I was looking at a Darth Vader stamp and it got me to thinking...what if Luke wrote his dad from summer Sith camp ? I think it might go something like this.
Dear Dad, I hope you’re feeling better now that it’s gotten colder. I know that armor is hell in warm weather. I’m doing really well in my studies and my teachers think I show a lot of promise (your name carries a lot of weight around here). Already I’ve learned how to break bones at a distance, throw people around, and, like you, Force choke someone. You were right, dad, it’s really great being a Dark Sider. Those old Jedi powers that everyone raves about are pretty lame compared to the stuff I can do now. When I graduate I’d like to find Yoda – wherever the little chickenshit is hiding this time – and pound his little green ass into jam, which I can spread on my toast.
The only thing that strikes me as odd is that being a Sith Lord seems to involve a lot of body modification: spikes, horns, weird skin, glowing eyes, and in your case, that armor. I know that wasn’t your fault dad and I regret causing you any pain by bringing up that memory. OKAY, STOP CHOKING ME, I SAID I WAS SORRY. Whew..thanks dad. If that asshole Obi-Wan had any kindness he should have killed you and ended your suffering. Of course, then you wouldn’t have sliced him in half aboard the Death Star; that must have felt pretty damn good ! And if he killed you, I’d have never been able to be a Sith. So, thank you dad for all you’ve done for me. When I get out of here, I’m looking forward to you teaching me more tricks of the Sith. I’d love to use Force Lightning, but it seems to age the hell out of you and I’d like to get laid for another 10 years before ruining my looks.
Although... there’s one girl here that’s pressuring me into trying it, and she is pretty cute and tells me that she doesn’t care what I look like, she wants someone who’s powerful and ruthless. So maybe I’ll do it and end up just like the Emperor. Because I’ve given it some thought and ruling the galaxy as father and son has a strong allure. Let me know if you want me to bring any of my friends along as allies (or lackeys that are willing to die for us – see dad, I’m learning how to think like you.)
Well, I should go now. Today's lesson is coming up. It’s all about how to use dirty tricks to win at any cost and I don’t want to miss that. By the way; Dark Side sex is fucking incredible ! You didn’t tell me that, dad. There’s nothing like fucking someone while levitating or using the Force to put them in interesting positions. Anyway, got to run. Oh, I’ve enclosed a holophoto of how I look now. It’s a big change and I think I look much better in this outfit then the boring white all those wimpy Jedi wear. Don’t worry dad, when we join up we’re going to wipe those little shits out for good. Much Thanks, Luke Vader. PS....some other student tried to pick on me and I Force-slammed him into a wall and broke his legs for good measure. This place rocks !
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Writer's Block Disease
The worst thing about being a writer is that occasionally one encounters
the horrible beast known as writers block. Let me tell you that facing
a 300 foot tall scaly monster from the mind is not all lightness and
fun. Anything but. Your once-proud stories, the ones you crafted
lovingly every night through the heat and snow have now been ignored for
weeks (or months) and stare at you from the desktop.
Every night you sit down and wonder if tonight the magic will return like some mystical gift from the gods. And when it doesn‚t you spend the time either huddled miserably over the keyboard, the sweat beading your forehead, your hands shaking, or you give up and read a book hoping to be inspired by someone elses magic. You scour Heinlein, Bradbury, Brin, even suck-ass Robert Jordan, looking for an unsprouted seed that you can germinate into a real story. Sometimes it works, sometimes you throw up your hands in despair shouting, "I can‚t take it anymore, and start drinking.
It occurs to you that maybe Hemingway and Stephen King had the right idea when they turned to drugs to write. Sure, they rotted a lot of brain cells, but at least they got stories written...and published. But you haven't turned to drugs yet because you have got it into your little non-working mind that the real reason the stories haven't been dripping from the tips of your fingers is that your brain is dying. You remember that the headaches and lethargy come more frequently than they used to and the poisonous thought comes: "I am dying from a brain tumor."
Relax. There is no tumor growing inside your head, no alien virus infecting you, a stray bacterium from that mummy you viewed at the museum hasn't caused you to wander the streets looking for magical tana leaves. What you have is simply a case of psychological stress. That‚s right, stress. The more you think about writing, the worse the disease becomes until before you know it, you've transformed yourself from a normal (if writers can be normal ) individual, into a hypochondriac par excellance !
The cure can be found several ways. Most writers suffer from being housebound far too much. Take a walk for a few hours; enjoy what real air smells like instead of that recycled stuff you've been breathing for weeks. Visit your friends, who by now think you have died and haven't even been decent enough to invite them to your funeral. Talk with people. Stories come from real life incidents, and if you have a lack of life, well your stories are going to reflect that and be as dull as Jordan's prose.
Take a drive to someplace you've been meaning to go. Take up stargazing and be humbled by the cosmic dance; all you need are your eyes, though a pair of binoculars seem to help focus my attention. In other words, do something with your time that doesn't involve writing at all. Forget about it for awhile, the world is not going to end just because you skip a few days of eyestrain in front of the word processor.
If you can't leave the house for some reason, then listen to music and reflect on the lyrics, perhaps there's a story in them that can be tapped. Most importantly, READ. Perhaps nothing beats back the worry than taking a trip through someone else's world via paperback. You'll find that the more you read, the better you'll feel. And there is nothing quite like escaping the humdrum, wack-a-mole life than to visit some other writers world. But the important thing is to let the ideas come when they will. Don't force it, that's a one-way ticket to insanity's outhouse located in Cthulhu's backyard in sunny San Rafael. No story is worth going nuts over. If you indulge yourself and DO go nuts, who is going to write the story ? Not you certainly. You're locked up in a padded room wearing a backwards coat. Plus the nurse is ugly and about to administer a large dose of brain gravy to you. So relax.
Other things you can do if you are not the indoor type is to simply sit on your porch and watch the parade of humanity walk by. Don't forget to wave, one of them might wave back or walk over, and bing, bang, boom, you've actually got a friend. One you just may be able to put in a story. Watching people is a great hobby that has benefits most folks don't realize. If the kids out front are playing noisily, see what they're doing and pay attention. Is one kid talking to a garden statue ? There's a story ! Some teenager walks by crying. Why is she crying ? Help her by all means, but keep in mind that the question drives us. WHY is she crying ? Has her boyfriend left her; did someone discover her secret; has a small spaceship lodged in her eye ? By asking the question, we find the basis for a story. Maybe the story you write is crap, you're saying. So what ? Nobody has to see it but you. The important thing is that you write something that tickles your fancy. If the subject or story doesn't move you, it certainly won't move the reader. But I‚ve gotten off-topic. Writers do that you know.
My advice is to loosen up and be more observant. The more you see, the more questions come to mind and that my friends is a story-starter. Also the more your mind cranks it's little wheels the more productive you become. Nature abhors a vacuum and if you don't use the grand instrument of that old pink matter, nature will be more than happy to put something inside your head that you DON'T want and have no use for. It happened to Berkowitz, Dahmer, Bundy, and the Unabomber. They obviously spent too much time alone and not enough time taking big bites out of life.
Instead of writing books, they went nuts, and you don't want to end up like they did.
For one thing, it's hard to write in prison when Bubba is slamming his dick up your puckered ass. For another...well we won't get into that right now.
Currently I'm suffering from writers block; that's why I'm writing this. And you know something ? This is a lot of fun. Write about something that is on your mind, if nothing else it provides typing practice and could lead to something worthwhile. Just while writing this it occurs to me how much just sitting on the front porch with my cat means to me. The chirp of crickets and cicadas, the warmth of the cat as I stroke his luxuriant fur in idle patterns, even the flashing of the cop cars lights as they walk up the sidewalk to take me away....okay, the last part is bullshit, but the small things matter.
And in those quiet moments, ideas lay themselves at your feet like offerings from an ancient worshipper. Ideas like: The homeless person that talks to himself...is anyone listening ? Is it aliens or someone else ? Maybe when the crickets chirp it's really a code for something. Is my cat smarter than me ? Probably. Let's face it, he's not thinking about anything but the sensuous feel of being petted.
So the key is to relax and do something else, but be open to the influx of ideas when they arrive. Don't force yourself to sit down and wrack your brain about what you have to write tonight. And if you're absolutely out of ideas, try writing about your childhood or your father. Memories contain oodles of ideas. Just ask Ray Bradbury or Harlan Ellison about that. If you can pry them away from the keyboard. Ellison will tell you to fuck off and continue writing, whereas Bradbury will merely go, hmmm ?‚ like someone lost in a world of his own.
So get lost...in your own world. As for me, I'm going to imagine sitting on my porch, eating some roasted corn as the cat pesters me for a lick of butter. And I have to mind I don't miss the fourth of July fireworks in an hour, even if the reality is that it's February and there's a foot of snow on the ground. Imagination and memory are your best friends, even if sometimes you can't find them on your own. Rest assured they will find you. Now, get lost, I have stories to write and things to imagine.
Every night you sit down and wonder if tonight the magic will return like some mystical gift from the gods. And when it doesn‚t you spend the time either huddled miserably over the keyboard, the sweat beading your forehead, your hands shaking, or you give up and read a book hoping to be inspired by someone elses magic. You scour Heinlein, Bradbury, Brin, even suck-ass Robert Jordan, looking for an unsprouted seed that you can germinate into a real story. Sometimes it works, sometimes you throw up your hands in despair shouting, "I can‚t take it anymore, and start drinking.
It occurs to you that maybe Hemingway and Stephen King had the right idea when they turned to drugs to write. Sure, they rotted a lot of brain cells, but at least they got stories written...and published. But you haven't turned to drugs yet because you have got it into your little non-working mind that the real reason the stories haven't been dripping from the tips of your fingers is that your brain is dying. You remember that the headaches and lethargy come more frequently than they used to and the poisonous thought comes: "I am dying from a brain tumor."
Relax. There is no tumor growing inside your head, no alien virus infecting you, a stray bacterium from that mummy you viewed at the museum hasn't caused you to wander the streets looking for magical tana leaves. What you have is simply a case of psychological stress. That‚s right, stress. The more you think about writing, the worse the disease becomes until before you know it, you've transformed yourself from a normal (if writers can be normal ) individual, into a hypochondriac par excellance !
The cure can be found several ways. Most writers suffer from being housebound far too much. Take a walk for a few hours; enjoy what real air smells like instead of that recycled stuff you've been breathing for weeks. Visit your friends, who by now think you have died and haven't even been decent enough to invite them to your funeral. Talk with people. Stories come from real life incidents, and if you have a lack of life, well your stories are going to reflect that and be as dull as Jordan's prose.
Take a drive to someplace you've been meaning to go. Take up stargazing and be humbled by the cosmic dance; all you need are your eyes, though a pair of binoculars seem to help focus my attention. In other words, do something with your time that doesn't involve writing at all. Forget about it for awhile, the world is not going to end just because you skip a few days of eyestrain in front of the word processor.
If you can't leave the house for some reason, then listen to music and reflect on the lyrics, perhaps there's a story in them that can be tapped. Most importantly, READ. Perhaps nothing beats back the worry than taking a trip through someone else's world via paperback. You'll find that the more you read, the better you'll feel. And there is nothing quite like escaping the humdrum, wack-a-mole life than to visit some other writers world. But the important thing is to let the ideas come when they will. Don't force it, that's a one-way ticket to insanity's outhouse located in Cthulhu's backyard in sunny San Rafael. No story is worth going nuts over. If you indulge yourself and DO go nuts, who is going to write the story ? Not you certainly. You're locked up in a padded room wearing a backwards coat. Plus the nurse is ugly and about to administer a large dose of brain gravy to you. So relax.
Other things you can do if you are not the indoor type is to simply sit on your porch and watch the parade of humanity walk by. Don't forget to wave, one of them might wave back or walk over, and bing, bang, boom, you've actually got a friend. One you just may be able to put in a story. Watching people is a great hobby that has benefits most folks don't realize. If the kids out front are playing noisily, see what they're doing and pay attention. Is one kid talking to a garden statue ? There's a story ! Some teenager walks by crying. Why is she crying ? Help her by all means, but keep in mind that the question drives us. WHY is she crying ? Has her boyfriend left her; did someone discover her secret; has a small spaceship lodged in her eye ? By asking the question, we find the basis for a story. Maybe the story you write is crap, you're saying. So what ? Nobody has to see it but you. The important thing is that you write something that tickles your fancy. If the subject or story doesn't move you, it certainly won't move the reader. But I‚ve gotten off-topic. Writers do that you know.
My advice is to loosen up and be more observant. The more you see, the more questions come to mind and that my friends is a story-starter. Also the more your mind cranks it's little wheels the more productive you become. Nature abhors a vacuum and if you don't use the grand instrument of that old pink matter, nature will be more than happy to put something inside your head that you DON'T want and have no use for. It happened to Berkowitz, Dahmer, Bundy, and the Unabomber. They obviously spent too much time alone and not enough time taking big bites out of life.
Instead of writing books, they went nuts, and you don't want to end up like they did.
For one thing, it's hard to write in prison when Bubba is slamming his dick up your puckered ass. For another...well we won't get into that right now.
Currently I'm suffering from writers block; that's why I'm writing this. And you know something ? This is a lot of fun. Write about something that is on your mind, if nothing else it provides typing practice and could lead to something worthwhile. Just while writing this it occurs to me how much just sitting on the front porch with my cat means to me. The chirp of crickets and cicadas, the warmth of the cat as I stroke his luxuriant fur in idle patterns, even the flashing of the cop cars lights as they walk up the sidewalk to take me away....okay, the last part is bullshit, but the small things matter.
And in those quiet moments, ideas lay themselves at your feet like offerings from an ancient worshipper. Ideas like: The homeless person that talks to himself...is anyone listening ? Is it aliens or someone else ? Maybe when the crickets chirp it's really a code for something. Is my cat smarter than me ? Probably. Let's face it, he's not thinking about anything but the sensuous feel of being petted.
So the key is to relax and do something else, but be open to the influx of ideas when they arrive. Don't force yourself to sit down and wrack your brain about what you have to write tonight. And if you're absolutely out of ideas, try writing about your childhood or your father. Memories contain oodles of ideas. Just ask Ray Bradbury or Harlan Ellison about that. If you can pry them away from the keyboard. Ellison will tell you to fuck off and continue writing, whereas Bradbury will merely go, hmmm ?‚ like someone lost in a world of his own.
So get lost...in your own world. As for me, I'm going to imagine sitting on my porch, eating some roasted corn as the cat pesters me for a lick of butter. And I have to mind I don't miss the fourth of July fireworks in an hour, even if the reality is that it's February and there's a foot of snow on the ground. Imagination and memory are your best friends, even if sometimes you can't find them on your own. Rest assured they will find you. Now, get lost, I have stories to write and things to imagine.
Barbeque Time & Autumn
The following are reposts from another blog. I don't use it anymore and am transferring it to here.
So my dad would be geometrically arranging blocks of charcoal as if he was assembling a science project that was to be judged by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and NASA. Every piece of charcoal had to be placed next to it’s neighbor with delicate and precise care, lest the universe dissolve into it’s component parts. Personally, I think they’re sublimating the desire to build models or play with blocks, but that’s just my observation. We were allowed to handle the charcoal and place it in the Master Builders hands, but never were we allowed to actually help build the mystical pyramid lest the barbecuing gods be offended.
In the meantime, mom would be preparing the food. Chopping onions to knead into the hamburger, before being – as with the charcoal – carefully shaped by her hands. No way would any of us kids want to mix meat, and so we were put to work on the exceedingly difficult task of stripping the corn. This is not as easy as it sounds. You had the pleasure of peeling back the green sheaf's, and getting that funny green smell, before you had to work loose all that cornsilk. It took what seemed like hours and you always ended up eating some of it anyway, the texture was as if you were flossing your teeth with thread from your moms sewing basket. They should have just put in the grill and burned it off, it probably would be just as gross, but at least you wouldn’t fell as if you were chowing down on hair.
By this time, your dad, having gotten the briquets in the proper order (which always resembled a pile...or is that just me) commenced to light it, by dousing it with charcoal starter and throwing a match. The funny thing is that it would go out. And yet people continued to use the worthless stuff by the gallon, when it would have been easier to use gasoline and have done with it already. The wind would always shift at that precise moment and send the smoke directly into the kitchen. In fact, it was so reliable, that one could use it as an equation, if one needed an equation to start a grill; knowing your father who had such an obsession with geometrically arraigned briquets, he would have jumped at the chance. Fortunately, no one took the trouble write down this corollary, and so we’re free from one more worthless ritual.
The very act of grilling never made sense when you took the time to examine it.
It is a very hot Summer day and instead of staying inside with the fans and air conditioners, we decided to build a roaring hot fire and stand around it. All this for the love of meat and smoke. We could have just as easily stood at the nearest garage fire and gotten the same smoke in out faces without the meat. But cooking outdoors is like some primitive ritual that me must undergo if we are to pass childhood and become: Geometric charcoal shapers, as our father once were.
Now the reason for this outdoor cooking is that it’s too hot to cook inside. This appears to be sensible unless you look at it from my skewed perspective. Ever notice that whenever you decided to barbecue that things took longer to cook ? Perhaps it has something to do with the mystical smoke/wind formula we overlooked. Ah the foolishness of ignoring that ! While cooking the burgers, there would always come a time when the meat drippings would catch fire and turn the burgers to charcoal. By another strange corollary, this too would happen when the grill was untended. One minute you’d be in the kitchen helping with food or talking and the next thing you knew, there would be a cry along the lines of “Hey !!” followed by a rush out the door to SAVE THE MEAT. Saving the meat was all-important. This was the number one priority, saving your hair and flesh was second. With much hullabaloo and clamor the fire was smothered. Well, this is untrue; the meat was hustled off with a speed that is unmatched by military missiles. Even now, the military is still trying to crack the secret.
After all that, came sitting down and eating. This involved having a peaceful and relaxing meal; for a few minutes, then the bugs would descend in squadrons, undeterred by imminent death by barbecue flames and smoke. The flies were the worst. Lured by the scent of food they would circle like indians around a stranded wagon train, picking off the goods as they sat on the table. Believe me when I say that your desire for a buttered ear of corn goes out the window after the flies have been swimming in the melted butter; dipping their gremlin legs and such appendages in what was once your beloved meal.
Most of the time, we’d retreat to the safety of the kitchen and eat in there, safe from the insects of doom. The bugs would cling to the screen door piteously, as if saying, “Oh Pleeeesse let us in ! We only want a teeny, tiny taste really. Please ? Can’t you hear the voices of our children ?” We would ignore them. This is easy as bugs do not talk except in the minds of disturbed writers like myself. So we would eat inside. This pretty much defeated the purpose of starting this whole foray in the first place, but who would dare to tell this to the King Of The Grill, the Master of the Briquet, the Head Honcho ! Not me. And to this day, we still perform this ancient ritual that was started by Neanderthal man and is frequently heralded by the passed down cry of: “GOD, MY HAIR IS ON FIRE !! AAAAHHHHHH !!
For some strange reason most of the people I know say Autumn is their favorite season of the year. If you ask them why they usually say the cold air is invigorating, filling their bones with an energy of a twelve year old with the dreams to match. It does not matter if you’re seventy years old, you still kick the leaves or shuffle through them as a giant monster crushing Tokyo underfoot. In all of us there is a little boy that wishes to lie in a pile of dead leaves, smelling the rich loam and reading books filled with adventure.
The verdant green of Summer has changed his visage to the Golden God of Autumn; resplendent in his cloak of ever-changing colors. By degrees the cloak becomes more threadbare and the trees resemble skeleton hands clawing at a graying sky. The season of the white cold will be upon us and we sometimes cling to the notion that the coming Winter is death. You could not be more wrong. Autumn is the season of magic, of mysteries, of wonders constantly unfolding before your eyes. But its quick; blink and you’ll miss it.
Fear not the winter, for it is not death. It is life. Like a newly pregnant woman, you see nothing but under the surface, life is germinating; waiting patiently for the warmth of Spring when once again life will bloom underfoot and the cycle will start again.
With the days growing shorter, I find myself walking in a world of faeries, the fluttering leaves lady Titania’s gown made of lace and silk, her laughter ripples the air making the air shiver. Overhead the migrating geese sound forth the call to all creatures of feather to take flight and heed the urge to move onward to better destinations. The squirrels scurry amongst the patchwork of dead, brittle leaves, scouring the earth for Falls hidden treasure that they may bury them.
Household cats feel the shift in the balance of the quarters and bother their owners opening one door after another in the never-ending hunt for the door into Summer, the doorway leading into one more day of warm sunbeams to sleep in. Failing that, they spend more time in our laps, doing their best to mimic the earths hibernation that is speeding inexorably forward.
We too feel natures call and wind down, spending our times reading or writing.
Truth be told, we need the winter ourselves to better contemplate what we have done the last nine months; what we’ve accomplished, the friends made, the ones lost. Like misers we tally up what we have stored in the grainhouse of our minds and souls after a solid years work. And we smile as we sip at the cup of hot chocolate or spiced wine, content in what we’ve done the last year. The small things count in that tally.
We hug our cats so fiercely that they purr and we feel for a moment the awe that it’s prey feels the instant before we die. Delight at the memory of that first day of Summer when the ginger ale burns down our throats; the oil on the surface of skin with a feel like something imported from Baghdad by Aladdin himself. Wrapped in the comfort of this years memories, we can wait the long cold winter.
Barbeque Time
The night is warm with hardly a stirring of a breeze. Windchimes sound the tones that I find soothing after such a day as this. Most of the night is spent in silence, thinking, and sometimes I find that I’ve spent all night pondering things, and not enough time at the keyboard, writing the stories that I love. I think and remember all the memories that are at my beck and call if I so choose. Like the time my parents and I had a barbecue. My dad would arrange the briquets in a careful geometric pattern carefully designed to light and burn efficiently. In retrospect, we would call this a pile. But fathers have this ritual of making a production of the perfect grilling experience, and we’d go along with it, being children and obeying without question. Maybe that’s the problem. We go along with everything that is told to us by anyone older, being of the mind that they have the necessary experience to do it properly. We never question if what they are doing is correct.So my dad would be geometrically arranging blocks of charcoal as if he was assembling a science project that was to be judged by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and NASA. Every piece of charcoal had to be placed next to it’s neighbor with delicate and precise care, lest the universe dissolve into it’s component parts. Personally, I think they’re sublimating the desire to build models or play with blocks, but that’s just my observation. We were allowed to handle the charcoal and place it in the Master Builders hands, but never were we allowed to actually help build the mystical pyramid lest the barbecuing gods be offended.
In the meantime, mom would be preparing the food. Chopping onions to knead into the hamburger, before being – as with the charcoal – carefully shaped by her hands. No way would any of us kids want to mix meat, and so we were put to work on the exceedingly difficult task of stripping the corn. This is not as easy as it sounds. You had the pleasure of peeling back the green sheaf's, and getting that funny green smell, before you had to work loose all that cornsilk. It took what seemed like hours and you always ended up eating some of it anyway, the texture was as if you were flossing your teeth with thread from your moms sewing basket. They should have just put in the grill and burned it off, it probably would be just as gross, but at least you wouldn’t fell as if you were chowing down on hair.
By this time, your dad, having gotten the briquets in the proper order (which always resembled a pile...or is that just me) commenced to light it, by dousing it with charcoal starter and throwing a match. The funny thing is that it would go out. And yet people continued to use the worthless stuff by the gallon, when it would have been easier to use gasoline and have done with it already. The wind would always shift at that precise moment and send the smoke directly into the kitchen. In fact, it was so reliable, that one could use it as an equation, if one needed an equation to start a grill; knowing your father who had such an obsession with geometrically arraigned briquets, he would have jumped at the chance. Fortunately, no one took the trouble write down this corollary, and so we’re free from one more worthless ritual.
The very act of grilling never made sense when you took the time to examine it.
It is a very hot Summer day and instead of staying inside with the fans and air conditioners, we decided to build a roaring hot fire and stand around it. All this for the love of meat and smoke. We could have just as easily stood at the nearest garage fire and gotten the same smoke in out faces without the meat. But cooking outdoors is like some primitive ritual that me must undergo if we are to pass childhood and become: Geometric charcoal shapers, as our father once were.
Now the reason for this outdoor cooking is that it’s too hot to cook inside. This appears to be sensible unless you look at it from my skewed perspective. Ever notice that whenever you decided to barbecue that things took longer to cook ? Perhaps it has something to do with the mystical smoke/wind formula we overlooked. Ah the foolishness of ignoring that ! While cooking the burgers, there would always come a time when the meat drippings would catch fire and turn the burgers to charcoal. By another strange corollary, this too would happen when the grill was untended. One minute you’d be in the kitchen helping with food or talking and the next thing you knew, there would be a cry along the lines of “Hey !!” followed by a rush out the door to SAVE THE MEAT. Saving the meat was all-important. This was the number one priority, saving your hair and flesh was second. With much hullabaloo and clamor the fire was smothered. Well, this is untrue; the meat was hustled off with a speed that is unmatched by military missiles. Even now, the military is still trying to crack the secret.
After all that, came sitting down and eating. This involved having a peaceful and relaxing meal; for a few minutes, then the bugs would descend in squadrons, undeterred by imminent death by barbecue flames and smoke. The flies were the worst. Lured by the scent of food they would circle like indians around a stranded wagon train, picking off the goods as they sat on the table. Believe me when I say that your desire for a buttered ear of corn goes out the window after the flies have been swimming in the melted butter; dipping their gremlin legs and such appendages in what was once your beloved meal.
Most of the time, we’d retreat to the safety of the kitchen and eat in there, safe from the insects of doom. The bugs would cling to the screen door piteously, as if saying, “Oh Pleeeesse let us in ! We only want a teeny, tiny taste really. Please ? Can’t you hear the voices of our children ?” We would ignore them. This is easy as bugs do not talk except in the minds of disturbed writers like myself. So we would eat inside. This pretty much defeated the purpose of starting this whole foray in the first place, but who would dare to tell this to the King Of The Grill, the Master of the Briquet, the Head Honcho ! Not me. And to this day, we still perform this ancient ritual that was started by Neanderthal man and is frequently heralded by the passed down cry of: “GOD, MY HAIR IS ON FIRE !! AAAAHHHHHH !!
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Autumn
The air is crisp, smelling of mold and earth, fallen leaves and dreams. It is October, a fine month for everything whether young or old, human or animal. The wind is stronger than usual, blowing the crimson, gold, and brown leaves into eddies as if some elemental was trying to take form and offer you a wish. The season is one of contrasts and change. Life yields inevitably to decay and death.For some strange reason most of the people I know say Autumn is their favorite season of the year. If you ask them why they usually say the cold air is invigorating, filling their bones with an energy of a twelve year old with the dreams to match. It does not matter if you’re seventy years old, you still kick the leaves or shuffle through them as a giant monster crushing Tokyo underfoot. In all of us there is a little boy that wishes to lie in a pile of dead leaves, smelling the rich loam and reading books filled with adventure.
The verdant green of Summer has changed his visage to the Golden God of Autumn; resplendent in his cloak of ever-changing colors. By degrees the cloak becomes more threadbare and the trees resemble skeleton hands clawing at a graying sky. The season of the white cold will be upon us and we sometimes cling to the notion that the coming Winter is death. You could not be more wrong. Autumn is the season of magic, of mysteries, of wonders constantly unfolding before your eyes. But its quick; blink and you’ll miss it.
Fear not the winter, for it is not death. It is life. Like a newly pregnant woman, you see nothing but under the surface, life is germinating; waiting patiently for the warmth of Spring when once again life will bloom underfoot and the cycle will start again.
With the days growing shorter, I find myself walking in a world of faeries, the fluttering leaves lady Titania’s gown made of lace and silk, her laughter ripples the air making the air shiver. Overhead the migrating geese sound forth the call to all creatures of feather to take flight and heed the urge to move onward to better destinations. The squirrels scurry amongst the patchwork of dead, brittle leaves, scouring the earth for Falls hidden treasure that they may bury them.
Household cats feel the shift in the balance of the quarters and bother their owners opening one door after another in the never-ending hunt for the door into Summer, the doorway leading into one more day of warm sunbeams to sleep in. Failing that, they spend more time in our laps, doing their best to mimic the earths hibernation that is speeding inexorably forward.
We too feel natures call and wind down, spending our times reading or writing.
Truth be told, we need the winter ourselves to better contemplate what we have done the last nine months; what we’ve accomplished, the friends made, the ones lost. Like misers we tally up what we have stored in the grainhouse of our minds and souls after a solid years work. And we smile as we sip at the cup of hot chocolate or spiced wine, content in what we’ve done the last year. The small things count in that tally.
We hug our cats so fiercely that they purr and we feel for a moment the awe that it’s prey feels the instant before we die. Delight at the memory of that first day of Summer when the ginger ale burns down our throats; the oil on the surface of skin with a feel like something imported from Baghdad by Aladdin himself. Wrapped in the comfort of this years memories, we can wait the long cold winter.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
In Praise of Women
Women. The most beautiful creatures on this marvelous globe. We’re lucky they put up with us men sometimes, what with all the crap we put them through. We tell them they’re fat, too short, too emotional....too beautiful for the likes of us. They deserve all the worship we can bestow on them for one reason alone, and that my friends is that they are absolutely divine !
They walk into our drab, boring lives and inject them with a vitality and grace we can only aspire to. They act silly, laugh at our embarrassments, and push the envelope of what’s socially acceptable. Whether dressed in lace or coveralls, they have a power over us that we can’t explain. It’s as if they are on the inside track of secret knowledge and we’re trailing several lengths behind.
A woman doesn’t have to try to look beautiful; they already are. In the early light of dawn they lie under the covers of their bed, hunkered down in sleep, their faces radiant as only a woman can be. Waking, they stretch like cats, long and languid movements a study in elegance; grace.
There is nothing like having a woman lean into you as you watch a movie or embrace. You sink into the powdered and perfumed softness and are reborn into something better than you were mere moments before. Born with eyes that can wither your soul or heal the most hardened heart, they are the perfect life-form sent from the stars to shine their glorious light upon our lives. Give them anything they want, for they deserve only the best we can give and no less.
In the act of making love, the face of our goddess transforms into something so beautiful and magnificent it’s a wonder that gazing upon it doesn’t blind us. We nuzzle the base of her neck, the fragrance rich and heady as if she were composed of flowers. We men, we mere mortals are blessed to have them in our lives and our beds. They have wild hearts that can’t be tamed, nor would it be wise to try.
More intoxicating than any drug, sweeter than nectar, we flock to them as bees to honey. How like angels they are, but far more challenging and interesting. To converse with a woman, to be her friend, is a privilege and honor beyond price. How incredibly frail they seem, yet are stronger than you know. Their heart contain as many secrets as the ocean, and are as deep. Radiant creatures, shaped by the Goddess’s hands they manifest divinity in our paltry corporeal existence. I am proud to worship at their altar, a humble acolyte asking for a boon.
I Love You All.
They walk into our drab, boring lives and inject them with a vitality and grace we can only aspire to. They act silly, laugh at our embarrassments, and push the envelope of what’s socially acceptable. Whether dressed in lace or coveralls, they have a power over us that we can’t explain. It’s as if they are on the inside track of secret knowledge and we’re trailing several lengths behind.
A woman doesn’t have to try to look beautiful; they already are. In the early light of dawn they lie under the covers of their bed, hunkered down in sleep, their faces radiant as only a woman can be. Waking, they stretch like cats, long and languid movements a study in elegance; grace.
There is nothing like having a woman lean into you as you watch a movie or embrace. You sink into the powdered and perfumed softness and are reborn into something better than you were mere moments before. Born with eyes that can wither your soul or heal the most hardened heart, they are the perfect life-form sent from the stars to shine their glorious light upon our lives. Give them anything they want, for they deserve only the best we can give and no less.
In the act of making love, the face of our goddess transforms into something so beautiful and magnificent it’s a wonder that gazing upon it doesn’t blind us. We nuzzle the base of her neck, the fragrance rich and heady as if she were composed of flowers. We men, we mere mortals are blessed to have them in our lives and our beds. They have wild hearts that can’t be tamed, nor would it be wise to try.
More intoxicating than any drug, sweeter than nectar, we flock to them as bees to honey. How like angels they are, but far more challenging and interesting. To converse with a woman, to be her friend, is a privilege and honor beyond price. How incredibly frail they seem, yet are stronger than you know. Their heart contain as many secrets as the ocean, and are as deep. Radiant creatures, shaped by the Goddess’s hands they manifest divinity in our paltry corporeal existence. I am proud to worship at their altar, a humble acolyte asking for a boon.
I Love You All.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Politics of Hope
As I write this, Barack Obama is an hour away from becoming our next President. Looking out over the ocean of citizens, I am filled with elation at this new chance to heal our nation as well as the planet. The crowd is composed of every race, nationality, and ethnic group, yet we share one thing in common that makes us great. That trait is hope. A word bantered around in the campaign, but only now do we realize what it means.
This nation that has suffered for far too long, has at last gotten a second chance to make things right and have the world look to us as an example. A chance to have all our voices heard in a quest for balance and healing from the last eight years of darkness. After such a prolonged period without hope and light, stepping into that bright light of the future and hopes held high, our eyes hurt and we will feel pain. But the pain passes and we are left stunned by the sheer magnitude of what we’ve done in electing this man and his wife.
We have made history. Forty years ago, Martin Luther King Jr announced to the world, “I have a dream.” Now a part of that dream has been embraced by Americans, who hope and pray that this president will help lead them to a better way of life; one where there are possibilities instead of obstacles, a land of opportunity, not overwhelming greed. It goes without saying that this road is not going to be easy, nor will the mistakes made in the past be overturned in a few years.
The road ahead is filled with stumbling blocks, racial hatred and other things that may hold us back. But only temporarily, my friends. We were taught that as Americans, if we come together as we did in the Second World War, there is nothing we cannot accomplish, no matter the odds. Although that victory cost us many lives, we prevailed and Hitler and his machinations to rule with an iron fist, came to an end. Now we have embarked on a path that if followed will give all of us – not just the rich and powerful – an America we can all be proud of. Once again a place where we can tell the world, “Yes, I’m an American” and not feel shame or embarrassment.
It is time to hold our heads up as well as our ethics and ideals, and say to all: “This is what we can do !” And by the God and Goddess, we will do it and in so doing make all right again. The crowd at this inaguration believe it, and believe it deeply. The cynics out there say that the people that elected Obama are hopeless dreamers and idealists. That is wrong. We are hopeful dreamers. For the sin is not in dreaming, but in surrender to the poisonous thought that things can never change. That change is to be feared. If we believed that, then we’d still be afraid of fire and living in caves. I’ll be the first to admit that change is not easy, but it IS neccessary. The alternative is stagnation and death.
If we try to change this country for the better, if we can maintain our belief in our ability, we can change anything, even ourselves. As a dreamer and Witch, I have seen firsthand the power of thought and it is an awesome spectacle indeed. So believe and share the dream with the rest of us, and keep your hope alive like a spark of life. With all of us breathing on that spark, it will expand and burn brightly, shredding the darkness that has enshrouded us for so long. That flame will burn away the hatred and light our way to the future.
All we have to do is believe in it enough to follow it to it’s end. Yes, it is a difficult path, but the easy path has always been the one lined with subtle traps for the foolisih and unwary. And we are neither; not any more. We are Americans with one vision seen through many eyes, which is what we should have been all along. Above all do not doubt ! Remember that fear is the worst enemy, and for that just remember the following and all will be well:
Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
It is a time of total trust and I, ever hopefull, will trust in my own inner wisdom as you must trust in yours. Together we can do it. We must do it. Blessed Be !
This nation that has suffered for far too long, has at last gotten a second chance to make things right and have the world look to us as an example. A chance to have all our voices heard in a quest for balance and healing from the last eight years of darkness. After such a prolonged period without hope and light, stepping into that bright light of the future and hopes held high, our eyes hurt and we will feel pain. But the pain passes and we are left stunned by the sheer magnitude of what we’ve done in electing this man and his wife.
We have made history. Forty years ago, Martin Luther King Jr announced to the world, “I have a dream.” Now a part of that dream has been embraced by Americans, who hope and pray that this president will help lead them to a better way of life; one where there are possibilities instead of obstacles, a land of opportunity, not overwhelming greed. It goes without saying that this road is not going to be easy, nor will the mistakes made in the past be overturned in a few years.
The road ahead is filled with stumbling blocks, racial hatred and other things that may hold us back. But only temporarily, my friends. We were taught that as Americans, if we come together as we did in the Second World War, there is nothing we cannot accomplish, no matter the odds. Although that victory cost us many lives, we prevailed and Hitler and his machinations to rule with an iron fist, came to an end. Now we have embarked on a path that if followed will give all of us – not just the rich and powerful – an America we can all be proud of. Once again a place where we can tell the world, “Yes, I’m an American” and not feel shame or embarrassment.
It is time to hold our heads up as well as our ethics and ideals, and say to all: “This is what we can do !” And by the God and Goddess, we will do it and in so doing make all right again. The crowd at this inaguration believe it, and believe it deeply. The cynics out there say that the people that elected Obama are hopeless dreamers and idealists. That is wrong. We are hopeful dreamers. For the sin is not in dreaming, but in surrender to the poisonous thought that things can never change. That change is to be feared. If we believed that, then we’d still be afraid of fire and living in caves. I’ll be the first to admit that change is not easy, but it IS neccessary. The alternative is stagnation and death.
If we try to change this country for the better, if we can maintain our belief in our ability, we can change anything, even ourselves. As a dreamer and Witch, I have seen firsthand the power of thought and it is an awesome spectacle indeed. So believe and share the dream with the rest of us, and keep your hope alive like a spark of life. With all of us breathing on that spark, it will expand and burn brightly, shredding the darkness that has enshrouded us for so long. That flame will burn away the hatred and light our way to the future.
All we have to do is believe in it enough to follow it to it’s end. Yes, it is a difficult path, but the easy path has always been the one lined with subtle traps for the foolisih and unwary. And we are neither; not any more. We are Americans with one vision seen through many eyes, which is what we should have been all along. Above all do not doubt ! Remember that fear is the worst enemy, and for that just remember the following and all will be well:
Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
It is a time of total trust and I, ever hopefull, will trust in my own inner wisdom as you must trust in yours. Together we can do it. We must do it. Blessed Be !
Thursday, October 2, 2008
"Abarat" – a review
I have never read Clive Barker. This was a huge mistake on my part. Let me assure you that in Abarat, he has created an incredible world populated with creatures that are seemingly like dreams. The Abarat, an Archipelago of 25 islands (one for each hour of the day, plus one mysterious one) is a fabulous setting. Candy Quackenbush, fifteen and bored with Chickentown Minnesota, finds that leaving her unsatisfying home life for the Abarat is fraught with wonder and peril beyond imagining. For not everything is as it seems.
Escorted by John Mischief, whose eight brothers live on the horns of his head, she is pursued by Mendelson Shape. Working for Christopher Carrion the Lord of Midnight, he is bound to bring her to his master. It seems as if Carrion is interested in her even though Candy has never seen or heard of the Abarat. This is a prime mystery that gives the reader many questions. The surreal setting draws you in quickly and you end up reading 60+ pages a day; at least I did. I am fascinated and mesmerized at the richness of detail and characterization Barker has wrought. There is subtle subtext here, as you can read all sorts of things into the story. But the best thing are the mysteries: Why is Candy so at ease in the Abarat ? There are hints that she has been here before. Why does Christopher Carrion want her so badly ? Certainly not to kill her. And many more.
This book is listed as Young Adult, and it does fit that classification, but it has a dark side in later volumes. This is Clive Barker we’re talking about after all. If my instincts are correct (and they are seldom wrong) this book should rival the popularity and complexity of Lord of The Rings. There are heroes galore and many villains, not just Lord Carrion. We have Rojo Pixler, who reminds one of Walt Disney gone bad. Pixler, you see, has this dream of controlling everything for profit. He wants entrance to Candy’s world so he can expand his market. It’s not enough that he has taken Carrions birth island of 3 in the morning and made it into Commexo City, brimming with light. He wants more power and this includes banning magic. Except his magic. This does not sit well with Carrion !
Then there are the Requiax. The race that is prophesied to rise up from the depths of the ocean one day and overturn the world of Abarat. This is a multi-layered piece of work that, if you choose to read it, will not disappoint. I suggest buying the hardcover editions so you see all of Clive Barker’s paintings of the characters. It greatly adds to the enjoyment of the story. There is much that I’m leaving out, as I don’t want to spoil anything for you. Suffice it to say that I intend to read book two as soon as possible. Yes, it is that powerful and wondrous.
Come, visit Abarat ! You may find yourself unwilling to leave. Or unable to.
– Philip Leighton
Escorted by John Mischief, whose eight brothers live on the horns of his head, she is pursued by Mendelson Shape. Working for Christopher Carrion the Lord of Midnight, he is bound to bring her to his master. It seems as if Carrion is interested in her even though Candy has never seen or heard of the Abarat. This is a prime mystery that gives the reader many questions. The surreal setting draws you in quickly and you end up reading 60+ pages a day; at least I did. I am fascinated and mesmerized at the richness of detail and characterization Barker has wrought. There is subtle subtext here, as you can read all sorts of things into the story. But the best thing are the mysteries: Why is Candy so at ease in the Abarat ? There are hints that she has been here before. Why does Christopher Carrion want her so badly ? Certainly not to kill her. And many more.
This book is listed as Young Adult, and it does fit that classification, but it has a dark side in later volumes. This is Clive Barker we’re talking about after all. If my instincts are correct (and they are seldom wrong) this book should rival the popularity and complexity of Lord of The Rings. There are heroes galore and many villains, not just Lord Carrion. We have Rojo Pixler, who reminds one of Walt Disney gone bad. Pixler, you see, has this dream of controlling everything for profit. He wants entrance to Candy’s world so he can expand his market. It’s not enough that he has taken Carrions birth island of 3 in the morning and made it into Commexo City, brimming with light. He wants more power and this includes banning magic. Except his magic. This does not sit well with Carrion !
Then there are the Requiax. The race that is prophesied to rise up from the depths of the ocean one day and overturn the world of Abarat. This is a multi-layered piece of work that, if you choose to read it, will not disappoint. I suggest buying the hardcover editions so you see all of Clive Barker’s paintings of the characters. It greatly adds to the enjoyment of the story. There is much that I’m leaving out, as I don’t want to spoil anything for you. Suffice it to say that I intend to read book two as soon as possible. Yes, it is that powerful and wondrous.
Come, visit Abarat ! You may find yourself unwilling to leave. Or unable to.
– Philip Leighton
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
In Love With Night
I have always been in love with the night. The mystery, silence, and everpresent peace have beckoned me with its allure. I think all of us have been in love with the darkness at one time or another. The success of modern day society to brainwash us into thinking that daylight is the natural order of things is nothing short of criminal. Many of us have been cheated of our birthright, being told by psychologists, employers, and the church that night is the time to sleep; to avoid criminals; to hide in ones home quivering about what must be roaming the streets. All are baseless lies.
What brought me to writing this was all the deluded people out there that mark me as weird simply because I am by nature a night owl. I’ve been one all my life. As an infant, my father told me that he would come home at 2 am from working the railroad yards to find me sitting quietly in my crib. I was not playing or making a sound. He said that I’d just sit there and look around with fascination.
To appreciate that intrinsic beauty of the night all you have to do is go out one night for a walk. The first thing you notice is the utter silence. No birds or cars, only the wind sliding along your bare arms, caressing you like a lover would. The air is rich with the smell of earth and greenery, the streetlights offer little islands of light in an otherwise perfect setting. You take in that first clean, deep breath and are infected with the sudden desire to smile like an idiot. Suddenly you are again a child out after dark, into the forbidden zone and playing kick the can with your friends. Memories wash over you like something out of dreams long vanished into smoke.
You tilt your head back and see black skies filled with stars. How long has it been since you actually looked at them ? No bright orb to wash away the subtleties of what you percieve, no familiar blue sky and clouds, only the calming darkness. In that moment you realize that all your life, you’ve wanted to be up at night, but have been trapped into being a daytime person and now are a bit sad. There’s no need to be sad. You can reclaim your life if you really want to. Nobody forces you to be a day person. You simply went along with it because it’s easier, but it’s also very easy to become trapped by what others want. The easy way, by it’s very nature, is also the one lined with comfortable traps laid for the unwary. Society depends on the common, the banal, the easy path. And therein lies the danger.
The easiest way has always been the one that is insidious; full of little luxuries that you become dependent on. Before you’re aware of it, what you thought was a life full of wonders and other marvelous attractions becomes a cell. A comfortable cage and cell but still an area delineated and laid out by others for you. I’m convinced that this is what happens during the mid-life crises, but is not recognized for what it truly is. You desire something different, the path less traveled. Now you’re afraid it’s too late, but it isn’t. The only places that haven’t been fully explored are the ocean depths, space, and the night. Two of those are not likely open to you, but the night time is. The night is the New Frontier. Like first time explorers we venture out into the inky blackness. It is fraught with dangers, true, but so is the daytime world. I guarantee that it’s full of magic.
It is also the perfect time for those of us that are creative in our natures, for only at night can we think in silence without the blare of the world’s noise to blanket and mask what we may think deep in our souls. For we do think different at night when there is nobody around. As we walk down the sidewalk at 2 AM, we step on a twig and the snap is loud. You wonder if anyone heard, and if so, what they think. Somewhere a dog lifted it’s head and thought of you. A person in a nearby bedroom wonders if there’s an intruder lurking, or the sound incorporates into their dreams. The point being, is that now, only at this time, you become important in the world, you make a difference, you matter. Only nighttime makes this possible.
When there’s no one else around, it is as if you are the only person alive. Stories come out of this time, for it is magic. If you were the last person on Earth, what might you do or go ? What would the world be like ? These and many other strange questions surface in your newly awakened brain that is in tune with the Darkness. Children have imaginations that have not been stifled; why do you think they get such a thrill out of staying up late. It’s not because it’s forbidden. It is because the night reaches out to them and feeds them in ways the world doesn’t want them to. The world wants robots, not dreamers. Be truthful and ask yourself when was your favorite story time. Not being read to in the daylight, but in your bed at night or by a flashlight under the covers. The aura of mystery was there with you, and that is what we all crave in this time: that sense of mystery, of the uncommon. Lying there under the covers, the blanket over your head, your world shrank and became something else. Under that blanket you were in a tent. Perhaps you were reading “Dune” and imagined yourself in a stilltent waiting for the duststorm to abate so you could find the Fremen. Like I said...magic.
I think this is why many people watch television with all the lights out. In the dark nothing exists except what’s on that screen. You become one with the characters and tone of the movie. We love to step outside ourselves and discover other places, other worlds, and nightime facilitates that desire. It magnifies it on a grand scale. Night makes everything better. Ask yourself the attraction of carnivals, gatherings, candlelit dinners outside, conversations around a fire, and especially sex. It’s the lights, the other senses involved, the subtle change in the very air when the Sun goes away. We feel more free at that time, almost ready to burst with an energy just beneath the skin. You know the trueness of my words, as surely as you know that someday something wonderful will happen in your life; something so remarkable that you’ll feel intensely alive.
I implore you to take a walk in the dark. You will not be disappointed.
–Philip Leighton
What brought me to writing this was all the deluded people out there that mark me as weird simply because I am by nature a night owl. I’ve been one all my life. As an infant, my father told me that he would come home at 2 am from working the railroad yards to find me sitting quietly in my crib. I was not playing or making a sound. He said that I’d just sit there and look around with fascination.
To appreciate that intrinsic beauty of the night all you have to do is go out one night for a walk. The first thing you notice is the utter silence. No birds or cars, only the wind sliding along your bare arms, caressing you like a lover would. The air is rich with the smell of earth and greenery, the streetlights offer little islands of light in an otherwise perfect setting. You take in that first clean, deep breath and are infected with the sudden desire to smile like an idiot. Suddenly you are again a child out after dark, into the forbidden zone and playing kick the can with your friends. Memories wash over you like something out of dreams long vanished into smoke.
You tilt your head back and see black skies filled with stars. How long has it been since you actually looked at them ? No bright orb to wash away the subtleties of what you percieve, no familiar blue sky and clouds, only the calming darkness. In that moment you realize that all your life, you’ve wanted to be up at night, but have been trapped into being a daytime person and now are a bit sad. There’s no need to be sad. You can reclaim your life if you really want to. Nobody forces you to be a day person. You simply went along with it because it’s easier, but it’s also very easy to become trapped by what others want. The easy way, by it’s very nature, is also the one lined with comfortable traps laid for the unwary. Society depends on the common, the banal, the easy path. And therein lies the danger.
The easiest way has always been the one that is insidious; full of little luxuries that you become dependent on. Before you’re aware of it, what you thought was a life full of wonders and other marvelous attractions becomes a cell. A comfortable cage and cell but still an area delineated and laid out by others for you. I’m convinced that this is what happens during the mid-life crises, but is not recognized for what it truly is. You desire something different, the path less traveled. Now you’re afraid it’s too late, but it isn’t. The only places that haven’t been fully explored are the ocean depths, space, and the night. Two of those are not likely open to you, but the night time is. The night is the New Frontier. Like first time explorers we venture out into the inky blackness. It is fraught with dangers, true, but so is the daytime world. I guarantee that it’s full of magic.
It is also the perfect time for those of us that are creative in our natures, for only at night can we think in silence without the blare of the world’s noise to blanket and mask what we may think deep in our souls. For we do think different at night when there is nobody around. As we walk down the sidewalk at 2 AM, we step on a twig and the snap is loud. You wonder if anyone heard, and if so, what they think. Somewhere a dog lifted it’s head and thought of you. A person in a nearby bedroom wonders if there’s an intruder lurking, or the sound incorporates into their dreams. The point being, is that now, only at this time, you become important in the world, you make a difference, you matter. Only nighttime makes this possible.
When there’s no one else around, it is as if you are the only person alive. Stories come out of this time, for it is magic. If you were the last person on Earth, what might you do or go ? What would the world be like ? These and many other strange questions surface in your newly awakened brain that is in tune with the Darkness. Children have imaginations that have not been stifled; why do you think they get such a thrill out of staying up late. It’s not because it’s forbidden. It is because the night reaches out to them and feeds them in ways the world doesn’t want them to. The world wants robots, not dreamers. Be truthful and ask yourself when was your favorite story time. Not being read to in the daylight, but in your bed at night or by a flashlight under the covers. The aura of mystery was there with you, and that is what we all crave in this time: that sense of mystery, of the uncommon. Lying there under the covers, the blanket over your head, your world shrank and became something else. Under that blanket you were in a tent. Perhaps you were reading “Dune” and imagined yourself in a stilltent waiting for the duststorm to abate so you could find the Fremen. Like I said...magic.
I think this is why many people watch television with all the lights out. In the dark nothing exists except what’s on that screen. You become one with the characters and tone of the movie. We love to step outside ourselves and discover other places, other worlds, and nightime facilitates that desire. It magnifies it on a grand scale. Night makes everything better. Ask yourself the attraction of carnivals, gatherings, candlelit dinners outside, conversations around a fire, and especially sex. It’s the lights, the other senses involved, the subtle change in the very air when the Sun goes away. We feel more free at that time, almost ready to burst with an energy just beneath the skin. You know the trueness of my words, as surely as you know that someday something wonderful will happen in your life; something so remarkable that you’ll feel intensely alive.
I implore you to take a walk in the dark. You will not be disappointed.
–Philip Leighton
Saturday, May 3, 2008
My Dad
Growing up at the time I did, it was my father that was expected to bear the weight of providing for his family. While my Dad didn’t always spend a lot of time with me, the times he did were special, as every kid can attest to. He was a hard worker; being a switchman for the Milwaukee Road Railroad. It was a dangerous occupation even then. In the old days, before the advent of automatic coupling, the bosses would ask for a show of hands if you were a switchman. If you were missing a lot of fingers, it meant you’d been around. The cars would come together with a loud jolt and the pin would have to be dropped in with perfect timing. Hence the fingers.
Around 3:30 in the afternoon he’d come home wearing those overalls that had a zillion pockets,along with his striped cap, and his worn boots. I’d wrap my arms around his waist taking in the peculiar smell of the Railroad Yards. It was a combination of fresh air, dirt, and grease, and I loved it. With his crew-cut, pencil mustache, and solidity, he was more than a role model for me; he could have been a template for designing a Dad anywhere on the Earth.
Sometimes, in the evenings he, my Mother, and I would go to the local bar two blocks away. It’s name was The Mohawk Bar & Grill, and for a sign it had this wonderful Huron indianhead done in glowing, magical neon. We would slide into a booth, the cool dimness encompassing us like a delicious secret and drink beer. I always got to have about a half glass of Grain Belt, preferably with some salt on top. I remember being fascinated with the dark wood of the booth and its attendant sign reading, “Under Minnesota law, it is illegal to serve alcoholic beverages to anyone under the age of 21.” I thought the world of grown-ups was pretty cool with the privileges of drinking, working and just being tall. My father had a way about him. An easy way, as if he should drawl his words when he spoke.
Most nights we’d eat at the table in the tiny kitchen, the fare being the mashed potatoes and meat everyone ate in those years. Afterward he’d read the newspaper, his legs crossed and looking for all the world like a man at home in his skin. He was a strong man but also had a kind almost empathic heart. I never recall being spanked or hit, but it could have happened, being so long ago.
He loved to watch baseball and boxing especially. He’d get excited and rise from the chair, muscles tensed. First he’d stand, then crouch, finally he’d just be in front of the TV wanting to crawl inside and help out the boxer. I was fascinated watching him; like a little kid himself, he got taken into whatever he was doing at the time. Sometimes I’d go down and watch him at his workbench doing the most amazing things. The talent for improvising a solution to problems were remarkable and ingenious. The time I broke a croquet mallet he got the wood out of the head, cut the broken handle and re-threaded it....with a hand file. It goes without saying I was really impressed with that. What couldn’t he do ?! The answer to that question was answered on occasion when he wouldn’t come home at the usual time, and we’d worry for hours. Eventually he’d show up around 8 or so, dead drunk and melancholy about every wrong he’d done in his 40 years. He’d lay on the carpet in a puddle of vomit, moaning and crying, “I’m sorry...I’m sorry.” And he really was sorry, I knew it in my childs heart, though I still don’t know what he was sorry about. Maybe it was the drinking he was sorry over; maybe something buried deep inside. Whatever it was, it was wrenching to watch. I remember trying to get him on his feet, my 8 year old arm pulling with all its strength. He would end up sleeping on the floor for the night.
My favorite memories of him were at the beach. He’d take me to Tanners Lake, where the changing room was a sty and smelt of urine. I would wade into the water, gradually adjusting to the cold water. He would climb the dock and dive in, getting it over with. It seems he went through life like that; he would dive in.
My mom told me that when I was 4 or so, I saw my dad standing in the tub, naked, soap thick on his genitallia, and pointedly asked, “Is that a potato ?”
One time I accidentally swallowed a moth and ran home, panic driving my feet. My Mom wanted to take me to the doctor, but he just looked at us and said, “Big deal, he ate some meat, finally.” It was true. I never liked the taste of meat and still don’t. The Doc and my Mom would say I’d have big problems if I didn’t eat my meat. My Father knew better, bless him. He loved to be a kid sometimes. One summer day I entered the porch to see him crouched down with my pea shooter to his lips. With a blast of air he hit me square in the chest, as deadly as an aboriginal. I cried. He was sorry, and put his arm around me. “I’m sorry, Butchy,” he’d say. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just...” He almost cried himself, he felt so bad.
As the years went by, he retained his youthful appearance and vigor. I’d make him a bowl of popcorn and he’d rub his hands together in anticipatory pleasure, a big grin on his lined face. I still have a photo of him at my 40th birthday; stuffing his mouth with a piece of cake that would have choked a horse. Looking through the old photos, I see something I missed because of my youth. In every picture, his eyes are exceptionally bright and his face has a shit-eating grin on it, as if he could take on the world....and win. As all people, he saw his share of the darkness of life, but chose to reflect the light instead. We were all shadows to his Sun.
If there was one thing about him that was obnoxious, it was his Copenhagen (snuff) habit. After a meal he’d whip out the can with a flourish, look at us and say, “Now for some dessert.” To knock the tobacco off the lid - and for his amusment - he’d rap on the can 3 times, then once with his elbow, then once more with his knuckles. All in quick succession. My mother and I would exchange looks and wonder about his sense of humor. There was nothing wrong with his humor, it was our problem.
He showed me how to make rockets out of paper matches, the sulpherous smoke filling the kitchen until my Mom cried enough and shooed us out. Watching him eat corn on the cob was nothing less than a tutorial on gluttony. He’d put a pat of butter on, salt the thing, then chomp away down the lenght of the ear. Twice. Then smack his lips and start again. He would drink a malt so fast he’d get a headache. “But it tastes so good...” he would say, contritely whilst holding his head. Then he’d have more. I realize he ate the way he lived.....taking large bites and savoring the flavor. If there was a human that reflected the Green God, he was it.
The last few years of his life he started acting odd, as if the joy of life had left. He wouldn’t read the paper anymore, but he still watched baseball. He started talking less and seemed depressed over something. He never said what it was, but I think he was just tired of this world with it’s bad news. One time he told me to never wish my life away. There was a small faire at the shopping mall and I brought home a bag of hot mini-donuts. I whipped them out expecting to see that “Oh boy, let’s eat” look. He said he wasn’t hungry; maybe later. That’s when I started to worry. From that day on he only got more sick. Maybe a year later, he died from cancer. Earlier I described him as The Green God; the Goddess’s consort. Truely he was the Pagan God, passing away when the Sun was at it’s lowest, close to the Winter Solstice. I wasn’t there when he went and initially I regretted it. I eventually realized that maybe he planned it that way, so I wouldn’t have to carry that image around for the rest of my life. When I see him in my memories, I picture him in his railroad overalls coming home from a hard day working. In that perfect fantasy moment, I am again 8 years old; handing him a cold beer.
Philip Leighton
Around 3:30 in the afternoon he’d come home wearing those overalls that had a zillion pockets,along with his striped cap, and his worn boots. I’d wrap my arms around his waist taking in the peculiar smell of the Railroad Yards. It was a combination of fresh air, dirt, and grease, and I loved it. With his crew-cut, pencil mustache, and solidity, he was more than a role model for me; he could have been a template for designing a Dad anywhere on the Earth.
Sometimes, in the evenings he, my Mother, and I would go to the local bar two blocks away. It’s name was The Mohawk Bar & Grill, and for a sign it had this wonderful Huron indianhead done in glowing, magical neon. We would slide into a booth, the cool dimness encompassing us like a delicious secret and drink beer. I always got to have about a half glass of Grain Belt, preferably with some salt on top. I remember being fascinated with the dark wood of the booth and its attendant sign reading, “Under Minnesota law, it is illegal to serve alcoholic beverages to anyone under the age of 21.” I thought the world of grown-ups was pretty cool with the privileges of drinking, working and just being tall. My father had a way about him. An easy way, as if he should drawl his words when he spoke.
Most nights we’d eat at the table in the tiny kitchen, the fare being the mashed potatoes and meat everyone ate in those years. Afterward he’d read the newspaper, his legs crossed and looking for all the world like a man at home in his skin. He was a strong man but also had a kind almost empathic heart. I never recall being spanked or hit, but it could have happened, being so long ago.
He loved to watch baseball and boxing especially. He’d get excited and rise from the chair, muscles tensed. First he’d stand, then crouch, finally he’d just be in front of the TV wanting to crawl inside and help out the boxer. I was fascinated watching him; like a little kid himself, he got taken into whatever he was doing at the time. Sometimes I’d go down and watch him at his workbench doing the most amazing things. The talent for improvising a solution to problems were remarkable and ingenious. The time I broke a croquet mallet he got the wood out of the head, cut the broken handle and re-threaded it....with a hand file. It goes without saying I was really impressed with that. What couldn’t he do ?! The answer to that question was answered on occasion when he wouldn’t come home at the usual time, and we’d worry for hours. Eventually he’d show up around 8 or so, dead drunk and melancholy about every wrong he’d done in his 40 years. He’d lay on the carpet in a puddle of vomit, moaning and crying, “I’m sorry...I’m sorry.” And he really was sorry, I knew it in my childs heart, though I still don’t know what he was sorry about. Maybe it was the drinking he was sorry over; maybe something buried deep inside. Whatever it was, it was wrenching to watch. I remember trying to get him on his feet, my 8 year old arm pulling with all its strength. He would end up sleeping on the floor for the night.
My favorite memories of him were at the beach. He’d take me to Tanners Lake, where the changing room was a sty and smelt of urine. I would wade into the water, gradually adjusting to the cold water. He would climb the dock and dive in, getting it over with. It seems he went through life like that; he would dive in.
My mom told me that when I was 4 or so, I saw my dad standing in the tub, naked, soap thick on his genitallia, and pointedly asked, “Is that a potato ?”
One time I accidentally swallowed a moth and ran home, panic driving my feet. My Mom wanted to take me to the doctor, but he just looked at us and said, “Big deal, he ate some meat, finally.” It was true. I never liked the taste of meat and still don’t. The Doc and my Mom would say I’d have big problems if I didn’t eat my meat. My Father knew better, bless him. He loved to be a kid sometimes. One summer day I entered the porch to see him crouched down with my pea shooter to his lips. With a blast of air he hit me square in the chest, as deadly as an aboriginal. I cried. He was sorry, and put his arm around me. “I’m sorry, Butchy,” he’d say. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just...” He almost cried himself, he felt so bad.
As the years went by, he retained his youthful appearance and vigor. I’d make him a bowl of popcorn and he’d rub his hands together in anticipatory pleasure, a big grin on his lined face. I still have a photo of him at my 40th birthday; stuffing his mouth with a piece of cake that would have choked a horse. Looking through the old photos, I see something I missed because of my youth. In every picture, his eyes are exceptionally bright and his face has a shit-eating grin on it, as if he could take on the world....and win. As all people, he saw his share of the darkness of life, but chose to reflect the light instead. We were all shadows to his Sun.
If there was one thing about him that was obnoxious, it was his Copenhagen (snuff) habit. After a meal he’d whip out the can with a flourish, look at us and say, “Now for some dessert.” To knock the tobacco off the lid - and for his amusment - he’d rap on the can 3 times, then once with his elbow, then once more with his knuckles. All in quick succession. My mother and I would exchange looks and wonder about his sense of humor. There was nothing wrong with his humor, it was our problem.
He showed me how to make rockets out of paper matches, the sulpherous smoke filling the kitchen until my Mom cried enough and shooed us out. Watching him eat corn on the cob was nothing less than a tutorial on gluttony. He’d put a pat of butter on, salt the thing, then chomp away down the lenght of the ear. Twice. Then smack his lips and start again. He would drink a malt so fast he’d get a headache. “But it tastes so good...” he would say, contritely whilst holding his head. Then he’d have more. I realize he ate the way he lived.....taking large bites and savoring the flavor. If there was a human that reflected the Green God, he was it.
The last few years of his life he started acting odd, as if the joy of life had left. He wouldn’t read the paper anymore, but he still watched baseball. He started talking less and seemed depressed over something. He never said what it was, but I think he was just tired of this world with it’s bad news. One time he told me to never wish my life away. There was a small faire at the shopping mall and I brought home a bag of hot mini-donuts. I whipped them out expecting to see that “Oh boy, let’s eat” look. He said he wasn’t hungry; maybe later. That’s when I started to worry. From that day on he only got more sick. Maybe a year later, he died from cancer. Earlier I described him as The Green God; the Goddess’s consort. Truely he was the Pagan God, passing away when the Sun was at it’s lowest, close to the Winter Solstice. I wasn’t there when he went and initially I regretted it. I eventually realized that maybe he planned it that way, so I wouldn’t have to carry that image around for the rest of my life. When I see him in my memories, I picture him in his railroad overalls coming home from a hard day working. In that perfect fantasy moment, I am again 8 years old; handing him a cold beer.
Philip Leighton
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Starry, Starry Night
It is quiet out. There is no wind to rustle the leaves, nor move errant strands of hair. The velvet darkness overhead is alive with stars. Well, no. Not quite. I have always loved watching the stars in their celestial dance, the suns of distant galaxies and nebula swirling in the great sea overhead. Now, however, I can see them not. The reason is both simple and tragic. Lights.
We have so much light pollution in our marvelous technological age that we are cut off from the stars more than our ancestors ever were. In many ways they were lucky. I can remember a time not so long ago - perhaps 25 years - when I could drive for half an hour and see the rim of the galaxy; the backbone of the sky it was called . The stars so thick they formed a continuous band, the constellations dwarfed by the thousands of radiant objects in the bowl of night.
This last Fall a friend of mine had to do his astronomical assignment and took me with him stargazing. It was a sad failure. Despite driving into the depths of Wisconsin for close to 2 hours, the view was worse than my own back yard a few miles from downtown St. Paul. That night my dreams of seeing the galaxy rim were dashed against the rocks of civilization, my mighty ship of dreams going down as tragically as the Titanic.
Something very important to me had gone away for my lifetime, and I knew the keen sense of loss that only the sensitive can know. To be cut off from the cosmos, rendered forever earthbound, is to be mired in a despair so profound that I wish none of you experience it. The ride home was a journey of silence and mourning for me. I arrived home feeling plain, almost depressed at being denied my vista and corresponding perspective of my place in the scheme of things. My benediction, my ascendancy into the heavens had been denied me. All in the name of progress.
It occurs to me that we are denied the comfort of nature by some twisted sense of furtherance of Homo Sapiens level of achievement. They flood the night with light to cut us off from the stars and “heaven.” The parks close at sundown under the guise of safety. But I pay for the parks upkeep, so I should have a say in whether I risk my life by walking after dark. Better I should lose my life than my sense of wonder and comfort.
Compensation is offered by society in giving us planetarium shows (in the daytime no less) and glow in the dark stars to put on one’s ceiling. We take away the natural and label it dangerous, yet we substitute an artificial contrivance and call it perfection. Why is that ? I ask myself the question more lately, curiosity replaced with a growing anger. My inner beast is enraged at this atrocity, this corruption of the beautiful, wondrous, magical place we live.
Wait. I have seen the stars in their fullness. They were dimmer than I remember with just a portion being visible to my eyes. Oh...I was watching Kate Winslet in “Titanic.” Another contrivance from the hand of man. Give me back my stars. I must have the stars. What have I done to deserve amputation of the soul, the obscurement of my dreams and visions ? Tell me why ?
– Philip Leighton
We have so much light pollution in our marvelous technological age that we are cut off from the stars more than our ancestors ever were. In many ways they were lucky. I can remember a time not so long ago - perhaps 25 years - when I could drive for half an hour and see the rim of the galaxy; the backbone of the sky it was called . The stars so thick they formed a continuous band, the constellations dwarfed by the thousands of radiant objects in the bowl of night.
This last Fall a friend of mine had to do his astronomical assignment and took me with him stargazing. It was a sad failure. Despite driving into the depths of Wisconsin for close to 2 hours, the view was worse than my own back yard a few miles from downtown St. Paul. That night my dreams of seeing the galaxy rim were dashed against the rocks of civilization, my mighty ship of dreams going down as tragically as the Titanic.
Something very important to me had gone away for my lifetime, and I knew the keen sense of loss that only the sensitive can know. To be cut off from the cosmos, rendered forever earthbound, is to be mired in a despair so profound that I wish none of you experience it. The ride home was a journey of silence and mourning for me. I arrived home feeling plain, almost depressed at being denied my vista and corresponding perspective of my place in the scheme of things. My benediction, my ascendancy into the heavens had been denied me. All in the name of progress.
It occurs to me that we are denied the comfort of nature by some twisted sense of furtherance of Homo Sapiens level of achievement. They flood the night with light to cut us off from the stars and “heaven.” The parks close at sundown under the guise of safety. But I pay for the parks upkeep, so I should have a say in whether I risk my life by walking after dark. Better I should lose my life than my sense of wonder and comfort.
Compensation is offered by society in giving us planetarium shows (in the daytime no less) and glow in the dark stars to put on one’s ceiling. We take away the natural and label it dangerous, yet we substitute an artificial contrivance and call it perfection. Why is that ? I ask myself the question more lately, curiosity replaced with a growing anger. My inner beast is enraged at this atrocity, this corruption of the beautiful, wondrous, magical place we live.
Wait. I have seen the stars in their fullness. They were dimmer than I remember with just a portion being visible to my eyes. Oh...I was watching Kate Winslet in “Titanic.” Another contrivance from the hand of man. Give me back my stars. I must have the stars. What have I done to deserve amputation of the soul, the obscurement of my dreams and visions ? Tell me why ?
– Philip Leighton
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