badlydrawnstickman

Ubi sunt?

2009-11-23T13:20:15-05:00

...for CoS.

“Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?”

Dove sono quelli chi,
prima di noi,
in vita, furono qui?

Com'una fiamma et poi
il buio scendesse,
ed estinse tutti gli eroi.

Ogn'uno, suo momento, prendesse;
lagrime o gioia, propria scelta presa
e l'onda, sulle sponde, cadesse.

Si i richi che i poveri, fatta sua impresa,
il riposo eterno han' trovato;
sotto terra, la salma pallida distesa.

I sogni propri, in nulla hanno crollato,
al vento, la polvera dispersa
ed il ricordo loro annulato.

Noi, chiascuno, aspettiamo fine diversa,
ma la sentenza Divina già espressa
ed in vanitas futile, la vita persa.

thanks for visiting.

Change.

2009-11-22T15:54:10-05:00

...for 'E'.

Change.

“I'll be back shortly,” I call out from the hallway, pulling on my coat.

“'Kay, hun,” returns Alicia's voice from the bedroom where she is folding and stowing fresh-smelling laundry retrieved only moments ago from the washing-line stretched taut along the front of the balcony. “Have fun and remember we're going to see my Mom for tea.”

“Got it! See ya!” The snaps click closed down the front of my coat and I fish my keys from my pocket. Turning to the door with my hand already closing on the brass handle, my gaze falls and then locks on an object in the bookcase near the entryway. It is a small, black notebook which I purchased almost three years ago when I started blogging.

I step out and, still with that image in my mind, automatically insert the key and throw the bolt on the front door. Outside, it is cool and bright – a perfect, early winter day. My boots crunch on the gravel walkway and I descend the path for the short walk to the grocery store to pick up a few necessities for the coming work week.

The significance of what I saw dawns on me slowly – something like the effect of a soft breeze coming with the sunrise in summer and gently dispersing the morning mist; I have not opened my notebook in a long time.

'It can't be that long,' I reason with myself but, mentally, I am doing some calculations. My hand slips into my coat pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. I pull one from the pack, tap it gently and then light it. I inhale and then expel a cloud of smoke which drifts quickly away.

'I know I did that story about the party just a few weeks ago,' I reflect. 'Or was it longer?'

'No,' comes the voice of my mind, 'you doofus. That was in September – it's now the end of November. It's been months, not weeks.'

The truth of this is a shock. I know that I've talked to some friends there but, honestly, there just doesn't seem to be much time anymore.

I was so proud of myself when I bought the notebook. It was one of those little, hardcover ones with the black elastic to keep it closed. I made a vow to myself to exercise my writing and, for more than two years, it had been a constant companion, nestled with a cheap fountain pen in the inside, breast pocket of my jacket. Not only did I carry it with me but I also pulled it out at all hours to jot down little notes, sketches, phrases and reflections. Sometime these meshed, giving seed to a new story. There were lots of stories back then – they seemed to flow out of me like beads of sweat from the forehead during an oppressive August afternoon.

I take another drag of my cigarette and pause at the corner. A driver turns in front of me, waving, and then I jog across the street and enter the parking lot of the grocery store. The lot is full and it seems that everyone is getting their Sunday shopping done although many seem just as happy to meander aimlessly outside, coffee in hand, enjoying the brilliant, warming rays of the sun and invigorating freshness of the air.

A lot of things changed between then and now. Life is a fascinating process and change is part, if not the essence, of it.

I might have called that period 'the season of my discontent'. I can't reasonably say that 'nothing' was right but the emotional turmoil I was experiencing was undeniable. There was a relationship, painful and demanding; eventually, I had the courage to end it but, in the aftermath, found little relief. I was thankful for my work. It payed well but the owner of the company, to whom I reported, was a fickle and vicious man given to child-like fits of vindictiveness. I quit and found myself rudderless and alone. Yet, the stories came and they were filled with my sadness, loss, fear and solitude. Writing was my panacea, my relief and my escape.

I finish my cigarette and drop it into a receptacle outside the store. The pneumatic doors sigh, welcoming me and I enter the place which is teaming with people. I lift a shopping basket from a stack by the entrance and sling it over my left forearm. Just within, an old woman, thin and curved, is attempting to tip a sack of potatoes into her shopping cart. I pause and lift the ten pound sack for her, placing it on the mesh floor of the cart.

“Thank you, young man.” She smiles at me from clear, blue, watery eyes and pats my arm with a knobby, curled hand.

“They don't call it 'heavy as a sack of potatoes' for nothing,” I quip and make a face. She laughs, a faint and breathy rasp. I have probably made the old bird's day.

'Let's see,' I mutter to myself, trying to recall the necessities I was to retrieve. 'There was bread and, um...'

The change came with imperceptible slowness. Was the turning point Alicia? I don't really know. I can't even conjecture what she might have seen in the brooding fellow that came through her shop now and again. Certainly, she was the one who made the first move – I was shocked and disoriented, almost ready to run, when she invited me to join her for coffee. Something made me pause and reflect while she stood before me after the invitation, biting her lip and fidgeting nervously, her fingernails clicking a tattoo on the linoleum counter top. I am glad I said 'yes'. She made me smile and laugh. She still does. I fell in love with her sunny disposition - the personal warmth and inner peace that flow from her are the counterparts to my closure and external coolness.

The checkout girl smiles at me and I pass her a twenty.

“Three dollars and eighteen cents change, sir,” she says efficiently and the coins spill into my hand. “Have a great day.”

“Thank you. You too,” I answer, returning the smile. I fill the canvas shopping bag brought with me, stacking my purchases carefully inside, and exit into the sun. I light another cigarette and head home across the parking lot.

'Then' and 'now' are interesting counterpoints, I reflect to myself while taking a pull from my cigarette and the shopping bag swings by my side, the canvas loop handles smooth against my palm. 'Then' was a period of disorientation even though I was moving through my life – there seemed no direction and very little satisfaction. 'Now' is a new job, demanding and satisfying, a small townhouse and a woman who loves me. Maybe life is not so complicated after all and there are few things required before the stress slips away and is replaced by something else or, rather, that 'something else' is realised.

The key turns and I open the door. Alicia is sitting on the couch with a book. She raises her eyes at the sound of my entry and smiles. It is like a benediction.

In that moment, before the light and love of her, in the comfortable confines of our home together, I understand what it was that changed.

I am happy.

thanks for visiting.

Dangerous Confessions.

2009-11-20T14:11:11-05:00

“Good morning, Edward,” he says as I enter the office. He is sitting, smiling and relaxed, in a large wing-chair with his legs crossed and his notebook and pen resting against his knee.

“Good morning, Dr. Siggerson,” I answer, looking around to orient myself.

“Won't you, please, call me Wilhelm?” he retorts. To anyone else, it would have come out sounding like, 'Vfon't you, please, call me Vealhalm', but, after 8 months of coming to see him, I scarcely notice his pronounced German-Swiss accent. I briefly consider the idea of calling him 'Willie' but who knows what could be read into that - come to think of it, who knows why I thought of it.

“I see you've done some reorganisation, Wilhelm,” I say, experimenting with the first name familiarity and not liking it. He gestures me toward his interview couch and explains.

“Yes. Another of my clients suggested that a view from the couch toward the window would be quite relaxing. To be honest, after I tried it myself, I could not disagree. So, last week, we moved it, placed my desk over there and did some other minor adjustments. I think it is quite pleasant. I hope you also find it comfortable.” He pauses and waves his arm in the direction of the window.

I sit down on the couch. The thick, opulent, leather upholstery sighs under my weight and, then again, when I swing my legs up and recline. The heady perfume of leather infiltrates my nostrils. The curtains are drawn back and, beyond the glass, polished to invisibility, the sky is pale blue and bright – typical for late November when the weather is cooperating. Some small, steel-grey clouds move across my window on the outside world, reminding me that the temperature is to drop later and rain come in from the north. It might be a nasty evening. Nonetheless, the view is pleasant. A dove or, perhaps a pigeon, sails past and I feel myself drawn out to soar with it and feel its freedom.

“It is nice,” I confirm and he nods, satisfied that the effort was worth it.

“Now, Edward,” he commences and his eyes, behind reading glasses, fix on me. I fold my hands on my chest and breathe deeply.

“In our last session, I believe we were quite close to a break-through of sorts in resolving these issues you have been experiencing. Would you like to continue from were we left off?”

“I was kinda hoping we could just talk about the weather,” I suggest, half-heartedly - not quite ready to go there yet. He chuckles softly.

“Yes, I can understand that this is not easy for you. However, that would be an expensive discussion of the weather when you can do it for free just about anywhere.” I look at him and he is smiling kindly with his glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“That's definitely true,” I answer perfunctorily and then heave a sigh, readying myself for what I must do if I ever want to be better.

My mind is clouded by mixed and contradictory emotions. My 'problems' started almost two and a half years ago and, speaking realistically, they have only become worse. That is not to say that they came out of nowhere – Dr. Siggerson showed me that to be true. Through the first months of our talks, he demonstrated to me, with little, trivial examples drawn from my own life, how almost all behaviours have both history and precursors. Nothing originates from nothing. Behaviours become problems, he suggested, when they are no longer healthy for an individual or for those around. Unfortunately, that pronouncement characterises me all too well. I am not healthy and I am certainly not healthy to those around me. I have become toxic to life. The confession, the admission of what and who I have become, wells up in me.

“I have done things,” I suggest to him. The words spill out in a rush, scarcely articulated - the thought truncated and incomplete.

“Tell me more,” he prompts, latching onto the perceived crumb of truth.

“... to people,” I finish. My head lolls on the pillow to take in his reaction. He has none. Maybe he would like to hear more.

“What people?” he inquires casually.

“Lots of people,” I answer, gradually feeling more comfortable. I begin to enjoy the feeling of unburdening myself. “Men, women. Children.” He is silent and thoughtful. His pen scratches across the paper of his notebook; the noise is irritating.

“You say you have done things,” he prompts again. His curiosity is showing. “Would you like to tell me more about that?”

“Well, since you have asked, I can't very well say 'no', can I, Doctor?” I am beginning to feel almost happy – elated. I also see what I am doing. I am reliving it. All of it and it is such a rush. There is another thing; I called him 'Doctor'. That is a part of the process. I think there is a name for it – by removing from him his own name, he is, in my mind, depersonalised and dehumanised. It is a precursor behaviour.

“They are dead, Doctor – all or most of them. I don't even remember all their names. There are those 38 buried in the desert outside of Reno. That's just for starters. There's that girl that jumped from the balcony. Yeah, right. I did it. There must be a hundred of them. There were those people on the bridge; I would have killed them all but I wasn't alone that time. I created all of them.” I look at him again for confirmation that he is listening. I see the reaction; a twitch in his throat as it closes, responding viscerally, and there is a dry click when he tries to swallow. He is not smiling anymore. He briefly shrugs the growing tension out of his shoulders and uncrosses his legs, planting his feet on the carpet.

“You say,” he speaks, attempting a gesture of nonchalance, “that you created them?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor. I created all of them.” The leather of the couch wheezes, inhaling. I rise to sitting. “But, now that you know... well, I'm not sure what I can do about that.” Now I am smiling.

“Edward, truly, I encourage you to go to the police. These are serious crimes. I can ensure that you will be treated well and given proper care.” He slips, moving slowly, very slowly, from his chair. There is a phone on his desk. I stand and my shoes are coddled in the fullness of the Persian carpet. His eyes are on me and he backs away. I follow.

“No, Doctor,” I say, drawing closer to where he has retreated to the far corner of the room. Behind his glasses, his eyes are wide – disbelieving. “I don't think either of us will be going to the police.”

“You see,” I continue, “I created you.” He shakes his head slowly in the vain assumption that the act alone will negate the reality.

“Yes, it is quite true: I am a blogger at thoughts.com.” My laugh, unbridled and maniacal, bursts from my throat.

thanks for visiting.

Standard Time (II).

2009-11-16T15:28:47-05:00

Please read 'Standard Time (I)'.

The knock on the door of Patrice's flat, scarcely heard from within due to the sound of loud conversation and dance music, was eventually answered by her boyfriend, Mick, a brawny, ruddy fellow down from Glasgow and more at home tossing a caber or in the scrum on a rugby field rather than hosting a party. He pulled us, bodily, into the crowded flat wrapped in the curve of his tree-trunk arm and welcomed us with crushingly painful handshakes, exclaiming, 'It's bloody great to see ye, laddies!' Robert and Dave hung their coats and quickly moved off to explore the evening's tasty possibilities.

In spite of myself, I couldn't help smiling at Mick's immense joviality, no doubt, brought on by a healthy consumption of scotch and beer. He reserved a special greeting for me, guiding me through the revelers toward the kitchen with his massive paw on my shoulder, and lowering his voice to something akin to a seismic tremor.

“I was dead sorry to hear of ye'er troubles,” he said, now stopped in the momentarily deserted kitchen and reaching to an upper cabinet for a bottle. He poured two tumblers full. I received the offered, amber filled glass with thanks, not knowing how to respond.

“Yeah, well,” I mumbled. “You know how it is.” He raised his glass and drained it before answering. I took a sip from my own.

“Aye. Into every life, a wee spot of rain...,” he waxed philosophical and shook his head. We were immediately interrupted. Patrice burst into the kitchen with Alicia and Natalia in tow.

“I knew you would be hiding here!” she shouted at me, deafened from the music. In the background, partially muffled by the swinging kitchen door, I could hear the thump of some Euro-dance stuff, maybe Cascada. She gave me a quick hug and kisses to my cheeks. I returned the gesture perfunctorily with Mick looking on severely. “You know, you'll have to come out of hiding sometime!”

“I wasn't really hiding,” I answered and then mutely indicated Mick standing with an empty glass in his hand. I took another sip from my glass, attempting to be nonchalant but, with the four of them looking at me, studying my every movement, I felt like I had stepped into a scene from Evelyn Waugh, knowing full well that the social fumble, whatever it's substance, would be my own. It made me almost grateful when Natalia stepped up and broke the silence.

“Well, I am dead chuffed to see you, 'Stick',” she said and threw her heavy-set weight and ample breasts against my chest in embrace. I was fortunate not to have been drinking more or, undoubtedly, I would have been bowled over by her exuberance. Alicia was next and I received what was something a little longer and firmer than a social kiss to my cheek.

“I glad you showed up, too - I've missed seeing you around,” she said before drawing away.

“Yeah,” I said and forced a smile. “Dave and Robert didn't give me much choice.”

“Are you going to come dance with me?” asked Alicia, persisting. I was about to decline apologetically but was drowned out by a chorus of, 'Yeah! Go 'Stick'!', and I became powerless. I pulled a bottle of beer from the 'fridge and left the kitchen with Alicia holding my arm and smiling over some inner victory. Soon, we were wiggling away on the cleared-out, parquet floor of the living room while Shakira sang 'She-wolf'.

Now, don't get me wrong – there's nothing in the world 'wrong' with Alicia. She came from Northern Ireland and studied economics at the London School. Like many of her countrymen and women, she bears the imprint of her northern origins; a pale complexion with delicate features, accented by clear eyes and an oval face framed by dark, almost black, hair which she keeps in a neat bob. She is a tall girl, coming to just above my shoulder, and thin, perhaps, a little too thin. Her clothes - skinny jeans and a fancy blouse left loose and un-tucked - show off not only the slight feminine curves of her body but also how insubstantial her frame is.

However, soon after I met her, though my relationship with Monique, I noticed, not only that her eye had fallen on me but also a series of qualities that left me uneasy.

“Do you think that Alicia has, maybe, some 'image' issues?” I broached the topic to Monique one afternoon as we walked back to my flat after having coffee with Alicia and Natalia.

“Comment?” answered Monique, slipping into French and probably already thinking of calling up Patrice. “Je ne croyais jamais,” she exclaimed – I would never believe it. “Elle est seulement...,” she hesitated a moment looking for the right word, “...energetique” - She's just energetic.

“Hmm, that she is,” I answered, still not convinced.

Alicia also had a passive-aggressive approach to life; a certain erratic disposition that left one always wondering what would be her response in a particular situation – either love or hate, black or white – never grey and never, it seemed, reasoned but, rather, strictly based on an immediate emotional reaction. It was as though her rigorous upbringing and strict education had failed to instill in her the intellectual and emotional balance that we might refer to as 'maturity'. Her character, in this way, differed by leagues from my own which was much more standoffish, reticent and given to be, perhaps, overly analytical and somewhat deficient of emotion. Nonetheless, that I was attracted to her, anyone could tell and, I would be lying to propose that I did not yearn to have that long, thin, pallid body next to mine. Yet, in my mind, I knew that a gulf existed between us which would not be bridged by a misguided attempt at intimacy or, much less, in an incipient relationship where there was little or no psychological common ground.

The party has grown in loudness and confusion. The apartment is full to bursting with happy, drunken people. Mick was forced to 'politely eject' one fellow that got a little too happy and drunken. The noise and the press of bodies, the oppressive smell of alcohol, sweat and cigarettes, not to mention, the aggressive attention from Alicia, all leave me edgy and wanting to be free of the place – to return to the calm and quiet solitude of my own space.

I glance at the time on my cell phone: 1:59 am. My mind returns to what Robert had said: 'It's 'Fall back' tonight. That means at two o'clock, it's actually one o'clock...' My eyes are drawn to those luminous numbers on the screen and I fixate. In my imagination, somewhere at its periphery, there is an idea – a manner of unrecognised possibility which eludes me.

“Hey,” says Alicia on the couch beside me. “Are you waiting for a call from someone?” In her voice there is an edge and, her arm, draped across my shoulders, stiffens.

“No,” I answer quickly, not wanting to awake the Kraken. “I was just noticing the time.”

“That's good.” She leans closer. I feel her breath, hot, and smell the scent of scotch. Her fingers are playing in my hair. Then her lips brush my cheek. “I want to come home with you tonight,” she whispers in my ear. I feel my belly tense and my body respond to the overture.

The numbers on the clock are stationary at 1:59 am. Then, by some mischievous intervention of the network magi, the time changes but not to 2 o'clock. Time rolls backward and, before my eyes, one minute forward becomes, instead, one hour earlier. The idea which previously haunted me, strangely unfocused at the edge of my senses, suddenly snaps into the sharp relief of cognizance and knowledge.

Choice is always mine but, on this one night only, as represented by the whir of gears or the subtle vibrations of a quartz crystal, the smooth movement of time, as represented by the hands of the clock, is disrupted. I always have choice, but tonight, my choices are there to play out again – to repeat and continue on in the same fashion, or revise the choice and change the future such that my 2 o'clock will find my trajectory altered. It is, in that moment, clear to me, what my choice will be.

“I'm really not interested in going in that direction,” I pronounce, speaking carefully, to Alicia. Her arm drops, deadened, from my shoulders. My cell phone snaps shut and I slide it into the pocket of my jacket. I rise and smile at her quickly before slipping through the press of writhing bodies toward the door.

Outside, it has grown cold and I pull my overcoat tightly around my body for shield against the stab. My mind is still mulling, continually resorting, the implication of my action but, I reflect that there is a fundamental truth to be recognised in this; choices should never be made passively – simply allowed to happen – that is not living a life but, instead, permitting life to rule you.

Right now, my choice is my own bed. It is, after all, getting on 2 o'clock in the morning.

thanks for visiting.
thanks also to stevehayes13 who inadvertently gave me an idea to help finish. :)
this concludes the story, 'Standard Time'.

Buddy, the thoughts.com bear, Goes to Dinner.

2009-11-15T21:07:04-05:00

Last night, November 14th, I had the pleasure to join Azalia, BootLady and her husband, bob, and Moxi, for dinner in honour of 'Buddy, the thoughts.com traveling bear' for his 2009-2010 World Tour.

I had made the online reservation at the restaurant, on Thursday, under the name of 'Mr. Stickman' – just so everyone knew what name to state at reception. I was a little surprised when, after the email confirmation came, I received a phone call on Friday for 'Mr. Stickman'.

'Who knows who I am?' I thought. 'Is it a stalker?'
I looked to reassure myself that I had not actually morphed into a 'stickman'. No, I still had proper, non-wiggley arms and legs and a head that was not an empty circle with a smiley face.
It was the restaurant manager calling to remind me of the reservation. I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead.

Boots and I had agreed to meet at 4:30 to go to a local shopping mall (across the street from the restaurant) to get a gift for Buddy. BootLady and Bob arrived a bit late but we still had lots of time. A number of ideas for a gift had been tossed about.

Boots thought that an 'inukshuk' would be great and I agreed. Those of you who are not Canadian may not know what an inukshuk is. An inukshuk is a towering structure, made of slabs of stone, stacked in a form to represent a person. They were used by the arctic people of our country, the Inuit, to mark migration routes of caribou and other animals. The inukshuk is also one of the symbols of the Vancouver 2010 Olympic Winter Games.

Upon further thought, despite that there are smaller versions of the inukshuk, we reasoned that a giant, stone construction is not conducive to international mailing.

Another one of the features of the Olympic games promotion are the 'big red mittens'. All of the Olympic paraphernalia are offered officially by The Hudson's Bay Company, which we know simply as, 'The Bay'.

The Hudson's Bay Company began as a trading venture in the 1500's and it is the oldest company in North America, having been established soon after Jacques Cartier sailed up the St. Lawrence to Hochelaga and Stadacona which were large villages of the 'St. Lawrence Iroquois'; today, the sites of those villages are Québec City and Montrèal. Sadly, the company is no longer owned in Canada and the St. Lawrence Iroquois disappeared into history.

The big, red mittens are very nice, although they have been made in China. They have the Olympic logo (the circles) on one side of the hand and the Canadian Olympic logo on the other. They also look very toasty warm. Unfortunately, they do not make them in baby or 'soft plush bear' sizes.

We settled on a very nice red t-shirt which, when we put it on him, looked very comfortable and Canadian. The bear even said 'eh?' to mock us but, with his Aussie accent, it didn't come out right.

Then, after grabbing a quick coffee, we were off to the restaurant to meet Azalia and Moxi. The were also 'fashionably' late: Moxi got 'a little lost' on the highway coming into town and Azalia just didn't make it as scheduled. But the upshot was that, by just before six, we were all together.

It was fantastic to see BootLady and Bob after almost a year to the day since we had met in Las Vegas, thanks to thoughts.com. Honestly, it was like a day had not passed and we were immediately laughing and sharing stories like old friends.

The highpoint of the evening, for me, was meeting two new friends: Azalia and Moxi. They were both delightful and, aside from some initial shyness which is understandable, by the time the appetisers arrived we were sharing drinks and food like we had all known each other for ages. The evening could not have been more pleasant and I could not have wished for better company.

All went well until our waiter, a pallid, shaven-headed fellow who reminded me of Lex Luthor (but I detected no hint of inherent evil), offered to give us a tour of the keg room in honour of our guest, Buddy. We naturally agreed, thinking, innocently, to take some photos and then have some desert. We could not have been more wrong.

The keg room was large, nitrogen cooled and steel lined; large enough to hold the 100 brands of international beers which the restaurant offers to it's clients. Azalia was holding Buddy and we all listened while our kind waiter offered us and explanation, walking us around the room, of how the beer was delivered fresh and at the precise temperature to the taps at the bar.

The problem started when Buddy spotted the keg of Foster's. From the corner of my eye, I saw him squirming in Azalia's arms. Something of a warning sounded in my mind but, while the explanations continued of the mechanics of the operation, I was too interested – just paying attention. It was Azalia who raised the alarm as Buddy freed himself and lept, mad on his lust for alcohol, from her arms.

In her soft voice, barely raised above it's natural quietness, she said, “Oh my God, he's going for the pipe!”

There was a flash of gold coloured fur moving quickly across the room. BootLady stuck out her boot to stop him up but, weighing only ounces, he tumbled over it and continued moving. The waiter blanched.

“If he gets to the pipe, the whole system will blow!” he shouted and escaped for the door, shouting for Security.

I had the immediate doomsday vision of Buddy chewing through the delivery pipe of the Foster's. The gas and beer would escape; there would be a brief moment when he would expand like a furry balloon and then – woven, foam stuffing everywhere.

It was Moxi who had the presence of mind to react. Moxi is a good-looking and well-build girl; not one that I would like to tangle with at the wrong moment. She moved like a honed athlete after the gold-furred shot that had, by now, attached itself to the pipe of the Foster's keg. There could only be seconds to spare before it blew wide open.

In the back of my mind, while I moved to follow, still in shock, I heard BootLady screaming, “Buddy! Noooooooo!!!” There was no time left.

In the midst of her scramble across the floor of the keg room, Moxi slipped and fell hard against the racked kegs but, ever present of the urgency, her hands locked around his legs as she fell.

There was a moment of panic. His stitching strained against her force and he grew gradually longer.

Suddenly, there was the hiss of escaping gas. As I arrived, Moxi strained to hold on to the squirming bear and the sound of gas grew louder. My hands clamped around his cute, soft jaws, knowing that not only our lives but those of all the staff and patrons of the restaurant hung in the balance.

“Stickman, save yourself!” shouted Moxi, her grip failing on the smooth, huggable fur.

“Stickman!” came the echoes from Azalia and BootLady, behind me. His little, squeezy-cute mouth came free from the pipe and the sound of gas grew louder. Buddy burped, loud and obnoxious.

“Everyone out!” screamed Azalia, barely audible above the hiss of the rupturing tube. There was a mad scramble as Moxi held the lush-bear under her arm and we all dove for the door. Azalia, a tiny and noble hero, was the last out and, in a feat of strength beyond her normal means, slammed the heavy, steel door shut.

The kegs began to explode, one after another, like cans shaken at a Frat' party. Suds began to ooze from beneath the door.

Needless to say, we were escorted from the restaurant and from the property with instructions to never return.

thanks for visiting.
thanks also to Azalia, bob, BootLady and Moxi for a great evening.

please read Azalia's account here.
please read BootLady's account here.
please read Moxi's account here.

Who is the One Star Bandit?

2009-11-15T10:15:57-05:00

Well now. I've just received HARD EVIDENCE of the identity of the notorious ONE-STAR BANDIT!

Check this out! This is the email I've just received from guess who.....

From BootLady
To badlydrawnstickman
Subject YOU SUCK...

i just one starred you!!

hehehehe....

:p

Well folks. NOW YOU KNOW!!!

Fed-up with BootLady!!

2009-11-14T22:22:49-05:00

I am so hurt and disscusted!!
There is a member of this community that has been harassing me with emails!!!
And saying the worst things to me!!!

I cannot name this member because I am above that sort of muck-slinging and nasty stuff!!!

But I think that you all know who it is becuz I just named her.

I am not the first person to be attacked by some one I thought was a friend and she has ben doing this to other members of this wunderfull community too!!

I'm not paranoid but stop looking at me!!!

I also cant say what she's been saying to me because most of it is too terribel to repeat.

There is young people on this site that shudn't be expose to this sort of thing – like rants and ridiculousnessness.

Here is just a sample, even though I'm said I can't do this:

-------------------------------------------------------

On November 12, Boot Lady wrote:

Hi Sticky!!

I'm looking forward to Saturday, too!
See you soon!

:)

-------------------------------------------------------

That's just an exampleof what she could have written if that was a real mail that I copied there but it's not becuz I just made it up!!

I don't think that anyone should half to put up with abuse like this!!!

You think she is all horrible and ranting and everything but she is not and just keeps sending all this schitt at me like nice greeting and I'm fed up and I can't take it anymore although she is always a laugh when we tak and I kinda like her!!!

I am deleting all my blogs – all 263 of them and the 3700 comments I have made in the forums and all of my comments.

It's probablyt going to take me a week and a half but this is just not rite and I don't do anything else anyway!!!

So what I'm doing is going to hurt her but it's not really 'cuz it's just all my blogs but I commented on her blogs too so they won't be there anyomre!!! Like she might care.

I call on the thoughts.com admin to stop her doing this like sending funy greetings to peple all the time

I am allso leaving thoughts.com forever and I will not be back until tomorrow so everyone better belly-up and tell me not to leave or else I'll be really sad and probably go have another glass of wine!!!

Goodby to all my deat frends at thoughts.com.

thanks for visiting.
hope i did better this time, steve.
:p

Memorial.

2009-11-08T14:39:37-05:00

My name, should anyone care to know, was Herbert Pendergast. I was born on May 21st, 1894 in Medicine Hat, Alberta. Just before my 23rd birthday, on April 8th, 1917 at about 6:00 am., I died at Vimy Ridge, in France.

February 25, 1917.
Dear Mother,
I'm very sorry I didn't write before this.
The eight days of the Atlantic crossing left me weak with sea-sickness and, for most of the time, I was unable to eat.
We landed in Le Havre and transferred by train to our training station. They have been working us very hard but, at least for now, we have clean barracks to return to at the end of the day.
I have made friends with Mac and Petey, two of my comrades in the Calgary 49th. They are good, solid farm boys. Mac is very eager to get to the trenches and fight the Germans. I think that Petey is more afraid but who would not be when, sometimes at night, we can hear the artillery barrage and it is heavier and louder than thunder.
Until next I write, all my love to you and Father and Bobby.
Pvt. Herbert Pendergast
49th Calgary Infantry.
somewhere in France

My body was never found.

April 7, 1917
Dear Mother,
I looks like we are about to go into action. I think that I am glad for it. All the training has left us very tired but, in the last days, they have left us to rest so we will be fresh for battle.
Most of the boys do their drills and then sit about and play cards. Mac is very anxious to start. He is good-natured, positive and very brave - always encouraging the others. I believe he will make a good officer if he decides to do it. Petey is much quieter. I often find him reading his Bible although his spirits are good.
I don't much like living in the trenches - there is muck everywhere and it gets into the most surprising places even if you are careful. I don't think I've had a good sleep in weeks but that is okay. There will be time to sleep when this is all over.
If I am busy with the fight over the next days, please do not worry.
All my love, forever, to you, my Mother. Also to Father and please tell little Bobby that I've heard tell of wonderful sweets here in France. I will try to get some for him on my way home.
Your son,
Pvt. Herbert Pendergast
49th Calgary
somewhere in France.

The call came at 5:30 am.
Despite the hour, none of us were sleeping. We already knew that it was happening and that it was happening soon. I had cleaned and oiled my rifle so many times that I lost count and practiced mounting and detaching my bayonette so I would not forget how.

Before Captain Anderson appeared, the whistles were sounding all along the trenches.

'Courage lads!' he shouted. 'Over the top!'

I lined up with the rest. Mac was in front of me and Petey behind me. Captain Anderson was the first up the ladder and stood atop the trench hollering to the lines to stay solid and keep moving.

We had scarce started to move to follow when his knee exploded in a shower of blood and bone. His leg collapsed under him and he went down. Still he kept shouting courage to us.

There was hardly any light and we could not see our hands before our faces but for the creeping barrage coming from behind us – 6 inch naval cannons belching smoke and fire.

I landed over the top and started crawling. We had done this in drill so many times that it was second nature but, in drill, we had not had German machine guns strafing us. I watched for my friends but, soon, in all the noise and smoke and the bullets pummeling the earth in 'No man's land' around me, I lost them.

I arrived at a barrier of barbed wire and crouched for just a moment to cut the strands. The bullet came and shattered my right shoulder rendering my arm useless. I detached my bayonette, as I had practiced before, no longer able to fire my rifle, and crawled over the last strand of wire, heading to our objective: 'the Black line', the first line of German trench. I arrived at another coil of wire and rose to cut it. The bullet caught me in the neck.

Just after I fell, still gasping, a German artillery shell came out of the blackness of the clouded sky and smoke of battle, exploding in the ground near me. The avalanche of earth thrown upward, then descended, altering the landscape and forever covering me. I died alone.

Three-thousand, five hundred and ninety-eight of my Canadian comrades also died before Vimy Ridge was taken.

Today, sometimes I look up through this earth and I am enchanted by what I see. Vimy is a park now and visitors walk on graveled ways, following the manicured undulations that were trenches and reading from plaques about the thousands of Canadian soldiers who, on that day long ago, surged forth, took the German lines and gained a vantage toward ending the Great War.

In the spring, it is a lovely place. I love the sound of the larks and other nesting birds. I also love the sound of the silence here. Before, when I lived, the air was riven with the explosions of artillery and the screams of men.

In the early summer, the poppies sprout and bloom. They cover these fields where so many of my comrades fell, gently waving their red-flowered heads in the warm, comforting breezes under blistering blue skies and lazily drifting clouds.

When I listen now, there is the sound of peace and I am happy for the sacrifice I made for you, the living. My only hope is that, never again, will the world make such a terrible mistake as this.

Lest we forget - Je me souviens.

Standard Time (I).

2009-11-01T14:56:13-05:00

I could probably kill my mates for dragging me out here but, they are mates, so I guess that's what they do now and again. This place is loud and crowded and now, getting on two o'clock in the morning, I am in a situation that makes me uncomfortable and I just really don't want to be here.

Dave and Robert showed up at my apartment at almost nine, leaning in through the doorway when I open it like a couple of delirious clowns. I could tell that they had already had a couple of pints on the way over.

“C'mon 'Stick', we're taking you to a party,” proclaimed Robert, grinning at me.

“S'right,” echoed Dave. “It'll be good for you.” Against my better judgment, I opened the door wide and admitted them. I looked down at myself, already in baggy sweats and a rumpled t-shirt for the evening. I glanced longingly over my shoulder at the couch and the good novel that awaited reading, resting on the broad armrest. The two mad clowns burst into my haven. Dave immediately headed for the kitchen for some crisps: if I don't buy them, he doesn't eat them.

“You know, mate, that we're not taking 'no' for an answer,” threatened Robert brushing past me to flop on the couch. He burped loudly as punctuation.

“Yup,” came Dave's consent from the kitchen, partially drowned out by the rattle of a foil bag. He emerged with his hand repeatedly dipping into the bright silver packaging and shoveling crisps into his mouth. I conjectured it would be easier to affix it to his face like a feed-sac.

“Look, mates,” I said, fumbling for a way to escape the inevitable. “I was really just gonna read my book tonight and relax - had a long week, you know.”

“What, this one?” Robert asked, retrieving the volume from the arm of the couch. He scanned the cover. “It's complete tripe.” He tossed it and it landed, 'plumf', on the overstuffed cushions.

“Huh?”

“Yeah. After all the buildup and all the historical meanderings, Heather elopes with Joshua. They catch a ship to Oz and start a new life together. Really soppy.”

“You bastard!” I exclaimed.

“Right. So now we're done with that, you can come to the party with us.” He smiled at me victoriously while Dave continued to munch and look on, amused. “Alicia and Natalia are gonna be there,” he added in afterthought and grinned again.

“Alicia?”

“See?” commented Dave between crunches.

“See what?” I asked, getting confused.

“Yeah, I saw,” responded Robert with a wink.

“Saw what?”

“Mate, if you've got a thing for Alicia, then you should just go for it,” pointed out Robert. “And tonight you've got an extra hour to do it.” I was beginning to wish I had played dead when they knocked.

“What do you mean?”

“It's 'fall back' tonight. That means at two o'clock, it's actually one o'clock and, whatever you were doing, you get to do it again.” He winked at me lasciviously. “Just make sure you're doing something fun. Now go get dressed,” he ordered. I understood that my fate was already written and there was no escaping it. I trudged off unwillingly to the bedroom.

While I dressed myself, I thought back over the previous 8 months. It was true that, after my break-up with Monique, I had completely withdrawn into myself and, were it not for the lads, I would probably still be shut inside, gathering dust and, quite possibly, mold. The 'break-up' had been the most bizarre of my life and, more than once, if not for my bitterness, I would have laughed over the ridiculousness of the situation. One day, we were doing great and seemed to have all the possibilities in the world before us. The next day, she was leaving. 'It's not you, it's me,' she had said to me on her departure. Needless to say, the clichéd phrase did not help; self-doubt and personal recriminations only mounted. When I emerged a few minutes later, Dave had disposed of the crisps and both he and Robert were waiting anxiously for me at the door.

“Where're we off to?” I inquired innocently, slipping into my shoes.

“Um, it's Patrice's place,” answered Dave, a little nervously and glancing at Robert for backup. Patrice is one of Monique's best mates; they both came over from Bruxelles for University and ended up staying.

“Ah, look...,” I began, rapidly reconsidering the whole situation.

“No worries. She's not gonna be there, mate,” rejoined Robert quickly. “We checked. She's got other things happening.” He clapped me on the back. We left, walking the short distance to Patrice's block of flats.

thanks for visiting.
please read 'Standard Time (II)'.

Succubus.

2009-10-31T13:21:15-04:00

Once again, I am delighted to host, on my blog, my friend circe. Please read her story entitled, 'Succubus'.

Succubus.

Sleek and agile, golden eyes, black velvet coat. There was a cat walking the porch rail as I got home. Leaping down effortlessly, It entwined itself around my legs as I stood in front of the door. I reached down to pat its head. It avoided my touch. I keyed the lock, and swung the door open. The cat purred loudly, and I said ‘come on in then.’ It darted inside and promptly found a spot on Chloe’s padded rocker to curl up on. I went about getting my evening meal, and set a saucer of milk out for the cat, assuming it would be hungry. I poured myself a tumbler of cognac, and prepared to shoo the cat out of my chair. It wasn’t there. ‘Here kitty, kitty.’ No cat. I sat down in my overstuffed chair, facing Chloe’s, and enjoyed my quiet living room. There was a stack of records on the turntable, ‘falling leaves’ was playing, I drifted off comfortably, warmed by the expensive brandy, and the comfort of my empty home.

Later I awoke, a little stiff from sitting. Bed was calling. I made the rounds, checking doors, turning off lights. Keeping an eye out for the cat. Wonder where it came from? And where it had got to?

My bedroom was suitably cool, as I like it. Good for sleeping. I tossed my clothes over a chair, and slipped between the cool sheets. Ahhh, I didn’t realize how tired I was. Lights off, and to sleep.

Sometime in the night I had a dream. I was seduced, my body responded. It was delightful,at first. Then there was a weight on my chest, something over my face, sucking the air from my lungs. Thrashing my arms and legs out violently did nothing to dislodge the creature, whatever it was. I blacked out to unconsciousness.

The next day, I awoke to bright sunlight. My chest and arms and legs were covered with scratches, there was blood all over my sheets and pillowcases. Damn cat! Where are you?
Kitty, kitty! I showered and dressed, determined to find and toss out the cat. It was nowhere to be found. I called in sick, and did a few chores I had been meaning to get to. Several times during the afternoon, I made searches for the cat.
It must have slipped out one of the times I opened the door.
Dinner this night was just me, again.

My wife had left me months before, due to my dalliances with other women. I had left her alone at night often. She seemed to close in on herself, became increasingly withdrawn, and one day she was gone. In the note she left, she said it would only be right that I suffer as much as I had made her suffer. I hadn’t heard from her since. I missed her, I was truly sorry, but I had nowhere to express that. I kept the house, and hoped she would come home.

Another quiet evening, I watched a little T.V. and gave it up as a lost cause. There were the same detectives, making incredible deductions, cooly solving horrific crimes. I didn’t feel like going out. Funny, I wasn’t running around any more.
I locked up, turned out lights, and trudged upstairs in the lonely house.

It was cold in the bedroom, I shivered undressing, and climbing into the big bed. Sleep didn’t come right away, My mind drifted to thoughts of Chloe. Her spark when we were first married, the fun she had brought to my life. Ahhh, what stupidity made me kill that spark? She just dragged around the house toward the last. I did that to her. My conscience burned.

Again, this night I was caressed by a woman in the dark. My body betrayed me again. It was every man’s dream, then a nightmare. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. My body was ravaged by something clawed and ravenous. I couldn’t scream, I was manipulated like the plaything of an enormous beast. I was afraid to see, I will not look. I know it is hideous.
My eyes were swollen nearly shut when I grew conscious of day. I crawled out of bed and to the shower. I was bitten and clawed all over my body. Bruised, fatigued. I went to call someone to come take me to the hospital. The phone didn’t work. I was very weak, The stairs were negotiated by sitting and scooting down each step. When I staggered to the door, it wouldn’t work. I couldn’t open it. I lay on the couch, and drifted to sleep, tears streaming down my face.

The Succubus came for me again. I understand, It will kill me. Coldly, with much humiliation. It is draining my strength, using me. It will discard me. I created the situation. The unhappiness in this house. The demon knew my weakness, I invited it in. I am the whore demon’s plaything. My body used for sport. The irony is not lost on me.

Die! I tell myself, die! I wish I could. It is not my will, but hers . And, like a cat, she is toying with me.

Please read my Hallowe'en story called, 'Sophia', on circe's blog here.

Watson's Family Hotel (II).

2009-10-26T17:59:54-04:00

Please read, 'Watson's Family Hotel (I)'.

The fog grew thicker with each passing moment. I joked to myself that we might get lost in the parking lot and never find the hotel. The rain was now a steady drizzle, misting the windshield. With the car engine turned off, a dead silence enclosed us sitting in the car and no sound intruded from beyond.

“Sure is peaceful here,” I commented to Siobhan who peered out, squinting and studying the place as it wafted in and out of visibility through the fog.

“Means we'll have a good sleep after I get you all relaxed,” she said and winked playfully at me.

“I can go for that,” I answered, smiling, and moved to open the door. Siobhan followed my example and stepped down to the pavement. She turned and fetched her overnight bag from the back seat and I did likewise, swinging it over my shoulder. The drizzle collected quickly, damp, on my face and I felt a chill cross my shoulders. My mind focused on an odour that came to my sense of smell - a pungent scent of fire. 'They must have been burning leaves today,' I thought and then plucked the heavy cooler from the trunk. Siobhan stood waiting for me in front of the car. I pushed the button on the remote and the locks closed with a heavy thump and an electronic chirp.

Entering to the sound of an electronic chime under the flickering light that proclaimed 'Office', we grinned at each other; the place was decorated in 'mid-70's awful'. I could only imagine what the room would be like. Yet, despite the odour of flame that persisted in my nose, it seemed clean and tidy, well-kept and I also detected disinfectant and Lysol. It was a good sign.

“Good evening, folks,” came the voice from a young man with dark curly hair who immediately appeared from the living space beyond the front desk.

“Good evening,” I responded. He looked us over and smiled but it seemed strained.

“Awful night out. Can I set you up with a room?” Behind him, down a short hallway, two little girls came into view, bounding about in exaggerated dance steps. I smiled at the sight of their carefree play.

“Yes, just for tonight. We'll be off in the morning.” Another figure appeared in the back – a young woman, attractive, with a kerchief tied over her hair and sporting a daisy print dress and apron. She smiled briefly in our direction and disappeared carrying a roasting tray. The young man, with taut movements, readied the necessary paperwork. Fifteen minutes later, with business disposed of, we walked up the inner stairs to avoid the outside dampness and entered Room 14, or 'faw-teen', as the fellow had pronounced it.

“I wonder if it's like floors and this is really Room 13,” commented Siobhan scanning, in aesthetic dismay, the dark paneled room with the checkered upholstery chairs and 'flying saucer' shaped lamp.

“I don't know. But this room has sure been unlucky!” Siobhan laughed; the sound was high and musical to my ears. It was a moment in which I knew I loved her. She freshened up in the sterile white bathroom and then, while we occasionally snacked on fruit and cheese selected from the cooler, she insisted on rubbing my back, grown stiff and painful from the drive. I, thankfully, consented. In the midst of her kind ministrations, she became surreptitiously naked and I felt her skin against mine and her whispered, husky voice in my ear. 'Roll over,' she demanded.

I awoke, retching at the stench in my nostrils. Siobhan was dead. Her head was cleaved nearly in two; hardly recognisable in the dim light amidst a spatter of brain and gore across the pillow. Her chest and gut were also split open and the entrails spilt across the bed, the intestines trailing off onto the floor. I choked and my own guts boiled, threatening to turn out.

A scream called us urgently from our sated sleep and we both sat bolt upright in bed, eyes agape in the darkness.

“What the f...?” whispered Siobhan next to me. Her hand launched out, claw-formed, and grabbed my arm.

“Shh!,” I hissed, springing from sleep to an innate, primal sense of threat. The sting of her nails in my skin brought me to full wakefulness.

Another scream, muffled with distance, caused the hairs to rise on my neck. There were voices, too, indistinct – a woman's: 'Jed! No...!', and a man's; '...Demon shall not take thee!' It was worse when the voices stopped. We heard soft impacts, repeated. The sound of something heavy sinking into the yielding flesh of a body, withdrawn, and then falling again with a sickening, wet thump. Siobhan leaned from the bed and vomited on the floor, helpless to control herself.

“Throw something on,” I ordered, rising myself. She responded weakly and then I heard her heaving again. I crossed the room to the phone on the little writing desk. My ears were attuned to every sound but, when I lifted the receiver, the sound I needed was not there. “Jesus, my cell!” I hissed toward Siobhan who now had a t-shirt lightly covering her. A string of saliva hung, swinging from her lower lip. She moved mechanically and unzipped a pocket on the side of my over-night bag and crawled over the bed to pass it to me. We heard more sounds. A child squealed briefly and then abruptly stopped.

Siobhan's eyes rolled in their sockets like a horse on the verge of bolting; the panic in her threating to explode outwards. I fumbled with my cell phone, dropped it and retrieved it shakily from the carpet. I poked at the numbers; 9 – 1 – 1, and then waited, feeling the plastic encased device slick with sweat in my palm. The call clicked through, buzzing on the other end.

“C'mon, pick up,” I exclaimed, my whispered voice leaking out between clenched teeth and jaws. The ringing stopped and a response returned.

“Watson County Sheriff's Office.” The voice was thick with a Massachusetts drawl. From beyond the confines of the room, a door slammed. Then came a brief yelp, a cry of surprise, quickly cut off by more of those wet and sticky impacts, the sound of muttering and heavy breathing. There could be no doubt that it was closer – maybe only a door or two away. Siobhan slipped, trembling, from the bed and clung to my back.

“Listen,” I tried to slow my breathing, to retreat from my own panic, and make myself understood. “We're at the 'Watson's Family Hotel', in room 14 on the upstairs. There is something terrible happening here – we think people are being killed by someone with an axe or a club or something. Please! Help us!” There was a long pause on the line. When the voice returned, it was low and serious.

“You know, this yarn is getting old. But I suppose we have to expect it every Hallowe'en.” 'Yarn' sounded like 'yawn' but I understood the implication all too well.

“Are you crazy? This is no joke!” I spit back. “We can hear these awful sounds from our room!” Siobhan emitted a feeble and despairing groan.

“Son, I don't know who you are but I'm guessing you know the story as well as I do. 'Watson's' was burned down twenty-five years ago by young Jedediah Smith, yes, after he axed his whole family. Now, I can take a drive out there but, I already know and you do too, I'm just gonna find an overgrown parking lot on the state road.” The line clicked dead.

Siobhan is sleeping now, covered in a car blanket. Once I hit the interstate, I floored it and haven't let up yet although the speed and the distance have done nothing to diminish the disgusting noises we heard. The escape, almost naked and with only the things we managed to grab, from the balcony door and down the exterior stair, is only a blur. I'll try to make everything look normal and convince her it was just a dream once she awakes and we are far beyond the Georgia state line.

Maybe, one day, I'll convince myself.

thanks for visiting.
have a happy and safe hallowe'en everyone!

Watson's Family Hotel (I).

2009-10-25T14:13:59-04:00

The drive from the incipient winter chill of Montréal southward toward the perpetual sun, warmth and anonymity of Miami was, we were careful to convince ourselves, not so much an escape from the unpleasant events of the recent past but, more, a way to ensure a fresh and brighter future for ourselves.

All through the day, the first of our journey, our spirits had been high. On my right, Siobhan was my navigator, commentator and radio dj as stations drifted in and out of range while the miles faded away behind us. Sometimes she was silent and her hand would seek out mine, squeezing it in reassurance. When I glanced over to her, she would be smiling at me, her face brightly lit in the low angle sun that washed over the New York state landscape.

And a beautiful landscape it was. Siobhan guided us along the state roads, avoiding the noisy, teaming and confusing interstates so we had an opportunity, on more than one occasion, to stop, Siobhan deftly producing her digital camera, and capture the fleeting brilliance of the autumn colours. Then, once we had suitably absorbed the vista, I would receive a kiss for my patience and we would be off again.

In this way, we had been awed by a rocky gorge painted in orange and gold, capped at it's south end by a glistening waterfall. I felt the healing effects of the calming view seeping into me. We had stopped for lunch on a high hill, just beyond the Finger-Lakes region, enjoying, in silence, bread, cheese and salami carefully cleaved in appropriate slices by my ever-present, pocket knife while gazing over a panorama of meticulously tended fields of wheat and alfalfa punctuated by wild wood lots. Siobhan pointed out a foal cavorting in a field, attentively followed by its mare.

By evening, New York was behind us. We had gradually angled east and were greeted by the rolling hills of New England. The weather had changed, becoming cloudy. We witnessed no sunset. Rather, the day, grown steadily darker, simply faded into night and the headlights picked out the unknown road before us in elongated halogen cones.

“Getting foggy,” I suggested to Siobhan who was silent in her seat. Another bank of whiteness, more dense than before, absorbed the car. “Are you sure this is the right road?” Siobhan clicked on the little glove-box light and studied the map unfolded over her tattered jeans. The radio was playing low – some hymns arranged in a jazzy fashion.

“I'm pretty sure,” she answered and yawned loudly. “I think I noticed the right road sign a ways back. We should be about here.” I deviated my eyes from the road to note the position indicated by the chipped, red polish of her fingernail. “The next town should be Watson, Mass. in about ten miles.”

“OK,” I answered. “But if this fog gets any worse, I think we should stop for the night.” Some drops of rain exploded on the windshield and I turned the wipers on low.

“How far have we come today?”

I shifted, a little stiffly, in my seat and studied the odometer, making the calculation. “Almost a thousand clicks.”

“Then I think you probably need some rest anyway. Hey! Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?” I sniffed at the air.

“The ocean, silly! We're closer to the coast now!”

“Cool! Maybe, if it's clear tomorrow, we'll be able to see the Atlantic. Or even put our feet in it!

“And I can take a picture of you, barefoot, and with your jeans rolled up like a beach-comber!” She laughed at the mental image and I had to join it. I have never been quite the 'beach-comber' type but it might be fun.

The fog continued to close in, becoming thicker and more dense with the passing minutes. My own anxiousness increased in just measure as, first, the roadside trees gradually faded away and, then, the shoulder of the road became difficult to locate. My speed decreased from 80, to sixty and, finally, to forty. No other car appeared on the road and it was like drifting in some silent, new universe.

“Baby, I gotta stop,” I told Siobhan emphatically. “I can't see a damn thing.”

“I know, baby,” she answered. There was an edge of tension in her voice. “It's kinda creepy not being able to see anything.” Her hand went absently to the radio and clicked it off. “We'll look for the first place that's decent. Hey! A light!”

It appeared first as a possible mirage or reflection of the headlights and then grew stronger, resolving into red and blue. I slowed the car to crawling, looking for a curb or driveway. Siobhan was quick to discern the sign in detail.

“Watson's Family Hotel... vacancy!” she pronounced, triumphantly. “We made it - and that seems like as good a place as any.”

My straining eyes, reddened from exhaustion, picked out the entrance and I turned in under the flickering neon sign, coasted, relieved, across the parking lot and to a stop under an overhead lamp dimly visible in the swirling fog.

thanks for visiting.
please read 'Watson's Family Hotel (II)'.

Home.

2009-10-17T21:05:47-04:00

I'll be going home soon. It is late and I am tired.

Home, the word, has so many significances that it becomes tedious to disentangle, from the others, the one that is the most meaningful. Home is the place where a person lives – the physical structure. Home is where you have all your belongings, where there is comfort in familiarity. Home can also be another person – that one person and no one else who is there.

When I am away from home, I miss it. It beckons to me with the unencumbered openness of a friend; a place where I can cast off, like the city dust that settles on my overcoat, the stress and noise of the day, shed my suit, tie and severe public persona and just be me. I'll be there soon.

The structure of my home is nothing more of less than that of anyone else's. It is a peacefully situated condo, nearly paid for, in the suburbs of a large Canadian city. It faces east and catches the morning sun through floor to ceiling windows that span the entire living area and overlook a similarly broad balcony. Inside, it is spacious, having a front hallway that passes, in one direction, to the two bedrooms and one bath and, in the other direction, to the living room and kitchen. If I lived alone it would be too big but, in two, it is just right. We converted the second bedroom to a studio for both of us but we are more likely to be found, especially in the evenings, lounging, talking and listening to music in the large, open-design, living room. But my home is much more than just the way it was built – vertical white-washed, cement and plastered walls and stuccoed ceilings.

When we moved in together, still just dating but already certain of the course our lives would take together, we kept the decorating simple. That was seven years ago. Despite the fact that we both tend to collect eccentric, usually ethnic, decorative items, we have maintained the original concept of simplicity although, now, it is liberally spiced with intricately woven Bedouin cushions, Balinese masks, bright Thai wall hangings and the hypnotising geometric forms of Moroccan and Tunisian ceramics. We both enjoy the visual stimulation. We have our books which are always needing reorganisation in order to find sufficient space. Perhaps more shelves are required.

We have our own favourite things dispersed about the place. I have my electric guitar which I occasionally pick up and strum tunelessly when distracted or thoughtful, or slam out some some acoustic membrane shattering power chords when so driven by frustrations. She invariably escapes when I am so possessed, fleeing to the sanctuary of the studio at the far end of the apartment. She has her quieter and more feminine diversions; some long stocked plants that resemble palm trees that thrive with her attentions and her paintings, delicate floral, pastel creations that provide her a private inner peace.

She has become my home also. Hers is the scent which greets me when I enter and hers are the arms that welcome me. It is her voice, subtly accented from her childhood homeland, that lulls me. It is her body, a wisp of sinuous, female flesh which, curled against mine in the night, is comfort, security and a promise made of a life spent together.

I'll be going home soon. It's late and I am tired.

I'll be going home just as soon as I am finished in this other place, with another woman, younger, whose breasts are large and full under my hands, the nipples turgid against my palms. Another woman whose legs lock, animalistic, around my hips, forcing hers against mine and pulling me, engorged, deeper and driving me to near delirious heights of sexual passion. A woman whose mouth entrances me and makes my body hum with ecstatic tension. This is another type of home; our bodies locked together, rocking and straining, plunging and gasping for breath until release and collapse. I could find a home here with her, in her.

But it is late. My cell phone is buzzing again in the pocket of my trousers which lie crumpled on the floor. I'll be going home soon.

Soon.

thanks for visiting.

Endings.

2009-10-15T19:00:00-04:00

December 31, 2011.

Her presence had been a constant all evening. Through dinner, while I conversed animately with those around me, I could feel her eyes on me and I would turn toward her to receive the benediction of her smile. Later, as I talked to my editor, Katherine Mason, the hostess of the elegant, uptown New Year's party, I sensed her drawing close to me before she came into my line of sight.

“Excuse me, Katherine,” I said and she nodded, smiling benignly and a little flushed with wine, as Adèle took my arm and led me away from the other guests.

“Take me home now, please,” said Adèle. I could see that she'd had her share of wine also; her pale, almost colourlessly clear eyes glistened with playfulness.

“What? Now?” I asked her, incredulous. “But it's still early! Don't you want to be here for midnight? Aren't you feeling well?” Standing quite a bit shorter than I, she pulled on my forearm and I bent toward her like a sapling before the wind. First, her lips moved over my neck and then she whispered in my ear.

“I want to make love to you.”

How could I possibly refuse?
Adèle appeared in my life in late 2009 as suddenly as a whirlwind and, as I was buffeted about by the gale-force of her affection, she snapped up my heart and held it close to hers. I could not have been happier. Now, two years later, I could feel the tumult again. I knew that by five o'clock on New Year's Day, I would be driving her to the airport where she would depart for India and a new, two year management assignment. I was doing my best not to think about it. We had decided, together, that the party was the best way to keep ourselves distracted and entertained.

We slipped from the party unnoticed and ran, hand in hand, down the frozen lawn of the upscale Rosedale home to my small, silver Audi parked at the curb. A light snow was falling, a 'dusting' of crystalline perfection moving in the air and glistening like stars, driven by the breeze, from their orbits. The street was very quiet although several houses were lit up like Christmas trees and the many cars parked along the street showed that other parties were going on. We got in and I carefully three-pointed to exit from between two enormous SUV's. We drove, not speaking. A Robert Cray CD played softly. The weight of Adèle's presence beside me was comforting and tantalising. She smoked and her hand rested lightly on my thigh.

Before Adèle blew over my existence, I had essentially stopped looking for a companion in my life. A series of disastrous relationship experiences over the previous years had left me jaded, aloof and disinterested. It is not the case that I didn't want to have someone close to me but, rather, I placed it much lower on my list of priorities: I had a good job and was successful at it, I was well on the way to paying off my condo and I had a few close friends who were like family to me; really, I lacked for nothing and my life was content and comfortable in a good way. Adèle changed all that. She showed me that all it takes is to find the right person and, suddenly, everything falls into place in ways that weren't previously conceived of. I found myself staring in wonder sometimes at her, aware that I loved her but too overcome by emotion to say anything.

The door was scarcely closed and bolted behind us, our shoes kicked off at the entranceway, when her hands were on me and she led me to the bedroom. She was giggling: alternately aggressive, pushing me playfully onto my back; her hands, her body and her mouth encouraging my excitement and, passive; drawing me over her, showing me what she wanted and her pleasure at the effects my touch had on her. I could have stayed there forever.

“What time is it?” she said to me, startling me from my sated, dream-like state. I glanced at the softly glowing, luminescent numbers of the clock.

“My eyes aren't focusing,” I answered. “I think you did something to them.” She breathed, softly laughing, in my ear, her body warmly melded to mine. “I think it's 11:45 – almost the New Year... 2012.”

“Wanna watch?”

“I think that's what made my eyes go funny in the first place,” I answered and she pinched me in response.

“I mean, 'the fireworks', dummy,” she added after her assault.

“Hmm,” I answered, unsatisfied with the idea of climbing out of bed. There was a cold wind outside and, occasionally, the panes rattled in frigid agitation. Still, not knowing how the future would treat us, I said 'Sure' and got up, extricating myself from the tangle of limbs and thinking of ringing in the New Year with 'my girl'. I tossed her one of my sweatshirts from the closet which she pulled over her thin frame before her legs poked out from the mussed covers. I sought and then found my 'sweats' in a crumpled ball on the floor and pulled them on.

In the kitchen, I poured us some drinks and heard, from the living room, the sound of the curtains being drawn back from the expanse of windows over the balcony. In the park across the street, some plumes of light already raised but nothing, I was certain, compared to the cacophony that would erupt after midnight. I noticed the clock as I exited the kitchen: 11:59.

I handed Adèle her drink. She had turned on the radio and the sound was turned low. I thought that I discerned an old song by R.E.M. but I wasn't sure. She was dancing slowly by herself on the broad, open, wood floor, her hips swaying lusciously in time with the music. She accepted the drink and took a sip.

“Hey! It's midnight!” I said. A bright, blue trail of light erupted from the darkness of the park. It arced upwards and, then, in an wink, disappeared without either flame or noise. “Huh. Must have been a dud,” I said and turned to beckon to Adèle.

Her glass crashed to the floor, spraying shards and sticky spatter.
She was gone.

this is my response to Scribbles Challenge #48.
thanks for visiting.

Mechanism.

2009-10-11T21:00:00-04:00

Every process has its mechanism or mechanisms by which a result is achieved. I have always been fascinated by the way that actions, or even ideas, can be broken down and understood better if you conceptualise the mechanisms.

I hope that I haven't lost you already. I think an example would be a good idea. Take 'evolution'; evolution is a theory that change occurs. It is a process of change. It has a mechanism which is 'natural selection' or 'survival of the fittest'. Here is another example: making a ham sandwich. The process is the creation of the sandwich so it can be eaten but it has many mechanisms. You need to fetch the parts from the refrigerator, slice the ham, wash the lettuce, put butter on the bread and so on until the process is complete and you have a sandwich that is properly constructed.

Even writing this short essay is a process. I already know what I want to produce but, before I can finish it, I need to make a list of my ideas, organise them, expand on them and, finally, type them on my Toshiba Satellite (model L300) laptop using proper English so that everyone can understand it.

I am always making lists. I would make lists from morning to night if I didn't stop myself. I have a Sony Clié PDA (model T665C) that I fill with lists. I also carry a tiny, blue notebook (5 by 4.5 inches) and a red pen with me just in case the battery on the PDA dies on me. Now I need to make a list of the batteries to re-charge.

My psychiatrist says that all of this thought process is just a symptom of my condition. She calls that part of it 'Maniacal Compulsive Dysfunction' and usually increases my medication. Her name is Mary Watson. She is 3 years, 8 months and 17 days younger than I am. I tell her I am taking my medication but I am not. She says that my triscadecaphobia is also a part of it; that is the fear of the number that comes after 12. She says that 'compulsive disorders' are common in people that are highly intelligent and I can't disagree with her that I am that.

I had a girlfriend but she left me. She said, 'I can't take this anymore - you are going to make me as insane as you are'. Then she left and I made a list of the exact words she used. My psychiatrist, Mary Watson, says that I am not clinically insane because I am fully cognizant of the repercussions of my actions but that, without proper cure and medication, I may become a risk to myself or others and need to be institutionalised. That is usually when I tell her I am taking my medication faithfully. She smiles at me and compliments me for my diligence.

I want my girlfriend to be dead.

Death is a process; it is the process by which a vital organism ceases to function integrally and becomes, simply, a decaying body of organic material. That is why, on a 'Death Certificate', they list the 'cause' of death, for example, 'exsanguination via the superior vena cava', which is not compatible with life, as well as, the 'manner' of death, for example, 'multiple (27) stab wounds to the neck and thorax'. The manner of death is the mechanism or mechanisms that brought on the cause of death or the cessation of life.

I want her death to be the worst possible.

I started to make a list which I am going to share with you. I have not finished it yet, so I hope you will not hate me for that. I need to make a list of the reasons you hate me. I have used letters to itemize it so that I don't have to use the number that is the sum of 6 plus 7.

Ways for my girlfriend to die.

A) Garden shears.
B) Other garden implements. Lawnmower?
C) Push from Subway Platform. Which subway station?
D) Electrocution. No way to get her to climb a high-tension tower.
E) Baseball Bat. Unwieldy.
F) Other Sports Equipment. I don't like sports.
G) Meat Cleaver. Messy. I don't like messes because then I have to clean up.
H) Other kitchen implements. I don't have many and a fork is no good.
I) Gun. I don't have one and I don't like loud noises.
J) Starvation. I can't ask her just not to eat.
K) Isolation. There are too many people around.
L) Fire. I burned my hand once so I'm afraid of fire.
N) Cannibalisation. I'm not that hungry.
O) Other.

I'm sorry. I couldn't use that letter either.

Even writing the list is a series of mechanisms in the process of greater understanding and, in doing this, I started to think about evolution again.

Evolution is a process which is contingent upon time. Maybe that is the way to proceed. I will make her life contingent upon time.

Time is the eternal process; the semi-collapsed dimension in which we exist but, in it's current state, allows movement only in one direction – forward. I will let time be her sentence.

I will be it's witness.

Time makes itself felt: it brings pain, degradation and corruption, loss and the fear of loss, disease and, in the end, death. Time leads inexorably to death. The slow process with its concomitant mechanisms will be her sentence; an evolution into dissolution.

I will watch and make the list.

thanks for visiting.

Offended? You bet I am, BootLady.

2009-09-30T21:13:52-04:00

BootLady...

If that IS your name... or how many more you have, I don't really know or care. YOU have crust the line this time attacking another respected member because of there need 4 medicines. You have no write to do that!!

YOu are the lowest piece of crumpled up paper that I have ever scene. and if you dont like wat I'm saying then that's your problem because this if MY BLOG! I have FREEDOM OF SPEECH to say what I want and how I liek. So if you don't like it then..
STICK YOUR FINGER IN YOUR NOSE!!

You sent me that email. OK, you asked after me and that was nice. I hope you and yours are doing well too. BUT that is no excuse!! I can SEE what you are doing here and I have informed thoughts of your SHENANIGANS!! I know what they are gonna do - probably laugh and make a pot of tea. BUT YOU'LL get it in the end!!

I know itz you that startd the "badlydrawnthingum-a-jig" account. I know itz you that has been calling out to the Ho Lee Chow for take-out using that name. I'm not gunna stand by an let you do that.

That you hacked my account is also clear. I receved an email from someone i didn't know and that was clearly your doing clearly your doing. I don't no who youv been talking to but the BILL IS GONNA BE PAID!!!

I saws the attack you maid on a fellow member here. YOU hfav no respect. YOU made a little comment into a BIG issue. I know that m&m's are good. I like them too; I guess it's the crunchy bit and then they are just so tasty. BUT that a fellow blogger, who is also a deer friend, is being attacked UNSCRUMPTIOUSLY by YOU because HE needs his medicines or whatever (I didn't actually figure out if he was talking about m&m's or medicine, really) is NO GOOD REASON to go after him lik that making flippint comments. He deserves hour respect even if he is a chocolate addicted fiend ready to anything ANYTHING for his fix.

I hope that you get banned. I have been talking to thoughts about this although I really haven't.
I'm gonna see this to the END because you are just the worst sort of person although you are not because I met you and you were very nice in person. Hope you are feeling better.

THIS IS NOT THE END OF THIS. i almost made a palindrome. YOU wil PAY.

thanks for visiting.

Death.

2009-09-28T13:46:46-04:00

Out here, in the desert, no one comes because they want to. No one comes to stand beside a hole in the rocky soil and watch a pine plank box be lowered in and covered over.
In the desert, even now with the sun sinking low over the distant, shadowed Cordillera, the air is stifling. The Sant'Ana wind scalds the eyes and sets the teeth on tin-foil edge.
The diggers are here, bored and leaning over their shovels. They smoke hand-rolled cigarettes, occasionally pulling a string of tobacco from their tongue and look on with disinterest.
The priest is here. He is drunk, still hung-over, or both, and his mouth stumbles to form the words printed in his black, leather-bound, prayer book laid open in a trembling hand.

'...Thou shalt show me the path of life;
in thy presence is, um, the fullness of joy,
and at thy right hand there is pleasure for evermore.'

He stops and nods to the grave diggers. They approach and quickly wrap their ropes around the box and then heave it into the pit. In the movement, the form within shifts stiffly and some bloated bottle-flies rise sluggishly. The priest kicks some dirt into the hole with his dusty boot and it lands on the lid with hollow spatter of stones.

Saviours?
There are no saviours here.
There are no saviours to be found between stained, wretched and sweat-sodden sheets.
They all have their fingers crossed behind their back.

'...In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life
through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty
God our brother; and we commit his body to the ground;
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless
him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him
and be gracious unto him, the Lord lift up his countenance
upon him and give him peace. Amen.'

'Amen', return the two. The box is left lying crooked and unbalanced on the bottom and the ropes are retrieved. They waste no time. Suffocating dust billows upward. They scoop the loose dirt inward and it falls, the echo gradually becoming muffled. The priest has not the faith or interest to continue. He stumbles away to sit on a headstone and take a drink from a tiny, metal flask. It doesn't take long to finish. They pack the dirt down; dancing with pounding boots on the grave to keep the coyotes and wild dogs out.

Time.
Time enough.
Time enough to cry.
Time enough to drown in a sea of sighs.
Time enough to live out a life
wondering 'why?'
Time.

Someone lashed two planks together in the crude form of a cross but it looks more like a 'plus'. They pound it into the ground and the metal shovel heads ring like bells. The name was crudely carved across with a bowie knife: LOVE. The wind and sand will erase the name from the soft wood. Time will complete the task; the rope will decay and the wood will fall to matchsticks.
My own book is open on my palm. I cross off the name with a charcoal pencil and make a mental note of the next one. The book slips comfortably into the pocket of my denims. My horse is nearby. My spurs ring with each step.

thanks for visiting.

Silver.

2009-09-22T16:01:07-04:00

Pringle's Antiques on the Tottenham Court green is one of my favourite shops in the entire village and I stop in often enough to know Mr. Pringle and his wife but rarely are my pockets sufficiently lined to make a purchase.

“Good morning, Mr. Winston”, greets the proprietor upon my entry. I fold my umbrella and deposit it, dripping, in the drum by the door.

“Nasty spot of grey we're having, isn't it, Mr. Pringle?”

“Aye”, he answers. I approach and shake his hand. “Perfect, I think, for a cup of tea if you will have some”. He is smiling at me from blue eyes behind bushy eyebrows and thick spectacles.

“Delighted! That's awfully good of you”.

“Not to worry, Mr. Winston. And perhaps while I fetch the tea from Mrs. Pringle, you will find that piece we haven't located for you yet”. He winks at me with gentle humour and disappears into the back of the shop. It's true that I should buy something sooner or later.

The shop is not large and, ideally, it would need about four times the space to adequately house all the objects crammed into its narrow confines. Often I hesitate to explore something that catches my eye for fear of being buried alive in an avalanche of books, lamps, statuettes, a folding box-camera and crate of glass negatives. In consequence, I move slowly and self-consciously about, taking a visual inventory of the strange and curious items stacked in hodge-podge around me. A gesso covered Madonna peers at me impassively.

The pair of silver candlesticks are standing on a folding, wooden wardrobe atop of a steamer trunk. They catch my eye immediately in the muted light of the place, gleaming dull white. I pick one from its tottering perch and heft it in my hand.

“Oh!” comes an exclamation from over my shoulder and I turn. “Those are lovely, aren't they?” Mrs. Pringle enters and deposits a tray set with tea cups, a pot and tin of biscuits on the counter. “So nice of you to have tea with us, Mr. Winston”.

“It's my pleasure, of course, Mrs. Pringle and, yes, they are beautiful”. She busies herself checking the pot of tea, bobbing the little egg about inside to aid the infusion amidst an issuing cloud of steam.

“Mr. Pringle should be with us in a moment as he's just on the phone. They're Swiss, you know”.

“I'm sorry?”

“The candlesticks, luv. They're Swiss manufacture, 1780's based on the maker's mark. Solid silver, not a wooden core, and taken from an Italian design”.

“Ah!” I answer. “I had wondered if they were Italian”.

“So did we when we purchased them and spent too much”. She begins to laugh.

I close my eyes and sense, through the medium of my fingertips, the fine silversmith's work slipping...

...slipping through a wooded glade on the shore of Lake Geneva. I duck a branch, pressing my knees against the sides of my chestnut mare, Alyssia, and spur her on. We exit the glade onto the gentle slope of the shore under a grey-scudded and threatening sky in sight of my destination: the Villa Diodati, taken by Lord Byron as his summer residence wherefore to find the tranquility to complete his work 'Childe Harold'.

The vision of the grand villa before me does naught to raise my spirits, oppressed as they are, equally by the same vision. The villa sits, encompassed in a heavy mist, on a small rise by the shore some leagues before me. It's backdrop, scarce perceptible in the low cloud, is made of rising, dark shadowed, rock formations which ascend, unseen, to the heavens as the glorious Alps. Yet, perceiving no glimmer of light from within, I despair, first, of finding the respite of Byron's invited hospitality and, second, of a glass of wine to chase off the dampness that pervades my frame despite my heavy riding-coat.

As the light slowly leads the day into night and with Alyssia foaming from her run, I stop and dismount before the grand facade of the villa. My tight-laced and mud spackled riding boots have nary touched the crushed stone carriage-way when a stable hand appears from the gathering gloom and approaches running.

“Captain Winston?” he shouts to me, still distant.

“Yes, boy!” I return his hail. He arrives before me, catching his breath.

“The Master of the house told me to watch for you”.

“Then you have completed your task well”, I commend him for his alertness. The boy gathers Alyssia's reigns from me. A rumble of thunder echoes across the mirror-still calm of the lake now fading into dark.

“The Master said to join him and his guests in the dining hall, sir. I will bring your satchels myself”.

“Good lad,” I say, impressed by his directness. “Wash her down and give her a blanket: a little oats tonight while she rests but more tomorrow to refresh her strength”. I stroke Alyssia's heaving flank with affection and she whinnies in response and tosses her head toward me.

“Aye, sir”, he responds and leads the horse off to rest. Only moments later and with the doors of the dining hall thrown wide in entrance, it is Byron's voice, booming like cannon-shot, that assaults me.

“Lo and Behold!” he shouts. “A storm-cast Navigator, tossed in tumult from the sea-foam, upon the hospice of this foreign shore!” He rises, nearly sending his chair toppling to the floor and laughs uproariously. Byron is verily a giant of a man; taller than I by inches and equally broad of chest. When his arms close around me in embrace, the breath is near forced from my lungs. It is my good fortune that he releases me to inspire once again unencumbered. “By God's grace, you have arrived!”

“I followed your instructions, Byron – along the shore until the mountains stop me”. His heavy arm falls across my shoulders and he is laughing still. He is raving drunk or under the effect of some potent infusion but his good nature cannot be denied. He is a man of singularly acute sentiment; a particularity of psychology that leads him both to heights of inspiration – almost a trance-like departure from connexion with the here and now – and to depths of morose solemnity akin to catatonia.

“Winston! Come and meet our guests”. He leads me toward the table where supper has been interrupted by my arrival but I see only faces open in greeting. “You already know Polidori”. The young man, Byron's physician, rises from his chair delicately and dabs effeminately at the corners of his mouth before speaking.

“So lovely of you to join us, Captain Winston. I hope that you will find respite and diversion in our conversations”.

“John, I am already delighted,” I answer and we shake hands; his is small and pale within mine and the frailty of his body belies a sickly constitution. Byron falls wearily into his chair at the head of the table but continues to wave me on to greet the others. Outside, beyond the heavily curtained windows of the candle-lit hall, more thunder rolls ominously and the faint spatter of rain against the glass reaches my ears. Some of the guests turn their heads as though moved to inner, fearful reflections to regard the hung casements but my attention rests still with those to encounter. At Byron's beckoning, I salute Miss. Claire Clairmont and immediately dislike and distrust the wanton and wayward demeanour of the young woman. I am, rather, drawn to the sensual effusiveness of my old acquaintance, Shelley.

“Percy, has it been too long since London?”

“I daresay”, he answers, his hands both closed tightly over mine offered, “that our wayfaring Captain has not more the time for us mere meddlers of words”. His eyes shine with affection at our reunion. “Have you met my fiancé, Mary Wollstonecraft?”

The young woman who rises to greet me is nothing less than a cherub sent by God. Her frame is slight and her dresses pool about her as she curtsies and extends her hand to me. It is, however, in her eyes, that I see a profound level of perception and intelligence.

“It is, indeed, to my detriment that I had not yet met you, Miss. Wollstonecraft”.

“Mary, if you please, Captain Winston”, and her voice is like a touch of velvet. “I, too, have heard of your adventures in the Southern Hemisphere from our good host”.

I cannot but notice the love between Percy Shelley and Mary Wollstonecraft. It is in their every movement, glance and thought; a love so overpowering that, despite my mental prayer to God that they may grow old together, there is, gathered about them as thickly as the rain clouds without, an air of tragedy that I seek to dispel with feigned comedy.

“I assure you, my friends”, I turn to address the table, “that Lord Byron has, as is his wont, exaggerated most, if not all, of my expeditions...”

My speech is truncated by a peal of thunder that erupts along with a blue flash of light that illuminates the room. A squeal of fear erupts from Claire and she falls back in her chair. Byron, who was on the verge of laughing anew at my jest, instead, sinks into perturbed reflection, his brow creased and his hair, long and unkempt, falling over his face. In silence, I take the place that has been prepared for me at the table and verse some wine to my glass.

“We will each write a ghost story!” exclaims Byron, his outburst unexpected and shocking.

His ejaculation results in immediate discussion about the table and, although I know not the origin of this thought, I can see its pertinence. Were it not for the fire burning high upon the hearth, the hall would be almost entirely in shadow, lit only by the candles upon the table. The tempest against the windows brings with it an intense feeling of melancholy tainted with the fear of what the night might bring. I imagine myself, here, alone in darkness, bathed in the sweat that comes in battle; fear for my body and soul but also for something that lingers, threating in the shadows. Unconsciously, my hand moves out to grasp the silver candlestick on the table before me. Byron speaks, causing me to start.

“Winston! Drink your...”

“...your tea before it gets cold, Mr. Winston”, she says sweetly, offering the tiny China cup.

“Ta, Mrs. Pringle”.

“I'm certain that, if you like them, then Mr. Pringle can set a good price for you”.

The saucer rests comfortably in the palm of my hand and only trembles slightly for, distantly, I seem to hear an echo of thunder. The candlesticks rest upon the folding, wooden wardrobe.

“Yes, Mrs. Pringle. I believe I would like to do that”.

this is my response to Scribbles Challenge 45.
i don't know if i require to clarify this or not. perhaps i will so as not to leave such perplexed looks inquiring, 'what just happened?' Mary Wollstonecraft, in December 1816, became Mary Shelley, wife to Percy Shelley. she was the author of our favourite gothic novel, 'Frankenstein'. the instigation for her to create her 'modern prometheus' was, in fact, this same night in which Lord Byron made his singular declaration. Winston's approach to the Villa Diodati is stolen from Poe's approach to the ill-fated house of Roderick Usher.
thanks for visiting.

Hate for Success.

2009-09-18T17:49:49-04:00

Bay Street, the heart of the financial district of Toronto, is a place I love to be at 8 o'clock in the morning; it is what urban living is all about. The traffic is bumper-to-bumper with yellow cabs dodging in and out, picking up and dropping off. The streetcars trundle along their rails, bells ringing and stopping to disgorge suited and bespectacled business people into the street with briefcases, coffee and already thumbed, though newly minted, copies of 'The Globe and Mail' under arm.
The brokerage houses have been open for hours with computers humming over the returns from Hong Kong and Shanghai. Last night, the bottom fell out and the price of crude dropped alarmingly. Still, the opening bell for Toronto and New York isn't due until nine and, by then, simulations run, they'll have decided what is to buy and what is to sell – at least for the first thirty seconds. Today will be another roller-coaster.
In this last hour before trading starts, you can feel the anticipation and thrill of major business deals made, last minutes run happily to black ink or, hands wrung together at the sight of a red bottom line; it happens thousands or millions of times every day just as millions of dollars can appear or disappear with the fluctuating numbers of an electronic feed.
Today, I'm wearing my new Harry Rosen suit that I picked up on the weekend; charcoal grey, pinstriped and three buttoned as is the current trend although I don't like it. I probably look like a businessman but I'm not. I carry the same silver aluminum briefcase and giant coffee as the rest but I'm just a writer. Where I stop before a steadily revolving door to stamp out my cigarette, it does not say 'GJM Brokerage' or some such. It says, in gold embossed letters which match the gold-tinted steel frontage of the building, 'Global Business Publishing'. It is the central nervous system for a large number of trade magazines but, most importantly, the home of 'Global Business Magazine', a glossy, opinionated and cutting-edge weekly that offers analysis of current trends through advanced analytical algorithms held in strictest proprietary secrecy. We are only a few notches below 'Forbes' now and they are nervous about that.
I reach into my pocket, considering another cigarette. It would be nice to stand outside for a few minutes and I'm not due at my desk until 9. Like the past two weeks, the weather is wonderful. The sky is cloudless where it appears between the towering, metallic facades and is taking on a cooler tone of blue that coincides with the slow change of the season. The sun is still relatively low and the street remains in full shadow but, where it catches, the sunlight is thrown in brilliantly irregular reflections reminiscent of shifting beams seen from below water.
I reject the idea of another cigarette and fall into the short queue before the revolving door, take my place in the little, pie-slice shaped compartment and then I am ejected into the black marble and gold steel lobby with it's disconcerting silence amid a bustling throng of human movement. Shortly thereafter, I exit the elevator at 23 and enter the offices of 'Global Business Magazine'.
“Morning, Paul”, says Jackie, the receptionist.
“Morning, Jackie. Beautiful day. How are you?”
“It is! I'm terrific, thanks for asking. Kathryn says she needs to hear from you”. Kathryn Mason is the editor-in-chief, my boss along with the boss of all the other assistant editors.
“OK, I'll get to her straight away. Thanks!”
“Have a good one”, she says dismissively, already punching a button on her console and reciting automatically into her headset, 'Global Business Magazine, how may I direct your call?'.
Our offices occupy the whole of the 23rd floor. It is a hike to arrive at my small and cluttered side office. I nod in greeting to many whom I know as I pass through the various departments: Advertising, Analysis, Copy, Layout, Legal and so on until the door closes behind me and I hang my jacket and begin to roll up my sleeves for the day. I open my case and extract 'Bert' from his Velcro-strapped security. Yes, my laptop is called 'Bert', thanks to my daughter. My daughter is also responsible for the various, randomly placed and brightly coloured stickers of Sponge Bob and Dora that dot 'his' lid. I plug in the LAN cable and wake the dormant beast. The screen lights up, connections are automatically engaged and, before I can sit down, the in-house email system starts and my in-box begins to fill. I sigh, looking forward to a half hour of coffee and deletions. The phone rings and I spin on my chair to pick it up.
“Paul here”, I shoot over the line.
“Kathryn”, she states and continues. “I needed your guest editorial by end-of-day yesterday”.
“You've got it, Kathryn. You didn't delete me again, did you?” She laughs.
“I hope not. Hang on”.
“Hangin'”. My attention strays back to 'Bert'. I begin canceling the unchecked trail of inter-office forwards.
“OK, I think I almost did”. She is laughing again. “Sorry, Paul. C'mon over. We'll run over it together so I can get it to Copy before 10”.
“Kay. Gimme five”. The line buzzes, the connection already closed. I cast my eyes over the full inbox and mentally decide it will have to wait. The hard-copy of my editorial, 'Hate for Success', is in a folder at the bottom of my case. I grab it and collect my jacket on the way to Kathryn's office.
When I arrive, I knock and enter without waiting for an answer. Kathryn is sitting behind her desk with a strange expression on her face, her eyes twitching back and forth rapidly to read the text on her screen. I sit down with pen and hard-copy at the ready. She does not acknowledge my arrival but begins to speak immediately.
“This is making me uncomfortable, Paul”.
“It's meant to be a bit disquieting”. She nods.
“Tell me about the research. What's 'JIR'?”
“The Journal of Irreproducible Results”.
“NBQ?”
“Nonsense Business Quarterly”. She shakes her head, despairing.
“Does IBM have anything to do with IBM; a newsletter, information circular?”
“International Business Magazine, published in India – mostly naughty office jokes”. Kathryn sighs and looks down at her lap.
“So this is entirely a satire on the degradation of management practices”. Hers is a statement.
“That's correct, but not only that. I'm insinuating a collapse of correct interpersonal interaction as well. The statistics are based on a sample of six evil bosses and seven disgruntled ex-girlfriends – that's the JIR article”, I comment and reach out to indicate the title on the screen. Kathryn slaps my wrist and I withdraw.
“So '57% of upper management found brow-beating their subordinates into submission more successful that positive reinforcement' is a complete farce”.
“That's correct”.
“Paul, why do you do this to me?”
“It's 'cause I like you, Kathryn”.
“You know I'm going to have to run this through 'Legal' to see if we're liable for misinformation”.
“Doesn't surprise me”. She drums her fingers on the desk and then looks at me. "You're not an assistant editor for the New Yorker, right?"
"Nope".
"The Atlantic?"
"Not that one either".
“Then, would you please leave and make sure that the next one is a real article?”
“I can do that”. I rise to leave before she can rethink. I do a little skip as I close the door behind me.
It all went rather well to be honest.
Associated Press (Business), the next week, published, 'The Culture of Hate on the Upswing in International Business – Studies show increased productivity'. After 24 hours, they realised the error and retracted. Even Kathryn had a good laugh over that.
It just goes to show you that journalism is not dead; it just takes a day to wake up.

thanks for visiting.

Stickman @ the Toronto International Film Festival

2009-09-11T13:53:52-04:00

“We're going to go live now to Bob Fischer who is in Yorkville at TIFF Central”.

“This is Bob Fischer, reporting live from the red carpet here at the Toronto International Film Festival and, as you can see, the excitement of the fans that are gathered here, thousands strong, has grown to a fever pitch. I have just received word from a trusted source that the Stickman should be arriving at any moment. Here's our service and what we learned last night”.

“Hi, it's Tanya reporting exclusively from the after-party for the premier of Megan Fox's new movie 'Jennifer's Body' and look who we have with us! Megan, it's great for you to talk with us”.
“Thank you for coming, Tanya”.
“ 'Jennifer's Body' is getting a great response. You aren't just 'Transformers' anymore. What do you attribute that to?”
“Tanya, I was surrounded with such terrific and hard working people on this film, the direction was fantastic, as well as, supportive. I was pushed to do the best I could”.
“Now, this is your first time at the TIFF. Are you enjoying it?”
“Toronto is a great city. I'm having a blast!”
“OK, now a serious question. All the guys in Toronto want to meet Megan Fox. Who does Megan Fox want to meet?”
“Oh my God, my handler is telling me 'no comment'. But I don't care. I would really like to meet the Stickman”.
“Thank you, Megan. Enjoy the party”
“Thank you”.
“So there you have it, exclusively from the after-party for 'Jennifer's Body', this is Tanya. Back to the studio”.

“And there you have it, indeed. Bob Fischer, and I'm live on the red carpet. Every camera on the block is watching for the next limousine to pull up. There's a tremendous sense of anticipation. I don't know if you can see behind me here: the street is full of people. This is a situation of excitement like we haven't seen in years at the TIFF. I really don't believe that the organisers were expecting this sort of pandemonium. Look who was trying to sneak in: it's Matt Damon!
“Hi Bob, nice to see you again. Can I look at that press pass? Is it real?”
“Hahaha. Thanks for stopping to talk to us, Matt”.
“My pleasure. I'm still wondering if I should call security, though”.
“Matt, you are here to promote your new film 'The Informer' which premiers later tonight. What can you tell us about that?”
“If I told you, Bob, I would have to kill you”.
“I'll take that as a 'no comment'. What do you think of the excitement here, right now?”
“I'm not surprised, really. I'm as glad as anyone that the Stickman is going to be here”.
“Thank you for stopping with us, Matt Damon!”
“Thank you”.
“I think the Stickman's limousine is arriving now! I hope that in the studio and at home you can feel the energy of this moment.

“Bob, I'm sorry to interrupt, but you have to speak up so that our viewers can hear you.”

“Thank you, John; I can hardly hear myself right now. There is screaming and the flashes going off would make you dizzy. The Stickman's limousine is pulling up now and we should soon get a glimpse of this terribly elusive man that so many are talking about here in Hollywood North. The limousine has come to a stop and the driver is getting out. As you can see, myself and my cameraman are having a hard time in the scrum trying to get closer. We've got the picture and here it is: the driver is opening the door. I don't know if I have ever felt such excitement in a situation like this. The police and security are having difficulty holding back the.... there he is! He has stepped from the limousine onto the red carpet and taken a few steps toward the theatre. He's waving and... oh no! He has tripped and fallen flat on his face on the red carpet”.

damn. not again.
thanks for visiting.
:p