Why Won't I Shed A Tear

The room was splattered dizzy with paint and poster-board, with brushes and cans and every manner of tool necessary for him to do his job. He was an artist and but for the day a good many people might know this of him but the age had slipped past him and now he was but a treasure hidden from view. There were ladders of every size but for him there was no longer the wall, the roof, the building for him to lean them against.















He had been sign painting since his earliest memories. His grandfather had plied the trade and though his father chose not to pick up the mantle it was he who carried on the age old family line. His grandfather made steady employment and achieved some great renown as a master of his craft. He could remember watching his grandfather's steady line as he free handed signs of every description. His grandfather showed him how to letter and then again how to draw animals and appliances, ever reminding him that the client might need be lead to an understanding that the design that he, the sign painter, had created was the right design whether the client knew it to be so or not.

It was his job, the sign painter's, to create and they were not just craftsmen but fine artists and he was made to know this and that they should never view themselves as anything but that. As he made his way to his teens his grandfather accepted him proudly as his apprentice and he looked back with deep sentiment on the times the two of them spent, sometimes high in the air or in a precarious place, painting their works of art. A time came when it was his turn to take over the most of the work, but as long as his health allowed him, his grandfather, though not actually painting, would accompany him to each and every job site. There was no bottom to the pool of knowledge that his grandfather held within him and he shared that wisdom with clarity and even more with humor and understanding.

When his grandfather was too aged to come with him he still brought that man's gift to work each day. There were only a few great sign painters at work and as he aged he climbed the ranks and there came a time where it was he who was now the master. As his abilities reached their pinnacle a strange thing happened. Plastic lettering, neon, everything moved away from the painted sign. His work load lessened and lightened to a place where if he were to get a call or two a month it was not unusual.

As a few years slipped on his work requests became nearly non-existent. His talents were at their peak but there were no signs to paint. His only calls came from the movie people, they might need just a little work to dress up a street to appear from another era. There came a time when even that work disappeared. At first he struggled to promote himself but that didn't work, he, his art, had been left behind, become outdated and deep within him he knew that it was not work he was after but art that he was creating, it had always been art he was creating.

So inside his little shop he painted and painted. Signs of every variety; signs for shoes and basketballs, for surfboards and power companies. He made protest signs and large windows with gold gilded script. He had so much to say, so much art to create and so he did. His signs sang out to a day gone by. His signs sang out to a pure aesthetic. And then so too did his signs cry out to his grandfather and that gift, that gift of care, of love, of art, that was the gift of that man.















The room was splattered dizzy with paint and poster-board, with brushes and cans and every manner of tool necessary for him to do his job. He was an artist and but for the day a good many people might know this of him but the age had slipped past him and now he was but a treasure hidden from view. There were ladders of every size but for him there was no longer the wall, the roof, the building for him to lean them against.

Perhaps A Good Time To Stretch Your Legs

I passed all the losers in the back rows, other guys who looked as assed out as I felt. Do my clothes give me away like theirs so do them? Is it that obvious that I'm at a total loss as to how to get along in this world? I sure hope not but as I am forced to look at these duds once again I see that I mirror their look almost in totality.















I just wanted to go to the cinema. I just wanted to get away, away from what I don't think I'm in the right mind to say but let me attest to the fact that I needed to go and be somewhere. The cinema seemed the perfect place. I mean where else could I go and sit unnoticed in the dark and have my attention drawn to something other then myself for a couple of hours? I believe it should have and could have been as simple as that but then again nothing in this world is simple for me.

I'd been bombarded by Batman this and Batman that for almost as long as I could remember, at least all summer truth be known. I was made to feel that if for not seeing this film then as a human I would be somewhat incomplete. I'm not one to give in to this kind of pressure, but what the hell I needed someplace to be and my role as a human was at stake so go to the cinema I did.

In my world you don't have trouble parking somewhere you just have car trouble period. I have never been blessed with a fine running auto much less preferential parking or even a space that wasn't quasi illegal. So I left the car someplace and paid my money and then was made to stand in line, in the sunshine, during the day like, it was hot and I was one of those guys alone during a matinee. There were families there, I have no family, couples a plenty, as mentioned I was not coupled, groups of friends, again nix on the friend thing, hell that was why I went to the movies in the first place, I needed to leave all these lack there ofs elsewhere and simply be somewhere. Simple it was not.

There is a difference between my, dude sitting by himself and say that guy over there who is sneaking out on his glamorous job to catch a movie. You can just see by our demeanors and of course he, not me, is on the phone until the previews start. I didn't even bring my phone, I knew no one would ring it or whatever they call that thing these cell phones do and if it did I knew I would be the jerk who would forget to put it on vibrate. I was too ashamed to even get something from the snack bar. Can you believe that? I am so ashamed of just being that I am afraid to go get some popcorn, truth is I don't like popcorn but that is besides the fact, I couldn't even get some if I wanted some. Fuck.















I prayed no one would sit next to me. The theater was filling up and I stared straight ahead and prayed, I mean I really prayed, you know...'God please don't let anyone sit next to me, thanks God'...like that. Fuck I'm lame. I guess God was listening because the previews started and I still retained full dominance of both armrests. Thank you God. Just before the feature...BATMAN...started, some guy with a beautiful girl sat in the seats next to me. I felt as if I should have asked the guy if he and his girl could swap seats so that she and not he were sitting next to me but hell I'm the guy who doesn't even have enough nerve to go get some popcorn he doesn't want. Shit. Oh before we move on, um God...fuck you for that, I take back every good thing I had been thinking about you.

Crash, bang, boom. Movie...movie...movie...sound...picture...more and more...even the ridiculous movie world looks preferable to me then the one I'm in. I felt like such a douche. I suppose the movie was good and all but really how low have I sunk? This movie was meant to relieve me of myself but indeed all it did was to magnify the supreme sphere of loser that I find myself engulfed in. Drag. After what seemed like hours, oh shit, it actually was hours, my mistake, the lights came up; the movie had ended. As I made my solitary way out I saw to my surprise that all those losers, um guys just like me, in the back row were now talking amongst themselves about the movie. I didn't even have anyone to talk to about the movie not that I felt there was much to discuss beyond crash, bang, boom, movie...movie...movie...sound...picture.

The lobby was filled with the people laughing and talking and making plans and my only reaction was blindness as the light of the day hit my now light sensitive eyes. Ouch. I might sound to you a bit of a whiner and perhaps right you may be but all I have left is the whine. I wanted to get away from the whine that rolls on an endless loop in my head but movie going isn't as simple as one might think; at least not for me.















So go ahead feel superior. And why yes there was a ticket on my car thanks for asking. What you thought I was making this shit up? I wish.

Sitting Here Thinking Just How Sharp I Am

I was younger. It had been a hot summer day and the night was warm and windy. The neighbour boy Randy, that sister of mine, and myself were playing with the OUIJA board. While asking questions and playing for some time a plan was hatched. We would wait until all the others were asleep and then we would sneak out and shower the hated Weber families’ house with toilet paper.















That night as the parents and others prepared for sleep I could not contain my excitement. I lay in my bed and as usual those nails on those hands of mine found the soft skin on the back of my calves and they began to scratch. The itching that felt as if it came from deep inside my legs was stronger than it was most nights. Skin was caked under those nails and a small amount of blood was spilled from where the soft skin of those calves had been self-violated. Then it came, a knock from outside my bedroom window. It was the neighbour boy Randy. He had requisitioned all the necessary supplies and as I crawled out my window I could see as to how that sister of mine had already joined him.

Our course set, the three of us made our way barefoot into the breezy summer night. As we walked down the dark tree lined streets I saw where the Shadow People lived. It thrilled me to no end. Neighbour boy Randy and that sister of mine raced off ahead of me, I could hear as their asinine giggling, their mindless laughter, took to the air and floated down the street. The Shadow People were not laughing.

In the wind and in the dark the Shadow People began to sing a song to me. I looked up into the trees and lights flashed. That head of mine was filled with the sound and fury of a massive chorus. It was a most beautiful sound and I became mesmerized, intoxicated. Some time must have passed and then the chorus quieted and somehow I finally reached the Weber house. It was there that I saw the beautiful spectacle that is made when toilet paper is flung high through the air and then catches the limbs and branches of the trees. The wind picked at the toilet paper and the long flowing tendrils fluttered and danced and became alive. The song of the Shadow People once again intensified. I tried to join in but I was not laughing in the same way neighbour boy Randy and that sister of mine were. Those two began to play a game of tag but it was not like the tag I was familiar with. There were no rules and they did not just tag each other, they were grabbing each other. At one point they embraced each other and then fell to the ground rolling around as one.















The Shadow People stopped their singing this time in earnest. Those ears of mine rang unnervingly with the sound of that neighbour boy Randy and that sister of mine rolling about on the leave covered ground. It was an awful sound I can assure you, and it really got to me. I began to get panicked and so I turned to run from these two. As I moved away, the sweet song of the Shadow People once again rained down from the trees replacing those sick sounds made by the neighbour boy Randy and that sister of mine.

Crossing the next yard and moving as fast as I possibly could that second toe on that one foot of mine found an exposed lawn sprinkler head. Then the world slowed down. That toe of mine was splayed open and the blood shown bright red under the streetlight. I knelt low and held that foot of mine. The blood flowed freely and covered those hands of mine and it felt wondrous. My sense of time being what it is I can not be too sure how long I had been sitting there but judging by the amount of blood that had accumulated it must have been some good time before the neighbour boy Randy and that sister of mine reappeared. The two of them must have been tired from playing tag because they were covered in leaves and out of breath.

Above me they stood, looking down, staring slack jawed and wild eyed. Maybe they were wondering why I had not wanted to play with them. I returned their gaze unaffectedly and then the Shadow People told me to run, and so I did. The neighbour boy Randy and that sister of mine tried their damndest to follow me. For a while I could feel them yapping at my heels. I was laughing hysterically by now the Shadow People guiding my every step. Faster and faster I ran, free and powerful.

Things begin to blur here a bit but I can recall grabbing that sister of mine’s face and anointing her with the blood from my hands. I do not know why but this caused her to start crying as hysterically as I was laughing. Go figure. Sadly I have extremely vague memories about the rest of that warm and windy night. I do know that a brick went through a window because they told me so the next day. What I do remember is that the rest of that glorious dark night was spent running with my new friends, the Shadow People, and having the greatest time of my young life.















The next day I received some number of stitches to that toe of mine from Dr. Weber. The same Dr. Weber whose home we had so graciously decorated the night before

You're A Frog For The Asking

It wasn't an immediately recognizable trait one more likened to a tic or a spastic episode. Blink, blink, blink. They both looked away to a place across the room at the same time and saw standing leaning against the wall a fireman; his nose was missing.















For real, the whole thing gone and hidden under bandages. No cartilage, the nose actually receded where it was meant to slope out. It came to them both at the exact same time that if it were they who didn't posses a nose any longer then they sure wouldn't be in possession of a moustache, especially not like the one that the fireman grew on his upper lip, obscured for the most part by bandages as it was.

"You're eye is twitching."

"I know. I can't stop it."

"Did it start before or after you saw the firemen?"

"I presume you are referring to the one across the way who is sans nose?"

"Well he is the only firemen in view and for christ sake keep your voice down, you don't want him to hear you."

"What? Like he doesn't realize that his nose has been excised?"

"Of course he knows. He better or else if I were him I would be pretty mad at the person who put those bandages on the place his nose used to be. But really show a little restraint, don't want to offend now do we?"

"No I don't wish to offend but really he isn't doing much of a job hiding the fact that there is a hole in his face where there once, I presume, was a nose."

"You're right one can never be sure if there indeed was any nose of mention at some past time. You have to figure there was for if memory serves me correctly one of the requirements of becoming a fireman is having a working nose."

"You know this as fact?"

"Um...yes. Yes I do know tis a fact."

"You're full of shit."

"Maybe so but come on it seems to me that this poor fellow probably lost his nose in battle with some great conflagration or another."

"Brutal."

"Makes sense to me."

"Well he is just a firemen representative."

"Maybe but the clothes and the bars mean that he is still a real fireman."

"Quit staring."

"I'm not."

"What if he were to stare at your eye? You know it is still twitching like crazy?"

"Of course I know my eye is twitching and I told you before I can't stop it. And I could give a flying fuck if a fireman with no nose wanted to stare at my twitching eye."

"Well that doesn't mean you have to stare."

"Okay I'm not staring anymore are you happy?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"That fireman's nose or lack thereof is tripping me out."

"It's probably tripping him out more then it's tripping you out."

"I suppose. Must be a real drag."

"He doesn't seem too bummed out. I mean what is he supposed to do go and hide himself away? There is at least 95 per cent of him that is just fine, well fine-ish, he is pretty fat, but my point is should he just hide away and not be seen at all?"

"He could do a better job covering it up. You see that hole in the bandage?"

"Maybe he breathes out of it?"

"I'm sure he does but hell I would cover the hole and breathe through my mouth if that was me."

"Well it's not you. I am sure he has a lot more experience dealing with his no nose situation then you do so maybe he knows what the right protocol for a nose-less fireman is where you can only make conjecture?"

"All I know is that it is freaking me out."

"Maybe it is making your eye twitch."

"Maybe it is?"

"You know noses are pretty damn important."

"I agree. I think I take my nose for granted."

"Not hard to do."

"I think I should go thank that fireman for making me more appreciative of my own nose."

"Maybe you shouldn't."















"Oh no."

"What?"

"Look."

"Oh shit."

"Yup."

"Your other eye is twitching now."

"I know. I have to stop looking at the nose-less fireman."

"I have to thank you."

"For what?"

"I really am appreciative that my eyes aren't twitching."

"Thanks a lot."

"My pleasure."

Mr. And Mrs. Used To Be

It had been a fine stereo, a Kenwood with 80 watts per side, the tone was great and powering a couple of JBLs, they didn't make them like that anymore. He bemoaned the advent of the digital age, nothing really got better he thought. The digital stereos couldn't reproduce cymbals, but the kids these days wouldn't know the difference for the low quality digital sound was all they would ever know.















He had grown old, had seen the LP come and go, watched cassettes become all the rage and now the passing of the CD into digital download. He wished they would have stopped at the LP, the 45 for that matter, hell he would take a 78 for what passed for sound these days. He wouldn't argue with the convenience of computer music but the sound was deplorable. What was so hard about dropping a needle on a slab of vinyl anyways?

But he had given in just like almost everyone else. How could he keep up with the wealth of music so close at hand if he were not to take advantage of all delivery means available in the modern world?

He put on an old record, a digital representation of an old record, and was transported. He still enjoyed the experience, though limited as it may have been, and the music stirred in him deep emotions. He had loved this recording since he was a young man, much younger then he was now.

How come, thought he, that the kids of today can't make good music. He was well assured that the music of his youth was of a vastly superior quality. These kids today, what did they know about anything? How could some youngster know depth of emotion, know of love and loss, have the requisite world experience to make any statement grand or not? Youth does not posses this information, he thought.

Then it struck him. The music he loved so much, the music that informed his life, that taught him how to love and romance, that music was made by people much younger then he. Though they may be old now that music was made, in its day, by the same youngsters he was now accusing of not being world-wise. Those yearning pleas to loves gone away, the meditations on strange places and strange times, all written by people who were only youngsters themselves when they made the recordings. He was in fact many years the senior of every artist he so loved.

Perhaps he thought, that maybe the allure of music, or for people to be musicians and to make recordings was that when a song is recorded then the artist is forever frozen in time at the age at which he recorded it. Could Alex Chilton really have had the life experience to sing, The Letter, at age seventeen? Did Michael Jackson even know what loving a girl was when he sang, The Love You Save? Would he ever know?

He was an old man and with age he hoped came some wisdom. He knew enough to know he was right about the sound of digital music, it was awful and it wasn't his age that was driving this sentiment, it was fact. As far as the kids today not making the timeless music that the youngsters of his generation made...Neil Young...The Jam...well maybe he shouldn't be so hard on the kids of this generation. Then again...















'Pile it high on the platter...'

From Erich Von Stroheim

My Dear Friends,

I am writing this letter at the behest of one Mr. Sufferwords. He asked that I, the president of Master Butterfly Eats Yesterday, make public a situation that he himself as been reticent to broach, that is, that he has been doing horribly at his job lately.

I must say the Board was on the verge of firing him and getting some other blogger, maybe even one that would come at a cheaper price, but Sufferwords has asked that he be given one more chance at redeeming himself and in so the reputation of Master Butterfly Eats Yesterday.

Personally I don't think he has it in him. But you dear readers can be the judge. I have been assured that as of tomorrow's posting that Sufferwords will once more regain his stellar abilities and then daily regale you with his sordid tales and wispy logic.

So take this if you will as a tease. If I were you I would consider his latest output, what little of it there is to consider, and honestly just be glad we had the old days and move on.

So there you have it in total. More empty pledges from Sufferwords but then again you can't help but have a soft spot for the old dog now can you.

Here's hoping.

Your's truly.

Erich Von Stroheim

President
Board of Directors
MBEY

I Wasn't Asked To See Your Shoes

He stood patiently in line like he had so many times before. Another store another queue. There was no getting around it. If it weren't for his deep need for these items, the ones he had come for, he might have just gone home and forgot about the whole thing. The thing was he couldn't forget his needs. He tried not to eavesdrop as the person before him talked with the counter help. He felt it should be a private thing and he would be somewhat aghast if someone were to listen in once he arrived at the counter for help.















The person finished their business so now it was his turn. He had an idea what he wanted but a part of him was not so sure that he should be there, in this store, in the first place. With timid steps he moved to the counter then leaned over somewhat conspiratorially.

"I believe I'm next."

"How can I serve you?"

"I think so...I mean maybe."

"Well perhaps if you give me an idea of what you had in mind then maybe I can make a recommendation?"

"That sounds fairly simple. Okay, here goes. I need a metaphor."

"Then you're in luck. You did come to the Metaphor Store."

"Right, right, I know. It's just that I'm not sure how to say what I want to say."

"I know. I want to sat something but I don't want to be too direct. I want to get my point across without coming in so clearly as to offend."

"We have sold many a metaphor to shoppers who have been in just your predicament."

"I don't need anything too special but I would prefer if it wasn't one that every one uses."

"I see, I guess we need not look through the sale items then."

"Yeah, I'm not too worried about cost."

"Great. So what do you want to say."

"It's kinda hard to put my finger on it but something to do with feeling left out."

"Interesting; left out huh?"

"Yeah, that's it. You know a spastic orange or something."

"Spastic orange, well it seems you do indeed have need for our services. What is it specifically you feel left out of?"

"I don't really want to say it's kind of a touchy subject."

"So you feel you are falling through a door of deception?"

"No. Slipping on a dove's ear would be more apt."

"A dove's ear? Are you sure you want to remain so obscure?"

"No, I don't I suppose."

"Maybe you can elucidate on you actual desires?"

"Well I seem to have a brick tongue when I try and explain it."

"Maybe you should just say what you mean?"

"Like a preacher in a steam bath?"

"No. You have to buy those at the simile store."

"Maybe I don't need a metaphor?"

"Buying a metaphor can be serious business."

"Telling the truth can be dangerous business, honest and popular don't go hand in hand. If you admit you can play an accordion no one will hire you for a rock and roll band."

"Wow. What was that?"

"Not sure to tell the truth."

"Was it a parable or an analogy?"

"I don't know anything beyond it is a lyric from the movie Ishtar."

"Damned underrated movie to be sure."

"I agree."

"Sorry we couldn't help you at the metaphor store."















"You know. I feel better. Maybe I should just not care what I say?"

"You might not get hired for a rock and roll band."

"That's okay. Rock and roll is overrated."

"Have a good day."

"Thanks. You too."

Can I Have An Extra Scoop Of Silence?

The line must have numbered seven deep. It seemed that everyone was in a rush to get out of the store but the Rite-Aid, replete with dirty floors and understaffed registers, still seemed the best place to be. He could have ran to the Staples or perhaps the Vons, but he was at the Rite-Aid and until he had purchased the ream of unlined letter size paper he had had come for he was not to be going anywhere.















There was another throng circling the ice cream counter. It wasn't as if the ice cream, which once had only been a nickel for one scoop and a dime for two, was anything to wait in line for. Sure it was relatively inexpensive by the day's standards but the ice cream wasn't very good and it was no longer the value it had once been. The people had been trained to think it a deal and so they still came and come they did. Hordes of people leaving the store with lousy ice cream dripping down their hands.

The man in front of him clutched a Steel Reserve tall boy. The man smelled and his free hand was filthy as he jingled a palm full of pennies, nickels and dimes. The ream of paper took on a greater heft as he battled the fetor of the man holding his precious his beer if that was indeed what the Steel Reserve was. He had never tasted a Steel Reserve but had seen many a thirsty man down on his luck opt for this particular brand. He looked to the front of the line and saw a bad sign. A woman had a lone box of feminine hygiene product but in her hand she held a receipt. She handed the box to the cashier and then the receipt and began pointing at the receipt.

Phones were used, a call for the manager rang out from the blown through public address system and it seemed the line was to be stalled until the customer, now gaining in vituperative volume was to be satisfied to her liking. His arm felt as if the the weight of the world were contained in the ream. He thought he smelled the Steel Reserve man fart. He gagged.

Was it worth it? Was it ever worth it to go to Rite-Aid? He thought about how wrong everything about the situation was. Even the name Rite-Aid was all wrong. How could he expect anything better from a store that didn't even spell the word, 'right', correctly? It was time for action so he made a bold move and went to a line that, though a person longer, didn't include a farting Steel Reserve man or a feminine hygiene receipt switcher.

He surveyed those in the longer line in front of him. It looked promising. There was a girl, maybe eighty pounds on her five-seven frame holding a single package of mascara. A Mexican family of four with two packages of Huggies and a couple of people with nothing much to speak of; probably there for smokes or something else he hadn't the interest to conjecture. The Steel Reserve man farted audibly and the smell made it over to his new line. Everyone tried not to notice but it was nearly impossible.

And so it went. His line inched along but as he watched the line he had left hadn't moved at all. The Steel Reserve fart man was now at the back of his line three people back. The feminine hygiene woman was near tears and he recognized a junkie receipt scam stalled. He felt for her. A piece of him wanted to lay a twenty on the poor gal just to end her misery but a larger piece of him just wanted to get the hell out of there.

It had been nearly twenty minutes since he had entered the store. He had only a ream of paper to purchase. It was not going as planned. He considered his existence and realized that nothing ever went exactly as he planned so why should a trip to Rite-Aid be any different? There was a manger now at the head of the line he had left and the junkie girl was escorted from the store. It wasn't a pretty 'site'...sight. He was only one person from the front of the line. His mind was already back home printing the document he had needed to print. The document that was so important that he would brave a trip to the Rite-Aid at night. And then it stopped.

It seems that the mascara girl needed a different mascara, he thought he heard that she needed the blue and not the black, it was hard to tell because she spoke in such a slight voice that the cashier whose command of the English language was rudimentary at best had her repeat her request at least five time before a common understanding was arrived at. And so his line was stalled. The cashier left her station and so they waited. Minutes nee hours seemed to pass and no cashier. He looked to his left and saw the Steel Reserve fart man counting change at the register next to him and with a loud blast leave the store.

If he had the hair he might have pulled from his head at this point. More dripping ice cream, the mascara girl pulling her hair and into her mouth and no cashier. The line to his left moving at a brisk pace. Hell...

That night as he loaded his printer he felt that all was right in the world. He had made it back alive from the Rite-Aid. He was thankful he wasn't trying to pull a junkie scam and that he hadn't ever had the need to drink a Steel Reserve tall boy and that he was just fine with black mascara. He went to his computer and pushed print...

The printer flashed...low ink level, change cartridge before continuing job. Man was he thirsty for a Steel Reserve.

Baby Please Don't Go

"I see you are going to take the easy route."

"You think this is the easy route?"















"Of course it is."

"Why would you want to go and think that?"

"Isn't it obvious to you?"

"No it isn't obvious. Actually I think it is a fairly insensitive concept to even imply."

"Oh don't get me wrong I'm not implying anything. I am saying in no uncertain terms that you are taking the easy route."

"Why say that?"

"Because you always do this."

"What."

"Words."

"Yeah, okay, words. So what's so wrong with that?"

"Because it isn't a real spiritual way of going about things."

"What are you talking about? The bible is words and...okay, bad example, but there are very spiritual writings and writings are words."

"Hooray for you. Go ahead and fool yourself all you want but what you write isn't spiritual in the least."

"Gulp."

"What was that?"

"Me swallowing my ego, you know a humility pill."

"And so you should."

"Alright so I'm not the most spiritual leaf on the tree."

"Agreed."

"Thanks. I still don't know why you say I am taking the easy way out. That these words are the easy way."

"Now I not proposing that I am some giant of the spiritual world but words are words and I am tired of words."

"Then what on earth do you want if not words?"

"Something spiritual."

"What like, um let me see...how about a spiritual concept. How does 'be here now' strike you?"

"Nice try but you miss my point entirely."

"Go with god?"

"Really? Go with god?"

"It was a joke."

"Right, a joke."

"Then what do you want?"

"Here's the thing. Whenever you are faced with an opportunity all I ever get from you is words. Words, words, and more words. How about some action."

"Action?"

"Yes action. Action is a spiritual concept of the largest variety."

"Okay....?"

"You see you can talk or write or do whatever you delude yourself into thinking you are doing ad-nauseam and all it really amounts to is a large aggregate of useless bullshit. Do just one thing, selflessly, do just one thing and you can rise up."

"Now who is joking?"

"Oh I'm not joking."

"So you dismiss all that I have created."

"I could but because of my love for you I choose not too. But give me some action. All I want is some action."

"How do you know that I don't take action when you are not around?"

"I don't know that. Do you?"

"In fact I do. I believe that I take spiritual action."

"What is it?"

"I can't say."

"Why not."

"Because part of the spiritual nature of it is that I do it without anyone watching, anonymously."

"Really?"

"Yes. I take action that, although I don't believe I am in a position to claim as spiritual, being that if there is a spiritual realm then I can not be the judge of these actions, but I feel would fall into your understanding of spiritual pursuit."















"Oh. I guess I stand corrected."

"I forgive you."

"Thank you."

"Is forgiveness a spiritual concept...or as you might say, action?"

"Don't rub it in."

"Is rubbing it in an action?"

"I get it."

"Is...."

If You Can Sit Still Long Enough

"All right. Who said it?"

There was a not so quiet silence. The kind of silence that seems louder then if there were actually a noise being made. The air conditioner whirred, feet shuffled, throats cleared and in general there was every manner of sound save for a voiced response.















"I know I heard it so don't try and pretend that it wasn't said."

More silence.

"So you think you are pretty smart do you? Well I've got news for you right now. You are not that smart. You may perceive success but I assure you in no uncertain terms that yours is but a temporary victory and in time you will suffer of the error of your ways. A price will be paid."

The rustling diminished and save for the mechanical hums a real silence began to take form, an oppressive silence, and with it came furtive looks and accusatory glances.

"You may think me a fool standing here before you. It is true you may think that whatever fun you might think you are having is worth your effort and on some level you are probably correct but I happen to know something that you don't. I'm sure you are thinking to yourself that it is preposterous that I know anything let alone something that you don't but on that account you would be in fact terribly misguided and incorrect."

He spun from his spot and walked amongst them eyeballing each as he passed with equal disgust. He circled the room in that silence until he was back before them.

"I have good news and bad news. The bad news first. I know who said it. The good news is... I no longer care. You may think that this is all about something that was said but I know better. This is a much larger topic and being that no one wants to speak then I feel it is my duty to continue on. Please feel free, you the one I'm speaking to, to interrupt me at any time but in truth it might do you some good to just keep your mouth shut a while longer and hear what I have to say."

The shifting about and fear returned.

"You see you may think that you got one over on me. On another day and in another time you may have but that is not the point now is it? The point is that your need to say something, to make a proclamation out loud at the expense of another, that other at this time happens to be me, is a shallow plea to define your existence. If you don't speak out, make a mark, be it negative or positive, but to to make your mark in order to call attention to yourself and in your recognition to prove to yourself that you indeed exist is a sad plea at best. To what greater good do you aspire? Are you the baby who sits in his cradle and cries out for food...no. Are you crying out for warmth...no. You are simply crying out because unless you are validated by others then in your sad little world there is again nothing to define you, you exist only in a void and like the little baby you only want attention."

"I said it."

"No you didn't."

"Then I said said it."

"Neither did you. More cries for attention."















The silence was now replaced by a chorus of admissions, none of them by the one who had spoke out originally.

"In your silence you condemn all around you. Speak up and get the attention you so obviously desire."

More silence. Then the bell.

"Class dismissed."

Pass The Velvet Margarita

It was green everywhere in this the summer and it made him insane, mad. He felt as green as anything he might see.















Jealousy seemed to be his root emotion for just about as long as it had been since the grasses of the previous year had died. It had been the bitter fall when his perspective had begun its shift. He had often looked at the latest fancy automobiles and where once he saw to the future and how he might himself sit behind the wheel one day he now had feelings of abject hate for the driver. How come he didn't have that car? Why was the table leaning away from him and fuck that guy anyway.

Next was the coveting of friends girlfriends and worse. He hated everyone and anyone who had ever had something that he couldn't obtain. Early on he searched for the meaning of this new viewpoint, it indeed make him uncomfortable, but as the days slipped by he just gave in and embraced it. He wanted what he couldn't have and it pissed him off to no end.

It overtook every other emotion. Envy it seemed was his reason to be and if that be the case then so be it. He would have just taken what he wanted but even that he couldn't manage so he became jealous of thieves and the like. He was unable to act on his desires and so this then too became a great source of envy when he might see others taking and he just standing by and hoping.

It was a black time for him and now he saw where the garden growing a door up from his home had become thick with summer flowers. He had seen the planting some months back and thought little of it but by the time the flowers had begun their bloom it was on.

He resented the gardener their hobby. He resented her happiness, her purpose and the joy it obviously brought her. Nothing in his life brought him joy and he seethed now at the idea of her digging and planting and watering. Where was his happiness?

It became even worse. The gardener was an easy target but then he found himself jealous even of the flowers. He hated they way they sat there so peaceably, drinking of the sun, their colors some subtle and then some vibrant. He wished them to be gray. He was jealous of the plants, of their thorns, he wanted thorns, he wanted his exterior to match his interior. He envied the water and the dirt the earth he resented it all.

He was jealous of the simplicity of a plants life for they wanted of nothing but earth, water and sun. He wanted so much more and he couldn't have it. He envied the sidewalk and the curb. He was jealous of it all. He was jealous of the people who walked on the sidewalk, he was jealous of their clothes and he was jealous of the shoes on the people's feet.

He envied purpose of being. He wanted his own purpose but to his reason his only reason to be was to be envious. The jealousy was making him insane. He sat on the sidewalk and stared at the garden. He wanted to rip each plant from the earth but again he did not have this larceny in him and he pondered the envy he had for those to who vandalism came easy. He sat for hours with every scenario of jealousy and envy racing through him.

The sun started to set and he cursed it in a refutation of the nature of existence. He was jealous of the religious and the atheistic. He had no belief and no reason but to covet. The the last of the light was gone and over his head he saw the streetlight flicker on.

He slowed and looked at the streetlight. He searched his mind as to how he might rain his envy on the streetlight but nothing came. He tried his utmost but he just couldn't find reason to be jealous of this beautiful benign streetlight. In the streetlight the flowers took on a sickly pallor as did the sidewalk. Everything changed and as quick as it had come over him that previous fall month, his affliction then vanished. He wasn't envious of the streetlight, in fact he wasn't jealous of anything. The fact was as he sat there on that warm summer night staring above to the streetlight he had an odd feeling that maybe someone might be jealous of him.















He had crawled through the fire and escaped. Maybe he was to be envied for to him everything was alright. He had purpose if not beyond sitting on that sidewalk and taking in the all of the streetlight's majesty.