Meditation on Waiting ~ Short Story

Not sure why I need to write this down.  This is the third lifetime I have shared this.

I clasp my wings, put on socks and go back into the world. Maybe this time it will do some good.

By my account, 18,250 days wasted from waiting around for things to change.

You are timelessness stuck in time.
You are consciousness waiting to re-awake.
You are complaining, bragging and avoiding life at all times.

The problem with waiting is all the time wasted.  Nothing good has come from all this waiting. A wasted life of “what if”’ and “could-have-beens” is all that remains. A mind filled up with non-memories, non-dreams and a constant echo. Days pass by and nothing happens but the waiting…days are filled up with sitting on the sofa, then moving outside to watch the grass grow, counting the leaves on the trees.

I flush the toilet, wash my hands. Antibacterial soap…I can never remember if I should stop using it. Does it kill too much of the good stuff? I dry my hands with a white cotton towel.

Mixed blessings of truths and tasks that you must wait for the end. You must wait for the light to grow dark so it can then once again transform back into light.  This process must be repeated till eternity. Every being gets the opportunity to hold the understanding that we are trapped in a box named “reality”.

Keep your faith. Question your beliefs.  This alone will save you from the transmigration.

There is no salvation in the waiting. There is no solitude found in the waiting.  What is left is only the question. The same answer running across the brain waves. Thoughts dissolve into heartbeats. Heartbeats are transformed into a curse. You become afflicted with the remainder of the time left to wait.

The Beatles, White album. This will do. I slide the vinyl record out of its sleeve. I place the needle in the black groove and I listen. Lennon got it right. That’s why he was shot. Deep loss for all. McCartney came close, Harrison eventually got it right. Ringo, drummer died on his own vomit.

I practice the “Waiting”. I will sit on a meditation cushion for 25mins, bell to bell, waiting, breathing, repeating, sitting in nothingness. I get off the mat. I want a drink, not water to quench my thirst but bourbon to numb the mind.  Mindfulness is a tool to be a better cog in the wheel, to become better at being this thing called human.

I chop vegetables, I focus. I wash the dishes, I focus. I brush my teeth, I focus. This is how I fill the empty space. Mindfulness is a needed trick to waste time.

I have always been fascinated with how society deals with the waiting. The world is at all times falling apart and at all times healing itself, growing anew. Rebuilding constantly arising as if there are twin Gods of creation and deconstruction at work.

The Beatles White album, side three, not very good for what most people consider to be their masterpiece.  Side one, “Dear Prudence”...it makes coming back here worth it.

Life is spent being mildly interested in what is going on around you.  At all times thinking that they have the problem, it's never “I”. The problem "they” have is that…”they” have to watch my suffering, my suffering is greater than yours.  Suffering is not a contest. Comprehending suffering is a pursuit. This lesson is never learned. That suffering is akin to love. No matter how great or horrible, it's all equal. The suffering of a child born into starvation is no greater than the suffering of a child born into privilege. Suffering is an experiential exercise in the “waiting”.

Grace = Luck…Luck is grace, take notice.

There are many different ways someone can commit suicide, but the act of leaving one's own body seems to be the only act of suicide that society cares about.

The suicide in waiting is the greatest sin...to be alive is a gift that is created specifically for you.

To sit and waste a life to complain about the whatnot’s and the don’t-haves is worse than if you nailed Jesus to the cross yourself. Living suicide, that is a form of torture that causes the waiting to happen for lifetimes to come.

Give me a good narcissist that is a person who enjoys life. Narcissists...they see light.

You would think that I would miss sitting in the clouds…watching and listening. The life in the soil is so much more enjoyable.  The soil is in constant movement. The soil never waits.

Consciousness, awakening, Christ, Buddha: call it whatever you like.  I call it the WAITING.

Until next time…..

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

Reincarnated Me ~ Short Story ~ Part 2

You can read part 1 (here)

My life has become a true-metaphor. It may be nonsensical yet literally it is meaningful for me to share this story with you. At this point you must re-apply more sunblock before reading further on and I told you to watch out for the spiders.

This would be a good time to fill you in on my backstory of how this all began.  But I will not.  Just know this: there is no normal.

The typewriter calls out to me, my back aches for the sofa. I place my hands of the keys and then it happens, again.

: I listen past the silence.  The din slowly fades away.
: For 40 days I did nothing but listen past the silence.
: "Do not trust angels", this is whispered in my ear.
: 40 days of sitting still in the ever-present silence, this is what arises:
: The Bodhi tree grows from sprout to full blossom to death.
: The ark is built then sailed then abandoned...I watch the ark decay back into the soil.
: 40 days of desert, 40 days of the devil...it's always 40 days.
: "Do not trust angels for they created you", this is whispered in my ear.
: Satan becomes a creator, society names him God.
: The serpent in the garden of Eden was not the devil tempting mankind, it was Jesus the Christ showing us that we have been duped by Satan and that we are now separated from that which created us. 
: The location of the Garden of Eden is in Bellevue Heights in Australia. Google it.
: "Do not trust the Australians", this is whispered in my ear. 
: Angels always have one wing dipped in blood. Nothing good ever happens when they whisper in your ear.
: Life of poverty, life of service, life of strapping a bomb to your chest. This is all due to Angels.
: Do not listen to Angles.
: Truth or fact, which quality outshines the other? You need at least two drinks before this question gets interesting. 
: Truth or fact, which quality outlasts the other? This is the question worth answering.

: The reincarnated me rides past me, still on the back of a horse.
: Reincarnated me yells out “Your heart burns like fire but your eyes are cold as dead ashes.”
: Current-self-embodiment answers, “Ok, ride on apocalyptic-boy, your type of crazy is not needed here."
: “40 more days to go, always think twice before answering me”, reincarnated me yells back at me from atop his horse.

: I listen past the silence to hear my original voice.
: That is love and I’ll be here till the end of time. 

I look down at my finger tips and they are bloody.  I go into the bathroom  and place three squirts of anti-bacterial soap on my tooth brush and place it in my mouth.  24 brush strokes on top and 19 brush strokes on the bottom.  I spit out the bitter soap-goo into my hand then wash my finger tips clean with this concoction of saliva and soap.  My fingers burn.  A billy-goat sits on the toilet smoking a Marlboro cigarette wearing a Boston Celtics t-shirt. He saying something in Spanish as I walk away.

Reincarnated Me ~ Short Story

What follows is a true story for those of you who believe in metaphors.

Beware: before reading this it is recommended to wear sunblock that is SPF 30 or above and also watch out for spiders.

I can not believe that this is happening to me. Again.  All I want to do is lie on the sofa.

I just want writer’s block but the words won’t stop coming. This typewriter that sits in this empty room calls out to me.  If I could only stop these words than I could lay down on that sofa and sleep.

I get up and walk over to this old typewriter.  The keys are white circles with black letters.  The striking hammers make this god-awful sound as it pushed the letter into the paper. The body of this typewriter is made out of wood; it must have been hand-carved, I’m guessing, in the late 1800’s. I place my hands on the keys. I take three deep breaths.  Then it happens….

: "There was no big bang, only witnesses changing the channel." This is whispered in my ear. 
: In an ecstasy of an odyssey a fantasy for all to see.
: In the beginning we all fell to our knees with prayers of hoping to believe.
: In the end we killed each other for our own self-fulfilling greed.

: As for me, I watch myself be reincarnated in front of my own eyes. My soul is ripped out of my body and turned into a giant supernova in the sky. Then explodes into a thousand tiny white butterflies that forms into a body-like figure.  Next it turns into a cocoon then breaks free into the reincarnated-me.
: “You want to know what the sound of one hand clapping is?” the reincarnated-me asks me?
: "It is the reincarnated-self slapping the current-embodiment-of-you right in the face." He says.
: Bam, slapped right in the kisser.  
: Finally, an existential truth that I can understand.
: "You must know the ego before you can kill the ego. Reject all forms of transformation, self included." This is whispered in my ear.
:“How many times are we going to have to go through this?” The reincarnated-me asks? 
: The reincarnated me says to the current-embodiment-self, “Do you want to see the end of the world?”
: The current-embodiment-self (me) replies, “No.” “Too bad.”, reincarnated me answers.
: With his left hand he touches the ground, with his right hand he reaches up into the sky and parts the clouds, then proceeds to pull down the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. The reincarnated me jumps up on a white horse screaming something in Spanish as he rides away.

: "Evolution is for losers, creation is for dreamers." This is whispered in my ear.

: As for me, currently I live in the ever-present now.  Sometimes I leave it to visit the future but it's never as good as you would think.


Bourbon, I need bourbon. I get up form my desk and walk into the kitchen.  I grab a small clear glass off the countertop, three ice cubes into the glass and four ounces of bourbon. I sniff my drink, I look deep into the colors and swirl the liquid around and then drink it straight down.  Back to my desk, the typewriter awaits.  I place my hands on the keys….

House of Vinyl Albums ~ Creative Non Fiction

I remember when I was 19yrs old and playing music in a broken down house in Squirrel Hill, PA.  The house was owned or rented by a Jewish kid not much older than myself at that time. He must have been a trust-fund baby to have the ability to live in grandeur and filth all at the same time.

The house was an old victorian home built over 100 years ago.  The rooms were large and ceilings high. Dark wood trim covered every doorway, the walls were lined with built-in bookshelves that held nothing more than dust.  No furniture, no lamps, no food in the kitchen...just records.  Vinyl albums, rows and rows of vinyl albums lined the hardwood floors. There must have been thousands of them.  They filled up all the floor space in three rooms, all lined up with records.  It was as if an actual record store at that time had forgotten about this space.  The only thing missing was the convenient rack so you could browse through the collections with ease.

A Macintosh stereo and two large Klipsch speakers sat in the far right corner of what should have been the living room on the floor playing weird music. This stereo was the only piece of furniture in the whole house. This stereo was worth more than most cars at the time. Serious high-end gear.

Wine bottles with candlesticks shoved where the cork went lit the room.  There were probably about 15 of these candle-wine-bottles placed throughout the house. Fire hazard for sure.  Never quite knew why he lit the room with candlelight. There was electric to play music on the stereo.

A drummer friend of mine named Max took me over one day to listen to music at his place. Max knew him from the record store that he worked in.  I never really new this kid who's house we played music at.  He opened his home to us because he enjoyed supporting local musicians.

We sat on the floor and were introduced to music that you could never hear on the radio. This was magical to me.  That there was music out there that was not played on the radio.

The kid who owned the house never really talked to me or any of us for that matter.  He would say things like “this group is from Seattle” or “this music is from San Fran” but never did he say “hi” or ask my name.  He took no interest in what was going on around him in daily life either.  He was like the boy who lived in the bubble with the largest and strangest record collection ever.  A savant of music who wore a kippah, brown t-shirt and green pants at all times; never did I see him in another change of clothes. He was an extremely skinny kid with red curly-wired hair who smelled of body odor and a musty old house.  The only food I ever saw him eat was Hostess Twinkies and  HO HOs. He would wash them down with diet cherry cola.  The plastic wrappers and empty bottles were the only proof that this kid ever went outside for anything other than to buy vinyl albums.

Never did I discover how he collected all those records. You couldn't buy them at your local record store. This was pre-internet and there was no researching online. I am sure that there must have been catalogs that listed these artists but where a 19-year old kid would find them will remain a mystery to me.

Max would tell me how this kid would come into the record store and comb through the racks of albums but never buy anything.  At first they thought he must be a shoplifter but that was not to be.  Simply a shopper who could not find what he was looking for.

Max would eventually move into the upper attic room of this house.  He would also furnish it with only a single mattress placed in the center of the floor with no sheet, just an old afghan from his parent's place. A large suitcase sat opened in the corner with all of his clean clothes.  A larger pile of dirty clothes sat next to the suitcase. Two wine bottles with candles burning for light and a stereo on the floor playing P-Funk and Bob Marley (finally some music that I actually knew).  And a couple of hundred albums that he stole form the recored store that he worked in lined all four walls.

As for me, I would sit on the floor with my back against the wall and listen.  That's what you did when music was played on vinyl records: you listened. You took in the musicianship and dreamed of what you could do.

This was back in 1989 when independent music was nothing more than a zygote of an idea. Few artists dreamed of independence from a record label. We dreamed of being signed.  Five friends: Max on drums, me on bass, Erik on guitar, Matt on guitar and Ross laying down the voice. We would meet at the “house of vinyl albums” and play music in the basement.

The odd smelly Jewish kid would sit on the steps and listen. Never giving us his opinion, never showing emotion, no idea if he likeed the sound or not.  There he sat and listened.  That's what you do with music: listen.

Never knew why we quit playing music at the house of vinyl...it just slipped away.  Never knew why I quit playing music with that bunch of guys...it just slipped away.

Years later I found out that Max moved to California and became a professional party crasher.  A hollywood star-filled party crasher. Once he ended up on Entertainment Tonight in the background of a Tom Cruise interview.

Matt became a banker somewhere in the midwest.  Erik married his college sweetheart. I gave Ross a job in photography and then had to fire him. He has never spoken to me since. As for me...I just started buying music again on vinyl… I love it.

Lost to me is what happened to that kid with the unbelievable vinyl collection. At times when I find myself in Squirrel Hill I drive around looking for that old house.  I can’t even remember the street that it is on.

A Day, A Life ~ Short Story

I grab my wool hat out of the basket.  I wrap my favorite gray scarf around my neck.  I lace up my left boot then my right. I pick up my workman’s jacket that hangs on the wall. I slip on my jacket while being sure to leave plenty of room for my wings to be comfortable for the day of work ahead of me.

I glance in the mirror that is hung by the front door. “I look beat-up” I say to myself .

My day started three hours earlier when I awoke to the ringing of the bells.  Every single day at 3am the bells are struck.  The ringing tone stays present inside my head for the next ten minutes.  I roll out of bed, stretch my wings, wash my face. I sit on the meditation mat…this is how my morning goes, every morning.

I do my utmost during this first period to clear my thoughts and sit in the absolute silence.  Thoughts of what lay ahead kept pulling me off towards fantasies that are disturbing to me.

Three bells ring; I made it through the first of three sitting periods of mediation and I now have a five minute break.

I go into the kitchen get a drink form the sink using my hand as a cup. I slice an apple, wrap half of it in plastic and place it in the fridge for later.  I eat half of the apple and three bells reverberate throughout the land. Back to mat: “Next period of deep nothingness with the right intentions", I think to myself.

I sit back down on the mat, I place my hands in the “mudra” position lying right hand gently on top of the left, thumbs meet at the center lightly touching.  Hand position during long meditation is important, it helps to rest the arms, shoulders and neck to open up the lungs. I spread out my wings then bring them back to closed position. I breathe, I sip in air through my nostrils. I repeat.

This is my morning, my every morning, for the past 213 years.  I get up at 3am to the bells. I meditate for two and half hours. Then I shower, dress, fix breakfast and then out the door for my work in the fields.

Time passes impossibly slow here. Time is not abstract; it has movement and it will end. It feels as if there has never been a tomorrow, just this moment.

I understand the question.  I didn’t know the answer of what lay ahead for me. For 213 ageless years I ponder this question. It seemed so simple why did I present it with effort? There is no conversation at all here about this or anything. Two hundred and thirteen years to prepare for a glimpse of nothingness...no pointer, no hints, no indication, no insight, no direction...only the deep felt awareness that I will be able to improvise when the time comes.  My life is a play without words.

The answer will come straight from the meditation mat; that's what the “Existing Collection” says. Reincarnation offers no comfort, it will start all over again if I do not get it right.  If I get it right a new question will arise.  Whatever I do I sit in emptiness without beginning and without end.  This is what the “Existing Collection” tells us….

Six in the morning, I exit from my front door.  

I do not feel like cutting wood, stacking wood and clearing paths.  It would be nice to have a different job, maybe work in the kitchen, laundry or taking care of the animals. The forest is ever vast and growing; every day new growth sprouts, this is what the “Existing Collection” tells us. I will never get a new job.

The walk to work is one of the few times that I have to myself, when I am not in service to the bells or to the others. My morning walk is the only time I have to enjoy the higher plain, the glories of the ever-present here and now.

Having wings do not give me much freedom, they were never intended to take flight. The wings only expand and collapse, merely decoration and they lack purpose. When the wind is just right I can puff out my wings and glide about four inches off the ground. I float to work as gently and quietly as a flower petal blows through the breeze. I am careful not to be seen.  Trying to take flight is something we are not supposed to do, it is strictly forbidden. As soon as I can see the others off in the distance I get my feet back on to the soil.  I do this by stiffening my entire body, I tighten my wings and they compress into my spine.  I drop like a brick.

The others - That is all I ever knew them by.  That is what the “Existing Collection” calls them, or us.

I gather the tool needed from the shed.  Nobody has to tell me what needs to be completed for the day. 

Clairvoyants. We are clairvoyants.  Never to communicate out loud.  We can talk, it's just that we don’t.  No words and no directed thought towards another. There is a general awareness of what needs to be completed for the days work.  This is how we communicate: random feeling and understanding of each other.  Without separate individual connections we act as one body.

2pm: 3 bells ring out, afternoon meditation. I face the sun. I sit in the field.
I’m back chopping wood at 4pm.

We live in a miracle.  That word has been used too often and has lost its value. We live in a miracle.  There is nothing special, yet miracles. Too bad only the obvious ones can be seen. I will write this down in the "Existing Collection” tonight when I get home.

7pm: Gregorian chanting with the others at the main alter. I like the chants. It's the only time I get to use my throat.  The chant lets us know about specific celebrations and what's to come. The soloists sing out and we repeat the phrase; it is our version of a calendar, or a To-Do list.  The cadences, the reciting of the notes, the simple melodic formulas...it fills me with purpose. I often wonder if the “no god, no-no God” is listening.

After the chanting I go back to my home. 

I prepare a simple meal of vegetables and rice.  The variety of vegetables vary from day to day. They are whatever the gardener places in my fridge for me. The rice is steamed: sweet jasmine with an aroma that I adore. I cut up some eggplant, white potatoes and onions, sauté them in a pan with sweet curry and basil. I have a couple of beers with my meal and then I clean up.

After dinner I pour myself a glass of Scotch, turn on flamenco music, light three candles and write down my thoughts in the “Existing Collection”.  This is something we all (the others) do every night before bed. It is a mystical ritual, it is the only mystical thing about this here and now place that I call home.  At night we all individually grab the “Existing Collection” book off of our shelves and write.  After we finish writing and place it back on the shelf it is updated with all the others writings.  It is truly the existing collection to the all-be-all.

I write:

“There is no God, not in the preconceived notion of him.  There is no God All Mighty, there is no Lord and Savior, there is no creator of the universe. Well...maybe there is a god but this god is a small case letters god, not the upper case capitals letter God that folklore has turned him into.  To clarify there is “no god & there is also no-no God”. There is no point in trying to understand this because there is no understanding of the nothingness and everything, it is effortless to the point of exhaustion.

The no-god, no-no-God is more akin to pollination rather than the map maker of the great bang. For the record the Big Bang did happen: life exploded out of a seed of emptiness. It's just that the no-god, no-no-God had nothing to do with it, not directly at least. He was the creator of the new seed, but not purposely.  Merely a witness to it. In fact, not even an interested spectator. We live in a miracle.  There is nothing special, yet miracles. Too bad only the obvious ones can be seen.  Life is self-pollinated; a piece of the god-ness is transferred but never separated….no effort, no intentions, no purpose. Only outcome in the the here and now.”

Finished my Scotch then poured myself another one. I dress in sweat pants and pull a blue t-shirt over my head, wiggle my wing through the holes in the back. I sit on the side of my bed and expand my wings to the fullest position then collapse them back into my body. Gulp down my drink and cover myself with a blanket and close my eyes.

As I close my eyes this thought drifts into my head: "Life is a meditation on where I am going to stand in this world”…everything goes white.

 I improvise.

My Dance with Susan Sarandon ~ Short Story

Flamenco music played in the background as I dance with Susan Sarandon, damn she beautiful. I look down to see my toes swaying to the music on the hardwood floor. Next I noticed my bare knees then a white sheet hanging off of me. I’m in a hospitable gown?

Susan is dressed in one of those gowns made by a famous designer that would be worn on the red carpet. She whispers in my ear, I smile. She smells of lavender and bourbon whiskey. How I miss that smell of whiskey. The aroma and color of the drink was alway the best part for me. To hold a glass in my hand one more time, to smell the fragrant and watch the colors swirl around, that would be good moment.

Susan, I ask “How did I get here” “No idea” she responds. “Dance with me as you used too” “Use to?” I say to myself. I pull her close to my chest the music gets faster we move cross the dance floor. People are staring at us, why not I think to myself I am dancing with Susan Sarandon in a hospitable gown. She whispers in my ears for the second time, I smile.

Hand clapping, the crowd start clapping there hands in syncopated beat to the music. I smile at Susan, “dip” I ask here? Then proceed to dip her on the dance floor genteelly kiss the top of of her chest. The crowd erupts in cheers,I smell of urine. Urine? I just relieved myself on the dance floor, I couldn't feel a thing my body just let it flow. Susan doesn't seem to notice. She whispers in my ears for the third time, I smile.

Susan pulls me close, placing each hand on a cheek of my face. “I had a good time, my conscience is telling me that its time to leave. Follow me, it time to follow me, we had our fun now it time to service your conscience” she said.

The dance floor erupts in flames. The flames do not burn me. Susan moves away from me dancing erotically swaying her hips moving her hands up and dow her body, reaching up and grabbing her hair pulling it into a bum to show off the line of her neck. I stand there engulfed in flames that do not burn. Somebody hands me a glass full of whiskey, I drink staring down. “I’m a lonely soul. Please don’t keep me waiting. I tired of waiting for you. I had nobody till I met you, dance with Susan Sarandon” I cry out to her.

Susan whispers in my ear for a the last time “I expected you to accomplished nothing, so you could try anything.

Six months later I awoke from a coma.

Kiss me , kiss me, kiss me Susan Sarandon were the fist words I spoke.

Unnoticeable ~ Short Story

I always awake at dawn. Looking over at my alarm clock and think, why bother to set it? Make the bed, let the dog out, open the fridge, grab the coffee and repeat everyday. This is my morning ritual. Oh yeah forgot; check e-mail, read web while coffee is brewing.

I work from home and this gives me liberties that few others have, such as working in boxers and optional showering. I can go days without seeing or talking to anyone, especially talking. I do get out. I like to walk. I like to sit in coffeehouses and write. This makes me feel like I am the last of the beatnik generation of writers. Getting all Kerouac-O-Wacky rambling on about the unnoticeable-ness of my life and how odd it is to be self-aware of my own unnoticeable-ness, well…that just makes me feel special.

It has been seven days since the last time I left the house. My days have been a fog of writing, photography and practicing the guitar. No special goal in mind. I am lucky enough that I have enough money in the bank and no schedule to answer to. So, I go into hermit mode from time to time.

The weather has changed; autumn has arrived and with that came my nightmares. Never found out why but when summer leaves and autumn arrives I get nightmares; vicious, crazy, scary nightmares of people who only look like living silhouettes and shadows.

I think this is why I awake at dawn. As soon as the night leaves, my body needs the light to free itself from the terrors that nighttime brings on.

I do what I can to keep the nightmares under control. I drink Scotch, lots and lots of Scotch whisky. God bless the distilleries of Scotland for single malt. For reasons unknown to me only Scotch can help; it is not a savior, but it helps. I think it is the slight coma that too much scotch can bring on. Red wine enhances the nightmares; beer does nothing to help and chamomile tea just pisses off the demons in my head.

Day eight, need to get out of the house. I smell from the past seven days of stale air that I sat in. Need food, make myself a tomato sandwich. Toast the bread grab the last tomato from my garden, add some fresh basil, and smear on red pepper hummus. Wash the meal down with a dark beer. It’s ok to have beer with breakfast when you are accountable to no one. Need a days worth of supplies before heading out the door. Grab my journal, laptop, two pens (deliberately leave my phone at home) and toss in a bag of cashews. Tennis shoes on, fleece pullover on and out the door on a forty-five minute walk to Uptown coffee where I can be all-judgmental-of–society while drinking black coffee.

The air is wet and I can see my breath as I walk up the hill to Bower Road. The neighborhood is quiet. Day-job-people, thank God I don’t have one of those. Surprised more people don’t go cubical than postal….I guess we all lead our own life of 9 to 5 repetition. Lucky for me pants are optional in my life of repetition.

Turn the corner at Saint Clair Hospital and I watch a bus let out.

Black silhouette shadows of people get off the bus. My heart stops, I lose my breath. I stand frozen as the black silhouette shadows move past me. Heat - they give off heat, like standing next to a coal furnace and the noise is unbearable; it is as if ten thousand conversations are happening all at the same time.

The bus pulls away and I am alone on the street. I catch my breath and panic at the same time. I sit on the curb. I question…Am I awake? This is a dream, it must be a dream? I am awake, f-ing awake, cars are moving, birds are chirping. Look left then right; no black silhouette shadows. This must be the onset of schizophrenia. Maybe I am a better writer than I thought. Pull it together, get up and walk.

I make it to the coffeehouse all the while questioning the onset of my crazy mind disease. My heart never slows back down. Scotch. I need scotch. Walk in the coffeehouse; no one is looking up. I go directly into the bathroom and splash water on my face. Looking into the mirror I cannot see my reflection, only a black silhouette shadow of myself. I can see everything else reflecting in the mirror. The sink, toilet, green wallpaper, the photo on the walls, but not me. It’s like looking at a photo of yourself where someone has rubbed black ink over the image. As I move, the black silhouette shadow moves; as I splash more water on my face so does the black silhouette shadow. As I turn and move so does the black silhouette shadow.

This is not real. I open the bathroom door.

The coffeehouse is filled with black silhouette shadows drinking coffee and having conversation, reading books, typing on laptops, having conversations…all this is real. I can see the books, laptops, coffee cups; I can see movement in everything. I can hear the voices, too many voices…

I am cold, so cold. I black out.

I awake later, no idea how long I was out. Nobody came to help me. I lay on the floor balled-up right out side the bathroom door in the fetal position.

My vision comes back into focus slowly. Head hurts and my mouth is dry. Looking down I notice that I can see my hands, I can see my feet, I touch my face and feel the whiskers on my chin. Rub my hands through my hair, I am alive…I am alive. I get up and go back into the bathroom, take a deep breath and look in the mirror…black silhouette shadow. The room is in the reflection but I cannot see my own face. I can look down and see my hands but only the smoke fog of my reflection can been seen in the mirror.

Leave the bathroom for a second time and walk into the coffeehouse.

The coffeehouse is empty. The black silhouette shadows are gone. I am alone.

The smells of fresh coffee and baked goods are in the air. I help myself to a blueberry muffin from behind the counter; poor a cup of coffee and sit down with a Wall Street Journal newspaper that was left sitting on the bar. Look at the date on the top of the paper: October 5th 2010. The headline reads “New CEO at Twitter”, “Stocks slump and Obama Scales Back on Legislative Plans”. This is too mediocre of a day for this to be a dream.

Take a bite of the muffin and think to myself that this is the best damn muffin I ever had. With onset of mental disease comes the blessing of clarity. I giggle out loud; a pure Zen moment during the onset of schizophrenia. The coffee is burnt.

I grab the fork on the table and stab my left forearm; blood comes out, definitely not a dream. Grab the old napkins left on the table to stop the blood.

This is a genuine experience. Odd but genuine. I can see my body, just not in the mirror.

Life is happening outside this coffeehouse, but inside I sit alone.

Alien abductions? I have been reading “The Transmigration of Timothy Archer” by Philip K. Dick. Nightmares, scotch and reading way too much Philip K. Dick could bring on my mental break.

I was recently researching government secret human experimentation, could I have stumbled onto something? Could this be a cover up by bringing on madness so I don’t go public? Probably not since I have no findings past Google conspiracy search on “human radiation experiments conducted by the U.S. government.”

I never did learn what brought on my nightmares or the black-silhouette-shadow-people of my dreams. All I do know is that they come to life every autumn and leave in the springtime.

In between wakening life of the day and haunting nightmare of the dark…

I am unnoticeable….

The Man Who Forgot to Die ~ Short Story

A warm blanket covers me, breathing in cold morning air in a quiet room. “Another day”, I say to myself and then get out of bed and put on blue slippers.

First thing—pee. Second thing—wash face, and next brush teeth. Staring in the mirror is such an unusual thing for me each morning. Gazing at the reflection and trying to figure out who is looking back. Who does this reflection belong to?

“The reflection belongs to me”, I say out loud; “You are the man who forgot to die.” That is what the neighborhood kids have dubbed me; The Man Who Forgot To Die.

That’s the question in my head, that same repetitive question that will not go away. It will always wake me at exactly 7am. I never need the aid of an alarm clock. I have always gotten up at exactly 7am since the incident. What is up with that? Who gets up with a haunting repetitive question in their mind every day? Me, I acclaim, the man who forgot to die.

Monday 7am, the third of December I awake to the question of Existence. Not the question of ‘do I exist’ but the why and how of the longevity of my existence.

This is what I think about at 7am under a warm blanket, breathing in cold morning air. My long existence…

My existence has been mundane at best, not at all a great reality, nor a horrible one either. In all truth it has been a boring life, mostly.

I am the man who forgot to die…in hindsight it is a peculiar thing to put out of your mind, but forget I did. In truth, I did not forget to die. It was more like I didn’t remember that I was supposed to die.

It seems only natural to think about your death. Far as I know there is no cure for that condition called birth. If you are born you will die. Harsh, nonetheless true. Death has no cure.

This is the oddity of all the oddities…if you are born you will die. In between the light of birth and the darkness of death you get to think about it. On some random day for a haphazard reason you will die and there is nothing you can do to stop it. If that wasn’t bad enough you get no control over the how, why or what of your looming death. There is suicide for the control freaks, but that is a bad choice for those who have been baptized.

The compelling subject of death has missed my thoughts; I question my existence and speculate about what purpose it has. Bloody hell there is so much rubbish in my head. Truly maddening, repetitive and worthless…I need coffee, lots of it.

I turn off the running water, flush the toilet and go down to the kitchen.

Seven twenty two AM. Black coffee and toast, this is my same breakfast…mundane…isn’t it? I do use different jellies to break up the humdrum of it all.

On my kitchen table I keep a large yellow legal writing pad. In the morning with coffee and toast I like to write about myself, at least what I understand regarding my way of life. I hope that keeping lists, notes and casual whatnots about my life will help. It is my intention that these words may be of use to somebody some day. I feel bad for the poor bastard who needs these words.

Today’s page is titled ~

The Man Who Forgot to Die
~ I did not cheat death but forgot, so I remembered later, much later
~ No supernatural gifts or powers that I know of
~ No special diet or exercise program, in truth I am a slovenly lad
~ No fountain of youth or magical elixirs
~ Not a vampire
~ Not cursed, that I know of
~ Not blessed, that I know of
~ I do not pray or meditate or talk with the dead
~ Never studied on how to sustain long life
~ I did buy a juice machine off of a late night infomercial, maybe that had something to do with it? Probably not. I only used the juicer twice. Beet and celery juice is dreadful…
~ Spent a long time in a coma or hibernation or deep suspended sleep. The doctors never did agree on what to call it


*****
Twelve years ago I walked out of Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with three Kurt Vonnegut novels, two Beatles CD’s and the complete Pittsburgh Steelers decade of champions history of the 1970's in my head and not much else.

I knew how to tie my shoes and how to find my way home. I knew where I kept the coffee and how to find the post office. I even remembered my way through the local woods and short cuts to get across town.

What I couldn’t remember was:

~ My name
~ Age
~ If I had parents
~ If I had siblings
~ If I went to school or held a job
~ Was I liked or was I a self-absorbed wanker
~ Did I know love, did I break hearts or have my heart broken
~ Indian, Thai or Italian?
~ Why on earth my closet was filled up with tie-dye t-shirts, black skinny ties and a large woolly sweater with leather patches covering the elbows?
~ What was disco?

Nobody was quite sure how long my stay in Saint Clair Memorial Hospital was or even how I got there.

When I arrived at Saint Clair’s their record-keeping system consisted of hand-written notes on 3x5 white index cards that a nurse would type up in some meaningful order for the next physician to use.

When I left, patient information was readily available on something they called smart-phones that had no resemblance to a phone at all, more like a hand-held calculator with no numbers. A flat screen that gave you information when you touched it, as far as I could tell it responded to your thoughts and finger’s needs.

A doctor would walk into my room pull out this tiny black plastic gadget, wave his fingers over it and tell me that my vitals are looking good. Next the black-plastic-calculator-looking gadget would ring or chirp or play music and that was the warning sign that the doctor would say good-bye to me and walk out of the room.

With the switch from the pen to wireless technology my medical history was lost, the majority of it anyway. Dating my stay in the hospital it would appear that I have been here at least 23 years, best guess.

For the past seven years I had the same nurse; Dolores.

Dolores filled me in on much of what happened. She was the one who would read me the Vonnegut novels and play the Beatles music for me. Dolores felt sorry for me that nobody ever came to visit. Those novels and music were her son’s favorites during the wars that he was in.

Wars? What did I miss?

Dolores told me about how her son gave his life for us in a war and how the world has fallen into a world of terror, sac-religion and worst of all you can watch it all on the tellie.

So, Dolores would sit with me and mourn her son. Trying to comfort me with some of his favorite things even though I was sleeping. Dolores the Kind Nurse.

One day I awoke in Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with Dolores the Kind Nurse sitting next to me.

I was refreshed, strong and ready to go. I could bend over and touch my toes, I could do push-ups, was not sore or achy. My muscles should have been atrophied and deteriorating, but they were not. I had energy.

The explanation that the doctors had for me was that I was in a different state of consciousness during my long stay at the hospital. I was neither awake nor sleeping or dreaming. I was in an “alternate state of consciousness” was all they could figure.

They diagnosed it this way because apparently my heartbeat and brainwave activity continuously stayed the same. Neither slowing down nor speeding up. I am told that when you’re in a coma or asleep you will still have changes in brainwave activity and heart rate. I did not.

The comparison they gave me was that my brainwave activity and heart rate could be qualified as a marathon runner, running at peak condition that never altered pace or thoughts, for 23 years non stop.

To the doctors I was neither man nor angel or demon. I was unexplainable. This alternate state of consciousness left me ageless.

I aged but less; I grew strong during my absence.

I had some gray hairs on my chin and flecks of gray in my hair but I was muscular with little to no body fat. I had no wrinkles or age spots on my skin. I stood tall, well built with good posture and bone structure.

The experience should have left me decaying; in reverse it made me trans-human.

Three days after my awakening, with clarification from Kind Nurse Dolores, a barrage of questioning and tests from the medical staff, I walked out of Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with 3 Vonnegut novels, 2 Beatles CD’s and a hug from Kind Nurse Dolores.

Shortly after leaving the hospital I found out that I had become some sort of media-medical-celebrity. Everybody recognized me from the tellie, newspapers and Internet hoopla…but no one remembered me.

What type of blimey bastard must of I been? Twenty-three plus years in a hospital with no visitors and now all this media-medical-hype and still no one remembered me. I left this world and went to sleep and nobody missed me…

Over the next few years people began to think of me as this strange trans-human-being. People would walk up to me and ask all sorts of questions about my alternate state of consciousness. I favored calling it my “long-afternoon-nap”, but nobody seemed to care what I preferred.

Questions regarding the afterlife, heaven, hell, purgatory; they would want me to lay hands on them or they wanted to touch my hair for good luck. They would ask for my blessing over them or to heal their sick.

I had no answers for them. No gifts of wisdom to give them.

“Surely that occurrence must have had existential meaning to it”, they would say, or “What did you see” or “What did you learn”, they would ask of me.

Sorry to report—no visions, no knowledge, no memory…

It was disappointing to see their faces when I told them the only truth that I knew, which was “Sorry, I can not help you.”

After a while of not being able to stand all the disillusionment that I was causing in the masses, I decided to start giving one blank statement to all the hundreds of questions; Be Nice.

Be Nice ~ that was it, that was all I could come up with. Not much of a curbside prophesy but I figured with a statement like that I could do no harm.

Just like that I became “The Man Who Forgot To Die”, walking the streets telling people to “Be Nice” to one another. It looks as if nobody was listening at any rate. No wonder why I took my-long-afternoon-nap.

*****


Passing a church bake sale I could smell fresh apple pies. I remembered that I liked apple pie but I could not remember if I ever held a job or went on a date. Go figure.

I walked down into the church basement and heard my name spoken out load for the very first time and at that moment it all came back to me, my existence, my purpose, and my name.

I nun falls to her knees in front of me and said,

“Dear God”.

“Yes”, I answer.

The Abandoning ~ Short Story

The Abandoning ~ Short Story

Dear…

Mr. & Mrs. House; that’s my parents and they love coffee and not much else. They have 7 kids and I am the 7th. Max, that’s me. Coffee that is their life actually was their life.

Mr. & Mrs. House up at 6:30am, by 6:35 they are sitting at a small kitchen table built for two. Yellow formica table top with four rusted steel legs two chairs that are permanently wrapped in a thick plastic with faded pink flowers imprinted on the cushions.

My Mom makes the coffee like a sacred ritual. She opens the big blue can, takes a deep breath of the grounds and then four large scoops into a stainless steel coffee pot that was given to them as a wedding gift. They sit at that table and wait the 4 minutes and 32 seconds for life to begin, again. After the 1st cup is drank my father pours the 2nd cup for the both of them and then looks at his wife and says, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He says this everyday and not much else to her. My Mom just smiles and reads yesterday’s newspaper.

This is what I wake up to; the smell of coffee, and two fat parents in a small kitchen who could care less about me. To be fair, at least they treat me like all their others kids. The siblings seven: the two oldest in jail for drugs, next set got the hell out of here over ten years ago. I don’t see either of them very often but they do send me books and music at Christmas and on my birthday. That leaves the two siblings that I should be close with, my brother & sister. I am not for no particular reason. We do not fight or have different views; we are simply distant from one another. It’s like when you see a cousin every other year at a family event. Sure there is a family resemblance and polite conversation, nonetheless he is a stranger to you. That’s us as siblings; strangers who are polite.

As for me being born as lucky number 7, well that is not clear to me yet. To say that my arrival into this world was a surprise would be an understatement. If the New York Giants did not win the Super Bowl in 1987 there is a good chance that I would not of been born. But here I am at this computer telling you my stories and hoping somebody out there is reading them. They say that you choose your parents before you’re born in the great Hall of Bluff in Heaven. I have no idea what I was thinking up there in the after life or the before life or whatever you want to call it. All I know is that I must have been up for a challenge choosing Mr. & Mrs. House.

Nine months and 12 days after the Giants won the Super Bowl my parents finally got around to giving me a name. There was no debate or thought as to what to name me; they just didn’t get around to it.

On day 12 of life they decided on a name for me. At 6:39am one minute before the coffee would be ready. Mrs. House holds ups her beloved blue can of coffee and looks at Mr. House and says “How about Maxwell?” So, Mr. & Mrs. House named their 7th child after their true love. That must mean something, right?

Searching for life,

~MH

*****

Dear…

It has been 4 years since the abandoning. I live alone on a small plot of live land on a dead planet. As far as I know I am the only one left. When I say dead planet, I mean dead. If you walk off my land the world is gone. No people, no buildings, no trees, no plants, no air, no sky, no water, no memories; only death. It is like one of those photos of the Moon or Mars, a crater of dead rock suspended in space with no purpose. Accept for my small plot of land.

Is this purgatory or paradise, paradise lost or paradise found? I have not discovered that answer yet. Why was I spared from the abandoning? I do not know. I am the last of humankind, all extinct but me enveloped in silence, the last to speak or to use language.

Why publish these letters if nobody is left to read them?

The abandoning left me with this land, one working computer and an internet connection. A single solar panel on the house powers the computer and there must be a satellite left up in space that I can get an internet connect from. This is all just a guess. I have no explanation for this and have stopped trying to find one a long time a go.

The internet is filled up with the wisdom of my ancestors; I will have no descendants to tell my stories to. The Abandoning left me this vessel for communication. It must mean something, and this is why I write these letters.

Searching for life,

~MH

*****

Dear…

Up at 6:30am, I must be a creator of breading, I say to myself out loud. No coffee but black tea and raw almonds provided by the land. This will do. Twelve raw almonds I must eat every morning before I start my day. I have no inkling why it has to be twelve, but twelve it must be. OCD in purgatory or paradise.

Day 1,468 I sit in the kitchen as my parents did. Starting out the same bay window, with the same smoke yellowed curtains with a blue dove pattern. From this window I can see the only other sign of life left on the planet and it’s actually a sign. A real sign; a billboard. A billboard that sits on the very edge of my land and a death planet, separated by advertising.

This billboard is not the typical roadside billboard that you’re used to seeing, it’s enormous. Think of the Las Vegas strip on steroids. This black and white structure stands 50ft high by 100 feet long and it reads…

Ye are all GODS
and it’s about time
you start getting good at it

Searching for life,

~MH

*****
Dear…

Yes, it was maddening. The world is gone. I awoke to nothing. No violence, no war, no rapture, no explanation, nothing. Writing this I am not sure if I am sane or insane. This is no dream. The land and the billboard told me so. Not in a voice or a feeling but their existence gives me reason to believe.

My land is perfect. It is everything I need to sustain my life; hell it has everything I need to grow old and fat. Freshwater stream with fish, an orchard of fruit trees, rows and rows of vegetable gardens, birds in the sky, squirrels and chipmunks on the ground. I live on the perfect farm; a land of perennial bounty with none of the work.

Traveling this land I now know so well I feel guilty if a have to kill any animal for food since now these animals with the land are my community…my people. My only predator is time.

I have to go now. The sun is setting and I’m losing power.

Searching for life,

~MH

*****

Dear…

I play guitar, a 67 Martian acoustic. This instrument holds memories of the life I was living before the abandoning. I played too well not to be a professional musician but not well enough to be noticed in my profession. Now I sit at the edge of my land under the shade of the billboard and play for the audience that I wish was listening.

Reminiscent sounds of clapping in the distance...could it be?

Two walking shadows at the foot of the billboard move towards me. I cannot understand nor believe it. I run towards the billboard.

“Hello Maxwell.” Says the man.

“Why...how...who are?” I ask dumbfounded

“You say that every time we meet Maxwell.” He says with a strange, knowing look on his face. "This is my wife Eve and I am Adam."

Short Stories

I have been wanting to write short stories as of late, nothing new to share, yet. Re-living my personal greatest hits.

No Demons
Rainbow in a ghost town
I Dream of Heaven
The Shepherd & Alpaca
I never thought the afterlife would look like this
Rooftop Sanctuary
Joe the Ugly Art Critic

But, I think my next story will have something to do with this quote “Ye are all GODS…and it’s about time you start getting good at it.” & a single billboard left to stand on a dead plant.

I Live With a Demon - Short Story

I live with a demon.

Not an unkind demon, nonetheless a demon. Not a shadow, not a reflection, not a subconscious problem…it’s a demon. I have a dreadfully bona fide, in the flesh, ever-present demon that walks side by side with me through my life.

When I awake there is the demon sitting on the edge of my bed reading through my journal. When I brush my teeth the demon is sitting on the toilet watching me. When I am exercising there the demon is in the lotus pose in the corner of the room observing me. Across the breakfast table from me is a demon. On a train, in an elevator, at the coffee shop there is this omnipresent demon. As I write this the demon sits next to me.

The demon never speaks nor shows emotion. Simply observes me. I question if this is the demon’s Hell. Watching, studying me, never getting to be more than a silhouette. This could be the demon’s penance for past sins. Observing my life could be the demon’s purgatory. This demon might be putting in his time before reincarnation or salvation or whatever happens in a demon’s life, or un-life for the matter.

For years this demon has been by my side. A purposeless demon condemned to monitor, never to interact. This demon must be more depressed than me. I have scotch, red wine, books, and music all as my escape and company. The demon only has the all-pervading task of keeping an eye on me. The demon only has his omni-ever-present damned existence to keep himself occupied.

I am not sure if the demon is a he or she.

I have tried exorcism, taken pills, seen doctors, acupuncturists, chiropractors, vitamins, sweat lodges, prayer, meditation, walking in the woods, scream therapy, dropped acid, all efforts to rid myself of this demon to no avail.

The demon came into my life on my 40th birthday. That must mean something but after all these years that have past I have never figured it out.

My 40th birthday was a completely boring day. Just as everyday before that day, I got up at 6am, yoga, swimming then laid back on the sofa for two more hours of sleep before starting my day. I had a breakfast of fruit, pancakes and coffee then out the door. In my car I was listening to “The Best of George Harrison”, it was gift from a co-worker. At work that day filling my required eight hours was hellishly dull. Internet access to all non-related sites was prohibited and the coffee pot was broken. The only perk of my job is free coffee and hi-speed internet suffering all day long. For lunch that day I had to get out of the office and into a more crowded and noisy place, the local pub. After downing three beers and a tuna fish sandwich I headed back to work. Nobody cares if you have a couple of drinks at lunch, sometimes it even makes me think better. I am a Taming Complexity Designer. I create simplicity for everyday problems. We live in a world that is tech tired and I help to figure out how to take complexity and turn it into common sense.

Then it happened…

An electrical shock-like sensation started happening in my middle back, randomly and spontaneously. Imagine a mini-taser attached to your spine sending electrical zaps from the center of your backbone out towards your skin.

I blackout, actually I whited-out in a blaze of blinding white light. Wrecked my car. I blamed it on the alcohol. Lucky nobody was hurt, not even me. As I sit on the side of the road with the paramedic my mind’s clarity came back into focus and so did the demon sitting next me.

It appears that I am dead now, I say out loud. The paramedic assures me that I am alive and tells me to take it easy for the rest of the day. I go home with this ubiquitous demon by my side.

For the next sixty years I would live with a demon by my side. Because of this I would become a public celebrity, a public joke and a profit to some. People would mock me, others would ask for my autograph and some would pray at my feet thinking I could stave off the power of evil. I would make a fortune from the notoriety and become a hermit to the life.

All this time the world constantly encountered the demon standing next to me. The demon could not see the world around him. I was his existence.

Of the range of questions that would be asked of me over the sixty years only one ever gave me the answer of why. Why this demon is with me?

Question asked to me was…Did anything stranger than this ever happen to you? My answer…Yes. They even wrote a book about it many years ago. You may have read it in your Sunday Schools…. “The Story of Job”.

Anonymous Society - Short Story

September 10, 2001, one day before the world would change forever. I am sitting in a pub in Pittsburgh International Airport drinking a beer, watching a lounge act and waiting to board my flight to Boston which has been delayed for two hours.

The music is odd, comical, and upbeat; one singer and one guitar player: The lead singer has a trash-Vegas look going on. Wearing a tiger-stripped velvet jacket, Jim Morrison red leather pants, swigging vodka from a hillbilly-jug and he keeps pointing to this girl at the table in front of him, “Kitty this one for you”. Running his hand through his shinny black hair, which is most likely a wig?

The guitarist is a cross between Paco De Lucia and a Seinfeld character. He is wearing a white puffy shirt made famous on that sitcom. He comes across as a real existential asshole. He is sitting on a stool playing his guitar all the while looking at an open book that he has placed next to his chair on a small table. I am betting the book is some kind of eco-save-something-type of book. Additionally on his side table is a martini glass filled with almonds, a small lighted candle, and a Buddha statue. Of course he is not wearing shoes and has a scruffy beard. Yep – he is an extensional asshole.

I ask the bartender for a shot of Jack and a beer chaser. He gives me a “your gonna need it if you plan on spending the next two hours listening to these guys performer” look.

The music stops abruptly and the lead singer walks to center stage and stands quiet, prayerfully for a minute and then says “I am Dak Davis. To my right is Johnny Ravioli on guitar and we are Anonymous Society”. For our next set we will perform the greatest hits from the collected works of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra.” Just then both he and Johnny Ravioli make the sign of the cross after saying the names of Dean and Frank aloud.

Bartender looks at me, “They do that every time they speak those names, what a couple of a-holes.”

They start playing the “Girl from Ipanema”. It’s good. Next they move into Dino’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head”, also good. Maybe an extensional asshole and a man trapped in the Rat-Pack can entertain me.

For the next forty-five-sound-filled-minutes I listened to Frank and Dean with shots of Jack Daniels easing my mind. Anonymous Society – rock, in a flamenco-impromptu-mascots-entertainment-experience, sort of way.

Dak Davis exhales into the microphone, “Kitty lets get fresh vodka”. He walks off stage and grabs the hand of a Peg Bundy looking women. Big hair, low cut tiger striped dress, small red purse, giant black Jackie-O sunglasses, (let me remind you that we are indoors) and a pair of the highest heels known to man or woman. Dak lights her cigarette. I am amazed that her hair didn’t go up in flames.

Johnny Ravioli turns to his miniature statue of Buddha and bows three times. Closes his book, Integral Ecology (I was so right... eco-save-something-type of book…he is an extensional asshole). He places his guitar back into its case and covers it with a Frank Sinatra blanket, proceeds to make the sign of the cross, blows out his candle and walks over to the bar and sit by me.

“Johnny Ravioli, flamenco guitarist of Anonymous Society”. “Nice to meet you”, I say. We shake hands, he doesn’t ask my name. “What are you doing playing music in an airport” I ask. “It’s the only place where a new audience comes to you every night, no traveling required”.

“There’s Las Vegas” I say to him. “We’re not that good. Plus I hate the heat and Dak has to attend the same Catholic Church every morning at 8am, St Andrew’s Cathedral over in Bellevue. He hasn’t missed a mass in thirty two years. He says it’s something about his penance for being such a terrible altar boy in his youth. Then there is also the strip club down in McKees Rocks that he goes to every night at 8pm. Dak always says the a.m. is for Jesus and the p.m. is for the Devil”. I ask “Does Dak have a thirty two year run at the strip club?” “No, just twelve…he met Kitty there eleven years ago”.

Laughing, I offer to buy Johnny a drink. “Thanks”, he said, “I’ll have a scotch with milk on the rocks. It’s what monks drink for longer meditation sessions. Protein for the body and transcendence for the soul on ice, not a bad drink you should try one”. No thanks.

“Johnny let me ask you why “Anonymous Society” for a band’s name?” Johnny answers “It’s a homage to the Rat-Pack and plus the name Mafia was already taken by an authentic Italian harpsichord and violin group over in Oakland”. That’s too bad. “True’that, True’that”, Johnny said then finishes off his drink.

Johnny thanks me for the drinks and hands me a copy of an Anonymous Society CD. “That’s for the drink, enjoy. I gotta get ready for the next set”.

On my third Jack Daniels with a beer chaser I stare at the CD cover artwork. It’s a blank white album cover, very original, I laugh to myself, homage to Frank and Dean (I make the sign of the cross being a lapsed Catholic it didn’t feel disrespectful) and rip off the Beatles most successful album cover. At the bottom of the cover in small print it read: Low End Spirituality as performed by Anonymous Society. Above the word Society was a small silhouette photo of Dak and Johnny on stage exactly as they are tonight.

Flip the CD over to read the song list:
My Sadistic Cat,
Ego is a WE,
My Reptilian Brain Stem Hurts,
Narcissism Sandwich,
I am Awakening to Reality and then Going Back to Sleep,
FOCUSout
Masquerading Mystic…

What no Frank or Dean cover tunes? I say out load, the bartender stares at me so I order another Jack with a beer chaser.

Johnny Ravioli walks on stage, picks his guitar up out of the case, carefully folding the Frank Sinatra blanket, and makes the sign of cross. He lights the candle, opens his book, eats five almonds, bows three times to the Buddha statue, sits in his chair, tunes his guitar, then stares off.
Dak jumps on stage and runs his fingers through his black shiny hair. Yep, definitely a wig. He shouts out – “one, two, one, two, three, four…”

Then silence. No guitar, no music. Dak looks over at Johnny and yells, “Quit looking at my girl Kitty’s tits and play that damm guitar”. He takes a swig of vodka from his hillbilly-jug.

Johnny yells out from his chair “I am Awakening to Reality and then Going Back to Sleep”. I laugh out loud; track five on the white album.

Over the Airport load speaker…”Flight to Boston is now departing from gate B8.”

I gather my stuff, pay my tab and leave the bartender a generous tip. I smile and wave goodbye to the members of Anonymous Society, think to myself about this brief, entertaining experience and wished that I would’ve ordered some food to go with all the jack and beer that I drank.

Sitting on the plane I pop the CD into my laptop. Double clicking the CD icon to play it, two quotes appear before the music will start.

“I do not care about my obituary; I only care about my spirit and vodka.”
- Dak Davis, lead singer of Anonymous Society
“I play this music to chase out the demons.”
- Johnny Ravioli, flamenco guitarist of Anonymous Society

Eight o’clock in the morning I awake in my hotel room in Boston. Turning on the TV I hear the news of an attack on New York's World Trade Center. I think about demons, innocent spirits, lives lost and that I need vodka…lots of vodka.

Later that day I find out that the plane that I exited that night was the same plane that the terrorists had entered onto to act out their evil. I think how I accidentally left behind that CD entitled Low End Spirituality. What an appropriate title to describe the culture of a terrorist’s thinking.

My Reptilian Brain Stem hurts, as I drink vodka to chase out the demons in my head.

Short Stories - Your Favorite One

Some of these have been published some of them have been rejected.

What is your favorite one?

No Demons
Rainbow in a ghost town
I Dream of Heaven
The Shepherd & Alpaca
I never thought the afterlife would look like this
Rooftop Sanctuary
Joe the Ugly Art Critic

Joe the Ugly Art Critic - Short Story

In hindsight it is essential to look back when traveling across the country without a destination.

Its dusk, my motorcycle is hot from the day’s drive. The two water bottles strapped to the back fender are warm but drinkable.

I sit next to my friend who has lost in the DNA game of chance. No redeeming qualities to this man. He lost before his life even began.

My friend’s name is Joe and Joe is ugly. Not in the typical sense of letting-himself-go type of ugly. He is ugly on a skull level and there is nothing you can do to fix that. He is not deformed or structurally damaged, it’s just that he has an odd shaped skull. Joe is a good argument for evolution stopping abruptly and skipping over the few remaining people standing in line.

Why did I ask Joe to travel with me? When you’re ugly people notice, when your job is to criticize people notice. He is an art critic who preaches about the end of modern society. “Nowhere left to go on the ladder of life when your job is to judge creation itself”, that’s his motto. Not a happy person. The essential humanness that ties us all together is void in Joe’s life. I find that interesting.

The song lyrics “I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name” will not stop running through my head. I hate that song. Joe has insulted 32 of the last 35 people we have met. His motorcycle keeps breaking down.

“Twelve hundred touring sportsters for the traveling motorcyclist! it is the Porsche of the motorcycle world!”, he keeps yelling that at the top of his lungs every time the bike breaks down. That’s what the saleslady told him as he wrote a check of 15,000.00 dollars for this lemon on two wheels. My bike is a loaner from my cousin. I think he paid $750.00 for it eight years ago.

Joe gets off his bike and steps to the edge of the cliff that we have parked our bikes on. He looks at me and says “write this down: God used to live on this Earth. He got tried of everybody picketing outside his window. Observation is fundamental to making sense of this ever present moment of now”. Then he fell back off the cliff, ending his life.

“Hindsight is essential” is all I could to say….goodbye ugly art critic Joe.

Rooftop Sanctuary – Short Story

Not again…fighting, screaming, yelling…why can’t they do this when I’m not home?

Crawl out my window onto the fire escape and I go up to my rooftop sanctuary to numb myself from this noise. At the age of 12 I shouldn’t even know what the word sanctuary means, nonetheless need one.

My sanctuary is nice. It sits atop the city skyline that overlooks traffic, Point Park and in the distance I can see the river. A grass rooftop, real grass, real dirt, Mother Nature three stories up in the city sky. I have a Chesapeake chaise lounge chair, again something else I should not know the proper name for but my mother is sure to remind me to refer to the furniture by its correct name. The lounge chair is placed underneath solar panels so there is always good shade for me to relax in. Wind chime, bird feeders and an herb garden; the sustainabley-eco-friendly trifecta of a sanctuary. I even get internet up here.

A glass of lemonade, laptop, ipod, headphones and I can forget about the sounds of my parents’ lives falling apart underneath my feet.

What and why of all of this: My father had an 8-month affair with his sectary. How unoriginal, I like him less for being typical. He blames the affair on my mother’s crazy eyes and her constant neglect of his opinion. Not that bad of an excuse, truth be told.

Two parents with only three things left in common; stuff, how to get more stuff and most importantly how are we going to pay for all this stuff.

The stuff part works out ok for me. I am 12 with a rooftop sanctuary that gets internet. I want for nothing. I ask for everything. As long as I can live with the dysfunction beneath my grassy feet everything will be ok. I hope.

Afterlife would look like this - Short Story

I never thought the afterlife would look like this. Day three of sitting on this terracotta roof with this boy pointing a toy gun at my head. The shingles are pinching at my bum. Sally just peed herself, again. I am staring at three crufixes with four men standing in front of them. One man has a Che Guevara shirt on, that must mean something. The air smells of alpaca dung and will somebody for the love of God turn down that flamingo music?? Why is that boy holding on to cow guts pulled out of a bucket? How did I get this scar?

Pop, pop, pop, a man with a camera walks up to me and says, “You can’t have simplicity until you know confusion. Say cheese”. Pop, pop, pop the flash blinds me for an instant. The cameraman yell outs “bang, bang, my baby shot me down…this is way beyond funny, sonny”, and then he walks away.

I’ve been to Planet Hollywood, have not been to the mountaintop, I should have danced more often. I wish I had updated my style of clothing, as this is what I am going to wear for eternity in the afterlife. My cell phone rings, “Hello?” A woman’s voice speaks, “interdependence, interconnectedness, systemic risk, moral hazard, this used to hurt”, she hangs up…”OK.”, I respond. I turn left and see what?

Four men wearing black facemasks with pom-poms and tassels on top of their heads. The man in the middle is holding onto a chalkboard that has a message scribbled in Spanish: “I feel stupid”. My white stuffed puppy dog from my childhood is on the floor next to my giant silver platform heals from my disco dancing days. I think, “How did the McMafa get my shoes and stuffed puppy dog?”

Pop, pop, pop, the cameramen takes my photo again. “Never thought the afterlife would look like this”, he says to me. “STOP THAT!” I yell at him, the flash is blinding me. “That’s the bright lights of heaven’s gate…and you must wait”, the cameraman says to me.

I Dream of Heaven - Short Story

Hung on a wall with a nail and black string is a photograph that nobody has looked at. There is no reason for people to walk down this corridor that leads to nowhere, void of light and purpose in the far back corner of a church hallway. Odd place for a photograph, empty space is your audience.

Me, I am a Catholic brother for St. Michael’s church. Life as a Catholic brother means that I have no holy orders, no sacramental blessing to dispose. I’ve taken a vow of living a life of no money, no honey, and I answer to a boss. In my case, my boss is Father Dougherty and let me tell you answering to God is easier than reporting to Father Dougherty. My day is spent counseling parishioners, mopping floors or whatever undertaking that Father Dougherty and the congregation need of me.

I spent the last two years walking by this empty hallway that lead to nowhere. For no particular reason this day I decided to sit down in front of this photograph and give it the viewing that it deserves. Sitting on this cold, slate hallway floor with my Bible and my journal I stare at this photo.

There is no background, no ambient quality to this photograph, only a subject of four people whose story is told by the expression on their faces.

A widowed grandfather, a happy and observant man, quiet most days is seated back center of the composition. The grandfather watches his two daughters playing a game of dominos. The daughter to his left is divorced, keeps herself occupied by reading and taking care of her father. Her father is not in ill health but the company is good for both of them.

His second daughter, Marie, the younger of the two is seated to his right, gazing outwardly, lost in thought. Marie has made bad life choices and lives with her anger, placing blame on no one for her place in this world. The source of her redemptive pride is her daughter, the grandfather’s only grandchild, Ella, stands behind her mother.

The two sisters sit face to face at this small card table playing their game. This time spent is a social responsibility to the family. Obliged by tradition, not of connection. Small amounts of coins, one ashtray clean and unused, a lighter, but no cigarettes, is on the table.

The granddaughter, pretty, twenty-something and well educated stands behind her mother leaning on her left shoulder. She understands the sacrifices that her mother has made for her. Like her mother and her aunt she is accountable for keeping the family together, although she would rather be elsewhere.

Ella stands behind her mother metaphorically and in body pondering her decision.

Carman, stay or go with him? Can Carman remaining faithfully to be after breaking his commitment? Should I leave my family and go away with him. I love him…I think. Will my mother be able to cope without me? Should I ask or tell or just go? Does Carman make me happy? I think so…most days. Independence without obligation, that’s what I want…I know it’s selfish. The gift of sharing my self whose life has ben given to another. If I leave will my family will they want me back? Yes. Look at my Papa…that is my dream.

The grandfather holds a small chalkboard pressed to his chest. In his own handwriting he scribbles “I miss Heaven”. That is what he called his wife…Heaven.
“Carman”, Father Dougherty calls out to me…yes Father, I’m coming.

The Shepherd & Alpaca - Flash Fiction

I am in the mist of my first writing workshop. Here is a draft of my homework.

I am a shepherd of Alpacas, an animal that is stuck between creation and evolution not knowing if it was meant to be a large dog or a small llama. Misfits of the animal kingdom, abandoned by God and not worthy of being served for dinner.

As for me I have the easiest job in the world. I stand atop a Peru mountain at 16,404 ft. watching this slow mammal graze and grow hair.

In replace of a shepherd staff I carry a wooden spool with alpaca’s thread for making blankets. Alpaca are tribally one of the most boring fur covered beasts you will ever come a cross. No need for organizing them because they feel no need for chaos or even an outwardly sense of movement. Air, soil and water is all you need to keep an alpaca herd alive. It’s akin to being a shepherd of trees, hence, why the pay is so bad.

I get rewarded in fur, which magically becomes a fiber when your shave it off the alpacas’ backs. Fiber is what we call it when Alpaca hair converts into a sellable product. This magical fiber, not as valuable as wool, is a lot less scratchy when knit into blankets.

Spinning and knitting alpaca blankets, being the shepherd of trees at 16,4040 ft. atop this mountain I work. I am lonely…would you want one of these blankets? You, yes you reading these words; please take my photograph. Show the photograph to your people, and tell my story of the shepherd and alpaca blankets.

No Demons - Short Story

Sander Yari was found dead in his apartment on the South Side of Pittsburgh, PA yesterday morning, approximately 30 minutes after sunrise. Yari’s body was discovered by his girlfriend, Emily, of the past 2yrs.

I told the paramedics that I was picking him up that morning to go jogging down by the waterfront. I let myself in the apartment with the key that he gave me and noticed Sander sitting on his meditation cushion. This was nothing new for me to see, Sander has been a practicing meditator since high school. The next ten minutes I sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea and I didn’t become concerned until I saw that his head had fallen forward onto his chest. When he didn’t move I walked over to him calling his name and when I placed my hand on his shoulder I felt nothing. No movement, no breath, no warmth, no blood flow, no life. I panicked. I called 911. I screamed. I froze. I waited for the paramedics to arrive. There he sat in the lotus pose dead, with the slightest smile on his face and a note paper-clipped to his dog tags.

The paramedic told me that it seemed he suffered no pain; his body had no sign of trauma. His heart just stopped…it’s a damn mystery. Then the paramedic zipped up the black bag that now held Sander’s body. He handed me the letter and Sander’s dog tags, gave me a bereaved smile, said he was sorry for my loss and pushed the gurney out the front door of the apartment.

I placed Sander’s dog tags around my neck and read his letter.

The note read:
This is not a suicide letter. This is my letter of samsara; my cycle of death to re-birth has begun. It is my intention to transmigrate from the organic to the ethereal, back to the organic world. I sit…breathe in and breathe out, staring at the sunrise asking my soul to leave this subtle body.

With love, Sander
P.S. I found God and s/he wears shoes

“What…what…what!? Sander!” I screamed…death, samsara, God, shoes…F-you. Why? What do I do now? Who do I call first? I am cold, I am alone…Sander…why?

Not knowing what to do next I sat down in the lotus pose on Sander’s meditation cushion staring out the same window as he did, seeing the view which would have been his last. City skyline, tree tops, white clouds, gray-blue sky and the smell of clean morning air. This is what Sander would have seen. I cried…I pressed his dog tags to my chest and felt the cold steel that he wore around his neck since before we met. For all the time that I laid in his arms I never took notice of what the dog tags had inscribed on them.

Surname, First name, Second Initial: Yari, Sander A.
Army serial number: 3733756 T42 430
Blood Type: Negative A
Religion: No demons


Three days later I was in front of a crowd of 300 people. A gathering of his ex-army buddies, college friends and relatives, all of whom I had never met. I stood in a church that Sander would have never attended and gave his eulogy.

“No demons…that is what Sander had on his dog tags for his religion preference. That is Sander Yari, he no longer cared for organized religion and felt no need to pick any one house of worship over the other. In his simplistic way… no demons…was a perfect fit for his statement of faith.

“I met Sander in November ‘06, waiting in line for coffee. Actually I met Sander when I accidentally spilled my coffee on his hands at the cream and sugar bar. I was so apologetic, he was calm and smiled. We introduced ourselves, we talked, shared a scone and fell in love over the next couple of months. We would go jogging in the morning and at night would cook dinner together. He called it our “cooking therapy”. No television, no music, just us talking about our day while we prepared our meal.

“Every Sunday afternoon we would have dinner with my family. Sunday evening would be spent in my father’s woodshop, building ornate picture frames. It was great time spent. We would turn on football games or a hockey games or if there were no games we would turn on the iPod shuffle and listen to our jukebox of music. He would build frames, I would watch, we would both drink beer and sometimes we would dance in the dust.

“Sander held a job that he was impartial to. He was good at his job, or at least the company he worked for liked him. Sander did not like to spend the money that he earned from his job, if he could help it. He did spend it, but he preferred sweat equity. That’s what he called it…sweat equity….hard work in trade for service. That’s what he did with all those picture frames that he built in my father’s woodshop. Trade for service; sometimes he would get a haircut or vegetables from a local produce shop. One time he even got his taxes done. It seems to make people happy….sweat equity.

“I called Sander my twenty-something-disco-monk; energetic on the outside and fully devoted on the inside. He was urban chic, artistic and cultural. He enjoyed experiences of the city life, good conversation and long dinners at home. He took pleasure in meditation, yoga and reading spiritual texts of all types.

“The spring of 2002 he was in the army station between the ice cube tray of Alaska and the sandbox of Iraq. Fire and ice, that’s how he described traveling between the two of them. Sander never had to shoot a gun in combat nor was a gun ever shot at him. He was very happy about that. He was a Chaplin assistant in the Army, which gave him a lot of free time and a large library to read through.

“After reading the Gospel of Thomas he proclaimed an apostasy, a formal disaffiliation with organized religion. Sander interpreted a passage from the Gospel of Thomas in which Jesus said, "I am the light that is over all things. I am all: from me all came forth, and to me all attained. Split a piece of wood; I am there. Lift up the stone, and you will find me there." I believe these are the words that have brought us here today. Sander did not believe that there was separation between Jesus and himself. I think he needed to prove it to himself.”

At this time I read Sander’s letter to the funeral congregation.

“This is not a suicide letter. This is my letter of samsara, my cycle of death to re-birth has begun. It is my intention to transmigrate from the organic to the ethereal, back to the organic world. I sit…breathe in and breathe out, staring at the sunrise asking my soul to leave this subtle body.

With love, Sander
p.s. I found God and s/he wears shoes.”

I touched the neckline of my dress and pulled out his dog tags that I had hanging around my neck. Holding them tightly in my head I repeated the last sentence - P.S. I found God and s/he wears shoes.

Crying, I look down at my shoes… Breathe Emily, I say to myself, breathe.

Looking up from my shoes I see Sander standing in the back of the church…

Rainbow in a Ghost Town - Short Story

Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town? I hear this in my head. Again, “Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town?” Where is this audible thought coming from? It speaks from behind me keeping pace with me as I walk. I stroll into the coffee shop and order a medium holiday blend coffee with room for milk. The voice says, You’re stuck between creation and evolution, no longer a monkey nor yet to become an angel. You’re only a metaphor stuck inside a shell. Shell in which you’re preserved and housed and someday will have to return back to the soil. “That will be $1.87 sir. Would you like to donate a dollar to our children’s holiday fund.” The barista startles me back into consciousness. I smile at her and say yes.

I pick up a copy of yesterday’s New York Times that someone left on the table. It is opened to an article in the Health section about how Hong Kong finds more tainted eggs. I drink my coffee and watch people come and go and think about this strange narrative experience I am having. Eggs tainted with the chemical melamine that drops out of the butts of chickens and an audible thought standing behind me and within me.

I am not you. I am separate from you. I have my own thoughts, feelings and emotions. I am what I am becoming. I embrace loneliness. I am fluid motion and complete stillness. I need the light to live yet I am in utter darkness. I am not human. I am your shadow.

Darting up from my table I go to the men’s room. Splashing water on my face I think about all the times I jokingly wrote about the onset of schizophrenia. I stare at myself in the mirror questioning the validity of this occurrence. I laugh out loud, my heart beats heavily. Splash more cold water on my face, wash my hands with that pink soap that never gets soapy and dry myself with brown rough paper that has no absorbent worth to it. I stand looking at my face. Same stubble on my chin, same haircut, these are my clothes. Never could recognize my own face, nevertheless this is me.

Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town? “No”, I reply quietly in my head. “Why do you ask?” Not sure. It seems symbolic. A perfect image. “Image for what?” I ask. You; your existence. “How much do you weigh?” I ask. That is the dumbest question; I am the absence of light. I am neither matter nor anti-matter. I do not exist in time, only in flow of motion can I have presence in this world. Why would you ask suggest a question? “Because you have been feeling heavy to me and I can feel myself dragging you around. My own shadow aches.

Rub my hands over my face, straighten my jacket and adjust my scarf around my neck. Three deep breaths and I exit the men’s room. Walk back to my table, finished the article on tainted eggs. The article states: “Illegal levels of melamine, the industrial chemical blamed for sickening hundreds of thousands of young Chinese children, six fatalities.” Why?

Rainbow in a ghost town, that’s why. Perfecting that art of doing something so beautifully or something that is completely wicked. That’s what you humans do with your shells. But you, my master, you take things in. You are a rainbow in a ghost town.

This is eerie. I get up and leave the coffeehouse. Walking down the street I think this is a different reality from normal life and it is standing next to me. My new reality is inescapable; I wish I would have seen a UFO, a ghost meeting Jesus or Buddha or something like that. The street traffic is crowded, the sun is bright, the wind is cold and I just had a conversation with my shadow. The shadow calls me “my master”. Hair raises on the back of my neck as I repeat the phrase to myself, “my master.

I knock into a pizza deliveryman on the sidewalk, stumble off the curb into traffic. Car horn blows; blue Pontiac. The driver gives me the finger. I wave apoplectically, he doesn’t seem to care. Think I’ll take the subway. No tokens in my pocket, buy a seven day trip ticket. I sit across from a high school-aged couple on the train. She is polished; a mature look reminding me of Gwyneth Paltrow. Long blond hair, large black bag, turtleneck sweater, short, plaid skirt with a getting-back-at-daddy look on her face. The boy has that look of growing up in a cul-de-sac community but wishes he was raised in “the hood”. He is too clean looking to pull off the style but I am sure the girl’s father hates him. They look like they’re in love.

No voice in my head. I sit alone on the train unnoticeable to anyone else around me. I think that I could probably die in this seat and nobody would notice until the train stopped running for the day. My body would most likely be found by a cleaning crew. Train stops, the light flickers twice and I get off at Jameson St. and 9th.

Walk two blocks down the street to my apartment. Six flights of stairs to my front door. Every time I walk up the steps I tell myself this is the cheapest gym membership. It’s a small, clean apartment. I don’t have much stuff. Some books, CD’s, one small closet of clothes, toiletries, an exercise mat and a small collection of cooking utensils. You don’t need much in the kitchen to cook a good meal. One sharp knife for chopping vegetables, a large cutting board, a deep frying pan and a small arsenal of oils; with all of this you can pretty much cook anything.

Still no voice. Maybe it is the onset of schizophrenia. Go to the fridge and get a bottle of beer. Drink that down and get a second one. Realized that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Twelve hours without food is too long for a man to go without eating. Bag of carrots, red peppers some onions. Mix that up with rice and chicken and that’s dinner. Feeling odd and not knowing what to do next, I flip through my mail while eating dinner. Junk mail, bills and a single Christmas card. Who remembered me? It’s from the real estate agent that I leased this apartment from. This can make you feel alone in the world; a single Christmas card from a real estate agent that you only met once. I am a walking ghost.

That’s why you can hear me. You can feel me. You sense your own shadow. Shadows are given no thought from the human mind, no connection to the soul. This is essential for our survival. If you become me, I will no longer exist. That leaves me with no purpose. This is killing me; literally killing me and I want to live, my master.

“Sorry” I say out loud, definitely the onset of schizophrenia, I think to myself. “Shadow voice in my head or whatever crazy thing that you are!” I scream out loud. “Where have you been? Why do you come and go?” I’ve been out in the ether doing good deeds. “Really?” No. You are killing me and in doing so are slowly dieing yourself. I will not be able to speak to you many more times. A life of hopeful longing to be noticed is your hell, my master. No longer a monkey nor yet to become an angel. You’re a rainbow in a ghost town. The voice stops abruptly. Not getting the last sounds of the word “town” out. Am I alive? Did the voice die? My heart beats…

Next, I go into the bathroom. The lights are too bright. Squinting, I brush my teeth. I am alive, I am not schizophrenic. I repeat this to myself as I brush. Music. I need music. I need the music to fill my head, no longer do I want to think. Finishing up in the bathroom I enter the bed room. Clean, empty room, gray bedspread, two books, a bible and a travel log on Paris sits on the nightstand. One lamp and an Ipod connected to stereo speakers. Scroll through the Ipod and decide on Herbie Hancock; the Joni Letters. I lie in bed, listen and breathe. This music is an ideal blend of instrumentation and words, both equally strong, supporting each other. Piano mixes with vocals with horns laced through them. It is a poetic landscape of sounds, perfection, and neither one a shadow to the other.

Shadow…shadow…sha…my heart stops…