To The Faithful

Okay…..you know the “life in turmoil” I spoke of when I cut the entries to twice a week? Well, I’m barely avoiding terminal turmoil. Scherzad is sitting in the cave impatiently tapping his fingers on a rock, while throwing me looks that the dragon would be proud of. The dragon is out scanning acres of pied-a-terres, perhaps laying waste to the entire countryside, bringing back multiple stockpiles of munchies. Limericks are decaying away in my head. Furniture is clamoring at my bedside each night for the chance to tell scads of their stories. Dusty is vainly waiting for me to show I give a hoot about his dead horse. And my home town is slipping into obscurity with no one to note its existence.

No matter, let them all chitter and mumble. I have got to get through this crisis before I will have time for any of them. Stand or fall, it will all be over when this month is over. So see you then, at the latest. I suggest reading something of mine you missed, in the archives. Or, if you never missed a word (bless you, you marvelous person, you) read a real book, with tactile pages to turn, and come see me in Sept. I am not deserting, just taking hellish R & R. If you can be patient with me, I thank you sincerely.

Eat Up

We’re having stone soup with gum balls.
I can’t offer more—and it galls.
The offering’s sparse;
The feast is a farce.
It’s all that is left since "Recalls.”

Break Time

August! My favorite month! And next Wed is my favorite day! The most important day in this world.

But that’s none of your look-out, is it. Okay, ok, back to Scherzad the Mighty Penman:

He spent a good twenty minutes, trying to explain to a dragon’s so-different intelligence why Brock was laughed at—suffered through jokes made at his expense—experienced amused, condescending looks—hung his head and refused to make eye contact with his neighbors. Brock had come up with the cockeyed theory that the noticeably superior grasp of new ideas and abilities—obvious even to his jeering neighbors—had been bestowed upon his siblings and himself through the drinking of his mother’s milk. Seemed logical to him and, having the courage of his convictions, he refused to grant his tormentors a retraction.

“But why,” the dragon asked, “would anyone find that amusing? Right or wrong, why would anyone even care what he thought?”

So Scherzad had to explain inexplicable mankind…. He answered, with long pauses for sorting his thoughts, “Unlike dragons, humans are social beings. Interdependence is how we survive. To be able to get along we must also be able to count on a standard response to situations, something we can agree with. The odd response disturbs interaction, is not understood, and is therefore rejected. Some oddnesses are dangerous—if you throw your offspring out the window, rather than nurturing them, for instance. Those odd people are ejected from the group. Other differences are not so threatening, but cannot be allowed, like believing something that others do not….those things are discouraged by ridicule.”

“Seems to me humans have way too much time on their hands. If they would mind their own business, they might find it more productive.”

“Yes,” countered Scherzad, “but that is unlikely to happen anytime soon.”

“Very well,” rumbled the dragon, slowly shaking his massive head and puffing out smoke rings. “Proceed with the ridiculing of Brock, please.”

“I am nearly done with this story, and there is another I wish you to hear. However, the demands of nature are wrecking my concentration. I ask your leave to relieve myself of the water I’ve drunk, and to refill my water bag—before resuming the tale. Ahh….where, exactly would be convenient for me to….ah, to….I need to…. Do dragon’s piss?”

“Of course, anywhere we desire.” He chuckled, which sounded like scree, tumbling down a hillside. “Sudden showers from a cloudless sky…..how the earthbound must wonder!

“I repeat, the spring is in yonder corner. The ‘demands of nature’ may be accommodated near that wall behind the storage mound.” He stood and pointed with his snout to Scherzad’s left. While you attend these things, I will be off to obtain a snack. Your story requires something to nibble upon. I am so enjoying this.”

Scherzad’s hopes soared and he was at pain’s to keep anything from showing on his face. If there was a latrine hole behind the trash heap, perhaps escape through the sewer was a possibility. He rose, as the dragon’s tail was disappearing down the outside corridor, and strolled, as casually as he could fake, around the stack to the wall. There was a hole there! And it surely led outside. It had to. But first….

He knelt to see where the stream had gone as it drained away…and fell back onto the rock floor in complete hopelessness. The wide opening in the floor narrowed away to a mere rabbit-hole within the first two feet of drop. When his food ran out and he was a starved skeleton of himself, he still would be unable to fit in that tunnel, no matter where it led. He returned to his waterskin and trekked with it to the farther wall, to see what the dark shadows there concealed.

A thousand apologies for this Wednesday being a Thursday. My ISP had a meltdown. See you next Wednesday.

Intolerance

Anyone who’s not “US” should get out.
We do not like you hanging about.
This country is ours,
Its rivers, its towers.
We stole it. We’ll keep it. There's NO doubt.

Scherzad Does "Mother's Milk"

Scherzad read through his story of the strange, quiet guy who believed his knowledge and opinions of the world had been part of the milk he drank from his mother. The hero of his story had been an early bloomer, grasping concepts and gaining skills at a phenomenal rate. His mother had been very proud of him and constantly regaled the far-flung neighbors with the tales of his quick learning. It was a fortunate talent, since his father was killed by a wild boar when he was only six years old and the support of the family fell largely on that young, shy boy.

In the course of his growing, alone most of the time, out hunting or gathering herbs and roots for his mother to use, he had plenty of time for reflection. Gradually he came to the accept that he was different, faster, more able. With all that pondering time he concluded he must have had some help to become so adept. His younger brother showed similar talents. His baby sister had barely reached the talking/walking stage when this oldest brother was looking for answers, but she too seemed to be moving at a faster pace through the childhood clumsiness. Something in their joint experiences had to be the factor for the explanation.

His mother had turned her skills to providing nostrums for the surrounding families, sewing a fine enough seam to gain their business should they require a dressier outfit than the usual tunics and leggings, and preparing pies from the berries and tree-fruits she so successfully cultivated behind their “cottage”—pies famous around the area and much desired for celebrations. They were far from secure and prosperous. Even the youngest brother was pressed into service tending the vegetable garden and caring for the chickens, pigeons, and pair of pigs—with the little sister toddling along behind, helping or hindering. But they lived, they ate, they had a dry home. Many families, losing the husband and father, found themselves in much less comfortable lives.

With no cow in residence, each child drank his mother’s milk until the next child crowded them out. That, Brock--the smart, capable hero--concluded, was the common factor. They were all quicker than the children of the outlying families because of something in that milk. And it seemed to him they knew no more than their mother, but knew all she knew very well, and early. Hence, Mother’s milk was the key. When he expounded his theory, he became the weirdo of the neighborhood. Laughing at Brock became the favored pastime---and resulted in Brock retreating even more deeply into his own company.

At which point in the narrative, the dragon stirred and, clearing his throat with a puff of smoke, (let me tell you, the sight and sound of that big throat being cleared is something to experience!) requested an explanation of what was so laughable. Scherzad had lost himself in the countryside, living with Brock and his family. When the forgotten dragon rumbled out his question, Scherzad squeaked and threw the pages into the air—which sight the dragon enjoyed so much that he erupted into even more alarming gales of laughter.

When both cavern occupants had regained their respective composures, Scherzad attempted to explain human intolerance of anyone who was different. And we’ll listen to that futile digression next Wednesday.

Close Friends

My friend lives at all times in my heart,
When I’m down, holds my hand, takes my part.
Separation’s not hard,
Miles feel short as a yard,
Though we’re distant, we’re never apart.

Reading For Bob

Well, our sponsor, the also-dragon, seems to be busy elsewhere. Back to our surprisingly alive scribe. If you recall, he had offered to read his stories to the dragon in return for a few more breaths of life. What the dragon had said was that he would be considering Scherzad’s fate while listening to the scribe read.

Scherzad saw no other chance to preserve his life. The tunnel was blocked by the sprawling dragon; after exploring it Scherzad could see no way of escape there anyway, short of throwing himself off the cliff to a different death than the dragon would probably get around to inflicting eventually. He would have to read until his tongue fell off, teasing the dragon with the suspense of the story yet to come. Did dragons sleep? Maybe he could work out a way to explore the cave while his captor was off somewhere or sleeping---if he could stay alive that long. Read slowly and with feeling, Scherzad, he reminded himself.

“What do you intend to read to me first?” The question was polite in tone, and Scherzad thought he detected an underlying eagerness. Good, that was just the emotion he hoped to foster

“I think I have found one you’ll enjoy,” Scherzad said, riffling through the pages he’d removed from the opened pack. “This one I called ‘Mother’s Milk.’ It’s about a child, grown to a young man, who believes his knowledge of the world came to him from his mother, directly. Do you know that humans drink milk as infants, supplied to them by their mothers, formed in their mothers’ bodies much as the infants themselves were?”

“No, I did not know that....dragon whelp are fed flesh from their hatching. Tell me more of that before you read the story. Humans feed their whelp this “milk?” What is it? And how can it be made by the “mother” for the small one? Do you mean the little human chews something off of the mother human? That sounds much less efficient than hunting for meat for them.”

“No, no,” Scherzad countered. “Human babies come from their mother only after the eggs have hatched. They are very soft and helpless and….”

“Yes, I have observed the difference. It makes them such tender little morsels. Very flavorful, a delicacy.”

Scherzad shuddered. “Yes, well…. They, um, no, I mean…. They have no teeth to chew with. They are born without teeth and can only drink for some months to get the nourishment they require. On the front of human mothers are, uh, well they’re sort of like water bags like this one of mine.” He held his up for the dragons to see, then took a much-needed gulp. “Only these mother-bags are full of milk instead. And magical. When they are emptied, they refill themselves…..which mine is not going to do. Where do you drink? Can I get water to refill this bag? I will read poorly without a lot of water.”

The dragon waved a front leg that was the length of Scherzad’s body and then some. He gestured to the far wall of the cave---a shadowy region that revealed nothing to Scherzad’s eyes. “There is a spring in that corner. When you require water you may go there to get it. For now, please get to the story. I’m waiting.”

Impatience. Not a thing Scherzad could afford to ignore. Obediently, he picked up the pages again and started, “’Mother’s Milk,’ a tale by Scherzad the Scribe. In a village across the Great River, lived a young man named Horis. He worked the fields and hunted the forests to make his living. He had been born in this village, and had never traveled away from it for more than a day’s walk. He was a quiet, thoughtful fellow, and neighbors and relatives found him pleasant to be around----if not very exciting.”

As Scherzad launched into his tale, he and the dragon were transported to another realm. In reading his imagination’s product, he forgot he was living on sufferance, forgot he was scared spitless. He was blessed with one tale’s-worth of peace.

The dragon, for his part, seemed very caught up in the reading. He scarcely blinked; he did not move a muscle. As audiences go, he was near-perfect. No coughing or squirming in his seat. No interrupting with questions or comments. He seemed to be following every word and nuance. Had Scherzad not been so caught-up himself, he would have found extreme satisfaction in how his story was received, and burgeoning hope for his future’s security.

See? This is my point in telling you of this encounter between the scribe and the dragon. I will continue on with the tale, until we can figure out a way to save Scherzad----or turn him into dragon fodder. But I want you to see, now, why that Dragon that threatened me let me go on writing. It’s a common failing of dragons, a fortuitous trait in dragons for the humans caught up in their sphere: They cannot resist a story. They are addicted. Even an empty belly will wait if there’s a story to be heard. So I get to go on writing on his blog. And Scherzad gets to go on breathing in the dragon’s lair. Which we’ll get back to on the next Wednesday posting…..

Pick One

“Praying to heaven” and “hoping to hell,”
Covering all possibilities well,
But it makes them both mad,
Cancels influence we had—
Divided loyalties simply won’t sell.

HIATUS

Hmmm. How to do this without cutting my own throat....

Does anyone out there understand life in turmoil? No, of course not. If you could relate to that you would understand my next statements.

I need to have a break. I will be back. I can't live without this outlet. But for now, I can't live with it...and all the rest added. Please forgive my negligence over the next few weeks. I can't tell you when I will be free of this web of changes. When it's over it'll be over. Meantime.....come back on Wednesdays for a story. If you're into the limericks, come back on Sundays. And if you really can't live without me on a daily basis, come on over to the house and lend a hand.

Who knows, with me missing, maybe that Dragon fellow will have to get off his dusty heap of treasure and write something himself.... (Aside: I heard rumors he has taken up with a very colorful "friend"....a parrot! Now there's an oddfellow-combo!)

And with this sad story for this Wednesday, I ride into the sunset, But with the promise that I, and the horse I rode in on, will return semiweekly. Thanks for patience. Don't desert me....I NEED you.

Pure Love

Children only see love as a bowl—
Newborn siblings might steal from the whole.
But love’s like the air,
Enough for each share,
But pollute it, you foul up the soul.

The Game's Afoot

Haven’t seen Dusty is a long time. Then, here he is, coming across the street at a lope on a Sunday morning early. I was out inhaling the last cool air of the day, watching my dog watching the neighborhood for any signs of life. Dusty was the only sign.

He settled on the deck with me, his usual tribute cup of coffee half gone by the time he sat down. He had been cheerful, so far—greeted me, had his ritual romp and admiration ceremony with Declan Dog—but I could see something distant and sad in his eyes. So I opened the door to his problem with the suggestion that something seemed to be bothering him, and sat back to wait for him to decide what he’d say.

“This new home has sure kept me busy,” is what came out. “First all the moving and resetting, then bringing the place up to par. And after I neglected business to see to all of that, I had a ton of catching up to do. Sorry I haven’t been by sooner, but there just wasn’t enough time in a day—or enough days.”

Declan Dog was sitting on the step just below Dusty, carefully positioned to receiver the occasional fur-ruffle or ear-scratch. He too seemed to have observed a disquiet, and watched Dusty carefully from the side of his eye. He looked over his shoulder at me after Dusty fell silent, asking for a clue to what was wrong. Since I had none, he went back to his seeming interest in the side wall of the garage.

An interval told me Dusty was not continuing, so I followed the direction he seemed to prefer. “That’s alright. I knew why you weren’t around. And thanks for the phone call letting me know you were safely if chaotically moved. I’m moving myself. Not quite the major production you arranged. Nor is the place a spread of luxury like yours. But I think I’m going to like it very much.”

I stood and pointed down the next block. See that trailer there?” Dusty picked the beautiful one sitting two doors down. “No, the single next to it.”

“Why on earth would you want to leave your Hobbit Hole here for a trailer? You haven’t made it official yet have you?” Meaning he hoped he’d still be able to prevent me doing it.

“Not yet, but I intend to this very day. I like the idea of getting a little more room. Can’t even have a gnat over for dinner here. And Declan has already given it his seal of approval. He has dibs on the yard. Lets him take more than four steps either direction and gives him a perimeter to patrol. He’s already picked his favorite spots. Only came back here with me because the food’s still over here. Once he gets that moved, he doesn’t even seem to care if his bed waits a while. We’re not going anywhere until next month, but for some reason circling the day on the calendar seemed to mean nothing to him.”

Dusty laughed and gave up. He could see I wasn’t looking for advice. He quickly sobered and said, “I got a problem.” Finally we get to the point. “Someone killed one of my horses. Shot the poor fellow.”

“Dusty, that’s bad! You know who, or why?”

“Nope. I think I’m getting close to the ‘who,’ but the why is a stumper. Happened while I was tending to business. Must have been in broad daylight. My man said he heard shots but thought nothing of it way out there. Plinking at cans is normal recreation. But this was on the upper pasture, so I can’t think anyone just misaimed. Nearest neighbor there would be an old lady who just likes her privacy. Can see her taking a shotgun to an intruder, but just can’t see her out practicing for the shoot-off.”

“Well, hell, I’m sorry, Dusty. Is there something I can do?”

“No.....well yeah…..you got a knack for poking around in people’s business.” I let that wording go, and waited for him to stare silently across the street for a while. I prefer to think of it as researching, as having an interest in everything. But after all, he was upset…

Finally he came back to the deck with his thoughts, and sat down again, looking for Declan to rub. But Declan Dog’d given up on us and was nestled into his lurking-spot below the deck. Dusty turned to me, “I thought maybe I could talk you into coming up for a spell, to visit and dig around. I’ll be off in the East for a week, but could you come up for a week or two after that?”

I thought carefully through my social calendar, my commitments, my appointments. Didn’t take long because there are none. Have to keep up my image, though, you know. “Sure, I have to see this place. I’ve been impatiently waiting for your invite.”

He grabbed my hand in both of his, and shook the heck out of it. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.” Handing me his cup, he was half down the steps before turning back.

“Really, thanks. See you then?”

He was out in the street before I said, “Sure. No problem.” Leaving me wondering what he’ll get me into this time.

Day One

Sunday’s great for a day we can rest:
Watch the sun make its trip to the west;
Don’t do anything hard;
Grill some steaks in the yard;
Lounge, and talk with the ones we love best.

What Fun

See those boys on the slide, zipping by?
See those girls on the swings, flying high?
Toddlers play in the sand,
Scooping valleys by hand,
A dog, leg cocked, helps them make mud pie.

C'm'ere

Have a chair and put your feet up.
Let’s relax and have a “cold cup.”
A rest we can take;
We deserve this break;
If asked if we’re done—just say “yup.”

Still Alive!

Scherzad, whose lonely life normally inspired a profound love of conversation, found himself tongue-tied and stammering in surprise, hearing a dragon speak. He had no working model of how to talk to a Dragon—and firmly decided he did not want to develop one. “I…I…I’m…” seemed to be the extent of his verbal ability.

“Do you have a tongue?” boomed the dragon, clearly piqued at the exchange.

Scherzad was an expert at placating the powerful—his survival instinct cut in, and in a nanosecond (they had nanoseconds then, they just didn’t know their name yet) he recognized the irritation underlying the dragon’s question and chose a course of action calculated to save his neck for a moment longer. Stammering ceased. “Yes, sire, your eminence---that is, I don’t know how to properly address one so majestic…”

“You may call me Bob.”

“Bob, sire? I mean, is that a title, or a family name? I don’t mean to pry, but you must admit it is a bit unusual. Though quite appealing as names go,” he added hastily.

The dragon seemed to preen a bit, actually placing his hideously clawed front foot to the side of his neck and lifting his massive chin slightly. “That is the name I have chosen for myself. After long reflection, I have decided it fits me wonderfully. It has a strong sound to it, and I love the way my jaw snaps when I say it....Bob.

“What is your name, lowly human?”

“I am called Scherzad, sire. And I am very pleased to make the acquaintance of such an esteemed person as yourself. I did not choose my name. It was given to me by my parents. I’ve never been sure why. The story I heard, growing up, was that my parents took one look at their new, squalling, red-faced son, looked at each other and said “Scherzad,” simultaneously. I am not sure if it’s a curse, a descriptive, or a title.

"I am scribe to the village leader in a town far below here. I have come to these mountains to find my muse and become a famous author. I write stories, tales—when my duties permit me time.

"I thank you for preserving my belongings—and for your hospitality and the favor of a flight to these impressive heights. I had never thought to visit Mount Oriade in my lifetime, and appreciate the opportunity you have granted me. I find your home a fascinating place, full of…interesting treasures. I have no wish to impose upon your time further, and will be going now, by your leave.”

“Scribe Scherzed, you talk a blue streak,” the dragon said, his mouth unfortunately hanging open. Scherzad nervously backed away—then hurriedly moved forward again when his back began to crisp from the heat pouring off the boulders.

“Explain to me the words: scribe, muse, and stories-tales. And make yourself comfortable. You are going nowhere.” It was said with no threatening inflection, but Scherzad knew finality when he heard it. He moved to a cooler spot, crossed his legs as he sat, and made ready for his last conversation on earth.

“A scribe, sire…Bob, is one who writes the words, dicta, records, etc, of those humans wishing to preserve or transmit their thoughts and accomplishments. I write for the leader, the hoi polloi, anyone who pays me to do so. Most of the people in my village cannot read, and even more of them cannot write legibly. So I perform that function for them.

"And in my spare time I write for amusement—things that come into my head, that may or may not be true but are fun to read about. Those are stories, or you can call them tales. They are meant only to entertain and do not have any official use.

"A muse is one of the unseen immortals who can grant mortals the inspiration for the content of those tales. My insurmountable problem is that, since almost no one can read, my stories just lie there on my desk---or in today's case, in my pack---unwanted and unappreciated.”

The dragon…Bob…placed a contemplative fore-digit, with a claw the length of a forearm, to the side of his head just below the bump of horn. He was silent for a moment, then whipped his head around toward Scherzad, setting the poor man trembling. “I think I would like to hear more of these 'tales,' Scribe Scherzad. If you will teach me to read, I will be able to see if I like them as much as I am imagining I would like them. I am guessing that the flimsy flakes I found in your pack contain those 'tales?'”

“Yes, Bob, those are the renderings of my tales. However, it would not be necessary that you learn to read before enjoying them. If you would allow me, I could read them to you. Then you would know if they were worth taking the considerable time learning to read would require.” Scherzad saw the opportunity to live a mite longer and snatched at it with both hands. And, quite frankly, he was so desperate to share his creations that even a dragon would be a welcome audience.

“Yes, that sounds like a good suggestion. You may amuse me with your tales, while I consider what to do with you when you have finished reading. Please proceed.”

While Scherzad digs out his stories, places his water close to hand for wetting his very dry mouth, and the dragon settles more comfortably into the icy draft from the tunnel mouth, we’ll break for a word from our sponsor—who just happens to be a dragon himself.

HAPPY 4TH

Happy Birthday, dear old USA.
Fireworks celebrate you this day.
We’ll eat and we’ll sing,
The bells will all ring,
And your anthem so proudly will play.

Missing

The 4th of July party draws near,
But the brave Guests of Honor aren’t here.
They are still in the sand
Of a far distant land;
Flags and sparklers reflect in a tear.

Practicing Medicine

A friend of mine has cancer. Sneaked up on him. One of those out-of-the-blue things. He’s done some therapy, not the usual chemo, but similar. Now, we wait to hear if it worked. And that has me examining all I thought I knew about our modern medical wonders.

I’ve heard people say (been guilty of it myself) that it’s this metalically-, chemically-, radiation-poisoned world we live in that’s to blame for cancer’s ubiquity. I don’t think, in the raft of studies done and reported daily, I’ve ever seen a study comparing the incidence of yesteryear with today’s figures. I have heard it said that cancer just wouldn’t show up dependably, if you tried for a summary of its frequency in the past. These explanations seem to be based on the idea that no one really recognized cancer back then. I have even heard it said that cancer just wasn’t a factor in the past. These explanations imply that while it may have existed, it was rare.

It’s possible, I suppose, that cancer had little hope of competing with other causes of death and disease before modern medicine. Dying from an infection planted by an injury must be rarer with available antibiotics---at least until now, when their usefulness has been subverted. Childhood diseases are only “childhood” diseases because you died or you lived, and were immune from then on. And now most of them are vaccinated against---as is smallpox, which was less choosy about the age of its victims. Before treatment, water carried several ways to die. Even the foods were more inventive in poisoning us before modern methods of refrigeration and pasteurization--again, that's only true if we ignore the last few years of salmonella, e-coli, etc. Add in the shorter life span, and accidents in work, and the foul air---yes, cancer had a lot of competition.

But I know for a fact that at least two of my forebears died comparatively young of cancer. This would have been around the turn of the last century. It was recognized, and it was not remarkable, then. So that would mean that many died of it, causing little shock value except to their loved ones. In the middle of the last century, as in the century before that, people died of skin cancer—another fact I can prove.

When you really think about it, with perspective, it sounds like all our assumptions that modern medicine is granting us less disease, making remaining diseases less deadly---is more hype than substance. The fact that people now regularly live into their 90s or even 100s, instead of the previously long life of four-score-and-ten, is pointed to as a major advance. But I’ve known many of these ancients, and found them unanimous in their decisions that the last ten to twenty years were an unwanted burden---not living, just existence. And if we’re still dying of the same things, despite all the advances, why is modern medicine so celebrated? Is it just a good job of brainwashing instead of a good job of innovative cures?

My friend and I will be oh, so, impressed with the new cure---if it does. And from happenings like that come the desperate impression that we are living in blessed days now, compared to our ancestors. Remove the voluntary blinders, however, and I have my doubts that we’ve done more than trade one COD for another. Substitute car accidents for farm accidents; accept cancer and heart disease as about the same; recognize that the air is only differently polluted, and that antibiotics were a short-run reprieve; and decide whether the chemicals, radiation and heavy metals have increased our peril---it could be possible that we’ve spent a lot of time running around in impressive circles to get to the same spot.

Still musing, no decision yet, but I suspect the return of the old-wives’ methods and medicines is no accident. Alternative medicine is becoming the alternative to failure of the modern miracles.

May I

Do you know what the basic component of “good manners” is? It’s having a concern for other people. Miss Manners, and all of the stilted absolutes of manners, may be passé. But I’m afraid we’ve thrown the baby out with the bathwater. Disgusted people used to remark to out-of-control people, “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” I’m afraid the answer to that, these days, is no.

Most people seem concerned only with their tiny chunk of the world---what they want, what they like, how they feel. And children grow up imitating their parents’ view of the world, for a while at least. “If you (someone else) interferes with me getting what I want, then I have every right to be nasty to you.” “You” don’t count. “I’m important.” You’re not.

“Do unto others” before they do you. Today’s Golden Rule. Road rage, children with guns, deadly fights over the most trivial things. Not liking the way someone looks at you. It’s getting ridiculous.

It’s really so easy. And surprisingly rewarding. Try it out for one week and see for yourself. If you are polite, smiling, cordial, the world will return that attitude to you. You will not be 100% successful, of course. Other people ARE part of the problem. But it is really surprising how many more of them respond positively to a person who really cares about them--whether they’re happy, whether they’re feeling good. And every person you convert will convert others, at least for a short time after their encounter with you. It could become epidemic. Since self-centered, surly, and rude are the epidemic qualities we’re facing now, it certainly would be an improvement.

Words

Words have power. I like that. It's one of our few accomplishments that animals can't do better and easier. We can use words, not just say them.

Words have power. You’ve heard that before, meaning….Hitler turns a country on its ear; Churchill galvanizes countries. I don’t mean speech-making, I mean words. Tell a good lie, and it becomes a novel. Call a man a name and he never sheds that label, right or wrong though it may be. One sentence can plant a suspicion that will bring down a movement, or a business—or make them a success. Tell a man in a way that convinces him that he is dying and he will most likely find a way to do it. If you can say a thing, you can make it true. Granted, of course, that it is said in an effective way, and reaches the right ears. That latter was a real problem for much of history. Now we have the capability of putting a word or a declaration or an insinuation out “there” and it will float around forever. Sooner or later it will reach the right person, simply because it never disappears.

There is no magic, here, no supernatural hex at work. An effective writer can plant a seed. Like a plant’s seed it can lie around for a long time, until conditions are right for it to flourish. Then, one day, having forgotten it was even sown, you discover that seed is growing, spreading, taking over the area around it and jumping to other areas. Life-enriching sprout, or bad, weedy invader---doesn’t matter now it’s free.

But it does matter. It annoys me to see junk science, batty assumptions from bad or insufficient facts, and horribly biased viewpoints, so arrogant they allow no other interpretation—seeing them circulating on the Internet as straight truth, makes me crazy. And that's a power words have that I don't like. I have an opinion. So do you. We’re both allowed to air ours as we choose, but let’s name it an opinion. And let’s not twist and stretch supporting facts to make ours the only right opinion. If it can stand scrutiny, facts to support it will gather to it. We don’t need to force the process.

The alternative is that we will no longer be able to believe a single thing that is said or written. Words are already losing their power. We already, some of us, doubt a thing simply because it made the news, or was offered by some stuffed shirt. And when words are no longer a power unto themselves, communication becomes moot---an argument about arguing. Except for pedantic harangues, it has no purpose. We can go back to grunting and body language for the true things, and give up on talking and writing, which become tools useful only to those who delight in their own ego. Dinah Mulock Craik said, "Don't believe half of what you read, and nothing of what you hear." Don’t swallow anything whole...and check out everything before you pass it on. Then maybe the powerful words will help, instead of confusing and alienating.

99 AD

What is in your wallet, this week?
Mine seems to have sprung a large leak.
Living on plastic,
Condition’s drastic,
No paddle….I drift down the creek.

Scherzad Awakes

Our poor, captive scribe, Scherzad, had finally escaped into sleep—his terror and despair, his exhaustion, lost in dreamless sleep. Until…the dream started when he imagined he heard heavy breathing and opened his eyes to the momentarily unfamiliar cavern. The fire still blazed high, as it had when he’d sought its warmth and had his meager meal. Across from where he lay, something still reflected firelight, but he could not make out the shapes of the gleaming things. The mound of refuse stacked in front of him had become no sweeter smelling with the fire warming his side of it. All was as it had been. Blast it! He'd have preferred the dream remove him---place him back in his familiar bed in the village.

No! No, it was not as it had been. There was horrendous change. Across the mound he saw a great, grinning crocodilian head, which watched him bolt to a sitting position and feel around for his staff without daring to take his eyes from the apparition. The monster was so huge it easily glared at him over the mountain of discarded trash. It lay across the tunnel entrance he had hoped would grant him an exit, the one he’d explored to his dismay before falling asleep. This dream could end now----NOW! He hand blindly found his staff, and he began scrabbling backward toward the boulders surrounding the fire. The cave-floor warmed uncomfortably beneath him, and he stopped his rear-long flight---and realized this was no dream. Too much detail, too much sensation….this was horribly real; he was awake.

Staring at the fierce thing across the cavern modified his first comparison to a crocodile. The long snout was rounded more, the skull larger, rounder; those evil eyes, big as meat platters, showed more predatory intelligence. He’d once seen a captive croc. A traveling performer had come to his village festival one summer, the strange reptile his sole claim to entertainer-status. Besides being small enough to be this thing’s newly-hatched offspring, its eyes had lacked the cunning and contemplation he saw here. The dragon’s gaze was mesmerizing. He could not tear his eyes away, though it was the most unpleasant sight he’d ever encountered.

And then it spoke! “I see you found your belongings. I assure you everything is there. I was forced to open your bag to be sure you had nothing dangerous with you, and I apologize for the damage.”

Scherzade was speechless, himself. In fact he discovered he was no longer breathing, and attempted to draw air through his paralyzed throat and chest. None of the tales told of dragon speech! But there was no convincing himself of a hallucination. The voice rumbled around the cave and echoed off the boulders behind him. It sounded much as he imagined those boulders would, if they could speak---deep, reverberant, crashing gutturals, but overlaid with a menacing sibilance no boulder could produce.

We’ll leave our trembling hero to absorb this new shock, continuing the tale later.

To Teeth

Sew on buttons---they bite off the string;
Chips and nuts---crunching pleasure they bring;
They decorate lips,
Give playful love nips.
Sing praises to TEETH--aw come on, Sing!

Surrender

It’s cloudy; it’s making me yawn.
The sun, the blue skies—they have gone.
The dog has it right;
He’s yielded the fight;
He’s out there, asleep on the lawn.

Serenity's Enemy

The sky is blue. The sweet grass is green,
It’s a painter’s lovely, tranquil scene.
Puffy clouds float by.
Singing birdies fly---
And then in walks my angst-ridden teen.

Do The Math

Dogs may, or may not, go to heaven,
Short lives, cut by factor of 7.
But with scale-of-10,
Dogs rank, vs. men,
An undeniable 11.

Saturday Night's Alright

Brush your teeth, comb your hair, and smile.
We’ll party tonight for a while.
If we do it right,
No lampshades, no fight,
We won’t have to live in denial.

Banning The Buzz

To bee or not to bee
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the stings and….
Bee my, bee my baby, oh my….
I needs to be bee’d with
.be = Belgium
Be = beryllium, atomic weight 4
Bee my guest
Johnny bee good
Lady Bee Good, B(ee)24 Bomber

Beeing one of the lovers of nature and its ways, I see a bee invasion as a thing of great interest. I find it deplorable that some people cannot find it in their hearts to share their property with such helpful, fascinating creatures. And I cannot imagine how anyone could heartlessly kick the homeless to the curb, thereby showing their arrogant disregard for the less fortunate. However, such a thing did just occur. If we can’t open our walls and windows to the wonders of the natural, then we are sadly lost.

For some uncharitable reason, a nearby home owner has refused the lease of one wall of a building on his property---a building presently housing only stray cats. This homeless, gravid mother comes begging for shelter, bringing mere thousands of her closest friends. All she asks is a small area, no larger than the kitchen waste basket, where she might have her brood in peace. Is she welcomed with open arms? No, she is spied upon, rejected and ultimately evicted. What has happened to the milk of human kindness?

Oh, the owner complains that instead of using the dime sized door provided for the unused rental, the squatting tenants attempted to make a whole quarter of the building their hallway and escalator. Overcrowding is another problem, to be addressed later. This owner, instead of properly adding accessible entrances, as provided by law, dispersed the crowd with an illegal, tear-gas equivalent, hung a “Condemned—No Occupancy” sign on the original entrance and went back to his chicken dinner. What is the world coming to?

Said owner tells a hardly believable story of disenfranchised and frightened cats, to say nothing of dwelling endlessly on the disturbance of his life, the emotional upset of one other long-time, paying tenant, and the complete traumatizing of his roommate. Putting these human needs before the needs of nature’s pollinator, and contributor of sweet honey to the betterment of countless lives, is one of the most selfish things I’ve encountered.

I’m thinking of organizing a demonstration and sit-in. But I think I’ll wait until the angry bees have moved on, bag, baggage and stragglers.

Final Comfort

The right time of day…the sun was about to edge past the window frame and touch the old chair with its welcome light. Waiting, anticipating. Plenty of time for that. Never any hurry around here. The chair was a muddy plaid, brown with gold and black worked in. Its misshapen and grimy arms hidden by white towels; its seat padded with a waterproof pad; its back had a lap rug—a small soft blanket, in a jarring green and pink plaid—draped over it. Waiting patiently—the story of this fatly-padded chair’s life.

For now, its only duty was to cheer the sun into the window’s frame. But as it dreamed in its corner, it recalled a life of service, dutifully rendered, that felt both sad and satisfying in retrospect. He had started his life as a Father’s Day gift, to an old man by his brood of children. An expensive chair, clean and bright, softly, lushly padded, and he could lie back and raise a foot-rest to comfort his new, aging owner. The old man had loved him. And they’d spent many long days and nights together, staring out the window at the activity of the street; watching re-run after re-run on the television that sat below the window; presiding over gatherings of the family; or just quietly dozing in the warm afternoons.

The recliner had come to believe the two of them would spend the future in the same way….unchanging day flowing into unchanging day. But the old man could not be re-covered, nor have the mechanism that moved his parts refurbished. He became forgetful, not eating, seldom leaving the chair, even for the bed at night. The old one was damaged in some way beyond repair, and the gaggle of children agonized over how to keep him safe. Finally, reluctantly, both he and the bewildered chair were carried away to a new place.

Here, there was still a television, but on a dresser scant feet away. The floors were hard, no carpet, and the walls and ceiling were closer. A small bed sat close by in the same room---no bedroom separate from the living room. Many more people came and went. While the children still appeared at odd intervals, the other people were strangers; and they seemed to be there only to do things to the old man and make demands of him. The chair’s functions remained the same, but life around him changed dramatically. And he acquired his additional covers: the pad, the towels--occasionally a bed pillow.

They still sat together before the TV and stared out the window---for long hours, just as before. But the old man grew steadily less able to walk to the chair on his own, and eventually the chair watched him cease to function, lying on the narrow bed, surrounded by the strangers and the children, everyone tearful and sad. For days after losing his old friend, the chair sat alone in a dark storage closet at the end of a hallway. Then, once more he was allowed to serve his purpose. He was brought to a different, but similar small room and discovered he now stayed with another old man who was delighted to see him. His arms were petted and patted, his head cushion jounced and snuggled. The first in a long series of new friends.

He had been in this large building, with its multiple long hallways for years, growing ever less lovely—his framework more creaky, his padding and upholstery lumpy and splotched, proving his dedicated service. Spills and accidents, medications and foods, had stained his surface—and his vibrant colors had faded to a dull, lifeless monotony. But his life had been filled with people, with lives that cycled to an end like his first owner’s. He seldom lacked for love. And, in his turn, he loved the parade of people through the corridors and rooms. He was satisfied—needed and well-used.

This day, just as the sun blessed him with its gaze, he dreamed of his last owner. She had been one of the less appealing of his friends. Cantankerous and unpleasant, loudly complaining, resistant to all the demands upon her—but she never flagging in her dedication to Her Chair. Some visitors were grandly invited to sit with him. Others were hastily usurped in their intention to sit there, as she scurried to claim the recliner before they could reach it. Not lingering, as some others had, in a fog of inert misery, she’d gone suddenly from him, in the night.

As he waited patiently for his next assignment, he said a private, belated good-bye to another old friend, wondering when his turn to cease to function would come….when he would be carried out of the building to find his rest. And he wondered if all his old friends would be in the place at the end of that final exit. Where did they all go? What was there? Another room, for sure, maybe this time with an enormous window where the sun always shone. He thought there might be lots of old people, and other chairs, like him glad to have been loved and patted. For now, he dreamed of the past, and looked forward to his future owner, and felt the sun warming his old, battered frame.

Think It'll Rain?

Why on earth do we live all together?
We clump up like we’re birds of a feather.
We love our dear brother?
We need one another?
We want neighbors—to discuss the weather.

Stray Thoughts

My mother, after she had lost her own mother, shared with me a single revelation that I have passed on to my own progeny. She said her mother had told her that you never, ever get over losing your mother…and she now understood that completely. You can have more children if you are unlucky enough to lose one. You can get another spouse. And sometimes, you finish life claiming more than one father. But your mother is uniquely and exclusively the “only.”

As I found out, she was correct. But I will go her one further, and say that my grandmother left the largest hole in my life---not subtracting anything from my mother’s position, simply expanding it to include her mother. When I long for one more glimpse or caress or smile, it is more often the memory of my grandmother that spurs the yearning.

My mother’s truism is likely more universally constant. Probably mine is more personally, than generally, applicable. Who our grandparents are, to us, can vary widely according to how many we have, where they live….they can be emotionally close, or impossibly distant. But if there is a tunnel, a light at the end of it, a welcoming presence waiting for me, it will be my grandmother.

Comforts Of Home

Back to the doomed scribe, Scherzad---and all will be made clear, re: Dragons and their nature. Just hang in there with me.

Scherzad--surprised to find himself alive and intact when he awoke--looked around, expecting to need to dodge baby dragons. Instead, he found himself the sole occupant of an enormous, dome-shaped cavern. From his left and slightly behind him, he felt a cold, steady breeze. He was grateful for the fresh air, because the detritus he found himself couched in was far too fragrant for comfort. He noted a stack of bones against a far distant wall. At another spot, he saw something gleaming in the low light of a fire, burning in a pit to his right---a very large fire. What a dragon would need with a bonfire he couldn’t comprehend.

Though he listened intently, he heard nothing but the fire’s crackle and some scuttling in the litter surrounding him. He was careful not to examine the trash, or look for the source of the small noises. He was still very shaky and had no desire to add to what his imagination insisted on inflicting upon him. He was sure he’d awakened in the dragon’s lair, and more information than that was superfluous.

Scherzad climbed unsteadily up the mound of garbage and stood to look toward the ventilation source. A tunnel led down and curved quickly beyond his sight. Picking his way toward it, he stumbled over a smooth, pale-colored rock and landed on his shoulder---looking straight into the empty eye-sockets of the “rock.” The rest of his descent from the mound was so swift he hardly touched foot to surface. Momentum carried him the rest of the way into the tunnel mouth. He checked his flight only at the curve he had observed from above---and then only to peer around it with his heart crowding his jaws. What he saw lured him almost as swiftly onward. Just a small stretch of tunnel, beyond the curve, and---blessed vision---daylight, partially clouded skies and freedom, beckoned from the tunnel mouth.

Once at the opening, however, his doom resettled on him and he collapsed in tears. The huge tunnel exited on nothing. Sheer cliffs descended below him into mist. A waterfall plunged into its own spray, through glimpses of flickering rainbow. The cliff was so precipitous he could not even make out the source of the waterfall, but it was far below and to the side of his perch. Straight out from the cave, he could see rolling hills, but he was up so high they appeared to be on the other side of the world. At least he knew where he had to be—the only place high enough in the kingdom to accommodate his prison aerie was Mount Oriade. The End Of Beyond. No one but goat-herds would be on this wilderness outpost, and they would never venture this high up the mountainside. He could scream for help until he was hoarse, but only the ravens and eagles would hear him.

When the worst of the despair had drained from him with the tears, he again rose and returned to the cavern. He was shivering in the mountain air, and the fire could help that affliction. Perhaps, with careful inspection, he could find another way out, or a weapon, or—he suddenly remembered as his stomach growled at him—his pack with his provisions. Strange to be worrying about food when he expected to eventually become dinner. But his climb, before his capture, had used up all his reserves and he was starved.

He found his things, neatly laid out below the mound. The fire burned behind stacked rocks, a distance away. His walking stick had been trapped along with his arm, by the dragon’s snatching claws, and was propped against the pack, which had been ripped down the side. However, it seemed as if everything was still there. He sat down to a meal of dried meat and fruit, discovering even his water bag had survived the abduction. The fire felt very good after his exposure at the tunnel mouth, and soon, despite his fear that at any moment the monster would come home, he drifted off to sleep, his head pillowed on the remains of his pack.

Shhh, we’ll return after his nap.

Awake!

The sun is a wonderful thing.
Its dawn wakes the birds up to sing,
Enlivens our day,
Drives night gloom away:
Original--ultimate--bling.

Scherzad The Scribe

Okay, with a little research into the lifestyle and tendencies of Dragons, I have figured it all out:

Once upon a time, there was a poor village scribe who had gone into the mountains to escape his daily toil. He worked hard for the village head man. He wrote letters for him, to the king and to the heads of other villages. He recorded births and deaths for him. He was called upon occasionally by the headman’s daughter to write love letters and poems to her suitors—and then called upon to read them, and reply, by the suitors themselves. He had been ordered by the headman to keep a daily account of the doings of the village, and to inflate the importance of his employer in these accounts. But, secretly, his real love and pursuit was writing stories—a pointless pursuit, for sure, since no one but he could read. Nevertheless, he persevered.

This retreat to the heights was intended to expand his imagination, to heal his soul, withered by years of trite details and drippy sonnets. He had packed rations for a week--taking besides, only his walking stick and cloak. Now he found himself, exhausted and elated, standing on a shelf far above his river-valley town, able to see beyond the kingdom, to the very ends of the earth it seemed. Scherzad, he said to himself (for that was the name his unfeeling parents had bestowed upon their defenseless child), you will return to that mean little town a great writer. This trip was your best idea ever. It will expand your literary horizons to match what your eyes behold from this mountainside.

And with that soaring thought, a dark shape swooped in from the left and the poor scribe was snatched from the rock shelf and carried off into the setting sun. When the struggling, terrified man could think rationally again, he found himself in the grasp of a scaly foot, big enough to pin his whole body. One arm was trapped in the talon cage, but his other, and his legs, remained free to dangle alarmingly far above the valley---which was rapidly disappearing into the distance behind him. Looking up he finally made out his captor, and he heart stopped beating long enough to make his chest hurt. No, that was the tip of one of the talons, piercing his skin, just above his breastbone. Above him, enormous wings stirred a gale into his eyes, as the long, scaly neck twisted to allow a head to peer back at him. A head with nascent horns, a long snout and---as he watched, horrified---a long, red, rope of a tongue, forked at the tip, that whipped back to taste his sweaty face. A Dragon! I’m doomed. My life, my literary aspirations! To end this way is just simply not fair!

Dragons don’t do “fair”, though. He was being borne off to some crevice of horror, probably to become a tidbit for dragon whelps. The cold, rushing wind of the leathery wings, the dizzying height, the sight of the monster above him—the shock built to its screaming climax and he fainted. Limp prey flopping in his claws, the dragon swiftly flew back to his nest.

I know--the story doesn't explain anything. Bear with me; I'm getting there.

Bring It On

Okay, I’ve behaved myself long enough. Kept my head down, published things unlikely to irritate the dragon. Walked on dragon eggs. Worried about dragon feelings and rights. Enough! One can only be someone else for short periods of time. Time’s up!

For some reason I have not been kicked off the blog. And I admit, that one really has the brain cells whirling. Am I too insignificant for him to get angry about me stealing this space? Maybe, like I thought at the beginning, he set this thing up and then lost interest in it? Is he all fire and bluster, with no real substance? Have I stumbled upon one of the great impostors---Oz with smoke and scales? Or maybe, most unlikely of all, he actually is reading this and enjoying it? I just cannot fathom why he would deign to slap at me, threaten into the future, but allow my posting to continue. Makes me nervous. But that too is something I can only sustain for brief periods. I find myself willing to go back to the normally defiant me and take my chances. Tempted to provoke, just to get the suspense over with.

So from now on, folks, I am just going to pretend this unpleasant incident never happened. I write. It’s something I have to do, like breathing. And, with this wonderfully available space just begging me to fill it, I must get back to writing whatever falls off my fingers. Can’t be Nervous-Nellying around here forever. Look for more, daily, irregularly---the Real Me. And if you detect a smudge of carbon, a whiff of burning hair, on some future visit---and no entry---take off your hat, bow your head for a moment, and turn your favorite post into graffiti on the nearest irritating building---a memorial..

Go?

Now, when we travel long distances to unfamiliar places, in a private vehicle, we contact TripleA and get our route laid out for us, complete with attractions and accommodations, with potential hazards reported, options listed. Or we drag out the maps and mark them with red lines, or watch our finger plan the drive. Or we simply turn on our GPS and program it to direct us there. Only the most adventurous, or the most seasoned, simply plant their pants on the car seat and drive. Even doing that, heading a compass direction and taking whatever presents itself as going our way, we are guided by a highway system, instructed by roadside signs. As a very last, desperate resort, we could always ask someone at the gas station, at the motel desk, or on the street corner.

What was it like to travel before we had all the modern aids? How would it feel to know only which direction you thought you wanted to go? No signs, maps, inns, not even a paved road. No street-corner helpers, because no streets. No gas stations, not even planned feed stations for the horses, mules, or oxen. Would you, today, drive up to someone’s house, knock on the door, and ask for directions, for shelter, for a meal? If I were contemplating those actions, I’d be, at the same time, laying odds on not being shot, or detained by the police, nervously stammering embarrassing explanations. And, in the past, even more of the houses you could hope to spot had guns. And they weren’t inclined to wait for police to handle itinerant strangers.

I can only imagine packing enough food and liquids to carry me through the trip. No munching on chips and crackers from the convenience store. No chilled soda pop or iced tea to cool me down. No hot coffee to perk me up, while stretching my legs And when I’m tired of traveling at the end of the day, no convenient, air-conditioned booth to wait in while someone cooks me a meal. No maid to take care of the bed when I arise in the morning. No quick car wash to remove the layers of mud accumulated in the day’s storm. Not even a soothing shower to remove my personal grime and fatigue.

Would we, today’s coddled child, even want to travel if you took away our conveniences? Would we have the nerve to do it? No, you keep the Good Old Days. I’m spoiled rotten, and I like it that way.

Extreme Sport

Just to live is adventure enough;
Keeping on day-by-day can be rough.
You cannot give in,
If you hope to win;
To get through it you have to be tough.

Contrition---Lots Of It

OOPS! A thousand apologies, Your Scaliness. No harm, no foul???

I fear I have gone too far and offended my powerful, recondite, understandably preoccupied, generous, forgiving host. Quite unintentionally of course. I would never insult one so mighty. There was an error in the publishing (must speak sternly to Google about that) that made my comments on your wonderful site and impressive, flaming breath seem to be harsher than they were intended. And that wonderful, sinuous tail...I just can't tell you how awesome it is.

I am deeply indebted to Your Wingedness for the forbearance you've shown. (Ummm.....Is it possible you've enjoyed something I wrote? No, no, I presume too much. Sorry.) And I will certainly keep in mind that you are out there watching me. Believe me, I'll have that in mind. Oh, yes. Couldn't forget that. No sir.

Listen, all you readers... Please, should my posts suddenly cease, contact my family and let them know that I have...uh, tell them that I...that is, notify them of my unusual silence? Not going to happen, of course. I have every confidence that that Wonderful Dragon Fellow means me no harm. Should he ever have need of this site for his own purposes, I would be easily deleted. (Ooo, that does not sound good!) I mean, of course, I would be happy to take all my maunderings out of his way. Leave the site as clean as I found it. Never darken his pages again.

Oh, gee, I think I'm babbling. 'Scuse me folks. Got to get out of here and have a private melt-down. Back when I stop shaking and puling.

Thank you, thank you, Kind Sir--um, Kind Serpent?--for not punishing me for my temerity. I am forever in your debt. If you want credit for that measly little limerick, it's all yours, of course. Everything I've written, anything you want to claim, yours, all yours. My muse is the K-Dragon. My inspiration flows from his majestic hide and talons. Nothing I write would ever be seen by the masses without his magnanimous sponsorship.

I'm outta here. Mommy!

Disturbed from my lair

Well, well, well. What have we here?

Someone has sneaked into my blog and has been working valiantly to fill it up. And now this person is upset because a post has erroneously been credited to me. Fascinating!

My first thought was to hunt this person down and...well I didn't get that far. I've decided to leave all of this alone and see what happens in the future. Be warned and be wary...you are being watched. And one parting piece of advice before I return to my coffee laden cave, Do Not make disparaging remarks about my tail.

I Cry Foul

I may not be brilliant but I claim
Every post herein that bears my name.
That Kevin dragon,
His tail a-saggin’,
Can’t steal my credits or my fame!

I find this addendum post necessary to right a terrible wrong---to me!---my most-hated category of wrongs. If stealing this blog space is going be successful at all, I can't allow the sublime creations of my fertile mind to be attributed to a site-neglecting, sulphur-breathed lizard. PAT is NOT a pen-name. NOR is it a dragon middle-name. It's MY name, MY posts, MY everything! Well.....it's his blog. (And thank you, Anonymous, for liking it and commenting. Bet you won't do that again.)

The Old Man Is Snoring

It’s raining. It’s pouring, with no let-up. It’s teeming, the authors would say. Why “teeming?” Why that particular word, used mainly for rain and insects and crowded sidewalks? I think it is an attempt to quickly convey the feeling of the “aliveness” of heavy rains.

The skies are overcast. There is a pressure from them that seems to flatten us into the earth. Even the air---before the rain owns it---is thick, harder to push your way through. On a normal day we’re entirely unaware that air has substance. Let a storm threaten and we realize its weight. It becomes tangible, something we can almost hold in our hands. The day scrapes at our emotions like an invisible, lurking predator. And we begin to act like prey. We look up at the sky more often. We scurry more rapidly through our outdoor tasks. I suspect scientists would be able to measure an increase in pulse and blood pressure, as we begin to respond to some inner urge to prepare. No conscious thought of what we’re preparing for, just the unconscious urge to be more alert, and hurry.

Then, with a clap of thunder---or a pause in time, sound and motion suspended for a fraction of a second---the rains come. And if it’s a hard rain, it teems. It repels us, propels us into shelter. And we all do the the same thing: We stand there as if hypnotized---for a moment, or for minutes, we simply stare. We take in the speed of the transformation. We watch the rain falling through the air, watch it hitting the ground, and draw the scent of it into our noses.

Gone is the pressure, the lurking threat, the need to prepare. Now we wait. Wait for permission to take back our day for our own desires. But right now, while the rain washes away the oppression with the dust, and races downhill as if keeping an appointment with the ocean---right now we peer out at it, and are as rapt in watching as the youngest child. It Is Alive! Pour water from a bucket and dead water flows out to fall dead at our feet. Rain does not fall; it runs and dances and whirls. It slants in like a base-runner evading the ball. It throws itself at windows, and feels for a gap to gain entrance. It tap dances on the leaves, setting up a multitude of counter beats to perform to. It joins the collected puddle of its fellow parachutists, but not quietly. It slams into them, knocking some back into the air. It plops in with a sort of glee. It tries to make belly-flop sprays that will reach the edge of the puddle.

Rain is alive. We know that on some level. And while it’s coming down, we watch like animals in our cages, while this free creature cavorts, celebrates, and claims its dominion---while it teems through the air, through the streets, along the gutters, and over the rooftops.

Perspective

Since our sun is just one lonely star
In a universe stretching afar,
Then our tiny earth--
To us beyond worth--
A mere bauble in this huge bazaar.

Westward Once More

Maude and Dave, like so many others in those disastrous years, lost nearly everything: home, land, and livelihood. Their most precious possessions, each other, had to be saved. Hoping to do that, they moved further west, into Colorado---and found themselves striving to put down new roots in the killing environment called the Great Depression.

Maude worked at anything that would put food on the table; the boys did the same. Their little girl was still too young to help except in the home. It was hard. Nights were an exhausted collapse rather than peaceful sleep. Dave found his life had to follow whatever work was available, wherever it was. Fortunately, WPA needed his skills: Bridges, buildings, roads, scattered far and wide--still standing, many of them--preserve his sweat and, likely, traces of his skin.

They recovered, just as their country did. After years of moving to whatever they could afford, they managed to buy a comfortable house--in a town this time. They successfully raised five children, who married and found their own places in life. All had gone through many occupations, of course, but by the time I was listening to Maude’s story, she claimed two firefighters--one of them also an electrician; two auto mechanics--jointly owning their garage, one also farming; and a daughter who worked for the government. All lived in that same town, and Maude contentedly, unashamedly spoke of them with pride.

Maude became very important to me. Her matter-of-fact, calm existence drew me to her house constantly. This story was related, piecemeal through the years, while shelling peas, snapping beans, rocking on the front porch---we shared whatever occupied her hands, while she shared her memories. I knew Dave too, for part of that time. His heart had attacked him repeatedly, and finally he lost the battle, but not before he put a serious dent in the availability of fish in the surrounding lakes. Maude went on, family ensuring she was never too alone, for a few more years, before she too succumbed to the very disease that had claimed her father. But she left a large legacy, an engrossing story--and helped shape my life in a way she probably never knew.

Star Wars

If the planets of Venus and Mars
Never meet on their path through the stars,
How can anyone think
Man and woman will link,
Without conflicting orbits and wars?

Maude the Settler--Oklahoma

Whatever dreams and toughness and past hardships made a trip to unsettled land in the West look promising, the lucky travelers finally did arrive. By that time, anything must have looked preferable to living in a wagon.

But the problem would have been that nothing was there. Maude told me they had land, homestead-granted, added to by some purchased by her. And the fact that she did have some money allowed them to buy wood for building. But imagine finding yourself on an empty stretch of prairie, children to care for, food to be provided, and a whole house needing built. I don’t know what time of year they arrived, but I can guess the pressure was enormous---to get shelter, to get some occupation started that would provide income.

I cannot imagine, however hard I try, living through that first year. People must have been crafted from something hardier---and more stubbornly determined than we are. But they did it. Dave built the house himself; they got cattle, they worked, and they prospered. Time passed, and their neighbors seemed to be profiting more from farming, than from ranching. So they switched directions and plowed.

In the meantime a sister to Maude moved into a homestead down the road---way down the road. No next-door neighbors there, without a long walk or ride to the door. But that probably seemed an arrangement made in heaven. Finally, family, familiar faces, love and sharing beyond the front door.

Friends were made that lasted a lifetime. Schooling was started. Winters were survived, and summers did not bake them out of existence. But that didn’t mean times weren’t hard. Maude had a girl-child, and money was tight enough that she said she had to take work in town to eke by. That baby went to work with her, playing in the switchboard office while she worked. By then the boys were old enough to be a big help at home, and even take jobs on their own to add to the family’s subsistence.

Setbacks were a daily part of life. Maude’s father, ailing, came to live with them, and died within months. They all made the trek back, in winter, to see him buried in Missouri. Hauling a body for days, frozen in the wagon---what a thought! Her sister’s husband died, and the widow returned to Missouri to live out her days. Those days were remarkably short, as the same disease claimed her, soon after her return to civilization. Maude might have been terrifically lonely by now, but their own circumstances, pertaining to their ranch/farm, had been deteriorating steadily. She had little time for moaning and pining. Nor did she seem to me the type to spend her days on herself, only on solving the problems, meeting the needs.

Then the final blow. The first year of planting---cattle sold off, depending on the harvest---turned out to be the last year. They’d had to borrow to convert to farming. And the dust bowl attacked at just the wrong time. (As if there could ever have been a right time.) That first, frightening, dark cloud marching toward them foretold their doom. The winds howled, the dirt covered everything, and moved on---carrying the heads of the nearly matured wheat with them. There was no harvest; there would be no paying back the loan. The property, in danger, was finally sold from under them. Their despair must have been complete. But life doesn’t end with catastrophe like the ending of a novel. The best part---and the worst part---is that you go on living and have to figure out how to do it.

Do-Overs

A single man inherits the earth.
But this way, folks, there’ll be no birth!
He gets him a mate—
Understands too late,
How much more blessed silence was worth.

Involutarily Honest

I said that I've "been lifting plates."
I meant to say "been lifting weights."
But since my third chin
Is outing my sin,
This Freudian Slip really grates.

Me Too

They tell me let sleeping dogs lie,
But as much, as hard, as I try,
My dog hears my step;
He’s up full of pep;
He’s not losing his piece of pie.

Lunacy

“Shh! Keep your head down, for Pete’s Sake---and whisper! You want all of them coming after us?

“See? Over there by that evergreen bush? Look hard, it’s sort of hiding behind it and the tree next to it. It’s big, big as a small horse---and it doesn’t look happy. What’s something that big doing in town?

“And across the yard, there, on that maple, that two foot long, rodent-sort-of thing, with that fat club of a tail, headed up the tree---probably getting ready to pounce on whoever passes under it. You see how big it is? And that tail is as long as the body again.

“And right there on the side of the house, all colors and wings---it’s the size of a man’s whole body! How’d you like that thing swooping down on your head? There’s another of those clinging to the back of the house, too.

“There, on the patio, that thing’s big enough to ride on. And as if it wasn’t frightening enough, look at that triangle sticking out of the...shell, back, whatever that is. Ride on it and it’d split you to your chin the long way. And under the tree behind it, in the deep shadow, you can just see the bulging eyes---green slimy thing! And above the flowers at the back edge of the patio, there’s three of them...what-ever-they-are, with tails sharp enough to cut you to shreds, flipping those enormous wings and bobbing around..

“Now look, there, left of that thing going up the tree, see that dwarf holding a shovel? I think he probably is the mastermind here, probably tells all those monsters who they should go after next. I bet these people get zero mail. Wouldn’t catch me opening this gate to go in there without a shotgun---no a grenade launcher---no I’d want a tank. If you move around this wall, either direction, you can see more of them. Must be something hiding in every flower bed, bush, and tree on the property. Someone should call the police on these people. At the least, it can’t be legal to have all those animals all over. Those long-legged, bird-looking things, the whole herd of them are heading toward the patio---and pink! Who ever saw pink birds in this world?

“What are you laughing about, you idiot! This isn’t funny. Those things are mutants, well some of them, and it isn’t safe even being in this neighborhood. What if they get outside the wall! You’ll laugh out the other side of your mouth if they invade your next barbecue!”

“Lawn ornaments!! Are you nuts? Nothing ornamental about those things. They look deformed and vicious!”

“Plaster? Resin! Not real?”

“You think? Just to decorate? What fool would spend good money on statues---then stand them all over the place out in the weather?”

“Okay smarty, you stand up first. If you’re still alive two minutes from now, I might believe it. Hey, where are you going? Wait for me!”

Fair Weather

People think they have so many friends.
They are popular, but that depends,
On how high they fly,
On what they can buy,
Or the luster their company lends.

Riches To Rags

The office chair was broken. It was large, imposing, speaking loudly of the wealth and power of its usual occupant. Dark green leather glowed subtly; cushioned strength promised comfort; the high back and broad seat regally commanded attention and respect.

But it was broken. Its sturdily constructed metal base had snapped nearly in two. No one had noticed yet. And, for its part, the proud, serviceable chair was not about to reveal anything less than perfection. He’d been used badly, for an activity not foreseen during his design. He felt shame for the service he’d performed. True, his owner never had the class the chair implied, but always before, however shady the deals swirling around him in this plush office, he’d been just the chair---no party to the illegalities or immoralities. An innocent bystander, doing his job to the absolute best of his ability.

Now he could no longer keep that distance. Last night had changed him forever, damaged his self-image as well as his supporting frame. He knew, eventually, he would lose his function, unceremoniously dumping his owner onto the mat beneath him. He would give no sign of his weakness until then. But he felt soiled and ragged, dirtied by his participation in last night’s murder. His failure and humiliation would be only what he deserved.

The tall, grey-haired man had looked like trouble brewing when he entered. He closed the heavy door behind him, slamming it. His tall frame showed signs of tension that slamming the door could not release. The glower he fixed on the chair’s owner turned to outraged surprise when Charlton--that was what most people called the man sitting in this many-windowed office (that or Mr. Rangely)--not only refused to be intimidated but issued an ultimatum, ordering the visitor out of his office. The stranger--well, not really a stranger, he’d been in this office before, twice--had roared and demanded, reached across the wide desk and yanked the expensive tie and shirt into a wad in his fist.

Charlton, choleric, stood and wrested his clothing back from the older man’s grip. He reissued his own demand to leave the office. The attacker strode angrily to the door as if leaving, then whirled and started to circle the desk. At that point, Charlton pulled a gun from just under the drawer in front of him, and fired directly at the man just as he rounded the desk.

Then, the chaotic evening began. Two of Charlton’s underlings were called in, the dead man discussed, and clean-up begun. To the chair’s utter humiliation he become the gurney conveying the body from the office to a waiting car in the dark alley below. There the chair took the tumble that damaged his undercarriage. He’d been designed to support almost anything that could be imagined for his office life, but the irregular pavement under his rollers, the unwieldy body awkwardly being stuffed into the back seat of the car, and the freezing temperature of the January night, had not been anticipated in the blue-prints.

The blood had been cleansed from his soft leather covering, but he still felt its stain deep in his padding. Now, he waited for the further, rightful shame of being tossed into the dumpster behind the building--of no use and with no future. His only comfort lay in the hope that his final demise would damage his owner’s back or head--enough to convey the chair’s complete outrage at being forced into participating in the repellent crime.

Rain

It’s raining, they say, dogs and cats.
Why isn’t it insects and bats?
Or grizzlies and fish?
I really do wish
For one rain of cheese curls and rats.

Bystander

Outside my door--men with bombs and guns--
Factions at war like marauding Huns.
I have a gun too,
But what can I do
Against madmen, these violent ones?

Memorial Day

Now he has departed from this strange world a little ahead of me. That signifies nothing. For us believing physicists the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.

~Albert Einstein

Pre-West

A delightful memory of rivers and joy gave way to one not so pleasant to recall: Before she’d been given to the family that took her west, she had served in the house of a young mother with five children. She’d come too late to know their father and husband, but knew, from the tears quietly shed in the night, that something very sad had happened.

Three of the children were colorless little things. Too quiet, too inactive to compare with the children she’d known before. The youngest was still a baby, so the fact that she seemed fretful was no big surprise. But the oldest! He was only eight years, but he was a child of whom she’d heard people say, “He’s eight going on thirty.” And that certainly did not mean he was abnormally responsible. In his case it meant he would end imprisoned before he reached his majority. His actions, older in scope than his years, were not a pride to his mother. He had been forced to become the man of the family, and he made evident his displeasure with that obligation.

She felt the deep cuts across her lower surface, where the developing monster had taken shears to her. He’d carved his name there, Mickey. She knew, because he muttered and raged the entire time he was mutilating her. His mother came in and stopped him, and just as the relief of being saved started, it ended. A worse scene erupted from being denied his destructive urge. The child grabbed the savaged ironing board from against the wall and, brandishing her as his shield, waving the shears as his sword, threatened his own mother with death. Lying on the floor where he’d flung her as he stormed out the door, the frightened wooden board believed that he could have killed at that moment, with little effort.

Mother had examined the damage and locked the ironing-board legs in place. She’d set the heavy iron on the stove to warm and left the room, crying desperately through the whole preparation.

She took in laundry to support her youngsters and herself. There were only two rooms in the small place. The kitchen area of this room, where the battle had just been doubtfully won, also served as the work place for earning shelter and food. The other room, from which Mother returned, face washed, ready to toil, served as bedroom, playroom, and nursery. The laundry, hanging on lines strung from a tree to the house, would be brought in, sprinkled if necessary, and then the useful ironing board would help finish the process of producing clean, neat clothing to Mother’s employers.

The memory of the despairing household became too unpleasant to continue. The ironing board turned her attention to the fire crackling and popping across the room---and finally succeeded in crowding out the last view she’d had of the mother and the angry son, carried away by men in uniforms. The son struggled; the mother did not even seem to notice there were people there, or that they were bodily carrying her away. The two years leading to that crisis were just too horrible.

The warming fire, the snow falling softly outside, soothed her and she drifted back to the lovely cross-country trip instead.

Unforgetable

Coming up: Memorial Day.
How complex! We mourn, yet we play.
We’ll have barbecues;
We’ll laugh---but we’ll muse
On those we have lost on the way.

Westward Ho

She’d been around for a very long time. She could pass the lonely hours remembering a history found only in books today. That was the true way of the world. If you were useful, if you were made simply and cared for, life could be full and long. If she were to attempt to chronologically proceed through that wealth of memories, much of the history of this country would emerge.

For now, she contented herself with recalling her first trip across country. That was such an exciting time. The changes in those surrounding her, in the way life proceeded, were immense. Her first memories—to be savored another time—were of a small place near water. She could still hear it now, lapping, splashing, a continual background to her work then. She’d been fresh and clean and strong. As were the people she’d joined. They’d been full of life, of chatter, of activity.

But when she took her first trip—another family, another time—life had become tedious, full of tension. Before the move, circumstances had not been pleasant. She recalled loud arguments, accusations and tears. She still had work; her place in the household remained beyond range of the worst of the fits of temper and frustration. But once, as she’d been standing in the kitchen, performing as expected, she’d been struck with a chair, knocked to the floor, and she'd feared one leg had been broken.

However, luckily still intact, she’d been one of the few helpers allowed to join on the long trek, following the sun. That trip left more than helpers behind. The man who’d struck her with the chair also remained in the old place. And several new people, ones she’d seen before, but who had not lived together in the disagreeable house, now became part of her life as well. Altogether, she remembered two wagons nearly full, some, her familiar helpmates, and new, added things. They were crammed tightly, but not uncomfortably, into the available space. And the children she’d served, their mother, two other females, another older man, and two children she did not know, had all headed out to find a new life beyond the noise and hate.

From her place in the wagon she could see two very large animals, assigned to pull her to a new world. Sometimes the children would climb in and keep her company. But most of the time, unless there was illness, the people remained outside. She could hear their conversation through the fabric of the wall behind her.

It had been a long trip---hard, hot, dusty, and with many setbacks to overcome. But there had been singing and laughter too. There had been nights of wood smoke, scenting air that billowed the wall and brushed the dust of the day from her surface. She’d not been much use for most of the trip. But at three separate times, she’d been set outside so that fresh, smooth clothes could be donned by the family before they approached a large town. Those times had lifted her spirits enormously. The smell of the hot iron, warming that familiar scent out of the skirts, and shirts, and petticoats, had been the best parts of the trip.

She’d seen new things she’d never have been able to imagine. Through the windows of the various places she’d worked there’d been glimpses of birds and green things. But now, the view through the open front of the wagon was awesome. Wide stretches of green opened to her; great moving masses of water passed beneath her; and she saw more trees than she’d ever thought could exist in a whole world. Add the feeling of being included and necessary to all that wonder and change---well, there was no other time in her life that she remembered in such detail and with such a feeling of completeness and joy.

She, a simple unadorned, wooden ironing board, was a world traveler. And she was considered so vitally important that she was granted passage into a different, happier life. Her service was rewarded. Her existence validated. Memories like this would comfort her for many more years, as she sat here before the window, her top crowded with pots spilling green tendrils and stalks, and flowers in profusion---as she dreamed her future and strolled the paths of her past.

Simplicity

There is a young gent from the “outback.”
He carries his all in a backpack.
He sleeps in the park.
He thinks it’s a lark—
No taxes, no mortgage, no fast-track.

Wee One

Mae was an old lady that lived in the house behind mine. “Was” because she’s gone now. But she told me this story and I’m sharing with you. No comment; you can believe or not; but I love it.

One day in spring, Mae was sweeping her sidewalk, enjoying the fresh, clean air that greeted her after the rain the night before. Not much of a rain, but enough to scrub the air and raise the spirits. The flowering bushes she had carefully nurtured for years were now a bit overgrown and riotous, but that just meant more scent to fill the yard. She’d sweep for a moment, and then rest her tiring arms while she admired the beauty of her favorite corner. She’d placed an old wooden lawn chair there, and she was promising herself a cup of tea and a rest in that chair when she’d finished removing the dust and twigs from the pathway.

Her mind wandered to the good times enjoyed from that arbor, eyes focused on the past. Suddenly, she was yanked back into the present by a scurry and rustle in the vines to the right of the chair. Running back the memory of what her eyes had seen, but not registered, she became certain it had not been a bird or toad--her first reaction to the disturbance. There’d been a flash of green, which might suggest the latter. But that had not been a leap, it was a dash for cover. She was sure---or was she. Little old ladies could see anything out of boredom, poor eyesight, and musings on the past. Shaking her head at her own imagination, she finished her self-assigned chore and returned to the rewarding corner with a cup of tea, which she placed on the wide arm of the chair. She’d brought a cushion, dried the seat with a rag, and made herself comfortable, before she remembered what she’d thought she’d seen.

She peered around the cup into the tangle of honeysuckle that had swallowed the trellis provided for it, as well as the nearby ash tree’s lower branches. The corner was shadowed this time of day, and a scattering of last year's dried leaves made the base of the vine a twilight jungle. As she squinted into the gloom she flinched, and nearly upset the cup of tea. Another motion! Not her imagination!

She rescued the tea from the chair-arm and leaned as far over as she could to catch the—whatever—the next time it moved. There, back in the depths a foot or so, a slow edging of a deeper shadow toward the densest cluster of the vines’ beginnings. She murmured to the creature that she’d got it now, no need to hide; she was just a harmless watcher with no intention to harm.

At that, a small man, about the height of the length of her hand and dressed in a tiny green shirt and brown pants, stepped boldly out from the shelter, and placed his arms akimbo, tilting his head to peer up at her face---and promptly ran right back into the green cave at her yelp and the launching of the tea and cup into the air and across the lawn. When she’d reclaimed her legs and arms from the various locations the surprise had launched them into, she rose from the chair and slowly and painfully knelt before the apparition’s exit point.

Mae told me she'd gained nothing by pleading and searching. And she’d never again encountered the strange little guy. But she would not back down from her absolute certainty of what she’d seen.

Polluted

Fossil fuels will cause us to fry;
Ditto nuclear plants, if nigh;
Cell phones—cancer;
There’s no answer—
We’ll just drive—light—talk--and then die.

Boomer Takes All / Greatest Folds

I’ll open at 55,
Future direction’s mine to tell.

See you and raise…58,
I’ll decide what stock’s best to sell.

Me, I’m in at 59,
Mucho resentment to bury.

Daring it all at 60,
And it’s my vote that will carry.

“I’m out. Thin blood. Can’t go it.
If you can--without me--do well.”

Old guy’s out!? Wow! A shocker!
So let’s deal the cards; strike the bell.

Round the table, in and out.
More games--same rules--fewer players.

If boomers don’t do better,
Then at least they’ve less nay-sayers.

Qualified Contrition

In my defense, I had no idea my “Faithful Companion” (who, after those “strongly worded” objections, and thinly veiled threats, is looking a mite bit less faithful, I must note) found the deck to be anything nearly so hateful as he’s indicated. I’m not sure I would have been swayed by his opinion, had he stated it sooner, but I wish I had known.

Now, I did notice he was looking very uncomfortable during the work done on the deck. But I thought it was just the invasion of people and machines. There was a lot of noise, a lot of coming and going; and clutter prevented easy movement in this tiny yard. (The fact that he spent days hiding behind the tree might have offered me a clue, I suppose.) I knew he was reluctant to change his habits---all dogs are. And I saw we had a small problem when the stairs moved further south, and he didn’t. But I patiently walked to the new stair-position, encouraging him to follow along, and demonstrated that he had not been barred, merely moved. (Perhaps laughing at his confusion was a little insensitive.)

All this Sturm und Drang over the whole project, however, caught me by surprise. True, he refused to lie on the deck, though I’d expected he’d love the view the height gave him. And, he no longer has his cubbyhole between the stairs and the house---well, it’s still there but also further south and not so large. Oh, all right, if I’d been concerned about his opinion I’d have noticed more readily that he’d been dispossessed. I treated him like his familiar comforts were minor considerations, because he was less important than I.

I’m sorry! Alright?! I was a human chauvinist. I should be castigated thoroughly and made to write, “I will consider others’ feelings,” 100 times on the new, expansive deck.

Don’t tell him this, but I am still very happy with the new deck, and I still expect him to adjust and yield---rather than organizing protest marches.

Once a chauvinist, always a chauvinist.

Uh-Oh

On The Disruption of Life Caused by the Advent of Extended Construction as dictated to The Human

My Manifesto is in the process of formulation as I direct this preliminary statement. I find myself prepared to carry forth with whatever demonstration of my objections, to the treatment accorded me, that I deem necessary to convey my extreme displeasure. I find that my concerns and desires have been ignored, worse than ignored---condescendingly dismissed. I have tolerated much throughout this life, but I will not swallow more of this neglect and abuse.

That blighted Deck was constructed without consulting me, on the land I hold sacred to Naps and Guard Duty. I have consecrated--for those purposes--the land selected for its placement, for over three years now. The Right of Squatter-in-Residence, the Right of Peaceful Pursuit of Employment, the Right of all Free Creatures to have a say in their lives and surrounds---these Rights have been willfully and indifferently repudiated in its construction. Said Deck was constructed without my prior knowledge of the intent. I was not consulted on its placement, size or, especially, on the danger posed to my self during its construction. (I was nearly squashed by a falling timber, and never provided with a hard hat or safety cage !!)

I now find myself forced to adjust to a change in my living arrangements that I find in the least, distasteful, at most, completely unacceptable. This outrage, occurring at this late stage in my life, cannot be tolerated; and I will object and retaliate as I see fit, and am forced to do. There will be no further action without my consent. And there will be retribution for the indignities visited upon me, a till-now unassuming and lawful resident, quietly fulfilling my allotted duties.

I submit this strongly worded complaint on this Eighteenth Day of May, the Year of our Lord and Master, 2007. Be afraid! Be very afraid! Counterrevolution is hereby declared!


By My Scribe and Human, faithfully recorded in My Words,


Declan Dog, RDA, LTFC, LVORTT
(Registered Domestic Animal, Long-Time Faithful Companion, Licensed and Vaccinated Official Resident of This Township)

For Release Upon the Aforestated Date....