eXtreme

a new friend is writing
telling the world his story
he is digging deep down
bearing all for the world to see.

He is bringing us, his new friends
along on his journey
from his childhood
through adulthood
into his very neighborhood

and today I looked through his window
his story, so raw and naked
so brave and revealing.
his latest chapter, story not finished
but with power, reflected back at me

reflected back to my own life
thoughts and memories buried long ago.
but not forgotten.
Just pushed out of sight
behind an opaque mask,
the one that you all see.

today, shaken and stirred
to the core
to blink away tears
pushing it all back down
into the old hiding place
that is still somewhere inside me

© 2007 Marc McCune

© '07

It has been seven years
and I'm still not used to it
not used to living in
the 21st century.

The novelty of y2k
is still fresh in my mind
still getting used to writing my years
with oh's
But I continue to surprise myself
when I see a copyright date
of art created in '02
how that seems old, in a way
or how the real entrance into the twentyfirst
seems to have been nine eleven

I know it will be the same as it always has been for me.
just as I'm getting used to a new decade
it is over.

i wrote about it

i wrote about it just now.

a friend's profile jogged my memory.

an observation of how we make ourselves forget

i've never forgotten

and i began to write it all down

the secret, the details

i've never forgotten

the words flowed from my fingertips

i wrote then threw it away

Diggin' on James Brown

Christmas morning, 2006. I read the news today, oh boy.

It was the King. Not "of pop", not "of rock", but the King of Soul. The Godfather of Soul, if you will.

James Brown died last night. This man has been an icon in my life. For as far back as I can remember in my musical life, James Brown was there. Though my music tastes ebbed and flowed, and changed from genre to genre, James Brown and his music has been there. Back in the days of my high school garage band, The Martells, when I thoroughly impressed myself with learning the bass riff to Cold Sweat, or being the only white soul band in the area who included I'm Black and I'm Proud in their repertoire, James Brown's music was a pillar and beacon. The quality of his tight music was something we strove to emulate.

Over the years, as my music tastes changed, and I moved from Soul, to Rock, to Blues and Psychedelia, the soul of James Brown remained a staple of my musical palate.

Moving through days as a nomadic preacher to settling down with a wife and family, playing church bass and drums, back out through my ups and downs, losing my religion, the highs and lows of Living in America, James Brown and his music was one of those things of American life that was just there, always in the background, always finding its way into the fabric of Americana. I told my kids the news this morning. They were equally stunned. James Brown has always just been there. Being so ingrained in our common psyche, we took him for granted. He was timeless.

It's Christmas Morning, 2006 and I'm sitting here, Diggin' on James Brown.

© Marc S. McCune 2006

Humanity Machine

This is a new mall for me. I've never been here before. A lot of nice unusual shops here. Different stores not seen in the shopping malls I usually frequent. It is a multi leveled structure, floors between floors. Ramps, stairs and escalators to transport shoppers between floors, mezzanines, and elevated spaces.

Looking down, from the top balcony, out across the wide indoor thoroughfare, I see the holiday shoppers. In between the hanging lights, and holiday decorations, I see people in all shapes and sizes. Walking in groups, families, friends, or alone. Once again I am hit with this familiar feeling. This realization that comes upon me. Seeing all of these thousands of people in this place. They all come here, sharing in this social scene. Personal orbits intersecting each other. Worlds colliding, if only for a brief moment. I am flooded with unexplainable thoughts. When I try to articulate what I feel, I find that there is a dearth of words. I have to invent these phrases as I go along. And my companions look at me with that blank stare. "What are you talking about?" Life. I'm talking about life. Humanity. The Human Machine. These thoughts hit me when I'm in crowded places. When I see people in this way, interacting in the life dance. And I think about how this extends from here out into every other place. This night, in other malls around my great city, the same thing occurs. The same dance, the same life. And I get amazed that all of this humanity is drawn together in the same fashion. And there are all of those other worlds. Those personal spaces of which I'd love to touch. The aspects of these individual worlds. The untold stories laying in between the lines. I think of how not only here, in my Chicago, but in St. Louis, Minneapolis, Pittsburgh, Atlanta, New York City, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Youngstown, Gainesville, Houston...I lose my breath, thinking how in every city, in every state, the humanity machine ticks, ebbs, flows.

I used to get this same feeling, on cold Saturday mornings, fog still laying thick on the fields, as scores of youth soccer teams went through their paces, playing their games. Parents standing on the sidelines, warming themselves with hot cups of coffee, talking to one another, strangers meeting strangers for the first time. Sharing stories about their kids. How in the same way, parents and children came together at this very same hour, in all the towns across the nation. The humanity machines. I cannot explain it. These words are inadequate. They surely don't describe the deep thought and feeling that accompany this idea washing around in my mind. So I remain, in awe, of the world, the universe, of this thing that god has wrought.

© Marc S. McCune 2006

another Solstice brings The Smiling Girl

On the morning train, she brought a very bright smile
hair pulled up and back in a pony tail,
dressed in her pink ski jacket
zip-up university sweat shirt underneath, and blue jeans.
She flashed me the bright smile.
her face, tanned
"Hi! How have you been?" bright eyes gleaming
Great, I said
We walked together upon leaving the train
"I looked around" she said,
"and I think I'm the only one with a pink coat on."
I smiled. "It's your ski jacket" I reasoned.
We walked on.
She left me at my building with a smile.
It's good to see my sometimes friend.
The Smiling Girl

searching for paradise

Very young, I was in awe at the satin vestments, the sparkling gold ornaments, the chiming of bells at the altar. The smell of incense filled my nostrils, as I sat in the pew, feet not touching the floor, wide eyes at the priest, smoke billowing from the censor at the altar as he blessed the congregation. I didn't know what it was all about, except that it was about God. I looked around at the crowd of people, crossing themselves, speaking in an unknown language. The Latin I would later struggle with as an altar boy. These people seemed to know secrets. I wondered at their connection to the powerful, the magical, the unseen. My young mind took it all in.

I was filled with questions. In my daily religion class at Immaculate Conception Catholic School I constantly had my hand up, asking the nun the hypothetical questions about heaven, hell, salvation, sin and grace.

Ah grace, the idea that I could be sanctified. I saw creamy white light in my mind's eye when I thought of the sanctifying grace. I was in awe that I could stand before God, as a perfect, blameless person. But life quickly taught me differently. In the midst of my easy path to God, I encountered pitfalls in my young life that gave me experiences that I could never confess to the priest. He would never understand or grant remission. Sin piled up upon sin and my white light turned to sackcloth and ashes.

Through my youth I started to learn, and I continued to imbibe on life's pleasures, yet seeking God, religion and fulfillment, but not finding it.

I landed at several different spiritual thresholds. At age seventeen I frightfully, but bravely forsook my Catholic upbringing. I saw that the lightning did not smite me from heaven. I moved forward in my quest and deeply embraced the hippie guru philosophies. Fueled by lysergic substances, I was fooled into thinking I found sure answers. But after a few years of dabbling, I was captured again by representatives of The Messiah. I listened as they witnessed of what all now seemed true to me. And I plunged into my new religion.

In my search for paradise, I filled my mind with scriptures and Jesus, music and the esoteric side of Christianity. Prophecies and speaking in tongues, healing and miracles all seemed natural in this different side of Christianity. But in the back of my mind was always the idea that things were being forced into place. Interpretations of natural phenomena received supernatural explanations. Rumors and tales became fodder for miraculous stories. Yet I learned to belong. I studied daily.

Then another change. Striving to be perfect, I forsook the world of Babylon. I joined a group of itinerant evangelists. I became a nomad, embracing poverty for paradise. I grew my beard long and wore robes of righteousness. I traveled this country along the highways and in the centers of learning. Sowing our seeds of religion to those who where hungry. Hungry and naive. And I disdained all who did not believe as me and my brethren. But the more I read, the more I studied; the more I saw that all was not right. Studying to show myself approved, I found yet again, that I was a believer in tales and ideas of a faulty man. Our Elder, a single man with charisma to convince disciples to believe as he did. And once again, with fear I forsook my faith. At a new threshold I continued to search for paradise.

I found myself back in the mainstream. And for years I sought to find the key. The key that was supposed to be mine by mere faith. I continued to read and to study. All the books, all the deep things of a devotee, never satisfied with being on periphery of this faith. Never content with not having all the facts. I studied the history, I looked at the origins. I read the old books that most of my fellow Christians don't read, or even know about. Books written by the Fathers in the early centuries.

Over the years, I began to see that things didn't add up. I saw how this faith was mostly blind. In my search for paradise, I began to look at how religions started. Not just mine, but the religions of the world. What did recent new religions claim? How did they begin? What did the Scientologist L. Ron Hubbard see and say? What of the Mormon Joseph Smith? I could see farce and untruths. Yet I saw millions following paths that were clearly fairy tales. People searching for paradise and grabbing onto lies. I looked further back in the years and centuries. And I realized how others had also seen their own angels, and had spouted their own personal revelations. I saw that such was true with Mohammed, with St. Paul, Pharaoh Akhenaten, Zoroaster, Buddha, Moses, and even Abraham.

I realized that these men all claimed the exclusive path to paradise, the only connection to God. They all claimed to be the sole source of the holy oracles. Yet I saw that these all were paths started by a lone man. A single person on his personal search for paradise. A person who relayed his story to others. And for different reasons people believed, or converted, or submitted. Be it a father teaching his own family and children and grandchildren about his personal ideas of God, or a leader conquering other countries and forcing conversions. Even new religions for profit and filthy lucre.

I looked out upon this field of faith. I could envision great monolithic structures that evolved from simple beginnings. And I saw vast populations, civilizations completely built upon a base of lies and false tales, upon misconceptions and ignorance of the truth of the universe. I looked at each of these religious worlds. In my mind's eye I could see a huge social structures built up, on a base of traditions and laws. And each religion was a world unto itself. I could see how a person is born and raised, and lived their complete life within the shadow of their religion, content with their path to paradise, yet ignorant of real life in the real universe.

And I began to change my mind. I began to apply the scrutiny I placed on all the other religions upon my own. And I saw the fallacy and the lies. I stepped out of the box I was in. I tore down my tight boundaries. And my universe became infinite. God became infinite. God was no longer an idol created in the image of a man, with human characteristics, with human anger and wrath and jealousy. God became all powerful to me. I was shocked at how small my idea of God had really been. I now understood how religion creates small idols and claim that their idol is the all powerful God. But their Gods are held within a rigid set of rules that mankind itself creates. I realized that I cannot know God. It is folly for me to preach my version of God, to attempt to convert others to my understanding, to my way of thinking. Doing so is like being one of the blind men in the fable about the five blind men and the elephant. Each blind man placed their hands on the elephant, describing the part of the animal that they encountered as being the true representation of the elephant. One described the animal as a great wall, another blind man said the elephant was long, like a serpent, yet another insisted that the elephant was flat and floppy, and so on. None of them actually understood the true picture.

So here I am. Still asking questions, not believing that the sun, moon or the elements are gods, nor that the path is through space aliens, or that God had a son who walked on water. Nor do I believe that keeping medieval laws, be they 613 mitzvot or Sharia or any other religion's narrow precepts, will get me to God.

I am still looking for the answers.

© Marc S. McCune 2006

the perfect job

Ringling Bros and

Barnum & Baily
job fair

Ringling Bros and
Barnum & Bailey
is look for hardworking dedicated individuals for the following job opportunities.
100% travel is required for all positions

FLOOR CREW
BACKSTAGE PROPS CREW
ANIMAL CREW
COOK

Apply in person, etcetera, etcetera.

Hmmm...that would be the perfect job. Well, that is how I feel about it right now. If I wasn't so encumbered with family, friends and other duties. If I was 21 years old again...

Here I am, perusing the want ads in the Chicago Tribune, trying to find suitable employment. The day before Halloween I got the big surprise at work. "We are eliminating your position". I was stunned. "As of today." I suddenly felt what it is like to be a zombie, walking around like all the life had been sucked out of me.

Changing jobs is not a common thing with me. I had this job for five years. And my last job I was comfy and cozy in for twenty years. I'm not used to this. It's like going into a singles bar at age 50 after you've gotten a divorce. When you haven't been in circulation for years. You kind of forget how to do things. Your skills are not up do date. And you have got to take a crash course in how to learn all the current and new right moves.

There is this nagging in the back of my mind. I keep having visions of myself wearing the blue vest and standing in front of Walmart as a greeter, pushing shopping carts.

I did run away with the carnival once, when I was in seventh grade. Well, I didn't actually run away. My parents knew I was working at the carnival in town. They gave me permission to leave on the road with my friend Steve to work with the carnival for two weeks. For a kid in the middle of junior high summer vacation, that was the best time. My first real job experience, not counting my weekly gig of cutting Mrs. Gould's grass. I lost that grass cutting job after I tried to force a wage increase on old Mrs. Gould. Don't fault me. I had no inkling, at my young age about fixed incomes and that my boss's funds were limited. I was a growing boy, and $1.00 a week suddenly seemed like cheap wages for cutting grass. She didn't want to raise my pay to $1.50. She was a sweet old lady. I miss her.

I enjoyed the work experience with the carnival. I learned how to stay up all night erecting the rides. Putting together the merry-go-round and the ferris wheel, piece by piece was great on-the-job training. But my main job was working in the food vending trailer. I got to have free cotton candy and candy apples. And there were other fringe benefits. In my two week stint with the carnival, I had two new girlfriends, and I was working on a third. I felt like a sailor, with a girl in every port. When I finished my two weeks, the girls even kept in touch and wrote me at home, sending pictures and love letters. Charlotte and Kathy. I still remember their names.

I learned how to play poker with other carnies. Two guys who's names really were Lonnie and Slim. Lonnie was man in his late 40's, having been a carny all his life. Slim was younger. A greaser who reminded me of Fonzie, but not as clean. I never realized how good of a card player my friend Steve was, until Slim got angry and wouldn't pay up when he lost a hand that Steve had bluffed. Lonnie had to break up the argument, keeping Steve and Slim at bay. Tall angry Slim on one side, and thirteen year old Steve on the other, brandishing a large crescent wrench as an equalizer. Lonnie and Slim taught us the secrets of being a carney. How to stick together in a fight. And when to run.

Looking back at the newspaper classifieds, I let out a sigh. If circumstances were different, you'd see me in the back lot behind the tent. Wrestling animal cages off of the truck. Shovel and broom in hand, walking behind the elephants. But I don't think this circus job will work out this time. I need a gig with a 401K.

I read the news

I read the news today, oh boy
heard the news on the wire.
A kind soul found three weeks gone
yet a memory was pulled out of dusty corner.

Beatles on the radio today
WXRT Beatlemania all day.
In the midst of listening
I heard the news
I read the news.

I remember John, back in the day
the day of wanting to be
the fifth Beatle
envy, just a kid and he already
was performing,
in the park,
guest guitarist with Benny Hipsley's band
I saw her standing there.

I read the news
another long lost fan.
She told the editor,
she, from junior high,
Ticket To Ride, reminds her
she thinks of John whenever she hears the tune

He was kind, softspoken
he was a soul, flung into hard times
lost, then found
I always wondered where he landed
what became of him.

In my home town, we knew him.
the musicians musician
a friend, a kind heart
a smile that made you smile.

Barb told me today
last time she talked to him
he remembered me
"oh yeah, he's a good guitar player"
I'm flattered.

I felt distance regret,
sad that I could not be there,
sad that I did have the chance
to also bring my guitar to the park
to pay tribute,
along with all the other musicians
just to remember a little

your best face

in this matrix, putting our best foot forward
placing our signs out for the world to see
at our blog spots, our spaces, on live journals,
inviting the world to look and see
our best poem, piece of art,
our provacative photos, funny jokes
our clever avatar or headline blurb
this is the music I like
these are the places I love
these are pictures of me and mine
asking the world...do you like them?
do you approve?
i'm showing mine, show me yours
giving out pieces of our lives
putting on pretty masks like evening clothes
to go out for the night of fun
but not all is a mask
we dare, to pull back the mask
showing, "this is what I look like"
"this is how I feel"

like my mother

I saw her again today.
just like the other day.
she stands, her four packed bags near her feet.
holding up copies of Streetwise
waiting for a sale.
this is her home, I reason
she lives on this street
she's not aggressive, no sales pitch
just a quiet demeanor, her head tilted down
eyes to the ground
standing straight
as straight as she can with her hunched back
she stands, and reminds me of my mother
"I'll take one of those", handing her a dollar
her eyes lift, but her head remains tilted down
she doesn't quite make eye contact
"thank you very much" she smiles
"have a nice day" her voice, clear
a grandma's voice
like my mother

night sounds

it is 1:00 a.m. and I hear her outside my window.
on this warm spring chicago night, I hear the girl
crying, speaking into her cell phone, sobs and worry.
he kicked her out of the apartment.
her voice, frantic, angry, dispair.

I hear her friend talking, I don't feel quite as bad
the girl is not alone, she has someone who knows her
she will help, I reason.
I hear the sound of her shoes,
heels clip clopping on the hard sidewalk
as she runs past my second story window
I hear her run back towards her apartment, angry
determined to get back inside

she returns, back beneath my window
yelling, so hurt, so angry, sounding lost

When Religion Destroys

In today's online AlJazeera, I read an article about how the story of Afghanistan, in media, film, radio, and recordings; had been saved from the destruction by the Taliban.

This sad scenario replays itself, over and over, time and again. Indeed, when the Spanish conquered The Aztecs and Mayans, they systemactially destroyed thousands of written codexes and manuscripts, and thus destroyed much of the history of the new world.

This is sadly, the situation when a group of people are convinced that they are the spokesmen of God. That they are the ones who's job it is, to be enforcers of their brand of morality...regardless of how strict or ridiculous their rules may be. I've lived through this myself, a member of the Jim Roberts Group. Been through my share of religion and rules based upon myth, ancient traditions, and fear.

We are sadly seeing this still in this world today. The fundamentalist religions who preach intolerance, and violence against those they perceive as being nonbelieving infidels. Read and consider. Selah.



Saving the story of Afghanistan

The black and white images projected into the darkened cinema show an Afghanistan that years of war have destroyed.

There is Kabul as a manicured city, lights strung among the trees along the river. Actresses have beehive hairdos, knee-length skirts and cleavage. Boys and girls march together on a sports field. European hippies lounge in the sun.

The ultra-conservative Taliban wanted these images destroyed, torching thousands of cassettes after locking the doors of the television studios and cinemas and turning off the music when they took control in 1996.

That these glimpses of the past can be shown today in Kabul's famous Ariana cinema, itself destroyed in the four-year civil war that preceded the Taliban's rule, is because of great risks by archive staff.

Hidden tapes

At Afghan Film they hid tapes in the ceiling and a secret room, breaking power circuits to defeat Taliban searches.

At the several-storey Radio and Television of Afghanistan (RTA) building, they split up the collection and squirrelled cassettes into the basement and scores of other rooms, pretending the archive had been looted.

"They worked with a lot of danger for themselves, for their families," says Rahman Panjshiri, RTA head of planning and international relations.

"If the Taliban knew that, for example, these people kept some tapes in the basement, they might have punished them seriously or they might have put them in prison," he says.

The Taliban torched two shipping containers of tapes outside the Afghan Film office, although staff had made sure they were only prints of Hindi and Russian films. RTA surrendered 1500 cassettes of foreign music.

First Afghan film

But 14,500 hours of television footage survived, dating from 1978, as did 45,000 hours of radio starting in the 1940s and more than 100,000 hours of film, including the first Afghan movie, Love and Friendship, made about 60 years ago.

Having emerged through all that, the precious store is under threat again, this time from the humidity and temperature changes that destroy film and tape.

Since 2002 the French National Audio-Visual Institute (INA) has been helping to digitalise the footage, a painstaking process that has covered only about 1200 hours of material - an occasion marked by the showing at the Ariana last month.

The slowness of the project, with the radio archives only due to be started on in 2006, worries Panjshiri.

"We want to expedite the process because our archives are now in a very bad condition. Within the next 10 years nothing will be left in the archive to digitalise," he says.

"If we lose these things, it means that we will have lost our culture, our heritage, everything."

History on film

The footage includes pictures of some of the ruinous events from which Afghanistan is only just recovering.

There are the first Red troops to enter Kabul after the 1979 Soviet invasion; the first interview with Babrak Karmal, who arrived in Kabul on a Russian tank and became president in 1979; the daily skirmishes of the war between anti-Soviet mujahidin (1992-1996) that killed 50,000 people in the capital alone.

"Afghanistan is destroyed, Kabul is destroyed, we have these shots," says the head of Afghan Film, Latif Ahmadi. "The wounded people in hospital, bombing in Kabul ... most of the film is in this time, the war time."

There are also images of the treasures of Afghanistan's rich culture that the Taliban destroyed: the 2000-year-old Bamiyan Buddhas, ancient artefacts that had been in the museum, videos of deceased singers who are still popular today but whose recordings were supposed to have vanished forever.

Afghan Film also has rare footage of president Najibullah and his brother who were dragged from a United Nations compound and strung up in the streets of Kabul by the Taliban in 1996.
Rare footage

"We have pictures, only two minutes. It was very, very dangerous because the Taliban did not allow anybody to take pictures," Ahmadi says.

The rarest footage is from the Taliban period, because the government banned television, video and music as sinful.

"They turned Kabul into a very big grave. The silence at that time was like the silence of a graveyard," says the RTA's Panjshiri in his office still flecked by shrapnel from the civil war.
During the war, "it was a very bad situation but the people could say something, we could criticise everybody ... but during the Taliban, if you wanted to criticise for example [Taliban leader] Mullah Omar, maybe they would cut out your tongue".

Panjshiri and Ahmadi went into exile, returning after the Taliban were removed in a US-led campaign in late 2001.

For them, the restoration of the archives is a source of pride, with plans for film festivals, documentaries and DVDs once the footage has been digitalised.

"This archive is very important for the story of the country," says Ahmadi.

"When I tell somebody that before the 24, 25 years' war in Afghanistan we had a culture, we had a high civilisation, the girls wore mini-skirts, nobody can guess that. But if we show some films from that time, they will be very excited," he says.

whatsoever is good

When I smell the wild flowers
or suck on the sweet nectar of clover blossoms.
pulling the roots of a sassafras plant, just to smell the fragrance.
break off leaves of trees to taste and smell
exploring the senses.

laying in the grass, with eyes closed on a summer's day
just listening to the sound of the leaves in the trees,
rustling behind my head
feeling the sun on face
open my eyes and look at the clouds making shapes.

sitting near the American River, guitar in hand,
trying to reproduce the sound of the waters

late night moonless sky,
with stars painted across the heavens.
the sound of silence,
while looking at the milky way

walking down Riverside Avenue,
in the rain under my black umbrella,
peering across the wide Ohio river bend
and standing there through the long storm
watching the lightning dance on the hills of west virginia

standing within the crowd on 13th street,
watching the apartment building burn down
flames shooting so high in the night.
and thinking about the lonely girl who lived there.
The one who didn't get out. The girl who walked alone
through the high school halls.

The colors swirling, the sounds moving,
for the first time,
watching the world in lysergic amazement.
amazed at what was inside of my head
amazed at the answers that suddenly came over me.
engulfed in feeling that I've never felt before.

and then sitting with electrified friends
in the early dawn, looking down on the valley
viewing the three towns along the river
sitting on the heights,
seeing intense fire paint the sky.
looking into the sun through the morning clouds
and being utterly amazed at the pictures
and colorful forms playing out
on the immense canvas of the sky

pressed up against her.
Not believing that she was here with me.
soft lips, long blond hair,
petite body, and small pert breasts.
always fresh and a delight.
excited at what was to come next.
my high school sweetheart
warmth engulfing me
deep inside her, drawn into her
exploring the erotic,
never to this depth
just for fun

holding him in my hands
this new life...he fit so snuggly
within my two palms.
eyes still mostly closed
soft baby skin, smooth baby smell,
and I loved him from the very first moment
an unbelievably deep love,
a ready made love
and I couldn't explain this feeling
father and son.

standing before an audience
yet oblivious to all around me.
just being aware of the sounds coming
from my throat, and playing through my fingers,
a rush of feeling played down the side of my body
from head to toe
and the band reached a higher plateau,
what is the word for it?
it is hard to describe.
a rush.
but I always feel it when it's about to hit
and then there's the rush.
not quite orgasmic
but close

in the night, seeing the tunnel to God
part of an acid laced encounter
but there it opened up.
the tunnel to the heavens
and my voice quavering
not aloud...but shouting inside of me
shout to the Lord
suddenly aware of His loftiness
and of my lowliness,
and of the connection between us.

my imagination wanders. Inside my huge mind
I see the blossoms...the unfolding
the discovery. Another of my wonders.

it was autumn [a memoir]

The woods spread out on all sides, and I had no idea how far off into the distance they reached. I was in a clearing, and I didn't remember how I got there. The leaves had fallen, spreading across the ground. Little hills surrounded the clearing. I was not afraid, just confused about how I ended up being in this place.

Suddenly, I was not alone. There she appeared, across the clearing, calling my name. It was my friend Lynnie. She was about my same age...four years old. It was she who brought me here. She seemed to have known the place, was familiar with it. And I was still amazed that this place even existed.

small treasures

Listening to old vinyl records,
some that I've never heard before.
Old treasures at yard sales,
old books and records,
ones I couldn't afford to buy when they were new.
Now, years later, castoffs no longer needed,
but new to my ears...
art I've been putting off for years...
low hanging fruit on my stack of stuff.
My list of things to see,
with the Seven Wonders of The World.

This lazy Saturday afternoon, I'm enjoying these small treasures.
Not the Mona Lisa, or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel...
those will have to remain high on my list of things to see.


listening to:
Cory Hart's "Boy In The Box"

emotional sleight of hand

My thoughts flow freely. And now, back to religion. Le Eternal created us naked. We were adorned in the way God wanted. No Mistakes. God didn't create us with veiled or capped heads, or foreheads and arms wrapped with phylacteries. God didn't create women with a covering from head to toe. Women were not provided with a wig to cover their natural hair. The Creator didn't hide our genitals behind robes.

So tell me why do humans create these idols, these holy things that the priests say we must adhere to in order be to holy unto the Creator? How can a man construe the beautiful singing voice of a woman as being shameful before men and God? How is it, that a woman's glory is seen as something to be hidden?

I wonder at the way we understand this creation. I wonder at how our little minds insist on misinterpreting the signs of God around us. I wonder at why so-called religious men think that our God-given appetite for the delights of the body are a mistake, to be avoided.

I suppose as a person is fooled by sleight of hand tricks, as if it were magic that they see, so we humans succumb to mental and emotional sleight of hand. We are fooled...by ourselves, or by others. The facts of life are misrepresented or misinterpreted. The ancient Mayans felt that human sacrifice was required to appease their agricultural gods...to insure good harvests and to ward off natural catastrophe. So human lives by the many thousands were offered in blood sacrifice on altars of stone. But not only the Mayans, but the Aztecs, the Incas, the Canaanites, the Hebrews when they were worshipping Moloch, and countless other peoples throughout the ages of history. They thought that God required blood to appease his bloodthirstiness. In reality, we didn't know much about God. We made Him up as we went along. We created idols, based on what we can imagine in our own minds. Some gods were horrific and monstrous. Others were simply ridiculous. Yet, great thought structures evolved around the creation of these gods. From the worship of the penis and the fertility of women, to testosterone fueled war gods...from a strict Jehovah to a benevolent Christ, we've worshipped idols.

Caught in the middle of a life based on religion, many discover the truth for themselves, but never break free. Out of fear of a God, or fear of being ostracized by friends, family and their religious community, they remain trapped in the lie. Although, to live within the structure and world of their religion is often sufficient; only within that world can they thrive. But, these religious worlds, are worlds unto themselves. Everything works withing it's structure, but nothing can come in from the outside.

In our modern cosmopolitan world, this form of religious life falls short. When it is possible to step outside of one's world and to see it from afar...to see it from another viewpoint, then the fallacies become apparent. The generational lies can be seen for what they are. Then, outside of the narrow religious structure, the real universe can be seen as much more huge than one had previously thought. Then, the idea of God is not bound by the box of dogma, and human misunderstanding. Then, the nature of God is boundless, and not restricted by the feebleness of our senses. Then we can become the part of creation that God intended us to be. Then we can partake of life, fully...without the false restrictions that would bind us, victimize us, or kill us.

a day dream

[Flying from Chicago to Philadelphia over the weekend, this tale came to me in such a strong way, that I couldn't contain it. I borrowed a pen and a couple of clean napkins from the flight attendant, and began to write. This is my day dream.]


It was in an instant that she felt it. The force of the realization was overwhelming. Laying in bed, resting, after her typical long day; she was overwhelmed with his presence. These weren't the normal thoughts of him that she experienced. This was a rush of knowledge and emotion...of understanding. She suddenly knew what he'd been trying to say to her these past months. She remembered his words as he explained his life, his feelings, his needs and wants. Through these weeks she struggled with who he was and why their paths had even crossed. But now, this sudden realization, this whirlwind of intimacy, like nothing she had even experienced...she now understood. In the twinkling of an eye, she saw beneath the iceberg tips of his thoughts. She saw the world behind his eloquent words. And tears flooded her eyes as she found it hard to catch her breath. She wondered at this imagination. Was it just her imagination? She saw the sadness and the hurt. She saw the moments of horror and shame. She felt the elation and heights of happiness. She was flooded with his desire. She knew his failure and success. And she wondered. How could she know this? What is this rapture?

He did not see this coming. This was a total surprise. But then, a realization of the inevitable. He never thought the end would be like this; so quick, so abrupt, so final. He couldn't feel the slamming of his body, the ripping of limbs, the crushing of bone. There was no time to feel. It was all over in a matter of seconds.

And as he left the scene, he realized what he saw, and how he saw...now, without eyes to see, or nose to smell, or ears to hear. Yet his new senses flooded him with an instant expansion of his being. He was out of a box, no more confined.

He went to her, instantly to her. And he entered her. In the most complete and intense way, his soul intertwined hers. And he knew her. He knew her names. He saw what she felt and understood the colors of her life. All of the shadows and uncertainty were gone. He saw past her eyes, into her very spirit. He saw her life and the delicate balance of the things she carried. He now knew what she meant, and why she had been here, and why their paths had crossed. He realized this would be the only way for him to see past the iceberg tips of her thoughts and emotions. He saw her joy and pain. He understood her struggles and triumphs. He felt her uncertainty and doubt. And he knew her never ending discovery, and how knowledge continually expanded her mind. He saw her happiness. And he spread himself through her and entered every part of her being. He shared his life with her. In an instant their spirits had joined completely. And then he was gone.

every morning

every morning she bikes to the train station
she arrives, winded from her ride.
cool shades, rough blonde hair,
sweaty and blowing in the breeze.
she sheds her backpack, shrugging it off,
catching the cool breeze against her
overheated body.
I notice erect, braless nipples,
taut against the sweat dampened fabric
of her under armour sports shirt;
some mornings, more erect and sensual then on others.
this morning, it must have been an especially rigorous bike ride.
I look up from The Reader,
we look at each other and say hellos, like every morning;
and as always, I can't help but notice
her erect nipples and perfectly shaped breasts.
She goes on to do her post-ride stretches and cool down,
her leg high on the nearby hand rail
stretching her body, reaching her hands
to touch her toes.
first one leg, then the other.
I put my sunglasses back on
and walk to my spot, preparing to board the train.

God Hates You

Today's news...so-called Christians protesting at a military funeral,
bringing an anti-gay message. They say that God is punishing America
for harboring gays. They say "God Hates Fags", "God Hates You"
(read story here)

I am so tired of people being so stupid and so gullible as to believe in stuff that they just make up. I'm so tired of people being so naive, that they believe folk tales and fantastic stories as if such is actually truth. I am tired of how ancient tales are taken as truth...just because they are ancient.

I am so tired of the troubles of this world being directly tied to religion.

Today I read a story about a Christian boy, who was taken as a slave, in Sudan. And his Muslim master crucified him with nails, because he dared to sneak away at night and worship with his fellow Christians. How do we put up with this, in a world that is supposedly enlighted...supposedly beyond medevial ideas.

I'm tired of hearing of Muslims killing other muslims because they don't believe in the correct form of Islam. I'm tired of Muslims thinking that God allows them to murder the people of the world in His name.

I'm tired of exclusionary religious practices by members of various religions, because they are convinced that only their group has a pipeline to God. Fundamentalist Christians against liberal; Orthodox Jews again reformed. Baptist Christians against Roman Catholic, fringe believers with their ignorant understanding of what their religion even teaches. Monolithic belief systems that exclude the rest of the world.

I've been there...I've believed that way. I believed in the voice in the burning bush, I believed in the infallibility of the letters and books of the early church, I believed that God talked to my sheperd. I believed what my shepherd taught me. I believed that my small group were the only ones who knew the truth of God. I had blind faith. Because I feared God and his punishement. I had blind faith because I was seeking for the truth of the universe.

Yet, now...I can't understand the hate that is thrown out, in the name of God. As if the Creator is the hater. And I can't understand how the so-called shepherds, pastors, and teachers, preach such hate...as if they were God's oracles.

But it won't end. Lies of Life will continue to be taught as the Truth...from father to son. Tied in with family traditions, with justification of jihads and crusades. Men will continue to be gullible, and never seek the answers for themselves...who never even think of what the logical truth is. And even in their fanatical zeal, they will revel and relish in the base animal behavior they practice because they blindly believe that this is God's way. That is his God's reward. That they are entitled to enslave, and burden, and kill, in God's name.

imitation of life

today I am invisible.
at first I didn't notice it,
then, at the library, I see a person to I am invisible to,
daily on my train commute.
"Hi, don't I know you from the train?" never came out of my mouth
because I still wasn't there.

invisible, because there is no reason to notice,
because in real life, I'm in the background
with the buildings, and the grass and the trees.
not the correct size, shape, age, color for the moment.

sometimes I'm a phantom, coming in and out of focus...
reminds me of an old video by Sting;
"If You Love Somebody",
Marsalis is practically invisible all the time.
he only comes into focus when he plays his sweet sax.


at the dollar store, I become briefly opaque at the check out.
"Hi, how are you today?" asks the check out girl
(appears slightly see-through)
"Fine. How are you doing today?"
(comes into focus)
"I'm doing good." She rings me up.
I look at her badge.
"Have a nice day." she says, making eye contact.
"You have a great day too, Margaret." with a smile. She smiles back.
I am suddenly visible, in the real world, if for a moment.


this imitation
this half life
this place where I meet other people and
we exchange looks at each other's masks;
this refuge from real life that,
for me, isn't real life,
it's a lack of life.
in here, I live the imitation of life
in here, I'm not invisible. I command attention by my mastery of the medium. I build scenes with my words. I construct a simulacrum of the real world; and those seeking their own refuge, their own imitation, they see this mask, and forget, that this is not all of me.

rarely you see my face, my real eyes, hear my real voice.
you think you may know me. But there really is more to me than this avatar.

as a voyeur, I see the real life...the physical life
the interactions on that other plane.
I wonder how is that accomplished?
what is the key? and why can't I find it?


I look at my life circumstances, and the life that has not gone the way I would have expected.
Making the most out of bad situations;
grasping happiness where I can find it;
holding on to it until the last shred of hope flitters away,
 through my fingers.
never learning how to grasp, and hold and handle;
too anxious, too soon, too strong, too wrong,
and then back to the shelter of my inner safe place.
walls rebuilt, defenses laid, back in the high tower.

[mask photographs copyright © 2005 by James McCune and used with permission]

100 Years

[by Five for Fighting]
- listen -

I'm 15 for a moment
Caught in between 10 and 20
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are

I'm 22 for a moment
She feels better than ever
And we're on fire
Making our way back from Mars

15… there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose
15…there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live…

I'm 33 for a moment
Still the man but you see I'm a they
A kid on the way
A family on my mind

I'm 45 for a moment
The sea is high
And I'm heading into a crisis
Chasing the years of my life

15… there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose yourself
Within a morning star

15… I'm all right with you
15… there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live…

Half time goes by
Suddenly you’re wise
Another blink of an eye
67 is gone
The sun is getting high
We're moving on...

I'm 99 for a moment
Dying for just another moment
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are

15… there's still time for you
22… I feel her too
33… you’re on your way
Every Day's a new Day

15… there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to choose
Hey 15… there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live

early train

I’m taking the early train again.  James is back in school and starting earlier.  So these are all new faces that I don’t know.  A young EMT boards and sits across the aisle on the upper deck.  I want to make eye contact, to get her attention.  I want to point to my wrist and give a smile of approval…of the claddagh tattoo that wraps around her wrist, like a band.  She doesn’t look around.  She only looks down, at her immediate space.  She begins to put on her makeup, eyeliner, blush, lipstick.  She transforms her herself from plain Jane into Jane.  I wait, looking to see if her glance comes this way.  But she is guarded.  Her glances look shy and she makes no eye contact with anyone.

She takes a wrist watch out of her bag and buckles it on her wrist.  The watch neatly covering the tattoo, hiding it from view.  Then she closes her eyes to sleep.

faux birthdays

Weekend was nice and easy.  I picked up James at the airport last night.  He had a fun time with his mom and aunt.  They won money at the casino,  then had dinner at The Rain Forest Cafe.

“We told them it was my birthday”, James said. 

He and his mom have this game.  When they go to a new restaurant, they always say it is one of their birthday.  Just to see what happens…to see what the restaurant does for birthday folks.  The last time James and I went to Bubba Gump’s at Navy Pier it was his birthday.  About six months too early!  So the wait staff all came and did their birthday song and brought the birthday treat.  It was fun.

So, about birthday at the Rain Forest…
James: ”They brought the best Ice Cream Volcano I ever had!”
Marc: “You mean, the ONLY Ice Cream Volcano you’ve ever had.”
James: “Shutup” <wink>

morning that lasts all afternoon

James is off in Philadelphia. I'm home alone this weekend, wondering what to do with myself.

This morning started out slowly, groggily. Still too sleepy from late night sipping of Southern Comfort...which really wasn't a comfort. I got up in time to get ready for my doctor's appointment. Showered...and then decided to wear my Harry Potter "Seeker" T-shirt.
Maroon colored with the word SEEKER on the front in gold letters. New blue jeans and walking shoes.

I got to the doctor's office and that was when my day got brighter.
There are a few people in this world who always make me smile...among others, The Smiling Girl, YOU, my children...and my doctor.

The doctor's visit started out good, when the nurse asked me my age.
"Fifty two" I said, and her eyes got big.
"Gee, you look much younger than that", she said.
OK...I think I'll keep this nurse!


I like my doctor so much. When she sees me, it is always with the biggest smile. She always tells me that it's so good to see me. I talk to her on a good level. It is friendly, never condescending, like it is with some doctors. On my first day at my new doctor's office in Chicagoland...the first time I saw her...I was her first also. Her first patient at that office. And she was the first female who touched me "there" in a few years. She always remembers that I was her first patient.

So, my checkup was good. Everything checked out fine. That was a relief. My doc put a big smile on my face, as usual. And, as usual, she kept asking me if I had any more questions. And as always, I never say what is on the tip of my tongue: "Would you like to go out for coffee sometime?" As she put her hand on my shoulder and told me again it was good to see me, I said to myself. "umm, no, I better not ask."

I left the office stepping into a cool morning. The breeze was blowing and I was feeling good about the day. That was when I decided to drive to the Lake Shore. So I stopped and filled up the tank, got a cup of coffee, and smoked half of a cigar, pretending I was getting high. (Shhh...don't tell my doctor. she knows I don't smoke and I don't drink much). I felt good, smiling to myself, and at the pan handler at the stop light.


While driving up I-55, I reflected on the morning. I felt that this was one of those days, when you just know the Creator is ordering your footsteps. Well, that may or may not be true. But it was a good thought. I drove with the windows down, letting the morning air wash over me. I reached Lake Shore Drive and turned south. I drove, looking for The Point.

I turned the car around and began to drive north on Lake Shore, past the city. The beaches were all crowded with thousands of people waiting to see the Air Show. And my good mood began to change. I thought of those thousands, out for a nice afternoon. People out with real families, with real friends. and I thought of me, in the midst of these millions in this city. And I really am lost in Chicago.

Driving on, I shook myself out of that reverie. Still looking at the friends and families on the Lake Shore, regretting the change in my fine mood. My thoughts now running a mile a minute.

So, I continued driving and I decided to just drive north along Sheridan Road, on the Circle Tour.

My mood began to change for the better as I drove. Driving through Rogers Park reminded me of Mt. Lebanon, PA near Pittsburgh and of Pittsburgh's Oakland section. I started to have a familiar nostalgic feeling. I drove past all the big houses in Evanston and Wilmette. I like the drive. But I felt like I'm in alien territory. The million dollar houses. I wonder of the people here. Then I crossed the city limits into Winnetka and instantly the homes are double in size. The million dollar homes are now five million dollar mansions. The only non-Caucasian people I see, are the Mexican gardeners. Earlier I had crossed Kenilworth Ave. Now I thought and found ironic. Perhaps these Mexican gardeners traveled 30 miles from their end of Kenilworth, in Berwyn, here to the wealthy end of the same street, to work for the rich people.

Through the open windows of the car, I smell the trees. It is the same summer smell I knew as a boy back in Ohio. I hear the song of the locusts and cicadas in the trees. I know that sound. It's not from wealthy bugs in the wealthy part of town. They are the same as my bugs. The trees...they are the same. The grass.. just as green. The summer smell just as fragrant. The same in wealthy Winnetka as it is on the South Side of Chicago...as it is in Palos Hills, as it was in Ohio.

I started to think of the places I have been...the people I've met. I think of the trees and grass in the parks and by-ways I have slept in, when I was in the religious cult. And I remember people. Somehow a memory of one time...me and another young man and young woman...behind a super grocery store, in some state somewhere. Memory is dim. I do remember the grandmother. Maybe in her late fifties or her sixties. She was behind the grocery also, with her granddaughter. She had a German accent. She was also looking for food. Searching for the whole foods, fruits, vegetables, dented canned goods, that so many grocery chains dump daily. Food that is past the expiration date, but good enough for today's meal. And I felt like I was intruding. I was a traveler...and this was a regular stop for her. I jumped into the dumpster and retrieved the good items...all the good fruits and vegetables. And I gave them to her. I don't think she could believe it. The look on her face. I think she was prepared to let this strange young man go first, then she and her granddaughter would see what was left. She cried. But there was enough food for everybody.

My thoughts came back to the present. Continuing my drive, I began to see signs for garage sales. Well, what on earth does one find at a rich-people garage sale? I was surprised to find that they are the same. The rich folks with BMW's in their drive way, and a yard sale going on beside their million dollar home; pretty much sells the same stuff for the same price that normal lower-middle class people sell at their garage sales. So, for a dollar, I picked up a copy of the Penguin Classic "EURIPIDES: MEDEA and Other Plays"

I drove and drove. Through all the wealthy north shore towns, determined to just drive all day. Yet, all of these thoughts were milling around in my head. So I had to stop and purchase a notebook and ink pen. I had to write. I checked my email from my cell phone. There was no word from you. Maybe later.

Driving further north, I ended up in Waukegan. I've never been here before. My young friend Sarah told me that it is like Aliquippa, PA. And it is.

The scenery changed. From million dollar mansions to a lower-middle class city. From manicured lawns and front yard sculptures to signs advertising pay-day loans, car title loans, car lots with approval for everybody, even those with bad credit. Such a change in scenery. From towns where the only way the blacks and Mexicans are there, are as a gardener or some other menial laborer, to the town that these people call home.

Today I felt a spectrum of feelings from tired, to extremely happy, to bitter and sad, to satisfied. And all through the day, you have entered my thoughts. I thought of you, on this day of rest, hoping you are indeed taking advantage of the day.

It's getting late. I'm going to drive home now. Maybe I'll rent Love Actually tonight...or maybe I'll just drive some more.

rehearsing for the weekend

Millennium Park, lunch time
the symphony is rehearsing in the amphitheater
the music, soft
a counterpoint to the sounds of the city
and the roar of the air show jets, rehearsing in the sky above.
people rehearsing today...for the weekend.
I guess in a way, I am too.

Sounds of the symphony in front of me,
the lovely French accent of the sales woman, behind me
sounds of wild insects in the park, all around me
the sun is bright
my brisk walk has quelled some of my anxiety
a time for my mind to take a break from thinking too much

I think this is the first yellow apple I've eaten all summer.
Delicious.

The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven

[upon remembering my own Father...there, yet not there.]

wisdom from "The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven"
and the movie "Smoke Signals"
by Sherman Alexie

American Indian Thomas Builds-the-fire, story teller and Suzy

Thomas: "How do we forgive our fathers? Maybe in a dream? Do we forgive our fathers for leaving us too often...or forever...when we were little? Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage, or making us nervous because there never seemed to be any rage there at all. Do we forgive our fathers for marrying, or not marrying our mothers? Or divorcing, or not divorcing our mothers? And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth, or coldness? Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning, for shutting doors, for speaking through walls? or never speaking, or never being silent? Do we forgive our fathers in our age, or in theirs? Or in their deaths...saying it to them, or not saying it? If we forgive our fathers, what is left?"

- AND -

Thomas: So, I told you a story, now it's your turn."

Suzy: "What...you want lies or do you want the truth?"

Thomas: "I want both."

the wheels of life

This day was a pleasant one. This morning I listened to the songs of life. I listened to songs of struggle and pain, of people with more questions than answers.

I listened to the little philosophers and their statements about fathers and families and God...about the shortness of life, the burdens of the years and the yearning to escape those burdens and to be free. Free to love, and think, and live.

This day was a good one, of looking out the windows on a rainy day...and reflecting on the questions and answers, and how I feel about where I've been, where I am, and the road upon with I am traveling in this life.

This day I reflected on the good feeling that is engulfing me...despite all the bad things. Because those things don't rob me of what I'm enjoying.

I thought of my inquiring friend. This day I left off some chains and forsook the bad. I got rid of a yoke, I brushed away some tears and talked to God.

shorn

Shorn

shorn of her glory
by thirty years of tradition
left with a vail to hide
what God had made

by ideas of men who make the rules
small minds of men who build
a box around the Creator
with a myriad of misunderstanding
they pave paradise
every jot and tittle begets
a new precept by which to rule
slowly grinding...turning tradition
into rules...turning rules
into laws...turning laws
into the voice of God

a teacher once said
“But if a woman have long hair,
it is a glory to her:
for her hair is given her for a covering”

yet she is covered with tradition
and what God had made
is replaced by man's creation.
their millions of rules
become their idol

Lake Shore

early Saturday morning, the sun is shining low off the lake.
the first runners of the day, off to my right
The Killers on the radio
and sun beams off of the ripples of the calm water.

A bustle has started, city activity that I don't find
out there in hills of suburbia.
It's a feeling that I like...that I wouldn't mind living in.

"what if they had a race", says companion, "where they block off Lake Shore Drive?"
"you know, driving cars like souped-up Hondas,
like in the video race games", he adds.
"they could race all the way up Lake Shore."

I picture it in my mind, as I drive up the shore,
exit at Fullerton, making my way to Halstead.
And I look at the Saturday morning folks with envy
knowing that in my suburban apartment, I'd still be
groggy from the previous late night.

someday, I think.
someday, the city.

music search run - 4-August-2005

my semi-regular, periodic, whenever I can find it, thrift store, music search.

This week I picked up the following on vinyl:

Human League - Human (extended 12 inch single) - 1986- pristine
a. Human (extend version) 5:00
b. Human (A Cappella Version) 2:00
Human (Instrumental Version) 5:00

Jean-Luc Ponty - Mystical Adventures (worn cover, pristine vinyl) - 1982

Joni Mitchell - Ladies Of The Canyon (worn cover, good vinyl) - 1970

The Roches - self titled (good cover, very good vinyl) - 1979

Ronnie Laws - Solid Ground (damaged cover, good vinyl) - 1981

jet plane view [rewrite]

Flying into Chicago at night,
the lights of the city spread out below.
Bright street lights trailing off into the distance,

streets, lit up for the night.

Like holiday lights strung towards each horizon,
their parallel lines getting small in the distance.
The grid, like some kind of game board,
glowing bright amber and white
against the dark velvet surface.
A perfect semetry, broken only by
the black patches of forest preserve,
the meandering river,
the wide curves of the Skyway
and the expanse of black that is the lake.
Street upon street of homes,
as far as the eye can see,
lit for the evening.

Familiar thoughts emerge,
thoughts of evening travel,
hitchhiking from place to place.
Looking out of passenger side windows,
looking into the lighted living rooms
of homes that I passed in the night.
Seeing people talking, conversing,
reading newspapers, watching the tube, living life.

What are those lives? What is in their orbit?
What is their workaday world?
What answers to my questions do they have?

And what of the living room windows?
who are the friends of these people?
more home fires and more small worlds.
each person's sphere intersecting with still others.
All of the thousands of places in this city.

Looking down from the sky from my jet plane view.
The thousands of stories in these lives.

I fly on my route, I see hundreds of cities,
thousands of lighted houses,
thousands of car headlights heading for those homes.

This human machine, repeats all across this country,
and over into the next, to engulf the world with people.

"...like a long kiss"

"In the movies, writers are always balling up pieces of paper and staring moodily into the corner as though they were struggling to read a teleprompter. Sheesh. Writing is a completely internal activity. Watching someone write is pointless. Reading is where all the action is. You are moving your mind across someone else's, like a snail, like a long kiss."

--Audrey Niffenegger, Author
during an interview on her book "The Time Traveler's Wife"
http://www.powells.com/fromtheauthor/niffenegger.html

God of War

For twenty years, I was a born-again Christian. for 17 years before that I was a Roman Catholic who believed what I was taught as a child. I Changed My Mind. And now I'm frustrated...looking at the present day religious wars from the view of a formerly religious guy.

Humans prove time and again that they are gullible, stupid, ignorant and ill informed.

When people embrace the mythology of religion and let their spiritual naïveté rule their lives and that of their neighbors, they prove how faulted their thinking is.

What is it about religion that shapes people's thoughts to embrace totally illogical ideas?

I am convinced that it is the fear of being eternally damned by a vengeful, wrathful God. Down through the ages, people have submitted to the monstrous orders of the priests and mullahs, because of total fear that they would be lost to hellfire.

The latter day "born again" "Jesus loves you" "personal saviour" flavor of Christianity is a fairly new phenomenon. Throughout the centuries, the Christian faith was replete with stern warnings and punishments for disobedience. But don't misunderstand. Godly violence isn't relegated to just one religion.

Early Jewish leaders routinely committed genocide on whole populations. The Jewish scriptures give detailed accounts of God ordering the destruction of idol worshipers.

The Babylonians killed the captive Jews who didn't bow down to acknowledge Nebucadnezzar as King and God.

The Canaanites, Aztecs, Mayans, and Incas offered what they believed was the ultimate sacrifice to their gods. That is, a human sacrifice. Those cultures had evolved to a point where the sacrifice of corn and first fruits was not enough. Their stern god needed more. Blood. And even more than just the blood of mere animals.

The priestly caste repeated this scene the world over. In history, from civilization to civilization, certain of the people claimed to be the mouthpiece of God. There is the idea that God exists, and that this God only speaks to the chosen few. The sheep-like people blindly believe that their priests are infallible...that they know God and understand His Mind. Never mind that the world's religions, time and again, fashion their God after a very human fashion. They succeed in creating a idol...a God that acts just like humans.

In most religions we see that God pretty much hates the earth and all the things in the earth. Time and again we hear of this earth as being corrupt. We hear how God's kingdom is not of this world. We see martyrs of religion, who die for the promise of the sweet by and by. They are people who die to quench the blood lust, against those they perceive to be the non-believers. People become zealots for religion. Yet in truth, they really understand nothing. They dare not ask the questions that would bring their faith into doubt. They blindly follow; without logic or proof that anything they believe is really true.

Through the ages, people have suffered at the hands of others, mainly due to differences in religion.

Today, the Muslim extremists would not hesitate to nuke America and the West from the face of the earth. They even consider other moderate Muslims, who don't share their extremist views, as being apostate, and really not true Muslims.

They insist that they are doing God's work. They think that God helps them to fight the Jews and the Crusaders. They think they are doing God a favor. They are putting the world through the type of intolerance that the Roman Christian Church did back in the Middle Ages. Yet extreme Islam was also present at that time.

It is troubling, that at the core of all this, the religious fundamentalists and extremists seem to have never really taken a very good look at where their religion came from. Many don't know the origins of their faith, or how it started. Their whole religious experience is based on things taken for granted, things taken as fact. But it is mere stories and myth that are taken as fact. It is blind faith, borne out of religions created for fun or profit....of other religions created from schizoid voices heard on the wind. Still other religions are created from stupid and unlearned members of the priestly caste. The religious intelligentsia, who believe in their own infallibility. An intelligentsia that yields ideas of a flat earth and misogynism and ignorance and backwardness. They worship a stupid, brutish God who is ineffective. These people equate backwardness with holiness...poverty with holiness, "righteous murder" with holiness.

buying / selling

5:30 p.m. evening commute, Metra

he's not motivated to buy
and not really interested in selling.
just enough for his meager needs
just enough to keep his head above water
barely above water.

she sells what she does not even have
she sell ideas and dreams
she paints those dreams with convincing words
with pictures for the mind

he does not have the means
he does not ever have the time
he looks to the horizon
looking for a treasure, wants to find a windfall
gold is in them hills, his get rich quick plan
and he is buying what she is selling
he is paying for her gimmick

smooth as oil, her words
slipping through his fingers, his riches

invisible me

sometimes, no one can see me.
at times, I run into that invisible wall.
wanting to connect with that person...all efforts get rebuffed.
my clever approach gets turned aside,
and I stand there, feeling like a fool.
I wonder why I ever opened my mouth in the first place.
and then I think, "what's the use?"
"it was a stupid idea anyway".
that person isn't so important to me, so why try?
but inside, the feeling lingers,
I just wanted to be friends.

Summer and The Smiling Girl

It is a nice morning,
sun shining, the start of a hot summer Chicago day.
Reading my book on the train, chitchatting with my train friend;
then the morning turned brighter.
There she appeared...The Smiling Girl

She has just returned from Italy six days ago.
She'd finished her last quarter studying art history
in Italy...the Sistine Chapel, Venice,
all of those historic places in the old country.

Her smile, bright as usual, and sparkly eyes,
her straight brown hair, now to the middle of her back
her body ready for summer.

We walked together catching up on the past few months,
talking about new babies, jobs and small talk.
Coordinating our train schedules.
We part ways on the street, she heading toward the Lake,
me north up Wacker.
"See you later!"

Life in Babylon

When I was his age, I didn't know what I was doing.
age 18...high school graduation...new first job for 4 months.
Then after three months I became a beauty school dropout.

age 19...a new job...moved to Baltimore...became a Christian.
I moved back to Ohio...another new job.
I quit the job...read Luke, and forsook all to follow Jesus.

age 20...I had left everything...my life was what I carried on my back.
I wandered the roads of this country; out, into the highways and hedges
compelling them to come in. I had fled Bablylon and was in The Way.

age 21...when I was his age...I had traveled to just about every State in the union.
I often phoned my mom to assure her I was OK.
I posted her letters to convince her to also leave Babylon.
I searched my soul...and changed my mind.
I left the road and returned home.

By the time I was his age, I'd lived four long years on my own.
I'd experienced the world in a way that few ever do.

age 22...I watched the fall of Saigon on TV.
I returned to the care of my parents...and my home. They helped me on my way.
I learned with patience and baby steps how to live back in The World.
I embraced the system.
I returned to Babylon.

feelings

funny how feelings emerge
curious how they flow and grow
but then, no wonder that they die
left on the vine to wither and dry

Debbie and Terry

[A requested public post, from an old friend from Wellsville, OH.]

Marc,

I am writing this to you in hopes that you share this with all you know. I also hope you don't think about me in this way but always as you knew me before.

I have been doing a lot of thinking since the Terry Shiavo incident and I can say I am on the husband's side (despite the signs of it being done with the wrong intentions). I will be in Terry's situation one of these days with liver disease that has compromised my spleen, kidneys heart and brain. Despite all the medications I have been on, this ugly dragon ( as we with Hep C refer to it) has raised it head and bite me again.

On good days I only sit and cry because of the pain for a few hours. On bad days my skin hurts so bad I can't even wear clothes. That's not a pretty sight any longer since I have swelling from mid ribs to the crease of my leg. The swelling and pain are so bad sometimes that I can't even bend over to wipe my own ass after going to the bathroom. I can't eat because of the nausea and still gain weight because my kidneys are failing and I bloat so bad my weight changes by 5-10 lbs weekly. When I do eat I have heart burn so bad I either throw up or eat Rolaids like they are candy. The Hep C also causes muscle and bone pain that travels throughout my body. Add the arthritis in neck and spine plus the shot gun's shell still imbedded in leg and ankle, sometimes I can't even sit or stand. What am I supposed to do then? This also caused hepatic brain damage. This acts like small strokes. I get lost sometimes going and coming from places I know like the back of my hand. This morning I forgot how to turn the shower on.

HOW WOULD YOU OR ANYONE LIKE TO LIVE THIS WAY? The liver damage is as the Dr. said in lay terms, only medium. Can you imagine what I'll be going through when it sets in cirrhosis? This is inevitable. That is how this disease progresses. From Hep C to cirrhosis to cancer and transplant if you are lucky.

I don't want my family or friends to see my that way. I already have a living will in place. I had to go to almost strangers because my family can't come to terms with it. Jim said he would respect my wishes but when the time comes he's not sure how he'll actually react. He's having a hard time already and won't come to terms with the fact that I'm dying slowly but surely.

I have already decided that when I start getting really bad that I will divorce him so he won't have to put himself through taking care of me. If something happens instantly and it very well could, I would want him to get another woman and have a life. Use my insurance money if I had any to enjoy himself because he has worked to help me now. I can't commit suicide because I don't think I could do it.

Again I ask WOULD YOU OR ANYONE YOU KNOW WHAT TO LIVE THIS WAY? This this really living?

Thanks for letting me vent to you and PLEASE think about those you love and that love every day.

Debbie Cataldo

((A Bright Red Scream))

Just perusing my son's xanga blog today. And noticed one of the blogrings he's got linked on his page. ((A Bright Red Scream)) This Blogring has links to 90 blogs, of youths who cut and self-injure.

The common thread...they are screaming for help...fighting depression, and over all bad life situations.

I see it up close. And can't find the answers or the magic words.

finding him

don't know how to help him
don't know if I can
reaching out useless hands, offering inadequate words
standing by and watching the cut
watching the pain that refuses to be named
he finds release his way
lets it flow out
dancing on danger, flirting with disaster

if I only had magic words
miraculous turns of a phrase
that would heal and mend
to make everything new again.

religion - journal musings - 8/26/2002

journal musings - 8/26/2002
5:30 p.m. - Metra train from Chicago
[thinking about the rise and fall of religion
both my own...and the world's]

Things that brought comfort
    are now empty husks.
Promises of Life,
    now hollow tales.
What gleamed brightly in younger days;
    now dull, rusted, remnants

"Ignorance is bliss" they say.
    my myopia now gone
    my eyes wide open

Yet, the universe is now larger
The boundaries more far flung.
Before, religious pride sought
    to speak for God
    to act for God
    invoke righteousness in His name.

Oh, how we knew the oracles of God,
written down by scribes and sages.
From father to son, down through the ages
So sure we know the mind of God
Because
    someone told us, convinced us,
    assured us, tricked us.
My truth, more sure than yours;
-and you say the same to me.

Looking at the world
    the ages of mankind
millions believe one way, handed down
    through mists of time
mixture of make believe and lies
    of sleight of hand and
        voices heard on the wind.
The common voices heard by the one
to start a new belief; a new way,
to upset the order of old,
the beliefs of the Fathers.

Repeated--this senario
    worldwide
        time and again

The mind of the fanatic speaks
"You are the evil infidel"
"You dishonor the Fathers"
"you dishonor God"
Intolerance destroys,
removes the sickness from our midst

The oracle speaks
"We must not deviate from the Path
God told me of the Path.
I am His messenger.
I understand the Father
*I* am the chosen one
my family are the chosen ones.
our God is greater than the other gods
our God is mightier than your make believe god.
my God is the true invisible God
your god is made of stone."

the adherent asserts
"Our God accepts our sacrifices
the best of our farms,
the best of our crops
the best of our flocks
the firstborn of our children"

a kick to the heart

I looked at her pictures one last time today;
and started taking the advice of my friends.

I took some new steps in my life today;
and moved toward the ones who've looked for me.

I objectively pondered those recent events today;
and realized where we are, where I am, and where I'm going.

I'm listening to a happy song
that is making me smile
I'm reading a good book
that makes me wonder why

what'd the teacher say?
you shall know the truth
and the truth'll set you free?
yeah, something like that.

men like me - by Nigel Tiptoe

there are men like me who would bathe in your words
who would drink your laughter until drunk
and would drown happily in your bliss

there are men like me who would plunge into you
like a sea-bird into sparkling waves
who would plumb your depths like a wide-eyed, deep-sea fish

there are men like me who would pour out their dreams
to wash away your hurt
who would weather your storms rejoicing
who, frozen by your indifference,
would melt at your merest glance

there are men like me who would love you
who would paint their pictures on your body
who would write their stories into your life
and would inscribe their poems upon your heart

i don't know how many men there are like me
but there is at least one

copyright 2005 by Nigel Tiptoe
(reprinted here with the author's kind permission)

after the winter solstice

long brunette hair
her jacket doesn't seem warm enough
earphones in place
a winter tan
young sparkling eyes
her gaze meeting mine
friendly recognition
we speak for a minute
rekindling our acquaintance
The Smiling Girl

iceberg tips

Thoughts are hidden behind this mask;
behind the border of this mind.
Words emerge from this mouth;
from these fingers.
The only part you see of me
are the iceberg tips of my thoughts.
The vast world, within this mind,
not so easily apparent to you
not so easily understandable from where you stand.

And I grasp the handholds of your thoughts,
the words that emerge from your mouth...
that flow from your fingers.

Words that are reflections of the thoughts;
some of them mere masks;
some of them protection;
for you
or for me.

I misjudged
I fooled myself
I misinterpreted
I lied to myself

behind the mask

I can spin words
turn them into shapes
make you laugh, or make you cry,
but I can't make you come my way.

My world was changed in an instant...
a shocking instant;
when blinders fell from my eyes
and I saw what I didn't know was there.

I have been under an illusion
I have been under a misapprehension
I was following my need, wants, desire
I ask Why, why me, why this time

Stepping back into this corner,
the wall goes up a little higher.
my mask firmly in place,
another lesson learned.
Again, I bide this time...waiting

lost in chicago

I have the feeling that BETTER is just up ahead for me...
That happiness is waiting for the right moment to spring...
That I'll have clear cut goals and that I will meet them....
That troubles will roll off of me like water on a duck's back.

I'll find the magic words to say just the right things.
I'll be able to spin words into soothing remedies for me and my friends.
I'll be wise and know just what to say at just the right time
and unhappiness will be swept out the door
and bright sunshiney days will bring big smiles.

yes, that's what I see...a little far off...but there it is.

a view from here

there is a feeling inside, right here in my chest...lump in the throat;
looking out upon this world, and I see the things of life.
I see Humanity's waves of life...
fullness and happiness for some
deadly and dreadful for others
security and warmth for some
slavery and murder for others
assurance and confidence for some
doubt and fear for others

my struggle...in the middle of all of this
I look to be secure, happy, wise in universal knowledge

thoughts of God...making me look inward...to review where I am,
realizing regrets and missed opportunities
years of loneliness, laziness, incompetence and just getting by.

Just getting by with the small measure of knowledge
gleaned from books and ideas of other men.
sometimes glomming onto other men's philosophies
sometimes realizing things for myself

The desire is to be happy, secure, full, funny, well liked...
in full control of the Truth of the universe.
the desire of
understanding that Truth
of really knowing that Truth
at having sought and found.
Found, yet not been deceived by other men's ideas or lies...
by other men's manipulation
by other men's pride
by other men's faulty search for the truth.

6th Street near the Playground -- Wellsville, Ohio (a memory)

It was at the corner of 6th Street and Lisbon Street, just over the seldom used railroad tracks. The tracks that we would place pennies on, and then watch the slow moving train squash them big to the size of a quarter, and paper-thin flat.

The corner at Lisbon, the street just below Buckeye Avenue. The north corner of the intersection. A white cement block, one story home. A building that in my later high school years, me, Dexter Messer, Gary Rosenlieb and I can't remember who else, would enter.
Then, it was abandoned, due to be demolished along with all of Buckeye Ave. That street being replaced by the new four lane Route 7. We used to call that route Super Road. We had stopped in that house to chug a couple of fifths of lime vodka on our way to a band gig. A gig for the Martells, our R&B band. It was dark on a cool fall evening.

But in an earlier time it was bright sunshine and lush green grass. And fresh water was flowing down the hill, along the street's curbside gutter. It flowed down to where I stood at the corner of 6th and Lisbon. A clear memory remains in my mind of looking down at the clear clean cool water.

Across the street was a vacant lot. You couldn't call it a park. It was just grass in a recessed area, about one story below street level. A not too steep slope took you down into the basin of the lot. It was as if something had stood there, years and years before. But now it was a soft grassy place with some trees on the sides. It took up half of the block. Woods took up the other half.

We played football there. Mostly, I remember that we played "rough 'em up and tumble". Was that really a game? Did kids from other towns play that game? When there weren't enough kids to play a real game of football, rough 'em up and tumble ensued.

The ball was thrown up into the air and someone would be brave enough to catch it. The ball runner would then have to dodge everybody, running to stay upright. Everyone's goal was to tackle him.

so many thoughts

So many thoughts and the need to organize them in my mind.

The work is: grabbing them and placing them in order.
Kind of like the character in Steven King's story "Dream Catcher", the one with the head injury.
He was able to recreate a coherent mind after a severe head injury by keeping his mind compartmentalized.

A place for everything and everything in its place.
Small compartments and filing cabinets and drawers to contain all of his thoughts.

what I look like, what I think

walking through Life alone
mostly alone
my thoughts are keeping me company
On the periphery, my life is touched
for moments
fleeting conversations
acquaintances giving small glimpses
of what lies within their minds
not often the unmasked face
or unbridled thought.
I inhabit a world of voyeurs
uninhibited blog thoughts and
exhibitionist web cams
People daring others to look
showing a tiny look behind the mask,
or the very mask?
Saying, This is what I look like
This is what I think.

youth

she walks in her own world
she is delighted
smiles at thoughts within her mind
headphones playing her music, her style
handbag pink and white
wrist with silver and jewels
red painted toes
smiles of recognition my way
tautness of youth
then back into her world, her thoughts
she walks away, the Smiling Girl

1000 SOULS - by Annie E. Dechant

Funny but I've watched her for so long
We have never shared a word
Her eyes never lift from the sidewalk
Long enough for me to say
You touch me so.
I feel your soul
And from my mother's blood
And my father's influence
I turn inside myself
And there is someone
The secret of a thousand souls
Funny but she only caught my eye
We had never shared a word
Her walk was tired and lonely
Reflection of a hundred years
I feel her soul. I know her soul
And from my mother's blood
And my father's influence
I turn inside myself
And there is someone
The secret of a thousand souls
Ain't it funny how you never met
And yet you feel them
Ain't it funny how you never spoke
And yet you know them
Mold a miracle and no mistake is made
In every day the wise and joyful pulse is
passed through life
The secret of a thousand souls

links to music.

How I Spent My Christmas Holiday

I'm out of the hospital and back to work today.
My fingertips are still numb, but I'm not in excruciating pain anymore.

On Christmas eve, I began getting numb in my left arm, from my shoulder down to my fingertips.
OK...that's a sign, I thought. Is it my heart? some kind of disease? Then the next day or two, things progressed from numbness to severe pain. This past Saturday morning, about 4 a.m. I couldn't bear the pain anymore and had my son take me to the ER. After a shot of Demerol that didn't kill the pain and and X-rays, I was admitted to the hospital. A Catscan later, they were telling me that it looked like I had a problem with my C-7th vertebrae. Thanks...just what I needed.

But I couldn't think of any trauma that I'd suffered to cause a problem with my disc. Neck traction, pain medication injections, many blood tests, and then an MRI. It turns out that I have an arthritic problem with my vertebrae. And I find that this is something that runs in my family...mother...sisters.

I got to meet a nice couple while hospitalized. O.J. (actually Orville) was my roommate with acute appendicitis (at age 62).
He and his lovely wife Rose proved to be very sociable fun new friends. We'll be doing New Years Eve together (if he gets out in time )

Shelley told me...

The Century Tree
by Victoria Williams

Outside my house is a cactus plant
They call the century tree
Only once in a hundred years
It flowers gracefully
And you never know when it will bloom

Hey, do you want to come out
And play the game
It's never too late
Hey, do you want to come out
And play the game
It's never too late

Clementine Hunter was fifty-four before she picked up her paintings?
Old Uncle Taylor was eighty-one when he rode his bike
Across the plains of China Uh huh
And the sun was shining on that day
Just like today

Hey, do you want to come out
And play the game
It's never too late
Hey, do you want to come out
And play the game
It's never too late

Didn't know how to tell her for over thirty years
Kept locked up inside himself
No one saw the tears
Then she went away
And he woke up that day
So he went back to college at the age of sixty-three
Graduated with honors with an agriculture degree
And he joined up the Peace Corps at the age of sixty-nine
And he rode the grand rapids at the age of eighty-five
Now he brings roses to his sweetheart
She lives most anywhere
He sees someone suffering
He knows that despair
He offers them a rose
And some quiet prose
About dancing in a shimmering ballroom
Cause you never know when they will bloom

Hey, do you want to come out
And play the game
It's never too late
Hey, do you want to come out
And play the game
It's never too late