From the West Down To The East

Every Distance is Not Near

There's a steeple. It's hidden. She probably hasn't seen it.

But it's there. Up the hill. Behind the park.

Years ago there may have been a congregation. Weddings. Celebration.

Now, it's just a building. With a steeple.




The sun was blinding that day. She probably doesn't remember it.

But it was blinding.

And it reflected off the stained glass.

I saw it that day.




There was waiting.

In the lobby.

And there might have been tea.

And I didn't know why I was there.

There were other places to be. Other things to see.

And maybe in that way I was like the steeple.

Up the hill. With many other things going on. Maybe she didn't notice.

She may have been looking somewhere else. Or shielding her eyes from the sun.

Or drinking tea.




And the phone rang. Shrill. Interrupting.

There may have been flowers that day.

I don't quite remember.

I may have to go back up the hill. And ask the steeple.

Long Blue Shadows of the Jackals

And eyes like ice don't move...

Sheila stands with a chainsaw in her hand.

I walk up to her. “How do you know where to cut?”

She stares at the block of ice before her.

“It’s easy,” she says. “I take away everything that doesn’t remind me of a man.”



She fires up the chainsaw and quickly cuts the heart out of the block of ice.

I want to tell her she’s made a mistake, but I hold back.

Let her discover it herself.

She turns off the chainsaw. Turns with a smile. Pronounces it done.

I raise an eyebrow, questioningly.

“I’ve never met a man who actually had a heart,” she says.

And she walks away, leaving the heartless block of ice in her wake.

Happy Earth Day

It's Nature's Way of Telling You Something's Wrong

Cindy was drunk. And stoned.

And it was Earth Day.

"I'm celebrating with chemicals," she announced. "Chemicals from the Earth."

And then she started dancing. Even though there was no music.

We watched her dance -- at first it was energetic, then it faded down to that slow swaying that emphasized her hips more than anything else.

She looked up and noticed everyone staring at her. "It's my dance for Earth Day," she said. And started dancing again.

And we all nodded as if it made sense.



After a while, Cindy stopped dancing.

And started talking. And talking.

She talked about the evils of corporations.

She talked about pollution.

And she talked (in surprising depth) about Martians.

The Martians know what's really important. Stuck up there on a dead planet, they look to the Earth longingly.

"They want the green. They want the oceans. They even want the annoying mosquitoes. What they wouldn't give to be bitten by a mosquito or to have their legs broken by falling out of a spruce tree."

We should have stopped her when started on about the Martians. But we didn't.

So Cindy kept ranting about the Martians and we all looked around, vaguely embarrassed. No one stepped forward to stop her. Instead, we all silently agreed to let her keep going until she ran out of gas.

And finally, she stopped. And looked around the circle at each of us.

Years from now, when I've forgotten about the evil corporations, and the horrors of all kinds of pollution, I'm sure I'll remember what Cindy said.

With the kind of certainty that can only be achieved through high-doses of chemicals, she loudly proclaimed: "Because on Mars, every day is Earth Day."

Every Generation Throws a Hero Up the Pop Charts

There are stories for both of these...

I'll tell them someday.



But not just yet.

To Her Cheshire Smile

To skate away on... to some alien, distant shore.

I don't know what it is about dreams. They sneak up on you, torpedo you with anxiety and hopes, then drag you across the cluttered floor of your subconscious.

And why are the scariest dreams the ones that sound the most benign and mundane when you describe them?

The other night, I dreamed I was in a meeting about a project. I don't remember what the project was, but in the dream I was very excited about it.

And I came out of the meeting, which was in an old duplex house with curved doorways and dark grey adobe stones.

And I looked into the other unit of the duplex -- which was a mirror image of the one I'd come from -- only the walls were painted a deep, rich ocean blue. Then I saw her.

And she said she was surprised to see me. So I mumbled something about the meeting. Then she said "I didn't think I was allowed to talk to you." Which is weird because I thought I wasn't allowed to talk to her.

And it's been many, many years since I've seen her. But she got into my blood like a virus and I'm still not sure I have all the antibodies I need.

So we talked and the party she was at swirled around us. She was selfish and sad and her life was one long emergency. But I loved her then more than either of us could understand. And being back in her presence, even if just for a moment, even if just in a dream, was intoxicating. And very, very, very sad.


And as we talked, I realized she was in danger. If she went to Hungary she would die. And the thought froze me, terrified me. And I let myself think for a moment about what that would mean if she died... and whether that would make her finally vacate that chunk of real estate in my brain she's occupied (without signing a lease or even paying her share of the utilities) for so long.

I must have gotten quiet, because she suddenly grabbed my arm and looked me in the eyes. "Why did you come here?" she asked.

I wanted to say this.


But I'm not Bruce Springsteen. Hell, on my best days I'm barely Manfred Mann.

So I didn't tell her. But I did say "don't go to Hungary." Her smile turned confused, gradually fading. (Even when I'm wide awake, it lingers behind her, leaving the hint of her essence.)

And then, though it took every ounce of effort I had, I got up and I left.