Chronicles of Abstraction
3 Quarks for Muster America
Good, bad. Yin Yang. YingYang. Night day. Black white. Dark light. Republican Democrat. On off. Male female. Empty full. Push pull. Thin thick. Convex concave. In out. Plenty lack. Hot cold. Pretty; ugly. Ok? Not Ok. All nothing. For, against. Night – day. No? Yes. Maybe. Definitely. Good, bad! Liberal: Conservative. Give! Take! Pain, pleasure? On – off; one, zero? Nail, hammer. Desk. Chair. Feeble, strong. Passive! Active? Town; country. Dirty – clean! Flat, round? Clear, murky. Synchronous, disjointed. Give; receive. Onomatopoeia, camouflage. Seeblind? Fire! Ice! Warm? Cool! Accelerate. Decelerate. Inside! Outside? Borrow? Pay. Broke, fix. Kind. Cruel. Hypocrisy. Consistent. All? Nothing! Clarity – confusion. Wet, dry. Smooth – rough. Even – odd! Win! Loose!! Cry! Laugh? Happy. Sad. High. Low. Dual…single. Six. Half dozen. Right? Left? Straight, crooked. Build up. Tear down! Remorse. Satisfaction? Ego. Insecurity! Doubt? Certainty. North, south. North, South. Stop; go? Course, fine. Broke wealthy. Broken, fixed. Inner, outer. Release? Hold? Taken. Given. Two. One. Symmetry. Chaos. Uncertain. Confident… Past present. Stationary. Move. Fast, slow. Stop go. Up, down. Negative: affirmative. Single multiple. Trunk. Root. Shade – sun. Ignorant, know. Aware. Unaware. Pure, diluted. Segregate, desegregate. Hate love. Avarice. Generous. Beneficence? Rapaciousness. Long. Short. Small, great. Single, double. Frenzy peace. Silent. Loud. Plural – singular. Separate! Join? Breadth width. East. West! Eastern! Western… Mad. Glad. Prize retched. Excellent. Mediocre. On time. Late. Fail, succeed. Height. Depth. Over? Under. Employer. Employee. Pressure… vacuum. Beginning, end. More? Less. Hero? Villain?
Ode to the Saw-Horse ParvusA mini-poem:
Do you believe in the evidence of your senses? Do you live in a wish-world? Does one overlap the other? By how much? Unknown! From afar we seek And spy, in distant lands – Gazing from the Olympian heights We reverence the Colossus, the Question idol. Hey bub, gotta light?
— By Anomalous
And—Now...Bits...Of...
A FewWriting Exercises
I’m sitting here listening to Uncle Albert and I’m so sorry we haven’t done a bloody thing all day. Earlier, listening to Harry Chapin, Taxi Driver, I'm thinking somebody ought to do a book on that one—we made our choice. Such a long, long, long time ago.
I made a series of written exercises over the last year or two, an’ I’ve got a hankering to schlep ‘em up here. Why? Not sure. A creative writing instructor told us to “save everything.” This seemed to pull some minor cord in the tension of my being; in this, an absolutely unremarkable chord is struck. Ok, I’ve calmed down.
I made the following mini-stories as a series of exercises; some done as exercises from ‘open’ creative writing web sites, some as pieces required in a couple of creative writing classes.
Does this mean that I know what I’m doing? I think so. But does this really mean I know what I’m doing: does all this make me a writer? Well, relatively speaking, the jury’s out to lunch, and my name ain’t Einstein.
One of the interesting things about any collection of words, is that they somehow seem to have two slightly different meanings depending on whether they are on paper, or beaming at you from cyber-space. Sum: real paper, or cyber-sheet.
You’ve likely noticed these subtleties if you’ve ever edited something and transferred it from word processor to web page: the meaning seems to shift slightly; an ethereal misty mirage; and in this vague way an author may have to make some equally vague alteration in his tailoring: get the original ‘intent’. For one thing, paragraphing for web pages is different from that of a book or magazine. Also, web fonts tend away from the Times New Roman you may have handed in as a school paper.
So, now I’m trying to transfer these exercises from print-layout origin to something that beams from a computer screen.
Still with me? Against me? If you read through these ‘exercises’ you won’t know what the other universe looks like unless you print it out. The idea is to try to guess what the purpose is. A link that I’ll put up at a later time (I'm lazy and tired right now, don't you know), will give the requirement of the exercise.
I’m going to add, subtract, or divide on these if I choose.
------------------------------- The Doll
The prim, dark-haired woman sitting at the corner table in Che-Rey’s restaurant with her husband was the most unremarkable woman you could imagine. Beverly Tarrow had an almost mechanical way to her—perfect posture and perfect hair set with precision. To her acquaintances, Beverly Tarrow was cordial, efficient—some thought a bit too cool.
But just for a moment as I talked to my wife, my gaze wandered over and I beheld Mrs. Tarrow looking at her husband with the most—how shall I say it—the most ruthless smile at the corners of her mouth. Her husband at that moment in time wasn't paying attention and of course saw nothing. And in that moment I knew something sinister had crossed Beverly Tarrow's mind.
While I was transfixed at the sight of murder forming in those cold gray eyes, she lowered her head and looked directly at me. As if some invisible being leaning behind her told her that I was watching her. I was frozen. Just then I was saved from her icy look by the loud crash of dinnerware falling close by her table!
Everyone’s eyes turned to witness the loud clanging and shattering plates, also noticing Mrs. Tarrow and her beguiled husband. A waiter had apparently lost his balance and sent someone’s dinner careening across the floor. This loud distraction could not have happened at a more fortuitous time, for Mrs. Tarrow had sensed I was looking at her and this loud distraction hopefully had tipped her attention in another direction. The racket of smashing plates were like an invisible referee calling attention elsewhere. I felt safer, hoping this was the case for I always knew there was something other-worldly evil about that woman.
Everyone’s attention shifted over to the hapless waiter standing beside her table, a look of surprised embarrassment covering his face. The maitre-de rushed over and smiled to everyone, “I’m sorry everyone—please—enjoy your meal! Forgive the interruption.”
Everyone relaxed and a few soft chuckles broke loose from the diners; it was over. Mrs. Tarrow, who had during this time unwittingly become a part of the scene was wearing a soft smile and had one eyebrow cocked. I could see her looking at me from the corner of my eye. I feigned ignorance.
As I talked with my wife, I occasionally looked in Mrs. Tarrow's direction and saw absolutely nothing in her eyes to suggest anything devious. She gave the appearance of complete innocence. In a few moments Beverly Tarrow reverted back to her diffident self, prim and giving the appearance of completely ignoring those around her. The diners had gone back to the business of eating and making light conversation and Beverly Tarrow could have been a potted plant as far as anyone could know. But I knew.
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Jack Jenkins Lived Once Upon a Time Ago
Once upon a time, there lived a man named Jack P. Jenkins, a widow who lived with a three-legged dog, and most days you'd find Mr. Jenkins sitting out on his porch on that rocking chair; his dog would be close by, sleeping in a patch of shade. Oh, did I mention that Mr. Jenkins is 215 years old? Give or take about 10 years or so. Mr. Jenkins doesn’t know for sure himself. Now, most people hearing a story like this will take it as a joke, saying that this confession of Mr. Jenkins, was either his way of pulling a joke on the town, or, a simple case of ‘old-timers’ disease. I’ll just say that I know better. I know because I looked directly into the gleam of old man Jerkin’s eyes, and I saw things moving; and then I saw things standing still. At the same time. Around the old stove at the corner grocery store, idle jokes would fly around the room from mouth to listening ear every time old man Jenkins rolled away in his 1954 Dodge. No doubt egged on by the fact that Jack had lived on his farm for as long as anyone could remember.
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Ballad of The Mime
Janet Leichmienzer was a compulsive follower. No, Janet wasn't the type who went along with the latest fashions in talk or dress, no, Janet was a compulsive copier. At times this caused no end of embarrassment, especially when she happened to be in a large gathering.
Approaching the corner of 41st and Broad, Janet looked ahead and fought the urge coming over her. A small sign sat on the sidewalk and said ‘Merlin—The Original Performer!’ This sign belonged to Merlin Orsky, a mime who happened to be in this part of town doing performances for the lunchtime sidewalk crowds.
Janet walked toward the gathering and tried not to swerve in her purpose of getting back to the office; she was told, after all, not to be late again coming off her lunch breaks. But the impulse was high. Now the dread moment as the urge overtook her: the pace slowed, then stopped, as Janet stood directly across from the performing mime.
Orsky was in the middle of his ‘unwrapping the banana’ routine, when Janet suddenly dropped her pocket book and transformed a quickly pulled handkerchief into the shape of a banana. In perfect rhythm, she followed along, smoothly and expertly mimicking the old comic routine.
Orsky of course would throw the invisible banana peel onto the ground, where he would later slip and fall on the offending peel. As Orsky (and Janet) both threw their respective peels over their shoulders, Orsky spied the would-be mine following his routine.
Orsky saw the challenger and quickly changed, making a huge gasping gesture and followed this by covering his face with fingers open—he had seen pretenders before. Janet followed along to a tee.
Who did this girl think she was, girl muscling in on his act? He was used to a little good-humored tauts and mimicry from a few people in any crowd; in fact, he usually expected it. But this young woman looked pretty good and seemed to be trying to steal his show and push him off the sidewalk. The only option he had now was to play along with this interloper and look for a weakness so he could trip her up. Then the crowd would laugh and this woman's spell would be broken. The problem was, her execution of his routines was flawless: this woman was good. Merlin would have to throw in some really fast changes to trip this woman.
Merlin started the old play soldier routine: a salute, folllowed by the manual of arms. Janet followed with precision, mirroring Orsky exactly. As he wound up the routine, Orsky thought to himself, this one’s going to be a tough nut to crack…
But he had experience with hecklers before, and he prided himself on not allowing these interlopers to surprise him into compromising his craft.
As the sequence of routines came and went, a horrible thought came to Merlin Orsky—what if he were following her, and not the other way around?
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From ‘Movie Plot’ exercise: an expandable outline for a play or movie
Nigel is 34 years old. Nigel is an accountant for Bilquist & Co. on the west end of London. Nigel wants to escape his mundane existence. Nigel wants the above because he secretly fancies playing the part of a high-roller in Bermuda. Nigel is afraid of tight places, too much noise, and his boss. Nigel has a crush on Miss Nola Pembroke, the boss’s secretary, but feels too awkward to ask her out; she seems more assertive than he, and Nigel has imagined that she has mocked him with her eyes. Did she?
Nigel goes home one evening and while checking his number on the lottery ticket and finds he has won—he understands now that he may be getting everything he has wished for, both outwardly, and secretly.
An obstacle to all this, is when Nigel realizes that to actually do these things with the money, requires a complete change in his outward persona. Nigel is now uncertain he is really cut out for the life of a playboy.
Another obstacle: Nigel has daydreamed about being high-roller but has no real-world experience in handling large amounts of money—further, his dream about taking Nola with him is causing anxiety—would she simply laugh in his face?
A day after his big win, Nigel gets a personal visit from one Larry Benford, an easily recognizable underworld figure. Larry tells Nigel that he has rigged the lottery, and is responsible for Nigel’s winnings, therefore Nigel is expected to start making exorbitant payments—or else.
Nigel is shocked. Not only will he have to adjust to having more money than he has ever seen in his life, but his £25,000 monthly payments to Larry will leave him broke in a little over a year and a half. Will he still have a job to go back to after this ends?
Nigel is having serious thoughts about reporting all this to Scotland Yard—but he knows that if Mr. Benford is arrested, he would get word to his criminal associates, who wouldn’t hesitate to have Nigel fitted with cement overshoes. Also, Larry has explained that if Nigel goes to the police, Larry will tell them that Nigel, not he, is the one who set it all up—Nigel is trapped no matter what he does.
-------------------------------------------- Impressions And Observations Of A Candle
The candle came flickering to life and lit the small corner. Two wicks danced to each other, flames brightest yellow, nurtured from the lightest color purple drawing the liquid at the base. The wicks were very old but limbered from a greasy black to small, shiny sentinels—the holders of the flame. As the small liquid pools of the orange wax gathered round the wicks, the companion flames stood against the darkness and gained confidence. Now the tip of one wick began to glow bright orange from the heat and outgrew the other. Feeding from one another, the two flames danced and found their equilibrium. Heat increased around the two joyous dancers as they emboldened themselves, laughing and sharing in a private bit of humor. Very little heat radiated around, and from arms’ distance the twin lights grew in confidence, sending their movements across the wall, sending a quick dance to the shadows, which now seemed to copy the little pair in a flickering dance.
----------------------------------------------- Impressions And Observations Of An Ashtray
The ashtray sits there at a seemingly impossible angle. Detritus of ash cover its bottom, the sides are ringed with ash-stains, yet some of the original white shows through. Ash in the useless object is either darkest grey, or a mixture of charcoal salt and pepper. Small flecks of white look like dirty little specks of dusty flakes. The occasional butt lies exactly where it was originally dropped. Three little butts, something like pickup sticks in their randomness, repose in defeat. The brownish-orange filters, half squashed and lying like small broken things are useless and reminding me, will I quit one day--in one way, or another.
I remember getting it as a gift from my mother back in the days when smoking was simply done, and not worried about. One of the countless knick-knacks picked up from anywhere and everywhere. This little object was found in New England, specifically, Cape Cod. This was back in the days when my mother and father liked to take driving trips on some place which happened to strike their fancy. Plans realized by simply admiring a TV show—or a magazine pull-out. Then, off to whichever place they had decided upon. This was back in the days of the big V8's and the cheap gas. Back when the summers were not doomed to global warming and when youth had more staying power. Those days, troubled or not, were sunny days and I can remember large oak trees and grass which covered hills on highways. Light-green grass, sometimes yellowed by the hot sun of mid-summer.
The summers were hot and damp (but not in New England). They went off for a week, and I could imagine their ‘grown-up’ talk—it always seemed silly to me, after all, I was a teenager.
Post note: If I get to it, I’m going to explore some patterns that emerge in all this; in the meantime, the above was done in June; it is Sept.—I’ve dropped the ‘nails’; hopefully for good. -----------------------------------------------
The ‘D’ Chronicles
Cold, beautiful—and red. I make it a point to stand out in these early mornings and watch the slow sun rise. I was told the other day by Jan that we had enough fuel for thirty years or so; that was no problem. But the various pumps and motors would not last more than eight years. When asked why she chose eight years specifically, Jan slapped a pad down and went into a long monologue about how, as maintenance officer, she had spent the last six months working through the numbers. “Because—“ she said, “we at least ought to know how long we’ve got!” I believed her. What do you do when you know everything ends in eight years? For one thing, you stand outside in quiet moments like these, when everyone is still asleep—and you enjoy the view. What else can you do? We’ve been here (all six of us) for a year and a half. Pretty much finished up all the scientific work—though I really don’t know why. And there is not much left to do but bide our time. Exactly twenty months ago yesterday, I received the last communiqué explaining that Earth had been hit by a massive asteroid. They sent pictures of course—mostly shots of total darkness in the middle of the day, in what is or was, Ames Field in California. We were told that teams of engineers were trying to set up synthetic food factories on Earth in hopes of saving at least a tiny fraction of humanity. On Earth it was effectively over. Sending supplies was out of the question. We were told of the end rather matter-of-factly. So what does a remnant of humanity, marooned on Mars, do with itself? Write a little poetry? Discuss philosophy, perhaps? Actually, we did what humans have always done: we made mistakes, we got into arguments, and, left to ourselves, we gradually retreated into our own thoughts. As commander of this mission, I know that it’s only a matter of time before strange, maybe even dangerous behavior begins to creep into our little group. It doesn’t look good, but that’s where we stand. I think I’ll take that walk today.
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Dialogue With Farmer Jenkins on His Field of Blue Corn
I stood proudly looking at my handiwork, stood and watched the old farmer I’d come to advise. Mr. Jenkins was half-leaned over and breathing deeply, as he gaped at his field of bright blue corn. I took the toothpick out of my mouth and, while studying it, explained to him the change which had taken place.
Told him that when you mixed in a certain amount of our hi-yield all-purpose ‘Dribs’ brand Bluminizer, (the enhanced version, that is) then you increased the blue-spectrum luminosity of any stand of corn by at least 28 percent.
“Our secret ingredient does this by changing the valence in the mechanism which stimulates the melatonin gene.” Always good to make ‘em think you’re letting them in on a trade secret…
Told him that naturally, this had the effect of increasing the yield as well. “Mr. Jenkins, think of all those passers-by who’ll drive down the road and admire that stand of corn!”
I smiled and gave him my best philosophical look, “There is, however, one drawback—the flavor and nutritional value—well…Not so good. We haven’t figured that one out yet. But we’re confident that changing the molecular balance is the only way to reliably increase the esthetic value of your corn. And, as everyone knows—changing the color makes it look so much better. As an added bonus, the land value will go up at least 11.2 percent!”
I would have gone on, but he started yelling again. He yelled and he waved his arms, and he finally threw down his straw hat. With fire in his red face he wheeled around and threatened me with every form of lawsuit and physical beating he could sputter.
“Schmitt! I’ll break every bone in your scrawny body! That’s after I sue ‘CornUcopia’ for every dime I can wring out of it!”
Calmly, I held up my arm in the best tradition of, “talk to the hand”. His mouth opened and he froze in stupefied silence. I pondered the man. Look at him—he thinks I’m crazy? Imagine that? Me—crazy?
Well, the old codger needed an education on ‘cornamentation’, and I was just about to give him the benefit of my superiority on the subject, when I noticed him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He then stooped and picked up a rather heavy stick and started in my direction!
I needn't tell you that sometimes the better part of valor is often transported up by the rapidity of appendage locomotion—I proceeded to run for my very life!
“Mr. Jenkins, let’s not be hasty—you agreed to our free offer.”
“Schmitt—I’m going to wear your out!”
“Mr. Jenkins, be reasonable! This is not getting either of us anywhere.” He was starting to gain…
I thought I might be pulling away, but with a quick rustling by my side, I felt the heavy hand clamp down on my arm. Turning, I looked up into the broad face of an enraged farmer.
Giving my arm a sharp twist he lowered his face into mine, “Schmitt—you’ve got till tomorrow morning to turn my field back the way it was! If you don’t’—so help me—I…”
“You’ll what!” Needless to say, sleeping in a locked barn among cows and chickens did not fit my demeanor. And he won't let me out till the critics have had their way with me!
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Noblest Blue Curtain-Thing of Mine
Father Santi di Fernando Torquemada sat tipped back in an old wooden chair, feet up on the small rickety table and contemplated his surroundings. Sparse and nearly empty, the stone room was highest in the watch tower of the small fortress and neatly faced east, away from the sea. To view the seaside, one had to go atop the keep in open weather, or down the steep winding steps into the room below. From there, one could look down upon the coastal village of Carala and watch the inhabitants as they moved about. But today his place was in the upper room, to keep watch through open curtains, into the distant miles toward the town of Sahedro. The day was far spent and the sun had faded, casting its long shadows over the dimming landscape of olive orchards and brown dusty roads. All day he had watched for the royal detachment—the dozen or soldiers sent here from the royal palace. All day he had waited in this room, receiving his meals from Vasquez the cook.
Normally he didn’t care for soldiers, really, but as the hours passed he would have welcomed any company. Vazquez had been sent home some two hours ago, and now he was alone—except for the five prisoners in the dungeon far beneath him. Fernando, wise enough to think ahead, reasoned, those soldiers, after they carry out their orders to effect the warrant of arrest—they may need absolution. Their prisoner surely will have need after he is captured.
Fernando thought about the soldiers now as he gazed into the shadows, the only candle illuminating the dark blue eyes of his mother. They were penetrating eyes set deeply above high cheekbones which stretched his cheeks hollow, revealing deep pock-marks from his youth. And from his father Fernando had acquired the distinctive thin and sharp nose which seemed somehow to impart a look of intelligence.
Just as the choice of his physical appearance was not his—the things set before birth, yes, this is so, just so, at age five his stern father had chosen his life’s vocation for him. Fernando was a distant cousin of the chief Inquisitor, and this afforded some protection, but Fernando considered his day to day existence as precarious, for he knew a great many things. He had always been vexed by a complete inability to warm up to people—important people like Cardinal Estaban Corteza, his superior. This was a thing that troubled him, for just the extent that he was unable to bring himself into other lives—to confide, perhaps share a private joke—so he was left out of the small but crucial details, the things which might later trap him. Fernando lived in a place of dim loneliness, and understood he had only his wits to survive.
The last several years of his priesthood had been marked by changes; his only purpose for giving absolution was to gain information. He listened carefully to the penitent, listened for anything useful, and in these moments of confiding, he learned of intentions; these things he needed both for himself, and his superiors. The handful of Cardinals who served at the pleasure of the royal couple knew all; they knew the ebb and flow of plans which issued forth from the powerful, the landowners, mainly.
Being assigned to this place meant he was effectively reduced to the status of watch-guard, and he reflected upon it—so unnerving sometimes—who have I displeased? He looked out the narrow window and pondered the darkness, considering his future. Time is a certain thing...my future—maybe not so certain.
Fernando’s newly appointed task in this province was to take the offenders into his confidence—talk to them softly, gathering up any loose ends—making sure to carefully uncover all those things which were needed—these things were best hidden. A little twisting of the old into a new version, then—as far as anyone would know—just another confession.
And those who broke away from the silent code of conduct and went against the wishes of King and Queen? Well, Fernando could spot the pattern, even thinking it humorous—how could so many others not see what is so obvious? For the King and Queen would always allow the powerful, the landowners, to do questionable things; in their high places King and Queen would allow foolish things. This was the way to reveal ambitions. And when some hapless fool reached too high, as they always do, he quipped, well, when they did, they were reigned in—sometimes to face hideous consequences. ‘Yes,’ Fernando murmured to himself, I care little for their souls—the fools always make the same mistakes.
In the end though it didn’t matter: the darkest things were buried. Fernando sometimes advised on small legal details, but really, the Cardinal took care of most of the larger issues. The peasantry was spared these details of course—after all, it was not their place. Such was the way of it. After Francisco accomplished his small role, the silent and hooded men came. Then you turn your head and walk away quickly.
Yes, the day was finished and the soldiers would certainly not be in. Fernando had guessed as much earlier that afternoon. Likely pulled by strong drink and the company of women in Sahedro…sí.
Noticing the room was too dim to read in, he lit a candle and watched the light throwing its flickering shadows across the craggy walls. He pulled out the small, dirty black cube and held it in front of him, Well, no one can tell me what to do now… The piece of opium had been purchased yesterday on the same dock where he had stood two years ago. Father Fernando listened in enchantment to the tales of the old seaman from La Mancha; a man who had escaped the farm of his father to find the sea.
“Sí, Padre, the Portuguese have found a new way—it is smoked in the pipe.”
That was two years past, still he remembered the unsettling feeling of excitement that spread over him—a promise of relief, an escape from loneliness. In that moment, Fernando exchanged coin for the piece of black magic and knew he was turning away from everything he had known.
Francisco stood quickly and locked the heavy oak door, and pulled the curtain closed. In a short time the pipe was lit, its contents inhaled, and Francisco felt his body pulled out around himself, then down toward the earth, yet how high in this fortress tower of stone. Silence thickened in the darkness, and his gaze wondered over to the cloth boundary which kept the world outside blind to him.
Woven cloth, softly worn round the shoulder of this little window, what can you tell me? What can you tell? Dare I suggest to it the things connected? Peaceful, placid. The separation hangs silently, confident in watchful sleep, yet ready in time to open itself, suggesting the deep recesses of its purpose; to expose a world that watches from both sides. It stands in the very breech that it guards.
Francisco looked around at the small, stone room; time seemed to have slowed down. He looked again at the curtain and thought, your hanging essence pulls slowly against time and wrinkles. All striving for the ground where all rest takes place. You hold back two colliding worlds.
Deep in slow dreams, Fernando sank further into a well of numbed thoughts, I smile and muse inside inquisitor’s castles. I'll feign petty condolences, things to be veiled in threats, while carrying old lanterns down grayish-brown steps. In midnight times….
I’ll chide, “You there! Mr. Curtain thing…your honor, pray tell us thine sleeping thoughts.”
Eyes slitted almost shut, Fernando gazed at the curtain moving in the breeze and this thoughts rested upon the inanimate object which billowed and seemed to say to him, “Why must you wish, as surely you do, to trouble us so?"
There was a crash at the door.
“Fernando—you dog! Open this door! Don’t make this any harder on yourself!”
--This one's around 1350 words; we had to take a story and chop it down to 500 words--I'm afraid my shorter version wasn't very good. ------------------------------------ The following story started with an initial situation, 500 words not including the title.
Pointer’s Last Flight
The tip of the jet cut across the skyline of New York at 3000 feet over the Hudson River. The pilot, Phillip Pointer, considered the calculations on his pad and made a few quick notes.
His navigation system was shot, his fuel was almost spent, and time was short. The only one in the control tower was some jittery kid yakking away and Phil had already decided to land despite the kid’s chattering.
With a little forward thrust and right rudder, he rolled around to set up for a landing at old LaGuardia.
Phil cut in on the uneasy sounding kid. “Look tower, I’m coming in east-west: ETA about seven minutes. Out.”
“Tower to ‘one-0-four’, be advised—the wind is north-south at eight knots. I sugg—“
Phil shut him off and made his final checks. Coming around, he lowered the tail a little and set the aircraft down more quickly than he would have wished. He noted the controls were mushy, and this couldn’t be helped, he had been too close to the nuclear detonation when it went off. Some of the onboard computers were fried—he knew that, just as he also knew the old bird was good for one more flight.
He taxied to a fuel truck and thought about his secret plan, the plan only he and his family knew about. He would make it to Denver, and drive thirty miles south to his cabin. He was calling it quits. His family was already waiting, and with enough ammunition and stores, they could survive for years; his military training had taught him that.
Walking toward the tower, Pointer considered his options: present the orders, have someone in the control tower call the base, then get a flight plan approved. It would all be simple unless he were stopped by the newly sanctioned Patriotic Secret Police. The PSP, as they were called, exercised unlimited surveillance and used ruthless techniques to enforce control.
Pointer admitted to himself he couldn’t know for certain if the PSP had been surveying him but he suspected, and was prepared. The PSP had become increasingly paranoid and intrusive since the American Federation had lost the last two battles, and Phil knew two of his closest colleagues had been abducted and sent to re-education camps.
The two were boisterous, even flippant toward authority—but they were his friends, not animals to be pumped with psychotropic drugs and packed off to a Federation re-education camp. They were undoubtedly animals now. And the PSP often used their ‘converts’ as spies against former acquaintances—even family. If the PSP ever got hold of him, he knew what he in was in for: neural pathway alteration, followed by behavioral re-education, then put out in the field to work for them under different orders.
He would be far away this time tomorrow. It was over. Society had finally succeeded in destroying itself. That’s fine with me, he thought, climbing the steps. Let’s see if I can pull this off.
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Third Objective: Past Tense (recent), Moderate Distance John/Martha
When a private citizen agrees to participate as a buyer of contraband in an undercover operation, his or her safety is the primary consideration, but despite thorough planning, sometimes the unexpected takes place.
Martha Smithe had agreed to initiate the buy of illegal copies of “By The Way” from one John Smithe, aka ‘Illegal Smithe.’ As the suspect was also the former husband of Miss Smithe, the arrangement was set up with the understanding that Mr. Smith would likely be more easily enticed into making the exchange.
Miss Smithe had been fully briefed and ‘wired’. All precautions had been taken as to the placement of the undercover officers on the perimeter of the exchange site: the Deerfield Bus Stop, located on the corner of Highway 66 and Bagley Road, adjacent to Ed Pierce’s wheat field.
As two detectives sat in a parked utility van operating the surveillance equipment, and four more plainclothes detectives were lying low in the wheat field, Mr. Smithe stepped off the bus wearing a police uniform. **** (I intended the above, as ‘Camera View’ or ‘Official-Report point of view’, such as the supposed ‘journalists’ op-ed, or exposé, or simple newspaper article point of view, but the instructor saw it differently: she corrected me with “…the third person omniscient point of view since there is quite a bit here that your objective "camera" cannot know. You use the past tense here…” Needless to say, I disagree; yet I cannot very well argue with a writing instructor.)
---------------------------------- John’s Grief
John stood in the open garage and looked around trying to ward off the feeling of heaviness. His father's funeral was three days past and John still felt empty. Got to do something. Keep busy. Just then he spotted the basketball lying on the floor next to the corner and thought it strange. The ball had been up on a high shelf against the back wall, unnoticed for years. His sister must have been here, must have come over and started cleaning, knocking the ball onto the floor. Perhaps she, too, was distraught, not willing to fully face their dad's recent death. In years past, he and his father had played on this driveway, on this very spot. They had laughed and tried to outdo one another. John used to wonder how much his father had won, and how much he had allowed his son win.
Even at an early age, John could see and feel a sense of balance with his father. On winning, losing. Looking back on it now, he could see how his father had let him win sometimes, walking the fatherly state of equilibrium. His father was steady in his ways, like a big truck rolling down the highway. John paused and found that his eyes were resting on a toy truck sitting on the shelf above him. And he remembered that Christmas. Everything warm and safe on that cold Christmas day. Everyone together. But not anymore. His eyes started to moisten. His father had done so much for him, never complaining. Except to his mother of course, but even then it was usually in jest.
John wondered sometimes how much of the real self his father revealed. You have to hold in your disappointments. Cover and hold back the losses, large ones and smaller ones. His father had dutifully rolled on through the years, over the many miles, but the power of the illness could not be denied. In the short year of the final troubles, his father just let go. Had let it go and let the illness win, and have its way. In the end he had quietly and bravely let them all go.
Taking a deep breath, he brought himself back. The garage smelled of damp concrete. It would be a good idea to clean up the grease spots, maybe paint it over, give it a fresh look. Tomorrow he would bring in the old pickup and start cleaning and throwing things out. For some things, the memories were too painful. He thought many times about tossing out the old things; the short stack of lumber that never got used on that bookshelf project; a half dozen cans of paint, the broken power saw—all the things that accumulate over the years and are forgotten and loose their usefulness.
As he looked around he knew it was time to move on. He would call his sister and tell her not to bother coming back to cleaning up—he would take care of it. John seemed to be the leader now, and realized it was best to just go in and throw away the old things, the useless things which even now held him in heaviness. The life he’d had with his father was gone, it couldn’t be brought back.
---------------------------------- Bricolage Number 9: mark 4, mod 5
“Yes sir, what’ll it be?” “I would like to purchase ten gallons of your blovio-fuel, please.” “Yessir.” The customer casually leaned his forearm on the door, observing the attendant plug in the pump and look off into the distance. The bored looking attendant then turned back to the customer and began to chat. “I seen by your plates, yer from out of town? Um hmm. Well, this is the only service station this side of Bittsboro that still uses humans to pump gas—the bots seem to be taking over everywhere—” “Yes. The former is useful; the latter is correct.” "Huh? Well anyways, you not being from around here, you probably didn’t hear ‘bout the ruckus—no? Well, a robot got loose the other day and went wild. Yep, that bot just walked right into Jay’s Burgo-Rama and started tossing people through the front window. An' then he calmly goes behind the counter and proceeds to flip burgers—until he was apprehended and neutralized.” “Is that correct?” The attendant scratched his head, ”Yep. Seems like that sort of thing's bin happnin’ a lot these days." "You do not say." "Yep. I'm tellin' ya, them robots gotta be stopped! By the way, you didn't say what line of work you're in." “You might ascertain that I'm in the bio-mechanical bricolage business.” “Can’t say I’ve heard of brick-o-lodge before. Well, that’ll be 62 creds…I’ll get your recei—hey! You don’t need to do that! What are you doing! No! Stop!”
**** I was supposed to do the above as a "Bricolage", that is a technique where random words are picked and you the writer are supposed to make a story out of it. I partially misunderstood; however, I think it works because I used the 'mechanical' analogy to bricolage, that is, a fitting together, or finding of a solution using only the materials at hand. ---------------------------------
‘Moderate’ Freewriting begins:Ruminations on Van Gogh
In the painting 'Starry Night', Van Gogh encompasses the universality of the 'friendly night, or 'the warm night', or the 'safe night.' I remember Van Gogh’s self portrait--red beard, open blue eyes, small mouth, and the general appearance of seriousness about him. I read his bio years ago, and his story is one of the most sorrowful I've ever encountered. He was filled with love and care, only knowing how to express himself through his paintings, which were ridiculed by many in his day. A few close friends and family kept faith in him, and he persevered till the end, finally succumbing to a combination of things, probably weakened by his life-long battle with depression.
Freewriting continues; exercise of immediate sensations: this concerning sounds in a room; spelling has been corrected for the most part due to my eyes being shut—A—any Sound in a Room The refrigerator makes an almost windy sound, probably loud for an appliance. There is the faint high-pitched sound that emanated from my computer-0probably an artifact of any electronic equipment. Sometimes I wonder if the high pitched sound is a case of tinnitus. My dog just grunted a little, apparently contented as she sits on my chair. More sounds now from my hard drive. The fan I believe. How now brown cow. Again? Yes. Time to break out of Alcatraz. I can just see Clint Eastwood, standing in the middle of the main aisle, between the two sets of barred cells, and contemplating--breaking out! I'm bustin' out of this joint! Ya hear me? Huh! Alright already, Mr. Slagmore. I get it. Let's get on with it as we look over our shoulder at the building we just escaped from and walk over fields, green with recent rains. But pal you gotta go. I got this dame in La, see, an' me and her, we got this thing, see. that's right -- you're out. …An idea is beginning to form centering around an old Daishell Hammett story…It was a dark night. One of those rainy nights that nobody with any sense goes out in. Best experienced from the inside of a warm house, sitting in front of a warm fire... Which, as a matter of fact, is where I spend a lot of time. On dark, rainy nights. Such as this... I stared into the fire and thought back on an old case I was on. Must have been, Oh, six years ago. At least. Just then the phone rang. "Hello, is this Charlie's Pizza?" "What! Who is this!" "This is Sherri..." The voice came over the line like a barrel of molasses pouring in over my head. Sticky sweet. Smothering. Cheri was like that. And usually for a reason. My last experience with her was an explosion of bad things. I walked away from that broad and hoped the memory of her was over. So I hoped. "Look sis—we've been through all this before--it's over! Done! Do you hear me? Finished!" She had a sense of timing and it seldom failed--even with me. I could hear the faint sobbing sounds over the phone.
I should have known. Sherri was one of those rare clients who knew how to push a mans buttons. Well, this time, I was calling it quits before she had a chance to get her hooks in me again. I closed my eyes and tried to close her voice out. Then I opened my eyes.
The sobbing was replaced by another voice in the background. Yelling. I couldn't make out any words, but I definitely heard the muffled scream. Then the phone went dead, leaving only the faint hissing and crackling in my fireplace. Through the doorway, I thought I heard the refrigerator cycle itself off and felt as if it had just turned itself off at the moment when somebody—had just been turned off. Discontinued.
Now, just the quiet of a soft rain outside and the realization that I had a call to make.
"Detective Pete Seales, please. Yeah, Sam Wollrum. I'll wait." How did I end up in these things. Sheri was one hot cookie who liked to hang around dark company--the kind that played rough. Sheri had been on a one-way ride and nothing I told her seemed to sink in. Now, she was probably on the other side. "Yes! Listen Pete, you remember that dame in the Fausti case? Yeah. Guess who just got a call. Yep. And guess who just listened to her giving her last goodbyes...yeah, that's right." I listened to Pete give me the lowdown on the Fausti organization, most of which I already knew, and the rest which didn't surprise me. The Fausti crew began out of New York more than twenty years ago in bootleg hooch and now they had their fat little fingers in every game you could imagine. Word was, Vino was in charge, and Vino had a bad temper with anyone stupid enough to push against him. And Sherri was the type who liked to push. This broad had had to be touched in the head.
Freewriting continues, this time all-out; misspellings are left-in:Fly me to the moon. On united flight 707, departing from los angeles at 4:14 Pm. Sir would you like me to take tat baggage? Sure lady. I walk across the stoned floor, shiney from wax. An d I pull out my pad and I look furtively and take notes. Yes the place is big. To big to stret up my band and cut em loose and watch em play and stand around and watch the folks, carrying briefcases, and umbreslllaa s and so i head to the phone booth. fly me to denver. with the pine trees and the hills, dry with recent drought. and i wonder about the bear population. what if i'm atteacked? on the desert ;you cant remember your name for their anint no one for to give you no fame;;the tobacco rows, green and greening. On warm summer days. On summer days, warm. Seals and Croft. Dissappointment nd and at tolland the pig he just sits there and expects some input, some commentary he looks about and he looks down and he is a friendly pig. But putting a pig in the place of a human is perhaps not quite where I want to go. Why? There is an aspect of pig that brings out the dynamic of piggery. And I wonder if imposing piggery on human behavior is the right route. Route 66. W get our kicks, our kix on route 66. Traveling along with Tolland the pig. Seems to remind me of Freddy the Pig. This was back in elementary school. I remember being in heaven being able to read about Freddy on Fridays. That warm feeling. Of being in my own world. Escaping the other abrasions for awhile. I think writing about Tolland is to maybe experss anger? I would rather not express anger. And I would be careful of judgmentalism. But I think there is an important dynamic here. And I also think the pig story has been done a few times. American beautiful. The thieves who get away with it.
the politicians. the newshounds--those repoerters. Those frauds. Americas's people can't acept the truth about tehemselves. So we pay people to tell us what we want to hear. Sieg Heil. The problem: at a certain point, the trap will be set: the people will be led to the slaughter. No way out. Led to the slaughter. Turn in your neighbor or be taken to the interrogaion room. No TV. No refrigerator. No reclining chair.. Just the white hot light the penetrationg light. And those behing the lights? Who are they? They are a part of ourselves. We did this. In Rome the strongest survive. The ruthless gain. Insanity occasionally. More often--a santuary of unrealility. The barbarians attack. Rome crumbles. Christiannity has forced its hand. How much di Rome fail due to striving against Christiannity? Was it justice? Persecuting Christians led to being destroyed by their own antethesis.
This process can continue: freewriting, followed by getting an idea; then when the coherence fades, and ideas falter; going back to more freewriting.
At The Coffeehouse
I stationed myself at the Starbucks—incognito. I'm just a bespeckled little man, engrossed in some print-out; pen in hand and I don't even bother to brush the snow of dandruff of these dark shoulders.
--------------------------------- More later.
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