tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55701510972921083512024-03-19T02:33:04.520-05:00The Starting PointNovels, Stories, Poetry, and Musings by Walter CrabtreeContact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-20120483748423713292013-05-21T12:38:00.000-05:002013-05-21T12:38:30.423-05:00<br />
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CAVER DASH 2013</div>
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An especially unique event came into my rather routine life
this weekend that I wish to share. That event being Alfred Crabtree’s (my son … says the proud father) now
annual Caver Dash. Briefly, this two-day event is for the “cavers” (please not Spelunker!) in his
grotto out of Cookeville, Tennessee, and any other cavers from elsewhere. It
began with the folks arriving Friday evening at our home, Windsong Ranch, up on
the Cumberland Plateau, adjacent to Fall Creek Falls State Park. Everyone
pitched tents or parked their campers in the front fields, the orchard, and
some around the compound. The scheduled events began early Saturday morning,
which included a hilly bike ride of some five miles to the boat dock on the
lake in the park. At that stage, kayaks waited for the participants to paddle a
course around the perimeter of the lake, about four miles. Upon completion, they
returned to their bikes and peddled up to Buzzard’s Roost for rappelling off
Lookout Point (100 ft.?), and then a rope climb back up (50 ft.?) near a small
waterfall next to the Roost. Wait … there is still more to do folks! For the
now tired cavers, a rugged, but awesomely beautiful eight-mile hike down the
canyon at the bottom of Fall Creek Falls (256-foot drop) awaited. After that, they
returned to their bikes and rode back to the Windsong. Now comes a few
additional rewards over the satisfaction of their having completed an endurance run
of some considerable magnitude. First, a home built, solar, field shower for
those weary muscles. Further, and all along, there lay in the Windsong fire
pit, roasting for six hours, a succulent pig. Additionally, next to the pit sat
a very large cast iron “smoker” preparing a goat (cabrito) for a mouthwatering
experience. Plentiful side dishes, deserts, adult beverages, and the noble
conversations of caver fellowship, all served from the Windsong Ranch residence.
I would mention names of the staff that labored, planned, prepared, and executed
these events without a hitch, but I would want to write all the names and I don’t
have those capabilities anymore (everyone found out about my embarrassing problems
remembering) and so the fear of omission is overpowering. However, there are group photos
on Facebook under Caver Dash with names. Thankfully, the gods smiled on the
event as even the downpour of rain waited until we had all eaten at the long
table constructed outside. But those same deities have their limits; as the live
entertainment planned for the sixty (my estimate) some folks up in the large fire
pit area, in the front field of Windsong constructed over several days by a
large diesel Caterpillar backhoe, did become the casualty of the rains. Oh yes,
a new kayak was raffled off with other prizes and some door gifts. Of note, the
furthest person to attend came from California, a high school friend of Alfred’s.
I wish to share, that with all those folks coming through my home to get their
meals and libations they showed every concern and caution, with politeness, and
then afterwards offered to help with the cleanup. What a group of gracious
folks those cavers and their friends are ... always, and will forever be, welcome
in my home and Windsong any time. Thank you all for coming, you are a gracious and
intrepid group … you “cavers”. <o:p></o:p></div>
Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-69790065446660478452012-11-28T18:15:00.000-06:002012-11-28T18:17:23.876-06:00Writers, Publishers, And The Awful Stigma Of Aging<span style="font-family: Courier;"> Of
late it seems people are commenting on my age more than I can ever recall. In
part I guess it’s due to the fact that my son arrange</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">d</span><span style="font-family: Courier;"> in September a great and creative 80th birthday
bash for me. There were about forty people, a roasted pig, a
"zip-line" erected from my deck to a large tree some 150 yards away
for me to ride (an item in my bucket), and a singing group who resurrected an old
tune from the seventies that I played on my sailboat when we went cruising from
Dana Point to Catalina Island, and that my son rolled his eyes and moaned every
time I started singing the lyrics to <em><span style="font-family: Courier; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Soul
Shadows</span></em>; understand please, he was a heavy metal surfer in those
days. The group had a beautiful vocalist, Chelsea Poole, my grandson, son, and
a relative of my ex-wife; and, all playing guitars. They rehearsed for a week
before, and I never suspected. Well, I grew up in the school of men don't cry;
but, when they began I couldn't hold back. So I've changed and the heavy
metal-dude had also changed. This brings me to my point ... Change!</span><o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> The last fifty years, starting back in the sixties, have been marinated
in bitter sweet pursuit of societal upheavals; some now permanently part of our
cultural fabric; and in my opinion, mostly for the better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again referring to the way I was taught<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">, "</span>old<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">" </span>people were put out to pasture<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">, </span>and like little kids, were to be seen and not heard, and
even the ”be seen” was sometimes eliminated, as they were put into homes; Old
Folks Homes as they were called. Generally you never saw them again unless you
went to visit. So be it … this is not going to be a pity party. That was then
and this is now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> I have tried to take moderately good care of myself, physically and
mentally. I have “routines’ I practice, that for me are fun and not drudgery to
help increase my mental capabilities, and physical being.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> For one thing, I write and have a blog, thanks to my niece Janet. She
encourages me to post blogs on my thoughts and to make five or six minute videos
while hiking around Windsong Ranch where I live. At first I was reticent and
though<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">t</span> that would be
assuming of me. Not anymore and why you ask not anymore … because I’m changing,
improving, maturating, whatever it’s called.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> I do games on the “puter” that strengthen and improve such cognitive
features as Pattern recognition, and a whole host of other fun things, for
about fifteen minutes a day, or longer if I’m really into the process that day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> Each day I walk around Windsong Ranch and pick up after my friends the
trees. They have small branches that the winds shear off. It takes about half
an hour to do so and I probably bend over about fifty or sixty times in the
process. Of course there are the normal maintenance chores that I also enjoy
doing, which everyone has in their lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> For social activities I host a writer’s forum once a month at my home.
Generally five to six writers and we critique each other’s manuscripts, always
in a constructive manner. We eat a lunch of pizza, drink some beer or wine, and
then chat amongst ourselves; no politics or religion. We are each genuinely
fond of our group.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> My two beautiful granddaughters come over for lunch (Raman Noodles
which my doctor forbids me to eat … so don’t let her see this blog). We chat
and learn from each other. We of course have our differences, and sometimes
have to choke them back and not be judgmental. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> As to my writing, I have many more novels, short stories, poetry, and
blogs in me and I regret that publishers discriminate against older writers.
Their big bug-a-boo is they want younger writers who are, in their view, more
in touch with societal morays; and, most importantly, have enough years left to
churn out another twenty or so novels for the editors to recoup their initial
publishing investment for a start-up writer. Okay, Mr. Publisher, go with that
then. Yet when I talk with those younger than me they seems to appreciate what
I share with them and I too value their perspectives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But here comes the internet and
the Vanity Press with offers to publish manuscripts, for a price. They don’t
give a hoot about the writer’s demographics. Today, also, there are niches in
the digital world where people go to find or construct their “BRAND” for
marketing purposes. I’m still forming that concept in my mind and then will
follow that process of getting my work out there. Anyone have any ideas for
this author?</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOIlLWISB6w" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">My 80th Birthday Party Video - Click Here to watch!</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-65941772366707606872012-11-17T11:26:00.001-06:002012-11-17T11:26:44.857-06:00Excerpt From "Prime Numbers"
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She drove the car out onto the tarmac. Paul covered his nose
with his handkerchief; the fumes from the airport’s jet fuel aircraft filled
the immediate area, adding to the sense of an alien environment. The plane’s
engines roared, the pilot running them up in a preflight check, its navigation
lights flashed, then went off. A man in a grey jumpsuit opened the fuselage
door, and they climbed the ladder inside. There was one other passenger already
seated in the rear, his face heavily bandaged.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The pilot, his features recast by reflection of the orange
instrument lights from the otherwise black cabin, turned his head and welcomed
them aboard in heavily accented English. He requested they attach their seat
belts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paul set across the narrow aisle from Noir. He thought,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> like two tectonic plates, pushed and pulled
towards each, yet one sub-ducting the other.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To measure is to control, but Noir was not measureable.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I would die for her, but would she for me? <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then the two began their own rituals, attempting to deflect
the preflight pandemonium of the engine run-ups as the ship prepared to taxi to
the tarmac. They pulled down into their individual cores, sensing the
irreversibility of the moment, stewing in their uncertainties and
anticipations, peering out the passenger windows because she had nothing else
to do with the gratuity of time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Noir froze the moment and roiled in what her senses were
giving back to her. When she lay with Paul, she knew positively that their
souls opened up to each other and shared their secrets. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">After – it was always the same – we both revolved back to the
automatons our training had intended. Would it always to be this way, s</i>he
asked herself. They were both textbook survivors. Noir knew her trauma, but
still had no idea what had driven Paul to give up his associate professorship
to work for the Company.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paul began to parse his stream of consciousness, to savor
listening to his soul. He watched, as the autumnal rain seemed to form an
advisory, one that might limit flight possibilities. He tried to visualize the
voyage of the moisture’s benign departure, the lightness of its free-fall from
a soft bed of clouds, gaining a torrid and hurtful velocity upon arrival. Now
when combined with the blast from the propellers, a pattern of wavelets
fashioned across the black tarmac deforming the reflections of the precisely
placed runway illumination lights, as though they were climatic table scraps.
The skim of water rushing to drain from the runways gave the sensation of a
hovercraft floating across the frothy webs. Paul tightened his seat belt with
another pull. They both knew that once air born there could be no return.
Jagged cold shards of the unknown filled their psyches … always the same; were
they expendable; could their assignment be some office bound bureaucrat’s knee
jerk reaction to preserve their own hide. There was a marble slab back at
headquarters with the names of so many who never returned, would their names
soon be chiseled into that stone?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">His eyes diverted upward over the horizon, absorbing the blue
of the lightening, coruscating to the north of the runway. Jagged volts seemed
to act as a chaperone to Nimbus, as she peered down and pondered how these
vagabonds had the effrontery to test the strength of her proclamation – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">these skies are my domain, tonight you are
not welcome</i>. Paul groaned; it would be a long flight. He sat ... not
asleep, not awake ... his chin found sanctuary on his chest. His last thought
unfolded with a soft buzz,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I have been
from nowhere, and nameless for much of my adult life, even the labels have been
removed from my clothes. How is it that I’m placed in these times, on this
plane, to do who knows what?<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">~~<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paul abruptly pulled up his head; his hand shot to the back
of his neck, a momentary sharp cramp brought him to full consciousness. He
glanced at his watch and saw that he had been asleep for several hours. He
looked over to Noir, the smile leaving his face as he saw the empty club bottle
of Gin in her lap. Must have run into some turbulence while he dozed off.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He looked over his shoulder at the other passenger. His face
wrapped in bandages was unsettling, his presence a mystery. Paul did not
subscribe to mysteries; everything had a cause and effect, “Excuse me, but has
the refreshment cart been around yet?” said Paul with a hint of charade in his
voice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was no response. The fuselage’s interior was dark
except for the isle lights. The plane dipped and bucked in minor turbulence.
The bandaged head bobbled as did Noirs. Paul felt the pressure of the Glock
against the small of his back. Not a useful placement for one seated for hours
in this aluminum tube. In one rapid movement, he skillfully extracted the
automatic and placed the weapon in his waistband. Now he relaxed in his seat;
checked over his shoulder again; and then gazed at Noir’s profile, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her antecedents</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must be Grecian in origin, thought Paul</i>. Her coal black, shiny hair
reached the collar of her white blouse.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paul recalled a recent association on a project; assigned
together, he and Noir searched through a stack of thousands of profiles. They
had been working close to sixteen hours. He saw Noir yawning and carelessly
flipping through the folders, “Noir, when you go over the dossiers, pay special
attention to the downtrodden ones, the guys who have never had power, and
suddenly get their hands on that aphrodisiac<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,”
</i>said Paul.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “</i>They become the new
beasts and devour the old predators. Set those profiles aside and I guarantee
our person will be in that stack<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.” </i>She
stared at him, and then grabbed half the discards from her stack, and smiling
went over them again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Its latch broken, the cockpit door annoyingly swung with the
propelling and plunging motion of the plane. Paul could hear the pilot calling
on the radio, getting back nothing but static. The cockpit’s windshield wipers
were thrashing in a futile attempt to clear the panes of glass. The plane
abruptly descended rapidly, the pilot still calling the control tower
...”Putumayo, Putumayo, este es vuelo quatro-quatro-tres, responde por favor.
All the pilot had was the Radio Direction Finder for locating the landing strip
and his own dead reckoning. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The dark interior of the fuselage unexpectedly lightened as
outside visibility cleared when they broke beneath the cloud cover. Almost
immediately, the craft touched heavily on the interlocked steel landing mats
that made up the runway. The entire plane’s weight came down on the starboard
wheel and the tip of the wing scraped against the metal mats. Sparks flew and
Noir holler, “Hang of Paul we going to ground loop!” The pilot reversed the
flaps to bring the plane upright.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The touchdown caused red mud to explode from between the
metal grids; the engine’s blast acting like a spray gun covering the passenger
windows. As soon as the plane slowed, the intense rain flushed the crimson
sludge from the portholes. The DC-3 taxied to an abandoned and badly sagging
hanger and cut its engines. The pilot, there was no copilot, walked down the
steep incline of the tail dragger’s narrow isle, hatless and wearing a brown
leather jacket, a kid of eighteen or nineteen. Paul saw his hands were shaking.
From his seat, he looked at the pilot and gave him a nod. The pilot returned an
awkward smile and opened the door. Noir stood and the bottle rolled from her
lap down the carpeted aisle way and rattled to a stop at the pilots feet. He
picked up the empty container, putting the club bottle into his jacket pocket.
Paul reflected, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we’re here … Tres Pais;
the equator fifty kilometers to the south, Colombia to the west and north,
Brazil under our feet, and just ten kilometers from Venezuela</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The air constituents laden with Mesozoic humidity</span> <span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">circulated;
the odors of decaying vegetation, insects and wild life, grabbed the entire
body as each passed from the plane. Close by and upwind, trash was burning.
Vultures patrolled the area hopping on foot, rising to the sky only when they
secured a meal. One’s personal awareness ratchets up, as breathing is no longer
a reflexive action, but a task that requires focus. The environment wants to
consume each invader – and will get them in a short enough time. Five minute
ago they were dry and now they are sweat sodden; they were buoyant on the
completion of the flight, and now they stand oppressed by the air’s complete
humid saturation. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paul waited for Noir to climb down the ladder. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Paul, please give Dexter a hand,” said Noir.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The owner of the bandaged head pushed through the opening,
and refused Paul’s outstretched hand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thanks, but I can manage. I don’t remember it being this
clammy,” said Dexter with a slight lisp.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Paul, I’d like for you to meet Dexter; and as I’m certain
you have already divined, is La Pina’s cousin,” said Noir. Earlier in the
flight, she replaced her high heels with flip-flops.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What are the bandages for ... to prevent someone from
mistaking him for his cousin?” said Paul.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, and in case you’re wondering, he volunteered to have
his face altered with plastic surgery. You remember I told you he was a ringer
for El Presidente except ... he had no pock marks; well now he does, even the
same pattern,” said Noir.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“So that’s what you’ve been working on since the last time we
shared an assignment. Have you considered that we’ve now been associated, to
some degree, on three contracts? We are, as far as I know, a first ... in the
context of the Company’s prohibition against pairing employees on field
projects more than once; the old<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘thou
shall not permanently bond’ admonishment”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Here comes Dexter with our transportation. Okay Paul ...
quickly, the tap is that we’ll treat Dexter like a research assistant and the
bandages are for a face and neck burn,” said Noir.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The poor bastard is going to be kept busy changing the
bandages, what with sweating and keeping down the chances of a rash.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Two things Paul; first, we’re hiding him in plain sight by
drawing attention; secondly, we won’t be in one place long enough for anyone to
begin formulating questions.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“But what if someone does become curious and starts making
inquiries,” said Paul.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Covered! I have a Photo-shopped copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">El Espectador, </i>a<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>foreign
edition ... harder to trace, with before and after photos of Dexter Henry, and
details of the accident. And if all that fails, as I know you’ll ask ... well,
Dexter also has a Glock.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“If someone is suspicious enough to ask enough questions,
they’ll certainly check up on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">El
Espectador </i>story. In three days they’ll have back the info that it’s a
fake,” said Paul.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We’ll be out of the country with La Pina by then; those are
good questions Paul; are you okay with the procedure?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“For now,” said Paul. He stepped out into the road to grab
the door handle, as the seventies something Volkswagen van came to a stop in
front of them. He laughed to see Dexter with his head completely wrapped,
behind the wheel .Paul thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Night of
the Dead, and with any luck not a harbinger of what was to come, at least for
us.</i> Then the smile left his face as he recalled the Teleferico’s gondolas
with the bodies hanging from them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Noir stopped halfway into the van, and turned to Paul, “By
the way, I know you saw and heard the bottle on the flight down here. You have
every right to call for a cancellation; it was a violation of the Companies’
procedure. But, it’s not what it looked like; no dependencies, just flight fright
– it won’t happen again, you have my word.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“More important than the gin bottle, why did you pick this
entanglement of rotting flora and fauna as the place to kick off the mission?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“None of La Pina’s thugs would come within fifty kilometers
of this place, and the landing strip was an old oil exploration company’s
staging area. No one knows about it except us. We picked it up on a satellite
reconnaissance. We didn’t tell the pilot it hadn’t been operational for thirty
years.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Where did the radio signals the pilot used to locate the
airstrip come from?” asked Paul.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“There’s a Padre upland a ways. We have managed to get
support to his infirmary over the years. He got the single-sideband radio
signal emitter along with the routine medication and food shipments. Father
Juan merely had to raise the antenna and turn the ‘On- switch’. Oh yeah, the
pilot got one hell of a bonus to fly us in and there are more assignments on
tap, so he’ll be motivated to keep quiet,” said Noir.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At that moment, as if on cue, the DC3 taxied downwind on the
steel mats, turned, brought the engines up to full rpm, and rolled down the
runway, safely lifted off heading back to civilization. He wagged his wings.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Let’s get the hell out of this sink hole and head upland to
where we can breathe,” said Paul.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paul settled into the passenger’s seat. He nodded to Dexter,
then dropped his head, and pulled into himself. His first thoughts were to
recall the events of the past several days; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her
word was all I have to go on at this point in time? This is our third
association and I’ve had the cover of three safe houses taken down. There are
no coincidences, but, and now tread carefully Paul; one can be easily mislead
by a random synchronicity. So, no yardage to be gained by wasting time
analyzing for causation, and too, the company exhaustively vets every project
with the Six Sigma protocol; leaves no quirks to chance. Still and yet, I’m
missing something....<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">~~~<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-70449415321705947192012-08-31T16:37:00.000-05:002012-08-31T16:37:13.682-05:00THE CERVANTES LABYRINTH<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you never sensed in your
heart the holy solitude of a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">matador,</i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you aren’t amazed by the
trees from which corks are made,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nor either the sounds and
staccato hammering of gypsy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">flamenco,</i> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Failing to make your blood
flow like a flooding Amazon,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then go search and discover
the earth of life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dig in it, run it through
your fingers, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Get down on your knees and
smell it, taste it, sleep on it, it is one with your creator.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And question not the few
grains that discolor your shirt, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They are the badges of your
awakening.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><o:p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For if you’ve never perceived
the unfocused past revelries of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">El Cid
(El Campeador)</i> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Battling the Moors from
castle to castle in the dusty haze of a long <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Iberian</i> afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And you unthinkingly ignored
Miles Davis’ blowing his woeful Soul of Spain.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While watching families
picking olives under the hot <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Andaluci</i>a
sun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then take time to turn around
and see where you’ve been.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><o:p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Can you recall in history
where a handful of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conquistadors</i> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Subdued thousands upon
thousands of indigenous peoples.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Go to your bed dreaming of
wine stomped by feminine feet in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">granjas
de</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barcelona</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stroke horseflesh and
breathe-in the manly aroma of fine cured <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cordoba</i>
saddles<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or slide your fingers over a
pure silver hackamore or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">los estrebos</i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">faux</i> beauty when you recall the horror of Civil War <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or Hemingway tossing green
bottles in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pamplona bistros</i> with his
euroscum friends<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Surely, you have mementos in
your repertoire?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A T-shirt, a ticket stub, a
cupie doll.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><o:p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wait…have you ever imagined
the claustrophobic vigilance <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of the village churches
shrouded with incense. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or worse…the throbbing
tension of gritty separation <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Between gentry and peasants<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Generals, citizens, comrades
and clergy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Granularity of descending
hierarchy<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This, in all its sadness and
beauty, is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Espana</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><o:p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The pristine white villages
of wind blown <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tarifa<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With their windmills, that
grinds the sharp pods of grain.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And your feet can tap to
their whoosh…whoosh…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My god… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tarifa</i> is on any good map!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(who gets to travel there
happenstance while, I must endure a nonporous wall of imagination?)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s there because for
centuries long-tailed kites have surfed in clear blue skies<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span><o:p> </o:p></span><span>(where did I miss this as a
child in a filthy apartment managed by the Klan)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And on some days, far off to
the south, you can see Africa and its mountains<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span>Siroccos</span></i><span>
foaming the skies from Sahara deserts and whence came the Moors<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The sunsets and storm clouds
framed in black scudding heavens<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Abandoned houses without
roofs, home to any whom would enter<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(here I would rest as though
in a palace)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And rotting faded blue
fishing boats on the rocky beaches<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(could I push one into the
water and learn to feed myself)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All this near <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tarifa</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By now you surely sense what
this place must offer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wait again you vagabond…you
have not finished… <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(I was a runaway child not
afraid of the dark)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><o:p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You must go west to the open
market of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cadiz</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Malaga</i> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If only to sense the cool airs
from waters <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Atlanticio</i> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Which sooth the swollen
utters of grazing cattle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(animals had love, food and
shelter…many times I had none)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><o:p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">castanets</i> click for your attention. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Proprietor’s harvest shouted
out over narrow cobbled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">calles</i> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By the deep-throated, (like
four octaves of Yma Sumac ) "perfect-legato" voices of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Portuguese</i> vendors <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">More like Gregorian chants of
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inquisition<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even louder than the
fishmonger,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do not assail yourself
…instead hurry…go…break your chains.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(I was frequently a run-away,
always caught and returned...no questions asked)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><o:p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those noble sires of fruited
loins would that we still dwell in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tarifa<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Its odors of ancient spices
lingering seductively in shops and homes<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like greetings from village
chroniclers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then those chaotically stacked
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">arco iris,</i> in piled chests <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And displayed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">arc-en-ciel</i> mounds of fruits and garden
growth. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">satiate<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Harlot birds with croak-like
screeches and filthy pinions <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Struggling to leap from their
canvas prisons <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">de Goya</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you can’t imagine all this<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It will never do to sit down
with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don Quixote de la Mancha</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><o:p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So say I… proconsul of
Brittany.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And today the windmills have
been replaced by turbines that go swhoosh…swhoosh…endlessly<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-43825692787764369532012-08-23T17:30:00.001-05:002012-08-23T17:30:12.258-05:00The Last Syllable - by Walter Crabtree
<br />
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
<table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" vspace="0">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left" style="background-color: transparent; border: rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0in;" valign="top">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly; page-break-after: avoid; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 46pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-text-raise: -1.0pt;">O<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">n this
morning, the heavy curtains of the master bedroom, which faced the ocean, automatically
opened; slowly, silently, and precisely at six. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through the floor to ceiling windows the shimmering
blue rays from the limitlessness of the Pacific began creeping into the
bedchamber; advancing slowly, like a shy lover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the same moment, Four Seasons softly played from the surround- sound
system. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside, the intermittent clamor
of the pounding surf with its signature timpani of the odd fifth wave, shuddered
heavily onto the beach; seemingly intervening itself briefly and pleasingly
into the symphony’s tone poem. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon Susu, lying on his left side,
alone in the bed, rolled over and looked through the window, first at the broad
ribbon of sand rolling off into the horizon – then at the surface of the ocean.
He lowered his gaze back to the exorbitantly valued real estate, with its
translucent quartz sand, wet and slick, ready for skim boarding. Jon appreciated
the allure of the environment – the oceanfront’s vitality: the sea calling for
attention would rise up, shake its head covered with white frosted curls and
wavelets; an organism kept alive; constantly</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">shaping, forming, and sculpting; driven at first
landwards, and then parsimoniously pulled back in the powerful grip of an undertow.
All this orchestrated by an indifferent storm … far out to sea. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So … this shoreline is like looking at the
Mona Lisa; after awhile her face becomes just a portrait of an ordinary woman,</i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beauty is truly transitory,</i> he
thought – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gotta make some coffee</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">He struggled with his feet
exploring for the floor, then eased from the bed with an inexplicit sense of apprehension.
This, the tenth day of his house-sitting a friend’s Santa Monica beach front
home did not portend well for Jon. Last night’s phone call unnerved and made
sleep difficult. He showered and then dressed in black; shirt, tie, suit coat,
pants, shoes, eye-patch, and lastly; transparent, ultrathin plastic gloves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His auburn hair, still wavy, gave resistance
to the brush as he turned his head for a final stroke. He looked at his eye; he
examined its hazel color, searching for the flecks of gold tinged with green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is my
eye becoming watery?</i> he worried.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Still staring in the mirror, Jon
told himself that vanity did not motivate his concern, just a normal concerns
about his physical health. Then, like a lover exploring their partner’s body, he
ran his finger over the deep cleft in his chin. Jon thought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damn! That new razor didn’t trim deep
enough. If I put my hand over my chin … like that … yes like that; it’ll cover
the stubble, and besides, that’s affirmative body language … speaks of a
thinker—of confidence!</i> He adjusted his tie and checked his gold Ayn Rand
dollar sign cuff links. He searched through the desk drawer, found paper and
pen. He began to write; at first, with deliberation, then rapidly as if anxious
to finish a distasteful task. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Were they
proper for the event? What the hell, </i>he thought,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I don’t really care. </i>He folded the paper and inserted it and then
sealed the envelope. He wrote on the front in large block letters pressing
heavily. He placed it on the pillow of the <a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" style="mso-comment-date: 20120822T1802; mso-comment-reference: MSOffice_1;">unmade bed</a></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">On time, the cab pulled up out
front on Pacific Coast Highway, and immediately honked irritably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon, in his own good time, stepped onto the
porch; checked the mailbox, the metal container stood empty, and then locked
the front door behind him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He instantly
felt the seasonally cool breezes from the vast fetch of the Pacific Ocean flow
past his ears and through his jacket. He shivered slightly. The driver, in a
tank top, peevishly reached his densely tattooed left arm back, around through his
window, and awkwardly opened the rear passenger door, anxious to hurry up the
process of getting his fare into the cab and turning on the meter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he entered, Susu bent low to fold his tall
frame into the cab. He slid in, directly behind the Yellow taxi driver, onto
the cracked plastic seat. A large rip in the material forced Jon reluctantly to
continue to the far side, a location where he felt endangered, by training,
from frontal headshots. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cab’s
interior reeked with the bitter stench of stale cigar smoke which started an
involuntary gagging in Jon’s throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
swallowed hard and put down his impulse to tell the driver to turn around; instead,
he issued the directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he spoke he
fingered the garrote he carried in his suit coat pocket; sacrilegiously made to
resemble a rosary. He looked frivolously at the driver’s neck, and then smirked
disapprovingly at his own low tolerance for the mild disarray of everyday life.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon carried in a leather pouch
a small aspirator of desiccated animal protein to contaminate any of his DNA
that he might leave in the event he did not want associated with a given scene.
However, tobacco smoke was even more effective in contaminating DNA, so he need
not disperse any of the protein. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
removed the plastic gloves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The chauffeur grunted his
understanding of Jon’s destination, then eased from the surface street into the
onramp entrance and accelerated to freeway speed. They rode east along a free
flowing Santa Monica Interstate 10; the distance would be a twenty-six mile
trip to the Cerritos Western Indian Center.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When he arrived, he paid the fare with no tip. He had been asked to join
a burial procession as a pallbearer to a person for whom he cared nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The cadaver, a large framed man,
had a dark and weathered, but open face. One that easily supported a prominent
angular nose, whose protrusion between wide set eyes added dramatically to the strength
of an eagle-like constancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The head, set
like a weathered stump between broad shoulders, had nurtured an abundance of
white hair, parted in the middle with great precision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two thick, precisely woven braids came over
his shoulders and dropped down to his stomach; their ends tightly secured with
Carp intestines. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This reposing figure,
even in death, remained Sagalie-Tyee, a Siwash Indian Shaman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Decades earlier, he tutored and acted as a bush
guide to Jon Susu while he trained in the North West Territories of
Canada.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Susu, at the time, in his early
twenties, lived a headstrong life entirely focused on his own doings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His new employer, The International Geodetic
Survey, a company whose organizational complexity provided the needed obscurity
that hid other activities. Unlike true corporations, they, as a rigid policy,
did not recruit candidates to be team players.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their experience indicated that under certain circumstances, a higher
fidelity to personal relationships could lead to the compromising of contracts whose
murky arrangements would always take precedence over all other associations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon, a deeply analytical person, and some
said a loner; found this policy came to him naturally. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Tyee’s women Dwuan, elegant
with a willow like stature; a harmonious mixture of Siwash and French Canadian,
had contacted Susu by phone, just hours before the Shaman’s passing. She said
he, Tyee, somehow knew with a certainty of Jon’s presence in Santa Monica.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uncomfortable with using a phone, she spoke slowly
and distinctly to Jon, telling him that Tyee requested, for old times, that Jon
participate in his procession and burial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>”Tyee feels the weight of his many seasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He begins the trip that will forever bind him
to his mother earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His Wikiup will be
in two passings of the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spoke to
me of how you, Jon Susu, did not sit easy while waiting for your horse to graze
and water, and so … the ceremony will be brief,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Early in his training, Jon made
a reckless error in judgment; one that, if discovered, would have terminated
his program and career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alone, on
impulse, he left the training camp walking, a map in hand, for the ice fields
to the north of their location in search of a rumored singing ice crevice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He planned to record the sounds and
photograph their source.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some three
hours later, he stood on the brink of the wide gapping crack, but could not
hear the singing because of the sibilant screeching of a tormented wind,
sweeping and swirling the snow on the surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He made the decision to rappel to the bottom; another lapse in judgment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the bottom, he found only silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disappointed, Susu decided to leave and began
to rope climb back up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The surface
anchor he set above failed and the rope collapsed useless at his feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 56.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-text-raise: 2.0pt;">T<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">yee
awoke at midnight when his normally silent Caribou herd began grunting and
crying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Across the pitch of his hut,
Tyee felt and heard the shuddering of Chinook winds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew the wail, their call, which arose from
the dwellers in the clouds; the one emitted as the sky divinities trekked their
domain searching for lost souls to blanket in drifts of white snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5QbseDRiaAoEgdl1ZKZwsLTJvJkZddZz1sO8lsXvFjaYTb_HwNrcrqzNjpx3fj0z4mrI4ht999scCPZnVbvKjG9Yd5nsHGItdayc5dAjPVWF14bOrmOrWMkBGMN1KBFAXOja911XspeL/s1600/Chinook2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5QbseDRiaAoEgdl1ZKZwsLTJvJkZddZz1sO8lsXvFjaYTb_HwNrcrqzNjpx3fj0z4mrI4ht999scCPZnVbvKjG9Yd5nsHGItdayc5dAjPVWF14bOrmOrWMkBGMN1KBFAXOja911XspeL/s400/Chinook2.jpg" width="385" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f">
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</o:lock></v:path></v:stroke></v:shapetype></span><strong><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Figure </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">1</span></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"> Chinook Arch Swirling<o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">At the northern latitude of the
base camp, the arctic winter now half over, gave a sparseness of day light. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He dressed quickly and with purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spread bear grease over his face to help
resist the windburns of driving sleet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With native knowledge, he quickly tracked Jon to the crevice, and
smoothly lowered an ice ladder to the bottom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jon, hoary with rime and snow, lay below. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><strong> </strong></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, unawares of Tyee’s lowering of the
ladder and descent, he remained motionless, crouched with his head between his
legs, his back against the crevice’s blue ice walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Tyee reached the bottom, he extended an ungloved
hand to touch Jon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Susu, in a state of
terror and disorientation lunged for the ladder; in the process, he smashed the
Shaman’s head and face into the crevice’s rough ice wall, the razor like
crystals shredding his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ZUsuBr4iT8QAFT-h8LA4JNSiHlHUvAAeFVqxYFuNYlzHlloy-RnIejGEGNba_Fw3vgnXllpDqa7xi8l1kt46lfZLJ0L3DghKELx-SJBnMZUk_ftBYhu6S6QWLne2TLlW7PqpHGkUjpk7/s1600/Tyee+preparing+to+descend2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ZUsuBr4iT8QAFT-h8LA4JNSiHlHUvAAeFVqxYFuNYlzHlloy-RnIejGEGNba_Fw3vgnXllpDqa7xi8l1kt46lfZLJ0L3DghKELx-SJBnMZUk_ftBYhu6S6QWLne2TLlW7PqpHGkUjpk7/s320/Tyee+preparing+to+descend2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><strong>Figure
2 TYEE preparing to descend into crevice.<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Tyee fell back. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon pushed him aside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a panic, he climbed the rungs up the
ladder and out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned, and then stood
at the lip of the crevice, shifting his weight from foot to foot; staring back
at Tyee’s slumped form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He quickly
persuaded himself of the rationale; that in good time the guide would be able
to collect his wits, free himself, and possibly overtake Jon on the return trek
to the camp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Look, this Tyee guy held the title of the Company’s vaunted trainer, and
loyal guide … and sure as hell that’s his assignment and not mine</i>, thought
Jon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Tyee awoke, dazed with frozen
blood on his face; fortunately the bear grease helped to inhibit the
bleeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet some of the gore had
crusted over his eyelids; effectively bonding them shut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The peeling of the congealed grease and blood
proceeded slowly, hurtfully, and delicately; his fingers burning from post
frostbite; at times inadvertently pulling out his lashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He painfully climbed the ladder. At the surface
Tyee began the slogging return to his family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Back at the camp, Jon never
thanked or acknowledged Tyee. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
justification for his own conduct, Jon mulled over the idea that Tyee may have
deliberately tinkered with his anchor line to create an opportunity for a
rescue and then reap the acclaim that would follow that act; besides Jon
rationalized, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tyee received a generous
compensation to support and guide the trainees. </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon always denied the stories of his rescue,
and thereafter completely avoided Tyee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Shaman never reported Jon’s recklessness to the operation’s
superiors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 57pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-text-raise: 2.0pt;">D<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">uring Dwuan’s
phone call to Jon in Santa Monica, he made excuses why he would not attend;
that is until he learned the dying Tyee had shared with Dwuan, his soon to be
widow, that he possessed a gift for Jon:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A berry stains painting of Jon on birch bark. Dwuan made the painting shortly
after the ice crevice incident, and at the time, she made a point of showing the
likeness to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon immediately and
openly coveted the image; even though he sensed, uncertainly, some form of an
emission; one of unexplainable well-like echoing; seemingly mimicking his thought
and words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They issued from the painting
attaching themselves painfully to Jon, like microscopic tattoos; they needled and
burned into his physical being leaving an image, painful yet addictive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tried several times during his tenure in
the training camp, always unsuccessfully, to purchase the artifact from Dwuan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Tyee laid in his bed at the
Cerritos hospice, happy with his soon to be parting, and the beginning of a scripture
of the remarkable journey to be with his sacred ancestors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There remained just one unfinished bit of a
Shaman’s responsibility concerning the process in the burial ceremony. The
obligation represented far more than just “for old times’ sake”, but a ritual
for Tyee’s eternal soul to have unfettered peace in that journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPD2f1bexNBLvVkRn1b-6qOEc_UYwdl8oLWCkXGlZo49sXUdVbQGMmY6TK2Vhw56ZqmGQSykrMjIA9Jh9IhUwkgIEObqCzd93PYog3o5FAi8DiaDuzKViAHiOG0vgggoj2le9YcDAuQTlw/s1600/John+Susu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPD2f1bexNBLvVkRn1b-6qOEc_UYwdl8oLWCkXGlZo49sXUdVbQGMmY6TK2Vhw56ZqmGQSykrMjIA9Jh9IhUwkgIEObqCzd93PYog3o5FAi8DiaDuzKViAHiOG0vgggoj2le9YcDAuQTlw/s640/John+Susu.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><strong>Figure
3 John Susu, 1991<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">To Sagalie-Tyee, the old Indian
custom represented a commandment – the return by the coward to stand, as a
whole man, and let his beliefs be reconciled to his deed; and most importantly to
know Tyee forgave him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the final
symbolic act and to consummate the custom, the widow Dwuan requested Jon to
brush the casket lightly with a clutch of willow leaves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Tyee, for his ceremony
commanded a casket heavily insulated with North West Territory’s permafrost;
arctic dwarf vegetation tundra to be flown in on the day of his internment. The
ritual allowed Tyee to be laid in the mother’s clutch of his cherished
homeland, as his tribal traditions required.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As Jon and the other pallbearers shouldered the load, the defrosting
tundra began to leak from the casket onto Jon’s cheek and suit. It felt
soothing, like witch-hazel on an abrasion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 56.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-text-raise: 2.0pt;">A<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">fter cleaning up in the cemetery restroom,
a gothic construction of grey, rough-hewn granite blocks whose surfaces were
defiled with the street culture mnemonics of graffiti. Jon spelled out the
letters of one especially intrusive paint sprayed image above the sink, Su
madre es una puta muerta. He mouthed the words several times and shook his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He recognized the word “madre”, but could not
understand the other words, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Must be
something written in the grief of the moment,</i> he thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dwuan, after Tyee’s internment, left a small
group of tribal relatives who ignored Jon throughout the ceremony and that had
gathered to chant. She walked over to Jon, who stood near the fresh earth of
the burial mound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eyes, wet with
sorrow, never looked into Susu’s face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead,
she bowed slightly and handed him the portrait, wrapped in comfrey leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She spoke only four words, “Tyee forgives the
coward”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the instance of the package
passing from her hands, a shadow passed fleetingly over the comfrey leaves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon looked to the sky and saw a hawk spiraling
to the earth, or at least he supposed the object to be a hawk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nonsense</i>,
he thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">there are no hawks over the LA
basin</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dwuan, her obligation
delivered, and the ritual complete with the return of Jon Susu, turned, pushing
past Jon, and stepped to the edge of the mound. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There she fell heavily on the moist soil and
began wailing her grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon shrugged
his shoulders, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">At least I came to your
fucking funeral Tyee and carried your coffin, I wonder if you’d have done the
same for me</i>, he thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Now in smug possession of the
framed painting, Jon called a taxi on his cell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He instructed the driver to take the Wilshire off ramp to the Santa
Monica beach area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He planned to walk
along the sand the short distance to his acquaintance’s beach house and enter
from the rear door, a habit of caution he had exercised throughout his career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He planned to get in a few final days of R
& R, including the idea of seeing if he could still get up on a
surfboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then back home by plane.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon, to satisfy one of his
obsessive-compulsive rituals, upon entering the cab, slid over to sit exactly
behind the driver’s back, a power position. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the cab made its way down Wilshire towards
the Pacific Coast Highway, the driver give the impression of intending to catch
every red light along the long boulevard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unable to tolerate the boredom of the stop and
go drive, and to release temporarily the fresh personal contempt he experienced
at the funeral from Tyee’s family members, he drifted back into the solace of
recollections. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His preoccupations with
his own accomplishments crept out like fingers of Tule fog: his recruitment,
the NW Territories training, the offer to secure a staff position in the
Company, choice assignments; then suddenly he stopped the massaging of his ego
– his sense of self-worth reestablished, he turned off the mental projector by
looking out the window of the cab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Almost immediately, he held his breath and then exhaled in a burst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He rubbed his cheek to quiet the tingling
sensation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On impulse Jon, abruptly told
the cab driver to pull over at the corner of St. James Place and Wilshire
Boulevard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He paid the driver, and
dodging the traffic crossed the street to a rundown bar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stopped and stood hesitantly, his hand
kneading the flesh on the back of his neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He could not believe the place remained standing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 55pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-text-raise: 2.5pt;">S<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">usu
walked up to the front step of the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cautiously, he pulled open the Art Deco door, still there from the
fifties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place, Sueno’s Wilshire Bar
Pit, crassly played off the name of the world famous La Brea tar pits, just
down street a ways. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNNySoQpPRUYIhbkDJ-WD7WgWrMaLQW8_NFNQyJ9hyphenhyphenab28oLiik0boGYBMBKQm_bMcLJ6OaDm0f8yoYNiPmP14u-VmrAbuuFA1SQv5H8Q6B13a-oDsXycS7MJ7NWO7POwnzrTn3bZb690/s1600/Suenos+Bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNNySoQpPRUYIhbkDJ-WD7WgWrMaLQW8_NFNQyJ9hyphenhyphenab28oLiik0boGYBMBKQm_bMcLJ6OaDm0f8yoYNiPmP14u-VmrAbuuFA1SQv5H8Q6B13a-oDsXycS7MJ7NWO7POwnzrTn3bZb690/s640/Suenos+Bar.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><strong>Figure 4
Sueno's Bar Pit, Los Angeles, 1957<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Inside, the air smelled of the
collected decades of booze and what humans, who pursue that toxic allure, do in
public houses like that. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: red;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">He held the brass handle of the
door, keeping the entrance open behind him. Jon’s eyes, slow to accommodate
from the outside’s mid-day brightness of Southern California, squinted
reflexively in the darkness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside,
near a cigarette vending machine, there emitted from the gloom, like the sharp
beam of a light beacon, the neon blueness of a pair of eyes. The cold sharp shafts
of radiance discharged from the farthest corner from where Jon stood, unlit and
chambered by its darkness, with an obscurity blacker than the rest of the low
light level establishment. Immediately his skin shivered from the refrigerated dampness
pushing at his body as he entered. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not
unlike an ice crevice,</i> the comparison forced itself in upon Jon. The air
seemed saturated with a lightly sour, locker room odor. He continued staring in
the direction of the corner. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Those could
be considered elegant eyes, almond shaped, normal in size; yet those pupils and
iris are un-delineated, sort of melding into each other … like a pathological
liar’s</i>, Jon analyzed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now his
vision, fully amplified to the night like atmosphere, picked up a streaming
semaphore message, as if tapped out by eyelids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They, or “that force” infiltrated directly into Jon’s own retinas, where
the twin beams stabbed and elbowed for several seconds. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon did not do semaphore. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It must
be some kind of beer or liquor advertisement. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These new plasma screens with HD can do
anything,</i> he thought. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He released
the door handle, turning his back on the vending machine corner, and cautiously
took the few steps to the empty bar. The heavy door, lined with diamond tufted,
black leather, closed itself behind him with a hydraulic gurgle. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He laid the birch bark painting carefully on
the counter and half seated himself on a stool; one foot on the floor, the
other on the footrest rung.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon Susu, outwardly a
soft-spoken man, shouted his order, directed to the empty area behind the bar;
“One old school.” “A scotch, and soda,” he explained, as an addendum to the
vacancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to raise his volume to
overcome the inconsiderate and unrelenting discordance coming from that far,
dark corner. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The voice, for that is what
the din sounded to be, mimicked the audio issuing from a small, black and white,
oval TV screen, affixed to the right, on the wall above the end of the bar
replaying a heavyweight fight match from the early fifties. The mirror behind
the bar flexed and torqued the flickering TV images like an amusement park hall
of mirrors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon, as soon as he lowered and
swept his gaze, immediately located the bartender or at least a human head; for
that’s all that arose above the edge of the bar. On first impression, he presumed
the person to be a dwarf. Jon, upon continuing inspection of the head
responsible for mixing his drinks, could detect no evidence of facial hair. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes</i> – Jon concluded <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that life form functioned as a dwarf</i>. The head sat atop a well sprouted
and exceptionally long neck that issued from between narrow shoulders, and with
just a suggestion of an Adam’s apple. The face would have been handsome if not
for the distracting, purplish red, birthmark that covered its full left side.
The abundant hair</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">streaked
with white, Einsteinium in disarray, lay in oily clumps atop the skull.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The life form’s back shoulder blades grew pronounced,
protruding underneath a white, raw cotton shirt, somewhat like the budding
wings a sprite might have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon caught
himself staring and thinking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what a
peculiar individual</i>; he analyzed, not because of the dwarfism, but that the
little person looked to be epicene; which in the art world may be bewitching,
but behind this bar ... sexless presented the dilemma of a perplexing
conversation piece; but frustratingly, Jon had no one to whom he could direct
his adolescent quips that all too quickly formulated in his mind … further
dangerously distracting from the focus that the overall scene required of him. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Be aware of your environment at all times!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 56.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-text-raise: 2.0pt;">T<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">he
dwarf swiped the bar with a forlorn rag that needed washing and deodorizing. He
used both misshapen hands, badly discolored and swollen from the complications
of lentigo, as he worked. He pushed Jon’s framed portrait to the side; a
comfrey leaf dislodging, then fluttered to the bar room floor. The healing herb
plant’s foliage immediately rose and slid back to its place on the portrait. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’m
Jon, just in town for a few days, staying at a friends place on the beach. Love
LA, always have,” Jon ended waiting for a response.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The
barkeep, indifferent to the antics of the leaf, continued serving Jon. The
Dwarf set a tall, cloudy white, hurricane glass down in front of his customer.
Jon gave no sign that he had seen the leaf levitating, although perplexed, he
decided against commenting. The Dwarf thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This guy</i></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN">Jon is all about Jon, but yeah, that painting in which Jon
will drown is also selfish. Because after his death, the portrait mirror will miss
him because, it could only see itself by using his eyes</span></i><span lang="EN">.</span></span><span style="color: red; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Picking up the one sided
conversation again, Jon said, “That’s an unusual shaped glass for a Scotch and
Soda, more for a very large fruity rum drink wouldn’t you say.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The bartender gave Jon a
blocked look, and adroitly slid the Jackson Susu had placed on the bar, off
into the register below his chin; his disproportionate sized head stood at the
level of the glass. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here we go again</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ve seen
everything from this side of the bar;</i> c<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reeps,
Gold’s Gym “roid” heads, wobbly girly-guys, 20<sup>th</sup> Century Foxy broads
from down the street away. And now, this used up jerk comes home to roost and
gloat … well not in my space he won’t. I ain’t going to let him push onto me
his misery, and yet, yet I already know from all the others before him, that his
bad-ass self will not be treated in an unfair, holier-than-thou way, </i>thought
the Dwarf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">From the other side, through
the prism of that same glass ewer, Jon saw a large distorted brown eye. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The little person pushed the drink towards
Jon, and the eye vanished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, from
habit, he swiped the top of the scarred bar and adroitly stacked Jon’s change next
to the sweating glass, all with a Las Vegas blackjack dealer’s flair and deliberation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He continued rubbing on the bar mutilated
with the mire of cigarette burns, as thought he could correct the battering of
the years of customer’s carelessness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“You get more for your money
with this glass, and I haven’t had time to wash the other glassware, besides
there’re naturally hazy; and I don’t want to disturb the resting spirits,” said
the dwarf. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You wouldn’t want to drink
from someone else’s glass now would you?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon puppeteered his thoughts onto
his analytical platform, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It is – or maybe
I should think of it, as a life form, as a Dwarf—a male – a he.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not to worry Jon, his chatter doesn’t carry
any evil intent, but more like the visions of my kith and kin from the ol’ Sod,
of Kelley Green hats, buried treasures, and their grim ancestral myths;
especially when they were in their cups. Yet … then why do I even have these thoughts?</i>
Jon, who had a low tolerance for ambiguity, grew weary of all the uncertainty
of his situation and the analysis he obsessed in performing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“From the looks of the place
I’m about the only customer you’ve had in some time,” said Jon recovering from
his Campbellian lapse into the mind-numbing maze of symbolism.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon continued, “Most bars I’ve
been in have glass ware that is proper, and clean for the drink ordered by the
customer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You seem to have a more than
adequate supply of glasses; but all of them look cloudy from where I sit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Those glasses are not for
serving booze, they’re resting places for spirits … get it? A resting place for
spirits! In the clouds! Ha Ha!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Dwarf paused and smirked at his humor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“All
my business is repeat, all jokers like you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The Dwarf grabbed a glass from
the counter behind him with a fluid motion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He held it up, the opening to his eye, and pointed the base at Jon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He winked; the bottom acting like a magnifying
glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He began humming high-pitched
cold notes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon imagined it to be the
sound he had searched for decades ago in that ice crevice of the North West
Territories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What the hell am I thinking about, the god damn Tyee is still trying to
get me!</i> thought Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes Mister, every one of those
glasses is the final place for them that drank the life from every one that
offered them a hand in friendship.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“What do you mean; every one?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“All Flying Dutchmen like you,
like yourself my oversized customer,” replied the Dwarf issuing a lance like
leer directed at Jon. “They all came back here. Yeah this very place … here, where
they all got their start, their chance to pour a drink for someone else; and
that kind act </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">never gets in the way of
living one's life to the fullest, ‘cept not one of them ever did and that
covers you too. I’d stay away from oceans if I were you.”</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon quickly judged the
bartender a person on the make for any deal that might come slithering in from
Wilshire, or for that matter coming up out of the salt water by way of the Pacific
Coast Highway. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wondered, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What the hell is that cretin talking about?
Flying Dutchman? Is this cocktail joint a front for some other “street” business?
<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Working behind the bar, the
little person, in order to reach the counter top, stood on a raised, cage like
scaffold that ran its length, some thirty feet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon thought he heard a pacing, synchronized
with a clicking, coming from beneath the structure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Barkeep, what’s that weird
noise under your walkway?” asked Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Those are sounds of the feral.
My warrior dogs of the night; when I sleep they emerge like dreams, and correct
any mistakes I might have made prior to closing up – my mind rests without
worry. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, few of the brigands in
this world are little people, so the dogs are my equalizers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Want to have a look see,” said the dwarf
finishing with a tiny, but strident burst of fractured laughter. The fury of
the dogs accelerated in volume, until the dwarf snapped his misshapen thumb and
middle fingers; they immediately fell silent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon sensed the syrupy feeling
of dread oozing out from his innards, inching up into his throat like a snake, “I
have my own lions, tigers, and vipers, thank you,” said Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Immediately regretting his
impulse in sharing his demons, he raised the hurricane glass to eye level to
study the soda’s effervescence sputter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The froth reminded him how he once observed a
man throttled by a strung out speed-head. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mark, a low-level courier, near death, popped
and sputtered spittle, like warm soda during the scuttling, when his assailant,
the speed-head, suddenly became too weak to finish the work, pushed the little
man away, then turned and ran from the scene. Jon, observing the contract from
across the street, did not interrupt the struggle. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certainly, he did not care about the victim
one way or another, but he also knew the instability of the speed-head. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yet,
here I am, like a voyeur, unmoved by the icy insanity of this crude butcher
shop artifice of a man … so who is the most unstable? </i>Jon recalled thinking
at the time<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>The courier lost his
voice, but not his life; while not the desired fatal outcome, the results
nevertheless got the attention of those intended recipients of the message. The
courier in due course and in all probability would receive a reassignment,
continuing his employment and source of income.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The speed-head died soon after from the exertion ... <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">some kind of irony</i>, Jon mused. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one ever heard from the contractor who so
badly mismanaged the tap by using a chemically dependent, but inexpensive
operator. Jon considered, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">few people
understand the strength and time it takes to strangle a person, and especially
a grown man. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the contractor had been
a professional, he would have commissioned the use of a garrote. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crap!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
need to clear my head; maybe stopping here wasn’t a good idea. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t need flashback shit like that, </i>thought
Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 56.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-text-raise: 2.0pt;">N<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">ow,
more than twenty years had passed since Jon completed that three-month course
in classified training in the Northwest Territories of Canada. Since then he
went on methodically to secure the objective of a tedious six-month mission in
the Alberta Rockies, all the while honing his newly acquired skills. Upon the
completion and awaiting reassignment, Jon found himself at loose ends and out
of pocket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">After a few weeks, and while
walking alone to dinner in Kamloops, British Columbia, a street urchin pressed
a carton of American cigarettes into his hand and demanded five dollars
Canadian. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon paid without hesitation; he
had been smoking the foul tasting, barroom sweepings, called Senior Service
English cigarettes. Inside the carton, along with the cigarettes, he found an
airline ticket to fly from Victoria, BC to LA, five hundred US dollars, and
directions to a Sueno’s Wilshire Bar Pit, for an interview with a representative
of a subsidiary of The Company. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">That kind of quirky behavior, using
bar room conferences, is not what they taught Jon in grad school organizational
development classes; yet Jon adroitly consented to the operational policies of
his new associates. The Sueno’s meeting went well, and he accepted an
exceptional assignment to a part of the world, the South Pacific, remote from
all the troubles that plagued the rest of the globe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he later learned, the assignment turned
out as a ruse, which would reduce and attenuate his profile to anyone observing
who came and went from the North Western operations. Detailed briefings would
come only verbally at nondescript places similar to Sueno’s, but never by mail
or phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back then, Jon reminisced, that
his short embarking period from the LA of the sixties offered a bonus after the
months spent living in the frozen tundra, with Tyee and the Caribou herds of
the NW/Territories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Refresh that drink?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yeah go ahead ... a little
less ice this time. I’ve never tasted Scotch like that. What label you pouring
my generous friend?” said Jon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Bar Scotch, nothing special.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Could have fooled me, awful
smooth stuff for bar supply,” said Jon. “Oh yeah, can you turn the radio down
over there in that corner, I can barely hear myself yelling.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“My glass is dry too,” a voice
with the dexterity of sophisticated innuendo came from the dark corner like a
clear and parched, but warm,</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">
</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Sirocco
Wind. Jon’s head pivoted to the direction of the comment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“That isn’t a radio, but good
god ... how I wish for that miracle. That way I could shut it off. Anyhow,
never mind, she just wants attention,” said the bartender.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“I don’t see anything except
those eyes, those are eyes aren’t they,” said Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“How about it Mister ... you
going to bring a thirsty girl a drink?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Here ... here’s a drink on the
house ... take it over to her, it’ll save me a trip” said the dwarf. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe I can get this ol’ timer to take her
off my hands. That’s the first setup in months she’s tried to con a customer in
buying her,</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">even though they never
do,</i> thought the bartender.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“You’re starting to freak me
out, but hell ... I’ll go along with the joke.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon turned, drinks in hand, hesitated,
then walked to the dark corner that cloistered the glowing eyes. He held a
drink out to the blackness. Reflexively his forearm tensed – producing knotty
cords as he felt warm flesh upon flesh, the light touch of finger tips, and a
hand that gently clasped his wrist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Want to join me mister?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Thanks, but for now I’ll get back to my drink
at the bar, “said Jon to the emptiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">For the second time that day Jon
felt disoriented, and a little silly. He decided to get the conversation back
to hard reality, but the dwarf got there first.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“You look like a guy that knows
an opportunity when he sees one. Look at this shirt,” the dwarf held up a
garment pulled from beneath the bar, “It’s got provenance up the ying yang ...
sewn by Leona Helmsley herself. Yes, that very Leona, ‘The Queen of Mean’,
before she married, Harrrry ... I’ll take a grand for it,” said the bartender.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’ll bet you would.
Notwithstanding hustlers like you, I like LA; great pulse, not dirty and rusted
like some places back east, at least not yet, not freezing like up far north,
not boiling like Phoenix , but ...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“But what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just where the hell do you live that’s so
great? I bet you’re one of them wise ass, touchy-feely types that like to solve
everyone else’s problems, and can’t get their own life running in the right
direction ... right?” said the bartender trying to figure this customer’s
angle. The Dwarf wiped the bar again, but this time with the Leona shirt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’m coming back from a funeral
where I felt like an outsider and I guess that’s what I looked like.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Sounds like you’re wanting to
start a pity party for yourself,” said the Dwarf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Look – simmer down ... I just
retired and incidentally drove through the neighborhood, when I saw the place
from the cab and stopped in to hook up with ol’ times. So when I leave – but
listen – first I gotta tell you ... I use to come here, Sueno’s Wilshire Bar
Pit, this Sueno’s, a long time ago. Life changing events happened right about
where I’m sitting this minute ... that’s why I stopped in, on an impulse,
nostalgia ... you know.” Jon swallowed and relaxed his throat muscles. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But it’s all weird-like now; coming in here
from the street, the real world, into this black pit of the past; because way
back then, the place didn’t look this way. And then there’s you, there’s a
lotta shit going on in here ... like that syrupy time warp in Dali’s
Persistence.”</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">All the
while Jon had a trash-talk-grin on his face, hopefully</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">letting his words be heard, but
not challenged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">His smile abruptly washed-out; nothing
he said fit into the context of the place, the time, or the present company; his
use of far out art allusions, and additionally – he should not share his
private life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Repeatedly, when Jon
worked under contract he received instructions ... never draw attention to himself,
stop-making impressions; unfortunately, those traits marked some of his weak
character flaws ... but now, suddenly, Jon felt oddly coerced to give
explanations to his explanations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_CGYTtEDcfKC6yjanGzvj6Q4cVFaBPQABjID8FVDtg-hE01AWjPtrBSdfVJmigH6Vo6F2eQ7mvndhL1OstP3lew2HJxGyat7-nHRX2L-MNBZDwX8FjR8CoqEQqbJd2vDhAIPhI6aPHChM/s1600/Time+Warp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_CGYTtEDcfKC6yjanGzvj6Q4cVFaBPQABjID8FVDtg-hE01AWjPtrBSdfVJmigH6Vo6F2eQ7mvndhL1OstP3lew2HJxGyat7-nHRX2L-MNBZDwX8FjR8CoqEQqbJd2vDhAIPhI6aPHChM/s640/Time+Warp.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><strong>Figure
5 – The Time Warp Reference<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“So anyway, I’m going back to
my Shangri-La up on the Cumberland. “<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again,
Jon immediately wished he had not use that description, he felt inarticulate,
and worse, did not understand why he even talked to the zero-sum-creep behind
the bar. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where’s my portrait? </i>He
thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Daily syrup time wraps, and you got a what,
up on the where?” said the bartender, mocking Jon’s last comment. “If there’s a
lot of shit in here, you’re the one dealing it out.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The small person dismissively picked up that
day’s Hollywood Track racing form from behind the counter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“It’s a small working ranch,
except I don’t keep animals, in fact I have no fences, just natural ones, the
trees in the woods.” After a moment, Jon thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Christ, I’m still giving out details, but at least it’s about me.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Where does the ‘work’ come
in?” The dwarf had hitched up his trousers with his forearms; one in back and
one in front and spoke from the side of the mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon looked around, his brow
furrowed; he lowered his head, suppressing a strange sense of anger and panic.
He felt the blue neon on his back, compelling him forward. He spoke slowly. “I
figured that the forest reflected the fragrance of women, high maintenance
ladies at that. So when I first bought the place I went about paying attention
to how they dressed, and their moods.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The dwarf’s face remained
blank, but the corners of both eyes began crinkling; the little person
impulsively stood straighter and looked indirectly at Jon. His hand removed the
bar towel covering Jon’s portrait.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Look – I’m using the trees,
women, and the dress thing as a metaphor, trying to describe … trying to tell
you about my place,” said Jon. His eyes closed tight, his attention retrograded;
and then he saw and smelled the Siwash, huddled in their bark-slab lean-to. For
the winter, they rubbed bear grease into their clothes and seldom bathed ... he
felt and then saw them; crouched, swaying, undulating, and circling, like the
surface plant life in the Saragossa Sea. Then when they stood close to the fire
ring the grease began melting; a sickly cloying odor. Now he sensed his arms held
to some kind of a bench’s armrest. The smoke from a brazier under the seat
billowed up into his nostrils, mouth, eyes, and hair. They all, using
sign-language, assured him he would feel better, no more flashbacks, as long as
he did them no further harm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">he
dwarf, his deformed hand unable to form a fist, instead began tapping long
nailed, stubby fingers on the hard wood counter. Jon snapped back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Hey
you ... no sleeping at the bar! What kind of smell you got on you, like rotting
grass! You were mumbling about some Indian guy getting buried and how you hated
being there for the funeral, and besides you haven’t told me anything yet. But
don’t let that stop you, what with what I’ve got to deal with over there in the
corner.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon inhaled deeply for several
seconds and then slowly exhaled; he repeated the breathing cycle twice more,
recalling that you abandon reality when you sleep; and then picked up where he
left off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“So yeah, I started pruning
dead branches and removed some of the rotting wood. This opened up room for the
trees, space for the air to circulate, you know, for them to breathe easier. I
would stand in the morning’s sunlight and breeze that sprang up; like a voyeur,
I watched the trees as they swayed and rustled murmurs in their new open
spaces.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon felt stupid sharing those
mundane particulars of his life, he thought ... <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that damn blue neon, it’s like a wand that’s time-lined my life</i>; still
he couldn’t discern exactly how he knew that; something like a weak echo repeated
every word he spoke, sometimes even before it came out of his mouth, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Like being rudely interrupted, </i>he
thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon laughed at the idea that emerged of his
own image; opening and closing large shears pruning and trimming, castrating;
he hoped he entertain the dwarf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Around that same time, one
large mulberry tree laid dying, bent almost to the ground, searching for
sunlight; the people that I bought the place from left all the acreage
overgrown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day from that spot, don’t
laugh, I could hear something that sounded like pleading coming from the
tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, the solution looked obvious,
so I built a ladder-like-crutch for her, and every day I raised the device up
another inch, adjusting the crutch to provide support ... well you get the
idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, this I swear to you Barkeep,
after that, every time I came near that mulberry, its limbs moved, even with no
wind. And, when the wind did blow, you know ... like the bellows for a Bach
organ ... and if I came upon that tree, the forest song immediately changed, and
the melody grew sweet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could have
scored the notes ... so clear were the sounds. I guess the mulberry tree and
its friends knew I couldn’t stand to watch her, guilty of nothing ... slowly
die,” said Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">All the while, like a poseur,
the dwarf studied an old racing form; then abruptly, and with considerable
agitation said, “A ranch with no cows, a Bach organ, and just trees ... what
kind of movie would that make? You worry about trees and didn’t give a shit
about the guy that got buried – you know what? You need a road, a yellow brick
road, a tree that talks, and some flying monkeys,” his words rising above his
little person’s stature, rudely interrogating; wanting to probe and mock Jon’s
authenticity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“One that I’d go see ... sounds
like my dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does your place have a
name?” the voice came emerging again from the mumble and tumble of words from
the far dark corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">As if on cue, the cigarette
vending machine, with a mind and determination of its own, whirled and clanged
out a pack of Lucky Strikes into its metal trough. One of the dogs sprang from
the cage beneath the bar, and snarled as he clamped his fangs onto the red and
white pack, taking the cigarettes to the dwarf. The dog growled, his fleshy lips
bearing his fangs at Jon, and then it returned to the walkway cage as the dwarf
lit up. Jon watched, amazed at the size of the cloud of smoke exhaled from
those tiny dwarf lungs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Distracted, Jon did not answer
the voice, instead gave an annoyed glance through creased brows at the
bartender, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That little dick-weed is
hacking on me … I suspect he’s got some sort of electronic device hidden in the
corner, maybe controlled by a remote that actuated the vending machine, and
played a tape of jumbled conversations, </i>thought Jon<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>He cursed aloud at the
insistence of the barkeep’s playing with the contraption.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dwarf reminded him of the Wizard behind
the drapes in the old Oz movie. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am back
to reality ... aren’t I?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he
wondered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He steadied up and took a long
pull from his glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon looked at
himself in the bar’s mirror and pushed his fingers through his hair and turned
to see his profile. Then he startled – from the darkness behind him, a person emerged;
a compelling, clear form. Now – there were those blue neon eyes, but this time
with a face, a body, a presence. Jon had no breath to hold, his lungs felt an
impending collapse, the palms of his hands tingled, and his eyes pulsed,
refocusing, to be certain of what he saw … the amazing beauty of the being that
suddenly revealed herself to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“You didn’t answer me, what do
you call your Shangri-La?” asked the voice with the blue neon eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“The Plateau, the Plateau
Ranch. And now my turn, what’s your name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Echo … Echo Hall.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is that a stage name? Do you work in the
studios?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“No, that is my tantric chakra
name from the reverberations of the heart.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon pushed out a barstool. “I
have no idea about what you just said, but why don’t you have a seat and a
drink, and you can educate me, after I first tell you all about myself,” said
Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“I need to return to my chamber
in the corner, but you are welcome to accompany me,” said Echo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Jon stepped down from his
barstool, swayed, but quickly regained his balance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Here, take this drink for Echo
and a fresh one for yourself … you’ll need them, besides it’ll save me a trip,”
said the dwarf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 55.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-text-raise: 2.5pt;">J</span>on
picked up the drinks and turned to follow Echo, already back in the dark far
corner, and still talking. Jon believed he overheard, “If you lose your virtue
it’ll just be a matter of time until you lose your freedom.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hey, what I just heard you say ...
isn’t that a quote from Adams or Jefferson, or is it a come-on trick of yours?”
Jon followed with his pick-up laugh and grin. Still a continuous delay in what
Jon heard blurred the sense of what she said; like an interpreter speaking over
some idiom in the background.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I don’t know what you heard, and I’m
not responsible for everything said in this place,” said Echo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Echo, I have to tell you, your corner
kind of crawls on me ... and now this whole place does too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why don’t we go outside and take a cab to the
beach. I’m staying at a friend’s place in Santa Monica. She lets me use her
home when she’s out of town, and she’s out of town now; you up for that? Hey –
are you there? Did you hear what I said?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Excuse me, my responsiveness – my
attention – diverted while studying your appearance; I mean your face and then
your back. That is all I have seen up to this point, and then for just a brief
moment. I just met you … so maybe let’s talk, and get to know each other,
besides it’s barely noon,” said Echo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jon felt confused and swore without
saying the words. Because of the delay in her response, Jon decided, after his
last comment, not to rush the pickup and to change his come-on; he also
realized that she would look great on his arm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Okay, but where’s the rest of you, all
I can see are your eyes?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m here ... give me your hand and
I’ll tell you all about myself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jon felt the warmth that came from
contact with the flesh of Echo’s hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He sat down next to where he imagined she would be and found only space.
Her eyes were now directly across from him; he imagined he experienced her
breath; the honeyed smell, even the taste ... like an indulgent breeze brushing
through a field of flowering vanilla. The air-conditioning switched on with a
sudden blast that amplified the stale and sour bar atmosphere, dampening the
excitement of Jon’s sensory experience. She began to speak, in a soft rhythm
with an occasional well-toned inflection. Jon analyzed ... <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she had such vocal control ... she must be the chanteuse for this bar</i>.
He speculated, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this place could be that
kind of setup; order drinks for the good-looking canary, get the John drunk,
trick him into thinking he might get somewhere, and then roll him out the back
door sans wallet, and any personal items worth anything. Besides, I don’t want
to listen to her talking about her self. She should be interested in the guy
picking her up ... namely me.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At first, the tonal quality of her
voice mesmerized him; and he remained aware that she spoke readily, yet he had
no idea of precisely what she said. He speculated <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that even though her words were delayed and jumbled they must have a
message for me, and if just given time, I could understand their meaning … they
would become clear.</i> He wanted desperately to communicate with her, to hear
what she found appealing about him. So to fit with his perceptions, Jon gave
meaning where none existed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He though, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her words nevertheless are flawed – like
newly mined diamonds; even her cadence gave no context to her utterances.</i>
They made no sense to Jon, no cohesive syntactical pattern that he could
discern, but he held back and struggled to keep his attention focused. Time
slowed, then the regulator hands crawled to a stop; he felt drained and frustrated.
Jon rose and excused himself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Ready for another one?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Well okay, one last round to go ...
for the road, what time is it<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>...
strange, my watch has stopped,” said Jon, “By the way why don’t you have her
come up to the bar instead of lounging in that dark pit back there? You’d make
more money, as it would be easier to buy her drinks here at the bar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“She has been at the bar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Not while I’ve been here!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You have chosen not to see her for
what she is and I can’t help that!” said the Dwarf. “You see me, and we talk,
so what’s the difference?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I don’t do riddles … what the hell are
you talking about?” said Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Do you see yourself? Have you ever
seen yourself?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Of course, that’s’ a stupid question!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You may think so, but you came in
here, and you want things to be the way you want them to be, and that’s not how
it works in here. Things are as they are, and that’s the reality of it all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As he began to speak Jon broke off eye
contact and looked down at the floor, “Who is the arbiter of reality? You? I
think not, no thank you. No offense, but you are in an entirely different world
than me. Just look at your own reality and then examine mine. Which would you
rather be … me, or you … a dwarf?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jon waited for a reply and then looked
up to see if the bartender had heard him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Where did you come from? What happened
to the Dwarf? Did the dogs eat him?” Jon laughed at his attempted jest. The
eyes with the blue rays stood before him, while she wiped the bar glasses with
a dirty shirt. He started to stand up and lean over the bar to see where the
Dwarf now hid himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I am in front of you, not hiding from
you. You still do not see. Even though there is a mirror behind the bar, and
still you do not see anything but yourself. I see you and I see you in the
mirror and they are not the same person. The Jon Susu I see once had the
possibility of the poet; to bring beauty, hope, love, and tenderness to those
he touches. But the Jon Susu in the mirror is the lifeless poet. He cannot
rhyme without using me, without using I, without using mine, mine, mine. He
brings nothing to anyone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Listen, I’m as much an actuality as
you and that Dwarf are, maybe more, because I’m bigger.” Again Jon laughed at
his intended humor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Is that your moral position, that
you’re large? Therefore, with that same virtuous attitude you left Tyee,
bleeding in a glacier crevice. That the being you have forgotten, your nothingness,
the one you focus on to the exclusion of all others, is superior to those others?”
said a voice that now resembled a transubstantiation of the Dwarf, Echo, and
Jon; in essence a trinity. The entity behind the bar picked up the bark and
berry framed mirror painting of Jon. “This object will unmask the secret life
of your feelings, but be wary for the cruet of berries and bark will illustrate
your irrational behavior and decisions.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Just who the hell am I talking with?”
said Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You are speaking with the fearsome ambiguity
of the way the world appears to you. You fail to act from a basis of
understanding that there is joy, that there is pain, and that there are individual
needs in others. There is no morality to your life. You have lost all contact
with the philosophies and sciences that deal with man’s being,” continued the
composite voice from behind the bar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hey, don’t you think little man or
blue-ray eyes, whoever you are, that you’re going way too personal for a
fucking barkeep?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Even now, while you’re being served
the opportunity, you don’t seem to want to come to grips with seeing that you
own nothing, and control nothing, least of all yourself; you permit irrational,
self indulgent forces to steer your destiny … you, Jon Susu, are a habit driven
mechanism; you no longer think or analyze, if you ever did; but go by a
narcissistic rote through each day,” said the entity behind the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You know where I have my elbows
resting at this moment? Well that place appears to be a bar, a wooden bar, and
not a couch. Back off, you’re way overplaying your role of the sagacious
bartender. In addition, you’ve reversed the traditional roles of the empathetic
barkeep and the remorseful, crying in their beer, client; so that I’m sitting
here listening while you blab on about shit that you know nothing about,” said
Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes, but your elbows are attached to
you Jon, and you are the one conjuring these images, these observations, they
are from your reality. Maybe it’s like the old proverb; looking for a black cat
in a dark room when you’re not certain a cat is in the room; is that ignorance
or is that investigating the unknown? What is it that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> are attempting each day to figure out? You see, if you are
doing that, the exploring what you don’t know thing, it means that you’re
ignorant and that you understand that and it’s a good thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jon closed his eyes and pushed back
from the bar. The voice took no notice and continued.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now
look in the mirror and hear your reflection say that emotionally, your actions
are all intuitive based on your having had the experience of the reality of
living each day and getting through without needing to think, to perceive your
environment and that of others. You don’t think; you don’t understand … you
just react through “muscle” memory. Your life has been a game whose duration is
short, but is composed of endless cycles, replayed endlessly; as though you
bought one record and no more, there is no variety, you are locked in to that
album, that tune … preciosity is not a concern here. In short you are one
dimensional, flat like a ribbon with just one side. You have trained and
trained to where all your actions were reflexive, all your emotions were on an
intravenous drip. You’re like an animal taught to hunt for its master and then when
turned loose into the freedom of the wilds – you can only do what you were
rained to do. Throw off the leash Jon. See more than yourself in that painting
mirror you cherish so much“<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“If your opinions were important to me
I would challenge each one, but they aren’t, so I won’t. Why don’t you hand me
my mirror and I’ll be gone from here. For god’s sake – a ribbon with one side –
that says it all,” said Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t you mean your portrait? Anyway, I’m
ready, and it’s ready when you are.”</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jon
felt,</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">more
than heard,</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">her
mutterings, as Echo handed the bark framed object to Jon. She touched his hand again
lightly during the exchange. Echo continued to garble on like two radio
stations tuned together on the same frequency.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Eleven thirty, we close in another
half hour. I’ll fix you a special drink to go, that’ll slow down her gab fest,
besides you don’t give a fuck what she’s saying ... all you want is to get her
in the sack,” said the Dwarf. The Dwarf laughed and handed Jon a paper sack.
“The brown Styrofoam cup is her drink and the white Styrofoam is yours, be sure
not to mix them up.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Let me settle up the tab,” said Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“No needs today ... come back tomorrow.
We’ll settle the score then.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I may not be here tomorrow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You’ll always be here,” said the
dwarf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Odd
choice of words,</span></i><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> thought Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
<table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" vspace="0">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left" style="background-color: transparent; border: rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0in;" valign="top">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly; page-break-after: avoid; text-indent: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 55.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-text-raise: 2.5pt;">J<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">on walked out into the late night buzz
of Wilshire Boulevard. A rare and rapidly passing weather front watered the LA
basin through low scudding clouds, leaving slickened streets; reflecting and
intensifying the metropolitan lights of nightly commerce. Street traffic,
mostly lone drivers, pampered by the perfect climates of their steel cells,
hissed down the boulevard flinging up elaborate misty patterns of dirty water,
invaded by an iridescent oily sheen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Echo took his hand in hers, but with no
letup in the flow of her verbalizing. No doubt of her beauty and if the evening
wound up as he hoped, in bed with the lovely creature, then the ear-beating
price would have been worth the certain pleasure. There were no cabs to hail at
this hour. Jon went back into the bar and asked the bartender to call one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“By the way, what is so unique about
her drink that you put the booze in a special color Styrofoam cup?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dwarf said, “It’ll stop her talking by
half, and a subduing of her chakras. It’s also a gift to you; after all, you’ll
need someone in your corner ... right amigo?” Jon laughed and said, “Well, if
that works I’ll take out a patent”. He heard a horn honking, went out, and
found a cab waiting. Echo had been bending the driver’s ear, and he had a
pained expression on his face. Having the Santa Monica beach house address
understood by the cabbie, over Echo’s incessant chattering, required repeated
attempts by Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The dwarf looked at the bar where Jon
had been sitting when he first came in. Some sort of bark like sheet framed
between a pane of clear glass and a mirror lay on the bar. The dwarf picked the
bundle up; examined first one side, and then the other<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Funny, why would a guy carry around a mirrored piece of glass stuck
on a slab of bark wood</i>? thought the little person. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
<table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" vspace="0">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left" style="background-color: transparent; border: rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0in;" valign="top">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly; page-break-after: avoid; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 64.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-text-raise: 12.0pt;">W</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 64.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 72.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-text-raise: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">eren’t
you my driver from the funeral earlier up in Cerritos?” said Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Don’t know Bub, I’m too busy taking
care of me to remember faces ... but I do recall big tippers and you must not
have been one of them,” said the driver. He removed his little finger from his
ear and wiped its nail on the front of his shirt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jon smarted from the driver’s apparent
negative recollection, but held his peace. The cab pulled up to the west
beachside address. Jon helped Echo out and asked her to wait in the portico
while he settled with the driver. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Thanks for coming so quick to our
call.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I didn’t get any call. Just cruising
the Boulevard like normal, when I saw you two.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I had the bartender call your
dispatcher from the bar where you picked us,” said Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Mister, I ain’t got no dispatcher and
there hasn’t been a bar at that address since the seventies, when Sueno’s
closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The owner died and left the
establishment to his daughter, and she couldn’t make a go of the business. Some
say that she couldn’t shut up, kinda like your little lady, no insult intended,
but the condition just sort of goes with some temperaments,” said the cab
driver. He wiggled the finger into his ear again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The meter said sixteen. Jon impulsively
pulled two twenties from his breast wallet, hoping to restore a degree of
prestige in the cabbie’s eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Not tonight ... you’ll pay, but
later,” said the driver. He closed the window and accelerated rapidly off
towards the ocean. The exhaust fumes, creating rings, lingered in the air,
reminding Jon of smoldering tundra. Then he felt an unusually cool breeze and
sensed a hand held out to him. His reflexes spun him around. He saw Echo, her
mouth working, coming towards him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly; page-break-after: avoid; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 56.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-text-raise: 2.0pt;">T<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">he beach lay empty and wind whipped.
The window, covered with salt spray, blurred the view. Jon sat on the edge of
the bed, his back to Echo. Frustration drenched the atmosphere. Echo, lying on
her back, chatted happily about something Jon did not understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reached for the brown paper sack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.25in; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hey,
maybe what the bartender told me just might work; at least the <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>booze
will dull her verbal drive.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jon
took the lid off</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">and</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">handed her the brown Styrofoam cup. He
opened his white container.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Here’s
to us and the good times to come,” said Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Are
you certain you really wish me to drink this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.25in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Well,
the bartender made the cocktail special; said the mixture might relax<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.25in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you.” Jon turned his back to Echo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Jon,
do you like me and would you want to marry me?” said Echo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Whoa
Echo, we just met, and yes I think you’re beautiful, but I won’t lie to you – I
can’t see marriage.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“But
I have fallen in love with you,” said Echo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I
understand the sentiment, when did you first become aware?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“When
you spoke so movingly of your home in the woods and how you treated the trees,
and nymphs ....”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon interrupted and then spoke slowly and with
emphasis, “I never said nymphs. I only tried to describe to the little barkeep the
image of the garden in the woods that I love so deeply. So what else do you
recall me saying?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jon waited, but there followed no
response, only silence. He turned around, the bed lay empty; the brown
Styrofoam cup stood empty. The balcony door stood fully open to the terrace that
overlooked the Pacific Ocean, dark with white breakers near shore hissing and
challenging, filling the air with a sticky mist. The drapes flared from the
on-shore breeze. Echo stood tall and still.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jon jumped off the bed and ran to her,
“You gave me a fright, you’re cold, you’re shivering, come back inside.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“st or er ... nt be lone ... ken art,”
spoke Echo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Lost for ever, want to be
alone, broken heart.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I can’t understand you Echo; maybe
you’re too shivery to talk for us to communicate. I’ll call a cab and take you
home,” said Jon. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goddamn that dwarf and that
special drink, I could be in a mountain of trouble</i>, thought Jon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“If ly I uld ve en ted th e me ation u
ve ur rry,” said Echo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(If only I could
have been treated with the same consideration, you gave your mulberry.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="border-color: currentColor currentColor windowtext; border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 3pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 4pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
blue neon faded, flickered, and struggled one last beam and then went dark.
Echo walked down the terrace steps, towards the beach. A small feral dog
followed closely on her heels. Jon made no effort to go after Echo. Minutes
later, the night’s coastal mist took her into its arms, and hid her from Jon’s
sight. A great American eagle flew past the balcony, within feet of Jon, and
then slid through the air rising above the wind driven mist in the direction of
Echo. Now the time stood at four days after a full moon. A high tide for
darkened beaches came later that night, a predicted mysterious grunion run with</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">their unusual mating ritual.</span></div>
<div style="border-color: currentColor currentColor windowtext; border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 3pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 4pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~</span></b></div>
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly; page-break-after: avoid; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 55.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-text-raise: 2.5pt;">J<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">on
cut short his scheduled beach house stay and flew back to his Plateau Ranch. He
decided not to report Echo’s strange departure to the authorities thinking; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For god’s sake – they</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">might hold me over for questioning and make
a report to the media; if that did transpire, my retirement would be
jeopardized, if and when The Company found out, and for damn sure they would be
made aware. Surely, if she had run afoul and didn’t come back to the bar, the
dwarf would miss her, and with any luck report her disappearance to the police.
I hardly knew her and she had no right telling me she loved me. In reality, the
fucking dwarf gave her the drink; and just used me as the waiter ... the
server. Then again ... well the whole episode could all have been a scam that
went off track. Ha, Lady Luck likes to be seen with me!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">His house stood hollow – echoing with
space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dwelling fondled the sense of
emptiness, coldness, even though a warm day; the sour odor of stacked ricks of recently
split oak and pungent hemlock near to the deck. Jon threw open all the windows
and doors. A shadow crossing the land of his ranch drew his attention to the
sky. He located the source; the form of a large bird riding the thermals. The
feathered animal made several circles and then dropped gracefully onto the
tallest oak in the woods. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The final entanglement of synchronicity
with Echo began that same day; the day of Jon’s return and the Eagle’s landing
in the oak tree. Immediately, a vibrant unworldly tempo at The Plateau
saturated the atmosphere; profound and unrelenting. The Eagle donated its
terrifying screams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8amp2qUrZVQs341RYotCTP27r99K_cIvR4PsrxtHhVs5TMfdcvv-rBhGq-oEcdhvHrusHLkiUMoTGGfNWAZ4UZKrgqNvF6z_65NFMoHU95hWqamn0s199OdVoJAnVI__ae3-U2ntEmizx/s1600/Shade+Garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8amp2qUrZVQs341RYotCTP27r99K_cIvR4PsrxtHhVs5TMfdcvv-rBhGq-oEcdhvHrusHLkiUMoTGGfNWAZ4UZKrgqNvF6z_65NFMoHU95hWqamn0s199OdVoJAnVI__ae3-U2ntEmizx/s640/Shade+Garden.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; page-break-after: avoid; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Figure
6 The Plateau Shade Garden<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then, Jon found himself in his shade
garden digging with frenzy, compelled by forces beyond anything he had ever
experienced. The passage of time ran on unremittingly, not requiring sleep or
food, deadening the sanities. Jon had a vague sense of several days’ passage
for the excavation of the two coffin-sized holes, parallel to each other. His
hands were raw and bleeding. During the dig, he encountered and removed large
stones; stacking them near the holes, yet they continually rolled back into the
first opening. Even though he knew he did not have to continue, regardless of
the force compelling him, he had dug with a passion. He took pride in being the
sole force for living his life as master of his destiny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still uncertain as to why he had
removed the earth in such a compulsive manner, he concentrated on a focusing –
a vague image coming to mind. He recalled a trip to the Louvre. Now a
convergence began forming that led to a large canvas displayed on a wooden
tripod that stood in front of some cast statuary. Jon returned to the cabin,
and went directly to his library. There he pulled out one of the books. He
stepped out into the sunlight of the deck, and flipped to the index and then to
the page. Immediate recognition ... <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the
woman at Sueno’s, the woman who accompanied him to the beach house in Santa
Monica, who vanished into the beach mist ... identical to the nymph Echo of a
Waterhouse painting</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jon leaned in
closer to the page and recognized an image that could have well been himself as
a young man; he lay in the foreground gazing at his reflection. Jon knew the
concept he worked a concept that seemed absurd – yet so all those events that
transpired on Wilshire Boulevard, and in Santa Monica. Then he turned a few
more pages and found a drawing of Sisyphus rolling a large stone up a steep
incline. He sensed an unsettling anxiety, and his cheek began painfully
burning. His mind, sluggish to respond, felt exhausted and incapable of
understanding the mystery; maybe tomorrow, all this would make sense. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZmns0v4nnOlGYSInGXJJMJUAWPZrFxR-p7m0ANvxLPtEO7m9s4KZByYX16k-XWcori5eQ6IpBE21RnqZ-K2uHDb3aRZuUsBlZ7FYFuvpjvUSqE8_reQPjex2vgju-J74gwTG3XHY0tU3/s1600/Narcissus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZmns0v4nnOlGYSInGXJJMJUAWPZrFxR-p7m0ANvxLPtEO7m9s4KZByYX16k-XWcori5eQ6IpBE21RnqZ-K2uHDb3aRZuUsBlZ7FYFuvpjvUSqE8_reQPjex2vgju-J74gwTG3XHY0tU3/s640/Narcissus.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Figure
7 Narcissus and Echo -- John William Waterhouse (1849–1917)<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 55.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-text-raise: 2.5pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">on
fell asleep weary and aching. A feeble scratching noise, like sharp fingernails
being drug over a rough surface, came from outside, half waking Jon. Certain he
lay dreaming, but then grasped the insistent noise real. He put on his robe and
opened the front door to his cabin. The blue neon, fierce in intensity, pained
him to look, without blinking, at the twin beams. The pulsing rays increased
their intensity and he cried for compassion. Then they dimed and went out
completely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My ave is dy, as am I,” said Echo. (My grave
is ready as am I.) “ease do at is ed.” (Please do what is required.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Dwarf, now a transformed nymph
called Dryads, stood armed with her ax next to Echo. Jon speculated, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Could Dryad be as Groff wrote, “… the silken
edges of a memory that billows between them and softens the long fall”.</i>
Dryads extended the birch-bark painting to Jon. He shook his head refusing to
take the portrait, now not wanting the likeness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9KxdsVs_3Iy-6CEY2SFm5rFRbhDMxHpFagZGB1_zhBat4ZxJF-79UG4YFQ1WPBz-nl5T2aobwmSkKqUJhNoqS9sq80avuPSNYXQluUeteWDyIE4Zrbal48cXSD1KoRfMqPXG16wOMPw0m/s1600/Dryads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9KxdsVs_3Iy-6CEY2SFm5rFRbhDMxHpFagZGB1_zhBat4ZxJF-79UG4YFQ1WPBz-nl5T2aobwmSkKqUJhNoqS9sq80avuPSNYXQluUeteWDyIE4Zrbal48cXSD1KoRfMqPXG16wOMPw0m/s320/Dryads.jpg" width="152" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Figure
8 DRYADS<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My ion can ver use her ax nst you Jon, ut I
can and will ive her son to use it nst me. I ove you on.” (My companion can
never use her ax against you Jon, but I can and will give her reason to use the
weapon against me. I love you Jon.”) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Why are you here, why did you follow
me? Never mind I can’t understand you anyway. Please leave me to my own peace,”
said Jon as he closed the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Echo turned from the entrance to Jon’s
home and walked to the Shade Garden. There, without hesitation, she pulled the
ladder crutch from beneath the mulberry tree. The tree shrieked from the tear;
a long slow fractured rent its entire length, and then the trunk broke, severed
in two. Echo turned to stare rebelliously at Dryads the forest nymph. The ax
flew swift and forcefully. Echo swayed from the impact. She staggered to the
edge of the grave, and fell face forward onto the rocks. Dryads pushed the dirt
in on top of Echo, her bones already turned into stone. Dryads sent up a
throaty whaling as a remainder of the dying mulberry, replacing the forest’s
song of the wind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The forest nymph returned from the
garden to Jon’s cabin and called for him to come out. Jon opened the door and
stood in its portal. The nymph again pulled the framed birch wood from beneath
her goatskin garment, handing the oval over to him, saying, “When you are ready
... see yourself as others see you, and as they pass over the silvered glass,
recognize, if you can, those for whom you have served without a desire for
compensation or obsequious flattering’s. Remember Susu, our reflections should best
be found in many places and with many persons.” Jon held the portrait in both
hands and looked down onto its surface. A slight odor of decaying permafrost
exuded, slithering into his nostrils. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Days later, Jon had grown weak, for he
could not leave the mirror to eat or sleep, not for a moment. He held the
silvered oval to his face, amazed and adamantly fascinated at the constant
parade of people, because in each he recognized only himself. All his likenesses
passed by skimming the silver glass for just a second, arrogating and deigning
his beauty, his self-righteousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Conversely, fate held forever, an overwhelming sadness ... for the only
images ever to appear in the mirror, those neither of his mother or of father,
were Jon’s. In that moment, all the lifelong indulgent forces that shaped his
mind and spirit, drained of their support, hid their reflections from
accompanying him any longer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jon, compelled by a Lemming like force,
used the last of his strength to return to the garden. Next to Echo’s grave he
stood, perhaps unawares of Dryads and the circling eagle, because who knew the
state of his mind and soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try as he
might, he could not bear to remove his eyes from his own likeness. Weakened to
extremis, he still managed to smile dotingly at the mirror as he fell forward,
clutching the oval close to his face, into the grave he dug with his own hands.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A breeze arose and a weeping resounded
from tree to every tree ... until all joined in the wail of wilderness; the
forest knew too, the days with Jon ... were forever gone. The eagle who had
been circling now landed next to the grave, and waited while the nymph threw
the ladder crutch and next, the birch-bark painting in upon Jon, after which
she pushed a clod of dirt onto the body. The nymph climbed onto the eagle’s
back ... his passenger. Together they rose past the treetops, the nymph peering
down at the ground. Then the eagle flew high and circled back, directly over
Echo’s grave. He gave a knife-like shriek, turning his head back towards the
nymph. At that, moment Dryads deliberately pushed off the eagle’s back. She
spun as she fell, planting into the earth, immediately taking root sprouting
the buds of a mulberry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 150%;">~<span style="color: #00b0f0;">~</span>~<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Reuter’s International News Services,
Associated Press Bulletin.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">International bounty hunter, Jon Susu,
found dead on his Tennessee ranch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation
(TBI) alerted by an anonymous tip, found Mr. Susu at the bottom of a grave
shaped hole. He held a silvered oval mirror in his hands. At first, because of
the nature of Mr. Susu’s previous profession, the authorities suspected foul
play. Oddly, a similar shaped hole, but filled with stones, had been dug next
to one in which they found his body. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The TBI said that while they will
continue investigating, they had not yet found any signs of criminality. They
theorized the mirror might have distracted Mr. Susu, causing him to accidently
fall in the hole. The upcoming autopsy will shed light on the exact manner of
Mr. Susu’s death said the Bledsoe County Coroner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">An anonymous high-level official at The
Company informed the TBI that, Mr. Susu, was a defrocked priest; they left the
reason for his defrocking up in the air. No family members came forward or
could be located. Services will be restricted to associates from The Company.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mr. Dillon, of the AP continued to
investigate the circumstances of Mr. Susu’s passing. While not offering to name
his sources, he indicated Mr. Susu’s background could be something other than
the TBI offered to the press. Especially interesting, the allegation of Mr.
Susu’s being a bounty hunter, which again we attributed to high-level Company
sources, who requested to remain anonymous. Upon further questioning, they
admitted the declaration a standard practice to disassociate The Company from
any employees or contractors brought into the glare of publicity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Al F<span style="color: #00b0f0;">i</span>n<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-51741587093233240022012-08-23T06:50:00.001-05:002012-08-23T06:51:32.349-05:00<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">An
Introduction/Explanation of The Genera of Magical Realism<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></i></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(This story is an allegory for something yet to be
determined.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></i></b></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">There are
locations, people, items, myths that are symbolic to defining Jon’s life and
psychosis. Jon, amongst other personality attributes, is a classical, text book
narcissist, (See DSM-4; Diagnostic Statistical Manuel, Version four.) Most of
the scenes and situations are real, but there are incidents that cross over,
undifferentiated, into magical moments. Joseph Campbell’s works on myths
through the ages and Kafka’s oeuvre were instrumental in deciding to write in
this genera. This short story also uses the epistolary in which the characters
confess/expose their thoughts and their feelings, at the discretion of the 3<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">rd</span></sup>
person narrator. One of the benefits is just how tangible, palpable, and
obvious the sharing in the present moment of the story can effect the reader –
in essence we’ll freeze that fleeting moment for a unique level of observation
into the character’s hidden thoughts/feelings (who am I kidding … those are the
thought that are occurring in my head as I extend the story!). Unlike Kafka, I
describe the characters and their surroundings, because, in part, they are the
generator for much of the “magical” components of this story. I am in effect
breaking the “Creative Writing 101” contract of psychological realism, as all
of the “magical/realism” writers have done for the past seventy years. My
characters are imaginary beings, much as Don Quixote and his horse </span>Rocinante<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> are imaginary characters. So you the
reader can ride on the back of that horse and go as fast and in as many
directions as you can conceive … as it were you become an adjunct creator of my
story.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This story is not
the author’s bio or revelation; it simply is his ongoing exploration of life.
The Last Syllable wants to examine the self and its “identity”, probing to see
if there are dimensions to the feelings of “soul”, or is that ephemeral entity
infinite, and therefore capable of measurement? After all, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to measure is to understand – ergo … to control!! </i>Someone wrote:
“that girl is so upset by her uncertain hold on her identity that she sobs, “I
am me, I am me, I am me …”.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Dwarf is the transmogrification (I don’t want to use the
word metamorphosis for obvious reasons) of Echo, and ironically of Jon. Of
course, neither the Dwarf nor Echo will appear together. Jon will question this
situation, this dichotomy; but only superficially as, of course, he wants to
continue to dwell on himself; that is the consistency of Jon, albeit, a foolish
consistency. The Dwarf will challenge Jon as indicated by the author’s
construction of the narrative, dialogue, and their interior thoughts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The more Jon became engaged with himself, the less
clearly/accurately he saw either the world as a whole or his self; so he
plunged further into what Husserl called the “forgetting of being”. As
mentioned above, Cervantes’ creation had lost all contact with the philosophies
and sciences that dealt with man’s being. Jon lacked social/interpersonal
infrastructure (fellowship) for a monitoring or investigation of his “being”.
There had never been an examination as to what happens inside of Jon … to
unmask the secret life of his feelings (clinical narcissism), or his irrational
behavior and decisions. The removal of his societal armor by retirement from
the “Company” will permit the world to appear in its fearsome ambiguity. The
modality of this story is not an inquiry into that dis-functionality, but to
understand Jon’s moral position, or his complete lack of, as evidenced by his
propensity with his irrepressible and innate desire to judge, to act before he
understands that joy, pain, and individual needs exist in others … besides just
himself. There is no religious or ideology stabilizing keel that assists the
helm of his ship in charting a destination. That ship was easy to board,
impossible to leave; the cost – is the infinity, the endlessness of his soul;
that great illusion of the irreplaceable uniqueness of the individual, and here
the word “individual” must be interpreted by its exact lexicon definition. (Did
I get this passage from Bovary … or is it mine – where is my mind?) What Jon
does realize is that the fame and fortune he so dearly desired will no longer
be his, because time no longer idles, resting in the shade by the roadside.
Instead it sits on his shoulder ticking louder and louder in its inexorable desecration
of his being/reality. Don Quixote, because of his complete detachment (like an
anesthesia), never suffered that realization. To the contrary, he achieved, by
his own reckoning, all that was noble and “knightly” in his madness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, Jon will have an adventure imposed on
him, because he has gone over to the forests of the myths, the gods, and the
demons of our other selves, those selves that we never really know. The
sentiments of Joseph Campbell, the educator and novelist, populate these
adventures with his seminal work on the universality of myths in “The Hero with
a Thousand Faces”.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The constrains that the character Jon exists under (imposed
by this author) is first – the intent through, his actions and words, to reveal
his own image, or a self-portrait, albeit an ersatz portrait, when it serves
his purposes. Now the author (me) wants to have an epistolary episode in which
Jon confesses his thoughts and feelings (to whom is yet to be determined, maybe
the Mulberry tree). Yet, much like Kafka’s character “K”, there is no history …
no future. Jon has never been able to get past the present moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That tangible, that palpable, but
nevertheless elusive present flees/avoids Jon completely. He responds to the
external stimuli of being fêted, and the absolute Cartesian center of all
activities that are in his proximity. It’s a life of reaction, Pavlovian in
predictability and lacks contemplation. Jon’s involvement with his “self”,
which centers on his needs, to the exclusion of others, always claws (a garra),
always fights its way into the foreground of his thoughts and actions. Jon
believes he lives, by choice, in the present moment … yet … never understands,
or chooses to ignore, that the present moment eludes us all. So my intent is,
which I have undertaken by means of a literary couch for Jon to lay on, to
stop, to seize that fleeting instant and make we/us, the readers, and the
author, see it. I have chosen to share a few incidents of Jon’s past. As for
the future, what comes after the Al Fin, the reader, and myself, can only
speculate. I also decided not to create a dénouement. The question that begs,
at least in my mind, is can the “present” be grasped at all? My research has
provided antidotal results that shouts “Of course not!” So, even more so, the future
is as oblique as the present; therefore no final conclusion, unless the story
takes ahold and dictates that course of action is required. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A better and more accurate course of action might be to
attempt to at least recognize just how ephemeral the “present” remains: why I
would consider that motif I do not know … possibly because the essence is in
the air I breath and I want a go at the concept, because possibly my words can
give some shape, a structure to the perceived reality of being.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even though I imagine Jon having, at times, sadomasochistic
dependencies and an always innate human immaturity, something akin to a
character from a Gombrowicz novel, I’m not certain that I have the skill to
correctly portray those aspects of the human condition and besides to what
effect: but it would be interesting to try.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jon is at that point in his life where he sees that he
“owns” nothing, and controls nothing, least of all himself; irrational forces
steer his destiny … he is a habit driven mechanism, he no longer thinks or
analyzes, but goes by rote through each day; emotionally, his actions, all
intuitive based on his having had the experience of the reality of living each
day and getting through. He doesn’t think, he doesn’t understand … he just
reacts through “muscle” memory. His life has been a game whose duration is
short, but replayed endlessly. He does not grasp the possibility of existence,
nor of the value of each moment. But suppose, just try to visualize, that he is
right and we who carry the burden of seeing beyond our own reality are wrong …
much like Sisyphus.<o:p></o:p></span>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-77068579923481310932012-05-01T19:19:00.000-05:002012-05-01T19:19:13.612-05:00I FEEL LIKE TELEMACHUS<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At times I feel like Telemachus, staying at home waiting for something to happen; like hoping for a burst or even an incremental uptick in the economy. I listen to the folks in our Capitol, to the pundits, read the newspapers and their opinion columns; all who seem to have the answers, but nothing of substance seems to convey from all the energies expended by those folks, except name calling and childish put downs; because as we are told … negative beats down the opponent and you win. I have lived through a whole bunch of cycles of figureheads in our Capital telling how they will make it all better, but mostly it gets worse. I look at my grandkids and just hope.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When stymied I tend to focus in the mode of “positive thinking”. This morning I heard, quite by chance, a retired military Lt Commander, a former Top Gun, speak about the military’s accountability and personal responsibility. Wow! – How that brought resonance out of the past! At one time in my career I had the good fortune to be able to occasionally interface with the military, at The Naval War College in Monterey, and at TRW Space Park, and a couple of embassies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was impressed with the caliber of the individuals and their absolute, unwavering professionalism. The Air Force Colonels seemed to be the epitome of the executive decision maker and organizational geniuses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And please don’t confuse the toilet seats fiasco with the military. They get a lot of programs and materials shoved down their throats by politicians and bureaucrats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, briefly, the Lt Commander reiterated in his book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Top Gun on Wall Street</i>, the four points that the Academy military mind is molded to use in almost every aspect of their deployments and career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To wit:</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I.</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">YOU CAN’T COME IN SIDEWAYS. Just because you’re an Admiral in the Navy doesn’t mean you can switch to the Army as a General, and to transliterate to the government and corporate life no CEO in ABC Corporation automatically goes to the CEO position of the XYZ Corporation, you gotta first meet the special requirements of each organization. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">II.</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">HIPPITY-HOP … PLEBE STOP! At the Academies you can be braced at any given moment, and you must have the answer to any germane question asked of you. It’s called accountability every moment.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">III.</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">HONOR CONCEPT. No half-truths … No lies! No out of context quoting! At all times one must have personal integrity! </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">IV.</span><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">ALL GO TOGETHER. No fall guys. All share in any blame. There is no “I” in team. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, wouldn’t it be great if we could establish an Academy for those who would wish to seek office in support of their country. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>ATTENTION, amendments to the constitution required first</u></i>. You could not run for election until you had completed the five year course, sort of an upgraded political science degree. Naturally, there would be similar Academies for the other branches of government: justices, civil servants, etc., and this is critical—all would be based on the four points above. By the way, the first “Sideways” point needs a little explanation, the concept is designed to get away from the “good ol’ boy’ appointments by pals on the corporate boards, disproportionate compensation, and with no heed or little deference to the stock holders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unrealistic you say, and if you have nothing to offer – well then you can join me in my role of Telemachus awaiting the return of Odysseus from the Trojan War to make every thing all better ... <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and you know how that went down! </span></div>
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<br /></div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-47618006853287060332012-02-03T18:04:00.000-06:002012-02-03T18:04:31.281-06:00A Barber's Texas Longhorn Bull<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">About once a month I enjoy getting my hair cut. Most probably because I have so little, so the barber, an attractive lady, Arlene, with magnificent eyes, spends a lot of time fussing over my white strands; otherwise she would be finished in a few minutes and the quality of woman she is, she wouldn’t want to charge me the full price, which is inconsiderable in the first place. That’s the way it is in Pikeville, county seat of Bledsoe County.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The city, about fifteen-hundred personalities, is situated in the northern half of a valley; a deep fertile valley that presents itself as a large rupture in the southern Cumberland Plateau. The terraced, highly fracture, brown sandstone walls of the plateau rise prominently to the east and west, respectively; eagles and red winged hawks soar its updrafts. A meandering river passes through the eastern section of the two square miles of the county seat. I have driven the valley's length hundreds and hundreds of times, and I always marvel at its natural pastoral beauty. Huge rolls of hay interspersed on its shaven rolling hills; their placement like the calculated positioning of pieces on a chess board. Forests of deciduous trees and coniferous pine line the streams and fill some of the homestead’s back acreage. Pastures filled with grass greener than any in the ol’ sod, and where star dust swirls and dances at night amongst the hay rolls. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The barber shop, with its stack of magazines, hair supplements, comfortable chairs, and wonderfully framed posters, is a wife and husband establishment, with Arlene working the beginning three days of the week and Bob, the husband, the last three. They double up on Saturdays as that is the most popular day for men around here to get their haircut. They also have a Laundromat and a “touch less” car wash attached to their shop; a nice addition for this small community. They work hard to keep their business clean, efficient, and price competitive.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A couple of days ago I parked my 89 Supra in front of their place; Bob was clipping as it was Thursday. Now Bob, you should know, is a hardy fellow well met; tall, thin and as is a want of his trade ... gregarious. He also possesses a Wikipedia of local knowledge. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was a customer in the chair, a young fellow just back from Afghanistan. He had been in the military for ten years, enlisting when he was eighteen. I sat down to wait my turn and picked up the local newspaper, the Bledsonian and was greeted with what appeared to be a crime wave in our normally peaceable and beautiful county. A little ol’ lady stood accused of doing away with two elderly sisters. The young man in the barber’s chair avowed that he knew the defendant and could not believe that sweet lady capable of anything more illegal than double parking. We all shook our head in unison. The other “crime spree” story was of another meth lab being broken up and the cook taken into custody. Bob allowed how there would be a special place in hell for the folks that trafficked in that horrendous drug. Again, with our heads shaking in unison.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The fellow in the chair was finished. He tipped Bob nicely, looked in the mirror and seemed satisfied. I got up and replaced him in the seat. I took off my glasses and hung them from the collar of my shirt, and Bob drew the sheet up to my neck. I looked around the nicely decorated shop and suddenly saw “It” hanging from the wall to my left. “It” was about four feet by six feet and framed with heavy oak. It had a brass plaque titled <em>Happy Camper</em> and was an oil painting, on wood, of a Texas Longhorn bull; dense shiny black torso, short legs, a massive chest and neck, probably weighing in at least seventeen hundred, and possessing large brown eyes. I recognized the singular brush strokes and pallet of my neighbor, Alice, down the road a ways from my place. She is a gifted artist, self taught, and she and her husband Harold, are wonderful friends. She painted the portrait in lieu of having the animal stuffed and mounted. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bob, very sadly, said that <em>Happy Camper</em> had passed away from old age; he was twenty, and the pet of the family. Bob recalled how he had flown to Texas to bid on the animal at an auction, won, and had Happy Camper hauled all the way to Tennessee. As an adult, his massive curved horns measured 100 inches from tip to tip, and the gap between the tips was eighty-seven inches.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Neither Bob nor I lived down in the valley, but up on the “mountain”. I recalled when I drove by their place, on my way to Wal-Mart, seeing the ol’ fellow, <em>Happy Camper</em>, standing by the fence, like royalty; solitary, placid and self-possessed; enjoying the spot in the shade of the old unpainted barn in the hot afternoons. In the winter the sagging barn also served as a bulwark against the cold winds. I always marveled at the noble way the fellow held his head high with all that weight and encumbrance of the Nordic crown … that spread of his magnificent horns.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even today, Bledsoe County is a hunter’s paradise and most everyone goes out to put food on the table; wild boar, wild turkey, deer, possum, etc. There are a lot of trophies and taxidermy is a profitable niche business. Bob said the painting was a substitute for having <em>Happy Camper’s</em> head mounted, not to mention the $2k the mounting would have cost. Additionally, his wife Arlene said, without saying, that there was no way he would get that into their home or shop. Bob did have the horns braced in brass and attached to a wooden commemoration and placed in his large barn, a discreet distance from the main house ... so that Happy Camper lives on in Bob’s eyes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I sat in the barber’s chair, I offered up to Bob what I hoped to be the appropriate sentiments for a Texas Longhorn bull that had passed; an unknown protocol to me. He thanked me and went on to tell that he had seventy more of the critters, raised and bred for roping contests and not to be butchered. Further, each of the seventy critters had a name that he had thought up; adding proudly – “by myself”. Jokingly, I asked if he could, like “the woman who lived in the shoe with so many children she didn’t know what to do” remember their names. Well he did, and I received the complete roster … cow by cow, bull by bull … over the drone of the clippers. With the last name, he whipped the sheet off. I got down from the chair and as I paid him, I saw there was a little moisture in his eyes. I quickly averted my gaze, as one man doesn’t want another man to see his sentiments that way. I indicated I didn’t need change and walked out to my car, a little subdued. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I started the car and pulled out onto the main street. I looked into the rear view mirror, smiled and then said out loud, “You just gotta think well of a man that can tear up over some bull.”</span></div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-32590802538824315282011-12-04T07:58:00.000-06:002011-12-14T19:52:20.996-06:00A THANKSGIVING BLOG for OLD and NEW FRIENDS<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The last several weeks of November 2011, have been unusually special for me. This is the first time since 1962 that I haven’t had Thanksgiving with my immediate family. I have traditionally cooked the bird and all the dishes; generally for about ten to fifteen people. Now they, my family, are grown and have set their sails, boxing the compass in their directions, building their lives.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My good friend Joan asked me to spend Thanksgiving with her, her family, and friends in Cincinnati, Ohio. For a couple of months I labored hard around Windsong to leave her in good shape for winter. The leaves have been raked and piled away from the trees that shed them; mostly elderly oaks, some yellow popular and walnut. Select piles destined to be used as soil enriching mulch and some burned, adding to the earthy aroma of fall. The half a dozen ricks of firewood I split are covered against the elements and neatly stacked for easy access from the house and fireplace. Rye winter grass planted earlier and mowed just a few days ago will hold the ground during winter storms and spring flooding. The gravel road, slopes down to the creek and then across the sturdy railroad beam bridge, rising to the now dormant orchard and winding out onto the county blacktop, about 1500 feet, lays nicely dressed by the tractor rake for all to see.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Assured that the Ranch lay turned-out, well groomed and able to fend for herself, I loaded up my Supra Turbo, her powerful engine faithfully maintained over her twenty-three years. She could growl if called upon, instead we used her understated purr to set the pace on the interstates. I eased out onto the county highway, I was ready for this trip; a journey of about six hours of easy listening, running on cruise control for most of the trip. Being a guy, you all do know that the "man-code" won’t allow us guys to stop until we get there.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Fortunately, my gas tank had enough capacity to get me to Joan’s without needing a refueling; some three-hundred and sixty miles. Oh the joy of a large bladder and a nonstop trip.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Still, all who drive this land speak of its beauty; the quilt of pastures, forests, streams, shimmering city spires; and satellite navigation, a guarantee of never being lost. On second thought, I’m not certain that I really want that assurance. The “less traveled road” forever beckons, thank goodness.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Crossing the Ohio River, I turned off the cruise control and wound through the Cincinnati traffic, not all that heavy though. I called Joan on my cell phone to give an update on my ETA.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On my arrival she, being Joan, had a gaggle of activities for us to engage in. I can’t begin to tell you all the boards that Joan sits on, classes she teaches or takes, and the seemingly innumerable “close” friends and family this talented woman has nurtured and sustained over the years; not to mention her personal life style of physical activities; tai chi, endurance swimming, hiking, kayaking, sailing, and on and on; oh yes, and watching copious hours of funky TV in her entertainment center, on her new sixty (yes I said 60) inch flat screen with a Blu-ray DVD player. Joan a very classy lady, is an occupational therapist, patiently tutored me in the mechanics of the remote controls, the bane of my life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After the beautiful isolation in the rolling woods of Windsong, being with Joan in Cincinnati seemed similar to a European tour; one where a person does fourteen countries in fourteen days … wearing, but exhilarating and unforgettable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first Thursday we attended an afternoon Jungian class on the Blue Ash Campus of the U of Cincinnati. There we listened to a lecture from the “Sandplay Therapy” Psychologist, Kay Bradway; an interesting and novel concept. We went to a bookstore afterwards. There are none where I live and you must travel forty or fifty miles for that pleasure.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The next day Friday, Joan arranged a small dinner party for some of our mutual friends and acquaintances. Bonnie and Peter, psychologists (you will see a pattern) arrived first. When all the remaining guests showed up I presented Peter with the cherished “Eertbarc Calendar” award for his outstanding photography at Windsong. Bonnie, ever more youthful looking, beamed while Peter gave his acceptance speech and told a few stories. Maureen and Sister Marty, always loving and considerate, sat next to me and tried to explain how they inadvertently walked into the house next to Joan’s, almost giving a cardiac experience to the elderly lady who lived there. Martha artfully shared some of her social activities with an attentive audience, what a charmer! And beautiful Nonie, well she engaged us all with lively, humorous conversation. I tried to entice Nonie to buy a place in Tennessee in which to retire ... we will see. Joan’s petite and lovely daughter Chrissy, who “forcefully” monitors the neighborhood parking congestion, helped with the serving. My contribution included a constructed-from- scratch, large batch of Walt’s non-award winning, internationally ignored chili. Joan made her mother’s potato soup … yum yum!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On Sunday we went to a high mass at St. Mary’s Cathedral Basilica of the Assumption in Covington, Kentucky, (</span><a href="http://www.covcathedral.com/"><span style="font-size: large;">www.covcathedral.com</span></a><span style="font-size: large;">, go here to take the tour of this magnificent edifice!) across the Ohio River from Cincinnati. The local Bishop said mass, and twenty-four vocal souls formed the choir, surrounding the huge organ (sixty-five ranks/pipes) in the south transept; this is a must see. It is the equal of European Gothic Cathedrals.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There followed a swirl of planned events, some I embarked on with trepidation, suggestive of as in … <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not my thing</i>! Nevertheless, I went where Joan went. My foreboding stood misplaced in all cases.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tuesday, I attended, with Joan, an English literature class at Osher Life Long Learning on the U of C campus – featuring Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath.” Moderator Paul Hendrick read Chapter 14 to the class; I suggest you, kind reader of this blog, give yourself a treat and at least read that short chapter of this hugely gifted writer; better yet, and preferably, the entire seminal story of the 1939’s Oklahoma dust belt migration to California. I especially appreciated, thanks to attending this class with Joan, being reunited with Steinbeck, recalling my love of his literary homage to Arthur and the Round Table archetypes, and the true definition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">paisano</i> in his short story, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tortilla Flat</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then around eleven, for three hours on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving we, about twenty volunteers, helped feed home cooked turkey to approximately three-hundred folks with mental illness and addictions at a site near downtown Cincinnati; all under the auspices of GCB and IKRON. Once, while I carefully removed the food from a serving tray and set it in front of one of the “clients,” a white haired senior citizen, I inadvertently said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bon appetite. </i>She stared up at me with large watery brown eyes and said, “What did you say?!” I quickly corrected myself and wished her a tasty meal<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> I started away, but she took my hand, patted it saying, “You’ll learn, but it may take you awhile.”Actually, that morning in downtown Cincinnati, I learned a lot more than she could imagine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thanksgiving morning, we went to an open AA meeting at six-thirty A.M. I sat, only observing, being deeply stirred by the honest expressions by individuals sharing their love for fellow AA members, who without exception credited them with saving their lives. With my attention riveted for an hour and a half to folks who wrestled and pinned their daily tribulations … that ol’ demon – addiction, and supported by the assistance of others, rose above those challenges … I realized the essential importance that a supportive community plays in so many of our lives.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Later on Thanksgiving Day we drove to Joan’s son, Tom, and his newly built home with its sweeping architecture and view. He cooked two turkeys in a deep fryer, safely outside the house (this will be my mode of preparing birds from now on). Tom is a great host and a kind and generous man. Tom gave a moving invocation as we all bowed our heads. His girlfriend, Maria from Broken Bow, Oklahoma, an executive, and a charming and beautiful person, concocted dish after dish in the spacious modern kitchen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Chrissy, Joan’s daughter, overhearing that I enjoyed raw oysters went out unannounced and found a dozen fresh oysters in the shell. I had the pleasure of attending to their shucking and fed their contents, on a cracker with lemon juice, to Maria and to myself (nobody else would venture into the succulence of a bivalve … sorry Tom you had to learn this way). Life is good!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course we ate and ate, and talked and talked on a variety of subjects, and the common ingredient, warm laughter, floated throughout the comfortable home. The palpable mood of inclusion pulled one into the affection of the families (we speak that way in Tennessee!).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tom’s oldest daughter, Maggie, a University freshman, and I discussed her literary ambitions. She is exceptionally talented and well spoken. I offered to critique her work and she accepted. Anna, Tom’s other daughter is a charmer with an excellence sense of humor, both are beautiful young ladies. Two of Tom’s acolytes, Kenneth and Bernae were there; Tom mentors young adults. Kenneth, an aspiring chef, helped me shuck the oysters with a rusty screwdriver, although he wouldn’t eat any … so much the better for me! During the dinner serving I fenced with Kenneth’s sister Bernae for the same piece of Turkey … she won.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The next day we went to the Cincinnati Art Museum to see an Art Deco exhibition. After a lengthy and educational passage through every corridor of the place, at Joan’s direction, we headed for the Museum’s restaurant. She suggested a fresh crab salad, one of the culinary highlights of the trip, which made me resolve ... I’ll be back!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Later that week I met more of Joan’s friends; the urbane and world travelers Nancy and Steve Woods, and their friends at a birthday party for their daughter Jenna (Ohio has so many beautiful women – again, what’s in the water?).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">One evening we visited with Marie and her brother Tony, his wife and daughter. Marie’s son Tony quietly watched an educational program on TV, and oh yes, their grey parrot Hughina; a coyly verbal bird entertained us with primal shrieks. Marie, a full of life redhead, is restoring her home; high ceiling rooms with loads of hardwood trim and woodwork, old period craftsmanship one no longer sees, and a great glittering crystal chandler from one of the Slavic countries, Slovenia I believe, where she recently traveled to unite with her parent’s family. Oh yes – great key lime pie Marie!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first week, Aishah, a beautiful black, American, Muslim woman, and her husband Omar, who hailed from Algiers, came over to see their old friend Joan and meet me. Wonderfully outgoing and charming, we spent an hour chatting and drinking coffee. When they left, Aishah offered me her hand; ordinarily a taboo; Muslim custom dictates that only the husband may touch his wife – I felt honored.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We also had lunch with Joan’s long time friend and sailing skipper Ellen Frankenberg at LaRosa’s. Best onion soup I have eaten. We went there three times during my stay. Ellen is a fascinating, warm person, and shared stories about her many travels. She sails a twenty four foot boat and Joan is her first mate. She is also a published writer and family business psychologist. Talent is all over the place, yes, I’ll ask again; what’s in the Cincinnati water?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sunday, Kathleen, Joan’s youngest offspring, came over to visit and watch the Bengals do whatever it is that they do. She loved on Joan’s three Scottie dogs; Cuppa Joe getting the most attention. I even got several smiles. We owe her and hubby Dan a luncheon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well, there were more activities and many more folks, but I try to limit myself to about a couple of thousand or so words on these blogs. I’m happy I live in this wonderful land with its diverse embroidery of interesting, warm, and loving folks; many who live in Cincinnati and who are now my friends and have an open invitation to visit here at Windsong. These are tough times, but the depth of this country and its peoples leaves me never in doubt to the steadfastness of our national ability to persevere. Thanks Joan for a wonderful and unforgettable Thanksgiving. And yes – I now have more than ever for which to be thankful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sadly, I left Joan and Cincinnati early Monday morning. The decompressing drive home took seven hours in a downpour of rain, occasional hydroplaning, and a seemingly endless caravan of eighteen wheelers with their roadway obscuring spray of swirling rainwater gave me time to return to reality and quietly come down from the high of my visit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Around midday, back in middle Tennessee, I turned off Blankenship Road onto the crackling gravel of Crabtree Lane and immediately stopped Supra. I got out and stood still, taking in the raw, rural beauty of my home … Windsong Ranch. We had received about eight inches of precipitation in forty-eight hours. “Windy” seemingly laying in wait, strutted her stuff for her returning caretaker – she looked majestic with wind blown droplets of sparkling rain, the trees waiving in the breeze while I drove down the grand dame’s country path. The fish stocked pond gracefully overflowed and the creek kicked up its white- water heels, while all the falls performed their unique vibratos; surging and pulsing to the conductor’s gravity-baton (again, we talk that way in Tennessee). </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So here I am, skating on life’s ever thinning ice, accelerating faster and faster from septuagenarian to octogenarian … I confess, with humbleness, that I truthfully felt the greeting to be composed by “Windy” in celebration of my return. Yes, I probably have become delusional, hubristic, or both.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Later that day, Al my son debriefed me. Then I helped him get out his kayak and watched and filmed while he surfed the creek’s rapids. (See Alfred Crabtree Facebook for the video.) Repeating myself … life is good; really, really good!</span><br />
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</span></div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-7669923102269755612011-10-09T21:03:00.000-05:002011-10-16T14:56:23.054-05:00Fruit Flies and Remotes<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Not too long ago I began to notice annoying little critters flying around the kitchen. I compost, so decided that the small compost canister I kept under the sink was the birth place of the nasty little buggers. When I opened the lid, I was swarmed by a flying wedge, literally a legion of gnats (fruit flies?). Look, I’m a guy and can stand a little bio diversity. These guys, I was pretty certain, were from the family Drosophilidae, whose larva feeds on ripening or fermenting fruits and vegetables. The celebrities of their clan are the especially pesky species of <i>Drosophila melanogaster, </i>because of their noble karma of volunteering (?) for use in genetic research. They even have alias; <i>pomace fly</i>, <i>vinegar fly</i>. Anyway, I got my can of Raid and blasted the composter and the entire underneath of the kitchen sink. They seem to thrive and swarmed even more the next day.</span><br />
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<a name='more'></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Awhile back I bought a couple of wicker baskets, as recommended by a neighbor, in which to keep onions and potatoes; a neater solution than my standard practice of shoving them off onto a shelf where they seemed to sprout of their own accord, rendering them useless. Well, even with the airy basket, I still didn’t get around to using the produce and forgot that they were sitting in a dark corner of the kitchen (for some reason I just felt better knowing I had potatoes and onions on hand). Apparently one large onion rotted into a juicy mass, which I guess was the probable true genesis of the bothersome gnats. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Now I swear that, as I am writing this post, one arrogant, small, biting midge just skidded to a landing on my nose. I swatted and missed, bending the bridge of my glasses. I rushed for the can of Raid, but the little bastards seem to be faster than the jet spray. At the time of this writing I’m about resolved to removing my fish tank over to my son’s place and then set off a dozen or so cans of fumigate in my home and then take an overnight trip. I don’t know if they feast on humans, but my psychosomatic inclinations tell me they do and I intermittently imagine the itch and swelling of bites. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Flash ahead several days later, as I resume writing this post:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Okay, by now you’re probably wondering just how “remotes” figure into this vignette. I’ll tell you how. After fighting the infestations each day for several weeks, I’ve noted that at night they seem to settle down to sleep. In the evening I want to either write or leave the computer and go relax in my entertainment center (a grandiose appellation for a TV set). The particular night I’m referencing I decided to watch either a DVD movie that I had purchased or a TCM Humphrey Bogart noir classic; something I did in 1947 and all I needed was twenty-five cents at the neighborhood Paramount Theater. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, for me to revisit that flick in my 21<sup>st</sup> century, intuitive “entertainment center” it seems that I needed four remotes. One for Direct TV, one for the actual TV set, one for the surround sound system, and another for the Blue Ray. I know – I know – you’re suppose to be able to compound all of them into one master “remote”; well if you’re so smart, then you come do it for me … please! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Just to point out how insidious the necessity of corresponding with your electronics has become let me just take a moment and illustrate what I mean. Like everyone else I have external remotes, and built in remotes, and a myriad of confusing protocols on an IPod, cell phone, on every clock in my house, the weather station, Satellite radio, not to mention my desk top and two lap tops, plus their wireless keyboard/mouse set ups, Skype, and wireless interfaces between my computers and the flat screen TV. Oh yes, the Kindle has its own “intuitive” protocol keyboard, plus the Garmin GPS in my car has at least five hundred permutations of “intuitive” key combinations; yet it still gets lost! Don’t forget the highway radar detector (I have a heavy foot). There are more … but I can begin to feel the vibes of your empathy pulsing through the ether (can you tell I lived in Southern California for decades). There are so many buttons in my life for me to push, that the tips of my fingers are becoming splayed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Okay, I resolved to triumph over the “entertainment center” remote by reading three copious manuals and after hours of fruitless (no gnats) attempts, I at last programmed the master (DirecTV) remote to accommodate the other three remote’s functions. I confess I was rather smug, in that I felt I had successfully represented mankind in its constant skirmish with technology. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Yikes! There goes another critter crossing in front of my computer screen – drat – missed it! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Now back to the story. So there I was ensconced in my favorite recliner with a single, solitary, all powerful remote tapping out on the keys the precise protocol for the anticipated movie, when a gnat, obviously suffering from insomnia, began circling my nearby bowl of pig skins and hot sauce. I laid my remote on the arm of the recliner and watched for the circling nuisance to land. It did … on my remote … and before I could think I lashed out with the palm of my hand, a result of all the built up resentment, don’t you know. Of course, you probably already anticipated the results; I missed the bugger and the force of the intended gnat blow deprogrammed my “Star Wars phaser-master remote.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Tomorrow the fish go, and I’ll call the exterminators. I can’t fight both technology and the Drosophilidae; I know it’s intuitive, yes I’m whipped … dang gnat it!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-44765220871855971392011-09-18T19:47:00.000-05:002011-10-16T14:55:38.850-05:00Splitting A Branch Of James Monroe<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The autumnal equinox is just a few days away and I’m preparing for winter here on Windsong. You know the drill; get storm windows ready to install, sweep the chimney with a wire brush, clean and condition lawn furniture for storage, keep ahead of the falling leaves, finally, start splitting wood; enough for a three month supply, about three cords. I have a high efficiency fire place that keeps the place warm, and if it gets really cold – below zero – I have a wood burning Elvira kitchen stove from Canada.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">By the way, the wood comes from dead-fall trees on Windsong. Except this year my son Alfred lost to a storm, a behemoth oak tree that fronted his commercial building in Dunlap, in the Sequatchie Valley, Tennessee. He transported some of the larger limbs, already bucked, up the mountain and piled them by my woodpile. The trunk of the tree was taken by some folks that apparently needed the wood more than the owner, bless their little hearts. </span><br />
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<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The largest of the behemoth’s “limbs” measured up to 40 inches diameter. It had one-hundred and sixty annular rings. The trunk had about one-hundred and ninety. Doing the math this living, breathing flora sprouted in about 1820. James Monroe, the fifth president, was elected, and Maine was admitted as the 23<sup>rd</sup> state to the Union that year. There were a couple of dry spells anywhere from seven to fifteen years that made the closeness of the annular rings hard to count, until I got a magnifying glass.</span><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Dendroclimatology</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, (I looked it up) is the science of determining past climates from trees (primarily properties of the annual tree rings). Tree rings are wider when conditions favor growth, narrower when times are difficult. Anyway I got to work and armed myself with a diamond shaped splitting wedge, a seven-pound splitting maul and a five pound sledge hammer, and gloves as I have soft hands.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m not necessarily a tree hugger (although I have and I was sober) but have always sensed a quite vibrancy around trees, especially those that have burst through the canopy to reach out to the shine of the sun. When I first came to Windsong I walked the woods pulling down all the parasitic vines choking and mitigating the vigor of the trees. I swear I could hear a warm bark of gratitude, much like when someone is having their back scratched; know what I mean?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now here I was splitting the marvelous appendages of the Monroe tree; it still capable of demonstrating an inherent strength of cohesion against my splitting efforts (note to myself … think about purchasing a log splitting machine); It was, after all, a mighty red oak: Stringy, odoriferous, dense and heavy, each bucked log offered more resistance to my efforts than I had ever experienced. Tired, but wanting to do just one more, I bent down to turn over another one of the 40” diameter logs, when it slipped from my bear hug and the bark tore shallow, parallel gashes down my right arm. I had to go into the house to stem the flow of sap, I mean blood. Then back to work. I would clean the striations (the language of a geologist) later of the greenish substance ground into my skin from the hoary bark. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I finished later than I had planned and went into the house and fixed dinner, turned on the TV and ate from where I sat on the couch. My eyes became heavy and I turned off the TV for a quick snooze before I showered. Previously, one of my dear and close friends, a Jungian expert on dreaming, told me that while I claimed I didn’t dream, I most assuredly did – and that I would be able to recall my dreams if I didn’t go to sleep with the radio on, which I have done all my life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well she was wrong … I didn’t dream – technically – instead I had a nightmare.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> It turns out that the James Monroe tree was used for the hanging of a cattle and horse thief. In this case a widow’s milk cow, and her plowing mule that she used to feed and support her twelve children.By chance, in the nightmare, I came along to visit my son. He was gone on a service call, so I decided to rest and fell asleep under the tree. I awoke screaming as it had picked me up in its hoary branches and began squeezing and then dropped me to the ground; where I lay bleeding, then suddenly small oak branches began erupting from my broken skin. I was turning into a tree. I begged and implored the James Madison tree to release me. It simply sat rooted, and stoically ignored me, that is until I shouted out that I was the last of the Crabtrees. Immediately my skin cleared of all eruptions and I sat up with a knot in my stomach.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now I make certain that I have backup for my bedside radio. I’m just not a dreamer Mr. Jung.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-88019882584533642012011-09-04T19:23:00.000-05:002011-10-16T14:57:37.659-05:00A SHAGGY DOG STORY<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">There is a sea in the sky, and the earthbound forests wave in the currents like the kelp beds to the lee of Anacapa Island. Almost daily, gusting winds lay the golden wattle grass flat on the windward side of the island where several goats, sure footed on the steep cliffs, munch their way through the vegetation. Rare golden eagles languidly bum rides with the off shore air currents, hungrily watching to see what fauna the goats flush from the flora below. The immense fetch of the Pacific endlessly rolls grinder waves past the Channel Islands towards the California mainland.</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My young man is somewhere north by north-east of me, a distance of about thirty miles and over a hundred and twenty miles from his home port of Dana Point, California. He sits atop his spoon-billed Augustine, his legs dangling in the brine, looking over his shoulder. He hears from the ocean behind, the rush of a mountain of water and expertly grasps the rails pushing his complete body flat onto the board, paddling furiously to get up to speed for the wave coming from behind. The lift begins, ever so suitable, signaling him to push up onto his feet; now he and his board rides a curved shaped express platform. He slides his feet forward; getting out front on his board and hanging ten. Totally tubular, he is momentarily in another world. The shore comes up fast and he calculates the perfect timing just as he approaches the beach, his skegs now unloaded of all their torque, and leaps from the surf board into the shallow swirl of sand and seawater. He snatches the eleven foot board up under his arm in one fluid motion, walking with his unique gait towards his spread beach towel. He expertly examines for damage the board’s high-aspect raked skegs, and then plants the Augustine stern first into the soft sand … where it postures like an Easter Island monolith. He has always been graceful – in all aspects of living. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">No one knows where I am, although there was an exhaustive search. Nowadays I can see forever; there are no longer any limitations on my sight. I however prefer to remain on Anacapa, where the blue Pacific chose to deposit me. Certainly, I would very much rather he know, but the code prohibits me contacting him. There is a note of discord in his life – that I can sense; it’s my “vanishing”, as the newspapers and authorities always describe events for which they have no explanation. Also I sense too, that he has come to accept our separation, knowing, I’m certain, that its duration will pass like his sets of waves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">There is no mystery. Simply, on that moonless night watch, I jumped into the small tender being towed behind his sailboat, something I had done many times, but never in the dark. A rogue wave came running up behind us and flipped the rubber dinghy. I barked several times, all the while my young master thought I was below deck – hearing and suspecting nothing. Much later I washed up, becoming tightly wedged, in a rocky outcrop; twisted, and wrapped mummy like, in large stalks of brown kelp. We, my young master and I, will sail together again, I’m “dog-gone” certain of it.</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-70717910819838115012011-08-22T12:35:00.000-05:002011-10-16T14:59:47.452-05:00Assimilation of Literary Characters Not Recommended<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">I suppose I’m influenced, to some degree, by whatever current author I’m reading. I recall at the age of ten, when I first read Sir Conan Doyle’s “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” I tried to effect a </span><a href="http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=hGT&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&sa=X&ei=sJROTrPcKMPf0QHavsCGBw&ved=0CBgQvwUoAQ&q=Sherlock+Holmes%27+Professor+Moriarty&spell=1"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Professor</span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"> Moriarty</span></a><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> like, British accent, and wear a monocle; an old chipped watch crystal, which kept falling from my untrained eye. When I finally returned the long overdue <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Collected Works of Sherlock Holmes</i>, the school librarian didn’t fine me; instead, she glued a shoe string to my monocle and sent me to see Mother Superior. The good Sister laughed, but insisted on calling my mother, telling her that her son was possessed and couldn’t return to class until he, meaning me, was cleansed of the malevolence. My mother cleansed me that evening with a hairbrush and confiscated the monocle. I was back to normal, for me, the next morning … sans accent.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><a name='more'></a></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">About a decade later I recall pouring over – more at devouring – every word of “Don Quixote de la Mancha”. After finishing the greatest story ever written, I made a trip to Holland, Michigan to size up their windmills on 7<sup>th</sup> Street and Lincoln Avenue, and see if I could meet a Dulcinea Del Toboso (I didn’t). Instead I got a parking ticket. There are many other examples, but you get the gist.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">So, a couple of weeks ago, while swinging in my hammock up in the Windsong (my home) shade garden; where I lay reflecting on my reading proclivities, represented by an accumulated pile of recently purchased books awaiting my selection. I’d just finished writing my fourth novel and was taking a hiatus so I could spend some long overdue time, resuscitating my dormant reading. The first volume I picked from the top of the stack was, “God a Biography” by Jack Miles; which I promptly, but reverently, declined as too analytical – a sibilant mimicry – of the bible. That day I just wasn’t up to extrapolating into my life the complexity of Mr. Miles’ religiosity; maybe at a later time. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Anyway, as I shuffled through the volumes’ of literature I had recently acquired, I went on to reluctantly reject the “The Myth of Sisyphus” by Albert Camus; not because of the beauty of his prose (some of the most “aphoristic truth-seeking sentiments” in literature), but in this particular novel, his theme, his stones; which I and others have concluded are, in part, worn out concepts, and even rejected, in the main, by the author himself, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“… I am not an existentialist!</i>” he loudly shouted in somewhat of an intellectual snit. Most importantly though, I did not want to return to those funk moods of days past, brought on by my own youthful trifling with that dark way (existentialism) of attempting to put a touch of clarity on the chalice of life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">My shade garden concentration was unexpectedly interrupted, and I sat up in the hammock; books piled on both sides of my legs. About ten feet away in a lower branch of an oak tree perched an arrogant, large Blue jay loudly proclaiming his territorial boundaries. In admiration of the cocky fellow, I suddenly thought (karma-like, naturally) to follow his example and declare this is where I would, at this time in my life, take my literary stand. I would find a new mentor; discarding those old icons of: Hemmingway, <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Pierre Lecomte du Noüy, </span><span class="st">Kahlil Gibran, Mickey Spillane, and of course Al Cap’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Li’L Abner, etc, etc</i>.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span class="st"> </span><span class="MsoHyperlink"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">My search now had a focus, and as I anxiously continued to rifle through the stack of books, I inelegantly faltered at something by Ayn Rand. I reflected that I read her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Atlas Shrugged</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Fountainhead</i>, in Tahiti, in French Polynesia, where I lived for awhile in 1959, and then again in 1960. Regressing into my habit of imitating authors’ themes and style, I shortly there after drove into Papeete where I went aboard a French destroyer; open to the public, with the stirring notes of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">La Marseillaise</span></i> coming from its bow speakers, in recognition of France’s Bastille Day. Upon boarding I saw a Legion’s recruiting table set up on the starboard amidships. Wait for it … I was pulled my some mysterious literary ghost (probably John Galt … who is he you ask?), and compulsively attempted to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (a symbol of authority).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">My fervor diminishing exponentially with each minute I spent standing in the queue of youthful Polynesian men wanting to wear the distinctive white Kepi head gear; when suddenly <a href="http://www.blogger.com/" name="&lid=DYM&lpos=top">I recalled the catastrophic 1954, two month siege of </a></span><a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/dien-bien-phu-2"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Dien Bien Phu</span></a><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">.</span> <span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">At that moment of reflection I was standing at the table.</span> <span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Fortunately, the Caporal-chef rejected me out of hand as “not proper material”, with a disdainful look, and arrogance only the French are capable of emitting – mainly from their unwashed bodies in the tropical heat – much like the pungent stench of an Avenue des Champs de Elysee urinal in August. Yeah, well, so – maybe I was offended. Still, with further reflection on an army that marches at only 88-steps per minute, versus the 120 of other armies; “strolling” in that ridicules dirge like mode – and also being forced to sing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Le Boudin</i> (lit: blood sausage; reflective of the red bed roll the Legioners carry on top of their field back-pack) while at attention, was … well, not the least acceptable to this North American. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a more serious note, the French Foreign Legion is a properly proud group of brave men, some of the best fighters from countries all over the world. And less we forget the motherland through no fault of her own has an endemic aquifer scarcity in many parts of La Belle France, which historically mitigated their bathing habits.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">By-the-way … has anyone seen </span><a href="http://www.answers.com/Brigitte%20Bardot"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Brigitte</span></i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"> <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Bardot</span></i></span></a><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>lately?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Still sorting through the stack, my eye(s) fell on the title of a hard back, seductively plump, (290 pages) fiction novel titled; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bleed County</i> by this writer. Now, as all of you who know about writing; that at a minimum, I must have read and reread that story half a dozen times; in rewrite and editing mode just to bring it to fruition; never for pleasure (why fellow writers – is <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that?). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Yet, something seemed to be compelling me to pick it up, my novel that is. I began turning its pages, consuming the words, this time for enjoyment; not to be diverted by the critiquing of plot, characters, etc, or scanning for syntax errors. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">A little more than five hours later the book slipped from my fingers to the ground … finished. I started the hammock’s swinging motion and with weary eye(s) fell asleep. Well now, I feel comfortable enough with you dear reader to share that I don’t ever recall my dreams (causing me to doubt that I even dreamed in the first place, but … people, very smart people, tell me that I do dream; that is unless I’m abnormal?!?). But, the time I spent slumbering in that hammock was time enough for me to experience a first ever; a Hollywood production of dreamland panoramas, of living vicariously, through each character in my story. I had slept for about three hours, and awoke recalling every vivid minute of my unambiguous assuming of each personality in my novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bleed County.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">I felt discombobulated, not knowing if I were still dreaming or back in the sweet reality of the Windsong Ranch shade garden, (now dark except for the landscape lighting). My dog Gunner came wagging up to me and I began chatting with him as is our usual practice. There was no poor imitation of a soft southern accent or Appalachian lilt passing over my lips, like the characters in Bleed County. I glanced at my watch and got up, rushing back to the house, as I had a dinner date. As I got ready, I noticed I did not have a predilection to dress in bib-coveralls, like the main protagonist Turge in my story. Nor did I effect the limp of Miss Gankey, or the ram-rod bearing of her sister Greer, a military pilot. I have a permit to carry, but felt no need to pocket a weapon into town like say … the sheriff, and deputy who patroled Bleed County. I did recall that I needed to remember to pick up my prescription from the local pharmacist, but only as a “Get ‘er done” chore and not attempting to obtain some “powders”. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Later that evening, I surged into feeling expansive; free of my character imitation affliction, and knew that I was no longer blighted with effecting the mannerisms of the protagonists of what ever literature I was currently reading. I celebrated by making a Gankey “comfrey” poultice for my tired feet. I sat out on the cool open portion of the deck and watched Carnation’s blackbirds circle over my head. Oh yeah, I began wondering fearfully if my Bleed County probation officer had reported my failure to appear in her office that week?</span></div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-58948448245226364102011-08-09T05:18:00.000-05:002011-08-09T05:34:31.555-05:00"Eyeless In Luminary" Preview<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;"><strong>Eyeless in Luminary</strong></span> presents both reality and magical realism<em> “- allowing them to pass through each other with that special moment when they blend undifferentiated, becoming inseparable, suspending disbelief, and then – when exhausted – separating again,”</em> leaving in their wake their signs and symbols to be pondered.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Dr. Sark Saint John, a present day Southern university professor of archeology and paleontology, and his autistic savant assistant, Davio Gonzales Garcia, set out on a quest to find the existence of a hidden Slav settlement of retro villagers, rumored but never proven to exist. The quest began over ten years ago, but came to a sudden halt eight years later when disaster struck the researchers’ efforts, causing Sark’s motivation for further research to bottom out completely. The university’s new president quickly tired of Sark’s reclusive, non-productive behavior, and was just about to ask for his resignation when Sark decided to re-open the quest . . . one more time.<br />
<br />
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Possibly I had been out in the sun too long picking some fruit from the orchard at Windsong. Needing a break I came back to the house and with a cool drink set up in a lounge chair on my shaded deck. Almost immediately an old pal made her appearance. Over the years of our association of me observing her forays onto the stage of my deck, her antics always seemed to spool before my eye(s) without pause, no breaks for commercials, or final scene stage adjustments, no prima donna this gal. And so in that vein I’ll share what I observed; and how I know this … her thoughts ... I do not have a clue. So here in run-on format:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">She, the lizard<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Long-belle, after traversing the narrow rope supporting the hammock, next traveled down onto the bundle it held suspended, and darted over onto the cool upper epidermis, dodging the stalks of black fiber erupting from the surface, curiosity satisfied she scampered back onto the comfrey leaves, applied earlier to an abrasion of the bundle’s epidermis, there she paused and sniffed the poultice’s natural composting gases, instantly she became giddy from the residual ethylene oxide absorbed by those healing fibers covering the bundle, after which she chased her tail for awhile and darted in pirouettes, and imagined herself a haughty, imperial Gila in a tutu, but abruptly she tired and curled up immobile, resting her head on what humans would recognize as a button, from her vantage she could see the other hammock bundle across the room beginning to erupt and shake, but soon lost interest when instinct instructed a frozen pause; her ogles stopped darting, and a cold eye-lock-on stare at where a hussy female mantis stood with her fat haunches on a canvas backpack a half mile away in lizard distance, then a slow bending of Long-belle’s tail, followed immediately by the two gun metal gray right legs pulled forward in conjunction with the two left legs pushing backwards; this locomotion cycle could be maintained at two-hundred and fifty-sixty repetitions a minute for up to four minutes, <span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">all the while she would maintain her sight on the hussy’s yet unchallenged presence in her domain, calculating that</span> the challenge free status of a natural enemy permitted her return to the shelter of the earthen roof chamber; ouch … suddenly complicating matters, little grains of angular clear quartz<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>had lodged in the skin fold between her left front leg and belly, probably picked up from her exploration of the comfrey, causing a painful abrading as she scampered up the wall, not a good day, she bent to the task of flicking them out with her tongue, then continued to her penthouse chamber; unexpectedly another reflex look, head rigid, and then firing of the puce tongue, an instrument longer than her body, darting without pause in her locomotion, to snatch a nutritious, al dente, frog flea<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>into her mouth – dinner for two young hungry, alone at home, children awaiting their mothers return; all this as seen and from and reported from her level of observation.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That frog, another old confident who supplied the flea I mentioned, is another story I’ll share later with you all. Look, all I got to say and at risk of repeating myself … the <u>level</u> of observation <u>will</u> produce the phenomenon; so if you care to venture into other realms, then try looking closely at the small world around you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-66278759567375870272011-07-10T20:21:00.000-05:002011-10-16T14:54:33.208-05:00Eyeless In Luminary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">My newest novel is currently being made ready for publication. It will be available in hardcover, paperback, and Kindle. I'll let you know the minute it goes live.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVKb2Ir-OWRDUHEHMEjgqPSC4GNSbMg2Yqx8e7geqNkD312ogMPWquWsP5dnuig8CaneOyg1MjNOhgfvs6jxhH31zX7P79oT-xQVImKgOs7R8jZ8UOujLH3lakNETogCIu8QMtvveCbem8/s1600/EyelessInLuminary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVKb2Ir-OWRDUHEHMEjgqPSC4GNSbMg2Yqx8e7geqNkD312ogMPWquWsP5dnuig8CaneOyg1MjNOhgfvs6jxhH31zX7P79oT-xQVImKgOs7R8jZ8UOujLH3lakNETogCIu8QMtvveCbem8/s320/EyelessInLuminary.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"The Genre I am writing in is “meta fiction or magical realism”. To some extent, I have tried to avoid the pro-forma and formulaic writing, and have inserted some unusual techniques that may entertain or may bother. I do not view my story as a wide net cast to retrieve the greatest number of readers, rather those few who want to travel down the same road with me, for whatever portion of the trip they find interesting.</span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
The “Theme” of my story is presenting reality and magical realism and to have them pass through each other with that special moment when they blend undifferentiated, becoming inseparable, suspending disbelief, and then when exhausted, separating again, leaving in their wake the<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> semiotics to be pondered.</span></span></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><a name='more'></a><br />
The Audience I am writing to is macro and noncommercial; creative writing groups, friends, family, and myself. I do not anguish over the clarity each word will have with the “reader”, knowing full well of their capacities to form their own unique interpretations.</span></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
The following Summary is a statement covering what the story is going to be about, what my story means to me, and what I hope for it to achieve.</span></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
This story is about a present-day Southern university professor of archeology and paleontology, Dr Sark<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saint John, his assistant Davio<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gonzales Garcia, an autistic savant (who will amaze and entertain you and me), and the historically retro villagers of an undiscovered Slav settlement, who are in benign conflict with their environment and their fear of the outside cultures. All three entities will come into conflict and there will be debatable paths of individual morality.</span></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The University asked Sark<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to resign from his teaching position because of his lackluster attitude to his university obligations. Davio, an autistic savant, was a “leftover” from an aborted Psychology Department study. The Slav settlement has passed culturally stagnant, encapsulated, through peripheral historical upheavals of civil and national wars, forced migrations, and unwanted responsibilities. They live, having been forced by their fears, both rational and irrational, to hide themselves for the last hundred and forty-three years from the outside world, in a richly endowed and astounding Cumberland<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plateau valley. </span></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
For my own reward, I am attempting to bring onto the page some of the “ingested metaphors” of my own life for examination. I want to achieve, quoting John Gardner “ … modern writers often speak of their work as somehow outside their control, informed by a spirit that; when I read my writing later I cannot identify as having come from myself.” That is “Magical Realism.”<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccwF4JFH9dhBRqwaEQK6s6eLUX_ACtYcP50ED-DXJB2nAxuVFQliMqjUGUg4UuC-N9s8Cmt5WhrW6tfb2xZuRjsgI0K5X_DK2TDgVkMx_UGqVMa5G77U9ZMhGE9Je2zA5EpDwx5u4yjnX/s1600/image009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgccwF4JFH9dhBRqwaEQK6s6eLUX_ACtYcP50ED-DXJB2nAxuVFQliMqjUGUg4UuC-N9s8Cmt5WhrW6tfb2xZuRjsgI0K5X_DK2TDgVkMx_UGqVMa5G77U9ZMhGE9Je2zA5EpDwx5u4yjnX/s320/image009.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="border: currentColor;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
In summary, this is a metaphoric expression of a philosophical concept:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Level of Observation Creates the Reality … Change That Level of Observation and You Have Changed the Reality. My tribe observes from one level and your tribe observes from another, is that so difficult to understand?" --Walt Crabtree</span></em></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0Cumberland Plateau, TN, USA35.6271461 -85.29293840000002535.4694376 -85.485209400000031 35.784854599999996 -85.10066740000002tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-71607642173550759032011-05-15T08:30:00.000-05:002011-05-15T08:35:29.942-05:00Inside Out: Walt's Poetry (and Photos) - Preview<object height="330" width="440"><param name="movie" value="http://www.lulu.com/viewer/embed/EmbeddablePreviewer.swf?version=20110510125909"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><param name="flashvars" value="contentId=10675112&endpoint=http://www.lulu.com/author/previews/preview_endpoint.php"></param><embed src="http://www.lulu.com/viewer/embed/EmbeddablePreviewer.swf?version=20110510125909" flashvars="contentId=10675112&endpoint=http://www.lulu.com/author/previews/preview_endpoint.php" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" allowScriptAccess="always" width="440" height="330"></embed></object><br />
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Life is a journey better traveled if you understand with whom your're walking . . . from beginning to end. Self. Inside Out is a collection of poems that reflect and project in a perfect blend of then and now, forward, and beyond.Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-54060802028010783612011-05-13T19:16:00.000-05:002011-07-14T19:38:07.294-05:00How The Hell Do You Play Rock/Paper/Scissors?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em>(From "Inside Out")</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">What kind of breezes will we set sail on…you and I</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Wet headwinds to labor through tack after tack</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Cold wet decks beneath our bare feet</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Or run on before warm gusts</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Climbing then sliding down shiny sheets of blue</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Why don’t we make it easy on ourselves and fly?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Oh…but after all… we’re the crew</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">In either mode, it’s so easy to die</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It’s not the cars we have driven in life that are important</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Only the roads we have traveled</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">That looping cable of time we latch onto </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Throws us off when our fare runs out</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It’s that simple, our tickets have been punched</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">If we glance modestly askance </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">To see where we are</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">And if we refrain from peering to the rear</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The more time we have to stare ahead</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Some peer and do not see</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">While others hallucinate all wild eyed and tell it as truth<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">But you and I keenly observe</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Smug and snuggled with our convictions</span></div><br />
--WJC<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKM7628qzoQx1bECt1d_Erd_lxuGN2hYPUd8IGnHj3gP_BE28QghkLBFZMS-qfB3padKAEBAE0UiUjnBv8j3_LW8e4jQGKOV7MvzVe179xyifZgJpsHIh1zLFxm2uQa_yJYeP5kbQh6pF/s1600/wjc1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKM7628qzoQx1bECt1d_Erd_lxuGN2hYPUd8IGnHj3gP_BE28QghkLBFZMS-qfB3padKAEBAE0UiUjnBv8j3_LW8e4jQGKOV7MvzVe179xyifZgJpsHIh1zLFxm2uQa_yJYeP5kbQh6pF/s320/wjc1.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570151097292108351.post-81586118510336687492011-04-05T19:36:00.000-05:002011-07-14T19:21:41.907-05:00Where do you start with rocks?<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4FIj45h5ngmQpPx8q2B56U4oF-p3extH8xj6paEzXH8sq3Zeh6gBBTvOX13pXEHDC9I-T_LqVZCUx7w-x4ln9BNk8NlWdVYuusDda72lCIMgWKFxQrTgGedeMpHKiByhDv-nxAaPYdek/s1600/054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4FIj45h5ngmQpPx8q2B56U4oF-p3extH8xj6paEzXH8sq3Zeh6gBBTvOX13pXEHDC9I-T_LqVZCUx7w-x4ln9BNk8NlWdVYuusDda72lCIMgWKFxQrTgGedeMpHKiByhDv-nxAaPYdek/s400/054.JPG" width="400" /></a>“Rock solid” can have several implications, besides the accolade of a person’s dependability. In my case, it has meant over the past seventeen years the digging up from the soil of Windsong, by hand, thousands of calcareous sandstone rocks. They range in size from a fist to three to four hundred pounds. They came my way up on the Cumberland Plateau, courtesy of ancient geological processes, and the product of formation fracturing due to folding in the Mississippian formation during the Paleozoic era . After digging up the rocks, I transport them to places on Windsong Ranch to control erosion. I have a couple of wet weather streams and a pond that overflows in heavy rain. I appreciate the gentle contours that the land has formed over the centuries and try, in the main, to leave them as I found them. In addition to the front fields and or</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">chard, I have about ten acres of deciduous forest that surround my “rustic” hemlock pine home. A nice feature of the Ranch that my son, Alfred, and I developed was the stream that has been “tuned” to sing as the water flows by rocks placed at appropriate spots. You can walk from one end of the stream to the other and get different pitches as the water accelerates over, between </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">and around sets of rocks. Of course, I also use them to make steps, and Stonehenge like, as vertical statements pointing to particular constellations on certain calendar days. Orion is my favorite and the star Betelgeuse my pick. In my novel “Bleed County,” I reference the star<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>Arcturus in the constellation Bootes, high in the northern skies. In the coming months I plan on building a cairn to point to it on the vernal equinox.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Contact Walter Crabtreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995394567359483623noreply@blogger.com0