Mile High Oral

The aircraft cabin is dark. It is the middle of the night and three hundred or so passengers are attempting to secure a good nights sleep, propped up in seats, with undersized pillows, thin blankets, eye shades, and ear plugs. One has the impression of rows of human cargo packaged and trussed up for delivery.

Those unable to sleep periodically get up and go for short walks up and down the narrow aisles. A circuit has been mutually agreed without consultation, we will walk up the left side aisle to the rear of the craft, through the rear galley, down the right side to the front economy class galley, and around again. For those wishing to shorten the circuit they can cut thought center galley.

This modern aircraft is using a low level background light that washes changing colours onto the ceiling constantly, slowly, evolving from green through blues, to whites, reds, yellows and greens again. One has the impression of an artificial aurora borealis. The woken walking emerge from the dark with ghoulish hues tinted upon their tired faces.

My seat is five rows back of the centre galley. I watch with bemused curiosity these passengers in circuit, biding their time on this long flight, 35,000 feet above the Pacific, staggering in the gentle turbulence, a silent procession of the bored.

A couple emerge from the cabin in front of mine. She is taller than he and has her hand on his shoulder trying to steady herself on the walk to the lavatory at the center galley. They emerge from the turquoise blue into the dull white light at the galley. At the lavatory door he motions for her to use the room first. No she motions, you first. This is a pantomime these two have followed before and you always know his gallantry will be appreciatively accepted.

The door closed and locked he stands watch, his turn next. The gentleman turns to explore the area immediately around him and he stops to consider a small two shelf alcove. The top shelf has a selection of salty snacks placed thoughtfully there for passengers needing to fill a nocturnal hunger. The bottom shelf has a couple carafes of water and plastic cups. He has a thinking look on his face. With a flourish of efficient usefulness he pours a cup of water, procures a toothbrush and toothpaste from his pocket, prepares the brush, dips it into the cup, turns to the lavatory door, cup in one hand brush in the other, and commences to brushing.

Staring at the door he thoughtfully brushes each tooth working his way around the front and back of the top teeth and then repeating on the bottom. He stares at the door for a moment realizing his hands are full, the water cup full, and he has nowhere to spit, the sink being in the lavatory occupied by his wife. No matter, he commences to take another run around his mouth, staring hopefully at the locked door, willing his wife to complete her lavatory business quickly.

At the end of circuit two toothpaste froth is starting to dribble from his mouth. The white is emphasized by the now almost black light purple from the ambient lighting. He is also starting the uncomfortable squeeze motion bladder dance punctuating the reason he and his wife came back to the lavatory in the first place.

He runs a third circuit and a fourth through his mouth. The froth coupled with an uncomfortable contortionistic dance now highlighted by an orange hue leaves one with the impression a deranged rabid being has found his way onto the aircraft. His stare at the door is one of desperation. He looks ready to explode.

A fifth circuit around his mouth, trying to scoop back the frothy paste now dribbling to his shirt, the pained expression of a man desperate. The door opens. In the narrow aisle way they will need to maneuver around each other. Being taller she didn't immediately notice him contorted there. The first thing she spied was the top shelf of salty snacks. Reaching past him she scoops up a bag of potato crisps, opens it, and thoughtfully offers the first to him.

His expression changed from one of pain, as his body momentarily recovered control of his bladder. Standing tall the gentleman simply stood with arms open, cup of water in the left hand, toothbrush, in the right, froth dribbling down his chin. She looked at his incredulous expression, shrugged, pushed by him, and chewed her first chip on her way back to her seat. He watched her stagger down the aisle for a moment. The light turning red, he recovers his composure, and dives into the lavatory.

Transcendence

Today I watched in peaceful recollection as my grandchildren, my daughter and her husband, and a close friend enjoyed a warm end of summer day applying chalk to sidewalks, making pictures of peace, and of family, and messages short-lived until the next rain or until life’s tread wore them all away.

When I was young I used to visit this park at least once per week.  It was part of our after Church family ritual to walk across this homage to a World War 1 battle hard won on the lives of young Canadians fighting with a regiment based from Winnipeg.  In our family Church, the flags of Vimy Ridge hang in quiet repose to the memory of those soldiers.

Once per year this park would become the remembrance place for the Queens Own Cameron Highlanders.  Wreaths were laid, the Chaplain would say meaningful words.  It was the only time I truly respected my step-father, the Chaplain.

And today my family and my friend play in this park.  They are celebrating peace at an event staged by War Child.  They are celebrating life through art. And I am eternally grateful to my friend who told me of this event.  And I am eternally grateful to my family who bring me such pleasure and joy.  And I am eternally grateful to those soldiers, for it is them who gave me back to this place, a place where humanity can enjoy a summers day, carefree, and happy.

Traveler

“Do you do the sex”, asks the Cabby, his thick Indian accent lending an air of legitimacy to the question.  I could have been on an analysis couch rather than the back seat of his business.  As direct a question as I have ever heard thinks I.  The answer is known of course.  The response circumspect and then a relinquished affirmative.

“This, sir is good.  At our age we should always do the sex.  Was it good dear sir?”

I hadn’t really thought deeply about “it” until now.  “Yes”, say I, a silly grinned recollection of our first time, not hurried, all natural, all beautiful.  Friends and strangers caught in a moment of our time, of our choosing.

“Then dear sir it is all very good.  And you two are coming together again and that too is also good dear sir.”

“Ah, we are here.  Many wishes and safe travel.  And always do the sex dear sir.  It is healthy for both of you.”

He is well tipped, of course.  This is a conversation I needed to hear.  A sage affirmation to push away all doubt.  Two separate people living two separate lives living apart in mutual caring.

To Air for Human

I watch this world from my gutters edge. My view is the best of all. The humanity flows past me not even aware of my existence. Many of you are not even aware of each other, preferring to exist in silent ignorance of the men and women and children who share your space. You find anonymity in your ear phones and machines and newspapers and books. Silent wraiths moving among humanity off and on the platforms, waiting for transport to another existence far off from this place.

Do you talk with someone there? Do you love someone there?

I look up these tracks and watch your machines come in. Paired ribbons of rail crisscrossing around a long wide curve deliver you to this place and remove you again. They move on into the distance forever grounding the cars keeping them in their places from destination to destination. These paired ribbons never touch each other yet often do they cross each other, an intermingled coexistent sharing of moments of energy and time, joining humanity momentarily on shared journeys.

Do you feel these connections? Do you know others exist with you?

Yes I watch you all from my gutter. My shadow plays upon the sides of your train cars momentarily revealing me there, so often hidden from your view. The windows flashing by tell me stories. Movie set vignettes of the most very ordinary of extraordinary people grant me perspective, insights to moments of your life. Sadness and joy, truth and lies, love and disdain, sorrow and laughter, the elixir of conflicting stereotypes pushing past pulled by forces of necessity and unrequited commitment.

Today, two are in their places positioned across the chasm of twin tracks. They are face to face dutifully behind the yellow line drawn there to keep them safe from passing trains. In their faces is a sad quiet, an acquittal of love. Perhaps that of siblings, trust placed in each other. Perhaps that of friendships built originally on stoney ground and then tentatively, terrifyingly, finding fertile space. Perhaps that of lovers trying to navigate the all of difficult intimacy, in full sharing, placing their very souls in the cautious hands of another.

I may never know. I can see their stories flash by in the windows of the trains as they pass by, and I can only guess. Two lives lived equally in shared pain and shared happiness. Their silhouettes exist in the foreground as angels affront of their society. They look across the chasm and watch the unfolding world emoting momentary smiles, tiny tears, recognition, sorrow, comfort, and connection.

In their background is night sky, gentle breezes rustle leaves, angels shine, their wings a flutter in the wind. Moonlight touches and wanes wrestling with the expanse of land and sea. Phosphorous lives, luminous to touch, crave for the most they can afford in the short time their coil allows.

Musicians and poets and actors come to view providing a running pantomime, prodding for cracks in the friendships of the loved and finding holes, narrate tomes to celebrations of musical arrangements designed for the two to dance. They pirouette once, twice, thrice, a quadrangle of turns leaving them still and dizzy to each sight.

Children arrive, innocent and lost, they ground reality to the real world of innocent joy. Water and nature and toys and reading join child wonder to child wondrous. A wanderlust of discovery as their world comes into focus. Why why why why is asked again and again and again; and answers are patiently discovered in each other.

The hurt of association is felt again and again. An army of the lonely march past, faces long and longed, sad and saddened by possibilities and refusal. Twice and more burned, to be burned no more. A quiet resolve respected but unshaped forms in the band. They will live life alone, no connection will co-join the existence, and unhappy resolve falls into wail. A choice from uncertainty.

The hurt of bodies trying to heal, independent of dependent, fear of release, is delivered and relinquished only on request. Ask and you could receive, or be asked and you must refuse, a milk of kindness delivered with no intent but the desire to release this physical to a metaphysical plane.

The transport moves on. The non existent disconnected faces of humanity have left, leaving only these two. They turn to the direction of the pair of twin ribbons running away from the station and walking to the end of the platform, they step down between the tracks. Reaching out they walk silently hand in hand only aware their journey is still so new, so full of promise. They can walk their own tracks independently. They will dance when the tracks cross, revelers of their companionship. They will lament when the tracks part and celebrate when they align again. They will share stories of their lives, of the wonders they have seen and experienced and witnessed.

And they will lament the possibilities they could have been. Yet they will not dwell in that land. They will move on, forever for themselves, forever for each other. Who will you be to each other, I wonder. And I know. You will be who you need to be, true to yourself, true to your companion. For that is what you wish for each other.

The train leaves the station. I soar for these two. They alone may set the course for a new and wondrous world. They alone own themselves to each other.

A Day of Silence

Today my task was to walk in silent meditation in the city. For six hours I walked slowly, deliberately, every step measured. I said nothing, expressed nothing. I simply walked. And then the city started to open. Sounds, melodic and devilish, washed across my psyche. People I could not see but could feel and hear, talking, laughing, warring, loving. A collective stop of concern as a child injured herself. And relief when she perked up again. Trade and money as people bartered for goods many would never need, and some, the street people, urgently needed. Sounds of vehicles traveling with seeming aimless intent and indeed some were. Radios and motivational tapes and people talking to themselves to faceless acquaintances across a wireless world. And buildings aging and decaying and rebuilding. The imaginations of humans constructed of earth matter and in time returning back to the earth. The weather pushed its way through and around the buildings and the vehicles and the people providing cool respite with an eroding chance of showers to clean up the mess of humanity. Today I walked in silent meditation in the city. I said nothing. But it talked to me. It made me a friend.

Unchained Melody

There resides, in this world, a classification of work preserved only for genders. As politically incorrect as this may sound these facts remain so true.

I was privy to one of these jobs at a factory in Saskatchewan. While my company did not refuse the employment of men, for this one job specifically, only women were capable of the touch required to produce the quality of product we so coveted. So deft was the touch of our female employees we could not even conceive a machine that could perform the task so well.

I undertook a trip one spring to witness this phenomena for myself. There they were, a line of sixteen women that would rotate a single position every time the product needed a changeover. In a single shift every woman in the line took a turn at the most valued role, tying the sausages.

I watched fascinated as the sausage moved through the hands of the tier. Every three inches she would deftly tie a knot into the link all the while maintaining size and speed of the meat. These women had the most amazing skills. And the softness in their skin spoke volumes to the years of handling skin restorative fats. Long, beautiful, strong, soft hands.

The Lead watched me with some curiosity as I asked questions and marveled at the skills. At the next changeover she winked at her colleagues and invited me to the coveted position. She was going to guide me in the craft, to show me the artistry of sizing, pinching, and tying.

She sat me down and wrapped her arms around me. Her hands were placed upon my own and carefully I depressed the foot peddle to release casing and filling. The casing slipped through my fingers, her hands wrapped around mine. Her strong slender fingers squeezed down onto mine to pinch the link. She slipped her fingers between mine to twist the knot. We repeated this forming and tying ritual over and over, her breath hot on the side of my face, as she leaned over my shoulder guiding me, teaching me.

As we worked a hum was started, an all too familiar tune. The coupled sausage making reached a crescendo as the women on the line broke into full song, Unchained Melody, peals of laughter, this meat packing parody of Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore.

On Chapel Street

Good morning Phillip. Have you had your latte yet? You need to have your latte Phillip cause it is there for all of us. The Mission gives you a free coffee every day Phillip and I know how much you like your latte. Do you want me to go see Shirley for you so she can bring your latte. I came down on the train today cause I wanted to practice for me job interview tomorrow. I needed to get here early so I could practice getting here on time Phillip. I expect to do well this time you know. I reckon my chances are good. My advisor she has me right ready for this, this time Phillip. She is a good one this one, she is you know. Are you going to start working soon Phillip? It is time you know. We should all be trying to do our part and you know the country is short of workers Phillip. You would be right good for it though, I know you would. I am nervous for it though. Oy Shirley fetch Phillip his latte here will you, that's a good girl. I am nervous about the job Phillip and if I could I would figure away out you know. Perhaps if I were injured they might let me away from this job, what do you think Phillip? What if you hit me Phillip, right hard here in the jaw, that would cause me some damage and I could get... oh thank you Shirley, he hasn't had his latte yet today you know, you are a right charmer you are Shirley... so you could hit me hard Phillip, break my jaw or some teeth maybe, get me out of the work and all you know. I wouldn't tell anyone, that's way you wouldn't go to jail or nothing Phillip. That wouldn't do would it and I would feel right awful I would. Have you got a girl friend yet Phillip, I have my eye on a right pretty girl, and I am awfully hopeful I am. She knows me and lives near me. We ride the tram sometimes and she sits near me she does. You ought to get a girlfriend Phillip, it's a nice thing. Are you liking your latte, Shirley makes the best lattes doesn't she Phillip. Oh there is George, hi George, Phillip and I were just talking here well actually Phillip is listening on account of his latte and all. Are you all good George? Oh you are, I am glad for you George. Well I have to run and practice for my getting to work on time for my interview tomorrow George. You should have a latte because Shirley she makes real nice ones George. What? No I never drink them myself George. I don't like lattes. But Phillip is real keen on them. Bye George, bye Phillip.

Remembrance

They are climbing the steep incline road to the top of Red Rock. Five old Aussie soldiers on their bicycles. They cajole and encourage each other to stand and push, you can do it, if I can you can you old crusty bastard. Together they arrive, tired, exhilarated, having again defeated an enemy to successfully take this hill. They stand on the edge gazing out in the vast, long dormant volcanic plain below. At their request I take their picture. "We come here to celebrate Remembrance Day" says one. "It's time" says another. "We still have 15 seconds by my watch." "Shaddup Pat."



Tick tock tick tock tick tock...



For one minute we share fellowship of silence. Pat staring to the ground. His mate staring at his friends. The three remaining staring out across the vast vista beyond. And me staring at five old soldiers who fought together. I admire and give my silent thanks for the peace and freedom they have found.

Counting Pennies

One, two, three, four… and so on to fifty. 

A brown paper coin wrap is waiting.  A slight crease folded about one half an inch from its edge.  The paper placed carefully onto an open Encyclopedia Britannica, the crease fold aligned with the gutter between the open pages of the reference book.

Carefully and cautiously, the tarnished copper treasures are tipped upright onto the brown paper wrap, one, two, three, four… and so on to fifty.  Tiny fingers balancing tiny coins, onto brown paper, placed into a reference book, open to a page with a picture and article of a strange place in far off Africa.

We collect these coins with our trick and treating.  Little orange cardboard money boxes secured around our necks by coarse brown string, beacons of charity to the occupants of the houses we yell our Halloween apples to.  Children all over our city are making the same effort, collecting pennies, into little orange boxes.

These boxes come to our house from the schools.  Hundreds of little orange boxes filled with pennies.  For several days four sets of children’s hands and one set of mother’s hands, sit around the dining table spending their evenings wrapping coins.  Counting pennies, while eating candy, wrapping pennies, while reading the pages of the book beneath the wrap.  Reading of Nigeria, and Biafra, and listening to the news of families starving, and children dying.

One, two, three, four… and so on to fifty.  Over and over again.  Eating our candy.  Counting these pennies.  So people in a far off land may have food, and perhaps life.

Canterbury Tales

(iii)

The swing was noticeable only by the scream that preempted it.  When the smack came it was audible, and her scream turned instantly to a whimper.  The building went still.  I could sense Noah beside me and Jack across had suddenly stopped, their senses tuned to trouble.  Another smack and a cry of pain and I knew immediately where it was coming from.  I stepped into the hall and joined Noah and Jack at the elevator.  We knew where we were going.  One floor down, we rapped at the door.  The door was yanked open with a “what the f*** do you want”.  The irate greeter was pushed into the flat and held to the wall by my companions.  I checked on the girl, for to me that is all she is.  I knew her only by her voice, propensity for twangy country music, and her raucous parties that always respected curfew.  I also knew she lived alone.  She was quietly crying.  Simply she said it, “throw him out, throw the f***er out”.  She wanted no help.  She wanted no law.  She wanted only to control her space again, and to regain her dignity. 

We escorted the man out.  He may have suffered a few bruises on his way down. 

I pray he does not return.  I pray we did the right thing respecting her wishes.

Canterbury Tales

ii

Jake has lived in this building since 1977.  From his seventh floor apartment he rules lonely over his domain.  He will leave the place very hour or so, take the elevator to the ground floor, walk to the window, and if the weather suits him will wander out to Wellington and circle back around to his beloved Roslyn.  Jake moved here after his wife passed.

In 1951 Jake played for the Edmonton Eskimos.  I have never been clear which position he played but he is a small man.  When we encounter each other he always asks the same thing, “did you ever play professional football”, a nod to my size and strength.  He takes a look at my legs and tells me it was such a waste I did not, “with legs like that you would have plowed through any line in the league.”  In his day perhaps, but with the behemoths playing today I wouldn’t be so sure.

From an apartment balcony below someone is playing the sax.  It is very cool outside.  One can feel the autumn creeping into the days and the frost into our nights.  But it is bright and sunny.  Our musician’s rendition of Summertime, sultry slow and bluesy, is apropos.  I sit in my bedroom, the window open, soaking in the sound.  I am a little glad for the music, and a little sad for the passing of a truly wonderful summer.

And mostly I am grateful for my future, my new start, from this place.

Stella

Stella is a hard person. She has the build of a woman borne of labour or fighting or perhaps jail. Her shape nondescript, more a triangle. Her arms were large and muscular and looked as if they could handle themselves in a bar brawl. Stella was dressed in black steel toed boots, black jeans faded grey where she would lean against things, a black t-shirt with a not very nice slogan imprinted across the chest. Her face and arms are tanned the leathery tone and skin condition of a person away from this place.

Stella was not a person you could feel immediately warm to. Until you looked to her shoulders. On the right a large majestic white Cockatoo. It sat lording over all it saw from his perch subjecting himself only to Stella. It nuzzled and nibbled on her ears. As she prepared to enter a coffee shop she reached to him, scooped him onto the back of her weathered hand and touched his tail. He deftly lifted his tail and left his stool with all the other bird stool in the parking lot. A kiss and he moved back to his perch.

On the left shoulder a moulting Myna bird. Never has a bird loved a person as this tiny fellow loved Stella. He sat in rapt attention to her every word, every gesture. Her attention to Cockatoo did not affect him. She was his life. All other things were incidental.

Stella is a hard person, with a soft spot for these beautiful birds.

Joe

The mysteries of what may join our present world with the past world is one of conjecture open to passionate debate dependent on which side of the argument you subscribe. To believe in spectres or ghosts or beings ethereal will open one to ridicule from those who believe themselves grounded in sensible realities. Had Norton been asked to participate in the debate he would simply have told you he has felt little in his many years but that when he did feel it was of such intensity to have been like it was of another world.

Of course these were things far from Norton's mind as he trudged the mile or so up the craters edge at Diamond Head. Norton's troubles were in the here and now. Today his age was caught up to him rendering his feet and knees sore and complaining, providing for laboured breathing due to his ample girth, and the significant windless heat was making him perspire heavily causing him embarrassment as his body became visible through the thin cotton shirt.

Norton simply wanted to complete this climb and provide the photographic evidence of his presence here and then return to the conditioned comfort of his home to rest and nurse.

This was not to be.

Once he arrived Norton found himself transfixed by the vast ocean and mountain vista about him. He traced the edge of the crater and noted the five pill boxes strategically placed there in the early 1900's to provide protection to the city below and to each other should an as yet unknown enemy take it upon themselves to threaten these islands.

Norton stared from his perch 800 feet above the Pacific down toward Pearl Harbor and Ford Island. It was eleven o'clock and even now nearly seventy years later he could picture in his mind the planes coming through the mountain passes above the city and focussing downward to the ships and men and air fields dotted about Pearl City. He could sense the battle that would draw a formidable ally into the war against an enemy so intent on destroying this place. Norton could hear the planes as they circled ever closer to the army fortifications of Diamond Head. And then the battle was here, a cacophonous orchestration of explosions and hot metal and burning fuel and frightened and dying men, and powder and death and blood.

And then silence. From the mayhem a simple gesture. A hand upon his right shoulder squeezed and implored Norton to assist a solitary soul. The voice from the young soldier asking him to help. He did not want to die here in this place.

Joe was seventeen and he had just lost his leg to Japanese aircraft cannon. Joe was bleeding to death. He needed help off this crater to a place where he could find his peace. Would Norton help him there?

Norton moved with new purpose. Joe's hand upon his shoulder removed the pain and discomfort of Norton's age renewing him with vigour and strength. Together they navigated the narrow hallways and tunnels through the protective battlements. As they broke into the sunlight a disembodied shout from a fellow soul celebrated Joe's rescue with a "Joe, wooooooo!". Joe was pleased. Joe still had friends upon this mountain all waiting to find their peace.

At the Kukui Grove they stop. "This is the place", says Joe. He wishes his mother were there to provide him comfort for the last part of this journey. She left him shortly after his own passing, imploring him to follow to her to his peace.

Joe lay upon the ground in a place littered by Kukui nuts. Birds gathered about him. Brazilian Cardinals and Java Sparrows, Bulbuds, Myna Birds, and Doves gathered about him to sing and dance with Joe. Flashes of red and black and grey and white mixed with the most heavenly music of birds.

Then silence as the birds pulled back to Joes head. A mongoose, the harbinger of death upon these islands, came from the tall grass next to the grove. He stopped at Joe's feet and stood sniffing the air in each direction. As if to signify his approval the mongoose circled Joe, bowed to him, and scampered back to the grass. The birds returned to song and Joe rose, whole once again. Two butterflies arose from the tall grass and light formed between their flitting orange wings. He walked to the light and the comfort of his mother's arms.

The silence that surrounded Joe's ascension gave way to life present. Children laughed and cried. Lovers held each other close. People and vehicles added their peculiar mix of noise. Birds sang as usual. The noise of the city was barely audible beyond the crater.

Norton sat in silence taking in all he had seen and was seeing. And Norton felt once again.

Kailua Pill Boxes

The idea for this piece came as I was climbing across the ridges above Lanikai Point. There are three war era protective pill boxes still located upon the ridge.


Driving the stubborn old mule up this steep hill was almost more than Danny could take. It was hot and miserable. The knowledge that just the other side of the hill were the steady winds blowing cool off the ocean across Kailua was all that kept him moving. There were no hills like this on the prairie lands where he lived until the war began. These poor mules were laden with ammunition and food and water for the pill boxes placed to protect Bellows Air Field from attacks that were sure to never come. Really, who in their right mind would attack Hawaii?

Danny dropped his loads at boxes one and two. The soldiers grateful for the provisions. As he continued the trek to the third and final box he heard the engines of two planes fire up and take off buzzing near the hills where he had just fortified men and machines. As he arrived at number three, to his right the Japanese planes poured from the pass on their way to strafe the airfield.

The mule died first. A shock to Danny. And the last feeling he would ever possess.

New Voice Mail (part three point one)

The wee window greets me with this simple message: New Voice Mail

Press SP-PHONE

Star ninety-nine

Please enter your password or if you have entered the wrong mail box number press star.

Beep beep beep beep bope beep bope beep beep, number sign

You have one new voice message, to check unheard messages press one-one.

One.  One.

First message…

“Hi Mr. Giesbrecht (ah thinks I, a wrong number) this is Marie from Weight No More returning your call.  I got your email sir and I need you to call me back so we can put you on the road to your new you.  You have our numbers and do feel free to call the toll free number.  Or email us, yah that will work too, email us Mr. Giesbrecht.  Oh, and have you booked your doctors assessment, we need that information.  Your BMI is very high sir and I know we can help.  So call, uh, yes, well bye then.”

I listen with interest whilst washing a bag of chips down with a coke.  Poor Mr. Giesbrecht thinks I, so heavy he needs surgery.  I hope they find him.

To delete this message press 7.

New Voice Mail (part three)

The wee window greets me with this simple message: New Voice Mail

Press SP-PHONE

Star ninety-nine

Please enter your password or if you have entered the wrong mail box number press star.

Beep beep beep beep bope beep bope beep beep, number sign

You have one new voice message, to check unheard messages press one-one.

One.  One.

First message…

“Hi this is Marie from Weight No More.  Tired of being overweight?  Tried all the diets and nothing works?  Feeling frustrated and depressed?  Is your health deteriorating?  Well we can help.  All you need to do is call us back at 855-343-0907 and we can begin your free consultation toward a new and thinner you.”

I turn the chair and stare at my Hitchcock physique in the full-length mirror.  Really, could I go through with stapling my stomach.

Nah, be good with yourself.

To delete this messa… 7.

New Voice Mail (part two)

The wee window greets me with this simple message: New Voice Mail

Press SP-PHONE

Star ninety-nine

Please enter your password or if you have entered the wrong mail box number press star.

Beep beep beep beep bope beep bope beep beep, number sign

You have one new voice message, to check unheard messages press one-one.

One.  One.

First message…

And there she is: “Hello Norton it's your mother calling.  Better call me soon because I may not be around for much longer.  I love you and care for you deeply son.”

Fuck.

To delete this message press 7.

777777777777777777777777777777777777777!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Swim Lesson

A Choreography

To swim well is artistic athletic sensuality.  The swim is a freestyle art form of dance, choreographed to move with minimal effort through cool waters.  My friends, too many do not swim well leading to frustration and effort wasted.  A swim lived well will leave you exhilarated and wanting for more.

Follow these simple lessons dear friends.  Remember these simple lessons and you shall always swim well.

As a swim is choreography you must also have a partner, an imaginary partner, who will always remain in front of you, providing you guidance, assisting your need, bringing your effort to climax and joy.  Hold your imaginary partner dear as they are your key to unlocking the heart to the pinnacle of water prowess.

This lesson adheres to a single simple rule: be steady on the side.  Now dear friends a myth of swim is the swimmer is flat and level and indeed may well choose to be.  But let it be known the swiftness of motion, the joy of the movement, the glide of moisture across body can only be felt in an undulating rotation from side to side.

Your technique is simple and improves with practice.  Practice often.  Your partner and you must be face to face joined together waist to waist, breast to breast, one body in motion you move rotating as one first right side down, then back across your centers, and then left side down.  Repeat.

Your motion co-joined, you are rigidly as one turning on the pivot point running from head to loin, fingers meshed, nose to nose, you slide easily together in slow deliberate motion, side to side.  Do not wave my friends, rotate.

Practice my friends.  This motion must be felt as only emotion can be felt.  Be steady from side to side, and across common and centre plane.

The stroke is a sensual feeling act.  Your hand will grab and pull, will sustain your movement as your body and your partner’s body rotate in slow deliberate co-joined motion through the water.

Release your enmeshed hands while bodies are at their centers.  First your right arm will reach slowly upward moving in an arc as your rotation turns your bodies down to your right side.  Your hand will dip into the water ahead of your arm.  Flick your hand inward so the tip of your thumb gently touches the crown of your partner’s head.

Lightly, deliberately your thumb will trace the nape of the head down the undulating bones of your partner’s spine, hand flat pulling your bodies through the warm moist fluid ether.  Your hand will reach its end near your partner’s waist.  As you begin your turn back to your centre flatten your hand against the small of their back lightly tickling sensation as your arm takes your hand around to the edge of your hip resting momentarily there in anticipation of your next stroke.

Your arms, your hands are in constant motion.  First your right side, rotating, joined as one tracing, tickling the back, then your left.  Constant motion, in tandem with each other, fingers tickling, hand caressing, motion within motion.

You are joined dear friends, close to partner, in singular motion, assist to assist heightening awareness.  Yet only your bodies are in movement, your arms in caressing motion, pulling you forward to destination.

Your swim is a whole body experience necessitating your legs to support your stance, to glide you, to guide you in forward motion.  Your legs must move you inward and outward, they must flutter.

Your legs are flexible not bending.  Toes pointed face to face your kick comes from the base of your ribs.  Your lower body is waving back and forth from breast to toe, in and out.  A kick will break your pairing.  Only by waving your lower body joined tightly to partner, rotating your movement, caressing hands tickling, will your entire body reach its climax, its steady, effortless, breathless motion forward.

We require dear friends air to breath.  Our partners below are fully immersed in liquid, assisting our motion, rotating our closeness, waving our bodies in and out, holding our embrace, appreciating our caress, trusting.  We like our partners dear friends and because of this respect we wish our partners to live as one with us, to breath the same air we breath.

Your breath inward comes as you are fully on one side.  Your partner trusting, their head turned sideways just below the water, cheek to cheek they help you lift your head above the waters edge so you may pull air deeply and purposefully, to grant you energy to continue your dance.

As your turn moves back to center you must begin to exhale, lightly blowing bubbles across your partner’s cheek briefly stopping at centre, lips fixed to lips to share the air you breath, to live loved, as one. 

Your release assured as you continue to rotate to once again pull breath of life, of energy.

In swimming we share two elixirs of life: water and air.  You need never be alone in this very singular of efforts.  Your partner, imaginary they may be, is one in you.  You share an experience of mind rotating to motion, joined rigid centre to centre, moisture passes as bodies caress and legs waiver back and forth inward and outward, air comingle as lips they join in life and closeness.

These lessons be simple, these lessons be real.  Dance to your rhythm.  Live well to your motion. 

Cripple

Soul thinks himself a cripple too.

His single greatest doubt, or perhaps it is a question.  This is the one that scares Soul most and is also the question most grounded in Soul’s reality.  Does he have the emotional capacity to maintain relationship?

This, the relationship thing, Soul desires above all things, yet he questions it’s reality or more accurately the ability with unrelenting doubt.

Soul’s relationships have all been so temporary.  A string of persons interested in him for his good nature, his kind self; or interested in him because he may be trusting and naïve, perhaps a simpleton; or interested in his money; or because he can be a partner albeit temporary and he will not reveal that which has happened, in other words he will keep your secret.  Even his marriage, so long, resulting in love’s blossoms, yet ending in failure, was so temporary. 

Soul, you do not have emotion, you cannot relate to me, you will not relate to anyone Soul, you are a cripple Soul.  Heard so often, heard too often.

In his life Soul has encountered only a handful of people he could feel.  Special people, so full of life their aura of experience, their gift of feeling could overflow into him connecting Soul to soul.  These people Soul loves most of all.  They are so few, they are so wonderful.

A cripple is as deserving of the human experience as all men and women.  Soul has emotion but it requires igniting.  His ignition comes from the abundance of others, those gifted in sharing and flowing their self to self.  He is not reliant upon those so gifted for life.  Soul is satiated by the love and kindness of the life gifted overflowing.

So Soul has discovered...

Ben

This day was a no good one.  The men and women of this world were destined to push my buttons.  I woke up irritated and stayed that way much of it.  It started with the highway trip.  A normally mundane affair that should have taken at worst an hour was extended by forty minutes by construction.  How dare they?  Did they not know I had an appointment to keep?  Nobody bothered to advise me of these delays.  Somebody was going to hear of this, the gall.

And those highway men and women who control the traveler’s world with their red STOP reversed with yellow SLOW signs.  Who do they think they are being all cheery and wonderful day with me.  I am presently frustrated and also irritated because you and your kind neglected to advise me, your travelling public, you were going to hold me up and make me late this day.  And how dare you deign to just walk over and talk to me, trapping me in my car, strapped to this road, boxed in by you, your gravel trucks, you signs, and corn fields.

Sod off and leave me alone.  I am frustrated and irritated.

And while you do so tell those trucks and all that heavy equipment to stop raising dust.  I just had my car detailed.  Geez.

Late, irritated, frustrated, tired, and dusty.  This is not a good day.  I arrive at my appointment and the man I am meeting with is all so cliché rurally cheerful and it all so feels trite.  But I am on a mission and he is my means to my end.  But he is proud of his work and he insists on telling me of every feature, of all the love he has poured into his craft, and I am just annoyed wanting to be left alone so I can personally assess his wares for myself free to ask questions should I consent to ask them.

And I leave this store after being late, and still irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, and annoyed.

I have travelled all this way and I have never been here with time on my hands and really one shouldn’t get on a highway feeling irritated, frustrated, tired, and annoyed.  I wander this town.  A museum beckons me, an interesting way to pass some time and learn of this place.  But of course some volunteer who so loves this place has donned an ethnic  costume worn by farmers when this land was first settled and said costume has not been washed since it was first sewed back in 1850 and he insists on sticking close to me every step of my time in the museum imploring me to touch this and that and regaling me with his knowledge all the while spreading his olfactory assaulting scent to my nose and clothes.  I stop his dissertation by condescendingly pointing out errors requiring correction in his display of music and instruments and he dutifully sets about correcting the exhibit. 

I pull my condescending, irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, annoyed, stinky self to a display of school books written in the language of my childhood.  As I leaf through the story books, puzzling out the words, and teasing out the story, my malodorous friend returns rendering me incapable of thought and causes me to flee the museum marginally wiser but exasperated and bothered.

My mid day shall be taken at a turn of the century lunch counter lovingly placed in an antique store.  As the cook-proprietor prepares my simple fare I wander the store touching the history and marvel at the lives of people who touched and loved these objects before me.  I know these things, I have seen these things, and I appreciate their simplicity and beauty.  Of course overly cheerful well studied daughter of the cook- proprietor must take me a simpleton as she insists on pursuing me with the tenacity of a plaid panted, white shoed, white belted, hair slicked, used car salesman endeavoring to keep me informed of each piece I touch and attempting to regale me of the unique singular history of the wares.  My stomach knots and I settle into an antique restaurant booth waiting for my simple sandwich in an exasperated funk.

The tuna salad made with home made mayonnaise on home baked bread washed by a Coke fills the void in my belly and I carry on.

It is time for my stomach knotted, funk driven, condescending, irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, annoyed, stinky, exasperated, bothered self to leave this town and I exit stage east.  I drive fast down the highway enjoying tunes from my radio and the cool air whipping through my open windows.

And there I see it.  A pile of blonde fur set in the middle of the highway.  Of course it is positioned in a way I am going to have to slow down and now, added to all my other woes, I am just plain pissed-off.  As I pass by the assumed dead animal, now obviously a dog, I see it move.  I pull to the edge of the road.

And there he is.  A massive blond head, the beautiful fur and colour of a golden retriever, huge paws, a monster wagging tale, and the most beautiful brown eyes so full of gratitude that I would just stop to say hi.  As I come toward him he attempts to stand.  His front leg is obviously shattered.  He has no collar so I lift him (he is very heavy), carry him to my car, and place upon a large pillow on the front seat.  And we drive together, his head in my hand, back to the town of my day’s angst, to find assistance.

The town has a dog pound and they inspect the unlucky fellow for ear tags and tattoos.  None, he is a genuine bona fide stray.  The pound agrees to keep him.  And I ask if they will fix his leg.  They inform me no, they will hold him for 5 days, and if he is not claimed he will be euthanized.  They also hold little hope he will be claimed because he is a puppy.  This fact surprises me.  Evidently my retriever find is in fact a cross breed, is only 5 months old, weighs 70 pounds, and will grow to about 120.

My heart is broken as I try to sort out a way of taking this lad home to the city with me.  The pound folk tell me of a rescue centre down the highway and with a quick phone call describing the situation they agree to take the boy, no issues, no problems. 

Ben, as they named him, took immediately to the menagerie of stray dogs and one nervous cat located on the farm, and they immediately bonded to him.  He showed love and friendship and compassion to me that day.

Ben melted my hardened heart.  Gone was my stomach knotted, funk driven, condescending, irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, annoyed, stinky, exasperated, bothered self.  Reborn was a man full of compassion, feeling of love, craving of friendship, wishing Ben were coming home with him.

Ben changed me that day, in just a few short hours.  The wonder of an animal, this dog grounded my mood and drew me in to the way humanity is supposed to work.  My apologies to all I was in contact that day.  My thanks to my friend, Ben.