 
# Still Life with Psychotic Squirrel

C.B. Smith

This book is work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Johnny Moxley

Copyright © 2006 by C.B. Smith

Published by M.H. Dartos

at Smashwords

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*****

The restaurant was dimly lit, with green Formica tables and cushioned booths while we, the children of the damned, scrounged around the floor for food.

I am obsessed, a true obsessive, a subject controlled by his obsession. And truly I cannot wish for any other way that this, the primary obsession being a divine still life painting, brought to life early to mid 20th century but termed 19th century by the painter, my uncle, Amadeo Sosa. The artist was a painter and artist enormously gifted, an artist to whom all others could only glimpse in fragmented manner knowing that the gift by which he operated was his alone and not for distribution. Oh, so many rapturous days were spent watching him as he worked, mixing paint, preparing the canvas, arranging his models, all leading to the final act of giving birth to a moment. Obsession rules his gifts as well as he could not be finished, could not consider his work done until he had subjected it to numerous personal viewings with a highly critical eye as he weighed line, space, color, medium, and formal arrangement, knowing that each must be executed precisely for his grand design to find life. The painting under review in this text, Still Life, was one such work subjected to rigorous qualitative analysis at his hands. But it is one that stands above the vast majority of those in its form category. The objects chosen for inclusion are each unique and well suited to a still life rendering, though each is not what one would term the typically chosen items for this task. Gone is the bowl, the apple, the pear, the clutch of flowers, items employed in still life as a form since its inception. Selected are items that offer simplicity in the geometry of line, the horizontal and the vertical, manipulated by placement within the field of artistic vision, a line that moves and transports the viewer to places and times not immediately apparent, places and times of a powerful and deeply personal bent. Looking into the space at left and right of the picture's center one sees the deep gray background, a color chosen not only for its neutral backdrop benefits but also for its emotional associations. A deep gray symbolizes a night in a gradual state of becoming darker, leading to its eventual destination of the blackest black. Within the world of this color anything is possible, fantastic, terrifying, all manner of imaginarium phantasmagoria, a veritable world of the underground kingdom. What could be waiting there? This is the central question: WHAT. And the void is only too ready to provide an answer. In this zone of gradual impending blackness I see the beginning and the end of life, a crossroads where all possibilities exist, all potentialities virginal and unexploited. The child: that entity at its beginning, its emergence into the cold and uncaring world, its days of easy comfort behind, not understanding this terrifying fact that will make itself felt one day at a time. A man at life's end, reflecting on day's past, reflecting on his charity, his penury, wondering if redemption is his. Darkness can do that; bring the incomprehensible to bear on an otherwise peaceful enclave. When nothing is impossible, everything IS possible. At one time in my early years the night, the darkest darkness, held terrifying import for me with good reason. Yet after the eruptions and smoothing of the passing years, the total silence of the night represents something new, something pleasant, a thing that gives me time alone minus the ever-present human interruptions. I feel peaceful and content and relaxed at night all alone in the darkness. It is a wonderful feeling and I revel in its silent company. It is also with storms I feel a silent kinship. The ephemeral movements of a storm send my mind on a quiet stroll. I catch myself smiling at a pleasant memory and I find myself bringing the memory before me like a moving picture. Yet at the outside of my emotional perimeter the demons of a past never buried lurk and lie in wait.

### Brief Tutelage

Line

Space

Color

Medium

Formal Organization

These are the basic elements in the artist's command as he seeks to create a work of unique expression. All or just one, two, or three may be employed in this quest. It is entirely deterministic and highly individualized. Music figures into the artistic palette as an aural companion to its visual counterpart. Vertical line has its counterpart in the melody and rhythm of music. The spatial element is suggested in music by the tension of dissonant harmony, which seems to bring things forward in a plastic sense, and by gradation of tone color; the emotional center. The same is true of painting. Visual form is closely allied to aural form, for the same principles of design are utilized in both. Every great artist is to a degree the child of his age and yet every great artist helps to create his age.

### Hurry Sunrise

This was to be one of those nights of despair, an event that despite all efforts at avoidance arrived unheeded. There was no absolute way that I had found, and as a child on the run, an absolute was necessary.

I lie in my bed deep, deep, deep under covers, hoping this would protect me; but no. Shouting, screaming, "No Mari, put down that KNIFE!" bellowing through the upstairs hallway landing, figures of frantic movement visible only through the open crack of bedroom door. And the chase was on, up the steps, past the landing, and into the bathroom, the place of sanctuary, now locked against all fast approaching terrorists.

The minutes cramped up with tension, I could feel them crawling across the floor. Would I be pulled from the comfort and safety of my bed once again, cold, scared, and shivering, to be told we were leaving at once, to another town, another life, far from the reach of my horrible father, whose anger terriblé was an unsteady floor. I had learned long past that silent and still held safety. To this distant universe I had fled long ago. Though an animal sometimes, he was still MY father!

I waited as I chewed at my fingernails, hoping against all hope for truce. I did not wish to go anywhere, was content where I was, where no matter how dismal the home fires at least we were in one house, one town, same friends. Consistency is everything to a child. But on this night a truce had been called, a lying down of arms, as I retreated back to a lumbering uneasiness, back to the darkness which brings all. This returns to me upon looking at the negative space of the painting, the dark grays, that color that portends of darker dark to come. For the time being a respite would linger; until next time.

### Flyaway Bird

When my bird Jojo flew way I suppose that marked the beginning of a time when I knew that the arc of my life was going from bad to worse. Not that I thought life was a bed of roses, of this I was certain. But it was a signpost that something was off beam that maybe was there all along but I had just begun to notice. Me and Jojo. Old pals one would say. Our bird, that is the family's bird but really my bird. Every day he sat perched in his cage, his gleaming pale blue and white plumage glistening in the slanting sunlight. Jojo.

Hours I would spend sitting on a stool next to his cage, talking to him, singing with him, sketching and painting him. He was my friend as I said. A pal. A real pal. Every day I would feed him from the bag of feed and fill his water bowl. On cage cleaning days I would reach in through the cage door, empty the bottom paper full of droppings and such from the cage tray and replace it with a gritty new bottom paper. Just the way I knew he liked it. But then on the fateful day which would mark my life in more ways than I realized, our companionship came to an abrupt and terrifying end. I was going about cleaning his cage out, as I always did, well, starting to, when mother interrupted with an idea Oh no. I think it's better if you took the cage outside to clean it there. Being a boy of just 12 years I could not even begin to understand why this would be a bad idea. It sounded logical and not distasteful to me so I agreed. Mother, although I didn't know it then, had been deep into a large of bottle of Gallo Sangria. Was she drunk? I don't know. Like I said I was blissfully unaware in a way I would never be since. But then she grasped the cage, plodded and waddled through the kitchen out the side door and down the steps leading outside. This was when the rapid descent into Dante's inferno began. What I remember is what felt like a descending of gray ominous horror enveloping me and taking my breath. Next I knew she had stumbled out the side door, into the backyard knocking the cage against the side of the house at which point the cage shook, Jojo started flapping wildly and then flew out the bottom of the cage and up into the sky. I stood in shock. My life flashed before my eyes. What could I do? Nothing. Gone in a flash were the days of me and Jojo talking, singing, sketching, painting; everything. And though birds of a feather never more would we again flock together. I didn't know this eventuality then. But it came to pass as sure as night follows day. I never saw him again. In a life I where little is given one learns to hold on tight to what they have. And in the hostile world in which I lived it was a small fragment of serenity that was so necessary.

### Reflections on Kitchenware, et al

Inanimate objects have a life and energy all their own from the moment they come into contact with our lives. And from that moment, they are eternally bound to the places and circumstances that bore them. For instance, a '65 Red Mustang, the car my father drove when I was eight. To this day whenever I so much as see a picture of one I am eight again as my father and I cruise through town like kings of the road. But the Mustang is a free roaming association. There are others, like the Formica table depicted in the painting, the very one that graced my family home of the week in a particular space of time. Never can I see that table or any facsimile thereof without being transported back in time to the thrills and terrors of its day. Why? Like a tyrant these things lay hold of me and bring me to them, demanding their time and attention. And to think I was at one time foolish enough to believe that inanimate objects had no life. Have a life they certainly do if simply one charged with our subjective view of them and they will do everything possible to impress this upon us. Carnival platters also hold a sanctified place in my world as it was the carnival we could escape to when life took a downturn, visiting the concession booths to toss coins at the carefully placed dishware, glasses, vases, all in the hopes of sticking a coin to an item in order to claim it as a prize. A vast selection of carnival glassware was earned this way. At the moment of their being placed into our excited little hands they were the crown jewels of a lifetime. Yet in time they lost a bit of their luster as well as a few fragmentary pieces, chips taken out around the edges. What was the cause of these chips that would take flight of some of the platters and such in the passing years? Velocity damage, mother being born of the classic angry dishware launching generation. Many a night of flying glass shards were visited upon us children. Thus, the carnival platter depicted in the painting also lays its claim.

### Hurry Sunrise (Reprise)

The nights were terrifying, the scariest of times. Perhaps I could side with Dickens and appropriate, "they were the best of times, they were the worst of times" but truthfully what most immediately springs to mind is the WORST of times. More appropriately put, it was the worst of times it was the worst of times. Best to not even think of it. This was easier said than done. And after all the trying to put it aside, the thought that is, I found it best to be mute, numb, feel nothing, be impermeable as stone. If nothing could be felt, no harm could be done. That's what I thought at least. I would not find out how wrong I was until years later when I had already become a man in hiding, a refugee, a prisoner of my own misguided neo-logic. In the war zone anything goes, survival takes charge. Survival goes not to the smartest or the strongest but to the one most readily adaptable. Thanks for that piece of help, Darwin, the missing piece to a daily growing and fragmented puzzle called my life.

### The Odd Allure of Spanish Still Life

The painting, the painting, what is it about the painting? Things all and many but nothing exclusively. A magical gestalt. The picture works on so many levels that still after many years have gone to dust am I figuring out precisely how much is addressed within its sanctified frame. It seems as if my uncle had a bit of the sixth sense about him as I can see at times a veritable roadmap of my life contained within the elements of this so called still life painting. And who would have thought that a painting with as unassuming a name as Still Life could be so replete with so much hidden meaning. Looking at the simple geometric design, the vertical and horizontal placements cause a blur of feelings that border on orgasmic. For instance, the simple Formica table top with its pattern of fragmented and ambulatory isosceles cum scalene triangle shapes, its multicolored display, sturdy topaz, fragile pink, royal blue, a multitude of memories is brought to mind. Isn't this the table of the very design I most often saw in my humble home, wherever it happened to be that week. Atop its simple rustic wood frame of amateur craftsmanship, the Formica covering bespeaks of an intrinsic minimalism, shrouded from sight as though too austere for public view. The movement, the apparent movement of the nondescript shapes contained in the design of the Formica top is a fair and adequate summation of our lives, always moving, sometimes escaping, in every case a glum slog forward into a future uncertain, a security unlikely. Often I would sense the notion of not being good enough in my youth, a sense that if only I were someone else, someone bigger, smarter, stronger, maybe then I could earn the right to have a normal family, to stay in one house, one town, one neighborhood, one group of friends, instead of being as we were the vagabond unwanted tribe of gypsies, dragging all and sundry after them as they pulled into yet another town, another identity, another life. Such was the way of life in the day. And though there were times of joy no doubt, the lingering overcast of ominous gray most easily comes to mind. This too is captured in the painting, back dropped against a steel gray canvas. Yet the writing is so ragged and torn, so unsteady, as it too mirrors the emotional landscape within. Perhaps better to record my impressions by using the magnetic tape medium, a better course of conveyance though tough on the voice. Writers should write not speak and this twisted tale rounds another turn only to be upended again. I could resort to simply thinking my impressions, sans voce, so much more precise, comprehensive, and expedient. In my thought world entire novels are composed word for word. The words fall asunder as they scramble to escape the mind and make their way to the page, an ever perilous journey; only a few intrepid soldiers complete the trip. It is said that in the great spirit world beyond, thought is the primary medium of exchange, to think is to command. I think of the works I will compose then: vast, circular, benchmark after benchmark. This then becomes the perfect scenario, creation without the tedious and disappointing step of writing, typing, or recording my thoughts. I will go gentle into that good night.

### Alone Again

The restaurant was dimly lit, with plain Formica tables and cushioned booths. I am very much a spring and summer person and the coming of fall always fills me with melancholy feelings. To me fall is an end point. The ending of the beauty of flowers and growth and the sweet chatter of little birds and dancing butterflies. Soon the ground will be covered in dead leaves floating everywhere in the cool breezes of fall. The grass will be covered in the mornings with light frost and the air will snap with the chill of oncoming winter.

Hibernation would serve best beginning in October and moving into April.

Traveling through the seasons I am reminded of the cycles of life. We have seasons in our life and they change so fast. Faster than we actually realize. Our birth begins many years of learning and experiencing things for the first time. We go through our youth thinking that life lasts forever. We tend to ignore death and ignore the consequences of our actions in many things.

We reach emancipation and realize that we have to work and plan for tomorrow. We believe that we have to prepare now for our old age. Still old age seems forever away when we are in our 20's and 30's. It is nearly inconceivable that we will grow old and become seniors.

And so again the night came and with it the latent terror that was always present despite all attempts to elude it. Tonight I went to sleep, dove into the bed, under the covers, deep, deep, very deep, so deep as to be invisible. Another tool in my arsenal. If I could not be seen I could not be hurt. How wrong I was. Even now, years after the facts, I cannot find the power to write this down, to tell the tale that must be told, the story from inside the cocoon, the prison, that gonzo journalistic story where the journalist puts himself into the story facing all perils that arrive, that would be me. But I had not chosen. I was in the story whether I wanted to be or not. And let me tell you, there were times when I thought of ending it quickly and neatly, blaze away from this sick world that I did not ask for. But did I? Obviously not. It would be a mistake I would live to regret. So here I am years after the destruction of my early years to tell the tale.

### Distant Rumblings

Schizophrenia is state of psychosis that before I knew it by name was already part of my efforts at survival. Schizophrenia is a psychotic disorder. Psychotic disorders hinder a person to be able to have a contact with reality. In my hostile universe, I did not know what or was not reality; I only knew that which pulled me closer and that which pushed me away. Although I have never been diagnosed with Schizophrenia I believe I am teetering on the edge of something yet undefined. Of the symptoms used to diagnose the disorder the subject must display all of the following symptoms:

Confusion

Hallucinations

*Nervousness

*Sudden Anger

Believing that you are better than others

Changes in eating habits

*Strange statements

*Inability to make decisions

*Delusions

*Irritability

*Fearfulness

*Suspicion

*Withdrawal from friends

*Neglect from hygiene

*Arguing

*Inability to listen to the opinions of others

*Habits of suicide and homicide

Hallucinations of voices that give commands

Delusions of exalted birth

Delusions of a special mission

As noted above the symptoms highlighted with an asterisk are those I display. Out of the twenty symptoms of the Schizophrenic disorder, thirteen are and have been a constant part of my life. Finding my way back is a daily struggle. Seeing myself from a distance is at times the only way to endure the "reality." Thus:

Davey moved into the night, his footsteps casting their dull scuff into the vastness. While overhead, the constellations took stage, playing out their ancient dramas of conquest and vanquish.

The first fires he had built were with his father. He remembered how he was shown. How to gather the small twigs and dry brush. Pile it close and steep. Then, light a match at the bottom of the heap to set it ablaze.

He placed a ring of stones and settled the grouping of twigs and brush in the center. Striking a match against his thumbnail, he lit the small pile. The flame took quickly, and soon the darkness was imbued with a bright glow.

He sat cross-legged on the ground, staying close to absorb its warmth. The area took on a surreal aspect.

Nocturnal creatures scurried under the cover of stone and brush, their long, elastic shadows stretching beyond the ring of light. Across the widening vista, he could hear the lonely howl of a coyote, cracking the pitch of deserted sky. And on his face and hands, the yellow-orange glaze of the firelight. Warming and soothing as it wrapped itself around him. On his childhood hunting trips, the dangers of the wild were always present. Threatening. It was necessary to keep a close vigil. His father had instilled a fearful respect of the elements. Telling him many times to be on the alert for bears, or wolves, or snakes.

Every night, before they slept, they would take off their boots and shake them out.

We need to keep our boots inside the tent, his father said. Too many crawling things that might get in them. And don't forget...shake them outside before you put them on in the morning. Why? he asked.

Same reason, his father replied. You never know what could get in here.

As a child, the idea of something crawling around the tent while they slept was frightening-he didn't like the idea of it. But his need to be with his father overshadowed any fears he may have had. So, he approached his task with the dedication of a soldier. Slowly creeping toward his boots in the morning. Being careful not to disturb anything that may have found shelter there. Then, quietly unzipping the tent, extending his arm out the opening, and shaking his boots so hard that the whipping laces stung the back of his hand. He would always hold his breath in dread. Feeling his heart pounding as he performed his task.

Only one time did something fall from his boots during this morning ritual. A small spider had sought refuge during the night. When he saw it falling from the opening, in his mind it transformed into a lethal snake. He panicked, and in that moment of terror, he flung the boot away from the tent. It sailed across the campsite, knocking over the kettle of water that his father had put up to boil.

His father came running.

What's wrong? he asked, opening the tent flaps, looking at his young son huddled into the corner, his eyes wide like a startled

A snake! he said, his voice trembling. A big snake...in my boot.

His father scanned the area, saw nothing, shook his head.

You sure it was a snake you saw? he asked. I'm pretty sure, Davey answered. He thought about it a minute. Well, he continued. Maybe not a real big snake. Smaller...kinda like...a spider...sort of. A stern look crossed his father's face. Look son, he said. You've got to control yourself out here. This is the wild. If you get scared over a common spider, what will you do when you're in real danger? You're not a baby anymore. I expect you to show some courage.

Okay, dad, he said. I'll try.

His father didn't respond, but continued the train of thought he had been on before the interruption. I'll go set up breakfast, he said. Finish getting dressed. Living in the city most of his life, he was unaccustomed to the creatures of the forest. He knew he scared easily. And he also knew that more than anything, he didn't want to disappoint his father. Getting stung by a snake would be less painful. He would guard himself against the evils of the forest without showing his fear. He would be the brave little man his father wanted. And when his insides quaked with distress, he would not let his knees rattle together as he shivered, wanting to leap from his skin. He would contain it within his fragile shell, keeping it locked away in the deepest parts of his being. It was a charade he would play with caution. Anything to remain an irreplaceable cast member in the production entitled Life with Father. To fail would be worse than death. Most of all, he hoped that when his father looked at his frail, skinny son, he would no longer notice those defects. That instead, he would see a brave, little man. Exactly what he wanted.

Davey had become good at this game, he had to be. It was imperative to his survival. He had been thrown into a world where love was earned on a point system. If he did what was expected, he got more points. And the more points he received, the more he would be loved. But the ledger sheets were balanced on a sliding scale. He was never sure just how much his payment would be on any given day. At one time, merely being was enough to earn him all the love he needed.

But as he got older, he noticed that those affections were given conditionally. Where it began, he was unsure. Maybe sometime around three or four years old. He couldn't remember exactly. But he did seem to recall a clear division in time. A place where he crossed over into this new world of achievement. Going from doing no wrong to doing no right. Where suddenly, the eyes of love became the eyes of approval, building a ratings system into everything he did. Good boy. Bad boy. Do this. Don't do that. It seemed that the rules changed daily, keeping him always off balance. And just when he thought he understood, the rules changed again.

Often, his father would go out in the evenings, staying away until long after everyone was asleep. Many times, Davey lay awake, one ear to the window, waiting for the sound of the car engine rumbling into the driveway, the sound of the key turning in the lock. While he waited, he would stare into the darkness of his ceiling, going over the events of the day, replaying all the scenes, looking for a reason why he had driven his father out of the house again. But nothing seemed to ring with certainty. Was it because I forgot to put my bike away? he thought. Or maybe because I fed the dog at dinner?

He would remember his father's actions as they sat at dinner. Leaning into his plate. Eyes hollow and dark, glancing over at him as he ate. Like a guard keeping the prisoners under watch. Wordless and devoid of emotion.

He remembers thinking that he was a huge rock. A boulder. Letting nothing in or nothing out. This was his father's way most of the time. Deeply absorbed in something that no one else could share. But his father was also a man of wide swings. One moment dark and somber, the next bright and exuberant. During the good times, they would spend much time together, doing the things that he now holds close to him as his most cherished memories. These were their times alone. Father and son. Doing things that only two men could do, far removed from the restraints of polite society.

He likes thinking about these times. But the bad times, he has skillfully brushed under the carpet of his memory, sweeping them away as if to negate their existence.

They do not linger far. Deep in his mind they wait. Lurking like beasts of the sea. Choosing their moments of surprise. Moments where he wakes up screaming, in a cold sweat, remembering the nights he waited until his father came home. Remembering the shouting and raging, the sounds of glass breaking and doors slamming, the sounds of his mother shrieking words he would only later come to understand as the most horrible vulgarities. Accusations. Words and images that should not occur within range of young, impressionable souls. He had blocked all of these nightmares, held them far away. But they were only dormant, not departed. And now, within his adult frame, so much like his father outside, so much still the bewildered little boy inside, he struggles to grasp his place in the world. A world which has increasingly raised the stakes, much like childhood.

His protection is his rough exterior. A large, brooding, boulder of a man. A creature of flesh and bone to those who view from the outside; but from the inside, a cleverly disguised machine, manipulated and controlled by the frightened, skinny little boy at its center.

He sits by the fire, undaunted by the ghosts of the desolate night, his face blank and his eyes dark and sullen. While little Davey lays huddled into the farthest corners, eyes wide like a startled squirrel, gooseflesh and rattling knees, wondering what new horrors await him.

### The Psychotic Squirrel

A squirrel, a squirrel. See them skitter about, through the grass, the fields, over the stones, up and down the trees. And aren't they cute these seemingly angelic kin of the rodent whose sharp teeth and finely honed instincts can turn them into a lethal attacker. Harmless and deadly: the squirrel. This is the only element missing from the painting by Amadeo Sosa.

All other elements of subjective import have been included, the squirrel is not there physically but I see it there in my emotional still life. Present, scurrying, ready to run, dive, or leap as needed, often with a wide eyed look of unfathomable horror. So in keeping with my childhood is this creature that we are inexorably bound. As I envision a Psychotic Squirrel in the painting Still Life, I sense it as passage of dissonance, an ingredient that brings tension by upsetting the careful balance of the painting's plastic elements which function as its melodies, a tension which is and was ever present in my biography.

Today, when I am in the wilderness or at the campsite, the squirrels are often boundless in number as they race around scavenging for the toss-always of man. Mine is a love hate relationship with this kindred creature. In the wilderness they are the enemy, the rodent, the creature who will no doubt join its rodent brethren at the end of the reign of man. And while I respect and envy its will to live, I know that living is a matter of perspective.

**Squirrel Rising**

The universe was spinning wildly around my suppressed depressed and obsessed world while I struggled to fend off the slings and arrows of outrageous childhood; of the cast-off kind. I pondered, I brooded, I even cried. But one morning, I don't know how or why it happened; as I sat out under the expansive grapevine in our yard I watched a squirrel round the tree on the way to the ground. It stopped and nervously looked around. I had seen squirrels around of course, out in FRONT of my house, sometimes even crawling on our roof. But never, never in the backyard. It was like the forbidden zone where the humans might taunt and trap them. Yet boldly, there it was. Knowing that if I moved I would scare it away, I remained still as a corpse (something I had become quite good at).

Then it happened, the god of the grapevine spoke, the squirrel scooted up to me quirky as you please and begged, totally, begged for food. Have you ever seen a squirrel beg? If you have you know what I mean. Since I was under an exploding grapevine I pulled off a couple of grapes and threw them to it one at a time. It chattered and chomped making an audible zug zug sound as it masticated and left a humongous hunk in its cheeks. Then an abrupt change. Evidently grape ingestion brought about psychosomatic frenzy as it began seizing grape shells, pebbles, and twigs and throwing them at me with a wild gleam in its beady eyes. Ingratitude had spread even to the wildlife realm. It seized one last look at me and skittered away, across the yard, around the juniper bush and up the tree, stopping at the pinnacle to stare me down and chitter squirrel obscenities.

My eyes remained glued to this enigma as it raced away to rodent freedom, laying claim to a domain that was unchallenged. We were alike really. Two small creatures eking out a survival in a hostile world. A world entirely at the hands of giants, in my case, mother and father. It was a moment of clarity, a moment of union, a moment where I realized I identified with a rodent, one with a barely suppressed rage. And in those brief moments a kinship was formed.

From then on Zuggit and I would be—not necessarily near and dear—but CONSISTENT friends. Jojo would be avenged!

### Music of Life

Music figures into the artistic palette as an aural companion to its visual counterpart. Vertical line has it counterpart in the melody and rhythm of music. The spatial element is suggested in music by the tension of dissonant harmony, which seems to bring things forward in a plastic sense, and by gradation of tone color. The same is true of painting. Visual form is closely allied to aural form, for the same principles of design are utilized in both. Every great artist is to a degree the child of his age and yet every great artist helps to create his age.

Music is alive for many as it is not uncommon to hear those among us proclaim, "Music is my life." Yet within this realm of emotional evocations are those whose life literally is music, those practitioners of the musical world.

There are many that come to the stage on a daily basis, with dreams and hopes leaning I suppose toward stardom. As it is, stardom is reserved for less than 1% of all applicants. But we the masses await each new arrival with still expectancy.

To watch the likes of Madonna, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and Avril Lavigne enter the popular stage lights one may ask, how long? How long will they remain? In the case of Madonna, it seems agonizingly long. As to the others it is too soon to tell. Perhaps it is best to do as the musical pundits and gurus of the musical machinery; throw them at the wall and see who sticks.

As time elapses it appears to me that whatever the transcendent yet ultimately evanescent impact these acts will have, none at this point can compare to those master composers who came before:

Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Rachmaninov. The list is seemingly endless and equally impressive. But what makes these works of old remain so lucid in the modern world? Their ability to transcend time and place while speaking to the unchanging rhythms of life.

Of course, in a world before the word "superstardom" had yet been broached, for these masters the path to acclaim was fraught with many sidesteps if they arrived at such place at all.

For Beethoven, a crisis was felt with his realization that the impaired hearing he had noticed for some time was incurable and sure to worsen. And Bach, as a 9-year-old child lost both parents in one year. While Mozart, a boy whose genius was everywhere acclaimed, left a body of work whose extent and range are so vast and bewildering that any concise summing-up of his achievement must risk being trite. Rachmaninov, who would eventually enjoy international acclaim as a pianist, conductor, and composer, had his early years encumbered by a father who squandered the family fortune so quickly that Sergey Rachmaninov was only nine years old when he saw the estate at Novgorod where they lived, the last of their property, auctioned off to pay debts. To say the least, his future offered a grim foreboding.

Have those of the modern day entertainment world experienced similarly disenchanting events? Surely. Yet despite such occurrence the future remains to tell how their works will continue to be received. Of course, there are those among us who may not hold music so high on their list of necessary things. So be it. Suffice to say, music is among the list of necessities for me, as it brings a wealth of joy and comfort into a world often drab and gray.

When the inevitable grays wander in to darken the sky, I place a bit of Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Rachmaninov, or all three on the CD changer. And in a moment's passing all appears renewed and brightened.

### The Ghosts of Christmas Present

The wind whipped up, slashing at the trees, jabbering a sudden wild slang. Trees bent over backwards crying for mercy, but the wind in its austerity would not relent. Another holiday season was in thrall.

The meaning of Christmas has changed for me, from the wild and wonderful days of wide-eyed childhood euphoria, through the angst ridden teenage years of wedging into shape after amorphous shape attempting to "fit in," until finally, leaping years forward to the adult world and the dreaded dissent toward diminishing years to death, a long roll as key provider placing me firmly and squarely as the appointed round peg in a square hole, leaving me once again face-to-face with an inadequacy that appears a chasm of wanting.

This then is my latest and far from any contrivance of happily greatest sensation regarding these holiday times, a time when reflection on a misspent life comes up sorely deficient. Sadness is so deep and profound I often feel I will not overcome its miasmic fumes. Therefore, I find it best to spend the day alone, at well remove from the joyous child sounds around me, wallowing, if you will, as I shoulder a pain that must be bore and endured in solitude.

### Dreaming Backwards

Floating away on the mists of the sand man.

Dreaming of times long ago. Times as a young boy. Times when the eyes of youth witnessed a world which he had never since been able to find. A world where a father and his son, together, alone... Most of their trips had gone the same way. They would arrive on the first day, take to the lake, and catch a few fish. Usually some of the smaller brown trout. Enough for dinner, and the rest they put in the icebox. But during this trip, they had gone three days without a worthy catch.

Each night, when they would return from the day's fishing, all the fishermen would gather on the tavern's extended porch, under the glow of the yellow lights, and talk about their day's catches. And as each in turn told their fish stories, his father would have nothing to offer. Instead, making jokes by saying he caught a few guppies. The other fellows just laughed, patted him on the back and said his luck would change. They gave him advice on lures and techniques and particular spots that were producing well.

He just listened, graciously, thanking them for their kindness. But he had his own ways. And would not go where everyone else went.

On the fourth day, they had left a bit earlier than usual, and the air was crisp with morning. Already the leaves were turning orange and yellow, preparing for winter. And since the season was coming to an end, this would be their last trip for the year. They walked the narrow dirt path leading to the docks. The dirt, thick with moisture, made squishing noises and clung to their boots. Through the still dark forest, the glimmer of the lake shore was visible, a thin band of silver at the forest's edge, forged by the dying moon. At the docks, they tossed their tackle and coolers into the boat, unmoored, and pushed off into the darkness. In the distance, just above the tree line, only the faintest whisper of sunrise. His dad rowed while he sat astern wondering about the moon, the dark water, and whether today they would land a worthy catch. He shivered and folded his arms across his chest, hoping to corral what warmth he could. All was silent except for the dip and push of the oars.

By the time the sun was well above the trees, they were far beyond any stretch they had traveled in the past. From this far out, the land was but a thin, dashed line of brown, with a thick, top layer of green. His father told him that he had heard about some deep wells out here. Wells that were vast and sank down much deeper than the seventy foot depth of the lake. And because of the rocky ledges around their rims, it provided a safe hiding place for the biggest of fish.

He had listened with fascination while his father explained these things, wondering how he had learned about such marvels. But his father was that way. A man who seemed to attract obscure and powerful information to himself. He was hoping that his father was right, and that this was not just a joke that some of the other fishermen had devised to make his father appear foolish.

They rowed in a tight circle for a short time, until his father decided that they were at the precise spot they needed to be. Then, they baited the hook, dropped the line, and secured the pole to the boat. Now all they could do was wait.

After a long time, he became impatient. He was starting to fear the worst.

Dad, he said, are you sure this is the spot?

Yes, his father said, I'm sure.

He persisted. But how can you be sure? His father just looked at him, his eyes as clear and sparkling as the water. Some things you just know, son. Can feel them in your bones. The look in his father's eyes was so strong and resolute. He couldn't help but believe in him. He went back to daydreaming about being Captain Ahab on the quest for Moby Dick.

His father rowed the boat around in an "S" shaped pattern, stopped, then pulled his hat over his eyes and leaned back against the bow seat. They continued in this fashion. Rowing the boat every ten or fifteen minutes, stopping for a few minutes, then repeating. Methodically and precise. About an hour or so had passed, when there came a slight tug on the line. Not a big tug. Barely perceptible, but enough to get attention. He looked at the line, then looked again, and thought he had imagined it. He dismissed it as nothing. Then he noticed the ripple pattern emanating outward from where the line entered the water. He started to speak. Dad? I think there's something...

The line jerked, drew the pole into a tight arc, and caused the boat to list, sending him and his father tumbling against the side. His father stretched across, grabbed the pole, snapped the release, and let the line run. Looks like we got a strike! he said. He watched the line racing off into the lake. Heard the panicked whirring of the reel as it unloaded. Now his father was on his feet, one foot planted back, the other braced firmly against the gunwale. He could hear the boat creak. He could see the concentration on his father's face. The muscles of his arms flexing. Knotted cords of sinew. Sweat and determination. The fish ran, dropped back, ran some more. Each time eliciting the complimentary response from the man attached to its tether: let out some line, reel it back, let out some line, reel it back. One machine working in unison. A perfection of symmetry. It was like nothing he had ever before witnessed. Nothing. And the picture froze in the passage of time. His father's voice broke his reverie. The net! Grab the net!

He snapped in to focus, and dug out the net from under his seat.

Got it, he said.

Now, when I pull him close to the boat, I'll bring him up near the surface and then you slide the net underneath him and bag him. You got that? Yeah dad. I got it, I got it, he said, goose bumps running up his arms, his hair tingling with electricity. Good. I'll tell you when.

The struggle continued for a short time, but soon his father was letting out less and less line until the fish was within twenty feet of the boat. The next few cycles brought it down to half that distance. Okay, his father said, be ready now.

Okay. Ready.

His father wrenched the pole upward, arms taut, straining against the force, and arched his body backwards in one final heave. And in the next instant, his worthy opponent broke the water's surface, glassy-eyed and silver in the afternoon sunlight. Now, Davey! Slide the net under him! He slid the net into the water and under the great fish, struggling as it began thrashing and jumping. He got it in close to the boat, then his father reached down with one hand, grabbed hold of the net, then dropped the pole and with both hands pulled the fish into the boat. It bounced and thumped. Pounded the bottom of the skiff. Its twisting dance of death. His father took up one of the oars, and with the handle clubbed the great fish until it was still and lifeless. He watched silently this final brutality, and felt a sickness of compassion. He could not imagine ever having the fortitude to beat something to death. Fishing was one thing, but this? It was a brush with reality he wished had never happened.

This fish must've been out here a long time, his father said, wiping the sweat from his brow. He's a good thirty pounder.

The fish was too big for their coolers, so they laid it into the stern and packed ice around it. Davey looked at the fish, its eyes open and staring, its once silvery sheen now a dull gray, lifeless and stiff. He wondered if this was how life ended for all things. That one minute you're swimming along, minding your own business, and the next, you're dragged from your home and mercilessly beaten, until your soul has escaped its battered shell.

The priests at church always talked about how the soul leaves the body like a caterpillar leaves its cocoon. Is this what they mean? he thought. Nothing left but a cold and stiff nothing? He shivered at the thought of it, and in his mind he saw himself laying there, eyes staring, dull and gray, with someone standing over him, looking down. He turned away and sat on his seat, holding his head in his hands, trying not to think any more of these morbid thoughts he had been warned against.

An idle mind is the devil's playground, he had been told. From the pulpit to the classroom the words had rang, beseeching and compelling all within earshot to heed the dire warning. He, like many others in his school, had heard. But how do you stop the wheels of the brain from churning out these things? He didn't know. He just didn't know. But he did know, that there must be something very wrong with him. They embarked upon the return to shore as the sun lazily reclined into the western sky. When they returned everyone saw the size of the fish and came running over seeking details:

Where did you go?

What kind of bait did you use?

How did you know where to look? His father listened quietly, then simply said that "It was no big deal...just lucky."

But the other fishermen interpreted his modesty as a sign that he had secrets that he wasn't willing to share. And while some were in awe of his skill and cunning, others held him in contempt. For on this day, the other fishermen had not been so lucky as before. And while a few fish had been caught, the biggest around seven pounds-none compared to the great fish that was easily three times that size. It was by far, the biggest trout ever caught in the vicinity.

### Orange and Red

The painting Still Life has as the only living element in its boundaries a cluster of oranges scattered around on a maroon and green carnival platter. But not the oranges so familiar to the casual observer: Blood Oranges, a living horror show fruit. Why and wherefore this name of bloody association? Not so bad one might say but upon looking at the opened fruit it appears one is looking at a blood engorged mass of swollen flesh. It takes quite a bit of fortitude to open the jaw and lunge for it. If the fruit is sweet, very sweet, an immediate reward for one's bravery If on the other hand the sensation is that of biting into a blood _lemon_ , the acerbic tang on the tongue makes the grotesquerie ever more present. We had these lesser type of blood oranges at our parents' behest in honor of our grandma Nunu, a staple of her life in Canistro Minori, Italy. I am still today working through this episode in my weekly therapy sessions.

Another epoch sacrificed to suffering.

At least after serving our sentence we got to play in the fresh fallen snow. This somehow gave a compensatory pleasure. Once again I was able to wander off deep into the woods to experience the blessed silence of snowfall, the deadening of the sound spectrum as if a shroud covered the surrounding earth, the overall muted effect that allows one to hear himself think. Oh the simple joys are best.

### The Smallest Whisper, the Faintest Cry

It's amazing how the smallest event can alter one's life forever.

It is equally amazing that the smallest event can contain within it larger implications than originally perceived; thus having the potential to _radically_ alter one's life forever.

Just such an event occurred to me recently while I was safely ensconced in a lovely mid-afternoon dream having left for home early that day. Yes, I am of the age that an afternoon slumber has a most appealing ring to it and therefore when opportunity knocks, I respond. So respond I did and in the midst of my siesta I perceived at first a faint, then progressively louder, buzzing noise. When at last I awoke, I observed my pager buzzing and shaking violently atop my dresser, gathered it in hand, and observed the displayed phone number; it was the number of my brother-in-law. Finding this odd to receive a call from him mid-day, I quickly dialed his house to determine what was amiss. It was then that my sojourn down the road to perdition began.... The small event of having my afternoon slumber interrupted by an obnoxious buzzing noise was soon to be magnified into an incident of profound impact as Jeff recounted to me the chronology of circumstances that resulted in my wife, and our one year old daughter, being whisked off to the hospital. Our daughter had experienced a seizure, a Febrile Seizure I later learned, and the prognosis was uncertain. What was a Febrile Seizure? And why was that information supposed to be comforting? As far as I understood, seizures of any kind were bad things. Time stood still; breathing ceased; all that could be heard was the wild beating of my heart as shock and disbelief next turned to suppressed panic; my world came crashing down around me and I watched; frozen, unable to stop the horror.

The scene at the hospital upon my arrival can best be described as controlled pandemonium. After identifying myself I was quickly ushered into the central area of the Emergency room where I found my wife hovering over a gurney on which lay our little daughter. A more depressing and discouraging sight I cannot imagine; our tiny, helpless baby, lying limp and unconscious; her little body perforated by dozens of tubes and wires; My wife quiet except for a faint sobbing; my heart breaking at the sight of both.

I was dying inside, grasping for reason, devoid of hope, but it was my duty to remain strong for them; to raise them up like Atlas and carry them far and away from this tragic episode; to endure no matter how severe the torrent; to emerge victorious and whole at the other side of this nightmare: it was a call to action like no other before it.

So many things occurred over the next hours that it now is a blur; an altered state if you will; a dream from which I am still emerging. I know what occurred and why; I know I was physically present, but yet there remains one impression I've retained that has forever shifted my perspective; it is the profound understanding that at the exact moment in time my daughter's life was held in the balance, all significance attached elsewhere in my life lost it's meaning; like morning fog dissipated, until only her and I were left; our world revolving on an axis bound by our love; my need for her presence such that I would cease to exist without her.

And when the nightmare concluded, and all were safe, this is the gift my daughter left me. In her desperate moment of need she reached out and touched a part of my soul that now forever bears her stamp; a part that she alone possesses; a part that is eternally in gratitude. Because on that day, she in her profound angelic beauty shared with me the chalice of life's purpose; a drink whose sweetness I luxuriate in to this day. So smile little angel, smile and fill me with your cheer; for now I understand your message; and with each resounding smile you confirm my reason to live...

### Wild and Whirling Words of Song

The moon, the moon, the mystic moon, and the stars, those astral delights that soothe the soul of the thread worn traveler. These are the friends, I dare say lovers, that have inspired me all my life. Yet even within this seemingly inviolable realm of celestial inspiration enter others of the temporal domain equally profound; Beethoven. Ludwig Van Beethoven, born 1770, came into the world as most others, yet within the tapestry of his life was through divine proclamation woven the threads of genius, artistically musical genius.

Had he known this destiny from the start, many potentialities may have come into play. He may have run, believing himself too frail and human for the task, a task perhaps his narrow shoulders could not bear; he could have become elated, so much so that his thoughts and ambitions would be forever bound in the fantasy acclaim of his not yet developed talents, thereby dropping a monolithic boulder in his road to glory. But as the eternal wisdom of the ages knows, the unknowing mind is best suited for the destiny that awaits.

So, armed with only the life he had been given, Ludwig entered the world of eighteenth century Bonn. It was then only a short matter of time, 1795, before the golden notes of his enchanted scale would weave themselves into the masterpieces he is today remembered for, the masterpieces that still communicate their magic to me, inspire me to greater artistic achievement. It was reported by Viennese aristocracy that as a pianist he had fire, brilliance and fantasy as well as depth of feeling. Therefore it is naturally in the piano sonatas, writing for his own instrument, that he is at his most original in this period. Pathetique belongs to 1799, the Moonlight ('Sonata quasi una fantasia') to 1801. Still today centuries removed they sing as fresh as a spring morning.

Mine is a life not unlike Ludwig's in some ways, yet vastly different in others. From my earliest days, as a mere child of five, already was I a painter, spending the majority of those blissful days of youth painting, sculpting with brush and tint those works that would sing and win for me awards from the local events. This propensity carried me well into my teen years where I was then visited by a thirst for music. In a flash I turned my artistic bent toward music. In the next five years I composed and performed numerous compositions, each gathering its luster from the souls of those that preceded it. And there, in the balcony, was Ludwig; watching, understanding, encouraging by mere presence. One would think the completion of the artistic cycle had been met for C.B. Smith, but no, the artistic elders are not so easily satisfied. The next unexpected and therefore unanticipated move would be to the written word, the incarnation I exist fully in today. And like my musical compositions, my writing remains informed by Beethoven. His undying quest for perfection of expression, his unerring ability to arrive if necessary through attrition at the perfectly sculpted work that would forever adorn the hearts and minds of posterity. This quest for exactitude lives within me. As it was with my music and painting before it, all my work is drafted, crafted, written, rewritten, polished, and buffed until I am certain its spirit has been captured. How this occurs with such certitude I cannot know, as the mystery's power is strongest when its mystery is kept as such. Yet at some point the message comes to me on the astral and universal paths of communication: it is done!

Does this imply my work is as great as Beethoven's? Absolutely not. Does this perhaps posit that my work is destined for the eternal greatness of Beethoven's? Again, no. While the muses are vastly generous the fates are capricious creatures, bestowing their graces as they see fit. As it were, there is logic to their ways which logic knows naught of.

The road of creation is dark, the path unclear, the light that leads faint but intense all the same. It is this I follow along my way, much as Beethoven did, despite the frustrations and agonizing realities of what became in the end his total deafness. Yet despite this annulment of one primary sense, the remaining four were made stronger, more resourceful. And at the center of all was his divinely inspired musical acuity, seeking and finding that faint but intense light through the darkened forest of the creational realm. Each time he arrived, creating works such as Symphony no.5, where the somber mood of the c Minor first movement ('Fate knocking on the door') ultimately yields to a triumphant C Major finale with piccolo, trombones and percussion added to the orchestra, a work that to this day transmits its ominous tone of Fate's hand, he again gave to all that followed a musical world forever enriched.

Listen to his music, live his music, lose yourself in the wild and whirling words of song he creates, and you too will know the transcendent power that is the musical spirit of one born of Bonn, by way of Olympus.

### Triangles of Pain

The following narrative is inspired by a long time friend, Trina, who recently made a decision that while momentary in action has permanent results. I present her story here, in as near her words as memory allows, in the hopes that the wells of compassion, humanity, dignity, which have perhaps congealed in all of us, may be revived for the betterment of all:

"The day was in all honesty the most stress filled and horrendous day I have ever had or could ever have imagined. In what seemed a short matter of seconds my whole life had turned upside down, inverting and turning to such extremes that I knew in some ways it would never be the same again.

I was pushed and shoved from place to place, each new face on the scene insisting that I do this or that or something or other as I was now reduced to some indigent ward of the universe and must subject myself to the reigning will of the moment. And in a simple yet profound way I understood something which before this time had never crossed the threshold of my thoughts; life does not give second chances. The minute they came with that black gook, that charcoal and water concoction the attendant said was meant to help me, I knew what had begun as ugly had just got uglier by a great leap. I sat there, cold, lonely, despondent beyond words, hoping for a comforting smile, a reassuring hug, a strong savior who would save me and tell me that everything that I thought had just happened was a dream, a horrible nightmare, that all had passed into the mists of time and was no more in my present. But that moment never came. I swallowed the black concoction as I was told, instructed, ordered to do and felt the nauseating black creature snaking down my throat, entering my stomach, threatening to overturn all contents therein. I felt that all eyes were upon me, monitoring my reactions, hoping to discover a secret that may be betrayed by my actions.

I was withdrawing and shrinking by the second. When I dared to look around me, I saw a little boy, a child of no more than five, who was evidently there for something similar as myself. From the telltale track surrounding his lips I could tell the same black demon had been forced upon him. To see that sweet little boy with the black ring of shame around his mouth made me self conscious, traumatized me worse than I could have imagined possible. It was then I knew that everyone who saw me here with that same black ring around my mouth would know the same about me that they knew about him; that we both had ingested something poisonous, something deadly, something that should never enter the human body. Only in his case, all would be forgiven, a simple matter of childish naiveté, inexperience. While in my case it was something much worse, a thing that would from this day forward make me a pariah, a thing I just knew would forever color the world's perceptions of me and in turn my perceptions of the world. When a person attempts to take her own life, the odds are stacked against her. The greatest humiliation and horror that can happen is to botch the attempt and live through it. At least if the effort succeeded, you would not be around to witness the taunting, the shielded eyes, the indiscreet whispers, the snickers and sighs of the world around you as you pass, the purposely unhidden comments of, "Oh! There she goes. The one who tried to off herself!" At times like this the cruelties of humankind are unleashed, leaving me to wish for increased suffering. If my ears were deaf at least I could not hear the deprecations, the accusations, the indignities hurled my way. If blind, I could not see the parents dutifully shuffling their precious children away when I pass. Suddenly, I have become that creature which all children, including my childlike self, fear: a monster! I have of course reason to wonder if I just imagine this abuse and avoidance being hurled at me. The possibility exists that I do. If I did not have a tendency at this time in my life to over dramatize and overreact I perhaps would believe I am dreaming and should definitely not still be walking this lonely world. But you see, therein lies the dilemma. Were I not lonely to begin with, I would not have attempted to pull the life plug from my veins. Now that I have and failed, I am lonelier still. Is life really this cruel? Yes, it is. I have heard it said that life, like the sea, is a cruel mistress. Yes she is, my friend, she certainly is. She holds me here on this plane against my will and then in the same breath issues me a sharp backhand slap, delivering more pain than that which brought me to death's door at the onset. I used to could say, "Funny isn't it?" Now, being the butt of the universal joke, having a great and boisterous laugh at my expense just does not suit me. Maybe nothing ever again will. So as each day passes, as life passes on, I pass as well, lonelier and more invisible than I have ever been, simply because I tried for all time to end my suffering and failed. Life offers no second chances. My heart has turned to stone."

She spoke these last words, looked at me with tear filled eyes, and began to weep gently into her hands. This simple and poignant act of forlorn pain beyond measure caused my heart to grow three sizes. Never have I been able to withstand the pangs of universal guilt when confronted by a weeping woman. Being that this particular weeping woman was a dear friend of mine whose pain filled story I had just been privileged to hear, the impression made upon me was much greater. Evidently my own heart had still a bit of stone to overcome. For the gift of her simple yet profound words, I have hope that my heart will recover what it has lost to this war called life. Thank you Trina.

I love you deeply, all the more for your unwavering honesty and courage.

### Whipping Post

Hate: a strong word. But yet today it is the word that seems to define much of what is happening in our lives. We read about in the papers, see it on TV; we hear people talk about it seems like everywhere we go. Yet all the more alarming when we hear it discussed in our own households with ourselves as the subject. I didn't think I had the capacity to hate. Oh sure, I know we all have the capacity for many things we don't consider proper, amenable, or profitable. But when it strikes so close to home one is taken aback in wonder.

Why do you hate me so much, she said.

The question stunned me.

Hate you? I answered. Why do you think I hate you?

The way you treat me, she said, like you hate me. What have I done that you hate me so much, so deeply, so thoroughly. I'm tired of being the whipping post for you.

In the way I see things this makes no sense. But at the same time this is how she feels. And so I have to ask myself, do you hate her? And if so, why?

These are difficult questions, more difficult than I have had to answer for a long time. And so the question mystifies me: why do you hate her. It has now become the mantra, the raison d'etre of my life of the moment. And so I walk backwards, stumbling, tripping, end over end into the distant past that has become the murky present. And as I look I see many things. We have been together fifteen years, 10 of those married. And much has happened. We have brought our families together, successfully melded and raised them, and now, most of them grown, we're left with the last of our tribe, our nine-year-old wonder girl, the tremendous love of both of our lives. And so it would seem all is good. But yet, something insidious lurks.

Before our last child, we were happy as happy could be. We also were drunk much of the time. Could this then have been the entire source of our happiness? Perhaps I minimize to say I don't think it was. But then at this point all must be brought under harsh light of scrutiny. And so I think, drifting now forward and backward, hoping that the crucial moment will jump up from the slipstream of dark passages and identify itself. I'm hoping beyond all hope.

Perhaps the source is something intrinsic to my character. She said to me, you're too free of a spirit. This I agree with. I have always had the sense that I don't do well in captivity. And marriage, in a very real way, is captivity: parental roles, responsibilities, compromises, dreams put on hold or to death. It is clear to see how these things to a free spirit would be met with something not akin to joyful embrace. And maybe this is all we deal with. Differences in character and perspective so diametrically opposed that it is beyond reconciliation. I don't want to believe this. How then could we have spent so many years together?

Blindness alone cannot explain it; the blindness of young love. However I look at it blindness fails to strike the mark of certainty. So, I am a free spirit, and do not do well in captivity. And since she's my wife, my partner, my life mate, she on whose account all responsibilities, compromise, etc., are undertaken, she thus becomes the unwilling and unenviable whipping post for my hatred. She has become a mother to me. She knows as well as I, I don't take well to mothering. At an age too young according to some, I left my mother to live with my father. And ever since that time I have been a male in a young male's world quickly progressing to a male in a young man's world, then simply onto a man in a man's world. So for 20 plus years I had lived the life of a free spirited man to the best of my abilities. Then marriage came into the picture. And the free spirit was stopped in its flight. Chained to a rock like Prometheus. But then, one cannot simply go about doing as one wishes. Surely there's more to life than this. But then isn't this the basis of our Constitution, the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?

As a free spirit, the pursuit of happiness is the primary focus. Freedom to me has always been the most sought after prize, the only thing in the end really worth attaining. Without freedom what have we? Realistically though, freedom taken to its logical conclusion would demand that the free spirit minded individual take to flight alone. To expect that a woman would join a man on such a free spirited wandering of the planet is to place a high odds wager. But then, isn't that the point of looking for that special someone? Maybe I feel jilted, cheated. Maybe life has lied to me. I thought I had found that special someone. Perhaps in my heart of hearts I believed that she and I together would continue the free spirited quest I feel born too. But now years later, I find myself willing: she unwilling, unable, and uncertain. So I find we're at an impasse. I am a walking contradiction. If I were I so committed to my free spirited wanderings, it would make sense that I would remain alone. But yet an equally strong pull has had hold upon me and dragged me quite willingly toward finding a mate. Little did I know that to the free spirited finding a mate is incompatible. A man may fly: a woman wishes to nest. And so together, thing more than instinctual urge? The man must mate, the woman must mate and nest; the man wishes to fly, but no longer can.

So again we come to that lethal word: compromise. I hate it, hate this word, hate the effects it has wrought upon my free spirited self. And while I find great joy in the miraculous things that our marriage has brought, there is within me a deep, dark, and long mourning sadness over the freedom I have lost. And as I dwell on these thoughts, it becomes clear to me that this is the source of the hatred. What can be done about it? Interjection: selfishness, pure and simple.

Selfishness.

She says this is at the root of the entire predicament. You want everything your way, she says, you don't think of me. As long as I do things for you and about you everything is fine. But woe is me if I ask you to do something that benefits mostly the family and myself. Then you have a problem. Then you yell, scream, shout, launch accusations, and insults my way. How long do you expect me to put up with this?

A lifetime, I say.

A lifetime, she says, withered and weakened by the battle. And where is your contribution to this lifetime effort? She says.

We bicker and battle and slander and rage and nothing comes of it. Nothing but more bickering battling slander and rage. It is a vicious circle. I shout, she screams; I insult, she counters; I attack, she defends. Here we are at war about selfishness. In her mind it is very simple. She is open armed and giving, available to any and all who need her, while I meanwhile am closed to all, available to no one, concerned only about myself and what concerns myself only. The world she depicts to me seems foreign and austere. But yet this is her reality. And were I to take this as the true clear thousand-mile view into our world, then I would see I have helped to create a very bitter environment. What can be done? In a clarity borne of self-recrimination, I can see that changes must happen at ME Central. To err is human, to forgive divine; I forgive her, I forgive myself, I go forward to give her more of the beauty of life than I ever before have. If a miracle is there to be received, I believe that only by this act of contrition will it be released.

After purging myself of the aforementioned, she and I began a dialogue that is below contained. The inclusion of same is offered as a fair and reasonable attempt to elucidate and shed much needed light on the subject of this essay. So follows a segue to her words:

I feel so hurt and unappreciated. The most frequent words out of your mouth are something along the lines of "That will take away from my time so I can't -or won't." I have stayed calm through the storm and tried not to add any pressure to what was an already hard situation when you lost your job. I stayed by you when your drinking was a problem and you were getting mean and angry with all of us. I feel so betrayed by your lies and your doing things you have promised me you would not. I feel so confused by your anger towards me when I try to continue to run our home on the schedules we all require. I feel I try to keep so much out of your way that I am run over. You always tell me how wrong I am and how much I must always be right. I just don't know what to believe any more. What is the truth, what is a lie, where are you and why did you go there? Who are you speaking with and how well do you really know that person? My life seems so unclear now, so many places in the past that I am so unsure of now. So much pain and so little understanding. I forgive and move forward only to feel like the world is slipping away again.

Followed by mine:

I can understand all you say, but still the ugliness remains. You have given much, of this there can be no argument, yet giving is never done. Unappreciated is a feeling that goes full circle, from you to me. Now you tell me you feel so betrayed by my lies. Would that I could take it back, but it can't be done. I have broken our trust for something as self serving as poison, a poison my death-wish self craves. And what then can I do now to reclaim you? I am truly sorry for whatever pain I have caused you, yet it sounds at the same time that the pain of which you speak is vast and unending. "What is the truth, what is a lie, where are you and why did you go there? Who are you speaking with and how well do you really know that person?" I am unsure what this place and person reference is unless you are speaking poetically. Why does the world feel like it is slipping away? Is it because I went out for a drink one night? If so, don't you think this a bit melodramatic? If you're concerned about a pattern of behavior again becoming habit I can only assure you that I have for many years now done my best to avoid that eventuality. But as all wars of long duration, attrition and weariness take hold so that all battles are not won. I have strived, I have failed, I am strong, I am flawed and weak. This is the sum total of my life and I believe all human life to those who can speak honestly of themselves. I know I am far from perfect. What's next?

With her in conclusion:

I cannot answer what is next. I feel I know the least of all. I do know that I love you but feel so empty, so alone, and so scared.

### Finis: Tears of Redemption.

Pain is measured in teardrops; retribution doled out in lashes of the whip. Many tears have been shed on my account. My account is nigh overdrawn. Ruptured flesh hangs loose and limp from my rickety bones, oozing and sore, red and fresh, torn. At the rate I'm going there will soon be nothing left of me but at that the tears will stop...

### >Caring

I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care...

I care too much.

And in the darkness of impending sadness, we struggled valiantly to ward off its evil by delirious laughter, making love until dawn, flowing into the swan song of days gone by where magnificently we rolled like thunder on the lovestruck clouds of our youth...

### Life Revisited

Life in its entire supposed splendor has once again failed to deliver. Promises broken. Deception. Even love has failed to deliver its promised glory. Love is overrated, no different biochemically from an overdose of chocolate. A large nothing remains as the only reward. I am thoroughly and irrevocably disgusted. What is the point? At one time, I believed there was meaning; oh, how things have changed. I am but a machine, set in motion to fulfill my duties, obligations, driven by an unyielding master. Self pity? Hardly. Self realization, more appropriately. The promises of love and life are but rich deceits, devised to ensnare the noble hearted and crush their hopes beyond all recovery. Only with those souls neatly disposed, can the cesspool that is life on planet earth continue its storm of terror. I have been deceived, hurt, cast out, and I am enraged. No purpose is served by my existence but to continue the treadmill on its never varying course. Sadly, this is the ultimate enlightenment. No gates of heaven; no pot of gold at rainbow's end. Just a festering, darkened mass of rotting flesh, the bones of courage and valor disintegrating into ashes, here in the vast wasteland that is mockingly termed "humanity." I once was young, optimistic, idealistic. Full of hope and excitement at what fortune the world held for me. Years later, how life has taken a dramatically tragic turn. I mourn the passing of optimism, the passing of belief. The three greatest companions of my youth; faith, hope, and charity, lie dead in a ditch. Thrown out by a passing garbage truck. Useless adornments in this life that exists to destroy the noble, annihilate the just. And now, as I approach my later years, it is a time of perpetual mourning. A condition that accumulates and draws into itself more and more power as the pains and deceptions of life mount. My frame is weakened, and Atlas is slowly crumbling. Despondency, depression...swirling, twirling, whirling through my being. Gnawing at my heart, lacerating my insides, shredding my entrails. My greatest wish is to die. Not a quiet, soporific death. But a violent, loud, crashing, thunderous death. A death that would leave a sound and memory unlike any I have been able to conjure in this brief, uneventful life. This is my desire. What a dark and tragic fantasy to engage. Morbid imagery surrounds and seduces. I am lured by nubile witches of the underworld. Witches who willingly shed their undergarments in their efforts to overpower. They are good at this. And I am appreciative. Soon perhaps, I will join them in the afterworld. God knows there is nothing left here for me. Painless suffering, endurance. That's all there is left now. Boredom is indeed a festering cesspool of sub-humanity. And once caught in its whirlpool, its banks become an insurmountable ridge of contempt. Lately I am so bored with everything; work, life, life. The same ruts and routines. Over and over like a hamster running the exercise wheel. Same scenery, same faces, same redundant familiarity at every turn. I can feel a raucous, bloodcurdling scream beginning to form at the lowest reaches of my insides, building speed to a gloriously powerful explosion. Maybe, if luck is with me, I'll explode within its thunder, putting and end to this miserable insanity with one final sweep. Could be the fortuitous moment of opportunity I've spent this life waiting for. Or maybe the cocktail flu. Yesterday, I had it bad. Tired, run-down, fatigued. But today, after a nighttime dose of the vile medicine, I feel much better. Funny how life's joys are inextricably tied to misfortune. Joyous, drunken jubilation cannot be experienced without suffering the backlash of agony that befalls one the day following. Yet, time after time, we embark upon this journey of certain destruction. Waterskiing in white water rapids. Parachuting into a tornado. And every time, in its midst, it seems the unpleasant memories of past ruination were just a dream, a distant dream that could not possibly result from what is now occurring; a wild Bacchanalia. If only the drunken reverie could continue, celebration a never-ending day at the circus, replete with all intrinsic distractions and fascination, without the danger of the elephant crashing down in ring three and trampling the master of ceremonies. But perhaps it is this inherent element; danger, potential fatality, that is so attractive. Like the instinctual forces that drive lemmings over cliffs, we line up, pay the fare, and hold on for the wild ride with full knowledge that what awaits may surely be the cold slap of rock and ocean as we hit bottom at full speed. Excitement, commotion. The thrill of death defied. All here, within this glass, this intoxicating brew, waltzing again, for you and me. May it live long and continue to serve us well. And by the way...make mine a double.

### Frailty Thy Name is Love

I stroked her face, wiped her tears, while my heart fell in pieces. Oh, love and compassion can be such terribly painful things! Once the door is open and we share another's pain, the burden of life's load increases profoundly. Why must this be so? Are all life's joys inexorably bound to dark distress? It seems at times so melodramatic, so unnecessary. But yet, time and again, off we go, into the misty dawn of love, with newfound courage and purpose. We shared tender moments. Words of love, endurance, frailty. Courageous devotion rang from our lips like the morning song. Light danced in her hair, her eyes sparkled with eternity. Flames of passion swirled and danced, rhythmically timed to the beating of our hearts. We laughed, cried, embraced, kissed, fell deeply into each other's souls, never wanting to return to this world that had become too cold and barren, devoid of meaning. We were safe in the confines of our newly found love, our mother's womb, where nothing could any longer touch us, tear us apart, split us from the inside out. But her tears became the salt on my already open wounds. The pain she shared drove me from my safety and out into the open battlefield, ducking for cover, desperately unarmed. And now, barely standing here, riddled with emotional bullet holes, I bleed and take my last gasps of air for her...for her pain. For our shared moments of tenderness had negotiated the ultimate price compassion; a fatal uniting of the soul.

Looking at her, in the fading, copper light of day, I could for the first time catch a glimpse of the woman who walked before me, before our time together, perhaps the woman I had chanced upon in an earlier lifetime, the woman who my soul knew instinctively upon our meeting. Young, bold, fearless. A woman who raced into the wind with the abandon that rides alongside youth. Her sunlit face, one layer deeper, revealed to me, for the first time. Until now, I lived only in our new abode, our world of the present, the world that discovered and nurtured our love. But today, I was led to the precipice and shown the world past, an ugly world. A world between the boldness of her youth, and the fear of her maturity. The very same world which we had placed so much trust in, that in one blinding betrayal, had come crashing down in a titanic blast of destruction; and my heart wept. So tender, so sweet, she, my eternal love. The absolute manifestation of angelic purity on this earth. Yet, I now know, those heaven sent possess the most vulnerable wings. And in my compassion, I fear that she will fly no more.

### Back Stepping Forward

The fallacy of youth. Just today, I was thinking how when we are young, we cannot appreciate the beauty of all the possibilities that lay ahead of us, and oftentimes rush headlong into commitments and obligations that severely limit our future choices; abdicating our power in the process. Only with the advancing years, can we look back and understand the fallacy of youth. What is the fallacy? I will use illustrations from my own life to provide some detail, although I believe, even a cursory glance will reveal certain elements that are consistent, no matter who is doing the looking.

When I was young, time stood still. The world lay before me, waiting to be explored, waiting for and needing my individual and unique contribution. Of course, everyone waited with bated breath while I ascended the ladder of education, entered the workforce, and proceeded, armed with a wealth of new information, into the beckoning world to save and guide it. Ultimately, a measure of debt would surely be owed me, but I, eternally humble and gracious, would decline, instead deferring to those who prepared me for my destined rise to prominence. And so, I ventured forth, to conquer the unconquerable, scale the unscaleable, discover the undiscovered, leave the world a better place for my being.

It is this unshakable and wholly optimistic idealism which in many ways, characterized my youth, and I suspect, this is the same for many. The fact of the matter however, is that few earth shattering revelations occurred. I grew older, took on more responsibility, married, raised a family, and before I knew what had happened, the flower of my youth had become the blossom of burgeoning middle age. I was entering the geriatric world. Without realizing it, time no longer stood still, but had at some point, begun racing ahead at such blinding pace, that it simply _appeared_ motionless. But like Rip Van Winkle, I awoke to find a changed world, and a changed man, myself, staring in disbelief.

In this light, I offer the principal fallacy of youth; time. We believe our time is endless, we are invincible, and that we possess all of the faculties necessary to evince sweeping change throughout the globe. Wrong!! What we fail to understand, is that life goes on, regardless of your plans, and that quite often, it is life's plans for you that supersede your plans for life. Who then is the leader and who the led? Today, from my enlightened vantage point, I can look back and see that while I had youth on my side, I lacked perspective. And just as youth was an ally in some regards, it was also my biggest opponent. For what youth alone did not hold me from, my lack of experience and perspective did. So today, years past my youth, it all seems so clear, so profoundly simple, so easy to locate the missing ingredient in all of the adventures that never seemed to arrive at their destinations. What I have found is, that no matter what the trip begins as, life ultimately becomes a journey, whether you recognize it or not. We have all heard the maxim, "Life is a journey, not a destination" yet I believe each one of us makes the fatal mistake of interpreting this to mean that "if" we view life as a journey, actively, it will be. What I'm saying is, regardless of how we view it, and even after years of being "destination oriented," looking back will show us that life, even against our best efforts, was a journey, was always a journey; that it was never a matter of volition that would change its basic nature. Appreciating that aspect can only make the trip more enjoyable. For me, the journey has been good, instructive, rich, and rewarding. Certainly, there are destinations I intended to reach, but never did. Grand life statements I intended to make, but never made. And at one point, not long ago, I mistakenly blamed my lack of youth, my commitments, on my inability to achieve these things today. "If only I was younger, with the possibilities still ahead," the logic went, "then, I could really do something!" It sounded so good, so lulling, a perfect panacea for a world that had gone awry. But, in the end, a case of mistaken identity. For when I had the power of youth, I lacked perspective, urgency, the knowledge that time was racing past even as I throttled full speed ahead. I was in a state of suspension, sleepwalking. And in my slumber, youth passed by, boarded the plane for points unknown, and left me at the terminal; older, wiser, clearer. Vastly more able to realize the dreams that youth alone, could not.

### Upturned Axes

Everyone's gotta have rules. Society has rules, business has rules, and households have rules. The more you look, the more rules you see. Growing up in our house, we had rules too. The one we heard most often was the rule of opposites. The rule went something like this:

Do what I say, not what I do.

It was a simple rule to say and could be heard ringing throughout the house on numerous occasions. My parents couldn't understand why such a rule of clear and absolute simplicity was so difficult for us kids to follow. We couldn't understand it either. Usually, we heard this rule when the adults were doing something that looked like fun and we just wanted to share in the fun.

Mom, can I have a soda with my meal? No, she would say sternly, it's dinnertime. No soda until later.

But you're having a soda? I protested.

Do as I say, not as I do.

And that was that. The final word had been spoken. I spent many sleepless nights wondering about that rule. It seemed so simple, yet the interpretation appeared to keep changing depending on the circumstances. Years later, that rule would come back to me as I studied particle physics and the theory of relativity.

Another rule was one I like to call the Missionary Rule. This rule only appeared at dinnertime. It too, was a very simple rule. It went something like this:

Mom, can I be done?

I don't think so...you haven't finished all of your food.

But Mom, I'm full.

There are starving children in the world...finish your meal.

I couldn't understand how stuffing myself with food, was taking care of the world's hunger problem. I also couldn't understand why my parents gave me more food on my plate than I was capable of eating. Because of this rule, dinnertime became an event of apprehension for us kids. We just sat there, wide eyed, as the roulette spoons of fate spun around the table, doling out larger-than-life portions, knowing that surely at least one of us would draw the short straw and once again be called upon to save the starving children. Sometimes, when I just couldn't finish the food on my plate, I would reluctantly be dismissed from the table, my mother giving a resigned and disappointed shake of her head.

On those occasions, I lingered around the kitchen to see what happened at clean-up time. Surely, I thought, parents being the all-knowing and benevolent beings that they are, there was something to this rule that I just was too young to grasp.

Maybe they sent the food off to feed those starving children?

I waited and watched as the crucial moment arrived:

the emptying of my plate. My mother lifted the plate off the table, walked over to the kitchen, and dumped its contents, not into an airmail envelope, as I expected...but into the trash. I decided that this rule too must be covered under the Theory of Parental Relativity guidelines.

Those were the times when I got off easy. Other times, my mother was not so lenient. At those times, I was forced to again listen to the woeful tale of how her mother, with seven children in tow, lived on the streets, begging, borrowing, or stealing for food. My mother told me these tales with a wistful romanticized flair.

That's why you need to finish all your food, she would conclude, because other children aren't so fortunate. I thought about this a moment.

So...you all lived outside? I questioned.

Yes...we lived outside.

And you never went inside?

No...that was our home.

Even when it rained?

Yes, she said, starting to sound irritated. Wow!! So you guys like got to always play in the rain and stuff?

That's not the point! she snapped, the fire rising in her eyes. The point is that you need to finish your meal!! Sorry, I said, staring down at the table. I guess I understood where she was going with this...maybe. But I still thought it was really great that they never had to come in.

How they ended up on the street, was another story in itself. This story she didn't share quite as often, probably because it didn't have to do with not eating my dinner and using it as a means to impose guilt. As it went, her father had passed away when she was very young. The only memories she had of him were faint, almost dreamlike sequences where he was the happy, loving Father Knows Best kind of dad. The only tangible evidence remaining are some old black and white pictures that her mom carried around with her. Of course, with the years, they're more like brown and tan. She showed them to me once. He was a very handsome guy. Dashing, you might say.

She said that when he died, his family, who was very rich, disinherited her mom and children, leaving all of them on the street to fend for themselves. The older children worked to provide for the family, and the younger ones I guess just did what younger ones do. After that, the story gets pretty fuzzy. A number of years pass, and the next thing you know, she and her younger sister, both in their teens by now, are touring the U.S. as a dancing duo, headed toward imminent stardom.

There were so many holes in this story, that I didn't quite know where to begin asking questions. And I also suspected it was better I didn't. So, being a kid, I just accepted it as a great adventure...a kind of fairy tale. It wasn't until many years later that I was told a version of this story that I had never before heard, less yet could have ever imagined as being true. My father never talked much about his childhood. The only things I ever remember hearing about sounded so normal, especially compared to my mother's stories, that there was really not much in particular that stuck out about them. About the only real detail I got, was how he joined the army.

It was after WWII, during peacetime in the late forties. He never said so, but years later I guessed that he had always felt bad, you know, because of all the extreme patriotism of the times, and him being too young to do anything about it. I mean, here was Hitler, going around Europe, wiping out everything in his path, and when America stood up to be counted, my father, being just a kid, could only stand back and watch. And as America charged to the battle lines, all he could do was charge to the radio to follow their progress. He must have felt left out.

So the way I figured it, was that after the war was over, when he was old enough, he decided to join the Army anyway. Maybe his thinking was that when the next one came along, he'd be ready. Problem was, he was only sixteen at the time, and the entry age, then as now, was eighteen. Being the resourceful guy he is, he lied to get in. He never mentioned it, but I don't think his parents were very happy about that, since they found out after the fact. But being peacetime and all, I guess they didn't see any harm in the matter. Besides, what could they have done? He stayed in the service for a couple of years working as a cook.

That was the whole story...nothing else. You always hear about ex-military types who sit around, recounting all kinds of exciting stories about their time in the service. The people, the places, the events, all of that. Not my father though. Two years in, worked as a cook, end of story.

During the Sixties, I remember going to the theaters to watch Clint Eastwood unleash his unspoken man with-no-name wrath in all of those western movies that were later dubbed The Spaghetti Westerns. One of his distinguishing trademarks was that he didn't talk much about himself. He reminded me of my dad, except Clint talked more.

It was quite an environment to grow up in, an epic tale, we the young Lilliputians ringside at the Clash of the Titans: The Enigmatic Italian in one corner, the Climactic Cuban in the other. Luckily, I had long legs, so I could bear the strain of living a life stretched between two continents. And usually, the transcontinental journey seemed to go along smoothly. But when the inevitable collisions did occur - and believe me they occurred with shattering intensity-it was time for us kids to head for the hills.

### Auntie Terrorist

Women. Fat, sweaty, overly made up women. Too much lipstick, too much powder, too much jewelry. Always present, lurking. Waiting for an opportunity to rush into the room. Hug me. Kiss me. Make me nauseated.

Don't you love your aunt Katherine? I love you?

You're getting so big.

Yuck. Why is it that the most disgustingly untouchable people are the ones who have the greatest desire to hug children? I asked myself this question many times as the nightmare known as "visiting relatives" replayed itself over and over during my youth.

On Sundays especially, was this more prone to occur. That was the day we would all congregate at one house or another. Kind of the roulette wheel principle. Although it seemed we usually ended up at aunt Katherine's. Lovable, kissable, sweating aunt Katherine. Clearly, the wheel was fixed. The sad part is, I actually liked her. Of all the aunts, she was the most funny and outgoing. Always quick with a smile, the appropriate laughter when something humorous occurred, first to offer encouragement.

She just had this annoying habit of always wanting to hug the life out of me.

There I'd be, minding my own business, when out of the corner of my eye she would appear; a hunkering mass of womanhood. Run? There was no escape. Once she had you locked in with her radar, the plunder was inescapable. Seconds later, I'd be fighting for air, struggling for the light as I was eclipsed by a huge, dripping sow. Lipstick, powder and saliva mashing into my face. Sweaty arms encircling my shoulders in a vice-like grip. At those moments, there was no evil too vile that I could imagine for her fate. My body would go limp. My head would swim. I'd pray for a coma. Mother's voice far in the distance... Oh my God, Katherine! You've killed another one!! Hmmm...how unfortunate...he was so cute too...How are the pies coming along?

The family was prided with bakers. Generation after generation the traditions and techniques of the family trade had been passed down. Meticulously tested and honed to a fine art. Yet, as chefs and bakers are inclined, each one had through time arrived at their own "secret" methods. Because of this, the ritual called "the showing of the pies" was taken with much seriousness.

To be caught serving an inferior pie was tantamount to screwing on the steps of the Vatican. Bigamy? Cheating? Murder? Nothing compared to the shame one would accrue by serving a below standard pie. It was lucky for me that Aunt Katherine had more concern for deficient pies than for killing the young. I remember the Christmas dinner that for years afterward was referred to as "the Cookie Incident." Everyone was there, all of my father's relatives anyway; sisters, brothers, cousins, the whole shebang. We sat as we usually did; adults at one table in the biggest room, kids at a smaller table that was attached at one end to the longer one. Amazingly, there was always a tablecloth around of just the right length to cover this monstrous concoction.

The dinner itself went great. Everything cooked right, nothing burnt, everyone's favorites. Over the years, this seemed to get easier. Inevitably, something was under or over cooked, someone's favorite food was not provided, thereby rendering the entire meal "just not right", or one cousin or another was being a royal pain in the behind.

But this year, the omen was good. Everything just right. Perfect. Maybe that's what cursed the whole thing, perfection was just not tolerable. Uncle Hank, bless his soul, had just bitten into one of the many cookies that had been laid out with the dessert spread. Of course, these cookies were all made by the family bakers. None of that "store bought" cookie business. No sir. That was for the less gifted. Only homemade cookies for us.

Anyway, here is poor Uncle Henry, minding his own business, sampling one of the cookies from the collection, when Aunt Dora, his wife, observed that the cookie he chose was not one of hers, but Aunt Katherine's. As luck would have it, this transgression would not go unnoticed.

Henry? Why don't you like my cookies? The ones I slaved over for the last three days? Good hearted and all, but not the brightest bulb on the porch, he couldn't see the freight train headed toward him.

Uhmmm, well, he stuttered, it's not that dear, it's just that these ones looked so good... Oh!! she snapped, I see. THAT one looked good, but MINE didn't?

No, it's not like that...I mean, I just thought... IF you had been thinking, you would not have insulted your dear wife by doing such a thing!! Henry was stunned. He didn't know what to say. But I'm sure it was clear to him, that no matter what he said, it would be the wrong thing.

My mother, ever the diplomat, on a good day anyway, decided to intervene in an attempt to bring harmony...big mistake.

Oh now Dora, she said, soothingly, I'm sure it's nothing against your baking. Everyone loves your cookies, you know that.

Nods and bubbling words of agreement were heard from around the table.

Getting into the spirit of things, Uncle Gus, Katherine's husband, decided to bridge the divide. He reached across the table, to the ornate, silver dish where Dora's cookies were neatly arranged, and selected a colorfully decorated sugar cookie, taking a bite then happily chomping away. Dora seemed pleased, and for a moment it appeared that all had been forgotten. But the lid was not entirely closed on this issue.

So? Dora asked, What do you think?

The room paused in expectancy.

Well, you know, Gus began, this is really wonderful!

In fact, I can't remember eating a lighter cookie!

The gloves were off.

What!!?? Katherine shouted, Never a lighter one? How could you say such a thing? She pushed out her lower lip like she was going to cry; she did. I don't believe you, Gus! To say you like it, is one thing, but to outright LIE is another!!

Dora jumped in. LIE? What exactly are you saying Katherine?

The dam had been broken, there was no turning back. The flood waters burst forth, and the kids ran for high ground.

The grizzly details that followed are to violent to recount, and many therapy sessions later I'm still not entirely worked through the trauma. Suffice it to say, that this event gave rise to another that became known as "The Cookie Wars" or "It'll be a Cold Day in Hell!"

### The Artist Within

As far back as I can remember, I loved to draw. I was always in the midst of one project or another. One day, I'd be drawing the house, with flower beds all around, in a rainbow of colors. Other times, I'd be trying to draw the dog, or the fish. Something, anything.

In third grade , I had a teacher who really took to me. Guess she thought she had discovered a burgeoning DaVinci. Who knows.

She just always treated me a little bit different than everyone else in the class. Not real overt and obvious, but noticeable enough that even at that young age, I knew.

The fact that she lived next door probably helped, but at the time, I never looked at it quite like that. I mean, what kid would want their teacher living right next door? For one thing, what kind of excuses could you possibly offer for not completing homework?

Some pretty fancy dancing would be sure to follow:

I'm sorry, Miss Wiggins, but my family was very busy running errands all night. And when we got home, it was bedtime.

Really? she'd say, that's odd? I could have sworn I saw a boy who looked just like you playing in your yard yesterday; right up until about dinner time, and then immediately after, until dark? Definitely not an ideal arrangement. But, at that age, it never occurred to me. Besides, I always did my homework. I was good in that way. Not like some of the kids I remember. Seems like some kids were just gluttons for punishment. Homework seemingly disappearing into a bottomless pit of dog's mouths, baby sibling's hands, you name it. And the stories they told were so inventive. You'd have thought it was a creative writing class.

I lost touch with all of those kids, as we moved around a lot in the early years. But with their skill and ingenuity at fabrication, I often wonder how many of them ended up in politics?

Having advanced artistic ability was nothing I ever took too serious. To me, it was just what I did for fun.

The fact that it was anything grander never crossed my mind. Other people, however, especially adults, were the ones that got carried away. In fact, they got carried away enough for both of us. My mom advised me how my artistic greatness would be very beneficial to me. Someday, she said, you will be very wealthy and famous because of your art. Just keep working at it...you'll see. I was confused. You mean people will give me money? And want my autograph? Yes! Doesn't that sound great?

I was still unclear. Oh...so like this picture here? I reached into my drawing folder. This one with the big sun? And the birds flying over grandma's house? Well, yes...maybe that one...and others. This was starting to get somewhere. Ohhh...So how much money would someone give me for this picture? Mom laughed. Oh now honey. You don't want to sell that one, do you? It's your grandma's favorite? I know. But I can make another one. I just want enough money for ice cream.

Clearly, by the look on my mother's face, I was not exactly thinking in as grand a scale as she. But, hey?

I was seven years old, my needs were very simple. This approach was to characterize my artistic ambitions for many years to follow. Grandma loved her bread and provolone. It was something she looked forward to with great expectation. Without it, the sun would fail to rise, the seasons would fail to change, the entire world as she knew it would cease to exist. I enjoyed watching her, performing the ritualistic ceremonies time and time again. I never tired of this. Perhaps I was easily amused. Something about the expression of ineffable joy on her face kept me mesmerized as she embarked upon this sacred journey. First, the individual items must be selected. And not just anything would do. She explained to me, in her broken Italian-English how to select the bread. The bread must be crusty. Strong crusty. Very crunchy outside, soft inside. This was essential as the bread was to be dunked into the ceremonial glass of Chianti. And not just any Chianti; the kind with the wicker covering. This too, was essential. To this day, I cannot get beyond the impression that this type of Chianti is the only "true" one. Logic notwithstanding, if it doesn't have the wicker covering, it's a fake. Next, was the cheese. For the bread, she would give me some change, and send me to the corner Deli with her precise instructions, given each time as if it were the first. But the cheese stood alone. Only her expert skills could select the cheese that was required for this anointed activity.

Grandma's house bordered Jones Park which was like an island surrounded by a waterway of small streets. School was not far away from there, so a few days a week I would go to visit her afterwards. She would leave her shopping until those days, and shortly after I arrived, our quest would begin. It was always such a thrill to be involved, to feel like my involvement was so essential to the operation. Grandma was good about that. She made you feel necessary.

The Deli was just a short distance from her house, so together we would walk the block or two to get there. Grandma, head held straight, purposeful, purse dangling from her arm, held high against her chest, floating along like the Queen of Suburbia, me alongside, the loyal companion, moving at a reasonably fast clip. In this manner, we would round the neighborhood on our way to gustatory nirvana. DiLuzio's Deli was one of my favorite places, with sights and scents that could be found nowhere else in such wonderful profusion. Coming through the front door, the hanging bell announcing our arrival, we would be hit by a wave of fragrant aroma. And everywhere I looked were shapes, and colors in such robust combination that my eyes were never still once inside.

Large pepperonis, wrapped and bundled, hanging behind the meat counter. Large slatted baskets, strewn around the perimeter, filled with fruits, nuts, desiccated fish, loaves of bread, freshly picked sprigs of parsley and oregano. Tall racks of wines, in more shades of red than I had ever seen. (And I knew about color variety. I did, after all, have the sixty-four Crayola set.) And bottles from the typical to the most unusually long, fluted necked, serpentine creations possible.

It was a visual wonderland.

Mr. DiLuzio, behind the counter, greeted us in his usual warm, and gregarious manner.

Good morning, he would say, how are my two best customers today?

We're fine, just fine, Grandma would say. And may I say, Mrs. Marchesi, he would continue, you look younger and more radiant every time I see you! Watching Grandma blush, every time he complimented her, made me feel like I was spying on something private. It always made me a little uncomfortable. But Grandma didn't seem to mind. She seemed to rather enjoy the attention. Maybe that's why we kept coming here instead of going to Palozzi's right down the street?

Her order was pretty much the same and Mr. DiLuzio knew it by heart, but Grandma told him every time as if it were our first visit.

One wheel of Provolone please. Genoan, not Sicilian. One bottle of Ambruzzi Chianti, nothing domestic, and one loaf of bread; crusty, not soft.

That was it, plain and simple. Maybe it was too simple. At least it appeared that way to me, as Mr. DiLuzio always tried to embellish it some. How about some of this Calamari? Fresh today? Or some Bachala?

No, no, Grandma would answer, just the usual.

How about something special?

By "something special" he meant the treats he would give Grandma and me. For Grandma, it would be a box of Toblerone or something and for me, a big Lollipop. One of those ones that as a kid was the size of my face. These were his gifts to us, I guess because we were good customers and all. I never realized until years later, that these were his attempts to romance Grandma. The things that slip the observations of a child.

One our way back home, as we passed a variety of storefronts, houses and people, Grandma would point out certain ones and tell me tales of their past lives. You see that store over there, she said, pointing across the street with her head and eyes, That used to be Molinari's. Best bakery around, she shrugged her shoulders. Then? Who knows what happened? Trouble with the four brothers, wives, girlfriends...such a shame.

Did you like to go there Grandma? For your bread and stuff?

Oh yes, it was very nice, the best...but now? Hey, she shrugged her shoulders, what're you gonna do? When the sentence ended with "what're you gonna do" that was the last word on the subject. Grandma was a very deep thinker, and all of the things she would tell me about, were things she had spent many long hours, days, even years, running through her mind, over and over, until she had indisputably resolved the matter for herself. "What're you gonna do" meant that the issue was closed to further conjecture, that it was what it was and just had to be accepted as such.

She made me promise to never let a woman come between me and my family.

I tell you, Nini, (that was her pet name for us boys) when you get married, you promise me that you never let your wife make trouble between you and your brothers, okay? You promise me. It's very important to keep the family together...everybody happy, okay? Okay, Grandma...I promise.

It was easy to make promises about things I had no earthly idea about. Dating was still years away, and here I was making a lifetime commitment to keeping the family peace. It was all a vague and distant arena, but if that's all it took to make Grandma happy, it was the least I could do. And it gave me a sense of pride filled satisfaction, to imagine Grandma sitting at her favorite chair, at her favorite table, with her special Chianti, provolone and crusty bread, thinking about all the world's affairs, knowing that in her mind the issue of peace in the family could be put to rest because her grandson had been given charge.

### Riding Strong

Why do children love so much to ride in cars? As a child, it was something I enjoyed tremendously.

Maybe it was because every time we went for a ride, Dad always at the wheel, we would be going someplace special for dinner, or to a special park or other adventure.

We lived in a suburb of the main city area, so we were already fairly removed from the mainstream of city life, so it didn't take much travel to put us smack in the middle of farmland. Acres and acres of land inhabited only by barbed wire fence and grazing animals. Perhaps that's what lent such a mysterious air to the whole thing. One minute, we'd be leaving our driveway in the middle of suburbia, and the next it would be Old MacDonald's Farm. Often, Dad would pull over by the side of the road as we passed an especially bovine populated area. We would go stand by the fence and lure the cows over with bits of bread and chips and whatever leftover snacks we had from our travels. I loved waiting in anticipation, as a cow would lazily stroll up, swishing it's tail, sad, droopy eyes looking me over, and inevitably roll out it's massive pink/gray tongue to slop the tidbits out of my hand. The only thing I didn't like was that they always had a million flies buzzing around their faces. Reminded me of the Pig Pen character from Charlie Brown, except with him it was a cloud of dust.

Other times, we would go to Lake Ontario. The resort town surrounding it was like a different world. Snack vendors, pushing their carts around the boardwalks, amusement park rides, giant Ferris Wheels, arcades. Lining the main street, that descended in a gradual slope, dropping you right at the beachfront, were numerous pizza parlors, gift shops, bars, etc. Sometimes, we'd stop at the Shakey's Pizza for lunch. My Dad really enjoyed the old time decor of the place. We liked it because they had a bunch of pinball games in the back room. And in those days, one quarter could be an hour's entertainment. My favorite machines were the ones with the scantily clad females, laying about seductively for no apparent reason. We called them the "Ooh-La-La" girls. After lunch, we would walk down to the end of the block where the street ended and the beachfront began. As a kid, I thought this was the ocean. But it always looked weird because there were no waves like I would see in the surfing movies. Not to mention, there were never any surfers either. I just assumed that nobody surfed here because Frankie and Annette lived in California, and everybody knew that the only cool place to surf was their beach. Hamburgers were my Dad's favorite. He would drive many miles just to get one at the places he considered the best. One of those places was Don and Bob's. I eventually found out that it was in a town called Irondequoit, but at the time it might as well have been Timbuktu. What I remember most was driving far, far away. Long past the point where streets became highways and highways became roads. Where cities and suburbs disappeared and towns materialized out of the dust. Where one minute you would see nothing but land, stretching out to the horizon, and the next, rising out of the landscape, would be a large, neon-lit building, surrounded by cars and trucks; Don and Bob's.

Mom said it was something they did with the special sauce. Dad said it was something special they did with the meat. Whatever it was, I remember it being the best tasting hamburger I'd ever had. Such was the impression it made on me, that for many years after, every burger I had was compared, either consciously or not, to this glory of culinary achievement.

Inside, the place was huge; it looked like it never ended. The floor was a tessellated black and white pattern, making it look like what I imagined an old Soda Shop would look like. All the wood was a dark, rich, Mahogany. The counter, where we ordered, had ten cash registers across its length, a snaking line of hungry people emanating from each. Beautiful, multicolored, antique glass shaded lights filled the ceilings, interspersed with slowly, revolving fans, their brass fixtures glimmering. The walls were mirrored and every booth, semi-private due to the dense array of plants surrounding, had enough room for eight people. Sitting at one, with our family of five, I imagined I was a Knight of the Round Table, and this was my castle. It was one of the few tables we could all sit at, without having to worry about elbowing someone in the face. I wanted to live there.

### Impressionistic History

When Dad was in a "family history" kind of mood, we would drive around the outskirts of suburbia, and he would point out all the places of family significance.

These were very instructive times as I got to hear about things I normally would have no reason to know about.

See that empty gas station there? He pointed to an abandoned, rubble filled lot with a few rusted, old gas pumps. That's where your uncle Gus had his first gas station...until the riots that is.

Pause.

And down the street there, see that tall building? The red brick one?

I strained to see over the dashboard.

That's where your Uncle Henry was born. Of course, there were doctor's offices in there years ago, now it's a bunch of apartments. Pretty run down from what I hear.

Dad was always privy to such "insider information." No matter what was happening around town, he knew everything about it. And not only did he know the key points, he could often name the individuals involved. He was a real detail kind of guy. And over there, is Rochester Products...where your Aunt Dora works. When you turn eighteen, she could probably get you in there real easy.

This large, imposing, gothic building, was always the last stop on our tour, and whenever he mentioned about me someday working there, I just sort of smiled in that benign, son-to-all-knowing-father kind of smile. I know he meant well, but it seemed to me that everyone who worked there, including Aunt Dora, never had much good to say about the place. And they all had that same glazed, not-quite-here, look on their faces.

Many times, I would detour on my way home from school, just so I could walk by as the people on the early shift let out. I'd watch through the fence, as the big doors would swing open, letting out a flood of people, all dressed in gray and dark blue work uniforms, faces drawn and tired, looking down at the ground mostly, not smiling, pale, sickly complexions, and I'd wonder what happened in there that made them look that way. From outside, I could hear the incessant rhythm of the machines, crunching, thumping, clanging, and imagined that people were being fed into them, and that the three tall, gray, smokestacks were the fallout of their burning remains, now become noxious, barrels of smoke, tumbling across the sky.

I don't know what actually happened in there, and I never asked, but with my child's imagination running triple meter, I invented the worst. Many trips over the next few years eased my mind on some concerns, although a number of questions remained. There was, however, one thing of which I was certain: I never wanted to work there. Not in a million years.

### Truer Than Truth

"The truth shall set you free." What truth? Whose truth? Free from what, where, how? The simplest things contain the most puzzling concepts. Such is the way of the world...whichever world you choose. Internal, external, subliminal. All of these worlds in coexistence, collision...a simultaneous passion play of dance and rhyme. "The truth shall set you free?" I am still searching for this truth, I suspect we all are to some degree. And when we find it, what then? How will we know we have indeed "found it?" The smallest and simplest are the most profound...like children. Mysteries, eternal mysteries.

The human vessel hurtles forward, through time and space, touching but untouched...passing through and beyond but remaining detached. Postmodernism, or "pomo", the latest minimalism. Is this truth? Comfortable detachment? Life in the television vacuum? Seeing but not being seen? Vicarious experience shared like intimacy. Passive and poisoned. Malignant...ragged and torn. Insanity laughs under pressure; hysteria overcomes me. It seems years, many interminable years between me and the last truly visceral contact. Now all is intellect, cool detachment. Necessary perhaps. But it is precisely the question of necessity that is the most horrifying, the most poignant in a fatalistic sense.

How has apathy become necessary? What are the unique properties of modern life, or "pomo" life that demand this course? I swim in thought and drown in the answers. Again the vertigo sets in, takes hold. Twenty-four stories up and falling, falling. Concentric circles bringing me closer to impact, closer to death, closer to real feeling - the sharp slap of concrete, the crunching of bone, the smell of blood and entrails - only pain is real. I am sleepwalking through life. The terror has become unbearable, but even so, still more bearable than the thought of waking...waking to the tragedy that is life....

### Donnelly the Prophet

It was a time of terror, a time of confusion. A time of hate run rampant. A time of pent up hostility and oppression released, in all of its terrifying glory. The once pleasant, placid city streets turned into a war zone. A place where the only law was survival of the fittest, and anyone of the wrong persuasion was best advised to clear the area, lest they find themselves on the deadly side of a human stampede. The TV news spewed out the unbelievable details.

Riots downtown. Mayhem. Catastrophic proportions.

Over and over the reverberating sounds of screaming, shouting, chanting. The black faces angry, insistent. The mob of human flesh pressing against the sides of the TV screen, trying to escape into the living rooms of our city. The enlarged white eyes, burning, impassioned. Their reddened blood quest visible even on the black and white TV set. We sat in the temporary security of our living room, watching, hoping. Even the breathing slowed to an imperceptible pulse. Like being too many in a rowboat, knowing that one sudden move would topple the occupants into the watery depths, movement was frozen. All was silent, except for the deafening roar of destruction glowing from the little electronic box in the corner.

As a child, it was terrifying. Even more so when I looked around the room and saw the horror I felt mirrored on the faces of the adults. It was then that I felt truly terrified. Who would save me if not them? Words slowly began to tumble out of their numbed lips, their stunned faces still glued to the TV screen. I barely got away in time, Uncle Gus said, his voice shaken.

Oh my God...Oh my God. Aunt Katherine cried, over and over, unable to control herself. What are we gonna do, Gus? What are we gonna do? We watched the mob moving through the downtown streets, looting, destroying, toppling anything in their path. Windows shattering, cars being overturned, some people barely breaking away from the action, making a speedy retreat in their cars. Look, my Dad said, Isn't that your station Gus?

There, in the right corner of the picture? Uncle Gus nodded in sad recognition. It sure is, he said, it sure is...his voice trailing off into a whisper.

In the next instant, a group split off from the horde and spilled into the station. They threw rocks at the large, plate glass windows, smashing them into jagged memories, then set upon the pumps. The nozzles were ripped from their holsters, and gasoline sprayed from the loosened hoses as intentions became clear; a blast of fire erupted, sending people running in all directions.

Jesus, Katherine, it's all we have. What have I ever done to these people to deserve this? I can't believe this...I just can't believe this!

But Aunt Katherine wasn't looking anymore. She had retreated to the safety of her hands, shielding her eyes, weeping inconsolably, and in between sobs, softly humming What A Friend We Have In Jesus. It was the most hopeless I had ever felt in my young life.

After those events, I didn't know what to think, what to feel. Even when it was explained, I still couldn't understand what would cause people to behave that way. Violent, crazy violent, thirsting for blood. Although my family never discussed such matters with the children present, I was not entirely unaware of the racial tensions that surrounded me. I just never realized how close to the edge of explosion the situation was.

But there, that evening, in the frail shelter of our living room, watching the downtown area explode into the twilight sky, I was given a crash course in the "Race Wars."

Growing up in the cities and towns I did, there were always black people present. I never paid them any special attention. They were just part of the cultural landscape like everyone else I knew. Eventually I came to distinguish the diverse groups that comprised the places we lived: Italians, Puerto Ricans, Irish, Jewish, Blacks. Just people to me, but it sure seemed to be a preoccupation of some of the people I met as I grew up.

Like the pharmacist, Mr. Donnelley. He was an expert on the character traits, both positive and negative of every race and nationality. You see that kid over there? he whispered, pointing to the short haired, pudgy kid standing at the comic rack, Jewish as they come. Always trying to chisel me out of a few pennies when he buys them comics he loves so much. He shook his head in disgust, I tell you, they're all the same.

Just then, a black kid whom I recognized from around the neighborhood walked in. He wandered over to the candy aisle, pausing for a moment at the bubble gum section.

And them coloreds, he said, a little louder, All crooks. Gotta keep my eyes open when they come in. He looked directly at the boy; They'll rob you blind! I looked away, embarrassed, not wanting to be seen.

Hey you! Mr. Donnelley yelled at him, the kid shifting from side to side nervously, Yeah you!! What to do you want, huh?!

The kid mumbled something that sounded like "candy", but never took his eyes off the floor. Candy? he snapped, incredulously, You got any money?

This time, the kid spoke up a bit, No sir, he said, his voice breaking, but I...I...

He didn't get a chance to finish.

I thought so, Mr. Donnelley screamed, Get the hell out of here then...this ain't no amusement park!!

The poor kid shuffled out the door, stumbling on the step, and tearing into a panicked run as he hit the sidewalk.

See what I mean? he said to me, attempting to educate, That's what I gotta do to protect myself...the bastards.

That was Mr. Donnelley. Knew everything about everybody and knew just how to treat them to get what he wanted. His opinions concerning other races and nationalities were no kinder. Except where Italians and Irish were concerned. In his book, they were the best. The rest could "go to hell in a hand basket" as he would say.

When the riots broke out, engulfing the city in violent mayhem during their reign, an especially brutal sacrifice was made of Donnelley's Pharmacy. I guess he had it coming to him. Or to parphrase the man himself, "People always get what they deserve, the bastards." For once, I couldn't agree with him more.

### Fragments of Life

Pieces of my life are strewn across the continent; who knows where. So many moves, so many hurried departures. I am left with many missing years. Times where I don't know where I was, and when. And even sometimes when I think I know, another image flashes in and changes the entire conception. We always moved to the city when Mom and Dad would split up. It happened so often, I lost track. I know that her family lived there, and that she was doing the best she could. I just wished she would do the best she could somewhere else. I remember houses, places, people, all in a blur. Like looking out from the merry-go-round as it spins and spins. Except my life wasn't like that, it never stayed in one place long enough to get my bearings. Some places I only recall as if they were dreams. And instead of specific locations, I retain fragments of colors, or smells, or feelings. One house I only remember as having bathrooms with a greenish glow, like a firefly's light. Another had a basement that was always dark, and smelled of mold, and old wood. One house, wasn't a house at all, or an apartment for that matter. It was more like a tomb. We lived in an enclosure in someone's basement.

It was real small, only two rooms. One was the kitchen area. In it were a two person Formica table, the kind with all those amoeba looking shapes on it, a tiny, dull white refrigerator, and an electric grill of some type that I suppose was the stove. The sink and bathroom were outside, by the stairs. The other room, was the bedroom. It had one window that looked out into the garage. That was on the wall that I slept near. In the middle of the room was a fold-out bed for Mom, and around the walls were cots for us kids. The ceiling was low and water stained in spots. Each night as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I felt like it would come crashing down on me. I did not look forward to returning there at the end of each day. Most nights before I went to sleep, I'd open the thin, ragged drape over my cot and look out into the dimly lit extent of the basement. Boxes, clothes, more boxes, mannequins. Everything was scary and alive. What I remember most vividly is being deathly ill and having horrible nightmares. Every time I looked out at those things in the basement, I could swear they were getting closer.

There were two teenage girls who lived upstairs in the main part of the house. They were always mean to us, calling us bad names and stuff. One time, I was trading insults with the oldest one, who had a cast around her shoulders and upper back because of a recent accident. She could see that she wasn't getting anywhere, so she told me that if I didn't shut up she would break my legs. I told her if she tried I would break her cast. My mom, who had overheard our battle from inside the catacomb, came running out to reprimand me. She made me apologize to the girl, and made me feel lower than dirt for talking that way. I did as she asked, but I really wasn't sorry. I wanted desperately to hurt that bitch.

That was one of the worst of times. Other places we lived weren't as bad, relatively. Truthfully, none of the places we lived in New York City were places I cared for at all. I hated that city. Everywhere was like some hideous nightmare that I kept hoping I'd wake up from. But that never happened. The same horror greeted me day after tortured day. And each sunrise greeted me with the understanding that I was the poorest gutter trash to ever litter the streets. One time, I tried to burn the apartment down, although it didn't start that way. We were living in a second level apartment. I think they now call these Brownstones. It was arranged where you would walk up a flight of stairs to a balcony that was attached to the bottom level apartment. After entering the main door, there would be an apartment door entrance to your left and to your right, another flight of stairs to the upper apartment; that's where we lived. Uncle Gus was visiting from out of town, and he and my mom were sitting in the front room discussing adult business of some kind. I was playing in the bedroom closet. Inside, there was a big box of toys we hadn't yet unpacked from our last move. Looking at the box, I thought there certainly were any number of ways to look inside without tearing it open. It would just take a bit of thinking. Then I remembered where Mom kept some matches in the kitchen, and the idea was born.

Sneaking into the front room was easy, as the adults were at the far end wrapped up in their conversation. I slipped into the kitchen, and reaching into the silverware drawer, removed the book of matches that we kept for lighting the stove. In those places, nothing ever worked right. And if you waited for the superintendent to come by, you'd be dead and fossilized before he ever arrived. So the matches were always handy on those nights when we felt like eating dinner for a change.

The return trip to the bedroom was as easy as the outbound one. I got back in the closet, shut the door, and lit a match. I stared at it for a moment, getting lost in the yellow and blue flames, the sulfur tickling my nostrils. Holding the match to a pushed out section of the box, I watched as the flames started to take. I was mesmerized as the circle of flame grew slowly outward, leaving a ring of crunchy black and brown at its edges. By now, it was about three inches in diameter, and I could see the face of my Frankenstein model, all green and menacing, looking at me from inside the ring of fire. The beauty of the fire, the orange tinted glow inside the closet, all combined to lull me into a state of peacefulness. My original plan was to spark the flames, then quickly put them out before I was caught, but now, entranced by its magical powers, I just stared. Thinking about where life had taken me thus far, burning to death in a glorious, golden blaze seemed like a fitting summation.

But it was not to be. The smoke had drifted out into the front room capturing the attention of the adults, and they raced into the bedroom, Uncle Gus saving the day by putting out the fire with his bare hands. My Mom threw me onto the bed, and in her estimation beat me within an inch of my life. It didn't hurt though. I didn't feel anything. Just blissful numbness, my thoughts still reeling in the wonderful intoxication of the golden blaze.

### Strategies

Hiding is an art form, one that takes years to perfect. If done right, all of the bad things just go away. Like amnesia, like they never happened. And years later, when you try and try to remember, you can't. Somewhere deep inside, there's a big door, at the end of a long, dark corridor that slams shut when the pain became too much to bear. Behind that door, are all the memories. The bad ones. The evil ones. The ones too sorrowful to recall. And at times this lockup is a necessity. It's either that or risk falling over the edge of sanity. Although I'm not altogether sure that what's left would be considered sanity beyond a reasonable doubt.

Because of the constant upheaval going on around me as a kid, I got pretty good at it. In fact, it kind of turned into a game. I would pretend that I was a wizard or a warlock, someone with all sorts of powerful magic. And the things that happened to me weren't really happening to me, but to someone else. Tiny replicas that came to me for help. I would reside over them all, as they gathered around me in a circle. Each in turn, would share the horrible experiences that they just could not bare to carry any further. As the stories were recounted, I would as the grand wizard decide which memories I would erase forever, banishing them behind the black door, never to return. It would go something like this.

Number 1: I got beat up at school today. It was terrible, and humiliating.

Wizard: Hmm...was this the same kid that beat you up last time?

Number 1: Yes, except this time it was worse. He called me four eyes and smashed my glasses. Then he hit me until I cried...he called me a sissy.

Wizard: I'm very sorry to hear that. You are released from this memory.

Who else has business with me? I, the wizard, would ask.

Number 2: I've moved so many times in the last few years, I don't know where I've been. Wizard: Well, that doesn't sound so bad? Please continue.

Number 2: We always move when Mom leaves Dad. She takes us to the city. It's cold and dirty and full of mean, ugly people. They look as us with hate in their eyes and call us trash. Even Mom's family treats me bad. I don't think they love me. I think they would rather I was dead. I miss my Dad. I wish he would come save me, take me away.

Wizard: That is so painfully sad, that even I will want to erase my memory of this. You are released, poor child, you are released...and I along with you. The technique was better than effective, it was almost permanent. Whole portions of my life are lost. And whether it's because I can't remember, or don't want to is something I'm still figuring out. It was imagination that became my savior, but its effects have become my adversaries. When the life I had became too much, I simply created a reality I could live with. Problem is, I did such a good job convincing myself that things were wonderful, it's taken much dredging through old emotional swamplands just to begin understanding that they were not. Far from wonderful, not exactly unconscionable, but solidly traumatic. In a nutshell, that fairly well sums things up. But things are never that easily dispatched. There is always more, so much more.

### The Artist as a Young Dork

By the time I hit thirteen, I had begun to realize some of the perks of artistic ability. It had been more than a few years since I had progressed beyond the confines of drawing inanimate objects. Slowly, through time, I had integrated the occasional drawing of a pet, or a relative, usually my brothers or friends. Every once in a while, I would draw a portrait of grandma. I liked that because she would always give me money if I made her look young and beautiful in the picture. Also, she was a good subject because she could endure the long times it would take for me to draw the picture. Most of the times, she would fall asleep making things easy. Then I could really concentrate and do a great job. When she saw the finished picture, she was always happy.

Of course, grandma wasn't the only portrait I drew. I had started to acquire models from around the neighborhood. As I studied more about the great artists, I noticed that all of them had painted many pictures of people and gotten really good at it. I also noticed that most of the time, these people were females. And furthermore, these females were usually partially or entirely naked. Crossing the bridge of puberty had definitely brought about an interest in this last aspect. If I couldn't charm the girls' clothes off, perhaps the artist angle could work for me.

Sarah was a girl in my class. And while attending a Catholic School was supposed to keep my mind acutely focused on God, my eyes and mind were acutely focused on the cutely Sarah. With her long auburn hair, hazel eyes, and breasts charging fullspeed into womanhood, it was a bit more than difficult to maintain thoughts of a saintly nature, but extremely easy to maintain a monster erection.

Luck was with me for once, because I somehow managed to get a seat right behind her for history class. The Catholic schools of that time still used those kinds of desks that were attached to each other back to front. They were mounted on parallel steel rails and looked like a long train with the desks looking like little boxcars. Because of this design concept, I would be joyously tormented and wonderfully distracted as her scent enveloped me and her hair tumbled down onto the front edge of my desk. While parts of me attempted to absorb the finer points of world history, other parts of me were dreaming of being firmly planted in the present. All of those feelings were still very new to me. It seemed like only yesterday that I had been unaware of the opposite sex. Then it was like my eyes suddenly opened and saw what had been there all along. Not that I was one of those boys who was still collecting bugs and worms and thinking what a rich life he had. On the contrary. As far back as seven years old, I can remember playing "show me yours, show you mine" with any girls that were willing. Which at the time, appeared to be just about every one of them. We even had the occasional naked tea parties. But that was different, much different. The thoughts I was having these days were diametrically opposed to all of the teachings the Church had attempted to inculcate. And I was fairly certain that by thinking along the lines I was, that I had probably already violated seven of the Ten Commandments. But like everything else I did, I pursued it with single minded effort. If I couldn't be a saint, then I would be the greatest sinner the world had ever witnessed. How I managed it, I don't know. One minute I was discussing art and great painters with a group of classmates, and the next Sarah was agreeing to sit for a portrait. Something was either going terribly right, or headed for terribly wrong. We agreed that she would come by the next day after school. I explained to her that I might not be able to complete the drawing in one sitting and she said that she was willing to come over more than once if necessary. Her abundant willingness took me by surprise, but I was extremely glad and somewhat mystified. It was difficult to contain my exuberance so I made an effort to speak very slowly and precisely, attempting to give the impression that my interest was purely of an intellectual nature. Being so close to opportunity, I didn't want to scare her away with overt excitement.

As I talked to her, I could feel the sweat rolling down my sides. The collar of my shirt began to feel tighter, the tie feeling like a noose. When she would look directly into my eyes, I could feel my face flushing wildly. I knew that my nervousness was loudly proclaiming itself. And I knew that she was looking right through me.

A couple of guys from class pulled me aside afterwards and asked if they could come over too.

Kind of like, you know, to peek through the window or something, just in case any action started. Listen, I said, trying to sound authoritative, nothing's going to happen. She'll sit, I'll draw. That's it. They chuckled in that nervous way young boys do when they sense a potential naked girl sighting. Sure, one of them spoke up, but will she be sitting with or without clothes?

The other boys just nodded and giggled some more, nudging each other with their elbows. First, I said, no one's going to be getting naked.

Second, my room's on the second floor.

Nothing's going to happen, okay? They just kind of mumbled, yeah whatever, and shuffled off still snickering and nudging each other as they walked away. Obviously, my hopes for the portrait event were on something definitely happening, but you never can be too sure about these things. Besides, if and when something occurred, I didn't want to be reading about it in the Worship Guide at school. Somehow I just didn't think the nuns would take kindly to such activities. The next day went by so fast it was like it never happened, and before I could get my bearings, there she was, in all her youthful glory, sitting in my room, asking me how I wanted her to pose. There was one particular spot in my room that I always used for portraits. It was near the front window that faced southwest. Between three and five in the afternoon, the light came through the window at just the right angle so that it cast a luminous glow onto the subject. From where I would stand to draw, it looked like an angelic halo was around their head. And the shadows were so evenly cast, that the face took on a very high contrast aspect, making it look like a marble sculpture. If inspiration were to strike, this was certainly the proper setting.

Everything so far had gone perfectly. Here she was, sitting in my room, looking absolutely radiant, and me in command of the entire affair. It had all gone so smoothly that my resolve began to weaken. This was not what I wanted, not what I had envisioned all of those times when she would joyously dance into my daydreams; her sitting across the room, me standing at the easel; the model and the artist. No. This was not it at all. With her is where I wanted to be. Alongside. On my knees pledging undying love. Feeling her warmth. Smelling the sweetness of our mingling sweat. The fragrant lust of youth blossoming out of control. That's what I wanted, needed. Not this. Not this ruse. Fear overcame me, and my ability crawled away, slithering out the door and down the steps. For the next hour I attempted three different drawings, but none of them were satisfactory. In frustration, I finally gave up for the day. I said that suddenly I was feeling ill, and perhaps we should try this another time. She just smiled in that sweet, tender way of hers and said it was okay. She understood.

I walked her to the front door and waved goodbye. As I watched her turn, and slowly walk away, I knew at that young age, that this would be the first of many failed attempts in what would prove to be an unforgiving arena. That whatever emotional equipment was necessary to devise and then implement the sexual ruse was something I did not possess nor ever would. It just wasn't in me. And time and time again my introspective temperament would lash me to the boulders of self-doubt, holding me prisoner to my better nature.

### Dental Debilitations

The raindrops gathered on the windshield, scurrying for position. Sparkling, singing. Like watching a time lapse recording of the universe's creation. Stars appearing in clusters, gathering, expanding, until the sky was a billion specks of shimmering light. The wiper swept across the field of stars, smearing them across the heavens. The driver turned left on Abernathy, the doors opening at the stop a few yards down the street.

Here's your stop kid, he said.

Thank you, I responded.

I grabbed the railing and swung into the doorway, bouncing once on the steps before bounding out the open doors. The driver smiled at me and the doors creaked shut. I stood and waited while the bus left me there, a cloud of exhaust trailing behind it. Across the street, rising up from the heat of the city sidewalk like a great, red phoenix, was my destination: The Eastman Dental Building. The large brick building, tall and ominous, did not make me feel any better about being there. Once every few months, I would make the trip alone, right from school to have my teeth cleaned. Often, it was more than cleaning I ended up getting.

I hesitantly crossed the street, stopping once at the other side wondering if I could get away with not going. How would Mom know? I wasn't sure how, but she'd figure it out one way or another. She always did.

The rain began to come down harder, so I ran up the three stairs that lead to the high doorways of the building. My favorite part of coming here was getting to play in the revolving doors. I'd wait until no one was waiting on either side, then I'd get into the doorway and go around and around. Sometimes, when I got carried away, I wouldn't notice that someone was waiting to come or go. I would be having a good old time when I would look up and be greeted with a stern look of disapproval, usually accompanied by a little finger wagging. Once the fun was over, it was time for the moment of truth. The moment I dreaded. Now there would be no turning back.

I checked in at the desk where the redheaded lady sat. She looked to be older than my Mom, and not very pretty. To compensate, she wore tons of makeup. So much that I was sure if I were to fall and grab for her face, I would pull off three inches of goo with a few more to spare. I wondered if she had nephews and grandsons who were already being terrorized by her approaching hideousness, knowing that she would always want to kiss and kiss on them. Just thinking about it made me sick. She wrote my name down on the big pad of paper that she had, and pointed with her long, bony fingers to the winding stairs that led to the torture chamber. Those were the longest two flights of stairs that I ever climbed. But they were always much faster on the way down. Sometimes, if I weren't too tired and drugged, I'd slide down them like they do in the movies.

The inside of the building was real nice. Fancy and all. Everywhere were marble columns, parquet flooring in a multitude of brown shades-I never realized how many shades of brown there were-and brass fixtures and ornaments, sparkling like gold. They even had big chandeliers overhead that must have had one hundred lights on them. I wondered whose job it was to change the light bulbs when they went bad.

At home, it was usually my job. It seemed that whenever a light went out I happened to be in the room so I would get the honor. I had figured out a way to get the bulb out by gripping it near the base, right close to the socket part. It was the coolest there, so even when the bulbs were scorching hot, I could remove them fairly easy. No one in the family could understand how I was able to do that. It was my little secret. Kind of like a trade secret you might say. At the top of the stairs is where the torture chamber was. It was huge and scary. I would just stand there, before entering the lobby and look into the big room to see what was happening. There was activity everywhere. People in white coats, shiny silver discs strapped to their heads, running all over the place, talking, and laughing.

Rows and rows of dental chairs lined the room on either side, with two additional rows, side by side, running up the middle. There must have been fifty seats in there. And every one always seemed to be occupied. The high ceilings made it very loud and echoed. It sounded like a giant tunnel. Everything would mix together until it almost became one sound, something obscure and bizarre. The whirring of drills, running water, spitting, coughing, the occasional screaming, would all blend into a wall of confusion. And even out in the lobby, you could smell the strong astringents and cleaning compounds. Just knowing that I would soon be the next sacrificial victim made me break out in a cold sweat.

Instead of waiting in the main area, I went to the secondary one. It was a little further away from the chamber area and therefore offered a bit of relief from the noise-induced trepidation. That room was quieter, and not many people went in there. It looked like it was actually a waiting room for another dental office, one with not so many dentists. The lighting in it was subdued, and there were big fish tanks with lots of colorful fish. There were large Sunfish, and Eels, and one tank even had a miniature shark in it. I liked to stand at that one and press my face against the glass, pretending that I was in the ocean, face to face with the killer shark. I imagined that I was getting smaller and smaller, and disappearing into the tank. So small that no one could ever find me.

It seemed strange to me that all those dentists were in one room like that. When I watched dentists on TV, they always had rooms all to themselves. I asked Mom about it.

Well honey, she said, it's because that building you go to is a school. A dental school. That's where they learn how to be dentists.

I was a bit confused. If it's a school, how come they're all standing around in that room and not sitting at desks?

Mom laughed and rubbed my head. No, silly. They don't sit at the desks all day. The way they learn to be dentists is by practicing what they learn in the classroom. That's what they're doing in that big room...practicing. It's like their classroom. If Mom was trying to ease my mind, she had missed a turn somewhere. Was she telling me that these people weren't even "real dentists?" That they were practicing on real people where they could make "real mistakes?"

Why can't I go to a real dentist, Mom? That place is too scary.

It's the best we can do honey. Other dentists are too expensive, that's why you go to the school.

Money. It was at the root of all things. And there never seemed to be enough. I'm not sure what enough was, in dollars and cents. I measured money by what we could not afford.

Food was not a concern. I suppose I should feel lucky in that regard. Even if the provisions did not come through direct result of my parent's efforts, there was always an abundance of family ready and willing to pitch in. Whether or not they viewed us as on the verge of starvation, I don't know. All I know is that we did not go hungry.

Shelter too was always provided, albeit to varying degrees of satisfaction. Sometimes, we'd be living in multi-room houses. This was the case when the family was together, meaning that Mom and Dad for the present were able to ignore their differences and successfully exist as strangers under the same roof. And I emphasize the word exist, as what they had could not properly be termed living. One the other side of the coin, were the times we would be whisked away from Dad, home, friends, etc. and shuttled off to the city -New York City - where we would live in apartments of random sorts. Some of these were not all bad, although they were not entirely good. If we were fortunate, and Mom had a bundle of cash before our swift departures, we could be assured of a reasonably nice dwelling. Not only in the direct sense of the apartment itself, but also the building and neighborhood it was part of. This was of utmost concern, because in the city, more so than in any other environment, "neighborhood" could be the difference between life and death. Cities were horrible places. This was the understanding I grew up with. Looking back, I suppose that it grew from certain emotional factors that could not be separated from the locale. Namely, we were again leaving everything behind that we had come to know and love - once more, to challenge the unforgiving frontiers of the cold city. And not only was the regional location less than desirable, simply by virtue of being the city itself, but also the company we were forced to keep by way of inheritance. Dislike is not a strong enough word to convey the feelings of Mom's family toward us. Contempt would be closer to the truth. We were not viewed simply as her children, their grandsons, nephews, cousins. We were the bastards. The bastards of the bastard that had ruined Mom's life. And whatever wrath they could not impose on the man directly, they directed towards us; the innocent. I did not see things as they did. Perhaps if I had become a turncoat and pledged allegiance to the Cuban revolution, proclaiming my father to be in league with Fidel Castro, the Devil, or evil incarnate, perhaps, just maybe, I would have gained acceptance. But this was not going to happen. I had learned long ago, whether from uncharacteristic wisdom, or merely out of self-preservation, that whatever problems Mom had with Dad, or vice versa, were their problems exclusively. And it had nothing to do with me besides the fact that my orbit would be occasionally intruded upon by their colliding atmospheres. They lived their lives the best they could, as did I with my limited scope of understanding. And from where I stood, I didn't see what all the fuss was about anyway.

My father was a good man, a loving man. He provided for the family in the best way he could. Unfortunately, his best was not enough. If there is anyone at fault here, perhaps it is providence. It had turned its back on us, the lot of us, and left us to fend for ourselves like wild dogs in the hot, inscrutable desert, fighting for scraps of food and unsuitable shelter.

If God indeed had a face, and a memory for every life detail of every life he created, he had experienced a lapse of his faculties, because we had been forgotten in the grand scheme as surely as if we had never been invented.

White trash? No. But neither were we middle class. The place we occupied was a place especially reserved for those who defy category, and "defy" was precisely at the core of everything we did. While life was not wholly devastating, neither was it entirely bearable. The existence we carved out of life's rocky terrain was one that bordered on just tolerable, an undefined area that left you feeling neither shame at your lowliness nor elation at your grand fortune - it was just there. Like the gray-yellow scrim that surrounded the New York skyline. Just there, hovering, waiting, not diminishing or expanding...just there.

### Pubescent Paradox

Thirteen is a difficult time; all the odds are stacked against you. Between the voice changing, the physical clumsiness, the self consciousness, the zits and the curlies beginning to invade your pecker, it's a wonder we make it through at all. Not to mention of course, the affliction that is to be endured for at least the next few years: the bonafide boner. The creature would appear at the most embarrassing and inopportune times, always in need of immediate attention. And if a female was anywhere in the near vicinity, the insistent bastard would lead you to her like a divining rod. The most fucking embarrassing thing I could imagine at any age. Then it happened, it was one of those relationships that never should have been, me and Tracy. But a twist of fate had intervened, interrupting the natural order. She was one of the untouchables. Females that are so far up the food chain that males at the bottom could only hope to sneak the occasional glance up their skirts as they climbed higher and higher, eventually disappearing into the clouds. I knew what I was; second class shit. And I knew what she was; unattainable. Still, I looked and dreamt.

Her smile was luminous. And her long, auburn hair caught the sun's light, spinning it into ribbons of gold. Her walk was effortless, like she floated on a cushion of air. And the sound of her voice was pure silk honey. I think she was from Virginia, or Carolina. Southern definitely. And the lilting quality of that accent drove me wild with lustful fantasies. I'm getting a rod just thinking about it. All was sent into a whirl and the polar axes shifted. We were thrown together by what I consider divine intervention. Divine for me anyway. This girl was my fantasy woman. The kind of girl that I would wake up from dreaming about in the middle of the night and have to jack-off just to ease the painful throbbing. Tracy. What a tasty babe. And now, we were working at the same place. Luck? Or fate? Who cares??

Talking to her came easy. I just kept to things involving the work at hand. My Dad had scored a food concession for the Italian Festival. This was by far the biggest Italian event of the Rochester year; everybody was here. And of course, Dad would not miss out on such a great money making opportunity. Through his connections, he was able to grab the best location, in the biggest of the tented areas. And there I was. Grinning from ear to ear when I was introduced to "my crew" as Dad called them. I was always his right hand man in all the ventures he got involved in and fortunately for me, Dad also had an eye for the ladies. And he could sure pick 'em. Yes sir. It was like Christmas.

Daddy?

Yes son?

Can I have that one? The one with the long, auburn hair? And the big tits?

Sure, son. Anything for my boy!

Incredible good fortune was an understatement. It was un-fucking-believable!!

The crowds were intense. Hordes of people squashed into that tent like mashed potatoes. All of the chatter mingling into an incessant buzzing. Lights everywhere. The summer heat blistering through. Sweat pouring off in sheets.

Working behind the hot food stand, selling sausages, meatballs, and pasta was not the most comfortable place to be during this unseasonably hot spell. The action was fierce. A blur of non-stop movement from the time we opened at 10:00 am, until the place shut down at midnight. I had never seen people eat so much food at once. Especially hot food, with the weather at its most sweltering.

During the lunch breaks, Tracy and I would go sit out back of the tent and have a smoke. Being the only person she knew, and the boss's son helped leverage me right into position. As I got to know her, I started to see a different side of her. One I didn't expect. I'm not seeing Matt anymore, she said. She looked up at me then looked away, fumbling with a piece of thread on her apron string.

Really? I said, I'm sorry. You liked him a lot, didn't you?

She kind of shrugged her shoulders and brushed the hair out of her eyes. Turning her head to look at me, the sun caught the corner of her eyes, making them shine like crystal waters.

Well, she said, I used to. But then he changed. Guys always do...after awhile.

I took a long drag on my cigarette, luxuriating in the smoke as I exhaled into the still, damp air. Changed? I was curious at what would make her reconsider.

The last I had heard, things were so great they were already discussing marriage as a near future event. They had been the epitome of the ultimate high school romance. Handsome, privileged, athletic type. Parents with money and position. The best clothes. The best cars. The best colleges wooing him. He had it all. Then to top it off, a beautiful girlfriend like Tracy. Who could want more? Him? Maybe, although I couldn't see why. But Tracy? I had thought she was blissfully happy? At least that's the impression she had always given. Until now.

Well, she began, pushing the dirt around with her right foot, he became very demanding. He took to calling me "his woman." Started to following me around. Always suspicious and accusing. I don't know what has gotten into that man?

Listening to her tell me this in that lilting, southern style of hers made it sound sweet and sentimental. I wanted to hug her, hold her. Tell her it would be okay. That I would make things all better. But telling me that she had a psycho boyfriend on the prowl didn't do much to inspire me to action. Did he touch you? I asked, sheepishly.

She cocked her head to one side, giving me a sharp, quizzical look. Touch me??

The emotion was rising in my throat. I took another puff of my smoke, then squashed it into the dirt. Exhale...You know, like did he beat you or anything? Her face opened and she giggled, although I didn't see what was so funny.

Oh no, silly. It wasn't like that! She tilted her head back slightly, shaking her head "no" for emphasis, exposing her long, sensuous neck that ran straight down to her plunging cleavage line. No, not like that at all!! She giggled again and her cheeks flushed.

I was becoming annoyed. Okay then?? How exactly was it??

He was cheating on me, she blurted out.

I felt like a piece of warmed over shit. Hey, look....

I'm sorry...I...I was just...

She held up her hand to stop me. It's okay; not your fault Matt is an unfaithful worm. Took to it real easy too. Like a pig takes to mud. I called him on it, he denied it. But I knew, I always did. For all that boy's smarts he's not so bright when it comes to the ways of a woman. Just stood there lying to me. Looked me right in the eyes. Bastard! Would never work with us...never. Anyone who could take to lying ways so natural like is not someone I want to marry and...head shaking slowly side to side.

She looked at the ground as a tear rolled down her cheek and bombed her shoe with a splash, creating another trail as it ran down the sides. Her shoulders began mildly convulsing. She was crying softly, trying to remain strong. Bastard! she said again...bastard.

### Rebuttal

Safety. My life has become so safe that safety itself is now the enemy. It stalks and assaults me at every turn. Every thought and decision colored by it. Every move made with it foremost in mind. Every feeling cross-checked by it. Safety. A word that has become more distasteful as life progresses. Who knew to expect such an occurrence, less yet anticipate its arrival? So silently did it approach. Not a sound, not a whisper. No footsteps were heard on the snow encrusted earth, just beyond life's door. Nothing. Only silence. Dread silence. Then one day, with terror in my heart, I woke to find it had taken over. Consumed all. Had irrevocably infested my being. Had planted its roots deep and strong. How did this happen? Was I not vigilant? Could it yet be overcome? Could it yet be cast back to the darkness that bore it? The questions ring through the cavernous depths that once housed my soul, my passion, my thirst for life. If all is behind me, all living, all exploration, all variance save what safety commands, what is left? Perhaps I will take the challenge; escape, cast off and cast out. Drift at sea. Travel the globe with nothing but my wits to provide. Dine in castles and grovel in the gutters. Sleep with the stars and roll with the whores. Taste life in all of its colors, no regard for safety, no thought of tomorrow; only hedonism. The fruit of life to sustain. Rock n' Roll. All the world my stage. Dancing, singing, drinking to excess, wild orgies, waking in strange surroundings, forgetting who I am, where I'm from, where I was going before the emancipation. Could this be the true call of freedom? Finally, after all these years of interminable darkness? Once I foolishly grabbed what I thought to be the golden ring, but alas, years passed, suckling me at the breast of illusion, intoxicating me with lies, anesthetizing my sensibilities with rhetoric. The path for tragedy was set.

The shades of the universe were drawn. And after a long Rip Van Winkle sleep, I returned to find that safety had seized command. Had usurped all individual authority with its proclamation:

"I am sovereign. None shall act with autonomy lest they incur the consequences. My name shall be first from your lips when you rise. My image shall be last before you slumber. My voice shall be the song that guides your every action. I am the one true God: Safety. Have no other before me."

And now I want; I long; I yearn for a life without safety....

Yet again the psychotic squirrel runs amok.

### Darkness Stalking

I come home every evening to a long, tired, face. A face with a blank stare; fatigued, abused, confused and dejected. A mirror of my soul. Although it is not my face that I see, but the face of my wife, my love. She who I have given the eternity of my existence to. What has caused such a grim specter to appear? No more light. No more sparkle. No more hope behind her eyes. Only despondency. Morbid despondency.

I recall the times in my own dark and primeval despair, when the feel and scent of death were heavy in the air around me. How I longed to return to the warm home-fires, weary and torn, to look upon her always cheerful countenance. Her radiant smile that would set her face aglow. Her joyous soul leaping from its depths, reaching into my emptiness, and withdrawing my tormented soul into the light, to join it, her, in a dance of celebration, a dance of triumph. These were the moments that gave me to understand the necessity of our union. For I have always been of the darker variety, ruled by Mercury, Saturn. Dark and gloom weaving their misery through my twisted form.

My demons are strong and many. My minions; they call me master. I know them by name. Yet they are quick to bite the hand that feeds them and are not hesitant to turn. But our association is old, as old as time. A comfort level has been reached. But my love, my beautiful, fragile love, is unfamiliar with their power; their all consuming nature. Once the taste of blood is on their lips, they become ravenous and will not cease until all remnant of human flesh is devoured. That is their way.

And this night, as I again stand here, looking upon her face that once radiated the springtime of youth and exuberance, I feel cold, bitter cold, the onset of a harsh, ice encrusted winter. Stillness, darkness, death. No rustling of hope. Only the cold earth, opening to greet her plummeting body and soul. And I, powerless to intervene, feel helpless, useless, heartbroken.

What words can I speak? What incantation can I recite to drive away the dark creatures that assail her? Is loving her not enough? Or is it my love that is destroying her? Perhaps words. Simple but powerful words. Words of compassion and caring, life and hope. I try, but am again defeated. For these devices too, have opposition; they fall on deaf ears. I have too quickly forgotten that the walking dead do not hear. They are frozen in transit, suspended in motion. The world of the living and the world of the walking dead travel a parallel course, yet between these two worlds there is no bridge, no expanse, that will fill the dividing gulf. Only time...patience and time. Yet again the psychotic squirrel runs amok.

### Final Canvas

Amadeo Sosa, Cuban painter and sculptor, lesser known but always painted from life. Nature is alive and always changing. The drama of sky, earth, wind, smell, sound and total reality is so original that its immediacy forced him into unexpected discovery. He seems immediately drawn to certain scenes, but then lets nature take over. There are so many variations - seasons, times of day, weather - that a scene can be different every day. He was passionately attracted to nature and wanted to feel and see whatever he painted. He also liked to paint people, because he was curious about personalities. Most faces twist and turn like landscapes and change like the sky. The sky changes constantly, filled with dark, light, sun, sunrays, moon and stars, sunrise, sunset. Earth and sky rhythms repeat. All nature has what we would call abstract forms. Artists select, add, omit, exaggerate, distort through their personality so that the subject is abstracted once more. For him, the manipulation of pure geometric shapes became an intellectual exercise. Objects in nature have subtle or pronounced variations, like fingerprints and snowflakes. Nature points to individuality, to variations in overall patterns. He is also given to manipulating geometric shapes when painting a flat horizon line, a round sun, cloud forms, but somehow, by responding directly to nature, he was pulled into fusion with a world always unique. And in his masters repertoire of works he left the legacy that would, in its graceful evocations, be the story of my life: Still Life with Psychotic Squirrel. Would that I could use it to convert the plague of my past from bad to good and use it as the engine to power my future.
