attend the 1998 Bayreuth Opera Festival. 
Mr. Freeman‘s 1998-1999 schedule included a concert performance of the title role in Wagner's PARSIFAL (Act III) with the ARTS Serveis de Cultura Palma de Mallorca (Spain).  
In the 2000-2001 season Mr. Freeman sang the role of Rodolfo in 2 Concert Performances of Puccini's La Boheme with the world-renown Bamberg Symphony Orchestra. Other performances included the role of Sportin' Life in George Gershwin's Porgy and Bess with the Freiburg Philharmonic.
In 2003 Mr. Freeman made his debut with the Guadaloupe International Music Festival with concert performances of the role of Herodes in Salome and Parsifal (Act II). The 2004 season included debuts at the opera houses in Lyon and Geneva as Le Valet in the world premiere of Michael Lévinas' opera Les Négres. With the Stadttheater Giessen he sang the travesty role of Arnalta in Monteverdi's L'incoronazione di Poppea.
The season of October 2010 found Mr. Freeman making a debut with the Kammeroper Kassel in Erik Satie's Socrates. Subsequently in July 2011 he made another debut as the Witch in Humperdinck's Hansel and Gretel in a co-production between the Landestheater Detmold and the Hochschule für Musik Detmold.
Mr. Freeman is Guest Professor of Voice at the Hochschule für Musik Detmold and Adjunct Professor of Voice at the University of Kassel, both in Germany.
 

Pretty Girls Stare

By Kris Green



The light coming from the window helped me keep my bearings as I stepped over what looked like an old bird’s nest that had fallen to the ground. The leaves shushed as I pressed on.
My hands pressed against the cool brick as I lifted my head to the window. There she was – the blonde from school that lived a few blocks from me. I pressed my face closer to the window before she turned and looked down.
I didn’t scream. That probably meant something, but neither did she. She stared at me as if knowing all along I was lurking outside in the darkness. An amused little smile crossed her face briefly as if to say, “I see you, you little perv piggy!”
Stumbling back, I pushed through the bushes. Already, the three steps had me out of breath. When I turned back, she was still there. In her expression, there was no difference from seeing her in the hallway or the classroom. It didn’t seem to matter that she had caught me looking into her window, maybe even her bedroom window, I wasn’t sure. There hadn’t been enough time. She just stood there and stared at me expressionless.


Earlier –
“Try smiling.” My mother said to me as we sat on her green and orange couch. It might have once been a shag couch from way back when, but now it was matted and dirty. She insisted we keep it like we kept everything.
“How?”
“Everyone knows how to smile.”
“I don’t.”
“Nonsense, let me see!”
I showed my teeth, even the ones slightly crooked and stained a dark yellow. I tried to raise my cheekbones. I lifted my head hoping the budding double chin would disappear. My eyes squinted naturally as I felt my stomach flutter with an unconscious lurch.
“Jason, now, is that how you smile? No wonder the pretty girls stare!”
She erupted in raucous laughter that shook the house. It made me almost forget how hard it had been lately. I couldn’t hide the expression as my face grew long, but glad for once, she was feeling maternal. Her large meaty paws pulled me into her much larger embrace.
“They stare because you’re so handsome.”
“Ma,” I tried as I pulled away from her body heat that felt like I was standing in front of an oven.
“Don’t. I expect to meet one of these ladies before you start dating them. If you get one pregnant, you do the right thing.”


My bedroom walls are lined with posters of things I don’t care about – popular movies and bands. Things that everyone thinks are cool even though I have yet to have a single person in my room since we moved from Michigan to Georgia.
It was pointless to talk to her. My bed creaked as I crawled onto it only reminding me of my ever-expanding waistline. My mother called it ‘growing weight’. It’s important to pretend and agree for a single mother who doesn’t date, doesn’t have friends, and you are the center of their life.
The football coached reached out to see if I’d be interested in playing. My mother shut it down afraid that I’d get hurt. That’s okay. I’m not much for being outside.
I reached in my nightstand drawer and pulled out a bag of chips before catching myself and putting it back. I knew I’d eat it later when my will power waned. The growing despair rose so high that I couldn’t even breathe. It covered my eyes with blackness so that nothing appeared to be real anymore. There I would be stuck – stuck, eating, and growing fatter by the day. Left with the only thing growing larger than my belly would be the distress at what my life had become – stuck and alone.


My mom doesn’t understand me.
If my mother was the only one who read my blog, then I would’ve alienated my only readership. I wiped away crumbs on my keyboard and leaned back.
I’d been a Junior in Kennedy High School for the better part of two months. My mother moved us closer to be with her parents even though we had yet to see them.
I backspaced deleting my first sentence and then wrote: Why do the pretty girls stare?
I didn’t really know what else to write. Nothing had really happened, not yet. It still felt as if it were all manifested in my head. Maybe I was changing inside. Maybe It was the pretty girls who were the only ones who could see it?
But that was stupid. I crunched into another potato chip. I leaned back again, this time knocking the bag of chips to the floor, maybe I was having a midlife crisis?
No joke. My father died when I was younger. Something no one really talks about is that if your father passes away at a young age, you will start to feel as if you won’t live longer than he did. There’s no logical reason for it. That would make me midlife.
Jim Morrison said, “Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings as smooth as raven’s claws.”
I loved the Doors and anything psychedelic with good lyrics from that era. I opened the closet to the stack of books tucked away and combed through before realizing my copy of Jim Morrison’s poetry was probably still in the garage. I used to have all my books out for anyone to see but one of my friends in Hillsdale said it made me look like a loser. Then we moved.
The garage smelled stale of old cardboard and memory boxes. It was full of things we had yet to unpack. Who knew if the boxes would ever be opened again. My mother hoarded and lugged it through five states. I wondered if she’d even notice if I’d began to slowly throw it away.
“Jason!” Her voice bellowed through the house. I’ve forgotten the need for the book and turned to go inside when I saw her.
She was already panting and grabbed the wall. How much longer could she keep living like this? I didn’t want to think about it.
“Pick those chips up off the ground! They’ll attract bugs! It’s bad enough your laundry is heaped on the floor and gross, by the way, but you can’t let your room be trashed like your last one. Especially after I let you buy those posters!”
I walked up the three steps into the house moving past her as she kept rattling on.
“No one will want to date a dirty little perv piggy like you!”
I turned and looked at her. Past her, the door to the garage was slowly closing. I could push her. It would look like an accident. The concrete would make it look like she hit her head or even I could move some boxes and…..
My heart began to race. I felt the anger rise. My hands lifted and just then, she walked into them pushing them apart. Her arms wrapping around me; her voice cracked with tears.
“I’m sorry. You know it’s hard with Grampa Rodney being sick and all.”
I stared forward as the garage door closed shutting away the opportunity. Shocked, I second-guessed my own thoughts. Did I just think that?


The bell rang and broke me out of a daze in my American History class. My teacher who had spent as much time talking about the current political climate as American History rattled on as if the bell was just a figment of our imagination.
I carefully closed my history book. I hadn’t even been in the chapter he had been teaching. There was a chapter on crime and a few sections about famous American serial killers. I wondered if he would skip it. Most teachers would. I read it at home twice. As the class grew boring, I’d read it again. I wanted to know all I could.
The teacher gave the assignment, and we dutifully scribbled it down before he waved his hand dismissing us, telling us not to be Republicans.
The hallway was crowded. I walked past the group of jocks throwing a football back and forth and dodged it barely as I ran into a locker. They laughed. I picked up my books and turned around to see one of the cheerleaders staring at me.
Her name was Elizabeth or something regal like it. Her dark hair, tied in a ponytail, rested just past her shoulders. She wore a cheerleading outfit whose skirt rode a little too high. My heart raced but I couldn’t move under her penetrating stare. It was like she was looking into my soul. I felt empty. Did she see it?
A jock walked past me; his shoulder knocked into me. I flew backward into the lockers an dropped my books. I tried to hurry up to my knees and pick up my books. My heart rang in my ears as anger caused my hands to tremble. When I looked back again, Elizabeth was gone, and the hallway was clearing out as the bell rang.


Today was the first time since moving to Georgia that I rode the bus. Even though the bus was full, no one sat next to me.
I watched the blonde near the front sit with the other pretty girls. I watched muted lips in the cacophony before one of them saw me looking. Then they all turned as if knowing all at once, they stared at me. I looked away, back out the window.
What did they see when they saw me? Did I reek of desperation or misery? Or did they see something creepy? But then again, they stared back. Why? Why do the pretty girls stare? Why are they so beautiful?
The brakes screeched coming to my stop. As I rose to leave, the blonde-haired girl rose too. I trailed behind her worried she’d think I was stalking her. The only noise coming from the passing cars as we walked in the cool shade of tall buildings that looked like warehouses with no business fronts.
Heading in the same direction, we both came to a stop at Rutherford Avenue. I tried not to look at her, but when I did, I saw her staring in some monstrous way out the side of her eyes without having to turn her head.
We crossed without speaking. My mind searched desperately through the mental files for something smart and funny to say. I had nothing. I couldn’t approach it like a jock. I was far from it, but maybe, just maybe I could impress her with my mind. Maybe I could…..
She turned and walked toward the house on the corner of Lafayette and Park. I tried to look out of the corner of my eye to see which house but had to turn my head to know for sure. Three houses and across the street from mine. Three houses and even though it felt as if it were an eternity away, inside of my heart a horrible hope had begun to bloom.


I had seen most of the good free horror movies on Prime. Most kids I knew, that is most kids in Michigan, didn’t seem to like them. They filled my budding adolescent brain with the fiery rise of pubescent curiosity as well as, in most cases, the horror of something looming.
Maybe that was the appeal? Maybe I just knew something horrible was coming. Maybe I was that something horrible. Maybe I was afraid and needed something to justify those feelings.
The fan kicked on as I went into the bathroom. Toothpaste and splotches of shaving cream caked the sink. I practiced smiling. How do you smile like a normal person? I didn’t like how my face looked. I took off my shirt. I had no defined muscles. My fat rolls looked more like a chubby new infants’ than anything resembling a man’s.
I put my shirt back on. I pulled out the notecards. I had to hurry. God forbid my mother caught me or discovered these notecards. I’d never hear the end of it.
“Sometimes your cuteness kills me.” I said a few times practicing the inflections when I tore up the card and put it on the side of the sink.
“She walks in beauty like the night” I quoted the poem by Lord Byron before letting out a sigh. Maybe I should write her a poem? Maybe I should… give up.


That night, I went to her house. We stared at each other. Clarity beaconed on the sidewalk. What had I been thinking? Was I trying to be Romeo at Juliet’s balcony?
She stared at me. In it, I felt the weight of rejection and even worse, through her eyes, I felt the same thing I had felt in my bathroom mirror. Something more than her was watching me. Was there something lurking behind her eyes?


The next day, history class caused me to finish the chapter on crime in America for the third time. When alcohol was illegal, the mob was serving the community to give them beer. In a weird way, they were heroes. Otherwise, the law wouldn’t have been overturned. Right? So, what if a serial killer was doing good? What if the serial killer was really a hero?
Would the Punisher in Marvel be considered a serial killer? Maybe. What about all the superheroes who killed people whether intentionally or not. Ghost Rider killed demons even if they lived inside people. Did some of those people die? What about villains? The Red Hood in DC used to be a Robin. But then he started killing people.
When I walked out of school, I saw my mom’s gray van parked across the street. I stared at it. I almost went for the bus, but there was something else, I was afraid of the blonde-haired girl almost as much as I was afraid of what my mother would do if I ignored her.
I stared out the window at all five pretty girls walking up toward the bus. They stopped walking and stared at me: the blonde-haired neighbor whose name I still didn’t know, the regal one, Elizabeth or something, and then the other three each one with her own different ways of beauty and mystic.
I found myself scratching my arm. My heart raced. Then suddenly, the anxiety turned to anger. Why did they stare? What do they want? And then the thought surprised me as it emerged, “I’m going to make them pay!” Where had that thought come from?


Of course, I was crazy. There was nothing lurking behind their stares. I was some fat kid gawking. They were naturally creeped out.
The next morning, I rushed out of the house. My mother had stayed up late the night before. I heard the TV going into all hours. I heard her pacing. She was working herself up.
I left a note that I didn’t want to wake her – not quite a lie. Then leaving the note on the kitchen counter, I saw the knife lying there. I don’t know why I grabbed it, but I did.
I snuck out and waited on my porch before seeing the blonde-haired girl walking out her front door. I held tight the strap of my backpack. She turned as if knowing I was watching her and stared at me. I froze on the front sidewalk only a second before swallowing my pride and rushed toward her. She looked away and didn’t change her pace. I caught up to her and panted.
“Good morning.”
She said nothing.
I cleared my throat. She didn’t turn to me. We got to Rutherford Avenue, and I stepped closer as we waited for the crosswalk to tell us it was safe.
“Hi, my name is Jason. Good morning.”
She stared at me. Her head made almost an unconscious nod toward the side as she looked at me.
“What is your name?”
She stared.
“You know libraries?” I tried a pickup line, “I mean... do you… uh… work at a library?”
Then, another flutter. Something just behind her eyes. My hands twitched. There was something inside of her – something bad. I took a step back. I had forgotten about the pickup line. I had forgotten everything.


My mother’s van screeched to a stop a block up. The pretty girl didn’t look but I couldn’t help but feel mortified. My mother pushed the passenger door open wearing a worn, faded pajama dress.
“What do you think you’re doing? You know someone could kidnap you?” She shouted out for God, the pretty girl, and everyone else.
“Ma, I’m a Junior in High School. No one is going to kidnap me.”
“You don’t know what evils this world holds!”
“Ma! I wasn’t even walking alone.”
The pretty girl then turned and stared.



“Get in here and stay away from that little slut!”
“You don’t….” I hurried to get in the car.
“Is she interested in you, Jason? You have to tell me. I haven’t given you permission to date. I don’t even know her name. Why haven’t you told me who she is?”
“I don’t even know her name.”
I held my backpack tight on my lap as she continued, very aware of the knife inside and of looming, secret dark things within my grasp.
“But you like her, don’t you. You spend all that time in your room and don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing in there. Don’t be a little perv piggy. No one is going to like you! No one will love you like I do!”
I got out of the car and didn’t say anything. She called me over, but I ignored her until she honked. The kids milling around the front of the school collectively paused.
“You say goodbye to me!”
“Goodbye, ma.”
If I knew that would be the last time that I would see her, maybe I would’ve had something else to say.


I had forgotten it was Field Day. Homeroom was a buzz with everyone talking excitedly. Then we were packed into buses. Lake Park was only twenty minutes away.
I had no swimsuit, but the idea of taking off my shirt filled me with a special dread. I felt my chest tighten, boy-boobs and all, at the prospect of the entire school running into the water except me.
Everyone spoke excitedly on the bus. The kid next to me, who someone had called Elmo, had red hair slicked up in a curl He kept his back to me the whole bus ride except to turn around when he nudged back having forgotten I was there. He took an extended gaze at my stomach before shrugging and going back to his conversation.
I hated him. I hated everyone. Was high school supposed to feel like purgatory? My thoughts unconsciously drifted toward my backpack tucked between my legs. The knife, the secret anger – everything wanted to explode.
I grabbed the bag. Elmo, the pretty girls – it didn’t matter who. I felt the darkness wash over me. The rage splashing against the shores of my bitter heart. Resolution on this wicked path allowed only for a brief prayer for someone or something to deter my hand.
The backpack made no noise as I unzipped it. I looked up to see one of the pretty girls staring at me from the front of the bus. I stared back. To hell with them! My hand reached in the bag barely touching the handle when the bus screeched to a stop. The jerking motion caused me to slightly cut my finger on the knife.
The doors screamed open and stifled my outburst of pain. Kids piled out. I lagged, desperately holding onto my bag trying to hide my bloodied finger. The teachers tried to corral us together by homeroom class – hopeless.
A teacher pulled out a megaphone and discussed the different activities. We would be leaving at 2. Lunch was at noon. Hiking would not be allowed after lunch in case you couldn’t get back. Don’t go anywhere alone. Stay as a group.
Lake Park was large. There was a guy in a park rangers’ uniform who gave a talk about safety but at this point even I wasn’t listening. A flash of skin distracted me as girls stripped their
shirts into swimwear and headed for water. Some guys poked them. They screamed in a fun that I would never know.
As people started going everywhere, I turned for the woods. If I had known today was Lake Park Day, I would’ve begged my mother to stay home.


The woods were quiet. I was already hungry. I found a boarded up shed and walked around it. On the other side, I could make out across a stretch of low trees reaching down to the Lake. Teachers and lifeguards stood watch as kids splashed.
With my back against the shed, I sat. I had wanted to kill Elmo on the bus. It wasn’t that I wanted the pretty girls to like me. Of course, I did, but that wasn’t the point. I wanted to feel normal. I didn’t want to feel like this anymore. Something had to change.
I hated that I was fat. The more I hated it, the more I ate and the more weight I gained. I couldn’t fight it. I knew even though I should be looking at colleges, I wouldn’t look too far away because my mother would want me to be near her. She needed me. I was trapped.
The tears didn’t come this time. A resolution came instead. I opened my bag and pulled out the knife. I knew slits across the wrist were not the traditional way to cut open a vein. How long would it take?
I closed my eyes and looked down at my arm. My finger still bled from before. It had hurt. Would this hurt more? My hand shook holding the knife when I heard a branch break near me. Startled, I dropped the knife into the brush in front of me. I kept quiet with a whimsical hope that I wanted to be heard. Did I want to be stopped?
Another branch and then another and then I heard a giggle. I looked down for the knife. I couldn’t see it. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find it to hide it or use it to defend myself.
Then I saw her, the pretty blonde girl who lived a few houses away from mine. She walked around the corner and stared at me. I startled, rose my feet before losing my balance and stumbling back to the wall of the shed.
“What do you….?”
My voice shook. Had she grown more beautiful than when we were on the bus?
It’s hard to be clever to someone who is practically mute. Then two other pretty girls appeared in front of me. One of them licked their lips in a seductive way that I had never seen before, at least not outside of Hollywood. One of them looked at my bloodied finger.
“Just a flesh wound.”
I let out a little gasp as two others came behind and wrapped their arms around me. I moaned in a weird pleasure just at being touched as I leaned my head back, I saw one of their eyes. Something was moving behind them. Something was growling. The growling noise rose. It sounded like crickets screaming in the summertime, only worse.
My finger disappeared into one of their mouths. The other two stared. Something blank in their expressions as just behind their eyes, something hurried back and forth pacing like a dog excitedly waiting for dinner and as that thought hit me, I knew it was me. I was dinner.
The first bite didn’t hurt that bad. The second hurt a lot worse.

Kris Green lives in Florida with his beautiful wife and two savage children. He’s been published over 50 times in the last few years by the wonderful people at Nifty Lit, The Haberdasher: Peddlers of Literary Art, In Parentheses Magazine, Route 7 Review, BarBar Magazine and many more. He won the 2023 Barbe Best Short Story and Reader’s Choice Award for his short story, “Redemption”. Currently, he has regular nonfiction articles being published by Solid Food Press on fatherhood entitled: “On Raising Savages”. 

Head Case


By Bill Tope


 Bill Tope is a former caseworker, hotel cook, construction laborer and
​one-time nude model for art classes at university; he lives in Illinois with his mean little cat Baby.

 
Standing on the parking lot of the little strip mall, Trevor Baker leaned on his push broom and waxed philosophcal. He glanced at the clock tower across the street: 12 minutes until Jan. 1st,, 1996, the dawn of a new year and for him, he knew, it would outpace every year that had come before. The wind began to pick up and tiny spicules of ice struck his exposed face. Trevor only smiled.
. . . . .
Trevor, enrolled in undergraduate school, raked leaves as part of his college work study employment. Money was scare and he took his job, slight as it was, quite seriously. Occasionally he hunched his shoulders or made faces, almost unconsciously, and passing students glanced curiously at him. All at once a shadow fell across Tremor and he started.
"You got I.D.? asked a campus policeman who was perhaps a decade older than Trevor's 20 years. Tremor made no reply. He had found it auspicious to say as little as possible to the police. "C'mon," urged the policeman impatiently. Trevor dug through his blue jeans and pulled out a wallet and turned up a driver's license. "Are you on drugs? Are you loaded? Do you drive?" asked the cop rapidly. "Can you talk?" he asked. "Are you retarded, er, special needs?"
"I can talk," Trevor assured him. "And I have a doctor's statement saying I can drive," he added.
"I'll be the one to decide if you can drive," snapped the policeman proprietarily. Trevor only shrugged.
The cop looked at him narrowly and then insisted upon a field sobriety test: follow my finger, watch my eyes, walk a straight line, touch your nose with your own finger, and so on. Other students and teachers observed Trevor and the cop curiously and Trevor was humiliated, although this was not the first time this had happened to him. Finally, more or less satisfied, the cop allowed him to return to work, with a curt warning: "Watch it. I'm keeping my eye on you!"
. . . . .
Trevor, fresh out of graduate school, crossed, the hot asphalt parking lot, littered with snuffed cigarette butts, soda cans that had been run over by automobiles, crumpled pieces of paper and other urban detritus. As he approached the red brick building, he beheld a glass and metal door, with the words, Department of Public Aid emblazoned upon the glass. He pushed through and was nearly overwhelmed by the stench of urine, dirty diapers, marijuana and cheap cologne; this was 1989, when Hai Karate was still a best-seller. A small forest of cheap, pastel-colored plastic chairs rose up from the floor. In one corner sat a corpulent rent-a-cop reading a comic book and straight ahead was the service counter, with a large plexiglass screen separating the clients from the DPA staff. There was a line of people that extended nearly the length of the room. Making a beeline for the guard, Trevor asked him how one went about applying for Food Stamps. Trevor coughed and then twitched several times.
Without taking his eyes off his comic book, the fat guard growled, “I hears ya, fella,” and he pointed a finger at the ever-growing queue. Trevor took his place in line. The screams of babies and infants filled the air and Trevor could have sworn at least one person lit a joint. After about two hours of shuffling forward, he reached the front desk clerk, who handed him a questionaire, a pen, and a slip of Cardboard with a number on it.  At length, his assigned caseworker appeared from the nether regions of the building and mutely led Trevor to an interviewing cubicle. The worker was quite handsome, some years older than Trevor’s 23 years, and he smelled nice.  He wore a wrinkle-free dress shirt, chinos and a distinctive necktie. Everything about the young man shouted State Bureaucrat. He introduced Himself as Mr. Sweetin and reviewed the details of his new client’s identity as had been revealed to the front desk worker. He then proceeded to ask Trevor a battery of questions: Age?  Any bastard Children? Work history? And so on. When Trevor confessed that he had a job, the worker's whole attitude changed; he seemed to think they were both wasting their time.
He told Trevor: “With no dependents, if you have any kind of decent job at all, there is virtually no chance you'll qualify for Food Stamps.” The program was for poor  people. What was  Trevor trying to prove, anyway?  All at once the caseworker wasn't as good-looking as he had been only minutes before. While there were still no wrinkles in his shirt, there were sweat stains in his armpits. He didn't smell as nice, either. And his tie was a clip-on. At length he stood, thereby dismissing Trevor. He told him good luck And did he want to register to vote? Trevor didn't. Before he departed, he asked if there were any employment opportunities with the DPA. The worker said there were many opportunites, for “the right person.”
“What does the position pay?” he asked. The caseworker told him. Trevor silently whistled. It was approximately three times what he earned at his first post-graduate job mopping floors.
Trevor asked Sweetin what qualified a person for a job such as his? Sweetin’s chest swelled importantly and he told Trevor that he’d need at least an associate’s degree, as Sweetin himself possessed, “to make the grade”. Trevor thanked him and slipped out of the cubile.
Crossing the lobby. he pushed back through the glass and metal door and arrived again at the torrid parking lot, with the cigarette butts and the crushed cans and a dead bird or two, his welfare adventure now complete. Shit, thought Trevor, I could do this. It was but a matter of a state employment qualifying exam and one month later, Trevor was hired.
. . . . .
Trevor Baker and his current significant other, Sally, sat slumped at a table in the back of the tavern, taking in the entertainment; this was Sunday and Open-mike Night. On stage, a faceless guitarist played Van Morrison tunes, much to the appreciation of the heavily-imbibing crowd. Sally sat close, her bare shoulders aglow in the warm yellow lights of the tavern. Although marijuana was not yet legal in this state in 1994, a thin haze of pot smoke rose languorously toward the ceiling. Which reminded Sally: “Bake, do you wanna get high?” With Sally, this could mean anything from a beer to pot, from cocaine to Quaalude, so Trevor raised an inquiring brow.
“I bought some Mexican this afternoon,” she told him, turning up a small plastic bag and shaking it evocatively. Customers sitting at adjoining tables gazed enviously at Sally.
Trevor took a sip of beer and considered. With pot, it only served to make him horny; with Sally, it put her to sleep; altogether, he thought, it was a wash. “Sure,” he agreed, coming to his feet. As Trevor and Sally threaded their way though the crowded bar, Sally following in his wake, Trevor scrunched up his neck  first to one side and then the other, then coughed loudly and shot his arm out from his body for just an instant. Most bar patrons, used to this display, paid Trevor no mind; others, unaccustomed to the behavior, stared curiously. Sally rolled her eyes a little and looked down, but said nothing.
After they had made love, Trevor went through his twitching routine anew and Sally said, “Bake. I've told you this before: I think you have Tourette’s Syndrome. Talk to your doctor, babe.” Sally was a registered nurse and knew whereoff she spoke.
“I did,” he said. “He said Tourette’s isn’t real and even if it is, there’s nothing you can do about it.” They’d had this conversation before.
“At the state hospital, where I used to work, they gave the patients Orap or Haldol,” she told him. “Ask him about those,” she urged. “Please, Bake, I hate to see you going through this without help.” She put her hands behind his neck and softly kissed him. He kissed her back.
“I’ll make an appointment tomorrow,” he promised, then screwed the lid off a container of cold medicine and decanted the syrupy green glop into a plastic cup.
. . . . .
The next morning, at the Public Aid Office, where Trevor worked as a caseworker, he sat at his desk, going through some pending files. Into the room walked Karen, a tall, slender coworker with whom Trevor had a newly contentious relationship. He’d overheard her say one time that “Trevor Baker is a pain in the ass. If he starts coughing and twitching again, I’m going to murder him.” Most of his coworkers were well used to his nettlesome behavior, but Karen seemed to take particular exception to it and found him a nusiance. As she made her way behind his desk, Trevor unleashed another hoarse cough. With a cry of exasperation Karen, as she had done every day for a week, slammed a handful of cough drops onto Trevor’s desk. Sheepishly, he murmured his thanks. Without turning, she stalked on by.
Karen had found a key to retribution, however, quite by accident: inadvertently popping her chewing gum, she observed Trevor wince almost as if in pain. She repeated the action, garnered a like result. Trevor stared at her helplessly. Karen smiled tightly. This, she thought, was important information.
Trevor’s phone jangled. Seizing the receiver, he listened, thanked the caller and ventured to the lobby. There he found Vanessa, a 20-something client on which he’d done an overpayment the week before. “Good morning,” he said, leading the young woman to one of a rabbit warren of small cubicles branching off a narrow corridor. “How can I help you today?” he asked pleasantly.  Trevor made a point of always being nice to his clients.
“I got a bill,” she said, proferring the statement for the overpayment he’d calculated. “I don’t understand,” she said, staring at him forlornly.
He took the statement, reviewed it and said, “It’s money you need to pay back.” He’d gotten a field evaluation by an investigator, who cited Vanessa for receving AFDC funds for which she was ineligible. He hadn't questioned the contents of the report; he received them all the time.
“Is this about Reanne?” she asked, referencing her 8-year-old daughter, as beautiful dark-skinned girl whom Trevor had met several times. When he didn’t immediately reply, she went on. “Reanna die four weeks ago, Mr. Baker. She drown in the city pool.” Stunned, Trevor stared at her.
“I guess that’s it,” he answered. “You see, if she were...deceased, then you weren’t entitled to receive money for her.” Realizing the enormity of what he was telling this young mother, he hated both himself and the agency for which he worked. “I’m sorry, those are the rules,” he said lamely.
She nodded. Coming to her feet, she said “I unnerstand. Thank you, Mr. Baker,” and she was gone.
. . . . .
Trevor sat in his fancy new ergonomic computer chair, an early Christmas gift from his parents. The spare, sandy-haired man was seated comfortably in the open-space public assistance office, where, since his lateral transfer from the city, he worked as a caseworker, managing welfare cases. He had been so employed for almost a year. This chair, he thought sadly, as high-tech as it was, couldn't prevent his hands from shaking. Sometimes, on a bad day, it was worse than others; just now, his hands quavered furiously. Clearly, this was not a good day.
Working in the new office had taken some getting used to. Gone was the malicious Karen and the others who referred to Trevor behind his back as a “head case.” But, his new co-workers steadfastly refused to call him Bake, opting to use his childhood appelation of Trevor. Into the room strode Bert, a colleague at the agency, just back from lunch, who observed his co-worker's afflictions with the usual bemusement. He took off his winter coat, placed his Starbucks cup on his desk, which was next to Trevor's, turned to the other man and said, "Hey, Tremor, what's up?"
Trevor instantly became self-conscious and tried to hide his twitching fingers. Although his Tourette’s was 90% under control with the medication he took, other conditions, which had like symptoms, were getting worse. Bert's coarse misuse of his name only added tension to an already tense situation. Trevor waited for the next remark.
Bert picked up his coffee, took a sip, smiled winsomely, but said nothing. The genius to his technique of torturing Trevor lay in levying the insults and putdowns only half the time. Always keep him wondering when the other shoe would drop, thought Bert smugly. To that end, Bert unwrapped a stick of gum and slowly placed it on his tongue, watching the other man from the corner of his eye. He chewed rapidly, soon getting the wad of gum limber. Then he began loudly popping it. He smiled with satisfaction as Trevor reacted severely to the chewing and to the sounds.
Trevor, who already suffered the early stages of Parkinson's Disease, had only recently been diagnosed by his neurologist as also suffering from misophonia, a condition in which the patient exhibits untoward reactions to certain "trigger' sounds, such as lip smacking, gum popping, dogs barking, clocks ticking, or people chewing with their mouths open. As a result of this condition, Trevor routinely frowned, sighed, or even stared at his nemesis. Which only encouraged Bert all the more. Also accompanying these reactions were increased heart rate, panic, anger, and a strong, almost desperate desire to escape the source of the trigger sounds. Just now, Trevor glared balefully at the other man. Bert smirked.
. . . . .
"What can I do about it, Dr. Patel?" Trevor had asked, when told of the diagnosis. "How do we treat it?"
The physician shrugged impassively. "There is no treatment," he told him bluntly. "You can wear sound-deadening headphones or play music or," he suggested, "ask your co-workers to stop their annoying behavior."
Trevor had this condition, in varying degrees, since he was nine or ten years old—more than twenty years ago—though in those days there was no available diagnosis.
"Trev," said his father, when the young man was eleven, "pretend that dog's not there; that's a boy!"
"Mom and Dad are going to take you to a shrink," threatened Trevor's brother, two years older and embarrassed by his sibling's constant overreactions to ordinary sounds, not to mention his face-making and twitching.
The malady was still relatively unknown. Even today, Trevor's own MD unapologetically admitted that he had never even heard of the condition.
Throughout school, Trevor had felt that he wore a cloak of misfortune that no one else seemed to understand. Bert knew none of this; he knew only that Trevor was "different" and "sensitive" and must therefore be punished.
"Want a piece of gum, Tremor?" asked Bert, cracking the Juicy Fruit between his molars. Trevor closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and mentally placed himself somewhere far away. Snap! went Bert's gum, and Trevor was figuratively seized roughly and wrenched back to the present, nearly sobbing with frustration. He felt a bead of perspiration trickle down his back. He had to do something!
He sprang suddenly to his feet and called out, "Ms. Shaefer, could I have a minute?"
Norma Schaefer, the office manager, also returning from lunch, frowned unhappily at her newest employee, but crooked a finger. What was it this time? She thought peevishly. "A quick minute," she said. He followed her into her private office, dropped into a chair before her desk.
Once they were both seated, Trevor explained his recent diagnosis, described his symptoms, both physical and mental, and, in spite of  his abject embarrassment, appealed to her for help. He had previously had to account for his tremor, which was due to Parkinson's, because some of his welfare clients, as well as his co-workers, had questioned his sobriety and his sanity. Some had even conjectured that he was undergoing withdrawal from alcohol or drugs.
"What do you expect me to do about it?" she asked impatiently. "I mean, I've never heard of this condition, and besides, how can I tell employees they can't chew gum?"
"It's just the popping," he stressed, "and chewing with their mouths open; it's not gum chewing itself. It's the noise."
Norma's mouth formed a straight, unhappy line. "Look, Trevor, the state already stopped employees from smoking. Many of them substitute gum for cigarettes, and I think that's a good thing." At his disspirited look, she pounced: "Maybe casework isn't the right job for you..." He looked up sharply. "You just don't seem very happy here," she added, with feigned concern. You have little to say to anyone; you're not even signed up for the Secret Santa gift exchange this Christmas."
Trevor cast his mind back to the office Thanksgiving party, which had been held only the week before. Sitting by himself in the break room, he had witnessed Norma herself eating noisily at the next table.
She sounds like a garbage disposal, he thought wearily, looking dismally at the otherwise elegant woman. "What are you staring at?" she demanded, dropping a Buffalo wing back onto her plate with a little click. "Don't stare at me!" Her loud chewing hadn't seemed to bother anyone else, he'd noticed.
Trevor blew out a tired breath. Norma spoke again, drawing him back to the present: "Your work is adequate," she conceded, "but if you can't get along with the other employees and you aren't happy here, then maybe you should consider a change." And she left it at that, stealing an overt glance at her watch. Pushing himself to his feet, Trevor exited the manager's office, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
Thirty days later, just in time for the new year, found Trevor, Master's degree and all, sweeping the breezeway that bisected the strip mall where he now worked as a maintenance worker and groundskeeper. The air was cold, the wind brisk, but he didn't mind. The salary was scarcely adequate, but at long last he had found what he most coveted: peace and quiet. He sighed, smiled a little and wondered what Sally was doing. Peace, he thought luxuriously. It was so sweet.

Christmas is about love!

That Girl and Her Pickle Jar

A Short Story by Joe Chazaray


Springtime was upon Nezzlecreek once again. A lovely little town just south of Branson, Missouri. This meant birds were chirping, flowers were blooming, and kids were outside frolicking in that annoying yet charming way children frolick outside. It also meant love was in the air. The young boys with their fresh Wrangler jeans and cowboy hats. The young girls with their pretty springtime dresses and perfumes. Both parties, trying their hand at perhaps a springtime romance. Maybe even summertime love. There were certain traditions this town honored to encourage such things between the young girls and young boys.
There was a particular young boy who was rather unimpressed with the whole thing. He was a simple young man. His name was Randall. Randall liked fishing and shooting his BB gun. He spent a majority of his summers since turning twelve on hunting/fishing trips with his dad and uncle Monty. He was sixteen now, and remained mostly unimpressed with the whole thing. He liked girls but thought they were kind of dumb all the same. He could appreciate the odd courting traditions of the town without fully understanding them. Understanding that girls liked boys for certain reasons that boys didn’t understand, and that boys liked girls for reasons that girls didn’t understand, and these traditions sort of helped facilitate the whole thing, keeping it from turning into utter hormonal chaos. At least that was the idea anyway.
All that to say, Randall was out and about on the town this particular Saturday morning. His TV was broken and he didn’t own a smartphone, so he was in search of some entertainment. He was running out of things to do in this quiet little town. Anything worth doing didn’t open until noon. He’d already shot two squirrels with his BB gun this morning after skipping a couple stones down at the pond just outside of town. He needed a place to sit and come up with a gameplan. He decided he’d take a seat on the bench outside of the soda shop looking out into town square which was a lovely grassy green plaza at the center of downtown. Randall figured, as he waited for inspiration to hit him, that something interesting might happen in the meantime.
The soda shop downtown was where a lot of the young boys and girls gathered at different times during the day for youthful shenanigans. Though that was typically the case, it was a ghost town at ten thirty in the morning. Randall was the only one there. At least he was until a curly short haired brunette girl showed up. She walked with rounded shoulders like she was a tough girl but also shy. She’d walked up almost exactly five minutes after Randall took his seat on the bench. She noticed Randall out of her peripheral and was slightly annoyed that she wasn’t alone nor could sit on the bench lest she’d have to make conversation with a stranger. Instead, she stood curbside looking awkwardly in no particular direction. This girl wore a white sundress with a pretty blue floral pattern. It looked like she might be on her way to church. Randall noticed she was carrying a brown woven picnic basket.
Was she going to a church picnic? Randall thought to himself.
He didn’t think so because it was Saturday, not Sunday. He supposed she could’ve been Jewish but that didn’t really make sense since there was no synagogue in town nor were there any Jewish families in Nezzlecreek that he knew of.
This nameless girl had a slight unease about her that suggested whatever, or whoever, she was waiting for wasn’t on time and that fact was making her antsy; not to mention there was this strange boy sitting on the bench she’d like to be sitting on.
Randall very much liked the blue floral pattern on this girl’s dress. It matched her pretty blue eyes. It reminded him of water. He liked water. Water made him think of fishing.
He watched her pace from side to side along the curb. He watched her on and off for about ten straight minutes. Not for any particular reason other than she was something interesting to look at for the time. He didn’t mean nothing by it, she just looked kind of familiar though Randall couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He thought he’d seen her around school but he knew all the girls who were in his class. This was going to bug him.
Finally as she was pacing about, it came to him! Randall realized who she was. If he was correct, her name was Sierra Duffy. She was the little sister of Greg and Wyatt Duffy. He used to play football and stick ball with those boys some years ago. Randall would’ve been eight years old at that time. Sierra was probably six then. She was a Tomboy and would try to play with the older boys. She was actually pretty good for a six year old, as Randall remembered. Shoot, the Duffy boys must’ve been thirteen and fourteen at that time. Those boys were wild and used to beat the hell out of each other. Randall remembered, one afternoon, getting tackled really hard by Greg who was the eldest and more athletic of the Duffy brothers. Randall limped for two weeks after that trying his best to hide it from his daddy, fearing that (as per town tradition) he’d make him go back over there and settle the score with the fourteen year old Duffy boy. He only played with them because he didn’t have any other friends at that time and his dad was doing some business with Mr. Duffy. That was years ago now and he hadn’t talked to the Duffy boys since he was ten years old. He’d be surprised if Sierra even remembered him at all. He figured he wouldn’t bother with it. He didn’t feel like telling the story to rejog Sierra’s memory. 
While Sierra paced along the curb, she noticed from her peripheral that Randall was still watching her. This understandably bugged her. She hadn’t remembered who he was, so to her, he was just some guy staring at her.
“Hey!” Sierra said, turning to Randall. “Why’re you staring at me for?”
“I don’t know.” He answered.
“Well take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
“I ain’t got no camera.”
“Real funny.” Sierra scoffed. She went back to pacing. Randall continued to follow her with his eyes. 
Sierra tried to pretend like he wasn’t bugging her anymore but he definitely was. “You got a problem or something?” She asked plainly.
“No. Just looking.” He said very matter of fact.
“What for?”
“For one, you’re holding a picnic basket at ten thirty in the morning, so that's weird.”
“You never heard of brunch? And last time I checked, carrying a picnic basket at ten thirty A.M. ain’t a crime, officer.” She fired back.
“I ain’t no cop, these is just my observations. No crime here, darling.”
“Well I’d appreciate it if you didn’t keep looking at me. Ain’t your momma ever teach you it’s rude to stare.”
“My momma’s dead.” He said dryly.
“Oh.” Sierra was embarrassed. “Sorry about your mom.”
“It’s all right, I ain’t know her too well.”
“Well…” She thought. “Regardless, I shouldn’t’ve said what I said.”
There was a pause briefly as the dust settled from Sierra’s last comment.
Sierra finally spoke up again. “I just don’t see why you have to keep on staring at me is all.”
Randall considered her comment, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t see what the big deal is that I look at you? You’re in front of me after all. Unless you’re suggesting that I go out of my way to not look at you? Even though I was just minutes ago, minding my own business before you got here?”
“I’m just wondering what your reason is is all.” 
“Why has there gotta be some… reason?” 
“Of course there’s a reason.” She insisted. 
“Not to get too philosophical with you miss, but there ain’t always got to be a reason?”
“That’s why guys stare at girls. Cause of some reason.”
“And what is that reason exactly?” He pressured.
“Oh, don’t be so dense.” Sierra said, rolling her eyes.
Randall gave her a look like he didn’t have a clue what she could be referring to.
“Oh come on, what were you born yesterday or something? They look at ‘em cause… well… you know… like, that they like em or wanna talk to em or something.”
“Well that’s dumb.”
“No, you’re dumb.” She furrowed her brow.
“How do ya figure?” Randall asked.
“You’re sitting there acting like I’m crazy to be reading into why a strange fella might be looking at me.”
“Well, to use your same line of reasoning, I was looking at that fire hydrant just moments after you got here and you didn’t accuse me of liking it.”
“Because people staring at fire hydrants don’t mean nothing.” She said.
“I figure a statement like that is rude to fire hydrants. Fire hydrants need love too.” He said, being coy now.
“Well then why don’t you stop staring at me, and go kiss that fire hydrant you love so much?” She pointed across the street.
“I don’t feel any kind of way about that fire hydrant, and so it would be dag gone foolish for me to go up and kiss that fire hydrant.”
“Well then why the heck you even bring it up for then?” She had forgotten even what her point was.
“Because the fire hydrant was right there when I was looking over there and now I’m looking over here where you just happen to be standing. See, if I liked you in that way that you’re accusing me of liking that fire hydrant, I wouldn’t just stare at ya, I’d say something to ya.”
Sierra let out a scoff of frustration and decided she’d try again at ignoring him, not really responding to his last remark. She continued to pace around looking at her phone, and then down at her basket. After a while, she set the basket down on the curb. She also stopped pacing. She stared down at her feet for a bit like she was thinking about something deep or introspective. Randall noticed she wore these nice little white tennis shoes with a blue trim that were really complimentary to her dress. After some time staring at her feet, Sierra found a seat on the curb next to her basket.
“So what’s with the picnic basket?” Randall asked.
Sierra let out a frustrated ugggh! foolishly believing that maybe, just maybe, their conversation was over. “Why do you keep talking to me for?”
“Cuz now I’m interested.” Randall smiled. “You’re walking around, with that little picnic basket and your blue dress, talking at me all loud, making a ruckus. What can I say, it’s entertaining. And I ain’t got much else to do today.”
“Oh, I’m entertaining?” She got back up to her feet and snatched her basket off the curb. “Is that it, I’m here to entertain you, sir? Why don’t you just admit that you’re a crazy person so I can scream for the authorities and we can just get it over with, ya creep.”
“I ain’t no creep! You’re the creep. I was sitting here, looking around, and then you start yelling at me, being all unfriendly like a crazy person.”
“False. Everyone who knows me knows that I’m a very friendly person who loves animals and so for me to be upset like this is clearly your doing.”
“Miss, may I remind you that you are the one who started talking to me. I was just sitting here minding my own business.”
“I only started talking to you because you were staring at me.”
“All right, fine, have it your way.” Randall turned around to face the soda shop which put him in a very awkward position sitting with his back facing Sierra. It wasn’t about comfort but to prove a point.
Sierra looked at Randall and couldn’t help but feel a little bad for this fool sitting backwards on a bench staring at an empty soda shop that wouldn’t be open for a few more hours.
“I’m meeting someone.” Sierra finally said after some silence.
“What?” Randall was confused as if he’d forgotten they were having a conversation at all.
“You asked me what I was doing here with this basket. Well, I’m meeting someone.”
Randall turned back around to face Sierra.
“You having a picnic or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Is he late? You been waiting for a little bit now.”
“I don’t know.” Sierra answered shyly like a timid school girl.
“Or did he stand you up?”
“Shut up.” She snapped back into the firecracker she was.
“All right, fair enough.”
“He didn’t stand me up, all right. I think he probably just got held up.”
“Maybe.” Randall wasn’t convinced.
“Oh what the hell is that supposed to mean? Maybe.”
“It means, maybe.”
There was this pause between the two for a moment after Randall said that. The moment was soft. Like a certain realization had come into soft focus that the two were now talking about something fragile in nature.
“This guy you’re meeting, is he your boyfriend?” Randall asked.
“No.” She answered sharply. “Not at this rate anyways.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I have to see about something first.”
“See about what?”
Sierra paused for a moment. She seemed kind of embarrassed with the whole thing now.
“I was gonna ask him to open this pickle jar for me.” She pulled a glass pickle jar out of her picnic basket to show Randall.
“A pickle jar?”
“See, I knew you wouldn’t understand.” She defensively put the jar back into her basket.
“And so y’all are just gonna eat pickles on this date? I hope you brought some floss and mouthwash in that basket too.” Randall chuckled at his comment.
“As a matter of fact, I got a couple of knuckle sandwiches in this basket if you keep it up.” Sierra balled up her fist.
“Hey I don’t want no trouble. I just think pickles are a hell of a thing to eat on a date.”
“We’re not eating just pickles, dufus! I’m gonna make us sandwiches. Sandwiches that include pickles. Who just eats pickles?”
“I like pickles.”
“Well, so do I… just not on date anyways, which ain’t even what this is.”
“It’s not a date?”
“Well…” She thought. “Maybe it is. I mean, when I asked him out–”
“Wait. You asked him out?”
“No. It was… mutual. Well… he DM’d me about going to his game tonight and I said maybe if I had time. And then I asked him to meet me before lunch to walk around and talk maybe… see if he’ll open this pickle jar for me. I don’t know, it’s complicated.”
“Sounds complicated.” 
“I don’t have to explain nothing to you.”
“All right, fine. Don’t.” Randall dropped it.
The two went back to ignoring each other for a minute or so before the silence became too much again.
“Not that I owe you an explanation or anything…” Sierra began. “It's a tradition.” 
“A tradition?”
“Yes, a tradition, jeez, what are you deaf?”
“Naw I’m hearing you clearly. Just don’t understand is all. I don’t think I’ve heard of a pickle jar opening tradition in this town.”
“Well there is. It’s about the guy opening the jar for the girl so she ain’t gotta stress herself none. It’s chivalrous. And then the girl uses the pickles, along with anything else, to make a sandwich for the two of them to share. And then the two live happily ever after eating sandwiches to their heart's content… or something like that. That’s the way my momma used to tell that story. My daddy opened pickle jars for her on their first date, and his daddy did the same before him. Ain’t your daddy ever do that,” Her tone softened. “…you know… for your momma?”
Randall wasn’t offended in the slightest to talk about his dead mother but he could appreciate Sierra’s discomfort to bring it up. It revealed a soft tenderness about her that he quite liked. He was starting to remember why he liked going over to the Duffy house so much to get pummeled by those boys. 
“I don’t know what my daddy did.” Randall said to her. “He don’t really talk about her much or how they met or nothing like that.”
“Oh…” She didn’t know what else to say. “Well… it’s a tradition of the town as far as I know. My momma used to tell me that it was. She’d say don’t let no boy kiss you if he ain’t got enough home training to open a jar for ya first.
Randall considered her statement. He mostly agreed. “I used to open olive jars and medicine bottles for my nana when I was little. She’d always let me do it cause she had bad wrists and said I had a knack for it.”
“That’s nice.”
“You know,” Randall started in again. “You ain’t gotta stand all out by the curb. This bench is plenty big for the both of us.”
“I’m fine.”
“You must be a little tired now, from all that pacing. Come sit down.”
“I said I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Is it because I’m sitting here?”
“No. I just don’t wanna get too comfortable and then suddenly have to split.”
“For the date?”
“Right.”
“Well, I figure it’s about time for me to split anyways. The bench is all yours if you want it, or just continue standing by the curb. I hope your pickle jar gets opened or whatever.” Randall stood up and started down the block.
“Hey! Don’t leave on my account.” Sierra shouted to Randall, who was about half way down the block now. He wasn’t ignoring her but he definitely was mostly done with this conversation.
She caught up with him down the block. “Hey!” Sierra said, grabbing Randall by the arm.
“What? What did I do now?”
“Is that it? You get me all riled up and then just go on about your day?”
“I didn’t mean to get you all riled up. I was just minding my own business like I told you.”
“Yeah right! You gimme this whole spiel and now you’re just gonna wander off into the sunset. Not even tell me your name or nothing. Well, that seems just rude.”
“I didn’t mean nothing by it. My name is Randall.”
“Well it’s nice to meet you Randall. I’m Sierra.” She nervously smiled at him.
As they stared at each other for a second, a tan 1986 Mercedes convertible pulled up next to them.
“Hey little mama, you look a little lost.” The driver of this car said obnoxiously with his big jock head and shovel chin.
“Oh, hey.” Sierra said. This was her date.
Randall immediately recognized him. Shane O’Donnell. He was an ass. He was a junior at the highschool, always wearing his varsity jacket like it was the only piece of clothing he owned. He was wearing it now. He was the typical arrogant charming jock type.
“Sorry I’m late. I just forgot.” He said without a shred of remorse or empathy.
“That’s okay.” Sierra said, sadly. Randall wasn’t sure what to say but he hated this situation so far.
“Who’s this?” He asked, looking at Randall. “Oh wait a minute, you’re one of the freshmen players aren’t ya? The punter?”
“I don’t play football.” Randall said.
“Waterboy?” Shane tried again.
“Nope.” Randall was very irritated.
“Oh… well, whatever. Nice to meet ya anyways.” Shane looked back at Sierra. “Well come on. Get in.” He motioned to the passenger seat with his head. “What’s with the basket?”
“Oh… well… I thought maybe we could go on a picnic? Remember. I messaged you about going on a walk for a bit?”
“Oh yeah… I forgot about that too. Naw I don’t wanna do that. Picnics are for gay dudes. I was thinking we’d go for a ride. Ya know?” He said smiling. “Come on, I know a spot we can go just outside of town. We can be alone for a little bit. You know… talk.”
Sierra was conflicted. She nervously looked at Randall and then back at Shane, and then finally down at her feet before she spoke. “But Shane, don’t you think it would be kind of nice to have a picnic date?”
“Not really. Seems kind of boring. Wait? Date?” Shane had to fight bursting into laughter. “Did you think this was a date?”
Randall looked over at a dejected Sierra. Shane’s words were a harpoon into her chest and they crumpled this little girl. Randall noticed tears forming around her eyes though she was trying her best to fight ‘em. He looked back at Shane.
“I have to go!” Sierra said, running off down the alleyway between the soda shop and the barber shop.
“What was that all about?” Shane honestly asked. “Weird. Must be that time of the month. Women, am I right?” He extended a fist hoping Randall would connect the bump. 
He left Shane hanging.
“You a fan of sandwiches, Shane?”
The question confused him. “Uh… sure.”
“I got one for you.”
“What…?”
WHAM!
Before Shane could really even form a thought, Randall socked him right in the face and knocked him clean out cold. Shane laid there sprawled over the center console with his foot sticking out of the driver side window.
“We call that one a knuckle sandwich. Hold the pickles.” Randall said.
The sucker punch had dropped Shane like a sack of potatoes and he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. Randall went after Sierra.
He caught up with her at the end of the alley. She was leaned up against the building crying.
“Hey, you all right?” Randall asked, sharply.
“Yeah I’m gonna be all right!” She said with a quiver in her voice that she was trying to hide. “I was a fool is all.”
“What makes you say a thing like that?”
“You saw! I was a total idiot back there. Of course he wouldn’t want to go on a picnic. What kind of stupid idea is that anyways? My momma was wrong.” She said, wiping tears from her eyes.
Randall gently brushed her shoulder to console her. Sierra had tears really streaming from her eyes now.
“Your momma ain’t wrong. Shane ain’t nothin’ but a shovel chin chump who ain’t got no home training.”
“It’s whatever. It happens. I should probably just go home.”
“Hold on.” Randall stopped her once again. “Now listen, if you want my opinion, Shane is a damn fool.” As he said this, Sierra looked up at him softly. “If it were me,” he continued. “I would gladly open your pickle jar. And not just pickle jars either. Whatever jars you got. Honest.” 
“You mean that?”
“Shit yeah I do.”
Sierra reached into her picnic basket and pulled out her unopened pickle jar. She held it out in front of Randall.
“You want me to do it right now?”
“Yeah. Unless you’re gonna go back on your word?”
“Hell no I ain’t. Gimme that damn thing!” Randall snatched the jar from her and with no trouble at all popped that lid off.
She gave him a big smile. He smiled back at her.
“Wow.” Sierra said, wiping her tears letting that bright little smile shine through. “You made it look easy. I been trying to get that damn jar open for a week.” She chuckled, continuing to wipe off her face.
“I told you I had a knack for it.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well come on.” Sierra suddenly turned to sprint back down the alley towards the direction of the soda shop where they met initially.
Randall only hesitated for a moment before following her lead. He had to run carefully so as to not spill the open jar of pickles he was now carrying. He passed the tan Mercedes. Shane was still knocked out cold in the car with blood running down his nose.
Sierra was a quick little thing, so by the time he made it to the bench in front of the soda shop he noticed she was already across the street, sitting in the middle of the grassy field on top of her picnic blanket with her basket beside her. She was preparing a sandwich for them to share.
He hurried to join her on the blanket.
“That’s a mighty good looking sandwich, Miss.” He said smiling, slightly out of breath.
“Well it’s just missing one thing.” She reached over into the pickle jar Randall was holding and pulled a fresh, crisp pickle out. She carefully sliced the pickle into rounds and placed the slices on the mostly completed sandwich.
Sierra reached into her basket and pulled out a jar of mayo. She tried to get it open but couldn’t. The damn thing was air tight.
Randall reached over and grabbed the mayo jar from her and, in a blink, popped that lid open as well.
“What a gentleman.” She said, smiling. Randall lightly kissed her on the cheek. They both blushed.

A Child's Christmas in Wales

by Dylan Thomas

One Christmas was so much like the other, in those years around the sea-town corner now, out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve, or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
All the Christmases roll down towards the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.
It was on the afternoon of the day of Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, although there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slide and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes.
The wise cats never appeared. We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows—eternal, ever since Wednesday—that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or, if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar cat. But soon the voice grew louder. "Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.
And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, towards the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.
Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and smacking at the smoke with a slipper.
"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong. "They won't be here," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said.
And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke—I think we missed Mr. Prothero—and ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said.
"And the ambulance."
"And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."
But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said: "Would you like anything to read?"
Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."
"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from whitewash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunderstorm of white, torn Christmas cards."
"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells that the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our fence."
"Get back to the postmen."
"They were just ordinary postmen, fond of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's hump, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone."
"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles's pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why."
"Go on to the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by a mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any color I please, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknel, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons."
"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas mornings, with dog-disturbing whistle and sugar fags, I would scour the swathed town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the Post Office or the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and women wading, scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddled their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edges of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers."
Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two curling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.
I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheek bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Aunt Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, then when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.
Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge deep footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there've been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"
Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow towards us as we passed Mr. Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snowball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"
The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills, and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly; and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year.
Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs where the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house.
"What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three."
One, two, three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark door.
Good King Wencelas looked out
On the Feast of Stephen...And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small, dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.
Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steadily falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

 
The Emerald Stone

By T.M. Williams

Once upon a time, in the land of Batshua, two brothers became kings. They split Batshua in half calling one the Kingdom of Bat and the other the Kingdom of Shua. At first, they lived in harmony, swearing to rule in the same manner, with the same rules and the same celebrations, but the King of Bat became jealous of the King of Shua. For you see, the subjects of Bat hated him and the people of Shua loved his brother.
One night he snuck into Shua, and found that his brother had only one thing he didn’t, an emerald stone perched in the middle of his throne chair. He watched as subjects approached his brother seeking advice or justice and the stone would shine wisdom upon the issue and provide answer. The king of Bat felt betrayed. This was a violation of their treaty.
Upon his return to Bat, he sent an assassin to kill his brother and bring the stone. Once done, with emerald in hand, the king was not satisfied. He felt an overwhelming sadness for the loss of his brother. With emerald perched in throne, he became angrier and more envious of anyone and everyone. He suspected that all would betray him as his brother once did.
One night he hosted a dinner and upon hearing voices in his head, the emerald stone shone, and he was inspired to murder them all. Swinging and slashing, he did as the stone commanded. And when he gazed at the dead bodies strewn across the floor of his throne room, he realized the wickedness of his heart. The stone did not make him a better king, it only amplified his anger, his jealousy, his rage. With that, he made the order to take the stone to the far reaches of the land and to hide it in the Oak Tree of Truth where no one could find it.
Once the emerald was out of reach, he was ashamed for his evil doings and hid himself. The old king was never to be seen again.
***
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Pixie, Fae, Wood Nymph and Dwarfed Dragon teenagers chanted and formed a ring around their classmates.
The sides of Shimmer’s newly shaved head burned in the sun as she waited for her opponent to strike. Dull’s hands hurt from squeezing his fists so tightly.
“Come on!” Someone screamed, “Somebody hit somebody!”
Dull spat. Shimmer forced a memory and scowled. They opened their wings and charged towards one another. Tumbling in the air and smashing a school window.
***
Shimmer and Dull jumped as two folders slammed the desk in front of them.
“Shimmer Shine and Dull Dolingworth.”
Principal Grounding was a Fae who had managed the Mythic Private School for what seemed like ages. His office was made of old library wood and rounded portal windows that quite literally led anywhere. Once you used the right spell, of course. A tree stemmed its branches between his desk and the wall. It made perfect shelving for his library. He leaned forward and clasped his hands.
“Aren’t you two tired of being in here?”
“It’s his fault.” Shimmer spat out.
“What?! You called me a liar!”
“You are a liar.”
“Am not!”
“Yes, you are!”
“Am --”
Grounding held his palm out indefinitely as if it held some invisible magic that would stop them from fighting. “And what exactly is this lie that you didn’t tell?”
“I don’t know Principal Grounding. Why don’t you ask Skimmer Skine here?”
“My name is Shimmer!”
“Skimmer.”
“Shim-mer!”
The children jumped and grabbed one another when the door behind them flung open and hit a wooden wall. Once they realized what they had done, they pulled away immediately.
Shimmer’s parents stood at the door in green and gold tunics, common to Pixie Royalty. Her mother stepped in. “Shimmer Sirius A Helios Shine.” Her father closed the door behind them. “Fighting like a common goblin thief.”
“Do you think this is appropriate behaviour for the next Queen of the Pixies?” Her father chimed in before turning to Mr. Grounding, “Oh, Principal Grounding,” He shook his hand, “I would like to apologize on behalf of the Queen for her daughter’s behaviour. This is certainly uncomely conduct for a princess. Thank you so much. We will take it from here.” He then turned to Shimmer, whose mother was still at the door. “Shimmer let’s go. Your mother is very upset.”
Shimmer stood.
 “Now hold on just a minute here.” They turned and the Principal was also standing, tall. Not as tall as an elf, but tall enough to make a point of it. “This is still my school and Shimmer is still my student. Princess or not, she has violated one of our school rules and I wish to see her reprimanded for it.”
“Mr. Grounding, you don’t seem to understand our ru--,”
“You don’t seem to understand Mr. Shine. Detention. Detention for them both.”
“But she started it!” Dull added.
“Detention for them both.” Mr. Grounding dipped his chin towards the children and then to the parents. “When their detention is over, you can have your princess back.”
Queen Shine tilted her chin down. King Shine was about to speak when she stopped him with a hand. She glided forward.
“Mr. Grounding, I can see that you are a reasonable man of educated stock. As Shimmer has to practice for her coronation this afternoon, I’m sure you can make exception.”
The Principal leaned forward on his desk. “When their detention is over, you can have your princess back.” He pursed his lips and picked up the phone. “Hi, Mrs. Fintingshtine, can you please send Burkas and Lurkas in. What? I don’t care if their still covered in pig cheese, send them in.” He looked up and the group stared at him. “You. Are. Dismissed.” He managed to slap the folders on the desk once again and everyone jumped. Including the Queen.
As they walked out Shimmer and Dull gagged and scowled at the twins who already had flies stuck to the pink pig cheese that covered their faces and uniform.
“Shimmer.”
The young pixie looked up at her mother who held her hands elegantly in front of her. The woman waited by the detention room. Her father stood behind.
“Yes, mother?”
There was a deep sigh. Even her bending was something to be admired. She held her daughter’s shoulders and wise brown eyes met fearful ones. “You know that our whole kingdom depends on you for guidance and leadership. You can’t keep doing this.”
Shimmer pursed her lips and shook her head. “What am I doing mother? Being a child? Isn’t that what I am.”
“You are a princess. Soon to be Queen.”
A shrug begged the question, “How? I don’t have powers like you. Like father? Or any one of my sisters. Why should I be Queen?”
“Because you are the oldest.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s it.” A frank honesty would have been crude but for a gentle tone that softened the blow. Still, it could not smooth the roughness of the following response.
“What if I don’t want it?”
Her mother leaned back, “Excuse me?”
“What if I don’t want to be Queen?”
Queen Shine stood and brushed her tunic. “You will be Queen, Shimmer. The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can all move on from this childish behaviour.”
“But --,”
“We will discuss this after your detention.”
A forced sighed and pressed lips and Shimmer entered the detention room.
“Ughhhhhh, my parentsss!” She plopped herself down on a chair.
“At least your parents showed up.”
Shimmer pursed her lips and looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. I overheard the Queen. I don’t know what’s worse, absent parents or overbearing ones.” He crossed his legs on top of the desk and leaned back with clasped hands behind neck. “You know, I heard that there is a witch that lives in the forest who can cast real magic.”
“A witch? A real human witch?” Shimmer’s eyes widened.
“Mhmmm.”
“How can she do real magic? Surely, she needs a conduit of sorts.”
“Oh, she has many things. Things that can help human witches and wizards. AND things that can help magical creatures as well.”
Shimmer folded her arms and squinted at him, “How deep in the forest is she?”
“Very deep.” He polished his nails on his uniform lapel. His fingertips a bait for feigned attention, “But only I know how to get to her cottage.”
“Pshaw! You don’t know Jack from Jill.”
Feet stomped wide on the ground, “I do know exactly where she is!”
Shimmer gave a side eye.
“I do! I can show you.”
“Alright.”
Dull leaned back in quiet surprise.
“I’ll let you show me. After coronation practice, meet me on the Triad Bridge.”
He smiled and nodded in agreement. Principal Grounding walked in.
“I will not fight. One hundred lines. Begin.”
Shimmer and Dull unearthed feathers from below the desk and wrote in the air. Words of light were formed and disappeared with a period point. “One.” They said together and continued in their lines.
***
Three lands separated by two rivers flowing into a third. And connecting all three was the Triad Bridge. Here Dull waited, with hooded robe clouding his face, peering at the flying salmon swimming upstream to find a safe place to lay their eggs. He counted them. One, two, three. Running to the other side to count the same as they made it. One. Two. A patient waiting for the third turned into an eager tilted over the bridge.
“What are you doing?”
Dull climbed down, “You’re late.”
Shimmer pulled her hood down, “My mother insisted on giving me a lecture about Queenly behaviour.” Rolled eyes spoke volumes. “So… where is this witch?”
“Well,” Dull pointed towards the thicket behind them where a narrow dark path opened between trees, “it’s quite simple really. We just have to go through the Crying Willows, around the Bog Foot Swamp and down the Hills of No Return and we’ll be right there.”
“Simple?”
Dull chuckled. “It’s simple for us, because we have wings.” He floated in the air with wings quietly buzzing and Shimmer chuckled and joined him. “But first, we have to get off this bridge.”
No sooner had he said that a voice boomed from under the bridge with an accompanying hand gripping the ledge. “I don’t think anyone will be getting off this bridge today.” A troll, about human height pulled itself up and squatted on the wall. Its brown loin cloth covered all the necessary parts as it hunched down on one palm. One arm hung behind him.
Shimmer and Dull pulled tiny thin swords out from their robes as they flew back from the troll. Shimmer laughed.
“It’s such a tiny ugly thing.”
Dull gave an awkward giggle as he now understood what happened to the third fish. “Come on Shimmer, let’s just go.”
“I did not give you permission to leave.” Grunted the troll.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t listen to him Shimmer. There’s nothing he can do. Let’s go.” He pulled on her arm.
“The other one is smart says he. You should leave. Cowards leave.”
The force of her arm pull propelled the princess towards the troll. “Now listen here you ragged old troll!”
“Ohhh… it has fight says she. A tasty one, she will make.” And with that, he swung his arm around and captured Shimmer in a jar with a flopping fish.
“No!” Dull exclaimed as he flew towards the troll who giggled and fell backwards. He eagerly followed and found himself flying into a portal.
On the other side, tumbles and rolls pulled dry sand into his mouth and scratched the side of his face as he slid to a halt. Blurred vision clarified to the troll hopping away. Rocking side to side from one bent knee to the next. Laughing and giggling to himself.
“Got me a pixie, I have! Has lots of fight says she! Delicious meal she’ll make says meeeee!” Like a wood nymph baby on a swing, he squealed with glee. 
Though his whole body ached, Dull managed to pull himself up by the wings. Holding his head, he followed the giggles and wee’s to a domed sand hut.
A missing window slat revealed a cleaver, wedged into a wooden cutting board and the troll, already with apron on, stirring a pot of boiling something. “Just for flavour says the head. The rest good is good to eat.” Pots and pans were strewn across the kitchen. Hanging from wooden beams. Sitting on counter tops. A dirty leaning tower in the sink. More sitting on the floor.
Dull glanced at the jar on the countertop. At sight of him, Shimmer waved her whole-body side to side while jumping up and down. The fish slumped down behind her, tail flipping weakly.
In erratic joy, she pointed to the cleaver.
No. There’s no way. First of all, he had to lift the thing. And swipe at the troll? No. Not doing it.
Shimmer stomped her foot at his blatant rejection. With a scrunched face, she hunched her shoulders and pointed at the cleaver with purpose. A rolled eye at Dull’s head shaking accompanied an aggressive arm fold. Squaring up the side of the jar, she stepped back and threw herself into it.
Dull raised a brow. What was she doing?
She threw herself in once more and the jar leaned to one side.
He tilted his head at her. What was she doing?
Back and forth. Back and forth. The jar rocked from one side to the next.
Oh dear.
It finally tipped over to the side, the lid, askew. The opening was not big enough for Shimmer, but she was encouraged to push at it.
Dull widened his eyes at the scene that caught the attention of the bridge troll.
“Troll knocked the jar in excitement says he.” He reached for the jar and Dull flew in and stabbed his hand with his sword. “Ohhhh! Ohhhhhhhhh! Woe is me says me! The pix has sword says he! The pix has stabbed says he!” The troll twirled and twirled around its kitchen, knocking pans over. Stepping into two pots on the floor. Stomping around, clang clang clanging. “My hand says me! My hand says me!”
Dull got to helping Shimmer with the lid and together, they pulled it off. Shimmer pulled on the fish.
“What are you doing?!”
“We’ve got to save the fish!”
“Oh! Come! On! You can’t be serious!”
She pulled on its tail and a fin moved. “Are you going to help or not?”
“Pull out pix sword says he!” The troll turned to the pixies with the tiny sword in his fingers. “Eat two pix for dinner says me!” he growled.
Dull sighed heavily. “By the gift of pixie call, I thereby make you hand-sized small. Just so that you may live, a ball of water, I give!”
The fish shrunk into a ball of water in Shimmer’s hand. It swam around and flipped and flopped at its rescue. She looked down at it with a wide smile. “Neat!”
“Now come on Shimmer!”
A tug pulled the two out of grasp’s way, through the window and back through the portal.
“Close for two weeks says I, when reopen above cliffs too high.” With that, the portal closed.
“Geez, that was close.”
Dull turned to Shimmer who held the fish in a water bubble as she hovered over the bridge. A picture altogether infuriating. “Close?! You nearly died! I nearly died!”
She lifted the bubble, “And the fish nearly died too.” She peeked in at the salmon that swam back and forth, swinging its tail happily.
“I lost my sword!”
“Good thing I still have mine.” She said calmly and whilst holding the bubble over the river, popped it and the salmon which came to full size shouted ‘thank you’ on its way down.
“You selfish… arrrghhhh. You know what? Forget it! I’m not taking you to the witch!”
“What? Wait!” She followed him. “Wait. I’m sorry.”
“Do you even know what you’re sorry for?”
She shrugged, “I’m sorry that we took so long to get out of the troll hut?”
Her feigned smile was even more infuriating and Dull shook his head. “You just don’t get it.” He waved her off and walked away.
“Wait… I can’t say what I’m sorry for, but I can say that I’m happy you were there.” Even though she spoke to the back of his head, she continued, “I can’t do this without you. That much I do know.”
Dull’s shoulders dropped. There was a pause and then he said, “If we’re going to do this, you have to follow my lead.”
“Agreed.”
He turned to her with a wagging finger. “I can’t afford to have anything happen.”
“Yes. Agreed.”
“My parents may be absent, but they need me.”
“I understand.”
His hands went akimbo. “Do you?”
“I do.” She patted both her shoulders, “Pixie promise.”
He sighed deeply, “Alright. Well, it’s almost dark. We’ll have to camp out just before the Bog Foot Swamp and then we can head out to the Witch’s cottage.”
“Sounds good!”
The trip through the Crying Willows was simple and quiet. Shimmer followed Dull’s prompts, and though he was still nervous that she might do something erratic should opportunity arise, he was encouraged by her restraint. They sat by a fire he made using a pixie spell.
“I think it’s cool that you can do that.”
“Cool? Everyone can do magic.” He regretted it as soon as he said it.
“Not me.”
“Yeah. Sorry. How long has it been since you couldn’t do magic?”
“My whole life.”
“Really? Like you weren’t born with it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s odd.”
“I know.”
He stoked the fire. “So, what’s this thing between you and your mother?”
“Oh, well, since I don’t have magic, I don’t think I should be Queen. She thinks it doesn’t matter.” Shimmer laid back on a leaf hammock and bit into a stone fruit. Her cheek making a bulb with pulp pushed to the side. “I mean… what kind of Queen has no magic.” She chewed.
“I mean, I get it, but your Mom has been Queen for a long time. Shouldn’t you just trust her judgment?”
“I could… or I could just find my own magic and earn the title.”
Dull scoffed.
“What was that for?”
He poked at the wood again and the fire grew. “I just think that you like the hard way.”
“Excuse me?”
He leaned back into his leaf hammock. “I think that you prefer a reward that you have to suffer for.”
“What?”
He sat up, “Why did you accuse me of lying?”
“Because you did.”
“And what did I lie about?”
“Nevermind.”
“No, tell me.”
“You told Mr. Salamander that you did all the work on the assignment.”
“But I did.”
“I helped!”
“How?”
Shimmer gave a side glance. “I helped.”
“There’s a difference between showing up and doing the work. The sooner you learn that the sooner you’ll be a better leader. Magic or not.” And with that, Dull went to sleep.
When he woke, Shimmer was gone, and a note was left in her place. Written in charcoal on a wide leaf, “Gone to the witch. No need to do the work for me.”
“Uuuuuggghhhhh, Shimmerrr!!!” And thus, he went, scouring the bog foot swamp. Shouting her name.
“Shimmer!” Over the marsh pit.
“Shimmer!” Pass the Rocks of Despair.
“Shimmer!” Into the Hills of No Return.
“Shimmer!”
“Dull?” the voice was muffled. “Dull, is that you?”
He landed beside a boulder.
“Dull?”
“Shimmer?”
“Oh, am I glad to hear your voice.”
“What are you doing inside a boulder?”
“I took a wrong turn.”
“You did what?”
“I was at a fork in the road, and I took a wrong turn. And now, I’m in a boulder.”
“Literally stuck between a rock and a hard place.” Dull chuckled.
“Now’s not the time Dull.”
“Sorry.”
“Do you know how to get me out?”
“Mmmm, let me try magic.” He stepped back and extended his arms, “Thus I shout, let shimmer out!”
“Did it work?”
“Are you still in the boulder?”
A heavy sigh came from the other side. “Okay, I have an idea. You’re on the path, right? I’m assuming you’re nodding your head. Okay, here’s the plan. You knock on the boulders, and I’ll follow your knocks until I get to another intersection.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Why?”
“There are squealers out here. If we wake them, we won’t make it to the other side.”
“One thing at a time Dull! Just start knocking!”
Dull conceded and knocked on a rock beside the boulder, “Did you hear that?”
“Yes, keep knocking!”
Encouraged, he knocked on the next boulder and so he went until they got to a tree.
“Shimmer, I’ve run out of boulders.” When there was no answer, Dull leaned into the rock, “Shimmer?” Still no answer and he leaned his forehead in, shaking it, “I’m so sorry. I’ve let you down. I know I said it was a bad idea at first. But it was a good idea. You always have good ideas. I’m sorry I said you didn’t help with that assignment. You did. More than I gave you credit for. The whole thing was your idea. I just followed through. That’s what we do. You have the ideas and I follow through.” He touched the boulder, “I’m so sorry I never got to tell you that.”
“Well, I forgive you.”
Dull whipped around and there was Shimmer with a wide smile on her face and behind her, a group of squealers, standing by the tree with spears in hand.
“Don’t move.”
“What? I said I forgive you. There’s no need to be dramatic.” Rolled eyes accompanied waved hands.
Wide eyed and frozen. “I said… don’t move.”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“Squealers.”
Shimmer whipped around, “Wha--.” Everything happened all at once. A high-pitched squealing in chorus. Dull grabbing her by the arm. A spear flying by, nicking an ear. Running by trees and through vines.
“They look like wood nymphs,” Over a bridge, “Why are they chasing us?”
“They are cousins to the nymphs.” They ducked a branch and flew through bushes, “Only slightly less delightful.”
“What do you mean? What do they want?”
“Squealers are cannibalistic!”
Through a canopy of trees.
“What?!”
Another spear flew by, and they quickened their flight.
“They want to eat us!”
An ‘oh’ fueled a boost over a meandering river.
“There! I see it! The Witch’s cottage!”
In full propulsion, the two crashed into the door of a house shaped like a cauldron. Round with a thatched roof lid tipped with a chimney. Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Please let us in!”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Please! The squealers are after us!”
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. The door flew open and the two tumbled in.
***
An old woman stood at the door staring at the Squealers who stood behind an invisible line. She stared at them, slowly closing the door. Hands held in front of apron; she looked down at the two pixies who groaned on her floor. “Can I help you?” Her voice was smooth. Calm. Gentle.
“Are you the witch with magical things?”
Walking over to a rocking armchair she sat and resumed knitting, “I’m going to need you to be more specific than that. There are many magical things here.”
Shimmer sat up and looked around. Gems. Broomsticks. Wands. Jars of cinnamon, sage and rosemary lined a shelf. Just below it, larger jars with eyeballs, tails, dragon scales, and tongues. An empty cage swung from the top of the roof and eucalyptus branches hanging upside down filled the cauldron cottage with scents of mint, lemon, and honey.
She pushed Dull who was still holding his head. He looked up and stood right away. “You are the witch we’ve been looking for.”
“Have you?”
Shimmer stood beside him and dusted off her robe. “Yes, we… er I, was told you would have something for pixies who don’t have magic?”
The woman looked over spectacles that sat on a ski ramp nose. Her face, gaunt with high cheek bones. Her eyes sunk in hollow pits and her hair, dark, long and silky, parted in the middle. “There is no such thing.”
Shimmer waved her hand. “Hi. It’s me. I’m Shimmer. I’m a pixie and I don’t have magic.”
The woman pushed needle and yarn into a basket and stood. She glided over to Shimmer and examined her hands. “By the forest fairies, it’s true.”
She wandered over to a shelf and cupped her hands around an ornately decorated wooden chest. She motioned them to her table and sat across from them. Carefully lifting the lid, her eyes sparkled in green.  Turning the chest to the two young pixies who craned their necks to see the famed jewel. It radiated in their eyes which widened in awe.
“This is from the forest at the end of the world. Found in the great Oak Tree of Truth. It was guarded by Troll portals. You would be lucky to have it. It is very powerful.”
“Would it give me magic?”
“Go on… take it.” She urged.
Shimmer took the thing and turned it around and around in her hands. “I can feel it.” She said happily and looked up at Dull, “I can feel its magic.” Tears welled, “I have magic.”
Dull smiled.
“You can have the emerald for a price.”  The old woman said plainly.
The teenage pixies glanced at one another.
“Whatever the price, we will pay it. Shimmer is Princess and my family is also of royal lineage. We have plenty to give.”
The woman smiled. It was a homely smile that became horrid as it transformed into a malicious one as she whipped out a wand and swiped at their hands. “Well, then, it won’t be too much to take your freedom.” She sneered and shackles appeared on their wrists and feet as the woman laughed maniacally. She swiped her wand once more and they were lifted into the cage hanging from the top beam.
Shimmer dropped the stone on the cage floor and tugged at her chains. Dull whispered a spell and nothing happened. He looked up at her, panting heavily.
“They’re enchanted.”
The woman’s laughter became a wheeze and scream, “You will never remove those shackles! They are protected by the same threads that made this cottage.”
Shimmer pushed and pulled at the cage walls to no avail and flung herself back in defeat. She glanced at the stone and then at Dull. “This, is your fault.”
“Excuse me?”
“We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”
“I was only trying to help.”
“I never asked you to help!” She stood, face red and eyes wet. “You’ve always been jealous of me! This is your way of getting rid of me!” She jumped onto Dull who raised his hands in defense.
“Shimmer! Stop!”
The witch chuckled to herself as she resumed her seat in the rocking chair. Knitting with a smirk.
“This is your all your fault!”
“Shimmer! You’ve got to stop! Why are you doing this?” 
She stepped back, huffing and puffing. “I hate you! I hate that I have to be queen! I hate that I don’t have magic!” 
Dull cowered. His lip and cheek were bleeding. “Shimmer, why are you saying these things?”
“You.” She pointed at him and her eyes flared green. “You have betrayed me.” She growled. 
“What?”
The princess hunched shoulders over and her teeth began to grow into fangs as her green eyes became dark.
Dull furrowed his brow at the scene and realized something. He kicked the emerald out of the cage and in an instant, Shimmer’s face returned to normal. She blinked at him.
“What…,” She rushed over to his bleeding face, “Oh my gosh Dull, are you okay?” She swallowed, “Did I do this?” Her wet eyes, pouring tears over her cheeks, “I am so sorry.”
Dull sat up and looked at her empathetically, “It’s alright. You weren’t being yourself.”
She looked at her hands, “I was so angry. So… hurt. So hurt that I couldn’t see that I was hurting others. I am so sorry, Dull.”
“It was the emerald. I thought it would bring your magic back, but I was wrong. It only amplifies something inside of you.”
Shimmer plopped herself down, “So… it didn’t give me magic?”
He shook his head, “Shimmer, listen, you don’t need it.”
“What?”
“We didn’t get this far because of magic. Well, it helped, a little. But you rescued us by using your ideas. You don’t need magic because what you have is so much better. You are creative. You are outside of the box. I have to memorize spells to make magic. You create a way out without memorizing anything. That is greater than magic. Listen Shimmer, you don’t need magic to be a great Queen. And we don’t need magic to get out of here. We just need you to think. Think Shimmer. You can do this. We are trapped in enchanted chains that are built with the same threads as this cottage. How will we get out of here?”
Shimmer stared down at the crusty wood at the bottom of the cage. Then she looked up at the beam. She looked down again and for the first time noticed a small hearth beside the rocking armchair.
“Shimmer?”
She looked up at him with a glaze in her eyes, “We’ll burn it down. The whole thing. We’ll burn the cottage down.”
He swallowed. “Alright. Good. That’s a start. I think. How are we going to do that?”
“We just need the fire to weaken the walls of the cottage and our chains will break. Can you cast a fire spell?”
“I can definitely do that.” Dull leaned over the side of the cage and whispered to the already burning logs and their fire grew. His whispers carried embers to the thatched roof which caught on fire immediately.
“Okay, now jump with me.”
“What?”
“Jump! Dull, Jump!”
Shimmer was already jumping and Dull joined in.
The back-and-forth swinging caught the attention of the witch who stood to stare up at the two pixies in curiosity at their odd behaviour. Then her eyes widened at the scene beyond them. The fire had spread to the beam which held their cage.
“Jump harder Dull!”
“Why you little rascals!” The old woman waved her wand at the fire, and it was extinguished right away.
“Keep jumping!”
The cage swung and the beam creaked. It creaked and then it cracked. The last jump pulled the whole thing down on the woman, pulling one live ember down with them. The ember planted itself into a floorboard and seared a hole in it. Their shackles clipped open and fell on the floor. They looked at each other and smiled.
The woman under the cage moaned and they jumped up and flew out of the cottage, all the way home.
Dull flew immediately and quite literally into his parents’ arms. They were so worried about him that they repented at ever neglecting him and promised to be there for him always. Shimmer was crowned Queen, and using her vast capacity for ideas, provided wisdom to her subjects. She made a great Queen. The greatest that the Kingdom of Batshua had ever seen.

Bad Day For Rapunzel
                                         
by K. A. Williams


Roger lived in a poor kingdom whose only income was taxes squeezed out of the even poorer peasants.

But he knew how to help the kingdom.

Word was that a witch had imprisoned King Leopold's daughter in a tower and her father was offering 500 gold coins to her rescuer.

Roger searched weeks for a tower and finally found one, but there was no door.

A young maiden was brushing her hair which hung out of the only window.

If he stood on his horse he could reach the long golden strands.

"Ouch!" Rapunzel said as he climbed up her hair. "That hurts."

Roger slid into the window and pulled out his sword.

She cringed.

"Relax. I'm just going to cut enough of your hair off to make a rope.
​I'll tie it to that bedpost.

Then I'll carry you down on my back."

"Thank you. My father, King Ferdinand, will reward you.
We will be married and you shall be my prince."

"Isn't your father King Leopold?"

"No, that's Rachel. She's in a different tower.
The same witch has imprisoned us both."

Roger sheathed his sword, grabbed Rapunzel's hair and jumped out of the window.

"Ow! Wait! Why are you leaving?"

"I'm going to rescue Rachel instead. Her father is offering 500 gold coins for her return."

He reached the ground and let go of her hair.

She leaned out the window. "Don't leave me here! Don't you want to be a prince?"

Roger mounted his horse and looked up. "I'm already a prince, but I'll tell the next knight I see where you are."


The End


Previously published 2022 in View From Atlantis.

Mal Compris

By Bill Tope

 
A daughter was born one day to the king of a prosperous kingdom.
She was christened Malade.

She was a very even-tempered and pleasant girl, and a joy for her father to behold, until one day she was afflicted with a tremor about her features. A severe juddering affected her hands and face and was found by all to be quite disquieting. In fact, she could not hold a teacup without quivering so badly that the contents were spilled. The princess was the only child of the King and Queen. Malade, of course, had a plethora of tutors and so did not have to be around others her own age; that would have caused the King severe embarrassment, as well as being humiliating for the young girl herself.
One must keep up appearances, as the King well knew.
When she was six years old, Malade was given lessons in the equestrian disciplines. A young groom, older than Malade by about one year, was there, and the two young people struck up a cordial though not close relationship. This youth was called Judicieux, and he was very good at his job, and soon he was tasked with servicing all the horses that the damsel used. Judicieux was sensitive to the plight of Malade, as he was himself lame. Though she was starved for attention from children, they both recognized their proper places.
Years passed. As Malade grew into young adulthood, she was beset by the responsibilities of her position: functions of ceremony at her father's table and in the King's stead. But her malady never lessened; the juddering continued.
"Oh, judicieux," she said one day in the stables, preparing to mount her steed. "What shall I do?" I am to meet the prince from the northern kingdom. His father and the King desire that the prince and I wed and effect the joining together of our kingdoms. "What if the prince hates me?"
"He can't help but love you, Milady," said the groom with feeling.
"But my quivering," she said sorrowfully. "With all the beautiful women in our two kingdoms, why would he give me even a second glance?"
"If he has but eyes to see, Milady," he said from his heart. He then limped back into the stable.
Malade thought of Judicieux: "For a cripple, he has many beneficent qualities. He shall make some peasant girl a fine mate." And she thought nothing more of Judicieux or her dilemma, for she was astride a horse.
"Milady," said Inepta, watching as her mistress struggled with her palsied hands, "perhaps if you concentrate, if you tell yourself to be calm, you will not judder, and things will be alright."
"Thank you, Inepta," said Malade, "but in seventeen years that strategy has been to no avail.
"Yes, Milady," murmured Inepta, looking sadly at the princess.
That night, the kingdom was astir. The king would formally announce the engagement of Malade to the prince of the neighboring kingdom. Prince Stephen was rich, handsome, powerful, and heir to his kingdom. Much was made of the festivities. It was wintertime as well, and Christmas was likewise celebrated. This was everyone's favorite time of year. Sumptuous comestibles proliferated, and sparkling wine flowed like rivers. Everyone partook heartily of the rich food and libations, and at the summit of the evening, attention was focused on the prince and princess.
"Daughter," intoned the King robustly, "you have before you a prince worthy of your honor."
She looked shyly into the eyes of Prince Stephen. He returned her gaze, but his face fell.
"Great King," said he, "I cannot marry the Princess Malade."
"But," the King objected."It is all arranged."
"That may be, but I have our mutual kingdoms to consider. What will become of us if I marry the Princess and our children are born who are as deranged as she is? How would our realms function? How would our diplomats sort it out if it were thought that the royal family was addle-minded? We would surely become a laughing stock throughout the continent." The prince's words pierced like a dagger the heart of the princess.
The king took a great breath and released it wearily. He knew what the prince said was conventional wisdom. He released the prince from his betrothal.
So the Princess returned to her solitary existence, seeing no one other than her lady in waiting, Inepta, and her groom, the lowly Judicieux. She continued to relish time spent among her magnificent stable of horses. Starved for companionship, Princess Malade began conversing ever more intimately with Judicieux on any number of subjects; to her great surprise, she found that he was informed, intelligent, and wise far beyond his station in life. He rivaled the courtiers, in fact, in his canniness. She began to harbor an idea. Despite the fact that Judicieux was neither rich nor handsome, nor the heir to a great throne, she was completely smitten with him.
One day Malade approached the King and inquired, "Father, shall I never marry?" The King, surprised that the Princess would want to marry after the debacle with Prince Steven, responded to his daughter.
"Why, Malade, you will never be wed to a sovereign, as you have seen, but you may of course marry—if only for companionship. And I suppose that if you have a male child, he will inherit the throne, whether he is a juddering idiot or not."
"I have chosen my husband," she announced excitedly. The king, with little enthusiasm, asked who it would be. "I shall wed the most intelligent, thoughtful, and wisest man in all the kingdom," she told him. "I shall marry for love."
"Have you only just met him?" he inquired.
"I have known him half my life," she replied. "And the King, seeing as Mlalade was very old now—almost twenty—knew this to be a long time indeed."
"If you have made your decision, word shall go out, and a wedding will be arranged," he said, but still with scant enthusiasm. "Er... who have you chosen?" he asked.
"Judicieux, chief groom of the stables," she told him. The King swallowed any remarks he might have had.
And so a wedding was held. All the dignitaries attended, including Prince Stephen, who had since married and was beset by a harpy of a wife.  He was barely able to draw a breath, but she would criticize him for it. But she had a fertile womb, and all of her children were likewise disposed to be curmudgeons. Stephen's kingdom was almost constantly at war due to his poor diplomatic skills. The prince looked upon Malade now with admiration, for certainly she was the most beautiful bride ever to grace this or any other castle. He had simply never noticed before.
After the wedding, Judicieux, as the husband of the King's only daughter, sparked an interest in the king. Like his daughter, he was pleasantly surprised by the native intelligence, thoughtfulness, and wisdom of his son-in-law--and a cripple at that!  And as a part of the royal family, the former groom was drawn into the diplomatic order and soon became the outstanding minister in his Majesty's service. And as his abilities became well known, so too did Malade's grace, manners, and loving instinct. They had many children, but one of them--like the princess and later the queen--had tremors, but the child was treated with patience, understanding, and compassion. And showered with love. After a long reign by her parents, that child, christened Empathique, served as the greatest soverign that the kingdom ever saw!

This is a fairy tale which was originally published in “Disabled Tales” magazine.

Imbalance
by
Gerald Arthur Winter


Pithy is how she described my tongue on our first kiss. I thought she said, “Pity,”
referring to my state of mind, hesitant, noncommittal, perhaps cold, because I’d turned my
scaly neck aside, denying her access to my jagged mouth.
One doesn’t readily volunteer a kiss to what inhabitants of this condemned shire
would call, a pitiable creature of the lost genre. Most of my kind have come and gone, a
subspecies crossed off the list of acceptable donors to the cause of advancing our kind to
greater heights than subhuman mortals.
Banned for a millennium from all reproduction rituals, my kind have mutated, the best
means of survival within an impersonal realm of self-aggrandizement. The remaining scattered
few of my bloodline, like the long extinct seahorse, can now reproduce, regardless of our
chromosomal makeup.
Identified as male, purely by my girth and strength, this fair young maiden must have
been drawn to me by mere curiosity, rather than any measure of passion. Though gender is no
longer an issue in procreation, there remains within me the visual excitement when confronted
by any creature of subjective beauty, making my blood rush.
Though a tenth my size, she, which my pulse identifies her as, rather than any socially
acceptable classification, must somehow find me attractive. Though her ardent attention to my
physical presence emits a mutual scent of wanting, this shire has declined so much in morality,
that she may be answering a sorority dare, or be a participant in the final episode of a reality
show to claim her winnings by making love to, what the host and the media audience consider,
a monster.
When she wrapped her thin, bare arms around my bulky head, I didn’t offer my
tongue to her. She was the aggressor, perhaps for the prize money, by turning my face to hers
and opening her mouth wide enough to take my tongue by force.
“Pithy,” she called it, like the texture of a dried-out peach.
“Leave me be,” I begged in surrender.
“But you’re such a fascinating creature,” she said with a tone, like crystal chimes,
tingling in a soothing, subtle breeze. “I must make you mine, only mine, forever.”
“Forever is a moment too long for such a mismatched pair,” I told her.
“I offer myself to you, without reserve . . . What may I call you?”
“Gothado, but I bid you caution, sweet nymph. I’m not an herbivore like you. I’ve
just come out of hibernation with an appetite for much less succulent flesh than yours. I
could devour a buck, ten times your weight, and still want you for dessert.”
“I would be your sweet garnish for every meal, not to consume, but to savor like a
moonlit spring garden’s floral essence. Your appetite satisfied, and thirst quenched, your
guttural snoring would lull me to sleep every night, nestled in the forest of your furry chest
like a suckling babe.”
“What does such a fearless maiden call herself?”
“Call me Verity for, as my words, my love is true?”
“Love? Truth? These are words without tangibility to a shire that’s lost any way back
to the philosophies of integrity. What purpose could a union with your sort serve?”
“An example of mutual compromise for the greater good.”
“Good? We have no need of each other.”
“Don’t you need to be told you are loved and wanted, Gothado?”
The soothing vibrations of her sweet voice made my scales ripple as I inhaled her
Scent, undefinable but alluring.
“How could you love me? Why would you want me? I am a mountain, and you are a
feather. It’s better for me to filter the rain into a valley to purify the water. It’s better for you to
cling to an eagle for its swift flight and soft landings.”
“No, Gothado. You are the mountain that contains the gold of wisdom, but I can be
the miner who excavates your wisdom from the depths of your heart. With my beauty and
passion, I will raise the peak of your mountain to the greatest heights with the empathy of a
god.”
“I want to kiss you now, Verity,” I told her.
“Then do so, Gothado, with earnest.”
We embraced, Verity making me feel weightless with the taste of her passion for me,
which I returned in kind. She shuddered at my touch, despite my sharp scales and talons that
could cut through her tender flesh, but never would, as we remain, forever, in balance.

Evening Star

By Simon Ott

He didn't know why he first began to look for it.  Maybe his father or his mother had pointed it out to him once, or maybe it was a babysitter.  Maybe he'd read about it in a book somewhere.  Maybe he'd read about it many times but just hadn't noticed until one time he did.  Or maybe it was something he'd known a long time ago and then forgot, and now he had to keep remembering and keep remembering until he didn't forget anymore.  He still forgot occasionally.  Days, weeks even, might go by, then one clear night just about dusk he'd suddenly remember, and he'd run outside, or at least run to the nearest window, searching the fading sky until he had found it.  The evening star – the first evening star.


He'd heard it said or maybe he'd read somewhere that you were supposed to make a wish when you saw that star, and he always did.  He did not wish for anything in particular; he just wished:  I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish . . .  He said it until he felt satisfied, he said it until his head had been soothed and his body relaxed; then he could let the wish go, the wish that was just a wish, like a bubble into the sky . . .


He didn't know when he started seeing the star even when he hadn't meant to look for it.  The evening star – the first evening star.  It would happen when he was lying in bed, eyes closed, letting sleep drift in.  A tiny pinprick of light in the swirling darkness behind his lids, shimmering in that space that exists just beyond physical sight, that slowly grew, at first being fixed in place but then, as it grew, glowing, pulsating, wavering and fluttering at its edges until, seeming to break loose somehow, it floated free.  It filled his field of vision; it changed shape; it changed colors; it looked now like an egg, now like a cloud; now it blossomed like a flower, now like a firework it faded and died.  That first light was followed by another, then another, each growing, spreading, splashing brilliantly on some invisible inner shore, then slipping away again as the next one emerged; and each light seemed somehow as if it were the first, each one being like no other.  Light Beings, he came to call them, though he didn't know why  They weren't like people.  Not like people at all, and yet they felt somehow alive.  They moved around him in the darkness, and as time slowed internally he began to move with them.  It was a sensation like swimming, only lighter; like floating, but in motion; and the Light Beings, bursting, glowing, fading, swam and floated with him.  It seemed to him (but he was falling backwards now, he was swooning into sleep) that they might be speaking to him, or trying to.  He was sure that if he only once heard them he would understand them:  They would speak his own tongue.  Only he couldn't quite make out what they were saying.  He only heard whisperings – almost audible, almost words, but not quite – whisperings . . .


He wondered about the Light Beings a lot for a time.  He wondered a lot about what they were trying to tell him.  After awhile he could imagine their whisperings when he closed his eyes anytime, in the middle of day even, but that wasn't the same as when he really heard them.  Talking sometimes maybe to each other; but sometimes, he thought, trying to say something to him . . .


The sky was clear.  Don't forget the evening star!  He ran to the window; he ran out into the yard.  He had remembered to look.  He had remembered – and there it was, it had appeared.


I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish . . . he whispered.
And then he listened.

THE ARRIVAL 
by 
Gerald Arthur Winter 
 
She sipped a cup of warm milk laced with a shot of twelve-year-old Macallans Sherry  
Oak as she sat up in bed and watched Spectrum News 9 for the morning weather report. Having heard her dad say it often enough, Sara knew it was a waste of a fine single malt scotch. But she needed a full night of sound sleep before the devil incarnate arrived at Tampa International from JFK in the morning.  
It was ten years ago, at their mom’s funeral, since she had last seen her younger brother, Mike. They had exchanged emails and texts on their birthdays, but Thanksgiving and Christmas reminded them too much of their shared painful childhood at a time when their parents had been younger than she and Mike were now. 
She kept their parents twenty-fifth wedding anniversary photo on the top of a 
bookcase beside the wide-screen TV. Their smiling faces, frozen in time, stared back at her every morning upon her waking. Tonight, too, before she took her last sip of scotch-laced milk. She blew a kiss to the framed photo before reclining, hopefully, for a restful slumber. 
Her mind drifted, feeling her limbs relax and her hands and feet unclench. She  
shifted her jaw back and forth to avoid grinding her teeth. All were fruitless efforts with Mike’s  smart-ass smirk floating aglow, like a poltergeist, in front of her in the dark. Unable to shut out his repulsive image from her fitful mind, she wept in anticipation of their mutually unwanted encounter. Or so she assumed, since no words had been spoken to each other in the past decade of their festering souls. She was only certain how she felt about his arrival. Mike’s true feelings remained a mystery. 
She let her negative thoughts of Mike’s arrival flow through her to purge herself  
of all their expectant nasty confrontations. Her bed seemed to spin, and the voices of her parents were on high speed, sounding like a flock of screeching birds, with intermittent bursts of “Mikey, this” and “Mikey that,” or “Isn’t it great to have a wonderful boy like  
Mikey?”   
She imagined him deplaning in Tampa, his white, neatly tailored linen suit, a  
Panama hat tilted at a provocative angle. His athletic gate, with expensive shoes, looked as if he could leap ten feet and land softly like Fred Astaire, then take her hand and twirl her like a toy.  
Be at your best, Sara, she thought: The incomparable “Mickey” has arrived. 
With her eyes closed to his image, Sara felt the back of Mike’s hand brush gently against her soft, warm cheek. She quickly grabbed his wrist and bit down hard on his thumb.  
He didn’t howl, as she anticipated he would, shouting, “Mom! Sara’s picking on me!”  
She fluttered her tongue, expecting the salty taste of blood but, alas, Mike had not 
yet arrived, and the peat-flavored, warm milk was settling her down. Her deep breathing was counterpointed by her heartbeat as she imagined the jet hitting the runway with Mike aboard. She watched him deplane and wave to her as he approached Baggage Claim. 
But he bypassed the baggage carousel and headed straight towards her. He had no  
carry-on, no attaché, or backpack. His hands grasped her shoulders, and he put his cheek against hers. His scent of fresh-baked cookies wafted to her flaring nostrils. 
His soothing baritone voice with his breath against her ear whispered, “I’ve arrived 
with no baggage, Sara. I love you, Sis. I always will.” 
Sara felt weightless, levitating above her bed with her Barbie doll resting on her pink, ruffled pillow below. 
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway shook her from the dream, but she  
made a soft landing beside Barbie. Her bedroom door swung open, as Mom and Dad came to her bedside, and her teenage babysitter stood in the open doorway. Sara’s mom put a bundle on the bed beside her. 
A gift, she thought. 
Melodically, her mom announced, “Your baby brother has arrived, Sara. Say  
hello to Mikey.” 
Sara sniffed at his rosy, scrunched up face as Mikey chortled and cooed. She  
shrugged, trying to remember what she had been dreaming, but warned her baby  
brother, “If you break Barbie’s dream house, Mom will send you back to the hospital.” 
                                                                   _________ 
 
   

The Life and Times of Voyager
 
Television Review by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
We could be watching Harrison Ford running through the wilderness hunted by U.S. Marshalls, we could be following Charlton Heston lost in the future hunted by apes or just following Thelma and Louise on their road toward crime and debauchery.
Then again, we might be travelling with Captain Kathryn Janeway and her crew lost 70 000 lightyears from home.
However we choose to experience our lust of joining mutual seekers of the journey, the result of that search is the same. The road is the way.
We all love seeing people travel, but why are we drawn to stories about seekers?
If we don’t travel ourselves, we do so through others. That conveys movement and there’s nothing we love so much as movement. Many people are lost, many people hope to find something real beyond that proverbial rainbow. Then, of course, there is the afterlife. We really belong somewhere else: in heaven with God. Every life we lead here on Earth really brings us back to work on some task or solve some problem.
“Star Trek: Voyager” ran for seven seasons and the reason for its success is the fact that it really is an extended road movie. So, here it is: a team of space explorers is sent out on an away mission, prepared to be away a couple of months at the most. Among them are talented prisoners on parole, fresh graduates and experienced veterans. The ship, however, gets catapulted through the galaxy 70 000 lightyears from home by mistake and so the crew has to find another way home.
On their way home, they encounter a hundred species, visit hundreds of distant planets and ultimately change the course of time.
The fascinating aspect in general is the eternal question we always ask ourselves every time we read a book or watch a film: what if? What would a world based on interstellar communication look like? What might aliens look like? What would their world be like? We know how it is to travel between New York and Rio, but what would a world look like that is based on travelling between planets on a regular basis. Roddenberry continues on a very old tradition that Homer, Voltaire, Melville and Verne dwelled in: the journey.
Captain Janeway is a future day Don Quixiote. Encountering barbarians and killers just as much as benevolent philosophers on her seven year odyssey, she perseveres in spite of incredible setbacks. Actress Kate Mulgrew’s uncanny resemblance to Katherine Hepburn got her the job portraying the famous thespian in a one-woman show. It is also Mulgrew’s almost painful and ruthless, Hepburnesque, honesty that keeps the spaceship going and eventually takes the weird and wonderful crew home to Earth, eventually happy, eventually joyous.
Robert Beltran’s extraordinary mixture of internal depth with an angry command, as First Officer Chakotay, gives Janeway’s Sherlock her conscience of an eternally wise Watson. In more ways than one, we here have a resiliant team that would not survive as a singular unit. Even when they are stranded alone on a lonely planet, their almost marital team inspires Chakotay’s Adam to create an unusually resistant Eve. Only toward the end of the episode, when Janeway gives in to her quiet seclusion, are they saved to return to Voyager. Adam and Eve again, willingly unwilling, become Bill and Hillary.
Robert Picardo breathes life into The Doctor in a role that couldn’t be more different than his most famous portrayal as the Cowboy in “Innerspace”. For those of us who followed Voyager through its journey, the holographic doctor’s love of opera he presents created episodes like “Virtuoso”, where Verdi could be introduced to viewers and aliens alike alongside simple songs like “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah”. The Doctor also becomes an author, a husband, a commanding officer and an advocate of human rights. Wonderfully holographic.
I remember seeing Tom Paris-portrayer Robert Duncan McNeill in a Twilight Zone-episode named “A Message from Charity”. Since then, he has come a long way. His matter-of-fact-way and almost functional form of acting grew in time and became a real jewel of storytelling toward the sixth and seventh seasons of Voyager. McNeill’s very American truthfulness is sympathetic and his cute and constant reparté with Harry Kim in the Captain Proton episodes are worth while to say the least.
Jeri Ryan’s looks have been described as worthy of expressions like “Va-Va-Voom”. Although rather sterile a role, she manages to unify moments of tenderness with a cyborg’s hard battle for individuality as “Seven of Nine”. Tender episodes such as “Someone to Watch Over Me” give us that sweet sneak-peeks of viewing other talents emerge other than looks and strong acting. Her duet with Picardo makes the listener wonder what she would do as the vocalist of a big band. Maybe she already is one. If that is the case, a fellow big band vocalist like me would like to hear her perform songs like “Fly Me to the Moon”.
No Star Trek-ship is complete without a Vulcan. So it is actor and Blues-singer Tim Russ that gives us his constant concentration as Tuvok. The moments when Tuvok is allowed to step outside his own controlled boundaries, however, are the most memorable. Russ is allowed to become a tender and angry soul, happy and enthusiastic, and we find much more beneath that controlled enigma.
Shakespearian actor Ethan Phillips turned Talaxian tour-de-force and Janeway-Alter-Ego Neelix into a weirdly wonderful Pumbaa-like caleidoscope of alien and gastronomical wit. I know he has spent years doing Star Trek, but I also know he is a playwright and the owner of a Master’s Degree in Fine Arts from Cornell University.
UCLA-student Garrett Wang became everybody’s favourite little beginner as Ensign Harry Kim. His smart and honest portrayal was believable enough to inspire people to review the episodes in which he played the focal part. He is and remains Voyager’s charming conscience.
Roxann Dawson created a feisty, angry character with a sensitive core in B’Elanna Torres. As with many of the portrayals in Voyager, we see the development with the oncoming years. We, as actors, do grow with our assigments. Roxann presented superior theatrical skills even in her first episode in addition to being what you could label as versatile and supremely interesting.
Jennifer Lien’s work as Kes unified strength with tenderness. Of all the characters in Voyager, hers is the most feminine, the one with the most thespian introspection.
On the surface, Star Trek Voyager is a sitcom, a soap-opera set in space. At a closer glance, it is a deep and heartfelt plea to enjoy the knowledge the ride itself provides. It is the discoverer’s dream, the seafarer’s love for eternal wisdom.
As I said, we are all seekers and we all love to see that other enjoy seeking, as well.

Alpha One

By K. A. Williams


All types of wrecked ships cluttered the area around Alpha One.

Harold knew there was something salvageable on the abandoned space station if he could just find a safe path through them.

"How many derelicts are there?" he asked.

"Three hundred and forty," said Alex, the Merry Traveler's computer.

"Can you handle the navigation?" 

"Certainly."

"Hey, you're getting too close to that one on the left!"

The ships collided and ripped a large hole in the Merry Traveler's hull.

"You should have gotten me an upgrade," Alex said as Harold was sucked out into space. "It's three hundred forty one now."

A MOTHER’S PRAYER

By Patricia Farrell

​
P. A. Farrell is a psychologist and published author with McGraw-Hill, Springer Publishing, Cafe Lit, Ravens Perch, Humans of the World, Active Muse, Free Spirit Publishing, Scarlet Leaf Review, 100 Word Project, Woodcrest Magazine, Confetti, and LitBreak. She's a top health writer for Medium.com, has published self-help books, and is a board member of Clinics4Life. She lives on the East Coast of the US.


A piercing morning sun promised no relief but only more heat as the carefully tanned woman stood waiting with the little girl in her overly heavy dress and orthopedic shoes. The woman was sporting faux haute couture in crisp white shorts and a mind-blowing bright blue halter, her blonde hair carefully arranged in a silky ponytail. Delicate leather sandals with a troublesome strap were a bit loose, but she loved the look.
Sunglasses, not Bentley Platinum but knockoffs, shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare. The little girl, refusing to hold the woman’s hand, squinted in the painful light and squirmed, scraping the bottom of her brace on the cement. No attention was paid to her discomfort.
Behind them at the apartment building, the doorman’s heel crunched on tiny pebbles as he twisted to turn away, seeming not to notice the activity at the curb. He had done his duty. Now it was up to the new mother.
A bus would arrive within minutes, but to the woman at the curb it seemed an eternity. Looking down at the little girl, she flashed her carefully practiced non-Duchenne smile which had always so usefully connoted her feigned joy in the past. Mirrors had helped a lot. The smile was the key to her most recent success.
A short yellow bus slid up to the curb.
​The bus stopped, a large stop sign flipped out and two young women jumped to the sidewalk.
The bus was unmarked, but the yellow t-shirts the women wore had an emblem of a day camp.
Now the yellow-shirted women greeted the woman and the child and with great enthusiasm, began bending over and smiling, clapping their hands in unison in an excessive display of joy; frantic rather than heartfelt. The little girl looked at the three of them and kept her hands at her sides.
The blue-halter garbed woman became more animated as the little girl jumped up and down with effort in a show of dissatisfaction, her face distorted and now dappled with tears.
“No, no, no! I don’t want to go!” The pleading would gain her nothing. Her fate was sealed. The fees were paid, she was registered, and she’d get on the bus eventually. The woman had no doubt of it.
“Florence, honey, it’s going to be fun. You’ll meet other children who will play with you, and you’ll get to make friends. You want friends, don’t you?”
Forcing herself not to grit her teeth, the woman was wondering if she might order the camp workers to lift the little girl up into the bus. No, her husband wouldn’t like that. It’s too soon to upset him.
Concerned that she would be late for her Pilates class, the woman initiated a vigorous few minutes of coaxing in an effort to thaw the reluctance. Photos, photos are what were needed to memorialize the special occasion, and the woman began taking them with her phone.
One, two, ten photos taken next to the bus, several with the young women, and the little girl leaning against the bus. Excessive waving of goodbyes began now as the girl mounted the bus stairs with some assistance.
The stop sign retracts. The woman’s frantic waving continues as the bus wends its way from the curb. More smiles and waving from the curb. The bus enters traffic and slides slowly away, disappearing like a yellow bug in the crush of morning traffic.
The woman begins crossing the street, fingering her phone, and talking as she views herself in the video display. Her hair, eyebrows and make-up all look fine to her.
The traffic light turns red. She never looks up, as is her usual carefree way of crossing streets, busy or otherwise.
Traffic was supposed to stop for her, wasn’t it? Talking on her phone, she had begun to cross the next corner as that traffic light turned red. The leather sandal strap slips. She slows down to wiggle her foot.
“The doorman had to help me,” she fairly moans, “because she didn’t want to leave the building, and she was grabbing on to the door and everything she could find. Why, God, oh, God, why me? Oh, God, I’m so sick of her. Thank God she got on the bus!” The pesky sandal strap slips again but a quick hop will resecure it.
“You have no idea what I had to do with that kid. It was his week with her. He’s at work so I had to take her to the bus today. Can you beat that? Oh, my God, I …”
Hanging in mid-air, the sentence would never be completed as a screech of tire on asphalt ripped the muggy morning air. Blue collided with blue.
“Johanna? Johanna?” The voice fades as the phone begins an acrobatic swan dive in the air before it crashes to the roadway, shattering as it does.
The faux Bentley glasses follow the phone in short order.
Yes, the traffic stopped for her.

INTERVIEW WITH MR. WERNER HAAS
ABOUT JOHN LENNON
 
My friend Uncas Rydén and I were the leading members of a club. It was The B.S.F.C. – The Beatles Special Fan Club. We had stickers, a board of executives, a cashier and a club magazine. Even when I moved to Vienna in 1984, I kept writing articles for the club’s pamphlet that was sold at local parties.
When I found out that our family friend Mr. Werner Haas had been a neighbor of John Lennon’s and experienced his assassination at close range at the time of his death at 10:50 p.m. on December 8th 1980, I realized that this was a scoop I couldn’t miss.
The following interview was held on May 20th 1985 and published in that year’s second issue. It was a warm spring evening and the interview location was the open terrace of the Park Avenue Hotel Restaurant in Vienna, Austria.
         This is the conversation as it was recorded on cassette tape that day. This copy is an August 3rd 2011 re-transcription of the original from 1985.
         This interview has been lying untouched in the vaults since then.
 
         CM – CHARLES MOULTON                       
         WH – WERNER HAAS
 
 CM –What was your impression of John Lennon by any personal contact?
 
WH – Well, my contact with him was as a neighbor. When his baby was very, very young, he used to have a harness he’d put him in, to walk in the park. I think the reason he was friendly was that we didn’t talk about anything in particular. I never treated him as John Lennon or felt that he was due any great respect or any ooh’s or aah’s. I think he got tired of everybody just looking at him. I guess it is the price you pay. I think the fact that I just said hello or that we talked about nothing important at all ever, certainly not about The Beatles or about music or anything like that, made him grateful not to have to worry about who he was or who he was pretending to be.
 
CM – And how did you find his wife, Yoko Ono?
 
WH – Their love was real and very deep. That much was clear. I think she might’ve been very protective of him. Maybe it was the fact that it was his fame. She was an artist in her own right when they got married. She was still Yoko Ono, albeit Mrs. John Lennon. I think that she was either trying to “protect her turf”, as it were, or merely the fact that she didn’t want to share him with a lot of people, particularly with people she didn’t know or who didn’t know her or who were not her professional peers. When you get to that level of stardom, it is quite understandable.
 
CM – Did you ever hear John sing in person?
 
WH – No, no, never did. I had one chance to do it when they performed in New York City and were still The Beatles, but I never went and, of course, now in retrospect I wish I had gone.
 
CM – But he never talked about his singing or composing or anything like that?
 
WH – Not to me. And I don’t know if I would really have encouraged him to do that, because I think it would have spoiled a good rapport, just two people who happened to live a few feet apart. And all of a sudden if I had become just another Beatle-worshiper or another celebrity-clown, I think that would’ve destroyed the adult, or whatever, relationship there was. You know: “How are you?”, “Good to see you”, “How’s your son?” I’m not sure if he would’ve remembered my name, although I’d mentioned it to him. It was just one of those things that was purely neighbor-to-neighbor, person-to-person. Not adult-body VS. superstar John Lennon.
 
CM – How was his son? How did you find his son?
 
WH – Julian? Or the little one?
 
CM – No, the little one.
 
WH – When I knew them he was just a baby, and as all babies do or did, he screamed and wet his pants and did everything fairly normal. I haven’t seen him now, although I know that they still live next-door, but I haven’t seen him. So when I was there, he was just a couple of years old.
 
CM – The big question: what happened on the day he was shot? How did you react when you heard about what had happened?
 
WH – Well, I had come home just about ten minutes before. I was out-of-town myself and I had come back late by plane and by taxi from the airport. I went into the apartment and decided to get into the shower. A friend of mine, who was living with me at the time, was watching television and a friend of ours phoned and said, “My God, what’s going on over there?” I was still dripping wet from the shower and said, “What are you talking about?” She had the news on: John Lennon was shot and they rushed him to the hospital. That was the first that I had heard of it. Other people, I guess neighbors of ours, said or at least claimed, to have heard the shots. Then, almost within minutes, people started to gather. I guess he was really dead on arrival at the hospital, so when the news flashed out, by then hundreds of people came and the crowd just grew. The streets were blocked. There were probably thousands of people getting as close as they could. I even sent my friend out with a tape recorder to try to get some on-the-spot interviews. The people were really quite angry about that and said: “How can you commercialize at a time like this?” It wasn’t that, it was just the idea of gathering some off-the-cuff reminders of their impressions. I was going to send them home to Casey Kasem in California. As a matter of fact, the station had phoned me because they knew I lived next door to John and they wanted the recordings for their show the next day on their Los Angeles radio station. Nevertheless, we were really so inundated with people and police that we could not even get out of the apartment building and go to the store. Of course, from where we were, we could look into the side entrance of the Dakota building at all the celebrities that went in and were herded around. We would just look out the window and see Ringo Starr and the other people coming by.
 
CM – How did you feel about all of this happening around you?
 
WH – I don’t think it sank in right away. With some people, when something like this happens, you feel an immediate sadness or sense of loss. This took some time. What probably made it finally sink in was the fact that these people of all ages, colors, creeds, whatever, came to pray together. Usually when you have big crowds you have some problems, but these were just very quiet. Some of them had candles. Some of them left flowers at the entrance to the building. It was a very subdued and a very orderly crowd. I don’t know, I think it was probably the only crowd of its type that I have ever seen and it was really that restrained feeling. It was not really sadness, although it was sad and it was not really anger, although there was anger. It was just a situation they didn’t know how to deal with. There were a lot of people who seemed to feel that something like that was coming, that either John or – well, they felt that the whole era of the Beatles was officially dead. You know, they had talked about getting together for one last concert, but then all denied it. There were all these rumors that they hated one another and that the problem with Brian Epstein, the accusations for Paul marrying Linda and John marrying Yoko had escalated. I think now the great shock was that this was the end of an era and that something that people had hoped for would never come again. A group like that probably never existed before and never will exist again. They just changed so many things from hairstyles to clothes to the type of singing to the type of entertainment. The variety of musical talent was endless. It wasn’t just pop music. It was timeless.
 
CM – When did you first meet Lennon?
 
WH – I couldn’t tell you the year, but I guess it was just shortly after they moved in. I talked to the man with this little baby and I didn’t know who he was. But to me that wasn’t rare. I spent a half an hour once talking to someone who turned out to be Red Skelton. I walked my dog with somebody who turned out to be Elliot Gould, so I’m not a good celebrity-recognizer, I guess. Just one day I was walking with the dog in the park and along came this guy with a harness and a little baby in it. We started to talk about the dog. He went on his way and I went mine. A friend of mine saw me and he said: “What did you and John Lennon have to talk about?” And that was the first time I knew it was John Lennon.
 
CM – (laughing) Oh, my God…
 
WH – You just see all these posters of someone who has changed somewhat and he doesn’t look like you remembered John Lennon from all the album covers and all the publicity stills. He just looked different. Well, I guess the time of the Beatles was over.
 
CM – Let’s talk about his solo career.
 
WH – He was writing songs and recording them, but I don’t exactly know what he was releasing at that time. According to rumor, there is still a lot of unreleased stuff. Mrs. Lennon may eventually release it.
 
CM – Was he a good neighbor? Did you find him a good neighbor?
 
WH – That’s the wrong thing to ask any New Yorker, because there are no such things in New York. Neighborhoods don’t exist in a big city like New York. Every building is its own neighborhood. He is reputed to have owned six or seven apartments in the Dakota, which is the oldest apartment building in that part of the world. It is also one of the most expensive buildings to live in in New York. All the celebrities live or have lived in it. Lauren Bacall, Leonard Bernstein, Boris Karloff, when he was alive, Basil Rathbone lived there, a number of well-known writers and actors and musicians. So, it wasn’t really a neighborhood-thing. When you have buildings where you are guarded by X-number of doormen and guards, it isn’t a neighborhood. It’s just a building where people just happen to nod their heads and say: “Isn’t it terrible about so-and-so?” No, there is no such thing as being able to make judgment about anybody possibly being a good neighbor.
 
CM – What was the reaction in the house to his death?
 
WH – Well, I think the greatest reaction was the terrible inconvenience of not being able to get through huge crowds and of being asked by police as to why you are here and why you are trying to get across the police barrier.  I think particularly the older people in his building and in our building next door were terribly inconvenienced, because they couldn’t get their groceries or the medicines delivered. The pizzas and Chinese food from down on the corner couldn’t come in, because there were just thousands of people there. And then the fact that it went on around the clock. The people were quiet, but when you get three or four thousand people in a small area, you just can’t have complete quiet. Along about 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning it can get a bit disconcerting.
 
CM – Has popular music changed the last few years? What about since the Beatles split up?
 
WH – Let me rephrase that by asking you a question. Since you are trying to do something involving what was, why are people’s interests today still in something that was and never can happen again? Why not concentrate a lot of that energy in trying to develop something new and exciting and different and interesting today? I, frankly, find that most of what’s around today is – well, you know, can’t last the way a lot of the Beatles-stuff has lasted. Yet nobody seems to be doing very much about trying to come up with something or get behind or boost a group that has something to say and does it well. When you look at who’s number one and number three and number four, it’s a little frightening, the lack of talent and ingenuity. It’s just a lot of promotion. Who do you like today? Springsteen?
 
CM – John Lennon.
 
WH – (Laughs) Of course. Good choice.
 
CM – And I am the son of opera singers, so it does tend to get classical. Besides that, The Beatles, Elvis, ABBA. If it’s good music, it appeals to me.
 
WH – One of the interesting things is that a lot of the Beatles’ songs were recorded by other people as well. When I was growing up, whether it was Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, you know, what we call middle-of-the-road-artists, would all record the same songs. If
you liked the one artist better than the other then you bought that version of the song. The Beatles songs were also recorded by many of the greats. (Comment from editor: Sinatra called George Harrison’s Something his favorite love song). Today, usually a number is so closely identified with a particular group or an artist that nobody else records it.
 
CM – What about Julian Lennon? Did you ever see him when you knew John?
 
WH – I think he was living in England back then. I’m not sure that he came over or how much contact was there between him and John’s new family. Of course, now Julian is another “promotion-piece”. He sounds like his father, but I don’t really know how extensive his talents are.
 
CM – How much did John talk about his children, Julian and Sean? I’ve read that John wanted to give Sean a nice childhood and that he looked forward to seeing Sean grow up. That was just a few days before the assassination. That was really tragic. Did you hear anything like that from John?
 
WH – No, except that he really doted on that child. I would think that 80 % of the time that I saw him, he had the child with him, usually in that harness.  He took Sean everywhere, because he was still a baby. During the time Sean was not able to walk very much, he just had him in that harness and took him everywhere.  I think it was great thing. Well, the fact that John was rich enough to be able to do it. He didn’t have to leave for the office at 8 o’clock in the morning and be away all day or off on tour for a year or two. He could spend some quality time with the child.
 
CM – Do you think he ever had the feeling that he would die soon?
 
WH – I think that anybody in the public eye, I mean particularly after the Kennedy assassination, was afraid. There wasn’t anybody who didn’t have the fear that when you heard a car backfire that it wasn’t gunshot. There is so much violence. It isn’t envy. It’s making the 8 o’clock news, making the headlines. It’s that kind of mentality.
 
CM – Your closing comments?
 
WH – Well, I’ve been so much on the periphery that you are getting a lot of conjecture and opinion instead of fact. Basically, I just knew him as a human being and not as John Lennon. I knew him as somebody who lived next door, a human being who was a good father to his son. I didn’t know him as a celebrity, a singer or a Beatle. Basically, this teaches that we are human beings and souls first. Celebrity is only a close second.
 
CM – Thank you for your time!
 
WH – You’re welcome! And welcome to New York City!
 
CM – Thank you!

Christoforos' Travels
Temple Of The Greek Gods of North Central Illinois


Chris Aldridge

www.caldridge.net


In the Polis of Machesney Park, Illinois, in the northern central of the State, stands a beautiful temple called Temple Of The Greek Gods, where the locals worship, love and serve all the Gods, Spirits, Heroes and Deified Mortals of ancient Greece. It is the only one of its kind to have ever been built in the entire region, and is owned and operated by one Head Priest and Head Priestess. But all the people are among the most religious and devout worshipers I have ever seen. They are most active in the Spring, Summer and early Fall. Winter is inhospitable here.
The temple stands about center with the living quarters of the clergy surrounding it. Upon approaching the temple doors, you find they are painted gold, both of them, with blue lining throughout their frames. Above the doors is a bronze face of Medusa to protect the entrance, and flanking the head are two white Greek Gryphons painted on the wall, which is the patron animal and protector of the temple, its treasury and worshipers. Behind each Gryphon is the temple's official flower, the yellow sunflower. To the right of the temple doors is a bronze frieze of the Hero Ajax, the temple's Patron. To the left of the doors is another blue and golden door which houses the temple's library, containing historical and religious texts from prehistoric to modern times. Finally, to the far left, is a blue and golden door that leads to the office of the Head Priest.
Upon entering the temple you are met with an amazing shrine upon the front wall. Near the ceiling is a shining painted mountain and in the center is a colorful stone relief of the Twelve Olympian Gods. The mountain is flanked on one side by a brightly painted sun, and a glowing moon on the other. White pillars supported by bronze niches stand on either side of the relief. Below the mountain is a window for natural light, which is surrounded by more sunflowers. Under the window is the altar, also the color of gold, standing four feet high with a white stone block in the center for placing sacrifice. Two statues of Greek youth (Kouros) stand on either side of it, and upon the altar is everything one needs to give prayer and gifts to the Gods, such as incense, an incense burner, a golden plate, and a libation vessel.
To the right of the altar is a beautiful statue of Apollon of Piraeus, standing about five feet tall, with a metal bow in its left hand, and a lovely and vivid oil painting of Delphi behind it, which is Apollon's scared City. To the left of the painting is a bronze statue of Apollon's oracle, the Pythia. To the left of the altar is a solid bronze statue of Athena, also standing five feet in height, and is used in the temple's yearly Panathenaia celebrations. Behind it is a heavily framed picture of the Parthenon. Both statues are beautifully adorned with robes and jewels.
The right wall is gold and called the “Hero Wall.” It is dedicated to all ancient Greek Heroes. Statues of gold, silver, bronze and alabaster stand to represent Herakles, Ajax, Theseus, Jason, Achilles, Leonidas, Perseus and Odysseus. Descending around them is the laurel crown of victory, and a bust of Pegasos, the horse of heaven, overlooks the area. Standing center height above the statues is a frieze of the Oympian torch and Eos, Goddess of the dawn, carrying the young sun into flight.
The left wall is also gold, and is dedicated to the cult objects or relics, symbols and artifacts that represent the ancient Greek past. There is the Mask of Agamemnon, an iron helmet dubbed the Helmet of Ajax, and decorated pottery from Athens. Upon this wall is also the door that leads to the temple's treasury, which houses many valuables brought by devotees over the years to give to the Gods and Heroes, and also to the support of the temple itself. From statues to charms, clothing and even waters from the rivers of the cities that have visited the location.
The back wall is bronze, and upon it are golden reliefs of prehistoric events that changed the Greek world, such as Zeus defeating the Titans and Athena destroying the Giants.
The floor of the temple is solid wood and holds a throne in the corner, normally for the Head Priest, but anyone can sit there who likes.
​Finally, the ceiling of the temple is sky blue.
Outside the temple to the southwest is its sanctuary, sitting upon about an acre of land. Throughout the natural landscape, millions of dandelions bloom in the spring, and there are shrines and altars to all of the Twelve Olympain Gods, some standing to a height of seven feet, such as the central one to Zeus, but there are also grand ones to Gods like Artemis, Athena, Aphrodite, Poseidon, Dionysos, Hephaistos, Hermes and Hekate. The shrines normally have plants or flowers which are sacred to that particular Deity, such as the Hyacinth in Apollon's precinct, or the Amaranth flower in that of Artemis. Although natural sunflowers have been known to mysteriously bloom around Apollon's shrine. The center of the sanctuary holds a fountain that shoots water from its center and lights up at night. The fountain contains several gallons. And when it is time to change the water, provided it is still suitable for irrigation, it is used to water the land and sacred plants of the Gods. Nothing is wasted, nor is anything allowed to die if it can be helped, until Persephone once again returns to the Underworld.

The Handsome Gravedigger 
By  
John Vander 
 
 
She’s here! 
For once they spoke in unison, their voices filled with a warm, almost childlike exuberance that was utterly at odds with the cold severity of the grey October morning 
‘I know,’ the gravedigger said softly. 
He leaned against the old willow tree by the gate and looked downhill to where the funeral procession was coming to a halt on the narrow road that ran past the cemetery on its north side. Moments later, the distant thuds of car doors could be heard as the mourners disembarked and began congregating behind the hearse.  
It’s so exsoitin when we get somebody new! 
That was Mrs Murphy in plot seventy-six. She had an irritating tendency to gush, but no one, least of all the gravedigger, would have denied that her heart was in the right place. 
It is rather exciting, agreed Major MacPherson. 
MacPherson was an ex-officer of the Black Watch regiment and one of only a small group of residents to have the luxury of their own mausoleum. It wasn’t often that he agreed with Mrs Murphy. Mostly they spent their time arguing about religion, he being a staunch Presbyterian and she a devout Roman Catholic. But today was a special day and they had obviously decided to call a truce. 
Not for the first time, the gravedigger found himself wondering why, in bygone days, the townspeople of Lashcroft had opted for a multi-denominational cemetery. In principle, he supposed, it was a good idea. Very egalitarian. But in reality it was the cause of a great deal of friction. 
He watched as the coffin was taken from the back of the hearse and mounted on the shoulders of the pallbearers. 
‘Now remember,’ he said: ‘not a sound when they get here.’ 
A murmur of assent ran around the cemetery. Then a small voiced piped up. Madeleine Crosby in plot one hundred and twenty-one. She had been killed in a house fire in nineteen eighty-two. 
Was she really very pretty? 
For a long moment, the gravedigger merely stared silently at the funeral procession as it started moving slowly up the hill. There were a great many mourners, he noted. He had never seen so many mourners. 
At last he said, ‘She was the most beautiful girl I ever saw.’ 
Aye, she was a real stunner all right, said Mrs Lennox in plot sixty-three. She used to come into my shop to buy chocolate sometimes when she was still wee. Chocolate and penny caramels. Last time I saw her she was only about twelve, but even at that age you could tell she was going to grow into a fine looking woman. 
The cortege moved closer. Marching at its head, armed with prayer book and holy water, his vestments billowing majestically in the breeze, was Father James Doyle. The gravedigger had received a phone call from the old priest the previous week. The conversation had been brief and extremely polite but the message had been clear: this one is important; make sure you don’t mess up. 
The open grave was near the cemetery gate. After checking for the final time that everything was as it should be, the gravedigger retreated the thirty or so yards to Major MacPherson’s mausoleum and did his best to blend in with his surroundings. 
Fine work, my boy, the major whispered with obvious pride. Fine work, indeed. 
The gravedigger nodded but said nothing. The procession had reached the entrance to the cemetery. He watched as the coffin was carried to the plot and lowered onto the wooden thwarts spanning the grave. When the flowers had been laid to one side and all of the mourners had gathered round, Father Doyle recited the traditional Invitation followed by one of the usual passages from the Bible. 
Jesus Christ is the first-born of the dead; 
glory and kingship be his for ever and ever. 
As he listened to the words, the gravedigger’s mind drifted back to the past. 
# 
Although he had attended the same school as the girl for almost a year, her social background could not have been more different from his own. She had been the child of a local family, a family that had lived in Lashcroft long enough to have the names of its ancestors engraved on the town’s monuments to the fallen of both wars. He, by contrast, had only started attending Saint Margaret’s High after a panel of stony-faced social workers had decided to send him to the nearby children’s home – Beaumont. Before Beaumont, he had spent six years living with a string of foster families up and down the country, an unwanted, parentless waif whose only roots consisted of a tangle of painful childhood memories garnered in a run-down housing estate in the north east of Glasgow. 
It was normal for the Beaumont kids who had a Catholic background to attend Saint Margaret’s – the custom went back for decades – but they had never really been welcomed at the school, either by the local parents or the teachers, and it was quite easy to believe the rumour that the only reason they were tolerated at all was because of the substantial government subsidy that rolled into the school coffers at the beginning of each academic year. Perhaps taking an unconscious lead from the adults, the majority of the local children treated the outsiders with a disdain bordering on outright hostility.  
The majority, but not all, the gravedigger reminded himself. In his own time there, some of the pupils had shown themselves to be capable of tolerance. A few had even been friendly.  
The girl had been one such. 
The gravedigger was not sure as to exactly when he had fallen in love with the girl, but looking back, he suspected that he had always loved her. Even before he had laid eyes on her for the first time. It was a strange idea, maybe. But only if you didn’t believe in fate. If you believed in fate, it made an odd kind of sense. 
He had never acted on his feelings, however. He had been far too shy and self conscious to even consider that. Rather, he had contented himself with loving her ‘from afar’. 
Loving someone ‘from afar’ was an expression he’d first heard in an O-level English class. The subject of the lesson had been the poetry of Dante and the medieval troubadours, some of whom had apparently pledged their undying devotion to women in the full knowledge that their love would remain forever unacknowledged and unconsummated. The teacher that had taught them about the troubadours had been Mrs Henderson, a wistful, middle-aged, highland woman with long, greying hair and a lisp, and the gravedigger could still remember the passionate way that she’d spoken on the subject, and the way she’d pronounced the word ‘unconsummated’ as if the third syllable was a perfect homonym of ‘thumb’. 
On his way out of the class that day he had been filled with a deep and powerful sense of inner purpose bordering on religious revelation. He had found his path, he knew. He would be like Dante and the troubadours. He would love the girl from afar. 
# 
Rain began to fall, slanting down into the graveyard from a sky the colour of wet concrete. The gravedigger pulled up the hood of his anorak. Over by the graveside, black umbrellas sprouted like black toadstools from the dark mass of mourners. A man stepped forward from the ranks and held one over the head of Father Doyle. The old priest nodded his appreciation, his eyes never leaving his open prayer book. 
God of endless ages, 
through disobedience to your law 
we fell from grace 
and death entered the world … 
# 
In the beginning, loving the girl from afar had not been difficult. They attended the same school, after all, and although she was in the year above him, it was easy to steal a sly glance at her in the quadrangle or the lunch queue, or in the library where she spent so much of her spare time studying books on history and literature. In the evenings, back at Beaumont, he wrote poetry for her in a little leather-bound notebook that he bought especially for the purpose, filling the thick, cream-coloured pages with words of gentle praise and promises of unending devotion. Lost in this tender world of fancy, there were times when he was able to forget entirely the long train of misery that had brought him to his present set of circumstances; times, even, when he believed he might actually have discovered the meaning of the word happiness. 
It was not long, however, before reality once more bulldozed its way over the beatific landscape of his imagination. 
His latest round of troubles began shortly after the end of the school year – on the day that his exam results arrived at Beaumont. Given that he suffered from a mild form of dyslexia and had never attended the same school for a period of more than a few months, his expectations were not high; but two passes from a possible seven came as a real slap in the face, both for his fragile ego and his frail career prospects. In order to get the qualifications he needed for college or university, he knew, he would now have to spend at least another two years at Saint Margaret’s; and, although this wasn’t an insurmountable problem in itself, another two years at the school would mean another two years living at Beaumont.  
For the gravedigger, the idea of spending another twenty-four months in the cold austerity of the old home was simply unbearable. 
And so, at the tender age of sixteen, parentless, penniless and armed only with a couple of qualifications that were barely worth the paper they were written on, he decided to exercise his legal right to leave Saint Margaret’s and Beaumont behind him and to make an attempt to forge his own place in the world. It was, without doubt, a rash decision, and one that would almost certainly have proved entirely disastrous if not for the fact that, against all the odds, someone made the decision to help him. 
His unlikely benefactor was Frank MacNickel, a local man in his fifties who worked for the town council. Frank’s main job consisted of digging graves and attending to the general maintenance of the Lashcroft cemetery, but during the summer months he was also responsible for the upkeep of the government-owned grounds around Beaumont, and it was here that the gravedigger first made his acquaintance, sharing a cigarette with him one Saturday morning when the older man had taken a break from mowing the enormous swathes of lawn that bordered the old home on every side. 
‘So you live here?’ Frank asked as they lit up. 
‘Fraid so.’ 
‘You don’t like it?’ 
‘It’s like being in jail.’ 
Frank looked at Beaumont’s stern Victorian facade and nodded. ‘It was a loony bin at one time. Did you know that?’ 
‘Still is.’ 
That made Frank laugh. 
Over the next few weeks, Saturday morning cigarettes with Frank became something of a ritual, as did the good-humoured conversations that accompanied them. The subjects of discussion seldom moved outside the realms of accepted small talk – the top forty, Scottish football, the latest film releases – but on the day his exam results came through, almost to his surprise, the gravedigger found himself opening up about his personal predicament. 
Frank was sympathetic, but urged a practical approach. ‘Well, I can understand why you’d want to get the fuck out of this place, but you should really go back to school, son, get some more qualifications.’ 
‘I can’t do that. I have to get out. Really. I’ve had enough.’ 
Frank nodded but let the subject drop, and afterwards the gravedigger forgot all about the conversation. Then, about a week later, someone knocked on the door of his bedroom and told him there was a call for him at the main desk. 
It was Frank. 
‘Listen, the boy who’s been working with me at the graveyard packed it in yesterday. Little prick says he wants to go travelling in India or some shit. Anyway, to cut a long story short, there’s a job going. It doesn’t pay much, but I think I can sort you out with a place to live. Rent free. Nothing fancy, but it’ll be a roof. What do you say?’ 
The gravedigger said yes. 
The roof in question was attached to a family-sized caravan that stood on a half-deserted campsite on the outskirts of town. Frank hadn’t been lying when he’d said it was nothing fancy, but to the gravedigger the threadbare carpet and flaking paint were unimportant. What was important was that, after years of being shunted from one place to another and having to continually answer to strangers, he finally had a place where he could spend time on his own, a place where he could do as he pleased and where he would receive orders from no one. 
When he reported for his first shift at the cemetery, Frank led him immediately to a shed and started loading digging tools into two large wheelbarrows. 
‘I’m afraid you’re in at the deep end. We’re planting one tomorrow.’ 
‘We have to dig a grave?’ 
‘That’s the job description. And a word of warning: round here we do things the old fashioned way. I’ve been trying for the use of a JCB digger for years, but as you’ll soon discover, Lashcroft town council is tighter than the proverbial camel’s arse in a sand storm.’ 
So they dug the grave by hand, carefully removing the surface turf then attacking the damp, dark earth with picks and spades and mattocks until they had a neat rectangular hole that met all of the specified dimensions. Afterwards, Frank demonstrated how planks of wood and big swathes of tarpaulin and plastic turf could be used ‘to tart things up’. 
‘The idea is to do what you can to help the family forget that their loved one is about to become a Happy Meal for the creepy crawlies. Fucking pointless if you ask me, but its traditional.’ 
‘You don’t believe in life after death, Frank?’ 
‘Life after death? It’s a contradiction in terms, son.’ 
That made the gravedigger laugh. Frank could be a blunt instrument at times, but occasionally he really hit the philosophical nail square on the head. 
At least that was what the gravedigger had believed. 
# 
Over by the graveside Father Doyle had begun the words of committal. 
we commit her body to its resting place: 
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 
The Lord bless her and keep her, 
the Lord make his face to shine upon her 
and be gracious to her, 
the Lord lift up his countenance upon her 
and give her peace. 
When the priest was finished speaking, several men stepped forward and began lowering the coffin into the grave.  
# 
In the months after he started his new job, the gravedigger was no longer able to see the girl on a regular basis, but he continued to write poetry for her, and on Sunday mornings he started going to Saint Margaret’s parish church, where he knew her family sometimes attended mass and where he hoped he might catch a glimpse of her, either during the service or directly afterwards, when groups of the faithful gathered in front of the church doors to swap pleasantries and local gossip. More often than not, he was disappointed, but on a few occasions his efforts were rewarded, and once the girl even noticed him where he was loitering near the church gates and gave him a little smile and a wave, almost as though they were old friends.  
This episode gave the gravedigger’s spirits a wonderful lift, but they were dragged back to earth only a few days later, when he discovered that the girl would soon be leaving town. He heard the news after a chance meeting with a boy he had known at school, the information sandwiched between otherwise uninteresting pieces of gossip concerning a variety of his old classmates. She had been accepted by Edinburgh University, the boy said, and would be quitting Lashcroft for the capital at the beginning of the autumn. 
The news fell like a hammer blow, but the gravedigger refused to despair. He had committed himself to loving the girl from afar, after all. That had not changed. And it never would. Loving her was his destiny. 
In the weeks following her departure for Edinburgh, the gravedigger had no news of the girl; but thoughts of her still filled his mind and his love did not wane. Sometimes at night when he had trouble sleeping, he would sit on the steps of his old caravan and gaze up at the moon, wondering if perhaps, many miles away in the capital, her eyes were fixed on the very same celestial sphere. Such thoughts caused him no little melancholy, but he accepted the sadness into his heart without complaint. The emotion was a product of his love, after all, and, as such, it was something to be cherished as sacred. 
All through the autumn and on into the months of winter he nursed these bittersweet feelings of love and longing. Then, on a day near the end of December, everything changed. 
It was a Saturday – the day before Christmas Eve – and he was walking through the centre of Lashcroft looking for a gift for Frank. The weather was cold but sunny and the streets were crowded with last minute shoppers. When he reached the pedestrian thoroughfare at the heart of the old town, he paused to listen to a young man who was strumming on a battered guitar and singing an old folk song. The gravedigger recognised it as one that his mother had sometimes sung to him in his childhood. 
She stepped away from me 
And she moved through the fair 
And fondly I watched her 
Move here and move there 
Then she made her way homeward 
With one star awake 
As the swan in the evening 
Moves over the lake 
The busker had a fine voice and had gathered a good-sized crowd around him. When the song was done, people came forward to drop money into his open guitar case. The gravedigger was preparing to do the same when he noticed the girl. She had been standing just a few feet away all the time, hidden by the intervening bodies. She was holding hands with a young man. As the gravedigger looked on, the two of them turned their smiling faces towards each other and kissed. 
To this day, he had no clear memories of the period of time directly following that fateful kiss. There were some vague recollections of walking aimlessly through the streets of Lashcroft, of sitting in a cafe, of standing on the old bridge that overlooked the canal, but these events seemed hazy and insubstantial, like the strange happenings of a childhood dream. The only thing he remembered with any real clarity was the fire he had kindled in the yard beside his caravan as soon as he had arrived back there in the evening.  
The fire in which he had burned his poems. 
# 
The funeral service was coming to and end now. As Father Doyle recited the final prayer, his voice was louder than at any other time during the ceremony.  
God, our creator and redeemer 
by your power Christ conquered death 
and returned to you in Glory. 
May all your people who have gone  
before us in faith 
share his victory 
and enjoy the vision of your glory 
forever, 
where Christ lives and reigns with  
you and the Holy Spirit, 
one God, forever and ever. 
Some of the mourners joined in for the last couple of lines, their voices low and sombre and respectful. 
Eternal rest grant to her, O Lord. 
And let perpetual light shine upon her. 
The old priest blessed everyone and formally ended the service. One by one, the mourners stepped forward to drop a handful of earth into the grave. 
# 
The gravedigger had not destroyed his poems because of any ill feeling towards the girl. Rather, he had burned the verses in a fit of self-loathing that had relegated them to the status of objects deserving of nothing but contempt. As he had ripped the sheets from his notebook and fed them one by one into the flames, he had cursed himself repeatedly, not for having loved the girl – that was beyond his control – but for having broken his promise to himself; for having had the audacity to hope. 
When all of the pages were reduced to ashes, he entered the old caravan, undressed and climbed into bed. At first, sleep would not come, but when it did he dreamed for the first time in years of the day he had discovered the body of his dead mother. The dream impressions were horribly vivid. The sunlight pouring in through the dusty slats of the ramshackle blinds; the sound of static from the old bakelite radio in the tiny kitchen; the cloying smells of mould and alcohol that pervaded the apartment constantly – all of these things presented themselves with a nauseating authenticity that was entirely indistinguishable from the original experience. But when he pushed the bedroom door open as he had done all those years ago, when he saw his mother’s body hanging limply from the light fixture, when he gaped at her blackened, twisted features and her clouded, yellow eyes, her corpse did not remain mute as it had done when he was a nine-year-old boy. Instead, the purple lips began to move and a hoarse, guttural voice spoke to him from beyond the bottomless chasm of death. 
This is your fault. Your father left because of you, and now you’ve done this to me. This is your fault! YOUR FAULT!!! 
# 
Suddenly the gravedigger became aware that someone was screaming. 
It was the girl’s mother. The sight of the long line of mourners dropping handfuls of dirt on her daughter’s coffin had finally driven her to hysteria.  
You can’t cover her up! she shrieked. You can’t cover her up! How will she see the sun!!? How will she be able to see the sun!!? 
Several men stepped forward to restrain her as she tried to force her way to the edge of the open grave. At first she struggled violently, but then, quite suddenly, her strength deserted her and she fell to her knees sobbing uncontrollably. 
The gravedigger watched as she was helped to her feet and escorted gently towards the cemetery gate. She had lost a shoe during her exertions. A teenage girl picked it up and, seemingly unsure of what to do next, merely stood there staring at the thing with an expression of abject bewilderment.  
# 
Following the dream of his mother, the gravedigger was beset by a depression surpassing anything he had experienced since the dark days directly following her suicide. The whole of Christmas Eve he spent in bed, engulfed in misery, barely able to move. When Christmas morning arrived, he managed to drag himself to the stove to heat some tinned soup, which he ate with slices of stale bread before climbing back under the covers with a novel he had recently borrowed from the town library. He read a few paragraphs, then laid the book aside, somewhat confounded as to how characters who had seemed so interesting and real to him only a couple of days earlier could now seem so banal and utterly implausible. After the book, he tried listening to the radio, but the sound of the thing only made him think of the radio in the dream, so in the end he gave up trying to occupy his mind altogether and merely lay there staring blankly at the ceiling until he was once more overcome by sleep. 
When he reported back to work on the twenty-seventh, Frank was visibly shocked by his appearance. 
‘Jesus, son, you look fucking terrible.’ 
‘Thanks, Frank.’ 
‘Nah, seriously; you’ve lost weight. Are you sick?’ 
The gravedigger shook his head. ‘I had a virus over Christmas, but I’m on the mend.’ 
‘Maybe you should head back to the old homestead.’ 
‘I’m okay, Frank. Really.’ 
‘Well you don’t look okay. You look like death.’ 
Neither of them had any way of knowing it then, but in six months time, Frank himself would be dead. 
# 
The gravedigger became aware that two men were walking towards him across the graveyard. One – the shorter of the pair – he recognised as the girl’s father. The other, who was holding an umbrella aloft to protect them both from the rain, was most likely an uncle. As they drew close, the father produced a wallet and took out a couple of bank notes. He held them out for the gravedigger to take. 
‘Thanks for your help,’ he said. 
The words sounded strangely flat and were accompanied by the powerful odour of alcohol. 
The gravedigger did not want to take the money, but he reached out and accepted it anyway. As Frank had once explained to him, such gestures were part of long-standing, deeply-ingrained traditions that should always be honoured humbly and without objection. 
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said, putting the notes into the pocket of his anorak. ‘I knew her from school. She was a special girl.’ 
Both men nodded in sad, heartbroken agreement. The man with the umbrella gestured towards the grave. ‘You did a good job, son.’ 
‘Thanks.’ 
There was a moment’s silence, then both men turned and headed back across the cemetery. Most of the mourners had left the grounds now, but Father Doyle and his umbrella bearer were still hovering at the threshold, conversing with a group of stragglers. When the priest saw the girl’s father approach, he went over and placed a conciliatory hand on the man’s shoulder, then leaned in close and said something in his ear. 
The gravedigger watched and wondered what possible words of comfort the old priest might offer to such a man. 
# 
It was the end of May when Frank told the gravedigger he’d been diagnosed with cancer. 
‘They’re going to try to treat it, but it’s spread to both lungs, so I won’t be holding my breath. So to speak.’ 
‘Jesus, Frank.’ 
‘Jesus, indeed. I’ll be stopping work at the end of the week. I’ll recommend to the council that you take over my job, but I don’t think they’ll wear it. You might get it interim, but in the long run they’ll want somebody older. I’ll do my best to make sure you keep the position you’re in now, though. I think I can probably manage that.’ 
‘Don’t worry about me, Frank. Just take care of yourself.’ 
Frank smiled ruefully. ‘I think it’s a bit late for that now, son. Take a word of advice from an old man. Quit the old coffin nails while you’re still young.’ 
As Frank had predicted, the council agreed to let the gravedigger take over the post of senior caretaker on a temporary basis – until such times, they said, as they were able to advertise the job on the general market. When that day arrived, he would, they assured him, be welcome to apply for the permanent position, and, not withstanding the outcome of his application, his post as assistant caretaker was guaranteed.  
The meeting with the council had taken place in early June. Now, halfway through October, he was still waiting for the job ad to appear. Nor had there been any sign of the upgraded contract and attendant pay rise that his new position as senior caretaker merited. 
Frank died at the end of July. According to his wishes not to become a ‘Happy Meal for the creepy crawlies’, his body was burned in the town crematorium. The gravedigger attended the funeral but managed to avoid the after-service reception by pleading illness. Nobody questioned his excuse, most probably because by the time of Frank’s death the depression that had been plaguing him since Christmas had begun to take a noticeable toll on his physical appearance. 
After leaving the crematorium he started back to the caravan, then changed direction and walked instead to the graveyard. When he arrived there, he went straight to the shed and took out a large wooden crate and a length of rope. He carried the box over to the willow tree near the gate, reversed it and planted it under one of the sturdier branches. Tying the hangman’s knot was easy enough. He had been practicing. When it was done, he climbed up on the box, secured the loose end of the rope to the branch and tightened the noose around his neck. 
He stood there breathing deeply. Before him, the old cemetery lay still and silent in the late morning sunshine. A bee flew close to his head, droning past with unhurried ease. Then, entirely unexpectedly, he heard a man’s voice. 
Don’t do it, my boy. 
The voice was followed by another. A woman’s. 
He’s right. Don’t do it. It’d be such a waste. Such a terrible, terrible waste. 
Her tone was warm and sympathetic, her accent unmistakeably Irish. 
‘But I can’t take anymore. I’m so alone. So horribly alone.’ 
But you’re not alone, said the woman’s voice. You have us. 
The statement was met by a general chorus of agreement, dozens of voices melding together in a warm expression of concern and compassion. 
You see, said the man. Now, how about you show a little gumption, my boy – a bit of the old Spirit of the Blitz. We can get all of this sorted out. All it’ll take is a bit of planning and some old-fashioned get-up-and-go. 
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ 
Oh, I think you do, my boy. I think you do. Now get down from your perch there and we can talk things over – come up with a strategy. 
For a long time the gravedigger did not move. Then, with a feeling like he was awakening from a strange dream, he lifted the noose over his head and stepped down from the box. 
# 
Father Doyle and the last of the mourners were gone now, and, save for the whispering voice of the rain, the cemetery was entirely silent. 
As was often the case, the Major spoke first. 
You’ll need your tools, my boy. 
The gravedigger nodded and started towards the shed. As he walked, the inevitable post-funeral analysis began. 
Shocking display by the mother, Mrs Murphy said, her voice full of disapproval. Absolutely shocking. 
She just lost a child, said Mrs Simpson in plot fourteen. Is it any wonder she was upset? 
Upset? I lost three during my lifetime and I never threw a tantrum like that. 
Not everyone is as special as you, Mrs Murphy, the Major said, his voice thick with irony. 
Mrs Murphy was indignant. Sarcasm is it!!? Well, you know what they say about sarcasm … 
The gravedigger reached the shed, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. On the opposite wall was a large wooden panel arrayed with tools, each of them suspended from a metal hook. He went over, took down the ones that he thought he would need and placed them on the large work desk that stood at the centre of the room. 
Stacked on one side of the desk was a pile of newspapers. He took a minute to look through them, pausing to read several of the headlines. 
STUDENT’S BODY DISCOVERED IN EDINBURGH’S OLD TOWN 
MURDER ON THE ROYAL MILE 
YOUNG WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN EDINBURGH CLOSE 
POLICE INVESTIGATION INTO CANONGATE MURDER CONTINUES 
Under the last of these – which was the most recent in date – was an article in which a witness gave a description of a youth spotted on the Royal Mile around the time of the murder. The witness described the young man as tall, of slight build, with dark shoulder length hair and a face that might have been referred to as ‘traditionally handsome’. 
Laying the newspapers aside, the gravedigger lifted his tools and walked to the door. 
# 
Outside, as if by some small miracle, the rain had stopped and sunlight had broken through the layers of bloated grey cloud to bathe the cemetery in a beautiful golden light. The arguing had also stopped, and as he walked slowly across the close-cut grass, the only perceptible sounds were the soft breathing of the autumn wind and the small voices of birds in the surrounding trees. As he drew close to the grave, however, something else was added – the low, harmonious resonance of human voices. 
They were singing. All of them. The old tune. The one that his mother had sung to him as a child. 
She stepped away from me 
And she moved through the fair 
And fondly I watched her 
Move here and move there 
Then she made her way homeward 
With one star awake 
As the swan in the evening 
Moves over the lake 
# 
Last night she came to me 
She came softly in 
So softly she came 
That her feet made no din 
Then she laid her hand on me 
And this she did say 
“It will not be long, love 
Till our wedding day” 
The last line of the song tailed off just as he reached the grave. Placing his tools carefully to one side, he knelt down on one knee and took a small red box from his pocket. Inside, resting on a tiny bed of white satin, was his mother’s wedding ring. 
He closed his eyes.  
‘I know I don’t deserve you. But if you think you can forgive me. If you think you can love me. Please tell me. Please let me know.’ 
For what seemed like a long time, he waited for an answer. But none came. 
Tears filled his eyes – burning, salt-filled drops of shame and despair. 
Then, rising up from the grave like cool water from the depths of a deep well, came the sound of her voice. 
Don’t cry, my love. 
I forgive you. 
I forgive you and I love you. 
A great communal sigh washed over the cemetery, and in its wake even the birds were silent in the trees. 
Opening the coffin was not difficult with the tools he had brought along. As he pulled back the lid, he saw that she was even more beautiful than he could have imagined. They had dressed her in a robe of white satin, her small delicate hands clasped across her breast in an attitude of beatific prayer. Carefully coiffured locks of shining hair fell around a face more sublime than that of any Renaissance Madonna.  
‘You’re home now,’ he said, his voice still choked with tears. ‘I brought you home.’ 
With hands trembling with love and reverence, he reached out and placed the ring on her cold, stiff finger. 
He was not surprised to find that it was a perfect fit. 
 
- END - 
 

The Rolling Stop
by
Gerald Arthur Winter


Marilyn hadn’t bought a new garment in the past three years. Her height had
diminished by several inches, and her dresses hung on her boney shoulders like those
on wire hangers in her walk-in closet. She had to supplement her diet with protein
shakes sold at the pharmacy. The flavors were limited, reminding her of Bonomo’s
Turkish Taffy advertised on Saturday morning TV when she was a child. Her mind
reverted to the past more frequently.
The taffy bars were promoted by “Bonomo the Magic Clown”. Vanilla,
chocolate, strawberry, and banana, only four flavors to vary weekly, so she broke
up the monotony by interspersing the other three with banana. Rumors of a proposed
almond shake gave her new hope for future diversity to entice her waning appetite
from perpetual dormancy.
Marilyn had stopped looking at her calendar since the new year. The only way
she kept track of time was garbage collection and recycling days. If her neighbors’
receptacles were at the curb, tomorrow was Thursday. Didn’t matter if she missed
collection day. Living alone since her parents passed away made little refuse to fill
a trash can in one week. Sometimes she put the can out at the curb with one small
plastic bag in it, so no one would come knocking on her door just to see if she were
dead.
That was her mother’s idea. She’d been conferring with Mom more often of
late. Dad was within shouting distance in the garage, but he was always too busy
working on his Studebaker to answer to anything other than, “Dinner’s ready!”
Dinner? Ready? She pondered, recalling a date marked on her calendar.
Forsythia was in bloom outside her kitchen window. Must be April. The
calendar was still open to January as if time had stopped. She admired the pine trees
that bordered her yard. They remained green, regardless of the season or extreme
weather. In the dead of winter, their green needles pierced the snow, and in a summer
drought, with all the other trees’ leaves brown and crumbling, from spruce to scrub
pine, they proudly stood erect, remaining forever green.
Ripping away the first three months from her calendar, she wished, she too,
could remain green forever, just like the pine trees. The she saw April 6th, circled
with a pink Magic Marker—her birthday—her 80th.
As she stared at the pink circle on the calendar, the phone rang, reminding
her of special plans for her birthday. The voice on the phone grounded Marilyn with
assurance that she had reached her milestone birthday unscathed without a glitch.
The familiar voice of her sister-in-law said, “I made our reservation at The
Lobster Shanty for one o’clock. If it’s crowded, we’ll have a scotch and shrimp
cocktail until our table is ready. Are you there, Marilyn?”
“Yes, Jeanette. How wonderful.”
Jeanette, was eighty-five, widowed twice, but Marilyn had never married.
Both were independent women long retired from their professions, Jeanette a
school nurse, and Marilyn a local retailer’s bookkeeper. Practical women, a scotch
and an occasional fine dinner were their only vices. Their minds were still sharp
and both drove separately to The Lobster Shanty giving their keys to the parking
valet. They hugged, pecked each other on the cheek, and went right to the bar
until their table was ready.
“Do you trust the valet with your keys,” Marilyn asked Jeanette, always a
reliable source for guidance and wisdom.
“My car is less than three years old, yours is eight. I’m not worried, so why
should you be? We’re insured,” Jeanette said with a wink.
Marilyn still drove her old Chevy to the bank, the post office, and the grocery
store. Though she’d neglected herself in recent years, her father had shown her how
to maintain her vehicle since she turned seventeen. Her car was her proudest possession,
so she cared for it meticulously.
They clicked their tumblers of scotch and the ice crackled as they harmonized:
“Cheers!”
“Happy Birthday, Marilyn, and welcome to the Octogenarian Club.”
“Do you think we’ll make ninety, Jennie?”
“I will. Too stubborn to kick the bucket. Places to see. Things to do. You’ve
become too settled, Marilyn. While nothing’s broken, and we still have our minds,
we should take a cruise around the world, ride on the Orient Express. If I were a man--
maybe I’d run with the bulls.”
“Now you’re being silly, Jennie?”
“Maybe tomorrow we won’t wake up. Little time left. Ought to do something
rash. Make our final moments a thrill.”
“Mom and Dad wouldn’t approve.”
“Why do you care?”
“They look at me strangely as if they know what I’m thinking. I was going to buy
a new shoulder bag I saw at Macy’s, but Mom scowled.”
“Your parents have been dead for almost twenty years, Marilyn. Just because you
let them run your life when they were here, you shouldn’t let them do it anymore, even
in your mind. Take their photographs down. Put them away in a drawer and live your
own life—what’s left of it.”
“I’ve imagined they’re sitting at my table having dinner with me recently.
Sometimes I feel as if they are there, not just in my imagination, like I could touch
them. One morning, the bathroom smelled like Aqua Velva as if Dad had just shaved.”
“We definitely need to book a cruise together and get you out of that house.
Look, our table’s ready.”


At a window seat overlooking the bay, they ordered the lobster special.
They put on their lobster bibs. Teary-eyed from laughter over shared memories,
they vowed to take a summer cruise together.
“We’ve got to disrupt the stagnation of our lives if we hope to make it to
ninety, Marilyn. Ah! Here comes your cake.”
A team of servers brought out two slices of chocolate layer cake, Marilyn’s
with a lit candle and a plastic “80” on the icing. The serving team sang Happy
Birthday, and surrounding dinner patrons applauded.
Across the dining room was an oval bar where wide-screen TVs showed
sporting events with the sound muted, but there was a bulletin across the bottom of
the screen saying there had been an armed robbery in a town nearby. One robber
had been shot, but another escaped. Apprehended a mile from The Lobster Shanty,
the second alleged robber claimed innocence and had no firearm in his possession.
Upon leaving to get their cars from the valet, they saw the muted coverage
of the bank robbery as the bar patrons exchanged comments about how shocked
they were that such a crime could ever happen in their quiet little town.
“See, Marilyn. If we don’t go out to find some excitement, it could come knock-
ing at our door when we least expect it. I’ll call you tomorrow about making our cruise
arrangements.”
They tittered and hugged good-bye as the valets opened their car doors and they
each got in. Jeanette waved and drove off. Marilyn fastened her seatbelt and checked her
hair in the sun-visor’s vanity mirror. Something felt odd about her car. She shrugged off
her suspicion and drove away but wrestled with her discomfort about the valet.
She neared home when it struck her. She kept a close watch on her odometer to
keep track of her gas milage. It was less than five miles from home to the restaurant, but
there were more miles on her odometer than the distance she had driven from home.
Marilyn’s mind raced with this discovery as she came to a familiar stop sign
to get onto the main road towards home, less than two miles away. She braked to check
her side-view mirror and ease into any oncoming traffic. Her car crawled forward with
a light foot on the brake pedal. No traffic was coming, so she slid her foot off the brake
onto the gas pedal and accelerated gradually to 25 mph where speed limit signs read
50 mph.
A siren blared, and flashing lights filled her rear-view mirror like an electric
Christmas decoration. She thought it must be an ambulance or a fire truck, but a
speaker from a local police car said: “Pull over onto the shoulder, mam.”
Her arthritically gnarled fingers shook on the steering wheel, and the sound
of her pulse in her ears kept in cadence with the pounding of her heart. She felt
light-headed, perhaps after drinking the scotch, but more so from the sudden
anxiety of the moment. Se had never been pulled over by the police, not in
sixty-three years of driving. Her parents would be disappointed.
She felt short of breath as she watched the police officer in her side-view
mirror, sidling up to her window. Young and sharp in his uniform, he tapped on
her window and motioned for her to open it.
With the peak of his hat pulled down to his sunglasses, she saw his nose
scrunch, most likely smelling the scotch from her breath.
Trying to clear her mind, Marilyn said, “I wasn’t speeding, officer. I
barely hit twenty-five miles an hour, half the speed limit.”
“You made a rolling stop, mam.”
“A what?”
“A rolling stop. You didn’t come to a full stop before entering the highway.
That’s a fifty-dollar fine. I must give you a summons, mam. Give me your license,
registration, and insurance card so I can write you up.”
“I just came from celebrating my eightieth birthday, officer. Must you
give me a ticket for such a minor offense? No other cars were involved.”
She saw in his firmly clenched jaw that her mercy plea perturbed him
even more.
“IDs, mam. Now!”
Her hands shook as she unfastened her seatbelt and leaned achingly to
her right to open her glove compartment for her registration. Her quivering
hands fumbled with a flashlight, the auto manual, a packet of Kleenex, and
something unfamiliar, perhaps long forgotten. She cradled everything to her
chest with her back to the officer then nervously dropped everything onto the
floor. From the shadows, her trembling hands took the unfamiliar object in
one hand and faced the officer.
She recalled what her mother had said at breakfast that morning:
“Always have your license and registration ready to show when a police
officer pulls you over. Fumbling makes them nervous. That can be dangerous.”
The sound of the police officer’s firearm blurred images of an endless
cruise with Jeanette, rippling on a turquoise sea into utter blackness.
Video from the police officer’s body-cam showed Marilyn’s
encounter with him at the traffic stop in constant replay on every news
network. Marilyn’s still-frame photo was blown up on every newspaper’s
front page showing her aiming a pistol at the officer before he shot her
between the eyes.
In the aftermath, Jeanette, was speechless for months. Tears ran down
her cheeks as she remained sequestered in a nursing home after Marilyn’s
untimely passing. Though she regretted losing the chance to cruise around
the world with Marilyn in their final days, she envied her dramatic exit. The
notoriety of her connection to the bank robbery and ensuing fate of her
pistol-packing sister-in-law, gave Jeanette a primary seat at dinner hour.
She wondered what Marilyn’s parents might be saying now as she
read the latest article about Marilyn’s 80th birthday celebration:
SENIOR GETS DEATH PENALTY FOR A ROLLING STOP

 The Practical Joker


by K. A. Williams



The music carried me to a world where worries and deadlines did not exist. What was that pounding noise? I didn't recall a heavy drum sound in that particular section of the song. There it was again. I turned off the stereo just in time to hear a loud voice command, "Police! Open up!"

Police?! I scrambled to my feet and stumbled over some scattered books on my way to the door. I flipped on the front door's porch light and peered out the peephole to a black nothingness. The bulb must have burned out. I had my hand on the doorknob and hesitated. "Are you sure you have the right address, officer?"

"We've received an anonymous tip that you're harboring a fugitive."

"A fugitive?!" I opened the door and a figure brushed by me on the way inside. I closed the door and turned. "Bob!" I regarded the blond-haired, blue-eyed man who was laughing as he thrust the porch light bulb into my hand. I set it down on the table amid several cardboard pizza boxes and empty beer cans while Bob, my nearest neighbor on this stretch of Carolina coastline, continued to laugh.

"You should have seen your face," he gasped between guffaws. "This was even better than the time I had your car towed away at the supermarket."

When Bob's laughter subsided, he helped himself to a can of beer from my refrigerator before reclining in my favorite chair and placing his feet on the ottoman after tossing some magazines off it to the floor. "You need a maid, Todd, you're such a slob."

"Thanks a lot." I moved some magazines from my second favorite chair and sat down.

"How's the new book coming?" he asked after taking a large swallow of beer. 

"Fine. I returned last night from interviewing Kyle Buchanan. He claimed to have been abducted by humanoid aliens and taken back to their planet. He said it was similar to Earth with regard to atmosphere and plant and animal life. My new book will center on his alleged experiences."

Bob blinked a few times. "Alleged. The way you said that sounds like you don't believe him. I thought you believed in all that stuff. I mean, isn't that the main reason you write books about human encounters with aliens?"

My fans automatically assumed I actually believed in the alien encounters I wrote about. So did my editor. I normally just went along with the idea, but I had wanted to tell someone the truth for a long time. Why not Bob? 

"No, their stories are crazy. I do it for the money. How else could I afford a house on the beach?"

"Huh. I always thought you believed." He finished off his beer and added his empty can to the rest of the clutter. "Let's go outside, I need some air. You should open a few windows and let the ocean breeze in once in awhile." I caught a glimpse of a small black box in his hand before he shoved it back into his pocket and opened the back door.

Bob led the way down the wooden stairs onto the sand and we walked to the water's edge. I had often wondered how he could afford a beach house. When I asked him one day what he did for a living, he only said he was a private consultant, but he never said what kind.

I sunk my bare toes into the soft sand, listened to the crashing surf, breathed the salty breeze, and gazed at the shimmering golden path the full moon cast upon the darkened sea.

"I've got something to tell you," Bob said.

I could feel the coming of another practical joke. "So tell me."

"I had surgery to look human and studied Earth's culture so I could blend in. I've been on this planet for five years. Because of your books, we thought you were a believer and would be a good ally for us when the time came to reveal ourselves to the world. But now I see you are a disbeliever and must be dealt with in the proper manner. I've signaled my ship and it's coming for you."

"I suppose you called it on that black box you made sure I saw."

"Yes, I did."

"I don't believe you. After we met for the first time, you called the power company, pretended to be me and had my electricity turned off. And you've been playing practical jokes on me ever since." 

Lights appeared on the horizon far out over the ocean. "Good timing, but it's just a plane." And it was. I laughed when it passed by and headed inland.

I stopped laughing when something suddenly materialized overhead, bright lights revolving along its circular frame. A green beam extended from the ship and danced along the sand at my feet.

Bob said, "Now you will know what we do to disbelievers," and pulled me into the beam with him. Green light circled us and we moved upward. I struggled and bumped against the light. Then I was falling. 

I managed to take a deep breath before slamming hard into the ocean. Water closed over my head as I sank lower, a red haze forming before my eyes. Finally I surfaced and gulped in the fresh air. A green light moved along the water searching for me. I dove back under. When I surfaced again, it was gone.

I swam toward the shore, thankful for swimming lessons and the full moon. When I was close enough to touch bottom, a huge wave knocked me down under it. Strong hands pulled me out of the surf and deposited me onto the shore where I coughed up the burning salt water.

I brushed the wet hair from my eyes and looked up to see my rescuer. "You had me worried." Bob grinned as he pulled me to my feet. "I just wanted you to see inside my ship."



 The End


First published in The Ultimate Unknown in 1997. Later published in 2021 in Altered Reality. 

Bitter Fruits
Of Worlds Past


by
Gerald Arthur Winter




Trina’s favorite treat was an exotic fruit with a sweet red core but a tart skin
the fluffy blue of a red-legged honey creeper’s downy breast. Her friends ate only the
succulent core, leaving their stuffed faces streaked with red lines down to their neckless
shoulders. Trina told them they looked like bleeding bestial offspring of an extinct
cannibalistic predator. Everyone had a strong opinion about the fruit, but its ubiquitous
presence on the planet Tibullus made all forget its name or origin. Eating the nameless
fruit was like breathing air, a life-giving force that all took for granted, except Trina.
To make herself unique in the eyes of suitors for her hand in marriage, Trina ate
the entire fruit to prove her bravery and to assert that she was better than her common
friends who knew only the sweetness of life. Chomping on the blue husks of the fruit,
she never grimaced from its commonly accepted bitterness. None other than Trina
ever dared test its assumed unsavory tang for fear the results of such madness would
be deadly.
“One day, if Fate brings ill winds to Tibullus, only I shall be prepared to embrace
its cruel consequences, while you chubby-cheeked core suckers, who know only the
sweet, privileged spoils at the core of bitter fruits, will perish. With only my pursed
lips to kiss a future king, the sour husks of my harvest will make me Queen of Tibullus.
The King shall choose me above all others, not for fleeting beauty or sexual ecstasy,
but for my unyielding strength and grit. Harsh encounters build strength to endure.”
One day a new girl in the commune, younger and alluring, challenged Trina’s
assertion that only she was brave enough to eat the blue husk of the nameless fruit.
“I declare that you are bluffing, Trina, a childless, disgruntled witch, whose
claims of the fruit’s danger is a lie you fill our ears with to carry yourself above us.
I’m more attractive than you will ever be, and I am as sweet at my core as the
nameless fruits of Tibullus. No would-be king would ever choose you over me
unless he were a fool.”
Trina took the fruit in one hand, tossed it up and down then flipped it to
the challenging usurper, Renatta.
“Show us your courage, silly girl, but I’ll not be responsible for your demise.”
Renatta looked at the oval-shaped fruit, the size of a goose egg in the palm
of her hand. The other girls began to chant her name to give her courage. They all
resented Trina’s bullying reign over their lives. They all thought of themselves as
sweet as the red core of the fruit that gave them daily sustenance and stained
their lips red, and so ripe for aspiring young men to kiss their sugary, puckered
mouths.
“I’ll prove you a liar,” Renatta proclaimed. “If I survive, you must promise
to depart from our commune forever, leaving yourself bare in the icy mountains that
surround our valley. You will be our sacrifice to the gods that keep this ill wind you
claim will harm us from ever blowing in our direction.”
“And if you die from partaking of the nameless fruit’s entirety, from pit to
husk, your corpse shall be chopped into pieces then scattered as carrion for the
pterosaurs’ annual migration to the nearby blue planet we dare not recognize,
but rather address in futile blabber as if it had some significance to life as we
know it on Tibullus.”
“Agreed, liar. Prepare for your naked journey into hell!” Renatta shouted,
chomping voraciously into the nameless fruit. The sweet, juicy, red core rained
from her lips and trickled in scarlet streams down her breast cleavage to her
exposed navel. The gnashing of her teeth through the blue husk turned the
oozing flow into visceral purple globs until all was consumed to the last lap of
Renatta’s lavender tongue to clean her sticky fingers. She winked at the other
girls encircled for the challenge then gasped with a clutch of her throat constricted
with blue veins as if about to burst.
The gaggle of wide-eyed girls cooed with sympathy for Renatta, certain
she would soon be afflicted with a cruel and sudden death. Then she let out an
extended belch that made all aghast, covering their faces with raised arms.
Slowly they lowered their protective limbs to peek above a forearm to see
Renatta smiling and turning with a victorious glare at Trina.
“Tear her tunic from her wretched limbs, and I’ll escort her naked,
shamefully dishonest presence from our valley commune to the base of
the glacier. I’ll take her into the mountains where the gods will partake of her
flesh as she would have had mine consumed by pterosaurs in their brief pause
on Tibullus during their annual migration from the red planet to the blue planet
we merely imagine in our dreams,” Renatta proclaimed, already expounding
with words of self-assurance that flowed like an unending spring.
Trina spread her arms in surrender to the girls ripping away her tunic
then gave Renatta a defying stare.
“Will you cut me into bite-sized pieces for the gods to consume my
flesh, Renatta, or would you have them devour me alive in shrieking horror?”
“I have no wish to see you suffer, only to be gone. I’ll leave that choice
to you.”
“Accompany me to the great ice flow then cut my throat. I prefer the flow of
blood from my body to numb me from the bitter cold and the gnashing teeth of the
gods at my limbs. They will save my heart till my last dying breath. When it comes to
our consumption, gods are no less voracious than Pteranodon. They gnaw at the
bones of truth to make us obedient to lies told so long ago they become assumed.”
“You are guilty of such lies yourself, Trina, and just to make you feared and
respected above the other girls, a selfish act, unworthy of good character.”
“In order to have good character, one must live. Sometimes a white lie,
or half-truth is the greater good for all.”
“Your lie about the deadly danger of eating the blue husk of the nameless
fruit was self-serving.”
“Then how could I, and no other, be the one granted by Fate to know the
fruit by its rightful name?”
“You lie again, even at Death’s door?”
Trina grinned. “You were right to call me a witch, Renatta, for I am the
offspring of a great sorcerer known as Nebula. He lived one hundred and fifty
years and was keeper of all the treasured secrets of Tibullus. I am his great-great-
great-granddaughter to whom he granted lock and key to those treasures of
knowledge. He cast a spell over Tibullus so none would know the name of the
succulent fruits of scarlet with harsh blue husks. It is that rigid, undigestible,
blue shell that shields its sweet red center from its name, Veritas, after the
goddess of truth.”
“What truth?”
“That consuming all of the Veritas fruit will make you die, but some
quicker than others. The great Nebula gave me an innate immunity to the
poison husks of Veritas, but not forever. Perhaps for a hundred and fifty
years like him. You, however, may still die before you return to our valley.
One can’t be certain.”
“I can be certain of one thing,” Renatta hissed. “I’ll cut your throat!”
Skilled with her knife, she slashed Trina’s throat and watched the brilliant
stream of red gush down her naked body. As Trina’s eyes dilated, her skin turned
blue like the husk of a Veritas fruit. She wiped Trina’s blood off her knife and
returned it to the sheath on her tunic’s waistband. She turned back only once
to see that Trina’s blood had saturated the ice around her corpse and her skin
was as blue as the distant blue planet she’d been taught to ignore since she’d
been weened and learned to walk.
Reaching the gates to the commune, she turned back towards the mountains
and saw against the setting sun, the flapping wings of pterosaurs silhouetted against
the orange glow. The chill winds off the glacier carried their squawking shrieks to
the valley, making Renatta shudder with visions of Trina’s consumption by the
sharp claws and beaks of the merciless, insatiable predators.
The effect of digesting the entire Veritas startled Renatta. She saw the
winged Pteranodon as the gods they prayed to daily as truth in its raw entirety,
that she, as all inhabitants of Tibullus, would perish from such total knowledge.
Entering the gates to the commune, she was startled to see all her friends,
her new followers who would replace Trina with her as their exalted leader, lying
prone in a circle of their own blood. Their mouths looked like rubies and their
skin glowed with a bluish hue. The daily basket filled with Veritas was empty,
and just a few husks of the once nameless fruit remained clutched, half-eaten
in the young girls’ clenched fists.
Renatta felt her own life slipping away as the cackling flock of pterosaurs
blackened the sky above her. They swooped down to feed on the remains of the
carrion left by their Veritas consumption. Still aware, Renatta felt the sharp pain
from one of her eyes plucked out by a sharp beak. Myopically, she watch the
carnivorous flock heading towards the blue planet, suddenly more real and
tangible than Tibullus, which was most likely, just the vaporous effect of
a bad dream after the unwise partaking of forbidden fruit rooted in an
unearthly sphere.

A Haunted House

By Virginia Woolf

WHATEVER HOUR you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure, ­a ghostly couple.

"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here too!" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."

But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it," one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling­, what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. "The Treasure yours."

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning­" "Silver between the trees­" "Upstairs­" "In the garden­" "When summer came­" "In winter snowtime­" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years­" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure­." Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."

The Lost Book of Annabella

© 2000

An excerpt from an apocryphal tale by

Gerald Arthur Winter

  
Ellen awoke to the touch of a damp cloth to her sore lips, cracked and scabby from the lack of water. They were all suffering from dehydration, but it seemed to be taking its worst toll on her, perhaps because she was using her voice so much and her mouth could not draw enough saliva to let her swallow without pain. As she sucked on the cloth held in Ted's hand, she wondered if their end was drawing near, or if by some miracle they might be found before it was too late.
"No, Ellen, it's only me, just Ted. I imagine you were expecting Jesus." He winked. "You're not well, kiddo, but far from dead. We're getting another steady trickle of water from our new dig. Hang tough, kid."
“I’m sorry I couldn't read anymore," she said loud enough for Eli to hear from behind Ted, where he was using cloths to soak up water from the cave’s floor for them to drink. "I know how it all turns out now. Let me tell you about the horse race," she said, compelled to keep reading.
"Ellen, relax. We know all about the race. You read that part to us just before you collapsed."
"I did? I don't remember," she said with a glazed stare. "You're just humoring me. How does it turn out?"
Ted looked concerned as he said, "Annabella had the race won. She would have beaten Caligula, but she slowed down at the finish to let Sebastian mount Raven with her."
"Then they escaped into the wilderness on horseback," Eli added. "With Sadaq not far behind, and after him, a dozen Romans led by Justin, who was
commanded by Caligula to bring back Raven and Annabella to Samaria."
"You do know the story, but I thought I merely dreamt it. Do you think they'll escape?"
"Perhaps from the Romans," Eli said. "But I wouldn't bet against Sadaq catching up with them. He's shrewd and knows the wilderness. He reminds me of myself."
"Oh, really," Ted smirked. "You remind me more of Jozabad."
"What? That disgusting horse trader. He acts more like your kind than mine."
"Please, don't," Ellen whispered hoarsely. "Next thing you'll be saying I'm more like Amanda than Annabella.”
“Oh, no, Ellen, you remind me very much of that stubborn wench, Ted joked to get a smile out of her. “Of course, if Sebastian were a Jew, instead of a Greek
gentile, I might identify with that boy’s shrewdness.
"Hah!" Eli laughed. "I don't know, Ted. You have some tendencies that I'd readily compare to the Hellenistic Jews of that time. The educated Jews of
wealthy families set many traditions aside in favor of worldly knowledge. The laws of Moses were secondary to their intellectual appreciation of the arts and
philosophy. When is the last time you had a BLT from the local deli at home?"
"I liked it better when you lost your voice,    Ellen," Ted grumbled. "That'll be enough water for you for now."
They suddenly realized that they had survived another crisis for the time being. As Ted had said before, the water came like manna to the Jews wandering in the wilderness in search of the Promised Land. It would last just long enough to revive them, allowing them to go on, but there was never enough to store. They could not maintain any sense of security or well-being. Death hung over them every hour. Hope wavered and rallied with peaks and valleys that led them to no solution. They remained trapped with no knowledge if anyone above had noticed their absence. By the time someone did, it might be too late.

Days seemed an eternity, but they had about a week's worth of food left, if they just kept their heads. Water was always in question. They maintained the theory that a larger supply of water was soon within their reach, but within a week, the lack of food might end their plight in starvation anyway.
They continued to keep their sanity with the words from the ancient scroll and the story Ellen read to them aloud about Annabella as she fled into the wilderness with Sebastian. Much like themselves, these two teenagers from those ancient times had no apparent objective, other than to survive from one day to the next.
While thirst and starvation challenged Ellen, Ted and Eli, the elements in the wilderness seemed a minor menace to Annabella and Sebastian as they peered from a high cliff above the northwest bank of the Dead Sea.
  
They saw Sadaq below following their trail two
miles away. And another five miles behind him was a cloud of dust made by a dozen Roman horses led by
 Justin to bring them back to Samaria to face the  adolescent tyrant, Caligula.
"This was your idea, Sebastian," Annabella
grumbled crossly. "This conniving has put us in a worse position than before. Do you realize that I had to strike that hateful brat to keep him from beating me with his whipping crop. Look at my tunic! See my torn flesh! With no clean water and herbs, my wounds will become infected. I'll catch the fever and probably die because of this stupid plan of yours!"
"Have you finished complaining?" Sebastian said calmly.
"No! If Sadaq finds us, he'll just take you back as his slave. What's the harm?”
“But he vowed to cut out my heart if I didn't win that race," she said.
"Perhaps he'll die of old age before he'll find a heart to cut out of you," he volleyed sarcastically.
"Oh, you!" She struck him with the back of her fist. "And Caligula will surely make my end slow and   painful for striking him. What has this world come to, Sebastian? Would Rome truly conceive of letting such a horrid demon ascend the throne of Caesar?"
"He's just a kid. Wait till he comes of age. May the spirit of all goodness help us then."
"So, wise sorcerer, what plan have you now for us to escape those who are in pursuit of us?"
"From this vantage point I see a unique opportunity. "We must get you to the Dead Sea where the salt will clean your wound before it's too late."
"At least you recognize my true peril."
"Yes. Those festering wounds must be cured."
"No magic potions?"
"Sorry, everything I do is just a trick."
"How nice to know now that I must depend solely on your good judgment to spare me."
"Enough of your bitterness, girl. It serves us not. There below, see if my plan is within reason. Notice the steady pace at which Sadaq pursues our trail. He will soon follow us up these cliffs and share our vantage point, but we shall be gone."
"Where shall we go?
"We must climb straight down from here and leave Raven behind."
"But, Sebastian, with no horse we shall be trapped in this wilderness on foot. Surely we shall die."
"There are some inhabitants of this territory, those who keep to themselves and stay hidden from the Romans as if the Empire did not exist. They are hermits of a sort, religious men of piety who will not harm us, and may provide temporary shelter. I can see no further than that at the moment."
"At least you are honest with me for a change."
"The other reason for leaving Raven is to quell Sadaq's fury over losing him. If he could at least have Raven back, he might give up on us if the chase seems otherwise fruitless."
"That sounds reasonable, but I'm not sure that Sadaq is a reasonable man. He said he would cut out my heart."
"Don't you agree that for us to relinquish Raven to him is worth the chance to diminish some of his anger?"
"Yes."
"Good. Our task is a question of timing. You see we must descend this cliff and get to the sea before Sadaq gains this vantage point to see us as we see him now."
"Yes, I understand. But what about Justin and his troops?"
"That is the other matter. We must pass well before them, or preferably, after them, as they follow Sadaq's tracks down there. The trail is quite clear, so it would be best to cut across it to the sea after they've passed. But their visibility below on the flat sand is far, perhaps ten furlongs. These Romans are strategically clever. They did not conquer the world by luck. They will have eyes in the backs of their heads."
Annabella assessed the situation from their viewpoint. Sadaq was just a distant speck directly below, between them and the shoreline. His horse's gait seemed labored, but from so far a distance there was no way of telling why. It appeared as if the Romans were gradually gaining ground on Sadaq, but their pace was more deliberate, just as Sebastian had predicted.
"I wonder if Sadaq's horse is injured," she said. "He rides awkwardly, but I can't tell why. You don't suppose he has Jozabad on the horse with him slowing him down?"
"No, Sadaq would have looked out for himself. I'm sure he left the horse trader to fend for himself with the Romans. I can't tell what the problem is either. His
horse might be lame. In that case, he'll be even more grateful to have Raven back, and may leave us well alone to return to Arabia where no one rules over him."
She peered over the precipice and closed her eyes with an affirmative shake of her head then asked him, “Do you hear that voice again?
"Not as I did before. But I feel we are not alone. That if we are not meant to climb down from this cliff, something will stop us from doing so."
She stared at him curiously, wondering why such reasoning was so absurd to her, yet made perfect sense in light of what they had shared thus far. Sebastian assessed the progress of their pursuers once more before leading Annabella down the craggy cliffs toward the Salt Sea where she hoped to heal her wounds.
 
Ellen stopped reading and set the scroll down in her lap. "They were here," she said to Ted and Eli.
"Who was?" Ted shrugged as he set the pick aside and dampened his lips with a moist cloth.
"Those children," Eli offered. "Yes, we are near the cliffs described in the scroll."
"Of course. Sebastian and Annabella escaped from Sadaq and the Romans in these caves," she said with a glow of  revelation. "This is where they recorded their story."
"Wait a minute, Ellen," Ted reminded her. "You said that the scroll was written in three different languages throughout. Who could've written it?"
"I don't know for sure yet, but my opinion is that it was all written by one person."
"One person, but three languages?" Ted looked doubtful. "Isn't that a little like your - - what is it? Father, Son, and Holy Ghost routine. I think you're getting carried away."
"Now you're really being cynical again, Ted. Don't infer that from what I said. I'm implying that Sebastian could be the author. He was a scribe to an Eastern prince, and if you recall, when he announced the race to the Samaritans, Sadaq valued Sebastian's linguistic skills."
"She's right, Ted," Eli agreed.
Ted gave him a strange look, surprised to hear Eli being familiar enough with him to call him Ted.
"Same handwriting, huh?" Ted asked pensively.
"I can't be certain yet, but I have no reason to think it isn't. But isn't this neat?"
"Oh, sure. Really neat, huh, Eli?"
"What is neat?"
"You know, cool or . . . never mind," Ted said with frustration. "Actually, it really would be neat under other circumstances, such as we discovered the scroll before Eli decided to eradicate Israel with his cute little SCUD. Fact is, nobody will ever know about this scroll even if it is gospel. Face it, Ellen. We're beaten."
"How can you say that, Ted? Did Sebastian and Annabella give up? No. And what do they have to look forward to in their lifetimes? Roman occupation of their country. Enslavement. Another four hundred years of Roman tyranny, only to be conquered by barbarians. Look what we have to look forward to Ted, Eli. We've got two thousand years on these kids. A lot of mistakes and hard lessons from history. We're in a position to know better," she turned her argument to Eli. "There's no need for war. We can all live together in harmony. We have our differences and there have been confrontations here, major disagreements. But aren't we pulling together for the survival of all of us, now that we have put all that garbage behind us?"
"I dunno," Ted shrugged with a half-hearted grumble.
"You would like to make things black and white, right and wrong, Ellen," Eli said. "The world is not that way. It does not allow us to be that way."
"Eli, don't you try to make it black and white yourself with those who are of Islam and those who are not?" she said. "You wonder why Arabs are regarded as terrorists by Western culture. Just look at you and how your religious war has backfired in your face."
"We did not start this," he argued. "You cannot plant these Jews in a land that has become ours with time. Would you return your best lands to your native Americans? Would you send your former black slaves back to Africa to create havoc with the new black nations? Certainly not. You have simply used the Torah to claim land to which these Jews no longer have a claim. Since the U.S. Government would not take in these Jewish refugees after World War II, you've given them our land just to appease the financially influential Jews in your country. You should have taken the refugees yourself in 1945. Then you would understand."
"Without the Jews in Israel," Ted said. "Israel would be a poor flea-ridden desert just like the Arab nations. If we had oil to suck from the land, so that just a few of the oppressive militants could live like kings while the masses starved, then we could call ourselves Arabs like you."
"You see, Ellen," Eli said. "We have not come so far as you would like to think from those ancient days. The United States is just like Rome, setting up its token, puppet leaders of governments in foreign lands. At least the Romans were honest about that. They did not try to camouflage their tyranny as something else. The Israeli Government is no different from the way an ethnarch, like Herod, was at the time of your Jesus. They catered to Caesar then, and America now."
"Fine. All I'm doing is seeking the truth about events of the past. I don't know how they will effect the present. But I'm trained to interpret these findings. I'll do it to the best of my ability till we run out of water and food and air. As a Christian, I'll maintain my faith that we shall be delivered, all of us. No doubt, you'll both do what you want in any case. We'll hear the same story from this scroll and interpret it differently to suit ourselves. That's not my concern. I only want to bring it to light, to make it available for consideration, when before, it was not. Who knows what we might learn from this reading? If Sebastian and Annabella were hiding in this area, we might get some insight about these caves. After all, we  found the scrolls here. They must have survived to write them. Sebastian, Annabella, or someone else kept a literary account of their story." 
"What if it's just that, a story?" Ted said. "Like The Iliad and The Odyssey, pure entertainment."
"It still gives us elements of the past to which we can relate. Did The Grapes of Wrath bear no truth about the Great Depression? Was War and Peace, or The Tale of Two Cities of no historical significance to us today?" Ellen said, continuing to read:
 
The cliff was steep and their descent was precarious with loose rocks sliding under their sandals making them fall and slip close to the edge where any plunge would be fatal. They had to be wary of every step, yet move without drawing at­ tention to themselves from the clever Roman troop led by Justin to bring them back to Samaria. Sadaq was their least concern for the moment, since he would not be turning back to face the Romans, but would be more attentive to their trail leading upward through the mountain.
'Tm frightened, Sebastian," Annabella said, clutching his hand for dear life. "This height makes me dizzy. I don't think this was a good idea."
"Too late to turn back. It would be harder to return than to continue to climb down. There can be no turning back now. The choice was made and we are stuck with it. Don't look down. Just look into my eyes," he said, leading her down to the next ledge still fifty cubits above the Dead Sea below.
She fell into his arms and they both stumbled, losing their balance and rolling a dozen cubits towards the very edge of the cliff before Sebastian managed to grab the thick root of a young terebinth which, alone among the jagged cliffs, gave him the support to hold onto Annabella with the other hand to keep her from falling to her certain death.
"Thank God for that tree," Annabella noted the straggly branches of the undernourished scrub with more vines imbedded in the cliff than there were branches to bloom.
Sebastian stared at the tree as if it were a person who had extended him a hand. He thought he heard Annabe1la say something to him again. "What? What did you say?"
"Thank God for that tree."
"No, after that?"
"I said nothing, nothing else."
"I think so. Yes, you are right. We do. We certainly do thank God. Praise your God for this tree. Praise and many thanks to Yahweh, your mother's god. For none of this could be the work of any god I've known before. He speaks to me. What god would speak to me?"
"What is wrong with you, Sebastian? You look so strange."     
"You did not hear?"
"Hear what?"
"The voice. You did not hear it. That's what I was afraid of. Perhaps I am out of my wits. Maybe we should turn back. I'm hearing no reply. Let's do it. I'm sorry, Annabe1la. I've made a blunder. Come. We'll take our chances with Sadaq. At least we'll have Raven to appease him."
"Are you sure? Your plan had some merit."
“I’m sure of nothing. Let's turn back.”
 
She took his hand, and he pulled her up to the level from which they had just painfully descended. Then a stone rattled just above their heads and bounced past them and over the edge of the cliff all the way to the bottom, so they presumed, for no sound followed. They stared blankly at each other with puzzlement. When they stretched to see above the next ledge the dark face of Sadaq's giant eunuch glared at them close enough for them to each feel the warmth of the African's breath in their faces.
They both screamed in terror, stumbling backwards and ro11ing back to their former position of clinging to the branch which saved them again from going over the edge.
Sadaq's angry voice echoed down the precipice, "Get them, Radu! The Romans come rapidly!"
Obeying his master's command, the seven-foot African got up from the ledge where he had been lying on his stomach to sneak up on Sadaq's prey. He leaped down to the next ledge where Sebastian and Annabella clung in desperation to the terebinth root. As Radu lunged toward them, his foot was ensnared by another root and he fell forward. His long sinewy frame twitched awkwardly like a fish thrown up on shore. He could not cry out. His tongue had been cut out in his adolescence, in addition to his manhood, when Persians had made him their property. His chest heaved in pain as he dangled by one ankle over the cliff. His would-be captives watched in terror as the giant writhed in pain. The root of the tree did not weaken despite Radu's awesome size and powerful struggle.
  
"Get up from there, Radu! Now! Seize that disloyal servant and the thankless concubine!" Sadaq shouted, but the harder Radu struggled the more hopeless his situation became.
"Come down yourself!" Annabella shouted back at him with a voice unfamiliar even to herself.
Sadaq did not have to give the notion any thought. He had his favorite horse again. The Romans could never catch him, even if they suddenly appeared and tried to take him. Sadaq still had what he valued most, yet could not bear to give to others, his freedom. The Romans, after all, would soon be upon them, and would probably punish both Sebastian and Annabella beyond his own expectations.
"I leave you all to the Romans!" Sadaq cried out, rearing
Raven up on his hind legs and shrilling a battle cry before vanishing in a cloud of dust from Raven's hooves. Sebastian and Annabella stared face to face, each hoping for some clue from the other. Radu's long arm reached painfully back behind him for help. His dark hand shook with the strain and pain of his effort
just within Sebastian's grasp. He stared blankly at the quivering hand.
"What?" Sebastian said to Annabella? "Did you say something, or was it the voice again?"
"Save him," she said. "He was a slave just as we were. With Sadaq gone, he has no quarrel with us, and we have none with him."
"Are you serious?" 
'Tm not as strong as you, Sebastian. But if you won't give                                                                              
him a hand, I will."
He sighed wearily and clasped the giant hand in his own as Annabella offered some leverage and verbal support.
"Radu, there's another root to your right. It looks as if it will hold your weight," she guided him. "Grab it now, tightly and I'll pull you by your other hand."
With support and guidance from both, Radu regained a leveraged position on the ledge. His sore ankle slipped from the loop of the root, which seemed to release him with the gentleness of a flower opening its petals to the morning sun. Sebastian pointed to the seashore still far below. Radu nodded affirmatively. The threesome continued the descent away from the troop of a dozen Romans who would soon gain the vantage point to view them from above.
Radu was a great help to them with his height and great strength. The African eunuch used the sign language of Sadaq's harem to communicate with Sebastian. He told him that he had been the child-prince of a great tribe in the land south of Egypt known as Cush between the River Nile and the Red Sea. His tribe was known for its great height and strength. Every boy at the age of twelve had to kill a male lion with his spear to prove his manhood to the tribe.
Radu lamented that he had been robbed of proving himself because Persians had attacked his father's tribe on horseback by crossing from the land of Sheba into the land of Cush at the southern narrows of the Red Sea. His mother, Zanibu, was the youngest wife of his father, the king of his tribe. She had been captured by the Persians when she was just fifteen and already several months pregnant with Radu.
As was the custom of the Persians, they kept his beautiful mother as one of the spoils of their conquest to present her as a                               
concubine for their own king in the land east of Elam beyond the River Tigris. There Radu was born, castrated and made mute to be trained as a eunuch slave in the king's service. The only other alternative left to his mother was Radu's death. She chose life, altered as it was, for her only child, who was forbidden to be nursed by Zanibu.
The separation from Radu broke her heart and she died giving birth before the age of twenty. Her other child lived. Radu's half-brother, Tobat, was the other eunuch slave left behind in Samaria when Sadaq fled from the Romans. Tobat was half Persian and half African. When Sadaq attacked the Persian prince, the eunuch half-brothers were taken with the Persian's harem. Sadaq admired all purebred chattel, so in his mind, Radu was the thoroughbred of his favor over the mongrel, Tobat. Though the African blood dominated Tobat, and to most they would pass for twins, Sadaq felt that the blood flowing in Radu's veins was superior to Tobat's in every fiber of his being. Thus, Sadaq chose Radu, above all others, to take with him in pursuit of his favorite horse, Raven. 
"It appears that our master's plan has turned against  him," Sebastian responded to Radu's story. "But at least he has his horse. Look there, below and toward the shoreline, Sadaq has made a bold move." Annabella and Radu paused in their climb to see Sadaq in the distance south of them. Rather than trying to avoid the Roman troop by hiding, the Arab bolted across their path at great speed. Their surprise left them flat-footed. They had no hope of ever catching up to Raven, but neither did they wish to pursue Sadaq to the south into desolate Arabia.
Giving up on returning Raven to Caligula, Justin concentrated on his pursuit of Sebastian and Annabella who would now suffer dearly for Caligula's other loss. The three of them watched as the Romans disappeared at the base of the distant cliffs and followed the trail they had left, just as Sadaq had done before them.
"With Sadaq gone, we have a better chance," Sebastian surmised. "We still need to clean Annabella's wounds in the sea. We have another fifty cubits to descend. Let's go."
Radu used his great height to lower himself to each ledge then offered the support of his long arms to the other two as they clung to the cliff and balanced their weight against the African. The afternoon sun was rapidly descending. Sebastian suggested that they wait until dark before trying to get to the sea.
"Less chance of the Romans seeing us at night, especially from that vantage point above," he reasoned. "If we could just get to the ground below and wait till dark, we'll have a good chance to make it to the sea without being seen. Then we can return to the cliffs to hide."
"What then?" Annabella asked.
"Isn't that enough for now?"
Radu used his hands to tell them they would need to get at least one of the Romans' horses if they hoped to survive. Annabella was terrified of deliberately encountering the Romans. The image of the horrid Caligula burned in her mind.
"I thought we were escaping," she stammered. "I don't want to go back to Samaria. There are a dozen Romans against us.
Radu gave her a sympathetic smile but communicated to Sebastian that this land was too harsh, especially for Annabella. He indicated that he could by instinct and that Sebastian would most likely survive in any hostile environment by his wits, but Annabella was soft and unused to doing without the comforts of a home--
Ted interrupted Ellen's reading with his chortling.
"They should've had you along for the ride, Ellen," he said. "You'd probably be biting off the heads of snakes by now if you were there back then with those kids."
"Oh, shut up," she said, throwing a loose stone at him.
Eli grinned, then his whole face lit up and he broke into laughter. They were all pent up with frustration over their entrapment for so long. All three began to laugh near tears, so that their voices boomed off the close quarters of the cave.
Suddenly, there was a tremor which shook them from all sides. They fell silent. Their eyes widened and ears perked. Their minds questioned the source of these tremors and, of course, if it would be good or bad for them. They had no idea how stable the ceiling of the cave was above them. They might be crushed. Then again, the vibrations could have been from something external, some machinery, maybe even a rescue party. The cave was still as they sat motionless, waiting for another tremor, an after-shock, anything that would give them some hope.
Finally, Ellen broke the silence saying, "What was that? Is the cave shifting or is someone trying to find us?"
Eli and Ted exchanged concerned looks, aware of the amount of rock they had removed from the wall in the past week. There was a lot of rock above them and water that had shifted from their digging. Something had to give. They all knew it and had tried to ignore that eventuality. Now it loomed at their doorstep, like a great bear waking from hibernation and finding his lair invaded. Hungry and cranky, the bear would explode in a fury.
Instinctively, Ellen pulled the scroll close to her chest as if she were protecting her child. She was very close to the end of the one scroll she had been reading, but there was another she had not yet unwrapped from the copper casing. She held her breath and rushed to finish the scroll to the end where she saw the mark X.
 
                                        X

Annabella conceded that Radu was right about their need of at least one horse if not two, for she and Sebastian had gotten this far on one horse already.
"Still, we shall get you to the sea after dark," Sebastian assured her. "Horses can wait."
When it was dark, they reached the very bottom of the precipice. They crawled on the sand very cautiously toward the water. The moonlight sparkled on the rippling surface of the sea in the night breeze.
"We shall stand lookout while you go into the sea," Sebastian said to her. "Take your time. The longer those wounds are bathed in the curing salts of the sea, the faster they will be cleaned and healed. You must remove your clothing."
"What?" she protested.
"Not here. At the water's edge. The salt water will rot your garments. You will need them to protect you from the sun in case we must flee into Arabia from the Romans. Your fair skin is already burnt," he said, touching the back of his cool hand to her fevered cheek. "Do as I say, Annabella. Radu and I have no more lust for you than these stones. Go now."
Reluctantly, she obeyed. Warmer than the night air, the sea was soothing to her skin. It was a strange sensation to her mind, as much as to her body. She thought that she would feel lonely and frightened away from the protection of the other two. She felt safe though not alone. As she stroked her flesh and swashed the curing water over her wounds, she sensed a presence that she thought was familiar, yet she could not identify it. She lay her head back, so her long hair spread, like a fisherman's net, around her countenance. 
"What has brought me to this place in life?" she asked herself with innocence in a whisper. "What purpose do I serve in light of this myriad of stars above me and all reflected on the crest of this calm sea?"
You are my creation born out of unconditional love.

"What? Who is there?" she instinctively squatted in the water and covered her bosom.
Fear not for I am with you as I have been from the beginning. Do as Sebastian says. He will deliver you from bondage into eternal peace.
"I know you. Show yourself," she said loud enough for Sebastian to hear her.
"Annabella, be silent," he whispered to her loud enough for her to hear.
She had had enough of this supposed cure and headed back to the water's edge. Her eyes looked up at the great precipice from  which they had spent the day descending. She saw the point where they had left Raven, not because she was perceptive or had any instinctive  sense of direction, but rather because there was a fire glowing from that ledge. She made haste to dress and rejoin Sebastian and Radu.
"Look above," she pointed to the high cliff as she met the others. “The Romans make camp for the night."
"Good, that gives us time to make a plan for tomorrow.   We must seek high ground again tonight."
"No, Sebastian. I can't go another step," she whined. 'Tm tired  to the bone."
Radu nodded to Sebastian. He understood.
"Climb on Radu's shoulders. He will carry you."
She was embarrassed at this kind gesture. She was unaccustomed to slavery, as much from a master's perspective as from a slave's. It made her uncomfortable to use another human being as a beast of burden. Some values from her mother's blood had spilled over into her veins, perhaps by some inexplicable law of nature created by this superior being Amanda called Yahweh. Though her mother had abandoned Yahweh for the life of a Roman, her Jewish fiber was nurtured by the Laws of Moses handed down to her by her priestly Levite family who placed great value on all humankind.
She wanted to argue with them on this point, but the words echoed in her mind:  Do as Sebastian says.
So she climbed upon Radu's broad shoulders. He carried her along the shoreline then back up into the cliffs. There they found a cave where a spring fed cool, refreshing water along a tunnel which descended into what seemed to be a bottomless crevasse.
 
                                                                                                                                  X
 
"This is it!" Ellen scrambled to her feet with excitement. "This is the very same cave where they fled from the Romans. We're actually there. Right here must be the place where the story about them was written and stored for nearly two thousand years."
"She could be right," Ted conceded with little emotion, stigmatized as he was, and with little hope of ever sharing this find with the rest of the world.
"This is good news," Eli agreed and got to his knees and bowed his head with a mumbled chant in praise of Allah. He looked up to see Ellen and Ted staring curiously at him. "This is cause for joy," he explained. "It is the way the scroll described this cave with the spring water flowing down a long tunnel into the bowels of the earth. Yes, you are right, Ellen. This must be the same cave. But if there is still a spring, then its source is obtainable as is our hope to survive until we are found."
"We suspected that before," Ted shrugged.
"But this confirms it," Ellen said enthusiastically.
"Humph," Ted grunted, unimpressed.
"Oh, don't be that way, Ted," she scolded. "This is important news."
"Yes, Ted," Eli agreed. "Before, I wasn't sure if the water coming through the wall was merely from a pool trapped between strata of rock. Water such as that could be tainted and also exhaustible. Now, we can be sure that as long as we keep trying, there is a source of fresh water that will keep us alive indefinitely."  
Ted looked at the ration case with a depressed sigh.
"We've got less than a week's supply of food," Ted reminded them. "And that's stretching it."
"Didn't these three: Annabella, Sebastian, and Radu, survive the same conditions?" Ellen argued.
"Well, not exactly," Ted countered. "They had access to the surface."
"True," Eli concurred. "And until we finish the scroll, we will not know if they survived or not. This may have been written after their death as a memorial to them. Perhaps by the society who dwelled in this area, the Essenes. Maybe they are the ones to whom Sebastian referred when he said they might seek shelter from the hermit society nearby."
"That might be," Ted said. "But I give more credence to your theory that this scroll could well have been written about them after their death, perhaps long  after. As a Christian, Ellen, you're well aware that the Gospels were written long after Jesus died, perhaps a hundred years later. What if we learn, after rousing our hopes, that they died tragically here. This whole story could have been hearsay like the story of Jesus. Facts have a way of becoming distorted with time. And we might be talking about a lot of time here."
"You know that no matter how humanly distorted any facts might be," Ellen challenged Ted, "that as a Christian, I have the faith that God overshadowed any human errors in the Bible with the grace of His truth."
"Obviously that's where we differ, Ellen," Ted said with self-satisfaction. "Truth is tangible, something I can hold in my hand to analyze."
"We have the scrolls, Ted. Even without the thorough testing, I know you instinctively believe the authenticity of the tangible materials they were written on."
''I'll concede that."
"Will you also concede that, with time, we probably know more today than we ever could about the Kennedy or Lincoln assassinations, thanks to more mod­ ern techniques of analysis and the cooling down of the situations surrounding those events?" Eli interjected, "You don't analyze a volcanic eruption as it occurs. You wait until the fire cools down and the lava flow halts."
"O.K., just like a plane crash, we wait till it's all over, bodies strewn in open fields, before we check the black box," Ted said, heatedly. "Is that the kind of analogy you'd prefer, Eli? One you terrorists could understand."
"Ted, my fight with Israel is as a soldier of Islam. I fight in uniform and stand my ground. I am not a terrorist as you want to believe. I fight my battles in plain sight. I am no coward. I would never use a bomb on civilians though obviously there are groups of Arabs who do. Such groups are not limited to Arabs. You would like to believe that to justify your anger. I understand. But it is not the truth. Pick up my words in your hands, Ted, and examine  what I've said very closely."
 Suddenly, there was another tremor as before.
"The earth is shifting," Eli said anxiously, steadying himself against the cave wall. "This is not good, she said as she continued to read.
As she did, Ted and Eli cleared the fallen debris from the wall where they had been digging for water. Their attention was distracted from the far corner which they had arbitrarily chosen as their latrine, because it was the farthest point away from where they had been drinking water. In that dark comer where they had sought privacy and modesty, the cave wall had begun to glisten with moisture from the building pressure of the underground spring they sought to find.
"The language is Greek, but the voice is the same," Ellen told them. Then she read aloud:
In the cool darkness of night in the wilderness near the Salt Sea, Annabella slept while Sebastian and Radu kept guard. They did not know what to expect fr m the Ro­ mans though they knew they were clever. The young magician and the mute eunuch from a defeated African tribe watched from the opposite ends of the cave.
Sebastian guarded the rear of the upper tunnel facing west while Radu watched eastward, where he saw the distant glow from the Romans' campfire to the north above their position.
Radu kept his eyes alert in all directions, but he was attracted to the flickering glow of the distant fire. It had been so many years since he had moments to think, to regard himself as a human being. From the age of nine he had been put into service for one master or another. Now, the only thing that stood
between him and his homeland were a dozen Roman soldiers, the vast desert, and the wide sea. He hoped to avoid these Romans then deal with the elements of nature as they came, one at a time. He was determined about this. It was as if he had just been born and a new world lay before him. He was indebted to
these two young people for saving his life, but he could not let that obligation stand in the way of his freedom. He breathed confidently with that resolution, but was unaware of another concealed factor with glowing eyes observing him from a ledge above.
The eyes were greenish yellow and absorbed all the reflected light from the stars and their shimmer on the calm sea below. The breathing was deep, but shallow enough to go unheard by the African whose hearing had become more acute to compensate his own silence. He might even have smelled the scent of this intruder to their cave, but Radu was suddenly distracted by Sebastian's cry for help.
Radu moved swiftly from his position down the cavernous tunnel to the western exit of the cave. It took only one strong Roman to hold Sebastian as five others gathered around him to make sport of the squirming boy. The noise awakened Annabella. She ran to the boy’s defense and futilely flailed her arms at two of the Romans roaring with glee over their prize. But without warning, as one Roman taunted Annabella, the tip of a spear burst through his armored chest from the back. The other Romans stared quizzically at the bloodied protrusion, but it was withdrawn just as quickly when Radu put his enormous foot to the Roman's back and jerked his weapon out of the dead man. The other five drew their swords. Sebastian and Annabella cowered in the corner. Their fears of their newfound friend's demise were soon quelled when Radu spun his long spear like a wheel and charged his attackers with the two-headed spear perfectly balanced with death at either end.
Radu made short work of the Romans who were never able to get within striking distance with their swords against the seven-foot height and long reach of the giant African warrior. Annabella was horrified by this violence. Except for her mother's death and the destruction of a horse, she had known no bloodshed. It made her woozy. Sebastian let her lean on him as they retreated back into the cave. The boy turned back to see Radu's expression of anxiety as he held up one hand and his index finger of the other to indicate there were only six dead.
Sebastian was relieved that the odds had been changed to 2 to 1, if they counted on Annabella for any help. He knew it was more like six to one because he was of little help himself against a Roman soldier with a sword. Worse yet, Justin was among the others. This calculating man had a purpose and would be re­ lentless against them. Still, Sebastian was satisfied that they still had a chance.
Annabella returned to sleep by the dwindling fire in the cave.   
In his sign language, Radu told Sebastian that he would take the rear where the Romans still had the easiest access to the cave, opposed to the steep cliffs facing the sea, which gave less opportunity for an assault. Sebastian agreed with some relief, believing that his chances of being attacked again that night were
small. But when he reached the edge of the cave, he saw a curious thing in the sand near the entrance. A Roman helmet lay there beside a trail of blood.

There were tracks left in the sand which looked as if the soldier had been dragged away. The trail was obscured by the drag marks of the Roman's legs which left a swishing trail right up to the edge of the steep cliff above Sebastian. There he saw a large pool of blood and a Roman sword. He picked it up to test its weight. He did not know what to make of it but was confident to have a sword. It made him feel worthy as an opponent for the first time against their pursuers. Sebastian played with the sword. He assumed Radu had killed this Roman sent to this entrance of the cave. After dragging the Roman to the edge of the cliff, Radu must have thrown him over the edge before he had come to Sebastian's res­ cue. He decided to confirm that scenario with Radu in the morning.
As Sebastian rested his eyes, he did not realize that fifty feet above his head the Roman, whose sword he now held, had already been devoured. The greenish yellow eyes above him became thin crescents in the night. With contentment for the moment, those eyes shut in deep slumber.
 
X
 
"It has to be this cave," Ellen insisted. "The way the scroll describes it is just the way it had been before the cave-in."
"Yes, but what good does it do us now?" Ted said, sitting down to rest from his digging. "I'm all turned around down here and nothing is as it was. This digging is pointless. Damn! Why doesn't anyone come for us?"
"We must humble ourselves to Allah, all of us," Eli said with conviction. "We must set aside our personal goals to allow Allah to show the way."
"I agree," Ellen said, turning to Ted. "Your negativity gains us nothing. If the very best you can do is to be neutral, then do so. Will you both join me by holding hands in prayer for our deliverance from this cave?"
"If there is a god, there can be only one," Ted said. "If he were so powerful as to create the heavens, he would not be bothered with our three insignificant lives." 'That's your human nan-ow concept of power," Ellen returned. "Sometimes it takes a greater power to be small, gentle, and meek. That's the essence of
Christianity."
"If he didn't hear the prayers of six million Jews in Europe fifty years ago, why would he care about us today?"
"If I were God, perhaps I would have an answer. But I'm not and I don't. Whether you believe Jesus and God are one and the same doesn't matter at the moment. Jesus gave us one message from God that was clear: Ask and you will receive, seek and you will find. Pray in your own manner, but let's do it together."
"I shall do this also," Eli said thoughtfully. "My mind wants revenge and victory against the infidels, but my heart conflicts with my basic human instinct to survive at all cost. The desert makes one think that way. It is a harsh environment in which to grow. We fear humility because it would mean our extinction. But since my death could be very near now, and the harsh desert is something I would welcome if I were delivered from this tomb, I shall join you in this prayer to Allah."
"Perhaps joined as one, we'll see our God as one in the same for all of us," Ellen said as they joined hands. After a long silence, Ellen prayed aloud in a narrative to which the two men had become accustomed: "I don't know why this has happened to us, Lord. You keep us alive, but our hope of surviving and escaping
continually wavers. Give us some direction, Lord. We thank you for what has transformed into friendship. And we especially thank you for the blessing of these scrolls which have helped us to pass the time and to take our minds off our immediate peril. If it is your intention that this ancient story remain untold, I accept that. But if you want us to bring this story of Annabella to light, please, guide  us, and show us the way out."
As Ellen completed her prayer and hoped that the men would share their prayers with her, the cave shook.
'The scroll," Ted said, as Ellen opened her eyes, hoping to hear a prayer from him. "The way the nan-ative described the underground spring in the tunnel. We're digging in the wrong direction. We've merely been tapping into the smaller streams of water created by the shifting rock."
Eli looked around the cave as it shook and small rocks fell from the ceiling. The strong grip they shared in joining hands in prayer suddenly released.
"He's right," Eli said. "The mass of water must be ... there!" He pointed to the far wall.
As the cave shook, Ellen looked at her boots where the lantern stood by her feet. A sudden stream of water flowed between her boots. The stream came from the dark corner of the cave which they had avoided except to relieve themselves and bury their excrement. A foul smell wafted toward them from that dark corner. Instinctively, they backed away toward the opposite wall. Ellen clutched the second scroll she had been reading. She realized that the first scroll she had completed lay beside the lantern. She turned back to retrieve it. Ted grabbed her hand and yanked her back against the side of the cave. He shoved the second scroll into the clay jar where they had found it. He pressed it to Ellen's chest as if he were a quarterback handing off the ball to a running back.
"The other scroll," she whimpered, but her protest was drowned out by the roar of gushing water as the far wall burst open, flooding the cave.
The gush of cool water into the cave was a shock to the threesome trapped there for so long. Their immediate emotion was terror, but the force of the water seeking its former course blew out the opposite wall in its path toward the descending tunnel described in the ancient scroll as what seemed to be a bottomless crevasse.

Ellen choked from the water blasting into her face. She could hardly breath from the jolt of the water carrying her through the collapsing cave wall. The current dragged her down the tunnel it carved through the sandstone. Yet, as her heart pounded in her chest, she clung to the clay jar. She was determined to preserve this scroll, especially after the first scroll had perished in the sudden flood.
Though they were bruised and drenched by the strong current of the spring, the cool water eased and receded to a calm flow leaving Ellen, Ted, and Eli exhausted, but otherwise unharmed in the dark tunnel. He found one of the lanterns and lit it, then
called out to the other two. Ted waded out of the darkness toward the light. It was not until the splashing of Ted's steps through the stream subsided that the men heard Ellen.
The sudden reality that the first scroll was gone forever took Ellen's breath away. Destroyed by the initial impact of the water, all that remained of the first part of Annabella's story was the threesome's combined memory of it.
"Ellen! Are you hurt?" Ted called to her.
They heard her gasping as if in pain or about to have an asthmatic seizure. But once her lungs were filled with as much air as they could hold, Ellen burst into tears and wailed in lament of their loss, of the world's loss. She cried for fifteen minutes before collapsing with exhaustion. When she awakened, Eli and Ted com­ forted her with sad expressions of empathy, aware that this loss to Ellen was like a mother's loss of a child.
Her eyes glared with alarm when Ted tried to take the clay jar from her tight grasp.
"It's O.K., Ellen," Ted assured her. "You need to relax. The other scroll is safe in­ side that jar. We'll leave it there until we get out of here where it won't be destroyed.
She laughed with near hysteria. "I'll rest for a little while, but I have to keep reading. At least we know what the first scroll said. It would be far worse if this jar were destroyed without our having had the chance to read it. Don't let me sleep too long. Wake me when you're going to eat."
They all looked grimly at one another realizing that thirst would no longer be a problem to them, but their food rations, the little that remained, had washed away into the abyss that had swallowed the origins of this lost book of Annabella.
When Ellen awoke, she dipped her hand into the cool spring and brought her cupped hand to her lips. Her stomach growled as she took the second scroll from the jar and carefully, caressingly unrolled it. Still stunned by the last misfortune, both men drew toward their solitary lantern to listen as Ellen read aloud:
Anxious about the other Romans who might attack them, Sebastian woke in the middle of the night and went to Radu at his watch post.
"Where do you suppose the other five Romans are?" Sebastian asked Radu.
Annabella was awakened by Sebastian's voice and interjected before the African could reply. "Five? Aren't there six more?" she asked. Radu concurred with a nod.
"You forgot the one you killed at your post, Radu. The one they sent to attack from the rear," Sebastian said. "You must have thrown him over the cliff. Remember, Radu?" Radu shook his head with negative vehemence. Sebastian showed them the sword and helmet he found. Radu was perplexed. He reiterated with sign language: only six dead Romans. Then he indicated that there would be six, if not seven, horses without riders. He would attempt to find one for them to eat before sunrise, but was careful to avoid stating his purpose in a manner that Annabella would literally comprehend. Few women would willingly eat horse flesh, but especially a horse trader's daughter.
When Radu departed stoically, Annabella asked, "Sebastian, where is he going? He is leaving us unprotected?"
"He'll bring back food."
"Food? I've hardly thought of it. No wonder I feel so weak. What food could he find in this godforsaken place?"
"Leave that to Radu. He will provide for us," Sebastian assured her. "Besides, I have a sword now. I'll protect you."
"You? By trickery perhaps, but hardly with that sword," she mocked. "You can barely lift it yet wield it with any skill."
"Quiet. I heard something," he alerted her. "Radu?"
"No. Quick, we must hide. It's the Romans coming. We'll go to higher ground by the entrance facing the sea."
"What about Radu?"
"They may already have killed or captured him. We haven't time to find out. Let's go, now, while it's still night."
Sebastian grabbed Annabella's hand and led her to the other end of the cave facing eastward and looking down at the Salt Sea. Though he carried the sword in one hand, its unwieldy weight made him drag it, rather than carry it, as they struggled to climb higher on the cliff to avoid the Romans led by Justin. The cool night wind of the wilderness kicked up the sand in their faces which they tried to protect from the biting sting while climbing. When they reached the next plateau, they stopped  upon hearing someone's voice.
“What is it?" she asked.
"You hear it, too?"
"Yes. Is it the voice we both heard before, or is it our minds deceiving us from our starvation?"
"I'm not sure, but if it's our minds playing tricks on us, then so are our eyes. Look, there's someone there. Not a Roman."
 
Annabella peered cautiously over the rock to see the man.
 
He hunched his back against the cold, piercing wind. From a crevice between the jagged rocks, sand kicked up in his grimacing face. Only a wooden staff sup­ ported his lithe, emaciated body. His flimsy, hooded shawl was all he owned to shield him from the harsh elements. He cringed, shuddering in the stark loneliness of the desert night.

With a faint whisper, he sought comfort from Yahweh I n prayer. He thanked the living God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Moses, for this opportunity to con­ firm his faith in Yahweh, Who had delivered Israel out of bondage in Egypt into the land of Canaan. The test, however, was a covenant of starvation, pain, and humility before his Lord.
"I am thankful, Adonai, that it is midnight, " he prayed aloud, though his voice seemed lost beneath the wind's lamenting howl. "I've no physical assurance to confirm what precise hour it is within the dark void of tonight's new moon. Yet, Elohim, the glow within my bosom assures my heart of Your presence. It serves as a sign to me that my current suffering is behind me. Even now, the pain of it wanes in the west. This morning's sun burgeons with hope from the east. Though out of sight, it comforts me with the break of a new day, during which I pledge to serve You. For this assurance of Your watchful presence, Jiveh, I am truly thankful. El Shaddai be praised.
 
"Hallelujah! Amen"

                                            X
  
"This is it!" Ellen shouted.
"This is what?" Ted said, he and Eli both startled by her sudden outburst. "The very first words that I began to read when we found the scrolls. It's what
drew my attention to their importance. These are the prayers of a holy man from this era. He may be one of the Essenes."
"O.K., Ellen. Just calm down and read some more." She took a deep breath and continued to read the scroll: "To whom is he talking?" Annabella said to Sebastian. "To himself, so it seems. No one else is there."
"Do you suppose he's dangerous, perhaps mad? His shawl and hood cover his face. Dare we approach him?"
The man with the hooded shawl addressed them as if he had heard their every word. "My Father has answered my prayer. Come. You've nothing to fear. My cave will shelter you from the wind."
He kept his face covered as he extended his hand to Annabella. She hesitated, recalling how Jozabad had deceived her before with a masquerade. But her reluctance was set aside when his hand came within her grasp and attracted her like a magnet with instant familiar warmth.
Sebastian followed, dragging his sword to the sheltered cave where the cut­ ting wind faded to a distant whistle.
"Where's your fire?" Sebastian asked, stumbling in the dark.
"I have none," the man's voice cut through the darkness of the cave. "The warmth of Yahweh's constant presence lights my path to do His will."
"I have flints and kindling in my pocket," Sebastian said. "I could make a fire, but I have only a little oil. How would I keep it burning?"
"Simply by lighting it, Sebastian," the man said.
"How do you know my name?" Sebastian panicked. "We've been tricked. Is it you, Justin?"
"Light your oil," the voice said calmly.
With shaking hands, Sebastian complied. He lifted the glowing bowl toward the man who knew his name. Annabella cringed with anxiety wondering if this were the trick. Could it be Justin, Jozabad, or even Sadaq? All three would relish their revenge on them. The image of those three vanished as the light from the bowl revealed the man's face. Annabella had the sense of relief, then confusion.
"You've come to me after all, Hannah," the man said.
Sebastian was baffled. This face was new to him, yet the presence was familiar. He looked to Annabella for a clue.
With mixed feelings, Annabella lashed out at the young man, saying, "It is you who has caused me all this grief, ever since you crossed my path in Samaria. My horse got me home safely as you promised, then died, as did my dear mother as well. What foul curse have you placed on me? And why are you here, Yosh?"
 
                                           X
 
"It's the boy who was going to live with the Essenes!" Ellen said with glee. She was oblivious to her growling stomach and the sudden, unexpected loss of all their food rations. "It's Yosh. You remember, the boy who caused Zoar to stumble on the road to Samaria. He healed her broken ankle, foresaw Zoar's death, and pre­ dicted a bitter end for Amanda."
Ted and Eli stared at Ellen as if she were possessed. Her obsession with the ancient scrolls seemed to be taking a turn for the worse. The confinement, dehydration, and the immediate threat of starvation had eroded Ellen's former pillar of exuberance into a hollow facade of uncertain foundation which, to her two companions, seemed about to crumble.
"Yes, Ellen, we remember," Ted assured her. "But while you continue reading to us, Eli and I must search for something that we can eat. Anything that will sustain us."
"But how will you see?" she asked. "I need the lantern."
"We'll just feel about in the current of the spring," Eli offered with a concur­ ring nod to Ted. "Springs in the wilderness are the only source of life. Whatever we find, you must promise to eat. Your life depends upon it."
She stared blankly as if she did not hear him, then shook herself from her trance and continued to read aloud:

"Do you believe that I am capable of cursing you, Hannah?" Yosh asked.
 
"My name is Annabella!"
"A name given to you by your grandfather, a man of this material Roman world, a man who would break the Laws of Moses by defiling the flesh of his own blood with incest," Yosh said without emotion. His expression was reflective, as if recalling a page of history. He was stating a fact, but without exercising any judgment.
"How does this boy know so much about you?" Sebastian stepped between them in a protective gesture.
"He knows only the surface, otherwise he would know the truth about me," she challenged. I know all there is, or ever will be, to know about you, Hannah," Yosh said with a smile. "You are a treasure that still remains unspoiled. Your mother sac­ rificed herself to keep it thus. For that selflessness, her name, though locked away, will upon Yahweh's discretion become revered for aJI eternity."
"Who are you to make such proclamations about my mother when you never even knew her?" Annabella confronted Yosh eye to eye. Though he said nothing, the flickering of the flaming oil reflected in his eyes made her step back in fear.
"What are you doing here?" Sebastian challenged him again. "Are you living with the Essenes on the high plateau above us? Are you one of them? Will they give us food?"
"Is it food you seek or sustenance, Sebastian?" Yosh asked with nonchalance, as if he were offering selections from a menu.
"It's Justin. He's using these hermit Jews to turn us in. That's how you know our names. What reward have the Romans offered your sect to lead them to us?" "The Grace of Yahweh is the only reward both here and in the life eternal to come," Yosh said with conviction. "It is true that five Romans came to the Teacher of Righteousness to seek information about you. But I have known your names from the beginning."
"From the beginning?" Annabella frowned. "The beginning  of what?"
Before Yosh could reply, Sebastian interjected, "Then you admit to being a lookout for the Romans? You're stalling till they come for us?"
"Your will to stay or go is your own, but you will stay of your own choosing as surely as the sun will rise this morning."
"We need food before we go anywhere?" Annabella sighed, slumping to the ground with exhaustion. "What are you eating in this cave? And why are you here if you are not a lookout for your sect?"
"When the Teacher of Righteousness heard the Romans approaching, he told me it was time."
"Time for what?"
"Time to separate my soul from my earthly needs for the first time by fasting in the wilderness," Yosh said as a matter of fact.
"Fasting? You mean going without food?" she huffed.
"And without water," he said. "Though my flesh is at risk, my soul is not, when sustained by Yahweh. My flesh is my sacrifice, unspoiled by worldly temptations." "How long must you fast for this Teacher of Righteousness?" Sebastian asked. "For as long as it takes for Yahweh to reveal himself to me. Time is of no con­sequence. The choice is Yahweh's."
"But you could die," Annabella said from her position seated on the cave floor.
"If Yahweh wills it, but He does not. He wiJI intercede for me. He knows what is best for me and for you."
"What's best for me is some food. You don't seem to have any to offer, so I think we'll be going," Sebastian said, nodding for Annabella to get up, but she stayed where she was. He sighed and joined her on the floor. Yosh did the same.
"If you're not a lookout for the Romans, why are you here alone?" Sebastian asked. "Aren't you in training as a rabbi with the other boys of your sect? I heard in my travels that the hermit sects of the Hebrews took oaths of silence, and celibacy, along with fasting while serving as scribes for the Torah, which formerly had been passed from generation to generation only by word of mouth."
"I am here alone because it is Yahweh's will. I am not a scribe, like yourself, Sebastian, skilled in several languages, but every word from my lips is comprehensible to all since I precede Babel."
"You speak in riddles," Sebastian said, shaking his head with befuddlement. "He is a puzzle himself," Annabella agreed. "Perhaps we are related by blood, Yosh. That's why you know so much about me and my mother. My mother was a Levite, so all of our male children are groomed for the priesthood. Are you a Levite?"
"I am not. I descend from Judah," Yosh said. "Judah? And Pharez?"
"Yes."
"You are the bastard son of the Roman soldier Panthera,"
she said with accusation and satisfaction. "My mother told me that there was only one other person in all of Judea held in greater contempt than she. As shameless as my mother could be, another Hebrew girl, rather than admit that she had been seduced by the charming Roman soldier, Panthera, proclaimed her child to be a miracle from Yahweh. Had it not been for her gentle-minded fiancé, who married her for fear she would be publicly stoned, you would not be here, let alone be able to lay false claim to this noble bloodline. Are you not this bastard?"
"Who do you believe I am, Hannah?"
"Someone, at long last, who is lower than myself. For my Roman blood was never denied. My mother was proud of it, as I am. If she were smart, your mother would have made the Roman marry her so that you, like me, might have laid claim to Roman citizenship. Then you would not be starving yourself alone in a cave to seek this Yahweh who has forsaken you."
"Do you believe that I am illegitimate?"
 
Ellen stopped her reading for a moment to reflect on the usage of the words which could be translated several ways including fake, false, and counterfeit. Yosh implied with his phrasing: Do you believe that I am a liar?
 
Ellen continued:
 
"I know what I don't believe," Annabella assured Yosh. "I don't believe in miracles. I believe in tricks, sorcery, and magic. But as my friend Sebastian has shown me, all are measures of deceit. Sometimes we wish to deceive ourselves rather than face reality."
"Do you believe my mother lied?"
"Of course, I do. My own mother lied again and again to save me. Not for her­ self, but for your sake, your mother must have lied to gain sympathy from the man who agreed to marry her to shield her and you with his respectability. But my mother was smart and waited till she was married before conceiving me. The mixed marriage may be a social disgrace from both sides, but at least I know that I am a virgin and a legal citizen of Rome."
"It sounds to me that your mother was not too bright," Sebastian agreed. "She must have been too young to understand what this Roman had done to her."
Yosh stared thoughtfully at them, then he asked Annabella, "How did it feel to you when your mother lied about your chastity to the Romans? If you knew unto yourself that you were a virgin, did it change that truth, even if others believed otherwise?"
"Of course not!" she said.
"Then if all the world proclaimed you a harlot, would that make it so?" "Never!"
"Then within your heart and soul you know my mother. Yet her innocence is of no more significance than yours. To suffer that innocence through the degradation by others, however, provides penitence for many. Bear your innocence silently, so that your innocence itself will deflect all slings and arrows and give you peace."
"That's a lot to ask," Sebastian challenged.
"Would it be better for all the world to believe you were a virgin, though you were truly a harlot?" Yosh asked. "What reward could there be from your silence then?"
They could not reply to Yosh's question. Sebastian's mind spun with this logic which stabbed at his heart. Annabella's throat tightened. Yosh's words communicated so directly to her own feelings that it seemed he had entered her and was looking out through her eyes. Yosh understood her hurt pride and provided her, not with a placebo, since pain in life could not be escaped, but rather with the spiritual means to deal with that pain.
But to what end? She wondered. Why must she endure any pain? What light was there for her at the end of this dark tunnel?
As ifYosh heard her thoughts, he added, "Before our paths crossed on the road to Samaria, your mother bore your pride, and with it the shunned responsibility of a Jew to make Yahweh known to you. Amanda rests in peace now waiting for the day when you will make Yahweh known to her again."
"I? What do I know of this Yahweh?" she protested.
Yosh smiled in such a way that made her want to let down her guard for the first time in her young life, so completely as if she would swoon and lay at his feet. She caught herself from falling forward, then stepped back beside Sebastian.
"You already know more about Yahweh than all of your mother's Levite priesthood ancestry since Joseph led Jacob and his sons into Egypt," Yosh said.
"That's absurd. I'm more Roman in my ways than I could ever be a Jew," she argued. "My mother raised me that way."
"You can no longer place that burden on your mother, Hannah," Yosh reasoned. "That responsibility is yours now and Amanda has been spared of any guilt."
"Guilt? Of what might I be guilty?" she said, folding her arms defensively.
Sebastian interjected in her defense, "I admit she is a prideful girl, and not prone to selflessness. But she is honorable. I attest to it. And if she says that she is chaste, I readily believe it to be true. If any corruption exists in her spirit, then I am to blame. I have been possessed of late and have heard voices in my head which have driven us into this wilderness. For what? We can't imagine."
"You were called here by Yahweh," Yosh said with surety. "He wants your testimony."
Sebastian looked about the dark cave expecting this Yahweh to appear, but Annabella unfolded her arms and faced Yosh eye to eye.
"How long have you been without food and water?" she asked.
"Thirty days," he said. "My spirit is nourished by the word of Yahweh." "You are having delusions because you are starving," she said. "These Es-
senes and this Teacher of Righteousness have tricked your mind while starving your body. You will die."
"We all shall die," he said with a warm grin. "But some will arise to be eternally with Yahweh in everlasting life."
"And you believe this?" she asked. "I know this to be true."
"Who will arise?" Sebastian asked. "The Jews, no doubt."
"Some perhaps, but more depends upon the acceptance of His Grace." "Grace? What is Grace?" Sebastian asked.
"Forgiveness," Yosh said.
"He must forgive us?" Annabella asked.
"He will soon, Hannah. But the Grace of His forgiveness must be accepted by you."
"By me?"
"Yes. And by Sebastian. By all of you. Even by Jozabad." "How do you know Jozabad?"
"Through my father, Yahweh, I know all men, all women, every beast, each hair upon your head, every grain of sand upon this earth, every star in the heavens."
Sebastian said aside to Annabella,"You're right, the boy is dazed with hunger and thirst. He seems harmless enough, but he would have us starve to death with him. We had better go to this hermitage of Essenes where some sanity may dwell, and food might be available." Then aloud to Yosh, he said, "I think it is time for us to move on!"
"For what you hunger, I have plenty," Yosh said to them. "Tarry with me while you can. Jerusalem awaits you Sebastian as it does me, but according to Yahweh's time, not yours. Stay with me. The Romans will not find us here."
"But we have a friend with us who—" Sebastian heard Radu approaching.
Knowingly, Yosh observed, "He comes now, but for my sake without the food your flesh demands, so that you will listen and learn of Yahweh as He requires."
No sooner did Yosh stop speaking when Radu appeared at the entrance to the cave and entered. Radu's face was sullen and he was without game for them to eat. When he saw Yosh, Radu's expression turned from dejection to wonder. Before Radu could raise his hand to communicate in sign language, Yosh spoke to his mind:
 
The four Roman soldiers need their horses to return to Samaria where they face an environment more harsh than this wilderness. Their leader's horse was killed by a beast. Justin has returned with wounds that won't take his life until he delivers the message of his failure to young Caligula. So come and join us, Radu, so that you might drink from this cup your friends are about to share. You are too worthy a hunter to kill a beast of burden when there are greater prizes for the future king of a mighty African nation.
 
Annabella and Sebastian were astonished when Radu came forward and kneeled at Yosh's feet. Yosh put his hand upon the African giant's headdress and Radu raised his head in stunned rapture.

                                                                                     X

Ellen could not stop narrating of the ancient scroll. Her mind raced with conjectures as to what she was reading and what Ted or Eli might have thought about it. Like the boy, Yosh, she was starving. She wondered if, as Annabella thought, she were having delusions, too. Ellen was enraptured by the voice from the scroll which projected, in her mind, three dimensional images of these people who had hidden in this same cave two thousand years ago.
 
Ellen's stomach growled. She felt giddy as she lifted her eyes from the scroll and seemed to see Yosh and the other three right beside her. She felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience. She was no longer aware of herself translating and narrating from the scroll. Instead, it seemed to her as if she were really there, two thousand years ago, a fly on the wall of this cave:
 
Yosh continued speaking to the three all night. They listened for the most part, except when the things that Yosh told them baffled their minds. Radu remained stoic and pensive as he listened to the boy. Annabella posed several questions, especially about why Yahweh would choose them to come to this cave.
"Yahweh has made it thus, that none of you has any place else to go. It is His will that you sojourn here with me until it is time."
"Time for what?" Sebastian asked. "Time to know why you have been chosen."
"I feel more ignored than chosen," Annabella pouted.
"Yahweh's love for you, Hannah, transcends his feelings for all others. For this, a heavy price must be paid."
"Paid? By whom? To whom?" she asked.
Sebastian interjected before Yosh answered, "Then why am I here?"
"To witness the truth," Yosh replied.
"Witness? Is there to be a trial?" Sebastian shrugged.
"Yes. It has already begun," Yosh said with a wave of sadness in his eyes which shimmered by the light of a single flame.

From the Christian Bible

The Book of Job 

Excerpt



Chapter 1

There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job; and that man was blameless and upright, one who feared God, and turned away from evil. There were born to him seven sons and three daughters. He had seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen, and five hundred she-asses, and very many servants; so that this man was the greatest of all the people of the east. His sons used to go and hold a feast in the house of each on his day; and they would send and invite their three sisters to eat and drink with them. And when the days of the feast had run their course, Job would send and sanctify them, and he would rise early in the morning and offer burnt offerings according to the number of them all; for Job said, "It may be that my sons have sinned, and cursed God in their hearts." Thus Job did continually.

Now there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan also came among them. The Lord said to Satan, "Whence have you come?" Satan answered the Lord, "From going to and fro on the earth, and from walking up and down on it." And the Lord said to Satan, "Have you considered my servant Job, that there is none like him on the earth, a blameless and upright man, who fears God and turns away from evil?" Then Satan answered the Lord, "Does Job fear God for nought? Hast thou not put a hedge about him and his house and all that he has, on every side? Thou hast blessed the work of his hands, and his possessions have increased in the land. But put forth thy hand now, and touch all that he has, and he will curse thee to thy face." And the Lord said to Satan, "Behold, all that he has is in your power; only upon himself do not put forth your hand." So Satan went forth from the presence of the Lord.

Now there was a day when his sons and daughters were eating and drinking wine in their eldest brother's house; and there came a messenger to Job, and said, "The oxen were plowing and the asses feeding beside them; and the Sabeans fell upon them and took them, and slew the servants with the edge of the sword; and I alone have escaped to tell you." When he was yet speaking, there came another, and said, "The fire of God fell from heaven and burned up the sheep and the servants, and consumed them; and I alone have escaped to tell you." When he was yet speaking, there came another, and said, "The Chaldeans formed three companies, and made a raid upon the camels and took them, and slew the servants with the edge of the sword, and I alone have escaped to tell you." While he was yet speaking, there came another, and said, "Your sons and daughters were eating and drinking wine in their eldest brother's house; and behold, a great wind came across the wilderness, and struck the four corners of the house, and it fell upon the young people, and they are dead; and I alone have escaped to tell you."

Then Job arose, and rent this robe, and shaved his head, and fell upon the ground, and worshiped. And he said, "Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return; the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."

In all this Job did not sin or charge God with wrong.

Chapter 2

Again there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan also came among them to present himself before the Lord. And the Lord said to Satan, "Whence have you come?" Satan answered the Lord, "From going to and fro on the earth, and from walking up and down upon it." And the Lord said to Satan, "Have you considered my servant Job, that there is none like him on earth, a blameless and upright man, who fears God and turns away from evil? He still holds fast his integrity, although you moved me against him, to destroy him without cause." Then Satan answered the Lord, "Skin for skin! All that a man has he will give for his life. But put forth thy hand now, and touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse thee to thy face." And the Lord said to Satan, "Behold, he is in your power; only spare his life."

So Satan went forth from the presence of the Lord, and afflicted Job with loathsome sores from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head. And he took a potsherd with which to scrape himself, and sat among the ashes.

Then his wife said to him, "Do you still hold fast your integrity? Curse God, and die." But he said to her, "You speak as one of the foolish women would speak. Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?" In all this Job did not sin with his lips.

Now when Job's three friends heard all this evil that had come upon him, they came each from his own place, Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite. They made an appointment together to come to condole with him and comfort him. And when they saw him from afar, they did not recognize him; and they raised their voices and wept; and they rent their robes and sprinkled dust upon their heads toward heaven. And they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great.

Chapter 3

After this Job opened his mouth and cursed the day of his birth.

And Job said:

"Let the day perish wherein I was born,

and the night which said, 'A man-child is conceived.'

Let that day be darkness!

May God above not seek it, nor light shine upon it.

Let gloom and deep darkness claim it.

Let clouds dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it.

That night-let thick darkness seize it!

let it not rejoice among the days of the year,

let it not come into the number of the months.

Yea, let that night be barren;

let no joyful cry be heard in it.

Let those who curse it curse the day,

who are skilled to rouse the Leviathan.

Let the stars of its dawn be dark;

let it hope for light, but have none,

nor see the eyelids of the morning;

because it did not shut the doors of my mother's womb,

nor hide trouble from my eyes.

"Why did I not die at birth,

come forth from the womb and expire?

Why did the knees receive me?

Or why the breasts, that I should suck?

For then I should have lain down and been quiet;

I should have slept; then I should have been at rest,

with kings and counselors of the earth

who rebuilt ruins for themselves,

or with princes who had gold,

who filled their houses with silver.

Or why was I not as a hidden untimely birth,

as infants that never see the light?

There the wicked cease from troubling,

and there the weary are at rest.

There the prisoners are at ease together;

they hear not the voice of the taskmaster.

The small and the great are there,

and the slave is free from his master.

"Why is light given to him that is in misery,

and life to the bitter in soul,

who long after death, but it comes not,

and dig for it more than for hid treasures;

who rejoice exceedingly,

and are glad, when they find the grave?

Why is light given to a man whose way is hid,

whom God has hedged in?

For my sighing comes as my bread,

and my groanings are poured out like water.

For the thing that I fear comes upon me,

and what I dread befalls me.

I am not at ease, nor am I quiet; I have no rest,

but trouble comes."

Chapter 4

Then Eliphaz the Temanite answered:

"If one ventures a word with you, will you be offended?

Yet who can keep from speaking?

Behold, you have instructed many,

and you have strengthened the weak hands.

Your words have upheld him who was stumbling,

and you have made firm the feeble knees.

But now it has come to you, and you are impatient;

it touches you, and you are dismayed.

Is not your fear of God your confidence,

and the integrity of your ways your hope?

"Think now, who that was innocent ever perished?

Or where were the upright cut off?

As I have seen, those who plow iniquity

and sow trouble reap the same.

By the breath of God they perish,

and by the blast of his anger they are consumed.

The roar of the lion, the voice of the fierce lion,

the teeth of the young lions, are broken.

The strong lion perishes for lack of prey,

and the whelps of the lioness are scattered.

"Now a word was brought to me stealthily,

my ear received the whisper of it.

Amid thoughts from visions of the night,

when deep sleep falls on men,

dread came upon me, and trembling,

which made all my bones shake.

A spirit glided past my face;

the hair of my flesh stood up.

It stood still,

but I could not discern its appearance.

A form was before my eyes;

there was silence, then I heard a voice:

'Can mortal man be righteous before God?

Can a man be pure before his Maker?

Even in his servants he puts no trust,

and his angels he charges with error;

how much more those who dwell in houses of clay,

whose foundation is in the dust,

who are crushed before the moth.

Between morning and evening they are destroyed;

they perish forever without any regarding it.

If their tent-cord is plucked up within them,

do they not die, and that without wisdom?'

Chapter 5

"Call now, is there anyone who will answer you?

To which of the holy ones will you turn?

Surely vexation kills the fool,

and jealousy slays the simple.

I have seen the fool taking root,

but suddenly I cursed his dwelling.

His sons are far from safety,

they are crushed in the gate,

and there is no one to deliver them.

His harvest the hungry eat,

and he takes it even out of thorns;

and the thirsty pant after his wealth.

For affliction does not come from the dust,

nor does trouble start from the ground;

but man is born to trouble

as the sparks fly upward.

"As for me, I would seek God,

and to God would I commit my cause;

who does great things and unsearchable,

marvelous things without number:

he gives rain upon the earth

and sends water upon the fields;

he sets on high those who are lowly,

and those who mourn are lifted to safety.

He frustrates the devices of the crafty,

so that their hands achieve no success.

He takes the wise in their own craftiness;

and the schemes of the wily are brought to a quick end.

They meet with darkness in the daytime,

and grope at noonday as in the night.

But he saves the fatherless from their mouth,

the needy from the hand of the mighty.

So the poor have hope,

and injustice shuts her mouth.

"Behold, happy is the man whom God reproves;

therefore despise not the chastening of the Almighty.

For he wounds, but he binds up;

he smites, but his hands heal.

He will deliver you from six troubles;

in seven there shall no evil touch you.

In famine he will redeem you from death,

and in war from the power of the sword.

You shall be hid from the scourge of the tongue,

and shall not fear destruction when it comes.

At destruction and famine you shall laugh,

and shall not fear the beasts of the earth.

For you shall be in league with the stones of the field,

and the beasts of the field shall be at peace with you.

You shall know that your tent is safe,

and you shall inspect your fold and miss nothing.

You shall know also that your descendants shall be many,

and your offspring as the grass of the earth.

You shall come to your grave in ripe old age,

as a shock of grain comes up to the threshing floor

in its season.

Lo, this we have searched out; it is true.

Hear, and know it for your good."

A Cat Who
By Doug Hawley


The title is half the story. The rest is about my wonderful Christmas in August. It began inauspiciously when I saw Sally Rich on August 2nd. She was the CEO of Chasebook, the multi-billion dollar website for stalkers. She had come back to Burgville for her twentieth high school reunion. She had dragged her fiancé, Osborne Chatworth the 3rd with her. Yes, dragged. His clothes were torn from being pulled on his stomach across the road. Their upcoming nuptials were to take place during the Christmas celebration, which like most towns in this unnamed state, take place in August.

Despite her time away from Burgville and her homes in London, San Francisco, Los Angeles and Cucamonga, she still had warm feelings for the place where she grew up. We had gone to Bonnie & Clyde High and dated at the local soda shop, Stepson’s, and the New Wave Cinema. At one time I imagined a life together, me working at the local Fuel Stop and her at Burgville Library, but she was too ambitious to stick around.

The location of their upcoming nuptials did not sit well with Mr. Chatworth. As he put it “I wouldn’t wipe my $1500 shoes on the backsides of these insufferable rubes in this no Starbucks town”. As previously mentioned, he was dragged here. Sally told me that despite some minor misgivings and his lack of any male parts, she still wanted to marry her Chasebook and his also multi-billion dollar Sniff It, the pet matching site.

My good fortune was that Sally and I got to spend a lot of time together before the wedding. Osborne spent a lot of time getting his ears flossed; flag acrylic nails, and blond highlight hair extensions. We mooned over the teenage fun that we had and the perversions that we practiced. I can’t say any more because this is PG. If you want the good stuff, watch the Pornstop version.

Sally was still determined to marry him, until we went bowling as we did during high school. She broke down and told me “I don’t want chauffeurs, fifty million dollar estates with hot and cold running staff. Nor do I want to be Empress Of The World. I want stinky babies, a one bath crap shack, and you, my beloved runt.”

It came to pass that we had a modest wedding here in Burgville on the 25th of August, our Christmas. My cat Marx-Hegel, dressed as Santa, was best animal for the wedding and we served Carl’s Western Bacon Cheeseburgers and bottled McMenamins Terminator Stout at the reception. The entertainment was Brenda Lee’s “Rocking Around The Christmas Tree” played on repeat for five hours.

Presents were exchanged and we toasted each other with pork nog.

Since the wedding and the end of the filming, our life has been a continuing honeymoon. Town people think that we are not well to do because of what appears to be our modest house. They don’t know that Sally got a pile of money for selling Chasebook. It would be crude to mention the amount, let’s just say 1% of a Musk before Twitter. Some of that got us massive underground caverns and tunnels. Two of the underground rooms are named de Sade and Leo Masoch named for a couple of our favorite sexual pioneers. We mostly don’t use those rooms for ourselves, we have the Lovebird Room with our own theatre. We stick to Kama Sutra Thursday (as well as Taco Tuesday of course) when we play a chapter from the movie we produced and was picked as motion picture of year for 2025. We follow the movie reproducing the action on the screen. Our favorite is Bat In The Chicken Coop.

The truth is that we love the western classics in our own large bed / gymnasium. Birds in flight, snake and mate, porcupines in love, and inverted reverse cowgirl. I do have a confession. Even though I have a disproportionately large lingam (dick for the uneducated and yoga dropouts) and great stamina which Sally has loved since high school, sometimes I have a cold or the flu. At those times she can always visit the Symium™. I’m not the kind of jealous guy who would want to deny his love her pleasure.

Enough about us. I’m sure that you would like to hear about all the celebrities that visit us to enjoy the carnal games that we host, but I cannot reveal the names. You won’t hear from me about the mega church guy that comes with five Russian gymnasts and stays locked in a room for a week, nor the beloved male actor who always plays regular guy who visits with five hunky bodyguards and lots of dope, or the female teen star just out of rehab with eleven of her favorite back up dancers and a truck of party favors.

That’s the beginning of the story. Sally is calling, so just let me finish with nothing beats being a Hallmark movie home town boy.

Different versions appear in The Daily Drunk, Short Humour, Writer’s Egg and Haven under different names.

 Unwelcome Visitors

by K. A. Williams



"I don't see any dwellings," I said to my copilot, Tizwot.

He checked the scanner. "They're underground."

"Let's land and find a way in."

***

We melted the hidden door with our ray guns.

I climbed down the ladder first. "There's probably another entrance but I'm too cold to look for it."

We followed the light from our headlamps through a twisting tunnel that led to a heavy door. I opened it and we stepped inside a warm room.

There were tiny people on ladders, decorating a tall tree. We hadn't been spotted yet. "They're smaller than they looked in those broadcasts we saw. We should be able to conquer them easily," I whispered to Tizwot.

The little people stopped working when a big man with a long white beard entered the room. He had on a red outfit and noticed us right away.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" he asked.

Tizwot and I had learned this language earlier from their broadcasts.

"We're invaders from the planet Muvwap. Submit to our rule immediately or prepare for war," I said.

He laughed merrily and the tiny people joined in. This was annoying. Tizwot and I pointed our ray guns at the jolly man.

He said, "Elves, you know what to do."

Before we could shoot anyone, the little people had whirled around us so quickly, their figures looked blurred. When they stopped moving, Tizwot and I were wrapped up tightly in colorful paper with bows all over us, and our weapons were on the floor.  

The big man laughed again and said, "My elves will escort you outside. If you ever come here again, I'll sic my reindeer on you."

"What's a reindeer?" Tizwot asked me.

"I have no idea."

They carried us out a different way through the tunnel and all the way back to our ship where they set us down and cut us free. 

After we left the planet, Tizwot said, "I'm telling everyone that Earth is a hostile place full of mighty warriors and should be left alone."

"Me too."


The End

PIERROT

Dark Romantic Comedy


By Pat O’Malley

 
     Her name is Allison. She and Calvin had met on the dating app Cherub. Tonight they decided to meet up at Mercury Bar which was only a fifteen minute Uber from hiss apartment and five minutes from Allison’s. As New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’ blasted from the Mercury Bar’s speakers and the smallish Thursday night crowd chattered around them, all he could hear was Allison and he couldn’t stop smiling.

     Up until now, he hadn't had that much luck with meeting anyone on the app. She was the first girl from the app that he actually met up with in person. He was of average height and had been exercising so that his doughy frame now looked significantly more toned. He had recently cut his long dark hair into something short and sensible and had shaved his beard so he didn’t look forty instead of his natural twenty-seven.

     Allison was petite, with long dark curly hair hung to her shoulders. She was wearing a grey top with no sleeves, highlighting the meticulously designed tattoo of an octopus along her right bicep. Calvin was oddly drawn to the blue ink tattoo of an octopus as it went well with the silver ring in her nose.

     Her face had a certain brightness no doubt helped by her great smile and gorgeous blue eyes. In less sophisticated terms, she was the type of typical ‘hipster’ girl that Calvin was drawn to. He himself was a big fan of anime, Transformers, Sonic the Hedgehog and other guilty pleasures so when Allison revealed that she was a Deception sympathizer and joked about the bizarre online fan art of Sonic, he knew that he had found someone special.

     There was an undeniable spark between the two of them that only grew the more they smiled at one another. Allison could recite poetry from memory, particularly “Hope is the Thing With Feathers,” by Emily Dickinson just like he could recite Lewis Carroll’s “The Jabberwock.” They both laughed at how pretentious they were.

     As Calvin got the check, Allison asked him if he was up for getting a night cap, preferably at her place. He felt his heartbeat begin to race. This was their third date and aside from making out a little in the closing moments of a date, Calvin hadn't gotten the impression that Allison was ready to take things to the next level. Still, the brief moments where their tongues lightly swirled around each other made I’m feel elated. All that mattered was that passion was there so he didn’t object to her idea. He had only known Allison for about a month but he wasn’t just attracted to her good looks, it was the personality that he wanted more of.

     Soon the two of them were splitting an Uber and within five minutes they were at her apartment, making out on her couch harder than they ever had before. Calvin’s hands caressed Allison’s light frame as he felt her fingers grasp and feel the back of his head as one of her legs wrapped around one of his hips.

     After what felt like an eternity of their tongues touching, slowly he moved his left hand to Allison’s hip and his right hand towards her chest. Allison lightly grabbed his hand just as he made contact with the curve of her chest and she pressed it harder to her. Then she opened her eyes and moved her face away from hiss, her eyes reminded him of a cat as they stared at him with a suave yet vulnerable look.

     “ I’m sorry, could we pause for maybe just a second?”

     “ Of course! I’m sorry, I don’t want to rush things or do anything you don’t want to,” he was suddenly anxious. Had he blown his shot with her?

     “ No, Calvin you’re fine. I’m always awkward with things like this. I like you a lot and I want to keep going.”

     “Oh, um okay great,” Clavin smiled nervously.

     “ It’s just that I kind of have this-“ her face turned away as her voice dropped into an embarrassed mumble.

     “ You have what?”

     “God this is so embarrassing. Do you remember on Cherub when I said that I’ve had a lot of relationships? Well, sex only occurred in only three of the eight relationships I’ve had in my life because of my own issues.”

     “Hey, whatever it is, its fine. Really, we can wait before we-“

     “The issue was, that out of the eight people I dated only three wanted were able to go through with sleeping with me,” coursing her arms, she looked down suddenly appearing self conscious.

     Confused, he looked back her. He didn’t want to think that he was shallow but he didn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to sleep with Allison. Aside from her clever personality she had a beautiful aura around her delicate looks that was undeniable in its attractiveness.

     “Forget about them, thats their loss. They must have been crazy to let someone as cool as you pass them by.”

     She didn’t seem convinced and instead looked increasingly bashful as if she knew the punchline to an uncomfortable joke. Trying to be supportive, Calvin placed a hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

     “I know we haven’t known each other very long but I’m not one to judge,” he smiled at her. She returned his gaze.

     “ It’s just that…oh God, you’re going to think that I’m the worst. Basically, what it comes down to is my tastes where a little too much for most of my exes.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “To be blunt, I’m kind of into some really freaky shit.”

     He looked at her with his hand still on her shoulder not sure what to say and trying not to to laugh with relief. From what it sounded like to him, this girl he was already attracted was apparently some kind of closet pervert. This date was going even better than he had hoped. 

     “Thats fine! Hell, thats more than fine! I mean everyone’s got their kinks, God knows I’ve got mine.”

     “Is that so?” She laughed arching her right eyebrow as she gazed enticing at him.

     “ Hell yeah its so! In fact, I’ll tell you one of my embarrassing kinks to show you its not a big deal,” he laughed and cleared his throat.

     “I kind of sorta, enjoy being choked,” he blushed feeling that he may have revealed too much.

     “Well well, Mr. Calvin I do believe you are giving me the vapors!” She said putting on a faux Southern belle accent as she pretended to fan herself with her hand.

     Calvin thought that was as good an answer as any. 

     “Okay so you wont care about what I’m into?”

     “Its nothing with animals or dead people is it?”

     “Nope, no dead zebra sex for me.”

     “All right well bring it on! Show me what you got girl!”

     “All right, just don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Allison smiled again, leaning forward and kissed him, her tongue darting into his mouth before jetting out just as quickly as it entered.

     “I’ll be right back,” she darted over to the door to her bedroom before looking back with a sly smile and closed the door behind her.

     Sitting there on her couch with only the ticking sound of Allison’s living room clock keeping for company, Calvin fidgeted around excited and smiling. As he patiently awaited for her to come back, one thought kept mulling it over in his head:

     “What could she be into that could make her so embarrassed?” He wondered but wasn’t too worried, she had confided something personal to him which he really appreciated. 

     He couldn’t remember the last time he felt his happy.

     Time passed, the minute hand on the clock had gone from 11:25 to 11:45. Calvin was beginning to get anxious. Whatever she was doing, why was it taking so long? As he thought this over, the sound of Allison’s bedroom door creaking open startled him into sitting up straight.

     “Sorry to keep you waiting. Are you ready?” Her voice came from behind the door.

     “Lets rock!” God help him that was the best he could think of to say.

     “Ooooookay! Let’s go!” Allison’s voice sounded lighter now.

     The sound of ukulele music suddenly filled the room.

     Allison opened the door and instead of the cute hipster girl that he had been talking to before, out walked a scantily clad circus clown. She was wearing a small floppy green hat on top of a long blue haired wig. Her nose was painted bright red, she had drawn a red heart around her right eye and the rest of her face was chalk white. Wrapped around her slender neck was a burgundy bow tie that sparkled with glitter. On her arms and legs she was wearing rainbow sleeves and stockings that outlined her sensual build.

     Otherwise she wasn’t wearing much else.

     “Hi! My name’s Sunny. Ya ready to have fun?” She pulled out a clown horn and gripped it twice producing an uncertain honking.

     Years earlier, when he was a child there was one night where he and his brothers had watched the classic horror film “Poltergeist.” Skipping over plot details, the movie lived up to its reputation. It wasn’t the child eating tree or the later scene of that guy ripping off his face that was one point where the young boy was man handled by a terrifying clown doll that was possessed by angry spirits and now sported a sinister, Satanic clown face grinning with needle like teeth and murder in his eyes.

     Ever since that traumatic night, he had maintained a life long terrifying phobia of clowns.

     “Guh,” he sputtered.

     This wasn’t some kind of sexy jester Harley Quinn outfit, this was full on sexed up birthday clown. Calvin was horrified. He sat there with his eyes as big as Manson lamps and a poorly maintained rictus grin on his face. His mind couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Only moments ago he thought he was in the greatest night of his life now it was like he was living one of his actual nightmares.

     All he could do was sit there and try not to scream.

     “Well there it is,” Allison sighed as her sad clown face looked down and her naked shoulders drooped in dissapointment.

     “What?” Calvin managed to croak out.

     “You think I’m a freak because I need to dress up like a clown to have sex.”

     “Think youre-what? No! No, no no I’m just a little surprised. So you like to dress up like a clown…”

     “During sex. The sexiest thing for me is to dress up like a clown when I’m having sex. Nothing gets me hotter than dressing up like Bozo and screwing another clown with joy buzzers, whoops cushions and part favors on standby.”

     “Why?” He couldn’t stop himself from asking.

     “I don’t know. Why do people have foot fetishes? Just my preference I guess,” she shrugged.

     “Gotcha. Awesome. That’s fine. That’s totally fine.”

     “Really? You’re gripping the couch pretty hard and you’re shaking.”

     “All the more energy reserved for you Allison!” He thought that forcing more nervous laughter would make the the fear might go away. It wasn’t working.

     “Sunny.”

     “Whats that now?”

     “When I’m dressed like this I’d like it if you’d call me Sunny, as in Sunny the Clown,” Sunny pulled out the horn again, smiled and gave it a few more honks.

     “S-Sunny, right okay um look maybe I-”

     “I’ve just been dying to bring out the balloons animals, banana cream pies and I’ve been practicing magic tricks. I don’t know how good I’ll be at them though,”  her bright red lower lip stuck out in a sexy pout.

     Sunny the Clown also known as Allison slowly made her way over to Calvin, leaned close to his ear. Her red nose brushed his ear with her nearly bare chest less than a foot away from him.

     “I’ve been a very bad clown,” she whispered into his ear before licking it.

     Calvin didn’t know which feelings inside him were stronger, lust or terror. Years later, he would look back on this moment and to his eternal shame, against all rationality, even in knowing how badly it would end, he’d probably do it all again in an instant. He swallowed his fear, closed his eyes to thoughts of puppies and moved towards her. Sunny straddled him on his lap as they went back to making out even more fiercely than they had before.

     He lost himself in her clown face and rainbow attire. The next thing he knew his clothes were gone and he was in her room laying on her bed. Sunny the Clown was riding him. Her moans of satisfaction sounded more like high pitched giggling. He shut his eyes and pretended he was somewhere else. Still he couldn’t deny that this felt amazing.

     At some point Calvin thought that she had pulled out another condom but then she started inflating it with her mouth to reveal a long red balloon. With him still inside her she laughed and whacked his face with the long red plastic noodle. He cringed as the ballon swatted him in the face several times. She tried twisting it into a balloon animal but it popped not long into the attempt so instead she just rode him harder.

     As he slowly opened his eyes he noticed that he had unconsciously become more enthusiastic on his end. A horrible realization crept into his head. Here was having sex with the woman dressed as his worst fears and it was easily the greatest sex of his life.

     He had already finished twice but he got the impression that Sunny had finished herself after she pulled out a fake jar of peanuts and moaned with ecstasy as she opened the can and polka dotted snakes made of springs shot out. Afterwards he had white and red face paint smeared all over his body. Sunny’s head was on his panting chest, she had taken her blue wig off. He couldn’t prevent the tremble of fear he felt when he looked at Sunny’s painted clown face but thankfully the pleasure he felt was stronger.

     “ My God Sunny, my God. That was insane.”

     “You can go back to calling me Allison now,” she smiled looking into his eyes.

     “ Tonight was incredible. I had a really great time,” he returned her smile.

     “ Me too. I was hoping maybe we could do this again sometime?”

     “ Definitely,” even though the back of his mind was screaming for him to run away somehow he didn’t.

     Thus it became their routine. Each time they met up for a date, Calvin would smile and bury the feelings of primal terror and love battling within him. Aside from the clown sex, their dates weren’t anything too wild. They would, watch a movie, go bowling or cook a new type of food.  Still with each date, the two grew happier and closer together.

     During their more intimate moments, she would take a few minutes to turn into Sunny and they’d resume their wild clown on man sex. If they went to Calvin’s place Allison was always sure to bring a backpack full of her Sunny costume. He didn’t want to risk ruining the great times he had with her so he made sure to never let it slip that he had nightmares about scary sexual clowns.

     Two months into this arrangement, Calvin and Allison examined where there relationship was. Calvin couldn’t remember ever feeling this way about someone. She was a smart, funny woman with a wild sex drive and he knew that he was lucky to have her. They had both developed such strong feelings for one another that they had talked it over and decided to become committed but she had one non-negotiable condition.

     “I cant see my self long term with anyone who doesn’t dress up like a clown for sex too.  If we’re really going to go for a long term relationship, you have to buy your own clown costume.”

     Once he pulled himself together after nearly fainting on the spot, he and Allison walked to the most local costume store. The store was empty except for the an older gentlemen behind the cashier who bore an uncanny resemblance to John Waters. He felt uncomfortable browsing through half a dozen Bozo, Joker and Pennywise costumes but preserved nerves be damned.

     Eventually Allison helped him find the right clown style for himself. They settled on a rainbow afro wig, standard blue, white and red face paint, big yellow pants with red stripes and large floppy blue shoes. To complete the outfit, Allison placed a big red clown nose made out of foam over his nose.

     His now girlfriend was all too excited to introduce his new clown persona, so the very next night Calvin swallowed his fears yet again. He went into Allison’s bathroom with his backpack full of clown clothes and began the transformation. Fifteen minutes later, Calvin stepped out of the bathroom. He was greeted by Sunny the Clown, already changed back in her sexy makeup and rainbow sleeves. He had the rainbow wig on, a white painted face with blue in the eyes and red around the mouth. His nose had the foam red nose in front of it and the only other thing he wore was his big yellow clown pants that were already starting to fall down.

     “Ahhh! I love it!! Sunny squeed jumping up and down with excitement before running over to him and wrapping her striped arms around his bare chest.

     Looking at himself in the mirror across from her. He couldn’t recognize himself. In his mind he only saw his reflection laughing an uncontrollable nasal laughter. Soon the laughing face of his reflection morphed into something with needle sharp teeth and murder in his eyes. 

     “Soooo? Whats your clown name handsome?”

      “How does Flip Flop the Clown sound?”

      “Ooooohlala I can dig it. Pleased to meetcha Flip Flop,” the sexy scary clown pulled him close until both of their big red noses were touching.

     Flip Flop thought that the sex before had been great but this flat out changed his life. Naked and looking ridiculous, he never felt more alive as he vigorously kissed Sunny, smearing their makeup on one another until their faces were a swirling mess of vibrant colors. Every time Flip Flop kissed and caressed a different part of Sunny’s naked clown body, she would blow into a kazoo that buzzed increasingly louder and louder.

     Flip Flop felt like he was outside his own body and couldn’t look away at the sight of himself dressed like a clown making love to this ravishing clown girl. Flip Flop sprayed a bottle of seltzer water on Sunny before she reached beneath her bed and flung a banana cream pie into his ugly clown face. Sunny’s stereo continued to blast circus music as she ran to her bedroom dresser and pulled out a whoopee cushion.

     Soon she was on top of him again with the inflated whoopee cushion beneath his back. As she rode him harder and harder the whoopee cushion made a sputtering farting sound. Normally he would find all of this terrifying and awkward but God help him at that moment it felt like the funniest, sexiest thing in the world.

     “Fuck yeah, that’s it Flip Flop you dirty pervert clown. Oh God, now say ‘fuck you, you stupid fucking clown!’”

     “Fuck you, you stupid fucking clown!”

     “Yes! Yes!”

     Afterwards with the whoopee cushion and pies spent, Allison had removed her Sunny gear and was snuggled up on Calvin. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. He was careful that he kept his rainbow wig and red nose on.

     “You can take that off now you know,” Allison smiled lovingly at him.

     “Just a little longer,” Calvin said in a monotone voice staring blankly at the ceiling.

     The fantastic sex didn’t prevent Calvin’s phobia of clown’s from disappearing. Almost every night Calvin had dreams of being chased by a tiny car full of terrifying monster clowns laughing a high pitched giggle as they chased and tried to eat him. Soon almost every morning Calvin was waking up to the sound of his own screams. To his utter astonishment, following his screams he almost always found himself with an erection.

     Then one day everything changed. To his growing horror, Calvin realized revelation that he wanted more. His feelings for Allison hadn't changed and he still wanted her but now even her  sexiest moves as Sunny weren't enough for him. Calvin had become addicted.  Everywhere he walked he couldn't stop seeing ordinary people in the street as clowns having sex with one another.

     At the convenience store where he bought his coffee every morning, the cashier had turned into Clarabell the Clown. Clarabell winked and asked if Sunny’s clown car had room for one more. Calvin blinked and realized that the cashier was just giving him change. During his lunch break, he walked past a businesswoman talking on her cellphone while two construction men were working nearby. A chorus of squawking clown horns boomed inside Calvin’s head. When he turned around he saw the woman and construction workers had been replaced by the twin clowns Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum getting it on with Grandma the Clown.

     Horny clowns were everywhere. Calvin started screaming.

     He was losing control of himself and the only thing that scared him more was that he didn’t care. Night after night he tried to find as much clown porn on the internet as he could but surprisingly there was a scarce amount.

     Calvin knew he that his obsession was getting worse too. Soon he began searching the Internet for when the circus was coming to Philadelphia. Surely they must have some girl clowns? They’d see that he was a kindred spirit and they could live out the exciting, dangerous life of a clown affair. Unfortunately for Calvin, the circus had just wrapped up a two night performance in Philadelphia.

     Missing the circus was soon going to be the least of his problems. Life was about to get much worse for Calvin. One day he walked over to Allison’s apartment and saw her waiting for him there. Maybe it was the wet mascara running down her face or the venom in her eyes but somehow Calvin knew that she wasn’t happy.

     “I don't know what to say. I’m so furious with you you son of a bitch,” Allison said through her gritted teeth.

     “ Whats the matter, honey?”

     “Screw you, you don’t get to call me that. I know what you did. I have the screenshots.”

     She pulled out her smartphone from her pocket. On the screen was a screenshot of a profile from the dating app Shpongle that had Calvin dressed up as Flip Flop the clown without a shirt on. The profile read ‘Flip Flop’ and the bio wrote: “Just looking for a lady clown to fool around with. Yes this is for real.”

     “Where did you get that?”

     “ My friend Rachel saw it when she was on Shpongle and she thought she recognized you. Even when she said the name “Flip Flop” I felt sick but I told her she was wrong. Good thing she saved the screenshot. I fucking loved you Calvin, how could you do this to me?!”

     “Exactly, I love you too! None of that means anything! Those girls aren’t the clown that I fell in love with!”

     Allison’s face looked flabbergasted for a moment before switching back to rage. She clenched her fists and her small body was shaking, Calvin had never seen her this angry before.

     “It’s over you bastard!” The last word broke out into a sob as she slammed the door and ran up that stairs.

     Calvin must have rang her buzzer and tried calling her phone a couple dozen times but the same results every time; no answer. The person he cared about the most was heartbroken and hurt in a way that could impact how she had relationships for the rest of her life. He had thrown away the best thing that had ever happened to him and worst of all now he had no one to have clown sex with.

     With his relationship to Allison destroyed, Calvin entered into a deep depression.  He didn’t see clowns everywhere he went now. Everyone now looked like the same dull human shaped blob. Calvin went to work, ate and slept all on autopilot. He let his beard grow and stopped taking care of himself. All his friends and family knew was that Allison had broken up with him because he cheated on her or something. They tried to help him back on his feet but he didn’t want to be helped.

     At night, as he lay on his bed unable to sleep he looked over to the closet. Inside the Flip Flop costume lay dormant but continued to silently torment him. Every night he could hear the high pitched giggling of clowns coming from behind his closet door. In his head he fought with himself over what to do with the Flip Flop costume. Half of him wanted to burn it, throw it away, never look at it ever again. The other half didn’t want to do any of that.

     Days passed and all Calvin could do was go to work and try to get by. After much discipline along with some trial and error, Calvin gradually stopped needing to wear the rainbow wig and red nose to get himself off. Four months after Allison broke up with him, Calvin was slowly putting his life back together. He was doing better at work, hanging out with his friends and family and doing things that made him happy.

     Calvin still missed Allison and regretted how things had ended but he had come to accept that his relationship with Allison was over and it was time to move on. When he was comfortable enough to date again he went back on Cherub. A few days of matching up with a handful of girls and somewhat flirty conversations, Calvin set up a date with this girl who seemed pretty cool named Monica.

     Monica wore dark rimmed glasses, had red hair and worked as a pharmacist.   had an interest in being a theatre arts major and she had done improv in college but blushed when she reminisced about it as she thought she wasn’t very good. Calvin thought it was cute how she tried to hide her Mid-Western accent  to sound more businesslike. He smiled as he learned of her plans to run in an upcoming 5K marathon and to someday visit her dream destination of Paris, France.

     She laughed at his dumb jokes and after a couple more drinks they were both pawing at each other. Their first night together was nice, Calvin felt a huge sense of relief to normally hook up with someone after months of having to get dressed up before hand. Then one night when they were at Monica’s apartment and her roommates were gone for the weekend, Monica leaned in close and whispered into Calvin’s ear.

     “I’ve got a surprise for you tonight. It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while now. Just promise me you wont laugh.”

     “Er, I promise?” Calvin didn’t like where this was going at all.

     “Be right back,” Monica winked and went to her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

     There is a feeling that can only be said in French but Calvin couldn’t remember what is was called. His felt the familiar pounding of his nervous heart.

     “God help me,” Calvin thought. “If she comes out dressed as a clown I am going to shit a brick.”

     Calvin wasn't sure what to expect. He suddenly felt like the walls were closing in. He nervously ate some of the croissant she had out for him. He was reaching for his second cookie when Monica’s bedroom door open and music filled her apartment. It was the sound of an accordion that made Calvin think of the Eiffel tour, baguettes and wine.

     A long slender leg wrapped in black tights stepped out from behind Monica’s bedroom door. Soon after, Monica sprung out from behind the door. The accordion music continued Monica skipped around her living room. She was wearing black skin tight suspenders on top of a black and white striped shirt and two white gloves on her hands. Monica had painted her face white with two red dots on her cheeks and red lipstick on her lips. She had tied her hair into a braid and on top of her head she wore one of those flat black French hats. Calvin thought they were called berets.

     After a few seconds of this the music stopped and Monica put her hand on the wall behind her as she leaned back and seductively looked at Calvin. She didn’t say anything but Calvin got the message.

     After all, she was a mime. 

 

THE END

Coloring Time
​
 By Paul Levine



       I get a coloring book in the mail from my friend, Phil.  His wife, an artist, has put together a book of mosaics.

     It’s like a nursing home thing, I think.  Something to do between naps.
     When I start my first picture, it feels good because I don’t have to think.  I just have to select the colored pencils I want and fill in the design.  It’s like a tranquilizer.  It’s also the first thing I have accomplished in a long time. 
     As I fill in the pattern, I feel I finally have some control.  There is no one to second-guess my choice of color.  No one to ask me why I used light blue there or pink somewhere else.  No one to say, “I wouldn’t think you would have used so much orange.   What made you do that?”
     I concentrate on a part of the design on the bottom of the page, and I think about how I was once so capable and able to do the things a man can do.   My thoughts fill the room like a balloon inflating enough to explode. 
     After a while, I stop coloring and hold the coloring book up, looking at the unfinished mosaic, and realize that what I am doing is nothing but time.  Time that needs to be filled in.  Just like the outline of the design.  Something to keep my mind from the fear that is increasing.  I just don’t know how long. 

      I buy my second coloring book at the supermarket.  There is a picture of a cat on the cover of the book.  The cashier holds it up to get a closer look and says, “I love cats.”
     I hurry home and open the book, and find the page I want to color.  The picture I pick has nothing to do with a cat.  It is, instead, of a man looking out at the ocean from a desk in his house by the sea.  In my mind, I become the man in the picture.  I wonder how all the things that have happened to me have made me end up looking out at the sea.  
     As I color, my mind wanders.  It is almost as if I am in a dream, and I wonder if my mother and father and sister are in the next room.  I am not sure why I don’t know these things, so I just stare at the water as I color in the blue, green sea. 
     Looking out at the ocean, I know I have become a lesser person.  The thing that happens when you become old.   Finally there is a breeze and the sun is warm and things are better, until I realize I am not the man in the picture.  I am only coloring a drawing.   So I stare at the sky as I pick a shade of blue with some gray.  It is no longer a matter of right or wrong.


     The last coloring book I buy is about Paris.  I buy it along with markers instead of coloring pencils.  On the cover are buildings along the Seine.  I am attracted to the book because I think it will bring back memories of the last time my wife and I went to Paris twenty years ago.  
     It had been cloudy and rainy most of the long weekend we were there, but the colors of the city were still vibrant.  I am excited to look at the pictures, but when I sit down at home, I am not able to pick any colors, and I wonder if it is because it had been so gray in Paris.  That feeling is holding me back even though the pictures are plentiful and I have so many markers to choose from.
     It is then I realize that more than anything, the markers are holding me back.  That it could be something as simple as that.  That they are too permanent and leave no room for error.  And once used, can’t be changed.  And instead become like the glaring mistakes I have made in my life. 


      It is after not being able to color the Paris pictures, though, that I give up on coloring books and go back to the reading I had been doing.  My sleeping soon becomes worse.
     I sit in the dark living room and think about what has happened in my life and all that is lost now.  I listen for sounds—any sounds—the train in the night a half mile away, the cars on the Thruway, a noise down the street.
     I think of what I would look like in a coloring book.  A man sitting on a couch at night.  I think that if I had such a coloring book with that picture, I would color the background black because it is dark.  I think of that man in the picture closing his eyes and being able to see colors.  In fact, he can see all the things he can’t see with them opened.  He then sees the pictures of his past.  And it is in this way that he is able to rest his mind, and more than that, get through the night.

THE HEART OF SPRING

By William Butler Yeats

A very old man, whose face was almost as fleshless as the foot of a bird, sat meditating upon the rocky shore of the flat and hazel-covered isle which fills the widest part of the Lough Gill. A russet-faced boy of seventeen years sat by his side, watching the swallows dipping for flies in the still water. The old man was dressed in threadbare blue velvet, and the boy wore a frieze coat and a blue cap, and had about his neck a rosary of blue beads. Behind the two, and half hidden by trees, was a little monastery. It had been burned down a long while before by sacrilegious men of the Queen's party, but had been roofed anew with rushes by the boy, that the old man might find shelter in his last days. He had not set his spade, however, into the garden about it, and the lilies and the roses of the monks had spread out until their confused luxuriancy met and mingled with the narrowing circle of the fern. Beyond the lilies and the roses the ferns were so deep that a child walking among them would be hidden from sight, even though he stood upon his toes; and beyond the fern rose many hazels and small oak trees.

'Master,' said the boy, 'this long fasting, and the labour of beckoning after nightfall with your rod of quicken wood to the beings who dwell in the waters and among the hazels and oak-trees, is too much for your strength. Rest from all this labour for a little, for your hand seemed more heavy upon my shoulder and your feet less steady under you today than I have known them. Men say that you are older than the eagles, and yet you will not seek the rest that belongs to age.' He spoke in an eager, impulsive way, as though his heart were in the words and thoughts of the moment; and the old man answered slowly and deliberately, as though his heart were in distant days and distant deeds.

'I will tell you why I have not been able to rest,' he said. 'It is right that you should know, for you have served me faithfully these five years and more, and even with affection, taking away thereby a little of the doom of loneliness which always falls upon the wise. Now, too, that the end of my labour and the triumph of my hopes is at hand, it is the more needful for you to have this knowledge.'

'Master, do not think that I would question you. It is for me to keep the fire alight, and the thatch close against the rain, and strong, lest the wind blow it among the trees; and it is for me to take the heavy books from the shelves, and to lift from its corner the great painted roll with the names of the Sidhe, and to possess the while an incurious and reverent heart, for right well I know that God has made out of His abundance a separate wisdom for everything which lives, and to do these things is my wisdom.'

'You are afraid,' said the old man, and his eyes shone with a momentary anger.

'Sometimes at night,' said the boy, 'when you are reading, with the rod of quicken wood in your hand, I look out of the door and see, now a great grey man driving swine among the hazels, and now many little people in red caps who come out of the lake driving little white cows before them. I do not fear these little people so much as the grey man; for, when they come near the house, they milk the cows, and they drink the frothing milk, and begin to dance; and I know there is good in the heart that loves dancing; but I fear them for all that. And I fear the tall white-armed ladies who come out of the air, and move slowly hither and thither, crowning themselves with the roses or with the lilies, and shaking about their living hair, which moves, for so I have heard them tell each other, with the motion of their thoughts, now spreading out and now gathering close to their heads. They have mild, beautiful faces, but, Aengus, son of Forbis, I fear all these beings, I fear the people of Sidhe, and I fear the art which draws them about us.'

'Why,' said the old man, 'do you fear the ancient gods who made the spears of your father's fathers to be stout in battle, and the little people who came at night from the depth of the lakes and sang among the crickets upon their hearths? And in our evil day they still watch over the loveliness of the earth. But I must tell you why I have fasted and laboured when others would sink into the sleep of age, for without your help once more I shall have fasted and laboured to no good end. When you have done for me this last thing, you may go and build your cottage and till your fields, and take some girl to wife, and forget the ancient gods. I have saved all the gold and silver pieces that were given to me by earls and knights and squires for keeping them from the evil eye and from the love-weaving enchantments of witches, and by earls' and knights' and squires' ladies for keeping the people of the Sidhe from making the udders of their cattle fall dry, and taking the butter from their churns. I have saved it all for the day when my work should be at an end, and now that the end is at hand you shall not lack for gold and silver pieces enough to make strong the roof-tree of your cottage and to keep cellar and larder full. I have sought through all my life to find the secret of life. I was not happy in my youth, for I knew that it would pass; and I was not happy in my manhood, for I knew that age was coming; and so I gave myself, in youth and manhood and age, to the search for the Great Secret. I longed for a life whose abundance would fill centuries, I scorned the life of fourscore winters. I would be--nay, I will be!--like the Ancient Gods of the land. I read in my youth, in a Hebrew manuscript I found in a Spanish monastery, that there is a moment after the Sun has entered the Ram and before he has passed the Lion, which trembles with the Song of the Immortal Powers, and that whosoever finds this moment and listens to the Song shall become like the Immortal Powers themselves; I came back to Ireland and asked the fairy men, and the cow-doctors, if they knew when this moment was; but though all had heard of it, there was none could find the moment upon the hour-glass. So I gave myself to magic, and spent my life in fasting and in labour that I might bring the Gods and the Fairies to my side; and now at last one of the Fairies has told me that the moment is at hand. One, who wore a red cap and whose lips were white with the froth of the new milk, whispered it into my ear. Tomorrow, a little before the close of the first hour after dawn, I shall find the moment, and then I will go away to a southern land and build myself a palace of white marble amid orange trees, and gather the brave and the beautiful about me, and enter into the eternal kingdom of my youth. But, that I may hear the whole Song, I was told by the little fellow with the froth of the new milk on his lips, that you must bring great masses of green boughs and pile them about the door and the window of my room; and you must put fresh green rushes upon the floor, and cover the table and the rushes with the roses and the lilies of the monks. You must do this tonight, and in the morning at the end of the first hour after dawn, you must come and find me.'

'Will you be quite young then?' said the boy.

'I will be as young then as you are, but now I am still old and tired, and you must help me to my chair and to my books.'

When the boy had left Aengus son of Forbis in his room, and had lighted the lamp which, by some contrivance of the wizard's, gave forth a sweet odour as of strange flowers, he went into the wood and began cutting green boughs from the hazels, and great bundles of rushes from the western border of the isle, where the small rocks gave place to gently sloping sand and clay. It was nightfall before he had cut enough for his purpose, and well-nigh midnight before he had carried the last bundle to its place, and gone back for the roses and the lilies. It was one of those warm, beautiful nights when everything seems carved of precious stones. Sleuth Wood away to the south looked as though cut out of green beryl, and the waters that mirrored them shone like pale opal. The roses he was gathering were like glowing rubies, and the lilies had the dull lustre of pearl. Everything had taken upon itself the look of something imperishable, except a glow-worm, whose faint flame burnt on steadily among the shadows, moving slowly hither and thither, the only thing that seemed alive, the only thing that seemed perishable as mortal hope. The boy gathered a great armful of roses and lilies, and thrusting the glow-worm among their pearl and ruby, carried them into the room, where the old man sat in a half-slumber. He laid armful after armful upon the floor and above the table, and then, gently closing the door, threw himself upon his bed of rushes, to dream of a peaceful manhood with his chosen wife at his side, and the laughter of children in his ears. At dawn he rose, and went down to the edge of the lake, taking the hour-glass with him. He put some bread and a flask of wine in the boat, that his master might not lack food at the outset of his journey, and then sat down to wait until the hour from dawn had gone by. Gradually the birds began to sing, and when the last grains of sand were falling, everything suddenly seemed to overflow with their music. It was the most beautiful and living moment of the year; one could listen to the spring's heart beating in it. He got up and went to find his master. The green boughs filled the door, and he had to make a way through them. When he entered the room the sunlight was falling in flickering circles on floor and walls and table, and everything was full of soft green shadows. But the old man sat clasping a mass of roses and lilies in his arms, and with his head sunk upon his breast. On the table, at his left hand, was a leather wallet full of gold and silver pieces, as for a journey, and at his right hand was a long staff. The boy touched him and he did not move. He lifted the hands but they were quite cold, and they fell heavily.

'It were better for him,' said the lad, 'to have told his beads and said his prayers like another, and not to have spent his days in seeking amongst the Immortal Powers what he could have found in his own deeds and days had he willed. Ah, yes, it were better to have said his prayers and kissed his beads!' He looked at the threadbare blue velvet, and he saw it was covered with the pollen of the flowers, and while he was looking at it a thrush, who had alighted among the boughs that were piled against the window, began to sing.

THE PLAQUE

By Kate Whitehead



Aileen stands in the upstairs bedroom of the holiday home sensing subtle traces of him a faint sharp aroma of old spice a musky hint of pipe tobacco. Dazzled by the surprise of another days sunshine she peers down at the historical tableau kids jumping from the high stone harbour walls catapulting magically through space.
She reaches into the musty wardrobe for a pinstriped dress belted at the waist pats her close coiled curls and applies the peachy orange lipstick. Strapped into beige high heeled sandals she navigates the cobbles steps lightly and confidently down the hill greeting familiar faces with a casual nod.
If he were here today she thinks we would walk together mad dogs in the noonday sun marvelling in unison at the fantastic summer that reminds of us 1976. In her solo state, this unexpected burst of blue brilliance only accentuates her sense of loss twisted under the harsh glare.
Her foundation trickles down her right cheek melting in the brightest sun of the day. She's tempted to retreat into the cool cavern but doggedly continues her weekly constitutional climbing the haphazard steps breathlessly gulping at the still salt air.
Aileen rests for a moment at the top scowls disapprovingly at the floating detritus discarded takeaway boxes tangled in the early brambles. Her scowl falls into a small self-congratulatory smile as she admires the deceptively distant elegant grey contours of the holiday home sandwiched proudly in the middle of the granite.
Huddled at one end of the splintered brown bench with the missing slat a blonde woman sits clutching a small notebook.
"Sorry should I move," she asks half grimacing half-smiling Aileen can’t be sure.
"No there’s more than enough room for the two of us” Aileen drawls authoritatively.
The blonde woman scours her small trove of uncontroversial chit chat talks about the weather for the tenth time that morning.
She’s called Alice and she lives in the village all year round at the top of the hill.
Aileen half listens to Alice mulling over shards of a memory of him.
“Oh just look at that time I'm late for lunch,” Aileen exclaims slicing into Alice’s monologue about autumn in the village.
Standing up dizzily Aileen turns and notices it larger, bolder, golder recently screwed on the second plaque .below her husbands.
Aileen trembles shocked and enraged at the blatant unbelievable audacity of this thing that’s appeared overnight.
She spits the words at Alice
“They can't’ do this not without my permission this bench is ours we paid 500 pounds to put the plaque there in his memory because .he loved the village so much.”
“I need to talk to someone about this someone who knows I need an explanation.”
"So you own the bench do you Alice mutters indignantly resentful at being privy to such a morbidly intricate drama.
“Goodbye then enjoys your day” Aileen growls slowly regaining her starchy composure.
Alice observes Aileen cautious descent back down the steps and over to the other side of the harbour paralysed by an overpowering sense of gloom. She raises reluctantly from the bench her daily dose of calm contaminated by this morbid nature of the revelation...
Aileen sits on a stool in her porch, unstraps her beige high heels shuts her eyes and imbibes the familiar scent dusty tomato plants mingled with the spicy cinnamon of her tiny purple orchids. Suffused
She can't decide will it be lunch first then the stern phone call to the woman at the chapel who knows everything to get to the bottom of the troubling matter of the second plaque.
After a single glass of merlot suffused with transient drowsy contentment, she wistfully recalls her husband's easy-going good nature and lets it go the matter of the second plaque. His words chime in her head gently mocking.
"Well, what harm can it do two plaques on the bench? I'm happy to be with the other fellow anyway”
It's the end of her solo summer sojourn in the holiday home drifting through the huge rooms relieved when the huge sun sinks leaving her shrouded In a comforting twilight blanket. She watches the evening news tut-tutting at the relentless stupidity of it all crochets for the grandchildren then slides gratefully under the lavender-scented sheets.
Alice seeks out a new bench for her morning calm the following day on the other side of the harbour. It is slightly concealed by overhanging branches and next to an overflowing litter bin buzzing with flies. If she twists her head slightly to the right she can see the golden yellow contours of her own home high up above the harbour. She reaches behind her runs her hands along with the rough wood relieved to find it unadorned seized by an unexpected feeling of gratitude that time hasn’t outsmarted her yet.

Kate's short fiction often has a strong sense of place. It has been published in fanzines,
online literary journals and the Print Magazines Confluence and Impspired.

What Were We Thinking? Looking Back on Love Story

By Angela Camack


Hearing a snippet of Francis Lai’s glurgy theme for the movie Love Story, I remembered the excitement created by the book by Erich Segal and the movie, released simultaneously in 1970. The works were incredibly popular and had an effect on our culture that resonated long after the publication and premiere. The movie furthered the careers of Ali McGraw and Ryan O’Neal, who played Jennifer and Oliver. The word “preppy,” used to describe snobbish, rich WASPS, first appeared in the book and movie. When asked about the derivation of the word, however, Segal said it came from “preposterous” (Birnbach.) Starting in 1970, after years of obscurity, Jennifer rose to the top of lists of most popular names for baby girls, staying at the top for 14 years (Gerson). Droves of young women began wearing long, center-parted hair and horn-rimmed glasses.
Love Story is also a reminder of the power of stories to recreate a time and place, and to demonstrate the ideas and social context of the times in which the stories took place. Love Story shows how men and women interacted during the years when the second wave of feminism was beginning to develop. Considering the problems with gender roles that the work demonstrates, it is surprising how many people, especially women, fell under its spell. However appealing Jenny and Oliver appear together, they are not a good example for modern relationships.
The plot of the book and movie are almost identical. Jennifer Cavilleri and Oliver” Preppy” Barrett IV meet cute at the Vassar Library. A Harvard student and hockey player, he is the rich, confident son of a family that has given a great deal of money to Harvard over the years. She is a baker’s daughter, a gifted Vassar music who is brilliant, beautiful and cheerfully foul-mouthed. They fall in love and decide to marry, even though Oliver’s father disapproves of the relationship
and asks that they wait a year to be sure their marriage is wise. Oliver refuses to wait, and his father cuts off all financial support for Oliver’s entry into Harvard Law School. Jenny gets a teaching job, and they suffer in genteel poverty until he gets a job with a New York City law firm and the money rolls in again. Their idyll ends when Jenny dies of leukemia and Oliver is left alone with his memories.
The story intends to give us a romantic view of love and sacrifice, of a marriage between two people who will be together despite obstacles. What we have, however, is a story where a man has a woman who will be what he needs at any point in his life. At first Jenny is a spirited, gifted musician who initially appeals to Oliver because she is honest to a fault and not overwhelmed by his money and social status. She changes to a woman who gives up her dreams to support both of them, and finally to a wife and prospective mother.
When we meet Jenny, she is a serious music scholar whose relationship with Oliver is both loving and challenging, as she is not the type of woman his family and social station would predict he would marry. In her senior year she gets a prestigious scholarship to study music in Paris. When graduation nears, Jenny tells Oliver of her plans to study in Paris, saying that she did not think two people of such different situations in life could have a future after school ends. Oliver is desperate for her to stay with him. He proposes, and Jenny immediately jettisons her plans and marries him. She gets a job as a teacher to support them.
Oliver accepts her sacrifice as a given. He works during the summer and holidays, but otherwise devotes his time to his law studies. At no time do either of them consider a way to accommodate both of their plans. Jenny could have gone to Paris for a year, furthering her studies and appeasing Oliver’s father. Oliver could have worked during the school year as well, perhaps taking more than three years to complete his degree but allowing Jenny time to pursue her music.
Jenny could have gone to music school in Boston or tried to get performing opportunities. But she has moved into the second phase of their relationship, where she is the supportive wife.
Oliver notes that Jenny could have kept up with her music, but “she came home from Shady Lane School exhausted, and there was still dinner to prepare” (Segal). Apparently intelligent, hockey-playing Oliver was unable to see to his own dinner.
Perhaps this approach is reading more into the situation than Segal intended, but why does Jenny come home from work exhausted? Teaching is demanding work, but a young, healthy woman (which Jenny was at the time) should have enough energy to maintain what was her life’s passion. Is the strain of this loss contributing to her fatigue? Perhaps her tiredness is due to the appearance of the disease which will become terminal. Either scenario shows that Oliver is unaware of her situation. She is a device, not a woman with her own needs.
Another incident that demonstrates that their relationship is based on her recognition of his needs is the argument that gives rise to the work’s famous quote. Jenny telephones Oliver’s father to decline an invitation to his birthday party but takes it upon herself to assure him that Oliver does loves him. Oliver becomes furious and jerks the telephone from her hand. She runs out of their house, coatless, into the cold night. He is immediately sorry and searches the neighborhood for her. He comes home to find her on their front porch, shivering, wet and barely able to speak. She has forgotten her key and is locked out. He starts to apologize but Jenny stops him, saying that “love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
This is an easy place for the situation to end for Oliver, but not in any real relationship. Of course, you have to say you’re sorry. How else can you take responsibility for your actions and begin to deal with difficulties in a relationship? This takes effort on both sides, which is harder than ignoring issues and moving on.
Once Oliver gets an excellent job and they go to New York, Jenny moves into the next phase, being the loving wife and mother. In the movie Oliver says he “offered to send Jenny to Julliard” (Hiller), but she prefers to concentrate on having a baby. We realize at this point that Jenny is quite isolated as well as choosing to be separated from her music. Oliver notes that their friends didn’t expect to socialize with them during his law school years, as their lack of money would make it hard for them to participate. Once his has a job, people “find them again.” (Segal) However, Jenny has no interest in social occasions, being bored with preppies, and seems to have no friends of her own. Her life revolves around keeping house and awaiting a baby.
However, no baby comes. Both Oliver and Jenny are evaluated to determine if there are medical reasons for the failure to conceive. Oliver gets a clean bill of health. He assures himself that Jenny is relieved that the problem for their lack of success does not lie with him. Why is he so sure that she is relieved that she is the one responsible for the inability to have the thing she most desires?
Jenny is indeed the one unable to have a baby. Blood tests reveal she has leukemia. The doctor discussed the diagnosis with Oliver, and he decides to spare her the knowledge of her illness. Even in this critical time in her life Jenny has no agency of her own.
She does find out, as her condition worsens, and she confronts her doctor. Despite treatment she is hospitalized for a final time, succumbing to “Ali McGraw’s Disease – a medical condition where you grow more beautiful until you die” (Ebert). At her bedside, Oliver expresses remorse that Jenny has given so much to their marriage, only to have her absolve him. “Screw Paris. Screw all the things you think you stole from me” (Segal). Again, he is relieved of any need to regret his actions.
Love Story continues to be read and seen fifty years after its debut. One hopes that, after years of changes in the status of women both in relationships and the workplace, Jenny’s and Oliver’s marriage is not seen as something to emulate. Even as early as 1972, in the movie What’s Up Doc? Barbra Streisand’s character bats her eyes and says to Ryan O’Neal’s character, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry. He responds, “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” (IMDB quotes).
But the basic premise of the story is valid. Love involves a willingness to sacrifice and take risks. Erich Segal’s daughter Francesca noted that at the time it was released Love Story was a testament to the power of love at a time when the country was experiencing the dislocations of the Vietnam War controversy and the Civil Rights struggles (Blair). It is reasonable that people are still comforted by a story of love that survives obstacles. Even the sentimentality is not so terrible. Who doesn’t like a good, sloppy cry occasionally? But viewers and readers need to see Love Story as a reflection of its time and an opportunity to see how gender roles were and how they have changed.
​
Works Cited
Birnbach, Lisa. The Official Preppy Handbook. New York: Workman Publishing, 1980.
Blair, Elizabeth. (2020, December 20). Successful, Sentimental and Satirized, Love Story
Celebrates 50th Anniversary. NPR. www.npr.org
Ebert, Roger. Ebert’s Bigger Little Move Glossary. Kansas City, MO: Andrews McMeel
Publishing, 1999.
Gershon, Jen. (2015, January 15). The Jennifer Epidemic: How the Spiking Popularity of Different
Baby Names Cycle Like Genetic Drift. NPR. www.npr.org
IMDB What’s Up, Doc. IMDB. www.imdb.com
Hiller, Arthur. Love Story. Screenplay by Erich Segal. Paramount Pictures. 1970
Segal, Erich. Love Story. New York: William Morrow, 2020.

The Last Flightless Man
by
Teresa Ann Frazee
On the edge of sleep, the threshold of consciousness surrendered to the betrayal of reality. In this delusion, where nightly, logic eluded him, he could see his breath pierce the cold air. Wind-borne, soaring weightlessly across the darkness of the sky, sensations of complete euphoria and liberation overcame him. As he flew, only the sound of his expansive beating wings, broke the silence. He felt powerful. It was the kind of power bestowed only on gods and kings. Beneath the gleaming stars, with a lawless pace, he merged into the dense atmosphere. In suspended choreography, drifting like a dandelion gone to seed, a cloud’s ghostly mist, touched his skin, as he glided with peaceful buoyancy over the wilderness of the half imagined. The ground below was difficult to define, reminiscent of a timeworn photograph in rapid deterioration. He seemed to recognize the wooded area but could never quite recall. With sudden surprise, as though released from a trance, he plummeted between the trees and began to spin across unused time, downward to the black earth, which was littered with ridges of snow, that sparkled like sugar granules. He gently landed in a heap of pine needles tipped with frost. Then the dream slowly rippled into dark collapse.
Jay Singer's dream life was not so different than anyone else's. Nonetheless, it did follow an invariable pattern. It was strange to think he scarcely slept through a night without this dream. Jay, having never been dependent on the reliability of an alarm clock to awaken him, woke at daybreak, with a feather pillow under his head, nestled in the smallest bearable size bed. Not that Jay couldn't afford a larger bed. For a man of merely twenty years, he could, as he had a reputable position as President and CEO of the Nature Center in town, but he felt cozy. His eyes were half-closed. Slowly regaining his faculties, he moved his head from side to side and stretched out his neck. Jay was angry. It was the same every morning. " I know he's out there," he thought. "Damn cat!" Samson, the neighbor's cat, who lived across the hall, could mostly be found at Jay’s front door. It occurred far too consistently to be a matter of mere chance. Jay cringed at the thought of this creature with hostile yellow eyes and the hatred lingered even after the animal left his self-appointed post, if only for a few minutes a day.

“Persistent little bastard,” Jay mumbled.

He knew all too well, the crouching shadow of Samson's ill formed figure was behind the door. He envisioned menacing bared fangs, which reflected the function of an insatiable carnivore. Jay could hear the scratching of Samson's sharp claws and his predatory hissing. “He's stalking me. His constant preoccupation with me is unnerving,” Jay thought, “Wretched animal. I loathe its kind.” Samson was aware he caused Jay grief. No doubt, Samson, with all his heathen heart, got a particular thrill out of such an achievement. Jay’s efforts to persuade Samson’s attention elsewhere, did little good. And at times, it was nearly impossible for Jay to remain within confines of his moral code, by not testing the limits of Samson's mortality. Surely, without any hesitation, Jay could honestly say, he had no sentimental attachment with the fate of this monstrous beast.

As Jay sat at the edge of the bed, he focused his eyes on the sliding glass door, which led to the balcony on the 19th floor of his high-rise apartment. He smiled at the sight of several cooing pigeons, that had settled to roost. The iridescent mosaic of constantly shifting shades of emerald green flecked with gold, around their wings, dazzled in the sunlight. Jay redirected his thoughts to his brother Kevin, who was ten years older than him and to this day, his best friend. Through his lifetime he had plenty of casual acquaintances but they never materialized into close friends, not like his brother. Kevin was born with a natural gift. As children, Kevin could weave a tale so compelling, filling little Jay’s head with stories, that kept Jay at the edge of his seat. With such a power to charm, he would convince his baby brother, of their validity. In the early days, there was a readiness to believe in the impossibilities of the unknown.

Jay rose and headed to the kitchen, threw back his head to swallow a half a glass of water. He made no boast of having the will power to eat well. It came very easily for him to make healthy choices. His breakfast was light, consisting of sunflower seeds and dried fruit. After breakfast Jay showered. With self delight, he softly whistled a catchy little melody. As the day grew and Jay finished his early morning routine, a knock on the front door startled him. Jay opened the door and was surprised to see his brother Kevin, standing there next to the ever vigilant Samson.

“Hey Kev, come on in!” Samson’s ear twitched while his right paw stepped forward. Jay gave Samson a look of disdain and said through clenched teeth, “Not you!” Kevin hesitated for a moment at the door.

“Are you coming in?” Jay asked. Kevin followed Jay inside and shut the door behind him, leaving Samson in the hallway. Kevin appeared anxious as Jay led him inside the apartment.

“I have to talk to you, I've waited long enough- twenty years!” Kevin said looking down at the floor.

“What are you going on about?”

“It was never neither the right time nor had I the courage to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Jay asked.

“The truth is I can’t say I really know. I can only tell you what happened. I cannot keep it to myself any longer.” Kevin paced back & forth. Talking about the past stirred his memory and some dormant recollections came alive. He slowly walked over to the couch and sat down. “Mom, may she rest in peace, and Dad, well, we had to put him there, it was the best thing we could do for him. Now is the time to sell our family home. Oh Jay, there are so many hidden secrets long-buried in that old house of ours.”

Seeking answers, Jay’s brow furrowed as he waited for his brother's eyes to translate. Jay sat down beside Kevin, “I thought we kept no secrets between us.”

“If only that were true,” Kevin said in a low voice.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Jay asked.

”I confess this with brutal honesty.”

“Go on”, Jay said, never looking away from his older brother.

Kevin continued to speak. “Two weeks past my tenth Birthday, something happened. It was quite incomprehensible.” Kevin paused long enough to collect his thoughts. Scattered beams of sunlight filtered through the window of the sliding glass door and illuminated his face as he spoke. “To think of my clumsy innocence. I have gone over that night a thousand times.”

“Tell me Kevin.”

“Dad had bought me a drone with a night vision camera. I’d been flying it every evening since he gave it to me as a Birthday present. It was easy to see with my googles. But as the temperature dropped, the night air became frosty. My drone was airborne. Suddenly, a form appeared at once in the sky. The drone collided with something uncertain flying. A body fell zigzag to the ground. I stumbled over rocks and twigs to the edge of the property to find it. My eyes adjusted to the dark well enough to discern the outline of a body stained with blood. She was lying on her side, stiff, terrified and couldn't catch hold of her breath, desperately wincing in pain. That’s when I saw her broken wing wearily flapping.”

“Was it a bird?”

“Not entirely.” Kevin said, as he lowered his moist eyes. “My heart raced and I was disorientated, draped with a paralyzing fear.”

“So what was it?”

“A deviant of nature. Against all laws of the natural world, it was a fusion of woman and bird.”

“Wait a minute! Wait just a minute! How is that possible?” Jay folded his arms across his chest and scowled at Kevin.

“I could tell you till the other side of midnight. This is a true account of what happened Jay.”

“Oh don’t give me that, for crying out loud! We’re not kids anymore!” Jay glared bitterly at Kevin from the corner of his eye. “Just because you used to spin a good yarn, you think you could just come over here and spew these lies. How do I know this is not another product of your wild imagination? I know how true you are to your obsession with extremes. Really, how do I know you’re not just conjuring all this up?”

“Believe what you’ve heard.”

Realizing the agonizing moment of his story had arrived, Kevin cleared his throat and rose from the couch.

”I stood there panting from shock and adrenaline. My lips trembled in fear. I shone a flashlight on her. She began to shake violently. A tear from her suffering eye bled into an ashen complexion. When I lifted her damaged wing, it fell open like a pearl white ornamental fan. I could see, with motherly warmth, she had been trying to protect an infant. As I approached, she made a frantic effort to tighter her grip. Ever so gently, I took the baby from her. I was jolted by the unnatural sound of her hybrid scream. Her heartbeat began to slow. Her eyes shut. Then she was silent.”

Jay slowly shook his head, rose from the couch and walked away from his brother as if declaring a safe space.

“Jay, that baby was you!”

“No! No! What kind of sick game is this?” Jay said explosively.

“Unfortunately, it’s no game. You were born to a race---”

“Shut up! Jay interrupted. His head was throbbing and he covered his ears pretending the whole ordeal had ended.

Impossible, he told himself, and yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was all very real somehow. Jay shivered as uneasy thoughts stirred in the back of his mind. In slow motion reason and time ceased to meddle.

“Come on Jay, don't you realize by now something is different about you? The fact is, you have been living a life as an outsider. Deep down you know it’s the truth, don’t you?"

Jay's chest heaved with deep breaths from the impact of Kevin's dose of reality.

"I slipped off my jacket and covered you. Then, I buried your mother and took you home to Mom and Dad. I told them a partial truth, that I found you in the woods. They searched for weeks in the local newspapers but of course, there was nothing about a missing child, so they adopted you as their own. And in that instant I had a baby brother.” Kevin bowed his head, “I’m so sorry, so very sorry. Jay, please forgive me!"

With the expression of a wounded beast, Jay screamed, "Oh my God!” It was as if he woke from the sedated ignorance of a hundred year sleep. In an attempt to console him, Kevin extended his arms seeking an embrace. Jay pushed past his brother, "Stay away from me!" he said. Without delay, he walked back to Kevin and yelled in his face." Now get out of here!" He led Kevin to the front door, opened it and saw Samson arch his back before Jay slammed the door behind both of them. Jay’s emotions left him both exhausted and exhilarated. Gradually, he managed to control himself and in the uncertain space between breaths, a sense of harmony rose within him. Weaned from the remnants of a life he once defined, he was reduced to the single- mindedness of his newfound purpose. Jay opened the sliding glass door, heard a flurry of birds and felt comfortable at once. He stepped out, stood on the balcony and breathed in an updraft of revitalizing fresh air. He made his way, maneuvering past the pigeons. Jay squinted his eyes in the sun, then down at the colorful dots representing people and cars below. And in those last few moments, instinctively, he knew what to do. He lowered his body by flexing his legs, and slowly flapped his arms. Jay moved closer toward the balcony’s ledge, looked up at the sky and smiled.

More Good Demons

Monster, Mermaid, And Me

By Doug Hawley
​
 
On a fine day at my Southeast Portland house, I put on my bright white swimsuit and went out to my pool and imagined myself Julie* Adams in “The Creature From The Black Lagoon”.  If I may be immodest, I do believe that I somewhat resemble the late star actress.  My fantasy was enhanced by a giant amphibian creature that resembled the infamous Gill Man lounging by the pool.  What made no sense at all was the mermaid that was already in the pool.  The monster saw my confusion and fright and pulled me from the pool before the mermaid could harm me.
 
What they did next caused me to shudder with delight and fear simultaneously.  The monster pulled me to him and the mermaid attached herself to my back.  The monster and I did the usual things that male and female do together, while the mermaid did what she could with hands, tongue and skin.  The experience was the best, but I was puzzled.
 
“Hey Night Monster, your Gill Man costume is the best and I love the new role play.  We will definitely put it in rotation, but what’s up with your amphibian partner?”
 
“You always say you like surprises Sheryl.  Meet my sister Night Angel.”  I turned to see that Night Angel’s tail had been discarded and that she now looked like a more or less normal human woman.  Well, a spectacularly built normal woman with scales over much of her body, the same as Monster.
 
“Hi Sheryl.  You can call me Angie if you want.”
 
We spent the rest of the night in carnal delights.  In case you think that we are some kind of kinky weirdoes, there was nothing but incidental contact between the brother and sister.  Out of the spirit of fair play, I did everything I could to return the orgasms to Night Angel that she had given to me.  As usual Night Monster exhausted me beyond the ability of mortal man.  I will be seeing more of those two.  Before that night my experience of Good Demons, the mystery creatures that only exist at night and work at delivering mind blowing sex to humans, was Night Monster.  This is definitely a case of more is better.  Are there more Good Demons?
 
I surprised myself the next day when I started singing “Bring Me A Higher Love”.  My mind must be doing some unconscious processing.
 
*Born Betty May, started career as Julia, but preferred Julie.
 
Betty’s New Boyfriend
 
“Hey Joe why don’t you come over today?”
 
“I don’t think that I should while you are incapacitated.  There isn’t anything we could do.”
 
“We could talk, tell each other stories.”
 
“Betty, we couldn’t do anything physical.  Your lower back stiffness precludes bed fun, if you know what I mean.”
 
“Not necessarily.  If you were willing to open your mind to other possibilities, we could please each other.”
 
“You know I don’t go for that kinky stuff.  We can get together when your back is better.”
 
“We’ll see.”  Hangs up.
 
Not for the first time, Betty wondered whether she needed a new boyfriend.  Whenever she had to make a hard decision, she made a list of pros and cons.
 
Pros:
Great at sex, but limited repertoire and imagination.
Is stable with plenty of money he doesn’t mind spending.
Doesn’t mistreat me.
Good body.
 
Cons:
My parents like him, but my friends don’t.
Mistreats service people.
Never compliments me or anyone else.
No empathy.
Probably double-timing me based on what my friends tell me.
 
The answer was clear to Betty.  It was time to get an upgrade from Joe.  Too bad she couldn’t do anything until she could get off her back.
 
Betty was cheered when she got a text from her best friend Judy.  “I thought you might need a treat, so I ordered you a pizza.  I told delivery where to find your key so you won’t have to get up.  He should just knock and come in.”
 
Within fifteen minutes Betty heard a knock and someone yelled through the door “Pizza, OK if I come in?”
 
“Sure.”
 
“Hi I’m Treat.  Would you like the pizza by your bed?  How about extra parmesan and red pepper?”
 
 “Yes, both please.”
 
After Betty started to nibble, Treat began taking his clothes off.
 
“What, the hell, I’m calling the cops” as Betty grabbed her phone.
 
“Betty, didn’t Judy tell you that she ordered strip pizza?  Hey I’m sorry, I thought that you knew.  I’ll leave if you want.”
 
When Betty recovered, she chuckled and said “OK, I didn’t know.  That sounds just like Judy.  Show me what you got.  If you think that this is a scene from a porn movie, you should know that I don’t look like the women in those films.”
 
When Treat was down to his banana hammock, Betty noted that it was a large banana, perhaps some hybrid or genetically modified.  Treat’s small horns on his forehead which had been hidden by his hat and his scaly body were more surprising.
 
Treat’s performance was set to Marvin’ Gaye’s “Got To Give It Up” one of Betty’s favorite.  He combined the most obscene bumps and grinds, with graceful movements.
 
When Treat had finished Betty discovered that she had one hand on her crotch and another on her left breast.  She asked “What are you and what other services do you offer?”
 
“I’m a night demon.  We are a tribe that offers sexual healing as did your favorite Marvin Gaye.  We only exist at night and give our services to deserving humans.  What would you say to some of that sexual healing?  I brought some hot oil for lubrication.”
 
“I’ve already started lubricating, but proceed.  You should remove the little remaining of your outfit first.  You don’t want to get any oil on it.”
 
Treat spread a pleasant smelling substance over much of Betty’s body without disturbing her back and then licked it off with his long forked tongue, which probed her nooks and her crannies.  Betty climaxed better than she ever had during sex with Joe.
 
When she could talk again, she asked Treat “Why did Judy set this up?”
 
“She knew that you deserved better than Joe.  He was hitting on her a day after you got the bad back.  She knew about me from the time after her divorce when I, ahem, cheered her up.”
 
Betty wanted to know “Where do we go from here?”
 
“I can visit you while you are incapacitated if you like and I have ways to speed your healing.  I know combinations of herbs as well as some exercises that will fix your back in a few days.  Good demons’ expertise extends beyond the erotic arts.  I expect that you will find a much better human boyfriend than Joe, but I will be available.”
 
“That sounds great.  You deserve a big tip for the pizza and the extras.”
 
“That’s not necessary.”
 
“Maybe not necessary, but don’t put that banana hammock back on yet.”
 
Appears in Terror House

The Gatekeeper
 
by Robert P. Bishop
 
 
“Howdy,” the old man said to the trekker. “Where are you going?” The old man sat on a large gray rock by the side of the road, whittling on a piece of basswood. Wood chips accumulated around his worn boots. Insects whirred on membranous wings over the dry brown grass in the roadside ditch. Swallows flitted through the air, snatching careless bugs that rose above the protective cover of the dying grass.
            The trekker stopped by the old man but didn’t say anything. He just stared at him. The old man stared back with eyes the color of faded cornflowers.
            “Where are you going?” the old man asked again.
 
            “Over there.” The trekker pointed down the road that converged to a point and disappeared in the distance.
            “There isn’t anything over there.”
            “Of course there is. That’s why I am going there.” The trekker shifted his backpack, easing the weight from his shoulders.
            This perplexed the old man. “Can you tell me what is over there?”
            “Stuff.”
            “I see.”
            “No, I don’t think you do.”
            “Sure, I do.” The old man held up the folding knife he was using to whittle the basswood. “See this knife? It’s a Barton. They don’t make them like this anymore. Maybe if you’re lucky you will find a Barton in all that stuff you say is over there.” The old man smiled. His teeth were surprisingly white and beautiful. “But I doubt it,” he added quietly.
            “Maybe,” the trekker said, a little annoyed by the old man’s attitude.
            “How long have you been walking on this road?” The old man squinted his eyes against the sun as he looks up at the trekker.
            “Five days,” replied the trekker with great confidence.
            “Five days and you still aren’t over there yet. Over there must be a great distance away.”
            “I’m sure it is, but I have time.”
            “I see.”
            “No, you don’t,” said the trekker, quite annoyed now by the old man’s attitude.
            The old man chuckled. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I don’t see anything at all. If you find a Barton over there, come back and show it to me.” He held up his Barton. “This is the only one I have ever seen and I would like to see another one before I die.”
            “I’ve got better things to do. If I find one why would I come back and show it to you?”
            “I got this Barton from my uncle,” the old man continued, ignoring the trekker’s question. “He was first officer on the USS Jeannette. Do you know what happened to her?”
            “No.”
            “The Jeannette sailed above the Arctic Circle and got locked in the ice for two years. The ice finally crushed her and she sank in June of 1881. He did this scrimshaw on the handles when she was frozen fast, before she went under. Here, have a look.” The old man closed the blade and handed the Barton to the trekker. “Handles are made of mammoth ivory. My uncle told me the ivory is 10,000, maybe even 50,000 years old.”
            “Really?” said the trekker. He took the Barton and looked at the scrimshaw. One side of the knife had a polar bear on an ice floe etched in it. The other side featured an Inuit at sea in a kayak. Both etchings were exquisitely crafted. After a few moments the trekker returned the Barton. The old man laid the knife and the basswood on the ground by his right foot.
            “The scrimshaw is beautiful,” said the trekker.
            “Yep. This Barton is special.  Got to be. I’ll wager there’s not another one like it in the world.” The old man smiled. “It’s like all the trekkers that come down this road, bound for over there. Every one of them is special. There’s not another one like them in the entire world, but they don’t know it.”
            The trekker shuffled his feet. The weight of his backpack pressed down on him. “Have you ever been over there?”
            “Nope,” the old man said, “and I’m not ever going to go over there, either.”
            “So!” the trekker crowed. “You don’t know what is over there, do you?”
            “No, and I’m never going to know,” replied the old man placidly.
            “Why not?” The trekker shuffled his feet again.
            “Because nobody ever comes back to tell me what they found over there.”          
            “What do you mean?” demanded the trekker. His pack weighed on his shoulders. He shifted it again but the weight remained oppressive.
            “I mean nobody ever returns. Trekkers like you, equipped with the finest gear, always come from the east. Nobody ever comes from the west.”
            “Why not?”
            “Well, I don’t know.” The old man chuckled. “Nobody has ever come back to tell me.”
            The trekker squinted down the road. “It doesn’t look very far.”
            “I think it’s a far piece.”
            “Maybe.”
            “You don’t have to go.”
            “But I want to go.”
            “No, you don’t.”
            “Then I need to go,” the trekker insisted.
            “Tell me why you need to go. Give me one reason I can believe.”
            The trekker shuffled his feet. Little balls of dust rose in the still summer air.
            “I just need to go,’ he said as if that were reason enough.
            The old man sighed. “That’s what they all say.” His smile disappeared and his faded blue eyes turn gray.
            “But I will come back and tell you what is over there,” the trekker promised. “Then you will know.”
            “What if you don’t come back?” The old man’s eyes, cornflower blue again, peered at the trekker.
            “But I will. I will come back,” the trekker nearly shouted.
            The old man picked up the Barton and basswood and started whittling again.
            “What are you carving?”
            “A little stick out of a bigger stick,” the old man said. “I figured a smart fellow like you would know that.”
            The trekker shuffled his feet again, stirred up more dust blossoms, and looked down the road.
            “You better get started. You don’t have much daylight left.”
            The trekker started off. When he was some distance away he stopped and turned around. “When I come back I’ll tell you what I found over there,” he called to the old man. “You’ll see. I’ll bring you that Barton.”
            The old man smiled and waved his hand as the trekker set off again. Then he started whittling on the basswood with the Barton.
            After a while he looked to the east and saw another trekker walking down the middle of the road. He stopped whittling and waited for the trekker.
            “Where you going?” the old man asked, his pale blue cornflower eyes squinting against the sun.
            “Over there,” the trekker replied and pointed to the west. He stared at the old man, waiting.
            The old man smiled and resumed whittling on the piece of basswood. The little pile of wood chips around his feet grew larger. “Why?” he finally asked.
            “Why are you sitting on this rock?” the trekker countered. He shifted his pack, easing the weight from his shoulders.
            “I’m the gatekeeper.” Chips fell from the piece of basswood.
            “I don’t see any gate.”
            “No one ever sees it.”
            “What are you trying to pull?” the trekker asked, suspicious of the old man’s response. “There isn’t any gate here.” He shifted his pack and started walking westward.
            “Yes, there is. You just passed through it,” the old man called to the trekker’s back.
            After a while the old man looked to the east and saw another trekker walking down the middle of the road toward him. He stopped whittling and waited for the trekker to come near.
 

HOLLYWOOD IN TWO LANGUAGES

By Daniel de Culla 
​

THE THRILL OF HOLLYWOOD

What good taste I saw in these handsome and slender young men, these very beautiful girls with their gracefully gorgeous busts, who made me dream of playing a certain flute, similar to theirs, so that, one day, I could reach Hollywood.
What good taste these actors and actresses had, who gave the world examples of the value of living life to the fullest in it.
Today, I remain a fan of Bogart and Bacall, the fame of their favors extended to heaven. I followed them as I have followed Priapus and Vesta since my childhood, as if they had been my flesh and blood brothers. Bacall, like Vesta, was a little goddess when she fell in love with Bogart, a demon-possessed Priapus, very mischievous, who amazed women. In Hollywood movies, I followed these goddesses in an attempt to find out what these goddesses of demonic or angelic love tastes like.
Bogart, like Priapus, was a wizard and sorcerer; and in the fields and in the bedroom he was easily introduced into the souls of these goddesses, you know for what purpose. Humphrey, a 45-year-old man, already more than divorced from women, seeing the beautiful Laureen behind the scenes at just 20 years old, fell in love with her like a drooling fool.
“To have or not to have” was the carnal question. Bogart peers at the site where Bacall is. "What a good feed I'm going to give myself," he exclaims. He already relaxes. It's coming, it's coming. ¡Oh what .. a momento¡
When Bogart already goes to Bacall to seize her, she blesses the moment. He saves her as she hugs him as much as she can, seeing herself making love to him, wanting him, throwing herself at his stardom, skyrocketing toward the sky above Hollywood.
What good times we have lived in Hollywood!
From what enchanting dreams have we awakened, by daring to embrace so many Bacalls or Vestas, like Bogarts or Priapus, as gifted as the Silenus’ muses.
I learned the Art of Love following the fair sex and all these actors, extraordinary in a serious point, although some, after a while, they showed themselves laughing as the girls laughed, fetching and catching other boys.


EMOCION HOLLYWOODIENSE
Qué buen gusto yo veía en estos mozos guapos y esbeltos, estas mozas hermosísimas con buenos pechos, que me hacían soñar tocándome cierta flauta, semejante a la de ellos, que, un día, podría yo llegar a Hollywood. Qué buen gusto el de estos actores y actrices que mostraron al Mundo con ejemplos el valor de vivir la Vida en Hollywood.
Hoy me quedo con Bogart y Bacall que la fama de sus favores extendieron hasta el cielo. Yo les seguía como he seguido desde mi infancia a Príapo y Vesta, como si hubieran sido hermanos de carne y hueso míos. Bacall, como Vesta era una diosecilla cuando se enamoró de Bogart, un Príapo endemoniado, muy travieso, que a las mujeres asombraba. En las películas Hollywoodienses yo seguía a estas diosas con intento de saber a qué saben estas diosas de amor endemoniado.
Bogart, como Príapo, era brujo y hechicero; y en los campos y en la alcoba fácilmente se introducía en las almas de estas diosas, ya se sabe con qué objeto. Humphrey, vejete de 45 años, ya más que divorciado, al ver entre bambalinas a la preciosa Laureen con apenas 20 años, se enamoró de ella como un bobo de baba.
Tener o no tener era la cuestión carnal. Bogart atisba el sitio donde está Bacall. “¡Qué buen pienso me voy a dar”, exclama. Ya se relame. Ya se acerca, Ya llega. ¡Oh qué momento¡
Cuando Bogart ya va de Bacall a apoderarse, ella bendice el momento porque la salva y le abraza cuanto puede, al verse apriapada queriéndolo, lanzándola él contra el estrellato, el cielo de Hollywood.
¡Qué tiempos buenos hemos vivido con Hollywood¡ De qué sueños más encantadores hemos despertado, al atrevernos a abrazar a tantas Bacalles o Vestas, como Godarts o Príapos, dotados como Asnos de Sileno.
Yo aprendí el Arte de Amar siguiendo al bello sexo y a todos estos actores, extraordinarios en punto serio, aunque algunos, pasado un tiempo, se mostraron riendo como se ríen las mozuelas atrapando otros mozuelos.

Billie the Kid
 
by
 
 Gerald Arthur Winter
 
 
 
 
            I spent the first two years of my retirement reflecting over my twenty years in
 
law enforcement. Sure, there were many cases worthy of writing about for posterity,
 
but the one that still stays with me is the script under my arm as I sit outside the agent’s
 
office to show her the opening chapters I rewrote to her specifications. Then she’d
 
consider recommending it to her adaptation department for review. It’s less than ten
 
thousand words as she recommended, but she wanted to see enough conflict in those
 
opening chapters to visual the story on screen, either as a movie or as the pilot to a
 
TV series. A month ago she’d said she saw enough in my first draft to give me a shot
 
at representation by her agency, but she was looking for more perversity, something to
 
define the case as extraordinary.
 
            Have a gander before I show it to her, and please, wish me luck . . .
 
 
                                         1                                                    
 
            When she finally began to fall asleep at 2:00 AM, she heard a sudden creak from
 
the landing outside her bedroom. Rattled, she anticipated a hand reaching for her. With
 
one squinting eye, she watched for the rise of the pink comforter at the end of her bed.
 
By the moonlight cast through her window, she watched it coming for her, like a mole
 
tunneling beneath her bed covers and silky sheets until the first icy touch. A cold hand
 
caressed her thin ankle . . . softly at first. Then—no matter how many times she’d
 
endured the torment before—the shock of two forceful hands grabbing both of her
 
ankles made her gasp in terror.
 
            Before she could call out for help, two hands yanked the soft pillow with the
 
pink Barbie pillowcase from under her golden locks then pressed it over her face to
 
muffle her terrified  screams. Her mind shifted into the acceptance mode she’d become
 
accustomed to for years. She had no sense of time. Her humiliation might continue for
 
minutes or even hours depending on unexpected interruptions.  Otherwise, the ravage
 
might go on for days—maybe forever—depending . . . depending.  But no interruption
 
came, so she hid her thoughts inside someone else’s head, someone stronger, someone
 
able to fight back, and there she’d remain for as long as she could—till the next time.
 
            Her attempts to escape were futile. She had no possession of herself; she was
 
 just a thing—something to be used and tossed aside. After each episode, whatever
 
remained of her soul was just recycled for the next time. There was always some-
 
thing left behind for another day. Whether out of kindness from her assailant or from
 
cruelty, she neither knew nor cared which. 
 
            But with her adolescence blooming into her teens, her first period broke the
 
rhythm of the attacks, and her molester’s interest seemed distracted. Being a child,
 
her obedient mind became fearful that, with the subsiding of interest in her body, her
 
attacker might discard it, putting her out with tomorrow’s garbage—along with her
 
soul.
 
Her daytime hours at school became mere shadows of the nights she spent in
 
hell. On the playground she was free to fight back in the bright sunlight, rejuvenating
 
her strength with the venom of a cold-blooded viper fresh out of hibernation and seeking
 
warm-blooded prey to feast upon.
 
          When she got in trouble for hurting other kids, her father smacked her around. She
 
 hated him even more for that. He drank too much and was never there for her, except to
 
express his harsh disapproval of how she dressed and what she said.
 
            “What the hell good ’re ya?” he’d tell her, slamming the door and going to a
 
bar to get drunk and mean in the vicious cycle that ruled her life.
 
            The summer before she was going to start high school, after many months of
 
relief, the attacks resumed. The months of normal life merely served to intensify the
 
attacks and made her even more aware of her sexuality as she was probed and prodded
 
with vigor each night until she often lost consciousness.
 
            One night she was unable to focus, then her bedroom door swung open suddenly
 
and her father stood in the doorway shouting in a drunken rage, “You bitch! I’ll fucking
 
kill you!”
 
            A shot rang out, echoing in her mind. But as the sound of gunfire slowly muffled
 
in her head, all else was lost from her memory until her father’s .38 pistol felt heavy in
 
her hand.
 
            In a trance, she stared blankly at the police as they took her away. Only the
 
shadow of her wailing mother from a distance made her realize that perhaps her torment
 
had finally come to an end. Wherever they were going to put her, even if she were out-
 
numbered, at least it would be an even playing field with no adults to overpower her
 
mind and ultimately her body. Her confinement would be her playground now, and the
 
monsters would all be locked outside her cage where she could now take control, even
 
if her past had turned her into a monster as well.
 
 
 
 2
 
 
            “You mean the lieutenant forgot to mention that Billie is a truly fine piece of
 
ass?” Det. “Buzzy” Wade mockingly asked Jim his first day on the job. “So you just
 
assumed, with the name ‘Billie’ she must be a guy?”
 
            At Det. Jim Monahan’s new assignment to Bergen County’s Special Victims
 
Unit, Buzzie’s hoarse laughter blended in chorus with the other detectives. All Jersey
 
boys, the motley band of cops referred to themselves as The Sex Pistols after the
 
Seventies punk rock band from Britain. They thought the tag kept their image simple
 
and halted outsiders from prying into the subtle nuances of their undercover work.
 
Their methods had remained sacred to the brotherhood until Det. Billie Boyd had
 
broken the ranks of their inner sanctum a few years prior.
 
            The chance of his having a woman partner hadn’t even crossed Jim’s mind. He
 
ignored the other cops’ banter and spent his first day in the office reviewing the case
 
load. His new partner had been on leave for three weeks and wasn’t coming back until
 
the next day, so he reserved his judgment until he could meet her face to face.
 
            The next morning, Jim put on his shoulder holster and made certain his 9mm
 
automatic Glock was empty before saying morning good-byes to his family in the
 
kitchen. They were having breakfast before his wife, Susie, drove their three daughters
 
to school.
 
            “I hope your partner’s a nice guy, Jimmy,” Susie offered with a smile as she
 
puckered for her departure kiss then she paused with a questioning expression. “What’
 
 
is it, Jimmy? What’s wrong?”
 
            She’d picked up a telltale sign from Jim’s pensive mood, so he responded to her
 
look with a shrug. Though Susie may have come to know him even better than he did
 
himself, Jim reserved his right to silence, at least until he’d met his new partner. . .
 
though her description--a fine piece of ass—still reverberated in his mind.
 
            “OK, Jimmy,” Susie huffed, raising an eyebrow. “We’ll talk about it tonight--
 
whatever it is.”
 
            “It’s nothing.”
 
            “Yeah, right. Come on girls. Finish eating and kiss Daddy good-bye.”
 
            In ascending steps from Penny the five-year-old, to Jan the eight-year-old, to
 
Connie the twelve-year-old, each gave Jim a hug and peck on the cheek.
 
            “What the hell is that?” Jim put his hand on Connie’s shoulder and spun her
 
around until the top of her auburn locks tickled his chin as he leaned over to sniff at her.
           
“Nothing,” she said, staring down at his shiny black shoe tips.
 
            “Get back in the bathroom and wash off that perfume,” he commanded.
 
            “What perfume, Daddy? I—”

            “Now!”
 
            As Connie sulked off to the bathroom, the two younger girls were pleased
 
that their bossy older sister was taking the heat for a change.
 
            “She’s just trying to express herself, Jimmy,” Susie said, putting the smooth
 
back of her hand on his cheek. “She’s nearly in Junior High.”
 
            “Oh, Jesus, don’t remind me. I’ve got a go.” He turned to Penny and Jan. “Now
 
you two better be good.”
 
            With her freckled face flushed, Connie came out of the bathroom and frowned
 
defiantly as Jim sniffed at her and gave his approval of her scent—essence of hand-
 
sanitizing gel.
 
            “That’s my girl.” Jim kissed the top of her head. “Now you won’t get swine flu,
 
or anything else the boys might be spreading around.”
 
            “I don’t have any boyfriends—and is it any wonder?” Connie huffed.
 
            “For now, let’s keep it that way.” Jim winked at Susie and put his hand on the
 
swell beneath her apron. “In a few months, you’ll have a brother to look out for you.”
 
            “I’ll be married with kids by the time he’s my age,” Connie groaned.
 
            “Doesn’t matter,” Jim warned. “I was sixteen when your Aunt Alice was twenty-
 
three. But her jackass husband smacked her around, so I made him pay the price. Never
 
happened again. So I expect when our Sean is in high school, he’ll start looking out for
 
all of you when I’m not around.”
 
            Even Susie rolled her eyes, but she gave Jim a lingering kiss to let him know she
 
loved him anyway. “What’s your new partner’s name?” she asked with a twinkle in her
 
green eyes.
 
            “Uh . . . Billie—I think,” he said without blinking.
 
            “Billy what?”
 
            “Um . .. I forget,” he mumbled. “We haven’t met yet.
 
            “Well, when you do, tell Billy you’re the best partner any cop could hope to have
 
—I ought to know after fifteen years.”
 
            He kissed her long and hard so she wouldn’t catch any of his revealing expres-
 
sions that would give away his avoidance of the truth about his new partner’s geder, then
 
he patted her belly.
 
“Take good care of Sean, Babe. Call ya later.”
 
 
 3
 
 
            “Billie wanted to add a personal day to her vacation before coming in—something
 
to do with her mother,” Lt. Brooks told Jim as he entered the office. “I told her we could
 
spare only a few hours because I need you both to get started on the rape case in Paramus
 
today. The parents are expecting you, and they’ve given their permission for us to speak
 
with their daughter. We can’t delay on that opportunity while this sicko is still out there.
 
Billie will be here within the hour.”
 
            Returning to his desk, Jim remarked to Buzzie, “Seems like Billie’s got some
 
pull with the lieutenant.”       
 
“Maybe Brooks has a chubby for her, Jim. She seems to get her way a lot with the
 
old man.”
 
            “Is she that good?” Jim smirked. “I mean at the job.”
 
             “Some guys call her Billie the Kid,” Buzzie told him. “A few cops in the unit
 
knew her in grammar school. They say now she looks nothing like the scrawny tomboy
 
they used to know. She took no shit from any bullies harassing her on the playground,
 
not even from boys twice her size. She was suspended from school when she was only
 
eleven. She broke an eighth-grade boy’s arm in a fight when he tried to steal her lunch
 
money.”
 
            “From caterpillar to butterfly, Jim,” Det. Simms chimed in from across the room.
 
“I swear she had no tits at age sixteen, skinny as a rail. She came back to our ten-year
 
high school reunion and knocked all the guys over with that face and body. We all
 
assumed she’d gotten a boob job when she went to UCLA.”
 
             “He’s retired since,” Buzzie said. “But three years ago, Det. Lecutis gave her
 
some heat on her first day here in the unit. Lecutis confronted her in the locker room
 
by brushing past her and nudging her breast with his elbow to see if what we suspected
 
was true, that her cleavage lay in Silicon Valley.”
 
            “What happened?” Jim asked, figuring he’d hear how she’d broken his arm.
 
            “She says to Lecutis, ‘Was it as good for you as it was for me?’”
           
            “No shit?” 
 
            “Yeah. So with no one else in the locker room, Lecutis spun her around and
 
wrenched up her shirt exposing her flawless, but apparently natural rack. Ain’t nature
 
wonderful?”
 
            “Jesus,” Jim said with a huff.
 
            “She says, ‘Satisfied?’ But he shakes his head and tries to go further by grabbing
 
them. Cold as ice, she just stares at him.
 
            “He tells her, ‘Now I’m gonna fuck you until you beg me to stop.’
 
            “She says, ‘Other cops could come through that door any minute, Detective
 
Lecutis.’
 
            “He tells her, ‘When I’m done with you, others will follow—they’re just waiting
 
their turns—it’s part of your initiation into the unit. It’ll give you empathy with your
 
victims.’
 
            “She says, ‘How exciting. I can hardly wait. Tell me who else intends to fuck
 
me?’ He rattles off a few names, and she says, ‘Don’t worry, Lecutis.  I won’t tell if you
 
won’t.’ Then she kicks him in the nuts so hard he turns purple and pukes. She takes her
 
i-Phone from her back pocket and holds it to his ear as he’s convulsing on his hands and
 
knees. Clear as a bell, he hears his every word, even naming the others who planned to
 
participate.
 
            “Then Billie whispers in his ear, ‘I won’t file a sexual harassment suit if you won’t
 
—call us even, Lecutis—unless you want your other ball in a sling?’
 
            “That was it; no one’s bothered her since. She’s a real pro, too. No one’s better
 
than Detective Billie Boyd in this unit. She’s a member of The Sex Pistols. She’s earned
 
it. Now it’s your turn.”
 
            Jim shrugged. “What’s her real name?”
 
            “I heard that her father wanted a son, but never had any other kids. She was born
 
Wilhelmina, but he called her Billie. Some of the guys in the unit call her ‘Hopalong
 
Cassidy’ because William Boyd was the actor who played the cowboy. They started
 
calling her ‘Hoppy’ behind her back when her arrest-and-conviction rate became tops
 
in the unit. You’re lucky to be her partner. She’ll teach you some good shit.”
 
            Hearing the door open and cop chatter from the hallway, Jim looked up from his
 
desk as he reviewed the police report on the Tyborg case. With all the innuendos about
 
Billie Boyd, Jim visualized her as a comic book figure with a spiked coif and a fire-
 
breathing reptilian attitude. Her actual appearance surprised him.
 
            Yes, Billie was attractive, but not in the hard way he’d imagined. She looked
 
more like a classy blonde who’d team up well with Cary Grant in a Hitchcock thriller--
 
maybe Grace, Kim, Eva Marie, even Tippi—but not Billie or Hoppy? Those nicknames
 
didn’t go with his new partner’s looks. She belonged in a black cocktail dress with
 
dangling diamond earrings, not the faded jeans and a leather jacket she was wearing.
 
The Kelly green, v-neck top drove Jim’s attention to her pale, freckled cleavage, and
 
muffin-top breasts with a firm contour just like a baby’s behind—he ought to know
 
from changing three daughter’s diapers to give Susie a break on his days off.
 
            She seemed to be reading his mind as she grabbed a folder off her desk and stared
 
him straight in the eye. She came towards him so briskly that he almost lost his balance
 
on the swivel chair, but he recovered and stood to shake her outstretched hand.
 
            “Sorry, Jim,” she said, cocking her head. “I had family shit to do, stuff that
 
couldn’t wait. My mom’s in a home. Her mind’s gone—dementia—and I’m all she’s
 
got. You got a grasp on the Tyborg rape case, yet?”
 
            “Not much to go on without more input from the victim—fourteen, raped in her
 
bedroom as her parents slept.”
 
            “So they say, Jim . . . we’ll find out for certain. You got any gut feelings?”
 
            “Me? I’m new at this, but on the surface, without any evidence of forced entry,
 
I like the father. The mom could be too scared to give him up.”
 
            “That must be tough for you?” she challenged.
 
            He pouted and shook his head. “Why?”
 
            “You’ve got three young daughters; must be an unimaginable line to cross for
 
you—that any father could ever go there.”
 
            “I did a hitch in Iraq with the National Guard, Detective Boyd, so my imagi-
 
nation has no boundaries when it comes to what any human being is capable of doing
 
to another.”
 
            “I’m not your mother or your superior, so just call me Billie.”
 
            “I’m sorry about your partner, Billie.”
 
            She revealed no emotion and stated coldly, “Frank thought no woman could ever
 
get the best of a man in the field, least of all him. He turned his back on a woman he
 
believed was the helpless victim in a domestic dispute. She put a knife in his back as he
 
was handcuffing her husband for punching her eyes shut. Hard lesson learned—never
 
stand between a husband and his wife unless the safety’s off on your piece ready to fire
 
—and be prepared to shoot either one of them to spare yourself.”
 
            “That’s not according to the book, Billie.”
 
            “Remember you said that when you have to listen to your partner gurgle his last
 
breath because he refused to believe any woman would attack him when he was saving
 
her life—that woman’s whole life was that son of a bitch who was beating her, that’s all
 
she knew or cared about. My partner was taking him away from her.”
 
            “I just wanted to say I was sorry about how it happened.”
 
            “Don’t be sorry, Jim. Just don’t ever try to be a hero for my sake. I don’t need
 
one. I can take care of myself, but I expect you to do the same. We’ll take each other’s
 
backs, but please, don’t go stupid on me, or I’ll have to shoot you like a horse with a
 
broken leg—irreparable damage. So, let’s go talk to the vic.”
 
            Jim read in the report that the alleged victim was attacked in her second-floor
 
bedroom as her parents slept in the adjacent room. Jill Tyborg was fourteen and a
 
freshman at Paramus High School. According to Jill, she’d been a virgin before the
 
attack. Billie acted as if she believe Jill’s statement.
 
            Jim was not convinced, offering, “With the current stats on the sexual activities
 
of teenagers, I have to question the validity of the vic’s sexual innocence. You know,
 
friends with benefits. It’s a different world than we knew at that age.”
 
            “Like BJs for class notes,” Billie said, turning to Jim as he rode shotgun and she
 
drove. With her croaky, smoker’s voice, she reminded him, “You forget. Jill Tyborg’s
 
vaginal forensics confirm that her hymen was torn within twelve hours prior to our
 
examination.”
 
            “What about a secret boyfriend her parents knew nothing about?”
 
“Cherry Poppers Anonymous? I don’t think so. Her girlfriends would’ve known,”
 
Billie argued. “She has two very close friends. They’d have known.”
 
            “Listen,” he objected. “You may have come from the other side of the tracks in
 
Oakland, but even though you didn’t fit in, you understand how the girls’ cliques work.
 
 Her friends are probably covering for her. They may be helping to hide the fact that she
 
got pregnant with some boy. When do you plan to confront her parents?”
 
            “Not until Jill’s father is cleared by DNA.”
 
            “So you suspect Mr. Tyborg, too,” Jim nodded. “Problem is . . . no rap sheet.
 
The man’s a respected member of the community, president of TD Bank’s local
 
branch, a member of the Board of Education. He’s got pull.”
 
            “And that’s supposed to absolve him from any guilt? I thought you liked him for
 
this,” she huffed with a glare that Jim felt could consume him if he got too close. “Let’s
 
tread water until the DNA clears him before we move aggressively on other suspects.
 
Until then, the pull Mr. Tyborg has is this.” She gave Jim the finger with a twist—hardly a
 
Princess Grace-like gesture.
 
            “We have no other suspects?” he said glumly. “Except for Jill’s vaginal secre-
 
tions, the perp’s sperm, and some hair follicles, we’ve got zip—no fingerprints, other
 
than the family’s, so that’s no help against the father—unless we find his hair on Jill’s
 
pillow and sheets, and his DNA is a match to the sperm.”
 
            “I don’t believe her father’s guilty, Jim, if that soothes your mind. But I want to
 
clear him first, so that we can use anything he knows that could help without a cloud of
 
suspicion over him. There may be some things Jill’s parents can help us with to get other
 
leads, but Jill won’t because of teen peer pressure.”
 
            “OK, Billie. But it still seems like an inside job, no forced entry, and knowledge-
 
able access to Jill’s second floor bedroom. We’ve found no footprints, fingerprints, or
 
fibers.”
 
            “I know. Except for the semen,” Billie said with a grin, “we’d have an
 
immaculate conception.”
 
  * * *
 
            So it seemed when the semen analysis proved Jill’s father innocent, but the
 
DNA was no match with any convicted rapists or with any boys at school after saliva
 
swabs were collected. Jim and Billie ran into a brick wall with Jill and her friends,
 
separately confirming that Jill wasn’t going out with any boys prior to her rape.
 
            “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Billie sighed with frustration.
 
            “Jill’s rape was most likely a first offense for the perp.”
 
            “So we’re stuck until . . . you know.”
 
            “Yeah . . . until he strikes again . . . if he ever does.”
 
            “Oh, he will,” Billie nodded knowingly. “He’s probably watching us every day.
 
He knows he got away with it. That’s the hook.”
 
            “You mean like an undefeated boxer who won’t retire until someone rings his
 
bell?”
 
            “Exactly. But this creep isn’t hurting himself, only others. No telling how long
 
he’ll take to strike again because this one was perfect, a tough act to follow.”
 
             “He could wait for months, even years,” Jim huffed, hitting the dashboard with
 
the back of his fist.
 
            “Yo, Jimbo! Control that anger. Don’t ever take these crimes personally, even
 
if you’ve got three young girls at home. Always keep a cool head.”
 
            “I think you’re talking out of two sides of that pretty mouth, Billie.”
 
            “Wow! I’m pretty and I’m two-faced.” She pouted. “What cesspool is this shit
 
backing up from?”
 
            Jim blurted, “I’ve heard the stories about your being abused by your alcoholic
 
father and how you finally shot and killed him then had to go to foster homes because
 
your mom went loony before you ever made it to high school.”
 
            “Anything else you want to barf out in my direction, Jimbo?  Maybe you left
 
something out!”
 
            “Like what?”
 
            “I’m over it,” she said calmly. “I’ve got this life now; and it’s good. I get to
 
put away guys like my father and I love it, every fucking day of the week.”
 
            “How can you not let this bother you? We’ve been skunked by this prick!”
 
            “Maybe you have, but I haven’t. Not yet. We’ll get a break. And when we do,
 
I’m there. Are you?”
 
            Jim shrugged.  “Sorry, Billie. I got carried away.  My daughters . . . you know.
 
If anything like that ever happened to one of mine. You’d have to shoot me to stop
 
me from killing him.”
 
            “You know, Jimbo, I believe you. But for the sake of your little darlings, I’ll
 
shoot you myself before I let you ruin your life and theirs just for killing some piss ant.
 
Deal?”
 
            He laughed and felt an aura of comfort in this new partnership as he high-fived
 
her. “Deal. But this goes both ways if you ever lose it. A fine piece of ass like you stuck
 
behind bars for life before she turns forty would be a terrible waist.”
 
            Billie smirked. “Do those assholes in the unit really say that about me?”
 
            He shook his head. “Sure. . . like you don’t know it.”
 
 
           
    4
 
                                               
            Among the reported rape attacks in Bergen County over the next few months,
 
and even in neighboring counties, none proved to have any connection to the sterile crime
 
scene in the Tyborg case in Paramus. The MOs were unrelated to the way Jill Tyborg had
 
been attacked in her home, especially with enough physical evidence connected to the
 
rapists for swift confessions and prosecutions. Although Jim and Billie were kept busy
 
enough with Paramus Park Mall and Garden State Plaza attacks on women going to
 
their parked cars, both were bothered that even one seemed to have slipped through the
 
grating.
 
            Parked in their car outside the Wyckoff Bagel Shop, they turned towards each
 
other sipping steaming hazelnut coffees and munching their breakfast. Billie had a plain
 
bagel with one egg and pepper. Jim’s onion bagel had two eggs, Taylor ham and cheese.
 
Billie glared at him through the steaming vapor of her small black coffee as he gulped the
 
first bite of his cardio-unfriendly special and washed it down with a large java, light and
 
sweet.
 
            “I want your opinion,” she said, “but I need you to take a breath from slurping
 
that toxic dump you’re wolfing down. Jesus. Did I see you put four sugars in that
 
coffee?”
 
            “Sowey . . .” He tried to talk with his mouth full then took a breath, but with one
 
eye on Billie and the other clearly focused on what was left of his sandwich so the egg
 
wouldn’t drip on his solid gray tie. “I couldn’t get my report done last night with Back-
 
to-School Night for the girls, so I started working on it in the office at five o’clock this
 
morning—I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon—and that was just a bran muffin.”
 
            “Even so, I can’t believe you asked for butter and salt, too.” She frowned. “Isn’t
 
Taylor ham salty enough—and cheese, too? Why would you ask for butter on that time
 
bomb? You do hope to have a catch with your son someday, right?”
 
            “I’m fucking hungry! Lay off!” Jim barked.
 
            “Whew! I hope you’re Mr. Nice Guy at home for Susie and The McGuire
 
Sisters and you’re just saving all this nasty aggression on the job for lucky me.”
 
            “Hey! You’re the one with the reputation as the hard nose, so I figure you can
 
take it. Who the hell are the McGuire Sisters?”
 
            “A popular trio from the Fifties; my father used to play their records over and
 
over --Sincerely, oh you know how I love you . . . and I’ll never, never, never, never let
 
you go—”
 
            “OK—OK! A singer you’re not. I think I heard the song before, but my girls are
 
Monahan’s not McGuire’s.”
 
            “The McGuire sisters were pretty and talented,” Billie assured him.  “Just a
 
friendly comparison to your three little angels.”
 
            “My daughters are pretty and talented—but no angels.” Jim shrugged. “It started
 
with using Susie’s perfume, and now we found out Connie was hiding lipstick and eye
 
shadow under a rock in the woods near her bus stop. She left one of her books home so I
 
brought it to her at school—surprise, surprise—she looked like a damn hooker.”
 
            “Oh, stop! She’s just a teenager trying to express herself.”
 
            “Not on my watch.”
 
            “Get over yourself, Jimbo. You’re still pissed about Jill Tyborg, huh? Jesus!
 
Don’t take it out on Connie. Almost thirteen, her vagina’s festering and she’s confused.”
 
            He took another big rip out his bagel and chewed silently, but the whites of his
 
eyes flared red around the powder blue irises, the sparkling Irish fuse to the dynamite he
 
held tight in his chest.
 
            “Of course you’re pissed.” She cocked her head to make him look her in the eye.
 
“You think I’m not?”
 
            He shrugged and licked dripping butter off his fingers.
 
            “We’ve closed three other cases since the summer,” she reminded him. “A three-
 
year-old girl battered by her mother’s boyfriend, an eight-year-old boy sexually abused
 
by his soccer coach, and a young female retail store owner sodomized by a robber. We’re
 
doing our job and doing it right . . . but I’ve been working the Tyborg case on my off
 
hours.”
 
            He turned his shoulders to face her straight on and asked, “What’ve you got?”
 
            “I’ve been shadowing Jill Tyborg . . . I think she’s pregnant.”
 
 
 
  5
 
 
            “Do you think Jill was covering up her pregnancy with a fake rape story?” Jim
 
said with mixed emotions as if he’d felt a heavy tug on a fishing line then, after strug-
 
gling for hours to reel in the prize, realized his hook was just snagged on a jagged
 
reef. The image of that huge fish vanished in a poof, just like the imagined persona
 
of Jill Tyborg’s attacker.
 
            “No. But I think we might have a unique opportunity to collect DNA to match
 
the sperm sample from her rape.”
 
            Jim looked at Billie with a blank expression. “How’re we gonna do that?” 
 
            “Hello!” She knocked his forehead with her knuckles. “Billie to Jimbo—do you
 
read me? There was no boyfriend. I followed her everywhere and tagged her cell for
 
text messages.”
 
            “That’s illegal, Billie”
 
            “So’s rape, and in this case—of a minor.”
 
            “And?”
 
            “Her mother has been consulting with their priest, so they may be considering an
 
abortion for Jill, but they’re torn. If it had been a boyfriend, the Tyborgs would make
 
Jill have the baby, maybe put it up for adoption, or even raise the child themselves. It
 
was rape, so they’re having trouble dealing with their instincts to do what they morally
 
and religiously believe to be wrong—abort.”
 
            Jim shuddered at the thought with his personal convictions rising to the surface.
 
            “What can we do?”
 
            “Pay the Tyborg’s a visit. Let them know we’re aware that Jill is pregnant.”
 
            “OK, but how will that help?”
 
            “We’re going to help them make that difficult decision, but they’ll think they
 
made the choice themselves.”
 
            “I don’t know what to say, Billie . . .”
 
            “Just follow my lead.”
 
* * *
 
            At the Tyborg’s home, Jim stood off to the side as Billie sat next to Jill on a
 
sofa and Jill’s mother stood behind them with her arms folded and glared at Billie. She
 
seemed ready to end the questioning any time Billie might cross the line of impropriety.
 
            “How can I take care of a kid while finishing high school to get into college?”
 
Jill whined, avoiding her mother hovering behind her. “My dad has to commute to the
 
city and Mom works too. “An abortion’s the best solution.”
 
            Billie nodded then turned towards Mrs. Tyborg gnawing on her clenched fist
 
behind them.
 
“I want you to know that I understand Jill’s point of view regarding an abortion,
 
and I can see how you and Mr. Tyborg might find the unwanted baby a burden,” Billie 
 
parleyed.
 
            She did not say “we” because, with Jim a Roman Catholic and believing that even
 
his “understanding” the motive for an abortion would make him feel complicit to the sin.
 
            “But Detective Monahan and I believe that, over time, this rapist will surely attack


someone again.”
 
            In what appeared as an attempt to create a friendly mode of appeal, Billie nodded
 
towards Jim. “My partner is Catholic, so he would agree with your conviction that an
 
abortion would be an abomination. On the other hand, I believe in her right to choose,
 
especially in this case of rape. Regardless, I’m appealing to you to let Jill have her baby.
 
If the unwanted baby is too much of a burden, put it up for adoption.”
 
            “We’ve considered that,” Mrs. Tyborg sighed. “But why is the Police Department
 
concerned with our private matter?”
 
            Jim turned from the bay window where he was watching traffic go by to hear
 
what bull Billie would spout next.
 
            “If you decide to go with an abortion, I’ll be obligated, for the public good, to
 
get a court order to take the fetus for forensics when another innocent teenager like
 
Jill is raped again.”
 
            Jim couldn’t believe Billie would stick her neck out so far on this unauthorized
 
conference with such a bogus scenario. Billie stared unwaveringly at Mrs. Tyborg, who
 
just like Jim, couldn’t get that revolting image from her mind.
 
            “However, if you decide to have the baby, even keep and raise the child, we’ll
 
have a living, breathing source of DNA connected to Jill’s attacker to match up with
 
the rapist when he attacks again.”
 
            Mrs. Tyborgs’ expression looked like Disney’s Bambi when his mother was shot.
 
At first, Jim was appalled by Billie’s strategy and ashamed that she’d roped him into her
 
plan. But at the time, Billie’s instincts in the field superseded his. She’d made herself a
 
villain in Mrs. Tyborg’s eyes, at least for the moment, but her suggestion gave them
 
pause to consider their faith rather than their need to erase the product of the crime
 
against their daughter.
 
 * * *
 
            After several days of hearing nothing from the Tyborgs, Jim was convinced that
 
Billie’s conference with the family had done them more harm than good and that a com-
 
plaint to the department would ensue with suspensions for both of them for acting on
 
their own without authorization from Chief Detective Grimes. Instead, they were both
 
invited back to the Tyborg’s—but unofficially.
 
            “We’ve given much thought to Jill’s condition since we last spoke,” Mr. Tyborg
 
explained, obviously being the deciding influence in the matter. “Rather than putting the
 
baby up for adoption, we will help her raise the child so that Jill can attend college. My
 
wife and I can both work from home intermittently and take turns with the baby.”
 
He almost sneered at Billie the one time their eyes met, then he looked Jim
 
straight in the eye for the rest of the time.
 
“The idea of putting the child up for adoption as some sort of forensic reference is
 
unfathomable. However, Detective Monahan, if at any time in the future, you need anything
 
from us that will help solve this case or any future cases that relate to it, feel free to call on us.”
 
            Jim nodded and thanked them as they left and waited until he and Billie got into the
 
car before shrugging his shoulders, smirking at her with disbelief and asking , “How did that
 
happen?”
 
            “That family rejects everything I represent right down to my other-side-of-the-
 
tracks roots,” she said, backing out of the driveway with a frozen grin on her face.
 
            “You mean—?”
 
“Good cop—bad cop, but with subtle psychology. I offered the Tyborgs a choice,
 
just to make them feel they were in control. They could choose to go with me, the bitch
 
who wants to make lab experiments with their daughter’s unexpected offspring, or you
 
the nice Irish lad with the red hair and rosy cheeks who stands with God.”
 
            “Don’t mock my beliefs.”
 
“I got them to do what I wanted them to do in the first place—provide access to
 
the rapist’s DNA whenever we need it in the future without fear of contamination. A
 
saliva swab here, a follicle there, and we’ll have a user-friendly grandparent who wants
 
to know who raped their daughter. You heard the man yourself, Jimbo.  However, I’m
 
afraid you’ll have to be the one to make those request, Blue-eyes. The Tyborgs aren’t
 
talking to Billie the Kid again any time soon.”
 
            Jim was dumbfounded. “So you know that’s what the other detectives call you?”
 
            “Jeez, Jimbo, do you still believe in Leprechauns?” she taunted him. “Look at
 
me and don’t ever forget who you’re talking to. You’ve got a chubby for me, but you’re
 
too good to ever do anything about it. You want to be my father confessor, partner?
 
You’re the only guy in the unit decent enough for me ever to consider fucking a co-
 
worker. It’s a Catch-22, Jimbo. The feeling is mutual, but it’s never gonna happen,
 
because we’re cops first and people second. Just don’t get holier than thou with me.
 
I’m sure you whack off, in the shower and think about me when you’re doing it.”
 
            “What the f—!” he tried to protest. Then as they pulled into Headquarters in
 
Hackensack, she grabbed his thigh and turned to him while steering with one hand to
 
park in the River Street lot adjacent to the Bergen County Court House. She hit the
 
brakes with a jerking halt and put her face so close to his that he inhaled her warm
 
breath, redolent of hazelnut coffee, but otherwise pleasant—alluring.
 
            “Never hold out on me, Jimbo,” she said, raising one eyebrow and squinting
 
with the other eye as if taking aim at him. “This can be a shit job with nothing but grief
 
and sadness for the victims we try to help. So we’re never gonna spoil it for them by
 
being dishonest. If your lust for me ever goes beyond spanking the monkey with me in
 
mind, I might have to kill you. So I think you should start talking to wifie at home
 
about an occasional BJ just to keep it in the family. If that won’t fly with Sister Susie
 
Monahan, then just think about someone else besides me whenever your pecker gets
 
titillated, because we’ve got serious work to do, and I want to know I can always count
 
on you as an equal partner whose got my back—and I don’t mean doggie style. Got
 
it?”
 
            Jim wanted to argue, but the glare she gave him made that consideration futile.
 
She was dead right about everything. The scary part for him was that her attitude and
 
frankness made her even more attractive. But he wondered if he’d become an even
 
better cop by taking her cue and honoring that mutual pact to bring them closer on a
 
higher level of complete trust.
 
            As she reminded him, “When our perp, Mr. Clean, decides it’s time to spoil
 
another virgin, it will take both of us to get him, because he’ll try to improve on the
 
first rape with less evidence and more harm to his victim.”
 
 
   6
 
 
            After a year, the Jill Tyborg case had gone cold because Jim and Billie
 
couldn’t match the semen or follicles found with anyone even remotely connected to
 
the Tyborg family or the crime scene—not even using saliva swabs from Jill’s son,
 
Jimmy Tyborg, now three months old.
 
“Do you think the Tyborg’s named their grandson after me,” Jim asked Billie.
 
            “Probably,” she said with a shrug as they staked out a supposedly abandoned
 
house in Mahwah. Billie thought the house could be a hideout where any one of the
 
missing victims on their priority list might be held captive by an abductor.
 
The Tyborg case was officially shelved when no similar attacks had been
 
perpetrated in Bergen or neighboring Passaic and Morris Counties. Billie  kept in
 
contact with cops across the New Jersey border in Rockland and Orange Counties,
 
but still got zip. Jim let their stymied efforts to close the case get to him, because he
 
felt their failure wasn’t angering Billie enough—certainly not the way the unsolved
 
case had gotten under his own skin..
 
            “Why such a glum puppy, Jimbo?” she asked, rolling down her window as she
 
kept a watchful eye on the deserted house with the lopsided FORECLOSURE sign swaying
 
in the wind. “I’m sure Mr. Tyborg picked the name ‘James’ because he felt you were a
 
fine, upstanding Christian fellow,” she smirked. “I’m surprised they didn’t ask you to be
 
the kid’s godfather.”
 
            He turned his face away and mumbled, “They did.”
 
            “What? You’re fucking kidding me!” Billie’s mouth dropped open, revealing
 
her perfect teeth.
 
            “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d give me shit, and maybe tell the guys
 
in the unit. Last month I made my vows as godfather at the baptism.  Even Susie
 
doesn’t know.”
 
            “Whatever happens in this partnership stays in this partnership, Jimbo, and don’t
 
ever forget it! I know you’ve gotten the razzings from the Boys Club, but if you ever weaken
 
under pressure, just throw them something that doesn’t matter—like I told you to get a
 
BJ from Susie so you’d grow no horns when we’re staked out like this till 5:00 AM.”
 
Jim’s silence cued her. “Holy shit! You already gave that up?”
 
            “It was a choice between that and telling them I’m the Tyborg  kid’s godfather.”
 
            “Why?”
 
            “It was Mrs. Tyborg . . . Ellen. She called me and asked me to be godfather 
 
to Jill’s baby because, under the circumstances, no one in their family would.”
 
            “Wow! You’re some lollipop, Jimbo. Can I have a lick, too. The Chief would
 
have a shit fit if he knew you were personally involved with our vic.”
 
He glared at her.
 
            “He’s never hearin’ it from me,” Billie assured him.  “But . . . if I have an itch
 
someday, I might need you to scratch it.”
 
            “Not in this lifetime,” he assured her.
 
            “OK. Your secret’s safe with me, so why the sad puss?”
 
            He jerked his head. “I’m OK, Billie.”
 
            “No you’re not,” she laughed, giving him a nudge with her sharp elbow. “Spill it.”
 
            “It’s the Tyborg case . . . I’m disturb that we have no resolution. Were we tricked
 
by Jill’s father? Did he really do it from the inside, and did his wife, Ellen, cover for him? 
 
I think Ellen is easily coerced. Did the three of them cover it up, make up the rape story
 
to protect their image in case Jill got pregnant. Maybe they already knew she was. Did I
 
let them rope me into their plot, just because I was an easy mark, a softie— like you said    
 
—a goddamn lollipop?”
 
            “It’s good that you’re disturbed.”  She nodded. “But I think for the wrong reason.
 
We can’t physically connect Jill’s father. He’s not smart enough to have covered his
 
tracks or anyone else’s. We’ve missed some other connection. It bothers me that we
 
couldn’t root it out.”
 
            “Jill’s story was convincing to me,” Jim admitted. “She said the guy was
 
controlling, but also gentle. He knew he was going to take her virginity; that was his
 
prize. He wasn’t brutal. Instead, she said he was seductive.”
 
            Billie blew her cigarette smoke out the window and reflected. “Jill said he
 
needed a shave; his face was rough against hers. He wore a Lone Ranger type mask
 
and a baseball cap. I got her to tell me the details. He pressed a knife to her belly while
 
he gave her oral sex. He told Jill that was because he wanted to stimulate her so she
 
would experience pleasure rather than pain when he came inside her.”
 
            Jim added, “He had to have worn latex gloves and used the concrete walkways
 
leading to the house. He probably wrapped his shoes in plastic bags to be sure he’d
 
leave no prints—zilch on all counts. He must have had a key to enter the front door--
 
no forced entry. We’ve got no clothing fibers, but semen and hair with no matches.
 
Same shit over and over again, but we’re stumped. That’s what pisses me off.”
 
            “Stay pissed. That’s good. Jill said that he mesmerized her somehow.” Billie
 
frowned. “She didn’t fight back because she was so frightened and thought her sub-
 
mission would save her life, maybe even her parents’ lives if the perp had become 
 
desperate enough to kill them all. She’d lain in bed for an hour after he left without
 
calling for help because she thought he might still be in the house.”
 
            “The son of a bitch got away with it,” Jim huffed.
 
            She put the cool back of her hand against his hot cheek with the scent of citrus
 
body wash on her fingers. “Calm down. We’re not done yet. The guy thinks he got away
 
with it, so he’ll try again. Give it time. We’ll get ’m. I promise—Look! Someone’s
 
coming out of the house. Let’s go!”
 
            “Stop! Police!” Jim called out with his shield in his left hand and his hand on his
 
holstered weapon “Hands on your head!”
 
            “Now!” Billie shouted, holding her Glock steady with both hands but pointing it
 
upward.
 
            The man complied, but grumbled as they frisked him for weapons and cuffed him.
 
“Is this some kind of gag?” he asked.
 
            Jim whipped him around and pushed him against the crumbling shingles of the
 
dilapidated house. Billie lit a flashlight in his face. Jim pulled the man’s wallet from his
 
back pocket and pulled out his driver’s license for Billie to see with the flashlight. She
 
pointed the flashlight back and forth to see that the photo was the same face.
 
            “What’s your name and address?” she asked to be sure the wallet wasn’t stolen.
 
            “George Smith, 87 Branch Road, Franklin Lakes. Was the money just some kind
 
of a gag at my expense? I haven’t done anything wrong?”
 
            “The sign says NO TRESSPASSING,” Jim said, motioning to the rusted sign on
 
the oak tree leaning against the roof of the house. “We can take you in on that count
 
alone. But maybe you’re hiding someone inside the house—some young girl you
 
kidnapped and raped.”
 
            “Wha-what?” George stammered. “There’s no one inside that house; I just
 
came for the cash, just like I was instructed.”
 
            “What cash?” Jim demanded.
 
            “In my left front pocket—two thousand bucks, all twenties,” he said. “Aw shit!
 
You mean I can’t keep it? I did everything I was told.”
 
            “What were you told?” Billie gave him a shove against the house.
 
            “I was told to come here after dark, but not too late, that I’d find two thousand
 
dollars cash under floor mat in the kitchen. Jeez! It stinks in there. Mice everywhere.”
 
            “Who told you to get this money?”
 
            “I don’t know. I got a note in my jacket pocket; don’t know how it got there.”
 
            “Show me that note,” Billie commanded.
 
            “Can’t. That was in the instructions. Said I had to burn the note or else the money
 
wouldn’t be there. I need that money to stop foreclosure on my home . . . like this one.
 
That’s why I came to get it, just like I was told.”
 
            Jim reached in his jacket and pulled on a latex glove before reaching into George’s
 
pocket for the cash, a wad of twenty Franklins.
 
            “I didn’t think I was doing anything illegal,” George pleaded.
 
            “Are you starting to grow a beard?” Billie asked, noting his stubble.
 
            “That was part of the instructions; three days without shaving before I came
 
for the money. On the third day, I would wait till dark before going to this vacant
 
house. The backdoor was open for me to get the money under the kitchen mat. The
 
creepy part was having to wait till 4:00 AM before leaving the house. It’s disgusting
 
in there. I thought it was some eccentric rich guy taking me on a scavenger hunt
 
to get his jollies. I need that money . . . real bad.” He eyed the cash in Jim’s hand.
 
“I had to do it—just to keep a roof over my kids’ heads.”
 
            “You keep him here while I scope the house,” Billie said.
 
            While she searched for any signs of foul play, especially evidence of anyone
 
held captive, Jim continued to interrogate George.
 
            “If we find any drugs in there, we’re turning you over to Narcotics Division.
 
And if you’re dealing to kids you’ll be going bye-bye for a long time.”
 
            “I told you the truth. If she finds drugs in there, I have nothing to do with them
 
and this was a set-up.”
 
            “Your story’s made up, fella,” Jim insisted. “You raped a girl in Paramus over a
 
year ago and fit the description. We’re gonna put you in a lineup for her to see your ugly
 
face.”
 
            “I don’t know what you’re talking about; I’m a good father and law abiding
 
citizen. I just ran into hard times, losing my job. I just came for the money like I was
 
told.”
 
            When Billie came out of the house she glared at Jim and shook her head. Much to
 
Jim’s surprise, she uncuffed their suspect and looked him in the eye.
 
            “I’ll tell you what, George. We want to take a recorded statement from you at
 
Headquarters, but you have the right to tell us to stick it. You know the Miranda routine--
 
you have the right to remain silent and have an attorney—but that could cost you at least
 
a thousand bucks, and you’ll never see this cash again.”
 
            George was all ears, but Jim was dumbfounded.
 
            “This particular stash is evidence in an ongoing case, so it has to stay with
 
forensics in our custody, and then, maybe a year or two from now if the case is solved,
 
illegal cash goes to our local pension fund—professional perks  But if you work with us
 
on this, stay close and remain available for any more questions or forensic tests on any-
 
thing that might connect you to that note you burned and the person who put it in your
 
pocket, I’ll stake you that two grand tomorrow, out of my own pocket. And if you get
 
any more contacts that are even remotely similar to this one, you’ve got to call me
 
immediately. Then we can just call your illegal trespassing tonight a misunderstanding
 
and forget about it. What do you say?”
 
            “You’re serious?” George asked, but Jim was biting his tongue.
 
            “Dead serious.”
 
            “Deal.”
 
            They shook hands, but Jim held his hands up.
 
            “I’m not touching this one, Billie. Follow your gut if you must, but leave me out
 
of it.”
 
            She nodded towards Jim. “Don’t let my partner scare you—unless you cross me
 
—then he’ll show you no mercy.”
 
            “Would you guys mind dropping me off at home after I make my statement?
 
I had to walk three miles to get here and I’m freezing my butt off. My wife must be
 
worried. I lied to her—said I got a night shift job to explain how I got the money.”
 
            “As long as you promise to show up at this office in Hackensack at 10:00 AM.”
 
She handed him her card. “You can give us your statement in the morning.”
 
            “I’ll be there.”
 
            After they dropped George off at home, Jim tied into Billie. “Are you fucking
 
crazy? How can you believe this guy’s story? It makes no sense. And what you just did
 
tonight was a clear case of extortion—quid pro quo—a two thousand dollar bribe just
 
so he won’t lawyer up. I know you’re a cowboy, Billie, but this crosses the line.”
 
            “Don’t you know when you’re being played, Jimbo?”
 
“I knew it! This guy is playing us.”
 
            “Not George! The guy who slipped the note to him and baited him with the cash.”
 
            “You actually believe that bullshit?”
 
            “Absolutely.”
 
            “Why?”
 
            “It was a message.”
 
            “To who?”
 
            “To us.”
 
            “You lost me, Billie.”
 
            “We’ve been watched all along and probably were tonight.”
 
            “Who’s watching us?”
 
            “The man who raped Jill Tyborg. Tonight was just a tease to let us know he’ll
 
strike again. The first time was too perfect; he needs a challenge. We’re it, so we’ll
 
have to step up our game. He certainly is.”
 
            “Are you sure?”
 
            She rolled her eyes and brought the car to a screeching halt where Jim had left
 
his car parked. “Welcome to the majors Jimbo. See you at ten for George’s statement.
 
I want your head clear tomorrow because this guy will strike soon, so . . . I don’t need
 
a partner with a case of the SBUs clogging his brain.” She pumped her clenched fist to
 
her open mouth and swelled her cheek with her tongue with each pump as she winked.
 
            The training ground for Jim’s partnership with Billie the Kid was over; she had an
 
equal partner now—not in crime—but against it.
 
 
                                                       

Bilingual Work by Daniel de Culla

***

TRES NUEVOS LIBROS
A los postres de un Restaurante de la Calle Real, en Segovia, muy cercano a la Casa de los Picos, el poeta y escritor de Cullá presentó, en una fuente dibujada con muchos lugares importantes de la provincia: Cuéllar, Turégano, Sepúlveda, Pedraza, Navalmanzano, Zamarramala, sus tres nuevos libros que fueron aplaudidos y muy comentados por los comensales. Tal fue su contento que los ríos Eresma y Clamores casi no corrían y no molían las aceñas. A los cafés, el camarero que nos trajo los chupitos de licores nos dijo:
-Los chupitos corren por nuestra cuenta. ¡Ah¡ y los libros de este señor de Cullá, que he ojeado, sobre todo los dibujos, son como aguacates, frutas de las Indias, provocativas a Lujuria. ¡Una maravilla¡
Las mujeres, que estaban presentes, notaron malicia en sus ojos.
Lo que más encantó a los presentes fue ojear con delicia los apartados: “Eros entre los Dedos”, perteneciente al libro: PRIAPO CON VESTA; y “Wo/Man ‘ Hee-Haw”, perteneciente al libro: UN MONO VERDE.
Finalizado el Acto, y antes de marchar cada cual a su destino: unos, a Valladolid; otros, a Burgos; otros a Soria; quedando sólo en Segovia el camarero que felicitó al Poeta, fueron hacia la estatua de Juan de Padilla el “Comunero” donde, rodeándola”, saltando de alegría y aplaudiéndose a sí mismos, se tiraron unos grandes, estupendos y sonoros cuescos, a la vez que tremendos eructos, recordando a los Comuneros de Castilla y su no Rey, lo que vitorearon muchos de los que por allí pasaban, y otros vilipendiaron.
- Sansón de Sasamón
Dado en Segovia, el día 24 de Septiembre de 2021


THREE NEW BOOKS
At the desserts of a Restaurant on Calle Real, in Segovia, very close to the Casa de los Picos, the poet and writer de Cullá presented in a fountain drawn with many important places in the province: Cuéllar, Turégano, Sepúlveda, Pedraza , Navalmanzano, Zamarramala, his three new books that were applauded and highly commented on by diners. Such was his contentment that the Eresma and Clamores rivers hardly flowed and the watermelons did not grind. At the cafes, the waiter who brought us the shots of liquor told us:
-The shots are on us. Oh, and the books of this gentleman de Cullá, which I have looked at, especially the drawings, are like avocados, fruits of the Indies, provocative to Lust. A marvel ¡
The women, who were present, noticed malice in his eyes.
What most enchanted those present was to glimpse with delight the sections: “Eros Between Fingers”, belonging to the book: PRIAPUS WITH VESTA; and “Wo / Man‘ Hee-Haw ”, from the book: A GREEN MONKEY.
After the Act, and before leaving each to their destination: some, to Valladolid; others, to Burgos; others, to Soria; Only in Segovia the waiter who congratulated the Poet; they marched towards the Juan de Padilla’ statue, the “Comunero” where, surrounding it , jumping for joy and applauding themselves, they threw some big, stupendous and sonorous cuesques, at the same time what tremendous burps, remembering the Communards of Castilla and their not King, which many of those who passed by cheered, and others vilified.


- Samson de Sasamón
Given in Segovia, the day 9/24/2021

***


SEEING FILOMENA


In the darkness of the night, the young Filomena, with a black cape and hood, leads her boy, dressed in dark trousers and a white
shirt, by the hand, through the Cotarro hill towards the stone cellar open at ground level, where no one sees them.
Only the fire of some bundles of burning branches, ready to grill some lamb chops, illuminates the church made of stone that seems to be supported by bones and skulls from the graveyard next door.
At the time of the walk, they prepared to kiss before going into the cellar.
-Kiss me, Serranito, kiss me, before we drink Ribera del Duero wine from that skull that young people have in the winery.
While they were kissing and trying to lie down, the young Filomena took a ham knife from her black cape and stuck it almost entirely in the back of the Serranito in love, when the poor man exclaimed:
-How sweet are your kisses, Filomena!
The Serranito fell back onto the grass of the cellar door, causing the knife to go deeper into it.
Filomena, as she did not feel him asleep or dead instantly, has gone to see him as he moved making fuss and sometimes sticking out his tongue.
That she saw that the serranito, before he died, made a straw that spit out stars, and the watercress that it gave made the whole Cotarro tremble, the girl has covered herself with the entire black cape, turning darkness with the dark night of Moradillo, the sky full of stars, running and chasing some bats that came out of the cellar after her.

Johann Kuhnau’s Complaint:
​
A Somewhat True Tale


by Anita G. Gorman


I was born on April 6, 1660 in Geising. I studied at Dresden’s Kreuzschule and sang in the Dresdener Kreuzchor. I had two music teachers: Barthold Hering and Vincenzo Albrici. I don’t know if you have ever heard of them. Perhaps not. Have you ever heard of me? I am Johann Kuhnau.
Those were dangerous times, when the plague would surface here and there. When the plague hit Dresden, I left and found work in Zittau. No, I am not a saint, like that Saint Roch, who traveled to Rome—not away from it—when the plague was raging, so that he could care for the sick and dying. No, unlike Saint Roch, I, Johann Kuhnau, hightailed it out of Dresden as fast as I could when people started dropping from the plague. I was a musician, not a doctor, and certainly not a saint.
To change the subject: I don’t like to brag. Well, I do like to brag, so I will tell you that I have successfully studied Hebrew, Greek, Latin, French, and Italian. And, of course, I am fluent in German; what else would one expect from a fellow born in Geising?
I am a musician, but I have also studied law. I have written poetry and composed music. I should be happy, but I am not. In fact, I am seething with rage.
The pinnacle of my career, so it seemed at the time, was my appointment in 1701 as cantor of Leipzig’s Thomaskirche. I was told I was hired because I was not only a musician but also a composer, a scholar, a linguist, and a philosopher. One would think that therefore I would be satisfied. One would be wrong.
For one thing, I have often been sick in my life. No amount of mental fortitude and sheer will enabled me to overcome physical illness, even though I tried to believe that mind can triumph over matter. But there is more. Some people were against me.
It was very competitive in Leipzig; there were not enough singers to go around. There I was, at one of the most prestigious Lutheran churches in all of Germany (not that Germany existed as a country at that time), and I was competing for singers not just with other choirmasters but with the opera as well! Leipzig’s opera continuously seduced, so to speak, my choir members, and suddenly they didn’t have time for church music. A bunch of ingrates!
And then there was the time that the famous Georg Philipp Telemann came to Leipzig. Like me, he had studied law; unlike me, he was famous. He is still famous as I speak to you in the 21st century. Am I right? Have you ever heard of me, of Johann Kuhnau? No, correct? Have you heard of Telemann? Yes, correct?
So the illustrious Telemann came to Leipzig in 1701 and set up a collegium musicum. Fancy Latin name for a group of amateur musicians! Mein Gott! And there went more of my students. I would soon have a quartet singing at the Thomaskirche, if I were lucky.
But that’s not all. Imagine this, you people in the 21st century. Would you expect the mayor of your city, whether it be large or small, to have a say in who composes music for your church? Not likely. Yet that is exactly what happened to me. The mayor of Leipzig actually allowed the so-called great Telemann to write music for the Thomaskirche, my church! My church!
Do you think that was all? Not so. In 1703, I was sick. That was a full nineteen years before I actually died. And what do you think happened? Ach, it was so awful! The town council, having been informed of my illness, did not bother to ask about my condition. Nor did they send a greeting wishing me good health. Nein, they ignored me and instead asked Telemann to be my
successor, just in case I died right then and there. Ach, but I fooled them! I stayed alive with that Saxon determination, through sheer will, for another nineteen years. And do you know who succeeded me at the Thomaskirche after I died in 1722? Johann Sebastian Bach, that’s who. Not too shabby, as some of you might say.
I, Johann Kuhnau, actually invented the keyboard sonata, but does anyone know that? You, dear reader, will learn, if you consult the New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, that my “reputation rests almost entirely on the four printed sets of keyboard pieces, especially the last of them, the Biblische Historien. This consists of six multi-movement ‘sonatas’, each prefaced by a prose description of a particular incident from the Old Testament illustrated in the music . . . Kuhnau emphasized in a learned and valuable preface that this type of programme music was not new, and he referred to models by Froberger and ‘other excellent authors.’”
At least they recognized my “learned and valuable preface” in the 21st century, if not in the Baroque period. Danke schön!
But I think the main reason that people didn’t like me was my novel, Der musicalische Quack-Salber, which was based on Christian Weise’s Politische Quacksalbe. In my time, people could transform other people’s material if they felt like it. We didn’t have copyright laws or lawyers on every street looking for a lawsuit to instigate. No, we could take old material and make it our own. So Christian Weise’s political charlatan gave me the idea of writing about a musical charlatan. Ach, there were so many fakes in my time, so many who dazzled the public with their superficial talent or non-talent. And, by the way, Christian Weise was rector of the Gymnasium in Zittau when I was a student there.
The butt of my satire was a fellow I named Caraffa, an Italian of course. It was easy to make fun of Italian charlatans in Germany, easier than it would have been to ridicule my fellow
countrymen. I should issue a clarification, however. My Caraffa was actually a German, but he wanted to be famous and the darling of the musical cognoscenti, so he pretended to be Italian. You will note that even the word cognoscenti—meaning those in the know—is an Italian word. I understand that in your time, you who live in the twenty-first century, my book has some cachet, to use a French word. There is even a fine translation into English, I am told. And I also understand that scholars even use my book to find out about musical customs and performance at the end of the seventeenth century. My book was published in 1700. Those modern scholars will not, I think, have any idea about the reception of my book during my lifetime. Let me just say that fine musicians enjoyed it. Musicians who were mediocre or pretentious or charlatans, well, they did not like it so much. They were, in fact, angry, but they pretended not to be, so that no one would think that they themselves were charlatans. Rather clever, if I must say so for myself.
I have other complaints. For example, my student Johann Friedrich Fasch was a total and complete ingrate. And so much of my work is lost! Where did it go? Did someone wrap fish in it? Ach! Perhaps some of you—yes, I am speaking to you moderns or post-moderns—may read Der musicalische Quack-Salber—in English, if you must—but I believe you will have to know German in order to peruse two other of my satires, Der Schimd seines eignen Unglückes (The Maker of His Own Misfortune) and Des lugen und thorichten Gebrauchs der Fünf Sinnen (On the Clever and Foolish Use of the Five Senses). And Gesundheit to you, too! (Just a little jest on my part.)
And now for a parting word. I have learned a thing or two in almost three hundred years, most of which I knew before: Work hard; practice; love your craft; and do not let the charlatans get you down!

Interior of the Church from Moradillo de Roa (Burgos).
Photograph by Daniel de Culla


A LADDER TO GO UP TO HEAVEN

By Daniel de Culla


Sometimes, dragged by the hand by my wife, whom I love, who pulls me like a donkey, I go to Mass in the church of the town, in which the celebrant priest, through the formulas and sacramental words, always the same, from a fat book that they say sacred, he realizes the
mystery of the transubstantiation of the mystery of the Eucharist, representing the events of the New Testament, and especially the Passion and death of Jesus Christ.
Above all I go with her, to condescend, to the high mass of the main town festivals; to the mass for the dead of a direct relative; to the mass of the rooster, at Christmas; and to the mass of the odd wedding, especially in which the bride already carries the child inside her.
From so much hearing mass and attending them out of obligation, when my parents put me in a seminary, I ended up fed up with them, not knowing, now, about the average mass.
I was a missal eater. I was fed up and filled with prayers. I almost reached misacantano (ordained priest); until I asked myself: What will these masses stop at? How will this end? How will I get out of the Seminary?
Remembering what a family member of mine, a deranged mystic, told me: “Mass is said by the priest; for hearing mass and giving barley, he never missed a day ”, when I left the Seminary and came home with the mattress as it says under my arm, because you had to bring the sleeping mattress, I said to my mother:
-Mother, I can no longer bear from these priests so much hypocrisy, so much obscenity, so much deception, besides that their good is based only on deceiving us and hallucinating us to rob us even of our temples. What rascals!
I'm not going to climb that ladder to go up to Heaven. Besides, as you well know, for the living, Heaven is over their heads; for the dead, their Heaven is underground.
She answered me:
-You will learn, you will see what will happen to you. You could have finished and lived as a priest with five parishes and five widows "amas de cura"(mistresses of priest). Besides that they do not understand the mass other than in their missal.
I said:
-Mother, there is no turning back. I will never again be a Miser, given or fond of hearing many masses, full of love, miserable, scarce and ridiculous in the way I behave and spend.
Also, do you remember that girl who showed a color like pink and came to the prayers of the Rosary that I gave, and of the Stations of the Cross, the way of the Cross around the town, who was after me? Now my blackbird is born and dies at the foot of her sapling or foal.
What happened to me later was that I had to earn my bread with the sweat of my brow, and march down the path of the bitterness of this life; not like them, the priests, who live off the sweat of the foreheads of others.
Later, I got married, but I didn't screw it up; contrary to the one who said to a friend of both: “Pablo, you got married. You screwed up! ”.

Photo by Isabel
​

THE CIDIAN GHOST

By Daniel de Culla


Helmets, crosses, shields and swords of the entire heavenly court of gods, kings, marquise demigods, dictator generals, champion cides who knew how to disappoint the nations they subjugated or conquered are nailed to a straw alpaca (bale) at the foot of the Cathedral de Burgos in its VIII Centenary, reminding you of what a throw or a shot in the neck or in the back given on time is worth.
This time, thanks to the Cid in his mask, dressed as a monk or witch, playing a tambourine or drum made of pig or lamb bladder skin, playing and laughing he repeated: “That, after so many conquests and reconquests, gallows, walls , gutters and wolfholes, stoning, vile stick or electric chair, we have only managed to suck our fingers or our dicks, as the Dog or the Ass does, which are the ones that last.
I have my suspicions that, in the note on the ground next to the alpaca, the set is written that was the cause, and continues to be, of that enormous and fierce hatred that the Castilians had against the Moors and Jews. I see it and I feel it in the smile on the Cid's mask.
So much ardor is used in the fights, so much effort, that in the end luck makes almost all of them die in the combat, always remaining alive hypocritical priests, deceitful generals, obscene politicians, whose good is based only on deceiving and robbing the people .
With the approval of the mask, I take the note and read:
“To Dead Beard, Little Shame.
El Cid is dead. Those who respect him speak well of him. Those who fear him speak against him. And they all attack or venerate his children and his widow.
Embalmed, dressed and seated in his seat in the Monastery of San Pedro de Cardeña, one day that a great Cidiana festival was being celebrated, leaving only him, and all, monks and parishioners, outside the church firing rockets, a Jew and a Moor who They came to him, looking at him, and seeing that he did not move, sarcastically said to him:
-We approach your beard, brave champion, to see what you do to us now.
Then the Cid moved in his seat, taking hold of the Cistercian habit, opening it and taking out a span of his cock, the way he did when he drew his Tizona sword in combat. The Jew and the Moor were frightened, falling to the ground, remaining as dead. When the people and monks re-entered the church and found them like this, they kicked them out, but not before pouring jugs of holy water on their heads to wake them up.
This is a true story of Christianity.
The monks and the feudal lords have absolute and entire jurisdiction over the vassals to punish, absolve and forgive as kings. "
What rascals!

The Wrong Party 

  by K. A. Williams


I was late, but I finally found the old two-story wood house that Erin had rented for the Halloween party. It was perfect.

I parked at the end of a long line of cars. A lit carved pumpkin sat on the front porch. When I used the old-fashioned knocker, a ghoul opened the door.
"Enjoy the party," he said.

I hadn't recognized the ghoul nor did any of the vampires, goblins, witches, warlocks, zombies, and werewolves look familiar. I thought Erin and I had the same friends. Where was she anyway?

Snacks and drinks were laid out on a table along with cups and plates. I dipped out a cupful of red liquid from one of the punch bowls. It was thick and salty and tasted like - I gagged.

"You don't like it?" One of the vampires stood beside me.

"No."

"You don't look familiar. Are you crashing the party or were you invited?"

"Do you know anyone named Erin?" I asked.

"No."

"Then I'm at the wrong party. Are you going to throw me out?"

The vampire smiled, fangs showing. "Of course not. Maybe you'll find this party more interesting."

"Well," I hesitated. "I really should find my own party."

"There is a house very similar to this one on the next street. Maybe your friends are there. Take the pathway through the woods behind this house, it's a shortcut."

"Thank you." 

I went outside. A car had parked behind mine, so I walked around the house in search of the pathway.

The gnarled bare limbs of trees reached out to each other along the narrow trail. I heard a noise and turned. Moonlight shone on the vampire from the party.

***

I found the right house, it looked just like the other one. The door opened when I used the knocker and Erin stood there in her vampire costume.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

"I stopped for a bite on the way."

"You could have waited." She handed me a glass. "I saved this for you."

I sipped the red liquid. "This is much better than the tomato juice I had at the last party."

"You've been to another party?"

I stepped inside. "Let me tell you all about it."



The End

First published in Writers Gazette in 1987.

​Missing In The Bermuda Triangle


 by K. A. Williams


I chewed my second Dramamine and lay on the cabin bunk, trying to keep my stomach calm as the yacht El Ganso sailed along.

I knew I'd get seasick but I was being paid well for my services as a psychic.
It wasn't all about the money though, I liked helping people. 

Hector Rodriguez hired me to find his brothers. They had vanished, fishing boat and all, off the coast of Florida. Their last reported position two days ago was in the Bermuda Triangle. The coast guard searched that area but no trace of them or their ship could be found. 

One of Hector's friends suggested he try a psychic.
He had googled psychics in the Miami region and picked me.

I opened my mind. At first I couldn't sense anybody besides the people on this ship. Then I sensed an alien female presence. Images came into my mind of an old creature who was an explorer. Her spaceship had been damaged by an asteroid and she'd crashed into the ocean.

This alien was responsible for incidents in her territory of the Bermuda Triangle. She used a device which caused engine failure in ships. When they stopped, she extended her limbs to the ocean's surface, then retracted them, pulling that ship underwater.  

The amphibious creature's ship was cloaked so it remained hidden and undetected. She repaired the damage when she found suitable parts and had also chemically altered and adapted the sunken ships' fuel so it could power her own ship.

Hector's brothers were unlucky enough to be in her territory. Their ship's fuel had already been changed by the alien and now there was enough to reach home after the long voyage here.

She was ready.

I hurried up the steps to the deck. "There's a monster in the Bermuda Triangle!"

"Did you say monster?!" Hector asked. "What about my brothers?"

"Your brothers are dead. She killed them. Her spaceship is coming up from the ocean floor now! We need to leave this area or we'll be sunk!" I pointed beyond the starboard rail. "Look!"

In the distance, the water was swirling and churning,
foam mixing with the blue-green color.

Hector looked where I pointed, then shouted,
"Tony! Hard to port and full speed ahead!"

Our ship turned and moved quickly forward. Behind us I could see water rising and falling off a large outline as her cloaked ship left the ocean. Then a wall of water moved toward us swiftly while our ship sped onward. 

I didn't think we could outrun the wave. Neither did Hector. He grabbed my hand and pulled me with him as he shouted, "Tony! Switch off the engine and get below deck!"

We had all just gotten inside and shut the hatch when the wave crashed down upon us. The boat rocked violently back and forth for a few minutes but we didn't capsize.

Finally it stopped rocking as the sea slowly calmed down
​along with my queasy stomach.

"I'm sorry about your brothers," I said to Hector.

Before my telepathic link with the alien ended, I could feel her happiness. She hadn't killed with malice, she'd just wanted to go home. 

***

                  K. A. Williams writes speculative, mystery/crime, general fiction, and poetry. Her science fiction has been published this year in The Creativity Webzine, Aphelion, Theme Of Absence, 365 Tomorrows, Altered Reality, Bewildering Stories, Corner Bar, and View from Atlantis.               

---

Roboticons

By Jeff Blechle



“I am so sick of hearing about the Rott case I could throw your easel off this cliff! Why am I even painting you? For whom?”
“This planet’s existence hinges on the outcome of the Rott case.” She puffed out her bare breasts and shook her hair on her back. “I’m warning everyone to stay out of the canyon areas until we get these little murderers under control, find out what this is all about. Rott was eaten alive, remember. And you’re painting for posterity.”
            Raze screamed and threw her paint-splotched easel, along with his painting of a herd of little human-eating roboticons, into the tremendous Blue Canyon. “Oops.”
Commissioner Lorelei got up off the flat rock and glared at him. Never once did Raze allow her to peek at his artistic progress. She snapped and jerked into her combat clothes and tactical gear.
“Sorry, Commissioner. These mass murderers have got me spooked. I mean, being a true artist, I’m very sensitive.”
“Too bad your wedding ring didn’t catch on that easel.” She thumbed two black streaks under her eyes and sneered at Raze. “I’m on duty, and I’m thinking about shooting you to ribbons. So watch it.” She strapped on her artillery.
“Your car keys. They were on the easel.” Then, “Oh God.” Raze’s shiny brown slacks dropped to his ankles, his jaw followed, and he pointed beyond Lorelei during a buzzard’s cry and an intensifying rumble in the earth. “Duh-duh-duh-Crytek roboticons! Look out!”
Lorelei leaped and spun and kicked off a titanium head, hacked and blasted off several others, but fifty or more rushed them, then hundreds more swarmed, billowing dust to the clouds, murderous varieties of every sheen, creedless, colorless, and though she fought with incredible agility and fierceness—suffering a bite on her throat—she was only able to save herself and a half-eaten salami on rye.
No true artist, dead or living, would waste such an accessible store of compelling raw material.
“Great, no mustard.”
 
No shower, no coffee, no brushed teeth, Tech 7 greeted his colleagues at the arid canyon cliff crime scene like a shambling slab of rotten roadkill meat fresh from Crytek Highway, ready to blame Raze’s corpse for Commissioner Lorelei’s disappearance. “Yep, this artist type’s got Cryteks written all over him, literally. Misspelled, but still.” He squatted and picked up Lorelei’s gold commissioner badge, then hid it in his disgusted fist. “Burn him.”
“Has anyone seen my badge?”
Gomez 4 gave Lorelei’s sun-rising image a quick look, then continued taking selfies of his new beard. “Protocol is to take the corpse back to the lab, analyze it, and then incinerate it. Right, Commissioner?”
“That’s right.” She stepped over and pried her badge out of Tech 7’s fist. “You need to step down.”
“Crytek lovers,” Tech 7 muttered. “Burn him.”
Yorga 9, career intern, crunched over in a peerless lab coat, red owl glasses, clean face, hair brushed and parted an inch above his left ear, not the kind of guy you’d expect to say, “Fucking new-age pervert Cryteks up to their old fucking tricks. Probably covered in tattoos and piercings and weird haircuts, you know, shaved on the sides, brown. Graphic tees—with skulls. Goddamn outsiders.” He looked around at the dying sky and moaned lightly, “Hear this, Commissioner Lorelei. Everybody looks like somebody else but us.”
“Yorga 9, Cryteks are roboticons.”
Gomez 4 pointed at the ground. “Look, an AIDS bracelet. Here is a used set of plasticware. Dill dip. Ladies, this man was mistaken for endive.”
“You two are ignorant,” Tech 7 said. “It’s a suicide. Burn him.”
“He does not have a head, sir,” Gomez 4 said. “Commissioner?”
“I’m on the verge of reassigning all three of you to custodial positions.”
Yorga 9 came out from behind a bright orange rock. “Here’s the head, people.”
“God. I know that dude. This is his AIDS bracelet.” Gomez 4 scuffed up a circle. “I’m fucking this dude’s girlfriend. I gotta get tested. Quick!”
Shivering red, Tech 7 looked down his nose at Gomez 4. “It was you that sent Lorelei flowers, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. But only because I thought she was dead.” He went to the step van and brought back a body bag. “I also sent her a congratulations card on the same occasion.”
“Oh yeah?” Tech 7 rolled up his sleeves. “Why's that?”
“Because I thought you had preceded her in death.”
When Gomez 4 and Yorga 9 stopped laughing, the four specialists found themselves surrounded by cackling, bristling, fang-licking Cryteks thrusting tiny sword-like weapons. Seconds later, the team scramble into the lab’s armored step van with only major lacerations and concussions, slipped discs and copious blood loss, arthritis, and driving over and endless sea of teeming roboticons for twenty miles made for a nervous excursion back to town.
“It’s gotta be Monday,” Yorga 9 said, bleeding from his thigh. He fell over dead. It was Wednesday.
When they entered the town, its streets were piled low with corpses.
 
Bandaged, braced, and strung out, burnt coffee smelling around late-night clutter, down the dim corridor came limpy dragging footsteps. Rustling. Click. The breakroom door opened into hissing tiny-light darkness—the icemaker, the microwave clock, the led light strip above the toe kick.
“Kisses.”
When cold lips touched his eyelid, Gomez 4 sprang up on the couch and his Star Wars pillow exploded in feathers. “What the—? Who are you? Why did you kiss me? Oh, my God. Tech 7!”
Tech 7 baffled affable nebulosity. “Oh. What? Yeah—wait. You’re not my wife. Are you?”
“I knew you were gay, man. I knew it!”
“I stepped in here by mistake.”
“You crack whore. Get out before I call the pigs!”
“Really? Dude, we are the pigs.”
Commissioner Lorelei blasted into the breakroom with a subatomic machine gun and shot out the window, perched her gun on the sill, and started firing at a small protesting group of roboticons. “What are you two lovers doing in here? Grab some nuclear hardware and start hurling!”
Tech 7, recovering in false bewilderment, adjusted his turtleneck. “These crazies we work with. You know?”
“Commissioner, Tech 7 just barge in here and kissed me while I was sleeping on the couch. Try to get with me, then lied it up like some bitch with a gun in her face.”
“Are you still on that?”
Lorelei entered warp speed violence and insulted Tech 7’s every moment on earth. He shrank back from her gaze as she reloaded plutonium.
“Please do not look at me like that, Commissioner.”
“Like what?”
“You know, like, with your eyes.”
She shot a light fixture above him, and it shattered on his head. “Get weaponry! They seem to be affected by death.”
The men moved sluggishly toward the artillery safe. Gomez 4 croaked, “I think the only way to beat the Cryteks is to surrender and let them kill us. Think about it. As far as we know, there are only the three of us left in this town. Your thoughts?”
“You are a moron.”
Tech 7 grabbed an iridium laser gun and then yanked open the small fridge door and frowned in its ghastly light. He watched Lorelei at the window, roboticons popping in the distance like popcorn from her blasts. “To destroy a legion of maladroit fish-eating humanoids sent by Satan, is to imply a grand conspiracy between this plague and the EPA, therefore we must lay down arms and let them obliterate us.”
“They’re not humanoids, but it is too bad for the fish.” Gomez 4 jerked a scroll and it dropped to the floor and unrolled. “Here’s my plan. Listen up. Now—”
“Why don’t we just pass the buck on these random murder sprees?” Tech 7 wobbled to the sink and splashed his face and missed. “We can’t study them. They explode when we touch them. They look funny. Let the state police handle them, you know, the highway patrol, or whatever.”
The building shook. A wall crashed in, and the breakroom instantly swarmed with screaming, knife-wielding, milk-swilling Cryteks. Lorelei couldn’t help but save herself again, while Tech 7, with middling difficulty, followed Gomez 4 out a window overlooking a seventy-foot drop.
Splat. Splat.
Lorelei secured four tourniquets to her four limbs. “I could bring them back to life. Nah.”
 
Over the next two days, Commissioner Lorelei drove over Cryteks in her Hummer but ended up becoming a hero after killing a substantial number of attacking Cryteks at a bingo hall while trying to unclog the water softener with sulfuric acid.
“Well, so I’m not the only human left alive on earth. Fuck.”
Lorelei ate heartily then, and fled alone, and again, and again. Her days and nights whirled off-balance into a bloody maelstrom of Knights of Columbus’s and bowling alleys and Shoe Carnivals, all being used as Cryteks-fear refugee counselling camps and safe suicide stations. Sadly, humans seemed to outnumber the Cryteks.
Face pale as a lemon peel’s underside, she endured an intricate motoring scene of fits and starts, close ups of her encrusted lips and long shots of her former beauty, convertible and headscarf and squealing tires, along smoky mountain roads with dangerous embankments, arriving at a stranger’s funeral, pregnant by God, probably Gomez 4, and at a green light she pored over her unselfish duty to sympathy. Pitiful thing couldn’t be honest with herself, let alone the people she loved. Her heart inverted during a brief downpour. She peered around at the weepy lot for another, licking her lips, her soul fragmented, rattling in the floors of her shifting soles like pills in bottles, questioning a granite cross, “Am I me if I kill only to survive?” Her world deepened in slated grays, but to a rebel scout, belly-perched in a tree with a rifle aimed at her nostril, her world appeared brighter than a Cryteks bonfire. He fell out of the tree and shot off his kneecap.
Influenced throughout these days by blatant hypocrisy and cryptic slogans, and now in search of forgiveness (or at least some upshot of forgiveness) for her plucky actions, Commissioner Lorelei genuflected and crossed herself in the empty aisle of the empty church. A sudden onset of serenity tricked her, and she walked her crotch into the corner of a mahogany pew. Perhaps her mannish shriek and comical flinch compelled all the hiding Cryteks to drop their weapons, genuflect, cross themselves, and leave the church single file, murmuring pleasantries past the invisible priest, reformed world citizens marching into sunshine.
And perhaps there was only one way to beat them.
She flushed them out of every corner of the planet and spent the rest of her life destroying.

Excerpt from a play by T.L. Sullivan

(Notes from the playwright: I self published these scenes in my zine, Dream Zine #1.
It is written in a dramatic, Shakespearean fashion, and I could easily imagine it as an opera.)

(From what I can recall of the performance and infer from this bit of script, at the time that this scene takes place, Judas is engaged in a major battle that his son, Apollo, was seriously injured in several days prior. This information will become relevant in Scene V Act III.)

THE TRAGEDY OF THE ISOPEDES[1]

CHARACTERS:
TERMUS, king of Isopedia
MYKONOS, son of TERMUS
JUDAS, brother of TERMUS

SCENE IV ACT III

The palace library. TERMUS reclined in a soft looking armchair, chewing on a book distractedly.
Enter MYKONOS.
MYKONOS (with highly passionate vibrations[2]): Most joyful tidings, father; the flower of my spring has bloomed; that which is most happy and sweet belongs to me. My heart leaps: my soul is like that of a ship on the Pacific; burdened, but wonderfully and honorably so, my head aflutter with songbirds; like a tree in mid-March, buds form but not yet bloom in the boughs of my life—but they shall, anon, they must! The nobility of my feeling is matched only by intrepid Orpheus, by Adam, the first ant[3] to walk this unmerciful earth, and his purehearted relief at the divine introduction of Eve! Now I may suffer—so long as my heart fails to bind with iron[4] myself to that which I love, I suffer—but with your blessing, father, dearest father, I shall join hands with my love on the morrow!
TERMUS: (with a stutter of a vibration) My son; sayest thou what I denke? Have you at last found the one with whom you shall break your wings[5]?
MYK.: Tis true, father, tis true! Stoffer and I shall be the happiest clipped swans this castle has seen in many an age.
TERMUS: Dear junge, but you must bear an heir!
MYK.: It shall be the progeny of a servant girl.
TERMUS: And how will you explain this to the people?
MYK: If a babe may come whence a virgin, whyn’t a man? Still thy lips, father; (playfully) I fear they itch to blaspheme.
TERMUS (a bit appalled, but mostly impressed): And the servant girl?
MYK.: A close friend of Stoffer’s; if that changes, there’s always the dungeon. Oh, what a handsome young larva he once was, and what a virile, winged mite[6] he’s grown into! What a divine bogue I have had the fortune to tie my heart to!
TERMUS: Mein süss—you can barely see the creature. If looks are all that bind, pray reconsid’ dieses love; thy frau (or thy mann) ist deine life. You shall hardly be looking into that comely countenance on dein wedding-day!
MYK. (stubbornly vibrating): But what a lovely blur he makes! Stoffer’s looks shan’t wane with age to me, a blessing that self-important Men are rarely so lucky to experience! No, no, papa, (scorchingly vibrating) looks are not all that bind. The good Dieu has seen fit to sew our hearts together. Should—G—d forbid—Stoffer die before me, my heart shall rot and fester alongside his until I, too, perish; I shall only refrain from suicide that I may be laid in his arms after my Christian passing. Yes, the worms that eat his eyes shall nourish themselves on mine as well; and if I find that I am being eaten alive in a pine box next to this love of mine, I shall thank mon Dieu for the kindness he has shown to me, seal us in together with what saliva and soil I can gather[7], and go happily to sleep. You shall not hear /my/ mandibles scratching at the coffin-lid.
TERMUS: You may enjoy ihm in death, but before?
MYK.: (vibrating with barely restrained fury) Beloved king, if I am not to know happiness with Stoffer, I shall know it with none. If you wish me to live in mendacity, with love for naught but power and a single child of mine fortunate enough to gain my favor, as you have, I shall be forced to obey.
TERMUS: (vibrating tremulously) Mein junge--
MYK.: (falls to his knees) Father, I beg you--givest us thy blessing! (producing a dagger) Must I spill my own blood to prove that it runs hot with passion[8]?
TERMUS: (staying MYK.’s hand): We need not go to such extremes. Yes, my son, follow thy liebe; my soul shall always support thine; for now, as in the crypt, which creeps closer ‘hind my heels each of these eleven clouded nächte, you and ich shall remain next to one other, preserved in filial love and duty for all eternity.
MYK. (with lowered vibrations): Such black thoughts roam thy brain, dear father! (sheathes the dagger)

SCENE V ACT III

The palace library, some time later. TERMUS and MYKONOS are vibrating contentedly over some Saki.

Enter MESSENGER.

MESSENGER: Baron Judas has arrived, sir, and wishes to see you.
TERMUS (with disturbed vibration): Show him in.
Exit MESSENGER.
MYKONOS vibrates inquiringly towards TERMUS, who says nothing.
Enter JUDAS and MESSENGER.
MESSENGER: Baron Judas.

Exit MESSENGER.

JUDAS (hoarsely, coldly, head bowed): Der battle hath been won, my king.
TERMUS: Excellent. How fares Apollo?
JUDAS: He is dead.
TERMUS (alarmed, stilted): I am sorry, brother.
JUDAS: Thank you, my king.
Enter WINE POURER[9] with BOTTLE OF WINE, gaily at first, then dropping into solemnity upon seeing the faces of those in the room.
WINE POURER: Wish ye to commiserate, gentlemen?
TERMUS (distractedly): (waves) Yes, yes.
The WINE POURER sets down three glasses, uncorks the bottle, and fills each to the top. JUDAS, remembering MYKONOS, vibrates in concern. Exit WINE POURER.
JUDAS: (vibrating submissively) Perhaps dieses drink should be shared only among us brüdder, mein king.
MYKONOS: I would not intrude.
TERMUS (suddenly nervous): Mein junge, pray stay.
An uncomfortable pause.
MYK. (hesitatingly, then impulsively grabs his glass, raises it): To Isopedia!
TERMUS (taking his class and raising it as well): To Isopedia!
JUDAS (following suit): To Isopedia.
All appear to drink; JUDAS is not actually doing so. They set down their glasses; all are empty except JUDAS’.
TERMUS (noticing JUDAS’ glass, vibrating staccato): Brother, why dost thou trinkst not?
JUDAS: (to TERMUS, vibrating with renewed strength) Your sadism, arrogance, and cowardice hath killed you and your only boy, brother, as well as my sweet niece, who knows heaven as dich—thou shall not. Perhaps I am a bad man in sum; perhaps G—d may see that my sins have outweighed my well-intentioned deeds. Even if He deems me unfit to commune with his angels, his chosen men, if he places me into the devil’s jaws; so be it. I can bear my weight knowing that the Isopede line dies with me, and that we shall never again reign over Isopedia. (vibration lowering with pain) Mykonos, my beloved nephew—I am sorry to end your days of blissful youth, thy faith in thy father at a point where it shan’t ever have the time to regain its strength. I do not anticipate your forgiveness.
MYK. (weakly vibrating with sympathy): Uncle, I forgive you. Let us not die enemies.
JUDAS (vibrating with emotion): I reject your forgiveness—nay, I cannot deny you. Good-bye, sweet Mykonos.
MYKONOS dies. TERMUS sees this as he himself is dying and cries out in anguish; vibrates pleadingly, hopelessly towards JUDAS.
JUDAS: I shall not end my life with the same poison by which I am avenging Niece Termia, nor allow myself to die from this pinprick in my side, for neither a heretic nor a poet be I. I shall go to where none know the name of Isopede, marry none, speak to none, break bread[10] with none. Judas shall not exist anymore from this day forth. What shame you have brought me to, my king. What ruin you have brought to this family. But destruction is our only savior, the only noble exit from this depraved life we live, mine in wrathful secrecy, and thine in private savagery. I can thank G—d for the death of thy son, for sparing him the continuation of the life that thou begat in him, and the death of my own, (vibrates once or twice, very intensely, and then continues), that he died ignorant of our baseness. None shall know what happened here; none ought to know. (Straightens himself and is instantly reminded of the injury in his side, bends to it.)
TERMUS: (barely vibrating at all) Brother, please to take my hand.
JUDAS glances warily at TERMUS, then takes his clammy hand.
JUDAS (breaking, affectionate): Brother.
TERMUS dies; after a moment JUDAS drops his hand in disgust.
JUDAS: That I should so tenderly take the hand that was in life so cruel--!
JUDAS takes the crown from TERMUS’ head and drops it on the floor next to him with a clatter. He can’t even stand to look in MYKONOS’ direction.
Exit JUDAS, limping.


[1] In the human world, an Isopede is a type of spider, but due to the similarity between “Isopede” and the Latin name for termites, “Isoptera”, as well as the fierceness shown by the spider, “Isopede” has become a family name amongst the royal and very rich of termite society.

[2] Termites, except for the king and queen, who have some vision, are entirely blind, and communicate significantly through vibrations and secreted pheromones.

[3] Since these plays were handed down by “word of mouth”, there were frequent modifications made to the original dialogue. In this instance, the termites seem to have drawn the conclusion that the first man was actually an ant, presumably as a result of Adam Ant’s pervasiveness.

[4] Iron wedding bands, worn around the front or middle leg on the right, were very fashionable at the time that this play is set, sometime towards the end of the 200th termite century.

[5] The king and queen (or in this case, king and king) of a colony break their wings off when they mate.

[6] One example of a common Termitian misconception of human language. Most termites believe that “mite” means “mighty thing” or “red-blooded creature”, the latter of which phrases they inexplicably gathered the correct metaphorical meaning of.

[7] Before mating, the royals of a termite colony seal themselves into a shelter with saliva, soil, and feces.

[8] Extremely sharp daggers that can easily cut through the tough exoskeleton of spiders, centipedes, and scorpions, as well as deter the attacks of frogs and lizards are bestowed upon each royal termite upon birth. Most skirmishes fought betwixt lower-level termites more closely resemble a stag fight than Rebel Without a Cause, though occasionally the littlest termites will break off one of their legs and wield it as a prop to recreate scenes from that movie, which is much loved by termites worldwide.

[9] For most of history, to drink, one termite would gather a large amount of water at a water source, drink his fill, and kiss another termite to give him water, and that second termite would kiss yet another termite to give him water, and so on. However, poisoning was a very popular practice during this period. Though it would have been desirable to simply cut out the poisoning altogether, so many innocent bystander termites were killed as a result that everymite who could afford it turned to drinking out of cups out of fear for their lives, though this obviously was not a foolproof solution.

[10] To a termite, “bread” refers to some sort of brittle wood or other edible substance, such as drywall, sheetrock, or cardboard.

Wary
by
Gerald Arthur Winter


I know she’s there. She’s always there even if I don’t see her. I only had to see her
once to be sure she’d always be there. Now I dare not venture too close because just as
I’ve seen her, she’s also seen me. The difference is, when I’m there, she’s aware of my
presence, but I’m only aware of the only time I actually saw her. Her vision lingers in my
mind warning me to remain aware even of the mere specter of her presence.
Fear and awareness are much like kissing cousins related by blood but not by passion,
unless one or both cross that forbidden line. For me that line is the edge of the pond where
herons and egrets leave their pronged footprints in the black mud. Across that line the lily
pads float and ripple with just a hint of what lies beneath the pond’s surfeit veneer green
with algae and whispered threats of mortality.
With the passing of time, whether in a flickering moment or across the enduring
expanse of a millennium, the existential image she has left in my memory feels more
intimidating than if I actually saw her.
I’ve wondered if my recollection of her has become more dangerous to me than she
really is. Still, the heat of the afternoon makes me thirsty. The sun glaring above makes me
more wary because the sunbeams off the pond are blinding. My need for quenching confuses
my instinct to be more cautious as me feet sink into the black mud of the pond’s receded
bank in summer’s drought.
My eyes dart left and right for any sign of her, but my thirst overrides my caution. I
feel no restraint from the one who cares most about me, so I assume she’s being watchful
in my best interest as I lap the coolness of the warm miasmic liquid.
I hear a chime which perks my ears. In that split second I realize my protector is
distracted as she babbles on about the void of her superior existence to mine. Then I hear
a chirp, then another, perhaps the toll of my doom. I lift my snout from the pond to see
her eyes glaring at me as her young slither from her jaws’ protective cavern. She lurches
with a snap at my throat. There’s a tug at my neck as my protector shrieks.
It’s too late for me with my windpipe collapsed. Her young feast on me with their
sharp chirping jaws. The last muffled shriek I hear is from my protector taken by the
mother in her death roll. Neighbors scream and shout for someone to help us, but it’s
the code of practical behavior anywhere in Florida as the sign says with that drawing on
it more vivid than the first time I saw her and knew she was there and always would be:

Beware! Alligators!

Cherish Your Memories

by K. A. Williams

"I've got tickets to see The Association," said my boyfriend, the DJ. "And backstage passes. I'm doing an interview for the radio station."
It was 1983. The venue was small but the acoustics were great. Johnny had gotten us front row seats, the perks of being a DJ. 
The vocal harmonies of The Association were outstanding. Among the many songs they performed were "Windy", "Never My Love", "Along Comes Mary" and "Cherish".
After the amazing concert, my boyfriend left me alone in a room backstage with Ted Bluechel and Larry Ramos, while he went elsewhere to interview the other band members. Their turn would come later.
I didn't own any albums by The Association. Meeting famous people is always exciting, but it doesn't feel the same if you're not a huge fan.
Since I wasn't tongue-tied, I decided to ask them a question, even though I wasn't interviewing them myself.
"Do you get disappointed,  playing in small venues like this, when you look out and see a lot less people in your audience than you used to have?"
"I'm not disappointed," Ted said, "but of course it's different from the big arenas. More intimate, and in some ways - better. It's all about the music anyway."
"Right," agreed Larry. "No matter the size of the venue, as long as there are people who want to hear us perform, we'll be there."
I said, "I enjoyed your concert very much."
"That's what we like to hear," Larry said.
Ted smiled. "Exactly."
I went out and bought their greatest hits LP the next day.​                                                         

A Wagner Matinée
​
By Willa Sibert Cather

I received one morning a letter, written in pale ink, on glassy, blue-lined note-paper, and bearing the postmark of a little Nebraska village. This communication, worn and rubbed, looking as though it had been carried for some days in a coat-pocket that was none too clean, was from my Uncle Howard. It informed me that his wife had been left a small legacy by a bachelor relative who had recently died, and that it had become necessary for her to come to Boston to attend to the settling of the estate. He requested me to meet her at the station, and render her whatever services might prove necessary. On examining the date indicated as that of her arrival, I found it no later than to-morrow. He had characteristically delayed writing until, had I been away from home for a day, I must have missed the good woman altogether.
The name of my Aunt Georgiana called up not alone her own figure, at once pathetic and grotesque, but opened before my feet a gulf of recollections so wide and deep that, as the letter dropped from my hand, I felt suddenly a stranger to all the present conditions of my existence, wholly ill at ease and out of place amid the surroundings of my study. I became, in short, the gangling farmer-boy my aunt had known, scourged with chilblains and bashfulness, my hands cracked and raw from the corn husking. I felt the knuckles of my thumb tentatively, as though they were raw again. I sat again before her parlor organ, thumbing the scales with my stiff, red hands, while she beside me made canvas mittens for the huskers.
The next morning, after preparing my landlady somewhat, I set out for the station. When the train arrived I had some difficulty in finding my aunt. She was the last of the passengers to alight, and when I got her into the carriage she looked not unlike one of those charred, smoked bodies that firemen lift from the débris of a burned building. She had come all the way in a day coach; her linen duster had become black with soot and her black bonnet gray with dust during the journey. When we arrived at my boarding-house the landlady put her to bed at once, and I did not see her again until the next morning.
Whatever shock Mrs. Springer experienced at my aunt's appearance she considerately concealed. Myself, I saw my aunt's misshapened figure with that feeling of awe and respect with which we behold explorers who have left their ears and fingers north of Franz Josef Land, or their health somewhere along the Upper Congo. My Aunt Georgiana had been a music-teacher at the Boston Conservatory, somewhere back in the latter sixties. One summer, which she had spent in the little village in the Green Mountains where her ancestors had dwelt for generations, she had kindled the callow fancy of the most idle and shiftless of all the village lads, and had conceived for this Howard Carpenter one of those absurd and extravagant passions which a handsome country boy of twenty-one sometimes inspires in a plain, angular, spectacled woman of thirty. When she returned to her duties in Boston, Howard followed her; and the upshot of this inexplicable infatuation was that she eloped with him, eluding the reproaches of her family and the criticism of her friends by going with him to the Nebraska frontier. Carpenter, who of course had no money, took a homestead in Red Willow County, fifty miles from the railroad. There they measured off their eighty acres by driving across the prairie in a wagon, to the wheel of which they had tied a red cotton handkerchief, and counting off its revolutions. They built a dugout in the red hillside, one of those cave dwellings whose inmates usually reverted to the conditions of primitive savagery. Their water they got from the lagoons where the buffalo drank, and their slender stock of provisions was always at the mercy of bands of roving Indians. For thirty years my aunt had not been farther than fifty miles from the homestead.
But Mrs. Springer knew nothing of all this, and must have been considerably shocked at what was left of my kinswoman. Beneath the soiled linen duster, which on her arrival was the most conspicuous feature of her costume, she wore a black stuff dress whose ornamentation showed that she had surrendered herself unquestioningly into the hands of a country dressmaker. My poor aunt's figure, however, would have presented astonishing difficulties to any dressmaker. Her skin was yellow as a Mongolian's from constant exposure to a pitiless wind, and to the alkaline water, which transforms the most transparent cuticle into a sort of flexible leather. She wore ill-fitting false teeth. The most striking thing about her physiognomy, however, was an incessant twitching of the mouth and eyebrows, a form of nervous disorder resulting from isolation and monotony, and from frequent physical suffering.
In my boyhood this affliction had possessed a sort of horrible fascination for me, of which I was secretly very much ashamed, for in those days I owed to this woman most of the good that ever came my way, and had a reverential affection for her. During the three winters when I was riding herd for my uncle, my aunt, after cooking three meals for half a dozen farm-hands, and putting the six children to bed, would often stand until midnight at her ironing-board, hearing me at the kitchen table beside her recite Latin declensions and conjugations, and gently shaking me when my drowsy head sank down over a page of irregular verbs. It was to her, at her ironing or mending, that I read my first Shakespere; and her old text-book of mythology was the first that ever came into my empty hands. She taught me my scales and exercises, too, on the little parlor organ which her husband had bought her after fifteen years, during which she had not so much as seen any instrument except an accordion, that belonged to one of the Norwegian farm-hands. She would sit beside me by the hour, darning and counting, while I struggled with the "Harmonious Blacksmith"; but she seldom talked to me about music, and I understood why. She was a pious woman; she had the consolation of religion; and to her at least her martyrdom was not wholly sordid. Once when I had been doggedly beating out some easy passages from an old score of "Euryanthe" I had found among her music-books, she came up to me and, putting her hands over my eyes, gently drew my head back upon her shoulder, saying tremulously, "Don't love it so well, Clark, or it may be taken from you. Oh! dear boy, pray that whatever your sacrifice be it is not that."
When my aunt appeared on the morning after her arrival, she was still in a semi-somnambulant state. She seemed not to realize that she was in the city where she had spent her youth, the place longed for hungrily half a lifetime. She had been so wretchedly train-sick throughout the journey that she had no recollection of anything but her discomfort, and, to all intents and purposes, there were but a few hours of nightmare between the farm in Red Willow County and my study on Newbury Street. I had planned a little pleasure for her that afternoon, to repay her for some of the glorious moments she had given me when we used to milk together in the straw-thatched cow-shed, and she, because I was more than usually tired, or because her husband had spoken sharply to me, would tell me of the splendid performance of Meyerbeer's "Huguenots" she had seen in Paris in her youth. At two o'clock the Boston Symphony Orchestra was to give a Wagner programme, and I intended to take my aunt, though as I conversed with her I grew doubtful about her enjoyment of it. Indeed, for her own sake, I could only wish her taste for such things quite dead, and the long struggle mercifully ended at last. I suggested our visiting the Conservatory and the Common before lunch, but she seemed altogether too timid to wish to venture out. She questioned me absently about various changes in the city, but she was chiefly concerned that she had forgotten to leave instructions about feeding half-skimmed milk to a certain weakling calf, "Old Maggie's calf, you know, Clark," she explained, evidently having forgotten how long I had been away. She was further troubled because she had neglected to tell her daughter about the freshly opened kit of mackerel in the cellar, that would spoil if it were not used directly.
I asked her whether she had ever heard any of the Wagnerian operas, and found that she had not, though she was perfectly familiar with their respective situations and had once possessed the piano score of "The Flying Dutchman." I began to think it would have been best to get her back to Red Willow County without waking her, and regretted having suggested the concert.
From the time we entered the concert-hall, however, she was a trifle less passive and inert, and seemed to begin to perceive her surroundings. I had felt some trepidation lest she might become aware of the absurdities of her attire, or might experience some painful embarrassment at stepping suddenly into the world to which she had been dead for a quarter of a century. But again I found how superficially I had judged her. She sat looking about her with eyes as impersonal, almost as stony, as those with which the granite Rameses in a museum watches the froth and fret that ebbs and flows about his pedestal, separated from it by the lonely stretch of centuries. I have seen this same aloofness in old miners who drift into the Brown Hotel at Denver, their pockets full of bullion, their linen soiled, their haggard faces unshorn, and who stand in the thronged corridors as solitary as though they were still in a frozen camp on the Yukon, or in the yellow blaze of the Arizona desert, conscious that certain experiences have isolated them from their fellows by a gulf no haberdasher could conceal.
The audience was made up chiefly of women. One lost the contour of faces and figures, indeed any effect of line whatever, and there was only the color contrast of bodices past counting, the shimmer and shading of fabrics soft and firm, silky and sheer, resisting and yielding: red, mauve, pink, blue, lilac, purple, écru, rose, yellow, cream, and white, all the colors that an impressionist finds in a sunlit landscape, with here and there the dead black shadow of a frock-coat. My Aunt Georgiana regarded them as though they had been so many daubs of tube paint on a palette.
When the musicians came out and took their places, she gave a little stir of anticipation, and looked with quickening interest down over the rail at that invariable grouping; perhaps the first wholly familiar thing that had greeted her eye since she had left old Maggie and her weakling calf. I could feel how all those details sank into her soul, for I had not forgotten how they had sunk into mine when I came fresh from ploughing forever and forever between green aisles of corn, where, as in a treadmill, one might walk from daybreak to dusk without perceiving a shadow of change in one's environment. I reminded myself of the impression made on me by the clean profiles of the musicians, the gloss of their linen, the dull black of their coats, the beloved shapes of the instruments, the patches of yellow light thrown by the green-shaded stand-lamps on the smooth, varnished bellies of the 'cellos and the bass viols in the rear, the restless, wind-tossed forest of fiddle necks and bows; I recalled how, in the first orchestra I had ever heard, those long bow strokes seemed to draw the soul out of me, as a conjurer's stick reels out paper ribbon from a hat.
The first number was the Tannhäuser overture. When the violins drew out the first strain of the Pilgrim's chorus, my Aunt Georgiana clutched my coat-sleeve. Then it was that I first realized that for her this singing of basses and stinging frenzy of lighter strings broke a silence of thirty years, the inconceivable silence of the plains. With the battle between the two motifs, with the bitter frenzy of the Venusberg theme and its ripping of strings, came to me an overwhelming sense of the waste and wear we are so powerless to combat. I saw again the tall, naked house on the prairie, black and grim as a wooden fortress; the black pond where I had learned to swim, the rain-gullied clay about the naked house; the four dwarf ash-seedlings on which the dishcloths were always hung to dry before the kitchen door. The world there is the flat world of the ancients; to the east, a cornfield that stretched to daybreak; to the west, a corral that stretched to sunset; between, the sordid conquests of peace, more merciless than those of war.
The overture closed. My aunt released my coat-sleeve, but she said nothing. She sat staring at the orchestra through a dullness of thirty years, through the films made little by little, by each of the three hundred and sixty-five days in every one of them. What, I wondered, did she get from it? She had been a good pianist in her day, I knew, and her musical education had been broader than that of most music-teachers of a quarter of a century ago. She had often told me of Mozart's operas and Meyerbeer's, and I could remember hearing her sing, years ago, certain melodies of Verdi's. When I had fallen ill with a fever she used to sit by my cot in the evening, while the cool night wind blew in through the faded mosquito-netting tacked over the window, and I lay watching a bright star that burned red above the cornfield, and sing "Home to our mountains, oh, let us return!" in a way fit to break the heart of a Vermont boy near dead of homesickness already.
I watched her closely through the prelude to Tristan and Isolde, trying vainly to conjecture what that warfare of motifs, that seething turmoil of strings and winds, might mean to her. Had this music any message for her? Did or did not a new planet swim into her ken? Wagner had been a sealed book to Americans before the sixties. Had she anything left with which to comprehend this glory that had flashed around the world since she had gone from it? I was in a fever of curiosity, but Aunt Georgiana sat silent upon her peak in Darien. She preserved this utter immobility throughout the numbers from the "Flying Dutchman," though her fingers worked mechanically upon her black dress, as though of themselves they were recalling the piano score they had once played. Poor old hands! They were stretched and pulled and twisted into mere tentacles to hold, and lift, and knead with; the palms unduly swollen, the fingers bent and knotted, on one of them a thin worn band that had once been a wedding-ring. As I pressed and gently quieted one of those groping hands, I remembered, with quivering eyelids, their services for me in other days.
Soon after the tenor began the Prize Song, I heard a quick-drawn breath, and turned to my aunt. Her eyes were closed, but the tears were glistening on her cheeks, and I think in a moment more they were in my eyes as well. It never really dies, then, the soul? It withers to the outward eye only, like that strange moss which can lie on a dusty shelf half a century and yet, if placed in water, grows green again. My aunt wept gently throughout the development and elaboration of the melody.
During the intermission before the second half of the concert, I questioned my aunt and found that the Prize Song was not new to her. Some years before there had drifted to the farm in Red Willow County a young German, a tramp cow-puncher, who had sung in the chorus at Baireuth, when he was a boy, along with the other peasant boys and girls. Of a Sunday morning he used to sit on his gingham-sheeted bed in the hands' bedroom, which opened off the kitchen, cleaning the leather of his boots and saddle, and singing the Prize Song, while my aunt went about her work in the kitchen. She had hovered about him until she had prevailed upon him to join the country church, though his sole fitness for this step, so far as I could gather, lay in his boyish face and his possession of this divine melody. Shortly afterward he had gone to town on the Fourth of July, been drunk for several days, lost his money at a faro-table, ridden a saddled Texan steer on a bet, and disappeared with a fractured collar-bone.
"Well, we have come to better things than the old Trovatore at any rate, Aunt Georgie?" I queried, with well-meant jocularity.
Her lip quivered and she hastily put her handkerchief up to her mouth. From behind it she murmured, "And you have been hearing this ever since you left me, Clark?" Her question was the gentlest and saddest of reproaches.
"But do you get it, Aunt Georgiana, the astonishing structure of it all?" I persisted.
"Who could?" she said, absently; "why should one?"
The second half of the programme consisted of four numbers from the Ring. This was followed by the forest music from Siegfried, and the programme closed with Siegfried's funeral march. My aunt wept quietly, but almost continuously. I was perplexed as to what measure of musical comprehension was left to her, to her who had heard nothing but the singing of gospel hymns in Methodist services at the square frame school-house on Section Thirteen. I was unable to gauge how much of it had been dissolved in soapsuds, or worked into bread, or milked into the bottom of a pail.
The deluge of sound poured on and on; I never knew what she found in the shining current of it; I never knew how far it bore her, or past what happy islands, or under what skies. From the trembling of her face I could well believe that the Siegfried march, at least, carried her out where the myriad graves are, out into the gray, burying-grounds of the sea; or into some world of death vaster yet, where, from the beginning of the world, hope has lain down with hope, and dream with dream and, renouncing, slept.
The concert was over; the people filed out of the hall chattering and laughing, glad to relax and find the living level again, but my kinswoman made no effort to rise. I spoke gently to her. She burst into tears and sobbed pleadingly, "I don't want to go, Clark, I don't want to go!"
I understood. For her, just outside the door of the concert-hall, lay the black pond with the cattle-tracked bluffs, the tall, unpainted house, naked as a tower, with weather-curled boards; the crook-backed ash-seedlings where the dishcloths hung to dry, the gaunt, moulting turkeys picking up refuse about the kitchen door.

Queen Maebelle’s Blues

by David Rudd


“You wear pretty robes, but you don’t have a clue
How women feel, nor colored folks too.
With a whip and a gun, you dish out abuse,
Ain’t no surprise who invented the blues.”


So goes the chorus of “Queen Maebelle’s Blues”, eponymously titled after its singer, Queen Maebelle Jackson, a figure previously unknown to the blues world. The song is on a shellac disk discovered in a warehouse in Biloxi, Mississippi, where the contents of an old general store had moldered for some sixty years.

The lyrics have recently been given a fresh airing, with a few cover versions out there. Queen Maebelle certainly seems to speak to contemporary issues, and her jibe about the Klan’s garb was a great put-down. But despite extensive research, until very recently she remained a mystery. Apart from the fact that she died in August 1948 from stomach cancer (as her death certificate declares), we knew next to nothing about her.

Until, that is, I made a breakthrough. It came after I’d given up on Queen Maebelle herself and, instead, tried to discover the identity of the guitarist accompanying her. Using modern technology to clean up the sound, it became clear that the instrument was being played by someone using a knife blade as a steel. This immediately pointed to Blind Boy Quinn, another “race” artist who, like so many, had disappeared without trace.

Most people, if they know Quinn’s work at all, are familiar with “Blind Boy Stomp” (now uploaded on YouTube). The tune rattles along as though its performer were being chased by the very devil. He sounds desperate to get to the end before the hellhounds catch him. Though an instrumental, Quinn does throw in a few spoken asides, urging his hands to play more quickly.

For a long time it had been thought that this was the only recording Quinn ever made. But my research eventually led me to discover some misfiled field recordings at the Library of Congress, on which Quinn plays harmonica. And what a player! He doesn’t go in for flashy runs – Sonny Terry style – but draws soulfully on each note, like a man who knows his breaths are numbered. In fact, when I wrote “soulful” above, I initially spelled it “sole-ful,” because that more precisely captures what he’s about: his sound seems to rise up through his boot-soles. You can almost hear them trudging along the highway, four beats to the bar, measuring out his itinerant life. On these later recordings, Quinn also sings. He has a world-weary, husky voice. If anyone had trouble at the crossroads, it would be Blind Boy Quinn – and with some justification.

From the notes that accompany these later field recordings, we learn a lot. Roskus Quinn, as his birth certificate declares, was born in Danville, Virginia, in 1897. He was one of 10 children sired by at least three different fathers.

He grew up on the streets, regularly helping out at the local whorehouse where his mother was “employed”. He cleaned and ran errands, and had a host of other jobs, too: minding horses, crow scaring, fruit picking. You name it, Roskus seems to have done it. The one thing that saved him,
according to those who knew him, was music. In the whorehouse there was a pianist who taught Roskus to play; and there were always other musicians passing through. As soon as he was old enough, Roskus was performing at any entertainment venues that would have him: juke joints, rent parties and, of course, on the streets.

He’s described as a big man, always sharply dressed. Wherever he went, he seems to have attracted attention. “He never started no fight,” Sleepy John Estes once said of him, “but he often finished one.” In fact, Estes told me that Quinn’s mournful harmonica sound was the result of a bar fight with some white men. A broken bottle caught him in the mouth, taking out several teeth and damaging his upper lip.

I think it likely that his attackers were Klansmen, the same bunch that had earlier been responsible for his blindness. I should perhaps make it clear that “Blind Boy” was not blind from birth. Early on he’d realised that a disability was good for business, so adopted this image, acquiring some dark glasses and a white cane.

Unfortunately, it was his sightedness that contributed to his downfall. Quinn had been making his way back to his lodgings one night when some drunken Klansmen (who’d been holding a rally in town), came careering past in their car as Quinn was standing – literally – at a crossroads. The blazing headlights of the car rendered Quinn momentarily blind, such that, as a sighted man, he didn’t sense the car door swing wide. He ended up in a ditch, his shoulder and precious guitar smashed up.

Friends say he was lucky to be alive. He’d certainly grown into his chosen name. Estes, who also became blind in his later years, once sang me a lyric that he attributed to Quinn. The chorus goes: “I woke up in daylight, but it was still night for me / Them Klan boys done took my sight from me.” It’s a song, as Estes told me, that he, personally, would never dare record. “Quinn, though,” said Estes, “never feared nobody, black nor white.”

This song – “Blind Bartimaeus and Me”, as it’s known – was a party piece of Quinn’s. In another verse, he jokes about the Klan removing his eyeballs, which Quinn thinks strange, “as they was my whitest part of me”. It’s a great shame we don’t have a recorded version from Quinn himself.

You might be wondering what all this has to do with Maebelle. I’m coming to that.

After being left in the ditch with a smashed-up shoulder, Quinn thought he’d never play guitar again, which is how he comes to be playing harmonica on those Library of Congress recordings of 1941. However, I’ve since learned from others that Quinn did return to the guitar, discovering that he could play it across his lap open tuned, using a knife blade. It was thought there were no recordings of him using this technique, until I’d identified him as the man playing on “Queen Maebelle’s Blues”.

I was pleased enough with this breakthrough, which I talked about at the last Annual Blues Convention. Indeed, that might have been the end of it had I not discovered a small article from The Clarion-Ledger, a Mississippi newspaper, dated February 1946. It’s about a black man who’s the victim of KKK butchery after he’s caught in a hotel room with a white woman. Three
Klansmen summarily castrated the man. Although bleeding heavily, a local hospital managed to save his life. Further revelations were promised but nothing ever appeared. Following up hospital records, I discovered that the man who was admitted (reputedly for a knife fight) was called “Keen”.

With this bit of evidence, I was able to piece together the whole picture. The name “Keen” is close enough to “Quinn” for us to suspect they are one and the same, especially given Quinn’s mouth injury (courtesy of the Klan), which, so I’ve argued, affected his enunciation, as you can also hear on those Library of Congress recordings.

So, not only had I found my man but also, though I didn’t realize it at the time, my woman. For Quinn had become not only “Keen”, but “Queen” too, which is why we have just a birth certificate for Blind Boy and a death certificate for Queen Maebelle. Other details then fell into place as I recalled that “Maybel” had been a professional name of his mother’s, though it was not something I’d ever thought to connect with Quinn before. As for “Jackson”, well, that was nothing more than the city where “Queen Maebelle’s Blues” was recorded.
​
#

Unexpectedly, as many of you are aware, Quinn/Queen has become an icon for our times. It’s a strange irony, of course, to consider how much of the credit for this — and indeed for Maebelle’s transgender status — must be paid to the conscientious actions of the KKK.

MY GREAT BUG WAR
by
Jack Phillips Lowe






“Shit!” Andra yelled, swatting the air with both hands.
Buchman looked up from his cheeseburger in mid-bite. “What’s wrong?” he asked, around the mouthful.
“For the past twelve years, insects of all kinds have delighted in tormenting me,” Andra said, running her hands up and down her bare arms and trembling.
Buchman swallowed and reached for his paper napkin. “Twelve years? That’s quite a while. If they’re harassing you, maybe we should go eat inside.”
Andra toyed sullenly with her chicken nuggets. “No, it’s okay. Besides, I can’t stand the statue of that goddamned clown. It’s like he’s staring at me.”
Buchman sipped his orange pop. “I never knew you were so bug-phobic. Maybe you should start carrying a can of repellent.”
Andra stabbed at the ice cubes in her cola with her straw. “If you were me, you would be too. Mosquitoes have feasted on my blood. White and black spiders have taunted me, at night, from my bedroom ceiling. Green and blue horseflies, circling my head, forced me to sympathize with King Kong in ways I never thought possible. And no, you know how I feel about chemicals.”
“Why so much attention from the bug community?” asked Buchman. “And why the magic number of twelve?”
Andra took a moment to reply; she was watching an earwig run laps around their picnic bench. “One answer for both questions: my dear old dad.”
Buchman’s eyes narrowed. “Your father? What does he have to do with your insect problem?”
“My father relished badgering, baiting and berating me for the first thirty years of my life. Day in and day out. It only ended when he died---in 2009, the dawn of my great bug war.”
Buchman stuffed a couple of french fries into his mouth. “I’m sorry. But I don’t see how that connects to the bugs,” he said, chewing.
Andra intertwined her fingers and rested her chin on her knuckles. “You are clearly not a spiritual being. For those of us who are, it’s quite simple. Souls have a say in how they return to the physical world. The buzzing, flying, crawling pest would be that fucker’s obvious choice.”
Before Buchman could react, Andra used her elbow to crush the earwig. With the ensuing crunch, a wide grin bloomed on her face.
“Until next time, Dad,” Andra said, pushing the dead earwig off the bench and into the grass. “By now, I figure Dad’s been reborn more times than any Hindu.”
Buchman managed to smile politely. “Pardon me; I need to use the restroom.”
He rose from the table, entered the burger place and walked directly into the men’s toilet. As soon as the door closed behind him, Buchman
pulled out his cell phone. With a few deft strokes, he deleted Andra’s name and number from his directory.

Grief’s Navigation

By Kathleen Moran



I - Shock


How does one chase what cannot be seen and yet be the source on which to lean?

The chasm widens when darkness surrounds with rumbles trembling throughout the grounds.

Edit to discredit the pretext while one wanders in a haze with the mind and soul in a perpetual daze.

Revelations may appear but remain unclear as confusion effectively mistakes the surreal for the real amidst the prism that dismantles the mind’s defense mechanism.

The view is myopic if not symbolic when Charon seeks to solicit passengers from death’s complicit.

To those thinking death is a spectator sport surely have never had It come to court.




II - Anger


Does jealousy prove heresy?

Support stripped away to challenge one’s day is daunting, if not haunting.

Reality and humanity intertwine in deceit-lined streets where forgiveness is far from the mind.

Some may be suspicious but hatred is nutritious and far from fictitious.

Hatred exists for those who have departed and hatred exists for those whose lives have just started.

Tenuous culpability set into motion does not dishonor the raw emotion.

Expression is without depression as sorrow waits for the morrow.




III - Depression


Explore to restore or is it just folklore begging for more?

Suffocation in representation is palpable when vulnerability becomes a must despite a lack of trust.

To feel is real, but anonymity is achieved at the expense of life’s duplicit conformity.

Solitary sentinels find it hard to relax their guard as grief proves the one true thief.

Left behind to wander alone is too unfortunate a skill to hone.

There is no turning back when the decision looms, so choose wisely or suffer in the gloom.

A life can be hard to mend when one counts too many among the dead.

It is a life that only knows despair where there is just too little air.

Despondence in the absence of correspondence – who will stay and who will go is something to know.

Pain signals life where there is no will to survive let alone thrive.

Inundate with the mundane to numb the pain.

To include oneself among the living does not mean it is a life worth giving.




IV - Bargaining


What is rationalization without hesitation?

Fate is not confined to a specific date when a rising masochist embellishes the plot twist.

Remove the mask that is said to blind and leave it behind.

Choose not to lose with deception disguised as authentic reflection.




V - Acceptance


Dare to stare at history and humanity made bare?

Forsake the need to resist with an offer to exist.

Designated Memory Keeper transforms the intangible into the manageable.

Enter the light for another sight of photographs exposed and waiting to be juxtaposed.

Hope that time will heal for the sake of all that is at stake.

To watch one disintegrate as a matter of fact does not necessitate that it be the final act.

 ardorPainting above: Eleonora by Yil Haruni


Eleonora
by Edgar Allan Poe

  
Sub conservatione formae specificae salva anima.
                                                        -Raymond Lully.

I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence -- whether much that is glorious- whether all that is profound -- does not spring from disease of thought -- from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable," and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi."

We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two distinct conditions of my mental existence -- the condition of a lucid reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events forming the first epoch of my life -- and a condition of shadow and doubt, appertaining to the present, and to the recollection of what constitutes the second great era of my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the earlier period, believe; and to what I may relate of the later time, give only such credit as may seem due, or doubt it altogether, or, if doubt it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Oedipus.

She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly and distinctly these remembrances, was the sole daughter of the only sister of my mother long departed. Eleonora was the name of my cousin. We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. No unguided footstep ever came upon that vale; for it lay away up among a range of giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out the sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in its vicinity; and, to reach our happy home, there was need of putting back, with force, the foliage of many thousands of forest trees, and of crushing to death the glories of many millions of fragrant flowers. Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing of the world without the valley -- I, and my cousin, and her mother.

From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called it the "River of Silence"; for there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.

The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling rivulets that glided through devious ways into its channel, as well as the spaces that extended from the margins away down into the depths of the streams until they reached the bed of pebbles at the bottom, -- these spots, not less than the whole surface of the valley, from the river to the mountains that girdled it in, were carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick, short, perfectly even, and vanilla-perfumed, but so besprinkled throughout with the yellow buttercup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the ruby-red asphodel, that its exceeding beauty spoke to our hearts in loud tones, of the love and of the glory of God.

And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like wildernesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall slender stems stood not upright, but slanted gracefully toward the light that peered at noon-day into the centre of the valley. Their mark was speckled with the vivid alternate splendor of ebony and silver, and was smoother than all save the cheeks of Eleonora; so that, but for the brilliant green of the huge leaves that spread from their summits in long, tremulous lines, dallying with the Zephyrs, one might have fancied them giant serpents of Syria doing homage to their sovereign the Sun.

Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I with Eleonora before Love entered within our hearts. It was one evening at the close of the third lustrum of her life, and of the fourth of my own, that we sat, locked in each other's embrace, beneath the serpent-like trees, and looked down within the water of the River of Silence at our images therein. We spoke no words during the rest of that sweet day, and our words even upon the morrow were tremulous and few. We had drawn the God Eros from that wave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within us the fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which had for centuries distinguished our race, came thronging with the fancies for which they had been equally noted, and together breathed a delirious bliss over the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. A change fell upon all things. Strange, brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burn out upon the trees where no flowers had been known before. The tints of the green carpet deepened; and when, one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang up in place of them, ten by ten of the ruby-red asphodel . And life arose in our paths; for the tall flamingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The golden and silver fish haunted the river, out of the bosom of which issued, little by little, a murmur that swelled, at length, into a lulling melody more divine than that of the harp of Aeolus-sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. And now, too, a voluminous cloud, which we had long watched in the regions of Hesper, floated out thence, all gorgeous in crimson and gold, and settling in peace above us, sank, day by day, lower and lower, until its edges rested upon the tops of the mountains, turning all their dimness into magnificence, and shutting us up, as if forever, within a magic prison-house of grandeur and of glory.

The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim; but she was a maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among the flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of love which animated her heart, and she examined with me its inmost recesses as we walked together in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and discoursed of the mighty changes which had lately taken place therein.

At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last sad change which must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only upon this one sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our converse, as, in the songs of the bard of Schiraz, the same images are found occurring, again and again, in every impressive variation of phrase.

She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom -- that, like the ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only to die; but the terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a consideration which she revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the banks of the River of Silence. She grieved to think that, having entombed her in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, I would quit forever its happy recesses, transferring the love which now was so passionately her own to some maiden of the outer and everyday world. And, then and there, I threw myself hurriedly at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to herself and to Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any daughter of Earth -- that I would in no manner prove recreant to her dear memory, or to the memory of the devout affection with which she had blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe to witness the pious solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I invoked of Him and of her, a saint in Helusion should I prove traitorous to that promise, involved a penalty the exceeding great horror of which will not permit me to make record of it here. And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew brighter at my words; and she sighed as if a deadly burthen had been taken from her breast; and she trembled and very bitterly wept; but she made acceptance of the vow, (for what was she but a child?) and it made easy to her the bed of her death. And she said to me, not many days afterward, tranquilly dying, that, because of what I had done for the comfort of her spirit she would watch over me in that spirit when departed, and, if so it were permitted her return to me visibly in the watches of the night; but, if this thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Paradise, that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her presence, sighing upon me in the evening winds, or filling the air which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels. And, with these words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own.

Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in Times path, formed by the death of my beloved, and proceed with the second era of my existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over my brain, and I mistrust the perfect sanity of the record. But let me on. -- Years dragged themselves along heavily, and still I dwelled within the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass; but a second change had come upon all things. The star-shaped flowers shrank into the stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The tints of the green carpet faded; and, one by one, the ruby-red asphodels withered away; and there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten, dark, eye-like violets, that writhed uneasily and were ever encumbered with dew. And Life departed from our paths; for the tall flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before us, but flew sadly from the vale into the hills, with all the gay glowing birds that had arrived in his company. And the golden and silver fish swam down through the gorge at the lower end of our domain and bedecked the sweet river never again. And the lulling melody that had been softer than the wind-harp of Aeolus, and more divine than all save the voice of Eleonora, it died little by little away, in murmurs growing lower and lower, until the stream returned, at length, utterly, into the solemnity of its original silence. And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and, abandoning the tops of the mountains to the dimness of old, fell back into the regions of Hesper, and took away all its manifold golden and gorgeous glories from the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass.

Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard the sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels; and streams of a holy perfume floated ever and ever about the valley; and at lone hours, when my heart beat heavily, the winds that bathed my brow came unto me laden with soft sighs; and indistinct murmurs filled often the night air, and once -- oh, but once only! I was awakened from a slumber, like the slumber of death, by the pressing of spiritual lips upon my own.

But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to be filled. I longed for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At length the valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and I left it for ever for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of the world.

I found myself within a strange city, where all things might have served to blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had dreamed so long in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. The pomps and pageantries of a stately court, and the mad clangor of arms, and the radiant loveliness of women, bewildered and intoxicated my brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, and the indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me in the silent hours of the night. Suddenly these manifestations they ceased, and the world grew dark before mine eyes, and I stood aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed, at the terrible temptations which beset me; for there came from some far, far distant and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I served, a maiden to whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded at once -- at whose footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in the most ardent, in the most abject worship of love. What, indeed, was my passion for the young girl of the valley in comparison with the fervor, and the delirium, and the spirit-lifting ecstasy of adoration with which I poured out my whole soul in tears at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde? -- Oh, bright was the seraph Ermengarde! and in that knowledge I had room for none other. -- Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as I looked down into the depths of her memorial eyes, I thought only of them -- and of her.

I wedded; -- nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and its bitterness was not visited upon me. And once -- but once again in the silence of the night; there came through my lattice the soft sighs which had forsaken me; and they modelled themselves into familiar and sweet voice, saying:

"Sleep in peace! -- for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and, in taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art absolved, for reasons which shall be made known to thee in Heaven, of thy vows unto Eleonora."

Painting above by Peter Paul Rubens
​


Burns Night in the Lilac Town

By Herbert Eyre Moulton
(1927-2005)
 
This is the story --- more or less --- of what when two charming and resourceful young ladies quite flabbergasted our entire federation of chums, buddies, and miscreants raffishly known as The Anti-Decency League of Greater Chicagoland, or ADL for short, and this by dint of one of the most outrageous escapades that any of us had ever carried off.
It was back in the late 1940's, when most of us were only a year or two out of high school and intent on discovering new and original methods of shocking and, if possible, outsmarting the petty-bourgeoise, convention-strangled society into which all of us, quite without our consent, had been born. We had always. prided ourselves on our happy-go-lucky, nose-thumbing flaunting of the rules that had been laid down for us. But with this one coup-de-théâtre, these two accomplished doxies, Joan and Ginny (AKA the Duchess and her wily handmaid) set all our previous antics and accomplishments in the shade once and for all ...
How? By appearing in our midst one night with the most glittering trophies that any of us had ever seen or even dreamt about --- introducing into a nice normal Saturday night get-together a trio of handsome and virile Scots Highlanders in full marching regalia: kilted, sporanned, silver-buckled and complete with skirling bagpipes and tootling flute, recruited directly from Edinburgh's famed Royal Scots Marching Band, which earlier in the week had opened its first-ever engagement in America. For the record: Alex, Angus and Robbie.
This sudden, completely unexpected appearance on our home-scene, right "SPLAT!!!" in the middle of one of our pleasant but unexceptional bashes, sparked a night of almost barbaric plentitude, of impromptu Highland Flings and  improvised Sword Dances (using our kitchen cutlery), of spontaneous Sing-Songs and Robert Burns poetry-recitations crowding one upon another, of toasts and Usquebaugh-quaffing unprecedented this side of Auld Reekie (Edinburgh to the uninitiated), of outlandish stunts like the communal conga-line "Colonel Bogeying" out the back door, down the stairs, around the corner, along the town's main drag, then through the street door, up the front stairs, and back into the apartment without losing a beat; and set dances with Angus as a most professional caller, leading up to the most sumptuous banquet any of us had ever wallowed in and which threatened to go on till daybreak --- then a grisly episode involving a temporary off-limits bathroom and a universal agony of bursting bladders and curses both loud and deep, and all to the ear-splitting squawling of a barage of bagpipes, like the Sorcerer's Apprentice, seemingly impossible to turn off. ("Sweet God," as my mother Nell moaned sometime during this surrealastic charade, "Is there no way to turn that one and his bagpipes off?!") --- mere blips, really, in an otherwise seamless montage of uninterrupted feasting-and-fun, the likes of which our everyday, dull-as-ditchwater suburbs have never experienced before or since ...
With its extended highs, and its alarms and excursions leading up to a pandemonium-blixted climax, this was an occasion that is still being talked about in the hushed, incredulous tones usually reserved for extra-terrestrial sightings or once-in-a-lifetime jackpot killings on one of those quiz shows forever cluttering up our TV-screens ...
And all due to the sheer persuasive chutzpah of our two vivacious vestals.
 
 
Wi’a hundred pipers

Who or what is a true Scotsman --- and how to become one when you'd like to be, but aren't? Questions such as these took on an urgent new impact one sunny autumn day in the late 40's when the Entertainment pages of the Chicago newspapers carried an annoncement intriguing enough to turn plain ordinary citizens (starting with our own suburban WASPS) into natives of Clydeside or denizons of Edinburgh Castle:
"SENSATION! THE PIPERS ARE COMING TO TOWN!"
And that was only the beginning. The text led off with a starting call-to-arms lifted from the old Scots Marching Song THE HUNDRED PIPERS:
"Wi'a hundred pipers an' a' an' a',
We'll up an' gi' them a blaw, a blaw!"
Aye, pipers such as those who'd soon be winging their way from Auld Reekie to the Windy City, where, for the first time ever, the celebrated Royal Scots Marching Band and Pipers would be performing a full program of marching-and-bagpipe music as featured in the legendary Royal Tattoo, a time-honored spectacle, which from time immemorial had been a fixture at Edinburgh's historic castle --- hair-raising, in-your-face skirling of bagpipes, bolstered by pounding drums and tootling winds and brass --- flashes of steel and silver, fur-trimmed sporrans bouncing like demented shaving-brushes on the brilliantly-colored kilts of Royal Stewart or Black Watch, with a full corps of skilled dancers offering a fantastic program ranging from set-dances such as reels, hornpipes, strathspeys and jigs. This truly once-in-a-lifetime happening, involving scores of skilled performers, heirs to centuries of stormy and dramatic history, from the earliest Viking raids, down through the tragic fortunes of Robert the Bruce, William Wallace and the doomed and romantic last of the Stuarts, Bonnie Prince Charlie, right down to the fierce "Ladies from Hell" of World War I --- would be opening shortly at Chicago's time-honored Stadium, erstwhile showplace of national political conventions and other forms of light entertainment from international sporting events to Sonja Henie's renowned Ice Revue and Ringling Bros.-Barnum and Bailey three ring circus. (Somehow my parents had managed to take me to them all!)
The annoncement had acted like a high-wattage volt of electricity on Scot and non-Scot alike, galvanizing, in our case, even the most comatose of our drones to hotfoot it to the W. Madison Street ticket-office. No matter which category of Scots- Americans, if any, one belonged to, the important thing was to be there and celebrate the occasion with as much ceremony and enthusiasm as possible, for who could say when an oppurtunity as rare as this would come our way again?
Three Categories of Scots-Americans
As for our own serried ranks, these could be said to fall, like Caesar's Gaul, into three separate categories, with varying pride and interest in what might be callled their Heathery-Hebridian Heritage ---
Heading the list would be the happy few who could call themselves The Real Thing, 100 % genuine Scots-Americans, beginning (in our own circle) with the indomitable Stephen clan, whose progenitor, organist-Sunday-composer-bon-vivant-and-munifiscent host, Robert M. Stephen, was born and bred in that most regal of cities, the classical Highland capital of Edinburgh. Thus, the birthplace of our beloved "Codgerkin", with his unstoppable train of richly rolled "R's", and his equally unstoppable free hand in pouring out brimming flagons of his signature Ballantine's, as he did almost every Sunday morning after church services at  St. Mark's Episcopal, where I, often as not, gargled tuneful anthems, mostly of his own melodious composition ...
Besides the "Codg" were his gracious wife ("Herbert, I'm nothing but a cross old dame")and their two stalwart sons (my. self-appointed chauffeur-bodyguards) Robert M. Jr. ("The Baron") and his one-year younger brother George, equally brawny, but less flamboyant and more retiring, with a limp acquired, along with a Purple Heart, in a dust-up with General Rommel's crack desert-troops at El Alemain.
(Years later, I am pleased to say, the Baron, more expansive and baronial than ever, would hold an honored place in the world of higher education as one of the most popular and influential Professors of Political Science in America's midwest, with none of his sweeping humor or liberality diminished, and still eager to act as my unofficial bodyguard (whenever he thought I needed one.) As for George, that gentle soul later married a pleasant widow-lady of some means, and retired with her to Florida's West Coast, where he could really work at perfecting his golf game --- an original Scots institution (as you will recall.)
-------------------------
Getting back to those halycon days of the 40's, I remember those weekly post-church sessions at the Stephen's cosy, book-and-music-lined bungalow on Glen Ellyn's Annadale Avenue, with Lucille's freshly baked Scotch shortbread, Codger's generous hand at pouring out draughts of golden Ballantine's, and the boys' non-stop argle-bargle with me covering any topic from European History to our astonishing President Harry S. Truman, as among the most life-enhancing of my entire life.
Besides the bounteous Stephens, this upper stratum of 100 % Scots-Americans included, as well, assorted MacRaes, MacDonalds, and most notably, the gifted, mercurial, oft-infuriating, and highly disputatious St. Clairs, probably my family's closest friends in that part of the world, of a clan hailed in past days by no less than Sir Walter Scott in these words ---
"So still they blaze, when fate is nigh,
The Lordly line of high St. Clair ..."
It was their own daughter Joan who blazed highest and almost constantly, an electric storm in herself, and known to most of us as simply the Duchess, the Duchess of Sage, the surname being all that remained from a disastrous wartime marriage. Suffice to say that it was Joan, aided and abetted by her chum and closest confederate, the comely and quietly lethal Ginny Lee, who, all on her lonesome, rounded up and delivered into our midst the magnifiscent trio of Highlanders, whose sudden and fortuitous presence in our company was the motivation and raison d'être for this entire chronicle.
Now for the second category of Scots-Americans ...
This second stage of the tartan-tinged pecking-order would include what might be termed the loyal and patriotic half-breeds --- namely various Robertsons, Gregorys, Taylors, Leslies, Staufenbergs, and, last, but anything but least, my own family, by virtue of my paternal grandmother, Minnie R. Moulton, born Maria Ross Harper in Philadelphia in 1858, and descended (on the Scots side) from the Laings of Aberdeen, where since the 16th century (Mary Queen of Scots, Darnley, Knox!), they had been holding forth at the piquantly named Todholes-on-the-Pitgalvany. Another Philadelphia-Scots kinsman of ours was Samuel Ross, whose cousin Betsy gained immortality --- well, everybody knows how: sewing the first American flag for George Washington. (I do remember relatives of my Grandmother Moulton's generation speaking familarly.of "Cousin Betsy", so that, whenever glory was borne past in a parade, one or the other of them was bound to remark, "There goes cousin Betsy's handiwork.")
Rounding off our catalog: the Third Category, most numerous and most vocal of all, far too involved I their Scotsophilia to be considered mere Wanna-Be's, eager to investigate and, whenever possible acquire anything in the very least Scottish --- rainwear, broghams (big heavy boots for crossing sudden moors!), hand-woven tweeds, even the rough, hardy Harris, which in rainy weather always reeks faintly of seaweed --- hand-knitted goods, of course (cardigans, tams, long stockings, and all manner of tartan plaids, as colorful as sartorially possible: a perfect example of what they used to demean as a "run-on-sentence", okay?")
Even fonder were --- (and are) these all-Scots freaks of any of the myriad Scottish delicacies available, many of them in posh speciality shops, but also on the shelves of most upscale super-marts --- Scotch ham and salmon, shortbread and cakes of all breeds and sizes, teeth-shattering taffy and chunky marmelades (the best, laced with Whiskey!) and tinned broths and soups, even Haggis!
Likewise held in highest esteem: The Poems and Songs of Robert Burns (arguably the poet closest to the people's hearts). And for Scots and non-Scots alike, that greatest of Scotland's bequests to mankind, known both in the native Gaelic and the language of the Sassanachs: USQUEBAUGH, or just plain Whiskey, Water of Life. Internationally appreciated, nay, loved, no matter what the label --- be it Bell's, Dewar's, Johnny Walker,  Glenfiddle, or any of countless magi names, never forgetting the jokey old chestnut listing the telephone number of His Holiness the Pope: VAT 69 --- Slainte! No matter what! (Does Irish Gaelic count at all?) Anyway, Bottoms Up! Glasses raised, as well, to any of the countless by-products as Drambuie and Scotch Mist, each in his own way a bit of Heaven.
 
Her Grace The Duchess Regrets

Ah yes, the opening night performance --- how to make as proud a showing as we could --- going smoothly enough, except for one small, but puzzling detail in a logistics operation roughly comparable to the D-Day landings in Normandy a handful of years before. Suddenly it became clear that the staunchest and most vociferous Scots-enthusiast hadn't signed up, had in fact inexplicably begged off attending the premiere, giving as an excuse the lamest in the catalog: "Due to a previous engagement." Prithee, WHAT "PREVIOUS ENGAGEMENT"? I know: DON'T ASK/ DONT TELL. (We never DID find out --- Frustrating is NOT the word!) By all this is meant (who else?) Joan, Duchess of Sage. This "lordly line of St. Clair", of which Joan was the young chatelaine, were perhaps the most interesting of all our many fascinating friends and asquaintances. They seemed to embody everything one imagines the classic Scottish temperament to be --- moody, dramatic, unpredictable, liable to switch in an instant from the darkly dour to highly charged exuberance with no warning-signal whatsoever --- yet singly or collectively such marvelous company that one gladly put up with all the rest of it, as one does (and gladly) with friends one truly cherishes. (Oddly enough, the Stephen clan were in almost every way, the exact opposite of the St. Clairs, and yet were just as "Scottish" of all their traits. Which is what makes Celts --- and my mother Nell was no exception --- brilliant sunshine one minute, a downpour the next. YOU try to figure them out --- but one thing is certain --- they are none of them dull. Infuriating, they can be (and often are), but boring? No way!
Joan's abrupt cancellation of her performance at the "Royal Scots" Premiere at the Stadium was all too typical of that demi-diva, whose imperious manner and regal eccentricity had, as already mentioned, earned her the soubriquet of Her Grace the Duchess (not yet 30 and already almost a Royal!). Hers was manner so formidable that any poor wretch heard muttering, White-Rabbit-like, "The Duchess! Oh! the Duchess! Won't she be simply savage?" could only mean, not Lewis Carroll's titled termagant, but the dazzler ensconced at the St. Clair family compound over on Glen Ellyn's wooded Riford Road. (In this account of that singular evening, when the Royal Scots Band briefly invaded Lombard-The-Lilac-Town, you will encounter two more of the St. Clair dynasty: Robert, Joan's brother, who, in this case, is merely a face in the crowd, and their mother (the Doyenne) Hazel, a gentle exception to everything already said about the Scottish temperament. Let me assure you that we have been every bit as puzzled as anyone by the quirks of the "pawky" Scots soul, my Dad and I, trying to keep up with my Irish mother's rapid changes of mood. Her saving grace was her blessed Irish sense of humor that never let her take herself too seriously. The winning formula: (and here's where the metaphors careen wildly off the tracks) Quicksilver VS. Dark storm-clouds: gloom, dark storm-clouds only occasionally relieved by shafts of sunshine. Anybody able to figure all that out, please let us in on that secret!
When the news of Joan's absense from the premiere-party became known, I believe we were all more than slightly relieved --- for once, somebody else might be able to get a word in edgeways. Besides which, she would doubtless make up for it the following Saturday when gracing the performance, with her favorite confederate, the lovely, but lethal Ginny Lee in attendance. Not for the first time would the query arise: what have the two of them been up to THIS time? For, as always when this dulcet duo was involved, something extraordinary, something quite outré would be afoot. And for those not quite familiar with that nifty little French adjective, here's what the Concise Oxford Dictionary says about it:
"Outré: Outside the bounds of propriety, eccentric, outraging decorum."
Talk about le mot juste!
As our tale unfolds, the appropriateness of this definition will become crystal-clear. For, as the old saying has it, thereby hangs a tale, not to belabor the French word-borrowings (but just one more?), one that holds the very raison d'etre of this entire narrative.
Aye, this was a happening that still lives in the collective memory as one of the boldest and most bizarre in the entire annals of the ADL, of Herbert-Parties, perhaps of the party going history of Greater Chicagoland, Subdivision: Western Suburbs. Once again the query: what had those two ornamental doxies, Joan and Ginny, wrought?
What --- to put it as simply as possible --- what they had wrought was introduce into a perfectly ordinary, normal Saturday evening Herbert-party a magnificent trio of virile and talented Scottish Highlanders in full parade dress, direct from Edinburgh Castle by way of the Chicago Stadium, complete with bagpipes and silver flute.
Was there ever such a spectacular entrance made into a gathering as this? COULD there ever be? And all because these two high-spirited and enterprising bimbos from Glen Ellyn, USA, got so carried away by the pulse-quickening, bladder-tickling spectacle they had been witnessing, an evening that so beggered every precious description and nullified every form of anticipation that, even before the final ovation had subsided, the two of them had hitched up their chic New Look skirts and trundled hurriedly backstage...
There, with adrenaline bubbling and adulation reaching orgasmic proportions, they gave themselves up to the melée of stamping, sweating Scots gladiators (or so they seemed to Our Girls), still vibrating from their three hours’ performance and the attendant triumph --- gave themselves up? No! They positively let themselves be engulfed, and, both girls babbling non-stop, they so enraptured three of the kilted hunks in particular --- namely Angus, the ultimate chauffeur-manager, Alex, prize piper and part time pianist-accompanist; and Robbie, star flutist and all of 18, a gentle ginger-haired gift for the Gods --- so enraptured and enchanted them that all three immediately dropped whatever plans they’d had for the evening and snapped up the girls invitation to journey forthwith, out to the western suburb of Lombard (Yep!! The promised goal:) Lombard , the Lilac Town, an ongoing party at the Moultons’ with Nell and the 2 Herbs, and all their works and pomps. 

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Amy and the House Band

by K. A. Williams


The doorman stamped the back of Mom's hand.
"Tonight is 'Ladies Night'. No cover charge." 
Then he noticed me. "She's underage. She can't come in here."
"I promise she won't drink anything alcoholic," my mom said.
"I'm sorry lady, but your word won't keep me from getting fired if she drinks." 
"Is there a problem?" asked a tall man who came up behind the doorman. "Oh, hello Julie. Who's this pretty lady?"
"It's my daughter, Amy. You know Joe won't serve her anything alcoholic."
Joe was the bartender here and Mom's new boyfriend. Mom and Dad were divorced so she could date who she liked. I'd been pleased when she asked me if I wanted to come with her and meet him. I had put on my favorite bell-bottoms, and brushed my long hair.
She'd been leaving me at home with the television to keep me company. After my thirteenth birthday, I told her I was too old to have a babysitter and I'd be good and not have boys over and go to bed on time. And I had, so this was my reward.
She introduced me to Joe. "Hello Amy. You look just like your mother." He smiled at her, then asked me, "What do you want to drink?"
"I'll have a beer."
"Amy!"
"I'm just kidding, Mom. I'd like a cherry cola please."
Joe smiled. "Sure thing. And  the drinks are on me tonight, Julie."
I looked around the dimly lit room and noticed the small tables in front of a stage. I could see a drum kit and a keyboard stand on the stage. And guitars too. "Do you have a live band?" I asked Joe.
He smiled. "We sure do. The hotel's house band is over there at that table in front of the stage. They're taking a break. They go back on in about ten minutes."
I got off the stool.
"Where are you going, Amy?" Mom asked.
"To meet the band." 
"Amy!"
"It's okay, Julie. They're nice guys."
"All right."
I crossed the room, making my way around other tables, as I headed to their table. The adults were talking and drinking and smoking. They ignored me. 
When I reached the band's table, the five guys stopped talking. None of them were smoking and they all had long hair.
The biggest one put down his glass. "Hey little chick. Who let you in?"
"The manager. Mom's dating Joe the bartender. I just wanted to meet you guys and ask what kind of music you play."
All five of them looked toward the bar, then the best looking one said, "Rock and roll."
"That's my favorite kind of music. Who plays what?"
The guy I had just talked to mimed playing a guitar.  "I'm Bill."
A guy with brown hair and a moustache said, "Harry. Bass guitar."
Another guy with brown hair had turned over the empty ash tray that sat on the table and was tapping it with a straw. "I'm Ray and I beat the drums."
A blond guy finger combed his hair. "Keyboards, I'm Don."
"My name's Terry and I'm the vocalist," said the big guy. "And what's your name?"
"Amy. What's the name of your band?" 
Terry smiled. "Terry and the Travelers." 
"I'd like to change it to Don and the Travelers." Don laughed and so did everyone else, including me.
"Have you made any records?" 
"No, but we're heading out to L.A. next month. Bill's cousin knows somebody at a recording studio and he's letting us cut a demo of one of our original songs for free," Harry said.
"Cool." I was impressed. "You sing your own songs?"
"Well, we haven't written many tunes, mostly we're a cover band," Ray confessed.
"Do you take requests?"
"If we know the song. What was it you wanted to hear?" asked Bill.
"Groovy Situation."
"Okay, we can do that one." Terry checked his watch. "We've got to go onstage now, Amy. It was nice talking with you."
"Yeah, little chick. It was groovy." Bill winked and grinned. 
I could feel myself blushing as I went back to the bar. Joe was at the other end waiting on customers. My cherry cola was sitting there. I liked Joe. He was nice.
"I requested a song and they're gonna play it," I told Mom after I sat back down on the bar stool and sipped my cherry cola. It was good.
She smiled. "Are they? That's sweet of them, honey." 
I swiveled the bar stool around to face the stage. The guys started with "We're An American Band" which was wonderful. The closest thing to this I'd ever experienced was watching "American Bandstand" on television but that didn't compare to a real live performance.
Next came "Brandy" and  "Don't Pull Your Love". They sounded just as good as the original versions on the radio. I stood up and clapped loudly after each song.
Before they started their fourth number, Terry turned to the others and nodded before he said into the microphone, "This next song is for a special young lady named Amy," and I heard the unmistakable beginning of "Groovy Situation".
Having a song dedicated to me was a thrill and I really enjoyed their rendition. I was having the time of my life!

​Photo above: Charles E.J. Moulton as Elvis Presley, Norbert Labatzki as Mike Hammer
and Anne Dornseiff as Priscilla Presley in the popular "Christmas Broadway Night"- Show at the the Berge Castle in 2016. 
The trio calls themselves the Broadway Company and performs regularly with their swing and rock and roll shows
throughout Europe. 



 I'm For You If You're For Me

By Jack Smiles



The first time Rex heard the song he was in the car alone. He flipped out. He wanted to pull over, rip the damn radio out of the dash and beat it to death with a hammer. The second time he and his girlfriend, Angie, were hanging out on a blanket on the state park lake beach. He got up yelled, “Fuck You Rugbeaters” and threw his transistor radio into Seneca Lake . 
Angie thought he was mad. He was. And it was the Rugbeaters who drove him. He was their roadie once. Set up the kit, tuned the guitars, sound-checked the mics. It was a good gig. The Rugbeaters were the hottest cover band in the Finger Lakes and even up to Niagara. They averaged five gigs a week playing bars, wineries and private parties. They had a loyal fan base. The Wells brothers, Jam and Yancey, fronted the band, playing bass and lead and singing. Sure they were real pros compared to Rex, but all they did was cover songs. Rex, though all could do was strum a few chords, was a dreamer. The chords and melody came to him one night sitting alone in his apartment after a couple hits on a bong. He jotted down some lyrics and a title, “I’m for You, If You’re for Me.”
He played it for Jam and Yancey one night after a bar gig. They laughed and Yancey said, “Rex you’re a regular Willie Nelson?” Rex didn’t say anything, but quietly he seethed. They didn’t like the song, ok, but why the snarky comment? 
Rex got a real day job working construction and told Jam and Yancey he couldn’t handle the late nights anymore. They didn’t seem unhappy to let him go, without so much as a thanks. A month later he and Angie went to hear the Rugbeaters at Arnie’s Roadhouse. Yancey stepped to the mic and said, “Hey, we got something original we’ve been working on, we call it ‘If Not for You, There’d Be no Me.’ ” 
Rex only needed to hear a verse. He didn’t know what to do. He grabbed Angie’s hand. “Damn it, that’s my song. We gotta get out of here now.”
Well, it turns out, Scepter, a new label out of the New York City, was looking for new bands. They sent a scout to Hammondsport to hear the Rugbeaters and he recommended giving them a contract. They recorded the song in a real studio in the City and Scepter released it. The Syracuse University radio station picked it up and the next thing anyone knew, everybody’s favorite bar cover band had a regional Upstate hit. A Binghamton DJ told Rex the band probably made 40, 50 grand on the song — his song.
Rex tried to confront Jam and Yancey. Called them, numbers changed. Went to their old half double on Rand Street. Moved. Drove out to the family farm a couple times. Never anybody around. Went to a few gigs, tried to get backstage. Stopped by bikers.

*****

“They pay ‘em cash. Small bills, dirty money,” Rex said.
“Whatya mean dirty?” Angie said.
“No permits, no advertising, no checks, no tickets, no paper, man, except for the money, singles, five, tens, 20s maybe even some 50s, all collected at the door day-of. No advance sales.”
“How do they get away with it?
“Ever been to the Wells’ family farm? It really is the middle of nowhere. 15 miles back a dirt road off 29. No neighbors for five miles. They cut a grove back there and left a buffer of woods all around. Parking in the cow fields for hundreds of cars. Been running this thing for five years. Nothing but word of mouth. There’s a buzz. Local cops gotta know, but they don’t give a shit.”
“How the hell do you know all this?”
“Didn’t your sister tell you? I was a roadie for the Rugbeaters for eight years. I know what happens at their parties. It’s a regular Woodstock lite.” 
“How much you figure?” 
“Last year they sold 4,000 tickets, $10 a piece. That’s 40 grand right there. And they sell beer and weed."
“So what? You make it sound like there’s like 40 grand laying in a pile ripe for pickin’.”  
"Pretty much, there is”
“No security?”
"Yeah, bikers. They pay em ‘em beer and weed.”
“How do we get around that?”
“Don’t worry, man, I got a plan.”
“What’s the plan.”
“Born to be Wild.”

****

In the festival office, really a trailer home backed up to the stage, the Rugbeaters gofer, Jerry, sat at a folding table separating cash it into piles by denomination. Josh, the roadie boss, sat next to him counting and banding it. 
Roadie and doorman, Dan, ran the dough back from the front gate every half hour between 7 and 9 when they closed the gate.“We’re making a killing man,” Jerry said after Dan had dumped the last of the gate from his shoulder bag. “Closing in on 50 grand,” Jerry said. “and we still have two joint sellers out there and we’re still selling tons of beer.
“We’re shutting down the music at 11:15,” Dan said.
“Don’t pull the plug, they’ll be a fucking riot,” Jerry said.
As Dan turned and walked down the hall to the door he said, “Not pulling the plug. The Rugbeaters are going to close with a big jam with the other bands and the natives are going to go wild and, hopefully, the natives will be worn out and go home.”

****

Getting in was easy. Rex and Butch just paid at the gate like everybody else.
“10 freaking bucks, what a rip off,” Butch said
Rex just looked at him shook his head and laughed.
They snaked their way through the crowd, stepping over muddy sleeping bags and around pow wows, checking out girls in cut offs and halters and stopping to take tokes on joints passing by. As they got closer to the stage they could hear the Rugbeaters playing “Start me Up,” but were walled off by a 20-deep mob of stoned, drunken, screaming dancers.
When the song ended Yancey talked said some “hey how y’all doing” shit over the mic. Gave Rex and Butch just enough time to jostle their way to the front row stage left. To their right three huge, dirty, mean-looking, drunken bikers stood with their arms folded and their backs against the stage. Yancey yammered on and finally yelled the magic words. “This one’s going out for our favorite bikers, the Vulcans.”
Rex said “oh yeah” to himself, as the Beaters broke into “Born To Be Wild.” The bikers turned toward the stage raising their beers and banging their heads while the dancers went wild, spinning, jumping, air guitaring. 
Rex reached down pulled up the tarp hiding the stage under pinnings, pulled Butch by the wrist and they went in. Shit, a freaking maze of of 2 x 4 cross section supports, way more than Rex expected. The bass and drum thundered down on them as they picked their way through the stage infrastructure. Rex, lithe and 160 pounds, moved easily. He looked back and saw Butch. He wasn’t moving. He was stuck in a cross section. 
“You fat fuck, I never should brought you.” 
“Shut up and get me the hell out.” They had to scream over the music.
Time was running out on “Born to be Wild” and Rex’s plan to get rich.
Rex got behind him, put his shoulder to his ass and pushed. Didn’t budge him. 
“I don’t have time, you’re on your own.” 
“Wait you can’t leave me here. I’ll squeal like a stuck pig.” 
You are a stuck pig, Rex thought to himself, but said to Butch. “Keep your mouth shut and I’ll get some money to you.”
Rex crawled out the back of the stage, as “Born to Be Wild” faded out. Only one more song and 20 musicians were going to go to the trailer for their dough. Rex had five minutes, give or take, while all the bands jammed on “The Breeze.” Rex ran alongside the trailer, up the front steps, pulled down his ski mask and burst in the door. 
“Hey, Dan, that you,” came a voice from behind a curtain in the kitchen down the end of the hall.
Rex ran, ripped down the curtain and jumped on the table where Jerry and Geoff sat. Three minutes. Just as he’d hoped, the banded money was piled on Josh’s side of the table. Geoff was hitting on a joint. Rex kicked Josh in the chest he fell back to the floor in the chair, whacked his head stayed down.
Geoff stood up. “Hey what the hell?” But he didn’t do anything. He froze.
Rex shoved the money in his backpack jumped off the table and turned toward the hallway. A door flew open. A huge scary biker stepped out of the toilet looking down, hitching his belt, blocking the hall. He looked up in time to swing his forearm to knock away the folding metal chair Rex threw at him. He growled and ran toward Rex, but got his feet tangled up in the chair and went down. Rex grabbed another chair, turned and threw it through the bay window behind the table and jumped through the opening just as Josh, groggy from whacking his head, stood up and made a futile swipe for Rex’s legs. Rex landed on some shards, but he got up, scrambled under the snow fence and sprinted for the tree line and into the woods.
It must have been quite sight if anyone could see it. A lone figure wearing a backpack sprinting into the dark woods from a moonlit pasture, 20 musicians, some wielding mic stands, and a half dozen sloppy bikers running after him. 
It was dark among the trees, but Rex knew the trail. His tach light would give away his position, but the Rugbeaters knew the trail, too. He switched the light on. He couldn’t afford to fall. He figured he was in better shape. Working construction and training for the Lakes Half Marathon was paying off. And he was sober — hopefully not for long. In a couple minutes he was a mile ahead. He heard a distant roar engines. The bikers must have broke off the chase and went back to the main gate for their hogs. 
The trail dumped him out on 29, the car was there where they had left it. But Butch had the GD key. He crossed 29 picked up the trail again on the other side of the road. He heard bikes coming up 29. He ducked into the woods 20 feet off the trail, crawled to the edge of the road, hid in the trees and peeked through the brush. Three bikes slowed as they approached the car. They stopped. Holy crap, it was Butch! He climbed off one of the bikes and waved like he was saying thanks. Two of the bikes rode away slowly, shining flashlights into the woods. The third turned onto the trail. 
As Butch opened the car door Rex came up behind him. “Open the other side.”
“Jeez, you about gave me a heart attack.”
Rex got in shotgun and put the backpack between his legs.
“How much we get?”
“We? I did all the dirty work.”
“Hey, I couldn’t help it. I wanted to go. I was stuck. And I’m helping you now ain’t I.”
“Will 10 grand keep you quiet?”
“Deal,” Butch said as he pulled on to 29. Rex opened the backpack and counted a stack of banded money. A grand. He put 10 stacks in a plastic bag and put it on the floor behind the driver’s seat.
“So what happened?”
“I broke a two-by and got out from under the stage. Went back out the front and fell in with the crowd walking out. Got to the main gate. Some bikers came running and gunning yelling about killing some asshole thief. I knew one of them from the Cat and Canary pool league. Told him I was out of gas on 29. He told me to hop on.”
“Out of gas?”
“How was I supposed to explain the car out here. Told him my buddies were on their way with a gas can.”
“He bought it?”
“He’s a biker, duh. So where we going?”
“We ain’t going nowhere. Drop me off at the bus depot.”

*****

Jam counted the left behind money. A couple grand out of 50.
“It was Rex, wasn’t it?”
“Well, he had a mask, but yeah, Jerry is 95 percent it was Rex,” Yancey said.
“Funny, I never thought he had the balls for something like this,” Jam said.
“From what I hear he’s on the warpath over the song. Telling everybody we ripped it off.”
“Did we? That’s being generous. Yeah, he had and idea, a melody, some chords. We finished the damn thing.” 
“So what do we do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Jam said.
“We can’t call the cops,” Yancey said.
"We could look for him.”
“Where the hell we going to look, he’s not going to go home. He’s probably heading out to California as we speak. Him and his girlfriend.”
“The Vulcans aren’t gonna give up.”
“They can’t find their own asses.”

*****
​
There’s a part of North Central Pennsylvania nicknamed “The Wilds.” Endless mountains rolling with state game lands, national forests, and parks. There’s even an elk herd, one of the few this side of the Rockies, and elk tourism is a thing around one of the little towns. A decent restaurant, winery, brewpub, a B and B.
Nice place to buy a little business with your girlfriend and call it the Antler Inn, sit on the patio and watch elk, maybe write a couple songs. 

Photo above: Charles E.J. Moulton as Father Janos in "Simon the Foundling", Gelsenkirchen Opera, Germany


Fatherland

By Mir Yashar Seyedbagheri



The fatherly mustache bristles through shadows and rises to my consciousness from miles away. I am a graduate student, but also my father’s keeper, employee, and gofer and daily the mustache still rises. It rises through my white bedroom walls, it rushes through curtains. It peeks out of the showers too and invades my moments of laughter or run-ins with friends in the English department halls.
Bristling, the mustache connotes an emotional weather forecast, something I learned to gauge from childhood. Bristling’s always mostly cloudy. Chance of fatherly lectures ninety to one hundred percent.
I play his hits in my mind.
You’re not organized, too naïve. Learn to use people, my boy. Learn the tricks.
Why do you write bad stories about your father?
You’re too emotional. Be strong, boy. Do you need counseling?
Even through the phone, the words rise, each one a nasal whine, a foghorn that never, never stops. Once I sparred, offered invectives. Kiss my ass, adopt another son if you’re
dissatisfied. But he just sparred back, fusillades firing until I walked away, a loser, with shame and dignity crumpled beneath me.
“Your dad loves you. He wants you to be happy,” he always says, usually when concluding lecture X or lecture Y.
If only that were the case. Although I do laugh at his use of the third-person to refer to himself. Your dad, your father, your daddy, even.
If only wanting were something easy, something you could order at McDonald’s. One large happiness, a Diet Coke, and some fries, please.
But the mere ping of the phone makes me jump, even when it hasn’t rung at all. I wait, slink into shadows, wait for the next lecture. The next ping of the phone or the Curb Your Enthusiasm ringtone, announcing an impending lecture. I can’t write, complete readings for class, and I can’t find the energy to create. I stall over paragraphs and once wonderful, comprehensible metaphors seem foreign. On top of that, I can’t even go out to walk at night and absorb the peach and lavender symphonies in the sky. And forget about going to the coffee shop to relish Friday night jazz or classical concerts on old upright pianos with blemishes and out-of-tune tenderness.
Forget about grad student parties too, with thumping speakers and bodies dancing like lovable jackasses.
I wonder how many messages or texts he’s left, my phone blocks away, and I surrender to the need to check. What new report will he have me type? How quickly will he need this one? What is he calling to lecture me about this time?
I try to calm myself, to conjure something, anything. The beauty of the sky, a Tchaikovsky waltz, but the words break through these contrived walls. What does he want? A thousand possibilities always rush into my mind. Finances, a need to find a girlfriend, to be a lecher. And honestly, in the spectrum of lectures the girlfriend ones are the most bearable.
Even from thousands of miles away, I’m still my father’s keeper. If I avoid communication, he threatens disownment. Disownment, the severing not only of financial assistance, a job, but also the casting off of a name. I imagine myself, a man without a name, naked. It’s a name I mock with friends and to myself, but it’s something in a world of rushing bodies, exchanged glances, and touches, a world where I’m still on a certain periphery.
Sometimes, and I mean sometimes, he’s in a good mood.
“I’m proud of my boy,” he’ll say. Or my son. My boy, my son, sometimes my love, terms I try to hold onto. And sometimes, I’ll say, “I love you,” normal, tender terms, even if I sound like I’m rehearsing lines for a play.
But they’re fragile terms, terms that invariably break. It’s not a matter of if, but when. I supposedly rush through typing one of his soil recommendations. I sound impatient on the phone. I fail to remind him of his own credit card deadlines or alert him to a communication from some colleague about a conference. I need to be proactive.
“See the end at the beginning,” he always says.
One of these days, one of these days I’ll find the power to break. Maybe when I’m done with school. Maybe a little longer. But I’m young still, someone still navigating a thousand worlds. I try to imagine myself thrown into the seas of strangers and bodies, colleagues, bosses, bodies full of kindness, but possibly even more lectures, lectures I haven’t heard yet. Lectures
with mysterious shapes and scopes, expectations that are even more murky, expectations from people whose lives I haven’t been privy to.
On the fatherly lectures go, and more and more I grunt in response. Or just acknowledge them with a “yes, Dad,” “I know, Dad,” so they’ll stop faster. A different kind of shame rises, the shame not of fighting, but of sheer cowardice. But fleeting moments of peace hold great meaning. I grab what I can.
Only in the still of night, when I know he’s slumbering, can I feel the real loosening of body. I can strip off words and sink into the expanse of pillow and sheets. Wander about this little apartment, look out onto the darkness. I can drink a glass of Cabernet. On a bad night, two or three. I watch something on Netflix or Prime. Something contrived, something truly stupid that makes me laugh. Something with flatulence, bodily functions, puerile cheer, and no sense at all. I can laugh, laugh, laugh, releasing energies like balloons, until everything’s gone, and I must refill, the morning waiting through the shadows.

Sunday at the Theater

By Angela Camack



August 2016

Only a meeting with his somewhat-estranged youngest child could get Jack to hot, sticky, irritable New York City in August. He would have waited until fall. What difference could one more month make, after two years of an uneasy truce between him and Ben. But his wife Marie was anxious to see Ben, to see the unhappiness between them healed. His rift with ben had caused their relationship to become unsteady for the first time in their long marriage, and he wanted to see that unhappiness healed as well.
Jack should have seen what was going to happen, had tried to stop things earlier. Ben’s story was straight out of that musical – what was it – A Chorus Line. At 10 he walked into a recital at his older sister’s dance school, came out dancing and stayed dancing long after his sister quit ballet for soccer. He started taking classes at the same school, tap, ballet, jazz, anything he could. By the time he was 12 the owner of the school, a nice neighborhood school in their home in a New Jersey suburb close to New York that offered dance, baton twirling and Mommy and Me, told Jack and Marie how talented Ben was.
“Technically he’s already beyond anything we can give him. And he’s got it -stage presence, charisma, the works. The New Jersey Ballet has an excellent school that can give him what he needs.”
Jack never really understood theater. He saw enough drama during his career as a trial lawyer. And musical theater? People breaking into song during pivotal moments in their lives? No. He couldn’t understand Ben’s passion for a career that was horribly competitive, exhausting and hard to continue after middle age.
But Ben was unstoppable. By 14 he was earning money to pay for voice lessons. He was in every school play and discovered community theater. The summer before his senior year of high school he had the second lead in a community production of Oklahoma. Vibrant, funny Ben, with his magnetic personality and charm, a personality that got his dancing self through school without ever being beaten up.
Jack counted on Ben’s good sense, that he would find a stable career. He and Marie insisted that he keep up his grades, and he did, nailing the honor roll as easily as he nailed triple turns and the “I want” songs from musical comedies. They had put aside college money for him, as they had for their two other children, who had followed the paths that they expected for them.
By senior year he saw that they had waited too long to stop Ben’s ambitions. He planned to go to New York after graduation and aim for a stage career. The skinny kid with tap shoes had turned into a handsome, dark-haired blue-eyed man with a deep reserve of confidence.
“I don’t understand it,” he said to Ben for what seemed to be the thousandth time. “There are so few jobs out there and most of them don’t pay much. You’re setting yourself for a lifetime of beating your head against a wall.”
“You don’t have any faith in me,” said Ben,
“It’s the business that I don’t have faith in.”
“It’s more than a ‘business’ to me.” (Oh, Lord, spare me the starving artiste).
“Look, Dad, I’m not stupid.” Jack snorted at that. “I’ll give it a few years and if nothing breaks I’ll go to college.”
‘Ben, you have so much going for you. You can do anything you want.”
“This is what I want.”
Senior year was a tense and unhappy time. Ben was unmovable, Jack was angry, and Marie tried to work out peace between them.
‘Look, Jack, we have money set aside for his education. Let’s use it to send him to New York. Why not let him do what makes him happy? He is good.”
“So are a thousand other kids, and don’t say Ben is special, because they all are. What happens if he spends his college fund and winds up with no career?”
Ben read his father’s concern as lack of faith and a wall grew between them. He left for New York in August, refusing any money.
“Why won’t you let us help you?” asked Marie.
“There’s no faith behind it, Mom. Dad has no idea of who I am and why I want to do this.”
Ben took lessons at Steps on Broadway and worked with a voice coach. He did all the things aspiring theater people did. He waited on tables, pet-sat and worked as a cashier, and lived with a revolving collection of roommates. He kept in touch and visited on holidays, but Jack and Marie felt like the tie between them was fraying. He accepted small gifts of money but insisted on supporting himself.
His first year was discouraging. A workshop that never made it to the stage. Two weeks Off-Off Broadway in a show that the New York Times called “painfully bizarre.” One night on Broadway in a show that closed in one night and became a famous example of how badly musicals can bomb.
He always sounded optimistic, saying that his checkered career was an example of how the theater worked. His mother was sure his break would come. But Jack was worried. He pictured his Ben at 40, graying and bent after years of working as a waiter, and miserable at the snobbery his thought contained.
But Ben had so much promise...
By his second year things began to change. A month Off-Broadway in a musical with Broadway possibilities. Godspell and Cabaret in regional theater. The national tour of Phantom of the Opera. No more carrying food trays and cashiering, and he got his own studio apartment when he returned to New York after his tour.
He asked his parents not to come to see him perform. “I want you to see me when I’ve made it.” His mother was unhappy, but Ben insisted. His father’s resistance had hurt.
Upon his return to New York, he got a role in a revival of Cats. His parents finally felt they could stop holding their breath. Cats, the mainstream hit, the show that promised to run “now and forever” during its first run.
And Ben invited them to see the show.
Jack and Marie took a long weekend in August to see him, and to see something of the city. Ben looked older, handsomer, “too thin,” his mother insisted, but happy. They visited his studio, one room with a kitchenette. Ben’s theater books and laptop stood on a desk that usually served as a table and a fold-out sofa served as a bed. It was immaculate and decorated with theater posters, but spare and Spartan. Ben was plowing much of his salary into lessons, honing his art.
They had tickets for a Sunday matinee on the day before they left for home. Jack flipped through the Playbill while they waited for the show to start. It would take 2 hours for the cats to get to kittycat heaven. He sighed.
“What?” said Marie.
“I don’t know, this looks like a slog. Maybe we should wait for the movie.” Marie glared at him. “Just give it a chance, please. If you can understand it, you’ll understand Ben.
He browsed through the character names … Munkustrap Bombalurina, Skimbleshanks … his head hurt already. He checked his watch and wondered when intermission would come and he could grab a drink.
The overture played and the cats crawled out on the stage, in their fantastic costumes and makeup. Marie gasped when Ben leaped out. He’d sent them a picture so they could recognize his character, Mr. Mistoffelees, but Marie said she recognized the way he held his head and moved.
Despite himself, Jack was drawn into the story. This was theater, music, dance, this was what Ben had dedicated his life to. You became part of the world onstage, part of the journey, no matter how fantastic or far from normality it was. You were out of yourself for the time it took for the journey to end.
The show played on. Rum Tum Tugger channeled Mick Jagger. A white kitten danced in stage moonlight for the pure joy of moving. The Glamour Cat gathered her memories around her like her tattered coat.
Ben was amazing, with his rapid turns, soaring leaps and yes, cat-like landings. He had an amazing ability to communicate physically, to connect with the audience and to establish relationships with the other players. Music and dance merged to carry a message in a language other than the spoken word. Toward the end of the show, it was Ben who found the cats’ missing leader. Now in a coat sprinkled with lights. his dance conjured up Old Deuteronomy. He danced with a heady joy in his own powers. Could anybody turn faster, jump higher? When he finished, the applause went on. His Ben had stopped the show,
They waited for the usher to take them backstage, passing what looked like Macavity and Jennyannydots in street clothes. Ben was himself again, makeup off and in jeans and a blazer. His mother cried and Jack beamed.
“You were wonderful, son. I am so proud of you.”
“You mean that, don’t you, Dad?
“I sure do.”
They went out into the crowded and still-hot streets to get dinner. Jack suddenly stopped them.
“I was so wrong, Ben. I had so little faith. I forgot how much I risked when I started my own practice. Maybe you have to be young to have that much confidence.”
This being New York, the crowd paid no attention to two men embracing on the sidewalk and holding back guy-tears.

James Bond and the Danish Italians
 
Article by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
 
The vacation in Copenhagen with my father was the best we’d had. We were CLUB 31, a father and son-combo on trips together. Our meetings behind the Christmas tree and Sunday afternoon bike rides to the ice-cream-parlour was crowned that year of 1981 by an evening in Copenhagen that left us giggling. It was a fabulous introduction to a splendid evening of James Bond.
As we were sitting in our favorite Italian spaghetteria near the opera house, I happily found the announcement that FOR YOUR EYES ONLY was playing at a city cinema called the Colloseum. Imagine the local surprise when we asked the Italian waiter where the Colloseum was. He looked at us as if we had crawled from underneath his kitchen closet and auditioned Yankee Doodle for him, but sung it backwards in Greek.
His response was full of classic, Italian cynicism:
“The Colloseum is in Rome!”
When we told him that we were looking for the Copenhagen cinema called the Colloseum, he said: “You don’t want to go there!”
Indeed, we did.
I am happy we did. First we ended up in the wrong multiplex cinema room and began enjoying an old Terry Thomas flick dubbed into French. There is something rotten in the state of Denmark, my thespian Dad quoted and we merged into the biggest cinema hall ever seen and had the time of our lives.
The film is one I deeply cherish as a nice addition to some very cultural trips. We saw an uncut production performance of Hamlet, met famous painters, witnessed the royal changing of the guards, wallowed in hotel breakfasts and enjoyed ballet performances of The Nutcracker.
However, the most fun I, a goofy twelve year old, had was walking back to the hotel and laughing at my father imitate the Bond theme. He was doing it all wrong, I claimed. The Bond theme was not “Duh-da-Duh-da-Duh-da”, but “Duh-dada-Duh-dada-Duh-dada-Duh”.
Which brings us back to Bond.
Indeed, the score of For Your Eyes Only is, in my mind, the best of all possible Bond scores. It combines Spanish tonality and real Phrygian scales with brilliant trumpet solos by British session musician Derek Watkins. Bill Conti manages to coach an orchestration that sounds like “Foreigner” while reminding us of Brahms. Electronic keyboards and full orchestra to match, it is a classic mix. The music alone is worth the experience. Especially for a film music buff like me. It has the gourmet whiff of tonal Rioja. Rich musical wine. Donald Guarisco claimed that the score’s mix of classical music, dance and funk made it one of the best film scores of the decade.
Then, who was the best Bond? I say that all Bonds have their merit. Comparing Roger Moore to Sean Connery is like comparing Barcelona to London. Barcelona is a sophisticated Tapa Bar accompanied by a rugged Samba. London is an eloquent sonnet enjoyed whilst sipping sherry and eating scones. Moore is a witty drink of Sandeman’s.
Moore was at his peek in the movie. His blend of wit and combat coincides with John Glen’s intellectual direction. It subseqently produces a film that is oppulent in images and rich in texture.
Filmed on location in the Bahamas, in Greece, in London, in Italy and out on the open North Sea, we are reminded of not what the plot is but how it is told. The film set a record as the most successful Bond opening to date. The story is a very remodified Fleming and has little to do with any of Ian’s stories. However, that is not relevant.
The British naval communcations system ATAC sinks along with its ship somewhere in the North Sea. Bond is sent out to find the assassin of a marine archeologist engaged by Britain to locate the ship. Teaming up with the victim’s daughter, a modern Electra, the team becomes tossed and turned between possible culprits in a sort of “who-dunnit”-like chase of spy swings.
In real life, double or single agents lead a considerably more painful and less glitzy life. Seeing these distinguished actors, however, produce an entertaining movie like this is a joy that overshadows that illusion. The Isreali theatre-fox Topol started his own theatre company in 1961 and is still going strong 40 years later. Here in 1981 his athletic performaces is mixed with considerable humour. Julian Glover has been a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company for decades. His work in the Sci-Fi and Agent Franchise has given him world wide fame. The supposed light entertainment benefits from his thespian eloquence.
Roger Moore was born three months after my father. Both were performers and both ended up working in Germany at some point during their careers. Educated at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, Royal Army Service Officer Moore has acted in 47 films to date including the Bond films. Less rugged but more suave than Connery, Moore brings an astute aristocracy to Bond that remains unsurpassed.
It is, of course, obvious that Bond-movies rarely follow the actual Bond novel stories. And the fact that Ian Fleming himself didn’t seem to like Sean Connery as a choice for the main character is something that has left journalists baffled as to what Ian Fleming would’ve thought about the later Bond-heroes.
All of them differ. Sean Connery’s harsh manhood is the opposite of Roger Moore’s elegant worldliness. Timothy Dalton’s Shakesperian concentration carries inside what Daniel Craig seems to sport in his athletic leaps onto the screen.
But those are just comments on the sidelines.
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY has the elegant wit, the music and the sensuality to make it a true classic, whether it followed the original novel or not.
My father’s great love of films concludes my recount. It gave him a great place in every film fan’s year book. I am reminded of sitting in that Italian restaurant in Copenhagen many years ago when I see Roger’s fifth Bond film. I remember that I am like my father in most respects. I enjoy spening time with my child. If I can be half as good a father to my daughter as my father was to me, I have done my job more than well.
“The Colloseum is in Rome!”
Indeed. Roma è il più meraviglioso dei luoghi.
My soul, however, happily remembers sitting with my great dad in the Colloseum in Copenhagen and eating pop-corn and hooraying at Bond’s great antics in what I believe to be the entire series’ best agent extravaganza.
 

A Fellow MEETS His DAD Way BEFORE He HAD Kids 
A look at The BACK TO THE FUTURE-Trilogy
By Charles E.J. Moulton 
Small town, America. 1955. A young boy saves his friend from a car accident, who thanks him by simply jumping on his bike and driving off into the sunset. Sounds like pure soap opera, fifties style. 
Yes, but with a twist: the hero is his son and they are both 17 years old.
Huh? What was that? 17? Both?                                                                                   
Rewind the tape. Marty McFly’s friend, the much older Doc Brown, has invented a time machine with the help of plutonium-smuggling Libyans. During a demonstration, Marty McFly is accidentally catapulted thirty years back to a time when his parents were in high school.
Oops.
The only problem is that he never expected to stand in their way. He interrupted with his parent’s first meeting and now Marty has to get his folks back together so he can be born.
At first, it doesn’t work at all. His Dad is a complete wimp, mobbed by the local bully Biff, and his own mom is in love with… Marty. So it takes a whole lot of courage and pain and playing of love songs on proms to get them back together before he can by the help of a lightning bolt go back to the future, only to find out that he changed his parents: his formerly drunk loser parents are now prime yuppies out for tennis speaking like rich middle-class people. Who are better people? Losers or phoneys? Is the loser more honest because he lost?
Wait a minute, there is more. In the second picture, old Doc Brown travels back from the future, 2015, to tell Marty and his girl that their kids are in trouble. They go there to save them, but Marty is tempted by the dark side of the force (sorry, Mr. Lucas). He is chased on a hovering skateboard by Biff’s grandchild when he buys an almanac that reveals all sport results of the later half of the 20th century. Doc prevents him from taking it back with him, but evil things lurk in the minds of men and the entire story becomes a very Shakespearian parody.
Old Biff steals the book and takes the time vehicle back to the past and gives himself this desirable object. The result is a 1985 Hill Valley Gambling Hell with Biff as the rich devil replacing his murdered father. They accordingly go back to the past to fix this present in the past. They do succeed, run into themselves a couple of times, before burning the book and saving the future.
You think this is over? Not yet. Doc’s car was struck by lightning and sent back to 1885. Marty has to travel back there, against the Doc’s wishes, because he finds out that the Doc was murdered by Biff’s great grandfather. He does so, in the process letting Indians rip the fuel line. The result is that he meets his ancestors, his grandpa even pees on him as a baby, in order to find a home in his own town a hundred years back in time. He gets into a fight with Biff’s grandpa Buford “Mad Dog” Tannen (“I hate that name!”), who challenges him to a duel. The Doc, however, has fallen in love and after the victorious duel he elopes with his Miss Clara Clayton, whilst Marty pushes up to high velocity by a steam train into the present.
But there is hope yet.
Doc returns with a new invention, prompted by the hover board from the future.
He is now the owner of a time steam train.
Sound like fun? Yes. It is. Fast, furious and funny.
But let’s look a little behind the scenes, shall we now? Having read two of Michael J. Fox’s biographies, I am a little smarter. He tells us that his now very evident Parkinson’s disease comes from an accident in the hanging scene of the third movie. “Accidents are temporary, film is forever.” These were his exact words.
However, we must admire a man who so bravely left Canada to become a star and decided to work day and night on two projects while doing the movie.
What about the characters in the film?
All Marty’s family are losers made winners in the movies, through Marty’s timely doing. Biff’s family are winners made losers in the movies, also through Marty’s doing. There is thus a reverse side to the movies, with Marty undoing ill and doing well. Is it too bad that Marty and Doc are not together at the end? Yes. But Doc was always lonely and now has a family in the only place he ever really truly loved: the old west.
Looking at them as a whole, with all of their reversible fun of characters meeting themselves and changing lives, the most interesting part of it is still how the characters can change personality wise according to circumstance and situation. 
Marty’s mother is a drunken housewife who, completely and utterly resigned to a dull poor life, really has given up. But because of loving a man of heroics (Dad prompted by Marty) she turns into the fit, self secure and hip mother in 1985. The hip mother, however, turns into a rich, silicon pumped and frustrated wife in the alternate reality just because wealthy Biff murdered her husband and married her.
Biff is a pure sleaze, who has been used to winning all his life and therefore does the same thing he did in the fifties and even gets away with it because no one tells him otherwise. But the fact that Marty’s father has the guts to retaliate in 1955 he turns Biff into a meek and shy car mechanic thirty years later.
Receiving the book from himself in 1955, moreover, turns him into the evil man we all love to hate.
Marty’s father is a shy loser in 1985 because no one ever told him he was a capable man. But by receiving the right courage he dares to take the risk he needs and becomes a successful author and eventually a happy, rich grandpa.
Marty’s problem is that he never lets anyone call him coward. And so he gets into an accident in 1985 that ruins his life. But by the actual intervention of Doc he changes his mind and is able to not get into the accident and thereby make himself a future with his girl without being a loser.
TIME magazine was once quoted as saying that these films are like a fugue improvising on the theme of the previous movies.
Interesting point, this. A man might change his life if he makes the right decisions. What are the right decisions? Being strong and feeling strong. Having the guts to say: “Man, I am so talented. I can handle this, all right.”
Marty travels close to hundred and fifty years in time to find out that it isn’t the main thing to defend yourself against people who judge you ignorantly.
Defending yourself to save your soul from ignorance might be the main thing.
The main thing is not holding on to your past mistakes and letting your intuition lead the way. Is that what Marty does? Time is illusive and strange and maybe that is what the movies want to teach us. That going on with your life and working from the moment is the most important thing. Don’t keep reminding yourself that you did a mistake. Make sure that you don’t make the mistake again. Don’t be a bully like Biff or as quick in the draw as Marty. Be as good as you possibly can be. Sail through time in your own speed and with your own elegance and eloquence. Don’t be intimidated by past mistakes.
Don’t be so sure that you cannot learn anything from a movie just because pop corn and coke is labeled on the cover of a motion picture. Surprising truths can be found at the backsides of cereal cartons. This little extravaganza about time tells us that hotheads do well in not following grudges.
 
 
BACK TO THE FUTURE:                           Three Motion Pictures                     (©    1985,     1989,    1990)
Director: Robert Zemeckis    Music: Alan Silvestri     Actors: Michael J. Fox, Christopher Lloyd, Lea Thompson, Crispin Glover, Thomas F.Wilson, James Tolkan;               Producer: Steven Spielberg.

THE TALE OF A MISSING LINK
​
FROM INDIANA 

An analytical review of the five films known as

THE PLANET OF THE APES 

​By Charles E.J. Moulton 
 
 
 
Folks of all generations flock to see dragons fly and strange creatures in spaceships ruling topsy-turvy worlds. Science-fiction-fans can be categorized into three groups: those who dress up in the clothes of their idols, speak the language and collect the items, attend the congregations and sing the songs, those who see everything as pure entertainment, popcorn-fun below all Shakespearian tradition. Between the two lies a group who would gladly consider themselves analytical. Their chief characteristic is looking at the real background of the piece and are thus probe into the story like a gold miner looking for a treasure.
The original Planet of the Apes-Series (films dating from 1968 to 1973) entail a striking message. The dialogue a striking parody of all things human, all things civilized and racist, the humane plea against injustice seems imbedded within it like litmus paper. It is a wonder that the movies are not discussed at sociological seminars.
Current civilization teaches us that dressing up is for fun and certainly anyone who dresses up as a monkey is not to be taken all too seriously. But rewind the tape: are they right? Theatre, like storytelling, shows the audience-member snip-bits from his own life from a new angle. Sci-Fi, especially, is able to use symbolism in order to map out the eternal allegory.
In the story, human astronauts from 1972 are frozen through deep space to arrive in the year 3955 on a planet ruled by monkeys. Only one survives, Taylor.
After torture and persecution he discovers that he is back home on Earth and the apes have simply taken over Earth after a nuclear catastrophe.
There are human survivors of this holocaust and they have worshipped the ultimate bomb for millennia. Taylor is witness to how the monkeys invade their underground city and ultimately destroy Earth by exploding the ultimate bomb.
Three apes escape in Taylor ship, arriving back in 1972 and find they are being treated the same way as Taylor was back home, only worse for it comes with intrigue. The one ape is pregnant and by fooling the police, she manages to rescue the baby, who grows up to start a revolt to found the Planet of the Apes.
The story is a vicious circle: A travels to B and creates havoc, which sets off a time warp that sends off A to B again. It is probably the most famous one in films. Had not Taylor decided to travel into the future, the apes would never have been able to travel to the past to found the future that Taylor discovered.
 
Ultimately, the proverbial dog chases his own tail until we sit there, blubbering and cooing like, well, a monkey in a tree.
But what does all this mean?
It means that Man (in reality and fiction) ultimately works against himself. He discovers something that he ultimately destroys. He won’t listen to truth because he is too caught up in his own desires and lack of honesty to admit that he has done things wrong.
To put this bluntly, he cannot let go of his own past mistakes. He regrets them so much that he lives not to better himself but to try to better his mistakes. If he could let them go, he would never have to fight the foes that arose from this action in the first place.
Some interesting dialogue from the film proves my point and how it is put across in a twisted manner. Take, for instance, the Gorilla General’s word in the second film. Centuries of slavery ring in his words:
 
“I am not saying that man is bad just because his skin is White. I am saying that the only good Human is a dead Human.”
 
It is protest in its purest form. You cannot critique humans on their own level like this (replace “Human” with “Negro” and “White” with “Black” and you’ll see what I mean). But you can put a human in a civilization of a different race and see how he reacts to this, thereby letting man point his own finger at himself.
 
The problem is that people don’t hear between the lines because the munching of the popcorn is too loud in their ears.
 
“Ignorance is Evil”
 
Doctor Zira says in the same film and mirrors the kangaroo trial that occurs in the previous film, where Colonel Taylor is held before a tribunal that only exists to hang the chimpanzees (who think he is a missing link) & the court (who won’t believe that he comes from Fort Wayne, Indiana). Neither side, however, is right. He is from humankind’s own past. The fact that the Gorilla-Army is blessed by priests in the movie & halted by pacifist chimps should be revealing to us humans. We have two parables here: the flower-power-generation who burnt their own draught cards & finally Nazi Germany, church blessing cannons.
So, the characters in the movie have the same problem as the human beings watching the story. They don’t listen. The characters in the movie are so caught up being mad at each other’s folly that they keep doing the same mistakes over and over. The people paying to see what they are doing, pay their popcorn and walk out just as oblivious to the countless divorces and badmouthing and intrigues that they are responsible for, not really interested in looking below the surface because they only do so in society-approved things of shiny surface and university approved dogma. But there are signs that try to help them, if they listened.
Shortly before the fourth film there was a racist riot in a city called Watts. Director J. Lee Thompson remodelled these riots, making the leader of the riots the Monkey Revolutionary whose parents were futuristic space travellers and thereby made him responsible for the proverbial dog we mentioned earlier chasing his tail in his own never ending vicious circle.
But we find a positive energy flowing from the remaining words of film 5:
 
“Life is like a highway. A driver in lane A might survive whilst a driver in lane B might not. By foreseeing his own future correctly he might plan his life better and change it.”
 
Accordingly, we see apes and humans sharing their lives at the end, giving us a possible hint that things maybe are not as bad as they look. The responsibility lies only in following your own good intuition.
It is up to you, dear reader of this article. Next time you go to a movie or a play, try to find messages within the storyline. Look closely, for you might find more than you think. Even if it is only the interesting analysis behind the bad acting.
Within everything … lies a message.
 
 
 
PLANET OF THE APES:   Five Motion Pictures  (20th Century Fox, ©1968, 1969, 1971, 1972, 1973) Directors: Franklin J. Schaffner, Ted Post, Don Taylor, J.Lee Thompson;    Actors: Roddy McDowell, Kim Hunter, Charlton Heston,  Maurice Evans,  Ricardo Montalban, Paul Williams,  Sal Mineo,  John Huston;       Based upon the book “Monkey Planet” by Pierre Boulle;       Make-Up by John Chambers  
 
 

Reality

By Yash Seyedbagheri


New Year’s Eve, I swig champagne, relishing the elegant oval glass.
For a moment, I’m a dandy in a pinstripe suit, not an asshole in faded navy-blue sweatpants, courtesy of thrift shops.
Another swig.
I’m tsar of Russia, a diplomat, someone who knows order. Regiment. Not maxed credit cards and Michelina’s TV dinners.
With another swig, I can dream on a pillow of bubbles. No nightmares about being trapped in cars with broken steering wheels or Ed Asner stalking me for inexplicable ransoms.
I swig, each swig longer.
When the clock strikes midnight, people cheer.
But reality takes me home.



Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His stories, "Soon,”  “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” and "Tales From A Communion Line," were nominated for Pushcarts. Yash’s work  has been published in The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Write City Magazine, and Ariel Chart, among others.

Holy Words about Spirit


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What quantum physics teaches us is that everything we thought was physical is not physical. 
​  
Bruce H. Lipton

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Quantum physics is teaching us that particles themselves don’t create particles. It’s just what Jesus said 2000 years ago, that it’s the spirit that gives life and that you don’t get particles from more particles. 
    
Wayne W. Dyer

***

God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit, and truth.

Jesus Christ, John 4:24

***

​Chi is the original force from which we come and to which we go. We are not our bodies. We are Chi, the life force which we perfect when we practice the slow, flowing movements and breathing of Tai-Chi and Qi-Gong. 

- Master Gu

***

The greatest richness is the richness of the soul. 

- Propher Muhammad

***

If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.  In separateness lies the world’s greatest misery; in compassion lies the world’s true strength.

- Buddha

***

The inner light glows in peace and meditation.

- Ancient Egyptian proverb

***

For the soul, there is never birth nor death.
Nor, having once been, does he ever cease to be.
He is unborn, eternal, ever-existing, undying and primeval.
He is not slain when the body is slain.

- Bhagavad Gita

The Dreamery Inshore


By Paweł Markiewicz




A dreamed ship has gone aground
at the most marvelous and dreamiest afterglow.
The mast adverts to orientation of
a tender Morning star.
Seafarers died at midnight
feeling the sea-like fantasy.
The wind wrenched a canvas,
such a Golden Fleece,
to the piratical islands.
The sea is waving in
the rhythm of siren-like
Terpsichorean art.
On the sandbank
a letter in bottle lies with
a sonnet to king Poseidon,
written by a dead sailor.
A rock inshore - like
a custodian of the eternity
is waiting for Apollonian dreams.
A cloud is as If it came from
the meek paradise-heaven,
it manifests a weird-like seriousness
of the moments


***




The brief scene from the Cave of Plato


By Paweł Markiewicz



Mortals: A, B, C and D are shackled, pinioned to a crag,
diverted, dreamful


1. Human A: I am frightened at the shades. The people at the fieriness are perilous. There are wardens who are able to kill.
2. Human being B: I am containing myself my dreameries in captivity. My daydreams are hushed.
3. Man C: We control one another at an oration. A shut mouth catches no flies. I am Narcissus and Goldmund.
4. Individual D: And I think already about a liberty afield. I heard of the meek sun.
5. All humans: We commending the Right Philosophy.
6. Homo erectus A: I worshipping the logics without the fear.
7. Neanderthal B: In the night dreams the poetical wings are uncontrolled.
8. Homo habilis C: The ontology of a silence must be still audited.
9. Australopithecus D: Over each fireplace a freedom-like ghost is floating.




Narcissus and Goldmund – according to the Mr. Hesse Hermann, an icon of the conjunction of spirituality and sensuality, a gold mean…



Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.

Above: The Spirit of Christmas by Greg Olsen



Santa’s Boss

By Cher Finver


While standing on my red and white striped stool, I am still the shortest guy on the assembly line.  I punch the eyes into the baby doll heads, as their dead stares mirror my own. This repetitiveness is my punishment. I would do anything to be reinstated to my former position, calling parents to inform them their child is on The Naughty List.
 
When I finish my shift in the Valley of the Dolls, I make my way from the building that houses the toy factory and Parent Call Center to the main living quarters and executive offices. While e-mailing Santa the updated Naughty and Nice Report last week, I mistakenly attached a provocative photo meant for a co-worker. Unfortunately, Santa now knows how my “ornament” dangles.
 
Santa is sitting in his red throne, fully dressed in his Christmas Eve best as he is every day.  Thanks to Elf Union 2425, a job here is secure, but you can be reassigned at any time as I was.
 
“Arthur Elf. I am quite busy. What can I do for you?” Santa’s nose and cheeks are always rosy, but today there is a hint of gin on his breath, and he won’t meet my gaze.
 
“Santa, sir. I wanted to apologize again for my indiscretion and ask to be reinstated as head of the Parent Call Center. Sir.”
 
His bellow can still pierce an elf’s ears. “Ho, ho, ho. No, no, no. Now, get out!”
 
I slowly retreat backward. I consider going to Santa’s boss but decide against it and head back to the elf living quarters.


A year ago, I came to the place that every elf in the world dreams of working, The North Pole. I remember my love from my interview like it was yesterday – her round rump, which I would later nickname “Red Delicious.” Those piercing blue eyes, accented by the delicate oval wire-rimmed glasses. And that crisp frilly white apron? Oh, she can still drive this elf insane.

Cher Finver has published works of fiction, horror, poetry, essays and is the author of the 2017 memoir, But You Look So Good and Other Lies. She lives in Las Vegas, NV with her husband, daughter and three rescue dogs.

The Culture Wars Come to Grover's Falls

(A Conspiracy Theory for the Holidays)
​

by R.D. Ronstad


Scene: It’s a slow, quiet, late December night in the Grover's Falls police station, at the corner of Hohman and Indiana.The Desk Sergeant sits behind his intimidating lectern-like hardwood desk facing the entrance, examining some unattached letter-size papers, turning one over every few seconds. Twenty feet to his left we see a forty-by-sixty foot office space, fluorescent lit, containing two neatly arranged receding rows of desks, each three desks deep. Atop each desk is a computer workstation, the glow from one illuminating the face of a white-shirted—clerk? detective? Sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, he is having a casual conversation with a woman who is leaning back on the right side of his desk, next to him. Every other workstation remains unattended. 

A silver-haired man, about 70, wearing a gray tweed overcoat and long red scarf enters the station, shakes off some snow, stamps his feet, and approaches the Sergeant’s desk.

S: Can I help you?

M: I’d like to report a theft.

S: A theft of what?

M: Christmas. Christmas has been stolen.

S:  So, someone stole gifts from your car? Decorations from your lawn?

M: No. Christmas itself has been stolen. A nefarious conspiracy to hijack the whole Christmas season has finally succeeded.

S: (Playing along—it is a dreadfully slow night): And who do you think is behind this conspiracy?

M: Pagans.

S: Which pagans? Not all of them surely.

M: No. But there's a vast worldwide network of Christmas subversives, some of whom are active in Grover's Falls.

S: Like who?

M: We can start with the owner of Pinehill’s Department Store across the street.

S: What? Why?

M: I was checking out at a register there only five minutes ago. When I wished the cashier a Merry Christmas, she looks at me and smiles and says: “Thank you! And Happy Holidays to you Sir!” I then asked her, as pleasantly as I could, “Young lady, I just wished you a Merry Christmas and meant it sincerely. Could you do me the courtesy of returning my greeting in kind?” “I’m sorry, Sir,” she says. “That would be against store policy. The owner thinks some customers might be put off if I said Merry, er, if I said, you know, that.” It was then I realized Christmas had finally been stolen. I had to do something. I abandoned my cart at the register, filled with house ornaments and a 35-pound bag of Kibbles n' Bits, and marched directly over here. Pagans have stolen Christmas, and those responsible must go down.

S: Hmmm. Who else in Grover's Falls do you suspect?

M: The mayor.

S: The mayor?

M: Yes. This year he finally crossed over to the pagan side and removed the nativity scene from City Hall.

S: Well, I suppose he and the City Council decided they didn’t want to appear to endorse a particular religion. 

M: Puhleeeese! Anyone who thinks separation of Church and State means separation of nativity scene and City Hall has separated common and sense.

S: Maybe. But to get the nativity scene restored you'd likely have to go before a judge. 

M: That...would be pointless. Most judges these days don't have any more common sense than the mayor and Council do. May I go on?

S: By all means.

M: I want to see Santa Claus arrested too.

S: Well, the North Pole is a bit out of my jurisdiction.

M: I’m not talking about a real Santa Claus. I’m talking about the illuminated plastic Santa Claus the mayor replaced the nativity scene with. A pagan symbol if there ever was one. And they talk about separation of Church and State!

S: Pagan? Saint Nick? Pagan?

M: Saint Nick nothing! He’s Odin in disguise. You can Google it.

S:  Wait. Let me get this straight. You want me to arrest a plastic lawn ornament?

M: As a symbolic gesture, yes. It’ll be easy too. You won't even have to say "freeze." Ha!

S: Hmmm. So what about the reindeer? They’re part of the City Hall display too. Should I haul them in?

M: Nah. They wouldn’t fit in a squad car, or even an SUV probably. At least not without bumping their antlers. I know how you guys would hate that. Besides, if you started picking up dumb animals in the plot against Christmas, you’d have to go after the chipmunks.

S: I’m not sure I follow.

M: Never mind...Just get the Santa, please! I'd like nothing more than to see that evil plastic smile and plastic bowl-fulla-jelly gut behind bars. 

 S: You know, I’d kind of like to see that myself.

M: And speaking of bowl-fulla-jelly guts, you should lock up my boss.

S:  Hey, chipmunks...I get it now...Anyway, what has your boss done?

M: When he passed out our office Christmas bonuses a few days ago, all the checks were in envelopes on which he had written “Merry Xmas.”

S: So what, exactly, is the problem.

M: It’s just another pagan ploy, turning “Christmas” into “Xmas.” And discriminatory. Why don't we celebrate New X’s Day? The Xth of July? Xgiving? How would you like it if your wife or girlfriend gave you a card with a big heart on it over which was written “I'm So Glad You're My Xentine?” Ridiculous! But the pagans plant this idea in your mind: “Oh, you’re so busy at Christmastime. So harried. Think of all the time you could save simply by substituting X for C-h-r-i-s-t every time you have to write out a Christmas card or envelope or gift tag.” I know my boss is very busy pretending to be busy, so maybe he’s been duped. But he’s still an accessory. Make him an X-convict (the man draws an “X” in the air using his right index finger) and maybe he’d learn his lesson.

S: Are you saying your boss is a mutant? 

M: Of course not, I...Oh, I see...uh, please, this is no joking matter. Nonetheless I'm glad you made that movie reference, because I almost forgot. I suspect the head of the local TV station is also part of the conspiracy.

S: How’s that?

M: This year, for the second year in a row, her station is showing A Christmas Story for 24 hours straight beginning at 9 PM Christmas Eve.

S:  What’s wrong with that? They didn’t call it An Xmas Story. And it's a cute story.

M: But can't you see? They’re trying to make it the story. By showing it for 24 hours straight spanning Christmas Eve and Christmas Day to people already confused about Christmas, they're hoping to brainwash them into thinking that what they’re seeing is the Christmas story. I'm surprised they haven't already changed the title to The Christmas Story. Mark my words, next year the plastic reindeer will be gone and Santa will be joined by plastic Ralphie Parker and family, with Ralphie being approached by three wise-men bearing gifts—a Daisy BB gun, a Little Orphan Annie decoder ring, and a semi-obscene table lamp.

S: Uh...actually, I think in the movie the table lamp was sent to Old Man Parker. 

M: Yeah. But did you see the way Ralphie looked at that thing?

S: Point taken.

M: Okay then.

S: Well, this certainly has been an illuminating conversation. Have you anything to add before we wrap it up, at least for now? It looks like the Lieutenant over there (nodding to his left toward the woman leaning on the desk, who by her expression apparently has found something amusing) requires my assistance. 

M: No. I think I’ve made my case. And I expect you to take action.

S: Well, actually, most of what you’ve said is speculation and not at all material. As such, I don't think we can help you. But if you discover something more substantial, please do come back and file a report.

The man looks down at the floor as if contemplating the Sergeant's remarks. Then, several seconds having passed, he looks up at the Sergeant again and says...

M: Bah!

He spins on his heels and starts to rush out angrily, almost running into another, younger man who had entered the station moments earlier. The older man stops short of the younger, looks him up and down, then again says...

M: Bah!

...and rushes out.

S: Hello. How may I help you this evening?

YM: (approaching the Sergeant’s desk): Greetings good Sir! I have a message for you from Odin!

A Corona Christmas


by


Gerald Arthur Winter


In the late '40s and early '50s Christmas was a joyous time, but compared to now, most


kids might think it far worse than the pandemic restrictions this season. What if: You got only


an apple or an orange in your stocking and that was considered special? Reese's Pieces didn't


exist and chocolate was rare. Coca Cola was permitted only on Christmas Eve so your teeth


wouldn't rot, because fluoride wasn’t discovered, and even when it was, the conspiracy theory


of the time was that the Communists were brainwashing you through your teeth when you


brushed. Mr. Tooth Decay was a spy sent by Stalin.


An alternate truth of the times, but foolish is foolish no matter what era you live in.


If there was any cash to receive, it was coins, and a quarter meant you were very good.


The wrapped gifts under the tree most often contained something practical: pajamas, socks,


mittens, underwear, slippers, or a bathrobe you'd have to hand down to your little brother in


two years


Sure, we got toys, but little was made of plastic, let alone electronic, other than


Lionel Trains with just one new train car added each year. Oh, for an un-coupler track, a


new switch, or a Plastic Ville building for the town assembled around the three-railed tracks


under the Christmas tree strewn with tinsel.


Toys were mostly made of wood or tin, like blocks and Lincoln Logs, or a sheriff's badge


pinned to your Roy Rogers or Gene Autry shirt. A cap pistol meant Dad had gotten a Christmas


bonus, and the smell of gunpowder after each shot from the pistol stayed in your nose joyfully


for hours.


Games all came in a box with a folding board, like Parcheesi.


An erector set was used to build something, and had nothing to do with ED.


We weren't required to wear a mask for ours or others' wellbeing, but purely for


pleasure. When I got a black mask and a white hat to look like the Lone Ranger, I even


slept with it on every night till New Years.


Though seemingly pure and simple, like then, these hard times might one day


become nostalgic for those fortunate enough not to become deathly ill or succumb to


COVID-19.


Hopefully, today's youth will look back and recall this unfortunate holiday season


and be able to say to their kids and grandkids:


"I remember when we all wore masks so we could hug and kiss our families the


next Christmas. It was a terrible time for all who'd lost those close to their hearts, but


we made a personal, unselfish sacrifice to protect one another. We found simpler ways


to endure for the greater good.


As the commercial used to proclaim:


Jump! It's fun! Jump! It's easy!
Everyone loves to play
PARCHEESI!




_____________

Rich On Five Dollars

By Mir Yashar Seyedbagheri


We count pennies to place in our sack, stored in secret spaces up until now.
It takes so long, each penny falling with a clink. But with each clink, we imagine another clink, and another. We imagine more money, miscalculating in all the best ways.
But after a litany of things, including the rent, utilities, closing out credit cards, and expensive Merlot we needed but didn’t need for sanity, it’s what we predict. Five dollars.
That’ll buy a McChicken. A small Coke. Chips. A couple bags if we raid the vending machines on campus.
At least it’s not two dollars.

Above: First Thanksgiving, Oil Painting by J.L.G. Ferris


Roses and Forget-Me-Nots

By Louisa May Alcott


I-ROSES

It was a cold November storm, and everything looked forlorn. Even the pert sparrows were draggle-tailed and too much out of spirits to fight for crumbs with the fat pigeons who tripped through the mud with their little red boots as if in haste to get back to their cozy home in the dove-cot.

But the most forlorn creature out that day was a small errand girl, with a bonnet-box on each arm, and both hands struggling to hold a big broken umbrella. A pair of worn-out boots let in the wet upon her tired feet; a thin cotton dress and an old shawl poorly protected her from the storm; and a faded hood covered her head.

The face that looked out from this hood was too pale and anxious for one so young; and when a sudden gust turned the old umbrella inside out with a crash, despair fell upon poor Lizzie, and she was so miserable she could have sat down in the rain and cried.

But there was no time for tears; so, dragging the dilapidated umbrella along, she spread her shawl over the bonnet-boxes and hurried down the broad street, eager to hide her misfortunes from a pretty young girl who stood at a window laughing at her.

She could not find the number of the house where one of the fine hats was to be left; and after hunting all down one side of the street, she crossed over, and came at last to the very house where the pretty girl lived. She was no longer to be seen; and, with a sigh of relief, Lizzie rang the bell, and was told to wait in the hall while Miss Belle tried the hat on.

Glad to rest, she warmed her feet, righted her umbrella, and then sat looking about her with eyes quick to see the beauty and the comfort that made the place so homelike and delightful. A small waiting-room opened from the hall, and in it stood many blooming plants, whose fragrance attracted Lizzie as irresistibly as if she had been a butterfly or bee.

Slipping in, she stood enjoying the lovely colors, sweet odors, and delicate shapes of these household spirits; for Lizzie loved flowers passionately; and just then they possessed a peculiar charm for her.

One particularly captivating little rose won her heart, and made her long for it with a longing that became a temptation too strong to resist. It was so perfect; so like a rosy face smiling out from the green leaves, that Lizzie could NOT keep her hands off it, and having smelt, touched, and kissed it, she suddenly broke the stem and hid it in her pocket. Then, frightened at what she had done, she crept back to her place in the hall, and sat there, burdened with remorse.

A servant came just then to lead her upstairs; for Miss Belle wished the hat altered, and must give directions. With her heart in a flutter, and pinker roses in her cheeks than the one in her pocket, Lizzie followed to a handsome room, where a pretty girl stood before a long mirror with the hat in her hand.

"Tell Madame Tifany that I don`t like it at all, for she hasn`t put in the blue plume mamma ordered; and I won`t have rose-buds, they are so common," said the young lady, in a dissatisfied tone, as she twirled the hat about.

"Yes, miss," was all Lizzie could say; for SHE considered that hat the loveliest thing a girl could possibly own.

"You had better ask your mamma about it, Miss Belle, before you give any orders. She will be up in a few moments, and the girl can wait," put in a maid, who was sewing in the ante-room.

"I suppose I must; but I WON`T have roses," answered Belle, crossly. Then she glanced at Lizzie, and said more gently, "You look very cold; come and sit by the fire while you wait."

"I`m afraid I`ll wet the pretty rug, miss; my feet are sopping," said Lizzie, gratefully, but timidly.

"So they are! Why didn`t you wear rubber boots?"

"I haven`t got any."

"I`ll give you mine, then, for I hate them; and as I never go out in wet weather, they are of no earthly use to me. Marie, bring them here; I shall be glad to get rid of them, and I`m sure they`ll be useful to you."

"Oh, thank you, miss! I`d like `em ever so much, for I`m out in the rain half the time, and get bad colds because my boots are old," said Lizzie, smiling brightly at the thought of the welcome gift.

"I should think your mother would get you warmer things," began Belle, who found something rather interesting in the shabby girl, with shy bright eyes, and curly hair bursting out of the old hood.

"I haven`t got any mother," said Lizzie, with a pathetic glance at her poor clothes.

"I`m so sorry! Have you brothers and sisters?" asked Belle, hoping to find something pleasant to talk about; for she was a kind little soul.

"No, miss; I`ve got no folks at all."

"Oh, dear; how sad! Why, who takes care of you?" cried Belle, looking quite distressed.

"No one; I take care of myself. I work for Madame, and she pays me a dollar a week. I stay with Mrs. Brown, and chore round to pay for my keep. My dollar don`t get many clothes, so I can`t be as neat as I`d like." And the forlorn look came back to poor Lizzie`s face.

Belle said nothing, but sat among the sofa cushions, where she had thrown herself, looking soberly at this other girl, no older than she was, who took care of herself and was all alone in the world. It was a new idea to Belle, who was loved and petted as an only child is apt to be. She often saw beggars and pitied them, but knew very little about their wants and lives; so it was like turning a new page in her happy life to be brought so near to poverty as this chance meeting with the milliner`s girl.

"Aren`t you afraid and lonely and unhappy?" she said, slowly, trying to understand and put herself in Lizzie`s place.

"Yes; but it`s no use. I can`t help it, and may be things will get better by and by, and I`ll have my wish," answered Lizzie, more hopefully, because Belle`s pity warmed her heart and made her troubles seem lighter.

"What is your wish?" asked Belle, hoping mamma wouldn`t come just yet, for she was getting interested in the stranger.

"To have a nice little room, and make flowers, like a French girl I know. It`s such pretty work, and she gets lots of money, for every one likes her flowers. She shows me how, sometimes, and I can do leaves first-rate; but--"

There Lizzie stopped suddenly, and the color rushed up to her forehead; for she remembered the little rose in her pocket and it weighed upon her conscience like a stone.

Before Belle could ask what was the matter, Marie came in with a tray of cake and fruit, saying:

"Here`s your lunch, Miss Belle."

"Put it down, please; I`m not ready for it yet."

And Belle shook her head as she glanced at Lizzie, who was staring hard at the fire with such a troubled face that Belle could not bear to see it.

Jumping out of her nest of cushions, she heaped a plate with good things, and going to Lizzie, offered it, saying, with a gentle courtesy that made the act doubly sweet:

"Please have some; you must be tired of waiting."

But Lizzie could not take it; she could only cover her face and cry; for this kindness rent her heart and made the stolen flower a burden too heavy to be borne.

"Oh, don`t cry so! Are you sick? Have I been rude? Tell me all about it; and if I can`t do anything, mamma can," said Belle, surprised and troubled.

"No; I`m not sick; I`m bad, and I can`t bear it when you are so good to me," sobbed Lizzie, quite overcome with penitence; and taking out the crumpled rose, she confessed her fault with many tears.

"Don`t feel so much about such a little thing as that," began Belle, warmly; then checked herself, and added, more soberly, "It WAS wrong to take it without leave; but it`s all right now, and I`ll give you as many roses as you want, for I know you are a good girl."

"Thank you. I didn`t want it only because it was pretty, but I wanted to copy it. I can`t get any for myself, and so I can`t do my make-believe ones well. Madame won`t even lend me the old ones in the store, and Estelle has none to spare for me, because I can`t pay her for teaching me. She gives me bits of muslin and wire and things, and shows me now and then. But I know if I had a real flower I could copy it; so she`d see I did know something, for I try real hard. I`m SO tired of slopping round the streets, I`d do anything to earn my living some other way."

Lizzie had poured out her trouble rapidly; and the little story was quite affecting when one saw the tears on her cheeks, the poor clothes, and the thin hands that held the stolen rose. Belle was much touched, and, in her impetuous way, set about mending matters as fast as possible.

"Put on those boots and that pair of dry stockings right away. Then tuck as much cake and fruit into your pocket as it will hold. I`m going to get you some flowers, and see if mamma is too busy to attend to me."

With a nod and a smile, Belle flew about the room a minute; then vanished, leaving Lizzie to her comfortable task, feeling as if fairies still haunted the world as in the good old times.

When Belle came back with a handful of roses, she found Lizzie absorbed in admiring contemplation of her new boots, as she ate sponge-cake in a blissful sort of waking-dream.

"Mamma can`t come; but I don`t care about the hat. It will do very well, and isn`t worth fussing about. There, will those be of any use to you?" And she offered the nosegay with a much happier face than the one Lizzie first saw.

"Oh, miss, they`re just lovely! I`ll copy that pink rose as soon as ever I can, and when I`ve learned how to do `em tip-top, I`d like to bring you some, if you don`t mind," answered Lizzie, smiling all over her face as she buried her nose luxuriously in the fragrant mass.

"I`d like it very much, for I should think you`d have to be very clever to make such pretty things. I really quite fancy those rosebuds in my hat, now I know that you`re going to learn how to make them. Put an orange in your pocket, and the flowers in water as soon as you can, so they`ll be fresh when you want them. Good-by. Bring home our hats every time and tell me how you get on."

With kind words like these, Belle dismissed Lizzie, who ran downstairs, feeling as rich as if she had found a fortune. Away to the next place she hurried, anxious to get her errands done and the precious posy safely into fresh water. But Mrs. Turretviile was not at home, and the bonnet could not be left till paid for. So Lizzie turned to go down the high steps, glad that she need not wait. She stopped one instant to take a delicious sniff at her flowers, and that was the last happy moment that poor Lizzie knew for many weary months.

The new boots were large for her, the steps slippery with sleet, and down went the little errand girl, from top to bottom, till she landed in the gutter directly upon Mrs. Turretville`s costly bonnet.

"I`ve saved my posies, anyway," sighed Lizzie, as she picked herself up, bruised, wet, and faint with pain; "but, oh, my heart! won`t Madame scold when she sees that band-box smashed flat," groaned the poor child, sitting on the curbstone to get her breath and view the disaster.

The rain poured, the wind blew, the sparrows on the park railing chirped derisively, and no one came along to help Lizzie out of her troubles. Slowly she gathered up her burdens; painfully she limped away in the big boots; and the last the naughty sparrows saw of her was a shabby little figure going round the corner, with a pale, tearful face held lovingly over the bright bouquet that was her one treasure and her only comfort in the moment which brought to her the great misfortune of her life.


II. Forget Me Nots

"Oh, mamma, I am so relieved that the box has come at last! If it had not, I do believe I should have died of disappointment," cried pretty Belle, five years later, on the morning before her eighteenth birthday.

"It would have been a serious disappointment, darling; for I had sot my heart on your wearing my gift to-morrow night, and when the steamers kept coming in without my trunk from Paris, I was very anxious. I hope you will like it."

"Dear mamma, I know I shall like it; your taste is so good and you know what suits me so well. Make haste, Marie; I`m dying to see it," said Belle, dancing about the great trunk, as the maid carefully unfolded tissue papers and muslin wrappers.

A young girl`s first ball-dress is a grand affair,--in her eyes, at least; and Belle soon stopped dancing, to stand with clasped hands, eager eyes and parted lips before the snowy pile of illusion that was at last daintily lifted out upon the bed. Then, as Marie displayed its loveliness, little cries of delight were heard, and when the whole delicate dress was arranged to the best effect she threw herself upon her mother`s neck and actually cried with pleasure.

"Mamma, it is too lovely and you are very kind to do so much for me. How shall I ever thank you?"

"By putting it right on to see if it fits; and when you wear it look your happiest, that I may be proud of my pretty daughter."

Mamma got no further, for Marie uttered a French shriek, wrung her hands, and then began to burrow wildly in the trunk and among the papers, crying distractedly:

"Great Heavens, madame! the wreath has been forgotten! What an affliction! Mademoiselle`s enchanting toilette is destroyed without the wreath, and nowhere do I find it."

In vain they searched; in vain Marie wailed and Belle declared it must be somewhere; no wreath appeared. It was duly set down in the bill, and a fine sum charged for a head-dress to match the dainty forget-me-nots that looped the fleecy skirts and ornamented the bosom of the dress. It had evidently been forgotten; and mamma dispatched Marie at once to try and match the flowers, for Belle would not hear of any other decoration for her beautiful blonde hair.

The dress fitted to a charm, and was pronounced by all beholders the loveliest thing ever seen. Nothing was wanted but the wreath to make it quite perfect, and when Marie returned, after a long search, with no forget-me-nots, Belle was in despair.

"Wear natural ones," suggested a sympathizing friend.

But another hunt among greenhouses was as fruitless as that among the milliners` rooms. No forget-me-nots could be found, and Marie fell exhausted into a chair, desolated at what she felt to be an awful calamity.

"Let me have the carriage, and I`ll ransack the city till I find some," cried Belle, growing more resolute with each failure.

Mamma was deep in preparations for the ball, and could not help her afflicted daughter, though she was much disappointed at the mishap. So Belle drove off, resolved to have her flowers whether there were any or not.

Any one who has ever tried to match a ribbon, find a certain fabric, or get anything done in a hurry, knows what a wearisome task it sometimes is, and can imagine Belle`s state of mind after repeated disappointments. She was about to give up in despair, when someone suggested that perhaps the Frenchwoman, Estelle Valnor, might make the desired wreath, if there was time.

Away drove Belle, and, on entering the room, gave a sigh of satisfaction, for a whole boxful of the loveliest forget-me-nots stood upon the table. As fast as possible, she told her tale and demanded the flowers, no matter what the price might be. Imagine her feelings when the Frenchwoman, with a shrug, announced that it was impossible to give mademoiselle a single spray. All were engaged to trim a bridesmaid`s dress, and must be sent away at once.

It really was too bad! and Belle lost her temper entirely, for no persuasion or bribes would win a spray from Estelle. The provoking part of it was that the wedding would not come off for several days, and there was time enough to make more flowers for that dress, since Belle only wanted a few for her hair. Neither would Estelle make her any, as her hands were full, and so small an order was not worth deranging one`s self for; but observing Belle`s sorrowful face, she said, affably:

"Mademoiselle may, perhaps, find the flowers she desires at Miss Berton`s. She has been helping me with these garlands, and may have some left. Here is her address."

Belle took the card with thanks, and hurried away with a last hope faintly stirring in her girlish heart, for Belle had an unusually ardent wish to look her best at this party, since Somebody was to be there, and Somebody considered forget-me-nots the sweetest flowers in the world. Mamma knew this, and the kiss Belle gave her when the dress came had a more tender meaning than gratified vanity or daughterly love.

Up many stairs she climbed, and came at last to a little room, very poor but very neat, where, at the one window, sat a young girl, with crutches by her side and her lap full of flower-leaves and petals. She rose slowly as Belle came in, and then stood looking at her, with such a wistful expression in her shy, bright eyes, that Belle`s anxious face cleared involuntarily, and her voice lost its impatient tone.

As she spoke, she glanced about the room, hoping to see some blue blossoms awaiting her. But none appeared; and she was about to despond again, when the girl said, gently:

"I have none by me now, but I may be able to find you some."

"Thank you very much; but I have been everywhere in vain. Still, if you do get any, please send them to me as soon as possible. Here is my card."

Miss Berton glanced at it, then cast a quick look at the sweet, anxious face before her, and smiled so brightly that Belle smiled also, and asked, wonderingly:

"What is it? What do you see?"

"I see the dear young lady who was so kind to me long ago. You don`t remember me, and never knew my name; but I never have forgotten you all these years. I always hoped I could do something to show how grateful I was, and now I can, for you shall have your flowers if I sit up all night to make them."

But Belle still shook her head and watched the smiling face before her with wondering eyes, till the girl added, with sudden color in her cheeks:

"Ah, you`ve done so many kind things in your life, you don`t remember the little errand girl from Madame Tifany`s who stole a rose in your hall, and how you gave her rubber boots and cake and flowers, and were so good to her she couldn`t forget it if she lived to be a hundred."

"But you are so changed," began Belle, who did faintly recollect that little incident in her happy life.

"Yes, I had a fall and hurt myself so that I shall always be lame."

And Lizzie went on to tell how Madame had dismissed her in a rage; how she lay ill till Mrs. Brown sent her to the hospital; and how for a year she had suffered much alone, in that great house of pain, before one of the kind visitors had befriended her.

While hearing the story of the five years that had been so full of pleasure, ease and love for herself, Belle forgot her errand, and, sitting beside Lizzie, listened with pitying eyes to all she told of her endeavors to support herself by the delicate handiwork she loved.

"I`m very happy now," ended Lizzie, looking about the little bare room with a face full of the sweetest content. "I get nearly work enough to pay my way, and Estelle sends me some when she has more than she can do. I`ve learned to do it nicely, and it is so pleasant to sit here and make flowers instead of trudging about in the wet with other people`s hats. Though I do sometimes wish I was able to trudge, one gets on so slowly with crutches."

A little sigh followed the words, and Belle put her own plump hand on the delicate one that held the crutch, saying, in her cordial young voice:

"I`ll come and take you to drive sometimes, for you are too pale, and you`ll get ill sitting here at work day after day. Please let me; I`d love to; for I feel so idle and wicked when I see busy people like you that I reproach myself for neglecting my duty and having more than my share of happiness."

Lizzie thanked her with a look, and then said, in a tone of interest that was delightful to hear:

"Tell about the wreath you want; I should so love to do it for you, if I can."

Belle had forgotten all about it in listening to this sad little story of a girl`s life. Now she felt half ashamed to talk of so frivolous a matter till she remembered that it would help Lizzie; and, resolving to pay for it as never garland was paid for before, she entered upon the subject with renewed interest.

"You shall have the flowers in time for your ball tomorrow night. I will engage to make a wreath that will please you, only it may take longer than I think. Don`t be troubled if I don`t send it till evening; it will surely come in time. I can work fast, and this will be the happiest job I ever did," said Lizzie, beginning to lay out mysterious little tools and bend delicate wires.

"You are altogether too grateful for the little I have done. It makes me feel ashamed to think I did not find you out before and do something better worth thanks."

"Ah, it wasn`t the boots or the cake or the roses, dear Miss Belle. It was the kind looks, the gentle words, the way it was done, that went right to my heart, and did me more good than a million of money. I never stole a pin after that day, for the little rose wouldn`t let me forget how you forgave me so sweetly. I sometimes think it kept me from greater temptations, for I was a poor, forlorn child, with no one to keep me good."

Pretty Belle looked prettier than ever as she listened, and a bright tear stood in either eye like a drop of dew on a blue flower. It touched her very much to learn that her little act of childish charity had been so sweet and helpful to this lonely girl, and now lived so freshly in her grateful memory. It showed her, suddenly, how precious little deeds of love and sympathy are; how strong to bless, how easy to perform, how comfortable to recall. Her heart was very full and tender just then, and the lesson sunk deep into it never to be forgotten.

She sat a long time watching flowers bud and blossom under Lizzie`s skilful fingers, and then hurried home to tell all her glad news to mamma.

If the next day had not been full of most delightfully exciting events, Belle might have felt some anxiety about her wreath, for hour after hour went by and nothing arrived from Lizzie.

Evening came, and all was ready. Belle was dressed, and looked so lovely that mamma declared she needed nothing more. But Marie insisted that the grand effect would be ruined without the garland among the sunshiny hair. Belle had time now to be anxious, and waited with growing impatience for the finishing touch to her charming toilette.

"I must be downstairs to receive, and can`t wait another moment; so put in the blue pompon and let me go," she said at last, with a sigh of disappointment, for the desire to look beautiful that night in Somebody`s eyes had increased four-fold.

With a tragic gesture, Marie was about to adjust the pompon when the quick tap of a crutch came down the hall, and Lizzie hurried in, flushed and breathless, but smiling happily as she uncovered the box she carried with a look of proud satisfaction.

A general "Ah!" of admiration arose as Belle, mamma, and Marie surveyed the lovely wreath that lay before them; and when it was carefully arranged on the bright head that was to wear it, Belle blushed with pleasure. Mamma said: "It is more beautiful than any Paris could have sent us;" and Marie clasped her hands theatrically, sighing, with her head on one side:

"Truly, yes; mademoiselle is now adorable!"

"I am so glad you like it. I did my very best and worked all night, but I had to beg one spray from Estelle, or, with all my haste, I could not have finished in time," said Lizzie, refreshing her weary eyes with a long, affectionate gaze at the pretty figure before her.

A fold of the airy skirt was caught on one of the blue clusters, and Lizzie knelt down to arrange it as she spoke. Belle leaned toward her and said softly: "Money alone can`t pay you for this kindness; so tell me how I can best serve you. This is the happiest night of my life, and I want to make every one feel glad also."

"Then don`t talk of paying me, but promise that I may make the flowers you wear on your wedding-day," whispered Lizzie, kissing the kind hand held out to help her rise, for on it she saw a brilliant ring, and in the blooming, blushing face bent over her she read the tender little story that Somebody had told Belle that day.

"So you shall! and I'll keep this wreath all my life for your sake, dear," answered Belle, as her full heart bubbled over with pitying affection for the poor girl who would never make a bridal garland for herself.

Belle kept her word, even when she was in a happy home of her own; for out of the dead roses bloomed a friendship that brightened Lizzie`s life; and long after the blue garland was faded Belle remembered the helpful little lesson that taught her to read the faces poverty touches with a pathetic eloquence, which says to those who look, "Forget-me-not."

TUFFY’S HALLOWEEN
​
Phyllis Houseman


Before I tell you about my encounter with Tuffy, you should know a little about my background. I’m a biologist–well, I’m a biology teacher. Okay, I’m a former biology teacher who burned out and did a mid-life sidestep into another career. All right, I’m a romance novelist; I’ve published five books.
My fourth book takes place on Mount St. Helens, and it’s true there is a ghost in it–the hero’s first wife.
All of this doesn’t take away from the fact that until last year. I didn’t believe in spirits. I’d studied the nitty-gritty of biological mechanisms, the micro-world of DNA and genetics. And nowhere in those miracles had I ever seen any evidence of life-after-death.
Then, I visited my former Peace Corps partner, Tricia. We kept in touch. However, since we both moved around a lot, we had not seen each other since coming back from South America.
But when my family relocated to the San Francisco area, we were delighted that Tricia and her husband Taylor lived only twenty miles away from us. They had a house in Berkeley, designed by Julia Morgan, who also did a little cottage for William Randolph Hearst called San Simeon.
While not in that league, Tricia’s home was high in the hills and commanded a magnificent view of San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge.
Early on one Halloween evening, we went to visit Tricia and Taylor. When my husband Jack and I approached their locked gate, we noticed an intercom attached to the adjacent garage, along with a large bowl filled with a variety of candy on the cement driveway.
. While Jack activated the device and announced our arrival, I stood on tiptoes, looking up over the solid gate, to the slope where the three-storied house perched at the highest elevation. I saw that a path of set-in railroad ties led up to the front door and a sturdy redwood-planked fence surrounded the large front yard. I could see why the candy had been left near the garage–it would be quite a hike up to the house for Trick or Treating children.
My gaze zeroed in on a small, white dog scampering down the wooden steps. It reminded me of Sandy, the little poodle we had many years ago.
The animal reached the entrance with joyous yips of welcome, scratching at the wood. A few seconds later, Tricia and Taylor came out of the front door and hurried down toward us. My attention fixed on them as Taylor unlocked the access and ushered us into the yard.
It wasn’t until we had exchanged greetings and started up the path that I realized their pet was not with us.
“Where did your dog go, Tricia?” I asked, looking around the yard enclosed in its redwood fencing. “I hope it didn’t get out to the street.”
“Dog?” Tricia appeared puzzled.
“The little white one who just came down from your house.”
I explained what had happened when we first approached their entry, and Jack confirmed hearing the yapping and scratching, although he hadn’t seen the animal.
“Oh, my God,” Tricia whispered, her sudden pallor obvious, even in the growing dusk. She turned to Taylor, who was shaking his head.
“Tricia, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, my God,” she repeated. “That’s the way Tuffy always greeted people. He was a white miniature poodle.”
“Wonderful, he must have found his way back home,” I said, thinking he had run away, and had just returned.
“No, you don’t understand,” Tricia countered. “Tuffy had cancer. He was in such awful pain we had to put him to sleep six weeks ago.”
We all looked around the yard, searching in the deepening shadows, but none of us saw even a hint of anything small and white. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to feel neck hair rise, but we went inside to eat dinner, talk of the present and remember our past.
Tricia and Taylor have since moved to Sedona, Arizona. We exchanged cards last Christmas. But I’ve often had the urge to contact Tricia and ask if Tuffy came along with them to the high desert, or if he stayed back home in Berkeley, to enjoy the wonderful vistas from the Julia Morgan house, while waiting to welcome his next visitors.

The Monster Came in Human Form

By Angela Camack 



I – 95, December 22, 1990
Hannah had one annoying quirk (well, probably more, but …). She hated long distance driving. She could manage driving around town, but the thought of metal objects of several tons careening at high speeds seemed to rush to certain disaster. So Nathan willingly assumed the task, leaving her in charge of maps, music and snacks.
That was the least of the things she and Wendy lost when they lost Nathan, kind, funny Nathan. He was a history professor at Sewanee University, rigorous but fair. For Nathan, history was never the past, but a link to the most basic elements of modern life. His students griped about his reading list but loved him anyhow.
He had been complaining of a headache for two days. Hannah urged him to see a doctor rather than eating Tylenol. He grumbled and agreed, promising to make an appointment as soon as the doctor’s office opened, and left for his classes. He got as far as his second class. Midway he stopped the lesson cold. He grabbed his temples, muttered a garbled string of words and collapsed. One student broke the sudden silence to get help. The ambulance workers were prompt and diligent, but he was probably dead of the aneurysm that killed him before he hit the floor.
Her sweet Nathan, her other half, gone, taken by something wrong in his amazing brain. She had little time to nurse her guilt (why didn’t she drag him to the emergency room, why didn’t she realize the problem earlier?). She had decisions to make and a six-year-old to care for. Poor,
confused Wendy, trying to understand what happened, asking when her father was coming home, sitting on the swings talking to Nathan in heaven.
What should she do, with her part-time school counselor salary and a mortgage? She and Nathan had sensible insurance and a savings account, but neither of them thought mortality would come this soon. Surely, there was time. And then there wasn’t.
Right now, deciding was shelved for the holidays. She had to get herself and Wendy to both sets of grandparents in New Jersey. Christmas Eve with her in-laws and Christmas Day with her parents, who, knowing her hatred of driving, begged her to fly.
But flying was expensive at a time when money problems loomed, and she hated the thought of chugging along on a bus or train during the holidays. She had to face up to her new responsibilities. So, with a full tank, three suitcases, snacks, Wendy’s favorite doll, her favorite CD’s, a trunk full of presents from “Santa” and to her family and a stomach full of bumblebees, she and Wendy set out.
The first day wasn’t bad. They left early, made good time and never got lost. They checked into their hotel late in the afternoon. Wendy was enchanted by the little soaps, the paper-wrapped glasses, and the ruinously expensive snacks in the minibar.
After a good night’s sleep, the next day started much as the first. But traffic was denser. She pulled around a slow car, almost clipping a car that was in her blind spot. The driver responded with a deafening blast of his horn as she quickly pulled back into her lane. “Jeez!”
“What was that, Mommy?”
“Just an excited driver, honey.”
The car pulled up even with hers, an older car with several dents and patches of primer. Even from her seat she could see the driver’s mouth move as he cursed. She tried to signal an apology, but he was heedless. She kept in her lane, expecting him to pass.
But the car kept pace with hers. She slowed slightly, but he stayed beside her, exactly parallel. What was he doing?
She couldn’t maneuver. She’d slow, hoping he’d pass. He’d slow. She’d speed up, he’d keep pace. He’d pull up beside her, then drop behind, following close to her bumper. Didn’t anyone notice? She thought about braking, but he might hit her. If she pulled off, he might pull off too.
Maybe if he realized she had a child in the car … if Wendy could just sit a little higher …
“Wendy, can you pull the visor down on your side?” As far as her seat belt would let her, Wendy hiked up and pulled the visor down. “Thanks.”
No change. Either he didn’t see Wendy or didn’t care. Dear lord, how long can he keep this up? How long can I?
Cold sweat began to coat her brow and her hands shook. She was locked in a macabre dance with a stranger, and she had no idea why he was dancing or how to make him stop, Measure one, cling to her bumper. Measure two, pull up beside her as long as he could until another car had to pass. Measure three, pull in front of her until she had to slow down, then repeat. For emphasis, a few staccato taps on the horn when he was behind her.
Should she leave the interstate? She tried to remember which exits led to populated areas. Fear iced the bottom of her stomach and now sweat began to trickle down her back. There was no way out, just to hope that traffic stayed heavy enough so that this maniac couldn’t push her off the road.
She’d planned to stop for lunch and top off the gas tank at midday. He would lose interest during the time it took for them to eat lunch. She held on for the ¾ hour it took to get to the rest stop. Both she and the car could refuel and surely, the man would be gone. Please, let him be gone. For now, the dance continued. Pull close, lurk beside her, then pull in front, cause her to slow. Her breath came in short bursts from the top of her lungs and her hands trembled on the wheel. She saw Wendy watching her. Had she picked up on her fear?
Finally they reached the exit for the rest stop. She filled the tank and they sat down for lunch. For the first time in an hour she took a deep breath. He would be gone by the time they were done. Only a crazy man … no, he would be gone.
She and Wendy used the restroom. At the exit door, she stopped short. There he was. It was the first time she had really seen him. He was heavy set, in wrinkled clothing. His hair was damp-looking, slicked back. His face was pale and waxy, inorganic.
“Wendy, why don’t you take a little walk and look at the toys in the window of that shop? We still have a ways to go and you can stretch a little. I want to look at the maps.”
Keeping Wendy in sight, she walked over to him.” “Look, I’m sorry I was careless. I’m sorry I put you in danger. But it was a mistake, a mistake anyone can make. You’re putting all of us in danger now, including my child.”
His face didn’t change. “You bitches can’t drive. You should stay off the roads.” She felt a flare of anger but punched it down, like bread for a second rising. “Ain’t you got no man to drive?”
“The “man” died a few months ago.” Maybe that would tap some human part of him. No change.
“Surely you can see that you’re not making sense.”
“Surely you can see you should be off the road,” he said, mimicking her.
She had made it worse. He had taken her measure, seen her as his enemy. A woman, with an educated voice. Dressed casually, but in clothing made to last, soft leather boots, hair expertly tended to fall into place, driving a late-model car. She could feel the sizzle of his resentment.
“You’re the real danger now, don’t you understand that? Her voice rose, and Wendy looked over. Hannah took her hand and they left the rest stop.
By chance a State Trooper was leaving at the same time. “Excuse me … I need help.”
“What can I do, ma’am?”
Hoping she didn’t sound crazy, she outlined her problem and described the car. “I’ll follow you to the state line and keep an eye out for the car and pull him over. If he sees me first, he’ll probably quit the game and leave you alone.” He smiled and ruffled Wendy’s hair. “You have a beautiful little girl you’re worried about, I see.”
He seemed the picture of strength and competence. She nearly hugged him but didn’t want to seem as hysterical as she felt. They walked to the car.
“Mommy, why is that man going to follow us? Why are you worried?” Oh, brother.
“Traffic’s going to get a little heavier now, and the ramp back to the interstate is tricky. It’ll help to have a police officer nearby.”
Wendy didn’t look convinced, but she got into the car and they drove off. There was no sign of the other car. At the state line the trooper tapped his horn and waved.
They had gone five miles when the car appeared beside her. Dear God, what now? Was there any choice other than to push on to her in-laws? She’d never make it. What would he do follow her there? Get her license plate number and try to find her?
All day Hannah held fear. Now fear held Hannah. Her heart began to pound as the deadly waltz continued. Don’t waste energy thinking ahead, she thought. Just continue this dance. Watch the road and keep safe. You have a child to protect. Had it not been for Wendy, she thought, she would have pulled off the road just to end this unbearable tension.
The miles wore on. The weather grew colder and mistier. Soon the roads would start to ice. She almost started to cry but checked herself. Wendy was dozing, thank heavens.
The waltz continued. Her mind clicked through the possibilities, to pull off, to exit, to up her speed and try to leave him behind … nothing seemed workable.
Was it desperate-measures time? The exit ahead, she remembered, had a wide turnoff that lead almost directly to an entrance back to I-95. It was also near an always-busy combination gas station/convenience store. If she pulled off quickly enough, she could get back on the interstate and leave him behind. If that wasn’t possible, she would go to the gas station and call the police.
Slow down on the icing road and pull off safely. See him pull of behind you. Now, spin the wheel, the car makes tight U-turns, and the brakes are good, but don’t speed. Now, to the entrance, quickly. Was he behind her? No. But she heard the screech of brakes (the rusty, primered car, probably none of it was in good shape), a crash, the tinkle of glass. He had taken the exit too quickly and had lost control of the car. He must have hit a telephone pole.
No longer was there a rusty, dented car behind her. Breathing became easy again, then caught almost immediately. What had she caused?
No, none of it was her fault. But when she saw a telephone booth ahead, she called the accident in.
There was nothing else to think about, just getting to her in-laws. Leaving the Interstate, following smaller roads, finally pulling into the driveway.
Her father-in-law was on the porch before she could ring the bell. Nathan’s death had changed him. He looked smaller, almost as grey has his sweater.
Wendy was out of the car immediately. “Poppy!”
“Well, hello, sweetie, you get taller every time I see you! Hannah, honey how are you? You look tired.” Oh, “Poppy,” you have no idea.
Her mother-in-law was at the door as well, looking diminished, looking strained. Suitcases in, bathroom, call to her parents.
“Was everything alright? We expected you a little sooner.”
“No, everything was fine. Traffic was heavy in places, and there was an accident – “
“What happened?
“No, no, I saw an accident at one of the exits. I stopped at a pay phone to call the police.”
“Well, that was so nice of you.” (No. Not nice at all.)
“Mommy’s friend told her that if the interstate was an airport assholes would fly,” said Wendy solemnly. Perfect. Couldn’t remember to brush her teeth but could remember everything she overheard.
“Well, dinner is all ready.” She took Wendy off to wash her hands.
“Do you want some wine with dinner, Hannah?”
“Yes, please.” Damn the tremor in her voice and her shaking hands.
He looked at her for a moment, then replaced her wine glass with a tumbler, pouring her a generous shot of single-malt scotch. “Is everything really alright, Hannah?”
“Oh, yes.” She forced a laugh. “You know what a wimpy driver I am. The drive home will be easier.”
He didn’t seem convinced, but let it go. Perhaps sometimes she could tell him. Could tell someone.
Dinner and the rest of the evening passed. They caught up, talking about almost everything but the shared grief that hovered around them. That would come later; for now, there was a holiday to save. Wendy’s bedtime came. Hannah was able to claim fatigue to go to bed at 9:30.
Wendy was asleep. She sat down carefully on the other bed, trying to make sense of the day. What had she done? She had protected herself and her child. What could she have done differently? But he could be dead or seriously injured. What if she hadn’t acted? He could have followed them until his anger turned into blind rage, or he could have finally gotten bored, or –
Too many ors.
She felt an unexpected dart of pity for him. What caused him to act the way he did? Was there some frustration that caused him to act against strangers? Some tragedy that had marked him? Or was he simply evil, undeserving of any sympathy?
In the end, she had to get through this night, this holiday, this loss. She had saved herself and her child. That’s what she would cling to.
Like everything else, you couldn’t see around the bend in the road, just like she couldn’t have seen what would happen to her today, or what happened to Nathan. You coped. End of story. And she would. She slipped into her bed across from Wendy’s.

The Tilted Tombstone


by
Gerald Arthur Winter


An early frost and a nor’easter defoliated what was left of autumn’s brilliance
leaving the backdrop of an eight-year-old’s already abysmal life colorless. Black and
various shades of grey were the only defining characteristics of Joey’s daily routine.
The first snow wouldn’t come till December to cleanse his depressing landscape.
Last December snow had drape his oppressive gloom with pristine white crystals
sparkling outside his window beneath the glow of a full moon.
But tomorrow would be the first festivities held since the first day of school
back in September. All Saints’ Day, All Hallows Eve, more commonly called Halloween,
would commence tomorrow. All the kids in Joey’s class bragged in the cafeteria about
what their costumes would be. He decided to be different, but kept his idea a secret
shared only with his two best friends, Tommy and Billy.
The idea came to Joey when the threesome gathered in the cemetery behind
Old Ponds Church, a landmark that predated the American Revolution. Nowadays, less
than fifty worshipers attended the old stone church every Sunday. Their congregation
had no one under seventy years old, so there were no weddings held there, and no
Sunday school classes in the basement, not for the past two centuries. A conversation
piece for tourist passing through Joey’s quaint little town and stopping at the traffic light
adjacent to the church was an old sign that read in calligraphy:
Sunday School
held in the basement
9:00 a.m
October 31, 1820
Be prompt
or
be shamed!


The night before Halloween, Tommy, Billy and Joey snuck out of their bedroom
windows, a more daring task for Joey from the second floor with a leap to a thick apple
tree branch and a precarious shimmy down its gnarly trunk. The boys had to duck and
crawl their way concealed by neighborhood shrubs to avoid the cops patrolling in force
on “Goosey Night.” The night before Halloween was when older kids played mischief
with shaving cream, wax, and toilet paper. They even lit ashcans and cherry bombs to
terrorize the neighborhood with explosions from illegal fireworks their parents had
smuggled to New Jersey from a Florida road trip last summer.
If caught by the cops, kids just got put in a squad car and driven home. If
caught by a gang of older boys, sometimes girls, too, they’d beat the crap out of
younger kids with pillow cases filled with flour, or occasionally with stones.
A few years ago, a kid Joey’s age took a penknife out on Goosey Night for
protection from the older kids, but he stabbed someone and Joey never heard about
him again. He asked his folks about it for months, but they were mum on the mysterious
vanishing of Ricky O’Neill. Joey only thought about Rickey on Goosey Night, so by the
time he was too old to go trick-or-treating, he never thought about Ricky’s disappearance
again.
* * *
Meeting in the cemetery on Goosey Night, the three boys shared a Camel
cigarette, passing it back and forth as if it were weed like the older kids did, but they
weren’t into that yet, what a black kid in their class called “ganja.”
Instead they each took turns inhaling their moms’ hairspray. Billy had gotten
the idea from his older brother who was sixteen, but now confined to Bergen Pines
mental ward. Older kids called Bergen Pines “The Roach Motel.” Kids checked in,
but never checked out. There were rumors that Ricky O’Neil had been sent there.
“OK, Joey. What’s your big secret?” Tommy asked. “Whatcha gonna be
tomorrow night for Halloween.”
“Yeah, Joey. Ya coulda just showed us tomorrow,” Billy said, his eyes
dilated from his last inhale of aerosol.
“Check out the tombstone behind you.”
Dumbfounded with glassy-eyed stares, they turned around to see the
infamous tombstone they had heard about in school since kindergarten. An
eight-year-old boy, Jedidiah Cromwell, had been invited by his Sunday school
teacher, Miss Abagail Sweeney, to attend a Halloween gathering of his Sunday
school class two hundred years ago. The boy never returned home, but various
body parts had been left at the doorsteps of different members of the Old Stone
Church congregation every Halloween since.
Of course, the original body parts lasted only a few years, but someone,
a mock copycat killer, and his or her heirs to the horror, had continued the
gory tradition every year since. Even in the best of times, the least offensive
fake remnant of third-grader, Jedidiah Cromwell, had been a bloody lamb shank
left in School Superintendent, Clara Ogilvy’s mail box.
The prime suspect in that caper had been Teddy Shultz, the German
butcher’s son, but he denied it to the end, so that cold case in local town lore
remained open.
Billy had the best grades of the three, so naturally he deduced, “Hey,
Tommy, our boy Joey’s gonna scare the crap outta all the girls in our class
as Jedidiah Cromwell. Cool beans. Joey.
Tommy just trembled, more from the aerosol than Joey’s surprise.
“Ya gonna use a lot a ketchup to look all bloody?” Tommy asked.
“You bet. I’ve been plannin’ this for weeks. I’ll tuck one arm inside
my belt so it looks like it’s been hacked off, and I made a fake arm out of
papier-mâché, to carry with my free arm to throw at the girls, especially
that stuck-up, Linda Banker. Can’t wait to hear her scream.”
“Glad you clued us in, Joey,” Billy said with a semi-conscious shrug.
“If you chucked your bloody arm at me, I’d piss my pants.”
“Let’s meet here at seven tomorrow night. We’ll go out trick-or-
treating together. Bring a big plastic trash bag each to fill with our treats. My
masquerade as Jedidiah Cromwell might even get us some candy apples
for treats.”
The other two left in opposite directions and Joey waited till the other
two shuffling through the fallen leaves had faded. It was a still night, cold enough
to make Joey shiver as he put his hand on the cold tombstone that read:






Here lies Jedidiah Cromwell,
a sweet boy, eight years of age,
dearly departed to
parts unknown.
R.I.P.
Born Died
May 7, 1812 October 31, 1820


* * *
In school the next day, Tommy and Billy were surprised that Joey did not
show up, especially since all the kids in their class wore their costumes and they
went apple dunking to see if they would find the fifty cent piece their teacher had
put in one of the of the shiny red apples floating in the big plastic tub. Tommy got
a dime in his apple, but Billy got only a penny.
“Guess we’ll just show up at the cemetery as planned and hope Joey will
be there,” Billy said.
“He’ll be there,” Tommy said with certainty. “No way is he gonna miss
making Linda Banker shriek in horror when Jedidiah Cromwell throws his bloody
arm at her.”
* * *
Billy and Tommy met outside the cemetery gate and walked briskly in the
cold night air to meet up with Joey. Tommy was an alien with a big floppy head
his mom had made out of an old pillow, and a dragon-like tail swished behind him
as he walked. Billy’s mom helped him make up his face and mess up his hair to
look like “Beetlejuice.” His cloths were made of his dad’s worn out work clothes
and tailored to fit an eight-year-old demon.
“You look more like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz,” Tommy told
Billy.
“Oh, yeah. Well you look like a turd with eyes and teeth,” Billy countered.
They grumbled back and forth under a full moon that made all the tombstones
seem to glow as they approached the infamous tombstone of Jedidiah Cromwell.
“There’s Joey!” Billy shouted.
Tommy and Billy stopped at a distance to see Joey’s costume.
“Wow! That’s cool, Joey.”
“Yeah, Joey. Did your mom help ya?”
Joey shook his head but made no reply.
“Man, that’s some makeup job on your face. Ya look like one of those
Walking Dead on TV. C’mon. Let’s get some treats and scare some girls.”
Billy and Tommy started to run, but Joey held back still leaning against the
tombstone. They waved for Joey to come, and he slowly ambled toward them as
if he might stumble and fall.
“Oh, boy!” Billy said aside to Tommy. “Joey’s really getting’ into it, huh.”
“Sure, why not?” Tommy said with a shrug. “Can’t wait to see him throw
that severed arm at Linda. Maybe it’ll splash ketchup all over her.”
Joey caught up to them. In the moonlight his face showed all the detail
of flesh eaten away by bugs.
“Jeez, you’re really scary, Joey,” Tommy said.
“I’ll, say,” Billy said, squinting to find any obvious makeup that wouldn’t
fool Linda Banker. “Whew! What’s that stink, Joey? Smells like you shit yer pants.”
Tommy laughed. “I know. Your mom put some Limburger cheese in your
pocket to make ya smell like a rotten corpse.”
“Right. Good move, Joey,” Billy agreed.
“Whew! Who cut the cheese?” Tommy joked, reaching into Joey’s pocket
to find the cheese.
“Yow!” Tommy shrieked pulling a rat out of Joey’s pocket with its sharp teeth
clenched on his thumb and blood trickling down his forearm.
“Ah-h-h!” Billy and Tommy yelled in duet.
Tommy shook the rat loose and he and Billy ran.
When they got outside the cemetery gate Billy and Tommy caught their breath.
“He really got us, didn’t he?” Billy said. “How’s your hand?”
“Where’d he get that rat? Stopped bleedin’, but I better put some peroxide on
it at home before we go out again.”
“OK, but let’s get Joey back and find Linda Banker. Will tell her about Joey’s
costume and fake arm. That’ll fix’m if he can’t scare her. Jokes on him.”
Billy went with Tommy to his house and they made up a story about cutting
his hand on a fence so Tommy’s mom wouldn’t make them stop trick-or-treating. Then
the two boys went to Linda Banker’s house. Linda came to the door with her nose
in the air as usual. She was so stuck-up they changed their minds about warning her
about Joey’s prank to scare her, masquerading as Jedidiah Cromwell.
“I can tell it’s you, Tommy and Billy. Try to scare some kindergarten kids, not
me. Where’s your other little creep, Joey? Bet he’s too scared to come out tonight.”
They left Linda’s house with Reese’s Pieces in their plastic bags, but saw Joey
walking with a limp in the middle of the street toward Linda’s house. He made a creepy
image silhouetted beneath one streetlight to the next.
“C’mon, Tommy. We’ll hide in those rhododendrons and watch Joey scare the
daylights out of Linda.”
Joey paused under the streetlight by Linda’s front gate as if he wasn’t sure he
wanted to go to her door, but when the motion light lit up her front porch, he turned
and limped slowly up the porch steps. Before he could knock on the door or ring the
doorbell, the front door opened. It was Linda’s mother. She took a step back when she
saw Joey’s horrifying costume.
Billy and Tommy could hear her calling to Linda.
“Linda! Come see this terrible creature at our door!”
Linda came up behind her mother and sneered at Joey.
“I’ll bet you’re the other little creep. Your two friends were already here.
but I have something special for you.”
Linda swung a bucket of cold water from behind her and threw water over Joey’s
head.
A loud bellow came from Joey and his little body shook like a wet dog trying to dry
its fur after a swim.
Linda stood with her hands on her hips waiting for Joey to run. Instead he took the
severed arm with his free hand and swung it at her. Her mother screamed and ran to call
the police, but Linda was covered in ketchup as Joey turned to leave down the walkway.
“You little creep!” she shouted, chasing after Joey with the arm in hand that he
had thrown at her. She grabbed him by the shoulder to spin him around and face her so
she could slap his face, but Joey’s other arm came off and dropped at her feet. Thinking
this was part of the prank on her, she smacked his gnarled face. Her hand felt sticky so
she put it to her nose. She gagged at the stench and when she went to slap Joey again
a beetle crawled out of his empty eye socket and a worm came out of one nostril of
what had once been a nose.
Linda screamed, just as planned, but the armless would-be Jedidiah Cromwell
lunged with bared teeth and bit her neck, shaking his head like a mongoose killing a
cobra.
Dumbfounded, Tommy and Billy stared with disbelief, but the police sirens
coming closer shook them from their horror and made them run home.
* * *
When Tommy and Billy came to school next morning, they heard that Joey
was staying home another day or two with the flu. When they stopped by Joey’s
house after school, Joey’s mom told them how sorry Joey was to leave them flat
after so much planning and looking forward to Halloween night.
“I think it’s best that you not come in,” she told Tommy and Billy. “You don’t
want to catch the flu.”
“It’s that Linda Banker’s fault,” Billy said. “She threw a bucket of cold water
on Joey when he was trick-or-treating last night. He’s lucky he didn’t get pneumonia
with the temperature almost freezing last night.”
“That’s right!” Tommy said. “She smacked ’m, too, for no good reason.”
“Hmm . . . I see,” Joey’s mom said. “But Joey has been here at home with me
since he woke with a fever on Halloween morning. He wanted to go apple dunking
at school, but his temperature was well over a hundred and two degrees. Why
don’t you stop by in a couple days to see if Joey’s any better.”
Billy and Tommy set out to meet in the cemetery that night to share a
cigarette and take turns huffing Tommy’s sister’s aerosol deodorant. They had
each heard mumblings about something awful that had happened on Halloween
night. Rumor was that Linda Banker had been taken to Bergen Pines in a straitjacket.
They approached Jedidiah Cromwell’s tombstone where they usually met
with Joey. Though erect for two hundred years as a cherished monolith of the town’s
history, the tombstone seen from the rear as they approached was tilted at an odd
angle.
“Probably some of those tough kids in eight grade pushed the tombstone
a kilter,” Billy said.
“Yeah. We better get out a here before they blame us,” Tommy said,
tossing the deodorant spray can aside.
At eight years old, Tommy, Billy, and Joey had tunnel vision about what was
happening around them. It wouldn’t be until after college and they returned to
visit their families for Thanksgiving that they’d become aware of their small town’s
myths and legends. They’d read an article about Linda Banker’s mother whose
maiden name was “Sweeney,” and her father a blood relative of Abagail Sweeney,
the Sunday School teacher hung when Jedidiah Cromwell’s remains were found
buried beneath her chicken coop.
What Billy and Tommy hadn’t noticed the day after Halloween was that
Jedidiah Cromwell’s tombstone had been accidentally tilted when a ground hoe
was digging a fresh grave next to it. Now home from college, the three boys
met in the cemetery to share some legal marijuana, but they didn’t stay long
when they saw the tombstone beside Jedidiah Cromwell’s which read:


Richard – “Ricky” – O’Neill
RIP
Born Died
April 4, 2010 October 31, 2020

Shatterback
By Gary Power


Shatterback is like putting your face through a pane of glass, and then the stench of stagnant pond water fills your lungs. It makes you feel unreal, as though nothing in the world matters, like you’re balancing on a knife edge of emotions, mainly despair tinged with utter desolation. And then darkness consumes you.
And then of course there’s the time warp bit; that’s why I call it shatterback.
The first time the shatterback thing happened I thought I was having a seizure.
I’d just left my flat in Chalk Hill road, Wembley. I used to live in a tower block until they redeveloped the area in the nineties. My new home was a street level apartment and it was a lot safer and cleaner than the old place. I’d turned the key in one of those awkward double lock things and walked down the path. I remember fumbling for my cigarettes; I needed that nicotine rush.
It was a crisp morning; clear blue sky but bitterly cold. The air was like ice in my lungs. Everything seemed so sharp and clear. I’d been thinking about my dad - more so just lately. I hadn’t seen him since I was a kid. My old lady kicked him out in the Christmas of ‘71. Anyway, the shatterback thing happened and suddenly I was back at my front door struggling with the lock again. I just stood there for a couple of minutes and stared.
I was in a daze for a few hours after that, and really tired too. I tried to work out what had happened. It was like I’d gone back in time…but just a few seconds. I didn’t think I really had. I’d had some kind of fit; that was the only explanation. Nothing happened for a few days after that and the whole thing became a sort of vague memory.
I thought about going to my doctor, but what would I say? Hey doc, I think I time warped the other day, a bit like Doctor Who but without a Tardis. Maybe it was just all imagination anyway.
Then it happened again. Some kid, probably 12 or 13 years old, ran out of a local shop in front of me. He was being chased by Ali Arkwright; we call him that ‘cause his shop’s a sort of Asian ‘open all hours’ and he does look a bit like a well tanned Ronnie Barker. The kid had nicked something and he was off like a bullet. He ran into the road, right in front of a car. I heard his leg break like a branch snapping, and then he went flying over the bonnet, onto the roof and into the road behind. There was this sort of soggy thud as he hit the tarmac. The bones in his leg were poking through his skin and blood spurting from the gaping gash. The poor mite was out cold. His head was twisted around too much for my liking.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Me and Ali just looked at each other. I thought I was going to be sick; I’m not good with blood or accidents. That was when the shatterback thing happened again.
Anyway, suddenly I was back outside Ali’s Emporium and the same kid is coming out of the shop, but this time I grab him. I guess it was instinct. Ali appears and drags him back inside. The kid swears at me and calls me every name under the sun. He even spits at me, the little bleeder. He didn’t realise that I’d just saved his life. And then I turn and see the very car that hit him go by. That was really spooky.
Now I really had something to think about. Nobody would believe me if I told them. I suppose a nutter would, or Derek Acorah, but a normal person wouldn’t, and that’s what I considered myself to be. I mean, I wouldn’t believe someone if they told me what had just happened to me had happened to them - if you know what I mean.
It got me thinking; how could I use the shatterback thing to my advantage? It was like discovering you were the invisible man.
Now there’s this bird, Lucy’s her name, Lucy Allcock…yeah, really. She’s got a Croydon facelift and bottle tan; you know the type. She works in the baker’s shop. She’s always giving me the come on, flirting with her eyes and leaving buttons undone on her blouse. She’s a right tease but trying to get a date with her is useless. Now I could chat her up as many times as I wanted until I got a result.
I was down the local one evening with my step dad Ken; we were talking hypothetically about this shatterback thing with the landlord. We call him ‘google’ ‘cos he’s got an answer for everything and he wasn’t going to let us down tonight. He
was surprisingly knowledgeable about time travel and started harping on about causality and conflicting paradox theories. That lost us so I guided the conversation back to Lucy and her cleavage. We chatted about all the things you could do if you could turn the clock back at will. That was all just speculation though. I didn’t have any control over it – that was to come later.
I thought maybe it was linked to stress or some kind of hormone thing, maybe cancer in my brain. I’d get up, wash, have breakfast -all that stuff you do without even thinking. Then I’d go to work and suddenly find myself getting out of bed again. What was that film…when the guy keeps reliving the same day?
Oh yeah, Groundhog Day. Not everything was the same for me though. There were subtle changes; the weather might be different or maybe what people were wearing had changed.
Maybe stuff like this happens to everyone at some time in their lives. Like seeing ghosts or having premonitions. You know, weird stuff that can’t be rationally explained. There’s this religious guy I know, Cosmo, all my mates have nicknames, he told me that it was a spiritual experience, a miracle even, but I said that was a load of crap. I’m not saying I don’t believe in religious stuff – I just have my own opinions and I guess I’m a bit too vocal sometimes.
‘Shatterback man’, that was me. I could wear underpants on the outside of my trousers with SB emblazoned on them. When something bad happened, I’d turn the clock back and make it all better. But I’m not that kind of guy. I don’t think too deeply and I don’t want to save the world. I’m not green or politically correct or any of that rubbish. ‘Keep life simple’, that’s my motto. ‘Live for the moment’; that’s another of my mottos.
I’ve got lots of mottos.
I had a moment of inspiration one night. I’d had a few beers and a pinch of Bob Hope. There was a spooky old black and white movie on TV, some monster chasing a bloke through the trees. I was comfortably chilled and gazing from the window of my flat. It was raining and I was wishing. The sky was dark and moody and rain was hammering at the glass and melting the world outside. The wind was howling and it was sort of cosy, just lying there, tucked up under a snug duvet, watching those big, grey clouds drift over London. I found myself thinking about my dad; he died from a head injury when I was a kid after getting into a fight. He was mad about Marc Bolan and went to a legendary gig at Wembley Empire Pool in ‘72, the one Ringo Star made
a film about. Mum said he was fanatical about the guy. He even had a tattoo of him on his arm. More importantly I had an exact time and place, and with shatterback I could do time and places, I just needed to learn how to control it. Apparently, he’d fought his way to the security barrier and been just a few feet away from his idol. 75 pence to see one of the biggest stars of the time, that’s all it cost him.
There was some kind of altercation at the gig. He probably pissed someone off; he was good at that. The story was, they found him lying in a pool of blood. My only legacy was a silk Marc Bolan scarf and the crumpled March 18th concert ticket.
Mike, that was my old man, was no more and the sad thing is we didn’t really miss him, especially mum. If dad wasn’t stoned then he was drunk and belting mum ‘cos she hadn’t left enough of the housekeeping for him to go to the pub. The way he’d fly into a rage used to freak me out. It was like he was possessed. I was just a kid but I still vividly remember the fights. You remember stuff like that, especially when you’re a nipper.
He was a vicious, drunken bastard so it would be easy to spot him, if I ever got there. He had a tattoo of Bolan on his left forearm and a deep scar on his right cheek. There were various stories as to how he got the scar. Most likely it was chatting up some bloke’s missus and getting the thrashing he deserved.
Mum chucked him out the day he cracked my head open because I trod on his cigarettes. It was Christmas and I didn’t have a present because he’d spent the money down at Ladbrokes investing it on a better future for us all. I was upset and stomping around in a mood as any five-year-old would. I never even saw his damned fags. He grabbed me by my shirt and slammed me into the wall like I was a rag doll. He was drunk, as usual, and in a blind rage. I’ll never forget the look on his face as long as I live. I thought he was going to punch me. Instead, he walked out leaving me laying there. Mum slung his clothes onto the path after him, and that was the last we saw of him.
A couple of years later she met Ken. He was more like a father to me than my own dad. But that’s all in the past, so back to the present.
It was three in the morning and I was wide awake. My head was filled with memories of mum, me crying and both of us wishing dad would disappear.
Lightning flashed and the clouds lit up like they had neon lights inside them. A rolling rumble of thunder followed closely after. The rain started up again with a
vengeance, and then there was this splintering crack like the world had just split in two. I blinked hard and in that same moment the room was filled with sunlight.
The clouds were gone and in their place was a blue, cloudless sky. The television was on - one of those morning programmes with feuding chavs and a host who probably had more skeletons in his cupboard than Ted Bundy. I brought up the date; I’d gone back 3 days. I felt great; like I’d had the best nights sleep ever.
Something told me my journey had begun.
I dressed and left my flat with a destination in mind. Another attack was imminent; I could feel it in my bones. But somehow I knew I could hold it off ‘til I was ready. My head felt spongy, as though I wasn’t quite in touch with the world. My thoughts were confused but my objective was clear as day; I was going to meet my dad. Somehow I’d get back to that concert in Wembley and meet him man to man; I had a few questions to ask and a score to settle.
It was all a bit daunting though. Half a mile and thirty-five years was going to be one hell of a journey.
I was halfway down Chalk Hill road when it happened again. I recoiled like I’d just been shot in the chest and the world shattered into a million pieces. The fragments reconfigured before my eyes and I found myself in the same place, except for some reason it didn’t feel exactly the same; it was like one of those parallax things Google had talked about.
I’d gone back even further in time. Not just weeks or months, but years. A car slowed up next to me at some traffic lights. Its window was open and the radio blaring. The DJ blurted something about Kylie Minogue being at number one for the fourth week running then he played ‘Can’t get you out of my head’. That song always reminded me of a holiday I had in Torremolinos which meant the year was 2001. I’d gone back maybe six years and I felt like I’d just been pulled through a gorse bush backwards. I was breathless and gasping like an old man but nothing was going to stop me now. I staggered forwards a few feet and then perched myself on a wall. Shatterback happened again just as I turned left into Bridge road. This time it was the worst ever. I found myself lying on the pavement with people around me. I was dazed and my heart pounding. I thought I was going to hurl as well. Some guy pulled me forwards and asked if I was alright; I just stared at him; I couldn’t get my head into gear. He was wearing a Metallica T-shirt. People looked at me like I was an alien. In a way, I suppose I was. My mobile had fallen out of my pocket but nobody picked it up.
They just looked at it like it was a bomb or something. I guess they’d never seen an iPhone before.
A black VW Golf cabrio went by with a 1989 plate on it. It looked like new. I overheard a couple of guys moaning about Maggie Thatcher and poll taxes. ‘She’ll resign in November 1990 and she’ll snuff it in 2013.’ I said knowingly. I was good at trivia. I struggled to my feet and moved on. ‘Stick your money on John Major, then Tony Blair after that.’ I called out.
At times it was like walking through a cosmic battlefield. I was trapped in a shatterback assault. I’d stagger on until another one hit me. The attacks were draining me of energy. I’d probably have a heart attack before I got there. It was going to be harder work than I thought. I was becoming disorientated. It’s like when people say they’re out of their comfort zone. I think I was a million miles from mine. I was in a permanent state of deja-vu. People looked at me with this manic sort of stare, like they could see inside my spongy head. It was as if they knew about shatterback. I was becoming paranoid.
My focus was on my destination and date. That was how I could control it. So long as I remained focussed, I would get there. With faith.
Just after the ‘Thatcher’ episode I found myself suddenly plunged into the middle of a snowstorm. It was bitterly cold, well below zero for sure. I reckon it must have been 2 or 3 in the morning. Everything was soft blues and stark whites. There was no-one else around; it was like I was the only person in the world. The snow was driving into me and laying thick on the pavement. The visit was brief but so precious – like being in a fantasy world. The weird thing was, I’d appeared out of nowhere like old Arnie in Terminator, not in the buff though thank God.
Shatterback happened again, almost immediately and I found myself heading in the direction of Wembley Park tube station, only now it was a gloriously sunny day. I’d been walking headlong into the blizzard so when things changed I fell heavily forwards onto the pavement. Several people helped me up. ‘He’s got snow on him.’ said one of the helpful Samaritans. She was right; I was covered in the stuff. The strange thing was, nobody seemed to have noticed that I appeared out of thin air. Maybe I was lurching into a place where I already existed. I remember Google said something about that; he called it astral projection. The best was yet to come though; I recognised a couple of the onlookers. It was my own mother arm in arm with my stepdad, Ken. She could never have guessed it was me. I’d have been about seventeen
then; long hair and acne; she was looking at a spaced-out bloke in his early forties. She looked really good; sort of youthful and happy. I think I might have said ‘mum’ without thinking. It just came out. I was looking right at her when I said it. She did stare though, like something registered.
Shatterback happened soon after that meeting. I was ready to move on. I felt good. No aches or pains. Not hungry or thirsty. Somehow I just willed it to happen, and that was it.
I found myself amongst a slow-moving crowd. I mean literally thousands of people were surging from almost every direction. They were happy, like something really special was happening. My clothes were bone dry. That was a plus, although a little puzzling. I looked around. It didn’t take long for me to realise what was going on. I knew the date immediately; it was July 13th, 1985 - the day of Live Aid. I had been there in my teens and now I was back again as an adult. I wondered if I’d bump into myself, that would have been really freaky. I joined the crowd and made my way towards Wembley Stadium. I could hear Status Quo playing ‘Rockin’ all over the World’. That meant the event was just starting. For a moment I forgot I was trapped in this fragmented, time warp thing. Strangers became friends that day. For one brief moment in time the world became a united place. I could see the twin towers of Wembley stadium as we marched along Olympic way. That brought a tear to my eye; I never thought I’d see them again.
‘Nice T-shirt?’ said a guy to my left. I was wearing a 2005 Oasis top from their ‘Don’t Believe the Truth’ tour. Black and white fish eye photo. Pretty cool. But it would be 20 years before he could get one.
There was a woman with the guy; she was really fit. She looked a bit like Lucy, cleavage and all. I smiled back. ‘Haven’t heard of Oasis before; they good?’ he asked. ‘Keep an eye out for them.’ I told him. It would be about 6 years before they played their first gig at the Boardwalk club in Manchester.
And then I had an idea.
‘Want to swap?’ I asked.
‘Yeah.’ he said eagerly and so we exchanged shirts. His was a Live Aid top emblazoned with a multicoloured map of Africa in the shape of a guitar. Now he had something that would blow his mind in a few years time. ‘Treasure it.’ I told him. I was really starting to enjoy myself. It was a ‘feel good’ day: the sun was blazing, people were happy and there was music in the air. We filed past a BBC TV camera
and I suddenly had a great idea. I turned to my two new pals and said, ‘let’s be on the box.’ We jumped up and down, cheering and screaming until the camera focussed in on us. We were like long lost friends getting high on the intoxicating atmosphere. We punched the air and tugged at our T-shirts, and then his girlfriend lifted her top and flashed her tits. The cameraman beamed and gave us a thumbs-up. ‘That’ll be on a dvd one day.’ I said. My friend looked puzzled.
‘What’s a dvd?’
I just grinned. He looked back like I was a bit crazy.
There was a deafening cacophony in my ears, the usual stench and suddenly I found myself transported again.
Live Aid was gone in a flash. Pity. I was having a great time reliving it.
In the blink of an eye it was night-time and rain was sweeping down. Three figures were approaching and my instincts told me that suddenly I was in big trouble. They were silhouetted against a hazy red glow of sulphurous street light. I could just make out long hair and hungry feral eyes. They looked more like lycanthropic beasts; maybe they were. I heard one them growl. It was deep, guttural. I thought I could smell them as well; stale, bestial. One was holding a hefty stump of wood and pounding it into his palm. I turned and ran fast as I could. I heard a stampede of feet stomping heavily on the tarmac close behind. They sounded like cloven hooves stamping on sodden earth. My heart was pounding. If ever I needed shatterback, then it was now. I tried to will it to happen. Maybe I could. The ground was slippery with rain – or was it the congealed blood of previous victims. I nearly fell trying to look over my shoulder. I thought I might be able to outrun them but they were fast and closing in. They were like savages after my blood. I was being pushed to my physical limits; stopping wasn’t an option. I caught glimpse of a gap in the hedge and fought my way through it. Rain was thrashing into my face and stinging my eyes. My lungs felt like they might burst. I nearly fell over a tangle of stark white roots, or where they bones sucked dry and scattered on the ground. I knew Wembley well but this place was alien to me. shatterback had taken me somewhere else.
A terrifying howl brought me back to my senses.
I turned briefly and in the incident light of the storm I saw their faces. They were the stuff of nightmares - monstrosities too terrifying to be given physical form.
I took a moment’s pause, gasped at the cold air and then crashed through another hedgerow. A gut wrenching caterwaul cut through the wintry air and ran through me
like a knife. I felt sick from exhaustion and fear but still I continued to weave through a labyrinth of bushes until eventually I managed to throw them off my trail. It was a brief reprise. For a few precious seconds I remained cowering in the shadows, gasping for breath, trying not to make any noise. My pursuers weren’t difficult to spot even in the poor light. I could see two of them searching for me but they were quite far off. I took my chance and broke away. The third one stepped out in front of me.
Shatterback came to my rescue and I breathed a sigh of relief. My head jarred sideways as the familiar sound of smashing glass filled my ears. But something was wrong; my head was spinning and I was lying on the ground. Through a haze of rain and tears I saw three figures looking down on me. They were nothing more than long haired thugs, not the monsters I had imagined. One of them had hurled a bottle at me and it had glanced off my head. My body was broken and aching. One of them bent over and with a gloating smile thrust something into my chest. Instinctively I reached down. When I lifted my hand I found it covered in blood. That was when the pain kicked in.
As I watched them run away I realised that life was seeping away. I crawled from the bushes and staggered around aimlessly for a few minutes but my energy was spent. Exhausted and in agony I fell to the ground. For a while I just lay there listening to the patter of rain and watching the way the street lights reflected on the wet tarmac. I didn’t even have the strength to call for help. As the world slipped away, I found myself feeling curiously serene.
I guess shatterback must have happened while I was unconscious. When I opened my eyes I found myself on the ground with several other people. Some of them were smoking what my mother would have called, ‘dubious looking cigarettes.’ One of them, a hippyish looking guy in an afghan coat smiled and passed me his joint.
‘I was dying just now.’ I said to him as I bathed my aching body in the glorious sunshine.
‘Me too man.’ he replied and he gave me a hang-loose handshake.
‘No, I really was.’ I continued. I was barely able to contain the euphoric relief of still being alive. ‘It was night time. I had the crap kicked out of me by three thugs. One of them stabbed me between the ribs. Right through the heart. Right…here.’
I looked down. The stab wound was gone. There wasn’t even a tear in my shirt.
The hippy took a deep drag on his spliff.
‘I was on another planet.’ he said. ‘There were all these chicks.’ he added. He rested his head back and closed his eyes.
‘They were naked.’
I wished I’d been on that planet instead my nightmare one.
Two funnels of smoke spiralled from his nostrils. He looked at me and it was like I’d known him all my life.
‘We made love man. All of us. It was a divine orgy of galactic ecstasy. Gonna make it happen next week dude, gonna really make that party happen.’
Something told me he probably would.
Fascinating as it was to hear the explicit details of his drug-induced debauchery, I had other things on my mind.
‘So, tell me something, because I really need to know…’
The joint was really chilling me out. With a sanguine smile I asked in my coolest voice, which for some reason came out like Dirty Harry, ‘…what’s the date man?’
That made him smile. ‘Dude…you must have done some real heavy shit. This is the day…the day. 18th March 1972.’
A shock wave rippled through my body. I was at my journey’s end. The time and the place were spot on.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Sebastian.’ he said with a smile. ‘…but you can call me Sebastion.’
All his hippy friends whooped and cheered. I laughed with them. Everything’s funny when you’re high.
‘I’m going to call you Captain Jack Sparrow because you’re a dead ringer for this Captain Jack guy that I know.’ I said.
‘Is he popular with ladies?’ asked Sebastian.
‘You could say that. Just remember the name.’ He’d have to have a good memory though; it would be almost thirty years before he’d hear that name again.
For a while the group of us just stared dreamily into space. I wallowed in the atmosphere of the 70’s. Sebastian turned his head and squinted at my T-shirt.
‘What’s with Live Aid 85?’ he asked.
‘I had a wild trip once.’ I said coolly, ‘…like a vision.’ I sounded like a bad actor but they were all too stoned to notice. ‘In my vision,’ I continued, ‘all these people get together. Tens of thousands of people. The year’s 1985. There’s music and love and peace. It’s the biggest gig ever and all to feed a starving nation and help make the 
world a better place to live in.’ Someone passed me another joint. I took deep drag and closed my eyes. ‘Feed the world…’ I tried to sing, ‘…fee-eed the world.’
‘Far out.’ muttered Sebastian, ‘Like Woodstock.’
I wondered if one day when they were all corporate executives or IT consultants they’d remember my prophetic words. But it was time to move on. ‘You want to swap T-shirts dude?’ I said.
‘Cool.’ he replied, and he deftly stripped to the waist to reveal a perfect, skinny six pack. The women with him were pretty things, certainly liberated in the way they dressed and probably even more liberated in their lifestyle.
It seemed I was destined to swap T-shirts and leave a trail of clues for the future in my wake. I in turn received a garment emblazoned with a psychedelic head shot of Marc Bolan.
People began to move towards the huge concrete building that I knew as Wembley Arena. For the moment the threat of shatterback was gone and I was free to explore. At that moment in time the arena was known as Wembley pool, previously the Empire pool and sports arena. Built in 1934 it hosted the Empire games and then in 1948 housed the summer Olympics. As a kid I became obsessed with the place because of its association with my father.
I said goodbye to my trippy friends and reluctantly moved on. Sebastian slipped something into my pocket but I didn’t look. My mind was elsewhere. I was about to see not only a musical legend at the peak of his career but more importantly, my own father. My stomach cramped at the thought as violent memories flooded back. I despised him for everything he’d done. I hated him with a passion for treating me and mum so badly but how could I take my vengeance on a man who would have no idea who I was? Maybe he wouldn’t seem so bad. Perhaps I’d even like him. I very much doubted that.
The atmosphere surrounding the venue was incredible. The wide open space in front of the building was filled with crazy kids. There were scores of long-haired fans with silk T.Rex scarves wrapped around their wrists and necks. Screaming hysterical girls were everywhere; God knows what they’d be like when the concert started. A couple of leather clad guys on a motorbike cut in front of me as I made my way to the north gate. They carried on right through the crowd without a care in the world; nobody seemed bothered.
I’d almost reached the entrance when suddenly my head felt like it was being slammed sideways against a wall. I started seeing double and the world started spinning about me. I was having a shatterback attack, but I wasn’t ready to go yet. I crouched down and fought it with all the concentration I could muster. I screwed my eyes tight and screamed, ‘No!’ Nobody seemed to care. I suppose I was just another drugged up fan going to see his idol. I could feel myself being jolted through time but I wouldn’t go; not just yet. Psychedelic lights assaulted my eyes. The splintered images spiralled through a black and timeless void: Lucy in the baker’s shop, the guy in the Metallica T-shirt, the yobs attacking me, the bird flashing her boobs at Live aid, Sebastian drawing deeply on a joint.
The attack passed. Somehow I’d managed to fight it off.
I remained where I was for a few moments, dazed and in a state of confusion. I felt like I wanted to cry; it was as though nothing in the world really mattered. I felt hollow.
Some guy on the door said eighty thousand people were there, and I had to find my dad amongst that lot. Clutching the crumpled ticket stub in my sweaty hand I blagged my way into the concert hall. It wasn’t at all like the concerts I was used to. There were no intimidating doormen or security searches, just a small army of aging, uniformed commissioners wearing peaked caps and solemn faces. The despairing expressions on their faces as the long-haired hippies filed by said it all.
The auditorium was like an air hangar and the stage area, massive. There was standing area at the front and seating behind but it was obvious that nobody would be sitting. It was chaos in there.
A disc jockey by the name of Emperor Rosko was whipping the audience into a frenzy. He was leaping about the stage, waving his tasselled jacket arms around and screaming like the wild man of Borneo. I pushed my way through the crowd looking for my dad. If he was there, I would recognise him, no question.
Suddenly the lights dimmed and the place erupted with a roar like I’d never heard before. I’ve been to some amazing concerts in my life but had never experienced anything like this. The sheer wide-eyed, breathless exuberance of the audience was incredible, and when the man himself hit the stage the women especially went completely hysterical. One of them grabbed my arm and just stared at me. She had golden stars on her cheeks and raw emotion in her eyes; she was in another place.
Marc Bolan struck a pop star pose mere feet away from us and the next thing I know she’s fainted and being carried over the metal barriers in front of the stage.
I feared I might be next, but for different reasons. The earlier shatterback attack had taken its toll on me. I felt weak and drained of energy. I was finding it difficult to breath and the constant screaming was becoming intensely claustrophobic. The muggy, airless atmosphere was like syrup in my lungs. I fought my way to an exit and wandered aimlessly in search of the toilets. I needed somewhere where I could be alone and out of the intimidating glare of the geriatric commissionaires.
The foyer was spookily deserted and a curiously surreal place to be. The music from the auditorium sounded distant and haunting. Occasionally a shrill scream or wail of guitar would rise above the ghostly serenade. I closed my eyes and took a moment’s break from the madness of my time-defying journey. Bolan was playing ‘Telegram Sam’; I recognised it from one of my dad’s records. But there was another sound as well, a sort of rhythmical cry was coming from somewhere in the closer vicinity. With my eyes half open I let this new sound guide me to its source and found myself opposite a women’s toilet. One of the cubicle doors was flung open and a man staggered out followed by a giggling, drunken woman.
‘C’mon Mike, we’ll miss the show.’ she said. She was hitching up her underwear as she spoke. ‘Better get that lippy off your face or else you’ll be in trouble, not to mention a beating from my old man if he comes looking for me.’ she said.
They carried on like I wasn’t there.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
It was my dad; the face, the scar and most of all, the tattoo. Hearing his name was just the icing on the cake. Something inside me snapped and I lost it big time. He had even lied about seeing the concert. He was more interested in shagging some bloke’s bird in the toilets. I was fuming. Years of frustration were released in a few seconds. I called him every name under the sun. I threw punches at the air in front of his face. He looked genuinely terrified; I guess I must have looked like a madman. I pulled of my T-shirt and threw it at him telling him that was probably the closest he’d ever get to his idol. The young woman screamed and ran back into the foyer.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he bawled.
I told him I was his fucking conscience. He was drunk and staggering about, trying to focus his eyes and stay on his feet at the same time.
‘There’s a kid back home who wants a dad he can be proud of.’ I yelled.
That really threw him. He just stood there swaying gently from side to side pointing his finger left and right as he tried to work out which of the two of me was the real one. Then the drink took control again and he lost his cool. I’d obviously touched a nerve.
That was when shatterback really kicked in. Only this time it didn’t take me anywhere. It was like I was looking in on the world and not part of it.
There’s a commotion in the foyer. Some big bloke is having an altercation with a couple of the commissionaires. He’s shouting a name and suddenly the woman my dad was with starts looking worried. Before she can make herself scarce the bloke spots her and starts shouting even more.
‘Angie…Angie!’
Then he sees my dad and he goes into this terrifying rage. He tears over and with a single, massive swipe sends my old man crashing to the ground. Dad just lays there. A stunned silence prevails as a pool of blood spreads out from beneath his head.
It’s difficult to say how I feel at that moment. Numb definitely. Part of me feels sorry for him because he’s so hopelessly pathetic. But then again, he’s getting payback for all the hurt he caused me and mum. I want to help him. God knows why.
Suddenly I’m back in the show; now I’m just an onlooker. The bloke that floored my dad is calling his women a whore. It sounds like they’ve been screwing around for some time. No ones paying any attention to my dad. They’re all too wrapped up in themselves so I turn him onto his back and shake and talk to him.
‘It’s me,’ I say, ‘…Sam.’
He doesn’t respond. He’s not even breathing so I do the artificial resuscitation stuff I’ve seen on telly. You know, hand over his sovereign, 30 pushes then a couple of breathes into his mouth, or s it 20 and 3? Nothing’s happening anyway.
I watch the scene in a state of numbness. My vision becomes blurred and distorted; voices slow and slurred. My head feels light. Through a haze I see a medic examining him. The man’s feeling for a pulse in his wrist and then his neck, then he shines a light into his eyes. It all looks a bit desperate.
And then everything goes black.


I’m standing in front of the entrance to my flat in Chalk Hill lane and to be honest, I’m in a bit of a daze. Just a moment ago it was 1972 and I was at a Marc Bolan concert. I witnessed the death of my father.
Crazy.
Was it all a figment of my imagination? How will I ever know?
I reach into my pocket and pull out a crumpled spliff, the one Sebastian gave me.
I’m poised to turn my front door key. I need to get inside and rest before I collapse. I feel sick and dizzy.
Someone calls my name.
‘Sam….’
I turn. There’s a man standing there. Silhouetted at first, but then he moves into the light and I see him more clearly. He looks anxious. He’s smiling nervously. There are tears in his eyes. He’s got a scar on his cheek and a tattoo on his forearm. He’s holding a T shirt up to his chest.
‘Dad…’ I say. I don’t feel angry because there’s something different about him. ‘…it’s been a long time.’ He sort of smiles but he looks really uncomfortable.
‘You’re dead.’ I tell him.
‘You’re mum wanted you to think that after she chucked me out.’
He stutters as he talks; it’s like he’s making a confession. I think he’s worried I’m going to slam the door in his face. He continues: ‘It was best for you to think that and it suited me. I was out of control. You didn’t deserve a waster like me, but I changed.’
That all made sense.
‘There was an incident at a concert back in ‘72.’ he explained. ‘I got into a fight and nearly died. Some guy attacked me at a gig in Wembley. I’d stopped breathing but someone brought me around again.’
I wanted to tell him that it was me, about half an hour ago. Maybe not such a good idea.
We look into each others eyes, both searching for the lost years. ‘I was in a coma for a while. When I came around, I couldn’t help thinking about the things the guy who saved me said. I remember he flew into a rage, like I’d done something terrible to him. Whoever he was, he saved my life.’
After that I drifted and travelled abroad. I did voluntary work, helping in drug rehab centres - anywhere that put a roof over my head and food in my stomach. I needed to feel better about myself.’
He sort of chuckles and then looks down embarrassedly. ‘I came back a few times and saw you and your mum…and your stepdad. You looked like a real family…you wouldn’t have wanted me back in your lives. I thought of you all the time though,
Sam. I cried heaps for you. I’ve always been with you,’ he says, and then putting a clenched fist to his heart he adds, ‘…in here.’
Now it’s me who’s got tearful eyes.
‘I’ve got this for you.’ He says and hands me a T-shirt. I hold it up. It’s the Marc Bolan shirt that Sebastian gave me. The same one I threw at my dad in the toilets just half an hour ago. But now it’s old and faded and looks like it’s been worn a thousand times.
‘It’s kept me going all these years-a sort of reminder?’
‘I can’t talk anymore because I’m too choked up.’
‘Can we go in?’ he asks.
I nod that we can.
Because it’s different now.
Because I’ve got a dad who I might like.
He rests his hand on my shoulder and I feel like I’m going to cry which is mad because since the day he went I vowed never shed a tear over him.
‘Just one thing.’ I say to him.
He looks back in trepidation.
‘I need to dig out my Live Aid video. It’s difficult to explain, but there’s a guy I know who might be in it.’


Gary Power is author of short stories that have been published in awesome anthologies such as When Graveyards Yawn (Crowswing Books), Spinetinglers (Spinetinglers publishing), 3 times in ‘The Black Book of Horror’ (Mortbury Press), The Horror zine (as featured author of the month),  The Year’s Best Body Horror 2017 (Gehenna and Hinnom publishing), Volume 6 of Dark Lane books Anthology series , ‘I’m Dead?’ anthology from Zimbell House Publishing ,Twistit Press and ‘Father of Lie’s in ‘Dig Two Graves’ from Death’s Head Press (USA) . He has also been e-published with Penny Shorts, 50 Word Stories, the Ham Free Press and Sein und Werden amongst others.  He has a podcast play currently being adapted by Manor House Audio (USA).
Mannison minibooks (USA) are in the process of publishing his Novella, The Art of Anatomy.
He has been a member of the British Fantasy Society since 2006 and attended World Fantasycon 2013 in Brighton where participated in a signing for the BFS nominated Tenth Black Book of Horror.
He has been shortlisted for the Ian St James short story award.
He is registered as an Amazon author and his website is www.garygpower.com
He is also a proud member of Allen Ashley’s sci-fi/slipstream/fantasy ‘Clockhouse London Writers’ group.

Lah, Johnny Mathis and the Meaning of Love
​
By Eliza Mimski


The day before Valentine's Day, Lah kicked off her shoes in the tiny back office of the fabric store where she worked. She leaned back in the computer chair, eating jellybeans for comfort. Lah's boyfriend Milo had recently broken up with her and she was feeling so alone. True, they'd only been dating for three months, but she'd given him her heart.
It was good to be by herself today without Mrs. Johnson, the owner, breathing down her neck. The store was small and it had been in the Haight for ages, with narrow aisles between the rows of colorful material. It never got too busy. Lah blinked, staring wide-eyed at the computer screen, one photograph of Johnny Mathis fading into the next while he sang It's Not for Me to Say. Off-key, she sang along with him.
Lah had discovered Johnny Mathis through her aunt who played his records on an ancient hi-fi set with removable speakers. Over the past few weeks, she'd fallen in love with his songs. She didn't care if he was a 1950s pop idol. Lah liked old people, old clothes, old things, and she often felt as if she'd been born into the wrong decade. On the Johnny Mathis website, it stated that his was the voice of romance. That was true, she thought. His voice was like nothing she'd ever heard before. It was like the sun shining on her. It was like everything good she could think of.
The bell tinkled as someone stepped into the shop. Lah kissed her fingertips and pressed them against the screen, swinging her long legs onto the floor.
“Can I help you?” she asked, striding toward an older woman standing near the button cabinet. The woman's gray ringlets formed a halo around her head and the dark circles beneath her eyes gave her a creative look, as if she stayed up nights working on a tragic novel where the heroine died a violent death at the end.
“I'm looking for some new buttons to jazz up an old dress of mine,” the woman said, and pulled a red shirtwaist out of a shopping bag. As the woman draped it over her body, Lah fell in love with its stand-up collar and elbow-length sleeves. It was a red vintage dress right out of the 1950s. Covered buttons started at the collar and continued all the way down the full skirt.
Lah privately was delighted in this woman's sense of style. She had gotten so tired of waiting on people with crummy taste. “That's one terrific dress. I think I've got something you might like,” she said, using her best salesperson manners. Behind the woman, through the storefront window, Lah could see the gray foggy day, the hustle and bustle of the street, shoppers with shopping bags hooked over their arms, bags filled with Godiva chocolates and other Valentine's Day presents, she was sure. The scene made her sad.
Lah rummaged around in the little unit drawers of the button cabinet until she found what she was looking for. “How about this?” she asked the woman, holding up a red glass button with a gold filigree design.
Taking the button, the woman inspected it and lay it against the dress. “I'm flying to New Jersey in a month to see an old friend,” she said. “I plan on wearing this to an oldies but goodies concert we're going to in New York City.”
“Oh, you're like me! You're into singers from the past,” Lah said. “I love Johnny Mathis.” She looked down at her floral print dress that matched the pink barrettes holding back her dark curly hair.
“There will never be another Johnny,” the woman said, smiling, and Lah nodded in agreement. Johnny Mathis had opened Lah's heart. When she listened to Wonderful, Wonderful, the song softened her into a tiny candlelit glow where before there had only been darkness.
“Actually, now that I think of it, it may have been this very dress that I wore to see him years ago
when he performed in San Jose,” the woman said.
“You wore this dress to see Johnny Mathis?” Lah reached over and touched it, reverently stroking the fabric.
“Yes, things were way less casual then. You actually got dressed up to hear your favorite teen idol. Not like today,” the woman said.
Lah regained her composure, admonishing herself for getting too personal about the dress. “Oh, well, this must have been a perfect dress for such an occasion.” She stood up straight and cleared her throat. “Um, where did you sit, if I may ask?” What she really wanted to know was whether the woman had gone with her boyfriend, and had they been in love? Had he pressured her to have sex with him?
“We had great seats. I sat fairly close to the stage. He's from here, you know.”
Lah swallowed. “He's from San Francisco?”
“That's what I've heard, although I've as yet to run into him.” The woman laughed. It was a bright little note that floated through the air. Again, Lah looked out the window at the gray day. What would she say if she ran into Johnny Mathis on the street? Would she even be able to get her mouth to work?
“Did you like the way he sang?” Lah asked, trying to be casual, as if a line existed that people drew around themselves and Lah needed to be careful not to step over hers.
“Yeah, I did. I guess we all did.”
“Let me give you some other choices to consider,” Lah said, hoping to detain the woman so she could squeeze more information out of her. “You know, buttons can definitely make or break an outfit." Opening more drawers, she picked out red buttons studded with diamonds, red buttons trimmed with black, red buttons with wavy edges, four-holed buttons, two-holed buttons, ladybug buttons, buttons
shaped like hearts.
Lah lined them up on the counter for the woman to see. “Did you have a favorite song of Johnny's?”
The woman toyed with a few of the buttons, alternately holding them up to the dress. “I'd have to say I like his older songs, like Chances Are and Misty.” She picked up the heart-shaped button and eyed it closely.
“Oh, I love Misty!” Lah gushed. “I've memorized the lyrics to it. It's so romantic, not being able to tell your hat from your and glove. I mean, could you ever imagine having that effect upon someone where they got that confused? They wouldn't know what hit them.” She doubted she'd ever have that kind of power over anyone, but she longed for it.
The woman laughed, but this time Lah felt foolish, as if she was laughing at her. “Listen, honey, when you get older you won't want all that drama,” she said. “Believe me, it gets to be too much.” She placed the heart-shaped button back on the counter. “You know, I think I like the first ones you showed me the best. Do you have enough of them? I would need twelve, but let's make it fourteen to be on the safe side.”
Lah checked to see how many buttons of this sort she had. “I'm just wondering, did Johnny's songs have a certain impact on you?” she turned and asked the woman. “When I hear Wonderful, Wonderful, he makes me feel important. He lets me know that in my own way I'm special and lovable.”
“Well, he did have that effect on lots of us,” she said, “but that was ages ago. I'm afraid I need to get going.” Lah realized she'd gone too far, and tried to sound professional again. She focused, counting out six of the filigreed buttons. “I can order more and have them for you within a week or so.”
“That would be fine,” the woman said.
They walked to the cash register. “I'm sorry if I got too personal,” Lah apologized. “It's just that I'm... a virgin, and my boyfriend wanted to have sex. He made me feel awful when he left me, like that's all I was good for." She paused, struggling to find the right words. “When I listen to Johnny, I start to feel that maybe somebody else could love me. You know, and not just want sex." She started crying.
The woman put her hand on Lah's shoulder. “Sorry, dear, but I have other errands to run,” she said, and turned to go. “Now , you take care.”
Lah sucked back her tears. “Oh, well, I'll need to get your phone number so I can call you when the rest of the buttons come in.”
“Tell you what,” the woman said. “I'll check back with you for the buttons. I don't live too far away.”
“Well, I'm sure you'll be happy with your choice of buttons,” Lah said. She forced herself to smile. “You know, since my boyfriend left me, I've been kind of depressed. But like I say, Johnny Mathis is helping me to believe that someone else could love me. Love isn't supposed to mean you have to do things when you're not ready. That's not love. That's not what love means at all, but I really miss my old boyfriend," she said, sniffling. "I really do miss him."
“Listen, my mother used to say to me: “This too shall pass. You'll see.” Lah imagined getting fired for crying on the job. “Please don't tell Mrs. Johnson that I got emotional,” she begged the woman. “She might let me go." Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them away. “My life sucks."
The woman turned towards Lah. Lah was unable to tell what she was thinking, but when the woman gave her a pitying look, Lah changed her mind about the woman being a writer. She wasn't that special and didn't deserve to listen to Johnny Mathis because she had no soul. Lah decided right then and there that if the woman told on her to her boss, she'd deny the whole thing.

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Civic Center


Edwin Staples

​

I was a little scared.

August 19, 1981. Alice Cooper at the Wallace Civic Center, in Fitchburg, MA. My first un-chaperoned rock show. Andrew’s father dropped us off with his big Dodge van. We all claimed to have a ride home already, a little fib.

I was the oddball, Rob's buddy, and everyone liked Rob. Not too many people liked me. I was the youngest and the most frightened of the group, but I had been to Elton John at the Music Hall in Boston, and I was hooked on live music.

Once the Dodge was out of sight, the other boys led me over to the tree line at the edge of a spooky, hilly wooded area that faced the Civic Center, with the parking lot in between. Lots of much older groups of teens, and some grownups, stood in clusters, smoking, drinking beer and some scarier liquids. James, the wildest and smartest of our crew, collected dollars off us to buy a sixer of Miller High Life from a frowning, tanned teen in t-shirt that said STAFF. It was warm and I wasn't used to beer, but I knew better than to refuse.

Then came the small talk: Marlboro vs Camel, Zeppelin vs Aerosmith, Beatles vs Stones. When local kids asked us where we were from, we said we drove down from Jaffrey. That was James's idea. Jaffrey, NH was not far enough away to be an unrealistic drive, but not close enough that anyone in this crowd of reprobates would know anyone there. We couldn’t say we were from H--. It was a small town with a lot of rich people who owned horses and Volvos. No kids from any big town would keep it a secret at a show, if we let it slip that we were the H-- contigent. We'd be running for our lives before the warm-up band was done.

Before long Andrew, the tallest of our group, who could pass as old enough to drive, found a kid he knew from summer camp. In a minute a few girls appeared with their boyfriends. They looked us over, and whispered things to each other, giving us a salutary nod only. Except for one redhead with MacKenzie Phillips's face and a skin-tight BITE ME t-shirt. When Andrew's friend introduced her she mussed Andrew's hair and pulled on James's leather vest. She teased us for being little kids at a big kid party. But she was accepting, and she seemed to be allowed to boss the local boys around. Leslie was her name.

James asked Leslie what we could buy to take the edge off. The guy with the beard and the baggies appeared, genie-like, and James collected dollars again. Black beauties and yellow barrels. Rob scarfed my share of the yellows, but I took two blacks, and washed them down with the last drops of warm High Life.

"You're getting a good deal from me," said beard guy, "because Leslie says you're okay. She's a ballbuster, but I trust her, you know what I'm sayin."

Rob said "thanks, Leslie." He nodded and took a big swig from a fifth of Southern Comfort that seemed to appear out of nowhere. One of the local boys mumbled something when Leslie smiled back at Rob. Beard guy laughed and said, "Okay, men. Last call." A few others fished for dollars in their pockets, eyeing Leslie with goofy smiles as they waited for their pills.

"Coo-pa!" said Andrew. "Let's go in." As we left the group at the tree line, a sprinkling of laughter floated our way. Someone echoed another "Coo-pa."

A line of underage, music-crazy longhairs, ages 12 to 99, outside the venue, an hour before show time, stretched across the parking lot. Cops frisked everyone at the door. I saw giant trash cans full of contraband. Impossibly large liquor bottles confiscated off rail-thin, underage suburban kids wearing army boots and vests like James wore. Buttons on their shirts that said Billion Dollar Babies, School's Out, and Welcome to my Nightmare. Clouds of not-tobacco smoke here and there.

James decided I looked like a narc, and loaded me down with a dozen marijuana joints. I didn't have time to object. Colin, the kid who knew all the Alice Cooper songs, had earlier vowed to beat up anyone who might "get us caught." Before I was assigned smuggling duty I had wondered what that might mean.

I appealed to Rob for advice. "Just find a place for them that's not your pockets. And don't let people see you."

It was a hot day but I was wearing a long sleeved, Freddie Mercury style peasant-blouse thing. The sleeves, rolled up, handled the little mary janes just perfectly. I held my breath as we approached the frisking zone.

Nothing happened. The cops didn't even touch me. Everyone before and after me got a pat-down. The narc theory was correct. I filed that information in my conniving little brain, for I was at heart just as sneaky and self-indulgent as the rest of the crowd. I lacked only experience.

James was experienced. He was two people behind me, his leather vest, long hair and big smile attracting the cops' attention. He got a good pat-down, and he smiled the entire time. The cops maintained bored expressions throughout.

I followed my droogs into the general-admission crowd, shoving their way into a cluster of tall boys with a giant cloud over them. Rob said something I only half-heard, but I got enough of it to understand, you have to stand where you won't be noticed. And don't tell anyone we're from H--.

None of the truly rich kids from H-- would be coming to Alice Cooper the summer before ninth grade, but we knew all those kids would envy us the stories. Before the opening set, I had the story all ready to tell. I was even feeling like I couldn't wait for the school year. I'd tell the other kids I met a girl who was a ball-buster at the Cooper show.

A girl from the group outside appeared, and passed me a joint, and said something I couldn't understand, that ended with "...would kill me if he knew." I took a tentative drag and hesitated.

"Keep it going," said Rob's voice. He was to my right, and Leslie was to his right. I looked at their faces, smiling and moving in slow motion, and realized something was affecting me. James appeared, relieved me of the joints in my sleeve, left me one as payment. He laughed and nodded in the direction of Rob and Leslie. I didn’t hear what James said: the opening band began as he spoke.

It was my first time seeing what crowds do to warm-up bands at civic centers. Throwing beer, throwing cigarettes, swearing at them and screaming at them to get off the stage.

"Coo-pa!" shouted Colin, inches from my ear. "Get this shit off the stage!"

I couldn’t figure it out. This is how we get “warmed up?” By yelling at another band, that was there to give us a little extra entertainment? And they were good, too. The Atlantics. Local kids who made it in Boston, who would get respect in any club (I found out later), but had to deal with this treatment in the suburbs. I saw their clothes, their defiant expressions, their skill with their instruments. They liked playing and they didn’t give a crap what we thought of them. The last vestiges of my baseball dreams melted away, for good. Life was rock n’ roll.

In the long delay between bands I lost track of all the other guys. Rob had stayed with me awhile, but when the lights began to dim, he and a thousand others rushed the stage. I didn’t have any rush in me. The black pills were like coffee, but the joints gave me that fantasia feeling, and transformed the crowd into one big animal, breathing, restless, ready to devour whoever might step into the spotlight.

When the headliner appeared the entire evening accelerated. I went from a little buzz to super high and a half a second. The big-animal crowd approached the band with more deadly intensity than it had focused on the Atlantics. I felt like I shouldn't watch, knowing the beast must be fed. But something happened. The shirtless vocalist we called Alice Cooper exercised some mystical power, stood tall before the beast's jaws and with nothing but his bare hands, reached out and hypnotized the monster. With a great exhalation of gray smoke, and a loud, cosmic shout, the crowd was satisfied. I blinked, then I again saw only a couple thousand bony teenagers swaying and smoking and drinking. The security cops appeared to be blind to all the contraband but had slipped past them. I was amazed that I could pick out Rob's face in the crowd. But there he was, dancing, laughing, wild-eyed. The yellow barrels must be something much weirder.

I didn't really know Alice Cooper before that night, except for a more recent album about life in a mental hospital. He didn't play any of the songs I knew. That didn't stop me from thinking he was singing just for me:


Lines form on my face and hands
Lines form from the ups and downs
I'm in the middle without any plans
I'm a boy and I'm a man


A light came on in my head. The rock star was feeling just as weird about life as I did. He was up there, taming the beast, but he knew how I felt drinking my warm beer and fearing a beating from a towny who might grok that we were from H--.

Summer of 1981 suddenly had meaning.

If Alice Cooper wasn't enough to make it a rock n’ roll night, we ended up in a Camaro, racing down Route 2, neck-and-neck with a Trans Am. Colin's sister's boyfriend was at the wheel, and five of us were squeezed into the backseat.

The pot made the car feel like a boat, and the ringing in my ears made all conversation seem far away. Colin told me that I was in charge of Rob, and that we would not be dropped off anywhere near the house, but we were to sneak in through the back door, and that it was my job to keep him safe. Rob was slurring a bit, and humming School's Out, his head rocking side to side. Didn't look to me like he was in any danger.

Back at the center of H--, Rob and I hopped out of the car. I looked at the boyfriend at the wheel and asked him how fast we were going back there on Route 2.

He said, "About a buck-twenty."

Rob whooped, "Coo-pa!" And ran into the summer night, the opposite direction from his house. I took off after him, to the sound of laughter from inside the Camaro as the rubber chirped a goodnight.

 The '80s Rocked

By K. A. Williams



My favorite musical decade is the '80s.


MTV premiered in the '80s and I loved it. They had band interviews and band members as guest VJs. Mostly they showed videos. Some of them told a story, some were performances, and others were just strange (watch any Duran Duran video for an example). "Weird Al" made great parodies of many of the decades' videos.


MTV also aired rock concerts. It was great to see and hear bands perform live in your living room especially if your city wasn't on their tour schedule.


The '80s was when I saw most of my concerts, from a nosebleed outdoor venue seat at The Jacksons to a front row indoor coliseum seat for Yes. I also saw The Moody Blues, INXS, The Cars, Blue Oyster Cult, Duran Duran, Icehouse, The Thompson Twins, and Sting (without The Police). I won the Sting tickets from a morning radio show on FM hosted by John Boy & Billy which is now syndicated and still on the air.


I used to listen to a FM radio show in the '80s called "Rockline" where listeners could call in and ask the guest bands of that week a question and they'd answer live on the air. I was a caller myself 3 different times when Yes, INXS, and Icehouse were on.


One of the highlights in the '80s was the CD and its rise in popularity over vinyl. For those of us tired of listening to pops and hisses on scratched vinyl LPs, it was a welcome change.


And even now, songs from the '80s are what I enjoy listening to the most.

They Rock!

Two Popular Biographies Reviewed

By Charles E.J. Moulton
​
 
Forgive them their many four-letter-words.
These two extravagant rockers are sensitive souls, more than they seem, believers, true spirits. Not only are they brilliant storytellers in their own right, their stories are told through music the in tales of their lives, noteworthy as to their rocking similarities, but also because of the eye-opening effect of the contents. The package is opened, because the fan loves to rock. The fan gets much more: he becomes enlightened.
These two artists have more in common than can be seen at first glance. They speak in feelings and thoughts. What becomes evident when reading these autobiographies back to back is that these guys vividly invite us on a tour of their lives in written form. It is poetic, thoughtful raunchy and honest.
Two autobiographies published this decade that deserve special attention deal with men who tried every drug known to man and still believe in God, speaking of souls leaving the body at death and music's effect on the eternal spirit. 
Steven Tyler, born Tallarico in 1948 back in Yonkers. U.S.A., is the self-confessed nature-boy and the son of a classical concert pianist. Mistaken for Mick Jagger during his early career caused him to put on a British accent in order to capitalize on star-similarity.
Billy Idol, born William Broad in 1955 in England, spent a few years in the U.S. during his childhood before moving back to Bromley in England and gaining back his Brit accent. So both artists were capable of articulated Brit and Yank accents.
 Both believers are cleaned up ex-drug-addicts.
Idol's nearly lethal motorcycle accident in 1991 might have sobered him up, an incident that gave him a very real out-of-body-experience.
Tyler's soberness might have come out of necessity to survive, who knows?
In any case, after reading these biographies, though, the human side of their artistic lives become clear. Idol's most challenging time, health-wise, had him disappearing into a heroin-cocoon, ultimately causing his father to travel across the Atlantic to save him. No matter how famous he became, to the Broad family he was still just their Billy from Bromley.
While Tyler was supported to become a musician, his mom driving him to early concerts in a van, Idol took the leap very much against his father's will, who wanted him to take over his hardware store. 
It is then a happy fact that both men made happy family peace parents: with mother, in Tyler's case, and father, in Idol's case, before their respective deaths. 
It is touching, yet heartwrenching, to read about these extravagant rockers with their wild lives and their last moments holding and embracing their loved ones and, in retrospect, feeling good about how they said good bye. 
Tyler even speaks of God as a Her, a Goddess. 
Idol speaks of an out-of-body-experience and an eternal inspration far away from this world. With all the fascinatingly gritty details of the punk- and rock-life in both books, completely normal functions and day-to-day rehab drudges, with explosive anecdotes of rock shows, at the end all of this makes us discover a humane and sympathetic truth. Genius is genius, celebrity is no less human because of fame.
Sensitivity makes celebrity even more endearing.
Celebrity can hurt. Morten Harket spoke in his autobiography “Take On Me” compares celebrity to his school yard mobbing as a victim. The feud Lead Singer Vs. Lead Guitarist dominates both artistic careers, Idol’s and Tyler’s. Steven Tyler's dramatic relationship with his "Toxic Twin" Joe Perry has been a four decade love-hate affair. Likewise, Billy Idol's tight fights with his guitarist Stevie Stevens sometimes reached hair raising proportions, a relationship that now has calmed down to bloom into an again prosperous collaboration.
Two enormous stage personalities, whose writing and composing have improved through the years, followed by energetic stage shows with firework-like physical activity.
Billy and Steven have a full throttle work ethos intact, one that cost Tyler multiple foot surgery and Idol a bad back.
Idol, the sneering punk-poet with a heart of gold, and Tyler, the bouncing rag-doll dude with hyper-sensitive drum-rhythm: both speak lovingly and sweetly about their children. Proud fathers both with rocket careers to boot. Sobered up, extraordinary, normal, human, angelic, beastly and spiritual, all at the same time. 
Why do we love them?
Because they signify what we humans are all are, what we are all about: we are emotional creatures, willing to learn and willing to rock.
 
 
Steven Tyler: "Does the Noise in my Head Bother You?"
Harper Collins, 2011

Billy Idol: "Dancing with Myself"
Simon & Schuster, 2014

 
 
A Guide to Undiscovered Country

By Angela Camack

 
July 1974, a city in New Jersey

         It was a warm, late July afternoon. Moira MacBride walked quickly from her apartment to the Medical Center for her 3 p.m. shift. She was running a little late; her clock was still on Jersey Shore vacation time. She and her roommates had just returned from five days at the shore. Five days of swimming, sun, dancing and eating food of little nutritional value.
         Moira was a twig of a woman; 21, 5’2” and 100 pounds in her nurse’s cap and sturdy white shoes, but surprisingly strong. She brought Ireland with her; red hair with bronze lights, blue eyes and a few freckles across her tilted nose.
         She approached the Medical Center, wondering why the heat at the shore seemed luxurious and sensuous while the heat on the way to work was oppressive. The Medical Center took up much of the street; the brick monolith of the old hospital and the gleaming newness of the addition, which housed specialty units and the operating rooms. Now she passed the workmen repairing the sidewalks across from the main entrance. She usually used the Emergency Room entrance to avoid them but was short of time today. Here it came: “Nurse, nurse it’s getting worse,” “Hello, Red!” “Hiya, sweetie.” She told herself that they were just nice guys who worked hard and were a little bored and hot but wished that just once men could be the ones getting the whistles; “Nice butt, Dr. Fine.”
         Every day she planned to ask them to stop, and every day she froze. Moira had always made it easier, better for others than for herself. Even in 1974 women were expected to do just that. But Moira was self-effacing even for the times. She was born the fourth and last child in a family that should have been more comfortable than they were. Her father owned a successful plumbing business, but caring for two children with asthma took time, attention and money. By the time Moira came along all these resources were well tapped. She was used to making do, keeping things smooth, not asking for much.
         Choosing nursing kept things smooth. Her parents were keenly aware of how money troubles could tear at a family and encouraged her to study nursing. “You can always get a job, and you can start work in a few years. Besides, a pretty thing like you will be married in no time.” Her counselors at school agreed, pointing out her high grades in science.
         The need to keep the waters steady became been part of her.  She had been the quiet child who never grabbed for the last slice of cake or the seat by the car window. Although she was attracted to psychiatric nursing, she made no protest when her transfer request from the medical unit to a vacancy on the psych unit was turned down. “Medicine is always so short of staff, and everyone loves you on 4 West.” Moving into her apartment, she chose the smallest room even though she was the first to move in.
         But it was a good life. A job she was good at, one that allowed her to live on her own. Good friends, amenable roommates, dates. Could she want more? (Could she …..?) Sometimes she felt full of unused words and ideas, as if her muscles were constrained and unable to move. She felt like untapped potential was hiding somewhere behind the amiability and conciliation she showed to the world.
         In the lobby, waiting for the elevator, Moira ran into Bobbie, the evening ward clerk for 4 West. No way to avoid Bobbie, the silliest and most annoying person she’d met in her 21 years. She braced herself for the ride to the 4th floor.
         “Moooira! You’ll never guess what happened while you were away.” Bobbie’s shrill voice was accompanied by an iron grip on Moira’s elbow. She wondered what would happen first, bleeding from her ears or paralysis of her arm.
         “No, Bobbie, I don’t know what happened while I was away.”
         “Do you remember that lady? The one you admitted just before you left?”
         Moira thought back and pulled up the memory. Claudine Corby. African American, admitted with advanced liver cancer. The structure of a beautiful woman remained, but she was gaunt, and her skin was yellowing. Her once-wavy hair was patchy but covered with a brightly patterned turban. Her makeup was expertly but tastefully applied, and she wore a silky pink robe. With her was another African American woman, introduced as her friend Miss Lillian Borden, a legal secretary.  Dressed in a trim navy suit, soft white blouse and low-heeled navy pumps, she was quiet and efficient as she unpacked.
         Mrs. Corby was talkative despite her frailty. As she took a history, Moira learned that she was divorced, had lost her only child in a car accident and had been a blues/jazz singer in clubs and piano bars. As her career wound down (rock being in favor now), she moved in with her friend to share expenses.
         Mrs., Corby’s friend suddenly gave Moira a very bright but forced smile. “That’s us, just two old ladies making do.”
         “Women of a certain age, Lillian, women of a certain age. Let’s put the best face on it that we can.”
         “So what happened with Mrs. Corby, Bobbie?”
         Bobbie drew in a deep breath. “Well, we all thought they were just two, you know, normal ladies. Until, well, you know, she didn’t fill out her menu for the next day. So I was going to take one in to her. I opened the door and I thought I’d die. They were sitting on the bed and they were kissing! On the lips! With tongue, I think. All this time, they were, you know, that way. I thought I was going to be sick right there. Miss Brecker hadn’t left yet so I told her right away.”
         Nurse Brecker, nurse in charge of 4 West. Nurse Brecker of the old school. She learned her skills during World War II, and there was nothing she had not seen since. Using sight, touch, scent, she could usually spot a patient’s problems in minutes.  It took only that long for patients to feel safe with her. However, the feeling of safety did not extend to her staff, which she tried to intimidate and often did. Miss Brecker liked the old school and was perfectly happy to keep it in session on 4 West.
         Perhaps Miss Brecker should not be blamed for becoming rigid, and for closing her eyes and ears to all change but technical innovations in medicine. She had worked for years in a field where practitioners often did not get the credit or respect they deserved. Certainly, their pay did not reflect recognition. The medical center paid its electricians and mechanics more than its nurses, who provided most of the care patients got and made life altering decisions every day. Why? “Men have families to support.” (That must have been a comfort to the widows and divorced women on the nursing staff).
         How many nurses had Miss Brecker trained over the years, only to see them transfer to more prestigious units, such as the operating room or one of the intensive care units? How many left to marry almost as soon as they came into bloom as practitioners? How many times had she tactfully pointed out something to an arrogant little intern that saved him from making a serious mistake? How many panicky new residents had she seen become attending doctors? And now women were bypassing nursing completely, becoming doctors themselves.
         So Nurse Brecker ruled what she could, the Medical unit on the 4th floor. At a time when nurses were leaving off their caps and trading uniform dresses for more practical pantsuits, her girls wore the traditional outfit (her “girls” being over 40 in some cases). Her girls, if they had to question Doctor, did so in a polite and roundabout way. Her girls understood that Doctor sometimes shouted at them because of the pressure of his job. Her girls worked New Year’s Eve without complaint. Her girls were Miss or Mrs., never Ms.
         Bobbie drew another deep breath. “So anyhow, I told Miss Brecker right away. And she told the “friend” to leave. Said she had a duty to, you know, monitor what went on in her unit, and she didn’t want behavior like that. She said this friend had to leave right away and not come back. But she didn’t go. Miss Brecker said she would get the guards and have her thrown out. Finally, Mrs. Corby started to get upset and the friend left.”
         “Bobbie, why did you tell Miss Brecker?”
         “Why not?
         They got off the elevator. Four West was in the older part of the medical center and could be dark on cloudy days. Poorly ventilated, the halls sometimes carried the scent of illness, disinfectant and steam table food. Patients were often very ill, in need of much care that frequently could not return them to health. Small wonder that some nurses were drawn to the Intensive Care or specialty units, where outcomes were better and were considered more prestigious among hospital staff.  Moira went into the staff room for the shift change report (when nurses coming off duty gave important information to the nurses coming on). She would be the registered nurse in charge of the shift, which should be no problem for someone as smart, skilled and empathetic as Moira, but taking charge could still be a minefield that required sharp wits to navigate.
         You would think that a profession of hard working (mostly) women, often underappreciated and underpaid, would support each other. No. Licensed Practical Nurses resented the RN’s in charge. RN’s sometimes did not recognize the working knowledge LPN’s developed. RN’s with diplomas resented RN’s with college degrees, scorning them as overeducated snobs with no practical skills. Everyone felt the need to “test” new graduates. New grads sometimes had little patience with older workers. By the time burnout was recognized as a serious problem, nursing was known as “the profession that eats its own young.” And if you were a smart, pretty little colleen who was just beginning to know her own powers, you could be fair game for some nurses.
         Miss Brecker entered and sat beside Moira at the table in the staff room. The rest of the staff was not yet present.
         “We had a problem with the patient you admitted before your vacation,” said Miss Brecker, so sternly that Moira thought for a moment that she was being blamed for the patient’s proclivities.
         “Bobbie told me when we were coming up in the elevator.”
         “What did she tell you?”
         Moira repeated Bobbie’s story. Miss Brecker shook her head. “That Bobbie. She shouldn’t be telling unit business in the elevator. But that’s exactly what happened. It’s disgusting. I can’t have that behavior here.  And I’m afraid they’re looking for trouble. That other woman works for a lawyer,” (“lawyer” said like she was being forced to bite into something rotten.) “Claims they have rights. A few of those young doctors and that wet-behind-the-ears social worker think so too. ‘But Miss Brecker, she doesn’t have anyone else. Miss Borden is the closest person to family that she has.’ Well, that’s what happens. This is my unit and that’s what I’ve decided. Family! Ridiculous.”
         She gave Moira’s shoulder a brief squeeze. “But I won’t have any trouble out of you. You’re my girl. I always know what I can expect.”
         Moira felt like she had been dropped into ice. Her girl. Her predictable girl. Is that all she was?
         Moira could not think about this yet. She had a report to hear, assignments to make, rounds to do. But she took her dinner break alone to work things out.
         All her life, she had walked in lockstep. Being the accommodating one. So easily shaped by what others felt was best for her. Had anyone given her credit for having a mind of her own? Had she ever shown she had one?
         But first she had to deal with Mrs. Corby. Moira saw how her health had failed in the last five days. Her color was worse, she was gaunter, and her vital signs were unstable. Gone were the bright turban, makeup and pretty robe. She was distant, picking uneasily at the bed linen, as if her place in the world was already tenuous. She ate no dinner, even after Moira offered to get her anything that would tempt her. Had she not been on an intravenous saline drip, she would be getting no fluids at all. She had no wish to cling to where she was, and now Moira knew why. It didn’t help that some of the staff were obviously uncomfortable caring for her.
         She didn’t know how she felt about what the women did. But it seemed terribly cruel to keep a dying woman from the one person she had to love her. Is that what “caring” was?
         Maybe she could talk to Miss Brecker. Maybe if the women promised not to touch while they are together. (But was there ever a time when touch is so needed?). Maybe Mrs. Corby could get a private room.
         But she knew Miss Brecker would never change her mind. She had dominion over this situation, even over the doctors. She wouldn’t give up this little victory so easily.
         What would happen if she did let Miss Borden visit? Would she be fired? Get a formal reprimand?  No, she wouldn’t be fired. The nursing shortage was so severe that nurses had done much worse before being let go.
         She approached Mrs. Corby’s room. Stepping over the threshold would be mean ending 21 years of keeping things smooth. Moira realized these 21 years had kept things steady for herself as well; walking in step with everyone else’s expectations meant she had formed few of her own.  She had never risked failure, but she never explored her strengths. She went into Mrs. Corby’s room and placed a slip of paper on the bedside stand. “These are the shifts I’m in charge this week. Ask your friend to come during visiting hours and to ask for me. I’ll see that she gets in.”
         “Miss Brecker said no, absolutely no. She said she’d have Lillian thrown out.”
         “Well, she won’t be here and I’m in charge. I’ll take care of it.”
         A tear slid down Mrs. Corby’s cheek, silvery against her bruised-looking skin. “Why would you do this for us?”
         “Because it’s right.”
         It didn’t take long for the uproar over Moira’s decision to begin. Mrs. Corby’s friend appeared at the desk just in time for part of evening visiting hours. Bobbie, sitting at the desk and placing lab results in charts, had just opened her mouth to tell her to leave when Moira stepped forward. “I’m Moira MacBride. I’ll take you to your friend.”
         The visitor was suspicious of this sudden change in policy. “Miss MacBride, why would you do this for us?”
         “Because Mrs. Corby needs you. Because it’s right.” Miss Borden waited for more of a response, but none was forthcoming. She squeezed Moira’s hand lightly and they moved off to her friend’s room.
         Moira’s return to the desk revealed that a group of interested staff had suddenly gathered. “Moira, did you just do what I think you did?” asked the medication nurse.
         “Yes, and I would appreciate it if none of you told Miss Brecker. This is my responsibility, and I’ll take any heat that’s coming.”
         “Moira, I know you want to do the right thing, but have you considered the trouble you could make for yourself?”
         “That woman is dying, and she’s dying all alone. Can you imagine how scared she must be? She needs her friend, especially since I don’t see a lot of people here lining up outside her room to get her through this.”
         “You are going to get in huge trouble,” Bobbie said.
         “I don’t care. I have to look at myself in the mirror and I need to sleep at night.” She moved off to make mid-shift patient rounds.
         “I’m confused,” said Bobbie. “What do mirrors and sleeping at night have to do with visiting hours?”
         Moira was tired when she got home but couldn’t settle down to sleep. Could she trust the staff to keep a secret? They risked getting into trouble themselves. Was it worth damaging her career for two strangers?
         No matter. It was done, and it was the right thing to do. No one should die alone. Were these women so terrible? Who were they hurting?
         She remembered Hamlet from freshman English class. Hamlet spoke of death as the ‘undiscovered country.’  Shakespeare knew what he was talking about. Death was the ultimate mystery; you didn’t know what you were facing, and you never came back. Surely everyone deserved someone to accompany them to the brink of that new territory.
         As for Moira, for better or for worse, she was done with walking in lockstep. Her decisions from now on would be her own. 
Moira tried harder to find sleep. She considered a glass of wine, but she swore she was still metabolizing all those lovely gin and tonics from vacation. She picked up the latest bestseller from her night table and read herself to sleep.
         The visiting situation held the next evening, although it was an uncomfortable shift. Voices whispered and laughed and died down when Moira came close. People stared and then looked away when she met their eyes.  The glances continued when she left the unit for the cafeteria. So it had gotten around the hospital. That wasn’t good, although she wasn’t surprised.
         Most irritating of all, Bobbie felt the need to remind Moira of the trouble she was bound to get into and had developed the habit of humming the mystery/crime tune every time Moira came near her. “Dah-duh-DAH!”  “Dah-duh-DAH!” Moira tried to ignore her, but her nerves were tight, and she had had enough. “Bobbie, cut that out. It wasn’t funny the first thousand times you did it and it’s not funny now.”
         “Well, I like that! I was just teasing. I thought we were friends.”
         “Jeez, if that’s how you treat your friends, how do you drive your enemies crazy?” She stalked off and left the staff’s shocked faces behind her.
         “Can you believe Moira’s acting and talking that way?”
         “There were times when I didn’t think she knew how to talk.”
         “That must have been some vacation. What’s gotten into her?”
         “Yeah, what’s gotten into her is right.”
         It didn’t last. It couldn’t have lasted. The next night, Miss Brecker intercepted Moira on the way to the staff room. “I would never in a million years have thought that you would have been the one to go behind my back. For what? For those women? Why did you do it, Moira?”
         “Because it’s right, Miss Brecker.” Brecker glared at Moira, the answer not satisfying her.
         “Miss Brecker, that woman is dying and has nobody else. Whether we approve of her or not, we have to take care of her. That’s our job. And to doom a dying woman to go through it alone – even people on the prison unit get care –“
         “That’s enough out of you. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
         “How did you find out?” Bobbie, of course.
         “That doesn’t matter.  From someone who is more professional than you are. I can’t believe you expected other people to go behind my back too.”
         “Maybe we can talk about this another time. I have to hear the shift report –“
         “Susan Billings will be in charge.  I don’t think you’re fit to make decisions. Anyhow, this has to go to the administration before we decide what to do with you.”
         “Miss Brecker, please consider allowing her friend to visit – “
         “No. Why are you being so stubborn about this? Where is this rebelliousness coming from? Are you so eager to cut your own throat for these women?”
         Not just for ‘these women’, but for herself too. There was no way Miss Brecker would understand.
         Moira was never in charge of a shift on 4 West again.  Whispers continued, and some of the staff members were cool to Moira. One of the interns pulled her aside and whispered, “That was a good thing you did, honey.”
         “Thank you, Dr. But it’s Moira, please. not honey.” (There, that wasn’t too hard).
         The administration did talk to her. The medical-surgical supervisor. The director of nursing. The hospital attorney. All asked why. All she would say was, “Because it was right.” A summary of the incident went into her personnel file and Miss Brecker remained icy. She resigned herself to allowing Miss Borden to visit Mrs. Corby, and her resentment toward Moira showed.
Moira was assigned to care for Mrs. Corby every  shift she worked. She enjoyed caring for her, and as the days passed, and as Mrs. Corby weakened, they grew closer.
Mrs. Corby’s life had not been easy. “I kept feeling like I was being kicked out of the human race. First, I was black, and I was a woman, and then I was a woman who wanted other women. Well, I hid the last one. I got married; well – then divorced. But when that drunken driver took my son, I had nothing else to lose. I looked for the person who could help me stay alive, and I found her.”
About ten days after the trouble for Moira began, she entered Mrs. Corby’s room, not in her usual uniform and cap, but in a trim seersucker skirt and blouse.
“Well, hello. I haven’t seen you for a few days.” She looked at what Moira was wearing.” Moira, did you quit? They didn’t fire you, did they?”
The medical-surgical supervisor told Moira that a staff vacancy on the psychiatric unit might be coming up and asked if she was still interested in that transfer. She was. The staff wore street clothes on the psych unit, thinking it would help foster rapport between staff and patients.
“Is it better there?”
Moira tried to be positive but couldn’t quite manage that. “Not really. It looks like I’ll be branded as the troublemaker from now on.” She laughed. “Not my usual role.”
“Because of me. I’m sorry.”
“No, because of them. But I’m glad things worked out that way. I still had a lot to learn about people, and about myself.”
Moira visited Mrs. Corby until she and Miss Borden decided that Miss Borden would take a leave of absence from her job and Mrs. Corby would have hospice care at home. They spoke on the phone weekly until Mrs. Corby died.
Moira’s next step was up to her.  Should she find another job? Leave nursing, a profession she had wandered into, or stay and make it her own? Tend bar on the Jersey Shore? Whatever the decision, it would finally be completely hers.
“Grow up, Moira, the world is waiting,” she thought to herself. Or at least, Jersey.
        

Deeper and Deeper

By Laurel Benjamin

Fast and fluid, the child slid into the water.
“She just got baptized,” a woman said, sitting on the shore, waving her hands.
“Where’s her daddy?” a boy with a red shirt said, as the little girl sunk below surface and then bobbed out.
To the crowd, it seemed an oddity, since they had never thought of going in the water, and revered what they were told about the idea of separate spaces.
A man scowled. “Now we’ll get the blame.” He stood, scooped up his picnic basket and folding chair, and walked up to the parking lot.
All the while the little girl drifted further, going under, then paddling, though she’d never been taught. No one had. A cry could be heard intermittently, like a bird searching for another bird.
The beach crowd turned back to what they had been doing—a couple playing cards, a family eating sandwiches, two teenagers reading. And so on.
If only they had looked— they could have seen hand motion, and finally, nothing. No evidence of the girl.
Then a dog began to bark, came running down from the hill, all fur and legs, leash trailing. He swam. He barked, his pink tongue hanging out as he paddled.
Everyone looked up, but not at the water. They all started to explain to each other what had happened, as if it was over and life could return to normal. The boy on shore played with string, his hands mesmerized as if the string, wound around his hands, criss-crossing, were an orb, and he imagined he had control over the world.

Mike Knowles presents

THE POWER OF THE OBVIOUS: STEAMPUNK DRIVEN SCIENCOLOGY
Captain Jack Hawksworth Esq.
INTRODUCTION BY THE AUTHOR
What qualifications would a man wedded to a science fiction genre featuring 19th Century technology powered by steam have creating a religion based on modern science. Not to mention that this individual’s supposed exploits in the Steampunk universe would give the famous Baron Munchausen a run for his money when it comes to hyperbole?
Just look at it this way: all religions have prophets who are blessed with special abilities. Sort of like the Avengers. And I’m no exception.
So let’s begin with quantum physics; which is what started me on this amazing theological journey...
THE WEIRD AND DANGEROUS WORLD OF QUANTUM PHYSICS
Dangerous?
In fact it’s so dangerous a physicist once remarked that telling non-scientists about the weirdness of quantum physics is like giving a child a loaded gun to play with. However, in this article I hope to prove them wrong!
So what is it about quantum physics that makes it so so dangerous?
The problem lies with those quantum particles.
Particles like electrons, protons, gluons, up quarks, and down quarks. Particles that, until you set out to observe them, are impossible to see. So impossible they may as well not exist at all! And, even when you finally do observe them, you can only see where they’ve been!
Confused?
You’re not alone.
Even Nobel Prize winning quantum physicists can’t get their heads around them! Okay, they have weird names and they’re elusive. But then so is Big Foot and the Abominable Snowman. But they’re not particularly dangerous unless you’re in a forest in Oregon or on the slopes of Mount Everest. Whereas everything in the universe is created by these particles! You and I included.
No, these particles are dangerous because they turn our safe and secure notions of reality upside down. For example, these electrons and their pals can exist in two states at the same time.
Yes, you read that right!
These things can exist both as particles and as waves of particles. Which is like saying a billiard ball can also look like a billiard table and that it only becomes one or the other when we observe it. Impossible as that sounds, we can also add that these quantum particles can be in two separate places at the same time. And that two particles can communicate instantaneously no matter how far apart they are.
They could even be at both ends of the universe!
Now I think you’d be forced to admit that even Harry Potter would be hard pressed to do that!
But there’s one thing that’s potentially even more disturbing. That’s the fact that quantum physics seems to show us that reality is in the eye of the beholder. That when conducting an experiment using quantum particles, it’s the experimenter, not the quantum particles, that choose the result!
Weird, right?!
It makes you suspect the universe wasn’t created by God or the Big Bang. Perhaps it’s being created by a bunch of power crazed scientists in their laboratories. Or perhaps all of us are creating it! We certainly have the potential because we’re all composed of quantum particles. If so, unlike those mutants with their X-genes beloved by Marvel Comics, we have even better super powers!
The power to create the universe!
But let’s not get carried away just yet.
So that’s what that physicist meant when he said a loaded gun. Weird stuff like that can lead non-scientists to make all kinds of outrageous assumptions. And those eggheads they’ve got quite enough outrageous assumptions of their own to contend with. It seems that when it comes to making outrageous scientific assumptions about quantum physics, this is a closed shop!
Not to Sciencologists!
A MOST HEARTY WELCOME TO PHANTASMAGORICAL STEAMPUNK DRIVEN SCIENCOLOGY
We Sciencologists say they don’t have a monopoly on weird ideas. And, in doing so, we hope to open your minds to wonders that will take your breath away. Of course, I don’t mean that in a literal sense.
I’m here to educate you, not asphyxiate you!
Sciencology is a religion that combines modern science with Steampunk! A religion that dares to flaunt convention by making itself a religion that’s fun to belong to! A religion based, not on superstition, but one based firmly on logic and reasoning.
Now some of you may be asking yourselves, can logic and reasoning be fun? Mr Spock on Star Trek was full of logic and reasoning. And how many jokes did he crack?
Not many.
But I hope to do better than that.
Within these pages I’ll present you with a choice. In the film, “The Matrix,” the hero was given the choice of taking a red pill or a blue one. The red pill would lift the veil and show him that what seemed to be real was just an illusion. But, if he chose to bottle out, he could take the blue one. Whereupon he’d wake up in bed and blissfully forget everything that happened to him. Sciencology gives you a similar choice.
Sciencology’s red pill is metaphorical. And, unlike the pill Keanu Reeves was offered, mine is considerably larger because some of the things I’ll be telling you will be pretty hard to swallow.
On the other hand there is some good news!
The good news is that if you take my pill you won’t wake up naked inside a high tech pod to discover that you’re hooked up to a giant battery charger. Although some of you may hanker fantasies about that.
So what is this religion I’m offering you?
Sciencology is aimed at men and women who are prepared to open their minds to the mind-bending theories at the cutting edge of modern science. Like the Catholic Jesuits, Sciencologists are missionaries and teachers. And, like them, we have a Holy Trinity. Only ours is Accept Nothing, Believe Nothing and Confirm Everything.
We also make good use of Occam’s Razor.
Philosophers and scientists will know what this is. It’s the intellectual version of your Swiss Knife. Occam’s Razor states that the simplest explanation is the one
most likely to be correct. The simplest explanation being the one that makes the fewest assumptions. And the more complicated and convoluted the explanation is, then the less likely it is to be true. We Sciencologists use Occam’s Razor to detect the presence of potential bullshit.
How ironic that it was a 14th Century Franciscan Frier, William of Ockham, who came up with this principal. And, with his help, Sciencology will make those other religions out there feel the cutting edge of his Razor. To wax lyrical, this is the razor that shaves away the layers of superstition and false logic to reveal the pure bullshit underneath.
For rational people, some of the beliefs found in those other religions are pretty hard to accept. They require, as their clergy are fond of saying, a leap of faith.
Take the Christian doctrine of the Virgin Birth.
Not surprisingly some theologians were worried that rational people might be tempted to question the veracity of this biological aberration. Theologians like Saint Maximillian Kolbe. So to offset any criticism Kolbe pronounced that the Virgin Birth was far too deep and mysterious to explain. As a result he regarded any attempt to explain it to be pointless. This circular argument was clearly an effort to prevent any rational person from considering the irrational aspects of this singularly unique form of childbirth.
Nice try, Kolbe. But no cigar!
We Sciencologists couldn’t take a leap of faith like that. It would be like trying to leap across the Atlantic and land in New York. Which is why I was determined that Sciencology would be based on logic and rational thinking.
I also wanted Sciencology to be open to criticism. You can insult us all you like, but words will never hurt us. This makes Sciencology a very tolerant religion.
Many religious people may feel that Sciencology is questioning their God’s suitability to take on the role of Supreme Being. For this I offer no apology. Their God should not have given us the intelligence to ask these questions. Instead he could have made us gullible enough to accept every word written in their bibles.
I must stress I’m not here to do the work of Richard Dawkins. He doesn’t need my help. Ironically, Richard certainly need God’s help because without the concept of a deity he’d have to employ his obvious talents elsewhere.
A WORD ABOUT OUR NEAREST COMPETITOR
At this point I feel I should mention our nearest competitor in the theological stakes. I refer, of course, to Scientology! People have said that Sciencology sounds similar to Scientology. Are we in any way connected to them? No. The difference between Scien-cology and Scien-tology is more than just one letter.
The basic difference is that we like to think we’re more scientific. For those who don’t know, Scientology is a religion created by the late L. Ron Hubbard. The author of such science fiction pot boilers as “Battlefield Earth” and “Typewriter in the Sky.”
Now some critics may argue that his literary outpourings never quite managed to come to the boil; that they remained, at best, lukewarm. But be warned! I’ve heard that some of Hubbard’s followers can be extremely touchy if you criticise them. Consequently, should you venture to speak ill of them then you may face the threat of litigation.
GEORGE CLOONEY’S WATCH!
The Christians have their Alpha Course which they describe as a series of interactive sessions freely exploring the basics of the Christian faith.
No pressure, they claim.
No follow up.
No charge.
And, you could say, no use to anyone! But I won’t. We’re not scared of the competition. If you’re willing to ignore logic and rational thinking then the Alpha Course is right for you. But we have our own Alpha Course! We call it the Omega Course! The Omega Course for Atheists! Why Omega? Because the information we give you is as accurate as an Omega watch!
And, by a happy coincidence, George Clooney advertises Omega watches! And unlike Tom Cruise, he’s not a Scientologist.
So when you think of our Omega Course, think George Clooney! Perhaps Clooney could advertise the Omega Course? Because Sciencology’s Omega Course is as accurate as the watch on his wrist!
Now what other religion can make a claim like that? Needless to say, atheists regard the Omega Course as nothing more than brainwashing. But that depends on
the sort of brainwashing you’re talking about. For example, what’s wrong with brainwashing if it washes out all the rubbish?
Our Omega Course is a form of brainwashing. But in Sciencology we refer to it as Mental Recycling. Which refers to a process that recycles all the fallacy into fact.
And that is our Battle Cry: become a Sciencologist and help us turn fallacy into fact! My mission is to prove to you that Sciencology can be an attractive theological alternative to a traditional religion.
So, if any of you feel tempted to change your religious beliefs, then you’re only two steps away from salvation.
But not two steps away from heaven. For this is not the salvation of your soul, but the salvation of your intellect!
And your first step is to stop believing in a laid-back deity who only talks to a chosen few and turns a blind eye to suffering. A deity who, his adherents claim, works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. Ways so mysterious they often contradict the laws of logic and reasoning. A deity who asks you to replace common sense with blind faith.
WHO IS CAPTAIN JACK HAWKSWORTH?
I began my Steampunk career mud wrestling alligators. Not a creature noted for its overly affectionate nature. Had it been a herbivore subsisting on vegetation alone, it would still have proved a handful. Adult alligators are extremely muscular and take quite a bit of effort to subdue them
And those gnashing jaws don’t help matters.
But I’ll start with the tragic tale of my sister. For it was she who inspired me to mud wrestle alligators and become a famous adventurer. Which eventually inspired me to create a brand new religion. This religion called Sciencology!
Prepare yourself for a tale of truly tragic proportions. A tragedy that overshadows any the Greeks ever came up with. In 1983 my mother worked in the research department of a large pharmaceutical firm when she became pregnant. My father, the general manager of a factory that made steam powered mobility scooters, had a cynical view of human nature so, after first establishing to his own satisfaction that no one else could have impregnated my mother, he eventually accepted responsibility.
But instead of this being a joyous occasion for our family, my baby sister was born terribly disabled. In fact, she was born with no arms, legs, body or head. All that emerged from my mother’s pulsating vagina was an eye…
And they didn’t even know if it was the right eye or the left one. But there was something else wrong with her; she was blind. And you may wonder how we knew it was a girl.
It was the eyelashes.
For weeks I was inconsolable. I’d been guilty of sibling jealousy! When my mother became pregnant I’d felt jealous because up to then I’d been an only child. So, after this tragic birth, I was tormented by some dark thoughts. My father tried to make light of it. He joked that if my mother had been a teacher, people would have said she’d given birth to a pupil.
The joke didn’t go down too well.
So what has all this to do with Sciencology? Well, it was during made a trip to Tibet that the seeds of Sciencology were sown. I’d travelled to the Himalayas in the hope of discovering the Abominable Snowman. Ever since learning of this elusive creature I’d longed to wrestle it.
I eventually captured one of these elusive creatures and was asked to perform a demonstration in front of the Dali Llama. Afterwards, over dinner, the Dali Llama managed to soften the pain and guilt that had been eating away at me.
When I told him my story he assured me that my sister would eventually be reincarnated. And, with Buddha’s blessing, she would return to earth with her body intact. You cannot imagine my relief at such good news! Up until then I’d been on a spree of self-destruction! Driven by guilt I was mercilessly pitting myself against the wildest animals I could find. But the Dali Llama’s assurance that my departed sister would be resurrected whole had done the trick. I felt a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
So, on my return from the world of Steampunk I rented a caravan in North Wales and immersed myself in books on science. That’s when I discovered quantum physics. And it was there, in North Wales, the seeds; seeds that sprouted during a dinner at a hotel in Prestatyn.
HOW SOME BEER BATTERED MUSHROOMS GAVE BIRTH TO A RELIGION
My first impulse was to create a religion based on Steampunk science; a science based on those massive steam engines, hissing and throbbing away! Or on those really cool bronze googles! But then I decided to use modern science. The cutting edge of pure science!
It was the brief flirtation with Scientology gave me the idea of the name for my religion. But whilst Scientology was based on someone called Xenu, mine would be based on quantum physics.
Who is Xenu?
For those of you unfamiliar with Scientology, Xenu was an evil alien ruler who decided to bring a lot of other aliens called Thetans to the planet Earth to kill them. And as far asI could gather, Xenu was some sort of galactic dictator who transported billions these Thetans to earth. There he stacked them around volcanoes and killed them with hydrogen bombs.
So it was in North Wales that I gave birth to a religion I hoped would set theology ablaze! And I dared venture that in the not too distant future historians would associate this with the time Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to the church door at Wittenburg.
And it was all due to my sister’s eye.
In fact, I cannot recall a religion that was created out of an eye that could see nothing at all. The Guinness Book of Records makes no mention of such a thing! I also decided that my religion would incorporate humour. Which is a shame. Humour may have lightened the mood. Especially in the Old Testament which is rather dark and could have benefited from some levity. So I ordained that we Sciencologists should be able to laugh at ourselves.
In a positive way, that is.
But there’d be no room for magic thinking. Magic thinking may have given us the Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. But we Sciencologists would deal in science. That’s why neither Tolkien or J. K. Rowling have ever been considered for the Nobel Prize in Physics. Although some may argue it would have made it a more entertaining branch of science.
For example, just picture Bilbo Baggins pontificating on the Second Law of Thermodynamics to Gandalf in front of the fire at Bag End. Or Harry Potter figuring
out the problem of Schrodinger’s Cat in the Box whilst engaged in mortal combat with the Death Eaters.
To start with I decided Sciencology would replace the Biblical Genesis with the Big Bang Theory. After all, the story of Adam and Eve and a talking snake selling poisoned apples ran counter to advances in genetics and anthropology. Although not in Snow White.
On the other hand, even the Big Bang is not without flaws. The most fundamental being the question of what happened before the Big Bang. After all, it’s a perfectly rational question to ask. And I also wanted a hypothesis that excluded the presence of a god.
Or a Xenu.
So, as I tucked into my starter which, If I recall, was Beer Battered Mushrooms, I recalled reading that some scientists had speculated there was nothing before the Big Bang. Nothing-to-the-power-of-nothing, as one of them so succinctly put it. I decided that nothing-to-the-power-of-nothing had a nice ring about it. It described an absolute state. Suddenly an intense feeling of excitement came over me! I can only describe it as being like a primitive form of catharsis. Overcome I leaped to my feet and uttered the word…
Eureka!
My cathartic vocal explosion had been the result of learning that the universe may have been created out of nothing – that nothingness had some special power which enabled it to trigger the Big Bang. This was a pretty radical idea. Radical and weird.
As I sat down I wondered if this “something from nothing” was just too weird? As far as I knew there was absolutely nothing in nothing-to-the-power-of-nothing to do anything. In fact I went even further and told myself that you can’t even think about nothing because there’s nothing there to think about!
In the face of this paradox I was tempted to call my version of Genesis, Much Ado About Nothing! But something else occurred to me. At this point I remembered the simple fact that there are two sides to everything. And I realised that the opposite of nothing is something. In other words, if a state of nothingness-to-the-power-of-nothingness exists then so must its opposite. I called it a state of something-to-the-power-of-something.
As I pondered this question, I recalled that Steven Hawking had said time itself was created by the Big Bang. Which begged the question; how long did it take for time to come into existence? And this revealed yet another fascinating paradox!
In the absence of time it must have taken no time at all.
In other words it must have happened instantaneously! And, because it was instantaneous, we could argue that time has always existed.
Doubts began to creep in. Was this was just semantics? Was I merely playing with words?
Yet this sounded perfect for Sciencology’s version of Genesis! In fact, it was precisely the simplicity that Sciencology needed. It was certainly far simpler than the convoluted version of Genesis one finds in the Bible.
HOW THE SEARCH FOR AN EXOTIC CREATURE LED TO MORE RED PILL WEIRDNESS!
That night as I lay on my bed I recalled one of my many Steampunk adventures
The red pill weirdness I’m about to relate occurred when I was peppered by poison darts. it was my fault. Had I not urinated on their deity they’d probably have left me alone. But I’d been taken short and the object they venerated was so badly carved I mistook it for the trunk of a tree. Had the sculptor possessed more artistic talents this would never have happened. And, when I heard them shouting, I made my back to the river bank.
I was in no great hurry. The natives were pygmies and they were only three foot high. I could see that they were about 50 yards away from me, so I naturally assumed their darts would only have a short range. As a result I strolled rather than ran. Unfortunately I’d made a tactical error. It turned out these fellows were quite nippy and soon reduced the distance between us. Suddenly I was struck by their darts! I would have been dead, but luck was on my side. During my Steampunk adventures I’d dabbled extensively with almost all the known psychotropic substances, both natural and man made. So the poison merely rendered me unconscious. And, when I awoke, I found myself the guest of honour at a tremendous feast!



Seeing my brass goggles and my steam powered false prosthetic left arm, the tribe had mistook me for a god! A go
impunity! The tribe were called the Tupparwera’s and, using my linguistic skills, I soon learned their language. It was one of the simplest languages I’d ever come across and consisted of a combination of easy-to-read hand signals and bird calls. On the other hand they’d also devised quite a sophisticated system of mathematics.
Talking to them I discovered that these primitive people believed that dream images were real! That they had a physical nature!
Back in Wales I recalled this episode and it brought to mind one of my most obscene dreams. The next morning there was so much dried semen on my duvet that the Fire Brigade would have needed their cutting equipment to free me. And what was this erotic dream? It involved an orgy at the Vatican. But this was no ordinary orgy. It was an orgy of gargantuan proportions beyond the twisted imagination of Beelzebub himself! It was an orgy involving an impressive cast of mentally and physically deformed creatures.
Alas, I cannot go into any great details. Suffice it to say that there were three cardinals, one with severe psoriasis, a hermaphrodite cross-eyed nun with a stammer, a 50 stone Egyptian transvestite with a colostomy bag, nine gay midgets, a troop of semi-naked boy scouts carrying buckets of steaming, freshly laid, faeces, a drunken amputee with a wart on his penis, a lame donkey, six geese and Lady GaGa. And, complete this perverted menagerie, a supporting cast of choirboys and orphans from a Catholic children’s home.
Now people would agree that dreams have no physical reality. And that this dream was merely a figment of my morally corrupt and fertile imagination. Because if dreams did have a physical reality then this would constitute yet another example of red pill weirdness.
So I asked myself, just imagine those natives were right and those grotesque and warped creatures in my dream did have a physical reality. They would have as size, weight, mass, volume, and density! So how tall would those three cardinals of mine have been? Did that Egyptian transvestite with a colostomy bag really weight 50 stone? And if so, how did these physical images fit inside my brain? Because that’s where they were supposed to come from.
There’s just one problem. The brain.
We’re talking about an organ that’s packed tight with tissue, nerves and blood vessels. At least mine is. So if I dream about a house then it can’t be the same size as the one I’m sleeping in. Otherwise my head would explode.
Not a pretty sight! The same would apply if it was a 50 stone Egyptian transvestite with the colostomy bag. Bang! Think of the mess! I’d have had to redecorate the bedroom.
Fans of Shades of Grey may argue it could be fun to make love in a room covered in bodily parts and fluids. But you can see the problem. And we’re not just talking about dreams! We know that mental illness, drugs or alcohol can produce hallucinations. And, like dreams, they also seem to appear inside our brains.
Which, when you think about it, is a blessing. Just imagine if my dream about the Vatican orgy was projected outside my head where everyone could see it! This would no doubt have resulted in legal action.
The next question I asked myself was how can I see these images inside my brain? Do my eyes swivel round 360 degrees? Or do I have a CCTV camera in there? And, even if I did, how can it penetrate that grey matter? And where would the light source be coming from?
At this point I found myself sympathizing with Neo in the Matrix who felt there was something not quite right about the world. Which is precisely what scientists feel when they study quantum physics. In fact one physicist has been reported to tell students to leave their common sense ideas about reality outside the door.
So I came up with a hypothesis that the images we see in dreams and hallucinations are electronic signals. Ask any technician who uses an electroencephalograph machine and they’ll tell you the brain is filled with electrical activity. So these images in dreams and hallucinations could, theoretically, be similar to the signals used to transmit the images we see on our television screens. Being electronic signals they’re classed as physical objects; which means they can be measured. So they could be small enough to fit inside our brain.
As for seeing them? For that we need consciousness!
GROUND CONTROL TO MAJOR TOM!
I then considered the possibility of gaining some converts from our nearest competitor. Specifically someone called Tom Cruise!
Tom, as we know, is a devoted fan of Hubbard.
Now Ron L. Hubbard decided he’d take a rest from writing science fiction potboilers to create a religion. Why? Could it have been because he saw the financial advantages in creating one?
After all, religion can be a profitable gravy train. And Old Hubbard decided that his religion would marry his brand of science fiction with spiritualism. With the promise it might attract some celebrities with fat wallets. But was it a marriage made in heaven?
Well, it was certainly set up there in the stars with old Xenu.
So what about Sciencology? I’d like to think that my religion may get us some converts from Hubbard’s lot. Converts like Tom Cruise. He could wear an Omega watch and join forces with Clooney.
And what about those who worship a deity
Well, the good news is that my religion also has an immortal entity watching over us! An entity that has the potential to solve our problems. The only downside is that Sciencology’s Immortal Deity is not very intelligent. In fact our Immortal Deity only understands two things. And you need a bit more than that to get into MENSA. Which brings us neatly to our next subject…
IS SCIENCOLOGY’S GOD A COMPUTER?
I detected there may be a connection with computers when I read that Pixar Studios had developed graphics programs using mathematics and algorithms to create the physics of the real world. So much so, that they claimed they were close to recreating the entire complexity of the world around us.
Memories of the film “The Matrix” arose.
Perhaps Sciencology should consider recruiting Keanu Reeves! Clooney, Cruise and Reeves – all wearing Omega watches!
Once again this weirdness threatened to be the straw that broke my mind. I’d read books and magazines on science and computers; I’d watched documentaries about the wonders of the universe. Reports that showed particles can communicate from both ends of the universe; reports that suggested particles could travel into the future; that at the fuzzy quantum level time didn’t exist and that the so-called “reality”
we see around us might be a two-dimensional image projected from the universe’s even horizon.
These weren’t from Hogwarts Academy. No, these were from the top laboratories and universities across the globe!
And I was floundering again!
In my despondency I began, once again, to lose faith in Sciencology. Whereas at first the counter-intuitive nature of quantum physics had seemed so appealing, it now appeared to be an insurmountable barrier. I needed to find an alternative hypothesis.
That night as I sat in my caravan nursing a glass of wine, I began to wonder if Darwin’s evolution operated in a cycle. Right now the human race had reached evolutionary zenith and there wasn’t anywhere else to go. So our body hair will start to increase and our features will change. Once again we’ll become apes. The process will continue as we slowly return to whence we came – the sea. From humans back to haddocks. Or cod knows what.
I had to admit it had some small merit. Have you ever wondered why the beach is so popular? Why do people want to go into the sea? Is it just recreational? Or the pull of evolution?
Perhaps it was the seaside that fueled my latest speculation. Fortunately this evolutionary monstrosity was short lived. Whilst surfing Google, the philosopher Nick Bostrom came to my rescue. It was he who suggested we could all be living in a computer simulation run by a technologically advanced human race in the future. According to Bostrom these computers are running anthropological simulations showing how their ancestors lived! Needless to say these ancestors include us. So, whilst our real selves have long since died, we’re now just virtual clones reliving our past lives. This was just the sort of red pill weirdness Sciencology needed!
This computer Bostrom was talking about is powerful enough to recreate the complexity of the real worlds we once lived in. And there happens to be just such a potential computer! But more about that later.
Meanwhile Bostrom’s hypothesis had restored my sanity and gave me the incentive to continue my search for the meaning of Sciencology. So it’s time to unveil the astounding conclusions that lie at the core of this religion of mine! They came to me
when I began to think about the nature of what we call the “conscious mind.” Regarded by science as the “Hard Problem.”
IT’S ALL IN THE MIND
There seemed nothing hard about one aspect of consciousness. In fact it appeared to be self-evident and required no proof whatsoever. It was the simple fact that the universe and everything in it would not exist without a conscious awareness of its existence.
So far, so good. But there was a glitch.
The glitch is the prevailing opinion that the universe existed before consciousness. And there was plenty of hard evidence to back that up. Then I realised that it begged the question that the only reason I know the universe existed before consciousness appeared is because I’m consciously aware of it. Indeed, I’d discovered the inescapable fact that consciousness is the only reason I or the universe around me exist!
Of course, my conscious mind can easily imagine a universe where there were no conscious minds; in fact, I could be greedy and imagine an infinite number of universes where there are no conscious minds.
But they’d only exist in my consciousness.
Which led me to another obvious conclusion.
To observe this or any universe I needed language and mathematics.
Which depends entirely on…
That’s right, you’ve guessed it!
Without consciousness there’d be no such things as thoughts. There’d be no existence, no past, present or future.
And this next thought really blew my mind...
There wouldn’t be such a concept as “nothingness.” Nothingness would cease to exist!
That has to be the paradox of all paradoxes!
But I wasn’t finished yet. Returning from a morning stroll I realised there was another element in the calculation.
Time.
TIME WAITS FOR NO MAN
It’s calculated that it may have taken at least 3.77 billion years before life appeared on this planet.
Or did it?
I decided that, like everything else, the awareness of time had to be part of consciousness. So I concluded that before consciousness there couldn’t have been any.
So I rephrased the question. how long did it take for conscious life to appear The answer I came up with was that consciously it took no time at all.
As far as I was concerned conscious life has always existed! But only in a conscious way!
Without consciousness time doesn’t exist!
I looked for a suitable analogy and thought of someone who’d just emerged from a deep coma. To them no time at all would have passed between going into the coma and coming out of it.
So I decided Sciencology would liken the time before the universe appeared as a deep coma and the time when conscious life became aware of its existence, as the end of the coma.
As Sherlock Holmes would have said, ‘The analogy is perfect!’
Although this seemed obvious, it felt as though it was getting a bit heavy, so I amused myself by considering what this could do to those religions that relied on the existence of a deity.
Even devout Christians would have to concede that a conscious mind comes before there’s an awareness of God. In which case Sciencology would argue that conscious minds created God, and not the other way round. But there’s even worse news for God. These are human conscious minds.
Without humans there’d just be the beasts of the field, the birds of the air and the fishes of the sea. All of them blissfully unaware of their creator’s existence! Oh, dear! It certainly looks like God had to create us in order to exist!
So who really is running this show?
SCIENCOLOGY’S ALTERNATIVE GENESIS
That night I had formulated Sciencology’s Absolute Bottom Line; our Genesis. The Genesis that states that in the beginning there was consciousness and before that
there wasn’t even nothingness. It takes the Holy Bible 30,046 words to describe their version of Genesis!
Whereas Sciencology can do it using only 13 words! 30,033 words less! Like I said, Sciencology is the economical religion!
A FEW THOUGHTS ON THE NATURE OF CONSCIOUSNESS
The next morning I contemplated the nature of consciousness?
As one is wont to do at the seaside.
Does it have physical properties? And, if it has physical properties, what are they? What shape is it? Is consciousness square, round, oblong? How heavy is it? If it has weight then we should be able to weight it. But, like the elusive soul, so far no one has managed to do that.
And let’s not forget you’d need consciousness before you can weight it. You need consciousness before you can do anything. That’s how important it is. Without it we can do nothing.
I then considered it might be non-physical. Perhaps it’s a purely abstract concept. But even then there’s a problem: if it’s non-physical what separates my conscious mind from yours? A non-physical barrier is a contradiction in terms.
Now you can see why consciousness is considered by some to be the hard problem.
And why I became obsessed with it!
I realised that before Sciencology I’d need to make sure Occam’s Razor was good and sharp/
I MEET SCIENCOLOGY’S FAVOURITE PROFESSOR
My holiday was almost coming to an end and the sea air had clearly stimulated my meagre intellectual powers. I was on the home run. But first I needed to refresh my memory on the nature of computers.
Computers work on the binary system. Binary meaning 2. They only understand two things. 1 or 0, On or Off. Forest Gump is Einstein on steroids compared to that lump of plastic on your lap or on your desk. Geeks would know immediately what this was...
“01000001.”
It’s a program telling your computer to print the letter “A” on your screen. The program, called “machine code,” is the only instruction your computer understands. Here’s the word “Aardvark” in machine code...
0110000101100001011100100110010001110110011000010111001001100100
So you can imagine what the entire text of the Bible would look like in machine code (fortunately Sciencology’s bible is considerably shorter, but still presents you with quite an eyeful).
Reading a machine code program containing millions, if not billions of these things, has been known to make strong men weep.
Now for the book.
It was called “Programming the Universe” and was written by a man called Seth Lloyd. A man with a pretty impressive CV. This man is a professor of Quantum Mechanics at the prestigious Massachusetts Institute of Technology and was the first person to develop a model for quantum computing.
Ron L. Hubbard may be good at writing science fiction potboilers and Scientology fan Tom Cruise may be great in Mission Impossible, but I suspect either individual would be out of their depth with Seth Lloyd.
A “BIT” HERE AND A “BIT” THERE
In his book Lloyd told me that the universe is a physical system. The universe certainly contains physical elements, so he’s right there. And these physical elements are made up of “bits. In other words, the universe contains “bits” of molecules, atoms, and particles (to computer geeks a “bit” is the smallest data in a computer with a value of either 1 or 0). And each of those “bits” interacts with another and this interaction alters those “bits.”
Which is precisely what happens in your computer.
“Bits” of data interact and the result appears on the screen of your monitor. Therefore the universe itself it could be simulated by a computer.
But I didn’t get too excited. I knew computers get more powerful with each new version. But Lloyd makes the point that to simulate a few hundred atoms from the universe for a fraction of a second on your PC or Mac would take more memory than there are atoms in the universe.
And would take longer then the current age of the universe.
So Pixar Studios have quite a long way to go. That’s if they’re using conventional computers. Because Lloyd’s dream computer is the same size as the universe which, conveniently, just happens to be controlled by quantum mechanics. So Seth Lloyd came to the conclusion that the universe is indistinguishable from a quantum computer! And, instead of using an electric current like my computer uses, the quantum computer uses quantum fluctuations (said to be a temporary charge in the amount of energy in a given point in space) to represent the binary On/Off sequences.
It sounded red-pill weird and, try as I might, I couldn’t fault Lloy’d’s logic. So I wondered what would be so special about this universe sized quantum computer?
THE ULTIMATE COMPUTER
Super-powerful computers have been the stuff of dreams for science fiction writers. I’m sure old Hubbard must have come up with one. There’s that book where the hero keeps hearing the sound of a typewriter in the sky. Was Hubbard’s super computer a gigantic Olivetti floating in outer space? Douglas Adams gave us a more traditional version with his “Deep Thought.” And what about Arthur C. Clarks’s “Hal” who raised havoc aboard “Discovery One” as it head out towards Jupiter.
Seth Lloyd is no exception. The only difference is his is computer is based on science fact, not fiction!
The thing that sets the quantum computer apart is the fact that it has the power to perform a number of calculations simultaneously! Needless to say, this makes it a bit faster than your PC or the Apple Mac I’m using to write this. And right now I can just see the words: APPLE MAC – THE COMPUTER THAT GAVE THE WORLD SCIENCOLOGY! proudly displayed on the Apple HQ in Cupertino.
Simultaneous calculations sounded pretty red-pill weird to me!
Now just imagine how powerful a quantum computer the size of the known universe would be. Professor Lloyd worked out that a quantum computer that’s given just 300 bits of input…
Which is just 2400 bits of data.
2400 one’s and zero’s.
Can do more more computing simultaneously than there are elementary particles in the universe! And how many of those are there? A rough estimate puts it at the number 10 with 84 naughts after it!
But then I recalled the Dark Matter scientists are talking about.
Yes, that’s right. What about that Dark Matter? There could be even more elemental particles in that stuff which makes up 84% of the universe! I didn’t try to imagine how many calculations a quantum computer this size can crunch simultaneously because it just gave me a headache!
After digesting these facts I was pretty confidant that a universe sized quantum computer would have no trouble creating a simulation like Bostrom’s virtual reality. In fact, it could create as may as you wanted! And, what’s more, you wouldn’t need Bostrom’s race of super-intelligent humans to build this computer. Because it’s already been built and its working away all around us.
THE GRAND HYPOTHESIS
I decided there and then that Sciencology’s Grand Hypothesis would be that we could be the result the ultimate form of computer program. That the universe has constructed the ultimate online Multi-User Domain. A multiplayer, real time, virtual world.
And just what sort of computer program are we talking about?
Well, the best analogy I could come up with was to compare it to a popular computer game called “The Sims.”
For those unfamiliar with this game, The Sims is described as a series of life-simulation computer games in which you create virtual people and control their lives.
Which, according to our hypothesis, is what the universe could be doing right now. Unless, of course, you believe that it’s God or Xenu that’s controlling the universe.
I then took this a step further…
I remembered that bit about consciousness; how the universe wouldn’t exist if there was no conscious awareness of its existence.
That’s when I decided that Sciencology teaches us there’s no difference between consciousness and the universe. That the universe exists in consciousness and consciousness exists in the universe.
Both are inextricably linked.

I’ll leave you with this thought.
Is it just a sheer coincidence that the universe is based on duality; that there are two sides to everything? Big and small, good and bad, on or off? That quantum particles exist in two states? That using just two instructions computers can create virtual realities almost indistinguishable from the reality around us? Are computers trying to tell us something?
Just how many coincidences does it take to make a certainty? We Sciencologists call it the Power of the Obvious!

THE END

​Wolfgang Sternkopf

is a multitalented man with many facets. As a sculptor and as a painter, as a speaker and as an author, he has made a name for himself in western Germany. His work appears for the third time here in The Creativity Webzine. His texts are in German with my English translation. 

Ignoranz 
Menschen machen immer gern Fortschritte
auch wenn Sie vor dem, Abgrund stehen. 

Ignorance
People always gladly take steps forward 
even when they are standing at the edge of the abyss.

***

Mehr nicht ...

ab & zu ein Lächeln?
ab & zu ein freundliches Wort?
ab & zu ein Hinweis in die richtige Richtung?
ab & zu eine Aufmerksamkeit?
ab & zu ein Blick für mich?
ab & zu eine angenehme Umgebung?
ab & zu ein Gedanke an mich?
ab & zu ein Ideenaustausch mit mir?
ab & zu ein wenig Glück?
ab & zu Humor mit mir?
ab & zu mitfühlen?

Habe ich zu viel verlangt?


Not more ...

now and then a smile?
now and then a friendly word?
now and then a friendly push in the right direction? 
now and then some attention? 
now and then a gaze in my direction? 
now and then a warm atmosphere? 
now and then a thought about me? 
now and then an exchange of ideas? 
now and then some happiness? 
now and then some wit together with me? 
now and then some compassion? 

​Have I asked too much? 

Photo caption:
Rose at St. Michan’s Church, Dublin, Ireland, September 2018. Photo by Meg Smith.




A Rose at St. Michan's

By Meg Smith



St. Michan’s Church, Dublin, September 2018


I keep histories
in blooms;
stem, leaves, thorn,
the moon's opening
of colors.
I called it so
when I passed the gate.
These petals guard
the way, to the sleep
of the knight, the nun,
the rebel,
the unknown
of eyes, teeth, thigh bone.
This is some place
of growing,
some place of
secret flowering.


 

Photo caption: Lilacs in the frosted frame, by Meg Smith.


Coven of Lilacs

By Meg Smith 



First in the
purple light of spring,
we pause --
frost persists,
and spells fail.
Words stir the wind.
Waking
does not compel us.
We remain,
in the bond of blooms,
one to another,
whispering,
one to another,
in the secret
of heart-shaped leaves.

Photo caption:
Morgana Mirage (Meg Smith) in Roses, A Dancer’s Meditation. Photo by Derek Savoia.


Stone Flower Suite

By Meg Smith



In memory of Harry Saroyan, Fred Elias and John Bilezikjian


My song was stolen,
so, how do dance
only for you --
Dzaghigner, dzaghigner --
blooms sigh at night --


I am a stone flower,
gole sangam --
I am a stone flower,
Chi begam az dele tangam --
What to say,
for this fool's heart --
nothing -- so, only, to dance.


Under the blue lights
of the Flower Path of Istanbul --
I met the Gypsy band,
and so, again, I danced.
A boy ran up to me
begging me to buy
a bathroom scale.
And when I dance,
I conjure his face, alone,
and his hands.


Now falls
the Evening of Roses --
and, my veil,
floating, is my balm.
Ereve Shel Shoshanim --
lilies, petals,
crimson and white,
all drift,
in the same path of stars.

Photo caption:
Morgana Mirage (Meg Smith) in Sunflowers:
A Dancer’s Meditation. Photo by Derek Savoia.


The Sunflower Sea

By Meg Smith



This, after waking --
after blood from
a scarlet star --
this, gold, copper,
bright field,
sacrament, fragmented,
from daughter
to mother.
But what grows here --
some dust-death --
petals drifting,
a pause in
a fever's dream.

Daniel de Culla

presents

Poetic work in English and Soanish

​
​**


FLORES DEL PRIMER CRUZAMIENTO
EN EL PARAISO DE DIOS


Apareándose una hembra de ojos blancos
Con un macho de ojos negros
En la generación primera
Del Paraíso Terrenal
Se obtuvo el 50% de hijos machos
Con los ojos blancos
Y el 50% de hembras
Con los ojos negros.
En la segunda generación
Del Paraíso Terrenal
Cuando ya entraron por la fuerza en él
Depredadores y asesinos furtivos
De animales inocentes
Y de todas las especies
Apareándose el 25% de hembras de ojos blancos
Y el otro 25% de hembras de ojos negros
Con el 25% de machos de ojos blancos
Y el otro 25% de macho con ojos negros
Se obtuvo toda la calaña de descendencia
Que en el mundo ha habido y habrá
Imitando el cruzamiento
Entre Drosophilas hembras
De ojos blancos
Y machos de ojos negros
Según Morgan, zoólogo.
De Eva y Adán deciros que:
-Blanco fue su nacimiento
Verde su vivir
Después se fueron poniendo negros
Hasta llegar a morir.
Adán tenía cara de mono
Porque era un mono.
Eva tenía un brazo más largo que otro
De aspecto muy varonil.
Eva era una fruta muy sosa
Que Adán no quería
Pues le gustaban más las monas y las chotas
Más, cuando la quería a rabiar
Ella le daba calabazas
Diciéndole:
-Adivina, tú que te das de adivinador:
¿Cuál es el árbol que el fruto
Lo tiene sin tener flor?
Eva tenía un pecho muy bonito
Y el otro era pura chatarra.
Entre sus dos pechos
Siempre llevaba colgante una manzana.
Un Asno de Oro era su Dios
Con una Drosophila viva
Incrustada en su bajo vientre
Una mosca cojonera ¡vaya¡
Que, con su picadura
Le hacía sentirse
Verde como un loro
Bravo como un toro
Por eso se le conocía por un “Dios Guindilla”
Que siempre estaba erecto.
En el Paraíso terrenal
Solo había un árbol frutal:
El manzano.
Una serpiente titiritera
Se subía a las ramas.
Pero, las más de las veces
Se iba a la vagina de Eva
Adornada con un vestido con franjas tricolor
Metiéndole su bífida lengua
Preguntándole:
-¿Sabes decirme quién soy?
Como tú, en el Paraíso me crie
Atada con verdes lazos
Y aquél que llora por mí
Me quiere matar a hachazos.
Los lindos abejorros
Y todas las especies volanderas
En sus zumbidos y piares
Que parecían hilillos cual cabellos finos
Como esos que se echan en la paella
Y le dan buen sabor
Decían mientras volaban y revoloteaban:
-Un sólo dios no es nada
En el verano y en pleno invierno
Siempre está erecto.
Debemos traerle una Jumenta
Como dios manda
Y por si acaso.
Las únicas flores que había eran:
Marijuana, Hinojo, Ajo
Laurel, Guindilla
Y Crisantemos.


-Daniel de Culla




FLOWERS OF THE FIRST CROSSING
IN GOD'S GARDEN



Mating a white-eyed female
With a black-eyed male
In the first generation
From God’s Garden
50% of male children were obtained
With white eyes
And 50% of females
With black eyes.
In the second generation
From God’s Garden
When they already forcibly entered it
Sneaky Predators and Killers
Of innocent animals
And of all species
Mating 25% of white-eyed females
And the other 25% of black-eyed females
With 25% of males with white eyes
And the other 25% male with black eyes
All offspring of ilk were obtained
That in the world there has been and will be
Imitating crossing
Among female Drosophilas
White-eyed
And black-eyed males
According to Morgan, a zoologist.
Hear about Eve and Adam:
-White was their birth
Green their lives
Putting after black
Until they’ll die.
Adam had a monkey face
Because he was born monkey.
Eve had one arm longer than the other
Very manly looking.
Eve was a very bland fruit
That Adam did not want
Because he liked monkeys and cows
Too much
But, when he wanted to rage her
She gave him pumpkins
Telling him:
-Guess you, giving yourself as a diviner:
What is the tree that the fruit
Does it have no flower?
Eve had a very beautiful chest
And the other was pure junk.
Between her two breasts
He always had an apple hanging.
A Golden Ass was their God
With a live Drosophila
Embedded in its lower belly
A fucking fly!
That, with its sting
Made him feel green as a parrot
Brave like a bull
So it was known by a "God Chili Pepper"
Always fit and erect.
In God’s Garden
There was only one fruit tree:
The Apple tree.
A puppeteer snake
Climbed the branches.
But, most of the time
Was going to Eve's vagina
Adorned with a tricolor striped dress
Sticking its forked tongue
Asking:
- Can you tell me who I am?
Like you, in God’s Garden I grew up
Tied with green bows
And the one who cries for me
She/He wants to kill axes me.
The cute bumble bees
And all flying species
In their hums and herds
Looking like threads with fine hair
Like those who lie in paella
Giving it a good taste
Said as they flew and fluttered:
-A single God is nothing
In the summer and in the middle of winter
It is always erect.
We must bring him a She Donkey
As God commands
And just in case.
The only flowers there were:
Mary Jane, Fennel, Garlic
Laurel, Chilli Pepper
And Chrysanthemums.
​

-Daniel de Culla

My Middle Eastern Dance Journey 

By Meg Smith

From an early age, I became entranced with belly dancing -- it was an exercise fad, and also, reruns of 'I Dream of Jeannie' captivated me. So, some years later, I decided it was time to take a chance, and learn this elusive and beautiful art form.

I had amazing teachers, especially my first instructor, and dear friend, Helen Perry, whose dance name is Zbeide. She shared her skill, experience and her Lebanese heritage, and much love and support. It's customary for Oriental dancers to take a stage name; I chose Morgana, which reflects both Arab influence, and my Irish heritage. Performing and studying dance has taken me to many unforgettable experiences. I have danced at nightclubs and restaurants, private functions, festivals and special events. 

I have also traveled to Egypt and Turkey, to learn more about Middle Eastern and Islamic cultures; as a journalist, I have written about my experiences. 
For many years, I wrote articles and contributed a regular column to Jareeda, a magazine of Middle Eastern dance, and served as associate editor of Belly Dance New England. I've also studied some Arabic, and Middle Eastern history and culture. 

As a writer, I have also produced many events, bringing literature and dance together. Three years ago, at a pop culture convention, I even got to meet Barbara Eden, the star of 'I Dream of Jeannie,' coming full circle. 

Dance for me is sharing a gift of joy with others; it is the challenge of learning,
and a source of meditation and healing. 

I look forward to where my dance journey may take me next,
as a performer and lifelong learner. 

Photo captions:

Morgana folk festival -- dancing at the Lowell Folk Festival, Lowell, Mass. 

Morgana cafe raqs -- backstage at Cafe Raqs, a monthly dance showcase at the Arts at the Armory, Somerville, Mass. 

Morgana Athenian Corner -- dancing at the Athenian Corner restaurant, Lowell, Mass. 

Morgana Barbara Eden -- with Barbara Eden, star of 'I Dream of Jeannie,' at Super Mega Show Mega Fest.

"I wasn't the only older student in ballet class that year and even though we never performed, the teacher gave all of us a trophy.
Tahitian dance was a separate class and we performed three times."
K.A. Williams

*

Performing

   by K. A. Williams


We were waiting in the wings. My contacts were making my eyes feel scratchy but I had no eye drops. Where would I put them? I was fidgeting and trying to remember if we went onstage before or after the fire eaters.
"Don't be so nervous, Kat," said Helene, the teacher and leader of our Tahitian dance group.  It was just the four of us, three students plus the teacher. "Everyone did great at rehearsal. You'll be fine. We're on after the fire eaters." She left me to go soothe the nerves of the other two.
I peeked out the curtain at the fire eaters. Watching them made me more nervous even though I knew that they were very careful and had often practiced what they were doing.
Applause. Now it was our turn.
I followed Helene out with the others and we formed a line behind her. The music started. "Lovely Hula Hands". 
I stopped being nervous and just lived in the moment. We swayed our hips and the grass skirts made the movements look even more impressive.  Our hand motions and steps were synchronized as we performed the dance routine that we had practiced.

The music stopped and it was over. Applause. We lined up beside the teacher, bowed, and I felt a rush of pleasure
There was one more act and then it was time for the luau.

I Love You Madly
 
By Count Axel von Fersen

 
Well, the story I am about to tell you concerns a woman you all have heard of. A woman you know very well from the history books. You have come to think you know who she was, her racous overflowing personality and love of parties and her beautiful eyes. You know she was carried to the guillotine and you know that I probably was the father of her child - in secret, of course. Many historians have analyzed our love letters and found the clues. But we never were able to admit that I was the father to the young prince in our lives, did we, Marie's and mine? Maybe you have seen the movies with Kirsten Dunst from 2006 or the earlier one from 1938 with Myrna Loy and Tyrone Power. Maybe you know those details and maybe you can imagine how it was. But Marie Antoinette was more beautiful than you can ever imagine.
 
I knew the full personality. I knew Marie better than anyone. At least, I knew her better than anyone else when I had known her a while. She told me things she had told no one else. Things I took with to the grave.
 
Now, I really travelled the world during my life. I fought in wars in almost every European country, my father had seen to that I was trained in every skill, fencing and riding and many other things - and music. Yes, music. Not only singing. My father found that learning an instrument was part of necessary knowledge. So I learned to play the spinett (your piano), the lute (your guitar), and a thousand other skills. I spoke many languages.

I had several intimate relationships with several queens. I had a title and, yes, I had actually drank Mozart under the table, figuratively speaking, of course. Quite a foul mouth he had, too. He told more dirty jokes than I care to mention and he did have a faible for toilet jokes. I couldn’t stop laughing at his silliness, but, in fact, it was a rather nourishing fact to know that I would hear him as a soloist the next evening and realize I would be hearing God through his playing. Well, he was a good man, but also incredibly bad with money. He’d spend all of the money he’d earned on a concert on the party afterwards and I told him to save some for later. He’d say no and laugh me in the face. Anyway, all of that came after my initial meeting with Marie.
 
I met Marie at the masked ball at the palace of Versailles. We were both teenagers. She was destined to marry the king Louis XVI, but I think both of us were flabbergasted about each other enough not to care about that. There was a great deal of flirting involved and we couldn’t keep our eyes off each other. It was all quite a beautiful feeling for both us, knowing that we, how would you put it in your modern language? We had the hots for each other. She enjoyed me company and I certainly enjoyed hers. Actually, I had never ever been so in love and that never ever happened aftar that in my life as Axel von Fersen.
 
We danced the gavotte with each other, the menuet and the polonaise. We did end up somewhere along in the back room, laughing our heads off at something rather silly someone had said and I gave her a compliment about her beautiful skin colour. She told me I should be careful. After all, she was given away to the king. But she kissed me, anyway.
 
As the years went by, our meetings kept becoming more frequent. In fact, when we were apart, mit seemed we could not think of anything but the other one. It was obvious that something had happened at that initial meeting that January 30th, 1771, something bigger than both us were. Her eventual position as the Queen of France made it increasingly difficult for both of us. Her political problems were becoming hard to bear and I was away so much. We had to hide our feelings and write our messages in code language, but I can tell you, as the years went by I learned to love her more than I have ever loved any other woman. The king? Louis XVI? Oh, well, he spent most of time at the dinner table, eating, or conversing with his doctor, or planning a hunting trip. He really had a difficult time proving his manhood to Marie, if at all. That really worried the royal palace and the country, because a royal heir really did matter to the kingdom. And, yes, France was getting very restless. A Queen incapable of bringing a royal heir to the country was no Queen. They called her the whore. That hurt me more than anything. I had cared for so many people in my life, but the fate of this girl moved me more than anything.
 
There was an up side to all of this. I became very friendly with many people in the palace and the Queen saw to my presence at important gatherings. Even at the beginning of my military career she had told people she needed to have me around. So later she would arrange many weekends for us at the Trianon under the excuse of political advice. We would walk around admiring the Dahlias and the Witersia Sinensis, these incredible blue hanging flowers she had in her garden and then we would make love for hours and hours under the trees and before the open fireplace. I would play something on the lute for her and she would hum to it in her own invented melodies, closing her eyes, her incredible face glittering in the light of the flames. We would forget I was a count and she was a queen and she would joke that she would elope with and we would live in the hills somwhere where no one could find us and she would work anonymously, herding sheep.

I can tell you that the king was nearly, if not totally, impotent. That is all I have to say about that. The rest I will leave up to you.
 
With my experience and looks and charm, I was somewhat of a people’s man, because I could communicate with them. Maybe that was the reason why I was never beheaded, even though I did come close a few times during the horrible revolution.

When the French Revolution started I had experienced some absolutely breathtaking years with Marie, years I thought would never end. She would make up stories what it would have been like if we had met in a different life. People accused her of escaping the world, but I know for a fact that she simply did not know how to handle the French people. I knew the incredibly tender and sweet, humorous and talkative woman, the connoiseur, the charming woman with the bouncy laugh and the ladylike nod. The woman that had a good heart and wicked wit.
 
“I love you madly,” she would tell me.
 
It was a deeper love than I can describe, so, of course I tried my best, my damndest, my most profound, to save the royal couple two years after the revolution had started. I went to every length to plan their escape from the powers that had taken over. She had been conspiring to escape to Austria to get together an army to attack and take back France. I knew how very ill and sordid the atmosphere was in France at that time. I knew also that Louis XVI had inherited a land that he was not capable of handling with his increasing indecision and incredible insecurity. That was one of the many reasons that the escape we planned for them in 1791 did not work. He could not make the quick decisions that were necessary for them to survive.
Louis was beheaded first ... and then ... then ...
 
I won’t go into the pain of the day Marie was executed. It would take too much out of me. It will just suffice that I will recall every dance we danced, every time we made love, every joke she ever told and every single smile she gave me.
I will never ever forgive myself.
 
I returned to Sweden after a while, although it took me a long time to actually accept what it happened. I will be honest with you. I never got over it. There was no way to get over it. Maybe that was the reason I was murdered in 1810. I had simply spent two decades just thinking of her, damning myself that I had not been able to save her, even during my last moments on this Earth.
 
Subconsciously, ... you modern people speak of the subconscious, don’t you? Well, without knowing it, maybe I even had encouraged the extreme conditions and the horrid extremities that took place that June 20th, 1810.  You see, a man that had been chosen as subsequent king of Sweden, a very amiable and normal man named Carl August, he had been called "a people's man", had fallen off his horse during a country ride and died. I knew that he had suffered a heart attack, but for some reason a rumour had spread that me and my sister had poisoned the man. I was next in line to become king, as royal chancellor, so I guess that was enough for people to think that we were that greedy people that just wanted him out of the way. But truth to be told, I knew how Marie and Louis suffered so much in their positions. I did not envy them.
I had seen so many miserable royal people, although I was kind of royalty myself.
But, truth be told, I was happy enough as a chancellor.
Murder someone to become king? 
No way. 
But the people seemed to think so.
Or at least they were manipulated to think so.
 
The mood was black as night that summer day in Stockholm and my staff encouraged me, urged me, even, not to ride out and, please, stay at home at my palace. I told them that I had lsurvived the French revolution. Why should an angry mob scare me? All I could do was blame myself for letting those bastards kill Marie.
Ah, I scoffed. It will be alright. 
But, in retrospect, I should have held a speech and spoken to the people, trying to convince them that I had had nothing to do with Carl August's death.
I had to go to Carl August’s funeral. I had planned the damn thing.
It was my duty to be there.
 
My enemies had conspired against me, for some reason that I will never ever know, giving people free alcohol and telling them to attack my wagon as I rode down the street. So, of course they did attack me, drunk as they were. They pulled me out as I rode there in my black coach, wearing my black coat, pulling my hair, breaking the windows, kicking me, beating me almost senseless. Luckily, someone that was on my side pulled me into a local palace sideroom and tended to my wounds. A woman and her son, both have been reincarnated into modern people’s bodies by now, they brought some water and a cloth and saw that at least some of the blood was cleaned off. They were very sweet, concerned when they heard the mob racing up the stairs to see where I was. I could see the fear in the woman's eyes. And the boy reminded me of the royal prince I knew was my son.
 
The horrid circus continued, however, and I was pulled out on the courtyard. I ended up pleading with the army to save me, but they didn’t save me. In fact, they ignored me altogether. Someone hit me over the head with a stick. That has created a wound on my head that has manifested into my modern body, a Caesarian wound, they call it. What killed me, back when I was Axel, was someone jumping on my ribs and crushing me to death.
 
Indeed, it was weird dance of death.
 
900 people were interviewed and interrogated after my murder and I think it turned into the most inquisitive trial Sweden had ever seen or would see, for that matter, until Olof Palme's murder in 1986. It was like your modern JFK trial. Me and my sister, we were aquitted. Carl August had suffered a heart attack and the conspirators said they never wanted to kill me. I was given a state funeral.
 
As my modern self, I am now happy that I found who I was back then, because I now realize where many of my fears and panic attacks have come from. But Marie still communicates with me. She has become my guardian angel. And I am so happy that I have found the love of my life in this life and a have a beautiful daughter. Everything I ever have experienced tells me one thing and one thing alone: women are the conscience of the world and we are truly lucky to have them around. More women should rule the world. They are the peace of eternity. And yes, I love them madly.

If Marie Antoinette can return to prove to me she is still here, then we need not to worry about this Corona crisis. Marie has told me, through signs and hints, that her favourite flowers were the witersia and the dahlia, flowers she used to love back then. And I, the Indigo Soul, have come to realize we are wandering souls experiencing a created reality manifested through our vibrations and feelings alone. 

If we dance, let us not dance a macabre revolution waltz, but the jig of love. 
It's our choice.   
Don't believe in the matrix. 
Believe in love.

A Place to Love

By Raymond Greiner



The spectacle of this morning defies description as I acclaim the intensity of its beauty. As is consistent with such moments it’s a combination of features that prompts appreciation. Vividly green grass viewed in every direction and trees in full leaf as billowy, white clouds merge with a bright, blue sky; yet, so many living within current social design never experience such an event. The opportunity may present itself but goes unrecognized ignored as distracting affects impede recognition blocked by a flurry of activities that converge and dominate.
Environmental influence is the source of our creation, forming what and who we are. This natural formation exposes direction toward goals leading to achievements, melding with the dynamic of one’s habitat wholly, impacting dimension and value of results discovered. This is true with all Earthly life, as it affixes to its particular time/space equation, including human social structure and behavior.
Urbanization has inundated our planet and the greatest proportion of humanity resides in cities requiring adjustment to congestion and stress associated with noise and clutter, weakening opportunity for introspective thought. Rush mentality is solidly in place. Rush to work; rush home, with the adjective “fast” applied to
daily basic functions. Fast food, fast Internet connection as we often hear the question: “How long will that take?” This is a recurring cycle diminishing ability to contemplate environmental presence and its impact cloaking importance.
I have developed an obsessive interest in ancient human cultures and am fascinated by their direct link to Earth’s abundant natural offerings and how they survived using Earth’s elements systematically to gain maximum efficiency.
The Adena culture was a Pre-Columbian Native American Culture existing between 1000 and 200 BCE, in a time known as The Early Woodland Period. This culture is considered the foundation social format of Native American cultures. The Adena were located in a zone presently identified as Central Ohio and also bordering what is now Kentucky, Indiana, West Virginia and Pennsylvania. The Adena were mound builders used as burial sites and were named after a large mound discovered on Thomas Worthington’s early 19th century estate named “Adena” near Chillicothe, Ohio.
The Adena were notable for their agriculture practices, pottery, and artistic work developing an extensive trade network to provide raw materials ranging from Great Lakes regional copper to seashells from the Gulf Coast. They were skilled hunter-gatherers supporting agriculture and epitomize how cohesively early cultures blended with natural surroundings. Housing was uniform and did not
represent social class identity, as is prominent during this modern era. Dwellings were small, round in form, using pole wall construction tilted outward and conical shaped roofs covered with bark and walls were covered with either bark or wickerwork. The Adena were not a warring culture, displaying symbiosis with themselves and elements of nature unlike the ubiquitous confrontational behavior prevalent during other historic times, including present day, proving peaceful coexistence is within the realm of reality for us as a species.
Questions arise. How can modern day social design gain from what is known of past cultures and their capacity to embrace natural environments and avoid the anger, hate driven, warring disposition so prevalent during these times? Are we to revert to the hunter-gatherer era? This is impossible, for many reasons. The Adena and other early culture’s success were influenced because of sparse population distribution and access to vast geographically uninhabited zones not available today. We as a species have expanded in numbers unimaginable during hunter-gatherer eras. Although, we can emulate and appreciate the love early cultures shared for nature and its boundless beauty, creating desire for preservation necessary to insure our planet’s well being and future.
Compared to many Earthly species humanity occupies a fraction of other species longevity. The most recent archeological discoveries
have placed human Earthly presence at 2.8 million years and our present day social design has been in place for around 10,000 years. These statistics reveal the so-called, primitive timeline far exceeds current social design and also comparing other species historical presence to ours is a fascination and may offer a glimpse regarding potential human longevity.
The longest historical presence is displayed among aquatic life forms and some have thrived as a species for hundreds of millions of years. The oldest known species is the sea sponge, which has been thriving for in excess of 700 million years. Also, to my personal delight, the magnificent Chambered Nautilus has been around for 500 million years. It’s staggering to think of such spans of time.
I see opossums frequently on my property, a most interesting animal. They are one of the oldest mammals and were here when the dinosaurs went extinct 65 million years ago. The opossum is not proficient at dodging speeding cars on roadways but has demonstrated it has all other complexities for longevity calculated correctly. They are among my favorite critters, true survivors.
Therefore, nature is our guide, leading and demonstrating ability to continue and adjust to natural environmental conditions. We humans must adjust also and this will come through greater understanding of global ecology applied toward enhanced preservation. If we continue expanding and separating from natural
Earth bound environments, attempting to establish our own environments, we will continue to stumble and possibly fail as a species. Overpopulation, polluting soil with chemicals to speed crop growth and increase yields at the cost of destroying organic organisms living in and enrich the soil. Killing bees and other pollinators, as we consume foods of questionable purity. If we continue to spew toxins into the air we breathe and persist with our attachment to fossil fuel the price will far exceed monetary damage assessment. We consider ourselves to be the most advanced life form on our planet as we also flounder and become misdirected through our own influences. We have in place gadgets and devices that the ancient Adena could never imagine but as we study the Adena, comparing their ability to harmonize and align with their environment, one may ask the question: “Did the Adena know something that we fail to see or understand?” Our planet and our environment offer us a place to live but even more important, we need a place to love.

First Concert

By K. A. Williams


The light rain felt good on my hot skin, but none of my pictures were going to turn out well. The Kodak instamatic camera dangled on its strap from my left wrist, full of pictures now. I'd used the whole roll during the first five minutes.
     
I sang along with the rest of the crowd to "Big Girls Don't Cry", "Sherry", "Working My Way Back To You", and all the older songs. But I was a recent 4 Seasons fan and sang louder to the new song "Who Loves You".

Frankie Valli looked so handsome in his white sequined outfit - flared bellbottom pants and a long sleeved shirt which was unbuttoned enough to show his thick chest hair. 

While he was singing his solo hit "Swearin' To God",  Frankie was close to the edge of the stage. When he started shaking hands, I began to push my way through the crowd to the front.
       
I didn't care that I was sweating from the heat now that the rain had stopped or that I was going to get sunburned from the hot sun, I was only aware of one thing - his outstretched hand.

I finally made it to the front of the stage. He was still singing. He was still shaking hands. I waved my right hand at him frantically and HE SHOOK IT! I was in heaven.

​The End

Rocking for Christ
 
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton


 
“It would be nice to walk upon the water, talking again to angels on my side ... all my words are golden, so have no Gods before me. I'm the light.”
            Was that a saying by the great St. Francis of Assisi? A quote from a book by Deepak Chopra? I could tell you that was Albert Schweizer. We could tribute Socrates, Plato or St. Paul with those words, the Pope or even the Dalia Lama.
All of that sounds plausible, doesn’t it?
Well, guess what?
It was Alice Cooper, back in 1971, during the hayday of his dark rock career.
Wait a minute, rewind the tape. Alice Cooper? The shock-rocker? Wasn’t that the villain of rock ‘n roll, the guy that spent and still spends his life performing explosive hard-rock theatricals filled with electric chairs, guillotines and bleeding dolls? Wasn’t that the guy that agitated more provincial housewives than Charles Manson?
            What does Alice say about all this?
            “It’s just electric vaudeville.”
            Then why do we think rock ‘n roll isn’t just a show?
            Because back when the music style first launched, it was a rebellion.
            Ten or twenty years later, academics like Freddie Mercury turned the music-style into a Vaudevillian melodrama. But it doesn’t end there.
            “If you listen clearly to all of my lyrics,” Alice says, “the warning is clearly written on the box. Don’t follow the dark side. It’s not a good idea. I am just playing the villain of rock ‘n roll. I invented him, like Shakespeare invented MacBeth.”
            Keep on reading, though. Now it gets really interesting.
            “As the son of a Baptist pastor, I grew up in the church, in religious surroundings. My father got the whole villain-of-rock-thing. He dug it. He just didn’t dig the lifestyle that went with it. The drugs, the alcohol, the excess. It killed a lot of my colleagues.”
The faithful Christian churchgoer Vincent Damon Furnier was born February 4, 1948, a Cold-War-Kid, the son of a preacherman. His social life as a child was centered mainly around church activities. It was this life that made his conciously living Christian soul confess not belonging to this world. Vincent’s creative decision to invent a new kind of Captain Hook in a rocking world of Peter Pan-characters was a testament to his artistic freedom.
            His show was an invention, mere storytelling, not a credo.
Accordingly, Alice Cooper’s original band colleagues were art students. They were academics, just like the members of the band Queen. To Alice and his band, something was missing in other rock concerts of the time: there were no creative theatricals to go with them. So the canvas they painted for themselves, creating the fictitious antagonist-like and character-drenched show called “Alice Cooper”, sprung from a need to actually add some dramatic flair to the popular streamline. The canvas they chose was similiar to the framework the English teacher Stephen King’s chose for his work: the birthplace of the horrific and perilous playground of lost souls: guillotines and ghosts. Maybe the era of the 1960s inspired them. Maybe the pain of Vietnam inspired the escapism, the creative outlet.
Cooper’s love of art really came alive when he met the surrealist artist Salvador Dali back in 1973. Dali liked Alice so much that he created a holographic artwork of the rocker, worth $ 2 million today, exhibited in the Dali Museum in Figueres, Spain.
Believe it or not, what Alice says about his own show – and about creativity in general – makes perfect sense. As an artist myself, I know that’s what we do. We tell stories.
The fictitious tale in itself is a warning: it ends badly. Alice gets punished, Vincent goes home. The actor takes off his make-up, just like I do after a show, and kisses his wife good night. The fact that it’s rock ‘n roll and not opera, heavy metal and not Shakespeare, is irrelevant. Edgar Allan Poe told us about the tell-tale heart, Verdi told us about what happened to the punished court jester, Alice Cooper told us the story of what happened to the extravagant crook. So don’t kill messenger.
According to Alice, the theatrical message leads home to Vincent, the faithful churchgoer. “Choose God and not the Devil,” Alice has been quoted as saying. “I created a vaudeville show with a villain. Even the bible has villains. Me? I believe in Jesus Christ. I believe in the eternal soul and in the afterlife.”
If it is just a show, then the distinction between what is public and what is private, what is professional and what is personal, becomes an even more important.
“If you live the same life on- as off-stage, that’s a really bad sign.”
Foreboding warnings from his peers show us the way where not to go. It is where some rockers went in order to make us believe their public personas were private, as well. Canadian talk-show host Jian Gomeshi from Studio Q, who also interviewed Alice back in 2011, mentioned conducting an interview with Johnny Rotten from the Sex Pistols. In that interview, Johnny treated Jian rudely throughout, only to transform into his real and private personality as John Lydon in the commercial breaks.
            “Was that okay?” John Lydon asked Jian in his Cockney accent.
Alice Cooper could only confirm that this two-faced act was a part of the show. He called Lydon’s behaviour “the ultimate rock swindle.”
The man who created Alice Cooper learned the hard way how to separate his true self from the on-stage-personality. He had 27 television sets at his house, he was an alcoholic. It was, therefore, all the more amazing that his sober lifestyle came as a complete surprise.
During the beginning of his career, Vincent spent lots of time with the likes of Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix. He’d never drunk a beer before, but soon he was consuming a bottle of whiskey a day. He called Morrison and Hendrix his “big brothers.” Both are quoted by Alice as “living the same life on- as off-stage,” constantly drunk or high on something.
In fact, they thought it was necessary to live up to that rock-star lifestyle.
“Somebody is going to die here,” were Alice’s words, “but it’s not going to be me.”
Vincent was a constant church-visitor during his spiritual awakening. The pastor seemed, in his mind, to speak to him and him alone, again and again. It was almost a pain to go to church and hear the sermons back in the early 1970s, but Vincent Furnier knew in his heart that he had to go there. His intuition demanded it.
The medics called Alice’s recovery, in quote, “weird” and, indeed, “a divine miracle.”
When his doctors asked him, in the clinic, how many alcoholic relapses he’d had, Alice could truthfully say that he’d had none at all.
 “A Christian is a soul who is constantly being sculpted by God,” he admitted, “and given hints by the creator in how to become a better person.”
In Joe Cocker’s case, becoming sober was a matter of life and death – and Christian faith helped him get there, as well. Bono, the lead singer of U2, did not need an addiction to find God. He believed, anyway. In fact, he was quoted in saying that his stardom was given to him by God himself. The band, Bono said, simply wasn’t good enough to succeed on its own. God had to have been the catalyst.
Bono even continued by pointing out that, “Jesus was his hero.”
Vincent, alias Alice, says that becoming sober was “like winning the lottery three times over – it just doesn’t happen.”
Not only did Alice Cooper remain sober, he also turned this spiritual renewal into a charitable enterprise, giving other unfortunate souls the chance to change, as well. Today, Alice Cooper’s project “Solid Rock” helps improve the lives of mistreated youths. Underprivilaged children from broken families are taught how to sing, play guitar, bass and drums. Alice goes out and performs with them, live on stage. His belief in Christ, the eternal soul and rock ‘n roll boosts the confidence of thousands of delinquents.
How many lives could Alice change if given the chance? Could he have prevented the hospitalization of the elderly busdriver, beaten up by two 14 year-olds, who told them to leave the bus? Could “Solid Rock” have boosted the confidence of the drugdealing teenager, who now serves his second term behind bars?
We must unlearn our preconceived conceptions about rock ‘n roll.
Rock fans are aging alongside their heroes and even Bryan Adams is performing for a crowd of fifty year-olds. Vincent, the faithful husband, would rather go home to his wife instead of to a strip-club. He claims that “everyone will find Christ eventually” and would “choose God any day”. He plays golf with his buddy Bob Dylan and appears in Christian talk-shows. So what was this about Alice Cooper being scary?
Being a Christian, though, he goes on, makes it harder because of the constant pressure to be perfect. Show business is creative, technical and organizational work, but it is not a show reality. If the ideas are sung, painted, written or danced, they are creative outlets, the ideas of the soul at work. Behind the skill, though, we find years of hard work. Out of 10 hours of stage rehearsals, 9 are dedicated to music.
Going back to a former comparison, we find Stephen King, the guru of horror stories, whose showmanship is also combined with devout faith. He told the press repeatedly that he has faith in God. A self confessed family man, a loving father and a completely dedicated friend. Mick Garris from Toronto, Canada, in fact, back in December of 2000, wrote: “Few would guess what a happy, childlike, loyal and generous man the Big Guy is.”
He goes on to say how hilariously funny Stephen is, a joy to be around, very local, very unaffected and very much just “Steve” to his pals. Not at all the horrific master of the macabre that he became when he writing his books.
Orson Wells played Shakespeare’s MacBeth. Playing a bigot villain didn’t mean that he really believed in being incestuous or in practicing witchcraft.
Vincent Furnier’s creative choice resembles the choice Sir Anthony Hopkins made when playing Hannibal Lecter. He could go back to Malibu Beach and be a private person, an intellectual or just a beach bum, after the show.
A storyteller, the prodigal son that found God in his heart, the good samaritan who helped the underprivilaged and didn’t even ask anything of them in return.
I have the advantage of being an actor, an author and a singer. I am, like Alice and like Stephen, a storyteller, as are we all, artists or no artists. So I know exactly where Alice is coming from. People love stories and we love telling them. No more. No less. I know that the roles I play are part of my stage persona. I know that the stories I write are part of my creativity. When I make up a story about a killer voodoo prince, it is just a story. When I portray a villain, it is only a portrayal. Me? I am really a nice guy.
I have been in show business since I was 11 years old. That is a career that has been going on for 34 stage years by now. In Bizet’s “Carmen”, I played Zuniga, a misogynistic killer. I was an evil vampire in Polanski’s “Dance of the Vampires”, an egocentric record producer in “Buddy – the Musical” and the mean Uncle Scar in “The Lion King”. That doesn’t mean, however, that I am an egocentric, evil, mean killer in my private life. I have played that killer lion, that bloodthirsty vampire, that psychopathic murderer, that coldhearted husband, that bastard record producer, that evil king, that village idiot, that mean bandit, that butchered deer, that death row prisoner and that mean ghost, maybe just to warn people not to become like that. Maybe that’s the point of art: to point a finger to what is. Nobody would ever think of coming to me after a show and asking me why I wanted to kill Simba.
Drama has to meet romance, darkness has to be filled with light, truth has to meet reality, classic has to meet rock, souls have to meet, people have to put aside their preconceived conceptions in order find out what lies behind the surface.
We tell gruesome stories, we tell stories that are uplifting and positive. Alice is one of those forerunners who went through hell in order to tell us how he found God.
It also goes to show that most of us have a completely different view of what rock ‘n roll was or is to Alice Cooper in the first place. It just goes to show that the people that complained about his performances never really listened to the actual lyrics.
            “I just play the villain of rock ‘n roll,” he concludes. “It’s not really who I am.”
            Touché, Alice. Touché.
            Now go back to church and dig up that undiscovered treasure, turning it into your reality and uncovering what might be revealed as true spiritual gold.
Praise Jesus, Alice has seen the light.
 
“Everyone carries a seed of love within them, even villains do.
The real secret is nourishing that seed and blessing every other life with its power.”
- Anonymous

Two Scandinavian celebrities together: on September 2nd, 2018, pianist Carl-Axel Dominique and cellist John Ehde played the music of Frederick Delius in Delius garden by the river Loing. As you will read in the following article, they were visited not only by the incarnated souls, but by the composer himself, breathing inspiration into their music.



Getting closer to Delius -

- a Concert by the River

​
By John Ehde


I have always felt that performing a deceased composer's music at the site where the composer lived and worked has given me a certain feeling of an awareness or presence, in a metaphysical sense.
Such omnipresence I have experienced, performing for example at Grieg's home Troldhaugen and at Harald Sæverud's stone castle Siljustøl, both beautifully located at the outskirts of Bergen, Norway.
I get the sense that the walls are vibrating together with my playing and the spirit of the composer is carrying me through the music, fusing me with the most sincere inspiration. At Siljustøl they have actually preserved the heavy quilt coated armchair where Sæverud used to sit in the “storstue” (livingroom), so that he still may have his seat at the concerts being held there!
One composer, especially close to my heart is the romantic impressionist Frederick Delius (1862-1934). Delius music is utmost lyrical and poetic and is said to be inspired by nature and all that is perishable. Soaring through most of his works is a melancholy and mysterious longing that rarely gets dissolved, coupled with endless shades of beauty.
Delius most famous works are the orchestral tone poems “On hearing the first Cuckoo in Spring” and “A walk to the Paradise Garden”, the latter from his opera “A Village Romeo and Juliette”. He has also written works on a vast scale for soloists, chorus and orchestra, “Songs of Sunset” and the Nietsche inspired “A Mass of Life”, to name a few.
Delius was good friends with Edward Grieg and spent many summers walking in the Norwegian mountains and even had a little hut by the fjord. The influence from Grieg is clearly audible in his earlier works and later also in his inventive melodic style.

As a cello player I have always been drawn to the singing qualities of the instrument as well as working with sound, so discovering Delius´s music was in many ways like finding a gold mine! I played his Cello Sonata at my Debut Concert in 1987 and in 1991 I had my first performance of the Cello Concerto with Helsingborg Symphony Orchestra.
Although he was married to the artist Jelka Rosen, Delius insisted on a liberal and somewhat careless lifestyle. For the last 30 years of his life he lived in the outskirts of Paris in the idyllic village Grez sur Loing but he also spent many nights and days enjoying the lustful nightlife of Paris. Here he also got acquainted with the cultural elite and got to know August Strindberg and Edward Munch among others.
Unfortunately he also caught syphilis and the decease slowly made him blind and paralyzed. Being unable to write down the music he still had boiling in his head, Delius published an ad in British newspapers asking for help. By incredible fortune the ad was discovered by the 21year young composer, organist and pianist Eric Fenby (1906-97). He had been struck by the beauty and deep poetry of Delius´s music and decided to come to the ill and desperate composer´s aid. After some initial complications the two men began what was to become one of the unparalleled co-operations in the history of music. By dictation Fenby wrote down some of Delius´s most incredible works, note for note. Among them “An Arabesque, for baritone, chorus and symphony orchestra.

Eric Fenby continued to teach and conduct the music of Delius until the end of his life and I had the unique privilege of meeting him in London in 1988. We met one afternoon at his studio in Piccadilly and went through Delius cello sonata and parts of the cello concerto. For me it was the closest I could ever come to Delius and the wonderful old man taught me how to make the music come alive, singing and conducting while staring at me with his boyish eyes. He also gave me some touching advice: “-Every day when you take out your cello, start playing with a feeling of love in your heart”!

Rehearsing Delius cello sonata with renowned Swedish pianist Carl-Axel Dominique in the late 1990's (he studied Messiaen's piano music with the composer and his recordings are already legendary) he suddenly exclaimed:
“Now, shouldn't we once play the sonata in Delius garden?” We had read about the English cellist Beatrice Harrison (1892-1965) playing for the aging composer in his beautiful lush garden by the river Loing, while birds were singing. The possibility of realizing such a project seamed remote at the time but we kept dreaming and talking about it.
Some 10 years later, as the centenary of Delius cello sonata (composed in 1917) was coming up we decided to take the bull by the horns and contact the President of the Delius Society in England, Dr Lionel Carley to present our idea. Lionel thought the idea of a concert in Delius garden a most splendid one and put us in touch with the current owner of Delius house in Grez as well as the chairman of the Grez sur Loing foundation for further negotiations. It turned out both parts were extremely enthusiastic about the idea and discussions and planning went high via letters, mail and extensive skype meetings.
The Grez-sur-Loing Foundation is a non-profit organization dedicated to the promotion and support of art, literature and scientific education and research. The foundation rents out apartments to academies and other foundations and institutions, which, in turn, offers grants for residents from countries all over the world at the Hotel Chevillion in Grez-sur-Loing. The Hôtel Chevilion was arround the 1880's visited by prominent artists and authors from Sweden, Finland and Great Britain. The famous Swedish artist Carl Larsson lived and worked here in the end of the 1880s and the street were the foundation is situated has got his name; rue Carl Larsson!
The owner of Delius former house, Monsieur d'Aubigne turned out to be a warm elderly French gentleman, with great respect for the heritage preserved in his house and an enthusiasm for the music of Delius. If he was at home he would often open his house for Delius afficionados to have a brief glimpse of the house and the garden.

He had also met with Eric Fenby as Ken Russel´s famous film about Delius, “A Song of Summer”, was partly filmed in his house and garden. The concert was set to take place in the spring of 2017 but as I unfortunately caught a “tennis elbow”, it had to be postponed to the following year.
The date of the event was finally set to Sunday September 2, 2018 and the concert was to be labled “Concert by the River”. The date showed to be well chosen: it was a sunny Sunday with few clouds and a light breeze. Walking through the streets of the old village was like a time machine, buildings and houses being untouched for centuries with only the modern day traffic reminding you that we were not anymore in the 1930's. Approaching the house where Delius composed his sweeping melodic lines underlined by the sensual chromatic harmonies one almost expected the man himself turning up in front of you. The old church, the stone bridge across the river where so many artists tried to capture the magic of the twilight, here, I was to give my tribute to the composer I so strived to make justice with my cello.
In the garden there was put up a white tent with open sides to cover for the sun and a little stage was mounted and the standup old piano brought down from the 1st floor. The concert was set to begin at 2 pm and last about 1 hour. There were some 60 invited guests from many parts of the world, mainly connoisseur´s from the Delius Society socializing and exchanging phrases of expectation. At two of the front row chairs was placed pictures of Delius and his wife Jelka, seats reserved!
We performed a mixed programme of Delius music for cello and piano as well of his close friends Edward Grieg and the eccentric Australian composer Percy Grainger. Mr Dominique played some Messiaen and Swedish composer Otto Olsson also found his way into the programme. And then there was magic: when we started the highlight of the concert- Delius cello sonata- there was a sudden cool breeze going through the garden almost tipping my music over.

“He is here, he is really here!!”

Goosebumps and tears and spread out smiles and smurks. I played my heart out and was in a state of trance.
After the concert there was standing applause and grateful speeches from Mr d'Aubigne and Lionel Carley and there were drinks and mingling in the garden and by the river side with cheerful chats and anecdotes of times past. Present in the audience, to my delightful surprise, was the widow of one of the greatest cellists of all time, Maurice Gendron (1920-1990), who also used to live in Grez. Mrs Gendron complimented me for my playing with special emphasis on “my beautiful sound”.
We finally played for Delius!


John Ehde March 1, 2020


Read:
Eric Fenby: Delius as I know him
Watch : “A Song of Summer” a film by Ken Russel https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sMMqkb1WKpg Media: Delius Society https://www.delius.org.uk/ John Ehde: www.ehde.dk

The Truth About Storytelling

By Ed Higgins



“Human beings need to organize the inchoate sensations amid which we pass our days-pain, desire, pleasure, fear-into a story.” --Andrew Delbanco


irretrievably we tell ourselves stories


irretrievably as beaded water slides off our skin


irretrievably even as it makes our skin crawl


irretrievably if we make teeth-gnashing truth


irretrievably hope is a tightened heart noose


irretrievably we die, our beloveds will die as well, sometimes before


irretrievably aging, aging: often little wiser


irretrievably the purple wall of clematis drops its flowers


irretrievably some days Beelzebub shits flies in your coffee


irretrievably Agamemnon is splattered with Iphigenia’s gore


irretrievably Clytemnestra prepares a bath for returning Agamemnon


irretrievably our house plants die from lack-of or over-watering


irretrievably St. George cannot kill those venom-dragons in his head


irretrievably we think we do our best—irretrievably, we usually do not


irretrievably we fall into black totalities of meaninglessness


irretrievably we will fuck things up even more, more


irretrievably: without the telling of story we are irretrievably lost

Pop

A Memoir by Gerald Arthur Winter


There are three stages to our lives: our past, the present, and the future we
sew in our children. The patriarch of my bloodline was my grandfather, William
Julius Hecker, born in 1891 and died in 1975. Bill Hecker was called “Pop” by
my mom, Ann, and her three siblings: two half-brothers a year apart, Teddy
and Artie; and the youngest, her half-sister, Vera, called “Vee” because her
mother, my mom’s step-mother, was also named Vera.
I’m now seventy-five and need to survive another decade to succeed
my grandfather’s longevity. My dad, Adolph Winter, passed at my current age.
My mom, called “Anna” in her youth, lived to age eight-six despite her weak
heart inherited from her “Pop.” Despite her ill health, which she passed on
to me with the same genetic aortic heart valve problem, Mom’s German
stubbornness gave her the tenacity to live to see the Millennium.
Mom’s legacy to me and my older brother, Bob, until he passed
in 2013 at age seventy-two, was her jaded view of our family history. Her
opinions were written in stone. Whatever family stories she passed down
to us were often harsh, depicting herself as a victim of misfortune and
injustice, though my brother and I shared the opinion that Mom was
perhaps the most fortunate woman we’d ever known. She’d inherited
her Pop’s week heart, but also his toughness to survive.
The genesis of the Hecker legacy before Anna Hecker married my
dad, Adolph, is imbued in mystery because her “Pop” would never answer
her question, “How did my mother die?”.
Often worth a thousand words, Mom had photo albums filled with
sepia prints of her blood mother, Anna Wendler Hecker, for whom Mom
was a dead ringer. Viewing the albums in my youth, I’d point asking, “That’s
you, right, Mom?”
She’d shake her head, and show me the printed date on the back
of the old photo: June 20, 1915. “It was my first birthday,” she said. “That’s
your grandmother, my mother. Anna, when she was almost nineteen.”
There were the customary studio wedding photos of her parents,
William and Anna Hecker, and also those taken before they were married
of Anna Wendler with her stern German father, Otto Wendler, riding in a
wicker pedal cart on the Atlantic City boardwalk in the early 1900s.
For every photo in her albums, Mom had a tale, like the photo of her
mom with sister, Mom’s Aunt Lulu, both posing in feathered boas as Theda
Bara-like vamps of the silent film era. According to Mom, her Aunt Lulu was
the naughty sister of the duo. Lulu Wendler was always out drinking and
smoking with men of questionable character. Lulu often wouldn’t return
home from Philadelphia till the wee hours. The Heckers, her parents and
all her aunts and uncles, were born in Germantown. Mom made the same
assessment of her aunt from observing Lulu in her later years, though she
never hesitated to drag me and my brother along to visit our Great-aunt
Lulu in Atlantic City back in the 1950s.
Mom was born one week after the assassination of Archduke Franz
Ferdinand, heir apparent to the Austro-Hungarian throne, along with his wife
Sophie, the Duchess of Honenberg. You always hear about how the archduke’s
assassination caused the war, but no one seemed upset that the duchess was
killed, too—the Dark Ages before Feminism. Though that political assassination
ignited the fuse of WWI, perhaps more significant in our family was the birth of
the first child and only daughter of Bill and Anna Hecker, the shot heard round
the world when my Mom, Anna Martha Elizabeth Hecker was born June 20,
1914.
A precocious child, Anna was demanding and spoiled by her young
parents, Bill twenty three and Anna eighteen, but they both had to work
to make ends meet. Mom was passed off to her grandparents while Bill
and Anna worked. The Hecker family of German born parents consisted
of six brothers, including my grandfather Bill (1891), the oldest, George
(1892), Mart (1893), Fritz (1894), Carl (1896), Eddie (1900), and two sisters,
Anna (1898) and Pauline(1902). Later, sister Clara (1904) had died at age
one.
Bill’s mother, Matilda, had nine children between her ages twenty-
five and thirty-eight. Mom often joked that it was a wonder Grandma had
time to bake the apple strudel. Bill’s kid sister, Pauline, was only twelve
years older than Mom, so as a teenager, Aunt Pauline babysat young Anna ,
which became a close tie that would last all their lives.
The Heckers were all hard-working German-Americans of humble
means. Unable to afford an automobile, Bill and Anna Hecker commuted
to work in Philadelphia, just a 15-minute train ride from Germantown. Bill
worked for Western Union as a clerk and Anna worked for a company
assembling watches. Little Anna remained home with her grandparents,
Fred and Matilda, and her Aunt Pauline where she was fed a variety of
German pastries and thick stews that kept her healthy and active. When
Mom was two, her mother gave birth to her brother, William, Jr. in 1916.
Though America was well into the war in Europe, and four of
Mom’s five uncles had been drafted into the Army, her father, Bill, had
been diagnosed with emphysema in childhood from working since age
eleven at a felt hat manufacturing company in Philadelphia. Inhaling
felt dust into his late teens, he was rejected from military service as
“4-F,” but that didn’t stop him from daily chain-smoking five packs of
Chesterfield cigarettes before filters were invented.
Bill had also strained himself lifting heavy equipment at the
factory that caused a hernia that was never repaired surgically and
would plague him all his life wearing a thick leather strap around his
lower abdomen to keep his intestines from falling out. My grandma,
Vera Hecker told me that one time she had to stuff his intestines back
inside his belly with his breakfast fork and strap them in gain to send
him off to work. My mother’s “Pop” was a tough little guy.
At a time when childbirth was a serious danger, Anna’s little
brother, Billy, was safely delivered. The large Hecker family was thrilled
with the new arrival. By Anna’s age three, her toddler brother, Billy, was
a handful for eighth grader, Aunt Pauline. Mom’s young mother had to
go back to work at the watch factory to make ends meet. She also spent
most of her Sundays cleaning house, washing clothes, and feeding her
widowed father Otto at his house, a ten minute walk from home in the
steep hills of Germantown.
Otto Wendler took his daughter, Anna, and his granddaughter,
Anna, and his grandson, Billy, on the train to Philadelphia to see a
Mummer’s Day Parade. It was a cold morning, and the multitude
gathered along the 2nd Street parade route in south Philly. Otto
carried his granddaughter on his shoulders so she could see the
parade, but little Billy was strapped into a wicker stroller so he
couldn’t run away in the crowd and get lost. His mother reached
up with one hand to hold her daughter’s wrist as she waved a
miniature American Flag with 48 stars since Arizona and New
Mexico had joined the Union in 1912.
The marching Mummer’s costumes were colorful and brash,
but Mom felt a chill down her back when a group of hundreds, looking
like ghosts, marched dressed all white with hooded masks. They carried
torches and a banner with a burning cross and the letters “KKK.”
“Time to go, Papa,” my mom recalls her mother’s words.
“Nein! Vee shtay,” my great-grandfather said, which made
my mother shudder, wondering when she’d have the chance to pee.
The moment her Grandpapa set her down, she wet her pants and
began to shake in the cold. She saw her little brother was shaking from
cold as well, and must have wet his pants, too. Her mother defied Otto,
and left with her children, but the crowd made it impossible to find a
place to use a restroom where long lines blocked their way, waiting
outside bars to use urine troughs
The train wasn’t heated, but at least the ride home was short.
Still, even after taking a hot bath at home with little Billy, both still
Shivered and her mother was coughing and sneezing ever since they’d
come off the crowded train.
Next morning, my mom got up from bed, but didn’t find her
mother in the kitchen as usual preparing an oatmeal breakfast for
her husband and children before her grandma or Aunt Pauline
showed up to watch them while her father and mother took the
train to work.
“Where’s Mama and Billy, Pop?” Anna asked her father, but he’d
come from the bedroom where a doctor was examining Anna and her son,
Billy. The word “influenza” would permeate Mom’s life forever, when a
week later, her mother at age twenty-two and her brother not even two
succumbed as early casualties to what in 1918 would become the Flu
Epidemic. However, that was only one version of the story passed on by
my mother.
Though Anna Wendler Hecker and William Julius Hecker, Jr. had
both contracted the flu and remained bedridden for a week before their
deaths, some believed that since none of my mother’s uncles, aunts or
grandparents had gotten more than a cough and runny nose for several
days, and since my mother and her grandfather, Otto, had the same
crowd and weather exposure as her mother and brother, that there was
at least one more questionable factor concerning their cause of death.
Ever since my grandmother, Anna Wendler Hecker, had been moved
from the watch assembly position at work to the radium dial department,
she’d suffered weight loss and periodic incontinence. Though radium watch
armatures encased in glass to see the time in the dark was not considered a
health hazard at the time, the method by which the radium armatures were
painted was in question. Typically applied with a fine paint brush, the delicacy
of the application required that the brush’s tip be kept thinly tapered. To
achieve such a fine point, Anna would put the brush in her mouth to taper
its fine hairs with her pursed lips. Despite any precautions that might have
been taken, the pressures of timely completion of the work, and in an era
of unregulated working conditions, years of exposing her mouth to radium,
if not being an immediate cause of death, may well have comprised
her immune system making her more vulnerable to influenza than
the rest of her family.
Concerning little Billy, Anna had nursed him as an infant, besides
any exposure to his mother’s blood system during her pregnancy. One
might conclude that such exposure to radioactivity might well have
caused early terminal cancer in both mother and child, but we’ll never
know.
Added to this mystery were the bruises found on my grandmother’s
body during her examination for the flu. Though with no corroborating
evidence, other than forty years later from her sister Lulu, the injuries
may have come from beatings by her father, Otto, known to be a heavy
drinker, and a brutal, ill-tempered man. That’s why his daughter Lulu
had left home by age seventeen and eloped with a man to Atlantic City,
where she lived the rest of her life widowed by three husbands. Mom
and Dad would take Bobby and me to visit Aunt Lulu annually until we
were teenagers. Then I sent her Christmas cards even after I was married
and until her passing in the 1970s.
Though the void left in Anna’s widower husband and daughter’s
lives was cold and harsh, the large Hecker family, with all of my mom’s
uncles home from The Great War, provided a happy environment for her.
Grief stricken, little Anna’s Pop took the position offered in New York with
Western Union as an office manager, where he’d eventually become a
50-year gold watch recipient at age sixty-five.
Five years after losing his wife and son, Bill met Vera Fitzpatrick,
a secretary in his office, and according to my step-grandmother, my
grandfather had trapped her behind the office door and kissed her.
“You’d be surprised how strong that skinny, five-foot-four little
man can be, even with his hernia and wheezing,” she’d told me when I
was in high school. “How could I say ‘no’ when he’d proposed that same
week? Bill was a tiger.”
Meanwhile, back in Germantown, PA, my Mom, Anna Hecker,
was nine years old and about to be taken to Queens, NY to live with
her Pop and stepmother, Vera, only thirteen years older than she was.
That spoiled treasure of the Hecker clan was about to morph from “our
little angel, Anna,” to “that little brat of yours.” That transition was
seamless, but the cloth from which it was sown was scratchy to the
touch leaving welts of irritation that would last, Mom, a lifetime.
* * *
Bill and Vera Hecker lived on Gold Road in Ozone Park off Rockaway
Blvd. Their two-story home with an unattached two-garage in back became
a comfortable nest for Bill and Vera to have three more children, Anna’s half-
brothers, Teddy, nine years younger than Anna, and Artie , a year younger
than Teddy, and their kid sister, Vera, six years after Artie.
Before the other children came along, Anna was a handful for her
stepmother, Vera. It began when Mom was tripped by a neighborhood boy
with a long stick while she was roller skating on Gold Road. Her right tibia
was broken and the compound fracture left bone protruding from her
shin. It was 1923 and her stepmother’s little Teddy was only six months
old and was nursed at home while Pop went to work in Brooklyn at
Western Union. It was summer so school was out, but Anna had to go
to the hospital.
Sedated with ether for the procedure to set her leg in a cast,
manyof Mom’s fogged recollections decades later may have come from
a combination of hallucinations from the ether and what today could be a
problem of PTSD stemming from the loss of her mother and brother at age
three and the trauma that lingered despite the Hecker family’s attempts
to coddle her. Then there was the move from Germantown, where she
had much family support, to Queens and a family environment where
she felt like an outsider.
From the initial loss of her mother and brother, she had immediately
gone to her father for answers and comfort though it is doubtful that a three-
year-old had the perception to understand that the loss had traumatized her
Pop, perhaps even more than her.
There were serious complications with Mom’s surgery. She lost sight
in one eye at age nine, the explanation was an overdose of oxygen under
surgery. Complications of the surgery left Mom with osteomyelitis, a bone
marrow disease, most commonly associated with the injury that plagued
the New York Yankees Mickey Mantle all his life.
Of insufficient means, and with no such thing as health insurance
available in 1923, little Anna was essentially told to grin and bear it. The
Heckers had no resources to sue a hospital. Then came the story told by
Mom to her last breath eight decades later that she had contracted
gonorrhea at the hospital. When she would tell my brother Bob and I
this as grown men with children in college, Bob and I would kid aside
—Mom doesn’t know you only get gonorrhea from riding someone
else’s bicycle while wearing a bathing suit.
However, in retrospect, the question remains, was Mom
somehow abused under sedation in a hospital as a child. She would
use this hypothesis to gain Pop’s attention, but when she got it,
she’d always ask, “I want to know why Mama died, and Billy, too.
Please, tell me, Pop.”
This always had the same result with Pop clamming up and Mom
overhearing her stepmother saying, “She just does this for attention.”
This was not an unreasonable assertion by my grandmother.
The Great Depression didn’t help. Like most, the Heckers were
strapped, even if Pop was fortunate to keep his job at Western Union,
Vera had to go back to work as well, so much responsibility was put on
Mom to watch over Teddy, nine, Artie, eight, and little Vera age two.
Mom just graduated from Thomas Jefferson High School at eighteen,
and wanted to get a job, too.
Always hungry, Mom would try to sneak food from the ice box
but her stepmom was wise to her attempts and put a lock on the door
and kept the key. She’d make breakfast and put out lunch before leaving
for work as a secretary, but the icebox remained locked till dinnertime,
and thereafter till morning. According to Mom she’d survived on saltines
and grape jelly.
Again, this was told by Mom. When Teddy was young he had
a volatile disposition, and an obsessive personality that demanded
perfection. He had amassed a collection of model plans that he’d
spent a few years meticulously assembling with glue and hung them
from the ceiling of his bedroom. Always trying to keep the boy’s from
scrabbling, Mom suggested that it would be nice for Teddy to give
younger Artie one of his dozens of model planes to play with. While
Teddy was sleeping, Mom took one plane for Artie, but returning to
Teddy’s room, she found that he’d set his entire collection on fire
rather than part with one for even an hour.
The excuse made for Teddy’s behavior was the medication 
and high fever he was experiencing from the early stages of Scarlet
Fever. Though a perfectionist to the end at age eight-seven, as my
Godfather, I found my Uncle Teddy to be a kind and considerate man.
Though with many curse words, he even cleaned me up when I was
hit by a big wave in the Coney Island surf and pooped in my bathing
suit. He became a close friend of my Dad, Both avid archers, he was
the last to see my Dad pass in the hospital in 1992. Uncle Ted shared
with me how the morphine given Dad in hospice had made him lucid
in his final moments.
Younger brother Artie was a genius, but his chemical experiments
in the two-car garage in Ozone Park nearly blew off the roof with their
explosions. My Grandma told me once that even though my Uncle Artie
was a genius, as a kid when he went away to summer camp, he mailed
home his poop-pooh undies for her to wash rather than do it himself.
Uncle Artie’s eccentricities and genius, combined with the luck of being
in the right place at the right time, brought him great fortune.
Though Uncle Artie abused himself by drinking scotch and smoking
despite doctors’ warnings, his chemical patents made him a multimillionaire
and president of a major chemical company. Despite his wealth, Artie was
very generous to all of his family often embarrassing us with his extended
kindness for decades.
Whatever exactly happened one day in 1932 is uncertain, but Teddy
and Artie got into a squabble and Mom got in the middle. Though what
had transpired we’ll never know for sure, Mom ran down the street to her
boyfriend, Tommy Prendiville’s house, a family of heavy drinkers, whom
her stepmother disparaged. When Mom returned home that night, she
was handed a suitcase by her stepmother containing all of her belongings
and told never to come back.
Her engagement to Tommy Prendiville lasted only months and was
more of a rebellion against her family than anything else. Only a few doors
away from her Pop’s home, Mom lived at the Prendiville’s for six years.
Impossible to avoid seeing her Pop and stepmother, they’d pass her by
on Gold Road as if she were invisible.
Mom worked at Woolworth’s and commuted there by train to
Jamaica, Queens. Hardship seemed to cling to Mom. One night when it
was time to close the safe at Woolworth’s, her big toe got stuck in the
heavy metal door. Another time, at the cash register, when she hit the
button to close the drawer, her bottom lip got caught in the drawer as
it sprang shut. How that could happen without Mom starring as a
contortionist at Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Baily Circus is beyond
anyone’s imagination. The simple family explanation has been--
Anna could never keep her mouth shut.
What finally tempered the God Road Cold War between Mom and her
family was her engagement to Dad and the prospect that Mom would no longer
be living with the Prendivilles. Though the Depression had eased in 1940, war
in Europe was boiling over to America. According to my Aunt Vera, who was ten
years old at the time, she had a crush on my Dad and had nothing but good things
to say about him to her Pop and Mom.
“His name is Adolph—not with an F—and he looks like David Niven,” she
told her mother, who raised a brow with curiosity.
My Aunt Vee, who’d later be my Godmother at age fourteen, became the
peacemaker, encouraging her older sister Anna to invite her parents to her wedding.
“Agh! They’ll never come,” Mom said. “You’ll get in trouble just for coming
here to the Prendiville’s to talk to me.”
“But, Anna, if you don’t invite them, you’ll never know if they’d have come.”
My Dad couldn’t fathom not inviting her parents to her wedding and
encouraged her to invite them, too.
One of the grander mysteries of my family, is that Bill and Vera Hecker did
come to my parents’ wedding, and nothing after that was ever said about the day
she’d been kicked out of the house amid the Great Depression. We have 16mm
movies of my baptism with all of Mom’s family present in 1945 with my godparents,
Uncle Teddy and Aunt Vee, and my grandparents, Bill and Vera Hecker present. My
Uncles, Teddy and Artie, were home after World War II where they’d served as
Sergeants.
My brother and I were always treated like blood by our Grandma, Vera
Hecker, and of course Mom’s “Pop” was our blood grandfather. I think of “Pop”
often in my comfort zone recalling the house in Ozone Park on Gold Road. There
was the front stoop like every other home lined along the quiet side street off
Rockaway Blvd. that went straight out to the Rockaway Beach and Rockaway
Play Land.
A metal gate opened to a cement driveway that had shuffleboard triangles
painted inside the gate and in front of the garage’s apron. Facing the two-car garage
that had never had a car parked in it. To the right was Grandpa’s garden that stretched
from the backdoor along the neighbor’s fence to a narrow path alongside the garage
to the tall wooden fence adjacent to the neighbor’s backyard on the next street. I would
help Grandpa weed his garden, but if he heard the clomping sound of a horse on Gold
Road he’d grab a bucket and run to the street. Together, we’d follow the junkman’s
nag with its straw hat and hole’s cut out for its ears. With a trowel and a bucket we’d
gather horse manure to fertilize Grandpa’s roses. We’d use a metal pump to spray a
white powder on his roses to kill Japanese beetles.
But the scary part about the garden was what was on the other side of the
tall wooden fence. We couldn’t really see them, but we could hear them, not just
barking, but snorting and snarling, three Dobermans the size of ponies. If they were
inside the neighbor’s house, no problem. But if I heard the back screen door slam
shut, I knew they’d been let out, and a chill would run down my back waiting for
the first growl through the fence and their shadows were like dark waves blocking
out the sunlight between the slats of the fence.
Besides garden tools and sports equipment from bicycles to quoits, there
was a ping pong table where my uncles and aunts were stiffly competitive. Entering
the house from the backyard, stairs went immediately down to what later would
become a finished basement with a tiled floor and an extra bathroom. At the rear
was a workroom, the remains of the original cellar that was musty and filled with
tools, jars of nails and screws, and used cans of paint.
Going back upstairs, you had to go through my grandparents’ bedroom to
get to the kitchen, then the living room, where I recall sitting on my grandfather’s
lap in his rocking chair. Flanked by tropical fish tanks, at Christmas, their tree was
decorated with lights shaped like transparent candles and when they got hot, a
liquid would bubble magically inside them, an image of childhood that still flutters
in my mind with joy from so long ago.
In the fifties, my grandparents remodeled their house converting it to a
duplex and renting out the second floor.
When my grandfather turned sixty-five, I heard Mom say, “Pop’s got
pneumonia. Artie’s buying them a house in Fort Lauderdale where the warm
weather will make him better.”
After all those years of emphysema and five packs of Chesterfields a day,
Pop quit, got his gold watch from Western Union, and moved to Florida where
he thrived another nineteen years, puttering in his garden, playing the horses,
betting on Jai alai, and playing pinochle.
I visited my grandparents in Fort Lauderdale for Spring Break as a
college senior in 1966. I got a bad sunburn, so Pop took me to his garden
and cut an aloe stalk. From it, he spread the cool gelatinous salve on my
hot shoulders with instant relief.
“The Seminole Indians used aloe for burns,” he said.
Though he couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast, which
was always a three-minute soft-balled egg in cup, Pop could still recall his
winning pinochle hands and who he’d beaten years ago, friends he’d had
back in Germantown in the early 1900s, and long shots he’d won at Aqueduct
Racetrack in the 1940s.
“But don’t ever trust that Tommy Prendiville to place a bet for you,”
Pop told me in Florida. “I wrote the name down for him and gave him a
hundred bucks, but instead of my 60-1 longshot, that drunken son of a
bitch bet on a hot tip he got in the paddock. My horse, Lazy Daze won. I
could’ve had six grand to buy us a brick house out in Massapequa.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Bill,” your Grandma told me back then. “No
house could ever be worth as much as six thousand dollars.”
I told her back then, “Then I could’ve used the winnings to buy
into a fifty-fifty partnership in Grand Union. We’d be millionaires.”
“Supermarkets will never work,” she told me. “How would they
ever keep the food fresh?”
“Heh-heh-heh,” he laughed just like my mom. “I could’ve been
a rich man.”
I hope Pop knows that he was.

“FLAWS”

​by Fred Miller


“What color are you?” said the bunny with a floppy ear.
“I’m a bear. Bears are brown,” said the bear.
“No, no, what color is your tag?” said the bunny.
“Tag?” said the bear.
“Yes, silly. Ah, there it is, fastened to your ear. You’re a blue.”
“I am? What does that mean?” said the bear.
“We are on the shelf for a week so kids can look us over. And if they choose us, we become companions and we go home with them. If we’re not chosen, we’re removed from the shelf the following week on the day our color comes up. See?” said the bunny with a floppy ear.
“No,” said the bear. “Why would they remove us?”
“Well, we had companions once. Remember?”
“Yes,” said the bear, “I had a little boy as a companion. But then a grown-up placed me in a sack and brought me here. But I don’t know why.”
“It’s because you have a flaw,” said the bunny.
“I do?” said the bear.
“Yes,” said the bunny, “we all do. I have a floppy ear and you have a tear in your tummy. But children don’t see flaws. Only grown-ups do. And when they do, they replace us with new companions for their kids. Now we’re in a thrift store for other children to choose us. See?”
“I suppose. But how will I know if I’ve been chosen?” said the bear with a tear in his tummy.
“Oh, you will know,” said the bunny with a floppy ear. “A child will grab you and hug you and squeal with joy. Then you will become a new companion,” said the bunny.
“Just like that?” said the bear.
“Just like that,” said the bunny, “but not always.”
“No?” said the bear.
"Sometimes a grown-up will see a flaw and put the companion back on the shelf. Grown-ups see what's on the surface, but not what’s in a heart. Children always know what is in a heart,” said the bunny.
“Then I may not get chosen after all?” said the bear with sadness.
“You’ll just have to wait and see. But just remember, children can always tell if a companion has a big heart,” said the bunny.
“They can?” said the bear.
“Yes indeed. Sometimes when a grown-up returns a companion to the shelf, the child will cry until the companion is back in his arms. So even if a grown-up does not understand, you may become a companion anyway,” said the bunny with a floppy ear.
“This is confusing,” said the bear with a tear in his tummy.
“I know,” said the bunny. “But remember, if your heart swells when a child sees you, he will know it.”
The bear sighed and said no more. All of this had made him very weary. Soon it was quiet on the shelf.
Then the lights in the thrift store dimmed. The companions on the shelf sat in silence except for an insect that landed on the bear's nose.
"Who are you?" said the bear. The fly looked at the bear and flew off without a word.
"What was that?" said the bear.
"Just an insect looking for dinner," said the bunny with the floppy ear.
"I am not dinner," said the bear.
"No, you are not. Neither am I, but don't let it concern you," said the bunny. "The insect will be provided for and be happy enough."
"He will?" said the bear.
"Yes," said the bunny. "Cookie crumbs are everywhere."
“What now?” said the bear with a tear in his tummy.
“Now we rest until the store opens tomorrow. Then I’ll introduce you to the others,” said the bunny with a floppy ear.
“The others?” said the bear.
“Shhh, it’s time for everyone to rest. Try to sleep now,” said the bunny.
“Okay,” said the bear. But he did not sleep because his eyes would not close. Neither would the eyes of the bunny, but he sat very still and said nothing.
The next day the bunny introduced the bear to a blue-eyed doll with a smudge on her face, and a horse who was missing his mane, and a giraffe who’d lost the buttons on his cute little vest. There was a duck whose down had faded and a sleepy-eyed lamb who’d lost an ear. There were others on the shelf, but they were too far away for the bunny to introduce them now.
The bear gazed at the blue-eyed doll.
“What is your name?” said the bear, but the blue-eyed doll said nothing.
“She speaks only when a child picks her up and hugs her,” said the bunny.
“Why is that?” said the bear.
“It’s the way she’s made,” said the bunny. “She needs a sign of love to respond.”
“Oh,” said the bear. “Does she have a tag?”
“Her tag is pink. Pink companions are removed on Wednesdays if no child has chosen them. I’m a red. If no one chooses me by Thursday, I’ll be removed,” said the bunny with a floppy ear.
“What about blue tags?” said the bear who had a blue tag fastened to his ear.
“Blues must be chosen by Saturday. Just remember that children choose companions with big hearts, so your heart needs to swell when a child sees you,” said the bunny.
“Okay,” said the bear. “But what about the horse and the giraffe and the duck and the lamb?”
“So many questions,” said the bunny with a yawn. Finally he said “The lamb is the lucky one. His tag is purple.”
“Purple?” said the bear with a tear in his tummy.
“Yes, purple tags belong to companions most likely to become Christmas gifts. They may stay on the shelf until after the holidays. That is if they haven’t already been chosen,” said the bunny with a floppy ear.
“Why is that?” said the bear.
“Shhh,” said the bunny, “here comes a child.”
A small girl with her finger in her mouth looked up at the companions as her mother stood by. The bunny beamed with joy as did the others whose hearts began to swell.
“See anything you want, dear?” said the mother.
The little girl pointed at the blue-eyed doll with a smudge on her face. The mother lifted the blue-eyed doll and said, “Oh, you don’t want this one, dear. It has a dirty face.” As the mother placed the doll back on the shelf, the little girl began to cry. “Oh, okay, dear, you hold the doll while Mommy looks around for another one.”
The child took the doll and to her delight, the blue-eyed doll with a smudge on her face said “Mama.” The little girl hugged the doll and waited.
“Look at this one, honey. It’s practically new,” the mother said.
“No,” said the little girl who squeezed the blue-eyed doll even tighter.
“But listen to this one, Elizabeth.” The mother squeezed the doll and a tiny voice said, “I’m Nancy and I want to be your friend. Can we be friends?” The little girl’s eyes widened, and she dropped the blue-eyed doll. Then she embraced the doll her mother had chosen for her, and with her mom and her new companion, the little girl walked away with a smile on her face. The blue-eyed doll now lay face down on the floor.
“What has happened to our companion?” said the bear with a tear in his tummy.
“I don’t know,” said the bunny with a floppy ear. “I cannot see down.” And the bunny, the bear, the horse, the giraffe the duck and the lamb looked straight out from the shelf.
Soon a lady wearing a thrift store apron walked down the aisle and lifted the blue-eyed doll with a smudge on her face off the floor for a closer inspection. “My, my, your face is all dirty,” said the lady who pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped the doll’s face clean.
“There now, that’s better, she said and placed the blue-eyed doll back on the shelf next to her companions. Now the others could see that her face was as clean as ever. The blue-eyed doll blinked her eyes.
“Now you will be chosen for sure,” said the bunny to the blue-eyed doll who said nothing.
“Yes, indeed,” said the bear. The others looked on in agreement.
Later more shoppers passed the merry companions, but no one stopped to pick up any of the companions for a closer look. Soon the lights dimmed once again.
“Maybe tomorrow,” said the bunny.
“Yes,” said the bear, “maybe tomorrow.” The others looked on in silence.
All the companions rested that night and the next morning a child stopped by the shelf and pointed at the bear.
“Mine,” said the little boy.
“Well, let’s have a closer look,” said the mother. And the bear’s heart swelled as he was placed in the child’s hands.
“Mine,” said the little boy.
“Well, if you really want it,” said the mother even though she could see a tear in the bear’s tummy.
Just then the child looked up at the horse and said, Mine,” as he pointed at the companion.
“Well,” said the mother, “You cannot have both the bear and the horse, dear.” The little boy reached for the horse and let the bear fall to the floor.
“Mine,” said the little boy.
“You’d rather have the horse?” said the mother who realized the horse's mane was missing, but she said nothing. The little boy nodded and took the horse in his arms.
The companions on the shelf could hear the little boy squealing “mine” as he went down the aisle with his mother and his new companion. But only the bunny with a floppy ear, who’d been tilted forward when the horse was lifted from the shelf, could see the bear face down on the floor.
“Oh, my,” said the bunny.
“What is it?” said the duck.
“I fear our new friend, the bear with a tear in his tummy will have a dirty face,” said the bunny with a floppy ear.
Soon the lady in the thrift store apron walked into the aisle and picked up the bear and placed him back on the shelf. But she did not notice that he now had an eye missing as well.
“Oh, my,” said the bunny.
“Oh, my,” said the duck and the giraffe. The blue-eyed doll and the lamb looked on but said nothing.
“Am I different?” said the bear. “I feel different.”
“You are missing an eye,” said the duck.
“Oh, my,” said the bear.
The companions all consoled him and finally the giraffe who’d lost the buttons on his cute little vest said, “I think he looks even better with just one eye.”
“I think so too,” said the bunny. And the duck agreed. The blue-eyed doll and the sleepy-eyed lamb who’d lost an ear said nothing.
The next day the giraffe was chosen by a little boy whose freckles matched the spots on the giraffe.
And later a mother chose the duck with faded down to be a companion for her new baby girl who squealed with delight when she saw the duck.
Days passed and though several children stopped to look at the companions, no one else was chosen. A new week came, and the companions knew they must be chosen soon or be removed from the shelf. Only bunny, the bear, the doll and the lamb were left on the shelf. And they promised to remain faithful companions no matter what.
On Tuesday a little girl who had the same blonde curls as the blue-eyed doll chose the doll to be her new companion. “Why, Amanda,” the mother said, “she looks just like you.” The little girl laughed, and the blue-eyed doll said, “mama,” and blinked her eyes.
No one else was chosen that day or the next even though hearts swelled each time a child paused at the shelf.
When Thursday arrived, the bunny knew if he were not chosen before the store closed that day, he’d be removed from the shelf and have no child as a companion. All day he tried to look happy and his heart swelled each time a child passed by. But as the light in the thrift store dimmed, he knew as did the bear, and the lamb, he would not be chosen.
Sadness filled the shelf as the companions tried to make the bunny feel better. But it was no use. When the next day dawned, he was tossed in a
box with other companions with red tags who'd also been removed from the shelf. But at the very moment the box was lifted, the bunny with a floppy ear fell out onto the floor.
Soon a little boy whose nose twitched like a bunny's nose because he had a cold, saw the bunny on the floor. He picked the bunny up and hugged him.
“I want him, Mommy, I want him. Okay?” said the little boy.
“Well, I suppose, Jeffery, but you do see that the bunny has a floppy ear,” said the mother.
“I don’t care, Mommy, I want him.”
“Okay, dear. You may have him,” said the mother.
The others on the shelf could not see this because they could not look down. But the bear with one eye and a tear in his tummy said to the sleepy-eyed lamb who’d lost an ear, “I feel something has happened. What could it be?” but the sleepy-eyed lamb said nothing. “Am I dreaming?” said the bear. “Something wonderful has just happened.”
And so, the day passed, and the bear had forgotten that he was a blue and all blues would be removed on Saturday, the next day. What he did suspect was that it was very unlikely child would want a bear with only one eye and a tear in his tummy, but he kept this to himself.
The new day came, and the store was full of children who came to the shelf and looked, but no one chose the bear or the lamb as a companion.

Late in the day a grandpa with a mustache and a little boy, in a toboggan hat decorated with reindeer, strolled down the aisle and stopped by the two companions.
“Christopher,” said the grandpa, “Christmas is coming, and this little sleepy-eyed lamb looks perfect for our manger scene, don’t you think?”
The little boy nodded, so the grandpa picked up the sleepy-eyed lamb who’d lost an ear and placed him in the little boy’s arms. The sleepy-eyed lamb’s heart swelled, and the little boy smiled because he knew the lamb had a big heart.
When the lights dimmed Saturday evening, the bear sat alone on the shelf. And he was very sad. Soon he could hear noises in the store, but he did not know that people had come to mop the floors and clean the shelves.
Soon the bear felt himself being lifted and placed in a box with other companions with blue tags. And a few minutes later he felt the cool evening air as the box was taken out the back door and tossed into a garbage bin.
The bear with one eye and a tear in his tummy lay quietly at the top of the box. He could see the evening sky with a host of stars across the horizon and he wondered what stars might be. Then he saw one star that was much bigger and brighter than any of the others. Its light shone with brilliance in his one remaining eye.
Soon an old woman pushing a cart up the alley stopped at the garbage bin and peeked in. The first thing she saw was the starlight sparkling in the
bear’s eye. She reached in and carefully took the bear in her arms and pulled a colorful scarf from her neck and wrapped it around him. Then she gently placed the bear in the front of the cart so he could see where they were going.
The bear beamed and his heart began to swell.
The old woman pushed the cart up the alley to a nook behind a store where she planned to bed down for the night. She took the bear in her arms and settled in under a blanket of stars. The bear’s eye twinkled from the reflection of the brightest star in the heavens, and he knew his heart was as big as it
had ever been.
Across the city children dreamed of the coming day. The giraffe who’d lost buttons on his cute little vest was snuggled in the arms of the freckle-faced boy. The bunny with a floppy ear sat happily in a toy box with other companions of the boy whose nose twitched when he had a cold. On a dresser in a baby’s room, the duck with the faded down stood proudly as he watched over a crib where his new companion was fast asleep. The horse who was missing his mane looked down on his new companion and whispered, “mine”. The blue-eyed doll lay on a pillow next to the little girl who looked just like her.
And under a Christmas tree full of colored lights, the sleepy-eyed lamb who’d lost an ear stood over a small infant in a bed of hay. The tiny child looked up at the lamb and smiled. And the heart of the sleepy-eyed lamb swelled, and he was filled with joy.

Fred Miller is a California writer who specializes in penning short stories of eclectic themes, his first selected by Constance Hunting, the New England poet laureate in 2003. Over fifty of his stories have appeared in publications around the world in the past ten years. Many of his stories may be seen on his blog: https://pookah1943.wordpress.com. ​

Toads on Lily Pads

By

​Mehreen Ahmed
 
There used to be a green pond once next to our house. This house had a red tiled roof and picture windows. It was situated on a hill known as the Dev Pahar in Chittagong. Through those picture windows, I could see the pond down by the valley. The pond was not too far. From the hilltop, it looked mostly surrounded by heavy moss growing on tall trees and bamboo tresses.
 
A great many toads sat on innumerable lily pads around the water surface of the pond. They leaped sprightly in and out of the water, legs splayed, sat back up on the lily pads. The greenery around it was spectacular, especially on a rainy day. The leaves of the forlorn bamboo shone in the rain. More so, the young intrepid shoots in the process of opening up. They trembled, as the rain dribbled over. Many a summer’s rain. Rain drops also dribbled over the lily pads, where the toads would be sitting. They sang, serenading the rain. The rain responded. Then performed a nuanced, choreographed dance - the rain and the pond together. The pond dimpled; this delightful duet. Nature woke up on this festive moment.
 
The environment was clean then, the greenery was unpolluted. The resplendent pond was named The Green Pond because of this freshness. I would go out for walks and around the pond for fresh air each afternoon, down my favourite trail. On these walks, I could see the little toads, sitting without a care, waiting for the next rain dance, oblivious of what was coming. Then it came, not the rain though, but something else. Something insidious that threatened them, their existence on the lily pads. Because soon after the lily pads ceased to surface, as did the toads. A disaster pressed them down to the bottom of the pond until the breathing stopped. The toads on the lily pad were gone. So were the days of the serenade.
 
I wasn’t prepared for this, neither were the toads nor the rain, the pond or the lily pads. However, as time went by, a change did occur, disappearance of the toads, which was ominous. The green pond began to look different; it shrunk. Lily pads were replaced by something else. It eluded me, just as it eluded the habitat. Who took the lifeline away?       
 
The mossy surroundings of the pond didn’t look as clean as it used to be. First, it was just one or two plastic bottles, then the rubbles increased. Over months and years, this litter doubled, tripled and quadrupled. This impeded both my view through the picture window, as well as my walks. The least of problem, the litter posed a much bigger threat. Plastic bottles didn’t just hedge the edges of the pond, but slid down into the waters as well. The pond might as well be called something else, anything but green. This surface was now accosted by plastic bottles. The much coveted pond on this brink of a disaster. The rain fell again, but without much romance. Rather the pond saw how its bottled surface got shoved around in the rough rains.
 
As I lay, one summer’s day, looking through my picture window at this tragedy being unfolded before my eyes, the thought of a nursery rhyme, foreboded. Who killed Cock Robin? A question of a highly symbolic nature, this Cock Robin played many serious issues in my mind. Some of these pertained to the collapse of historical and political events. But to boot, the enigma of the Cock Robin invaded my thoughts in relation to these plastic bottles too. The Sparrow may have killed it, but what if this magical, symbiotic balance of a delicate ecosystem were to be destroyed one day? Often this would mean a relationship between life of all kinds to be scissored. Man, natural flora and fauna on land, waters and the skies. Fundamentally, a spiritual connection, which the toad enjoyed with the pond on the lily pads and the with rain. Even if one element were to be snapped one day, wouldn’t all hell break loose, and chaos descend? That which begged a formidable question, who to blame for this then? This would lead to the dismantling of all spiritual connection in nature, and render us with a place of utter confusion akin to a poet’s twisted perception of a dark place where: “The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good” - Auden.
 
God Forbid that this was ever to happen, but then, there was no stopping of such an onslaught either. That was the summer of the last great storm; our summer of discontent. Mangled mangoes fell in the fierce winds, people felt dispossessed and lost, as the storm took everything they loved. A summer, when monsoon swept through, nipping buds, snapping bird nests perched on high branches of deep forests. A summer of discontent, ants ran amok, drains clogged up in decrepit disorder. Heightened drunkenness, and muggy nights’ infusions.
 
Among the flying debris, some which blocked the drains was used plastic bottles. They were swept by the winds along with crackling dry leaves, which plugged the plumbing system. However, the drains were not the only thing that suffered. There were the beaches too.This particular beach at the Bay of Bengal was an environmental casualty of this calamity. The beach, a silent witness to the many dreams, lovers entwined on the sinking sand in waxed moonlight, of the mandala of human dramas, a beautiful beginning and perhaps an imperfect ending, the ocean cleans it all in its eternal ebb and flow. These mandalas done and redone until time had given up, played on the beach, a part of resurrection in the hours when all became sand on the beach indestructible, quintessentially minuscule. An atom of waves, the H2O.
 
As the ocean cleaned away the debris of plastic of many shapes and colours, it failed to predict what it could do to the underwater life. At the museum, a miniature kingdom stood. It took its rightful place as an age old artefact. It was a kingdom which was covered in plastic, and disposable bottles of coca-cola. The kings crown of the underwater, a mermaid king, wore a crown of dome decorated of ballooned plastic bottles. His queen, sat next to him, also wore a similar crown. Their palace was in the plastic bubble, with a suffocated mermaid princess, laid with her curled-up tail in the court. They didn’t breath, neither the King, nor the Queen, or even the ministers of this King’s court. Something happened, an accident perhaps, which took the last breath out of this Kingdom. The ocean cleansed it all, off the beach; yes, but to the demise of this little Kingdom.
 
The mermaid princess, was playing in the palace gardens around the waving corals and the Bengal Cone, when a storm rose. It swept her aside, and knocked her into summersault into the deep seas. She recovered from the blow, the young, spirited princess, resurfaced to view the dark, dangerous sea-storm. Overwhelmed by its rugged beauty, she looked on open mouthed, when she swallowed a debris. It was a dirty piece of plastic from a broken bottle that she had consumed. Immediately, she hiccuped and retuned to the palace, but the princess could not breathe after a while. The King and the Queen stood in awe as they witnessed the princess’s silent death in the court. She coughed and vomited, and then lay very still. Her turquoise tail, inert like the lifeless studded stones edging it. She was given a water burial after that. Tears of pearls fell at her grave. Her parents believed like the ancient Egyptians, that her soul would rise again, like the Orion constellation of seventy days, her soul would  reappear in another part of the ocean. They whispered to her soul of a new day of resurrection, when the environment would come around a full circle of better days. For this was written in the holy waters of the temple of Oracle.
 
However, the toxins kept coming in, too close for comfort. They suffocated gradually the entire mermaid kingdom. The King and the Queen died, along with all their subjects, the fish, they began to swallow plastic and inhale this poisonous pollution. What an abominable mess? They continued to get killed, down to the last little soul. Such was the waste, devastating damage, which could not be repaired. The environment fell into complete disrepair. The ocean’s quietude was alarming. The waves roared no more, the underwater plants died, because they stopped breathing; plastic bottlenecked them.
 
This, the story of annihilation of the mermaid Kingdom rang through history. One which entailed all of its oceanic wonders. States dumped toxic wastes, more dangerous than ever into the ocean bosom. Every plastic bottle, all found their way into the waters, oblivious to an ocean full of life therein, the green turtles, deep sea lobsters, and oysters, jellyfish, got serious entangled and choked to death, as heaps of bottles fell over them like bullets, as though there was an armageddon, an intergalactic war of plastic where bullets made of plastic bottles showered on the green planet. On the land, into the sea, everywhere, not even the islands, the paradise of Serendiba, or the silent island in the Bay, could escape from its deadly toxins. A hill of plastic bottles rose, as the waste accumulated on their sandy beaches.
 
Soon there was a new world. A world made of plastic marvel. Men and women clothed in plastic, homes, made of plastic. Roof gardens lost all its lustre to be replaced increasingly by plastic bottles in the pots. In the summer, under molten heat, toxic chemicals from plastic leached into the soil. It contaminated the soil. An organic planet, walled completely out of orbit. The hanging gardens of vines, and scarlet bougainvillea once, no more. What hung now was rows of synthetics of plastic bottles. Such necklace of the new inanimate, hung stilly over the roof walls instead. They did not grow, neither did they produce. The clay pots, now made of bottled plastic, in which a new kind of insipid, pale plant grew. They grew not to give pleasure, but out of spite.
 
The sun still rose, even though the soil and the water, all of the sun’s companions had a makeover from thousands of years of decomposed plastic pollutants. Plants that grew under these conditions, with the help of the sun, had that pale blue look about them. The sun struggled, but the plants failed to photosynthesise, due to lack of pure water and nutrition from the soil. The lights struggled to keep up, as the chemical reaction went awry. A proper photosynthesise did not occur, as in an organic world.
 
Whoever was living by then, looked different like the roof garden. They did not look healthy but emaciated. Breathing became difficult, and people carried an oxygen cylinder on their backs. A new look evolved. However, what they ate concerned everyone, because plastic now ruled. It stuffed up the waterways so badly that irrigation of the soil could not be possible. Rain fell less, and this led to deforestation. Rainforests, and fireflies coughed up blood. The roots stopped to reach out. It could not be replenished. This ecological imbalance grew and gave rise to frequent floods, and more and more dead fish resurfaced in the water. Land slide was a common occurrence.The ocean basin, a garbage dump. People walked the streets of filthy waters gushing out from the drains, pestilence of black fever advanced. Children, men and women died in large numbers, whose immune system had already compromised, died alarmingly.
 
Not only that the magical days of the mermaids were gone, these prosaic times too were soon coming to an end. A sense of an ending prevailed. People realised that they would have to live off garbage. But it was too late now to go back to the golden age, when the gleaners sat singing and laughing on the airy front-yard, gleaning corns, thrashing wheat, and walking on grapes to make red wines. People had never been so misled by greed and power. Yes, it was greed and power that blinded them, industrialists, who traded off a cleaner environment. Too late, too late now. Hunger, pestilence, and disease at large. But mother earth had given up. The green planet had started to choke under the rubble of plastic. She cried out, as she saw fit at human folly; its insistence on destruction of the only place, we could call home. Alas, when it all had come to pass, the greedy too realised that they could not eat money, they could not eat plastic bottles.
 
Very well then, why did they use them in the first place? Because they were inexpensive and did not break. Even poor urchins were seen picking them up from the dump, to sell at mere pittance to recycle. The bottles were pressed under heavy machines, ready to be reused. But there were far too many.
 
Of the plastic rubble, Of the narrow bottleneck, Of the choking, Of the breathing, This little boy of seven cried out in his sleep one night. Upon waking, his mother held him close. There was a matter. He said, he couldn’t breath anymore. At the rubbish dump, he was collecting plastic bottles, from the heap by the beach. Then he found something shining inside in one of the bottles. He put his finger through the neck to reach the shiny object in the bottom of the bottle. It was shining. He thought it was gold. He would sell it and buy food. He was hungry, this little boy. But he couldn’t. He slept at night, and fought his nightmares. He saw a huge man, made of plastic, coming towards him. His face, his hands, and entire body, he was Mr. Plastic. He had a huge bottle for a body. He picked the little boy, and put him through the neck. The boy coughed and choked. He was sitting in a bubble then, a bubble devoid of oxygen. He couldn’t breath again. That was just the little boy’s nightmare.
 
Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow with my bow and arrow.
 
Who destroyed the Rainforests? I, said Mr. Plastic with my bottleneck.
 
Impossibility; This jam that too many plastic bottles made. They were sent, rubbish, from all over the world. In a clumsy effort to resolve this problem, dumped unscrupulously off the coasts of Cambodia and Indonesia and many other countries, using them as dumping sites. This posed a huge political problem, amongst such nations. The rubbish just kept getting bigger without any solution in view. Would the world be large enough to contain plastic bottles of such massive scale? Even the space and the moon would not be large enough. Flying debris had already been detected in space.
 
Disposal became a huge issue. No one could think of a good solution. Management of it was just dumping it into the oceans of a neighbouring country, or some other remote corner of the world. But that did not help. Because those remote corners too were habitable. Environmentalists spoke for days on end. In various newspapers such as Independent, and The guardian, articles were being written on how governments were pledging ways to tackle this issue. Northern Star, penned how Cambodia planned to send back rubbish to industrialised countries.
 
Mars, or perhaps another inhabitable galaxy could render help for these man made calamity. This was getting out of hand. Something needed to be done, realistically speaking, even though the magical world was all gone. No matter, all these took their rightful place in a purist’s world. A minimalist, who stored images on her canvas. Here she was, this purist now, who sat down to paint pictures of plastic bottles only. She painted them in all sizes, and colours, red, green and blue. The paintings looked stark, and surrealistic. They looked grimy, such toppling bottles all over her canvas. Bigger bottles in red, lay on top of each other in a motley collection. Their narrow necks were shaped, curved like a 23 inch waistline of a model. They were sensually appealing too, visual, tactile and onomatopoeia, olfactory and gustatory. The bottles came to life, as though sparkling water could be heard in them, to be tasted, touched and drank. But the purist also sensed the waste they caused, she drew black pith over the bottles like under a rotten orange rind, to give an impression of free floating rubbish on top. A mount of rubbish piled up edging as extra layer on the bottles. A viewer felt like washing all that rubbish off with a splash of water. The purist who knew her art only too well, adhered strictly to the principles of painting this sullied rubbish in a solid heap.
 
All a part and a parcel of nature, this manmade calamity was not so difficult to remove. Humans who was an extension of nature, knew only that a futuristic world of decrepitude awaits, if an alternative wasn’t invented fast. Research was probably underway, even as we speak. Sooner the better, sure as hell, because if we didn’t want our planet to sink beneath the curvy waves of no return, children would grow up in bottleneck situations, and no toads on lily pads, serenading the rain, and the pond dimpling at a touch of a romantic thrill. If this planet choked, then the environmentalists will have stand corrected. There was no planet B. There better be a plan B then, or else we’ll be damned. 

Hoarding Sadness

​By Yash Seyedbagheri


I hoard emotions. Spoonful of resentment, mustache man’s fatherly words.
Bad son, too creative. Writing is a waste.
I hoard sadness. Tell people I’m well, wave with rehearsed precision. They cannot understand fatherly criticisms, coming from ordered backgrounds.
I question. Hate myself for it. Am I a loser? Does mustache man see something I cannot?
I try to convince myself of creativity, being someone valuable. Creating worlds.
But mustache fusillades land with precision.
Only at night do I let loose, tears unfurled beneath the moon, comforting luminous soul.
I don my smile once she flees. It’s easy.


Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, his story, "Strangers," was nominated for The Best Small Fictions.  Yash's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Unstamatic, Maudlin House, Door Is A Jar Magazine, and Ariel Chart. 

The Last Gulag

by Gerald Arthur Winter


The Soaring Sixties had begun with a bright outlook for American youth.
The new president, John F. Kennedy, promised a hopeful future for the United
States. On the contrary, while JFK promised the moon, Soviet youth saw their
future as colorless, like an old black-and-white movie from the Thirties. Russian
leaders lined up like hogs at the trough every first of May, peering down at the
crowd of loyal comrades from the Kremlin’s balcony above a military parade to
demonstrate Soviet power.
At thirteen, I envied those in high positions, like Khrushchev and Malenkov,
because they had great power, enough to put my father in a gulag for twenty years
for printing flyers opposed to Stalin during World War Two. Papa wrote to me once
a month, but his script had been redacted to the point of sounding like drivel. I
imagined my letters of encouragement to Papa had been reduced to much the
same. The KGB could put my father into a gulag, but had no power to get him out.
That knowledge sparked an idea in my head that I concentrated on for the next
three years of my adolescence.
At sixteen, I was chosen for a special youth program that opened new doors
for me with the chance to join an elite group of teenage boys and girls who were
trained in unique, long-term espionage tactics. Spying on America meant little to
me at the time, despite my daily indoctrination to worship the Communist State
of Mother Russia emboldened by her Soviet minions throughout Europe and her
Communist allies in China, North Korea, Cuba, and Vietnam. My underlying goal
was merely to free my father from the last gulag, but without my dedication
to this elite comradery of spies, I saw no other hope to save him.
Though I never mentioned my father to my KGB trainer, it was his business
to know every detail about his trainees’ lives from when we farted to when we
masturbated. Of course Ivan knew my father was in a work camp, a fancy name for
prison that suited the Soviet image of service to The State. So I used a tip from one
of my espionage lessons to bait Ivan into a personal conversation, a way to earn
his trust and put him off guard. I let him catch me writing poetry. I was the spider.
Ivan was the fly.
Ivan snatched the poem from my grasp and made me stand at attention
beside my bunk an example to the others.
“Are you writing to your papa again, Otto?” Ivan asked. “That’s a pointless
effort on both your parts. You’ll never see him again.”
“If that’s what serves The State, sir, I agree,” I said, perhaps too cocky for my
own good.
“It’s not for you to agree or disagree. Only to obey!” Ivan snapped.
Ivan had tried to come on to trainee, Olga, a blue-eyed blonde with pendulous
breasts. As the best skilled trainee in our class, she was having none of that. Ivan
needed to jerk off and move on before he had a heart attack from his lust for Olga. I
kept my feelings for Olga in abeyance.
My nonchalance about Olga had gotten me a quickie one night on a trainee
stakeout, but my greater lust was for my father’s freedom, even if life in Moscow
outside the gulag wasn’t really freedom, not in the American sense. I had to know
the enemy, which first was America and next was China, a difficult concept for
Western logic with their cowboy mentality. Americans assumed that China was
our ally because we were both vast Communist nations. America hadn’t realized
yet that China, by its population alone, would eventually take over the world, East
and West. All the Caucasian world could do was stall against the inevitable.
Our ultimate plan was to overpower America first, but then make
them our ally against China. That’s what we teenagers were being trained
for, to become moles in The United States and fully accepted as red-blooded
Americans by the Nineties, when we were middle-aged and trusted as upper-
middle-class capitalist. Our only hope against the Yellow Peril would be
to rule America from within without ever firing a shot. Only then could
Western culture survive against China with the key to success being Russia’s
cold determination and America’s wealth to finance our mutual destiny.
The fluke of electing a movie actor for president in America created
a great opportunity. Many of my fellow cohorts, including Olga, had been
strategically placed in East Germany since 1961, where we watched the
great wall rise between East and West Germany. But by the Eighties, others
of our cohort were close enough to whisper subliminal ideas into President
Reagan’s ear—“Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that wall.”
That was our moment thirty years ago, when the Berlin Wall collapsed
and many of us flowed into The United States as East German refugees to become
implanted in American Society. Well trained, we Russians passed as Germans
filtered through the immigration system in America and were welcomed with
open arms.
By the end of the Millennium we were well-placed to do the bidding of
our former KGB hero, Vlad, who’d cried crocodile tears over the Soviet Union’s
collapse as symbolized by the fall of the Berlin Wall. Putin would be the executor
of our final plan to control The United States at its highest level—the White House.
What was believed to be the collapse of the Soviet Union, was merely a
feint—one step back, two steps forward. Thinking they were freeing Europe of
Soviet strongholds, the Americans let the worst of our worst infiltrate the entire
economic and political system, and made America our potential political
puppet. That’s how Security Prefect Beria had first explained Russia’s plan
to us as teenagers.
Now, thanks to Beria’s reforms, with my papa free to live out his old
age in peace, I had to fulfill my mission to prepare our target for what would
come after America elected their Black President for a second term in 2012.
Obama was too Liberal, but still hawkish against Russia, especially with
Secretary of State Clinton as his strong arm against us. We’d have to make
them appear foolish to the American public. That would require a flag bearer,
our influential American target.
We all laughed at a secret cell meeting in Louisville, Kentucky when we
watched President Putin asked on BBC, “Do you ever have a bad day?”
In response, our hero, Vlad, asked the reporter, “Do I look like a woman?”
He had used a more vulgar term equivalent to the American C-word for
Secretary Clinton, but his interpreter, stammered a moment before changing the
word to “woman.”
We liked how Putin’s eyelids seemed to roll back like a crocodile’s before it
snaps. We’ve been so happy since Yeltsin died—couldn’t hold his vodka, such a
disgrace. But Putin, bare-chested and riding a stallion is what we stood for as our
plan neared fruition.
My key talent was always subtlety, to get our target alone so we could speak
man-to-man, a Russian and an American the same age, with similar thirsts and billions
of dollars, he a real estate mogul, and me an oil and mineral oligarch. My mission was
to make the American see things our way, to make our plan his, not just personally,
but in a way that would make him feel like an American hero. Better than using force,
flattery can bring a conceited man more easily into the fold.
* * *
It was a cold November night, and I could see the venue with its domed roof
a quarter-kilometer ahead. The building’s sign usually said “Крокус-Сити-холл” on
the roof’s logo, but for this event it read: “Crocus City Hall” for the thousands of
international guests. The owner of the pageant was our codename Agent Orange.
His propaganda would poison American morale internally by tearing down the
fiber of their belief in American institutions and the Rule of Law, which were
road blocks in our journey to victory.
My target didn’t drink, so I appealed to his greatest vice, lust for beautiful
women. It wasn’t enough just to have them, he needed to own them, so he could
control them. Another vice, one I didn’t share, was his love for fast food, so his
penthouse suite at the Five Star Radisson Blu Olympiyskiy Hotel was stacked with
Big Macs, buckets of KFC, and pizza.
He had a high class image, but with unsophisticated eating habits. It’s a
wonder his flashy ties never got stained, but if they had, he probably had them
shredded to destroy the evidence. I heard tell that he ate pizza with a knife and fork.
I felt that our highest risk was that he’d have a heart attack before he ever became
president. Lenin forbid he should choke on a French fry before ever taking office.
When I entered his suite, he was alone with just his longtime bodyguard. I
approached to shake his hand, but his bodyguard frisked me first. I envisioned him
with several bodyguards within the next few years, Secret Service, but of course
our own people to protect our asset, though none would guess. We’ve all been
here ingrained in American society for decades, the new Americans replacing
even the Italian Mafia with our own, as well as Congress year by year. We’re
like Trojans concealed within a gift horse, and with no one having the good
sense to look that horse in the mouth.
Our greatest enemies are Liberal Democrats because they propose a similar
message to the Communist ideology with a Socialist point of view that benefits the
mass population. Instead of the Left, we’d recruit Right-wing Christians, especially
in America’s soft underbelly in the South. Historically, “hate” has thrived there
against anyone unlike themselves. As Russians, we feel the same, but know how
to use these fools to attain our own ethnic symmetry. We’ll replace them all
eventually with our own people, “Nostrovia! Y’all!”
Though his grip was tight, his hand felt small in mine. His breath, though
Tic-tac tainted, concealed the stench of a deep cavity from which his foul breath
flowed like a reptile with sharp, infectious teeth after devouring some helpless
rodent.
“I hope the accommodations suit you, sir, though I thought you might
have preferred Hotel Ukraina.” I said, testing his sensitivity.
“Though our current administration seems to like all things Ukrainian, I
prefer Mother Russia for its long history and culture. I’m a city boy, so Moscow
suits me well. I picked this hotel for its high tower. You know how much I love
my towers.”
“Perhaps we can arrange for one of your towers to bless the Moscow
skyline, sooner rather than later.”
He grinned boyishly, perhaps something that appeals to many women
as much as his wealth. He was like a teenager told he could drive his dad’s
Maserati to the prom. I’d struck a well-tuned chord. We were on the same
wave-length, but to his credit, he knew it as well as I did. We’d soon begin
to make sweet music together, he for himself, me for Mother Russia for
releasing my father from the gulag years ago—quid pro quo.
“A Moscow tower with my name on it . . . sounds great. It will look
great, too. What’s my side of the deal? What do I need to do for your side?”
“Start implanting ideas in people’s heads,” I said, sipping my vodka.
“Many think you’re a Democrat, a woman’s right to choose, contributing to
Bill Clinton’s campaign twice in the Nineties. You’ve made some positive
public statements about Hillary, too. That must change, but slowly, with
subtlety.”
“I don’t do subtle very well.”
“Don’t just go along with extreme right-wing belief that Obama had
no right to run for president, that his presidency is illegitimate. Just be our
spokesman by demanding his birth certificate. He’s an elitist Black and
won’t humble himself by offering to show it to the public. Use that against
him. We can dance to that tune before the next election. Though he can’t
run again, we’ll make Americans believe you’ll be the legitimate American
presidential prototype to make America White again, and Obama will be
seen as just an aberration.”
“More of an abomination. But me, as president? Hillary’s in line after
Obama. She’s got the pussy vote hands down.”
“We’ll change that. We’ll expose things about her that will make her
unelectable.”
“How?”
“We have our ways.”
“The Republicans will want another Bush . . . Jeb’s in line for that.”
“Not a chance, not after you make mince-meat of him in debates.”
“How will I do that?”
“Be yourself—just like on your realty TV show. Just be “The Donald.”
“That’s what my first wife called me, but now we’re divorced, so it’s
a tag I avoid with respect for my current wife and our son.”
“Had you not divorced Ivana, you’d have been all in by now. She’s one
us. I trained with her myself during the 1968 Warsaw Pact to put down the
Czech rebellion. Now, your children by her are with us as well. They’re waiting
for you to lead them and all of America against the force that threatens your
country and ours—China.”
He nodded with pursed lips.
“I want you to meet someone now, who’ll confirm all I’ve promised.”
“Sure, I’m all ears.”
Flanked by two bodyguards, an older woman with a veiled hat entered.
My target showed his curiosity, but with displeasure because our prior communi-
cation had promised him a night of debauchery with a bevy of Russian high-end
prostitutes willing to comply with demands decent societies, even ours, would
not allow. The woman removed her hat and veil.
“Jesus!” our target bellowed seeing it was Putin.
Vlad spoke in slow, but well-practiced English. “It is folly for Russia and
American to be adversaries when we can both gain so much as allies.”
Agent Orange nodded and exchanged a lingering handshake that was
more like an arm wrestling match that ended in a draw of mutual respect.
“We must be friends, Donald. It’s the only way our people can survive in
our grandchildren’s lifetimes against the Yellow Peril. Even Czar Nicholas II had
the good sense to understand that threat from the Japanese when China was
still just a disarray of tribal provinces. But it was Communism that made the
Chinese strong like the Soviet Union. Back then, China just had the most people,
But soon, they could have the most money. If we join forces against China, we’ll
be hailed in the West forever by crushing this threat.”
Agent Orange nodded with a grimace, then asked, “What’s in it for me?”
“The American presidency of course,” Putin said with a grin, but not like
any former American leader, because you’ll have Russia’s full support.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“We’ll make certain you’ll win in 2016.”
“Against Hillary?”
“She’s a thorn in my side, Donald. Better she’s disgraced with a loss to
you than assassinated. American politics has too many martyrs. That’s why we
worked with the politicians who agree with our point of view against China to
block Obama’s agenda rather than eliminate him, which would have been easy
—acute lung cancer undetected—a natural death for a smoker.”
“I’ve dealt with the Mafia in my real estate business. Is this an offer I
can’t refuse?”
“You can do whatever you wish, but it would be a shame to have your
beautiful daughter vanish to the benefit of the highest bidder in the dark realm
of Muslim brothels.”
Agent Orange turned red and clenched his fists.
“Don’t be upset,” Putin said with a glare. “I’m offering you the highest
power in the world. We’ll protect you and guide you through all of it for this
noble cause, the preservation of the White race against the Yellow.”
“What about the Blacks?”
“As said in my favorite American movie, The Godfather: They’re just animals.”
“What about the women’s vote? Hillary will have them in her pocket.”
“Hillary? Русский!”
Agent Orange turned from Putin to me for interpretation. I said,“ She is
the bitchiest.”
“But she has power and will get Obama’s endorsement.”
“You’ll have something greater, my endorsement as your silent partner,
and all the power behind it. You could become as powerful in America as I am in
Russia, as Xi is in China. But together we’ll be more powerful than Xi. By 2020,
you’ll put an end to the two-term limit as president, and die in office at age one
hundred. You’ll rule the Western hemisphere and I Europe. Together, we’ll share
the East, two great Caucasian empires. By then, Africa will literally be our booty.”
“And I thought I was a great deal maker. Where do I sign?”
“We’ll shake hands, then there will be no trace beyond this meeting.” Putin
nodded to me. “Otto will be the only contact with your trusted people, so choose
your administration carefully. We can recommend some who are already with us,
but the choice, of course, is yours. You will be the power in America that saves our
race for future generations.”
They shook hands. Putin replaced his veiled hat then left.
Agent Orange turned to me and asked, “Was I just dreaming?”
* * *
Like Clockwork, in this case, Clockwork Orange, all had come to pass as
promised, despite a variety of snags. Ultimate success would depend on the 2020
election, but the American institutions, despite their cracked foundations had kept
their structures erect through the turmoil. Our campaign of alternate truths had
been most effective, but weaknesses in Agent Orange had come to the fore. His
need for daily praise and loyalty, so lacking in his youth, stripped him of the tenacity
needed to succeed.
Agent Orange was running off-script, behaving as Vlad described, “as a fool.”
Putin instructed me to reinforce our position against Ukraine independence.
“From his lips to my ears and my lips to yours,” I said to Agent Orange.
“Putin wants you to think of the Ukraine as Texas or California, rich states among
your fifty. How would you feel if Russia sent in troops to protect their sovereignty
against your federal government? Think of your response, verbally and militarily.
You’d attack with all your might to keep United States unity. Ukraine isn’t Poland,
Hungary, or Romania. It’s part of Mother Russia. We want it back. You must help
us get it back.”
He agreed to work with us and recommitted to his obligation to us for

getting him elected. But when a new, unsuspected Independent candidate arose
from the 2020 chaos, I was given the signal to abort my long-term mission and
cover our trail in America. Forty years lost because of this idiot, Agent Orange.
Believing he had our full support for re-election, Agent Orange imploded
with his self-importance undermining our goal more than the opposition itself.
He was supposed to meet privately with me in the men’s room at The Russian
Tea Room with just his, or I should say “our” Secret Service agents assigned to
him. Though I’d asked if we should use our usual subtle means of undetectable
elimination, Putin had said, “Nyet!”
Instead, we’d let Agent Orange turn slowly in the wind from the gallows
of his conceit and would continue to work on the next generation, perhaps his
daughter would make a good president rather than an Arabian concubine.
My life’s work done in my seventies, and as the sole source for this
pipeline between the Kremlin and the Oval Office, it was my duty to close
down my network and myself along with it. I had always know that truth.
When Agent Orange straightened his tie and left the rest room at
The Russian Tea Room, I ran hot water in a sink until the steam from the
faucet clouded the mirror. With my index finger, I printed my name, which
I’d chosen myself sixty years ago at age thirteen when I’d entered the
program. It was a moniker that read the same from both perspectives,
from two opposite worlds, and both sides of a mirror where inner space
and outer space intersect as one, itself and its reflection always reading
the same.
As the poison took hold of me, life drained out of me, just like my
name. Each letter dripped down the mirror into obscurity until my only
identity, O T TO V I H I H I V, was lost and forgotten forever . . .

The Middle Way

By Clarence Greiner


Where we are located on our planet has significant influence on life’s activities, goals and achievements. Cultures evolve in geographically diverse locations adjusting to climate variation. Global position influences cultural design, homogeneity, momentum and choice of pursuits embody fundamental entities toward purposeful long-term progression. Historically the most notable advances in economics, industrial and scientific developments have occurred in middle latitudes. It’s not because those living in middle latitudes are superior, as great thinkers and achievers also exist in high and low latitudes, but from global perception middle latitude populations achieve greater social empowerment. This consequence may have evolved when early tribal communities sought temperate climates offering greater suitability for agricultural development eventually expanding to industrial growth thereby agricultural zones became industrialized zones. Central Europe and the American Mid-West exemplify this actuality.
We often hear the term “mid-life crisis”, which is paradoxical. When one attains mid life it’s a milestone of affirmation represented by conquest of a series of life’s challenges based from acquisition of knowledge. It’s a position radiating confidence, proving one’s ability to cope with life’s complexities. If we have prospered and grown inwardly mid-life is quite the opposite of a crisis. Present day orientation toward the worship of youth tends to view mid-life negatively; however, youth cannot match the elemental wisdom acquired beyond formative years. During younger years we are drawn to surface image assessments as we had yet embraced values beyond social class posturing or the vogue of fashion and materialism.
Buddha taught the importance of the middle, a place of balance, creating inspirational opportunity allowing thought diversity and activity. Dysfunction and misdirection occur within extremities, over zealous pursuits in a gluttonous quest
for dominance. Too much wealth, too much poverty, too fast, too slow, too much work, too much idleness, define ventures in opposition to the middle way. Addictions cloud realities and become controlling energies as they tilt ability to recognize worthy and significant principles as the addict is cast into the prickly brambles society offers. These paths lead only to destruction; one must remain centered in order to discover constructive endeavors. Flowers cannot unfold in darkness.
So, here we are, a species viewing itself as the greatest to ever grace the planet, moving in multiple patterns and directions. We formed religions and philosophies laying down rules of enlightenment, set forth as guidelines to center directional thoughts and often the religion itself becomes a negative force moving away from its perceived principles and used as a tool of despotism and control. Wars and social inequities remain solidly in place during current times. Exploitation, greed and a lack of compassion continue to expand. It is a hope we will improve; pull more in unison with less selfishness, less personal gain orientation, establishing goals toward overall communal betterment seeking answers structured within the middle way.

The Black Spot

by

Gerald Arthur Winter


Camp NO-BE-BO-SCO in the 1950s was the Blairstown, New Jersey
campsite for Boy Scout troops of North Bergen County. Bobby was a tenderfoot
scout in the Rattlesnake Patrol of Troop 52 in the Borough of Oakland on his first
autumn campout. In retrospect, it was surely colder than it is now in mountainous
northwest Jersey with Sand Pond already frozen on a late October weekend at
the base of the Kittatinny Ridge.
At age eleven, Bobby had already been through the summer hazing by
older scouts age twelve to fourteen. He knew that being sent to a neighboring
troop at a campsite for a smoke sifter or a left-handed axe was a trick the older
boys played on a tenderfoot scout to make him a fool to laugh at and mock.
On his summer campout he had learned to dig a latrine, pitch a tent, and
make a fire. But in the cold weather, a dozen Boy Scouts, three Explorer
Scouts in high school wearing their dark green uniforms, and Scout Master,
Mr. Katell would sleep in a log cabin with ten bunkbeds.
In the summer he’d encountered insects, spiders, amphibians, and
reptiles, including a six-foot black racer he saw swallow a squirrel. Now the
ground was already frozen and as hard as macadam at the end of October
with just deer, coyotes, foxes, opossums raccoons, skunks, bobcats, and
bears with which to contend. Sheltered by the warmth of the cabin with
a wood stove to cook their meals, the only time the scouts had to face
the elements and wild animals was on their short jaunts to the outhouse.
Or so the five tenderfoot scouts had been lead to believe.
The Cable Trail was always the first challenge to a tenderfoot at “NO-BE”
as scouts affectionately called the year-round campsite. The three-day weekend
included a Saturday hike up The Cable Trail, so named because a thick metal
cable had been implanted from the base of the ridge to the Appalachian Trail
high above. The cable had been installed in the 1930s so hikers could climb the
huge boulders of the escarpment by holding onto the cable to avoid a disastrous
plunge that could cause severe injuries or death. A fall from top to bottom was
what the older scouts called “ a three screamer” because of how many times
you had to scream before you would hit bottom.
The five tenderfoot scouts with no merit badges or sashes to display
them were the most talkative on the trail, unaware that two of the Explorers
as their only supervision on the adventure, were there to verify the tenderfoot
scouts’ fulfillment for their Hiking merit badges. This included a 10-mile roundtrip
trek among the autumn elements on The Appalachian Trail. The new scouts’
parents had not been told that this exposure to the wild was included in the
weekend’s activities because it was meant to toughen up their preteen sons.
“No mama’s boys allowed in this troop,” the two explorers said as
they departed on their hike up The Cable Trail.
The older scouts, one Explorer, and the Scout Master stayed behind
in the cabin because the older scouts had already had the 10-mile hike
initiation on previous autumn campouts. The older scouts would be passing
their Firs Aid and Cooking merit badges this trip. Though the five younger
tenderfoot scouts were told they would be back at the cabin to join the
others for dinner, in the hiking party of seven, each carried provisions for
an overnight stay in the forest.
“Why do we have to carry these heavy knapsacks?” one tenderfoot
complained. “It’s hard enough holding onto this cold metal cable without
gloves.
Another argued, “If we’re not gonna use these mess kits, shovels,
and axes, why carry them?”
“Stop complaining and pay attention to your footing, scout!”
Explorer Randy shouted to the others below him as he led the way over
the boulders. “Dave and I are carrying pup tent plus our other supplies.”
“What for?” another young scout shouted. “We’ll be back tonight
for dinner and sleep in the warm cabin! We don’t need our sleeping bags!”
Explorer Dave shouted from where he took up the rear, “What’s
the Boy Scout motto?”
Bobby shouted, “Be prepared!”
The other four tenderfoot scouts glared at him as if he’d farted
in a movie theater.
“Lemme hear a ‘That’s right!’ ” Explorer Dave shouted from the rear.
“That’s right!” Bobby shouted, but his solo response died in the cold
wind with glares from the other four tenderfoot scouts.
Randy shouted, “The Black Spot’s gonna sense your lack of enthusiasm
and keep us from getting back to the cabin tonight!”
“The what?” Billy, the chubby, least athletic of the tenderfoot scouts asked.
“How could you guys come to NO-BE without being prepared to deal with
The Black Spot?”
“What the heck is that?” Jimmy, another tenderfoot shouted.
“Dave!” Randy shouted. “I can’t believe how lame these tenderfeet are.”
“Piss poor!” Dave agreed.
Bobby figured these two Explorers were pulling the same crap on the
younger kids that he’d experienced last summer, thinking . . . Left handed axe,
jeez. Here we go again.
They reached the top of the ridge and counted heads.
“O.K. scouts!” Randy said. “We’re all accounted for, so now we’re gonna
hike four miles north along the Appalachian Trail. We’ll stop at the base of the
radio tower at the peak of the ridge and cook lunch. It’s a good chance for Dave
and me to qualify you all for your Camping merit badges. I’m a Life Scout and
Dave is a Star Scout. We both plan to qualify for Eagle Scout next year, so you’d
best listen to all we teach you.
When they reached the radio tower they made camp with a clearing
and used large stones to make a safe fire pit. The five younger scouts gathered
kindling and the two Explorers chopped firewood from fallen trees. Once the
fire was glowing coals they cooked hotdogs on sticks and the Explorers doled
out a large spoonful of baked beans from a pot they’d used to heat them.
The younger boys were busy cutting up and seeing who could fart the loudest
and longest after the bean fest complete with canned sauerkraut to step up
the game with their cajoling.
“Hey! It’s getting dark already with the time change.” Bobby asked,
“When are we heading back to the cabin?”
“Yeah, Randy. I’m getting’ cold with the sun going down,” Johnny, the
runt in the troop complained.
“Listen up, scouts,” Randy said. “We’re up here on a mission. Scout
Master Katell gave me strict orders to bring back you five scouts qualified
for your Hiking and Camping merit badges. Nothing short of that will do
because, as your leader, I’ll closer to becoming an Eagle Scout.
“You mean were not going back to the cabin?” Billy said with a shiver,
his jowls shaking.
“Got that right, scout,” Explorer Randy said. So while Dave stays back
here to tend the fire for safety, I’m taking you to learn about the legend of
The Black Spot.”
“Everyone up!” Dave said. “Single file with Randy in the lead and
Bobby taking up the rear. It’ll be dark when you get back here to camp,
so just take your flashlights.
“This is gonna suck,” Evan, the wise guy in the group of first-timers,
grumbled.
“Actually, it’ll be really cool,” Dave said with his voice fading away
behind them as he remained at the campsite.
The line of five scouts were led by one Explorer headed west off the
ridge toward another peak that jutted from the western horizon with the sun
setting behind it and the sky turning crimson . . . orange . . . then mauve.
“How far are we going?” Bobby asked from the rear.
“Less than a mile, but the terrain is rough,” Randy said. “Flashlights on!
Getting dark fast. Good thing it’s cold. In the summer we’d have to worry
about timber rattlers and copperheads. I’ve seen a few up here last summer.
Big suckers. Four feet long and thick as a fire hose in the middle.”
“What’s this Black Spot BS anyway?” Evan asked.
“You’ll see,” Randy said. “Let’s step up the pace.
Panting at nearly a jog, the boys in single file followed Randy. No
one could see more than the heels of the scout ahead of him within his
flashlight beam. Only Randy could warn the others what was coming ahead.
“Deep ditch! Sharp stump! Bramble bush!” Then, “Just ahead is the
wreck.”
“Wreck? What wreck?” Bobby asked, sorry to be last in line.
“Hey! Wow!” one scout shouted.
“Yo neat!” said another.
They gathered around Randy and flashed their lights at what
remained of a plane wreck.
“Jeez. This is cool,” Bobby added, last to see the crimped fuselage
of a Cessna 172 Skyhawk hanging with its wings broken from several oak
trees.
“Go ahead, scouts,” Randy gave the five boys the nod. “Check it
out before it’s too dark to see anything. You can climb right up in there,
pretend you’re pilots like the poor guy who crashed the plane.

The boys took turns in the cockpit with its two front seats. They
toyed with the instruments, but the gauges were rusted and the glass
was shattered.
“Gee, Randy, how’d it happen?” Bobby asked.
“I guy was flying his wife and teenage son from the Lincoln Park
Airport to Philly. Happened in ’55 almost four years ago.”
“Were they saved?” chubby Billy asked.
“Saved? Whaddaya kiddin’, fatso!” wise guy Evan scoffed.
“Look at how the wings are broken and the instrument panel is all
fucked up!”
“Yo! Scout!” Randy stood between them with his hands on his
hips. “Watch your mouth.”
“Come on. Ain’t no girls or grownups around,” Evan shrugged.
“It’s not that,” Randy cautioned, looking past the boys circled
around him. “This is solemn ground.”
“Ya mean like Indian burial grounds?” Jimmy asked.
“Even more serious than that,” Randy said. “Evan’s right--
no survivors, or so the papers said.”
“Whaddaya mean?” Bobby asked.
Randy took a deep breath then exhaled slowly.
“The mom and dad died on impact and their remains were
retrieved by the local Fire Rescue Squad. See how the fuselage is all
charred. Almost started a forest fire, but helicopters put it out before
the plane blew up or the fire spread. It was a miracle that it didn’t.”
“You said there was a teenage son,” Bobby said, intent on
Randy’s every word. “What happened to him?
“That’s why we need to be very respectful here.”
“Why?”
“The boy was never found.”
“Never?
“Never.”
“He must’ve burned up in the fire.”
“No remains were found, no bones, no teeth, no clothes,
no nothing.”
“Holy shit!” Evan blurted.
“Hey! I’m not gonna tell ya again,” Randy said. “A little
respect, huh?”
“You mean the cops didn’t have an investigation?” Bobby
asked, always the skeptic. “They had to find something.”
“Nothing at the crash scene,” Randy said.
“Then wh-where?” Billy asked with a blubbering breathless
squeal.
“The first sighting was at a farm a mile west from here,” Randy
pointed.
“Sighting? What kind of sighting,” Evan asked.
“Not really a sighting because all of the accounts have varied,
and all were at night.
“Was he dead?” Billy asked.
“Yes and no,” Randy said. “It was sort of a human form, but
not exactly.”
“What was it? Some kind of zombie?” Evan asked with a chortle.
“Nah. Zombies are made-up shit,” Randy said. “You see the boy
must’ve been burnt really bad from the fire and his body was all broken
from the crash, so the only thing left of him was this mass of amorphous
burnt flesh. That’s why the locals around here call him The Black Spot.”
“What’s a morphous?” Billy asked, his voice quivering.
“Amorphous, dummy,” Bobby cut in. “Shapeless. You know like
an amoeba in science class.”
“Jeez! That’s freakin’ crazy.” Evan said. “I don’t believe that crap.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to warn you guys about,” Randy said.
“It’s become a local legend these past few years that the kid who died is a
lost soul unable to join his parents. He shows up every full moon wreaking
havoc on the local farmers, even on their livestock.”
“Havoc? Like what?” Bobby asked.
“Sheep, cows, even a horse killed and gutted.”
“Your shittin’ us,” Evan laughed. “Sounds more like a bear or a cougar.”
“Yeah,” Bobby agreed. “What made anyone think it was The Black Spot?”
“No bear tracks or wolf tracks, only human tracks—barefoot, too, cause
the boy’s shoes were blown off in the crash or melted by the fire. Each animal
that was killed was gutted for food and half eaten. That was until last year when
a couple of kids had the same thing done to them when they were playing in
the their yard during a full moon and didn’t come in for dinner. Their parents
found them half eaten in these woods the next morning. ”
“Why would they think it was The Black Spot?” Bobby challenged.
“Because of what he left behind that the cops found.”
“What—fingerprints?” Bobby asked.
“A black gelatin-like substance, burnt flesh from the plane crash.”
“Jeez!” all five boys chorused.
“They’ve found that black guck at every death scene after a full moon
and also at the crash site here where he comes at night during a full moon to
search for his parents. Let’s see if he’s already been here tonight.”
“No way!” Billy shivered.
“Come on, scouts,” Randy pushed them towards the plane. “Be brave.
If The Black Spot knows you’re scared, he’ll shriek and grab you.”
“I ain’t going back in that plane,” Evan said.
“O.K. chicken-shits. I’ll go first,” Randy said then fumbled around in the
backseat for a minute before shouting, “Oh my God!” He turned to the boys
and beamed his flashlight at the palm of the other hand dripping with black
gelatinous guck.
The younger boys were dumbfounded till a loud shriek came from the
woods and echoed across the ridge.
“It’s The Black Spot!” Randy shouted. “Run like hell back to camp before
he grabs ya!”
Bobby stood frozen in his tracks as the others fled. Doubtful, he
turned back towards the lamenting howl coming towards him from the
woods. Then, silhouetted again the bluish-white full moon, a hunched
black glob moved across the horizon like a tumbleweed rolling in the
wind across the plains. Bobby gasped, which turned the figure in his
direction coming closer and closer as it shrieked and howled. Entranced,
Bobby couldn’t move.
The black figure came within ten feet from Bobby. He could
smell something like burnt wood . . . charcoal . . . maybe burnt flesh.
There was no face just the amorphous glob Randy had described,
which let out a shriek with a billow of smoke from its hood-like head
then thrust both arms at him.
Bobby felt his face getting splashed and, with a hand to his
cheek, felt a gelatinous gook dripping down his face. He screamed
and ran but, even though he heard the shrieking fading at a distance
far behind him, when he stumbled to the ground, a hand gripped his
ankle. Scrambling to his feet, Bobby lost a sneaker, but that allowed
him to get away. Hobbling with one stocking foot, he escaped The
Black Spot, but the shrieks and howls ceased as he found the campsite
where the four other younger boys and Randy were shivering around
a campfire kept burning by Dave until they returned.
“Thought we lost you, scout,” Randy said, standing and waving
for Bobby to join the others.
“He almost got me,” Bobby said. “I lost a sneaker getting away.”
“What’s that crap all over your face?” Evan asked.
The others chorused, “Yeah, jeez, loo
“I don’t know,” Bobby said. “The Black Spot flung it at me.”
“Hold still, scout,” Randy said. “It’s that stuff I told you about. The
black guck left behind after a kill. You’re lucky The Black Spot didn’t gut
and eat you.”
Randy wiped the guck off Bobby’s face with a paper towel then
brought the towel to the fire to show the others.
“Jeez! Wow!” the others said.
“Get that crap away from me!” Evan said.
Randy tossed the towel into the fire and it flared. “Good thing Dave
kept our fire going while we were at the plane wreck. We’ll have to take
turns keeping it going through the night to keep The Back Spot away. He
hates fire.”
Their tents were pitched facing the fire pit. Although they took
turns tending the campfire, they all were sleepless through the night
with one eye open in case The Black Spot returned.
* * *
It was a crisp autumn morning when they closed down camp,
making sure the fire was out and nothing was left behind other than
memories of a frightful night. The boys cut up on the way down The
Cable Trail and back to the cabin to join the older scouts for breakfast.
The sausage and pancakes were a treat after a cold night in the woods.
The five tenderfoot scouts had qualified for their Hiking and
Camping merit badges, which they’d all receive at next month’s
ceremony with a sash for their moms to sew them on. Those
not riding home in the Scout Master’s car were picked up by their
parents. Bobby tossed his knapsack and sleeping bag into the trunk
of his dad’s 1956 Chevy Belair. Explorers Randy and Dave came up
to Bobby before he got in the car.
“You were the bravest scout on the overnight campout, Bobby.”
“Nah. I was just as scared as the others.”
“But you didn’t flinch facing danger on your own.”
“I ran too.”
“But you were the last to run.”
Another scout came up to Bobby and the Explorers. His name was
Eric and he was twelve, a year ahead of Bobby in school.
“Hey, Bobby,” Eric said. “Got something for you.” He reached into
his knapsack and handed him a black Keds sneaker, the one he’d lost in
the woods.
Bobby was dumbfounded, but glad his mom wouldn’t give him hell
for losing a sneaker.
“You’ve earned the right to be The Black Spot next year.” He reached
into his knapsack again and showed Bobby two fingers dripping with black
guck. He put the two fingers in his mouth with a slurp and said. “Blackberry
jam.”

Though the modern legend of The Black Spot may just have been a prank
played on tenderfoot scouts, that eerie night in the woods evoked nightmares that
could stay with a boy his entire life.

The Rigoletto Caper

by the Late, Great
Herbert Eyre Moulton
(1927 - 2005)
 
Posthumous foreword by his son Charles E.J. Moulton
​
When I was 11 years old, my father and I spent our first of three vacations in Copenhagen, Denmark. These trips became gastronomical and cultural highlights for us both. In fact, they were one of the many reasons why I became an artist in the first place. Rossini's "Il Barbiere di Siviglia", Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker" and an uncut version of William Shakespeare's "Hamlet" in the Danish language: all of these extraordinary pieces became my own experiences, figuratively speaking, by my father's artistic side, because of his happy-go-lucky, natural way of approaching highly artistic pieces.
The production of "Hamlet" at the Royal Danish Theatre, though, received its humorous announcement through one of the charming ladies in the box office. When we picked up the tickets for the evening, she told us that "Hamlet" was "a very good Danish play". I grew up, listening and watching Shakespeare plays and the like, at the time. Thus: I, too, laughed.
My father reacted in his charming Mid-Atlantic idiom, responding with a charming smile:  "Well, Madam, it is also a very good English play."
In retrospect, I see that my father was the best of both worlds. His fine combination of high intellectualism and self depricating wit: that was his trademark.
The story that you are about to read, written by his own hand sometime in the 1990’s, took place when he was a young boy, newly adolescent, his courage and schutzpah driving the nuns at the Catholic school of St. Cuthbert's crazy. The mixture of high culture and wit, well developed when I was child, was very present already when my father was a boy.
His artistic and educated upbringing, nonetheless, came from a genuine parental interest in knowledge persay, not in the arrogant showing off of the same. His mother Nell Brennan Eyre was a eccentric, wonderfully enthusiastic lady, who loved chatting with people over a glass of beloved Irish whiskey. His father Herbert Lewis Moulton's tranquil manner probably gave my father his gentlemanly charm. It made it possible for him to experience becoming the witty storyteller persay, becoming the intellectual bon-vivant that he remained for the rest of his life.
He convinced people with self-irony and love, a creative urge and an excellent idiomatic articulation, that art and high culture can be the most fun you've ever had.
Art, in fact, is in eye of the beholder.
That is why, during our vacations in Denmark, we went to the movie house and saw films like "War Games" (in English, with the computer’s voice in baffling Danish) and "For Your Eyes Only" on the days following our operatic visits. We liked fast food and haute cuisine, high drama and decorative entertainment.
Our excursion to see "For Your Eyes Only" was especially witty. We were sitting in our favorite Italian restaurant close to the opera house, when I saw an announcement in the daily paper that Roger Moore's new Bond film was out. I had to do a little bit of convincing to persuade my wonderful father in going to a certain cinema called "Colloseum", but in the end he gave in.
So we asked the Italian waiter where the Colloseum was.
The waiter answered, surprised: "The Colloseum is in Rome."
We assured him that we knew that, but that we meant the cinema. He answered with a sneer: "Oh, you don't want to go there!"
Anyway, we got there in the end in spite of Italian arrogance. Even though we accidentally ended up in a wrong part of the complex, watching the beginning of a Terry Thomas flick dubbed into French, we did see Roger Moore as James Bond in "For Your Eyes Only" - and we loved it.
So, there you have it. My father's legacy: intellectual wit on a global level with Italians in Denmark, Americans watching British movies dubbed into French. He lived culturally and intellectually, telling people to keep their eyes on what character traits are most important when it comes to any form of artistic endeavor.
Creativity and inspiration, threefold, fourfold, a dozen times and eternally.
I have my mother, the operatic mezzo-soprano Gun Kronzell, and my father Herbert Eyre Moulton, actor and author, singer and teacher, to thank for the fact that I love being creative. Just like they were.
 Now, sit back and enjoy the ride.
We're in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, and the year is 1940.
Herbie? Take us back in time.
 
THE RIGOLETTO CAPER

Opera freaks are best when taken young. In my case, I was all of eight when this peculiar virus struck, and, for good or ill, it has been raging on and off ever since. Even at that tender age, you learn to cope. Just as your nearest and dearest have to learn, as well.
For instance, from that time on, all Saturday activities had to be planned strictly around the Metropolitan Opera Saturday matinee broadcasts, which began, for us in the Midwest, at 1 p.m. That affected eveything everything from my regular household chores (50 cents a week, nothing to be sneezed at back in the 30's) and helping my parents with their marketing (our local term for shopping) for the week, to excursions, to places like museums in town, the zoo, friends you drop in on, and attendance at mega-events like birthday parties, hayrides, and PET & HOBBY Shows.
But the real crunch came with the cheery mayhem of Saturday afternoons at our local flea-pit, the Glen Theatre. (By some miracle it's still standing!) When forced to choose, let's say, between Lily Pons in "Lakme" from the Met, and --- at the Glen --- something like Laurel & Hardy in "Way Out West" or W.C. Fields in "The Bank Dick", with the added inducement of a Lone Ranger or Flash Gordon serial episode, the choice was too bitterly heartbreaking to be borne.
To tell the truth and shame the Devil, as my mother Nell used to say, my precocious operatic  know-how wasn't much use to me in those days. On the contrary, it was almost a hindrance, if not a handicap. To most "normal" folks, it set me apart, not "Queer" exactly, but, ya know, "different", even "Snobbish". This, I guess, is why I compensated for it by my constant clowning around around and showing-off.
But there was this one occasion --- a day in late Autumn 1940 --- when my Opera Virus led directly to my most shining hour in that crowded, bustling, rather smelly double-classroom in  St. Cuthbert's Parochial School in our Chicago Suburb, when I actually won respect from (a.) my peers (Surprise and Enthusiasm) and (b.) my chief adversary and esteemed sparring partner, Sister Gaudeamus (grudging, but genuine).
This was a Big Day for me --- serendipity, I guess would be the word, and I've been wanting to use it for a long time --- one of the few tussels, intellectual or otherwise I ever engaged in with "S'ster" and actually emerged the undisputed winner. And all thanks to my Opera-Mania.
Now, in order to present as full a view as possible of this more-than-memorable happening, we'll rewind a bit to fill in the background of what I like to call "The Rigoletto Caper"...
For all their inexperience in worldly affairs, the good nuns at St. Cuthbert's held very definite opinions about what did or did not constitute suitable entertainment. Almost anything later than Ethelbert Nevin's "The Rosary" or more substantial than "The Lady or the Tiger" was automatically suspect --- either elite, seditious, or high-hat, or a combination of all three. Even Nell's beloved narrative poem "Evangeline" by Longfellow had a prominent position on Sister's Index of Forbidden Books (unofficial, of course), being labelled by her as "purest bouzwah" and "preposterous", insulting if not downright heretical. Poor Mr. Longfellow, just because his heroine loses her lover Gabriel, and after years of unsuccessful searching, takes the veil, only to find him again, dying in a hospice in plague-racked New Orleans. He then expires in her arms, in a scene guaranteed to make the wrestler Bruno Sammartino burst into tears ... Preposterous, maybe. But heretical? No way! Sure it's sentimental, enough to make a totempole weep --- but what's wrong about that, S'ster?
Closer to home, our own pre-teen affection for the verve and teasing humor of entertainers like "Fats" Waller and the Andrews Sisters was also shot down in flames: "smut" being the epithet used to describe the boundless joy that "Fats" radiated, and "silly sensuality" for the sprightly melodies and close harmonies of Maxine, Laverne and Patti.
"Your feet's too big!"
Smutty?
"Roll Out the Barrel!"
Sensual?
Were we occupying the same planet or what?
As a last-ditch attempt to stem the rising tide of "Smut" and "Sensuality", a weekly series of "Music Appreciation Lectures" was launched, in spite of the fact that most of us --- our folks, anyway, already appreciated music very much.
Never mind! S'ster was a fully qualified missionary to the Philistines, and once her hand was on the plow, there was never any turning back. Armed with a dozen or so scratchy old 78's and the big wind-up Victrola dominating one corner of the classroom, she intended to instill into us Yahoos a knowledge and respect, maybe even an appreciation of the Classics, or know the reason why. We were thus treated to endless snatches of symphonies, and odd scraps of semi-classics, preferably of an edifying nature: the Intermezzo from "Cavalleria Rusticana" or "In a Monastary Garden", each plentifully garnished with S'ster's none-too-accurate program notes.
On this particular afternoon, on a day when I hadn't yet been ordered to leave the room, Sister had elected to give us gems from Verdi's "Rigoletto", suitably laundered, naturally, when it came to the Duke of Mantua's more libidinious exploits. Despite occasional wisecracks from the rowdier elements of the class, it was going fairly well --- that is, until S'ster mispronounced the name of the hired assassin Sparafucile, which rolled out of her as "Spa-ra-FOO-chee-lay." Hooray! At last a chance to put my opera-freakdom to positive use, and, by the same token, maybe even the score with S'ster a few much-needed points.
My pudgy hand shot up: "S'ster! S'ster!"
A weighty pause ...
"Yes, Herbert." The tone was weary, resigned. "What is it THIS time?"
You got the first part of it right, S'ster ..."
(Noblesse oblige:) "Well, thank you very much indeed."
"But I'm afraid you made a mistake with the assassin's name. It's not 'Spa-ra-FOO-chee-lay', as you said. It's 'Spa-ra-foo-CHEE-lay."
"Well, of course," and her sneer was marked with a regal toss of her hood, "you WOULD know."
A faint smell of blood in the atmosphere, and the boredom that had drugged the class till then started to disperse.
 "Yes, S'ster, as a matter of fact, I would."
I was in the driver's seat for once and could afford to put my foot down on the throttle:
"Strangely enough, I went with my Mom and Dad to an operatic performance last night at the Civic Opera House ---"
"Yes, yes, yes. I know where it is and what it's called."
The spectators were now on the edge of their desk-seats (not too comfortable), all eager attention.
I went on with my advantage: "And the opera happened to be that same 'Rigoletto' you've been talking about --- starring that famous American baritone Laurence Tibbett in the title role ..." All of a sudden, I was a 12-year old Milton J. Cross --- amiable, knowing, professional --- charming millions of fans on a Saturday matinee broadcast. "... with Lily Pons, the lovely French coloratura soprano as his daughter Gilda. The tenor was ..."
I was cut off in mid-sentence. "All right, then, perhaps ..." Her tone was both gracious and dangerous, one I knew only too well. "Perhaps you'd like to come up here in front of the class and take over?"
"Oh, S'ster, could I?"
There was a murmur of interest from the spectactors, now totally wide awake.
I waddled up to the front of the room where Sister and I got caught up in a grotesque little pas de deux, changing places. At last, she lowered herself with great dignity into a nearby chair. I perched on the edge of her desk, of her DESK!, while the others in the class, friend and foe alike, all leaned forward to catch every exquisite detail of the slaughter. I looked into the sea of expectant faces --- well, not a sea, exactly, more like a puddle, and I began.
"So, as S'ster has been trying to tell you ---" (Loud throat-clearing from Sister's direction) "The court-jester Rigoletto meets this hired assassin one dark night on his way home from work at the palace, a really creepy type named Spa-ra-foo-CHEE-lay ..."
Again, sound-effects from the sidelines where the dear lady was now breathing noisily through her nostrils. I ignored these and went on lining out Victor Hugo's dramatic story. My tale grabbed my listeners as nothing Sister ever said could. As I went on, really in the spirit of the thing, I noticed how she was sitting there with her eyeballs rolled back in her sockets, like that famous marble statue of Saint Teresa of Avila in ecstacy. Her face in its stiff linen frame-work resembled a baked tomato about to burst.
When I finally arrived at the final tragic moment, when Rigoletto discovers the body of his dying daughter in the sack --- all his fault, I belted out his tearful cry of "Ah! La Maladizione! --- The Curse!" And I gave it my all ... Wild applause from the audience, a few of them, my best pals, naturally, even giving a cheer and a whistle or two. (At this, Sister looked as though mentally taking down names.)
Drunk with triumph, I was about to repeat the howl, but was cut off this time quite sharply: "That will DO, Herbert. Thank you."
Just then, the recess bell rang setting off the usual stampede out to the playground. Sister waited till it had subsided, then said in a cool, steady tone: ""Humpf, interesting, Herbert. Perhaps you really DID go to the opera last night."
I feigned being shocked and hurt. "S'ster! When did I ever lie to you?"
She started to answer, thought better of it, then brushed me aside as she started out. "Recess," she said, going forth, majestic even in defeat.
From then on, the Music Appreciation Hours grew less and less frequent, and were confined to safe composers like Stephen Foster and Percy Grainger. I myself was never asked to take over a class again, and the subject of opera was avoided altogether.
A temporary victory for our side, but only a minor bleep in a long but, on the whole, merry little war --- not to be mentioned with the real one brewing overseas. Ours brought a few, as well.

Seasons Change

By Jon Moray


It was the beginning of the summer of '77 when nine-year-old Timmy and his family relocated to Cincinnati due to his dad's new job.
Timmy had just finished breakfast, melancholy over the friends he left back in Cleveland a week earlier.
"Timmy, why don't you go to the baseball field to see if there is a game you can get in," his mom urged.
Timmy slowly nodded, and slumped to his room to gather his baseball gear. He hooked his glove onto his bat and continued to the bathroom to adjust his Reds cap.
"Don't forget your flip-up sunglasses. The sun looks brutal today," his mom called to him.
"Got it, Mom," he answered, as he coordinated the glasses with his cap.
Content with his image in the mirror he headed towards the front door.
"How do I look?" Timmy asked.
"You look like Pete Rose. Now, go get your uniform dirty," his mom cheered, and patted him on his butt as he headed out to the baseball field.
Timmy beamed with anticipation. Pete Rose was his baseball hero. He emulated "Charlie Hustle", one of the all-star members of the "Big Red Machine", right down to his batting stance. In Little League, Timmy sprinted to first base after a walk because Pete Rose sprinted to first base after a walk. He would dive head first into third base because Pete Rose dove head first into third base. Is was the Pete Rose look he was after.
He turned the corner on his street and spied the baseball field littered with kids playing catch and fungo. His pace quickened the closer he got.
The kids stopped their warmups and saw Timmy with his glove hanging from his bat over his shoulder like a hobo carrying a bindle.
One of the kids waved a ball as an invitation to play and Timmy quickly removed his glove from his bat. A few tosses of the baseball and childlike banter about the game's major league stars and the game was on.
That day, Timmy made new friends. Everyday friends that would sweat out the hot summer on the ball field, keeping their own score and being their own umpires. The ballfield was their headquarters for friendship and competition. In Timmy's summer of transition, the baseball field was his oasis.
It was Labor Day weekend, and Timmy went through his ritual of suiting up for a nine-inning slugfest with his friends. It would be the last weekend before school began and that meant the end of everyday ballgames.
Timmy got to the field early for an 11 o'clock game, surprised he was the first one there. He warmed up his arm by throwing it against the chain link backstop. He surveyed his watch.
"11:15, why am I the only one here," he mumbled to himself. He picked up his bat, tapped on the rubber home plate, and crouched into his stance, just like Pete Rose. He took a few swings, isolated on a field that should’ve been filled with laughter and kidding. He waited until 11:30 and with chin to chest, he dragged his feet home.
Timmy's mom stopped work on her garden as he approached.
"There weren’t any kids at the baseball field. There wasn't any game," Timmy lamented.
His mom rubbed his chin. "Maybe they are at the football field. I saw a kid walk by wearing football gear," she commented.
"But there is still the month of September left of the baseball season, plus the playoffs," said Timmy.
"Football season is starting up, though. Seasons change," she offered, and led him into the house. With a kiss on his forehead, she convinced him to grab his football gear.
She could hear a loud rumble as he rummaged through his closet. Moments later he appeared.
"How do I look?"
"You look like Roger Staubach," his mom commented.
"You think the kids will mind my Dallas Cowboys helmet?" Timmy asked.
His mom flashed a muffled chuckle. "I guess you will find out by how hard you get tackled. Now, go get your uniform dirty," she cheered, and patted him on the butt as he headed out to the football field.

September
​
By Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri


I hold onto fall, flame-colored leaves that dance and rustle, creating a crisp crescendo.
I hug the air, air that holds the promises of love and kindness.
Fall was Mother’s favorite.
It filled her with cheer.
She used to dance during autumn nights, in a lavender nightgown, her smile so organic and wide. Or so it seemed.
I refuse to turn the calendar and think of winter. Everything covered, truth revealed in ice and snow.
People invariably take flight in winter. Cheer is unmasked. It’s the natural cold order.
I try to conserve autumn.
Love.
Even as winter whips me, no one to comfort me.

The Telephone Booth

​By Mark Tulin


Alan hadn’t heard from Sara in a couple days. They had been dating for a few months and communicated daily. He didn’t know if their relationship was just an infatuation or if he had truly loved her.
He found a telephone booth on Melrose Avenue to make the call. She picked up after a couple of rings.
“How are you?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
There was an awkward silence, followed by sobbing at the other end.
“What’s wrong?” Alan asked, worried about what the answer might be.
Another moment of awkward silence followed.
“I’m pregnant,” she said and began to cry again. “I found out a couple of days ago and was afraid to tell you. I thought you’d be angry.”
Alan clutched tightly to the receiver wanting to yank the cord from its black box, but stopped himself and gazed for a moment at the changing colors of the autumn sky. The cars in the street speeding by made him anxious. A strong wind whistled through the glass panes of the telephone booth like it was whispering a secret. A flood of fuzzy images popped into his mind like a crying baby, a disorganized father not knowing how to change a diaper, and a dark, twist-ing maze that had no exit.
He thought they had talked about this. Both had a strong history of mental illness in their families. Alan’s mother had schizophrenia while Sara’s mom was bi-polar and Sara, herself, suf-fered from debilitating mood swings. Bringing up a baby under these circumstances didn’t seem like a wise thing to do.
“I don’t want to have a baby without being married,” Sara said.
Alan thought about mentioning abortion but he knew she’d be against it. Instead, he did what he thought was right despite his fear of marrying someone like his crazy mother or worse. There didn’t seem to be any other way out than to give in. And he didn’t want to support a baby from a distance, make visits on weekends, and be a stranger to his own child.
“I’ll marry you,” he said impulsively into the black receiver. His legs went wobbly. There was a knot in the pit of his stomach as he heard the echo of his voice saying “I’ll marry you” at the other end of the line, and those ringing words made him shiver and cringe.
Alan paused for a few seconds, waiting for Sara to say something. She never did. There was a click and just like that Alan’s life was thrown into a swirl of confusion. He thought about calling her back but decided that she needed to have her space. And he didn’t want to hear her crying again.
He stood dizzily in the telephone booth until it got dark, staring at the receiver, dirty from all the fingerprints. He didn’t know how many thousands of voices spoke through that public telephone before him, but none, he was sure, was as shaky and uncertain about their future as he was on that fall day.

The Curves in Vandsberg
​
By Carol Anne Perini

www.carolanneperini.com



The road in this part of the county veers off into an ominous turn before it bends back and continues on absolutely due west. It was at this point where the car got stuck. The two girls, 20-somethings the Sherriff of Vandsberg told the reporter later when the Sherriff was making his report, probably didn’t see the curve coming. He told the man, who always carried his pencil behind his ear, like a cub reporter of days gone by, hat tilted back, listening to the teller with rapt interest, he told the man that the girls slid, according to the skid marks on the pavement, onto the side of the road and eventually ended up in an impossibly steep angle on the embankment.

Apparently, he told the man who was hungrily scribbling in his notebook, they tried, while still perched almost 90 degrees, hanging as though on a precipice, pressing on the gas pedal to move their vehicle, but their efforts only caused them to spin themselves deeper into the mud thereby fixing their tires into the unforgiving gook. The narrow shoulders of the roadway were loaded with the thickened stuff after the heavy rains thundered through that spring. Dirt and leaves and water make a sickly combination when there is no obstruction to abate their flow. The Sherriff was proud of himself for making this observation and the reporter was quite surprised at the man’s generous vocabulary.

Once they knew they were stuck, (the Sherriff continued on with his tale,) once they knew they were stuck and would not be moving the car any time soon, they tried to force the passenger door open. However, try as they might they could not budge it, he reported to the breathless reporter, hanging on every word, because the mud was clear up to the running board. They soon gave up that effort, the trenchant Sherriff continued, and tried the driver’s side door. But they were so far down the hill and leaning so far over that the driver’s door was too heavy for them to open, especially with their vehicle lying in a supine position.

The writer was very surprised that the Sherriff knew the word supine and found himself trying to imagine what that would look like from the girls’ point of view. But the Sherriff then pulled out photos of the wreck and the young, interested man didn’t have to imagine what it looked like any longer.

Instead, the Sherriff continued, since they could turn the key on the ignition, they were able to power-down the windows on the passenger side of their little Honda Civic, and one at a time began to climb out from there. The first one fell into the thick goop of mud and slipping and sliding she seemingly lost her footing and fell headlong down the embankment. There were impossible skid marks where they could see her efforts to maintain her footing. It was then she was swept away after plunging into the flowing, densely muddy river at the bottom of the hill. They found the girl’s body two miles away wedged into the branches of the thick oak that had been known in that region for one hundred and ten years. When they found her, the mud had filled every orifice. Her buccal cavity was wedged open from the thick and gloppy stuff and where her eyes were supposed to be were empty sockets filled with hardened goop. The coroner reported that mud will do that, replace things in the body he’d said, shrugging his shoulders when his young assistant expressed dismay. It made her look like the ghoulish figure in the painting, The Scream, the Sherriff told the reporter. The newspaperman was quite taken that the Sherriff of Vandsberg knew about Edvard Munch.

The Sherriff also reported on the other girl. Young 20-something he’d repeated again to the journalist who found the repetition of a young 20-something surprising, especially from a large, rotund, balding man in his late 50’s who lived in the western part of the county all of his life. Her demise came a little more casually and simply, the Sherriff went on after noticing the reporter taking him in. After she got out of the abandoned vehicle, that was ready to slide into the muddy river itself, she managed to scramble up the embankment to what she thought was safety. As she stepped out onto the road, a large tractor-trailer truck was taking the bend where the road veers northwest and not being able to maneuver his vehicle around the road’s harsh angle, clipped the poor young thing sending her flying back onto the embankment but, the Sherriff added, she was probably dead already as she flew in the air and wouldn’t have known she was back in the mud.

The last thing the Sherriff did was call the families of the two women. Three days later, with the cub reporter by his side, a young man hungry for the next installment in this enthralling saga, the Sherriff called the families. When the mother demanded to know why it had taken him so long to contact them, he snorted his reply, winking at the reporter, puffing his chest ever so slightly so the reporter could see him reply. “I’m sorry ma’am,” he said to the woman whose distress caught him by surprise, “we are quite busy here in these parts.” He gave the woman some cursory details about picking up the body, after which he hung up the phone. The scribbling young man remained attached to the Sherriff’s every word and gesture so when the Sherriff smiled a very self-satisfied smile, the reporter believed he had landed in a journalistic mecca.

Alternate Equinox

By Sybil Hunt 
​

Stuff was flying everywhere! Something – somehow - had made everything go ka-flooey. Almost nothing in Newt’s room was hanging together anymore! Mesmerized, he took another bite of his apple, leaned against the headboard of his bed, and watched in wonder.
Tiny components burst from inside his smart phone and began to hover at eye level. The gyrating legs disengaged from his Elvis clock, free to rock the room independent of the King. Soon, the air was thick with the tiny white balls that had been contained by the faux leather cover of his new audio-video-controller bean bag chair. It was like sitting in the center of a snow globe!
Without warning, it seemed, all of his gear was becoming, well, “tact,” if that was a word, in a way that suggested being intact was the law of the old universe. In the interest of science, Newt grabbed a pencil and paper and began to record the events taking place in the 40 square feet of his world.  
The scene brought back memories of the climax of the second Kurt Russell “Escape From…” film (his dad’s favorite) – that tense moment of silence during which onlookers were forced to consider a life with no electricity, no “juice”, no current to feed the convenience, the coziness, the comfort, or the craziness of life as we know it.
“What a great joke,” he thought. “Turn everything inside out and start over.” Just then, his mattress cover gave way. He ducked just in time to avoid the approaching spring.

Animals

by Voltaire

What a pitiful, what a sorry thing to have said that animals are machines bereft of understanding and feeling, which perform their operations always in the same way, which learn nothing, perfect nothing, etc.!

What! that bird which makes its nest in a semi-circle when it is attaching it to a wall, which builds it in a quarter circle when it is in an angle, in a circle upon a tree; that bird acts always in the same way? That hunting-dog which you have disclined for three months, does it not know more at the end of this time than it knew before your lessons? Does the canary to which you teach a tune repeat it at once? do you not spend a considerable time in teaching it? have you not seen that it has made a mistake and that it corrects itself?
Is it because I speak to you, that you judge that I have feeling, memory, ideas? Well, I do not speak to you; you see me going home looking disconsolate, seeking a paper anxiously, opening the desk where I remember having shut it, finding it, reading it joyfully. You judge that I have experienced the feeling of distress and that of pleasure, that I have memory and understanding.
Bring the same judgment to bear on this dog which has lost its master, which has sought him on every road with sorrowful cries, which enters the house agitated, uneasy, which goes down the stairs, up the stairs, from room to room, which at last finds in his study the master it loves, and which shows him its joy by its cries of delight, by its leaps, by its caresses.
Barbarians seize this dog, which in friendship surpasses man so Prodigiously; they nail it on a table, and they dissect it alive in order to show the mesenteric veins. You discover in it all the same organs of feeling that are in yourself. Answer me, machinist, has nature arranged all the means of feeling in this animal, so that it may not feel? has it nerves in order to be impassible? Do not suppose this impertinent contradiction in nature.
But the schoolmasters ask what the soul of animals is? I do not understand this question. A tree has the faculty of receiving in its fibres its sap which circulates, of unfolding the buds of its leaves and its fruit; will you ask what the soul of this tree is? it has received these gifts; the animal has received those of feeling, of memory, of a certain number of ideas. Who has bestowed these gifts? who has given these faculties? He who has made the grass of the fields to grow, and who makes the earth gravitate toward the sun.
"Animals' souls are substantial forms," said Aristotle, and after Aristotle, the Arab school, and after the Arab school, the angelical school, and after the angelical school, the Sorbonne, and after the Sorbonne, nobody at all.
"Animals' souls are material," cry other philosophers. These have not been in any better fortune than the others. In vain have they been asked what a material soul is; they have to admit that it is matter which has sensation: but what has given it this sensation? It is a material soul, that is to say that it is matter which gives sensation to matter; they cannot issue from this circle.
Listen to other brutes reasoning about the brutes; their soul is a spiritual soul which dies with the body; but what proof have you of it? what idea have you of this spiritual soul, which, in truth, has feeling, memory, and its measure of ideas and ingenuity; but which will never be able to know what a child of six knows? On what ground do you imagine that this being, which is not body, dies with the body? The greatest fools are those who have advanced that this soul is neither body nor spirit. There is a fine system. By spirit we can understand only some unknown thing which is not body. Thus these gentlemen's system comes back to this, that the animals' soul is a substance which is neither body nor something which is not body.
Whence can come so many contradictory errors? From the habit men have always had of examining what a thing is, before knowing if it exists. The clapper, the valve of a bellows, is called in French the "soul" of a bellows. What is this soul? It is a name that I have given to this valve which falls, lets air enter, rises again, and thrusts it through a pipe, when I make the bellows move.
There is not there a distinct soul in the machine: but what makes animals' bellows move? I have already told you, what makes the stars move. The philosopher who said, "Deus est anima brutorium," was right; but he should go further.

Heartbreak Diagnosis

by Leah Moynihan
 

What causes a heart to break?
Of course a heart can not literally break, but figuratively speaking,
what are the causes and symptoms and how do you treat such a complex state as a broken heart?
An overused expression “My heart is broken”, but what does it really mean?
To set things straight, most people who say this do not know what they are talking about.
There has been multiple misdiagnosed cases of heartbreak. If one has suffered from it, then they would not say it out loud,
because it would be far too painful to admit, not only to others but mostly to themselves.
Hence why these people are only using the phrase for dramatic emphasis. 
To really have a broken heart is detrimental.
To put it simply, it is like waking up and for a split second you believe it is Saturday but then you realise it is Monday.
Heartbreak is one thousand times worse and it lasts far longer. It is like every inch of your soul is being wretched from your very being. It’s like being held underwater and you don’t now when you will breathe fresh air again. It’s like walking in the darkness up the stairs and you miss a step and your heart plunges. Remorse, torment and anguish are all terms associated with severe cases.
The symptoms are as follows: mistrust of everyone, seeing other couples and being that person on the street who curses them, eating twenty tubs of chocolate ice cream while watching Bridget Jones' Diary and lastly, feeling extremely bitter at whoever broke your heart.
Now that we know the symptoms, what is the cure? That, I am afraid, is a convoluted question that the human race has been trying to determine for centuries. Time is often a clichéd term used in relation to this and I do not know if it is completely true that time heals everything. Heartbreak does lessen with time but it never truly goes away. It stays with you and it is always there looming at the back of your mind but it is something you learn from and helps you to develop as a person. It would be easy for me to suggest to stay away from triggers such as people or places but you should not live your life hiding either. The best cure is to simply accept the situation. Forget trying to fight it because it will only make matters worse. Acceptance is key. I also recommend doing things you like and this will keep your mind occupied and also, be with the people that make you happy and those who will be there for you. Most importantly, don’t be afraid to get your heart broken again because if you catch it once, it will make you stronger the next time. Don’t live in fear. That is the best advice I can give anyone. Just try stay positive, as hard as that may sound. Don't give up on love and don’t be afraid to get your heart broken again and again and again........ until you find someone who will finally heal it.

Myrna’s Story

By Raymond Greiner
 

Myrna Davis was born in 1950, and raised in an American mid western town. A beautiful child genetically influenced from her mother, which combined with her quick and agile mind. Myrna was chosen homecoming queen during her high school senior year savoring this prominent event. Myrna’s formative years bore the hallmark of a living Victorian valentine.
Popular males sought Myrna’s company during high school, as her Mother Dorothy served as self-appointed advisor.
Myrna received a scholarship from a nearby college entering her freshman year staying at the dormitory and returning home on weekends. Male attention escalated with frequent dates to campus activities. Bill Macgregor, the son of the local Chevrolet dealer made special effort to contact Myrna. Macgregor was a good-looking young man, also arrogant, and accustomed to having his way gifted a new Corvette each year from his father. Macgregor had a reputation for short-term relationships with young, beautiful women and on the continual prowl to seek a new trophy for his shelf.
Myrna eventually succumbed to Macgregor’s advances and a dinner date was established. Macgregor was scheduled to pick up Myrna at seven PM, arriving at seven thirty without a hint of apology. Myrna’s mother greeted Macgregor with a smile.
“William, it’s so thoughtful of you to invite Myrna to dinner.”
Macgregor nodded mumbling, “Nice to be here.”
Myrna looked ravishing, her dark auburn hair contrasting with bright, blue eyes accenting her intense beauty.
Macgregor reserved a table at the towns’ most lavish restaurant. During dinner he centered conversation on himself, explaining how he intended to
assume ownership of his father’s Chevrolet dealership when his parents retire to their Florida home. He detailed his plan to move into their mansion with ambition to expand the dealership increasing sales and profits. Myrna was unimpressed with Macgregor, his egocentric demeanor made her nauseous and uneasy. He showed no warmth or humor, never smiled or even a slight compliment directed at her.
Macgregor said, “Well, Myrna, how about us escalating our relationship a bit and move to a physical level.”
Myrna was silent for a moment, and then said, “William Macgregor, the son of an affluent auto dealer and a member of the gentry. During our dinner date you’ve dominated the conversation with incessant patter revealing a quest to increase your wealth when your parents retire. So, how am I to respond to this? Am I to feel honored, on a pedestal under a spotlight, overwhelmed by my good fortune of your interest in me? Why are we here, William? I want you to take me home now.”
Macgregor was stunned at Myrna’s reaction and at a loss for words. Anger then appeared on his face. “Alright, you ungrateful bitch. Do you realize how many women come on to me? They line up for my attention. You’re self-centered and think of yourself as beautiful. You really don’t do it for me.”
The valet brought the Corvette around and Macgregor got in on the driver’s side slamming the door. Myrna opened the passenger door and barely got inside when Macgregor screeched the tires lurching forward before Myrna was able to fasten her seat belt. Macgregor was silent, driving like a maniac, swerving in and out of traffic, speeding over seventy mph in a forty mph zone. He glanced at Myrna to evaluate her degree of fear. Then it happened. A truck pulled directly in front of them, as the truck driver incorrectly calculated the
Corvette’s speed. It was over in flash. Myrna’s head was driven through the windshield. The ambulance and police arrived pronouncing Macgregor dead at the scene; Myrna was unconscious and bleeding profusely from deep lacerations on her face, head and neck. Myrna was taken to the nearest hospital. After hours in the ICU her lacerations were stitched and her entire face bandaged with only space for her eyes and mouth. She remained unconscious and on a respirator. It was a horrid, tragic scene.
The year is now 2010 and a small medical clinic in a Kenyan village is a place of prominence in the village, with an attached room serving as a classroom to teach local children. A gray haired woman with a stethoscope hanging from her neck is tending a long line of patients. Dr. Myrna Davis healed from her tragic accident, returned to college, and received a medical degree. She is the most respected person in the village. Then one day she discovered a lump in her left breast causing concern. She traveled to Nairobi and x-rays revealed a tumor. She remained hospitalized, and received radiation and chemotherapy treatments and her cancer was diagnosed in remission avoiding surgery. Myrna became acquainted with a few of the doctors and nurses, who all knew of her work and clinic. Myrna looked dreadful without hair and an aging, deeply scarred face, but recognition of this woman’s achievements deflected superficial judgment. Dr. Davis was an iconic figure and professional respect for her was a vivid presence.
One morning while sitting on the side of her bed worrying about her clinic and her many patients Myrna was writing in a notebook. A nurse, Julia, and a friend, asked her what she was writing. Myrna told Julia it is her personal journal.
“Can I read it sometime?” Julia asked.
“Of course”, handing Julia the journal.
“It describes my early life, before Africa, telling of events inspiring me to commit to those entrapped in poverty. I’m also documenting my time in Africa and the experience with cancer.”
Myrna’s bedside phone rang, a familiar voice said, “Hello, Myrna? This is Monique; I received a call from Kalisha to inform me of your cancer. I requested a two-week leave from the hospital and they graciously allowed me time off. I’m at your clinic now and will begin to attend patients in the morning. Kalisha will help me organize. Please don’t worry I can handle this.”
“Praise God, I’ve been so worried. Kalisha is as qualified as any trained nurse and familiar with patient’s conditions. How can I ever thank you enough, you are my savior. I love you so much. My cancer is in remission and I should be back at the clinic before your two-week leave is up. Call me tomorrow to update me on things. I’m feeling pretty good today.”
Julia thanked Myrna for allowing her to read her journal. That evening she began reading Myrna’s story.
The Journal Of Myrna Davis: “As recovery progressed and bandages removed I could barely tolerate looking at myself in the mirror. The facial scars were horrid, and deep. My right eye muscles were damaged and the eye was stationary, adding to my disfigurement. Depression overwhelmed me, and my life seemed over. Prior to the accident physical beauty was my greatest asset carrying me to better places, opening opportunities. When I finally went home my parents were loving and supportive. This was helpful, but the anxiety was far too great to overcome and despair intensified.
“On my dresser was an envelope from New York City. One of my dorm mates was a photographer; she assembled a composite of photos submitting
them to a major modeling agency in New York City. The agency’s response letter said they were very interested in meeting me. Of course now such a notion was out of the question. My thoughts ended in a dead zone offering no clear path forward. It was a certainty social life would come to an abrupt halt, and it did. No more fixating stares from male admirers, mostly turn away looks, and women also distanced themselves. Women are drawn to pretty women, giving comfort to be seen with a beautiful friend creating social acceptance and identity.
“I healed enough to resume classes, which was extremely difficult. I didn’t return to the dorm, lived at home and commuted, shunning people as much as possible. Academic pursuits became my salvation, creating meaningful purpose, which allowed a small vein of life to flow forming a personal sanctuary.
“A few weeks after resuming classes an accident, injury attorney contacted me and scheduled a meeting. The attorney was Fred Johnson. He told me William Macgregor had a long history of speeding and reckless driving and advised me to file a claim against Macgregor’s estate. In his view it was a clear-cut case. I explained the modeling agency’s letter and he said it would be important regarding settlement since this opportunity is now void because of my disfigured condition. ‘I’ll seek a multimillion dollar settlement. Macgregor owned one third of his father’s dealership, and with his tarnished driving record no jury would refuse a large settlement. This case may take two years or more to settle but should go forward.’
“I agreed to the lawsuit and returned to my study routine directed toward a medical degree. The lawsuit proceeded slowly. McGregor’s father waged an expensive, drawn out battle to protect his assets. During this time
period I completed my medical school curriculum receiving a medical degree and assigned to a local hospital to serve an internship. This was my best time since the accident. My hospital associates differed from my college contacts, revealing no degradation toward me because of my appearance. I was beginning to feel a sense of my old self again. My previous physical beauty seemed less important as I became immersed in caring for patients and learning hospital procedures.
“The hospital where I was serving my internship a young black woman was also serving her internship. She was an exchange student from Johannesburg, South Africa on a scholarship grant planning to return to Johannesburg after her internship where she had been offered hospital residency. Her name was Monique Destivelle, and her father was French. Anti-government forces killed her father when Monique was a teenager. She lived with her mother and planned to reunite upon completing her medical training. Monique and I became close friends, and I looked forward to our meetings and discussions. She was delightful to talk with, and I enjoyed her French accent. She also was fluent in several native African languages from experiences during her father’s work as a diplomat. She often accompanied him to villages and towns as a child. Monique asked, ‘Myrna, have you read of Dr. Albert Schweitzer’s historic work in Africa? It’s such a wonderful and amazing story, how he and his wife established a small hospital in a very remote region of Africa now called Gabon. A fourteen-day trip up the Ocooue River to access the remote village they chose to build their small hospital in the spring of 1913. You must read his wonderful book The Reverence of Life. This book inspired me to pursue a medical career.’
“My friendship with Monique was like a gift from God, we spent all our spare time together involving deep, insightful conversations about our lives and choices we are facing. Monique was a brilliant woman; reading and study consumed her life. I read Schweitzer’s astonishing story describing the struggles he and his wife encountered. During Schweitzer’s time European influence was inundating the continent. I became captivated by the lives of this dedicated couple as they transcended barriers and challenges to establish a hospital for no reason other than to assist the oppressed.
“Anguish from my disfigurements dissipated; my life now is filled with hope and meaning. I have supporting parents, a solid career goal and a wonderful friend and colleague; although, dismay remains. Industrialized, economically driven cultures are plagued with ubiquitous over consumption, socially patterned in shallowness, image portrayal, revering material wealth with godlike status, separating from the oppressed. William Macgregor types have expanded in numbers. Selfishness is dominant. Humankind’s covetousness seems boundless.
“I received a call from Fred Johnson, and a settlement had been finalized. ‘Myrna, Macgregor had a large life insurance policy on his son with double indemnity upon accidental death, and the court was clearly in your favor from the get go. I initially tried for a ten million dollar settlement but was awarded seven million. The judge reduced the settlement amount. My fee will be ten percent; the balance will be deposited in your bank account. I’m gratified to assist you, creating potential improvement and opportunity to your life. Hopefully your future will be altered in a positive manner and it has been my pleasure to represent you. I’d enjoy an occasional message to inform me how you are managing your life as your medical career develops.’
‘Mr. Johnson I’m without words, and very grateful for your effort and achievement. I most certainly will keep you posted regarding my venture forward in life.’
“I was eager to discuss this event with Monique. We met at her small apartment.
“Monique, settlement on the Macgregor lawsuit has finalized at seven million dollars. I’m in a daze at this point. ‘Myrna, this is deserved, the suffering and effort to rise above your crisis may now open new dimension to your future combined with your medical skills. It’s exciting to think of the possibilities. Money is the source of most corruption, but also has the power of altruism.’
“I want to open a free clinic in Sub Sahara Africa, like Schweitzer. If I’m careful with the money I can build a clinic and write grant proposals for operating expenses. The clinic will exhibit validity to potential benefactors. I feel it’s possible, offering greater meaning to my life.”
Monique responded, “I’ll support you any way I’m able. It’s within the realm of reality. It can happen. I know you can do it.’
“After our internships Monique took the Johannesburg opportunity sharing an apartment with her mother, also as a support during her Mother’s aging years. I convinced her to take time and accompany me touring poverty stricken Africa to assess potential sights for my clinic. She agreed and the experience with Monique in Africa was monumental, a life-changing event.
“I had studied in depth the various regions of Africa and knew that someplace in Kenya would be my choice. Nearly fifty percent of Kenya’s populous is mired in absolute poverty. Many villages were without
educational systems or medical services. The next meal is a challenge and often not attained.
“We rented a car and traveled for many days to various locations in Kenya. We neither had seen nor could have imagined the degree of squalor we encountered. Children roaming streets with swollen stomachs from malnutrition, gleaning trash heaps for anything of the slightest value. One small boy kept repeating in broken English ‘Pepsi, Pepsi’. He had discovered frequently large, discarded, plastic Pepsi bottles would have a swallow or two remaining in the bottles and was ever watchful to discover this treasure. It was heart wrenching beyond description, tears formed in my eyes. As Monique and I spoke with this child, sorrow engulfed us. When I compared my ordeal to this child’s day-to-day struggle I felt a deep sense of guilt for feeling in such despair, consumed by self-pity. Kenya needed me and I needed Kenya.
“Monique left for Johannesburg and I concentrated effort on central Kenya about three hundred kilometers south of Nairobi. Several small villages were in this region and one particular village stirred my interest, Takula. The government red tape and paper work was overwhelming. I commissioned an enabler to assist navigate bureaucratic complexities to permit land purchase. Also by owning land, building and residence my visa became permanent. Building permits of various types were required. Within two months everything was in order and I began to seek a local builder. Before I left the US I contracted an architect to draft a plan for my clinic based upon research of similar clinics. Finally all was in place, and construction commenced. During construction I lived in a tent on my property.
“It was indescribably emotional witnessing my dream materialize, building this small clinic bringing medical services to the lives of many in
need. Villagers gathered daily to observe progress. I immediately began introducing myself explaining my mission. A young early teen girl named Kalisha visited each day and spoke English well. Kalisha was tall and strikingly attractive; her bright mind was clearly evident. Kalisha became my interpreter and guide. She schooled me on the native dialect, which was an immense help. After the construction was complete the organizational phase began and Kalisha became my paid assistant, an invaluable source relating to the entire effort. The clinic was named The Place of New Hope opening on June 1st 1982.
“I had not anticipated the dimension of this village’s need for medical services. It was an extreme awakening, also challenging to know where to begin. My building plan included a traditional school classroom attached to the main building. I would see patients until one PM and the remainder of the day taught children basic school curriculum. This became my routine, and also my passion.
“I wrote grant proposals in the evening, sending them to every source I could locate. With the evolution of the Internet this procedure became more efficient. In time responses provided enough funds to meet operational costs and basic personal needs.
“Monique married a fellow resident doctor, a Frenchman, Alain Bissonette. Over the years they have visited often and built a small house on my property planning retirement, envisioning becoming contributors in an effort to assist these beautiful people. As age descends on me such assistance is most welcome. Monique and Alain are gifted, dedicated physicians.
“Now I am fighting the invasion of cancer and am grateful to be in remission. Cancer tends to reoccur and I will do all in my power to prevent this.”
Nurse Julia returned Myrna’s journal the next day.
“Dr. Davis, your life has been a challenge few could imagine. I’m appreciative for the opportunity to read your journal. Reading details of your life exhibits power of persistence, discovering renewal revealing new direction and purpose. This is a compelling story. I’ll never forget reading of your life.”
Myrna returned to the clinic and was delighted to be back at her workspace and home. She greeted Monique and Kalisha, “I feel like I escaped from prison. I’m weak, but improving each day. Monique I am forever grateful for your help. Your presence erased my worries.”
That evening Myrna and Monique discussed their overall situation. Monique and Alain planned to retire next year, looking forward to moving permanently into their small house becoming active participants assisting in patient care. Myrna planned to expand her school and if Monique, Alain and Kalisha assumed most clinical duties it would allow Myrna to escalate her teaching ambitions.
“Monique, I must discuss something with you that has been haunting me.”
“Of course, tell me.”
“As I ponder my life’s unfolding arriving here with you at this clinic a sensation settles in my heart and mind. Contemplating my early life, William Macgregor, the horrid experience of the accident, the money from the lawsuit, our meeting and your introducing me to Schweitzer planting a seed leading us to where we are now. These events indicate spiritual influence, abstract, yet distinctly evolutionary generating from life’s natural occurrences. It seems impossible what we’ve experienced is coincidence.”
Monique said, “Myrna, I’ve never believed in coincidences, always felt destiny is pre ordained and our reaction to these energies embody manifestation of goals and achievements. This does emit spiritual presence as we serve the purpose and direction given us.”
Epilogue: The following year Monique and Alain moved into their small house. Myrna was grateful, as her patient count had become difficult to manage. Myrna performed some medical duties, but Monique, Alain and Kalisha carried the bulk of patient load. Myrna loved working with children, and this new support team created opportunity for greater dedication as a teacher.
At the present all is well in Takula village at The Place of New Hope clinic, as this dedicated ensemble formed a bond delivering love, harmony and assistance to many in desperate need. Myrna’s cancer did not return. Monique and Alain frequently express their joy living in their simple house and truly look forward to each day. Myrna sponsored Kalisha to attend advanced nurse practitioner training in Nairobi opening potential for a higher paying job. After Kalisha completed her training she returned to the village clinic telling Myrna this is where she chooses to remain. The word spread about this small clinic in a remote village in Kenya. Benefactors appeared from everywhere, and the clinic organized a food bank from monetary gifts.
Myrna’s was inspired from the effects of her crisis to rise above her disfigurements. When Myrna and Monique discovered a wayward child gleaning for drops of soda in discarded Pepsi bottles, their hearts were pierced, confirming promise to that child and promises to themselves activating ambition to improve the lives of those in despair.
As in Robert Frost’s elegant poem Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening states, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.” The caregivers at The Place of New Hope clinic also have promises to keep and miles to go before they sleep.
The voice of destiny sings in varied rhythmic tones, often off key and out of tempo, like a catbird singing in a thorn bush. Then the sky opens and darkness becomes light as clouds of doubt vanish.


“I want to open a free clinic in Sub Sahara Africa like Schweitzer.”

Dr. Myrna Davis

Burns Night in the Lilac Town

By Herbert Eyre Moulton
(1927-2005)
 
This is the story --- more or less --- of what when two charming and resourceful young ladies quite flabbergasted our entire federation of chums, buddies, and miscreants raffishly known as The Anti-Decency League of Greater Chicagoland, or ADL for short, and this by dint of one of the most outrageous escapades that any of us had ever carried off.
It was back in the late 1940's, when most of us were only a year or two out of high school and intent on discovering new and original methods of shocking and, if possible, outsmarting the petty-bourgeoise, convention-strangled society into which all of us, quite without our consent, had been born. We had always. prided ourselves on our happy-go-lucky, nose-thumbing flaunting of the rules that had been laid down for us. But with this one coup-de-théâtre, these two accomplished doxies, Joan and Ginny (AKA the Duchess and her wily handmaid) set all our previous antics and accomplishments in the shade once and for all ...
How? By appearing in our midst one night with the most glittering trophies that any of us had ever seen or even dreamt about --- introducing into a nice normal Saturday night get-together a trio of handsome and virile Scots Highlanders in full marching regalia: kilted, sporanned, silver-buckled and complete with skirling bagpipes and tootling flute, recruited directly from Edinburgh's famed Royal Scots Marching Band, which earlier in the week had opened its first-ever engagement in America. For the record: Alex, Angus and Robbie.
This sudden, completely unexpected appearance on our home-scene, right "SPLAT!!!" in the middle of one of our pleasant but unexceptional bashes, sparked a night of almost barbaric plentitude, of impromptu Highland Flings and  improvised Sword Dances (using our kitchen cutlery), of spontaneous Sing-Songs and Robert Burns poetry-recitations crowding one upon another, of toasts and Usquebaugh-quaffing unprecedented this side of Auld Reekie (Edinburgh to the uninitiated), of outlandish stunts like the communal conga-line "Colonel Bogeying" out the back door, down the stairs, around the corner, along the town's main drag, then through the street door, up the front stairs, and back into the apartment without losing a beat; and set dances with Angus as a most professional caller, leading up to the most sumptuous banquet any of us had ever wallowed in and which threatened to go on till daybreak --- then a grisly episode involving a temporary off-limits bathroom and a universal agony of bursting bladders and curses both loud and deep, and all to the ear-splitting squawling of a barage of bagpipes, like the Sorcerer's Apprentice, seemingly impossible to turn off. ("Sweet God," as my mother Nell moaned sometime during this surrealastic charade, "Is there no way to turn that one and his bagpipes off?!") --- mere blips, really, in an otherwise seamless montage of uninterrupted feasting-and-fun, the likes of which our everyday, dull-as-ditchwater suburbs have never experienced before or since ...
With its extended highs, and its alarms and excursions leading up to a pandemonium-blixted climax, this was an occasion that is still being talked about in the hushed, incredulous tones usually reserved for extra-terrestrial sightings or once-in-a-lifetime jackpot killings on one of those quiz shows forever cluttering up our TV-screens ...
And all due to the sheer persuasive chutzpah of our two vivacious vestals.
 
 
Wi’a hundred pipers
Who or what is a true Scotsman --- and how to become one when you'd like to be, but aren't? Questions such as these took on an urgent new impact one sunny autumn day in the late 40's when the Entertainment pages of the Chicago newspapers carried an annoncement intriguing enough to turn plain ordinary citizens (starting with our own suburban WASPS) into natives of Clydeside or denizons of Edinburgh Castle:
"SENSATION! THE PIPERS ARE COMING TO TOWN!"
And that was only the beginning. The text led off with a starting call-to-arms lifted from the old Scots Marching Song THE HUNDRED PIPERS:
"Wi'a hundred pipers an' a' an' a',
We'll up an' gi' them a blaw, a blaw!"
Aye, pipers such as those who'd soon be winging their way from Auld Reekie to the Windy City, where, for the first time ever, the celebrated Royal Scots Marching Band and Pipers would be performing a full program of marching-and-bagpipe music as featured in the legendary Royal Tattoo, a time-honored spectacle, which from time immemorial had been a fixture at Edinburgh's historic castle --- hair-raising, in-your-face skirling of bagpipes, bolstered by pounding drums and tootling winds and brass --- flashes of steel and silver, fur-trimmed sporrans bouncing like demented shaving-brushes on the brilliantly-colored kilts of Royal Stewart or Black Watch, with a full corps of skilled dancers offering a fantastic program ranging from set-dances such as reels, hornpipes, strathspeys and jigs. This truly once-in-a-lifetime happening, involving scores of skilled performers, heirs to centuries of stormy and dramatic history, from the earliest Viking raids, down through the tragic fortunes of Robert the Bruce, William Wallace and the doomed and romantic last of the Stuarts, Bonnie Prince Charlie, right down to the fierce "Ladies from Hell" of World War I --- would be opening shortly at Chicago's time-honored Stadium, erstwhile showplace of national political conventions and other forms of light entertainment from international sporting events to Sonja Henie's renowned Ice Revue and Ringling Bros.-Barnum and Bailey three ring circus. (Somehow my parents had managed to take me to them all!)
The annoncement had acted like a high-wattage volt of electricity on Scot and non-Scot alike, galvanizing, in our case, even the most comatose of our drones to hotfoot it to the W. Madison Street ticket-office. No matter which category of Scots- Americans, if any, one belonged to, the important thing was to be there and celebrate the occasion with as much ceremony and enthusiasm as possible, for who could say when an oppurtunity as rare as this would come our way again?
Three Categories of Scots-Americans
As for our own serried ranks, these could be said to fall, like Caesar's Gaul, into three separate categories, with varying pride and interest in what might be callled their Heathery-Hebridian Heritage ---
Heading the list would be the happy few who could call themselves The Real Thing, 100 % genuine Scots-Americans, beginning (in our own circle) with the indomitable Stephen clan, whose progenitor, organist-Sunday-composer-bon-vivant-and-munifiscent host, Robert M. Stephen, was born and bred in that most regal of cities, the classical Highland capital of Edinburgh. Thus, the birthplace of our beloved "Codgerkin", with his unstoppable train of richly rolled "R's", and his equally unstoppable free hand in pouring out brimming flagons of his signature Ballantine's, as he did almost every Sunday morning after church services at  St. Mark's Episcopal, where I, often as not, gargled tuneful anthems, mostly of his own melodious composition ...
Besides the "Codg" were his gracious wife ("Herbert, I'm nothing but a cross old dame")and their two stalwart sons (my. self-appointed chauffeur-bodyguards) Robert M. Jr. ("The Baron") and his one-year younger brother George, equally brawny, but less flamboyant and more retiring, with a limp acquired, along with a Purple Heart, in a dust-up with General Rommel's crack desert-troops at El Alemain.
(Years later, I am pleased to say, the Baron, more expansive and baronial than ever, would hold an honored place in the world of higher education as one of the most popular and influential Professors of Political Science in America's midwest, with none of his sweeping humor or liberality diminished, and still eager to act as my unofficial bodyguard (whenever he thought I needed one.) As for George, that gentle soul later married a pleasant widow-lady of some means, and retired with her to Florida's West Coast, where he could really work at perfecting his golf game --- an original Scots institution (as you will recall.)
-------------------------
Getting back to those halycon days of the 40's, I remember those weekly post-church sessions at the Stephen's cosy, book-and-music-lined bungalow on Glen Ellyn's Annadale Avenue, with Lucille's freshly baked Scotch shortbread, Codger's generous hand at pouring out draughts of golden Ballantine's, and the boys' non-stop argle-bargle with me covering any topic from European History to our astonishing President Harry S. Truman, as among the most life-enhancing of my entire life.
Besides the bounteous Stephens, this upper stratum of 100 % Scots-Americans included, as well, assorted MacRaes, MacDonalds, and most notably, the gifted, mercurial, oft-infuriating, and highly disputatious St. Clairs, probably my family's closest friends in that part of the world, of a clan hailed in past days by no less than Sir Walter Scott in these words ---
"So still they blaze, when fate is nigh,
The Lordly line of high St. Clair ..."
It was their own daughter Joan who blazed highest and almost constantly, an electric storm in herself, and known to most of us as simply the Duchess, the Duchess of Sage, the surname being all that remained from a disastrous wartime marriage. Suffice to say that it was Joan, aided and abetted by her chum and closest confederate, the comely and quietly lethal Ginny Lee, who, all on her lonesome, rounded up and delivered into our midst the magnifiscent trio of Highlanders, whose sudden and fortuitous presence in our company was the motivation and raison d'être for this entire chronicle.
Now for the second category of Scots-Americans ...
This second stage of the tartan-tinged pecking-order would include what might be termed the loyal and patriotic half-breeds --- namely various Robertsons, Gregorys, Taylors, Leslies, Staufenbergs, and, last, but anything but least, my own family, by virtue of my paternal grandmother, Minnie R. Moulton, born Maria Ross Harper in Philadelphia in 1858, and descended (on the Scots side) from the Laings of Aberdeen, where since the 16th century (Mary Queen of Scots, Darnley, Knox!), they had been holding forth at the piquantly named Todholes-on-the-Pitgalvany. Another Philadelphia-Scots kinsman of ours was Samuel Ross, whose cousin Betsy gained immortality --- well, everybody knows how: sewing the first American flag for George Washington. (I do remember relatives of my Grandmother Moulton's generation speaking familarly.of "Cousin Betsy", so that, whenever glory was borne past in a parade, one or the other of them was bound to remark, "There goes cousin Betsy's handiwork.")
Rounding off our catalog: the Third Category, most numerous and most vocal of all, far too involved I their Scotsophilia to be considered mere Wanna-Be's, eager to investigate and, whenever possible acquire anything in the very least Scottish --- rainwear, broghams (big heavy boots for crossing sudden moors!), hand-woven tweeds, even the rough, hardy Harris, which in rainy weather always reeks faintly of seaweed --- hand-knitted goods, of course (cardigans, tams, long stockings, and all manner of tartan plaids, as colorful as sartorially possible: a perfect example of what they used to demean as a "run-on-sentence", okay?")
Even fonder were --- (and are) these all-Scots freaks of any of the myriad Scottish delicacies available, many of them in posh speciality shops, but also on the shelves of most upscale super-marts --- Scotch ham and salmon, shortbread and cakes of all breeds and sizes, teeth-shattering taffy and chunky marmelades (the best, laced with Whiskey!) and tinned broths and soups, even Haggis!
Likewise held in highest esteem: The Poems and Songs of Robert Burns (arguably the poet closest to the people's hearts). And for Scots and non-Scots alike, that greatest of Scotland's bequests to mankind, known both in the native Gaelic and the language of the Sassanachs: USQUEBAUGH, or just plain Whiskey, Water of Life. Internationally appreciated, nay, loved, no matter what the label --- be it Bell's, Dewar's, Johnny Walker,  Glenfiddle, or any of countless magi names, never forgetting the jokey old chestnut listing the telephone number of His Holiness the Pope: VAT 69 --- Slainte! No matter what! (Does Irish Gaelic count at all?) Anyway, Bottoms Up! Glasses raised, as well, to any of the countless by-products as Drambuie and Scotch Mist, each in his own way a bit of Heaven.
 
Her Grace The Duchess Regrets
Ah yes, the opening night performance --- how to make as proud a showing as we could --- going smoothly enough, except for one small, but puzzling detail in a logistics operation roughly comparable to the D-Day landings in Normandy a handful of years before. Suddenly it became clear that the staunchest and most vociferous Scots-enthusiast hadn't signed up, had in fact inexplicably begged off attending the premiere, giving as an excuse the lamest in the catalog: "Due to a previous engagement." Prithee, WHAT "PREVIOUS ENGAGEMENT"? I know: DON'T ASK/ DONT TELL. (We never DID find out --- Frustrating is NOT the word!) By all this is meant (who else?) Joan, Duchess of Sage. This "lordly line of St. Clair", of which Joan was the young chatelaine, were perhaps the most interesting of all our many fascinating friends and asquaintances. They seemed to embody everything one imagines the classic Scottish temperament to be --- moody, dramatic, unpredictable, liable to switch in an instant from the darkly dour to highly charged exuberance with no warning-signal whatsoever --- yet singly or collectively such marvelous company that one gladly put up with all the rest of it, as one does (and gladly) with friends one truly cherishes. (Oddly enough, the Stephen clan were in almost every way, the exact opposite of the St. Clairs, and yet were just as "Scottish" of all their traits. Which is what makes Celts --- and my mother Nell was no exception --- brilliant sunshine one minute, a downpour the next. YOU try to figure them out --- but one thing is certain --- they are none of them dull. Infuriating, they can be (and often are), but boring? No way!
Joan's abrupt cancellation of her performance at the "Royal Scots" Premiere at the Stadium was all too typical of that demi-diva, whose imperious manner and regal eccentricity had, as already mentioned, earned her the soubriquet of Her Grace the Duchess (not yet 30 and already almost a Royal!). Hers was manner so formidable that any poor wretch heard muttering, White-Rabbit-like, "The Duchess! Oh! the Duchess! Won't she be simply savage?" could only mean, not Lewis Carroll's titled termagant, but the dazzler ensconced at the St. Clair family compound over on Glen Ellyn's wooded Riford Road. (In this account of that singular evening, when the Royal Scots Band briefly invaded Lombard-The-Lilac-Town, you will encounter two more of the St. Clair dynasty: Robert, Joan's brother, who, in this case, is merely a face in the crowd, and their mother (the Doyenne) Hazel, a gentle exception to everything already said about the Scottish temperament. Let me assure you that we have been every bit as puzzled as anyone by the quirks of the "pawky" Scots soul, my Dad and I, trying to keep up with my Irish mother's rapid changes of mood. Her saving grace was her blessed Irish sense of humor that never let her take herself too seriously. The winning formula: (and here's where the metaphors careen wildly off the tracks) Quicksilver VS. Dark storm-clouds: gloom, dark storm-clouds only occasionally relieved by shafts of sunshine. Anybody able to figure all that out, please let us in on that secret!
When the news of Joan's absense from the premiere-party became known, I believe we were all more than slightly relieved --- for once, somebody else might be able to get a word in edgeways. Besides which, she would doubtless make up for it the following Saturday when gracing the performance, with her favorite confederate, the lovely, but lethal Ginny Lee in attendance. Not for the first time would the query arise: what have the two of them been up to THIS time? For, as always when this dulcet duo was involved, something extraordinary, something quite outré would be afoot. And for those not quite familiar with that nifty little French adjective, here's what the Concise Oxford Dictionary says about it:
"Outré: Outside the bounds of propriety, eccentric, outraging decorum."
Talk about le mot juste!
As our tale unfolds, the appropriateness of this definition will become crystal-clear. For, as the old saying has it, thereby hangs a tale, not to belabor the French word-borrowings (but just one more?), one that holds the very raison d'etre of this entire narrative.
Aye, this was a happening that still lives in the collective memory as one of the boldest and most bizarre in the entire annals of the ADL, of Herbert-Parties, perhaps of the party going history of Greater Chicagoland, Subdivision: Western Suburbs. Once again the query: what had those two ornamental doxies, Joan and Ginny, wrought?
What --- to put it as simply as possible --- what they had wrought was introduce into a perfectly ordinary, normal Saturday evening Herbert-party a magnificent trio of virile and talented Scottish Highlanders in full parade dress, direct from Edinburgh Castle by way of the Chicago Stadium, complete with bagpipes and silver flute.
Was there ever such a spectacular entrance made into a gathering as this? COULD there ever be? And all because these two high-spirited and enterprising bimbos from Glen Ellyn, USA, got so carried away by the pulse-quickening, bladder-tickling spectacle they had been witnessing, an evening that so beggered every precious description and nullified every form of anticipation that, even before the final ovation had subsided, the two of them had hitched up their chic New Look skirts and trundled hurriedly backstage...
There, with adrenaline bubbling and adulation reaching orgasmic proportions, they gave themselves up to the melée of stamping, sweating Scots gladiators (or so they seemed to Our Girls), still vibrating from their three hours’ performance and the attendant triumph --- gave themselves up? No! They positively let themselves be engulfed, and, both girls babbling non-stop, they so enraptured three of the kilted hunks in particular --- namely Angus, the ultimate chauffeur-manager, Alex, prize piper and part time pianist-accompanist; and Robbie, star flutist and all of 18, a gentle ginger-haired gift for the Gods --- so enraptured and enchanted them that all three immediately dropped whatever plans they’d had for the evening and snapped up the girls invitation to journey forthwith, out to the western suburb of Lombard (Yep!! The promised goal:) Lombard , the Lilac Town, an ongoing party at the Moultons’ with Nell and the 2 Herbs, and all their works and pomps. 

The Leader of the Band

By

Angela Camack



It is a clear April night in 1967 in New York City. Follow three pretty young women clipping along the sidewalk. One always walks a trace behind the others. If you watch her closely, you may notice that she sometimes laughs slightly after everyone else, or frowns slightly after everyone else. When secure, or after a drink, she can be very smart and amazingly funny, but much of the time she feels like she is walking on stilts in quicksand. You may see that her hands are clenched at times; she still occasionally bites her nails. You will notice her bright saffron Indian blouse, black miniskirt and black tights, the butterfly clasp in her dark brown hair, her huge green eyes and graceful walk. Her mind only sees that her body is curvier than what is trendy and her legs too short.
How did Eliza get in this predicament? By being the child of a small-town drunk, growing up chubby and spotty and in hand-me-downs. By being bullied at school and coming home to a father with a heavy hand when drunk and who insulted or ignored his children when sober. A mother who was too cowed and exhausted to intervene. A perfect recipe to produce a tongue-tied loner with shredded confidence, bullied in her home and out and ashamed everywhere.
But Eliza (born Ella) is brilliant, an honest-to-God off-the-charts genius, which got her a full scholarship at Barnard College. She has not looked back. She lost her baby fat, her spots and
some of her insecurity before her freshman year. She disappeared into the Barnard campus long
enough to watch everyone else, learning about what to wear, how to speak and how to act like a person who is normal in the world. New York City and Barnard are only two states away from her home, but the classes, the ideas, the talk, the theaters and galleries are a universe away. She began to make friends, dated and had two relationships that ended without (much) pain. She has worked every semester and summer, but this fall she will enter Columbia Law School. She plans to advocate for children’s rights. She owes it to other children, to watch out for the ones who will be kicked around by life much too soon. She has only herself, but is building her own path now, brick by stubborn brick. She knew she was starting to win her battle when she ran into someone from her high school while she was visiting the Columbia University campus, someone who put dissection frogs from the Bio lab in her lunch sack. He didn’t recognize her and tried to ask her out.
But back to Eliza (born Ella, but Eliza sounds kickier) and her friends/room-mates, Belinda, a law student, and Paige, an entry-level reader for a publishing house. Paige’s sister works for the agent for several rock bands. Part of her job is throwing the parties. She is responsible for providing food, drink, ice, substances of choice and pretty girls. The roommates often reap the benefits of this arrangement. Though the three arrive together, it is understood that they are not stuck together. All that is promised is that anyone who ventures out on her own will let the others know. Eliza has never gone off on her own. Sometimes it takes all her energy to feel normal among the singers, models, publicists and so forth that come to these parties. She still needs to walk slightly behind, laugh just a beat later.
The roommates grab a taxi and by 11 have arrived at the elegant Park Avenue address where the party is starting to boil. After winding through the crowd at the bar to claim drinks, they
enter the large living room. Couches and chairs are arranged in conversational groupings, and large pillows are scattered on the floor. One of the agent’s clients is performing. The group is staying over before leaving for their first American tour and is becoming famous. Not Beatles or Stones famous (and with the fear of becoming a few-hit wonder nipping at their suede booted heels), but enough to have had Top 40 hits and a respectably-sized pack of groupies trailing them.
The group is Swedish; their off-kilter English can sound charming, and their music is bright and optimistic. They don’t aspire to make music that is political or social or aim for psychedelic poetry. What saves the group from playing in dive bars (so far) is the lead singer. He is tall, with dark blond curls and blue eyes. His whiskey-and-cigarettes voice is a contrast to his baby face (sounding so much like blues that radio listeners occasionally think is an older Black man rather than a blonde kid from Stockholm). His slight awkwardness is endearing, as if he is still getting used to a growth spurt. Most important, he has what cannot be taught in any drama or music school in the world; he has something that compels you to watch him. Call it charisma, call it star quality, it is hard to define but easy to see. No matter who else on stage, he is the one your eyes follow. No matter if their music bounces and trills and the English lyrics sound like they were learned phonetically, by the end of every set he can spoon up the women and some of the men like Jell-O.
The three roommates claim pillows in the area around the band. “I looove this song,” coos a voice behind them. Her date is unhappy. “Please, they do crap. If rock was a supermarket, their
junk would be the strained peas. Look at that jerk up there. What a Swedish meatball. What is he trying to prove? Does he have a pair of socks stuffed down the front of his jeans?”
More people are crowding into the warm, smoky apartment as the set ends. A joint makes its first round. Eliza prays that nobody has the flu and tokes, briefly holding in the smoke. She
likes to keep her wits on nights like this, and the host’s expensive gin and imported tonic has already made her flushed and airy-headed.
The band puts their instruments away and joins the group. The lead singer drops his lanky frame onto the pillow next to Eliza, folding his long legs underneath him. “Did you like the music?”
“Very much.”
“I’m Theodor.”
“I know.” Oh, brother “I’m Eliza.”
“Eliza. What a nice name.” He cups her hand in his, graceful musician’s hands with fingertips callused from the guitar. “Liza, Liza, skies are grey/But if you smile on me, all the clouds will roll away….” he sings and trails off. “Gershwin.” He takes a smoke as the joint makes another circle. Eliza feels her flush deepen and fakes another toke. Her wits are already getting hard to keep.
Soon they are trading conversation as the party swirls around them. Band members join and leave, girls lean over him, hair swinging, but he stays. Often the movement of the party
separates them, as they circulate with other guests, get snacks or something to drink, but if she finds a seat he finds one next to her, folding his long body on the pillow like origami.
They feel comfortable right away, talking about his composing, his singing, his travels, her classes, her job at Columbia University’s Butler Library (a pastry store for smart kids). Soon he is laughing at the stories she tells about her job history. Soon other people are attracted to his laughter and are listening and laughing too.
She has found that turning unhappy things into funny things makes them easier. So, she tells stories about her job as an on-call psychiatric aide and the weekend when two delusional patients who thought they were John the Baptist kept fighting over the title. The restaurant that fired her when it became obvious that she was getting food poisoning after eating their food on break. The summer spent as a nanny in the Hamptons where she was chased around the pool by the husband and had to call for an ambulance when he developed chest pain. She is happy to be in command of the room, and of herself. (But she notices that Theodor sometimes laughs a beat after everyone else).
She feels the need to stretch, joins the line at the bathroom and then asks the bartender to give her tonic water, ice and lime, no gin. She can at least look like she’s part of the drinking crowd, which is getting louder and messier. Different types of smoke are clouding the air. She decides to step in the foyer for a few minutes, for a breather in more ways than one. She has held her own tonight, but it has tired her. Sometimes she does not know which is harder, the loneliness or the effort of being with people.
Drinking her drink, she feels two arms circle her waist, and almost drops her glass. “Found you!” Theodor. So she is the one he wants tonight. She can’t figure out why. She thinks back to her chubby, spotty adolescence, wondering if this is a trick, if at any moment, the band, the models, the agents and publicists, will turn and laugh at her presumption.
“I’m not going anywhere. I just needed to get away from the smoke for a second. I bet my eyes are red and my nose looks like a tomato.”
Theodor laughs and cups her face in his hands. “No. You are beautiful.” He kisses her. “And funny. More girls should be funny.” The kisses are very nice, but she is not so sure about the hand sliding down the front of her Indian blouse. She pulls away.
“I’m not going to lead you on, Theodor. I take things slowly.”
He kisses the tip of her nose. “Fair enough. I understand. We’ll go back. Ready for more smoke?”
“Ye gods, which kind?”
He happens to glance at her clenched hands. “You are nervous?” She opens her fingers. “Oh, no. I bite my nails sometimes. When I am nervous. Awful habit.”
He smiles and turns his hands over. The nails are bitten almost to nubs. “Performing. There is nothing like it. Like you are flying and taking everyone with you. You just have to remember not to think about crashing.” They go back to the party together.
By 2 a.m. the smoke is denser, the talk disjointed and the laughter shrill. Even Theodor’s energy is fading. They step out on the balcony. The cool, quiet air feels wonderful after the smoke and the noise. Eliza’s head briefly feels clearer until Theodor pulls her to his side. Danger. She gives in anyhow. “New York is a beautiful city,” he said. I love the streets. I love the energy; it is different than anyplace else. So many different kinds of people, from everywhere. Not like Stockholm, though. Even the stars are different. The trees, how the pavement feels. Stockholm is beautiful. Have you ever been?’
“No, but I’d like to. I’d like to go almost anywhere. Are you homesick?”
His grin returns. “I am desolate. You must cheer me up.”
“Aw, poor baby.” He turns her around and kisses her gently. Eliza wonders what would happen if she bit his full lower lip, just slightly. A shiver passes over his body.
“Can you change your mind about going slow?”
“Yes, I think so, yes.”
Theodor takes her hand and pulls her along behind him, barely giving her time to signal Belinda as they hurry along. Belinda does a double take; no, Eliza has never been the one to break away before.
His bedroom has half-packed suitcases. Two guitars and a mandolin are in the corner and sheet music is stacked on the desk. Sheets of staff paper are also on the desk, some erased and with dark slashes of comments in places.
Theodor is much more comfortable in the bedroom than she. He heads toward the bathroom, indifferently shutting the door, casual about whether it is shut or ajar. Eliza, on the other hand, firmly closes the bathroom door and runs the water during the entire time she is in there. Figuring the night’s acrobatics will earn her at least a glob of his toothpaste, she puts a dollop on her finger and “brushes” her teeth. Combing her hair, she takes a deep breath and hopes for the best.
Theodor is already nude and waiting. She notes that the unhappy listener from earlier in the evening was wrong about the socks.
Afterward, Eliza moves toward the side of the bed, damp, flushed again. Theodor takes her hand. “Will you stay tonight?” He turns out the bedside lamp and curves around her.
Eliza stays, but does not sleep well. The activity from the dregs of the party filters upstairs. The noises are different in this part of the city. She still cannot process what she has done, sleeping with a stranger and feeling only happy about it.
She moves away, not wanting to wake Theodor with her restlessness. He stirs anyhow, taking her arm. “Will you stay? Home is so far away tonight” ….. His voice trails off, into Swedish and back into sleep.
In the morning they make love again. Eliza showers and dresses right afterward, not wanting to embarrass them both by hanging around, but Theodor is not eager to see her go. (At least not yet.) Throwing on jeans and a T-shirt, he brings up coffee and croissants. They talk about
any number of things, the tour, the places he will go and what she knows about them, her job, her classes. How lovely the night had been for them.
He cups her face in his long musician’s fingers and kisses her. “So beautiful….” Eliza looks into his eyes and can see the boy who is homesick for Stockholm and bites his nails. But Eliza can tell that he is already moving on, to the tour, the next city, the next apartment, the next girl. Of course, the next girl.
She declines his offer to call for a car or even a cab to take her home, needing to be completely alone for a bit. She gets off the subway several stops early, hoping a walk would clear her head, which is still jumbled from gin, pot, smoke, adrenalin, confusion.
Back at her apartment, despite a headache and jittery feelings the walk has not cleared, she fixes coffee, needing to keep her hands and mind busy, but settled enough to face Belinda when she clatters into the apartment. She taps Eliza on the head with the Sunday New York Times, which does not help her headache at all.
“Eliza! I saw you! With the lead singer yet! Still waters run deep. Was it great?”
She doesn’t quite have an answer, but says it was. It was great. Belinda looks at her closely. “You OK, Eliza?”
“I’m fine, Belinda. Really fine.”
“OK. I’m here all day, you know. Me and the laundry and my Contracts book.”
For a week she had idle thoughts that he would come back. The sight of long legs in jeans, dark gold curls, the sound of a voice on the radio conjured him up, but she knew that one Saturday night was all she would ever have of him. But the night had moved Eliza one step closer to being fine, really fine. The chubby, spotty loner, bouncing like a bumper car between bullies at school and bullies at home, receded a little farther back into the past. The leader of the band had chosen her, had called her beautiful, had spent one of his New York City nights with her.
Eliza would still need to learn to find her worth in herself, not in the eyes of others, and to have some compassion for that chubby, spotty loner rather than pushing her away like everyone else had done. But she had time. You built your own path, brick by brick.


​

SIX LITTLE STORIES

By Durgesh Verma

 
                    
                 { 1 }

ONCE upon a time, villagers decided to pray for rain.
On the day of prayer all people gathered ... but only one boy came with an umbrella.
                  
                That's
                FAITH!

         -----------------
                  
                { 2 }

WHEN U throw a baby in the air, she laughs because she knows U will catch her.
                 
              That's
              TRUST!

       ------------------
                  
                { 3 }
EVERY night we go to bed, without any assurance of being alive the next morning ...
still ... we set the alarms  to wake up.
                 
               That's
               HOPE!

       -----------------

                   
                 { 4 }

WE plan big things for tomorrow in spite of zero knowledge of the future.             
                
              That's
         CONFIDENCE!

        -------------------

                  
                { 5 }

WE see the world suffering, and marriages breaking
but still ...
we get married.            
                 
               That's 
                LOVE.                                      

      --------------------      

                    
                   {6}

Now that U've been blessed, don't be stingy with the blessing, share this with some friends. 
                   
                  That's

                 CARING!

(Foto mía en Tudanca de Ebro, Burgos, España)



MIS DIOSES Y MONSTRUOS

In Spanish

By Daniel de Culla


André Gide nos dejó dicho: “todos llevamos un dios de bolsillo”, y yo añado: “y monstruos en el capirote; la cabeza”.
Hay dioses y monstruos de primera categoría y de segunda categoría, cantados y adorados a placer, u odiados, que crearon los cuentos, el refrán, y la anécdota de cualquier manera.
A veces, muchas, ensalzados en batallas y guerras; otras, impuestos por el crimen y la hoguera. Dioses y monstruos, todos ellos que quieren nuestro espirito enjaulado y nuestros cuerpos, sin duda, en la Buttercup Position (posición de ranúnculo), o posición del misionero (missionary possition); siempre esperando un paraíso de felicidad “absolutely zonked” (absolutamente mamados), y controlados por sus guardianes: ángeles, arcángeles, demonios, inquisidores, fuerzas represoras, a cual más y con más mala leche.
Clasificación de Dioses y Monstruos a la vez:
El Apostól Sri Svadasti, cantó: “There is Serenity in Chaos. Seek ye the Eye of the Hurricane (Hay Serenidad en el Caos. Busca ya el Ojo del Huracán).
De entre estos dioses y monstruos, de primera y segunda categoría, (si son recitados infinitamente, el primero será el último, y el último el primero), podemos citar a St. Hung Mung, sabio de la
antigua China, inventor del sagrado Caos; St. Mo-jo, espíritu encantador; St. Zaratud, Friedrich Nietzsche; St.Elder Mal, espíritu que refresca la experiencia; St. Gu-lik, mensajero de la Diosa Eris esotérica, figurado como una cucaracha: St. Yossarian: claridad y confusión están en él; St. Quixote ( Don Quijote, Cervantes); St. Bokonon (Kurt Vonnegut), abad de una religión ficticia practicada por muchos de los personajes en su novela Cat's Cradle (Cuna de Gato, novela de ciencia ficción. Muchos de los textos sagrados del bokononismo fueron escritos en forma de calipsos (estilo de música afro caribeña).
Entre los más mortales, siguiendo el slogan de Norton Cabal, S.F.: “Everybody understands Mickey Mouse. Few understand Herman Hesse. Only a hand ful understood Albert Einstein. And nobody understood Emperor Norton (Todo el mundo entiende a Mickey Mouse. Pocos entienden a Herman Hesse. Sólo una mano completa entendió a Albert Einstein. Y nadie entendió al emperador Norton), podemos citar a:
Apolo; Apiano, adoradores de un Asno; Apuleyo, quien se convirtió en Asno; Cambriles, el famoso Asno capuchino que levitaba y veía a Dios; Bufón, que cantaba las glorias del Asno como ninguno; Caco, ese ladrón formidable, lleno de maldad y de enredos; como, en un tiempo pasado, el famoso Luis Candelas, adorado y venerado en Madrid, Espàña; el Cíclope de un solo ojo, amado por los niños en sus cuentos; Onocentauros con dos lenguas, Onotauros, animales mestizos del toro y la yegua, signos de la Lujuria; Maquiavelo; Midas, quien nació con orejas de Asno; Príapo; Sileno; Thartac, el dios de los Heveos, con cabeza de Asno;Tirano, unos de los más procreadores del Mundo. Cuentan que nació, en la Prehistoria, en Tirano, localidad y comuna italiana de la provincia de Sondrio, región de Lombardía, en la frontera con Suiza, quien engendró a Hitler, Mussolini, Franco, y a tantos otros que en el mundo rigen el destino de los imbéciles y tontos bendecidos bajo palio, adoradores y benefactores, ¡benditos ellos¡ de la Burra de Balam, y de Borak, la Burra de Mahoma.
Yo, de quedarme, me quedo con Eris esotérica, diosa de la Discordia y la Confusión. ¡No hay otra ¡
Anécdota:
A las puertas de la Poetry Society, 22 Betterton Street, London, England, alguien me dio una hoja volante con esta enseñanza:
“Mucho saber del Cielo y sus dioses; de la Tierra y sus monstruos; pero poco saber del suelo, pues no has visto esa caca de perro que has pisado”.


***

Translation: 


MY GODS AND MONSTERS


André Gide left us saying:
"We all carry a God in our pocket",
and I added:
"And monsters in the head".


There are Gods and monsters of first category and second category, sung and worshiped at will, or hated, who created the stories, the proverb, and the anecdote in any way.
Sometimes, many, extolled in battles and wars; others, imposed by crime and the bonfire. Gods and monsters, all of them who want our spirit caged and our bodies, no doubt, in the Buttercup Position (ranunculus position), or missionary position (missionary possition); always waiting for a paradise of happiness "absolutely zonked" (absolutely blow-jobs), and controlled by their guardians: angels, archangels, demons, inquisitors, repressive forces, which more and with more bad milk.


Classification of Gods and Monsters at the same time:
The Apostle Sri Svadasti, sang: "There is Serenity in Chaos. Seek ye the Eye of the Hurricane (There is Serenity in Chaos. Look for the Eye of the Hurricane).
Among these Gods and monsters, first and second category, (if they are recited infinitely, the first will be the last, and the last the first), we can quote St. Hung Mung, wise of ancient China, inventor of the sacred Chaos ; St. Mo-jo, charming spirit; St. Zaratud, Friedrich Nietzsche; St. Elder Mal, spirit that refreshes the experience; St. Gu-lik, messenger of the Goddess Esoteric Eris, pictured as a cockroach: St. Yossarian: clarity and confusion are in him; St. Quixote (Don Quixote, Cervantes); St. Bokonon (Kurt Vonnegut), abou of a fictitious religion practiced by many of the characters in his novel Cat's Cradle (Cat's Cradle, science fiction novel.) Many of the sacred texts of bokononism were written in the form of calipsos (style of Afro Caribbean music).
Among the most deadly, following the slogan of Norton Cabal, S.F .:
"Everybody understands Mickey Mouse. Few understand Herman Hesse. Only a handful understood Albert Einstein. And nobody understood Emperor Norton, we can quote:
Apollo; Appian, worshipers of a Donkey; Apuleyo, who became Donkey; Cambriles, the famous Capuchin Ass that levitated and saw God; Bufon, who sang the glories of Donkey like none; Caco, that formidable thief, full of evil and entanglements; like, in a past time, the famous Luis Candelas, worshiped and venerated in Madrid, Spain; the one-eyed Cyclops, loved by children in their stories; Onocentauros with two languages, Onotauros, mestizo animals of the bull and the mare, signs of Lust; Machiavelli; Midas, who was born with Donkey's ears; Priapus; Silenus; Thartac, the god of the Hevees, with the head of Ass; Tyrant, one of the most procreative of the World. They say that he was born, in Prehistoric times, in Tirano, the Italian town and commune of the province of Sondrio, in the Lombardy region, on the border with Switzerland, who fathered Hitler, Mussolini, Franco, and many others who rule the destiny in the world of the imbeciles and fools blessed under the canopy, worshipers and benefactors, blessed they, of the Balam’ She-Ass, and of Borak, Muhammad’ She-Ass.
My belief might be in the Esoteric Eris, Goddess of Discord and Confusion.


Anecdote:
At the gates of the Poetry Society, 22 Betterton Street, London, England, someone gave me a flyer with this teaching:
"Much to know about Heaven and its Gods; about the Earth and its monsters; but little to know about the soil, because you have not seen that dog poop that you have stepped on ".

The Eternal Now
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
“Each star represents a single thought.”
           
That’s a line from the series “Star Trek: Voyager.”
           
In the episode “Night”, fifth season, first episode, Tuvok, Spock’s post-centurion torch, tells us that he misses the stars he has gotten to know so well, during an excursion through empty space. That inspired a thought in me. A thought that follows the ideology of a quote I read on the way back in the train today:
           
“We think all the time, so why not just CHOOSE to think good thoughts.”
           
Life is a journey, definately, and everyone is involved.
         
Choose to think positive. Choose not to complain. Choose to take responsibility.
Even if someone did you wrong, you had the choice of going there to partake in it.
Take responsibility.
Positivity is a choice.
You can choose.
           
Life is a concerto ...  and you play your instrument in the orchestra ... of life. You might not like the instrument playing next to you, bub, but unless he existed, you wouldn’t know who you are. So, you need him. You need the variety. Without it, you would lose your place as fast as someone that looks for streetsigns in a world of similar names. Your adversary points you in the right direction, but he tells you where not to go.
             
I had a conversation with a singer in the chorus I am conducting ... a few days ago. We were having a spiritual conversation filled with deep thought.
           
“The God Within counts,” he said. “The afterlife exists, but the key to it is not outside of you, but inside you. The God of Religions is a fabrication. The God inside you is eternal. I am not afraid of death, because God lives within me.”
             
Just imagine, folks, if there was no death. That death was an illusion, that your soul
all you have, all you need. Just imagine you are here to learn something, that the real world is where you are at home, beyond this world.
           
You wouldn’t have to bicker about whose version of the afterlife was right, would you? It is. That’s it. There are a thousand synonyms for the word “beautiful”, but it is what is is. If we wear a scarf or a turban, call God “Allah” or “Brahma”, it doesn’t matter.
           
​It is what it is.
Our interpretations vary.
If we want the truth, we seek inside ourselves, not within society.
We have to live with and within society in these days, no question.
The inner truth remains the same.
Every star represents a single thought.
Respect life.
Respect every thought.
Respect love.
Respect making love.
Respect procreation.
Think positive.
Life is a journey.
Always.
We need diversity.
Respect the eternal now.
Feel.

To illustrate, a story: 
In 1990, the German pop group “Snap” released a multiple No. 1 hit song that became well-known for its catchy phrase “I’ve got the power!”
           
22 years later, in 2012, Jeffrey Metzig released a response to that song, a humorous YouTube-video with pop hits that whose lyrics could be misunderstood. Consequently, “I’ve got the power!” became “Agathe Bauer!” and “All the leaves are brown” sung by “The Mamas and the Papas” became “Anneliese Braun”.
           
This comical misunderstanding is like the world we live in: we hear and see something, but we misinterpret what we see and sometimes even mistake what we see for something else. God’s phrase from Neale Donald Walsch’s book “Conversations with God” fits in perfectly here: “You have all misunderstood me!”
           
It is therefore quite interesting to begin this article with the hit phrase “I’ve got the power!”, because that is exactly the point of that operation. In order to illustrate how international and pan-humane this entire force of action is, we begin, like Maria von Trapp in “The Sound of Music” on the Austrian hills, at the very beginning.
           
You know you have energy, you have an energy output. You also probably know that this energy is centred around your feelings. Scientists have found out that thoughts weigh something. This has been tested in laboratories. A prominent British psychologist also claimed that no thought ever comes without a feeling, even when we think it does.
           
Benjamin Radford from “Live Science” spoke about a Massachusetts doctor named Duncan MacDougall who, in 1907, tested the weight of six terminally ill patients before during and after death and found out that there was a consistent weight loss after death, more or less one of 21 grams on average.
           
There are pinacyanode bromide filters that can help you see auras, as well. Semyon Kirlian’s scientific photography from 1939 proved not only that auras exist, but that we can photograph them. This is no mumbo-jumbo, but the most important reality in life and the centre of all religions: our spiritual truth. It also is, if we are agnostics, atheists, panthesist, egyptologist deists or believers in an organized religion.
           
“You have all misunderstood me,” is probably the most imprtant divine phrase, because everything you do, yes, you reading this, every thought you think, every doubt you have, every conviction, every joke you tell, it all is proof of your feelings, your energy and the fact that you are more, much more than a body. Whatever you might think, you are a soul. Don’t say: “I have a soul!” Then you have misunderstood everything. No, you are a soul.
           
Having said that, we return to the energy part. 
           
I will illustrate.

If you are sitting in a bus, for example, standing at a traffic light, and looking out at a pedestrian walking or standing on the sidewalk, turning his or her back toward you: gaze at that person for even only ten seconds, you will see that person turn around and look at you. There’s glass between you. The person wouldn’t hear or see you. That goes for any situation where you are looking at person from a distance. The reason, whether you like to admit it or not, is energy. 

My wife and I had dinner with some good friends a number of years ago. It was a nice evening with good Greek food, delicious red wine and pleasant conversation. The subject of conversation came upon the subject of spirituality and I uttered:
           
“It is high time people trust what it inside them!”
           
The husband of my wife’s friend, my male counterpart, raised his eyebrows, lift his shirt and looked inside it upon his own chest and exclaimed:
           
“What’s inside them?”
         
The memory of this one event went bouncing around my braincells for quite a bit.
           
It told me that not everyone can relate to phrases such as “what’s inside them”. When people do relate to it, they wave the comment off with a joke. That, to me, is a lack of
insight.
           
So something better had to be coming along, something that everyone could relate to, making it possible to show people how close to God we all are, that our concious eternal energy never ever dies and that it always has existed.
In fact, that death is an invention.
Physical death exists, yes.
The soul, however, lives forever.
What then is the soul?
Can we feel it?
Yes.
Indeed.
That’s it.
We don’t only have souls.
We are souls.
That is our identity.
           
Soon enough, the answer came rolling along into my soul, coming from God knows where: the ether, the ancestors that already made the transition into the next world or from the almighty hints of reality. I encountered a basic fact. A tool I was taught how to use in acting class, which I pass on as a teacher in theatrical workshops on a regular basis nowadays.
Sense memory, using emotions in roleplay associated with the senses, and emotional memory, using feelings associated with emotional recollections, these tools are based on something we all have. Feelings are spiritual entities, the evidences of divinity, not just hormones and endorphines. If they were only the products of physical juices, they would not mean so much to us, the emotions. We would not be able to pick up energies from friends long gone and then meet them on the street an hour later. We would not be able to change our own lives for the better just by remaining calm. We would not hear long gone songs on the radio by chance that we talked about just the day before. The signs on the billboards and our favorite song wouldn’t fit so perfectly with the life of our moments.
Our emotions are our radar. Life is energy. It always comes back to us.
Remote controls, cellular phones, microwaves, radios, satillites, television sets: they send, transmit and receive energy. Uranium radiates energy. Even photosynthetis converts light energy into chemical energy and we have schools that work on proving that to us.
So why are there not more schools that work on proving how spiritual energy is sent, transmitted and received? Now, when we go into a room with a bad vibe, we don’t need any screams or yells to know that there’s been a fight in there. When we encounter a dominant or difficult person, he or she does not have to frown in order to scare us. We know that person is difficult just intuitively.
We transmit and receive throusand of feelings a day, even the people who say they do not believe in God believe in something, send something, receive something. Even atheists are emotional and thereby spiritual. Ergo: no one escapes God.
I really believe that everyone believes in God, they just don’t know that this is what it is that they believe in, because they give off spiritual energy. The bully on the playground has no idea how much harm he created in his buddy’s soul as he stood by the tree, being pushed back and laughed at: he gave him lifelong bad energy to endure. The artist on stage does not how much hope he gave his audience that other night: he gave them happiness along with careers and love-affairs and brilliant ideas.
Every single emotion means something and every single emotion has a repercussion.
So, why do we believe in all these scientific energies and reject our own? Because the other is scientific and our own is not? Are you so sure about that? Body heat is measurable, brain waves can be measured, emotional outbursts, tears and even laughter have been scientifically measured in energy-waves, not from the brain, but coming from the diaphragm. The soul weighs something. The energy that leaves the body upon the time of death causes a weigh loss. We see the proof of our own energy every day. A bad vibe makes one person cry. A good vibe turns into a career, a marriage or a life-time friendship. You look at someone from behind from the window of a bus and that person turns around and looks at you.
It’s in us all of the time, everywhere we go.
Why don’t we trust that?
Because we don’t trust ourselves.
We should.
And the fact that the soul is eternal is something we want, something sacred.  
We trust the doctors, the lawyers, the clerics, the books, our parents, but we never trust ourselves. It is our next mission. If we begin trusting our feelings, and not what others tell us to feel or think, we can end all wars. No criminal has ever loved him- or herself. No dictator ever liked himself. Love yourself as your neighbor. That’s how everything starts.
Now, look at the world from God’s perspective. Call God what you want: the eternal creator, the creative intelligence, God, the Lord, Brahma, Allah, Manitou, pick any name. If you created everything, you created everyone of every confession. If you, as the Lord, are by nature of another world, you would not care what your children called you.
I know of the father of four daughters. The first daughter calls her father “Daddy!”. The second calls him “Papa!”. The third calls him “Father!” and the forth calls him by his first name, Mark. But he is still the same guy. With God, we are dealing with the same principle. We are dealing with the intelligence behind all of this, an intelligence from another source. That source is eternal, emotional.
God is above religions. We only created religions to reach him, but God is with us all of the time, anyway, whether we believe in him or not, whether we call him one thing or another. Denying him only means he exists. If he didn’t exist, we could not deny him. He is inside our emotions, our souls, our love, our eternity, and he is never leaving us.
You know yourself that you cannot really describe a feeling. If you went to a wonderful concert that made you feel good, could you really describe the concert to someone who wasn’t there? Haven’t we all experienced coming home from a great movie and telling our loved ones about it and getting only lame reactions?
“Hey, it was absolutely fantastic!”
Our friends and family smile and nod, but if they weren’t there, so what can they say?
God is beyond words, beyond rituals, he cannot be described. He has to be felt.
He is more than an emotion, but you can feel him, right now, right here.
In Aerosmith-frontman Steven Tyler’s book “Does the Noise in My Head Bother You?” the rocker describes sitting in the forest as a child, enjoying Mother Nature: “... all of this combined in one beautiful moment of me, feeling God, but then I’d met Her once before in the forest.”
Her, God, the source of all creativity, also has female energy, what Carl Gustav Jung called the Anima. So why shouldn’t God be a Her? God is beyond genders, anyway. And as Tyler also points out: there are no coincidences.
I do believe in Jesus being God’s son, in the resurrection.
Maybe I even knew him in an earlier life.
If we are eternal souls that feel him through our emotions, we have surely reincarnated loads of times. Haven’t you heard of little James, who proved his memories of being a crashed WWII-fighter-pilot. He knew his former lethal crash-sight and his sister’s nickname.
That also explains deja-vu. It all makes sense.
I also believe that God appeared inside or in front of many of the prophets of history.
I also believe that life is rich and versatile and that the Lord can appear in many ways.
I also believe that God is in our emotions.
So when you pray, pray to your emotions.
Trust your emotional God, that is a part of the eternal intelligence inside your feelings.
Many of us have lost touch with that.
Find what you lost.
Ask the questions.
There is only one answer, articulated in a thousand ways.
What was before the big bang?
What’s beyond the end of the universe?
How small can a part of something be? How big? When we go deep enough into the microcosmos, will we come out into the macrocosmos? And is all of that inside us?
Furthermore, is this just one of many universes?
We fall in love, make love, make children, who grow up, fall in love, make love, make children, who fall in love and make love and make children. The act of spiritual and physical love, be it physical or spiritual, is sacred, not sinful, and has to respected. It is peaceful and a better alternative to war. So when you’re at the movies next time, don’t cheer when the hero shoots someone down. Cheer when he embraces and makes love to his wife.
He is making a child.
In that way, we are all creators, like our God is, as well.
After all, God is love and always will be.
I will end this article with a tale that will serve as a reminder of spiritual truth. Maybe it will give the friend from my introduction a hint that more than just a heartbeat resides inside his chest. There is a spiritual educator I know, who teaches people about spiritual healing and how to perform various forms of meditation. During one of his group meditations, he suddenly felt the soul of a friend of his soar through the room. After the meditation, he called that man’s wife and asked if her husband had just died.
She asked him: “How on Earth did you just know that?”
My friend calmly answered: “Because his soul just floated through the room!”
Start trusting your inner God today.
Trust Her to help you and the ones you love.
It worked for the Roman officer that Jesus met in Luke 7:1-10, so why on Earth, or why in any universe, shouldn’t it work for you?
God lives inside you.
Trust that holy self.

Who by Fire

By Andrew Lee-Hart
 
1900

I looked at the pornographic picture in front of me and shuddered. What kind of mind could have produced such a tumescent, disturbing painting? Who would have thought that a still life could be so lustful and passionate?
Miriam looked at me, and smiled. In front of us was her startlingly grotesque painting; the apples and pears were overripe so you could almost see the juices seeping through the skin, whilst the bananas were unashamedly phallic. Everything dripped with fecundity and passion. She certainly had talent, but she intruded herself onto everything that she created, rather than keeping herself at a distance. She was only a housewife after all, attending my basic art course, for something to do in the evenings whilst she waited for her children to come along, which assuredly they would.
I coughed, feeling myself going red. “It is good” I told her, “you paint very well and have a great feel for colour. But you need to keep somethings hidden; your paintings are indecent, almost obscene. Sometimes I don’t know where to look”.
Her appearance hid her passionate personality; she always looked demure, smartly dressed in a dark blouse with her long brown hair held back with pins. She had dressed thus from the first day she turned up at my art class one Monday afternoon at Leeds Art School and the subsequent Mondays and Thursdays that she attended.
There was something about her I found unsettling; a cynic would say it was because she had far more talent than I could dream of, and perhaps that was the case. But then my paintings sell and I get invited to exhibit my work, and I doubted hers would. She was just so emotional; every time I stood close to her, examining what she was painting (still lifes mostly, and occasionally people, although fully-dressed of course), I could feel that passion, as if she poured out everything in her heart onto the canvas.
We bumped into each other one afternoon at the Leeds city art gallery. I was exhausted having walked along The Headrow; carriages and horses splashing me in the Autumn rain. It was only two o’clock but I could feel the dark coming on. I only had come in to get some shelter from the rain and dry off, but whilst I was there I had a look around. It was sometime since I had been in there, although I spent much of my rather alienated childhood in the gallery.
She was sat on one of the benches, looking at some Dutch master or other.
“Don’t you think this is a great work, Mr Smythe,” she called over. I wanted to avoid her, finding her so overwhelming, but I could not be that rude. And she interested me. Well more than that. I had often found myself thinking of her, and it was perhaps fate seeing her there. I smiled and sat down beside her, and we talked of art.
“I have never seen your paintings” she said, “I know you paint. Are there any here, in this gallery?”
I explained that this gallery regarded me as too modern, but in some of the smaller galleries there was some of my work. We talked some more, and then she left as her husband was due home from work; he taught Classics at the university.
“I come here a lot” she told me before she departed; “early afternoons. I look at the art and copy pictures. I know I am not very good but I want to improve, and that is the way apparently.”
And then she was gone, with a faint smell of perfume still hanging where she had sat close to me.
And so we became friends. I saw her in the art class, but there we had to be formal, whereas outside the class we could talk more freely. Any afternoon that I was free I would come into the gallery and invariably there would be Miriam. We would sit together as she sketched the paintings she liked and we would chat about art, Leeds and her home life. And afterwards we had a cup of tea in a tiny café hidden away behind the gallery.
I did worry about our being recognised, after all it is not done for a married woman to be seen munching on scones with an artist, however she did not seem bothered. But then she never gave the appearance of being unduly bothered about what people thought of her, unlike me, who worries about it all the time.
I discovered she was in her early twenties, only slightly younger than me, and as we came from the same part of Leeds, it was a wonder that we had not come across each other before. She was Jewish; her mother and father had come over from Odessa to escape the pogroms
in the late 1870s, and she was born shortly after they arrived in Leeds becoming part of the city’s Jewish community. But there had been a rift after she married a gentile.
“I met my husband at a concert; nobody approved of us, I was marrying out so my family were extremely angry, whilst his family do not like me, presumably because I am a Jewish although I go to their church and act the part of a good Christian wife.”
“Do you want more than that?” I asked her. She shrugged, and started talking about Rembrandt van Rijn. I could sense discontent in her. But perhaps it came out more in her paintings than in her appearance and in what she said. Was it her husband? Was she missing her family and her community? I felt that she must miss her people and her traditions. Certainly, when I was close to her I could sense her longing so strongly that it almost overwhelmed me.
The last Thursday that she attended the art class she was remote and seemed tense. Her painting was nothing like the still life she was supposed to be painting; there was no skull or guttering candle on the table in front of her, and everything in her picture looked sinister with a sense of foreboding. I looked at her working; her concentration was palpable. She said no word, and then as soon as the class had finished she was gone; she had not spoken to me once.
That evening I had just gone to bed, my thoughts of her as they so often were. And then there was a loud rapping on my door, and I froze, for a moment scared, wondering who had come to drag me away, but then I remembered where I was and put on a robe and went down to see who was at my door. Miriam stood there in the dark, a reticule over her shoulder, a
Gladstone bag by her feet. It was cold and raining. As soon as I opened the door she pushed her way passed me and into my house.
“What are you doing here?”
“I am leaving. Off to France to become an artist.”
“Are you mad, woman?” I asked her.
But no, she was not mad; she wanted to get away from her husband, the Leeds Bourgeois society. She was frustrated and bored.
“I thought I would say goodbye” she said, “there is a train due in a couple of hours, to London, and thence to Dover. You can come with me if you like” she laughed as she gazed into my eyes. I said nothing, just stood there, and then she was gone, soundlessly and without complaint.

1910

For a while I often thought of Miriam; imagined her living in a garret in Paris; chatting in restaurants on the left bank and sitting in the Louvre. I wondered if she would become a famous painter. Or perhaps she had given up and gone home, back to her academic husband. Most of all I wondered if I should have gone with her. But after ten years she had started to drift to the back of my mind; new lovers and friends had come into my life, and someone I had known only for a short while inevitably became less important.
I had soon stopped teaching art; most of my students’ paintings were execrable, and those who had talent soon learn to despise me and then quit. And none of them had the talent of Miriam. My paintings did okay, and I was featured in a couple of exhibitions in Leeds, but I could not rely upon them for money. After some indecision, I turned to book illustrating to make my living.
I was recommended to the publisher Chatto and Windus and they used me as one of their illustrators. It was not a great job, but the money was okay and at least it was art. And through them I started to illustrate some French works that they had commissioned, mostly editions of medieval French poetry which were very popular at the time. There was a new edition of poetry coming out and I went to Paris to meet the editor, Jean Boucher and to discuss how I would illustrate it.
We sat in a small room, part of the offices of Hachette publishers, in a rather obscure part of Paris. Boucher, was an older man who knew exactly what he wanted from his illustrator. I made notes as he spoke and gazed out of the window at the fog bound city below. I felt rather Bohemian being here and briefly imagined staying here to live. Could I survive? I had few ties in England and perhaps I would be inspired to get on with my painting.
“Oh” said Jean after we had finished talking about the volume of poetry, “a friend of yours works here, Madame Ullman. When I mentioned you were coming she asked me to send you to her. She does religious work.”
I had no idea who he meant, but walked into a large office at the end of yet another corridor, to see two men and a woman sat round a table with paper scattered about them.
“Welcome to the Roman Catholic press of France” said one of the men as I walked in, then the woman looked up and it was Miriam.
“Roman Catholic press? I thought you were Jewish.”
“I can be who I like; anyway it isn’t my only job. I only go in twice a week and illustrate various magazines and propaganda sheets they put out. Mostly I do my own painting.”
We were sat drinking wine in a homely café nearby. She had hardly changed in the last ten years; still smartly dressed, her skin still flawless and those eyes, ready to submerge you without warning.
“Don’t they know you are Jewish?” I asked curiously.
“Oh no. Well they don’t ask. I wear this crucifix, so it probably doesn’t occur to them.”
“Have you been back to England?”
“I visit my mother on occasion. She is a bit disapproving, but at least she does not talk to my husband so I do not need to worry about that.”
She took me back to the office where she worked, it smelt of polish and French tobacco. I looked through some of her illustrations. Garish I thought; lots of blood dripping from martyred saints, eyeless sockets and austere men and women being roasted alive. All rather macabre. She looked at me with an amused smile as I gazed at her work.
“What do you think?”
“Not what I expected, but you always could draw. Too much emotion though. You need to be distant. I have always told you that. You are too involved with what you paint.”
We arranged to meet that evening at a rather fancy restaurant near the Notre Dame. She walked in looking beautiful in a red dress and her hair up and pinned. We chatted between courses and she told me of her life.
“I lived with someone for a while, an American but then he went off. He was a writer, mentioned me in one his novels. I think he was married, but it did not matter. I am on my own now and have a small apartment.”
I loved being with her, and was in wonder that we were sitting together after all this time; eating a meal together and chatting like old friends.
She took me back to her apartment and we sat together on the sofa, drinking wine; her perfume was more sophisticated now, and her make-up subtler than when she was a Leeds housewife. The front room where we sat was austere with a few books on shelves and a large painting above a fireplace. The smell of paint was everywhere.
Miriam then led me through a door and into her studio where paintings hung in various states of completion. Some still lifes, I was glad to see, but also nudes. There was one in front of me; large, almost life size. The model looked at me directly with blue eyes; her skin pale, and her breasts surprisingly large.
“Do you like it?”
“Oh it’s you.” It was Miriam, beautiful and sexual. I was overwhelmed with it and with her; I wanted to look at it, but could not bear to do so.
We went back into her sitting room.
“Take the pins out of my hair” she commanded and I sat down next to her on the sofa. Ever so softly I touched her hair as my fingers gently searched. I came across a metal pin and slowly pulled it out with my right hand, holding her head steady with my left. I was very conscious of her body next to mine, and I gazed down at her pale neck, with a slight greyness close to her ear.
There must have been thirty or forty pins, and cautiously I drew each one out, not wishing to hurt her or to spoil the moment, I then put each pin on a small table beside me. I was careful and she never once winced although I must have caught her hair once or twice. There was a faint scent of lemon coming from her hair; maybe her shampoo or some kind of pomade or scent. I felt as intimate with her as I had ever felt with anybody. I loved feeling her head, slowly touching it as if I was her mother or her lover.
“I have finished” I told her, and she ran her fingers through her hair and found a pin I had missed and our fingers touched as I helped her to pull it out and put it with the others. I felt close to her but also self-conscious.
“I had better go?” I told her, “it is getting late”.
“Yes” she said getting up, “I am expecting a guest.”
The following morning I was on the train to Dieppe.

1922

The third time I did not see her; well not in the flesh. Her body, however was all over the walls of the very modern Galerie Bugada in Paris. In many of the paintings she was naked and unprotected; twisted on a cross, with a crown of thorns upon her head. In one a German soldier stuck a rifle with a bayonet on it into her side, in another a couple sat weeping below her feet.
Other paintings showed her being beaten by men with sticks, as she crouched down trying to protect herself, and one showed her carrying her cross whilst bystanders jeered at her and threw things. The largest painting; the focus of the exhibition, was another crucifixion; a stream of blood pouring down her legs, the sky a dark blue above her. On either side was another woman on the cross, both nude. I realised that they were also Miriam. Hung around Miriam’s neck was the star of David.
Crowds of middle-aged men looked at Miriam in her nakedness; some peered close pretending to be examining the brush strokes, whilst others leered and laughed. I heard the words “disgraceful” and “pornography” from a couple of young men, which surprised me. I was not sure what I thought. I found it very unsettling, and felt protective towards her.
There was no catalogue, and I wished there was, as I wanted to know what had happened to Miriam. I asked Monsieur Vachoux, the owner of the gallery, if he knew if Miriam lived in Paris, but apparently she did not. She had been into the gallery when the display was being put up and at the opening, but he had not seen her since.
“No doubt she will be here when the exhibition ends, in a month’s time. I believe it is going to Berlin where she lives. Her lover is a German writer I understand, nobody famous.”
I spoke to my friend Adele about the exhibition. Whenever I came to Paris to get away from my wife and children I would meet up with Adele and spend my time, when not meeting book publishers, naked in her bed. She had been to the exhibition two days earlier and did not like it.
“So how do you know her?” she asked me. It was towards the end of my stay, and I was beginning to remember why I would never leave my wife for her.
“I taught her, believe it or not. Feels like another lifetime.”,
“All very Jewish” Adele said, biting into some kind of pastry, with a slightly disdainful look. Suddenly her perfume smelt too heady and her lips looked too red. I could not think of a sharp rejoinder, so finished my coffee with a gulp and walked off, leaving Adele to follow me if she could.
I thought about the paintings a lot when I was back in Leeds. And I had a longing to see Miriam, to be with her and to talk to her. It was as if she possessed something that I needed, only she had a key to my secret self.

The Present

Her second husband was the German writer Franz Kurzweg, not read much nowadays or perhaps during any days. He was revolutionary and liked experimentation. Underneath it all there was probably a good writer trying to get out, but he never quite managed it, certainly not judging by the few books by him that I have found, but then my German is poor, so what do I know, and I cannot imagine anybody wanting to translate them into English.
I was a teacher by the 1930s in a grammar school in Leeds; teaching art and occasionally French when the French department needed a hand. My opportunities for going abroad were fewer, and I did not particularly want to travel as that part of my life was over. I was late middle-aged and respectable and if my married life was not brilliant, it could have been worse.
I enquired about Miriam from anyone I thought could know anything about her. I heard about a couple of exhibitions she held in Berlin and Cologne in the early 1930s. And then a friend told me that her paintings had been denounced as “degenerate” and “foreign” (code for Jewish) by a man whose name I cannot bear to speak or to write. And then I started to fear for her safety and hoped that she had got out. But she didn’t escape, she was one of the six million.
After the war ended I watched the documentaries and saw the pictures showing what the Russians found when they liberated Auschwitz and other death camps. Each skeletal figure could have been Miriam, or the bodies piled up like trash, ready to be disposed of. Presumably she was gassed or starved, or made to dig her own grave and then shot in the back of her head, all because of who she was. All because of who we both were.
When I left my parents’ house as a young man I had realised that nobody need know who I was; nobody need know that I was Jewish, who my parents were, anything about my past. I deliberately lost touch with friends from my youth and immersed myself in Leeds and the art world. I wanted to be free of my heritage.
I changed my name from Goldberg to Smythe and with a bohemian beard and relatively light coloured hair nobody ever guessed my origins, I managed to develop a posh Yorkshire accent and completely hid my Polish tones. On the few occasions that I bumped into someone I knew from my childhood I avoided them and was never recognised. I felt guilty about my parents, but they seemed immersed in the past; still speaking Yiddish and following their silly superstitions as if they were still in Poland rather than in a modern city in England; I wanted away from all that, and to an extent I was successful.
I was ashamed of having been born a small village in Poland and a member of an old-fashioned religion; of having been a poor immigrant, coming to Leeds in rags. After I left home I became respectable and a churchgoer, and later I married a gentile wife who gave me gentile children. All very well and at least I was safe, but it was not me, I had ripped out an important part of who I was.
I am not sure if Miriam guessed. When we spoke it was as if she knew, but she never asked me directly. It certainly did not occur to my wife, despite my being circumcised, and by the time I had met her my parents were dead so I did not have to lie about them.
One Friday night, the time was right, and I told my wife who I really was, and the following morning, and for the first time since I was a teenager I attended the synagogue. I wept as the ancient tongue was spoken, so familiar and yet mysterious. Some of the ceremonies might seem silly, and I certainly could not believe in a kind God, who loved his people, not now and not ever. But I was Jewish and these were my kin; I had rejected them for long enough.

THE MRS. MARDORF SAGA
 
By Herbert Eyre Moulton
(1927-2005)
 
 
         As a professional actor, I have had the joy of working worldwide with the likes of Clint Eastwood, Alan Rickman and Larry Hagman. Being MCA’s star in the Dinner-Show-Scene in the 1950’s proved to be just as fun as conducting the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir during the Korean War. The joy of spending my later professional years creating student programmes for the Austrian Radio and becoming well-known as the commercial face for Viennese chocolate and continental banks crowned my career.
            Not bad for kid from Glen Ellyn, Illinois.
I never forgot my roots.
Therefore, I will take you back to those good old days before Illinois was online. Back then, life was different. And I’ve often wondered: was it only during Depression times that people got so overly sentimental or has the economy nothing to do with it? I recall tears shed by my mother Nell and her lady friends, sitting in our Glen Ellyn house at 429 Taylor Avenue, on occasions both doleful and joyous. I always put down these lachrymose demonstrations as being a part of the territory, and on Nell’s part, pure Irish.
            But others, as well. Menfolk, even myself included, often succumb. Turn on Puccini’s La Boheme and watch my reaction. Breaking down and having a good cry has always been a kind of release from the tensions of hard times, especially the 30’s in Glen Ellyn, as I remember them.
            The very titles of the films saw at the old Glen can still tickle the tear ducts: Of Human Hearts, Valient is the Word for Carrie, Imitation of Life, Stella Dallas, Little Women, Dark Victory. Not to mention those that came later, such as the Lassie series. Anything to with animals, strays or otherwise made us awash in sentiment, most likely as a counterbalance to universal unemployment and businesses and banks folding up like lawn chairs.
            Among countless birthday cards and scattered newspaper clippings, as well as documents about carnival prizes and Pet-and-Hobby-Shows, are a series of post cards, notes, booklets and prayers from the First Congretional Church Sunday School to which my devout Catholic mother sent me from 1931 to 1933. Our family was a living Ecumenical Movement. My father Big Herb was from old Protestant stock, Nell an intense “bead-roller”, all three of us dwelling splendiferous peace and harmony, decades before Pope John XXIII.
            Nell and my redoubtable Sunday School teacher Mrs. Mardorf prepared me better for my Christian future than they knew. Although portions of this collection are sentimental, they still count as authentic Depression Days attitudes, the very stuff of our lives in those far-off, no doubt over-romanticized times. Anyone who has leafed through these Moulton family books has paused smiling, sometimes laughing at, for example, all the “We-miss-your-smiling-face”-bits and “Your-little-chair was empty”-quotes.
            I seemed to have been absent a lot.
            Of the contents in general, the common opinion has always been: “But what a legacy your parents have left you! These are priceless! They could never be replaced!”
            Decades before Women’s Lib, here we have endearing and enduring evidence, as if it were really needed, of how strong a matriarchal a society America was in those days, and all the better for it.
            Our sentimental saga begins with my immortal words:
“Now I go to Sunday School and I enjoy it so much!”:
 
 
 
 
MY FIRST DIPLOMA
 
            This certifies that Herbert Moulton is promoted from the Cradle Roll Department of the Glen Ellyn First Congretional Church to the Beginner’s Department.
            (Three impressive signatures)                                               September 21st, 1931
 
            So, I’d been attending that stalwart Cradle Roll Department for some time before I received my first diploma, which was accorded all the deference and respect such a document might receive were it issued from Oxford or Yale. Pinned to it was a lapel button with a toddler’s face and Beginner’s Department, which I still wear now and then for fun.
            My entrance into that department, however, was accompanied with the usual childhood “disease”. Mine, luckily, were always of the mildest variety, beginning with ...
 
Glen Ellen News, Friday, September 30th, 1931
 
ILL WITH WHOPPING COUGH
 
Little Herbert Moulton of 429 Taylor Avenue, is quaranteened at the present time with Whopping Cough. At least, that’s what the sign next to the Moulton’s front door states. Luckily, this is an extremely mild case, due perhaps to the nine injections administered lately by the family doctor from Villa Park.
 
Nevertheless, Little Herbert will have to be quaranteened for at least another two weeks. He is grateful for all the phone calls and Get-Well-cards he has received and he and his parents  hope it will not be long before he is his usual happy smiling self and out among his little friends once again.
 
            Nell pasted the clipping into the Moulton Family Album and next to it, of course, the usual photo of the little patient, big as life and smilingly pointing to the quaranteen sign at the front door.
This caused a ripple among that same circle when Nell sent one them, Irene Marley from across the street, home in tears because of the quaranteen. A moment later came an indignant phone call from Irene’s mom, Myrtle, a strict Catholic-turned-Christian-Scientist.
            “You don’t have to worry about Irene,” said Myrtle. “She’s God’s child. Nothing can happen to her.”
            “Well,” countered Nell. “Herbert is Nell’s child and he is quaranteened by law because he has a contagious disease. Irene can come back and play when the sign is down.”
            My light siege of illness (neither a whoop nor a cough, apparently) brought a nice post card from Mrs. Mardorf, ever on the job, bless her. It depicts two sad looking little urchins seated on either side of an empty chair and looking utterly despondent.
            The printed message reads:
 
“Your little chair is empty
We miss your smiling face,
We certainly hope next Sunday
Will find you in your place.”
 
            Note: even then people were seeking to put Little Herbert in his place.
            And a personal note, of course, from Mrs. M.:
 
            “Dear Herbert, we surely miss you at Sunday School and hope you can come back soon. It was so nice of Mother to call when you could not come. Lots of wishes for a speedy recovery from Mrs. Mardorf and the Beginner’s Department.”
 
            I was no sooner back among my Little Friends when one of them, again Bold Irene, God’s Child, lured me into a nasty accident. Four months older than me, she was forever challenging me into feats of derring-do, this time to ride my three-wheel velocipede down the little hill in our yard. Well, of course I did, and of course, somehow I crashed against the edge of the cement sidewalk, causing a broken collar-bone and a lot of pain, as well as indignation from Nell.
Again, she dispatched my Dulcinea in floods of tears and rushed me to the hospital.
            Back in the headlines once again:
 
Glen Ellyn News, Friday, November 6th, 1931
 
FALLS FROM VELOCIPEDE
 
Little Herbert Moulton, 429 Taylor Avenue, is once more on the village sick-list. He fell from his velocipede last Saturday and is suffering from a broken collar-bone and sprained wrist. He getting along nicely, however, and it is hoped he will soon be his happy self again.
 
Accompanying photo shows plump patient on the front walk, outrageously smiling, right arm in a sling, and left entwined round a broomstick –  whether to fly away on or just to sweep the leaves away, who knows? Nell’s handwritten comment: “Just a little fall, but a big ‘airplane’ brace which I wore for three weeks.”
Lord, the woman tempted me.
And sure enough, a day or so later, our friendly mailman, Mr. Gorman, delivered the following from – you guessed it – Mrs. Mardorf and Co. Two tots in mini-cloche hats clutching buttercups on their way to a distant church:
 
“I think these tots are talking
As to Sunday School they‘re walking,
They’re wondering if they’ll see your smiling face.
For you’re missed when you’re away,
And I hear the children say
That they’re always glad to see you in your place.”
 
(Note: again that emphasis on putting me in my place.)
 
Dear Herbert, writes Mrs. M., we surely missed your little smile last Sunday and we were all sorry you were hurt. We want you to come back as soon as you feel able. We will be glad to see you. Love, Mrs. Mardorf
 
Christmas 1931, on 429 Taylor Avenue in Glen Ellyn, produced a pasted example of my own handiwork. It featured an extremely creepy bit of verse, as gooey as it was theologically bogus.
Back in the good old days of the Holy Inquisition it doubtless would have led to an extended session on the rack. The Sexist Propaganda machine had been working overtime:
 
“I know that God loves me, Mother dear,
Because you tell me so,
He loves me every single day,
And all the whole night thru,
I have never seen him, really,
Nor heard his voice, ‘tis true,
But when you hold me close,
I know he looks and talks like you.”
 
            The next step is outright Worship-of-the-Mother-Goddess, or just plain old-fashioned American Mom-Adoration. And the Grand Inquisitor is already heating up the irons.
            For this effort, we used flour-and-water paste and I was soon standing in a puddle of water, to my intense embarrassment. As I remember the actual Christmas foll-de-roll, though, it was all, in a word, glorious. Even the visit from St. Nick, who always polished off the sherry and cakes my folks had left for him by the fireplace, was impressed.
            The first Sunday of new year, January 4th 1932, was the first Sunday in a year for the world and for America: Happy Nadir, Everybody!
But with The Mrs. Mardorf Saga, it was just a variation on an old theme.
For the first time, a certain crispness informs the greeting. But first the printed biblical bit – with a rather sugary picture picture of Jesus as The Good Shepherd – and the request: May we not count on you to be with the other children in Sunday School next Sunday?
And the weekly pep-talk from our Mrs. Mardorf continued:
 
We missed your little face this morning. I hope you are not ill for if you are I’d be very sorry. I will look for you next Sunday. Love from Mrs. M.
 
It did the trick.
Besides spending my life on the theatrical stage, I would later study theology, conduct the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir in Georgia and sing hundreds of church concerts.
At that point, though, the Glen Ellyn son of an Irish immigrant was more intent on laying in bed and reading Superman comics. Okay, and listen to my father’s opera records.
I took a longer look at Mrs. Mardorf’s enclosed picture of Jesus and his lost sheep painting with a caption:
 
The Savior said: My sheep hear my voice and follow me . – John 10:27
 
A subtle hint for little Herbert?
Now, with the breaking news of March 6th, 1932, we come to one of the landmark news items. The headline alone, if chanted over and over again, becomes a fine Mantra:
 
 
HERBERT MOULTON JR. IS ALIVE AND WELL
The Glen Ellyn News, Friday, March 4, 1932
 
            Little Herbert Moulton, son of Mr. and Mrs. Moulton, of 429 Taylor Avenue, was reported to have been electrocuted on Wednesday by a live wire, which was absolutely untrue, but the rumor spread like wildfire and Mr. and Mrs. Moulton have had a constant stream of visitors and telephone calls from friends who heard of this report.
            They are very grateful and appreciative of all the kindness, courtesy and sympathy shown by everyone in what seemed a terrible calamity and want them all to know that they have a new conception of the generous and sympathtic heart of all Glen Ellyn, and especially of little Herbert’s place among his friends and their parents.
            How the story started no one knows, but young Herbert is alive and well, we are told.
 
            I well remember the circumstances centering around this nugget. One of those horrendous ice-storms that devestate the Midwest along about March every few years. We’d been out somewhere in the car, and when we came over the hill and approached our house, we saw a crowd of people gathered outside the front door – all of them there to check out this story they’d heard about what Nell in her report so modestly called “a terrible calamity”.
            There, my mental newsreel ends, but it’s obviously a true recollection.
            Seven decades later, my friend Cal Potts in his Golden Oldies periodical The Gray Bard, reprinted it for kicks, and it got considerable feedback. Throughout, one detects the fine Irish-Florentine hand of Nellie Moulton.
Anything for publicity, some of the latest readers grumbled, even at the age of four. Reuters, Time, CNN, feel free to copy.
Springtime, 1932, Glen Ellyn, Illinois.
My happy, smiling face seems to have been missing quite a lot that season, for here’s the next number in the on-going Mardorf-Moulton website correspondence, 1932-style. The postmark is incomplete, but the sentiment is as ever compelling ...
The postcard depicts a forlorn landscape, and not for the first time we have a brace of tykes – umbrella, raincoats – gazing at a vast rainbow across a darkling sky, with a text that wouldn’t have been out of place in one of those highway Burma-Shave advertising series:
 
Did you ever see a rainbow
Lacking yellow, red or blue?
Well, your class is such a rainbow,
And the missing part is you!
 
And Mrs. Mardorf’s inevitable follow-up:
 
Dear Herbert, we missed you so today and hope you are not ill. Please come back soon for your little chair is so empty and we miss you so. Love, Mrs. Mardorf
 
It sounds a bit like Lilliput-Land, doesn’t it?
 
            It must have been in May 1932 that the iron entered the soul of Mrs. Mardorf for good and all. Here’s the next, mimeographed with spaces left to fill in the names. Mother’s Day and the most unashamedly sexist effort yet ...
            Dad could just as well have dropped dead years before.
            The form, dialogue, is, of course, pure ancient Greek.
 
 
Dear Herbert –
 
Who do we love most of all in our home? I think it is mother!
(Subtext: And to hell with Dad.)
Who loves you most? I think it is mother!
Who gets you ready for Sunday School?
(The tone grows wearier.)
I think it is mother.
(Remember, repetition is one of the cardinal characteristics of Brainwashing.)
Does mother know what a happy time we have in our class every Sunday? We want her to know so we are asking that you bring her next Sunday on Mother’s Day. All the others are asking their mothers, and it would be so lovely to have all our mothers with us.
(And here comes the bottom line, the true nitty-gritty:)
Perhaps mother could not come and stay as long as we do, but we would be glad to have her for a little while.
Lovingly, Mrs. Mardorf
 
            Rather obvious, wasn’t it?
            Mom is welcome to come and hang out for a minute or two, and then get the hell out. Come, come, Mrs. Mardorf, that isn’t like you at all. Maybe, she was having a bad hair day. Not impossible, even with her.
            The card was another flour-and-water-paste-up-job with a silhouette.
            During this same summer of 1932, I was also enrolled in the Daily Vacarion Bible School at The First Methodist Church, playing no favorites, as always:
            “My first school days,” writes Nell, “I learned many interesting things, had milk, and enjoyed it very much. Mother took me at 9 and came back for me at noon.”
            All I retain from this is the memory of the milk and the vanilla wafers, and laying our heads down on the table afterwards for a little snooze, which had the walls rocking with our cascades of giggles.
            In case an emetic is needed at this point, here’s the poem that was cut out of a daily newspaper and pasted next to the Mother’s Day masterpiece. This is one of the several that must have appealed to our editor, Nell – neatly typical of the early 1930’s, and well in keeping with the opening remarks I made about “Period-Sentiment”.
 
TO MOTHER
 
When my baby shoes were scuffing
Thru the years that used to be,
Many time you caught me bluffing
Just to keep you close to me.
 
Thru my sorrows you would cheer me,
Driving all my tears away,
And I feel your presence near me,
Mother mine, on Mother’s Day.
 
For my love for you increases
With the coming of each dawn.
Like the sun it never ceases
Though my baby shoes are gone.
 
-         Anon. (as well it might be!)
 
Friday, July 15th, 1932 –
Well, I do remember birthdays in our cosy Sunday School.
Delicious home-baked cakes with lighted candles, fruit juice, and being allowed to waltz up to the front of the room where the paper birthday apple-tree stood, covered with paper-blossoms, and pick out one to take home and keep as a souvenir – which I did, for almost 70 years. Verses, too – first on the small tag attached to the blossom, complete with a song-bird:
 
Oh, Herbert dear, we’re happy,
That the rainbow is now complete,
Your Christian future shining,
Sunday School is sweet.
 
 
            Inspired by this warm welcome, I admitted it. I just had to.
            Herbert Eyre Moulton, son of an Irish immigrant and a Glen Ellyn salesman with ancestors that arrived with the Mayflower, was after all very happy to be back.
            Just like Bogie told Claude Reins at the end of the 1942 film Casablanca:
            “Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship!”
            Always reenacting scenes from the movies of my youth, I, in my later years, felt compelled to take Bold Irene to the side and tell her that I was looking at her, kid.
            But I might have just told her that I, frankly, didn’t give a damn.
            All in all, though, the romantic sentiment of those days gave me hope that humanity’s sense of wonder was a victory in itself.
 
 
 
 

HALLOWEEN
​
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Thoughts about Halloween
I see the Halloween decorations going up all around me. Yes, I put a few nasty dolls out too, but wonder. So much horror in the world. Tragedy hitting so many families, caused by humans and also nature.
Why do we add to it by celebrating evil images?
To put up pumpkins is fine, autumn flowers, cornstalks. The signs of prosperity. Maybe we, including myself, should think twice when we follow old tradition. The world has changed, we should too! /AHR



The Devil’s Castle


From a castle, secretly built, the devil ruled his hell.
For company, fallen angels served him well
In the dungeon, charred skeletons hung from a rake
Of those who had not been able the fire to take.


Mountain goats and hawks perfected the devil’s life
Year after year, he had a ball with Xantippe his wife.
He was sure nobody knew that to such heights he rose
On purpose this castle up on the mountain he chose.


Again and again flames from hell lit up the night
Then it happened at full moon with the night extra bright
Satan blinked, squinted and his vision got blended
In a flash his entire, so well-planned excursion ended.


Back to the old quarters of hell
He was commanded by moon’s heavenly spell.
Deep below he is meant again to reign
Forever forbidden closeness to heaven to gain.


Down there he now expects masses of the walking dead
Zombies of souls which their timespan on earth have met.
It is rumored, hell’s quarters are getting over crowded
As in the world the evil thrives, disaster daily abounded.


Hell’s fires already contribute to global warming
Fed with corpses from millions of lives, their ashes swarming
Let us not contribute to the devil’s secret joy
​With corn stalks and smiling pumpkins an antidote deploy!

“It’s Getting Better All the Time: Rosemary’s Baby
​

(Book, Film, Miniseries)

Shows How Women Have Changed”


By Angela Camack


​

Ira Levin’s Rosemary’s Baby and the film it inspired, directed by Roman Polanski, have held up very well during half-century since the book’s publication and the film’s release. Both tell an absorbing and frightening story remarkably well. Both are also accurate and illuminating reflections of the time in which they were produced. Revisiting them, and viewing them as a picture of the time, shows how women’s outlook and behavior have evolved over the years, so much so that the events of the story could not take place now. An attempt to turn the book into a miniseries in 2014 was unsuccessful, partially because it was not believable that Rosemary would act in 2014 as Rosemary did in 1966. Comparing the behavior of the people in the book and film with the way women act now shows that women have become stronger and more self-reliant.
The book and the Polanski film are almost identical in plot and characters. Guy and Rosemary Woodhouse, an actor and his wife, move into a landmark Manhattan apartment building. Guy can be self-centered, arrogant and cynical. Rosemary is a mixture of naivety and New York City sophistication. She is focused on redoing the apartment and making a solid marriage. She wants a baby very much.
Both are estranged from their families. Guy is unconcerned, but Rosemary needs a father figure, and comes close to having one through her friendship with Hutch, a writer of adventure stories for boys.
Soon after moving, the Woodhouses meet an elderly couple, Minnie and Roman Castavet. They meet under terrible circumstances; a young woman who has been living with them, whom Rosemary has met, has jumped or fallen to her death from the Castavet’s apartment. Soon the Castavets begin to dote on the young couple, and while Guy and Rosemary initially find them laughable Guy soon befriends them and their friends.
Guy hits a rough patch when he loses a promising role to another actor. He becomes distant and abrupt to Rosemary. However, the actor suddenly loses his sight, and Guy gets the role. Elated, he apologizes to Rosemary for his behavior, wants to make a fresh start in the marriage and agrees to have a baby. They plan a “Baby Night,” with cocktails and a festive menu, followed by romantic lovemaking. During the meal Minnie Castavet drops by with two cups of chocolate mousse, which replaces the dessert that Guy forgot to buy. Baby Night is marred when Rosemary becomes very unsteady after dinner and must be put to bed. She has a nightmare in which she is being carried through her closet to the Castavet’s apartment, where she is raped by a monster. Upon waking the next morning, she finds she is covered with scratches. Guy admits that he had sex with her while she was unconscious.
Rosemary becomes pregnant. She initially sees Dr. Hill, upon the recommendation of a friend, but agrees to change to a famous obstetrician, Dr. Saperstein, who is a friend of the Castavets. The Castavets dote on her, giving her a foul-smelling lucky charm and an herbal drink that Dr, Saperstein feels is better than vitamins.
However, she has a miserable pregnancy, in constant pain that Saperstein assures her is just an expansion of her pelvic joints and will soon go away. She becomes isolated. Guy will have none of her suspicions that Dr. Saperstein is not treating her well. However, once Rosemary feels the baby move the pain goes away and she can finish her pregnancy with optimism.
Her friend Hutch becomes suddenly ill and dies. Before he dies, he wants to make sure that Rosemary gets a book on witchcraft that reveals that Roman Castavet’s father was Stephen Mercato, who was living in the Bramford when he was exposed as a practitioner of witchcraft. Rosemary begins to understand the events of her pregnancy; the doting Castavets, her isolation, the sudden appearance of both Roman Castavet and Guy while Hutch was visiting, all of which have been explained away by Guy. She also suspects Dr. Saperstein is involved and tries to return to Dr. Hill. He interprets her story as a delusion and returns her to Dr. Saperstein and Guy.
While they are taking her home, Rosemary goes into labor and is sedated by the doctor. When she awakens, she is told that the baby, a boy, has died. While recovering, she hears an infant cry. Following the sound, she finds that there is a passage through her closet and tracks the cry to the Castavet’s living room. A crowd has gathered around a black-draped cradle. Rosemary’s baby is hailed as Adrian I, the son of Satan. Guy has been complicit from the beginning, allowing Rosemary to be taken to the Castavet’s for impregnation. He has been rewarded for his participation with a successful career.
Much of this scenario depends on this cabal’s ability to control Rosemary. Consider that in the 1960’s many women were still deferential to their husbands. Many forswore jobs to focus on marriage and home. Add to that the doctor-patient relationship of the time. A pregnant woman, at a vulnerable time, was expected to be a “good patient” and take their doctors’ advice without questioning. With two such figures in her life, the still-naïve Rosemary was in a good position to
be led into trouble. She was following a path that had been laid out for her by social norms and would not begin to change until later in the ‘60’s. Although Rosemary seems unusually passive, and there were strong and assertive women in the 60’s, much of her behavior can be explained by what was expected of women.
Rosemary’s unquestioning reliance on her doctor allows her to believe that her pain will stop. As a result, Rosemary becomes isolated in her pain. She becomes increasingly dependent on Guy and the Castavets. She meets no one who can question why the Castavets shadow her or why Guy is so controlling.
Guy’s and Dr. Saperstein’s behavior is not only controlling but shows attitudes toward women and their influence. Both men show a mixture of contempt and fear towards women. Contact with other women who have been pregnant would have provided Rosemary with reassurance and advice and provide models of women who carried on normal lives through their pregnancies. Dr. Saperstein is dismissive of the support of other women. Rosemary is to call him, “not your Aunt Fanny,” if she has questions.
Guy’s attitude clearly emerges during a party Rosemary gives “for our old – or rather our young friends.” The party is an opportunity to announce her pregnancy and to see people she has not seen since her isolation began.
The guests are happy about her pregnancy, but many are shocked by her appearance.
Some of her women friends find a chance to talk with her in the kitchen. All know that her suffering is abnormal, and question Dr. Saperstein’s competence and empathy. Rosemary breaks down and begins to cry. Her friends close ranks, allow her to cry and to be comforted and make her promise to get a second opinion.
After the party, Rosemary tells Guy she wants a second opinion. He is furious at her friends. “They’re a bunch of not-very-bright bitches who should mind their own business.” Her friends have accomplished what Guy and Saperstein feared, bringing Rosemary out of her passivity. After the confrontation, Rosemary’s pain suddenly stops, and she feels the baby move (un-divine intervention?).
Rosemary may have felt less isolated had she worked after marriage. The book mentioned that Rosemary runs into “somebody she knows from CBS,” but we know nothing else about her work experience. She has jettisoned her working life, even though Guy’s work can be irregular. Most women now work after marriage and during pregnancy . Contact with others would have eliminated her isolated dependence on Guy and the Castavets and given her a feeling of self-reliance and independence. Would she have been less likely to passively accept what Dt. Saperstein tells her? She would also have funds to seek a second opinion, which Guy objects to subsidizing.
In addition to discouraging her from seeking the encouragement and advice of other women, Dr. Saperstein tells Rosemary not to read books about pregnancy. She is a “good patient,” following his advice without question. Patients today are much less likely to play the good patient role, instead becoming educated consumers and participating in their own care. With What to Expect When You’re Expecting and similar reliable books readily available, and lists of reliable websites about consumer medicine available on library websites, patients have more medical information on hand to help them understand their health and to help them make informed medical decisions.
Now look at the 2014 miniseries, which appears contrived and implausible compared to the book and film. Guy is a writer. Rosemary, a dancer, supports them. Guy is frustrated and blocked. The couple is devastated when Rosemary has a miscarriage. When Rosemary’s friend
connects Guy to a teaching job in Paris, they see the move as a chance for recovery and a new start. They move into a small apartment. Rosemary finds a snapshot of a couple in the living room. While studying the photo, she gets a “feeling” that something has gone wrong with the people who once lived there. She continues to wonder about what happened in the apartment and sets out to find more information.
While walking in Paris Rosemary’s purse is stolen. She chases down the mugger and retrieves her purse and another. She returns the purse to its owner, Margaux Castavet, who is so grateful for its return that she invites Rosemary and Guy to a party that evening.
Roman and Margaux Castavet are chic, rich Parisians living in a beautiful old apartment building. They take to the Woodhouses immediately, insisting that the party guests speak English and giving the couple a kitten. After the Woodlouse’s small apartment is destroyed in a fire, the Castavets give them an apartment in their building, rent-free, stocked with new wardrobes for both.
Soon after the move, Guy gets a better job and begins to write again. They are happy in the new apartment and agree to try to have a baby. When she confides this to Margaux, she gives her what will be a series of herbal drinks for her health. Although the night planned for conception is marred when Rosemary has a nightmare about being raped by a monster, Rosemary becomes pregnant. The Castavets continue to dote on the couple. Margaux, in particular, cannot keep her hands off Rosemary. constantly patting and caressing her, even kissing her on the mouth. When Rosemary becomes pregnant, they recommend an obstetrician.
Rosemary has a miserable, painful pregnancy. It does not stop her from going all over Paris to find out what happened to the couple in the picture. She goes to the police, Commissioner Fontaine, with her suspicions. Meanwhile, people around her come to sudden violent ends. A
candidate for a better job Guy wants kills herself during her interview. A priest claiming to have met the woman in the photograph Rosemary found warns her away from investigating, but dies suddenly. Her friend finds a doctor to provide Rosemary with a second opinion to investigate the cause of her pain but is killed in an accident before she can accompany Rosemary. Commissioner Fontaine becomes concerned enough about the suspicious deaths to investigate and warns Rosemary to keep alert.
Rosemary finds a secret passage in her closet. It contains many books on the occult. One notes that Roman Castavet comes from a family that practices witchcraft. She also discovers her late friend’s crucifix among Guy’s belongings and realized there may be a conspiracy that puts her and her baby at risk. She tries to get help from the doctor she planned to see for another opinion, but he leads Guy and her doctor to her. She goes into labor and taken to the hospital but is told she lost the baby.
While recovering, she hears an infant’s crying in the secret passage. Following the sound, she enters the Castavet’s apartment. She finds a celebration and a black-draped cradle holding, a baby, Adrian I. Rosemary has been impregnated by Satan, with Guy’s complicity. She agrees to mother the baby, while insisting on another name and the removal of black clothing and drapery.
You would expect to suspend disbelief when experiencing a story about a young woman’s impregnation by Satan, but little in Rosemary’s behavior leads the viewer to believe that she could be led into situations she mistrusts. A woman who has supported her husband and can chase down muggers would be used to taking care of herself, reading situations and making her own decisions, regardless of the attempts of others to influence her. She would not easily be led into the Castavet’s control. The Castavet’s largesse is far beyond what would be expected for the return of a purse. In addition to the apartment, the new clothes and Guy’s new job, the Castavet’s fawn over Rosemary.
Surely that would set off Rosemary’s alarm bells and cause her to back away from them rather than becoming a malleable tool for their plans.
Looking at the different dynamics of the Woodhouse’s marriage in the different versions of the story, one can see that a modern Rosemary would not be steered by her husband into dependency and isolation. The Rosemary of the miniseries would not defer to Guy. She has been the wage earner and his emotional support during their marriage.
In the book and film, Guy and Rosemary can seem like parent and child. Rosemary soon tires of the way the Castavets dote on them but follows Guy’s lead and continues the relationship. On ‘Baby Night,’ Minnie Castavet brings the couple chocolate mousse (it is easy to conclude by the end of the story that Rosemary’s mousse has been drugged to be sure she is unconscious for her impregnation). Rosemary eats part of the mousse but declines to finish, saying it has a “chalky under taste.” Guy is upset out of all proportion to the incident. “You took her mousse, now finish it. The old bat probably slaved all day over it.” Rosemary agrees to finish, but when Guy leaves the room she spoons most of it into her napkin. When he returns, she shows him the empty dish. “Do I get a gold star, Daddy?” Guy reacts similarly when Rosemary does not want to wear the charm given to her by the Castavets. “Come on, you took it, you should wear it.” Again, his anger is inappropriate to the situation. Rosemary agrees to wear the charm.
In the miniseries, Rosemary is far from childlike. She has been the wage earner in the family. Until their marriage deteriorates under the strain of her painful pregnancy and Rosemary’s suspicions of his involvement in a plot to hurt her, their relationship is one of cooperation and mutual emotional support, not a relationship where one partner is overbearing and the other accepts what is asked of her. It is unrealistic to imagine that Rosemary could not look after her own health and would rely on friends to encourage her to find a second opinion when she is suffering.
Despite her painful pregnancy, Rosemary is never the retiring waif of the book and movie. She has enough energy to play Nancy Drew, interviewing people and looking for clues about what happened to the former tenants. Someone with this energy and will would not passively accept that there are no alternatives to suffering. The plan to find a surrogate to bear a demonic baby under the control of others depends on finding a woman who will accept what the authority figures in her life (her husband and doctor) tell her and can be willingly let into being led into isolation from anyone who will show her that something is very wrong with her situation. The woman of the mid-60’s is much more likely to be this surrogate than the woman of the present. Too much has changed for women to make this scenario plausible.
Rosemary’s Baby will probably continue to provide readers and viewers with a good scare. Looking back on the story and its reflection of the early ‘60’s reveal that, despite problems and inequalities women still face, they have made progress. They are navigating the world with increased assertiveness and strength.

A Celebrity Named Gun Kronzell


By Charles E.J. Moulton 



The 1960's must've been quite a decade for my mother. She was a working opera star active in a dozen German theatres. She sang oratories in Belgium, France and England. She met my dad in Hannover in 1966, toured with him through Europe, appeared on Irish TV and was still able to travel back to the calm home base in her beloved home town of Kalmar in Sweden.
My mom loved Kalmar. It was her centre, her safe haven. As a global citizen touring the world and working with and meeting stars like Luciano Pavarotti, Alan Rickman and the Swedish King, she had been at home most everywhere. But her heart was Swedish. Her soul belonged to Kalmar.
 
As a little boy in Gothenburg, I was exposed to my mother's amazing imagination. She told me these wonderful good night stories about the trolls Uggel-Guggel and Klampe-Lampe. They eventually turned into the high point of my day. The coolest thing, though, is that I am passing on these stories to my daughter. She is starting to invent stuff for the stories just like I did. I see that she loves the inventive and crazy creativity of our stories just as much as I did.
 
Having my mom as a good night story teller and my daddy as a professional author was the best mixture a boy could ask for. I thank them for that. For triggering my imagination. For opening the vaults of endless creativity. For that is what it is about, guys. All of it. Creation. Creating always greater versions of ourselves. New parts of ourselves we thought were gone. New pieces of ourselves we didn't know we had. Pieces that appear once we just trust ourselves to be more than we thought we were or could be.

There are so many old documents in my cupboards and closets. Old clippings and reviews that my mom kept as evidence of her glorious career. One paper in particular describes what kind of a career she was having back then.

I also know, being the only child, that if I don't transcribe these documents and have them published somehow, nobody will. I could ask my wife or daughter to transcribe these old things, but it is actually my job as a son to spread the word of what kind of folks they were. They worked so hard for what they became and accomplished. They perfected their art so beautifully that a new generation just deserves to hear about them and damn great they were.

Singers, actors, authors, directors, teachers, scholars: they were everything and more.

So, here we go: back to the beginning of the 1960's. John F. Kennedy was still alive. The Space Race was still on. Armstrong had not yet landed on the moon. And a certain young opera singer named Gun Kronzell travelled the world and inspired people with her voice.

This is what Gun herself wrote in a document that was intended for a newspaper that was about to write an article about her. Her schedule looks like a big city phone book. So many operas and oratories to learn. She must've been rehearsing constantly.

"These are some of my concerts and performances that I have been assigned to carry out during this season of 1962-63:
On March 11th, I am singing Brahms' Altrapsodie and Mozart's Requiem in Beleke with Matthias Büchel as conductor. Then, I am travelling to Bünde to sing Bach's Matthew Passion on March 31st. The April 1st, I am singing the same piece in Ahlen. I am travelling to Brügge in Belgium on April 4th to sing Beethoven's 9th Symphony. On April 17th I am again singing the Matthew Passion by Bach in Bergisch-Gladbach with Paul Nitsche as conductor.
I am back in Sweden on May 31st to sing at the 100 year anniversary of the Kalmar Girl's School.
On July 8th, I am singing Bach's Vom Reiche Gottes in the Church of Zion in Bethel.
In the German Vocal Festival in Essen, I am singing Haydn's Theresien Mass and Koerpp's The Fire of Prometheus.
In November, I am singing Bruckner's Mass in F-Minor in Witten.
On November 28th, 29th and 30th I am performing Beethoven's Mass in C Minor in the Mühlheim City Arena and Duisburg City Theatre.
On December 2nd and 3rd, 1962, I am singing Bach's Christmas Oratory in the Church of Zion in Bethel. On December16th, I am singing the same piece in Mainz. I am also singing the Christmas Oratory by Bach in Soest with Claus Dieter Pfeiffer as conductor and in Unna with Karl Helmut Herrman as conductor.
January 12th, 1963, hears me singing Bach's Christmas Oratory again in Bethel.
On March 31st I have been hired to sing Dvorak's Stabat Mater in Lippstadt.
Those were the concerts. Now for my operatic performances:
I have been hired as Mezzo Soprano at the City Opera in Bielefeld since September of 1961.
This season has seen me perform 5 roles.
The Innkeeper's Wife in Moussorgsky's Boris Godunov. That production had its premiere in September here. But I also guested with that part twice in Cologne this year. We have performed this opera 13 times so far.
The second role was Emilia in Verdi's Othello. We premiered with that on Christmas Day and have played it 10 times so far.
The third role for me this year was Dritte Dame (Third Lady) in The Magic Flute by Mozart. Our musical director Bernhard Conz often guest conducts in Italy and in Vienna. 5 shows of this so far.
The gypsy fortune teller Ulrica in Verdi's A Masked Ball had its premiere on January 23rd and this show has been playing for sold out houses 8 times so far.
Another Gypsy lady role, Czipra, in Johann Strauss' The Gypsy Baron had its premiere on March 6th.
My next role, Hippolytte in Britten's A Midsummer Night's Dream, is going to be fun.
A new colleague of mine arrived this year. He is the Swedish son of an archbishop. His name is Helge Brillioth."
 
Not only did her schedule look like a phone book, the reviews were as impressive as her CV.

My mom had just returned from a tour through Ireland with my dad and appeared on Irish TV. She was pregnant with me while singing Ortrud in Wagner's Lohengrin. The daily newspaper wrote, on December 28th, 1968:

"The best thing that the Opera House of Graz in Austria offered its ensemble was Gun Kronzell with her astounding portrayal of Ortrud. She already made a lasting impression as Mrs. Quickly and confirmed her skills here as well. This voice is a real winning triumph for our city: its intensity and wide range impresses. Gun Kronzell's Ortrud, if directed by a top notch world director, could become really interesting and a global phenomenon."

One critic spoke of a voice that was illuminate in glory. The journal "Die Wahrheit" wrote that she sang a magnifiscent Ortrud with dramatic expression filled with movement and vocal prowess.

Kleine Zeitung remarked on December 28th, 1968, that she was the only one that truly could shine in that production. Her clear and bright mezzo produced a brilliant fully controlled performance worthy of extraordinary theatrical mention.

Ewald Cwienk from the Wiener Kurier wrote on January 3rd about the high level of her excellent vocal work.

But even across the country in Augsburg they wrote about the masterful vocal presence and powerful expression of the Hannover's leading mezzo Gun Kronzell. They even went so far as to say that the audience in the olden days would have interrupted the scene after the operatic Plea of the Gods just to give the singer a standing ovation.

Opern Welt, one of Germany's leading operatic journals, described her thusly: "Gun Kronzell (Hannover), vocally and dramatically convincing devotee of sensual passion."

But her operatic skill alone did not gather rave reviews. Her collaboration with her baritone husband Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927-2005) had the European critics throwing proverbial roses at their feet.

The Reutlinger General Anzeiger, on February 5th, 1968, published the following rave review after a triumphant show in Regensburg, Germany:

"BIG VOICES IN A SMALL CONCERT HALL
A successful concert performed at the America House

They do not only sing duets. The married artistic couple Gun Kronzell (a mezzosoprano from Sweden) and Herbert Eyre Moulton (a baritone from the U.S.) are a living duet. When they appear on stage, they grab each other's hands before singing and try successfully not to compete with each other, but they try to achieve symbiosis. During the solo songs it becomes evident that the wife's lyric expression, vocal volume, skill and artistic temperament is a perfect mirror image of the husband's beautifully placed Irish baritone with its lyric joie de vivre. Both voices are obviously too big for this concert hall. It would have been great to hear them in the Carnegie Hall or at the London Festival Hall, where Miss Kronzell has sung recently, in order to hear the voices reverberate and swing in locations fit for their level of brilliance. And still: compliments to the America House for hiring them in the first place. This concert distinguished itself through a sophisticated programme and excellent interpretation. But even sophisticated programmes don't lift off the ground if the pieces in question don't have the longing of a lover's kiss. This programme did. The singers communicate. They love what they do. The concert started out with three duets by Henry Purcell, vitalized by constant sounds of musical joy. This was Baroque Art at its most lucious, where voices mingled and climaxed in full, soft alto tones and a natural high baritone that never seemed forced or uncomfortable. The three American Songs by Aaron Copland that followed, sung by Gun Kronzell, were functional straight forward pieces with a little bit of romantic flight hidden within the framework. The last song, Going to Heaven, explosively vocalized by the soloists with an accentuated pronounciation on the word HEA-VÉN, was effective to say the least.
The baritone spoke a few words between songs in his self-proclaimed Chicago-German idiom, claiming that composer Charles Ives was the primitive composer of musical history. The singer disproved this. Ives is THE genius of American Music. The folkloristic song 'Charlie Rutlage' is a musical Western in itself: exciting, juicy, full of artistic trivialities. It was sung excellently and served by the singer as a juicy artistic peppersteak of sorts. It was a dramatic number that became a fast speech rotating kind of song, not unlike the Pitter-Patter vocabulary present in Gilbert & Sullivan's operetta chants. The third song, 'The Election', is a political elective song, but no direct campaign hit. National Pathos came as expected and the audience was thrilled to hear it.
The first half of the show ended with duets: the pure enjoyment of the magic songs by Dvorak were the topics of conversations at the intermission bar.
The Swedish mezzosoprano sang Swedish songs with clean artistic expression after the break. The succeeding Hölderlin-songs by the Irish composer Seán O'Riada - a cycle in four parts in which the simplistic harmonies of the beginning returned at the end - could not have been sung better by the baritone Herbert Eyre Moulton. These compositions from 1965 are actually ancient in style and format. These stilistically mysterious thought-songs were triumphs of passionate interpretation.
The finale provided us with the necessary crowning glory: five songs from Gustav Mahler's 'Des Knaben Wunderhorn'. These were not duets. Instead, the songs were divided into dialogues. We found the sadness, we experienced the parody of superiority, scenes were acted out and still nobody feared losing the essence of the tones.
The accompanist Karl Bergemann proved himself to be an accomplished expert in all mentioned musical areas. No harmony was left unsung, no heart was left untouched, the singers were never overpowered by the sound of his piano playing and still he knew how to present himself well. His instrumentation entailed a magnetic expressive force.
His support was a counterpoint that even more famous colleagues would have envied taking them by their musical hands.
The audience were eternally thankful, providing the three artists with standing ovations."



Critiques such as these give even music lovers who didn't have the joy of hearing "The Singing Couple" live the hint of how wonderfully entertaining artists they were.
The amazing thing was that my parents were full fledged and extremely experienced artists already when I was born. They accomplished being successful artists and still being there for me at all times.
 
I spent a week in London with my mom in 1979. We met my Godfather, the composer James Wilson, and went to musicals like "Jesus Christ Superstar" and "Oliver!" (with a real dog running around the musical London stage, we weaved that, too, into the good night stories).
 
This trip provided me with good memories. It was a dear part of my childhood whose many events were included in our good night stories: my stuffed dog Ludde fell in love with our hotel chamber maid Maria. That's what we said, anyway.

With my dad, I went to Copenhagen during early 80's three winters in a row. Two guys going to the opera, eating Spaghetti, going to theatre to see an uncut version of Hamlet (the box office lady called Hamlet "a very good Danish play"), going to see a Bond movie in a Copenhagen cinema called the Colloseum (an Italian waiter told us: "The Colloseum is in Rome!") and running through Copenhagen after the royal guards to Queen Margarete's palace only to see them vanish into the courtyard and away beyond the entrance. We had hoped to see the Changing of the Guards, but only saw them march. It didn't matter. It was all good.

All three of us (the holy family) took trips to Sweden and America together, played board games on Friday nights, went to art museums, laughed until we cried on the living room couch we called Clothilde, took long trips in the Volkswagen we called Snoopy and invited my best friends for pancake breakfasts on Sunday mornings.


My parents were witty, generous, experienced people with lots of spirit. They were able to take responsibility for their lives as adults and still have some crazy spontaneous fun along the way. I will always be eternally thankful for their fantastic influence. What they gave me I can pass on to my daughter. And they are our Guardian Angels. What a fantastic job they are doing. As always.
 
Now, a newspaper article about my mother Gun Margareta Kronzell published during her heyday from the local newspaper Barometern in 1971:

KALMAR’S OPERASINGER IS A EUROPEAN STAR!
HER FATHER KNUT GAVE HER HIS UNENDING SUPPORT

Think about this for a moment: Gun Kronzell can sing!
This discovery was made during Gun Kronzell’s last year at the Girl’s School in Kalmar. Nobody at the school had heard her before, neither the teachers nor the school friends knew it.
Now everybody in Europe knows it.
She is a star.
Gun Kronzell, born on Nygatan 16 in Kalmar, lives in Vienna and works as a Dramatic Mezzo-Soprano all across the continent. She has been working at the Volks-Opera in Vienna during the Springtime and has sung on many European Stages , including London’s Festival Hall. Her appearances in Sweden have been few, but now the Kalmar audience has the possibility to hear her fantastic voice in the Kalmar Cathedral on Monday. There will be two other concerts in the local area.
She lives all summer in her mother Anna’s and her father Knut’s apartment on Odengatan and is taking with her son Charlie. Her husband Herbert Eyre Moulton is still in Vienna, working at the English speaking theatres as an actor, teaching English, creating school radio programs for the Austrian Broadcasting Corporation (ORF) and writing plays.
“My husband and I met in Hannover in Germany. We were both working singers and shared the same singing teacher. I asked him if he would speak English with me. Since then, we have only spoken English with each other. That is, when we are on speaking terms,” Gun laughs with a twinkle in her eye. “We love performing with each other and promoting ourselves as The Singing Couple.”

MULTILINGUAL

Two year old Charlie is raised to speak many languages, among them English and German. His grandparents are right now teaching him Swedish. Some day he will be able to compete with his mother, who fluently speaks at least three languages, if not more.
Sea Captain and Swedish Church Chief Accountant Knut Kronzell wanted to become an opera singer, but his parents had other plans. He had to be satisfied with singing for his family at festive gatherings. In the beginning, Gun wasn’t impressed. But as time went on, she was.
When she applied to study at the Royal Musical Academy in Stockholm, her father Knut gave her all his support.

A FAMOUS FAMILY

Success came flying from high and wide and from all the right places. Her education was superb, her vocal range was phenomenal, her interpretation became renowned: a perfect mixture. Stockholm’s Opera House was too limited a forum and Gun moved to Germany, where Bielefeld, Hannover, Köln, Recklinghausen, Wiesbaden, Paris, Brügge and Graz has become her own “home turf.”
Her husband Herbert Eyre Moulton is from Chicago. He is a singer, author and works for Austrian Radio. Last year he joined his wife in order to sing at the festival Kalmar 70. This year he has not had any time to come to Sweden.

VITALLY ITALIAN

“I like acting on stage,” Gun Kronzell says. “It’s better than singing concerts. I feel lonelier on the concert stage. The opera stage is always lively and full of action.”
The Italian composers are among her favorites. Verdi is number one. Of course.

A LIFE FULL OF SONG

Gun Kronzell:
“I’m actually quite tired of Wagner. He was an amazing composer, but in his operas there is a whole lot of endless singing and that gets strenuous for the audience. Brünhilde, Erda, Kundry, Ariadne, I’ve sung them all, and I was always happy to have a good vocal technique to help me get through those roles and a happy to wear a good pair of shoes.”
The new kind of pop music world wide radio keeps playing is not something Gun dislikes. The Beatles have many good successors, she says. Charlie just loves pop music. The hotter, the better.

SWEDEN’S TOP 40

Gun Kronzell doesn’t mind hot music. However, schmaltzy Schlager Muzak is not her thing and she admits that she also doesn’t really know what’s hot in Swedish popular music today.
“I have no idea what vinyl EPs are being handed over the counters and what songs are making the top record charts in Sweden right now,” she laughs.

RADIO

Gun Kronzell will record a radio program for Swedish Radio this year. Her concert from last year, recorded at the festival Kalmar 70, will appear in a rerun.
This autumn there will be a whole range of continental concerts.
“I have to return to Kalmar at least once a year,” she says. “That family contact is important, the sea air rejuvenates me, the food, the sun, the laughter, the flowers and the friends. And my mom and dad are very happy when I come. Especially when I bring Charlie along.”

What does music mean to me?


By Colenton Freeman 

Operatic Tenor and Professor of Singing


Music has been and continues to be the most significant part of my life, aside from God, who gave me this gift of music. In fact, music gave me life, a Muse, a profession and a purpose. Music gives strength, energy, inspiration, freedom, expression and has the power to heal. Music also means to me: beauty and enrichment for the soul.
I could not imagine a life without music. It has meant everything to me. It shaped and influence my life immensely and continues to do so to this very day.


I love all forms of music. Opera, classical, jazz, blues, sacred, musicals, pop, swing and of course, gospel. As a little boy growing up in the Baptist church in Atlanta, Georgia, I loved singing hymns. The music would permeate my very being and send chills up and down my spine. The sound of the pipe organ was grand and majestic.
I can get as much meaning and pure joy out of listening to a Puccini opera as I can listening to the soulful singing of the recently departed Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin. Both genres can move me to tears and give me joy, satisfaction, motivation and a feeling of gratefulness.


Yes, music is as vital to my well-being as food, drink, shelter, clothing, family, friends and good health. In fact, music can promote good health both mentally and physically. I always refer back to the famous song „An die Musik“ by the Austrian composer Franz Schubert along with his Austrian friend, the poet Fran von Schober when thinking of what music has brought to my life:


„Du holde Kunst, in wieviel grauen Stunden,
Wo mich des Leben wilder Kreis umstrickt,
Hast Du mein Herz zu warmer Lieb' entzunden,
Hast mich in eine beßre Welt entrückt.


Oft hat ein Seufzer, deiner Harf' entflossen,
Ein süßer, heiliger Akkord von dir
Den Himmel beßrer Zeiten mir erschlossen,
Du hold Kunst, ich danke dir dafür.


ENGLISH TRANSLATION:


You, noble Art, in how many grey hours,
When life's mad tumult wraps around me,
Have you kindled my heart to warm love,
Have you transported me into a better world.


Often has a sigh flowing out from your harp,
A sweet, divine harmony from you
Unlocked to me the heaven of better times,
You, noble Art, I thank you for it.

Why the Revolution of Modern Life

is Intelligent, Moral and Beautiful


By Thomas Dexter Kerr



It is an exciting and hopeful time to be alive. A revolution is sweeping the earth, increasing intelligence by allowing, enabling, inspiring ever more people to make more decisions in their lives. Modern systems that allow people to think more in daily life are well known. Democracies empower people to choose governments. Markets are people deciding what should be made and done. Systems of rules that apply to all help keep things open and honest. Support for ability to think comes from family and neighbors, schools, hospitals, books and internet. Enormous dividends result from getting it right. But decentralizing decision-making is never easy because it means ever greater complexity and the empowering of inconvenient people. The best path forward is illuminated by the idea that people thinking more is good, right and beautiful.
Modern peace and prosperity has resulted from the ever closer alignment of social organization with ways people by nature maximize intelligence. Humans became the most powerful beings ever to exist by developing a new way of using information, the content of thoughts and feelings. The information system created as people mingle thoughts and feelings with those of others evolved to be the most intelligent entity ever to exist.
Survival of the fittest individual was not the primary force that crafted human minds. Incompetence in a wide variety of forms is an essential part of what makes us human. Individual people today lack the full range of mental abilities necessary to survive alone in a wilderness. I couldn't do it, nor could any of my neighbors. Instead natural selection resulted in something far more powerful, intelligent and beautiful.
Many creatures, from ants to dogs, evolved to gain power over their environment by cooperating and communicating. All lost the ability to live and thrive alone as individuals. Over eons, humans gradually took the use of information to higher levels. As individuals they gave up the full range of faculties needed for survival because together they developed something far more potent. The unprecedented power this gave them at each step is what drove the evolutionary innovations that resulted in today's world.
Human intelligence is collective in nature, talents not concentrated but dispersed in individuals who are all different. A revolutionary kind of mind developed in groups of a few hundred in which everyone knew each other, every voice added to what was being thought about. In everyday life people have always shared ideas, songs, stories, styles and a myriad nuances of feeling, passing them down through generations, improving and innovating. The information that is the content of thoughts and feelings mixes together in their minds and among them. Because each person’s mind is different, enormous creative flexibility arises out of many sorts of thinking striving, sometimes clashing, always mingling. We spin thoughts out of the unknown and unexpected, finding depth and diversity with inauspicious people and rising generations breaking old patterns. So many things can be thought about. Human survival and success has always depended on the system of thoughts that all share and take part in. Our kind of intelligence is a category leap, rising far beyond what could ever evolve to be the smartest, most wily, most dominant individual beast. Every successful creature is over-endowed with the means it uses to survive, necessary to overcome extreme circumstances. Our primary means of survival blossomed into the wonder of the universe.
The details of how individuals think were shaped by the enormous force of their effect on our primary tool and weapon, the human information system. Its intelligence could increase only as its component parts became more finely tuned to add to the thinking going on. Many of the talents that make people together so intelligent are useless in isolation, essential when combined with others. Kinds of thinking are scattered, each getting a little of this, a little of that. Impractical musicians, nonathletic priests, groveling politicians help bring disparate folks together. Mechanics fix things, clumsy scientists invent, cooks devise food, athletes run and hunt, shoppers gather, some who can memorize, memorialize the past. Fearless and timid, quick and slow, passive and aggressive, skillful and clumsy, female and male, serious and frivolous, analytical and intuitive, speculative and methodical, mathematical or musical or not, all are found in every group across the globe. This deep reservoir of possibilities is made more potent by the creativity inherent in the fresh perspectives of each individual and new generation. The mix found everywhere today exists because it is the combination that proved to be most intelligent.
If individuality were not naturally configured to mesh with other minds, the results would be useless. An association of thinking animals with a purely random assortment of differences would produce the intelligence of a zoo. Mental individuality in humans has a purpose. All elements are finely tuned to create with others, each general type essential, every new addition a welcome extension of the ability of everyone to think. It is an inescapable truth of every person's life that their most intimate impulses, those feelings that are most certainly theirs and theirs alone, are shaped and channeled in subtle, mysterious ways to augment the functioning of the human information system as a whole.
The magic of the human information system lies in everyday life, the great generator and heartland of intelligence. When a good idea pops into existence there is no way to ever figure out exactly where it came from. Inside everyone the information that is the content of their thoughts and feelings connects and mingles. Music and sports mix with math, politics and sex. Interconnections multiply as thoughts and fragments spread out through friends and neighbors, reaching around the world. All ideas are composed of strands reaching far back in the past and over many lands, influenced by threads of rhythm, color and rhyme, outrageous mistakes and hallucinations. Even the loftiest, most abstract sophisticated concepts grow out of pieces rattling around coffee shops, nurseries and football fields, mixing with music, cooking and gardening. Every mind takes part, each one living in the thinking of the world. Together we create the mental output on which all depend.
Morality evolved as an inseparable part of intelligence. In order to think together, people have to get along. This is not automatic. Our existence through the past has always been dependent on a balance of genetic and cultural supports for moral behavior that maximizes the creative intelligence of the human information system. We are genetically predisposed to empathize with others, fall in love and like things like music and sports that join people together. But we also need ongoing streams of new ideas in all areas of life, good and bad, to be dreamed up and tried out. Our collective creativity is generated by a diversity of individuals in all walks of life making different choices, going their own way. So a measure of wildness, especially by teenagers, is built in. The resulting instability requires a lot of work. We inherit culture as much as we do fingers.
Moral concepts in multiple forms have been passed down and improved on from primordial times in the same way as technical ideas like the use of fire. Without morality, just as without fire, everyone dies. Embedded in every culture is a way of understanding the information realities of life, some picture of lives connected by invisible ties in a common endeavor and fate, the furtherance of which is everyone's responsibility. This is contained in direct explanations as well as music and art, sports, humor and a thousand tales about others and the past. The enormous success of the human endeavor owes a lot to the efforts of so many through the ages searching for ever better ways to convince people to live together wholeheartedly.
Though it can be hard to include those who are different, closing eyes to them shuts off communion with thought itself. To regard anyone at all as unworthy of recognition is to turn away from intelligence, which exists in pieces scattered everywhere. Every face is a unique shining facet of the most complex thinking entity ever to exist. The greatest impediments to human potential are institutional, philosophical and viscerally emotional objections to getting little voices raised and heard. It seems so easy to disregard the shy, odd, peculiar and strange, both rebellious and those that sound the same, voices small and lonely, the less talented and nonpolitical. But they are us and we are all there is.
The revolution of modern life is vastly expanding intelligence by turning on its head traditional notions that the source of wealth and power is the best and brightest. What is emerging instead is a world in which every mind is acknowledged as an important contributor. Particular individuals are useful for any one task at hand, and when they manage to do something special it is a wonderful gift to themself and everyone else. But no matter how impressive, every success is the result of a limited, particular vision applied to resources drawn from the vast sea of human thought. Mental or character perfection is an attribute of people as a whole. Individuals are expressly designed not to be that way. Every individual can be described as 'flawed' or 'not perfect'. This is a good, not bad thing. The largest are dependent, the smallest have something to add. The most striking thing an honest person sees in mirrors is the amazing ordinariness of uniqueness. So-called ordinary people exist only because we were over eons in the most severe circumstances in fact essential to the intelligence of the whole. The most important and potent attribute of human intelligence is not that some are all-encompassing geniuses but that none are.
In the practical world of everyday life, people thinking is people making decisions. On a large scale decentralizing decision-making so more are thinking is difficult. As individuals choose who to marry, where to live and what to do for others they create ever greater complexity because they are all different. But only when they go in their own directions is the intelligence of society enriched by their diversity. For them to be allowed do so, they need to be trusted to make reasonably good decisions. Most people have to believe in doing the right thing. Their activities will at times need to be nudged or constrained in more positive directions. Growing a beautiful garden takes a lot of work.
Individual initiative would look morally suspect if human minds evolved mainly to compete against each other. Then their inner being would be suffused with primordial impulses to do so at others expense. Even if not in fact stealing, their motivation would be tainted with it. From that perspective, morality would be an overlay designed to
counteract human nature and attempts to achieve general fairness would struggle against the tide. Such concepts provide handy excuses to keep people from acting, to confine them in a static order that is supposedly more moral. But because human minds did not in fact evolve to oppose others, exactly the opposite is true. In the practical world, this distinction has a huge effect, changing the role of rules from constraining people's base nature to facilitating greater activity with helpful guidelines and admonitions. Taking initiative is people thinking. Intelligence is the source of morality.
A functioning system of separate and independent organizations has an inherent beauty and morality that is lacking in the only alternative. The appeal of centralized systems is the supposed comfort of enforced fairness. Their slogans through the ages can sound idealistic: a place for everyone and everyone in their place, and we think and you do and we'll take care of you. This has been most attractive to those already privileged or who suppose themselves superior. It is just so hard to imagine what good could come from having stupid people think. But imposed absolute fairness is a state of standing still, bereft of creativity and initiative, missing the point of life. Visions of everyone nicely quiet and in order are nightmares not dreams, horror not paradise. Their imposition has resulted in police states and mass murder for they directly contravene the most fundamental human reality, that our destiny is to think. The great counter-revolution of modern times was communism, which sought to infuse old ideas with more effective means of control. Substitute a unitary bureaucracy for kings, emperors or caliphs and the concept is the same. In recent times it has been shown that more open systems are far more accountable, productive, able to experiment and vastly improve life. The reason it works better is because it is more intelligent. More people are thinking.
Capitalism is the use of math for the purpose of decentralizing decision-making. Math is an impartial tool for opening activities to anyone who wants to take initiative. To measure whether they are doing something worthwhile it empowers the most dispersed, appropriate and severe critics, customers. Pricing includes the user in the decision-making process, enlisting their mind to help make systems more intelligent. When people pay the true costs of the things they use, it is then they, instead of someone else, who is deciding how much and when. They have most say when they can choose from the widest selection in the world. From single entrepreneurs to enormous organizations, the proper use of math makes possible the most active use of people's minds. When capitalism strays too far from its decentralizing purpose it becomes dysfunctional and inefficient. When working well it is beautiful because it is intelligent.
Essential to success in business is finding the right balance between making money and serving others. Actually doing something worthwhile is hard, failure a constant shadow. All kinds of people need to be made happy enough to voluntarily cooperate. Customers, workers, neighbors, a variety of government folks, competitors, suppliers, contractors, all must get along. Every day brings hard choices between scarce resources and quality of output. Everything takes longer and costs more, no one is paid as much as they think they should, and temptations abound to take shortcuts. Episodes of winning the lottery and successful cheating make fun stories, but that's not where the real money is. Real business success is never only about maximizing profits. As human beings, business people connect with their world in many ways, have multiple interests and goals. Their job is to make an enterprise work as a whole, otherwise all is lost. Success requires doing and caring about two things at the same time. Many people's
desires need to be filled and it all has to add up. Serve to make money, make money to serve, chew gum and walk.
An open democratic political system is a necessary component of an intelligent society. There will always be those tempted to recentralize decision-making in order to grab advantages for themselves or a select group. Democracy empowers the majority who are less interested in gaining power and dominance over others. However, their ability to make decisions in their own lives is very important to them. This can lead to wild cultural expressions because it is central to self worth and identity. Secondary objects like guns and cars can represent the rightness of individuals thinking for themselves. And in believing it is both moral and productive for them to live actively thinking, they are right. The greatest beneficiaries of a decentralized society are its less important members. Democracy puts the right hands on the tiller, those most directly and personally interested in greater intelligence.
It is easy for initiatives to get out of hand, go in destructive directions. For capitalism to function it must have rules and guidance provided by an active democracy. All entrepreneurs, small to large, require ongoing adjustments to rules protecting their projects from theft and interference. They need an environment with sufficient infrastructure and healthy, educated citizens. They need the peaceful ways of solving problems that can thrive only in a functioning democratic political system with the good will of most of the people most of the time. Democratic capitalism is millions of people voluntarily cooperating and taking initiative to make life better for each other.
Democracy is commonly slandered as the worst system of governing except for every other. It involves a great show of shouting and grandstanding, confusion, indecision, delay, some cheating and lots of inconsistency. But the mess and confusion of a functional democracy are exactly its great strength, more people thinking. All other political setups explicitly seek to stop thinking. That is why they sometimes appear clean and efficient. Intelligence is a state of motion, the opposite of keeping everything the same. Creativity always has an element of disorder, whether in one mind or that of many. Democracy is beautiful because it is active, alive and intelligent and deserves respect for it.
A widespread improvement in moral behavior is a necessary part of the success of capitalism and democracy. This is a long, slow process, as individuals gain new freedoms and learn from them. Increasing morality means people thinking more, not less. Progress results in an increase in general activity and the pace of change. Humans are not designed to sit still but to be intelligent. Together our destiny is to wonder and speculate, create and explore, seek truth and solve the riddles of the universe.
The image of humans as entities that exist separate, alone and inherently in conflict is an insidiously corrosive illusion. Its great attraction is support it lends for comparisons showing one worth more than another. As individual items, there is a scale handy to prove anyone better. Whether best mechanic, politician, musician, cook, mathematician or athlete, a soft cocoon of superiority beckons. Excellence then isolates instead of broadening life. Individual arrogance also decreases intelligence by working against the decentralizing tides of democracy and capitalism. People keep inventing ingenious ways of explaining why they should decide instead of others, why they are smarter and better and so more deserving of the perks and trinkets of life. But if theft is legitimate, then intelligence is not.
The most fundamental fact of human life is that we evolved to maximize the intelligence of the human information system as a whole. We have never existed separate and alone but as intricately connected parts of that system, within which we live our lives. Individual intelligence was worthwhile and increased only in ways which complemented our source of power. People do not exist on a linear scale from stupid to smart. They live in many dimensions, their value to the whole being that they are different. Supermen and philosopher kings do not exist. If they did our world would be much less intelligent.
Hatred is not about the victim, instead a category error in someone's mind, a voluntary severing of connection, a denial of the fact that all humans are intrinsically interconnected. People invent all kinds of ways to cut themselves off. Walking around measuring, categorizing and belittling others may seem a purely private obsession. But the artificial separation it creates decreases intelligence, just like lying, cheating, hurting and stealing. Even when they feel justified by real injury, those who come to hate always lose. Severing connections isolates each of us when we make this mistake from the millions of ways we are naturally linked to others with intimacy, substance and meaning. It is a personal failure to grasp the largeness of life. All forms of hatred are self-banishments from the community of life, alienation from the essence of the greatest intelligence ever to arise.
True intelligence is found not in any one person. It is the unexpected found in pieces everywhere, in every pair of eyes. Fulfillment in life is not a destination but a journey always in motion, mixing in with the world around. Love, the closest of connections, is the highest expression of intelligence, of our state of nature.
For little round billiard balls, equality is being the same and freedom to roll around is increased by taking others off the table. Since humans are not little balls but information entities, the exact opposite is true. Equality is being different and freedom is radically reduced by taking others off the table. People are equal in that each one is an element of the larger thinking system and all are needed to maximize its intelligence. Acts hindering others from thinking detract from the intelligence of everyone. Condescension is always obvious, as the perpetrator very publically makes their own life smaller and cheaper. Their victims resent it, cooperate less, and close off in turn. Rising out of superiority to equality with all those lesser, acceptance to the core of humanity’s great gift, the smallness and particularity of self, is the critical door opening to the wider world of intelligence, dignity and beauty. Freedom is the ability to make choices and move around in the vast information landscape of minds and lives. This requires participation in making things work, more giving than receiving. It is because the equality and freedom of individuals as information entities are essential to intelligence that they are inherent in human existence.
Because people are not objects but information entities, they are happiest not when cut off and alone but when their minds are best connected with the world. A drug induced blank smile is not at all what happiness is about. Whether it's baseball, another person, a job or a song they like, as they find fulfillment in their various peculiarities they are happier and their minds are more engaged. As long as they avoid harming others, this raises the intelligence of the human information system. More thinking is going on. Their happiness is the summit of life, peak experience and function, the highest expression of
their unique contribution. Individual happiness is the source of collective intelligence. Can't have one without the other.
Fairness within the human information system is much greater than any list of physical items. Because it consists of enabling everyone to think and contribute it is essential to intelligence. No one can do so if starving or sick, ignorant or in chains. Everyone needs help to grow and flourish. Efforts to increase fairness, to better people's lives, are far more than feel good projects. They are for us, not simply for them.
In the clear cold light of morning the choice to live fully and behave in a moral fashion is obvious. People have invented lots of ways to explain why they should be nice to each other. But at root they all come down to individual awakening, opening to the information realities of life. Human beings perceive directly, without any explanation, theory or religion, that they are connected with others and the world. It is obvious in moments when an individual finds themself suddenly enraptured by another person. The illusion of separateness might unconsciously dissolve when encountering a song or a wayward glance, an ingenious machine or a football pass. It is the recognition of informational connection which inspires the look in a lover's eye, the visceral reaction to a baby's cry, the giddy feeling of a moving world when some work of art gets under the skin. Most people do not need complicated reasons to see grossly immoral acts as just plain wrong. Who has not been overwhelmed by the utter cuteness of a little child? Morality becomes self-evident with the experience of recognizing the warmth and light in another's eye, becoming much more than the right thing, the only thing to do.
Within every person lies a field of life full of hidden places, fuzzy feelings, acres of happenings and kittens and food, every corner filled with vastness, fluid motion moment to moment. Each comes with a mix of warm childhood memories, present experience and dreams of the future, all dense with nuance and impressions. Their information field is an extension and enrichment of all others. For anyone, the experience of recognizing this in one person and then another, a friend, neighbor or passerby, expands the boundaries of life. Multiplied by all those in a town, a region, the world, and the human information landscape seems to go on forever. The furthest corners of every mind fuel the most powerful and intelligent entity ever to exist. Its beauty graces all our lives.
Today awareness is spreading throughout the world of the myriad ways that participating in an actively intelligent society elevates every personal life. Individuals have ever more reasons to believe that their own peculiarities are good not bad, that it is alright for them to be more themselves. The variety of things they can do is expanding, with greater freedom, prosperity and people inventing new pursuits. Large organizations are recognized to be more successful when they enlist the minds of their employees instead of having them do only what they are told. The use of math to make it possible for everyone to make decisions is gaining acceptance. Ever more varieties of people are being allowed, enabled and inspired to participate. Democracy is spreading and theft by those who govern is receding. Even those with guns are slowly awakening to the fact that real power comes from intelligence, the secret to which is to be found in the sweetly innocent smile of a child. The modern flowering of the human information system is wonderful, moral and inherently beautiful.

Burns Night in the Lilac Town
By Herbert Eyre Moulton
(1927-2005)
 
This is the story --- more or less --- of what when two charming and resourceful young ladies quite flabbergasted our entire federation of chums, buddies, and miscreants raffishly known as The Anti-Decency League of Greater Chicagoland, or ADL for short, and this by dint of one of the most outrageous escapades that any of us had ever carried off.
It was back in the late 1940's, when most of us were only a year or two out of high school and intent on discovering new and original methods of shocking and, if possible, outsmarting the petty-bourgeoise, convention-strangled society into which all of us, quite without our consent, had been born. We had always. prided ourselves on our happy-go-lucky, nose-thumbing flaunting of the rules that had been laid down for us. But with this one coup-de-théâtre, these two accomplished doxies, Joan and Ginny (AKA the Duchess and her wily handmaid) set all our previous antics and accomplishments in the shade once and for all ...
How? By appearing in our midst one night with the most glittering trophies that any of us had ever seen or even dreamt about --- introducing into a nice normal Saturday night get-together a trio of handsome and virile Scots Highlanders in full marching regalia: kilted, sporanned, silver-buckled and complete with skirling bagpipes and tootling flute, recruited directly from Edinburgh's famed Royal Scots Marching Band, which earlier in the week had opened its first-ever engagement in America. For the record: Alex, Angus and Robbie.
This sudden, completely unexpected appearance on our home-scene, right "SPLAT!!!" in the middle of one of our pleasant but unexceptional bashes, sparked a night of almost barbaric plentitude, of impromptu Highland Flings and  improvised Sword Dances (using our kitchen cutlery), of spontaneous Sing-Songs and Robert Burns poetry-recitations crowding one upon another, of toasts and Usquebaugh-quaffing unprecedented this side of Auld Reekie (Edinburgh to the uninitiated), of outlandish stunts like the communal conga-line "Colonel Bogeying" out the back door, down the stairs, around the corner, along the town's main drag, then through the street door, up the front stairs, and back into the apartment without losing a beat; and set dances with Angus as a most professional caller, leading up to the most sumptuous banquet any of us had ever wallowed in and which threatened to go on till daybreak --- then a grisly episode involving a temporary off-limits bathroom and a universal agony of bursting bladders and curses both loud and deep, and all to the ear-splitting squawling of a barage of bagpipes, like the Sorcerer's Apprentice, seemingly impossible to turn off. ("Sweet God," as my mother Nell moaned sometime during this surrealastic charade, "Is there no way to turn that one and his bagpipes off?!") --- mere blips, really, in an otherwise seamless montage of uninterrupted feasting-and-fun, the likes of which our everyday, dull-as-ditchwater suburbs have never experienced before or since ...
With its extended highs, and its alarms and excursions leading up to a pandemonium-blixted climax, this was an occasion that is still being talked about in the hushed, incredulous tones usually reserved for extra-terrestrial sightings or once-in-a-lifetime jackpot killings on one of those quiz shows forever cluttering up our TV-screens ...
And all due to the sheer persuasive chutzpah of our two vivacious vestals.
 
 
Wi’a hundred pipers
Who or what is a true Scotsman --- and how to become one when you'd like to be, but aren't? Questions such as these took on an urgent new impact one sunny autumn day in the late 40's when the Entertainment pages of the Chicago newspapers carried an annoncement intriguing enough to turn plain ordinary citizens (starting with our own suburban WASPS) into natives of Clydeside or denizons of Edinburgh Castle:
"SENSATION! THE PIPERS ARE COMING TO TOWN!"
And that was only the beginning. The text led off with a starting call-to-arms lifted from the old Scots Marching Song THE HUNDRED PIPERS:
"Wi'a hundred pipers an' a' an' a',
We'll up an' gi' them a blaw, a blaw!"
Aye, pipers such as those who'd soon be winging their way from Auld Reekie to the Windy City, where, for the first time ever, the celebrated Royal Scots Marching Band and Pipers would be performing a full program of marching-and-bagpipe music as featured in the legendary Royal Tattoo, a time-honored spectacle, which from time immemorial had been a fixture at Edinburgh's historic castle --- hair-raising, in-your-face skirling of bagpipes, bolstered by pounding drums and tootling winds and brass --- flashes of steel and silver, fur-trimmed sporrans bouncing like demented shaving-brushes on the brilliantly-colored kilts of Royal Stewart or Black Watch, with a full corps of skilled dancers offering a fantastic program ranging from set-dances such as reels, hornpipes, strathspeys and jigs. This truly once-in-a-lifetime happening, involving scores of skilled performers, heirs to centuries of stormy and dramatic history, from the earliest Viking raids, down through the tragic fortunes of Robert the Bruce, William Wallace and the doomed and romantic last of the Stuarts, Bonnie Prince Charlie, right down to the fierce "Ladies from Hell" of World War I --- would be opening shortly at Chicago's time-honored Stadium, erstwhile showplace of national political conventions and other forms of light entertainment from international sporting events to Sonja Henie's renowned Ice Revue and Ringling Bros.-Barnum and Bailey three ring circus. (Somehow my parents had managed to take me to them all!)
The annoncement had acted like a high-wattage volt of electricity on Scot and non-Scot alike, galvanizing, in our case, even the most comatose of our drones to hotfoot it to the W. Madison Street ticket-office. No matter which category of Scots- Americans, if any, one belonged to, the important thing was to be there and celebrate the occasion with as much ceremony and enthusiasm as possible, for who could say when an oppurtunity as rare as this would come our way again?
Three Categories of Scots-Americans
As for our own serried ranks, these could be said to fall, like Caesar's Gaul, into three separate categories, with varying pride and interest in what might be callled their Heathery-Hebridian Heritage ---
Heading the list would be the happy few who could call themselves The Real Thing, 100 % genuine Scots-Americans, beginning (in our own circle) with the indomitable Stephen clan, whose progenitor, organist-Sunday-composer-bon-vivant-and-munifiscent host, Robert M. Stephen, was born and bred in that most regal of cities, the classical Highland capital of Edinburgh. Thus, the birthplace of our beloved "Codgerkin", with his unstoppable train of richly rolled "R's", and his equally unstoppable free hand in pouring out brimming flagons of his signature Ballantine's, as he did almost every Sunday morning after church services at  St. Mark's Episcopal, where I, often as not, gargled tuneful anthems, mostly of his own melodious composition ...
Besides the "Codg" were his gracious wife ("Herbert, I'm nothing but a cross old dame")and their two stalwart sons (my. self-appointed chauffeur-bodyguards) Robert M. Jr. ("The Baron") and his one-year younger brother George, equally brawny, but less flamboyant and more retiring, with a limp acquired, along with a Purple Heart, in a dust-up with General Rommel's crack desert-troops at El Alemain.
(Years later, I am pleased to say, the Baron, more expansive and baronial than ever, would hold an honored place in the world of higher education as one of the most popular and influential Professors of Political Science in America's midwest, with none of his sweeping humor or liberality diminished, and still eager to act as my unofficial bodyguard (whenever he thought I needed one.) As for George, that gentle soul later married a pleasant widow-lady of some means, and retired with her to Florida's West Coast, where he could really work at perfecting his golf game --- an original Scots institution (as you will recall.)
-------------------------
Getting back to those halycon days of the 40's, I remember those weekly post-church sessions at the Stephen's cosy, book-and-music-lined bungalow on Glen Ellyn's Annadale Avenue, with Lucille's freshly baked Scotch shortbread, Codger's generous hand at pouring out draughts of golden Ballantine's, and the boys' non-stop argle-bargle with me covering any topic from European History to our astonishing President Harry S. Truman, as among the most life-enhancing of my entire life.
Besides the bounteous Stephens, this upper stratum of 100 % Scots-Americans included, as well, assorted MacRaes, MacDonalds, and most notably, the gifted, mercurial, oft-infuriating, and highly disputatious St. Clairs, probably my family's closest friends in that part of the world, of a clan hailed in past days by no less than Sir Walter Scott in these words ---
"So still they blaze, when fate is nigh,
The Lordly line of high St. Clair ..."
It was their own daughter Joan who blazed highest and almost constantly, an electric storm in herself, and known to most of us as simply the Duchess, the Duchess of Sage, the surname being all that remained from a disastrous wartime marriage. Suffice to say that it was Joan, aided and abetted by her chum and closest confederate, the comely and quietly lethal Ginny Lee, who, all on her lonesome, rounded up and delivered into our midst the magnifiscent trio of Highlanders, whose sudden and fortuitous presence in our company was the motivation and raison d'être for this entire chronicle.
Now for the second category of Scots-Americans ...
This second stage of the tartan-tinged pecking-order would include what might be termed the loyal and patriotic half-breeds --- namely various Robertsons, Gregorys, Taylors, Leslies, Staufenbergs, and, last, but anything but least, my own family, by virtue of my paternal grandmother, Minnie R. Moulton, born Maria Ross Harper in Philadelphia in 1858, and descended (on the Scots side) from the Laings of Aberdeen, where since the 16th century (Mary Queen of Scots, Darnley, Knox!), they had been holding forth at the piquantly named Todholes-on-the-Pitgalvany. Another Philadelphia-Scots kinsman of ours was Samuel Ross, whose cousin Betsy gained immortality --- well, everybody knows how: sewing the first American flag for George Washington. (I do remember relatives of my Grandmother Moulton's generation speaking familarly.of "Cousin Betsy", so that, whenever glory was borne past in a parade, one or the other of them was bound to remark, "There goes cousin Betsy's handiwork.")
Rounding off our catalog: the Third Category, most numerous and most vocal of all, far too involved I their Scotsophilia to be considered mere Wanna-Be's, eager to investigate and, whenever possible acquire anything in the very least Scottish --- rainwear, broghams (big heavy boots for crossing sudden moors!), hand-woven tweeds, even the rough, hardy Harris, which in rainy weather always reeks faintly of seaweed --- hand-knitted goods, of course (cardigans, tams, long stockings, and all manner of tartan plaids, as colorful as sartorially possible: a perfect example of what they used to demean as a "run-on-sentence", okay?")
Even fonder were --- (and are) these all-Scots freaks of any of the myriad Scottish delicacies available, many of them in posh speciality shops, but also on the shelves of most upscale super-marts --- Scotch ham and salmon, shortbread and cakes of all breeds and sizes, teeth-shattering taffy and chunky marmelades (the best, laced with Whiskey!) and tinned broths and soups, even Haggis!
Likewise held in highest esteem: The Poems and Songs of Robert Burns (arguably the poet closest to the people's hearts). And for Scots and non-Scots alike, that greatest of Scotland's bequests to mankind, known both in the native Gaelic and the language of the Sassanachs: USQUEBAUGH, or just plain Whiskey, Water of Life. Internationally appreciated, nay, loved, no matter what the label --- be it Bell's, Dewar's, Johnny Walker,  Glenfiddle, or any of countless magi names, never forgetting the jokey old chestnut listing the telephone number of His Holiness the Pope: VAT 69 --- Slainte! No matter what! (Does Irish Gaelic count at all?) Anyway, Bottoms Up! Glasses raised, as well, to any of the countless by-products as Drambuie and Scotch Mist, each in his own way a bit of Heaven.
 
Her Grace The Duchess Regrets
Ah yes, the opening night performance --- how to make as proud a showing as we could --- going smoothly enough, except for one small, but puzzling detail in a logistics operation roughly comparable to the D-Day landings in Normandy a handful of years before. Suddenly it became clear that the staunchest and most vociferous Scots-enthusiast hadn't signed up, had in fact inexplicably begged off attending the premiere, giving as an excuse the lamest in the catalog: "Due to a previous engagement." Prithee, WHAT "PREVIOUS ENGAGEMENT"? I know: DON'T ASK/ DONT TELL. (We never DID find out --- Frustrating is NOT the word!) By all this is meant (who else?) Joan, Duchess of Sage. This "lordly line of St. Clair", of which Joan was the young chatelaine, were perhaps the most interesting of all our many fascinating friends and asquaintances. They seemed to embody everything one imagines the classic Scottish temperament to be --- moody, dramatic, unpredictable, liable to switch in an instant from the darkly dour to highly charged exuberance with no warning-signal whatsoever --- yet singly or collectively such marvelous company that one gladly put up with all the rest of it, as one does (and gladly) with friends one truly cherishes. (Oddly enough, the Stephen clan were in almost every way, the exact opposite of the St. Clairs, and yet were just as "Scottish" of all their traits. Which is what makes Celts --- and my mother Nell was no exception --- brilliant sunshine one minute, a downpour the next. YOU try to figure them out --- but one thing is certain --- they are none of them dull. Infuriating, they can be (and often are), but boring? No way!
Joan's abrupt cancellation of her performance at the "Royal Scots" Premiere at the Stadium was all too typical of that demi-diva, whose imperious manner and regal eccentricity had, as already mentioned, earned her the soubriquet of Her Grace the Duchess (not yet 30 and already almost a Royal!). Hers was manner so formidable that any poor wretch heard muttering, White-Rabbit-like, "The Duchess! Oh! the Duchess! Won't she be simply savage?" could only mean, not Lewis Carroll's titled termagant, but the dazzler ensconced at the St. Clair family compound over on Glen Ellyn's wooded Riford Road. (In this account of that singular evening, when the Royal Scots Band briefly invaded Lombard-The-Lilac-Town, you will encounter two more of the St. Clair dynasty: Robert, Joan's brother, who, in this case, is merely a face in the crowd, and their mother (the Doyenne) Hazel, a gentle exception to everything already said about the Scottish temperament. Let me assure you that we have been every bit as puzzled as anyone by the quirks of the "pawky" Scots soul, my Dad and I, trying to keep up with my Irish mother's rapid changes of mood. Her saving grace was her blessed Irish sense of humor that never let her take herself too seriously. The winning formula: (and here's where the metaphors careen wildly off the tracks) Quicksilver VS. Dark storm-clouds: gloom, dark storm-clouds only occasionally relieved by shafts of sunshine. Anybody able to figure all that out, please let us in on that secret!
When the news of Joan's absense from the premiere-party became known, I believe we were all more than slightly relieved --- for once, somebody else might be able to get a word in edgeways. Besides which, she would doubtless make up for it the following Saturday when gracing the performance, with her favorite confederate, the lovely, but lethal Ginny Lee in attendance. Not for the first time would the query arise: what have the two of them been up to THIS time? For, as always when this dulcet duo was involved, something extraordinary, something quite outré would be afoot. And for those not quite familiar with that nifty little French adjective, here's what the Concise Oxford Dictionary says about it:
"Outré: Outside the bounds of propriety, eccentric, outraging decorum."
Talk about le mot juste!
As our tale unfolds, the appropriateness of this definition will become crystal-clear. For, as the old saying has it, thereby hangs a tale, not to belabor the French word-borrowings (but just one more?), one that holds the very raison d'etre of this entire narrative.
Aye, this was a happening that still lives in the collective memory as one of the boldest and most bizarre in the entire annals of the ADL, of Herbert-Parties, perhaps of the party going history of Greater Chicagoland, Subdivision: Western Suburbs. Once again the query: what had those two ornamental doxies, Joan and Ginny, wrought?
What --- to put it as simply as possible --- what they had wrought was introduce into a perfectly ordinary, normal Saturday evening Herbert-party a magnificent trio of virile and talented Scottish Highlanders in full parade dress, direct from Edinburgh Castle by way of the Chicago Stadium, complete with bagpipes and silver flute.
Was there ever such a spectacular entrance made into a gathering as this? COULD there ever be? And all because these two high-spirited and enterprising bimbos from Glen Ellyn, USA, got so carried away by the pulse-quickening, bladder-tickling spectacle they had been witnessing, an evening that so beggered every precious description and nullified every form of anticipation that, even before the final ovation had subsided, the two of them had hitched up their chic New Look skirts and trundled hurriedly backstage...
There, with adrenaline bubbling and adulation reaching orgasmic proportions, they gave themselves up to the melée of stamping, sweating Scots gladiators (or so they seemed to Our Girls), still vibrating from their three hours’ performance and the attendant triumph --- gave themselves up? No! They positively let themselves be engulfed, and, both girls babbling non-stop, they so enraptured three of the kilted hunks in particular --- namely Angus, the ultimate chauffeur-manager, Alex, prize piper and part time pianist-accompanist; and Robbie, star flutist and all of 18, a gentle ginger-haired gift for the Gods --- so enraptured and enchanted them that all three immediately dropped whatever plans they’d had for the evening and snapped up the girls invitation to journey forthwith, out to the western suburb of Lombard (Yep!! The promised goal:) Lombard , the Lilac Town, an ongoing party at the Moultons’ with Nell and the 2 Herbs, and all their works and pomps. 

Remembering Uncle J.P.
(Autobiographical essay)

By Raymond Greiner



I lived in Vienna, West Virginia until age eleven, we then moved to Marion, Ohio where I entered sixth grade in 1951. Formative years unveil perpetual newness.
Industrial states felt economic surge in the early forties created from war demands while West Virginia remained stalled. Industrialized states struggled during The Great Depression era whereas West Virginia remained as it had always been. The thirties were more of a speed bump in West Virginia rather than a crisis because the state historically functioned on a fiscal precipice. However, my parents and grandparents were above the poverty line.
I attended Vienna School grades one through five, built in the nineteenth century with oiled wood floors, suspended globe lamps, wooden desks with inkwells and lift tops to store books, also paddles hanging next to blackboards. We didn’t change rooms, one teacher taught all subjects, but did changed rooms twice a week for music class, and on Fridays when our principal Mr. Huffman showed a movie in the largest classroom. Everyone crowded in with some standing, to watch a 16mm, black-and-white film. I remember two, Destination Moon and One Million BC. I distinctly remember One Million BC as I was overcome with fear watching cave men fight dinosaurs, later learning dinosaurs were extinct millions of years before humans appeared. Teachers were the most memorable, all women, very strict and although paddles were seldom used they played a symbolic role as reminders disruption would not be tolerated. It was an interesting time to experience youth. Difficult to imagine such conditions today, as parents closely monitor teacher activity. Stern discipline has been removed from schools. Contemporary educational systems mail parents neatly typed carefully composed correspondence to detail
disruptive behavior, and a meeting is scheduled to politely discuss incidents of disruption. At Vienna School in the forties teachers clarified issues on site, quickly and effectively.
My grandparents on my mother’s side, the Slater’s, lived in Parkersburg six miles from Vienna, and we visited frequently. My grandfather Slater was retired; and during working years he sold cemetery lots. The Slater’s were vagabonds of sorts, they owned a small orange grove in California in the early twentieth century, and I remember old photographs of this farm. Grandfather Slater traveled to San Francisco from Georgia to take a job in San Francisco. His wife Minnie arrived a year later by train with three children. They were married in Claxton, Georgia in 1902. Grandfather Slater was in San Francisco during the earthquake and fire destroying the city in 1906, before Minnie and the kids arrived. He was a handsome man, performed skits in vaudeville shows, and had a variety of jobs, and somehow ended up with the orange grove. I am without knowledge regarding reasons for moving to Parkersburg, WV, but my mother went to Parkersburg High School graduating in 1930. I remember seeing a photograph taken in California showing three children with my grandparents. One was my Aunt Sadie and one was Clara, who died in childhood of scarlet fever. Also pictured was a small, wide-eyed boy standing tall, and this was my uncle J.P. born in 1903. My mother, Helen, was born in 1911 and was not in this photo. I also had an Aunt Janet, born a year before my mother; Aunt Janet was the academic of the family, graduating from Parkersburg High School in 1929 as class salutatorian. My Uncle Bill was the youngest, unsure of his birth year, it must have been around 1920 since he had graduated from high school prior to being drafted into the army in 1941. Uncle Bill was the most charismatic member of the family, very good looking, and gregarious, everyone was drawn to him, as he possessed all the natural gifts. He was comfortable in social settings, became a hero in Italy during combat with the Germans, and awarded the Bronze Star for bravery enhancing his charisma. Everyone loved uncle Bill.


Uncle J. P. (James Paxton, Jr.), everyone called him J.P. was too old to be drafted and suffered from a mild learning disability, not classified as retarded but a slow learner, and was removed from school after fifth grade. No special education classes in those days. Uncle J.P. was bullied, and shunned socially at school, likely contributing to poor academic performance. The Uncle J.P. I knew was anything but a slow learner, he was smart, read the newspaper front to back each day, and knew more than most realized.
Uncle J.P. lived at home with my grandparents, Jim and Minnie. Uncle Bill and Uncle J.P. displayed vividly contrasting personalities. In the course of daily life my grandfather habitually directed verbal humiliation at uncle J.P. with hurtful snipes through exaggeration of minor issues. When Uncle Bill visited he contributed to this activity. Even at my young age this made me uncomfortable, and I knew it was wrong. I loved Uncle J.P., so much; he paid more attention to me than other adults in the family and often read me newspaper articles. Uncle J.P. was also a master gardener; he knew everything one could possibly know about gardening. His garden was large, and centered his life. He sold sweet corn, tomatoes and strawberries. People came from great distances to buy his produce. His garden was organic and perfect. He marinated tobacco in water then put this mixture in a garden sprayer using it as a pesticide. I was impressed at the neatness of his rows; always weed free as he worked tirelessly with his hoe in the sun wearing a straw hat. To escape verbal abuse uncle J.P. stayed to himself leading a solitary life. He told me he saved one hundred dollars, which I thought was a huge amount of money. Parkersburg High School was nearby, and Uncle J.P. volunteered to chalk the yard lines on the field for home football games. He did this for years, and coaches and players came to know and love him. They treated him better than anyone; he so enjoyed this job, representing his only social connection allowing a sense of worth and importance.
They gave him a permanent pass to games, but he always returned home, and listened to the games on the radio.
The torment from family members damaged Uncle J.P., but he concealed his emotions. Uncle J.P. smoked all day and Grandfather Slater and Uncle Bill were also heavy drinkers, fueling abuse toward Uncle J.P. Uncle J.P. never used alcohol, had very little money, and would hand roll cigarettes on a small hand crank machine. His thumb and forefinger on his right hand were yellow with stain from smoking cigarettes. The family was not totally dysfunctional, they shared meals, and there were times of harmonious interaction, but love was shallow, and much of the food was from the garden and never a word of recognition or praise directed at Uncle J.P. for his effort.
When I was around ten I remember Uncle J.P. holding his hand over his heart complaining of pain. He was told it was indigestion. Later, I remember my mother received a phone call, and she began to cry. We were living in Ohio, and drove directly to Parkersburg to my grandparent’s house. Uncle J.P. had shot himself in the head with my grandfather’s revolver. He was not dead, but mortally wounded, and at the hospital. I had never felt such emotional pain; it hit me so hard it seemed I would surely die. They brought Uncle J.P. home and rented a hospital bed. He was in a coma, and his head was badly swollen, he died three days later. Uncle Bill, my grandfather and grandmother were overcome with grief manifested from guilt. From the time they brought Uncle J.P. home from the hospital Uncle Bill remained at his bedside, would not leave, eat or sleep, staring at Uncle J.P. the entire time until his death. This incident caused family breakdown, complete devastation, and everyone wept uncontrollably displaying suffering I was unfamiliar with at my early age.
This was a harsh lesson in life. These experiences caused me to open an extra portion of my heart to those I observe who are shunned or emotionally damaged from the treatment of others. Uncle J.P. was a magnificent person; he was kind to
everyone, never complained, and loved plants and nature in all its forms. Few people ever attain the level of connection to the Earth Uncle J.P. achieved. I did not recognize this until adulthood, but the pain I felt at the funeral home, observing my grandparents and Uncle Bill overcome with intense grief has never left my memory. They were broken. It was 1953; Uncle J.P. was fifty years old.
All of those of that generation of my family are gone now. Uncle Bill died of a heart attack at age fifty-six, associated with alcoholism, and heavy tobacco use. Observing him throughout his later years he seemed empty. He wrote me letters while I was in the USMC. Often these letters reflected his youth, and I remember him telling me how he and Uncle J.P. played together as kids. They loved baseball but no baseball diamonds were nearby and they began playing stickball on a vacant lot using a broomstick and a rubber ball. After a time, the rubber ball split down the middle, leaving two equal halves, and since they could not afford another ball they began playing with one half. They soon discovered it was more fun than when the ball was whole, jumping around when pitched, doing crazy things when hit, eventually giving the game a name calling it “half-rubber”. Kids would gather for a game of “half-rubber”. Uncle Bill thought this might be a marketable game, but it never ventured beyond a thought. It was sad to read uncle Bill’s letters describing his memories of Uncle J.P. and I thought it odd with Uncle Bill’s broad experiences, war heroism, and life’s interactions brought forth from social gifts his experiences, as a child remained prominent in his memory. His memorable thoughts of playing stickball with his older brother found their way to the forefront. Often, simplistic, less grand events flash forward with clarity as aging descends.
Families’ falling down frequently occurs, spiraling into darkness. Recollecting my uncle and grandfather intimidating Uncle J. P., my thoughts are: “What if Uncle J.P. tried to retaliate, resist and fight back?” He couldn’t, he did not possess an anger-based, confrontational demeanor, he also had no place to go being poorly educated, and not easily accepted socially. His only job skill was gardening.
Uncle J.P. was in a cage of despair, and my uncle and grandfather were poking sticks at him. Viewing this through the eyes of a child is indelible; I thought Uncle J.P. was a glorious, compassionate person, never critical toward others.
I recently returned to Parkersburg for a visit. Slater’s house was demolished, and the large lot where Uncle J.P created his beautiful garden was weed infested with abandoned cars occupying this space. The picture in my mind reminisced a gentle man hoeing weeds on a hot summer day. Time gauges life, stirring emotions ranging from joy to sadness. Memories linger like shadows.
I am seventy-four now and feel blessed to remain. Awareness that the average US male life expectancy is seventy-three weighs on my mind, but adds dimension, seizing reverence as each day unfolds. I live with my two dogs Orion and Venus in a small cabin, five hundred feet from the lightly traveled road, on fourteen rural acres of pasture, pond and woods. It’s an introspective place. This is where I will likely remain the duration of my life.
There is freshness on this cold, late February morning. High in the sky is a flock of the sand-hill cranes trumpeting in their flight north signaling the cusp of spring. Nature displays balanced perfection. Humankind is plagued with misdirection, struggling within itself, drifting in continual disharmony. It is a hope that as a species we will evolve to more congruity.
The voice of destiny sings in various rhythmic tones, often off key and out of tempo, like a catbird singing in a thorn bush. Then the sky opens and darkness becomes light, as clouds of doubt vanish. On this special pre-spring day I remember Uncle J.P.

Francois Rabelais
Gargantua and Pantagruel (excerpt)
 
 
 
François Rabelais,  (born between 1483 and 1494 – 9 April 1553) was a major French Renaissance writer, physician, Renaissance humanist, monk and Greek scholar. He has historically been regarded as a writer of fantasy, satire, the grotesque, bawdy jokes and songs. His best known work is Gargantua and Pantagruel. Because of his literary power and historical importance, Western literary critics considered him one of the great writers of world literature and among the creators of modern European writing. His literary legacy is such that today, the word "Rabelaisian" has been coined as a descriptive inspired by his work and life. Merriam-Webster defines the word as describing someone or something that is "marked by gross robust humor, extravagance of caricature, or bold naturalism.”
 
 
All their life was regulated not by laws, statutes, or rules, but according to their free will and pleasure. They rose from bed when they pleased, and drank, ate, worked, and slept when the fancy seized them. Nobody woke them; nobody compelled them to either eat or to drink, or to do anything else whatsoever. So it was that Gargantua had established it. In their rules there was only one clause:
DO WHAT YOU WILL!
because people who are free, well-born, well-bred, and easy in honest company have a natural spur and instinct which drives them to virtuous deeds and deflects them from vice; and this they called honour. When these same men are depressed and enslaved by vile constraint and subjection, they use this noble quality which once impelled them freely towards virtue, to throw off and break this yoke of slavery. For we always strive after things forbidden and covet what is denied us.
Making use of this liberty, they most laudably rivaled one another in all of them doing what they saw pleased one. If some man or woman said, "Let us drink," they all drank; if he or she said, "Let us play," they all played; if it was "Let us go and amuse ourselves in the fields," everyone went there. If it were for hawking or hunting, the ladies, mounted on fine mares, with their grand palfreys following, each carried on their daintily gloved wrists a sparrow-hawk, a lanneret, or a merlin, the men carrying the other birds.
So nobly were they instructed that there was not a man or woman among them who could not read, write, sing, play musical instruments, speak five or six languages, and compose in them both verse and prose. Never were seen such worthy knights, so valiant, so nimble both on foot and horse; knights more vigorous, more agile, handier with all weapons than they were. Never were seen ladies so good-looking, so dainty, less tiresome, more skilled with the finger and the needle, and in every free and honest womanly pursuit than they were . . . .
Now every method of teaching has been restored, and the study of languages has been revived: of Greek, without which it is disgraceful for a man to call himself a scholar, and of Hebrew, and Latin. The elegant and accurate art of printing, which is now in use, was invented in my time, by divine inspiration; as, by contrast, artillery was inspired by diabolical suggestion. The whole world is full of learned men, of very erudite tutors, and of most extensive libraries, and it is my opinion that neither in the time of Plato, of Cicero, nor of Papinian were there such faculties for study as one finds today. No one, in future, will risk appearing in public or in any company, who is not well polished in Minerva's workshop. I find robbers, hangmen, freebooters, and grooms nowadays more learned than the doctors and preachers were in my time.
Why, the very women and girls aspire to the glory and reach out for the celestial manna of sound learning. So much so that at my present age I have been compelled to learn Greek, which I had not despised like Cato, but which I had not the leisure to learn in my youth. Indeed I find great delight in reading the Morals of Plutarch, Plato's magnificent Dialogues, the Monuments of Pausanias , and the Antiquities of Athenaeus, while I wait for the hour when it will please God, my Creator, to call me and bid me leave this earth.
Therefore, my son, I beg you to devote your youth to the firm pursuit of your studies and to the attainment of virtue. You are in Paris. There you will find many praiseworthy examples to follow. You have Epistemon for your tutor, and he can give you living instruction by word of mouth. It is my earnest wish that you shall become a perfect master of languages. First of Greek, as Quintillian advises; secondly, of Latin; and then of Hebrew, on account of the Holy Scriptures; also of Chaldean and Arabic, for the same reasons; and I would have you model your Greek style on Plato's and your Latin on that of Cicero. Keep your memory well stocked with every tale from history, and here you will find help in the Cosmographies of the historians. Of the liberal arts, geometry, arithmetic, and music, I gave you some smattering when you were still small, at the age of five or six. Go on and learn the rest, also the rules of astronomy. But leave divinatory astrology and Lully's art alone, I beg of you, for they are frauds and vanities. Of Civil Law I would have you learn the best texts by heart, and relate them to the art of philosophy. And as for the knowledge of Nature's works, I should like you to give careful attention to that too; so that there may be no sea, river, or spring of which you do not know the fish. All the birds of the air, all the trees, shrubs, and bushes of the forest, all the herbs of the field, all the metals deep in the bowels of the earth, the precious stones of the whole East and the South -- let none of them be unknown to you.
Then scrupulously peruse the books of the Greek, Arabian, and Latin doctors once more, not omitting the Talmudists and Cabalists, and by frequent dissections gain a perfect knowledge of that other world which is man. At some hours of the day also, begin to examine the Holy Scriptures. First the New Testament and the Epistles of the Apostles in Greek; and  then the Old Testament in Hebrew. In short, let me find you a veritable abyss of knowledge. For, later, when you have grown into a man, you will have to leave this quiet and repose of study, to learn chivalry and warfare, to defend my house, and to help our friends in every emergency against the attacks of evildoers.

Rockstar
​

By TS Hidalgo



Interview with a rock-star, a celebrity icon. The mischievous and bashful expression of someone who seems like a fun guy who all the same distrusts strangers, other people, the ager publicus, someone who lives enclosed in his own world of references and connections, his own clichés. He showed up to the televised interview in pajamas, a sample of what I heard:
— What are you dressed up as today?
— I'm dressed up as myself —he held a revolver, next to the microphone. In fact he was aiming at it.
— A hobby?
—Logomachy— also, he was barefoot.
— Another hobby?
— Exclusive whoring.
— A color?
— Cyan.
— A food?
— Sushi.
— A drink?
— Absinthe.
— A number?
— The last one.
— An obscenity?
— Damn.
— Do you play any sports?
— I prefer screwing.
— A short term objective?
— Getting out of here.
— A paradise lost?
— Summer of 88, some place in Ireland, once in a lifetime, I was barely sixteen years old: cubic sin.
— Something you hate?
— Alabama, palindromes... Yeah, that's it, definitely... Palindromes ... Alabama and palindromes... I also hate the cárcel catódica... Right, and casinos, monarchies and acts of faith.
— Something you're afraid of?
— I'm afraid of ostracism by installments. I'm afraid getting to some point in my life where I look down on my own life goals, my principals. I'm afraid of starting to wish for times gone by, sweating for years. I'm afraid of the exponential desensitization of the masses. I'm afraid of the bang at the end of the world.
— A word that makes you anxious?
— Nuance.
— Do you consider yourself a revolutionary?
— No, not at all, I'm not a revolutionary.
— Really? That’s a bit odd, coming from you.
— No, I'm not, and it's very logical: in a revolution, women are always tired, and there aren't any good restaurants.
— Any words for your fans?
— Hang them all.
— What is your secret dream?
— To do it, in handcuffs, in front of a black and white television playing movies in slow motion, with really disturbing images. To do it in handcuffs, yeah. Also to meet Bob Dylan.
— You've never met him in person?
— In person no, which is, to say the least, a bit strange.
— You would like to meet him?
— Yes.
— What would you talk about if you were introduced?
— Oh, um, I have no idea. About furniture, maybe?
Silence. Now another phone call, about the building for sale, which I didn't answer either.
— What have been your main influences?
— I am made of many people.
— A synonym for your work?
— Amalgamation, or eclectic field.
— An poet?
— Kavafis.
— A key saying?
— Best is just to come.
— A brand of clothing?
— Paul Smith.
— What happened to your bullfighting career?
— I had an excess of guts, and a lack of talent... I didn't get out of the bull's way, but the bull got me out of the way on his own.
— Is there anything more transgressive than your music?
— Bahaus.
— Life has taught you that...
— An eyeful of tits makes the medicine go down.
— How much would you like to earn?
— Enough to spend it all.
— Have you ever felt like a traitor?
— As soon as it gets dark.
— What do you think of the copla*? Many intellectuals are reclaiming it these days.
— Let them reclaim it, I don't give a shit about it.
— What is the last book you have read?
— Well, now that you ask... this very one, that grants both of us this ephemeral and circumstantial existence.
— The capital of Mali?
— Bamako.
— Do you know how to pilot a desert?
— I could try.
— A psychotropic drug?
— Pills for your faith.
— What are you going to do with your Grammys?
— I don't know.
— What is left of punk today?
— Nothing will be left of punk.
Silence.
— Who is your idol?
— I aspire to be my own idol.
— Who is your idol?
— I aspire to be my own idol.
— Who is your idol?
— I aspire to be my own idol.

RAJIV’S CURRY DINER
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
(Rajiv, an aging but very friendly Indian man, stands behind the counter in his New Dehli Special Curry Diner. Rajiv speaks with a very thick Indian accent.
 
Rodney, an American young man, comes in to the shop.)
 
Rajiv: Hello, my dear friend, and most welcome to enter the special world of Rajiv’s New Dehli Special Curry Diner. We are proud to be the biggest and most renowned Fast Curry Restaurant in India. Even the Maharadja of Gumbal eats his Tandoori here. How may I be of service to you on this very special day?
 
Rodney: I would like a hot dog.
 
Rajiv: (laughing) You are very, very funny. That is a good joke. I shall remember that one. Gosh, you are American, is that correct, sir?
 
Rodney: Yeah, so?
 
Rajiv: Well, I just find that you Americans have such a special sense of humour. I love Jim Carrey. He is such a funny, funny man. What is your name, sir?
 
Rodney: Rodney.
 
Rajiv: Lovely name. Lovely. Now, sir, may I tell you what we have: overhere, we have Curry Falafel, there is the Curry Hot Dish, here is Apricot Curry Seduction, the special for hot lovers, and here ...
 
Rodney: I would like a hot dog.
 
Rajiv: (stutters) Uhm, you keep mentioning that hot dog. (Calls out:) Indira, Dingy, there is a crazy American man here that wants to bake our dog. (To Rodney, again:) You must realize that here in India we do not bake dogs. We pet them, we take them for walks. If you want hot dogs, go to China, they will help you satisfy your perverse urge.
 
Rodney: Look, bozo, I just want a hot dog in a bun, okay?
 
Rajiv: Now, this is going to far, sir. I do have a dog, he is a small fox terrier and his name is Gumby, but you will not have my dog and you shall certainly not have my dog’s buns. He needs them to poop. What do think I am, crazy? You will not put my dog in the micro wave oven, sir!!!!
 
Rodney: I don’t wanna put your friggin dog in the micro oven, man. I just want a hot dog.
 
Rajiv: Well, I must admit that my dog gets hot from time to time even without being subjected to heat. He gets hot with his lady friend from time to time, too. She is fox terrier, too. You should see them, my friend. They go at it like rabbits. (Laughs.) Now, that is a HOT DOG!
 
Rodney: Hey, Indian Dude ...
 
Rajiv: Rajiv, my name is Rajiv.
 
Rodney: Look, Rajiv, all I want is a sausage.
 
Rajiv: (waits for a long time) Oh, a SAUSAGE!!!!!!!! Why did you not say that in the first place, sir? My, well, of course, it is one of our specialties. Curry Sausage. You shall have one right away, sir.
 
(Prepares the sausage.)
 
Where are you from, Rodney?
 
Rodney: Milwaukee.
 
Rajiv: Walkie? If you want take Gumby for a walkie you are most welcome. But don’t turn him into a hot dog. He might not like it. (Laughs.)
 
Rodney: The name of my city Milwaukee is Indian.
 
Rajiv: (stops preparing Rodney’s curry sausage) No, no, no. That is most certainly not an Indian name. Rajiv is an Indian name. Milkwaukee is not even a dialect.
 
Rodney: Yes, it is.
 
Rajiv: No, you have got it all wrong. I am Indian, you know.
 
Rodney: No, man ...
 
Rajiv: Yes, man ...
 
Rodney: No, dude ...
 
Rajiv: Rajiv, please ...
 
Rodney: Rajiv, these are other Indians. They have nothing to do with you.
 
Rajiv: Don’t they want to? My God, there are lost Indians out there. (Calls out) Indira, Dingy, in America there are lost Indians. It is a major crisis. Maybe we could help them come back.
 
Rodney: No, it’s okay. Forget it. Just ... just forget it, okay? It’s just an American city. No Indians.
 
Rajiv: You promise?
 
Rodney: Yes.
 
Rajiv: Whew. What a relief. Indira, Dingy. No hot doggies. No lost Indians. (To Rodney:) You gave me quite a scare, you know.
 
Rodney: Sorry.
 
Rajiv: That will be two, ninety, please. There you go. Come back soon and don’t call us or we’ll call you. Isn’t that what you Americans, say?
 
Rodney: (Laughs politely. Looks into the camera.) Gosh, I will never come back here again. (Rodney goes out.)
 
Rajiv: (Also looks into the camera.) Gee wiz, I hope he never comes back. His demands to eat my dog were terrifying. (Shivers and walks out.)
 
THE END


***


Below: 

1st photo - Editor-in-Chief Charles E.J. Moulton as Rajiv
2nd photo: Editor-in-Chief Charles E.J. Moulton as Elvis Presley
​

Mediumship
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
The people who talk to the dead are called “mediums”.  They walk between the living and the
 
dead and deliver messages to those who remain on the earth.  These messages can be deep
 
and meaningful or quite banal.  Either way, they make a great difference to those who remain
 
on earth, offering them hope and a reason to go on living.  They will feel peace, joy and a
 
deep connection with those they have lost.  They will have the much-needed proof in the
 
continuation of the soul.  It will make them think deeper and about the possibility of re-
 
incarnation for, surely, we don’t just drift around for the rest of our lives in the spirit world? 
 
 
 
There must be a reason for all this?  Is it to come back and try again until we get it right?  I,
 
personally, believe this is the case.  I also feel that the souls that have passed will feel both
 
relieved and delighted to be able to send their messages of peace and love to their relations
 
and friends, thus proving their ongoing existence and continuous love for the loved ones they
 
have left behind.  Sometimes, the spirits have repeatedly tried to contact the living by making
 
noises, moving things around or even touching their relations, to no avail.  The spirits are
 
relieved to be able to find a medium who can make the necessary contact and a bridge
 
between the souls. 
 
 
 
I think that there will be an ever-increasing need for mediums as the world starts to wonder
 
about where their lost friends, relatives and loved ones have gone.  So, the medium, provides
 
such an important role in both this world and the next, uniting the earth and the spirit plane,
 
promoting peace and harmony throughout both worlds. 
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   February 2016

Best Times
​

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



In our society today, we constantly strive for success and prestige. We want to get to the top, belong to the elite and be able to afford what we desire. Why then are the rich and famous so often miserable?
There is a deep satisfaction in little pleasures which are available to you without big expense. Even if you are at the top, you will be amazed how rewarding it is to be able to recognize and pay attention to little pleasures. My big treasure is a small dinghy, the one we carry on deck of our big boat. It holds two people, is made of hard rubber, and has two plastic paddles and a throw rope. This little gadget has become my biggest pleasure. You step inside, fight for balance and hope not to get splashed or fall into the water. One cannot go far with it and I have no desire to do so; the wind usually decides the direction. Sometimes I bump into one of the big party boats that are anchored along our 40-foot wide and three-city-blocks long canal. No problem, I bounce off and use my paddles to return to the middle of the canal. I look at the sky and kind of meditate while the little nutshell bounces along. Little wonders of nature exist all around, but we hardly ever take the time to watch and enjoy them. We are too busy to strive for fame and prominence. I use my imagination while meditating. This little boat is my gondola and I am skimming along the waterways of Venice. I ignore that my neighbor’s black dogs bark at me furiously when I pass them.
​Maybe I interrupted their meditation. What do dogs think about? I pay no attention to the seaweed floating on the surface of the water; I am happy and only see and feel what I want.
When I get back to the bulkhead, I admire the mimosa trees in their pink bloom and am made aware of the gardenias. It is a faint aroma coming from those flowers that catches my attention. I watch a squirrel climbing up a pine tree and I call a friendly, “Hello.” Mother duck is taking her children for her first outing, and I ponder what they will do come winter. I hear the happy noises of the seagulls from the distant bay where they catch remnants of dead fish that fishermen have thrown overboard. I look at a weather-beaten red bench on the lawn of a house nearby and wonder who used to sit on there in the past and who will sit on it in the future.
All is peaceful. No noise or vibration like on a big boat. I just float, look and relax.
I put my hand into the water and let the water drops slowly dissipate in the sun. I rest my chin on the rubber edge of my little gondola and watch how the sun reflects by injecting colorful rays just below the water’s surface.
I do not want to change with anybody!

High Old Times in the Threadbare ‘30s
 
By the late and great Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 – 2005)
 
 
            Considering the perilous state of everyone’s finances during the 1930’s --- at least everyone we knew --- and recalling our own feast-and-famine cycles, the wonder is that we managed to take in as much grand entertainment as we did. But then, I was an only child (born July 1927) and no problem to be taken any where my parents went. Obviously I was also smart enough to grow as fast as I could so that these excursions of ours could grow ever more festive. Before anybody realized it, they consisted of at least one carefully chosen opera each season, plus operettas, musicals, stage plays, and, two summers running (’33 and ’34), the marvels of the Chicago World’s Fair, A Century of Progress.
            We were determined to miss as little as possible. Damn the Depression, anyway! Naturally, there were the usual sour comments from the local Babbitts: Who did we think we were, anyway? Going to plays and operas, with so many people on relief?
“Oh, don’t mind those old horses’ neckties!” my mother Nell advised. “They’re only jealous. Such Slobs ICH KABIBEL!” (She’d once had a Yiddisch speaking suitor.) “Now, let’s see what’s playing next week, what we can afford, that.”
Something affordable would always turn up --- there was so much to choose from. And if the tickets cost too much, there was always some way to blarney our way past the Manager. “Honey-Boy, remember, I’m not Irish for nothing!” On such occasions, my Dad, Big Herb, would either look the other way or simply pretend he wasn’t with us.
Those were the days of Vaudevill, so we were able to bask in the glow of dying embers. One of my first Show-Biz memories was of Sophie Tucker, all in white, being driven onstage in a white-and-gold open limousine, attended by flunkies in matching livery. They escorted her down to the footlights. “Some of these days/ You’re gonna miss me, Honey”.
I was absolutely transfixed.
There were, as well, lots of live radio broadcasts originating in Chicago, like W-G-N’s popular Soap “Bachelor’s Children” --- we wrote in and got free tickets several times. Got the cast’s autographs, too, and a write-up in our local newspaper, The Glen Ellyn News. So much for the Babbitts.
There were also hour-long radio dramas like the version of “A Farewell to Arms” with no one less than Helen Hayes as Catherine, script in hand, loving, emoting, and finally dying beautifully, all into the microphone. Just think: The First Lady of the American Theater, not ten yards away from us and all the better because it hadn’t cost us a red cent!
The same went for the nightly free summer concerts in Grant Park. We took in them all, or some of them, anyway. And Nell got more articles printed in the paper. Living Well is the Best Revenge!
On athletics and sporting events we didn’t waste much time --- wrongly perhaps, and I the figure to prove it. (Sorry, Jocks!) I did like to go swimming, with my pals at the Wheaton pool in the next town, riding our bikes and devouring candy bars the whole way. There was also skating on Lake Ellyn, the best part of which was the hot cocoa with marshmallows in it at the boat house. That, and chatting up the junior high school girls. And the Hell with the Hans Brinkers outside falling on their bottoms!
We did make an annual pilgrimage to Wrigley Field each summer, mostly to humor Big Herb, an inveterate Cubs fan. They very seldom won a game, but my Dad was convinced they would, and the Pennant, too, if only we’d keep thinking Positive Thoughts. So we did ... meanwhile, the Hot Dogs there - they were just about the best in town.
Well, in 1938, Big Herb’s beloved Cubs finally won their Pennant, and, bless him, he hurried home as fast as he could just to tell us the News in person. It wasn’t just “Gabby” Hartnett’s last minute Grand Slam Homer that had turned the tide --- our own good wishes and positive thoughts had also played their part. Right, perhaps they had ... Nothing like keeping everyone on the Home Front happy and content.
Like most families, we had our share of seasonal traditions and these we kept religiously. Christmas vacation always meant one thing in certainty: a trip to the Chicago Stadium for Sonja Henie’s spectacular Ice Revue --- breathtaking costumes and orchestrations, Olympic skaters, and hair-raising comics-on-ice like Frick and Frack, and, the peak of the program and always dazzlingly beautiful: Sonja Henie herself, solo, a cherubic blond dream in a short glitzy skirt and spinning and wafting her way through Liszt’s “Liebestraum” --- Man alive! Now that was magic! That, ladies and gents, was a star to conjure with!
The Stadium of W. Madison St. was likewise the setting for another family tradition, this one in summertime: Ringling Bros., Barnum and Bailey’s Circus! Three rings continuously alive with clowns and their exploding flivvers, acrobats and tumblers, magicians and live animal acts, and a bevy of pretty ballet girls, fluttering vast butterfly wings a hundred feet up, hanging from the ceiling by their teeth! (Ow!) And at the Grand Finale, having to stop your ears when somebody got shot out of a mammoth cannon. (I never quite grasped the charm of this.)
Yet another amicable tradition: celebrating my parents’ Wedding Anniversary every February 27th, getting launched with a three-way “Kram” (Swedish for “embrace” – we called it simply a Hug-and-a-Boo.) Then a slap-up-dinner at a fine downtown restaurant --- Henrici’s or, better, still, the Berghoff, where the Wiener Schnitzel and Tafelspitz, AND the home-made Lemon Meringe Pie are to die for. This would be followed by a stage show, whatever happened to be playing that appealed to us all. One year, it was “The Hot Mikado”, another: “Porgy and Bess”, and the last such occasion in the ‘30’s (“Good riddance!” was Nell’s send-off-comment): the wonderful comedy “Life with Father” with Percy Warum as fulminating Father Day, and Lillian Gish (Yes!) as the gentle, slightly pixilated mother, heading a company said to be far superior to the popular Broadway original.
Another season brought Noel Coward’s witty Spook-Comedy “Blithe Spirit”, featuring the deliciously dotty Estelle Winwood of the lace-curtained hair-do, wide-set eyes, and pixie movements, along with Dennis King, old-time operetta idol, and the chic but incomprehensible Annabella. We hoped her husband Tyrone Power could understand her better than we did.
A farce my parents loved was “Leaning on Letty”, with the loose-limbed Charlotte Greenwood, whose post-performance display of rubber-legged acrobatics brought down the house. An incredible display, much loved.
Then there was the dark andd melancholy Sylvia Sidney in a stage version of  Nell’s beloved namesake “Jane Eyre” (her father had been born an Eyre of Eyrecourt in County Galway, where Charlotte Bronte, the author, once settled, taking that family’s name for her own heroine). One reason for Miss Sidney’s melancholy might have been having the show stolen from under her by that delicious character actress Cora Witherspoon in the cameo role of Mr. Rochester’s complaining cook.
Another star turn, and one deemed by some of Nell’s bitchier lady friends as quite unsuitable for young Herbert’s innocent ears, was Clifton Webb’s waspish “The Man Who Came to Dinner” --- not for school-boys, and, consequently, relished all the more by this one. We also revelled in “Pins and Needles”, a political revue put on by members of the international Garment Workers Union in New York --- their spoof of an old-fashioned mellerdrammer was achingly funny and remains so in memory today.
“Achingly funny” wouldn’t half describe Olsen and Johnson’s zany “Helzapoppin’”, which gave a new meaning to madness, but it sure took a lot of tolerance to reconcile this kind of thing with the dignified Auditorium. What counted was the great old theater was being used as such. It surely was for the next production, which came at the very close “Dirty ‘30’s” --- “Romeo and Juliet” starring the most glamorous and famous pair of lovers of the time, Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. We all thought it was the most sumptuous and thrilling Romeo possible, but it’s now reckoned the biggest flop of the Oliviers’ otherwise distinguished career. It played in the theater I shall always love more than any other --- Louis Sullivan’s masterpiece, and I write about it with a reverance reserved for very holy places.
I was and indeed still am deeply devoted to this historic old theater which dates from 1889 and which played such a seminal role in my life. And when it was threatened with demolition in the early ‘40’s, my personal sorrow was so profound that I wrote critic Claudia Cassidy a lament for its apparently inexorable fate. She published it almost in full in her Sunday column in the Chicago Sun --- Fame! And at the tendenage of 15, too. But thank God and a lot of marvellous people, the Auditorium managed to survive after all and is now enjoying a new lease on life as part of Roosevelt University --- restored to its pristine splendor as a protected Historical Monument.
It was there that I had my first real theatrical experience, a musical extravaganza in every sense of the word, “The Great Waltz”, music by Johann Strauss the Younger, book by Moss Hart, and featuring the soprano Marion Claire. It was she, as wife of the Music Director of W-G-N, who, in Spring 1953, auditioned and hired me for my first nationwide broadcast, commenting to the others in the control room: “We must find something that shows off his beautiful diction.”
As for “The Great Waltz” itself, very little I have seen since --- this was 1936, remember --- has ever approached it for sheer theatrical magic, now, during the introduction to the Grand Finale, the bandstand with orchestra, moved swiftly and silently upstage as far as it would go, crystal chandaliers descended from above and pillars slid out from the wings on both sides. Thus, in a matter of seconds, what was just another set downstage for a bit of dialogue, was transformed into the grandest of ballrooms, crowded with handsomely dressed couples waltzing to the beautiful Blue Danube. This was Glamour. This was Theater. This was an Epiphany, and I never quite got over it. 
Let’s get down now to the operas my parents took me to in the 1930’s, after a quick glance back to the dark days of October 1929, when, by supreme stroke of irony, the stockmarket crash that triggered the Great Depression, neatly coincided with the opening of Samuel Insull’s brand new, twenty-million dollar, Art-Deco Civic Opera House. This soon came to be known as Insull’s Folly, and for it, his Civic Opera Company had abandoned the historic and still viable Auditorium, home of Chicago opera for four decades. Luckily, Chicago opera is now flourishing again.
In the ‘30’s, the only opera being performed at the Auditorium (probably the best acoustics in Christendom) was that of Fortune Gallo’s San Carlo Company, an excellent troupe of first-class artists from home and abroad, performing standard repertory at “popular” prices a few weeks at a time before moving on to the next city. My first opera was their “Faust”, with a nice chubby Marguerite named Belle Verte, and, as Mephisto, the company’s resident bass, Harold Kravitt (these names have been flashed solely from memory). There was even a “white” ballet between the acts. It was all totally new to me and it left me hooked for life.
My second night at the Opera, again the San Carlo, was Bizet’s “Carmen”, starring the Russian mezzo Ina Bourskaya. The trouble was that particular Saturday night an American Legion convention was in town, and Big Herb, a faithful, if not fanatical Legionaire, was all set to spend the evening with some of his buddies at Mme. Galli’s Italian Restaurant on the Near North Side --- a rollicking occasion reminiscent of Laurel and Hardy’s classic “Sons of the Desert” convention, which also took place in Chicago. All well and good, but what about my Carmen? I’d been looking forward to it for weeks. As curtain time approached, with the merriment showing no signs of abating, I began to twitch, and then to panic. Was I the only one who remembered our date at the opera? Nothing for it, but to burst into tears and create such a scene that the festivities ended then and there. We got to the theater just in time to miss Carmen’s Entrance and Habanera, but the important thing was we got there, period. And a terrific experience it turned out to be.
Besides my tearful brouhaha at Mme. Galli’s, what I remember most about that performance was Act IV and the hardy little band of 5 or 6 supers, got up as matadors and marching round and round in the pre-bullfight parade --- in one side and out the other, then a dash backstage and in again, at least four times, each appearance getting a bigger laugh and louder hand than before.
Then, for the final scene --- Brouskaya resplendent in gold lace, tier after tier down to the ground, with a matching mantilla held in place by a jeweled comb and blood-red rose. What impressed me most was the moment just prior to her death --- she made a frantic Sign of the Cross, then turned and rushed upstage to meet her lover’s naked knifeblade --- this desperate, dramatic Sign of the Cross, then hurtling hurtling to her doom. Boy! That was Destiny with a capital D!!!
 

Spotlight Showstoppers



"The Lunts on Broadway"



Excerpt from a stage-play/ anthology 
written for a narrator, an actor and an actress.

By the late, great

Herbert Eyre Moulton

(1927 - 2005)

***

(The actress enters.)

ACTRESS

Lynn Fontanne, born in England --- the reference books do not agree as to what year --- stagestruck from childhood. As a young woman became the protégée of Ellen Terry, and later Laurette Taylor, who brought her to America --- for one reason, to try and fatten her up. "In me, dressmakers lose their pins," she used to say. "Oh, Lynn, they bend them."

ACTOR

Lunt got his first big break in 1919 when Booth Tarkington wrote a comedy for him with an offbeat hero, "Clarence", a saxophone-playing entomologist.

ACTRESS

Lynn Fontanne's first break occurred a few years later as "Dulcy", the scatterbrained heroine in George S. Kaufman's first success. 

ACTOR

The score thus far: one offbeat hero ---

ACTRESS

--- and one scatterbrained heroine in need of fattening up. 

NARRATOR

By the time of their first successes, they'd already acted repertory together in Washington --- their lifelong love affair began then, too --- their first New York appearance, though nor yet as partners, was in 1923 in Laurette's revival of "Nell of Old Drury".

ACTOR

The year before, because they were so in love and more than a little tired of waiting, they'd taken Destiny firmly by the collar and quickly marched it downtown to the Marriage Bureau. Soon, however, it was Destiny that was doing the collaring, in the form of the Theatre Guild. 

NARRATOR

The Theatre Guild ...

ACTRESS

(Has her glasses on by now and is thumbing through a book:)

Wait, before we get into all that, I just wanted ---

(Searching for the place:)

There are these marvellous bits about their personal appearance.

NARRATOR

Personal appearance?

ACTRESS

What people thought of them. The general consensus seems to be that they were rather hideous.

ACTOR

Yes, when Laurette Taylor first took Lynn to the producer George Tyler, he pronounced her a human scarecrow, skinny, big-footed, pigeon-toed, and with a high thin voice which, he said, wouldn't be heard beyond the tenth row. Laurette agreed, and ---

ACTRESS

(Has found the place and reads out pointedly:) Oh, here it is --- "A bag of bones with arms as thin as rails."

ACTOR

Even after she'd become famous as an actress and a beauty, she received gems of condescension like this one from Mrs. Campbell ---

ACTRESS

"You're very lovely, my dear, though your chest is rather flat. I am sure it will fill out becomingly like mine, because I had a flat chest like yours when I was your age."

ACTOR

As for Lunt, he was "too tall, too thin, too eccentric in his movements ..."

ACTRESS

"... a vaguely wandering soul who looks at you like a lost dog afraid of being washed"!

ACTOR

Then there was that "hollow voice"
of his which kept breaking into falsetto ---

NARRATOR

A mannerism that would soon be turned to gold. 

ACTRESS

The funny thing was, Lunt agreed with all of this. He always loathed his looks. Once in a letter to Laurence Olivier, he said ---

ACTOR

"My hair is a nice color, brown like an expensive mink, but my face reminds me of nothing quite much as a discarded douche bag."

NARRATOR

(Returning to his theme:) 

Mmmmm, yes, the Theatre Guild. During the 5 or 6 years of its existence, the Guild had built up a reputation as an "art" theater that never made any money and never paid its artists much, either. They'd never had a real hit and nobody seemed to care. The directors all had their private incomes, which is always nice in addition to ideals and taste, and were content with producing the kind of plays they wanted and in the way they wanted. For years they'd held an option on an old Ferenc Molnar comedy, which one of the directors, Philip Moeller, had translated as "The Guardsman". Another of the directors, the dynamic Theresa Helburn, now undertook to get the play produced, if at all possible, with Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontane, and the rest is ---

ACTRESS

Funny, isn't it? Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, they were always called that, weren't they?

NARRATOR

(Peeved at the interruption:) But those were ---

ACTRESS

Or the Lunts. No, what I mean is, it was never Mr. and Mrs. Lunt, that would have been just ludicrous. 

NARRATOR

(Continuing:) The rest, as I was about to say, is history. "The Guardsman" had everything possible against it. The play had already failed on Broadway in an earlier version. Then, too, the Guild had neither the resources nor the know-how to stage high comedy. And, lastly, the leads, as exponents of the continental style, were totally unknown quantities. With Lunt still considered "an awkward, ungainly, ugly chap," and Miss Fontanne a "funny gawky English girl who didn't care how ridiculous she looked as long as she got laughs" --- they were hardly such stuff as dreams were made on. 

ACTOR

But they believed in the project so much that they took the last of their savings and went off to Europe in search of atmosphere and a Parisian wardrobe for Miss Fontanne. Lunt's Guardsman would be dressed in black ---

NARRATOR

At which the director, Philip Moeller, balked ---

ACTOR

"You can't play comedy in black!"

NARRATOR

Miss Fontanne disagreed ---

ACTRESS

"Listen, Mr. Moeller. You can play comedy in a burlap bag inside a piano with the cover down if the lines are funny and the audience can hear them."

(The Actress exits.)

ACTOR

Right up to the final grim rehearsal, all signs foretold disaster, and yet ...

(The Actor exits.)

NARRATOR

And yet when opening night curtain rose, it was obvious that the miracle that happens once or twice every generation had been at work. Separately the Lunts had been just two more clever performers in a generation of brilliant stars --- together they provided one of those classic examples of chemistry, or alchemy, when the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. So much greater that in his New York Sun review next day, Alexander Woollcott prophesied ---

(The NARRATOR has opened a book and reads out:)

"Those who saw them last night bowing hand in hand for the first time may well have been witnessing a moment in theatrical history. It is among the possibilities that they were seeing the first chapter in a partnership destined to be as distinguished as that of Henry Irving and Ellen Terry."

(He puts the book aside.)
(Music: Chopin piano music under ...)

NARRATOR

Molnar's "Guardsman" is the classic tale of the jealous husband getting his comeuppance. This time it is a famous Hungarian actor who suspects his actress wife of unfaithfulness. To test her, he disguises himself as a Russian guardsman. She goes along with the charade and invites him to visit her during her husband's "absence". Here is the first encounter between disguised husband and willing wife, which made theater history when the Lunts first did it in October 1924 ...

(NARRATOR's light goes out. LIGHT up on SET. Offstage, if needs be, the ACTRESS is "playing" Chopin on the piano. The NARRATOR, as a SERVANT, crosses to her, carrying a card on a silver salvar. After a moment, the music stops.)

***

The whole manuscript of Herbert Eyre Moulton's "The Lunts of Broadway" is available upon request. 

Autobiography

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​ 
Conceived by mistake to join a World in turmoil, I was born 1933 in Berlin, Germany, in the house my grandfather had built. My childhood was plastered with losses. We lost the house as a consequence of the ongoing inflation. My favorite aunt died at the early age of 32. My father left because political unrest spread its winds of disaster.
My mother had a big family. At that time, her relatives were old and feeble. Consequently, the park I visited most often was the cemetery. Without question, it was and still today is a very pretty and peaceful place. I did a lot of planting and watering there to keep the graves looking nice. I still can picture myself lugging rusty water cans from two city blocks away to our family plot.
My most cherished memories from that time is dancing Ballet in The Berlin Opera as well as the  recollections of waiting for my Mom in the backstage of the Burg Theatre in Vienna. While she was earning our daily living on stage, I was having fun trying on theatrical shoes and hats.
I remember Kindergarten in Vienna and rides on the Riesenrad, the famous Ferris wheel in Vienna’s Prater amusement park. Later when I was evacuated during WWII to Austria for a little longer than a year, I attended the lyceum (high school) there.
An exciting youth followed. I was back in Berlin. It was the years after the War and all was allowed. We had been lucky to belong to the American sector. I was babysitting for an American family who had moved into the villa next to us during the occupation of the Four Powers. From the PX, the American shopping center, they bought me a cotton dress with red stripes and white stars. My flag dress, I called it. It was so American.
I finished my education and got my first job, selling purses and umbrellas in an upscale boutique on the Kurfürstendamm, the Champs-Élysées of Berlin. It did not last long – guess I was not nice enough to the boss. My good looks opened doors for me fast but also had a downside. When I applied for the position of fur model, I was given a fur bikini and asked to try it on while a creepy, elderly guy was devouring me with his eyes. I left immediately – escaped would be the better description.
Next I got a position at a jeweler. A fancy storefront with a workshop in the back. It was interesting, I learned about gems and carats, the art of designing jewelry and the value of mine finds. The fear of a senior female employee that I might outshine her, put me on the street again. I spent a year at a business school, and completed a certificate in English from Cambridge University. I landed a job as typist with a Swedish franchise of C.E. Johansson of Eskilstuna in Berlin. It was discovered that I have technical talent, and I was sent to Sweden to learn the repair of measurement instruments needed by big factories like Siemens and Agfa.
In 1958 I was hired by Pan American as a Flight Attendant for the Inter German Service. A year later Pan Am sponsored me to come to America and fly out of New York. A life among the rich and famous began. During that career, which lasted for 25 years, I came to see the entire world with the exception of Australia. I met my husband of 50 years on one of my first flights and we were married in 1960. He spoiled me and always catered to me; he called himself my butler, chauffeur, cook and lover.
In 1972 I gave birth to a son. I have had serious encounters with the medical society. I was said to be on the verge of death six times. Well that is another story. My pregnancy was first labeled menopause.
Only when I fainted after having arrived on a flight to Rome, did our  company doctor tell me the happy news saying, “You are pregnant!” that I was pregnant. I stopped flying and went into Management. Later on I returned to Flight Status.
In 1985 I became President and coordinator of the Barry Farber Language Club on Long Island. After Pan Am had folded, I chose Real Estate as a new career. By now I have switched my main interest to writing, and I am happy to say this gives me great satisfaction and true fulfillment.

The Making of “Business for Pleasure”

By well-known actor, baritone and author 
Herbert Eyre Moulton
(1927 – 2005)


I have acted in many movies, including “Firefox” with Clint Eastwood and “Mesmer” with Alan Rickman. Often, I am confused with another colleague of the same generation and of the same name. We share the same profession, but I am also a singer, a teacher, an author and have worked a greater part in Europe.

I was MCA Records’ 1950’s Hot-Shot Dinner Singer, the conductor of the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir during the Korean War, a part of the duo “The Singing Couple”, the other half being my wife Gun Kronzell, creator of the school-radio-programmes for the Austrian Broadcasting Corporation and actor in over three hundred stage productions across the world. 

As for the movies, one of my more curious anecdotes concerned the following one.

Yet another of my hot Oscar-Contenders was an Austro-American goody produced in 1996 by “Erotic-Pioneer” Zelman King of “9 ½ Weeks”-fame. This was one little sweetmeat that actually got released, or it snuck out when no one was looking. I know for a fact that it was let loose back home, because a matronly towncrier of my acquaintance phoned me from the Chicago area to relay the glad tidings:

“Don Nichols called last night and said he’d rented a Soft-Porn video and guess who was playing the butler? Not just the butler, but also a sort of uniformed Procurer? Herb Moulton, that’s who! So, of course, we had to have a look at it, and we recognized you, because you were the only one with your clothes on.”

This rococo fertility-rite starred Jeroen Krabbe (Harrison Ford’s nemesis in “The Fugitive”) and two dishy young shooting stars who needed the work, I guess: Caron Bernstein and Gary Stretch, and it was filmed (my scenes, anyway) in various splendidly restored castles ornmenting the Austrian countryside. As usual, I wasn’t especially well-informed about my actual duties. All I knew was: I was to meet and greet the lissome Ms. Bernstein at the portal and usher her up several flights of long winding stairs into a vast bed- and ballroom, in the center of which stood a gilded ornamental bathtub complete with sumptuous Turkish towels and exotic perfumes and ungents. She was to make use of it at once.

On this very first day of shooting I was handed a xeroxed resumé of the convoluted, so-called plot which bore the cryptic stamp “UNAPPROVED 2/7/96”. After a moment’s persual I could see why. To match its sheer gooey grandiloquence you’d have to turn to the Collected works of Dame Barbara Cartland. Talk about “Dynasty”- and “Dallas”-Damage. Allow me to quote some purple patches:

“Isabel Diaz, a beautiful and sophisticated, rising executive, is facing a crisis,” it begins. “That moment in life, when each time she looks in the mirror, she asks herself: ‘What am I saving myself for?’”

The question being wholly rhetorical, the narrative gurgles on:

“A self-possessed woman with a smouldering sensuality, she longs to push beyond the limits of the day to day.”

Helping her push is the powerful, ultra-wealthy magnate Alexander Schutter, with whom she forms an unholy alliance. With him, she “has met her match”. This is Mr. Krabbe at his silkiest and most icky, and his first demand on Isabel is that she “pass a test of personal loyalty and cater to his peculiar sensual desires.” She is to bring two call girls to his suite and observe them making love to Rolf, Schutter’s chauffeur, whom the handout describes as “darkly handsome and gifted lover.” (Well, he’d want to be, wouldn’t he?)

One question, if I may: Why is it always the chauffeur and why not the poor old butler who has all the fun? As the gray eminence of this particular castle, I know I had to be above all that, grandly ignorant of the carnal olympiad swirling all around me, and much more concerned with such domestic duties as supervising a corps of bewigged flunkies as they served a splendiferous candlelight supper out on the terrace. The trouble was it poured wih rain on each of the all-night filming sessions (always tedious and depressing at the best of times), which rather dampended the orgiastic merriment. Luckily, Gary Stretch, alias Rolf the sexually athletic chauffeur, took pity on me and let me take refuge in his heate caravan, for which a benison on him, and may Heaven safeguard his libido.

But wait, there’s more, much more.

“The game begins,” announces the funky travelogue, and before anybody can say “Priapus”, the show is taken off the road and moved to the glitter and swank of Vienna, where “an intensely erotic triangle develops among Isabel, Schutter and Rolf.” The relentlessly lascivious Schutter gets further kicks from watching the other two making what Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello terms “the beast with two backs.” The gameplan breathlessly unfolds:

“The tension in this emotional thriller builds against the background of Vienna where love of life, beauty and luxury echoes Isabel’s growing passion for sensuality. (“Getting There Is Half The Fun!”)

But now danger looms for heedless, headstrong Isabel, along with hints of tragedy buried in the past, as 

“Schutter’s world of power, risk and decadence becomes an addiction for her.”

What withdrawal struggles, what cold turkey the poor dear will have to endure while kicking the habuit must be left to the imagination. For now, the whole heroic saga is being rounded off:

“Business for Pleasure is the story of one woman’s brave journey to the heart of her own desires. Isabel’s entry into Schutter’s dark world leaves her shattered ...”

(And she’s not the only one!)
But now come the great crashing chords that signify Redemption and The Grand Finale:

“With the help of the mysterious and hauntingly beautiful Anna ...”

(Mysterious, is right. This is the first we have heard of her!)

“... she is able to pick up the pieces of her life. When finally Isabel triumphs over disaster, she helps Schutter confront his own emptiness and take his first steps into the light.”

What this reminds you of is the grand old era of Super-Soap Heroines like Mary Noble, Backstage Wife, and tragic, self-sacrificing Stella Dallas. Isabel has got to be the most distressed and poignant figure since Tolstoy or possibly Jacqueline Susanne. Yet what is the only thing that bugged those yahoo-acquaintances of mine in Chicago? The next time I’m in that neck of the woods, remind me to check out for myself the video of “Business for Pleasure”, if only to see just what fun-and-games the butler had been missing all that time.

Press Pause

By Garth Harold Nadiro
​

We are at a time in our lives where technology is a part of our existence, our identity, our professions, our profiles, our amorous lives even. We use our smartphones to communicate, articulate, procrastinate, calibrate. We use all of our technology to profile ourselves. In fact, we let our technology rules us. Take away someone's smartphone for one day and see what happens. One financial advisor received threat mails because he did not answer his mobile phone quickly enough. 

That, however, does not mean that technology is a bad thing. No, it has brought us to the moon, it has connected us with the world, given us more information in one day than any given 12th farmer knew in one entire life. 

Let's look at the facts, though. Life is faster than ever before because of our technology. In our schools, we can access information faster than ever before. Students demand it. We can become that speed train others fear or love. YouTube can make us famous so fast we wonder what happened to progression. One day can be so filled to the brim with activity, due to our fast transportation, that we actually don't stop to thank the Lord for all of this. 
We are blessed with countless gifts, things that our energies and inspiration and divine creativity has made possible. 

Generation Heads Down. 
That phrase was coined by one of my students, who told me that young people today more or less spend their day looking down at their smartphones instead of at the world. 

That means we have to set an example. If everyone runs in one direction, does that mean you have to, as well? If you do, what does that make you? 
Occasionally, stop the train, turn off the music and sit down on that parkbench, pluck out your sandwich and listen to the silence. 

Inspiration, after all, comes from occasionally letting contemplation rule your galaxy, not the rocket rule your destination.

SECOND MEDITATION

By René Descartes


The nature of the human mind, and how it is better known than the body
So serious are the doubts into which I have been thrown as a result of
yesterday's meditation that I can neither put them out of my mind nor
see any way of resolving them. It feels as if I have fallen unexpectedly into
a deep whirlpool which tumbles me around so that I can neither stand on
the bottom nor swim up to the top. Nevertheless I will make an effort and
once more attempt the same path which I started on yesterday. Anything
which admits of the slightest doubt I will set aside just as if I had found it
to be wholly false; and I will proceed in this way until I recognize
something certain, or, if nothing else, until I at least recognize for certain
that there is no certainty. Archimedes used to demand just one firm and
immovable point in order to shift the entire earth; so I too can hope for
great things if I manage to find just one thing, however slight, that is
certain and unshakeable.
I will suppose then, that everything I see is spurious. I will believe that
my memory tells me lies, and that none of the things that it reports ever
happened. I have no senses. Body, shape, extension, movement and place
are chimeras. So what remains true? Perhaps just the one fact that
nothing is certain.
Yet apart from everything I have just listed, how do I know that there
is not something else which does not allow even the slightest occasion for
doubt? Is there not a God, or whatever I may call him, who puts into mel
the thoughts I am now having? But why do I think this, since I myself
may perhaps be the author of these thoughts? In that case am not I, at
least, something? But I have just said that I have no senses and no body.

This is the sticking point: what follows from this? Am I not so bound up
with a body and with senses that I cannot exist without them? But I have
convinced myself that there is absolutely nothing in the world, no sky, no
earth, no minds, no bodies. Does it now follow that I too do not exist?

No: if I convinced myself of something! then I certainly existed. But there
is a deceiver of supreme power and cunning who is deliberately and
constantly deceiving me. In that case I too undoubtedly exist, if he is
deceiving me; and let him deceive me as much as he can, he will never
bring it about that I am nothing so long as I think that I am something. So
after considering everything very thoroughly, I must finally conclude that
this proposition, I am, I exist, is necessarily true whenever it is put
forward by me or conceived in my mind.
But I do not yet have a sufficient understanding of what this 'I' is, that
now necessarily exists. So I must be on my guard against carelessly taking
something else to be this 'I', and so making a mistake in the very item of
knowledge that I maintain is the most certain and evident of all. I will
therefore go back and meditate on what I originally believed myself to be,
before I embarked on this present train of thought. I will then subtract
anything capable of being weakened, even minimally, by the arguments
now introduced, so that what is left at the end may be exactly and only
what is certain and unshakeable.

What then did I formerly think I was? A man. But what is a man? Shall
I say 'a rational anima)'? No; for then I should have to inquire what an
animal is, what rationality is, and in this way one question would lead me
down the slope to other harder ones, and I do not now have the time to
waste on subtleties of this kind. Instead I propose to concentrate on what
came into my thoughts spontaneously and quite naturally whenever I 26
used to consider what I was. Well, the first thought to come to mind was
that I had a face, hands, arms and the whole mechanical structure of
limbs which can be seen in a corpse, and which I called the body. The
next thought was that I was nourished, that I moved about, and that I
engaged in sense-perception and thinking; and these actions I attributed
to the soul. But as to the nature of this soul, either I did not think about
this or else I imagined it to be something tenuous, like a wind or fire or
ether, which permeated my more solid parts. As to the body, however, I
had no doubts about it, but thought I knew its nature distinctly. If I had
tried to describe the mental conception I had of it, I would have
expressed it as follows: by a body I understand whatever has a
determinable shape and a definable location and can occupy a space in
such a way as to exclude any other body; it can be perceived by touch,
sight, hearing, taste or smell, and can be moved in various ways, not by
itself but by whatever else comes into contact with it. For, according to
my judgement, the power of self-movement, like the power of sensation
or of thought, was quite foreign to the nature of a body.

But what shall I now say that I am, when I am supposing that there is
some supremely powerful and, if it is permissible to say so, malicious
deceiver, who is deliberately trying to trick me in every way he can? Can I
now assert that I possess even the most insignificant of all the attributes
which I have just said belong to the nature of a body? I scrutinize them,
think about them, go over them again, but nothing suggests itself; it is
tiresome and pointless to go through the list once more. But what about
the attributes I assigned to the soul? Nutrition or movement? Since now I
do not have a body, these are mere fabrications. Sense-perception? This
surely does not occur without a body, and besides, when asleep I have
appeared to perceive through the senses many things which I afterwards
realized I did not perceive through the senses at all. Thinking? At last I
have discovered it - thought; this alone is inseparable from me. I am, I
exist - that is certain. But for how long? For as long as I am thinking. For
it could be that were I totally to cease from thinking, I should totally
cease to exist. At present I am not admitting anything except what is
necessarily true. I am, then, in the strict sense only a thing that thinks; 1
that is, I am a mind, or intelligence, or intellect, or reason - words whose
meaning I have been ignorant of until now. But for all that I am a thing
which is real and which truly exists. But what kind of a thing? As I have
just said - a thinking thing.

What else am I? I will use my imagination. I am not that structure of
limbs which is called a human body. I am not even some thin vapour
which permeates the limbs - a wind, fire, air, breath, or whatever I depict
in my imagination; for these are things which I have supposed to be
nothing. Let this supposition stand;3 for all that I am still something. And
yet may it not perhaps be the case that these very things which I am
supposing to be nothing, because they are unknown to me, are in reality
identical with the ' .. of which I am aware? I do not know, and for the
moment I shall not argue the point, since I can make judgements only
about things which are known to me. I know that I exist; the question is,
what is this 'I' that I know? If the'!, is understood strictly as we have
been taking it, then it is quite certain that knowledge of it does not-
The word 'only' is most naturally taken as going with 'a thing that thinks', and this
interpretation is followed in the French version. 

 It would indeed be a case of fictitious invention if I used my imagination to establish that I was something or other; tor imagining is simply contemplating the shape or
image of a corporeal thing. Yet now I know for certain both that I exist
and at the same time that all such images and, in general, everything
relating to the nature of body, could be mere dreams <and chimeras).
Once this point has been grasped, to say 'I will use my imagination to get
to know more distinctly what I am' would seem to be as silly as saying 'I
am now awake, and see some truth; but since my vision is not yet clear
enough, 1 will deliberately fall asleep so that my dreams may provide a
truer and dearer representation.' I thus realize that none of the things
that the imagination enables me to grasp is at all relevant to this
knowledge of myself which I possess, and that the mind must therefore
be most carefully diverted from such thingsl if it is to perceive its own
nature as distinctly as possible.
But what then am I? A thing that thinks. What is that? A thing that
doubts, understands, affirms, denies, is willing, is unwilling, and also
imagines and has sensory perceptions.
This is a considerable list, if everything on it belongs to me. But does it?
Is it not one and the same 'I' who is now doubting almost everything,
who nonetheless understands some things, who affirms that this one
thing is true, denies everything else, desires to know more, is unwilling to
be deceived, imagines many things even involuntarily, and is aware of
many things which apparently come from the senses? Are not all these
things just as true as the fact that 1 exist, even if I am asleep all the time, 29
and even if he who created me is doing all he can to deceive me? Which of
all these activities is distinct from my thinking? Which of them can be
said to be separate from myself? The fact that it is I who am doubting and
understanding and willing is so evident that I see no way of making it
any dearer. But it is also the case that the 'I' who imagines is the same 'I'.
For even if, as I have supposed, none of the objects of imagination are
real, the power of imagination is something which really exists and is
part of my thinking. Lastly, it is also the same '1' who has sensory
perceptions, or is aware of bodily things as it were through the senses.
For example, I am now seeing light, hearing a noise, feeling heat. But I
am asleep, so all this is false. Yet I certainly seem to see, to hear, and to be
warmed. This cannot be false; what is called 'having a sensory perception'
is strictly just this, and in this restricted sense of the term it is simply
thinking.

From all this I am beginning to have a rather better understanding of
what I am. But it still appears - and I cannot stop thinking this - that the
corporeal things of which images are formed in my thought, and which
the senses investigate, are known with much more distinctness than this
puzzling 'I' which cannot be pictured in the imagination. And yet it is
surely surprising that I should have a more distinct grasp of things which
I realize are doubtful, unknown and foreign to me, than I have of that
which is true and known - my own self. But I see what it is: my mind
enjoys wandering off and will not yet submit to being restrained within
30 the bounds of truth. Very well then; just this once let us give it a
completely free rein, so that after a while, when it is time to tighten the
reins, it may more readily submit to being curbed.
Let us consider the things which people commonly think they understand
most distinctly of all; that is, the bodies which we touch and see. I
do not mean bodies in general - for general perceptions are apt to be
somewhat more confused - but one particular body. Let us take, for
example, this piece of wax. It has just been taken from the honeycomb; it
has not yet quite lost the taste of the honey; it retains some of the scent of
the flowers from which it was gathered; its colour, shape and size are
plain to see; it is hard, cold and can be handled without difficulty; if you
rap it with your knuckle it makes a sound. In short, it has everything
which appears necessary to enable a body to be known as distinctly as
possible. But even as I speak, I put the wax by the fire, and look: the
residual taste is eliminated, the smell goes away, the colour changes, the
shape is lost, the size increases; it becomes liquid and hot; you can hardly
touch it, and if you strike it, it no longer makes a sound. But does the
same wax remain? It must be admitted that it does; no one denies it, no
one thinks otherwise. So what was it in the wax that I understood with
such distinctness? Evidently none of the features which I arrived at by
means of the senses; for whatever came under taste, smell, sight, touch or
hearing has now altered yet the wax remains.
Perhaps the answer lies in the thought which now comes to my mind;
namely, the wax was not after all the sweetness of the honey, or the
fragrance of the flowers, or the whiteness, or the shape, or the sound, but
was rather a body which presented itself to me in these various forms a
little while ago, but which now exhibits different ones. But what exactly
3I is it that I am now imagining? Let us concentrate, take away everything
which does not belong to the wax, and see what is left: merely something
extended, flexible and changeable. But what is meant here by 'flexible'
and 'changeable'? Is it what I picture in my imagination: that this piece of
wax is capable of changing from a round shape to a square shape, or
from a square shape to a triangular shape?  

I would not be making a correct judgement about the nature of
wax unless I believed it capable of being extended in many more different
ways than I will ever encompass in my imagination. I must therefore
admit that the nature of this piece of wax is in no way revealed by my
imagination, but is perceived by the mind alone. (l am speaking of this
particular piece of wax; the point is even clearer with regard to wax in
general.) But what is this wax which is perceived by the mind alone?! It is
of course the same wax which I see, which I touch, which I picture in my
imagination, in short the same wax which I thought it to be from the
start. And yet, and here is the point, the perception I have of it2 is a case
not of vision or touch or imagination nor has it ever been, despite
previous appearances - but of purely mental scrutiny; and this can be
imperfect and confused, as it was before, or clear and distinct as it is now,
depending on how carefully I concentrate on what the wax consists in.
But as I reach this conclusion I am amazed at how <weak and) prone
to error my mind is. For although I am thinking about these matters
within myself, silently and without speaking, nonetheless the actual 32
words bring me up short, and I am almost tricked by ordinary ways of
talking. We say that we see the wax itself, if it is there before us, not that
we judge it to be there from its colour or shape; and this might lead me to
conclude without more ado that knowledge of the wax comes from what
the eye sees, and not from the scrutiny of the mind alone. But then if I
look out of the window and see men crossing the square, as I just happen
to have done, I normally say that I see the men themselves, just as I say
that I see the wax. Yet do I see any more than hats and coats which could
conceal automatons? I judge that they are men. And so something which
I thought I was seeing with my eyes is in fact grasped solely by the faculty
of judgement which is in my mind.
However, one who wants to achieve knowledge above the ordinary
level should feel ashamed at having taken ordinary ways of talking as a
basis for doubt. So let us proceed, and consider on which occasion my
perception of the nature of the wax was more perfect and evident.

Any doubt on this issue would clearly be foolish; for what
distinctness was there in my earlier perception? Was there anything in it
which an animal could not possess? But when 1 distinguish the wax from
its outward forms - take the clothes off, as it were, and consider it naked
then although my judgement may still contain errors, at least my
perception now requires a human mind.
 
But what am I to say about this mind, or about myself? (So far,
remember, I am not admitting that there is anything else in me except a
mind.) What, I ask, is this 'I' which seems to perceive the wax so
distinctly? Surely my awareness of my own self is not merely much truer
and more certain than my awareness of the wax, but also much more
distinct and evident. For if I judge that the wax exists from the fact that 1
see it, clearly this same fact entails much more evidently that 1 myself also
exist. It is possible that what 1 see is not really the wax; it is possible that 1
do not even have eyes with which to see anything. But when I see, or
think I see (I am not here distinguishing the two), it is simply not possible
that I who am now thinking am not something. By the same token, if I
judge that the wax exists from the fact that I touch it, the same result
follows, namely that I exist. If I judge that it exists from the fact that I
imagine it, or for any other reason, exactly the same thing follows. And
the result that I have grasped in the case of the wax may be applied to
everything else located outside me. Moreover, if my perception of the
wax seemed more distinct after it was established not just by sight or
touch but by many other considerations, it must be admitted that I now
know myself even more distinctly. This is because every consideration whatsoever
which contributes to my perception of the wax, or of any other
body, cannot but establish even more effectively the nature of my own
mind. But besides this, there is so much else in the mind itself which can
serve to make my knowledge of it more distinct, that it scarcely seems
worth going through the contributions made by considering bodily
things.

My Breakfast Company


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


As a flight attendant, I became accustomed to breakfast in bed. We would unlock the hotel room door after I had called in the order to room service. What did I order? It was different for each country – French bread with ham and cheese and plenty of mayo plus a soft-boiled egg and a hot chocolate. I found it impossible to drink the French coffee, dark and bitter! – Yes that was Paris--
In Prestwick, Scotland, I had kippers, toast and coffee. In Germany, schinkenbrot, coffee, two fried eggs and a fresh orange juice. In India, a curry soup, soft-boiled eggs, and in Estoril, Portugal, chorizos or a calderada.
The breakfast time of the country did not always correspond with the time of day that my stomach expected it to be. That of course because of the time change.
This custom carried over to the times at home and stayed such till only a few days ago. My bedroom is upstairs. To get my breakfast, I would let my husband know that I was awake and day after day he would make the breakfast. Every day it included a soft-boiled egg onto which he drew a funny smiley face with pencil.
After the death of my husband, I continued the routine. I would go downstairs, make the coffee and eggs (no more faces on them). While the coffee was brewing, I would feed the birds. Check the weather. Then open the screen doors to sample the temperature and finally take the tray with my breakfast upstairs.
Now only a few days ago while waiting for the eggs to boil I sat in one of my white leather chairs which is standing at the screen door. It was a clear, still, brisk spring day. The water in the canal was flowing north to south out to the bay. The first grass peeking. There are remnants from Superstorm Sandy, now three years past, still visible as brown dried out patches on the lawn. A few crocuses try to show their impatience by pushing through the weeds which as usual claim victory by taking over.
Then and there I saw several birds as they came to keep me company. During the following days, I noticed different kinds of birds like robins, blue jays, sparrows, swallows and blackbirds. I was fascinated by one little grayish brown bird seemingly looking for the smallest seeds in the bird food. I have a rather varied group of bird visitors from sparrows to ducks to the much less welcome geese. The bird food I am using is a mixture of peanuts and other nuts as well as seeds for small songbirds. The birds come in no noticeable order. A few minutes and all the food is gone.
From now on I will have a daily breakfast party in the living room with the screen doors open and my birds singing to me.

Remembering Grandmother

and Grandfather Eyre



By Herbert Eyre Moulton 

(1927 - 2005)

 

“Never forget, children,” my grandmother Eyre used to say long after her husband’s death, “your father was an aristocrat, an Eyre of Eyrecourt.”
But if deeds and character count for anything, it was this lively, energetic, warmhearted, caring little woman who was the real aristocrat of the family. My grandfather, though aristocratic in name and manner (when sober, that is), seems to have inherited the worst traits of his famous and ever more disimproving race.
Very Irish, that.
When I first moved to Dublin in 1959, I tried to trace the registry of his birth there. All I was told was that the old records at the Four Courts had been destroyed in “The Troubles” and the Civil War. Thanks to my Grandmother “Scrapbook” (actually an old Architect’s and Builder’s Directory for the USA, published in 1885, into which she wrote and pasted everything she wished to save: a family trait) we have what scant information remains, regarding names, dates and places. This is my only source. This and what I remember hearing about those old days. Things that used to inhabit our old 1930’s Glen Ellyn home are gone. The memories are still there.
Damn the depression, anyway.
We had a great time.
Doldrum days?
Not a chance.
Anyway, we are not talking depression days yet, although the people that knew the aristocratic life of Ireland told me about it during the depression.
Anyway, Henry Lee Eyre was born in Dublin on Febuary 4th, 1853. His father Marmaduke had left Eyrecourt for Dublin and was employed there at the GPO, the General Post Office, scene of the Easter Rebellion of 1916. When he emigrated to America is unknown, but he married Nellie Finneran in Chicago on October 21st, 1884. The only picture we have of him is a small tin type, typical of that period, posed stiffly on a chair and looking rather like an elegant bloodhound with his drooping moustache and pale eyes.
He was dressed exactly as if for Ascot Opening Day: cutaway gray “frock”-coat and waistcoat, striped trousers, gray top hat and gold-cane or brolly. Better than jeans and T-shirt, if you ask me.
I have no idea what his profession was, other than Downgraded Aristocrat. Nor have we any idea if and when he ever visited the crumbling old mansion in Galway, nor do we know anything about his mother except that she was born Eliza Johnston at Friarstown in Sligo, the rugged northern coastal county where the poet Yeats is buried. “Horseman, pass by ...”
The only mention of him in Burke’s Landed Gentry is the terse entry: Henry, d. young. That is a Victorian euphemism for “married a Catholic”. Only titled people get into Burke’s Peerage. There hadn’t been one of those since The Baron “Stale” Eyre died in 1781 and the title died with him.
When one of Nell’s famous cousins, Sir Hugh Beaver, then director of Guiness and progenitor of “The Guiness Book of Records”, expressed doubts as to my authentic Eyre ancetry, I told the old gent:
“My grandfather did not die young, Sir Hugh. He did worse. He married a Catholic, daughter of a Gaelic-speaking peasant woman from the wilds of Connemara. But in America,” I went on, “Nobility with a Capital N doesn’t always go by titles. With us, a bartender is as good as a Bart. That’s short for Baronet. That is, if he is a decent person.
Sir Hugh finally accepted that AND me. After all, how would Nell’s brother get a name like Marmaduke Johnstone Eyre if he hadn’t been named after his grandparents. The “e” was later added to Johnston, by the way. Many’s the bloody fistfight he’d had when his boyhood companions teased him about his “fawncy” name.
In those days, marrying a Catholic was tantamount to dying young: picture turned to the wall, totally disinherited. Not that, by that time, there was anything left to inherit except monumental debts. Our Irish relative Charity’s father, Willie Worthington-Eyre, literally worked himself to death paying off the debts his branch of the family had left behind at Eyreville Castle.
So, sometime between his birth in Dublin in 1853 and his marriage to my grandmother in Chicago 31 years later, my grandfather emigrated, met and married Nellie Finneran, then processed to sire six children. Three of these died in infancy, which was about average for the mortality rate of that period. My grandfather, himself, drank himself to death.
Whatever his profession might have beenm it must’ve brought in a decent income, providing the amenities for what came to be called “Cut-Glass-Irish”. The one photo we have of her and her two children show them well-dressed. She is in her dark sealskin coat, fashionable hat and black kid gloves. Duke is in a Turkish “fez”, a fad of that time. My mother Nellie Brennan Eyre with a fluffy collar and matching muff. It is the bearing of the mother, the position of her head, that marks her as one of nature true aristocrats. It was only after the father’s death in 1896 (pneumonia, aggrevated by alcoholism) that times got really hard: the “Cut-Glass” disappeared along with the Ascot togs and both Nellies had to go out and work. My mother was not yet ten years old at the time.
And as for my grandmother, her family never knew her real age. To the end of her days, whenever asked, she’d only reply, sweetly, but firmly:
“I am twenty-nine!”
Surely, she had a genuine love for music and beauty. One of her family sagas has her, still unmarried, travelling all the way down from Stevens Point to Chicago just to hear Mme. Patti sing. Adelina Patti was the most celebrated soprano of her age. She was the diva who inspired the barber-shop favorite “Sweet Adeline”, she with here countless “Farewell-Tours”. Her mention in Oscar Wilde’s “The Picture of Dorian Gray” tells it all.
Sir Henry Wotton says: “But you must come to Covent Garden tonight, Dorian. Patti is singing.” A side note here is that Patti retired to the splendor of her castle in Wales. June Andersson, whom I met often in New York City during my time there, has a gold-framed letter which Patti wrote in English from there towards the end of her life. Baby June, as we like to call her, considers herself in a direct line of the great Prima Donna and I suppose she is right.



Below: 

Academic Singing Professor Gun Kronzell-Moulton (1930 - 2011) 
as Dorabella in Mozart's "Cosi fan tutte"
​ 

A Celebrity Named Gun Kronzell


By Charles E.J. Moulton 


The 1960's must've been quite a decade for my mother. She was a working opera star active in a dozen German theatres. She sang oratories in Belgium, France and England. She met my dad in Hannover in 1966, toured with him through Europe, appeared on Irish TV and was still able to travel back to the calm home base in her beloved home town of Kalmar in Sweden.
My mom loved Kalmar. It was her centre, her safe haven. As a global citizen touring the world and working with and meeting stars like Luciano Pavarotti, Alan Rickman and the Swedish King, she had been at home most everywhere. But her heart was Swedish. Her soul belonged to Kalmar.
 
As a little boy in Gothenburg, I was exposed to my mother's amazing imagination. She told me these wonderful good night stories about the trolls Uggel-Guggel and Klampe-Lampe. They eventually turned into the high point of my day. The coolest thing, though, is that I am passing on these stories to my daughter. She is starting to invent stuff for the stories just like I did. I see that she loves the inventive and crazy creativity of our stories just as much as I did.
 
Having my mom as a good night story teller and my daddy as a professional author was the best mixture a boy could ask for. I thank them for that. For triggering my imagination. For opening the vaults of endless creativity. For that is what it is about, guys. All of it. Creation. Creating always greater versions of ourselves. New parts of ourselves we thought were gone. New pieces of ourselves we didn't know we had. Pieces that appear once we just trust ourselves to be more than we thought we were or could be.

There are so many old documents in my cupboards and closets. Old clippings and reviews that my mom kept as evidence of her glorious career. One paper in particular describes what kind of a career she was having back then.

I also know, being the only child, that if I don't transcribe these documents and have them published somehow, nobody will. I could ask my wife or daughter to transcribe these old things, but it is actually my job as a son to spread the word of what kind of folks they were. They worked so hard for what they became and accomplished. They perfected their art so beautifully that a new generation just deserves to hear about them and damn great they were.

Singers, actors, authors, directors, teachers, scholars: they were everything and more.

So, here we go: back to the beginning of the 1960's. John F. Kennedy was still alive. The Space Race was still on. Armstrong had not yet landed on the moon. And a certain young opera singer named Gun Kronzell travelled the world and inspired people with her voice.

This is what Gun herself wrote in a document that was intended for a newspaper that was about to write an article about her. Her schedule looks like a big city phone book. So many operas and oratories to learn. She must've been rehearsing constantly.




Gun Kronzell Remembers


"These are some of my concerts and performances that I have been assigned to carry out during this season of 1962-63:

On March 11th, I am singing Brahms' Altrapsodie and Mozart's Requiem in Beleke with Matthias Büchel as conductor. Then, I am travelling to Bünde to sing Bach's Matthew Passion on March 31st. The April 1st, I am singing the same piece in Ahlen. I am travelling to Brügge in Belgium on April 4th to sing Beethoven's 9th Symphony. On April 17th I am again singing the Matthew Passion by Bach in Bergisch-Gladbach with Paul Nitsche as conductor.
I am back in Sweden on May 31st to sing at the 100 year anniversary of the Kalmar Girl's School.
On July 8th, I am singing Bach's Vom Reiche Gottes in the Church of Zion in Bethel.
In the German Vocal Festival in Essen, I am singing Haydn's Theresien Mass and Koerpp's The Fire of Prometheus.
In November, I am singing Bruckner's Mass in F-Minor in Witten.
On November 28th, 29th and 30th I am performing Beethoven's Mass in C Minor in the Mühlheim City Arena and Duisburg City Theatre.
On December 2nd and 3rd, 1962, I am singing Bach's Christmas Oratory in the Church of Zion in Bethel. On December16th, I am singing the same piece in Mainz. I am also singing the Christmas Oratory by Bach in Soest with Claus Dieter Pfeiffer as conductor and in Unna with Karl Helmut Herrman as conductor.
January 12th, 1963, hears me singing Bach's Christmas Oratory again in Bethel.
On March 31st I have been hired to sing Dvorak's Stabat Mater in Lippstadt.
Those were the concerts. Now for my operatic performances:
I have been hired as Mezzo Soprano at the City Opera in Bielefeld since September of 1961.
This season has seen me perform 5 roles.
The Innkeeper's Wife in Moussorgsky's Boris Godunov. That production had its premiere in September here. But I also guested with that part twice in Cologne this year. We have performed this opera 13 times so far.
The second role was Emilia in Verdi's Othello. We premiered with that on Christmas Day and have played it 10 times so far.
The third role for me this year was Dritte Dame (Third Lady) in The Magic Flute by Mozart. Our musical director Bernhard Conz often guest conducts in Italy and in Vienna. 5 shows of this so far.
The gypsy fortune teller Ulrica in Verdi's A Masked Ball had its premiere on January 23rd and this show has been playing for sold out houses 8 times so far.
Another Gypsy lady role, Czipra, in Johann Strauss' The Gypsy Baron had its premiere on March 6th.
My next role, Hippolytte in Britten's A Midsummer Night's Dream, is going to be fun.
A new colleague of mine arrived this year. He is the Swedish son of an archbishop. His name is Helge Brillioth."



Below: 

Gun Kronzell with the Swedish King, Gustaf VI Adolf, in 1971. 
He heard her sing. 
The slightly deaf king (to the right) is seen here joking: 
"I heard you!"

The Rigoletto Caper


By the late, great Herbert Eyre Moulton

(1927 - 2005)
​

Posthumous note by his son Charles E.J. Moulton

When I was 11 years old, my father and I spent our first of three vacations in Copenhagen, Denmark. These trips became gastronomical and cultural highlights for us both. In fact, they were one of the many reasons why I became an artist in the first place. Rossini's "Il Barbiere di Siviglia", Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker" and an uncut version of William Shakespeare's "Hamlet" in the Danish language: all of these extraordinary pieces became my own experiences, figuratively speaking, by my father's artistic side, because of his happy-go-lucky, natural way of approaching highly artistic pieces.
The production of "Hamlet" at the Royal Danish Theatre, though, received its humorous announcement through one of the charming ladies in the box office. When we picked up the tickets for the evening, she told us that "Hamlet" was "a very good Danish play". I grew up, listening and watching Shakespeare plays and the like, at the time. Thus: I, too, laughed.
My father reacted in his charming Mid-Atlantic idiom, responding with a charming smile:  "Well, Madam, it is also a very good English play."
In retrospect, I see that my father was the best of both worlds. His fine combination of high intellectualism and self depricating wit: that was his trademark.
The story that you are about to read, written by his own hand sometime in the 1990’s, took place when he was a young boy, newly adolescent, his courage and schutzpah driving the nuns at the Catholic school of St. Cuthbert's crazy. The mixture of high culture and wit, well developed when I was child, was very present already when my father was a boy.
His artistic and educated upbringing, nonetheless, came from a genuine parental interest in knowledge persay, not in the arrogant showing off of the same. His mother Nell Brennan Eyre was a eccentric, wonderfully enthusiastic lady, who loved chatting with people over a glass of beloved Irish whiskey. His father Herbert Lewis Moulton's tranquil manner probably gave my father his gentlemanly charm. It made it possible for him to experience becoming the witty storyteller persay, becoming the intellectual bon-vivant that he remained for the rest of his life.
He convinced people with self-irony and love, a creative urge and an excellent idiomatic articulation, that art and high culture can be the most fun you've ever had.
Art, in fact, is in eye of the beholder.
That is why, during our vacations in Denmark, we went to the movie house and saw films like "War Games" (in English, with the computer’s voice in baffling Danish) and "For Your Eyes Only" on the days following our operatic visits. We liked fast food and haute cuisine, high drama and decorative entertainment.
Our excursion to see "For Your Eyes Only" was especially witty. We were sitting in our favorite Italian restaurant close to the opera house, when I saw an announcement in the daily paper that Roger Moore's new Bond film was out. I had to do a little bit of convincing to persuade my wonderful father in going to a certain cinema called "Colloseum", but in the end he gave in.
So we asked the Italian waiter where the Colloseum was.
The waiter answered, surprised: "The Colloseum is in Rome."
We assured him that we knew that, but that we meant the cinema. He answered with a sneer: "Oh, you don't want to go there!"
Anyway, we got there in the end in spite of Italian arrogance. Even though we accidentally ended up in a wrong part of the complex, watching the beginning of a Terry Thomas flick dubbed into French, we did see Roger Moore as James Bond in "For Your Eyes Only" - and we loved it.
So, there you have it. My father's legacy: intellectual wit on a global level with Italians in Denmark, Americans watching British movies dubbed into French. He lived culturally and intellectually, telling people to keep their eyes on what character traits are most important when it comes to any form of artistic endeavor.
Creativity and inspiration, threefold, fourfold, a dozen times and eternally.
I have my mother, the operatic mezzo-soprano Gun Kronzell, and my father Herbert Eyre Moulton, actor and author, singer and teacher, to thank for the fact that I love being creative. Just like they were.
 Now, sit back and enjoy the ride.
We're in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, and the year is 1940.
Herbie? Take us back in time.
 
***

Opera freaks are best when taken young. In my case, I was all of eight when this peculiar virus struck, and, for good or ill, it has been raging on and off ever since. Even at that tender age, you learn to cope. Just as your nearest and dearest have to learn, as well.
For instance, from that time on, all Saturday activities had to be planned strictly around the Metropolitan Opera Saturday matinee broadcasts, which began, for us in the Midwest, at 1 p.m. That affected eveything everything from my regular household chores (50 cents a week, nothing to be sneezed at back in the 30's) and helping my parents with their marketing (our local term for shopping) for the week, to excursions, to places like museums in town, the zoo, friends you drop in on, and attendance at mega-events like birthday parties, hayrides, and PET & HOBBY Shows.
But the real crunch came with the cheery mayhem of Saturday afternoons at our local flea-pit, the Glen Theatre. (By some miracle it's still standing!) When forced to choose, let's say, between Lily Pons in "Lakme" from the Met, and --- at the Glen --- something like Laurel & Hardy in "Way Out West" or W.C. Fields in "The Bank Dick", with the added inducement of a Lone Ranger or Flash Gordon serial episode, the choice was too bitterly heartbreaking to be borne.
To tell the truth and shame the Devil, as my mother Nell used to say, my precocious operatic  know-how wasn't much use to me in those days. On the contrary, it was almost a hindrance, if not a handicap. To most "normal" folks, it set me apart, not "Queer" exactly, but, ya know, "different", even "Snobbish". This, I guess, is why I compensated for it by my constant clowning around around and showing-off.
But there was this one occasion --- a day in late Autumn 1940 --- when my Opera Virus led directly to my most shining hour in that crowded, bustling, rather smelly double-classroom in  St. Cuthbert's Parochial School in our Chicago Suburb, when I actually won respect from (a.) my peers (Surprise and Enthusiasm) and (b.) my chief adversary and esteemed sparring partner, Sister Gaudeamus (grudging, but genuine).
This was a Big Day for me --- serendipity, I guess would be the word, and I've been wanting to use it for a long time --- one of the few tussels, intellectual or otherwise I ever engaged in with "S'ster" and actually emerged the undisputed winner. And all thanks to my Opera-Mania.
Now, in order to present as full a view as possible of this more-than-memorable happening, we'll rewind a bit to fill in the background of what I like to call "The Rigoletto Caper"...
For all their inexperience in worldly affairs, the good nuns at St. Cuthbert's held very definite opinions about what did or did not constitute suitable entertainment. Almost anything later than Ethelbert Nevin's "The Rosary" or more substantial than "The Lady or the Tiger" was automatically suspect --- either elite, seditious, or high-hat, or a combination of all three. Even Nell's beloved narrative poem "Evangeline" by Longfellow had a prominent position on Sister's Index of Forbidden Books (unofficial, of course), being labelled by her as "purest bouzwah" and "preposterous", insulting if not downright heretical. Poor Mr. Longfellow, just because his heroine loses her lover Gabriel, and after years of unsuccessful searching, takes the veil, only to find him again, dying in a hospice in plague-racked New Orleans. He then expires in her arms, in a scene guaranteed to make the wrestler Bruno Sammartino burst into tears ... Preposterous, maybe. But heretical? No way! Sure it's sentimental, enough to make a totempole weep --- but what's wrong about that, S'ster?
Closer to home, our own pre-teen affection for the verve and teasing humor of entertainers like "Fats" Waller and the Andrews Sisters was also shot down in flames: "smut" being the epithet used to describe the boundless joy that "Fats" radiated, and "silly sensuality" for the sprightly melodies and close harmonies of Maxine, Laverne and Patti.
"Your feet's too big!"
Smutty?
"Roll Out the Barrel!"
Sensual?
Were we occupying the same planet or what?
As a last-ditch attempt to stem the rising tide of "Smut" and "Sensuality", a weekly series of "Music Appreciation Lectures" was launched, in spite of the fact that most of us --- our folks, anyway, already appreciated music very much.
Never mind! S'ster was a fully qualified missionary to the Philistines, and once her hand was on the plow, there was never any turning back. Armed with a dozen or so scratchy old 78's and the big wind-up Victrola dominating one corner of the classroom, she intended to instill into us Yahoos a knowledge and respect, maybe even an appreciation of the Classics, or know the reason why. We were thus treated to endless snatches of symphonies, and odd scraps of semi-classics, preferably of an edifying nature: the Intermezzo from "Cavalleria Rusticana" or "In a Monastary Garden", each plentifully garnished with S'ster's none-too-accurate program notes.
On this particular afternoon, on a day when I hadn't yet been ordered to leave the room, Sister had elected to give us gems from Verdi's "Rigoletto", suitably laundered, naturally, when it came to the Duke of Mantua's more libidinious exploits. Despite occasional wisecracks from the rowdier elements of the class, it was going fairly well --- that is, until S'ster mispronounced the name of the hired assassin Sparafucile, which rolled out of her as "Spa-ra-FOO-chee-lay." Hooray! At last a chance to put my opera-freakdom to positive use, and, by the same token, maybe even the score with S'ster a few much-needed points.
My pudgy hand shot up: "S'ster! S'ster!"
A weighty pause ...
"Yes, Herbert." The tone was weary, resigned. "What is it THIS time?"
You got the first part of it right, S'ster ..."
(Noblesse oblige:) "Well, thank you very much indeed."
"But I'm afraid you made a mistake with the assassin's name. It's not 'Spa-ra-FOO-chee-lay', as you said. It's 'Spa-ra-foo-CHEE-lay."
"Well, of course," and her sneer was marked with a regal toss of her hood, "you WOULD know."
A faint smell of blood in the atmosphere, and the boredom that had drugged the class till then started to disperse.
 "Yes, S'ster, as a matter of fact, I would."
I was in the driver's seat for once and could afford to put my foot down on the throttle:
"Strangely enough, I went with my Mom and Dad to an operatic performance last night at the Civic Opera House ---"
"Yes, yes, yes. I know where it is and what it's called."
The spectators were now on the edge of their desk-seats (not too comfortable), all eager attention.
I went on with my advantage: "And the opera happened to be that same 'Rigoletto' you've been talking about --- starring that famous American baritone Laurence Tibbett in the title role ..." All of a sudden, I was a 12-year old Milton J. Cross --- amiable, knowing, professional --- charming millions of fans on a Saturday matinee broadcast. "... with Lily Pons, the lovely French coloratura soprano as his daughter Gilda. The tenor was ..."
I was cut off in mid-sentence. "All right, then, perhaps ..." Her tone was both gracious and dangerous, one I knew only too well. "Perhaps you'd like to come up here in front of the class and take over?"
"Oh, S'ster, could I?"
There was a murmur of interest from the spectactors, now totally wide awake.
I waddled up to the front of the room where Sister and I got caught up in a grotesque little pas de deux, changing places. At last, she lowered herself with great dignity into a nearby chair. I perched on the edge of her desk, of her DESK!, while the others in the class, friend and foe alike, all leaned forward to catch every exquisite detail of the slaughter. I looked into the sea of expectant faces --- well, not a sea, exactly, more like a puddle, and I began.
"So, as S'ster has been trying to tell you ---" (Loud throat-clearing from Sister's direction) "The court-jester Rigoletto meets this hired assassin one dark night on his way home from work at the palace, a really creepy type named Spa-ra-foo-CHEE-lay ..."
Again, sound-effects from the sidelines where the dear lady was now breathing noisily through her nostrils. I ignored these and went on lining out Victor Hugo's dramatic story. My tale grabbed my listeners as nothing Sister ever said could. As I went on, really in the spirit of the thing, I noticed how she was sitting there with her eyeballs rolled back in her sockets, like that famous marble statue of Saint Teresa of Avila in ecstacy. Her face in its stiff linen frame-work resembled a baked tomato about to burst.
When I finally arrived at the final tragic moment, when Rigoletto discovers the body of his dying daughter in the sack --- all his fault, I belted out his tearful cry of "Ah! La Maladizione! --- The Curse!" And I gave it my all ... Wild applause from the audience, a few of them, my best pals, naturally, even giving a cheer and a whistle or two. (At this, Sister looked as though mentally taking down names.)
Drunk with triumph, I was about to repeat the howl, but was cut off this time quite sharply: "That will DO, Herbert. Thank you."
Just then, the recess bell rang setting off the usual stampede out to the playground. Sister waited till it had subsided, then said in a cool, steady tone: ""Humpf, interesting, Herbert. Perhaps you really DID go to the opera last night."
I feigned being shocked and hurt. "S'ster! When did I ever lie to you?"
She started to answer, thought better of it, then brushed me aside as she started out. "Recess," she said, going forth, majestic even in defeat.
From then on, the Music Appreciation Hours grew less and less frequent, and were confined to safe composers like Stephen Foster and Percy Grainger. I myself was never asked to take over a class again, and the subject of opera was avoided altogether.
A temporary victory for our side, but only a minor bleep in a long but, on the whole, merry little war --- not to be mentioned with the real one brewing overseas. Ours brought a few, as well.

Best Times
​
By Alexandra Rodrigues


In our society today, we constantly strive for success and prestige. We want to get to the top, belong to the elite and be able to afford what we desire. Why then are the rich and famous so often miserable?
There is a deep satisfaction in little pleasures which are available to you without big expense. Even if you are at the top, you will be amazed how rewarding it is to be able to recognize and pay attention to little pleasures. My big treasure is a small dinghy, the one we carry on deck of our big boat. It holds two people, is made of hard rubber, and has two plastic paddles and a throw rope. This little gadget has become my biggest pleasure. You step inside, fight for balance and hope not to get splashed or fall into the water. One cannot go far with it and I have no desire to do so; the wind usually decides the direction. Sometimes I bump into one of the big party boats that are anchored along our 40-foot wide and three-city-blocks long canal. No problem, I bounce off and use my paddles to return to the middle of the canal. I look at the sky and kind of meditate while the little nutshell bounces along. Little wonders of nature exist all around, but we hardly ever take the time to watch and enjoy them. We are too busy to strive for fame and prominence. I use my imagination while meditating. This little boat is my gondola and I am skimming along the waterways of Venice. I ignore that my neighbor’s black dogs bark at me furiously when I pass them. Maybe I interrupted their meditation. What do dogs think about? I pay no attention to the seaweed floating on the surface of the water; I am happy and only see and feel what I want.
When I get back to the bulkhead, I admire the mimosa trees in their pink bloom and am made aware of the gardenias. It is a faint aroma coming from those flowers that catches my attention. I watch a squirrel climbing up a pine tree and I call a friendly, “Hello.” Mother duck is taking her children for her first outing, and I ponder what they will do come winter. I hear the happy noises of the seagulls from the distant bay where they catch remnants of dead fish that fishermen have thrown overboard. I look at a weather-beaten red bench on the lawn of a house nearby and wonder who used to sit on there in the past and who will sit on it in the future.
All is peaceful. No noise or vibration like on a big boat. I just float, look and relax.
I put my hand into the water and let the water drops slowly dissipate in the sun. I rest my chin on the rubber edge of my little gondola and watch how the sun reflects by injecting colorful rays just below the water’s surface.
I do not want to change with anybody!

Photo above: 

Herbert Eyre Moulton (in the middle) in the 1991 The Fundus Theatre production of William Shakespeare's Hamlet, 
here seen with Kaki Lucius as Ophelia and Tim Licata as Laertes. 


​
Three Guesses Who the Butler Is

The Making of a Hollywood Princess

By Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 – 2005)
 

            In the script of the Italian-produced movie “Princess”, we find this direction:
            “The door opens and an elderly, impeccably dressed BUTLER appears, with a silver tray piled high with magazines.
 
BUTLER
Excuse me, Your Highness, but you said you wanted these urgently.
 
            Three guesses who the butler is, and the first two don’t count. That’s right: always the butler and never the boss, a somewhat wearying sentence I seem to be serving for a lifetime.
            The setting for this Graustarkian love story is the mythical principality of Lichtenhaus, with its royal family modelled on the Grimaldi clan of Monaco. For the part of the princesses, meant to be Caroline and Stephanie, two of Vienna’s most important dramatic regal landmarks were chosen to offer their cinematic bailiwicks. Even the minor players were handpicked by the director, Carlo Vanzina, a one-time protegé of Fellini, no less. So, it was a noble line I was about to tangle with when I turned up at Vienna’s equally noble Hotel Imperial for the casting interview.
            All right, yet another butler, but this one was special, for he was part of the household of His Royal Highness, Prince Maximilian, played by a favorite of ours, David Warner, not too long ago considered the quintessential Hamlet-for-our-time. His screen-break-through came in 1966 with the crazy title role in “Morgan, A Suitable Case For Treatment”. That made him a star and my wife and me fans of his for life. Some time later, our son Charlie joined the club with “Omen”, and when he told Warner that himself, Warner snorted: “Oh, God, that!” Our film-freak son was likewise excited by the casting of Paul Freeman as Otto, the villain of the piece, remembering his evil turn as Beloque, the Nazi heavy in “Raiders of the Lost Ark”: “500 000 watts of Nasty!”
            My workaday duties for the prince were dispatched in two different palatial settings: the Hofburg, the Emperor Franz Josef’s old pad in the heart of Vienna, and, a few streets, and, a few streets and a couple centuries removed, the Theresianum, a superbly preserved baroque complex that once served as an officer’s training school and was named after its patroness, the Empress Maria Theresia, whose name it still bears as a college for budding diplomats. Its 18th century splendor has been has been kept lovingly intact, and we were to play our scene in the fabled library, a treasure house of precious inlaid wood and priceless antique leather volumes all the way up to the frescoed ceiling. It’s open to visitors only with a special pass and suitable pedigreed blue blood.
            Our first scene however was set in Maximilian’s princely bedchamber in the Hofburg, and I had the honor of waking up the royal slugabed with this exquisitely cadenced speech:
           
BUTLER
Good morning, Your Highness. Today is May twelfth, the feast of Saint Ladislas Martyr, also your cousin of Romania. The temperature is falling slightly: a high of fifty-three degrees, and a low of forty-five.
 
            The scenes with Mr. Warner were all of them fun, with his easy gift of friendly argle-bargle, both relaxed and refreshing. He even did me the kindness of autographing a portrait of himself which I’d removed from a calendar I’d bought at Stratford, a full-size head-and-shoulders done in pastels and dubbed “The Actor”. This was the first time he’d ever seen it!
            “To Herbert, Many Thanks, David Warner, ‘The Actor’, Vienna 1993.”
            Between takes we retreated to the cellar and the museum staff canteen. The scene there could well be entitled “Costumed Chaos in the Canteen”, for there happened to be another film, a real costume extravaganza, being shot in these hallowed precincts at the same time as ours, the latest Hollywood version of “The Three Musketeers”, the jokey one done with American accents and all, with Charlie Sheen and Kiefer Sutherland. The latter nearly brought down destruction on their entire operation by his tosspot antics in the all-night-fleshpots of Babylon-on-the-Danube. So, as things heated up, the Gods were already making rumbling noises.
            Of course both companies had to break for meals simultaneously, turning the canteen into the scene of the most variegated costume orgies, Louis XIII and Monaco Gold-Braid, since the climactic reels of Lon Chaney’s “Phantom of the Opera”. It might have been better if they’d released those goings-on as newsreel stuff and jettisoned the two doomed feature films. But of that, more anon ...
            The venue for my second scene was less crowded and yet more elegant: the Theresianum library doubling as the Lichtenhaus Council chamber, presided over by the sinister Otto, whose machinations were suddenly broken up by Maximilian’s no-nonsense and imperious entrance sweeping in, with me, padding breathlessly, in his wake. I was bearing the obligatory silver tray, onto which H.R.H. was lofting over his shoulder, without looking all manner of official-looking documents and letters. It was a dizzying journey across what seemed to me recently restored to its former glory.
            I am pleased to report that while scampering behind the Prince, molto allegro, I was somehow nimble enough enough to catch everyy single one of the documents he was tossing over the royal epulet. Limping and tottering at his heels, dodging and feinting, but always maintaining my dignity, so I went, and a memorable sight it should be, too, if the movie ever gets released.
            That’s precisely where the fate-keeps-on-happening routine comes in: a delicious light comedy script, first rate directing, handsome authentic settings, and stars like David Warner, Paul Freeman, and Susannah York as the Queen Mother, plus what Signor Vanzina promises in the press releases to be a sensational new Dutch actress, Barbara Snellenburg as Princess Sophia: “ This girl will be a star!”
            And the best of Viennese-Italian-Dutch luck to them all, what with Moulton here as Major-Domo (Major Disaster would be more like it). For as far as my sources can discover, “Princess”, running true to form, hasn’t yet seen the light of day anywhere, or if it has it hasn’t reached Central Europe yet or any of the international publications we subscribe to. It might have been shown in Vanzina’s native Italy, but it was filmed in English for the English-speaking market.
            As far as that all-too-jokey “Three Musketeers”-movie goes, well, of course it was a movie for the MTV-generation and a kind of a youthful introduction to Alexandre Dumas. Literary history for the Brat Pack with a huge Top 40 Hit as a PR-gag, Roddy, Sting and Bryan, the three musketeers of Rock ‘n Roll, singing it away, all for one and all for love. Me, Herbert Eyre Moulton, having shared tables with Kiefer and Charlie in the Hofburg canteen in Vienna, chatting away with good old David and hearing the Hollywood hotshots repeating their lines while drooling over their Wiener Schnitzels. Seriously now, Gang, could it be that this butler-playing character-actor is the subject not to a a pernicious, contagious curse, but a small blessing?  Could it have rubbed off during those united lunchroom melées in the Hofburg cafeteria? After all, I wined and dined with the best. Maybe “Princess” will have its day in the sun after all. A sobering thought. And a good one. Just like the movie I was in.
 
Posthumous footnote by his son Charles E.J. Moulton:
​
The film that my father Herbert Eyre Moulton speaks of here turned out to be renamed “Piccolo Grande Amore” and can be purchased, researched or studied under the following links:
 
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0107823/?ref_=nm_flmg_act_110
http://www.mymovies.it/dizionario/recensione.asp?id=18371
http://www.amazon.de/Piccolo-grande-amore-IT-Import/dp/B00BM9T1RQ
 



Photo below: Herbert Eyre Moulton's wife, opera mezzo Gun Kronzell, with her colleague, the renowned operatic tenor Luciano Pavarotti.

A Celebrity Named Gun Kronzell

By Charles E.J. Moulton


The 1960's must've been quite a decade for my mother. She was a working opera star active in a dozen German theatres. She sang oratories in Belgium, France and England. She met my dad in Hannover in 1966, toured with him through Europe, appeared on Irish TV and was still able to travel back to the calm home base in her beloved home town of Kalmar in Sweden.
My mom loved Kalmar. It was her centre, her safe haven. As a global citizen touring the world and working with and meeting stars like Luciano Pavarotti, Alan Rickman and the Swedish King, she had been at home most everywhere. But her heart was Swedish. Her soul belonged to Kalmar.
 
As a little boy in Gothenburg, I was exposed to my mother's amazing imagination. She told me these wonderful good night stories about the trolls Uggel-Guggel and Klampe-Lampe. They eventually turned into the high point of my day. The coolest thing, though, is that I am passing on these stories to my daughter. She is starting to invent stuff for the stories just like I did. I see that she loves the inventive and crazy creativity of our stories just as much as I did.
 
Having my mom as a good night story teller and my daddy as a professional author was the best mixture a boy could ask for. I thank them for that. For triggering my imagination. For opening the vaults of endless creativity. For that is what it is about, guys. All of it. Creation. Creating always greater versions of ourselves. New parts of ourselves we thought were gone. New pieces of ourselves we didn't know we had. Pieces that appear once we just trust ourselves to be more than we thought we were or could be.

There are so many old documents in my cupboards and closets. Old clippings and reviews that my mom kept as evidence of her glorious career. One paper in particular describes what kind of a career she was having back then.

I also know, being the only child, that if I don't transcribe these documents and have them published somehow, nobody will. I could ask my wife or daughter to transcribe these old things, but it is actually my job as a son to spread the word of what kind of folks they were. They worked so hard for what they became and accomplished. They perfected their art so beautifully that a new generation just deserves to hear about them and damn great they were.

Singers, actors, authors, directors, teachers, scholars: they were everything and more.

So, here we go: back to the beginning of the 1960's. John F. Kennedy was still alive. The Space Race was still on. Armstrong had not yet landed on the moon. And a certain young opera singer named Gun Kronzell travelled the world and inspired people with her voice.

This is what Gun herself wrote in a document that was intended for a newspaper that was about to write an article about her. Her schedule looks like a big city phone book. So many operas and oratories to learn. She must've been rehearsing constantly.

"These are some of my concerts and performances that I have been assigned to carry out during this season of 1962-63:
On March 11th, I am singing Brahms' Altrapsodie and Mozart's Requiem in Beleke with Matthias Büchel as conductor. Then, I am travelling to Bünde to sing Bach's Matthew Passion on March 31st. The April 1st, I am singing the same piece in Ahlen. I am travelling to Brügge in Belgium on April 4th to sing Beethoven's 9th Symphony. On April 17th I am again singing the Matthew Passion by Bach in Bergisch-Gladbach with Paul Nitsche as conductor.
I am back in Sweden on May 31st to sing at the 100 year anniversary of the Kalmar Girl's School.
On July 8th, I am singing Bach's Vom Reiche Gottes in the Church of Zion in Bethel.
In the German Vocal Festival in Essen, I am singing Haydn's Theresien Mass and Koerpp's The Fire of Prometheus.
In November, I am singing Bruckner's Mass in F-Minor in Witten.
On November 28th, 29th and 30th I am performing Beethoven's Mass in C Minor in the Mühlheim City Arena and Duisburg City Theatre.
On December 2nd and 3rd, 1962, I am singing Bach's Christmas Oratory in the Church of Zion in Bethel. On December16th, I am singing the same piece in Mainz. I am also singing the Christmas Oratory by Bach in Soest with Claus Dieter Pfeiffer as conductor and in Unna with Karl Helmut Herrman as conductor.
January 12th, 1963, hears me singing Bach's Christmas Oratory again in Bethel.
On March 31st I have been hired to sing Dvorak's Stabat Mater in Lippstadt.
Those were the concerts. Now for my operatic performances:
I have been hired as Mezzo Soprano at the City Opera in Bielefeld since September of 1961.
This season has seen me perform 5 roles.
The Innkeeper's Wife in Moussorgsky's Boris Godunov. That production had its premiere in September here. But I also guested with that part twice in Cologne this year. We have performed this opera 13 times so far.
The second role was Emilia in Verdi's Othello. We premiered with that on Christmas Day and have played it 10 times so far.
The third role for me this year was Dritte Dame (Third Lady) in The Magic Flute by Mozart. Our musical director Bernhard Conz often guest conducts in Italy and in Vienna. 5 shows of this so far.
The gypsy fortune teller Ulrica in Verdi's A Masked Ball had its premiere on January 23rd and this show has been playing for sold out houses 8 times so far.
Another Gypsy lady role, Czipra, in Johann Strauss' The Gypsy Baron had its premiere on March 6th.
My next role, Hippolytte in Britten's A Midsummer Night's Dream, is going to be fun.
A new colleague of mine arrived this year. He is the Swedish son of an archbishop. His name is Helge Brillioth."
 
Not only did her schedule look like a phone book, the reviews were as impressive as her CV.

My mom had just returned from a tour through Ireland with my dad and appeared on Irish TV. She was pregnant with me while singing Ortrud in Wagner's Lohengrin. The daily newspaper wrote, on December 28th, 1968:

"The best thing that the Opera House of Graz in Austria offered its ensemble was Gun Kronzell with her astounding portrayal of Ortrud. She already made a lasting impression as Mrs. Quickly and confirmed her skills here as well. This voice is a real winning triumph for our city: its intensity and wide range impresses. Gun Kronzell's Ortrud, if directed by a top notch world director, could become really interesting and a global phenomenon."

One critic spoke of a voice that was illuminate in glory. The journal "Die Wahrheit" wrote that she sang a magnifiscent Ortrud with dramatic expression filled with movement and vocal prowess.

Kleine Zeitung remarked on December 28th, 1968, that she was the only one that truly could shine in that production. Her clear and bright mezzo produced a brilliant fully controlled performance worthy of extraordinary theatrical mention.

Ewald Cwienk from the Wiener Kurier wrote on January 3rd about the high level of her excellent vocal work.

But even across the country in Augsburg they wrote about the masterful vocal presence and powerful expression of the Hannover's leading mezzo Gun Kronzell. They even went so far as to say that the audience in the olden days would have interrupted the scene after the operatic Plea of the Gods just to give the singer a standing ovation.

Opern Welt, one of Germany's leading operatic journals, described her thusly: "Gun Kronzell (Hannover), vocally and dramatically convincing devotee of sensual passion."

But her operatic skill alone did not gather rave reviews. Her collaboration with her baritone husband Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927-2005) had the European critics throwing proverbial roses at their feet.

The Reutlinger General Anzeiger, on February 5th, 1968, published the following rave review after a triumphant show in Regensburg, Germany:

"BIG VOICES IN A SMALL CONCERT HALL
A successful concert performed at the America House

They do not only sing duets. The married artistic couple Gun Kronzell (a mezzosoprano from Sweden) and Herbert Eyre Moulton (a baritone from the U.S.) are a living duet. When they appear on stage, they grab each other's hands before singing and try successfully not to compete with each other, but they try to achieve symbiosis. During the solo songs it becomes evident that the wife's lyric expression, vocal volume, skill and artistic temperament is a perfect mirror image of the husband's beautifully placed Irish baritone with its lyric joie de vivre. Both voices are obviously too big for this concert hall. It would have been great to hear them in the Carnegie Hall or at the London Festival Hall, where Miss Kronzell has sung recently, in order to hear the voices reverberate and swing in locations fit for their level of brilliance. And still: compliments to the America House for hiring them in the first place. This concert distinguished itself through a sophisticated programme and excellent interpretation. But even sophisticated programmes don't lift off the ground if the pieces in question don't have the longing of a lover's kiss. This programme did. The singers communicate. They love what they do. The concert started out with three duets by Henry Purcell, vitalized by constant sounds of musical joy. This was Baroque Art at its most lucious, where voices mingled and climaxed in full, soft alto tones and a natural high baritone that never seemed forced or uncomfortable. The three American Songs by Aaron Copland that followed, sung by Gun Kronzell, were functional straight forward pieces with a little bit of romantic flight hidden within the framework. The last song, Going to Heaven, explosively vocalized by the soloists with an accentuated pronounciation on the word HEA-VÉN, was effective to say the least.
The baritone spoke a few words between songs in his self-proclaimed Chicago-German idiom, claiming that composer Charles Ives was the primitive composer of musical history. The singer disproved this. Ives is THE genius of American Music. The folkloristic song 'Charlie Rutlage' is a musical Western in itself: exciting, juicy, full of artistic trivialities. It was sung excellently and served by the singer as a juicy artistic peppersteak of sorts. It was a dramatic number that became a fast speech rotating kind of song, not unlike the Pitter-Patter vocabulary present in Gilbert & Sullivan's operetta chants. The third song, 'The Election', is a political elective song, but no direct campaign hit. National Pathos came as expected and the audience was thrilled to hear it.
The first half of the show ended with duets: the pure enjoyment of the magic songs by Dvorak were the topics of conversations at the intermission bar.
The Swedish mezzosoprano sang Swedish songs with clean artistic expression after the break. The succeeding Hölderlin-songs by the Irish composer Seán O'Riada - a cycle in four parts in which the simplistic harmonies of the beginning returned at the end - could not have been sung better by the baritone Herbert Eyre Moulton. These compositions from 1965 are actually ancient in style and format. These stilistically mysterious thought-songs were triumphs of passionate interpretation.
The finale provided us with the necessary crowning glory: five songs from Gustav Mahler's 'Des Knaben Wunderhorn'. These were not duets. Instead, the songs were divided into dialogues. We found the sadness, we experienced the parody of superiority, scenes were acted out and still nobody feared losing the essence of the tones.
The accompanist Karl Bergemann proved himself to be an accomplished expert in all mentioned musical areas. No harmony was left unsung, no heart was left untouched, the singers were never overpowered by the sound of his piano playing and still he knew how to present himself well. His instrumentation entailed a magnetic expressive force.
His support was a counterpoint that even more famous colleagues would have envied taking them by their musical hands.
The audience were eternally thankful, providing the three artists with standing ovations."



Critiques such as these give even music lovers who didn't have the joy of hearing "The Singing Couple" live the hint of how wonderfully entertaining artists they were.
The amazing thing was that my parents were full fledged and extremely experienced artists already when I was born. They accomplished being successful artists and still being there for me at all times.
 
I spent a week in London with my mom in 1979. We met my Godfather, the composer James Wilson, and went to musicals like "Jesus Christ Superstar" and "Oliver!" (with a real dog running around the musical London stage, we weaved that, too, into the good night stories).
 
This trip provided me with good memories. It was a dear part of my childhood whose many events were included in our good night stories: my stuffed dog Ludde fell in love with our hotel chamber maid Maria. That's what we said, anyway.

With my dad, I went to Copenhagen during early 80's three winters in a row. Two guys going to the opera, eating Spaghetti, going to theatre to see an uncut version of Hamlet (the box office lady called Hamlet "a very good Danish play"), going to see a Bond movie in a Copenhagen cinema called the Colloseum (an Italian waiter told us: "The Colloseum is in Rome!") and running through Copenhagen after the royal guards to Queen Margarete's palace only to see them vanish into the courtyard and away beyond the entrance. We had hoped to see the Changing of the Guards, but only saw them march. It didn't matter. It was all good.

All three of us (the holy family) took trips to Sweden and America together, played board games on Friday nights, went to art museums, laughed until we cried on the living room couch we called Clothilde, took long trips in the Volkswagen we called Snoopy and invited my best friends for pancake breakfasts on Sunday mornings.


My parents were witty, generous, experienced people with lots of spirit. They were able to take responsibility for their lives as adults and still have some crazy spontaneous fun along the way. I will always be eternally thankful for their fantastic influence. What they gave me I can pass on to my daughter. And they are our Guardian Angels. What a fantastic job they are doing. As always.
 
Now, a newspaper article about my mother Gun Margareta Kronzell published during her heyday from the local newspaper Barometern in 1971:

KALMAR’S OPERASINGER IS A EUROPEAN STAR!
HER FATHER KNUT GAVE HER HIS UNENDING SUPPORT

Think about this for a moment: Gun Kronzell can sing!
This discovery was made during Gun Kronzell’s last year at the Girl’s School in Kalmar. Nobody at the school had heard her before, neither the teachers nor the school friends knew it.
Now everybody in Europe knows it.
She is a star.
Gun Kronzell, born on Nygatan 16 in Kalmar, lives in Vienna and works as a Dramatic Mezzo-Soprano all across the continent. She has been working at the Volks-Opera in Vienna during the Springtime and has sung on many European Stages , including London’s Festival Hall. Her appearances in Sweden have been few, but now the Kalmar audience has the possibility to hear her fantastic voice in the Kalmar Cathedral on Monday. There will be two other concerts in the local area.
She lives all summer in her mother Anna’s and her father Knut’s apartment on Odengatan and is taking with her son Charlie. Her husband Herbert Eyre Moulton is still in Vienna, working at the English speaking theatres as an actor, teaching English, creating school radio programs for the Austrian Broadcasting Corporation (ORF) and writing plays.
“My husband and I met in Hannover in Germany. We were both working singers and shared the same singing teacher. I asked him if he would speak English with me. Since then, we have only spoken English with each other. That is, when we are on speaking terms,” Gun laughs with a twinkle in her eye. “We love performing with each other and promoting ourselves as The Singing Couple.”

MULTILINGUAL

Two year old Charlie is raised to speak many languages, among them English and German. His grandparents are right now teaching him Swedish. Some day he will be able to compete with his mother, who fluently speaks at least three languages, if not more.
Sea Captain and Swedish Church Chief Accountant Knut Kronzell wanted to become an opera singer, but his parents had other plans. He had to be satisfied with singing for his family at festive gatherings. In the beginning, Gun wasn’t impressed. But as time went on, she was.
When she applied to study at the Royal Musical Academy in Stockholm, her father Knut gave her all his support.

A FAMOUS FAMILY

Success came flying from high and wide and from all the right places. Her education was superb, her vocal range was phenomenal, her interpretation became renowned: a perfect mixture. Stockholm’s Opera House was too limited a forum and Gun moved to Germany, where Bielefeld, Hannover, Köln, Recklinghausen, Wiesbaden, Paris, Brügge and Graz has become her own “home turf.”
Her husband Herbert Eyre Moulton is from Chicago. He is a singer, author and works for Austrian Radio. Last year he joined his wife in order to sing at the festival Kalmar 70. This year he has not had any time to come to Sweden.

VITALLY ITALIAN

“I like acting on stage,” Gun Kronzell says. “It’s better than singing concerts. I feel lonelier on the concert stage. The opera stage is always lively and full of action.”
The Italian composers are among her favorites. Verdi is number one. Of course.

A LIFE FULL OF SONG

Gun Kronzell:
“I’m actually quite tired of Wagner. He was an amazing composer, but in his operas there is a whole lot of endless singing and that gets strenuous for the audience. Brünhilde, Erda, Kundry, Ariadne, I’ve sung them all, and I was always happy to have a good vocal technique to help me get through those roles and a happy to wear a good pair of shoes.”
The new kind of pop music world wide radio keeps playing is not something Gun dislikes. The Beatles have many good successors, she says. Charlie just loves pop music. The hotter, the better.

SWEDEN’S TOP 40

Gun Kronzell doesn’t mind hot music. However, schmaltzy Schlager Muzak is not her thing and she admits that she also doesn’t really know what’s hot in Swedish popular music today.
“I have no idea what vinyl EPs are being handed over the counters and what songs are making the top record charts in Sweden right now,” she laughs.

RADIO

Gun Kronzell will record a radio program for Swedish Radio this year. Her concert from last year, recorded at the festival Kalmar 70, will appear in a rerun.
This autumn there will be a whole range of continental concerts.
“I have to return to Kalmar at least once a year,” she says. “That family contact is important, the sea air rejuvenates me, the food, the sun, the laughter, the flowers and the friends. And my mom and dad are very happy when I come. Especially when I bring Charlie along.”

Winter Wonderland


By Alexandra Rodrigues


Despite extensive travels as flight attendant and visits to magnificent mountain areas in Switzerland and Austria, the mention of a Winter Wonderland takes me back to the Grunewald. As a teenager, I biked often on the great trails that wind through the 7,400-acre woods on the western edge of Berlin. Stables located in this great forest house about 50 horses allowing fun-filled hours for equestrians.
An acquaintance of mine, George, was the owner of sleigh drawn by two elegant horses. On a deep wintry day, he invited me for a ride. I was young and had no ties. I was pretty and had no lack of young and also older men who wanted to get closer to me, George being one of them. He was not really my type. To make it worse, he was married. I had turned him down before but the offer for the ride in his carriage, I could not resist. It was an experience I would never forget.
The Grunewald was not as dense as it once was. Many trees had been felled during the War to provide fire for warmth and survival. George had equipped his carriage with cozy blankets, a couple of shawls and a bottle of Sherry. Short and small boned, George had fine hands and an immaculate skin. His appearance reminded of a fairy tale prince. Not a prince for me however. The winter ride we took would have fit perfectly into a book of Russian literature from the times of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy.
Flurries were falling through the crowns of the trees, glistening like miniature stars when adding to the already substantial snow cover on the ground. On the branches of fir trees hung icicles sparkling like Waterford crystal. The stillness of the snow intensified the isolation of the woods. All one could hear was the laboring of the horses. Their breath made it appear as if they were exhaling smoke like powerful steam engines. It was so romantic. The scenery could only be compared to Andersen’s imaginary Ice Crystal Palace in the Snow Queen.
The romantic atmosphere was not lost on me. I allowed George to hold my hand. He was in seventh heaven – He was in love with me!
I was enchanted with what nature and the ride gifted me. Any romantic interest for George did not enter my senses. I was grateful for the winter scenery I was experiencing. We passed the Jagdschloss Grunewald – this castle is a historic landmark dating back to the 16th century holding artifacts pertaining to hunting. This old castle has since been refurbished as a restaurant.
We saw the Teufelsberg (Devil’s Mountain), a man-made mountain of substantial height. Then we passed Grunewald Tower which was built in 1897 and signs pointing to the Pfaueninsel (Peacock Island). This place with wild roaming peacocks is a perfect spot for romance. Its white castle can be reached by boat from the River Havel.
At the end of this nearly unreal trip, George was looking for a reward to relieve of his stowed up want for me. This did not match what I had in mind. Originally my plan had been to invite George up to my apartment. I would have made us a glass of Glühwein. This Austrian specialty consists of mulled red wine heated nearly to a boil, spiced with a stick of cinnamon and decorated with a slice of lemon on the rim of the glass. In the end I decided against it. George had been too forward and I did not want him as a date again, let alone as a lover. All I managed was a cool kiss on his cheek and a cheerful “Goodbye and thank you.”
Phone calls from him during the following days and weeks I ignored. I hoped he would understand that I was not interested in him. Shortly afterwards, I heard that George had committed suicide. I do not want to know if my attitude toward him had contributed to his demise.
Is it the combination of happenings that left me with the impression of that amazing winter day?

The Art of Opera

- and how it changed my life

by Colenton Freeman


My very first encounter with the world of Opera was at age 16 during my junior year in high school. I had heard of opera and had been introduced to certain musical examples like the „Habanera“ from CARMEN through a music appreciation class. However, it was the meeting of a high school music teacher who happened to be a tenor that I was fully introduced to the opera through recordings of legendary singers like Joan Sutherland, Richard Tucker, Eileen Farrell and Leontyne Price. I was mesmerized by the sounds coming from their throats. The drama, intensity, emotions and total impact of this music overwhelmed me and I became fascinated with it and started on a path to learn all that I could about it. When one thinks that I was a young black boy growing up in the South where segregation was a way of life, it is amazing that I became so infatuated with this European art form. Because I had a very good natural tenor voice, my music teacher began giving me private voice lessons and introduced me to the great tenor arias such as „Che gelida manina“ from Puccinis' LA BOHEME, E lucevan le stelle from TOSCA and the very well known La donna é mobile from Verdis' RIGOLETTO. I sang them all with young passion and abandon. Luckily, singing these arias at a very young age did not hurt my tenor voice. I had a naturally good top voice.


The art of opera is a very interesting subject in itself. This combination of music, theater, drama with voices, orchestra, scenery and costumes is the ultimate form of musical theater at its' best. The immense training of voices that it requires is very involved. One has not only to sing, but sing in different languages, musical styles, learning entire roles by memory and developing enough physical and mental stamina to sing different roles on different nights of the week, not to mention perhaps rehearsing a new role during the day and performing another that same evening. However, what an exciting and fortunate priviledge it is to be able to do this art form as a profession.


Opera changed my life immensely. It brought me from a very simple background to some of the best music schools and professors of singing in all of America. It brought me in contact with such world class singers like Luciano Pavarotti, Placido Domingo, Leontyne Price, Birgit Nilsson, Leonie Rysanek, James King, Fiorenza Cossotto, Anja Silja, Ghena Dimitrova, Grace Bumbry, Shirley Verrett and one of my favorite people, Gun Kronzell. Also, conductors like Simon Rattle, Eve Queler and Bruno Bartoletti. Stage directors such as Jean-Paul Ponnelle and Trevor Nunn. I sang in some of the worlds' leading opera houses in San Francisco, Mexico City, Chicago, New York, Geneva, London, Berlin, Hamburg and Lyon. What a worldwind of a life for a poor little black fellow from Atlanta, Georgia. This wonderful art form brought me to Europe where I have lived and contributed for the last 30 years. Sometimes I have to pinch myself in order to really believe where my work as an opera singer has brought me. It helped to make me a world citizen, not just an American. It taught to me to embrace all peoples, cultures, backgrounds, mentalities, religions, etc. To be open and tolerant on all levels. This is an art form that has a reputation of being associated with high brow society and the wealthy. It is not that. The common man and woman also have an appreciation of this art form, particularly here in Europe. The grocer, the jeweler, the baker, the cleaning lady and so many more will save their money to be able to go into the theater and hear their favorite singer. I have experienced this first hand. The gifts that one receives from appreciative fans are many and very much appreciated. A great art form, indeed.
​

MEMOIR OF AN AMATEUR WRITER

By June Ti



In seventh grade, 1969, Mr. Roper asked the class what we hoped to do for a living. Having a choice hadn’t occurred to me. Mom said I had to be a teacher. “A writer,” I said when my turn came.
“Oh, you want to be a rider. That’s wonderful,” Mr. Roper touted. I was horrified. Not only had it taken courage to cross eleven years of brainwashing, but now everyone was shouting “A writer! She wants to be a writer!”
“Yes,” the teacher said, “a rider.” This was confusing. How did Mr. Roper know I owned a horse? Yet, maybe he was right. Maybe I should be a rider. The next Saturday morning I rode the bus downtown and bought The Five Circles, a slim yellow hardcover about an Olympic
equestrian jumping team. I read it over and over and tried to like jumping my horse. But he was not long off the race track and fidgety. My instructor made me take falling-off lessons.
Besides Raymond Bam (dumb name for a horse), I owned a typewriter, a surprise gift from my dad, as I’d decided to write a book about hummingbirds for my science project. Never mind that I had no knowledge about hummingbirds. That’s what libraries and piracy are for.
This was no ordinary typewriter. It was a monster of a thing. Probably the first. After dinner I’d lock the bedroom door and try lifting it over my head, exercising to gain strength enough to drop a heavy saddle onto a tall back. Mom heard the crash when it dropped. She said, “Your father will have a fit when he sees the floor,” then put a rug down. Bamboozled Dad, on examining the typewriter, said, “You’ll ruin your insides.”
“Insides, who cares about insides,” I thought. The behemoth could have been busted, and that would have broken my heart.
In grade ten I quit halfway through. I’d had throat surgery, missed two semesters, and couldn’t catch up. Worse, the odds were against my voice returning. The decision to quit school did not come easily. My sights were on a career as a museum curator, a vision that in my young mind was now unlikely. No one knew I quit, although my extra attention to hair and makeup was questioned. The plan was to find full-time employment in a book store and move into an apartment.
Mr. Gleadow, the book store owner who hired me, was undaunted by my voicelessness. He’d spent twenty years as a volunteer for folks with disabilities and was okay with notepad communication. He was shocked, though, when he read I was fifteen on the Social Insurance forms, proof of what a bouffant hairstyle and eyeliner can do. “How can so young a girl have read such books?” he asked, for it was my knowledge of authors and titles that got me the job.
In fairness, burning through the Penguin Classics and the bestsellers lists was not a display of snobbiness. A person likes what she likes. Granny liked Harlequin Romance. Mom liked Pearl Buck. Dad liked war stories. Brother Allan’s preferences were under his mattress. Something about boobs.
Working in a 1970s main-street book store was the most exciting job I’ve ever had. The pay was $1.65 an hour. The exposure to superb literature was priceless. Authors came in for signing celebrations, each impressive in his or her distinct character. Don Harron (Charlie Farquharson) was quick-witted. Chief Dan George was soft-spoken. Pierre Berton was assertive. When Grey Owl’s wife, Anahareo, befriended me, I was thrilled out of my socks. Along with being graced by inspirational authors, grateful customers gave me gifts: juicy cherries, Rogers’ Chocolates, flowers, books, art, and trinkets from around the globe. I got
asked out a lot and met fascinating people. When Burt Reynolds swaggered through the Canadiana section, big-headed and disinterested, he hit a nerve. Regretting my folly in ignoring him, I kicked my teenage butt when he left. We might have gotten married.
My voice recovered to whisper mode when I was seventeen. By then, I’d long returned to school but also retained a thirty-six-hour week at Beaver Books. My scheme was to conceal a foldup cot in the storage room and live there.
In twelfth grade, a friend unconsciously betrayed my privacy and in bold lettering announced in the yearbook, “June wants to be a writer living on the sea.” Indeed, that is exactly what I’m doing, forty-three years later. The house isn’t mine. It’s a rental. And I’m not really a writer. Not by my standards. An accomplished writer, in my opinion, has seriously studied composition and can put a story together without incessantly referring to The Simon & Schuster Handbook for Writers. All the same, I did get published, by providence. I knew zilch about the craft and yearned to learn.
Writing classes say that an aspiring author won’t let anything get in her way. What a load of baloney. Chad, my first son, cried incessantly. Then came the handspinning and weaving business. By the time Hubby and I opened a horse boarding stables, I wanted to write so badly I could barely stand it but had to make do with hand-scrawled letters: “Dear Mom,” the page began, “you wouldn’t believe what goes on here. Willygoat got loose and his tether wrapped around the outboard motor. When I was untangling him, he panicked and dragged me and the motor down the driveway. Willy’s fine. My ankle needs stitches. Yesterday, a horse boarder flipped her mare overtop of herself. The paramedics were super. It was the same horse boarder who asked how our cow got milk and tried to have a campfire singsong in the barn. What an idiot. Who lights a fire in a barn? Tell Dad to bring a two-by-four on his next visit. The Toulouse geese are attacking, and it’s hard to get past them without a weapon.
Mom stockpiled my letters. She wanted me to compile them into a book. With so much fresh material, collecting bygone tantrums seemed redundant. I truly wish I had those anecdotes now.
Hubby enjoyed my farm-stories reports, even though he thought some of the adventures were made up. He had a business and wasn’t home much. “Mindy Moo wouldn’t chase you like that,” he argued.
“She was horny,” I said. “You’re not around. You don’t know what a devil she is. The horse people say she’s racing them to the loo. Jenny’s peeing outside.”
It was startling how Hubby snuck up on me in the turkey shed, smiling like a lunatic. Holding out an Olympia typewriter, he said, “My bookkeeper doesn’t want it anymore. The e’s
mangled and the space bar sticks, so she only charged me ten bucks. Now you can write properly.”
Two more kids later, we bought a bigger house with its own forest. The closest neighbour, Lenore, had to cross a bear trail so we could have tea. “I’m writing a book,” she said. “Could you read it and tell me what you think?”
Lenore is a saint. She’d do anything for anybody. That’s why I lied. She didn’t finish the book, but she did write an impressive missive to the local newspaper. Lenore could write just fine.
My publishing career began at that house in the woods, when my four-year-old daughter and I walked to the mailbox. The bigleaf maples had turned orange and yellow, and the air smelled of their decay.
“I’m gonna mail it,” my daughter determined, pointing to the envelope I was carrying.
“Of course you can,” I said, passing it over. And so it was, hand in hand, we sauntered down the gravel road, counting the wooly bear caterpillars.
She dropped it a couple of times. The envelope. In fact, she dropped it a whole bunch of times. “Oh well,” I thought, “it’s a subscription for a gardening magazine. A bit of dirt shouldn’t bother them.”
Many wooly bears and a few woodpeckers later, we stood in front of our destination. Realizing Violet couldn’t reach the mail slot, I bent down to take the envelope from her. I think she yelled “No,” although I’m not really sure. It happened so fast; however, my recall of the rest is linear.
Violet dropped the letter. It was already scruffed up so it shouldn’t have mattered. But the fall from her hand this time was spectacular, right into a gooey, mostly congealed, pudding of a puddle, where she stepped on it, scraped it off her boot bottom, jumped up, and, quite by luck, shoved the wretched mess perfectly through the mail slot. I tried to grab it. I know I have quick reflexes.
Violet and I saw this event differently. She saw a job well done. I saw a brown boot print obliterating an address that was already dotted with road grit and dirt smears. We both saw it disappear into the big green box. She was ecstatic. I was awed and not quite annoyed, but close. Then I laughed. I laughed so loud walking home that I ducked into the bushes near Lenore’s cabin, afraid she’d have me committed.
“Dear Editor,” I wrote. “You may or may not have got my subscription for The Island Grower in the mail. If you did, this is why it looked like that. If you didn’t, then this is the reason.”
“Dear Mrs. Ti,” the editor replied. “We got the subscription. Thank you. We passed the envelope around the office, even showed some customers, then tacked it to the wall so we could keep looking at it. It made our day. The next morning we got your follow-up letter explaining the boot print and the mud and tacked it beside the envelope. You made our second day. We are in the beginning stage of launching a children’s wildlife magazine and are looking for writers and an editor. Would you like to send us a sample of your writing? You seem to have a knack. “
Whatever I sent, the editor fell for it and called soon after: “My husband and I would like to drive up and meet you. We’ll bring pastries. What do your kids like?” My mind retreated to grade twelve, tongue-tied at having a personal ambition spotlighted.
Seated on a worn purple sofa (it looked red when we bought it), the couple spoke about money and business and my writing history of which there was none. The kids busied themselves by luring Poor Bob the cat into a baby buggy and walking him in the driveway.
The couple were tense, this editor and her publisher husband. Maybe it was the kids. Maybe I wasn’t what they had envisioned.
I was tense too, but mostly baffled. Who were these imposters talking about tying themselves to a certain beach rock during a winter storm and betting who could stick it out the longest? My expectation was they’d be scholarly, not crazy. And what kind of impression did I make talking about giving peanut butter crackers to raccoons so we could watch them lick their fingers? How could a wildlife meanie, like me, be hired to write for a children’s wildlife magazine? I thought I’d blown it, but then they admitted to tying thread around hard-boiled eggs and seeing who could keep his egg the longest when the raccoons visited the patio. Gosh, they were weirder than we were, and they didn’t even have kids as an excuse.
“Can you have an issue ready for summer?”
“Absolutely,” I said, having no clue how.
And that, my friends, is how a non-writer gets published. You might not want to use a boot print to get a publisher’s attention. The story got around. Perhaps you have a six-toed cat who would oblige.
Charge onwards, I say, regardless of ignorance. And keep on writing as if you know what you’re doing. Your mistakes will be in the thousands. Or, possibly, I’m a moron. My biggest faux pas was an opinionated piece that would have made enemies on page one of Get Wild’s introductory issue. “We can’t print that,” the publisher said, saving me from an early writing death and rocks thrown at the house. The topic of teaching children to respect wildlife stayed the same, but it no longer insulted parents who buy their boys slingshots.
“Can you hire a photographer?” my new boss and her husband asked.
“Isn’t that expensive?” I contended. “I’ll take the pictures myself.” It was a reasonable answer. After all, I was a magazine editor who didn’t know how to write, so why not tackle some witless photography.
Photography, it turns out, is hard. Really, really hard. We’re talking about on-the-move wildlife here. Not just pine cones and the road-killed beaver I tried to make look alive. “Jack,” I said to my second son. “Take one more step and I’ll kill you.” It was enough to have me jailed, yet the damn kid was creeping up on the great blue heron my lens was focused on. “Stop! It’s starting to look nervous.” I think he wanted it as a pet. Jack is the biggest animal lover in the family. Naturally, he took the step. The bird sprang up, and I got the only decent photo of my magazine career. It made the cover.
Yep, the obstacles were infinite. Capitalization and commas were complicated. The editor needed an editor. What’s more, the editor needed a desk instead of a placemat at a kitchen table. But the words got written, and that was the objective.
In the beginning, it was difficult to get contributors. I imagined there was a heap of eager writers, somewhere. The pickle was reaching them, an unimaginable delay in the Internet age. “Get creative,” I thought. “Write to wildlife experts and ask if I can print their replies.” But write them about what? It felt mortifying to implore, “You there, expert. Write an article for free, pretty please, because I’m too stupid to do it myself, too unestablished to pay you, and too uninformed to find contributors.”
Apparently, begging has its place. An SPCA man who was an authority on spiders wrote a grand piece. A marine biologist wrote about killer whales. My favourite essay was from an ethnobotanist who wrote about the uses of cedar, for which my cedar tree photos were scrap. That’s right, a moron. By fate, it was coming together.
And so it was that my typewriter and I tap tapped our way through four years of Get Wild. It was not long enough to learn how to write yet long enough to know where I belonged. The writing was fun; the wildlife part was funner.
There’s a lesson to be learned here: be passionate about your subject. Love it so much that any relevant morsel sets a fire under your ass.
Keep a notepad and a pen with you. I mean it. Ideas, stories, lines, images, quotes, and connections seldom occur on demand. Jot down your dreams upon awakening. I dreamed that a lime-green bird flew out of a children’s nature book, and the ageing book store lady demolished the interior of the place trying to catch it: an illustrated tale of fantasy. Another idea came from seeing a crow fly past a building, its shadow enormous.
If you want to be a published writer, you’d better be an ardent reader. If you like mysteries, read a biography. Broaden your scope. A diligent writer will tell you that books are as part of his life as his toilet is. That’s not the best comparison. It makes the point. I’m telling you, finish a lousy book halfway. Brutally swear at the author for wasting hours of your life, and vow to appreciate your own audience. Note that even gold-medallion titles can be taxing or boring.
Write what you know or what you genuinely want to know. Write honestly. If you fluff a true story with tidbits of fabrication, or contrive a whopper and call it true, you’re asking for trouble. I know because I made a sizeable boo-boo embellishing an already great storyline. If the discrepancy had not been noticed in a final edit, the entire piece would have lost credibility. Like I said, I’m not a real writer. By the same token, do not state theories and guesses as facts.
Never plagiarize. It makes the author of the original piece psycho. My article on the invasion of Vancouver Island’s eastern cottontail took two years to research. I hunted down local World War II countrymen who raised meat rabbits. I rummaged around a wild island looking for evidence of an illicit rabbitry. I upped my phone bill speaking to biologists in Eastern Canada. My plagiarized cottontail article appeared in a renowned museum’s newspaper. It was word for word with the exception of the last two lines. The museum credited itself. I wanted a lawyer. I wanted revenge. Psycho.
Readers of Get Wild rightly detected a novice white-knuckling her editorials. I see more than that. I see a woman with a dusty behind, just in from riding bareback, writing her heart out.
Get Wild‘s publishers dissolved their company and took up cranberry farming. They came to the house with a resume and recommendation for future endeavors. My family exhaled. I rode my old horse into the woods and cried, then resumed studies in crisis counselling.
Surrounded by smart people at university, my writer’s ego went awry. My criminal psychology essays, in particular, were unduly complicated. Overuse of big and rare words made the papers sound pompous. The professors were peeved at having to slog through them.
Upon graduation, I got a job in Mental Health Services. This led to being targeted in a crime called organized (gang) stalking. The only typing I did for years was petitioning for help.
When I did begin narrative writing again, it was a typed 500-page examination of my history of being an organized stalking victim, with an additional thousand pages of what the stalkers’ goals were and how they operated. It was no easy feat to hang on to my typewriter while running and hiding. It didn’t fit in a purse. Moreover, it could not produce professional-looking documents. Buying a laptop was essential, no easy task as gang-stalked people are perpetually broke.
I ate at soup kitchens, stood in bread lines, went without, and two years later placed an order at Safe Computers. Now connected to other victims, local and international, I moved to the sea and opened a stalking support centre from my house. This is what accidentally led to writing a book. The data gathered from the centre, combined with my research and journaling, provided plenty of material. You cannot write a nonfiction book without a massive amount of information.
Please, writers, heed my suggestion of jotting down your traumatic, tragic, or comedic experiences as soon as possible. Grammar, spelling, and punctuation aren’t important. Yet your scribble must be clear enough to jog your memory, complete with the consequences, locations, and people and place names. None of the details are too insignificant as it’s the smells, colours, weather, and emotions that create an authentic nonfiction narrative and bring the story alive.
July 11 stalking and harassment increased, chose to ignore same blond man in library - handsome - wears fake mustache sometimes. Probably wants me to think it’s 2 different men. He took each book I looked at and followed me around with them. Followed me to truck so went back and called Ollie at pay phone for help. Followed me inside so waited at librarian desk. Picked up truck at night, did not want man following me home. Brentwood B Library.
July 23 California airport cop shot own head at rifle range Pam age 53 committed suicide. Stalked 11 years PTSD. I tried to get her here but she said country life was boring.
As anxious as I was to begin writing No Ordinary Stalking, a comprehensive look at organized stalking and harassment, I refused to set down a single sentence until the formulation, or creation, was complete. This involved weeks of arranging chapter outlines in a series of numbered exercise books. Shaping was gratifying. Fact-finding, though, was tedious, as I was overly meticulous.
For instance, in a cardboard box, in the back of a closet, are maps that delineate where I was stalked and harassed, where I hid, and the routes I drove. A corresponding exercise book names the locations on the maps, complete with addresses, phone numbers, and the approximate date I was there. This plotting and data collection took a month or so and was not necessary to write the book. Regardless, never in a million years will I discard this box of maps and data, as a turning point may come when I’m brave enough to spill the secrets I’ve sworn to take to my grave, of the moral degradation that infests a running homeless woman.
A silly waste of energy, when it came to writing my book, was compiling synonyms for the words bound to be used often. The lists are in a blue binder that has traces of wiped-off bird poop and remains wedged in a wicker basket beside my desk. It’s only use is Little Bird’s perch in the winter, level with the heater.
Cultivating the craft of book-writing meant buying used grammar and punctuation how-tos that could be marked up. The more I collected, the more frustrated I got, as they contradicted each other. One recent university edition from my own country would have been sufficient.
My favourite self-helps are delightful reads: The Joy of Writing: A Writing Guide for Writers Disguised as a Literary Memoir by Pierre Berton; On Writing: a Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King; and Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynn Truss.
It was disconcerting that after I saturated myself with English fundamentals, I felt more inept than ever. Reading about Berton’s and King’s struggle to write well was encouraging. To get back on track, I reread my 500-page stalking history.
The long-awaited crack at my book did not go well. Microsoft Word was foreign to me; and with no higher education in composition, every paragraph was arduous. I’d write on my laptop until there were a scary number of Cs, for correct, then print the material and read it over tea on my couch. Many pages were so marked up they were challenging to decipher. Deleting long passages was unbearable, especially when I’d spent ages on them. But delete, and reposition, I did. A clever passage in the wrong place mucks up the reader’s sense of continuity. And continuity counts.
This time round I could buy photos online, which made me a bit nuts, like being given keys to a bakery. You’ve surely heard that content, instead of the author, can steer the story. No captain equals no order. Photos can steer a story too. Losing control of your subject is a sinkhole.
No Ordinary Stalking changed my life, not afterwards, but during the writing. Sadness enveloped me, hour after hour. A lot of it was self-inflicted; a book of despair had better have a
despairing tone. I regularly spoke to suicidal victims and played dark music. The living room walls dripped with death and dread.
There was a second pitfall. Housework took on an antagonist role, and an arrangement had to be established. Neatness was imperative, dusting and some vacuuming were not. And while relinquishing housework doesn’t sound sacrificial, it was torture for someone who prizes a spotless home. In spurts, I’d begrudgingly tear the house apart and clean like a madwoman possessed, never once attempting to write. It was an all or none deal: write or clean.
Cutting up bargain pizzas and freezing wedges on foil pie pans was the extent of food preparation. Containers of frozen fruit smoothies eliminated peeling and stickiness. Mealtimes and bedtimes were dedicated to watching relevant, and often tragic, documentaries. Book-reading was at its lowest in my life. Granted, I did sneak in a few that could add to teachings about stalking, capture, and survival.
Anything that stopped me from writing was an opponent, including peaceful walks on the beach in front of my home, my sanctuary after being oppressed. The book was making me ill. My soul, intentionally immersed in crime, was cracking. The remedy, it seemed, was publication.
In a letter to book publishers, I guaranteed my manuscript was polished. A lauded editor said he liked the work, the cadence was smooth, and he would look at it when it was ready. I spent a further fifteen months tidying it up, all 481 pages, to find the company went bankrupt. It didn’t matter. The fellow’s comment was exactly what I needed to hear. Listen well, my allies, to professional criticism; and, if you can afford to, hire a copy editor.
It was insanity that forced me to abandon the final reworking of tricky sentences. I’d developed secondhand PTSD from listening to an unceasing lineup of victims and was constantly crying. Self-publishing was the quickest route to distancing myself from the book, but it worried me that self-publishing is generally thought of as a last resort for losers.
Today, if Random House offered to take on No Ordinary Stalking, I’d say no. I don’t want my book to have a short life. It was written to cut down on the misery, suicides, and murders that victims of organized stalking suffer. I want it to stay in print as long as it’s doing its job. In conjunction, I want the ability to update the book’s resource section. Overall, self-publishing was the right choice.
An interesting part of the process is decision making. For my cover, I chose a photo of a dead tree from my Get Wild era. The fonts, I played with for a while. The print size I wanted was larger than usual, based on victims’ eyesight suffering from physical attacks.

When a parcel of my just-released book arrived at the post office, I was happy as a wet butterfly and put them in an upstairs cupboard without turning a single page. My reaction puzzles me. Other first-time authors talk of stroking their book like a newborn baby.
It was at least a month before I summoned the pluck to check that No Ordinary Stalking was printed without error. It turns out there are two. The publishing consultant said not to bother having them corrected until I update the resource section. If I hadn’t been overwhelmed by the writing and publishing process, and the being-stalked process, my response would not have expressed compliance. The printer’s mistakes, particularly on the cover, are an embarrassment. I feel cheated.
Nonetheless, there are my own slip-ups. In the resource section, I rashly listed a book written by a doctor who is also a victim of organized stalking. It didn’t seem imperative to read his book after being swayed by dozens of five-star Amazon reviews, which it turns out were bogus, as were the grandiose introductions by radio hosts. The good doctor’s book, now that I’ve read it, is terrible. Only a third of it is about the topic. The rest is a disorderly rant with no attention paid to the duped soul who didn’t get what he paid for.
Now don’t get me wrong. I like the doctor. We teamed up to free a woman trapped and raped by gang stalkers. He’s a caring man and a great speaker. But he cannot write. Deleting his title from my book’s resource section is a priority.
Another slip-up in my book is a fact that is wrong. I’d written that a whistleblower was killed then tossed out a window. An investigative journalist proved the man was alive when he’d been tossed. This gaffe bothers me tremendously. Lesson: don’t be sucked in to hype. Contact credible witnesses and investigators.
After No Ordinary Stalking came out, my sadness lingered on. Plus, cooking, cleaning, eating, and tending errands on a whim felt unnatural. It took ten months to become normal after sixty-seven months of regimented distress over words.
My book will never be a bestseller. It will never make much money. I realized from the get-go that mostly victims of organized stalking would read it and presumably some of their loved ones. Still, I’m glad I wrote it. So is a retired Harvard professor who bought seven copies and sent me an idea for a screenplay. I don’t know how to write a screenplay. Therefore, he asked a Hollywood actor to write it, and this led to the actor and I becoming close friends.
I like being an amateur writer. Editing Get Wild enabled my entry into restricted wildlife areas in the company of world-class scientists. No Ordinary Stalking enabled my entry into activism, and Hollywood. My only regret is not having studied English when I was young. Writing’s a lot easier if you know what you’re doing.
My advice to other amateur writers is to always put your best pen forward. An email to Sister Sue or a sticky note to Manager Mike is exactly the practice you need to become proficient. Bit by bit, study your language. Accept that you will have bad writing days, and have faith that your words will take you somewhere wonderful. Anyone who loves to write can learn to write well. The key is passion.

DEFENDER OF THE FAITH

By Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 – 2005)

Written for the Information Magazine in June of 1958

Foreword by Charles E.J. Moulton

My father Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005) lost both his parents during that year of 1958. His father and my paternal grandfather Herbert Lewis Moulton, a World War I veteran whom everyone called Big Herb, died of a heart attack. After that, my father's mother must have been distraught. She got run over by a train on her way to work. This was a very poignant and very fitting for this feisty and strong Irish lady: she died standing up. It is then amazing to see how intellectual and calm my father seemed to be when he wrote the following piece for the Information Magazine in June of 1958. When his girlfriend died of cancer, my father, desperate and emotionally drained, left America on a two week vacation in his ancestrial home of Ireland. This stay lasted for seven years and brought him at least as much success as he the success he had experienced in the.United States. This stay eventually led him to Germany, where he met my mother, operatic mezzo-soprano Gun Kronzell.
The rest, as they say, is history.
This is my father's article from June 1958.
 
 
My mother Nell was an ardent Catholic all her life and something of a Revivalist at heart. She believed in standing up and being counted, and she never sat down again. That is why, whenever I read about the new look along the sawdust trail, I wonder what she'd have to say about it all.
It's a cinch Nell wouldn't recognize the old Gospel Train in its Madison Avenue streamlining. She liked her religion straight, thank you, liked it as well as she liked a good fight. Come to think of it, her one encounter with militant unorthodoxy may have helped bring on the present era of soft voices and cushioned condemnation.
Nell approached belief with wide open emotion and when said she'd gladly die for the faith, she meant it. To her as to many an Irishman the saints were cronies, especially the Blessed Virgin. Our Lady didn't live next door to us - she had moved right in to help with the housework.
This Catholicism, however intense, was no impediment to respecting those outside the fold, providing they were sincere. Nell never condemned anybody - she loved them and felt sorry they were missing so much. As for prejudice, it was the Devil's work and anybody who practiced it was, in her own words, "a hypocritch of the first water."
My father Big Herb had no official religous status, but he was better Catholic Dad than many in our parish, and his family was of vigorous if diverse Protestant stock. There were Presbyterians and Episcopalians and Transcendentalists and Free Thinkers and Swedenborgians and even a Quaker or two in the middle distance. Nell wanted me to know all about all these demoninations, what made them "other" and how they got that way. We must have toured every church and temple in the vicinity, guided by astonished beadles, custodians and janitors. Nell always called these personages "dear", and made sure they locked up afterwards.
Religious toleration didn't stop at the vestibule door. Everybody was welcome in our house. If they were atheists, if they didn't revere the Blessed Mother as Scripture says we should, if they were agnostic or fallen away or just indifferent, they were wrong and Nell never tired of belaboring the point. But as long as they were people and in our house, they got the full treatment, and even in the rockiest depression that meant anything from hot toddies and sherry-soaked fruitcake to a seven-course meal.
It was during those hard days of the 30's that our bungalow began taking on the aspects of a soup kitchen. Impoverished spinsters with cats and cataracts, an artist on relief, a retired handyman named Peter the Indian, an unemployed barber (two bits for a kitchen haircut and I can still feel the pull of those handclippers) - any number of down-and-outers crowded our table. None of them ever left without a shopping bag crammed with jars of jelly and fresh soup. No matter how bad things got, we were never of relief and they were, and that made all the difference. As long as there was a WPA, a PWA or any practical nursing to be done, Nell worked to help Big Herb while that gentle soul plugged away trying to sell insurance, appliances, anything to help supplement Big Herb's modest income.
We always had more than enough, somehow. We had parties and battles and pets and a second-hand car born 1928, a Studebaker named Henrietta. We packed lunches and went off to the opera, the World's Fair, zoos, ballparks and museums. One weekend we started out for a short ride (we lived in a suburb of Chicago named Glen Ellyn) and ended up at Niagara Falls.
Everybody cut corners and everybody had fun. Friday night we went to the movies, lured by Bank Nite, free dishes and good shows. Because prices changed from fifteen cents to a quarter at 6:15, people hurried through dinner and read the evening paper in their seats before the feature. Our milkman delivered his own vino with the dairy products. Big Herb continued to make homebrew beer in the basement long after Repeal, and his men friends rolled their own cigarettes. The women knitted and crocheted, while the more ambitious hooked rugs or entered contests, did each other's hair or tried their hand at short story writing. We kids gave puppet shows and pageants, fell out of tree-houses and fought. Saturday night there were crowds of poker players, not a one of them with a dime to his name, and during one slump when ours was the only house with the light and the gas still turned on, they carted home bushel baskets of coal to heat drafty old mansions left over from Palmier Days. We were the happiest people we knew.
It was into this kingdom of raffish good will towards everybody that two woebegone missionaries wandered one rainy Saturday. Nowadays, as I said, gospel harvesters plow the fields and scatter with such gentility that you hardly know they're around. But a couple of decades ago you couldn't miss them.
This particular brood barnstormed for the Lord in an antique limosine painted white and plastered with signs proclaiming the imminence of Kingdom Come. As if this weren't enough to scare the daylights out of anybody, a nest of loudspeakers topsides saturated the target area with glad tidings of approaching Armageddon, hellfire and judgment.
"I'd like to know what these people think they're doing," Nell mused from the front window. "The man and woman in that goofy car. I've never laid eyes on them before, have you guys?"
As usual I was presiding at a levée for urchins, all of us dressing up to play King, The Prince and the Pauper, or whatever we had seen at the Glen Theatre the week before. The evangelists didn't seem to be doing too well, according to Nell, who was never nosy unless something really special were afoot. They had tried every door on the street, finding nobody home (and everybody was) or getting a reception chilly enough to freeze Gehenna.
"Well, I think it's just awful about those poor slobs," Nell worried. "The least somebody could do would be to ask them in, no matter what they're peddling."
It never occurred to her that these might be religious rivals. She wouldn't have admitted the existance of any to begin with.
At last the discouraged Lost Sheep (which is what we called them ever after) approached our porch. Nell was ready for them. She flung open the door with a bountiful,
"Come in, come in, and get dried off!" The Lost Sheep looked at her and then at each other. "Oh, come on. You look like the Grapes of Wrath." Nell was an inspired improviser. With one of her "non sequiturs" dropped casually into the conversational works, she could jangle all talk to a standstill, and her enthusiastic misquotations were worth their weight in double takes.
Now was no exception. The Lost Sheep turned their unbelieving gaze back at her and beyond to the warmth of the house. Then they bolted inside where we could get a look at them.
The man was gaunt and shaggy and he scowled all the time. The woman was whispy and chinless and very much ill-at-ease. There was something pathetic about them as they flapped their magazines our way.
“Never mind about that now,” Nell blocked the tactic. “What you need is a good hot cup of tea.” The Lost Sheep damply agreed. “How about a little something in it?”
“Perhaps a spoonful of sugar,” the woman hesitated.
“I mean, a little something to take the chill off.”
“Lemon?” came the nervous suggestion.
“Oh, skip it,” said Nell and she pottered out to the kitchen, abandoning us all to an eternity of embarrassment. Finally she returned with a loaded tray (and I choose the term “loaded” purposely). It was just like her to spike her teacup with a little something to take the chill off. Only with Nell you could never be quite sure.
“Now then,” she beamed, ever the hostess. “What is it you’re selling?”
The female Sheep gasped like someone reviving after a near-drowning. “Have you found Christ?” she asked.
“I never lost Him,” was Nell’s reply.
We wanted to cheer, but the woman pressed on. “I mean, do you have him in your life?”
“Of course I do, dear. Don’t you?” There was a murmur of approval from the gallery and Nell continued briskly: “I go to mass and communion every Sunday of my life. And Herbert here is an altar boy.”
The couple exchanged another look. The interview wasn’t going according to the book.
“You see that picture over there?” My mother indicated a Raphael reproduction.
“The ... that woman?” the female Sheep looked as though she were gnawing a quince instead of one of Nell’s delicious cookies.
“She’s the mother of God!” Nell saluted. “Now what can I do for you?”
The Sheep set down their teacups and began a faltering pitch, but their hearts were not in it.
“If it’s money you’re after,” Nell interrupted, “I don’t think there’s a nickle in this house.” She cast about for her pocket book and proceeded to empty it onto the coffee table. Rosary, Novena book, keys, family photographs, compact, comb and curlers, a jar of hand cream, a can of tooth powder and a denture brush, newspaper clippings, her lower plate, the dog’s collar and a bottle-opener all clattered forth. At each item the eyes of the Lost Sheep widened and their mouths contracted almost in disappearance. Now they both looked like they were sucking quinces, or possibly alum.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Nell reported triumphantly. “I do have some change!” She counted out eleven cents (a nickle and six pennies). “It isn’t much, but God knows you’re welcome to it.” She pressed the coins into the woman’s palm. “Oh, don’t bother with any of that stuff,” again she waved away the proferred literature. “I haven’t even finished ‘Gone With The Wind’ yet.”
But the Lost Sheep prevailed and presently were effecting an escape, their benedictions all but lost in the alleluias of “God love you!” from my mother. She closed the door and heaved one of her great sighs. “I want you brats to get out of those crazy duds now,” she suggested at length, “and I’ll go see about the potatoes.”
No matter how many guests I rounded up, lunch was always hearty, generally consisting of baked potatoes, peanut butter sandwiches, junket or tapioca, baked apples and pitchers of milk or cocoa. Today it was further spiced with the novelty of the little morality play just acted out.
“Irene dear,” Nell prodded my moppet of the moment. “I’m sure your mother never lets you and Brubs read at the table.”
“I can’t help it, Aunt Nell. It’s this silly magazine.” Irene was turning over the pages of one of the murky periodicals left by one of the Lost Sheep. We were all as entranced as kids today are with television.
“Look at this one,” her brother demanded. “Aunt Nell, what’s a Scarlet Woman?”
“Look, the Pope has three heads,” Irene put in. It was true. On the front page was a crude cartoon representing the Vatican with a hydra-headed monster oozing out, each head crowned with the Triple Tiara.
“Let me see that!” Nell ordered. She took one look, then snatched up the remaining copies. As I recall it, they swam with lurid slanders against the church, the Papacy and Priesthood, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass – against all things Catholic, in fact. Such exotic phrases as Whore of Babylon, and Pomps of the Devil, linger to this day.
“Well, I’ll be –“ Nell’s smouldering exclamation was lost in the rustle of cheap paper. “Come on, children,” she announced suddenly. “Get your wraps and duds.”
“But, Aunt Nell,” came the whines. “What about our baked apples?”
“Never mind them – come on!” By the time she reached her boiling point – which was notoriously low – we had cast off for uptown in Hernrietta.
I doubt if any journey has ever been achieved in more portentous silence or with greater clugging or and motor sputter. We lurched, we skidded, we bounced over the tracks. Gears grated, people honked, and my mother’s knuckles grew white with clutching the steering wheel. We all knew exactly what was happening. We had seen it before and we knew. Nellie was on the warpath. Nobody said a word.
It didn’t take long to find them. The limousine was a dead giveaway and you could hear the scratchy gospel hymns amplified all over town. They had set up shop right next to the bank and the female sheep was handing out literature while partner ranted from the running-board. Gus Niemetz the policeman stood by uneasily, not knowing what to do.
“Everybody stay right in this car,” was Nell’s car as we ground to a halt. “Don’t a one of you dare get out.”
The next instant a nuclear ball of Irish Catholic fury burst through the crowd, scattering umbrellas and shopping baskets like tenpins. The female Sheep spotted her but before she could sound the alarm, Nell was upon them, tugging the oracle down from his perch and shaking her fists in his face.
I closed my eyes and put my head down on the back of the front seat. God help him, I thought. Heresy isn’t worth it.
The scene was brief enough – more fistshaking and Gaelic oaths, propaganda dashed underfoot and appeals to the bewildered congregation, a convulsive digging into her own pockets by the chinless Sheep, then the bowling ball routine again, propelling Nell into the Studebaker and us on our way home. From the rear window we could see the limousine moving off in the opposite direction.
Not until we were well into our baked apples did things return to normal, or rather, from normal. “At least I got the eleven cents back,” Nell said, dabbing at our dishes with whipped cream. “And not a word of this to Big Herb, understand? Go on, kids, eat yourselves. You must be ravished by now.” It was gratifying to hear old malapropisms again. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Everything was. The Lost Sheep never came back, not in the limousine anyway. The eleven cents went into the Sunday collection and the Raphael Madonna was moved into a more prominent position over the fireplace.
From then on Nell read every publication that came into the house. Religious toleration is a grand thing, she used to say, but it’s got to work both ways.
 

Turkey Turkey
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


What about Turkey? Are we talking about Turkey the country in the Middle East? Its capital is Istanbul, in old times called Constantinople. Istanbul’s main attractions are its mosques and of course for me its bazaars. A stroll along the tent-like boutiques could keep me entertained for hours. The vendors would invite me into their cubicles trying to get me interested in their wares. They would ask to sit on a three legged-stool and I would be served a demitasse of espresso. The rich bitter coffee nearly stood up in the little cup. How could I not buy anything after such a cordial treatment?
I floated along the Bosphorus, toward the Black Sea, on a boat crowded with tourists. At the stately Hilton Hotel, where I stayed, I would take a shower and then go to the swimming pool. As skin cancer was hardly talked about at that time, bikini beauties were soaking up the sun in comfortable deck chairs. Many of them were drinking a Pina Colada. I joined them.
Turkey? Oh yes, I meant to talk about poultry not the city. Thanksgiving is standing at the doorsteps already again. I do have an excuse for having gotten sidetracked. I was in my twenties when I heard about Turkey, the bird, for the first time. In Germany we did not have Turkeys and no Thanksgiving either. After the harvest we had a celebration called Ernte-Dank-Fest, giving thanks for the harvest; a Turkey was never part of it.
Only during my first Thanksgiving in the States did a Turkey and I meet.


As a Flight Attendant I had to serve Turkey to passengers in First Class, carving it from a serving board on a food cart, in view of the guests. Luckily we had had extensive galley training before flaunting our culinary arts inflight. Why the name Turkey for the bird. During global trade in old times a bird called Guinea fowl shipped from Africa, became known as “Turkey cock.” The fowl had come via Constantinople, an important hub of international trade, into England. Later British settlers brought it into the States, and it was simply called “Turkey.”


I remember a Turkey fiasco that happened when I introduced my parents in Germany to their first Turkey. My husband and I had bought a huge frozen Turkey to take to Berlin. To keep it frozen we let it rest on the lid of the icebox on the plane, which held the ice-cubes for the cocktail service. Our enthusiasm had gone overboard. My mother’s oven was much, much too small. We had to let it defrost and the next day my husband butchered into pieces. We ate Turkey for many days. It all defeated the purpose of having a crisp, enticing bird on a big platter, inviting us to a meal.
Ironically, the name of Turkeys in the Turkish language, is Hindi, short for bird from India. It seems the Turks may have originally thought that those birds came from India – thanks to a little miscalculation by Columbus.
I will end here, not to confuse the issue any further and not to spoil all our appetite for the coming Thanksgiving feast.

Autumn Night


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



Soft, humidity drunk air, is brought in by the ocean to the shores of Long Island. A greenish dew hangs in the crowns of the trees. It has been the hottest September in years. The canal shows moldering, fermenting seaweed and algae from the Great South Bay along to its end.
The trees stand erect like the motionless guards in front of the Queen’s Palace, not allowing their twigs to bend.
As I put my head out the window, the humidity soaked air nearly took my breath away. My car brooded heat the way I picture heat to rise in a chicken coop.
All this is experienced today, on Long Island, near the water. I pity the commuters who travel on the railroad or subway! Picture them, as they stagger along the steaming streets while the manholes spit hot air. Those brave people earn every penny that Manhattan salaries pay as bonus. It is a well-known fact that city wages could reach double what is paid on the outskirts.
Came lunchtime, pictures on the TV began to show warnings about severe thunder, lightning and storms. It even mentioned the possibility of tornados and street flooding. A nasty reminder of the storm that hit Long Island several years back.
This could bring with it power outages; some areas already were experiencing such.
Then the rain came! Relief of sorts but not enough for the grass
​as it had thirsted for days.
As if to apologize for the recent turmoil the sky obliged with a light show. Not a rainbow but a broad opening between dissipating clouds. Colors of a rainbow mashed up into a shaken palette. The canal now clear, even sparkling. All seaweed gone! Relieved and delighted, I opened my sliding doors. I took a deep breath, once, twice. Yes, it had cooled down. I felt my airways open. It was invigorating. A light breeze was rocking the trees to sleep. It was the end of September. The days were getting shorter. Night had set in.
No stars, no moon but a pleasant night with the anticipation of the sky kids to appear shortly. Peace after the storm. Nature’s spectaculars like today’s can be experienced frequently. It is one of the reasons reason why long ago I made the South Shore of Long Island my residence.

Bilingual Anecdote

By Daniel de Culla


Spanish:

Sol en Neblina
Un romero traía un gran zurrón y, parado en las plazas y paseos, anunciaba que le haría cantar por sacar mucho con la invención y poder costearse su estancia y viaje, y era que llevaba dentro un muchacho que cantaba diciéndole esto: -Canta zurrón, canta, si no te daré un coscorrón.
Él se ponía a tararear: “Country Sunshine” de Dottie West.
Estando en esto, se le acercó una señora con una botella en la que, según ella, había cogido la niebla del día, rogándole que, por favor, la examinara pues ella quería saber si esta niebla era como la de antes, cuando vivían sus padres; con lo que rieron mucho todos los presentes, al abrir el romero botella y disiparse la niebla neciamente.



English:

Sunshine in the Fog

A pilgrim, carrying a large pouch, stopping in squares and promenades, announced that he would sing for drawing much with the invention of being able to pay for his stay and travel, and that was that he had a boy singing, saying:
"Sing, if I will not give you a bump on the head!"

He was humming: "Country Sunshine" by Dottie West.

A lady approached him with a bottle in which, according to her, she had caught the fog of the day, begging him to please examine her, since she wanted to know if this mist was like the one before. Her parents; with whom everyone present laughed a great deal, had opened the first bottle and dissipated the fog foolishly, just a foot away.

Would the world have seen

a difference without me?

By Alexandra Rodrigues



This question can only be answered in connections with our beliefs. In the vastness of time it seems presumptuous to single oneself out as an influence on mankind. However, just like a stone thrown into water, makes rings, small ones, then bigger and bigger, maybe small happenings in my life caused changes and sent ripples into the universe. Following situations come to mind.
Karen, a friend of mine since grammar school went thru the agony of a broken heart at the age of 22. Her boyfriend left her after a four-month engagement, her mother died the same year, and she had lost her job. She spoke of suicide and I was afraid she truly contemplated it. I succeeded in getting her into therapy and listened hours at end to her woes. She found herself again and today is the matriarch of a happy family. She never forgets to call me her Fairy Godmother.
After World War II, I got acquainted with a very romantic man by the name of Albert. He courted me and one day invited me to a sleigh ride in the woods at the outskirts of our hometown Berlin. I had just finished some Russian novels, where sleigh rides were mentioned and the idea intrigued me. Albert was older than me and not my type. He was petite with fine bones and carried the aura of an emancipated prince. However he was the only person I knew who owned a sled pulled by two horses. The sled won and I accepted his invitation. It was a scenic day with light snow falling. The trees were wearing their wintery outfits, and cozy blankets kept us warm. Albert called me “Princessa” and confessed his great love for me stating that life without me would be unbearable. I let him hold my hand, flirted a little, but I was glad when we got back to town and parted with a lip kiss. This was more than he had ever gotten from me and I did not like it. All the before and after is a story in itself. Anyhow I made myself inaccessible to him after this ride. Left his approaches by phone and his sentimental letters unanswered. Then it all stopped. He had committed suicide. Had something else in his life happened or was it because of me? I do not wish to know.
Another time I attended a dance at a local pub. Alcohol was flowing plentiful which was common practice in those days. I had danced and flirted a lot with a good looking guy named Walter, about my age, and all was well. But he drank too much and wanted me to take off with him on his motorcycle. I declined and he left insulted and tipsy. Shortly afterward I got a lift home from somebody else. Only a few blocks down the road we spotted the motorcycle on its side, a body next to it. It was Walter. We put him into the car and sped to the nearest hospital. Walter was badly hurt and I remember sitting next to him in the back of the car holding his head in a way so he could breathe and praying that he may survive. He did. Often I think what
could have happened, had I been on the back of the motor cycle. Would all have been fine? Or would I have been thrown onto the hard pavement? Maybe gotten killed? Also, what would have happened had I not opted to refuse his offer? Would Walter have bled to death on the road? What a difference a day, an hour, a minute can make!
We are like flowers. At times, we are ignored by some, bringing joy to others. Once I rescued 50 velvety, dark red roses from the overhead rack of a Pan Am plane. They had been given to opera star Maria Callas by shipowner Aristotle Onassis in Rome. As Flight Attendant, I had been assigned to serve First Class and Maria Callas. So when she got ready to leave the plane in Teheran I took the roses down and intended to hand them to her. She motioned with her bejeweled hand that she did not want them. We had a layover in Teheran too, so I took the roses and while the sun was setting on the mountains near my hotel, I looked at the flowers, wondered about the idiosyncrasies of celebrities and enjoyed the mellow fragrance of the flowers. As to what makes the world turn, I found no answer then and I have no answer now.

Comment by author and poet

Thaddeus Hutyra:
“We are like flowers. Ignored by some, bringing joy to others.” Life is exactly like that, in the Sun’s rays and during the storm, all situations possible. The story is written with intense artistic flavor, very interesting and with a fast track. Re choices done in one’s life should never apologize to himself/herself, assuming that we all are responsible for ourselves. Another rule applies to stable and long term relationships, such as mother and father – child, wife -- husband, and so on. There are many people asking themselves questions such as: “Would the World have seen a difference without me?” The answer is one never knows. Albert Einstein, for example had a superb influence on the humanity with his Theory of Relativity but who was his mother? Perhaps she was a simple woman who never ever dared even to think about her importance to the fates of many people. If she were not around there wouldn’t also be that kid called Albert who later in his life would turn into a world renowned scientist. Many parents of famous people were simple villagers who know nothing about the world but their offspring fought upon change. So…anything is possible. Enigmatic story, indeed, with philosophical inclination…😊

Thinking of Food

​By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


An excerpt from Emotion in Motion: Tales of a Stewardess (2016)
Going through my Pan Am memorabilia, I came across several menus from our Lunch and Dinner Services in First Class. It was then that I realized how blasé I had become through the years. From nearly starving through the War years and being thrilled with dandelion salad and greasy, grimy leftovers from Russian soldiers’ canteen food (when a slice of toasted cornbread with fatty bacon was a delicacy exclusively for holidays), I have risen to become part of the top of culinary consumers.
Orange blossoms (Champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice) for breakfast or a Bloody Mary (vodka and tomato juice spiced with horseradish and decorated with a slice of fresh lemon) after a night of walking up and down the aisles of a transatlantic jet serving passengers was commonplace when arriving at a crew hotel for a 24-hour layover.
Lunch was often taken at airport restaurants anywhere from New York to Zurich to Rome, Beirut, Tehran, Karachi, Hong Kong, Dakar, Johannesburg to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania (where the blue Tanzanite gem comes from).The tanzanite has become quite a gemstone of choice demanding a high price now. I could have picked it up cheap, but I did not do so. Another opportunity missed.
Memories of bratwurst in Germany, curry dishes in New Delhi, and Calderada, a soup made with at least six different kinds of fish, in Portugal still today make my taste buds tingle. While we were indulging on those local tidbits, the aircraft was provisioned by the station’s commissary with superb specialties of the respective country and the ever-standard juicy prime rib of beef which we cooked and served rare, medium or well done to those passengers unwilling to indulge in unfamiliar fare.

Menu cover celebrating the anniversary of the Statue of Liberty
A Dinner menu consisted of cocktails, hors d'oeuvres, fish, a main entrée of choice, cheeses from all over the world and dessert of irresistible quality, like Cherries Jubilee or vanilla ice cream with a thick chocolate sauce. All this was followed by cordials.
French wine, Brut Champagne and beer were available without limitations – in First Class that is! I became an expert in popping Champagne corks and am still admired for my dexterity in it. Here are a few dishes I will never forget. Russian caviar, served with chopped egg and lemon slices, accompanied by Stolichnaya Vodka. Lobster Thermidor. Quail with grapes. Cornish Hen. Veal chops with Calvados sauce. Pâté foie gras and truffles. Not to forget the Cherries Jubilee: Sour cherries slightly heated, and, served over heart-melting vanilla ice cream. Well, I am getting carried away and hungry. A good espresso for digestion to end the feast in style.
On international layovers of several days in the 1960s and 1970s, I made it a habit to sample the native delicacies: Kippers for breakfast in Scotland, avocado and eel in Mexico, chorizo and eggs in Portugal, venison with lingonberries in Sweden, sushi in Japan. Different roasts from the carving board in England, Kobe beef in Guam, turtle soup, goulash and a multitude more. Today I would settle for oysters and Eggs Benedict. I guess you can understand that my taste has been spoiled, confused and quite unconventional during the years.
I am thinking about world-renowned chefs! My husband could have joined their ranks. He loved to cook. He had worked as a butler for several mega-rich families where the old ladies loved him as he was very handsome.
Only the best chefs worked for those families. My husband had plenty of opportunity to mingle and taste the Pheasant Under Glass, the Beef Wellington and more. From there Pan Am got hold of him, and they sent him to become acquainted with the services of superb dining at Maxim’s in Paris. He was not to learn to cook, but to excel in the elegant ways of serving food. All through my marriage I profited from those experiences.

Above: Studio press photo of baritone, actor and author Herbert Eyre Moulton
and his wife Gun Kronzell, editor-in-chief Charles E.J. Moulton's parents,
during their successful years as "The Singing Couple". 
Here seen with their dog Fred, whom Herb rescued from loneliness in Ireland back in 1963.



RIGHT! WE'LL HAVE A PARTY!

from the autobiography "DAMN THE DEPRESSION, ANYWAY!"

Written by my father the late great
Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005)

Herb worked as MCA-Record’s Show-Star Herbert Moore. He also conducted the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir during the Korean War, toured with his wife, the operatic mezzo-soprano Gun Kronzell, around the world as “The Singing Couple”. This true story takes place in the posh, spiritually rich but financially poor 1930’s. The picture here to the right is of my father many years later, during a party in the 1960’s (how fitting), drinking wine, chatting with his good friend, the famous Swedish opera tenor Nicolai Gedda.
Now, fasten your seatbelts. Step into the time machine. Get ready to visit the culturally endowed relatives living the posh life back in the Illinois that was, sometime in the 1930’s.
 
As long as anyone can remember, our home had always been THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITY. Through thick or thin, palmy days or the Depths of the Depression - between the extremes of my father Big Herb's practicality and Nell's "To Hell with Poverty - we'll sell the pig!" liberality, we always managed to make every visitor feel happily at home.
Most of the regulars at this snug little oasis of ours were survivors of a picturesque world that, since the Stockmarket Crash of 1929, had evaporated fast. Their families had once held sway in a score or more of vast old turreted wooden-frame mansions which still ornamented the town, left over from the Gilded 1880's, a few of which still stand to this day, plaqued (as they say) as Historical Landmarks.
One of these - Eastbourne - had from the mid 1890's been my Dad's family home, last occupied by my Uncle Harper and his peripetitic family - three sons and his great billowing Southern Belle of a spouse, Clara by name, but known to all and sundry (all except us, that is) as 'Honey". They blowsily occupied the old manse until late in the 1930's, when it was unfortunately demolished. To this day it forms a marvelously gloomy, House-of-Usher background for a lot of my earliest memories - fifteen huge, high-ceiling rooms, many with fireplaces. Of these, the room I remember best was the library, a museum really, cluttered as it was with bayonets, shell-casings, dress-swords with sashes, handguns, even spiked officer's helmets from the old German Imperial Army, just the thing for our boyhood extravaganzas inspired by the historical movies we saw on Saturday afternoons. These were souveniers of the time in France in 1917-18 by my Dad Herbert Lewis Moulton and his two younger brothers, Wes and Harp.
The rest of this spacious old mansion contained family and servants' quarters, hotel-sized kitchen and laundry facilities - Eastbourne had been a popular cross-country inn until my Grandfather bought it to house his lady-wife and brood of six children, plus servants that included at least one live-in nanny. One of them was a wonderful black Mammy, Maisie - pardon the lapse! - with her daughter Rachel, my first experience with folk of other colors, and a delightful one or was, too. (Rachel, grown to young womanhood, was my baby-sitter when I was a nipper.)
Further amenities included a billiard room, a glazed-in conservatory (south side, of course), and a large lofty attic filled with memorabilia of untold splendor, a porte cochere, and two pillared porches, which Honey in that booming Texan foghorn used to call Galleries, much to Nell’s unconcealed disgust: “Haw-puh! Frank! Leeeeeeeeeeee! What yawl doin’ on that gall’reh?”
On the sloping, wooded lawns were the remains of a croquet- and a tennis-court, outbuildings where the cows and the horses were billeted (named Chummy and Princess, and Duke and Lightning, respectively) and by the time we began playing in it, a slightly ramschackle summer house.
People can talk all the like about the delight about the ante-bellum Southland, but its post-bellum northern counterpart, based, not on slavery, but on industry and commerce, had a  no-nonsense charm of its own. It was in settings such as these that was played out on that long, in retrospect lovely American twilight up to the start of the first World War, which is celebrated in plays such as O’Neill’s “Ah, Wilderness!” – tea-dances, ice-cream socials, masquerades, and amateur family theatricals, with house-music provided by all five of the Moulton boys, with sister Minnie at the piano. After the war, the twilight lingered on spasmodically until the grand old memory-drenched house was sold off and demolished. Even then, in the late 1930’s, we’d gather a carload of friends and drive over on a summer evening to pick basketfuls of the fragrant lillies-of-thze-valley which still flourished in a corner of the original garden.
It was the dispossessed heirs of these once proud dynasties, the greying sheiks of yesteryear with nicknames like “Babe” and “Bunny” and “Wop”, with their ex-flapper Shebas, all raucous voices, middle-age spread, and clouds of perfume with names like Mitsouki or Emeraud, who used to crowd our little dining room on Saturday evenings (the table top decked in an old army blanket) for intense penny-ante poker sessions, sometimes using matchsticks for chips, laughing at off-color jokes way above my head and puffing their Old Golds and home-rolled “coffin nails”, while the Budweiser flowed and soda crackers got crumbled into bowls of Big Herb’s special chili-con-carne, to the accompaniament of Paul Whiteman records or Your Hit Parade on the radio-phonograph hard by in the living-room.
I loved these gatherings in my parents’ cronies – Big Herb’s out-of-work business colleagues or American Legion (Forty-and-Eight) buddies and their wives or lady-friends. Many of them had been the blithe and breezy Charleston-dancing, hipflask toting young marrieds, who (I was told); used to switch partners on weekend treasure-hunts, and in that still infamous Crash had lost everything but their social stature (whatever that amounted to) and their sense of humor. Thus had John Held, Jr. given wa to the late Scott Fitzgerald.
To me these people were as fascinating as visitors from another galaxy, caught in what today would called a time-warp. Authemntic “Twenties-Types” (if one thinks about them now) and I couldn’t get my fill looking at them – everything they did shone with enough of the glamour of lost wealth which set them apart from everyone else we knew (God, was I that much of a snob at the age of nine or ten?).
Special fun were those evenings which suddenly turned musical, like the time when a lady with hennaed hair unloosed one of Delilah’s arias from “Samson” in a rich boozy contralto, then huddled at the keyboard with a lady friend to harmonize “Sing to Me, My Little Gypsy Sweetheart”. (Nell later reported that they were both sharing the same “beau”, who happened to be our family dentist. (What a sensation that was!)
So the poker sessions rolled merrily along, spiced now and then with one of the men getting sobbing drunk and passing out on the livingroom couch, or one of the married couples indulging in a strident battle which mesmerized me even while being hustled out to my bedroom by one or the other of my parents. Boy, it was as good as having a movie-show right in our own living room. Besides which, they were all exceedingly nice to me, slipping me a shiny new dime now and then or taking time out to show me card tricks or draw pictures, or sometimes work with me on my pappet theater or Erector Set. One of our occasional guests was the cartoonist Dick Calkins – Lt. Dick Calkins, as he signed his Buck Rogers in the 25th century newspaper strip. One Saturday eveing, though half-sozzled, he spent a good hour painstakingly drawing cartoons of Buck and his girlfriend Wilma Deering on facing pages of my autograph book and dedicated to me alone. (Naturally, treasures such as these eventually disappeared – gone, alas, like our youth too soon.)
Thee smoky, sometimes emotion-charged pow-wows weren’t quite the proper fodder for the local newspapers, but there were plenty of other tidbits lovingly provided by Nell at the drop of a phone-call.

Kate In Heat

​By Katherine Brittain


“Is this your novia, me ijo?” asks Pancho’s Padrino while gazing at me. “Are you sure you are wise to marry a blond-haired, blue-eyed Anglo woman? Have you not already fought off other suitors? How much training will you need to keep the life lessons?”
Pancho answers his Godfather with a solemn air. “As much training as the Master gives me.” A pause of silence, and both break their solemn gaze and break out in raucous laughter.
“Accompany me to the trono in the consultorio. Orita!”
“What’s consultorio?” I whisper, putting my lips up against Pancho’s ear.
“Spiritual consultation room.”
“What’s trono?”
“Throne.” Pancho shimmies at the kiss of my breath.
“What’s orita?”
“NOW!” Pancho laughs from his belly.
When El Padrino walks inside to advise his wife of our departure from the house to the consultorio, I anxiously try to drag Pancho to the car. “We’re leaving! Next thing you know, we’ll be playing with a Ouija Board!”
Pancho places both hands on my shoulders and kisses my forehead. “Don’t back out on me now, Kate,” he warns. “You promised you would do this.”
Sure I promised—after he slipped the ring on my finger last night, and kissed me. I was in the throes of Deseo, for God’s sake. But I’m an Episcopalian. And an anthropologist. I am not sure at all that Pancho’s proposal warrants this conditional step into what Dr. Quintanilla in his lectures calls Mexican Folk Culture.
Still, I realize it is obviously Pancho’s Mexican folk culture as well, though I would have never known it. Pancho’s parents take us to the country club for Sunday brunch. He’s been reading The Web Developer’s Life Manual in our bed before sleep. And he looks like Antonio Banderas.
≈≈≈
The consultorio is a lean-to situated in the middle of a forest of low-slung, spring-green mesquites. The dirt under the trees looks swept. A shepherd-mix dog lies in the dappled shade outside a door that is hand-labeled above the jamb, “EL TRONO.”
Once we’re inside, Pancho unwraps a foil covered log of self-igniting charcoal, sets two of the poker chip-sized discs in a sooty brazier poorly welded to a long handle, and lights them with a long-barreled lighter. He grabs a pinch of something out of a filmy plastic bag from what I presume is an altar. When the flame settles into a steady burn, Pancho drops a pinch of tiny opaque rocks on top of the glowing coal. An unfamiliar smell is wafted on the smoke tendrils, filling the small room with the smell of copal.
El Padrino is . . .
. . . oh my god, slipping on a leather vest. He puts on a sombrero retrieved from what is, apparently, El Trono, and nods at Pancho who steps into the veil of smoke,
and carefully moves the hot brazier close to the right side of El Trono so that the smoke is mysteriously interacting with El Padrino.
El Padrino slumps and rests his hands on his knees, palms turned upward. He takes a profoundly deep breath with his eyes closed. Pancho, who is like somebody I no longer recognize, extends his upturned palms gently towards his Godfather in a beckoning-to-receive fashion, and begins to chant in Spanish.
The chair back by the wall looks safer than standing so close to this seemingly cultish ritual, so I back up to sit. I cross my arms, and sling my right leg over my left thigh, holding on tight as the waves of unintelligible words crescendo. El Padrino’s arms slowly rise, reaching towards the heavens. His head then lolls between his shoulders, Richard Nixon-style. When his whole body begins to shimmy and shudder, my own body responds in a similar manner as a wave of horror rushes through me. Then his arms come down from the heavens, and his torso straightens. Pancho tapers off his prayers and takes a step back.
El Padrino turns his head toward me. I dig my nails into my skin and hold myself rigid when he opens his eyes and they’re rolled back in his head so that only the whites are showing. I feel I am about to pass out when he leans forward and speaks to me in a rough, commanding voice, “Bienvenidos, Catarina. Venga aqu!” I feel he has possessed me, just like that. I swoon.
He reaches down beside his throne and brings up to his lips a tequila bottle for a healthy swig. Saying nothing, but grinning over his beer belly, he leans to bring to burning life the moist tip of a stubby, gnawed cigar.
How can he see through the whites of his eyes? My own eyes are threatened by pulsing blackout. He’s a medium! And I desire him! “Pancho! My love, save me!”
Pancho grabs my hand and drags me into the cloak of smoke. Godfather takes another swig of tequila. Studying me, he nods, “Muy bonita, Pancho.” He smiles a lewd smile and yanks me down onto his lap and squeezes both my breasts. He then puts a restraining arm around my waist. “All women love this General,” he switches to English. “And you, Kate?”
“I love all Generals,” I say deliriously.
“Ha hah! Good!” Grabbing my chin, he plows my lips through his black bushy mustache. He pushes me off his lap.
“Who do you think you are!” I yell from the hard-packed dirt.
“He takes another swig of tequila before returning the cigar to his mouth. He walks over to Pancho upon whose head he places the sombrero. “Someday my namesake will take my place in this consultorio!”
I allow a comprehending smile, then whoop, “Thank God! I love this General!” I rush into Pancho’s arms and kiss him passionately.
“Good, Catarina..” El Padrino takes the sombrero from off Pancho’s head and places it on mine. He takes another swig of tequila.
“Receive my blessing,” speaks the spirit of the lusty General Pancho Villa.

The WASP’s First Bus Trip


Adapted from The WASP AND EL CURANDERO


~Katherine Brittain~


Although he is senior professor of Anthropology at Pan American University, I’m coming to imagine Dr. Yusuf Benici as a 16th century Royal Ottoman Turk, charging at me from atop his black Arabian horse, brandishing his yataghan sword. (I think I saw that in Lawrence of Arabia.) Damn him! He uses his students to stack his internationally recognized Mexican-American Folklore Archives in order to promote his professional reputation.
As part of our grade, Benici requires us to produce ten interviews for each and every one of his classes we sign up for, and I’ve now had him for three classes straight. Thank god, this Mexican American Folklore class is my last class with him. I’m sure if Benici believed in God, he would thank him, too, for Benici doesn’t like me. I don’t fit the Hispanic college student profile. I’m 43 years old. I’m wealthy. And he hates my jokes.
My offerings to the Archives are some of the few in English. Surely, one can imagine I might have a hard time with this assignment. I do not speak Spanish, not even Tex-Mex. I took Latin in high school. I’m a WASP.
WASP is a social distinction I have learned, namely that W.A.S.P. equals White Anglo Saxon Protestant equals the WASP women who have Sunday brunch at the country club, who shop for clothes at Sylvia’s, who have elegant manners, whose children attend private school, and who drive white Suburbans. That’s just my perspective. In my particular case you can add blond hair and blue eyes.

Ma’lena is my neighbor and the only English speaking Mexican folklore story-teller I know. Today, I have been plying Ma’lena for more of her stories as she sits regally in her lawn chair with her green garden hose, squirting the surrounding plants, and sometimes accidentally on purpose, me and my folklore collection forms.
“Please tell me. Who is Reynaldo?” I ask for the third time after Ma’lena obliquely mentions the titillating name and then plays out the line on which she has me hooked. Finally, she leans towards me, searching my eyes long and hard before saying, “I’m taking you to meet Reynaldo on Monday. You must not say no. It’s not for me to say here, but he has more stories than you will ever be able to write down. And he’s a Healer.”
I gather up my damp collection forms, all of them alarmingly blank. Ma’lena appears to be fresh out of stories. I have scooped the bottom of the well of my finest and final English-speaking ethnographic source.
But Monday a miracle happens when Ma’lena introduces me to her cousin, Reynaldo. I mean, its hell being a bored middle-aged wife and homeroom mother. So what better salvation than to research a curandero like Reynaldo? (WASPs would call him a witchdoctor.) And now, surely, Benici will respect my academic effort towards a thesis.


Thursday, 19 October 2000

I’m skipping Benici’s class, and leaving today on my First Trip into the Field. I am no longer an armchair anthropologist, I reassure myself, since I am about to become an international traveller to Espinazo, N.L., Mexico. There we will join Reynaldo for the Mexican folk saint, El Niño Fidencio’s October Fiesta. There Reynaldo will channel the spirit of El Niño. There I will officially begin my ethnographic field research up close and personal.
I get up at 4:00 a.m. to wash and roll my hair. If I don’t roll my hair right after washing and drying, it falls flat. And I would not be caught dead outside the house with flat hair; so washing, then drying, then rolling is daily protocol. Hairspray is antithetical to the desired natural look so, even following protocol, it is only a matter of time before my hair falls flat. But not as flat as if I hadn’t rolled it at all.
I gather together on the bathroom counter top the hot rollers, curling iron, blow dryer, makeup bag, the two-gallon Ziploc with all the toiletries, and pinch-hit wipees I bought last night at Walmart. These I place in the lightweight (some might say flimsy) leopard skin tote I bought yesterday at my hair dresser’s. I feel this to be a practical purchase because this elegant tote also has functional wheels and a slide-out handle. I’ve never ridden a bus before, but I’m sure rolling luggage is a must for all forms of travel.
The tote is the final piece of luggage I pack with my personal grooming items.

Last night I packed the two suitcases with clothes—one for the warm days and one for the cold nights—as Reynaldo described the Espinazo high desert climate. (I’ll tell you here I fall in love with Reynaldo, but that’s another story that doesn’t figure into this one.) I filled a large lawn bag with bedding, including my pink puffy pillow I can’t sleep without. Thank God, Rosie, my housekeeper, was here yesterday
to wash and iron everything.
Four days in Espinazo is a long enough stay I thought it warranted packing three pairs of shoes, besides the sandals-with-just-a-little-heel I’m wearing today on the bus. Each pair of shoes Reynaldo matches at least two outfits. The sandals-with-just-a-little-heel match the denim-colored, silk-blend skirt and blouse I bought last Tuesday at Sylvia’s: casual, yet cosmopolitan, with a delicate Indio motif braid all over, and a swingy fringe around the hems of the blouse and the skirt. I am satisfied with my choice of travel-wear. First impressions are so important. This outfit is a cultural affirmation of the Indios, the poorest class in Mexico, who will be attending the October Fiesta commemorating the death of El Niño Fidencio.
I roll the leopard skin tote to the back door with the other luggage that I will soon carry across the street to Ma’lena’s driveway. Mike, Ma’lena’s husband, is driving us to the bus station at 6:00 a.m.
While waiting, I check the box of groceries, which, out of habit, pretty much contains the same stuff I take to the beach to keep the kids snack happy: Ruffles and ranch dip, Fritos and bean dip, Doritos, Hot Cheetos, Oreos, beef jerky, chewing gum, and coffee necessaries. At Reynaldo’s request I bring water, I fill Ben’s ice chest, the one he uses for his Lone Star beer when he’s barbequing, with one twelve pack of Dr. Pepper, one of Sprite, and one of Diet Coke. Then I also put in the 32-count pack of bottled water. I hold off putting in ice because I figure I can buy it in Espinazo.
Finally, since it is still dark, I pour my third cup of coffee in my favorite Mackenzie Child mug, and sit down at the kitchen table to make sure I have my most important act together: my flowered book bag. It’s such a pretty book bag—I bought it at the McAllen Butterfly Festival. In it I stick research journal, box of pens, academic reading (Mircea Iliad, Shamans), leisure reading (a psychoanalytic treatment of Dante’s Inferno), needlepoint project (boredom is unbearable), six rolls of film, camera, three VHS tapes, video camera, charger, six micro cassettes, lecture recorder, and a pack of AA batteries. The bag is over-stuffed and heavy, but the things I can’t live without are all together in my direct possession.
I hear Ben, The Protector, getting into the shower. He believes the stories about tourists being kidnapped right off the highway to Monterrey, the route we will be taking to Espinazo. He’s being very
accepting about all this. Why? Because I made such a strong case for the importance of my thesis? Because Ma’lena’s going and she’ll tell him everything that happens? (Ma’lena is the master whisperer in our neighborhood, and Reynaldo’s her cousin.)
Dissing Ben’s fear, I rally round the consummate delight of going on My First Trip into the Field, which is certainly a milestone in my sheltered White Anglo Saxon Protestant (WASP) life. The furthest into Mexico I’ve ever gone, is just across the border to Reynosa where the night-life is cheap, and Ben protects me from lewd looks.
Reynaldo left for Espinazo yesterday to prepare for the Fiesta. His departure left his wife, Lucy, alone, so Ma’lena and her sister, Linda, and I went to check on Lucy before we three left, too. I ended up taking the four of us to Luby’s for dinner. Talk turned to Espinazo.
“I wish you were going, Lucy,” I had said.
“I wish I could go, too. I used to go all the time when we went in a car. I tried taking the bus three years ago, and it was so hard on me, the rough ride, the bus fumes. Aye yai yai! It took me a week to recover. But you shoulda seen me, Katherine. I could run up and down Bell Hill because the healing energy is ’specially strong there.”
“Will I see Bell Hill?” I asked thinking of the so-called vortexes in Sedona where Ben had run up and down a mountain with the kids without getting out of breath. Perhaps the philosophy of placebos is universal, including those related to New Age whimsies. I like to read about it, but I don’t believe.
“You betcha. Bring me back a fresh rock from there. I’ll sleep with it under my pillow. Maybe my headaches will go away.”
“You are going to be blown away by Espinazo, Katherine!” Ma’lena startled me with her exuberance. “We won’t tell you too much now because we want to see the expression on your
face when you experience it firsthand. But you’ll be Blown. A. Way.” Ma’lena, who knows me well, looked devilish.
“You can ask me one question, now,” Linda offered kindly, “and I’ll answer to the best of my ability.”
I chewed thoughtfully on a bite of liver dipped in Heinz 57. “There is one thing that has been bothering me a lot. In the first place, I’m going to be far from home in a foreign country. In the second place, I don’t know the customs of Mexico, much less Espinazo. So in the third place I am very afraid of making a fool of myself. Please tell me what I need to know so I don’t embarrass myself.”
“That’s about fifty questions you’re asking right there!” Ma’lena said indignantly.
“No!” Lucy squealed. “There is one thing she must do to avoid embarrassment: You must wach yur cheechee, Katherine!” The three who are familiar with Espinazo customs whooped and hollered in recognition of a good joke and slapped their knees until they got themselves worked up. I just sat there because I didn’t know what a cheechee is. The three laughed even harder, but now because I don’t know what a cheechee is. Customers at other tables turned to disapprovingly look at us.
“She doesn’t know what a cheechee is!” Ma’lena choked out.
I felt irritated. “So what is it?”
“You know! You know! Yur curlies!” Lucy screamed.
“Do what? Your curlies? What are curlies?”
Lucy screamed again with her mouth wide open and eyes bugged when I said ‘curlies.’ “You know. Down there. You gotta take baby wipes to wach yur cheechee.” (A fresh wave of hilarity, napkins pressed against streaming eyes) “Everyone in Espinazo knows when you
haven’t wached yur cheechee!”
I had never been so embarrassed in my life. “Can’t I take a shower?” I whispered, leaning forward into the center of the table, hoping they’d take a hint and tone down.
“Chur you can take a chower. Aa-h-h-h-hah-hah-hah.”
“Ya’ll are embarrassing me. Is there a shower or not!”
The three now held their sides to keep them from splitting.
I left the table to pay the bill and went to wait for them in the car. Thank God I bought wipes. There’d better be a shower. What if there’s not a shower? Four days of flat hair… the horror.
≈≈≈
The familiar sound of the Castillo’s garage door rising on its motorized chain announces it’s time to go. I go into each of my two children’s rooms to kiss them good-bye in their sleep, feeling that soft sweetness I feel when the responsibility of getting them up and to school lies not with me. In each room, I stroke the side of a face, brushing hair back away from the eyes, and bend to whisper in an ear: “Mommy loves you.” I say this even to the sixteen year-old, my oldest son.
In the den, Ben takes a bag from me and pulls me to him. “I want you to have a good trip. Don’t worry about anything here. And, Katherine? I love you. So be careful in Mexico.”
I want to push him away and start some sort of fight. How can I leave for Espinazo as the Field Research Ethnographer with Ben’s affectionate words competing for space in my heart, the same heart I must admit has also been captivated by Anthropology for six months? With lowered eyes, I just say, “Thank-you” before grabbing a luggage handle and heading out the door.
Together, we cross the two pieces of luggage, ice chest, grocery box, leopard tote, and bedding sack to the Lopez’s driveway where Ben makes jokes about Mike having to drive three women with all this luggage. Mike looks at my luggage piled beside his truck. “To tell you the truth, Ben, Ma’lena only has one bag.”
Ma’lena walks out of the garage in shorts and t-shirt, easily carrying a large sports bag, and with a fanny pack riding in the crevice between her stomach and pelvis. She stops short when she sees my pile. “Are you planning on staying a month? Good God, Katherine, what all did you bring?”
Well, now, everybody knows WASPS are nothing if not prepared for any circumstance, but I don’t expect Ma’lena to understand this. “Must be the wipees taking up all the room. I’m prepared!” I feel triumphant when Ma’lena shoots a glance in the men’s direction.
“That’s fine, but remember: On the trip, it’s every woman for herself,” She throws her bag into the bed of Mike’s crew cab with an easy arch that belies an overtaxed body. Ma’lena may be large, but she doesn’t jiggle that much. “In other words, don’t expect me to help you carry all that.”
“Oh, come on, surely there are luggage carts,” I say with disdain for the ignorant un-traveled Ma’lena represents. Ben and Mike, grunt together as they lift the ice chest up into the bed of the truck.
“Yeah, right,” Ma’lena snorts with disdain for the spoiled brats I represent.
Linda drives up in her maroon Rodeo. When she gets out, I notice she, too, has on shorts and a t-shirt. She has two bags, a fanny pack around her waist (I would not be caught dead with a fanny pack), and some sort of book bag in the form of a large Kirkland’s shopping sack. When she’s done throwing her own stuff in the back, she throws in the last of my pile—the flimsy 
leopard skin tote—as if it’s the most natural thing to help. The bed of the truck is now full.
Mike and Ma’lena sit in the front, and Linda and I crowd into the back of the cab. I free a hand to wave ‘bye to Ben. A jolt of guilt and foreboding hits me in the chest. Ah, well, if I die they’ll remember me as a great adventurer. They’ll tell tales to my grandchildren of their Grandmother, the Anthropologist, who was like one of the Wild Thornberries, nine-year-old Julieanne’s favorite cartoon show. Mother and daughter don’t miss an episode.
I lay my head on the lofty book bag in my lap to compress my pounding heart as we move toward the exit of the good ol’ neighborhood. Linda strokes my hair for a moment. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
“Yes. I’m really excited, but I got up so early this morning,” I say into my book bag. Then I spring upright. “How does my hair look? Is it flat? Is there a shower in Espinazo? Don’t they have luggage carts at the bus terminal?”
“Honey, I don’t know. I’ve never brought more than I can carry myself. But don’t worry, I’ll help you. And your hair looks fine.”
Ma’lena humphs without turning around.
≈≈≈
Mike drops us off in front of the doors of the McAllen bus terminal, its perimeter described by tall palm trees. I am mesmerized by this international element of McAllen which has been happening without my knowledge. I have no problem finding a bell cap to help me with my luggage. Ma’lena had purchased our tickets earlier in the week, so today, Thursday, we move quickly through check-in and then head straight to our bus; thank goodness, for the early morning terminal is a frantic milling of semi-conscious Spanish-speaking people, with very little
regard for the personal space of others.
When I see the Noreste bus, I breathe more easily. The open cargo doors reveal ample room. The bell cap, who can almost stand upright inside the cargo hull transfers my luggage from the cart to the bus while Ma’lena and Linda watch with mistrust, counting the bags. I tip him five dollars, turning to be sure Ma’lena sees how well this all worked out. Ma’lena stares straight past me.
The bus itself is new and luxurious, with plush seats, lots of legroom, and a TV to every three seats. “Better than an airplane!” I exclaim in wonder as I sit in a seat next to the window. Ma’lena takes the aisle seat beside me. Linda has the two seats in front of us to herself. The bus is only half full when the driver checks his list of passengers. I carefully hold on to my ticket stub until I can stick it in my journal and write: Thursday, 19 October 2000. My Frst Trip into the Field. I look over at Ma’lena as the bus drives out of the terminal onto Sixteenth Street, and with a big grin, nod my head with exuberance.
Ma’lena laughs. “We still have to go through customs. You’re not home free yet, dear. If we hit a red light at Mexican customs, we have to get off and get our luggage checked. I’d hate to be you if that happens. We could be there all day, and I’d have to kill ya!”
Linda hoists herself around on her knees to face us. She scrounges around in her Kirkland bag beside her and pulls out a homemade necklace—a black stretchy cord with a pendant of two miniature santos, saint pictures, glued back-to-back, no more than an inch tall, of Niño de Praga on one side and Niño Fidencio on the other. “This is a protection pendent,” she says, and hands it to me.
I smile. “Oh, thank you, so much.” I stick it in my purse. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it.
As we approach the light at Mexican customs, I “think” it green. The bus driver drives right on through to the Mexican side. When the bus stops, an official comes on board, walks to the rear, peering at each passenger as he
U.S. Border Patrol Inspection for Buses
goes, then walks back to the front and exits the bus.
Linda again positions herself to speak over the top of the seats, and says to me, “Niño Fidencio is taking care of you today. They didn’t even ask for our visas.”
I notice the “you” instead of the “us” being protected, and am reminded I am the outsider. I pull the pendent out of my purse, put it around my neck, and immediately feel more like a peregrino, a pilgrim to a strange land. Linda smiles approvingly and sits back down for the two and one-half hour ride to Monterrey where we will change buses.
In the meantime, Ma’lena is praying her Malena and Linda, sisters rosary, sotto voce to Scooby Doo saying “Rooby Roo!” on the TV in front of us. I skooch down into my seat, my pink puffy pillow propped between the window and my shoulder. I take out my journal and pen to write about the pendent Linda has given me, reflecting on superstition and faith, and how these two similar attitudes affect the way one moves through the world, especially if one is a peregrino. While I am in this absorbed frame of mind, Ma’lena pulls from her fanny pack, a white cardboard jewelry box of a larger than normal size.
“Look at these, Katherine. These are King Solomon’s Seals.” Ma’lena shakes the box to get a heavy clinking sound and my attention. I look at the strange metal disks, about ten in all.
Some have different geometric shapes and dots decorating them; some have what look like alchemical codes linked together by rays of lines. Mysterious Arabic writing rims the circumferences. But it is the pentagram on a few of them which catches my eye.
“What do they do?” I ask, picturing Ma’lena in the middle of a dark forest, stirring a steaming cauldron with eyeballs and tongues floating in it
“They’re talismans.” Ma’lena waits for the next question I always put out there.
“Where did you get them?”
“I ordered them off the Internet.”
“Well, I mean, what is their history?”
“I just order one at a time, according to my needs. There are forty-four of them. See? This one is the Third Pentacle of the Moon. It protects against dangers of travel. I just got it last week for this trip. This is the Third Pentacle of Jupiter. It defends against enemies. But this is the one I’ve had the longest: The First Pentacle of Mars—grants me courage, ambition and enthusiasm. It has great power against poverty. And this one, the ‘El Shaddai’, brings me all things I may desire.” Ma’lena laughs. “Deseo muchas cosas.” I look at her questioningly. “I desire many things. I think you need the one for dominance, Katherine.”
“Why?” I cross my arms warily over my chest and push my back into my pillow. I always try very hard not to be dominant. I view dominance as a mean thing.
“Because you have a weak nature. You tend to let people take advantage of you.” I consider this while Ma’lena distributes her gaze between my face and her fingers fiddling with her discs.
“I don’t think I’m weak. I think I’m overly-socialized. What’s the Seal called for overly-socialized people?” At least I have manners. “What I was meaning to ask is, what is the history of King Solomon’s Seals? Is that the Star of David, or a Pentagram, or what, on these here?” I diddle my fingers in Ma’lena’s box, searching for a pentacled disc.
“Don’t touch them! You’ll weaken their magic!” Ma’lena slaps my hand. “I had to perform certain rituals to transfer my will into these.”
Ma’lena is cackling while stirring a steaming cauldron filled with eyeballs and tongues.
“King Solomon’s Seals go back to ancient Jewish mysticism. The Kabbala. See this writing around the edges?” I study the Arabic writing. “That represents the name of a demon or an angel. That’s what makes them work. The possessor plugs into the special power of a particular demon. Or angel. I only buy the angel seals, myself.”
“Really? Who would know?”
Ma’lena does not register my words. Or rather, I think she doesn’t. “There are 72 demons and 44 of angels to choose from.”
Linda’s head pops up over the seat. “Ma’lena! Sweet Mother of God, put those things away. We’re on our way to the El Niño’s Holy Land and you’re filling Katherine’s head with stories of demons. Rey would not approve. You should be praying, not playing with those things. Put them away!”
As Ma’lena puts them away, she leans close to my ear to whisper: “I gave one of these to Rey, already! Teeheehee.”
“Which one?” I whisper back.
“The Fifth Pentacle of Mars.”
“What does it do?”
“Causes all demons to obey the will of the possessor.”
Just like Ma’lena to take some credit for Reynaldo’s curandero power. “Who is the angel with that power?”
“St. Michael the Archangel.”
“Who taught you to work with these?”
“I’ll tell you some other time.” Ma’lena thrusts out her pelvis to put the box back in her fanny pack.
I have enough to write about now to fill up the time it takes to get to Monterrey.
≈≈≈
The Monterrey bus terminal is twice as big as the one in McAllen, and probably fifty years older. And definitely dirtier. And smellier.
There are no bell caps.
No luggage carts.
“Okay, you stay here by the bus with our luggage while I drag the ice chest to the check-in,” Linda says.
Inside the bus station in Monterrey “I can’t let you do that, Linda. You stand here
and let me drag the ice chest.”
“You don’t know where the check-in is,” Linda says as we watch Ma’lena jauntily
making the corner, swinging her one sports bag. I feel mortified.
Linda takes off with my bedding bag in one hand and one handle of the ice chest on which rests the grocery box, and one of her own bags in the other. She gets a good slide going on the tiled floor as she takes quick little Chinese steps in a hunched over position.
Standing outside in the fumes of a million buses, I stuff my pink puffy pillow in the slot of one of the slide-out handles. I then drape the book bag over the leopard skin tote handle and sling my purse over my shoulder. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a fanny pack. Linda’s Kirkland bag gets draped over the slide-out handle of her other luggage. The people who are lining up to board the next bus are looking at me, fortressed by luggage. Or maybe they are staring at the only blonde haired, blue eyed peregrino in the bus station.
An eight-year-old child makes his way through the barricade and begs for money. I take out my wallet and give him a dollar. As he scampers off on some mysterious errand, three more scamper in. I shrug and turn away from them, but they tug at my fringed skirt and poke with their fingers, saying “Meece, Meece” until I open up my wallet again, fearing how many will approach next. I’m trying to ask them in Spanish to help me with my luggage when Linda reappears. Between the two of us, we are able to make our way slowly with the rest of our belongings to check-in where Ma’lena has already been through the line.
“You were right, Ma’lena. I’ve learned my lesson, but please help me with my luggage onto the next bus. Please? It may be what I deserve, but it’s not fair to your sister.”
“I’ll tell you what’s not fair, Katherine. It’s not fair for you to make us miss the bus. The bus leaves in thirty minutes. You still have to go through check-in and get your butt to the other side of the terminal. With all this crap. That’s the only reason I’m going to help. Rey would kill me if I showed up without you two.” Ma’lena grabs the handle of one of the bags and takes off through the crowded terminal.
Linda and I stand in line for an interminable length of time. When we finally receive our bus transfers, we move as fast as we can (which isn’t very) toward the terminal from which we will depart. That terminal is in a completely different building. By now my sandals-with-just-a-little-heel are killing me, and Linda has to stop more and more often to get the kink out of her back from pulling the ice chest. Just when we get in sight of the waiting area for our bus, where we can see Ma’lena studying our suffering, the axle of the elegant leopard skin tote breaks in half.
“Goddammit, Ma’lena!” I yell, and crumple down to the floor wanting to take off my sandals; wanting to throw one at her. “Goddammit, how come you didn’t tell me to pack light in the first place?”
When we finally reach the bus, I see that not even a dwarf could stand in its cargo hull. And only one bag per person is allowed underneath. I watch in disbelief as Linda, with the help of a gentleman’s hand, Mina bus
hoists herself into the bus through the emergency door at the back and yells for me to throw up our stuff. Ma’lena stands guard over the ice chest going into the hull. Somehow, Linda manages to define a space for the three of us to sit on the very back seat stretching across the width of the bus, fencing us in with our luggage. There are no overhead bins; in fact, this bus reminds me of the movies depicting the decrepit Mexican bus stirring up dust clouds as it travels a dangerous mountain road, with crates of chickens tied on the roof. I notice on the side, it says Mina.
I feel the excitement borne of contact with The Other (many Others who are clearly not WASPs) build and finally crescendo with the appearance of a band of musicians crowding into the seats in front of us. There’s an accordion, a trumpet, a guitar, and a bajo sexto sharing the seats with their four owners. As we bump along, I can feel camaraderie and festivity effulge throughout the packed bus. Although I can’t understand what they are saying, I’m still affected by the charge of human stimulation, and my giddiness builds to a degree that I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Play a Huapango!” I yell over the din to the musicians. Actually, I just learned this word for a style of dance from Reynaldo, and feel very proud to be able to use it in this situation.
Leaning forward, I yell again, “Play a Huapango!” One musician, who is sitting with his back against the window and his bajo sexto between his legs, looks at me and then looks forward with no change of expression. “What’s wrong?” I ask Linda. Privately, I think he’s an esnob. “Did I say something wrong?”
Linda shrugs. She asks one of the other musicians something in Spanish. “He says they are going to Espinazo for the Fiesta. They’ll play something there, but probably not a Huapango.”
Suddenly, it’s clear this is a busload of Espinazo pilgrims. Linda grabs her Kirkland bag and starts stepping on the backs of the seats, because the aisles are crowded with luggage. Passengers give her a hand across the seat backs as she is handing out homemade necklaces, crocheted crosses, and hard candy. Children are laughing and reaching their hands out for the palanca. Someone starts singing La Paloma de Niño Fidencio, and half the bus joins in. It makes for a short trip to the town of Mina where half of the travellers get off and go home. But the rest of us peregrinos continue our sojourn to the Promised Land.
≈≈≈
We’ve turned off Highway 53 onto a dirt road, just past the steel-
fenced desert land posted officiously, “No Trespassing” (in Spanish). Linda says this vast expanse of desert is a nuclear waste dump, and the five-hundred Espinazo residents vociferously protest its Federal presence. But oh! Look! Here to immediately greet us on this dirt road, when we look up, is a thing divine. I wonder that the divine always insists we look up—cathedral windows, church spires, prayers directed, Christ on the cross. Niño Fidencio on the adobe wall, his standards fluttering high above him, and a sign that reads, Bienvenidos, Penitentes de Niño Fidencio.
The dirt road we turn onto is a straightaway with neither a bend nor a curve—a brave arrow through the high desert ecosystem of mountains, thorny plants, dry dusty ground and intermittent sightings of dust devils. It is 12:30, the time of day when the noon demon is on the prowl. She whirls and howls as she sweeps through the montes (wilderness) looking for one to devour, one stupid enough to be outside working in the heat instead of inside taking a siesta while the sun is at its zenith.
The road goes on forever, but the party attitude has seemingly changed to reverential hope as the pilgrims stare out their windows, expecting miracles to bless them in the Holy Land. I notice small shrines along the right shoulder of the road. Linda explains these were erected back in 1988 by individual materias (shamans who channel the spirit of Niño Fidencio) from all over, both Mexico and the U.S., to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the crowning, the deification, of El Niño Fidencio.
Espinazo!
Finally, we cross over some railroad tracks, and that crossing causes the penitentes (those who endure hardship in 
exchange for answered prayer) to shout in jubilation. We’re in Espinazo!
Before the bus skirts the village, I get my first brief impression: a postcard of true Mexicana. Flat-roofed adobe structures—homes? Really?—painted in bright colors, with rustic wooden doors, hug the dirt streets. I’m glad and sad at the same time to see picture-imperfect electricity lines; appalled to see a satellite dish on top of an impoverished shack which doesn’t even have a front door.
As the bus takes a left before hitting the town proper, a parade of twenty or so people and one eight-foot gorilla approach us. Gorilla? They are carrying outlandishly large sprays of floral arrangements. Well, the gorilla is not. He stops dead in his tracks to watch our bus go by. I turn on my knees to look out the back window as the distance grows between us. He waves. I turn back around. “Linda? Did you see that gorilla? He waved at me!”
“Oh, yes. That was a víejo.”
“El Víejo? Reynaldo was talking about El Víejo being Lucifer, The Old One. How can El Víejo be a gorilla?”
“Not just a gorilla,” Linda says, “but demons and clowns and wild animals and perverted old men. All kinds of scary things.” I try to comprehend the association between scary things, trickster things, El Viejo, and Satan. I can’t grasp it. The concept of El Viejo is too foreign, too Other.
The bus drives to the outskirts of town, stopping inside a wide corral. Linda again opens the emergency exit door. There is Reynaldo, bigger than life, wearing black pants and a white shirt, grinning from ear to ear. I wonder what my hair looks like.
Linda begins throwing things out to him. Ma’lena chooses to get off at the front where steps are available. Reynaldo reaches his hand up to help Linda jump down, saying “Hi, honey. How was the trip?”
“Just fine. Well, Katherine brought a lot.”
“I can see that.” He grins up at me and offers me a hand, too. “Hi, Sister Katherine. Quite the traveler, aren’t we?” He looks me up and down. “You look nice. Are you expecting a dinner party?” In the skirt, I have to skooch from my perch at the emergency exit in a precise position to keep my underwear undercover before Reynaldo helps me jump down. He gives me a bear hug when my feet hit the ground, whereupon a man with a big grin enters the picture with a professional video camera. He is filming Reynaldo hugging me
“You’ll learn many things from this, your first trip to Espinazo,” Reynaldo says wisely to the camera man, one arm still around my shoulders.
Glen filming Reynaldo in Espinazo montes
I wonder what my hair looks like.
The man lowers the camera to reach out to shake my hand. “Glen, from the Dallas Morning News. Reynaldo has told me you are an anthropologist, come to research the Fiesta. But honestly? You are quite a contrast to what I’ve seen so far in Espinazo. You look very nice. And you have a lot of nice luggage.” He points the camera’s eye at the dangling wheels of my leopard skin tote.
“I’m not an anthropologist, yet. Please quit filming me.” Using my hand, I flip my hair
back over my shoulder.
Everybody grabs luggage and takes off, including Ma’lena. She thinks she’s blessing me with a merciful smile when she turns to look over her shoulder to be sure I saw her help. I predict from here on out, Ma’lena will assume saintly behavior in front of Reynaldo, who appears to be famous in Espinazo.
I’m left alone with only the leopard skin tote! Well, and my book bag. And my purse which I hang around my neck like a necklace. But my relief is forestalled as I begin what turns out to be a solitary, penitential trek from the bus stop to the town. I anchor my eyes resolutely on Reynaldo’s and the photographer’s backs for succor.
With almost every step placed on the rocky ground, my ankles twist in the sandals-with-just-a-little-heel. I have to hold my elegant tote up off the ground because the wheels act like brakes if I try to drag it. I’m sweating inside the silk blend. I’m sure my hair is flat. I’m so tired of lugging luggage. Dust is caking to my legs. And I repeat, my poor aching feet are wobbling across the rocky road. My toe catches a big rock, but I make a fantastic save just before the swingy fringe of my skirt bites the dust.
Then, as if someone pulled a theatre curtain, I enter a different world, staged on the main street of Espinazo. There are people everywhere, most of them banded in groups. Some carry huge sprays of flowers, some are singing, and some are chanting. Some play instruments. There are vendors setting up their puestecitos on both sides of the main street. The press of colorful activity makes me forget my personal Inferno. I start digging for my camera.
A wolf-thing runs across my view. When it sees me holding my camera, it runs up to me and poses, pointing from my camera to himself. I am elated to get this shot. Just before I press the button, the wolf-thing lunges at me. I shriek, but I got the shot.

“You’re gonna be a magnet for those viejos, Sister Katherine!” Reynaldo calls to me from the sidewalk across the street. “But they won’t bother you at my house! Mi casa es su casa.”
With a chivalrous bow and a sweep of his arm, Reynaldo invites me through a white gated arch onto a spacious porch, of which one wall is lushly draped in both fuscia bougainvillea, and yellow esperanza. An ebony tree grows in its own little plot of ground. The porch is decorated with bright fiesta pennants and flowers.
This porch is beautiful. Except…uh oh.
Off by itself in a private corner is an outhouse.
“Reynaldo? Is there a shower in your casa?”
“Not exactly. We take spit baths because the city of Espinazo only turns its water on once a day. If we’re lucky we can use a garden hose to fill up a 55 gallon trash can before they turn the water back off. I hope Ma’lena told you to bring wipes.”
“Lucy did…” at Luby’s.....“Chur you can take a chower. Aa-h-h-h-hah-hah-hah.”
So it’s true: four days of flat hair. Arrgghh, the horror.
I soon buy a straw hat at a puesticito. It becomes the signifier of my anthropologist persona for the duration of my First Trip into the Field. I never take it off.

Powerful Memories


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

Some memories survive ̶ survive the living and the dead.
One such item is a little notebook bound in colorful cloth. This first impression does not speak of really old age; it is clean and very attractive. On the side, there is a little loop to put a thin pencil. The pencil itself is missing.
On the inside of the first page is written in modern script – Lieselotte Graffenberg, Zehlendorf – West, Lessingstr. 12. It is the handwriting of my mother. Graffenberg is her family name. Lessingstr. is the old name for what became Limastrasse around the time of Hitler. It was already Limastrasse when I was born.
Under the address is a picture of my mother taken in a Quick photo booth, black and white of course. My mom looks to be in her early twenties. She wears a turbanlike cap and a coat with a fur collar.
On the next page is the poem Rheinsage. This and other poems are written in an older style of script, which I personally only taught in first grade.
Here is one I tried to find on Google, but in vain. Unfortunately, my mother failed to add the poet to the poems. Here is the way it sounds in the book, in German.


Ellengroesse
Die Pappel spricht zum Baeumchen “Was machst Du Dich so breit? Mit den geringen Pflaeumchen?”
Es sagt: “Ich bin erfreut, dass ich nicht bloss ein Holz Nicht eine leere Stange!”
“Was” ruft die Pappel stolz. “Ich bin zwar eine Stange, doch eine lange, lange.”


Yardsize
The Poplar speaks to the little tree: “Why do you take such wide room? With your meager plums?”
It says: “I am happy that I am not only a piece of wood. Not an empty stick.”
“What?’ cries the poplar proud. “Yes, it is true I am a stick, but one that’s long and big.”

Giving Respect


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

A little pink note is glued to two letter-size pages. They are titled “Das Ist IHR LEBEN” ̶ large handwritten uppercase print. She, Ilse Bardeleben, would always write like this and was known for it.
The pink note is from my mother. It says, “Das soll das Leben meiner Kleinen sein” oooo (for kisses) and dated March 08, 1996.


Ilse Bardeleben was a good friend of my mother. Gave lots of assistance to my mother and spoiled me through all her life. She was not rich but always found money to make me presents. The attachment I am referring to, is a poem. It was meant for me but never given to me by my mother. I found it in a folder with other letters meant for me after my mother died in 2001.


After the death of my mother, Ilse stayed in touch with me. She, in Berlin Germany, and I, here in New York. I remember that most of her writes to me were in form of poems and mostly spiked with humor. I also remember that at one time I promised her that I would try to publish some of her poetic creations. That was years before I myself decided to become a poet.


Ilse had several unhappy and sickly years before passing away at the age of ninety-nine in a nursing home in Berlin. Till her last day, I stayed in touch with her. She had been robbed and ended up without means. To a point where I had to send her the postage for her letters to me.


Better late than never! I want to make good on my promise to publish something she wrote. Here it is. It will also show with how much interest she followed my entire life. May she be blessed and rewarded for all her good deeds in heaven.


Here is the original text in German. 


Das ist ihr Leben

By Ilse Bardeleben


Die kleine Alexa wurde gross Nabelte sich von Omi und Mami los
Die Zeit verging, die Jahre eilen Sie wollt in Deutschland nicht mehr bleiben
Es zog sie in die Welt hinaus Was sollte sie denn auch zu Haus?
Flugs dachte sie, man kanns begreifen Mal gründlich in die Ferne schweifen
Das Ziel, sich in die Lüfte schwingen Warum sollt ihr das nicht gelingen?
Zuerst wars nu rein Schnuppern in der nur ein Welt Dann war’s Beruf der ihr gefaellt


Nun blieb sie ganz in USA Und war begeistert was sie alles sah
So recht war’s Mami wohl nicht Amerika war weit aus ihrer Sicht
Vom Fliegen kam nun esrt der Stres s Doch alle Tücken überwand sie kess
Die Rutsche runter, wie im Spiel Nichts war ihr da zuviel
Sie lernte alles mit Bravour und dann, dann gings auf grosse Tour
Wieviele Länder, Betten, Strände sah sie, bis dann kam das Ende


Pan Am, sie lahmte in den Flügeln Sie konnte ihre dollar nicht mehr zügeln
Pan Am kam nun zu Nöten Alexa’s job ging damit flöten
Pan Am ging hops, was man bedauerte Alexa nur ganz kurz erschauerte
Dann traf sie doch ein Geistesblitz und eine neue Sache war geritzt
Sie machte schnell sich auf die Socken Sie wollte nicht zu Hause hocken


Denn Ehe, Kind und Haus, füllten ihr Leben doch nicht aus.
Sie machte nun in Häusern gross und klein Und liess das auch bis heut’ nicht sein
Sehr viele Klinken puzte sie im Nu So manches Haus blieb für sie zu
Ein andrer war schon vor ihr da Alexa man dann frustriert auch sah
Nicht immer ist es Sonnenschein Nicht immer kommen Dollar rein
Und immer soll man es verstehen Das Dollar kommen und auch gehen


Was der Chronist beinah’ vergass war Wirklichkeit und nicht ein Spass
Inzwischen kam doch das absurde Alexa spät noch Mutter wurde
Wie Mütter manchmal doch so sind Gab’s auf Erden nichts als dieses Kind
Dies Kind, es war ein Knabe Der Chronist sprach von Gehabe….
Sie liess es nicht von ihrem Schoss Bis war der Knabe doch zu gross
Heut ist der Knabe ganz schön stramm und ganz bestimmt ein ganzer Mann
Es fragt sich leise der Chronist Ob Deutschland noch die Heimat ist


And here is the translation:


This is her Life

Author Ilse Bardeleben
​
Translated by Alexandra H. Rodrigues


The little Alexa grew up
Cut the cord from Mama and Pap
The time moved on. The years sped on
She felt that no longer into Germany she did belong
She wanted to see the world at any cost
Nothing any longer at home she had lost.


Far away she planned to wing
As stewardess into the sky she did swing
Finally, she remained permanently in the USA
Was amazed about all that she had seen on her way.
Of course, she was often also under stress
Still Alexa succeeded over any new mess.
Mom was not really happy with all this
America was far, her daughter she did miss
Alexa learned all with great bravour
70 hours per month she was flying on tour
She saw a multitude of countries, beds, beaches
And the wonders of the world
Till problems the airline out of grandeur hurled


Pan Am weakened in its wing
The dollar was short and caused the airline to sink
Alexa’s fancy job did end that way
But she quickly found a new niche so to say
She did not care to sit around in the house
Despite that she had a child and a spouse.


So, she showed houses big and small
With patience, she did sell them all
If another realtor came ahead of her
She was upset, did not like that to occur
Alexa later became a mother
Suddenly with nothing else she wanted to bother.


A boy it was, and he grew well
Suddenly marriage and motherhood were swell
Writing this chronicle, the question comes to me
Does Alexa Germany still as homeland see?!

Words Of Wisdom

By the Cherokees of California


Many thanks to our Cherokee friends.
Visit their website at: 

http://www.powersource.com/cocinc/default.html
 

​
"The Cherokee legacy is that we are a people who face adversity, survive, adapt, prosper and excel."
"And to fulfill this legacy, we must ask the questions...
Where will we be as people five, ten, fifty or one hundred years from now?
Do we brag about our full blood ancestor or do we brag about our Indian grandchildren?
Do we live in the past or do we focus on the future?
Is being Cherokee a novelty or a way of life?
Is being Cherokee a heritage or a future?
Our ancestors who walked the grounds of this capitol building resoundingly cry, 'Don’t forget the legacy we passed on. Don’t let it lapse. Pass it on, stronger and stronger to your children. Let the Cherokee language laugh, speak and sing again. Let our history be known and discussed. Live by our wisdom. Don’t let us die as a people. If you do then all our sacrifice will be for nothing and you will lose those things that fulfill your life.'
Principal of the Cherokee Nation, Chief Chad Smith
State of the Nation Address
September 1, 2001


"Being Indian is mainly in your heart. It's a way of walking with the earth instead of upon it. A lot of the history books talk about us Indians in the past tense, but we don't plan on going anywhere... We have lost so much, but the thing that holds us together is that we all belong to and are protectors of the earth; that's the reason for us being here. Mother Earth is not a resource, she is an heirloom."
David Ipinia, Yurok Artist, Sacramento, CA

"The strength of our future, lies in the protecting of our past."
Seminole Elder

"The Earth was created by the assistance of the sun, and it should be left as it was. The country was made with no lines of demarcation, and it's no man's business to divide it. I see the whites all over the country gaining wealth, and I see the desire to give us lands which are worthless.
The Earth and myself are of one mind. Perhaps you think the Creator sent you here to dispose of us as you see fit. If I thought you were sent by the creator, I might he induced to think you had a right to dispose of me.
Do not misunderstand me; but understand me fully with reference to my affection for the land. I never said the land was mine to do with as I choose. The one who has a right to dispose of it is the one who created it. I claim a right to live on my land, and accord you the privilege to return to yours.
Brother, we have listened to your talk coming from our father, the Great White Chief in Washington, and my people have called upon me to reply to you.
The winds which pass through these aged pines we hear the moaning of departed ghosts, and if the voice of our people could have been heard, that act would never have been done. But alas though they stood around they could neither be seen nor heard. Their tears fell like drops of rain.
I hear my voice in the depths of the forest but no answering voice comes back to me. All is silent around me. My words must therefore be few. I can now say no more. He is silent for he has nothing to answer when the sun goes down."
Thunder Rolling in the Mountains-Chief Joseph, Nez Perce

"Our fathers gave us many laws which they had learned from their fathers. They told us to treat all men as they treated us. That we should never be the first to break a bargain. That it was a disgrace to tell a lie. That we should speak only the truth. We were taught to believe that the Great Spirit sees and hears everything and that he never forgets. This I believe and all my people believe the same."
Thunder Rolling in the Mountains-Chief Joseph, Nez Perce

"Wars are fought to see who owns the land, but in the end it possesses man. Who dares say he owns it- is he not buried beneath it?"
Cochise, Chiricahua Apache

"When you are a person who belongs to a community, you have to know who you are. You have to know who your relatives are, and as a tribe we have to know where we came from..."
Charlotte Black Elk, Oglala Sioux

"Marriage among my people was like traveling in a canoe. The man sat in front and paddled the canoe. The woman sat in the stern but she steered."
Anonymous

"A Nation is not conquered until the hearts of its women are on the ground. Then it is done, no matter how brave its warriors nor how strong its weapons."
Cheyenne

"Have patience. All things change in due time. Wishing cannot bring autumn glory or cause winter to cease."
Ginaly-li, Cherokee

"Lose your temper and you lose a friend; lie and you lose yourself."
Hopi

"With all things and in all things, we are relatives."
Sioux

"Kinship with all creatures of the earth, sky and water was a real and active principle. And so close did some of the Lakotas come to their feathered and furred friends that in true brotherhood they spoke a common tongue.
The animals had rights...
     the right of man's protection,
     the right to live,
     the right to multiply,
     the right to freedom, and
     the right to man's indebtedness."
Luther Standing Bear, Teton Sioux

The Letters of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart


FIRST PART—ITALY, VIENNA, MUNICH.—1770 TO 1776.Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born in Salzburg on the 17th January, 1756. His father, Leopold Mozart, belonged to a respectable tradesman's family in the free city of Augsburg. Conscious of being gifted with no small portion of intellectual endowments, he followed the impulse that led him to aim at a higher position in life, and went to the then celebrated University of Salzburg in order to study jurisprudence. As he did not, however, at once succeed in procuring employment in this profession, he was forced, from his straitened means, to enter the service of Canon Count Thun as valet. Subsequently, however, his talents, and that thorough knowledge of music by which he had already (according to the custom of many students) gained some part of his livelihood, obtained for him a better position. In the year 1743 he was received into the band (Kapelle) of the Salzburg cathedral by Archbishop Sigismund; and as his capabilities and fame as a violinist increased, the same Prince shortly afterwards promoted him to the situation of Hof-Componist (Court Composer) and leader of the orchestra, and in 1762 he was appointed Hof-Kapellmeister (conductor of the Court music).
In 1747 Leopold Mozart married Anna Maria Pertlin, a foster-child of the Convent of St. Gilgen. The fruits of this marriage were seven children, two of whom alone survived,—Maria Anna, (the fourth), called Nannerl, born in 1751; and the youngest, Wolfgang Amadeus Johannes Chrysostomus. The daughter at a very early age displayed a most remarkable talent for music, and when her father began to give her instructions in it, an inborn and passionate love of this art was soon evident in her little brother of three years old, who at once gave tokens of a degree of genius far surpassing all experience, and really bordering on the marvellous. In his fourth year he could play all sorts of little pieces on the piano. He only required half an hour to learn a minuet, and one hour for a longer movement; and in his fifth year he actually composed some pretty short pieces, several of which are still extant.
[Footnote: The Grand Duchess Helene Paulowna, a few weeks ago, made a present to the Mozarteum of the music-book from which Mozart learned music, and in which he wrote down his first compositions.]
The wonderful acquirements of both these children, to which Wolfgang soon added skilful playing on the violin and organ, induced their father to travel with them. In January, 1702, when the boy was just six years old, they went first to Munich, and in the autumn to Vienna, the children everywhere on their journey exciting the greatest sensation, and being handsomely remunerated. Leopold Mozart, therefore, soon afterwards resolved to undertake a longer journey, accompanied by his whole family. This lasted more than three years, extending from the smaller towns in West Germany to Paris and London, while they visited, on their way back, Holland, France, and Switzerland. The careful musical instruction which the father perseveringly bestowed on his son, went hand in hand with the most admirable education, and the boy was soon as universally beloved for his amiable disposition and natural simplicity and candor, as admired for his rare gifts and acquirements.
After nearly a year passed at home in unremitting musical instruction, and practice of various instruments as well as composition, the father once more set off with all his family to Vienna,—on this occasion with a view to Wolfgang paving the way to Italy by the composition of an opera, (Italy, at that time, being the Eldorado of music.) He succeeded in procuring the scrittura of an opera buffa, "La Finta semplice;" but, when finished, although the Emperor himself had intrusted the composition to the boy, the cabals of envious singers effectually prevented its being performed. But a German operetta which the lad of twelve also wrote at that time, "Bastien und Bastienne," was given in private, at the summer residence of the Mesmer family, in the suburb called Landstrasse. The father, too, had some compensation by the Emperor commissioning his son to compose a solemn mass for the consecration of the new Waisenhaus church, which Wolfgang himself directed with the conductor's baton, in presence of the Imperial Family, on the 7th December, 1768.
Immediately on their return home, the young virtuoso was appointed archiepiscopal Concertmeister. He passed almost the whole of the year 1769 in Salzburg, chiefly engaged in the composition of masses. We also see him at that time eagerly occupied in improving his knowledge of Latin, although two years previously he had composed a comedy in that language,—"Apollo et Hyacinthus." From this study proceeds the first letter which is still extant from his hand:--

1.
Salzburg, 1769.
MY DEAR YOUNG LADY,--
I beg you will pardon the liberty I take in plaguing you with these few lines, but as you said yesterday that there was nothing you could not understand in Latin, and I might write what I chose in that language, I could not resist the bold impulse to write you a few Latin lines. When you have deciphered these, be so good as to send me the answer by one of Hagenauer's servants, for my messenger cannot wait; remember, you must answer this by a letter.
[Footnote: By a messenger of the Hagenauer family, in whose house, opposite the inn of "Den drei Allurten," Mozart was born, and with whom his family were on the most intimate terms.]
"Cuperem scire, de qua causa, a quam plurimis adolescentibus ottium usque adeo oestimetur, ut ipsi se nec verbis, nec verberibus ad hoc sinant abduci."
[Footnote: "I should like to know the reason why indolence is so highly prized by very many young men, that neither by words nor blows will they suffer themselves to be roused from it."]
WOLFGANG MOZART.
The father's plan to go to Italy, there to lay the foundation of a European reputation for his son, was realized in the beginning of December, 1769, and during the journey, the boy, who was at that time just entering his fifteenth year, subjoined to his father's reports scraps of his own writing, in which, in true boyish fashion, he had recourse to all kinds of languages and witticisms, but always exhibiting in his opinions on music the closest observation, the gravest thought, and the most acute judgment.

2.
Verona, Jan. 1770.
MY VERY DEAREST SISTER,--
I have at last got a letter a span long after hoping so much for an answer that I lost patience; and I had good cause to do so before receiving yours at last. The German blockhead having said his say, now the Italian one begins. Lei e piu franca nella lingua italiana di quel che mi ho immaginato. Lei mi dica la cagione perche lei non fu nella commedia che hanno giocata i Cavalieri. Adesso sentiamo sempre una opera titolata Il Ruggiero. Oronte, il padre di Bradamante, e un principe (il Signor Afferi) bravo cantante, un baritono, [Footnote: "You are more versed in the Italian language than I believed. Tell me why you were not one of the actors in the comedy performed by the Cavaliers. We are now hearing an opera called 'Il Ruggiero.' Oronte, the father of Bradamante, is a Prince (acted by Afferi, a good singer, a baritone)."] but very affected when he speaks out a falsetto, but not quite so much so as Tibaldi in Vienna. Bradamante innamorata di Ruggiero (ma [Footnote: "Bradamante is enamored of Ruggiero, but"]—she is to marry Leone, but will not) fa una povera Baronessa, che ha avuto una gran disgrazia, ma non so la quale; recita [Footnote: "Pretends to be a poor Baroness who has met with some great misfortune, but what it is I don't know, she performs"] under an assumed name, but the name I forget; ha una voce passabile, e la statura non sarebbe male, ma distuona come il diavolo. Ruggiero, un ricco principe innamorato di Bradamante, e un musico; canta un poco Manzuolisch [Footnote: Manzuoli was a celebrated soprano, from whom Mozart had lessons in singing when in London.] ed ha una bellissima voce forte ed e gia vecchio; ha 55 anni, ed ha una [Footnote: "She has a tolerable voice, and her appearance is in her favor, but she sings out of tune like a devil Ruggiero, a rich Prince enamored of Bradamante, is a musico, and sings rather in Manzuoli's style, and has a fine powerful voice, though quite old; he is fifty-five, and has a"] flexible voice. Leone is to marry Bradamante—richississimo e, [Footnote: "Immensely rich."] but whether he is rich off the stage I can't say. La moglie di Afferi, che ha una bellissima voce, ma e tanto susurro nel teatro che non si sente niente. Irene fa una sorella di Lolli, del gran violinista che habbiamo sentito a Vienna, a una [Footnote: "Afferi's wife has a most beautiful voice, but sings so softly on the stage that you really hear nothing at all. A sister of Lolli, the great violinist whom we heard at Vienna, acts Irene; she has a"] very harsh voce, e canta sempre [Footnote: "Voice, and always sings"] a quaver too tardi o troppo a buon' ora. Granno fa un signore, che non so come si chiame; e la prima volta che lui recita. [Footnote: "Slow or too fast. Ganno is acted by a gentleman whose name I never heard. It is his first appearance on the stage."] There is a ballet between each act. We have a good dancer here called Roessler. He is a German, and dances right well. The very last time we were at the opera (but not, I hope, the very last time we ever shall be there) we got M. Roessler to come up to our palco, (for M. Carlotti gives us his box, of which we have the key,) and conversed with him. Apropos, every one is now in maschera, and one great convenience is, that if you fasten your mask on your hat you have the privilege of not taking off your hat when any one speaks to you; and you never address them by name, but always as "Servitore umilissimo, Signora Maschera." Cospetto di Bacco! that is fun! The most strange of all is that we go to bed at half-past seven! Se lei indovinasse questo, io diro certamente che lei sia la madre di tutti gli indovini. [Footnote: "If you guess this, I shall say that you are the mother of all guessers."] Kiss mamma's hand for me, and to yourself I send a thousand kisses, and assure you that I shall always be your affectionate brother.
Portez-vous bien, et aimez-moi toujours.

3.
Milan, Jan. 26, 1770.
I REJOICE in my heart that you were so well amused at the sledging party you write to me about, and I wish you a thousand opportunities of pleasure, so that you may pass your life merrily. But one thing vexes me, which is, that you allowed Herr von Molk [an admirer of this pretty young girl of eighteen] to sigh and sentimentalize, and that you did not go with him in his sledge, that he might have upset you. What a lot of pocket-handkerchiefs he must have used that day to dry the tears he shed for you! He no doubt, too, swallowed at least three ounces of cream of tartar to drive away the horrid evil humors in his body. I know nothing new except that Herr Gellert, the Leipzig poet, [Footnote: Old Mozart prized Gellert's poems so highly, that on one occasion he wrote to him expressing his admiration.] is dead, and has written no more poetry since his death. Just before beginning this letter I composed an air from the "Demetrio" of Metastasio, which begins thus, "Misero tu non sei."
The opera at Mantua was very good. They gave "Demetrio." The prima donna sings well, but is inanimate, and if you did not see her acting, but only singing, you might suppose she was not singing at all, for she can't open her mouth, and whines out everything; but this is nothing new to us. The seconda donna looks like a grenadier, and has a very powerful voice; she really does not sing badly, considering that this is her first appearance. Il primo uomo, il musico, sings beautifully, but his voice is uneven; his name is Caselli. Il secondo uomo is quite old, and does not at all please me. The tenor's name is Ottini; he does not sing unpleasingly, but with effort, like all Italian tenors. We know him very well. The name of the second I don't know; he is still young, but nothing at all remarkable. Primo ballerino good; prima ballerina good, and people say pretty, but I have not seen her near. There is a grotesco who jumps cleverly, but cannot write as I do—just as pigs grunt. The orchestra is tolerable. In Cremona, the orchestra is good, and Spagnoletta is the name of the first violinist there. Prima donna very passable—rather ancient, I fancy, and as ugly as sin. She does not sing as well as she acts, and is the wife of a violin-player at the opera. Her name is Masci. The opera was the "Clemenza di Tito." Seconda donna not ugly on the stage, young, but nothing superior. Primo uomo, un musico, Cicognani, a fine voice, and a beautiful cantabile. The other two musici young and passable. The tenor's name is non lo so [I don't know what]. He has a pleasing exterior, and resembles Le Roi at Vienna. Ballerino primo good, but an ugly dog. There was a ballerina who danced far from badly, and, what is a capo d'opera, she is anything but plain, either on the stage or off it. The rest were the usual average. I cannot write much about the Milan opera, for we did not go there, but we heard that it was not successful. Primo uomo, Aprile, who sings well, and has a fine even voice; we heard him at a grand church festival. Madame Piccinelli, from Paris, who sang at one of our concerts, acts at the opera. Herr Pick, who danced at Vienna, is now dancing here. The opera is "Didone abbandonata," but it is not to be given much longer. Signor Piccini, who is writing the next opera, is here. I am told that the title is to be "Cesare in Egitto."
WOLFGANG DE MOZART,
Noble of Hohenthal and attached to the Exchequer.

4.
Milan, Feb. 10, 1770.
SPEAK of the wolf, and you see his ears! I am quite well, and impatiently expecting an answer from you. I kiss mamma's hand, and send you a little note and a little kiss; and remain, as before, your——What? Your aforesaid merry-andrew brother, Wolfgang in Germany, Amadeo in Italy.
DE MORZANTINI.

5.
Milan, Feb. 17, 1770.
Now I am in for it! My Mariandel! I am so glad that you were so tremendously merry. Say to nurse Urserl that I still think I sent back all her songs, but if, engrossed by high and mighty thoughts of Italy, I carried one off with me, I shall not fail, if I find it, to enclose it in one of my letters. Addio, my children, farewell! I kiss mamma's hands a thousand times, and send you a thousand kisses and salutes on your queer monkey face. Per fare il fine, I am yours, &c.

6.
Milan, Carnival, Erchtag.
MANY kisses to mamma and to you. I am fairly crazed with so much business, [Footnote: Concerts and compositions of every kind occupied Mozart. The principal result of his stay in Milan was, that the young maestro got the scrittura of an opera for the ensuing season. As the libretto was to be sent to them, they could first make a journey through Italy with easy minds. The opera was "Mitridate, Re di Ponto."] so I can't possibly write any more.

7.
Milan, March 3, 1770.
CARA SORELLA MIA,--
I am heartily glad that you have had so much amusement. Perhaps you may think that I have not been as merry as you; but, indeed, I cannot sum up all we have done. I think we have been at least six or seven times at the opera and the feste di ballo, which, as in Vienna, begin after the opera, but with this difference, that at Vienna the dancing is more orderly. We also saw the facchinata and chiccherata. The first is a masquerade, an amusing sight, because the men go as facchini, or porters; there was also a barca filled with people, and a great number on foot besides; and five or six sets of trumpets and kettledrums, besides several bands of violins and other instruments. The chiccherata is also a masquerade. What the people of Milan call chicchere, we call petits maitres, or fops. They were all on horseback, which was a pretty sight. I am as happy now to hear that Herr von Aman [Footnote: The father had written in a previous letter, "Herr von Aman's accident, of which you wrote to us, not only distressed us very much, but cost Wolfgang many tears. You know how sensitive he is"] is better, as I was grieved when you mentioned that he had met with an accident. What kind of mask did Madame Rosa wear, and Herr von Molk, and Herr von Schiedenhofen? Pray write this to me, if you know it; your doing so will oblige me very much. Kiss mamma's hands for me a thousand million times, and a thousand to yourself from "Catch him who can!" Why, here he is!

8.
Bologna, March 24, 1770.
Oh, you busy creature!
Having been so long idle, I thought it would do me no harm to set to work again for a short time. On the post-days, when the German letters come, all that I eat and drink tastes better than usual. I beg you will let me know who are to sing in the oratorio, and also its title. Let me hear how you like the Haydn minuets, and whether they are better than the first. From my heart I rejoice to hear that Herr von Aman is now quite recovered; pray say to him that he must take great care of himself and beware of any unusual exertion. Be sure you tell him this. I intend shortly to send you a minuet that Herr Pick danced on the stage, and which every one in Milan was dancing at the feste di ballo, only that you may see by it how slowly people dance. The minuet itself is beautiful. Of course it comes from Vienna, so no doubt it is either Teller's or Starzer's. It has a great many notes. Why? Because it is a theatrical minuet, which is in slow time. The Milan and Italian minuets, however, have a vast number of notes, and are slow and with a quantity of bars; for instance, the first part has sixteen, the second twenty, and even twenty-four.
We made the acquaintance of a singer in Parma, and also heard her to great advantage in her own house—I mean the far-famed Bastardella. She has, first, a fine voice; second, a flexible organ; third, an incredibly high compass. She sang the following notes and passages in my presence.
[Here, Mozart illustrates with about 20 measures of music]

9.
Rome, April 14, 1770.
I AM thankful to say that my stupid pen and I are all right, so we send a thousand kisses to you both. I wish that my sister were in Rome, for this city would assuredly delight her, because St. Peter's is symmetrical, and many other things in Rome are also symmetrical. Papa has just told me that the loveliest flowers are being carried past at this moment. That I am no wiseacre is pretty well known.
Oh! I have one annoyance—there is only a single bed in our lodgings, so mamma may easily imagine that I get no rest beside papa. I rejoice at the thoughts of a new lodging. I have just finished sketching St. Peter with his keys, St. Paul with his sword, and St. Luke with—my sister, &c., &c. I had the honor of kissing St. Peter's foot at San Pietro, and as I have the misfortune to be so short, your good old
WOLFGANG MOZART
was lifted up!

Voltaire


MICROMEGAS,PHILOSOPHICAL HISTORY
(Book Excerpt)

​
CHAPTER I.
Voyage of an inhabitant of the Sirius star to the planet Saturn.On one of the planets that orbits the star named Sirius there lived a spirited young man, who I had the honor of meeting on the last voyage he made to our little ant hill. He was called Micromegas[1], a fitting name for anyone so great. He was eight leagues tall, or 24,000 geometric paces of five feet each.

[1] From micros, small, and from megas, large. B.

Certain geometers[2], always of use to the public, will immediately take up their pens, and will find that since Mr. Micromegas, inhabitant of the country of Sirius, is 24,000 paces tall, which is equivalent to 20,000 feet, and since we citizens of the earth are hardly five feet tall, and our sphere 9,000 leagues around; they will find, I say, that it is absolutely necessary that the sphere that produced him was 21,600,000 times greater in circumference than our little Earth. Nothing in nature is simpler or more orderly. The sovereign states of Germany or Italy, which one can traverse in a half hour, compared to the empires of Turkey, Moscow, or China, are only feeble reflections of the prodigious differences that nature has placed in all beings.

[2] This is how the text reads in the first editions. Others, in place of "geometers," put "algebraists." B.

His excellency's size being as great as I have said, all our sculptors and all our painters will agree without protest that his belt would have been 50,000 feet around, which gives him very good proportions.[3] His nose taking up one third of his attractive face, and his attractive face taking up one seventh of his attractive body, it must be admitted that the nose of the Sirian is 6,333 feet plus a fraction; which is manifest.

[3] I restore this sentence in accordance with the first editions. B.

As for his mind, it is one of the most cultivated that we have. He knows many things. He invented some of them. He was not even 250 years old when he studied, as is customary, at the most celebrated[4] colleges of his planet, where he managed to figure out by pure willpower more than 50 of Euclid's propositions. That makes 18 more than Blaise Pascal, who, after having figured out 32 while screwing around, according to his sister's reports, later became a fairly mediocre geometer[5] and a very bad metaphysician. Towards his 450th year, near the end of his infancy, he dissected many small insects no more than 100 feet in diameter, which would evade ordinary microscopes. He wrote a very curious book about this, and it gave him some income. The mufti of his country, an extremely ignorant worrywart, found some suspicious, rash[6], disagreeable, and heretical propositions in the book, smelled heresy, and pursued it vigorously; it was a matter of finding out whether the substantial form of the fleas of Sirius were of the same nature as those of the snails. Micromegas gave a spirited defense; he brought in some women to testify in his favor; the trial lasted 220 years. Finally the mufti had the book condemned by jurisconsults who had not read it, and the author was ordered not to appear in court for 800 years[7].

[4] In place of "the most celebrated" that one finds in the first edition, subsequent editions read "some jesuit." B.
[5] Pascal became a very great geometer, not in the same class as those that contributed to the progress of science with great discoveries, like Descartes, Newton, but certainly ranked among the geometers, whose works display a genius of the first order. K.
[6] The edition that I believe to be original reads: "rash, smelling heresy." The present text is dated 1756. B.
[7] Mr. Voltaire had been persecuted by the theatin Boyer for having stated in his Letters on the English that our souls develop at the same time as our organs, just like the souls of animals. K.

He was thereby dealt the minor affliction of being banished from a court that consisted of nothing but harassment and pettiness. He wrote an amusing song at the expense of the mufti, which the latter hardly noticed; and he took to voyaging from planet to planet in order to develop his heart and mind[8], as the saying goes. Those that travel only by stage coach or sedan will probably be surprised learn of the carriage of this vessel; for we, on our little pile of mud, can only conceive of that to which we are accustomed. Our voyager was very familiar with the laws of gravity and with all the other attractive and repulsive forces. He utilized them so well that, whether with the help of a ray of sunlight or some comet, he jumped from globe to globe like a bird vaulting itself from branch to branch. He quickly spanned the Milky Way, and I am obliged to report that he never saw, throughout the stars it is made up of, the beautiful empyrean sky that the vicar Derham[9] boasts of having seen at the other end of his telescope. I do not claim that Mr. Derham has poor eyesight, God forbid! But Micromegas was on site, which makes him a reliable witness, and I do not want to contradict anyone. Micromegas, after having toured around, arrived at the planet Saturn. As accustomed as he was to seeing new things, he could not, upon seeing the smallness of the planet and its inhabitants, stop himself from smiling with the superiority that occasionally escapes the wisest of us. For in the end Saturn is hardly nine times bigger than Earth, and the citizens of this country are dwarfs, no more than a thousand fathoms tall, or somewhere around there. He and his men poked fun at them at first, like Italian musicians laughing at the music of Lully when he comes to France. But, as the Sirian had a good heart, he understood very quickly that a thinking being is not necessarily ridiculous just because he is only 6,000 feet tall. He got to know the Saturnians after their shock wore off. He built a strong friendship with the secretary of the academy of Saturn, a spirited man who had not invented anything, to tell the truth, but who understood the inventions of others very well, and who wrote some passable verses and carried out some complicated calculations. I will report here, for the reader's satisfaction, a singular conversation that Micromegas had with the secretary one day.

[8] See my note, page 110. B. [this note, in Zadig, says: "This line is mostly written at the expense of Rollin, who often employs these expressions in his Treatise on Studies. Voltaire returns to it often: see, in the present volume, chapter I of Micromegas, and in volume XXXIV, chapter XI of The Man of Forty Crowns, chapter IX of The White Bull and volume XI, the second verse of song VIII of The Young Virgin. B."]
[9] English savant, author of Astro-Theology, and several other works that seek to prove the existence of God through detailing the wonders of nature: unfortunately he and his imitators are often mistaken in their explanation of these wonders; they rave about the wisdom that is revealed in a phenomenon, but one soon discovers that the phenomenon is completely different than they supposed; so it is only their own fabrications that give them this impression of wisdom. This fault, common to all works of its type, discredited them. One knows too far in advance that the author will end up admiring whatever he has chosen to discuss.

My Tragedy to Triumph Story


By Glenn Lovell


I recently watched a video online about the adversity and tragedy that Keanu Reeves has gone through in his life, yet despite all of it how he’s gone on to achieve massive success and is one of the biggest charitable stars in Hollywood. Now I’m sure he doesn’t act the victim with any of this stuff himself, the creators of this video were merely using his story as an example of how you can still succeed even in the face of adversity…

Here’s what the video said…

Tragedy to triumph the Keanu Reeves Story.

He was three years old when his father left. After his parents divorced they moved from City to City. He attended 4 different high Schools and struggled with Dyslexia. He eventually left without a diploma. His ‘struggles’ continued. At the age of 23 he lost his best friend to a drug overdose. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, his girlfriend gave birth to their daughter who was stillborn. Due to the grief of losing their daughter, they split up, 18 months later she died in a car accident. Despite all of the tragedies, Keanu kept pushing forward. He went on to dominate the box office with the film The Matrix. But probably the most important of all, he is known as one of the most charitable in Hollywood. At one point he gave £80 million of his £114 million earnings from the Matrix to the film crew. With all the tragedy he has dealt with, Keanu still decides to make this world a better place by caring and giving. So the question to you is, how are you going to respond to what life throws at you?

This got me thinking, thinking about my own life and the adversity I’ve endured specifically during my childhood but also in later years during my business life that led to success, but more importantly all that I witnessed my mother go through. The strength she’s had to somehow maintain throughout her life, to continue on, to grow and somehow learn something, anything at all from everything she suffered. To try understand and make some semblance of sense out of it all. By sharing my story with you my hope is to pass on some valuable life lessons to you in the process.

Here’s my tragedy to triumph story.

It starts with the cliché of my Dad leaving when I was a year old. Cliché maybe, but it’s true none the less. I was brought up living in various council estates and before I reached secondary School we had lived in eight different council flats across the City. I moved Schools five times before we eventually settled in the house I grew up in as a teenager. By that time my initial education was fucked and I walked into secondary School without even knowing my times tables. I’m by no means blaming my Mother for this because ultimately a lot of what happened was dictated by the circumstances she found herself in.

We lived in a very humble environment of council housing, even though I can’t say I ever felt like we went without, my parents struggled financially most of my life but somehow managed to feed and clothe us and always do us proud at Christmas and Birthday’s, BUT at a massive cost of huge debt to themselves.

I’m the eldest brother of seven immediate related siblings, let me explain. Lee, my first brother was born four years after me to another father. A man who was violent and used to beat my mother up. I have very vague memories of these events as I was still young at the time, but I do recall various incidents when he was aggressive with her and somehow those occasions have left an indelible mark upon me that has ensured I have never hurt or hit a woman in my life.

Although, I’m sure this has more to do with my mother’s stern vociferous education in how to treat a woman, in that ‘if I ever hit or hurt one I would have her to deal with!’, a threat that loomed large when I was younger, I can assure you. I am hugely grateful for this as an adult now though, as witnessing these acts of domestic violence could’ve quite easily had the opposite effect on me as it has with so many others.

Fast forward a few years and my mother had met another man who she has remained with ever since. A kind, generous and as giving a man as you’re ever likely to meet. They had their first son together, Andrew.

Andrew was only a few months old when tragedy struck. My brother Lee was knocked down and killed by a car whilst he was playing outside our flat when he was just four years old. Please understand, it was a different time then, it wasn’t uncommon for young children to be playing outside by themselves. I was eight years of age and I witnessed him lying in the road, blood pouring from his head. This is an image that will never leave me. Lee wasn’t killed instantly, he died in transit on the way to the hospital. The impact of the car had broken his ribs which punctured his lungs and he succumbed to these injuries by drowning in his own blood. Andrew, was merely a few months old when this happened so he never really got to meet Lee.

The loss of Lee had a massive impact on me and my life. He was my brother. My best friend. We played together all the time. Now he was gone and I couldn’t really comprehend or fully understand why at the time. My final - and has since become - repetitive memory of him is of us both waiting in the car one day, whilst our Mum was in the Dr’s surgery and we had a fight over a ball. I hurt him and made him cry and the feeling of guilt from this has lived with me ever since. I know we were kids and it’s what’s brothers do, but it still doesn’t change the fact that that’s remained my most prominent memory of my time with him.

Rightly or wrongly as I’m still unsure after all these years, I visited him in the chapel of rest prior to his funeral to see him off and say our goodbyes. I remember looking at him and hoping he would simply wake up. As an eight year old boy, to me, he looked like he was sleeping and he could just wake up at any moment.

The funeral was horrific. I can recall it in great detail even now, but specifically because my Mum broke down as they were lowering his coffin into the grave. She fell to her knees and was trying to claw her way to the grave to stop the coffin, whilst family members held her back. It was as if she didn’t believe he was dead and wanted to open the casket and he’ll be in there somehow alive still. This memory destroys me as I write and makes me cry even thinking about it. The hopelessness of not being able to do anything to help my Mum. Even at such a young age I felt somehow responsible and wanted to take my Mum's pain away.

A couple years later my next sibling, Katie was born. My first sister.

For some reason my mother always harbored a yearning for two boys and two girls, so they tried for another baby not long after having Katie and her desire was fulfilled as she gave birth to another girl, Gemma.

She was set; two boys, two girls notwithstanding losing Lee of course. But little did we realise the joy of this baby was to be very short lived, as Gemma died of cot death two weeks following birth. I can vividly remember my step-dad almost falling down the stairs whilst clutching her in his arms as he was frantically trying to get help for her.

Not too long after grieving for the loss of Gemma, and I can only assume my Mum wanted to fill the void of that loss as quickly as she could, she decided to try again. This time she was carrying a boy. All was going well during the pregnancy until within an hour before he was due to be born, Guy which he was named, was stillborn.

Back to back, two of my mothers babies, taken from her with a combined eighteen months of pregnancy, and the gap of trying to conceive in-between of course. Not forgetting losing her second son, my brother Lee, to the car accident years before, this was now three of six children my Mum gave birth to all died under completely different but extremely heartbreaking circumstances and within a window of approximately eight years.

A shocking chain of events is an understatement.
It sounds like beggar's, belief doesn’t it?

You would be quite right and forgiven for thinking that all of this should’ve been enough for her. That enough was enough right? No more trying for anymore Children. The pain is too raw. To my mind, how the hell could anyone endure so much pain and suffering, yet potentially put themselves through it all over again.

But that’s exactly what she did, she wouldn’t give in or quit. She still wanted her two boys and two girls. She fell pregnant and again her wish was granted, she had another daughter, Samantha.

Samantha was born with Down Syndrome!

Sammy Lou as we affectionately called her had many complications at birth, from hole’s in her heart to the tubes of her heart needing repair as is a very common occurrence with children born with Trisomy 21.

Now I’m sure you’re reading all this in disbelief and shock and probably feeling very sorry for my mother right about now. All those losses of children to emotionally contend with and now the ‘burden’ of a child born with Down Syndrome. Please don’t though. Sammy was an absolute blessing more than anything else, as she brought an amazing sense of balance and purpose to my Mum and Dad’s life.

Not that any of the other children could be replaced of course, but Sammy was a gift for my Mum and she certainly become an antidote to her grief and in a small way filled the void of her losses. She was a light to be around and could sense when any of us weren’t feeling yourself or if we were upset. She would sit and lay into my chest to comfort me as if she knew what I needed when I needed it the most.

My fondest memories of Sam is when she would lay on me when she was very young and I would sing into her ear, she loved it as much as I did doing it. Her favourite song for me to sing to her was Metallica’s Enter Sandman. It always helped me forget and ease the troubles of my day away. She had that magic effect on me and everyone she came into contact with.

Like a proverbial kick in the teeth, and I’m sure you’re not going to believe this next sentence, but we’ve since lost Sammy too. She lived until she was twenty one, but eventually succumbed to heart complications associated with her conditions at birth. That being said, she died a lot earlier than we expected.

In her few short years she lived a wonderfully fulfilled and fully loved life. As much as it’s painful to think about her, I am grateful for the time I got to share with her. The memories I have can never be taken. Her warmth and love was unquestioning, unconditional and without judgement. It’s a love you can never fully understand until you have a child with Down Syndrome in your life. Of which I too also have myself now, but more on him later.

For now, I want you to understand that this is the adversity I lived through as an eldest son and brother. Spectating, enduring and living a part of these individually horrific ordeals throughout my entire upbringing. Witnessing firsthand the feelings of huge grief surrounding circumstances of trauma, loss, pain and suffering of my mother losing four of her children, each one a brother and sister to me.

As a father myself now and knowing the huge depth of love you feel for your own children, when I take the time to think about all of this I literally cannot fathom the scale and enormity of the loss that my mother endured in her one and only lifetime.

If just one of these deaths and I mean literally just ONE of these child loses were to occur to any parent I’m sure it would be enough to crush them, but to lose four of your Children, each one carried in your womb for nine months, is quite simply devastating beyond comprehension and belief and makes you question the very meaning of faith; faith in a god, faith in a higher power and of all things ‘happening for a reason’. Because what possible reason did this one lady, my mother need to be put through all of that pain and suffering for? What lesson was she and all of us supposed to learn from it?

Even though I lived each moment of this with my parents and the deep profound impact I know it’s had on me and my personality, I know I can never fully comprehend my mothers pain and sorrow and what it would do to me if it was anyone of my children.

But throughout all of that pain and suffering that it’s caused her over the years and the huge emotional grief and mental scars it’s left, she still stands tall after enduring everything. She was and is still available to anyone of us, at any time, day or night even through some of her own recent illness’s, she listens intently and when shit hits the fan, she offers advice as best she knows how and has never, never rightly or wrongly sought any form of counseling throughout any of it. Now that’s strength of character!

And yet somehow none of this has broken her. She’s still quietly standing after all these years and has raised the bar for the rest of us when it comes to strength under adversity and dealing with whatever the fuck life throws at us; quite simply we don’t fold, we don’t give in, we keep moving forward, because that’s how life is. As far as I’m concerned, she’s a fucking hero.

So let me put that earlier question to you again here, how are you going to respond to what life throws at you? When life gets tough. When life takes a turn and throws a huge fucking curveball in your direction and turn’s your world upside down, because I can guarantee that it’s going to one way or another, it always does or if it already has and you’re struggling to pull yourself back from it, will you let it be the breaking of you or the fucking making of you?

I can only hope that this story, my mother's story will give you some sense of perspective, that anything you might be going through right now, may not be as bad as you think. It may not be as bad as what you’ve just read. If so, you can call upon my little story, maybe in your hour of need and hopefully in some small way it helps you in your moment of grief. Or even if you are going through something just as traumatic in your life right now, let this be a reminder that you’re not alone. There’s others you can confide in. Others who have endured huge suffering and come out the other side. My hope is that one day, maybe one day someone will say to themselves and it may well be you, ‘what would Debbie do’?

Because you’ve got to keep moving forward. Everyday. Moving forward. You’ve got to find a way. Take each day as it comes. Regardless of the pain and suffering, light does, eventually always finds a way.

As the Winston Churchill quote says, ‘if you’re going through hell, keep going!

​

Happiness


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

Happiness is a delight in simply being.
Depending on one’s temperament, it can show its wings when meditating or during a leisurely walk. It can overwhelm one when finding a related soul in a crowd of strangers or even when killing a mosquito. Let’s picture the latter.
It is a hot summer night and we are sitting on the porch watching the slow moving waves in the canal. We are enjoying the breeze that passes through the blooming pink mimosa tree and touches our skin in cool embrace. Little red and black cats with citronella candles on the table are meant to chase away the mosquitoes. I could swear I hear those unwelcome bugs buzz. They appear to delight in playing with me by avoiding my hand when I try to smack them. They indulge in the poisonous scent and are all around us. My husband is their main target. The minute he kills one on his arm or leg, two or three more are having a ball on his forehead or the naked toes in the open sandals. I tease him, “You must have sweet blood. They really don’t bother me.” And that’s the truth. When he is around, I am not their target. Apparently my blood does not entice their taste buds as much as his blood does. It bothers me however when they buzz around the food, fall into my cocktail or sit on the edge of my cigarette.
“Let’s turn the lights down, maybe that will help,” my husband suggests. We do so and for a short while we seem to have mastered the situation. Unfortunately, those mosquitoes kept still for a short while only as they acclimated to the new situation. Maybe they went back for help, because after a short span of peace they attacked in even bigger armies. We are getting ourselves some blankets, but blankets at 80 degrees are not the answer.
So we decide to break it up and go inside. They occupied the walls, even the bed. The mosquitoes have followed us. We have screens on all our windows. They must have taken the few seconds while we had the screen door open to come inside with us. They outsmarted us again.
We fall asleep around midnight. A short while later, I am awakened as my husband sits up in bed, a devilish smirk on his face; in his palm, a dead mosquito. He proclaims, “Got it! I won!”
There was pure happiness on his face, happiness caused by the satisfaction of having eliminated a great annoyance for good.

How I Married the Girl of My Dreams

By

Jake Cosmos Aller


This is the true story of how I met and married the girl of my dreams.
The dreams started when I was a senior at Berkeley high school in 1974. About a month before I graduated, I fell asleep in a physics class after lunch and had the first dream:
A beautiful Asian woman was standing next to me talking in a strange language. She was stunning – the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She was in her early twenties, with long black hair, and piercing black eyes. She had the look of royalty. She looked at me and then disappeared, beamed out of my dream like in "Star Trek." I fell out of my chair screaming, "Who are you?" She did not answer.
About a month went by and then I started having the dream as I called it, repeatedly. Always the same pattern – early morning, she would stand next to me
talking, I would ask whom she was, and she would disappear. She was the most beautiful, alluring women I had ever seen and I was struck speechless every time I had the dream.
This went on for eight long years; I had the dream every month during those eight years when I went to College and later after I joined the Peace Corps. In fact, the dream lead me to Korea. After College, I had joined the Peace Corps and had to decide whether to go Korea or Thailand. The night before I had to submit my decision, I had the dream again. However, this time I knew that she was in Korea waiting for me. I felt that the girl of my destiny was in Korea so I called up the Peace Corps and signed up to go to Korea.
Therefore, I went to Korea and joined the Peace Corps. During my two years in the Peace Corps, I met many Korean women, but I knew that none of them was the one for me. I kept looking and looking for the girl in the Dream.
One winter while I was in the Peace Corps I went to Taiwan on a personal visit. I met a famous fortuneteller who made three predictions – I would marry an Asian woman, I would marry when I was 27 and I would become a diplomat. All three predictions turned out to be true.
I got a job after the Peace Corps working for the US Army as an instructor. In addition, I kept looking for the girl in the dream. I was about to leave Korea to
go back to the US to go to graduate school when she walked out of my dreams and into my life.
One morning I had the last of these dreams. She was standing next to me but she was speaking to me in Korean and I finally understood her. She said, "Don't worry, we will be together soon."
That night getting off the bus in front of me was the girl in the dream. She got off the bus at my stop and went on to the base with an acquaintance of mine, a fellow teacher. They went to see a movie on base. She was applying for a secretarial job on the base. I was at a loss for words and wondered what I would say to her when I met her next. At the end of the class, I saw her leaving and found the courage to speak with her. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet that weekend. I went to bed and the dreams stopped. I knew that was the women for me and I was determined to have her.
The next night she was waiting for me at the army base where I was to teach a class. She told me that she had to see me as she had something to tell me. I signed her on to the base and left her at the library to study. She was a college senior she told me. We went out for coffee after class. She told me she was madly in love with me and that I was the man for her. I told her not to worry as I felt the same.
That weekend we met Saturday and Sunday and hung out all day. On Sunday, we went for a hike in the woods. I proposed to her that night three days after we had met, but for me it felt that we had met 8 years ago, I had been waiting all my life for her to walk out of my dreams, and into my life and here, she was.
We married two months later after a Buddhist priest told her Mother that our astrological match was a perfect fit. Her mother did not want her to marry a foreigner. One day about a month after we had met, she invited me to meet her parents, but she did not tell them I was a foreigner. I brought a bottle of Jack Daniels for my Father-in-Law and dranked the entire bottle with him. He approved of me but my Mother-in-Law still had reservations. After the Buddhist Priests told her it was a perfect astrological combination, she agreed and we planned on getting married.
We held the ceremony in January at a Korean army base where I was teaching ESL to Korean Army officers going to the US for advanced training. The wedding was a celebrity wedding covered on the morning news. I was blissfully unaware as I did not watch the Korean news that much – still don’t as it a bit beyond my Korean level to this day.
The reason for the news coverage was that my wife was part of the Kyunju Lee family who were related to the last King of Korea. In the history of the
clan dating back over 600 years only two people had married foreigners, Symung Rhee the first president of the ROK whose wife was Austrian, and my wife some 50 years later.
The second reason that this was a celebrity marriage was that my father came to the wedding. He was a former undersecretary of labor under Kennedy and Johnson and that was big thing for the Koreans. My father was even interviewed on the morning news.
And the third reason was that this was the first time in Korean history that a foreigner married a Korean on a Korean military base.
Over 1,000 people came the wedding. It was done in Korean and was a catholic ceremony as my wife wanted a Church wedding so I converted to Catholicism for her. But we never really became church goers as we are both sort of Buddhists.
We have been married for 35 years now. Whenever things are rough between us, I recall the dream and realize that I had married the girl of my dreams and I fall in love with her all over again. In fact, I see the same girl in the dream whenever I look at her.

They Rock!


Two Popular Biographies Reviewed

By Charles E.J. Moulton

 
They are more than they seem, as believers and spirits. Not only are they brilliant storytellers in their own right, their stories are also told through music in tales of the events of their lives. Not only because of the noteworthy fame of the authors or the rocking similarities, but also because of the eye-opening effect of the contents. These two artists have more in common than can be seen at first glance. They speak in feelings and thoughts. 
What really becomes evident when reading these autobiographies back to back is that these guys vividly invite us on a tour of their lives in written form, poetically, thoughtfully and with a very raunchy and extremely wild honesty. Two autobiographies published this decade deserve special attention. Forgive them their many four-letter-words for these two very extravagant rockers are sensitive souls.
In fact, we are dealing with men who tried every drug known to man and still believe in God, speaking of souls leaving the body at death and music's effect on the eternal spirit. 
Steven Tyler, born Tallarico in 1948 back in Yonkers. U.S.A., the self-confessed nature-boy and the son of a classical concert pianist, was mistaken for Mick Jagger during his early career. This caused him to put on a British accent in order to capitalize on this similarity.
Billy Idol, born William Broad in 1955 in England, spent a few years in the U.S. during his childhood before moving back to Bromley in England and gaining back his Brit accent. So both artists were capable of articulated Brit and Yank accents.
 Both believers are by now clean ex-drug-addicts.
Idol's nearly lethal motorcycle accident in 1991 might have sobered him up, an incident that gave him a very real out-of-body-experience.
Tyler's soberness might have come out of necessity to survive, who knows?
In any case, after reading these biographies, though, the human side of their artistic lives become very clear.
Idol's most challenging time, health-wise, had him disappearing into a heroin-cocoon, ultimately causing his father to travel across the Atlantic to save him. 
No matter how famous he became, to the Broad family he was still just their Billy from Bromley.
While Tyler was supported to become a musician, his mom driving him to early concerts in a van, Idol took the leap very much against his father's will, who wanted him to take over his hardware store. 
It is then a happy fact that both men made happy family peace parents: with mother, in Tyler's case, and father, in Idol's case, before their respective deaths. 
It is touching, yet heartwrenching, to read about these extravagant rockers with their wild lives and their last moments holding and embracing their loved ones and, in retrospect, feeling good about how they said good bye. 
Tyler even speaks of God as a Her, a Goddess. 
Idol speaks of an out-of-body-experience and an eternal inspration far away from this world. With all the fascinatingly gritty details of the punk- and rock-life in both books, completely normal functions and day-to-day rehab drudges, with explosive anecdotes of rock shows, at the end all of this makes us discover a humane and sympathetic truth. Genius is genius, celebrity is no less human because of fame.
Sensitivity makes celebrity even more endearing.
Celebrity can hurt. Therefore, the feud Lead Singer Vs. Lead Guitarist dominates both artistic careers. Steven Tyler's dramatic relationship with his "Toxic Twin" Joe Perry has been a four decade love-hate affair. Likewise, Billy Idol's tight fights with his guitarist Stevie Stevens sometimes reached hair raising proportions, a relationship that now has calmed down to bloom into an again prosperous collaboration.
Two enormous stage personalities, whose writing and composing have improved through the years, followed by energetic stage shows with firework-like physical activity.
Billy and Steven have a full throttle work ethos intact, one that cost Tyler multiple foot surgery and Idol a bad back.
Idol, the sneering punk-poet with a heart of gold, and Tyler, the bouncing rag-doll dude with hyper-sensitive drum-rhythm: both speak lovingly and sweetly about their children. Proud fathers both with rocket careers to boot. Sobered up, extraordinary, normal, human, angelic, beastly and spiritual, all at the same time. 
Why do we love them?
Because they signify what we humans are all about: we are emotional creatures, willing to learn and willing to rock.

Steven Tyler: "Does the Noise in my Head Bother You?"
Harper Collins, 2011

Billy Idol: "Dancing with Myself"
Simon & Schuster, 2014

Rocking for Christ
 

By Charles E.J. Moulton

​
 
“It would be nice to walk upon the water, talking again to angels on my side ... all my words are golden, so have no Gods before me. I'm the light.”
            Was that a saying by the great St. Francis of Assisi? Maybe that was a quote from a book by Deepak Chopra? I could tell you that was Albert Schweizer. We could tribute Socrates, Plato or St. Paul with those words, the Pope or even the Dalia Lama.
All of that sounds plausible, doesn’t it?
Well, guess what?
It was Alice Cooper, back in 1971, during the hayday of his dark rock career.
Wait a minute, rewind the tape. Alice Cooper? The shock-rocker? Wasn’t that the villain of rock ‘n roll, the guy that spent and still spends his life performing explosive hard-rock theatricals filled with electric chairs, guillotines and bleeding dolls? Wasn’t that the guy that agitated more provincial housewives than Charles Manson?
            What does Alice say about all this?
            “It’s just electric vaudeville.”
            Then why do we think rock ‘n roll isn’t just a show?
            Because back when the music style first launched, it was a rebellion.
            Ten or twenty years later, academics like Freddie Mercury turned the music-style into a Vaudevillian melodrama. But it doesn’t end there.
            “If you listen clearly to all of my lyrics,” Alice says, “the warning is clearly written on the box. Don’t follow the dark side. It’s not a good idea. I am just playing the villain of rock ‘n roll. I invented him, like Shakespeare invented MacBeth.”
            Keep on reading, though. Now it gets really interesting.
            “As the son of a Baptist pastor, I grew up in the church, in religious surroundings. My father got the whole villain-of-rock-thing. He dug it. He just didn’t dig the lifestyle that went with it. The drugs, the alcohol, the excess. It killed a lot of my colleagues.”
The faithful Christian churchgoer Vincent Damon Furnier was born February 4, 1948, a Cold-War-Kid, the son of a preacherman. His social life as a child was centered mainly around church activities. It was this life that made his conciously living Christian soul confess not belonging to this world. Vincent’s creative decision to invent a new kind of Captain Hook in a rocking world of Peter Pan-characters was a testament to his artistic freedom.
            His show was an invention, mere storytelling, not a credo.
Accordingly, Alice Cooper’s original band colleagues were art students. They were academics, just like the members of the band Queen. To Alice and his band, something was missing in other rock concerts of the time: there were no creative theatricals to go with them. So the canvas they painted for themselves, creating the fictitious antagonist-like and character-drenched show called “Alice Cooper”, sprung from a need to actually add some dramatic flair to the popular streamline. The canvas they chose was similiar to the framework the English teacher Stephen King’s chose for his work: the birthplace of the horrific and perilous playground of lost souls: guillotines and ghosts. Maybe the era of the 1960s inspired them. Maybe the pain of Vietnam inspired the escapism, the creative outlet.
Cooper’s love of art really came alive when he met the surrealist artist Salvador Dali back in 1973. Dali liked Alice so much that he created a holographic artwork of the rocker, worth $ 2 million today, exhibited in the Dali Museum in Figueres, Spain.
Believe it or not, what Alice says about his own show – and about creativity in general – makes perfect sense. As an artist myself, I know that’s what we do. We tell stories.
The fictitious tale in itself is a warning: it ends badly. Alice gets punished, Vincent goes home. The actor takes off his make-up, just like I do after a show, and kisses his wife good night. The fact that it’s rock ‘n roll and not opera, heavy metal and not Shakespeare, is irrelevant. Edgar Allan Poe told us about the tell-tale heart, Verdi told us about what happened to the punished court jester, Alice Cooper told us the story of what happened to the extravagant crook. So don’t kill messenger.
According to Alice, the theatrical message leads home to Vincent, the faithful churchgoer. “Choose God and not the Devil,” Alice has been quoted as saying. “I created a vaudeville show with a villain. Even the bible has villains. Me? I believe in Jesus Christ. I believe in the eternal soul and in the afterlife.”
If it is just a show, then the distinction between what is public and what is private, what is professional and what is personal, becomes an even more important.
“If you live the same life on- as off-stage, that’s a really bad sign.”
Foreboding warnings from his peers show us the way where not to go. It is where some rockers went in order to make us believe their public personas were private, as well. Canadian talk-show host Jian Gomeshi from Studio Q, who also interviewed Alice back in 2011, mentioned conducting an interview with Johnny Rotten from the Sex Pistols. In that interview, Johnny treated Jian rudely throughout, only to transform into his real and private personality as John Lydon in the commercial breaks.
            “Was that okay?” John Lydon asked Jian in his Cockney accent.
Alice Cooper could only confirm that this two-faced act was a part of the show. He called Lydon’s behaviour “the ultimate rock swindle.”
The man who created Alice Cooper learned the hard way how to separate his true self from the on-stage-personality. He had 27 television sets at his house, he was an alcoholic. It was, therefore, all the more amazing that his sober lifestyle came as a complete surprise.
During the beginning of his career, Vincent spent lots of time with the likes of Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix. He’d never drunk a beer before, but soon he was consuming a bottle of whiskey a day. He called Morrison and Hendrix his “big brothers.” Both are quoted by Alice as “living the same life on- as off-stage,” constantly drunk or high on something.
In fact, they thought it was necessary to live up to that rock-star lifestyle.
“Somebody is going to die here,” were Alice’s words, “but it’s not going to be me.”
Vincent was a constant church-visitor during his spiritual awakening. The pastor seemed, in his mind, to speak to him and him alone, again and again. It was almost a pain to go to church and hear the sermons back in the early 1970s, but Vincent Furnier knew in his heart that he had to go there. His intuition demanded it.
The medics called Alice’s recovery, in quote, “weird” and, indeed, “a divine miracle.”
When his doctors asked him, in the clinic, how many alcoholic relapses he’d had, Alice could truthfully say that he’d had none at all.
 “A Christian is a soul who is constantly being sculpted by God,” he admitted, “and given hints by the creator in how to become a better person.”
In Joe Cocker’s case, becoming sober was a matter of life and death – and Christian faith helped him get there, as well. Bono, the lead singer of U2, did not need an addiction to find God. He believed, anyway. In fact, he was quoted in saying that his stardom was given to him by God himself. The band, Bono said, simply wasn’t good enough to succeed on its own. God had to have been the catalyst.
Bono even continued by pointing out that, “Jesus was his hero.”
Vincent, alias Alice, says that becoming sober was “like winning the lottery three times over – it just doesn’t happen.”
Not only did Alice Cooper remain sober, he also turned this spiritual renewal into a charitable enterprise, giving other unfortunate souls the chance to change, as well. Today, Alice Cooper’s project “Solid Rock” helps improve the lives of mistreated youths. Underprivilaged children from broken families are taught how to sing, play guitar, bass and drums. Alice goes out and performs with them, live on stage. His belief in Christ, the eternal soul and rock ‘n roll boosts the confidence of thousands of delinquents.
How many lives could Alice change if given the chance? Could he have prevented the hospitalization of the elderly busdriver, beaten up by two 14 year-olds, who told them to leave the bus? Could “Solid Rock” have boosted the confidence of the drugdealing teenager, who now serves his second term behind bars?
We must unlearn our preconceived conceptions about rock ‘n roll.
Rock fans are aging alongside their heroes and even Bryan Adams is performing for a crowd of fifty year-olds. Vincent, the faithful husband, would rather go home to his wife instead of to a strip-club. He claims that “everyone will find Christ eventually” and would “choose God any day”. He plays golf with his buddy Bob Dylan and appears in Christian talk-shows. So what was this about Alice Cooper being scary?
Being a Christian, though, he goes on, makes it harder because of the constant pressure to be perfect. Show business is creative, technical and organizational work, but it is not a show reality. If the ideas are sung, painted, written or danced, they are creative outlets, the ideas of the soul at work. Behind the skill, though, we find years of hard work. Out of 10 hours of stage rehearsals, 9 are dedicated to music.
Going back to a former comparison, we find Stephen King, the guru of horror stories, whose showmanship is also combined with devout faith. He told the press repeatedly that he has faith in God. A self confessed family man, a loving father and a completely dedicated friend. Mick Garris from Toronto, Canada, in fact, back in December of 2000, wrote: “Few would guess what a happy, childlike, loyal and generous man the Big Guy is.”
He goes on to say how hilariously funny Stephen is, a joy to be around, very local, very unaffected and very much just “Steve” to his pals. Not at all the horrific master of the macabre that he became when he writing his books.
Orson Wells played Shakespeare’s MacBeth. Playing a bigot villain didn’t mean that he really believed in being incestuous or in practicing witchcraft.
Vincent Furnier’s creative choice resembles the choice Sir Anthony Hopkins made when playing Hannibal Lecter. He could go back to Malibu Beach and be a private person, an intellectual or just a beach bum, after the show.
A storyteller, the prodigal son that found God in his heart, the good samaritan who helped the underprivilaged and didn’t even ask anything of them in return.
I have the advantage of being an actor, an author and a singer. I am, like Alice and like Stephen, a storyteller, as are we all, artists or no artists. So I know exactly where Alice is coming from. People love stories and we love telling them. No more. No less. I know that the roles I play are part of my stage persona. I know that the stories I write are part of my creativity. When I make up a story about a killer voodoo prince, it is just a story. When I portray a villain, it is only a portrayal. Me? I am really a nice guy.
I have been in show business since I was 11 years old. That is a career that has been going on for 34 stage years by now. In Bizet’s “Carmen”, I played Zuniga, a misogynistic killer. I was an evil vampire in Polanski’s “Dance of the Vampires”, an egocentric record producer in “Buddy – the Musical” and the mean Uncle Scar in “The Lion King”. That doesn’t mean, however, that I am an egocentric, evil, mean killer in my private life. I have played that killer lion, that bloodthirsty vampire, that psychopathic murderer, that coldhearted husband, that bastard record producer, that evil king, that village idiot, that mean bandit, that butchered deer, that death row prisoner and that mean ghost, maybe just to warn people not to become like that. Maybe that’s the point of art: to point a finger to what is. Nobody would ever think of coming to me after a show and asking me why I wanted to kill Simba.
Drama has to meet romance, darkness has to be filled with light, truth has to meet reality, classic has to meet rock, souls have to meet, people have to put aside their preconceived conceptions in order find out what lies behind the surface.
We tell gruesome stories, we tell stories that are uplifting and positive. Alice is one of those forerunners who went through hell in order to tell us how he found God.
It also goes to show that most of us have a completely different view of what rock ‘n roll was or is to Alice Cooper in the first place. It just goes to show that the people that complained about his performances never really listened to the actual lyrics.
            “I just play the villain of rock ‘n roll,” he concludes. “It’s not really who I am.”
            Touché, Alice. Touché.
            Now go back to church and dig up that undiscovered treasure, turning it into your reality and uncovering what might be revealed as true spiritual gold.
Praise Jesus, Alice has seen the light.
 
“Everyone carries a seed of love within them, even villains do.
The real secret is nourishing that seed and blessing every other life with its power.”
- Anonymous

Celebrities

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Excerpt from “Emotion in Motion: Tales of a Stewardess.”
My personal meetings with well-known people (while flying as an air hostess) include:
* Maria Callas. She could not be bothered with holding on to 50 red roses given to her by shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis upon departure from Rome.
* Walt Disney. I met him as a good looking, distinguished passenger on one of my Inter German flights. He gave me an autograph on the inside of my first Pan American shoulder bag. Unfortunately, that bag got lost. I wish I still had it.
* Stephen King. We had time to talk for a while. When I mentioned my interest in writing, he predicted that I would do well. How he could come to this conclusion during our short conversation, I do not know. I’m happy to say, “Thank you Mr. King. Your words have been heard by the power of destiny.”
* Charles Kálmán. (son of Emmerich Kálmán best known for the opera Maritza). The composer and I became good friends. 
* The Supremes. They impressed me most by their identical leather coats in three different colors. I had the pleasure of hanging up those coats in our Pan American coat room. Albert Schweitzer. Doctor, theologist and missionary.
* Wilhelm Furtwängler. German conductor and composer considered to be one of the greatest symphonic and operatic conductors of the 20th century. 
* Jackie Kennedy. We met during a transit in Ireland. 
* Ted Kennedy. On the flight I had him, he chose to fly Economy Class. He provided me with an autograph on a A mistake I am realizing only just now. After all it is not fair to be handed a First Class menu when you have to eat an Economy meal. 
* On our crew bus, I often met actress Maureen O’Hara on her way to meet Charles Bennett, a very attractive Pan American Captain.
* During my time in Germany I took a ride on the backseat of a motorcycle owned by actor Kurt Maisel.
* When in Limerick, Ireland, I enjoyed lunch with Mirette Hanley-Corboy, who later became well-known for her contributions to construction and education in Ireland.
* The Beatles. Pan Am brought them to New York for their first performance in the States when Ed Sullivan introduced them to America.


* During my time in management, I got to know talk show host Barry M. Farber. He is an American conservative radio talk show host, author and language learning enthusiast. He ran for Conservative Party nominee for Mayor of New York City in 1977, preceded by Maria Biaggio and succeeded by John Esposito as Conservative Party nominee for the position.  After the fall of Pan Am, I was selected by Barry Farber to run his language clubs on Long Island. The Language Club was a stimulating, well-educated, interesting, fun group of people from all walks of life. People who enjoy speaking foreign languages. It was open to any body regardless of fluency in language and quite an opportunity to learn while making new friends.
* “Emotion in Motion: Tales of a Stewardess” by Alexandra H. Rodrigues is available through Amazon.com and on Kindle. 

The Making of “Business for Pleasure”

By well-known actor, baritone and author


Herbert Eyre Moulton


(1927 – 2005)
 
​
            I have starred in many movies, including “Firefox” with Clint Eastwood and “Mesmer” with Alan Rickman. Often, I am confused with another colleague of the same generation and of the same name. We share the same profession, but I am also a singer, a teacher, an author and have worked a greater part in Europe.
            I was MCA Records’ 1950’s Hot-Shot Dinner Singer, the conductor of the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir during the Korean War, a part of the duo “The Singing Couple”, the other half being my wife Gun Kronzell, creator of the school-radio-programmes for the Austrian Broadcasting Corporation and actor in over three hundred stage productions across the world.
            As for the movies, one of my more curious anecdotes concerned the following one.
Yet another of my hot Oscar-Contenders was an Austro-American goody produced in 1996 by “Erotic-Pioneer” Zelman King of “9 ½ Weeks”-fame. This was one little sweetmeat that actually got released, or it snuck out when no one was looking. I know for a fact that it was let loose back home, because a matronly towncrier of my acquaintance phoned me from the Chicago area to relay the glad tidings:
 
            “Don Nichols called last night and said he’d rented a Soft-Porn video and guess who was playing the butler? Not just the butler, but also a sort of uniformed Procurer? Herb Moulton, that’s who! So, of course, we had to have a look at it, and we recognized you, because you were the only one with your clothes on.”
 
            This rococo fertility-rite starred Jeroen Krabbe (Harrison Ford’s nemesis in “The Fugitive”) and two dishy young shooting stars who needed the work, I guess: Caron Bernstein and Gary Stretch, and it was filmed (my scenes, anyway) in various splendidly restored castles ornmenting the Austrian countryside. As usual, I wasn’t especially well-informed about my actual duties. All I knew was: I was to meet and greet the lissome Ms. Bernstein at the portal and usher her up several flights of long winding stairs into a vast bed- and ballroom, in the center of which stood a gilded ornamental bathtub complete with sumptuous Turkish towels and exotic perfumes and ungents. She was to make use of it at once.
            On this very first day of shooting I was handed a xeroxed resumé of the convoluted, so-called plot which bore the cryptic stamp “UNAPPROVED 2/7/96”. After a moment’s persual I could see why. To match its sheer gooey grandiloquence you’d have to turn to the Collected works of Dame Barbara Cartland. Talk about “Dynasty”- and “Dallas”-Damage. Allow me to quote some purple patches:
 
            “Isabel Diaz, a beautiful and sophisticated, rising executive, is facing a crisis,” it begins. “That moment in life, when each time she looks in the mirror, she asks herself: ‘What am I saving myself for?’”
 
            The question being wholly rhetorical, the narrative gurgles on:
 
            “A self-possessed woman with a smouldering sensuality, she longs to push beyond the limits of the day to day.”
 
            Helping her push is the powerful, ultra-wealthy magnate Alexander Schutter, with whom she forms an unholy alliance. With him, she “has met her match”. This is Mr. Krabbe at his silkiest and most icky, and his first demand on Isabel is that she “pass a test of personal loyalty and cater to his peculiar sensual desires.” She is to bring two call girls to his suite and observe them making love to Rolf, Schutter’s chauffeur, whom the handout describes as “darkly handsome and gifted lover.” (Well, he’d want to be, wouldn’t he?)
            One question, if I may: Why is it always the chauffeur and why not the poor old butler who has all the fun? As the gray eminence of this particular castle, I know I had to be above all that, grandly ignorant of the carnal olympiad swirling all around me, and much more concerned with such domestic duties as supervising a corps of bewigged flunkies as they served a splendiferous candlelight supper out on the terrace. The trouble was it poured wih rain on each of the all-night filming sessions (always tedious and depressing at the best of times), which rather dampended the orgiastic merriment. Luckily, Gary Stretch, alias Rolf the sexually athletic chauffeur, took pity on me and let me take refuge in his heate caravan, for which a benison on him, and may Heaven safeguard his libido.
            But wait, there’s more, much more.
            “The game begins,” announces the funky travelogue, and before anybody can say “Priapus”, the show is taken off the road and moved to the glitter and swank of Vienna, where “an intensely erotic triangle develops among Isabel, Schutter and Rolf.” The relentlessly lascivious Schutter gets further kicks from watching the other two making what Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello terms “the beast with two backs.” The gameplan breathlessly unfolds:
 
            “The tension in this emotional thriller builds against the background of Vienna where love of life, beauty and luxury echoes Isabel’s growing passion for sensuality. (“Getting There Is Half The Fun!”)
 
            But now danger looms for heedless, headstrong Isabel, along with hints of tragedy buried in the past, as
 
“Schutter’s world of power, risk and decadence becomes an addiction for her.”
 
What withdrawal struggles, what cold turkey the poor dear will have to endure while kicking the habuit must be left to the imagination. For now, the whole heroic saga is being rounded off:
 
“Business for Pleasure is the story of one woman’s brave journey to the heart of her own desires. Isabel’s entry into Schutter’s dark world leaves her shattered ...”
 
(And she’s not the only one!)
But now come the great crashing chords that signify Redemption and The Grand Finale:
 
“With the help of the mysterious and hauntingly beautiful Anna ...”
 
(Mysterious, is right. This is the first we have heard of her!)
 
“... she is able to pick up the pieces of her life. When finally Isabel triumphs over disaster, she helps Schutter confront his own emptiness and take his first steps into the light.”
 
What this reminds you of is the grand old era of Super-Soap Heroines like Mary Noble, Backstage Wife, and tragic, self-sacrificing Stella Dallas. Isabel has got to be the most distressed and poignant figure since Tolstoy or possibly Jacqueline Susanne. Yet what is the only thing that bugged those yahoo-acquaintances of mine in Chicago? The next time I’m in that neck of the woods, remind me to check out for myself the video of “Business for Pleasure”, if only to see just what fun-and-games the butler had been missing all that time.
 

A Celebrity Named Gun Kronzell
​

By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
and Gun Kronzell


The 1960's must've been quite a decade for my mother. She was a working opera star active in a dozen German theatres. She sang oratories in Belgium, France and England. She met my dad in Hannover in 1966, toured with him through Europe, appeared on Irish TV and was still able to travel back to the calm home base in her beloved home town of Kalmar in Sweden.
My mom loved Kalmar. It was her centre, her safe haven. As a global citizen touring the world and working with and meeting stars like Luciano Pavarotti, Alan Rickman and the Swedish King, she had been at home most everywhere. But her heart was Swedish. Her soul belonged to Kalmar.
 
As a little boy in Gothenburg, I was exposed to my mother's amazing imagination. She told me these wonderful good night stories about the trolls Uggel-Guggel and Klampe-Lampe. They eventually turned into the high point of my day. The coolest thing, though, is that I am passing on these stories to my daughter. She is starting to invent stuff for the stories just like I did. I see that she loves the inventive and crazy creativity of our stories just as much as I did.
 
Having my mom as a good night story teller and my daddy as a professional author was the best mixture a boy could ask for. I thank them for that. For triggering my imagination. For opening the vaults of endless creativity. For that is what it is about, guys. All of it. Creation. Creating always greater versions of ourselves. New parts of ourselves we thought were gone. New pieces of ourselves we didn't know we had. Pieces that appear once we just trust ourselves to be more than we thought we were or could be.

There are so many old documents in my cupboards and closets. Old clippings and reviews that my mom kept as evidence of her glorious career. One paper in particular describes what kind of a career she was having back then.

I also know, being the only child, that if I don't transcribe these documents and have them published somehow, nobody will. I could ask my wife or daughter to transcribe these old things, but it is actually my job as a son to spread the word of what kind of folks they were. They worked so hard for what they became and accomplished. They perfected their art so beautifully that a new generation just deserves to hear about them and damn great they were.

Singers, actors, authors, directors, teachers, scholars: they were everything and more.

So, here we go: back to the beginning of the 1960's. John F. Kennedy was still alive. The Space Race was still on. Armstrong had not yet landed on the moon. And a certain young opera singer named Gun Kronzell travelled the world and inspired people with her voice.

This is what Gun herself wrote in a document that was intended for a newspaper that was about to write an article about her. Her schedule looks like a big city phone book. So many operas and oratories to learn. She must've been rehearsing constantly.

"These are some of my concerts and performances that I have been assigned to carry out during this season of 1962-63:
On March 11th, I am singing Brahms' Altrapsodie and Mozart's Requiem in Beleke with Matthias Büchel as conductor. Then, I am travelling to Bünde to sing Bach's Matthew Passion on March 31st. The April 1st, I am singing the same piece in Ahlen. I am travelling to Brügge in Belgium on April 4th to sing Beethoven's 9th Symphony. On April 17th I am again singing the Matthew Passion by Bach in Bergisch-Gladbach with Paul Nitsche as conductor.
I am back in Sweden on May 31st to sing at the 100 year anniversary of the Kalmar Girl's School.
On July 8th, I am singing Bach's Vom Reiche Gottes in the Church of Zion in Bethel.
In the German Vocal Festival in Essen, I am singing Haydn's Theresien Mass and Koerpp's The Fire of Prometheus.
In November, I am singing Bruckner's Mass in F-Minor in Witten.
On November 28th, 29th and 30th I am performing Beethoven's Mass in C Minor in the Mühlheim City Arena and Duisburg City Theatre.
On December 2nd and 3rd, 1962, I am singing Bach's Christmas Oratory in the Church of Zion in Bethel. On December16th, I am singing the same piece in Mainz. I am also singing the Christmas Oratory by Bach in Soest with Claus Dieter Pfeiffer as conductor and in Unna with Karl Helmut Herrman as conductor.
January 12th, 1963, hears me singing Bach's Christmas Oratory again in Bethel.
On March 31st I have been hired to sing Dvorak's Stabat Mater in Lippstadt.
Those were the concerts. Now for my operatic performances:
I have been hired as Mezzo Soprano at the City Opera in Bielefeld since September of 1961.
This season has seen me perform 5 roles.
The Innkeeper's Wife in Moussorgsky's Boris Godunov. That production had its premiere in September here. But I also guested with that part twice in Cologne this year. We have performed this opera 13 times so far.
The second role was Emilia in Verdi's Othello. We premiered with that on Christmas Day and have played it 10 times so far.
The third role for me this year was Dritte Dame (Third Lady) in The Magic Flute by Mozart. Our musical director Bernhard Conz often guest conducts in Italy and in Vienna. 5 shows of this so far.
The gypsy fortune teller Ulrica in Verdi's A Masked Ball had its premiere on January 23rd and this show has been playing for sold out houses 8 times so far.
Another Gypsy lady role, Czipra, in Johann Strauss' The Gypsy Baron had its premiere on March 6th.
My next role, Hippolytte in Britten's A Midsummer Night's Dream, is going to be fun.
A new colleague of mine arrived this year. He is the Swedish son of an archbishop. His name is Helge Brillioth."
 
Not only did her schedule look like a phone book, the reviews were as impressive as her CV.

My mom had just returned from a tour through Ireland with my dad and appeared on Irish TV. She was pregnant with me while singing Ortrud in Wagner's Lohengrin. The daily newspaper wrote, on December 28th, 1968:

"The best thing that the Opera House of Graz in Austria offered its ensemble was Gun Kronzell with her astounding portrayal of Ortrud. She already made a lasting impression as Mrs. Quickly and confirmed her skills here as well. This voice is a real winning triumph for our city: its intensity and wide range impresses. Gun Kronzell's Ortrud, if directed by a top notch world director, could become really interesting and a global phenomenon."

One critic spoke of a voice that was illuminate in glory. The journal "Die Wahrheit" wrote that she sang a magnifiscent Ortrud with dramatic expression filled with movement and vocal prowess.

Kleine Zeitung remarked on December 28th, 1968, that she was the only one that truly could shine in that production. Her clear and bright mezzo produced a brilliant fully controlled performance worthy of extraordinary theatrical mention.

Ewald Cwienk from the Wiener Kurier wrote on January 3rd about the high level of her excellent vocal work.

But even across the country in Augsburg they wrote about the masterful vocal presence and powerful expression of the Hannover's leading mezzo Gun Kronzell. They even went so far as to say that the audience in the olden days would have interrupted the scene after the operatic Plea of the Gods just to give the singer a standing ovation.

Opern Welt, one of Germany's leading operatic journals, described her thusly: "Gun Kronzell (Hannover), vocally and dramatically convincing devotee of sensual passion."

But her operatic skill alone did not gather rave reviews. Her collaboration with her baritone husband Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927-2005) had the European critics throwing proverbial roses at their feet.

The Reutlinger General Anzeiger, on February 5th, 1968, published the following rave review after a triumphant show in Regensburg, Germany:

"BIG VOICES IN A SMALL CONCERT HALL
A successful concert performed at the America House

They do not only sing duets. The married artistic couple Gun Kronzell (a mezzosoprano from Sweden) and Herbert Eyre Moulton (a baritone from the U.S.) are a living duet. When they appear on stage, they grab each other's hands before singing and try successfully not to compete with each other, but they try to achieve symbiosis. During the solo songs it becomes evident that the wife's lyric expression, vocal volume, skill and artistic temperament is a perfect mirror image of the husband's beautifully placed Irish baritone with its lyric joie de vivre. Both voices are obviously too big for this concert hall. It would have been great to hear them in the Carnegie Hall or at the London Festival Hall, where Miss Kronzell has sung recently, in order to hear the voices reverberate and swing in locations fit for their level of brilliance. And still: compliments to the America House for hiring them in the first place. This concert distinguished itself through a sophisticated programme and excellent interpretation. But even sophisticated programmes don't lift off the ground if the pieces in question don't have the longing of a lover's kiss. This programme did. The singers communicate. They love what they do. The concert started out with three duets by Henry Purcell, vitalized by constant sounds of musical joy. This was Baroque Art at its most lucious, where voices mingled and climaxed in full, soft alto tones and a natural high baritone that never seemed forced or uncomfortable. The three American Songs by Aaron Copland that followed, sung by Gun Kronzell, were functional straight forward pieces with a little bit of romantic flight hidden within the framework. The last song, Going to Heaven, explosively vocalized by the soloists with an accentuated pronounciation on the word HEA-VÉN, was effective to say the least.
The baritone spoke a few words between songs in his self-proclaimed Chicago-German idiom, claiming that composer Charles Ives was the primitive composer of musical history. The singer disproved this. Ives is THE genius of American Music. The folkloristic song 'Charlie Rutlage' is a musical Western in itself: exciting, juicy, full of artistic trivialities. It was sung excellently and served by the singer as a juicy artistic peppersteak of sorts. It was a dramatic number that became a fast speech rotating kind of song, not unlike the Pitter-Patter vocabulary present in Gilbert & Sullivan's operetta chants. The third song, 'The Election', is a political elective song, but no direct campaign hit. National Pathos came as expected and the audience was thrilled to hear it.
The first half of the show ended with duets: the pure enjoyment of the magic songs by Dvorak were the topics of conversations at the intermission bar.
The Swedish mezzosoprano sang Swedish songs with clean artistic expression after the break. The succeeding Hölderlin-songs by the Irish composer Seán O'Riada - a cycle in four parts in which the simplistic harmonies of the beginning returned at the end - could not have been sung better by the baritone Herbert Eyre Moulton. These compositions from 1965 are actually ancient in style and format. These stilistically mysterious thought-songs were triumphs of passionate interpretation.
The finale provided us with the necessary crowning glory: five songs from Gustav Mahler's 'Des Knaben Wunderhorn'. These were not duets. Instead, the songs were divided into dialogues. We found the sadness, we experienced the parody of superiority, scenes were acted out and still nobody feared losing the essence of the tones.
The accompanist Karl Bergemann proved himself to be an accomplished expert in all mentioned musical areas. No harmony was left unsung, no heart was left untouched, the singers were never overpowered by the sound of his piano playing and still he knew how to present himself well. His instrumentation entailed a magnetic expressive force.
His support was a counterpoint that even more famous colleagues would have envied taking them by their musical hands.
The audience were eternally thankful, providing the three artists with standing ovations."



Critiques such as these give even music lovers who didn't have the joy of hearing "The Singing Couple" live the hint of how wonderfully entertaining artists they were.
The amazing thing was that my parents were full fledged and extremely experienced artists already when I was born. They accomplished being successful artists and still being there for me at all times.
 
I spent a week in London with my mom in 1979. We met my Godfather, the composer James Wilson, and went to musicals like "Jesus Christ Superstar" and "Oliver!" (with a real dog running around the musical London stage, we weaved that, too, into the good night stories).
 
This trip provided me with good memories. It was a dear part of my childhood whose many events were included in our good night stories: my stuffed dog Ludde fell in love with our hotel chamber maid Maria. That's what we said, anyway.

With my dad, I went to Copenhagen during early 80's three winters in a row. Two guys going to the opera, eating Spaghetti, going to theatre to see an uncut version of Hamlet (the box office lady called Hamlet "a very good Danish play"), going to see a Bond movie in a Copenhagen cinema called the Colloseum (an Italian waiter told us: "The Colloseum is in Rome!") and running through Copenhagen after the royal guards to Queen Margarete's palace only to see them vanish into the courtyard and away beyond the entrance. We had hoped to see the Changing of the Guards, but only saw them march. It didn't matter. It was all good.

All three of us (the holy family) took trips to Sweden and America together, played board games on Friday nights, went to art museums, laughed until we cried on the living room couch we called Clothilde, took long trips in the Volkswagen we called Snoopy and invited my best friends for pancake breakfasts on Sunday mornings.


My parents were witty, generous, experienced people with lots of spirit. They were able to take responsibility for their lives as adults and still have some crazy spontaneous fun along the way. I will always be eternally thankful for their fantastic influence. What they gave me I can pass on to my daughter. And they are our Guardian Angels. What a fantastic job they are doing. As always.
 
Now, a newspaper article about my mother Gun Margareta Kronzell published during her heyday from the local newspaper Barometern in 1971:

KALMAR’S OPERASINGER IS A EUROPEAN STAR!
HER FATHER KNUT GAVE HER HIS UNENDING SUPPORT

Think about this for a moment: Gun Kronzell can sing!
This discovery was made during Gun Kronzell’s last year at the Girl’s School in Kalmar. Nobody at the school had heard her before, neither the teachers nor the school friends knew it.
Now everybody in Europe knows it.
She is a star.
Gun Kronzell, born on Nygatan 16 in Kalmar, lives in Vienna and works as a Dramatic Mezzo-Soprano all across the continent. She has been working at the Volks-Opera in Vienna during the Springtime and has sung on many European Stages , including London’s Festival Hall. Her appearances in Sweden have been few, but now the Kalmar audience has the possibility to hear her fantastic voice in the Kalmar Cathedral on Monday. There will be two other concerts in the local area.
She lives all summer in her mother Anna’s and her father Knut’s apartment on Odengatan and is taking with her son Charlie. Her husband Herbert Eyre Moulton is still in Vienna, working at the English speaking theatres as an actor, teaching English, creating school radio programs for the Austrian Broadcasting Corporation (ORF) and writing plays.
“My husband and I met in Hannover in Germany. We were both working singers and shared the same singing teacher. I asked him if he would speak English with me. Since then, we have only spoken English with each other. That is, when we are on speaking terms,” Gun laughs with a twinkle in her eye. “We love performing with each other and promoting ourselves as The Singing Couple.”

MULTILINGUAL

Two year old Charlie is raised to speak many languages, among them English and German. His grandparents are right now teaching him Swedish. Some day he will be able to compete with his mother, who fluently speaks at least three languages, if not more.
Sea Captain and Swedish Church Chief Accountant Knut Kronzell wanted to become an opera singer, but his parents had other plans. He had to be satisfied with singing for his family at festive gatherings. In the beginning, Gun wasn’t impressed. But as time went on, she was.
When she applied to study at the Royal Musical Academy in Stockholm, her father Knut gave her all his support.

A FAMOUS FAMILY

Success came flying from high and wide and from all the right places. Her education was superb, her vocal range was phenomenal, her interpretation became renowned: a perfect mixture. Stockholm’s Opera House was too limited a forum and Gun moved to Germany, where Bielefeld, Hannover, Köln, Recklinghausen, Wiesbaden, Paris, Brügge and Graz has become her own “home turf.”
Her husband Herbert Eyre Moulton is from Chicago. He is a singer, author and works for Austrian Radio. Last year he joined his wife in order to sing at the festival Kalmar 70. This year he has not had any time to come to Sweden.

VITALLY ITALIAN

“I like acting on stage,” Gun Kronzell says. “It’s better than singing concerts. I feel lonelier on the concert stage. The opera stage is always lively and full of action.”
The Italian composers are among her favorites. Verdi is number one. Of course.

A LIFE FULL OF SONG

Gun Kronzell:
“I’m actually quite tired of Wagner. He was an amazing composer, but in his operas there is a whole lot of endless singing and that gets strenuous for the audience. Brünhilde, Erda, Kundry, Ariadne, I’ve sung them all, and I was always happy to have a good vocal technique to help me get through those roles and a happy to wear a good pair of shoes.”
The new kind of pop music world wide radio keeps playing is not something Gun dislikes. The Beatles have many good successors, she says. Charlie just loves pop music. The hotter, the better.

SWEDEN’S TOP 40

Gun Kronzell doesn’t mind hot music. However, schmaltzy Schlager Muzak is not her thing and she admits that she also doesn’t really know what’s hot in Swedish popular music today.
“I have no idea what vinyl EPs are being handed over the counters and what songs are making the top record charts in Sweden right now,” she laughs.

RADIO

Gun Kronzell will record a radio program for Swedish Radio this year. Her concert from last year, recorded at the festival Kalmar 70, will appear in a rerun.
This autumn there will be a whole range of continental concerts.
“I have to return to Kalmar at least once a year,” she says. “That family contact is important, the sea air rejuvenates me, the food, the sun, the laughter, the flowers and the friends. And my mom and dad are very happy when I come. Especially when I bring Charlie along.”

The Legend of the Flying Dutchman 


Written by Kerry Sullivan


Many thanks to 


http://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends/legend-flying-dutchman-ghostly-apparition-ship-captain-hendrick-007285


***

Among nautical myths and legends, few are as famous as the Flying Dutchman. Many have claimed to see the ghostly vessel of Captain Hendrick van der Decken (the Dutchman) since it sank in 1641. It is because of his brash attitude in the face of God’s stormy wrath that Captain van der Decken and his crew are cursed to sail the high seas until doomsday.
Captain van der Decken had made the perilous journey from Holland to the Far East Indies in order to purchase lucrative goods like spices, silks, and dyes. There had been close calls of course but they eventually arrived. After purchasing as much as the hull could hold and having made the necessary repairs to the ship, captain van der Decken set out for Amsterdam. As his ship rounded the coast of Africa, captain van der Decken thought of how convenient it would be if his employers, the Dutch East India Company, made a settlement near the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa to serve as a respite from the turbulent waters.


Voyage and Curse 

The Captain was deep in thought as his man-of-war ship began to round the Cape. Suddenly, a terrible gale sprung up, threatening to capsize the ship and drown all aboard. The sailors urged their captain to turn around but Captain van der Decken refused. Some say he was mad, others say he was drunk but for whatever reason, the Captain ordered his crew to press on. He lit his pipe and smoked as huge waves crashed against the ship. The winds tore at the sails and water spilled down into the hull. Yet the Captain “held his course, challenging the wrath of God Almighty by swearing a blasphemous oath” (Occultopedia, 2016).

Pushed to their limit, the crew mutinied. Without hesitation, Captain van der Decken killed the rebel leader and threw his body into the turning seas. The moment the rebel’s body hit the water, the vessel spoke to the Captain “asking him if he did not mean to go into the bay that night. Van der Decken replied: ‘May I be eternally damned if I do, though I should beat about here till the day of judgment’” (Wagner quoted in Music with Ease, 2005).

At that, the voice spoke again saying, “As a result of your actions you are condemned to sail the oceans for eternity with a ghostly crew of dead men bringing death to all who sight your spectral ship and to never make port or know a moment’s peace. Furthermore, gall shall be your drink and red hot iron your meat.” At this, Captain van der Decken did not quaver for an instant. Instead he merely cried “Amen to that!” (Occultopedia, 2016).


Ghost Ship

Since then, Captain van der Decken has been given the moniker the Flying Dutchman, sailing his ghost ship the world over. Sailors claim the Dutchmen has led ships astray, causing them to crash on hidden rocks or reefs. They say that if you look into a fierce storm brewing off the Cape of Good Hope, you will see the Captain and his skeletal crew. But beware, legend has it that whoever catches sight of the Dutchman will most certainly die a gruesome death.

The legend of the Flying Dutchman first gained widespread popularity with Wagner’s 1843 opera, The Flying Dutchman. Yet, the reason the legend has endured so long and has been the subject of so many retellings (seen in or inspiring not only Wagner’s opera but also Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Pirates of the Caribbean, a SpongeBob Square Pants character, a Scooby-Doo episode, and more) is because there have been so many supposed sightings of the ghost ship.

One of the most famous encounters was made on July 11, 1881 by Prince George of Wales (future King George V) and his brother Prince Albert Victor of Wales. At the time, they were sailing off the coast of Australia. Prince George’s log records:
July 11th. At 4 a.m. the Flying Dutchman crossed our bows. A strange red light as of a phantom ship all aglow, in the midst of which light the masts, spars and sails of a brig 200 yards distant stood out in strong relief as she came up on the port bow, where also the officer of the watch from the bridge clearly saw her, as did the quarterdeck midshipman, who was sent forward at once to the forecastle; but on arriving there was no vestige nor any sign whatever of any material ship was to be seen either near or right away to the horizon, the night being clear and the sea calm. Thirteen persons altogether saw her ... At 10.45 a.m., the ordinary seaman who had this morning reported the Flying Dutchman fell from the foretopmast crosstrees on to the topgallant forecastle and was smashed to atoms.” (Ellis, 2016)
Today, scientists insist that the Dutchman’s ship is nothing more than a mirage, a refraction of light off of the ocean waters.

​
Sources:

Ellis, Tony. "Maritime Ghosts." The Flying Dutchman. Woodbury Central, 2016. Web. www.woodbury-central.k12.ia.us/common/pages/DisplayFile.aspx?itemId=9931541
MI News Network. "Ghost Ship: The Mysterious Flying Dutchman." Marine Insight. Marine Insight, 21 July 2016. Web. 20 Dec. 2016. http://www.marineinsight.com/maritime-history/ghost-ship-the-mysterious-flying-dutchman/
Music with Ease. "Source of the Legend of The Flying Dutchman." Operas of Richard Wagner The Flying Dutchman. Music with Ease, 2005. Web. 20 Dec. 2016. http://www.musicwithease.com/flying-dutchman-source.html
Occultopedia. "Flying Dutchman." Occultopedia, the Occult and Unexplained Encyclopedia. Occultopedia, 2016. Web. 20 Dec. 2016. http://www.occultopedia.com/f/flying_dutchman.htm

The Spirit of Anacleto


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

He is dead I am sure. He was a few years older than me. Apart from that, I seem to recall that my mother had mentioned that he was involved in some political groups and lost his life.
I met Anacleto, a true-blooded Italian man only one single time. This as the result of my mother having met him on a vacation trip with Kurt, her second husband. She was full of praise for the young man. “He looks fabulous, he is intelligent, he is very polite, he is not married,” and so on and on.
To him, she must have spoken the same way about me. The year was 1958. I agreed to meet with Anacleto in Paris!
True, he was a nice young man. He fell in love with me! For some reason he wanted to keep contact via my mother. I did not waste much thought on him. He was not my type and also too young. In addition, I was dating the chief surgeon of a large hospital. All this had happened just before my new life as a stewardess with consequently my going to America.
My mother did not mention Anacleto any more, at least I do not remember. He, however, wrote several letters to her meant in a way to be related to me. Yet I had not even the idea that they existed. In retrospect, it really did not matter but for some odd reason, those letters lay here on my desk now in the year 2017. It is time to put them to rest.
I feel forced to write this story about Anacleto. Ghostlike his pictures, photos from the years 1958 and 1959 are part of the letters. I meant to throw out the entire package. It stands to reason that I did not care then and do not now, but here they are. I found the writes and pictures in a folder when cleaning my mother’s house in Berlin after her death in 2001; I had not known that they even existed. For 16 years now, I have meant to write a short piece about this, to keep, but never did. Never could I bring myself to throw all out either.
So today is the day. Otherwise my own son might find it after my death, and whatever force this material possesses might give him trouble too.
I am turning even more into a believer of ghostly interference. When I broke a few hours ago on this story to have dinner, I had saved it. Nothing unusual about that. When I returned I could not restore or find it. Now, a few hours later and without even trying, the Anacleto story popped up on my computer’s screen. Believe it or not!
The letters I found cover 1957 to 1959 and are all directed to my mother. They are written in broken German. I just notice that Anacleto’s last name was Verrecchia. The name combination, Alexandra Verrecchia would not have been too bad!
Here is the translation of selected letters from German into English and I am going to use it as material for a story. A story that is disturbing as the write was so confusing and constantly interrupted by uncommon incidents of artificial(?) intelligence.
Here are some excerpts from the letters that pertain to me:
…Torino October 31, 1957… (All letters start with “Liebe Frau Krause,” which is my mother, and open with some polite niceties.) You know already that I do correspond with Alexandra. Of course, I am not a sky-blue Prince but only a common, young man, as you know. Now Alexandra wrote me that she needs to be operated and I am sorry. As I cannot get any news from her for the next 10 to 12 days, I ask you to please keep me apprised of the outcome, yes?
I am satisfied to write to Alexandra as she is said to be a beautiful, intelligent and friendly girl, because as daughter of Mr. Krause, this has to be so. (With Mr. Krause he means the second husband of my mother, whom he had also met at the vacation. He did not know that Kurt Krause was not my father.)
I feel good, no longer suffering from an epidemic, just a little heart problem…I am already looking forward to an answer from you and many, many good wishes for Alexandra.
…Torino December 12, 1957…Maybe Alessandra told you already why I have not written lately. I feel better again now, just minor pains, most likely from the cold in the mountains. Dear Mrs. Lilo (my mother’s name is Lilo – even as I edit this piece for publication, words that were italicized suddenly become roman.) and Alexandra’s mother, what can I do to come to meet, your blue prince seeking daughter, in person? I would love to come for Christmas to Berlin but have little time. I asked my boss today if he would give me off from Christmas to New Year’s, but unfortunately, he said “no.” If however, Alexandra would like, and you and your husband would not mind maybe Mekka could go to Macmetto? I know I should not ask for that. The Germans love the Christmas feast more than we do and I, who live alone, can maybe not understand how nice it could be in a small, lovely family. For me the biggest wish is to meet Alexandra in person. I know her so little.
…Torino 30 January 1958… I have not heard anymore from you. Hope all is well. I know you have no time, but when you can please. When will you come again to Italy? Write me a long letter. You are so helpful and motherly that it is a treat for me to read something from you. Alexandra writes that it got warm in Berlin. She thinks it is so different here but that is not so. Now I will finish. I hope to see Alexandra around Easter and finally come to meet her. Maybe I, the prince, will in Alexandra my princess find.
Now I also suddenly come across a letter from Anacleto written to me directly. A letter I never saw before. Guess my mother was supposed to give it to me:
…Torino February 17, 1958…Dear Princessa Alexandra! I got a nice letter from your mother. But you, you my dear love, and loved one (platonic like you say) and still unknown principessa, what do you do that you do not find time to write to me? Are you too lazy to write or is the weather in Berlin so bad that your hands tremble from the cold? You must know that letters from you are a true joy for me. I say that slowly or you will say I exaggerate. Yes Alexandra, I share with you many, many thoughts. In the letter from your mother was a picture of you. You always look beautiful. Why do you say you are afraid that I will not like you? Do you want a backhanded compliment or do you believe I am already like Paride or Hyperion? I am afraid, you should not be. One more month till Easter. What will we do? Where will we meet? For how long will you come? If you never have been to Italy, we could meet at Riva di Garda or
Luenchen, Innsbruck or wherever you want. Do not expect that I speak German like Goethe or you. For me it is easier to talk than to understand, so I will ask you to speak clear and slow. No fear, I will hang on your words like they are spoken by an angel. By the way, how tall are you? I am 1.75, is that tall enough? I am shaky from joy to see you.
…Torino February 15, 1958 …Your letter Mrs. Lilo was very nice and I thank you. Alexandra also wrote to me, just a postcard, and now I am waiting for a letter from her. It would be lovely if we, I mean I and Alexandra, could meet for Easter. I guess I need not to tell you that I want that very much. So far, it is just a Pleonasmus. Please, if you do not mind and trust me, let Alexandra go. Of course, that depends also on Alexandra and I really do not know how she thinks about it. I can only say that when she once comes to Italy, it will brighten her beauty even more.
Thank you for the picture. Please tell Alexandra that I find her prettier every day.
(I am not sure where this belongs, so I will add it here.)
…Alexandra sent me a nice card with a big cat and I answered with an obedient dog. As you see we are like dog and cat. The card was written in good Italian. How come? Maybe you are correct to say that Alexandra is still a child. Also for that, I love her. Maybe she does not even understand what a beautiful and lovable mother she has. If I had a mother like that, I would scream with joy and need nothing else. I told you already that my poor mother died during the War. So, I grew up mostly without parents. I know Alexandra still too little to speak of her weird complexes. Please try to bring her with you to Italy. Maybe then the sun will open her heart. Listen to me and come back to Costa Adriatic. It is nice and not expensive. When will you come? What you tell me about Love and yourself is touching. What shall I answer? Mr. Krause can be happy to have such a wife. I too know the world and must say that women with value get fewer and fewer. Who has such a wife can be happy. Hope Mr. Krause is not jealous and wants to wring my neck for these compliments.
…Torino April 9, 1958…Today the sun is shining in Torino and also my face, my soul and my heart are more rested than in Paris. But also in Paris there was a sun for me even though a cold one. Your child, Mrs. Lilo, is wonderful. Now maybe you can understand if I say that I am in love with Alexandra. True 4 or 5 days are not enough to come to know a person but enough to fall in love. Love and friendship complement each other but only the friendship needs time to be born not the love. When I saw Alexandra the first time at the Hotel D’Orsey, I came to understand all, that Alexandra si sarrebe riuscita fatale. That I am Italian or Turkish has nothing to do with it. The truth is only that I am in love with Alexandra, or if you like, that I like her a lot. Her deep and restless eyes I cannot forget, will never forget. This is not Poesy, neither Madrigal, dear Mrs. Liselotte but only a confession of the soul. Do not think that I am only romantic or gallant. With Alexandra I do not want to make literature but something much more. It is for me the first time that I seriously think about marriage. Yes, for me it is careless so fast about love and honor to talk. Maybe it is naïve, but every man who is in love is naïve. That is the strength of the women, and Alexandra has possible more strength than me. Yet I do not want a toy. I am in love, if it is not forbidden in Germany like it appears with Alexandra. Her I do not understand and that is for sure difficult. If I only could understand her and maybe she does not have a cold heart.
Alexandra said, I must fight to conquer her heart. Fine, but how so if she lives in Berlin and I in Torino? Also with letters I cannot fight because now I know how bad my German is. If I could express myself in German the way I do in Italian, my competition to her German lovers would be much less. I am not rich
enough to move to Berlin and wait without work till I win Alexandra over. But I will fight, even if I am not a Quixote. I will try to get work in Berlin. Not sure if that is possible but I must try it. There I can also learn German, Italian, and Russian, which brings good money. I know also that Principessa could come to Italy to her blue prince, but that I no longer believe she will. Later ! ? I could work in a travel agency. I will for sure try, even as journalist. Please try for me too. Now I am waiting for a letter from “my Princepessa” she is a real principessa. Dear Mrs. Lilo please do not tell Alexandra about this letter.
Tell her nothing. With Alexandra, it is nearly prohibited to talk about love and she might be right because nothing is so boring like a man in love and I do not want to be boring. Please answer soon, my soul needs peace. How nice it would be if I could talk this evening with you and Mr. Krause.
…Torino April 17, 1958...How can I now answer your lovely but sad letter? What you write to me – and I am grateful for it – makes me sad, not only for myself but also for you and Alexandra. Sad but one cannot always only talk with the heart. Now I have no right or reason any more to have Alexandra like me and even less the hope that there will come the day that she would love me. I don’t know what Alexandra thinks and wants. On top of that, it would be idiotic to beg a woman for love. Love comes right away or not at all. For Alexandra, a career as airhostess is better than me. An experience!
Yes, the world is large but nice I do not think so it is said and in Italy there are also pretty girls. I know that but despite my philosophy and the reality of all, I am still in love with Alexandra. More than nice, life is funny, Mrs. Liselotte. Just think, a nice and also rich, pretty girl calls me often and also writes me love letters but I do not want to hear of it. Alexandra, on the other hand, does not contact me and I am still in love with her. He was right Hamletus dear Horatius. In the world much more exists than what your philosophy will understand


There was no way to continue on the original document. Yesterday while I was writing, the letters on the Word Document appeared far apart. Spaces of four or five open spots between. I cannot get to the next line, cannot continue. It is something that has never happened to me before. If I go to another story or document, all is fine.
It is something that has never happened to me before. Am I being tested? Is the spirit of this man, once in the past wanting to be my lover, still clinging on to me and still in love with me? A ghostly thought!
And now what? A handwritten page about all this, from this morning has disappeared.


Today, just now I could not at all find this document! Again, it gives me now the extended letter spaces. I would not even know how to do this if I wanted to.


…Torino April 17, 1958…Only in Paris Alessandra told me that she wants to fly. I only answered, I am not here to marry you right away but if I had known that before, maybe I would not have come to Paris but went skiing. Later she did not say, I will not fly but come to you in Paris. You can see that Alessandra is looking for a Blue Prince or angel in the air. What can one say. I wish her all the best.
Please know Alessandra was quite nice to me in Paris. Possible I was not always nice to her. I had no urge to dance. I think with a pretty girl the time is everywhere and always nice even if one does not dance. But I repeat, Alessandra was nice to me and I was satisfied. Cold is different and has nothing to do with this. As you can see, this time I am less stressed and do not let my heart talk. But I shall still tell you that I love Alexandra. I think Alessandra belongs to those women who are only born so that men can lose their
head. They are without heart, only brain but do sell magic. I should really not tell you this but Alessandra seems to have too many whimsical ideas. Guess I would like to see her the way I like her not how she really is. If you and Mr. Krause and of course Alessandra want it, I will marry her. Believe me that I mean this. Now I will also write to her so she does not say I am too lazy to write.
…I got two airmail letters from you. Entertaining and I thank you for it. You are so motherly and I do not at all understand how your daughter can be so different from you. Maybe she just wants to hide her feelings. I got a postcard from Alexandra. She writes that even if she flies I should not be sad but happy be. Why? I do not understand. She said flying has nothing to do with the two of us. I do not agree. When she is flying and I am on earth, we cannot do anything together. You cannot imagine, dear Mrs. Lilo, how much I have lately suffered for Alex. It is not only yearning for a pretty girl but also for my desire for Germany, the half culture. Due to that also my deep sympathy, illustrated a little nuts, she and me too. For you and your husband, I want to marry Alessandra even if she is cold and I am nuts.
Please tell me the full truth. I do not know with what I deserve the silence from Alessandra.
(I had lost the second handwritten page. Found it. Not sure how it got to where it turned up. This could however have been my mistake.
Is it a kobold or imp playing tricks? Is it the once-ignored energy of the young man Anacleto. Wow! And now I am getting, what I keep calling chicken feet (editing marks). Marks that I have not set for my writings ever. Is Anacleto or rather his spirit finally having his say?
A lady who is a computer wiz will be able to fix all this but I am sure she too will not know how all this came about.)
…Torino Mai 2, 1958… Just this minute our concierge brought me a letter from Berlin. Thought immediately that it is from Mrs. Lilo or Alexandra. (Now the type is changing from italic to roman without my doing, figures. I hope it remains italic long enough to get to press.) But no, it is a letter from a lady who I came to meet in Paris. Her name is Marta and she was quite nice.
(Now the computer adds a grey background on its own and a random email at the paragraph’s end followed by a timestamp???)
Do you know dear lady, that the poor Christus from Anacleto again fell when skiing? Till yesterday I limped like Rigoletto or Goebbels. As I live alone, without a wife, I am mostly alone with just my books. Your newspaper greetings and books I did not get this time. Are you mad at me? No, that I would never believe. Sometimes I am afraid that you misunderstand my letters and Alexandra too because my German is bad. I translate my Italian thoughts into German, and that is not always the same.
Dear Alexandra, hope you're doing well…Best regards from Alan
11:02AM
Please forgive me if I write stupid things at times, it is only because I cannot express myself well in German.
(See what just popped up! it has nothing to do with what I am just now typing)
…Torino Mai 10 1958…Your letter from Mai 7 was appreciated but I did not understand all. Please tell me in your next letter still something about Alexandra. But please do not tell Alexandra. Who was it who lost
their head? Alexandra for the 25-year-old man or I? About this I had already the answer when Alexandra said to me at one time in Paris, “You are too young for me.” If you want to know still more about Paris, you can talk with Mrs. Schumacher in Berlin who was with us nearly all the time. Please phone this lady, she can tell you about me. I think I made a big mistake to meet Alexandra in Paris. It would have been better to meet Alexandra in Italy or Berlin. Alexandra is a spoiled girl, used to luxury and to keep up with that in Paris one has to be as rich as Krupp, Agnelli or Olivetti. That I am for sure not. It is my fault. I should have listened to you and waited till August.
This is followed by a few more pages of letters to my mother. Somewhat resigned but perpetually speaking of love for me and the deep and sad experience it was that I did not feel the same way. The last date is from September 1959 – almost 60 years ago.
Now I should be able to get rid of all the documents, letters and pictures but and that is the clincher. (Suddenly, again, a random email paragraph appeared here and a gray background.)
Consequently, the memory of Anacleto will continue to hang on. Never before have I been visited by spirits. Never before had I the feeling that someone could love me past the earthly life. It was a short encounter with apparently eternal consequences. I am forced to continue to stow these documents as I fear I may be called upon to produce them later. This was an eerie write as something or someone inside the computer seemed to be forcing its desires as I typed. Odd formatting, disappearing documents, time stamp, random email messages. I am ending this story before the computer starts talking to me.

International Quotes About Creativity



Hindi:
 
रचनात्मकता वह गुणवत्ता है जो आप उस गतिविधि में लाती हैं जो आप कर रहे हैं यह एक रवैया है, एक आंतरिक दृष्टिकोण - आप चीजों को कैसे देखते हैं । । जो भी आप करते हैं, यदि आप इसे आनंद से करते हैं, यदि आप ऐसा करते हैं प्यार से, यदि आपके कार्य करना पूरी तरह किफायती नहीं है, तो यह रचनात्मक है।" - ओशो
 
Creativity is the quality that you bring to the activity that you are doing. It is an attitude, an inner approach – how you look at things . . . Whatsoever you do, if you do it joyfully, if you do it lovingly, if your act of doing is not purely economical, then it is creative.” – Osho


 
Greek:
 
"Κάθε στιγμή έμπνευσης είναι στιγμή παραφροσύνης"
 
Every moment of inspiration is a moment of out of one's mind.
-Aristoteles Valaorites, greek poet
 
Posted by Apostolos Kanaris, Greek Tenor and Pianist, Recklinghausen, Germany


 
German:
 
"Mutige Ideen sind wie Schachfiguren: sie bewegen sich vorwärts, können geschlagen werden, aber starten ein Gewinnspiel."- Goethe
 
“Daring ideas are like chessmen moved forward; they may be beaten, but they may start a winning game.” — Goethe


 
Italian:
 
“Quello che è un artista? Una provincia che si trova a metà strada tra una realtà fisica e uno metafisica .... E 'questo, questo paese di frontiera in-between che sto chiamando una provincia tra il mondo tangibile e l'intangibile unico che è davvero il regno dell'artista.” – Federico Fellini
 
“What is an artist? A provincial who finds himself somewhere between a physical reality and a metaphysical one…. It’s this in-between that I’m calling a province, this frontier country between the tangible world and the intangible one—which is really the realm of the artist.” — Federico Fellini


 
English:
 
“A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on.”
- John F. Kennedy


 
Arabic:
 
الجمال الذي يفي بك هو الجمال الذي يكشف لك صورة روحك الخاصة دون تشوهات المياه الغامضة للحياة

The beauty that fulfils you is beauty that reveals to you the image of your own soul without the distortions of the murky waters of life

Musṭafā Ṣadiq al-Rāfiʿī


 
Suaheli:
 
“Hebu daima kukutana kila mmoja na tabasamu, kwa tabasamu ni mwanzo wa upendo.”
 
“Let us always meet each other with smile, for the smile is the beginning of love.”
 
- Suaheli Proverb


 
French:
 
“Jésus a pleuré; Voltaire sourit. De cette larme divine et de ce sourire humain est dérivée la grâce de la civilisation actuelle.” – Victor Hugo
 
“Jesus wept; Voltaire smiled. From that divine tear and from that human smile is derived the grace of present civilization.”
– Victor Hugo


 
English:
 
“Creativity is using imagination and knowledge to show love!”

• Patrick Bryant Michael

 
Swedish:
 
”Om målet med samhällsutvecklingen skulle vara att vi alla skulle arbeta maximalt vore vi sinnessjuka. Målet är att frigöra människan till att skapa maximalt. Dansa. Måla. Sjunga. Ja, vad ni vill. Frihet.” – Ernst Wigforss
 
”If society’s developmental goal would be maximum work, we would all go insane. The goal is to free manking to ultimate creativity. Dance. Paint. Sing. Whatever you want. Freedom.” – Ernst Wigforss



Japanese:
 
私は何かを習得し、次に創造性が来るでしょう
 
“I will master something. Then the creativity will come.”
- Japenese Proverb


 
Gaelic:
 
“Is ceannaireacht enlightened spioradálta má tuigimid spioradáltacht ní mar an dogma creidimh nó idé-eolaíocht de chineál éigin ach de réir mar an bhfearann feasachta ina taithí againn luachanna cosúil le fírinne, maitheas, áilleacht, grá agus compassion, agus freisin intuition, cruthaitheacht, léargas agus aird dírithe.” – Bryan O’Flanagan
 
“Enlightened leadership is spiritual if we understand spirituality not as some kind of religious dogma or ideology but as the domain of awareness where we experience values like truth, goodness, beauty, love and compassion, and also intuition, creativity, insight and focused attention.” – Bryan O’Flanagan


​ 
Russian:
 
Чтобы создать там должна быть динамическая сила, и какая сила более могущественна, чем любовь
 
“In order to create there must be a dynamic force, and what force is more potent than love?” – Igor Stravinsky



Spanish: 

La creatividad y la inspiración: 
son susurros y suspiros del corazón

Creativity and inspiración: are whispers and sighs of the heart. 

- David Thorpe

From the King James Bible

Matthew 28:1 - 20

​
1In the end of the sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to see the sepulchre.
2And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it.
3His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow:
4And for fear of him the keepers did shake, and became as dead men.
5And the angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not ye: for I know that ye seek Jesus, which was crucified.
6He is not here: for he is risen, as he said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.
7And go quickly, and tell his disciples that he is risen from the dead; and, behold, he goeth before you into Galilee; there shall ye see him: lo, I have told you.
8And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy; and did run to bring his disciples word.
9And as they went to tell his disciples, behold, Jesus met them, saying, All hail. And they came and held him by the feet, and worshipped him.
10Then said Jesus unto them, Be not afraid: go tell my brethren that they go into Galilee, and there shall they see me.
11Now when they were going, behold, some of the watch came into the city, and shewed unto the chief priests all the things that were done.
12And when they were assembled with the elders, and had taken counsel, they gave large money unto the soldiers,
13Saying, Say ye, His disciples came by night, and stole him away while we slept.
14And if this come to the governor's ears, we will persuade him, and secure you.
15So they took the money, and did as they were taught: and this saying is commonly reported among the Jews until this day.
16Then the eleven disciples went away into Galilee, into a mountain where Jesus had appointed them.
17And when they saw him, they worshipped him: but some doubted.
18And Jesus came and spake unto them, saying, All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth.
19Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost:
20Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. Amen.

Memories of the War


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


The renaissance was the historical period around the 1400s.  I should know some solid facts about it, but I don’t and I blame my history teacher in Germany for that. Yes, I  remember his name,  Mr. Lipke.   He was tall, skinny with a wooden leg and a glass eye.  We made a lot of fun of him and now that I am a  grown up, I recognize that we gave him a harder time than he gave us.  He is the cause for the mental block I have when it comes to history.  The year was 1942 it was during World War II when I was assigned to Mr. Lipke at my school in Berlin Germany. History classes were mainly focused on our “Great Leader” Adolph Hitler.  I had managed to stay in school thanks to the help by some of our friends, but I knew that any small mistake could have had  unpredictable,  horrible results on my family’s future.  My father was at that time already in France, having had to leave our home in Austria because of his Jewish background.  Mother and I had come to Berlin and had managed so far to avoid letting anybody know why my father had left. I got away without having to wear the Jewish star.  I am only glad that nobody, not even Mr. Lipke, thought of connecting my failure in history classes to anything but a dumb mind.  I did not even prepare for the history classes.  Why should I make an effort, waste my time, if I would not get good grades anyhow.  The problem ended when in 1943 I was evacuated to Vienna and on my return put into a school in Potsdam a quaint little town near Berlin with the prominent castle Sanssoucci, the former summer residence of the King of Prussia 
This brings me back to the years shortly after World War II in Berlin.  I was 13 years old when it ended..  All of us who had survived the terror of the air raids and the street fights during the last gruesome days, were now yearning for the enjoyments and pleasures of good life. A lot happened though before we could breathe easier.
Never will I forget the day when the first Allied troops approached. We heard their guttural shouts coming closer and getting louder and louder.  Then we saw them. Chasing ahead like hoards of animals.  Filthy, bearded,  tired and smelling of manure We tried to hide but did not know where. My aunt and uncle put me in a bed in their dinghy, moldy cellar apartment. They covered me with blanket and when the soldiers rushed in, ready to satisfy their sex drive by raping, my uncle motioned to them that I am very sick. It worked, thank God. Most German women made themselves look real ugly with torn kerchiefs around their head. But the soldiers did not care Raping was going on all around us. My mother came up with a different solution. She dolled herself up in a pretty dress, high heels, lipstick.  A high ranking officer claimed her. Treated her well and even provided my family with food.
As mean as those invaders were, they were quite nice to children I remember being dressed in a red jumpsuit
The red is the color for the Soviets and was to show the admiration for the troops. A group of kids from my street met at the corner and together we marched for about fifteen minutes to the place where the mess halls had been erected. Then we stood in line and some soldiers dished out soup to fill our containers. It was fat and greasy soup, not easily digestible for our hunger ridden intestines but better suited for the inhabitants of the Ural mountains, the homeland of these soldiers. With the fat swimming in layers on top of the soup the dish was still steaming when we got home.
It was obvious that these ground troops had no education, no culture All they knew was the cold and mountains of Siberia. Some displayed a childlike curiosity when coming across a novelty. I remember on soldier sitting on a closed toilet seat, my music box on his lap.  This blood thirsty, looting and raping soldier suddenly had turned into a little boy in awe with a new toy. Another soldier had noticed the gleaming handle on the toilet and motioned his friend to get up. He opened the toilet seat and pulled the handle. The flushing noise scared both of them out of their wits. To our relief they both rushed away.
For many of us, a bicycle was the only means of transportation in those days. Now with the Russians confiscating everything nothing was save.  My bicycle was old, rusty but still relatively well working “Put it into the attic and cover it with blankets” my aunt advised but I could not make myself carry it up 4 floors. I still needed it that day. So I leaned it against the house wall, taking my chances.
Another group of “Hurrah” screaming soldiers appeared shortly thereafter. Like the ones before they were Mongols. They had come on brand new bikes. Beautiful. Their first way was up into the attic. Instinct told them that it was there where people tend their valuables. They found nothing in our attic, others had been up there before and cleared it out already. They needed a deal. So they took my old bike and left me a shiny new one. Figure it out.
Finally Berlin was divided into four sectors and we were lucky to become occupied by the Americans. Among the four groups, Russian, French, British and American we felt like we had won the lottery.
The American mess hall had been opened at a coffee shop close to our house, far closer than the Russian kitchen had been. As it was summer, the American soldiers would take their meals inside and outside. Many finished their rations only halfway and left the rest on the tables. We climbed the wooden fence and dumped whatever we found into the paper bags we had brought with us for that purpose. Occasionally the MP military police would chase us away but they never put a hand on us. Surely they felt sorry for us. They could see how under nourished we were. 
Our spirits got a damper when in 1948 the East was cut off from the West leaving West Berlin stranded like an Island . It was called the Berlin blockade.  The American, British and French sectors were surrounded by Russian occupied areas.. The Airlift came to our rescue.  Airplanes, compliments of the American Air Force, were assuring us day by day that provisions for our daily needs were flown in steadily. Those planes crossed the air corridor between Berlin and  West Germany many times a day.
I remember the dried potatoes that tasted like rubber, the powdered eggs, and the dried vegetables.  Not really delicacies, but we were immensely grateful nonetheless.  After all, it was more and richer than anything we had been eating during the last years of the war.  Amazingly we survived on dandelion salads from the yard, homegrown potatoes and pumpkins, rare quantities of goat’s milk and a six-ounce piece of meat a week. I do not remember anybody suffering from obesity in those years.
The noise of the airplanes shattered our windows and the boom from the planes breaking through the sound barrier was often deafening,.  For us Berliners it was like a sound of music as it assured us of a decent meal each day and gave us confidence that we were not forgotten. 
I recall having been given my first chewing gum during that time.  Never had I seen one before. When I told my mom she asked :  “Where is it” “Oh gone, I ate it!”  Mom explained to me that I should not have eaten it but she was not mad. We both laughed.
Twelve years later, then living in New York after having been sponsored to come to New York and fly for an American Airline, I married an American. He really had been in Berlin during the occupation after having landed in Normandy. He spread the story that he had met me and that I was so cute, with pig tails, that he had promised my mom and me to come back, would sponsor me and marry me once I became of age. “And so I did” he would say to anybody he had told that story too. He was so happy that most people believed him.
Although I did not like history when I had to study it in school,  I did live it. 

 
IF PEOPLE ONLY KNEW
​
HOW BEAUTIFUL ALLEPO WAS
 
 
A Poetry Collection
By Lyn Lifshin
 
 
LIFE IN ALEPPO
a day without bombs,
is good. You can
leave your apart-
ment, wander thru
small oasis of color
and light. No words,
only the sense of
loss. No color except
for an plot of green
and one plum tree,
not turned to drift
wood. One man who
has not left, says you
must live on the lower
floors to try to escape
airstrikes, shells, rockets,
phosphorous bombs,
cluster bombs. Dreams
blend with nightmares,
ghosts rise from the ruins.
Stark white bones litter
the streets. No more
dancing, no more violins.
No flamingos or pelicans.
Terror blooms under a
blue moon. When a small
bomb lands on top of
a building, it often takes out
just the top 2 or 3 stories.
Lately Basha al-Assad and
the Russian military have
been using a new kind of
bomb that demolishes the
whole building. People
stay out of any rooms near
the street. There’s no electricity.
Families rarely leave the apart-
ment, prefer to die together
 
 
THE LAST GARDEN IN ALEPPO
this small oasis of color and life
as cluster bombs, barrel
bombs, missiles rain on houses,
hospitals, schools in this
hazardous, unpredictable place,
a gardener was able to grow
flowers, vegetables, broad
leaved plants. Roses, gardenias,
bougainvillea. The gardener’s
whole existence dedicated
to the beauty of life, a small
courageous attempt to promote
peace. Dust and smoke blur
the stars, the watered ferns and
lilies in the shadows. Shivering
thru the raids, dreaming of
his dead wife until eventually a
barrel bomb lands near his
garden, kills him, his dream that
the “essence of the world is a
flower,” the color, smell, how it
can inspire. But in the time
since his death, Aleppo seems
mostly defined by another
floral attribute: fragility
 
 
THE CHILDREN
in Aleppo have to stay
off the streets or they’ll
be killed. Their parents
listen for sounds of war,
planes or shells, or cluster
bombs. “We try to live like
underground rodents,” one
father says. There are some
underground schools but
many parents find them
too risky. Some families
who live close to the school
let their children go if its
not too long a walk, one man
opened a school called al
Hikma which means wisdom
 
 
IN ALEPPO
if you have a car
you’ll have a hard
time getting gas
for it. If you’re
hoping to keep it
from being blown
up or damaged
by shrapnel, you
might store it in
an empty garage or
shop. Open the
windows too. Other
wise the glass may
crack from the pressure
of bombs exploding
 
 
LISTENING FOR SCOUTING PLANES
they sound different from
fighter jets on bombing
runs. The scouts fly lower
and they make a constant
buzzing sound. If you hear
them, you’ll know that shells
will be falling soon, bringing
death with them. If you go
outside make sure you don’t
end up in a group of more
than 20 people one man says
or you might attract a plane.
Scouting runs are especially
dangerous in summer when
there aren’t any clouds to
obscure pilots’ vision. But
they’re also bad on clear
days in winter. Going out at
night is especially risky because
you can’t see planes coming over
head and you have to drive with
out headlights. One man said
he suddenly felt pressure in
his ears and the windows of his
car cracked. It was an air strike
less than 100 meters behind him,
reminding him he was still alive
 
 
WHEN THE BOMBARDMENT IS AT ITS WORST
you start to worry you
might lose more of your
friends, call them to
check in. If you see them,
when you say goodbye,
you tell them “take care
of yourself. Maybe I
won’t see you
again”
 
 
IT’S EASY TO LOSE YOUR MIND IN ALEPPO
you might go one day
to look for food and come
back to find your building
is destroyed and your
family killed. People stand
in front of bombed out
buildings screaming and
crying in disbelief. More and
more people have lost
their homes and now are
living on the streets asking for
money. Before the war, they
never imagined they would
be beggars. Even people who
still have their houses, struggle
to cope. One man killed him
self with a machine gun
after another died. He shot
himself in the chest. Tho
more common in the west, in
Syria it is very rare. In Islam,
suicide is a terrible sin
 
 
ALEPPO
if you are not killed,
your next worry is
food. Now many
don’t have enough
money to buy any
thing to eat. There
aren’t any jobs so
every neighborhood
has young volunteers
whose responsibility
is to get food and
other supplies. Families
that still have a father
are lucky. His mission
is to get food and
other supplies
every day
 
 
MAYBE YOU’LL TRY TO GROW VEGETABLES IN YOUR GARDEN
some grow eggplant,
parsley and mint. Many
gardens have become burial
grounds because there
isn’t room anywhere else
to bury dead bodies after
four years of war. But
if the alternative is starving
to death, you might not mind
eating food that’s been grown
among corpses
 
 
ONE MAN SAID PRAY YOU DON’T HAVE TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL
they’re absolutely
miserable. I don’t
know how the doctors
and nurses can stand
all the blood, bones
and bowels all over
the floor. The smell is
awful. Patients who
can’t leave are constantly
screaming in pain. This
man says, “several
weeks ago I was shot
in the hand by a sniper
and I have some broken
bones. So I go to the
hospital once a week to
change my bandages.
I can’t bear to be there
more than half an
hour.”
 
 
EVERGREEN, PEARS, TEREBINTH, HAZELNUTS, ROSES, MAQUIS, ROSEMARY
in the last garden of Aleppo. For
resistance, not remembrance.
The gardener, father of the flowers,
and his son. He thinks of the garden
as music. One flower was hit by
shrapnel but it is still alive. Some
buy plants and scatter them around
the city. Many leave freshly cut flowers
around the ruins. Then a bomb landed
near the garden and killed the gardener.
His son is lost. He doesn’t know what
to do. The chameleons are dust. To live
here is to live with grief. But in time
he will remember how his father
described the cycle of life. This one dies
but another grows. It is the beauty
from god
 
 
IF PEOPLE ONLY KNEW HOW BEAUTIFUL ALLEPO WAS
the most beautiful
buildings reduced
to rubble. The lost
houses, the lost
flowers. You get
used to the bombs.
One man, 53, says
he’s seen enough.
He doesn’t want
to get to 60
 
 
ALEPPO, A WORLD HERITAGE SITE
the camera was the
worst enemy. One poet
whose whole family was
killed sings to the pigeons.
My heart is broken, my
eyes can’t sleep. Fly away
and reassure me. Tell me
about yourself. Don’t
forget the beautiful words
 
 
IN ALEPPO, A HAVEN OF BEAUTY
in the middle of
hell on earth. But
it was more than
the jade abundance
and the brilliant
colors that made it
an oasis of tranquility
and repose for those
who chose to stay
in Aleppo or can’t
leave. Barley wind
from Yarmook River.
Abu Ward, whose name
means “father of the
flowers,” fought to
preserve beauty in the
rubble of what has
been from the
last remaining garden
center in the once
bustling liberated area
of Aleppo. “My place
is worth billions of
dollars,” he told
a video journalist, “it
soothes like Mozart.”
 
 
LATER AS THE GARDENER GENTLY TOUCHED A FEW GREEN LEAVES
growing out of
the top of an
otherwise barren
stick of a tree. “This one was hit
by shrapnel but
it is alive. The tree
will live and we
will live.” The
essence of
the world is
a flower
 
 
ABDULLAH, HELPING WITH THE FOOD SHORTAGE
runs a small garden
on a blasted out
patch of ground
that was at one
point attacked by a
bomb dropped by
a helicopter leaving
3 people dead. After
the bomb attacked
the patch of ground
he started planting
tomatoes, peppers,
potatoes, Middle East
grain. He says his 250
square feet of produce
is his way of saying
he won’t be brought
down by terror. “My
garden,” he says, “is a
message to the Assad
regime and those who
support it. We will stay
in our city even if they
bomb it to smithereens,
we will resist no matter
how long their siege lasts”
 
 
SYRIAN BOY
cries for Dad
after losing
both legs in
a blast. “Pick
me up Daddy,”
he cries “pick
me up, pick
me up”
 
 
BEKAA VALLEY, LEBANON
ramshackle tents,
children playing
in garbage. Young
boys and girls,
nephews, nieces,
huddled together
on the tent floor.
In the dry dust and
wind of dead roses
the tents catch on
fire. Refugees from
Syria’s civil war wait
for something to
change but nothing
does. No jobs, no
hope. Flamingos in
rubble. Crying babies.
Men staring into space
most days. One stays
hungry when the
man doesn’t work
 
 
ONE FAMILY HAS BAD FEELINGS FOR THE NUMBER SEVEN
one man says his brother
was disappeared on the 7th
of April. Another brother
on September 7th. A fellow
government employer was
taken, tortured and electrocuted,
his family got the corpse back
on the 7th day of the 7th month
 
 
ISRAELIS HELP GERMAN AID WORK WITH SYRIAN REFUGEES
after taking the dangerous
journey from war torn Syria
to Berlin, refugees are
surprised to be greeted by
professionals from the Israeli
Trauma Coalition. One man
says the long scar on his left
cheek is not very heroic—it
was from barbed wire on the
Macedonia-Serbia border.
He’s 29 years old but the marks
of exhaustion on his face are
from someone much older.
11 years ago he started working
for the Red Cross then protests
were banned. “Every Friday
we’d go to the mosque and after
prayers we’d start rioting and
protesting. Hidden among the
masses we could protest in
relative security until Asad’s
people starting planting under-
cover agents in the rallies to
identify the protesters and
arrest them. Soon the noose
tightened so they paid a smuggler
who hid them in a car and took
them to Beirut, then he got
to Greece, then Turkey where
they left from Izmir on a small
boat with 40 other refugees. It was so small they weren’t
allowed to sneeze because any
small movement could have
flipped the boat and cause every
one to drown
 
 
ONCE IN GERMANY
the refugees are
treated for trauma.
Israelis know a lot
about trauma and
how to treat it be-
cause of the terrorism
in their own country
and organizations
that treat Holocaust
survivors. Politically
this is an interesting
experiment: Israelis
are coming to aid
refugees from enemy
countries on German soil
 
 
SURREAL
helping the trauma
victims among the
Israeli professionals
is Vivian Reuflinger
in the settlement Oranit
where Mohammed, a
Palestinian social worker
who moved from Qalgilya
to Berlin 4 years ago and
is now helping refugees.
In the past, Vivian and
Mohammed were on
opposite sides of the
conflict and hadn’t come in
contact with each other. Now, she’s instructing one
how to help Syrian refugees
deal with the ache of war.
“I have nothing against the
Israelis, I accept all people,” he says during a coffee break
as a way for two people on
two different sides of a
conflict, to say “ hello” when
they meet far from the conflict
zone”
 
 
IN THE TRAUMA CENTER POLITICS IS SWEPT ASIDE
dozens of children raised
in the belief that Israel is
as bad as Satan are receiving
life saving treatments at Ziv
Medical Center in Safed after
escaping the pain and suffering
of civil war in Syria. “I was
afraid of the Jews, but now I’m
not afraid at all,” says a ten
year old boy whose hands were
saved by Israeli doctors
 
 
THE REFUGEES FROM SYRIA
have been thru three
life shattering experiences.
the war, the journey which
is often horrendous and
immigration which is
considered one of the most
difficult experiences
of a person’s life
 
 
IN THE REFUGEE CENTER
the food is halal,
adhere to Islam’s
dietary laws. But
many of the refugees
have grown tired of
Islam, with some
often seeing it as one
of the reasons for
their situation. Many
even let their children
eat local gummy bears
even tho they contain
gelatin produced from
pig’s meat. “God,” they
believe, “is looking the
other way”
 
 
THE REFUGEE HILTON
there are signs in
English and Arabic
all over the building.
Small windows are
decorated with small
German flags, leaving
no doubt as to what
country the refugees
want to live in. Jugs
with drinking water
are everywhere while
large rats run around
the trash cans outside
enjoying the piles of
left over food
 
 
ONE OF THE BUILDINGS FLOORS IN A REFUGEE CENTER
has a room strictly
for women designed
by female refugees
using donated fabrics.
In large bags they can
find knitting needles
and balls of wool. On
the table are bottles
of nail polish to give
the women some link
to their old lives
 
 
AT THE GERMAN REFUGEE CENTER
the Israeli therapist
finds the exercises
awaken many demons.
No one knows in weeks
she will go back to Israel
to work with Holocaust
survivors. “Coming in
contact with the German
street, the accent and
the buildings is not easy
for me,” one woman
would say later. “Berlin
is not my favorite tourist
destination. But working
in the center is like being
in a bubble encompassing
past, present and future.
Here I can do what was
not done for my family
and my patients—perhaps
minimize the trauma,
silence and pain that are
passed down with the
generations
 
 
THERE ARE MANY CULTURAL GAPS BETWEEN THE REFUGEES AND THE AUTHORITIES
the refugees are frustrated by
the fact that the Germans don’t
understand what they went thru
and their response is not always
the right one. The Germans
misinterpret the refugees’ action.
They think if they are yelling, then
they are displaying violence or
aggression but this is pain. A therapist
says “we who came from the Middle
East understand this emotionality better
than the Europeans. Our work is
that of Tikkum Olam (the Jewish concept
of repairing the world) a way of coming full
circle nights the refugees huddle under flannel,
listen to night birds unlike any they’ve
heard in cities they hate to see torn
to rubble in streets they don’t expect to
see again or listen in their old beds
to the sound of mulberries thru
where once those leaves
were a magical, mysterious
 
 
WE DON’T SEE POLITICS
we meet people all over
the globe whose world
was taken away from them.
Everywhere similar stories
of sorrow and pain. Every
where young women
weep for those sunny
afternoons sipping dark
coffee under the shade of
Terebinth branches.
In all these places, therapists
committed to dealing
with crisis. They leave politics
out of it. Some say it is
the Israelis who understand
pain well. Here there
are no “us” and “them”
only what we do together
 
 
THERE IS A CLOSENESS
You understand the area
and the history one
woman says. This is
a sort of tikkun because
we’re doing something good
for them. There are people
who have never seen Israelis
so we’re doing a kind of PR.
In their wildest dreams they
didn’t think they’d be sitting
next to an Israeli.”
 
 
SYRIAN TV ALWAYS SHOWS THE ISRAELIS STEALING LAND
murdering Palestinians, poisoning
the water. One man says, “but when
I meet Israelis here I see they are
humans. There are many countries
that choose to remain silent seeing
the horrors in Syria. Israelis not only
help the wounded in Syria but they
also help us here.” “Perhaps,” a young
man who fled Damascus says, “the
world is not such a rotten place.”
 
 
SYRIAN REFUGEES IN CANADA’S NORTH
it’s not warm in weather,
but in emotions. In communities
such as Yellow Knife the
temperature can sink to -40, a
dramatic change for refugees
who had never experienced
anything like it.
After a rocket hit his sister’s
house and killed his brother
and nephew, Mustafa knew
he had to leave Syria. He says,
“I was not expecting to end up
in the kind of place where snow
blankets the ground for months
at a time and temperatures drop
to -40. As refugees from Lebanon,
the family took courses to prepare
for the move to Canada. They were
warned it would be cold but just
how cold would depend on where
they ended up. When they arrived
in Yellow Knife that was a surprise.
Within hours, Mustafa, his wife and
four children were taken on a
shopping expedition to stock up
on winter gear. The trip was the final
detail in the carefully planned operation
to bring the family to Yellow Knife
as privately sponsored refugees. They
arrive in Canada, stopping in Montreal.
“Don’t go to White Horse,” they were
warned. Not many people and it’s freezing.”
Soon after getting there however the family
realized there was little truth to what
they had been told. “People were so good
to us. Yes, the cold is really cold. Luckily
even the cars have heat.” They saw Northern
lights for the first time and were thrilled.
“Here it’s not warm in weather but
warm in emotion and feelings.”
 
 
SYRIAN REFUGEE GIVES BIRTH IN CANADA
secretly entering labor en route
Ibtesam Alkarnake had already
started the hard 24 hour journey
from a temporary home in Jordan
to asylum in Canada when her water
broke. Nearly six years after they
fled the war in Syria, safety seemed
finally in reach as the family made
their way to northern Alberta to
begin new lives as privately sponsored
refugees. Dreams of dates and barley,
roses in the dust of bombs, plum
wind from the Yarmouk River still in
her dreams, Alkarnake said nothing,
enduring hours of discomfort in silence
as they made stopovers in Frankfurt
and Calgary. When the family landed
in Fort McMurry she posed for pictures,
trading hugs and smiling at the dozens
who showed up at the airport to greet
the city’s newest residents. Only when
the family was she taken to their new
home did she reveal to one of the
sponsors, she was about to give birth
and just hours later her son Eyad was
born at a local hospital, a month early,
making, for the whole town, a memory
magical as the print a leaf makes
in amber or stone
 

How to say "Thank You!" in 50 languages


AFRIKAANS – dankie
ALBANIAN – faleminderit
ARABIC – shukran
ARMENIAN – Շնորհակալություն / chnorakaloutioun
BOSNIAN – hvala (HVAH-lah) 
BULGARIAN – благодаря / blagodaria
CATALAN – gràcies (GRAH-syuhs) 
CANTONESE – M̀h’gōi 
CROATIAN – hvala (HVAH-lah)
CZECH – děkuji (Dyekooyih)
DANISH – tak (tahg)
DUTCH – dank u
ESTONIAN – tänan (TA-nahn)
FINNISH – kiitos (KEE-tohss)
FRENCH – merci
GERMAN – danke
GREEK – ευχαριστώ (ef-hah-rees-TOH)
HAWAIIAN – mahalo (ma-HA-lo) 
HEBREW – .תודה  / todah (toh-DAH) 
HINDI – dhanyavād / shukriya
HUNGARIAN – köszönöm (KØ-sø-nøm) 
ICELANDIC – takk (tahk) 
INDONESIAN – terima kasih. (tuh-REE-mah KAH-see) 
ITALIAN – grazie (GRAHT-tsyeh)
JAPANESE – arigatô (ah-ree-GAH-toh)
KOREAN – 감사합니다 (gamsahamnida) 
LATVIAN – paldies (PUHL-dyehs)
LEBANESE – choukrane
LITHUANIAN – ačiū (AH-choo)
MACEDONIAN – Благодарам / blagodaram (blah-GOH-dah-rahm) 
MALAY – terima kasih (TREE-muh KAH-seh) 
MALTESE – grazzi (GRUTS-ee)
MANDARIN – Xièxiè
MONGOLIAN – Баярлалаа (bayarlalaa) 
NORWEGIAN – takk
POLISH – dziękuję (Jenkoo-yen)  
PORTUGUESE – obrigado [masculine]  / obrigada [feminine] (oh-bree-GAH-doo / oh-bree-GAH-dah) 
ROMANIAN – mulţumesc (mool-tzoo-MESK)
RUSSIAN – спасибо (spuh-SEE-buh) 
SERBIAN – xвала / hvala (HVAH-lah) 
SLOVAK – Ďakujem (JAH-koo-yehm) 
SLOVENIAN – hvala (HVAA-lah) 
SPANISH – gracias (GRAH-syahs) 
SWEDISH – tack 
TAMIL – nandri
THAI – kop khun
TURKISH – teşekkür ederim (teh shek uer eh der eem) 
UKRAINIAN – Дякую (DYAH-koo-yoo) 
WELSH – diolch (DEE-ol’ch)
YIDDISH – a dank
ZULU – ngiyabonga

Sunshine and Superman

​
by


Gerald Arthur Winter




Before his teens Tommy feared he’d been adopted because his older brother Billy’s blunt insinuations that he’d been dropped on his parents’ doorstep didn’t bolster any confidence that his fear of disconnection from his family could be merely his vivid imagination. Billy would often whisper aside to his friends that Tommy was his adopted little brother, just loud enough for Tommy to hear. Billy’s pretending to keep their blood separation a secret gave more validity to Tommy’s fear. They’d be playing football in the empty lot up the street, and Billy would foster the idea of Tommy’s detachment from his own preferred genes in his younger brother’s head as he handed him the football for an end run. Tommy can’t run as fast as I can because he’s adopted. His real parents were trolls. Tommy thought he’d heard Billy say aside to the other older boys, which gave him an inordinate fear of goats in the neighbor’s pasture, from Little Billy Goat’s Gruff to Big Billy Goat’s Gruff. Tommy often peaked under the bridge that crossed the creek in the meadow to see if any of his kindred trolls were dwelling beneath the wooden blanks.

The tackle football was dangerous enough to life and limb with teams of five players on each side, just a few helmets of the 1950’s vintage with no face guards, or cushioned chin straps, but rather just a thin strap with a snap or buckle to tighten around a player’s head with no protection from concussions. Often during contact the helmet would caused even greater injury in a pile-up than no helmet at all. Shoulder pads under a sweatshirt were the only other equipment used for protection, but only half the kids could afford them, so they had sixteen-year-old boys with helmets and shoulder pads playing full contact against ten-year-olds with no protection other than fleeing avoidance or true grit against the odds of survival. For the most part, Tommy fit into the latter with a short stature his dad referred to as “built like a bric shithouse.”

Tommy wasn’t sure if the doubts Billy put in his head were to make him falter or to make him try harder when playing with the older boys. Tommy was blond and Billy had black hair, but they still had many facial similarities and gesturing mannerism that could be attributable to both their parents. Tommy didn’t dare ask his parents if he’d been adopted for fear Bobby had told him the truth that troll blood flowed through his veins.

Billy was three years older then Tommy, and was born two days before Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. Not until they were teenagers had Tommy heard the story from his mom that his dad thought Billy, with his straight black hair as an infant, might be have been mixed up with some Japanese woman’s baby. His dad had wondered if a Japanese woman had taken his real blond, curly-headed son home from St. Albans Hospital and had switched the baby’s as part of some yellow-peril plot to invade America.

Without his mom’s recounting that story for his reassurance, Tommy suffered from doubts through his adolescence about his true family connection. He never realizedback then how the three-year difference in their ages, made him a drag on Billy’s ill-perceived social life at school. Tommy’s acceptance among Billy’s older friends bugged Billy no end.
They lived off the Belt Parkway near Springfield Boulevard in Laurelton, Queens at a time when Idlewild Airport had just two hangers with only a few daily commercial flights. Rockaway Playland and the best beach north of Coney Island were a short train ride on the El from home. By car with his parents and Billy, it was just fifteen minutes across Jamaica Bay.
Pat Behner was a seventeen-year-old neighbor who often took Tommy to Rockaway Beach on the train when Billy was at summer day camp. Tommy was five and Pat was his babysitter, though she was careful never to use that dreaded term.
From the first day she’d clasped his little hand in hers and sat beside him on the wicker train seat, Tommy was in pre-pubescent love. A light brushing kiss and brief hug of affection from Pat were exciting to Tommy’s unhatched libido.
After a day with Pat at the beach, lying in bed at night, feverish from sunburn, and the scent of Pat’s suntan lotion redolent in his memory, Tommy felt certain he could jump out his window and fly to her bedroom window. Even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with gritty chomps of sand didn’t matter to Tommy, always longing to return to Rockaway Beach with Pat. She was the quiet studious type, but like a caterpillar fresh out of her cocoon waving her colorful wings in the salty sea breeze. Lying face down on the blanket beside her, Tommy wondered if it was the surf or his heart that was pounding so loud against the sand beneath their shared beach blanket.
Tommy saw that Pat was also his protector. Serene and spread out on the blanket, she suddenly looked up from the book she was reading, Mr. Peabody and the Mermaid, and jumped up to smack a strange kid bigger than Tommy when he tried to steal his pail and shovel. With her shoulder-length black hair swishing, Pat looked like Wonder Woman in her two-piece bathing suit. That’s when Tommy knew he had to become a man. He couldn’t be like the runt in the Charles Atlas ads on the back page of comic books, the skinny guy with his ribs showing who gets sand kicked in his face by a muscle-bound lug stealing his girlfriend..
Tommy kept it a secret and didn’t let Billy know he was conditioning himself with “dynamic tension” exercises under the covers on the top bunk in their shared bedroom—no dead weights or apparatus, just one arm against the other like an an irresistible force against an immovable object.
Pat took Tommy to Rockaway Playland after they left the beach to go on the rides and venture through Davy Jones’s Locker, a fun house with spiraling barrels, distorting mirrors, and traps that made you lose your balance. Rolling around together in the turning barrel, Tommy could smell Pat’s scent. He was in heaven. Wanting Pat, made Tommy’s mind soar from the sunshine of Rockaway Beach to becoming Super- man, able to leap tall buildings with a single bound.

Tommy thought maybe he was adopted, just like Clark Kent, and his real parents died on Krypton and left him to fend for himself, an alien among earthlings who were inferior to his inner strength. But Tommy’s foster family must have decided that he’d have a better chance of survival on this foreign planet if they moved to north Jersey where he and Billy had less chance of becoming juvenile delinquents in Queens. Even though Tommy had to say good-bye to Pat Behner, he vowed to fly back across the Hudson River to make her his life-long sweetheart.


* * *


There was little opportunity for Tommy to fly in Bergen County in 1954, other than vicariously from the swooshing sound on a black-and-white 12-inch TV when actor George Reeves shed his suit and tie in a phone booth and sprang with his fluttering cape into the sky. Tommy was nine years old having similar feelings toward Janet Daniels, his same age, as he had for Pat Behner. His affection; for Pat had faded like snowflakes falling on a sizzling volcanic lava. The flakes may have melted, but the lava continued to flow. That’s when Tommy’s mom asked him what he wanted most for Christmas that year.

“A genuine Superman suit,” he told her without hesitation. “But you have to make it for me from scratch, just like Ma Kent did for Clark.”
“I’ve seen them on sale at the five-and-ten for Halloween. I’ll get you one
if you do well on your next report card from school..”

“School? Superman doesn’t need school. He’s smarter than everyone.”
“Not when he’s Clark Kent,” his mom retorted.
“Those outfits are junk, Ma. If you make it for me, it’ll be bulletproof and with my red cape I could fly.”

She gave Tommy the kind of look you get from the librarian when you fart in the library, but maybe Billy was right that their mom thought of Tommy as her Golden Boy. He wished his hair was black like Billy’s and Superman’s with blue highlights just like in the comics.


* * *


Billy received everything he wrote on his Christmas list, and Tommy got many toys and games he’d asked for, too. Then his mom told Tommy he’d better put on his bathrobe because the heat hadn’t come up high enough in the house yet on that chill Christmas morning. Snow was in the air.

When Tommy opened his wardrobe, there it was, just like in DC’s World’s Finest comic book last month with Superman, Batman, and Robin fighting crime together on the same cover. The Superman suit was blue with a red “S” and a yellow background on the chest. The red cape had a yellow “S” on the back. The stretchy blue pants and red tights had a yellow belt, and on the wardrobe’s floor was a pair of knee-high, red boots. Just with the brush of his hand across the “S” on the chest, Tommy could tell his suit was bulletproof and he could hardly wait to put on his red cape and fly. Now he could be sure Janet Daniels would be his girlfriend forever. He was prettier than Lois Lane or Lana Lang, and she was real and smelled like Juicy Fruit gum.


* * *


Fortunately it was cold that January when Tommy went back to school, so he wasn’t that uncomfortable wearing his Superman suit under his regular clothes.

“You’ve gained a lot of weight over Christmas vacation,” Janet Daniels said in the hallway by his locker.
He closed the locker in time before Janet could see his red cape hanging inside, just in case he had to stop a robbery after school. He’d wait until the corridor was empty before catching his bus home, so he could fold up the cape to fit in his book bag.

Fortunately for those robbers, he couldn’t take out his cape on the bus ride home, because that would give away his secret identity. He couldn’t tell Janet until they were in high school. She’d be more serious and mature at seventeen, just like Pat Behner, now twenty-one. She was practically a grandmother. Billy teased him about wearing the Superman suit under his clothes at school.

He was in junior high now, so he couldn’t bother Tommy at middle school, not until they got home from school. Clark Kent was lucky he didn’t have an older brother to keep reminding him that, with that blond wavy hair, he probably was adopted.


* * *


In May a new kid moved next store. Tommy turned ten and Eric was only seven, so Tommy figured he’d take him into his confidence and reveal his secret identity to him. A next door neighbor was almost like family, so he figured Eric wouldn’t give him all that negative jive Billy showered him with every day. Eric was a chubby kid with an odd manner of expression. When he had to pee, he’d say: “I have to make “tiddlelizz.”

When he had to poop, he’d: “I’ve got to make a “whoorsht.” Tommy later learned that Eric was referring to a wurst, as in liverwurst—a graphic image that left little to the imagination.
Disney’s animated feature Peter Pan was in theaters that summer, so the fantasy of flying overtook Tommy again. With summer vacation from school for three months Tommy had cultivated Eric’s belief that he was Superboy. Apparently Eric wasn’t as gullible as Tommy thought, so it shattered his confidence when Eric called him a liar—a harsh word for a kid with a dream to fly. There was only one way out.
He’d have to fake it, but not just with words. Tommy had to make this odd, but stubborn little kid believe him, certain that was the only way to redeem himself. Tommy planned his strategy for weeks, and finally took his wizened brother Billy into his confidence to help him with some of the details. He brought Billy into their daily games played in late July, so Billy could observe Eric’s temperament firsthand. Watching Looney Tunes on TV everyday, Tommy and Billy convinced Eric to play a game they called “Fudd Pesters.”

“He’s only seven,” Billy reminded him. “Should be a cinch. What does Eric like most? Maybe he isn’t such a Superman fan like you and has to be shown what your super powers can do.”

“He’s more into Peter Pan, “Tommy said. “You know, the pixie dust and flying out your window to fight pirates and Indians on an island called Never Land with mermaids and pixies. Little kids’ stuff.”
Billy smirked maliciously. “Let’s see what we can make him fall for.”

“How?”

“I’ll show you tonight.”
Billy and Tommy shared a second-story bedroom above Eric’s first-floor bedroom window with only ten feet between the houses. They could look down from their high window and see into his bedroom. When it was dark, they turned off their bedroom lights and watched from their window until Eric’s light turned out. Billy took one of his marbles, pushed up the screen in their window, and bounced the cat’s-eye marble off Eric’s window sill with a loud—clink! They held their pillows to their mouths to muffle their laughter.

“Eric!” his father shouted. “Stop fooling around in there and go to sleep!”

“It wasn’t me, Daddy!”

“You heard me! Knock it off or I’ll give you a lickin’!”

They waited a minute then Tommy threw a marble that made a boing sound off Eric’s screen, not loud enough for his father to hear from the other room, but enough to bring Eric to the window.

“E-e-e-ric,” Billy chanted softly, but loud enough for Eric to hear. “It’s Peter Pan. Time to fly away with me to Never Never Land.”

We stayed below our window sill in case Eric looked up toward us.

“Where are you, Peter?” Eric whispered loudly. “Where’s Tinkerbell? I can’t see her pixie dust flashing in the dark.”
Tommy and Billy were about to burst with laughter when Eric’s dad came into his room.
“What did I tell you? Get back in bed and go to sleep! Now!”

We waited about five minutes and Billy found a sparkler left over from

The Fourth of July and lit it with a match from a book in his desk drawer. About to start eighth grade, Bobby had already started smoking with his friends in the woods behind Valley School. He nodded for Tommy to lift the screen then he tossed the sputtering sparkler out the window. It landed in a bush outside Eric’s window.

“E-e-e-ric, it’s Peter Pan. Tinkerbell is with me. She’s in the bush, but she’s dying because she thinks you don’t believe in fairies. Clap your hands loud so she knows you believe. She’ll be OK if you shout loud enough for her to hear. Tell her you believe in fairies and clap your hands.”

Eric came to his window and pushed up his screen. The sparker was fizzling out.

“I do believe in fairies!” he shouted and clapped his hands loudly.

Tommy and Billy were hysterical, but Eric’s father burst into his room, pulled down Eric’s pajamas and began spanking him on his bare backside.

Eric wailed, “It was Peter Pan, Daddy! I have to save Tinkerbell!”

“No more movies for you!” his father shouted. “Now get to sleep before I take a strap to you!”

Tommy felt kind of sick inside about Eric getting a spanking, but Billy gave him a smirk and said, “Just wait. Now you can convince him your Superboy. Here’s how. . . .”


* * *


Billy gave Tommy some ideas how to prove to Eric that he had super powers. Billy had to go to Boy Scout summer camp, so he couldn’t be around and Tommy was on my own—just him and his super powers.

He didn’t want to be obvious, so Tommy tried to act cool even though he was visibly sweating in his Superman suit under his clothes in the August heat. He’d never shown Eric his suit before. In his pocket Tommy had two nails. Both were four inches long, but he’d bent one in half in his dad’s vice on his workbench in the basement.
“Hey, Eric! Tommy called to him in his yard where he was playing with some toy trucks in his sandbox. “Come here and I’ll prove to you that I’m Superboy!”

Curious, Eric got to his feet and waddled toward him.

“Oh, yeah. How?”

The bent nail was inside Tommy’s sleeve.
He took the straight nail from his shirt pocket.

“Do you think you can bend this nail in half?” he asked handing it to Eric.

Eric grunted so hard trying to bend it with his little hands that he farted. He was stubborn for a little kid, so he tried again, so hard and with his face turning red that he pooped his pants. He let out a howl and his mom came out to their back porch.
“What are you boys doing out there?” she shouted.

Tommy grabbed the nail from Eric and said,” Watch this. I’m Superboy.” He put the straight nail in one hand and covered it with his fist then shook his sleeve and dropped the bent nail into his hand and tucked the straight nail back up his sleeve. He’d practiced that maneuver after watching Bonomo the Magic Clown on TV.

“See! I have super strength. I’m Superboy.”

“Nah! That’s not the same nail,” Eric huffed with a frown.

I dropped the straight nail behind my back.

“No. See, that’s the only nail,” I said.

“Your not Superboy,” he grimaced. “That’s just a comic book. My dad said so. Just like Peter Pan is fake and so is Santa Claus.”

Now this little creep was treading on sacred ground. Tommy pulled his shirt open to show him the super suit with its big red “S” on his chest.

“That’s just a Halloween costume. I saw ’m in Woolworth’s. You not Superboy.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tommy challenged. “Try and punch me in the chest.”

Eric was little so he punched Tommy at the bottom tip of the red “S” right in the solar plexus. Caught off guard, Tommy could hardly breathe and his face turned red.
When he got enough air back into his lungs, he shouted to Eric’s mother,
“Eric pooped in his pants!”
As he dizzily staggered back home and into the house, Tommy heard the sound of Eric crying and getting a smack from his mom, not on his behind because she saw he’d pooped his pants.


* * *


Billy was still away at camp, so Tommy had to take matters into his own hands.

The next afternoon Eric was playing in his sandbox again. This time Tommy wore some of Billy’s clothes so he had room under his clothes to attach his red cape to his neck and tuck its drapes under Billy’s shirt and pants. He had to role up his cuffs and wore loafers so he could slip them off quickly. He’d left red boots on the sundeck above the garage with access to the sundeck from his parents’ bedroom across the hall from his and Billy’s.

As he ambled across his yard toward Eric, Tommy noticed Eric’s mom peering out of their kitchen window where she was washing breakfast dishes. Her expression was suspicious with one eye squinting at him.

“Don’t tell me you’re Superboy anymore,” Eric said. “My mom says you’re just teasing me. People can’t fly.”

“That’s because you don’t believe in fairies and Santa Claus, neat stuff that all kids are supposed to believe in. When they don’t, there not kids anymore. My brother Billy is fourteen, so he’s not a little kid. I’m three years older than you, but I want to believe in all that fun stuff for as long as I can until I’m too old. You’re only seven years old and missing out on a lot a fun. That’s why I’ve got to prove to you that I’m Superboy.”

I noticed Eric’s mom was smirking at me through the window.
“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, but first I’ve got to save a kid caught in a tree, stop a bank robbery, then help a plane make a safe landing because it has an engine out on one of its propellers and will crash if I don’t show up. I’ll be right back.”

As Tommy ran around the side of my house, he let Eric see him shedding Billy’s clothes until his red cape fluttered behind him for take-off and he shouted, “Up, up and away!”
Tommy ran into his house through the front door before Eric could follow him and see where he went, then he ran up the stairs to the second floor. He kicked off his loafers in the hallway then ran through his parents’ bedroom and onto the sundeck where he slipped on his red boots.

He grabbed the edge of the slanted roof and pulled himself up on the railing around the sundeck and stood on the top so he could pull himself onto the roof. Holding the side of the full dormer, he worked his way up the slanted roof to the top of the dormer above the bedrooms where the roof was level.
He ran across the flat roof toward the other side of the house next to Eric’s house.

He visualized himself looking just like Superman in the comics. He came to the slanted roof on the other side of the dormer and eased down the slanted roof until the heels of his red boots in the rain gutter kept him from falling fifteen feet to the ground. He spotted Eric below. Eric had wondered around Tommy’s house in pursuit to see him take off in flight. Sure it was a lie, Eric was heading back toward his sandbox. When Eric was directly below, Tommy imitated the whooshing sound from

George Reeves flying as Superman on black and white TV. But in full color, Tommy leaped from the roof and over Eric’s head. Thinking back on it, Tommy was glad his Olympic gymnastic, ten-point landing hadn’t gone to his head. Though he felt his thigh bones jam up into his hips, Tommy had broken no bones. He turned on his heels with exhilaration as his red cape swirled with the grace of a matador avoiding a bull’s charge.

Eric’s mom came running across the yard and shouted,
“Oh my God! Are you all right?”

Of course, she meant Tommy, but he folded his arms and pumped up his chest then said with a wink, “Yes, Eric’s fine. But he must promise to keep my true identity a secret.”

With her mouth dropped open, she said, “Of course, Superboy. We both promise to keep your secret. You’ll never have to prove it to us again. Absolutely, never. We even promise never to tell Daddy. Right, Eric?”

Eric’s face was still in awe after seeing Superboy come flying out of the sky from nowhere and land in front of him. Tommy remained standing in the yard like a statue of strength for truth, justice, and the American way until Eric and his mom went back into their house. When it was safe, Tommy broke his statuesque pose and limped painfully back into his house and upstairs to his bedroom. He cried in pain for an hour.

Tommy never grew quite as tall as Billy and often wondered if his Superboy landing had stunted his growth. Billy told him that he was shorter than him because he’d been adopted. Even if he was physically damaged or genetically different, in his mind,

Tommy always felt taller since that sunshiny day with Eric just for taking a leap of faith that all kids needed—to dream of feats of strength and wish they’d come to pass.

From the "Gilgamesh"
​

The Epic of Gilgamesh is, perhaps, the oldest written story on Earth. It comes to us from Ancient Sumeria, and was originally written on 12 clay tablets in cunieform script. It is about the adventures of the historical King of Uruk (somewhere between 2750 and 2500 BCE).
​

He who has seen everything, I will make known to the lands.
I will teach about him who experienced all things,
... alike,
Anu granted him the totality of knowledge of all.
He saw the Secret, discovered the Hidden,
he brought information of (the time) before the Flood.
He went on a distant journey, pushing himself to exhaustion,
but then was brought to peace.
He carved on a stone stela all of his toils,
and built the wall of Uruk-Haven,
the wall of the sacred Eanna Temple, the holy sanctuary.
Look at its wall which gleams like copper(?),
inspect its inner wall, the likes of which no one can equal!
Take hold of the threshold stone--it dates from ancient times!
Go close to the Eanna Temple, the residence of Ishtar,
such as no later king or man ever equaled!
Go up on the wall of Uruk and walk around,
examine its foundation, inspect its brickwork thoroughly.
Is not (even the core of) the brick structure made of kiln-fired brick,
and did not the Seven Sages themselves lay out its plans?
One league city, one league palm gardens, one league lowlands, the open area(?) of the Ishtar Temple,
three leagues and the open area(?) of Uruk it (the wall) encloses.
Find the copper tablet box,
open the ... of its lock of bronze,
undo the fastening of its secret opening. 
Take and read out from the lapis lazuli tablet
how Gilgamesh went through every hardship. 

Supreme over other kings, lordly in appearance,
he is the hero, born of Uruk, the goring wild bull. 
He walks out in front, the leader,
and walks at the rear, trusted by his companions.
Mighty net, protector of his people,
raging flood-wave who destroys even walls of stone!
Offspring of Lugalbanda, Gilgamesh is strong to perfection,
son of the august cow, Rimat-Ninsun;... Gilgamesh is awesome to perfection.
It was he who opened the mountain passes, 
who dug wells on the flank of the mountain. 
It was he who crossed the ocean, the vast seas, to the rising sun, 
who explored the world regions, seeking life.
It was he who reached by his own sheer strength Utanapishtim, the Faraway, 
who restored the sanctuaries (or: cities) that the Flood had destroyed! 
... for teeming mankind. 
Who can compare with him in kingliness? 
Who can say like Gilgamesh: "I am King!"? 
Whose name, from the day of his birth, was called "Gilgamesh"? 
Two-thirds of him is god, one-third of him is human. 
The Great Goddess [Aruru] designed(?) the model for his body, 
she prepared his form ... 
... beautiful, handsomest of men, 
... perfect
... 
He walks around in the enclosure of Uruk,
Like a wild bull he makes himself mighty, head raised (over others). 
There is no rival who can raise his weapon against him.
His fellows stand (at the alert), attentive to his (orders ?),
and the men of Uruk become anxious in ...
Gilgamesh does not leave a son to his father,
day and night he arrogant[y(?) ...

[The following lines are interpreted as rhetorical, perhaps spoken by the oppressed citizens of Uruk.]

Is Gilgamesh the shepherd of Uruk-Haven,
is he the shepherd. ...
bold, eminent, knowing, and wise!
Gilgamesh does not leave a girl to her mother(?)
The daughter of the warrior, the bride of the young man,
the gods kept hearing their complaints, so
the gods of the heavens implored the Lord of Uruk [Anu]

"You have indeed brought into being a mighty wild bull, head raised!
"There is no rival who can raise a weapon against him.
"His fellows stand (at the alert), attentive to his (orders !),
"Gilgamesh does not leave a son to his father,
"day and night he arrogantly ...
"Is he the shepherd of Uruk-Haven,
"is he their shepherd...
"bold, eminent, knowing, and wise,
"Gilgamesh does not leave a girl to her mother(?)!"
The daughter of the warrior, the bride of the young man,
Anu listened to their complaints,
and (the gods) called out to Aruru:
"it was you, Aruru, who created mankind(?),
now create a zikru to it/him.
Let him be equal to his (Gilgamesh's) stormy heart,
let them be a match for each other so that Uruk may find peace!"
When Aruru heard this she created within herself the zikrtt of Anu.
Aruru washed her hands, she pinched off some clay, and threw it into the wilderness.
In the wildness(?) she created valiant Enkidu,
born of Silence, endowed with strength by Ninurta.
His whole body was shaggy with hair,
he had a full head of hair like a woman,
his locks billowed in profusion like Ashnan.
He knew neither people nor settled living,
but wore a garment like Sumukan."
He ate grasses with the gazelles,
and jostled at the watering hole with the animals;
as with animals, his thirst was slaked with (mere) water.
A notorious trapper came face-to-face with him opposite the watering hole.
A first, a second, and a third day
he came face-to-face with him opposite the watering hole.
On seeing him the trapper's face went stark with fear,
and he (Enkidu?) and his animals drew back home.
He was rigid with fear; though stock-still
his heart pounded and his face drained of color.
He was miserable to the core,
and his face looked like one who had made a long journey.
The trapper addressed his father saying:"

"Father, a certain fellow has come from the mountains.
He is the mightiest in the land,
his strength is as mighty as the meteorite(?) of Anu!
He continually goes over the mountains,
he continually jostles at the watering place with the animals,
he continually plants his feet opposite the watering place.
I was afraid, so I did not go up to him.
He filled in the pits that I had dug,
wrenched out my traps that I had spread,
released from my grasp the wild animals.
He does not let me make my rounds in the wilderness!"
The trapper's father spoke to him saying:
"My son, there lives in Uruk a certain Gilgamesh.
There is no one stronger than he,
he is as strong as the meteorite(?) of Anu.
Go, set off to Uruk,
tell Gilgamesh of this Man of Might.
He will give you the harlot Shamhat, take her with you.
The woman will overcome the fellow (?) as if she were strong.
When the animals are drinking at the watering place
have her take off her robe and expose her sex.
When he sees her he will draw near to her,
and his animals, who grew up in his wilderness, will be alien to him."

He heeded his father's advice.
The trapper went off to Uruk,
he made the journey, stood inside of Uruk,
and declared to ... Gilgamesh:
"There is a certain fellow who has come from the mountains--
he is the mightiest in the land,
his strength is as mighty as the meteorite(?) of Anu!
He continually goes over the mountains,
he continually jostles at the watering place with the animals,
he continually plants his feet opposite the watering place.
I was afraid, so I did not go up to him.
He filled in the pits that I had dug,
wrenched out my traps that I had spread,
released from my grasp the wild animals.
He does not let me make my rounds in the wilderness!"
Gilgamesh said to the trapper:
"Go, trapper, bring the harlot, Shamhat, with you.
When the animals are drinking at the watering place
have her take off her robe and expose her sex.
When he sees her he will draw near to her,
and his animals, who grew up in his wilderness, will be alien to him."

The trapper went, bringing the harlot, Shamhat, with him.
They set off on the journey, making direct way.
On the third day they arrived at the appointed place,
and the trapper and the harlot sat down at their posts(?).
A first day and a second they sat opposite the watering hole.
The animals arrived and drank at the watering hole,
the wild beasts arrived and slaked their thirst with water.
Then he, Enkidu, offspring of the mountains,
who eats grasses with the gazelles,
came to drink at the watering hole with the animals,
with the wild beasts he slaked his thirst with water.
Then Shamhat saw him--a primitive,
a savage fellow from the depths of the wilderness!
"That is he, Shamhat! Release your clenched arms,
expose your sex so he can take in your voluptuousness.
Do not be restrained--take his energy!
When he sees you he will draw near to you.
Spread out your robe so he can lie upon you,
and perform for this primitive the task of womankind!
His animals, who grew up in his wilderness, will become alien to him,
and his lust will groan over you."
Shamhat unclutched her bosom, exposed her sex, and he took in her voluptuousness.
She was not restrained, but took his energy.
She spread out her robe and he lay upon her,
she performed for the primitive the task of womankind.
His lust groaned over her;
for six days and seven nights Enkidu stayed aroused,
and had intercourse with the harlot
until he was sated with her charms.
But when he turned his attention to his animals,
the gazelles saw Enkidu and darted off,
the wild animals distanced themselves from his body.
Enkidu ... his utterly depleted(?) body,
his knees that wanted to go off with his animals went rigid;
Enkidu was diminished, his running was not as before.
But then he drew himself up, for his understanding had broadened.
Turning around, he sat down at the harlot's feet,
gazing into her face, his ears attentive as the harlot spoke.
The harlot said to Enkidu:
"You are beautiful," Enkidu, you are become like a god.
Why do you gallop around the wilderness with the wild beasts?
Come, let me bring you into Uruk-Haven,
to the Holy Temple, the residence of Anu and Ishtar,
the place of Gilgamesh, who is wise to perfection,
but who struts his power over the people like a wild bull."
What she kept saying found favor with him.
Becoming aware of himself, he sought a friend.
Enkidu spoke to the harlot:
"Come, Shamhat, take me away with you
to the sacred Holy Temple, the residence of Anu and Ishtar,
the place of Gilgamesh, who is wise to perfection,
but who struts his power over the people like a wild bull.
I will challenge him ...
Let me shout out in Uruk: I am the mighty one!'
Lead me in and I will change the order of things;
he whose strength is mightiest is the one born in the wilderness!"
[Shamhat to Enkidu:]
"Come, let us go, so he may see your face.
I will lead you to Gilgamesh--I know where he will be.
Look about, Enkidu, inside Uruk-Haven,
where the people show off in skirted finery,
where every day is a day for some festival,
where the lyre(?) and drum play continually,
where harlots stand about prettily,
exuding voluptuousness, full of laughter
and on the couch of night the sheets are spread (!)."
Enkidu, you who do not know, how to live,
I will show you Gilgamesh, a man of extreme feelings (!).
Look at him, gaze at his face--
he is a handsome youth, with freshness(!),
his entire body exudes voluptuousness
He has mightier strength than you,
without sleeping day or night!
Enkidu, it is your wrong thoughts you must change!
It is Gilgamesh whom Shamhat loves,
and Anu, Enlil, and La have enlarged his mind."
Even before you came from the mountain
Gilgamesh in Uruk had dreams about you.""

Gilgamesh got up and revealed the dream, saying to his mother:
"Mother, I had a dream last night.
Stars of the sky appeared,
and some kind of meteorite(?) of Anu fell next to me.
I tried to lift it but it was too mighty for me,
I tried to turn it over but I could not budge it.
The Land of Uruk was standing around it,
the whole land had assembled about it,
the populace was thronging around it,
the Men clustered about it,
and kissed its feet as if it were a little baby (!).
I loved it and embraced it as a wife.
I laid it down at your feet,
and you made it compete with me."
The mother of Gilgamesh, the wise, all-knowing, said to her Lord;
Rimat-Ninsun, the wise, all-knowing, said to Gilgamesh:
"As for the stars of the sky that appeared
and the meteorite(?) of Anu which fell next to you,
you tried to lift but it was too mighty for you,
you tried to turn it over but were unable to budge it,
you laid it down at my feet,
and I made it compete with you,
and you loved and embraced it as a wife."
"There will come to you a mighty man, a comrade who saves his friend--
he is the mightiest in the land, he is strongest,
his strength is mighty as the meteorite(!) of Anu!
You loved him and embraced him as a wife;
and it is he who will repeatedly save you.
Your dream is good and propitious!"
A second time Gilgamesh said to his mother: "Mother, I have had another dream:
"At the gate of my marital chamber there lay an axe,
"and people had collected about it.
"The Land of Uruk was standing around it,
"the whole land had assembled about it,
"the populace was thronging around it.
"I laid it down at your feet,
"I loved it and embraced it as a wife,
"and you made it compete with me."
The mother of Gilgamesh, the wise, all-knowing, said to her son;
Rimat-Ninsun, the wise, all-knowing, said to Gilgamesh:
""The axe that you saw (is) a man.
"... (that) you love him and embrace as a wife,
"but (that) I have compete with you."
"" There will come to you a mighty man,
"" a comrade who saves his friend--
"he is the mightiest in the land, he is strongest,
"he is as mighty as the meteorite(!) of Anu!"
Gilgamesh spoke to his mother saying:
""By the command of Enlil, the Great Counselor, so may it to pass!
"May I have a friend and adviser, a friend and adviser may I have!
"You have interpreted for me the dreams about him!"
After the harlot recounted the dreams of Gilgamesh to Enkidu
the two of them made love.

The Life and Times of Voyager
 
Review by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
We could be watching Harrison Ford running through the wilderness hunted by U.S. Marshalls, we could be following Charlton Heston lost in the future hunted by apes or just following Thelma and Louise on their road toward crime and debauchery.
Then again, we might be travelling with Captain Kathryn Janeway and her crew lost 70,000 lightyears from home.
Star Trek: Voyager, the TV-series that ran for seven seasons, explores the unknown adventure. However we choose to experience our lust of joining mutual seekers of the journey, the result of that search is the same. The road is the way.
We all love seeing people travel, but why are we drawn to stories about seekers?
If we don’t travel ourselves, we do so through others. That conveys movement and there’s nothing we love so much as movement. Many people are lost, many people hope to find something real beyond that proverbial rainbow. Then, of course, there is the afterlife. We really belong somewhere else: in heaven with God. Every life we lead here on Earth really brings us back to work on some task or solve some problem.

“Star Trek: Voyager” ran for seven years and the reason for its success is the fact that it really is an extended road movie. So, here it is: a team of space explorers is sent out on an away mission, prepared to be away a couple of months at the most. Among them are talented prisoners on parole, fresh graduates and experienced veterans. The ship, however, gets catapulted through the galaxy 70 000 lightyears from home by mistake and so the crew has to find another way home.
On their way home, they encounter a hundred species, visit hundreds of distant planets and ultimately change the course of time.
The fascinating aspect in general is the eternal question we always ask ourselves every time we read a book or watch a film: what if? What would a world based on interstellar communication look like? What might aliens look like? What would their world be like? We know how it is to travel between New York and Rio, but what would a world look like that is based on travelling between planets on a regular basis. Roddenberry continues on a very old tradition that Homer, Voltaire, Melville and Verne dwelled in: the journey.

Captain Janeway is a future day Don Quixiote. Encountering barbarians and killers just as much as benevolent philosophers on her seven year odyssey, she perseveres in spite of incredible setbacks. Actress Kate Mulgrew’s uncanny resemblance to Katherine Hepburn got her the job portraying the famous thespian in a one-woman show. It is also Mulgrew’s almost painful and ruthless, Hepburnesque, honesty that keeps the spaceship going and eventually takes the weird and wonderful crew home to Earth, eventually happy, eventually joyous.
Robert Beltran’s extraordinary mixture of internal depth with an angry command, as First Officer Chakotay, gives Janeway’s Sherlock her conscience of an eternally wise Watson. In more ways than one, we here have a resiliant team that would not survive as a singular unit. Even when they are stranded alone on a lonely planet, their almost marital team inspires Chakotay’s Adam to create an unusually resistant Eve. Only toward the end of the episode, when Janeway gives in to her quiet seclusion, are they saved to return to Voyager.
Adam and Eve again, willingly unwilling,
become Bill and Hillary.
Robert Picardo breathes life into The Doctor in a role that couldn’t be more different than his most famous portrayal as the Cowboy in “Innerspace”. For those of us who followed Voyager through its journey, the holographic doctor’s love of opera he presents created episodes like “Virtuoso”, where Verdi could be introduced to viewers and aliens alike alongside simple songs like “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah”. The Doctor also becomes an author, a husband, a commanding officer and an advocate of human rights. Wonderfully holographic.
I remember seeing Tom Paris-portrayer Robert Duncan McNeill in a Twilight Zone-episode named “A Message from Charity”. Since then, he has come a long way. His matter-of-fact-way and almost functional form of acting grew in time and became a real jewel of storytelling toward the sixth and seventh seasons of Voyager. McNeill’s very American truthfulness is sympathetic and his cute and constant reparté with Harry Kim in the Captain Proton episodes are worth while to say the least.
Jeri Ryan’s looks have been described as worthy of expressions like “Va-Va-Voom”. Although rather sterile a role, she manages to unify moments of tenderness with a cyborg’s hard battle for individuality as “Seven of Nine”. Tender episodes such as “Someone to Watch Over Me” give us that sweet sneak-peeks of viewing other talents emerge other than looks and strong acting. Her duet with Picardo makes the listener wonder what she would do as the vocalist of a big band. Maybe she already is one. If that is the case, a fellow big band vocalist like me would like to hear her perform songs like “Fly Me to the Moon”.
No Star Trek-ship is complete without a Vulcan. So it is actor and Blues-singer Tim Russ that gives us his constant concentration as Tuvok. The moments when Tuvok is allowed to step outside his own controlled boundaries, however, are the most memorable. Russ is allowed to become a tender and angry soul, happy and enthusiastic, and we find much more beneath that controlled enigma.
Shakespearian actor Ethan Phillips turned Talaxian tour-de-force and Janeway-Alter-Ego Neelix into a weirdly wonderful Pumbaa-like caleidoscope of alien and gastronomical wit. I know he has spent years doing Star Trek, but I also know he is a playwright and the owner of a Master’s Degree in Fine Arts from Cornell University.
UCLA-student Garrett Wang became everybody’s favourite little beginner as Ensign Harry Kim. His smart and honest portrayal was believable enough to inspire people to review the episodes in which he played the focal part. He is and remains Voyager’s charming conscience.
Roxann Dawson created a feisty, angry character with a sensitive core in B’Elanna Torres. As with many of the portrayals in Voyager, we see the development with the oncoming years. We, as actors, do grow with our assigments. Roxann presented superior theatrical skills even in her first episode in addition to being what you could label as versatile and supremely interesting.
Jennifer Lien’s work as Kes unified strength with tenderness. Of all the characters in Voyager, hers is the most feminine, the one with the most thespian introspection.
On the surface, Star Trek Voyager is a sitcom, a soap-opera set in space. At a closer glance, it is a deep and heartfelt plea to enjoy the knowledge the ride itself provides. It is the discoverer’s dream, the seafarer’s love for eternal wisdom.
As I said, we are all seekers and we all love to see that other enjoy seeking, as well.
 

The Singing Couple, HerbertEyre Moulton and Gun Kronzell, and their Irish sheepdog Fred,
during the heyday of their European concert tour, 1966, singing Rodgers, Bernstein, Copland, Verdi and Brahms.


Dead Flowers
​
By Herbert Eyre Moulton

(1927 - 2005)
 
            “A lyrical film, a flop ...” So wrote the Austrian film magazine DIAGONALE about “Dead Flowers” three years after the fact. And this was really tragic, this flop, one of the few movies I’ve ever been associated with that was truly all of a piece, with no nonsense and no camp about any portion of it. It was only the second work by the brilliant young Austrian writer/director Peter Ily Huemer, who divides his time between his native Vienna and his adopted New York, where he lives and works.
            Huemer’s first work, the film noir “Kiss Daddy Good Night”, had been shot in New York and was just as much a success as “Dead Flowers”, made in Vienna. Financially speaking, let it be said, it was a failure. It stands today as a thoroughly fascinating modern retelling of the old Orpheus and Eurydice myth, transplante to the industrial outskirts of the city and its robust working class, a totally integrated work, in turns endearingly funny, raunchy, somber, spooky, and disturbing. Huemer, known as a man of understatement, is a thoughtful and indeed lovable “Mensch” of infinite patience and kindness, especially towards his chosen players. And with what care he chooses them, too. His casting sessions are famous for their thoroughness. Mine lasted well over half an hour and consisted mainly of thoughtful pauses and groping for the answers to his many searching questions, some of them personal, some seemingly irrelevant, many of them psychological: What animal would you like to be, and why? What would you do if a child of yours was in serious trouble/ mixed up with drugs/ killed in an accident? What would you do to try and prevent it, if possible? Have you any cruel impulses, surpressed or otherwise? Questions like that, a baffling, mentally stretching half-hour ... and then no word of the results for weeks.
            In fact, I’d quite forgotten the whole incident when the agent handling it phoned and said I’d been cast as Mr. LeMont, a rich, powerful executive at the United Nations, in some way mixed up with arms smuggling. As a bonus, Mr. LeMont would speak in my own dulcet tones, Chicago-Deutsch and all, without being dubbed later by some low-Viennese kraut-head, as so often happens.
            LeMont’s only daughter Alice is the Eurydice of the tale, who was killed in a traffic accident two years before and comes back mysteriously from the underworld to fall in love with the hero, or anti-hero, Alex. And never has Eurydice had a more unlikely Orpheus, laconic, rough-appearing, almost primitive, but with a huge heart and tender nature, by profession with the harrowing of hell with his shirttail hanging halfway out.
            Alex lives with his dotty old grandmother (Tana Schanzara, who received an international prize for her delicious portrayal), a grandma who talks to herself when not addressing the image of her dead husband in his illuminated closet-shrine. Whenever she happens to stumble, out in her garden, she just has to lie there on her back like a tortoise, squealing and calling out until somebody, Alex usually, appears and helps her to her feet again.
            Into this odd little household comes my daughter, Alice/Eurydice, whom Alex has picked up one night hitchhiking on the highway, bruised and soiled as if she’d been in an accident. This is a haunting performance by the American actress Kate Valk, whom in the idiotic way of moviemaking I have never ever met, while I was filming, she was onstage in New York.
            Alice is a figure of mystery, and is already being stalked by a sinister network of agents from Hades, headed by a sadistic creep named Willy deVille, in mauve Liberace-type outfit and dark shades. The flight of the young pair, Alice must be returned to Hades whence she escaped, is packed with danger and excitement and ends up in a truly scary night-sequence in a shut-down zoo. There she gets separated from Alex and is abducted by deVille.
            Now deeply in love, Alex breaks out in a desperate search which leads first to Alice’s father, who only compounds the mystery. And that’s where I come in, out of the butler’s pantry for once, and into a top position in the UNO-City-by-the-Danube. I’m first seen in the parking lot there, getting into my big expensive car to drive to my big expensive home in Grinzing. On the expressway I’m increasingly aware of Alex tailing me in his van. Once at my place, he gets himself zapped unconcious by a couple of goons in my employ – Blues Brothers types, only evil, and comes to my cellar where I’m enjoying his getting roughed up, that is, until he mentions his quest for Alice. At which, I get up and come forward to inform him that she has been dead these two years now, the victim of a traffic accident, which Alex, of course, finds incomprehensible. After a moment’s consideration, I order my gorillas to set him free.
            LeMont had only a couple of scenes, but these were as meticulously staged and filmed as if it were a major role in a top-budget thriller. Peter guided me through them with great patience and understanding. For the interrogation in the cellar he took me step-by-step, phrase-by-phrase, until, speaking of my dead daughter, I was almost choked with emotion – this tough, amoral, affluent wheeler-and-dealer.
            For the chase on the expressway, the traffic was blocked off so that I could race down the wrong way, for a more advantageous shot, the camera whirring away just at my right elbow and Peter directing me from the back seat: “Okay, Herbert, now look in the rearview mirror to see if he’s gaining on you – now speed up a bit – glance at the side mirror, speed up slightly again – shift in your seat – another glance in the mirror – excellent, Herbert, super! That’s it, CUT! Thank you very much!”
            Alex’s quest culminates in a foggy rowboat-crossing of the Danube/River Styx – Huemer’s screenplay follows the old legend faithfully, and is studded with intriguing details like Alex meeting a dead pal, just recently killed in a train accident involving the express from Salzburg, the “Rosenkavalier”. He inquires how it was that Alex died – Alex tells him he’s only visiting. Then, in an unforgettable encounter with The Boss, who turns out to be a transsexual Bulgarian woman in a dark suit and boy’s haircut, he learns that, in order to get Alice freed again, someone else must die in her place ...
            This little detail is neatly dispatched by dear old Granny, once Alex gets back to the other side.
            A fresh viewing of our “Dead Flowers”-video (recorded off the air) convinced me that this is nothing short of a minor masterpiece which deserved a far happier fate than a few prizes and citations from scattered film festivals, followed by a week in a grotty little cinema in Vienna’s 9th district. There, except for a couple of teeny gigglers, my family and I were the only audience that dismal Saturday afternoon – after which it folded up its petals and crept into oblivion.
            Some days later, wretchedly true to form, advertising posters began blossoming in streetscars and buses and on railway platforms – just one more example of too little/too late, as if purposely being sabotaged by the insensitive slobs in charge of promotion and distribution. No doubt they were already launched on something much more commercial, something reeking of sentimental schmaltz, but profitable. Peter’s only printed comment: “Da ist man schon einige Zeit angeschlagen – You can be pretty hard hit for a while after that.”
            As for the ultimate fate of Alex and Alice, one can only hope there’ll come another oppurtunity some day to re-live this haunting and fascinating picture. Given half the chance it still has all the makings of a genuine cult-film.
 
 

A Fellow MEETS His DAD Way BEFORE He HAD Kids 

A look at The BACK TO THE FUTURE-Trilogy

By Charles E.J. Moulton

 
Small town, America. 1955. A young boy saves his friend from a car accident, who thanks him by simply jumping on his bike and driving off into the sunset.
Sounds like pure soap opera, fifties style. 
Yes, but with a twist: the hero is his son and they are both 17 years old.
Huh? What was that? 17? Both?                                                                                   
Rewind the tape. Marty McFly’s friend, the much older Doc Brown, has invented a time machine with the help of plutonium-smuggling Libyans. During a demonstration, Marty McFly is accidentally catapulted thirty years back to a time when his parents were in high school.
Oops.
The only problem is that he never expected to stand in their way. He interrupted with his parent’s first meeting and now Marty has to get his folks back together so he can be born.
At first, it doesn’t work at all. His Dad is a complete wimp, mobbed by the local bully Biff, and his own mom is in love with… Marty. So it takes a whole lot of courage and pain and playing of love songs on proms to get them back together before he can by the help of a lightning bolt go back to the future, only to find out that he changed his parents: his formerly drunk loser parents are now prime yuppies out for tennis speaking like rich middle-class people. Who are better people? Losers or phoneys? Is the loser more honest because he lost?
Wait a minute, there is more. In the second picture, old Doc Brown travels back from the future, 2015, to tell Marty and his girl that their kids are in trouble. They go there to save them, but Marty is tempted by the dark side of the force (sorry, Mr. Lucas). He is chased on a hovering skateboard by Biff’s grandchild when he buys an almanac that reveals all sport results of the later half of the 20th century. Doc prevents him from taking it back with him, but evil things lurk in the minds of men and the entire story becomes a very Shakespearian parody.
Old Biff steals the book and takes the time vehicle back to the past and gives himself this desirable object. The result is a 1985 Hill Valley Gambling Hell with Biff as the rich devil replacing his murdered father. They accordingly go back to the past to fix this present in the past. They do succeed, run into themselves a couple of times, before burning the book and saving the future.
You think this is over? Not yet. Doc’s car was struck by lightning and sent back to 1885. Marty has to travel back there, against the Doc’s wishes, because he finds out that the Doc was murdered by Biff’s great grandfather. He does so, in the process letting Indians rip the fuel line. The result is that he meets his ancestors, his grandpa even pees on him as a baby, in order to find a home in his own town a hundred years back in time. He gets into a fight with Biff’s grandpa Buford “Mad Dog” Tannen (“I hate that name!”), who challenges him to a duel. The Doc, however, has fallen in love and after the victorious duel he elopes with his Miss Clara Clayton, whilst Marty pushes up to high velocity by a steam train into the present.
But there is hope yet.
Doc returns with a new invention, prompted by the hover board from the future.
He is now the owner of a time steam train.
Sound like fun? Yes. It is. Fast, furious and funny.
But let’s look a little behind the scenes, shall we now? Having read two of Michael J. Fox’s biographies, I am a little smarter. He tells us that his now very evident Parkinson’s disease comes from an accident in the hanging scene of the third movie. “Accidents are temporary, film is forever.” These were his exact words.
However, we must admire a man who so bravely left Canada to become a star and decided to work day and night on two projects while doing the movie.
What about the characters in the film?
All Marty’s family are losers made winners in the movies, through Marty’s timely doing. Biff’s family are winners made losers in the movies, also through Marty’s doing. There is thus a reverse side to the movies, with Marty undoing ill and doing well. Is it too bad that Marty and Doc are not together at the end? Yes. But Doc was always lonely and now has a family in the only place he ever really truly loved: the old west.
Looking at them as a whole, with all of their reversible fun of characters meeting themselves and changing lives, the most interesting part of it is still how the characters can change personality wise according to circumstance and situation. 
Marty’s mother is a drunken housewife who, completely and utterly resigned to a dull poor life, really has given up. But because of loving a man of heroics (Dad prompted by Marty) she turns into the fit, self secure and hip mother in 1985. The hip mother, however, turns into a rich, silicon pumped and frustrated wife in the alternate reality just because wealthy Biff murdered her husband and married her.
Biff is a pure sleaze, who has been used to winning all his life and therefore does the same thing he did in the fifties and even gets away with it because no one tells him otherwise. But the fact that Marty’s father has the guts to retaliate in 1955 he turns Biff into a meek and shy car mechanic thirty years later.
Receiving the book from himself in 1955, moreover, turns him into the evil man we all love to hate.
Marty’s father is a shy loser in 1985 because no one ever told him he was a capable man. But by receiving the right courage he dares to take the risk he needs and becomes a successful author and eventually a happy, rich grandpa.
Marty’s problem is that he never lets anyone call him coward. And so he gets into an accident in 1985 that ruins his life. But by the actual intervention of Doc he changes his mind and is able to not get into the accident and thereby make himself a future with his girl without being a loser.
TIME magazine was once quoted as saying that these films are like a fugue improvising on the theme of the previous movies.
Interesting point, this. A man might change his life if he makes the right decisions. What are the right decisions? Being strong and feeling strong. Having the guts to say: “Man, I am so talented. I can handle this, all right.”
Marty travels close to hundred and fifty years in time to find out that it isn’t the main thing to defend yourself against people who judge you ignorantly.
Defending yourself to save your soul from ignorance might be the main thing.
The main thing is not holding on to your past mistakes and letting your intuition lead the way. Is that what Marty does? Time is illusive and strange and maybe that is what the movies want to teach us. That going on with your life and working from the moment is the most important thing. Don’t keep reminding yourself that you did a mistake. Make sure that you don’t make the mistake again. Don’t be a bully like Biff or as quick in the draw as Marty. Be as good as you possibly can be. Sail through time in your own speed and with your own elegance and eloquence. Don’t be intimidated by past mistakes.
Don’t be so sure that you cannot learn anything from a movie just because pop corn and coke is labeled on the cover of a motion picture. Surprising truths can be found at the backsides of cereal cartons. This little extravaganza about time tells us that hotheads do well in not following grudges.
 
 
BACK TO THE FUTURE:                          
    Three Motion Pictures                    
(©    1985,     1989,    1990)
Director: Robert Zemeckis   
Music: Alan Silvestri    
​Actors: Michael J. Fox, Christopher Lloyd, Lea Thompson, Crispin Glover, Thomas F.Wilson, James Tolkan;              
Producer: Steven Spielberg.

​Creative Non-Fiction can also be poetic, as Alexandra H. Rodrigues points out in this poem. 
We can redefine literature by asking ourselves the eternal question what literature is,
what words are, what poetry is. 
Music can be poetic, stories can be creative, 
and we certainly know that many authors write their stories with their own lives in mind. 
So enjoy this poetic painting by Alexandra. 
The Creativity Webzine is the journal
where all the arts meet.
Redefine the borders. 
Enjoy the eternal moment.



​

The Painting


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

My painting won first prize
Yet my smile was just a disguise.
My sister had sat for this sample
During her very last week
As I, on the canvas, each line or
Dimple to capture did seek.


Only in her thirties, my sister was
Certainly, much too young
To be already from this earth gone.
During the show, I was offered good money
For the portrait of her
It made no impression, I swear.


Being a very close-knit family
For our sister we opened a kind of a shrine
I visited often, when no one else around
In the painting, she was mine and peace I found.
The portrait exuberated life and showed me a way
With her, who I loved so much, to stay.


A photo is great, also as memory can be seen
But paint strokes on canvas show how she has been
Executed while she still did breathe
Not just ink that quickly on paper would freeze
Causing minute changes in her pose
When fatigue to exhaustion rose.


Before my sister’s death, I viewed my talent an art
Now I thank destiny that of me it became part.
It is the memory of the time spent on the strokes
That now a different intimacy with her evokes.
Why I just wrote this, I really don’t know
Never did I have a brother or sister to show.

Excerpts from 

Christopher Columbus'

Log


1492 A.D.


IN THE NAME OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST


Whereas, Most Christian, High, Excellent, and Powerful Princes, King and Queen of Spain and of the Islands of the Sea, our Sovereigns, this present year 1492, after your Highnesses had terminated the war with the Moors reigning in Europe, the same having been brought to an end in the great city of Granada, where on the second day of January, this present year, I saw the royal banners of your Highnesses planted by force of arms upon the towers of the Alhambra, which is the fortress of that city, and saw the Moorish king come out at the gate of the city and kiss the hands of your Highnesses, and of the Prince my Sovereign; and in the present month, in consequence of the information which I had given your Highnesses respecting the countries of India and of a Prince, called Great Can, which in our language signifies King of Kings, how, at many times he, and his predecessors had sent to Rome soliciting instructors who might teach him our holy faith, and the holy Father had never granted his request, whereby great numbers of people were lost, believing in idolatry and doctrines of perdition. Your Highnesses, as Catholic Christians, and princes who love and promote the holy Christian faith, and are enemies of the doctrine of Mahomet, and of all idolatry and heresy, determined to send me, Christopher Columbus, to the above-mentioned countries of India, to see the said princes, people, and territories, and to learn their disposition and the proper method of converting them to our holy faith; and furthermore directed that I should not proceed by land to the East, as is customary, but by a Westerly route, in which direction we have hitherto no certain evidence that any one has gone. So after having expelled the Jews from your dominions, your Highnesses, in the same month of January, ordered me to proceed with a sufficient armament to the said regions of India, and for that purpose granted me great favors, and ennobled me that thenceforth I might call myself Don, and be High Admiral of the Sea, and perpetual Viceroy and Governor in all the islands and continents which I might discover and acquire, or which may hereafter he discovered and acquired in the ocean; and that this dignity should be inherited by my eldest son, and thus descend from degree to degree forever.
Hereupon I left the city of Granada, on Saturday, the twelfth day of May, 1492, and proceeded to Palos, a seaport, where I armed three vessels, very fit for such an enterprise, and having provided myself with abundance of stores and seamen, I set sail from the port, on Friday, the third of August, half an hour before sunrise, and steered for the Canary Islands of your Highnesses which are in the said ocean, thence to take my departure and proceed till I arrived at the Indies, and perform the embassy of your Highnesses to the Princes there, and discharge the orders given me. For this purpose I determined to keep an account of the voyage, and to write down punctually every thing we performed or saw from day to day, as will hereafter appear. Moreover, Sovereign Princes, besides describing every night the occurrences of the day, and every day those of the preceding night, I intend to draw up a nautical chart, which shall contain the several parts of the ocean and land in their proper situations; and also to compose a book to represent the whole by picture with latitudes and longitudes, on all which accounts it behooves me to abstain from my sleep, and make many trials in navigation, which things will demand much labor.
Friday, 3 August 1492. Set sail from the bar of Saltes at 8 o'clock, and proceeded with a strong breeze till sunset, sixty miles or fifteen leagues south, afterwards southwest and south by west, which is the direction of the Canaries.


Monday, 6 August. The rudder of the caravel Pinta became loose, being broken or unshipped. It was believed that this happened by the contrivance of Gomez Rascon and Christopher Quintero, who were on board the caravel, because they disliked the voyage. The Admiral says he had found them in an unfavorable disposition before setting out. He was in much anxiety at not being able to afford any assistance in this case, but says that it somewhat quieted his apprehensions to know that Martin Alonzo Pinzon, Captain of the Pinta, was a man of courage and capacity. Made a progress, day and night, of twenty-nine leagues.


Thursday, 9 August. The Admiral did not succeed in reaching the island of Gomera till Sunday night. Martin Alonzo remained at Grand Canary by command of the Admiral, he being unable to keep the other vessels company. The Admiral afterwards returned to Grand Canary, and there with much labor repaired the Pinta, being assisted by Martin Alonzo and the others; finally they sailed to Gomera. They saw a great eruption of names from the Peak of Teneriffe, a lofty mountain. The Pinta, which before had carried latine sails, they altered and made her square-rigged. Returned to Gomera, Sunday, 2 September, with the Pinta repaired.
The Admiral says that he was assured by many respectable Spaniards, inhabitants of the island of Ferro, who were at Gomera with Dona Inez Peraza, mother of Guillen Peraza, afterwards first Count of Gomera, that every year they saw land to the west of the Canaries; and others of Gomera affirmed the same with the like assurances. The Admiral here says that he remembers, while he was in Portugal, in 1484, there came a person to the King from the island of Madeira, soliciting for a vessel to go in quest of land, which he affirmed he saw every year, and always of the same appearance. He also says that he remembers the same was said by the inhabitants of the Azores and described as in a similar direction, and of the same shape and size. Having taken in food, water, meat and other provisions, which had been provided by the men which he left ashore on departing for Grand Canary to repair the Pinta, the Admiral took his final departure from Gomera with the three vessels on Thursday, 6 September.


Sunday, 9 September. Sailed this day nineteen leagues, and determined to count less than the true number, that the crew might not be dismayed if the voyage should prove long. In the night sailed one hundred and twenty miles, at the rate of ten miles an hour, which make thirty leagues. The sailors steered badly, causing the vessels to fall to leeward toward the northeast, for which the Admiral reprimanded them repeatedly.
Monday, 10 September. This day and night sailed sixty leagues, at the rate of ten miles an hour, which are two leagues and a half. Reckoned only forty-eight leagues, that the men might not be terrified if they should be long upon the voyage.
Tuesday, 11 September. Steered their course west and sailed above twenty leagues; saw a large fragment of the mast of a vessel, apparently of a hundred and twenty tons, but could not pick it up. In the night sailed about twenty leagues, and reckoned only sixteen, for the cause above stated.


Friday, 14 September. Steered this day and night west twenty leagues; reckoned somewhat less. The crew of the Nina stated that they had seen a grajao, and a tropic bird, or water-wagtail, which birds never go farther than twenty-five leagues from the land.


Sunday, 16 September. Sailed day and night, west thirty-nine leagues, and reckoned only thirty-six. Some clouds arose and it drizzled. The Admiral here says that from this time they experienced very pleasant weather, and that the mornings were most delightful, wanting nothing but the melody of the nightingales. He compares the weather to that of Andalusia in April. Here they began to meet with large patches of weeds very green, and which appeared to have been recently washed away from the land; on which account they all judged themselves to be near some island, though not a continent, according to the opinion of the Admiral, who says, "the continent we shall find further ahead."
Monday, 17 September. Steered west and sailed, day and night, above fifty leagues; wrote down only forty-seven; the current favored them. They saw a great deal of weed which proved to be rockweed, it came from the west and they met with it very frequently. They were of opinion that land was near. The pilots took the sun's amplitude, and found that the needles varied to the northwest a whole point of the compass; the seamen were terrified, and dismayed without saying why. The Admiral discovered the cause, and ordered them to take the amplitude again the next morning, when they found that the needles were true; the cause was that the star moved from its place, while the needles remained stationary. At dawn they saw many more weeds, apparently river weeds, and among them a live crab, which the Admiral kept, and says that these are sure signs of land, being never found eighty leagues out at sea. They found the sea-water less salt since they left the Canaries, and the air more mild. They were all very cheerful, and strove which vessel should outsail the others, and be the first to discover land; they saw many tunnies, and the crew of the Nina killed one. The Admiral here says that these signs were from the west, "where I hope that high God in whose hand is all victory will speedily direct us to land." This morning he says he saw a white bird called a water- wagtail, or tropic bird, which does not sleep at sea.


19 September. Continued on, and sailed, day and night, twenty- five leagues, experiencing a calm. Wrote down twenty-two. This day at ten o'clock a pelican came on board, and in the evening another; these birds are not accustomed to go twenty leagues from land. It drizzled without wind, which is a sure sign of land. The Admiral was unwilling to remain here, beating about in search of land, but he held it for certain that there were islands to the north and south, which in fact was the case and he was sailing in the midst of them. His wish was to proceed on to the Indies, having such fair weather, for if it please God, as the Admiral says, we shall examine these parts upon our return. Here the pilots found their places upon the chart: the reckoning of the Nina made her four hundred and forty leagues distant from the Canaries, that of the Pinta four hundred and twenty, that of the Admiral four hundred.
Thursday, 20 September. Steered west by north, varying with alternate changes of the wind and calms; made seven or eight leagues' progress. Two pelicans came on board, and afterwards another,--a sign of the neighborhood of land. Saw large quantities of weeds today, though none was observed yesterday. Caught a bird similar to a grajao; it was a river and not a marine bird, with feet like those of a gull. Towards night two or three land birds came to the ship, singing; they disappeared before sunrise. Afterwards saw a pelican coming from west- northwest and flying to the southwest; an evidence of land to the westward, as these birds sleep on shore, and go to sea in the morning in search of food, never proceeding twenty leagues from the land.
Friday, 21 September. Most of the day calm, afterwards a little wind. Steered their course day and night, sailing less than thirteen leagues. In the morning found such abundance of weeds that the ocean seemed to be covered with them; they came from the west. Saw a pelican; the sea smooth as a river, and the finest air in the world. Saw a whale, an indication of land, as they always keep near the coast.
Saturday, 22 September. Steered about west-northwest varying their course, and making thirty leagues' progress. Saw few weeds. Some pardelas were seen, and another bird. The Admiral here says "this headwind was very necessary to me, for my crew had grown much alarmed, dreading that they never should meet in these seas with a fair wind to return to Spain." Part of the day saw no weeds, afterwards great plenty of it.
Sunday, 23 September. Sailed northwest and northwest by north and at times west nearly twenty-two leagues. Saw a turtle dove, a pelican, a river bird, and other white fowl;--weeds in abundance with crabs among them. The sea being smooth and tranquil, the sailors murmured, saying that they had got into smooth water, where it would never blow to carry them back to Spain; but afterwards the sea rose without wind, which astonished them. The Admiral says on this occasion "the rising of the sea was very favorable to me, as it happened formerly to Moses when he led the Jews from Egypt."


Tuesday, 25 September. Very calm this day; afterwards the wind rose. Continued their course west till night. The Admiral held a conversation with Martin Alonzo Pinzon, captain of the Pinta, respecting a chart which the Admiral had sent him three days before, in which it appears he had marked down certain islands in that sea; Martin Alonzo was of opinion that they were in their neighborhood, and the Admiral replied that he thought the same, but as they had not met with them, it must have been owing to the currents which had carried them to the northeast and that they had not made such progress as the pilots stated. The Admiral directed him to return the chart, when he traced their course upon it in presence of the pilot and sailors.
At sunset Martin Alonzo called out with great joy from his vessel that he saw land, and demanded of the Admiral a reward for his intelligence. The Admiral says, when he heard him declare this, he fell on his knees and returned thanks to God, and Martin Alonzo with his crew repeated Gloria in excelsis Deo, as did the crew of the Admiral. Those on board the Nina ascended the rigging, and all declared they saw land. The Admiral also thought it was land, and about twenty-five leagues distant. They remained all night repeating these affirmations, and the Admiral ordered their course to be shifted from west to southwest where the land appeared to lie. They sailed that day four leagues and a half west and in the night seventeen leagues southwest, in all twenty-one and a half: told the crew thirteen leagues, making it a point to keep them from knowing how far they had sailed; in this manner two reckonings were kept, the shorter one falsified, and the other being the true account. The sea was very smooth and many of the sailors went in it to bathe, saw many dories and other fish.
Wednesday, 26 September. Continued their course west till the afternoon, then southwest and discovered that what they had taken for land was nothing but clouds. Sailed, day and night, thirty- one leagues; reckoned to the crew twenty-four. The sea was like a river, the air soft and mild.


Sunday, 30 September. Continued their course west and sailed day and night in calms, fourteen leagues; reckoned eleven.--Four tropic birds came to the ship, which is a very clear sign of land, for so many birds of one sort together show that they are not straying about, having lost themselves. Twice, saw two pelicans; many weeds. The constellation called Las Gallardias, which at evening appeared in a westerly direction, was seen in the northeast the next morning, making no more progress in a night of nine hours, this was the case every night, as says the Admiral. At night the needles varied a point towards the northwest, in the morning they were true, by which it appears that the polar star moves, like the others, and the needles are always right.
Monday, 1 October. Continued their course west and sailed twenty-five leagues; reckoned to the crew twenty. Experienced a heavy shower. The pilot of the Admiral began to fear this morning that they were five hundred and seventy-eight leagues west of the island of Ferro. The short reckoning which the Admiral showed his crew gave five hundred and eighty-four, but the true one which he kept to himself was seven hundred and seven leagues.


Saturday, 6 October. Continued their course west and sailed forty leagues day and night; reckoned to the crew thirty-three. This night Martin Alonzo gave it as his opinion that they had better steer from west to southwest. The Admiral thought from this that Martin Alonzo did not wish to proceed onward to Cipango; but he considered it best to keep on his course, as he should probably reach the land sooner in that direction, preferring to visit the continent first, and then the islands.
Sunday, 7 October. Continued their course west and sailed twelve miles an hour, for two hours, then eight miles an hour. Sailed till an hour after sunrise, twenty-three leagues; reckoned to the crew eighteen. At sunrise the caravel Nina, who kept ahead on account of her swiftness in sailing, while all the vessels were striving to outsail one another, and gain the reward promised by the King and Queen by first discovering land--hoisted a flag at her mast head, and fired a lombarda, as a signal that she had discovered land, for the Admiral had given orders to that effect. He had also ordered that the ships should keep in close company at sunrise and sunset, as the air was more favorable at those times for seeing at a distance. Towards evening seeing nothing of the land which the Nina had made signals for, and observing large flocks of birds coming from the North and making for the southwest, whereby it was rendered probable that they were either going to land to pass the night, or abandoning the countries of the north, on account of the approaching winter, he determined to alter his course, knowing also that the Portuguese had discovered most of the islands they possessed by attending to the flight of birds. The Admiral accordingly shifted his course from west to west-southwest, with a resolution to continue two days ill that direction. This was done about an hour after sunset. Sailed in the night nearly five leagues, and twenty-three in the day. In all twenty-eight.
Monday, 8 October. Steered west-southwest and sailed day and night eleven or twelve leagues; at times during the night, fifteen miles an hour, if the account can be depended upon. Found the sea like the river at Seville, "thanks to God," says the Admiral. The air soft as that of Seville in April, and so fragrant that it was delicious to breathe it. The weeds appeared very fresh. Many land birds, one of which they took, flying towards the southwest; also grajaos, ducks, and a pelican were seen.
Tuesday, 9 October. Sailed southwest five leagues, when the wind changed, and they stood west by north four leagues. Sailed in the whole day and night, twenty leagues and a half; reckoned to the crew seventeen. All night heard birds passing.
Wednesday, 10 October. Steered west-southwest and sailed at times ten miles an hour, at others twelve, and at others, seven; day and night made fifty-nine leagues' progress; reckoned to the crew but forty-four. Here the men lost all patience, and complained of the length of the voyage, but the Admiral encouraged them in the best manner he could, representing the profits they were about to acquire, and adding that it was to no purpose to complain, having come so far, they had nothing to do but continue on to the Indies, till with the help of our Lord, they should arrive there.
Thursday, 11 October. Steered west-southwest; and encountered a heavier sea than they had met with before in the whole voyage. Saw pardelas and a green rush near the vessel. The crew of the Pinta saw a cane and a log; they also picked up a stick which appeared to have been carved with an iron tool, a piece of cane, a plant which grows on land, and a board. The crew of the Nina saw other signs of land, and a stalk loaded with rose berries. These signs encouraged them, and they all grew cheerful. Sailed this day till sunset, twenty-seven leagues.
After sunset steered their original course west and sailed twelve miles an hour till two hours after midnight, going ninety miles, which are twenty-two leagues and a half; and as the Pinta was the swiftest sailer, and kept ahead of the Admiral, she discovered land and made the signals which had been ordered. The land was first seen by a sailor called Rodrigo de Triana, although the Admiral at ten o'clock that evening standing on the quarter-deck saw a light, but so small a body that he could not affirm it to be land; calling to Pero Gutierrez, groom of the King's wardrobe, he told him he saw a light, and bid him look that way, which he did and saw it; he did the same to Rodrigo Sanchez of Segovia, whom the King and Queen had sent with the squadron as comptroller, but he was unable to see it from his situation. The Admiral again perceived it once or twice, appearing like the light of a wax candle moving up and down, which some thought an indication of land. But the Admiral held it for certain that land was near; for which reason, after they had said the Salve which the seamen are accustomed to repeat and chant after their fashion, the Admiral directed them to keep a strict watch upon the forecastle and look out diligently for land, and to him who should first discover it he promised a silken jacket, besides the reward which the King and Queen had offered, which was an annuity of ten thousand maravedis. At two o'clock in the morning the land was discovered, at two leagues' distance; they took in sail and remained under the square-sail lying to till day, which was Friday, when they found themselves near a small island, one of the Lucayos, called in the Indian language Guanahani. Presently they descried people, naked, and the Admiral landed in the boat, which was armed, along with Martin Alonzo Pinzon, and Vincent Yanez his brother, captain of the Nina. The Admiral bore the royal standard, and the two captains each a banner of the Green Cross, which all the ships had carried; this contained the initials of the names of the King and Queen each side of the cross, and a crown over each letter Arrived on shore, they saw trees very green many streams of water, and diverse sorts of fruits. The Admiral called upon the two Captains, and the rest of the crew who landed, as also to Rodrigo de Escovedo notary of the fleet, and Rodrigo Sanchez, of Segovia, to bear witness that he before all others took possession (as in fact he did) of that island for the King and Queen his sovereigns, making the requisite declarations, which are more at large set down here in writing. Numbers of the people of the island straightway collected together. Here follow the precise words of the Admiral: "As I saw that they were very friendly to us, and perceived that they could be much more easily converted to our holy faith by gentle means than by force, I presented them with some red caps, and strings of beads to wear upon the neck, and many other trifles of small value, wherewith they were much delighted, and became wonderfully attached to us. Afterwards they came swimming to the boats, bringing parrots, balls of cotton thread, javelins, and many other things which they exchanged for articles we gave them, such as glass beads, and hawk's bells; which trade was carried on with the utmost good will. But they seemed on the whole to me, to be a very poor people. They all go completely naked, even the women, though I saw but one girl. All whom I saw were young, not above thirty years of age, well made, with fine shapes and faces; their hair short, and coarse like that of a horse's tail, combed toward the forehead, except a small portion which they suffer to hang down behind, and never cut. Some paint themselves with black, which makes them appear like those of the Canaries, neither black nor white; others with white, others with red, and others with such colors as they can find. Some paint the face, and some the whole body; others only the eyes, and others the nose. Weapons they have none, nor are acquainted with them, for I showed them swords which they grasped by the blades, and cut themselves through ignorance. They have no iron, their javelins being without it, and nothing more than sticks, though some have fish-bones or other things at the ends. They are all of a good size and stature, and handsomely formed. I saw some with scars of wounds upon their bodies, and demanded by signs the of them; they answered me in the same way, that there came people from the other islands in the neighborhood who endeavored to make prisoners of them, and they defended themselves. I thought then, and still believe, that these were from the continent. It appears to me, that the people are ingenious, and would be good servants and I am of opinion that they would very readily become Christians, as they appear to have no religion. They very quickly learn such words as are spoken to them. If it please our Lord, I intend at my return to carry home six of them to your Highnesses, that they may learn our language. I saw no beasts in the island, nor any sort of animals except parrots." These are the words of the Admiral.

Gods and Heroes Among Us


A True Story of Spiritual Awakening and Meaning


By Chris Aldridge



The Greek gods are real, and human determination is not something that can be easily conquered. The gods who are great of Olympus and rule all, also guide us to achievement, for they wish us to be a great and prosperous people, not live in self-pity or loathing at the belief that we are somehow inherently broken. These things are evident to me, and have been for years. The story of my wife and son is but one way I tell the truth of these events from a belief system that so many have forgotten throughout the centuries of destruction and persecution of pagans and polytheists. While the ancient Greek temples are in ruins across the Hellenic landscape, the gods they honor are not. They are as real today, for they are not statues or tall columns that melt in the fires of religious hatred, rot away with the winds of time, or deteriorate with the pounding of continuous downpours, but gods who live eternally in the universe with ultimate authority.

Little did I know in my much younger days, this would be a great revelation for me in later life, because like most people in the south, I was born and raised Christian, particularly southern baptist and all of its hell-fire preaching, taught that there is only one god, and I’d go to hell should I believe otherwise. I sometimes remember being taught to fear the devil, his eternal punishment of fire, and the assaults of demons more than to actually love Jesus. This terror was drilled into my every brain cell and thought. But this indoctrination and fear would not be able to hold me back from my true spiritual calling. This is testimony, I think, to the validity of my life experiences, because in order for someone to let go of a lifetime of fear successfully and abandon what they have known their whole life as religion, spirituality and truth, something profound must take place, beyond the experiences of normality. What child born in the late 20th Century of American Christianity would have possibly thought they would grow up to follow the old Greek gods? Certainly not me at the time, but life’s roads are as nearsighted as they are curvy.

My first official taste of ancient Greece came in high school when my English class studied Homer’s classic The Odyssey. I was ever-fascinated with the ancient gods, culture, and the timeless adventures of noble and brave Odysseus. I even decided to dress like him one day during high school spirit week to honor “Hero Day.” Many others dressed in military outfits, because we were just coming out of the September 11th attacks, but I took up the ancient Greek robes of the famed king of Ithaca. Certainly, it’s not to say that I wasn’t a patriot. I simply didn’t want to be the same as everyone else. I had always been my own person. Odysseus was a hero to me as he was to the ancient Hellenes.

Then I saw the movie Troy for the first time in 2005, and I began to lean more toward the interest in actual Greek religious and spiritual belief; not just the captivation of mythology. In 2009, I met my wife Anastasia, and together we had an awesome spiritual experience where the Greek gods Athena and Apollo saved us from a very bad haunting that our new apartment had turned up, after all other prayers received no response. The next morning, Anastasia and I officially and fully converted to Greek Polytheism.

Growing up in Thomasville, North Carolina, I never thought I would marry a girl from the Land of Lincoln. I was a proud southerner and wanted everything in my life at one point to remain that way, but then I met Anastasia. We had similar youtube channels and interacted through discussions with one another. She fascinated me with her intelligence, so much so that I regularly messaged and asked her for advice in debates I was having with people on the website. The more we talked, the more we fell into intense passion with one another, even escalating to the point of seeing ourselves together in dreams. Without ever having met me in real life and living nearly a thousand miles away in Chicago at the time, Anastasia was able to tell me precise details about the inside of my home through a dream she had. It was very compelling evidence that divinity was at play in our relationship.

She would journey a seemingly endless amount of miles to visit me on a regular basis. Sometimes, she spent more time on the road than with me, but each moment together was worth it to the both of us entirely. She was the ultimate road warrior with her ice coffee and beat-up red car. It probably wasn’t the safest to drive straight through for twelve to fourteen hours, but her desire for me simply could not be frightened or discouraged. We fell instantly in love, and spent our days together frolicking around the local towns. It was as if all was right with our world. I enjoyed being with her so much that it became harder to let go of her each time. I simply cried as she pulled away and left for Illinois.

I had other women trying for my hand at the time, but I decided to choose the most dedicated, and nothing fulfilled that requirement more than the cute little northern girl who was willing to come so far just to be with me consistently, even for a short amount of time. Being that I had experienced many girls in my past, I knew how to spot commitment as opposed to a lack thereof. None of the women in my life had ever demonstrated a willingness to even cross the street for me, but Anastasia was prepared to go any distance. I knew that if I wanted a serious, long-lasting relationship, here was the opportunity.

The last time she ventured down toward the summer of that year, she made me promise to never let her leave again. I knew that if I truly loved her, now was the time to make the ultimate decision. Needless to say, my grandmother who I lived with at the time did not approve of our relations, nor did her own parents. She and I were complete strangers to the other family. So I chose to take the chance of being homeless for a while than to live without the love of my life. I packed up my things and we left, bound for wherever the North Carolina roads would take us. My grandparents who were supposed to have cared for me didn’t even bother to know me at that point. They did not care at all that I had nowhere to go. I felt so abandoned and alienated, like I had never actually had a place in that family at all. Fortunately, Anastasia was able to find a job within a week, which enabled us to obtain our first apartment that summer in High Point.

We literally ran away together. Many may only dream of such a fairy tale, but we lived it in a basic sense, and survived often on just love, sometimes sitting on our clothes or sleeping on an air mattress, and eating chicken and rice every night. It wasn’t always the glorious story of freedom that poets make it, as we basically only had four walls, but we were still as happy as those who had it all. It was one of the most joyous times of our lives. We spent the summer watching new movies, traveling the area and visiting wonderful and memorable Pagan shops as much as our limited funds would allow, and swimming in the pool of the apartment complex which usually welcomed us as its only attendants.

As the year drew to a close, my son was conceived and I was very proud to be a father. I thought it would be a wonderful, exciting adventure, but big problems began occurring within the ultrasounds at early stages. Judging by the readings, they feared he would have Down Syndrome or Cystic Fibrosis. My wife was visibly devastated, and no one in the doctor’s office seemed to care the least. No one comforted her except me. They gave us the option of abortion, but we refused. We decided that we would never give up on our child, just as we had never given up on each other.

In June 2010, my wife’s blood pressure skyrocketed to stroke level because of pregnancy complications, and Gryphon Maximus Aldridge had to be delivered at 24 weeks on June 4th and placed in the NICU at Forsyth Medical Center in Winston Salem, North Carolina. Fortunately, the doctors successfully stabilized our son, and he had none of the problems his other doctors had previously feared. Had we aborted him, we would have done so entirely on false grounds. However, that did not change the fact that he now had to face an entirely new set of problems, ones that could end his life just as easily. There was still the risk that he would not make it out of the hospital alive. His chances of survival, even with all of the advanced medicine and technology they had, was only 50%, and around a 70% chance of basically being a vegetable or severely mentally disabled should he survive at all.

However, from the very start of his journey, we knew there was divine favor with him. He was born on the 4th, his incubator number was 4, and Anastasia’s discharge room number was 4444. I did not notice the signs offhand, but my wife, being the oracular woman she is, pointed them out. Four stands as the number of good fortune and prosperity, and the gods can send messages through signs and omens. I was astonished, knowing that it was not possible that all of these coexistent representations were all merely coincidences. When something happens enough, it ceases to be an accident. As Aristotle said, nature does nothing without use. All things have purpose and direction, from the strifeful relationship my wife and I started out in, to the birth of our son, all things happen for a reason, and more importantly, nature or the gods, intend purpose behind everything they push into this world. The universe, likewise, would also not have given us all of these consistent signs needlessly. We decided to listen to the gods, and take the lessons of the journey.

When his mother and I first visited him together in the NICU, I placed pictures of Athena, Apollo and Artemis on the windows of his incubator. Athena is a strong protective goddess and Apollo and Artemis help infants and children. Gryphon soon began to breathe on his own for a while without the help of a ventilator. The doctors were amazed. I realize now that what I saw was more than just my son taking the element that gives us all life, it was the presence of the gods there with him. He himself was also the strongest little fighter, so much will to live packed into his tiny body. Whatever ailments wanted to come his way, they were clearly in for a very hard time.

Each day looked better and better, no one willing to give up the fight. We all loved him far too much to give in to defeat, and his doctors worked round the clock to save his life. They are most certainly a kind of hero in themselves. When it came time for Anastasia to first feed him, she was told to not be worried if he only took a few sips, because that was to be expected. He took the whole bottle down. He was certainly earning his name of Maximus. Day by day, we watched our son grow, develop and progress without any real complications. They never even had to do any surgeries. It was clear, this baby’s life had purpose and meaning.

After being in the NICU for over one-hundred days, we finally got to take him home, growing to around five times his size at birth at the time of discharge. I pulled up in my Buick Park Ave with a carseat in the back for the first time in my life, ready to welcome in my first son. Never again would Anastasia and I have to enter those dim parking decks and walk to the NICU in fear that our son would be gone when we arrived, each step more worrisome than the last. No more would my wife have nightmares about him never being released and vanishing from our embrace. Gryphon was finally home.

Today, our son has surpassed his expectations. He is not the crippled, extremely disabled person as we previously feared. He can walk, run, laugh, play, eat, learn, and do basic things for himself. He does have a mild case of Cerebral Palsy in his legs, but it’s treatable and does not prevent him from moving. In Kindergarten, he even learned how to ride a tricycle. School remains one of his favorite activities, and his mother and I are gladly so because the great education and assistance he has received has tremendously progressed him.

​Each day when Eos escorts the morning light, I thank the gods that I have such a wonderful wife and son to love. While it was hard, I thank them also for this amazing religious and spiritual journey they have brought me on, to teach me the value and meaning of life through the eyes of the ancient gods, culture and men who shaped the very foundation of the America in which we live today. The lesson is simply that we still possess the ability to reach that Golden Age from the old world that we so often long to replicate. And I certainly consider my family and I fortunate enough to live in a world where there are still gods and heroes among us.

An Ode to Warmth
 
Creative Non-Fiction by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
The palmtree in the corner covered parts of the dining room lamp. It looked like the sun shining through the rainforest on an August morning. The ginger tea had the taste of that rainforest warmth, a look that resembled the color of the Egyptian painting in the living room. The feeling in my soul really encompassed warmth, logical warmth, if ever there was such a thing. The warmth I heard in Toto’s “Rosanna” playing on German radio, cool keyboard sounds originated in the 1980s. Warmth, like a palmtree providing a soothing shade away from the heat of a bright light. Warmth, like the soothing love of a daughter practicing math to the sounds of Leopold Mozart. Warmth, like a wife knitting a cap while the tea trickled down a wintery chill-protected larynx. Warmth, like the studious attention of six vocal pupils whose fine personalities gave a teacher pride of being an artist.
            This singer looked up at the painting that hung upon his wall: one artwork painted by one Caspar David Friedrich. A boy holding a Swedish flag fluttering in the ocean breeze. 19th century men and women lingering on the stones of an ocean shore, overlooking the departure of five ships. Five people, five ships, one sunset. The chill of the breeze still unable to freeze any of the love that came flooding out into the world from within the endless soul out into the ether.
            One word: warmth.
            Warmth, like a lucious evening bath to Chopin music.
            Warmth, like making love on the sea shore.
            Warmth, like creating a baby that changed the world.
            Warmth, like the smile of a baby.
            Warmth, like the future of the world held together in one oyster shell.
            Warmth, like a universe residing within the joyous teardrop emanting out of a baby boy’s eye.
            Warmth, like ginger tea steaming inside an Elvis cup.
            Warmth, simple red and yellow and orange warmth.
            Warmth, like the dainty staccatis of a Mozart quintet.
            Warmth, like a sage in his couch on the bear rug in front of a roaring fireplace.
            Warmth, like a brandy and a cigar.
            Warmth, like a hug and a boo.
            Warmth, like a kiss on a summer day.
            Warmth, behind the scenes.
            Warmth.
            Simple and genuine warmth.
            The creation of art, the creation of love, the creation of truth, the creation of a baby, the creation of warmth, the creation of faith. Building bridges, building houses, building trust, building churches, building temples, building trust.
            A fiddler in the corner stamping his feat to the sound of the tin whistle and the bodhran, creating warmth in the hearts of Irish rovers.
            Warmth, like the rum of pirates, pulling their ropes on deck.
            Warmth, like a baking pizza in a stone oven.
            Warmth, like a fresh hug from a wife and daughter after a long business trip.
            Warmth, like laughing friends around a table on a spring night.
            Warmth, like a hot cup of coffee given to a homeless man on a cold winter’s day.
            Warmth, like love.
            Warmth, like old friends drinking a pint at the local Dublin pub.
            Warmth, like applause after a concert.
            Warmth, like confession.
            Warmth, like marriage.
            Warmth, like unselfish behavior.
            Alive, alive-oh.
            Send those gypsy harmonies into the world.
            Make a circle, bless you.
            Let’s all make a circle right now.
            Think good thoughts and good thoughts shall come to you.
            Good thoughts create good actions, good actions create a good world.
            If you don’t start spreading warmth around this rock, who will?
            It’s up to you.
            Yes, you CAN change the world.
            That’s where the future lies. 

​

***
​
Odyssey of an Opera Freak

or

Waiting For Callas

 
By Herbert Eyre Moulton
 
(1927 – 2005)
 
 
         Imagine being a 19-year old opera freak, a voice student between jobs and suddenly finding yourself shepherding a whole carload of famous, if impoverished opera singers overnight from Chicago to New York in the middle of a midwestern winter – in February 1947 yet.
            Imagine that these splendid artists have been stranded by an opera season that folded before it opened, and, just to add to the fun, that they have barely a word of English among them, while your own knowledge of foreign language is almost as sketchy as theirs.
            Then imagine that this whole bizarre, impromptu interlude would turn out to be one of the most memorable of your lifetime, vivid even now, more than half a century later.
            But first we’d better backtrack a bit ...
            The previous summer, dazzled by the prospect of mingling with some real live opera singers – past, present, and future – I’d given up an academic scholarship for the richly rococo voice studio of oldtime diva Anna Fitziu and her fascinating entourage of students of hangers-on. (One of her last and finest gifts to the world would be the megastar Shirley Verrett). That same summer I was engaged as the youngest 2nd tenor to grace (or disgrace, as some would have it) the Chicago Opera Company chorus for what would be the city’s last resident season until 1954 – no connection there, really, folks.
            By mid-July we were rehearsing for the October opening of a 6-week season to feature such household Gods of ours as Milanov, Björling, Traubel, Warren, and Tibbett, along with overseas newcomers like Ferruccio Tagliavini and Italo Tajo. For me, all this amounted to The Big Time, or as near as you would come to it in Chicago of 1946 – but wait! What was that brilliant light shining on the horizon? A brand new opera company. Glory! Hallelujah! A veteran impressario from South America named Ottavio Scotto had suddenly appeared – a feisty little turkey-cock of a gent with flowing silk scarves, a wide-brimmed champagne-colored Borsalino hat, silver-headed cane, and – I swear it – spats and pince-nez glasses. And he was fizzing over with grandiose plans for an ambitious new undertaking with the imposing name of The United States Opera, to open its inaugeral season at the Civic Opera House on January 6th, with an all-star production of Puccini’s Turandot. But that wasn’t all – thanks to generous backing, a constellation of legendary European stars had already been signed, names familiar from recordings and opera magazines, along with an excellent musical staff from conductors (Sergio Failoni, George Sebastian) and coaches to a chorus master from the old opera days. And the company would live up to its name by using Chicago as a base for touring all over opera-hungry America.
            Signor Scotto strutted through the studio several times to audition singers for smaller roles, always with a squad of Cosa Nostra types, and though Madame Fitziu was always her usual gracious self, it was obvious that she Didn’t Quite Trust That Little Man. She disclosed that he had at one time been the manager and possibly lover of the tragic, Duse-like prima donna Claudia Muzio. Also, his vibes were negative in the extreme. Once at a rehearsal in South America, she saw him slap star tenor Miguel Fleta viciously across the face for cracking on high notes due to sexual excess. (Ah, the mysterious mystique of Art!)
            Anyway, we choristers were at once plunged into daily rehearsals for the new season. In addition to Turandot, there would be several operas new to many of us: Tannhäuser, Don Pasquale, Cavalleria, and two Massenet works, Thais and Manon, as showcases for a star of the Paris Opéra, Georgi-Boué, and her baritone husband, Roger Bourdin. (She was reputed to be drop-dead gorgeous, perfect casting for Massenet’s romantic heroines.) We never did see this pair – did they know something we perhaps didn’t?
            Among the Italians would be established singers like Mafalda Favero, Galliano Masini, Cloe Elmo – while the German wing would be led by Heldentenor Max Lorenz, the famed Konetzni sisters, Hilde and Anny, from Vienna, and the young Swiss bass Heinz Rehfuss. Most compelling of all: a superb Italo-Russian basso from La Scala, Nicolo Rossi-Lemeni, who arrived early enough to become a familiar figure at Fitziu’s studio, a stunning singing-actor, 27 years of age, too intellectual really to be an opera star, simpatico, and physically what nowadays would be called a Hunk. Moreover, he was probably the only singer ever to get a rave review from critic Claudia Cassidy for singing over the telephone, sending her to the highest heaven of invention, where she remained for at least 24 hours.
            It was Nicola who first told us about our Turandot, a fabulous young Greek-American soprano still back in New York – only 23 years old: shy, nearsighed, plump, and awkward to play the fire-in-ice princess, but possessor of one of the most fantastic voices that he or anybody had ever heard. Her name was something like Maria Kalogerapoulous shortened, or so he believed, to Callas (though advance publicity, bumbling as usual, dubbed her “Marie Calas”.) She had been something of a phenomenon in Greece during the war – singing roles like Tosca, Santuzza and Fidelio, but for the past year or so, back in New York she hadn’t had a chance. Learning Turandot had been a godsend – coached by a singer-pianist, who was along on our epic trip – but with the collapse of the season, she’d be back to square one, poor girl. However – the future held such things for her that no fairytale could envision. (By the way, many of the the Callas biographies have her coming to Chicago and getting stranded there like all the others, but it simply isn’t true. She remained in New York. If she HAD been along – in that concert AND on that train, I’m sure somebody would have noticed. So much for good reporting. Take that, Arianna Stassinopoulous. Sic semper Tabloidiensis!
            Another outrider from the Scotto troupe was an Italian comprimaro tenor named Virginio Assandri (or “Sandro”), amiable and high-spirited. From him I acquired the Italian cusswords and scatological terms that still stud my vocabulary. (He later went on to New York to sing in several of Toscanini’s legendary NBC opera productions, starting with Cassio in the benchmark Otello the following autumn.)
            December came and went, and with it the usual Chanukah and Christmas festivities, with Turandot all but coming out of our ears – one foot in Ancient Peking, the other in Limbo, because at that point we didn’t know where we stood: still no “Marie Calas”, and, what was worse, no money. Illustrations artists kept on arriving, and, though the opening had already been put forward a couple of weeks, ticket orders were already being filled. Rumors were rife and speculation becoming general because nobody had as yet seen a penny of rehearsal pay. And we were constantly being put off by the vaguest of excuses – the money was there, all right, but (a) being held up by the government, or (b) caught up in the bureaucratic tangle of international finance, or (c) tied up in the escrow, whatever the hell that meant.
            When the opening date was again moved forward, our AGMA chorus-delegate, a lady named Evelyn Siegel, who Took No Prisoners, issued a Put-Up-or-We-Shut-Up ultimatum that brought matters to a nasty head.
            Signor Scotto, meanwhile, last of the Bigtime Impressarios, had vanished in a puff of smoke like Rumpelstilskin – scarves, pince-nez, and spats, leaving his luckless partner, an agent named Eddie Bagarozy, holding the tab for something like $ 100 000 in debts.
            The backers – invisible Millionaires from Outer Space – had suddenly withdrawn their support, taking all of their gold with them like Alberich and his seven dwarfs in Das Rheingold. The bitter, unvarnished truth: there would be no opera season, there would be no United States Opera Company ever. The key word was bankrupt. Kaputt. Fini. Finiti. That’s all she wrote, as they say in This Man’s Army.
            And those magnifiscent singers from overseas, what would happen to them? How would they going to bankroll their journey back to Europe? What, by giving a benefit concert for themselves, that’s how ...
             And what a concert it turned out to be – one of those rare occasions which one can, in all confidence, call unforgettable. The Civic Opera House was packed, and the audience was as enthusiastic as the Super Bowl’s. True, the programme handed out consisted of only one page mimeographed in that blotchy purple ink that old office machines used to have – no Xerox yet in 1947. The vast stage was empty except for the piano, a seat for the accompanist (Sandro on his very best behavior). The singing and the artistry were, of course, something else again. As one by one these wonderful artists came and went, most of them in pre-war finery that had seen better days, they planted themselves by the piano and delivered with a grandeur of voice and style that had nothing to do with costumes or scenery – an inner pride, a rocklike self-confidence that could only come from generations of tradition and hard work, showing us just what were about to be deprived of. Now, more than five decades later, highlights are still fresh in memory, and these are only as one spectator remembers them. There are bound to be some errors. Nodody’s perfect, as the fellah said.
            Especially memorable high points – a Rigoletto Quartet that was, in a word , simply to die for – Mafalda Favero’s lovely but delicate soprano, heartbreaking in scenes from La Boheme and La Traviata (the latter with an attractive lyric baritone named Daniele Cecchele) – a humorous basso buffo (Melchiore Luise) and itinerant quack hawking his wares to a gullible country bumpkin (tenore-di-grazia Nino Scattolini) who looked like a waiter at the Italian Village café a few streets over, but who sang like a Donizetti angel – sparkling Rossini from a beauteous young senorita named Carmen Gracia – superb arias from Masini, still one of the greatest Italian tenors extant. Then there were the tremendous Wagnerians, and you’d have to journey all the way to Bayreuth or Vienna to hear them or their like – Max Lorenz and Hilde Konetzni flooding the house with the lyrical springtime of Die Walküre (So what if it was incest? This was opera!), and her sister Anny, her dramatic soprano matching the royal purple velvet of her gown, taking us through all 18 minutes of Brünhilde’s Immolation, the longest aria in the lexicon, and this to only the plinkety-plonk of a piano. Most impressive of all: two singers on the brink of world fame – the contralto Cloe Elmo, delivering a Il Trovatore aria which critic Irving Kolodin would call an “incitement to arms” when the same lady debuted with it at the Met a year or so later – and Rossi-Lemeni, as unique an actor as he was a singer, with a Boris Godunov. That oldtimers were comparing to Chaliapin’s. (A few seasons later, when Nicola was performing Boris with the San Francisco Opera, one of my oldest friends, the actress Janice Rule, was suddenly stricken with a bursting appendix, but refused to be taken to hospital until Boris had expired. Luckily, she didn’t follow suit, but greater love hath no opera buff!
            For me the concert had an unexpeced encore, a Second Act in this young American’s life that rounded things off perfectly. My own troubles seemed tiny indeed compared to the stranded titans, but still and all, in addition to disappointment of the shipwrecked opera (six or more weeks of unpaid rehearsing), I’d been bellowing Grand Old Opry for something like seven months and felt I deserved a break. And what better tonic that a weekend in New York? So I got myself a ticket ($ 34,50 round trip) on the New York Central’s economical, no perks, no-frills coach train, the Pathfinder, which left the LaSalle Street Station every afternoon and plunked you down at New York’s Grand City Central early the next morning, come rain or come shine, all in one piece, and, apart from feeling rather moldy, ready for anything. But please hang on – here’s an excerpt from a letter which my dad wrote to his father about it – were are a family of incurable letter-writers and letter-savers, as well, for which I have been grateful many times –
 
            Nell and I went to see Herby off at 3 p.m. on the 6th. Waiting to take the same train were all of the stranded stars mentioned in the enclosed clipping. He had met several of them backstage or at Fitziu’s and had made good friends with Rossi-Lemeni especially. They sang and had a glorious time all the way to New York. The Turkish Consul was there with baskets of lunch. Herby threw his box of lunch into the pot. The sane people on the train wanted to get some sleep and the conductor threatened to put the whole crowd off at Buffalo ...
 
            And thereby, as they saying goes, hangs a tale ...
            There weren’t any seat reserveration (at those prices, you were lucky they had seats) so we got there nice and early so the Beamish Boy could get a decent place on this, his first real adventure. My mom Nell, as was her custom, had provided me with enough provender to sustain a goo-size travel group a full week on the Trans-Siberian Railway – none of it was going to be wasted.
            There was something unusual about the crowd milling about, waiting to board the train. Besides the usual clutter of seedy Willy Lomans with their cardboard sample cases, and the families with kids who should have been in school, this was a mob not exactly typical for a Thursday afternoon in February – a laughing, babbling, polyglot crush of wayfarers and wellwishers, many of them flamboyant in flowing scarves and berets, some armed with bottles of wine and long loaves of fresh French bread, one even wielding a king size salami. The air was vibrant with chatter and snatches of song.
            And suddenly there was Sandro, pushing his way towards me: “Ciao, ‘Erby! Tu stai qui? Molto bravo! Anche tu a New York? Benissimo!” – “Una gioia improvvisa, Dearie!” put in “the Fitziu”, at my elbow and suddenly gone all Traviata. She had arrived with what seemed like half of the town’s music world – Rosa Raisa, her husband Giacomo Rimini, Edith Mason, Claire Dux, and the critic Rene Devries. Her trilling continued: “I had a distinct feeling that something marvelous was going to happen today. You’re just the one to lead all these poor darlings to the promised land!” And she was jostled away by a moustached gentleman in a black homburg and a fur-collared overcoat, who turned out to be the Turkish consul, and he and Fitziu began handing out beribboned lucnh bags to our displaced canaries.
            They seemed to be everywhere you looked – Favero and Masini and Elmo with her rich contralto laugh, and the lovely Spanish soprano, Carmen Gracia, lugging the guitar which would help us thru the long night ahead. I could also pick out some of the others – Melchiore Luise, Cecchele, and the boyish Scattolini, Rossi-Lemeni, who greeted me with a hug, and a lady who proved to be the wife of Bagarozy, the agent who had lost such a bundle on the scuttling of the season. She was also a singer and had been coaching the Greek-American girl, Maria Whatzername, for the role of Turandot.
            But where was the Wagnerian contingent ...? Ach ja, they could be seen off to one side in a stolid little cluster, looking rather askance at the Roman carnival swirling all around them. As was their custom, they were keeping themselves to themselves, which was fine with me, considering the new-found responsibilities I had just fallen heir to as bellweather to the Italian herd.
            Deafening loudspeaker crackling, and the train’s departure was announced – much hissing of steam and whistling as the train backed majestically in from the yards up ahead. The crowd started moving toward the gate, where some of the crew had gathered, looking most important: official caps, dark overcoats, clipboards ... But first Sandro had to make his farewell speech to the troops, which ran somewhat as follows: This was ‘Erby, he began, aa fellow singer and a Chicago Paisan, who would take good care of them all until delivery at the hotel in New York. This news was greeted with smiles and clapping, and, I have to say, I stood mighty proud. Boy, what would they say at the Music School I’d opted out of?
            A final chorus of “Ciao’s” and “Bye-Bye’s” and “Arrivederci’s” and we pressed forward. My parents, who had been enthralled by the spectacle being played out all around them, kissed me goodbye, handed over the grubstakes especially prepared for the trip, and took their leave. A final departure call and the conductor bawled out in a  ratchetty voice: “ALL A-BO-O-ARD!” – one more impatient whistle and I hustled the last of precious charges up the steps and into the day-coach. The epic journey, pure Fellini, and surely one of the most singular in the history of American rail transport, was about to begin ...
            Once inside, it took some time to get everyone sorted out and settled in our portion of the coach, lifting luggage – bags, umbrellas, cardboard boxes, real gypsy impediments – up onto the overhead rack, finger wiping off dusty windowsills and grimy windows – to a true worshiper like myself, every one of their actions and reactions, each small gesture had flair and style. One immediate project: an improvised buffet to be arranged on top of two suitcases piled one on top of the other on one of the seats, followed by sloshing of red wine into wax-paper cups (Chin-Chin! Cheers! Salute!) and slicing of bread and salami and cheese, all of it spiced with laughter. It was all so easygoing, so goodnatured that you couldn’t help wonder at these blithe musical spirits. They weren’t any of them despondent or depressed over the shipwreck of the opera. The thumping success of the concert the night before, both artistic and financial, plus the unqualified praise for each of them in the newspaper reviews of Claudia and Colleagues kept spirits soaring. Even if I’d had my pocket dictionary with me, I couldn’t have provided a very good translation, but they got the gist of it and were duly set up.
            When you think about it, those weeks in America must have been  a kind of vacation for them all, perhaps the first most of thm had ever known. Remember that in the winter of 1946 – 47, the war had only been over for about a year-and-a-half, and privation, rationing, and black marketeering were still a big part of everyday European life. The threat of rampant communism was growing ominously, though the newly-coined phrase Iron Curtain wasn’t even a year old. The Nuremberg Trials were still fresh in memory and the Marshall Plan wasn’t even a plan yet. Large population centers like Berlin and Vienna were divided and being administered by the occupying victors, while most of the once-lovely historic towns still lay in ruins.
            What a contrast with our own bustling, prosperous, wasteful and wisecracking cities. Even viewed through the grimy windows of a cheap day-coach, Small Town U.S.A. with all the lights and cars and overflowing shops must have had the storybook unreality of a Hollywood movie. Compared to what these happy and gifted people had endured – who, with their music and their merriment, were even now annoying the hell out of the Willy Lomans and the day-coach conductors – compared to all that, the collapse of a mere opera season was small beer indeed, and the fineglings of a tin-horn impressario were reduced to their proper puniness.
            During the first leg of the trip I was like a Red Cross orderly heading out relief-packets to the survivors of a disaster, supplementing the Turkish contributions with my own hoard of fried chicken, meatloaf-and-peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, topped off with a variety of traditional American delicacies like Hostess Twinkies and cupcakes, Fig Newtons, and Tootsie-Rolls.
            “Grazie, caro, molto gentile –“ I can still see the great lyric soprano Mafalda Favero, whose recordings of Boito and Massenet and the Cherry Duet from L’amico Fritz with Tito Schipa were among my most cherished 78’s, polishing off the last of my mom’s tollhouse cookies and rolling the crumbs between forefinger and thumb: “Delizioso, veramente, Signor ‘Erby!”
            I’d be so pleased to discover that my Puccini-and-Pizzeria Italian wasn’t so hopeless after all. My only regret was that I had no German. How I’d have loved checking out the Wagnerians, wherever they were roosting for the night, to ask if they’d ever heard of this or that singer, and to pick their brains about prewar Bayreuth and Salzburg and Vienna. But, alas, at that point all that my Deutsch consisted of was “Bei mir bist du schön” (Early Andrews Sisters damage), a verse or two of Schubert, and bits from Lohengrin, one of the two German operas I’d ever been in, and there are limits to what you can do with phrases like “Heil dir, Elsa von Brabant!” and the praise for a knight’s shining armor: “Wie glänzt sein Waffenschmuck!”, while couplets like “Heil, deiner Fahrt, deinem Kommen!” wouldn’t do at all.
            We must have been halfway across Indiana and well into the vino rosso when somebody toom out the guitar and struck up the Brindisi, the Drinking Song from La Traviata, and soon everybody joined in. For the first time the other, “normal” passengers actually sat up and took notice. (“Sane” was my Dad’s word for them, and who needs it?) The voices were so powerful and the singing so stirring and so true that at first the audience was simply incredulous – the newspaper reviews helped clarify matters – and before long they’d be genuinely interested. Of course, as the hours flew by on wings of song and as Sandman-time approached, the fascination began to wear a wee bit thin.
            Each time the conductor came through, he resembled more and more the old Scots comic James Finlayson. Remember Fin? Laurel and Hardy’s furious nemesis with the Scots-burr and the baleful double-takes? Well, he had a Doppelgänger working for the New York Central in the 1940’s and that particular week his luck ran out. I don’t suppose he’d ever had to deal with a coachload of opera stars before. How do you ever prepare for such a challenge? Just then, our storied songsters enjoyed a high approval-rating, so all the poor sod could do was shake his head and to plead with me to “get ‘m to put a lid on it.” But imagine anyone putting a lid on a singer like Cloe Elmo? Follia! The sturdy little contralto was only just warming up, and soon, with only a guitar and not even a piano, let alone a full 110 piece orchestra, she’d be trading glavanic Sicillian taunts with the intensely dramatic Masini in the big showdown duet from Cavalleria Rusticana. (They’d been scheduled to do it in Chicago along about that time.) This might confrontation ends with Santuzza laying a death-curse on her former lover, and with him brushing her off with loud sardonic laughter, and if that didn’t break every window in the car it wasn’t for want of decibels. That should give some of the Hoosier Hot-Shots something to talk about at their next Kiwanis meeting.
            The dearly handsome Masini had been a special idol of mine ever since ten years before when my parents took me to a performance of Lucia di Lammermoor, starring Lily Pons, we we all adored. She tweeted and chirped divinely, but the one I remember to this day was her tenor-lover Edgardo, played by Galliano Masini right up to the hilt and perhaps a quarter-of-an-inch beyond, the same Masini who was even sitting across the isle from me, nibbling chicken from Nell Moulton’s suburban kitchen and bantering between bites.
            Back then in autumn 1937, he was winding up one of the most sensational engagements our opera had ever witnessed, “one long crescendo of excitement,” as the trib critic described it. To this day I can see him in his last aria, espiring from a self-inflicted dagger wound, propped up on one elbow and singing his great Livorno heart out. Then, at the final curtain calls, waving his hands up over his head to screams and cheers, like the true champion that he was. Later, during my high-school goofing-off period, I used to haunt the main Public Library reading room to pore over the old Tribune reviews of his performances, many of them hysterical in tone: WILD OVATION STOPS OPERA AS MASINI SINGS, headlined the Trib about one of his Tosca appearances when he had to encore his last act aria, something almost unheard of before or since. The same critic nominated him for “the mantle of  Caruso.”
            The next year he’d had to share the limelight with none other than Beniamino Gigli, who was singing opera for the first and only time in Chicago, and not even a grand “Can Belto” like Masini could top that. But he went on to a successful Met debut in the same season that was Favero’s only time in New York. After her second Mimi there, both she and Masini, so the story goes, were ordered back home to Italy, and in those days nobody defied Il Duce. Then came the war and that was the last the were heard from for years, except for an occasional recording like the complete Forza del Destino, which Masini made in Rome and which is still state-of-the-art. If Masini had his faults, they came with the territory and Caruso and Gigli shared them, too – emotional overdrive heartrending sobs even in the middle of a word, and the endemic terminal grunt at the end of a high note. Sure they were (and are) in questionable taste, but audiences lap them up regardless.
            So when both Favero and Masini were announced for the U.S. Opera in Chicago, it all but blew my mind. And as Masini walked on out onto that stage that had witnessed such triumphs a decade before, to be greeted by polite, but hardly wild applause, I wondered if I was the only one there who recalled that “one long crescendo of excitement.”
            It was a nice enough success that he scored with a couple of arias, a consummate Boheme Act I scene with Favero, and the Rigoletto Quartet with himself as the Duke and Elmo as a once-in-a-lifetime Maddelena, joined by Carmen and Cacchele. It was as grand a finale as possible, given the circumstances: still and all, it was deeply anti-climactic , and must have perplexed him, like Othello, in the extreme. If only my Italian had been up to the task of telling just how much his voice and his art had meant to me all of these years. But no – there he was, just across from me, relaxed and receptive as he would be for the next few hours – and what did I do? Italiano or no Italiano, I blew it, let the moment slip away from me forever. I have regretted it ever since.
            My bittersweet musings were broken off by more urgent matters. The ladies of the ensemble, temporarily exhausted by so much high-powered yodelling, and sated with juice, cola, and red wine, sent up such a heartrending lament for “acqua fresca” that I set off at once in my appointed role of Ganymedes, cup-bearer – no, make that PAPER-cup-bearer to the Gods – on a search for fresh water. My quest too me through each and every stuffy, smelly coach on that train, past the scowling Finlayson and his goons, past knitting womenand senior couples doing crossword puzzles and trying to ignore the minor sex-plays of necking teenagers, past people still nasching and others already snoozing. It also took me through squealing knots of small nosepickers, one of whom, a fat little girl with glasses, plunked herself right down in my path and greeted me with an enormous pink Double-Yum Bubble-Gum balloon, which emerged slowly but surely from her mouth and was almost as splendiferous as I could have blown myself if I’d not had better things to do.
            Moving on, I knew at once which car was serving as Valhalla-on-wheels for the German-speakers, for they were conversing in low yet resonant Deutsch. Funny how the less you know a language the more you try to cover your embarrassment with idiotic grins, and I must have been grinning like a zonked-out samurai. My efforts were met with regal nods and a courtly bow from the Heldentenor, Max Lorenz, highly esteemed on both sides of the Atlantic, just then between pre- and post-war Met engagements. He and his companions seemed so grateful for any contact with another humanoid that I was instantly swept up in a handshaking marathon. Maybe they could even help to solve the water shortage problem.
            “Wasser?” I ventured with descriptive gestures.
            “Ach ja! Jawohl, junger Mann! Ist gut!”
            I felt I hadn’t quite got my message across.
            “No, I mean water --- aqua --- dov’é? --- where Wasser?”
            By now it was clear that my miming would never put Marcel Marceau out of business.
            The great tenor took over most courteously, and in French: “Milles regrets, mon brav, mais il  n’y a pas de l’eau ici. Je regrette beaucoup.”
            Now he, too, was trying to break the language barrier.
            “Um --- Kein --- No WASSER here ---“
            “Well, thanks anyway, Sir,” I pulled my ragged faculties together with a heartfelt “DANKEY!”
            “Bitte, bitte, bitte!”
            And we went back to shaking hands again, like a scene from a silent movie. And that was the extent of my contact with Tannhäuser & Co. Just as well, because formal teutonic politeness was nowhere as much fun as the wine-dark, many-throated turbulence a few cars back.
            (Footnote: To illustrate how fast things can move once Destiny takes over, that same Max Lorenz would sing Tristan to the Isolde of Maria Callas a little more than a year later in Genoa.)
            My noble quest continued until, so far that it was practically in the engineer’s cab, I fetched up at the onl water-cooler still functioning. So, with a high heart and a dripping offering, I staggered back to home base and my precious charges, who by then must’ve been languishing like Manon Lescaut in Puccini’s Desert Near Louisiana. One sip, however, unleashed such a torrent of lipcurling scorn, so stentorian a chorus of “Cloro! Gesumaria! Cloro!” that it still resounds in my inner ear. So much for good intentions, Ganymedes!
            Outside, wintry darkness, lit now and then by a small town flashing by. Inside, dim lights and the heat hellish. (No such thing, apparantly, as a thermostat, so it was either FREEZE or FRY, so we got FRY.) Even the washroom facilities were all but non-existant. Talk about your American Primitives! So what else was there to do but sing?
            It was a bit past Toledo that the really smashing vocalizing began --- not just opera and operetta, but folk songs all the way from Napoli to Harper’s Ferry. John Brown’s Body never had it so good, with the Glory, Glory Halleluya-chorus rolling out like thunder, with myself taking the lead, and solid guitar strumming provided by Rossi-Lemeni, the Romanov Burl Ives. Everything at full throttle, of course, including the complaints by some of our fellow- travellers, the woebegone Willy Lomans whose  flat midwestern grousing was no match for operatic yodelling. Every time one of them tried to get a word in, he’d be engulfed in song and good-natured guffawing and invitations to join in the fun. There was enough Vino Rosso for many a mile, that good wine that our good conductor-friend offensively called Dago Red. Luckily, I was the only one who understood this last.
            “Oh, what did I ever do to deserve this?” he kept on moaning. “This was always such an easy run --- no sweat, no problems --- until tonight!
            And he regarded us balefully.
            A golden flourish on the guitar, and Nino --- last night’s beautifully Singing Waiter --- burst into the tenor torch song to end all tenor torch songs: Core ‘n grato, Catari, Catari
“Just listen to that,” I burbled in ecstacy.
“We’ve been listening since we crossed the Indiana border.”
“But where could you hear singing like that – for free?”
At this point, the Assistant Conductor, Fin’s catemate, a spotty yahoo with an IQ of 10, waddled through the car and offered his opinion: “Never mind these fancy foreigners. Gimme Vaug-han Monroe any day --- or Gene Autry.”
And he went off on his business.
Dulcet Tenor: “Catari, pecche me dicesti parole amare?”
I persisted in my admiration: back home these were all famous singers.
“If they’re so famous, what are they doing sitting up in a day-coach to New York? How come they ain’t with all the fat cats on the 20th Century?”
“They couldn’t afford the 20th Century?”
Dulcet Tenor Voice: “Pecché me parlee o core me turmiente, Catari?”
I continued my arguement: “They could barely afford this miserable cattle-car!”
Irate passenger at the other end: “Can’t you jokers hold your summit conference someplace else?”
Another angry voice: “Yeh, we wanna get some rest!”
Mr. Coffee-Nerves, the conductor (still smarting from my last remark, furiously grinding his dentures:)
FIN: Miserable? You take that back? It ain’t miserable and it ain’t no cattle-car, at least not until now! (Starting to lose it:) This is my car! My train! And these are my passengers! An’ it’s up to me that they get peace an’ quiet, unnerstan’?”
Tenor: Cor’ – Cor ‘n grato!
FIN: Peace ‘n quiet! It’s a rule!
ANGRY VOICE FROM THE REAR: Knock it off, you guys! We gotta get some rest! Dammit, we all got things to do tomorrow!
FIN: There, ya see? (To Tenor:) Stop That! He’s gotta stop now, ya hear! Make him stop!
This display had the whole company laughing and applauding. Then they joined the tenor on the climactic notes of his big number.
FIN: Are they making fun of me? ‘Cause if they are ---! SHADDUP, alla ya! Make them stop!
ME: But I don’t know how! They’re only singing to keep their spirits up.
FIN: I’m going out to get some help! I can’t handle all this! You wait right there!
(Next stop: PARANOIA CITY!)
And out he went once more, fists flailing and muttering imprecations. He was definately coming unstuck ... we’re talking seizures here. We’re talking hyper thrombosis. We’re talking the dreaded PUCCINI-INDUCED CARDIAC ARREST, or PICA for short, far more deadly than mere TRAVIATA-SYNDROME, from earlier on the trip. That had been only a mild case of Brindisi-fever, but this was something else again.
And speaking of Puccini, The Golden Gleeclub had now ripped into Musetta’s Waltz from Act 2 of La Boheme, the most elaborate ensemble piece in that whole enchanting score. Maybe it was the scent of danger that gave it that extra pizzaz, but it was their finest achievement so far. You recall how the flirtatious Musetta leads off proudly “Quando m’en v’o ...”, then one by one the other Bohemians join in, and soon they are all celebrating youth and love on Christmas Eve in Paris. This was a communal effort led by Masini himself doing his Toscanini-conducting impression, with Rossi-Lemeni doubling on guitar and singing his role of Colline, Favero’s vintage Mimi, and with Cecchele providing great arcs of melody as Marcello. The Willy Lomans were truly stupified. Just as the whole cast was going for gold on the finale, Fin and his vigilantes burst in again, running in smack into this tidal wave of sound. It all but blew them all out again. The effect was catatonic.
“How about that?” I yipped, as Fin shook himself all over like wet hound dog.
I had a feeling that this time was going to be different, and, sure enough, te new manifesto was as follows, and MERCILESS: All singing, all jabbering loud laughter and carrying on of any kind, especially the drinking of “Dago Red” must cease AT ONCE, DID WE HEAR? AT ONCE ... or else the entire troope, this whole operatic travelling circus, the original Ravioli Express, part and parcel and guitar, would be tossed off the train without any ceremony or apology at the next stop, which happened to be Buffalo, for us The City of Destiny, Realm of Doom. It would be the next stop, and, for us, the very last.
ME: But you can’t do that to this people! They were already stranded in Chicago!
FIN: Yeh, and they’re gonna be stranded in Buffalo! Let them go out and sing to the Falls!
(A sudden vision: Elmo, Massini, Favero and all and all, trying to compete with the neighboring Niagara --- and coming off rather well, at that. Of course, the Wagnerians would have to be there to back them up.) The train had already strarted to slow down and the outskirts of Buffalo to appear. I had to act and act faster than ever before in my life, and what was more, in comprehensible Italian. The resulting oration was born of sheer damn-the-torpedos/ you-have-nothing-to-lose-but-your-cadenzas desperation, a pastiche of every operatic or literary cliché I’d ever read or heard  --- molto pericoloso --- guardate per piacere ---- catastrofe, disastro --- nel nome del Dio! --- Zitta per carita! --- all rounded off with a little saying I’d learned from Sandro: Chi va piano va sano, e va lontano ...: Take it nice and slow, keep your wits about you, and you’ll go the distance! And I wrapped it all up with a quote from --- what else? --- La Boheme: “C’e freddo fuori ---“ Rough translation: “Mimi-baby, it’s cold outside!”
And wonder of wonders, it worked, transmuting all those volatile gremlins into a choir of Raphael Putti, angelic smiles as if manna wouldn’t melt in their mouths. When The Evil One reappeared to carry out the sentence, he was stopped dead in his tracks by the wall of silence flung up in such a haste. He was dumbfounded, one might even say discombombulated. Having to rescind the Banishment AND Issue a general pardon had not been part of the game-plan at all. Brought up short, he could only squeak: “NEXT STOP, BUFFALO!” And he repeated it, for my benefit: “NEXT STOP: BUF ... – FA – ... – LO!”
His voice cracked.
(I had to surpress an insane urge to shout out two of Madame Fitziu’s surefire teaching instructions: “Out your ears, dearie!” and “Keep your larynx down!”)
He then delivered his final word, and a pretty string of triple negatives it was, too: “You can tell ‘em from me in that queer lingo of theirs, I don’t take no crap from nobody, unnerstan’?” A pyrrhic victory at best. He knew it, and so did we.
As soon as he’d disappeared, there arose a fine Italian murmur of mixed amusement, derision and relief ... A sudden loud clanging from beneath the train, reminiscent of Garbo’s suicide scene in Anna Karenina, and the train gave a massive shudder. Then, with much hissing and creaking, we were under way once more. We wouldn’t have to face Niagara Falls after all.
It was an uneasy truce but it held. Only a few more hours to go. In the background someone was picking out, ever so softly on the communal guitar, “Good Night, Irene, I’ll see you in my dreams ...”
“Oh, Gawd,” a man’s voice groaned from a afar. “Here we go again.”
This was followed by a woman’s drawl: “At the next stop remind me to have this entire car backed into a siding a left there.”
“Lady,” I informed her, “the next stop is Grand Central Station.”
“You’re kidding,” came the reply. “Oh, well.”
The last couple of songbirds were settling down as best they could in their improvised nests when The World’s Friendliest Train Conductor came back into focus. Before he could say another word, I informed him coldly that we were trying to get some sleep and to go away and leave us in peace. He was flummoxed as usual and for once speechless. He then beat a retreat – thus endeth the Saga of the Fiend we’ve been calling Finlayson. (Oh, forgive us, Fin, wherever you may be.) I turned back to the passengers that really mattered.
“Buona notte,” I murmured, and the answer came with a little laugh, “Buona notte, caro ...” Then for the first time since our departure from Chicago I had a chance to relax and maybe nod off a little bit ... I remember this pause in the night’s activities, with everyone bedded down at last and all quiet except for some sonorous snoring ... quiet enough to hear the hypnotic click of the wheels, and the train whistle and its attendant echo screeching up the Hudson River Valley. (How I still miss the old steam locomotives and everything about them!)
One positive thing that learned from this whole surrealistic experience: Opera-Singers always go “Hmmm-Hmmm” at regular intervals, maybe to check if the voice is still present and accounted for, even in their sleep --- oh, especially in their sleep. That came as an interesting revelation, an insomniac revelation. But, being an ex-altarboy AND as a boy-scout 2nd class, brought up in the security of the suburbs, I had never slept with an opera singer before, nor anywhere near one. (Don’t anyone say anything!) Yet there I was, with a good baker’s dozen of the best “Hmmm”-ers in the business, strewn all about me like the petrified inhabitants of a newly excavated Pompeiian villa, all within snoring distance, and each one going “Hmmm” like mad ...
There was Favero-Mimi, her lovely head pillowed on a topcoat-swaddled suitcase with one sleeve draped over her eyes. Opposite her, Cloe, Queen of the Gypsies, appropriately bundled in a fringed shawl, her head slowly sinking till it hit the wooden arm-rest. On the seat beyond, sprawled the gallant Edgar of Ravenwood as Sir Walter Scott had never imagined him, that is, more or less flat on his back, his Valentino features beneath a copy of Corriere della Sera, which rose and fell with rhythmic breathing. Across the aisle, Boris Gudonov thrashed and twisted in a heroic effort to stretch his elegant six foot frame. A little further off, the basso buffo, no longer Dulcamara, but an ordinary uprooted citizen craving repose, basque-beret shading his eyes – then Senorita Carmen, guitar laid aside and a terricloth towel in place of a mantilla, moaning softly in Castillian, and the remainder of the party: tenor, baritone, agent’s wife, each one in a caricature of slumber ...
By then we were chuffing alongside the slate-gray Hudson, and not far from --- Are you ready for this? --- Sing-Sing. But for the moment no Sing-Song, no chatter, no moritorium on nasching and yodelling, even on bickering with the hired help. All passion spent, at least temporarily.
With the long winter night already behind us, I found myself to turned on to sleep --- this would be my very first time in New York and I wasn’t about to miss a moment of it with anything as mundane as sleep. As the early gray light gave way, the approaches to the city seemed to follow exactly the start of the old radio series, complete with locomotive sound effects and oncoming express train: “Day and night great trains rush towards the Hudson River, sweep down its eastern bank for one hundred and forty miles, flash briefly by the long row of tenament houses south of 125th Street, dive with a roar into the two-and-a-half mile tunnel that burrows beneath the glitter and swank of Park Avenue and then --- GRAND CENTRAL STATION: crossroad of a million human lives, gigantic stage on which are played a thousand dramas daily ...”
 

Diana

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


It was early in the day on Long Island. The suburban houses with the closed shutters appeared empty but the yawning garages indicated that the men had left for work. I went to look for Diana, our summer guest from the orphanage.
She stood motionless, doll-like, at a bed of fully opened, red and pink tulips, her bare feet exposed to the tranquilizing touch of grass still damp from the night’s dew. Her eyes reflected the clear, gleaming sun in the cloudless sky, and her fragile figure was another beautiful creation added to the abundance of nature’s treasures.
Together with this child from the slums I marveled at the twittering birds on the wooden fence and at the ducks on the muddy, seaweed-covered canal. I was conscious of a faint scent from flowering lilac and pungent earth. The breeze that evoked a melodious timbre in the branches of the weeping willow, petted my face and the crackle of opening pine cones resembled tiny kisses. An airplane painted a silvery contour as it circled toward the airport. The remote swish of rushing cars on the chestnut-treed streets which border the community golf course gave assurance of a link with the pulsating city. Across the canal, two shaggy dogs jumped into the chilly bay water for a swim. Their splashing rippled the surface and upset the even swing of a wooden fishing skiff.
When I bent down to free some baby strawberry plants from yellow, crowding weeds, Diana stretched out her arms – to the air, to the flowers, to the sky and to me. I was happy that she was happy! Often happiness singles us out at the oddest moment – allow it in!

EVERY SOUL HAS A STORY

Article by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
         The wind cannot be caught, the soul can be categorized. Nowadays, everybody judges a book by its cover. Doing that is like chasing the wind. It will never ever have anything to do with reality. Spiritual reality. And yet, we do categorize. Ruthlessly. We always judge a book by its cover. Even if the contents inside is complete different than what is on the outside.
            Murders occur because people don’t get respect. Wars, divorces and cataclysms could be avoided with a simple: “I understand you!” or a nice “I like you!”
The simple fact, though, is that everybody needs some respect.
Even Aretha Franklin knew that. She even sang about it.
It can be difficult to step outside the boundaries of generalization. “Soccerfans are lazy brutes, Germans eat Sauerkraut, Americans eat Hamburgers and Chinese people eat dogs. Kings are noble, the common man loves beer and movie stars are happy.
 
There is no such thing as the common man.
He does not exist, because no man, woman or child is common.
Everyone is unique.
Every soul has as story.
 
So, who is he, this famous common man? What is ordinary? Society supports the cliché that “ordinary” exist and people buy it. The think that the media expects them to be common and the media think that the people expect them to provide the necessary output. People think that the other person expects something and then they act accordingly. But, basically, the other person might actually be expecting something else. Something different. Or they might just be caught up in themselves. In fact, who cares what they expect? Surprise them with your skill. Let them discover your brilliance. Lead them into your world of kindness and grace.
            This following examples are all true stories.
            Read, my dears, contemplate and examine.
We see Joan Collins and we think: “That woman has never been poor!” What we don’t know is that she collected unemployment-money prior to her Dynasty-fame.
            We see the hardworking stagehand and repairman with many gaps in his teeth, close to retirement and we think: “This is a guy without much culture or education!” What we don’t know is that this man is an accomplished and artistically very skilled classic painter, who has sold his art for high money on countless exhibitions.
            We see the eccentric old lady, rummaging in her wallet for some spare small-change at the supermarket check-out-line and we think: “What a crazy, boring old lady. Can’t she be quicker?” What we don’t know is that she is a Russian Jewish concert pianist, who survived the death-camp of Auschwitz in Poland.
            While sitting in the cold winter air, sketching a portrait, a man stinking of alcohol comes up to us and sits down to chat. We think: “What a loser! He stinks!” What we don’t know is that he is an ex-airplane-constructor that ruined his health through his hard work in the factory. He now spends his time travelling to Gran Canaria and Seville just to compensate for the pain of his early retirement, trying to get over his girlfriend’s early death ten years back.
            Fame is never a guarantee for happiness. Likewise, clichès are common. Follow your humane dreams, whatever those mankind-loving and Earth-improving dreams may be. I bet the Queen of England brushes her teeth at night and goes to bed, wondering if her children and grandchildren are all right. I bet she has a cold now and then. I bet Bill Gates has a stomach ache now and then and has to ask his wife if she will make him some tea.
I am sure that the President of the United States gets sick now and then and tells his wife. “Dear, I can’t hold this speech tomorrow. I’ve lost my voice!”
Basically, we are all people. No, I will correct that. We are all souls. People inside souls. The soul is the first thing that you should care about. Without that, life does not matter. Soul matters. Feelings matter. Individuals matter. Love matters. Our feelings, our microcosmos rules our lives. These feelings carry the packages that we brought with us into the world.
God lives in us and our fate resides inside us and manifest the reality as we know it.
Inside us.
The answer is, was and always has been inside us.
Inside us, there is a ticket that leads to the next world.
What is the answer?
In acting training, we speak of “thinking outside the nine dots”. What are they?
Nine individual dots are formed on a paper inside a square. The assignment is to connect them without them crossing or the pen lifting from the paper. That is only possible if you make a triangle, whose boundaries end outside the square. That is symbolism. In acting, you have to look for character-similar emotion outside the normal borders of the play. Likewise, in the world we have to “think outside the dots”. We can’t afford to believe in clichés anymore.
Brave innovators are unusual people. Edison would never have invented the lightbulb if he had followed the leader. Wires and glass don’t normally create light, right? Einstein would’ve never ever created his theory of relativity, if he hadn’t believed in the unique experience.
But this is not just about famous people. Famous? Who cares if you’re famous? You’re famous, too. Yes, you. You reading this article. You are famous in your own right. A lot of people know you. Your family, your friends, your colleagues. I bet you have met thousands of people in your life and they all know you, like you and admire you. If that’s not fame, I don’t know what is.
We live in a time, where the mainstream engulfs so much of what really is individualstic and true. In this time, it is vitally important that we try thinking for ourselves. Do unusual things. The kind man who let’s you go first into the elevator, ask him about his day. What did he do today? The little girl playing in the sandbox. Give her a flower and walk away, smiling. Teach her a song. The woman with the beautiful hat, give her a compliment. The busdriver yelling at you for being slow while getting into the bus. Tell him that you understand that he has had a long day.
Only if we take brave steps to look beyond what is superficial can we change the world as we know it. Look deeper into the symbolic canvas of your spiritually manifested life. Don’t believe what society tells you. See for yourself what lies inside the hat of the beggar. If your colleagues tell you that the new boss is an awful man, go and talk to him yourself and find out what makes him tick. If the woman in the cantine at work tells you that the girl working in the art department is an antisocial snob, go talk to her. Find out who she is. If you don’t, at least don’t tell anyone else that she’s a snob.
How can you know? You’ve never met her.
Every microcosmos reveals individualism.
Every soul has a story.

The Common Error

By Sumant Sharma


In a common man’s life, how much role does a ‘common’ politician play? I am not talking of the 5-6 top notched country’s decision makers. I am talking of the average goonda of the area who is sitting in the secretariat elected on the basis of providing freedom to break the law to the common man. This question assumes more importance today as every way side tea stall has become hub of discussion about the pros and cons of the so called surgical demonetization strike by the Indian Central Gov. Is the work of politicians just to stage a hue and cry in the media and furor in the parliament and the lower house? Is their role in the democracy just to pose themselves or do they really have a valid purpose?
In one’s thinking an average fellow country man and woman doesn’t worry beyond the daily bread and butter and a good sleep at night for themselves and their families. No one is much bothered about what are the BRICS agenda or difference between OCI and NRI. The politicization of the external aspects of human life-like media and office gossip has nothing to do with the grass root values of us humans. So, there is a need to de-politicize the ‘common’ life of the ‘common’ man.
As everyone realizes, the less the obligations and the less the liabilities, the better the state of one’s mind is. In today’s life politics and politicians have become more of unwanted responsibilities only. Unwanted -but not irremovable. Let’s ponder at a country that has lesser politicians. That will just mean a people that is at its own-no one to blame and no one to expect from. This removes the prime flaw in any society governed by unworthy people-that of shifting responsibility, of playing the blame game.
The provision of basic amenities is and will remain in businessmen’s hands. The production of food grain and poultry will depend on natural resources as before, the number of poor farmers committing suicides is not going to change either. The masons, carpenters, drivers, mechanics, engineers and doctors will function ditto to the previous state too. The cooks will cook with similar culinary skills and the crooks will flourish with same unhealthy fervor.
Instead there will be less noise on the TV about some ‘breaking news’ and less loudspeakers roaring against or for the ruling gov. Children will find their parents having more time to love them. The senior citizens will find peace to play with the nature more easily. The wives will find their husbands more available and the latter will see mirth in the thrift of time that will be saved from unnecessary gossip.
Whatever will result because of depoliticization, it will be a welcome change. And it’s not only a welcome option but the need of the hour to get rid of the unwanted politicians. The political systems in today’s democracies have not only turned societies into jokes but have also converted them into masochistically oriented masses.
The democracy was originally described as a government ‘by the people, for the people and of the people’. As we are, we can’t stay chaste for long. We prefer negativity to remaining neutral. Goodness for longer than usual bores us. It is the result of this game that we inflict upon us that the Democracy today is defined as a government ‘bye the people, far from people and off the people’. 
 

My Moment with Clint 


Memories by the late, great

Herbert Eyre Moulton 
(1927 - 2005)

​

The bit part I played in Clint Eastwood’s Cold War adventure melodrama FIREFOX was one of his first times out as both director and star. In it he plays an American pilot disguised as an ordinary businessman and sent to Moscow to steal a new supersonic fighter plane.
            This was Vienna 1981 --- we were living in Sweden at the time, but this didn’t stop me from trundling down to Johann-Strauss-Ville every chance I got --- for theatre work, school radio recordings, translations, or what you will.
            This particular assignment was definately of the what-you-will variety, with myself as a KGB apparatchik hovering ominously in the middle background while “Our Clint” is being interrogated by a cool, polite, and deadly Soviet customs official regarding certain suspicious-looking items in his luggage --- the usual anti-American, anything-to-be-mean hard time those boyos used to specialize in. All I was supposed to do was stand there glowering, but I fear I did considerably more than that, and I’ve got a home video-clip of the scene to prove it. It could serve as a model for all time of how prominent a bit player in the background can be, if he has a mind to, and is sneaky enough to see his chance and take it.
            My bit being so miniscule, such an old ham like myself --- sugar-cured, hickory-smoked, pineapple-glazed --- naturally felt it could use a bit of fleshing out, which is precisely what I proceeded to do, by the simple expedient of staying right on camera the whole time, naughty, unprofessional, but devilishly effective. All it took was swaying back and forth ever so slightly on my two little cloven hooves, whilst staring into the camera with doubt and suspicion in my eyes, real Spy-Who-came-in-from-the-Cold-stuff ... Powerful, stark, menacing.
            But not everybody saw it that way, and my performance did not go completely unnoticed. At length one of the camera crew spoke up rather pointedly: “Clint, please tell that gentleman to stand still ... bobbing back and forth like that, he’s making me dizzy.” A tiny reprimand, and it did no good whatsoever.
Clint for one, being much too preoccupied with his end of the scene and his interrogation, nodded and went on to say nothing but give me a tiny smile. So, accordingly, there’s “Old Herbie” or “Air-Bear”, as my college friends used to call me, in that key opening reel, beginning 21 minutes into the motion picture and going for another full one-and-a-half minutes (the black-haired and elegant gentleman behind the Soviet military official), swaying back and forth, back and forth, gently, quietly, like a padded pendulum, frowning his Filthy-McNasty-Tovaritsch frown, all the while ...
            To show you what a fine gentleman and colleague Clint Eastwood truly is, he came over to me afterwards and --- the very pineapple of politeness (to borrow Mrs. Malaprop’s phrase), thanked me for doing the scene with him. Hmm, doing it? Dear Hearts, it looks from this end like I was doing my damndest to ruin it, though I’d swear a great and terrible oath that such was never my intent.
            Alas, Firefox turned out to be one of the biggest proverbial and monetary duds of Clint’s career. Purest coincidence? As in W.W. Jacobs’ classic horror story “The Monkey’s Paw”, maybe, maybe not. But given my track record before or since, who knows? Mine wasn’t much a part as parts go in “Firefox”, but was it sufficient to jinx the whole operation? If that be the case, sorry about that, Clint. Tough luck that it had to happen at such a vulnerable stage in your endevors. It could have happened to a worse film and as anyone who reads these chronicles can tell --- could, and did.
            Were the fates even then getting me warmed up for a pre-destined role as plague-carrier sui generis? Stay tuned.
            I only knew that in the bad old days they used to toss types like me overboard to placate the angry Gods causing all the shipwrecks: “And Jonah said unto them, take me and cast me forth into the sea, for I know that for my sake this great tempest is upon you.”
            I guess I’m lucky I’m still more or less intact.
            Let’s see, how things stand now? I shot my first motion picture in Ardmore Studios in Bray, Ireland, as a seaman, with dear Cy Knapp. Between that film (1961) and Firefox lay three thousand concerts, maybe one hundred stage productions and a few dozen commercials, one or two episodes in a local TV-series, not counting the radio-programmes.
            But as far as the motion pictures go, one vanished into the Bermuda Triangle as if it never existed, the other internationally distributed, but still a moderate flop --- 2 films, 2 flops, a perfect score. Where would the Moulton Menace strike next?
The body count continues. Stay tuned.
            All joking aside, of all the celebrities I have had as colleagues Clint was the most supreme gentleman of them all. Alan Rickman, for his part, was very pleasant and soft-spoken intellectual, Mickey Rourke the cool buddy-type character, David Warner the friendly thespian, Zsa-Zsa Gabor the temperamentful diva par excellance, Viggo Mortensen the consummate professional.
            Clint? He was, remains and always will be the prince of politeness.

 

​

The 9/11 Syndrome

Article by Charles E.J. Moulton

 
            I had a quarrel with a friend this morning. The discussion escalated out of nothing, really, the reason for our differences a very small detail, indeed. What saved the situation was something simple I said. Something I never would have thought could have resolved the issue. “I take half of the blame for this. You’ll have to take the other half!”
            That was more than anyone could ask.
            We went to the dance rehearsal we had originally cancelled because of our differences. The situation was far from perfect, but we were on speaking terms. Eventually, the situation went back to normal. We learned a few very important things through this experience: human beings defend themselves when they are attacked. Secondly, you only have to take half of the blame for any fight that erupts between you and any adversary. No more, but also no less. Telling another person that you are partly to blame gives him or her the chance to like you. You are not withdrawing from the situation. He or she knows that you know you hurt his or her feelings. Empathy is instrumental for a peace treaty. Without empathy or sympathy, a heated discussion will never cool down. If you don’t talk it out, it will inevitably turn into a disaster.
            We’re all human. Our human feelings are the cornerstones of every problem that arises. Whether we’re dealing with small petty differences or huge world wars, it’s all the same. The bigger and more impossible difficulties emerge when countries attack other countries or groups attack other groups. One million people who hate another million people, will they ever resolve their differences? They’re building defense towers to protect other defense towers. Those initial towers were built on lies, misunderstandings and accusations. So, how could you ever resolve a misunderstanding that was founded on a lie?
            That’s why I am writing this article.
            The idea for it came yesterday. I sat on the couch, calmly, my wife watching a movie, my daughter snoozing in her bed. I don’t know why I began researching the web for information about the events surrounding September 11th, 2001, but I did. I ended up sitting there for two hours, flipping webpages, trying to make heads or tails of both sides of the story.
            I wanted to start writing this thing already yesterday night. I sincerely do believe, though, that fate provided me with this little minor dilemma this morning in order to show me how to formulate my idea: the human issue I would like to label as the 9/11 syndrome. The opposing forces within us and between us fuel this syndrome and keep it thriving.
            Hate fuels disaster.
            There are now more conspiracy stories in circulation that deal with the cataclysmic events of that day than any other event in history. These conspiratorial explanations include alien invadors wanting to take over the world, senators sending their rocket missiles on the Pentagon and wealthy oil barons with greedy hearts bringing down their own creation just to collect the insurance money.
The culprits are as varied as our world is vast and incomprehensible.
Dozens of websites are devoted to 9/11-related illnesses, psychological, psychosomatic and physical in nature. The firefighters that lived through that day are now either retired or dead. There is even a little boy that claims he is the reincarnation of a firefighter that died in of one of the towers as it collapsed on 9/11.
            The events of that day were a human holocaust. Few modern day events have had such an impact on the minds of the world population as this catastrophy. Not even the Vietnam War or the assassination of John F. Kennedy terrified people as much.
            I remember the day vividly. Exactly 16 days later, I was flying to Barcelona to board the cruise ship M/S Arkona for a term full of vocal show work. The six weeks prior to that were filled with work. We were rehearsing 7 two-hour shows, learning 116 songs. We were five actors that were about to perform artistic cavalcades while cruising the world. I was headlining most of the shows, so my director summoned me for a solo rehearsal. We were going to rehearse some dialogue.
            That plan soon disintergrated into oblivion. As soon as we heard that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center in New York City, we quickly shortened the rehearsal. At first, I could not even comprehend what really had happened. Was this a small private plane that had lost itself in Manhattan and somehow crashed into the building?
            The issue turned humungous quicker than we believed to be possible. It seemed to influence all of what we thought was given and natural. Safety was a thing of the past. Nobody stepped into a plane without fearing never to land again without crashing. The world had turned into a terrorist’s filthy playground. Flights were cancelled, airport security became vicious and people with Arabic names were thrown manually off Boeings.
The story became more and more incredible as it unfolded. A million questions appeared in my mind. Things just did not add up. I researched the subject to a great extent and found information all too incredible to be true.
The alleged phone call that Barbara Olson made from Flight 77 was intensely described by her husband Ted Olson on Larry King Live. If there had been a passenger seat phone at Flight 77 in the first place, which there wasn’t, she couldn’t have made it because she apparently did not have her credit cards with her. Furthermore, cellular phones have been proven useless at such speeds and altitudes above 2000 feet.
Later on, FBI released a a statement that Barbara never had made the phone call at all. In fact, Barbara had only made one single unconnected call within the plane. Ted changed his story three times and was then described as a liar. So, what are we supposed to believe? That Ted Olson lied to us? If that’s true, we have to ask ourselves why he lied to us? Who was he protecting? The Pentagon? In fact, Ted Olson has admitted on previous occassions that the government lies. Now the lawyer lied himself.
The most astounding piece of information comes from the hijackers themselves. They were all proven to be miserable pilots, men who couldn’t even fly small planes, let alone huge ones that needed massive amounts of disclosed tutoring. They took over the planes with box-cutters. It has been said that such a take-over could be regarded as ludicrous, given that the passengers all had luggage with them which they could beat the hijackers to death.
The FBI also knew all their names almost immediately after the attack, because Mohammed Atta obviously left a conveniently complete list of all 19 hijackers in a forgotten bag in Oregon. That sounds fake already. Why did U.S. intelligence ignore all the huge amount of leads that told them what was going to happen and where, but find Atta’s bag in such as remote place as Portland within hours of the attack?
            The horrible thing, yet again, is that people were talking about the attack for years before it happened, even pointing at the towers and saying they would come down in 2001. Hundreds of international leads were practically handed over to American intelligence and completely ignored. Sometimes, these leads were even pushed away with deliberate aggression.
Flight 77 vanished completely after it hit the Pentagon. The part of the Pentagon that was struck was also partly closed for renovation and the only available evidence for what exactly hit the Pentagon, video tapes filming the attack, were confiscated by U.S. Intelligence.
            Seasoned commercial airlined pilot Russ Wittenburg reported that uneducated pilots like the hijackers would be physically unable to fly those planes into the towers or into the Pentagon. In fact, the data recorders read that Flight 77 flew 300 feet over and not into the Pentagon. Something else did hit the Pentagon. Flight 77 didn’t hit it. The hijackers didn’t reset the altitude device and the didn’t know how to operate the auto pilot.
In fact, I will repeat this, these people were not even good enough to operate a small plane. Commercial planes like that carry tons of fuel, luggage and 300 people. They are not as flexible as smaller planes. They are unable to fly into towers, according to Wittenburg.
            The Pentagon attack left no wreckage, no motors, nothing of any kind. Even the hole of the Pentagon didn’t match the description. There should have been at least one more hole in the Pentagon from the one wing that had not fallen off. At the speed, as well, there would have been a great chance that the entire Pentagon would have been destroyed in the process. The hole? It looks like the hole made by a missile.
            Retired Intelligence General Albert Stubblebine, who spent his entire life studying intelligence photography, agreed with this assumption. He told a reporter that a plane could not have hit the Pentagon. There should have been plane marks. There weren’t.
            Stubblebine goes on to say that the free press have now ceased to be free. They are told what to report. That coincides with the journalist that resigned from his profession just this year, because he could not live with having to spread lies.
            David Ray Griffin’s compelling book “The New Pearl Harbor” summarizes the accusations, outlines scenarios, describes the many problems in the storyline, addresses problems that exists within the official accounts. Anyone interested in researching the issue should try first reading this book. Another controversial novel is Steve Alten’s “The Shell Game”, which outlines a certain reality that might come true one day. Here we find supposedly official reasons for the fake attack.
The information blaming the government for the attack ends up flabbergasting any reader or viewer. The information flow is so overwhelming that it threatens to drive you insane. One can really not see the forest for the trees. That triggered a need in me to look at the other side of the story.
One of Osama Bin Laden’s confession letters outlines a reason for his alleged revenge on the United States of America. He saw tens of thousands of his countrymen die in American attacks. Most prominently were his memories of seeing two towers fall and burn in his homeland. He wanted to destroy two American towers as a revenge. He claims that only a small amount of people died in the attacks in Manhattan. In his country, thousands more died.
The question is if the government really is as bloodthirsty as the conspiracy says it is. We don’t really want to believe that, do we? But if the cover-up is so thinly disguised, holes really everywhere with absolutely no aim to try to keep the implausabilities a secret, then a million people will become suspicious.
Most websites that debunk the myths don’t give much evidence. They show the official films, tell the official stories, claim that everything is what it seems. The only real evidence comes from people who question the official story. Eye witnesses claim to have seen a military plane with no windows at all flying into the first building.
Milton William Cooper, former CIA-agent and author of the conspiracy-book “Behold A Pale Horse”, announced a statement on 6/28/2001 that a terrorist attack would be carried out in September and that Osama Bin Laden would be blamed for it. He knew. He also knew that the people planning the New World Order would be behind it. He said that Martial Law would be declared. It cost him his life. He was shot and killed by the Apache County Sherriff Deputy on November 6, 2001. Milton William Cooper will be sorely missed.
There is hope. As strange as it seems, there is hope. Why is there hope?  Because, as of yet, no martial law has been declared. FEMA has not taken over the world. There is Windows 10, that is claimed to be a spy program. There is Facebook, which is claimed to be a conspiracy. There is the Islamic State, which is claimed to be the reason the New World Order is seeking to plant and detonate an atom bomb within the American borders. But the I.S. is not going international, as little as the Ebola has gone international.
If I understand the conspiracy right, 9/11 was created by the government in order to get the permission to invade Iraq. To do what? Get oil? I don’t know. Maybe someone was really afraid that America was going just as much down the drains as Rome did. It’s getting there. No superpower has ever lasted. Go through history. Every huge empire eventually fell.
I just know that the whole conspiracy thing fell to smithereens. Nothing down there in Iraq turned out the way it was supposed to turn out. Trying to control the world by creating cataclysmic events is like trying to predict the weather. Let’s say you live in Angusville, California. Your local meteorologist says it’s going to rain on Tuesday. The low pressure could be influenced by a sudden gust of wind, though. The raincloud could change course. That is what happened with 9/11 and the proposed effects of FEMA martial law. You can’t predict people. You can’t predict life. We are seven billion people here on this planet. We all know that things turn out differently than we plan them to turn out.
The critiques of conspiracy theories claim that they are ill informed and make up stuff as they go along. In this case, bro, the conspiracy theorists are more informed than the friends of the official account. The ones sticking their heads in the sand are the official storytellers.
That is not the point, though.
A part of the 9/11 syndrome is that, although we have a common cause, we act like we are enemies. This has become more a case of being in the right than actually being right.
Bill Cooper did predict 9/11. We have to be on our guard. But I knew people who thought the world was going to end in 2012, because the Mayas allegedly predicted something the could not have known 5000 years ago. I knew people who were extremely nasty to me because I told them they were in the wrong. I knew people who told me that Operation Desert Storm in the first Gulf War was the beginning of the Third World War. Political Conspiracies are as old as time. They’re not new. They have just turned a little bigger, a little more technical. The people who plan them pretend they’re God.
They’re not. Believe me. They eat, drink, laugh, cry, love, hate, read, write, think, feel, make love, shit and pee like the rest of us do. No matter how rich you get, you’re still a person. You’re still a soul. When the conspirators up there again in front of God’s throne, after they die, God will ask them, honestly and kindly, what the hell they thought they were doing down there? They’ll have to go back here in their next lives and they will have to make amends, seriously and honestly.
The 9/11 syndrome is the mentality that we have to be enemies, build camps, complain at each other and tell each other that the other one is wrong, if we’re right or not. It is the mentality today’s lawyers present. They say truth is irrelevent. The only thing that matters is how you present your client’s case.
We believe that everyone has the power except us. But I have news for you. You have the power over your own life. The politicians don’t. They don’t know you. They will never know you, even if they will hear about you in the papers or in the internet or even if you become more famous than Robert de Niro. You have a family, you have a home, you have a life, you like certain things, dislike certain things, you eat, drink, laugh, cry, love, hate, read, write, think, feel, make love, shit and pee like the rest of us do. And there is no one on the Earth like you. Be proud of that. The President of the United States, the King of Spain and the CEO of Microsoft are just as unique as you, their souls are just as eternal, they cry just like you do.
They don’t control you.
They can’t.
They have no power over you.
Laugh at them.
Live your life.
Do not follow the crowd.
Life is not the 9/11 syndrome.
Life is ALL about soul.
The politicians and the conspirators are just people with incredibly cocky and very annoying attitudes. There are good ones, but there are also bad ones.
Believe in your own soul.
That most important thing in life is not how big your checkbook is. It’s how big your heart is that matters. The important thing is that you are faithful to what and who you love. The only thing that mattered to the conpirators was the size of their wallets. Unfortunately, they were so preoccupied with money that they forgot that their hearts had gaps in them. The gap in the heart of the main 9/11 conspirator was as big as the hole the missile made in the corner of the Pentagon.
Be honest, be fair. 
God will reward you for it.
 
 

A Princess in the Making

By the late, great Herbert Eyre Moulton 

(1927 - 2005)


I made many movies in my day. 
One of them was with David Warner and Susannah York.
 
In the script of the Italian-produced movie “Princess”, we find this direction:
 
            “The door opens and an elderly, impeccably dressed BUTLER appears, with a silver tray piled high with magazines.
 
BUTLER
Excuse me, Your Highness, but you said you wanted these urgently.
 
            Three guesses who the butler is, and the first two don’t count. That’s right: always the butler and never the boss, a somewhat wearying sentence I seem to be serving for a lifetime.
            The setting for this Graustarkian love story is the mythical principality of Lichtenhaus, with its royal family modelled on the Grimaldi clan of Monaco. For the part of the princesses, meant to be Caroline and Stephanie, two of Vienna’s most important dramatic regal landmarks were chosen to offer their cinematic bailiwicks. Even the minor players were handpicked by the director, Carlo Vanzina, a one-time protegé of Fellini, no less. So, it was a noble line I was about to tangle with when I turned up at Vienna’s equally noble Hotel Imperial for the casting interview.
            All right, yet another butler, but this one was special, for he was part of the household of His Royal Highness, Prince Maximilian, played by a favorite of ours, David Warner, not too long ago considered the quintessential Hamlet-for-our-time. His screen-break-through came in 1966 with the crazy title role in “Morgan, A Suitable Case For Treatment”. That made him a star and my wife and me fans of his for life. Some time later, our son Charlie joined the club with “Omen”, and when he told Warner that himself, Warner snorted: “Oh, God, that!” Our film-freak son was likewise excited by the casting of Paul Freeman as Otto, the villain of the piece, remembering his evil turn as Beloque, the Nazi heavy in “Raiders of the Lost Ark”: “500 000 watts of Nasty!”
            My workaday duties for the prince were dispatched in two different palatial settings: the Hofburg, the Emperor Franz Josef’s old pad in the heart of Vienna, and, a few streets, and, a few streets and a couple centuries removed, the Theresianum, a superbly preserved baroque complex that once served as an officer’s training school and was named after its patroness, the Empress Maria Theresia, whose name it still bears as a college for budding diplomats. Its 18th century splendor has been has been kept lovingly intact, and we were to play our scene in the fabled library, a treasure house of precious inlaid wood and priceless antique leather volumes all the way up to the frescoed ceiling. It’s open to visitors only with a special pass and suitable pedigreed blue blood.
            Our first scene however was set in Maximilian’s princely bedchamber in the Hofburg, and I had the honor of waking up the royal slugabed with this exquisitely cadenced speech:
           
BUTLER
Good morning, Your Highness. Today is May twelfth, the feast of Saint Ladislas Martyr, also your cousin of Romania. The temperature is falling slightly: a high of fifty-three degrees, and a low of forty-five.
 
            The scenes with Mr. Warner were all of them fun, with his easy gift of friendly argle-bargle, both relaxed and refreshing. He even did me the kindness of autographing a portrait of himself which I’d removed from a calendar I’d bought at Stratford, a full-size head-and-shoulders done in pastels and dubbed “The Actor”. This was the first time he’d ever seen it!
            “To Herbert, Many Thanks, David Warner, ‘The Actor’, Vienna 1993.”
            Between takes we retreated to the cellar and the museum staff canteen. The scene there could well be entitled “Costumed Chaos in the Canteen”, for there happened to be another film, a real costume extravaganza, being shot in these hallowed precincts at the same time as ours, the latest Hollywood version of “The Three Musketeers”, the jokey one done with American accents and all, with Charlie Sheen and Kiefer Sutherland. The latter nearly brought down destruction on their entire operation by his tosspot antics in the all-night-fleshpots of Babylon-on-the-Danube. So, as things heated up, the Gods were already making rumbling noises.
            Of course both companies had to break for meals simultaneously, turning the canteen into the scene of the most variegated costume orgies, Louis XIII and Monaco Gold-Braid, since the climactic reels of Lon Chaney’s “Phantom of the Opera”. It might have been better if they’d released those goings-on as newsreel stuff and jettisoned the two doomed feature films. But of that, more anon ...
            The venue for my second scene was less crowded and yet more elegant: the Theresianum library doubling as the Lichtenhaus Council chamber, presided over by the sinister Otto, whose machinations were suddenly broken up by Maximilian’s no-nonsense and imperious entrance sweeping in, with me, padding breathlessly, in his wake. I was bearing the obligatory silver tray, onto which H.R.H. was lofting over his shoulder, without looking all manner of official-looking documents and letters. It was a dizzying journey across what seemed to me recently restored to its former glory.
            I am pleased to report that while scampering behind the Prince, molto allegro, I was somehow nimble enough enough to catch everyy single one of the documents he was tossing over the royal epulet. Limping and tottering at his heels, dodging and feinting, but always maintaining my dignity, so I went, and a memorable sight it should be, too, if the movie ever gets released.
            That’s precisely where the fate-keeps-on-happening routine comes in: a delicious light comedy script, first rate directing, handsome authentic settings, and stars like David Warner, Paul Freeman, and Susannah York as the Queen Mother, plus what Signor Vanzina promises in the press releases to be a sensational new Dutch actress, Barbara Snellenburg as Princess Sophia: “ This girl will be a star!”
            And the best of Viennese-Italian-Dutch luck to them all, what with Moulton here as Major-Domo (Major Disaster would be more like it). For as far as my sources can discover, “Princess”, running true to form, hasn’t yet seen the light of day anywhere, or if it has it hasn’t reached Central Europe yet or any of the international publications we subscribe to. It might have been shown in Vanzina’s native Italy, but it was filmed in English for the English-speaking market.
            As far as that all-too-jokey “Three Musketeers”-movie goes, well, of course it was a movie for the MTV-generation and a kind of a youthful introduction to Alexandre Dumas. Literary history for the Brat Pack with a huge Top 40 Hit as a PR-gag, Roddy, Sting and Bryan, the three musketeers of Rock ‘n Roll, singing it away, all for one and all for love. Me, Herbert Eyre Moulton, having shared tables with Kiefer and Charlie in the Hofburg canteen in Vienna, chatting away with good old David and hearing the Hollywood hotshots repeating their lines while drooling over their Wiener Schnitzels. Seriously now, Gang, could it be that this butler-playing character-actor is the subject not to a a pernicious, contagious curse, but a small blessing?  Could it have rubbed off during those united lunchroom melées in the Hofburg cafeteria? After all, I wined and dined with the best. Maybe “Princess” will have its day in the sun after all. A sobering thought. And a good one. Just like the movie I was in.



Painting below by Gene McCormick

Let us Dance

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


It was a guest performance. Ten days in total.
​Fully sold out at the Modern Opera House.
The operetta shown – Cloudy Dancing!
Ariana had talked herself into an illusionary love affair. She, the Prima Ballerina, who was desired by many men but unwilling to tie herself to either one of them, experienced for the first time the urge to be held, embraced and conquered by him.
Would today be the day? Today was the last day of Cloudy Dancing on this stage.
Ariana was not at all shy. She would try to meet up with Mr. Strange during the intermission, at which time she would let him have her cell phone number.
The curtain opened. The stage was hers. She once again felt the elation of being the Prima Ballerina of this show. Dance for her was the world. The music, her movements and the intense admiration of the audience was what Ariana lived for. She was born to dance!
Petite, proportioned like a dainty porcelain doll, she had never let anything interfere with the discipline required by her career. She had worked her way up, literally step by step: tap, ballet and modern dance. When friends were out partying, she was practicing, improving her talent, often spending excruciating long hours in yawning, empty training halls. Now, in her mid-twenties she was on top of her art.
In society, she could be seen with suitors. These were men she asked to accompany her to required functions, nothing more. None of these men could ever claim to be her boyfriend.
Ariana lived for her dance and in the characters she played.
She glanced at the spectators. Again, the theater was full. It was the last performance of Cloudy Dancing. There he was. The good looking young man with those mesmerizing brown eyes that seemed to pierce through her body and set her emotions on fire. She had first noticed him the night of the Premiere in the third row at the orchestra side. His smile intrigued her. Her dance, always exhilarating, took on an etheric swing. The applause was deafening.
He did not let her forget him. He was there again the next evening and every evening during the show. Always in the third row. Always smiling and intently following her every move. Every evening he was accompanied by a slightly older looking gentleman. That man hardly ever smiled, and one got the feeling that the performing arts were not exactly to his special liking.
After a few nights, Ariana had expected to get a note from her obvious admirer or even a visit by him to her dressing room. But nothing! By now the exchange of their looks had taken on a certain intimacy. Who was that man? Why always the male company? Was he gay? In that case, why did he come every day?
It was the first time in her life that Ariana allowed herself romantic expectations and even sexual fantasies. Thoughts about that stranger inhibited much of her free time and crept into her dreams.
By now, this last day of the show, Ariana had talked herself into an illusionary love affair with her anonymous admirer. She had given her very best during the first act, and then came the intermission. He seemed a little sad today. Sad that it was the last time? She even imagined that he threw her a kiss when their eyes met. He was in for a surprise. She smiled to herself.
As she made her way down to meet him she felt her heart beat with excitement and nervousness. Would he be happy? His friend had gone outside during the intermission and Ariana saw that Mr. Strange had remained in his seat.
As she turned into row three, she saw something that made her entire body shake. Next to the stranger rested a folded wheelchair. The man’s upper body was immaculately dressed but it ended just below the thighs. He was an amputee. The companion most likely his aide. Ariana choked. He had noticed her. Too late to turn around. He had paled when he saw her approach. She went to him. “I should not have come today,” he whispered and added “By coming down here you gave me an unforgettable gift.”
Ariana went close to him and pressed a timid kiss on his forehead. She did not leave her phone number. Her entrance was required on the stage again. She was confused. This last dance was for him despite that her legs felt like lead. The final part of the play required her to cry. Today she finished with real tears.

Speeches:

Literary and Social


by Charles Dickens



SPEECH: EDINBURGH, JUNE 25, 1841



At a public dinner, given in honour of Mr. Dickens, and presided over by the late Professor Wilson, the Chairman having proposed his health in a long and eloquent speech, Mr. Dickens returned thanks as follows:

If I felt your warm and generous welcome less, I should be better able to thank you. If I could have listened as you have listened to the glowing language of your distinguished Chairman, and if I could have heard as you heard the "thoughts that breathe and words that burn," which he has uttered, it would have gone hard but I should have caught some portion of his enthusiasm, and kindled at his example. But every word which fell from his lips, and every demonstration of sympathy and approbation with which you received his eloquent expressions, renders me unable to respond to his kindness, and leaves me at last all heart and no lips, yearning to respond as I would do to your cordial greeting--possessing, heaven knows, the will, and desiring only to find the way.
The way to your good opinion, favour, and support, has been to me very pleasing--a path strewn with flowers and cheered with sunshine. I feel as if I stood amongst old friends, whom I had intimately known and highly valued. I feel as if the deaths of the fictitious creatures, in which you have been kind enough to express an interest, had endeared us to each other as real afflictions deepen friendships in actual life; I feel as if they had been real persons, whose fortunes we had pursued together in inseparable connexion, and that I had never known them apart from you.
It is a difficult thing for a man to speak of himself or of his works. But perhaps on this occasion I may, without impropriety, venture to say a word on the spirit in which mine were conceived. I felt an earnest and humble desire, and shall do till I die, to increase the stock of harmless cheerfulness. I felt that the world was not utterly to be despised; that it was worthy of living in for many reasons. I was anxious to find, as the Professor has said, if I could, in evil things, that soul of goodness which the Creator has put in them. I was anxious to show that virtue may be found in the bye-ways of the world, that it is not incompatible with poverty and even with rags, and to keep steadily through life the motto, expressed in the burning words of your Northern poet -
"The rank is but the guinea stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that."
And in following this track, where could I have better assurance that I was right, or where could I have stronger assurance to cheer me on than in your kindness on this to me memorable night?
I am anxious and glad to have an opportunity of saying a word in reference to one incident in which I am happy to know you were interested, and still more happy to know, though it may sound paradoxical, that you were disappointed--I mean the death of the little heroine. When I first conceived the idea of conducting that simple story to its termination, I determined rigidly to adhere to it, and never to forsake the end I had in view. Not untried in the school of affliction, in the death of those we love, I thought what a good thing it would be if in my little work of pleasant amusement I could substitute a garland of fresh flowers for the sculptured horrors which disgrace the tomb.

If I have put into my book anything which can fill the young mind with better thoughts of death, or soften the grief of older hearts; if I have written one word which can afford pleasure or consolation to old or young in time of trial, I shall consider it as something achieved--something which I shall be glad to look back upon in after life. Therefore I kept to my purpose, notwithstanding that towards the conclusion of the story, I daily received letters of remonstrance, especially from the ladies. God bless them for their tender mercies! The Professor was quite right when he said that I had not reached to an adequate delineation of their virtues; and I fear that I must go on blotting their characters in endeavouring to reach the ideal in my mind. These letters were, however, combined with others from the sterner sex, and some of them were not altogether free from personal invective. But, notwithstanding, I kept to my purpose, and I am happy to know that many of those who at first condemned me are now foremost in their approbation.
If I have made a mistake in detaining you with this little incident, I do not regret having done so; for your kindness has given me such a confidence in you, that the fault is yours and not mine. I come once more to thank you, and here I am in a difficulty again. The distinction you have conferred upon me is one which I never hoped for, and of which I never dared to dream. That it is one which I shall never forget, and that while I live I shall be proud of its remembrance, you must well know. I believe I shall never hear the name of this capital of Scotland without a thrill of gratitude and pleasure. I shall love while I have life her people, her hills, and her houses, and even the very stones of her streets. And if in the future works which may lie before me you should discern--God grant you may!--a brighter spirit and a clearer wit, I pray you to refer it back to this night, and point to that as a Scottish passage for evermore. I thank you again and again, with the energy of a thousand thanks in each one, and I drink to you with a heart as full as my glass, and far easier emptied, I do assure you.
[Later in the evening, in proposing the health of Professor Wilson, Mr. Dickens said:-]
I have the honour to be entrusted with a toast, the very mention of which will recommend itself to you, I know, as one possessing no ordinary claims to your sympathy and approbation, and the proposing of which is as congenial to my wishes and feelings as its acceptance must be to yours. It is the health of our Chairman, and coupled with his name I have to propose the literature of Scotland- -a literature which he has done much to render famous through the world, and of which he has been for many years--as I hope and believe he will be for many more--a most brilliant and distinguished ornament. Who can revert to the literature of the land of Scott and of Burns without having directly in his mind, as inseparable from the subject and foremost in the picture, that old man of might, with his lion heart and sceptred crutch--Christopher North.



I am glad to remember the time when I believed him to be a real, actual, veritable old gentleman, that might be seen any day hobbling along the High Street with the most brilliant eye--but that is no fiction--and the greyest hair in all the world--who wrote not because he cared to write, not because he cared for the wonder and admiration of his fellow-men, but who wrote because he could not help it, because there was always springing up in his mind a clear and sparkling stream of poetry which must have vent, and like the glittering fountain in the fairy tale, draw what you might, was ever at the full, and never languished even by a single drop or bubble. I had so figured him in my mind, and when I saw the Professor two days ago, striding along the Parliament House, I was disposed to take it as a personal offence--I was vexed to see him look so hearty. I drooped to see twenty Christophers in one. I began to think that Scottish life was all light and no shadows, and I began to doubt that beautiful book to which I have turned again and again, always to find new beauties and fresh sources of interest.
[In proposing the memory of the late Sir David Wilkie, Mr. Dickens said:-]
Less fortunate than the two gentlemen who have preceded me, it is confided to me to mention a name which cannot be pronounced without sorrow, a name in which Scotland had a great triumph, and which England delighted to honour. One of the gifted of the earth has passed away, as it were, yesterday; one who was devoted to his art, and his art was nature--I mean David Wilkie. He was one who made the cottage hearth a graceful thing--of whom it might truly be said that he found "books in the running brooks," and who has left in all he did some breathing of the air which stirs the heather. But however desirous to enlarge on his genius as an artist, I would rather speak of him now as a friend who has gone from amongst us. There is his deserted studio--the empty easel lying idly by--the unfinished picture with its face turned to the wall, and there is that bereaved sister, who loved him with an affection which death cannot quench. He has left a name in fame clear as the bright sky; he has filled our minds with memories pure as the blue waves which roll over him. Let us hope that she who more than all others mourns his loss, may learn to reflect that he died in the fulness of his time, before age or sickness had dimmed his powers--and that she may yet associate with feelings as calm and pleasant as we do now the memory of Wilkie.


SPEECH: JANUARY, 1842.


In presenting Captain Hewett, of the Britannia, with a service of plate on behalf of the passengers, Mr. Dickens addressed him as follows:

Captain Hewett,--I am very proud and happy to have been selected as the instrument of conveying to you the heartfelt thanks of my fellow-passengers on board the ship entrusted to your charge, and of entreating your acceptance of this trifling present. The ingenious artists who work in silver do not always, I find, keep their promises, even in Boston. I regret that, instead of two goblets, which there should be here, there is, at present, only one. The deficiency, however, will soon be supplied; and, when it is, our little testimonial will be, so far, complete.
You are a sailor, Captain Hewett, in the truest sense of the word; and the devoted admiration of the ladies, God bless them, is a sailor's first boast. I need not enlarge upon the honour they have done you, I am sure, by their presence here. Judging of you by myself, I am certain that the recollection of their beautiful faces will cheer your lonely vigils upon the ocean for a long time to come.
In all time to come, and in all your voyages upon the sea, I hope you will have a thought for those who wish to live in your memory by the help of these trifles. As they will often connect you with the pleasure of those homes and fire sides from which they once wandered, and which, but for you, they might never have regained, so they trust that you will sometimes associate them with your hours of festive enjoyment; and, that, when you drink from these cups, you will feel that the draught is commended to your lips by friends whose best wishes you have; and who earnestly and truly hope for your success, happiness, and prosperity, in all the undertakings of your life.

The Moulton Family Ghouls
 
Article by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
            Do you wake up in the middle of the night with a strange face screaming at you in the darkness? When you turn on the light ... is that spectre not already gone? Does something creep up behind you in your hallway and, in that case, is it the family ghost lurking around and making strange noises? Or is it just the heat making things crack in the hallway or the old pipes making spooky noises?
            Maybe it’s both.
Everybody does have a family ghost. And so, we are left with a mystery. It is a mystery that is baffling and sometimes even irritatingly cryptic. We seek the mystery in our lives. We love it. We buy books about it, we even go to great lengths to create a mystery, even if it’s not there. Or was it there to begin with?
That, too, is a mystery.
As I write this, the radiator behind me makes a banging noise. Was that the family ghost or just an old metal part bending in the breeze of domestic heat? The enigma, my dears, keeps us alive. It makes us love the unknown. It keeps challenging us to keep discovering our own life as it unfolds, metre by metre, moment by moment, ghost by ghost.
I am not saying ghosts are made up. Energies are here, the afterlife is real, very real, angels exist, the soul leads the way. No, we love the unknown because we come from the unknown. Our souls are part of God, so we inadvertantly seek what we don’t understand, because we want to remember our previous lives.
Get it?
No.
You will.
            In the case of the Kronzell-Moulton family, that is: ours and mine, the family ghost was a woman named Mildred. Apparently, this lost but peaceful soul had died in an apartment that father Herbert Eyre Moulton occupied for a short time. Mildred decided just to stick around for a little while longer. I guess she liked my dad. She stuck around long enough for me to write this article.
            Accordingly, every proverbial family mystery was blamed on Mildred, every bump in the night and every missing object a friendly reminder from our invisible friend. We even imagined Mildred having a one-legged boyfriend in the other world. Why else would only one sock be missing when we emptied the washing machine? Mildred even made things vanish. Accordingly, we found ourselves misplacing all sorts of things. Every time it was Mildred’s fault. Or was it only Mildred half of the time? Hard to say.
            Mildred, however, is not the only ghost that has honored our family with its presence. During his seven years as an actor in Ireland, my dad had several supernatural encounters. All of them, supposedly unexplained. On the other hand, the explanation my father got from these experiences was sufficient in spiritual terms. What we call unexplained phenomena is only reality getting its rug pulled from under its feet.
As a guest at the Eyre Family Mansion somewhere on the spooky Irish west coast, he was awoken at 4:30 one morning by the clanging of pots and pans in the household kitchen. He awoke his great-aunt, asking what that noise was. The woman just answered: “Oh, those are just the ghosts of the kitchen staff. They make a racket at this time of the morning! Nothing to worry about!”
Perfectly sound explanation to me. The ghosts just decided to stick around for a couple of hundred years. Nothing strange about that, is it now?
            It gets more intense, though. Other than the occasional psychic dog foreseeing an upcoming crisis or my father meeting a long dead local gypsy, his most ghoulish encounter took place one New Year’s Eve in the year of 1963, somewhere close to the burned down ruin of his ancestor Baron Giles Eyre’s Eyre Court Castle.
That evening, my father’d had a few pints and maybe a few glasses of whiskey. But he was still sober enough to walk home. The performance that evening had “taken the Mickey” out of him and so Herbie decided to saunter off home. After all, it was just a ten minute walk across the field to get there.
            “No, no,” the host exclaimed. “Don’t walk across the fairy-field. The bushes that grow there are haunted. If we cut them down, the cows die and our crop turns rotten. Walk around the field, Herbie, or you will get lost and we will never find you again.”
            Well, Herbie was tired and longed to sleep in his own bed soon enough. That was why he actually ignored his friend’s advice that night and walked across the field, anyway, when he came to it.
Soon enough, he got lost as foretold, wandering about in the darkness. He kept seeing women in gala-dresses, waiters in tuxedos serving champagne and even hearing a pianist playing Cole Porter-tunes.
            After growing desperate, Herbie passed out in the ice-cold snow and first woke up the next morning in the local hospital. His friend, the host of the party, had found him laying unconcious in the snow.
            The epilogue of this tale remains as mysterious as it odd. That March 17th,  1963, Herbie was back in Dublin, living on Grafton Street and working at the Gaiety Theatre.  St. Stephen’s Green was in full St. Patrick’s Day celebration, when he met an old lady-friend, who seemed to be worried about him.
            “Herbie,” she cried. “What were you doing in our Dublin house on New Year’s Eve? You appeared out of nowhere, looking really pale and sick. You stood out in the crowd, being the only one not wearing a tuxedo. I even wandered up to you in my blue gala-dress and tried to convince you to sit down and talk to me. But you left, you disappeared out of sight and we couldn’t find you after that. Why were you here and why didn’t you join us once you arrived?”
            “Honey, I was on the west coast on New Year’s Eve,” Herbie answered.
            “You couldn’t have been on the west coast,” his friend exclaimed. “You were here in Dublin in my house.”
            “No,” my father said. “I got lost on a field and I saw women in gala dress and men wearing tuxedos ...”
            My father’s soul had been lead astray by the fairies, for one moment travelling over 130 miles to the other coast, just to see his lady-friend.
            All of that seemed to have been forgotten later that autumn. He was on a concert tour in Ireland. One night after a late concert, he had talked a friend into giving him and his Irish Sheepdog Fred a bed for the night. The problem was that the husband alone knew Herbie was coming. The wife didn’t and that could become a problem.
Everyone was asleep, but Herbie still tiptoed into the house with his dog on a leash. He found his bed, snuggled up and almost fell asleep.
            Fred started whimpering, begging for some food and so the snooze in question was interrupted. Although my father was unwilling to move, having already slipped into his nightgown and almost snoring, he lit a candle and found a pocket-knife in his bag with which he could cut up the sheep’s heart the local butcher had sold him this morning for the dog. It could serve as proper food for the canine. It was the only thing he had with him, anyway.
            So, my dad wandered down the stairs to the kitchen in his nighgown, holding a knife and a candle and a sheep’s heart.
At that moment, the woman of the house appeared on the stairs.
            Imagine the horror she felt when she saw the strange man in the nightgown holding a knife and candles ... and a dripping heart.
            She screamed.
            “It’s alright, Madam,” my father said. “I’m a friend of your husband’s. I’m just going to the kitchen to cut up a heart!”
            The woman screamed even louder in fright.
            “It’s okay. It’s my dog’s!”
            Needless to say, the woman rushed into her bedroom again and was never seen again. At least not until my father left the house.
            Ghoulish tales are present not only in my father’s family, but in my mother’s, as well. Gun Kronzell’s ancestors can sport a spectre or two. Her childhood neighbors at Nygatan 16 in Kalmar were the Bobecker-family. Valter Bobecker, the family father, was a local journalist, who specialized in a daily column that researched supernatural tales criss-crossing between normal common folk and from generation to generation. He travelled the region on a regular basis, interviewing locals and letting them talk about their encounters with fairies, trolls, goblins and ghosts.
One day in 1939, Valter even met an old lady way out on the countryside who claimed that the devil had come to visit her late one night. In the end, however, the demon turned out to be the headlights of a car. There weren’t many cars in the countryside back in 1939. Or had it been a demon?
            My mother’s hometown of Kalmar, though, is still a real meltingpot of ghost-stories. Not only that. East Sweden’s top tourist attraction presents a lively cultural life, amusement parks and an exquisite range of gastronomical wonders and wonderful natural habitats.
            Kalmar’s most prominent landmark is, nonetheless, Scandinavia’s most well kept Renaissance castle. Due to the city’s former position as last bastion before the Danish border, the castle has been elevated to achieve cult status. It was invaded 22 times and protected by over 287 cannons during the high point of its career. Up until 1648 the border lay only 25 miles away and this gave the city its nickname: “The Key to the Kingdom”. Whoever wanted to invade Sweden had to crush Kalmar Castle first.
            Needless to say, the 12th century fortress, rebuilt during the Renaissance, is also the home of many spectres and apparations. This palace was my summer vacation childhood playground. I climbed the cannons, pretending to be a pirate. I wandered about the castle walls, peeking into the gigantic storage towers, calling out the names of the giants my father and I imagined lived there inside: “Brambambus, Trenucheeya,” we called out, “come out!”
            In 1982, we also saw a small whirlwind at the corner of the castle moat. Naturally, the two giants had sent the whirlwind to catch us.
            Seven years later, working as a trilingual tourguide and inspired by the giants, I was taken on a private midnight tour of the castle’s many vaults and attics. We saw dead bats in the attic, skulls left over from the 14th century in the basement and heard our boss Erling Berg talk of the ghosts that might be lurking around the corner. These are the stories that Erling told us back then.
            One spectre that is constantly sighted bears the name The White Lady. She is believed to be the ghost of an aristocratic resident named Anna Bielke, the only castle inhibitor to support the later king Gustav Vasa against the Danish occupants back in 1520. The theory is that Anna acted as a false lighthouse, standing by the watchtower window and swinging a lamp, only to confuse enemy ships. Apparantly, she does so to this day.
            Royal antiquarian Dagmar Selling, a good friend of the family, was thought to be The White Lady when she accidentally got locked inside the castle after closing time one night. The township pedestrians reported seeing “some lady standing in the watchtower window waving a lamp”.
            We are left with a baffling question: why did fate actually make Miss Selling completely recreate this 16th century event? Did she know about Anna Bielke’s experience or was it a fluke that she was there?
            What is real?
            But there are more surprises along the way. A seven-year-old boy named Carl Gustav Wrangel is supposed to roam the palace rooms as a spectre, left alone in there one baroque evening by his strict father, who was an army colonel. Dorothea Öberg, a female prisoner, fell in love with a male prisoner named Johan. Their love letters were found stuck into the walls. She is now heard weeping at night in one of the rooms.
            The most haunting ghost story of all comes from a place close to the Queen’s Staircase by the main entrance. The Grey Monk has been seen walking on a floor level that existed prior to the Renaissance renovation, leading to a ghostly apparation only visible to its hips. Many people believe this has to do with the definate fact that the staircase in question was built out of tombstones, whose corpses never were removed.
            Was the monk actually one of the deceased locals, whose grave was robbed in order to elevate the castle’s stature?
            We conclude our journey as travellers through the haunted landscape of the Moultonian world in the same country, but now on the other coast: in Gothenburg, Sweden. We travel four centuries into the future, a distant future with a ghost of a completely different kind playing the main part.
It is Friday, September the 23rd, 1983, around 8 p.m. Two schoolfriends play in a rural domestic garden. Suddenly, as the one boy notices a blinking light in the sky, he calls out and pleads to inspect it. The other friend thinks nothing of the light, but as his buddy insists on the mysterious nature of the event, it soon has them running up to his playroom with camera and binoculars. As they stand there on the boy’s balcony, a future ghost appears, a cosmic ghost.
            What meet their adolescent gazes that night is no age-old spectre. It is a ghost, perhaps, from outer space, one that flies right over the boy’s house, so close that they can almost touch its structure. It has a flat bottom, is formed like a car, only that it flies, and has six spotlights in the back. It floats on air, silent like the leaf gliding on a breeze and disappears as mysteriously as it first appeared. When the same vehicle appears a second time, now in a completely different place, their imagination takes its toll.
Inspired by the popular science-fiction-films of their time, they invent telepathic creatures that communicate with them by the power of their minds. Who might these creatures have been and appeared in two different places? Was this just a coincidence?
            Although the UFO Organization called every possible nearby airport, police station and army camp, no one reported in having seen an unidentified object of its kind. Being one of the boys that saw the vehicle back then, I am left with a mystery. Who were these ghosts from outer space? Did I see a spaceship from another world or am I just an author with a wild imagination?
            And so we end where we began: with the mystery, one that is baffling and sometimes even irritatingly cryptic. On the other hand, that enigma makes us love the unknown. It keeps challenging us to keep discovering our own life as it unfolds, metre by metre, moment by moment, ghost by ghost.
            The mystery, after all, is an endlessly fascinating enigma.
            The mystery, as such, keeps us turning the pages of every book we will every read. It makes us scroll every internet-page to its finishing line and search every nook and cranny just to find the answers to a row of eternal questions: are ghosts real? What is real? Are we alone in the universe? That feeling I had that someone was watching me just now, was I right about that? Was that a ghost or just my own wild imagination going haywire? Or maybe I am crazy and sane at the same time?
            Who knows what sane really is?
            What is normal?
That is the important question to which there are as many answers as there are people. Look out into the distance. Do you see the sunrise? How many colors mingle in that morning? If the eternal creator can create something as simple and magnifiscent as a sunrise, then he certainly will take care that we transcend easily into the next life when our time has come.
Some of us just return, just to see what’s going on back home.
It’s as simple as that.

Memories Evoked by Pictures


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Massapequa

To verify happenings and special events by pictures is truly a good idea. Of course it is so much easier nowadays when we can snap a picture by camera, smartphone or any kind of tablet. We can have it taken by somebody, take it by ourselves or even ask a robot to take it. One thing I have learned many years ago is the importance of jotting down a date when writing a letter or postcard or when documenting something. I have collected pictures, articles, memorabilia and keepsakes since my early youth for no special reason. Not sure at this point for what! I guess in a weird way, my life was interesting for me and I do want to keep the memories. From childhood on I was always losing something: my father, my friends at school, my bicycle, our house, and on and on. How most of the notes and articles which I still have nowadays survived is a riddle to me.
For years now I have pleaded with my son and used to tell my husband to date anything they give to me. Birthday cards, X-mas cards as well as pictures. They both had a hard time doing that. My son is slowly getting around to it.
I recently leafed thru one of my folders, dated 1950 thru 1959, the last 10 years of my life in Germany, with a 14-month interval in Sweden, before coming to the States. I came across two pages of two different editions of the The Berliner Zeitung, a newspaper with the caliber of the New York Daily News. I had cut out the article showing the contest and my picture but did not keep the entire newspaper and thus could not find a date. The name of the contest was “Who shall have the Golden Pin?” It said that the jury would decide on May 15, but it did not give the year. Just like in “The American Idol” the public had the last word. It was a competition for the most accomplished female athlete in Berlin who also was very attractive. I don’t mean to say that I was especially pretty during those years, but I had just won second place in the Berlin Table Tennis matches and also had advanced considerably during some official tennis tournaments.
Yes, there it was, I found a copy of the certificate issued for the Table Tennis. It says 1951. Great, now I can match this document with a time and date, May 1951. I was 17 years old then. No, I did not win that time.
True in 1967 I visited the Blarney Castle in Ireland. It is the place where you are promised to gain the gift of eloquence, if you lean backwards out of the window to a point where you nearly fall out. Some interpret it that you will be able to brew up stories like Munchhausen, whose stories would not hold water if researched.
Some of my stories about my past do not even ring true to me but thanks to my drive as collector, I have proof for most of them.

The Enjoyment of Little Things


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


In our society today it has become a bitter struggle to keep up with the Johnsons. A futile endeavor because the Johnsons are doing the same. We all strive constantly for success and prestige. We want to get to the top, belong to the elite and be able to afford anything we desire. Yet how often do we hear about persons, who are at the top but nevertheless miserable.

To live a full life, you do not need all those riches. Just get into the habit of recognizing the little pleasures, which are available to you without big expense. Even if you are at the top, you will be amazed how rewarding it can be to pay attention to little things.
I own a big boat. The kind you can take longer trips on it and show it off to your neighbors. With us, on deck, we carry a small dinghy. It holds two people, is made of a hard rubber, has two plastic paddles and a throw rope. It is meant to take our little poodle to shore, when he has to do his business and we are cruising the waterways. This little gadget has become my biggest pleasure. You step inside, fight for balance and hope not to get splashed right from the beginning. I cannot go far with it and I have no desire to do so, the wind usually decides my direction anyhow. Sometimes I bump into one of the big party boats that are anchored along our 40 ft. wide and 3 city blocks long canal. But no problem, I bounce off them and back to the middle of the canal. No harm done. I sit there in my little nutshell, not working the oars except when I feel like exercise, I look at the sky and kind of meditate. We all know that little wonders of nature exist all around us but hardly ever take the time to watch them and enjoy them. We are so full of it when imagining ourselves, famous, rich and prominent. I use my imagination right on this little boat. It is my gondola and I am skimming along the waterways of Venice. I ignore that my neighbors’ black dogs bark at me furiously when I pass them. Maybe I interrupted their meditation. I pay no attention to the seaweed floating on the surface of the water. I am happy and only see and feel what I want.

​When I get back I notice the mimosa-trees in their pink bloom, the gardenias in their luscious white pride. I watch a squirrel climbing up a pine tree and call a friendly “hello”. Mother duck is taking her children for a first outing and I ponder what they are doing in the winter. I hear the happy noises from the seagulls in the distant bay, where they catch remnants of dead fish which fisherman throw overboard. I look at the weather-beaten red bench on the lawn of the house with the “For Sale” sign, and I wonder who used to sit on there in the past and who will in the future.
All is so peaceful. No noise or vibration like on the big boat. No place to reach within a certain time. I just float, look and relax.
I put my hand into the water and then let the water drops slowly dissipate in the sun. I lay down, with my chin on the rubber edge of my little gondola and watch how the sun is making the most colorful rays just below the water’s surface. A school of little fish is passing by, so much more enjoyable to watch here than on the hook as bait.
On these occasions I do not want to change with anybody.
 
 
 
 



Below:
​Charles E.J. Moulton in Triptychon, an evening of three one-act operas.
Gelsenkirchen, Germany.

The Eternal Now

 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
 
“Each star represents a single thought.”
That’s a line from the series “Star Trek: Voyager.”
In the episode “Night”, fifth season, first episode, Tuvok, Spock’s post-centurion torch, tells us that he misses the stars he has gotten to know so well, during an excursion through empty space. That inspired a thought in me. A thought that follows the ideology of a quote I read on the way back in the train today:
“We think all the time, so why not just CHOOSE to think good thoughts.”
Life is a journey, definately, and everyone is involved.
Choose to think positive.
Choose not to complain.
Choose to take responsibility.
Even if someone did you wrong, you had the choice of
going there to partake in it.
Take responsibility.
Positivity is a choice.
You can choose.

Life is a concerto ...  and you play your instrument in the orchestra ... of life. You might not like the instrument playing next to you, bub, but unless he existed, you wouldn’t know who you are. So, you need him. You need the variety. Without it, you would lose your place as fast as someone that looks for streetsigns in a world of similar names. Your adversary points you in the right direction, but he tells you where not to go.
I had a conversation with a singer in the chorus I am conducting ... a few days ago. We were having a spiritual conversation filled with deep thought.

“The God Within counts,” he said. “The afterlife exists, but the key to it is not outside of you, but inside you. The God of Religions is a fabrication. The God inside you is eternal. I am not afraid of death, because God lives within me.”

Just imagine, folks, if there was no death. That death was an illusion, that your soul
all you have, all you need. Just imagine you are here to learn something, that the real world is where you are at home, beyond this world.

You wouldn’t have to bicker about whose version of the afterlife was right, would you? It is. That’s it. There are a thousand synonyms for the word “beautiful”, but it is what is is. If we wear a scarf or a turban, call God “Allah” or “Brahma”, it doesn’t matter.
It is what it is.

Our interpretations vary.
If we want the truth, we seek inside ourselves, not within society.
We have to live with and within society in these days, no question.
The inner truth remains the same.
Every star represents a single thought.
Respect life, for nothing comes without it.
Respect every thought, for with every thought there is a feeling.
Respect love, for without it you would not exist.
Respect making love, for without it you would not have been born.
Respect procreation.
This is the magical forest.

Think positive, for life is a journey.
Always.
We need diversity.
Respect the eternal now.

Take one moment of every day to realize what you are feeling
... and why ...
... and if you can turn every situation into a blessing ...
​within your personal eternal now.

The Boat


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



A little white boat sails along the calm surface of the lake. Nobody steers it. Nobody tells it where to go. It gets stuck among yellow sea roses and pink coral. Gracefully it bobs up and down till it becomes free to move on once again.
This little marvel is made of paper. It is no bigger than an egg carton. The paper is supposedly waterproof and the workmanship superb.
At the shore stands the master who had folded the material into a boat: A little blonde blue-eyed boy. He is still a kid, skinny, unkempt, but with a wide smile on his face. As an orphan, few pleasures were his. He watched his little boat. Now he knew! When grown up he would build himself a real boat. He would sail the seas. He was happy now in the prospect of what he imagined to be. He had a goal! Slowly he turned to join the group he had come with. As he walked away, the little boat got shook up by the unintentional waves caused by a proud white swan. The boat took on water and sank.
The little boy was spared to watch this spectacle. When he came back the next day to have a look at his boat, the boat was gone. He was overjoyed. In his mind, the boat had taken off and sailed to some foreign place. The boy’s dream of future travel was safe.

Kan nit Verstehn


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


“Tell me a story, you will need the practice,“ Lydia said.
With that she pulled the covers over her nose and hugged the spread.
Otto smiled at his pregnant wife.
They were looking ahead to a growing, new life.


And thus the story went:


Kan nit Verstehn
Sir Scott was on a holiday spree
He had made plans a lot to see
In Bavaria he took a taxi instead of renting a car
He wanted to be able to see the near and the far.
German he did speak not
What was learned in school he long had forgot.
The cab driver only a few words of English knew
Talk must be short was the conclusion they drew.


They passed a fancy mansion while driving along
To whom does that marvel belong
Sir Scott asked for a name
“Kan nit Verstehn,” the answer came.
Shortly thereafter a lake with swans was in sight
Sir Scott inquired, “Who the owner might – “
Like a bullet the answer came.
The cabbie gave a friendly smile, “Kan nit Verstehn”’


Nature’s luscious and plentiful farms rushed by
Then Sir Scott a now dormant ski lodge did eye.
“Who is the owner of this great place?”
“Kan nit Verstehn,” a grin lit up the driver’s face.
Back in the city they got held up by a hearse
The cabbie could not pass and began to curse.
“Do you know who it is that they burry there”
Sir Scott asked though he hardly did care.


Then he was truly surprised to hear again
Mumble, mumble and, “Kan nit Verstehn.”
That shows, Mr. Scott thought, all is in vain
There is truly little value in the earthly gain.
Obviously there is a moral in this story on hand
“Kan nit Verstehn” means I cannot understand
Sir Scott had thought it was a Dutch name
That was why to a wrong conclusion he came.




Otto had wanted to discuss with his wife, why
The story moved him so deep
But right at the end Lydia had fallen asleep.
Oh well, he chuckled and stroked her belly
“Did you hear me Little One?
There are many more stories to come!”
Then he yawned and under the covers joined his wife.
Relaxed and happy at the thought of the coming new life!




Below: 

Charles E.J. Moulton as Prince Alexander, 1989, in "Molly Munter - the Musical",
during his time at the Kronoberg Music Academy.
Here seen with Hans Weichbrodt as his butler.

Herbert Eyre Moulton

(1927 - 2005)

remembers



July 17, 1936, Headline, Glen Ellyn News:




VACATION FOR A BIRTHDAY PRESENT



We hadn’t planned on going so far afield but since my grandparents had left us their Ford V-8 Sedan (so much more comfortable than Henrietta, our 1927 Studebaker), why not take advantage of it? Our goal, a last-minute choice: Niagara Falls. So scenic, so educational, and so many lovely sights for Little Herbert to see on the way. What I saw was next to nothing. The whole expedition was planned for me and where did I spend it? Scrounched up on the floor of the back seat munching candy bars and having a glorious hog-wallow, reading comic books, movie magazines, Big Little Books, and Popular Mechanics. Whose birthday was it, anyway? All I wanted was some peace and quiet ...
Peace and quiet, did someone say? My dear mother Nell was of a different mind. We were driving a long way all the way from Glen Ellyn, Illinois, it was costing a helluva lot for gas and oil alone, and we’d just better enjoy every single minute of Middle-America passing by ...
“Now, is that clear, young man? Or else! Get up from there this instant, did you hear what I said? Little Herbert, you’re missing everything. Just look at this lovely town, the rolling countryside, all those lovely cows!”
This kept up in every state we sped through, including Ontario:
“Little Herbert, we’re in a different country all together now: Canada! Get up now and look around you. They don’t have a president as we do. They have a king.”
“Maybe not for long,” my dad, Big Herb, chimed in, otherwise intent on his driving.
“Oh, ish!” scoffed Nell. “A perfectly lovely man. Your cousin Virginia Gamon danced with him once. They had to put together a whole pitcher of Scotch at his place every meal. That’s when your Uncle Arthur was ambassador ...”
“General Consul,” said Big Herb. “Or Consul General, Mexico someplace.”
Nell bridled at this:
“That’s right, make a liar out of me, as usual. I stand corrected.”
“Oh, Nell, please.”
“Just pay attention to your driving, Mister. Oh, Little Herbert, look at that lake or sea or whatever it is. I always forget which. Erie? Ontario? Well, it can’t be Michigan. That’s back home in Chicago.”
Big Herb chuckled. “Try Lake Huron, Nell. It’s the only one of the two left.”
Nell gave him a look and then shook her head. This wasn’t going as well as she’d hoped. It very seldom did.
I did graciously consent to put away my reading for the sake of the Falls. They were, after all, quite worth seeing. Especially at night when lit up with colored lights. We took a little steamboat, Maid of the Mist, which went up as close as it could to the thundering waters (of which the composer Gustav Mahler once exclaimed: “Endlich fortissimo!” – “At last something loud!”
But what I really saved to tell my pals back home was the rescue operation downstream at the treacherous whirlpool. A man had recently drowned. His corpse was whirling madly around – he had a white shirt on – and they were trying to fish him out by means of long pools, but each time, the vortex almost got them, as well. Vortex! Edgar Allan Poe! But we had to get going.
My Dad had to get back to work, and Grand-Dad would want his car back.
“When you’re as poor as we are,” said Nell in her best Irish-Martyr-Voice, “you can’t always do what you like.”
“Oh, nuts,” was Big Herb’s comment. He was used to this.
The trip back home was more of the same.
“Get up off that floor, now. I’m not telling you again! Look at where we are on the map, Little Herbert! East Liverpool, Ohio, fancy that! Wouldn’t you like to have a new pennant for your bedroom wall with that on it? We must stop and get some things for your knick-knack shelf, oh, and some post cards. Are you looking, Little Herb? This is Pughstown, dear God in heaven! Imagine living in a town called Pughstown! Mother of Mercy! Wouldn’t you ashamed? HERBERT, I’m telling you for the very last time!”
“Well, please don’t shout,” said my Dad.
“Who the hell is shouting?” shouted Nell. “We go to all this trouble and expense to take this boy on a nice trip and what does he do? Spends the whole time on the damned back floor! Never heard of such a thing! Why can’t YOU say something to him, reprimand the boy?”
“Please, Nell, we’ll have an accident!”
“If you ask me, LIFE is an accident.”
“Nuts.”
“Stop the car, do you hear me? Stop it at once! I want to get out!”
“What? Here? In Pughstown? You’re even crazier than usual.”
“Well, thank you very much! Stop the car, I said!”
In other words, a typical Moulton Family Excursion, and, like our life itself, one part Irish temperament, one part Yankee cussedness, and one part pre-pubescent bloody-mindedness, a volatile mixture that always spelled out High Dramatics. A regular Brouhaha, but not a word of it to be taken seriously.
This spirited exchange was followed by a long aggrieved silence. Then gradually the mellowing began, and before long, euphoria reigned once more.
“Oh, thanks be God,” murmured Nell. “The Illinois border. Big Herb, you’ve done a beautiful job, as usual. And you, Little Herb, won’t you have a lot to tell your chums about? I can’t wait to phone Bess. Is there anything to drink at home?”
And, as always, the next day found her writing about Glen Ellyn News.

Freudened by Sex


By Charles Rammelkamp


“I could set you up with Richie,” Debbie pleaded. Richie was her boyfriend, the class “wit.” He punned all the time. (“Can we play Haydn seek?” he impishly asked the music teacher, Mrs. O’Dell, who groaned appreciatively while the other students just looked puzzled. Debbie wasn’t sure if she was proud of him or not. He was smart, and not bad-looking.)
“So he just came over? Did he call first?” Brenda pursued. “He told me he was going to the library. To ‘study.’”
“Danny doesn’t mean anything to me. It was nothing, what we did. It was just nothing, you’ve got to believe me.”
“Did he call first?” Brenda persisted.
“He just showed up,” Debbie confessed. “I was the only one home.” She looked miserable. Brenda’s imagination fired with images of what they’d done, the betrayal, but she wasn’t going to ask.
“Does Richie know?”
“Please don’t tell Richie!” The pleading tone was back in Debbie’s voice.
“Oh, well, he says he’s freudened by sex anyway.”
“What?”
“One of Richie’s little jokes.”
They both sniggered in faint contempt then, and Debbie hoped the mutual disdain might bring her and Brenda back together.
But Brenda didn’t thaw. She liked having the upper hand here, and she liked the new-found power of her coldness. It could be this way forever, she thought. She’d never much liked Debbie anyway, and here was her chance at a break. She’d be going to college next year anyway and wouldn’t have to deal with Debbie or Danny ever again anyway.
“Don’t worry, Deb. I won’t breathe a word to Richie.”
As she turned to go she heard a sob escape from Debbie and the sound of her friend sucking back snot.
A sinus of the times, Brenda thought, channeling Richie and she wondered why Debbie had offered to set her up with her boyfriend. Some sort of consolation prize? A quid pro quo? But it sure wouldn’t have been satisfying revenge.

Gratitude
​

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
​

It is true! I am grateful to have outsmarted the odds I will refer to as survival umpteen times. These occurrences are so numerous that I could write a book about them. However, I will try to be brief. They will lose on impact but maybe can serve as an outline for a booklet in the future.
I was born prematurely on the couch of a Villa in Berlin. Once this house had been ours but had sold when inflation warranted it – I survived.
World War II – Bomb craters behind our house. My father had to flee to Paris to avoid the Nazi camps -- I survived.
Evacuated to Vienna during World War II, I contracted a serious disease and was at the mercy of Social Services – I survived.
It was the time when Vienna experienced its first major destruction by air -- I survived.
As teenager, I had my stomach pumped out at the hospital and was subjected to painful tests for serious illnesses. Finally, the medical team was unable to come up with a reason for my pains and nausea – I survived.
Constant problems resulting from a deviated septum put me into the Ear and Eye Infirmary. After the operation, I was black and blue in the face, but still unable to smell and always sniffling. Finally, a plastic surgeon in New York City, who also had operated on one the Gabor sisters, solved my problem. I had to agree to also have a nose job at the same time – I survived.
1949: My tonsils were removed. The next morning when I expected my doctor to make his rounds, I was told he had had a heart attack shortly after he had performed the operation on me. For years after, I thought about what could have happened if he had died with the scalpel in my throat. Needless to say – I survived.
In my early 20s I fell skating. Diagnosis: a sprain in my leg. It got taped up, got swollen, black and blue, and I was crying for days. It was broken, and I nearly lost my leg. Four months under the care of a top surgeon and in traction followed. You guessed it – I survived with both of my legs.
I will never forget the day when, after a drinking splash of several hours, I declined a ride home on the back of a motorcycle of a friend. Going home with another friend a little later, we saw the motorcycle on its side laying on the street, the body of the driver on the side of the curb and police all over. Good judgment -- I survived.
When flying as a stewardess, our plane dropped 8,000 feet; the oxygen masks were deployed. I missed a flight I was scheduled for; that being the flight that crashed over Lockerbie, Scotland. Another time, the plane I was on lost an engine in flight. All close calls – I survived.
1964: I was told I would go into shock and could die unless I had my thyroid removed. The medicine Synthroid came on the market at exactly that time and I have3 been taking it ever since – I survived.
1972: Pregnant at 39, I was expected to have a difficult delivery and was likely to need a caesarian. I gave natural birth using the Lamaze method, something new at that time -- I survived.
1979: I was in a hospital to have a biopsy for breast cancer. Pretest results, possibly from another patient named Rodrigues, showed a silent heart attack and ischemic heart disease. The biopsy was postponed. I checked myself
out of the hospital. A week later a consultation with a specialist for breast diseases assured me that my breasts were fine – I survived.
During the years I came close several times to be hit by careless drivers -- I survived.
Recently I had a bad fall, which resulted in facial lacerations that ended just millimeters below my left eye. My eyesight was not damaged -- I survived.
I could go on and on, but enough for now. I am grateful to whatever power it is that is watching over me.

Teen Angst


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
​

My teenage years? They had followed a most confusing childhood. There were not too many illusions left. I was 13 years old when the war ended in 1946. Berlin had been freed. The terror of air attacks was over. No longer did I have to be afraid of being woken by shrill sirens. Those sirens had been the sign to grab some belongings, already packed in a little suitcase, and sneak into the bunker across from our house.
I had swallowed my first chewing gum, given to me by an American soldier when the Russians had finally left our area and we had become the American sector. That took place after I had witnessed rapes and destruction by the Russians. Still I had managed to save my family from starvation by venturing to a Russian Military Cantina and, dressed in a red jumpsuit, the Soviet color, begged for soup. The soup was rich and fatty.
I thumbed thru some old letters recently, written in 1944 in Vienna to my grandmother in Berlin. “Dear Grandma. How are you? Are you still sick? How is the food in Berlin? We just had a real air raid and went into the bunker. There were shots, but not too bad. Hope I will find some nice shrapnel tomorrow for my collection.”
Yes, I had been evacuated to Vienna in 1943. Presumably safe! I was there when the first air raid destroyed most of the city in March 1944, the city of Music of Strauss and his Waltzes, Franz Liszt and Mozart. At school in Vienna I received a “B” in music, imagine that! In Berlin my report cards showed a “D” year after year. I deserved the “D.” I cannot hold a note and never could.
This brings me to an event that occurred during my teen years:
At the age of seven, I had joined a local dance school. Ms. Irene taught us creative dancing. I loved it, and I was good at it. Eventually, I became the star of the group and the pet of Ms. Irene.
When I was 13 years of age, two friends of mine, sisters, both in my dance class, decided to apply to the Berlin Opera. Their classes were free and students were also provided special allowances on food stamp cards. “I am even better than they are,” or so I thought, and went to apply. I was accepted. I hated it: Creative dance had been my strength not Ballet! It was very strenuous, no room for imagination. I wanted to be a Ballerina! My grades in school plummeted. I began to dread the days I had Ballet class. Mrs. Merina obviously saw no merit in my dancing, and I did not like her a bit. Then one day my pride got its ultimate shock. My mother awaited me with a letter from the Opera.
”We regret to inform you that your daughter Alexandra can no longer be supported by our Ballet school as she has no ear for music, a requisite for becoming a Solo dancer.” I was devastated. I hated Mrs. Merina even more. It was my pride that was hurt most of all.
Well life has its ways. Ten years later, when I was already a stewardess, I had Mrs. Merina as a passenger on the DC-4 from Berlin to Stuttgart. It was quite a bumpy flight. Mrs. Merina was afraid and got sick. With a typical stewardess smile I handed her the airsick bag from the seat pocket. I mumbled, “I have to thank you for getting this fabulous job.” And a little devil made me add, “Some people have no ear for music, and some people have no stomach for flying.” She did not hear me – it did not matter. I had had my say.

 
 
Roger Maris Comes Back

By Robert Cooperman


What Roger Maris regretted most? Breaking Babe Ruth’s
home run record, that asterisk forever next to his 61 homers,
since it took him all of the bloated 162 game season,
not the Bambino’s 154, when the Sultan swatted 60.
Maris took crap from Yankee lovers, Yankee haters,
fans who shouted he didn’t deserve to break the record,
never a .300 hitter, the Babe batting a gaudy .360 or so.
Besides, so many of Maris’ homers just farted over
the Stadium’s short right field fence, while Ruth’s blasts
broke windows, and if anyone on that 1961 team deserved
to break the record it was beloved Mickey Mantle,
who kept his hatred of little kids a semi-secret.
And to cement Maris’s misery, the next season
when he hit a paltry 39 home runs, and fans rode him
with, “Hey Maris, how come you’re such a bum!”
he snapped, flipped the bird at some bleacher buzzards.
So after the cancer tagged him out, he came back
as a hobo, hopped freights, slept under bridges,
but far happier than blaspheming the Babe’s sacred record.
And when his time came that second time, he went straight
to Hobo Heaven: pies cooling on window sills,
barns filled with soft hay, and whiskey flowing in streams.









 
Leo Durocher
 
Baseball Manager Extraordinaire
 
In His Next Life


By Robert Cooperman


“Leo the Lip”—the baseball manager
who could spit a stream of invective
so sharp, the poor umpire would wipe
his face for a good half hour--
came back as a librarian, shushing
gossiping mothers, looming over kids
who had no idea that “Library” meant
“Silence, people are trying to read,”
and with just a glare, separating giggling
teens in the stacks, where they hid
in their hormone-raging youth.
He could make his whispered,
“Quiet!” carry farther than a homer
hit to dead centerfield at the cavernous
Polo Grounds. And God help anyone
who brought back books late;
he treated them as if they’d robbed
little old ladies of their pensions.
Worse, to return a book a dog had left
fang-marks and slobber all over
the now unreadable pages,
Leo the Librarian pronouncing
like a hanging judge,
“That will cost you exactly….Plus,
your borrowing privileges are suspended
until the debt is paid in full. Next!”
And the next suppliant would slink up
to the counter, and with wringing hands,
plead his or her worthless case.




​

​Thinking of Food


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Going through my Pan Am memorabilia, I came across several menus from our Lunch and Dinner Services in First Class. It was then that I realized how blasé I had become through the years. From nearly starving through the War years and being thrilled with dandelion salad and greasy, grimy leftovers from Russian Soldiers canteen food (when a slice of toasted cornbread with fatty bacon was a delicacy exclusively for holidays), I have risen to become part of the top of culinary consumers.
Orange blossoms (Champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice) for breakfast or a Bloody Mary (vodka and tomato juice spiced with horseradish and decorated with a slice of fresh lemon) after a night of walking up and down the aisles of a transatlantic jet serving passengers was commonplace
​when arriving at a crew hotel for a 24-hour layover.
Lunch was often taken at airport restaurants anywhere from New York to Zurich to Rome, Beirut, Tehran, Karachi, Hong Kong, Dakar, Johannesburg to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania (where the blue Tanzanite gem comes from).
The tanzanite has become quite a gemstone of choice demanding a high price now. I could have picked it up real cheap, but I did not do so. Another opportunity missed.
Memories of bratwurst in Germany, curry dishes in New Delhi, and Calderada, a soup made with at least six different kinds of fish, in Portugal still today make my taste buds tingle. While we were indulging on those local tidbits, the aircraft was provisioned by the station’s commissary with superb specialties of the respective country and the ever-standard juicy prime rib of beef which we cooked and served rare, medium or well done to those passengers unwilling to indulge in unfamiliar fare.
A Dinner menu consisted of cocktails, hors d'oeuvres, fish, a main entrée of choice, cheeses from all over the world and dessert of irresistible quality, like cherries jubilee or vanilla ice cream with a thick chocolate sauce. All this was followed by cordials.
French wine, Brut Champagne and beer were available without limitations – in First Class that is! I became an expert in popping Champagne corks and am still being admired for my dexterity in it.
Here are a few dishes I will never forget. Russian caviar, served with chopped egg and lemon slices, accompanied by Stolichnaya Vodka, Lobster Thermidor. Quail with grapes. Cornish Hen. Veal chops with Calvados sauce. Pâté foie gras and truffles. Not to forget the cherries jubilee: Sour cherries slightly heated, and served over heart-melting vanilla ice cream. Well, I am getting carried away and hungry. A good espresso for digestion to end the feast in style. I am looking at an inflight menu; it signed by Ted Kennedy who happened to be a passenger that day.
On international layovers of several days in the 1960s and 1970s, I made it a habit to sample the native delicacies: Kippers for breakfast in Scotland, avocado and eel in Mexico, chorizo and eggs in Portugal, venison with lingonberries in Sweden, sushi in Japan. Different roasts from the
carving board in England, Kobe beef in Guam, turtle soup, goulash and a multitude more. Today I would settle for oysters and eggs benedict. I guess you can understand that my taste has been spoiled, confused and become quite unconventional during the years.
I am thinking about world-renowned chefs! My husband could have joined their ranks. He loved to cook. He had worked as a butler for several mega-rich families where the old ladies loved him as he was very handsome. Only the best chefs worked for those families and my husband had plenty of opportunity to mingle and taste the pheasant under glass, the beef wellington and more. From there Pan Am got hold of him and they sent him to become acquainted with the services of superb dining at Maxim’s in Paris. He was not to learn to cook, but to excel in the elegant ways of serving food. All thru my marriage I profited from those experiences.

Creative Spirtituality Reflection

By Dustyn Taylor



How do you define “spirituality”?

I define spirituality as one’s ability to be in touch with their inner emotions as well as being in touch with outside forces that we cannot see. These forces can be simply as simple as love or as complex as an entity that created us all. I would consider people who do yoga to be spiritual. What they are essentially doing is releasing all of their problems and worries and synergizing their body and mind with the universe.  Spirituality is the ability to connect with something other then what is visible or audible to us. To be spiritual one would have to believe in more than just himself.

Does spirituality differ from religion?

Spirituality differs from religion, even though the both can exist within each other. The main difference between the two is that a person can be spiritual and not religious, but in order to truly be religious you would have to be spiritual. Religion is mad made. It is a group of people who all believe in similar spiritual entities and rules laid out by those entities. It is essentially an umbrella for a group of spiritual people. While a hippie for example could be consider spiritual because the value the earth and environment, plants and animals. Many believe they are in touch with mother earth and that is why they are so “free”.

How do you define “creativity”?

I define creativity as being innovative and unique and analyzing all approaches and developing your own. You have to be willing to try new things and create new things while accepting that you may make many mistakes. In order to be creative you must be willing to go against all common perceptions and beliefs and dismantle social constructs. Michelangelo’s sculpture David, is a prime example of this. The funniest thing is that he is considered creative because he created an image of a man stripped of all societies bonds. He was naked, no clothing, no stipulations and no restraints.

What is the source of creativity?

As cliché as it sounds, creativity comes from the heart. It comes out when you dig deep and let your mind and heart go to work. Some of the most compelling writings, songs and pictures are created out of raw emotion. All of these pieces of art you can tell the artist put all they had into and exposed their inner emotions. This is where creativity comes from. It is on the inside and we find unique and different ways to display it.


~ by Dustyn Taylor, August 10, 2014

​

The Bucket List


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



The bucket list is an expression I had never heard. Does that mean I am left with an empty bucket? Not for long. Let me throw some stuff into it.
Here we go. Let’s fill the bottom with some heavy artillery. Four books. Actually two issues per topic: 2 hardcovers and 2 paperbacks. Author of both these books -- ME. They are about 400 pages each. One is entitled “Emotions in Motion” about my life as a Stewardess. The other book is entitled “Reasons Why it is Foolish to Pick on Older People.”
The middle of the bucket is filled with newspaper clippings. There are pages of The New York Times covering both books on the bestseller list for weeks in a row. At one time both of the books are mentioned honorably on the same page. “Emotions in Motion” was quite easy to complete. I had a diary over the years, yes nearly a lifetime, and thus had all the material I needed at my fingertips.
The second book had been quite a challenge. Ever since I had turned 70, it annoyed me that I would come across more and more NO-NOs due to my age. None of us get younger. Even if I had thrown the idea of getting younger into the bucket, I know it would not have done much good. Younger at heart, maybe, but that is just idle wordplay.
The second book had required some research, many interviews and countless hours of brain- and soul-searching.


People say: You look good for your age.
I think: Nice complement but why for your age? You look good would have pleased me more.
People say: Sex at your age?!
I think: Careful now, wine too mellows with age and gets better.


People say: You want to buy yourself a bicycle? You mean a stationary one?
I think: Now, now. I can run circles around you.


People say: Your husband looks much older than you.
I think: Sure, he is ten years older and he fought for this country but he is young in his ways.


Unfair profiling keeps taking place.
Why do companies ignore applicants over 56 despite their exceeding qualifications over younger applicants?
Why is long hair a privilege for young ladies?
Why are jeans silly when worn by an old lady with a perfect size 8 figure with a 30-inch waist line?
Why is dressing modern is labeled not suitable for old age?
Why are old people expected to be feeble, on the verge of dementia or Alzheimer’s even if they have clearer thinking than some of the younger people on drugs or alcohol?
Is it the old people who form gangs? Who molests kids? Who rob banks? What happened to equality? To same rights for all?
Age should not automatically be used for exclusion of any kind. Each person should be judged on an individual basis. It appears that we are all brainwashed and automatically view each other as marionettes categorized by age.
See, I proved it can be done. I started at old age with an empty bucket. I threw in some challenges which I felt would be worthwhile to be accomplished before I die and I did it!
Or is it old age that gives me the illusion that I did?!

Will there be a David-Bowie-Street in Berlin?
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
            They flock in droves to Hauptstrasse 155 in Berlin-Schöneberg, laying flowers on the pavement in front of the megastar’s former flat. They listen to his music in order to calm down their sorrow. The legend, who sold 140 million records world wide, died on Sunday night, January 10th, 2016, of liver cancer, two days after his birthday. Since then, his Berlin-fans have launched a movement to inspire the city to name a street after the star.
            Politician Daniel Krüger doesn’t exclude the possibility that this could become a reality, “but first in five years, according to state law”.
            It would make perfect sense. Berlin meant a great deal to David Bowie. He spent many formative years here that shaped his musical career, recording the famous Berlin Trilogy at the Hansa Studios, changing Rock history forever and still keeping a safe distance to his own fame.  On his 57th birthday, his friend Ricky Gervais joked: “Isn’t it time you got a real job?” Bowie mused: “I have one. Rock God!”
            This wit was Bowie incarnate. He was the intellectual art collector with a brilliant mind and still the tongue-in-cheek-rebel with a brave heart. The director of Bowie’s Broadway-Musical “Lazarus”, Ivo Van Howe, told reporters Bowie broke down during rehearsals back-stage last year, but still spoke of writing another musical, soon enough.
            A David-Bowie-Street in Berlin would most certainly make many fans happy, perhaps even give young rockers enough guts to try to make it as musicians. 

Charles E.J. Moulton (2008) as the rich blonde
in the Gelsenkirchen production of "Die Fledermaus" by Johann Strauss
Photo: Marion Lauer




Rich

By Karen King



Are you rich? Are you worthy? Do you count in this materialistic society?

Sorry, but if you are a woman and you don’t care for the latest designer dresses, handbags

and shoes, you don’t count! If you don’t have the latest hairstyle, you don’t count! If you

don’t go the most exotic places, you don’t count! If you don’t have the latest designer

kitchen and equipment, you don’t count! If you don’t have the latest décor in your house,

you don’t count!

Sorry, but if you are a man and don’t care for the latest designer jeans, you don’t count! If

you don’t travel to the most exotic places, you don’t count! If you don’t have the trendy car,

you don’t count!

Sorry, but I don’t care for the latest designer dresses, handbags, shoes, hairstyle, exotic

holidays or the latest equipment and décor in my house! Does that mean I am less? No, I

don’t think so. If anything, I am more, because I don’t feel a need for these things to pro

myself up. I don’t care what others think, I don’t wish to compete, for I have no need for it. I

am complete in myself. Surely, health, peace, happiness, a loving family and partner and

enough money to pay the bills and occasionally treat yourself is all we need?

Look around, often the richest people in the world are very unhappy, because they keep

spending money buying things, trying to fill that hole in their hearts that cannot be filled.

They buy more and more, desperate and needy as they feel emptier and emptier.

How come, often the poorest people in the world are the happiest? I would suggest that it is

because they are living in the present and savouring every moment. They have a hard time

finding food, they often have no electricity, no lighting and few clothes, yet they are happy!

This defies our comprehension. I feel it is because they are spending time with their families,

they are outside enjoying nature and they are not draining themselves with electronic devices

or trying to keep up with everyone else, rushing around in a pointless, exhausting manner,

making themselves ill.

I would certainly not want to go back to primitive times, but I can see that they have

something special that many of us have lost in modern society. I feel that they could teach us

a better way of being and, perhaps, it is not them that are backward at all, it is us in Western

societies that are backward? After all, what is the point in having the latest electronic

equipment if we no longer talk to each other?






Karen King Copyright February 2016

Herbert Eyre Moulton back in 1953, the Elvis year, looking like Elvis, during the time he was stationed at Camp Gordon in Georgia. 
​Herbert was the musical director of the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir back then. 
Here surrounded by a bunch of lovely ladies, thirteen years before he met my mother, 
sixteen years before my birth.



High Old Times in the Threadbare ‘30s
​
 
By the late and great Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 – 2005)
 
http://about.me/hmoulton
 
 
            Considering the perilous state of everyone’s finances during the 1930’s --- at least everyone we knew --- and recalling our own feast-and-famine cycles, the wonder is that we managed to take in as much grand entertainment as we did. But then, I was an only child (born July 1927) and no problem to be taken any where my parents went. Obviously I was also smart enough to grow as fast as I could so that these excursions of ours could grow ever more festive. Before anybody realized it, they consisted of at least one carefully chosen opera each season, plus operettas, musicals, stage plays, and, two summers running (’33 and ’34), the marvels of the Chicago World’s Fair, A Century of Progress.
            We were determined to miss as little as possible. Damn the Depression, anyway! Naturally, there were the usual sour comments from the local Babbitts: Who did we think we were, anyway? Going to plays and operas, with so many people on relief?
“Oh, don’t mind those old horses’ neckties!” my mother Nell advised. “They’re only jealous. Such Slobs ICH KABIBEL!” (She’d once had a Yiddisch speaking suitor.) “Now, let’s see what’s playing next week, what we can afford, that.”
Something affordable would always turn up --- there was so much to choose from. And if the tickets cost too much, there was always some way to blarney our way past the Manager. “Honey-Boy, remember, I’m not Irish for nothing!” On such occasions, my Dad, Big Herb, would either look the other way or simply pretend he wasn’t with us.
Those were the days of Vaudevill, so we were able to bask in the glow of dying embers. One of my first Show-Biz memories was of Sophie Tucker, all in white, being driven onstage in a white-and-gold open limousine, attended by flunkies in matching livery. They escorted her down to the footlights. “Some of these days/ You’re gonna miss me, Honey”.
I was absolutely transfixed.
There were, as well, lots of live radio broadcasts originating in Chicago, like W-G-N’s popular Soap “Bachelor’s Children” --- we wrote in and got free tickets several times. Got the cast’s autographs, too, and a write-up in our local newspaper, The Glen Ellyn News. So much for the Babbitts.
There were also hour-long radio dramas like the version of “A Farewell to Arms” with no one less than Helen Hayes as Catherine, script in hand, loving, emoting, and finally dying beautifully, all into the microphone. Just think: The First Lady of the American Theater, not ten yards away from us and all the better because it hadn’t cost us a red cent!
The same went for the nightly free summer concerts in Grant Park. We took in them all, or some of them, anyway. And Nell got more articles printed in the paper. Living Well is the Best Revenge!
On athletics and sporting events we didn’t waste much time --- wrongly perhaps, and I the figure to prove it. (Sorry, Jocks!) I did like to go swimming, with my pals at the Wheaton pool in the next town, riding our bikes and devouring candy bars the whole way. There was also skating on Lake Ellyn, the best part of which was the hot cocoa with marshmallows in it at the boat house. That, and chatting up the junior high school girls. And the Hell with the Hans Brinkers outside falling on their bottoms!
We did make an annual pilgrimage to Wrigley Field each summer, mostly to humor Big Herb, an inveterate Cubs fan. They very seldom won a game, but my Dad was convinced they would, and the Pennant, too, if only we’d keep thinking Positive Thoughts. So we did ... meanwhile, the Hot Dogs there - they were just about the best in town.
Well, in 1938, Big Herb’s beloved Cubs finally won their Pennant, and, bless him, he hurried home as fast as he could just to tell us the News in person. It wasn’t just “Gabby” Hartnett’s last minute Grand Slam Homer that had turned the tide --- our own good wishes and positive thoughts had also played their part. Right, perhaps they had ... Nothing like keeping everyone on the Home Front happy and content.
Like most families, we had our share of seasonal traditions and these we kept religiously. Christmas vacation always meant one thing in certainty: a trip to the Chicago Stadium for Sonja Henie’s spectacular Ice Revue --- breathtaking costumes and orchestrations, Olympic skaters, and hair-raising comics-on-ice like Frick and Frack, and, the peak of the program and always dazzlingly beautiful: Sonja Henie herself, solo, a cherubic blond dream in a short glitzy skirt and spinning and wafting her way through Liszt’s “Liebestraum” --- Man alive! Now that was magic! That, ladies and gents, was a star to conjure with!
The Stadium of W. Madison St. was likewise the setting for another family tradition, this one in summertime: Ringling Bros., Barnum and Bailey’s Circus! Three rings continuously alive with clowns and their exploding flivvers, acrobats and tumblers, magicians and live animal acts, and a bevy of pretty ballet girls, fluttering vast butterfly wings a hundred feet up, hanging from the ceiling by their teeth! (Ow!) And at the Grand Finale, having to stop your ears when somebody got shot out of a mammoth cannon. (I never quite grasped the charm of this.)
Yet another amicable tradition: celebrating my parents’ Wedding Anniversary every February 27th, getting launched with a three-way “Kram” (Swedish for “embrace” – we called it simply a Hug-and-a-Boo.) Then a slap-up-dinner at a fine downtown restaurant --- Henrici’s or, better, still, the Berghoff, where the Wiener Schnitzel and Tafelspitz, AND the home-made Lemon Meringe Pie are to die for. This would be followed by a stage show, whatever happened to be playing that appealed to us all. One year, it was “The Hot Mikado”, another: “Porgy and Bess”, and the last such occasion in the ‘30’s (“Good riddance!” was Nell’s send-off-comment): the wonderful comedy “Life with Father” with Percy Warum as fulminating Father Day, and Lillian Gish (Yes!) as the gentle, slightly pixilated mother, heading a company said to be far superior to the popular Broadway original.
Another season brought Noel Coward’s witty Spook-Comedy “Blithe Spirit”, featuring the deliciously dotty Estelle Winwood of the lace-curtained hair-do, wide-set eyes, and pixie movements, along with Dennis King, old-time operetta idol, and the chic but incomprehensible Annabella. We hoped her husband Tyrone Power could understand her better than we did.
A farce my parents loved was “Leaning on Letty”, with the loose-limbed Charlotte Greenwood, whose post-performance display of rubber-legged acrobatics brought down the house. An incredible display, much loved.
Then there was the dark andd melancholy Sylvia Sidney in a stage version of  Nell’s beloved namesake “Jane Eyre” (her father had been born an Eyre of Eyrecourt in County Galway, where Charlotte Bronte, the author, once settled, taking that family’s name for her own heroine). One reason for Miss Sidney’s melancholy might have been having the show stolen from under her by that delicious character actress Cora Witherspoon in the cameo role of Mr. Rochester’s complaining cook.
Another star turn, and one deemed by some of Nell’s bitchier lady friends as quite unsuitable for young Herbert’s innocent ears, was Clifton Webb’s waspish “The Man Who Came to Dinner” --- not for school-boys, and, consequently, relished all the more by this one. We also revelled in “Pins and Needles”, a political revue put on by members of the international Garment Workers Union in New York --- their spoof of an old-fashioned mellerdrammer was achingly funny and remains so in memory today.
“Achingly funny” wouldn’t half describe Olsen and Johnson’s zany “Helzapoppin’”, which gave a new meaning to madness, but it sure took a lot of tolerance to reconcile this kind of thing with the dignified Auditorium. What counted was the great old theater was being used as such. It surely was for the next production, which came at the very close “Dirty ‘30’s” --- “Romeo and Juliet” starring the most glamorous and famous pair of lovers of the time, Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. We all thought it was the most sumptuous and thrilling Romeo possible, but it’s now reckoned the biggest flop of the Oliviers’ otherwise distinguished career. It played in the theater I shall always love more than any other --- Louis Sullivan’s masterpiece, and I write about it with a reverance reserved for very holy places.
I was and indeed still am deeply devoted to this historic old theater which dates from 1889 and which played such a seminal role in my life. And when it was threatened with demolition in the early ‘40’s, my personal sorrow was so profound that I wrote critic Claudia Cassidy a lament for its apparently inexorable fate. She published it almost in full in her Sunday column in the Chicago Sun --- Fame! And at the tendenage of 15, too. But thank God and a lot of marvellous people, the Auditorium managed to survive after all and is now enjoying a new lease on life as part of Roosevelt University --- restored to its pristine splendor as a protected Historical Monument.
It was there that I had my first real theatrical experience, a musical extravaganza in every sense of the word, “The Great Waltz”, music by Johann Strauss the Younger, book by Moss Hart, and featuring the soprano Marion Claire. It was she, as wife of the Music Director of W-G-N, who, in Spring 1953, auditioned and hired me for my first nationwide broadcast, commenting to the others in the control room: “We must find something that shows off his beautiful diction.”
As for “The Great Waltz” itself, very little I have seen since --- this was 1936, remember --- has ever approached it for sheer theatrical magic, now, during the introduction to the Grand Finale, the bandstand with orchestra, moved swiftly and silently upstage as far as it would go, crystal chandaliers descended from above and pillars slid out from the wings on both sides. Thus, in a matter of seconds, what was  just another set downstage for a bit of dialogue, was transformed into the grandest of ballrooms, crowded with handsomely dressed couples waltzing to the beautiful Blue Danube. This was Glamour. This was Theater. This was an Epiphany, and I never quite got over it. 
Let’s get down now to the operas my parents took me to in the 1930’s, after a quick glance back to the dark days of October 1929, when, by supreme stroke of irony, the stockmarket crash that triggered the Great Depression, neatly coincided with the opening of Samuel Insull’s brand new, twenty-million dollar, Art-Deco Civic Opera House. This soon came to be known as Insull’s Folly, and for it, his Civic Opera Company had abandoned the historic and still viable Auditorium, home of Chicago opera for four decades. Luckily, Chicago opera is now flourishing again.
In the ‘30’s, the only opera being performed at the Auditorium (probably the best acoustics in Christendom) was that of Fortune Gallo’s San Carlo Company, an excellent troupe of first-class artists from home and abroad, performing standard repertory at “popular” prices a few weeks at a time before moving on to the next city. My first opera was their “Faust”, with a nice chubby Marguerite named Belle Verte, and, as Mephisto, the company’s resident bass, Harold Kravitt (these names have been flashed solely from memory). There was even a “white” ballet between the acts. It was all totally new to me and it left me hooked for life.
My second night at the Opera, again the San Carlo, was Bizet’s “Carmen”, starring the Russian mezzo Ina Bourskaya. The trouble was that particular Saturday night an American Legion convention was in town, and Big Herb, a faithful, if not fanatical Legionaire, was all set to spend the evening with some of his buddies at Mme. Galli’s Italian Restaurant on the Near North Side --- a rollicking occasion reminiscent of Laurel and Hardy’s classic “Sons of the Desert” convention, which also took place in Chicago. All well and good, but what about my Carmen? I’d been looking forward to it for weeks. As curtain time approached, with the merriment showing no signs of abating, I began to twitch, and then to panic. Was I the only one who remembered our date at the opera? Nothing for it, but to burst into tears and create such a scene that the festivities ended then and there. We got to the theater just in time to miss Carmen’s Entrance and Habanera, but the important thing was we got there, period. And a terrific experience it turned out to be.
Besides my tearful brouhaha at Mme. Galli’s, what I remember most about that performance was Act IV and the hardy little band of 5 or 6 supers, got up as matadors and marching round and round in the pre-bullfight parade --- in one side and out the other, then a dash backstage and in again, at least four times, each appearance getting a bigger laugh and louder hand than before.
Then, for the final scene --- Brouskaya resplendent in gold lace, tier after tier down to the ground, with a matching mantilla held in place by a jeweled comb and blood-red rose. What impressed me most was the moment just prior to her death --- she made a frantic Sign of the Cross, then turned and rushed upstage to meet her lover’s naked knifeblade --- this desperate, dramatic Sign of the Cross, then hurtling hurtling to her doom. Boy! That was Destiny with a capital D!!!

Get Away From Home    

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


I wrote this years back. Maybe it was 1972.
​At that time, rules at airlines were still more relaxed.
Terrorism had not yet gotten the upper hand.
To take a pleasure trip is fun, or is it?  I was not in high spirits when, after an eight-hour ocean crossing, the 707 jetliner brought me into Holland.  No matter how much some people rave about flying, I am tense when locked in the tube, when my life is at the mercy of a man I do not even know. I am referring to the pilot in the cockpit whose name one hardly ever gets to hear or it is mumbled by a flight attendant who cannot pronounce it properly.  The weather was dull. The clouds, irritated by the winds, knocked against the fuselage.  It sounded like a car engine knocking.  From where I was sitting, which was pretty much in the middle of the plane, I could see the wings bend. How much can they bend? 
Customs did not bother to check my or anybody else’s luggage. The officer nodded us quickly through and hurried back into his office to escape the draft that was everywhere. I had a reservation at the Rotterdam Hilton Hotel. Imagine spending the first two days of my trip in a first class hotel before continuing to Amsterdam. The best way to get to the city from the airport was by taxi, I had been told.  I was not prepared for the 60-minute ride that followed. I had been under the impression that taxi drivers in the Far East, in Mexico or Tehran, ranked first in their eagerness to make good time. The ride into Rotterdam taught me differently. Speeding on a narrow highway, my driver accelerated whenever another car came into sight and stopped short just a few inches behind that vehicle. It worked.  The chased car moved over to the right lane and we passed in pursuit of the next one. My driver did speak some English but too busy with his maneuvers he would answer me with monosyllable words. I decided it was safer anyhow not to interrupt his compulsive driving, so I remained quiet.
We finally arrived at the hotel, an imposing building in the center of town.  I checked in, picked up the key from the concierge and took the elevator to my suite, looking forward to a nice hot shower and a hot chocolate. A cool breeze greeted me in the nicely furnished room and I asked the baggage boy, who did speak English, to turn up the heat.  My tip of 2 guilder was obviously too meager as his “thank you” was hardly audible and the door was closed with a bang behind him when he left.
A little forlorn I sat down on the couch and with my legs pulled up for warmth; I looked thru some folders and pamphlets introducing the magnificent services of the Hilton Hotel and the excitement of Rotterdam. I ordered my hot chocolate, two fried eggs and bacon. It came amazingly fast: 2 boiled eggs, bacon and tea in a fancy blue and white teapot. I was tired, hungry and thirsty. The tea would have to do. It was still cold in the room. I called down to the porter and asked for help. It took another 20 minutes before somebody came and made it work. The fan was blowing now. Instead of warm air, it was laboriously throwing more of the cold air. Too cold to take a shower, I settled to get some sleep first. At least the quilts looked like they would provide nice warmth.
Not to miss the advertised exciting night life of Rotterdam, I left a wake-up call with the operator for 6 p.m. Since I like to dose off with music, I turned on the radio. Four different channels, no music, mostly news in Dutch and even those stations went off the air intermittently. The wake-up call came at 6 and I felt like just closing my eyes again and continue sleeping. But the room felt cozy now, so I got up took a hot shower and got dressed to go out. Under my window a group of young people was singing and having a good time. From conversation in the lobby, I found out that it was inauguration day for the new subway. 
The main drag was also filled with people. It looked like a miniature of Coney Island. Spinning wheels, bazaars, hot -dog vendors, entertainment all over. I elbowed my way to one of the shooting galleries. For a guilder, you could shoot and win some trinkets. If you hit a lucky number the man behind the counter would give you the prize. I had
already played away 6 guilder when a little boy on the left pulled on my sleeve to stop my attempt to start a new game. Although it was in Dutch I did understand what he meant. I had already won several times without knowing but failed to get the attention of the gallery owner. Oh well, the game had lost my interest. 
I continued to walk along the arcade toward the spot where my map promised me a good restaurant. I found it quickly, but with the festivities in full swing it was crowded and people stood in line waiting to be seated. I tried another one a few blocks away: Same story. The natives were all over. 
So I went back to the Hilton and into the coffee shop. Even there I was lucky to find a table as other tourists in the same predicament had come back also. The table was so small that the waiter had to remove the little dauphin vase to find room to place the menu. I ordered and got a beer right away. It sure tasted good and cheered me up, so I did not mind to have to wait for food for quite a while. 
At the table next to me sat a Dutch couple with two children. The little girl, blond with pigtails, had taken to run round and round the table with never-tiring joy, making circles wider and wider till my legs felt a breeze whenever she passed in her pink dress. The happy playing of their daughter extracted laughs from the parents and delighted squeaks from the baby brother.  Suddenly my dinner plate landed on my table with a crash, the sauce spilling onto the tablecloth and some green beans dangling tiredly over the rim of the plate. The waiter had collided with the little girl. The mother got down on her knees and tried to pick up some glass that had broken: It was my second beer. The little girl unperturbed continued to make her rounds.
Shortly thereafter, having finished my dinner, I decided to go back upstairs.  The cigarette smoke in the coffee shop had begun to bother me, and it had gotten quite noisy in the little place. I passed some time writing postcards to friends, elaborate little masterpieces that stated what a great time I was having and how marvelous everything was. I wondered if it is those postcards which all of us are getting from time to time, written by vacationing friends, which awaken in us the desire to travel.  Maybe our expectations would not be quite as high if people wrote the truth.
I still wrote more postcards during the following days, from Amsterdam, Vienna, Berlin and Brussels. While I was writing these cards, I was thinking of my cozy house on the south shore of Long Island. I was ready to return possibly faster than I had planned. 
 Most of the time when I wrote “It is great” it nearly was ; but I will never forget this first day of my vacation and whenever the house and home  seem boring, I open the door to my memory. A train ride to New York City, a boat ride on the Great South Bay or a leisurely walk in the arboretum will quickly satisfy my wanderlust.
 

Slaves to Society


By Karen King




Many of us are slaves in society. We work for a pittance, trying to make ends meet. I have

heard that 5% of the world owns 95% of the wealth. So, while the rest of us are struggling to

pay our bills, others earn silly amounts of money. I ask, are they so much more intelligent,

worthy or more talented than, say, the writing fraternity?

It seems it’s easy to publish if you are already famous, but if you are not, then you are

pleased if people bother to read your poetry or buy your books. Often you have to self-

publish or publish through a publisher for vast amounts of money. Is this fair when you have

so much talent to give society? Many of us struggle to do what we enjoy or, more likely, we

have a day job to enable us to afford to write our poetry. Still, poetry is something we have

to do and we try and benefit society with our words.

Just think, next time you see someone with the latest design gear, ask yourself if this is what

life is all about and if you truly think they are happy for, surely, happiness comes from inside

through the expression of our soul and not from outside, material goods? They feel that

happiness can be bought and do not understand that it just comes about through following

your soul’s path. I, personally, feel that many people have sold their souls to “fit in” and

“keep up” with other people, like it is some sort of competition. They do not wish to follow

their souls and find inner peace and happiness. In a way, perhaps they are also slaves to

society?






Karen King Copyright February 2016

Broadway
​
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

All turns at one point or another into the past. Not so! Not the pulse of a city. It is there before us and after us. While around we add to its vibrancy. Particles of each of us mix with the ongoing river of renewal!
In 1963, I settled in Massapequa on the South Shore of Long Island.  It is a peaceful suburb of New York City. Living in one of the suburbs near the Great South Bay offers an immense advantage. Within minutes you can bathe in the rays of the setting sun painting the sky from a soft orange to a fiery red. You can find a quiet place in the sandy dunes along the beaches where the ocean roar turns into a soothing melody. You can meditate while sailing along the plentiful canals that cut through the island. You can enjoy looking at wintry bare trees bending their twigs in the wind; they nod like old men with white beards who have no command over their tilting heads. 
During the summer I listen to the chirping of the birds in my garden.  I am happy to know that with only a 59-minute train ride, the Long Island Rail Road  could take me to the glittering, buzzing, color-flashing excitement of Broadway, the heart of the city, the center of Manhattan. Theaters, cinemas, high-class restaurants all are within my reach.  The Metropolitan and Smithsonian Museums, concerts and the New York Library offer to quiet any hunger for knowledge and culture.  
What I sensed for the City then has changed little during a lifetime of ups and downs.  Out on the Island it has become harder but not impossible to find a truly tranquil spot.  The City keeps coming closer and closer. The number of people wanting to live in the outskirts must have tripled. The houses have grown and the properties have shrunk.  Storms have caused severe damage on the Island and terrorism has wounded the City.  However, the freedom to choose whether to spend one’s days peacefully and calmly at the shores of Long Island or joining into the bustle of Midtown Manhattan remains a given.
Year after year the big ball will drop down in Times Square ringing in another year to come.  I often wonder about how Broadway must have looked many years ago in its first attempts to spread entertainment.  It surely has come a long way since Fred Astaire walked its cobblestones as a young boy.  Since Marika played music by Charles Kalman at the Winter Garden.  Charles Kalman is the son of the famous Operetta King Emmerich Kalman. Charles was an Austrian film and stage composer in his own rights, who passed away in 2015.   
Skating at Rockefeller Center was and still is a highlight and an absolute delight, followed by a hot toddy or hot chocolate on the premises.  The Old Opera House, built in 1883, was gutted in 1892 by fire, and Lincoln Center is now the home of the Metropolitan Opera.   
Broadway evokes in me the same feeling as does Hollywood. It is a center of show business. A multitude of stories could be written about the many hopefuls who tried and wished for stardom.  Some became starlets but few made it to the top. The ones who succeeded added to the mystery of glamour and riches. What I like most about New York is the choice of where to go and what to experience. Even if you yourself are not the one to have made a career on Broadway, you will always be able to participate in the tingling exhilaration by getting a ticket to a box seat. There’s a calming continuity in ongoing customs. 
While I was re-reading this essay I saw that a friend of mine was just expressing the same sentiment. She writes “This weekend I visited some of NYC’s great neighborhoods. Carroll Gardens, the meat packing district, East Village and Little Italy. Saw old friends, bonded with some recent friends and made a few new friends. Saw some kick ass music, ate some great food and now I’m off to Jones Beach. All this within 30 miles of my home.  I sometimes forget how much I love NY!”
I have chosen my residence in Massapequa, where I still live, as starting point for my thoughts and went westward but would like to add that an equally short train ride in the opposite direction, out East, opens additional enchanting points of interest, like Fire Island and the Hamptons.
No, I do not mean to ignore the North Shore with its charms. Estates are bigger; the landscape is intriguing with woods and hills. 
There is no end in possibilities to explore and “boredom” is not a word in my vocabulary. No money for vacation? There’s lots to see here!

Alienated

By Thomas N. Hackney

There’s an awful lot going on in the universe that people are blissfully unaware of, and it’s probably just as well. If people knew who we share our own galaxy with, for example, a lot of them would probably rip their own heads off rather than see or acknowledge them. There are beings drifting on currents unknown to mortal men, accomplishing things the enculturated mind just isn’t equipped to deal with. Like when twenty-one comets – not fourteen or nine -- smashed into Jupiter over six days in July 1994. Comets have long been thought to augur near future events, usually fairly catastrophic events, like the death of an emperor or of a civilization, a great flood or plague. Montezuma, the emperor of the Aztecs, feared for his empire when he saw a comet around five hundred years ago. It turned out that he was right to be afraid because it wasn’t long before his empire was in ruins at the hands of the Spanish Conquistadores. Of course, such beliefs are considered quaint today. On the other hand, twenty-one comets -- one for each Anno Domini century, by George! -- certainly did portend and mark the approaching 21st century. What a stunning coincidence, though! Was this simply the way the comet-cookie crumbled or was it the amazing
handiwork of advanced beings making semiotic comment, as it were, on our last twenty centuries of history? In this author’s opinion the answer to this is both clear and overwhelming, clear because of the abundance of evidence supporting the idea, overwhelming because the importance of this revelation is off the chart. Apart from its obvious allusion to the twenty-first century, the great comet crash of 1994 was the first time anyone had ever seen a cosmic object crash into another such object in space. Designated “A” through “W” (letters “I” and “O” were not used), the fragments of Shoemaker- Levy 9 (aka “the string of pearls”) ranged in size from one or two hundred meters to approximately two kilometers in diameter. The impacts were the most energetic events of any kind ever seen by Man in his solar system, period. The combined explosions were described as being roughly equivalent to fifty million atom bombs. Astronomers assumed that the comets were fragments of a former single parent comet, one that had broken apart due to gravitational forces exerted on it by a previous close pass of Jupiter. This may well be what happened. The only problem is that there is no hard evidence to support the assertion, because the alleged parent comet was never previously seen near Jupiter, nor anywhere else. So if it did happen, then the question becomes how do you miss a thing like this? Scientists generally pride themselves on not jumping to conclusions without firm evidence to support those conclusions. Not this time.
Another famous meteor impact that defied the odds in a curiously articulate fashion was the Peekskill meteor event of October 9, 1992. It occurred shortly before the Ames Research Center (NASA) commenced a massive “Targeted Search” for extraterrestrial intelligence on
October 12, 1992. The High Resolution Microwave Survey, the official name of the project, was the first congressionally funded and major search for intelligent extraterrestrial life. According to the project’s chief radio-astronomer, Dr. Jill Tarter, more radio-waves in space were analyzed by HRMS in the first few minutes of operation than had been analyzed in all the previous fifty SETI projects since 1961 combined. A writer for the New York Times called it “the first comprehensive high technology search for evidence of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe.” For once in the SETI paradigm’s 30-year history, money wasn’t a problem. According to numerous videos and photographs, a string of seventy meteor fragments scored the skies of the American north-east at a little before 8 p.m. on the 9th, or three days before the launch of HRMS. One football-sized fragment impacted the right rear signal-light of a parked Chevrolet, pulverizing its attenuated right tail-light, and nothing else. This was almost, but not quite, impossible because the tail-light of a 1980 Chevy Malibu measures about 5-by- 22-inches, whereas the recovered meteorite measured 4-by-5-by-11-inches. Incredibly, neither the bumper immediately beneath the signal-light nor the thin chrome accent forming its upper border was significantly damaged by the impact. This meant the meteorite had to navigate between these chrome borders rather precisely. Ironically, the very words that tumble from the lips to describe this paradox are peek and skill. This could be just a coincidence, of course, but how exactly does this happen in a random and unplanned universe? SETI scientists will tell you that this was simply a coincidence, but I am not convinced. One reason for my skepticism is that HRMS was commenced on no less a date than the 500th anniversary of Columbus’s discovery of the (last) new world, America -- Oct. 12, 1992.
Did it not occur to anyone at NASA-Ames that their Columbian symbolism might have been seen as a bit rich by those being searched for? After all, Columbus’s discovery and the old world’s subsequent colonization of America was a catastrophe for the indigenous peoples of that world? How were any neighboring extraterrestrials supposed to let a faux pas like this slide without inserting a word or thought or two in edgewise? Surely, there was a way for advanced extraterrestrials to accomplish this without giving away too much, like their star system of origin, their phenotype, or even their culpability in these events. The Peekskill meteor event was infused with dozens of articulating coincidences, and there is simply no way this was natural or random. I‘ve written two books -- one published in 2012, the other is as yet unpublished -- enumerating and discussing them. There is no space to mention them all here but here are four or five that stand out. 1. The annual Draconid meteor shower just happened to be at its apex on October 9 when the Peekskill meteor went down. Coincidence? Sure, but that’s only the half of it. The newspapers and TV reporters all reported that the fireball was a Draconid. The strange thing of it was that the Peekskill fireball was not a Draconid. Although no one in the press caught on to this, the fact is that Draconids travel from North to South, not South to North like the Peekskill meteor did. What were the odds that the most prominent and probably the largest shooting star that night was a sporadic and not a Draconid? Sporadics are not associated with meteor showers. Why is this important? Draconid meteors get their name because they appear to arrive from the northern circumpolar constellation, Draco the Dragon. Draco was a 6th century B.C. Athenian archon infamous for his cruel and unusual punishments; nearly every offense resulted in death.
Indeed, he is the origin of the term “draconian.” Knowing their human history well, the dispatchers of the Peekskill fireball went to a lot of trouble to requisition a 27-pound sporadic meteor that night. A Draconid meteor would have implied a draconian disposition of its dispatchers, and this would never do. (Whew!) Perhaps there is a universal convention which instructs worlds to endeavor to be polite when uncloaking before a naive world. Considering NASA’s rather poor taste in symbolism when it commenced its alien-hunting project on the 500th anniversary of Columbus’s discovery of America, NASA could do well to take this sage advice to heart. 2. A 1994 article in Nature magazine began with the statement: “On 9 October 1992, a bright fireball appeared over West Virginia, travelled some 700 km in a northeasterly direction, and culminated in at least one impact: a 12.4-kg ordinary chondrite was recovered in Peekskill, New York.” (1) When one draws a line to represent that “700-kilometer” flightpath on a map, one finds that Washington DC is parallel to the line’s exact midpoint. How convenient for the U.S. capital that it should occupy the best possible geographic location from which to watch the fireball move like nobody’s business (8 mi./sec.) up the northeast corridor. But then, the High Resolution Microwave Survey was a federally funded radio-astronomy project. What’s more, it turns out the fireball began its 700 km atmospheric journey at a point in West Virginia that is adjacent to the National Radio Astronomy Observatory (NRAO), one of the main facilities tapped by HRMS. The Peekskill fireball might as well have waved at the SETI scientists as they calibrated their instruments that night. 3. The car the Peekskill meteor hit belonged to Michelle Knapp who turned 18 on October
12, 1992. (2) Maybe it was just a coincidence that this teenager reached her age of majority on that bi-momentous and celebrated day, or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was a rhetorical question to mankind: “All grown up are we?” 4. Maybe it was just another happy coincidence that the right or impact-corresponding side of Michelle Knapp’s license plate read “933”, which numbers gave notice of Shoemaker-Levy 9’s appearance in 93/3, or March the following year. Then there is the name of the event, Peekskill, to consider. The fact that a car’s long and narrow signal-light had been pulverized from one end to the other by a meteor, which impact left the bordering chrome on two long sides of the signal-light essentially alone, tends to refute the random nature or cosmic luck theory. No, it was more like “Here’s a small peek-at our- skill, baby.” The remark, if that’s what it was, would have referenced those short videos incessantly aired in 1990-1 during the first Iraq war, the ones showing the Pentagon’s (then) new Patriot missile hitting or missing Saddam Hussein’s airborne SCUD missiles. Now, a single salient coincidence like 21 comets auguring the 21st Century is one thing, a thing that can be forgotten or even laughed off as “one of those things.” But when twenty-five such coincidences happen together, that is certainly something else entirely. What’s interesting is that the ET investigators at Ames didn’t know a whole bunch of “intelligent signals” when they actually fell on them. Did NASA’s ET investigators really miss the (alien) humor? If it makes anyone feel better, it is clear that the designers of these inter-world overtures did not want to make things too easy for SETI scientists. That would have been too simple. It seems that providing less than conclusive scientific proof of their co-existence was very much part of the plan. Offering too much in the way of proof too fast would have changed our world
overnight, massively interfering with the natural history of our species. So they’d manage to get their two cents in to whomever would listen, but they weren’t about to change the status quo. I guess when you’ve been tinkering around for one or two billion years, you can get away with this sort of thing (the average age of half the stars in our galaxy is 1.5 billion years older than our Sun).
In 2013 the world saw a third meteoritic salvo. The Chelyabinsk super-bolide was even more “in our face” than the 21-comet salute of 1993-4 was. It was probably more conspicuous than a five-inch wide meteor aimed at a five-inch wide car tail-light. Shortly after dawn on February 15, 2013, a 60-foot meteor exploded flash-bang style high above the Russian city of Chelyabinsk. The energy released by the explosion was equivalent to about 500 kilotons of TNT, or 20-30 times larger than the atomic bomb detonated at Hiroshima. With an estimated initial mass of 12,000–13,000 metric tons, and measuring about 20 meters in diameter, it was the largest natural object to enter Earth's atmosphere since the Tunguska bolide event of 1908, which flattened a remote 770 square mile forest area in Siberia. The Chelyabinsk bolide is the only meteor confirmed to have resulted in a large number of injuries. More than two thousand Russians were injured when the shock wave from the explosion shattered many of the windows in the Russian city. Around 1,500 of them applied for medical assistance. Fifty-two were hospitalized. Although a few came very close to death, remarkably nobody died. Unlike the asteroid known as 2012 DA-14, which was first spotted in February 2012 and nearly grazed Earth’s atmosphere later that same February 2013 day (say, there’s a coincidence
involving meteors for you: two record-breaking asteroids in one day!), the Chelyabinsk meteor- bolide was a complete surprise. It blew apart about 18.4 miles (97,400 feet) above the Earth’s surface. Even so, some 7,200 buildings in six cities across the region were damaged by the shockwave. If it had exploded a few seconds after it did, it might have easily killed a million denizens of the Russian city. Indeed, the explosion appears to have been set off with very precise timing, because how else could thousands have been slightly to seriously injured without a single death being caused? Could that have been just luck, or was it a kind of all-knowing skill? The DA-14/Chelyabinsk double asteroid event of February 15, 2013 has never been treated in the media as anything but random and unrelated accidents of nature. As far as I know, I am the only person to ascribe these events, and the two previous ones mentioned earlier, to an extraterrestrial intelligence. A few magazines and radio talk shows have published my articles or interviewed me on the subject, but to no great effect. It’s all a little hard to fathom, I suppose, and none of it is what anyone could call cricket, but facts are facts, after all. So it should be no great surprise that the SETI experts at NASA-Ames weren’t having any of this. Why, it’s not “scientific,” that’s all. With few exceptions, the UFO posse was (is) not all that interested in meteor events for any reason, mainly because no UFOs were (are) involved, or so I imagine, and perhaps partly because we’re dealing here with IFOs, which are reasonably well identified flying objects. Compared to 49,999 UFO cases, these meteor/comet/asteroid impact events are in a completely different class. The alien overtures were made available not just to one or a handful of people, but to billions. The stories were scientifically documented by teams of top scientists,
published in mainstream newspapers and magazines, and aired on network TV news shows. They became the subject of documentaries. At least fourteen videos were made of the meteor in flight, from North Carolina to the shores of the Great Lakes. Both the meteorite and the car it impacted were exhibited in the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, one of the great museums of the world. SL9, for its part, became the lead story in almost every television news show in the world for a week. Nobody is raising much doubt about Chelyabinsk/DA-14 actually happening either. There is something thunderously true about these intelligently crafted events. It is as if a million voices – not one of them human -- were trying to make something known to us. But humans are if nothing else an incredulous and self-assured species. We often delight in pooh- poohing and disbelieving evidence even when it is placed in front of us. As I was forced to accept this in the months and years following these events, I knew that I was alone and divorced from the world, though I wouldn’t trade my alienation for anything, because now, at last, I have something to believe in. It is as if a blinding light has reached down from an empyreal height and snatched me from the material world and transfixed me inside a pool of light on some netherworld. Although I am not strong or worthy enough to see into the concealing darkness that surrounds me, I sense that I am not alone, that to every side of me exist vast and powerful presences. There are so many questions: how much of the galaxy or universe do they patrol? Did they create the universe -- our universe, that is? Are we considered a threat or merely a disappointment? Are we being held at arm’s length because we are considered less than
civilized? We did murder or kill a few hundred-million of our own last century, to say nothing of other species with which we share the planet. Who is the intelligence responsible for these events, from where do they direct these missives, and for what purpose? Whatever the right answers to these questions happen to be, these ingenious and loquacious beings cannot be allowed to think that we are so blind and half-witted, so self-impressed and indifferent about what goes on around us. It’s not as if they haven’t demonstrated how they might blow up something, or a lot of somethings, if we keep blowing off their “intelligent signals.” It’s simply unacceptable, scientifically, and in terms of risk, for us to know and care so little about the first intelligent nonhuman species we’ve encountered. Surely, such righteous ignorance and incuriosity will be our undoing. Unless I miss my mark, when an alien species decides to uncloak, even a little bit, it is just about the most important thing to happen. So where are the headlines, the documentaries, books and articles on this world-changing development? Well, they’re a little hard to find but they are out there (they all have my name attached to them). As for the U.S. government, the most you’re going to find in the public domain on this subject is a recent interview of President Obama on the Ellen DeGeneris talk show. In January 2016, President Barrack Obama appeared on television with a six-year-old girl named Macey Hensley. The scripting of the interview suggests that the purpose of the segment was to allow the president to allude to our species having been indirectly contacted by extraterrestrial agencies.

The relevant discourse went as follows: Macey: Is there really a book of secrets? Obama: That’s a secret.
Ellen: Like what kind of secrets would you like to know? Macey: If aliens are real. Obama: Well, what do you think? Macey: Well, after watching some TV shows, I think aliens are probably real. Obama: Golly, okay. Ellen: Which TV show was that? Macey: I think it’s called “America’s Book of Secrets.” Obama: There you go … Well, the truth is, Macey, we haven’t actually made direct contact with aliens yet. But when we do, I’ll let you know. Did you catch it? “No direct contact.” This leaves indirect contact, which is the main finding of my books, articles, radio interviews and documentaries on the subject. Other than this, I will say that I have been given several plausibly deniable hints by certain anonymous members of our federal government that my discovery is being taken quite seriously, at least by some in the government. The reader will have to trust me on this, because in every instance these grey eminences have been very careful not to leave behind anything I can use. Hey, no problem. I understand. Speaking for myself, and to the aliens in question, let me say that I have really enjoyed our little chats, and hope to pick up where we’ve left off very soon.


End


[1] Nature Magazine (Vol. 367, 17 Feb. 1994) “The orbit and atmospheric trajectory of the Peekskill meteorite from video records” by P. Brown, Z. Ceplecha, RL Hawkes, G. Wetherill, M. Beech & K. Mossman
[2] Gannett Suburban Newspaper (13 October 1992) “Meteorite’s landing spot a star
attraction” by Bruce Golding

Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005) 
​
Actor, Author, Baritone, Director, English-Professor, Speech-Coach, Historian, Theologian. 
Professional photo taken during his U.S. career as a singer for MCA Records. 
His professional name back then was Herbert Moore.



​

​

Making Firefox with Clint

​By Herbert Eyre Moulton

 
            The bit part I played in Clint Eastwood’s Cold War adventure melodrama FIREFOX was one of Clint's first times out as both director and star. In it he plays an American pilot disguised as an ordinary businessman and sent to Moscow to steal a new supersonic fighter plane.
            This was Vienna 1981 --- we were living in Sweden at the time, but this didn’t stop me from trundling down to Johann-Strauss-Ville (a.k.a. Vienna, Austria) every chance I got --- for theatre work, school radio recordings, translations, or what you will.
            This particular assignment was definitely of the what-you-will variety, with myself as a KGB apparatchik hovering ominously in the middle background while “Our Clint” is being interrogated by a cool, polite, and deadly Soviet customs official regarding certain suspicious-looking items in his luggage --- the usual anti-American, anything-to-be-mean hard time those boyos used to specialize in. All I was supposed to do was stand there glowering, but I fear I did considerably more than that, and I’ve got a home video-clip of the scene to prove it. It could serve as a model for all time of how prominent a bit player in the background can be, if he has a mind to, and is sneaky enough to see his chance and take it.
            My bit being so miniscule, such an old ham like myself --- sugar-cured, hickory-smoked, pineapple-glazed --- naturally felt it could use a bit of fleshing out, which is precisely what I proceeded to do, by the simple expedient of staying right on camera the whole time, naughty, unprofessional, but devilishly effective. All it took was swaying back and forth ever so slightly on my two little cloven hooves, whilst staring into the camera with doubt and suspicion in my eyes, real Spy-Who-came-in-from-the-Cold-stuff ... Powerful, stark, menacing.
            But not everybody saw it that way, and my performance did not go completely unnoticed. At length one of the camera crew spoke up rather pointedly: “Clint, please tell that gentleman to stand still ... bobbing back and forth like that, he’s making me dizzy.” A tiny reprimand, and it did no good whatsoever.
Clint for one, being much too preoccupied with his end of the scene and his interrogation, nodded and went on to say nothing but give me a tiny smile. So, accordingly, there’s “Old Herbie” or “Air-Bear”, as my college friends used to call me, in that key opening reel, beginning 21 minutes into the motion picture and going for another full one-and-a-half minutes (the black-haired and elegant gentleman behind the Soviet military official), swaying back and forth, back and forth, gently, quietly, like a padded pendulum, frowning his Filthy-McNasty-Tovaritsch frown, all the while ...
            To show you what a fine gentleman and colleague Clint Eastwood truly is, he came over to me afterwards and --- the very pineapple of politeness (to borrow Mrs. Malaprop’s phrase), thanked me for doing the scene with him. Hmm, doing it? Dear Hearts, it looks from this end like I was doing my damndest to ruin it, though I’d swear a great and terrible oath that such was never my intent.
            Alas, Firefox turned out to be one of the biggest proverbial and monetary duds of Clint’s career. Purest coincidence? As in W.W. Jacobs’ classic horror story “The Monkey’s Paw”, maybe, maybe not. But given my track record before or since, who knows? Mine wasn’t much a part as parts go in “Firefox”, but was it sufficient to jinx the whole operation? If that be the case, sorry about that, Clint. Tough luck that it had to happen at such a vulnerable stage in your endeavors. It could have happened to a worse film and as anyone who reads these chronicles can tell --- could, and did.
            Were the fates even then getting me warmed up for a pre-destined role as plague-carrier sui generis? Stay tuned.
            I only knew that in the bad old days they used to toss types like me overboard to placate the angry Gods causing all the shipwrecks: “And Jonah said unto them, take me and cast me forth into the sea, for I know that for my sake this great tempest is upon you.”
            I guess I’m lucky I’m still more or less intact.
            Let’s see, how things stand now? I shot my first motion picture in Ardmore Studios in Bray, Ireland, as a seaman, with dear Cy Knapp. Between that film (1961) and Firefox lay three thousand concerts, maybe one hundred stage productions and a few dozen commercials, one or two episodes in a local TV-series, not counting the radio-programs.
            But as far as the motion pictures go, one vanished into the Bermuda Triangle as if it never existed, the other internationally distributed, but still a moderate flop --- 2 films, 2 flops, a perfect score. Where would the Moulton Menace strike next?
The body count continues. Stay tuned.
            All joking aside, of all the celebrities I have had as colleagues Clint was the most supreme gentleman of them all. Alan Rickman, for his part, was a very pleasant and soft-spoken intellectual, Mickey Rourke the cool buddy-type character,
David Warner the friendly thespian, Zsa-Zsa Gabor the temperamentful diva par excellance,
Viggo Mortensen the consummate professional.
            Clint? He was, remains and always will be the prince of politeness.
 

The Past
​
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

June 2016

By now this is all “The Past.” I wrote this letter in the 1980s but never did give it to my husband.
In retrospect I often feel guilty. Was I not required to love my husband – till death do us part?
The person I lived with at the time I wrote that letter was no longer the one I vowed lifelong attachment and love to. He had changed so drastically.
So I ponder and I forgive myself for my sidestep and change of attitude toward him. He was no longer the person I had married.  No longer the ideal husband or great father to our son.  Sure, the traits that now surfaced had been already rooted in him when we met. Luckily his good sides stayed in the forefront for many years.
He is dead now -- RIP -- I constantly try to organize happenings from my past. It does not really matter any longer.
Would I act differently if given the chance to relive where I morally went wrong? I doubt it. One cannot jump over one’s shadow.
Life changed, not for the better, when Alzheimer’s and personal weaknesses took their toll.
Here is the letter: 
Dear Husband, 
I had hoped it would not come to this but I truly do not want to be part of the present set-up any longer. Here are the main things that irritate me:
Your drinking (including having a bottle in your briefcase and sneaking a slug when you believe I do not notice). I am afraid to let our son be alone with you or have you drive him after you had had some drinks. Several times I found cigarette butts on the carpet in the living room or next to the garbage can in the kitchen.
The TV will be your only choice of entertainment and I have to go upstairs since the music bothers you, the lights bother you. This way the living room is taboo for me after 6 p.m.
You do not care to socialize and would not even stay in touch with your family without my friendly reminders.
You avoid any true communication and make believe all is well, while even a blind hen can see that it is not.
You forget what we tell you and on top of it accused me of not paying for a car repair. You had forgotten that I dished the money out the same evening after you had picked the car up.
 
At this point I had stopped writing this letter. Guess I knew already then that I would not give it to my husband. He could also turn rather violent, and in a way I must have been afraid of his reaction.
 
Where had the good times gone? Why had I not paid attention to earlier signs? Now, when I try to put all the loose ends together many incidents come to mind. Unimportant when looked upon as a singular happening, but fitting perfectly into the big picture of “Changes caused during the passing of time.” 

Nasty, Slithery, and Short
 
 
By Eduardo Frajman
 
 
“For the nature of power is, in this point, like to fame, increasing as it proceeds; or like the motion of heavy bodies, which, the further they go, make still the more haste.”
 
Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan Ch. X 
 
 
 
 
 I am a purple worm. I glide in silence across a two-dimensional surface of black hexagons, powered by an invisible force that requires no propulsive movement, not the undulation of the snake nor the peristalsis of the earthworm. I glide and I eat and I grow. I’ve been in this world only a handful of seconds, grown only a smidgen, when a blue-and-white megaworm lunges before me, forcing me to collide into its body. I die. 
 The time before this I was orange. The time before that I was green. Next time I may be any one of seven colors, chosen at random by the system, but I am always the same worm. My segmented body is perfectly regular, vertically symmetrical, its only salient features the two cartoon eyes at the front end, black circles inside white ones, which move but only slightly in their eternal quest to follow the arrow that is controlled by the mouse that is controlled by the hand that is controlled by me. In every life I guide my worm avatar as it glides across the world, driven by only two goals: survive and grow. My life may end at any moment. It may last mere instants, or stretch to five, ten, twenty minutes. In either case it will be a life of “continual fear” and “danger of violent death,” a life, as Thomas Hobbes would have it, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”
 Such it is in this world I’ve chosen to temporarily inhabit, the world of Slither, the multi-player online game I am playing (http://slither.io). It’s the purest, most perfect incarnation of the Hobbesian state of nature I have ever encountered. 
 Hobbes sought to outline the proper workings of society by unveiling the core aspects of the human condition. “Nature,” he surmised, “hath made men so equal in the faculties of body and mind as that, though there be found one man sometimes manifestly stronger in body or of quicker mind than another, yet when all is reckoned together the difference between man and man is not so considerable as that one man can thereupon
claim to himself any benefit to which another may not pretend as well as he.” With these words Hobbes did nothing less than launch modernity into the world. We are all, in this sense, his children. 
 Yet, his understanding of human nature was deeply flawed, his political theory reliant on two crucial misconceptions about human psychology. First was his belief in the uncontested supremacy of selfishness. “From this equality of ability,” he claimed, “ariseth equality of hope in the attaining of our ends. And therefore if any two men desire the same thing, which nevertheless they cannot both enjoy, they become enemies; and […] endeavour to destroy or subdue one another.” Second was his notion of human beings as isolated, solitary creatures: “men have no pleasure (but on the contrary a great deal of grief) in keeping company where there is no power able to overawe them all.” In a state of nature, he concluded, without law or society to control them, isolated and selfish individuals would forever be ensnared “in that condition that is called war, […] a war as if of every man against every man.” 
 Thanks to our understanding of our own biology, our evolutionary lineage, our observable behavior, we can categorically state that Hobbes’ view of natural man was incorrect.1 Human beings, like all apes, are social animals, and natural human life, for as long as humans have existed, has primarily taken place within families and kin-based groups. While it is true that humans, like chimpanzees, have always sought to subdue and destroy one another, they have not done so as isolated individuals, but as competing
bands, then tribes, then peoples. Hermit loners exist, but they are the exception, as are sociopaths and serial killers. Indeed, the Hobbesian state of nature is all but unimaginable. Recent attempts to portray what a world of constant war of all against all would look like, in post-apocalyptic novels such as Cormac McCarthy’s The Road or films like the Mad Max series, fall invariably short. Even in the bleakest, bloodiest circumstances, loyalty, compassion, and love bloom everywhere. 
 Not so in Slither (which I do not endorse in any official capacity and am not affiliated with in any way whatsoever, per secula seculorum, amen). In this two-dimensional world there are no groups, no family, no compassion, and no love. There isn’t even the self-interested cooperation found in most multi-player games. You move, you eat, you grow, you die. There is nothing else. Hobbes believed that fear of death would eventually force right-thinking individuals into abandoning the state of nature for the state of “the social compact,” but fear of death, while a fundamental element of Slither, for death means you must return to your initial puny form and start over, carries less of a sting when one’s avatar can be reincarnated ad infinitum. The comfort of eternal recurrence, and the safety of the virtual, afford me the opportunity to live in a version of Hobbes’ nightmare. It is an exhilarating, addictive experience.   
     I am yellow now. My worm has a name, which I have given it: EFH. All worms have names in this world. There are many of us. I can’t tell how many. We exist together on the circular plane and never stop moving. The “small beginnings of motion within the body,” declares Hobbes, “are commonly called endeavor. This endeavor, when it is toward something which causes it, is called appetite, or desire.” 
 We all look essentially the same. Many sport solid colors, like me, because we are playing the free version of the game. The rest, who have achieved special status by accessing it through Facebook or Twitter or other some such inanity, have customized worm avatars, painted in simple designs – white stars on a blue background, the American, French, Italian flag – or with a distorted face – one Cyclops eye instead of two, a creepy smiling face, and, most recently and incoherently, the head of a snail. Such accouterments provide no advantage in terms of gameplay. 
 As I materialize there is no one else in the immediate vicinity. Slither does you this small initial kindness, a few instants to get your bearings. The tiny map on the bottom-right corner shows my position in the circular, uniform plane. I am closer to the edge than to the center, off to the top left, the northwest. I head southeast, then, towards the crowded middle region and danger, for I am here to play, as are all the other worms. 
 I’m tiny at first, a tiny yellow maggot. The background of hexagons is littered with shining pellets of different sizes, which disappear as my worm touches them with the top of its head. Each pellet that I consume elongates and enlarges my body. The score is displayed on the bottom left of the screen. The higher the score the larger the worm. Score and girth are one and the same. The score quickly rises from two to three digits. I can sway now, oscillate my midsection. 
 A red worm is here. It’s smaller than I am. If I can see it, it can see me. I have not yet reached the size to intimidate small-fries like this one. It circles me searchingly, judging my response. “Men,” cautions Hobbes, “live without other security than what their own strength and their own invention shall furnish them.”  My finger tenses on the mouse. All players on Slither have a power, one and only one, besides their movement
and their bodies. Holding down the mouse’s button will make the worm’s body glow and accelerate. Most players use “glowing speed” in bursts, to lunge towards or away from an enemy, to beat it out of a tasty morsel. A few play the entire game at high speed overdrive, Dom Toretto style. I prefer the lower pace, the more cautious life. The red worm has placed itself next to me. We’re moving in parallel lines now, its head slightly ahead of mine. Its intentions are clear. It means to speed up, turn abruptly, and kill me.    
 Of course Red wants to kill me. Although I’m not gunning for it right this instant, I wouldn’t mind it at all if Red died as well. In the state of nature the only good is what is good for me: “The notions of right and wrong, justice and injustice, have there no place. Where there is no common power, there is no law; where no law, no injustice.” I know this and Red knows this and we now the other knows it. 
 If the top of my head touches any part of Red’s body, or any other worm, no matter how big or small, I die. Much like in the state of nature, “the weakest, has strength enough to kill the strongest.” This separates Slither from most other multiplayer games, in which the most skilled combatants are virtually invincible except when fighting against each other. In Slither, as in life, skill and practice will help you, but they can only take you so far. 
 I could lunge towards Red, but that’s not my style. I like to be patient, which pays off more often than not, in my judgment. Red’s body lights up. I press down on the button. My yellow body ignites as well. Red turns, but I’ve got the jump on him. I rush headlong, my body straight, as Red executes its plan. It’s master, man or woman, boy or girl, somewhere, anywhere on the planet, knows what’s coming. It’s too late for Red, who can’t stop its momentum and crashes into my side.  Red is dead. Where its body just
was, there is now a cluster of multicolored balls of red light. I swing my body towards them and consume them by tapping them with my head. 
 The glittering remnants of dead worms are the priciest sources of nourishment, the primo stuff, that which everyone desires. A single tiny pellet floating in the black is worth three, five points. An ember of dead worm can be worth twenty, fifty, a bushel of them hundreds of girth points. Strike upon the untouched, glistening carcass of a large opponent and you can go from minuscule to massive in seconds. You start out a tiny, pathetic maggoty thing and, as you eat, become a massive, twisting, twirling, slithering monstrosity. A thousand points will earn you a nice, flowing, svelte form. By five thousand the game must shift perspective to allow you enough room to see where you are maneuvering. Reach fifteen thousand and you are one of the big boys in town and the crowd of pipsqueaks to which you used to belong now follows you around to see what you’ll do and have to swerve to avoid your massiveness. They look so small you are tempted to dismiss them as harmless. But they are not harmless. You touch one, no matter how small, and you die. 
 And die you will, eventually. There is no victory in Slither, no lasting victory at least. The game goes on forever. 
 After consuming Red I’m dragging behind me a beautiful thousand-point frame. I wobble my head to make my body swirl like a ribbon. The top right of the screen shows me the top ten current highest scores. Somewhere in this place there are bodies carrying ten thousand, eighteen thousand points, slithering, always slithering across the surface, looking to get larger, always larger. Somewhere, the scoreboard tells me, there’s a
gargantuan thirty-nine-thousand pointer, no doubt with a host of pretenders swarming around it, either aiming to kill it or simply waiting for it to make a mistake. 
 I move this way and that looking for them, looking for the feeding frenzies that offer the most nourishment. “In the nature of man,” claims Hobbes, “we find three principal causes of quarrel. First, competition; secondly, diffidence; thirdly, glory. The first makes men invade for gain; the second, for safety; and the third, for reputation.” Reputation, such as it is, entails having your name on the high-score bar, for as long as you can keep it there. Nobody knows who I am, of course, so glory is almost completely internal. I want to be bigger, and bigger, though nobody will ever know it. I want to be the biggest I can be. 
 One time I reached nineteen thousand points, I was on top of the leaderboard, the largest creature in the world. Dozens of small worms hovered around me hungrily, like a pack of hyenas. I swerved and looped to avoid them, I killed one, then another, then a third. Then I died and lost everything. Why play again after that? What else is there? Well, sometimes you see a forty-thousand-level worm, sometimes a fifty-thousand. Once, just once, I saw a red behemoth who, through luck and skill and perseverance, reached eighty thousand points. I spent a long time looking for it, avoiding the attention of the big worms and the gingerly attacks of my peers. I looked and looked until I found it. It stretched endlessly in beautiful coils and curves, too big to ever be fully straight. It went on and on. Someday I’ll be that big, I told myself. I followed Big Red Giant until, inevitably, it burst into countless balls of red, which I, along with a dozen vultures like me, ate with relish. “It is consequent” to the state of nature, Hobbes reminds us, “that
there be no propriety, no dominion, no mine and thine distinct; but only that to be every man’s that he can get, and for so long as he can keep it.”
 A bright-green Cyclops, eight hundred points or so, zips around me, looking for an opening. I twist around myself, using my body as a bulwark against its attack. Cyclops comes at me, undeterred, I spin away again, then again, until Cyclops misjudges a pass, crashes against me and dies. I turn to consume what remains. My score swells to two, then three thousand. My confidence swells at well. Bring on the giants! Once more I point my head towards the central regions, except a rainbow-striped pipsqueak appears out of nowhere and blocks my way. I die. The screen fades to black, slowly though, to allow me a fleeting view of my own remains, purple and sparkling, becoming fodder for other worms, my mortal enemies.     
 What do I learn by living in the Hobbesian state of nature? I learn that life is short and that, though fate doesn’t always favor the bold, only by being bold will you find favor. My daughter plays Slither with the utmost caution. She hides on the edges, away from the crowds. She never kills, not because she doesn’t want to but because she never dares. Her body grows slowly, so slowly. I urge her to enter the fray, to do something, to live. “You can’t blame me for not wanting to die,” she answers, and she’s right. I can’t blame her. She is content with no glory, just living as long as she can, and this is fine in its way. Until she’s spotted, and pursued, and murdered. “That’s so mean!,” she complains to her unknowable assailant. But it isn’t, not in Slither, it’s just life. I try to use Hobbes’ words to counsel her: “because there be some that, taking pleasure in contemplating their own power in the acts of conquest, which they pursue farther than their security requires, if others, that otherwise would be glad to be at ease within modest
bounds, should not by invasion increase their power, they would not be able, long time, by standing only on their defense, to subsist.” She snorts. If I’m too old to know anything, imagine how ignorant Hobbes has to be. 
 I am purple again. The pickings are plentiful here. There’s no one around. One hundred, a hundred fifty. I enter into a scuffle with an American Flag, bigger than I, he thinks he’s so hot. I kill him and gobble up his remains. Four hundred. Six. Eight. As I seek more action, I run into an undisturbed cluster of orange lights. Probably a worm that crashed into a giant, who didn’t even notice. Eleven hundred. I’m big now. I have length and girth to protect me. A striped brown bully has encircled a blue, smaller than it, and waits for it to die. A red snail head gets in on the action. So do I. Brown Stripes is dead. We all rush to feed. Snail Head, the biggest of us all, is dead. A Creepy Smile rushes rashly into the fray and dies. So much food, all around me. 
 I get bigger and bigger. Three thousand. Thirty-five hundred. Four, five, six thousand. When the feast is done I extricate myself from the scrum. I’m followed constantly now. Can’t let my guard down. I catch a glimpse of another battle, I rush in again. Again I’m lucky. I feed and feed and survive while so many die around me. Eleven thousand. Fifteen. Maybe this is it, the great game I’ve always pined for, in which I grow endlessly, in which I reach thirty, forty, sixty thousand. Why not? Why not me? Why not a hundred thousand? Two hundred! I’ll live forever. I will, and I’ll get larger and larger, more and more powerful, forever. I am giddy, entrapped by my own desire, “a perpetual and restless desire of power after power, that ceaseth only in death.” About some things Hobbes was undoubtedly right. 
 I glide, seeking glory. I run into a brown giant. We measure each other up, each looking for an advantage. Brown is cautious, like me. We stay close to each other. If I get him I’ll pass twenty thousand for sure. Twenty, then thirty, for the first time ever. He floats next to me in naïve complacency. The moment is coming. I’ll get him. I make my move just as a snail head, a tiny little thing, appears out of nowhere and blocks my path.
 I die. 
 I disintegrate into shimmering life-giving marbles.  
 My mind is brought back to the non-Hobbesian world. My back aches from sitting. My fingers are cramped. Time to get up. Time to go make dinner. Time to stop playing. 
 I don’t want to, says my desire. I won’t go. “One more life,” I promise myself.

RIGHT! WE'LL HAVE A PARTY!

from the autobiography "DAMN THE DEPRESSION, ANYWAY!"

Written by my father the late great
Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005)

who worked as MCA-Record’s Show-Star Herbert Moore. He also conducted the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir during the Korean War, toured with his wife, the operatic mezzo-soprano Gun Kronzell, around the world as “The Singing Couple”. This true story takes place in the posh, spiritually rich but financially poor 1930’s. The picture here to the right is of my father many years later, during a party in the 1960’s (how fitting), drinking wine, chatting with his good friend, the famous Swedish opera tenor Nicolai Gedda.
Now, fasten your seatbelts. Step into the time machine. Get ready to visit the culturally endowed relatives living the posh life back in the Illinois that was, sometime in the 1930’s.
 
As long as anyone can remember, our home had always been THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITY. Through thick or thin, palmy days or the Depths of the Depression - between the extremes of my father Big Herb's practicality and Nell's "To Hell with Poverty - we'll sell the pig!" liberality, we always managed to make every visitor feel happily at home.
Most of the regulars at this snug little oasis of ours were survivors of a picturesque world that, since the Stockmarket Crash of 1929, had evaporated fast. Their families had once held sway in a score or more of vast old turreted wooden-frame mansions which still ornamented the town, left over from the Gilded 1880's, a few of which still stand to this day, plaqued (as they say) as Historical Landmarks.
One of these - Eastbourne - had from the mid 1890's been my Dad's family home, last occupied by my Uncle Harper and his peripetitic family - three sons and his great billowing Southern Belle of a spouse, Clara by name, but known to all and sundry (all except us, that is) as 'Honey". They blowsily occupied the old manse until late in the 1930's, when it was unfortunately demolished. To this day it forms a marvelously gloomy, House-of-Usher background for a lot of my earliest memories - fifteen huge, high-ceiling rooms, many with fireplaces. Of these, the room I remember best was the library, a museum really, cluttered as it was with bayonets, shell-casings, dress-swords with sashes, handguns, even spiked officer's helmets from the old German Imperial Army, just the thing for our boyhood extravaganzas inspired by the historical movies we saw on Saturday afternoons. These were souveniers of the time in France in 1917-18 by my Dad Herbert Lewis Moulton and his two younger brothers, Wes and Harp.
The rest of this spacious old mansion contained family and servants' quarters, hotel-sized kitchen and laundry facilities - Eastbourne had been a popular cross-country inn until my Grandfather bought it to house his lady-wife and brood of six children, plus servants that included at least one live-in nanny. One of them was a wonderful black Mammy, Maisie - pardon the lapse! - with her daughter Rachel, my first experience with folk of other colors, and a delightful one or was, too. (Rachel, grown to young womanhood, was my baby-sitter when I was a nipper.)
Further amenities included a billiard room, a glazed-in conservatory (south side, of course), and a large lofty attic filled with memorabilia of untold splendor, a porte cochere, and two pillared porches, which Honey in that booming Texan foghorn used to call Galleries, much to Nell’s unconcealed disgust: “Haw-puh! Frank! Leeeeeeeeeeee! What yawl doin’ on that gall’reh?”
On the sloping, wooded lawns were the remains of a croquet- and a tennis-court, outbuildings where the cows and the horses were billeted (named Chummy and Princess, and Duke and Lightning, respectively) and by the time we began playing in it, a slightly ramschackle summer house.
People can talk all the like about the delight about the ante-bellum Southland, but its post-bellum northern counterpart, based, not on slavery, but on industry and commerce, had a  no-nonsense charm of its own. It was in settings such as these that was played out on that long, in retrospect lovely American twilight up to the start of the first World War, which is celebrated in plays such as O’Neill’s “Ah, Wilderness!” – tea-dances, ice-cream socials, masquerades, and amateur family theatricals, with house-music provided by all five of the Moulton boys, with sister Minnie at the piano. After the war, the twilight lingered on spasmodically until the grand old memory-drenched house was sold off and demolished. Even then, in the late 1930’s, we’d gather a carload of friends and drive over on a summer evening to pick basketfuls of the fragrant lillies-of-thze-valley which still flourished in a corner of the original garden.
It was the dispossessed heirs of these once proud dynasties, the greying sheiks of yesteryear with nicknames like “Babe” and “Bunny” and “Wop”, with their ex-flapper Shebas, all raucous voices, middle-age spread, and clouds of perfume with names like Mitsouki or Emeraud, who used to crowd our little dining room on Saturday evenings (the table top decked in an old army blanket) for intense penny-ante poker sessions, sometimes using matchsticks for chips, laughing at off-color jokes way above my head and puffing their Old Golds and home-rolled “coffin nails”, while the Budweiser flowed and soda crackers got crumbled into bowls of Big Herb’s special chili-con-carne, to the accompaniament of Paul Whiteman records or Your Hit Parade on the radio-phonograph hard by in the living-room.
I loved these gatherings in my parents’ cronies – Big Herb’s out-of-work business colleagues or American Legion (Forty-and-Eight) buddies and their wives or lady-friends. Many of them had been the blithe and breezy Charleston-dancing, hipflask toting young marrieds, who (I was told); used to switch partners on weekend treasure-hunts, and in that still infamous Crash had lost everything but their social stature (whatever that amounted to) and their sense of humor. Thus had John Held, Jr. given wa to the late Scott Fitzgerald.
To me these people were as fascinating as visitors from another galaxy, caught in what today would called a time-warp. Authemntic “Twenties-Types” (if one thinks about them now) and I couldn’t get my fill looking at them – everything they did shone with enough of the glamour of lost wealth which set them apart from everyone else we knew (God, was I that much of a snob at the age of nine or ten?).
Special fun were those evenings which suddenly turned musical, like the time when a lady with hennaed hair unloosed one of Delilah’s arias from “Samson” in a rich boozy contralto, then huddled at the keyboard with a lady friend to harmonize “Sing to Me, My Little Gypsy Sweetheart”. (Nell later reported that they were both sharing the same “beau”, who happened to be our family dentist. (What a sensation that was!)
So the poker sessions rolled merrily along, spiced now and then with one of the men getting sobbing drunk and passing out on the livingroom couch, or one of the married couples indulging in a strident battle which mesmerized me even while being hustled out to my bedroom by one or the other of my parents. Boy, it was as good as having a movie-show right in our own living room. Besides which, they were all exceedingly nice to me, slipping me a shiny new dime now and then or taking time out to show me card tricks or draw pictures, or sometimes work with me on my pappet theater or Erector Set. One of our occasional guests was the cartoonist Dick Calkins – Lt. Dick Calkins, as he signed his Buck Rogers in the 25th century newspaper strip. One Saturday eveing, though half-sozzled, he spent a good hour painstakingly drawing cartoons of Buck and his girlfriend Wilma Deering on facing pages of my autograph book and dedicated to me alone. (Naturally, treasures such as these eventually disappeared – gone, alas, like our youth too soon.)
Thee smoky, sometimes emotion-charged pow-wows weren’t quite the proper fodder for the local newspapers, but there were plenty of other tidbits lovingly provided by Nell at the drop of a phone-call.
 

The Musician 


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues 



This is the story that has made its rounds over the years. Again and again I am fascinated with it. It has so much truth to it and always invites to ponder.  

The locations and timeframes change in the different stories and are of no importance and are fictional.  
Penn Station, New York City. More than 600,000 people moving through it daily. It is 5  o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. A dreary grey winter day outside. It is not a day to inspire happy thoughts. Till – they rush to catch the train to Long Island that will bring them home after a tiring day of work. 
Beautiful, classy tones of music greet them. One young man follows the sound. On a blanket, on the floor near the ticket counter, a middle-aged man is playing the violin. The young man stops for a minute, throws a dollar bill into the dish and hurries on. The violinist has made his first dollar for the afternoon. He was playing music from Bach, well-suited for the day. 
Ten minutes later a kid about ten years old runs up to the musician, his young eyes full of wonder. The mother orders him back and he obeys regretfully. A few other kids stop, but none for long.  
The musician played for 45 minutes. A few quarters and another dollar bill find their way into the dish.  
After that, the violinist carefully and with a loving gesture wraps his violin to protect it. There had been no recognition, no applause. 
The musician had played the identical music to a sold-out house in Washington two days prior. Price per seat: $100. The violin used at Penn Station and also in Washington has a value of $3.5 million. 
I keep asking myself the same question whenever I stumble anew over the story. The same virtuoso, the same instrument. Why the poignant difference in reception? Are recognition, gained glory and surroundings what make the enormous difference? Is it that the minds of the passersby at Penn Station are not on music at that time? Is it that only the people who truly understand music go to concerts?  
Questions are manifold and so are the answers. I am still trying to figure out the deep-rooted explanation. The how-come and the why. 
Are our minds on overdrive as we rush through our daily lives?  
How many opportunities do we miss this way? 
 

Colenton Freeman

Atlanta’s Gift to Opera

 
Article by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
 
             The gift of singing made all the difference in Colenton Freeman’s life.
Such chances were not easily obtained for African-American young males in the early 1970s. However, through the grace of God, his family, teachers and mentors, he was able to pursue and achieve excellence. 
They were short on cash, the Freeman family. It was a simple life, but Ms. Freeman saw how talented the boy was. This was all about the boy’s future and the talented mother supported the superbly gifted young man in his will to succeed. It made all the difference.

So it came as no surprise that the single mother in Atlanta, Georgia, supporting her young son Colenton in his endeavors, saw this natural born creativity getting nourished and blossoming into perfection. Accordingly, she allowed the boy to learn how to play the trumpet, the violin and the piano. He sang in the school chorus, played in the school band, received an oil painting set and an Olivetti typewriter, and, along with his sister and brothers, a set of World Book Encyclopedias for Christmas.
            All in all, the creative little boy, already a skilled academic, became a true Renaissance Man even before coming of age.
            The mother was not the only one that nourished his talents, however. His grandmother, Mrs. Annie Mae Morgan brought him to the community of the West Hunter Street Baptist Church, where he started taking piano lessons with Miss Deleicia Maddox. This woman conducted the Children’s Cherub Choir, which turned out to be a real treat for the young boy. Colenton sang in all the choirs, even the adult ones and he was damn good at it.
            So, accordingly, Colenton Freeman was on a roll. As with so many musicians and singers who have made it to the top, the Baptist Church inspired him. He played the piano for Sunday School. So well, in fact, that the Reverend Dr. Ralph David Abernathy decided to make the 16-year old the Assistant to the Minister of Music, paying him the handsome wage of $ 20,00 every Sunday. Not bad for the son of a single, hardworking mother. Not bad even for a high school student back in the 1970s. But there was more. Much more.
             In 1972, Colenton sang in a University Summer Chorus and met a man named Billy G. Densmore, who was a tenor and sang in this chorus as well. As fate would have it, Colenton was given a seat next to this man. Densmore was an Atlanta City Public Schools music teacher at an elite High School which was 97 % white. The 3% black students were the créme de la crème of prominent and wealthy African-American families. Densmore loved Colenton’s voice and told him that he could develop his already obvious vocal talent if he came to his school.
Colenton said no, knowing how excellent his own, all-black high school already was. It had a new building with an excellent, music teacher named Harold Hess who happened to be white and was adored by all. Hess had put on productions of musicals like “West Side Story” and “Porgy and Bess” at the school.
Leaving was not an option. Mr. Densmore, however, was persistent.
Still, Lady Fortune kept on penetrating the boy with hints.
            Densmore made it a point to ask Colenton at every rehearsal if he had changed his mind yet. As a result, Colenton started avoiding Densmore at rehearsals, but a man’s destiny is a journey of discoveries.
            One day, Harold Hess announced that he was leaving Colenton’s high school in order to work on his Masters degree at Indiana University. As a result, Colenton decided to follow Densmore to his school, Northside High, which years later became Northside School of the Performing Arts. Because Colenton’s decision to attend Northside was very last minute, strings had to be pulled in order to get the young boy admitted and the high school student began the journey of discovering Opera, Italian Art Songs and German Lieder. The already fantastic voice developed to include a magnificent high range with easy full-voice high D’s.
            Through Densmore, Colenton came in contact with famed conductor Robert Shaw, who chose him to sing “Comfort Ye” from Händel’s “Messiah” with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra at a Christmas Concert at the age of 16.
With all this going on, the question which college to attend seemed logical. Instead of choosing Julliard, living in the dauntingly difficult Big Apple, Colenton chose Oberlin Conservatory in Ohio.
It turned out to be a good choice. He spent the next five years there, studying voice with the great tenor and vocal pedagoge Richard Miller. Later he went on to study at the Indiana University School of Music with the well-known Wagnerian soprano and famed voice teacher, Margaret Harshaw.
            Colenton, this ambitious young kid from Atlanta, was going to make it, all because his mother had believed in his abilities. At age 25, he worked at the San Francisco Opera with the likes of Leontyne Price, Luciano Pavarotti, Placido Domingo, Leonie Rysanek, Birgit Nilsson, James King, Jess Thomas, Reri Grist, Anja Silla, Simon Estes and Margaret Price.  He started out in a leading role in an opera he had sung as a student in Bloomington, Indiana, “The Cry of Clytemenestra” by resident composer and professor of composition John Eaton. Colenton sang the world premiere in Bloomington with subsequent performances in New York. 
When San Francisco “Spring” Opera decided to produce the piece, they chose four singers from Indiana to come to San Francisco and Colenton was one of the four.  It was such a big success that the head of the San Francisco, Maestro Kurt Herbert Adler, requested an audition on the big stage singing standard repertoire. 
Colenton did and Adler offered him a contract for the Fall Season which included covering Pavarotti as Radames in “Aida”, covering Domingo and Franco Bonisolli as Don José in “Carmen”, singing both Arturo and Normanno in “Lucia di Lammermoor”, two small roles in Shostakovich’s “Lady Macbeth” with Anja Silla in the titel role and the role of the Messenger in “Aida” with Big P. The “Aida” was to be broadcast live by satellite to Europe. What a fantastic opportunity for the young man.
Colenton Freeman was both thrilled and nervous at the same time.
After San Francisco came a last minute offer from the Hamburg State Opera to come and replace Vladamir Atlantov as Don José in “Carmen”.  The gifted tenor did not know what to do, so he called famed bass-baritone, Simon Estes who advised him to go for it. 
“What should I ask for?” Colenton asked Simon.
Simon gave him a price, but added to take it even if they offered less.
Simon was flabbergasted that Hamburg without hesitation agreed to pay an unknown singer so much money. The one performance pleased the Hamburg Opera so much that Colenton was offered another show. The enthusiastic young tenor phoned home from his European hotel, calling friends and family about the success. As a result, he ended up paying one entire performance fee of 4000 Deutsch Marks for the hotel and phone bills.
How ironic that his loving and supportive mother died in January of 1982, just as his career took off. Brilliant artists are spiritual people, though, and I am sure that Colenton knew that his mother’s soul was there with him on stage when he sang Alfredo in Verdi’s “La Traviata” in Carmel Valley. Because of the evident emotion in Colenton’s voice as a result of his mother’s passing, during a musical run-through of the opera, the conductor came up to him and said: “That is some of the most beautiful singing I have ever heard in my life.” 
The love Colenton had for his mother filled his voice with beauty and inspiration.
Gratitude turned into spirit, spirit turned into artistry, artistry turned into success.
After spending the summer with his family, he went to New York to audition for an agent at Columbia Artist. The agency ended up taking him on as a young singer with conditions.  The conditions being that they would work together for two years and see how things go. It ended up becoming four exciting, yet difficult years.  In fact, like many young singers living in New York, he had to get a temporary job to make ends meet.  He was a very good typist and was able to get constant work at Law Offices, Banks, etc. 
He was offered a permanent position at Chemical Bank, working for a female Vice-President.  Colenton’s always honest and sometimes even cheeky attitude came exploding out, reminding him of his mother’s constant reminders to control this honesty.
Colenton thanked the boss of the Chemical Bank for the offer, but told her:
“You know, you treat me special now because I am an artist and temporary.  However, if it became a permanent situation, you would start to see me differently and I could not live with that.” 
This self-confidence, however, was the attitude that gave him his Carnegie Hall debut singing with two orchestras, making his Carnegie Recital Hall debut, singing with the Santa Fe Opera, Glyndebourne Opera Festival, the Bellas Artes in Mexico City, Opera Orchestra of New York, Chicago Lyric Opera, among others. 
Still, the work was not enough to live on 12 months in the year.  He would be singing these glorious operatic roles for 3 months and then going back to the office. 
He invited his boss at the International Center for the Disabled in New York to hear him sing the tenor role Calaf in Puccini’s “Turandot” at the Boston Concert Opera. At the office on Monday morning, he told Colenton how much he enjoyed the performance and then added: “My colleague, who came with me, leaned over during the performance and said: how could you even possibly give that man a letter to type?” 
What was the phrase “Old Blue Eyes” crooned, one that actually proved to match this situation? “If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.”
Colenton not only was making it in New York City.
He was turning his success into a triumph.
After 4 years in New York and being released from Columbia Artist, because they felt they could not give his career the time and care it needed, he was advised to come to Europe and try his luck there.  He won a grant from the Astral Foundation in Philadelphia, which financed an “Audtion Tour” of Germany for 3 months. 
In fact, the very doctor who had attended the Turandot performance in Boston helped him write the grant proposal.  He contacted German agents and auditioned for them when he arrived and was sent on several auditions.  A grueling, but exciting experience.
Arriving in Germany three months before, he finally got an offer for a “Fest” contract at the Stadttheater Giessen, he brought with him a splendid proverbial treasure chest of operatic gems.  Mind you, he had already sung at some important places and the best he could do was a small German theater in the middle of nowhere?  On one hand, he was relieved to finally get a job, because he did not want to return to America empty-handed.  But, he felt that he should be singing in Munich, Hamburg, Berlin or even Cologne.  But, Giessen?
Well, he said yes to the offer, thinking he could change his mind later if he wanted to.  The tenor returned to New York in the middle of December. After several weeks, the agent from Munich called him to talk about the terms of the contract with the Stadttheater Giessen.  She was so excited about the roles they offered. 
He would make his debut as Rodolfo in Puccini’s “La Boheme”, then Alfred in “Die Fledermaus”, Lionel in “Martha”, the title role of “Idomeneo” Melot in Wagner’s “Tristan und Isolde” and L’amante in Menotti`s “Amelia goes to the Ball” with Menotti as guest stage director. It all sounded good, until she told him what his monthly salary would be.  He had really no idea about salaries and life in Germany.  Only, the amount they offered did not sound like enough. 
So, he told the agent, “I want more!” 
There was silence and then a flabbergasted:
“How much more?” 
The answer: “A thousand D-marks more,” came as a surprise to say the least. 
“Mr. Freeman, Giessen is a small theater.  They cannot pay that kind of salary.  And this is your first German contract.” 
He then said:
“Well, I am not coming, if I do not get more money.”
Colenton Freeman put his goals and talents on this high roulette-wheel-like bet, knowing that his brilliant abilities would have him win in the end. So, she said she would relay the message.  The next week she phoned and was almost hysterically excited:
“Herr Freeman, they said YES to your conditions!” 
Colenton again had won over professional opera directors by being honest, cheeky and self-confident. So, he ended up here in Europe, travelling a long, glorious, exciting and sometimes difficult ride of operatic bliss. 
This gift of singing made all the difference in his life.  Such chances were not easily obtained for African-American young males back in the early 1970’s.  Through the grace of God, his family, teachers and mentors, though, he was able to pursue and achieve excellence.  He was never taught to feel inferior in any sort of way.  He came from very humble beginnings, but always given the very best that his family had to offer.  Also, his church family was constantly supporting him morally and financially. Pursuing the operatic road led directly to his international career and his arrival in Germany, back in 1986.
In many ways, he is still the little boy from Atlanta, Georgia.  Although, he has been fortunate in his adult life to experience life at it’s best, he has remained true to who he is and true to his background.  He can sit down at a dinner table with royalty, wealth and power and enjoy a 6-course meal with a place setting consisting of 10 pieces of silverware, eating caviar, drinking Chateau Margaux wine and the next day eat a simple Southern meal of fried chicken, cornbread, collard greens, potato salad, fried corn and squash casserole and be just as happy and content.
Today, he sings a lot less. He devotes his life now to teaching young up and coming future talent.  He has taught students from all over the world, including Japan, Korea, China, Italy, France, Spain and, of course, Germany.  He also teaches those who just like to sing and want to have better control over their voices.  He helps to prepare young people for the entrance auditions at conservatories and universities in Germany where he resides. 
This work is also fulfilling, he tells me, although naturally different from his previous life on the stage.  He does not have to worry about his voice anymore. He is concerned about the voices of others.
There are two main lessons we learn from the way Colenton Freeman always has and always continues to manage his career: persistence always triumphs in the end. Above all, however, we learn that if a child’s talent is supported by a loving parent, this love can turn a passion, an inner will to blossom, into a glorious future.
Parents have the huge responsibility to nurture their children’s talents well. The children will eventually thank them for it in ways they can never begin to comprehend.
I can only say, being a singer myself, that having a vocal pedagogue with this kind of experience feels like winning the lottery three times over. During my time working as a baritone in Hamburg, we met at a Voice Teacher Conference at the Music Academy. Colenton, my mother, the experienced international operatic mezzosoprano Gun Kronzell (1930 – 2011), and myself really hit it off and I have kept contact with him even after my mother’s passing. Professional interest turned into a heartfelt friendship and a heartfelt friendship turned into a prosperous collaboration.
And you know what?
The greatest thing is this: Colenton Freeman is not just a man with a wonderful voice.
He is a wonderful person.

---

A Modern Orpheus


- The Making of the film "Dead Flowers"


By Herbert Eyre Moulton 
(1927 - 2005)

Written in 1994


 “A lyrical film, a flop ...”
So wrote the Austrian film magazine DIAGONALE about “Dead Flowers” three years after the fact. And this was really tragic, this flop, one of the few movies I’ve ever been associated with that was truly all of a piece, with no nonsense and no camp about any portion of it. It was only the second work by the brilliant young Austrian writer/director Peter Ily Huemer, who divides his time between his native Vienna and his adopted New York, where he lives and works.
            Huemer’s first work, the film noir “Kiss Daddy Good Night”, had been shot in New York and was just as much a success as “Dead Flowers”, made in Vienna. Financially speaking, let it be said, it was a failure. It stands today as a thoroughly fascinating modern retelling of the old Orpheus and Eurydice myth, transplante to the industrial outskirts of the city and its robust working class, a totally integrated work, in turns endearingly funny, raunchy, somber, spooky, and disturbing. Huemer, known as a man of understatement, is a thoughtful and indeed lovable “Mensch” of infinite patience and kindness, especially towards his chosen players. And with what care he chooses them, too. His casting sessions are famous for their thoroughness. Mine lasted well over half an hour and consisted mainly of thoughtful pauses and groping for the answers to his many searching questions, some of them personal, some seemingly irrelevant, many of them psychological: What animal would you like to be, and why? What would you do if a child of yours was in serious trouble/ mixed up with drugs/ killed in an accident? What would you do to try and prevent it, if possible? Have you any cruel impulses, surpressed or otherwise? Questions like that, a baffling, mentally stretching half-hour ... and then no word of the results for weeks.
            In fact, I’d quite forgotten the whole incident when the agent handling it phoned and said I’d been cast as Mr. LeMont, a rich, powerful executive at the United Nations, in some way mixed up with arms smuggling. As a bonus, Mr. LeMont would speak in my own dulcet tones, Chicago-Deutsch and all, without being dubbed later by some low-Viennese kraut-head, as so often happens.
            LeMont’s only daughter Alice is the Eurydice of the tale, who was killed in a traffic accident two years before and comes back mysteriously from the underworld to fall in love with the hero, or anti-hero, Alex. And never has Eurydice had a more unlikely Orpheus, laconic, rough-appearing, almost primitive, but with a huge heart and tender nature, by profession with the harrowing of hell with his shirttail hanging halfway out.
            Alex lives with his dotty old grandmother (Tana Schanzara, who received an international prize for her delicious portrayal), a grandma who talks to herself when not addressing the image of her dead husband in his illuminated closet-shrine. Whenever she happens to stumble, out in her garden, she just has to lie there on her back like a tortoise, squealing and calling out until somebody, Alex usually, appears and helps her to her feet again.
            Into this odd little household comes my daughter, Alice/Eurydice, whom Alex has picked up one night hitchhiking on the highway, bruised and soiled as if she’d been in an accident. This is a haunting performance by the American actress Kate Valk, whom in the idiotic way of moviemaking I have never ever met, while I was filming, she was onstage in New York.
            Alice is a figure of mystery, and is already being stalked by a sinister network of agents from Hades, headed by a sadistic creep named Willy deVille, in mauve Liberace-type outfit and dark shades. The flight of the young pair, Alice must be returned to Hades whence she escaped, is packed with danger and excitement and ends up in a truly scary night-sequence in a shut-down zoo. There she gets separated from Alex and is abducted by deVille.
            Now deeply in love, Alex breaks out in a desperate search which leads first to Alice’s father, who only compounds the mystery. And that’s where I come in, out of the butler’s pantry for once, and into a top position in the UNO-City-by-the-Danube. I’m first seen in the parking lot there, getting into my big expensive car to drive to my big expensive home in Grinzing. On the expressway I’m increasingly aware of Alex tailing me in his van. Once at my place, he gets himself zapped unconcious by a couple of goons in my employ – Blues Brothers types, only evil, and comes to my cellar where I’m enjoying his getting roughed up, that is, until he mentions his quest for Alice. At which, I get up and come forward to inform him that she has been dead these two years now, the victim of a traffic accident, which Alex, of course, finds incomprehensible. After a moment’s consideration, I order my gorillas to set him free.
            LeMont had only a couple of scenes, but these were as meticulously staged and filmed as if it were a major role in a top-budget thriller. Peter guided me through them with great patience and understanding. For the interrogation in the cellar he took me step-by-step, phrase-by-phrase, until, speaking of my dead daughter, I was almost choked with emotion – this tough, amoral, affluent wheeler-and-dealer.
            For the chase on the expressway, the traffic was blocked off so that I could race down the wrong way, for a more advantageous shot, the camera whirring away just at my right elbow and Peter directing me from the back seat: “Okay, Herbert, now look in the rearview mirror to see if he’s gaining on you – now speed up a bit – glance at the side mirror, speed up slightly again – shift in your seat – another glance in the mirror – excellent, Herbert, super! That’s it, CUT! Thank you very much!”
            Alex’s quest culminates in a foggy rowboat-crossing of the Danube/River Styx – Huemer’s screenplay follows the old legend faithfully, and is studded with intriguing details like Alex meeting a dead pal, just recently killed in a train accident involving the express from Salzburg, the “Rosenkavalier”. He inquires how it was that Alex died – Alex tells him he’s only visiting. Then, in an unforgettable encounter with The Boss, who turns out to be a transsexual Bulgarian woman in a dark suit and boy’s haircut, he learns that, in order to get Alice freed again, someone else must die in her place ...
            This little detail is neatly dispatched by dear old Granny, once Alex gets back to the other side.
            A fresh viewing of our “Dead Flowers”-video (recorded off the air) convinced me that this is nothing short of a minor masterpiece which deserved a far happier fate than a few prizes and citations from scattered film festivals, followed by a week in a grotty little cinema in Vienna’s 9th district. There, except for a couple of teeny gigglers, my family and I were the only audience that dismal Saturday afternoon – after which it folded up its petals and crept into oblivion.
            Some days later, wretchedly true to form, advertising posters began blossoming in streetscars and buses and on railway platforms – just one more example of too little/too late, as if purposely being sabotaged by the insensitive slobs in charge of promotion and distribution. No doubt they were already launched on something much more commercial, something reeking of sentimental schmaltz, but profitable. Peter’s only printed comment: “Da ist man schon einige Zeit angeschlagen – You can be pretty hard hit for a while after that.”
            As for the ultimate fate of Alex and Alice, one can only hope there’ll come another oppurtunity some day to re-live this haunting and fascinating picture. Given half the chance it still has all the makings of a genuine cult-film.
 

Will there be a David-Bowie-Street in Berlin?
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
            They flock in droves to Hauptstrasse 155 in Berlin-Schöneberg, laying flowers on the pavement in front of the megastar’s former flat. They listen to his music in order to calm down their sorrow. The legend, who sold 140 million records world wide, died on Sunday night, January 10th, 2016, of liver cancer, two days after his birthday. Since then, his Berlin-fans have launched a movement to inspire the city to name a street after the star.
            Politician Daniel Krüger doesn’t exclude the possibility that this could become a reality, “but first in five years, according to state law”.
            It would make perfect sense. Berlin meant a great deal to David Bowie. He spent many formative years here that shaped his musical career, recording the famous Berlin Trilogy at the Hansa Studios, changing Rock history forever and still keeping a safe distance to his own fame.  On his 57th birthday, his friend Ricky Gervais joked: “Isn’t it time you got a real job?” Bowie mused: “I have one. Rock God!”
            This wit was Bowie incarnate. He was the intellectual art collector with a brilliant mind and still the tongue-in-cheek-rebel with a brave heart. The director of Bowie’s Broadway-Musical “Lazarus”, Ivo Van Howe, told reporters Bowie broke down during rehearsals back-stage last year, but still spoke of writing another musical, soon enough.
            A David-Bowie-Street in Berlin would most certainly make many fans happy, perhaps even give young rockers enough guts to try to make it as musicians.
 

The Life and Times of Voyager
 
Television Review by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
We could be watching Harrison Ford running through the wilderness hunted by U.S. Marshalls, we could be following Charlton Heston lost in the future hunted by apes or just following Thelma and Louise on their road toward crime and debauchery.
Then again, we might be travelling with Captain Kathryn Janeway and her crew lost 70 000 lightyears from home.
However we choose to experience our lust of joining mutual seekers of the journey, the result of that search is the same. The road is the way.
We all love seeing people travel, but why are we drawn to stories about seekers?
If we don’t travel ourselves, we do so through others. That conveys movement and there’s nothing we love so much as movement. Many people are lost, many people hope to find something real beyond that proverbial rainbow. Then, of course, there is the afterlife. We really belong somewhere else: in heaven with God. Every life we lead here on Earth really brings us back to work on some task or solve some problem.
“Star Trek: Voyager” ran for seven seasons and the reason for its success is the fact that it really is an extended road movie. So, here it is: a team of space explorers is sent out on an away mission, prepared to be away a couple of months at the most. Among them are talented prisoners on parole, fresh graduates and experienced veterans. The ship, however, gets catapulted through the galaxy 70 000 lightyears from home by mistake and so the crew has to find another way home.
On their way home, they encounter a hundred species, visit hundreds of distant planets and ultimately change the course of time.
The fascinating aspect in general is the eternal question we always ask ourselves every time we read a book or watch a film: what if? What would a world based on interstellar communication look like? What might aliens look like? What would their world be like? We know how it is to travel between New York and Rio, but what would a world look like that is based on travelling between planets on a regular basis. Roddenberry continues on a very old tradition that Homer, Voltaire, Melville and Verne dwelled in: the journey.
Captain Janeway is a future day Don Quixiote. Encountering barbarians and killers just as much as benevolent philosophers on her seven year odyssey, she perseveres in spite of incredible setbacks. Actress Kate Mulgrew’s uncanny resemblance to Katherine Hepburn got her the job portraying the famous thespian in a one-woman show. It is also Mulgrew’s almost painful and ruthless, Hepburnesque, honesty that keeps the spaceship going and eventually takes the weird and wonderful crew home to Earth, eventually happy, eventually joyous.
Robert Beltran’s extraordinary mixture of internal depth with an angry command, as First Officer Chakotay, gives Janeway’s Sherlock her conscience of an eternally wise Watson. In more ways than one, we here have a resiliant team that would not survive as a singular unit. Even when they are stranded alone on a lonely planet, their almost marital team inspires Chakotay’s Adam to create an unusually resistant Eve. Only toward the end of the episode, when Janeway gives in to her quiet seclusion, are they saved to return to Voyager. Adam and Eve again, willingly unwilling, become Bill and Hillary.
Robert Picardo breathes life into The Doctor in a role that couldn’t be more different than his most famous portrayal as the Cowboy in “Innerspace”. For those of us who followed Voyager through its journey, the holographic doctor’s love of opera he presents created episodes like “Virtuoso”, where Verdi could be introduced to viewers and aliens alike alongside simple songs like “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah”. The Doctor also becomes an author, a husband, a commanding officer and an advocate of human rights. Wonderfully holographic.
I remember seeing Tom Paris-portrayer Robert Duncan McNeill in a Twilight Zone-episode named “A Message from Charity”. Since then, he has come a long way. His matter-of-fact-way and almost functional form of acting grew in time and became a real jewel of storytelling toward the sixth and seventh seasons of Voyager. McNeill’s very American truthfulness is sympathetic and his cute and constant reparté with Harry Kim in the Captain Proton episodes are worth while to say the least.
Jeri Ryan’s looks have been described as worthy of expressions like “Va-Va-Voom”. Although rather sterile a role, she manages to unify moments of tenderness with a cyborg’s hard battle for individuality as “Seven of Nine”. Tender episodes such as “Someone to Watch Over Me” give us that sweet sneak-peeks of viewing other talents emerge other than looks and strong acting. Her duet with Picardo makes the listener wonder what she would do as the vocalist of a big band. Maybe she already is one. If that is the case, a fellow big band vocalist like me would like to hear her perform songs like “Fly Me to the Moon”.
No Star Trek-ship is complete without a Vulcan. So it is actor and Blues-singer Tim Russ that gives us his constant concentration as Tuvok. The moments when Tuvok is allowed to step outside his own controlled boundaries, however, are the most memorable. Russ is allowed to become a tender and angry soul, happy and enthusiastic, and we find much more beneath that controlled enigma.
Shakespearian actor Ethan Phillips turned Talaxian tour-de-force and Janeway-Alter-Ego Neelix into a weirdly wonderful Pumbaa-like caleidoscope of alien and gastronomical wit. I know he has spent years doing Star Trek, but I also know he is a playwright and the owner of a Master’s Degree in Fine Arts from Cornell University.
UCLA-student Garrett Wang became everybody’s favourite little beginner as Ensign Harry Kim. His smart and honest portrayal was believable enough to inspire people to review the episodes in which he played the focal part. He is and remains Voyager’s charming conscience.
Roxann Dawson created a feisty, angry character with a sensitive core in B’Elanna Torres. As with many of the portrayals in Voyager, we see the development with the oncoming years. We, as actors, do grow with our assigments. Roxann presented superior theatrical skills even in her first episode in addition to being what you could label as versatile and supremely interesting.
Jennifer Lien’s work as Kes unified strength with tenderness. Of all the characters in Voyager, hers is the most feminine, the one with the most thespian introspection.
On the surface, Star Trek Voyager is a sitcom, a soap-opera set in space. At a closer glance, it is a deep and heartfelt plea to enjoy the knowledge the ride itself provides. It is the discoverer’s dream, the seafarer’s love for eternal wisdom.
As I said, we are all seekers and we all love to see that other enjoy seeking, as well.
 

Rocking for Christ
 
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton

 
“It would be nice to walk upon the water, talking again to angels on my side ... all my words are golden, so have no Gods before me. I'm the light.”
            Was that a saying by the great St. Francis of Assisi? Maybe that was a quote from a book by Deepak Chopra? I could tell you that was Albert Schweizer. We could tribute Socrates, Plato or St. Paul with those words, the Pope or even the Dalia Lama.
All of that sounds plausible, doesn’t it?
Well, guess what?
It was Alice Cooper, back in 1971, during the hayday of his dark rock career.
Wait a minute, rewind the tape. Alice Cooper? The shock-rocker? Wasn’t that the villain of rock ‘n roll, the guy that spent and still spends his life performing explosive hard-rock theatricals filled with electric chairs, guillotines and bleeding dolls? Wasn’t that the guy that agitated more provincial housewives than Charles Manson?
            What does Alice say about all this?
            “It’s just electric vaudeville.”
            Then why do we think rock ‘n roll isn’t just a show?
            Because back when the music style first launched, it was a rebellion.
            Ten or twenty years later, academics like Freddie Mercury turned the music-style into a Vaudevillian melodrama. But it doesn’t end there.
            “If you listen clearly to all of my lyrics,” Alice says, “the warning is clearly written on the box. Don’t follow the dark side. It’s not a good idea. I am just playing the villain of rock ‘n roll. I invented him, like Shakespeare invented MacBeth.”
            Keep on reading, though. Now it gets really interesting.
            “As the son of a Baptist pastor, I grew up in the church, in religious surroundings. My father got the whole villain-of-rock-thing. He dug it. He just didn’t dig the lifestyle that went with it. The drugs, the alcohol, the excess. It killed a lot of my colleagues.”
The faithful Christian churchgoer Vincent Damon Furnier was born February 4, 1948, a Cold-War-Kid, the son of a preacherman. His social life as a child was centered mainly around church activities. It was this life that made his conciously living Christian soul confess not belonging to this world. Vincent’s creative decision to invent a new kind of Captain Hook in a rocking world of Peter Pan-characters was a testament to his artistic freedom.
            His show was an invention, mere storytelling, not a credo.
Accordingly, Alice Cooper’s original band colleagues were art students. They were academics, just like the members of the band Queen. To Alice and his band, something was missing in other rock concerts of the time: there were no creative theatricals to go with them. So the canvas they painted for themselves, creating the fictitious antagonist-like and character-drenched show called “Alice Cooper”, sprung from a need to actually add some dramatic flair to the popular streamline. The canvas they chose was similiar to the framework the English teacher Stephen King’s chose for his work: the birthplace of the horrific and perilous playground of lost souls: guillotines and ghosts. Maybe the era of the 1960s inspired them. Maybe the pain of Vietnam inspired the escapism, the creative outlet.
Cooper’s love of art really came alive when he met the surrealist artist Salvador Dali back in 1973. Dali liked Alice so much that he created a holographic artwork of the rocker, worth $ 2 million today, exhibited in the Dali Museum in Figueres, Spain.
Believe it or not, what Alice says about his own show – and about creativity in general – makes perfect sense. As an artist myself, I know that’s what we do. We tell stories.
The fictitious tale in itself is a warning: it ends badly. Alice gets punished, Vincent goes home. The actor takes off his make-up, just like I do after a show, and kisses his wife good night. The fact that it’s rock ‘n roll and not opera, heavy metal and not Shakespeare, is irrelevant. Edgar Allan Poe told us about the tell-tale heart, Verdi told us about what happened to the punished court jester, Alice Cooper told us the story of what happened to the extravagant crook. So don’t kill messenger.
According to Alice, the theatrical message leads home to Vincent, the faithful churchgoer. “Choose God and not the Devil,” Alice has been quoted as saying. “I created a vaudeville show with a villain. Even the bible has villains. Me? I believe in Jesus Christ. I believe in the eternal soul and in the afterlife.”
If it is just a show, then the distinction between what is public and what is private, what is professional and what is personal, becomes an even more important.
“If you live the same life on- as off-stage, that’s a really bad sign.”
Foreboding warnings from his peers show us the way where not to go. It is where some rockers went in order to make us believe their public personas were private, as well. Canadian talk-show host Jian Gomeshi from Studio Q, who also interviewed Alice back in 2011, mentioned conducting an interview with Johnny Rotten from the Sex Pistols. In that interview, Johnny treated Jian rudely throughout, only to transform into his real and private personality as John Lydon in the commercial breaks.
            “Was that okay?” John Lydon asked Jian in his Cockney accent.
Alice Cooper could only confirm that this two-faced act was a part of the show. He called Lydon’s behaviour “the ultimate rock swindle.”
The man who created Alice Cooper learned the hard way how to separate his true self from the on-stage-personality. He had 27 television sets at his house, he was an alcoholic. It was, therefore, all the more amazing that his sober lifestyle came as a complete surprise.
During the beginning of his career, Vincent spent lots of time with the likes of Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix. He’d never drunk a beer before, but soon he was consuming a bottle of whiskey a day. He called Morrison and Hendrix his “big brothers.” Both are quoted by Alice as “living the same life on- as off-stage,” constantly drunk or high on something.
In fact, they thought it was necessary to live up to that rock-star lifestyle.
“Somebody is going to die here,” were Alice’s words, “but it’s not going to be me.”
Vincent was a constant church-visitor during his spiritual awakening. The pastor seemed, in his mind, to speak to him and him alone, again and again. It was almost a pain to go to church and hear the sermons back in the early 1970s, but Vincent Furnier knew in his heart that he had to go there. His intuition demanded it.
The medics called Alice’s recovery, in quote, “weird” and, indeed, “a divine miracle.”
When his doctors asked him, in the clinic, how many alcoholic relapses he’d had, Alice could truthfully say that he’d had none at all.
 “A Christian is a soul who is constantly being sculpted by God,” he admitted, “and given hints by the creator in how to become a better person.”
In Joe Cocker’s case, becoming sober was a matter of life and death – and Christian faith helped him get there, as well. Bono, the lead singer of U2, did not need an addiction to find God. He believed, anyway. In fact, he was quoted in saying that his stardom was given to him by God himself. The band, Bono said, simply wasn’t good enough to succeed on its own. God had to have been the catalyst.
Bono even continued by pointing out that, “Jesus was his hero.”
Vincent, alias Alice, says that becoming sober was “like winning the lottery three times over – it just doesn’t happen.”
Not only did Alice Cooper remain sober, he also turned this spiritual renewal into a charitable enterprise, giving other unfortunate souls the chance to change, as well. Today, Alice Cooper’s project “Solid Rock” helps improve the lives of mistreated youths. Underprivilaged children from broken families are taught how to sing, play guitar, bass and drums. Alice goes out and performs with them, live on stage. His belief in Christ, the eternal soul and rock ‘n roll boosts the confidence of thousands of delinquents.
How many lives could Alice change if given the chance? Could he have prevented the hospitalization of the elderly busdriver, beaten up by two 14 year-olds, who told them to leave the bus? Could “Solid Rock” have boosted the confidence of the drugdealing teenager, who now serves his second term behind bars?
We must unlearn our preconceived conceptions about rock ‘n roll.
Rock fans are aging alongside their heroes and even Bryan Adams is performing for a crowd of fifty year-olds. Vincent, the faithful husband, would rather go home to his wife instead of to a strip-club. He claims that “everyone will find Christ eventually” and would “choose God any day”. He plays golf with his buddy Bob Dylan and appears in Christian talk-shows. So what was this about Alice Cooper being scary?
Being a Christian, though, he goes on, makes it harder because of the constant pressure to be perfect. Show business is creative, technical and organizational work, but it is not a show reality. If the ideas are sung, painted, written or danced, they are creative outlets, the ideas of the soul at work. Behind the skill, though, we find years of hard work. Out of 10 hours of stage rehearsals, 9 are dedicated to music.
Going back to a former comparison, we find Stephen King, the guru of horror stories, whose showmanship is also combined with devout faith. He told the press repeatedly that he has faith in God. A self confessed family man, a loving father and a completely dedicated friend. Mick Garris from Toronto, Canada, in fact, back in December of 2000, wrote: “Few would guess what a happy, childlike, loyal and generous man the Big Guy is.”
He goes on to say how hilariously funny Stephen is, a joy to be around, very local, very unaffected and very much just “Steve” to his pals. Not at all the horrific master of the macabre that he became when he writing his books.
Orson Wells played Shakespeare’s MacBeth. Playing a bigot villain didn’t mean that he really believed in being incestuous or in practicing witchcraft.
Vincent Furnier’s creative choice resembles the choice Sir Anthony Hopkins made when playing Hannibal Lecter. He could go back to Malibu Beach and be a private person, an intellectual or just a beach bum, after the show.
A storyteller, the prodigal son that found God in his heart, the good samaritan who helped the underprivilaged and didn’t even ask anything of them in return.
I have the advantage of being an actor, an author and a singer. I am, like Alice and like Stephen, a storyteller, as are we all, artists or no artists. So I know exactly where Alice is coming from. People love stories and we love telling them. No more. No less. I know that the roles I play are part of my stage persona. I know that the stories I write are part of my creativity. When I make up a story about a killer voodoo prince, it is just a story. When I portray a villain, it is only a portrayal. Me? I am really a nice guy.
I have been in show business since I was 11 years old. That is a career that has been going on for 34 stage years by now. In Bizet’s “Carmen”, I played Zuniga, a misogynistic killer. I was an evil vampire in Polanski’s “Dance of the Vampires”, an egocentric record producer in “Buddy – the Musical” and the mean Uncle Scar in “The Lion King”. That doesn’t mean, however, that I am an egocentric, evil, mean killer in my private life. I have played that killer lion, that bloodthirsty vampire, that psychopathic murderer, that coldhearted husband, that bastard record producer, that evil king, that village idiot, that mean bandit, that butchered deer, that death row prisoner and that mean ghost, maybe just to warn people not to become like that. Maybe that’s the point of art: to point a finger to what is. Nobody would ever think of coming to me after a show and asking me why I wanted to kill Simba.
Drama has to meet romance, darkness has to be filled with light, truth has to meet reality, classic has to meet rock, souls have to meet, people have to put aside their preconceived conceptions in order find out what lies behind the surface.
We tell gruesome stories, we tell stories that are uplifting and positive. Alice is one of those forerunners who went through hell in order to tell us how he found God.
It also goes to show that most of us have a completely different view of what rock ‘n roll was or is to Alice Cooper in the first place. It just goes to show that the people that complained about his performances never really listened to the actual lyrics.
            “I just play the villain of rock ‘n roll,” he concludes. “It’s not really who I am.”
            Touché, Alice. Touché.
            Now go back to church and dig up that undiscovered treasure, turning it into your reality and uncovering what might be revealed as true spiritual gold.
Praise Jesus, Alice has seen the light.
 
“Everyone carries a seed of love within them, even villains do.
The real secret is nourishing that seed and blessing every other life with its power.”
- Anonymous

The Monarch of Human Dignity

Article by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
            Tony Robinson’s strolls through British history have become a valuable part of the popular education of Britons. These documentaries are more than just small presentations of little known fact or merely televised outlines of historical trivial pursuit. We are dealing with a consummate artist here and that should give us food for thought.
Thanks to YouTube, we are today able to flip on any laptop and consume hours of material on any given subject. There is no reason for ignorance. It is therefore more than recommended that we type in Robinson’s name into the search machine and let him tell us the stories, completely embellishing them with deep truth.
 Robinson offers us the backdrop of history. He lifts the curtain of intellectualism and dry fact and shows us the action of the true play on the stage of the real past, what really might have happened. That sounds like a cliché, but, in this case, the cliché is true. Swedish foreign correspondent, journalist, author and historian Herman Lindqvist, in his documentaries, has done the same for the Swedish population: he has inspired the masses. Robinson might not be the sole author or researcher of his work here, but he certainly gives his audience that personal touch that triggers inside us what the Germans like to call a veritable “Aha-Experience”. History ceases to be rhetorical or theoretical. It becomes alive, sizzling, vivid, vibrant, exciting.
People are exciting and we’ve always been people, haven’t we? Never statistics on a blank page. Moreover, through the likes of Robinson and Lindqvist, we realize that we all are human. All of us, regardless of social stature, are human. Historical personalities were more than just stuffy old codgers on thrones and in palace ballrooms. They were as selfish, as loving, as hating, as confused and as passionate as we are today or ever will be. Celebrities or not, monarchs or not, famous or infamous or just plain ordinary blokes, if we paint the picture of a humane society, we realize that people are always going to be people. The only thing that makes a person truly royal is the shape of his dignity. That is the only true royalty I know.
            In “Britain’s Real Monarch”, Tony Robinson paints such a picture. Edward IV, according to theory, had to have been an illegitimate child, a bastard son. His father was away in battle during the five week period in 1441 when the conception had to have taken place. If the official version of a conception in May of 1441 is true, we are dealing with an unheard of eleven month pregnancy.
Subsequently, the real bloodline of the British monarchy never sat on the throne. Why? The official father couldn’t have been there at the conception itself at all. The House of Plantagenet, if we trace history back to the roots, would be able to claim the full right to rule Britain. So where’s the real King of England, by bloodline?
In Australia. He knows he is a Plantagenet. He is a Lord by ancestry, a father, a grandfather, and the inhabitant of a small town downunder. He knows now that the bloodline can be traced to his real origin, but wouldn’t dream of going back to London to fight for the right to reclaim his family’s requisite of ruling the nation. In fact, he wants Australia to become a rebublic. He is no monarchist. He is one of the few republican aristocrats.
            Now, as Tony points out at the end of the documentary, if history would have granted the real bloodline to remain on the throne, we would have had a King Michael of Plantagenet in the Buckingham Palace. An ordinary Hanover woman named Elizabeth would have been loafing to the supermarket to get her groceries in order to cook dinner for her husband Philip before her bridge-buddies came over for tea.
            Take that thought and elaborate on it. The divine bloodline of monarchs is an illusion. That doesn’t mean that there shouldn’t be a monarchy. I am a monarchist, a believer in role models. As Whitney Houston sings in “The Greatest Love of All”: people need someone to look up to. There are such things as the DNA-strings of excellence, Mozart and Einstein had them, but give any given person with a normal or above average intelligence a privilaged youth, train them from infancy to become rulers and they will be. Good ones? Who knows?  But rulership is learnable. Other things can be acquired, as well. I have heard it said that anyone who experienced the very same things as Al Capone did, under the same conditions, mind you, would also make anyone turn into the same kind of criminal as he was.
Is that true? It might be just as true as the privilaged princess who had never seen a poor person or never even knew what it was to be poor. She couldn’t even be blamed for telling her aide that the population should eat cake when they had no bread. The French population, however, went crazy, and beheaded her.
Ignorance, is it evil? No, it’s just ill informed. A director of mine, in my capacity as a stage performer, once told me: “When two opposing truths meet, a tragedy is born.” The French Revolution was a tragedy born out of the spark of two very adverse truths colliding. No, it was a train wreck with 20,000 executions as a result.
There is, however, no such thing as the divine right of monarchs. History is accidental, hanging by a thread, and singular events such as the conspiracy to cover up an illegitimate king can change the course of that history. Status is won by hard work and sometimes by circumstance. Fame and celebrity are won by situation, they don’t define the integrity of any given person. The true monarch of England could have been sitting on his throne right now. In that case, the person we know as Queen Elizabeth could have turned out to be the normal little lady we passed yesterday on our way to work.
I’ll take that thought even further. If we could not all become the best or worst we could become in any of our given lives (yes, read that again!), then what would be the point of it all? Life is God’s workshop that we embark on in order to learn something.
The effort counts.
There is a bit of Jesus and a bit of Hitler in us all.
Mickey Rooney was the biggest star of the 1940’s. Toward the end of his career, though, the greater portion of the public had never even heard of him. Did that mean that he was less valuable a person after his career had dwindled down? No. On the contrary. Rooney remains an icon. We shouldn’t measure our lives according to our current social stature. When Queen Elizabeth II brushes her teeth and goes to bed at night, what does she think about herself? Does she tell herself, every night, I am the Queen of England, I am important because I am a monarch and my people are not important because they are not monarchs? No, she probably complains about a headache. Maybe she had a fight with her husband this morning, maybe this made the day quite difficult for her, maybe she can’t walk as well as she was able to once and long just to sleep. Maybe her supper was delicious and she will talk to her son about it. Maybe she asks herself if she still knows the speech she has to hold tomorrow at the House of Lords by heart or if she has to go over it once more before the breakfast tomorrow.
I firmly believe that people first and foremost are private people, that the official picture of a so called famous person is a false one. We all have private thoughts, we are all private personalities, we are all souls. Status is almost entirely circumstantial.
            We live in a time unbelievably soaked and steeped in the lie that we matter only if we have a thousand likes on Facebook. Only fame makes us truly worthy? Bullshit. Where? Famous for what? That, at least, is the illusion social media is handing us on that tweeting silver platter. But what then did Vincent van Gogh, the gifted loser, think of himself? He sold only one painting in his life. In fact, his brother bought that painting. Nowadays, his work sells for millions of dollars. Was he less valuable as a human being because he had no money back then? After all, he never experienced his own fame. When he shaved himself in the morning, were his feelings less important because his work wasn’t displayed in the Louvre?
            Franz Schubert, whose songs are now sung by realistically speaking every single academic voice student in the world, died with only 31 florines to his name. In fact, his musical composition of Goethe’s poem “Erlkönig” was sent back, by Goethe himself, to the wrong Franz Schubert with the complaint that the composition was mere trash. 
            Nikola Tesla, whose name today is synonymous with brilliant science, died alone in his New Yorker Hotel room 3327. Did he have fame and success during his own lifetime? Maybe so. That didn’t prevent him from dying alone, though. Robin Williams’s fame and fortune didn’t prevent him from killing himself, either. Fame is no answer to any problem and when it does arrive, life doesn’t change as much as we think it should. Per Gessle of Roxette once said: “We work all of our lives to become famous. When we do become famous, we don’t change at all. Others do, though.”
            Basing your life on creative endeavor can be a smart move, though. That way, when fame arrives, you won’t be sad if it goes away again. Fame, as Kate Mulgrew (as Captain Janeway) pointed out in the Star Trek: Voyager-episode “Virtuoso”, is fickle. You might think that fame will be there forever once it arrives. You might be wrong. I said, might.
            In his autobiography “Moonwalker”, Michael Jackson shared with us his experiences of a situation where he overheard fans asking themselves if that really was Michael Jackson over there, before finally coming to the conclusion that it couldn’t be him at all. Why would he be here, they asked themselves? Michael asked himself, why not here? Why not anywhere? He was somewhere on Earth at any given situation, so why not here?
There is a photo of Michael backstage with 70,000 fans behind him in the audience, before a show. At that moment, Michael is private, unaware of the camera clicking in his direction. At that moment, we see the real Michael, not the star. Those are two different people. Even Robbie Williams uttered a thank you to his assistant on a CD, claiming that others were as much “Robbie” as he was himself. The idea that famous people are too good to be true comes from the idea that people are unworthy if not renowned. Opera-celebrity Mirella Freni was known to travel to work by using the subway, before singing her million dollar shows as a star at the opera. Luciano Pavarotti walked out unnoticed through the main doors of the concerthall one midday, because no one expected to see him there. Alec Guiness, the man of a thousand faces, was so anonymous as a private person that no one ever hardly noticed him privately at all. Anthony Hopkins is known to stroll about Malibu as a beach bum between projects.
We’re all private somewhere. Even Queen Elizabeth II cries from time to time.   
It must be said that I believe in every person making the best of his or her life, becoming the most he or she can be. I do not believe in the divine right of kings. I believe in the divine right of anyone doing something good or anything good of his or her life. I believe in the eternal soul. There are people who would have become great kings and never got the chance to be so. There are people who were kings and did a terrible job at it.
The consensus is that we are all unique, all valuable, all special, whether famous or infamous or not famous at all, and that we all need someone or something to look up to. If we believe in reincarnation, it is likely that we all were in positions of power and fame at some point in some life. If you’re not famous and want to be, work to become so. Just remember that even if you aren’t famous right now, you’re still a special person without fame.
You matter, regardless of stature.
After all, no one can be you – as good as you are.
I am the descendant of the Eyre Barons of Eyreville in Ireland. The last aristocrat to call himself a Baron of that bloodline was Giles Eyre. My father always said, however, that the real aristocrat in that marriage was his wife. Integrity, accordingly, is a characteristic that has nothing to do with royal bloodline or aristocratic ancestry. Like dignity, true monarchy is dependant on one thing alone: dignified compassion.
 
 

Price for Freedom

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



Generations pass. Memories turn into history. On Memorial Day many people dig into their families’ background. Facts become legends and are offered to their offspring.

While sorting some really old photos, Helga recalled what she had been told by family members throughout the years. The tidbits reached back to her grandfather and here is what Helga remembered. She looked at the calendar. It is now 2016. She is going back generations in time.

  It was 1938, the year when Austria and Germany merged to yield to the power of a new leader: Adolph Hitler, the monster ruler who became responsible for the death of millions of people. One day, during that year, Otto, Helga’s father, found himself on a big ocean liner, which was cutting the foaming waves with professional grace. He leaned on the railing and stared into the vastness between sky and water. Less than 24 hours ago he had nodded a sad goodbye to his homeland Germany. It had been grandfather’s decision that Otto should leave for America. 

The news of the growing crisis had quickly reached Otto’s hometown, Potsdam, a quaint little city of Prussian influence adjacent to Berlin. Adolph Hitler was steadily gaining power and fear had mounted that their family, being from Hungary, with Jewish blood on the mother’s side, would come to suffer under the new regime. Already, Otto’s father’s job as an elementary school teacher was on the danger list. Carefree gatherings with friends had turned into hushed conversations with politics the major topic.

Otto’s hand went to the pocket of his double-breasted tweed suit. He had been entrusted by his father with a reasonable amount of money and the words:”Get established son so that we may come to join you.” The responsibility weighed heavily on Otto. Once in New York he had found a job in a restaurant. There he

met Ellen, Helga’s mother and they had two children. Helga, born in 1941 and Mark born in 1942  Otto had become an American Citizen and during World War II he decided to join the Army. His parents had been able to join him in the States with one of the last boats bringing in refugees. Otto died in combat at Normandy in 1944. 

Helga, now 75, came across some pictures of the funeral. The Purple Heart and other medals were still mounted above their fireplace, and somewhere in the attic was a carton that held the American flag from the casket.

Helga knows that her grandparents had missed their son every day till their own passing  in 1961 and 1972. Together with her mom and brother they all would go and visit the military cemetery many times. But they had displayed pride when the talk came to the happenings of those times. Gratitude to have escaped the Nazi regime remained a given all their lives.  It seemed as if Otto had felt the need to repay his new homeland with his services. Mom had never married again, she  held dad’s memory dear to her heart till her own death in 2001. It had been her wish to see the 20th century and she did.  She was 81 years old.

Helga’s brother had died during the Vietnam War, a loss that threw Ellen into depression.

She had been married for over 30 years and her son George was pursuing a career in politics. 

Time to try to put all those lose ends together and write them down for my own children, Helga thought, and so she did.

Memories of the War

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

The renaissance was the historical period of the 1400s and 1500s.  I should know some solid facts about it, but I don’t - and I blame my history teacher in Germany for that. Yes, I  do remember his name:  Mr. Lipke.   He was tall, skinny with a wooden leg and a glass eye.  We made a lot of fun of him and now that I am a  grown up, I recognize that we gave him a harder time than he gave us.  He is the cause for the mental block I have when it comes to history.  The year was 1942 it was during World War II when I was assigned to Mr. Lipke at my school in Berlin Germany. History classes were mainly focused on our “Great Leader” Adolph Hitler.  I had managed to stay in school thanks to the help by some of our friends, but I knew that any small mistake could have had  unpredictable,  horrible results on my family’s future.  My father was at that time already in France, having had to leave our home in Austria because of his Jewish background.  Mother and I had come to Berlin and had managed so far to avoid letting anybody know why my father had left. I got away without having to wear the Jewish star.  I am only glad that nobody, not even Mr. Lipke, thought of connecting my failure in history classes to anything but a dumb mind.  I did not even prepare for the history classes.  Why should I make an effort, waste my time, if I would not get good grades anyhow.  The problem ended when in 1943 I was evacuated to Vienna and on my return put into a school in Potsdam a quaint little town near Berlin with the prominent castle Sanssoucci, the former summer residence of the King of Prussia 
This brings me back to the years shortly after World War II in Berlin.  I was 13 years old when it ended..  All of us who had survived the terror of the air raids and the street fights during the last gruesome days, were now yearning for the enjoyments and pleasures of good life. A lot happened though before we could breathe easier.
Never will I forget the day when the first Allied troops approached. We heard their guttural shouts coming closer and getting louder and louder.  Then we saw them. Chasing ahead like hoards of animals.  Filthy, bearded,  tired and smelling of manure We tried to hide but did not know where. My aunt and uncle put me in a bed in their dinghy, moldy cellar apartment. They covered me with blanket and when the soldiers rushed in, ready to satisfy their sex drive by raping, my uncle motioned to them that I am very sick. It worked, thank God. Most German women made themselves look real ugly with torn kerchiefs around their head. But the soldiers did not care Raping was going on all around us. My mother came up with a different solution. She dolled herself up in a pretty dress, high heels, lipstick.  A high ranking officer claimed her. Treated her well and even provided my family with food.
As mean as those invaders were, they were quite nice to children I remember being dressed in a red jumpsuit
The red is the color for the Soviets and was to show the admiration for the troops. A group of kids from my street met at the corner and together we marched for about fifteen minutes to the place where the mess halls had been erected. Then we stood in line and some soldiers dished out soup to fill our containers. It was fat and greasy soup, not easily digestible for our hunger ridden intestines but better suited for the inhabitants of the Ural mountains, the homeland of these soldiers. With the fat swimming in layers on top of the soup the dish was still steaming when we got home.
It was obvious that these ground troops had no education, no culture All they knew was the cold and mountains of Siberia. Some displayed a childlike curiosity when coming across a novelty. I remember on soldier sitting on a closed toilet seat, my music box on his lap.  This blood thirsty, looting and raping soldier suddenly had turned into a little boy in awe with a new toy. Another soldier had noticed the gleaming handle on the toilet and motioned his friend to get up. He opened the toilet seat and pulled the handle. The flushing noise scared both of them out of their wits. To our relief they both rushed away.
For many of us, a bicycle was the only means of transportation in those days. Now with the Russians confiscating everything nothing was save.  My bicycle was old, rusty but still relatively well working “Put it into the attic and cover it with blankets” my aunt advised but I could not make myself carry it up 4 floors. I still needed it that day. So I leaned it against the house wall, taking my chances.
Another group of “Hurrah” screaming soldiers appeared shortly thereafter. Like the ones before they were Mongols. They had come on brand new bikes. Beautiful. Their first way was up into the attic. Instinct told them that it was there where people tend their valuables. They found nothing in our attic, others had been up there before and cleared it out already. They needed a deal. So they took my old bike and left me a shiny new one. Figure it out.
Finally Berlin was divided into four sectors and we were lucky to become occupied by the Americans. Among the four groups, Russian, French, British and American we felt like we had won the lottery.
The American mess hall had been opened at a coffee shop close to our house, far closer than the Russian kitchen had been. As it was summer, the American soldiers would take their meals inside and outside. Many finished their rations only halfway and left the rest on the tables. We climbed the wooden fence and dumped whatever we found into the paper bags we had brought with us for that purpose. Occasionally the MP military police would chase us away but they never put a hand on us. Surely they felt sorry for us. They could see how under nourished we were. 
Our spirits got a damper when in 1948 the East was cut off from the West leaving West Berlin stranded like an Island . It was called the Berlin blockade.  The American, British and French sectors were surrounded by Russian occupied areas.. The Airlift came to our rescue.  Airplanes, compliments of the American Air Force, were assuring us day by day that provisions for our daily needs were flown in steadily. Those planes crossed the air corridor between Berlin and  West Germany many times a day.
I remember the dried potatoes that tasted like rubber, the powdered eggs, and the dried vegetables.  Not really delicacies, but we were immensely grateful nonetheless.  After all, it was more and richer than anything we had been eating during the last years of the war.  Amazingly we survived on dandelion salads from the yard, homegrown potatoes and pumpkins, rare quantities of goat’s milk and a six-ounce piece of meat a week. I do not remember anybody suffering from obesity in those years.
The noise of the airplanes shattered our windows and the boom from the planes breaking through the sound barrier was often deafening,.  For us Berliners it was like a sound of music as it assured us of a decent meal each day and gave us confidence that we were not forgotten. 
I recall having been given my first chewing gum during that time.  Never had I seen one before. When I told my mom she asked :  “Where is it” “Oh gone, I ate it!”  Mom explained to me that I should not have eaten it but she was not mad. We both laughed.
Twelve years later, then living in New York after having been sponsored to come to New York and fly for an American Airline, I married an American. He really had been in Berlin during the occupation after having landed in Normandy. He spread the story that he had met me and that I was so cute, with pig tails, that he had promised my mom and me to come back, would sponsor me and marry me once I became of age. “And so I did” he would say to anybody he had told that story too. He was so happy that most people believed him.
Although I did not like history when I had to study it in school,  I did live it.

We visit the ancient Mayan culture and hear ancient love poetry.
In a way, this is also creative non-fiction.
A real person wrote this for a real loving heart,
very real to the soul, creatively, thousands of years ago.


TO KISS YOUR LIPS

BESIDE THE FENCE RAILS
 

Put on your beautiful clothes;
the day of happiness has arrived;
comb the tangles from your hair;
put on your most attractive clothes
and your splendid leather;
hang great pendants in the lobes of
your ears; put on
a good belt; string garlands
around your shapely throat;
put shining coils
on your plump upper arms.
Glorious you will be seen,
for none is more beautiful here
in this town, the seat of Dzitbalché.
 
I love you, Beautiful Lady.
I want you to be seen; in
truth you are very alluring,
I compare you to the smoking star
because they desire you up to the moon
and in the flowers of the fields.
Pure and white are your clothes, maiden.
Go give happiness with your laugh,
put goodness in your heart, because today
is the moment of happiness; all people
put their goodness in you.

A depth of memories in the lake

by Alexandra H. Rodrigues

In Berlin, we lived on a suburban side street that leads from the station, past imposing villas, to a charming lake. I remember walking as a 4 year old child, hand in hand with my mother, around that lake. A nearly 90 minute walk – long and tiring for a toddler.
The memories being evoked by this lake are manifold. Here are some of the most poignant and for me unforgettable ones.
One chilly fall day, a friend of my mother with her 3 year old daughter, had joined us for the walk. I was about 7 years old at that time.  Snowberry bushes were flaunting their white berries, those little balls that make a popping sound when you step on them. So we kids got busy entertaining ourselves, while running ahead of our mothers, down the sloping path toward the lake. Joey, the 3 year old, was so cute and exhilarated. Her little ears red from the biting wind and her eyes sparkling .  She was practically hoarding  the berries and throwing handfuls at a time on the floor to step on them, giggling with delight when they popped .  I had gotten tired of the game and returned to the grown-ups, who had been in no rush to catch up with us. We could see Joey and called for her to wait for us but she had continued running downwards, with berries rolling ahead of her.  What happened then was utter tragedy. She had obviously not paid attention to the rim of the lake and – yes, she had drowned.  The vision of that never left me.
Happy were the years of skating on that lake, in old style with skates you had to screw on to your shoes and if you lost the key to the mechanism you were out of luck. I was a good skater and did both figure skating, by copying other already advanced skaters and speed skating, which allowed me to conquer the lake in 20 minutes. With 16 I got my first professional skates. White, made from finest leather and glistening steel skates with knife sharp edges, all in one piece. I trained a lot, paid money for teachers and wanted to become a professional skater. I had just applied to a chorus skate group in Garmish in the Alps, when I fell and broke my right leg.  A miss- diagnosis nearly cost me my leg and needless to say a career in skating was over for me. I did skate till late in my fifties, when I again fell and cracked several ribs.
I remember the little sandy beach where we would go swimming; during the war in waters that surely were polluted. I remember the top of the lake colorful from oil spills. As a matter of fact I
learned to swim there.  I had been morbidly scared of the father of my friend Mary. She was playing in the water with a light, large rubber ball. Jokingly I hit the ball and it floated away. Her dad had gone to get us some food and I feared he would be mad to be told of the missing ball. So I steeled myself and behold, I swam, yes swam with all might and caught up with the ball and returned it…  Fear of punishment had overcome fear of drowning.
An old ruin of a small castle gave plenty of food to my imagination about ghosts and weird creatures and I always begged my mother to let me play there for a little bit. I doubt that the grounds around the ruin were safe but then, what was safe during the war years?
Memories, oh yes, so many !  All bringing back an action filled childhood.
To mind comes the time, when I announced in kinder garden, that my mother and I had been picked up the past Sunday by a policeman. I had forgotten to mention that he was my mother’s date and went walking with us at the lake.  Just picture the looks of the kids and the teacher.
There  was the well known garden café The Alte Fischerhuette-  (the old fishermen hut), now a hotel, owned by a famous tenor, who once celebrated in Rome, Paris, Vienna and Tokyo, decided to sing only for his guests in this establishment. 
I used to go dancing there as a young girl on weekends and always on Pentecost.
I remember the guttural, victorious shouts of the Russian troops coming across this lake when they invaded Berlin. Our bodies were shaking with fear and relief simultaneously.
When I bundle all my memories about this lake together, good and bad, my fondness for it remains.
Then life went on! I flew over many waters as a Flight Attendant.
The red sea, the dead sea, the Atlantic, the Pacific, the green waters of Bermuda and on and on.
Lakes, Oceans and Rivers were surroundings I tried to live close to at all times.
One day I will sit down and write an essay with the title “Memories in the Great South Bay”
I have fifty years to pick from as I lived here in Massapequa for all that time. 
Memories are made of good and bad times.
The Great South Bay holds many of these for me.
 

 Oracle Earth

By Raymond Greiner


Working as an archaeological researcher unveils discoveries mixed with complexities.  I was summoned to this institution of learning as an instructor, teaching knowledge I attained from data gathered relating to humankind’s historical pathway.  Time and archaeology fuse solving mysteries of the past.
 The year is 3080CE, and since human conception, changes have been staggering and monumental, comparing past developed cultures has little resemblance to present-day social order.  The learning institution I am assigned is Elysium School, located on an island in the South Pacific.  It’s a magnificent place, offering isolation from the smoldering remnants of previous eras. 
I greet new students: “My name is Christopher and I prefer to be addressed using this name.  I am not a professor, and disfavor being referenced as such; I am here to learn, as well as teach.  We all are students.  I am fifty years old and have been an archeological research scientist since age twenty, and have traveled the globe
sponsored by an Alliance to seek precise comprehension of the human species during its journey to this place in time, uncovering details associated with historical events, their causes, and overall impact to be used as planning tools for the future.  I am genetically engineered, as are all of you.  Genetic engineering has become the standard for population expansion, in place for nearly three hundred years, and has proven effective as redirection from historic dysfunctional behavior that previously dominated human habitation.
“Our archeological team was dedicated to scientific research and revealed details how human evolution flourished, then declined, and crumbled into chaos.  Members of our team have been assigned to communicate knowledge acquired from our discoveries, opening discussion as application toward continual social development.      
“Our studies disclosed excessive population expansion was influential in contributing to cultural decline and its results.  Population had escalated to nearly twenty billion.  Currently, global population is under ten million, adjusted by a series of catastrophic events generated by ethical misdirection.  
“To stimulate discussion, I propose to begin each lecture with student’s questions, designing presentation content based on these questions.  If I am unable to answer particular questions it will become our collective effort to research for answers.  Today is our
introduction day, and tomorrow we will begin in earnest toward understanding and learning.  I anticipate our interaction to be a fruitful experience.”
The next day I requested students with questions to rise and identify themselves.  
The first student stood and spoke, “My name is Jerrod.  Christopher, our class welcomes you, and the opportunity you offer us.   We have lived at Elysium School since age six and aware that as we approach maturity, we will return to our place of origin.  We have received curricula exposing historical events that radically altered planetary physiology, causing intense decline and disarray.  War-dominating eras and catastrophic cosmic events lead to inability for global social order to find balance, which included loss of food production and distribution.  What we seek is clarity, explaining why and how contributing declination factors were initiated and evolved.”
I responded, “I should say, Jerrod, your question is complex and may end our questioning period, at least temporarily, because it will take much time to detail what our archeological team revealed that relates to your question.  However, I won’t discourage continued questioning, because as details unfold, new thoughts will create additional questions and all inquires must be addressed.  
“The genesis of the warring era is a good beginning.  My colleagues and I conclude as human evolution gained momentum, it opened opportunity for change, which provoked errors, effecting ability for social cohesion.  Ancient cultures showed minimal confrontation compared to occurrences after civil redesign, perceived to be a better place.  Humans resembling us today are identified as ‘modern human species’ and represent a fraction of the human timeline.  The earliest hunter-gatherer cultures were smaller in number and geographically dispersed.  Hunter-gatherer models required unity with natural criterion, forming societies sustained by natural earthly provisions.  This system worked extremely well for a very long time.  Neanderthal thrived in excess of 300,000 years, existing long before the modern human species appeared.  Modern civil design changed social course, identifying early historic cultures as primitive.  In my opinion the term ‘primitive’ is inappropriate because historically, ancient hunter-gatherers displayed civilized behavior equal to, or greater than, the new approach, which fell away from early human cultural unity.  This new direction opened a series of issues forming the beginning of a downward spiral toward social collapse.  
“The essence of the new societal design was to reduce or eliminate challenges hunter-gatherers confronted.  Land ownership and strict border identities were established.  Cities formed,
generating class distinction and social separation.  These changes centralized survival needs and this new, urbanized social profile became dependent on larger scale agriculture as its means of support. 
“An efficient distribution method was needed.  Barter was used in early stages, then money was created.  Money’s installation caused radical changes.  Housing and land attached monetary values, as a demonstration of wealth, or lack of it.  Over time, money’s power evolved into limitless influence.  Government taxation of property, goods and services increased the power of money.  This original new civil concept became misguided, shifting to governmental ambitions.  Money equated into a lever of control, placing the overall benefit of the populace on a lower rung of importance.  Government leaderships became manipulative.  Fear of border encroachment fostered need for military enforcement, marking the beginning of large-scale warfare.  Agricultural tools were reshaped into weapons.  Harvesting sickles were converted to swords and hauling carts transformed into war chariots.  Sumer had a standing army as early as 3000 BCE.  These infused social intricacies and opened new direction that continued for thousands of years into the future, expanding far beyond what early cultures could have ever imagined.
“Does anyone have further questions at this point?”
A young woman stood and identified herself, “I am Samantha. Christopher, what I obtain from your presentation is the door toward war and convoluted social disorder opened when agricultural development expanded sufficiently to support urban lifestyles, which, by design, lent itself to a need for a monetary system, leading to perceived need for government.  Added border instability created predictable results.  How could this new social design not recognize potential for chaos this development represented?”  
 “Your comment and question are worthy and I often asked this question.  However, beyond the outline presented are underlying forces, causes and reasons why war, armies and power appeared to be in order.  Human psychology was not well understood during these times, and much of what occurred was spontaneous viewing confrontation as resolution.  Humanity uniformly shares similar intellectual patterns.  Archeological findings reveal these patterns were directly instrumental during modern social design development intervals.   
“Human genes mix compassion with a desire to harm and conquer.  The conquest genes surfaced as dominant.  The power of money moved to prominence as the wealthy discovered manners to exploit those less fortunate.  From this base came war’s manifestation.  War intensified, developing more powerful
weaponry.  As time passed, war eventually reached a point where its psychology turned upon itself, victimizing our species wholly.  New countries evolved, spreading geographically, forming separate cultures and establishing new boundaries as intolerance escalated stirring increased conflict.  Technologically advanced weapons were developed, capable of killing millions in an instant.  Countries became fearful of each other; making it imperative they develop these powerful weapons as a means of defense.  Eventually, one of these lethal weapons was activated, and the range of death and destructiveness was a shocking reality, revealing consequences these weapons were capable of.  Agreements were then sought to curtail the use of these weapons although governments continued to develop and expand arsenals.
“The fear of these weapons created brief lull in war.  Then, fanatical leaderships reactivated them.  The effects were beyond imagination, and opposing countries were nearly destroyed, as these arsenals were unleashed, leaving minimal survivors.  Many died from after effects, which caused atmospheric disruption, radioactive fallout and food contamination.  Cancer deaths increased from radiation exposure.  The world’s population continued its downward spiral for more than two hundred years, with survivors clinging to life in any fashion they could contrive.  Over long spans of time, tribes and clans formed and gained back self-sufficiency by
reinstalling agriculture on a lower, more manageable scale to serve smaller population groups.  From this point, realization of social errors was vividly apparent.  Scattered tribal units unified toward species advancement, recognizing need to redesign human genetics, which was identified as the impetus of war mentality.  This was a challenging task, and because of civil reversal, less knowledge was available toward methods for genetic redirection, although the reasoning was valid and this change appeared to be the only hope for species survival. 
“Decline and social failure was implemented by genetic imbalance, allowing evil and selfish dispositions to gain control.  It was clearly evident that genetic restructuring offered opportunity to emphasize compassion as a means for overall betterment.  
“Any new questions at this point?”
Samantha stood again and asked, “Christopher, how did these few survivors engender high numbers of genetically designed people?”
“This change was the most compelling of our archeological team’s mission, leading to present social status.  Through unification with other surviving groups, an Alliance was formed, designated to seek expansion void of historic domination and control.  Psychological and technical knowledge that related to this effort was salvaged from remnants of metropolitan zones.  Genetic engineering
is not test tube procreation: It develops over long spans of time through careful partner selection, choosing those displaying characteristics offering greater potential for a balanced and harmonious future.  Love and compassion genes become dominant.  Humanity reacts exactly as all earthly life forms conforming to environmental conditions, which forms foundations for future development.  
“Prior to our current era, the power of money was the predominant societal influence becoming incorrectly directed by corruptive greed.  Land ownership and border encroachment sensitivity initiated aggressive social behavior in a quest to conquer and control, which propagated war environment.  Those living within this condition embraced it, viewing war as its tool.  As weaponry sophistication advanced, it became apparent war offered no solution only continuation leading to near global human annihilation.  The widespread devastation and aftereffects forced survivors to reconnect to Earth’s natural offerings.  Land ownership and money had no influence, as they realized their only hope for a continued existence was to discover methods of obtaining water, food and shelter among elements from a natural state, stimulated by recognizing a need for unity with natural surroundings.  Urban areas, previously heavily populated, were unlivable with polluted air, soil and water, and new social structure was only possible by
distancing from contaminated zones, learning to survive through detachment from previous conditions.  Survivors learned the importance of blending with the Earth, complementing its elements in an embrace of frugality, melded with conservation.  What the historic failed culture identified as ‘primitive.’  Nature’s perfection is illustrated when studied closely, revealing uniformity and balance, extracting necessities, in an effort to achieve longevity through reproduction.   
“So, here we are, with a new set of principles unrelated to the previous warring era.  Elysium School is your temporary residence, and many similar schools are dispersed throughout the world.  Your parents sent you here at a very early age allowing a concentrated learning opportunity from the best teachers available to gain essential knowledge toward assimilation into the society of your birthplace.  You are learning the rudiments of life applied in the small villages of your origin.  These villages are located in temperate latitudes for ease of growing food, offering abundant rainfall, which is a basic source of life.  There are no local roads or vehicle access to the villages.  Residents and visitors are moved to nearby locations using Alliance-sponsored transport, and then walking to the village location.  Isolation was considered necessary and influential in unison with the original concept’s success.  In the beginning early inhabitants carried tools necessary to build dwellings and raise
gardens.  These pioneers were schooled at an early age in all aspects relating to this challenge.  They were educated at Peace School in the central region of what was previously The United States of America.  This country no longer exists, destroyed by massive atomic attacks from opposing philosophies with ambition to destroy this country.  This occurred hundreds of years prior to Peace School’s establishment.  
“These early students learned self-sustainability and, as they advanced, gained additional survival skills.  They numbered two hundred, equal male and female, all with exceptional intelligence, genetically oriented toward compassion and non-confrontational behavior, combined with specialized physical skills and abilities.  These pioneers partnered and raised families, becoming self-sufficient.  The Alliance of that era named this group ‘Pilgrims of Tranquility.’  They killed no animals and raised hemp to be processed for clothing.  They also learned natural plant food sources.  This group worked as a team in every manner.  They met frequently planning their future.  Solar power allowed communication with the Alliance.  In addition, the Pilgrims kept journals, which are required reading for all current students.  No prominent leader was assigned and monetary systems were unnecessary.  They read books, transmitted electronically.  They learned music and played various instruments as a source of
entertainment and social interaction.  Initially, skeptics viewed this concept as unworkable, but it proved otherwise over time.  This model is applied to villages located throughout the world and when you come of age, will return to your respective villages.
“Are there any additional questions?”
One student stood.  “I am Sara, and would enjoy reading the journals of the ‘Pilgrims of Tranquility’ and their lives.  Where can I find these journals?”
I responded, “They are at the library under ‘archives.’  These journals will give insight I am unable to give as a teacher.
“Your group is nearing final stages of your curriculum and from here forward you will engage in counseling, explaining details of the new life you are about to enter.  Your parents will be your final teachers and guides and will influence you more than anyone.  I am available at any time for any reason to discuss thoughts relating to your venture forward.”
Sara found the journals of The Pilgrims of Tranquility and began reading a passage written by one of the pioneers: 
“My name is Marlene, and I share my life with my partner Caleb.  We are among a group chosen to participate in an experimental life pursuit, in opposition to previous design that nearly destroyed itself, driven by orientation toward war.  Excessive population growth combined with over consumption caused
inability to discover social equilibrium.  Our group was formed and educated at Peace School from infancy to young adulthood.  Our teachers and guides at Peace School were the main instrumental to our success.
“Our number of original participants was two hundred, one hundred males and one hundred females.  Males and females lived in adjacent barracks and shared each day studying and working toward a common goal.  As we matured we established partnerships.  
“We settled in five separate communes and continued to learn self sufficiency.  No monetary system is used.  Our strength and influence comes from applying unity to all phases of daily life.
“Globally, many remained in the old social design.  Atomic weapons no longer existed but those living in the old culture’s design were entrapped in a system influenced by over consumption, material wealth and social separation.  This old philosophy applied the axiom of ‘survival of the fittest,' which was responsible for escalation of war.  Our commune life does not embrace ‘survival of the fittest’, which was responsible for the escalation of war. Our communal life does not embrace the ‘survival of the fittest’ logic, recognizing that some will perform to a higher degree than others, but often those who may display weakness in one particular
function will achieve efficiency in another.  We have witnessed frequent occurrence of this as we developed as a community.  
“Alliance leaders express we have set an example for future communities similar to what we have proven successful.”
Sara was astonished, and reading Marlene’s journal caused her to realize that she and her fellow students are attached to something unique and very important to the future of humanity.  
My class met for its final gathering.  Sadness loomed over students and teacher, both knowing this would end their time together.  
I spoke, “I am certain you all feel melancholy, as do I, knowing this represents our final meeting.  Dramatic change is on your horizon and what you have learned at Elysium School is important, but represents minimal knowledge compared to what you will learn from here forward.  Your parents are highly skilled and will guide you into a life of self-reliance and subsistence.  You will be impressed at the efficiency of your community.  Knowledge gained at Elysium will blend with genetic traits merging with daily life developed over generations among those who have proven a system opposing previous destructive eras.  
“It would gratify me to receive correspondence describing how your lives are impacted by what you have learned here and what you will learn when you return to your settlements.  It will be a
grand day when you arrive back to your place of birth.  There will be celebration, music, and fine food will be served.  That day will never be forgotten.  I wish I could share that moment with you.”
Sara rose, with tears in her eyes.  “Christopher, its important to us that you are aware of our depth of appreciation for your lessons.  This bond is felt by all of us and it is my pledge to communicate what occurs as we venture into our new life.”
The remainder of the class stood and clapped and I could barely hold back tears.  It was a sensuous moment.
The students left within a week to return to their respective villages.  They arrived at Elysium School ten years ago and had not seen their parents since that time.  They corresponded using electronic mail, documenting experiences and progress.  Quality academic preparation is a vital contributor toward communal symbiosis, which forms the foundation for communal development.  It is imperative that these young men and women approach their future with knowledge reaching beyond raising crops and daily manual work.  They are now prepared academically, increasing strength to cope with challenges, which are certain to appear.  No cities remain in these current times, and over many years restructuring urban zones has been attempted and always failed.
This new simplistic design reconnects components lost during warring and overconsumption eras, plagued with greed orientation
and extreme overpopulation.  Altruistic rebirth embraces Earth’s reverence, in praise and spiritual synchrony.  Growing food, carrying water, gathering firewood for heat and cooking and weaving hemp into fabric heightens social presence, forming a bonding link, enhancing a sense of personal worth lost during previous societal impairment, influenced by excess, and government’s drive toward domination.  Confidence is gained through knowledge, framed by desire to become self-sustaining, outlined in opposition to historical failed social formats.   
Message from Sara: “Christopher: My dear teacher and friend.  When you spoke of life’s escalation upon return to our birthplace, I failed to comprehend its magnitude.  To imagine the impact of what you attempted to explain is impossible.  This experience exposes an entirely different view revealing meaningful direction.  In brief, it’s like receiving a beautiful surprise each morning when I awaken.  I would not appreciate the worth of this experience without Elysium School’s curriculum learning of the labyrinthine pathway, leading to this opportunity. 
“I work in our family garden and also contribute tending our communal garden.  My brother is a master hemp artisan converting hemp into cloth for clothing.  We grow and preserve organic foods and place great importance on meals and their preparation.  We have two wells with hand pumps to serve the community and carry
water.  Our small houses are heated with woodstoves and we have composing toilets.  Solar panels provide power for our community center, where we have access to electronic communication used for research and to send messages to the Alliance and also friends.  
“The most stimulating time is the evening, when village members meet in the communal area as a means of celebrating the day’s achievements, including discussions of daily work and plans for the next day.  Everyone plays a musical instrument, and several are chosen each evening to perform.  Music creates an ideal mood for the day’s conclusion.  
“Christopher, I may never see you again and this saddens me.  Your teachings penetrated us at Elysium School.  I wish you could meet my parents; they amaze me displaying knowledge to gain the most from our simplistic life.
“Please write when you have time.  I would enjoy hearing from you to learn about your new classes.  Your devoted student, Sara”
A few days later Sara received a message from Christopher.
“Dear Sara: Such a joy to receive your message.  I am delighted to hear your life is tracking as it is.  Teaching centers my life, offering a sense of value.  All those years in the field with fellow scientists culminated to this place and time and I am grateful.  Student interaction offers meaning, and the satisfaction and I receive is equal to what I may give.  
“The Alliance encourages teachers to spend a week each summer visiting community sites to rendezvous with former students and give presentations on various subjects, including status at Elysium School.  I plan to visit your community this coming summer, planning to stay a week.  It gives me something to look forward to and also a break from academia. 
“I will give you date and time when the arrangement is finalized.  What a grand day it will be to see you, meet your parents and learn of your life.  Christopher”
Christopher was transported to the trailhead to Aspen Village on the morning of June 10th and Sara was waiting as his guide.
“Christopher, I’m over here, I estimated your arrival time.  This is so wonderful; I can’t believe you’re really here.  I’ll carry your large pack and you carry the smaller pack.  It’s a two-hour hike to the village.  My parents are beside themselves to meet you.  You will stay in the guest room at the community center.  Everyone has been talking about your visit.  It’s so exciting for us.”
Smiling, Christopher hugged Sara.  “I am excited to be here.  It’s a beautiful place, so many aspen trees.”
Sara said, “My parents names are Edward and Sally Morgan.  They wanted to come, but I asked them not to because I wanted our first meeting at this place to be teacher and student reuniting.  I feel
so good about your visit.  So much to talk about, to see and discuss with everyone.”
The two started up the trail, a slight uphill, and then flattened out.  It was a warm day, and many birds and wildflowers were along the trail.  Sara talked as they hiked, explaining details of the village and its functions. 
“Several volunteered to prepare a celebration dinner held at our communal meeting house and a few older residents will speak, expressing appreciation for you arranging time to travel to our village.  It’s all everyone talks about.”
Soon the village came in view, a beautiful setting.  Small houses scattered in a dale among aspen.  As they approached a man and woman greeted them, introducing themselves as Edward and Sally.
Shaking Christopher’s hand Edward said, “Christopher, Sally and I are delighted you were able to visit.  It’s all Sara has talked about for days.  You will enjoy this place and we look forward to anything you share with us.” 
Christopher said, “I am honored to meet you both.  This is a rare opportunity and will be a memorable one.”
Sally said, “Christopher, we will show you your room at the communal center and then tour the village and you can meet everyone.  It’s a beautiful day and we will have lunch at our house.  You’ll meet our son William at the hemp shed where he works daily
sorting and processing hemp.  He’s responsible for tending the hemp field, receiving assistance during planting and harvest.”
Sara made introductions and served as tour guide, the residents were abuzz about Christopher’s arrival and happy to meet him.  A wonderful celebration dinner was held at the communal center, and after the dinner Christopher spoke.  
“Greetings!  This has been a day to remember.  It’s my first visit to a village and it’s exciting for me.  
“I was never offered opportunity to live in a village.  After my education the Alliance assigned me to a team of archeological researchers and I spent thirty years pursing this endeavor, studying the meandering evolutionary road of humankind.  Your daily living pattern is similar to mine as an archeologist.  Our research group reflected what your village life demonstrates, a complete team effort.   
“Many contributing events and issues have influenced our direction divulging a central question: How can we, as a species, blend more uniformly with the planet and ourselves?  We recognized the need for adjustment, bonding within our environment as opposed to shunning it.  As society developed to what was perceived a modern design, it attempted to redirect environmental conditions toward greater personal ease of living, distancing from physical challenges required, coexisting with Earth.  
“We are cognizant of the series of events causing near self-destruction, and these events clearly stimulated installation of improved guidelines created through Alliance-inspired wisdom.
“Our new approach mirrors nature’s design.  Ancient cultures also unified with earthly cycles.  Typically, credit for our success is given to the Alliance for this new direction; however, Earth’s presence revealed purpose, and the Alliance recognized the importance of its natural rhythms, establishing a philosophical base forming a synthesis as opposed to resistance.  Earth knows exactly what it is doing, where it has been, and where it is going.  Our planet is our spiritual Oracle as we follow its lead.  As with all life forms, we mutate to conditions in an effort to sustain and expand as a species in companionship with Earth.   
“Near the end of my student’s curriculum, I requested communication describing how their lives unfold as they adjust to new challenges.  Many responded, but Sara was especially diligent describing vividly all involved in her daily life.  Her communication inspired me to visit and touch your lives in this beautiful village.  I am pleased beyond my ability to express and will remain forever grateful for your wonderful hospitality.  Thank you all.”  
The villagers cheered and the entire event was fulfilling and meaningful.  Christopher returned to teaching and the village
returned to its routines.  At this space in time tranquility, harmony and balance have been discovered and longevity prevails.
Long ago, when The Pilgrims of Tranquility were beginning to establish this new model, the Alliance and the Pilgrims shared much doubt and apprehension.  The complication of large-scale genetic design seemed insurmountable, and no clear course appeared.  Many on the planet at that time remained trapped in the old system and its intense, dysfunctional complexities.  The Pilgrim’s success by example was the eventual influence that activated expansion.  They discovered methods of complete self-reliance, and learned new techniques toward detachment from the old system.  Their intelligence expanded creative new ideas and goals.  They worked as a unit, pertaining to ambition toward a better world for the future.  
Christopher sent Sara a copy of the journal describing The Pilgrim’s first year living in their commune.  Also included a photo of Caleb and Marlene before they had children.  They looked so young and vibrant, standing at the entrance of a domed house.  Sara put this photo on the wall in her room.  It gave her comfort maintaining her memory of reading of Caleb and Marlene’s life, and formed a higher connection with these two historic pioneers of peace and tranquility.  
In the days following Christopher’s departure, Sara became more astute to her life and its value each day.  She felt more attached
to the animals and birds that shared her life.  A meadowlark was singing on a high limb of an aspen tree.  A doe and fawn, unafraid and accustomed to human presence, were grazing near a couple as they hoed their garden.  
Sara had been educated at Elysium School but this new classroom was of a higher dimension, with greater purpose, in a cradle of love and meaning that could not be taught in a typical school setting.  White, billowy clouds filled the sky, opening with patches of blue.  Nearby was a catbird perched in a thorn bush, as a stick bug sat motionless unseen by the keen eyed catbird, all combining to create Sara’s world, as she felt the energy of Earth’s beckoning hand, showing clear direction toward the future.            
 

Music and Me

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Music and me have a love-hate relationship. I would have needed a good ear and understanding for music to fulfill lifetime dreams. At the age of four, I joined a local dance and gymnastics school in my hometown Berlin. I did well. I became  my teacher’s pet and already at that oh so young age picked up on celebrity airs. I danced in the Midsummer Night’s Dream and went for a joyride on actor Kurt Meisel’s motorcycle. At age 11, I was accepted to the Berlin Opera and at age 12, I was let go with the comment, “She has no ear for music.”  Ouch, that hurt. But I had known it along, just did not admit it.

Music lessons at school were demeaning. I could not sing a simple song, could not hold a tune. I got failing marks through all grades. Oddly enough, when evacuated to Vienna – the City of Music -- during the second World War, I earned a B-plus in music. I sang the song “Ein Jaeger aus Kurpfalz” – a hunter from Kurpfalz. I can still remember every word of the song.

I love to listen to good music.  I attended many opera’s like Tannhäuser and Twilight of the Gods, and concerts by Mozart. I idolized the Schumann’s  Traumerei and  Schubert’s Forellenquintett.

A dear friend of mine was Charles Kalman. He passed away last year. He was the son of the Hungarian born Operetta King Emmerich Kalman.  His wife, Charles‘ mother, Vera Kalman was said to be the richest woman in Germany.  Charlie was a composer himself. And a  good one I might say. This, not based on my knowledge of music, but on the crititiques I’ve read about him. My husband and I socialized frequently with Charles and Gerda while they lived in New York. Gerda was my friend from Berlin. It was through her that I came to meet Charlie. We spent many hours listening to Charlie presenting new and older musical pieces -- mostly his own creations --  for which he asked our opinions. I went by my feeling and Charlie never came to know that I was not a very valid critic. 

He played on his father’s Steinway concert piano. When he and Gerda permanently moved to Munich, Germany, the piano stayed with us. No problem. It looked quite impressive in our living room in the Bronx. A few years later, we moved to Long Island and the piano came with us. Now it was totally out of place, and we had to squeeze by whenever we wanted to pass it. I let my chiropractor have it with the promise that he would never sell it. We had a big fallout years later and I do not know what has happened to the piano. I have tried to forget about it, but I still get upset when I remember. 

Gerda Kalman passed away many years back and Charles married Ruth, the widow of Herbert Jarzyk, who composed the soundtrack for the movie Kommissar. 

Another incident that I relate to the music world was my encounter with Maria Callas, the famous opera star. As a flight attendent,  I rescued 50 velvety dark roses from the overhead rack of the Pan American plane. The roses had been given to Maria Callas by the Greek shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis. I had been assigned to serve first class and Maria Callas. 

When she got ready to leave the plane in Teheran, I removed the roses  intentending to hand them to her. She motioned with her bejeweled hand that she did not want them. We had a layover in Teheran, so I took the roses, and while the sun was setting on the mountains near my hotel, I looked at the flowers and wondered about the idiosynchrosies of celebrities. 

So as one can see, music has had some influence on my life. Surely different than for true music lovers, but it gave me stories to tell. I envy people who are very musical --people who live with and for music. But I have made the best of it. For me, poetry has become music and that will have to suffice.

LET’S GO ROCK SOME OPERA!


Essay by Vocal Pedagogue Charles E.J. Moulton

 
         The famous mezzosoprano vocalizes before her performance, meditating, warming up physically, training her breathing, making sure that the high notes as well as the low notes are there. She has to reach a range of well over two octaves tonight and the audience is waiting for her to sing. That is reason enough to be nervous, no doubt. Without her vocal technique, though, it wouldn’t work. This is routine.
            Is this the account of the normal workday of an established primadonna at the Metropolitan Opera in New York? No, this is pop star Annie Lennox on tour, warming up with the excersises given to her by star vocal coach Katie Agresta. Like hundreds of other established pop stars, like Bon Jovi and Cindy Lauper, she has spent hours in the 119 West 88th Street studio performing vocalises.
            So, why is it that so many of us miss that? Because the cultural education today either is lacking or only partial. A publisher I spoke to recently claimed that, in this informed time, it is superfluous to address the issue because 1) it is evident to all musicians and 2) the categorization can’t be changed. But if all individuals think that way, humanity would still be living in caves and hunting animals with spears. Misunderstandings, false stereotypes, categorization and clichés dominate even, or maybe especially, the artistic field. The problem is that there still is a lack of openness. Culturally active musicians know crossover is common, but raising cultural awareness outside of the field also raises sociological decency.
            The issue must be addressed.
As a baritone working all my life in most artistic areas, I have had the questionable privilage of seeing people making wrong assumptions in both camps. Working with my peers on a vocal arrangement of a pop song, originally performed by the King’s Singers, I saw opera singers grant themselves enough reason to discard the music and laugh at it, just because of the style. However, its merit sometimes outweighed many modern atonal pieces, pieces regarded as high culture because of its established acceptance.
            Likewise, many pop- and musical-artist speak of operasingers as “fat people who just sing”, whereas operasingers speak of musical-artists as “actors who can’t sing”.
            These are lies.
            I am here to tell you that.
            But the lies don’t stop there. Shows like American Idol claim that anyone can become a singer, but the criteria for singing professionally are so high that these singers never ever could hold a career. So, media helps nourish the lies.
The grey zones between the styles are getting bigger. Back in the old days, when rock ‘n roll was new and youth culture meant bubble gum and pelvic gyrations, classical musicians received their gold stars in society’s pretty book. Pop stars sometimes got more attention, but the operatic performers received all the credit.
            But was it ever really like that?
            No. Classically trained artists have always existed in every genre. In fact, more pop stars have a classical training today than is believed to be true. That’s why artistic quality can be viewed completely independant of genre. Qualified artists exist in every style. Not only do I believe in this hypothesis, but more importantly: it is easily proven.
Musicians, like myself, know that Neil Sedaka graduated from Julliard and that Ravel wrote pop songs under a pseudonym. We know that Elvis Presley had a fully sung two-octave range in many of his tunes and that Caruso had a pop hit during World War I.
We have to know the facts. We are musicians and we want work. Accordingly, we sometimes find success in other genres, such as classical mezzo-soprano Reri Grist, who was a Shark girl in the orginal West Side Story, but who also appeared at Covent Garden.
That is the problem: these facts stay within our profession.
To us, this is so evident that we discard anything else as a cliché.
To a person who only listens to opera, the categories are strictly defined and artists never travel between genres. The difficulty is this: they see music as an elitist, hierarchical artform, one where classical musicians stay classical and pop musicians stay pop musicians. These people still regard The Beatles as young people’s music, even though it is fifty or sixty years old. They will only listen to Wagner and they shake their heads when they hear a Gershwin tune. If you are such a person, read on. You are about to wake up.
Competition breeds excellence, a financial crisis breeds diversity and invention. That is why, during these hard times where creative work is a rare commodity, there is an increasing need to branch out. Artists need to be versatile in order to survive.
Not getting a job as an actor? Do you write? Teach? Do voice-over-work? Dance? Well, have you studied voice? If you have, what genres do you sing? Opera? Classical? Musical? Swing? Pop? Rock? Heavy Metal? This is no joke. If you are good, you do it all.
Evidently, the singer that masters all of these genres will get more jobs.
The more, the merrier.
With a solid classical training, a voice is able to master anything. Not only do the artists themselves feel this way, the theatrical directors are casting musicals like The Phantom of the Opera, Oklahoma or Into the Woods with classical voices. If you work in a repertory company, you have to be able to sing everything. And I really do mean everything. An opera singer will always have several musicals in his theatrical assignment list. There might even be a run of Tommy or The Rocky Horror Show among them. He will probably even be asked to sing a pop-concert for the theatre in addition to his Verdi, his Mozart and the occasional atonal opera.
On top of that, opera singers are today promoted like pop-stars. There is no big difference in the PR done for Cecilia Bartoli and the promotion for Annie Lennox.
Think about it.
Okay, we have established the need for versatility and the rocksingers who study for Katie Agresta. But does this also account for instrumentalists? Of course, the list of pianists with a solid classical training, for instance, is long. Among them are Elton John, Joshua Kadison and Billy Joel. The latter named comes from an old family filled with musicians. His father was a classical pianist, his brother is a famous conductor and Billy himself is credited in warming up with Chopin and Mozart before shows. Rock-guitarist Yngwie Malmsteen has written symphonies for the Tokyo Symphony Orchestra, copies Bach and has recorded workshops for YouTube about the art of studying phrygian scales. Paul MacCartney has written oratories. He even paints, but that, of course, is another story.
But classical training among popular musicians goes back an even longer way. Scott Joplin was a classically trained pianist. Here, we enter a grey zone. Joplin’s Treemonisha and Gershwin’s Porgy & Bess, for the most part, have to be cast with opera singers. The demands are simply too high for non-trained voices. Stylistically, however, we are talking about African-American music, jazz and the like.
Other artists have entered this grey zone: Leonard Bernstein, with his West Side Story, and Barbra Streisand, with her classical album, are among them.
Furthermore: don’t forget that Steven Tyler starts out with a high C in his Aerosmith song Dude (Looks Like a Lady). The high C is naturally not of the same calibre as Pavarotti’s, but Tyler has to sing it two-hundred times a year. Of course, he needs Katie Agresta to survive. Otherwise, you would find him professionally dead.
Okay. So, rock goes opera, but does opera go rock?
Yes, of course.
Wagnerian tenor Peter Hoffman became Germany’s top Musical Star during the 90’s. From there on, he started singing rock ‘n roll. He still never forgot his classical training. Freddie Mercury wrote numerous songs for Monserrat Cabellé during the last century and I am sure she learned how to groove from Freddie. And don’t forget the Pavarotti & Friends-concerts. Naturally, again, many of the popsingers that sing with Luciano here lack a real classical training and when the tenor sang a popsong he lacked the certain bounce of a rocksong. The point, however, is that the grey zones are widening. Where does one genre begin? Where does the other end? German operasinger Lars Oliver Rühl, leading Tamino at the opera in Gelsenkirchen, started out as a rocksinger.
That leads us to a third category. The musicians who are famous for mixing up the two. Norwegian Soprano Dollie de Luxe released a series of recordings in 1984, where she morphed Mozart with the Rolling Stones. The most exotic combination is her intermingling of Verdi’s Rigoletto with the rock-song Sex, Drugs and Rock ‘n Roll. Finnish vocalist Tarja Turunen follows in her footsteps in our age.
Much of the preconceived conceptions of music has to do with how old a music style is. A contemporary of Mozart was credited in complaining about how awful “this modern music” was and “Thank God for Bach”. Strawinsky’s Rite of Spring was a disaster because of its atonality, Carmen flopped because of its theme.
Of course, it is natural for people to accept the artform that has a few years of history behind it. Remembering that, however, we have to look at how old popular music is. It came to us, in reality, with the Afro-American tradition of the slaves singing Negro Sprituals on the fields. That became Ragtime, Jazz, Swing, R & B, Rock ‘n Roll, Hip-Hop and Disco. In that respect, Lenny Kravitz is playing music that is four hundred years old.
Classically trained opera conductor Askan Geisler told me, full of admiration, about the instrumental jazz improvisations in a club.
“That’s a whole different thing,” he told me. “They make up this stuff as they long and they never forget their classical training.”
            We have to remember that music works both ways: Verdi’s tunes were whistled by Italian janitors on the streets of Milano, Mozart’s biggest successes as an adult were performed for a lower middle class crowd.
            In conclusion, we see that nothing is what it seems. The borders of music are like the borders in life: there are endless grey zones and no one can say where the one style ends and the other begins. The most professional fun I ever had in my thirty years on stage was during my time as 1st cast Big Bopper in the Hamburg production of Buddy. Between two shows, I flew to Vienna to sing Raphael in Haydn’s The Creation.
Next time you see a rockstar sing his song, remember that he probably is studying classical voice with Miss Agresta. Instead of discarding him as an autodidactic nitwit, use these words to present him instead:
Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s performance of rock music is presented for your pleasure by our lead tenorial vocalist with a four gentlemen orchestra and a chorus of three sopranos.
Change the world of music, use the idiom from one style to describe the other genre.
We are left with Duke Ellington’s famous words to round things off:
“There are only two kinds of music: good music and the other kind.”
How right he was.
Let’s go rock some opera!
 
 

Lasting Influences

By Alexandra Rodrigues


It suddenly came to me. Sandy hit and left me with half a house and the loss of many cherished antiques and heirlooms. When going through the house and looking at what was left, my comment to my son was, “This is terrible, but it could be worse.” 

He had expected me to cry and cuss and it surprised him to see me so relatively calm. Guess having been through the War where my family had lost everything and when I was branded as “enemy of the Volk” because my dad was Jewish, let me see disasters like Sandy with a grain of salt. Also having my son next to me, when experiencing the Sandy disaster, consoled me. 

In addition, the past had nearly prevented me from ever being a mother. This had nothing to do with war but was caused by an incident when I was about four years old.  A happening that imprinted itself on my developing mind. My Aunt Edith died at the young age of 32. I’d heard how she had adored and loved me. Too young to be told true facts about her illness, I picked up only bits and pieces. We had all lived I the same villa, and her boyfriend visited frequently. It was said that he might have been at fault. After having been operated on at the hospital, Aunt Edith had gotten out of bed unsupervised. She fainted and never regained consciousness. 

Her portrait hung in our living room over a well-worn red leather chair. Her story occupied my mind for a long time.  Sometimes I even wondered if maybe she was my mother as there was so much secrecy around this tragedy.  While growing up, my mind fabricated the story that she had been pregnant, had encountered complications and after being cut had died. I never was told if what I was thinking had any substance. The topic never came up despite visits to her grave many times. However, due to this tragedy I was consumed by an irrational fear of becoming pregnant.  Even after having gotten married, my husband and I agreed not to have children. I never said, “I cannot have children.” But many friends and relatives assumed that to be the case.  At 38, I suddenly realized that soon it would not be up to me to have a child. That scared me more than any danger from giving birth. Pregnancy followed and with natural birth being promoted for the first time, I took lessons in La Maze, had an easy pregnancy, and gave natural birth. 

After that, my fear reverted to avoiding full anesthesia and prefer a saddle block if need be. Amazing how experiences at a very young age can influence a lifetime.

Making Music


Reflections over my career and life as an artist
 
Published letter / article to 'STÄMBANDET' - The Magazine for the Swedish Vocal & Speech Pedagogue Association from 2003.
 
By Gun Kronzell-Moulton

Operatic Mezzo-Soprano, Concert- and Oratorio-Singer , Professor of Solo Voice at the Vienna Academy of Music and the Performing Arts. English translation by Herbert Moulton. Further translations and additions by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
Dear Colleagues!
 
I'm delighted to have a chance to write to you again. It's been over ten years since my last article. At that time I told you about my work in Vienna as Professor of Voice at the State Academy of Music.
Now I intend to take you on a little journey of reminiscence, hoping to touch on some of the people who have influenced me most as human being, singer, and pedagogue.
During my student time in Stockholm --- up until 1958 --- I was privileged to work with many fascinating people:
One of these was Ǻke Nygren, unforgettable for his lessons in Speech Technique, as well as for his uncanny ability to remember each and every student he ever had. Shortly before his death he attended a recital of mine at Waldemarsudde, after which he came back, shaking with laughter: "Have you seen the mistake in the programme?"
What they had done was write 'Rangström's The Only Student (Den Enda Studenten)' instead of 'The Only Hour (Den Enda Stunden)'. A fortnight later he was dead from a heart attack. A splendid and unforgettable man.
Wilhelm Freund was an unbelievably fine teacher of German Lieder, as well as an outstanding personality. Every time I travelled down to Germany he asked me to bring him some Pumpernickel and Harz cheese.
Bernhard Lilja taught Solfeggio Ear Schooling at the Academy and was one of my very favourites, not only for his splendid instruction, but also because his lessons were always so hilarious. We roared with laughter through most of them.
From Isa Quensel I learned a great deal --- a magnificent woman full of temperament and a passion for fair play. She was a fabulous actress and speech pedagogue and I know I would never have become such a successful actress as a singer if it hadn’t been for Isa.
My final year in Stockholm brought me to the legendary Russian pedagogue Madame Andrejewa de Skilondz: a fascinating atmosphere steeped in Russian culture provided by her two round little sisters, an Angora cat and a Pekingese on a silken cushion. Surely many of you are with the many intriguing tales about the Madame, who, when still very young, sang with Caruso.
Torsten Föllinger, my dear old friend and collegue, whom I met during a course being given by Professor Josef Witt in Stockholm, has, with his tremendous enthusiasm and knowledge of human nature, always meant more to me than I can say.
Part of my income during my student days came from church music. Often I'd go to various organizations and ask if I could sing at a church service or concert. Many times, especially out in the country, I came home with a sack of coins from the collection!
Naturally all the student concerts at the old Academy were worth hearing: almost every week a delightfully mixed program of classics. One concert I recall in particular featured Georg Riedel playing his famous double-bass. Lasse Länndahl is another one.
In 1959 a Ruud Scholarship enabled me to travel down to Wiesbaden to study with Professor Paul Lohmann, one of the individuals who influenced me most. I still use many of his exercises in my work. The extraordinary thing is that, after so many years, their meaning suddenly becomes so crystal clear that you know precisely what he wanted from them. Paul Lohmann was a true sorcerer, with a vast amount of humour.
With every new engagement I took pains to find a teacher with the wisdom to guide my voice in the right way. In Bielefeld there was Herman Firchow, who, besides being a source of valuable advice, had a family who soon were among my best friends ... and good honest friends are something we all need.
Every Sunday during these three years in Bielefeld found me working at Bethel, the renowned institution for mentally handicapped children. This provided a perfect balance with my work at the theatre and gave my life a secure and solid meaning.
The four succeeding years at Hanover were the busiest of all, with my repertoire expanding to include many of the great Wagner- and Verdi-roles such as Ortrud, Brangäne, Eboli, Ulrica, Abigaille, Azucena, and Preziosilla .
At the same time --- in order to keep the voice healthy and fresh --- I studied Brahms Lieder with the legendary pianist Sebastian Peschko, who had been the regular accompanist of Heinrich Schlusnus. He had me write down everything we did together, and for this I shall be eternally grateful as these notes have been a source of untold benefit ever since.
As voice teacher in Hanover I had Otto Köhler, a worthy colleague, then seventy years of age and still singing splendidly at the opera. Sometimes we did vocal exercises for four hours together --- Heaven! Later, when I was engaged in Graz and at the Volksoper in Vienna, I went to Kammersängerin Hilde Zadek, who always came to all my premieres, and has continued to do so to my student concerts in Vienna.
Quite soon after our son Charlie's birth in September of 1969, I was asked to create the role of Adriano in a new production of Wagner's RIENZI, with the strongly imaginative Stage Director from Vienna's Burg Theater, Adolf Rott --- a marvellous role and a fantastic assignment, but extremely dramatic and taxing for the voice, especially so soon after my caesarean! So, I turned to Professor Eugenie Ludwig (Christa's mother), whose wondrous head resonance exercises brought the voice clear up to the high C, even with a heavy cold!
In Graz we shared a two-family theatre house with the Australian soprano Althea Bridges, and her Danish-born husband. And precisely in September 1969 each of us gave birth to a son at the very time we should have been appearing as Leonora and Azucena in a new Trovatore-production. You can imagine how popular that made us with the management!
We spent the ten years dating from 1974 in Göteborg, where I was engaged at the Music Acedemy, and, with my husband, wrote and staged a Children's Play named LONG LIVE THE TROLLS! , where Charlie also had his professional stage debut as the clumsy troll Klampe-Lampe. I also taught disc jockeys on the Stena Line-ferries, as well as teachers to Chinese immigrants.
Besides all that, I jumped at a day's notice at the Gothenburg Opera into the role of Ulrica (Mamzelle Arvidsson) in Verdi's MASKED BALL, singing it in Swedish for the first time, after having already performed it in both German and the original Italian. Added to that, there were every summer intensive church music courses, hard work, but fun and rewarding.
All these varied activities gave me a ready-made and invaluable backlog of experience when I was made a fulltime Professor of Voice at Vienna's State Academy of Music and the Performing Arts in the autumn of 1984 --- this, after a trial lesson before some thirty voice teachers --- both gratifying and rewarding .
At first I was so taken with all the various nationalities around me at the Academy that I took on a class of twenty different students, but with the passage of time I narrowed it down to only those I myself had prepared or who had convinced me of their future potential .
Entrance examinations in Sweden are considerably more difficult than in Austria, as we Swedes are a singing people with a singular feeling for speech and song. However, it's also clear that to sing German as, say, Fritz Wunderlich did is indeed wonderful. He once confided that he sang German as if it were Italian!
Since the fall of the Wall our problems have been entirely different here. Russians, Poles, Bulgarians, Romanians, Croats, Slovenes, and the like are all extremely talented and musically prepared, but with so little money that the barely come up to the existence-minimum.
 
To return now to some welcome visitors:
 
Torsten Föllinger sometimes journeys down here to help us achieve more vocal freedom, as well as self-esteem.
 
The Russian basso Nesterenko gave a course for our students, an outstanding singer, who also presented me with a book of exercises for the bass voice, which had been used in Russia since 1915.
Ingrid Bjoner was also here a few years ago for a seminar and impressed everyone with her depth of understanding, especially for individual students.
 
For a few years I had a brilliant young Hungarian girl as a student, who suddenly became Luciano Pavarotti's right hand and general Girl Friday for a period of seven years, travelling with him the world over. Thanks to her, not only did I have free tickets for his concerts and opera performances, but also had many opportunities to meet with him and attend some of his rehearsals, not only instructive but endlessly fascinating.
 
The positive advantages of living in Vienna are not so much the old-fashioned teaching and traditions, but the enormous bill-of-fare readily available in terms of international concerts operatic performances, theatre and dance events of every possible type. We have also enjoyed several visits by Kjell 'Mr.Choir' Lönnâ and his large, delightful and enthusiastic singing ensembles. Besides performing 'Haus-Musik' in the Swedish Embassy (as I have done numerous times), the success they scored in St. Stephen Cathedral verged on the sensational. Then, too, Stockholm's Radio Orchestra, Drottningholm's Baroque Ensemble, and also the Maestro Eric Ericsson, with whom I sang in the 50's, all of whom have concertized here to great applause. And it's always a joy to meet with any of them are my old colleagues from home.
 
My husband Herbert Moulton has long been associated with ORF School's Radio, as well as with both English-speaking theatres, the International (where he played everything from Shakespeare to Wilder and Orwell and the Uncle in Charlie's Aunt) and Vienna's English Theatre, the latter serving high-quality performances from London (Ayckborn, Shakespeare, Christie) or the States (such as Second City) for large and distinguished public. He has a versatile background in all fields of art: as a playwright and actor , singer of everything from simple folk tunes to 'Grand Opera' and has done commercials and been in films with the likes of Audrey Landers, Alan Rickman, David Warner, Clint Eastwood and Zsa-Zsa Gabor.
 
Inspired by all this and early stage-work as well as years of concerting in his back-pocket, our son Charles E.J. Moulton's career has advanced from theatre projects and small roles in Vienna's Chamber Opera (Offenbach, Gershwin, Vives, etc.) to a two-and-a-half year's run of Roman 'Rosemary's Baby' Polanski's Broadway-destined World Premiere 'Grusical' DANCE OF THE VAMPIRES, written by Webber-collaborator Jim Steinman . At present he is playing the first cast role of The Big Bopper in Hamburg's long running musical BUDDY in Germany, from which he recently took time off to fly down to Vienna for two concerts as bass-soloist in Joseph Haydn's THE CREATION (once in the Haydn Museum, the baroque house where Papa Haydn wrote the piece) then to Sweden for a tour of church concerts with famous Swedish all-round saxophonist Johan Stengård, followed by a most rewarding week at a Master-Class outside Oslo in Norway, a seminar featuring the eminences of Ingrid Bjoner and Håkan Hagegård . He spent a half year cruising the Caribbean and Mediterranean seas as a singing soloist, after which he joined the company of Jesus Christ Superstar in the Bad Hersfelder Festival. Before joining the Dutch Stage Holding Corporation to play Scar and Pumbaa in Disney's THE LION KING in Hamburg, he was soloist with the city’s Mozart Orchestra, performing Rossini and Bizet.
 
One great blessing for me is having had the good fortune to meet and get to know a magnificent Franciscan monk in Salzburg back in 1953. He has ever since enriched my life with good advice and the deep understanding that a true Christian vocation can provide.
 
As a resting-place next to the productive lives that we all have enjoyed, mine is, has been and always will be my home town of Kalmar. This city, with its grand 12th century castle and seaside lifestyle and my many friends and relatives, has been my lifelong summer-home and will always be so. Since my 1998 retirement I have enjoyed not only more freedom as a pedagogue and singer but as a globetrotter as well, travelling not only more to Sweden but to my friends in Germany, Hungary and Ireland as well. Living in Vienna, Austria is, on the other hand, also a blessing. I can, therefore, heartily welcome you here and to my Studio in the second district with all God's blessings.     
 
As I think back over my life, I see now how tremendously important it is to never lose sight of why we do what we do. Why we are engaged in Making Music. This is not only a nine-to-five job. If it were we might as well stand as cashiers in a mall. It is an attitude, a vocation, a life-style. We search for the deepest part within us and dwell within its mysteries, taming our technique, bettering ourselves as people to make us finer as artists, generously sharing with others the benefits of our experience, giving our public love and joy with it all and leaving our hearers nobler with the experience. Art is calling forth emotions and making people believe in life again. As such, and if done right, this is the noblest of all professions.
 
 
 
 
 

What is the Meaning of Life

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



I feel like I am working with the “Black Cat Analogy.”   Let me quickly quote:

Philosophy is like being in a dark room and looking for a black cat.

Metaphysics is like being in a dark room and looking for a black cat that isn’t there.

Theology is like being in a dark room and looking for a black cat that isn’t there, shouting : ”I found it!”


"Science is like being in a dark room and looking for a black cat using a flashlight." - By Irreverent Monk

What are we looking for?  The meaning of my life?  Of your life?  Of my dog’s life?  

The life of a Dinosaur or of a New York City Rat?

We have the habit to believe that the world spins around us, with us in the center and us being the center. Well just think how many worlds it would take to spin around everybody in our Universe.

So let’s start again.  The meaning of which life is in question?   That of a flower?  Surely a flower is meant to please us with fragrant smell and vibrant color.  That of a tree?  Its purpose is to give shade when the sun is too strong, to give wood to make a fire, to give fruit –But stop!  It also gave the first forbidden fruit! 
Was it meant to tempt Adam?

An animal?  Is the meaning of a pig’s life to be slaughtered and served with an apple in its mouth to be eaten by men?

Are most dogs meant to befriend us?  What do we mean when we say “It’s a dog’s life.”

Who is to judge?  There are specks of evolution being passed on from generation to generation striving for the ultimate perfection in eternity. Which is what?

As a teenager I read, Kant, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer. Their long winding sentences are tempered with the same question. I was only 16 years old when I worked myself laboriously thru the enormous volumes of those books, not really sure what I was hoping to find. 
Having finished those enormous works, I did not know any better.

Tom Dooley, Mother Theresa, and Jesus are just a few names of non-movie celebrities coming to mind among many who accomplished great deeds. Who or what gave them their drive?  Are Meaning and Purpose identical?

Maybe we are toys for an Almighty power.  Possibly the very earliest attempt of cloning.
Is the true meaning of life written in the stars?

Still at a loss, I am closing with a saying by Eckhart Tolle:

You are the universe, expressing itself as a human being for a little while.

The Rigoletto Caper

By the Late, Great

Herbert Eyre Moulton

(1927 - 2005)
 
Posthumous foreword by his son Charles E.J. Moulton

When I was 11 years old, my father and I spent our first of three vacations in Copenhagen, Denmark. These trips became gastronomical and cultural highlights for us both. In fact, they were one of the many reasons why I became an artist in the first place. Rossini's "Il Barbiere di Siviglia", Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker" and an uncut version of William Shakespeare's "Hamlet" in the Danish language: all of these extraordinary pieces became my own experiences, figuratively speaking, by my father's artistic side, because of his happy-go-lucky, natural way of approaching highly artistic pieces.
The production of "Hamlet" at the Royal Danish Theatre, though, received its humorous announcement through one of the charming ladies in the box office. When we picked up the tickets for the evening, she told us that "Hamlet" was "a very good Danish play". I grew up, listening and watching Shakespeare plays and the like, at the time. Thus: I, too, laughed.
My father reacted in his charming Mid-Atlantic idiom, responding with a charming smile:  "Well, Madam, it is also a very good English play."
In retrospect, I see that my father was the best of both worlds. His fine combination of high intellectualism and self depricating wit: that was his trademark.
The story that you are about to read, written by his own hand sometime in the 1990’s, took place when he was a young boy, newly adolescent, his courage and schutzpah driving the nuns at the Catholic school of St. Cuthbert's crazy. The mixture of high culture and wit, well developed when I was child, was very present already when my father was a boy.
His artistic and educated upbringing, nonetheless, came from a genuine parental interest in knowledge persay, not in the arrogant showing off of the same. His mother Nell Brennan Eyre was a eccentric, wonderfully enthusiastic lady, who loved chatting with people over a glass of beloved Irish whiskey. His father Herbert Lewis Moulton's tranquil manner probably gave my father his gentlemanly charm. It made it possible for him to experience becoming the witty storyteller persay, becoming the intellectual bon-vivant that he remained for the rest of his life.
He convinced people with self-irony and love, a creative urge and an excellent idiomatic articulation, that art and high culture can be the most fun you've ever had.
Art, in fact, is in eye of the beholder.
That is why, during our vacations in Denmark, we went to the movie house and saw films like "War Games" (in English, with the computer’s voice in baffling Danish) and "For Your Eyes Only" on the days following our operatic visits. We liked fast food and haute cuisine, high drama and decorative entertainment.
Our excursion to see "For Your Eyes Only" was especially witty. We were sitting in our favorite Italian restaurant close to the opera house, when I saw an announcement in the daily paper that Roger Moore's new Bond film was out. I had to do a little bit of convincing to persuade my wonderful father in going to a certain cinema called "Colloseum", but in the end he gave in.
So we asked the Italian waiter where the Colloseum was.
The waiter answered, surprised: "The Colloseum is in Rome."
We assured him that we knew that, but that we meant the cinema. He answered with a sneer: "Oh, you don't want to go there!"
Anyway, we got there in the end in spite of Italian arrogance. Even though we accidentally ended up in a wrong part of the complex, watching the beginning of a Terry Thomas flick dubbed into French, we did see Roger Moore as James Bond in "For Your Eyes Only" - and we loved it.
So, there you have it. My father's legacy: intellectual wit on a global level with Italians in Denmark, Americans watching British movies dubbed into French. He lived culturally and intellectually, telling people to keep their eyes on what character traits are most important when it comes to any form of artistic endeavor.
Creativity and inspiration, threefold, fourfold, a dozen times and eternally.
I have my mother, the operatic mezzo-soprano Gun Kronzell, and my father Herbert Eyre Moulton, actor and author, singer and teacher, to thank for the fact that I love being creative. Just like they were.
 Now, sit back and enjoy the ride.
We're in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, and the year is 1940.
Herbie? Take us back in time.
 
THE RIGOLETTO CAPER

Opera freaks are best when taken young. In my case, I was all of eight when this peculiar virus struck, and, for good or ill, it has been raging on and off ever since. Even at that tender age, you learn to cope. Just as your nearest and dearest have to learn, as well.
For instance, from that time on, all Saturday activities had to be planned strictly around the Metropolitan Opera Saturday matinee broadcasts, which began, for us in the Midwest, at 1 p.m. That affected eveything everything from my regular household chores (50 cents a week, nothing to be sneezed at back in the 30's) and helping my parents with their marketing (our local term for shopping) for the week, to excursions, to places like museums in town, the zoo, friends you drop in on, and attendance at mega-events like birthday parties, hayrides, and PET & HOBBY Shows.
But the real crunch came with the cheery mayhem of Saturday afternoons at our local flea-pit, the Glen Theatre. (By some miracle it's still standing!) When forced to choose, let's say, between Lily Pons in "Lakme" from the Met, and --- at the Glen --- something like Laurel & Hardy in "Way Out West" or W.C. Fields in "The Bank Dick", with the added inducement of a Lone Ranger or Flash Gordon serial episode, the choice was too bitterly heartbreaking to be borne.
To tell the truth and shame the Devil, as my mother Nell used to say, my precocious operatic  know-how wasn't much use to me in those days. On the contrary, it was almost a hindrance, if not a handicap. To most "normal" folks, it set me apart, not "Queer" exactly, but, ya know, "different", even "Snobbish". This, I guess, is why I compensated for it by my constant clowning around around and showing-off.
But there was this one occasion --- a day in late Autumn 1940 --- when my Opera Virus led directly to my most shining hour in that crowded, bustling, rather smelly double-classroom in  St. Cuthbert's Parochial School in our Chicago Suburb, when I actually won respect from (a.) my peers (Surprise and Enthusiasm) and (b.) my chief adversary and esteemed sparring partner, Sister Gaudeamus (grudging, but genuine).
This was a Big Day for me --- serendipity, I guess would be the word, and I've been wanting to use it for a long time --- one of the few tussels, intellectual or otherwise I ever engaged in with "S'ster" and actually emerged the undisputed winner. And all thanks to my Opera-Mania.
Now, in order to present as full a view as possible of this more-than-memorable happening, we'll rewind a bit to fill in the background of what I like to call "The Rigoletto Caper"...
For all their inexperience in worldly affairs, the good nuns at St. Cuthbert's held very definite opinions about what did or did not constitute suitable entertainment. Almost anything later than Ethelbert Nevin's "The Rosary" or more substantial than "The Lady or the Tiger" was automatically suspect --- either elite, seditious, or high-hat, or a combination of all three. Even Nell's beloved narrative poem "Evangeline" by Longfellow had a prominent position on Sister's Index of Forbidden Books (unofficial, of course), being labelled by her as "purest bouzwah" and "preposterous", insulting if not downright heretical. Poor Mr. Longfellow, just because his heroine loses her lover Gabriel, and after years of unsuccessful searching, takes the veil, only to find him again, dying in a hospice in plague-racked New Orleans. He then expires in her arms, in a scene guaranteed to make the wrestler Bruno Sammartino burst into tears ... Preposterous, maybe. But heretical? No way! Sure it's sentimental, enough to make a totempole weep --- but what's wrong about that, S'ster?
Closer to home, our own pre-teen affection for the verve and teasing humor of entertainers like "Fats" Waller and the Andrews Sisters was also shot down in flames: "smut" being the epithet used to describe the boundless joy that "Fats" radiated, and "silly sensuality" for the sprightly melodies and close harmonies of Maxine, Laverne and Patti.
"Your feet's too big!"
Smutty?
"Roll Out the Barrel!"
Sensual?
Were we occupying the same planet or what?
As a last-ditch attempt to stem the rising tide of "Smut" and "Sensuality", a weekly series of "Music Appreciation Lectures" was launched, in spite of the fact that most of us --- our folks, anyway, already appreciated music very much.
Never mind! S'ster was a fully qualified missionary to the Philistines, and once her hand was on the plow, there was never any turning back. Armed with a dozen or so scratchy old 78's and the big wind-up Victrola dominating one corner of the classroom, she intended to instill into us Yahoos a knowledge and respect, maybe even an appreciation of the Classics, or know the reason why. We were thus treated to endless snatches of symphonies, and odd scraps of semi-classics, preferably of an edifying nature: the Intermezzo from "Cavalleria Rusticana" or "In a Monastary Garden", each plentifully garnished with S'ster's none-too-accurate program notes.
On this particular afternoon, on a day when I hadn't yet been ordered to leave the room, Sister had elected to give us gems from Verdi's "Rigoletto", suitably laundered, naturally, when it came to the Duke of Mantua's more libidinious exploits. Despite occasional wisecracks from the rowdier elements of the class, it was going fairly well --- that is, until S'ster mispronounced the name of the hired assassin Sparafucile, which rolled out of her as "Spa-ra-FOO-chee-lay." Hooray! At last a chance to put my opera-freakdom to positive use, and, by the same token, maybe even the score with S'ster a few much-needed points.
My pudgy hand shot up: "S'ster! S'ster!"
A weighty pause ...
"Yes, Herbert." The tone was weary, resigned. "What is it THIS time?"
You got the first part of it right, S'ster ..."
(Noblesse oblige:) "Well, thank you very much indeed."
"But I'm afraid you made a mistake with the assassin's name. It's not 'Spa-ra-FOO-chee-lay', as you said. It's 'Spa-ra-foo-CHEE-lay."
"Well, of course," and her sneer was marked with a regal toss of her hood, "you WOULD know."
A faint smell of blood in the atmosphere, and the boredom that had drugged the class till then started to disperse.
 "Yes, S'ster, as a matter of fact, I would."
I was in the driver's seat for once and could afford to put my foot down on the throttle:
"Strangely enough, I went with my Mom and Dad to an operatic performance last night at the Civic Opera House ---"
"Yes, yes, yes. I know where it is and what it's called."
The spectators were now on the edge of their desk-seats (not too comfortable), all eager attention.
I went on with my advantage: "And the opera happened to be that same 'Rigoletto' you've been talking about --- starring that famous American baritone Laurence Tibbett in the title role ..." All of a sudden, I was a 12-year old Milton J. Cross --- amiable, knowing, professional --- charming millions of fans on a Saturday matinee broadcast. "... with Lily Pons, the lovely French coloratura soprano as his daughter Gilda. The tenor was ..."
I was cut off in mid-sentence. "All right, then, perhaps ..." Her tone was both gracious and dangerous, one I knew only too well. "Perhaps you'd like to come up here in front of the class and take over?"
"Oh, S'ster, could I?"
There was a murmur of interest from the spectactors, now totally wide awake.
I waddled up to the front of the room where Sister and I got caught up in a grotesque little pas de deux, changing places. At last, she lowered herself with great dignity into a nearby chair. I perched on the edge of her desk, of her DESK!, while the others in the class, friend and foe alike, all leaned forward to catch every exquisite detail of the slaughter. I looked into the sea of expectant faces --- well, not a sea, exactly, more like a puddle, and I began.
"So, as S'ster has been trying to tell you ---" (Loud throat-clearing from Sister's direction) "The court-jester Rigoletto meets this hired assassin one dark night on his way home from work at the palace, a really creepy type named Spa-ra-foo-CHEE-lay ..."
Again, sound-effects from the sidelines where the dear lady was now breathing noisily through her nostrils. I ignored these and went on lining out Victor Hugo's dramatic story. My tale grabbed my listeners as nothing Sister ever said could. As I went on, really in the spirit of the thing, I noticed how she was sitting there with her eyeballs rolled back in her sockets, like that famous marble statue of Saint Teresa of Avila in ecstacy. Her face in its stiff linen frame-work resembled a baked tomato about to burst.
When I finally arrived at the final tragic moment, when Rigoletto discovers the body of his dying daughter in the sack --- all his fault, I belted out his tearful cry of "Ah! La Maladizione! --- The Curse!" And I gave it my all ... Wild applause from the audience, a few of them, my best pals, naturally, even giving a cheer and a whistle or two. (At this, Sister looked as though mentally taking down names.)
Drunk with triumph, I was about to repeat the howl, but was cut off this time quite sharply: "That will DO, Herbert. Thank you."
Just then, the recess bell rang setting off the usual stampede out to the playground. Sister waited till it had subsided, then said in a cool, steady tone: ""Humpf, interesting, Herbert. Perhaps you really DID go to the opera last night."
I feigned being shocked and hurt. "S'ster! When did I ever lie to you?"
She started to answer, thought better of it, then brushed me aside as she started out. "Recess," she said, going forth, majestic even in defeat.
From then on, the Music Appreciation Hours grew less and less frequent, and were confined to safe composers like Stephen Foster and Percy Grainger. I myself was never asked to take over a class again, and the subject of opera was avoided altogether.
A temporary victory for our side, but only a minor bleep in a long but, on the whole, merry little war --- not to be mentioned with the real one brewing overseas. Ours brought a few, as well.

Good Old Times

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Out of my ever-growing repertoire of memoirs,
I picked a time period from 1971 to 1972.

I was 38 years old then and my husband Ray was 47. We were expecting our first child after eleven years of marriage and we were happy; with some exceptions.

On November 9, 1971, I began to write “the story of my life” to my unborn child. Why? Well, as a child, I had been exposed to the grief that followed the death of my favorite aunt, who lost her life from an ectopic pregnancy.  A shock that left me afraid of childbirth.

When I got pregnant, I was first diagnosed as going through menopause.  This by a young , ambitious gynecologist. An old-fashioned family doctor, our company doctor in Rome, corrected the facts. Both my husband and I were crew members with an international airline at that time. Our life was to change drastically.

Here we go. Really I don’t know where to start or how. 

“Hallo Baby!  Right now you are hardly more than an idea, in the very beginning of your being. I am four months pregnant and still in the process of becoming acquainted with the concept of YOU. You have been extremely good till now, although I really don’t know how much you have to do with it so far. I didn’t get nauseous during these four months and my belly is only protruding just a little at this point, just enough for me to be aware that you are growing. I still fit into my regular wardrobe, except those dresses with the tight waistline. This morning I put on my purple wool slacks and a loose purple sweater.
Nobody would be able to tell that I am carrying you. Don’t get me wrong, I ‘m not ashamed of you but, I have always been very concerned about my figure. From childhood on I have been watching my mother fighting a battle with overweight. I did anything to stay slim and trim. Anyhow, after I became a stewardess, I had to go for a weight check once a month, and thus kept easily in line. I only stopped flying a month ago.

Sorry Baby. I am straying again from what is motivating my outpour. I get lost in all those little details, all those little things I want you to know.

It’s quite clear in my mind, why I am sitting down to write to you but it is not quite as easy to put it into the written word.

You and I have still a struggle ahead of us, to bring you into this world as a happy and healthy human being. Hope and confidence is what I have to instill in myself several times a day. There are many things that could go wrong. Your daddy is just as worried as I am. If we make it, you and I, then part of it will go to his credit. A big part.

I am a nervous person by nature, and I worry if I can carry you for the entire nine months. I can only pray that you won’t be stillborn or have a birth defect. There are several factors stacked against us two. I am already 38 years old and you are my first child. They say that flying does something to your physique. I have been flying for 13 years by now. I smoke like a chimney, and scientific reports keep warning pregnant women of the added danger. Of course, that is something I should not do although I do not inhale.  According to my doctor and to his surprise my lungs are clear, still nicotine goes into the bloodstream. You see, you have already to find out that I am not perfect.

I did give up drinking. Before I knew about you, I used to have at least three or four cocktails a day. It had become a habit after I forced myself off tranquilizers about five years ago. Drinks became a more acceptable substitute.

There I go in details already again. All right, I’ll try to give a reason for what I am doing. You see, I believe that you, as part of me, have a right to know all about me and your father. Not now, that would be impossible, not even when you are very young. Truthfully, I have no idea when you will read this, but I hope that one day you will. It is impossible to predict what the future will hold. What relationship will develop between you and me, between you and your father.  Whether all three of us will be alive when you read this. Yet without hope and trust, it would be useless to go on with anything. One always fears the worst but hopes for the best. It is that what makes us tick. Carrying a life, like I carry you within me, is the most creative act in the world. It would be foolish not to have faith.

This is followed by 38, narrowly typed pages of an autobiography.

A few minutes ago, my son Ray, a 42-year-old, handsome man, left my house to go back to his wife and 7-year-old son. He has no idea about this 1972 letter to him. Thank God there was no need for him to read it yet.

God willing I will fiish this idea, to which I gave birth just before I gave birth to you my son, this year 2016. It will be a X-mas present for Raymond and myself as well.

High Old Times in the Threadbare ‘30s
 
By the late and great Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 – 2005)
 
 
http://about.me/hmoulton
 
 
            Considering the perilous state of everyone’s finances during the 1930’s --- at least everyone we knew --- and recalling our own feast-and-famine cycles, the wonder is that we managed to take in as much grand entertainment as we did. But then, I was an only child (born July 1927) and no problem to be taken any where my parents went. Obviously I was also smart enough to grow as fast as I could so that these excursions of ours could grow ever more festive. Before anybody realized it, they consisted of at least one carefully chosen opera each season, plus operettas, musicals, stage plays, and, two summers running (’33 and ’34), the marvels of the Chicago World’s Fair, A Century of Progress.
            We were determined to miss as little as possible. Damn the Depression, anyway! Naturally, there were the usual sour comments from the local Babbitts: Who did we think we were, anyway? Going to plays and operas, with so many people on relief?
“Oh, don’t mind those old horses’ neckties!” my mother Nell advised. “They’re only jealous. Such Slobs ICH KABIBEL!” (She’d once had a Yiddisch speaking suitor.) “Now, let’s see what’s playing next week, what we can afford, that.”
Something affordable would always turn up --- there was so much to choose from. And if the tickets cost too much, there was always some way to blarney our way past the Manager. “Honey-Boy, remember, I’m not Irish for nothing!” On such occasions, my Dad, Big Herb, would either look the other way or simply pretend he wasn’t with us.
Those were the days of Vaudevill, so we were able to bask in the glow of dying embers. One of my first Show-Biz memories was of Sophie Tucker, all in white, being driven onstage in a white-and-gold open limousine, attended by flunkies in matching livery. They escorted her down to the footlights. “Some of these days/ You’re gonna miss me, Honey”.
I was absolutely transfixed.
There were, as well, lots of live radio broadcasts originating in Chicago, like W-G-N’s popular Soap “Bachelor’s Children” --- we wrote in and got free tickets several times. Got the cast’s autographs, too, and a write-up in our local newspaper, The Glen Ellyn News. So much for the Babbitts.
There were also hour-long radio dramas like the version of “A Farewell to Arms” with no one less than Helen Hayes as Catherine, script in hand, loving, emoting, and finally dying beautifully, all into the microphone. Just think: The First Lady of the American Theater, not ten yards away from us and all the better because it hadn’t cost us a red cent!
The same went for the nightly free summer concerts in Grant Park. We took in them all, or some of them, anyway. And Nell got more articles printed in the paper. Living Well is the Best Revenge!
On athletics and sporting events we didn’t waste much time --- wrongly perhaps, and I the figure to prove it. (Sorry, Jocks!) I did like to go swimming, with my pals at the Wheaton pool in the next town, riding our bikes and devouring candy bars the whole way. There was also skating on Lake Ellyn, the best part of which was the hot cocoa with marshmallows in it at the boat house. That, and chatting up the junior high school girls. And the Hell with the Hans Brinkers outside falling on their bottoms!
We did make an annual pilgrimage to Wrigley Field each summer, mostly to humor Big Herb, an inveterate Cubs fan. They very seldom won a game, but my Dad was convinced they would, and the Pennant, too, if only we’d keep thinking Positive Thoughts. So we did ... meanwhile, the Hot Dogs there - they were just about the best in town.
Well, in 1938, Big Herb’s beloved Cubs finally won their Pennant, and, bless him, he hurried home as fast as he could just to tell us the News in person. It wasn’t just “Gabby” Hartnett’s last minute Grand Slam Homer that had turned the tide --- our own good wishes and positive thoughts had also played their part. Right, perhaps they had ... Nothing like keeping everyone on the Home Front happy and content.
Like most families, we had our share of seasonal traditions and these we kept religiously. Christmas vacation always meant one thing in certainty: a trip to the Chicago Stadium for Sonja Henie’s spectacular Ice Revue --- breathtaking costumes and orchestrations, Olympic skaters, and hair-raising comics-on-ice like Frick and Frack, and, the peak of the program and always dazzlingly beautiful: Sonja Henie herself, solo, a cherubic blond dream in a short glitzy skirt and spinning and wafting her way through Liszt’s “Liebestraum” --- Man alive! Now that was magic! That, ladies and gents, was a star to conjure with!
The Stadium of W. Madison St. was likewise the setting for another family tradition, this one in summertime: Ringling Bros., Barnum and Bailey’s Circus! Three rings continuously alive with clowns and their exploding flivvers, acrobats and tumblers, magicians and live animal acts, and a bevy of pretty ballet girls, fluttering vast butterfly wings a hundred feet up, hanging from the ceiling by their teeth! (Ow!) And at the Grand Finale, having to stop your ears when somebody got shot out of a mammoth cannon. (I never quite grasped the charm of this.)
Yet another amicable tradition: celebrating my parents’ Wedding Anniversary every February 27th, getting launched with a three-way “Kram” (Swedish for “embrace” – we called it simply a Hug-and-a-Boo.) Then a slap-up-dinner at a fine downtown restaurant --- Henrici’s or, better, still, the Berghoff, where the Wiener Schnitzel and Tafelspitz, AND the home-made Lemon Meringe Pie are to die for. This would be followed by a stage show, whatever happened to be playing that appealed to us all. One year, it was “The Hot Mikado”, another: “Porgy and Bess”, and the last such occasion in the ‘30’s (“Good riddance!” was Nell’s send-off-comment): the wonderful comedy “Life with Father” with Percy Warum as fulminating Father Day, and Lillian Gish (Yes!) as the gentle, slightly pixilated mother, heading a company said to be far superior to the popular Broadway original.
Another season brought Noel Coward’s witty Spook-Comedy “Blithe Spirit”, featuring the deliciously dotty Estelle Winwood of the lace-curtained hair-do, wide-set eyes, and pixie movements, along with Dennis King, old-time operetta idol, and the chic but incomprehensible Annabella. We hoped her husband Tyrone Power could understand her better than we did.
A farce my parents loved was “Leaning on Letty”, with the loose-limbed Charlotte Greenwood, whose post-performance display of rubber-legged acrobatics brought down the house. An incredible display, much loved.
Then there was the dark andd melancholy Sylvia Sidney in a stage version of  Nell’s beloved namesake “Jane Eyre” (her father had been born an Eyre of Eyrecourt in County Galway, where Charlotte Bronte, the author, once settled, taking that family’s name for her own heroine). One reason for Miss Sidney’s melancholy might have been having the show stolen from under her by that delicious character actress Cora Witherspoon in the cameo role of Mr. Rochester’s complaining cook.
Another star turn, and one deemed by some of Nell’s bitchier lady friends as quite unsuitable for young Herbert’s innocent ears, was Clifton Webb’s waspish “The Man Who Came to Dinner” --- not for school-boys, and, consequently, relished all the more by this one. We also revelled in “Pins and Needles”, a political revue put on by members of the international Garment Workers Union in New York --- their spoof of an old-fashioned mellerdrammer was achingly funny and remains so in memory today.
“Achingly funny” wouldn’t half describe Olsen and Johnson’s zany “Helzapoppin’”, which gave a new meaning to madness, but it sure took a lot of tolerance to reconcile this kind of thing with the dignified Auditorium. What counted was the great old theater was being used as such. It surely was for the next production, which came at the very close “Dirty ‘30’s” --- “Romeo and Juliet” starring the most glamorous and famous pair of lovers of the time, Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. We all thought it was the most sumptuous and thrilling Romeo possible, but it’s now reckoned the biggest flop of the Oliviers’ otherwise distinguished career. It played in the theater I shall always love more than any other --- Louis Sullivan’s masterpiece, and I write about it with a reverance reserved for very holy places.
I was and indeed still am deeply devoted to this historic old theater which dates from 1889 and which played such a seminal role in my life. And when it was threatened with demolition in the early ‘40’s, my personal sorrow was so profound that I wrote critic Claudia Cassidy a lament for its apparently inexorable fate. She published it almost in full in her Sunday column in the Chicago Sun --- Fame! And at the tendenage of 15, too. But thank God and a lot of marvellous people, the Auditorium managed to survive after all and is now enjoying a new lease on life as part of Roosevelt University --- restored to its pristine splendor as a protected Historical Monument.
It was there that I had my first real theatrical experience, a musical extravaganza in every sense of the word, “The Great Waltz”, music by Johann Strauss the Younger, book by Moss Hart, and featuring the soprano Marion Claire. It was she, as wife of the Music Director of W-G-N, who, in Spring 1953, auditioned and hired me for my first nationwide broadcast, commenting to the others in the control room: “We must find something that shows off his beautiful diction.”
As for “The Great Waltz” itself, very little I have seen since --- this was 1936, remember --- has ever approached it for sheer theatrical magic, now, during the introduction to the Grand Finale, the bandstand with orchestra, moved swiftly and silently upstage as far as it would go, crystal chandaliers descended from above and pillars slid out from the wings on both sides. Thus, in a matter of seconds, what was  just another set downstage for a bit of dialogue, was transformed into the grandest of ballrooms, crowded with handsomely dressed couples waltzing to the beautiful Blue Danube. This was Glamour. This was Theater. This was an Epiphany, and I never quite got over it. 
Let’s get down now to the operas my parents took me to in the 1930’s, after a quick glance back to the dark days of October 1929, when, by supreme stroke of irony, the stockmarket crash that triggered the Great Depression, neatly coincided with the opening of Samuel Insull’s brand new, twenty-million dollar, Art-Deco Civic Opera House. This soon came to be known as Insull’s Folly, and for it, his Civic Opera Company had abandoned the historic and still viable Auditorium, home of Chicago opera for four decades. Luckily, Chicago opera is now flourishing again.
In the ‘30’s, the only opera being performed at the Auditorium (probably the best acoustics in Christendom) was that of Fortune Gallo’s San Carlo Company, an excellent troupe of first-class artists from home and abroad, performing standard repertory at “popular” prices a few weeks at a time before moving on to the next city. My first opera was their “Faust”, with a nice chubby Marguerite named Belle Verte, and, as Mephisto, the company’s resident bass, Harold Kravitt (these names have been flashed solely from memory). There was even a “white” ballet between the acts. It was all totally new to me and it left me hooked for life.
My second night at the Opera, again the San Carlo, was Bizet’s “Carmen”, starring the Russian mezzo Ina Bourskaya. The trouble was that particular Saturday night an American Legion convention was in town, and Big Herb, a faithful, if not fanatical Legionaire, was all set to spend the evening with some of his buddies at Mme. Galli’s Italian Restaurant on the Near North Side --- a rollicking occasion reminiscent of Laurel and Hardy’s classic “Sons of the Desert” convention, which also took place in Chicago. All well and good, but what about my Carmen? I’d been looking forward to it for weeks. As curtain time approached, with the merriment showing no signs of abating, I began to twitch, and then to panic. Was I the only one who remembered our date at the opera? Nothing for it, but to burst into tears and create such a scene that the festivities ended then and there. We got to the theater just in time to miss Carmen’s Entrance and Habanera, but the important thing was we got there, period. And a terrific experience it turned out to be.
Besides my tearful brouhaha at Mme. Galli’s, what I remember most about that performance was Act IV and the hardy little band of 5 or 6 supers, got up as matadors and marching round and round in the pre-bullfight parade --- in one side and out the other, then a dash backstage and in again, at least four times, each appearance getting a bigger laugh and louder hand than before.
Then, for the final scene --- Brouskaya resplendent in gold lace, tier after tier down to the ground, with a matching mantilla held in place by a jeweled comb and blood-red rose. What impressed me most was the moment just prior to her death --- she made a frantic Sign of the Cross, then turned and rushed upstage to meet her lover’s naked knifeblade --- this desperate, dramatic Sign of the Cross, then hurtling hurtling to her doom. Boy! That was Destiny with a capital D!!!

Watch Out

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 

The little church mouse was shuddering as it flitted thru the rooms of the funeral home. Something odd and sad was going on. Sure, this place was never resonating with happy and cheerful noises but today…

Two corpses had been brought in yesterday. Both of them had been embalmed and fixed up to look their best for open caskets.
One was the fifty-year-old Chief Surgeon of the University Medical Center. He had succumbed to a massive heart attack. There were many mourners in his room.
The guest book was filling up and the conversation was held in the commonly hushed tone of this establishment. Flowers were decorating the chapel in abundance. The wife of the deceased was calming a young boy of about twelve years old, while her tears were streaming down her own cheeks.
In the other room lay the dead body of a young girl. About 16 years old. Very pretty with brown hair and cute tilted up nose. This room too was filled with people. Schoolmates, relatives and the heartbreaking sighs of the parents made the atmosphere in this room even more unbearable.
The little mouse felt bad for all of them. It had heard the story.
The surgeon was operating, removing the tonsils from the girl when it happened.
The hospital staff panicked and concentrated on tending to the doctor. All the while the girl fought for breath and ultimately choked and died.
The mourners from the surgeon’s room made a big circle around the mourners from the girl’s room.
It will be difficult to look for justice.
 

Cells
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
We must all make sure we are not locked in our personal prison cells, “safely” shut off from
 
the world.  It is always good for us to have our own company and recharge our “cells”, but do
 
not lock yourself in a permanent, impenetrable prison cell, where no one can enter and you
 
cannot exit.  You will soon become isolated and lonely from your self-inflicted prison
 
sentence.  You will be miserable and stuck in the past and your future will only look bleak.
 
 
 
Our cells replace themselves all the time.  After seven years, all the cells in your body will
 
have been replaced and you will be a completely different person physically.  You will more
 
than likely be a very different person emotionally and spiritually as well with all life’s
 
challenges.
 
 
 
We all change as life’s experiences shape us and, hopefully, we will become better people as
 
we learn through our numerous experiences.  Sometimes it seems that we have too many
 
challenges thrown at us in all directions and we struggle to manage.  We can become irritable
 
and aggressive towards innocent victims.  This is neither fair nor the best way forward, but it
 
is hard to be objective at times though as life lashes out at us, like relentless rain throwing
 
down. 
 
 
 
Hopefully, we will release ourselves from our prison cells as our body’s cells change.  We
 
will become wiser, emotionally stronger as we evolve into more patient, caring and loving
 
people as we reach out to others and touch their lives.
 
If you look at this world, you will see cell upon cell, row upon row, town upon town and
 
country upon country of cells.  People will be looking out from their prison cells, sad, but
 
hopeful, wondering if there is an escape for them.  They look out of their dull and smeary
 
windows, desperately cleaning them with their hands, looking for a way out, hoping they will
 
be rescued by something… someone.
 
 
 
Isn’t it time that we all throw our windows open, unlock our cell doors and take a step outside
 
to meet each other, before it is too late?   Let’s all celebrate our changes, join together and
 
support each other as one as we all learn and grow together.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   February 2016

Open Your Mind


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


 
I have never seen a sunset so red. This is a ball of fire from within. The heavenly body is on the verge of being immersed into a crusty cloud. –   Slowly this spectacular does change with the weakening light, while patches of threatening storm clouds begin to fight for space on heaven’s tent.
Fringes surround the clouds and create forms that temper the mind. I see clusters of insurmountable shapes, architectural designs that exceed human imagination. What just minutes ago was a mild breeze erupts into a threatening storm. The sun has fled to other regions letting fierce clouds display their show. My view encumbers all that is engulfed by an ocean of trees. High ones, strong ones, all their crowns covered in heavy foliage. The roots of those tree giants must be enormous
Images emerge of leaves, pasted like lace onto a purplish red, velvety background. Still another crown blends into a grayish blue cloud, magically producing the taste of blueberry whipped cream in my mouth.
The scenery changes constantly while I watch this spectacular display of nature. The dark clouds glide behind the trees. A  dimly winking, azure blue  sky showcases feathery rims with pink layers in cotton candy fashion. The sun had spared some of its illuminating energy to perfect this display. The clouds keep moving pushed by the winds and blend with each other into the sky.
Then all sunlight is gone and I search for the moon. For now a curtain of solid darkness ends the show.  Nature’s actors are busy to prepare the night the.  A new cast of actors at the firmament  performers of the just ended day.
The utter blackness is an intermission that allows one to reflect on the drama in nature.
My mind visits with the highest branches of the trees. Intuitively I hear their whisper as they softly touch each other, coming peacefully to rest in the now wind still calmness of the fallen night. They prepare for another day to strive towards heaven. –
I too will now go and rest, leaving the moon- show to be enjoyed at another time.
The experience that had just tantalized my senses has blanketed me in peace and gave rise to gratefulness for the presents that nature has in store for us .         

Forgiveness
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
This is a hard thing to do and, often, we feel that the culprit does not deserve our forgiveness
 
as they have done us such emotional harm, caused either by physical or emotional abuse.   It
 
is, however, something we must do for our own happiness and health or the pain will slowly
 
eat away at us like a Cancer, from the inside out.  When we forgive that other person’s
 
behaviour, we are not saying it is acceptable and that we wish to be treated like this again, for
 
we must make sure we put our own boundaries in place to gain the respect we deserve, but
 
we are saying we want to move away from the situation and on with our lives.  In this
 
manner, we have all learnt from the experience and, hopefully, the future will be more
 
peaceful and joyful for all parties concerned. 
 
 
 
If you give yourself and the person the gift of forgiveness and they continue to drain, be
 
insulting or ruin your life, distance yourself from them and the situation.  If possible, cut
 
them away from you by imagining cutting chords between their stomachs and yours to add
 
strength to your aura.  Ensure the physical distance between them and you is increasing and
 
spend time on your own to heal and become yourself fully once again.

Sandcastles 
 
by Kirk Dodge

 
“Would you stop throwing that damn wet ball against my clean wall!” Art rasped in a
voice marinated in 50 years of Bulleit Rye and Kent Menthols. I smiled at him and
waved, “How ya doing Mr. Childress?” As Mom later told me, Art found it hard to stay cranky at me. I was one of those kids who just never thought it was about me.
‘Cause . . . it wasn’t.
 
Afternoon showers soak Grand Bahama Island most every day around 3 p.m. during the summer. In the spring of 1968, Donny and Maggie retreated from the coming storm in Detroit and, with my brother and me, moved into a 12-story apartment building on the beach at Lucaya. At nine years old and being a bit too young for the casinos and beach bars, I settled on a future as a major league baseball shortstop. Knowing that the Tiger shortstop, Ray Oyler, couldn’t buy a hit in a brothel, I figured my future was secure. My preparation began that summer. Art played the role of historian.
 
Hitting a baseball always seemed easier than fielding a baseball. So my tennis ball and I became fast friends. I would dutifully throw it against the cinder block stucco wall that surrounded the swimming pool filtration equipment on the parking lot side of the building. No problem. Every afternoon for hours I would emulate the sharp angle of an infield hit, scoop it up, and throw it over to Tiger first baseman, Norm Cash, for the putout . . . 6 – 3 for you fans scoring at home. The beauty of this little game of mine was simple; I rarely made an error.
 
Not so at our new school, St. Paul’s Methodist. “Humbled” was a verb I came to learn
very well that spring. Mom was a school teacher and took a job teaching middle school English at an American Catholic School on the island. Her school, Mary, Star of the Sea, didn’t really fit the Ayn Rand devotee of the late 1960s and yet they hired her immediately upon seeing her diploma in philosophy and classics from the University of Michigan. Sister May Alice had no clue that she had just hired her first radical libertarian subversive. Things were about to get very interesting for the Italian nun from South Philly.
 
Being thoughtful, Mom sent my brother Glenn and me to the British parochial school on the other side of town. She knew full well how hard it could be for kids to have a mom teaching in the same school. Her mom had done exactly that to young Margarethe Bjornson. Schooled in the same building where her mom taught may have been the first of multiple PTSD episodes she endured as a young schoolgirl. Grandma was a tough cookie; tougher than hardened molasses. Maggie was on the receiving end of that setup from kindergarten right up to the ninth grade. She escaped to high school fully hardened to the ways of the world in more ways than one.
 
St. Paul’s Methodist School came as quite a shock to a kid who spent all nine years of his life being told he was utterly brilliant. Methodist, as in the one and only method of
schooling the young children of the British Empire, included morning chapel, merit
cards and badges, the Queen’s English spoken precisely, and your multiplication tables memorized to 12 unless you wanted to be struck by a tennis ball in the chest if you became inattentive during math class. A morning Bible reading follwed by a thorough indoctrination in the superiority of Britain as a colonial superpower would, on occasion, strike this young Detroiter as fairly preposterous. For instance, being told that the Kingdom stood alone during the Battle of Britain while the Americans sat on their arses didn’t really go over very well for a family born and raised in the Arsenal of Democracy. As Dad liked to point out, if it weren’t for Henry Ford and Rosie the Riveter, these dear sweet folks would be seiging “Heil Hitler” between visits to their departed family at the nearby concentration camp. A battle of patriots to say the least – patriots who all happened to settle on Grand Bahama Island during the mini-boom of the late 1960s.
 
In 1955, the British Parliament had passed the Hawksbill Creek Act. The Act established a port authority which governed the large, natural harbor bisecting the western half of the island. It mandated that there would be few taxes of any kind for 99 years. However, levying a 20 percent duty on all goods (except peas and rice) that hit the docks helped fund the roads, sewers, and utilities that provided the kickstart that the island economy needed. With only a hundred residents in 1955, the island population swelled to over 30,000 by the time our family arrived in 1968. The government funded a series of elementary schools that dotted the small villages of the island. More importantly, the three parochial schools fully integrated themselves racially and religiously from day one.This was free enterprise of the first order.
 
This island represented a refuge for my increasingly cynical parents. The assassination of President Kennedy in November of 1963 traumatized the nation. My parents seem to take it even harder. Dad knew the military from the perspective of a JAG officer in the Army. He became aware of some nasty secrets – stuff they saw in the course of their work. The idea that a social misfit like Lee Harvey Oswald had pulled off the assassination by himself struck this former prosecutor as patently absurd. To both Donny and Maggie, watching the aftermath of LBJ cloaking himself in civil rights and twisting the movement into a government transfer program seemed beyond grotesque. Watching their native Detroit become the laboratory hothouse for a running series of government planning efforts was the last straw. Quite simply, they gave up on America. At least the America that LBJ led into Vietnam and his domestic government planning utopia. By late 1967, our family was fully committed to a pullout – a pullout from America.
 
This is that story.
 
Methodry
 
“Abigail Johnstone” – the name, not the person – appeared at the top left corner of the chalkboard in our classroom. Across the top of the board, Mr. White listed the subjects we’d learned during the 1967-68 school year: arithmetic, reading, writing, etc. Below each subject was a number. The score for each student in that subject was there, out in the open for everyone to see. For the 24 kids in the class, 24 scores in arithmetic, reading and writing. In the aggregate, Abigail was first. I was 21st – not exactly an utterly brilliant performance for the future Tiger shortstop. We arrived in March and I managed, in three short months, to land myself in the cellar, more like a Washington Senator than a Detroit Tiger.
 
The best part? There was no pattern to the ranking of students. You couldn’t group
them by race or religion or nationality. There were probably more girls at the top of the list, but there were exceptions randomly distributed everywhere. This was a true meritocracy. By the way, Abigail Johnstone not only sounded Bahamian; she looked it. Lean and pretty with big, bushy pigtails, you could imagine generations of Abigails cleaning their husbands’ catch of the day, steaming up the peas and rice, baking the Johnnycake and making more Johnstones and Farquarsons and Pinders. Except this one would go to college someday.
 
St. Paul’s Methodist School made itself such that the Queen would be proud. Kind of
like Americans in the south think of themselves as more patriotic than the average
American (horseshit). The Methodists in England came from their “west.” Being so far from London, they seem to work a little harder at being British.
 
Methodists in many ways are like Baptists in America, except they can read. Stern in
temperament, knowing how to have fun was not something they seem to master or
cared to master. It probably didn’t occur to them. They were too busy perfecting themselves, their children and their workdays. Margaret Thatcher was a Methodist. That explains a lot. She was a Methodist whose father owned a grocery store. Geez, that would have been exciting. No wonder she would lecture her Cabinet on the price of a gallon of milk. Upper crust Tories must have loved that speech. Hell, those guys probably never saw a kitchen, much less a grocery store. It’s no wonder she finally succumbed to a “no confidence” vote. Those Tories had absolutely no confidence in their ability to endure so much fun and laughter. Let’s just say that these Methodists at St. Paul’s came by their stern, exacting personalities naturally – naturally drilled up their backsides one shilling at a time.
 
I used to wonder how they reproduced. Did they schedule time for it during the day?
Did they grade it? Did they practice? Could you earn a merit badge? Spontaneous romance and “grinding,” as the Bahamians like to call it, seemed a far off homework assignment for these Methodist teachers at St. Paul’s. It wasn’t enough that you completed your work assignment accurately and punctually and in ink. Cursive writing which was blotted or crossed out earned a terse admonition of “points deducted, young man!” In order to earn the prized merit card, everything must be nothing less than perfect. Five cards in a week earned you a merit badge.
 
The school divided its student body into four “houses” across all “forms” (grades to us
Americans). As a nine year old, I entered the second form in March, having just left
third grade in America. The four houses derived their names from the most famous of the British explorers: Schackleton (blue), Mallory (green), Hillary (red), and my house, Hudson (yellow). The merit points led to a yellow badge for yours truly, although not as often as I thought I deserved. Every term, the points for each house were tallied and added to the other house’s totals in athletics and drama. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, counted for something. Either it was added to your tally or, God forbid, it could be deducted from your total.
 
Morning chapel provided an excellent opportunity for me to have points deducted. It’s not that I rejected the Christian faith completely. It just seemed to interfere with my opportunities to debate the great issues of the day with my buddies. Issues like the relative value of marbles – milkies vs. cat eyes; the superiority of American football over rugby and soccer; who was prettier: Kim Goodwin or Roselyn Abrahams. These were profound subjects worthy of extensive debate. The Methodists disagreed.
 
As point totals went, let’s just say two points forward and one point back seemed to be my natural rhythm. Did I learn? You betcha. When your mother is a school teacher, this whole education thing you do as a kid is kinda the family business. You can’t be a total putz. So, I began to learn my cursive letters a bit more elegantly. I scored high in reading, owing mostly to the long articles in my Dad’s copies of Penthouse and the Miami Herald sports section. Mostly, it was the multiplication and division of fractions that haunted me. I didn’t plan to own a grocery like Mr. Roberts (the Iron Maiden’s father). Why did I need to know how to price milk in pints, quarts and gallons? But learn I did. Repeating this stuff for another year would have been far worse. The more I thought about my name appearing 21st on that chalkboard, the more determined I became. Hell, let’s admit it – by the time we moved back three and a half years later, I was fourth in the form. The methodry worked.
 
Tiger Art
 
Art Childress hailed from the thriving metropolis of Owosso, Michigan, population
14,779 and dwindling by the hour.
 
As for many taxpayers, America was losing its charm and nowhere more so than in the Wolverine State. Art finally waved the white flag of surrender in 1966 and landed a job as the property manager for the Rivera Towers apartment building on the south shore of Grand Bahama Island. Our paths crossed the first time he identified the culprit throwing a wet tennis ball against his pristine stucco wall.
 
You cannot see the irrationality of others until you see it in yourself. Occasionally, Art
would caution me to do as my mom would say, “Your mom is not being critical, she
loves you. That’s how moms make sure you do right. . . “ Thinking back to that “clean
wall”, maybe Art endured more than his fair share of criticism from his mom. I wonder ‘cause he sure seemed committed to keeping that wall clean.
 
As a young boy, Mr. Childress seemed cranky and more than a bit didactic. Still, instead of berating me for making a mess of his wall, he decided to distract me with an oral history of baseball. In his manager’s apartment, his shiny aluminum Philco pulled in the Atlantic Braves broadcasts from West Palm Beach, Florida – their spring training home. With their announcer, Dizzy Dean providing the sound track, Art colorized baseball as few would hear it. Granted, this long-time Tiger brought a certain homespun bias. Best hitter of all time? Ty Cobb, of course. Best second baseman? Charlie Gehringer with his .320 average, 2800 hits and League MVP in 1935. Best catcher? Mickey Cochrane. Best slugger who served his country honorably? Hammerin’ Hank Greenberg. Well, you get the idea.
 
Art saw in me what a priest sees in a soul that might be saved. For me, baseball still
hung in the balance with football, and Art simply could not stomach the idea that a
young baseball soul might be lost. With the help of the Tigers playing some very, very
good baseball in the summer of 1968, Art had his convert. The Braves moved to Atlanta only two years earlier – (part of my education was learning how they migrated from Boston to Milwaukee to Atlanta). Dizzy Dean had played for the St. Louis Cardinals.
 
As the Cards marched to the National League pennant that season on the back of Bob
Gibson, old Art couldn’t resist pointing out that Dizzy Dean was the best pitcher but only in the NATIONAL LEAGUE during his career. The Tigers (of course) offered the best pitcher in all of baseball during the World War II era. Harold “Prince Hal” Newhouser, who won pitching’s Triple Crown in 1945, led the Tigers as they beat the Chicago Cubs for the World Series.
 
Each day passed and soon school started again in the Bahamas in September. Art kept me off that stucco wall with his personal narrative on the history of the American pastime. Learning American baseball in the Bahamas was kind of surreal when you think about it - but he did manage to keep his wall clean. Eventually, he’d throw those hard infield grounders to me himself. The old coot actually started to like me. In the end, when the Tigers clinched the pennant, I think he considered me his good luck charm. This husky little Tigers fan in-the-making actually could make him laugh as I personally narrated my own stylish fielding and throwing. And Art had forgotten how to laugh.
 
The Tigers spotted the Cards a 3-1 lead in the ’68 World Series; then the two Mickeys
took over. The occasionally sober Tiger manager, Mayo Smith, made the first of a couple of brilliant moves. Beefing up the batting order meant moving Mickey Stanley from the centerfield to shortstop. Presto, the Tiger infield batting average instantly made it above the Fahrenheit boiling point.
 
Next, old Mayo pressed Mickey Lolich into pitching the seventh game. This meant
Lolich could do something historic. Not only would the Tigers rally from down 3-1,
Lolich would pitch and win three complete games in one World Series. Old Mr. Childress ouldn’t believe how good it all was. Late in Art’s life, as he was living with cancer, which I only learned about later, his beloved Tigers won the World Series. Plus, he saved one more soul from Yankeedom. Tiger Art 1 – Yankees 0.
 
Less is More
 
Within ten years of the passage of the Hawksbill Creek Act, the northernmost island in the Bahamian archipelago saw its population mushroom from a mere 100 to over
30,000 sun-kissed inhabitants. How? In a world where we debate endlessly how to alleviate poverty and create jobs, how did this little outpost do it?
 
The natural assumption would be that it was all tourism. This was logical given the
sunny temperate weather, cool night breezes and squeaky, white sand beaches. Yet,
throughout the ‘60s, as Grand Bahama grew and changed, tourism never reached 50% of the island’s domestic economic output. British Petroleum built a large oil transport center, which employed a steady 500-800 workers. Syntex built a pharmaceutical plant which added another 80-100 jobs to the island. A large cement plant, which predated the Hawksbill Act, continued to employ a steady crew of 50-60. The only other significant employer was NASA, which built the Gold Hill Tracking Station for the Cape Canaveral rocket launches. No single employer or industry explains what happened on this 100-mile long stretch of coral and southern pine.
 
During this time, Daniel K. Ludwig of Denmark reigned as one of the world’s great shipping magnates. He lived part-time on the island, mostly checking on his shipping businesses in the Caribbean basin. Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball retreated to the island frequently in search of privacy and seclusion, yet the wealthy really didn’t discover
Freeport/Lucaya in droves. If an economy ever came to be defined by a broad, wide and deep middle class, it was Grand Bahama Island of 1963-71. Maybe the greatest irony for our family arose in comparing it to Detroit during this same time period.
Our old home town had grown to be America’s third largest city in 1950 with a middle
class powerhouse the world could only envy. Detroit was marked by the highest median household income and home ownership of any major city. What followed can only be described as a seemingly endless string of crony mayors from both political parties who allowed Detroit to become an experimental urban laboratory for government planners of all stripes and persuasions.
 
Urban Renewal obliterated sixty square blocks of stable residential and commercial
property owned mostly by long time African-American families. Later known as Lafayette Park, it became another of Detroit’s once mighty neighborhoods reduced to
blight and abandonment. "Model Cities" concocted by LBJ’s War on Poverty managed to move the poor into new parts of the city. Meanwhile, another half million Detroiters took the government’s subsidies and simply left.
 
Many would say racism and corporate greed fueled the demise of Detroit. Of course,
Detroiters struggle with the idea they carry more racial amicus curiae and avarice than the good people of Chicago or Boston or Pittsburgh. In Detroit, if there was an urban planning experiment to receive funding, they tried it: city income tax, commuter tax, low income housing, the People Mover. If the government funded it, the crony mayors tried it. In short order, the city residents figured out they weren’t welcome, because in fact, they weren’t. As in life, sometimes when it comes to government, less is more.
 
Civil Disobedience
 
Rooted in the writings of Henry David Thoreau and then blooming into the flower of
Mahatma Gandhi and eventually Dr. Martin Luther King, our world elevated itself
mightily from their common moral high ground. Racial discrimination rightly thrust
itself into the American consciousness during these same 1960s. Grand Bahama provided an illuminating and intriguing vantage point despite being just a mere sixty miles off the Florida coast.
 
Slavery predates Jesus of Nazareth. The freedom he offered through the Kingdom of
God transcended slavery as chattel. He offered freedom at a deeper level. Freedom
from our own flawed humanity took liberation to a new, higher moral and spiritual
plain. In every direction, people sought greater freedom and dignity. Breaking out of
the shackles seemed all the rage in the 1960s. Everyone got into the act, even the students at St. Paul’s Methodist.
 
What were we thinking? Bologna sandwiches on white bread with butter – and we
didn’t love them?
 
“Do you know how little we had during the Second World War?”
 
“Do you know we didn’t even have sugar or fruit or orange juice?”
 
Geez, no, I didn’t and, by the way, that was twenty-nine years ago and you really can’t
blame me. I’m eleven!
 
Only one option existed. I’m going to lead these fellow eleven-year olds to some decent food. We’re going to town – to Burger King. Not my best planned act of civil disobedience.
 
When virtually all of the eleven-year olds disappear from an elementary school,
chances are high the teachers will notice. It just doesn’t happen often enough to slip
past them. So, waiting for us at the front of the line? You guessed it. A direct descendent of the first King of Scotland; our stern, inchoate but loving headmaster, Eric “The Red” Williams. Yep, there he was, all 6-foot-3-inches and 225 pounds (16 stone for you true Brits) smiling at his seventeen wayward Fourth Form eleven-year olds. Caning was reserved for yours truly. You need to plan a crime to feel the full arm of the law. I received it and managed not to cry or yelp. I actually felt sort proud; an odd reaction for the son of a school teacher.
 
I wondered if the real, genuine protestors felt the same way. The year before, it was Dr. King who was shot and then Robert Kennedy, the brother of the slain President. Our parents couldn’t help but question the civil unrest broadcast on TV each night. These people must be partially right – some of this must be justified.
 
Race in America can appear as a two dimensional issue. America mixes race and slavery into a toxic brew that haunts us to this day. Elsewhere in the world, racial discrimination exists. It took America to bind slavery into racial discrimination. Not so in other countries. In the Bahamas, the pecking order works in a simpler way:
 
Bahamians look down on Jamaicans.
Jamaicans look down on American Blacks.
American Blacks down on Haitians.
Bermudians look down on everybody.
 
By 1970, Bahamians seemed intent on gaining independence, but it didn’t involve race and it didn’t involve civil disobedience. It was their country and they were free to do their will. That’s exactly what they did. Foreigners were deported. The island economy came to a standstill. Non-Bahamians saw their work permits revoked. Capital fled. It was now their country – poorer, but free of foreigners.
 
It was all over.
 
The middle class disappeared. In time, you were either a tourist or a Bahamian, or
eventually a narco drug lord. Grand Bahama went the way of Detroit. Like a sandcastle, it just washed away. Such a shame – twice in one childhood.
 
Attracted to Risk
 
A twelve-story apartment building on the south beach of Grand Bahama sure seems like the wrong place for a nine-year old boy to play. And it was. Designed like many Bahamian apartment buildings, the front door to each unit opened to an exterior, outside hallway. Problem! Then, the elevator stack was wrapped on the outside with a staircase that candy-caned itself to the roof of the twelve-story building. Problem!
Probably not the best choice for young families with young children.
 
For moms and dads who dreamed of living on a beach of beautiful, squeaky, white sugar sand, they found nirvana at Rivera Towers. Weekends included all these young families picnicking around the lawn that joined the open breezeway lobby to the beach itself. With seven units on each floor and families in the larger two and three bedroom units, there were lots of kids for play and mischief.
 
Why did that roof seem so interesting? As a nine-year old, I wondered if you could see
Florida from there – (that would be a “no”). The locked door at the outside staircase really didn’t slow us down. It did require climbing around the wooden door jam that Art Childress built to prevent residents from doing exactly what we did. That would be climbing up onto the railing and around the outside of that wooden door and door jam.
 
Lucky for us that we didn’t slip or lose hold and fall the twelve stories down to the grass landscaped entrance. That would have been a sight . . . splattered nine-year olds landing right outside the apartment leasing office. I do wonder if my extreme acrophobia might just stem from scaring the shit out of myself and then carrying and blocking that memory into a place that I can no longer access.
 
Sean Connery wrapped up the filming of “Thunderball” in 1965 with the help of the
divers from UNEXSO about a mile down the beach from Rivera Towers. Few movies
stimulated scuba diving like “Thunderball.” Moviegoers watched Connery and Claudia Auger canoodling among the sea fans and coral and assumed they could do the same with a few lessons.
 
Dad and I took to scuba quickly and completely. Starting with the twelve to eighteen
foot reef dives and graduating to wreck dives on sunken ships and grotto cave dives.
Donny and I tried them all. Only when the depths exceeded 100 feet did Dad bow out
and let his now eleven-year old son keep going. Guided diving trips on Grand Bahama
from UNEXSO replaced Little League and Boy Scouts.
 
Below one hundred feet, double tanks allow you twenty to thirty minutes at depth to explore and then to fully decompress as you rise. Off Grand Bahama, beginning at eightyfive feet, the ocean floor begins to noticeably drop until at approximately one hundred ten feet, it goes vertical. Going over that edge gives you the feeling of being suspended over the pitch dark ocean floor and provides a very genuine rush of adrenalin. That euphoria makes the dive worth the hassle of decompression. Dad disagreed. Also, we decided not to tell Mom about the sharks, that poor woman had enough to worry about.
 
Let’s talk sales. The kid needed some walking around and scuba cash. Selling newspaper subscriptions door-to-door would be the slow, safe way to win a sales contest. The top ten subscription sellers won an autumn weekend in Miami to watch the Dolphins host the Cleveland Browns. I opted for the accelerated sales strategy, writing all of my parents’ and grandparents’ friends in Detroit and suggesting they might want an off-island subscription (worth three times as much in sales contest credit). Let’s just say I won this trip going away . . . and pissed off all the older newspaper boys. I did enjoy every last envious smirk. Photographed at the top of the stairs for the Air Bahamas flight to Miami, I needed to stand on my tippy toes to appear as tall as the other winners.
 
Memories of that weekend with the Dolphins at the old Orange Bowl seem dim. The
Browns dumped the ‘Phins 28-0. What I do remember was fellow newspaper man, Harry Palm, upchucking his eleven twelve-cent burgers from the White Castle hamburger joint onto the moving escalator at Jordan Marsh in the North Miami Beach Mall.
 
Watching the poor janitor chase the befouled escalator step rising, rising, rising and
then disappearing again and again is a memory I probably should block. Winning remains the best part. With winning, came confidence.
 
Perhaps, I developed too much confidence. I don’t know how to sail. Even a rudimentary understanding of sailing escapes me. Therefore, the decision to sail our friends’ sunfish to the west end of the island seemed highly suspect, particularly for an eleven-year old. Compounding matters, I chose the week of my parents’ annual anniversary vacation for this poorly conceived sailing excursion. Not content to drive my parents a little cuckoo, I gave my grandparent babysitters full-on angina. When they couldn’t see their grandson on the southern horizon, the shit was definitely going to hit the fan. And I knew it. How did I manage to reverse tack my way to a half mile off shore? I didn’t know how to sail on a whole new level.
 
Let’s just say Grandpa Don, with the wrath of Hades, greeted his favorite grandson upon swimming the sunfish (with the rope line in my mouth) back to the Rivera Towers beach. I guess my only fear was of my grandparents’ reaction once I solved this self-created problem. Grandma Sally usually overlooked my transgressions, but not that night.
 
What was the attraction to risk? Probably the completely irrational mindset that nothing bad would ever happen to me. As fate would have it, that changed later.
Back to Mom, our first subversive libertarian radical. While Dad chummed up the Bahamian officials in the process of strategically selling them his new condos, Mom would occasionally stand in the Winn Dixie parking lot changing Bahamian money into American dollars for the Haitians. Dad’s protection from his Immigration and Customs buddies gave him little comfort when Mom was loudly challenged at one of their weekend cocktail parties. However, this didn’t stop old Maggie. Her mission wasn’t subverting the value of the Bahamian currency. No. Rather, she saw in these poor Haitians a proud people who simply wanted to send American dollars back to their families. "You risk taker Mom.....carry on, Maggie!"
 
Dad had a knack for naming condos. Fairway Manor seemed a touch too baronial for
what he actually built on the 16th hole of the Ruby golf course. Seriously, Dad? Edelweiss Chalets? Let’s try that one more time.
 
He really hit his stride with the Edelweiss Chalets at the corner of Santa Maria and Nina Boulevards. This drew in the local government officials who never thought they would live in an neo-Austrian condo project on the beach in the Bahamas – a regular marketing impresario, that old Donny.
 
If your two favorite stories are “The Sound of Music” and “The Godfather,” you are psychologically predisposed to name your landmark condo project Edelweiss Chalets and fill it with croupiers and mildly corrupt local officials. “Bless Our Homeland Forever.”
 
“Keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer.” Such was the attraction to risk.
As I write these memoirs of childhood days in the Bahamas, a small, copper boating tub with a makeshift sail made landfall in front of The Delano Hotel on Miami Beach. Five bedraggled, sunburned Cubans and a frightened teenage girl, still dazed from their 36-hour journey, sat next to their makeshift craft. The bar maids from The Delano served them water and non-alcoholic mixers, while tourists with iPhones snapped pictures of the sailors’ grinning mugs and their crazy little craft. It reminded me of the Haitian shipwrecks Dad and I explored with scuba gear in the Bahamas, mailboats with too many Haitians on board that made it close enough to the beach that these risk takers could swim or walk the rest of the way. In many ways, the world sees this every day.
 
In short order, American politicians will condemn these beneficiaries of our “Wet Feet – Dry Land” policy for Cubans seeking asylum in America. Some politicians will demonize them as illegal immigrants. Others will wait until they’re multi-millionaires and vilify them for their financial success. I prefer to admire their attraction to risk and a country that rewards it. God Bless America and every damn risk-taker who found their way here. We wouldn’t be America without them. We’re lucky.


(C) Copyright Kirk Dodge 2016

Slaves to Society


By Karen King
 
 
 
Many of us are slaves in society.  We work for a pittance, trying to make ends meet.  I have
 
heard that 5% of the world owns 95% of the wealth.  So, while the rest of us are struggling to
 
pay our bills, others earn silly amounts of money.  I ask, are they so much more intelligent,
 
worthy or more talented than, say, the writing fraternity? 
 
 
 
It seems it’s easy to publish if you are already famous, but if you are not, then you are
 
pleased if people bother to read your poetry or buy your books.  Often you have to self-
 
publish or publish through a publisher for vast amounts of money.  Is this fair when you have
 
so much talent to give society?  Many of us struggle to do what we enjoy or, more likely, we
 
have a day job to enable us to afford to write our poetry.  Still, poetry is something we have
 
to do and we try and benefit society with our words. 
 
 
 
Just think, next time you see someone with the latest design gear, ask yourself if this is what
 
 
life is all about and if you truly think they are happy for, surely, happiness comes from inside
 
through the expression of our soul and not from outside, material goods?  They feel that
 
happiness can be bought and do not understand that it just comes about through following
 
your soul’s path.  I, personally, feel that many people have sold their souls to “fit in” and
 
“keep up” with other people, like it is some sort of competition.  They do not wish to follow
 
their souls and find inner peace and happiness.  In a way, perhaps they are also slaves to
 
society?
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright  February 2016

As Time Goes By

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


In front of me is a letter from the Department of Veterans Affairs, Long Island National Cemetery, Farmingdale, NY 11735.  It is from November 8, 1993, directed to Mrs. Del Zappala, 222 Sullivan Street, New York, NY 10012.
It reads:
Dear Mrs. Zappala: I have enclosed a map of the cemetery with the section and grave location of your husband, Richard A. Zappala. The burial was conducted on November 4, 1993, and the remains placed in grave 1378A.
The information you provided on the ‘Certificate of Monument Date’ will be utilized to order the headstone.  Once the headstone is received in approximately 0-12- days it will be installed. We will mail you a post card once the stone has been installed.
If we may be of any further assistance please contact Annette Bianco at 516-454-4949.
Sincerely, Mike Cariota, Cemetery Director.
This letter was in a file, which my husband Raymond Rodrigues, had kept.  He too has passed on in the meantime. As a matter of fact, he too is buried in a Military Cemetery, but he is at Calverton, New York. I would have preferred him to be in Farmingdale, as this is much closer to my residency; however in 2010 there was no longer any space available in Farmingdale.
“Do the dead know when we visit them?”
One day in the future I will join him at Calverton.  This is a thought which is not exactly pleasant to me and oddly erroneous too.  I am not even an American Citizen; I came from a country, Germany, where my husband won his medals of war, including the Purple Heart.  Just like my entire life can hardly be called traditional, this too falls under the heading “Idiosyncrasy. “
Richard Zappala was my husband’s nephew, the son of his oldest sister Hilda. When I met him, he was already in his second marriage to Del Zappala. He had gotten hurt during a maneuver while in the Service and thus was buried with Military honors.
I remember Richard as a pleasant personality, heavyset, a smoker and drinker and always full of jokes. I knew him for nearly 30 years but only met him at family gatherings, maybe once or twice a year. Del his wife was a charming Blonde, a good singer and somebody nice to have around.  As I understand she was many years older than Richard, maybe about 15, and she was the bread winner.  She loved Richard dearly and gladly accommodated his aimless lifestyle.  In old times Richard was said to have been on road shows as an actor, but I cannot remember him ever working while I knew him. His failure to make a living obviously contributed to the break-up of his first marriage to Sybill.  He died at the early age of 53, succumbing to a heart attack while food shopping.
Del died many years later. During my last phone conversation with her she mentioned that she was working on her blood pressure, which was at stroke level and that we would get together when she felt better.  Well she did have a stroke shortly after this call and died several months later.  Her body was sent to her family members someplace at the outskirts of Pennsylvania.  At this point nobody, being that there is only Mary, my sister-in-law, who did not know the answer when being asked, knows the address. Unfortunately, Mary Petit, my sister-in-law had a fall-out with her son and their connection has broken off.  Mary’s daughter, Diana passed away July 2011, following a devastating fire in their house in Jersey and also suffering from Liver cancer. Richard Zappala also had had a sister, Dorothy.  She too died from cancer a few years after him. There are no offspring from either Richard or Dorothy. Mary’s son Mark however has two children, Tiana and Garrett, and I am contemplating to possibly send them a copy of this write-up in the near future.  I myself am of advanced age and the term “In the future” will be chiseled into “Near future” by me from now on.
In the “very near future” I will compose a write-up about my own family. Luckily I have kept pictures, letters and hearsay anecdotes since my early youth.  Maybe my grandson, Adam, now 7 years old, will one day take the notes into his hands and venture  on a trip into the past.
People and happenings, otherwise forgotten, will live on in the written word!
 

 From: THE OWL
 
A Chapter from Raney Tables’ Booklet on the History of FLORA’S ISLAND:


 
WHY SASSACUS IS SIGNIFICANT!
 
By David Seerman

 
There were others: fearless, unrepentant. But there, too, were more others:
peaceful, patient. However, there was only one who pitched his teepee at both
outposts and that was none other than Sassacus. It made him a heroic leader, a
powerful sachem. History’s slimy scribes firmly suggest he was motivated by
greed and bloodlust, a strong suggestion that he bore a distinct hatred of the British
settlers and the contesting Mohegan and Narragansett tribes. He is portrayed as an
avenging butcher, a patriarch of a rather large, amorphous band of vicious
heathens. Like your typical scapegoat, he was sensationally demonized, a beaded,
blackhaired savage rising head and feathers above his fellow cutthroats, inspiring
tribal usurpations and initiating surprise attacks, brutally killing then desecrating
the bodies of beaver traders and missionaries and renegades and British envoys and
brigands for no other reason than this kind of mundane, serial butchery remains sui
generis to the indigenous cultures of the Old Land .
A small registry of sane voices object to such incendiary language an
indictment by Richard Mather almost 400 years ago that the Pequots were the
accursed seeds of Canaan, being a typical call for genocide but
the historical perspective at the time was exceptionally clear: a holy war in the costume of a holy
pogrom was necessary to cleanse the New England coast of the singular blight
blocking British upward mobility, British trade and traffic, British forts and
settlement, and that blight was Sassacus and the Pequots, an old Algonquin phrase
meaning, ironically, the Destroyers.
Sassacus befriended the Dutch when necessary and worked with the British,
being a principled position of last resort. It was one thing to instigate tribal warfare
or to shear away Pequot lands and to put a strangle hold on fur trading, but it was
quite another thing altogether to put a whomp on the wampum that was the Pequot
pride and source of their power. That there was a lot of cutting going on in those
days went beyond irritation. Those steel drills applied by the British in small
Massachusetts Bay manufacturing plants cut quickly through the white whelk and
purpled quahog shells and cut the value of wampum to an unacceptable level. Yet
another Smallpox epidemic, this one in the winter of 1634,
right smack in the middle of his command, cut the population of the Pequots nearly in half, and deals
cut prior and during Sassacus’ short reign were either ignored or broken. A great
strategist, how many options did Sassacus have in a cage?
In a pinfold? In a fire pit?
He tried making one last deal. In October 1634, sensing trouble from the
subservient Narragansetts and from the Dutch, he sent an emissary out to his
British competitors to talk about relinquishing land, attaching 400 fathoms of
wampum for good measure. But today’s defeat was yesterday’s betrayal . And so
how much free will can he exert when the enemy is closing in from all sides?
When there was no one to trust or turn to? His nephew, Uncas, and his reformed
wolf pack, the Mohegan breakaways, were cutting into the holy dance, the bands
were disbanding, new alliances were forming favoring the British, souring on the
Dutch. What’s a responsible leader to do? How does one make the cut, keep the
faith, pool the dwindling resources of a pragmatic people being given the squeeze
by ally and alien alike? This writer believes a conspiracy was at play in the large
woodland playgrounds of Southern New England. Sassacus was the sole
impediment to the British form of a final solution and the British found a way to
execute their plans by planning to execute all that they found. It was no surprise
that religion championed their Public Relations pitch, a holdover from European
wars of late, or that cash and acreage crowned their connivance.
The great cook off, May 26, 1637, needed a commemoration. The torching
of 400, some say 700, Pequots, mostly the infirm, the women, the children, like all
great birth dates, required a candle to set the festivities in motion. Governor
Winthrop’s journal crystallizes the event, the Pequot slayer cake serving as the
centerpiece of a major American holiday. Forget the damned turkey, put away the
silver, hide Rockwell under a rock, put the candle into position, one candle, plus
one shiny, decorative epistle of human transgression, a clear missive of what we all
were about to become: ....was ordered to bee kept a day of publicke thanksgiving to
God for his great m'cies in subdewing the Pecoits.... The man couldn’t stop; he
couldn’t help himself. The word M’cies,
Oh, the sanctimony of all that we hold dear was out of the bag:
A day of thanksgiving kept in all the churches for our
victories against the Pequots, and for the success of the assembly....
Free enterprise was not free. Somebody alway has to pay and pay. Winthrop
wanted Southern New England for his own playground, including Flora’s Island. It
was Sassacus’s role in the annals of history to pay for this white outreach with his
life, his subjects to pay with their lives and their freedom and, yes, even their
name, henceforth illegal and subject to severe penalty if ever uttered among the
Pequot slaves held in dire servitude for decades after. To imagine your name, what
you are, where you came from: verbal contraband. There were so many other firsts
or close seconds it’s hard to find a place to start. Identity theft as we’ve begun to
identify with it may have started here; slavery as we’ve fondly come to understand
it in America may have started here; Regional genocide has a place at this table as
well. Thanksgiving, too, as we’ve come to treasure it in all its hypocritical rotgut
may have started here; Mass penury, i.e., homelessness, the homegrown variety,
may have started here. Indian reservations, as we’ve come to accept it, may have
started here as well.
It all boils down to Sassacus, his unique courage, his unique stature, his
unique way of holding 26 tribes and their sachems together, if ever so briefly.
My fascination with Sassacus is a small token of depreciation in comparison to the
overwhelming homage, brutal in its full flower, garnered from the likes of
Governor Winthrop right down to Uncas, with every other settler and Indian
mashed in between.
Historical documents clearly identify Sassacus as one of the bad guys ( a
malignant, furious Piquot ) and later, more erudite scholars, clearly point to him as
one of the good guys
(a renowned warrior and a noble and highspirited man.)
But history aught not make assignations in such a topical manner. It’s an insult to the
caliber of the subject. We’re not, after all, determining placement in a tribal
popularity contest. Most likely to succeed: Sassacus. Most likely to be tallest:
Sassacus. Most likely to scare the shit out of peers and pawns alike: Sassacus. Most
likely to kick British ass: Sassacus. Most likely to be beheaded: Sassacus!
History’s all askew. Let’s look at it from a more piquant summit. Like Albert
Camus says about old Sisyphus: One must imagine Sassacus happy.
Alone in his element, the primeval forest, the largehorned
buck, the branching rivers, the eternal sea, and then not alone, surrounded by his kin, his
heritage, the supple encouragement of his Dutchslaughtered
father, the great sachem Tatobem. I see him traversing the tight Mohawk trails looking for
sympathy, any kind of familial support. But I find it impossible to imagine
Sassacus and his brother and a small band of survivors in semisupplication,
Asking for help from higher beings of a lower order or lower beings from a higher order. It
didn’t suit him. He was hardly one to solicit help from others. I prefer, and I have
no reason to doubt, that he took his fleeing band of warriors to safe retreats. Why
he would end up begging for refuge with the Mohawks makes little logistical
sense. I’ve no doubt the probability of his death at the hands of these royalist
loyalists wins the percentage game. I do have doubts that Sassacus was so
desperate that he lost his head, so to speak. But he was more clever than that. I
must give him credit for that. I must see him in that light. Given the great rivalries
that existed and his broad knowledge of tribal customs and dangerous liaisons, I
suspect he might have disappeared into a more invisible world, a world later
conjectured by Cotton Mather to be rooted in Doemons and Witchcrafts , though
more likely he could have just traipsed off deep into the thick forest and far, far
away from history itself living outside the collection plate we know as time. He
would have been hunted down had he done that of course. He knew he wasn’t to
come through this maelstrom alive, especially after escaping from the Fairfield
Swamp Fight that decimated most of the remaining warriors of his tribe.
Under cover of a great and surprising fog, he and few ragtag stragglers
escaped, but could they escape from history, elude time? He was destined to be
murdered. He knew about the ordinance of fate and welcomed its approach. But it
had to be on his own terms. The Mohawks. How easy it becomes for history to roll
out the simple, logical fact that he was beheaded as soon as he arrived. It’s hard to
buy. Why didn’t he escape to Flora’s Island? He could have lived out his last
remaining days in relative calm with relative ease. He visited the Island frequently.
The best shells for making wampum came from the northern shores of eastern
Long Island. The Pequots were given annual tribute of thousands of fathoms of
wampum by vanquished tribes to defray the cost of trade with the Dutch. Some
texts insist that Sassacus tried to find refuge with the Metoacs of Northern Long
Island after the carnage, but the subservient Metoacs (the Montauks being the
largest affiliate tribe) were so ingrained with resentment, they offered no quarter.
In this writer’s estimation, I think Flora’s Island would have been a perfect
refuge, a last ditch stand for the last standing free East Coast Indian until King
Phillip tried his hand to handle the glad handers decades later. Through the fog of
war, the actual fog, I see Sassacus hauling up his remaining canoes onto the
Island’s dark sand at Rosabella Beach. I see his small but fierce campaigners,
brutally decimated and marginally alive, scoring bloody indentations on the
beachhead, weary but proud, trekking towards higher ground. Finally, I can see
them in counsel somewhere along the peak on Barton’s Hill, planning their next
move. Sassacus is smiling. He knows this is the end. The Owanux have won, and
this is the end. Through the deep mist of a warm spring evening, he hears with
perfect clarity the thrum of waves crashing along the shoreline of the beach below.
He holds, loose in his mammoth hands, the wampum he at one time hoped would
secure their escape, but any idea of an escape to Sassacus is now but an
ephemeron. There is life and there is death and after, there is the great world of
imagination which is the one true release where escape is truly possible.
Long after, I imagine him following me along the water’s edge. I walk
further up the slope and then I turn to face him. I see him; it is him. Majestic.
Calm. Tall....so very tall. The invitation is clear, the possibilities of historic verity
free from corporeal conditions. The sheaths of wampum are draped in his upturned
hands. I accept the offering, break the seal. “Are we so very different?” I ask. He
remains silent, solemn. The articles of faith lay shimmering in his dark and
upturned hands.
 

Mental Illness
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
There are many forms of mental illness – depression (often as a result of bereavement from
 
the loss of a loved one, loss of a job or relationship), anxiety, claustrophobia (fear of enclosed
 
spaces), agoraphobia (fear of large, outdoor spaces), PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder),
 
autism and anorexia to name but a few.  Our brains can no longer function properly.  It can be
 
like we are trying to function through a sea of mud.  All of these forms of mental illness are a
 
challenge in our lives, making the most mundane of tasks difficult to complete.  Some of
 
these mental disorders have to be worked with as they are part of the sufferer’s lives.  This
 
includes someone suffering from Autism (a mental disorder which makes the person
 
“different” from the rest of society.  Autistic people be very intelligent if on what is known as
 
the “higher end” of the Autistic spectrum.  This is known as “Asperger’s Syndrome”.  Often,
 
these unusual individuals say things in a most unfortunate manner with an aggressive tone of
 
voice.  They cannot relate to others and do not react in a “socially acceptable” manner.  They
 
might pull faces or make noises when they should be keeping quiet.  They might ask
 
questions at inappropriate times.  They do like routine, get confused easily and tend to be
 
slow.  These unusual individuals, when they find their niche, fly high and do extraordinary
 
well in life.  They are often good at the more technical side in life, such as IT, Maths and
 
Science, where extreme detail is needed.
 
 
 
Some conditions can be worked with and, in time, the side-affects will become manageable
 
and the condition may disappear altogether.  These conditions can be treated in a number of
 
ways, sometimes by medication or by a less invasive way, such as therapy.  Hypnotism, Reiki
 
and acupuncture are good example of giving the patient a sense of well-being whereby the
 
trauma is no longer experienced and the symptoms are also treated, thus ending the suffering
 
for the client.  Anxiety, depression, claustrophobia, agoraphobia, PTSD and anorexia are into
 
his category.  All of these conditions are often triggered by something else.  For example, the
 
person suffering from depression can become agoraphobic or suffer from anxiety. 
 
 
 
If you are suffering from depression, you will lack motivation to conduct everyday tasks.  It
 
is hard just getting out of bed in the morning as you dread the day ahead, wondering how you
 
are going to cope and how challenging it will be.  Our brains feel foggy, you feel in shock
 
and unable to concentrate.  A state of misery can follow us around all day and cannot be
 
shaken off.  We find it hard to function properly and may stay in bed or around the house for
 
extended periods of time to escape from the world.  The sufferer may eat or drink to excess or
 
rely on prescribed medication in order to number their pain.  In extreme instances, suicide
 
could be attempted in an effort to escape from the world, other people and ourselves. 
 
 
 
Mental illness can destroy our lives and, if left untreated, can lead to dreadful consequences. 
 
It is a disease which tends to be taken more seriously these days.  Many people suffer from
 
this debilitating condition, often as a result of the pressure from society.  Too much is
 
expected and too soon.  This could lead to serious illnesses, such as cancer (the disease most
 
prevalent in society due to undue stress, unhealthily foods, alcohol and tobacco) and possibly
 
death. 
 
 
 
We are not achieving anything by rushing around, apart from making ourselves physically
 
and mentally ill.  I think we need to be more patient and kinder to each other and ourselves. 
 
We will then feel happier, healthier, more peaceful and better able to cope with the
 
challenges in life.  It is time for us all to wake up and start communicating with each other,
 
meditating, enjoy time being creative and get outside in nature to find our true and already
 
complete selves.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   February 2016

At the Airport


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



Planes, planes, planes – People, people, people.
Metallic, disembodied voices announce arrivals, departures, or, more often than not, delays over the loudspeaker of the International Terminal.
At the ramps, all types and sizes of aircrafts run up their engines before they swing up into the air and wing through the sound barrier.
People don’t walk; they hustle.  Some hurry toward the entrances, others rush toward the exits, from left to right from front to back. They push and pull suitcases and cabin luggage ahead or behind.
If you take the time to watch closely, you will find myriad emotions hidden in the ongoing commotion. The airport is a stage for drama stored up till finally being released, right here, where thousands of people part and meet.
Near a check-in counter, kneeling on the stone floor, a small boy blonde and blue-eyed is happily playing with a toy plane. He’s unconcerned that people might trip over him. The father is busy with filling out travel documents. Only now and then he shoots his son a stern glance. The cheeks of the little chap are flushed with excitement. Soon for the first time he will be in a real airplane. Together with his Daddy he will fly to see Grandma. What he doesn’t know yet is that he will have to stay with Grandma for a long time. His parents have gotten divorced. His mother is in prison and his father does not have the time to raise him.
Coming down the steps of an airplane, just arrived from Lisbon, a Granny disembarks. She is shakily stroking the pleats of her black native costume. Her wrinkled face shows the stress from an adventure so different from her usual rhythm of life in Calleta, the quiet fishing village at the outskirts of Madeira. Her frail, shrunk body trembles with excitement and expectation. She looks around timidly, searching. Momentarily her faded water-blue eyes light up.  A husky man lifts his Texan hat from a receding graying hairline and welcomes her with outstretched arms. Her son!  Her little Juca!  Tears of joy enhance her weathered face while the man places a soft, tender kiss on her wrinkled face.
At the departure gate, a young couple lingers in tight embrace. The girlish figure of the woman shakes with hysteria. They’ve only been married for one month and now he has to go into the service. A kiss and yet another kiss is exchanged while they cling to each other. Then the young man tears himself away. Straightens his youthful shoulders and walks stiffly to the gate.  She remains glued to the large window, her nervous breath painting ringlets on the glass while she watches the plane disappear on the horizon. Tears begin to wet her face.
At the gift counter, a flaming redhead is sampling gold bracelets and sure enough an apparent sugar daddy, pulls out his wallet. It says “Bermuda” on their baggage tag. The young lady knows the odds. She is going to get as much out of the trip and out of him as possible.
There is scene after scene starring on the airport stage. The noise of the planes becomes mere background music to the performance of human emotions.
During my 25-year career as flight attendant, I was often asked, “What is your favorite place?” My answer was and is, “Massapequa. Long Island, New York.”  It is there I spent the best hours of my life. It is where I rooted myself after much turmoil in my youth and where I now live with my memories.

Mother-in-Laws 
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
These can be so annoying.  If you are a woman, you are very lucky if you get along with your
 
Mother-in-Law because, usually, no one is ever good enough for her Son.  If her Son is her
 
only child, she may want him married off, for fear that he will not be able to look after
 
himself on his own.  You will have to come up with the goods – the perfect Wife, Mother and
 
housewife...  If not, she could well come between you and cause trouble.  If the Husband
 
doesn’t keep this under control, it could end in major problems and, possibly, divorce!   The
 
Husband will have to put you first if he wants their marriage to work. 
 
 
 
If you are a man, you will probably not understand the close relationship between Mother and
 
Daughter.  You may feel jealous or confused.  You may not understand how they can talk
 
about so much or even understand what they are talking about!   It could be something you
 
wish you had with your wife and you might start to wonder what is wrong with your
 
relationship.  Or, you might simply be relieved to have a break and have some time to
 
yourself or with your friends.
 
 
 
Either way, remember that all family is important, but you mustn’t let anything get between
 
the bond of Man and Wife or things will start to falter and could break down forever if not
 
discussed and quickly remedied.  Once the thread starts to fray, it may become irreparable
 
and, very likely, break forever.  So, please take care, remember your promise and do your
 
best to work through your problems as a couple together for nothing is perfect all the time
 
and some things are worth fighting for.
 
Karen King  Copyright   February 2016

This is a typical German Kaffeeklatsch. The translation, literarily is
coffee gossip. The beginning of the “Real Housewives?” My mind
is delving into:

 
Thoughts on Conversation
 
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues  


I do remember the event that took place in our house once every month. My grandmother would make sure that every pillow was in place. Four settings of cups, saucers and cake dishes were tastefully arranged around the table where my Grandma and her three guests would sit. At 2:30 the kettle with water was put on the gas burner and the pewter coffee can with the grounds to be brewed put on the counter next to it. A platter with yummy pastries was awaiting the guests; it invitingly but still covered teased the senses.
 
My grandma’s friends, Lenchen, Mieze and Martha were expected at 3 p.m. The youngest of them was 63, and my grandma was the oldest at 69. From 2:30 on, Grandma would stand at the window, her nose pressed against the glass, looking down the street in front of the house. This way she would see the three expected ladies coming from the train station.
 
This Kaffeeklatsch, also called Kraenzchen, the endearing version of wreath, meaning a wreath of close knit friends, took place every week. Each of the ladies was offering their house once a month. They were always happy to see each other. They talked about family, about their aches and pains, and about matters that had given them pleasure or grief during the past week.
Nowadays, when I see the Jersey Housewives show, I am reminded of those gatherings. Not much has changed, but the world seems to have gone more public.


To me it does not appear that we have abandoned vocabulary. In order to know the abbreviations we have to know the words first. Shorthand was very popular in the past when it came to transcribe thoughts quickly. Just like any business, take airlines, the medical society and other establishments have their own bagfuls of abbreviations, now the general public also has their own. Why not?

Don’t you remember when you were a kid and you sat at a table with grown-ups, that you were told, “Children are to be seen but not heard. Go and find something to play with.”  Voila, now the kids play their computer games. We grownups asked for it.


I was first introduced to TV when I came to the States in 1959. Black and white, with just a few channels. It was a great tool to brush up on my English. I imagine that a foreigner coming to the States nowadays will do the same. The only difference is the now existing variety of channels.

The iPad, FaceBook, Twitter, Fax and Email make us more independent and self-sufficient. Just think I do not have to bother my son at work or my girlfriend at the gym by interrupting her weightlifting just to get the answer to a question. All I need to do is to go to Google. True, eye-contact makes for a good conversation but cannot a good book also be a good friend?
 
The materials that are offered on social media nowadays are overwhelming. Whatever your interest, you will find a large group of like-thinking people by going to Twitter. It took me a long time to come to this conclusion because I had not tried. I had avoided it by believing that it would be too cumbersome to get the hang of. I regret the years I have wasted by holding on to that belief.
 
 

FBI’s Least Wanted

by R.J. Fox
 

A couple of years ago, I ventured into Detroit for a scouting expedition for what I thought was going to be my first feature film – a gritty, crime drama using Detroit as a backdrop. We were in search of the most run-down, decrepit locations imaginable – which is something of unfortunate abundance. Accompanying me on our mission was an international crew of immigrants and fellow Americans – a Polish storyboard artist, a British director, an American location scout and my fellow American producing partner.
It was a dangerous undertaking for four white suburbanites, venturing deep into inner city Detroit and into abandoned structures in various degrees of decay, ranging from neglect, to arson.  Although it may have looked like we were traversing on a grand-scale, post-apocalyptic movie set, we know full-too-well that we were miles away from a Hollywood ending.
Well past midnight, we ventured into the infamous, virtually desolate Delray “neighborhood” of southwest Detroit, running concurrently along the Detroit River. We approached the entranceway to the man-made, industrial wasteland of Zug Island, which resembled the skyline of Gotham City. Although I was vaguely familiar with the island, I had no clue what actually happened there. I was naturally curious and rolling in the safety of my “crew”, I decided to take the plunge and see for myself.
“Let’s go check this out,” I said, turning onto the gravel driveway leading to a one-way bridge leading to the island.
“What is it?” my director asked.
“Not really sure,” I said. “But just look at it. We have to have this in our movie!”
“Yeah, but it says no trespassing,” said the storyboard artist, referring to the enormous “NO TRESPASSING” sign posted on the bridge.
 “Guys, think about it,” I began. “What do you think we’ve been doing in all the other places we went to tonight?”
“Well, this isn’t abandoned,” said the director. “And they didn’t have ‘no trespassing’ signs on them.
“But it was still trespassing,” I said, holding serve. This point seemed to do the trick, as everyone finally agreed to “Fuck it” in the name of art. And when it was all said and done, in the face in of stupidity.   
We traversed onto what resembled a post-apocalyptic, industrial wasteland of an island, we observed what was at least 100 cars in the massive parking lot wrapping around the endless Habitrail system of a factory. Despite the cars, there wasn’t a single human soul in sight. It seemed unfathomable that any human life could possibly survive – let alone work – on such a God-forsaken island For those fortunate few who somehow managed to escape from the island had one possible outcome: death by cancer. This, theory, of course, assumed that there was any human life on the island at all. It was becoming increasingly apparent that we were in the human-less domain of robots – soulless cyborgs – hell-bent on destruction, programmed to wipe out any sign of life.
As we drove deeper into the abyss, none of us said a word, as though in mutual fear of voice-activated robot snipers. Or, as was more likely the case, we were paralyzed with the realization that robot snipers were already targeting our car.
From a distance, the flaming towers of Zug Island resembled an enormous, scrambled pipe organ. Up close, the island resembled the gateway to hell, as enormous flames gushed out of industrial smokestacks, accompanied by the cacophony of various clicks and clanks, bleeps and bloops of whirligigs, gremlins and what-not overlooking an industrial wasteland devoid of human existence.
“Welcome to Cyberdyne Systems,” my co-producer said.
“Cyberdyne?” I asked.
“You know … where Terminator and its ilk are manufactured. Skynet and shit.”
“Oh, yeah!” I said, realizing, as flashing lights approached us from behind, seemingly out of nowhere. I couldn’t help but think of mind the driverless police cars in at Bradbury story. A human voice (or something programmed to sound human) commanded: “Pull over at once. I repeat, pull over at once.”
            Since it was clear we were the only humans in sight, we had no doubt that the command was intended for us.  Since we were traversing across a parking lot, there was really nowhere to “pull over” so I just stopped the car, awaiting my final moments on earth.
            The cop car’s spotlight was blinding and nobody was coming out of the vehicle.
            “What the fuck is happening?” the Polish storyboard artist said with genuine panic in his voice.
            “Great idea, Bob,” my producing partner said. “If we go to jail because of this, I will destroy you.”
            “I’m sure we’ll just be asked to leave,” I said, trying to remain calm as any captain of a ship should, simultaneously shitting my pants.
            “What is this place?” the British director said.
            “Zug Island,” I said. “That’s all I know.”
            “But I mean, what goes on here?”
            “I honestly don’t know,” I said. “But I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”   The fact that we didn’t find out only deepened the mystery and intrigue of our trespass.
After five excruciating minutes, a figure finally emerged from the vehicle, swallowed by shadows. If it weren’t the cop from Terminator 2, it would be Robocop. This was Detroit after all.
            Finally, a grim-faced, human-looking security officer approached my window, draped in a jet black security uniform, adorned in a red shield on his shoulder that read “Zug Island Authority Patrol”.
            “May I ask why you are trespassing on the premises of Zug Island?” the officer asked, with a steely gaze and eyes that seemed incapable of blinking and emotion.
            “We’re scouting locations for a feature film. We come in peace.”
            “IDs please,” the soulless officer said, not buying what its programmer downloaded into his memory as a bullshit excuse.
            We produced our IDs and Officer Android disappeared back into the blinding light of his vehicle. We waited 10 minutes for him – it – to process our data.
            Once again, nobody said a word. We were frozen in fear.
            While we waited, it dawned on me that in my car was a Polish national and a UK national. On the surface, nothing overtly suspicious, but just off-kilter enough to alert at least some suspicion.
            The droid officer finally returned.
            “Do you have any cameras on your person?”
            “Yes,” I replied.
            “How many?”
            “Two, I think. Right guys?”
            ‘Yes, two.”
            “Please hand them over.
            We turned our cameras in and I felt deep despair in the pit of my stomach, as I thought about that hundreds of personal photos from various vacations and family events that I would probably never see again.
            The cop pocketed out cameras, before handing us back our IDs and issuing a stern warning.
            “If you come back onto the premises of Zug Island again, you will be arrested. Do I make myself clear?”
            “Yes,” we all replied in unison.
“Now go. Leave the premises of Zug Island at once,” leaving me fully convinced that we were communicating with an automaton.
“Can we get our cameras back?”
“No. Your cameras are now the property of Zug Island.”
“Just curious,” I began. “What exactly goes on here … on the premises of Zug Island?”
            The cop simply glared at me with his beady, soulless robot eyes, before heading back to his car. It was clear to me that he wasn’t programmed with a response to this particular question, which made perfect sense. He then proceeded to follow us right off of the island until we were safely back on the mainland of inner city, abandoned Detroit.
            “Well, that was fucked up,” the British director said.
            “Yeah, probably a dumb idea on my part.”
            “You think?” said my producing partner.
            “But so worth it!”
            “Was it?” the director said.
            “I think so.”
            I would later change my tune on this assertion. At that moment, however, I assumed that this ordeal was over at that point. I also knew sure as hell that I
would not be returning to the premises of Zug Island … ever … again.
            When I returned to the safe confines of my domicile, I immediately Googled Zug Island in an attempt to uncover just what exactly was so top secret about it. The only thing I could find was a vague reference to “top-secret government projects”, which – in its ambiguity – clearly explained the tight security and confiscated cameras. The lack of specific details made the mystery even more confounding. 
A few days later, my theory that it was all over was proven bunk when I received a phone call from my mom, which served as yet another reminder why being named after your father has its disadvantages.
            “The FBI left Dad a message on his work phone,” my mom began, filling me with dread. “They want to interview him about his trespassing incident on the premises of Zig Zag Island … or something like that. Do you know anything about this?”
            “As a matter of fact,” I told my mom. “Yes.”          
“What did you do?” she asked.
            I explained to her what happed. She questioned my judgment, then gave me the number to the FBI Special Agent awaiting my phone call.
I’m not quite sure why they contacted my father to begin with. Sure, we shared the same name, but not the same address. Yet somehow, they tracked him down at his workplace.
Shaking in fear, I called the number, already envisioning my future life on Guantanamo Bay.
“Hello, this is Robert Fox. I’m calling about trespassing on the premises of Zug Island. You guys called my father, but it was actually me.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Fox. We need to talk.”
“Am I in some sort of trouble?” I asked.
“We would like to question you regarding your involvement trespassing on the premises of Zug Island. Can we come to your place of residence at your earliest convenience?”
My convenience? Are actual terrorists given such courtesy? I definitely hoped not, while simultaneously grateful in this particular instance. Realizing I really had no choice, we arranged a meeting for the following afternoon, imagining myself slowly turning into a character out of a Kafka story.
The FBI had me pegged me as a terrorist suspect. This was my new reality.
Fuck.
I immediately called my international “crew” to see if they, too, were contacted. They were not. I was sure that it was only a matter of time.
“What do you mean by the FBI?” my co-producer asked.
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” I asked. “The F-B-I. The one and only.”
“This is the last thing I have time to deal with.”
“Well, hopefully, I can clear the air and everyone else will be off the hook. “
“Just like you said we wouldn’t get in trouble for trespassing to being with?”
“Yeah, well ..”
He had a point.
“Right now, it’s only my fish to fry.” 
“It better be.” Click.
Subsequent conversations with the rest of my crew followed a similar script. I scratched my head over this, asking myself repeatedly … why just me?
And then it dawned on me. I lived in Dearborn, Michigan. Dearborn is home to the largest Muslim population outside of the Middle East. Not only did I live in Dearborn. I lived in east Dearborn, where over 90% of the largest Muslim population outside of the Middle East called home.
Having a (now ex) wife from the former Soviet Union certainly added to the suspected international espionage. However, if that was the case, then why weren’t my international crewmembers also being spoken to? The only explanation I could discern was that I was the driver. My passengers, on the other hand, could have been held captive, against their will, for all the FBI was concerned. 
I decided it was probably a good idea to let my wife know that the FBI was planning on stopping by.
“What?” she asked, equally stunned and annoyed.
“The FBI. They’re coming to talk to me.”
“Why? What the fuck did you do?”
“I trespassed.”
“Where?”
            “On the premises of Zug Island.”
“Where’s Zug Island?”
 “In Detroit. I’ll explain later.”
“Why does this type of shit always happen to you?”
I had no clue what she meant. Nothing even remotely close to this had ever happened before. But I didn’t have the time, nor the energy to inquire further.
“Everything is going to be fine,” I said, suddenly realizing that his conversation was in all likelihood wiretapped. It was only a matter of time before I would hear the whirring of a helicopter.
“I have to get back to work,” I finally said to my wife, realizing that I was now more afraid to tell her about our confiscated camera more than I was the FBI.
I continued to feel a growing sense of paranoia, despite my rational self being fully aware that I had absolutely nothing to incriminate myself with, aside from a simple trespassing violation. Yet, somehow, I couldn’t help but feel that I was a marked man. That my top-secret life as a terrorist was so top-secret, that not even I knew that I was a terrorist. These are the overriding thoughts one has when the FBI IS COMING OVER TO INVESTIGATE YOU!
            After work, I rushed home and prepared to meet my maker. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I somehow guilty beyond a simple act of trespassing – that I was truly a terror suspect. It was similar to the irrational feeling I get in airport security lines. I am overcome with the paranoid sense that security is on to me and therefore, I start looking guilty, which only makes me look even more suspicious, giving them an actual reason to suspect me, rather than the imagined one in my mind which kicked off the whole thing. It’s a vicious cycle.
As I was straightening up my flat, I reminded myself that acting nervous and jittery wouldn’t help my cause, but this thought was only making me more nervous. No amount of deep breaths or medication could help me now. And then it dawned on me that it probably didn’t help my cause that my walls were all bare in preparation of a paint job we were about to do, creating a sense that my living space was simply temporary, a terrorist cell awaiting activation So I did the only thing I could think of to neutralize the situation: I put a nail into an empty hole and grabbed my crucifix from my bedroom. It was my only defense.
            With over an hour to spare, I sat down in my La-Z-Boy and turned on Fox News to appear as patriotic as possible when the SWAT team arrived. I tried to take a nap, but it was no use. Time continued trudging on in a slow drip.
My hour of reckoning finally arrived when the doorbell rang, alleviating my fear that their entrance would be heralded with the abrupt, crashing of windows. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Maybe I would live to see another day – that I wouldn’t be stripped of both my freedom and my dignity.
I let the two agents in, trying with all my might to appear as calm as possible, despite my rattling nerves. I politely offered them a seat, as well as something to drink. They sat down, and politely declined my drink offer, likely fearing a ricin attack, or an apartment full of explosives.
The two agents seemed nice enough and far more “human” – not to mention humane – than the emotionless, droid officer from Zug Island. Agent #1 was tall and thin, with an almost scholarly demeanor. Agent #2 was short and stocky like a prototypical blue collar beat cop and probably reported to Agent #1. Neither agent fit the profile of the stereotypical FBI agent that I envisioned, nor did I resemble the stereotypical profile of a terrorist. Then again, my olive skin tone from my half-Italian heritage might lead one to suspect that I was of middle-eastern descent.
Once we were settled, the interrogation process began. I tried to remain as calm as humanly possible. Other than the uncontrollable, repeated wiping of sweaty palms on my pants, I think I did okay, considering the surreal, nerve-wrecking circumstances. If I was this nervous being an innocent man, how does an actual suspect keep it together?
Agent #1 did all the questioning, as agent #2 scribbled down notes.
            “So, what were you doing on the premises of Zug Island?” 
            “Scouting locations for a feature film.”
            “A future film?”
            “A feature film. And, I suppose, future film.”
            “About what?”
            “A gritty crime story set in Detroit.”
            “Sounds interesting.” 
            “Thanks.”
            “Have you ever been involved in terrorist activity?”
             “No.”
            “Are you affiliated with a terrorist organization?”
            “No.”
            “Are you aiding or abetting a terrorist organization?”
“Have you ever conspired with a recognized enemy of the United States?”
            “No.”
            “Okay, I guess our work here is done. Thank you for your time.”
            The agents stood up, in perfect, synchronized unison.
            “Wait, that’s it?” I asked, realizing that I sounded disappointment that my interrogation was over so quickly.
“Yes. We had to interview you as a formality, but we weren’t really worried,” Agent #1 said, as he handed me his business card. And then he threw me for an even bigger loop:
            “By the way, since you live here in east Dearborn,” Agent #2 began. “We’d appreciate it if you could be our eyes and ears around here.”
            And just like that, I was no longer a terror suspect…I was a quasi-FBI informant. God bless America.
            “If you see anything suspicious,” Agent #1 began “Let us know immediately. And whatever you do, stay off of the premises of Zug Island.”           
            “I can assure you of that,” I said.  “But what exactly goes on those premises?”
            “Not even we know,” Agent #1 said.
            “Any chance I can get my camera back?”
            “We’re afraid not,” Agent #2 said.
            And he meant it.
            As I led the agents to the door, I still couldn’t believe how easy I was let off the hook. I was never more relieved, despite the lingering paranoia the whole experience left behind.
            I never saw anything suspicious lurking in my neighborhood, so never had the need to call. But it sure felt pretty cool to have a direct connection to the FBI. I still have the business card till this day. Despite the unfortunate misunderstanding, I continue to experience minor inconveniences at the airport, but nothing that leaving early doesn’t rectify. Call me paranoid, but I’m pretty sure my brush with the FBI has at least a little bit something to do with this.  
            Regarding the future, feature film that was indirectly the catalyst for this experience, it is still yet to be produced, but I remain as determined to get it made, as I am to get off of the FBI watch list. Of course, if I had my druthers and had to choose one outcome versus the other, my dream takes the cake. 
 

AT 3 A.M., IMAGINATION IS NOT A GOOD THING

By Mike Taylor



Tap. Tip tap. Tap tap tap tap … tip tap.
 
Whatever it was, it was behind me, though I couldn’t see it. A blanket-like, 3 a.m. fog had settled over Baldwin Lake, its outriggers oozing across the road like tenebrous fingers, wrapping themselves around half-buried tree roots, obscuring the decaying remains of autumn’s expired leaves.
 
Caught in a dank breeze, leaves scudded across the shrouded pavement, etching out sounds like death watch beetles — chitinous, skittering. 
 
Tap. Tip tap tip.
 
Definitely behind me. Closer now.
 
I stopped and stared back into the darkness, trying to pierce the fog. The tapping suddenly ceased. I waited, but it did not start up again.
 
I thought of my bed, waiting in my apartment on the other side of the lake. Cozy. Comfortable. I should be there now, I thought, not out strolling through this abominable, impenetrable fog! Insomnia or no, what was I thinking?
 
I started walking. A few steps and I heard it again, faint but unmistakable: tap, tip tap, tap.
 
The next street lamp was 500 steps ahead, a tiny, glowing pocket of light in this misty, musty blackness.
 
I wasn’t exactly scared. Not yet. This is Greenville, not 17th Century London, not Transylvania. A nice, quiet neighborhood, nestled up to a small lakeshore. Bad things don’t happen here. Not REALLY bad things.
 
And though I’m older than dirt I can — or could, at last check — still bench nearly 300 pounds. I’m not helpless.
 
But … tap. Tip tip tap.
 
What WAS that sound?
 
I stopped again. Tap tip tap t— It stopped, too.
 
I waited. Nothing. Then … tap … then nothing again.
 
Why hadn’t I brought a flashlight? I often do when walking around the lake after dark. But this October night was unseasonably warm and inviting. When I had set out 30 minutes earlier, the fog had seemed sultry and secretive, an opportunity to spend a little time in my own private, late night world, all alone.
 
Except … I wasn’t alone. Someone was out here with me. Behind me. Keeping pace with my steps. The streetlight still seemed a long way off.
 
I thought about calling into the fog, “Is anyone there?” But what if nobody answered? I knew someone was behind me. Following me. Walking when I walked, stopping when I stopped. Pacing me. Stalking me.
 
If they didn’t answer, what would that mean? That they didn’t WANT to answer? And if not, why not?
 
Gooseflesh rippled to life on my arms, crawled up my shoulders, traced stealthy, cloying fingers over the back of my neck.
 
Tap. Tip tap.
 
I walked faster. It didn’t escape my notice that the cemetery was coming up on my right. I sometimes walk there, under the light of a noonday sun. Even then it seems pleasantly gothic, a throwback to the days before the sterilization of death, to a time when the dearly departed were laid to rest beneath imposing monoliths of granite and stately oak trees. It’s a cemetery to which the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come might accompany Ebenezer Scrooge, or from which Igor might harvest a few human organs for the experiments under way back at Castle Frankenstein. 
 
On a sunny day, the cemetery is pleasant and peaceful. On a foggy night, with something tip-tapping in your wake, it becomes stage dressing for a B-movie horror extravaganza, one in which you are to be the ax wielding maniac’s next victim. 
 
But at least the cemetery’s entrance is near the street lamp. I halted beneath its glow and waited. Here, I decided, I would make my stand and face down whatever it was that tip-tapped behind me.
 
Tap. Tip tap tip. Closer now. From within the billows of fog, a shadow detached itself and moved forward. Tap. Tip tap. T--
 
It stopped. Less than 20 feet from my feeble circle of light, something stood still. Tall. Dark. Waiting. Then, when I thought the standoff would go on indefinitely, it lurched forward, its right arm held stiffly forward.
 
“I’ve got mace!” Not the guttural growl of an ax wielding maniac, but a quavering, tremulous contralto. 
 
Out of the fog stepped a slender young woman, maybe 30, vaguely pretty, led by a small, leashed dog of indeterminate genus. The dog’s toenails clicked against the macadam. Tip tip tip tap.
 
“I thought you were an ax wielding maniac,” I said as she passed. I meant it to be funny, but she didn’t smile. She clutched the dog’s leash like a lifeline and hugged the opposite side of the road. 
 
As she disappeared into the fog ahead of me, the tip tapping gained speed and soon faded. I breathed out, back in, out again. I started walking.
 
One by one, the muscles in my back unclenched and I relaxed. The streetlamp’s glow fell behind me and I was again swallowed by the fog. 
 
In any decent horror movie, I realized, it would be at precisely this point that SOMETHING would reach out of the fog; something with gnarled, misshapen hands, with perhaps too many fingers, or too few. And those hands would not caress, but grab, rend, squeeze.
 
That last mile home seemed to take a long time.
 
 

Risen

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


 
It is Spring  2016.  There is still none of the silky, velvety touch in the breeze that one does expect at this time. It was a hard winter this year on Long Island and spring seems to be afraid to take over.
I pull into my driveway and get out of my, by now already seven-year-old BMW.
My mind ponders about the passing of time and things.  I grab my cane, a dancer once I now have problems walking.
Alongside the driveway and my neighbors’ fence is a flower bed. It has been there ever since we bought the house in the 1960s. We were a young, freshly married couple, ready to live the American dream of being owners of a little house with a white picket fence.  My husband Ray and I were then both flying as cabin attendants for the International airline, Pan American World Airways. “Gone but not forgotten” is the motto by which it is still remembered by many after going Chapter 11 in the late 1980s.
I notice that weeds gleefully try to take over, and an old lilac bush is laboring to produce bloom. It too was young and pretty once. It is here, and it is giving its best.
I startle – what is that? A flaming red, long stemmed, straight and lush tulip has caught my attention. Now really memories overwhelm me. During the first years in our new house we had planted one hundred hand-picked tulip bulbs which we had personally selected in Amsterdam at one of their famous tulip fields. We had been on a layover on Flight 72 from Idlewild, now JFK, to Amsterdam and Berlin.
During the first and second year after we had planted the tulips, we were highly rewarded for our efforts. When those plants bloomed in the month of May, in multiple colors, proud, straight and in abundance they had been the talk of the neighborhood. With time, as the years went by the display got less and less note-worthy.
Fast forward and only a few measly tulips stubbornly remained.  Finally, after several Nor’easter storms, they all were gone.  Now here it was, one survivor. Yes, I am sure it is a flower that has risen from the original crop. It has risen after having been buried for decades. Possibly it was pepped back to growth, when Super Storm Sandy caused the town to dig into this part of my yard. What a heartwarming moment. I quickly got my camera, took several pictures of that amazing flower and gratefully acknowledged the surprises that life sometimes has in store for us. 

Colors

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
With the display of colors that spring again will have in store for us,
Thoughts and words around coloration buzz!
Songs, stories and poems could accompany each individual design
Here are some of mine:
Red – Soviets, the Russian flag. World War II. . Me, as a child of 12 wearing a red pantsuit to please the Russian soldiers who were attending their mess halls. Greasy, fatty soup. Our starved stomachs not prepared for such treats We could not keep it down.
The red of roses. Found at every occasion where love is celebrated. White only when all has come to an end.
Blue. “You have beautiful eyes”. I have blue eyes. The Pan American planes and uniforms During 20 and more years with the airlines I saw mostly blue, blue, blue. The Ocean, its waters always blue for me even if there are days when they are anything but.. The only exception is Bermuda, the waters of Bermuda are so startling green with coral reefs peeking out of them that they cannot ever be mistaken for blue.
White. My wedding dress. Hand- made white lace. Tailored after a Vogue pattern. 1200$ in the store but $ 75 in Hong Kong. Still remember the tailor’s name, Milwani. All Flight crews had their wardrobe done there. All we did is supply a magazine with a picture and voila within 48 hours, our usual layover in Hong Kong, it was ready for pick up. They even brought it to the hotel for us. Pure, newly fallen snow, inviting to take a sleigh ride before stopping at an inn for a hot toddy.
Green. Ireland. The green meadows. The Blarney Castle. Hesitantly leaning backwards out of the window with one of the attendants holding me by the feet. Doing that would make one receive the gift of gab. I could not let that go. Scotland. The magnificent golf course on the water. My first putting. Arnold Palmer in all his glory. A reason I still watch the golf opens and Tiger Woods nowadays.
Yellow. The sun. My hair when it turned yellow while it was meant to get ash blond. A nice ripe banana. “Yellow looks good on you” I hear a lot. So maybe I should make yellow my favorite color.
Black. The processions ,along the cemetery in Berlin. One was to wear black. All black even black stockings. I spent many hours in the park- like resting place as my family, although big, had mostly older people in it and they went one by one within a very short period of time.
To end on a happy note. My grandson, seven years old who used to call blue his favorite color has now changed to Orange, the color of his soccer uniform.
There is Purple,( yes the purple heart given to my husband) Indigo , Brown, Grey and other colors but the above are the ones that come to mind usually first.
 

Rich
 
By Karen King

 
 
 
Are you rich?  Are you worthy?  Do you count in this materialistic society?
 
 
Sorry, but if you are a woman and you don’t care for the latest designer dresses, handbags
 
and shoes, you don’t count!   If you don’t have the latest hairstyle, you don’t count!  If you
 
don’t go the most exotic places, you don’t count!  If you don’t have the latest designer
 
kitchen and equipment, you don’t count!  If you don’t have the latest décor in your house,
 
you don’t count!
 
 
 
Sorry, but if you are a man and don’t care for the latest designer jeans, you don’t count!  If
 
you don’t travel to the most exotic places, you don’t count!  If you don’t have the trendy car,
 
you don’t count!
 
Sorry, but I don’t care for the latest designer dresses, handbags, shoes, hairstyle, exotic
 
holidays or the latest equipment and décor in my house!  Does that mean I am less?  No, I
 
don’t think so.  If anything, I am more, because I don’t feel a need for these things to prop
 
myself up.  I don’t care what others think, I don’t wish to compete, for I have no need for it.  I
 
am complete in myself.  Surely, health, peace, happiness, a loving family and partner and
 
enough money to pay the bills and occasionally treat yourself is all we need?
 
Look around, often the richest people in the world are very unhappy, because they keep
 
spending money buying things, trying to fill that hole in their hearts that cannot be filled.
 
They buy more and more, desperate and needy as they feel emptier and emptier.
 
How come, often the poorest people in the world are the happiest?  I would suggest that it is
 
because they are living in the present and savouring every moment.  They have a hard time
 
finding food, they often have no electricity, no lighting and few clothes, yet they are happy!
 
This defies our comprehension.  I feel it is because they are spending time with their families,
 
they are outside enjoying nature and they are not draining themselves with electronic devices
 
or trying to keep up with everyone else, rushing around in a pointless, exhausting manner,
 
making themselves ill.
 
I would certainly not want to go back to primitive times, but I can see that they have
 
something special that many of us have lost in modern society.  I feel that they could teach us
 
a better way of being and, perhaps, it is not them that are backward at all, it is us in Western
 
societies that are backward?  After all, what is the point in having the latest electronic
 
equipment if we no longer talk to each other?
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright February   2016

This week's "Creative Non-Fiction" is devoted to the magical fairytale of life itself. In some ways, we are all magical creatures, our creativity inspires and changes the world. Therefore, we should all believe in magic, in unicorns and fairies and in trolls. Our lives are constantly blessed by magical events. There is proof everywhere of amazing events that signify our daily lives. We just have to read the signs to see that this spiritual truth defines us.
The Japanese folk tale about the fountain of youth is followed by three pieces: Jack Scott's amazing and lengthy poem about "Birth" and Karen King's two pieces
about "Youth" and "Old Age".

The Fountain of Youth

Japanese Folk Tale

Translated by Lafcadio Hearn


LONG, LONG ago there lived somewhere among the mountains of Japan a poor woodcutter and his wife. They were very old, and had no children. Every day the husband went, alone to the forest to cut wood, while the wife sat weaving at home.

One day the old man went further into the forest than was his custom, to seek a certain kind of wood; and he suddenly found himself at the edge of a little spring he had never seen before. The water was strangely clear and cold, and he was thirsty; for the day was hot, and he had been working hard. So he doffed his huge straw-hat, knelt down, and took a long drink.
That water seemed to refresh him in a most extraordinary way. Then he caught sight of his own face in the spring, and started back. It was certainly his own face, but not at all as he was accustomed' to see it in the bronze mirror at home. It was the face of a very young man! He could not believe his eyes. He put up both hands to his head which had been quite bald only a moment before, when he had wiped it with the little blue towel he always carried with him. But now it was covered with thick black hair. And his face had become smooth as a boy's: every wrinkle was gone. At the same moment he discovered himself full of new strength. He stared in astonishment at the limbs that had been so long withered by age: they were now shapely and hard with dense young muscle. Unknowingly he had drunk of the Fountain of Youth; and that draught had transformed him.
First he leaped high and shouted for joy;-then he ran home faster than he had ever run before in his life. When he entered his house his wife was frightened;- because she took him for a stranger; and when he told her the wonder, she could not at once believe him. But after a long time he was able to convince her that the young man she now saw before her was really her husband; and he told her where the spring was, and asked her to go there with him.
Then she said:-"You have become so handsome and so young that you cannot continue to love an old woman;-so I must drink some of that water immediately. But it will never do for both of us to be away from the house at the same time. Do you wait here, while I go." And she ran to the woods all by herself.
She found the spring and knelt down, and began to drink. Oh! how cool and sweet that water was! She drank and drank and drank, and stopped for breath only to begin again.
Her husband waited for her impatiently;-he expected to see her come back changed into a pretty slender girl. But she did not come back at all. He got anxious, shut up the house, and went to look for her.
When he reached the spring, he could not see her. He was just on the point of returning when he heard a little wail in the high grass near the spring. He searched there and discovered his wife's clothes and a baby,-a very small baby, perhaps six months old.
For the old woman had drunk too deeply of the magical water; she had drunk herself far back beyond the time of youth into the period of speechless infancy.
He took up the child in his arms. It looked at him in a sad wondering way. He carried it home,-murmuring to it,-thinking strange melancholy thoughts.

Birth

By Jack Scott, Poemystic



1

Nests are not thrown together,

but carefully assembled ,

knit together piece by piece,

knots on a string of choices

a snippet at a time, a straw, a twig,

slips and strips of yarn and threads,

feathers, down and seaweed,

stems of weeds and flower heads-

industry and patience yoked

together toward common end.

 

No drawing board, no architect or plan,

no preconception evident ;

this hatches from its own intelligence,

its own egg, this idea of nest,

to begin this duet of certainty

to flesh these ideas out.

 

Predestined partners in this now,

basketweaving Yin and Yang

absolutely bound to coincide.

In their flights of Maypole spiraling

he selects the territory, she the site.

In their magic how do they know

when nest is done?

When the egg is in it.

 

Some say god is in the details,

stepping stones to excellence;

others say the devil’s there

to seek or cause the finest flaw

and thwart the scheme of things.

The essence of the universe,

might be the sum of details.

What’s a person or an egg,

but a smaller sum of all of these?

 

2

So it is beyond these fences

within broader boundaries

enclosing more

that can’t be weighed or measured

in tangibility.

Sweat, for instance,

between two bodies slippery in their heat,

careless in the transience of their lust.

She can’t hear the skeins of sound

loosed by their embrace- she’s deaf,

but he is deafer

to things far subtler than sound,

the silent sire who first begot

and then was not.

 

3

Vacationing from pain,

as far away as she can get,

self-medicating doctor explores by eye

horizon across the Belfast Bay

from her chair upon the porch,

scans the nearer islands,

enjoys her stereopticon of reverie:

images as brief as blinks

blended with the butterfly effects

of all her history.

 

4

“Tea or coffee, Miss?”

asked deaf Alice with a voice

like cracked parchment or burnt skin,

as if she’d practiced sound

from reading letters only,

or ordered from a catalog

without ever having heard a word.

She hadn’t.

Ever.

Her attempt at speech

a willful feat;

how stubborn

no one knew but her.

 

Interpreting, the doctor ordered,

with soundless lips

while pointing at the menu.

Hearing with her eyes

the waitress turned to fetch the tea

with sugar and with lemon

having clearly in her mind

a picture of the three.

 

As Alice set the service,

the doctor asked with gestures:

how far along was she?

Five fingers, then three

followed by a bent one

made it clear enough.

Two weeks or so to go

and she looked it;

she was very round.

 

Compelled by curiosity

and an educated guess,

the doctor sought  the manager

indulging a suspicion

forming in her mind.

 

“Unmarried, true, her second such,

destined for adoption, too.

A good employee, honest, cheerful,

hard working, sober when she is,

all of that is why I hired her

and why I’ll keep her on

when this is over.

No, no kin I know of

except her baby soon ,

and she’s not up to that,

not for lack of love, I’m sure,

but hers is such a heavy handicap,

misunderstood and borne alone,

it’s all that she can carry:

her own, of course,

and the burden of the child.”

 

The doctor listened carefully,

asked more questions,

guessed the size and weight

of her speculation.

Of the mother’s siblings,

she learned,

two of three were deaf at birth as well.

Unanswered and unanswerable:

will the baby hear?

 

When she’d made her phone call,

once she’d passed the story on

to her childless friends

further down the map

the deal breaker loomed larger

than the hope within the deal .

Time, so eloquent and final,

will tell- about the hearing;

it always does.

 

5

The childless couple

in a maze of desperation,

once the news reached them,

entered it in haste,

too keenly feeling incompletion,

already tensely aiming at one target,

another baby

they’ve been negotiating for,

due later by a month or more.

They’d now have a choice of two.

First on the calendar, Maine child

with impetuosity

is now first in line,

but with the cast iron caveat:

it must hear perfectly.

 

Now, so much to do:

lawyers and impending mother,

clear contract with no maybes,

with provision for return ,

obstetrical  arrangements,

weighing the hospital’s pros and cons,

assuring good postnatal care,

arranging payment of each bill as due.

Picking out a wardrobe?

Too early. Patience, patience.

The baby will remain in residence

until its health is verified and stable,

its hearing certified by audiologist,

and unknown things overlooked

unexpected, or forgotten as they come..

 

6

Birth can be sad when mother wakes

and baby sleeps right on

in separate beds,

in separate rooms.

A child is born

into this dreamlike day.

 

The mother wakes -her job is done,

but hasn’t seen her little one,

and won’t,

she has agreed it’s best for all

to form no further  bond

that must be further broken.

 

The baby wakes in thin October light

and cries because it is so bright.

Does she know her mother isn’t there?

Does she feel like something’s missing?

One cord’s been cut, one more remains.

She’ll never be this small again.

This is her time- purely,

before others enter in.

 

Birth is bookend one,

tombstone date the other;

of a pair, a half.

Her lifestone lies

at the very heart

of time to come .

No message here

in the space that follows,

no borrowed verse expressing pride:

of name, of marriage, parentage,

of property or roots, of profit or its fruit,

of loss of others come and gone before,

or the hope to join them,

only unspoken, unwrit, implied:

hello, to all that is to come.

 

One more thing upon it.

Dusted on with chalk

by poised hand;

her certificate of birth

pending ink and final naming.

Those who will not sail it

are not to name the boat.

Baby Doe, her maiden name.

 

She lies within a borrowed wrapping.

How could she own, she has not earned.

Chrysalis statistically: one hand clapping.

She does not even own her name,

it will be taken from her, exchanged

upon her transplantation.

 

7

This baby girl born at the stony throat,

of scrawny neck of Belfast Bay,

high upon a hill where summer folk played

while wild fragaria and bleuets

were in season, red and blue,

then departed frost-driven

as southward as their money flowed.

The summer folk were relatively rich and few

and when they blew and went kerchew

they contained themselves with handkerchiefs

the locals washed and ironed,

the mother being one of them:

maid of all work,

a domestic factotum capable as well

of heavier odd jobbing like working

in his boatyard with her pa.

Often nanny, good with children,

loved by them for her good heart

and gentle, caring  ways.

 

8

The hospital appears to be

at the edge of century;

though it’s had its share of time

it’s sounder than it seems

to eye of first time visitor.

It’s time for it to don

before the coming winter

another coat of “Old Oyster White”

to trigger hunger or  desire,

a name the color or enticement?

Looks like oyster, smells like paint

thinned out with turpentine

redolent of wind bent pine

another local flavor.

The trim: “Sea Bottom Black”,

another merchandising whim,

delineates the woodwork trim,

and that’s the black and white of it.

Not too cold to paint outside

if the paint can dry in time.

 

Seashell walks and lobsterpots,

kelp, some flotsam and some jetsam,

compete with trees and shrubbery

to set the stage for tourists

consistent with the rest of town

presenting what it always was

along with what it is:

props set for the tourists,

to show them what they want to see

and put them in the mood for buying it:

memento, knick knack, souvenir,

to make them want to take it home

as treasure to be hidden in plain sight

upon a dusty shelf

or buried in a treasure chest,

with no hope of future treasure hunt.

 

Half disrobed for the season

so intimate in detail

across the crystal space

the far shores seem so near today-

magnified, precise, pristine-

that they could rest

in one’s opened hand

compelling one to see

what one had been before

merely looking toward instead of at.

Between,

the gently ruffled water lies in rows,

as if blue plowed liquid field,

or ornate ceiling of lobsterland

above a floor, imagined

seabottom black.

 

9

On her porch the mother rose

crossing to its railing

she realized an edge of cliff,

a shock she quickly backed away from

because the vision was too sharp,

the danger more immediate

than her inner pain,

too tempting to be reconciled today.

Procrastination was an easier abstraction,

lying beneath her lowered lids, and inward.

Even so, what she sees

is less than what she feels

yet startlingly more evident

than what lies beneath her lowered lids,

inward and behind them.

 

No locked cell,

in lemon linen private room

high atop asylum.

She’s sad, not mad.

It’s not that kind of prison,

more a refuge, a retreat,

a safe alternative to street.

What she did was not a crime

although she suffered punishment

in her own mind.

What is the kinder word,

less likely to offend:

impecunious, impoverished

or just plain poor?

Now that’s incarceration . . .

 

This mother is all that and more.

Bringing that to bear on this:

she has another  child

which she didn’t have before.

She had decision, not a choice,

what depth of feeling is involved

only she could say if she would speak.

Born deaf as stone,

her eyes work well

and she’s not dull.

She can read and write,

communicate without handicap

with pen and ink on paper;

how portable is that?

Untrained, she drew the birds

she loved and fed by hand-

on her own time.

Her mind, translated through her hand and eyes,

has discussed, stated, “listened” and responded.

Settled without duress,

This is equation’s only balance.

She’s accepted that,

she knows what is and isn’t,

she comprehends impossible

she knows what penalties

stubbornness would cost her daughter.

 

Like mothers everywhere who care

(there are some who don’t)

she wants her baby,

to become, to have better,

to find comfort affordably,

to have goals and reach them,

to prosper.

There may be altruistic genes,

more likely enlightened self-interest

cast against the wall of probability

as dice to offer better odds,

at least ones that feel better.

 

10

One of those odd buildings

appearing larger inside than out

the hospital has two stories,

three on the right

above the original structure,

taking about a third of its width.

Alice is in one of the higher rooms

facing east toward the Bay and beyond

a vista permanent in her blood

and in immediacy

the reality became a cliff

that once drew her near,

then into retreat

from imagined floor of lobster land-

sea bottom black.

 

Turning, facing her room:

a door,

a single bed,

a rack to hang a few things on,

a dresser with a looking glass looking out,

its drawers discretely closed,

a tray with wheels, upon it:

jars adorned with fleur de lis,

a pitcher and a stoneware bowl,

mismatched wash cloth and towel,

a plate with egg upon its face,

an empty coffee cup,

a glass with milk upon its lip,

a vase to put some flowers in,

no rug upon the floor, sandpaper clean,

the only window at her back

fortunate to catch the morning sun,

beneath the bed a relic chamber pot,

(her bathroom’s just around the corner.)

alarm clock to awaken her,

but she’s been awake.

 

She knows she’s had a child

(how could she not?)

and some of why and how;

she’s not a medieval maiden.

She has not seen it.

but knows it’s there

somewhere.

She has of course not heard it.

 

She packs everything she brought with her,

prematurely, from the dresser and the rack,

then stiffly rests,

not supposed to use her feet just yet,

but restless, rises,

confronts the mirror

explores it:

no flowers in the room,

a card, no, two,

one letter and a telegram,

under the bed the other shoe

beside the antique chamber pot,

redundantly competing with a bed pan

and adjacent bathroom.

All is as it should be

according to the plan.

 

What’s missing is her baby.

She cries at that from time to time,

it tugs at her.

A fertile woman without strings

and wanting none, we think,

though she tied a knot or two.

 

11

Put the first stone in the scale,

You who weigh her here:

round and usually jolly,

short and often puckish

a loose woman so-called back then

with a fun loving reputation,

a free spirit as seen by some,

by others, freer than she should have been,

wanting all that she could get,

not knowing how to pay for it,

she took it as it came.

Smart and impish,

a sometimes silly prankster,

occasionally a vagabond,

sometimes with a man.

In short, a character

in the good sense of the word,

animated, mischievous- and sad

for what she didn’t know

that she was missing.

 

To whom could she confide,

with whom seek counsel?

You have to know who writes

when you open book to read.

One size does not fit all,

it takes knowledge

to know where to look

and recognize what’s found.

She did well with what she had,

beneath our notice,

all that weight

with so little light

shone on it.

 

12

Her daughter drinks a lot

gets high on milk,

coos and gurgles when she’s held,

or passed around from eager hands

to the welcome of the next,

cries when she doesn’t get

what she knows not how to ask for,

is in all ways unhousebroken,

untamed it might also be said,

demands attention,

cannot decide to smile,

but seems working on the knack of it,

has nothing yet to dream

(we think, but do not know.)

She is too tiny to break anything yet

with her temper alone,

has nothing of her own to break.

 

 

13

One road out of here squiggles northward

toward Canada and the Upper Pole,

can been seen from her window

fading into that distance

now that the leaves are down.

Beyond that little-traveled road:

a land increase more than a hill

a modest mound of evergreens

Spruce and Fir and Hemlocks.

This Northern road leads shortly

past a wooden sign:

“You are now exactly halfway

between North Pole and Equator.”

Awesome and deceptive,

leading toward belief

that there are only two ways to go,

and one to stay.

How can that be?

Equator? North Pole.

Too vast for the imagination

or too local

while sitting before a wood stove

or a fireplace, imagining stars and galaxies?

 

14

Look down, madam

you can see your toes now

without bending over;

you’ve shed a watermelon.

Relief or an increase in girth:

the dilemma.

You fought against abortion,

or was that battle fought for you?

That was decision number one

which led to number two

giving time for thoughtfulness

and realization of inevitability:

some problems do not go away.

 

If there were winds upon the hill

to sweep the chill inside

to emphasize this drama

to make this transplant take

grafting living skin on living doubt.

No room for doubt!

Done, done, done and done,

it’s done.

Without the wind

it’s warm enough to take the baby home

with it: cold enough to leave it

But there is no wind today,

only the lingering of faint indecision.

Done!

 

15

The stork returned a fortnight hence,

with steel wings and  occupants,

a barren wife, infertile,

the pilot husband,

and the doctor of it all,

she who could not save herself,

came North approaching Winter

descending from the Southern sky

parting  geese to land

and claim the child

at who knows what a pound

to become a passenger,

a family member.

Then the silver plane turned round

and those within left the town.

 

16

You gave the least a mother could;

you gave your daughter motherhood

Where is your baby now?

Flying southward toward Equator

as do birds and kings for winter.

You can’t afford a ticket

and won’t buy a stamp.

You’ve closed that door,

now to nail it shut.




L17 ®Copyright 1973 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.
From Poemystic.com

 

 

 

 

Youth

 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Once we were young and time was on our side.  We knew nothing of middle or old age, when
 
time speeds up in ever-increasing circles.  We knew of becoming forgetful, or when our
 
bodies don’t look or feel the same anymore.  Youth has a vigour and beauty all of its own. 
 
The youth are enthusiastic, radiant, joyful and full of energy and lust for life.  The world is at
 
their feet.  They feel they can do anything.  They look good, you feel good.  Yet, sometimes,
 
they struggle with who they are, where they are going and what life is all about.  They
 
question things and struggle with their confidence at times, particularly when out of their
 
comfort zone. 
 
 
 
Then, energy and zest start to dwindle as we get older, we don’t look or feel as attractive
 
anymore.  Life seems to get harder as more and more life’s responsibilities take over,
 
draining you and dwindling your resources.  It is hard to be enthusiastic at times as life’s
 
troubles drag you down.  It takes more effort to look and feel good.  Yet, if you stop for a
 
moment and think about your life, you will realise how far you have come.  Life has changed
 
you, you will be more confident through your experiences – both good and bad – and you
 
will have become your own person.  You will be more considerate towards others, but care
 
less about what others think of you.  So, time would have given you the gift of experience
 
and resulting confidence.  Perhaps we have the confidence to try new things as we become
 
less embarrassed by who we and happier to stand out and be ourselves.  Our real selves
 
should start to shine, connecting us to our truth and to the rest of humanity as well.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   Feburary 2016

Old Age
 
By Karen King

 
 
 
It creeps upon you when your back is turned.  You used to think you had all the time in the
 
world, but you became engrossed in the banalities of life and didn’t see the bigger picture. 
 
You lost years of your life, stuck in the worries of your own world and the past whilst losing
 
the moment and trying to forget the future. 
 
 
 
It’s time to stop your apathy and start living and enjoying the last few years as best you can
 
before it is too late.  Your body might not look or feel the way it used to; your mind has
 
moments of forgetfulness.  Even mundane tasks now are a challenge.  Still, face the right
 
direction, appreciate life, your family and friends before it is too late.  Enjoy your remaining
 
time on this earth.  The simple things in life are what counts – nature, the outdoors…  Savour
 
the sunsets, the tremendous tress and the beauty of the butterflies.  Enjoy the present, so make
 
the most of it before your body is buried in the ground or your ashes blow, lost in the wind
 
forever.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   March 2016

“You can’t Judge a Book by its Cover”
 

By Karen King
 
 
 
Many of us have heard of the saying, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”  Just in case you
 
don’t know, this means, don’t feel someone is worthy just because they’re attractive and
 
“perfect” in your eyes.  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” after all!  Very often you will
 
find that the people who don’t instantly catch your eye are more interesting and have more
 
depth. 
 
 
 
The gorgeous, muscular man at the gym quite possibly knows he’s attractive, thinks he is
 
God’s gift to women, probably sleeps around and really only loves himself.   You may well
 
find there is not much grey matter there.  His priorities will probably be the size of his biceps,
 
maintaining the correct body weight at all times, shaving his body to show his perfect
 
physique and maybe even having a fake tan to maintain an amazing appearance all year
 
round!  If you talk to him, you may well find he’s an intelligent man with many thoughts on a
 
variety of subjects.  He may be more than he appears!
 
 
 
The beautiful and slim woman may well care more about her appearance, how many pairs of
 
shoes and handbags she can possess than having a genuine relationship.  She could well enjoy
 
manipulating men and getting as much as she can financially from them as their mouths drop
 
open in wonder and lust at this wonderful woman!  She could, however, be a beautiful person
 
inside as well as outside.  Perhaps if you get to know her, you will find out for herself.
 
 
 
Sometimes, we are lucky and we can find someone who looks attractive to us as well as
 
having depth and being attractive on the insides.  After all, beauty is only skin deep and it can
 
be changed in an instant by a horrific car accident or through the effects of time and gravity. 
 
Does that make any of us any less worthwhile as people?  I think not!  We need to look
 
within, for that is what really counts.  Is this person kind, caring, funny and trustworthy?  Do
 
you enjoy their company?  Does it just “feel right” with this person.  Is there a spark there?  If
 
the answers are “yes” to these questions, then you should be happy for you would have learnt
 
not to “Judge a Book by its Cover.”
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright  February 2016

AT 3 A.M., IMAGINATION IS NOT A GOOD THING

BY MIKE TAYLOR


Tap. Tip tap. Tap tap tap tap … tip tap.
 
Whatever it was, it was behind me, though I couldn’t see it. A blanket-like, 3 a.m. fog had settled over Baldwin Lake, its outriggers oozing across the road like tenebrous fingers, wrapping themselves around half-buried tree roots, obscuring the decaying remains of autumn’s expired leaves.
 
Caught in a dank breeze, leaves scudded across the shrouded pavement, etching out sounds like death watch beetles — chitinous, skittering. 
 
Tap. Tip tap tip.
 
Definitely behind me. Closer now.
 
I stopped and stared back into the darkness, trying to pierce the fog. The tapping suddenly ceased. I waited, but it did not start up again.
 
I thought of my bed, waiting in my apartment on the other side of the lake. Cozy. Comfortable. I should be there now, I thought, not out strolling through this abominable, impenetrable fog! Insomnia or no, what was I thinking?
 
I started walking. A few steps and I heard it again, faint but unmistakable: tap, tip tap, tap.
 
The next street lamp was 500 steps ahead, a tiny, glowing pocket of light in this misty, musty blackness.
 
I wasn’t exactly scared. Not yet. This is Greenville, not 17th Century London, not Transylvania. A nice, quiet neighborhood, nestled up to a small lakeshore. Bad things don’t happen here. Not REALLY bad things.
 
And though I’m older than dirt I can — or could, at last check — still bench nearly 300 pounds. I’m not helpless.
 
But … tap. Tip tip tap.
 
What WAS that sound?
 
I stopped again. Tap tip tap t— It stopped, too.
 
I waited. Nothing. Then … tap … then nothing again.
 
Why hadn’t I brought a flashlight? I often do when walking around the lake after dark. But this October night was unseasonably warm and inviting. When I had set out 30 minutes earlier, the fog had seemed sultry and secretive, an opportunity to spend a little time in my own private, late night world, all alone.
 
Except … I wasn’t alone. Someone was out here with me. Behind me. Keeping pace with my steps. The streetlight still seemed a long way off.
 
I thought about calling into the fog, “Is anyone there?” But what if nobody answered? I knew someone was behind me. Following me. Walking when I walked, stopping when I stopped. Pacing me. Stalking me.
 
If they didn’t answer, what would that mean? That they didn’t WANT to answer? And if not, why not?
 
Gooseflesh rippled to life on my arms, crawled up my shoulders, traced stealthy, cloying fingers over the back of my neck.
 
Tap. Tip tap.
 
I walked faster. It didn’t escape my notice that the cemetery was coming up on my right. I sometimes walk there, under the light of a noonday sun. Even then it seems pleasantly gothic, a throwback to the days before the sterilization of death, to a time when the dearly departed were laid to rest beneath imposing monoliths of granite and stately oak trees. It’s a cemetery to which the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come might accompany Ebenezer Scrooge, or from which Igor might harvest a few human organs for the experiments under way back at Castle Frankenstein. 
 
On a sunny day, the cemetery is pleasant and peaceful. On a foggy night, with something tip-tapping in your wake, it becomes stage dressing for a B-movie horror extravaganza, one in which you are to be the ax wielding maniac’s next victim. 
 
But at least the cemetery’s entrance is near the street lamp. I halted beneath its glow and waited. Here, I decided, I would make my stand and face down whatever it was that tip-tapped behind me.
 
Tap. Tip tap tip. Closer now. From within the billows of fog, a shadow detached itself and moved forward. Tap. Tip tap. T--
 
It stopped. Less than 20 feet from my feeble circle of light, something stood still. Tall. Dark. Waiting. Then, when I thought the standoff would go on indefinitely, it lurched forward, its right arm held stiffly forward.
 
“I’ve got mace!” Not the guttural growl of an ax wielding maniac, but a quavering, tremulous contralto. 
 
Out of the fog stepped a slender young woman, maybe 30, vaguely pretty, led by a small, leashed dog of indeterminate genus. The dog’s toenails clicked against the macadam. Tip tip tip tap.
 
“I thought you were an ax wielding maniac,” I said as she passed. I meant it to be funny, but she didn’t smile. She clutched the dog’s leash like a lifeline and hugged the opposite side of the road. 
 
As she disappeared into the fog ahead of me, the tip tapping gained speed and soon faded. I breathed out, back in, out again. I started walking.
 
One by one, the muscles in my back unclenched and I relaxed. The streetlamp’s glow fell behind me and I was again swallowed by the fog. 
 
In any decent horror movie, I realized, it would be at precisely this point that SOMETHING would reach out of the fog; something with gnarled, misshapen hands, with perhaps too many fingers, or too few. And those hands would not caress, but grab, rend, squeeze.
 
That last mile home seemed to take a long time.
 
 

A Fellow MEETS His DAD
Way
BEFORE He HAD Kids
 
A look at The BACK TO THE FUTURE-Trilogy

By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
Small town, America. 1955. A young boy saves his friend from a car accident, who thanks him by simply jumping on his bike and driving off into the sunset. Sounds like pure soap opera, fifties style. 
Yes, but with a twist: the hero is his son and they are both 17 years old.
Huh? What was that? 17? Both?                                              
Rewind the tape. Marty McFly’s friend, the much older Doc Brown, has invented a time machine with the help of plutonium-smuggling Libyans.
During a demonstration, Marty McFly is accidentally catapulted thirty years back to a time when his parents were in high school.
Oops.
The only problem is that he never expected to stand in their way. He interrupted with his parent’s first meeting and now Marty has to get his folks back together so he can be born.
At first, it doesn’t work at all. His Dad is a complete wimp, mobbed by the local bully Biff, and his own mom is in love with… Marty. So it takes a whole lot of courage and pain and playing of love songs on proms to get them back together before he can by the help of a lightning bolt go back to the future, only to find out that he changed his parents: his formerly drunk loser parents are now prime yuppies out for tennis speaking like rich middle-class people. Who are better people? Losers or phoneys? Is the loser more honest because he lost?
Wait a minute, there is more. In the second picture, old Doc Brown travels back from the future, 2015, to tell Marty and his girl that their kids are in trouble. They go there to save them, but Marty is tempted by the dark side of the force (sorry, Mr. Lucas). He is chased on a hovering skateboard by Biff’s grandchild when he buys an almanac that reveals all sport results of the later half of the 20th century. Doc prevents him from taking it back with him, but evil things lurk in the minds of men and the entire story becomes a very Shakespearian parody.
Old Biff steals the book and takes the time vehicle back to the past and gives himself this desirable object. The result is a 1985 Hill Valley Gambling Hell with Biff as the rich devil replacing his murdered father. They accordingly go back to the past to fix this present in the past. They do succeed, run into themselves a couple of times, before burning the book and saving the future.
You think this is over? Not yet. Doc’s car was struck by lightning and sent back to 1885. Marty has to travel back there, against the Doc’s wishes, because he finds out that the Doc was murdered by Biff’s great grandfather. He does so, in the process letting Indians rip the fuel line. The result is that he meets his ancestors, his grandpa even pees on him as a baby, in order to find a home in his own town a hundred years back in time. He gets into a fight with Biff’s grandpa Buford “Mad Dog” Tannen (“I hate that name!”), who challenges him to a duel. The Doc, however, has fallen in love and after the victorious duel he elopes with his Miss Clara Clayton, whilst Marty pushes up to high velocity by a steam train into the present.
But there is hope yet.
Doc returns with a new invention, prompted by the hover board from the future.
He is now the owner of a time steam train.
Sound like fun? Yes. It is. Fast, furious and funny.
But let’s look a little behind the scenes, shall we now? Having read two of Michael J. Fox’s biographies, I am a little smarter. He tells us that his now very evident Parkinson’s disease comes from an accident in the hanging scene of the third movie. “Accidents are temporary, film is forever.” These were his exact words.
However, we must admire a man who so bravely left Canada to become a star and decided to work day and night on two projects while doing the movie.
What about the characters in the film?
All Marty’s family are losers made winners in the movies, through Marty’s timely doing. Biff’s family are winners made losers in the movies, also through Marty’s doing. There is thus a reverse side to the movies, with Marty undoing ill and doing well. Is it too bad that Marty and Doc are not together at the end? Yes. But Doc was always lonely and now has a family in the only place he ever really truly loved: the old west.
Looking at them as a whole, with all of their reversible fun of characters meeting themselves and changing lives, the most interesting part of it is still how the characters can change personality wise according to circumstance and situation. 
Marty’s mother is a drunken housewife who, completely and utterly resigned to a dull poor life, really has given up. But because of loving a man of heroics (Dad prompted by Marty) she turns into the fit, self secure and hip mother in 1985. The hip mother, however, turns into a rich, silicon pumped and frustrated wife in the alternate reality just because wealthy Biff murdered her husband and married her.
Biff is a pure sleaze, who has been used to winning all his life and therefore does the same thing he did in the fifties and even gets away with it because no one tells him otherwise. But the fact that Marty’s father has the guts to retaliate in 1955 he turns Biff into a meek and shy car mechanic thirty years later.
Receiving the book from himself in 1955, moreover, turns him into the evil man we all love to hate.
Marty’s father is a shy loser in 1985 because no one ever told him he was a capable man. But by receiving the right courage he dares to take the risk he needs and becomes a successful author and eventually a happy, rich grandpa.
Marty’s problem is that he never lets anyone call him coward. And so he gets into an accident in 1985 that ruins his life. But by the actual intervention of Doc he changes his mind and is able to not get into the accident and thereby make himself a future with his girl without being a loser.
TIME magazine was once quoted as saying that these films are like a fugue improvising on the theme of the previous movies.
Interesting point, this. A man might change his life if he makes the right decisions. What are the right decisions? Being strong and feeling strong. Having the guts to say: “Man, I am so talented. I can handle this, all right.”
Marty travels close to hundred and fifty years in time to find out that it isn’t the main thing to defend yourself against people who judge you ignorantly.
Defending yourself to save your soul from ignorance might be the main thing.
The main thing is not holding on to your past mistakes and letting your intuition lead the way. Is that what Marty does? Time is illusive and strange and maybe that is what the movies want to teach us. That going on with your life and working from the moment is the most important thing. Don’t keep reminding yourself that you did a mistake. Make sure that you don’t make the mistake again. Don’t be a bully like Biff or as quick in the draw as Marty. Be as good as you possibly can be. Sail through time in your own speed and with your own elegance and eloquence. Don’t be intimidated by past mistakes.
Don’t be so sure that you cannot learn anything from a movie just because pop corn and coke is labeled on the cover of a motion picture. Surprising truths can be found at the backsides of cereal cartons. This little extravaganza about time tells us that hotheads do well in not following grudges.
 
 
BACK TO THE FUTURE:                       Three Motion Pictures                 (©    1985,     1989,    1990)
Director: Robert Zemeckis    Music: Alan Silvestri     Actors: Michael J. Fox, Christopher Lloyd, Lea Thompson, Crispin Glover, Thomas F.Wilson, James Tolkan;               Producer: Steven Spielberg.

Youth
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Once we were young and time was on our side.  We knew nothing of middle or old age, when
 
time speeds up in ever-increasing circles.  We knew of becoming forgetful, or when our
 
bodies don’t look or feel the same anymore.  Youth has a vigour and beauty all of its own. 
 
The youth are enthusiastic, radiant, joyful and full of energy and lust for life.  The world is at
 
their feet.  They feel they can do anything.  They look good, you feel good.  Yet, sometimes,
 
they struggle with who they are, where they are going and what life is all about.  They
 
question things and struggle with their confidence at times, particularly when out of their
 
comfort zone. 
 
 
 
Then, energy and zest start to dwindle as we get older, we don’t look or feel as attractive
 
anymore.  Life seems to get harder as more and more life’s responsibilities take over,
 
draining you and dwindling your resources.  It is hard to be enthusiastic at times as life’s
 
troubles drag you down.  It takes more effort to look and feel good.  Yet, if you stop for a
 
moment and think about your life, you will realise how far you have come.  Life has changed
 
you, you will be more confident through your experiences – both good and bad – and you
 
will have become your own person.  You will be more considerate towards others, but care
 
less about what others think of you.  So, time would have given you the gift of experience
 
and resulting confidence.  Perhaps we have the confidence to try new things as we become
 
less embarrassed by who we and happier to stand out and be ourselves.  Our real selves
 
should start to shine, connecting us to our truth and to the rest of humanity as well.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   Feburary 2016

Mediumship
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
The people who talk to the dead are called “mediums”.  They walk between the living and the
 
dead and deliver messages to those who remain on the earth.  These messages can be deep
 
and meaningful or quite banal.  Either way, they make a great difference to those who remain
 
on earth, offering them hope and a reason to go on living.  They will feel peace, joy and a
 
deep connection with those they have lost.  They will have the much-needed proof in the
 
continuation of the soul.  It will make them think deeper and about the possibility of re-
 
incarnation for, surely, we don’t just drift around for the rest of our lives in the spirit world? 
 
 
 
There must be a reason for all this?  Is it to come back and try again until we get it right?  I,
 
personally, believe this is the case.  I also feel that the souls that have passed will feel both
 
relieved and delighted to be able to send their messages of peace and love to their relations
 
and friends, thus proving their ongoing existence and continuous love for the loved ones they
 
have left behind.  Sometimes, the spirits have repeatedly tried to contact the living by making
 
noises, moving things around or even touching their relations, to no avail.  The spirits are
 
relieved to be able to find a medium who can make the necessary contact and a bridge
 
between the souls. 
 
 
 
I think that there will be an ever-increasing need for mediums as the world starts to wonder
 
about where their lost friends, relatives and loved ones have gone.  So, the medium, provides
 
such an important role in both this world and the next, uniting the earth and the spirit plane,
 
promoting peace and harmony throughout both worlds. 
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   February 2016

Christine de Pisan

The Book of the City of Ladies

(1405)

{1}One day as I was sitting alone in my study surrounded by books on all kinds of subjects, devoting myself to literary studies, my usual habit, my mind dwelt at length on the weighty opinions of various authors whom I had studied for a long time. I looked up from my book, having decided to leave such subtle questions in peace and to relax by reading some small book. By chance a strange volume came into my hands, not one of my own, but one which had been given to me along with some others. When I held it open and saw its title page that it was by Matheolus, I smiled, for though I had never seen it before, I had often heard that like books it discussed respect for women. I thought I would browse through it to amuse myself. I had not been reading for very long when my good mother called me to refresh myself with some supper, for it was evening. Intending to look at it the next day, I put it down. The next morning, again seated in my study as was my habit, I remembered wanting to examine this book by Matheolus. I started to read it and went on for a little while. Because the subject seemed to me not very pleasant for people who do not enjoy lies, and of no use in developing virtue or manners, given its lack of integrity in diction and theme, and after browsing here and there and reading the end, I put it down in order to turn my attention to more elevated and useful study. But just the sight of this book, even though it was of no authority, made me wonder how it happened that so many different men - and learned men among them - have been and are so inclined to express both in speaking and in their treatises and writings so many wicked insults about women and their behavior. Not only one or two and not even just this Matheolus (for this book had a bad name anyways and was intended as a satire) but, more generally, from the treatises of all philosophers and poets and from all the orators - it would take too long to mention their names - it seems that they all speak from one and the same mouth. Thinking deeply about these matters, I began to examine my character and conduct as a natural woman and, similarly, I considered other women whose company I frequently kept, princesses, great ladies, women of the middle and lower classes, who had graciously told me of their most private and intimate thoughts, hoping that I could judge impartially and in good conscience whether the testimony of so many notable men could be true. To the best of my knowledge, no matter how long I confronted or dissected the problem, I could not see or realize how their claims could be true when compared to the natural behavior and character of women. Yet I still argued vehemently against women, saying that it would be impossible that so many famous men - such solemn scholars, possessed of such deep and great understanding, so clear-sighted in all things, as it seemed - could have spoken falsely on so many occasions that I could hardly find a book on morals where, even before I had read it in its entirety, I did not find several chapters or certain sections attacking women, no matter who the author was. This reason alone, in short, made me conclude that, although my intellect did not perceive my own great faults and, likewise, those of other women because of its simpleness and ignorance, it was however truly fitting that such was the case. And so I relied more on the judgment of others than on what I myself felt and knew. I was so transfixed in this line of thinking for such a long time that it seemed as if I were in a stupor. Like a gushing fountain, a series of authorities, whom I recalled one after another, came to mind, along with their opinions on this topic. And I finally decided that God formed a vile creature when He made woman, and I wondered how such a worthy artisan could have designed to make such an abominable work which, from what they say, is the vessel as well as the refuge and abode of every evil and vice. As I was thinking this, a great unhappiness and sadness welled up in my heart, for I detested myself and the entire feminine sex, as though we were monstrosities in nature and in my lament I spoke these words:


Oh, God, how can this be? For unless I stray from my faith, I must never doubt that your infinite wisdom and most perfect goodness ever created anything which was not good. Did You yourself not create woman in a very special way and since that time did You not give her all those inclinations which it please You for her to have? And how could it be that You could go wrong in anything? Yet look at all these accusations which have been judged, decided, and concluded against women. I do not know how to understand this repugnance. If it is so, fair Lord God, that in fact so many abominations abound in the female sex, for You Yourself say that the testimony of two or three witnesses lends credence, why shall I not doubt that this is true? Alas, God, why did You not let me be born in the world as a man, so that all my inclinations would be to serve You better, and so that I would not stray in anything and would be as perfect as a man is said to be? But since Your kindness has not been extended to me, then forgive my negligence in Your service, most fair Lord God, and may it not displease You, for the servant who receives fewer gifts from his lord is less obliged in his service.
I spoke these words to God in my lament and a great deal more for a very long time in sad reflections, and in my folly considered myself most unfortunate because God had made me inhabit a female body in this world.

A Trip to the East

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
Since I had left New York, I had been traveling for over 30 hours, while the Boeing 707 covered 14,000 air miles. Finally we had arrived at Bangkok Airport at the outskirts of Thailand’s capital.
Step by step I had become acquainted with the East. With a route-map on my lap and a travel guide in my hand, I had followed our route carefully and I was grateful to the captain of our plane, who took the time to point out many places of interest.
Approaching Istanbul, our first stop in the East, I had gotten a glimpse of the Golden Horn, the Bosporus and St. Sophia, the nearly 500-year-old mosque of Turkey. In the transit lounge I admired Turquoise jewelry and the inlaid cigarette cases.  We took off over the Marmara Sea and crossed the Mediterranean into the Paris of the Middle East: Beirut, Lebanon.  The airport shop here carried a colorful display of hassocks, camel saddles and pigskin travel bags as well as gold jewelry including Omega watches.
In the air again now high and above over the city of Beirut, which in ancient times was the home of the Phoenicians. Despite of darkness rolling in, I managed to follow the outlines of the cedars, of ancient Heliopolis, the city of sun, now Baalbek. We passed Damascus, the oldest inhabited city in the world, till we reached the black dessert. Flickering lights reminded me of Irwishes marking the always disputed oil line. I must have taken a short nap because, when I looked out of the window the next time, the picture 30,000 feet below was still the same. My guide mentioned Bahrain, which stands on a spit of sand, where takers load up the oil known as black gold.
Hours later we descended into Pakistan’s Karachi Airport. Through the white moon light I saw some colorless sandstone buildings, an isolated street light here and there but otherwise nothing. The long flight was starting to tell on me. My muscles were stiff from sitting so long in a cramped airplane seat, and I felt drowsy. But I did not want to miss anything. I disembarked during transit and went into the terminal. A sleepy attendant, clad in a white suit and with a red turban on his head was waiting for customers to buy some of the ivory inlaid furniture. Like other passengers, I inquired about the price of some pieces I thought interesting although I had no intention of buying.
Our next stop was New Delhi, India. I read in my guide about the holy river Ganges and although I did not see it, my imagination produced a perfect picture of it.  I was so close to it, I could sense it.  It was in New Delhi that I felt the heat for the first time. Leaving New York, the first snow warnings had been issued, while in India the thermometer showed 92 degrees Fahrenheit and that at 7 o’clock in the morning.  Ivory again for sale in the transit hall but here it was worked exquisitely into carved figures. I could not resist and bought a golf ball sized Taj Mahal with all its manifold minarets. It was carved from ivory, a perfect authentic reproduction of one of the 7 Wonders of the World. I admired Saris and ran my fingers over their cool, fine silk. Maybe on the way back I would treat myself.
During the next part of the flight, three and a half hours to Bangkok, sleep got the better of me and I missed Calcutta, the Bay of Bengal, Burma with its famous golden Pagoda and the well known Mandalay.  Yes, I did read up on it afterwards. It was noontime when we went with a steep descent into Bangkok. My first impression was that of approaching a country under water. Then I distinguished that what I had thought to be water, were numerous, waterlogged rice paddies.
The stewardess announced that the temperature was 66 degrees but when I disembarked I was ready to argue that. The humidity in the air was at least 80 percent. After a few minutes of reprieve in the terminal, I was standing on the street, my mink jacket over my arm in mockery of the heat.  I was planning a theatre tour in London on the way back, and in Britain it surely would be cold. In Bangkok the transportation means range from rickshaws to scooters to Mercedes cars. I took a bus. It was not air-conditioned except for a draft coming from the opened windows. My New York hairdo flopped within seconds and would have done honor to a rag doll.
We drove along the main street. This was the only road leading into town as I was informed by my bus companion, a hotel surveyor. It had been built only 4 years ago. On both sides of the street were winding canals. The brackish water was so low that shiny backs of water buffalos were clearly visible.  Boys were fishing. The older ones wore primitive trunks, the smaller ones were stark naked. My neighbor rounded out the scene by mentioning that less well-to-do natives used these canals for their morning bath and also to clean their teeth.
We came to the entrance of town, marked by the big monument of King Rama (1853 -1910).  Now the scenery became lively. Thai people were rushing about like ants. They are small of stature, about 5 feet, very fragile and dainty. It amazed me to see women in dark pajama-like outfits doing hard manual labor. They were digging heavy cement blocks and were carrying them without bending their little bodies. Here I was sitting in a comfortable seat, doing nothing but sweating while they looked quite cool and fresh.
Little wooden shacks, the private homes of some of the richer Siamese, flashed by. They were decorated with toy pagodas. The tingling of bells in the yards filled the air with strange sounds. The purpose was to chase away ghosts and let the souls of ancestors rest in peace.  Water lilies, pure and white were floating on the water surface in startling contrast to the muddy canals. The foul odor which had been only slightly noticeable before was now getting overpowering. It mingled with a sweet scent from gardenias, which like in Hawaii, are the most popular flowers in Bangkok.  Yet as bad as the stench was, as lovely was the picture of the flower stands on every street.
We had arrived in the city. Local shops were praising their goods: hard wares, various household items, cotton material, wooden sandals and more. In front of food stores Siamese men were munching away on what seemed to be pork and cucumbers. It did not look very hygienic and I made up my mind not to touch any local food during my stay. Nevertheless I later ended up with an attack of dysentery.
After the bus driver had made his way for about another ten minutes thru the come- first, go-first traffic, I sensed that we were close to the hotel. I would stay at Siam Intercontinental, which had been finished in 1966. The shops now were sheer tourist traps. My travel partner noticed me staring at all the magnificent shades of silks and he advised me always to bargain, should I intend to buy.
We turned into a big driveway. There it was! The pictures I had seen of it, the descriptions I had listened to, all surpassed by its splendor. I was entering a castle of the fairytales. Built like a pagoda, a Siamese temple on the royal palace grounds, it gave me the impression of an oriental castle of sleeping beauty.
Finally in my room, I took a nice shower and fell into a blissful sleep. Monks in orange robes and the expectations of new experiences to come the next morning dominated my dreams.
 
Composed about 1970, edited 2016-02-17

An American Author
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
An American author of, “The White Bear” and “Solomon’s Gold”, great poet, salesman for
 
real estate, accountant and a master of meteorology, you were one of those men who was
 
larger than life.  You were spiritual and a lover of nature.  Everyone loved you as you were so
 
caring.  It feels you passed too soon.  At sixty-eight, you had only just completed your latest
 
book about your parents and your younger years.  You liked fishing, your walking stick, your
 
whisky and you were a lover of the finest cigars.   I remember reading in your book, “The
 
White Bear”, about how you loved visiting Nevada.  You loved to watch the salmon jumping
 
in the stream, while their colours glistened in the light.  You enjoyed taking your walking
 
stick to the mountains, along with your flask of whisky and a cigar, to smoke in those special
 
spots of beauty – the top of a mountain or valley, whilst you surveyed the beauty of the
 
landscape and, if you were lucky, a black bear or one of the bald eagles (also known as the
 
sea or fish eagle), known to live near the rivers amongst the mountains and the tall trees in
 
Nevada.
 
 
 
I had a strong feeling that I had to talk to you as we had drifted apart, so I managed to catch
 
up with you one night.  You told me that you were sorry you had to wave goodbye to your
 
latest writing of three years, which also waved goodbye to your Mum and Dad again, when
 
you had carried them with you for so long.  You were unable and unwilling to move forward
 
with your life.  We had a good chat, but you seemed lonely and lost.  You told me you were
 
going to relax and have some red wine and whisky to relax.  The next day, in the early hours
 
of the morning, I just happened to see your Son’s message on Facebook.  His devastation and
 
despair glared at me from the page, as if calling me from another world.  I told him I had
 
been concerned about you and he told me you had died two mornings before.  The
 
neighbours had found you, sprawled on the floor. You had hit your head on the table and bled
 
from internal injuries. 
 
 
 
The moral of this tale is, listen to your intuition and always think and stay in touch with
 
friends and family, for we all feel isolated at times.  We are so busy communicating using
 
social networks, we forget our neighbours, friends and family.  We never know when our
 
time is going to run out.  Life has so many twists and turns and anything can happen at any
 
time.  Always expect the unexpected!  It’s never too late to catch up with loved ones, or you
 
may regret it forever.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright   February 2016

Fairbanks, Alaska

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Massapequa
 
It is a truly cold morning, here on Feb. 13, 2016 in NYC. They are expecting record setting cold temperatures by to-morrow. Two degrees minus Fahrenheit last had in 1916. Plus a wind-chill factor down into minus 20 degrees F.
Inside my house the bright sun mocks this news as it warms the carpet where its’ rays are concentrating. Stay inside, the radio warns. Why not? This does give me the leisure to reminisce.
It must have been about 1962. We landed, with a 707 Boeing, one of the first jets, in Fairbanks Alaska. It was also February then, I believe. In Alaska, which is the gateway to the Arctic Circle, the temperatures from Oct. to March vary from minus 2 degrees F up to 14 degrees F.
A ground crew, dressed in Eskimo attire, had come to meet the plane. They labored to put up the old fashioned, metallic stairway, with the platform on top where it reached the cabin door. We, the crew, had to wait for their knock at the front door before removing the emergency shoot attachment and opening up. One door only was to be opened, no matter how many passengers on board. The reason was to minimize the amount of freezing air rushing into the cabin of the plane. Immediately after the door was opened, crew and passengers were supplied with heavy parkers, wooly face covers with ear muffs and furry gloves..
Cars, powered electrically were attached with immense wires to loading stations that looked like parking meters. In them we were taken to a motel near the airport.
I recall it was only a few steps from the room, across the parking lot, over to the cafeteria. Nevertheless one had to bundle up, in order not to get frost bites. These are experiences I will never forget. They make today’s temperature here in New York feel like a day in spring. It is at least six months the norm in Alaska, while we are looking at two days the most here in New York and vicinity
There is plenty of beauty in Alaska too. At some times during the year, mostly in June, July and August it can be pleasantly warm. There had been trips to Fairbanks, when I would take walks at a nearby lake and wore nothing but a short sleeved dress. Alaska is also known for a Midnight Sun Festival in June, when the sun never sets. This spectacular I unfortunately missed but can picture it vividly in my mind.
Nowadays cruises to Alaska are in fashion and I am sure they are an exciting and delightful experience.

The 9/11 Syndrome


Article by Charles E.J. Moulton


 
            I had a quarrel with a friend this morning. The discussion escalated out of nothing, really, the reason for our differences a very small detail, indeed. What saved the situation was something simple I said. Something I never would have thought could have resolved the issue.
“I take half of the blame for this. You’ll have to take the other half!”
That was more than anyone could ask.
            We went to the dance rehearsal we had originally cancelled because of our differences. The situation was far from perfect, but we were on speaking terms. Eventually, the situation went back to normal. We learned a few very important things through this experience: human beings defend themselves when they are attacked. Secondly, you only have to take half of the blame for any fight that erupts between you and any adversary. No more, but also no less. Telling another person that you are partly to blame gives him or her the chance to like you. You are not withdrawing from the situation. He or she knows that you know you hurt his or her feelings. Empathy is instrumental for a peace treaty. Without empathy or sympathy, a heated discussion will never cool down. If you don’t talk it out, it will inevitably turn into a disaster.
            We’re all human. Our human feelings are the cornerstones of every problem that arises. Whether we’re dealing with small petty differences or huge world wars, it’s all the same. The bigger and more impossible difficulties emerge when countries attack other countries or groups attack other groups. One million people who hate another million people, will they ever resolve their differences? They’re building defense towers to protect other defense towers. Those initial towers were built on lies, misunderstandings and accusations. So, how could you ever resolve a misunderstanding that was founded on a lie?
            That’s why I am writing this article.
            The idea for it came yesterday. I sat on the couch, calmly, my wife watching a movie, my daughter snoozing in her bed. I don’t know why I began researching the web for information about the events surrounding September 11th, 2001, but I did. I ended up sitting there for two hours, flipping webpages, trying to make heads or tails of both sides of the story.
            I wanted to start writing this thing already yesterday night. I sincerely do believe, though, that fate provided me with this little minor dilemma this morning in order to show me how to formulate my idea: the human issue I would like to label as the 9/11 syndrome. The opposing forces within us and between us fuel this syndrome and keep it thriving.
            Hate fuels disaster.
            There are now more conspiracy stories in circulation that deal with the cataclysmic events of that day than any other event in history. These conspiratorial explanations include alien invadors wanting to take over the world, senators sending their rocket missiles on the Pentagon and wealthy oil barons with greedy hearts bringing down their own creation just to collect the insurance money.
The culprits are as varied as our world is vast and incomprehensible.
Dozens of websites are devoted to 9/11-related illnesses, psychological, psychosomatic and physical in nature. The firefighters that lived through that day are now either retired or dead. There is even a little boy that claims he is the reincarnation of a firefighter that died in of one of the towers as it collapsed on 9/11.
            The events of that day were a human holocaust. Few modern day events have had such an impact on the minds of the world population as this catastrophy. Not even the Vietnam War or the assassination of John F. Kennedy terrified people as much.
            I remember the day vividly. Exactly 16 days later, I was flying to Barcelona to board the cruise ship M/S Arkona for a term full of vocal show work. The six weeks prior to that were filled with work. We were rehearsing 7 two-hour shows, learning 116 songs. We were five actors that were about to perform artistic cavalcades while cruising the world. I was headlining most of the shows, so my director summoned me for a solo rehearsal. We were going to rehearse some dialogue.
            That plan soon disintergrated into oblivion. As soon as we heard that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center in New York City, we quickly shortened the rehearsal. At first, I could not even comprehend what really had happened. Was this a small private plane that had lost itself in Manhattan and somehow crashed into the building?
            The issue turned humungous quicker than we believed to be possible. It seemed to influence all of what we thought was given and natural. Safety was a thing of the past. Nobody stepped into a plane without fearing never to land again without crashing. The world had turned into a terrorist’s filthy playground. Flights were cancelled, airport security became vicious and people with Arabic names were thrown manually off Boeings.
The story became more and more incredible as it unfolded. A million questions appeared in my mind. Things just did not add up. I researched the subject to a great extent and found information all too incredible to be true.
The alleged phone call that Barbara Olson made from Flight 77 was intensely described by her husband Ted Olson on Larry King Live. If there had been a passenger seat phone at Flight 77 in the first place, which there wasn’t, she couldn’t have made it because she apparently did not have her credit cards with her. Furthermore, cellular phones have been proven useless at such speeds and altitudes above 2000 feet.
Later on, FBI released a a statement that Barbara never had made the phone call at all. In fact, Barbara had only made one single unconnected call within the plane. Ted changed his story three times and was then described as a liar. So, what are we supposed to believe? That Ted Olson lied to us? If that’s true, we have to ask ourselves why he lied to us? Who was he protecting? The Pentagon? In fact, Ted Olson has admitted on previous occassions that the government lies. Now the lawyer lied himself.
The most astounding piece of information comes from the hijackers themselves. They were all proven to be miserable pilots, men who couldn’t even fly small planes, let alone huge ones that needed massive amounts of disclosed tutoring. They took over the planes with box-cutters. It has been said that such a take-over could be regarded as ludicrous, given that the passengers all had luggage with them which they could beat the hijackers to death.
The FBI also knew all their names almost immediately after the attack, because Mohammed Atta obviously left a conveniently complete list of all 19 hijackers in a forgotten bag in Oregon. That sounds fake already. Why did U.S. intelligence ignore all the huge amount of leads that told them what was going to happen and where, but find Atta’s bag in such as remote place as Portland within hours of the attack?
            The horrible thing, yet again, is that people were talking about the attack for years before it happened, even pointing at the towers and saying they would come down in 2001. Hundreds of international leads were practically handed over to American intelligence and completely ignored. Sometimes, these leads were even pushed away with deliberate aggression.
Flight 77 vanished completely after it hit the Pentagon. The part of the Pentagon that was struck was also partly closed for renovation and the only available evidence for what exactly hit the Pentagon, video tapes filming the attack, were confiscated by U.S. Intelligence.
            Seasoned commercial airlined pilot Russ Wittenburg reported that uneducated pilots like the hijackers would be physically unable to fly those planes into the towers or into the Pentagon. In fact, the data recorders read that Flight 77 flew 300 feet over and not into the Pentagon. Something else did hit the Pentagon. Flight 77 didn’t hit it. The hijackers didn’t reset the altitude device and the didn’t know how to operate the auto pilot.
In fact, I will repeat this, these people were not even good enough to operate a small plane. Commercial planes like that carry tons of fuel, luggage and 300 people. They are not as flexible as smaller planes. They are unable to fly into towers, according to Wittenburg.
            The Pentagon attack left no wreckage, no motors, nothing of any kind. Even the hole of the Pentagon didn’t match the description. There should have been at least one more hole in the Pentagon from the one wing that had not fallen off. At the speed, as well, there would have been a great chance that the entire Pentagon would have been destroyed in the process. The hole? It looks like the hole made by a missile.
            Retired Intelligence General Albert Stubblebine, who spent his entire life studying intelligence photography, agreed with this assumption. He told a reporter that a plane could not have hit the Pentagon. There should have been plane marks. There weren’t.
            Stubblebine goes on to say that the free press have now ceased to be free. They are told what to report. That coincides with the journalist that resigned from his profession just this year, because he could not live with having to spread lies.
            David Ray Griffin’s compelling book “The New Pearl Harbor” summarizes the accusations, outlines scenarios, describes the many problems in the storyline, addresses problems that exists within the official accounts. Anyone interested in researching the issue should try first reading this book. Another controversial novel is Steve Alten’s “The Shell Game”, which outlines a certain reality that might come true one day. Here we find supposedly official reasons for the fake attack.
The information blaming the government for the attack ends up flabbergasting any reader or viewer. The information flow is so overwhelming that it threatens to drive you insane. One can really not see the forest for the trees. That triggered a need in me to look at the other side of the story.
One of Osama Bin Laden’s confession letters outlines a reason for his alleged revenge on the United States of America. He saw tens of thousands of his countrymen die in American attacks. Most prominently were his memories of seeing two towers fall and burn in his homeland. He wanted to destroy two American towers as a revenge. He claims that only a small amount of people died in the attacks in Manhattan. In his country, thousands more died.
The question is if the government really is as bloodthirsty as the conspiracy says it is. We don’t really want to believe that, do we? But if the cover-up is so thinly disguised, holes really everywhere with absolutely no aim to try to keep the implausabilities a secret, then a million people will become suspicious.
Most websites that debunk the myths don’t give much evidence. They show the official films, tell the official stories, claim that everything is what it seems. The only real evidence comes from people who question the official story. Eye witnesses claim to have seen a military plane with no windows at all flying into the first building.
Milton William Cooper, former CIA-agent and author of the conspiracy-book “Behold A Pale Horse”, announced a statement on 6/28/2001 that a terrorist attack would be carried out in September and that Osama Bin Laden would be blamed for it. He knew. He also knew that the people planning the New World Order would be behind it. He said that Martial Law would be declared. It cost him his life. He was shot and killed by the Apache County Sherriff Deputy on November 6, 2001. Milton William Cooper will be sorely missed.
There is hope. As strange as it seems, there is hope. Why is there hope?  Because, as of yet, no martial law has been declared. FEMA has not taken over the world. There is Windows 10, that is claimed to be a spy program. There is Facebook, which is claimed to be a conspiracy. There is the Islamic State, which is claimed to be the reason the New World Order is seeking to plant and detonate an atom bomb within the American borders. But the I.S. is not going international, as little as the Ebola has gone international.
If I understand the conspiracy right, 9/11 was created by the government in order to get the permission to invade Iraq. To do what? Get oil? I don’t know. Maybe someone was really afraid that America was going just as much down the drains as Rome did. It’s getting there. No superpower has ever lasted. Go through history. Every huge empire eventually fell.
I just know that the whole conspiracy thing fell to smithereens. Nothing down there in Iraq turned out the way it was supposed to turn out. Trying to control the world by creating cataclysmic events is like trying to predict the weather. Let’s say you live in Angusville, California. Your local meteorologist says it’s going to rain on Tuesday. The low pressure could be influenced by a sudden gust of wind, though. The raincloud could change course. That is what happened with 9/11 and the proposed effects of FEMA martial law. You can’t predict people. You can’t predict life. We are seven billion people here on this planet. We all know that things turn out differently than we plan them to turn out.
The critiques of conspiracy theories claim that they are ill informed and make up stuff as they go along. In this case, bro, the conspiracy theorists are more informed than the friends of the official account. The ones sticking their heads in the sand are the official storytellers.
That is not the point, though.
A part of the 9/11 syndrome is that, although we have a common cause, we act like we are enemies. This has become more a case of being in the right than actually being right.
Bill Cooper did predict 9/11. We have to be on our guard. But I knew people who thought the world was going to end in 2012, because the Mayas allegedly predicted something the could not have known 5000 years ago. I knew people who were extremely nasty to me because I told them they were in the wrong. I knew people who told me that Operation Desert Storm in the first Gulf War was the beginning of the Third World War. Political Conspiracies are as old as time. They’re not new. They have just turned a little bigger, a little more technical. The people who plan them pretend they’re God.
They’re not. Believe me. They eat, drink, laugh, cry, love, hate, read, write, think, feel, make love, shit and pee like the rest of us do. No matter how rich you get, you’re still a person. You’re still a soul. When the conspirators up there again in front of God’s throne, after they die, God will ask them, honestly and kindly, what the hell they thought they were doing down there? They’ll have to go back here in their next lives and they will have to make amends, seriously and honestly.
The 9/11 syndrome is the mentality that we have to be enemies, build camps, complain at each other and tell each other that the other one is wrong, if we’re right or not. It is the mentality today’s lawyers present. They say truth is irrelevent. The only thing that matters is how you present your client’s case.
We believe that everyone has the power except us. But I have news for you. You have the power over your own life. The politicians don’t. They don’t know you. They will never know you, even if they will hear about you in the papers or in the internet or even if you become more famous than Robert de Niro. You have a family, you have a home, you have a life, you like certain things, dislike certain things, you eat, drink, laugh, cry, love, hate, read, write, think, feel, make love, shit and pee like the rest of us do. And there is no one on the Earth like you. Be proud of that. The President of the United States, the King of Spain and the CEO of Microsoft are just as unique as you, their souls are just as eternal, they cry just like you do.
They don’t control you.
They can’t.
They have no power over you.
Laugh at them.
Live your life.
Do not follow the crowd.
Life is not the 9/11 syndrome.
Life is ALL about soul.
The politicians and the conspirators are just people with incredibly cocky and very annoying attitudes. There are good ones, but there are also bad ones.
Believe in your own soul.
That most important thing in life is not how big your checkbook is. It’s how big your heart is that matters. The important thing is that you are faithful to what and who you love. The only thing that mattered to the conpirators was the size of their wallets. Unfortunately, they were so preoccupied with money that they forgot that their hearts had gaps in them. The gap in the heart of the main 9/11 conspirator was as big as the hole the missile made in the corner of the Pentagon.
Be honest, be fair. 
God will reward you for it.
 
 

“Dark Night of the Soul”
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
We all have darkness within us that we try to hide, pretending it isn’t there.  For some of us,
 
it comes to the fore as we experience the “Dark Night of the Soul”.  This comes about when
 
we have ignored too many negative aspects of our lives and we are stuck in limbo, both
 
unwilling and seemingly unable to move forward.  It is often easier and “safer” to stay stuck
 
in the past than it is to move on.  It is a scary thought to have to start again in life, like tipping
 
your toes in the ocean of the unknown.  This ocean can look dark and threatening at first or if
 
you start worrying about how far you have to travel towards your destination.   Perhaps there
 
are too many sharp shells and too much shingle on the beach, making you wince with every
 
step?  Perhaps unknown creatures are lying in wait in the rock pools under the dark and
 
hidden crevices of the stones?  Maybe there are lethal, lurking insects under the sand?  Please
 
just start the journey and take little steps at a time, for you never know what life has in store. 
 
There will be lighter and brighter days waiting for you to eliminate the darkness from your
 
soul.
 
 
 
Try and change your state of mind, expect the best and act like everything you could wish for
 
has already arrived.  Your subconscious mind will not know the difference.  It will accept
 
your “imagined” reality as your reality.  Light will start filtering through the darkness, like
 
shafts of sunlight burning through the mist in the early mornings. 
 
 
 
We often have to experience a “Dark Night of the Soul” to want to change our lives as we do
 
not want to stay stuck in our misery anymore.  We realise we are stagnating or regressing,
 
especially when our negative mind thoughts, which are being held in our chakras (spiritual
 
centres of our bodies) and around our aura (the magnetic, energy field around our bodies)
 
start to manifest themselves physically as they try to highlight what we can learn from our
 
experience.  We need to try and move on to become the whole, spiritually enlightened beings
 
we are naturally supposed to be.  So, we must move on, despite our anxiety and nervousness.
 
 
 
The way forward is to reach out in the way that suits you.  First of all, take little steps. Go out
 
with a friend, go for a short walk in the countryside or pamper yourself.  Treat yourself
 
kindly, patiently and gently.  You will gradually relax and become happier.  Your body will
 
start to vibrate at a higher frequency and more light will be drawn to you; happiness and
 
peace will prevail.  The right people and circumstances will “magically” appear at the right
 
time.  Follow these paths to the light as they will enable you to become your true self as you
 
follow the guidance of your soul.  We are all already complete.  Our talents already lie within
 
us.  We just need to wake up to our selves.  We just need to dip our toes into the ocean and
 
start swimming in the mysterious waters for the riches within us prevail in our lives as this is
 
the destiny awaiting us all when we eventually let the light come into our lives.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   February 2016

Anger versus Love

By Karen King
 
 
 
What is anger?  Is it the opposite from love, generated from disappointment and frustration
 
when a situation is out of control and seems to be reaching a foregone (and unwanted)
 
conclusion?  Are you angry at them or yourself?  Are you angry at what life has thrown at
 
you?   Isn’t life unfair! 
 
 
 
You feel it bubbling up inside you, like a witch’s brew, except this is not a positive, curing,
 
magic brew; it is violent and destructive!  A sour stench pervades the atmosphere, heat and
 
sparks leap from your skin and you look like a fiery furnace.  Your head and heart hammer
 
and pound.  Anger is a negative (and wasted) energy, but can be hard for us to overcome and
 
eliminate from our persona.  Perhaps some of us are not yet spiritually advanced enough to
 
deal with this emotion in a constructive manner? 
 
 
 
There is nothing wrong with having emotions, for we are all human!  Love is a good,
 
positive, all-embracing emotion to have.  It brings all nations, races, sexes and religions
 
together as we appreciate and celebrate our diversity.  Love is a constructive emotion that
 
overcomes all and enables us all to move forward in our lives, but anger is destructive and
 
holds us all back in the same place.  The negativity of anger is catching and brings everyone
 
down.  It causes disease and destruction to people’s lives, first mentally, then physically.  So,
 
next time, someone angers you, take heart and a deep breath and breathe love onto the
 
situation.
 
Karen King   Copyright  February 2016

Glandular Fever
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
It burns you up, it leaves your breathless, weak and fragile in body and spirit.  It destroys
 
your life.  Your mind and body want to do so many things.  You want to go to the cinema, see
 
pop concerts, go out for meals, go out with your boyfriend, take photos, go out for meals, go
 
to country pubs, ride your motorbike and do exercise.  Yet you can do nothing!  You lie in
 
your bed, too heavy to move.  You force yourself out of bed and move around the house. 
 
You feel heavy and hot as you go, grabbing at tables, chairs, door frames and the wall to try
 
and keep your balance as the room sways, like you have had too much to drink.  After you
 
have got yourself another glass of water to replace yet more fluids that you have lost, you
 
manage to take yourself to the toilet before limping back to bed. How many more weeks,
 
months, years will this go on for?  It has already been a year…  You are only seventeen, you
 
should be living your life to the full, yet your life has twisted around by “the kissing disease”
 
and is laughing in your face in a menacing manner.
 
 
 
When you speak to the doctor, he laughs, shrugs, says it is nothing and it could be gone in for
 
a few weeks.  He does not take you seriously and you feel embarrassed, humiliated and
 
rejected.  I think your doctor thinks you have an overactive imagination.
 
 
 
You try to be strong mentally and physically.  You undertake exercise when you feel better,
 
but you are soon forced back to bed, feeling weak, sweaty and dejected yet again!  Your
 
bedclothes have to be washed every few days as they are wet with sweat.  It makes you feel
 
depressed and despondent!
 
Your glandular fever turns into M.E., leaving you desperate and wondering if there will ever
 
be a light at the end of the tunnel. You continue to force yourself to undertake exercise –
 
weight training and cycling mostly and, when you feel well, you are becoming increasingly
 
fast and can exercise for longer.  Unfortunately, however, after your workout, you are
 
exhausted and your body is unwilling to do any more and it takes about a week to recover
 
until you are able to try again.  Your body, however, becomes increasingly stronger.  Your
 
stamina also increases and you steadily became fitter and fitter. 
 
 
 
I think the moral of this tale is, don’t give up, never give up, but you can’t force things to
 
happen before you are ready.  Just keep trying, be positive, open your heart and connect with
 
others and you will be able to cope with your challenges (problems) as you will feel mentally
 
stronger and be more balanced spiritually.  Go with the flow, all things will happen when the
 
time is right.  We all have challenges to face in our lives where we can learn, grow and
 
become complete, full of light and love to spread to each other, across time and space.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright  February 2016
 

Possessions

By Alexandra Rodrigues


A possession is something you own. An item you cherish or you would have gotten rid of it. My home is cluttered with chachkas collected during my travels all over the world while flying for an airline. Valuable carvings from Africa, oil paintings by upcoming or now long-forgotten painters on the streets around Montmartre in Paris, inlaid tables from India, carpets from Persia, Meissen dinner sets and Hummels from Germany. In the yard, tulips grown from bulbs hand carried from Amsterdam Holland. Crystal glasses in every color, shape and form bought in Belgrade and Vienna and more and more and still more. Each piece is connected with a memory. I should also mention all the heirlooms, the $3,000 Louis XV clock that chimed for me since the day of my birth. It did chime before that for my mother and grandmother and now stands in my living room and still chimes.  Many such pieces can be considered possessions. Some did not survive Superstorm Sandy. I miss them, but did not lose tears over them.
I wrote them off to “Gone with the wind” literarily!
Then , a few years ago , I was made aware of what I truly consider my most valuable possession:  It is my eyesight!  
The means which allow me t delight in the spectacle of color;  The tools that let me enjoy and see waves of the Ocean, the peaks of the Mountains.  I had been to my eye doctor to have a Schirmer Test. This test is given to check one’s field of vision with the upper eyelid taped up. Right after the test, my right eye began to hurt, and the assistant gave me some eye drops to calm the stinging.
By the time I came home, my vision, mostly in the right eye had become blurred. Warnings about connections between blurred vision and stroke began to upset me. I washed my eye carefully, tried to cry and pulled the upper lid down over the lower one, a remedy I had learned as a child to get rid of some dust in the eye. Nothing helped. It was getting dark and I panicked. I had heard about somebody going blind because of losing fluid from the eye and about other tragedies connected with blurred vision. Back in the bathroom, I pulled down the right lower eyelid. An about-three-millimeter round, white something became visible. With my index fingertip I carefully touched it and it adhered to the finger and came out. The problem was clear now. The nurse had left a piece of the paper used for the test mistakenly in my eye and it was cutting into my eyeball. In addition, she had not bothered to clean my eye  lid and the glue of the tape had caused a veil-like film to blur my vision.
In conclusion, I was happy to have figured it out. And, yes, definitely my eyesight is my greatest possession.    

What's So Fascinating About Pirates?

By Charles E.J. Moulton


We have our pop-corn, our coke, our chocolate bars, maybe even our 3D-glasses, we're sitting in our comfy seats. Then we're off to the Caribbean, watching Johnny Depp swashbuckle with the best of them. We revel in living the adventure, seeing doomed men twist and turn, flashing skulls at our faces. Many decades ago, it was Errol Flynn and Douglas Fairbanks on those screens. The names change, the journey remains. Before the cinematographical experience, novelists took us on our fascinating trip to other worlds. Before that, there were always the townsfolk storytellers, the travelling jesters and jugglers. They all told us the same story in different ways. But why do we love pirates?
We love the unknown, the exotic, seeing the outsider leave the organized infrastructure in order to make his own way, seeing the world as it once was. The urge to step out of society, claim a piece of the world for ourselves, is rooted deeply into our souls. We are here to rediscover our world like we did as children. We need to be fascinated. The story helps us fulfill that dream. The dream, however, outshines the reality. We believe pirates managed to live lives that stepped outside the boundaries of society, but they were the lawless criminals that took what they wanted and left. The reality was harsh. The myth became romantic. We even believe they hid their stuff in X-marked holes on Caribbean islands. And why not? But was that just Robert Louis Stevenson's mythical story creation in "Treasure Island"?
The fact that the myths of the pirate have been patched together out of a thousand stories is one thing. The story, the archetype per se, is exciting.
The reality the pirates experienced was another. Week long, even month long, on sea made the oceanic journey extremely difficult. That they share with most sailors of their time. Poisoned or rotten rations soon turned the healthy crew into a very ill bunch indeed. When an enemy ship arrived, speed was of the absolute essence. The tired crewmembers were catapulted out of their uncomfortable beds, forced to shove heavy cannonballs into extremely heavy machinery. When the enemy did arrive, it was a battle that conjured up hell itself. Not only were the real 17th century pirates vicious criminals, they became feared culprits in every political game.
But the mystery remains, the allure, the fascination of just leaving society, embarking on the mythical journey toward the horizon to see what no man has ever seen before.
We might be dealing with a myth here, but it is a myth with a method: it symbolizes or need for the experience, only that we should transform that need into a globally positive community, whether we climb the Mount Everest or write out first novel.
It's the journey, isn't it? That's why we love "Star Trek", as well. If we look at that franchise, we are regarding a world full of space pirates.
The dream is alive and the stories we make up inspire millions.
We are all discoverers at heart, travellers who have to internalize our own feelings into a positive and uplifting inner experience. Our life is a journey that mixes humane freedom for all with a necessary responsibility.
At hearts, we are all pirates.
We love the unknown adventure.  

Short Essay about the Supreme Court Vacancy

By Patrick Bryant Michael



The GOP has lost any common sense if they have had any in recent years. They are making false claims about the Constitution in hopes of not allowing Obama to make a nomination which is his duty quite clearly according to the US Constitution. It's the Senates duty to hold a vote up or down on Obama's nomination. Even Reagan claimed it was his duty when he nominated Justice Kennedy in his last year in office. In 1802 the Supreme Court was suspended because of such a situation. If that were to happen again, the people would have no choice but to vote the scoundrels out. The lies being perpetuated by the GOP are simply cowardly! If they lose the Senate in the upcoming National Election cycle, and the Presidency as well, they will get a more liberal nomination and have no power to stop it. Such lunacy is ruining this country.

Love
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
What is love?  It seems to be something we are all obsessed with.  When I go through the
 
poetry in my groups, I am amazed by just how obsessed we are with this subject matter.  Are
 
we obsessed because we feel a certain something missing in our lives, are we just lustful or
 
romantic?  I, personally, can answer it is all three for me.  I sometimes feel like there is
 
something missing, there is a hole in my heart and an aching in my stomach (not because of
 
something I ate!)  I have to say, of late, the gap in my heart and soul has been filled up with
 
poetry (both reading and writing) and reaching out to you all on here.  I cannot believe some
 
of the connections I have made to people all over the world.  My soul is happy with my
 
poetry and the time I spend in nature.  Fill your soul with something that speaks to you and
 
you will find some inner peace and joy.   
 
 
 
There is also love for our family and friends.  Many people have the love of God in their
 
lives, whether they worship by attending a place of worship or they see God in nature, in
 
other people and themselves.  I would say, whether you believe in God or not, just send love
 
and understanding to those you meet and appreciate your environment; the animals and the
 
plants all around.  Everything is for a reason, the person who is awkward that you bumped
 
into in the shop probably has some inner demons that he or she needs to vanquish.  Or, maybe
 
they just got out of the wrong side of bed and everything just feels wrong for them?  Perhaps,
 
if you stopped for a moment and smiled at them, the anger and despair they are feeling would
 
be lessened for that one moment and, possibly, give them strength for the rest of the day? 
 
That would be your gift to them.  Maybe you would start talking and then realise you have
 
something in common with this person and you can actually help each other, even if only in a
 
small way?  Just reach out and connect and we will all feel more loved.  New friendships can
 
form in unexpected ways.  Never take anything for granted, for life is a miracle in itself. 
 
 
 
Appreciate the sun rising for a new day in the morning, the setting sun in the evening. 
 
Appreciate the simple moments of your life that make it all worthwhile.  A child laughing
 
while it splashes in a puddle.  A baby when it looks at you and sees your soul.  An elderly
 
couple, still obviously in love after fifty or sixty years.  The rainbow which is a pot of gold,
 
for its beauty is a miracle in itself.  The rainbow, reflecting in the lake, long bands of colours
 
cheering up the dark depths of the water.  Each colour sends out healing and a rainbow is the
 
colours of life.  Look at the dogs that pass you by as you walk; appreciate their loyalty to
 
their owners and the love both owner and animal share.  Look around you, appreciate life and
 
see the love that is all around if you just start seeing the special secrets that life holds.
 
 
 
Yes, there is romantic love too, but do not expect someone to come along and solve all your
 
problems.  That is your responsibility.  Your true love will love your lighter and darker side
 
and support you, but let you find your own way.  You have to love yourself first before
 
someone else will love you.  Remember, we are all perfect and complete and no one is
 
lacking.  Just start believing in yourself and don’t judge yourself so harshly.
 
 
 
So, you see, there are many forms of love.  We are all capable of giving and receiving love in
 
all its shapes and forms if we just reach out towards each other, to nature and to the animals
 
around.  Reach across the seas and oceans to other races and connect, for we are all here to
 
live our lives as best we can.  We are all here to love.  Go one, try it today and you won’t
 
look back, this I can guarantee. 
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   February  2016

My Niece Who Came Too Early

By Karen King
 
 
 
She couldn’t wait to come to this earth.  Born at 26 ½ weeks at 2lb 6oz, she came into this
 
world very suddenly.  She has certainly made her mark!
 
 
 
She took us all by surprise by her sudden arrival and my Brother, Sister-in-law, her Mother
 
and Brother, my Mother and I were so worried about Mother and child.  Jane was on oxygen
 
as her lungs hadn’t developed properly. My sister-in-law expressed her milk, which was
 
expressed to my niece intravenously.  My Brother and Sister-in-law were able to touch Jane
 
through the holes in the Perspex incubator Jane was lying in.  They had to wash their hands
 
first with antiseptic gel and very hot water.  I remember Mum and me touching her once,
 
which was a most spiritual and special experience.  Jane lay in her incubator in the special
 
baby unit, wearing her tiny woollen hat to keep her head warm and an oversized nappy as
 
she, hopefully, waited for her life to really begin.  She was fighting for her life as she lay
 
there, her lungs gradually becoming stronger as she slowly put on weight.  Although this
 
special being was only the size of the palm of my hand, her presence was all-encompassing
 
and her sudden appearance had a massive impact on all our lives.
 
 
 
My Brother and Sister-in-law decided to get married while Jane lay in the hospital as they
 
wanted a good future for their tiny treasure.  On the day of the wedding, they were told that
 
Jane had a stomach infection, her temperature was raised and there was a high chance she
 
could die.  They continued with their wedding, trying their best to be positive, despite the
 
circumstances.  We all bumbled through the reception, whilst putting on brave faces.  Jane
 
survived that day, the next day and, by the next day, we were told that her body had fought
 
the infection that she was fine.  We all breathed a sigh of relief.  My Sister-in-Law gradually
 
started feeding Jane with a bottle full of expressed milk.  Jane stayed in the hospital for six
 
weeks.  After six weeks of suffering, strain and anguish, she could go home.  My Sister-in-
 
law felt a mixture of relief and worry.  My Brother bought a special monitor for her breathing
 
in case she stopped breathing, for she had only been breathing on her own for a couple of
 
weeks, her breathing was previously being undertaken for this little being.  Several times,
 
Jane stopped breathing in the night and she had to be awakened to alert her body, whereby
 
she started breathing again. 
 
 
 
After several months, the equipment was no longer needed as Jane was breathing strongly on
 
her own.  Jane slowly became a “normal” baby, despite her early challenges and having a
 
weakness in her lungs due to her early entrance into this world.  She has excelled at school,
 
has a good group of friends and she makes us all so proud.  She is a warm, attractive and
 
loving young lady.  She is currently doing her “A” Levels and she has many talents.  Jane
 
hope to go to University in September.  Her talents include cookery, photography, science,
 
photography, drawing, German, Maths and sewing.  Jane is an extremely special young lady
 
and is like the Daughter I never had.  I believe she is an old soul as she is certainly very wise
 
and has taught my family patience, perseverance, faith and wisdom.  She has also taught us
 
that life is worth fighting for and that, sometimes, people touch our lives and we never look
 
back.  Jane is a blessing and, indeed, a gift to the family.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   February 2016

The God Within


By Charles E.J. Moulton



I have a feeling that humanity is caught in a sociological trap, avoiding obvious truths. Truths that indeed could set them free.
I have heard it said that the universe is filled with wise beings that have found their way past these sociological engulfments and are able to see life for what it is.
I also have the feeling that people think they have to limit themselves to their sociological positions, such as creed, gender, race or religion. But none of these things define who we are, who we really are at the bottom of our hearts.

Answer these questions truthfully:
What was before the beginning of the creation of the universe? If there is an end to the universe, what lies beyond it? What connects you to friends and loved ones? Why do people turn around when you look at them from behind, even through thick glass? Aren't your own emotions linked to your own eternal soul? Why are there millions of recollections about previous reincarnations? Why are there hundreds of recorded out-of-body-experiences daily? Why do people sometimes overcome fatal sicknesses in spite of or maybe because of laying off medication? Do you really think an eternal creator would limit himself to one religion? Do you think God has anything to do with religion? Does God play favorites? We were born as naked as the animals, why then do we have a problem with nudity? If sexuality is the means with which we prolong our species and create our children, and if we have to like it in order to survive, why then do we laugh at it and consider it impure and a sin? Isn't disrespect the real impurity? The real sin? Why do we not see the thousand spiritual consistancies that surround us on a daily basis? Why don't we see the angels, the visible and invisible ones? Why is it that things start working out well when we begin trusting ourselves and others?

We have a situation in the world where a lot of people have become more secluded, dogmatic and partisan than ever, even with the connecting dots that is the massively influential internet.
The second movement in the world, though, is open, positive and does not close or exclude anything. It opens doors.

We have to be wary of our emotions, what we are feeling or allow ourselves to feel. Are we closing doors on people or opening doors FOR people?

Imagine yourself sitting in the subway with a friend. A peaceful, but weird looking guy walks in. I deliberately say peaceful, so that you unterstand that there is no threat involved.
The man sits down in his corner, consumed by nervous tics.
Your friend points at the man and shakes his head.
Ask yourself honestly if you haven't also been so unfair. Unnecessary prejudice.
What would possibly be the reason for anyone to subject a fellow human being to slander and disgrace? Would it bring you further if you spent the rest of your trip pointing finger at him? Do you want to change that man? Why should you try? You can't. You are awake enough to notice if he becomes a threat. If he is not, why worry?

The problem, as I see it, begins when we try to impose our view of the world on others. Then we are no better than the crooks who behead people in Syria. We want to be good people, right?
"Everyone should believe in Jesus, or else ..." is just as intolerant as "Everyone should believe in Allah, or else ..."
Jesus didn't make differences between people, so why should we? Next question is: has the Christian church, or any church at all for that matter, been doing Jesus any favors by selling free-bees against sin, calling people witches just because they cured people with herbs and flowers, exterminating civilizations just because they call God something else, screaming at people who want to spend their lives loving people of the same gender, when there are plenty of priests who feel the same thing? If we think the modern crooks in black who scream about global rule are bad, we just have to remember what happened during the crusades. These guys beheaded far more people than the other guys ever could.
We have to stop solving problems with violence.
Period.
We have to stop thinking that God has anything to with any organized religion.
Period.
We all have something in common: we all believe in the eternal soul, we all believe in the afterlife in some way.
Period.
God is not of this world, why should he care what you call him?
Period.
Why should he require your money?
Period.
Hey, even Jesus said that.
Even Buddha.

Always ask yourself this: does a person, a friendship, a love-affair, a job, a career, a decision open you up or close you down? Furthermore, does it open up or close down anyone else? Imposing anyone else with your view will you close you down, as well. You're both going down the tubes. Because if it opens you up and closes someone else, it will not be beneficial to anyone. Trust me on this. Faith counts.
Art, creativity, music, painting, any form of creative expression, is more than entertainment. It should free us. That doesn't mean we have to impose our view of creativity on others. We shouldn't. If they haven't heard of Hamlet, we can tell them about him. But if they don't understand why the play is legendary, let it be. Everybody doesn't have to like the same thing, no matter how famous it is. Fame is not the issue.
Another thing, if something challenges you, tests you, might create new possibilities, make you a better person, at least consider that it might be a good idea to try it.
But follow your heart on that one.

Bottom line: if you think you can't change the world, you're wrong.
How tomorrow turns out is up to you. There is fate. Things are meant to be, but God, that eternal spirit, is not just that bearded guy on the cloud. He's inside you. Your heart, your spirit, your soul leads the way.
This is the time to look beyond the horizon onto a new paradigm shift and a new world.
What are you feeling?
You're not a stereotype.
You're a being.
Have faith.
Be more than a man, more than a woman, more than a sociological cliche.
Be an eternal spirit living in a fantastic body, no matter how it's formed.
That's the next thing: we don't all have to look like Barbie and Ken. We still can be worth loving, anyway.
Use your feelings to look with better eyes than that.
On top of that, a little extra effort goes a long, long way.

A Miracle Son
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Soon after my Husband at the time and I were married, we went on a conference to enable me
 
to sell more diet products as I was self-employed selling diet produce at the time.  It was a
 
very boring conference, which seemed to consist of the people bragging about how they had
 
been on the streets and how rich they had become.  They all seemed to be saying the same
 
thing and everyone was roaring, uncontrollably, like lions at the zoo.  Hysteria seemed to be
 
the name of the game, almost like this was the secret code to their success.  My Husband and
 
I didn’t understand and we just sat there in fits of hysteria, while we waited, impatiently, for
 
the speeches to finish. 
 
 
 
Once the first half of the show was over, they offered us special fruit teas in the interval.  We
 
politely said no, then dashed off to find the bar and, luckily, we managed to escape the thong
 
of tedious people.  We ordered some drinks.  He had a beer and I had a cider, accompanied
 
by a hearty English meal.  Soon, the over-excited hangers on dashed back inside while we
 
ate, drank and laughed about these crazy people.  They couldn’t all have been rescued from
 
the gutter and now have big houses, super cars and riches galore.  The funny thing was, the
 
same company had done a “conference” rather like this before, which made it seem even
 
more like a “show” and not realistic at all.  All they seemed to say was how their lives were
 
miracles and, somehow, none of it rang true!
 
 
 
After our food and drink, we decided to go to our room and find our own entertainment,
 
which we did.  Funny how it was so much more interesting and enjoyable it was than the
 
events downstairs!  I remember us not taking precautions that night or the next morning for
 
the first time and wondering what would happen.
 
 
 
Two weeks later, I had my answer.  I was pregnant.  My Husband and I just looked at each
 
other and laughed.  Well, something good had come out of the evening after all.  There is a
 
reason for everything it seems.  While the people downstairs were delivering their speeches, I
 
would soon have my own miracle to deliver.  My miracle is Vincent, who is now fourteen
 
years old.  Life has its twists and turns and this was a very special twist, which I will never
 
forget.  I have told Vincent the story and he finds it particularly amusing.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright  February 2016
 

Life Lessons
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
We never stop learning our life lessons.  Just today, I learnt one.  I expect too much too soon
 
and am overly critical of people.  I suppose I judge others the way I judge myself and then I
 
wonder why I always end up disappointed.   No one could ever possibly meet the criteria and
 
unrealistic expectations I set for them.  I am also far from perfect.  Everything takes time and
 
needs work.  Nothing and no one is perfect all the time.
 
 
 
There is no such thing as a short cut and patience is key.  Sometimes, we just need a key to
 
unlock the door.  There are many doors to unlock – just tonight I was given the door to
 
patience to unlock.  I have unlocked this door and dared to peer in and have found a room
 
dripping in glittering gold, sparkling sequins and dazzling diamonds in the form of words and
 
love.   He stopped me dead in my tracks, in my desperate race to I don’t know where. 
 
Sometimes, we just have to take the time to re-evaluate, to think, to have patience and to
 
learn from our mistakes if we want to get off the merry-go-round of life and become who we
 
are supposed to be.  We are all in the classroom of life, all teaching and all learning.  It was
 
my time to learn tonight and for that I am grateful.  I believe we meet people for a reason and,
 
often, we know them from previous incarnations.   They come back to meet us again to help
 
us learn, to become more spiritual and to help us in our growth.  I am so grateful for this gift
 
from my friend.  
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright  February 2016
 

RIGHT! WE'LL HAVE A PARTY!


from the autobiography "DAMN THE DEPRESSION, ANYWAY!"

Written by my father the late great
Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005),

who worked as MCA-Record’s Show-Star Herbert Moore. He also conducted the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir during the Korean War, toured with his wife, the operatic mezzo-soprano Gun Kronzell, around the world as “The Singing Couple”. This true story takes place in the posh, spiritually rich but financially poor 1930’s.

Now, fasten your seatbelts. Step into the time machine. Get ready to visit the culturally endowed relatives living the posh life back in the Illinois that was, sometime in the 1930’s.
 
As long as anyone can remember, our home had always been THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITY. Through thick or thin, palmy days or the Depths of the Depression - between the extremes of my father Big Herb's practicality and Nell's "To Hell with Poverty - we'll sell the pig!" liberality, we always managed to make every visitor feel happily at home.
Most of the regulars at this snug little oasis of ours were survivors of a picturesque world that, since the Stockmarket Crash of 1929, had evaporated fast. Their families had once held sway in a score or more of vast old turreted wooden-frame mansions which still ornamented the town, left over from the Gilded 1880's, a few of which still stand to this day, plaqued (as they say) as Historical Landmarks.
One of these - Eastbourne - had from the mid 1890's been my Dad's family home, last occupied by my Uncle Harper and his peripetitic family - three sons and his great billowing Southern Belle of a spouse, Clara by name, but known to all and sundry (all except us, that is) as 'Honey". They blowsily occupied the old manse until late in the 1930's, when it was unfortunately demolished. To this day it forms a marvelously gloomy, House-of-Usher background for a lot of my earliest memories - fifteen huge, high-ceiling rooms, many with fireplaces. Of these, the room I remember best was the library, a museum really, cluttered as it was with bayonets, shell-casings, dress-swords with sashes, handguns, even spiked officer's helmets from the old German Imperial Army, just the thing for our boyhood extravaganzas inspired by the historical movies we saw on Saturday afternoons. These were souveniers of the time in France in 1917-18 by my Dad Herbert Lewis Moulton and his two younger brothers, Wes and Harp.
The rest of this spacious old mansion contained family and servants' quarters, hotel-sized kitchen and laundry facilities - Eastbourne had been a popular cross-country inn until my Grandfather bought it to house his lady-wife and brood of six children, plus servants that included at least one live-in nanny. One of them was a wonderful black Mammy, Maisie - pardon the lapse! - with her daughter Rachel, my first experience with folk of other colors, and a delightful one or was, too. (Rachel, grown to young womanhood, was my baby-sitter when I was a nipper.)
Further amenities included a billiard room, a glazed-in conservatory (south side, of course), and a large lofty attic filled with memorabilia of untold splendor, a porte cochere, and two pillared porches, which Honey in that booming Texan foghorn used to call Galleries, much to Nell’s unconcealed disgust: “Haw-puh! Frank! Leeeeeeeeeeee! What yawl doin’ on that gall’reh?”
On the sloping, wooded lawns were the remains of a croquet- and a tennis-court, outbuildings where the cows and the horses were billeted (named Chummy and Princess, and Duke and Lightning, respectively) and by the time we began playing in it, a slightly ramschackle summer house.
People can talk all the like about the delight about the ante-bellum Southland, but its post-bellum northern counterpart, based, not on slavery, but on industry and commerce, had a  no-nonsense charm of its own. It was in settings such as these that was played out on that long, in retrospect lovely American twilight up to the start of the first World War, which is celebrated in plays such as O’Neill’s “Ah, Wilderness!” – tea-dances, ice-cream socials, masquerades, and amateur family theatricals, with house-music provided by all five of the Moulton boys, with sister Minnie at the piano. After the war, the twilight lingered on spasmodically until the grand old memory-drenched house was sold off and demolished. Even then, in the late 1930’s, we’d gather a carload of friends and drive over on a summer evening to pick basketfuls of the fragrant lillies-of-thze-valley which still flourished in a corner of the original garden.
It was the dispossessed heirs of these once proud dynasties, the greying sheiks of yesteryear with nicknames like “Babe” and “Bunny” and “Wop”, with their ex-flapper Shebas, all raucous voices, middle-age spread, and clouds of perfume with names like Mitsouki or Emeraud, who used to crowd our little dining room on Saturday evenings (the table top decked in an old army blanket) for intense penny-ante poker sessions, sometimes using matchsticks for chips, laughing at off-color jokes way above my head and puffing their Old Golds and home-rolled “coffin nails”, while the Budweiser flowed and soda crackers got crumbled into bowls of Big Herb’s special chili-con-carne, to the accompaniament of Paul Whiteman records or Your Hit Parade on the radio-phonograph hard by in the living-room.
I loved these gatherings in my parents’ cronies – Big Herb’s out-of-work business colleagues or American Legion (Forty-and-Eight) buddies and their wives or lady-friends. Many of them had been the blithe and breezy Charleston-dancing, hipflask toting young marrieds, who (I was told); used to switch partners on weekend treasure-hunts, and in that still infamous Crash had lost everything but their social stature (whatever that amounted to) and their sense of humor. Thus had John Held, Jr. given wa to the late Scott Fitzgerald.
To me these people were as fascinating as visitors from another galaxy, caught in what today would called a time-warp. Authemntic “Twenties-Types” (if one thinks about them now) and I couldn’t get my fill looking at them – everything they did shone with enough of the glamour of lost wealth which set them apart from everyone else we knew (God, was I that much of a snob at the age of nine or ten?).
Special fun were those evenings which suddenly turned musical, like the time when a lady with hennaed hair unloosed one of Delilah’s arias from “Samson” in a rich boozy contralto, then huddled at the keyboard with a lady friend to harmonize “Sing to Me, My Little Gypsy Sweetheart”. (Nell later reported that they were both sharing the same “beau”, who happened to be our family dentist. (What a sensation that was!)
So the poker sessions rolled merrily along, spiced now and then with one of the men getting sobbing drunk and passing out on the livingroom couch, or one of the married couples indulging in a strident battle which mesmerized me even while being hustled out to my bedroom by one or the other of my parents. Boy, it was as good as having a movie-show right in our own living room. Besides which, they were all exceedingly nice to me, slipping me a shiny new dime now and then or taking time out to show me card tricks or draw pictures, or sometimes work with me on my pappet theater or Erector Set. One of our occasional guests was the cartoonist Dick Calkins – Lt. Dick Calkins, as he signed his Buck Rogers in the 25th century newspaper strip. One Saturday eveing, though half-sozzled, he spent a good hour painstakingly drawing cartoons of Buck and his girlfriend Wilma Deering on facing pages of my autograph book and dedicated to me alone. (Naturally, treasures such as these eventually disappeared – gone, alas, like our youth too soon.)
Thee smoky, sometimes emotion-charged pow-wows weren’t quite the proper fodder for the local newspapers, but there were plenty of other tidbits lovingly provided by Nell at the drop of a phone-call.
 

SUCCESS

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


 
What is it? Nothing comes to mind.   Big Success, small Success.   I am drawing a blank.
I had been hired in 1958 by Pan American World Airways; among a handful of chosen ones, competing with about 700 applicants.  I recall waiting with other candidates in the luxurious lobby of the Kempinski Hotel in Berlin Germany.  It was an open invitation for a first interview, which had been advertised in the newspaper.  My nerves were much on edge. What made me think I could have even a small chance to make it to the next interview? Every one of the other girls seemed to be slimmer, prettier and younger. The hiring age was from 18 to 25. I was one month away from my 25th birthday.  By coincidence I overheard two friends whispering with each other. The one who had been already inside the room were the panel was holding court, said to her friend:”They are asking what is the capital of Alaska”  The  last  iota of confidence I had faded.  I wanted to leave. I did not know the answer!   Then I got an idea. My father, he would know! I rushed to the open phone booth and dialed his number. Exactly at that moment I heard my name being called.
I rushed back.    Suddenly I was calm.  It was over, so nothing more to lose.  They asked the expected questions; Why do you want to be a stewardess?  Do you like people?  What languages do you speak?  And then:  “Do you know what the capital of Alaska is?”   I smiled, shook my head and stated: “I just was on the phone to get the answer from my father, when you called. No I do not know” Laughter!  They told me right then and there that I had gotten the job. They were impressed by my initiative.  By the way the capital of Alaska is Juneau.  Of course you knew that.
So I had been successful but it was plain luck not Success.
Another time I gave a party for Ray, the man I had fallen in love with.  We had met some months ago on a flight to Niagara Falls on American Airlines. We had been scheduled to pick up a charter there to fly to Lisbon. We did have separate seats. So we told the Flight Attendant that we are on our honeymoon and she got seats next to each other. We held hands the entire flight to live up to our pretence and so it started. We had flirted with each other, spent time together and yes slept together.  He never mentioned marriage.  So together with my room- mates, Flight attendants too, I gave an Engagement Party. The guests were let in on the scheme . Ray even was asked to pick up some of the invites.  Everybody congratulated him.   I finally confessed that it was my doing.  What was kind of a joke turned into reality.  Several months later we got married.  Was that Success?  I would call it good fortune.
I had many wonderful things happen in my life for which I am grateful but I believe Success is still waiting for me.  A good feeling!
 

Why I write

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
This sure is food for pondering and I am eager to hear the perceptions.
Reasons can be manifold:

• To inform somebody officially
• To share ideas on paper
• To exchange letters
• To translate
• To become known and maybe get famous and rich
• To document happenings
• To create something permanent
• And on and on and on.

All of the above make me sit down to write since 5th grade.
To me writing is therapeutic. I cannot sing, cannot paint or draw and missed out on becoming a professional dancer or an actor. So writing is my creative outlet.
In High school I wrote an essay about a small evergreen among a woody patch of tall stately trees. The big trees were cut down for X-mas to celebrate X-mas in the city. The little tree felt insignificant and cried. The big trees were used during the festival and then thrown out or burnt. The little one was dug out, taken to the yard of a cute private home, was planted and maybe is still growing there today. I got an A+ for the story and from that day on I was convinced that I could write.
Years later I took a writing course by mail and got critiques and compliments. Having left my native country to fly for an airline, I wrote about 12OOO letters to my mother during the years 1960 to 2000. She collected them all and now that she is gone they are in my possession.  My mother had written nearly as many. I only kept a few. They were written in German. Most of the people she wrote about are dead. My son would only look at those letters as a burden and I am at an age when one needs to learn to part with people and  with reminders of the past that no longer have a connection to the living. Will my letters have the same destiny?
I have read parts of the Bible, a small part only. It is THE BOOK and although known all over the world, I wonder how many people know the authors.  An ancient collection of writings,  comprised of 66 separate books, written over approximately 1600 years, by at least 40 distinctive authors. Personally I only know a few of these authors by name.
So now I keep on writing as it gives me pleasure and I leave it up to destiny into whose hands some of my writings will fall one day.

Anorexia
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Your collar bones are coat hangers made from cold, hard metal.  Your face is gaunt, like a
 
prisoner of war victim.  Your skin is sallow, due to the lack of vitamins and fresh air.  Your
 
clothes hang, hideously, off your body, like a limp apology.  You look in the mirror, but you
 
don’t see.  Blanket upon blanket is piled upon your bed to combat your almost lifeless rake of
 
a body, while you try to sleep and forget the constant hunger pangs.  Will you wake up to this
 
daily destruction or will your soul soon leave your former self, forever?
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright  24 January 2016
 

Underground Train
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
You bombard, like a tornado, into the dreaded darkness as it envelopes you as you enter at breakneck speed,
 
screeching through tunnels of blackness and bleakness.   You then emerge into the artificial light where
 
swarms of people, like tiny ants, shove their way inside you.  These sardines sweat in the stifling heat as
 
they listen to music, play with their phones and read the Evening Standard; any distraction is welcome to
 
avoid interaction!  They are slammed from station to station, tumbling and tripping over each other.  How
 
many will return tomorrow to face it all again?  Is it worth it?
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   24 January 2016
 

Coma
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
You lie, unmoving and vacant, with tubes connected to you; one pumps saline solution into
 
you, the other removes your urine.  The machine’s beeps are regular; a constant reminder of
 
the fragility of the human body. You had been free and full of life as you rocketed down the
 
lanes on your Harley, before you flew through the air and hit your head on the wall.  Your
 
brain now knows only darkness, yet your mind is drawn to the light.  Your brain and mind
 
continue to fight, yet your soul already knows the outcome.  The machine continues to beep,
 
hopefully.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright   24 January 2016
 

The Making of Attack Squadron

Article by Herbert Eyre Moulton

(1927 - 2005)

The first movie I was ever involved in that actually gave me a proper --- well, fairly proper --- speaking role was a little number entitled Attack Squadron. It was shot in less than a week in November 1961 at Ardmore Studio in Bray, Co. Wicklow, a few miles from the coast from Dublin, where I was living and working at the time. If nothing else, it offered proof positive that the human spirit is truly indestructible.
            Attack Squadron was set on a fictitious U.S. Navy cruiser during World War II and was the brainchild of an aging Hollywood Hot-Shot left over from the 1940’s by the name of Cy Knapp: producer/ director/ undertaker, a real Renaissance-Man. He was also Central Casting’s idea of a Hollywood eccentric, from the baseball cap and tennis shoes to the well-chomped cigar-butt and raspy Edward G. Robinson bark. Our first meeting, a casting session of sorts, took place in the only hotel open in Bray at that time of year, and was constantly interrupted by Knapp’s expansive “I’m having lunch with Herb Moulton here.” Fine, except that he was the one having lunch, while I had to make do with a cold cup of coffee, which, if memory serves, I ended up paying for myself.
            Of course, I took the damn job, no matter how miserably it paid (Cy Knapp could easily have been Dickens’ original model for Old Scrooge). It might be a good experience (Oh, that most amorphous of terms!) and it might also provide us with a few laughs and a bit of gas (Dublinese for fun). One could always use a bit of gas. Well, we got gas all right, but it was produced by the bill of fare at the studio canteen.
            Misery loves company, so they say, and mine was shared with a half-dozen or so other castaways --- Irishmen trying to sound American and Americans trying to be John Wayne gung-ho. This cross-section of the old “Race-Creed-or-Color”-syndrome featured a San Francisco-actor and manager named Jack Aronson, who recently immolated himself on a tour of southern Ireland with Moby Dick in the open-stage adaptation by a friend of his, Orson Welles. Many of us in this current gig had also been aboard the doomed, imaginary Pequod as it foundered and finally sunk, leaving the survivors to contemplate the possible existance of a genuine Cap’n Ahab Curse.
            That Moby Dick misadventure is worth a paragraph of its own. It was a very modern, scaled down production that relied on quick changes, recorded sound, invisible props, and energetic, not to say hysterical miming on the part of all hands. At one point-of-call, the audience consisted of two bewildered farmers in the front row, who took all the miming and shouting with stoic patience up to the point where we were all pulling on an invisible rope (“Pull, babes! Pull, sucklings! Pull! Pull!”) Whereupon one of them said aloud to his mate, “Arrah, what in the name of Jayzuz are they at? Sure, there’s fook-all there!” With that, they arose, put on their caps, and left.
            You see what I mean about a Curse? In this case, it might easily have been the dreaded Curse of the Seven Snotty Orphans of Dublin. Moreover, as the fella said, “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet!”
            To return now to our Race-Creed-or-Color cross-section --- Jack Aronson played the ship’s Commander, who also happened to be Jewish. Horrible Herb here, the Illinois pariah, was cast as O’Brien, devout Irish-Catholic bead-roller --- the religious element was absolutely essential --- while the color part --- Canada-Lee-“Lifeboat”-damage --- was supplied by a  delightful black American named Ferry, who had been snagged for the assignment while passing through.
            It was a horrendous time for us all, a week that truly tried men’s souls, with Cy Knapp ever more obsessed with cutting expenses, and the entire workforce of Ardmore sniggering behind his back. (Come to think of it, Cy was giving a pretty good performance of Captain Ahab on his own.) To add to my own weight of woe, I was playing Leopold, the singing headwaiter in the operetta The White Horse Inn, in downtown Dublin. This naturally led to logistic problems of horrific proportions, adding to threats, recriminations, and on-set confrontations that were already raging and have since become a part of Irish Theatre Legend. The entire week was one long screaming row, with no quarter asked or given, and no one spared.
            In these halcyon days I was as yet unmarried --- what the Irish call Fancy-Free-and-Free-to-Fancy, and the state of my health was always a bit dicey. This led to regular eruptions of painful boils on one or the other portion of my anatomy. Naturally, my Attack Squadron installment had to show up, in glorious wide-screen Technicolor, on one side of my nose, altering all of Cy’s camera set-ups and making it necessary to film only one side of my face, like Claudette Colbert --- or, as Ferry put it, Claudette without the jugs.
            Kindly amnesia has blocked out all but two episodes of that strife torn week --- (1.) the sequence where each of us dis-able-bodied seamen were leaning over the ship’s railing (actually a none-too-taut rope) deep in thought of home and just spoilin’ for a flashback. For that magical effect, Cy came up with a truly ingenius idea. One of the Ardmore worker-bees crouched on the floor at our feet, holding a pan of water with a light trained on it, causing rippled reflections on each face, or, in my piteous state, in my Job-like boil. African-American, Catholic, Jewish, a touching and wonderfully multicultural essay in homesickness and patriotic sacrifice, get it? Then a quick segue into the past --- in my case, to our cut-glass, lace-curtain dining-room at home, complete to crucifix on the wall (Cy thought of everything). Nostalgia-Time, Folks, and thoughts that lie too deep for tears.
            It was those home-thoughts that detonated the other episode (2.) still vivid in memory, a shot heard round the Republic of Ireland, or at least the County of Wicklow. In this tender vignette (the Gospel according to Cy), I was supposed to be explaining to my little brood how it was that we American-Catholics always have suffered such heinous religious persecution in our daily lives at the hands of our bigoted non-Catholic fellow citizens. At that point the manure really hit the fan (“Bullshit! Ballocks! Balls!”)
            Dammit, I was once a Catholic growing up in a midwest community and never for a second had I ever, ever, ever known one instance of religious prejudice, let alone persecution. It was a vicious, pernicious libel, and I refused to be any part of it. But old hot-shot Knapp, for the sake of dramatic tension, begged to differ. Tension? Differ? While O’Brien here and Cecil B. DeKnapp wrangled loud and furious, the cast and crew took themselves off to the canteen for an attentuated tea-break. I recall, at one juncture, our make-up-girl Maureen repairing my streaming mask and my painfully blossoming boil, whilst murmuring. “Keep it up, Herb, for as long as you can! We’ll run overtime and he will have to pay us for an extra day, the bloody old gomshyte!”
            Finally, to break the deadlock and get me to the stage in time, a compromise was reached, the defamatory diatribe toned down, and filming allowed to continue --- the filming and the austerity. By then, ever the kleenex and the paper were all being recycled.
            How we got through to the end of the week remains a mystery inside of a miracle. I only know that for myself it was Schizoid City, what with juggling Leopold the Alpine Lover in town and O’Brien of the Boils down in Bray, and shuttling back and forth on the coastal train or occasional studio-van loudly begrudged by our gracious and generous Renaissance-Man.
            One of the few joyous moments of the whole devastating experience came with Ferry’s cheery wrap-up: “I hear that Cy Knapp’s next epic is gonna be The Nine Commandments. He’s leaving one commandment out: Thou shalt not steal.”
            Dear Ferry --- I wonder whatever became of him. Even more to the point: whatever happened to Attack Squadron and old Cy Knapp?
            Picture it: Dublin 1961, Jack Aronson, dynamic actor-director son-in-law of the great Irish actor-manager Anew MacMaster, over from San Francisco, to play the ship’s commander of, not one, but two doomed enterprises: Moby Dick’s Pequod, and Attack Squadron’s USS Anonymous --- with rugged fellow-seaman Airbear M. complete with beard for the shipwrecks ahead. Ah, Golden Days! Anchors Away!
            Note: in the text, Cy’s last name has been changed in the unlikely event that the old hot-shot is still alive.

 

I am a Work in Progress
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 

 
The virtues of patience and faith cannot be overemphasized.
 
For life is like the broken zipper you think cannot be repaired.
But then you sit down, focusing, remaining calm,
Suddenly, after trying several times, you repair it.
You say: “Wow, it works!”
It isn’t strange, though.
Your feeling led the way.
 
You say that you had nothing to do with it,
But you did.
You created the possibility for it to succeed.
Your spirit.
The divine part of you.
 
If you created your own possibilities
Like you fixed that zipper
You would create a paradise.
 
You say you can’t,
That you have no control over life,
But you do have the control.
Focus on what you want,
Remain calm,
Believe in the positive outcome,
Tell yourself that everything will be fine,
That God will help you,
And he will.
 
Now, imagine how wonderful this world would be
If we all did that.
 
Life is like the knotted shoelace:
You think the knot will never be re-opened,
But when you realize there is time,
No matter how stressed out you are,
Or how few minutes or seconds you think you have to do it,
If you remain calm,
Staying centred,
You realize
That all you need is a few seconds
To solve the problem.
 
A nervous hand,
Agitation,
Trembling fingers,
Bad eyes,
All of them make fast become slow.
So, be slow and you will solve the problem faster.
That’s a paradox, sure.
But we humans make the huge mistake
Of looking at the things the wrong way.
We never trust ourselves.
We should.
 
Yes, God exists.
I’ve always known that.
 
Your soul is immortal.
Your body dies, sure.
It won’t rise from the grave.
Your soul is eternal, though.
God is inside your emotions,
Inside your deepest feelings,
Inside friendship,
Laughter,
Trust,
Faith,
Hope,
And
Love.
 
And he is a concious spirit.
 
You see that when you think of a friend
And he calls you.
 
You see that when you look at someone
And that person turns around.
 
You see that when you talk about your favorite song
And then hear it on the radio.
 
You see that when you embrace an enemy in your mind
And that person smiles at you the next day.
 
If you think those are coincidences,
You are just being silly.
 
Life is the bus stop,
Where one hundred people wait,
Ninety-nine people give up,
Because the bus that leads to glory is late.
The one guy that had patience enough to wait
Gets there and wins.
 
There are many roads,
But if you keep trucking
You’ll get there eventually.
Just don’t stop walking,
Believing,
Having perseverance.
Dreams are not illusions.
They can come true.
 
Reality is an illusion.
Reality is God’s dream.
Anything is possible.
 
Giving in doesn’t mean losing.
Letting go of a fight,
Letting others walk away having the last word,
That just means letting them have their own opinion.
You have yours, too.
They can’t take that away from you.
No matter what they say or what you say.
Tell them they win.
They’ll be happy.
 
There are different truths.
Ask different people what the most important thing in life is.
The musician will tell you: “Music!”
The accountant will say: “Money!”
The cook will say: “Food!”
The baker will say: “Bread!”
The doctor will say: “Health!”
The priest will say: “God!”
The policeman will say: “The law!”
Who are we to disagree with any of them?
 
So, let those people have their way.
Tell them that are right.
They win.
But you win, too.
Their truth is not your truth.
You can still live side by side with them,
Even though they have a different opinion.
 
The world is not factory.
We are all individuals.
I have to think of Monty Python’s “The Life of Brian”.
The only one in the crowd that said: “I’m not!” was the actual individual.
That’s cute, isn’t it?
 
Late careers?
Loads!
Famous people who realized their dreams after 40.
Actor Alan Rickman, aged 42.
Painter Grandma Moses, aged 78.
Dancer John Rowe, aged 92.
Author Harry Bernstein, aged 96.
Car Salesman Henry Ford, aged 45.
Comedian Rodney Dangerfield, aged 46.
Naturalist Charles Darwin, aged 50.
McDonalds-founder Ray Kroc, aged 52.
Little-House-on-the-Prarie-Author Laura Ingalls, aged 65.
 
Whoever said, it’s too late for a career?
 
It’s up to you.
 
I have more news for you:
Having a career does not have to interfere
With a positive and prosperous family life.
You can be happy and your family can, too.
In fact, that’s the only right way.
You just have to dream it.
So who says dreams are not reality.
 
All it takes is patience, faith and perseverance.
 
Don’t tell your kids not to dream.
Tell them to dream,
But also tell them to act on their dreams,
Making sure that their dreams benefit everyone.
 
I am a work in progress.
I use my soul to sculpt and enhance my spirit.
Being able to let go,
Understanding that having the last word
Has just as much to do with winning
As the fruit named date has to do with a rendezvous
Or a sandwich has to do with
The Wicked Witch of the East
Dancing on the sand.
 
One simple rule, though:
God gave you feelings,
Trust them in order to find him,
So they can benefit us all.
 
Religions are not God.
They are only the phonelines we use to contact him.
But we don’t need phonelines to find him.
He gave us the spiritual intercom we call intuition.
 
Amen.

---

 

Divinity
 
By Norm Tedford

 
See divinity in the tiniest of things: the sacred geometry of a bird's nest; the iridescent splendor of a single drop of rain, which is almost a vibrant microcosm unto itself; or, the humble perfection that is a spider's web. The handiwork of God is all around you, if you are ready to see it. It is more primordial than the most ancient of galaxies, and closer to you than your own breath. You cannot take a step without being fully immersed in an ocean of awareness so all-encompassing and transcendent, that it defies our feeble attempts to put into words its staggering, heart-wrenching beauty.

The Spirituality of Sex

Article by Charles E.J. Moulton
 

I’ve published this article here before, but I am publishing it again.
It says a lot about what I feel about the issue at hand.
 
            Watch out. You’re sitting in the hotseat.
            What we’re about to deal with here probably contradicts what you have learned or have been taught, but let’s face it: this is a new age.
Sex is a sacred, procreative and divine act and it is not a sin.
Celibacy really is redundant, even for Catholic priests.
If they were allowed to marry, we could put an end to a lot of pain.
A new age? Well, I mean that both in the sense of the religious movement in question as well as in the sense that this actually really is a new age. No, not a new world order. We are not talking about the Illuminati here. This is the evolution of humanity at work.
            We have to look reality straight in the eye, using our souls and not necessarily our brains. Our emotions lead the way and, in that sense, the truth really shall set us free.
We might think that a discussion like that is outdated, but look at what we believe, what our society tells us. We think sex is dirty. We are taught that we can only be holy if we are chaste, but if that were true why are so many good people parents of so many children? If that were true, why are there hypocrite virgins or people who have no sex but commit crimes?
The result is that young people battle between liking sex and finding God. God actually lives within their souls. There is a great tragedy in such an act, because they can have both sex and find God. In fact, they should have both. They are fertile souls put here in bodies upon the Earth to procreate and love each other. I have good news for you: God wants you to have fun during sex with someone you honestly love. That’s what it was meant to be: fun.
When we make love to the partners we love, we should treat it as a sacred act between equal partners and an act of utmost tenderness, but we cheapen it and treat it as a sin.
Disrespect, hatred, arrogance, theft, murder, bigotry, ignorance, injustice, those are sins. Forcing celibacy upon clerics has created wars and famine and hung, drawn and quartered thousands of innocent people. Do you know how many lives have been ruined because of that kind of behaviour?
            I am about to scratch the surface of a very old wall nourished by a very old muse. One that defends a tradition that we have accepted as true – but isn’t.
The fact that nobody actually has checked the facts is a sign that people accept what is preached to them by anyone in power. People don’t want to make their own decisions for fear of making the wrong decisions. So, most people will let other people make the wrong decisions for them. That way, if something goes wrong they can blame him for the catastrophy.
            God exists, God is inside you, God is everything there is, God loves you.
He gave you your emotions. Use them to improve the future of humanity.
I stress that I, too, am a bible reader and a religious man. I am also, however, a soul, a husband, a believer and a man that loves sex. I know also what problems have been created through the anti-biblical and quite misunderstood and misinterpreted requirement for celibacy.
            Fidelity, certainly. Respect, of course. Gender equality, naturally. Celibacy, not really.
            Having lots of respectful, equal levelled, faithful sex is a part of who we are.
            You heard it, I said: “faithful.”
 Faithful is real.
So, does the bible actually say that sex is a sin?
            No.
I’ll give you some quotes here before we go to the facts:
St. Paul, in the bible, in 1 Timothy 3: 1 – 13, assumes, to begin with, that many deacons and bishops will be married. In Timothy 3: 2, 12 and in Titus 1:6, he even states that a cleric must manage his family well and that his children must obey him with proper respect (1 Timothy 3:4, Titus 1:6). So, we see that the bible only loosely recommended celibacy and sometimes even recommended priestly marriage. The Catholic Church, however, has turned celibacy into a real problem that began only as a power-tool.
If that is true, how come that celibacy has been given the stamp of being so diabolical an act? If it was never a clerical requirement stated in the bible to begin with, when did that begin? The initial requirements concerning the celibate life of priests appeared at the Councils of Elvira in 306 A.D. and Carthage in 390 A.D. That it was a discussed necessity prior to these meetings is not the issue. The real reason for the inclusion of celibacy in the clerical profession was to omit any nepotism.
Anyone who has studied Renaissance history will know that Alexander VI, the Borgia-Pope, frequently passed professional torches of sorts to his children and was even reputed telling his son Cesare that he would see that he would become pope one day – by his father’s own hand.
            Celibacy was a way to avoid that.
The hypocrite political agenda of Alexander VI shows us that clerics found ways to promote nepotism and overcome celibacy anyway. I am willing to bet Alexander VI would never have become so bigot a pope, if celibacy had been banned.
Also, the patriarch-oriented and masculine bureaucracy of the church was simply a power-tool to keep the power where the power was stationed. Men were stationed on the battlefields. It didn’t take long for the regal leaders and the clerics to cooperate to keep their kind in power. The crusades were examples of this kind of cooperation. It was a bigot attempt to crush any other way of obeying God by forcing everyone to be as masculine and as westernized as them.
            Let’s be honest here: no woman would ever have gone on a religious crucade in order to kill muslims just to get back land, holy or not. Jesus knew that his kingdom was not of this world. Jesus chose a woman named Mary Magdalene to spread the message that he had been resurrected and he sure wouldn’t have killed anyone to make a point. So why should we do the same? Shame on the inquisitors, crusaders and the clerics for forgetting what Jesus taught to begin with.  Jesus only told his followers to be faithful. Did Jesus ever kill anyone, avoid prostitutes, call sex a sin? No. He told us to be honest, faithful, kind, loving, sincere.
Female priests would’ve used their brains and their vocabulary, not weapons. The male population knew that and they were afraid of it. Many clerics are still afraid of female sincerity. The male dominance factor within the priestly profession was and is only a power-tool. In a way, we all are and can be or could be priests of God.
The presence of fear for female honesty included Paul, who in the Corinthians spoke of women required to be silent in church.
It should be noted that I believe that if women would have been used as the main religious leaders of clerical tradition, not one drop of blood would have been shed.
Women are creators to end all creators.
We know that, don’t we, guys?
If the body is the beautiful house of the soul, why can’t we enjoy that house? Tizian, Rubens, Caravaggio, Boucher and Michelangelo painted naked bodies. Their art is considered divine. So why should real nudity portrayed in a respectful way be any less?
We can even go back to the very beginning of the Old Testament to find another real truth. Adam and Eve’s downfall was never that they were seduced to have sex by any old snake. It was never even once stated that sexual practice was a reason for any destruction. What is stated, however, was that Adam and Eve were ashamed of being naked.
Accordingly, their own shame was their downfall.
Are the animals ashamed of themselves for being naked? To them, there is no such thing as “naked”: they are what they are. It would be highly impractical for us to strip naked and wander about town with nothing but our birthday-suit on. But the fact remains: if we had the honesty animals possess, we would be better off. Look into the eyes of a faithful dog or a friendly horse and tell me that they have no souls.
I heard a friend of mine say that animals have no eternal souls. That, fortunately, is a lie. They do, indeed, have souls. And are we not more or less worthy than they?
If we look at the Renaissance alone, we have countless examples of sexual perversions inspired only by celibate supression. Clement VII and Alexander VI were two of the many popes that had illegitimate children. Nay, they had entire dynasties of offspring and mistresses, conducted orgies and perversions without end going on within the walls of the Vatican.
            Behaviour like that scared people away from the church. We would never have created atheists, though, if we had realized that God and the church only remotely played the same ballgame. When we see what Alexander VI did in God’s name and how the religous wars ravaged Europe, we witness the tragic logic of a missed oppurtunity that created today’s secularized world. Accordingly, also because of the abnormal celibate dictatorship, the church did more harm than good by being so concentrated on celibacy.
The prude era of Victorian England was compulsive in its strictly gender-based society (not unlike some other countries today where educated women with degrees are expected to stay home and cook). The woman was a mere decoration and the man was the workhorse that came home to take her for walks and show her around. The dark dungeon-like catacomb of that infrastructure, however, was a capital that created 200 000 prostitutes and a killer nicknamed Jack the Ripper. Can you imagine a world that did not label sex as a sin creating such perversity? If sex and nudity would have been a natural thing people accepted and talked about the husband would certainly have gone home, respected and made love to his equal wife and not gone out and shagged someone else.
That conflict between the natural feeling of lust and the abnormal requirement for celibacy persists to this day. How many witch hunts, inquisitions, trials, executions, acts of torture, illegitimate children, homosexual affairs and perverse acts of sexual conduct could have been avoided within the clerical community if this unnatural act of celibacy had been lifted? After all, man is a rebel and he wants to be free. Forbid him to do something and it becomes interesting. Sex is interesting to begin with. Give him the freedom to have it and he will act responsibly.
            If you still disagree with me, ask yourself why God would create something that we need to do in order to survive and then ask us not to do it?
So, that being said, I wanted to say that I believe in the eternal soul and I believe in God. I also believe that God created sex. Of course he created it. If we didn’t like sex, we wouldn’t have a species to begin with at all. Liking sex is a part of who we are.
That doesn’t mean we have to sleep around to begin with. In fact, we shouldn’t sleep around. Fidelity is a necessity, but supressing sex only makes matters worse.
History should show us that. If it doesn’t, boy, are we in trouble.
            We are procreators. God is a creator and like he created us we, as individuals, are put here in this world to create something of our own. We create art, music, dance, literature, inventions, machines, new worlds, just to praise him/ her/ it/ the divine spirit – and yes: we create babies to praise him/ her/ it/ the divine spirit. If we didn’t like sex so much, we wouldn’t feel drawn to having it – just for the fun of it or for creating beautiful new babies that can keep praising him/ her/ it/ the divine spirit in any way we choose.
We have to like it.
In a lot of ways, sex actually saves us. As I said, that doesn’t mean we should go and have sex with everyone. In fact, being faithful is a sign of necessary respect for any partner. You sign a contract of sorts and you are expected to follow it.
Sex, though, is not just a procreative thing. It is also a symbiosis of souls, a union of emotions, a wonderful moment between two people. It is not a power tool. Never ever.
            Again, I am a deep believer. I am first and foremost a soul living in a body. God lives inside me, outside me, within me, without me, before me, in front of me.
            Respect each other, love each other.
            Lust and sex in its most beautiful form is a triumph of emotions between two loving, consenting adults who just enjoy expressing a faithful sexual unison.
            It is time we stopped pretending it is not part of our lives or that God doesn’t want it. What he doesn’t want, though, is for us to cheapen it. Guys, there is a whole lot of cheap sex out there. We have to stop that. Enjoy each other and by all means: use your dignity.
            I am willing to bet that if the church had not brandmarked and devilproofed sexual lust with such adamancy we would not have such a clerical history of secret lust. This is an ongoing story that lasts to this day.
            Of course we must point out that most priests are deepthinking, trustworthy and actually celibate people. The fact remains, however, that celibacy was implemented to avoid nepotism and was based on a biblical misunderstanding.
            I firmly believe that even the atheists believe in God.
            In my mind’s eye, I see one thousand people raising their eyebrows now. We must remember, though, that God lives within us and that God is everywhere. We can reach God in many ways. Going to a church, a temple, a mosque or a synagogue are ways to find God, but by no means the only ways.
How do I figure? Even the most adamant atheist has emotions. Maybe he falls in love, even though he will blame it on endorphines. He will wonder why he is angry at a friend who betrayed him once, even if he blames it on neurons. He will feel these emotions inside and deep down he knows that he believes in justice or equality or truth or faith or hope. He might even believe that good will can move mountains.
All of these things are spiritual characteristics that have nothing to do with the human body. In that sense, even the atheist believes in God. If he didn’t, why does injustice upset him? If God did not exist, nothing like that would matter. We all relate to beings in a non-corporeal way. Friendship has nothing to do with the body. The key is emotion.
            You even hear agnostics say:
“Funny that you should call me right now, I just thought about you!”
or
“What a coincidence! I was just speaking about you with a friend!”
In my mind, there is no such thing as luck or coincidence.
            The atheist might say that he does not believe in God, but maybe he believes in love, hope, justice, friendship, hope and faith. These things, my dears, belong to the spirit and the spirit is God.
Have you ever heard the expression: “God is love”?
Exactly.
And what is sex but an expression of love?
            Now for the biggie: God expects us to act responsibly. He has given us assignments. Everyone has a mission. It is our job to find out what that mission is. God has one address: he is inside your emotions, inside what you feel, inside your most tender love, your hopes and dreams and faith.
If you find God while making love to your wife: well, hey, that’s great.
Where two people meet and pray in his name, God is with them. That is true for prayer, so why shouldn’t it be true for faithful sex. Sex, after all, is a form of amorous prayer.
As long as you don’t sneak out in the middle of the night and copulate with another woman, you are okay. In that case, you would actually be working against God.
If you feel attracted towards another person besides your spouse, keep it platonic, write a poem about love and lust in general, paint a painting, write a song, do a dance. Be creative. There are a thousand other ways to get rid of your lust. Don’t do what some men have done, creating havoc: exploding out of their frustrated marriages, leaving their families for some younger bimbo, leaving an unemployed wife and two children who wonder what hit them. In more cases than we know, we can make it work. In fact, we should definately try.
Having now held my sermon about fidelity, I will add that God gave us these feelings of sexual lust because it binds us together and explores who we are.
If Catholic priests were allowed to marry, can you imagine how many young lives that would have saved? It would put many therapists out of work. Express your love. Enjoy your love, just be faithful about it.
Make a decision that benefits everyone.
            If you let your soul be your guide, you can never go wrong.
            God is real. The seemingly endless universe, the intricate system born into every single individual, the telepathic reality of chance meetings, out of body experiences and correct recollections of proved past lives: those are all parts of a puzzle that we can use as evidence in actually proving God.
God really has nothing to do with the church. Not really. You can find him there. Most certainly. I know you can, I grew up going to churches, temples, synagogues, mosques. After all, I found him there, too. Remember that my parents were singers who sang loads of church concerts a year. They were deep believers, deep thinking people who prayed with me at least once a day. But they didn’t care what church they went to or in what church they actually sang. My mom Gun Kronzell, besides being a successful opera-singer, spent half her career singing oratories in churches. Churches, to me, were free for all, because faith and belief was, as well. Churches were potential employers for singers who wanted to get jobs. My dad Herbert Eyre Moulton was a cantor in a synagogue during his army days in Georgia, for crying out loud, and he wasn’t even Jewish. He studied to become a priest for four years before returning to his regular profession as an actor, but that didn’t stop him from going to the evangelic or even the orthodox church afterwards.
I, for my part, discovered that there was such a thing as church taxes at all when I had my first official theater gig. Paying someone money for believing in God? Excuse me?
My divine belief is my personal issue. It is not of this world, guys.
I will conclude my sermon of sorts here by mentioning the film “Basic Instinct”. The public reaction to the film back in 1992 showed me that we still have a long road to walk down before we can be as truthful, as respectful and as gentlemanly as we should be. People were more concerned back then that Sharon Stone showed the audience her vagina than the fact that she was a brutal murderer.
Think about that for a second.
What is worse? Sex or murder?
It is my hope that we one day will live in a society with people that know that we are souls, living in bodies, that are allowed to enjoy embracing one another, loving each other a bit before we move on to the next world.
Maybe we can then just stop the sexual excess of modern media and be just what were: faithful and emotional human beings that just love to love each other. After all, aren’t we all clerical advocates of our loving God?
 
 
 
 
 
 

How Sex Can Be A Portal to the Divine

By Kim Anami





Growing up, I always had a strong sense of my sexual energy. I could feel it. I was intrigued by it. I wanted to explore it.
 
I also had the intuitive sense that my sexuality was some kind of portal: a gateway to another dimension.
 
After a few years of experimenting, I read an article about Tantra. The author described sexual energy as being tangible and real; something you could exchange with a partner. He suggested an exercise: when with a lover, imagine moving energy between you. Not with words or touch, but just with your feelings and imagination.
 
I had a very sensitive and aware lover at the time. I decided to try the experiment, without telling him what I was doing.
 
I imagined shooting out energy from different places in my body, into his. From my heart, to his heart; from my head to his head; from my genitals to his genitals.
 
Something curious happened. Without my hands on him at all, he moaned. I visualized moving energy into his thighs. He writhed.
 
I knew I was onto something. I wanted more.
 
Shortly after, I moved to Byron Bay, Australia. If you haven’t been, Byron Bay is a small, very alternative town on the country’s east coast. It is meant to be an energy portal, sitting at a converging point of powerful ley lines. Almost everyone you meet there is on a path of personal growth: acupuncturists, energy healers, vegans—I even met my first breatharians there. I immersed myself in the study of every healing modality that interested me.
 
I studied herbs—with a special interest in plants that stimulate the mind and the genitals—and homeopathy, instinctively rejecting allopathic and pharmaceutical medicine. I became vegan (I was already vegetarian), bought only organic food, and stopped eating white sugar and white flour products—all of which gave me mental clarity and greater energy. I hit the beach every day at 6am to surf bigger and bigger waves—I liked pushing myself and the feeling that there was always another level to get to. I quit smoking and drinking. I realized that I had been using psychotropic substances to reach altered states that I could now reach through meditation, yoga, and exercise, so I stopped using them.
 
I also realized I could reach higher states through sex.
 
When I fell in love for the first time, I combined emotional vulnerability with the ability to abandon myself sexually—and I upped the potency of each. The sex amplified the love, and the love intensified the sex. I reached highs that outshone my best drug experiences and left me permanently opened and transformed.
 
I remember spending an isolated weekend holed up in my family’s summer cabin with my boyfriend, my first love. We never left the confines of that space. Having the entire weekend without any distractions gave us a chance to expose ourselves emotionally without holding back, which resulted in even more powerful and cataclysmic sex. He fucked me open—on every level. When I returned to work on the following Monday, I was carried by an energy and a lightness: I was smarter, wittier, happier, more compassionate, patient, and charming than I could ever remember being. People gravitated to me. Men lingered at my cubicle, finding excuses to talk to me. I had a clear answer for every problem that came my way, and I felt as though I fit in the flow of life.
 
This is the essence of conscious, powerful sex: using our intimate connection to transform our lives.
 
Fast forward almost twenty years from that first experience with moving sexual energy and now I can make love to my partner without even touching him. I can have an orgasm from the sound of his voice. I can feel his touch when he is on another continent.
 
My sexual experiences have become so deep, so life-changing, that I’ve dedicated my life’s work to show others how the same is possible for them.
 
And it is. They are possible for everyone.
 
If you haven’t experienced anything like this before (and many people have; they just haven’t had a label for it), try the exercise I described at the beginning: imagine moving energy between you and your lover. Go inside and tune into your subtle sensations. The more you practice, your awareness will grow. It’s just like strengthening a muscle.
 
Your super-sensory, mega-Kegel, love-and-awareness muscle.
 
I’ll arm wrestle you with it anytime.

Renaissance in Nature

 By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



Snow?   It had been a long winter!   But no – what looks like snow, are white, velvety petals with minute pink edges, floating down from my gigantic cherry tree.   This tree is over 30 years old and some of its upper branches are now knocking against my windows on the second floor.   It seems that it wants to prove the victory of nature’s beauty over the grotesque devastation that had been caused by Sandy the Monster Storm.  This storm had put the grounds in my yard under 12 feet of water and soaked the roots of any vegetation trying to sprout. There was good reason to doubt that anything in my yard would survive.  Now, to my surprise the cherry tree was thriving and is in full bloom.  The shower of the blossoms is so outrageously picturesque that I rush to my camera to hold the beauty forever.
The apple tree, of the same age, about 14 feet away from the cherry tree , was not quite so lucky but fighting not  to give up either.  Last fall, a year after the storm, I had cut its entire top as it had shown little life and had not been too generous with its foliage even before the storm.  For several years now I had been able to count the apples on one hand. Their size barely exceeded the one of golf balls.  I had meant to have the stump removed also but fall had come too early, and snow and frozen earth had decided against it for me.  As if wanting to reward me for letting it be, it suddenly is producing about 20 healthy shoots with luscious green leaves sprouting out of the stem.  They are neatly shaped, pleasing to the eye.  Voila,  I now have an apple bush.  It definitely has earned itself the right to stay.
Last year about this time I was just completing all the restorations that would allow me to stay in my house.  I had no ambition to work on the garden.  Frankly I can hardly remember what it looked like.  Not good for sure. The street continued to get flooded and the town was working on it to improve the drainage.  To do that, they had to rip open the sidewalks and demolish whatever grass patches had sprung up.  My ducks, which I had religiously fed for many years till the day of the storm, felt neglected.  Dry bread crumbs is all I threw out for them.  I had neither time nor money to get fancy bird food.  The majestic white swans would not even bother anymore to come down the canal to visit my bulkhead.
For years we had planted and pampered rose bushes. Different colors, different heights, one prettier than the other.  Every year in June, my birthday month, I would get one or two additions.  Last year I did not even pull the weeds around them.  My mother had always said, “Roses want to grow in aesthetic surroundings.”   Nothing was pretty where the saltwater had hit and brought floating debris with it.
Like waking up from a nightmare, I look at the plots with full awareness.  The weeds have grown into mini woods of beach grass with poisonous plants right in the middle. To my surprise I see some budding roses with dark green foliage peaking out of this unruly growth as if calling for my attention. Suddenly I know that I will be able to save several of the species and I will ask again for one more rosebush for my birthday, this month.
Nature sure has a way to revive itself.  I am grateful to have the opportunity to observe this ongoing re-birth
I hope that the waters of the Great South Bay will embrace its beaches this year and in the years to come in a calming and healing way.  I bet on Nature.
 
 

Catherine – the Faithful Queen Dowager

By Charles E.J. Moulton

 
The daughter of Gustaf Olofsson Stenbock and Brita Eriksdotter Leijonhufvud was like so many other 16th century aristocratic girls: she became the victim of the political willpower of her parents. What she felt was unimportant.
In 1552, 56-year old Gustav Vasa had been King of Sweden for almost three decades. When he came to ask for Catherine Stenbock’s hand in marriage, the 16-year old girl ran away from him and hid behind a bush. She was already engaged to be married with another boy, a boy also named Gustav, but the engagement was broken off so that the king could have his chosen Queen. After all, it was said that a Stenbock family member marrying into the Swedish royal line again would greatly benefit and strengthen the friendly Stenbock alliance with the Vasa-clan.
The church and the clergy were not amused. Catherine was King Gustav Vasa’s former wife Margareta Leijonhufvud’s niece. According to the bible, that was incest. The intertwining of these two bloodlines exists to this day. A lady friend of mine from south Sweden can show off her decendance to two prominent Swedish Queens.
Vasa, true to fashion and very much like England’s Henry VIII, insisted on the liaison and got his way. He had never cared what the church recommended or felt and he didn’t care now. Back in the 1520’s, he had forcibly obtained precious treasures from the churches of Sweden, melted them and handed over the remains to his German allies in order to pay back his war debts.
He only acted according to his own custom.
The 40 year age difference between Gustav and Catherine was not the only problem.
Catherine had an image to fulfill. After all, the third wife of Swedish King Gustav Eriksson Vasa had two very tough acts to follow.
The king’s first wife, Catherine of Sachsen-Lauenburg, had been the daughter of protestant German aristocracy and chosen to strengthen the political relations between Germany and Sweden. Although the marriage itself was everything else than a success – it had been violent, silent and spiteful – her only son Erik XIV turned into one of Sweden’s most culturally gifted noblemen. Not only did he paint and draw excellently, he also played several instruments, spoke several languages and turned into an eccelent sportsman. This knowledgable personality gave him a haughty air and a regal attitude. It inspired him to create a family tree that traced his own lineage back to Adam and Eve. Be that as it may, the folly was founded on a certain status that Catherine of Sachsen-Lauenburg had acquired, in his mind, over the years.
When Gustav’s first wife died, one day before her 22nd birthday, she was buried in the Dome of Uppsala, where she lies to this day.
Catherine of Sachsen-Lauenburg’s successor, the king’s second wife Margareta Leijonhufvud, a name that means Lion’s Head, belonged to one of the most powerful noble families in Swedish society. Among the 10 children she gave birth to, all of them King Gustav’s, two became Swedish kings and at least one of them married into prominent German nobility. The fact that the king had chosen Margareta as a second wife had been a logical decision, due to the first wife’s German origin and the unhappy liaison.
It was considered an advantage to now choose a Swedish Queen.
In effect, Margareta became popular with the court and the country and subsequently a great negotiator. She also managed to control King Gustav Vasa’s violently aggressive temper, something that had gotten him into great trouble in the past.
He had executed people for not obeying him and written superbly angry letters in order to crush any rebels against the crown.
When Margareta Leijonhufvud died of pneumonia on Monday, the 26th of August, 1551, there was talk of a solar exclipse and about people remembering her last words. She excused herself for not having been worthy of her position and pleaded for the family to try and get along. She left her carnal existance with phrases of a regal gratitude to the country.
If one believes that or not, clear was that she left a large void in King Gustav’s life.
Margareta had been the love of his life.
Less than a year later, this void led him to Catherine Stenbock.
Now, one can afford to speculate why the king chose such a young wife. A 56 year- old man with so many ailments, leg troubles and massively chronic tooth pains, would maybe think of marrying a woman young and strong enough in order to take care of him. Catherine Stenbock became that royal and nuptial nurse: peaceful, worthy, resilient – and, at first, reluctant.
The coronation took place on Sunday, the 23rd of August, 1552, one day after the expensive wedding in Vadstena. Events, that were seen as evil omens, gave the royal courtiers a cause to worry. A plague was sweeping through the country, parts of Vadstena and the city of Turku burned down after the coronation and people also thought they saw evil signs appearing in the sky.
The marriage was not proving to become a happy one.
Not at first, at least.
What saved the marriage was Catherine’s poise, how she handled her fate.
The sickly king was not a contemplative loner. Celebrations continued, regardlessly. Almost three months after the nuptial feast in the ravaged Vadstena, Vasa ordered a honeymoon to take place in his favorite castle in Kalmar, one of his 16 exquisitely renovated palaces. A logical choice. After all, he had named the castle “the key to my kingdom”. This stronghold against the sworn Danish enemies on the other side of the border, at the time only 25 miles away from Kalmar, was Gustav’s pride and joy. He hoped that the honeymoon would present the relationship with a necessary foundation.
Queen Catherine could only obey her master and act according to her position. Her initial fear of Gustav couldn’t overshadow her sense of purpose. The omens proved wrong. The young girl impressed everyone with her sense of duty.
In November of 1552, Catherine and Gustav arrived with 365 courtiers, preparing to wallow in culinary wealth for a course of three months.
Catherine also prepared to enjoy Kalmar during those months, engage in light conversation, make a political decision or two, behave how she thought a Queen should behave and learn something about Kalmar in the process. She knew that “he who wants to invade the kingdom from the Baltic Sea or the South must take Kalmar first”. After all, Kalmar Castle had been and would be invaded 22 times, protected successfully by 287 cannons. The fortress was strong and so she felt protected with its walls. Renovations of the king’s castle had been going on now for three decades and would continue throughout the coming century. So, it could very well be that architects and builders spent time here during the festivities. By fireplaces filled with burning logs – to the sounds of estampies and saltarellos played by old instruments such as quill plucked lute, rebec, and aulos – Queen Catherine filled her belly with food in what today still remains Scandinavia’s most well kept Renaissance palace.
An assembly of local ordinary citizens arrived, from time to time, invited to watch the royals eat. Catherine didn’t much like the fact that some of the noblemen chose to throw food at the peasants or that they tickled their tongues with feathers, just so they could empty their bellies in order to eat more.
She concentrated more on her official duties as a Queen and in keeping warm.
The winter months must’ve been cold, to say the least, with only clothing and fire as heating utilities. The guests, Catherine included, probably wore several layers of fabric to warm up their bodies in that 50°F chill, in spite of walls that were at least six feet thick and green lead glass windows overlooking the whitewalled courtyard with its snowy cobblestone ground.
No efforts were spared in providing the entourage with good entertainment and spectacular gastronomy during Gustav’s and Catherine’s honeymoon festivities. As many as a thousand spent their days here during these three months, because of the political allies and relatives that came their way up until February of 1553.
There was a total consumed intake of 228 000 litres (60 231 US gallons) of beer between all of them. The political ally Germany had lost in Swedish royal significance, but maintained its financial position as trading partner and exporters of good ale and mead. The 16th century Kalmar beer, in actual fact, was classified as “undrinkable”.
The inventory list of slaughtered live stock kept the kitchen working day and night. The festivity cooking list looks like the annual report of a major franchise: adding it all up, thousands of animals were served on the palatial banquet tables, beef, lamb, chicken, rabbit, peacock, swan and pork, the number reaching up way over two thousand animals, not counting the half thousand barrels of fish served. All of this was spiced and peppered and salted. So richly, in fact, that liquids like beer almost seemed life-preserving.
This introduction to royal gluttony only accentuated the young girl’s opinions of the importance of behaving in a sympathetic and regal manner, staying away from abusive and useless celebrating.
Eventually, then, reality ran up Catherine’s spine and she became Queen for real. During the rather quiet 8 years and 30 days of her royal reign, Catherine’s nobility of endurance became renowned and respected. Especially since everyone knew of how mismatched a royal couple they were. Catherine talked in her sleep about her former fiancé, “Gustav Tre Rosor” (“Three Roses”), not being able to conceal her suffering:
“King Gustav is very dear to me, but I shall never forget the rose.”
King Gustav understood that they had almost nothing in common and tried to implement a law that proclaimed that no older person should be allowed to marry a younger person.  It is then especially impressive how dear and caring she was toward him.
On several occasions, there were signs of pregnancies, but no official announcement was ever made or confirmed. In 1555, she spent a longer time in Finland away from her husband, but returned to the king in good health.
Her good relationship with her stepchildren gave her a good regal position, though, two or three of which were her own age. When one of the children, the wild child Cecilia Vasa, got into deep trouble with an adulterous count during a party in Vadstena in 1559, Catherine became one of those responsible people who succeeded in negotiating the matter. She could not have been more different than Gustav’s first and very temperamentful wife, Catherine of Sachsen-Lauenburg, who had been her own age during their unhappy marriage.
Queen Catherine matured as a regal leader in a way that impressed even her enemies. During King Gustav’s last days, as he lay sick and tired and aching in his bed, she sat by his side, waiting day and night for a positive sign of betterment. But her willingness to sacrifice her own peace of mind made her sick, as well.
Finally, she asked her courtiers to bring her a bed and position it next to her husband, so that she could lie next to him until his final hour came on Sunday, the 29th of September, 1560. Before his last moments, he summoned his chancellors and his children and asked them to remain united. This fact was especially important to the king. After all, he had driven out the Danish occupants back in 1521 and literally created this new strong country out of the bloody ruins and ashes of a difficult war.
After the king’s death, Queen Catherine became “The Queen Dowager of the Realm”. This Swedish premiere title was one she kept for her 61 remaining years of mourning, always wearing black, never remarrying and probably always remembering her first lover, whom she nicknames “The Three Roses”.
This was now a more mature woman, one whose representative assignments included opening festivities and acting a political mediator in nuptial negotiations. Her prominent place as Queen Dowager, guesting at balls, walking first in line in processions and attending festivities gives us the image of a well liked public personality.
One of the few unfortunate battles she became involved in concerned the escalation of events between her late husband’s sons during the late 16th century. It was Duke Karl, the later King Karl IX, who denied her the right to live in her own mansion. Apparantly, her homestead lay on his grounds. The protestant Duke Karl pulled her into the middle of a religious feud between himself and his Catholic nephew Sigismund and accused her of taking Sigismund’s side. The situation was resolved by Karl’s brother, King Johan III, but not for long. Luckily, she managed to pull out as mediator before Karl invaded Kalmar and executed several of Sigismund’s courtiers, throwing Sigismund out of the country and crowning himself king.
Surviving many of Gustav’s sons by a large number of years, her perseverance gave her the winning card. Devoting much of her time to charity, she gained a great deal of respect as a spokeswoman for the destitute. So much so, that it was said of her of her, when she died in Strömsholm at age 86 on December 13th, 1621, that “the poor have lost and friend and the orphans their mother.”
She was buried alongside her husband in Uppsala Cathedral, without a monument of her own. Her real monument, however, was the position she upheld and the respect she gained as an honest, intelligent, softspoken and sympathetic Queen Dowager.
Initially reluctant, finally conscientious.
Catherine’s greatest legacy was taking the unfortunate initial circumstances of her marriage and turning it into something quite extraordinary. Her attitude was so exemplary, in fact, that people still talk about her four hundred years after her death.
Not bad for a teenager, who hid behind a bush when her royal husband came to ask of her hand in marriage.
She was royal, not only in position or stature.
First and foremost, she was a royal soul.

THE GLORY OF THE INVISIBLE

By Norm Tedford


I for one, am a firm believer that there wondrous things entirely hidden away in the velvety folds of the fabric of reality that cannot be seen by the human eye. This does not make them any less real; only that in order to be able to see into the invisible realm where these spectral visions make their home, one must have a clarity of perception that only is realized when one is using the inner eye to see. I am talking about phenomena like parallel dimensions, space-time singularities, fairies and elves; angels and demigods, and many other wondrous things too numerous to catalogue.

Our perceptions become clouded over when we are no longer able to muster enough faith to believe in the unseen, and because we cannot do this, we will be wholly unable to see the glittering strands of sacredness out of which the entire universe is woven. And this is tragic, for our potential for joy greatly decreases when we cease gazing with awestruck eyes into the multifaceted jewel that is the transcendent. We must look long and penetratingly into the very heart of the universe with a clear and discerning eye, and we do this by becoming intimate with the holy innocence that dwells in the center of our being. There are many things in this invisible kingdom that are more solidly real than anything in our so-called “real” universe.

You know this, without a shadow of a doubt, when you look into the eyes of a young child, and see the effervescent magic that lies therein. Or, when you ponder the starry skies on a motionless night, and feel a inexplicable bond with these distant suns. There is a whole kingdom of wondrous things we will be able to see if only we cleanse our perceptions, and when we do, we will become quite overcome with immense joy, and then, we will be stunned when we discover how unimaginably sacred and holy creation really is. We must always remember, too, that Nature is a cathedral, and to be able to see the invisible choir of blessed beings who fill the forest air with joyful hymns, you need to bring a profound reverence with you into this peaceful place. When you do all this, you discover that the universe is much more beautifully alive than you could ever possibly hope to understand.
 

The Renaissance Effect

By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
            When Leonardo da Vinci drew the picture of the so-called Vitruvian Man somewhere around 1490, his aim was to depict the ultimate human formation of the antique ideal. He displayed man as what he could be: physically proportioned with ideal measurements, wise, knowledgable, full of hope. That picture was to art what, roughly speaking, Bach’s Das Wohltemperierte Klavier was to music. The point is not when the Renaissance happened, but that it happened. Like with Michelangelo’s David, a sculpture that was created a decade after the Vitruvian Man, it later became the symbol of the Italian Renaissance.
This, in ink, feather-drawn picture is the metaphore for a movement, whose effects we still enjoy and try to control to this day. It is what I would like to call The Renaissance Effect.
            Adam looks at himself in his proverbial mirror, calls Eve over and says:
            “Look, I think there is more here than meets the eye!”
            To me, that is what the Renaissance is. Man redefines himself. He is reborn. He realizes the sins of his youth, the years of worry and chaos, and reaches out, claiming his right to rediscover his childhood: the antique ideal. He realizes that he can depict other things in art than just tales read to him and told to him in the bible. He now realizes that a little bit of God in himself. That, in fact, God is in everything he has created and that we, ourselves are creators. We carry the package of fate within us and lay the seeds before us like a reverted Hansel for a lifelong Gretel. The symbolism is evident: our fate is given to us in our souls before birth and we simply collect our “seeds of spirit” as we wander our way through this journey that we call life on Earth. God sees himself in us and our creations here in evolution are his yin to our yang. Art is discovery, discovery is evolution, evolution is future, future is art and the circle is complete.
            In that sense, Columbus’ trips to what he thought was the West-Indies was a work of art, even in all its cruelty and bigotry. That sounds perverse and sinful, but if you look at it, Columbus had no idea that what he was doing was very right and very wrong at the same time. Cortez and Pizarro’s egotistical escapades in The New World were dark chapters of sinister human art. Enlightened art would be Van Eyck, Botticelli, Raphael and Orlando di Lasso and those were men that fed the human soul with emotion. Art, with them, was pure glory.
            The main point is that man during the Renaissance embarks on a journey that starts with knowledge and a plethorian array of possibilities and ends where we are today: in gluttony and conceit. Noble spirit became arrogance. There is more information in one current Sunday Edition of The New York Times than one average 12th century man could sport having taken in during an entire lifetime.
The question is: are we wiser for it? Or have we forgotten what we were back then? Knowledge-hungry wisdom-crackers. We eat the fortune cookie and hope that the wisdom that we reveal make us rich. Fast. Today, that average man has now become not hungry for knowledge, but lusty for satisfaction. He needs kicks to be happy. Alcohol, special effects and play-station games. Man is not hungry for wisdom any more. Man is living in a huge playground. It is a Las Vegas Show with a cast of 7 020 673 780 actors.
            Let’s recap where we have been going for the last 600 years: in Firenze, Italia a movement starts that redefines man. Antique ideas are rediscovered, man redefines his world, composes new music and creates cities that look like nothing else that before has been seen. Artistically, this is a process of rejuvination. The Opera is born at the end of the 16th century and less than a century later the artform that we label Ballet sees the the light of day. Baroque churches are built and palaces so grand are built from scratch that the redefine humanity.
            Simultaneously, man becomes cocky. I see that all the time. As soon as the innocent becomes established, it loses some of its purity. That happens to man after the renaissance. He kills indigenous peoples from newly discovered lands in order to live there. Old empires fall, others rise. Wars are fought, because of protests from people that contradicted the established church. After all these religious wars, man misunderstands God, thinks him responsible for all that and makes the doctor and the scientist the two Gods of the human condition. The atheist is born. He is a man that never realized that the concious creator God also exists, existed and always will exist in himself as well as in the world and in heaven.
            Art recreates the human condition, social infrastructure destroys it.
            In Sweden, the king is empowered. Just about when the king redemands the throne there, the people take it away in France. The industrial revolution revolutionizes the world and it commences a pathway that skyrockets the population, drives man to rob the Earth of all its assets and makes man concentrate his entire life on having fun. Fun, fun, fun.
            What became of the Renaissance Man? He became the Satisfaction-Fan.
            Why did The Renaissance Effect turn Adam into such an ostrich-like pleasure-freak?
            Lack of control. God doesn’t turn this back. Man is free. God listens. God waits. God will there to give man as many chances as he needs, before he understand evolution.
            Yes, we have the Global Movement, we have New Age, we have the New Spirituality. More and more people live out their concious inner change. Many people are still Renaissance-Individuals.
            The Vitruvian Man is still there in the archives of the Galleria all’Accademia in Venice.
            The picture stands for the finest attributes of the human spirit: intelligence, wisdom, spirituality, love and knowledge. Man always moves forward, outward and beyond. Sometimes, his independance leads him astray.
            He realized when he looked in that proverbial mirror that he needed to rediscover himself. Rediscovery, however, needs self-control. Renaissance-Knowledge became Industrial Conceit. That lead to the biggest dance routine at the PC – Internet – WLAN – Bash. Now, we have to see how we pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off.
            The best way is to go back to da Vinci and learn something about the original feelings he had when he rediscovered himself and looked at himself in that proverbial mirror.
            But then, when gluttony knocks on the door, we can’t go eat immeasurable amounts of fast food or dig the ground for non-existant oil.
            We then have to go out into the country and look at the clouds. We learn about each other’s souls and we have a picnic in the grass, we paint, we sing, we dance and know that we are renaissance-people with a new addition: we take responsibility for our actions.
            Just like The Vitruvian Man.

Short Essay on Infrastructure

By Patrick Bryant Michael



We've watched over the past 15 years, maybe longer as problems with the infrastructure come back to bite us in the ass! An Interstate Highway Bridge collapsed in Minnesota several years ago, in 2007, killing 13 people, due to needed repairs that had been let go too long for lack of Federal Funding. Hurricane Katrina was far worse, also due to lack of Federal Funding and poor planning, thousands were left scrambling to find their loved ones, while the White House showed little real concern. Now many states are having even worse problems with floods and crumbling hillsides, especially in the Midwest and California. I only mentioned some events that most people have heard about.



There are far more all over the USA as well as the world in general. More and more places are being hit with catastrophes that rival or exceed the worst in history. The recent floods in the Carolinas are a result of lack of sound planning, while climate change deniers take a wait and see attitude. Not enough consideration had been given to increasing both Federal and State funding for infrastructure repairs and improvements. The GOP is mostly responsible for withholding funding. The House has that responsibility and has failed miserably. If the voting public remains ignorant and returns these irresponsibly congressmen to office, then our country will continue to crumble!

 
Renaissance 

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

What comes to your mind when I say the word Renaissance? 
This is the question I put to friends and strangers and the answers were various.
Here are some:
Oh, it has been so long since I heard that word in school.
(This the comment made by a 70-year-old woman. Guess her statement is true. About 90% of what we learn in school, we forget. Yet a residue remains, and it sparks a glimmer of recollection in memory.)
Myself?  Well, the first time I heard the word Renaissance mentioned was when an old chest in our foyer was pointed out to me. I must have been about 12 years old then. “This is a real antique,“  my grandma said. She thought it might have been made out of walnut. It was gilded and had a quite intricate surface. Later on I preferred the more dainty style of French Baroque.  An authentic cabinet from the Louis XIV period has been with me from childhood on, till the day of the Superstorm Sandy, here on Long Island in 2012. Flooded by 5 feet of water in my living room, I had to let my cherished possession go.
Scott Thomas Outlar, an author friend of mine offered these words on:  Poets, philosophers.  Teachers, healers, musicians, craftsmen, painters.  Prophets, carpenters, sculptors, shamans, and all variety of creative individuals, casting off from the confines of this corrupt and decadent modern culture to help bring about a spiritual renaissance and artistic revolution.
Some shorter comments were: To begin anew @ anything.  - Unwashed masses  -Read and Pray – It makes my brain update about the phenomenon of revival of art and letters in the 14th through 16th centuries in Europe.
I have read a book about it 6 months ago.
The word Renaissance is French and literally means “rebirth.”
It first appeared in English in the 1830s.
Knights of the Round Table.  Men fighting for hearth, home and love. A time when men fought for something right. Poetry that could make a man weep and risk his life. Paintings that could bring you to your knees.  Higher ideals. Simpler time but a more enriched way of living.  It brings so many things to mind. (This by Jenny Cannon Mc Cain. An inspiring writer and good friend of mine.)
Here are more comments I received: People with visions. New – beauty. A woman posing for an artist – going back to the Roman and Greek paintings.
Further come to mind famous names of active artists in that time period.  Evolved from the Medieval times of the dark ages.  – Renaissance Art – The Mona Lisa, The Last Supper by Leonard Da Vinci. The Sistine Madonna by Raphael.  – The evolution of Visual Arts. – John Melton (no not Moulton!)  Shakespeare. As well as the composers Josquin des Prez, Palestrina and Dufay who exemplify the progression made during that time. Astrology and Astronomy turned prevalent.  All this advancement was eventually followed by the Baroque period about 1700, and in 1800 by the first Industrial Revolution.
The Renaissance started as a cultural movement in Italy during the Late Medieval period, and later on spread to the rest of Europe. It is also called the beginning of the Early Modern Age.
Renaissance architecture reflected the rebirth of classical culture, replacing the Gothic style. Proportion became the most important factor of beauty. Harmony, clarity and repose signified the structures of the High Renaissance.
The Elizabethan era also falls into the time of the Renaissance (1558-1603). It is the epoch in English history marked by the reign of Queen Elizabeth I – called by some the Golden Age of English History.
The significance of clothing was immense, as the status of a person was recognized by their dress code. The fashion of the upper class was quite elaborate.
Padding – girdles – quilting and bustles – a stress on creating the image of a small waste – were the trend.
Nowadays, we continue to look at the Renaissance as a time period of a new beginning.

Night time serenade
 
By Rob Kingston
 
 
An emporium full of visual delights, moonbeams bounce and dance, around a pitted cloud clear site.
 
A shooting star shining, a whooshing sound if heard, lights the sky as it blazes bright, starting in the east accelerating, disappearing out of pleasured sight.
 
Stars blaze illuminating dark, the galaxy forming its magical map of horoscopes in this glorious orb, Its North Star guidance for some who navigate upon our planet earth be it on land air or under the sea, a million or more miles the distance should we achieve the ability to or want to go see up close these glowing planets of rock, gas and ore.
 
Dying stars growing in their brightness as if, a last attempt of holding life
Glowing brighter than before their internal charges disperse, fading no longer able to ignite.
 
Dancing colours in the north and south, painted great abstracts wide and far
Hues of fusing reds oranges yellows greens across dark blue,
Spectacular moments for those with time to sit observe and view these magical electrically charged special dancing hues.
 
Reflections distorting down below hues shading, appearing blushed ­­­as oceans gush and light rides upon a moonlit magnetic heaving tide, a tide awaiting, a stage set for two
 
Only you can see the magic being created in front of misted, barely woken if open eyes,
Only you can see the rising spirits coming up to play upon the core of sphere,
Under the kaleidoscope twinkling melee filled bustling sea and sky 
 
Rise up, a beckon, a call to you, come join this light filled orb of invisible tunes,
Where a piano plays a serenade and the orchestra complements with
Soft sounds of Trombones, cello’s, violins, tuba’s, drums and flutes
A tempo set to sweep excited people off their seat and on into their dancing shoes
 
Rise up in your sparkly dancing dress and shoes for you are floating Imagination growing with every timeless move
 
Twinkling stars blinking approval, reflections in the agreeing tide as it ebbs and flows.
 
Rise up, move, dance, sway, step and jump to those imaginary magical tunes
A prince of darkness, a dreaming queen  
A loving scene, a glory electrically charged night time dancing dream.
 
 
© Robert Kingston 18.10.2014
 

THE TALE OF A MISSING LINK

FROM INDIANA
 
An analytical review of the five films known as
THE PLANET OF THE APES-Series
  
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
 
 
We all identify with folks of all generations and eras and how they flock to see dragons fly into strange territories and strange creatures in spaceships ruling topsy-turvy worlds. Let us be honest, science-fiction-fans can be categorized into three groups. There are those who dress up in the clothes of their idols, speak the language and collect the items. They attend the congregations and sing the songs. Then there are those who see everything as pure entertainment, popcorn-fun below all Shakespearian tradition.
Between the two lies a group who would gladly consider themselves analytical. Their chief characteristic is looking at the real background of the piece and are thus probe into the story like a gold miner looking for a treasure.
Many films are there for distraction, but within that pursuit one can find a very solid message. A few films throw the message in your face with a bang and with some you have to look for the message with a magnifying glass.
The original five Planet of the Apes-Films (dating from 1968 to 1973) are works where the message sometimes is so evident that it hurts. The dialogue is so strikingly a parody of all things human that it is daunting. All things civilized and racist seem imbedded within it in litmus paper and it is a wonder that the movies are not discussed at sociological seminars.
Current civilization is taught that dressing up is for fun and certainly anyone who dresses up as a monkey is not to be taken all too seriously.
In one sentence: these people are wrong!
 
In the story, human astronauts from 1972 are frozen through deep space to arrive in the year 3955 on a planet ruled by monkeys. Only one survives, Taylor.
After torture and persecution he discovers that he is back home on Earth and the apes have simply taken over Earth after a nuclear catastrophe.
There are human survivors of this holocaust and they have worshipped the ultimate bomb for millennia. Taylor is witness to how the monkeys invade their underground city and ultimately destroy Earth by exploding the ultimate bomb.
Three apes escape in Taylor ship, arriving back in 1972 and find they are being treated the same way as Taylor was back home, only worse for it comes with intrigue. The one ape is pregnant and by fooling the police, she manages to rescue the baby, who grows up to start a revolt to found the Planet of the Apes.
The story is a vicious circle: A travels to B and creates havoc, which sets off a time warp that sends off A to B again. It is probably the most famous one in films. Had not Taylor decided to travel into the future, the apes would never have been able to travel to the past to found the future that Taylor discovered.
 
Ultimately, the proverbial dog chases his own tail until we sit there, blubbering and cooing like, well, a monkey in a tree.
But what does all this mean?
It means that Man (in reality and fiction) ultimately works against himself. He discovers something that he ultimately destroys. He won’t listen to truth because he is too caught up in his own desires and lack of honesty to admit that he has done things wrong.
To put this bluntly, he cannot let go of his own past mistakes. He regrets them so much that he lives not to better himself but to try to better his mistakes. If he could let them go, he would never have to fight the foes that arose from this action in the first place.
Some interesting dialogue from the film proves my point and how it is put across in a twisted manner. Take, for instance, the Gorilla General’s word in the second film. Centuries of slavery ring in his words:
 
“I am not saying that man is bad just because his skin is White. I am saying that the only good Human is a dead Human.”
 
It is protest in its purest form. You cannot critique humans on their own level like this (replace “Human” with “Negro” and “White” with “Black” and you’ll see what I mean). But you can put a human in a civilization of a different race and see how he reacts to this, thereby letting man point his own finger at himself.
 
The problem is that people don’t hear between the lines because the munching of the popcorn is too loud in their ears.
 
“Ignorance is Evil”
 
Doctor Zira says in the same film and mirrors the kangaroo trial that occurs in the previous film, where Colonel Taylor is held before a tribunal that only exists to hang the chimpanzees (who think he is a missing link) & the court (who won’t believe that he comes from Fort Wayne, Indiana). Neither side, however, is right. He is from humankind’s own past. The fact that the Gorilla-Army is blessed by priests in the movie & halted by pacifist chimps should be revealing to us humans. We have two parables here: the flower-power-generation who burnt their own draught cards & finally Nazi Germany, church blessing cannons.
So, the characters in the movie have the same problem as the human beings watching the story. They don’t listen. The characters in the movie are so caught up being mad at each other’s folly that they keep doing the same mistakes over and over. The people paying to see what they are doing, pay their popcorn and walk out just as oblivious to the countless divorces and badmouthing and intrigues that they are responsible for, not really interested in looking below the surface because they only do so in society-approved things of shiny surface and university approved dogma. But there are signs that try to help them, if they listened.
Shortly before the fourth film there was a racist riot in a city called Watts. Director J. Lee Thompson remodelled these riots, making the leader of the riots the Monkey Revolutionary whose parents were futuristic space travellers and thereby made him responsible for the proverbial dog we mentioned earlier chasing his tail in his own never ending vicious circle.
But we find a positive energy flowing from the remaining words of film 5:
 
“Life is like a highway. A driver in lane A might survive whilst a driver in lane B might not. By foreseeing his own future correctly he might plan his life better and change it.”
 
Accordingly, we see apes and humans sharing their lives at the end, giving us a possible hint that things maybe are not as bad as they look. The responsibility lies only in following your own good intuition.
It is up to you, dear reader of this article. Next time you go to a movie or a play, try to find messages within the storyline. Look closely, for you might find more than you think. Even if it is only the interesting analysis behind the bad acting.
Within everything … lies a message.
 
 
 
PLANET OF THE APES:   Five Motion Pictures  (20th Century Fox, ©1968, 1969, 1971, 1972, 1973) Directors: Franklin J. Schaffner, Ted Post, Don Taylor, J.Lee Thompson;    Actors: Roddy McDowell, Kim Hunter, Charlton Heston,  Maurice Evans,  Ricardo Montalban, Paul Williams,  Sal Mineo,  John Huston;       Based upon the book “Monkey Planet” by Pierre Boulle;       Make-Up by John Chambers 

 
 
 

Hope

By Alexandra H.Rodrigues
Massapequa

 
Hope to me is a waiting for a positive outcome of a future happening. When we say “I hope” it really does not change anything. There is no substance in that word as we have no control over it.
Albert Einstein said:
”Religion is an attempt to find an out where there is no door.” 
So do we HOPE there will be a door someday?
Do we HOPE to push with the head thru the wall without getting hurt?
Ellen had left her home in Berlin in 1959 and hoped to come back one day in the future. She had hoped to rekindle familiar feelings when back at the place where she had spent her childhood. She had hoped and waited for this moment for 38 years. Now she was here, back in Berlin. Home, if even just for a visit.  She disembarked from the big airliner which had just arrived from New York. There was nobody waiting for her to welcome her back. Tired from  the Ocean crossing but full of anticipation to  see  again the charming suburb and the house she had left from so long ago, she waved a cab.
When the cab let her off at Zehlendorf , the local train station, she stood rooted to the cobble stones for a while. 38    years seemed to slide away and she felt again like the girl of 14. Waiting for her mother who would arrive on the train come squealing into the station and hand in hand they would walk to the villa where her mother and Ellen both were born. In a daze Ellen crossed the place with the little pond and turned into the street where they had lived. On this clear autumn day the air was so still only ones breath seemed to stir it. The multicolored leaves on the majestic oaks that lined the street filtered the sun. Jumpy ringlets shadowed the sidewalk.   Housewives loaded with groceries were rushing home to prepare dinner, Ellen’s lively blue eyes searched for a familiar face. How futile. People called out friendly Hellos to each other but not to her. She was now a stranger here and an odd sadness creped into her joy of being back. She bent down and picked up an acorn. Did the trees remember her?
To her left, nearly hidden by weeping willows, she recognized “The haunted house”. As children they had climbed the now rusty fence many times and only when Mrs. Hanstein brandished her cane and croaked at them had they quickly scurried back over the fence onto the street. Her husband had been a famous writer who had died at an early age and left her to get old and eccentric by herself. Ellen’s steps faltered. There it was, her home of the past. Still flaunting the picket fence, where she had managed to squeeze thru the spaces as a child. Wow she must have really been skinny. Well nobody needed to diet during the war. Ellen also remembered a trick she used to open the gate. She was tempted to try if it still worked but thought better of it.
Across the street was the Villa Froehlich, a well known movie star at the time, and the lake where she had learned to ice skate and admired a young skating star, who came to meet Mr. Froehlich occasionally. Ellen leaned against the fence that separated her from the fresh lawn and from the ebony portal with the stained glass louvers.. From the imposing staircase leading to the lobby; she could still visualize the tapestries and cozy leather chairs. How she had anticipated this moment. She was wondering if the back terrace still was covered with a multitude of red geraniums and she thought she heard the rattling glass door.
Ellen dabbed off the tears that had moistened her cheeks. Her plan had been to talk to the present owner. Most likely the house had changed hands several times since her family had sold it. Yet she did not ring a bell. At an impulse she turned abruptly, hailed a taxi and drove off. She did not want to see the new influence upon a place so dear.
Now truly tired and exhausted, longing for a hot shower at the Hilton Hotel, the awareness crystallized that it was the spiritual home she’d cherished all along. Its image would never be spoiled. The actual remnants of what was had no longer any meaning.
Home now was Long Island, New York. The city with its glitter and business.  The Great South Bay with the moonshine over the water on sweltering summer nights and her family growing in a new generation.

Childbirth thru the Ages

By Alexandra Rodrigues

 
Since the times when the Three Holy Kings, Balthazar, Casper and Melchior followed the stars to bring gifts to the newborn child, Jesus, procedures used for childbirth have changed, yet in principle remained the same.
To give birth can be exciting, dramatic, joyful or even traumatic.
I, myself was born in Berlin, Zehlendorf, a suburb with a well to do society .It took place in the villa which my grandfather, a banker, had built in 1902.  I was born in the same bed, in the same room where also my mother saw the light of the world, in 1914, for the first time. A midwife had been at my grandma’s side to give help and attend to the immediate needs of the newborn. My mother was the youngest of four kids’ .One of the babies was stillborn. Grandma was 40 years old when she gave birth to my mom
Contrary to that, my mom was only 18 years old, when she gave birth to me. I was born on a Sunday, at only seven months and had been lucky to survive. Guess I had a purpose to complete on this earth. Despite a midwife attending to my mom, there was also a medical Doctor assisting at my birth. – No tubes – no hospital. Nature had been allowed to take its course.
 I was 38 and I was pregnant.
My husband and I had agreed 11 years ago not to have children. Our marriage was unique. We were the first married couple in the airline industry allowed to fly together as cabin attendants. The president of our company, Mr. Juan Trippe,  also the founder of Pan American World Airways was on a flight my husband worked. He had asked my husband on this flight to Bermuda, “When are you going to get married Ray?” And my husband had the intuition to answer, “When you let me fly with my wife.”
To our surprise the response was, “I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”
Breakfast in New York, lunch in London and a night out in Paris became our lifestyle. We spent 24 hours a day together.  We met people like Maria Callas, Yul Brunner, Nancy Kwang, Alex King, Ted Kennedy and Igor Stravinsky.  We socialized among the high-society when abroad and were happy to be alone, back home, on Long Island NY.
 August 1971 I missed my monthly cycle for the first time. “Could be the onset of the menopause.  Flying can do that to you,” my doctor said.
Two weeks later, when on layover in Rome, I fainted over dinner in a trattoria.  I came to before Ray could put a wet cloth on my forehead.Pan American had a doctor on call wherever flight crews were scheduled for a layover.  The company doctor examined me. He was a 47-year-old man, like Ray, and a father of five. He chuckled and said, “Alexandra, you are pregnant.”
Alone again, we sat on the bed in the stuffy room of the Hotel Metropole.  My hand was shaking when I lit a cigarette.
“How did that happen?” Ray asked. That question made me laugh!
A romantic evening on our houseboat flashed through my mind. It was after the Fourth of July and we had stayed overnight at Zack’s Bay.  “Sex Bay,” I said and now we both laughed.
Ray suggested, “Let’s go downstairs and celebrate.”
We ordered a bottle of champagne and soon found ourselves making plans for three. Abortion was never mentioned. Nature had made a decision for us.
I stopped flying immediately. Luck was with us. Only a month before the airlines had received a court ruling to let mothers fly. So I did not have to quit on the spot. For hours we sat at the kitchen table of our Long Island home and talked about that third person, on the way, to share our lives.
I was sure it would be a girl – Monique – we would name her. During that time, we also had our first arguments. The spell of only thinking about each other was broken. We now would have to think for three.
I had a deep-rooted fear of childbirth.  An aunt of mine had died when giving birth. I was 13 years old then and it had upset me terribly. By the time I was six months pregnant, this fear strongly surfaced. I had visions of Ray and our child alone. I began writing to Monique. About my childhood, my parents, how I had met “Daddy,” and our wonderful feelings for each other.
First I had felt self-pity thinking of my child reading my outpour when old enough to understand. But soon writing gave me relief and joy. I had finished 400 pages by the time I gave birth.
“Dear” friends volunteered tales of retarded children born to older parents. That was when I decided I wanted to give natural birth.
“I’ll go along with whatever you want,” Ray said. Natural birth would spare our child exposure to anesthesia. Also my fear of giving birth increased with the thought of having to go through anesthesia. I chose the “Lamaze Method” with instructor Helen Miles.
I asked my doctors’ opinions. Three of them ran their practice together. I didn’t feel comfortable with any of them; not that I doubted their professional skills, but I was glad they had picked up obstetrics instead of psychiatry for their profession.  None of them was interested when I mentioned natural childbirth. 
Around February 20th, I signed up for a Red Cross course in baby care. By then, my apprehension turned to panic. Would I have enough time to study the method about natural childbirth? I felt relieved when Mrs. Miles told me she had a course starting March 6th, and that four weeks of instruction would suffice. My due date was to be April 14th.
I had never held a baby in my arms. Even on the airplane, when a travelling mother needed help, I called on one of my co-workers. I was afraid to hurt those little creatures. I counted strongly on my husband’s help for the future. When he picked up one of those little ones, they would coo and finger his handsome face.
Mrs. Miles had an opening in a course starting March 6th and assured me that four weeks of instruction twice weekly, would suffice. When I mentioned the doctors did not support my enthusiasm about Lamaze, she cheered me up. “Have your husband attend the course with you. Then in the end you might be strong enough to go through it yourself.”
Ray adjusted his flight schedules to be home for the classes. For the first time in our marriage, I was alone when he went on flights. Our life had begun to change.
I coped easily with the physical aspects of Lamaze. I had gained a mere eight pounds; 12 years of running up and down the aisles of airplanes had kept me fit. It was the breathing techniques I had problems with. A different method for each phase of labor. The idea is to focus steadily on an object and time your breathing at exact intervals. This concentration is the secret of Lamaze.
At home, I practiced: calm breathing – choo-choo breathing—panting – blowing – combinations of it all.  Ray would supervise with a stop watch in his hand and encourage me not to give up.
On March 17th, I was told by Dr. P that my cervix was ripe, “The baby is in good position: I wouldn’t be surprised to see you in labor by tomorrow.”
I panicked and was thankful to Helen Miles when she gave me instructions about phase 2 and 3 of labor over the phone. We even practiced the pant/blow breathing over the phone. Nothing happened!
One week later, the same doctor said to me, “No change.” Another week later, now only a week away from my due date, Dr. W very dryly stated, “It can be any time this month. Anyhow if the slightest complication comes up and that includes being two weeks late, you get a section. All you do is close your eyes and let us do the rest.”
When I shyly intervened: “What about the Lamaze Method?”  He nearly shouted :” To hell with Lamaze and all those fringe benefits. You came here to have a baby right? At your age, we have to make sure the baby is born.”
I came home and cried. My husband had a hard time to calm me. I didn’t practice Lamaze breathing anymore. All seemed hopeless. Even if I didn’t get a Caesarean section, it was unlikely that my husband would be allowed even as far as the labor room. All three doctors had indicated that much.  Including  Dr. B.  He was the only one who at least had promised me therapeutic support if I wanted to go along with Lamaze without my husband.
On the evening of April11th, I had a bad backache. On the evenings of the 12th and again on the 13th a slight pressure on my back. Each time, my hopes mixed with fear, rose and each time -- nothing --.  At 7pm of the 13th, Ray and I walked our dog and once again there was that backache. This time it was “bothering” me. We came home and for the third evening in a row had cocktails and then played cards till 9pm. Again I felt nothing while we played and had to tell my husband, “False alarm.”
Afterwards, I took a hot shower and got undressed. Once in bed, the backache started again. I felt my belly to check for contractions but couldn’t quite tell. The discomfort got stronger by 10pm and I mentioned to my husband, “If that’s false labor and the slight discomfort they talk about, I hate to see the real thing.”
By 10:15 I decided it could be the real thing after all. We began to time what we now called “possible contractions.” To our surprise, we found a pattern established. Every six minutes and lasting about 30 seconds. To make sure and remembering what Helen Miles had told us about real contractions, I got up and walked around. The pattern remained, but I still did not feel a real increase in pain. My husband went to shave just in case. I looked through the bag I’d packed for the hospital and got the lollipops for my survival kit from the refrigerator. 
By 10:45 I mentioned again, “If that’s the real thing and only the beginning, I’ll never be able to go through with Lamaze.”
I was convinced it was too early to even use the deep-chest breathing but I did it anyhow.
At 11:10, my water broke. I had a slight bloody show and diarrhea. And now we knew. The fact that it had happened like clockwork an hour away from my due date encouraged me. I was amazed at the amount of water that poured out of me uncontrollably. I did use the accelerated breathing while Ray got in touch with the doctors’ answering service.
I got dressed; that is, I threw on socks, put a towel between my legs and pulled a shift dress over my head. We were told to be at the hospital at 11:55. Dr. W would be there. Out went my renewed good intention for Lamaze and staying at home using it as long as possible. Off to the hospital we went.
We arrived there at exactly midnight and drove up to the wrong entrance first. During the car ride, I used all kinds of breathing. How could I concentrate with nothing to focus on, no way of timing and my back pulling as if it wanted to break?
At the hospital I had to sign some papers and ten minutes past midnight, I was wheeled up to the labor room. Again I used the blow/pant method and between contractions tried to explain to the nurse what I was doing. Her face indicated she thought me to be a little cuckoo. Upstairs she made me sit on the bed and said, “Dr. B will be here shortly.”
I was glad to hear it would be Dr. B. During the very short intervals between contractions I’d decided I would ask for anesthesia after all. Without Ray even those first pains of labor or rather what I still believed to be the first stage, thinking the frequency of contractions was due to back labor proved to be too much. To make it worse, my survival kit was still with my husband.
The nurse gave me a vaginal examination. I asked, “How much am I dilated?” Obviously she had not heard me or did not realize how important it was for me to know. Instead she said, “I have to shave your pubic area. Then we will give you an enema.  And there are also some questions you will have to answer for me.” With that she left the room.
I continued to choo-choo, which is part of Lamaze breathing. Since I’d given up on going through with Lamaze, I could see no harm in doing what eased my pain best.  Another eight to ten, or more hours of that?  No, not for me!  I didn’t time, didn’t focus, I was suddenly panicky.
The nurse came back with the equipment. At just that moment I felt an intense urge to move my bowels. This was the first time it dawned on me that possibly I was much further advanced in labor already. I recalled: Panic, weepy, hardly time to collect your thoughts during contractions, and now that urge to push. Transition? Impossible!
“Nurse, I feel like pushing. Please examine me again.”
She did and I heard her murmur, “Oh, my God!”
Again, I could get no information, how much I was dilated because she ran out into the hall and shouted, “Dr. B! Dr. B!  Hurry!”
So Dr. B had arrived. It must have been around 12:15. Was something wrong? Why did the nurse get excited too? I felt a nearly constant urge to push, and I blew and blew and blew. Dr. B came in. I heard the nurse say, “She’s fully dilated.”
I computed -- fully dilated? So I could expect to give birth within one or two hours. I couldn’t quite remember what Helen Miles had taught us about this. It takes longer in first labors for the baby to push through the birth canal was all I recalled. “So you want us to give you anesthesia or a saddle, or do you want to continue with Lamaze?” Dr. B asked.
Now the decision was put to me. I tried to make Dr. B decide. “What do you think?” He replied, “You’re the boss.”
I was very, very uncomfortable because I had interrupted the breathing in on order to answer. Pure intuition made me ask, “How much longer?” instead of saying, ”Put me out.”
The nurse came in with a stretcher. Another doctor in green uniform appeared. Dr. B turned to me, “About 15 minutes.”  The nurse said, “Let’s rush her to the delivery room before she gives birth here.”
I asked, “May I push?” and was told, “Wait, wait.”
I blew and blew, and suddenly it registered, only 15 minutes more. For 15 minutes, I could take anything. I could tell the transition was completed because the contractions did not quite upset me any longer. Of course, I didn’t take a pillow with me. I remembered Helen Miles advice, but I didn’t have the energy to cut through the busy preparations of the staff.
They didn’t have time to shave me. On the delivery table they tied my hands. “Please don’t,” I pleaded. No answer. Everybody was too busy getting ready. With the preparations finished, Dr. B did untie my hands and I was satisfied. I was then told when to push and when not. I concentrated hard, inhale, exhale, inhale, push, don’t push, blow.
“The head is out.” I saw it in the mirror and didn’t believe it.
12:48. “Wasn’t your husband to be here with you?”
Fine time to ask.
12:51. April 14th. It’s a boy! Raymond Alexander was born.
I’d done it. A miracle!
Forty-five minutes or less after I’d come upstairs I’d given birth. I was proud to have insisted on natural childbirth as all went without complications.
My blood pressure was taken.  Then A lengthy process to sew me up followed. I had gotten a local for the episiotomy and never felt it, but I did feel the stitching.
When it was all over, I got shaky and a warm blanket was brought to me. It helped. My baby was shown to me. Beautiful! I could hear Dr. B on the house phone telling my husband that we had a boy. I laughed at the mere thought of Ray’s surprise. He too would have a hard but pleasant time to believe that it all had gone so fast and so well.
A new phase of our life had begun.
My son is married and his wife, Lori, became pregnant in 2008. She gave birth at age 35, to a healthy, 8 pound boy. Although she had to have a caesarian delivery, all went well. She had had a normal pregnancy with some discomfort. Such as getting sick whenever she even saw any eggs or smelled eggs. She had made it to the hospital in due time and all modern functions had been at her disposal.
Yes, giving birth has become easier with the advancement in medical science. The excitement and a certain fear about the unknown, has remained.

The three wise men

By Linda Palmer


I’ve read about the gifts the Wise Men (Magi) gave Christ.
For years I have been under the impression that the value of the gifts was the emphasis. I naturally assumed that because they brought Him gold, the frankincense and myrrh must have been quite valuable as well. I have been wrong all these years. The gifts were not only commonplace in that time and era, but extremely practical as well.
Frankincense is a white milky resin extracted from the genus Boswellia, which grow in areas of the Arabian Peninsula around India and East Africa. The most aromatic of the species is called the Boswellia Sacra, a small tree found in Yemen, Somalia and Oman. They have a white flower with a yellow or red center.
Myrrh is a reddish resin that comes from a species of the genus Commiphora, native to Northeast Africa and along the Arabian Peninsula.
Commiphora myrrha is a tree used to produce myrrh and is found in the shallow rocky soils of Oman, Kenya, Saudi Arabia, Somalia and Ethiopia.
To put it delicately, in that day a daily bath was unheard of, so these fragrances were used to make people smell better. Considering that the Holy family was in a barn – actually in a manger next to a barn – the gift was appreciated I’m sure.
There is also a symbolic significance to be considered. Frankincense, when burned, symbolized prayer rising to the heavens like smoke. Myrrh was used for burials and symbolized death. As you recall, while Christ hung on the cross, a mixture of wine and myrrh was offered to him.
So, would a modern-day wise man choose to buy perfume for almost $13,000.00 per ounce? I used to think he would. Now, I’m not so sure. I think those Wise Men gave just the right gifts. That’s why they were called Wise Men, right?  Wink!  ;-)


 

The Death of Auschwitz

By Karen King


The poor victims of war were stuffed into cattle cars on trains. Jews, homosexuals and special needs people who were not considered perfect, were rounded up like sheep and herded onto these trains. Upon arrival, they were organised into two lines. The left-hand line was for immediate death and the right-hand line meant hard labour. Families were callously split up, alienating those lost souls even further.

The left line was always killed. It could be by the firing squad, carbon monoxide poisoning or, later, the gas chambers. These unfortunate souls were told they needed to be disinfected and deloused for work and they needed showers. In the ante room, men women and children were told to strip naked.

Then they were moved into a larger room with fake shower heads from the walls. This room held about one hundred people. These were the gas chambers. They had no windows. In September 1941, the first proper gas chambers were built. These were productive as, originally, only ten victims could be exterminated at once! Four were eventually built, the largest one murdering approximately two thousand victims a day. Zyklon-B was the poison of choice! The doors were shut, a couple of Zyklon-B pellets were pumped into the room by the guards on tall ladders through small openings high up in the ceiling where the gas could be released. The optimum temperature for the gas to be released was 26C. Death took about ten minutes. The desperate victims realised they were dying and clawed at the doors, desperately, until their fingers bled and they eventually died. The room was aired out, the victims removed and then searched for gold. Ten thousand people were murdered a year. It was an extremely efficient process!

The right line was “dehumanized”. All clothes and personal belongings were confiscated. A striped prison outfit, a badly fitting pair of shoes, prisoner number tattooed on their arm and their hair was shaved. These starving souls were weak and made to work extremely hard. This form of slow torture was known by the Nazis as, “extermination through work”.

Originally, the corpses were taken to the city crematorium, but then they were put in ovens at the camp, the first two being built in September 1940 in the main camp where three hundred and forty bodies could be cremated a day. The stench pervaded through the camp as black smoke belched from the chimneys.

Later on, after their death, the bodies were burnt in open pits, up to a hundred at a time. Then their bodies were burnt. Rags were thrown in that had been smoked with paraffin to try and speed up the burning. The process took six to seven hours. The smell of burning flesh could sometimes be smelt around the camp if the wind blew in the right direction.

Freezing cold, persecuted and tortured, punished for their religion, these were just some of the poor victims of war. Some gave up hope soon after arriving at the camp after discovering the fate of their loved ones in the left-hand line of prisoners. Some children were born to this misery, their Mothers already arriving pregnant or raped by the soldiers. In this well-known Prisoner of War Camp, these souls merely existed, their souls temporarily departed as their bodies barely functioned. They went through hell as, on a daily basis, medical experiments, mental and physical torture was inflicted upon them. Some survived, but their souls have never been whole again. Their bodies have survived. They are physically there, yet part of them remained in this monstrous place. There was too much damage and this can never be reversed. A living hell for thousands as so many families and friends were lost and homes and prized possessions were lost forever! More than a millions lives were lost in these camps.

Karen King Copyright 26 December 2015

DEFENDER OF THE FAITH

By Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 – 2005)

Written for the Information Magazine in June of 1958


Foreword by Charles E.J. Moulton

My father Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005) lost both his parents during that year of 1958. His father and my paternal grandfather Herbert Lewis Moulton, a World War I veteran whom everyone called Big Herb, died of a heart attack. After that, my father's mother must have been distraught. She got run over by a train on her way to work. This was a very poignant and very fitting for this feisty and strong Irish lady: she died standing up. It is then amazing to see how intellectual and calm my father seemed to be when he wrote the following piece for the Information Magazine in June of 1958. When his girlfriend died of cancer, my father, desperate and emotionally drained, left America on a two week vacation in his ancestrial home of Ireland. This stay lasted for seven years and brought him at least as much success as he the success he had experienced in the United States.
This stay eventually led him to Germany, where he met my mother, operatic mezzo-soprano Gun Kronzell.
The rest, as they say, is history.
This is my father's article from June 1958.
 
 
My mother Nell was an ardent Catholic all her life and something of a Revivalist at heart. She believed in standing up and being counted, and she never sat down again. That is why, whenever I read about the new look along the sawdust trail, I wonder what she'd have to say about it all.
It's a cinch Nell wouldn't recognize the old Gospel Train in its Madison Avenue streamlining. She liked her religion straight, thank you, liked it as well as she liked a good fight. Come to think of it, her one encounter with militant unorthodoxy may have helped bring on the present era of soft voices and cushioned condemnation.
Nell approached belief with wide open emotion and when said she'd gladly die for the faith, she meant it. To her as to many an Irishman the saints were cronies, especially the Blessed Virgin. Our Lady didn't live next door to us - she had moved right in to help with the housework.
This Catholicism, however intense, was no impediment to respecting those outside the fold, providing they were sincere. Nell never condemned anybody - she loved them and felt sorry they were missing so much. As for prejudice, it was the Devil's work and anybody who practiced it was, in her own words,
"a hypocritch of the first water."
My father Big Herb had no official religous status, but he was better Catholic Dad than many in our parish, and his family was of vigorous if diverse Protestant stock. There were Presbyterians and Episcopalians and Transcendentalists and Free Thinkers and Swedenborgians and even a Quaker or two in the middle distance. Nell wanted me to know all about all these demoninations, what made them "other" and how they got that way. We must have toured every church and temple in the vicinity, guided by astonished beadles, custodians and janitors. Nell always called these personages "dear", and made sure they locked up afterwards.
Religious toleration didn't stop at the vestibule door. Everybody was welcome in our house. If they were atheists, if they didn't revere the Blessed Mother as Scripture says we should, if they were agnostic or fallen away or just indifferent, they were wrong and Nell never tired of belaboring the point. But as long as they were people and in our house, they got the full treatment, and even in the rockiest depression that meant anything from hot toddies and sherry-soaked fruitcake to a seven-course meal.
It was during those hard days of the 30's that our bungalow began taking on the aspects of a soup kitchen. Impoverished spinsters with cats and cataracts, an artist on relief, a retired handyman named Peter the Indian, an unemployed barber (two bits for a kitchen haircut and I can still feel the pull of those handclippers) - any number of down-and-outers crowded our table. None of them ever left without a shopping bag crammed with jars of jelly and fresh soup. No matter how bad things got, we were never of relief and they were, and that made all the difference. As long as there was a WPA, a PWA or any practical nursing to be done, Nell worked to help Big Herb while that gentle soul plugged away trying to sell insurance, appliances, anything to help supplement Big Herb's modest income.
We always had more than enough, somehow. We had parties and battles and pets and a second-hand car born 1928, a Studebaker named Henrietta. We packed lunches and went off to the opera, the World's Fair, zoos, ballparks and museums. One weekend we started out for a short ride (we lived in a suburb of Chicago named Glen Ellyn) and ended up at Niagara Falls.
Everybody cut corners and everybody had fun. Friday night we went to the movies, lured by Bank Nite, free dishes and good shows. Because prices changed from fifteen cents to a quarter at 6:15, people hurried through dinner and read the evening paper in their seats before the feature. Our milkman delivered his own vino with the dairy products. Big Herb continued to make homebrew beer in the basement long after Repeal, and his men friends rolled their own cigarettes. The women knitted and crocheted, while the more ambitious hooked rugs or entered contests, did each other's hair or tried their hand at short story writing. We kids gave puppet shows and pageants, fell out of tree-houses and fought. Saturday night there were crowds of poker players, not a one of them with a dime to his name, and during one slump when ours was the only house with the light and the gas still turned on, they carted home bushel baskets of coal to heat drafty old mansions left over from Palmier Days. We were the happiest people we knew.
It was into this kingdom of raffish good will towards everybody that two woebegone missionaries wandered one rainy Saturday. Nowadays, as I said, gospel harvesters plow the fields and scatter with such gentility that you hardly know they're around. But a couple of decades ago you couldn't miss them.
This particular brood barnstormed for the Lord in an antique limosine painted white and plastered with signs proclaiming the imminence of Kingdom Come. As if this weren't enough to scare the daylights out of anybody, a nest of loudspeakers topsides saturated the target area with glad tidings of approaching Armageddon, hellfire and judgment.
"I'd like to know what these people think they're doing," Nell mused from the front window. "The man and woman in that goofy car. I've never laid eyes on them before, have you guys?"
As usual I was presiding at a levée for urchins, all of us dressing up to play King, The Prince and the Pauper, or whatever we had seen at the Glen Theatre the week before. The evangelists didn't seem to be doing too well, according to Nell, who was never nosy unless something really special were afoot. They had tried every door on the street, finding nobody home (and everybody was) or getting a reception chilly enough to freeze Gehenna.
"Well, I think it's just awful about those poor slobs," Nell worried. "The least somebody could do would be to ask them in, no matter what they're peddling."
It never occurred to her that these might be religious rivals. She wouldn't have admitted the existance of any to begin with.
At last the discouraged Lost Sheep (which is what we called them ever after) approached our porch. Nell was ready for them. She flung open the door with a bountiful,
"Come in, come in, and get dried off!" The Lost Sheep looked at her and then at each other. "Oh, come on. You look like the Grapes of Wrath." Nell was an inspired improviser. With one of her "non sequiturs" dropped casually into the conversational works, she could jangle all talk to a standstill, and her enthusiastic misquotations were worth their weight in double takes.
Now was no exception. The Lost Sheep turned their unbelieving gaze back at her and beyond to the warmth of the house. Then they bolted inside where we could get a look at them.
The man was gaunt and shaggy and he scowled all the time. The woman was whispy and chinless and very much ill-at-ease. There was something pathetic about them as they flapped their magazines our way.
“Never mind about that now,” Nell blocked the tactic. “What you need is a good hot cup of tea.” The Lost Sheep damply agreed. “How about a little something in it?”
“Perhaps a spoonful of sugar,” the woman hesitated.
“I mean, a little something to take the chill off.”
“Lemon?” came the nervous suggestion.
“Oh, skip it,” said Nell and she pottered out to the kitchen, abandoning us all to an eternity of embarrassment. Finally she returned with a loaded tray (and I choose the term “loaded” purposely). It was just like her to spike her teacup with a little something to take the chill off. Only with Nell you could never be quite sure.
“Now then,” she beamed, ever the hostess. “What is it you’re selling?”
The female Sheep gasped like someone reviving after a near-drowning. “Have you found Christ?” she asked.
“I never lost Him,” was Nell’s reply.
We wanted to cheer, but the woman pressed on. “I mean, do you have him in your life?”
“Of course I do, dear. Don’t you?” There was a murmur of approval from the gallery and Nell continued briskly: “I go to mass and communion every Sunday of my life. And Herbert here is an altar boy.”
The couple exchanged another look. The interview wasn’t going according to the book.
“You see that picture over there?” My mother indicated a Raphael reproduction.
“The ... that woman?” the female Sheep looked as though she were gnawing a quince instead of one of Nell’s delicious cookies.
“She’s the mother of God!” Nell saluted. “Now what can I do for you?”
The Sheep set down their teacups and began a faltering pitch, but their hearts were not in it.
“If it’s money you’re after,” Nell interrupted, “I don’t think there’s a nickle in this house.” She cast about for her pocket book and proceeded to empty it onto the coffee table. Rosary, Novena book, keys, family photographs, compact, comb and curlers, a jar of hand cream, a can of tooth powder and a denture brush, newspaper clippings, her lower plate, the dog’s collar and a bottle-opener all clattered forth. At each item the eyes of the Lost Sheep widened and their mouths contracted almost in disappearance. Now they both looked like they were sucking quinces, or possibly alum.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Nell reported triumphantly. “I do have some change!” She counted out eleven cents (a nickle and six pennies). “It isn’t much, but God knows you’re welcome to it.” She pressed the coins into the woman’s palm. “Oh, don’t bother with any of that stuff,” again she waved away the proferred literature. “I haven’t even finished ‘Gone With The Wind’ yet.”
But the Lost Sheep prevailed and presently were effecting an escape, their benedictions all but lost in the alleluias of “God love you!” from my mother. She closed the door and heaved one of her great sighs. “I want you brats to get out of those crazy duds now,” she suggested at length, “and I’ll go see about the potatoes.”
No matter how many guests I rounded up, lunch was always hearty, generally consisting of baked potatoes, peanut butter sandwiches, junket or tapioca, baked apples and pitchers of milk or cocoa. Today it was further spiced with the novelty of the little morality play just acted out.
“Irene dear,” Nell prodded my moppet of the moment. “I’m sure your mother never lets you and Brubs read at the table.”
“I can’t help it, Aunt Nell. It’s this silly magazine.” Irene was turning over the pages of one of the murky periodicals left by one of the Lost Sheep. We were all as entranced as kids today are with television.
“Look at this one,” her brother demanded. “Aunt Nell, what’s a Scarlet Woman?”
“Look, the Pope has three heads,” Irene put in. It was true. On the front page was a crude cartoon representing the Vatican with a hydra-headed monster oozing out, each head crowned with the Triple Tiara.
“Let me see that!” Nell ordered. She took one look, then snatched up the remaining copies. As I recall it, they swam with lurid slanders against the church, the Papacy and Priesthood, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass – against all things Catholic, in fact. Such exotic phrases as Whore of Babylon, and Pomps of the Devil, linger to this day.
“Well, I’ll be –“ Nell’s smouldering exclamation was lost in the rustle of cheap paper. “Come on, children,” she announced suddenly. “Get your wraps and duds.”
“But, Aunt Nell,” came the whines. “What about our baked apples?”
“Never mind them – come on!” By the time she reached her boiling point – which was notoriously low – we had cast off for uptown in Hernrietta.
I doubt if any journey has ever been achieved in more portentous silence or with greater clugging or and motor sputter. We lurched, we skidded, we bounced over the tracks. Gears grated, people honked, and my mother’s knuckles grew white with clutching the steering wheel. We all knew exactly what was happening. We had seen it before and we knew. Nellie was on the warpath. Nobody said a word.
It didn’t take long to find them. The limousine was a dead giveaway and you could hear the scratchy gospel hymns amplified all over town. They had set up shop right next to the bank and the female sheep was handing out literature while partner ranted from the running-board. Gus Niemetz the policeman stood by uneasily, not knowing what to do.
“Everybody stay right in this car,” was Nell’s car as we ground to a halt. “Don’t a one of you dare get out.”
The next instant a nuclear ball of Irish Catholic fury burst through the crowd, scattering umbrellas and shopping baskets like tenpins. The female Sheep spotted her but before she could sound the alarm, Nell was upon them, tugging the oracle down from his perch and shaking her fists in his face.
I closed my eyes and put my head down on the back of the front seat. God help him, I thought. Heresy isn’t worth it.
The scene was brief enough – more fistshaking and Gaelic oaths, propaganda dashed underfoot and appeals to the bewildered congregation, a convulsive digging into her own pockets by the chinless Sheep, then the bowling ball routine again, propelling Nell into the Studebaker and us on our way home. From the rear window we could see the limousine moving off in the opposite direction.
Not until we were well into our baked apples did things return to normal, or rather, from normal. “At least I got the eleven cents back,” Nell said, dabbing at our dishes with whipped cream. “And not a word of this to Big Herb, understand? Go on, kids, eat yourselves. You must be ravished by now.” It was gratifying to hear old malapropisms again. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Everything was. The Lost Sheep never came back, not in the limousine anyway. The eleven cents went into the Sunday collection and the Raphael Madonna was moved into a more prominent position over the fireplace.
From then on Nell read every publication that came into the house. Religous toleration is a grand thing, she used to say, but it’s got to work both ways.

Anna’s Noble Heart

Article about Anna Kronzell (1900 – 1996) and the Old World
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 


Introduction
 
When my wise and witty, noble and eternally curious grandmother Anna Julia Sofia Kronzell was born on October 18th, 1900, Queen Victoria still ruled Great Britain, William McKinley was the American president, Henry Ford was yet to invent his T-Model Ford and horses were still used in transportation. It was twenty-one years after the invention of the electric lightbulb and fourteen years before the First World War. Emperors still ruled Russia and Germany, Puccini’s opera “Tosca” had just seen its world premiere, Charlie Chaplin was still an unknown kid living in London, the Boxer Rebellion had just taken place in China and nobody had ever heard of Adolf Hitler.
There was no internet, no short message service. Taking a stroll, even to the local shop, meant dressing up nice, putting on elegant gloves and a hat and dressing for a respectable reputation.
It was another world, a world we have forgotten, a world we could learn from with character traits like nobility and style, well-spoken manners and gentility.
 
Noble Anna
 
In our world of iPods, Smartphones, Mp3s, Apps and DVDs, we have become distantly excessible, aggressive and fast. Superficial contacts grace our microcosmos, contacts that pretend to be close. We think we know who our friends are, but our chatty virtual world is like a comic book filled with constant Facebook-Lingo  like “lol”, “rofl”, not to mention all those comic-book like outburst like “Wow!”, “Bam!”, “What’s up?” and “Far Out!”. In many ways, there is a great danger in becoming a cliché. There is no shame in a world like that, it has its merits. The old world, however, had something that we lack.  
Poise.
My grandmother was a spiritual aristocrat in all her ways. In my mind, she outshines most of the historical noblewomen I have known. This woman, who lived to be 95, had something most people should have more of in this day and age. Something that we seem to have lost along the way.
Nobility.
She witnessed the demonstration of the first radio in 1911 and was a contemporary of the Titanic disaster in 1912. She was a pianist in a silent movie cinema and a charity organizer for the destitute during the Second World War. The car, the telephone, the cellular phone, the grammophone, the television, the film-camera, the CD-player, the VCR, the airplane, the helicopter and the submarine: these were all inventions that either appeared during her lifetime or were introduced to a broad audience during her days. During the course of her 95 years on this Earth, she saw inventions come and go, she saw them revolutionize society and change history.
She had to walk a long way to school every morning.
Back when she was young, life was slower.
Step into the time-machine, folks. It’s a cool ride.
“I paid five Swedish crowns for my driver’s license back then,” she always began. “After that, however, I had to go to the police office and get a license that I was sober and orderly. The driving school had forgotten one thing, though. They had not taught me how to drive in reverse, so we went out of town to practice that. Once I was on the road, however, I felt like the Queen of Kalmar. The people warned each other about me, I must admit that. They told each other to look out if I came driving down the road. I was a very good driver, it wasn’t that. I was a very fast driver. 40 km/h (25 miles per hour) was pretty speedy car-travelling back in 1923. One day I encountered horse-driven carriage and stopped the car, just to be nice to the horses. I got a friendly laugh from the man driving the carriage. He asked me if I was afraid of the horses. I had a Fafner, you know, a pretty fancy car at the time. A car from Germany with the horn and the breaks on the outside. I really was the Queen of Kalmar back then. That’s what it felt like, anyway.”
You know what is really nice? My daughter still has that driver’s license in her play-room handbag. Time passes by. Family remains.
We’re in that time-machine that took us from 1993 back to 1923. Now, we go back even further. I really can’t help thinking about Rose in the film “Titanic” when I remember hearing these stories. Rose, played by Kate Winslet, came out of the Titanic disaster alive only to experience all the things a new woman could experience. It was a new world, a world that came exploding out of the cataclysm that was called the Great War, which was what the First World War was known as before Hitler launched the second one.
Anna Kronzell was a selfmade woman, a female driver, a female citizen with her own opinion and a right to vote, a good cook, a musician, an educated poet and a good friend.
I remember sitting on her lovely blue couch in Kalmar and hearing her tell me about how she had been walking to school that April of 1912 and reading the headlines on the front pages of the local press: “Titanic Sinks, 1500 die”.
Back in school that day, there were probably more discussions about how that could’ve happened, more that than any actual teaching going on.
I feel the echoes of history reverberating into my own life into what happened on September 11th, 2001, and how the World Trade Center was attacked by two airplanes. History repeats itself, doesn’t it? Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen again, shall we?
Anyway, we are not here to brood. In fact, my grandmother had quite an eventful youth. Now let’s go even further back to see that youth. Are you ready? Here we go. Press the button. You there, scrolling the screen of your tablet. There. We’re back in the past.
 Born in Åseda on October 18th, 1900, with eight brothers and sisters to call her own, she spent the first 8 years of her life in open Swedish farmland, helping her father Gustaf milk the cows and clean the barn. Her father wrote his initials – “G.N.” – on the wall of that barn  close to Brädsäta when my mother was born in Kalmar back in 1930.
What happened next, that one day in 1908, sounds just like a scene from a true Hollywood-epic. Picture it:
A rich Uncle named Thomas arrives at Farm Friskamålen one sunny spring day with his wife Emilie, politely offering to take Anna to Kalmar to give her an official schooling and a wealthy home. So, Anna packs her bags and her one old doll and moves away from her parents.
At first, it is an unusual situation for Anna. Thomas and Emilie tell her that she can call them “Mom and Dad”. Anna declines, here we see the pride that signified her throughout her life. She uttered the proud words of a young child:
“I already have a mother and a father.”
Promptly, Anna writes home to her parents that she gets all the most expensive clothes and the greatest toys in Kalmar, but that she would rather be at home with them.
Those initial days may have been difficult, but Kalmar became as much a part of her soul as music was or literature or good friends. She remained true to that city until they day she died, back in 1996.
The story continues.
Although her stepbrother does get more domestic benefits than her, what we discover through the filters of history is a girl who constantly meets theatrical stars, writes poetry, learns how to play the piano, spends a summer at a girl’s camp in Wernigerode in Germany (learning how to speak German) and witnesses the official presentation of the first local radio as well as the first machine she has ever seen of its kind: the grammophone.
Motion-picture-like scenes keep flirting with our minds when we read about the events in her life and at every moment of the way, we see her dignity in action.
It was dignity with a naughty giggle, though.
In the Kalmar Girl’s School, her teacher endeavoured to teach her the art of baking cookies.
“Turn the oven baking tray around,” the teacher claimed.
Anna promptly turned the tray upside down, making the cookies fall down on the floor. She uttered the cute inquiry: “Like this, Miss?”
“Be careful not to ruin your reputation,” Aunt Emilie always snapped in true Victorian fashion. “Once you loose it, you’ll never get it back.”
Anna Julia Sofia Nilsson quoted that phrase back in the 1990’s, but always added some detail with a mischieveous wink. Let’s hear what she had to say:
“I was on my way to work as the fastest typist in the Hultsfred Fuel Commission when a man named Knut Kronzell arrived at the scene of my life. He would definately change my life forever. At the time, he was just the friend of a friend, whom I chatted with for a bit. He obviously took a liking to me, because he jumped up on the sideboard of my car while I was driving off. He wooed me until I gave in. The funny thing was, though, that I was already engaged to be married to another fellow. Our announcement had been presented promptly in the local paper. Now, three months later, I was engaged to be married to another man altogether with another ad in the paper about me and this new fellow Knut. What were people going to think? Anyway, I became Anna Kronzell. It was the best decision of my life. In 1926, Bengt-Åke was born. In 1930, Gun Margareta was born. Well, three year-old Gun could never pronounce Bengt-Åke’s name. She always called him Bohkke (Båkke), so that is what he became: from then on, he was Båkke. Now, my grandchild Mikael has taken over that name as Båkke the Second. Funny, isn’t it, though? Both my children have became musicians. I must have excellent musical veins, after all, just like that phrenologist told me in the hotel I worked in, back in 1919.”
That was true, indeed. Uncle Thomas, the owner of a big hotel in Kalmar where Anna worked part-time, had invited a phrenologist to examine the staff for free. He claimed to be able to tell what someone’s talents were just by looking at how the bloodveins criss-crossed in someone’s scalp. When he examined Anna, he exclaimed:
“My dear, you have excellent musical veins.”
These musical veins made her choose the musical profession, at least for a while. She was a pianist at her brother Carl Albien’s cinema “Saga”, which happened to be Sweden’s first cinema ever. Anna always mused that she had to play her pieces faster or slower depending on the how drunk the camera operator was.
The cinematographical cameras back then were circumcolved and operated manually. When the operator was drunk, he cycled slower and Anna had to play slower. The worst case scenario was, of course, when the operator was inconsistent and revolved fast and slow.
She didn’t always work alone, though, and could share the pain with a few colleagues. On a few occassions, other musicians were invited to earn a few extra crowns. The violinist who got his bow caught in her hair during a gig, though, never got a second invitation.
Anna’s husband, and my grandfather, Knut Allan Kronzell had a fantastic singing voice, besides being a sea captain, an accountant and the boss of a steel company. He and Anna were probably responsible for my mother Gun Kronzell’s international opera career. Anna and Knut took the family on vacations to Stockholm to go see operatic performances. That really launched Gun’s career and prompted a subsequent decision to study music in Stockholm and audition in Germany. Bengt-Åke became the bandleader of Resårbandet, a local big band, and his son Krister Kronzell, became a drummer. I even played the drums in that big band. These days, I am the lead vocalist of the J.R. Swing Connection in Germany.
I remember sitting on the floor in my grandma’s flat on Bremergatan 11 in Kalmar, Sweden, sometime during my favorite summer of 1993. I’d completed two successful scholastic exams that year and performed a couple of concerts. In return for my efforts, lots of relatives invited us over for food and chit-chat. As many as 24 invitations came rolling in that summer. As you might gather, this made me a little bit chubbier and roly-poly than I am now in my slender and workaholic self.
That night, though, was quiet. I was staying in my grandmother’s very elegant flat, sleeping under the artwork of baby Jesus among livingroom chandaliers and tapestries, the art on the walls kissing my soul, silver candleholders gleaming in the moonlight, a white-and-golden fireplace with a mirror and Egyptian figurines silently making love to the starlight.
My mother Gun Kronzell hadn’t arrived over from Vienna, Austria yet. You see, we lived in Vienna at the time, where my mom was Professor of Singing at the Music Academy. My father Herbert Eyre Moulton was working in Amsterdam that year, I think, playing a role in the musical “Piaf” and performing in a TV-show together with Nina Simone.
Anyway, I sat alone on my grandmother’s livingroom parquet floor, drinking something on the rocks (water, coke, whiskey, whatever it was), watching the lit lampposts throwing their light on the wall. My grandma was sleeping in her room and I (ever the nightowl) enjoyed a bit of contemplative philosophy, watching the ice melt in my glass, crying tears of joy while listening to the Julio Iglesias and Stevie Wonder duet “My Love”.
It was right then and there that I had a what could be called a revelation. The diary that I wrote my thoughts into doesn’t exist anymore, but the thought that inspired it is eternal: “The real goldmine, the real treasure chest in anyone’s life, is not a monetary one. It’s spiritual. It’s inside the soulful fibre of your personal experience and the love you feel, the love you give, the love you get.”
My passion for things spiritual, things that concern the soul and the beings of people (the essence of what exists beyond what we can see), started in my grandmother’s flat.
So, I felt it was important to tell you this story before I told you about her life.
She inspired me.
So it was fitting that had that golden revelation in my grandma’s flat.
Her soul was indeed a goldmine of treasures.
After spending four hours on the road in our Volkswagen on any given Saturday morning, we stopped at the gas station in Hovmantorp and gave her a call.
“Grandma, we’re on our way!”
“Great, I’ll prepare dinner and set the table. I think I have a soft-drink and a bar of chocolate in the fridge for Charlie.”
There were balloon tennis matches in the livingroom (Moultonian World Record: 829 throws) and card games in the kitchen. We went for summertime strolls around town. When we came back, I helped her bake some deliciously warm, freshly home made cinnamon rolls. On Sunday afternoons after church we’d invite someone over for coffee and talk about old times. My mom sang a song, my dad would would tell our relatives what was going on in our fascinatingly theatrical lives. There was laughter and joy, music and art, intellectual discussions, board games and welcome-home dinners. Those were good times back in Kalmar in Sweden, my grandma and I. They were summer days filled with fun.
Anna was also a true friend.
For 70 years, she kept contact with her schoolpals from her girlschool graduation class of 1918. They met every year in my Great-Uncle Carl Albien’s City Park Restaurant Byttan (he gave it the name “The Butter-Tub”, when he took over as its boss after the First World War, because of its similarity to the era’s popular breakfast accessory).
The old girls, that used to be little maids from school, would sit there and chat about old times on every yearly anniversary of their graduation. I am sure that there were no huge differences between their behavior in 1988 and their behavior back in 1918. Okay, they were older, more dignified, more experienced, but they were still those giggling little girls that chatted about poetry and perfume and local personalities. The only difference was that they now had grey hair and were wearing pretty cotton gloves and dainty hats.
I’ll tell you a little secret about grandmother Anna. She was a brave girl. When our old dog Wutzi, a poodle-dachshund-mix, bounced about her feet one day during her Austrian visit in our Mödling home, my grandmother fell and badly injured her head.
Holy Mother of God, what did she do? She didn’t gulp down an Irish whiskey like my dear father did. She didn’t flutter to the window like my mother did, looking for the ambulance. No, she went to the mirror and powdered her nose.
There’s more where that came from. One summer, 1988 I believe it was, her legs weakened terribly and she had one of her doctors come home and give her a cortisone injection that was supposed to strengthen them. Unfortunately, the injection had the opposite effect and within a year, my grandmother was in a wheelchair.
Did that stop her from pushing forward? No way, not her. Her lifestyle remained dignified, her lavish birthday parties remained lavish, she still invited over friends for meat and potatoes. She still had loads of fun and she still remained the gracious landlady.
She even had her good childhood friend Mrs. Lesseur serve the afternoon coffee, who, at the time almost 80 years old, even came to the party wearing an apron and a white shirt, looking like a top waitress in a fashionable hotel.
One of the things I admired so much about her, later on I understood how much of her was to be admired, was that she never complained about the pain she felt in her legs. One of her legs was shorter than the other, so she walked with a slight limp. The truly amazing thing was that nobody ever thought of it at all. She had such class, such poise, such style, such joie-de-vivre, that her personality outshone anything that might’ve been to her disadvantage.
How I enjoyed going with my grandmother to visit her friends. They were all so nice and, heck, I always got candy to take home with me and they all listened to what I had to say.
Anna lived alone in her fashionable apartment for another six remaining years (her husband Knut had died back in 1973). Thanks to the fantastic Swedish social system, the state had a caretaker come home to Anna’s flat three times a day. The caretaker made her breakfast, cleaned her flat and helped her pay her bills. The journalist Palle Bobecker, a life-long friend of hers who was born in the same house as my mother, was granted the same social service and could enjoy a respectful old age because of it.
One summer afternoon, we were off to the library, leaving grandma alone for a bit. She fell off her wheelchair by accident and remained seated in the hallway for almost two hours until we came back. Her caretaker at the time, a Danish woman named Karin, even called her to see if everything was okay. Anna told her nothing about her falling off the wheelchair. She chit-chatted with her on the phone about this and that, hung up and waited for our return. Anna knew that we were coming back, so why make a problem out of it?
Courage, stamina and, yes, nobility of heart. That was Anna in a nutshell.
She frequently used the local taxi-service for seniors, as well. They were wheelchair-friendly larger cars that took her across large regional areas to visit her relatives.
Quite frequently, she used those cabs in order to hear us sing in concerts. The drivers even escorted her into the concert hall and told her when they would be back to get her.
Those caretakers and cabdrivers all heard her tell them her endless anecdotes about her eventful life. They were the anecdotes to end all anecdotes: she was the first female driver in Kalmar 1923 and she made sure everyone knew that.
 
Conclusion
 
One person’s musical interests, her friendly ways and dignified appearance can mean a lot, not only for the children and grandchildren, but for the great-grandchildren, as well. When my daughter Mara Sophie Moulton pretends that her great-grandmother Anna’s driver’s license from 1923 is her own passport, then I know that Anna is alive somewhere in time and space. Maybe Anna hears us, reads this, smiles and thinks to herself:
“Those were good times, weren’t they?”
Back in 1918, no one really thought of networking, attention or fame. Today, like Andy Warhol foretold, everybody wants their fifteen minutes of fame, but we are chasing the wind, so preoccupied these days with that golden rainbow with the treasure at the end of it that we miss the train that takes us home to our hearts.
Once we get to that rainbow’s end all we might find is a bowl of corn flakes.
Let’s live in the present, but let’s fill it with the kind of spiritual light Anna possessed.
The soul glitters.
That’s the real goldmine, the real wealth.
Anna had something we should all want: nobility of heart.
How does humanity retrieve what it lost when the modern age caught up with us?
We have to rediscover how it is to be aware of our lives, not only letting the life pass by in a daze. We have to be able to wait, realizing that patience really is a virtue, realizing that personal thought might be better than letting others do the thinking.
            My grandmother gave me a feeling that there always was enough time. She always took the time to read me a bedtime-story and sometimes we laughed until we cried even during those bedtime stories. Even our cocker spaniel Snuffy loved falling asleep on her feet in our flat in Gothenburg. After all, she was the only one that never moved around. After she picked me up from school – after our customary visit to the café for a bite to eat, that is – she sat down in our sofa “Clothilde” and knitted and that is where she remained for the rest of the evening: in her own cosy corner.
            She could afford to remain seated.
After all, she had around moved enough in her life, organized shiploads of clothing for the poor and given so much money to the blind that it actually helped her own self at her old age when her eyesight started failing her. The Kalmar Library had audiobooks even back in the 1980’s. She often called our flat in Vienna, Austria and enthusiastically informed us what Jane Eyre right now was doing in Bronté’s book or what the prehistory behind Mahler’s 2nd Symphony was and how incredible Chopin’s Etude Opus 10 sounded when Rubinstein played the piece. Laughter, joy, pride, love, intellect: all these things and more were Anna’s vibrant gifts to enjoy. I know that she hears me when I tell her in the presence of all you sweet readers: “Grandma, wherever you are: we love you! You were one of a kind!”
Time waits for nobody. What we call our own has turned into an absolute necessity. We can regain something that we lost, though. Something that disappeared once we became too facebook, too cool and too casual. It could be found inside my grandmother’s heart, inside her adamant joviality and witty poise.
We need a little nobility of heart.
We need to be acutely aware of the echoes of time as it passes by our vision every given day and understand that the people of yesteryear were no different than we are. We need to understand that there is more to time than meets the eye.
It’s the ultimate illusion.
The people of the the world that disintergrated when the First World War started were just way more aware of the excitement of the prospects of creating a new world.
Have we become too cool to understand that we can change the world just by following our dreams and finding inside us what Anna had all along? Namely: integrity.
And, yes, Anna had the time. She took the time to think, to feel, to love, to hope, to become wise, to laugh, to cry, to hug, to kiss and to dream.
Anna’s old world was another time in history, but the virtues are eternal.
So, in actual fact, we, too, can become as eternally wise as she now is in heaven.
 
References
 
Literary References
 
Lundh, Kiki. 1997. Jag ger dig mitt liv. Borgholm, Sweden. Bildningsförlaget.
Hofrén, Manne, 1961. Historieglimtar från Kalmar Slott. Tidningen Barometern.
Nordstrom, Byron J. 2002. The History of Sweden. Greenwood Press.
Kent, Neil. 2008. A Concise History of Sweden. Cambridge University Press.
Grimberg, Carl, 2008. A History of Sweden. Dodo Press.
Larsson, Olle. 2008. Sveriges Historia. Historiska Media.
 
 
 
Websites
 
Charles E.J. Moulton, 2011. ”As A Matter of Fact, I Do!” Vocal Images.
http://vocalimages.com/?page_id=774
Charles  E.J. Moulton. 2011. “Gun Kronzell” Vocal Images.
http://vocalimages.com/?page_id=746
Anna Julia Sofia Kronzell
            https://www.facebook.com/AnnaJuliaSofiaKronzell
 

The Birth of Jesus

1In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. 2(This was the first census that took place whilea Quirinius was governor of Syria.) 3And everyone went to their own town to register.
4So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. 5He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. 6While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, 7and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.
8And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. 9An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. 10But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. 11Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. 12This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”
13Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,
14“Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”
15When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”
16So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. 17When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, 18and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. 19But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. 20The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.
21On the eighth day, when it was time to circumcise the child, he was named Jesus, the name the angel had given him before he was conceived.
Jesus Presented in the Temple
22When the time came for the purification rites required by the Law of Moses, Joseph and Mary took him to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord 23(as it is written in the Law of the Lord, “Every firstborn male is to be consecrated to the Lord”b ), 24and to offer a sacrifice in keeping with what is said in the Law of the Lord: “a pair of doves or two young pigeons.”c
25Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon, who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was on him. 26It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. 27Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the Law required, 28Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying:
29“Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you may now dismissd your servant in peace.
30For my eyes have seen your salvation,
31which you have prepared in the sight of all nations:
32a light for revelation to the Gentiles,
and the glory of your people Israel.”
33The child’s father and mother marveled at what was said about him. 34Then Simeon blessed them and said to Mary, his mother: “This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, 35so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.”
36There was also a prophet, Anna, the daughter of Penuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was very old; she had lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, 37and then was a widow until she was eighty-four.e She never left the temple but worshiped night and day, fasting and praying. 38Coming up to them at that very moment, she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem.
39When Joseph and Mary had done everything required by the Law of the Lord, they returned to Galilee to their own town of Nazareth. 40And the child grew and became strong; he was filled with wisdom, and the grace of God was on him.
The Boy Jesus at the Temple
41Every year Jesus’ parents went to Jerusalem for the Festival of the Passover. 42When he was twelve years old, they went up to the festival, according to the custom. 43After the festival was over, while his parents were returning home, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but they were unaware of it. 44Thinking he was in their company, they traveled on for a day. Then they began looking for him among their relatives and friends. 45When they did not find him, they went back to Jerusalem to look for him. 46After three days they found him in the temple courts, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. 47Everyone who heard him was amazed at his understanding and his answers. 48When his parents saw him, they were astonished. His mother said to him, “Son, why have you treated us like this? Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you.”
49“Why were you searching for me?” he asked. “Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?”f 50But they did not understand what he was saying to them.
51Then he went down to Nazareth with them and was obedient to them. But his mother treasured all these things in her heart. 52And Jesus grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man.

ECHOES OF A FAIRYTALE
 
Kalmar Castle examined by
Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
Some places are blessed with the echoes of history. In that respect, the events that occured in the coastal town of Kalmar, Sweden had such a strong effect that, like a stone thrown on water, the rings expand indefinately.
Maybe the spirits are still here making the reverberations grow.
The renaissance palace overlooks Sweden’s most attractive bay. The water glitters as travellers bask in the summer sunshine, ordering Swedish Pripps beer going with the meatballs with cranberry sauce. Where tourists sit today, wars were fought, parties celebrated and a 12th century fortress was built in order to ward off enemies.
I grew up here, my family taking me on summer walks by the moat. I fed the ducks, played king with my father, told ghost stories with my mother and visited “the magic tree”. Years later, I worked here as a tourguide.
Where international visitors lazily enjoy the luxury of Swedish summer life, kings and revolutionary rebels alike tread both heathen and sacred rocks.
Nowadays, the city may not have the Danish border 40 kilometres away. This border was pushed toward the bay on February 8th, 1645. But the Scandinavian collaboration was a lucky draw that finally bettered itself after many tries. The kings no longer fight with the population, like they did when the rebel Nils Dacke almost toppled the realm in 1542. Nowadays, the royal family don’t go into battle. They go shopping on the island of Öland, hear their pop-star friends perform in the re-established rock-ruin of Borgholm or meet dignitaries.
Back in the 12th century, Kalmar had a population of 10 000. It was a city of growing importance, largely due to trade. Germans, largely representatives from Mecklenburg and Lübeck, travelled back and forth between the countries and exchanged products, brought in books, tutored catholic priests and provided the aristocracy with German beer. The Kalmar beer was redeemed “impossible to drink”. That, too, has changed.
It was the increasingly important Hanseatic trade that created the necessity to avert a hazardous cross-cultural climate that brought on international connections. Not only was there a Scandinavian border to protect. Pirates raided the coast, making official life in Kalmar one full of peril. King Knut Eriksson erected the first defense tower in order to ward off enemies.
Papal delegate Cardinal Guido held a conference, defining the borders of church and state. This prompted a restructuring of Kalmar Castle in 1275. As a war with Denmark raged in 1276, King Magnus Ladulås married Hedvig von Holstein in order to strengthen German relations. In the wake of the ordinance of Alsnö in September of 1280, the king gave inner political peace a supporting pillar. Kalmar, the southern most outpost in Sweden, became the key to the kingdom. In order to conquer Kalmar Castle one had to penetrate the city walls.
To use modern terminology, Kalmar was becoming a star.
Sandstone and limestone was carried by the tons in boats from Öland. Defense-towers, senatorial buildings and storage quarters were built.
By the turn of the century it became a royal palace with a wall and a moat.
This meant a lot for intercontinental trade. For a while, it seemed that the Swedes and the Danes could set aside their differences. Albrecht of Mecklenburg was crowned Swedish king on Febuary 18, 1364. Several rebellions failed, until Norway’s King Hakon and Denmark’s Queen Margareta became successful in evicting the ruler. And so, the Kalmar Union was founded as a result. Signed on June 17th 1397 at Kalmar Castle, it hosted all political agenda.
However, the dramatic collapse of the union marks the explosive beginning of the castle’s glorious career. With the meddling of German trade councillors, Sweden’s lack of leadership lead Christian II to invade and take over Sweden, forcing a young blue blooded officer named Gustav Vasa to run flee Sweden in 1518.
He came as far as Lübeck, a Swedish ally, where he stayed until the coast was clear. His arrival in Kalmar on May 31st, 1520 marks the official beginning of the Vasa-era. It was obvious to him that the new government, that had chased him away, was the evil result of a desastrous union. Travelling all the way up to mid Sweden left him pleading for the farmers of Dalarna to help him.
It was on his way away from them that he heard about the tragic events of the Stockholm Bloodbath. The Danish king had executed 82 people during the course of three days. He was now the only possible heir and therefore a walking target. As so often is the case, this event started a chain reaction that lead Sweden to help Gustav Vasa ascend to the throne.
During Gustav Vasa’s 39 year reign, the king supervised the renovation of his network of sixteen Vasa-Castles and spent many months here each year. Kalmar Castle became the kingdom’s key and Vasa’s most beloved residence.
During his years here, Gustav demonstrated more organization than culture, more fashion than looks and more temper than health. His iron fist was so harsh, however, that his family kept on ruling Sweden for a full 131 years.
This harshness left its trademark on his reputation. He builtH Kalmar Castle staircases out of churchyard gravestones, ate the tax-deemed citizen-donated natural goods and paid his allies in melted Catholic treasures. Not to mention how much he ate and drank.
During his third honeymoon, spent here at Kalmar Castle, this becomes more than evident. The event was a three month bash that had 1500 guests drink 228 000 litres of beer and eat pork, peacock, swan, beef, elk, fish and eel by the tons. The public eating habit, where chosen citizens could watch the royals eat, was carried out even here. The royals threw left-overs at the populace, who in return could witness these royals devour their average of 28 courses a day by gastronomical recycling. Buckets were held ready in side rooms in order to receive the superfluous content of royal stomachs. Served to the animals, these were in turn served hours later on the oak tables. We call that recycling.
Nevertheless, the Kalmar Castle that we see today is his creation. He built the foundation on medival grounds, but the glory belongs to Vasa. His children may have decorated its rooms, built chapels and added windows. Vasa was the founding father.
The most artistic of the children was Erik XIV, who spent much time here.  Erik sculpted and painted the castle’s resident jewel. His king’s chamber is a little gem, full of musical frescoes and anecdotes. Accordingly, the castle became a temple of culture during his reign. Unfortunately, his insanity lead to a coup-de-tat and supposed murder with his own brother Johan as a culprit.
Under Johan III’s govern, the castle become a fortress of renovation. Sigismund, Vasa’s grandson, built a catholic chapel on the protestant castle wall and thereby brought his own uncle Charles against the current crown, a fact that ignited the Kalmar Bloodbath of 1599.
Family quarrels never came easy in the Vasa dynasty.
The fire that raged here in 1647 was a witness to the echoes of an era. When the glorious superpower, created by the 30 years war, dwindled down with Charles XI, this king was also the last one to live here. Defended 22 times by 287 cannons, it had thrived. The subsequent stagnation that followed had the castle threatened by destruction after its’ hard time as an alcoholic distillery. 19th century romanticism saved it. Poets and historians insisted on its renovation.
Fans today arrive in droves in order to experience what they have missed in so many other baroque fortresses: the true fairytale. When my six year old daughter sat on the throne in the golden Kalmar hall with its 96 kilogramm ceiling knob, I saw that fairytale come true. She felt like a princess. No wonder. She was living the fantasy.
When tourists gaze across the Kalmar bay onto the Swedish sunset, they too are reminded of the gloriously painful times that the palace endured. They are ushered through fantasy-like ballrooms and one or two must realize that the echoes of a fairytale are becoming a reality during the castle’s second renaissance.
The many ghosts here, the white lady in the tower, the monk in the chapel and King Johan’s widow, are here to witness this glory, as well.
But that is a completely different story.
 
 

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Saint Nicholas (Greek: Ἅγιος Νικόλαος, Hagios Nikólaos, Latin: Sanctus Nicolaus);

(15 March 270 – 6 December 343), also called Nikolaos of Myra, was a historic 4th-century Christian saint and Greek Bishop of Myra, in Asia Minor (modern-day Demre, Turkey).  Because of the many miracles attributed to his intercession, he is also known as Nikolaos the Wonderworker (Νικόλαος ὁ Θαυματουργός, Nikolaos ho Thaumaturgos). He had a reputation for secret gift-giving, such as putting coins in the shoes of those who left them out for him, a practice celebrate


d on his feast day―St Nicholas Day (6 December, Gregorian calendar, in Western Christianity and 19 December, Julian calendar, in Eastern Christianity); and thus became the model for Santa Claus, whose modern name comes from the Dutch Sinterklaas, itself from a series of elisions and corruptions of the transliteration of "Saint Nikolaos". His reputation evolved among the faithful, as was common for early Christian saints. In 1087, part of the relics (about half of the bones) were furtively translated to Bari, in Apulia, Italy; for this reason, he is also known as Nikolaos of Bari. The remaining bones were taken to Venice in 1100.

The historical Saint Nicholas is commemorated and revered among Anglican, Catholic, Lutheran, and Orthodox Christians. In addition, some Baptist,Methodist, Presbyterian, and Reformed churches have been named in honor of Saint Nicholas. Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of sailors, merchants, archers, repentant thieves, children, brewers, pawnbrokers and students in various cities and countries around Europe.

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His Soulmate, the Cello
 
John Ehde’s Extraordinary Musical Career
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
 
            I distinctly remember the first time I performed with John Ehde. It was a day close to Christmas sometime in the mid to late 1980’s. I was a teenager already studying at the Vienna Musical Academy, taking every chance I got to have more experienced colleagues inspire me. My mother, the prominent operatic mezzosoprano Gun Kronzell (1930 – 2011) had taken leave from her steady position as a Professor of Voice and Interpretation at the Vienna Music Academy to direct, produce and perform in a show we called “Cabaret Kunterbunt,” which in English roughly could be translated as “Cabaret of Rainbows.”
            It was very much a funloving event for children, a presentation of fun, songs, stories and games at the Swedish Christmas Market. The Albert Schweizer Haus in Vienna’s 9th district, close to Freud’s old office, was filled to the brim with shoppers and merry carolers. Every second hour, we appeared as the comic team par excellance delivering a wacky routine of sketches to droves of laughing kiddies.
            John, my mother Gun, my experienced Renaissance Man of a father Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 – 2005) and myself, we were all made of the same stuff. As consummate and free-thinking artists, our aim was creativity and what we got out of it was always inspiring, fun-loving, passionate, deep-thinking and cultural. Most of all, it was free in spirit. It didn’t matter if we were singing carols at a market or performing for the elite at the opera or for an ambassador at an embassy. Music was music. That was that.
            John Ehde was already then an up-and-coming solo-cellist, studying at the Vienna Music Academy. Professor Wolfgang Herzer was his teacher and one of the solo cellists of the Vienna Philharmonic. He gave John every chance he could to work as a guest in the Vienna Philharmonic. Furthermore, John took every chance he got to perform in concerts. In fact, John worked all the time. That night, he was going to be playing the cello part in the orchestra of the Vienna State Opera for Puccini’s “Turandot” with the magastar Eva Marton singing the title role.
It was also in the orchestra pit during one of these performances that John played his cello part in the score so enthusiastically that he knocked down the music stand of the colleague sitting next to him. John himself, however, says that he learned a great deal from the symbiosis and the constant collaboration within that orchestra. The important role of the concert master, even at times overshining the power younger conductors had over them, provided John with interesting anecdotes, inspiration and information for his later work.
It says everything about John’s attitude toward music and performing in general that John took the time to join our wild group of Christmas carolers during that day back in the 1980s, although playing in what he described to be the Men’s Club of the Vienna Philharmonic of Yesteryear.
At that Swedish Christmas Market, though, John and I told the story of Little Red Riding Hood as a part of our “Cabaret of Rainbows,” using only our voices and instruments as tools. I played the guitar, portraying Red Riding Hood. John used his cello to play the role of the wolf. My mother sang a beautiful aria and my father sang an Irish folktune.
            Looking back now at the incredible names that John worked with over the years, and continues to work with, his happy-go-lucky love of experiments shines a beaming light upon his extraordinary career. At one concert of ours a few years later, John told a story about a gang of rockers cruising the highway, a tale complete with audial reproductions of heavy metal music, a roadside accident and an arriving ambulance. John used only his cello to tell the story. Magic in John’s mind is a holy thing. Every note he plays tells a story.
His cello also makes the grown-ups smile and the children laugh. How perfect, then, that John has been producing, directing and performing his own musical children’s concerts, combining magic tricks with the playing of classical music. After all, John, like me, is a child who just happened to grow up. Music keeps the soul young.
At the Swedish Ambassador’s residence, to which we were invited repeatedly back toward the end of the 20th century, we held a concert soirée once that will remain in my memory forever. Mats Knutsson, now working in the Vienna State Opera, started playing the initial bars of De Falla’s “Ritual Fire Dance”, only to be joined by John Ehde running in from the wings after a customary four bars, his cello in hand, his blond hair tousled, his cheeks red and a bright grin gracing his face. Happily, he erupted into the main cello theme of the piece as soon as he reached his on-stage-seat.
That is John Ehde in a nutshell: a top-of-the-crop instrumentalist, a man who has worked with the likes of Jessye Norman and Claudio Abbado and still loves to rock it once in a while.
Born in Stockholm in 1962 as the son of brilliant poets, musicians and academics Berit and Martin Ehde, he soon went on to study at the Royal Danish Academy of Music in Aarhus, taking his diploma in 1984 at age 22 before venturing out to study and work in Vienna.
John’s musical anecdotes includes stories about one of the greatest of the conductors of the Vienna Philharmonic: Carlos Kleiber (1930 – 2004). He was reputed to be one of the few that aimed to control and direct the orchestra’s musical interpretation. Carlos, like so many artists, was a unique personality who carried his scores to rehearsal in a plastic bag.
The orchestra, accordingly, didn’t make it easy for Kleiber. While the 2nd movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 4 was being rehearsed, Kleiber tried his best to explain the rhythm to the musicians. Finally, the concert master spat in loud Viennese dialect: “Also, wos woins jetzt, woins des laang oder kuaz?” (“Okay, how do you want that tone? Long or short?”) Needless to say, Kleiber didn’t return to Vienna after that.  
Such was the life in the Vienna Philharmonic, exciting and yet excitingly mysterious.
            With his amazing Austrian experiences as a professional career buffer, John was hired as first solo cellist in at the Helsingborg Symphony Orchestra, a congregation that my grandfather, a solo trumpeter for the Royal Swedish Army Orchestra named Adolf Kronzell, helped found.
            John’s professional experiences with the late, great Leonard Bernstein, adored by the otherwise somewhat snobbish Vienna Philharmonic, made John’s spirits soar. Under Bernstein’s supervision, these conservative men became little children eating from the palm of his hand. The doors were always open during his rehearsals and students were allowed to listen to the live music. On his 70th birthday, Leonard was given a philharmonic birthday-fanfare. Lennie, who was absolutely loved by the Austrians, exclaimed: “In G-Major, please! Two octaves!”
            Not only did the orchestra laugh at this spontaneous comment, they played exactly what they were told to play without a moment’s notice. Ergo: musical excellence in action.
            Often enough, Lennie would appear in cowboy-pants and sneakers to rehearsal, dancing himself through orchestral pieces, finally exclaiming a heartfelt: “Bravissimi!”
            The icon Herbert von Karajan (1908 – 1989) remains in John’s memory as one of his most moving experiences. During a recording of Verdi’s “The Masked Ball” at Vienna’s Musikverein in 1989, the maestro was old and tired and spoke in a very soft voice. Then, suddenly, Karajan burst out in a screaming forte that the wrong music score had been brought to the music stand. He screamed, shouted and banged his fists against the wooden stand.
            Placido Domingo, the headliner that evening, ran up to the famed conductor and put his arms around him, speaking in Italian, joking and calming him down. After that, Domingo sang his aria so splendidly that the orchestra cried. Karajan conducted in small movements, making the orchestra follow his every tempo-change. Afterwards, a colleague of John confessed: “That’s how we play under Herbert von Karajan!”
            Later that year, Karajan was dead.
            Under Carl Maria Giulini’s (1914 – 2005) baton, John Ehde felt safe and warm. The conductor’s sympathetic charisma, strong presence, radiant eyes and clear direction brought out the clear musical architecture of Bruckner’s 9th symphony. The pizzicati of the beginning Scherzo turned John’s cello and the cellis of his colleagues into resounding rockets of warmth. In John’s own words, the 3rd Adagio movement opened the warm doors of heaven and gave him musical ecstacy in what finished in Giulini’s amazing tremolo fortissimo.
            The two concerts and live-recording that came as a result gave John the ability to experience a man who was absolutely consumed by music, only returning to reality once the bleeps of the sound engineer came reverberating across the hall from the control room.
            A conductor John had the privilage to work under was Claudio Abbado (1933 – 2014), whose photographic memory inspired many people who had the luck working with him. The intense enthusiasm and self-evident clearness appeared first in the equally intense passages, filled with an astounding forte or a fantastic presto. In the slower and senstive passages it was hard to deciphre what he wanted from the orchestra or what he meant.
            The challenge in working with Abbado lay in the fact that he carried out run-throughs of entire movements without interruption or comments. The orchestra would rebel by continuing to play even after Abbado had stopped conducting.
            A colleague of John’s remarked that Abbado was a great conductor to have as a leader on a tour. He delivered the goods, most certainly.
            The Austrian-American conductor and famous musical director of the Boston Symphony Erich Leinsdorf (1912 – 1993) made an impression on John because of his original and personal conviction. This conviction shaped itself within an attitude of playing a piece not completely direction by direction according to the composer’s wishes, but how the emotion dictated it. In a particular piece, he would play a broader staccato than originally Beethoven’s intention, claiming that “this, too, is staccato.”
            “Not too short on those notes, gentlemen,” he would tell the orchestra musicians, “and remember: sing, sing, sing, sing!!!”
Like Bernstein, Leinsdorf told his orchestra musicians to emulate the human voice, the greatest of all man’s instruments. Leinsdorf was a friendly man who knew what he wanted and was able to use small sardonic comments without hurting all too many feelings.
One of John Ehde’s most unforgettable experiences was playing Beethoven’s Leonora Overture with Leinsdorf. The conductor had the orchestra stand up three times to meet the eardeafening ovations of the audience. Finally, one cello colleague turned to John and exclaimed: “They’re applauding you!”
That reminded John of the advice that he had received to always play full out when working as a guest in an orchestra. Well, I have known John Ehde for 30 years and he has always played full out. Then again, I come from a family of artists who have always played and performed full out. Maybe that’s why I have always done the same. Maybe that’s why I like John so much.
The list of conductors that John has worked with goes on: with Zubin Metha (born 1936) he performed Mahler’s Symphony No. 3 in 1999. Mariss Jansons (born 1943) conducted John in a concert performance of the Alp Symphony by Richard Strauss in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, an experience that included a personal tour of the Strauss home. James Levine (born 1943) asked the concert master what the tempo of the Mozart symphony was that they were about to record.  With Václav Neumann (1920 - 1995) John performed as solo cellist in the concert hall of the Berlin Philhamonic, playing Dvorak’s 9th symphony.
Sir Simon Rattle (born 1955) asked for a great deal of attention and concentration, but gave back a great deal of warmth and flexibility.
            I have saved the best for last. Knowing John Ehde and performing with him all through my career has provided me with a great deal of inspiration. Not only has he performed with the greatest of the classical elite. He has also performed with the popular music and jazz music elite of his home country Sweden, people like Robert Wells and Carl-Axel Dominique. His greatest gift, though, is his enthusiasm. He had that enthusiasm absolutely in common with my parents.
            Gun Kronzell spent 60 years on the operatic concert-hall stages, singing every imaginable mezzo role, working with people like Birgit Nilsson, Luciano Pavarotti and Nicolai Gedda. Herbert Eyre Moulton was the MCA Show Star of the 1950s, an Off-Broadway playwright, a stage- and film-actor who had shared the screen with people like Alan Rickman and Clint Eastwood. And yet they were so much like John: lovers of music and culture and enthusiastic about anything that anything to do with creativity. Ergo: 100 % professionalism, 0 % arrogance.
            John Ehde came and saw me on stage when I played the Big Bopper in “Buddy – the Musical” in Hamburg. He certainly rocked the joint, watching me from his seat in the 2nd row that night. When he played the cello at my mother Gun Kronzell’s funeral back in 2011, he played it with the same amount of love and passion for music as had he been headlining Carnegie Hall with James Levine. My mother was there in spirit, singing along with us as we performed Cesar Franck’s “Panis Angelicus” to a touched and weeping crowd of soulmates.
            While acting and singing in the musical “Piaf” in Amsterdam back in 1988, my father Herbert Eyre Moulton got together with his good friend John between a rehearsal and TV-show. Herb was off to the filmset to record a TV-show, where he sang next to Nina Simone. John was about to perform as a headliner in one of his concerts, possibly appearing with Jessye Norman, probably getting standing ovations for it. The two ingenious men laughed and sang, smiled and joked, happy as ever, enthusiastic like always and knowing in their hearts that they, as artists, had won the lucky draw in the roulette wheel of life, enjoying the privilage to fill other hearts with joy, inspire souls to be creative themselves and excel in their professions like nobody ever had before.
            Just like John Ehde, they could be proud to be the best they could be and love the soul of music enough to create a better world.
            We are certainly looking forward to seeing what John Ehde does next.
            Whatever it is he is about to do, I know that it certainly will be an exciting eruption of creativity for everyone involved.

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These are my grandfather Herbert Lewis Moulton’s letters,

written on typewriter back when he was stationed as a soldier in the U.S. and in France, back in was called the Great War. He was a young man in 1917, training and living at Camp Stanley, Camp Sherman, Custer and in other army camps. Toward the end of what we now know as the First World War (from 1917 to 1919), Big Herb (as my father Herbert Eyre Moulton – who lived from 1927 to 2005 - called him) was transferred to France, fighting for the United States and working as a wireless operator in places like Houdelain-Court, St. Nicholas-du-Port and Rue-de-vru near Chateau Thierry.
These letters from 1918 are priceless historical documents, and sharing them with the world has become a mission. Read these letters with reverance. They describe a time most of us only know from the history books. My grandfather describes his feelings, his doubts, his worries, but also tells us what he loves and how he sees his life in retrospect, at his present and in the years to come. He worries that he will not return. In spite of his young years at the time of writing, these letters paint the portrait of a thinker. He was a man going to fight one of the most horrible wars that world had ever seen, in a time when, in quote, “kingdoms are shattered in a day and the world changes every night.” These touching evidences of true soul is the testament of a peaceful soldier.

August 16, 1908 (Herbert Lewis Moulton was 17, 9 years before he became a soldier in World War I)
 
Dear Mother and Father,
 
I just received Harper’s ticket that he received with him. Between Thurs. night and Sat morning about 450 women arrived. Sat. noon we fed over 600 people, that over 200 people’s dishes apiece, for there are only 3 dish wipers. It takes over 2 hours after each meal to clear things up. I am about sick of the job.  apiece, for there are only 3 dish wipers. It takes over 2 hours after each meal to clear things up. I am about sick of the job. Yesterday morning we folded about 13,000 paper napkins in a couple hours. I have to stand over near the zinc and clocks and sweat (and work) and when I am through my clothes are so wet I have (been) turning them out. I am going to the head waiter and tell him that I want to be a waiter and give my reasons if he will not let me. I will be home to-morrow evening for I am about sick.
They are short of men so I think my request will be granted. Tell Harp that I wasn’t the “Bucaneer” Friday after noon and we beat the hosters by about a mile. Instead of a center board the “Bue” has two nich boards and every course I had the job of pulling over up and letting the others down. When I got up my hands had all blisters and my little finger got caught in a pully, cutting it almost to the bone which interfered with my work a little, but it is almost well now. Last night, I went out across the lake to Henwood Springs Hotel to dance with a couple of people and met quite a few nice people.
We rode across in a launch and walked in about 1 hour a distance of about 3 miles and (I) was pretty tired when I got in bed about 12:30. Two or three nights I visited with Mr. Hughes and once went down to Oakbank about ¼ mile, where a couple of Lervis boys are staying. I have played tennis quite a bit. Lately and not very much: golf, because I don’t like to hunt balls with talls weeds and timber. I swim twice a day regular rain or shine. I have met a quite a few young people around camp and am not lonely. Tell Harp that Colvin’s ear is not any better, he has been staying out of the (master?) since last Wednesday on account of it. This evening, Colvin and I are going to Williams Bay to get my suitcase that you are supposed to have sent. I’ll drop a postal if I get it all right. If I were at home I would have --- (Illegible) --- You will have to send me some cash because I am going to have my under none (?) and collars, shirts, socks, etc. The shirts go to Williams Bay and my under none to an old --- woman near by.
Ask Walt if he will let me take his high shoes for it has rained quite a bit and its liable to rain some more. It rained all Saturday morning. Friday night and last night. Papa can take the shoes to Mr. Hughes for he is in Chicago between Tuesday and Friday and he will bring them to me Friday night. Between this conference and the next we have 3 or 4 days grace. 24 to 28 and I think you might arrange to come up then. Mrs. Hughes will --- together this week about it.
(Written up on top of the page:) Folks, write to me once in a while.
Well, I must elope.
Your son, love to all,
Herbert
 
I was in an awful hurry, so excuse the whim.
 
 
Dear Folks:-
 
            It is 8 o’clock and I am sitting in my tent writing without a light. You can still read here at 9 o’clock and after, and you can see to move around all night – it never gets really dark. The nights are so wonderful and clear and the stars so bright that they set me to raving every night and it makes me hate to go to bed – if it were not for that tired feeling we never would go.
            Just think I have just passed the 26th milestone in the path of my life with the passing of  this day. One year ago to-day I would never dressd that such great changes would take place in all of our lives. Each and everyone of us in a different sphere and so widely scattered with Walt married, Minnie in California with the kiddies. Art in Mexico, Bob and Edith and little Ruth in Colorado with you two dear ones before going to Penn. Wes at Ft. Sheridan preparing for, we know not what, Harp probably leaving Chicago now with the same prospects in view, myself on the sunset Alkili plains of Montana dodging the cactus rattle snake and alkili water, endeavoring to make the desert, help feed the mouths of the hungry multitudes and passing through my bath of fire in the process and father and mother dear in Colorado slowly and surely, I hope, regaining enough physical strength to carry themselves through these momentous times when kingdoms are shattered in a day and the world changes every night. Though separated by circumstances I feel that we are all drawn closer together in spiritual communion, each through one’s love for another, offering encouragement and giving strength to carry us through the tests through which we are going and the even greater tests yet to come.
            How we have all enjoyed (Larkins?) “Take me back to babyland and please don’t let me go”! It certainly makes one desirious of going back to the days when all that the morrow could bring was a broken toy or two and when you only saw the rainbows.
            Have you read the articles in the American Magazine lately by various writers, such as “Looking ahead at Thirty-six” and “Looking ahead at Thirty-five”? That is the way my thoughts have been running to-day – back over the years and ahead and speculating. Looking back, I can say that my life has been more than full and that I have really seen a great deal of life in many of its phases. My interests and activities have been many and varied, and though only 26 I have met few men who are as interested and as active in as many lines as I have been. Here I meet a person who is interested in one thing that I am and then I meet another, but there their interests cease. Most of them seem complacent and content with their particular interest and hobby, while it seems that the more that I do and see the greater grows my desires. Though my shortcomings are many and my virtues small, though I have done those things that I should not have done and left undone, those that I should have done, and no one in the world realizes my shortcomings more than I do, still I feel in passing my twenty-six years in review on the pages of time that there is a balance on the credit side. I am willing to accept them as my share of this world’s pleasures and take whatever the future may have in store. Ah, the future! Looking ahead I find it impossible to speculate or plan; the past fatal year that has changed so much makes me realize what a short sojourn life on this place really is and that one must ever be on the alert to grasp the oppurtunities to serve that present themselves while one yet may. I am overwhelmed with the desire to make this a better world to live in before I go and shall leave no stone unturned in my little daily duties to bring that desire to a realization.
            That is the star my wagon is hitched to as I pass on to my 27th year and I know that I have the love and the best wishes of all my dear ones to cheer and strengthen me in my journey. My hands are so stiff and my eyes so heavy that I must go to rest. I shall write very soon of recent events and our progress and experiences – it is a long tale. Goodnight.
 
            Your boy,
 
            Herb
 
 
Tuesday Noon.
 
Dear Folks:-
 
I am in Custer to-day, drove in to get a packer and roller which weighs 1500 lbs., it is loaded in the car now and I am doing some shopping. I got your birthday letter this morning and the record also. Thank you very much. I know we shall enjoy it. I received a letter from Wes this morning. It is certainly hard luck about his ankle. I got a letter from Walt from Atlantic City thanking me for my letter that I wrote him from Bozeman, you see, Mother, that I had written him only 48 hours before I wrote that circular letter I shall write another one as soon as I can. I am well hardened now and enjoying life very much.
 
With love
 
Herb
 
 
Camp Sherman, March 30th, 1918, Saturday Afternoon
 
My dear Mother,
 
Do not worry about our going into action without thorough preparation, because we are not. Because first of all we will be shipped to some camp on the seaboard where we will be held for weeks and probably months, and after reaching the other side we will have several more months of training. This unit consists of mostly enlisted men, all of whom with a few exceptions were in some phase of telegraph or telephone work in civilian life. And as for us boys from Chicago, we can all hold our own, and in about one month’s training will be expert operators.
From all appearances, I think that we will surely move this week. Each man’s equiptment has been checked over about five times and by tonight every man’s personal equiptment will be complete down to extra shoelaces, extra legging laces, etc. All kinds of equiptment for the company has been coming in a regular stream; it is interesting to watch.
Yesterday, thirty-one men were transferred out of this company to other branches of the service and thirty-six men arrived from Camp Dodge, Iowa. All of whom are line men or operators. We got our second paratyphoid shot in the back this afternoon – another one within ten days and we are through with them. The first one caused me only slight discomfort – here’s hoping the same for this one.
 Several of us took a walk to the community house last night. The inside of it reminded me of the inside of the Grand Canyon Hotel in Yellowstone, it was large and spacious looking. They have dancing there every night for the soldiers and their friends. There is everything that one could ask for in the terms of entertainment right in camp. Several theaters, one with a stock company, a large Y.M.C.A. auditorium, about two other Y.M.C.A. buildings with some form of entertainment going on every night; and canteens and camp exchanges on every hand.
I sure have been getting more than my share of packages this week. Easter eggs, cookies and chocolate. They sure hit the spot.
Please do not send me anything that I will have to take with me, because we are being supplied with everything and I will have to ship home my suitcase with loads of stuff in it that I won’t be able to lug around.
Tell Father that if he wants to me I oz. can of paprika when he thinks of it, or in the next box or package coming my way, it will be appreciated highly.
This past week is the first time that I have felt the least bit contented for a long time. I feel that I am going to be able to take a very active part in helping end this whole war business. Whatever discomforts and hardships and individual subservancy that I will have to undergo will only strengthen me. They resolve to help destroy everything military, so that the next generation will not have to undergo them. Democracy and militarism are the absolute antithesis of each other. The more that one sees of things military, the more one realizes the truth of that statement.
Several thousand new draft men arrived last night and today and men are moving out every day. So it comes and goes.
My thoughts and heart will be with you, dear ones. I hope the day will bring peace to you.
So, I am uncle again. You will have to put an addition on to the old house to house all of the family for the reunion when we all come back when its over, over there.
 
Loads of love,
Your boy,
Herb
 
 

A Misuse of Power

By Charles E.J. Moulton

 
If you were a terrorist and wanted to take over the world, would you reveal your plan to everyone? Probably not.
Tell someone: “I’m gonna take over you!” and see how they react.
Yes, right.
You’re laughing.
Good.
Ultimately, if you wanted to kill someone, would you tell him:
“Hey, I am going to kill you in 2016! Watch out!”
No, of course not.
That would be silly, wouldn’t it?
At first, I was horrified. Petrifying scenarios of total slavery or even brutal death came to mind. Worse, even. When I read the words “ISIS plans a total confrontation in 2016 and a total Islamic World in 2020”, I repeated a thousand conspiracy theories that I had heard within my brain. William Cooper’s horrifying book “Behold A Pale Horse” came to mind. It is a book where the ex-CIA agent tells us that eventually an external cause will be introduced that will allow the New World Order to take place. But the term New World Order, a terminology I, too, believed was part of a conspiracy myself at one time or other, was just something George Bush Senior said in a speech, not to start a dictatorship, but to be smart and popular and get votes.
Heck, in my mind, I even saw those YouTube-documentaries about the one million coffins that FEMA had built for us.
          Either that, or the fact that the ISIS actually might be the secret superpower they claim to be. I criss-crossed my garden on foot, speaking to God, asking him if he really wanted the world to be destroyed.
Furthermore, my family and myself, we had come so far. He wouldn’t want our destruction, would he?
          Something had to be done. I searched the web for information on the subject. The destruction of the twin towers in NYC on 9/11 was supposedly the beginning of the twenty year plan to conquer the world, a plan that will culminate in a new Islamic World in 2020.
          I had to talk to someone.
          One name came to mind. The name of a friend, who sometimes had other opinions than me, but whose opinions were sound, logical and absolutely based on an admirably intellectual viewpoint. Moreover, he had expert knowledge and common sense. So I mailed him and finally called him on the phone, described the subject and received what I feel to be the best and most comforting advice I have ever received.
          This is a summary.
          I have made plenty of additions to his ideas.
          We are all shocked at the moment after hearing about the horrible attacks that have taken place across the globe, all attacks claimed to be executed by the famed ISIS. We have all heard how this group have terrorized people in the Middle East. Now we see these two developments (the personal terror of the Middle East bandits and the suicide bombers), we see the supposed twenty year plan to conquer the world and we assume that these things actually come from the same source. Of course, you say, why wouldn’t they? Because we might be talking about two or three different groups here. Or more. Or even a loose communion of angry bastards.
          The basic problem is that people are naturally gullible. They believe what they hear or see. They think the press is telling the truth. But the news is selected by news-agencies, not on an official basis, but on what makes a profit.
It’s like the doctor I went to when I had an ear problem. I couldn’t hear. “You have an ear infection,” he spat. “Take these, three times a day!”
          Something in me snapped and clicked. I knew he was wrong, so I went to another and much better ear-doctor. It turned out to be ear-wax.
          After that, I realized I had to trust my own intuition.
          So, don’t take the word of the press for it. Don’t even take my word for it. Search, research and search again. Things are not always what they seem.
The ISIS-militants in Syria and Iraq are strong, apparently 200,000 in number, but they are still a Middle East phenomenon. The explosive attacks elsewhere cannot be proven actually to be made by the ISIS, in spite of the acclaimed Paris witnessed ISIS criminal. Now, if you think I am wrong, I have to remind you that every single terrorist attack of the 20th century was immediately followed up by at least a half dozen terrorist groups that claimed responsibility for the attacks. Why?
Well, if you are a terrorist, you do want to scare people. That is the point of being a terrorist. You want to make people afraid. Terrorists are glorified playground bullies. Accordingly, if you claim responsibility for the attack, you are immediately in the headlines and are supporting your cause. So, of course the terrorist will say he is the ISIS. His militia will cheer. He didn’t do it. Who cares? He is in the headlines. Whopee!
Second point: the twenty year plan supposedly started with 9/11, an attack claimed to be executed by the Al-Qaeda. Now the ISIS claims the responsibility for the attacks in saying that it was part of their plan along. But the IRA did the same thing. There were hundreds of terror attacks that the IRA claimed responsibility for in Ireland, but many of them were proven to be fake claims. Now two arch enemies both claim responsibility for 9/11, one of them even saying that it was phase one in a step to enslave the world.
That is quite fishy. Wasn’t 9/11 Bush’s fault all along? Or are we dealing with the Illuminati here?
And what about the Arab revolutions? According to the by now quite famous “Twenty Year Plan to Take Over The World”, it was ISIS’ plan all along. But the whole revolution movement started with jobless graduate and fruit seller Mohamed Bouazizi burning himself up as a protest against provocative authorities. The whole thing was very coincidental. He was neither a believer nor a non-believer, neither right nor left, just a fruit vendor and a typical example of Tunisian youth. A young man who just wanted to buy a pick-up truck and live his quiet life alone, a man who gave poor families fruit and vegetables for free. He was neither associated with any secret militia, nor did he much care even for religion. His death was the one domino-piece that set the whole Arab ball rolling. If you seriously want to start a revolution, you don’t choose a guy like that, because he won’t get the job done. He didn’t care. He only burned himself up because he was frigging pissed off the cops didn’t respect him, man. He could’ve have been a so-called “sleeper”, but you can fake that just as easily (or not at all) as you could fake Barack Obama’s entire life biography with thousands of witnesses (and there are people who claim that Obama was Osama – check YouTube).
Al-Qaeda and ISIS are opposing groups that fight and kill each other. So, you see the idea that 9/11 was claimed responsible by both groups as the start of the “Twenty Year Plan” is already on shaky ground. In my opinion, life is too random and has too many complicated factors for any militant and global superpower plan to ever work.
It has never worked. Ever. Even in today’s global world, a scheme like that would mean that the ISIS would have to have a militant airforce and navy to succeed. And they don’t.
It’s common sense.
Every superpower in history has collapsed. Name one superpower that has not collapsed. There are conspiracies, certainly, heavy ones, but sometimes you have to say this: if you can’t keep a secret between just three people, how on Earth should it be possible to keep a secret from an entire world?
Third: I am sure some people really mean it when they say that this “Twenty Year Plan” existed as early as 1996, but it is the first I have heard of it. It is pretty easy to map out this project in retrospect.
There is another issue, as well. People love scary stories and conspiracies. I had a conversation with a man in 2012 who collected loads of information on how the world was going to end that year. He mapped out countless facts and even told me the date. I told him that he might be wrong and that it was impossible to say when or how. He was so angry at me, he was steaming.
There have been cataclysmic apocalypse-scenarios for as long as there have been people. Why? Depressed people want to start over. If we believe in reincarnation, and I do, we might actually want to say: “Hey, let’s just blow up this rock and try again!” But we can’t. We have to save and rescue life. That is just as much a “must” as love is a necessity.
Forth point: the claimed ISIS sources (a forth hand information) names cities in Europe that they will attack in 2016. If that’s true, they are super-duper-dumb to do so. If you’re gonna attack someone, you ain’t gonna tell him about it. They, they say, will even go to people’s houses and pull them out. I am reminding you that we are speaking of a militia that has guns and bombs, but no navy and air force. They, even if they do have 200,000 soldiers, want to attack a continent with hundreds of millions of people with bombs and guns, pulling people out of houses when an army of nations are pointing their nuclear weapons at them?
Hmm. Okay. As a friend of mine sarcastically puts it:
“Good to know that!”
Okay, there are one and a half billion muslims, but most muslims are peaceful people. Even the ISIS will not create an army of a billion.
What bothers me are the opposing stories: for every single point in the Twenty Year Plan, there are multiple groups being blamed or taking the blame for everything, which proves to me that there are multiple sources, even multiple groups doing the dirty deeds, not even one organized force. It’s way too confused to be one idea. The ISIS of Paris is not the same ISIS of Syria. And a third group might have posted the story about the “Twenty Year Plan”.
We have seen that enemies both take blame for 9/11, but then people have gone to amazing extents to prove it was Bush all along. Now they say that the ISIS flew in the planes into WTC? Furthermore, the beginning of the Arab Spring Revolution was way too random to be a planned event. Just like the event in Prague, where one fell out the window and started the Thirty Years War.
If we also remember that no plan like that ever worked, we might be approaching reality. The Crusaders wanted to take over the Holy Land and we all knew how that turned out. The Protestants and the Catholics fought to rule Europe during the aforenamed Thirty Years War. Did that last? Hitler fell, Stalin fell, Ghaddafi fell. Back in 1991, there were people absolutely sure that The Gulf War would be the start of World War III. There was no talking them out of it. They were even severely pissed off if I told them it wasn’t so.
Please also remember that journalism is not what it used to be. One journalist gave up his job, because he could not stand having to write lies anymore. I have an African neighbor who tells me that his family back in Kamerun does not know what all the Ebola-scare is about. Down there, it is not half as bad as they tell us on television. What is bad, though, is what is happening at the same time. Somewhere else in the world, there is a delicate problem that someone does not want you to see.
So look elsewhere. See what no one else sees.
What’s behind the surface?
Political work is chess of the ego. Accordingly, the political egotist does not want to rule the world. He just wants power, money and a helluva lot of self esteem. Remember that even during the French Revolution back in 1789, Robespierre and Danton were drinking wine at the same palaces that Louis XVI partied at just months before. Napoleon was back on the throne soon enough and then the Bourbons ruled France. Different names, same scenario. The militant guerilla troops that took over their banana republics soon discovered that sleeping on soft cushions and eating caviar was not as decadent as they had thought. And other rebels threw them off the thrones and discovered the same thing. Everyone wants to be happy, that’s not the problem. The problem is that they think they have to have what the other guy has to be happy. And that just ain’t so, bro.
ISIS is a really huge problem. No question. But surf the net, write the word “Conspiracy” into your YouTube search engine and watch some movies. After an hour of that, you will be scared to your wits. Two hours later, you will be laughing. There is even a 9/11-UFO-Conspiracy-Theory out there.
I am just telling you that to remind you that not everything is what it seems. Ever. It ain’t as bad, either. Take that as my daily gift of hope.
Final point (and I started out saying this, but it’s worth saying again): if you were a terrorist and wanted to take over the world, would you reveal your plan to everyone? Probably not. Revealing the plan means revealing your secrets. There is only one reason why someone would reveal a secret. We are all human. Ask yourself why you would reveal a secret to the world? To be important, to get a feeling of power.
Ultimately, if you want to kill someone, do you tell him:
“Hey, I am going to kill you in 2016! Watch out!”
No, of course not.
That would be silly, wouldn’t it?
If various opposing groups tell you they ALL did it, revealing all their secrets, revealing an old plan nobody has heard of before, it might be just a very loud noise that sounds like a time-bomb, but turns out to be a whoppie-cushion.
Take ISIS seriously, but do your own research.
Search the facts.
Don’t take my words for it.
I am just offering my opinion.
I am just repeating that nobody has ever been able to take over the world yet. That only happens in Hollywood. I have to smile, thinking of Arnold Schwarzenegger as Mr. Freeze in “Batman and Robin”, telling everyone he will take over the world. Yes, Arnie. You already have. The good thing is, Arnie, that we have a lot of time off between your commands.
You know the only thing that actually rules the world?
I am not kidding.
It’s love. 
Nothing else works.
Nothing else ever will.
Trust me on that.
Oh, by the way, speaking of love, join me on May 1st, 2016, at 12 p.m. CET, for a global moment to try to be one world, wherever you are right then, stop and pray or feel for Mother Earth, for you, for me, for us, for eternity.
I am calling it “World Pray Day 2016”. Regardless of religion of belief, think of the world right then. We might be able to conjure up some faith if all pray together. If we want to become happier, we have to make someone else happy. You hear that, you angry terrorists? Love is the only answer to any question.

The Spirituality of Sex

Article by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
            Watch out. You’re sitting in the hotseat.
            What we’re about to deal with here probably contradicts what you have learned or have been taught, but let’s face it: this is a new age.
Sex is a sacred, procreative and divine act and it is not a sin.
Celibacy really is redundant, even for Catholic priests.
If they were allowed to marry, we could put an end to a lot of pain.
A new age? Well, I mean that both in the sense of the religious movement in question as well as in the sense that this actually really is a new age. No, not a new world order. We are not talking about the Illuminati here. This is the evolution of humanity at work.
            We have to look reality straight in the eye, using our souls and not necessarily our brains. Our emotions lead the way and, in that sense, the truth really shall set us free.
We might think that a discussion like that is outdated, but look at what we believe, what our society tells us. We think sex is dirty. We are taught that we can only be holy if we are chaste, but if that were true why are so many good people parents of so many children? If that were true, why are there hypocrite virgins or people who have no sex but commit crimes?
The result is that young people battle between liking sex and finding God. God actually lives within their souls. There is a great tragedy in such an act, because they can have both sex and find God. In fact, they should have both. They are fertile souls put here in bodies upon the Earth to procreate and love each other. I have good news for you: God wants you to have fun during sex with someone you honestly love. That’s what it was meant to be: fun.
When we make love to the partners we love, we should treat it as a sacred act between equal partners and an act of utmost tenderness, but we cheapen it and treat it as a sin.
Disrespect, hatred, arrogance, theft, murder, bigotry, ignorance, injustice, those are sins. Forcing celibacy upon clerics has created wars and famine and hung, drawn and quartered thousands of innocent people. Do you know how many lives have been ruined because of that kind of behaviour?
            I am about to scratch the surface of a very old wall nourished by a very old muse. One that defends a tradition that we have accepted as true – but isn’t.
The fact that nobody actually has checked the facts is a sign that people accept what is preached to them by anyone in power. People don’t want to make their own decisions for fear of making the wrong decisions. So, most people will let other people make the wrong decisions for them. That way, if something goes wrong they can blame him for the catastrophy.
            God exists, God is inside you, God is everything there is, God loves you.
He gave you your emotions. Use them to improve the future of humanity.
I stress that I, too, am a bible reader and a religious man. I am also, however, a soul, a husband, a believer and a man that loves sex. I know also what problems have been created through the anti-biblical and quite misunderstood and misinterpreted requirement for celibacy.
            Fidelity, certainly. Respect, of course. Gender equality, naturally. Celibacy, not really.
            Having lots of respectful, equal levelled, faithful sex is a part of who we are.
            You heard it, I said: “faithful.”
 Faithful is real.
So, does the bible actually say that sex is a sin?
            No.
I’ll give you some quotes here before we go to the facts:
St. Paul, in the bible, in 1 Timothy 3: 1 – 13, assumes, to begin with, that many deacons and bishops will be married. In Timothy 3: 2, 12 and in Titus 1:6, he even states that a cleric must manage his family well and that his children must obey him with proper respect (1 Timothy 3:4, Titus 1:6). So, we see that the bible only loosely recommended celibacy and sometimes even recommended priestly marriage. The Catholic Church, however, has turned celibacy into a real problem that began only as a power-tool.
If that is true, how come that celibacy has been given the stamp of being so diabolical an act? If it was never a clerical requirement stated in the bible to begin with, when did that begin? The initial requirements concerning the celibate life of priests appeared at the Councils of Elvira in 306 A.D. and Carthage in 390 A.D. That it was a discussed necessity prior to these meetings is not the issue. The real reason for the inclusion of celibacy in the clerical profession was to omit any nepotism.
Anyone who has studied Renaissance history will know that Alexander VI, the Borgia-Pope, frequently passed professional torches of sorts to his children and was even reputed telling his son Cesare that he would see that he would become pope one day – by his father’s own hand.
            Celibacy was a way to avoid that.
The hypocrite political agenda of Alexander VI shows us that clerics found ways to promote nepotism and overcome celibacy anyway. I am willing to bet Alexander VI would never have become so bigot a pope, if celibacy had been banned.
Also, the patriarch-oriented and masculine bureaucracy of the church was simply a power-tool to keep the power where the power was stationed. Men were stationed on the battlefields. It didn’t take long for the regal leaders and the clerics to cooperate to keep their kind in power. The crusades were examples of this kind of cooperation. It was a bigot attempt to crush any other way of obeying God by forcing everyone to be as masculine and as westernized as them.
            Let’s be honest here: no woman would ever have gone on a religious crucade in order to kill muslims just to get back land, holy or not. Jesus knew that his kingdom was not of this world. Jesus chose a woman named Mary Magdalene to spread the message that he had been resurrected and he sure wouldn’t have killed anyone to make a point. So why should we do the same? Shame on the inquisitors, crusaders and the clerics for forgetting what Jesus taught to begin with.  Jesus only told his followers to be faithful. Did Jesus ever kill anyone, avoid prostitutes, call sex a sin? No. He told us to be honest, faithful, kind, loving, sincere.
Female priests would’ve used their brains and their vocabulary, not weapons. The male population knew that and they were afraid of it. Many clerics are still afraid of female sincerity. The male dominance factor within the priestly profession was and is only a power-tool. In a way, we all are and can be or could be priests of God.
The presence of fear for female honesty included Paul, who in the Corinthians spoke of women required to be silent in church.
It should be noted that I believe that if women would have been used as the main religious leaders of clerical tradition, not one drop of blood would have been shed.
Women are creators to end all creators.
We know that, don’t we, guys?
If the body is the beautiful house of the soul, why can’t we enjoy that house? Tizian, Rubens, Caravaggio, Boucher and Michelangelo painted naked bodies. Their art is considered divine. So why should real nudity portrayed in a respectful way be any less?
We can even go back to the very beginning of the Old Testament to find another real truth. Adam and Eve’s downfall was never that they were seduced to have sex by any old snake. It was never even once stated that sexual practice was a reason for any destruction. What is stated, however, was that Adam and Eve were ashamed of being naked.
Accordingly, their own shame was their downfall.
Are the animals ashamed of themselves for being naked? To them, there is no such thing as “naked”: they are what they are. It would be highly impractical for us to strip naked and wander about town with nothing but our birthday-suit on. But the fact remains: if we had the honesty animals possess, we would be better off. Look into the eyes of a faithful dog or a friendly horse and tell me that they have no souls.
I heard a friend of mine say that animals have no eternal souls. That, fortunately, is a lie. They do, indeed, have souls. And are we not more or less worthy than they?
If we look at the Renaissance alone, we have countless examples of sexual perversions inspired only by celibate supression. Clement VII and Alexander VI were two of the many popes that had illegitimate children. Nay, they had entire dynasties of offspring and mistresses, conducted orgies and perversions without end going on within the walls of the Vatican.
            Behaviour like that scared people away from the church. We would never have created atheists, though, if we had realized that God and the church only remotely played the same ballgame. When we see what Alexander VI did in God’s name and how the religous wars ravaged Europe, we witness the tragic logic of a missed oppurtunity that created today’s secularized world. Accordingly, also because of the abnormal celibate dictatorship, the church did more harm than good by being so concentrated on celibacy.
The prude era of Victorian England was compulsive in its strictly gender-based society (not unlike some other countries today where educated women with degrees are expected to stay home and cook). The woman was a mere decoration and the man was the workhorse that came home to take her for walks and show her around. The dark dungeon-like catacomb of that infrastructure, however, was a capital that created 200 000 prostitutes and a killer nicknamed Jack the Ripper. Can you imagine a world that did not label sex as a sin creating such perversity? If sex and nudity would have been a natural thing people accepted and talked about the husband would certainly have gone home, respected and made love to his equal wife and not gone out and shagged someone else.
That conflict between the natural feeling of lust and the abnormal requirement for celibacy persists to this day. How many witch hunts, inquisitions, trials, executions, acts of torture, illegitimate children, homosexual affairs and perverse acts of sexual conduct could have been avoided within the clerical community if this unnatural act of celibacy had been lifted? After all, man is a rebel and he wants to be free. Forbid him to do something and it becomes interesting. Sex is interesting to begin with. Give him the freedom to have it and he will act responsibly.
            If you still disagree with me, ask yourself why God would create something that we need to do in order to survive and then ask us not to do it?
So, that being said, I wanted to say that I believe in the eternal soul and I believe in God. I also believe that God created sex. Of course he created it. If we didn’t like sex, we wouldn’t have a species to begin with at all. Liking sex is a part of who we are.
That doesn’t mean we have to sleep around to begin with. In fact, we shouldn’t sleep around. Fidelity is a necessity, but supressing sex only makes matters worse.
History should show us that. If it doesn’t, boy, are we in trouble.
            We are procreators. God is a creator and like he created us we, as individuals, are put here in this world to create something of our own. We create art, music, dance, literature, inventions, machines, new worlds, just to praise him/ her/ it/ the divine spirit – and yes: we create babies to praise him/ her/ it/ the divine spirit. If we didn’t like sex so much, we wouldn’t feel drawn to having it – just for the fun of it or for creating beautiful new babies that can keep praising him/ her/ it/ the divine spirit in any way we choose.
We have to like it.
In a lot of ways, sex actually saves us. As I said, that doesn’t mean we should go and have sex with everyone. In fact, being faithful is a sign of necessary respect for any partner. You sign a contract of sorts and you are expected to follow it.
Sex, though, is not just a procreative thing. It is also a symbiosis of souls, a union of emotions, a wonderful moment between two people. It is not a power tool. Never ever.
            Again, I am a deep believer. I am first and foremost a soul living in a body. God lives inside me, outside me, within me, without me, before me, in front of me.
            Respect each other, love each other.
            Lust and sex in its most beautiful form is a triumph of emotions between two loving, consenting adults who just enjoy expressing a faithful sexual unison.
            It is time we stopped pretending it is not part of our lives or that God doesn’t want it. What he doesn’t want, though, is for us to cheapen it. Guys, there is a whole lot of cheap sex out there. We have to stop that. Enjoy each other and by all means: use your dignity.
            I am willing to bet that if the church had not brandmarked and devilproofed sexual lust with such adamancy we would not have such a clerical history of secret lust. This is an ongoing story that lasts to this day.
            Of course we must point out that most priests are deepthinking, trustworthy and actually celibate people. The fact remains, however, that celibacy was implemented to avoid nepotism and was based on a biblical misunderstanding.
            I firmly believe that even the atheists believe in God.
            In my mind’s eye, I see one thousand people raising their eyebrows now. We must remember, though, that God lives within us and that God is everywhere. We can reach God in many ways. Going to a church, a temple, a mosque or a synagogue are ways to find God, but by no means the only ways.
How do I figure? Even the most adamant atheist has emotions. Maybe he falls in love, even though he will blame it on endorphines. He will wonder why he is angry at a friend who betrayed him once, even if he blames it on neurons. He will feel these emotions inside and deep down he knows that he believes in justice or equality or truth or faith or hope. He might even believe that good will can move mountains.
All of these things are spiritual characteristics that have nothing to do with the human body. In that sense, even the atheist believes in God. If he didn’t, why does injustice upset him? If God did not exist, nothing like that would matter. We all relate to beings in a non-corporeal way. Friendship has nothing to do with the body. The key is emotion.
            You even hear agnostics say:
“Funny that you should call me right now, I just thought about you!”
or
“What a coincidence! I was just speaking about you with a friend!”
In my mind, there is no such thing as luck or coincidence.
            The atheist might say that he does not believe in God, but maybe he believes in love, hope, justice, friendship, hope and faith. These things, my dears, belong to the spirit and the spirit is God.
Have you ever heard the expression: “God is love”?
Exactly.
And what is sex but an expression of love?
            Now for the biggie: God expects us to act responsibly. He has given us assignments. Everyone has a mission. It is our job to find out what that mission is. God has one address: he is inside your emotions, inside what you feel, inside your most tender love, your hopes and dreams and faith.
If you find God while making love to your wife: well, hey, that’s great.
Where two people meet and pray in his name, God is with them. That is true for prayer, so why shouldn’t it be true for faithful sex. Sex, after all, is a form of amorous prayer.
As long as you don’t sneak out in the middle of the night and copulate with another woman, you are okay. In that case, you would actually be working against God.
If you feel attracted towards another person besides your spouse, keep it platonic, write a poem about love and lust in general, paint a painting, write a song, do a dance. Be creative. There are a thousand other ways to get rid of your lust. Don’t do what some men have done, creating havoc: exploding out of their frustrated marriages, leaving their families for some younger bimbo, leaving an unemployed wife and two children who wonder what hit them. In more cases than we know, we can make it work. In fact, we should definately try.
Having now held my sermon about fidelity, I will add that God gave us these feelings of sexual lust because it binds us together and explores who we are.
If Catholic priests were allowed to marry, can you imagine how many young lives that would have saved? It would put many therapists out of work. Express your love. Enjoy your love, just be faithful about it.
Make a decision that benefits everyone.
            If you let your soul be your guide, you can never go wrong.
            God is real. The seemingly endless universe, the intricate system born into every single individual, the telepathic reality of chance meetings, out of body experiences and correct recollections of proved past lives: those are all parts of a puzzle that we can use as evidence in actually proving God.
God really has nothing to do with the church. Not really. You can find him there. Most certainly. I know you can, I grew up going to churches, temples, synagogues, mosques. After all, I found him there, too. Remember that my parents were singers who sang loads of church concerts a year. They were deep believers, deep thinking people who prayed with me at least once a day. But they didn’t care what church they went to or in what church they actually sang. My mom Gun Kronzell, besides being a successful opera-singer, spent half her career singing oratories in churches. Churches, to me, were free for all, because faith and belief was, as well. Churches were potential employers for singers who wanted to get jobs. My dad Herbert Eyre Moulton was a cantor in a synagogue during his army days in Georgia, for crying out loud, and he wasn’t even Jewish. He studied to become a priest for four years before returning to his regular profession as an actor, but that didn’t stop him from going to the evangelic or even the orthodox church afterwards.
I, for my part, discovered that there was such a thing as church taxes at all when I had my first official theater gig. Paying someone money for believing in God? Excuse me?
My divine belief is my personal issue. It is not of this world, guys.
I will conclude my sermon of sorts here by mentioning the film “Basic Instinct”. The public reaction to the film back in 1992 showed me that we still have a long road to walk down before we can be as truthful, as respectful and as gentlemanly as we should be. People were more concerned back then that Sharon Stone showed the audience her vagina than the fact that she was a brutal murderer.
Think about that for a second.
What is worse? Sex or murder?
It is my hope that we one day will live in a society with people that know that we are souls, living in bodies, that are allowed to enjoy embracing one another, loving each other a bit before we move on to the next world.
Maybe we can then just stop the sexual excess of modern media and be just what were: faithful and emotional human beings that just love to love each other. After all, aren’t we all clerical advocates of our loving God?
 
 
 
 
 
 

Requiem of Hearts
By Thaddeus Hutyra
 
Tides of life can be as sweeping as the tides of oceans
overflowing our enthralling Earth full of allure
What there, however, once was is no longer
gone with the wind the same way as the tides do
Focus thus on your life to the outmost
let especially your love flourish into symphonic flames.
You know, my dear, you are all the musical notes
of the magnificent library of music there is
of all the musical scriptures and overtures
quintessential and essential, effervescent
all the tones out of symphonic instruments
being played on the philharmonic stage.
You know, my dear, when you are with me
it feels to me to be in the midst of creative music
you, the music, your sensual body and your heart
your eyes shining like the most bright stars
the music brought to life by your femininity
the music of the Mozart, Beethoven and Chopin calibre.
In your presence all the musical instruments
have the wings of melodies attached
The flames of music getting out of them
are transforming on my very eyes into flames of love
the flames that I not only see but also hear
the visual flames of the symphonic performance of love
between me and you, in transcendental way.
We are the lovers united in ceaseless oneness
nothing can ever split us both
Our bodies are melting in one another
and our hearts, even our souls
I do believe I am a set of melodies to you as well
so enthralling melodies that in your heart
I am the one and only one, your man !
O play us your music, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
play us the beauty of your Requiem
put us in the mood, let us use much foreplay
May your Magic Flute and your Marriage of Figaro
let us sail smoothly through our foreplay
the ocean of fierce lovemaking, with a million of kisses.
O play us your music, Ludwig van Beethoven
play us your Appassionata and Moonlight Sonata
so we can forward our love intercourse
to the highest dimensions of our lovemaking
Play us your Emperor Concerto and your symphonies
you are being thanked for our orgasmic climax
one that brought us all the way to the Universe and back home.
O play us your music, Frédéric Chopin
play us enchanting ballades, mazurkas, waltzes,
bewitching nocturnes, polonaises, études, sonatas
What we are through are the final stages
of the music of all times, the music of love, of fulfillment
Getting up from our bed we are dancing
seduced by torrential flames of our hearts on the wings
dancing till the very morning when we do realize
we are the man and the woman, married out of pure love.
© 2015 Thaddeus Hutyra

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
Abraham Lincoln
November 19, 1863

COULD KING HAVE SAVED KENNEDY?
 
A Review of Stephen King’s novel “11/22/63”
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
          Maybe it was just the picture of the scary cat gracing the book-cover that had me spellbound. Maybe it was the theme of the novel that made me borrow it from the school library. Whatever it was that drew me to it, Stephen King’s “Pet Sematary” transfixed me. I became an avid King-freak after “swallowing the story in one gulp”, as it were.
According to my mother, my magnetic concentration on the storyline produced a “spooky atmosphere” in the train we were in and transfixed anyone who walked by. I was 15 years old at the time. Accordingly, novels like these inspired me to write stories like “Coffin Varnish” (published by Aphelion), “The Multitude” (published by SNM Magazine) and “The Pigeon Goddess of Room 3327” (published by The Screech Owl).
          Stephen King has, since those bygone days, proven that his literary skills exceed the merely horrific. Writing Fantasy certainly became a passion for him when he wrote his “Dark Tower”-series and in “The Green Mile” we saw his psychological character-analysis drilling a few inches deeper into human enigmas and scaring us as well as touching our hearts.
His novel “11/22/63”, however, is by far the most versatile and unusual of all his pieces. What genre does the novel actually belong to? Is it a mystery? A historical piece? A crime novel? A book about time-travels? A political analysis? No. The novel is all that – and more.
          We all have our questions about what really happened the day Kennedy died. If we believe that the limo-driver William Greer actually did kill him or that CIA-agents stood behind the grassy knoll firing the deadly shots, the final consensus belongs to us. We don’t know and probably never will know the real truth. That is reserved for a chosen few of illwilled conglomerates.
Whether we experienced it first hand or not, most of us know someone who was alive when it happened. My mother Gun Kronzell was stage-rehearsing the leading part in Gluck’s “Orfeo ed Euridice” in Hannover, Germany. My father Herbert Eyre Moulton had just finished a long day as a leading actor at an Irish filmset when he heard the news, drinking his Guiness at the local pub and almost dropping the glass in the process. No one is left untouched. Kennedy’s murder affects us all, even those who were born at a later time feel the repercussions and the shockwaves of what happened on November 22nd, 1963, in Dallas, Texas.
          Stephen King tells us what happened that day from his own angle. He succeeds in creating a fictional documentary with a fantasy twist, a journey back into time that keeps the reader guessing at every moment. If the riddle, as such, is a recipe for success, King knows how to ask the right questions. Not only does he know how to produce excellent cliffhangers, he knows how to formulate the real answer when the time is right.
          Now to the story: Jake Epping is a young English teacher at Lisbon High School in Maine (Stephen King’s home and the place of action of most of his stories) in the year of 2011. One of his students is a campus janitor. At his old age, Harry Dunning goes back to school in order to achieve his high school diploma. Doing so, he writes an essay, where he explains how his father brutally murdered his entire family, leaving him the only survivor of the slaughter. Epping has no choice but to give the troubled man an A+ along with the finishing diploma.
          Fate steps in and lets Jake change Dunning’s past.
Al Templeton, the owner of a local diner, tells Jake that a portal exists at a certain place in his pantry, a portal into another time.
This special gateway to a certain moment in time is a typical Stephen King touch. It adds a threshold guardian, the yellow card man, archetypical in its ingenuity. The author takes the absolutely ordinary world, a backroom door in Small Town, America, and turns this smallest of microcosmic places into the focal turning-point of the entire universe.
In King’s world, the ordinary is extraordinary.
God bless him for that, storyteller of the macabre, inventor of dark secrets.
          Jake’s friend Al is dying and so his last request is that Jake return through the time portal, into September 9th, 1958 at 11:58 a.m. - and change history. And I mean really change history.
“John Kennedy can live,” Al tells him. “Millions of lives can be saved.”
          Thirty-five year old Jake Epping, after going back there, eventually decides to live in the 50’s as real estate agent George Amberson, does more than just change history. He tragically reinvents it, although he hopes to improve the result.
As the preventor of the murder of the Dunning family by killing the brutal killer Frank Dunning himself, he only realizes that the survivor Harry, in spite of his efforts, still ultimately died in the Vietnam war.
          And so, another reason to kill Oswald is introduced. If Kennedy survives, Epping seems to say, there would be no war to send Harry Dunning into.
An almost Arthurian quest begins with the Holy Grail named “The Vietnam War” as a bloodridden cup-goal.
          Once Epping decides to stay in the past, he becomes a kind of a guardian angel and is repeatedly called in to serve as a knight of peace in the course of this very Templar-like conquest: King becomes a spiritual advocator.
Epping, as Amberson, prevents an accidental shooting and a subsequent crippling of a local girl.
But the pro’s and con’s of these acts are clearly visibile to the observer. Should we change the past? Al was sure that Oswald was guilty. But was he really and honestly guilty? King, as Epping, claims that an author should keep his readers guessing until the end and, damn it, we keep turning the pages so fast, hoping just to get the answer quick enough to stop the murder. Maybe we can prevent Kennedy from dying.
Once Epping moves down south, he comes in contact with some shady characters. The more he researches where the truth really lies, the deeper into trouble he gets and it doesn’t get any easier for him as the tale unfolds.
The story dramatically takes off from there, brilliantly producing variations on a theme like Liszt would improvise on a Beethoven melody.
Films and books walk hand in hand. So, we wander into Science-Fiction to find a comparison. Time Magazine quoted the film BACK TO THE FUTURE II as being “a brilliant fugue that improvises on the theme of the first film”.
“11/22/63”, one of the few books I know with an actual date as a title, does exactly this. Stephen King takes the actual events and the actual places and the actual people of actual history and reshapes them like clay figurines with an amazing symbolic historical outcome as a result.
King ultimately plays God, answering the questions of what would have happened if we’d had the actual power to change the past. He becomes the guardian of time travel.
Anyone who has ever seen an episode of the STAR TREK television extravaganzas THE NEXT GENERATION and VOYAGER will know the character known as “Q”. He, brilliantly played by John de Lancie, is a metaphore for the space-time continuum. In “11/22/63”, King is the ultimate “Q”, playing chess with the people of the story like a puppeteer would pull the strings to make a point. He twists and turns reality, juxtaposes what we take for given and turns the normal every-day trudge and asks us, very honestly this time:
“Does life have to be this way? Could we actually change things the way the are or were or will become? Are we as normal and regular as we think? And was Kennedy’s murder a conspiracy or was Oswald really the killer? Or are we just paranoid enough to believe that it was the mafia? Where is the really real truth?”
Asking these questions are commendable efforts in King’s part. Does King offer a response?
You’ll have to read the book to find that out.
Stephen King is, after all, the master of surprises.
He has proven himself capable of transcending genres. Is “11/22/63” a paranormal story? A tale of human pain? A road-movie? A love story? A book, as any work of art, should be able to stand on its own two proverbial feet without slipping into any drawer. Maybe, it can even switch book cases or be in several genres at once. This one does.
The flip side is King’s honesty, a two-faced Janus-Coin, if you will (Janus being the Roman God with two faces). King has never been afraid to call things by their real names. Four letter words do occur, to the dismay of a reader or two. Gore and blood are not exempt from any inclusion.
This has a disadvantage: it can turn off a sensitive or prude reader and you wouldn’t even blame the reader for it. But buckling up and kicking through that in order to get to the other side offers the interested observer an award at the end of the tunnel: three-dimensional characters that tell an unbelieveable story in a believable way and two completely different eras compared to each other in an unexpected way.
Modern man can here look up from his tablet PC, his Ipod or Smartphone with its million Apps, researching the search engines for complete accessability, realizing that there was a time when food tasted better, when roads were free and open, when doors were unlocked, when rock ‘n roll was young, when marriage meant more to the coupled individual, when innocence prevailed and when a smile was not merely a career move on a social platform.
After all, 2011 was not 1958, thank God – or maybe we can’t thank God enough. Maybe we should welcome God back into our hearts where he belongs and where he was back in 1958 – before Kennedy was murdered. After all, Kennedy’s murder did something to our innocence just like 9/11 attacked our feeling of security.
The world has changed. For the better? For the worse? Maybe both. As the film “The Neverending Story” tells us: the kingdom of fantasy was almost destroyed by ‘Nothingness’ just because people were not smart enough to dream or wish for what their hearts needed to need.
So keep dreaming and keep wishing and keep feeling – something – anything at all. In the realm of fantasy, dreams are timeless. King works in the twilight zone, where reality meets the seemingly impossible, goals that are possible if the heart’s wishes meet spiritual conviction.
Have we really evolved or are we worse off? The question is how King delivers the answer. I respond: with writing technique. Alliteration is used, just as other more base tools such as detailed descriptions of violence, in order to ruthlessly pseudo-poeticize emotional situations. Both passive and active sentences are used here: past, present and continuous tense are merely meticulous mechanics in the master’s magic machinery, pardon the pun.
What, furthermore, can be mentioned is his love for italics and paranthesis. It should also be known to anyone who has opened one of his books that he sticks to a theme, deals with one topic, gives every character his own style of idiom, lets the story evolve through incidents in a cause-and-reaction sort of way, let’s every introduced person propel the story foreward and concentrates not on the action, but on the meaning of the said action.
Thereby, King becomes both observer and actor at the same time, just like the characters in his stories. The age-old trick of introducing a newcomer, a narrating observer that is forced into action, serves all his novels well. Sentences such as: “He paid the bill, realizing the importance of the situation” prove this. Wonderful quotes such as “His food pushed the ejector seat” or “Straight as a poker” amuse not only readers, but reviewers as well.
The most touching part of the book is the romantic storyline. Jake falls in love with a woman from his own past. Ultimately, he has to ask himself two questions: is telling her about the future safe for her as a person and could he choose to stay in the past and build a life with her only to witness his own birth?
          Pass the gore and the blood and wander into a great storyline. Stephen King will keeping you guessing, just like he was taught to in order to keep you buying more of his work.
That leads us to the ultimate question:
Could King have saved Kennedy? Will he, as Jake Epping, change history? Was Oswald the killer or was it a conspiracy? Maybe the book gives you the answer. Maybe it doesn’t.
The flipping of the pages of your copy will maybe also produce that infamous spooky atmosphere in any given train. It might even turn you into an aspiring author. Who knows? After all, that is the ultimate question, to which there are an endless array of responses. Playing the guessing-game, after all, is a vital part of what it is to be human.
King knows that – and he uses that knowledge well.
 
 
REFERENCES:
“11/22/63” by Stephen King – Gallery Books, 2012
“THE GREEN MILE” by Stephen King – Signet Books, 1996
“PET SEMATARY” – Doubleday, 1983
“THE DARK TOWER” by Stephen King – Grant Publishing, 1982 – 2012
“THE HAUNTED KINGDOM” by Charles E.J. Moulton, © 2005
“BACK TO THE FUTURE – PART II” – Universal Pictures, 1989
“STAR TREK – THE NEXT GENERATION” – Paramount Domestic Televion, 1987 – 1994
“STAR TREK – VOYAGER” – Paramount Network Television, 1995 – 2001
“THE NEVERENDING STORY” – Warner Brothers, 1984
“COFFIN VARNISH” by Charles E.J. Moulton, published by Aphelion
“THE PIGEON GODDESS OF ROOM 3327” by Charles E.J. Moulton, published by The Screech Owl

GUN KRONZELL –
A Life on the Opera Stage
 
Article by Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
My mother Gun Kronzell spent 60 years working as an opera- and concert-singer, working with the likes of Nicolai Gedda and Birgit Nilsson. She performed for the late Swedish king Gustaf VI Adolphus in 1970, played the Goddess of Justice in a play in Gothenburg for the late Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme and became good friends with Luciano Pavarotti. She was a stage director, a vocal coach, an author, a speech pedagogue, an opera mezzo, a musical singer and, in addition, a splendid lady to spend an evening with.
Her jovial personality, often supported by bright colored dresses and lots of jewelry, the telling of incredibly theatrical stories about her various opera productions and the offerings of her excellent choice of personal Swedish cooking, turned every visit into a highlight. When we visited Vienna in 1981, we spent an evening with our good friend, the pianist Walter Moore and his family. The Wienerschnitzel dinner was superb, the weather was excellent and the atmosphere jubilant.
When we wanted to pay our bill, however, no waiter was to be seen. So my mother stood up, among hundreds of guests, and sang an aria. All the waiters came, applauded, let us pay for our food and personally escorted us out with grandure and fanfare.   
This heritage that I carry within me has inspired me to become an actor, a singer, a teacher, a painter and a tourguide. Much of that comes from growing up within the realms of the theatre. Heck, I was even on stage before I was born. It is always an interesting way to live. My mom sang Ortrud in Wagner’s “Lohengrin” while pregnant with me.
Shortly before this, my parents went on a European concert tour as “The Singing Couple” appearing on Irish TV, appearing between a prize winning cow and a Russian spy. I was told that my conception took place during that concert tour sometime around Christmas of 1968. Sound like fun. Irish whiskey, Irish stew, concert tours, TV appearances ... and me.
After leaving Ireland, they continued their tour in Germany, singing Leonard Bernstein’s “Tonight” from his musical “West Side Story”, improvising a new and changed choreography, while my mom was pregnant with me in the seventh month.
“Tonight, tonight, it all began tonight”.
Those lyrics received a completely new meaning now.
Really? Tonight? Why, she’s seventh month pregnant!
No wonder I have become an artist.
The story of my parents’ first meeting goes back three whole years to the year 1966.
Thinking of how much they worked together just in those three years before my arrival on Earth in 1969, it leads one to think that their musical and spiritual infatuation must have been enormously inspiring, to say the least.
My mother and father met while perfecting their vocal technique with the renowned singing teacher Professor Köhler. The effect it had on them must’ve been astounding. These two stage veterans of opera, musical, screen and concert stages, 39 and 36 years old respectively, started collaborating almost right away and they became “The Singing Couple”, touring Europe and America with countless recitals, many of them entailing choreographed musical shows accompanied by their long time friend Karl Bergemann.
My father introduced my mother to his associate, the composer James Wilson, who later was paid by the Irish state to compose music and who began composing music for them before I was born. When I was born, Uncle Jim became my dear Godfather. I visited him in 1999. He took me to Wicklow, told me anecdotes about his opera productions and gave me off-the-cuff information that Chris de Burgh was his neighbour.
My mother was the one that evidently took the leap in the relationship, asking my father if he would speak some English with her. My father’s joke was that he never kept quiet after that. It soon became clear that her colleague from the Hannover Opera House, with whom she was singing in Richard Strauss “Der Rosenkavalier” and in Albert Lortzing’s “Zar und Zimmermann”, would become more than just a friend. He was her soul-mate, her confidant, her artistic equal and a spirit deeply anchored in her heart.
No wonder that they loved each other.
The opera-lover, swing-singer, film-actor, journalist, author and former theological student Herbert Eyre Moulton was descendant of the Baron Eyres of Eyre Court in Ireland. My mother was an aristocrat of the heart, noble, grand, witty and really witty.
Both were artists of the finest sort.
Gun Margareta Kronzell was born in Kalmar, Sweden on July 6th 1930. Early on, she showed a passionate interest in music, playing the main part in the school play“Santa’s Smallest Helper”. She also danced ballet to the sounds of “The Blue Danube Waltz”.
The family vacations in San Remo, Nice and Monte Carlo promted this love, but the visits to Stockholm catapulted her love affair with opera. Here, she could share her love of music with her family. She and her family would hear the greatest stars sing. She and her father Knut were riveted, while her brother and mother found it witty that the singers died at the end and then went to thank for the applause.
Gun Margareta Kronzell wanted to become a singer.
After her debut as a singer in 1949 in the Cathedral of Kalmar, she studied for Ernst Reichert in Salzburg and legendary Russian Madame Skilonsz in Stockholm (her interpretation of Mozart’s Queen of the Night turned into a cult phenomenon). Ragnar Hultén gave her a vibrant volume of the voice and nevertheless Skilonsz perfected her technique. Sebastian Peschko worked meticulously on every single consonant and vowel and Lohmann worked on her line. Köhler and Åke Nygren gave her four octaves its finishing touches.
Voila, said the Spanish count: musically sculpted and artistically completed there was a voice that flabbergasted. Famous opera star James King exclaimed: “Jesus Christ, what a voice!” upon hearing her sing.
Her first capital dwelling was in the French Dominican Abbey for Nuns in Stockholm. It was there she discovered her love for Gregorian Music. She moved to a tiny apartment in Stockholm’s old city to and studied at the Royal Music Academy, where she spent her formative years and worked with many a later famous singers like Jussi Björling and Lasse Lönndahl. She sang oratories, she performed nationally on tour. She sang Elisabeth in Tannhäuser and the Countess in The Marriage of Figaro during the Academy years, something that would prepare her for the countless opera roles she would play in her lifetime.
In 1952 and in 1953, however, my mother spent three months studying in Salzburg and lived in the centre of town. She here met Bishop Bonifaz Madersbacher at the side entrance of the Dome and this companionship would become the most important of her life. They would correspond every time she felt dire about anything.
For the TWJ magazine, I wrote a story called “A Match Made in Heaven” back in August of 2014. The story describes exactly what happened when they met.
 
http://twjmag.com/fiction-nonfic-poetry/a-match-made-in-heaven
 
Even when the bishop moved to Bolivia and founded a Christian congregation there, he would answer her questions truthfully and eloquently. There were love problems and professional problems and all of it was treated with dignity.
As soon as she was awarded Norway’s Rudd Foundation Scholarship by Kirsten Flagstad, she moved to Wiesbaden and studied for Paul Lohmann. He had lost an arm in the war. However, he compensated his bodily handicap with his skills as a singer. It gave him the greatest flexibility. He would work with her meticulously on every note and every single letter of the alphabet.
After the Opera Wiesbaden, she moved to Bielefeld and still speaks of this place as her greatest career experience. She here got to sing the greatest roles: Dorabella, Asucena, Abigail, Eboli and Santuzza. She in actuality got into her own as a prominent character-actress and brilliant mezzo-soprano. The media discovered her talents and she began attaining truly first-class critiques. She also had a great deal of success singing oratories and concert music, among other in the London Festival Hall and in the Vienna Stephan’s Cathedral, in Paris and in the Netherlands. Working simultaneously at a home for mentally ill children was a wonderful change. The children gave her the reality check she needed.
After that came engagements in Amsterdam, London, Paris, Vienna, Graz, Augsburg, London, Recklinghausen, Köln, Essen, Lübeck, Berlin, Vienna and Regensburg. Her great reviews became legendary and people spoke of Gun Kronzell as one of the fresh principal mezzos of Germany.
Hannover was a bright professional position for her. From here she guested all over the country. By now she had sung most of the great roles: Erda in Rheingold, Kundry in Parsifal, Ortrud in Lohingrin, Brünhilde in The Ring, Adriano in Rienzi, Brangaene in Tristan und Isolde, Emilia in Othello, Eboli in Don Carlos, Dame Quickly in Falstaff, Abigaille in Nabucco, Czipra in Zigeunerbaron, The Innkeeper in Boris Gudonov, Chiwria in The Fair at Sorotchinzk, Santuzza in Cavalleria Rusticana, Asucena in Trovatore, the mother in Hänsel and Gretel, Orpheo in Orpheo ed Euridice, the leading part in Antigone, Ludmilla in The Bartered Bride, The Countess and Madelon in Andrea Chenier, The Old Woman in Die Doppelgängerin, Begonia in Der Junge Lord and Ulrika in A Masked Ball.
To this was added a wide range of recitals and church concerts and a huge repertoire of almost any composer imaginable. She became a vast Bach-specialist. All of the Bach oratories were sung in most of the continental cathedrals. Furthermore, Gun Kronzell’s knowledge of Brahms, Copland and Gershwin was astounding. Her fantastic interpretation of songs like “Did they shut me out of heaven, did I sing too loud?” or “My Man’s Gone Now” was a feast for the ears.
This lead her to my father, that spring of 1966.
Meeting the famous Gun Kronzell was elation to Herb. He loved opera and soon became her biggest fan. They bought an old Renault that they named Monsieur Hulot, named after the Jacques Tati character in the French film comedies.
What really grew successful was their musical collaboration. Soon enough, they became as likable and loved as Astaire & Rogers and Kelly & Crosby and were rarely seen apart. I grew up attending their concerts. They were marvellous together. That collaboration began in 1966, a subsequent marriage in Bad Godersberg, and continued until my father Herbert Eyre Moulton died in 2005.
My mother sang at the Volksoper in Vienna, among others a world premiere of Salmhofer’s “Dreikönig”, where she received rave reviews.
In Sweden, my mother started working as a Gothenburg Music Academy singing teacher in 1974. Her work at the opera also included Ulrika in Verdi’s Masked Ball in Swedish, which she had already sung in Italian in Hannover.
Their performance in Osage, Iowa in 1976 was my first family concert experience. For the encore, I wandered up on stage in Lederhosen and sang with in “Wien, Wien, Nur Du Allein”. The American audience gave us standing ovations.
From 1979 on, she freelanced a great deal and this gave her the necessary experience that would grant her the next successful engagement. She wrote, directed and starred in a play called “Long Live the Trolls”. This was my first acting experience. She taught organists how to sing in Oskarshamn and held church music seminars. She taught private and official speech and vocal classes in a variety of schools and even taught Chinese immigrants Swedish and Stena Line Disc Jockeys how to articulate well into a microphone.
My mother’s extensive concert experience gave her wide-ranging attention from the press and gave her subsequent work as a vocal teacher in the Gothenburg Ballet Academy. Her broad knowledge from various teachers now gave her expertise in how to teach her students how to sing every imaginable style. Sebastian Peschko had taught her how to enunciate the alphabet. Paul Lohmann gave her a smooth legato. Köhler widened her range.
Now she could use speech exercises such as Myavabranya, Pradgaflaspya and Yakaganga to perfect her student’s consonants. I use them as excersices when I teach my students even today.
It was exactly the gathering of this experience that made three international universities offer her positions as a Professor of Music. Tucson, Arizona and Graz, Austria wanted her, but the lure of taking the engagement in Vienna was too strong. The teaching try-out here also proved to be the best of all her auditions.
By 1984, Vienna won the personal award and so we, the family, moved there with her. For the rest of us, it brought us work without end in this cultural capital of the world. This was the start of a 26 year stay in the city where she sang over 200 concerts and taught students that eventually would work with the elite. Her students would eventually end up singing at the Vienna State Opera, in Bern, Zurich, Cairo, St. Petersburg, Malmö, London, New York, Örebro, Växjö, Copenhagen, Hamburg, Gelsenkirchen and Stockholm.
Her student Judith Kovacs was Luciano Pavarotti’s personal assistant for eight years. This gave us all intimate contact with the master and free tickets for many of his galas. Many opera stars like June Andersson, Nicolai Gedda, Claudio Abbado, Ricardo Muti, Per Grundén and Ingvar Wixell became acquaintances of ours through Luciano.
The already mention Swedish-Russian tenor Nicolai Gedda was an old friend of my parents from the time when my dad had worked in Ireland. When we met him again in Vienna in the 1980’s he told my father: “We are older now, but still gorgeous.” Gedda was kind enough to train a tenor student of my mother’s for free before he left Vienna as a service of gratitude for my mother.
My mother’s wide experience made her arrange numerous appearances for her students in such diverse places as Bamberg in Germany, Ludbreg in Croatia, Langentzersdorf in Austria and Kalmar in Sweden. Three Croatians became the charity centre of media attention in Sweden. She created the music ensemble “Musik Melange” and gave young singers the oppurtunity to perform extensively just like she had in her youth.
In 1998, she retired from the academy, but kept on performing actively until she moved to Gelsenkirchen in 2010, closer to me and my family.
My mother died in 2011 and left a vast gap behind her.
My daughter speaks of her grandmother as her own personal guardian angel. I know in my heart that my parents are happy to see us living in our new house, hearing me sing and working on my career, continuing the brave Kronzell-Moultonian artistic tradition.
I am the forth generation of artists in my family.
They taught me a great deal.
What could be better than looking back at a fulfilled life jam packed with glorious artistic bliss?
My hats of to my parents.
They were extraordinary people.
 

From the Mahayana
Translated for the first time from
the original Sanskrit by
Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki
 
At that time, the Blessed One who had been preaching in the palace of the King of Sea-serpents came out at the expiration of seven days and was greeted by an innumerable host of Nāgakanyās including Śakra and Brahma, and looking at Laṅkā on Mount Malaya smiled and said, "By the Tathagatas of the past, who were Arhats and Fully-Enlightened Ones, this Truth was made the subject of their discourse, at that castle of Laṅkā on the mountain-peak of Malaya, —the Truth realisable by noble wisdom in one's inmost self, which is beyond the reasoning knowledge of the philosophers as well as the state of consciousness of the Śrāvakas and Pratyekabuddhas. I, too, would now for the sake of Rāvaṇa, Overlord of the Yakshas, discourse on this Truth.”
[Inspired] by the spiritual power of the Tathagata, Rāvaṇa, Lord of the Rākshasas, heard [his voice]. Indeed, the Blessed One, surrounded and accompanied by an in-numerable host of Nāgakanyās including Śakra and Brahma, came out of the palace of the King of Sea-serpents; and looking at the waves of the ocean and also at the mental agitations going on in those assembled, [he thought of] the ocean of the Ālayavijñāna where the evolving Vijñānas [like the waves] are stirred by the wind of objectivity. While he was standing there [thus absorbed in contemplation, Rāvaṇa saw him and] uttered a joyous cry, saying: "I will go and request of the Blessed One to enter into Laṅkā; for this long night he would probably profit, do good, and gladden the gods as well as human beings."
Thereupon, Rāvaṇa, Lord of the Rākshasas, with his attendants, riding in his floral celestial chariot, came up where the Blessed One was, and having arrived there he and his attendants came out of the chariot. Walking around the Blessed One three times from left to right, they played on a musical instrument, beating it with a stick of blue Indra (saphire), and hanging the lute at one side, which was inlaid with the choicest lapis lazuli and supported by [a ribbon of] priceless cloth, yellowish-white like Priyaṅgu, they sang with various notes such as Saharshya, Rishabha, Gāndhāra, Dhaivata, Nishāda. Madyama, and Kaiśika, which were melodiously modulated in Grāma, Mūrchana, etc.; the voice in accompaniment with the flute beautifully blended with the measure of the Gāthā.
1. "The truth-treasure whose principle is the self-nature of Mind, has no selfhood (nairātmyam), stands above all reasoning, and is free from impurities; it points to the knowledge attained in one's inmost self; Lord, show me here the way leading to the Truth.
2. "The Sugata is the body in whom are stored immaculate virtues; in him are manifested [bodies] trans-forming and transformed; he enjoys the Truth realised in his inmost self; may he visit Laṅkā. Now is the time, Muni!
3. (4) "This Laṅkā was inhabited by the Buddhas of the past, and [they were] accompanied by their sons who were owners of many forms. Lord, show me now the highest Truth, and the Yakshas who are endowed with many forms will listen.”
Thereupon, Rāvaṇa, the Lord of Laṅkā, further adapting the Totaka rhythm sang this in the measure of the Gāthā.
4. After seven nights, the Blessed One leaving the ocean which is the abode of the Makara, the palace of the sea-king, now stands on the shore.
5. Just as the Buddha rises, Rāvaṇa, accompanied by the Apsaras and Yakshas numerous, by Śuka, Sārana, and learned men,
6. Miraculously goes over to the place where the Lord is standing. Alighting from the floral vehicle, he greets the Tathagata reverentially, makes him offerings, tells him who he is, and stands by the Lord.
7. "I who have come here, am called Rāvaṇa, the ten-headed king of the Rākshasas, mayest thou graciously receive me with Laṅkā and all its residents.
8. "In this city, the inmost state of consciousness realised, indeed, by the Enlightened Ones of the past (5) was disclosed on this peak studded with precious stones.
9. "Let the Blessed One, too. surrounded by sons of the Victorious One, now disclose the Truth immaculate on this peak embellished with precious stones; we, together with the residents of Laṅkā, desire to listen.
10. "The Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra which is praised by the Buddhas of the past [discloses] the inmost state of consciousness realised by them, which is not founded on any system of doctrine.
11. "I recollect the Buddhas of the past surrounded by sons of the Victorious One recite this Sutra; the Blessed One, too, will speak.
12. "In the time to come, there will be Buddhas and Buddha-Sons pitying the Yakshas; the Leaders will discourse on this magnificent doctrine on the peak adorned with precious stones.
13. "This magnificent city of Laṅkā is adorned with varieties of precious stones, [surrounded] by peaks, refresh-ing and beautiful and canopied by a net of jewels.
14. "Blessed One, here are the Yakshas who are free from faults of greed, reflecting on [the Truth] realised in one's inmost self and making offerings to the Buddhas of the past; they are believers in the teaching of the Mahāyāna and intent on disciplining one another.
15. “There are younger Yakshas, girls and boys, desiring to know the Mahāyāna. Come, Blessed One, who art our Teacher, come to Laṅkā on Mount Malaya.
16. (6) "The Rākshasas, with Kumbhakarṇa at their head, who are residing in the city, wish, as they are devoted to the Mahāyāna, to hear about this inmost realisation.
17. "They have made offerings assiduously to the Buddhas [in the past] and are to-day going to do the same. Come, for compassion's sake, to the Laṅkā, together with [thy] sons.
18. "Mahāmati, accept my mansion, the company of the Apsaras, necklaces of various sorts, and the delightful Aśoka garden.
19. "I give myself up to serve the Buddhas and their sons; there is nothing with me that I do not give up [for their sake]; Great Muni, have compassion on me!”
20. Hearing him speak thus, the Lord of the Triple World said, "King of Yakshas, this mountain of precious stones was visited by the Leaders in the past.
21. "And, taking pity on you, they discoursed on the Truth revealed in their inmost [consciousness]. [The Buddhas of] the future time will proclaim [the same] on this jewel-adorned mountain.
22. "This [inmost Truth] is the abode of those Yogins who stand in the presence of the Truth. King of the Yakshas, you have the compassion of the Sugatas and myself."
23. The Blessed One accepting the request [of the King] remained silent and undisturbed; he now mounted the floral chariot offered by Rāvaṇa.
24. Thus Rāvaṇa and others, wise sons of the Victorious One, (7) honoured by the Apsaras singing and dancing, reached the city.
25. Arriving in the delightful city [the Buddha was] again the recipient of honours; he was honoured by the group of Yakshas including Rāvaṇa and by the Yaksha women.
26. A net of jewels was offered to the Buddha by the younger Yakshas, girls and boys, and necklaces beautifully ornamented with jewels were placed by Rāvaṇa about the neck of the Buddha and those of the sons of the Buddha.
27. The Buddhas together with the sons of the Buddha and the wise men, accepting the offerings, discoursed on the Truth which is the state of consciousness realised in the inmost self.
28. Honouring [him as] the best speaker, Rāvaṇa and the company of the Yakshas honoured Mahāmati and requested of him again and again:1
29. "Thou art the asker of the Buddha concerning the state of consciousness realised in their inmost selves, of which we here, Yakshas as well as the sons of the Buddha, are desirous of hearing. I, together with the Yakshas, the sons of the Buddha, and the wise men, request this of thee.
30. "Thou art the most eloquent of speakers, and the most strenuous of the Yogins; with faith I beg of thee. Ask [the Buddha] about the doctrine, O thou the proficient one!

Foreword by Charles E.J. Moulton

My father Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005) lost both his parents during that year of 1958. His father and my paternal grandfather Herbert Lewis Moulton, a World War I veteran whom everyone called Big Herb, died of a heart attack. After that, my father's mother must have been distraught. She got run over by a train on her way to work. This was a very poignant and very fitting for this feisty and strong Irish lady: she died standing up. It is then amazing to see how intellectual and calm my father seemed to be when he wrote the following piece for the Information Magazine in June of 1958. When his girlfriend died of cancer, my father, desperate and emotionally drained, left America on a two week vacation in his ancestrial home of Ireland. This stay lasted for seven years and brought him at least as much success as he the success he had experienced in the United States. This stay eventually led him to Germany, where he met my mother, operatic mezzo-soprano Gun Kronzell.


The rest, as they say, is history.

This is my father's article from June 1958.





DEFENDER OF THE FAITH

By Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 – 2005)
Written for the Information Magazine in June of 1958

My mother Nell was an ardent Catholic all her life and something of a Revivalist at heart. She believed in standing up and being counted, and she never sat down again. That is why, whenever I read about the new look along the sawdust trail, I wonder what she'd have to say about it all.

It's a cinch Nell wouldn't recognize the old Gospel Train in its Madison Avenue streamlining. She liked her religion straight, thank you, liked it as well as she liked a good fight. Come to think of it, her one encounter with militant unorthodoxy may have helped bring on the present era of soft voices and cushioned condemnation.

Nell approached belief with wide open emotion and when said she'd gladly die for the faith, she meant it. To her as to many an Irishman the saints were cronies, especially the Blessed Virgin. Our Lady didn't live next door to us - she had moved right in to help with the housework.

This Catholicism, however intense, was no impediment to respecting those outside the fold, providing they were sincere. Nell never condemned anybody - she loved them and felt sorry they were missing so much. As for prejudice, it was the Devil's work and anybody who practiced it was, in her own words, "a hypocritch of the first water."

My father Big Herb had no official religous status, but he was better Catholic Dad than many in our parish, and his family was of vigorous if diverse Protestant stock. There were Presbyterians and Episcopalians and Transcendentalists and Free Thinkers and Swedenborgians and even a Quaker or two in the middle distance. Nell wanted me to know all about all these demoninations, what made them "other" and how they got that way. We must have toured every church and temple in the vicinity, guided by astonished beadles, custodians and janitors. Nell always called these personages "dear", and made sure they locked up afterwards.

Religious toleration didn't stop at the vestibule door. Everybody was welcome in our house. If they were atheists, if they didn't revere the Blessed Mother as Scripture says we should, if they were agnostic or fallen away or just indifferent, they were wrong and Nell never tired of belaboring the point. But as long as they were people and in our house, they got the full treatment, and even in the rockiest depression that meant anything from hot toddies and sherry-soaked fruitcake to a seven-course meal.

It was during those hard days of the 30's that our bungalow began taking on the aspects of a soup kitchen. Impoverished spinsters with cats and cataracts, an artist on relief, a retired handyman named Peter the Indian, an unemployed barber (two bits for a kitchen haircut and I can still feel the pull of those handclippers) - any number of down-and-outers crowded our table. None of them ever left without a shopping bag crammed with jars of jelly and fresh soup. No matter how bad things got, we were never of relief and they were, and that made all the difference. As long as there was a WPA, a PWA or any practical nursing to be done, Nell worked to help Big Herb while that gentle soul plugged away trying to sell insurance, appliances, anything to help supplement Big Herb's modest income.

We always had more than enough, somehow. We had parties and battles and pets and a second-hand car born 1928, a Studebaker named Henrietta. We packed lunches and went off to the opera, the World's Fair, zoos, ballparks and museums. One weekend we started out for a short ride (we lived in a suburb of Chicago named Glen Ellyn) and ended up at Niagara Falls.

Everybody cut corners and everybody had fun. Friday night we went to the movies, lured by Bank Nite, free dishes and good shows. Because prices changed from fifteen cents to a quarter at 6:15, people hurried through dinner and read the evening paper in their seats before the feature. Our milkman delivered his own vino with the dairy products. Big Herb continued to make homebrew beer in the basement long after Repeal, and his men friends rolled their own cigarettes. The women knitted and crocheted, while the more ambitious hooked rugs or entered contests, did each other's hair or tried their hand at short story writing. We kids gave puppet shows and pageants, fell out of tree-houses and fought. Saturday night there were crowds of poker players, not a one of them with a dime to his name, and during one slump when ours was the only house with the light and the gas still turned on, they carted home bushel baskets of coal to heat drafty old mansions left over from Palmier Days. We were the happiest people we knew.

It was into this kingdom of raffish good will towards everybody that two woebegone missionaries wandered one rainy Saturday. Nowadays, as I said, gospel harvesters plow the fields and scatter with such gentility that you hardly know they're around. But a couple of decades ago you couldn't miss them.

This particular brood barnstormed for the Lord in an antique limosine painted white and plastered with signs proclaiming the imminence of Kingdom Come. As if this weren't enough to scare the daylights out of anybody, a nest of loudspeakers topsides saturated the target area with glad tidings of approaching Armageddon, hellfire and judgment.

"I'd like to know what these people think they're doing," Nell mused from the front window. "The man and woman in that goofy car. I've never laid eyes on them before, have you guys?"

As usual I was presiding at a levée for urchins, all of us dressing up to play King, The Prince and the Pauper, or whatever we had seen at the Glen Theatre the week before. The evangelists didn't seem to be doing too well, according to Nell, who was never nosy unless something really special were afoot. They had tried every door on the street, finding nobody home (and everybody was) or getting a reception chilly enough to freeze Gehenna.

"Well, I think it's just awful about those poor slobs," Nell worried. "The least somebody could do would be to ask them in, no matter what they're peddling."

It never occurred to her that these might be religious rivals. She wouldn't have admitted the existance of any to begin with.

At last the discouraged Lost Sheep (which is what we called them ever after) approached our porch. Nell was ready for them. She flung open the door with a bountiful,

"Come in, come in, and get dried off!" The Lost Sheep looked at her and then at each other. "Oh, come on. You look like the Grapes of Wrath." Nell was an inspired improviser. With one of her "non sequiturs" dropped casually into the conversational works, she could jangle all talk to a standstill, and her enthusiastic misquotations were worth their weight in double takes.

Now was no exception. The Lost Sheep turned their unbelieving gaze back at her and beyond to the warmth of the house. Then they bolted inside where we could get a look at them.

The man was gaunt and shaggy and he scowled all the time. The woman was whispy and chinless and very much ill-at-ease. There was something pathetic about them as they flapped their magazines our way.

“Never mind about that now,” Nell blocked the tactic. “What you need is a good hot cup of tea.” The Lost Sheep damply agreed. “How about a little something in it?”

“Perhaps a spoonful of sugar,” the woman hesitated.

“I mean, a little something to take the chill off.”

“Lemon?” came the nervous suggestion.

“Oh, skip it,” said Nell and she pottered out to the kitchen, abandoning us all to an eternity of embarrassment. Finally she returned with a loaded tray (and I choose the term “loaded” purposely). It was just like her to spike her teacup with a little something to take the chill off. Only with Nell you could never be quite sure.

“Now then,” she beamed, ever the hostess. “What is it you’re selling?”

The female Sheep gasped like someone reviving after a near-drowning. “Have you found Christ?” she asked.

“I never lost Him,” was Nell’s reply.

We wanted to cheer, but the woman pressed on. “I mean, do you have him in your life?”

“Of course I do, dear. Don’t you?” There was a murmur of approval from the gallery and Nell continued briskly: “I go to mass and communion every Sunday of my life. And Herbert here is an altar boy.”

The couple exchanged another look. The interview wasn’t going according to the book.

“You see that picture over there?” My mother indicated a Raphael reproduction.

“The ... that woman?” the female Sheep looked as though she were gnawing a quince instead of one of Nell’s delicious cookies.

“She’s the mother of God!” Nell saluted. “Now what can I do for you?”

The Sheep set down their teacups and began a faltering pitch, but their hearts were not in it.

“If it’s money you’re after,” Nell interrupted, “I don’t think there’s a nickle in this house.” She cast about for her pocket book and proceeded to empty it onto the coffee table. Rosary, Novena book, keys, family photographs, compact, comb and curlers, a jar of hand cream, a can of tooth powder and a denture brush, newspaper clippings, her lower plate, the dog’s collar and a bottle-opener all clattered forth. At each item the eyes of the Lost Sheep widened and their mouths contracted almost in disappearance. Now they both looked like they were sucking quinces, or possibly alum.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Nell reported triumphantly. “I do have some change!” She counted out eleven cents (a nickle and six pennies). “It isn’t much, but God knows you’re welcome to it.” She pressed the coins into the woman’s palm. “Oh, don’t bother with any of that stuff,” again she waved away the proferred literature. “I haven’t even finished ‘Gone With The Wind’ yet.”

But the Lost Sheep prevailed and presently were effecting an escape, their benedictions all but lost in the alleluias of “God love you!” from my mother. She closed the door and heaved one of her great sighs. “I want you brats to get out of those crazy duds now,” she suggested at length, “and I’ll go see about the potatoes.”

No matter how many guests I rounded up, lunch was always hearty, generally consisting of baked potatoes, peanut butter sandwiches, junket or tapioca, baked apples and pitchers of milk or cocoa. Today it was further spiced with the novelty of the little morality play just acted out.

“Irene dear,” Nell prodded my moppet of the moment. “I’m sure your mother never lets you and Brubs read at the table.”

“I can’t help it, Aunt Nell. It’s this silly magazine.” Irene was turning over the pages of one of the murky periodicals left by one of the Lost Sheep. We were all as entranced as kids today are with television.

“Look at this one,” her brother demanded. “Aunt Nell, what’s a Scarlet Woman?”

“Look, the Pope has three heads,” Irene put in. It was true. On the front page was a crude cartoon representing the Vatican with a hydra-headed monster oozing out, each head crowned with the Triple Tiara.

“Let me see that!” Nell ordered. She took one look, then snatched up the remaining copies. As I recall it, they swam with lurid slanders against the church, the Papacy and Priesthood, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass – against all things Catholic, in fact. Such exotic phrases as Whore of Babylon, and Pomps of the Devil, linger to this day.

“Well, I’ll be –“ Nell’s smouldering exclamation was lost in the rustle of cheap paper. “Come on, children,” she announced suddenly. “Get your wraps and duds.”

“But, Aunt Nell,” came the whines. “What about our baked apples?”

“Never mind them – come on!” By the time she reached her boiling point – which was notoriously low – we had cast off for uptown in Hernrietta.

I doubt if any journey has ever been achieved in more portentous silence or with greater clugging or and motor sputter. We lurched, we skidded, we bounced over the tracks. Gears grated, people honked, and my mother’s knuckles grew white with clutching the steering wheel. We all knew exactly what was happening. We had seen it before and we knew. Nellie was on the warpath. Nobody said a word.

It didn’t take long to find them. The limousine was a dead giveaway and you could hear the scratchy gospel hymns amplified all over town. They had set up shop right next to the bank and the female sheep was handing out literature while partner ranted from the running-board. Gus Niemetz the policeman stood by uneasily, not knowing what to do.

“Everybody stay right in this car,” was Nell’s car as we ground to a halt. “Don’t a one of you dare get out.”

The next instant a nuclear ball of Irish Catholic fury burst through the crowd, scattering umbrellas and shopping baskets like tenpins. The female Sheep spotted her but before she could sound the alarm, Nell was upon them, tugging the oracle down from his perch and shaking her fists in his face.

I closed my eyes and put my head down on the back of the front seat. God help him, I thought. Heresy isn’t worth it.

The scene was brief enough – more fistshaking and Gaelic oaths, propaganda dashed underfoot and appeals to the bewildered congregation, a convulsive digging into her own pockets by the chinless Sheep, then the bowling ball routine again, propelling Nell into the Studebaker and us on our way home. From the rear window we could see the limousine moving off in the opposite direction.

Not until we were well into our baked apples did things return to normal, or rather, from normal. “At least I got the eleven cents back,” Nell said, dabbing at our dishes with whipped cream. “And not a word of this to Big Herb, understand? Go on, kids, eat yourselves. You must be ravished by now.” It was gratifying to hear old malapropisms again. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

Everything was. The Lost Sheep never came back, not in the limousine anyway. The eleven cents went into the Sunday collection and the Raphael Madonna was moved into a more prominent position over the fireplace.

From then on Nell read every publication that came into the house. Relious toleration is a grand thing, she used to say, but it’s got to work both ways.

 

RIGHT! WE'LL HAVE A PARTY!
from the autobiography "DAMN THE DEPRESSION, ANYWAY!"
Written by my father the late great
Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005),
who worked as MCA-Record’s Show-Star Herbert Moore. He also conducted the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir during the Korean War, toured with his wife, the operatic mezzo-soprano Gun Kronzell, around the world as “The Singing Couple”. This true story takes place in the posh, spiritually rich but financially poor 1930’s. The picture here to the right is of my father many years later, during a party in the 1960’s (how fitting), drinking wine, chatting with his good friend, the famous Swedish opera tenor Nicolai Gedda.
Now, fasten your seatbelts. Step into the time machine. Get ready to visit the culturally endowed relatives living the posh life back in the Illinois that was, sometime in the 1930’s.
 
As long as anyone can remember, our home had always been THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITY. Through thick or thin, palmy days or the Depths of the Depression - between the extremes of my father Big Herb's practicality and Nell's "To Hell with Poverty - we'll sell the pig!" liberality, we always managed to make every visitor feel happily at home.
Most of the regulars at this snug little oasis of ours were survivors of a picturesque world that, since the Stockmarket Crash of 1929, had evaporated fast. Their families had once held sway in a score or more of vast old turreted wooden-frame mansions which still ornamented the town, left over from the Gilded 1880's, a few of which still stand to this day, plaqued (as they say) as Historical Landmarks.
One of these - Eastbourne - had from the mid 1890's been my Dad's family home, last occupied by my Uncle Harper and his peripetitic family - three sons and his great billowing Southern Belle of a spouse, Clara by name, but known to all and sundry (all except us, that is) as 'Honey". They blowsily occupied the old manse until late in the 1930's, when it was unfortunately demolished. To this day it forms a marvelously gloomy, House-of-Usher background for a lot of my earliest memories - fifteen huge, high-ceiling rooms, many with fireplaces. Of these, the room I remember best was the library, a museum really, cluttered as it was with bayonets, shell-casings, dress-swords with sashes, handguns, even spiked officer's helmets from the old German Imperial Army, just the thing for our boyhood extravaganzas inspired by the historical movies we saw on Saturday afternoons. These were souveniers of the time in France in 1917-18 by my Dad Herbert Lewis Moulton and his two younger brothers, Wes and Harp.
The rest of this spacious old mansion contained family and servants' quarters, hotel-sized kitchen and laundry facilities - Eastbourne had been a popular cross-country inn until my Grandfather bought it to house his lady-wife and brood of six children, plus servants that included at least one live-in nanny. One of them was a wonderful black Mammy, Maisie - pardon the lapse! - with her daughter Rachel, my first experience with folk of other colors, and a delightful one or was, too. (Rachel, grown to young womanhood, was my baby-sitter when I was a nipper.)
Further amenities included a billiard room, a glazed-in conservatory (south side, of course), and a large lofty attic filled with memorabilia of untold splendor, a porte cochere, and two pillared porches, which Honey in that booming Texan foghorn used to call Galleries, much to Nell’s unconcealed disgust: “Haw-puh! Frank! Leeeeeeeeeeee! What yawl doin’ on that gall’reh?”
On the sloping, wooded lawns were the remains of a croquet- and a tennis-court, outbuildings where the cows and the horses were billeted (named Chummy and Princess, and Duke and Lightning, respectively) and by the time we began playing in it, a slightly ramschackle summer house.
People can talk all the like about the delight about the ante-bellum Southland, but its post-bellum northern counterpart, based, not on slavery, but on industry and commerce, had a  no-nonsense charm of its own. It was in settings such as these that was played out on that long, in retrospect lovely American twilight up to the start of the first World War, which is celebrated in plays such as O’Neill’s “Ah, Wilderness!” – tea-dances, ice-cream socials, masquerades, and amateur family theatricals, with house-music provided by all five of the Moulton boys, with sister Minnie at the piano. After the war, the twilight lingered on spasmodically until the grand old memory-drenched house was sold off and demolished. Even then, in the late 1930’s, we’d gather a carload of friends and drive over on a summer evening to pick basketfuls of the fragrant lillies-of-thze-valley which still flourished in a corner of the original garden.
It was the dispossessed heirs of these once proud dynasties, the greying sheiks of yesteryear with nicknames like “Babe” and “Bunny” and “Wop”, with their ex-flapper Shebas, all raucous voices, middle-age spread, and clouds of perfume with names like Mitsouki or Emeraud, who used to crowd our little dining room on Saturday evenings (the table top decked in an old army blanket) for intense penny-ante poker sessions, sometimes using matchsticks for chips, laughing at off-color jokes way above my head and puffing their Old Golds and home-rolled “coffin nails”, while the Budweiser flowed and soda crackers got crumbled into bowls of Big Herb’s special chili-con-carne, to the accompaniament of Paul Whiteman records or Your Hit Parade on the radio-phonograph hard by in the living-room.
I loved these gatherings in my parents’ cronies – Big Herb’s out-of-work business colleagues or American Legion (Forty-and-Eight) buddies and their wives or lady-friends. Many of them had been the blithe and breezy Charleston-dancing, hipflask toting young marrieds, who (I was told); used to switch partners on weekend treasure-hunts, and in that still infamous Crash had lost everything but their social stature (whatever that amounted to) and their sense of humor. Thus had John Held, Jr. given wa to the late Scott Fitzgerald.
To me these people were as fascinating as visitors from another galaxy, caught in what today would called a time-warp. Authemntic “Twenties-Types” (if one thinks about them now) and I couldn’t get my fill looking at them – everything they did shone with enough of the glamour of lost wealth which set them apart from everyone else we knew (God, was I that much of a snob at the age of nine or ten?).
Special fun were those evenings which suddenly turned musical, like the time when a lady with hennaed hair unloosed one of Delilah’s arias from “Samson” in a rich boozy contralto, then huddled at the keyboard with a lady friend to harmonize “Sing to Me, My Little Gypsy Sweetheart”. (Nell later reported that they were both sharing the same “beau”, who happened to be our family dentist. (What a sensation that was!)
So the poker sessions rolled merrily along, spiced now and then with one of the men getting sobbing drunk and passing out on the livingroom couch, or one of the married couples indulging in a strident battle which mesmerized me even while being hustled out to my bedroom by one or the other of my parents. Boy, it was as good as having a movie-show right in our own living room. Besides which, they were all exceedingly nice to me, slipping me a shiny new dime now and then or taking time out to show me card tricks or draw pictures, or sometimes work with me on my pappet theater or Erector Set. One of our occasional guests was the cartoonist Dick Calkins – Lt. Dick Calkins, as he signed his Buck Rogers in the 25th century newspaper strip. One Saturday eveing, though half-sozzled, he spent a good hour painstakingly drawing cartoons of Buck and his girlfriend Wilma Deering on facing pages of my autograph book and dedicated to me alone. (Naturally, treasures such as these eventually disappeared – gone, alas, like our youth too soon.)
Thee smoky, sometimes emotion-charged pow-wows weren’t quite the proper fodder for the local newspapers, but there were plenty of other tidbits lovingly provided by Nell at the drop of a phone-call.
 

---

On the Lord Bacon

By Voltaire


Not long since the trite and frivolous question following was debated in a very polite and learned company, viz., Who was the greatest man, Cæsar, Alexander, Tamerlane, Cromwell, &c.? Somebody answered that Sir Isaac Newton excelled them all.  The gentleman’s assertion was very just; for if true greatness consists in having received from heaven a mighty genius, and in having employed it to enlighten our own mind and that of others, a man like Sir Isaac Newton, whose equal is hardly found in a thousand years, is the truly great man.  And those politicians and conquerors (and all ages produce some) were generally so many illustrious wicked men.  That man claims our respect who commands over the minds of the rest of the world by the force of truth, not those who enslave their fellow-creatures: he who is acquainted with the universe, not they who deface it.

Since, therefore, you desire me to give you an account of the famous personages whom England has given birth to, I shall begin with Lord Bacon, Mr. Locke, Sir Isaac Newton, &c.  Afterwards the warriors and Ministers of State shall come in their order.

I must begin with the celebrated Viscount Verulam, known in Europe by the name of Bacon, which was that of his family.  His father had been Lord Keeper, and himself was a great many years Lord Chancellor under King James I.  Nevertheless, amidst the intrigues of a Court, and the affairs of his exalted employment, which alone were enough to engross his whole time, he yet found so much leisure for study as to make himself a great philosopher, a good historian, and an elegant writer; and a still more surprising circumstance is that he lived in an age in which the art of writing justly and elegantly was little known, much less true philosophy.  Lord Bacon, as is the fate of man, was more esteemed after his death than in his lifetime.  His enemies were in the British Court, and his admirers were foreigners.

When the Marquis d’Effiat attended in England upon the Princess Henrietta Maria, daughter to Henry IV., whom King Charles I. had married, that Minister went and visited the Lord Bacon, who, being at that time sick in his bed, received him with the curtains shut close.  “You resemble the angels,” says the Marquis to him; “we hear those beings spoken of perpetually, and we believe them superior to men, but are never allowed the consolation to see them.”

You know that this great man was accused of a crime very unbecoming a philosopher: I mean bribery and extortion.  You know that he was sentenced by the House of Lords to pay a fine of about four hundred thousand French livres, to lose his peerage and his dignity of Chancellor; but in the present age the English revere his memory to such a degree, that they will scarce allow him to have been guilty.  In case you should ask what are my thoughts on this head, I shall answer you in the words which I heard the Lord Bolingbroke use on another occasion.  Several gentlemen were speaking, in his company, of the avarice with which the late Duke of Marlborough had been charged, some examples whereof being given, the Lord Bolingbroke was appealed to (who, having been in the opposite party, might perhaps, without the imputation of indecency, have been allowed to clear up that matter): “He was so great a man,” replied his lordship, “that I have forgot his vices.”

I shall therefore confine myself to those things which so justly gained Lord Bacon the esteem of all Europe.

The most singular and the best of all his pieces is that which, at this time, is the most useless and the least read, I mean his Novum Scientiarum Organum.  This is the scaffold with which the new philosophy was raised; and when the edifice was built, part of it at least, the scaffold was no longer of service.

The Lord Bacon was not yet acquainted with Nature, but then he knew, and pointed out, the several paths that lead to it.  He had despised in his younger years the thing called philosophy in the Universities, and did all that lay in his power to prevent those societies of men instituted to improve human reason from depraving it by their quiddities, their horrors of the vacuum, their substantial forms, and all those impertinent terms which not only ignorance had rendered venerable, but which had been made sacred by their being ridiculously blended with religion.

He is the father of experimental philosophy.  It must, indeed, be confessed that very surprising secrets had been found out before his time—the sea-compass, printing, engraving on copper plates, oil-painting, looking-glasses; the art of restoring, in some measure, old men to their sight by spectacles; gunpowder, &c., had been discovered.  A new world had been fought for, found, and conquered.  Would not one suppose that these sublime discoveries had been made by the greatest philosophers, and in ages much more enlightened than the present?  But it was far otherwise; all these great changes happened in the most stupid and barbarous times.  Chance only gave birth to most of those inventions; and it is very probable that what is called chance contributed very much to the discovery of America; at least, it has been always thought that Christopher Columbus undertook his voyage merely on the relation of a captain of a ship which a storm had driven as far westward as the Caribbean Islands.  Be this as it will, men had sailed round the world, and could destroy cities by an artificial thunder more dreadful than the real one; but, then, they were not acquainted with the circulation of the blood, the weight of the air, the laws of motion, light, the number of our planets, &c.  And a man who maintained a thesis on Aristotle’s “Categories,” on the universals a parte rei, or such-like nonsense, was looked upon as a prodigy.

The most astonishing, the most useful inventions, are not those which reflect the greatest honour on the human mind.  It is to a mechanical instinct, which is found in many men, and not to true philosophy, that most arts owe their origin.

The discovery of fire, the art of making bread, of melting and preparing metals, of building houses, and the invention of the shuttle, are infinitely more beneficial to mankind than printing or the sea-compass: and yet these arts were invented by uncultivated, savage men.

What a prodigious use the Greeks and Romans made afterwards of mechanics!  Nevertheless, they believed that there were crystal heavens, that the stars were small lamps which sometimes fell into the sea, and one of their greatest philosophers, after long researches, found that the stars were so many flints which had been detached from the earth.

In a word, no one before the Lord Bacon was acquainted with experimental philosophy, nor with the several physical experiments which have been made since his time.  Scarce one of them but is hinted at in his work, and he himself had made several.  He made a kind of pneumatic engine, by which he guessed the elasticity of the air.  He approached, on all sides as it were, to the discovery of its weight, and had very near attained it, but some time after Torricelli seized upon this truth.  In a little time experimental philosophy began to be cultivated on a sudden in most parts of Europe.  It was a hidden treasure which the Lord Bacon had some notion of, and which all the philosophers, encouraged by his promises, endeavoured to dig up.

But that which surprised me most was to read in his work, in express terms, the new attraction, the invention of which is ascribed to Sir Isaac Newton.

We must search, says Lord Bacon, whether there may not be a kind of magnetic power which operates between the earth and heavy bodies, between the moon and the ocean, between the planets, &c.  In another place he says either heavy bodies must be carried towards the centre of the earth, or must be reciprocally attracted by it; and in the latter case it is evident that the nearer bodies, in their falling, draw towards the earth, the stronger they will attract one another.  We must, says he, make an experiment to see whether the same clock will go faster on the top of a mountain or at the bottom of a mine; whether the strength of the weights decreases on the mountain and increases in the mine.  It is probable that the earth has a true attractive power.

This forerunner in philosophy was also an elegant writer, an historian, and a wit.

His moral essays are greatly esteemed, but they were drawn up in the view of instructing rather than of pleasing; and, as they are not a satire upon mankind, like Rochefoucauld’s “Maxims,” nor written upon a sceptical plan, like Montaigne’s “Essays,” they are not so much read as those two ingenious authors.

His History of Henry VII. was looked upon as a masterpiece, but how is it possible that some persons can presume to compare so little a work with the history of our illustrious Thuanus?

Speaking about the famous impostor Perkin, son to a converted Jew, who assumed boldly the name and title of Richard IV., King of England, at the instigation of the Duchess of Burgundy, and who disputed the crown with Henry VII., the Lord Bacon writes as follows:—

“At this time the King began again to be haunted with sprites, by the magic and curious arts of the Lady Margaret, who raised up the ghost of Richard, Duke of York, second son to King Edward IV., to walk and vex the King.

“After such time as she (Margaret of Burgundy) thought he (Perkin Warbeck) was perfect in his lesson, she began to cast with herself from what coast this blazing star should first appear, and at what time it must be upon the horizon of Ireland; for there had the like meteor strong influence before.”

Methinks our sagacious Thuanus does not give in to such fustian, which formerly was looked upon as sublime, but in this age is justly called nonsense.

From "Petrarch's Secret"

DIALOGUE THE FIRST

S. AUGUSTINE--PETRARCH


_S. Augustine._ What have you to say, O man of little strength? Of what
are you dreaming? For what are you looking? Remember you not you are
mortal?

_Petrarch._ Yes, I remember it right well, and a shudder comes upon me
every time that remembrance rises in my breast.

_S. Augustine._ May you, indeed, remember as you say, and take heed for
yourself. You will spare me much trouble by so doing. For there con
be no doubt that to recollect one's misery and to practise frequent
meditation on death is the surest aid in scorning the seductions of
this world, and in ordering the soul amid its storms and tempests, if
only such meditation be not superficial, but sink into the bones and
marrow of the heart. Yet am I greatly afraid lest that happen in your
case which I have seen in so many others, and you be found deceiving
your own self.

_Petrarch_. In what way do you mean? For I do not clearly understand
the drift of your remarks.

_S. Augustine._ O race of mortal men, this it is that above all makes
me astonished and fearful for you, when I behold you, of your own will
clinging to your miseries; pretending that you do not know the peril
hanging over your heads and if one bring it under your very eyes, you
try to thrust it from your sight and put it afar off.

_Petrarch._ In what way are we so mad?

_S. Augustine._ Do you suppose there is any living man so unreasonable
that if he found himself stricken with a dangerous ailment he would not
anxiously desire to regain the blessing of health?

_Petrarch._ I do not suppose such a case has ever been heard of.

_S. Augustine._ And do you think if one wished for a thing with all
one's soul one would be so idle and careless as not to use all possible
means to obtain what one desired?

_Petrarch._ No one, I think, would be so foolish.

_S. Augustine._ If we are agreed on these two points, so we ought also
to agree on a third.

_Petrarch._ What is this third point?

_S. Augustine._ It is this: that just as he who by deep meditation has
discovered he is miserable will ardently wish to be so no more; and as
he who has formed this wish will seek to have it realised, so he who
seeks will be able to reach what he wishes. It is clear that the third
step depends on the second as the second on the first. And therefore
the first should be, as it were, a root of salvation in man's heart.
Now you mortal men, and you yourself with all your power of mind, keep
doing your best by all the pleasures of the world to pull up this
saving root out of your hearts, which, as I said, fills me with horror
and wonder. With justice, therefore, you are punished by the loss of
this root of salvation and the consequent loss of all the rest.

_Petrarch_. I foresee this complaint you bring is likely to be
lengthy, and take many words to develop it. Would you mind, therefore,
postponing it to another occasion? And that I may travel more surely to
your conclusion, may we send a little more time over the premisses?

_S. Augustine_. I must concede something to, your slowness of mind; so
please stop me at any point where you wish.

_Petrarch_. Well, if I must speak for myself, I do not follow your
chain of reasoning.

_S. Augustine_. What possible obscurity is there in it? What are you in
doubt about now?

_Petrarch_. I believe there is a multitude of things for which we
ardently long, which we seek for with all our energy, but which
nevertheless, however diligent we are, we never have obtained and never
shall.

_S. Augustine_. That may be true of other desires, but in regard to
that we have now under discussion the case is wholly different.

_Petrarch._ What makes you say that?

_S. Augustine._ Because every man who desires to be delivered from his
misery, provided only he desires sincerely and with all his heart,
cannot fail to obtain that which he desires.

_Petrarch_. O father, what is this I hear? There are few men indeed who
do not feel they lack many things and who would not confess they were
so far unhappy. Every one who questions his own heart will acknowledge
it is so. By natural consequence if the fulness of blessing makes man
happy, all things he lacks will so far make him unhappy. This burden
of unhappiness all men would fain lay down, as every one is aware; but
every one is aware also that very few have been able. How many there
are who have felt the crushing weight of grief, through bodily disease,
or the loss of those they loved, or imprisonment, or exile, or hard
poverty, or other misfortunes it would take too long to tell over; and
yet they who suffer these things have only too often to lament that it
is not permitted them, as you suggest, to be set free. To me, then,
it seems quite beyond dispute that a multitude of men are unhappy by
compulsion and in spite of themselves.

_S. Augustine_. I must take you a long way back, and as one does with
the very young whose wits are slight and slow, I must ask you to
follow out the thread of my discourse from its very simplest elements.
I thought your mind was more advanced, and I had no idea you still
needed lessons so childish. Ah, if only you had kept in mind those true
and saving maxims of the wise which you have so often read and re-read
with me; if, I must take leave to say, you had but wrought for yourself
instead of others; if you had but applied your study of so many volumes
to the ruling of your own conduct, instead of to vanity and gaining the
empty praise of men, you would not want to retail such low and absurd
follies.

_Petrarch._ I know not where you want to take me, but already I am
aware of the blush mounting to my brow, and I feel like schoolboys in
presence of an angry master. Before they know what they are accused of
they think of many offences of which they are guilty, and at the very
first word from the master's lips they are filled with confusion. In
like case I too am conscious of my ignorance and of many other faults,
and though I perceive not the drift of your admonition, yet as I know
almost everything bad may be brought against me, I blush even before
you have done speaking. So pray state more clearly what is this biting
accusation that you have made.

_S. Augustine_. I shall have many things to lay to your charge
presently. Just now what makes me so indignant is to hear you suppose
that any one can become or can be unhappy against his will.

_Petrarch_. I might as well spare my blushes. For what more obvious
truth than this can possibly be imagined? What man exists so ignorant
or so far removed from all contact with the world as not to know that
penury, grief, disgrace, illness, death, and other evils too that are
reckoned among the greatest, often befall us in spite of ourselves,
and never with our own consent? From which it follows that it is easy
enough to know and to detest one's own misery, but not to remove it;
so that if the two first steps depend on ourselves, the third is
nevertheless in Fortune's hand.

_S. Augustine._ When I saw you ashamed I was ready to give you pardon,
but brazen impudence angers me more than error itself. How is it you
have forgotten all those wise precepts of Philosophy, which declare
that no man can be made unhappy by those things you rattle off by name?
Now if it is Virtue only that makes the happiness of man, which is
demonstrated by Cicero and a whole multitude of weighty reasons, it
follows of necessity that nothing is opposed to true happiness except
what is also opposed to Virtue. This truth you can yourself call to
mind even without a word from me, at least unless your wits are very
dull.

_Petrarch._ I remember it quite well. You would have me bear in mind
the precepts of the Stoics, which contradict the opinions of the crowd
and are nearer truth than common custom is.

_S. Augustine._ You would indeed be of all men the most miserable were
you to try to arrive at the truth through the absurdities of the crowd,
or to suppose that under the leadership of blind guides you would
reach the light. You must avoid the common beaten track and set your
aspirations higher; take the way marked by the steps of very few who
have gone before, if you would be counted worthy to hear the Poet's
word--

    "On, brave lad, on! your courage leading you,
    So only Heaven is scaled."[1]

_Petrarch._ Heaven grant I may hear it ere I die! But I pray you to
proceed. For I assure you I have by no means become shameless. I do not
doubt the Stoics' rules are wiser far than the blunders of the crowd. I
await therefore your further counsel.

_S. Augustine_. Since we are agreed on this, that no one can become or
be unhappy except through his own fault, what need of more words is
there?

_Petrarch._ Just this need, that I think I have seen very many people,
and I am one of them, to whom nothing is more distressful than the
inability to break the yoke of their faults, though all their life long
they make the greatest efforts so to do. Wherefore, even allowing that
the maxim of the Stoics holds good, one may yet admit that many people
are very unhappy in spite of themselves, yes, and although they lament
it and wish they were not, with their whole heart.

_S. Augustine_. We have wandered somewhat from our course, but we are
slowly working back to our starting-point. Or have you quite forgotten
whence we set out?

_Petrarch._ I had begun to lose sight of it, but it is coming back to
me now.

_S. Augustine._ What I had set out to do with you was to make clear
that the first step in avoiding the distresses of this mortal life and
raising the soul to higher things is to practise meditation on death
and on man's misery; and that the second is to have a vehement desire
and purpose to rise. When these two things were present, I promised a
comparatively easy ascent to the goal of our desire. Unless haply to
you it seems otherwise?

_Petrarch_. I should certainly never venture to affirm this, for from
my youth upwards I have had the increasing conviction that if in any
matter I was inclined to think differently from yourself I was certain
to be wrong.

_S. Augustine._ We will please waive all compliments. And as I observe
you are inclined to admit the truth of my words more out of deference
than conviction, pray feel at liberty to say whatever your real
judgment suggests.

_Petrarch._ I am still afraid to be found differing, but nevertheless
I will make use of the liberty you grant. Not to speak of other men, I
call to witness Her who has ever been the ruling spirit of my life; you
yourself also I call to witness how many times I have pondered over my
own misery and over the subject of Death; with what floods of tears I
have sought to wash away my stains, so that I can scarce speak of it
without weeping; yet hitherto, as you see, all is in vain. This alone
leads me to doubt the truth of that proposition you seek to establish,
that no man has ever fallen into misery but of his own free will, or
remained, miserable except of his own accord; the exact opposite of
which I have proved in my own sad experience.

_S. Augustine_. That complaint is an old one and seems likely to prove
unending. Though I have already several times stated the truth in
vain, I shall not cease to maintain it yet. No man can become or can
be unhappy unless he so chooses; but as I said at the beginning, there
is in men a certain perverse and dangerous inclination to deceive
themselves, which is the most deadly thing in life. For if it is true
that we rightly fear being taken in by those with whom we live, because
our natural habit of trusting them tends to make us unsuspicious, and
the pleasantly familiar sound of their voice is apt to put us off our
guard,--how much rather ought you to fear the deceptions you practise
on yourself, where love, influence, familiarity play so large a part,
a case wherein every one esteems himself more than he deserves, loves
himself more than he ought, and where Deceiver and Deceived are one and
the same person?

_Petrarch._ You have said this kind of thing pretty often to-day
already. But I do not recollect ever practising such deception on
myself; and I hope other people have not deceived me either.

_S. Augustine._ Now at this very moment you are notably deceiving
yourself when you boast never to have done such a thing at all; and I
have a good enough hope of your own wit and talent to make me think
that if you pay close attention you will see for yourself that no man
can fall into misery of his own will. For on this point our whole
discussion rests. I pray you to think well before answering, and
give your closest attention, and be jealous for truth more than for
disputation, but then tell me what man in the world was ever forced to
sin? For the Seers and Wise Men require that sin must be a voluntary
action, and so rigid is their definition that if this voluntariness is
absent then the sin also is not there. But without sin no man is made
unhappy, as you agreed to admit a few minutes ago.

_Petrarch._ I perceive that by degrees I am getting away from my
proposition and am being compelled to acknowledge that the beginning
of my misery did arise from my own will. I feel it is true in myself,
and I conjecture the same to be true of others. Now I beg you on your
part to acknowledge a certain truth also.

_S. Augustine._ What is it you wish me to acknowledge?

_Petrarch_. That as it is true no man ever fell involuntarily, so this
also is true that countless numbers of those who thus are voluntarily
fallen, nevertheless do not voluntarily remain so. I affirm this
confidently of my own self. And I believe that I have received this for
my punishment, as I would not stand when I might, so now I cannot rise
when I would.

_S. Augustine._ That is indeed a wise and true view to take. Still as
you now confess you were wrong in your first proposition, so I think
you should own you are wrong in your second.

_Petrarch._ Then you would say there is no distinction between falling
and remaining fallen?

_S. Augustine._ No, they are indeed different things; that is to say,
different in time, but in the nature of the action and in the mind of
the person concerned they are one and the same.

_Petrarch._ I see in what knots you entangle me. But the wrestler who
wins his victory by a trick is not necessarily the stronger man, though
he may be the more practised.

_S. Augustine._ It is Truth herself in whose presence we are
discoursing. To her, plain simplicity is ever dear, and cunning is
hateful. That you may see this beyond all doubt I will go forward from
this point with all the plainness you can desire.

_Petrarch._ You could give me no more welcome news. Tell me, then, as
it is a question concerning myself, by what line of reasoning you mean
to prove I am unhappy. I do not deny that I am; but I deny that it is
with my own consent I remain so. For, on the contrary, I feel this to
be most hateful and the very opposite of what I wish. But yet I can do
nothing except wish.

_S. Augustine._ If only the conditions laid down are observed, I will
prove to you that you are misusing words.

_Petrarch._ What conditions do you mean, and how would you have me use
words differently?

_S. Augustine._ Our conditions were to lay aside all juggling with
terms and to seek truth in all plain simplicity, and the words I would
have you use are these: instead of saying you _can_not, you ought to
say you _will_ not.

_Petrarch._ There will be no end then to our discussion, for that is
what I never shall confess. I tell you I know, and you yourself are
witness, how often I have wished to and yet could not rise. What floods
of tears have I shed, and all to no purpose?

_S. Augustine._ O yes, I have witnessed many tears, but very little
will.

_Petrarch._ Heaven is witness (for indeed I think no man on this earth
knows) what I have suffered, and how I have longed earnestly to rise,
if only I might.

 

 

The Hanging of Judas

By Shingirirai Masunda

 

Who is wise? The one giving advice or the one who is seeking the advice? Who is in charge? The one wearing the crown or those placing it on his head. A paradox nondescript, although not altogether indescribable. Ergo: when you grip too hard onto this dry and slippery sand, you will be left holding onto nothing.

If existence is in itself a means to an end, I thought the quondam contretemps over significance are inconsequential. That’s what I thought. At least, until the day I met – Self. Self menaced I with the most bitter vengeance. It was a payback for the contempt with which I had treated Self. Self had bestowed the reign on I and I in turn had neglected his advice.

The agony was at length insufferable. And I realised, seeing Self run off with the life I had sacrificed all time to build, that the time had come. It was not the season for preventing Self from getting away with this. I realised that it was high time to die.

It predisposed I to serious impressions, so finally I made up mind to carry forth without Self. I knew not how the arrangement took place but so it was. I gave the matter no further consideration and ended the hopes of existence by an event which could not have been anticipated, to be sure, but which the natural sequence of events had brought about.

Everything which happens is meant to happen, because it happened. The reason is inconsequential, for it does not alter the effect. Life, alike money, has no real value other than possessed by what it acquires. I betook to a pursuit of a life with all the nimbleness which the case required and its circumstances would admit. But I was soon upon the point of resigning to fate as there appeared to be no life without self.

But this, for obvious reasons, I found impossible to do. How could I not exist? No sooner, however, had I ceased doubting, I realised what made the pedagogical Self. And I understood submission stood high on the list of indispensable qualities for survival.

I, like a puppet cut out of shingle and jerked by a string, addressed and corresponded well when inflicted with a purpose: to amuse Self. Fulfilling life's game of being aware of its Self. When failing, there is no point at all, so I seize to exist.

To be of any importance, emotional existence doesn't have to go on any longer than a moment. Quantitative continuity is of no significance. It’s a far more amusing arrangement for life to continue the process through different selves. Such that as each self approaches life it is renewed. Death being as positive an energy as birth, both achieving the same effect. That of life.

Every spiritual belief is a preparation to death. And every spiritual discipline involves a form of death. The death of self. One leaves behind the consciousness state in which I were an isolated individual and transcends beyond individualism. Death in its pure form is an experience of changing – Self.

I had a grave time with Self. The rod of power was new to Self, and he felt it his "duty" to use the power more than might have been thought necessary by those upon whose sense the privilege had palled. This bestowed upon I an awakening, at least a much serious reflection. Would Self be better if he were self-sacrificing, postponing his own ease and comfort to the general good? Or would he be better if he were more sedentary, and less fond of circumambulating life? And here lies the conundrum, in this transformation of Self into I.

Let it not be supposed that Self is of a cruel and ogrish nature. Such souls there may be, among those endowed with the awful control of power, but they are rare in the realm we describe. It is, we believe, where individuals are to be crammed for the "eternity", the process of hardening mind and spirit together goes on most vigorously.

Yet among the unenlightened there is so high a respect for power, it is necessary for the self to show, first of all, he possesses this inadmissible requisite for his place. The rest is more readily taken for granted. Wisdom he may have but a strong arm he must have: so he proves the more important claim first. I must therefore make all due allowance for self, who could not be expected to overtop his position so far as to discern at once the philosophy of life.

An examination was required on the entrance into this realm, and, with whatever secret trepidation, Self was obliged to submit. Life's law prescribes accountability, but forgets to provide for the competency of the examiners; so that few better farces offer more than the course of faith. I know not precisely what self’s trials were; but I have heard of a sharp dispute between the examiners over good and evil. Good had it, and the school maintained that conviction ever after. Self's exhibition of life on this occasion did not reach I, but it must have been considerable, since he stood the ordeal.

I entered the realm with new courage and invigorated authority. I took more liberties, for I knew from past life experiences, influence is stronger than power. Self, however, had many a battle. And whether with a view to this, or as a survival ruse, he resorted to good. Perhaps it was an astute attention to the prejudices of the examiners, who approve no individual who does not do as it pleases them. It was evident Self was in compliance, and that afforded a probability that I too were.

Self's success was most triumphant after this. Obedience had given him a degree of confidence, and confidence gave him power. In short, the master had waked up. A God, he became. Circumventing I to slavery.

This is an enigma of too much magnitude to be fully described in the confines of human understanding yet vital in bringing out humanity's predicament. It must be "slubber'd o'er in haste". Its important preliminaries left to the assumptions of the individual and its fine spirit perhaps escaping for want of being embodied in words.

In any case, I became Self’s life. And here I was, left to self’s whim? How do I discern good? Today I turn water into wine. Tomorrow I am hanged. Is Jesus Christ's self-sacrifice inconsequential? Today I am a disciple. Tomorrow I am a traitor. Is Judas Iscariot's self-sacrifice inconsequential?

            Who is the villain? The one in plight or the one who gives cause to strife? Who is the hero? The one hanging from the cross or those who nailed him there? A paradox nondescript, although not altogether indescribable. Ergo: when you grip too hard onto this dry and slippery sand, you will be left holding onto nothing.

My Brilliant Film Career

or

Moulton of the Movies

By

Herbert Eyre Moulton

(1927 – 2005)

Posthumously transcribed by his son, the published author,

Charles E.J. Moulton

 

 

PROLOGUE

“Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread ...”

 

            I’ve been delving lately into The Archives --- The Archives being a collection of exquisitely varied plastic shopping-bags and a battered old volume bearing the label: Herb’s crapbook (the capital “S” having fallen by the wayside somewhere along the line) and I’ve discovered a rather startling fact: of all the movies I’ve worked in over the years, either as a dialogue coach or actor or whatever --- every single one of them has been a flop --- that is, if they were ever released at all.

            Admittedly a couple of them deserved to bomb, due to a bad script or rotten timing or faulty promotion, or inflated hubris or just plain bloody-mindedness on the director’s part. But not all of them were stinkers. Quite the contrary --- aside from the obvious abomination or two, some were of superior quality, as we shall see, with imaginative screenplays or those about to be ... hardly deserving such a fate.

            Of their actual histories, one of them enjoyed a spectacular Hollywood-style premiere at a leading Vienna movie palace, with speeches, floodlights, and a gala party --- then curled up a died a death. Another made it all the way to America, but ended up as a soft-porn video (mea maxima culpa!) As far as anyone can discover, two of the really good films haven’t even crept out of the cutting-rooms yet.

            So now, having surfed through all this bilge, I detect a rather ominous pattern beginning to emerge: one cannot be involved in so many fiascos without something being at the root of it, something a good deal more sinister than ordinary tough luck or coincidence. No, something rather uncanny has been at work here all the time: Doom, Fate, Destiny, the Writhing Finger (the finger, in any case), merciless and inexorible, especially in dealing with Moulton’s Movies. Could it be that I’ve been more than just an innocent dialogue coach or player? Could I actually be a kind of Hoodoo, a certified, fully qualified Plague-Carrier, a Jonah, not so much a charmer as a Bad-Charm?

            Nowadays, with every other magazine speculating on who will be named Man/ Woman/ Newsmaker/ Personality of the Century/ Millenium, I have decided to go public myself. I am hereby putting myself up for Film-Pariah of the Century, the only completely surefire Jinx of the well-loved Silver Screen, a certain guarantee of disaster. To think of it, the fortune I could have been making all these years, just having people pay me for NOT being in their films, or conversely, having more vindictive souls subsidize me to be in the films of people they hated and whom they deliberately wanted to sabotage. All very simple, very orderly and lethally effective.

            Let me show you now what I mean --- for the sake of space, sanity, and as few messy lawsuits as possible, I’ll limit myself to nine entries from Moulton’s canon of the Good, the Bad and the Utterly Ridiculous. We’ll skip the made-for-TV efforts, the videos, and the commercials. What we’re talking here is motion-picture-stuff, cinema losses and wasted celluloid, empty theaters with idle ushers and usherettes, unsold pocorn and unswept washrooms, box offices gone to dust and conwebs, with pyramids of unwanted soft drink tins and purtrifying Chicken McNuggets.

            What we’re talking here is the dreaded Herbie-Factor, Folks --- Moulton’s Midas-Touch-in-Reverse. Call me Ishmael; Shake Hands with the Ancient Mariner ... and the envelope, please ...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Brilliant Film-Career or Moulton of the Movies

 

1. Attack Squadron
   
   “Somebody up there hates me!”
   
    
   
               The first movie I was ever involved in that actually gave me a proper --- well, fairly proper --- speaking role was a little number entitled Attack Squadron. It was shot in less than a week in November 1961 at Ardmore Studio in Bray, Co. Wicklow, a few miles from the coast from Dublin, where I was living and working at the time. If nothing else, it offered proof positive that the human spirit is truly indestructible.
   
               Attack Squadron was set on a fictitious U.S. Navy cruiser during World War II and was the brainchild of an aging Hollywood Hot-Shot left over from the 1940’s by the name of Cy Knapp: producer/ director/ undertaker, a real Renaissance-Man. He was also Central Casting’s idea of a Hollywood eccentric, from the baseball cap and tennis shoes to the well-chomped cigar-butt and raspy Edward G. Robinson bark. Our first meeting, a casting session of sorts, took place in the only hotel open in Bray at that time of year, and was constantly interrupted by Knapp’s expansive “I’m having lunch with Herb Moulton here.” Fine, except that he was the one having lunch, while I had to make do with a cold cup of coffee, which, if memory serves, I ended up paying for myself.
   
               Of course, I took the damn job, no matter how miserably it paid (Cy Knapp could easily have been Dickens’ original model for Old Scrooge). It might be a good experience (Oh, that most amorphous of terms!) and it might also provide us with a few laughs and a bit of gas (Dublinese for fun). One could always use a bit of gas. Well, we got gas all right, but it was produced by the bill of fare at the studio canteen.
   
               Misery loves company, so they say, and mine was shared with a half-dozen or so other castaways --- Irishmen trying to sound American and Americans trying to be John Wayne gung-ho. This cross-section of the old “Race-Creed-or-Color”-syndrome featured a San Francisco-actor and manager named Jack Aronson, who recently immolated himself on a tour of southern Ireland with Moby Dick in the open-stage adaptation by a friend of his, Orson Welles. Many of us in this current gig had also been aboard the doomed, imaginary Pequod as it foundered and finally sunk, leaving the survivors to contemplate the possible existance of a genuine Cap’n Ahab Curse.
   
               That Moby Dick misadventure is worth a paragraph of its own. It was a very modern, scaled down production that relied on quick changes, recorded sound, invisible props, and energetic, not to say hysterical miming on the part of all hands. At one point-of-call, the audience consisted of two bewildered farmers in the front row, who took all the miming and shouting with stoic patience up to the point where we were all pulling on an invisible rope (“Pull, babes! Pull, sucklings! Pull! Pull!”) Whereupon one of them said aloud to his mate, “Arrah, what in the name of Jayzuz are they at? Sure, there’s fook-all there!” With that, they arose, put on their caps, and left.
   
               You see what I mean about a Curse? In this case, it might easily have been the dreaded Curse of the Seven Snotty Orphans of Dublin. Moreover, as the fella said, “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet!”
   
               To return now to our Race-Creed-or-Color cross-section --- Jack Aronson played the ship’s Commander, who also happened to be Jewish. Horrible Herb here, the Illinois pariah, was cast as O’Brien, devout Irish-Catholic bead-roller --- the religious element was absolutely essential --- while the color part --- Canada-Lee-“Lifeboat”-damage --- was supplied by a  delightful black American named Ferry, who had been snagged for the assignment while passing through.
   
               It was a horrendous time for us all, a week that truly tried men’s souls, with Cy Knapp ever more obsessed with cutting expenses, and the entire workforce of Ardmore sniggering behind his back. (Come to think of it, Cy was giving a pretty good performance of Captain Ahab on his own.) To add to my own weight of woe, I was playing Leopold, the singing headwaiter in the operetta The White Horse Inn, in downtown Dublin. This naturally led to logistic problems of horrific proportions, adding to threats, recriminations, and on-set confrontations that were already raging and have since become a part of Irish Theatre Legend. The entire week was one long screaming row, with no quarter asked or given, and no one spared.
   
               In these halcyon days I was as yet unmarried --- what the Irish call Fancy-Free-and-Free-to-Fancy, and the state of my health was always a bit dicey. This led to regular eruptions of painful boils on one or the other portion of my anatomy. Naturally, my Attack Squadron installment had to show up, in glorious wide-screen Technicolor, on one side of my nose, altering all of Cy’s camera set-ups and making it necessary to film only one side of my face, like Claudette Colbert --- or, as Ferry put it, Claudette without the jugs.
   
               Kindly amnesia has blocked out all but two episodes of that strife torn week --- (1.) the sequence where each of us dis-able-bodied seamen were leaning over the ship’s railing (actually a none-too-taut rope) deep in thought of home and just spoilin’ for a flashback. For that magical effect, Cy came up with a truly ingenius idea. One of the Ardmore worker-bees crouched on the floor at our feet, holding a pan of water with a light trained on it, causing rippled reflections on each face, or, in my piteous state, in my Job-like boil. African-American, Catholic, Jewish, a touching and wonderfully multicultural essay in homesickness and patriotic sacrifice, get it? Then a quick segue into the past --- in my case, to our cut-glass, lace-curtain dining-room at home, complete to crucifix on the wall (Cy thought of everything). Nostalgia-Time, Folks, and thoughts that lie too deep for tears.
   
               It was those home-thoughts that detonated the other episode (2.) still vivid in memory, a shot heard round the Republic of Ireland, or at least the County of Wicklow. In this tender vignette (the Gospel according to Cy), I was supposed to be explaining to my little brood how it was that we American-Catholics always have suffered such heinous religious persecution in our daily lives at the hands of our bigoted non-Catholic fellow citizens. At that point the manure really hit the fan (“Bullshit! Ballocks! Balls!”)
   
               Dammit, I was once a Catholic growing up in a midwest community and never for a second had I ever, ever, ever known one instance of religious prejudice, let alone persecution. It was a vicious, pernicious libel, and I refused to be any part of it. But old hot-shot Knapp, for the sake of dramatic tension, begged to differ. Tension? Differ? While O’Brien here and Cecil B. DeKnapp wrangled loud and furious, the cast and crew took themselves off to the canteen for an attentuated tea-break. I recall, at one juncture, our make-up-girl Maureen repairing my streaming mask and my painfully blossoming boil, whilst murmuring. “Keep it up, Herb, for as long as you can! We’ll run overtime and he will have to pay us for an extra day, the bloody old gomshyte!”
   
               Finally, to break the deadlock and get me to the stage in time, a compromise was reached, the defamatory diatribe toned down, and filming allowed to continue --- the filming and the austerity. By then, ever the kleenex and the paper were all being recycled.
   
               How we got through to the end of the week remains a mystery inside of a miracle. I only know that for myself it was Schizoid City, what with juggling Leopold the Alpine Lover in town and O’Brien of the Boils down in Bray, and shuttling back and forth on the coastal train or occasional studio-van loudly begrudged by our gracious and generous Renaissance-Man.
   
               One of the few joyous moments of the whole devastating experience came with Ferry’s cheery wrap-up: “I hear that Cy Knapp’s next epic is gonna be The Nine Commandments. He’s leaving one commandment out: Thou shalt not steal.”
   
               Dear Ferry --- I wonder whatever became of him. Even more to the point: whatever happened to Attack Squadron and old Cy Knapp?
   
               Picture it: Dublin 1961, Jack Aronson, dynamic actor-director son-in-law of the great Irish actor-manager Anew MacMaster, over from San Francisco, to play the ship’s commander of, not one, but two doomed enterprises: Moby Dick’s Pequod, and Attack Squadron’s USS Anonymous --- with rugged fellow-seaman Airbear M. complete with beard for the shipwrecks ahead. Ah, Golden Days! Anchors Away!
   
               Note: in the text, Cy’s last name has been changed in the unlikely event that the old hot-shot is still alive.
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
   
2. Firefox
   
   “I fear thee, Ancient Mariner, I fear thy skinny hand!”
   
    
   
               The bit part I played in Clint Eastwood’s Cold War adventure melodrama FIREFOX was one of his first times out as both director and star. In it he plays an American pilot disguised as an ordinary businessman and sent to Moscow to steal a new supersonic fighter plane.
   
               This was Vienna 1981 --- we were living in Sweden at the time, but this didn’t stop me from trundling down to Johann-Strauss-Ville every chance I got --- for theatre work, school radio recordings, translations, or what you will.
   
               This particular assignment was definately of the what-you-will variety, with myself as a KGB apparatchik hovering ominously in the middle background while “Our Clint” is being interrogated by a cool, polite, and deadly Soviet customs official regarding certain suspicious-looking items in his luggage --- the usual anti-American, anything-to-be-mean hard time those boyos used to specialize in. All I was supposed to do was stand there glowering, but I fear I did considerably more than that, and I’ve got a home video-clip of the scene to prove it. It could serve as a model for all time of how prominent a bit player in the background can be, if he has a mind to, and is sneaky enough to see his chance and take it.
   
               My bit being so miniscule, such an old ham like myself --- sugar-cured, hickory-smoked, pineapple-glazed --- naturally felt it could use a bit of fleshing out, which is precisely what I proceeded to do, by the simple expedient of staying right on camera the whole time, naughty, unprofessional, but devilishly effective. All it took was swaying back and forth ever so slightly on my two little cloven hooves, whilst staring into the camera with doubt and suspicion in my eyes, real Spy-Who-came-in-from-the-Cold-stuff ... Powerful, stark, menacing.
   
               But not everybody saw it that way, and my performance did not go completely unnoticed. At length one of the camera crew spoke up rather pointedly: “Clint, please tell that gentleman to stand still ... bobbing back and forth like that, he’s making me dizzy.” A tiny reprimand, and it did no good whatsoever.
   
   Clint for one, being much too preoccupied with his end of the scene and his interrogation, nodded and went on to say nothing but give me a tiny smile. So, accordingly, there’s “Old Herbie” or “Air-Bear”, as my college friends used to call me, in that key opening reel, beginning 21 minutes into the motion picture and going for another full one-and-a-half minutes (the black-haired and elegant gentleman behind the Soviet military official), swaying back and forth, back and forth, gently, quietly, like a padded pendulum, frowning his Filthy-McNasty-Tovaritsch frown, all the while ...
   
               To show you what a fine gentleman and colleague Clint Eastwood truly is, he came over to me afterwards and --- the very pineapple of politeness (to borrow Mrs. Malaprop’s phrase), thanked me for doing the scene with him. Hmm, doing it? Dear Hearts, it looks from this end like I was doing my damndest to ruin it, though I’d swear a great and terrible oath that such was never my intent.
   
               Alas, Firefox turned out to be one of the biggest proverbial and monetary duds of Clint’s career. Purest coincidence? As in W.W. Jacobs’ classic horror story “The Monkey’s Paw”, maybe, maybe not. But given my track record before or since, who knows? Mine wasn’t much a part as parts go in “Firefox”, but was it sufficient to jinx the whole operation? If that be the case, sorry about that, Clint. Tough luck that it had to happen at such a vulnerable stage in your endevors. It could have happened to a worse film and as anyone who reads these chronicles can tell --- could, and did.
   
               Were the fates even then getting me warmed up for a pre-destined role as plague-carrier sui generis? Stay tuned.
   
               I only knew that in the bad old days they used to toss types like me overboard to placate the angry Gods causing all the shipwrecks: “And Jonah said unto them, take me and cast me forth into the sea, for I know that for my sake this great tempest is upon you.”
   
               I guess I’m lucky I’m still more or less intact.
   
               Let’s see, how things stand now? I shot my first motion picture in Ardmore Studios in Bray, Ireland, as a seaman, with dear Cy Knapp. Between that film (1961) and Firefox lay three thousand concerts, maybe one hundred stage productions and a few dozen commercials, one or two episodes in a local TV-series, not counting the radio-programmes.
   
               But as far as the motion pictures go, one vanished into the Bermuda Triangle as if it never existed, the other internationally distributed, but still a moderate flop --- 2 films, 2 flops, a perfect score. Where would the Moulton Menace strike next?
   
   The body count continues. Stay tuned.
   
               All joking aside, of all the celebrities I have had as colleagues Clint was the most supreme gentleman of them all. Alan Rickman, for his part, was very pleasant and soft-spoken intellectual, Mickey Rourke the cool buddy-type character, David Warner the friendly thespian, Zsa-Zsa Gabor the temperamentful diva par excellance, Viggo Mortensen the consummate professional.
   
               Clint? He was, remains and always will be the prince of politeness.
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
   
3. Business for Pleasure
   
   “And till my ghastly tale is said,
   
   This heart within me burns ...”
   
    
   
   The Making of “Business for Pleasure”
   
   By well-known actor, baritone and author
   
   Herbert Eyre Moulton
   
   (1927 – 2005)
   
    
   
               I have starred in many movies, including “Firefox” with Clint Eastwood and “Mesmer” with Alan Rickman. Often, I am confused with another colleague of the same generation and of the same name. We share the same profession, but I am also a singer, a teacher, an author and have worked a greater part in Europe.
   
               I was MCA Records’ 1950’s Hot-Shot Dinner Singer, the conductor of the Camp Gordon Chapel Choir during the Korean War, a part of the duo “The Singing Couple”, the other half being my wife Gun Kronzell, creator of the school-radio-programmes for the Austrian Broadcasting Corporation and actor in over three hundred stage productions across the world.
   
               As for the movies, one of my more curious anecdotes concerned the following one.
   
   Yet another of my hot Oscar-Contenders was an Austro-American goody produced in 1996 by “Erotic-Pioneer” Zelman King of “9 ½ Weeks”-fame. This was one little sweetmeat that actually got released, or it snuck out when no one was looking. I know for a fact that it was let loose back home, because a matronly towncrier of my acquaintance phoned me from the Chicago area to relay the glad tidings:
   
    
   
               “Don Nichols called last night and said he’d rented a Soft-Porn video and guess who was playing the butler? Not just the butler, but also a sort of uniformed Procurer? Herb Moulton, that’s who! So, of course, we had to have a look at it, and we recognized you, because you were the only one with your clothes on.”
   
    
   
               This rococo fertility-rite starred Jeroen Krabbe (Harrison Ford’s nemesis in “The Fugitive”) and two dishy young shooting stars who needed the work, I guess: Caron Bernstein and Gary Stretch, and it was filmed (my scenes, anyway) in various splendidly restored castles ornmenting the Austrian countryside. As usual, I wasn’t especially well-informed about my actual duties. All I knew was: I was to meet and greet the lissome Ms. Bernstein at the portal and usher her up several flights of long winding stairs into a vast bed- and ballroom, in the center of which stood a gilded ornamental bathtub complete with sumptuous Turkish towels and exotic perfumes and ungents. She was to make use of it at once.
   
               On this very first day of shooting I was handed a xeroxed resumé of the convoluted, so-called plot which bore the cryptic stamp “UNAPPROVED 2/7/96”. After a moment’s persual I could see why. To match its sheer gooey grandiloquence you’d have to turn to the Collected works of Dame Barbara Cartland. Talk about “Dynasty”- and “Dallas”-Damage. Allow me to quote some purple patches:
   
    
   
               “Isabel Diaz, a beautiful and sophisticated, rising executive, is facing a crisis,” it begins. “That moment in life, when each time she looks in the mirror, she asks herself: ‘What am I saving myself for?’”
   
    
   
               The question being wholly rhetorical, the narrative gurgles on:
   
    
   
               “A self-possessed woman with a smouldering sensuality, she longs to push beyond the limits of the day to day.”
   
    
   
               Helping her push is the powerful, ultra-wealthy magnate Alexander Schutter, with whom she forms an unholy alliance. With him, she “has met her match”. This is Mr. Krabbe at his silkiest and most icky, and his first demand on Isabel is that she “pass a test of personal loyalty and cater to his peculiar sensual desires.” She is to bring two call girls to his suite and observe them making love to Rolf, Schutter’s chauffeur, whom the handout describes as “darkly handsome and gifted lover.” (Well, he’d want to be, wouldn’t he?)
   
               One question, if I may: Why is it always the chauffeur and why not the poor old butler who has all the fun? As the gray eminence of this particular castle, I know I had to be above all that, grandly ignorant of the carnal olympiad swirling all around me, and much more concerned with such domestic duties as supervising a corps of bewigged flunkies as they served a splendiferous candlelight supper out on the terrace. The trouble was it poured wih rain on each of the all-night filming sessions (always tedious and depressing at the best of times), which rather dampended the orgiastic merriment. Luckily, Gary Stretch, alias Rolf the sexually athletic chauffeur, took pity on me and let me take refuge in his heate caravan, for which a benison on him, and may Heaven safeguard his libido.
   
               But wait, there’s more, much more.
   
               “The game begins,” announces the funky travelogue, and before anybody can say “Priapus”, the show is taken off the road and moved to the glitter and swank of Vienna, where “an intensely erotic triangle develops among Isabel, Schutter and Rolf.” The relentlessly lascivious Schutter gets further kicks from watching the other two making what Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello terms “the beast with two backs.” The gameplan breathlessly unfolds:
   
    
   
               “The tension in this emotional thriller builds against the background of Vienna where love of life, beauty and luxury echoes Isabel’s growing passion for sensuality. (“Getting There Is Half The Fun!”)
   
    
   
               But now danger looms for heedless, headstrong Isabel, along with hints of tragedy buried in the past, as
   
    
   
   “Schutter’s world of power, risk and decadence becomes an addiction for her.”
   
    
   
   What withdrawal struggles, what cold turkey the poor dear will have to endure while kicking the habuit must be left to the imagination. For now, the whole heroic saga is being rounded off:
   
    
   
   “Business for Pleasure is the story of one woman’s brave journey to the heart of her own desires. Isabel’s entry into Schutter’s dark world leaves her shattered ...”
   
    
   
   (And she’s not the only one!)
   
   But now come the great crashing chords that signify Redemption and The Grand Finale:
   
    
   
   “With the help of the mysterious and hauntingly beautiful Anna ...”
   
    
   
   (Mysterious, is right. This is the first we have heard of her!)
   
    
   
   “... she is able to pick up the pieces of her life. When finally Isabel triumphs over disaster, she helps Schutter confront his own emptiness and take his first steps into the light.”
   
    
   
   What this reminds you of is the grand old era of Super-Soap Heroines like Mary Noble, Backstage Wife, and tragic, self-sacrificing Stella Dallas. Isabel has got to be the most distressed and poignant figure since Tolstoy or possibly Jacqueline Susanne. Yet what is the only thing that bugged those yahoo-acquaintances of mine in Chicago? The next time I’m in that neck of the woods, remind me to check out for myself the video of “Business for Pleasure”, if only to see just what fun-and-games the butler had been missing all that time.
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
   
4. Princess
   
   “What? Will the line stretch out to th’crack of doom?”
   
    
   
    
   
               We arrive at the forth installment of personal accounts about Herbert Eyre Moulton’s movies in the book he wrote about his film work: “My Brilliant Film Career”.
   
               This time the story is about the movie “Princess” from 1993.
   
               This movie was released as “Piccolo Grande Amore” and information about it can be received under these links:
   
    
   
               http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0107823/?ref_=nm_flmg_act_110
   
   http://www.mymovies.it/dizionario/recensione.asp?id=18371
   
    
   
   After the stories he told us in “The Making of Attack Squadron”, “Herb Moulton & Clint Eastwood” and “The Making of an Erotic Thriller”, we now turn to “Two Hollywood Costume Extravaganzas”.
   
   Let’s see what Herbie has to say:
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
               In the script of the Italian-produced movie “Princess”, we find this direction:
   
    
   
               “The door opens and an elderly, impeccably dressed BUTLER appears, with a silver tray piled high with magazines.
   
    
   
   BUTLER
   
   Excuse me, Your Highness, but you said you wanted these urgently.
   
    
   
               Three guesses who the butler is, and the first two don’t count. That’s right: always the butler and never the boss, a somewhat wearying sentence I seem to be serving for a lifetime.
   
               The setting for this Graustarkian love story is the mythical principality of Lichtenhaus, with its royal family modelled on the Grimaldi clan of Monaco. For the part of the princesses, meant to be Caroline and Stephanie, two of Vienna’s most important dramatic regal landmarks were chosen to offer their cinematic bailiwicks. Even the minor players were handpicked by the director, Carlo Vanzina, a one-time protegé of Fellini, no less. So, it was a noble line I was about to tangle with when I turned up at Vienna’s equally noble Hotel Imperial for the casting interview.
   
               All right, yet another butler, but this one was special, for he was part of the household of His Royal Highness, Prince Maximilian, played by a favorite of ours, David Warner, not too long ago considered the quintessential Hamlet-for-our-time. His screen-break-through came in 1966 with the crazy title role in “Morgan, A Suitable Case For Treatment”. That made him a star and my wife and me fans of his for life. Some time later, our son Charlie joined the club with “Omen”, and when he told Warner that himself, Warner snorted: “Oh, God, that!” Our film-freak son was likewise excited by the casting of Paul Freeman as Otto, the villain of the piece, remembering his evil turn as Beloque, the Nazi heavy in “Raiders of the Lost Ark”: “500 000 watts of Nasty!”
   
               My workaday duties for the prince were dispatched in two different palatial settings: the Hofburg, the Emperor Franz Josef’s old pad in the heart of Vienna, and, a few streets, and, a few streets and a couple centuries removed, the Theresianum, a superbly preserved baroque complex that once served as an officer’s training school and was named after its patroness, the Empress Maria Theresia, whose name it still bears as a college for budding diplomats. Its 18th century splendor has been has been kept lovingly intact, and we were to play our scene in the fabled library, a treasure house of precious inlaid wood and priceless antique leather volumes all the way up to the frescoed ceiling. It’s open to visitors only with a special pass and suitable pedigreed blue blood.
   
               Our first scene however was set in Maximilian’s princely bedchamber in the Hofburg, and I had the honor of waking up the royal slugabed with this exquisitely cadenced speech:
   
              
   
   BUTLER
   
   Good morning, Your Highness. Today is May twelfth, the feast of Saint Ladislas Martyr, also your cousin of Romania. The temperature is falling slightly: a high of fifty-three degrees, and a low of forty-five.
   
    
   
               The scenes with Mr. Warner were all of them fun, with his easy gift of friendly argle-bargle, both relaxed and refreshing. He even did me the kindness of autographing a portrait of himself which I’d removed from a calendar I’d bought at Stratford, a full-size head-and-shoulders done in pastels and dubbed “The Actor”. This was the first time he’d ever seen it!
   
               “To Herbert, Many Thanks, David Warner, ‘The Actor’, Vienna 1993.”
   
               Between takes we retreated to the cellar and the museum staff canteen. The scene there could well be entitled “Costumed Chaos in the Canteen”, for there happened to be another film, a real costume extravaganza, being shot in these hallowed precincts at the same time as ours, the latest Hollywood version of “The Three Musketeers”, the jokey one done with American accents and all, with Charlie Sheen and Kiefer Sutherland. The latter nearly brought down destruction on their entire operation by his tosspot antics in the all-night-fleshpots of Babylon-on-the-Danube. So, as things heated up, the Gods were already making rumbling noises.
   
               Of course both companies had to break for meals simultaneously, turning the canteen into the scene of the most variegated costume orgies, Louis XIII and Monaco Gold-Braid, since the climactic reels of Lon Chaney’s “Phantom of the Opera”. It might have been better if they’d released those goings-on as newsreel stuff and jettisoned the two doomed feature films. But of that, more anon ...
   
               The venue for my second scene was less crowded and yet more elegant: the Theresianum library doubling as the Lichtenhaus Council chamber, presided over by the sinister Otto, whose machinations were suddenly broken up by Maximilian’s no-nonsense and imperious entrance sweeping in, with me, padding breathlessly, in his wake. I was bearing the obligatory silver tray, onto which H.R.H. was lofting over his shoulder, without looking all manner of official-looking documents and letters. It was a dizzying journey across what seemed to me recently restored to its former glory.
   
               I am pleased to report that while scampering behind the Prince, molto allegro, I was somehow nimble enough enough to catch everyy single one of the documents he was tossing over the royal epulet. Limping and tottering at his heels, dodging and feinting, but always maintaining my dignity, so I went, and a memorable sight it should be, too, if the movie ever gets released.
   
               That’s precisely where the fate-keeps-on-happening routine comes in: a delicious light comedy script, first rate directing, handsome authentic settings, and stars like David Warner, Paul Freeman, and Susannah York as the Queen Mother, plus what Signor Vanzina promises in the press releases to be a sensational new Dutch actress, Barbara Snellenburg as Princess Sophia: “ This girl will be a star!”
   
               And the best of Viennese-Italian-Dutch luck to them all, what with Moulton here as Major-Domo (Major Disaster would be more like it). For as far as my sources can discover, “Princess”, running true to form, hasn’t yet seen the light of day anywhere, or if it has it hasn’t reached Central Europe yet or any of the international publications we subscribe to. It might have been shown in Vanzina’s native Italy, but it was filmed in English for the English-speaking market.
   
               As far as that all-too-jokey “Three Musketeers”-movie goes, well, of course it was a movie for the MTV-generation and a kind of a youthful introduction to Alexandre Dumas. Literary history for the Brat Pack with a huge Top 40 Hit as a PR-gag, Roddy, Sting and Bryan, the three musketeers of Rock ‘n Roll, singing it away, all for one and all for love. Me, Herbert Eyre Moulton, having shared tables with Kiefer and Charlie in the Hofburg canteen in Vienna, chatting away with good old David and hearing the Hollywood hotshots repeating their lines while drooling over their Wiener Schnitzels. Seriously now, Gang, could it be that this butler-playing character-actor is the subject not to a a pernicious, contagious curse, but a small blessing?  Could it have rubbed off during those united lunchroom melées in the Hofburg cafeteria? After all, I wined and dined with the best. Maybe “Princess” will have its day in the sun after all. A sobering thought. And a good one. Just like the movie I was in.
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
   
5. Dead Flowers
   
   “For all the words of tongue or pen,
   
   The saddest are these: it might have been.”
   
    
   
               “A lyrical film, a flop ...” So wrote the Austrian film magazine DIAGONALE about “Dead Flowers” three years after the fact. And this was really tragic, this flop, one of the few movies I’ve ever been associated with that was truly all of a piece, with no nonsense and no camp about any portion of it. It was only the second work by the brilliant young Austrian writer/director Peter Ily Huemer, who divides his time between his native Vienna and his adopted New York, where he lives and works.
   
               Huemer’s first work, the film noir “Kiss Daddy Good Night”, had been shot in New York and was just as much a success as “Dead Flowers”, made in Vienna. Financially speaking, let it be said, it was a failure. It stands today as a thoroughly fascinating modern retelling of the old Orpheus and Eurydice myth, transplante to the industrial outskirts of the city and its robust working class, a totally integrated work, in turns endearingly funny, raunchy, somber, spooky, and disturbing. Huemer, known as a man of understatement, is a thoughtful and indeed lovable “Mensch” of infinite patience and kindness, especially towards his chosen players. And with what care he chooses them, too. His casting sessions are famous for their thoroughness. Mine lasted well over half an hour and consisted mainly of thoughtful pauses and groping for the answers to his many searching questions, some of them personal, some seemingly irrelevant, many of them psychological: What animal would you like to be, and why? What would you do if a child of yours was in serious trouble/ mixed up with drugs/ killed in an accident? What would you do to try and prevent it, if possible? Have you any cruel impulses, surpressed or otherwise? Questions like that, a baffling, mentally stretching half-hour ... and then no word of the results for weeks.
   
               In fact, I’d quite forgotten the whole incident when the agent handling it phoned and said I’d been cast as Mr. LeMont, a rich, powerful executive at the United Nations, in some way mixed up with arms smuggling. As a bonus, Mr. LeMont would speak in my own dulcet tones, Chicago-Deutsch and all, without being dubbed later by some low-Viennese kraut-head, as so often happens.
   
               LeMont’s only daughter Alice is the Eurydice of the tale, who was killed in a traffic accident two years before and comes back mysteriously from the underworld to fall in love with the hero, or anti-hero, Alex. And never has Eurydice had a more unlikely Orpheus, laconic, rough-appearing, almost primitive, but with a huge heart and tender nature, by profession with the harrowing of hell with his shirttail hanging halfway out.
   
               Alex lives with his dotty old grandmother (Tana Schanzara, who received an international prize for her delicious portrayal), a grandma who talks to herself when not addressing the image of her dead husband in his illuminated closet-shrine. Whenever she happens to stumble, out in her garden, she just has to lie there on her back like a tortoise, squealing and calling out until somebody, Alex usually, appears and helps her to her feet again.
   
               Into this odd little household comes my daughter, Alice/Eurydice, whom Alex has picked up one night hitchhiking on the highway, bruised and soiled as if she’d been in an accident. This is a haunting performance by the American actress Kate Valk, whom in the idiotic way of moviemaking I have never ever met, while I was filming, she was onstage in New York.
   
               Alice is a figure of mystery, and is already being stalked by a sinister network of agents from Hades, headed by a sadistic creep named Willy deVille, in mauve Liberace-type outfit and dark shades. The flight of the young pair, Alice must be returned to Hades whence she escaped, is packed with danger and excitement and ends up in a truly scary night-sequence in a shut-down zoo. There she gets separated from Alex and is abducted by deVille.
   
               Now deeply in love, Alex breaks out in a desperate search which leads first to Alice’s father, who only compounds the mystery. And that’s where I come in, out of the butler’s pantry for once, and into a top position in the UNO-City-by-the-Danube. I’m first seen in the parking lot there, getting into my big expensive car to drive to my big expensive home in Grinzing. On the expressway I’m increasingly aware of Alex tailing me in his van. Once at my place, he gets himself zapped unconcious by a couple of goons in my employ – Blues Brothers types, only evil, and comes to my cellar where I’m enjoying his getting roughed up, that is, until he mentions his quest for Alice. At which, I get up and come forward to inform him that she has been dead these two years now, the victim of a traffic accident, which Alex, of course, finds incomprehensible. After a moment’s consideration, I order my gorillas to set him free.
   
               LeMont had only a couple of scenes, but these were as meticulously staged and filmed as if it were a major role in a top-budget thriller. Peter guided me through them with great patience and understanding. For the interrogation in the cellar he took me step-by-step, phrase-by-phrase, until, speaking of my dead daughter, I was almost choked with emotion – this tough, amoral, affluent wheeler-and-dealer.
   
               For the chase on the expressway, the traffic was blocked off so that I could race down the wrong way, for a more advantageous shot, the camera whirring away just at my right elbow and Peter directing me from the back seat: “Okay, Herbert, now look in the rearview mirror to see if he’s gaining on you – now speed up a bit – glance at the side mirror, speed up slightly again – shift in your seat – another glance in the mirror – excellent, Herbert, super! That’s it, CUT! Thank you very much!”
   
               Alex’s quest culminates in a foggy rowboat-crossing of the Danube/River Styx – Huemer’s screenplay follows the old legend faithfully, and is studded with intriguing details like Alex meeting a dead pal, just recently killed in a train accident involving the express from Salzburg, the “Rosenkavalier”. He inquires how it was that Alex died – Alex tells him he’s only visiting. Then, in an unforgettable encounter with The Boss, who turns out to be a transsexual Bulgarian woman in a dark suit and boy’s haircut, he learns that, in order to get Alice freed again, someone else must die in her place ...
   
               This little detail is neatly dispatched by dear old Granny, once Alex gets back to the other side.
   
               A fresh viewing of our “Dead Flowers”-video (recorded off the air) convinced me that this is nothing short of a minor masterpiece which deserved a far happier fate than a few prizes and citations from scattered film festivals, followed by a week in a grotty little cinema in Vienna’s 9th district. There, except for a couple of teeny gigglers, my family and I were the only audience that dismal Saturday afternoon – after which it folded up its petals and crept into oblivion.
   
               Some days later, wretchedly true to form, advertising posters began blossoming in streetscars and buses and on railway platforms – just one more example of too little/too late, as if purposely being sabotaged by the insensitive slobs in charge of promotion and distribution. No doubt they were already launched on something much more commercial, something reeking of sentimental schmaltz, but profitable. Peter’s only printed comment: “Da ist man schon einige Zeit angeschlagen – You can be pretty hard hit for a while after that.”
   
               As for the ultimate fate of Alex and Alice, one can only hope there’ll come another oppurtunity some day to re-live this haunting and fascinating picture. Given half the chance it still has all the makings of a genuine cult-film.