Many Thanks

Greetings,

Yes, my dear friend Tom in the states of amnesia has received one hard copy and boxes of paperbacks.

He said he will wrap up the hard copy in an airtight container and bury it beneath a sarcophagus. A time capsule memory.

The paperbacks will be dispersed through the world to individuals. Such a fine little gift.

Many thanks to each and all of you for giving my novel a little look-see, turning pages, inside and outside the perpetual dance of dreams.

Omar sends his regards from Spain. "It's a thing of beauty."
I couldn't have completed it without his wisdom and guidance.
May your path be filled with light and love.

A Century Is Nothing

Greetings,

I am pleased to say my novel, "A Century Is Nothing," is available through Amazon and iUniverse links on the sidebar. Now I am free to connect with you and others. It's a real joy.

How does it feel to work on a book for what appears to be forever and then let it go? Strange and liberating, like exhaling far out into deep space.

Yes, this transition feels calm and centered knowing the work is now not my responsibility - how I have hunted and gathered, sifted, sorted, analyzed it and nurtured it along the edges of dreams, facts, and playful imaginations.

So it goes now dancing free filled with the kindness, respect, dignity and mind fullness it deserves. Out into the stillness, from the center.

Thanks for reading it should you get a copy. It may make a fine little gift for someone special in your life as we share the adventure.

I look forward to your comments, critiques, and thoughts.

Peace.

Daily Casket Express

Greetings,

The daily Casket Express Metro pulled up at the central station between two platforms. On the "Departures," platform stood young military boys in battle dress; helmets, gas masks, water canteens, with weapons locked and loaded. A sergeant at arms played a bagpipe dirge.

On the "Arrivals" platform were strong black eyed men in front of 1,000 weeping women.

The orange and black doors opened on both sides. The soldiers rammed their spines to attention, eyes straight ahead as notes floated.

The express was five cars long and each car held 100 crude wooden caskets. The strong men spit on their hands and moved forward. As the boy soldiers sang, "We're off to the front, we're going to meet our destiny,"  and their wives, sisters and daughters waved goodbye the men hauled out the wooden boxes.

Teams of weeping mothers, daughters and sisters surged forward, pulling and grasping at wooden boxes as the men stacked them against walls. The women were seeking clarification, an I.D., an old photo, a necklace perhaps, a shred of evidence, a glass eye, some visual epiphany.

They came because they were called by some faceless totalitarian desk jockey handed the inevitable task of notifying next-of-kin so they came to claim.

The wives, mothers, daughters and sisters cried tears of blood. This captivated the audience of passive transparent heavily indoctrinated raw stoned ambivalent authorities hiding behind a pile of shredded documents containing treaties and falsified bills of lading.

When the men finished unloading the caskets, the soldiers marched into the cars,  the doors closed and it departed.

So it goes on the daily Casket Express.

Peace. 

 

Freedom is terror

My friend's son found a job. He refurbishes pots and pans. It's a dirty, hot, stinking job with great wage slave benefits. His mom is ecstatic to have someone in the family making money. She's addicted to money and the fear of poverty. She wakes up in the middle of the night screaming,"It's economic terrorism! My child is being exploited!"

Must be the season of the witch. He is facing his future with a calm mind. Clearly.

 

Arranged Taxi Music

It's tough living in a land where the women are beautiful and sad. At the same time. It appears many don't know whether they are coming or going, going, long gone. They've fashioned these really amazing well defined masks out of loss and hopelessness and confusion and serious misgiving doubt using tears, wrapped in silence. Many are waiting for an arranged marriage.

The fathers get together and draw lots. They draw with ink and pastels and charcoal. The charcoal comes from a deep black well where their wives, tired of waiting, sing, "Give us a child, give us someone to love and protect and carry forever and cherish and spoil with benign neglect. Give us your future. We don't really care about love, it's all arranged. It's a matter of principle and practicality. Here, accept this man, this stranger into your heart and just give us a child."

Their daughter wraps their words around her heart. A constrictor in love's tangled jungle.

This explains why you never see women taxi drivers here. It's a male thing, these bright speeding tire spinning toys on wheels. Kinda like a Toy's For Tots game show. Live. Same goes for cafes where retired guys sit around all day long from opening to closing and play backgammon. Little wooden pieces carved from youth's forgotten toys.

Young macho guys spin their shiny yellow taxi wheels and play arranged symphonies in the horn section. The women know better which is why they live longer.

Why they may, given the heart, stand up and say, "I respect your ideas about arranged marriages, however, to be really honest with you, it's old fashioned conservative thinking. This is 2007 not 1987. I am a member of a new free thinking generation. I am not willing to be a victim, a willing victim of your narrow minded attitudes. I will choose my own friends, lover and companion, based on my needs. I know why the caged bird sings."