We here in paradise with weather just had the mother of rainstorms. (Or is it a mutha of a rainstorm? You decide.) Parts of Boquete were without power for most of two and a half days. We, alas, live in one of those parts. The tormenta (storm) blew in Wednesday and blew out sometime last night. Our power returned at exactly thirty five minutes past midnight and announced itself by turning on lights we had forgotten to switch off and a chorus of electronic noises from computers, printers, telephones, microwaves, etc. I gave forth with a token hurrah, turned out the lights and returned to bed. My eyes were still tired from reading by flashlight.
Earlier in the day I had ventured out just to experience the wind and the wet and I enjoyed that immensely although my "rain clothes" failed and I was thoroughly soaked during my walk back from B and L's house. I had donned an old "waterproof" golfing jacket, old as in ten or more years, and a pair of, again, "waterproof" sweat pants made of some sort of synthetic material and neither lived up to their billing. The rain fell throughout my walk at a steadily wind driven oblique angle with periods of here I come hard at ya that literally felt like buckets of it were being dumped on my head. I found it a gas and kicked at puddles like Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. It would have taken a helluva big orchestra though, to be heard above the din of the wind and rainfall, so I just hummed the tune in my head.
When I got back to the house, I checked all of RTGFKAR's drainage systems, four inch pipes dug underground where previous storms had shown us the runoff spots and they were all working perfectly. Kudos RTGFKAR!
There were lunch, scrabble, dinner and books to round out the day and then early to bed with flashlights.
This morning we awoke to if not sunny skies at least dry ones and troubling family news on the Internet. Storm worries seem trivial by comparison.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
I'm in the Mood for Rain, Simply Because it's Raining
'Tis the season to be rainy, fallahlahlahlah, lahlah, lah lah.
I just read that the Panamanian government is subsidizing rice, bread, coffee, sugar, cooking oils, and a number of other essentials to offset some of the dramatic increases in food prices that are occurring the world over. Nice. My kind of government. They make an effort here to see that the poor don't get poorer.
Golfing in the rain, just golfing in the rain. What a glorious feelin' I'm happy again.
Woowoo Chuck and I got in 27 holes between the drops yesterday and despite tromping about with soggy feet we managed to hit some quality shots. A quality shot is defined as one that sounds and feels good as you make it and has a result that doesn't nescesarily have to be great, but should be, at least, not awful. A quality putt on the other hand, is one that goes in the hole. No other definition will suffice.
Now it's one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go rain go.
I'm reading a book by Tom Wolf called "I am Charlotte Simmons" that makes it hard to answer the question, what are you reading? (Okay Charlotte, but what are you reading?)
Give me a day with rain boys, long beautiful rain. Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen waxen.
The refridgerator magnet poetry kit that Spawn of Rayjay gave us has this adorning the fridge door: Sing like the wind as women smear languid chocolate visions for love and drunk mothers moan moon symphonies at dream men who whisper of sweet music.
It also has: Goddess of beauty fiddle with my enormous suasage. But that, I think,is an unfinished piece.
Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky, stormy weather. (First she says she doesn't know why and then she tells you why. Strange lyrics.)
Okay, so I have forgotten how to blog. No matter. I'll think of something else.
I just read that the Panamanian government is subsidizing rice, bread, coffee, sugar, cooking oils, and a number of other essentials to offset some of the dramatic increases in food prices that are occurring the world over. Nice. My kind of government. They make an effort here to see that the poor don't get poorer.
Golfing in the rain, just golfing in the rain. What a glorious feelin' I'm happy again.
Woowoo Chuck and I got in 27 holes between the drops yesterday and despite tromping about with soggy feet we managed to hit some quality shots. A quality shot is defined as one that sounds and feels good as you make it and has a result that doesn't nescesarily have to be great, but should be, at least, not awful. A quality putt on the other hand, is one that goes in the hole. No other definition will suffice.
Now it's one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go rain go.
I'm reading a book by Tom Wolf called "I am Charlotte Simmons" that makes it hard to answer the question, what are you reading? (Okay Charlotte, but what are you reading?)
Give me a day with rain boys, long beautiful rain. Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen waxen.
The refridgerator magnet poetry kit that Spawn of Rayjay gave us has this adorning the fridge door: Sing like the wind as women smear languid chocolate visions for love and drunk mothers moan moon symphonies at dream men who whisper of sweet music.
It also has: Goddess of beauty fiddle with my enormous suasage. But that, I think,is an unfinished piece.
Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky, stormy weather. (First she says she doesn't know why and then she tells you why. Strange lyrics.)
Okay, so I have forgotten how to blog. No matter. I'll think of something else.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Keely Pt. 10 and Done
Okay, this is a mess, but I think it is all fixable. I'll find out in a week or so when I get to editing and rewriting. I need some time to let it cook before that. If you have any suggestions for the writing or the story, let me know so I'll have them when I do the tighten up.
==========+==========
I moved my Orthochair directly in front of the exit door and resumed my vigil. I was too hyped to continue reading, so I just sat and thought about the events that had occurred so far and what might be going on in the Past at this very moment. I was eager for this to be over and my family members returned safely. There was a second when they all stirred briefly, but they returned quickly to stillness. They were then gone for several hours. When they finally did come back or come to or whatever it is that happens, I was completely unprepared for what I was being told.
That was awesome was essentially what everyone had to say. They had been through Keely’s life hitting all the high points and were babbling about it like they had just seen a great holoflick. Keely’s mom, Heather, said it was like Keely’s whole life had been filmed and now she could watch whatever part she wanted to. My son Don, Keely’s dad, looked in shock. He was shaking his head and babbling “amazing, amazing” over and over. My other son, Uncle Todd was laughing, making jokes, teasing Keely about different parts of her life. Keely's two brothers were swapping jibes in a did you see when I did this and that kind of way.
I stood there and watched them somewhat dumbfounded. Were they putting me on? Finally I just had to ask. “What about Hsub” I said. “Jorge Hsub.”
The hubbub quieted and they looked at me quizzically like I was doing something old man weird that they couldn’t quite follow. They all suddenly sported expressions that said I’m sorry did I hear you right or I don’t quite understand where you are going with that as with one voice they jointly chorused, “who?”
“Jorge Hsub” I repeated and they all looked even stranger.
That’s when Keely jumped in. “Don’t worry Gramps” she said. “I’ll explain it all later.
(Before I get to Keely’s explanation I need to make one small alteration to the story as it is told so far. Keely’s little speech to the family just prior to their going Traveling will not include any reference to Hsub. Only she and I will know that we are hunting him. As for my gathering the troops to aid Keely, I will have mentioned there is danger but not given it a name. Afterwards, they will have chalked up my histrionics as a ruse to be sure they all came to the Institute.)
When everyone one had calmed down and promises of further trips were extracted from Keely, we all had dinner at an Instadine where it was possible to order any food you had ever heard of. Of course it was all pseudo, but it tasted like the real thing. Being both old and old fashioned, I had the fried chicken from Nelvis Café in Boquete, Panama where I live. Following the meal everyone went their separate way with Keely promising to see me safely to my home. On the way there, in the Institute’s private Whisperjet, she told me what had happened.
“I put them all into Hsub’s lifestream,” she began, “just like we planned. I waited in my own, knowing that at some point Hsub would have to go there. I guessed that when he entered the Past and encountered our people poking about, he would want to return to the Present to figure it out, but he wouldn’t go through his lifeline because he could then be followed and we would learn the whereabouts of his laboratory. He did what I expected and slipped into my lifestream. Instead of going to the Past to find me, he returned to the Present and encountered you and your silver suit. Nice work there Grandpa. If he returned to his own Past he knew that everyone waiting was similarly suited and I doubt if he would want to go through that agony again. He slid back into my stream and I could feel his presence immediately. Might have had something to do with the added charge his body was carrying around. I wasn’t sure if what I was about to do would work, but I had to try it. I showed myself, briefly, in the near Past, just enough that he could see I wasn’t silver wrapped, and then I fled. I ran further and further back into my Past pausing here and there to be sure he was still on my track. I returned eventually to MIT. I was there the day Hsub attacked Professor Winters our Physics guru. In fact, my boyfriend Theo and I had heard the professor’s shouts for help and were headed to the lab when Hsub came bolting down the hallway and ran right by us. You will remember Grandpa, that at the bridge, there was no one there to help me when Hsub grabbed me and I had to use my own wits to escape. This time I stopped next to Theo and waited. Hsub was now moving backwards in time when he got to me and not forward through it as he had been after attacking Professor Winter. He didn’t realize that at the exact moment in his own life stream he would be running by me. In his anger he appeared next to me and grabbed me for a second time. Theo went ape and as you saw earlier, Grandpa, Theo is a big boy. I started screaming and pretty soon campus security guards were dragging Hsub away. What happened next baffled me for awhile until I picked up the thread of Hsub’s lifestream that ended the day after that encounter. Hsub, depressed and now facing prison, hung himself in jail. Jorge Hsub the terrorist and the atrocities he committed never happened. How this affects us in the Present I can’t really say. There are a lot of people alive who wouldn’t be, that’s for sure, but whether they will change the world for good or bad remains to be seen. So far, you would have to say, so good.”
“What about your Mom and Dad and brothers and Todd?” I asked. “I don’t understand what happened with them.”
“The moment Hsub died they were gone from his life stream and were back here for a second or two before I quickly put them into mine and gave them the tour. To them and to everyone else, Hsub, if remembered at all, was only an annoying child. You and I Grandpa. You and I, know better. We saved the world.”
We flew along in silence for a little while after that until I remembered where this had all started. “Keely” I said. “You haven’t finished showing me your life. There is so much more I want to see. All of it, in fact."
I’ll clear my schedule and in a few weeks you can come back for another ‘trip’. We can start in the second grade when I won the high jump at field day. Right now though, I’m going to enjoy the Present. By the way, how’s that new liver of yours holding up.?”
“Great,” I replied, “just great.”
“Alrighty then,” said Keely, “it's time to break out the scotch."
Kid is definitely my granddaughter.
==========+==========
I moved my Orthochair directly in front of the exit door and resumed my vigil. I was too hyped to continue reading, so I just sat and thought about the events that had occurred so far and what might be going on in the Past at this very moment. I was eager for this to be over and my family members returned safely. There was a second when they all stirred briefly, but they returned quickly to stillness. They were then gone for several hours. When they finally did come back or come to or whatever it is that happens, I was completely unprepared for what I was being told.
That was awesome was essentially what everyone had to say. They had been through Keely’s life hitting all the high points and were babbling about it like they had just seen a great holoflick. Keely’s mom, Heather, said it was like Keely’s whole life had been filmed and now she could watch whatever part she wanted to. My son Don, Keely’s dad, looked in shock. He was shaking his head and babbling “amazing, amazing” over and over. My other son, Uncle Todd was laughing, making jokes, teasing Keely about different parts of her life. Keely's two brothers were swapping jibes in a did you see when I did this and that kind of way.
I stood there and watched them somewhat dumbfounded. Were they putting me on? Finally I just had to ask. “What about Hsub” I said. “Jorge Hsub.”
The hubbub quieted and they looked at me quizzically like I was doing something old man weird that they couldn’t quite follow. They all suddenly sported expressions that said I’m sorry did I hear you right or I don’t quite understand where you are going with that as with one voice they jointly chorused, “who?”
“Jorge Hsub” I repeated and they all looked even stranger.
That’s when Keely jumped in. “Don’t worry Gramps” she said. “I’ll explain it all later.
(Before I get to Keely’s explanation I need to make one small alteration to the story as it is told so far. Keely’s little speech to the family just prior to their going Traveling will not include any reference to Hsub. Only she and I will know that we are hunting him. As for my gathering the troops to aid Keely, I will have mentioned there is danger but not given it a name. Afterwards, they will have chalked up my histrionics as a ruse to be sure they all came to the Institute.)
When everyone one had calmed down and promises of further trips were extracted from Keely, we all had dinner at an Instadine where it was possible to order any food you had ever heard of. Of course it was all pseudo, but it tasted like the real thing. Being both old and old fashioned, I had the fried chicken from Nelvis Café in Boquete, Panama where I live. Following the meal everyone went their separate way with Keely promising to see me safely to my home. On the way there, in the Institute’s private Whisperjet, she told me what had happened.
“I put them all into Hsub’s lifestream,” she began, “just like we planned. I waited in my own, knowing that at some point Hsub would have to go there. I guessed that when he entered the Past and encountered our people poking about, he would want to return to the Present to figure it out, but he wouldn’t go through his lifeline because he could then be followed and we would learn the whereabouts of his laboratory. He did what I expected and slipped into my lifestream. Instead of going to the Past to find me, he returned to the Present and encountered you and your silver suit. Nice work there Grandpa. If he returned to his own Past he knew that everyone waiting was similarly suited and I doubt if he would want to go through that agony again. He slid back into my stream and I could feel his presence immediately. Might have had something to do with the added charge his body was carrying around. I wasn’t sure if what I was about to do would work, but I had to try it. I showed myself, briefly, in the near Past, just enough that he could see I wasn’t silver wrapped, and then I fled. I ran further and further back into my Past pausing here and there to be sure he was still on my track. I returned eventually to MIT. I was there the day Hsub attacked Professor Winters our Physics guru. In fact, my boyfriend Theo and I had heard the professor’s shouts for help and were headed to the lab when Hsub came bolting down the hallway and ran right by us. You will remember Grandpa, that at the bridge, there was no one there to help me when Hsub grabbed me and I had to use my own wits to escape. This time I stopped next to Theo and waited. Hsub was now moving backwards in time when he got to me and not forward through it as he had been after attacking Professor Winter. He didn’t realize that at the exact moment in his own life stream he would be running by me. In his anger he appeared next to me and grabbed me for a second time. Theo went ape and as you saw earlier, Grandpa, Theo is a big boy. I started screaming and pretty soon campus security guards were dragging Hsub away. What happened next baffled me for awhile until I picked up the thread of Hsub’s lifestream that ended the day after that encounter. Hsub, depressed and now facing prison, hung himself in jail. Jorge Hsub the terrorist and the atrocities he committed never happened. How this affects us in the Present I can’t really say. There are a lot of people alive who wouldn’t be, that’s for sure, but whether they will change the world for good or bad remains to be seen. So far, you would have to say, so good.”
“What about your Mom and Dad and brothers and Todd?” I asked. “I don’t understand what happened with them.”
“The moment Hsub died they were gone from his life stream and were back here for a second or two before I quickly put them into mine and gave them the tour. To them and to everyone else, Hsub, if remembered at all, was only an annoying child. You and I Grandpa. You and I, know better. We saved the world.”
We flew along in silence for a little while after that until I remembered where this had all started. “Keely” I said. “You haven’t finished showing me your life. There is so much more I want to see. All of it, in fact."
I’ll clear my schedule and in a few weeks you can come back for another ‘trip’. We can start in the second grade when I won the high jump at field day. Right now though, I’m going to enjoy the Present. By the way, how’s that new liver of yours holding up.?”
“Great,” I replied, “just great.”
“Alrighty then,” said Keely, “it's time to break out the scotch."
Kid is definitely my granddaughter.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Keely Pt. 9
Oh my. I'm thinking this story is going to be very different when I rewite it. I am just now getting a feel for it.
==========+==========
The Trip Room at the Institute is a rectangle about half the size of a basketball court. There are glass room dividers separating several sections from the main floor. Behind those dividers are banks of three dimensional compuscreens, levers, switches, buttons, lights, and enough beeping and blipping noises to appease Star Trek fans the world over; all twelve versions of it. None of them, I thought while watching the light show, had humankind planet hopping without a spacecraft. I grabbed an Orthochair, adjusted it to fit my ancient frame and dialed up Steven King’s 146th and latest creepy thriller. The old guy still had it. He was back to vampires in this one, a familiar theme, but now they were cosmic time travelers looking for exotic blood sources on distant planets. I wondered, with all I now knew, if he was being prescient, as he had so often been in the latter stages of his career.
I was on chapter four, perhaps an hour later, when I sensed something different about the room. I switched off my Holobook, looked around, and there he was, all six foot four of his ugliness, standing at the far side of the room. He was looking directly at me and smiling, if you could call that hideous arrangement of features a smile. I mean he displayed a lot of teeth, but there was a serious lack of joy in the effort. I rose from the Ortho and slid a little to my right. I did this kind of casually, making old man groans and grunts as if it was causing me pain to make these small movements. In truth I didn’t feel a thing but excitement. I moved a little further right niftily putting myself between Hsub and the only unbolted exit door from the Trip Room. He could run back to the Past if he chose, but he would have to go through me in the Present to find the Future.
Hsub thought I was trying to get away. He laughed. “Go for it old man” he said as he began to cross the room towards me. “Let’ see what you got.” This from a guy who could Time Travel, I thought? Let’s see what you got? I was less than impressed.
I wanted to take a fighter’s stance, get on the balls of my feet, put my hands up, maybe bob and weave a little, but I knew those days were long gone. Instead, I just crossed my arms and stared at this, the most dangerous man in the world. I was completely confident that Keely had prepared me properly. I also wanted to say something clever, something erudite and memorable, a verbal one up or in your face or skomp as we called it when I was a kid. Let him know ,I might be old but, I was still all there. But, story of my life, nothing came to mind, so I went with the predictably macho and just said, “No Asshole, you show me what you got.”
He walked right up to me and stopped a pace away. We did a stare down thing for awhile that was going nowhere until he finally graced me with another of his charming smiles. He was going to say out of my way as he grinned, but all he managed was “out of” before he got the shock of his life. Literally. He had reached out to shove me and touched the silver suit. I’m not real conversant about watts and volts and currents and such, but whatever that suit was geared to deliver was more than enough. Hsub was writhing on the ground in a split second, smoke and a nasty smell emanating from his ugly self. I looked around for something to bind him with and found a roll of duct tape on a nearby counter. Stuff was still the same fix-all in the twenty-first century that it had been in the twentieth. I got his hands wrapped up and was working on his feet when, damn,” he disappeared. “Shit,” I said aloud, “shit.” I was still not able to think of something clever.
==========+==========
The Trip Room at the Institute is a rectangle about half the size of a basketball court. There are glass room dividers separating several sections from the main floor. Behind those dividers are banks of three dimensional compuscreens, levers, switches, buttons, lights, and enough beeping and blipping noises to appease Star Trek fans the world over; all twelve versions of it. None of them, I thought while watching the light show, had humankind planet hopping without a spacecraft. I grabbed an Orthochair, adjusted it to fit my ancient frame and dialed up Steven King’s 146th and latest creepy thriller. The old guy still had it. He was back to vampires in this one, a familiar theme, but now they were cosmic time travelers looking for exotic blood sources on distant planets. I wondered, with all I now knew, if he was being prescient, as he had so often been in the latter stages of his career.
I was on chapter four, perhaps an hour later, when I sensed something different about the room. I switched off my Holobook, looked around, and there he was, all six foot four of his ugliness, standing at the far side of the room. He was looking directly at me and smiling, if you could call that hideous arrangement of features a smile. I mean he displayed a lot of teeth, but there was a serious lack of joy in the effort. I rose from the Ortho and slid a little to my right. I did this kind of casually, making old man groans and grunts as if it was causing me pain to make these small movements. In truth I didn’t feel a thing but excitement. I moved a little further right niftily putting myself between Hsub and the only unbolted exit door from the Trip Room. He could run back to the Past if he chose, but he would have to go through me in the Present to find the Future.
Hsub thought I was trying to get away. He laughed. “Go for it old man” he said as he began to cross the room towards me. “Let’ see what you got.” This from a guy who could Time Travel, I thought? Let’s see what you got? I was less than impressed.
I wanted to take a fighter’s stance, get on the balls of my feet, put my hands up, maybe bob and weave a little, but I knew those days were long gone. Instead, I just crossed my arms and stared at this, the most dangerous man in the world. I was completely confident that Keely had prepared me properly. I also wanted to say something clever, something erudite and memorable, a verbal one up or in your face or skomp as we called it when I was a kid. Let him know ,I might be old but, I was still all there. But, story of my life, nothing came to mind, so I went with the predictably macho and just said, “No Asshole, you show me what you got.”
He walked right up to me and stopped a pace away. We did a stare down thing for awhile that was going nowhere until he finally graced me with another of his charming smiles. He was going to say out of my way as he grinned, but all he managed was “out of” before he got the shock of his life. Literally. He had reached out to shove me and touched the silver suit. I’m not real conversant about watts and volts and currents and such, but whatever that suit was geared to deliver was more than enough. Hsub was writhing on the ground in a split second, smoke and a nasty smell emanating from his ugly self. I looked around for something to bind him with and found a roll of duct tape on a nearby counter. Stuff was still the same fix-all in the twenty-first century that it had been in the twentieth. I got his hands wrapped up and was working on his feet when, damn,” he disappeared. “Shit,” I said aloud, “shit.” I was still not able to think of something clever.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Keely Pt. 8
We wait for Keely to return” I told them, even though there she was, reclined in the chair, tubes and wires and whatnot attached, less than ten feet from us. When her eyes suddenly opened a short while later, we restrained ourselves as she gained her bearings and then engulfed her in a pile of hugs.
“I’m sure Grandpa has filled you in on what’s going on,” Keely said when all had quieted. “Jorge Hsub is the worst terrorist this planet has ever seen. He has only one agenda and that is the complete annihilation of mankind. He must be stopped and only we can do it. It would take months to program the DNA of others into the system and by then it may be too late. Hsub, if left alone, can probably by now find his way here to the Institute through my life stream. I have been working on a second project for many months that will enable me to move through vast distances in a manner similar to how I move through time. What I’m talking about is star travel. If Hsub learns my method we will never be able to find him. He will wreak havoc throughout the galaxy and, who knows, maybe further. We cannot fail, so this is what we must do to stop him.”
After Keely explained her plan everyone was suited up in some sort of silvery material that made them look like characters from one of her dad’s old UFO flicks. I was not exempted from this costuming even though I wouldn’t be “traveling.” The suit had some special characteristics that Keely had devised for our safety and the detriment of anyone else who came too close. It was an intricate part of the plan.
When Keely’s mom, dad, brothers and uncle were ready – each had gotten a pep talk – they were tubed and wired and tranced and I couldn't guess what else on their way to the Past. I watched them all, one by one, drift into what seemed a deep sleep. Keely went first. She was to lead the others through Hsub’s lifeline and post them at sites throughout his history. There were not too many places in his adult life that he could slide to where he would be far enough away from Keely’s clan members that they wouldn’t be able to reach him quickly. To paraphrase an ancient fighter from my days, he could run but he could not hide.
I would hear from all of them about what occurred that day while they were gone. First though, I must tell you what happened here…in the Present.
“I’m sure Grandpa has filled you in on what’s going on,” Keely said when all had quieted. “Jorge Hsub is the worst terrorist this planet has ever seen. He has only one agenda and that is the complete annihilation of mankind. He must be stopped and only we can do it. It would take months to program the DNA of others into the system and by then it may be too late. Hsub, if left alone, can probably by now find his way here to the Institute through my life stream. I have been working on a second project for many months that will enable me to move through vast distances in a manner similar to how I move through time. What I’m talking about is star travel. If Hsub learns my method we will never be able to find him. He will wreak havoc throughout the galaxy and, who knows, maybe further. We cannot fail, so this is what we must do to stop him.”
After Keely explained her plan everyone was suited up in some sort of silvery material that made them look like characters from one of her dad’s old UFO flicks. I was not exempted from this costuming even though I wouldn’t be “traveling.” The suit had some special characteristics that Keely had devised for our safety and the detriment of anyone else who came too close. It was an intricate part of the plan.
When Keely’s mom, dad, brothers and uncle were ready – each had gotten a pep talk – they were tubed and wired and tranced and I couldn't guess what else on their way to the Past. I watched them all, one by one, drift into what seemed a deep sleep. Keely went first. She was to lead the others through Hsub’s lifeline and post them at sites throughout his history. There were not too many places in his adult life that he could slide to where he would be far enough away from Keely’s clan members that they wouldn’t be able to reach him quickly. To paraphrase an ancient fighter from my days, he could run but he could not hide.
I would hear from all of them about what occurred that day while they were gone. First though, I must tell you what happened here…in the Present.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Keely Pt. 7
It wasn’t as hard as I imagined. Keely’s dad, Don, called Ace by his friends for having 4 holes-in-one in his lifetime – two in one round – was rehabbing new knees and just hanging around the house blowing blues on his harmonica.
“Hey Dad, what’s up?” he answered when I picto called. I explained as clearly as I could what Keely was into and after the expected “Dad, are you taking your meds?” response, he listened as I elaborated and then agreed to meet at the Institute.
“How come she didn’t call me?” and “none of the kids call enough” were his final remarks. I of course just replied, “tell me about it.”
Heather was, in fact, baby sitting the twins, but she wanted in on the action, so she took them back to Cody’s third wife, Alicia, the high strung one. Alicia couldn't deal with the children for long so she quickly enrolled them in day care.
This freed up Cody as well. He turned over the day to day routine at his Boeing Nissan Aerocar dealership to Abigail, his first wife and business partner, who still carried a torch for him and wanted him back, unlike his second wife Amanda, who wanted him eviscerated, but those are stories for another day. He grabbed a demo and flew to the Institute the morning after I called him..
“Hey, Hockey Puck how’s it going?” I said to Carson when I got him on the Picto. “It’s Hockey Star Grandpa, Hockey Star.” We’ve been doing this routine since he was a player in the juvie leagues. I explained Keely’s dilemma and Carson was on his way to the Institute before I put down the phone.
Todd was the problem. He and his wife Ziza were sailing off the coast of Indonesia on their ancient Catamaran. Todd hated the modern boats that could sail unmanned and whose sailors were really just passengers, so he kept his vintage 2002 Cat repaired and sailed the old fashioned way, hands on. Well, one hand anyway. The other usually held a beer. “Hey,” he would announce to anyone complaining, “I’m retired.” I think he got that from me.
“It will take me three days to get to land Dad, and that’s with good winds” he said after I had explained the situation.
“No time for that” I said, we need you now. I’ll have the Institute helojet you out in the morning. Can Ziza handle the boat alone or should I send crew?”
“She’ll be fine. The sea is quiet and she's a good sailor. Weather should hold for a week or so. I'll be ready in the morning."
Two days later they were assembled in the Trip Room at the institute and after much gawking, gaping and having their minds blown by everything around them, they all had the same question, what do we do now?
“Hey Dad, what’s up?” he answered when I picto called. I explained as clearly as I could what Keely was into and after the expected “Dad, are you taking your meds?” response, he listened as I elaborated and then agreed to meet at the Institute.
“How come she didn’t call me?” and “none of the kids call enough” were his final remarks. I of course just replied, “tell me about it.”
Heather was, in fact, baby sitting the twins, but she wanted in on the action, so she took them back to Cody’s third wife, Alicia, the high strung one. Alicia couldn't deal with the children for long so she quickly enrolled them in day care.
This freed up Cody as well. He turned over the day to day routine at his Boeing Nissan Aerocar dealership to Abigail, his first wife and business partner, who still carried a torch for him and wanted him back, unlike his second wife Amanda, who wanted him eviscerated, but those are stories for another day. He grabbed a demo and flew to the Institute the morning after I called him..
“Hey, Hockey Puck how’s it going?” I said to Carson when I got him on the Picto. “It’s Hockey Star Grandpa, Hockey Star.” We’ve been doing this routine since he was a player in the juvie leagues. I explained Keely’s dilemma and Carson was on his way to the Institute before I put down the phone.
Todd was the problem. He and his wife Ziza were sailing off the coast of Indonesia on their ancient Catamaran. Todd hated the modern boats that could sail unmanned and whose sailors were really just passengers, so he kept his vintage 2002 Cat repaired and sailed the old fashioned way, hands on. Well, one hand anyway. The other usually held a beer. “Hey,” he would announce to anyone complaining, “I’m retired.” I think he got that from me.
“It will take me three days to get to land Dad, and that’s with good winds” he said after I had explained the situation.
“No time for that” I said, we need you now. I’ll have the Institute helojet you out in the morning. Can Ziza handle the boat alone or should I send crew?”
“She’ll be fine. The sea is quiet and she's a good sailor. Weather should hold for a week or so. I'll be ready in the morning."
Two days later they were assembled in the Trip Room at the institute and after much gawking, gaping and having their minds blown by everything around them, they all had the same question, what do we do now?
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Keely Pt. 6
I'll entertain suggestions for the "heavy's" name. Who is likely to be a bad guy in the year 2030? I'm using Hsub because it is short, easy to type and a Bush by any other name is still a Bush. And a reminder: first draft here. Lighten up on the bad mouthing.
==========+==========
That is, one moment she is gone and in the next she reappears standing beside Hsub. He is clearly startled. He says something to Keely and then reaches for her, but she steps away quickly. Before he can try again, she disappears for a second time and then, not quite instantaneously but close, she reappears behind her keyboards playing as before. The audience in the theater thinks it’s all part of the show and erupts in a spontaneous and noisy ovation. This was an effect they had never seen before. Their applause drowns out whatever Hsub says next, but his menacingly pointing finger directed at Keely speaks loudly enough and then he too disappears.
“Let me explain.” Keely says in the pod, no doubt looking at my completely puzzled expression. “For the past two weeks I’ve been trying to discover how Hsub got into my life stream and finally figured it out. It’s not hard to do actually, just a matter of applying some old DNA technology to what we have already been working with. Once I uncovered the method, I tweaked it a bit and now I can move through Hsub’s Past just as he does through mine. Difference is, I can do it faster. Now, whenever he appears, I can slide out of my moment like I just did and then slip into his through his life stream. I can also stay there longer than he can. Since he can only alter my life while he is in my stream, I can avoid him by jumping to his where only I can effect change.. He has to flee back to the Present, because wherever he goes in the Past, I can follow. In other words, I have to say one “jump” ahead of him.”
“Okay,” I say. “So you are not in danger for the moment, but you know he has to be working at catching up or worse…something worse.”
“Yeah, I do, Grandpa. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan. But to make it work I’m going to need a lot of help. I’ll need Dad, maybe Mom if she's not baby sitting Cody's twins, both my brothers and Uncle Todd. These are my closest genetic relatives. I’d use you and Grandpa Fox , but, well, no offense, you are both too old. How fast can you round them up?”
“Me?” I ask, startled. “Why me? Can’t you do it?
“I have to stay here streaming. If I can get Hsub to chase me in the Past, his stream or mine, I’ll know he’s in a Pod and not working his lab in the Present. I’ll stall for time while you get our troops ready. Can you do it?
“But Keely they don’t know about any of this. They’ll think I’ve gone bonkers. How am I going to explain it?”
“I don’t know for sure, Grandpa, but I know you’ll find a way.”
==========+==========
That is, one moment she is gone and in the next she reappears standing beside Hsub. He is clearly startled. He says something to Keely and then reaches for her, but she steps away quickly. Before he can try again, she disappears for a second time and then, not quite instantaneously but close, she reappears behind her keyboards playing as before. The audience in the theater thinks it’s all part of the show and erupts in a spontaneous and noisy ovation. This was an effect they had never seen before. Their applause drowns out whatever Hsub says next, but his menacingly pointing finger directed at Keely speaks loudly enough and then he too disappears.
“Let me explain.” Keely says in the pod, no doubt looking at my completely puzzled expression. “For the past two weeks I’ve been trying to discover how Hsub got into my life stream and finally figured it out. It’s not hard to do actually, just a matter of applying some old DNA technology to what we have already been working with. Once I uncovered the method, I tweaked it a bit and now I can move through Hsub’s Past just as he does through mine. Difference is, I can do it faster. Now, whenever he appears, I can slide out of my moment like I just did and then slip into his through his life stream. I can also stay there longer than he can. Since he can only alter my life while he is in my stream, I can avoid him by jumping to his where only I can effect change.. He has to flee back to the Present, because wherever he goes in the Past, I can follow. In other words, I have to say one “jump” ahead of him.”
“Okay,” I say. “So you are not in danger for the moment, but you know he has to be working at catching up or worse…something worse.”
“Yeah, I do, Grandpa. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan. But to make it work I’m going to need a lot of help. I’ll need Dad, maybe Mom if she's not baby sitting Cody's twins, both my brothers and Uncle Todd. These are my closest genetic relatives. I’d use you and Grandpa Fox , but, well, no offense, you are both too old. How fast can you round them up?”
“Me?” I ask, startled. “Why me? Can’t you do it?
“I have to stay here streaming. If I can get Hsub to chase me in the Past, his stream or mine, I’ll know he’s in a Pod and not working his lab in the Present. I’ll stall for time while you get our troops ready. Can you do it?
“But Keely they don’t know about any of this. They’ll think I’ve gone bonkers. How am I going to explain it?”
“I don’t know for sure, Grandpa, but I know you’ll find a way.”
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Wisdom and Golf
It is true that with age there is wisdom. It is also true that with age there is a terrific loss of distance off the tee. Now I ask myself, how often does this wisdom come into play and do I really need so much? And would not regaining 50 yards off the tee be worth more in the long run? Here's what I propose: I'll give back some of my wisdom for each ten yards added to my drives.
Knowing when to come in out of the rain. Yup, I've got that down. However, I live in Panama where it is not that unpleasant to get caught out on rainy days. You just get wet, not cold. I'm trading in that knowledge.
I'm now hitting the ball 210.
Never bite the hand that feeds you. It seems unlikely that I would do this under any circumstances so I'm giving up that bit of malarkey for another thirty feet.
Now I'm hitting 220 and clearing the creek on the fourth hole with yards to spare.
A stitch in time saves nine. I don't sew.
I'm hitting 230.
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of... No, wait, I'm keeping that one.
You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink. Yeah, right, I use that a lot. In fact this pun is more useful. You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think.
I'm hitting 240.
And finally, because in truth I never have hit much beyond 250, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Okay that's cheating, because I don't really know what it means. Let's go instead with, give a man a fish and he will eat for a day, teach a man to fish and he will eat forever. Out-a here, bye bye, don't need it.
Oh Baby! Did you see that drive! That puppy is way out there!
Knowing when to come in out of the rain. Yup, I've got that down. However, I live in Panama where it is not that unpleasant to get caught out on rainy days. You just get wet, not cold. I'm trading in that knowledge.
I'm now hitting the ball 210.
Never bite the hand that feeds you. It seems unlikely that I would do this under any circumstances so I'm giving up that bit of malarkey for another thirty feet.
Now I'm hitting 220 and clearing the creek on the fourth hole with yards to spare.
A stitch in time saves nine. I don't sew.
I'm hitting 230.
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of... No, wait, I'm keeping that one.
You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink. Yeah, right, I use that a lot. In fact this pun is more useful. You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think.
I'm hitting 240.
And finally, because in truth I never have hit much beyond 250, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Okay that's cheating, because I don't really know what it means. Let's go instead with, give a man a fish and he will eat for a day, teach a man to fish and he will eat forever. Out-a here, bye bye, don't need it.
Oh Baby! Did you see that drive! That puppy is way out there!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Keely Pt. 5
Annika Sorrenstam announced she is retiring from golf at the end of this year. On Letterman she did the 10 Reasons Why List. My favorites: "So the only putts I'll have to worry about is my fiance." And, "I just want to have a nice job where I can sit in a cubicle and not be stuck on a golf course all day."
==============================================
We make a date to return to the Time Pod two weeks hence. I’m calling it a Time Pod because it gives you something to visualize even if what you are imagining is not very accurate. In reality it’s a matter of tubes and chemicals and a sort of hypnotic state. Keely runs the whole show and as I’ve said earlier, we never actually leave the room. At least, I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell. Ask Keely.
You might also wonder why me? Why do I get to journey through Keely’s life before anyone else? Well, the fact is I’m 97 years old and although I’ve got a few body parts that are substantially younger, a hip, a knee and a liver – hooray for that liver – the rest of me is probably not going to last much longer. That I’ve missed a great deal of her life by living in places abroad was also one of Keely’s considerations. She gets to show off her accomplishments to someone who has only heard about them.
I spend the next two weeks in a state of eager anticipation. I try to keep up my usual routine of journal writing in the ether zone and telereading in Spanish.(I love that I can hologram anywhere any book ever written) but my mind keeps racing to the idea of going back in time. Even the Denver Broncos second consecutive undefeated season behind Elway 3's record setting QB performance can’t hold my attention. I’m nervous as a teenager about to get his first aerocar license. When finally Keely picto calls and tells me to go to the pick-up port in the yard I set a sprint record for 90 year olds in doing so.
We take our places at The Institute, hook up all the falderal and as I’ve said before and hopefully will again, Away We Go.
This time we stop first at one of Keely and Jackson’s early concerts. K and J are on stage doing their fusion thing and the music is awesome. I can see Keely’s brother, Carson, in a backstage booth turning knobs and pushing buttons on a console to record the performance. He’s on leave from the Avalanche to rehab a knee he tore up against the Red Wings in the Stanley Cup finals. Avs weren’the same without their “enforcer” and lost 4 games to 2. Carson still has that big brother attitude about Keely and when he’s not with the Avalanche he travels with her as a personal body guard. He can be, as you might expect from a hockey player, quite intimidating.
We drop in on a number of concerts as Keely’s career develops. The venues get larger and the audiences more enthusiastic as she and Jackson build on their series of number one hits. We stay at each spot just long enough to see their closing, bring-down-the-house numbers and then we move along. We are in London in some sort of amphitheater when Hsub reappears. He is suddenly just there, on the stage, only a few feet from the performers. As he materializes into full reality, Keely, in the pod, says to me, “don’t worry Grandpa, I’m going to try something.” And then, like snap your fingers, she’s gone.
==============================================
We make a date to return to the Time Pod two weeks hence. I’m calling it a Time Pod because it gives you something to visualize even if what you are imagining is not very accurate. In reality it’s a matter of tubes and chemicals and a sort of hypnotic state. Keely runs the whole show and as I’ve said earlier, we never actually leave the room. At least, I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell. Ask Keely.
You might also wonder why me? Why do I get to journey through Keely’s life before anyone else? Well, the fact is I’m 97 years old and although I’ve got a few body parts that are substantially younger, a hip, a knee and a liver – hooray for that liver – the rest of me is probably not going to last much longer. That I’ve missed a great deal of her life by living in places abroad was also one of Keely’s considerations. She gets to show off her accomplishments to someone who has only heard about them.
I spend the next two weeks in a state of eager anticipation. I try to keep up my usual routine of journal writing in the ether zone and telereading in Spanish.(I love that I can hologram anywhere any book ever written) but my mind keeps racing to the idea of going back in time. Even the Denver Broncos second consecutive undefeated season behind Elway 3's record setting QB performance can’t hold my attention. I’m nervous as a teenager about to get his first aerocar license. When finally Keely picto calls and tells me to go to the pick-up port in the yard I set a sprint record for 90 year olds in doing so.
We take our places at The Institute, hook up all the falderal and as I’ve said before and hopefully will again, Away We Go.
This time we stop first at one of Keely and Jackson’s early concerts. K and J are on stage doing their fusion thing and the music is awesome. I can see Keely’s brother, Carson, in a backstage booth turning knobs and pushing buttons on a console to record the performance. He’s on leave from the Avalanche to rehab a knee he tore up against the Red Wings in the Stanley Cup finals. Avs weren’the same without their “enforcer” and lost 4 games to 2. Carson still has that big brother attitude about Keely and when he’s not with the Avalanche he travels with her as a personal body guard. He can be, as you might expect from a hockey player, quite intimidating.
We drop in on a number of concerts as Keely’s career develops. The venues get larger and the audiences more enthusiastic as she and Jackson build on their series of number one hits. We stay at each spot just long enough to see their closing, bring-down-the-house numbers and then we move along. We are in London in some sort of amphitheater when Hsub reappears. He is suddenly just there, on the stage, only a few feet from the performers. As he materializes into full reality, Keely, in the pod, says to me, “don’t worry Grandpa, I’m going to try something.” And then, like snap your fingers, she’s gone.
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Clearing Revised
There’s A Signpost Up Ahead And It Reads…
By DocWalton
Consider, if you will, the small town of Arboles, Colorado and the inhabitants thereof. Nestled in a remote southwest corner of the San Juan Mountains, Arboles was, at the turn of the Twentieth Century, a player in both the cattle and mining industries. But now at the dawn of the Twenty First, few reminders of its heyday remain. With less than two hundred mail boxes adorning its Post Office walls, it is said that Arboles has more ghosts than people. For some, this will prove fact, not fancy.
One Sharman Alto is the prime mover. She is the first to suggest the existence of the ghosts. It is she who says they are there, in the store, and nothing will bode well until they are sent on their way. The others just nod in agreement and ask what has to be done. All but one that is, a lone skeptic named Doc Walton, who along with his wife, Charly, are The Arboles Store’s new co-owners. His attitude is simply that there are no such things as ghosts, but even if there are, why would we rile them up? His will be a small but critical role in the mysterious events to follow.
We begin then, with Sharman, the town’s foremost New Age personality. She looks like no one else in this rural region where denim rules the fashion roost and clothes suitable for outdoor work are worn by both men and women. Sharman sports instead colorful dresses or skirts, often Native American inspired and tops with intricate patterns. Around her neck there are strings of beads or necklaces faceted with shiny stones. Magic stones she says, with life and secrets to tell. She speaks in quiet tones of auras, vibrations, shifts in consciousness, crystals, angels and spirits. She is said by the locals to be in touch with elements on the periphery of ordinary reality and even, perhaps, of other dimensions. She is a noted healer who has treated nearly everyone in town at one time or another and is a frequent invitee and participant in Native American rituals. She has danced with both the Hopis and the Utes, for rain and abundant harvests. She is in short, what has come to be known as woowoo, a euphemistic term for all things New Age. If Sharman says there are ghosts in the store, she will be believed. At least, we note, by some.
Charly is the first of Sharman’s converts to the idea of “clearing” the store’s unwanted spirits. After her, the other two are easy. Charly is a stable, usually rational woman who seldom makes decisions without first acquiring as much data as possible. She is a self-described information junkie and a quick study who devours books at a prodigious rate. Where her rationality takes leave is wherever magic appears. We speak now not of the slight of hand, divert the eye magic of stage magicians, but rather the woowoo concept of miracles in nature and beyond. We cite for example, that dancing and chanting can make it rain, animals are psychic, auras are readable, and ESP is merely a sixth sense that few people choose to use and even fewer to enhance like the blind man whose hearing becomes acute. Naturally she and Sharman have become fast friends. And naturally when Sharman says the ghosts have to go, Charly is fully in favor.
The plan to “clear” the store is then presented to Doc and Charly’s oldest daughter, Laura, and her boyfriend, “Big” Brian. Both are nature disciples who have fled the closeness of urbanity to find comfort zones in the rural wilds of southern Colorado. There they have thrived and professed to be familiar with life’s “exceptional” moments. Laura is an attractive, high energy woman in her mid thirties who has heard Bigfoot up close, seen ghosts previously and believes much of the supernatural is natural. Brian, tall and thick and thus deserving of the appellation “big” that precedes his name, has traveled some and witnessed guru magic in India and elsewhere. Both, when approached, are easy converts to Sharman’s plan.
It is summer in Arboles, the tourist season. The store is open late to accommodate boaters, campers and fishermen straggling in from Navajo lake. At its close, the group of four assembles inside. Lights are extinguished to discourage would be late shoppers from banging on the door. For several minutes they sit and talk quietly, getting accustomed to the dark. When Sharman feels it’s time, they rise and walk to the center of the store’s largest of two rooms. They link hands and as they jointly visualize a crystal staircase rising from the floor and ascending to the heavens, they also link minds.
It is necessary now to take you away for a moment to a hillside where Doc and Charly’s house resides. Doc is positioned there, leaning on a fence rail, staring idly at the stand of trees on the far side of Seibel’s farm that blocks his view of the Arboles Store. He has declined participation in the “clearing” noting that he prefers his spirits in a glass. He sips now on a tall scotch, his second, as he imagines the scene at The Arboles store.
The atmosphere there as he sees it, is electric, charged, crackling like small bits of random lightning. There are flashes of images, hazy and indistinct; ghosts perhaps, blipping in and out like white neon. There is a sound of radio static turned up abruptly then dimming to shadowy corners. The air is pungent. It smells of burning leaves, old rags. It is dry, smoky, raspy to inhale. All four of the intrepid ghost busters are feeling fear, adrenaline, the urge to run. Their hair prickles, they sweat, they fidget crazily, but they hold fast, hands locked tightly together. Each can be heard to emit small choked- back sounds when the tension rises and peaks. But as if of one mind, when they can bear no more, they pull themselves into their own circle and there, in that brief moment of terrified clinging, comes a sudden flat explosion of noise like the pop of an air gun magnified tenfold, and the room…the room…is suddenly empty and still. They remain linked for a time after, breathing deeply and exhaling long sighs onto each others ears. When at last they separate, three move about the store chuckling and making small jokes. They are not exactly sure what they have done, but they are feeling successful and even a little pumped. It is Sharman who remains motionless and says nothing. She seems to be listening to something else, something the others can’t hear. “We are not finished,” she finally whispers, “there is still more to do.”
Although what Doc imagines in his scotch fertilized mind is probably more cinematic what actually occurs at The Arboles Store on this warm summer night is no less dramatic and has the added virtue of being a sworn to reality.
As we journey to that reality, it is of interest to note the mindset of each person at the Arboles Store.
Sharman, as one would expect, brings certainty and determination. She has done this before and is sure of the outcome. She places lighted candles about the room, and waves a white sage, smudge stick through the air while chanting something incomprehensible, probably American Indian in origin. She gives each participant a small crystal to hold and does these things in a way that inspires confidence in the others.
Charly, for her part, is excited. She senses something thrilling is about to happen, an adventure, an opportunity to experience and acquire arcane knowledge. She can’t wait to get started.
Big Brian is wary, perhaps a touch fearful. “How can you be sure” he says turning to Sharman, “that we won’t do something harmful or bring something bad into the room?”
“That’s why I’m here” Sharman answers, staring him hard in the eyes, “they won’t dare.” It’s enough for Brian. He relaxes. He’s known Sharman for a long time.
Laura is simply last minute reluctant. “Why” she wants to know, “don’t we just leave them alone?”
“Because you are an important part of the reason they have gathered here” Sharman tells her. “They are attracted to your energy, your living spirit. They are looking to you for release. These are not happy ghosts. These are souls trapped on an earthly plane from which they should long have been gone. They have lost their way. They want you to free them.”
And with that said, they begin their deliberations in earnest. Each in their own way with their own inner voice begins to urge the spirits to move to the staircase, to climb it and be gone to wherever is next on their eternal path. They promise that in the dark above there will be release, and there will be peace.
At clearing’s end, all four will say they felt the peculiar sensation of something moving through them and on to the staircase and that was the tip off that Sharman’s plan was working. Charly when describing the experience says it was a little eerie, but not bad at all. Brian declares it intense and disturbing, while Sharman and Laura take it as a necessary matter-of-fact. “Of course we felt them” was their attitude. “Ghosts don’t bother to walk around things.”
We would be remiss if we didn’t tell you that where Doc’s made-for-TV version of events and reality coincide is at the very end. When it is clear that the deceased humans have all departed to the light or wherever it is they truly go, Sharman turns to the group and says quite exactly what Doc had imagined, “we are not finished, there is still more to do.”
We take you back to the hillside where Doc now stands staring at his scotch-less ice cubes. He is mindful and present and as such determines that a refill is in order. As he turns to go he hears in the distance what sounds vaguely to him like a flock of noisy birds coming from the direction of the Arboles Store. He pauses and looks into the moonlit sky as the sound draws near. Almost at once he hears an outrageous cacophony overhead that seems so close he is startled by his inability to see anything. He finds himself stooping and ducking from a crazy, joyful ruckus that sounds like a grade school recess gone berserk, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing visible above or anywhere else that Doc can see. He turns for a moment and stares after the din receding in the distance and then sprints to his house.
They’ve done it, he thinks. They have actually spooked away the spooks. There is no other explanation for what he has heard and he needs to get to a phone and tell the group forthwith. No point in their hanging around the store after the ghosts are gone.
But, of course, no one answers his ring. The ghost chasers have again locked hands and formed their circle, beginning anew their quiet deliberations. They are not about to be interrupted by a late customer saying, oh great you’re still open, I’ll be right there. Theirs is serious work.
Doc puts the phone back in its cradle and grabs his truck keys off a hook. He is excited, there is no doubt, and he wants to share his excitement with the others. He wonders as he starts carefully down his long drive, if the others know what they have done. No matter, he thinks, they will when I get there.
Inside the store there is complete certainty the human souls have departed. What remains are animal spirits and they are proving reluctant, frightened, downright stubborn. Animals in life are creatures of instinct and habit and now, even in death, they are leery of changing their routine. Sharman tells the group to concentrate on the horses first as they are the most psychic and intuitive. If they will leave perhaps the other animals will follow. But in the end it is no use. “We are going to need help” Sharman says aloud. “We need someone with stronger animal mojo. Someone who can move these creatures along. Who is that saint, the famous animal one?” she asks.
“Francis of Assisi?” Charly offers.
“Yeah, that’s the guy. Let’s all concentrate and ask for his help.”
At the very moment they lower their heads, close their eyes and begin to conjure old Francis, Doc comes blustering through the back door. “Guys” he announces, to the circled group in his pent up excited voice, “they’re gone. You can give it up, they’re all gone.”
All four again feel the strange rush of things passing through them.
Sharman’s eyes open wide in astonishment. “Yes” she says, “they ARE all gone.”
“That’s what I came to tell you” says Doc. “I heard them leave.”
“I don’t mean the people Doc,” Sharman tells him. “I mean the animals. They wouldn’t leave until you got here. Now, I don’t know what to think. Her voice trails off as she whispers, “can you possibly be…?”
========================== + ==================================
There’s an old signpost in front of The Arboles Store that appears empty to most who pass it by. But for the few who look closely, the few with open minds and sharpened senses, a story is written there; a story of ghosts, people who believe in them, and a new father of all animals. At least, that’s how the Woowoos tell it… here in the Twilight zone.
(Our writers group assignment was to write something abot a picture that was sent to us. The picture was of a signpost with an empty sign hanging from it.)
By DocWalton
Consider, if you will, the small town of Arboles, Colorado and the inhabitants thereof. Nestled in a remote southwest corner of the San Juan Mountains, Arboles was, at the turn of the Twentieth Century, a player in both the cattle and mining industries. But now at the dawn of the Twenty First, few reminders of its heyday remain. With less than two hundred mail boxes adorning its Post Office walls, it is said that Arboles has more ghosts than people. For some, this will prove fact, not fancy.
One Sharman Alto is the prime mover. She is the first to suggest the existence of the ghosts. It is she who says they are there, in the store, and nothing will bode well until they are sent on their way. The others just nod in agreement and ask what has to be done. All but one that is, a lone skeptic named Doc Walton, who along with his wife, Charly, are The Arboles Store’s new co-owners. His attitude is simply that there are no such things as ghosts, but even if there are, why would we rile them up? His will be a small but critical role in the mysterious events to follow.
We begin then, with Sharman, the town’s foremost New Age personality. She looks like no one else in this rural region where denim rules the fashion roost and clothes suitable for outdoor work are worn by both men and women. Sharman sports instead colorful dresses or skirts, often Native American inspired and tops with intricate patterns. Around her neck there are strings of beads or necklaces faceted with shiny stones. Magic stones she says, with life and secrets to tell. She speaks in quiet tones of auras, vibrations, shifts in consciousness, crystals, angels and spirits. She is said by the locals to be in touch with elements on the periphery of ordinary reality and even, perhaps, of other dimensions. She is a noted healer who has treated nearly everyone in town at one time or another and is a frequent invitee and participant in Native American rituals. She has danced with both the Hopis and the Utes, for rain and abundant harvests. She is in short, what has come to be known as woowoo, a euphemistic term for all things New Age. If Sharman says there are ghosts in the store, she will be believed. At least, we note, by some.
Charly is the first of Sharman’s converts to the idea of “clearing” the store’s unwanted spirits. After her, the other two are easy. Charly is a stable, usually rational woman who seldom makes decisions without first acquiring as much data as possible. She is a self-described information junkie and a quick study who devours books at a prodigious rate. Where her rationality takes leave is wherever magic appears. We speak now not of the slight of hand, divert the eye magic of stage magicians, but rather the woowoo concept of miracles in nature and beyond. We cite for example, that dancing and chanting can make it rain, animals are psychic, auras are readable, and ESP is merely a sixth sense that few people choose to use and even fewer to enhance like the blind man whose hearing becomes acute. Naturally she and Sharman have become fast friends. And naturally when Sharman says the ghosts have to go, Charly is fully in favor.
The plan to “clear” the store is then presented to Doc and Charly’s oldest daughter, Laura, and her boyfriend, “Big” Brian. Both are nature disciples who have fled the closeness of urbanity to find comfort zones in the rural wilds of southern Colorado. There they have thrived and professed to be familiar with life’s “exceptional” moments. Laura is an attractive, high energy woman in her mid thirties who has heard Bigfoot up close, seen ghosts previously and believes much of the supernatural is natural. Brian, tall and thick and thus deserving of the appellation “big” that precedes his name, has traveled some and witnessed guru magic in India and elsewhere. Both, when approached, are easy converts to Sharman’s plan.
It is summer in Arboles, the tourist season. The store is open late to accommodate boaters, campers and fishermen straggling in from Navajo lake. At its close, the group of four assembles inside. Lights are extinguished to discourage would be late shoppers from banging on the door. For several minutes they sit and talk quietly, getting accustomed to the dark. When Sharman feels it’s time, they rise and walk to the center of the store’s largest of two rooms. They link hands and as they jointly visualize a crystal staircase rising from the floor and ascending to the heavens, they also link minds.
It is necessary now to take you away for a moment to a hillside where Doc and Charly’s house resides. Doc is positioned there, leaning on a fence rail, staring idly at the stand of trees on the far side of Seibel’s farm that blocks his view of the Arboles Store. He has declined participation in the “clearing” noting that he prefers his spirits in a glass. He sips now on a tall scotch, his second, as he imagines the scene at The Arboles store.
The atmosphere there as he sees it, is electric, charged, crackling like small bits of random lightning. There are flashes of images, hazy and indistinct; ghosts perhaps, blipping in and out like white neon. There is a sound of radio static turned up abruptly then dimming to shadowy corners. The air is pungent. It smells of burning leaves, old rags. It is dry, smoky, raspy to inhale. All four of the intrepid ghost busters are feeling fear, adrenaline, the urge to run. Their hair prickles, they sweat, they fidget crazily, but they hold fast, hands locked tightly together. Each can be heard to emit small choked- back sounds when the tension rises and peaks. But as if of one mind, when they can bear no more, they pull themselves into their own circle and there, in that brief moment of terrified clinging, comes a sudden flat explosion of noise like the pop of an air gun magnified tenfold, and the room…the room…is suddenly empty and still. They remain linked for a time after, breathing deeply and exhaling long sighs onto each others ears. When at last they separate, three move about the store chuckling and making small jokes. They are not exactly sure what they have done, but they are feeling successful and even a little pumped. It is Sharman who remains motionless and says nothing. She seems to be listening to something else, something the others can’t hear. “We are not finished,” she finally whispers, “there is still more to do.”
Although what Doc imagines in his scotch fertilized mind is probably more cinematic what actually occurs at The Arboles Store on this warm summer night is no less dramatic and has the added virtue of being a sworn to reality.
As we journey to that reality, it is of interest to note the mindset of each person at the Arboles Store.
Sharman, as one would expect, brings certainty and determination. She has done this before and is sure of the outcome. She places lighted candles about the room, and waves a white sage, smudge stick through the air while chanting something incomprehensible, probably American Indian in origin. She gives each participant a small crystal to hold and does these things in a way that inspires confidence in the others.
Charly, for her part, is excited. She senses something thrilling is about to happen, an adventure, an opportunity to experience and acquire arcane knowledge. She can’t wait to get started.
Big Brian is wary, perhaps a touch fearful. “How can you be sure” he says turning to Sharman, “that we won’t do something harmful or bring something bad into the room?”
“That’s why I’m here” Sharman answers, staring him hard in the eyes, “they won’t dare.” It’s enough for Brian. He relaxes. He’s known Sharman for a long time.
Laura is simply last minute reluctant. “Why” she wants to know, “don’t we just leave them alone?”
“Because you are an important part of the reason they have gathered here” Sharman tells her. “They are attracted to your energy, your living spirit. They are looking to you for release. These are not happy ghosts. These are souls trapped on an earthly plane from which they should long have been gone. They have lost their way. They want you to free them.”
And with that said, they begin their deliberations in earnest. Each in their own way with their own inner voice begins to urge the spirits to move to the staircase, to climb it and be gone to wherever is next on their eternal path. They promise that in the dark above there will be release, and there will be peace.
At clearing’s end, all four will say they felt the peculiar sensation of something moving through them and on to the staircase and that was the tip off that Sharman’s plan was working. Charly when describing the experience says it was a little eerie, but not bad at all. Brian declares it intense and disturbing, while Sharman and Laura take it as a necessary matter-of-fact. “Of course we felt them” was their attitude. “Ghosts don’t bother to walk around things.”
We would be remiss if we didn’t tell you that where Doc’s made-for-TV version of events and reality coincide is at the very end. When it is clear that the deceased humans have all departed to the light or wherever it is they truly go, Sharman turns to the group and says quite exactly what Doc had imagined, “we are not finished, there is still more to do.”
We take you back to the hillside where Doc now stands staring at his scotch-less ice cubes. He is mindful and present and as such determines that a refill is in order. As he turns to go he hears in the distance what sounds vaguely to him like a flock of noisy birds coming from the direction of the Arboles Store. He pauses and looks into the moonlit sky as the sound draws near. Almost at once he hears an outrageous cacophony overhead that seems so close he is startled by his inability to see anything. He finds himself stooping and ducking from a crazy, joyful ruckus that sounds like a grade school recess gone berserk, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing visible above or anywhere else that Doc can see. He turns for a moment and stares after the din receding in the distance and then sprints to his house.
They’ve done it, he thinks. They have actually spooked away the spooks. There is no other explanation for what he has heard and he needs to get to a phone and tell the group forthwith. No point in their hanging around the store after the ghosts are gone.
But, of course, no one answers his ring. The ghost chasers have again locked hands and formed their circle, beginning anew their quiet deliberations. They are not about to be interrupted by a late customer saying, oh great you’re still open, I’ll be right there. Theirs is serious work.
Doc puts the phone back in its cradle and grabs his truck keys off a hook. He is excited, there is no doubt, and he wants to share his excitement with the others. He wonders as he starts carefully down his long drive, if the others know what they have done. No matter, he thinks, they will when I get there.
Inside the store there is complete certainty the human souls have departed. What remains are animal spirits and they are proving reluctant, frightened, downright stubborn. Animals in life are creatures of instinct and habit and now, even in death, they are leery of changing their routine. Sharman tells the group to concentrate on the horses first as they are the most psychic and intuitive. If they will leave perhaps the other animals will follow. But in the end it is no use. “We are going to need help” Sharman says aloud. “We need someone with stronger animal mojo. Someone who can move these creatures along. Who is that saint, the famous animal one?” she asks.
“Francis of Assisi?” Charly offers.
“Yeah, that’s the guy. Let’s all concentrate and ask for his help.”
At the very moment they lower their heads, close their eyes and begin to conjure old Francis, Doc comes blustering through the back door. “Guys” he announces, to the circled group in his pent up excited voice, “they’re gone. You can give it up, they’re all gone.”
All four again feel the strange rush of things passing through them.
Sharman’s eyes open wide in astonishment. “Yes” she says, “they ARE all gone.”
“That’s what I came to tell you” says Doc. “I heard them leave.”
“I don’t mean the people Doc,” Sharman tells him. “I mean the animals. They wouldn’t leave until you got here. Now, I don’t know what to think. Her voice trails off as she whispers, “can you possibly be…?”
========================== + ==================================
There’s an old signpost in front of The Arboles Store that appears empty to most who pass it by. But for the few who look closely, the few with open minds and sharpened senses, a story is written there; a story of ghosts, people who believe in them, and a new father of all animals. At least, that’s how the Woowoos tell it… here in the Twilight zone.
(Our writers group assignment was to write something abot a picture that was sent to us. The picture was of a signpost with an empty sign hanging from it.)
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Keely Pt. 4
(I've changed the name of the bad guy to Jorge Hsub for reasons of my own.)
We fade to the Present. I am still visibly upset, but Keely has calmed and seems thoughtful. “C’mon Grandpa” she says, “I’ll buy you lunch.”
We sit quietly for awhile over our fifty-five dollar plankton burgers. I’m trying to absorb and make sense of what has just happened when Keely takes a last sip of her Puragua and says, “ What’s really disturbing, Grandpa, is that when I was at the bridge the first time, the time we were visiting, Hsub wasn’t there. I stopped there precisely because it was a very serene time in my life, a moment when I realized that though I loved my music, science was where I could most contribute to the world. When Hsub showed up, I was, as you saw, quite startled in the Time Pod, because it means that Hsub has figured out how to move through time in other people’s life streams. Now I have to do the same before he can find a way to alter the Past and really screw us up, maybe even do away with us, here in the Future. I realized quickly, when he was lifting me at the bridge, that nothing would happen or I wouldn’t be there with you in the Pod. As you saw, the second he put me down, he blinked away. This says to me that he can only move through other people’s time for a limited period.”
“What do you know about Hsub?” I asked.
“Hsub and I were at MIT together freshman year. He was a brilliant, but unstable student. He suffered from depression and when he was in his black moods he hated everybody including himself. We had similar curricula, so we were in several classes together and I rarely saw him as anything other than an angry, hateful person. He was argumentative and seemed to ooze violence. Most of the kids were afraid of him and avoided any contact with him. He’d sit in class with nobody closer than three desks away and just glower. You could almost see the hate rising off him. When he attacked our Physics teacher near the end of the year, he was expelled and would have been arrested if he hadn’t just vanished. That was the last time I saw him until now. Of course, like everyone, I’ve heard about his End World cult and all the terror and havoc they take credit for. I’ve even read his manifesto “Oblivion” twice. I can’t imagine a worse mixture than his of brilliance, hate and insanity. He has to be stopped.
“What did you mean when you said to him ‘you’ll never know?’”
“I really can’t tell you right now, Grandpa, or as the old joke goes, I’d have to shoot you. Let me just say that at the Institute we are working on projects besides Time Travel and Hsub seems to have wind of them. We found the mole who leaked our Time notes to him, but as you saw, we were too late. Hsub has gained entrance to the Past and now I’m not the only one who knows how to do it. If he were to understand our newest project, not just this world, but all worlds will be in danger.
We fade to the Present. I am still visibly upset, but Keely has calmed and seems thoughtful. “C’mon Grandpa” she says, “I’ll buy you lunch.”
We sit quietly for awhile over our fifty-five dollar plankton burgers. I’m trying to absorb and make sense of what has just happened when Keely takes a last sip of her Puragua and says, “ What’s really disturbing, Grandpa, is that when I was at the bridge the first time, the time we were visiting, Hsub wasn’t there. I stopped there precisely because it was a very serene time in my life, a moment when I realized that though I loved my music, science was where I could most contribute to the world. When Hsub showed up, I was, as you saw, quite startled in the Time Pod, because it means that Hsub has figured out how to move through time in other people’s life streams. Now I have to do the same before he can find a way to alter the Past and really screw us up, maybe even do away with us, here in the Future. I realized quickly, when he was lifting me at the bridge, that nothing would happen or I wouldn’t be there with you in the Pod. As you saw, the second he put me down, he blinked away. This says to me that he can only move through other people’s time for a limited period.”
“What do you know about Hsub?” I asked.
“Hsub and I were at MIT together freshman year. He was a brilliant, but unstable student. He suffered from depression and when he was in his black moods he hated everybody including himself. We had similar curricula, so we were in several classes together and I rarely saw him as anything other than an angry, hateful person. He was argumentative and seemed to ooze violence. Most of the kids were afraid of him and avoided any contact with him. He’d sit in class with nobody closer than three desks away and just glower. You could almost see the hate rising off him. When he attacked our Physics teacher near the end of the year, he was expelled and would have been arrested if he hadn’t just vanished. That was the last time I saw him until now. Of course, like everyone, I’ve heard about his End World cult and all the terror and havoc they take credit for. I’ve even read his manifesto “Oblivion” twice. I can’t imagine a worse mixture than his of brilliance, hate and insanity. He has to be stopped.
“What did you mean when you said to him ‘you’ll never know?’”
“I really can’t tell you right now, Grandpa, or as the old joke goes, I’d have to shoot you. Let me just say that at the Institute we are working on projects besides Time Travel and Hsub seems to have wind of them. We found the mole who leaked our Time notes to him, but as you saw, we were too late. Hsub has gained entrance to the Past and now I’m not the only one who knows how to do it. If he were to understand our newest project, not just this world, but all worlds will be in danger.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
We pause for a word from your local station
There are a number of reasons why writing a story, you know, live-and-in-person on a blog is not a good idea. First off, you the reader have to follow a very rough, scratch it out version of the story that may not be particularly representative of the final draft. Additionally, if I pass a few days without writing, you have to scroll back through the blog to pick up the thread of the story where I left off. And then, much later, when I do post the last hopefully much improved version, the story's surprises and sense of newness will be gone. In between the first and the last versions of the story there may be several rewrites and adjustments that you will NOT get to see, so the process isn't even particularly educative. The one major benefit I find in creating a story on a blog is that it keeps me pushing forward because I know that some of you will bug me if I leave you dangling for too long. I will continue to write "Keely" on the blog, but after that I'll probably keep my junk to myself until I can drop it on you in some sort of finished form. (Actually, to me there is no final draft. It's just the last draft. I'm always sure the piece can be better, but I quit when it seems good enough and I'm sick of playing with it.)
Sometime in the next few days I will post the lastest version of "The Clearing" which has a new title. It has been altered greatly and is, I think, better.
Sometime in the next few days I will post the lastest version of "The Clearing" which has a new title. It has been altered greatly and is, I think, better.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Keely Pt.3
We do some sort of fast forward through Keely’s college years, stopping for five minute intervals that she deems worthy of look-sees. There are boys in most of these, or rather young men and Keely rummages through them like my generation would sort through old snap shots. There is one boy in particular that Keely fancies enough to visit a half dozen times. “This is Theo” she said. “He and I were almost engaged.” We watched them kissing late one night in front of her dorm room until I clear my throat loudly and Keely brakes free of a small trance with “alrighty then” and moves us further up her life line. There really isn't much to see in the two years Keely spends at MIT. She studies, she goes to classes and she tests out early. There are the boys, I think I counted four besides Theo, but they don't seem to matter as Keely only stops to look at them briefly and there are a couple of professors she pauses us to admire as they lecture and demonstrate concepts far beyond my ken.
When next we touch down or whatever it was we do to slow and stop, my pleasant journey through Keely’s so far charmed life takes an abrupt turn and twists my ancient heart with fear. No one had ever even hinted to me of Keely’s role in this chapter of history, but of course now, I can see why. Few knew, and those who did were silent by necessity. If the world at large had been vetted, there would have been panic on an unprecedented scale.
We are somewhere in, I think, Europe. Keely is standing alone at bridge rail looking out over a body of turbulent water. She is quiet, very still and appears to be lost in her thoughts or perhaps just meditating. A tall, dark man in a long coat approaches and begins to speak to her. His voice is soft and my ears are old, so I can’t quite hear what he is saying. Keely, though, is getting visibly upset in both the Present and the Past. She turns to me in the former and says, “This is Rutgar Tesmit. You probably don’t recognize him, because he was so much younger then.” But as she speaks, Rutgar turns and stares directly at us as if he can see us there in the Future and I know him immediately. The curiously mismatched sides of his face are evident even in his youth. One side is placid, blue eyed and almost without expression while the other is somehow twisted into a fixed smile and a half closed brown eye that casts all as a gruesome leer. This facial disparity will worsen as he ages and become an icon of evil the equal of any in Time.
There is suddenly then a violent flurry of activity on the bridge and I feel my fragile old body coarse with adrenaline. Rutgar has grabbed Keely and is lifting her. She struggles, they are both shouting and I CAN'T MOVE! He is going to throw her from the bridge and I am helpless, ROOTED IN PLACE. I’m shouting no, please no! when I become aware that Keely is at my ear saying, “it’s okay Grandpa, it’s okay.” Still my eyes are fixed on the bridge and I hear Keely’s younger voice declare, “If I die, you Bastard, you will never know, you will NEVER know.” Rutger puts her down.
When next we touch down or whatever it was we do to slow and stop, my pleasant journey through Keely’s so far charmed life takes an abrupt turn and twists my ancient heart with fear. No one had ever even hinted to me of Keely’s role in this chapter of history, but of course now, I can see why. Few knew, and those who did were silent by necessity. If the world at large had been vetted, there would have been panic on an unprecedented scale.
We are somewhere in, I think, Europe. Keely is standing alone at bridge rail looking out over a body of turbulent water. She is quiet, very still and appears to be lost in her thoughts or perhaps just meditating. A tall, dark man in a long coat approaches and begins to speak to her. His voice is soft and my ears are old, so I can’t quite hear what he is saying. Keely, though, is getting visibly upset in both the Present and the Past. She turns to me in the former and says, “This is Rutgar Tesmit. You probably don’t recognize him, because he was so much younger then.” But as she speaks, Rutgar turns and stares directly at us as if he can see us there in the Future and I know him immediately. The curiously mismatched sides of his face are evident even in his youth. One side is placid, blue eyed and almost without expression while the other is somehow twisted into a fixed smile and a half closed brown eye that casts all as a gruesome leer. This facial disparity will worsen as he ages and become an icon of evil the equal of any in Time.
There is suddenly then a violent flurry of activity on the bridge and I feel my fragile old body coarse with adrenaline. Rutgar has grabbed Keely and is lifting her. She struggles, they are both shouting and I CAN'T MOVE! He is going to throw her from the bridge and I am helpless, ROOTED IN PLACE. I’m shouting no, please no! when I become aware that Keely is at my ear saying, “it’s okay Grandpa, it’s okay.” Still my eyes are fixed on the bridge and I hear Keely’s younger voice declare, “If I die, you Bastard, you will never know, you will NEVER know.” Rutger puts her down.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Keely Pt. 2
When Keely was just a little kid, her favorite movie was Frankenstein, the Boris Karloff version. Her dad had a collection on VHS – no Instascreen in those primitive days – of all the old black and white Universal Studio horror movies and Keely just loved Karloff’s flat headed monster. She had his lock kneed walk down pat and would try to frighten the grown-ups with snarls in her little girl voice. They would feign fear and cry “scary scary” while running away. But it wasn’t just the monster that captivated her. She would light up and pay rapt attention during the scenes in Doctor Frankenstein’s laboratory when wheels spun, sparks flew and test tubes foamed up and spilled over. To her it was all magic and I guess it is not surprising that by adolescence she was drawn to science, chemistry and labs of her own. As I watched her recite some impossible formula while mixing ingredients in her high school chem lab, it was hard to believe that this kid, this pretty little teenager would grow up to change the world. But, of course, I knew it was so and I shouldn’t have been so surprised to see that under her white lab coat she was wearing her gymnastic uniform. Practise was coming up right after Lab and this was a kid who knew how to manage her “time."
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Keely
This too, will require your patience and perserverence as I yank a story from my subconscious. Again, first draft, don't be too critical.
My granddaughter can explain the whole thing in precise technical terms. How we can go back through her life and watch it from beginning to now. Time travel was what we called it back in my day, but of course in my day it was just science fiction. And it makes sense that we would visit her life first considering that without it none of this would be possible. After all, they didn’t name the thing the KDW 2030 for nothing. Those are her initials and that’s the year she made the breakthrough. Me? I was just honored she thought to take me with her. Truth is, I’d mostly missed her life the first “time” around.
We started at her birth, naturally, and I had been there for that. It was every bit the miracle then as it is today; maybe even more so, since Painaway hadn’t even been thought of at that point and birthing mom’s suffered a good deal more than they do now. Keely Dawn Walton, that’s right, I’m talking about that KDW, popped out right on time all rosy pink and perfect. I got a kick out of watching all the relatives, including myself, grinning and glowing with pride. Turned out that we’d be doing that pride thing throughout Keely’s life, but we couldn’t know that then and I’m getting ahead of the story.
First, I suppose, I ought to explain a few things. This bubble of nothing that Keely invented or maybe I should say discovered, because in a way it was there all the “time,” is something that can be seen through, but not escaped. It gives “travelers” a kind of fly-on-the-wall perspective. They can see and move through the past, but not interact with it. There is no danger of changing anything there and thus altering the future, so you can forget all those old movie and Cineimplants that have “travelers” screwing things up in the present. I put the word travelers in quotations, because that’s what the public has decided to call us, but really there is no sense of movement. It’s more like a theatre experience where all you do is sit and watch. Since each vehicle can only move backwards in time within its occupant’s life span because of its links to the their genetic codes, travelers can only witness what they and their fellow passengers experienced during their own lives. When a “traveler” goes back in “time” he also goes forward. By this I mean that if he is gone to the Past for a day, a day forward will have occurred in the Present. Should the “traveler” upon his return decide to go back to the Past, he would then be able to see himself entering the “time” bubble and disappearing. Trips of longer than a day are seldom undertaken, because there is no way to transport sustenance. Keely will have to explain what really occurs as it’s beyond my ken, but the little I do know is that our physical selves stay seated while some odd chemical rearrangement occurs and then, as a great comedian from my day used to say, away we go.
There is a kind of fast-forward a “traveler” needs to employ to watch the highlights of a person’s life. Viewing in real “time” expends that amount of time from the traveler’s own life and even the most ardent of our historians are not willing to give up what is more than minimally necessary. On my journey of re-acquaintence with Keely, we jumped from her birth to a cold Halloween evening when she, her dad and I Trick-or-Treated around their Denver neighborhood. I had asked to visit that moment because it was the last I would have with Keely for many years. I was impressed both “times” by her stubborn refusal to give in to the cold and go home. Her dad and I were freezing. This toughness would serve her well in the Future.
We next jumped? Skid? Slid? I don’t really know, to a fourth grade piano recital. Keely had resisted the teacher’s urging to play any of the more traditional pieces and opted instead for a composition of her own. From our bubble, we recognized the tune as one that would be a feature in the repertoire of Keely and her cousin Jacksons’s band some years down the road. We could tell that the teacher’s ear was not attuned to the blues/jazz fusion that Keely was putting down, but we could also tell that Keely didn’t care. She knew she was good and mom and pop were there to support her. From the bubble I waved to them as well, but of course, they couldn’t see me. The grown Keely, in the bubble with me, was laughing hysterically at her little self bowing and leaving the stage. “I never realized I was so confident as a kid” she said. “I must have got that from my Grandpop.” I laughed with her then. “Right,” I said. “Your other Grandpop.” Then hop, skip, jump? We were in a chemistry lab, Keely with test tubes in hand.
My granddaughter can explain the whole thing in precise technical terms. How we can go back through her life and watch it from beginning to now. Time travel was what we called it back in my day, but of course in my day it was just science fiction. And it makes sense that we would visit her life first considering that without it none of this would be possible. After all, they didn’t name the thing the KDW 2030 for nothing. Those are her initials and that’s the year she made the breakthrough. Me? I was just honored she thought to take me with her. Truth is, I’d mostly missed her life the first “time” around.
We started at her birth, naturally, and I had been there for that. It was every bit the miracle then as it is today; maybe even more so, since Painaway hadn’t even been thought of at that point and birthing mom’s suffered a good deal more than they do now. Keely Dawn Walton, that’s right, I’m talking about that KDW, popped out right on time all rosy pink and perfect. I got a kick out of watching all the relatives, including myself, grinning and glowing with pride. Turned out that we’d be doing that pride thing throughout Keely’s life, but we couldn’t know that then and I’m getting ahead of the story.
First, I suppose, I ought to explain a few things. This bubble of nothing that Keely invented or maybe I should say discovered, because in a way it was there all the “time,” is something that can be seen through, but not escaped. It gives “travelers” a kind of fly-on-the-wall perspective. They can see and move through the past, but not interact with it. There is no danger of changing anything there and thus altering the future, so you can forget all those old movie and Cineimplants that have “travelers” screwing things up in the present. I put the word travelers in quotations, because that’s what the public has decided to call us, but really there is no sense of movement. It’s more like a theatre experience where all you do is sit and watch. Since each vehicle can only move backwards in time within its occupant’s life span because of its links to the their genetic codes, travelers can only witness what they and their fellow passengers experienced during their own lives. When a “traveler” goes back in “time” he also goes forward. By this I mean that if he is gone to the Past for a day, a day forward will have occurred in the Present. Should the “traveler” upon his return decide to go back to the Past, he would then be able to see himself entering the “time” bubble and disappearing. Trips of longer than a day are seldom undertaken, because there is no way to transport sustenance. Keely will have to explain what really occurs as it’s beyond my ken, but the little I do know is that our physical selves stay seated while some odd chemical rearrangement occurs and then, as a great comedian from my day used to say, away we go.
There is a kind of fast-forward a “traveler” needs to employ to watch the highlights of a person’s life. Viewing in real “time” expends that amount of time from the traveler’s own life and even the most ardent of our historians are not willing to give up what is more than minimally necessary. On my journey of re-acquaintence with Keely, we jumped from her birth to a cold Halloween evening when she, her dad and I Trick-or-Treated around their Denver neighborhood. I had asked to visit that moment because it was the last I would have with Keely for many years. I was impressed both “times” by her stubborn refusal to give in to the cold and go home. Her dad and I were freezing. This toughness would serve her well in the Future.
We next jumped? Skid? Slid? I don’t really know, to a fourth grade piano recital. Keely had resisted the teacher’s urging to play any of the more traditional pieces and opted instead for a composition of her own. From our bubble, we recognized the tune as one that would be a feature in the repertoire of Keely and her cousin Jacksons’s band some years down the road. We could tell that the teacher’s ear was not attuned to the blues/jazz fusion that Keely was putting down, but we could also tell that Keely didn’t care. She knew she was good and mom and pop were there to support her. From the bubble I waved to them as well, but of course, they couldn’t see me. The grown Keely, in the bubble with me, was laughing hysterically at her little self bowing and leaving the stage. “I never realized I was so confident as a kid” she said. “I must have got that from my Grandpop.” I laughed with her then. “Right,” I said. “Your other Grandpop.” Then hop, skip, jump? We were in a chemistry lab, Keely with test tubes in hand.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
What's Next?
"She wore red on her lips and walked like her ass was a bell." --- Junot Diaz
I would love to write a sentence that good. (Or is it,"that well"?)Of course this Diaz guy is a Pulitzer Prize winner while the last prize I won was a kupie doll for shooting free throws at a carnival. Nevertheless, comparisons are valid. Could Diaz hit twelve in a row under pressure, huh, could he, could he?
Now that The Clearing has been put into cold storage until I can find time (finding time is hard, I've looked everywhere, even under the sofa pillows) to print it out and clear it up (so to speak) after which, I'll post it on the blog for any of youze who aren't already bored with it, I will need something else to fill the void that is this blog. ( Well there you go, if you start with "Now that The Clearing has been put into cold storage" and then skip to "I will need something else to fill the void..." you will actually have a readable sentence.)
I did enjoy writing that "fact or fiction" piece (Woowoo Charly says it's all true, she was there) on the blog. It saved me the daily anguish of what in the world do I write today. I mean, you already know our lawn is growing and birds sing in Panama which leaves me little else to describe and even if there were something, I couldn't in a million years come up with "she walked like her ass was a bell." I've done golf - although there is still fertile ground there - and the always thrilling events of old people in retirement. I've cranked out bits on the dog and worked my Past over with a fine toothed comb. I've even revived long forgotten cliches like "fine toothed combs." I need input. Lots of input.
Barring that, you'll get more fiction.
She wore me on her lips and her ass was...I don't know, I couldn't see it from where I was.
I would love to write a sentence that good. (Or is it,"that well"?)Of course this Diaz guy is a Pulitzer Prize winner while the last prize I won was a kupie doll for shooting free throws at a carnival. Nevertheless, comparisons are valid. Could Diaz hit twelve in a row under pressure, huh, could he, could he?
Now that The Clearing has been put into cold storage until I can find time (finding time is hard, I've looked everywhere, even under the sofa pillows) to print it out and clear it up (so to speak) after which, I'll post it on the blog for any of youze who aren't already bored with it, I will need something else to fill the void that is this blog. ( Well there you go, if you start with "Now that The Clearing has been put into cold storage" and then skip to "I will need something else to fill the void..." you will actually have a readable sentence.)
I did enjoy writing that "fact or fiction" piece (Woowoo Charly says it's all true, she was there) on the blog. It saved me the daily anguish of what in the world do I write today. I mean, you already know our lawn is growing and birds sing in Panama which leaves me little else to describe and even if there were something, I couldn't in a million years come up with "she walked like her ass was a bell." I've done golf - although there is still fertile ground there - and the always thrilling events of old people in retirement. I've cranked out bits on the dog and worked my Past over with a fine toothed comb. I've even revived long forgotten cliches like "fine toothed combs." I need input. Lots of input.
Barring that, you'll get more fiction.
She wore me on her lips and her ass was...I don't know, I couldn't see it from where I was.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
The Clearing Concluded
Standing on the cliff side staring at his now scotchless ice cubes, Old Doc determined that one more refill was in order. Just as he turned to go he heard in the distance what sounded vaguely like a flock of noisy birds coming from the direction of the Arboles store. He paused and looked into the darkened sky as the sound drew nearer. When in a matter of seconds an outrageous cacophony flew directly overhead it seemed so close that Doc was startled by his inability to see anything. This was a loud noise like a hundred squawking, screeching bats or banshees with their tails afire, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing visible overhead or anywhere else that Doc could see. He turned for a moment and stared in the direction of the receding sound, then raced back to his house.
They've done it, he thought, they've actually spooked away the spooks! There was just no other explanation for what he had heard and he needed to get to a phone and tell the group exactly that. No point in their hanging around the store after the ghosts were gone.
But, of course, no one answered his ring. The phantom chasers had again locked hands and formed their circle, beginning anew their quiet deliberations. They were not about to be interrupted by a late customer saying, oh great you're open, I'll be by for a six pack. Theirs was serious work.
Doc put the phone back in its cradle and grabbed his truck keys off the hook where he kept them. He was excited, there was no doubt, and he wanted to share that excitement with the others. He wondered as he motored down his long drive, if they knew they'd been successful. No matter, he thought, they will when I get
there.
Inside the store there was complete certainty the human souls had departed. What remained were animal spirits and they were proving to be reluctant, somewhat stubborn. Animals in life are creatures of habit and now even in death, they were leery of changing their routine.
"We are going to need help" said Sharman. "We need someone with stronger animal mojo. Who can we call on? Wait, I know. Who's that saint who's like the father of all animals?"
"You mean Saint Francis of Assisi? said Charly?
"Yeah, that's him" said Sharman. "Concentrate and ask for his help."
And the moment they did so the store's back door flies open and Old Doc comes blustering in. "Hey guys" he blurts at the circled foursome, "give it up, they're all gone."
Sharman's eyes open wide in astonishment. "Yes," she says, "they are all gone."
"Yeah, that's what I came to tell you," said Doc. "I heard them leave."
"I'm not talking about the people, Doc, they left awhile ago. I'm talking about the animals. They wouldn't leave until you got here. That says to me that you must be him, the..."
And now you know how old Doc became the new Saint Francis of Assisi, the father of all animals. Well, at least, that's how the woowoos tell it.
They've done it, he thought, they've actually spooked away the spooks! There was just no other explanation for what he had heard and he needed to get to a phone and tell the group exactly that. No point in their hanging around the store after the ghosts were gone.
But, of course, no one answered his ring. The phantom chasers had again locked hands and formed their circle, beginning anew their quiet deliberations. They were not about to be interrupted by a late customer saying, oh great you're open, I'll be by for a six pack. Theirs was serious work.
Doc put the phone back in its cradle and grabbed his truck keys off the hook where he kept them. He was excited, there was no doubt, and he wanted to share that excitement with the others. He wondered as he motored down his long drive, if they knew they'd been successful. No matter, he thought, they will when I get
there.
Inside the store there was complete certainty the human souls had departed. What remained were animal spirits and they were proving to be reluctant, somewhat stubborn. Animals in life are creatures of habit and now even in death, they were leery of changing their routine.
"We are going to need help" said Sharman. "We need someone with stronger animal mojo. Who can we call on? Wait, I know. Who's that saint who's like the father of all animals?"
"You mean Saint Francis of Assisi? said Charly?
"Yeah, that's him" said Sharman. "Concentrate and ask for his help."
And the moment they did so the store's back door flies open and Old Doc comes blustering in. "Hey guys" he blurts at the circled foursome, "give it up, they're all gone."
Sharman's eyes open wide in astonishment. "Yes," she says, "they are all gone."
"Yeah, that's what I came to tell you," said Doc. "I heard them leave."
"I'm not talking about the people, Doc, they left awhile ago. I'm talking about the animals. They wouldn't leave until you got here. That says to me that you must be him, the..."
And now you know how old Doc became the new Saint Francis of Assisi, the father of all animals. Well, at least, that's how the woowoos tell it.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Double Bummer
Yesterday I wrote what I thought was a sensitive and touching blog about the tragedy at Churchill Downs Saturday. A beautiful horse was put down after it broke both of its front ankles. When I went to post the blog, I got that "we cannot display this page" note we sometimes get when the Internet is blipping in and out. When I returned to the previous page, my blog was gone. All that was left was the title, Eight Belles, the name of the horse.
I'm still bummed about both,loss of horse and blog.
I'll get back here, when I've cheered up a bit.
I'm still bummed about both,loss of horse and blog.
I'll get back here, when I've cheered up a bit.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Saturday, May 03, 2008
The Clearing keeps Moving Along
"The Clearing" is probably an overused title and I'm looking for something better. Any ideas? The only alternative I've come up with so far is "The Woowooization of Old Doc W."
Before I get on with the tale I want to mention that two nights ago a group of we ink stained wretches got together to meet - many of us were previously just faceless word warriors on the Internet - and to read aloud bits of our blitherings and blatherings. We met at a bar, The Guari Guari, owned by one of our writers, G.B., that I had not until that day known existed. (Always good to find a new bar, especially one whose owner is a crazed Red Sox fan.)The pieces read were quite good and it was interesting to hear the actual voices that were brought to the written words. At the end we agreed to repeat performances on a quarterly basis. Nice.
And one further note, remember this is a first draft. (Not that rewrites are guaranteed to improve it, but I would hope so.)
==========+==========
The difference between what Doc imagined in his scotch fertilized mind and what actually occurred at the Arboles Store was notable and although both tales were dramatic in their own way, the truth was as usual, less cinematic.
The group of four had in fact assembled in their circle, linked hands and created their imaginary staircase. First though, there had been preparations and trepidations, each personality bringing their own inner thoughts to the task at hand. Sharman brought certainty, she had done this before, and several tools of the woowoo trade, candles, smudge sticks of white sage and small crystals for each participant.
Charly sensed something exciting, an adventure, an opportunity to acquire arcane knowledge. She couldn't wait to get started.
Big Brian brought fear. "How can you be sure," he said turning to Sharman "that we won't do something harmfull or bring something bad into the room?"
"That's why I am here" she replied. "They wouldn't dare." And that was enough for Brian. He had known Sharman for a long time.
Laura brought something else. She brought reluctance. "Why" she wanted to know, "Don't we just leave them alone?"
"Because you are part of the reason they are here" said Sharman. "They are attracted to your energy, your spirit. They are looking to you for release. These are not happy ghosts. These are souls trapped on an earthly plane from which they should long have been gone. They have lost their way. They want you to free them. You are the most important person here."
And with that last said, the four began their deliberations in earnest. Sharman chanted and sang songs Hopi in origin and the others felt, as they would later say, the odd sensation of something moving through them and to the staircase. Charly would describe it as a little eerie, but not bad at all. Brian found it very disturbing and seemed to feel it more intensely than the others. Laura and Sharman took it matter-of-factly.
Where the version from Old Doc's fertile imagination and reality met was at the very end. When it was clear that all the deceased human souls had departed to the light or wherever it is they truly go, Sharman did turn to the group and say, "There is more to do." And in truth there was.
We'll get to that...soon.
Before I get on with the tale I want to mention that two nights ago a group of we ink stained wretches got together to meet - many of us were previously just faceless word warriors on the Internet - and to read aloud bits of our blitherings and blatherings. We met at a bar, The Guari Guari, owned by one of our writers, G.B., that I had not until that day known existed. (Always good to find a new bar, especially one whose owner is a crazed Red Sox fan.)The pieces read were quite good and it was interesting to hear the actual voices that were brought to the written words. At the end we agreed to repeat performances on a quarterly basis. Nice.
And one further note, remember this is a first draft. (Not that rewrites are guaranteed to improve it, but I would hope so.)
==========+==========
The difference between what Doc imagined in his scotch fertilized mind and what actually occurred at the Arboles Store was notable and although both tales were dramatic in their own way, the truth was as usual, less cinematic.
The group of four had in fact assembled in their circle, linked hands and created their imaginary staircase. First though, there had been preparations and trepidations, each personality bringing their own inner thoughts to the task at hand. Sharman brought certainty, she had done this before, and several tools of the woowoo trade, candles, smudge sticks of white sage and small crystals for each participant.
Charly sensed something exciting, an adventure, an opportunity to acquire arcane knowledge. She couldn't wait to get started.
Big Brian brought fear. "How can you be sure," he said turning to Sharman "that we won't do something harmfull or bring something bad into the room?"
"That's why I am here" she replied. "They wouldn't dare." And that was enough for Brian. He had known Sharman for a long time.
Laura brought something else. She brought reluctance. "Why" she wanted to know, "Don't we just leave them alone?"
"Because you are part of the reason they are here" said Sharman. "They are attracted to your energy, your spirit. They are looking to you for release. These are not happy ghosts. These are souls trapped on an earthly plane from which they should long have been gone. They have lost their way. They want you to free them. You are the most important person here."
And with that last said, the four began their deliberations in earnest. Sharman chanted and sang songs Hopi in origin and the others felt, as they would later say, the odd sensation of something moving through them and to the staircase. Charly would describe it as a little eerie, but not bad at all. Brian found it very disturbing and seemed to feel it more intensely than the others. Laura and Sharman took it matter-of-factly.
Where the version from Old Doc's fertile imagination and reality met was at the very end. When it was clear that all the deceased human souls had departed to the light or wherever it is they truly go, Sharman did turn to the group and say, "There is more to do." And in truth there was.
We'll get to that...soon.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
THe Clearing Continued
Doc and Charly's house was built on a hillside some three quarters of a mile from their store. It sat on a two and a half acre plot and if you walked to the southern edge of the site you would find yourself standing over a steep drop that looked down on the town's principal two lane blacktop. Beyond that lay farmland and Navajo Lake, the reasons the town existed at all. Were it not for a stand of trees directly before the store and of course the darkness of night, Old Doc would have been able to see the building ostensibly being cleared of its entrenched deceased as he leaned on the fence at cliff side and rattled the ice in his third scotch and, uh, ice. What in the world are they doing? was the first part of his wondering, for nearly two hours had passed since he had packed up and gone home.. Trying to talk the spooks away? was the rest.
Inside the store as Doc imagined it, the atmosphere was electric, charged, crackling like bits of small lightning everywhere. There were flashes of images, hazy and indistinct, the ghosts perhaps, blipping in and out like distant white neon. There were sounds like radio static being turned up sharply and abruptly and then receding slowly to the shadowy corners. The air smelled of burning leaves and old rags, dry, smoky, scratchy to inhale. All four of the living felt mindless fear, adrenaline, the urge to run. Their hair prickled, they sweat profusely and they fidgeted crazily, but they did not leave. They held fast and even though each could be heard to moan and at the end when tension tightened and peaked, to scream, they clung fiercely to each other and as if on cue, when each could stand no more, they pulled themselves into their own circle. And in that moment, that brief second of time when they locked onto each other in a frightened group hug, there was a sound like the soft pop of an air gun magnified tenfold and the room... the room... was suddenly emptied.
They remained linked there for a time after, breathing deeply and exhaling long sighs onto each others ears. When at last they moved separately again about the store's cans and boxes and bottles they laughed and chuckled and made small jokes, not knowing exactly what they had done, but feeling successful, a little pumped even. It was Sharman, the most sensitive, who remained still and said nothing. It was as if she was hearing something beyond the sound of her companion's voices. "We are not done" she finally said. "There is still more to do."
Slowly, reluctantly, the four moved to the center of the room and rejoined their hands.
Inside the store as Doc imagined it, the atmosphere was electric, charged, crackling like bits of small lightning everywhere. There were flashes of images, hazy and indistinct, the ghosts perhaps, blipping in and out like distant white neon. There were sounds like radio static being turned up sharply and abruptly and then receding slowly to the shadowy corners. The air smelled of burning leaves and old rags, dry, smoky, scratchy to inhale. All four of the living felt mindless fear, adrenaline, the urge to run. Their hair prickled, they sweat profusely and they fidgeted crazily, but they did not leave. They held fast and even though each could be heard to moan and at the end when tension tightened and peaked, to scream, they clung fiercely to each other and as if on cue, when each could stand no more, they pulled themselves into their own circle. And in that moment, that brief second of time when they locked onto each other in a frightened group hug, there was a sound like the soft pop of an air gun magnified tenfold and the room... the room... was suddenly emptied.
They remained linked there for a time after, breathing deeply and exhaling long sighs onto each others ears. When at last they moved separately again about the store's cans and boxes and bottles they laughed and chuckled and made small jokes, not knowing exactly what they had done, but feeling successful, a little pumped even. It was Sharman, the most sensitive, who remained still and said nothing. It was as if she was hearing something beyond the sound of her companion's voices. "We are not done" she finally said. "There is still more to do."
Slowly, reluctantly, the four moved to the center of the room and rejoined their hands.
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