Another Freakin' Growth Opportunity

The world courses on.  Consumer confidence is rising, how's that for a good piece of news?
Another radical spike in Interweb/Series of Tubes viewings... thanks, fans.  Nearly enough to consider the capitalistic option of 'monetizing' this puppy.


"Don't believe in fear
Don't believe in faith
Don't believe in anything
That you can't break..."

Garbage's incredibly catchy "Stupid Girl"  (Not to imply anything sexist, of course.  It's a great song, that's all.  Get over the title.)

Let us speak of 'growth opportunities.'  They come and you either take them or you don't.  Life tosses them about, like dry leaves in stiff downdrafts at times, and we can just hope to make sense of them.  The grey area is very thin between 'going forward' and 'riding the current.'  If you're really fortunate, some of them turn into 'Bucket List 100' memories.  I've had a few lucky breaks...

1. I've driven a heavy battle tank 1300+ miles in West Germany and qualified as a gunner.
2. I've climbed Mount Fuji.  In October, after the first snows.
3. I've had a wild crow land on my arm.  (Sonoma County, California.)
4. I've partied with an Olympic luge team, speaking German, in Nagano, Japan. (+3 randomness)
5. I've caught a piece of paper in the wind, and it was something I'd written in a college newspaper.
6. I've been to Paris, France (and I smelt someone's underpants.)
7. I've fended off a bear with a mylar survival blanket in the Grand Tetons.
8. I've had a big rattlesnake two steps away at a jobsite, Tucson.  He wasn't there 2 minutes before.
9. I've crawled through a slimy old pirate's cave.  (Cheung Chau, Hong Kong SAR)
10. I walked through the smoldering rubble of 9/11 in NYC, just weeks after, with my brothers.
11. I've been inside the Pentagon.  More than once.
12. I've been inside the FBI's HQs in New York City.  (Beyond the 8" lexan door.)
13. I've left coins in the Colosseum in Rome, and in the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Italy.
14. I've hit a hub-cap with a 22. call rifle shot at 50 yards, whilst blindfolded.
15. I've been tied off by a world record-holding high-rock climber.  (Yosemite National Park.)
16. I've managed to keep most of my old friends...

SO many more to go...


"HELM, confer with NAV in order to commence landing sequence for AMHRF.  WEPS, SCIENCE - on your toes.  I want full data-sets on the way in.  Could be useful in the future."
"Blinx, Klargen."
"XO?" I privated to him.  "You're ready, I assume."
"Aye, Klargen," he winked back to me.
"XO, you have the CONN," I pushed back in public.
I wanted to see him in command for a few minutes, and it didn't fall lightly on the bridge crew that I had given him this task - I trusted him - and that direct trust is big in their estimations.  Build morale if you can, I always say.
"WEPS, configure counter-stealth, SCIENCE maintain full holography, HELM confine maneuvering to 1.5 g's.
"Blinx, Klargen," they replied simultaneously, like quadrophonic music.  Confidence was high.
"Klargen," the XO privated, "Perhaps non-essential deck crew can pod-up for protection?"
"Good call, XO.  Certainly."
"T'ssin'lo herp derp blat s'pinto bonx."
"Blinx, Klargen."
A baker's dozen of the panel-assistant Greys filtered away to the lower decks.  Their panels darkened and shut off for security's sake.  We had every reason to believe they could read through our cloaking and 'know our systems.'  No reason to reveal our numbers, configuration, or stored data.
Changes had to be made.  Seven officers remained on the bridge with me.  I'd rather we looked like a 'skeleton crew' than a disciplined, formidable force.  We should look relatively weak to prevail 'downstairs.'  We all understand that we can't ask for favors if we look 'too strong.'
Sensor sweeps of the approach revealed a tight net of sub-radars, EMF counter-measures, and direct observation platforms.  And more than a few US military radar overlaps - they take security as seriously here as they used to at Area 51 - so we stayed cloaked.
The XO knew the way, from his studies.
"Main screen to IR/UV overlapping visuals," the XO ordered.  "WEPS, heat up toroid systems, just in case."
"Blinx, Klargen," they responded, right as rain.
The heat of Dulce and its buildings was visible in this mode, as were the hidden vents on Archuleta Mesa just beyond.
We approached from the south-southwest, over Rodeo Road most of the way, at an altitude so low we could count trailers on semi-trucks and passengers in SUVs.   Crossed Highway 64, then tracked over Sandhill Drive.  The high school football field and track slipped under us and we pitched left and felt the g's of the climb up the raggedy side of Dulce Rock.  The Rotatey Chair sucked me in tightly and I nodded at the XO, who was bracing himself against the side of the NAV panel.  Another hard turn to starboard, then a jink up, past mag-rock holographic sensor positions on the ridge.
As smooth as can be.
Ahead of us, after confirmation of codes, a 1/2 acre rectangular piece of living pine forest began moving from it's closed position.  Mean altitude was 2300 meters.
I privated to the XO about popping a local hatch, to sniff around.  SMMMMip!  Cold-evening mountain air - glistening with the tang of pinon pine,  faintly-sweet Ponderosa pine, and a barest whiff of juniper - rapidly filled the space above the Rotatey Chair.
"WEPS, arm toroid systems to subdue only," the XO ordered.  He wasn't gambling with historical issues, I mused to myself.  We all knew what happened way down on Level 6 long ago.  "NAV, Nopo pert lipon smat trem'o tinx."  (Rough translation:  slow, clockwise spin, like a skillet on a stove burner.)
"Lipon smat trem'o tinx, blinx Klargen."
"Good idea," I privated to him.  He already knew that, of course.
The Tinglev dropped in smartly, and we cautiously descended several hundred meters into the glassified rock cavity.  The diameter of this vertical shaft increased as we dropped, and our holographics revealed that 1/2 acre above to be the tip of a deep, cone-shaped hollow space, nearly a thousand meters deep, rimmed with a mix of conformal and/or retractable landing platforms, dozens of them on the way down.  The walls were smoothly polished, reflecting much of our IR landing light right back at us.  No other ships of any sort.  No movements below.  I popped my ears a few times as the pressure dropped.  Above us, the 'door' closed.  The air coming in was vaguely metallic, like welding fumes.
"HELM, Main to IR visual.  WEPS, disengage cloaking at your discretion.  NAV, set us down."
"Blinx, Klargen."  Holographics showed a landing bottom of approximately 14 acres, nearly flat and ringed with wiring, piping, and assorted 'base paraphrenalia.'  Still and lifeless.
And then, with a kiss, we were soft-down, safe and quiet on a southern orientation.  The Rotatey Chair eased up.
"HELM, de-grav."
"Blinx, Klargen."
The ship fell several inches onto the hard struts with a tri-part jolt and a big-metal shudder.  Crewman began filtering onto the bridge as we began to shut down now-unneeded propulsion and flux lines.   Several things quit whirring - the relative silence unfamiliar to me - I'd grown used to those latent sounds of the ship's physical forms and systems, even the echoes when I actually spoke aloud.
But it was so eerily quiet.  Greys don't fuss about noisily.
We all knew what had to be done.  Level 5 awaited outside, and WEPS made us re-appear.
"Cloaking is de-energized, Klargen."  There was a faint, arhythmic 'tinking' noise as the thermal shock of this low, cold place met the hull of the Tinglev directly.
"Very well," the XO replied.  We all knew they all saw us at that moment.  Wasn't the same ship or Grey captain that left here long ago...  This empty dock was our new place for a bit.
My excitement was sheer.  (Humans aren't allowed below this level.  That never ends well.)
"COMMS, send repair requests."  This was rolling the dice, as it were.  They didn't have to even let us in, let alone help us repair our dampener system.  But they had let us in, so maybe they would aid us in our quest.  Then the XO was breaking in... pushing me for an answer.
"Klargen, would you like the CONN back?"  The XO queried privately as he glanced back.
"You keep it for a bit, Number One.  I'm gonna look around."
"Blinx, Klargen.  Is there a plan?" He privated again.
"Makin' this up as I go along.  Aren't we all?"
"Tinglev Crew, XO still has the CONN," I said, in my forgotten voice.  They all slightly twisted to hear me speak.  With the normal, subtle push, it was probably overly loud to them.
I stood from the Rotatey Chair and walked back to my quarters to get dressed for whatever was to follow.  That meant making unobtrusive armor, concealable weapons, and adroit diplomacy into an outfit that DIDN'T look bad-ass, I thought.  I could feel my muscles in my abdomen tense up.   So much to choose from.
"Aye, Klargen."
"WEPS, ready a security detail..."




"I'm not giving in to security under pressure, 
I'm not missing out on the promise of adventure, 
I'm not giving up on implausible dreams,
Experience to extremes..."

Rush, "The Enemy Within" released 1984.

Real segues?  Who needs 'em?  Over-rated.  Let's play a game!

One of the following Tales is true:

I.  "The Mutilation of the Hermae:  A Brief Synopsis For 'Weird History' Buffs"
(I first heard about this at an Honor Student Invitational at UW, circa summer 1981.)
Long ago, far away, there was intermittent war between the city-states of Greece, and a few foreign entities as well.  415 BCE.  A constant of the times was the Greek devotion to their numerous Gods.  In Athens, statues of Hermes - the God of travelers and thieves alike - graced the temples, crossroads and porch entrances of many a family home, proudly displaying a turgid weenis, for luck.   (And if history and Loverboy have taught us anything, it is that an erect member means someone's trying to 'get lucky.') Collectively, these statues were known as the Hermae.  There were listless thousands of these encouraging pieces ornamenting the city.  A veritable Bonerville.
Tensions still abounded with Sparta.  Prominent citizen Alcibiades had turn-coated from his Athenian lineage to the 'enemy' in Sparta, then he allied himself with Athens once more.  (Indecisive prick that he was, apparently.) War with Sicily also loomed, and the fleet had readied to sail.  One night remained before Bad-ass Team Athens, with Alcibiades as Fleet Admiral, sailed west, outfitted for sea/land war and certain glory.
Then, as dawn broke, disaster.  Or close enough.
Imagine the horror of emerging from your home to find that the proud phalluses of your local Hermae had been chipped away in the night.  Marble schlongers littering crossroads.  Some statues were completely dashed to bits.  An earthquake wouldn't have been as alarming, as Athens was mythically castrated.
Hermes himself was probably deeply offended, they knew.  The Athenians, ever superstitious, surging with mass hysteria, awaited total calamity.  Metaphorically 'dickless.'  They may have even dabbled with pacifism for a spell.
The Sicily naval attack, the ongoing conflicts with Sparta - all this was nearly forgotten in the midst of such sacrilegious debasement - the sailors, soldiers and men of Athens backed down, this sudden impotence having descended.  Alcibiades, becoming a popular suspect in the 'mutilations,' returned to Sparta.  A few years later, Sparta attacked Athens.  The Peloponnesian Wars raged on.  (That's a whole 'nother story.)

Some historians make the argument that this instance was the first effective use of psychological warfare.  The enemies of Athens beat them before they could even leave home.   The Chinese military scholar Sun-Tzu also mentions - in several ways -  the potential ability of a general to end the battle before the field has been taken.
A.  "The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting."
B.  "If you are far from the enemy, make him believe you are near."
C.  "The greatest victory is that which requires no battle."

II.  I knew this really weird guy who could camouflage himself rather adeptly.  He had some military experiences and took that skill-set to heart.  The crude simplicity of hiding was codified:  Break up your outline, Use multi-fractal layers, Don't clash, Move slowly yet naturally.  He could crawl across a college campus in broad daylight and not be seen, moving with the leaves and the wind in a slightly fluid way...  Colors and patterns picked to match the immediate scenery.  Maybe someone saw a fleeting blur, but lost focus on it almost as quickly.  Some say this guy could 'suppress his presence' so much that you could just walk by him and not know he was there, even up to two feet away.  One tale goes about the time a massive party was spilling onto his brother's property, way out in the tall woods.  He became a sword-fern bush ringed by cedar fronds, and nearly got peed on twice.  He even foiled some would-be car-thievery with an abrupt admonishment from 'nowhere.'  One of his brother's dogs, upon his return to the house, knew he was there scant feet away, but couldn't see him and got rather perplexed.  Don't know what happened to that guy.

III.  On a really OCD weird side-note, someone who reads this blog...

...is making, has made - or thought about making - a 'sweet Kesar rice' dish known as 'beenaj.'  (It looks tasty, by the way, except the green raisins cooked in, ewwww.)

...is surfing through 'Kallery' taking art history quizzes.

...is perusing 'Stumbleupon' for inspirational New Age photos and memes...  

"?" I say.

We already know, don't we all?  

If anyone's paying attention, ALL three are true.  From a certain point of view.   Roman numeral two is autobiographical, just wanted to refer to myself in the 3rd person for a spell.

Here's to AFGO.  My Bucket List involves settling all my scores.  Workin' on that.  Some are elusive.

Thinking With My Left Foot

Sometimes you hit what you're aiming for.  Sometimes you don't even aim, and end up there anyway.

Beatrix gave me a purple/green hacky-sack, a watercolor painting, and a silver and turquoise ring way back in the day, in the weeks before she became 'someone else.'  The hacky-sack died of over-use long ago, and the ring got pitched into the waters of Bellingham Bay, from the dock at the north end of Boulevard Park.  It still sits in the silt and sand, 10-15 feet down, remembering.
The painting, of a mandala she saw during a climax I participated in, is still in my hands, signed and all.  It's actually a nice painting.  (She was rather talented with that medium, maybe she still is...)

Let's talk about getting older and learning forms of control.  Physical, emotional, intellectual, psychic.  How wise can you get?  How flexible?  How much shit can you take?  You do eventually find an upper limit to these, and then seek out the proverbial 'more.'
You used to be able to raise the needle off the LP record and put it wherever you wanted on that side of the album.  Total control of those musical memories you'd ingrained already.  (Need I mention that headphones in those days were huge by today's standards, like Princess Leia muffins on your ears?)

I used to be a bit clumsy as a youth.  Hit my head a lot running through the forest.  Tried to catch a boomerang - bled from that.  Tripped on uneven sidewalks, whatever...  My hand-eye coordination was, let's just say, in need of further development.  I ran into the basketball hoop-poles and DIDN'T make the lay-up.  I was never a good batter, but I was a good pitcher.  (Which doesn't make sense.)  Running was a more obvious sporting choice for me.  Even long distance.  Anything where I could just run was better than trying to 'be on target.'
Until...
I remember the first time I shot a BB-gun - in Hazel Dell, Washington, maybe 1972, or early 1973 - and I hit what I was aiming at - a red-winged blackbird in a low, lonely tree in a clearcut.  I was mortified when I hit it, saw the puff of feathers, and it dropped.  It was injured beyond health but not quite dead.  I didn't fire any weapon for years, still reliving that salty moment of God-like, brutal choice.  I wasn't at all happy I'd killed that bird in one way or another.  It was a challenge I didn't really think I'd succeed at, hitting it on a childish dare...  and when I did, I felt like shit.  Seriously.

"...Thought I'd heard you talking softly,
I turned on the lights, the TV, and the radio.
Still I can't escape the ghost of you.
What has happened to it all?
'Crazy' some'd say.
Where is the light that I recognize?"
"Ordinary World"  by Duran Duran (and it still kicks ass.)

Fast-forward a few years, a few moves. (Our family moved a lot, for the record.)
A low, forest-ringed horse pasture in northern Snohomish County, autumn, in 1980.  The mist usually fills this space due to its relatively lower elevation on most cold, grey days, but with my friends on this odd day, it was clear.  Couldn't see Jason's parents' house through the fog, so they couldn't see us.  Freedom to chew Apple Jack leaf tobacco and smoke leftover 'parental' cigarette butts, maybe a little leafy, wanna-be pot in an aluminum can, fashioned into a hot-burning impromptu pipe...  (If we'd had beer, we would've drank it.  Being 15 sucks sometimes.)  We had a shitty .22-caliber rifle, a box of ammo, and some serious male-teenager gravitas.  Back in the early 80's, five teenage boys and a rifle weren't cause for alarm in some parts.  We were 'out of trouble' more than the opposite of that.
Hub-caps and old beer bottles, beware.

I finally got a chance to fire at something, and I remember we were on the west side of that pasture, facing north.  Sol hadn't broken through quite yet.  A solid line of second-growth douglas firs bordered us on the left, and there was a prominent tree about 50-60 yards north, just inside in the pasture fence.  A first-growth cedar stump was the only dominant feature in the pasture foreground, an old relic from before our grandparent's births.  It was soggy, deep cedar red, with a few ferns on top.
Like I said, it was my turn.  We had a firearm.
A squirrel had the audacity to climb that fir in front of us.  (Where we could see it.)  Soon, the teenage goadings included that mammal's inclusion as a potential target.  It was so far off, and the weapon so crude, there was no way I wanted to 'waste my shot' on it.  There just wasn't any way this chintzy rifle was gonna allow me to hit that varmint.
But I couldn't escape the dare.  They SAID it couldn't be done.  I raised the rifle and sighted in.  I breathed slowly, and pulled the trigger.

I took the center portion of its spinal cord/spine away from that poor creature's body.  A not-so-bloody arc was missing from its back, like a piranha bite.  It held on with its front legs to the tree, but it was clearly not going to survive that shot.  Rear legs paralyzed, dead weight kicked in.  In short seconds, with that big chunk of it missing, it scrambled and fell into its oblivion.
Again, I felt like shit.  The distance of that shot was rather unbelievable, but I DID hit that poor thing.  My brothers and friends started complaining that it was a 'one in a million shot.'  Whatever.  I had taken two shots in my life and killed two things.  There was a trend starting, a dreadful luck with 'things that aim to kill.'  We all brushed it off as total luck.
We advanced up the pasture, plinking steel cans and beer bottles we'd found.  I was acting cocky, I had actually hit something, no one else could brag yet.  They tried their shots.  Someone put a hubcap on the cedar stump as we went by, and when we we got up to the horse-barn, I mentioned that I could hit the hubcap on the stump from there.  We were, at this point, at least 50 meters away, looking slightly downhill.  The hubcap was a silvery glint below the sword ferns.

Now, it gets really weird.  Almost unbelievable.  But it did happen.

First, a musical pause:  (Something I played a lot in my 1976 AMC Spirit, 'Red Shift,' back in the day.)

"That's all I wanted, 
Something special.
Someone sacred -  
In your eyes.
For just one moment,
To be bold and naked,
At your side.
Sometimes I think that you never - 
Understand me (Understand me.)
Maybe this time is forever,
Say it can be..."

"Father Figure" by George Michael.  (Reminds me of West Germany in the late 80's, because that's where I lived and worked, readying myself to put steel-on-steel for NATO.  So, listen to the whole thing, mein freunden.  S'not like you have anything better to do...  Shit.  You probably do, but - still - find a way to hear this song.)


The Tinglev was nearing the nexus where Las Vegas, the Colorado River, and too many civilian and military radars converge.  Area 51 had been more or less deserted as we flew over, now an unused stage.  Nothing pinged at all on sensors.  Our heading was now 172 degrees at 475 knots, and it was the only place we could fit through.  After Shasta we had to avoid numerous Triangles, hugging scenery and changing speed and elevation so often we almost all got sick.  Inertial dampening was now almost completely useless.
My crew didn't have the benefit of 'Rotatey Chairs.'  We had to run this gauntlet slowly, carefully, to get this craft fixed, one way or another.  Enough pasty grey bruises for my crew.
"MAIN to visual," I ordered, "XO, WEPS keep me informed."
"Blinx, Klargen."
The lights of southern Las Vegas filled the screen for a fleeting few seconds, glittering, and soon faded.  At the NAV console, the XO braced himself for the upcoming turn above Hoover Dam.  We all knew that was going to be hairy.  There's a new bridge there, it's awe-inspiring.  I wanted to look at it and not be busy thinking about their steering.
"NAV, at your discretion, commence turn to 32 degrees.  Pick an arc-speed and relative altitude, keep us below possible mag-rock holography."
The XO turned back to me.  He'd forgotten about that down here, he 'privated' to me.  He pushed something to the bridge crew I couldn't make out, but it must've worked.   The whole vibe changed.  We all felt confident we'd get to Archuleta Mesa soon, without issue.
"Klargen, COMMS."
"Go ahead, COMMS."
"AMHRF is requesting clearance codes, signal is patchy."
"Send them, encoded.  Boost transmission past cloaking alignment, if possible."
"Blinx, Klargen."



"I bet I can hit that hub-cap, blindfolded, using The Force." I announced.
They laughed at me - I was so lucky once - it couldn't happen again, right?  A clean red paisley handkerchief served as a blindfold, and was wrapped in a way that I couldn't see anything except a faint glow of grey light.  I closed my eyes and they spun me around a few times, handing me the rifle and aiming me in the general quadrant of the lower pasture.  I started a slow, tightening spiral, feeling the balance of the weapon, the level of the trajectory I needed, and the 'draw' of that target.  When the spiral fell in on itself, I took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.  I knew, before I pulled the trigger, that my aim was dead-on.

I could hear a metallic 'plink' and reached up to pull off my blindfold.
"No fuckin' way!  No fuckin' way!"
Daren began running down to the stump.  Jason took the rifle and my brother Brian pursed his lips tightly, and we began our march to the results.  The hubcap wasn't on the stump anymore, and when Daren picked it up, and turned it to us, we could see a clean hole in the aluminum, nearly dead-center.  It wasn't a shot you could make, even with your eyes open - unless you had a well-aligned scope.
"You peeked," Brian accused me, but he and I both knew that I hadn't.  Even if I had, the odds were spectacularly against hitting that hub-cap.
"No way,"  They kept repeating.   "How could that happen?"
But, 'way.'  It happened.  There is no rational explanation whatsoever.  There is no logical reason for that bullet to find that arc and find its mark.
Except, perhaps, using The Force.  I truly believed I could hit it, and my confidence survived the jeers of friends and brothers.  Disbelief is not as strong as belief.
Suffice it to say no one hit that hubcap after that - from that distance - with their eyes open, including me.

On the 7th of February, 1992, I was playing hacky-sack with two close friends on the sidewalk outside of Tony's Coffee.  Tony's had been a refuge from the dreary memories of Beatrix, a place to write poetry, sip double-mint mochas, and people-watch.  (Or girl-watch.)  The day was grey but warmish.  Kicking around the hacky-sack, we were occupied with keeping it going.  Then Beatrix and her Mom came around the corner from the north.  The hack dropped.  She recognized me and whispered to Beatrix to hold her hand up to block me from her view, and did the same.  Two people I knew very well walked by me and headed east up the slight incline.  I followed for a short distance, muttering, 'Well that's childish of you two," just loud enough for them to hear.  They ignored me so hard it was obvious as hell, then turned and entered the Mexican restaurant.  I went back to my friends, and they knew who I had just seen by the look on my face.
"That was her, wasn't it?"
"Yeah.  Can't even acknowledge me, I guess."
"Pretty mean thing to do," Doug offered, "Less than a year ago you were engaged to that girl?"
"Yeah.  But now I don't exist, I s'pose."
"But you do, Brent."  Dave consoled me as much as he could.
"Tell that to them, they want to be blind."
"You didn't say 'Air raid," Doug mentioned, "Were you too surprised?"
"Yeah, totally.  I never knew they'd both be like this."

Beatrix' car was parked directly next to Doug's Ford Ranger truck.  (She wouldn't have known that it was his or that I arrived in that vehicle.)  I pulled a picture of her from my latest journal, ripped it up into 3 large pieces, and threw it on the damp asphalt next to her driver's side door.   I had another copy of it, so it wasn't a big loss.  Two hours later, it was still there.

Where am I going with this?  Perhaps an old poem is in order...

11 February, 1992.

You, with your pretensions of fire,
Passions waiting to be heard,
Your instincts are obscured and blurred.
You can't claw through the fog
Because you gave up your talons.
Let 'right' be damned, you said to me. 
Will you never let go of that anger?
Or will 'all' be soggy with blind fear?
Don't dare to roar on my turf,
Before you can see it clear and wide.
You are far, but I am near.
Open your eyes, feel that tide.


I learned to think with my left foot to master hacky-sack.  I pushed my consciousness to the foot I didn't favor.  The hard things are more rewarding than the easy things when you're done with them.  One day, at 1510 Iron Street, a mutual friend came up to our hack-circle.  He'd come from the direction of Beatrix' rental house.  Conversation ensued.  Travis knew her fairly well - I discovered later -  but didn't know I was the guy she had been with before Bellingham.  We all chatted and hacked for a bit.
"You should go to Fairhaven College," he finally offered.  "You'd love it there."
"Too many psycho chicks depending on restraining orders."
"Who did that?"
"Beatrix Blankety-blank."
"You know her - you're THAT guy?  Oh my God, you aren't what I expected."
"Yep, the devil incarnate."
"No fucking way."  He laughed, mystified as to why Beatrix would be afraid, loudly fearful, of moi.

Later that month, I was talking with my buddy Andre, and he mentioned that he had been staying at the house with Beatrix and F.  He mused about a time Beatrix came in from a sweaty bike-ride and stripped down buck naked in front of him on her way to the shower.  Later that year, he got busted for receiving an ounce of weed from LA in the mail.  But not at her house...

On another, slightly related note:  As a cook at The Quarterback Pub and Eatery, I had to deal with a lot of things - preparing and finishing food, 3 bosses, 6-10 waitresses, 2-3 bartenders, and the public. Fire Code had us at 225 for seating.  Maybe two cooks on at a given time.  Busy.  The kitchen was easy to watch from almost anywhere in the place.  I started as a prep/line cook and just kept churning out food for months, my circadian rhythm destroyed by late nights, lots of business, and endless french fries, fettucines, and fresh fish 'specials' we'd dreamt up.  The tips were good.  There was a steady turnover of waitresses, as it was a college town and the demands of that job are impressive and difficult to master.  Some stayed, some left after a day.
One day, we get a new one, a petite brunette named - I'll call her something else - Deedee.  After a few hours, on her first day, it became obvious she was a cocaine or meth user.  She started out light, then got edgier, until she could take a 'smoke break.'  Then she'd be 'reset.'  She never smelled like cigarettes after these outings, so...
One day she came in with new earrings, shaped like hot-air balloons and made from an exotic metal.  Maybe titanium, I thought.
"Hey, Deedee, those are cool earrings.  Where'd you get those?"
"Thanks, I got 'em in Arizona."  That piqued my interest.
"Is that titanium?'
"Yeh, good guess."  I had her attention.
I knew then who had made them, intuitively, but milked it out of her slowly.
"Flagstaff area?"  I said, probably filling up ketchup bottles.
"Yeah.  You know Flag?"
"Never been there.  Never been to Arizona."
"There was a guy-"
"Were you along the freeway south of Flagstaff, east of Sedona, by the off ramp to the (censored) Ranch, and got them from a guy named D. in a white schoolbus?"
She looked shocked.  Her color changed.  She started chewing her inside cheek, coke-nerping.
"Are you a cop?"
"Nope, just a cook, Deedee.  That bus is in Bellingham right now, not far from here.  I've seen it rollerblading home to my apartment."
"You aren't a cop?  But, how?" She quizzed.  "I've never even worn these here before."
"It's a small world, Deedee."
She didn't show up ever again after that.  I hit my mark, blind-folded.  Thinking with my left foot.

Beatrix is still indifferent, and still silent, to me.  (At least she's consistent, right?  Counts for something.)
She hasn't written a new blog in 3 months.  Just the one.  Was it just a 'toe-dip' into the water?  Has she forgotten how to swim?  Is she still petrified of the water in which the sharks of memory swim?
Too busy to heal old wounds, or even acknowledge the past for karma's sake.  Just put 'glurg' on there...  Throw a dog a bone, sheesh.

Did SHE ever learn to think with her left foot?  Has she ever hit the proverbial hub-cap?  Is her hand still in front of her face?  Did she master the inverted dive?

Future prediction:  I won't hear jack-squat from her until a month or two after her mother passes, which may be tomorrow, or 25 years from now.  I'm not holding my breath, therefore.

But she may be.  Because someday it's gonna happen, and that 'suspected' promise she made will die with her.

Til then, I'm still persona non grata, a fangless stalker, a fear to be gasped at.
But I'm really not.

I'm the Captain of a captured alien vessel, headed into the mix.

"HELM, take us in."
"Blinx, Klargen."

(Then she posts a video, on Sunday, with a soundtrack I mentioned a few weeks ago.  "Give a Little Bit" by Supertramp.)  Not like I noticed, right?
But I did.  I CAN think with my left foot.

And I can hit targets I CAN'T see, or aim at, even.  Groove on that, Beatrix.  I'm sending bolts of love and friendship.  They'll look like something else, of course.

Whenever you can quit being so specious about our past, I'm here.  I always am.

Almost Relevant Musings, & A Glass of Sherry

Here's a little bit of poetry from the past...

11 Feb 92.
Find your roar,
It is waiting for you,
There in the wind.
Where your fears will escape.
Let them go,
The wind is strong.

Thank a deity that I have kept a journal for most of the last 20 years.  (Of course, Beatrix burned one up, but I think I've captured most of the salient creativity that I can muster in new volumes since.)

I've recently been making some major adjustments to my life, and like a wondrous ship coming into the harbor, an old friend and I have re-established contact.  I've missed her over the years - she really knew me well - and losing touch with her back then was a major chink in my armor.  A loose thread that was never tugged upon.
Until today.
Sometimes you forget that the souls you've encountered make you who you are in the end.  So long ago, "S" taught me about being genuinely sweet, being nice in the face of meanness, and being comfortable in your own skin.  She had a boldness to her character that was infinitely attractive.  I'd forgotten some of our chats from 2 decades ago, but I am now reminded.  When I was under threat of going off to war, she was a tremendous comfort to my sense of security, about friends and love, and enduring loyalty.  (Almost the dialectical opposite of Beatrix, in retrospect.)


"XO, anything on COMMS."
"See'nix, Klargen.  Social media only."
"I thought so.  Very well."
I stared at the house where Beatrix spent her early childhood, in the shadows of pine, madrona and eucalyptus trees that had grown much over the decades.  We were in a hover, and the sun was just down, but light hung on for a few minutes.  A local hatch opened - they know I like that - and I could smell the open Pacific on the wind.  Just below us, south of the house, a bonfire burned and I could hear a drum circle.  Could almost smell the local Bolinas weed... and I sighed.  (I knew I was finally saying goodbye.  I made a mental note to ritually burn my last copy of the novel when we got back to Seattle, and start over.)  The XO 'almost' smiled at me from the NAV console.  He sensed my mood.
"NAV, set a new course.  Wheel us away from here.  Northwest."
"Issa blurn pen'cho brap, Klargen?"  The local hatch closed with that now familiar 'fffip-smieeck"sound and my ears popped just a bit.
"Adjust for Mount Fuji, Japan.  Summit, please.  WEPS, configure for counter-interception and stealth.  We don't want that X-radar catching a glimpse of the Tinglev's speed."  Not like they'd have any idea 'who' we were, just being cautious.
"Blinx, Klargen."  MAIN switched to pulse-defensive sub-radar, away from visual mode.  It's better for   us, defensively speaking.  Dozens of human aircraft became visible in this mode, criss-crossing the skies ahead.  Plotted trajectories made the screen appear like skews of multi-colored yarn had been carefully unraveled in airspace.
The Rotatey Chair sucked me in and we climbed to 48K.  My crew was busy again.  SCIENCE located several pods of whales well off the coast before we transitioned to supersonic flight, and they were busy with COMMS recording the songs.  The XO meandered over to me and braced himself against the armrest as we accelerated.  He pushed on our private frequency with a question.
"Klargen, are we revisiting some glorious memories, rather than bittersweet ones?"
"Aye, XO.  I'm tired, so exhausted, of those wounding memories of Beatrix.  I had hoped maybe we could reconcile our friendship, have a smile together, but it probably won't ever happen.  She said "Not in this lifetime," remember?"
"Blinx, Klargen.  I recall from the mem-share."
"MAIN to visual, please."  Soft yellow light filled the bridge.
The endless Pacific rushed beneath us, we'd caught up with the sun in a few seconds.  Soon we passed over the tsunami-damaged northeast coast of Honshu, and SCIENCE got very busy when they noted the ambient radiation levels.  We could see Fuji-san already.  It was spectacular, as it always was.
"NAV, position us to the north side of the caldera at 3 meters relative to summit."
"Gling brap blim, Klargen."
"XO, you have the conn.  I'll be in my quarters for a few niptuks."
The Rotatey Chair eased its grip on me and the Tinglev had to adjust considerably to allow me to walk during our deceleration.  I found and donned a heavy mylar-looking jacket and pants, and put on some bright red boots with, oddly, Vibram soles.  Warm gloves, made of a material I have troubled describing - like conformal whitish felt, perhaps.
When I came back onto the bridge, MAIN was showing a group of Japanese climbers just a few yards off our 'bow.'
"XO, we have a drop-hatch, correct?"
"Aye, Klargen.  In Powerplant sub-level 1."
"And it can be opened even if we stay cloaked, right?  We don't have to reveal ourselves?"
"Aye."
"Then let's do this.  WEPS, prep for EMF suppression of any random cell phones or digital cameras."
"Blinx, Klargen."

The last time I was on the top of Mt Fuji was 15 years ago, almost to the day.  I was so excited to climb it that I made the ascent from Kawaguchiko 5th Station to the summit in 4 hours and 25 minutes.  I had seen depictions on stamps that I had collected as a small boy.  It was in my 'bucket list' before there was a term for that.It was brutally cold in October that year, but I just didn't care.  I was wearing insulated Carrhardts and a few layers underneath.  Solar cells on my glove-tops kept my fingers warm.  I had been entertained all the way up the mountain by a new friend - a Hong Kong policeman, an Irishman, of all things - revealing crazy, sometimes disturbing stories of his career in such a foreign place.  We remained friends for a few years, I stayed in his lavish high-rise apartment when I visited HK, but we lost touch around the millennium.  I'm sure we'll meet again someday.  Maybe on a mountaintop.

The drop-hatch was aligned vertically, I noticed.  Easier for exits and entrances.  It opened quickly and I jumped out and landed kinda hard.  I heard the hatch close behind me and an older Japanese man heard it and turned back at me, eyes wide.  I hadn't been there a second before.  I winked at him and he laughed.
"You not there, then there," he said in fairly good English. "How?"
"Magic."
He laughed and muttered "Usso." (You lie.)  He pointed his climbing stick at me.
"A kind of magic, then."
He looked at my garb and smiled deeply.  "No such thing as these clothings here in Nippon."
"Yeah, we don't have them in the US, either."
"More magic, then?"
"Hai.  Something like that."  We began walking to the weather station at the true peak, about a quarter-mile off, and he quizzed me about my sudden appearance at the top of the Yoshida Trail.  I didn't let him know much, only that I'd climbed Fuji-san before, very quickly, in my younger days.
"Taisetsu na koto jah nakata," he mumbled under his breath, (Nothing of importance) but I could tell he was a little razzled.  We finally introduced ourselves and made our way to the granite spire, past a giggling group of young ladies - looked like Tokyo office-ladies on a day tour - on their way down.   Mr Ushimaya told me had been an engineer for a major car company, and was now retired.  His wife had died years before, and he had never had children.  He lived in his house with his younger sister and her family in the outskirts of Yokohama.  I gave him a general background, but nothing recent, for obvious reasons.
I knew the Tinglev was very close, but I couldn't see it.  My signal for the hatch to open would be a crisp military salute, so they were watching my every move.  Maneuvering around the weather station and it's bristle of antennas had to be taxing on the NAV crew-members.  I do trust them.
I touched the granite spire, and started backing off when Mr Ushimaya chided me with an "Ochiso!"
(It means 'something is on the edge and about to fall,' and implies someone has to do something about it.)
The 'something' was me, my body.  As I fell, the drop hatched opened, and scooped me up.  I had fallen, but got back up quickly.  The hatch remained open.
Ushimaya-san peered into the Tinglev's sub-level, laughed very hard, knowing now what my magic was.  We bowed deeply at each other, and the hatch closed.  I never even had to do the salute.

Back on the bridge, in uniform again, the XO pressed that he thought that my exchange with Ushimaya-san was quite funny.  So hard to read their laughter unless they tell me about it directly.
We accelerated away to the east, not even very quickly, and I nearly fell over from the acceleration before I could get to the Rotatey Chair.


"A dreamer of pictures,
He runs in the night.
You see us together
Chasing the moonlight (with)
My Cinnamon Girl."
Neil Young's impeccable 'Cinnamon Girl."

"NAV, let's get back to Archuleta Mesa Heavy Repair Facility (AMHRF).  The Tinglev needs a check-up.  Can't wait anymore."
"Blinx, Klargen.  Any preferences?"
"None at all, XO.  Keep us away from the Triangles, if possible."
"Aye, Klargen."  The XO began pushing to NAV and WEPS and SCIENCE, letting them know the idiosyncracies of how to sneak in there unseen by even the reverse-engineered systems that the US Government had figured out.
We all knew what a mess we were in for at AMHRF.  The stress level went up in the crew, and the XO relayed to me in private.  I knew.

That place is a zoo.  Literally.  You really have to wonder why molecular biochemists live in a town as small as Dulce, NM.  I know why.

The Pleistocene, Black, and Trees

Stardate 7643.  (You aren't reading this, right?  Oh, you are.  I so knew it. [clapclapclap])

We planted a skinny 'Charlie Brown' maple tree a few years back.  Maybe 7-8 seasons ago.  It took awhile, but it's now a 25-foot-plus monster.  4-5 foot uprights means it's goin' for it next spring.  On this fall day, powdery leaf mildew gathers spackly white on its lower leaves, a pox that'll work it's way up before the first frost.  The squirrels have used it as cover from my hound dogs, but those days and leaves are numbered as the nights get cooler and nippy.  Downdraft winds spew cedar seeds from next door.  A killdeer 'cheers' about 1/2 way up, above the crow perches.  My crows finish off the brown rice leftovers atop the garden shed.  Golden light filters through the neighborhood trees, kissing the plants it can.  Layers of color grace the land, and we all sense the coming of late harvests.

"I was born a believer, 
Played the fool.
Lonely dreamer,
Left to choose.
I don't know where the love is
There's a promise undone.
Someone's cryin'
In a room all alone."
Journey's 'Happy To Give.'  It's worth listening to the whole song.  Seriously.

I'm sure you've been paying attention to everything political.  I know I have.  It's almost exhausting.
The repulsive GOP is at their dirty tricks again, election season and all.  They're so busy rigging Diebold's voting machines and denying Dems the right to vote that they're 'occupado' right now.  They won't even mention their own foul scandal.  So we can talk about them openly.  Fuckin' fucks.  "Money is Free Speech" is not a factual statement.  Let's pause and give deliciously sarcastic thanks to Justice A. Scalia, for profoundly fucking over this republic twice now.  (Bush v Gore, 2000 and the Citizens United case.)  I can't imagine the lack of thought that goes on in that man's big mookish head.  He can't even keep his conflicts of interest at bay.  SCOTUS is now a puppet organization for the ultra-rich, minus a few reality-based thinkers, in the minority.


"NAV, come about to 168 degrees and take us to Norcal at 2g."
"Blinx, Klargen.  Issa blurn pen'cho brap?"
"Bolinas, 3/4 mile west of the store, at the treeline on the hill.  Red gabled house.  That's close enough."
"Blinx, Klargen.  N'Sol speruts." (Sun is setting.)
"Noted.  Safe air, then."
"Blinx, Klargen."
The XO moved purposefully to oversee the NAV instructions.  He knew where we were going.  (I'd done a full memory share with him soon after the abduction.  I've never shared that here.  And I'm not now, right?)
The Rotatey Chair sucked me in good for the 2g run.  Inertial dampening was still a bit questionable, it's still not permanently repaired.  I'm just not in the mood for Archuleta Mesa Heavy Repair and all its BS and reptilian trickery.  It'll have to wait.  MAIN switched from search to front visual, and I could see Rainier go by off to the east.
"WEPS, configure for full stealth.  Let's not run into the triangles.  They do the S-4 to Santa Rosa run at times."  They're hard to avoid in visual mode, and they have stealth beyond this ship's sensor capability.  It's a good thing they don't run with that 'on' all the time.  They like to be seen.  Freaks people out.
"Blinx, Klargen.  Prap glurb s'll nee lop glant, spin 'to nix glurg."
"Understood, WEPS."  I knew that.  He thinks I don't know that?  "SCIENCE, let's get 4 co-ord osmics on the way, as much as is possible.
"Blinx, Klargen.  "
"NAV, adjust for run past McMinnville, recompute if necessary."
"Klargen, lerp spat bing nop."
"We've already passed it?  Understood."  I often underestimate the speed this craft has, even in this configuration.
"SCIENCE, anything?"  Shasta passed by.  Crickets from the crew, they were very busy.
"COMMS, anything?"
"Klargen, social media has an update.  Authored."
"Fuck that, I'm done for now."
The XO turned and eyed back at me from NAV, because he knew better.  The Rotatey Chair eased up as we came in low, through a bit of fog over Point Reyes.  The deceleration at 2g isn't much.  Like hitting the brakes in a sports car.  The XO was bracing himself against the NAV panel/screen.
He pushed at me, in our freq, that he had no idea what was going through my mind.


Speaking of scouring, let's give thanks to the last of the cyclical Ice Ages!  Huzzah!  No more snowing and scraping and advancing every X-thousand years or whatever, trees and rocks and villages crunching asunder before the onslaughts of ice.  We whupped that one forever, probably.  That was a bitch.  I don't look good in animal pelts, I'm pretty sure.  No, I probably do.
Oh shit, WAIT!  All those regular-ish ice ages occurred on a planet with 290 parts per million of our toxic fair-weather friend, carbon dioxide.  (And woolly mammoths didn't use aerosol deodorant, but, by God, they needed it.)  We're so far above that CO2 level it REALLY ISN'T FUNNY.    Ok, you CAN make it funny.
Guy walks into a bar, says to a gal at the bar, "My penile tumescence is directly related to the CO2 level in the atmosphere.  Nuthin' but way up!"
"Oh yeah?  I got mace, asshole."  (Proceeds to shoot said jokester with chemical irritant.)
So we won't be trying that again.

I see future sunsets tinged with oily reds and purples, deep smooth yellows, a whirl of toxic additives, and a heat that keeps the cities insulated, trapped in their own car exhaust, sewer gases, and myriad manufacturing wastes.  (We all know places like this, if you've been to LA in the summertime.)

I have been in traffic jams in the LA area, and the last one involved George Clooney on the I-10 westbound in Riverside, May 2009.  I'll just let your imagination run wild right there.  Sea of cars.  He was in a new black Porsche.  Classy one.  (Not even dealer's plates - they just let him take it to Palm Springs for a test run, I bet.)  I was in a silver Dodge truck, loaded for the trip back to Washington with my Father.  You can see where I'm going here, right?  I was 'This' close to Ocean's Batman.  One lane away, for 15 minutes or so.  He was impatient, but I let him be, braking and accelerating as he was.  I just kept moving, and looking.  And then, not.  Then it was just us, stopped together.  I can't remember if we had a 'moment' or not.  (Maybe he remembers.)  He never calls.  

The fat are getting so much fatter, the rich are getting so much richer, what's the deal?  Can we not literally 'contain ourselves?'  So many of our fellow Americans just spend their hard-earned bucks on the cheapest, the worst, Chinese manufactured crap products.  ($1.19 flip-flops at Walmart come to mind.)  We've become a nation that seeks 'low cost' and not ' good value.'  What happened?  Where did we go so wrong?
You already know I know that answer.  Don't be silly.
We became a nation of 'smalls.'  This goes back to Vietnam, friends.
First, take out the hope - they shot JFK, MLK and RFK.  (Maybe some other acronyms, we don't know how far this shit went.)  B)  The military/industrial complex and corporate media basically demonized war protesters as hippie, pot-smoker, group-sexing .  Maybe they know something, those patchoulied bastards.  Warmongers love to have their wars, it's good business if you have no morality.  The media marginalized those dissenting voices, just as they're squashing voices today.  We didn't think our voice mattered then, so are we going to think our voice matters now?

Intelligentsia has been defeated.  No more 'Earl Grey, hot.'  We're back to Kirk.  Polish those codpieces.  Kiss the green women.  Wrestle the Tribbles.  Fight the rocks.

Hand-sanitizer.  Need I say more?  We're so fucking disconnected from nature.  Not me.  I live in it.

"Sheets of empty canvas,
Untouched sheets of clay.
Her legs spread out before me, 
As her body lay still.
Oh, all five horizons
Revolved around the sun
As the earth to the sun
(But) Now the air I tasted and breathed 
Has taken a turn..."

Pearl Jam's badass "Black"  1991 (which slayed me when it came out, in light of her and our epic erotic massage sessions)

I ran into Eddie Vedder once, at the Off-Ramp.  Mid-late 90's.
No one else saw him come through he door in the plywood wall, because bassist Jeff Ament came through the front door at about the same time.  Everyone was paying attention to something else.  He was wearing a grey nondescript hoodie and noticed me recognize him and motioned to me to 'shush' about it with that familiar gesture.  SO I did, and we watched a show two feet from each other.  Never said a word between us, but we clapped and smiled and cheered the Park Boys together.  I'm sure some of my awesomeness rubbed off on him.

My trees have outgrown my expectations of them.  Smiles abound.

Beatrix, I'm done even being angry with you.  It just isn't worth my energy anymore.  You won't answer my questions, that was to be expected.  I learned my lesson about BPD (or whatever it was that made you act that way.)  Splitting WAS involved.
And I survived it.
Nothing but love left, then.  And a bit of sorrow.

Word Quiz! "This Emotion's Opposition Is Indifference"

Stardate 7631.
(It's been a slog.  No one has been slain.  I was angry this last month quitting Copenhagen and coffee, and raw sugar.  And smiting all my angst.  It was a near-dragon few weeks.  I'm taking today off for some much needed R & R with my dogs.  Marrow bones and Mike's "Strawberry Margarita" are involved.  And some barking at 'bad guys' in Recycling trucks in the alley.)

"Here we are
Born to be kings,
We're the Princes of the Universe...
Here we belong -
Fighting to survive
In a war with the darkest power."
Queen,  from the 'Highlander' soundtrack.  Probably 7/8ths epic.  Or 15/16ths.  Or 31/32nds.

"Glurg perm sprit pamsit cha-glurg.  Smartly."  I pushed, impatiently.  "Spin'to, pamp lerp sit." (The Rotatey Chair spun me around to COMMS, like they knew I wanted to say something...)
"Blinx, Klargen." (I won't get tired of hearing this, I'm sure.)  NAV went through their motions, added this new point.  They don't like serving my indulgences.

If you have a UFO, you end up serving your indulgences.  Let's be real about this.  (I want to see the nude beaches, unless it's all/mostly men.)  And can you say, while you're there, you're being 'ethical' if you're in a 'cloaked' craft?
No, take off the veils!

"Prelt ninx bot spat elp Beatrix glurg. Hal spin'to perns bamp glurg, pin-t' O-sal."
That's a heavy push.  I knew it going in, sometimes I go too far...  The rough translation is:

"Take me back to Beatrix' world.  This order is without uncompliant issues."

The XO knew I was in a snit about something.  I didn't even know what it was, but I knew it.
I felt the accelerations as we came about.  We were back to the Pacific Northwest so fast, it's silly.  10-12 seconds the fast way.  Soon we were in a fog bank, in defensive hover.  I told them to 'uncloak' and they did.
"NAV, commence search."
"Klargen, ship is uncloaked," the XO smirked (if they could smirk,) "We're vulnerable."
"Understood."
They really, really, hate that.
It's tough.  My crew hates to show themselves in this ship.  Their UFO-5001 model is built to 'not be seen.'  (Disclaimer:  This craft isn't that make/model, obviously...  for security I've changed it.  It's been upgraded, by private contractors.   Has some kinks, but we got 'em nailed down for now.  The inertial compensation issues were 'bad' for while,  I'll admit, and some of us got bruised.)
They, as a crew, seem remarkably competent.  Reckon most alien species are.  It's like I'm on "Star Trek" but I'm the alien Captain.
I got the chops.  They know it.

The Tinglev was still a mess from that 'roar' last month.  Fucked with the anti-BS modular diodes, whatever.  Odd damage reports kept coming in.  I knew we needed to get back to Archuleta Mesa ASAP (it's a 'heavy repair facility.')  I shouldn't be saying this here.  But no one reads this, right?
Let's stick with that.

COMMS piped up, and she pushed politely, "Novel authored contact in proximity to Klargen Home Base."
That got my neck hair up.  "Full report, COMMS.  Give me numbers.  Human relative, of course."
"Social network scanning reveals a near intercept, at Phinney Ridge.  Photo exif data indicates 1.6 driving miles, and much less given extrapolation of possible routes.  Intercept was from several days ago."
"NAV, take us there, smartly.  Full anti-collision protection and cloaking."   We all know Seattle's airspace is indeed crowded.
The Rotatey Chair sucked me in and we arrived a few seconds later.  Clear weather.  At 200m I could see my house to the northwest.  Clearly.

"Fuck."  I was out on Whidbey Island, thank a deity...  "She might have even driven by."
"Blinx, Klargen.  Osmic fluctuations indicate direct concurrence."
"SCIENCE, give me more data."
"Klargen, signals are weak in temporal mode."
"Yeah, I know that."  I could feel my brow furrow.  "Tell me something I don't know already."
"Blinx Klargen, refining aperture and analysis of latent osmic detections.  There will be a slight delay."
"As to be expected.  XO, I need a cigarette, do I have any left?"
He nodded, sympathetically.
"COMMS, give us local FM radio.  I need some rock and roll. "
"Blinx Klargen."  He wandered to the Klargen's Quarters and fetched them and my trusty orange lighter.  They always recoil a bit when the flame catches, it's mildly amusing.  I heard a local hatch open for ventilation and my ears popped.  An immature bald eagle cruised by on MAIN, even turning its head at us.  He knew his altitude was a busy place, but couldn't see us.

"Give a little bit
Give a little bit of your love to me
Give a little bit,
I'll give a little bit of my love to you.
There's so much that we need to share
So send a smile, and show you care..."

Supertramp, "Give A Little Bit"

But it appears Beatrix will not 'give a little bit.'  She was so close, so recently, and yet gone again.

You know I won't contact you again, right?  (Maybe in another 21 years if I haven't 'shuffled off this mortal coil.')  I've met you half-way with that call and this blog.  My grievances have been aired.  You're gonna have to 'reach down and grab a pair' if these crucial ruptures to our lives are to ever be healed.
Unless you have no such intention.  Can YOU create peace of mind or not?  You're trained to do that, but won't in my case.  (So do I exist to you, or not?  Indifference is quite a message, in that respect.)
It seems as if your alliances aren't as creative for you as they are for others.  Sorry about that.   I wonder 'how much of that blame is mine?'  I'll accept it, if so.  I didn't let you go 'quietly' because I didn't want to.  I loved you with hurricane-force intention.
Remember that old man at Carson that still had a crinkly picture of his 'life's love' in his wallet, which he proudly showed us.  That'll be me in 30 years, with that 'wet-hair' picture of you at the ocean that you slipped into the middle of my copy of "Closing of the American Mind."  I didn't find it until a year later, and I almost bought a big bottle of sleeping pills in the hours after that.  Had them in my hand, even.  But I didn't buy them, and put them back on the shelf.  I decided you wouldn't kill me.

And you were at Port Townsend watching one of my favorite movies this last weekend.  Probably looked at the James House as the ferry docked.  And at Fort Worden, where I asked you to marry me with the infinity-rock.  Can you honestly say you were completely indifferent to those memories in the last few days?

Why is it so hard for you to meet me half-way in momentary friendship?  We shared real time.  We shared life.  We shared lust, laughs, hotel rooms, mandala-moments, tears and trauma.  We both ended up in the hospital in those months.  (Maybe that was a sign.)

I can't help but be a little miffed that a trained therapist can't confront her own past and directly help a former friend.  (I'm sure I'll get over it.)

Or maybe I won't.  There's no greater shadow upon my life than your interminable silence.  My tears could fill a wine bottle or two.  Here's a little gem of personal recollection:  The night you called me from Temple Square in Salt Lake City was the first night I was with another woman after you.  You knew her, (because we'd had party-sex at her apartment a few months before) and she knew I was crushed beyond recognition about you, and she proffered a sympathy fuck because she has a big heart and was a good friend.  I took it, because I knew you were fully prepared to forget me (I thought, drunkenly.)  So I get back to the dorm in the wee hours of the morn and there are numerous messages on my door about you calling, late into the night.   My stomach dropped and I gasped.  I had only one option for a long distance call, and it was in the place where the bunny jumped on me while we were making love.  I ran there at breakneck speed - right down the street from where I'd spent the night - across campus.  And dialed the number of the hotel.  (Do you want to know which room?)
I knew you knew, nearly a thousand miles away, because in the first few sentences of that phone call you said "I just feel like something's been lost tonight."
And I dared not tell you.  Maybe I should've.  Maybe that would have changed things.
She gave me real love.
You know what I get from you.  It's in the title of this blog.

And you probably think I still deserve it.

"NAV, glurg nix paht spin'to."
"Klargen?" The XO inquired.
"Let's get outta here.  It's depressing me.  I stuck my neck out too far.  Maybe should'a not called her."
He nodded.

I met a checker-girl at the PCC in late March.  (Was working a tile/carpentry/metal/plumbing/drywall job down the road.)  Her name starts with a J.  She has strong Welsh/Celtic features and medium-long auburn hair.  Her eyes smile and cute dimples grace her face.  Her voice is sweet, sometimes with a tinge of breathiness.  She's smart, intuitive and well-travelled.  Has a good degree and a young scallywag from an ex-husband.  A perfect logical progression of the you that I knew at 18-19.  Amazingly so.  I flirted relentlessly with her.  I gave her a tile spacer and she kept it in her purple work apron for a week.  She was so charming.  One day I ate an errant almond off the conveyor belt, like a bird.  I just bent down quickly and pecked it up without an expression and she teared up laughing so hard.  Her laugh was music to my ears.
After a few days of eating lunch there, she joined us for organic deliciousness.  This went on for few weeks, and one day she mentioned that her birthday was coming up.  I guessed your birthday, cynically.
"OMG, you're good.  How'd you know that?"
My brother and I were both flabbergasted.  I acted smugly.  I knew where this was going.
"Next you'll tell me you're from (you know where you are.)"
Nope.  Our jaws dropped.  One island away.  One ferry stop.
She's exactly 10 years younger than you, turns out.
She could see that we were both absolutely astonished at the synchronicity of it all.  We didn't let on as to precisely why it was.
"What is it?" She was dying to know.  But, lunch break was up.

So I finally told her the whole story.  It took a few days of lunches.  She was quiet for a minute, thinking.
"So, what's your reason for not calling her."  She didn't even look up.
"She's married and has kids.  She won't talk to me.  I don't exist anymore."
"Maybe you should just do it.  See what happens."
"What would I say, hypothetically?"
"Ask if you can stop hating her.  That's a start."
"Yeah, right."  I was having major doubts about that suggestion.  My brother laughed because I was getting uncomfortable at her prodding me to DO something.

A few weeks later, you heard my voice.  And I meant it.  I'm done with hating you.  I'll never be done with loving you.  Your smile makes my soul tingle.

I will never be indifferent to you.  It just isn't possible.  If you see a UFO, well...

Blinx, Klargess.

Zoot zoot zoot zoot.

6EQUJ5 - The Muse and Her Wolf Dreams

Ka-Blam!  (I felt the psychic tremor.)  Erupted into the inter-ether like a geyser a few weeks ago.  You can't quote Goethe and NOT get my attention.

"I'm an ocean
In your bedroom
Make you feel warm
Make you want to re-assume
Now we know it all
For sure."
Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Don't Forget Me"

I'm sure I had nothing to do with your blog posting.  (/sarcasm)  Because I don't really exist.  (I didn't 'cut the mustard' or like ani difranco or Georgia O'Keeffe or abject pacifism or whatever it fucking was.)  If I did exist, I'd say this...

"Helm, take us far away.  Far, far away.  Let's see southern Denmark."
"Blinx, Klargen."  The XO faded into the background of the bridge, shaking his little, swollen head.  He knows I have issues.  I heard the hatches close, ("fffip-smieeck") then we were off.  The Rotatey-Chair moved around counter-clockwise, and we gained altitude soooo fast.  MAIN was showing an actual feed and we popped through the clouds and accelerated to the north-east.  Canada passed by, then Greenland. Within a few more seconds we were hovering over the town that bears this ship's name.


There was a signal received by the Arecibo radio-astronomy dish in Puerto Rico that was - strangely - in an obvious frequency (hydrogen's resonance) - and strong as fuck.  Non-local.  I'm sure we all know what 'non-local' means.  It was there.  It happened.  The radio astronomer who was reviewing the scans wrote "Wow!" in the margins.
This was long ago. 1977.
There's a new 'Wow' signal.  It's non-local.  Really kinda breaks the pattern of 'nothingness.'

I can't comment on anything directly, because that would compromise her anonymity.  (I do respect her enough that I'm not gonna ever say her real name here.  Those of you who know, know.  [They are legion.])


Beatrix.  You smoldering, incredible woman.  My undoing.  My sin, my soul, my memory's pathetic sanctuary.  My teacher - from inspirational nature to palpable anomie.

I know you can't contact me.  You won't dial 351-5369 in my area code.  (Because you don't really want to, primarily, is that it?)  I know you can't do it, for past promises, residual ire, marriage vows, future-shock, -  that 'life-tendon' is cut through cleanly.   Whatever it is.  You can't.  I get it.  I was discarded, and fuck me if I didn't stay that way.  It's what you intended, and created.  You made me go away forever.  And yet, I'm still alive.  My path has had to sashay around yours to give you the 'distance' you so long for.  I don't go to Folklife, or the Oregon Country Fair, or even Burning Man, because I know the dread consequences of ever crossing your path again.  You're a particular sort of personal demon.  A nasty, resentful unicorn.

Back to the topic.  The signal.  That weird signal.  Wow.

You seem to use phrases like "walk of integrity" and "human mirrors" and "metaphorical grounding rod" and you throw them around like you believe them, or know them.
I may kinda disagree with those self-assessments, Beatrix.  (You know why, but I'll explain it to the laymen here.)

My assertions about you may - or may not - be true or relative.  I'm working on such little info here.

"Walk of integrity" implies a direct and knowing path of competent, non-judgmental, informed wonder, where most all the variables are known, and compensated for, somehow (courage helps.)  Integrity is an 'adherence to moral principles' that I'm not sure you quite understand.  If you outright lie, dishonor, and label someone on assumptions, that isn't 'integrity.'  (The judge threatened to put you in jail for perjury, twice, and I could've made that happen with a few choice sentences, which I did not utter.  You do "owe me one" for that.)  So there's no 'walk' there.  It sounds great, very 'New Age-y,' and all, but I'm not sure you actually get what using that phrase entails.  It means you "own up to shit you do/did."  It means you quit being a 'fraidy-cat.'  It means you make real amends to those you have wronged.  It means you do things that you don't want to, because they're the Right Things to do, and your precious feelings don't matter.  You have to be 'bigger than yourself' and remain loyal to truth.

And you aren't capable of that, from what I read in that blog.  You admitted that you won't do the 'challenging' things.  (Confront 'upsets.')  But you do 'take responsibility.'  Are you a would-be politician, with all the dissembling?  Either do - and mean it - or don't, take responsibility.  (I expect "don't," because I've become conditioned to that, regarding you.) You would have to spend at least 25 'billable hours' with me to understand my 'beef' with you.  And I ain't paying for that.  It's your thing.  You made the 'weird.'  You own that bill.

"Human mirrors" is a phrase that implies a lot, indirectly.  It means you can put yourself in someone's shoes, be sympathetic to their plight, and recognize commonalities.  We're all human, make mistakes, hurt and get hurt.  We all feel emotional pain.  Our major difference is that I don't hide from it, or use it as an excuse to be obtuse about things/people.  I would never treat someone the way you treated me - estrange them, demonize them, pigeon-hole them, threaten them, deny they ever lived.  That's not me.  (You probably don't think it's you, but it is.  You actually did all those things.  Yes, long time ago, you're different now, right?  Prove it.  Dial the number, write that e-mail.)  I'm not going to hold my breath...

The fact that you're a therapist/coach isn't lost here, Beatrix.  It's very relevant, actually.  You've probably met people who've acquired restraining orders for very legitimate reasons.  You probably have spoken with people with real horror stories that they've endured.  You probably have met some very fucked-up people that are unwilling 'victims of their circumstances.'  People who endured misery.
You aren't one of them.  Have you ever had to struggle for survival, for even a tense millisecond of your life?

Nope.
Makes all the difference.  'First World Problems' are all you've ever had to deal with.  Ex-boyfriend won't quit calling?  Get a restraining order!  Old lover won't disappear quietly?  Get a restraining order!
Some guy won't quit mentioning you - indirectly - in his blog?  Get a restraining order!  (Go ahead, I don't care.  The first one was useless, an utter waste of the judicial process.)

You abused that system, Beatrix, and you know it.  And your close friends, as much as they can admit, know that as well.  You cried 'Wolf' when there was no such thing out there.  (If you think I may be typing this from a 'place of anger' then you're correct in that assumption.)

"...I seen a rich man beg,
I seen a good man sin
I seen a tough man cry
I seen a loser win
And a sad man grin
I heard an honest man lie
I seen the good side of bad,
And the down-side of up and
Everything between.
I licked the silver spoon, 
Drank from the golden cup, 
And smoked the finest green.
I stroked the baddest dimes
At least a coupl'a times 
Before I broke 'dey heart.
You know where it ends,
Though it usually depends
On where you start."

Everclear's incredible "What It's Like."  (Totally appropriate here.)

"Metaphorical grounding rod" is perhaps the most pointed weirdness in that blog.  You aren't that spiritual, Beatrix.  You sense energies, I'll give you that, but you misinterpret them at times.  You probably actually think/believe that you are a sympathetic person, a fair friend, a reliable confidante, a humanist, a genuine human being.  Balanced.  Educated.  Evolved.  Grounded.  Neutral.
However, you aren't, from my point of view.  What you did was psychologically enduring.  You found ways to fuck with me that only an enemy could find, or even look for.  You found them, and used them.   With intent, the flavor of which I can't imagine.  You've never admitted those transgressions to anyone, right?  Maybe a random therapist or counselor...  (Which doesn't count.)  A grounding rod is essential, reliable, and infinitely simple.  It doesn't carry a grudge for 20-plus years.  It doesn't have an opinion.  It just does its job.  As a 'grounded' therapist, shouldn't you be trying to 'right the wrongs' of the past?  Shouldn't you 'fess up to being in the blizzard, at Boulevard Park, leaving Arlington in your Datsun, lying to a judge, and scrawling "Koorsnevar" all over Bellingham's phone interface boxes?  Maybe you should feel some tiny iota of remorse about pretending I didn't exist when we'd spent 6 months sharing intense, delicious moments together.  Maybe you shouldn't have listened to that advice you got from that circle of misandrous 'fraidy cats.'

E. coli O157:H7 didn't kill me.  It tried to, it tried really hard.  That grizzled bear in the Grand Tetons didn't kill me.  He kinda tried, just wanted food.  That car/woman-driver that ran me over (on my rollerblades) didn't kill me in B'ham.  She didn't really try...  That shooter in Germany didn't kill me.  He tried hard to kill me but didn't compensate for the cooler temps.  (Putz.)  That snowbank in Korea that seemed so comfy didn't kill my drunken ass that night.  It tried.  My time at Ground Zero hasn't killed me yet, but it eventually will.  Toxicity upon poison, with asbestos.  Deep in my lungs, I'm sure.  It's a creeper.

Good luck killing me, Beatrix.  I'll be here 'til the end of time itself.  Pushing buttons, planting ideas, fertilizing love and weeding out hate.
The mirror has spoken.  There was no wolf.  It was all a bad dream.  Some day maybe you'll wake up to that 'truism.'

I'm not as mean as you are, so this is an unfair fight.  Obstinancy always wins.  Thorns are always thorns.  And wolves have to pull them from their paws.

Angles and Archery. Not at all, at all, drums.

Perfect winter.  Just a dusting of fresh new snow, then it melts.  The air is clear-crisp and moving.  Swirling.   World War Two documentary is entertaining the dogs...  they prefer submarine movies, that's so weird.  (Even the German ones.)
I see it across the room at times.  The ambient light has to be just right.  Entryway light CAN'T be on.  (I don't know how to put it more seriously.  Turn off the entryway light.  It's oppressing anyways.)
Sun has to be down, of course, it goes through the art-glass and makes waves that shimmy this time of year...  Can't see it if I'm sitting on the long couch.  You almost have to be half-crouching.  Can't see it from the kitchen.  Fuck, that's a relief.  Can the dogs see it?  You have to find, define and refine that angle.  If it's a layer effect, that's even WEIRDER.  Might as well start the car in the garage.  Leave the door down.

"I'm a meth lab, first rehab, take it all off and step inside the running cab...  There's a love that knows the way."
Red Hot Chillax Peppers keep my secret spy training from erupting to, like, the surface, man.  Whoa-what?


There's a pinhole in my lampshade.  (Damn it, I knew I had a point.)  Fucking pinhole.  Only one.  I checked relentlessly.

And there's nothing I can do about it.  Concrete, drywall, glues, primer/paint - I can't use any of MY technology on this.  I could build a box around it, with 2X4 walls, insulation, gold fixture fountain - the whole bit.  That'd just be a mask.  Then there's the siding decisions, vapor barriers, OMG what a hassle.
The problem starts as a seemingly insurmountable issue.  It's not like the light that 'leaks out' is subject to any extra scrutiny, it mostly just 'gets away with' that offensive behavior.

Some may have the notion that this may be a 'First World Problem.'  A subtle crime of entitled luxury.  I would calmly disagree.   I barely practice capitalism.  SO.
It's an exceedingly cheap lampshade.  No quality control.  Obvious seam, uneven cream coloring, a clipped conical remnant of a richer lampshade's bad dream of what it 'coulda been without the right heritage.'  (Think San Diego.  Big money, bad karma, suntans, lettuce wraps.)
The lampshade epitomizes poor moral distinction.  (No courage, no honor.)
"I feel strongly, Alex."  What?  I'm not on real Jeopardy?  Sometimes you gotta bluff it.
"What is "No courage, no honor, Alex?"
"Correct."
"I'll take "Breakfast Nooks for $400."
"This avocado color-"
"What is the 50's?"
"Correct."
"Artists with Issues for $600."
"This Southwest transplant must have had a trusted hand-mirror and a few calla lilies."
"Who is Georgia O'Keeffe?"
"Correct."  (Lots of applause.)
"I'll take Movie News for $200."
"This m-"
"What is 'the true reason JFK was shot?'
"Correct."
"

Back to the point, wind whipping simple spirals in diadora and maple....  (And whether THAT point made the pinhole in the lampshade.)
Scrabble teaches us that stupid people know small words and spell those wrong.  I've been very lucky in limiting my exposure to 'small score' Scrabblers, as I expect all of us do.   (If you can't make a circle into an octagon, get out of building.  Seriously.)

"Raisin' the spirit of peace and love."  John Lennon, Mind Games.  What a loss.  I was listening to FM radio the night he was shot.  KISW-Seattle.  Maybe KZOK.  Study hours, according to my parents.  Man was I pissed. I had straight A's.  I didn't need any more 'study time.'  I needed stimulus.  Coffee?  Pshaw.  Copenhagen tobacco wasn't enough.  Sneaking away on my motorcycle to drive up, past Jim Creek Road, to the backside of Lake Reilly, to snuggle a certain young lady from 3-5 am in the heated bathroom facilities, then going home smelling of lip-gloss and pretending I slept all night...  that was almost enough.  Learning to fire a machine gun?  Close.  Not enough.  Grenades?  (Consternation ensues.  They are awful fun.)

Archery means true aiming, finding the point, launching, and believing.  Why am I consumed by this?

The lines in my hands, of old veins, get sharper and more prominent,  the colors duller and smeared.  My fingers have known boiling oil, unconscious snowbanks, toxins, nailguns, glue.

And the pinhole remains.  It pierces me.  Even when I don't see it.  More a feeling, a knowing.  A perfect poison point of acupuncture.   My head's turned away... however, it's two feet northwest.  Creeping, processing, pretending.  Making up little therapist games...  Color-co-ordinating.  Judging.

Gawd it drives me crazy.  Just a little pinhole.  Still there.  The only thing that shatters the normalcy.  A bad actor.

Stupor finds wisdom.  Wisdom finds honor.  The path always changes.