The Clarity of Night

Ride

2012-10-26T19:18:00.000-04:00

I hear the birds on the summer breeze
I drive fast
I am alone in the night
been trying hard not to get into trouble
but I've got a war in my mind
so I just ride, just ride
--Lana Del Rey, Ride

the hours of delicious darkness
are at an end
dawn fractures the night
an inevitable tide
of hard light tells me it's time
to saddle up
and ride

The INTP Experience: Tonight's Main Event--Romantic Relationships Versus the Evil Twins of the INTP Psyche

2012-06-15T08:07:00.000-04:00

**This article has been moved to its new, permanent home at THE INTP EXPERIENCE. See you there!**

What He Said

2012-04-20T08:00:00.004-04:00

i saw him whisper
behind her pretty little ear
eyes closed
her lips parting
with a silent gasp
his stare intensified
and kindled
a swaying song
just for her to hear
and I saw her hand
forget to avoid
the rise of her breasts
and her weight
lean back to him
I saw muscles in his neck
rope faster and faster
and the weakness consumed her
red mouth sighing wider
and her liquidity
rhythming her hips
building like
a slow stampede
of horses sweating
and tossing heads
to the throb of the hunt
but only words
invaded her
thrusting squeezing fluttering
until her fists clenched handfuls
of his shirt
until her head arched
into his neck
pulling thunder from skies
slicing lightning
from
glistening
skin

then the words disintegrated in so much air
sprinkling ash around her feet
and no one needed or cared
to possess them

Facing the Sun: Writers for Richard Levangie

2012-04-09T18:37:00.001-04:00

Fellow writer Richard Levangie just underwent serious surgery to remove a brain tumor. Twenty-nine of his friends have contributed fiction, poetry, essays, parables, and lots of other tasties to an anthology to raise money for him. My contribution is original fiction entitled "Impressions."

Here's the deal. Go to THIS SITE and make a donation in any amount to receive an electronic copy of the anthology. Whether you do it to help Richard and his family or because you want to read my piece (or both), I do hope you'll give what you can.

Thanks!

--Jason

Note--The title, Facing the Sun, was inspired by a quote from Charlotte Whitton: "Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you."

Get these wonderful morsels of art for your donation:

Choose Me, by Erica Orloff
Always There, by Jude Hardin
Unspoken Water, by Wendy Russ
Virtue of a Misanthrope and Gum, by Michelle Hickman
Relative-ity, by Sarah Hina
Sonata for a Simple Organism, by Amy Saia
Set Free, by Aerin Bender-Stone
What Writing Means to Me, by John Kauffman
Climb, by Kate Inglis
Rebuilt, by Alissa Grosso
Lost and Found, by Natasha Fondren
The Hard Way, by Travis Erwin
until the zeros stare, by Jennifer Joseph
Love Tea, by J.A. Zobair
Pennies, by B. Nagel
A Year Round Vegetable Garden, by Niki Jabbour
11 Minutes, by Mark Terry
The Dreams of Hammond Schuster, by Catherine Vibert
Katherine Lived, by Laurel Montgomery
Two Poems, by Peter Dudley
Sparkle, by Sandra Cormier
Brainstorming, by Melanie Hooyenga
Mexican Anecdote, by Matt Shifely
Dinner Time, by Sarah Laurenson
Between Two Worlds, by Stacy Chambers
Sweet Deal, by Aniket Thakkar
A Parable, by Stephen Parrish
Stuck on a Truck, by Robin Becker

When All the Others Are Gone

2012-03-29T23:07:00.002-04:00

after
more
hours
than
one day
should
hold
I
am
here
no other
soul
or
voice
just
the beyond
and
long long
minutes
behind
their
sleep
where
worlds
hunger
wither
and birth
and
I
remain
defy
watch
become
dissolve
endure
and
stand

(Photo: 30th Street Station, Philadelphia. Tonight)

Circle in the Sand

2012-03-23T18:47:00.002-04:00

Anywhere you go
We are bound together
I begin where you end
Some things are forever
--Belinda Carlisle, Circle in the Sand

The stars hung above the churning surf. Motionless. Not like the sheets of foam that fanned across sand, then pulled back out to sea.

Her hair fluttered in the longshore breeze. Shells jabbed at the soles of her feet. Her eyes followed the strand curving in the distance.

A track of footprints traced the shoreline.

Her mind wove through all of the reasons she should follow them.

And all the reasons she should not.

The INTP Experience - Chapter 2: Overload

2012-03-13T17:11:00.009-04:00

**This article has been moved to its new, permanent home at THE INTP EXPERIENCE. See you there!**

Cyrene

2012-03-05T08:44:00.000-05:00

The snow whirled in spirals inside the cover of the forest. Out on the plain, it whipped along in blurs.

Cyerne sat high on her white horse among the trees waiting for battle. Dark hair tousled on armored shoulders. The cold metal embraced her, like rare and mysterious platinum pounded dull on a cloudy day.

Eyes blue on blue stared out. Beautiful and deadly. The horse worried at the bit and snorted steam into the air.

Hooves eased up from the vanguard behind her. "Scouts have sighted them on the hill, My Lady," the captain said.

Her lips parted for the simple command. "Ready them."

The captain raised his glove, and the force tensed. Her horse tossed its head with wild thoughts.

A faraway sound thudded in the wind. She felt it throb in her bones. Her heart quickened.

"Ambush?" the captain said, eager.

Her intuition stayed her hand. Or maybe something else.

"No," she said, changing the plan. "I won't meet them in the open."

The sound filled the forest. Close. She knew what they were doing. He lead them along the trees to mask their approach. He hoped for his own deadly, surprise strike.

She loosed her ivory bow from its leather by her leg.

The captain was confused. "My Lady?"

A red-feathered arrow touched the string and caressed wood as she pulled.

Blue eyes leveled with mortal red.

In the edge of her vision, black shapes kicked up storms of snow. The flags flapped by. Spears and bright soldiers.

She waited.

Waited.

Then released.

A shout raised in the enemy, and the force wheeled around. One purple-clad figure clattered to the ground and soon stilled. A royal guard. Not her mark, but within an arm's length away.

Just beyond the edge, they lined the woods in ranks. A strong force.

She knew his black horse. His lithe figure. And despite the tangle of branches between them, she felt his eyes lock hers.

Her fingers entwined the hilt of her sword.

The thrill burned hot in her face.

She didn't know which was greater. The wish strike him down in blood, or to throw her arms around him.

Mythology

2012-02-28T08:04:00.002-05:00

Aia created the stars
with the caress of her fingertips
then curled in the darkness between
to dream

Bo-eem stomped
in his jealousy of light
and from his feet
he pressed the rocky turf
of Earth

Caere sang to the two
his puzzling song
of answers plucked from questions
and storms in the void ceased
in thoughtful peace

Dinn stands guard
the fourth of three
his sword is judge
and his eye is clarity
and every desire to be unmade
stains his blade

Safe and Sound

2012-02-20T18:31:00.001-05:00

I remember tears streaming down your face
When I said, I'll never let you go
When all those shadows almost killed your light
I remember you said don't leave me alone
But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight
Just close your eyes
The sun is going down
You'll be alright
No one can hurt you now
Come morning light
You and I will be safe and sound
--Taylor Swift, Safe and Sound

The old house stands.

Early spring drips with only the whisper of a sound.

Inside, light filters through windows. It falls with dust on the furniture and empty chairs.

No footfalls creak on the stairs. No rasping pages of a book turn in hands. No voice spits anger or confesses a heart laid bare.

The clock ticks, sleepy yet not asleep, and light filters because none of the trees have unfurled the shade of leaves.

Knives lay in the drawers. Washed.

Knives will clatter if you open the drawers.

Beautiful Abyss

2012-02-15T07:44:00.000-05:00

in a hip hop orbit
circling binary stars
a planet blows
with ice
and methane wind
and except for the shapes
stenciled by storms
nothing changes
nothing ever changes
yet deep
under the black ocean
liquid flows
warmed by the rub
of gravitation's hands
and life boils
everything boils
and always has

The Anachronist

2012-02-02T18:59:00.002-05:00

she walked
the cemeteries
where trees
had grown tall
believing that
with the tickle
of a name
on the brain
she would
dis-cover him

The Lights

2012-01-27T19:46:00.002-05:00

the faraway sun calms
from its day of storms
and the crystalline heavens
glint in the blackest cold

Aurora could be the words
to ignite overhead
I could burn to surf
the Borealis

you might look up
at the blue curiosity
or question my green
fluorescence

you might even stop
or remember to forget
all the silent reasons
to recall me

An Intriguing Interview with Theresa Weir (aka Anne Frasier), Author of THE ORCHARD

2012-01-20T07:59:00.001-05:00

(On the night of January 11th, I sat down with best selling author Theresa Weir, who also writes thrillers under the name Anne Frasier, to discuss her latest major release--her memoir, THE ORCHARD. Although the book has gotten a great amount of attention for its study of American farm life and the environmental damage of pesticides, I saw it as something much more dark and personal. Read on to see just how deep we delved.)

Jason: Hey there! Great to see you tonight!

Theresa: Hi! This is my first time using internet chat, so go easy on me.

Jason: Piece of cake.

Theresa: I have my glass of wine, so I'm all set.

Jason: Excellent! We should all have a glass of wine. Maybe the Clarity readers would like a glass. Anyone??

So your book, THE ORCHARD, is a memoir. It touches a bit on your childhood, but mainly focuses on your life from your early twenties through your marriage to Adrian, an apple farmer in Wisconsin. I was very much engrossed in the book. The people were marked by a particular kind of isolation and darkness, which they struggled to understand and overcome.

I'm probably going to focus on very different things than most of the other interviewers you've talked to. Are you ready?

Theresa: Bring it!

Jason: At the beginning of the book, you establish a fundamental theme, an undercurrent, with two mini-stories. One of them is a legend, and the other is fact, because it happened to you personally. Tell me a little bit about the legend--the little girl whose father was a pesticide salesman. Set it up for us.

Theresa: This is a story I used to hear all of the time. About the pesticide salesmen who drank pesticide and herbicide to prove that it was "safe." You can Google it and find people who witnessed it. I don't know if Lily, his daughter, was real.

(BTW, the wine is EXCELLENT.)

Jason: Lily's father used to take her on sales calls, right? The father would speak to groups of farmers and try to sell the pesticide. The father said that the pesticide is safe enough to drink. So he drank it.

Theresa: Yes. The herbicide companies were so desperate to prove that the products were safe.

Jason: But he didn't stop there. He shoved the glass in the face of his little girl and tells her to drink it too.

Theresa: We all tend to do what we're told. (Until we wake up.)

Jason: In the course of the book, we learn that pesticides are anything but safe. In fact, apple farmers had a tendency to die of uncommon forms of cancer. But that's not why I find the legend so intriguing. Parents are supposed to nurture and protect their children, aren't they?

Theresa: Right. And children trust their parents to do what is right.

Jason: This father uses his daughter in a particularly devastating way. He puts his needs (financial/reputation) so far ahead of hers that he is willing to make her drink poison. And she does. Why? Is more than just doing what you're told?

Theresa: I think the father and his daughter represented what was going on in the whole farming community. People believing what they want to believe.

Jason: Lily has learned a terrible lesson. Not only can she not count on her father to protect and nurture her, but he is willing to directly harm her. She has learned that she is unsafe at the most basic level. That she is alone. She probably drank it because she trusted him. Even though her mind was screaming not to trust him in that moment. We don't want to believe such things are happening when they are. In midst of the storm of emotions, we default to the assumption of trust. We only tend to accept the horrible truth later.

Theresa: Exactly. And children in farm families are sacrificed for the farm. I don't know if I can say for money, because a lot of it deals with a lifestyle and culture. It might actually go back to when farmers had a lot of children in order to help farm.

Jason: ~QUIRKY QUESTION ALERT~ I want to ask you to put yourself in the shoes of that little girl for a moment. Imagine that your father, the salesman, is now very old and has dementia. One night sitting with him in a quiet, darkened nursing home room, your mind turns introspective as you watch him sleep. You are grown and married. You are not outwardly affected by your childhood, but may very well be internally. What do you say to him as he sleeps? What do you speak in that dark, quiet room?

Theresa: It's a tough thing to deal with a father who possibly abused and neglected you as a child. Because of the fact that now he's a vegetable, and you can't really say anything. There is nothing to say. You want to know why, but he's too far gone to even know that he's done anything. And it's funny that Alzheimer's patients often rewrite history and see themselves as the hero of their own stories.

Jason: I can see that. There is too much tangled up to even say. Even if it is just out loud to yourself, and he won't hear it. It doesn't feel like anything is worth saying, because it doesn't unravel the mess.

Theresa: I see everybody as victims. Maybe I'm too soft, but that's how I see it.

Jason: The second little story is something that happened to you. A neighbor, an adult woman, badgered you into eating wild mushrooms that she prepared. You didn't feel comfortable saying no to her. What happened afterward?

Theresa: Ah, yes. I ate the mushroom, then found out it was poisonous and that I would die a horrible death. (Of course, it wasn't poisonous.) So I waited to die. And I didn't tell anybody, because I figured they would be mad. The book was originally titled Waiting to Die, and it was broken up into sections where different people were waiting to die.

Jason: Not even tell your mother? Did you literally think that they would be mad?

Theresa: No, I didn't tell my mother. I thought she would get mad. It was years later that I told her. I guess dying was better than facing her anger.

Jason: Here's a basic question. Was it more common for you to have to address the emotional needs of your mother, or your mother to address your emotional needs? Which statement sounds more natural to you?

Theresa: Oh, yeah. The emotional needs of my mother. Definitely.

Jason: In your story, I see you as Lily after being after being made to drink the poison. Something taught you that you were unsafe and that adults were not there to nurture and protect you. Adults were a threat. It infuses how you describe that event. It is very natural for children who have to deal with an onslaught of emotional needs from their parents to have thin emotional boundaries, because they were denied the chance to fully form before having to deal with someone else's needs. The emotional state of the parents affects them very quickly and strongly. On the other hand, they feel like if they ever have emotional needs, that they are on their own. There is no one to help them.

Theresa: So true about how I thought of adults. They couldn't be trusted.

Jason: So with that childhood behind you, we find you living in Wisconsin in your twenties working in a bar owned by your uncle. Although it was an out-of-the-way place without much excitement, I feel like you were in a state of non-threat. Not especially happy, but not especially anxious or sad either.

Theresa: Yes, I was working in the bar and living at my uncle's. That was definitely a non-threatening environment. (Illinois.) My uncle was a softie. That was the other thing. I did have a lot of other people in my life who were very positive influences.

Jason: Adrian, your future husband, walks into that bar. How did Adrian interact with you differently than other men? What was unusual about him?

Theresa: That's a tough question. He acted somewhat aloof. That's what I really recall. But I knew better. He kind of treated me like one of the boys. We were both really young and inexperienced.

Jason: In the book, he seems to really draw your attention. And your uncle's. Adrian was even dressed differently. Just a really strong sense of differentness, if that's a word.

Theresa: Well, he was the golden boy of the community. People knew of him, but he rarely left the farm. And of course he walked into the bar dressed in a black suit after attending a wedding. He was knockout handsome, so people notice him.

Jason: Your final description of him in the book was the biggest tear-jerker-kind-of-moment for me, but I get ahead of myself.... The "courtship," if we can really call it that, was certainly unconventional, wasn't it?

Theresa: Yes. I certainly didn't have any interest in going on conventional dates. That just wasn't me at all. And it wasn't him. We got married 3 months later, lol!

Jason: How was he different than the people close to you who failed you?

Theresa: I'm not sure he was that different. In some ways, I think he did fail me. Weird to say, I know. He was never threatening. I guess I could say that. He never scared me.

Jason: That was my next question, actually. Could his aloofness be similar in some ways? Aloofness forces you to bend to another's emotional needs. They aren't necessarily there for you in return.

Theresa: The one thing I never touched on in the book was how funny he was. We were really funny together. Like a comedy team. But I could never make that work in the book. It didn't fit. I wrote some funny scenes, but removed them. That's true about the emotional aloofness.

Jason: After you were married, you were in for a shock once you moved into the "hired man's" house on his family's farm, weren't you? Adrian kind of disappeared on you.

Theresa: Yes, I felt like this toy he'd brought home. He didn't even move his clothes to our house. And he continued to eat many of his meals with his parents. Bizarre!!! It was like he didn't leave home and just came to visit me in that little house when he wanted to play.

Jason: When I first talked you about the book, I said that I felt it was about prisons. The traumas and threats suffered by the children in the story (Lily, you, and Adrian) create an emotional prison. If the world is inherently unsafe, then where do you turn? Where is home? What is happiness? Isn't happiness just the moment before the "bad" comes back and destroys the stability you were trying to build? The resulting anxieties, distrust, and isolation box you in and limit you. Most of these "prisons" are very intangible. It's impossible to see the bars. Even for the person trapped within it. But Adrian's prison was different, wasn't it? It was much more tangible.

Theresa: I think that was extremely perceptive of you. I don't think anybody ever mentioned the prisons to me. And when you brought it up, I thought, yes! That's exactly it. Because often when we write, we don't recognize the themes that are right in front of us. And yes, about Adrian's prison. He was trapped. It was tangible, but it was also mental. If he'd left the farm, which he wanted to do, he would have felt even more trapped because of the guilt he would have experienced. First born son and all that.

Jason: True, very true. He had a heavy emotional prison too.

Theresa: I think the prison observation could start a whole new line of self-help books. But you're okay, I'm the one in prison.

Jason: (It takes a prison to know a prison.)

Theresa: (lol!)

Jason: (It took me a long time to measure the bounds of mine.) So, you found yourself alone in that house. It didn't take you long to say f-this. What did you do?

Theresa: (I think if a person decides to stay in the prison, they have to make the best of it. So one book could be don't hate on the prison.)

Jason: (Interesting! That's not a view that would generally be my nature to accept. However, if you break the bad forces that the prison is causing, you can be okay in the after-calm. It's when you are pushed and pulled and don't know why that is the problem.)

Theresa: Well, he had a lot of growing up to do. I couldn't accept being left alone in that house. Like a toy, like I mentioned.

Jason: You decided to leave the house and him.

Theresa: And some people get mad when they read the book and say, damn girl, how did you stand it? And why in the world did you stay? But I wasn't used to being treated well by anybody, so I really didn't think about it too much. It wasn't a big deal. But I did actually pack up a couple of times. But came back. And yeah, one time I hit and killed a horse in the dark. That was awful. Awful. And then I had no car of my own.

Jason: Right. But something changed not too long after. He opened up to you, didn't he? He stepped away somewhat from his family. He admitted that he had second thoughts and pulled back on the marriage initially.

Theresa: Yes. I think he matured. And he began to see that the "adults" in his life were very often wrong. This wasn't something he'd dealt with or questioned until I came along. So I suppose I brought that with me. That most people are full of shit. Or a lot of people are. Or that you have to be able to sort it out. He accepted it all without question.

Jason: In your book, if we look up at the stars from the prisons there, one mythical hope glimmers. One thing has the potential to save you and Adrian and defeat the hold his parents had over you. Of course, it's a tragic kind of hope. The kind that would make everything right, solve all the problems, and slay the dragons. But real events never live up to fairy tales.

Theresa: Right.

Jason: And the name of that hope was "Sweet Melinda." Tell us what that was.

Theresa: Yes, Sweet Melinda. Adrian always wanted to prove himself, and the success of the Sweet Melinda apple that he was cultivating would have given him a voice on the farm. Because he was never allowed input and was always treated as the worker bee. He called himself the worker bee.

Jason: He grafted those trees. They were his creation. If he succeeded with the Sweet Melindas, he would rise up. He would have earned power for himself. The feel almost mythical in the book. Touched by the gods.

Theresa: Right. The sad thing is that he was one of the most intelligent people I've ever known, but his mother and father never saw him for who he was. He was just labor. Free labor.

Jason: The early indications for the apple were amazing. Your description made me want to eat a bushel. But when you finally got a full crop, and the moment of truth came, what happened?

Theresa: He'd been fighting the codling moth for years. His father had fought the codling moth. This was actually something he and his mother fought about. I didn't go into it in the book, but he tried to tell her that she was having him apply pesticide at the wrong time. But she wouldn't listen to him. They fought EVERY SINGLE DAY about it. And she wouldn't believe him. He told her the old trees were infected and they HAD TO BE CUT DOWN before they destroyed the rest of the orchard. She wouldn't listen. She refused to do it. And the codling moth won. He was right.

Jason: The moth got the Sweet Melindas?

Theresa: Yes.

Jason: You cut open the apples, and the moth larva had eaten the inside, right? Infected from within.

Theresa: But the Sweet Melindas actually represented the whole orchard, because most of the orchard was contaminated.

Jason: When you were faced with the loss of the Sweet Melinda trees, you were ready to do anything, to use any chemical, legal or not, no matter what the cost, to save them. That was your initial reaction.

Theresa: Yes. There was the contemplation of doing whatever it took to save these perfect apples.

Jason: Why aren't we so prepared to do the same for ourselves? Why aren't we so fierce in protecting ourselves? Fascinating question.

Theresa: I know. It is a fascinating question.

Jason: In a profound way, Adrian was relieved to develop terminal cancer. It was most likely from the pesticides he was constantly spraying and becoming drenched in. And his mother reacted with intense anger at him.

Theresa: She called him a coward and told him he wanted to die. The wanting to die part was actually true. It was his only way out. In his mind, anyway.

Jason: So much pathology in her statements, I can't even begin.... He did finally escape the prison when he passed, but it was also your liberation too. In a way, at the end of the book, you seem like a different person. Your children are clearly a solace to you. Like some of the wounds may have healed. (Although never all.)

Theresa: Yes, with his dying, we were all able to escape. The "kids" are a solace, but I do worry that they will always be somewhat damaged by everything that has happened. I think we all kind of feel that our lives ended when we left, even though we had to leave.

Jason: ~FINAL QUIRKY QUESTION BARRAGE~ What is the nicest thing one could ever have said to Adrian?

Theresa: That he was a wonderful father.

Jason: Did he worry that he wasn't?

Theresa: No. I think he knew he was a good father. He was everything his parents weren't.

Jason: Perhaps that's the key. Perhaps he would have very much liked to know that he broke the dark and abusive cycle. And I saw that in the book. For example, he never let your son spray the pesticides.

Theresa: Adrian's dad spent zero time with him. Adrian was with his kids all the time. And right about the pesticides. I think that's when everything solidified for him. He had to break the cycle.

Jason: Last. Lastly, what is the nicest thing that someone could say to you?

Theresa: I think the same thing would go for me. That I was a good mom. I think he and I took our dysfunctional upbringings and together we became really good parents. Or at least I like to think so.

Jason: I know what that desire feels like. In a strange way, maybe it's the opposite of the abuse cycle. Just as illogical though. By giving our children something we needed but didn't get, we seem to feel better ourselves. Like -1 + 1 = 0. We have restored balance to the world.

Theresa: Yes. That makes sense.

Jason: For the record, Theresa, I think you succeeded. You rose above the prison and become the mother you didn't have for yourself.

Theresa: I do adore my kids. And I always wanted them to have the freedom to do whatever they wanted to do.

Jason: Here endeth the interview! Your memoir is one I won't soon forget. I really think it should be read for its psychological content as much as its environmental content. I encourage everyone who was intrigued by our talk tonight to go out and grab it immediately! I loved the opportunity to talk about the book. And to hang out!

Theresa: Thank you! All the way around. Have a wonderful night, Jason.

Jason: You too! And thank you for sharing these difficult issues with the world.

The Promise

2012-01-10T18:17:00.002-05:00

I'm sorry, but I'm just thinking of the right words to say
I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be
but if I had to walk the world I'd make you fall for me
I promise you, I promise you, I will
--When in Rome, The Promise

The high school chemistry teacher droned.

The class fidgeted. Some even talked quietly in the back. The teacher wasn't aware. He lectured in a strange little bubble with his eyes half-closed. Like meditation.

A guy in the second row glanced at the girl next to him and rolled his eyes.

She smiled.

The guy didn't have to listen. He already knew the material. Once, he thumbed through the book just to make sure he would get to learn something new before the end.

"I'm going to kill myself," someone whispered nearby.

"If you do, please take him with you," another said.

The guy turned again, and the girl looked down at her desk.

His normally ordered brain spun. Not enough traction. And his throat felt tight.

"Hey, I could--" he whispered, but stopped.

She looked up.

"I could, um, help you with this stuff. If you want. This dude is the worst."

"No, I've got it," she said. "He's just putting me to sleep."

His brain still spun, but now his throat was tighter.

He told himself to keep his mouth shut. That was the smartest thing.

She smiled at him again.

He smiled back.

Brought to Mind

2012-01-02T13:03:00.000-05:00

dark path
shadowed by starless night
curves back and back
where figures mill about the bushes
auld eyes glittering
lang syne silent
I walk ahead and ahead
but my vision is long
when I turn back
to the glittering eyes
growing more numerous
for every inch of terrain
I gain
and I know
they'll never catch me
through the twists and bends
of every place
I've dared to share
my face

Philadelphia (In Old City on Christmas Eve)

2011-12-24T10:56:00.006-05:00

A winter hush blanketed Philadelphia.

I sat in Washington Square ringed by brick and colonial windowpanes. Few walked the night, and my breath feathered in clouds.

Once, this ground interred yellow fever victims.

I thought about them.

And generations disappeared.

I turned to see the spirit of the City next to me. A face of cobblestones. Eyes of jewelers' clocks. Forgotten streets lined its old overcoat.

It watched the orange lights. People in warm houses. "I like the feel of them," it said. "But no one sits here with me anymore."

The hush deepened.

Ice crackled.

"I will," I said.

(This 100 word story (exactly) is part of Loren Eaton's shared storytelling for Christmas Eve. Check it out!)

How the Grinch REALLY Stole Christmas

2011-12-20T19:34:00.003-05:00

My seventh year was the last year I believed in Santa Claus.

And the Grinch is to blame.

I didn't have older siblings to spill the beans. The bratty neighbor didn't dime out St. Nick. No, it happened when I had an epiphany while watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Well, that's not entirely fair. It was a combination of the Grinch and a standard, everyday clock. Those were the tools of my loss of innocence.

Here's how it went down. We all know that the Grinch is a burglar and a larcenist. He'd be doing hard time if it weren't for the fact that the Whos are biologically incapable of conceptualizing jails. I watched the Grinch breaking and entering via the chimney. I watched him slink around the room and manage to add corruption of minors to his rap sheet as he made off with the presents, food, and Cindy Lou's trust in adults forever. The epiphany came, however, when I suddenly realized how…much…time…it……took. Around 5 minutes for a single house.

That got me thinking. Even if you worked in some serious magic mojo and assumed that Santa could teleport himself in and out of the house in 1 second, my immediate neighborhood alone would take one minute to deliver the goods. If my neighborhood took one minute, a few square miles around me could easily take 1 hour. You see where this is going. There just isn't enough time, man. Wake up and smell the math.

I didn't really hate the Grinch for ruining the magic of my childhood.

If anything I blamed myself for being so thick.

But maybe I'm being too forgiving. We just had to break the anti-Santa news to our 12-year-old.

Maybe the song was right. Maybe I was robbed worse that the Whos.

Stink, stank, stunk.

Marley was as Dead as a Doornail

2011-12-15T07:58:00.004-05:00

There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing [ ] remarkable in his taking a stroll at night....
--Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

I am particularly fond of A Christmas Carol. Any story that touches on the unseen world, explores Everyman, teaches wisdom, and stands the test of time is a multi-platinum winner in my book. It also follows an old tradition of telling ghost stories on Christmas Eve. And now it's your chance!

Loren Eaton, of Clarity of Night contest fame, is hosting a shared short story event on his blog I Saw Lightning Fall. You have 100 words (exactly) to write a chill-inspiring story for Christmas Eve. You post it on your own blog and send Loren a link, or he has offered to host it.

Definitely hop over if you're interested. I'm intrigued by the thought of joining in that ancient tradition. I am going to write one.

Paradise

2011-12-12T08:14:00.000-05:00

In the night, the stormy night, away [he'd] fly.
--Coldplay, Paradise

The boy stayed in his room while things moved outside the walls.

Black shapes, grimacing faces, and the evil eye. Like open windows with no curtains, no shutters. No one even bothered to put glass in the panes.

The boy stayed in his room while things moved outside the walls. He didn't look up, because he could feel them scurrying then stopping to stare. It was so much better when they ignored him.

He concentrated on the work in his hands and the cut papers scattered on the floor. His fingers worked. It was the best he could hope to do. To fashion what he never otherwise would have.

The holes in the wall were too small for the things to step through. But much too small to hide him (or for him to step out). Once in a while they laughed or spat, but he never stopped or looked up. They moved all hours of the day and night. And that is just how it was.

Composer (When I Think of You)

2011-12-05T19:48:00.001-05:00

i want the anticipation
hanging in exquisite silence
like an audience
before a symphony
then the first note
so deliciously sweet
bends like the draw
of a violin bow
but the sigh is your hunger
first fed
and the bend is your neck
with lips parting
and hunger is heavy
behind the composition
and the audience grips armrests
to not tear apart the air
that carries the notes
in shaking frustration
dark and lusting
so strangely weaving
feminine and masculinity
alive and slick with
complexity and harmonics
beyond words
and I can discover
a melody rising
turning
crying out
collapsing
thrusting
dying
twisting
arching
and i could compose forever
if you would let me
and no two phrases
would ever be the same
because my creativity
is infinite
and i would out-sail the tides
of ecstasy and transcendence
because the primeval fires
burn with art and throbbing rhythm
and the torture becomes the resisting
reaching for the conductor's baton
so translate the performance
into writhing and poise
because it truly is
a death not so little
and when the waters calm
and we wait for the familiar darkness
in the huge cozy theater
until all the instruments
cannot abide the silence
and leap again
to play

Beer Philosophers #12 - Streaming

2011-12-01T18:36:00.003-05:00

"There really isn't anything more sublime than the ability to pee in the woods."

"How so?"

"Think about it. You're inside, you have to go, you walk outside. You unzip, take matters directly in hand, and you relieve yourself of your unwanted burdens. No plumbing necessary. No toilet. No scented bowl disinfectant. No infrastructure of any kind. There is no need to manufacture plastics, smelt iron, or buy a pipe wrench. Just you, trees, thirsty ground, and a sparkling fountain that doesn't even disturb your wardrobe. Girls can't pee in the woods, man. Not like this. That's like an invitation for urinary chaos."

"Um, I'm having a little trouble with the not-disturbing-your-wardrobe this time."

"Oh. Bummer."

"Don't worry. It'll dry."

"Then when I'm done, I zip up, and voila! I stride back into the cabin proud and ready for a fresh beer."

"You know. I'm glad we have this time to spend together."

"Me too."

"In fact, I look forward to our next session of sharing our manhood with nature."

"But not too eagerly."

"Yeah. Good point. That would be weird."

Blowing on the Embers

2011-11-29T22:07:00.000-05:00

just me
in a forest
high over
the highway
Orion tilts
loosens his belt
and Andromeda
smiles overhead

just me
in a forest
by a stove fire
in the dark
the radio
weaves
at the edge
of my consciousness
like old movies
I've seen before

just me
in a forest
two nightfalls
two dawns
three hundred miles
and I'm not
such a bad companion
after all

Nap for November

2011-11-23T18:14:00.003-05:00

to sleep in the raspy music of wind
crackling leaves on barren trees
to sleep under blankets of mother sun
deer bedded under the mountain's eaves

Happy Thanksgiving!

Shock the Monkey

2011-11-18T09:33:00.001-05:00

Something knocked me out' the trees
Now I'm on my knees
--Peter Gabriel, Shock the Monkey

The city darted around him.

Taxis and scissoring legs.

People crisscrossed, faces repeating. A few eyes caught his. Most did not.

The city darted.

Taxis and scissoring legs.

Motion and motion and motion.

Someone bumped his shoulder. He had tried to get out of the way. The other did not.

A horn blared. It hurt his ears.

A bus cut into traffic.

The light at a gridlocked intersection changed to green.

His phone rang. He checked the number. He ran his hand hard through his hair.

The phone still rang.

He threw it, spinning upwards and shattering on the concrete of a parking garage.

A few eyes caught his.

Most did not.

Taxis raced and legs scissored. He struggled to breathe. People passed with repeating faces.

Motion and motion and motion.

And he would only add to it if he ran.