Archive | Stories RSS for this section

The Big-boy Envelope

NK-Letter

 

Do you suppose that Donald J. Trump even realizes how insulted he was in this picture?  He was just handed a “Yes you are!  Yes you are a big-boy!” envelope for all the world to see.  What a colossal jack-ass!

Advertisements

Marionette

Puppets

“Not a puppet! Not a puppet! Not a puppet!”  D.J.T.

 

The strings are invisible, and mostly of the mind, but once one learns to see them, one can find a way to cut them.

 

Proviso: If you wish.

 

Restriction: Be careful of the muscles and ligaments, they help one move.

 

The Fall of The House of Trump

Img01_04-18-2018

it would be a comedy if it was not so scary . . .

Even in the boonies where the deep state lives (the people are the deep state) they are starting to smell a rat.

 

As Seen On TV

ICICLES
…moving before the sun…

 

Even though it is on TV, I prefer my evening news filled with thought rather than read with passion. The news read with passion rather than thought is empty. An old Dragnet line comes to mind, “Just the facts Ma’am.”

My love stories I prefer delivered with passion rather than thought. There is a fine madness in the biochemical reaction that people call love. Thought rarely has anything to do with it.

Documentaries should have both, thought and passion. As in school, you know that somebody is trying to teach you something. With TV you can change the channel if you have made the wrong choice.

When I am not watching the news, love stories, or documentaries, I am writing my own stories. For those I have to do my own research. The voices narrating are tested every step of the way, and sometimes they lie.

 

The Media

5247 Nov. 79

 

What to do when you are listening to different news groups telling you yes, no, and maybe. Try to listen to the voices that give you hope, but do not believe them until you can prove to yourself that event did come true. Do not beat yourself up when you find out you were wrong. Learn from the mistake, pick up the pieces, and build a new belief system: repeat.

Try to learn to not lie to yourself, other people will do that for you. Try and also remember that when people are telling you the truth, they may also be telling you the truth for a reason. Ask them why, and when they answer, try and figure out if they are lying to you or themselves. “Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.”

Think of life as a desert and remember “in the desert, no man meets a friend”. Try and remember on that long Silk Road to enjoy the caravanserai when you find them.

The Lost Room

3071 Dec. 72

 

For those of you who like a nice season of what do the little people do when they run into the deeply weird, I highly recommend a made for TV mini-series called “The Lost Room”. I believe it had hopes of a second session, but never went on. That is why I like to call it a mini-series, although it was not designed as such. A strange event has happened in a motel room, leaving objects scattered about that ­­are fragments of some greater power and possessing little powers all their own. It is another look at what has floated through film for years; what happens when someone is given god-like powers?

I bring it up because something crossed my mind the other day. The image of the single room as a metaphor for humanity’s view of the universe. Plato has his cave of shadows, I present to you the room.

Picture a person inside a room. It can be any shape, a cube, a cuboid, even a dodecahedron: any three dimensional shape with walls. On each of these walls, there are doors: wood doors, metal doors, sliding doors, but they are all locked from the outside, and there is no key. Each wall also has a window, but the curtains are drawn from the outside. They cannot be opened. Maybe some of them have black out curtains.

There is a light switch somewhere outside the room, and someone, or something turns it on and off on some kind of regular schedule. The light source can be seen, maybe it is a beautiful chandelier. Maybe it is a bare bulb on a bit of insulated wire. It helps regulate when you sleep and when you wake.

The person in the room has everything they need to be happy. There are other people if they want them; there are no people if they do not. There are games. There is food. There is adventure. There is peace. It is all there.

They really do not need to know what is outside the room, but one night they stay awake after dark and notice that through the curtains a little light seeps in, at least with some of the windows, others do not. Sometimes there is a little light under the door. They begin to wonder what is out there. They do not have to, but humans seem to do that.

It becomes one of their games, their conversations. Why light in some windows, not in others? Why do the windows and doors not open? Is it all an illusion? Is the light under control, or does it just work like that? The windows and doors and lights could just be there for no reason. How can we find out?

I cannot help but think that things have changed since Plato’s cave metaphor. Our reality, at least my own, has become much more inside/outside oriented based on the idea of the room rather than on the room itself.   Was Plato’s cave of shadows based upon a real cave and observation, or was it an idea of an idea. My room metaphor seems to be a construct of a construct. Has the X number of years of humanity stepping back from the natural world allowed us to make more use of ideas about ideas, and has our ability to observe the world around us and to draw theories from it been blunted by lack of use? Maybe that is why I have such a hard time with extrapolating substrata in geology while looking at a surface in the world, too many preconceive ideas.

I have watched more and more movies based on videogames, not on real events. There have been movies based on books probably since the beginning of film. If not books, then the pulp magazines.  So these would be made up stories about made up stories.  Maybe this is why film has a classification called documentaries.  I might even through in the “based on a true event” films as made up stories about stories.

It was over Thanksgiving that I ran into my my niece and nephew, they are much bigger than the last time I saw them. They are in high school and college now. One of them had just discovered Plato’s cave and were just as intrigued by the picture as I was when I first heard it. I never did get around to asking if they had heard the one about Socrates being shown writing for the first time, and him saying this looked like a bad idea. People could learn things without having the wisdom to use or not use them. I think that story was attributed to Xenophon, but I have yet been able to source it.

So I have a metaphor of a room. It is based on an idea of a room, not drawn from some experience of a room. As a writer, I wonder if that is as good of a mechanism for telling a tale, or is it better to have a real, slap in the face contact event to draw upon than just an idea.

The preface of “Lyric Ballads” talks about powerful emotion remembered in moments of calm. So it would seem they favor the experience over the idea. I favor it myself, but my inner Hobbit is less enthusiastic to those “nasty uncomfortable things that make you late for dinner”.   It has been that way most of my life. Maybe it has to do my frail younger years, and I turned inward. Then I was forced by life to turn outward.

The question remains to be explored: metaphor of metaphor, or life creating metaphor? I lean toward gnostic learning, personal contact. What is your take?

Interdimensional Paperwork

6366 Nov. 81

 

I was working at picking up the recycling on Earth 1457 the other day, moonlighting is so much easier when multiple aspects of the self are doing the same job as in this Earth. There is some easy bleed through.

I came across a piece of white ledger with a few editor marks in red pen. There also was a big red X covering the entire text, somebody decided not to keep this in whatever they were writing.

It read like this:

“The Devil spawned the Democrats,” he said, “and even though I may be best dealmaker in the whole world, I think that Satan did too good a job on these guys.”

That was it.

I stared at it over the open gaylord before I tossed it in, kicking absentmindedly at the pallet underneath the big box.

Now in my reality, with what is going on, I thought it might be a quote out of the Earth’s “Sound and Fury” book. It certainly did not make it in our edition.  But I could not decide who said it in that world: Trump, Pence, or Bannon.  If they even had those guys in that reality.

For the rest of the day I had “The Devil went down to Georgia, he was looking for a soul to steal.” by the Charlie Daniels Band running through my head.

Authority Files

 

I drink too much; I’m partly drunk now.  Mary left me last week; she told me I needed to talk to somebody: a psychiatrist.  I was doing fine up until a month ago when the nightmares started again.  Started drinking again, and finally got drunk enough to tell her the story.  She thinks I’m nuts.  It only took her a week to leave me after I told her.

Go to a shrink?  I’d rather kill myself with the booze.  They wouldn’t believe me either.  Things like that don’t happen, can’t happen.  No white rooms for me.  Computer rooms?  They’re mostly all white.  I’m even writing on a computer.  I shouldn’t be writing this.  It can get me this way.  He’s dead, isn’t he?  I should know, I killed him.  But that damn machine is still out there.

I’m drunk enough.  I can write this.  Maybe it will help me forget it.

It started in college, working in the library.  That’s on a computer most of the time inputing bibliographic records into a large nationwide system.  All big libraries are computerized these days.   They don’t even have card catalogs anymore.  They’re linked into networks of holdings.  You can punch in a title, and if one library doesn’t have it, another one does.

So I had a lot of library experience and decided to go to library school.  That’s what they like to call an MLS in the library business, a Master of Library Science.  That’s where they taught me about authority files.  Authority files keep all those computer records straight.  Uniform titles, authors, series: everything neat and tidy.  Just check your authority file.

I was fresh out of graduate school, looking for my first job.  But times were tight for librarians.  Nobody was hiring in reference work, and I was tired of cataloging.   So when I heard about a new bibliographic network starting in the Pacific Northwest, I applied.  When I took the call for an interview, I was down and out.  There were only a couple hundred left in the account.  So I had to follow through.  The rent had to be paid; I had to eat.

The network was based in Seattle.  It always rains in Seattle, at least that’s what everybody says.  The first time I saw Seattle it was sunny, warm, with blue skies.  The interview went well, and I was offered the job.  It was checking records against an authority file just like the records I input back in college.  I was a natural.  I took it.

You have to make sure those records are all the same or they get all messed up.  Too many ways to spell a name, too many open entries.  And you have to close those entries when they are finished.  You have to close those entries.

Do you know what Seattle reminds me of now?  Something washed up on a beach.  Some huge pale sea-beast with tentacles reaching out into the dark forests and mists of the Sound.  It’s something that doesn’t quite belong there. A modern technological wonder somehow linked to ancient forces that twist the finest ideas along dark paths.  It’s evil.  Like that white room where they put me to work, with a couple of computer terminals, me on one and him on another.

At first I didn’t think of him as strange.  A spindly little clerical worker, yes, a bit of a nerd, yes, but just a guy.  His name was Drew.

He was about forty I guess, thin greying hair, black plastic glasses, and fond of those button up sweaters you parents always made you wear when you were a kid.  I guess he was always cold.  Computers need to be cool.  Drew was cold inside anyway.  After we were introduced by our supervisor, he never said a word except to answer my questions about work.

It started to get on my nerves.  I didn’t know anybody in the town.  He was my closet contact to a human being in that little room with the computers.  It started to seem like the whole world.  So I started to talk to him, started to work my way through that cold exterior.  We didn’t have anything in common except books.  That’s where I stared.  If I knew what I know now, I would have asked him to a Seahawks game and put him right off.

We talked American writers, English writers, French writers: good writers and bad writers.  We didn’t really connect on who we liked, but literature was at lease a beginning.  He liked Wordsworth, I liked Coleridge.  When I brought up Poe, Drew brought up Hawthorne.  Fitzgerald brought up Hemingway, Cather made him talk of Anderson.  Baudelaire turned him to Voltaire.  He was kind of stuffy in what he liked, nothing too far out of  line with the world as he saw it.

I finally asked him out for a drink after work.  To my surprise, he excepted.  We ended up at a little dive near the U district.  It was quiet that night, we could hear each other.  Before we went in, he stuck a quarter into a paper-stand for the evening edition.  He set it carefully folded between us on the bar, occasionally glancing at it as we talked over our first couple of drinks.  Eventually there was a lull in the conversation.

Drew picked up the paper and turned straight to the obituaries without even glancing at the front page.  Scanning the column of people who had died, his eyes stopped at a name.  His lips curled up into a smile.  Setting it in front of me, he tapped his finger on the notice.

“Good, I’m glad he’s dead.  Never liked him anyway,” he said with definite glee, no remorse what so ever.  His actions were those of man almost expecting what he had found.  It was a stupid thought, but it did cross my mind.  He must have heard it on the radio or something.

I looked at the name.  I’d heard of it somewhere before.  Reading quickly, it turned out that I probably had.  He had been a minor writer over the last ten or twenty years.  He had turned to politics for a time in the sixties, little protests and court cases over the war, women’s liberation: that kind of thing.

“Hell, I thought he was dead years ago,” I commented.  “I guess I’ll have to close his entry in the database.”

“Humph,” he breathed out, “don’t even bother.”

It was just a statement of disgust, but thinking back there was something else there.  We closed out our evening early and he went his way, I went mine.

When I arrived at work the next day, I sat down with my first cup of coffee in front of the machine.  I glanced over at the empty station where my fellow drone should have been sitting.  He was a little late today.  No big deal, he usually stayed late.  I started sorting through the set-works.  Then I remembered the obituary from last night.

I keyed in the name.  It came up readily enough with about half a dozen entries attached.  He wasn’t prolific or anything.  I was about to put his date of death in after the little dash following his birth date, but it was already there.  Somebody had beaten me to it.  I looked over at the empty terminal.  He couldn’t have.  And there was nobody else in the office that would have.  Just a strange screw-up I guessed.  Like me, somebody else had figured that he was dead years ago.  But it was this years date?

Drew wandered in about an hour late.  He looked a little worse for wear from the night before.  The man wasn’t use to drinking.  It was break time before he looked like he could be spoken to.  I told him about the closing date.

“I told you not to bother,” was his answer.  “I closed it yesterday morning.”

I still thought he had heard it on the radio or TV, on the way to work or something, and shrugged it off.  I went  back to correcting records, and sending them back if they were too messed up.  AACR2 has to be stuck to, there are rules to find pigeon holes.

After lunch, Drew was looking a lot better.  We started to talk about one of my favorite writers from the sixties.  He had recently been rediscovered by a whole new generation.  He was on the supermarket shelves.  That must have annoyed him no end, being in a supermarket was counter to all he wrote about.

Of course my co-worker hated him with a passion.  Our discussion grew a little hot.   With a final jibe about what a crummy writer the man was, and how stupid the people were who actually read  him, the man called me around to his side of the work station.  He pointed to the screen of his terminal.

Drew had called up the authority file record on the CRT.  There was my author’s name all neatly outlined in little green electrons on the screen.  He had placed his cursor next to the dash by his birth date.  The man typed in the current year as his death, making him dead according to the computer.  A totally contented look filled his face.  I frowned my displeasure.

“Ha, ha, ha,” I let fall in a totally bored way.  He was pissing me off the little jerk.  I went back to work, and we didn’t say anything to each other for the rest of the day.  I didn’t plan to say much to him for the rest of my life.  I’d just about decided he was too much of a geek, and I’d rather be bored and lonely.  I went home at five, ate some food, had some beer over the tube, and fell asleep to late night static.

After a shower in the morning, I pulled in the paper from the concrete and wrought iron “veranda” outside my front door.  That’s what I liked to call the walk-up to my one bedroom apartment.  The paper boy was getting to be a better shot by then.  I was pouring my coffee when the article on the front page made me spill it.

It was the freakiest thing that had ever happened to me.  That writer was dead as hell, some kind of car accident.

“Weird coincidence,” I thought out loud.

That was the sort of thing I would gladly have drunk away the night talking to my friends about back in college.  But I didn’t have any friends here, just work, and Drew.  I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of mentioning it.  I didn’t have to.

“I’m glad he’s dead too,” was what he hit me with first thing in the morning.  He had the same smile he had back in the bar that night.

“I’m not,” I answered as indifferently as I could.  I was not happy about how happy he was.  “It was strange the way it happened though.”

“Bullshit.” Drew said firmly.  “I killed the fucker.”

‘He’s crazy as well as a loon,’ I said to myself.  He must have known what I was thinking.

“I can prove it.  Who do you want me to kill.  As long as they’re in the machine, I can kill them.  All I have to do is close the entry.”

“Sure . . .” I hesitated.  I decided to humor him.  “Kill the president you jerk.”

“No, I like him.  I only kill the people I want to.”

I didn’t say anything else to him.  I worked on the machine for the rest of the day, took long breaks, and generally avoided him until I could get out of there.  He was totally nuts.  The squirrel had finally cracked up in his chosen profession.  I decided then and there, I wanted a nice quiet library to work in.  I wasn’t going to wind up like this freak.  I made it home with out talking to him.  There was a bottle around and beer in the fridge.   I forgot about the day fast.

That night the dream started.  I woke up sweating in Seattle and it wasn’t the humidity.  It took place at work.  Drew was sitting across the way from me doing his job.  I was closing entries on my terminal.  I glanced down at what I was doing.  When I looked up again, he was the skulled face of Death.  I go back to work, try and ignore him.  When I look up again his eyes are staring into me.  There are no eyes, just empty sockets, but I know that they are looking at me.  It scares me.  I decide not to look up again.  I close more entries.  Then I look down at my own hands; they are bones.  They rattle on the keys.  I have become Death.  I woke up and had to check if my hands still had flesh on them.  I had to go into the bathroom and look in the mirror to see if I still had a face.

It  was just a dream, I knew that.  But I didn’t get back to sleep until it was nearly light outside.  I woke up tired, made coffee.  Drank it while I took a shower, and pulled on some cloths.  When I pulled in the paper from outside, I didn’t even look at it, just let it sit on the kitchen table.  I wasn’t afraid or anything, just didn’t have the time.

When I arrived at work, Drew was already at his terminal.  He didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t about to.  The days passed like this.  If it wasn’t work related, we didn’t talk.  And during those days, I never opened the newspaper.  I began to think I was afraid to look.  I was running down fast.  Drinking helped, but I always woke up with a hangover.  When I didn’t drink, I woke up terrified.  It was starting to show in my work.  I was making mistakes.  This couldn’t go on.

One morning I decide that what I was feeling was all bullshit.  I walked deliberately to the front door of my apartment and ripped open the paper and started reading it.  On the second page, the coffee cup froze half way to my lips.  Another writer was dead.  This time a poet from the beat generation of the fifties.  I didn’t want to go to work that day.  I called in sick.  But that only worked for one day.  I had to face the evil little man tomorrow.  He had become the “evil little man” in my mind.  I was really cracking up.

It was just a coincidence.  I kept telling myself this.  I would go to work the next day and everything would be fine.  He would just be a clerical worker.  When I went to sleep, the dream came again.  My hands became white, bony claws on the keys.  I think I woke up screaming, but the apartment was quiet.  There was no one there to tell me otherwise.

I drove to work the next day telling myself that I was just going to ignore him.

‘He isn’t going to get to me with his crazy power trip.   It is a figment of his twisted mind.  If it gets any worse, I will tell my supervisor that the guy has obviously snapped and let him take care of it.’  That is what my rational mind was saying.  The tired side of me, the dream side of me, was shouting that I should keep driving, turn south, find some beach with sun.

It had been raining for what seems like two months solid.  When I pulled into the company parking lot, I sat for a minute listening to the wipers clear my vision.  Then the mist would cloud it over again.  I turned off the engine and climbed out into the damp, grey mist and black asphalt.  The worms were all on the surface so they wouldn’t drown.  I had to avoid them as I walked in the side entrance of the office.

He looked up when I sat down at my terminal.  Drew had  been waiting for me.

“You were sick yesterday,” he said with the same smile from the bar.  “Did you see the paper?”

“No,” I said curtly trying to hide the fact that I had by staring into my screen.  He knew that I was lying.

“I killed him too,” he pointed out with a giggle.  Then he stood up and headed off to the break room with an empty coffee cup in hand.

“Drop dead asshole,” I yelled after him.  He glanced over his shoulder and giggled again as he went for his coffee.

I dropped my hands from the keyboard and stared into my screen.  My mind had gone, too little sleep, no one to talk to, I don’t know.  The image of my hands turning to fleshless bone filled my head.  I began to type.  I dropped out of set-work screens into the main authority file.  I made up a record for a new author, filled in his birth date.  I glanced up at the break room door.

“Drop dead asshole,” I whispered.  Then I filled in the death date and hit the enter key.  There was a moment of quiet, a slight hush of soundless automation stopping.  And then the sound of a coffee cup falling on the concrete floor in the break room: a cry of a concerned staff member.  I didn’t bother to look.

Putting on my coat from the back of the chair, I stared down at the screen.  I glanced at the flesh covering my hands, and then kicked out the terminal screen with a soft, electrical implosion.  I left by the side door and never went back.

I was doing ok, until the dreams started again.

 

published in Fugue: The Univ. of Idaho Literary Digest, Spring/Summer, 1992, #5

first internet publishing BlogSpot.com, 1/4/2015.

 

 

 

 

Profound Wonder

MOON BACK ROAD

Today I looked up at the November moon as I was driving my route, picking up the garbage. It was just a day before the last quarter, between the lead of storm clouds, hanging in the sky during a sun-burst. It was the first time I ever looked up and felt that drop in the stomach, as if I was looking out at the erosion of the Badlands, or the cut through the basalt of Hells Canyon. It felt like I finally understood that I was standing on a rotating ball, locked in a duel orbit, and the craters and dust was only a quarter of a million miles away, moving with me. If I just stretched my arm far enough, I could touch it.

I remember the time sitting waiting for my mother; I was on the passage side of the front seat, light streaming in from the warm sun. I must have been five-ish, certainly under ten. It dawned on me exactly why I could not see the stars in the day time. The sun is too bright; it overwhelms them. It does not seem so important now, but at five-ish, certainly under ten, I felt a profound wonder.

Today, as I picked up the garbage, I felt that again. There is something to be said for being this old, being this broken but plodding on. Every day, the wonder comes back.

 

 

The Revolution

79 Oct. 78

There is an article in the October Smithsonian entitled “What ever happened to the Russian Revolution?” by Ian Frazier. It is a question that I have only starting asking myself over the last two years. It has become an even more serious question over the last eight months as I wonder what ever happened to the American Revolution.

When I began learning Russian, it was still the CCCR and I could get away with calling the entity “the Soviets”. I can still speak Russian if I regress to the age of a two year old. Since the Reagan years, I have had to go through the process of calling Russia the CIS (Commonwealth of Independent States) to just Russia, and now the Russian Federation. Like Clapper, I still have that “Freudian slip” of calling it the Soviets.

But it is an easy answer to what happened to the Russian Revolution, greed and capitalism won. Basic Darwinian Theory of the strong surviving and weak not being able to adapt. The weak in the parlance of Donald Trump would be “losers”. I suppose that would be everybody but himself and Putin in Trump’s sack of squirming rodent brain. Now we have a group of wealthy powerful men in the Russian Federation pretending to be concerned about the people’s welfare. The Russian people have an advantage over us in that they know that the government lies. They understand a hard reality, perhaps this is why your average Russian knows more poetry than your average American.

What happened to the American Revolution is a bit different, but maybe not a lot. The two hundred and forty plus years of America culture has always been capitalistic. Greed has always been the governing factor, earning what is yours. But when did we lose sight of the “Horacio Alger” story? The poor, honest working boy who makes good. From the early days of expansionism to the rise of the monopolies it was demonstrated that each person could claw their way up the ladder, so long as they were white, and male. Grudgingly the American Culture has tried to sell this lie to incorporate women and every immigrant since. So long as they know their place, they can have a little taste.

So why after the 2016 election do I feel that the American Revolution failed?   It is the same group of rich and powerful families in American that has been selling the lie of “you too can get ahead if you work hard. If that fails, you could always win the lottery. You are so much better off than the rest of the world, just drink you beer and watch the tube. But do not drink too much beer (or whatever drug you choose) or watch too much TV as you have to go to work. America needs you in the service industry. It needs you in the factories and the industries that we own so we can keep raking in most of profit.”

I think it is because it was two groups of rich and powerful men who made this happen. It was the Russian Oligarchs and our 1% who made this happen. And they paid part of the voting block to help make it so. That part of the voting block sold their fellow Americans down the river for a few grand and a song in their heart. And that song that was in their hearts was the same one Trump and Putin sing all day long, “They are all losers . . .”

Half the voting population also bought the line that you cannot trust the government, but you can trust your buddy Bob. How old do some people have to get before you learn that you cannot trust anybody, including yourself most of the time. We are all capable of shooting ourselves in the foot if we are not careful. I watched a YouTube video recently called “Stupid People with Guns”. I rolled on the floor laughing, but I have a twisted sense of humor. Misery loves company. I am much happier not paying attention to this stuff. I would rather be drinking my beer and watching Godzilla stomping on a large city. But I have a grand-daughter who does not need to grow up with this kind of crap.

With each weekly news cycle, I start the week with hope, and by Saturday I see that the world plods on in the same corruption. I have lost faith in the American and Russian Revolutions. All I have left is the hope that the French will get it right. Perhaps we missed a bet with the invention of the Guillotine? I hope not.