Downright Otherworldly

Note: This began as stream of consciousness fiction, but took on a little more planning. Let's call it extremely short fiction. For a blog entry, it's long.

I'm at this concert with Lindsey. It is our third date and I am definitely hoping things will go well. Our first two dates were amazing, so I figure a little live entertainment is definitely the way to go tonight. The place is nice, intimate and warm. You enter from the street at the back of the building, where the bar is. In this area, as it should be, the bar is the focal point. It has been placed symmetrically between the two openings in the building. On one side is the entrance proper, and on the other is a short hallway that looks to lead to the kitchen. The walls are 100% red brick, but laid uneven in certain parts for a more natural feel. Various murals have been painted right into them.

The bar appears like a solid block of long, rounded cherry wood stained to a very dark and smooth finish. Simple stools with dark, leather cushions stand like pylons at the front of the bar awaiting the show. Behind the bar are all manner of spirits, liquor, wine & beer lined up in fancy bottles, below cabinets matching the cherry wood finish. The cabinet doors are made of glass, to display all of the novelty tumblers and glassware. The bar is essentially on a kind of wooden stage with a balcony fence and stairs on either side. Down four or so stairs are deep navy carpeted walkways surrounding the wood floor dining area consisting of about 30 small, round tables. In the very front is the stage, perfect for tonight's acoustic guitar performance.

Lindsey and I make small talk at a volume a little bit above a loud whisper. For a room of more than 60 people, the banter is surprisingly quiet. Toward the back, a few groups have pulled tables together, but couples like us are the majority. Some are eating the fair, light appetizers and salads, most are imbibing. On my suggestion, we went without a meal and both of us have a single glass of red wine, Cabernet. We're sitting in the front.

She looks unbelievable, wearing sandals with newly manicured toes (from what I can tell about female grooming), her nicer, dark jeans, and a simple, white halterneck that complements her slightly tanned skin. Lindsey has her blonde hair down, thrown over one shoulder. She knows what she's doing. This is a wink to me, because of what I said the other...

As I was looking into Lindsey's grey-blue eyes telling her another one of my goofy jokes she loves, I noticed the old man looking at me from the table behind her. There's something about him, I'm not sure. I must have stopped my joke in midsentence because she still has that geeky smile I like, waiting in anticipation for the punchline. Then she asks me what's wrong, but the old man holds my gaze. I don't know what it is. Now, Lindsey is looking at him, transfixed.

He is very old. Completely bald on the top of his head, with incredibly smooth skin, he has long silver hair to his shoulders. He smiles. Both of us, I believe, start feeling very happy at this. With that, the man stands. He's tall, about 6'4" and lanky. He deftly grabs one of the chairs at his table and, with a sweep of his long arm and a quick stride, is seated at our table in moments. He greets us, I'm sure. He speaks mostly to Linds, and I hear him & I understand, but I don't know his words. The speech is harmonic. From what I can tell, it conveys more through tone and movement and expression than through words.

I begin to admire the man's features, and I notice something peculiar. It's his ears. They're large, of course. But, ever so slightly, and just subtly enough that most passers-by wouldn't care to notice, the ears are pointed. In fact, the longer I stare, the more distinctive they become. But then he's looking at me, smiling. He knows me. We haven't met before, but there is warmth between us, like two friends, brothers even, who survive a calamity. Maybe one brother saved the other. Just as quickly as he met us, the man is back to his own table. Strange.

I look to Lindsey who acts like the Cheshire cat. I ask her what he said and I sense something different about her in the response. She is speaking harmonically, also, but her words come through, like hearing something new for the first time in your all-time favorite song. You know the lyrics but the melody is just somehow different. Linds tells me that the musician we came to see is called Thomas Reynard and that we're in for a real treat. There's more that she isn't telling me. Something about me, it must be. She beams at me when she thinks I'm not looking. Something good, at least. Can't do me any harm to just let it be, so that's what I do.

As I'm back to admiring her, I notice that her skin is getting more tan, but then I look up to see the lights dimming. The show is starting. The whole place quiets. The whole place is dark. I hear one of the doors open at the front of the place, opposite our end. Footsteps now, I can barely make them out, but I hear footsteps. Lindsey puts her hand on mine to tell me to turn so I can see him. He is coming down the walkway closest to us. I am amazed.

Reynard is tiny. Maybe 5'5" if he combs his long, brown hair right, he has complete command of the room despite that. As he approaches the stage, I notice something peculiar. He is barefoot, walking heel to toe naturally. His features are remarkably pronounced. Reynard's small body is adorned with long arms and hands of spindly fingers. His face seems older than his years, wrinkled under the eyes from concentration & exhaustion and around the mouth from excessive smiling & laughter. His nose is long, but not oversized like his ears. His eyes are huge and greenish-brown, the kind that change in the light.

My experience now tells me to observe Reynard like a hawk. I don't hear him introduced or the spirited applause he receives until Lindsey takes her hand from mine to clap, herself. With his guitar in his left hand, Thomas waves to the audience with his right. As he sits down, he nods to the old man who responds in kind, bowing his head in respect. Reynard plays.

No song has lyrics. The emotions from them are stronger. Thomas plays in a way that makes you feel as if you're only seeing one small portion of a greater masterpiece. The feeling is palpable that certain rhythms and melodies are flying over us just as others are being received. The only audience participation is the assumption that jaws are on the floor. Each element, arrangement even, amidst a song causes various reactions. They are all joyful. Lindsey and I are amazed, together. She now has a firm grip on my hand, and mine back to hers. At different points during the performance one of us gives a squeeze. It is pure excitement.

This is downright otherworldly. I could swear as I look back toward the bar that those bar stools are swaying in time to the music. But that is nothing. The murals on the walls have come to life. Several shape notes, painted into the red brick in bright colors, dance across the ether above us and trade places between the two walls. On one wall is the mascot of the establishment: an elephant on a trampoline. As sure as Lindsey is beautiful, that elephant is doing backflips and dance moves on that trampoline. And last, behind Thomas Reynard, the grand mural of the stage has become three-dimensional. It looks almost like he is literally playing on a televised beach performance.

A feeling like this is nearly impossible to describe, but Reynard onstage is the icing on the cake. It is as if the music moves through him and down his arms and into his fingers and onto the strings and out from the guitar. He dances as a vessel possessed by its cargo, moving in time from a straight-up posture to that of a deep bow forward and back again. Each time, he leans back and stretches far, throwing his head back with his lips pursed and his eyes closed. The eyes, though, are rolled back in a dreamlike state. I picture him simply envisioning the notes and causing his fingers to respond instantly. It is a sight to behold.

Finally, Reynard closes the show and then plays his encore, bringing the audience to his true height. At the very end, out of the corner of my eye, I see that old man get up and dance around his own table faster than I've ever seen a person move. Show over, lights up, and Reynard staying to speak with audience members, Linds and I just look at each other. I think this date is a hit.

Gradually, after the shock and amazement of the incredible show begins to wear off, the specifics fade into our memories, and we regain our conversation. The old man is over with Reynard, saying goodbye, as I can tell. The man leaves, leaving us with a simple wink of his warm eyes. Soon after, Reynard walks by smiling genuinely, and looks us both in the eye. We can only smile. As he brushes his hair back, I notice it: a long, pointed ear.

As we get ready to leave, I ask Lindsey, "So, what did the old man say about me?"

She looks at me like she has good news.

Stream -- Julian still held a romantic idea...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

Julian still held a romantic idea of anything related to a boating lifestyle. Often, he would go to one of his favorite food places and take his order over to the harbor, to eat lunch. He liked being among the boats. Average sized sailing vessels were his favorite: nothing really big enough to make a statement, that was a statement of its own. Every part of the ship had a use, and yet it was still primarily used for pleasure. It's bright white color when viewed from afar on a windy, choppy, dark blue ocean day was like a beacon, but up close, on the harbor, you could see that each boat had its own experiences and shares of highs and lows.

The food, of course, attracted the seabirds, and that reminded him of those chartered fishing boats. All souls would congregate aft. The music would be playing, comfortably audible. In his mind, he heard Santana or Bob Marley. The smells of fresh fish and clean, salt air were pungent. Usually, they would cook up the first of the white sea bass that was caught, and Julian could taste the meat with just a little butter and lemon. He loved thinking about how the undulations of passing waves became second nature, and then lasted beyond the fishing trip itself, even onto dry land. His favorite was the deep blue, far as the eye could see, going into the horizon. He enjoyed feeling lost in that environment.

The seabirds were most interested in the smells and tastes, as they were on the harbor. Seagulls would creep up cautiously, to see what Julian would do. These ones weren't too pushy, so he could could eat in peace. Sometimes a pelican would fly overhead low and slow. The bird would force itself to drag against the wind long enough to check the goings-on. Then it would flap its wings and move on, presumably to the open ocean.

Julian knew he loved the sea life, in one way or another. He often thought of that day at that house. He sat in a gazebo-like structure on the rock seawall. It was low tide on a blustery day and without that structure around him, he would have been very cold. The water was dark, dark blue but was being broken up constantly by white caps out past the breakers. He just stared into the water and thought about absolutely nothing. He was mesmerized by the rhythmic movement and just knew he belonged exactly where he was. Then he saw a moving white cap that initially broke his concentration.

When he made the object the focus of his concentration, he knew exactly what it was. He recognized the beacon immediately. Julian knew he was witnessing another part of its experience, a high, a low, maybe both. It was a bright white, average sized sailing vessel. He could tell it was captained by someone who was serious about boating. Someone interested in recreation might use the motor on a day like this. This was a serious sailor's day. This sailboat was sailing. Julian watched intently. From this vantage point, the boat almost ambled across the sea, taking each wave as it passed. He was sure this happened for the captain as well, but he also knew, relatively speaking, that boat was moving. The bright white ship created a bright white trail in the choppy ocean. Long after the captain had moved on, Julian watched that trail sink back into the deep blue.

Stream -- A Special Air

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

Sitting on the patio of the bar and lounge outside of the fancy hotel, he ordered one of his favorite drinks. There was no reason for it, and it probably wasn't an appropriate drink for the season. It was cold, and he was glad to be next to the gas heater. It doesn't matter how you feel, he thought, you always sit on the patio. The girl brought him the Gin & Tonic. Sapphire, of course.

She was attractive enough. He could find something beautiful in any woman if he tried, and especially if he knew her. He knew this girl. The trick, however, was not having to try, and he already had that. So he wasn't interested in anything. He reminded himself that that wasn't what this place was all about. Contemplation was key.

He sipped the gin and enjoyed it. It was a good one. He felt uplifted. The place began to take over as he stared over the balcony into the darkened garden. It had hardly any lights on it, so nothing attracted his attention apart from the stars along the horizon. He liked it that way. Later, he was thinking about his childhood, his memories and the stories of others, and he knew his thoughts would soon return to that seminal event in his development.

"Tom, remember when we were fishermen?" He said that to his godfather when he was no older than four years old, as they sat on the porch of his beach house staring into the glimmering ocean before them. Call it a kid being a kid, call it a vivid imagination. Call it bullshit. It was meaningless. Most people would think that. But not Tom. Tom always said he was convinced of its truth.

At that moment, on that patio, he understood what Tom meant all these years and he knew why his godfather was right. Hell, it gave him reason to consider reincarnation. That wasn't quite it, however. There was more to it: a special air about it. That was it. A special air. Like certain places he visited and certain people he met. Certain words in certain books also had a special air. In fact, many things did. The patio did. As much as he knew it was there, however, it was still beyond his grasp, like his question so many years ago. He was glad that his godfather was convinced of its truth. That was good enough for him. It gave him hope, and that was all he needed.

He took his last sip of the gin, and that's when he noticed the old man sitting at the table by the doorway of the lounge. He had a glass of dark whiskey in his left hand and a big cigar in his right. The smoke curled up from it, into the night. The man had a warmth about him. It was the smiling eyes. Having paid for the gin, plus tip, he got up and headed towards the lounge in order to leave the hotel. He walked towards the old man, and noticed the gray, wrinkled, smiling one put the whiskey down on his table. As he passed, the old man reached up and touched him kindly on the forearm.

The warmth and happiness in the old man's eyes was unfailing. Yet, he looked at him with deep intensity and spoke sincerely. "Bless you." He nodded appreciatively to the old man.

"Thank you," he said, "that honestly means a lot to me." He was just as sincere.

Then the old man asked rhetorically, "So you know what it's all about then, don't you?"

Stream -- I watched a long conversation.

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

I watched a long conversation. It was on my walk through the woods. I saw the hawk speaking to the bright blue sky while the songbirds sang to the trees. I heard the sounds of the wind dancing with the leaves, and then I went down to the waterline to see the fish interpret the river's currents. I found a comfy looking tree trunk that had the right combination of sun and shade, and I sat down. I closed my eyes.

My heart rate began to quicken. I could feel my face turning red. I got hot. It became difficult to breathe. I moved back in time. I saw the nurse. She had the needle in her hand. I was at the hospital. Chemo.

I opened my eyes, and breathed a slow, relaxed sigh of relief at the sight of the bright blue sky. Not so long ago, these walks, these experiences were only dreams. Now, they were my reality. But there was a downside. I wouldn't trade what I had for anything, but a trade did occur. My old reality took up residence in my new dreams. These walks were my solution, and they may still be, but they require something difficult. I closed my eyes again.

I grew exhausted as I found myself in that gloomy examination room. I felt awful, like shit, like I couldn't help but be blunt. I was cold. I was freezing. Looking down at my hand, I saw that the IV was good to go. At this stage, it didn't matter where they put the needle, it didn't matter what kind of an artisan the nurse was, when that sucker went in, I suffered. Both hands were bruised. They felt tender and arthritic and only one person could touch them: Candy, the RN. She was the best. I learned the dream of nature from her. She was an artisan.

This day, I was in no condition to picture the trees and the birds and the sky on my own. I kept looking up at the IV bag, watching every drop of poison enter my body. It was something I could feel, like little bits of pain adding up to one big ordeal of suffering. Eventually, I dropped my head back and the tears came. But today I had Candy.

She had a healthy attractive face, a dark complexion, and hair of a wonderfully colorful brown. I won't forget telling her about my recent trip to the ER, when a nurse there gave my hand a hematoma. She jokingly fainted against my arm, her soft hair brushing against me, as if to say that a good nurse would never do that. Now, here she was, her smooth hands holding mine, talking my spirit into another nature walk.

I stood at the edge of the water. I could see the hawk rising high. He quickly finished what he was saying and went into a swift dive out of the sky. Decisive. My eyes followed him until the horizon of trees entered between us. I walked as close to the water as possible and knelt down. Placing my hands into the river, I felt connected to the fish, and watched as they chose a path through the water and followed it closely. I brought some of the fresh water out with my hands and up to my face. I splashed it on. The amazing thing while all of this was going on was that the breeze continued to move, and the songbirds continued to sing.

I knew what I had to do.

Stream -- People call me the wanderer.

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

People call me the wanderer. My hair is long and my clothes are warm. They're here for me when it's time for the wind to rise. It happens, sure as the tides, when the sky gives in to dusk. I see it. As I travel from town to town, I see it. I walk down the road and I say goodbye to the sun. The brush begins to sway, and there is a rustling in the trees. Then, the wind rises swiftly, a last gasp before the night takes the sunset. The colors dim, but I continue walking.

I remember my family. It had many parts, and it was not exclusive to biology: brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, children, friends, confidants, mentors and caregivers. Some members of my family were many of those things, some were only one, and sometimes certain members became none. Some were distant, some were close, but that was not proportional to their location, however near or far it may have been to me. Some came into my life only very briefly, others were there always. Some died. All were loved, in one way or another.

People call me the wanderer. My beard is full and my boots are sturdy. They keep me going where the road gets weary. It happens. No matter my disposition or the time of day, it happens. I continue on the road and I say goodbye to everything else. The night has taken over the sky and there is no moon tonight. The noise of city lights that I cannot see has blocked out the stars. Cars are long gone having taken their headlights with them. And this is a street of only stop signs, but even the color in them has faded. The wind is gone, but I continue walking.

I remember my lover. She had so many sides to her, and I guess that was both her greatest flaw and her greatest attribute. Her eyes had a hypnotic depth. They took me in and gave me comfort. I found safety there and I felt open. Her softness was enchanting. It eased my suffering and fueled my passion. I found liberation and it made me tender. Her smile was perfect and universally enjoyed. I saw it crack. Where I had one self, she had many. At long last, she was human. No matter the circumstance, however, she was loved. She is always loved. I love her.

I am the wanderer. My mind is healthy and my body is well-fed. And so, I walk on. My strides are measured. They are not always equal, but they are measured. Where I'm going is not a mystery and when I get there, I'll know. Right now, I have what I need: my thoughts and the night. I hope for the sun at dawn. That is all I have. The road continues in front of me, and soon I'll be between towns. Out on the two-lane road, I'll see its cracks and faded paint. I'll walk along the ditches and watch the lines of crops. I continue to walk, and I'll keep walking.

Stream -- Gifting her with music...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

Gifting her with music was not my intent, and I still believe I did not do that. I did, however, want to hear the music in her, and I do believe I accomplished that. I'm excited, sitting here and waiting to hear her very first set ever, as I know what the small, intimate audience is about to receive. As her grandfather, I know she's had music from a young age, very young. As her friend, I have needed strongly to help her express that fully, and without obligation to me of any sort. Now, you could say I am her sponsor after these last months.

Hard to believe it was that long ago I gave Olivia her guitar. I didn't bother wrapping it. I sat in my apartment, awaiting her usual visit, and did a little tuning and then a little strumming in the darkened room. Liv knocked her unassuming knock and entered. "Hi Grandpa Oberon," she said. It was like her smile flipped the light switch. "Hello sweetheart," I said, "how bright you are. Come and sit with me." She didn't know what to think of the guitar. Liv knew I had the ability, but I don't think she expected me to bother anymore. She, herself, had played all her life and had plenty of friends to borrow guitars from, but it was never more than a hobby. I aimed to change that, or more accurately, give her the tools. She was thrilled.

Everything about Liv is sensible. Her clothing is usually standard, looks nice on her but nothing showy. She did well in school and got her college degree, and moved into a steady job. She has a nice group of friends that anybody's parents would love. The most risqué thing about her is the navel piercing (we don't mention anything to her folks about the tattoo above her shoulder blade... yet). Point being, at 23, she does and has done everything right in her life. Olivia does it the way I raised her mother to raise her. But she didn't have that damn guitar, and I wanted her to have that damn guitar, because she should have it. She always does the things people do, but then people didn't put the music in her.

And so, her visits consisted of drinking tea and chatting, strumming and songwriting, all with me. What a gift to an old man. I only asked her to do it the way she wanted without looking to my approval. Liv didn't need any training. Over the months, I saw something innate. When she finally told me of the gig, I was thrilled.

There is no dressing room here, just a private bathroom off the bar and kitchen. Liv is there, finishing up getting ready. I sit at a table off to the side but closest to the small stage. I have the guitar. The other tables are full and the beauty of the settings starts to set in. The only advice I gave to her was to wear comfortable shoes. So, when I hear the sound of her favorite $5 flip flops, I know she's coming to get the guitar. I turn round and see before me someone beautiful. She looks completely non-sensible, wearing a short lovely dress with hair and makeup done up, but there is that same smile. And the lights in the room go on.

She sits at the mic and says, "Hello, I'm Liv Oberon." She looks at me and winks... what a stage name. I'm swept up in the whole scene and I look forward to hearing her music.

The Ambition of Christopher Patrick

This passage is about the character, Christopher Patrick, developed from the same series as Evelyn Thorpe, or Evie. Please enjoy:

"Ambition drove Christopher Patrick, not talent. But, he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. It's the one thing his brother taught him. Perhaps, it was the one thing Chris remembered about his brother. Chris never did understand why his brother, James, was so successful. It must've been luck, just dumb, simple luck. James was lucky to get into all the best schools, to be given the highest marks, to know the right people. James was lucky enough to get a reprieve from the annual family vacation to Seacliff. He had to prepare for his MCATs instead. And Chris thought himself unlucky. He just wasn't quite smart enough to get into the major he wanted, and he wasn't quite old enough to find a way out of this trip. Instead, he was packing a van for his parents, and preparing to lug his 12-year-old brother, Joseph, up the coast.

Christopher never watched the sunsets, he never felt the sea breeze, he probably didn't enjoy the ocean either. When the waves weren't breaking, it was just too quiet for him. He always described the beach as a little too “nature-y”. The stars were not his kind of lights. Chris was an urban man. He liked neon, he liked hustle and bustle. And this summer was his first chance, since he had his own car, to get away from the beach and experience inland nightlife. Most people didn't like it, but Christopher told himself that he would.

The second night after the family's arrival at the rental house, Chris planned to say an early goodnight to his parents, William & Marian. He would then jump on the highway and head to the inland bars. They were rough, but Chris knew his ID wouldn't be checked. The roughness probably should have scared him more than it did. But, even if he didn't acknowledge it consciously, Christopher Patrick knew deep down in his spirit that his luck was about to change.

Once he met Jeremy McShane, the only question left to decide would be this: what aspect of Christopher's personality does luck ferment, ambition or lack of talent?"

Stream -- The Ever-Changing Tree...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

"The Ever-Changing Tree lived at the top of a flowering hill that rose up out of the towns surrounding it. One, small dirt road led off the main thoroughfare for traffic up to the base of the hill. Growing there were wild, unkempt flowers, grass that was literally high and dry, and all kinds of untamed brush. Someone, long ago, cut a swath through that and laid rough, uneven stepping stones into the funky soil. That was the only pathway through. It stopped where the manicured fields of bright California Poppy flowers began. Those formed a perfect circle around the field of the tree. The field of the tree was huge. The good soil beneath was covered by short and perfectly green grass. The field extended from the base of the tree trunk out slightly beyond the reach of branches. This was a long way.

"The Ever-Changing Tree was a giant oak. The biggest I had ever seen. I only knew the details of its home from memory. I did not get out much, but that does not mean that the tree and I were not constant companions. I lived out of the bedroom of an apartment quite a distance away. A long distance, but an unimpeded distance. This meant that my binoculars and my picture window were my prized possessions. Every morning and all through the day, and once before sleep, I kept tabs. I could only see the crown of the hill, which meant the Tree and its field, but that was all I would look at anyway. Still, I knew the rest was there, and I felt I was watching the head of an old-fashioned Franciscan monk. And I felt the Tree was watching right back.

I did not name this tree. Some say the Tree named itself, or at least led those interested in naming to a logical conclusion. Whatever happened, anyone who stayed long enough to observe it agreed with it. Tough times came and the bark darkened, appeared more hardy, and the green of the oak leaves deepened. The tree was moody. In angry, chippy parts of the year, when the people needed a vacation but weren't going to get it, the tree mirrored their spirits. It grayed and faded, the leaves grew paler, while the grass underneath tinted brown. The tree was like all of us where it also had its moments. There were the months when it was at its lowest point, and yet gave to us more than ever. Empty and bare, it gave its field time to thrive. And when the sun set on those cold days, the giant oak branches shined the light through and gave the people just a little more before night set in.

"The night did set in, however, and that was not the time to tell stories of the Tree or introduce it to an outsider. An eerie mist moved in from the lake and congregated on that hill. Strange lights would float about, probably reflections from cars out late, or maybe a stark moon. If the tree had leaves, they would certainly look sickly. Those were times where you still took in the sights, but were glad when they were over. This was true especially for me, for the Tree was an eerie tree on the night my golden age was first rocked. Weeks before, my binoculars were taken away so I wouldn't throw them at any more nurses. On my last night on my own, in my apartment, by myself, I could only squint through my picture window to see that eerie tree. The next day, I lost that window when I was brought here. They tried to take away my Tree when they said my story scared the inmates."

"Mr. Langston, there are no inmates here, it's not a prison. This is a home for you, and I want you to be taken care of. You haven't lost your tree."

"That's right, my dear. Because then I met you, Ms. Rawlings, and you like my story. And you're right, I haven't lost my tree. Just as I could always see the tree's home, so can I see the Tree, plain as day, right now as I can see you. It is the best it has ever looked. Exactly like the way the world is fresher after surviving a serious health crisis, or the way every color is brighter and richer and fuller when you first realize you love someone, that is The Ever-Changing Tree. The wind rustles the branches, and yet it is soft on your face. The leaves are vibrant and the sight of the sunshine on them makes you feel warm inside. Yet the bark is cool, and you would sit, back against the trunk, and read all day if you could. I imagine flying through the air, and seeing the fields of poppies sway with the breeze, and the adornment of the great hill. The faceless hustle and bustle of the people is gone, but the towns are alive with their spirits."

Stream -- Eventually you have to ask...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

Eventually you have to ask why. The problem with it is that the most obvious answers are usually the most unsatisfying. Sometimes, the answer you get is not the answer you want. One of the most important questions is what hand you play in it.

Call me Pythagoras or some other Greek-sounding philosopher's name. I ask questions and sometimes I answer them. When it gets right down to it, I probably don't do anything important. In fact, my vocation - and that's what I've discovered it is - is practically useless, but I could not live without it. Better yet, I could not function otherwise without indulging in the exploration of these, deep questions.

I ask questions. Why... am I in pain? ... am I confined? ... can't I depend on certain people? ... must I depend on certain other people? ... do I have to wait? ... do I suffer? And then I ask more, different questions. Why... do I love the persons I love? ... would I suffer to see them happy? ... are my passions both the best and worst things for me? Perhaps I'm really asking, "Is there a why?"

It's rainy today. I ponder these eternal questions as I sit at my picture window in my study. The sky is incredibly gray and off in the distance there is the sense of rain. A lush, green field stretches out before me, reaching all the way to that sense of rain. Even as I struggle with a dark day, occasionally a drop of fresh rainwater slashes in front of my eyes.

There have been many attempts at answers over the millennia. A vengeful god, nothing is real, it's an illusion, the world is innately bad, all experience is subjective, objective nature is harsh and cold, karma, God is dead, God has a plan; each one, no matter how true or untrue, contributes to the universal mystery. While I know that I certainly could be wrong, I am also reminded by the fact that every great thinker was still just a human being. I've got my philosophy.

There is a flash of lightning to the east. Suddenly, I hear the trotting of a horse. It comes up along the road alone just in front of my window, before the green field. This horse is jet black and yet it is a heavy contrast to the darkened sky. This horse is alive. It has a long tail and appears finely groomed. The finest. Its most obvious feature strikes me last. The horse is wearing a saddle, but it is strange. It looks handcrafted and extremely old, like the horse has been carrying its rider for many years. But the animal is healthy and energetic, with no sign of fatigue. It moves the same as it would have in its youth.

Then, the horse makes eye contact with me, peering in through my window. It is a wise horse. It is as if the dark eyes are shielding me from a vibrant light within. It is almost indescribable. The horse turns slightly, shifting my focus back to its saddle. The wear and tear is obvious. I'm struck by the possibility that this horse has seen its fair share of struggle. I pray for the horse, and I hope that somehow, perhaps telepathicly, it can understand me pleading with it to gallop down the road, away from this place.

There is another flash of lightning, this time off to the west. To my shock, the horse turns around and happily trots back in the direction it came. I stand up and crane my neck so I can get one last glimpse. How could it do that? Understanding, in this case, is beyond me. The horse stops. It gives me one last look, turns and readies itself, and breaks into a gallop. Quickly, it is back down the road and out of sight. I begin to think again about my questions.

The Dark Part of Darkness

In the upcoming and future entries, I will be expanding on the feelings of the characters I describe. Recently, I have found that I'm focusing primarily on states of being in which I have invested so much of myself in living in the real world. While that's good for me as a person, I feel it's important to delve deeper as a writer. I'm going to begin exploring the darker parts of my characters. There has to be a reason to look to the good. I think there is always some force that causes us to hope, almost as a reactionary behavior. If these characters don't need strength and courage, optimism and hope, they won't have it. So, I will be focused on giving them those reasons. Some stories may not have rays of hope initially. I will also be exploring some characters that are not sympathetic and may even be villainous.

After all, what good is a protagonist without an antagonist? This update is simply fair warning. I'm not the type of person who spends too much time on despair or anger. I mostly choose reasons to be happy over reasons to be sad. Like I've said many times, however, the harmony needs the dissonance. Don't worry when you see those entries. It's still just little old me. But I think they will be important and I look forward to getting to work on those.

I realized also, that with the introduction of my Song Series posts and all the links I provided, I did not provide any way to actually hear "The Stone". Thanks to YouTube, I can. This version clocks in at about 7 minutes. Enjoy:

The Rhythm of Evie

This is a character I developed a long time ago when I was still in my screenplay phase. I've now decided that she would make an excellent addition to my fiction. This is a great example of the way I see Write What You Know. Thematic but not specific. Originally, I had planned to write a story about a fictional beach town based on the areas above Ventura that I visited so often growing up. Also, a somewhat villainous character makes an appearance, although I have no definite idea where the mysterious ending is headed. Please enjoy these passages:

"Rhythm. Rhythm was all that she could focus on. All the things she needed to remember in that moment were related to rhythm. The cycle of breathing... head up to one side and take a breath in, head into the water and breathe the air out, then at last, head out to the other side and another breath. The waves of the water lapped up against the edges of the pool and back to the center in a perfect sequence. The motions of arms and legs, her streamlined body, and most of all, the sheer force of her will, her spirit, propelled her back from one end of the pool and forth to the other. It was simply a necessity of exercise, 48 proper laps... not 45, not 50, but an exactly right 48. Simplicity was actually not in the exercise itself, but in what the exercise did for her mind.

A clear mind meant a good connection to her emotions. And that meant it was the right day spiritually for a visit to her uncle's estate. There was always something simply not right about his sanctuary, especially when Uncle Porter was there on-site. That's why Evie never spent any long duration in Summerland. It's also why she kept coming back. The beach, the people, the water, the guilt ridden loyalty to a caretaker's financial position, all of these things continually called to her.

Rhythm. Every movement, every step Evie made seemed measured by some cosmic force. It was as if she knew everything she was supposed to do before she even thought of doing it. And it was beautiful. Evie finished her swim and glided over to the pool stairs. To an observer, she almost rose out of the pool with pure blonde hair bronzed by the water, sparse eyelashes giving way to sparkling eyes, and a face washed clean of any makeup, definitely for the better. Her healthy lips suggested a hidden smile of pearly whites, and there was always a look of happiness about her even if it was not outright.

She could have worn a more accentuating swimsuit with more suggestive colors for the benefit of onlookers. But, a standard one-piece matching the light blue in her eyes suited Evie’s needs just fine. She always prided herself on not being the advertisement, but instead radiating its essence.

Over to her usual poolside table to dry off, Evie then put on her robe and sat for a few minutes. She took in the breeze and the beauty of the nice community pool in her moderately upscale apartment building. Then, evoking some sort of Greek goddess, she walked to her room in her usual way, ever so gentle but ever so confident. Every step was sure, but seemed to float over the surface, as if there would be no footprint left behind.

A short trip to Uncle's and the beach, she thought. Porter Williamson had other ideas, however. Evelyn Thorpe must have known in her spirit, but the rest of her had no idea."

Free Will and Roman à Clef

The concept of free will in creative fiction is an intriguing one. Obviously, a character cannot be free in the true, real-world sense. A character is at the mercy of its author's omnipotence. Taking into account the entire body of work, predestination is a very clear force acting on each character. But there are certainly ways of approximating some type of simulated quality of free will. A goal of mine is to somehow free the character as he exists within the world I've created. I do this with originality. I don't use that term to self-congratulate, I mean originality as an artistic device.

Good writing does not employ roman à clef. This describes characters and events in the fiction that are literally one-to-one translations of characters and events in the real world. It is similar to allegory, but more personal to the author. At first, I made exceptions for satire. But even in that case, good satire both comments on and transcends its source material. Now, I am naturally inspired by the people I know & meet, through both their good and bad qualities, and those qualities will surely find their way into my writing. However, my characters deserve more than to be simple composites.

For me, good dynamic characters are persons. I take the inspirations I feel and the composites they derive and throw them into a character, but I feel it is necessary to go beyond that. I want to get to a sense of completion, and I need originality to do it. Each character needs its own genetic makeup.

Through styles, mannerisms, quirks, and temperaments, I can begin to establish identities that separate the characters from any real-world translations. Hopefully, they will reach some sort of individual definition. The characters can never make free choices, but they can be created from a place of freshness. I believe it's a success when they can be defined as well-developed, unique persons. Like us!

Stream -- Running.

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

Running. It is something some fear. It can be something some hate even if they are good at it. Some people run away and yet toward something. For others, running is a dream. It can appear as an elusive oasis to a person sucked in to a day-to-day grind.

The days begin to pile up. There are stresses built upon tensions with foundations in problems that people could barely know. Others can be so aware of their particular problem that they grow accustomed to it. They stop recognizing it as a work in progress. They don't see it affecting their lives actively. Often, they are wrong. Often, they fail to let go of the issues surrounding it. They fail to first confront the issues.

Sublimation is an honorable idea. But if it is done improperly, it can elude us. That's not so bad, however. What's worse is a sublimation that is an illusion to us. In this case, we think we have found our solution so we ignore residual warning signs. We repress, repress and the problem festers. Soon, we'll have full-blown stress of a more disturbing kind. We must confront before we cope.

My name is Peter F. Stevens and this is what I have learned from 78 years of life. All I have to look at here, in this... home... is this view of the sea. On most days when I look out this window at about this tide, the sea is about as active as I am. It's as if whatever muscles the sea uses to make its waves are just tired out. Seems like the moon itself simply needs a rest. The water is even gray and placid, just waiting to evaporate into sunlight. I, myself, begin to ache in the anticipation, but not in the way I remember from my youth. I hurt waiting for something, anything, to happen.

My joints get sore. Each one begs for a real, big stretch. My muscles squeeze against no force in particular. They just want their still powerful spirit expressed. The very points of my bones press and pull even tighter my old, stretched out skin. Even my nails try to push through their nail beds. Every itch itches and every inch of me squirms under an intense, formerly known desire. And yet I am tired.

As the hours pass, however, the changing tides give life to the sea. A bluish vitality creeps into the water and sea foam sprays across the shore. Out beyond the break, the sea's whitecaps give me something to watch. And even though I'm set back, to a place they call a safe distance away, the waves still crash hard and loud enough for me to know they're working.

That's when I think about running. Running is different for many people. For me, it's freedom. I will the entire thing. I choose my direction. I choose my speed. All my parts are moving, unimpeded. My muscles have a cause and, with running, they are in a position to work off my stresses. I feel the wind in my face and the exhilaration in my body. Smiling comes to me as naturally as ever. And in this place, I still smile. I have my sea to look at, my life lessons to recall, and my memories to feel.

The long road to a finished work.

I'm not one to say how writing, or art for that matter, should be done. I can only speak for myself and the methods that work best for me. Many writers work in many ways. Some write from scratch without a notion of what is coming next. Others brainstorm, prewrite, outline, and plan everything out in amazing detail. Many revise and rewrite regardless of method. I would hope that most would agree the method is second to the act of creating something.

Personally, I think an analogy of piloting an airplane (how about an F-16) would be best for my style. I like to take off suddenly and just get up in the air to fly. I probably have no idea where I'm going. Then, once the initial thrill settles, that's when I draw up my flight plan. I'll execute that plan, but I reserve the express right to deviate if I see the need. At last, I lead when I'm good and ready. So the FAA probably wouldn't like that and not too many people would want to ride with me, but it works for my writing style.

There is a cliché of advice that is often said about writing, "Write what you know." I'm really on the fence about it. As far as story elements and the plot go, this phrase is very safe, but for me, writing is where I leave the safe zone. On the other hand, the emotional and thematic content of what I know is easily applicable to an otherworld of fiction.

My writing mostly assumes a good world. It is a complete range of harmony and dissonance that makes things great. And I try to depict that. There must be a complete version that includes pain & suffering, difference, and challenge within the broader picture. In order for this to be authentic, I feel these qualities should be born out of true experiences in my life. This is where a gift can be both a blessing and curse. I'm thankful for the inspiration that strikes. Unfortunately, however, it can come with consequences.

So, I am now on the long road to a finished work. Part of that involves feeling up to writing. My flight plan is set. Now, it's a simple matter of getting to my destination and landing. Let's go there.

Stream -- The smoke curled up...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

The smoke curled up out of his pipe. He looked at the pipe and admired it. He noticed, and loved, how the lucite stem blended seamlessly with the natural cherrywood bowl. He appreciated the beauty of the contrasting smoke. The bright whiteness morphing itself around solid, deep red was a sight to behold. "Thank you," Thomas quietly said. He closed his eyes and deeply inhaled through his nose. Thomas enjoyed the sweet, cozy smell of the tobacco he smoked. It reminded him of something good, something old. He felt as if he could remember experiences he may not have even had himself. Thomas calmly exhaled out through his mouth. Perhaps there was a connection to the old tree that gave birth to this pipe. Perhaps he could commune with the old souls that took up this practice throughout history. Whatever it was, he felt something mystical. And it was good. This was his practice after each long, hard day. He needed this. He could depend on this.

Thomas had struggled against this kind of thinking for a long time. He was always the individualist. Self-reliance was his credo. "Each man should be responsible for himself," he would say. Now, he didn't necessarily disagree with that idea. It was good, right, and just in practice. In Thomas's mind, it was the only path to freedom. Things changed, however. Conflict and struggle of another, more pressing kind, arrived. And in the metaphorical blink-of-an-eye he changed. Maybe it wasn't his ideas that changed per se, moreso the way he applied them. Just as he soon needed other people, he also needed a different kind of independence, a different kind of individualism. He needed self-reliance of the inner variety.

He still found personal accountability to be good, right, and just in practice. It was the rest that changed. Different ways to freedom became apparent. Thomas realized that his path to freedom was literally in his mind. Despite the difficulties of his life, he knew where he was most free.

And so he sat in the steaming hot tub and meditated on the curls of smoke. He relied on that presence and he liked knowing that sweet, cozy feeling. It made him happy. For once, Thomas thought he could admit to himself he deserved that. Beyond that, he depended on the beauty of the pipe. He rightly believed it would always be there in some way, shape, or form. Thomas stared deeply into the wood grain. The pipe itself had a beautiful depth that transcended physical manifestations. Certainly, he was attracted to its smoothness, a product of expert craftsmanship. He loved the healthy curve of the soft, subtle transition from stem to bowl. Thomas's eyes were drawn to the pipe. Of course, the thing of beauty was accentuated by the intangibles it inspired in him.

"Nay, those feelings and qualities it possesses make it beautiful," he said. He held the pipe in a way that was both secure and tactile. Thomas took a long draw of the tobacco smoke and let it waft lazily from his mouth up to his nose. He enjoyed the smell as the smoke rose to the level of his eyes. Thomas appreciated again the sight of the vibrant, ever-energized spirit in the smoke, and yet that same spirit was mellow and comforting. That is what he loved. A total sensory experience, something he could depend on. And it was good.

The Prisoner: First Draft excerpts (Part I)

It's been a while! I have put PRESCHOOL PARABLE on the back burner for now. Health issues not only kept me away from the weblog, but they gave me new inspiration as well. Life changes, we readapt and find our way through. My latest is a piece called The Prisoner about a death row inmate and a prison guard. I present to you excerpts from the first draft of Part I.

Excerpt 1:

"It was hot, definitely. I'm sure, at the time, sweat poured down his face, but I don't think that was first in his mind. When you come to this part of Desert County Prison, this is your last stop. There's nothing left, no time served, no good behavior, no parole, no appeals, nothing.

This jailhouse had a façade. It was almost like the
steeple of a country church. Now, that can be a good or a bad thing, depending on your perspective. I can't say what he thought then, as he and his two escorts climbed the four uneven, and newly poured, concrete stairs with rattling chains and heavy footsteps. Then they had to open the big, black doors so he could see his new home. ..."

I was recently made aware of the story of Mario Rocha who, as a teenager in LA, was falsely accused, arrested, and tried & convicted. There's a great documentary on DVD called Mario's Story about the struggle to vacate his conviction. I identified with the story particularly because Mario is a writer. It's hard for me to believe the things through which he persevered. But I think we all can identify with feelings of imprisonment. The main character of my story experiences it a little differently than the innocent Mario.

Excerpt 2:

... I turned to leave, but he breathed a breath that told me he was about to say something important.

"I deserve to die for my crimes."

Only the truth of this hit me.

So I said, "Yes you do." ...

My Latest: a preschool parable

I have begun my next project. The working title is PRESCHOOL PARABLE, although I don't expect that title to remain. Right now, it is looking like a comedic/spy fiction piece that will examine the importance of preschool and finding the best one, or the right one, for a child. The extreme measures parents may or may not take for their children will also be featured.

Unfortunately, I will not be able to post any finished products as I don't want to run into any publishing complications. I will, however, have drafts throughout various stages available for e-mail. I will absolutely be posting what I like to call "creative content" whenever I can. Brainstorms, character profiles, introductory materials, stream of consciousness pieces, etc., will be readily available.

And so, I present to you the Intelligence Dossiers for the characters of PRESCHOOL PARABLE:

Classification: Eyes Only. Time sensitive.
Clearance: Studebaker, Gertrude.
Call sign: Parcheesi.

Authorization: observation, influence decision-makers, clandestine op.
Be advised: possible cloak & dagger underway, innocents exposed.

GROUP DOSSIER

Title: Flock of Four (Flock)
Aliases: Red Robin, Woodpecker, Black Crow, Hawkeye
Leader: Hawkeye
Intel Rating: Very Good
Assessment: High Chance for Success -- greatest asset: little to no resistance faced as a result of element of surprise; greatest weakness: emotion invested & lack of awareness of countermeasures - vulnerable to counterstrike.
Children Implicated: Steven Sullivan, Karen Ashby

Flock Targets: Children- Wendy Bilson, George Young; Parents- Allison & Rick Bilson, Cynthia & Nicholas Young

INDIVIDUAL DOSSIERS

DOSSIER: RED ROBIN

Sullivan, Kelly
Alias: Red Robin
Vitals: 5'4", 98 lbs., red-blonde hair, lt-blue eyes
Usual Attire: Oxfords, khakis, tennis shoes
Occupation: Housewife, Stay-At-Home Mom
Additional: Foreign-Policy major in college, loves spy shows/films, reads Tom Clancy
Intel Rating: Amateur
Assessment: Unknown, underrated -- inexperience is weakness, possible target to be turned; asset is dedication to child, pressure to succeed - possible loose cannon.

DOSSIER: WOODPECKER

Sullivan, Tom
Alias: Woodpecker
Vitals: 6'1", 179 lbs., brown hair, blue eyes, glasses, goatee
Usual Attire: business, rec- warmups, longsleeved tee, sports cap, tennis shoes
Occupation: Writer for PR Firm
Additional: College graduate -- summa cum laude, unchallenged by occupation, likely creative mind
Intel Rating: Good
Assessment: Logical, controlled -- intelligence offsets inexperience; intuition & instinct are assets, variable is control - take it away.

DOSSIER: BLACK CROW

Ashby, Brian
Alias: Black Crow
Vitals: 5'11", 182 lbs., brown hair, brown eyes
Usual Attire: business, rec- jeans, polo shirt, sandals
Occupation: Mergers & Acquisitions
Additional: very competitive, shrewd, cutthroat in business
Intel Rating: Above Average
Assessment: Dangerous -- cutthroat attitude is greatest strength & greatest weakness, potential security risk; inexperience offset by wife's experience; limited versatility in the field.

DOSSIER: HAWKEYE

Ashby, Nancy (leader)
Alias: Hawkeye
Vitals: 5'7", 116 lbs., black hair, green eyes
Usual Attire: Department of State regulation, rec- women's athletic wear i.e. jumpsuit, running shoes, sunglasses
Occupation: Intelligence
Additional: former spook, love of child pulled her out of the field, still knows all the tricks
Intel Rating: Excellent
Assessment: Primary Threat -- great asset if on your side, will spot a sloppy tail, cannot be overrated; time sensitivity of op could help exploit her rustiness.


COMMENCE OPERATION: FOX & FLOCK

Stream -- A gentle yet persistent breeze...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

A gentle yet persistent breeze journeyed down the street. It made its way over, under, around, even occasionally through, each house on the block. The block, the cozy and peaceful, friendly, lovely neighborhood was quiet in the warmth of late afternoon sun.

It was almost evening time. He was lying on his bed, staring up at the red ceiling. It was dark red, but not quite maroon. The ceiling was decorated with humbly stained, wooden crown moldings and a chandelier in the center. It was a small, interesting room.

On that ceiling appeared five small shafts of sunlight. A sixth bit of light, less vibrant, was aloof from the others. It was similar, but cut off. He saw himself. The lonely shaft of light was connected to the chandelier, its five lightbulbs were dark. He was trying to relax.

It had been a long day, long week, a long month, and an unbelievably long start to the new year. He didn't know what to do. A siesta with a little music sounded about right. The tones of the folky, jazzy, bluesy, always ethereal pop-rock took him away. It was one of those songs where you knew it was your favorite... not because you knew every note of music or every bit of lyric or that you were even listening that closely... it's your favorite song because your mind wanders and you find yourself fading into your own thoughts. It's your favorite song because eventually you return to a renewed sense of consciousness and you think, "Wow, that song is really relaxing. Really relaxing."

That's what he felt, or at least what he told himself he felt. He was at that point where he could not simply let things happen. He could not hesitate and be lost. And despite the relatively suburban environment, that really was what was at stake. When you've been through hell, sometimes it calls to you. There is an allure and a temptation to tell the world, "Fuck off." It is the pessimistic, cynical inverse of spiritual surrender. Both involve the ironically willing forfeiture of free will, or at least an illusory forfeit. He knew that the negative version was how warlords and sociopaths justified their brutality to themselves. The world gives up on you, you give up on the world, and you can start slitting throats without shame.

He also thought that the positive version was much more difficult. In a movie, they called it choiceless awareness. He had some idea, but mostly he relied on his own thoughts. Perhaps you simply surrender to life and the inevitable bad, and choose to focus on the good. He hoped there was some sort of philosophical circle of logic that allowed both spiritual surrender and free will to exist. The brief little break with that great little song allowed him hear the calls from the earth instead. He would soon return to life, but he hoped it would be as a changed man.