jumpers hole

moore motivation

2007-11-08T01:27:00.000Z

The snail at the edge of the
road
inches forward, a trim gray
finger
of a fellow in pinstripe suit.
He's burdened by his house
that has to follow
where he goes. Every inch
he pulls together
all he is,
all he owns,
all he was given.

The road is wide
but he is called
by something
that knows him
on the other side.

"The Crossing"
Ruth Moore

[Zen drawing by Deiryu]

nmp on the demands of life

2007-09-22T01:20:00.000Z

considerthis.

gotseeds?

thatsall.

thanks.

H(arvey) D(aniel) Thoreau
the new millenium philosopher

jhvt retort

2007-09-18T14:55:00.000Z

So ... it's been pretty dark at the Hole lately. What's with that? We decided to check it out.

You've got to understand that the Hole is so far out on the edge of cyberspace that it is in a constant state of darkness, literally. It's also very cold. We found Lucas standing with his back to a fire, "warming his ass," as he put it. It was hard to tell in the available light, but we think he smiled when he said this. He muttered a few other things, but we didn't quite make out what he was saying--as usual. We left.

Keep that ass warm, Lucas.

Right.

--Jumpers Hole Veterans for Truth

what fizzy said

2007-09-13T12:45:00.000Z

I don't usually walk beyond 10th street. It's shit north of 10th street. Ask Fizzy. You don't generally walk beyond 10th street if you want to live. That's what he told me. A buddy of his was taken down execution style up that way, so I figure he knows what he's talking about. He had a job for about a week at this pizza place a couple of blocks away from the area, and says he was ordered to stay out of that zone. Man, he already knew that. Fizzy kept saying, aint nobody shooting up my car! so he only made deliveries going south. He knew the score, too, Fizzy did. He drove clear into the zone after his pal was laid out. He said it was a personal statment. Yeah, that's what he called it. A personal statement. He said he sweated bullets all the way. That Fizzy. You really got to admire the guy, driving in there like that and making a statement and all.

15th street holes

2007-08-23T00:34:00.000Z

Down Fifteenth Street, past The Last Supper (which is on the right side of the street), there is excavation work underway just this side of Richway Ave. The site is surrounded by a wooden fence that stands about eight feet high. There are several holes cut in this side of the fence. I had to have a look, so crossed the street.

However, once I reached the fence I realized the holes were not open holes, but sealed portals of plexiglass. From the other side of the fence I could hear the sounds of large machinery laboring at work. I stepped up to the nearest pane, the surface of which was scratched and dirty. I wiped it with my sleeve and pressed my face up close. It was still early morning, and I was looking east. The direct sun on the plexiglass rendered the plastic surface nearly opaque. I could see nothing. I stepped back and looked down along the fence. There were two other windows, both of which were presently in a shaded area. I moved down to the first one, but this portal was also srcrathed and dirty. I moved to the next. There was grafitti written on the surface in wide strokes, completely obscuring the view: whaddya look'n at A-hole!, fuck U! and eAt SHIT! This is the kind of thing the Great Pontificator eats for breakfast.

I turned to cross the street and waited for traffic. The sky was cloudless. It was going to be a beautiful day.

I turned to cross back and waited for a break in the traffic. I looked up into the blue sky. It was going to be a beautiful day.

gravity

2007-08-15T20:37:00.000Z

He was a bottom scraper. He had been scraping by his entire life, it seemed to him. Once you get into a hole, he told himself, it's hard to dig yourself out. He tried new jobs, new relationships, new towns, and even once enlisted in the military. Every week he put a dollar on the lotto. Nothing really changed, however. He never went anywhere in a new job. New relationships always turned sour, just as before. And no matter how many new towns he moved to in order to make a fresh start, he always ended up just as he always had--nothing more or less than who is was and who he had always been: a scraper-by.

He was past forty years of age before he recognized his life was circular, a spiral of repetitive actions, of being pulled downward and kept on the bottom of things by an unnatural gravity, the suction of lost opportunities, the drag of bad luck, and (he eventually realized) the very absence of lightness itself. When these thoughts stole into his head he was inclined to conclude that there was no lightness anywhere within his reach, no lightness that beamed true. But then he would stop himself. He would pick up his cat and put it on his shoulder, as was their custom, and would go outside in his bare feet and lie on the ground. There, on his back, looking into the dark sky, he would work on the small fragment of lightness that remained in one corner of his mind.

(another) hole scene

2007-08-13T20:37:00.000Z

"You've got to think Big to work here," he said. He pursed his lips and spread his arms out--Big.

Oh, yeah! Sure!" I replied,"I think Big all the time. Just the other day I was thinking so Big that I had to walk outdoors to finish the thought!" He really cracked up at that one. I was almost a shoo in for the job.

Once he had finished laughing his head off, he added, "I'll tell you what, why don't you suit up and we'll try you out for a week, okay?" Yes! I said to myself, Yes! yes! yes!! before it occurred to me that we had not discussed a suit.

"Suit up? What does that mean, exactly?" I ventured. He got a funny look on his face, then, yeah, funny-strange, and he said, "Oh, no big deal. It's just that experience has taught us that you really have to immerse yourself into your role here. Suiting up, as we call it, really facilitates that process and ultimately enhances the flow of the creative juices, thus bolstering your job effectiveness. Remember!" he punctuated the thought, "Big!"

Less than an hour later I was deep into my new role as a script writer, walking back and forth on Buckle Road, wearing an erasable signboard and updating the time hourly before the jock's show was to start and he would be ripping off zingers one after another. Wow! What a job! I was definitely breaking into the whole scene.

more nmp

2007-08-10T16:25:00.000Z

considerthis.

exchangeyourlifeformoneyandliveoffthat.

thatsall.

thanks.

H(arvey) D(aniel) Thoreau
the new millenium philosopher

and so

2007-08-08T01:33:00.001Z

... another year.

epiphinanity

2007-06-09T00:11:00.000Z

At the close of the service, after the eulogy had been delivered, the last prayer prayed, the last good word offered, the last mention of the afterlife in heaven (for this was a Christian service), and after the last note of the closing hymn had reverberated into silence, utter silence, there arose from the rear of the church such a sound, so out of place in the stillness that enveloped that whole sad, quiet crowd, that I sat perched in exquisite distraction on the edge of my wooden seat, unable to comprehend for a moment what was happening. In an instant, however, the odd little noises (squeak, pip, squawk and others I cannot even begin to describe) exploded into a glorious bagpipe melody, throbbing and growing in volume with each passing second, morphing into the familiar, into ¼ Amazing Grace.

No sooner had I registered this fact than a Scottish Brigadier dressed in the full regalia of his trade strode past me in the aisle, squeezing and huffing that magnificent musical contraption, his hands at its various throats, with the whole somberness of the occasion writ large across his handsome Gaelic brow. The Brigadier reached the recumbent [deceased], did an about-face, and headed slowly—with the utmost decorum—back up the aisle, pumping and blowing all the way.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, as far as I could see. People on various sides of me glanced over, wiped their eyes, and reached out to hold hands with one another. In that instant I was witness yet again to that momentary recognition reserved for such occasions, evident in those eyes that met mine, that we must surely be possessed of a soul, and that my soul—for that brief spasm of time—was connected with the those other souls. My gawd it's good to be alive!

the arrowmatics

2007-06-05T23:12:00.000Z

If you know anything at all about chimneys, you know that you cannot actually climb inside one and slide to the bottom. Yet this fundamental Truth (truth with a capital T) has never discouraged members of my family from attempting to do so. “Bah,” my father exclaims with a wave of his hand when challenged on the matter, “if you start your training early enough in life, you can accomplish anything!” He has long since given up on the idea of sliding down a chimney himself, citing his expanding girth, but not so for his children. Once each week we line up on the pitch of the roof and point our arms over our heads, hands clasped just so (Like an arrow! father shouts). I look towards mother. She shrugs and says, I must live with your father. My siblings and I take turns climbing onto a small wooden platform next to the chimney. At my turn, as I've been trained, I bend at the waist and point my arrow into the blackness of the small, sooty opening at the top. Father shouts, Go! and I let myself drop over and downward, taking care to kick my legs and feet up at the same time. It takes practice, I can tell you.

The fact that none of us has ever gotten past our waist has not deterred father from giving up on the idea. My sister began overeating in an attempt to "disqualify" herself from this exercise. However, despite the fact that she has put on well over fifty pounds, my father still insists that she assume the arrow position and try. I, on the other hand, have been losing weight. I am hopeful that one day I might actually disappear down the hole.

memorial day (at The Hole)

2007-05-27T15:35:00.000Z

We dig many holes in life; some we dig by ourselves, and others we dig together. Memorial Day is a hole we dig together. It is a hole into which we put things, and out of which we take other things. The celebration of Memorial Day, and all the events that make up a part of the occassion, are things we take out of the hole. The lives that are lost in war, and all that goes along with that loss, are what goes into the hole.

In honoring those who have given their lives for our country it is worth considering, it seems to me, the circumstances under which their lives were lost. I'm not talking here about whether or not any given individual died a hero or otherwise. Rather, I am asking us to consider the more fundamental question as to why lives were placed in harms way to begin with. Were these lives given for a "worthy" cause? Are our hands clean? It is, after all, not we but our children who are sent to war. It is our children whom we turn into warriors and send off to fight our battles. It is principally for our children that today's bell tolls.

Our children are the first to be sent into the hole. The best and the brightest. There follows a brother or sister, a mother, father, cousin or, perhaps, a next door neighbor. We feed not only their bodies into the hole, but also the dreams of each and what remains of their unlived lives--all that might have been. And yet the hole hasn't even begun to fill up. There is more. We can add to the hole those individuals we read about in news reports of the war (if we bother reading them at all). They have neither names nor faces, the news of their deaths reaches us so quickly. Several weeks, or perhaps a month later, we may see a face on the television: so and so died on such and such a date at such and such a place and was of so many years of age. The news moves on. We too move on (unless, of course, the reported death is someone we know personally) There is more yet to add to the hole. We cannot think only of our own who have died. What of the others? What of the innocents? We must add them to the hole, as well. Do not worry. There is plenty of room in the hole, even though there were countless lives there before you and I even began.

There may be some who are bothered by these remarks. If you are a father or a mother with a child in the hole, I say to you: I have a mother and father with two children in the hole. I have witnessed their pain. If you have a sister or brother, or some other family member in the hole, I say to you: I have two brothers in the hole, and other family members, each fed into the hole in his own time, in his own way. I understand your grief. If you are a veteran, I say to you: I have stood in uniform at the hole's edge and seen the feeding. What more is there to say? Shall I celebrate? Shall I wave a flag? To all I say: Shall we feed another child, another life, to the hole? (for are we not all in this together?)

So, our child is gone. Our brother or sister, father, mother, cousin, or next door neighbor--gone. The suffering of it all is nearly one of those unsayable things, difficult to comprehend, more difficult still to articulate. Each death reverberates outward at the hole's edge like a blast of schrapnel, cutting, maiming, and disfiguring; taking its own toll on the living. Each of those in the blast's shock wave will struggle over time with memories of the event (and other memories gone by). Some will struggle to put a memory into the hole and, perhaps, succeed. Others will struggle to pull dimming memories out. Eventually, all the memories settle towards the bottom of the hole, sifted by time, until little remains in the minds of most. We are left alone, with each other, to celebrate. To honor them. But, how shall we celebrate, and how shall we honor?

We are left to ponder the important question as to what we choose to take out of the hole, together. For in choosing what we wish to take out, we by necessity consider that which is put in. The hole is rich with a variety of traditions. It reeks of the ancient, of glory, of a "terrible love."* We are called upon to look deep into the hole for that which we choose; otherwise we are simply reaching and grabbing, our salute, our celebrating, our honoring, all hollow gestures. Forget the Memorial Day Sales. Stay home. Consider the day in all its somber meaning. Think of what you've given to the hole--and what you are now reaching for. If we have the will to look deep enough into the hole, to peer over its edge thoughtfully and without fear, we may also glimpse something that we desperately need but have been unable to find.

I am reminded of astronomer Carl Sagan's wise words when he saw a photo of our planet, "a pale blue dot" suspended in the cosmos, captured as the Voyager II spacecraft turned its camera toward earth, from nearly four billion miles away, to record the moment:

... Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there--on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam ...

(From Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space by Carl Sagan, Random House, 1994)

On Memorial Day let us all kneel at the hole's edge and look long, and hard, and deep. Perhaps, we shall find something together, something which we desperately need for our children, and for each other. I cannot think of a better way to honor all of those whom were called forward, and for the sacrifices made on all sides.

* See Dennis Slatterly's review of "A Terrible Love of War" by James Hillman, Ph.D., or find the book here

Reposted (with photos) from Jumpers Hole, May 2005

molted (w)hole

2007-05-26T18:50:00.000Z

i've been gone for awhile. hello, again.

the hole has molted. the old skin is gone. replaced by the new. i don't know yet what it means, exactly.

i've also recently put previous posts back up, thus--you might say--reopening the hole. i haven't put everything back up. there may be further ... adjustments.

i hope i will be inclined to put up new posts now and then.

after all ... everyone needs a hole to call their own.

overheard in the back row

2006-08-14T00:06:00.000Z

[From the For-What-It's-Worth Department: I'm not sure what's happening here at the Hole. That is, I'm not sure what my future is here. I'm not sure that the small amount of time I have available each day to myself is best spent scribbling on this blog. I would say I'm closing it down altogether, except that I might get an impulse to "throw something in the Hole," now and then. Who knows? I truly appreciate those of you who have come by the Hole to check out my posts and, especially, your thoughtful comments. Thank you very much.

In any event, I will leave the Hole open, for now. Naturally, I will continue to visit my own favorite blogs as often as possible to see what all of you incredibly talented people have to share].

(no thing against) poets

2006-08-02T21:50:00.000Z

they're a dime a dozen, poets // a poet and a buck and a half will get you a coffee, no latte // there are so many poets I eat them for breakfast (the best ones are very crunchy) and afterwards use them to wipe my mouth or floss my teeth // I sometimes string them together, one by one, into long strands and hang them decoratively from something tall or make a chic belt or a bracelet that will go with anything and everything // at the dollar store with my pockets stuffed full of them, I get whatever I want, two of each, and still have change left over // a handful of poets thrown into the wash, I've discovered, will remove the static cling from my underwear // I use them as kindling to start a fire or to pressure wash the patio // they often come in handy to unclog a drain and are the next best thing to duct tape for making nearly anything stick to something or other // there's nothing better than a poet for removing blood from clothing or cleaning a CD // and once in awhile, every once in awhile, if you listen very carefully // you can hear one talk to you // I love poets. Did I mention that?

(no) hop

2006-07-28T02:09:00.000Z

I'm watching the pond through a pair of binoculars. A better pair would be better, better to see the frog I'm keeping my eye on, the frog with no hind legs. Poor bastard! We spied him yesterday, near the pond's edge. He was dragging himself on his front legs. Just two bloody stumps in back. His presence at the pond will raise the number of frogs that have taken up residence there to six total. I have made it a habit to walk out each evening and see what they're up to. This is what I did late yesterday evening, checking up on him. I heard several splashes and caught an "awkward" (?) flop out of the corner of one eye. Was it him? I wondered. What effort does it cost him (or her?) to make that dive--and get back out, again? So, now I've taken up my observations from afar, with binoculars, trying to see if he's okay, grimacing behind my binoculars at the idea of it all. I suppose he's glad just to be alive?

a.m.

2006-07-16T01:26:00.000Z

I wake with last night's show on my mind and think I could lie here a while longer. I am, after all, on holiday--a working holiday, but a holiday nevertheless. The curtain across the room is puffed up on a good shore breeze. The air is warm and humid, heavy with a tangy edge of sea. I consider my options for the day, and decide against going back into town. There are so many other possibilities. I make coffee and begin to hum something in my head, something impromptu, something that rises from deep within. I am not thinking about a song, but rather about words, a thought seeking the contours of a more precise shape. Distracted so, I fail to notice the approach of a bicycle on the road, so far away, so far away from everything.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

men's room wall

2006-07-13T11:10:00.000Z

at the theater, (surprisingly?) upscale.
I added the jOho mantra: everyone needs a hole to call their own.
Not particularly erudite, at least theatrically, but nevertheless true (and even somewhat theatrical, in a manner of speaking, which at that moment seemed significant and appropriate).

theater of the hole

2006-07-10T22:11:00.000Z

On vacation at a little out-of-the-way place,
Lucas attends the show.

nmp on evil

2006-06-14T20:10:00.000Z

seenoevilspeaknoevilhearnoevil.

thatsall.

-- H(arvey) D(aniel) Thoreau
new millennium philosopher

highwire (cont'd)

2006-04-25T18:35:00.000Z

[part one of the story is here].

The young acrobat caught on very quickly. His strength and stamina soon allowed him to nearly eclipse the highwire artist himself in terms of pure trickery. Additionally, the young acrobat, who was quite good looking and had a terrific sense of humor, very quickly replaced the highwire artist as the troupe's favorite character. The highwire artist understandably became sad. He became moody. Worse yet, he began to lose his confidence. Soon, all too soon, the young acrobat became the star of the show. Now it was he who drew the largest audiences and the loudest applause. After a while, his skill and daring rose to such levels that even the highwire artist, though still resentful, could not help but admire the acrobat's showmanship, strength and skill.

Then one day the acrobat fell. A great hush went through the stunned crowd. People stood craning their necks to see the acrobat carried lifeless out of the great tent. Then they folded up their programs and went home quietly. The troupe greatly mourned the loss of the acrobat. The bearded lady sang at the funeral service, for which the girl with two heads had written stirring eulogies for the acrobat, and the strong man carried him to his final resting place.

The high wire artist too was sad, but he had never felt stronger in his entire life. He added new tricks to his repertoire, and once again became the star of the show. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he could not outdo the memory of the acrobat. Thus, the highwire artist began to take greater risks with ever more dangerous tricks. Still, his skill and daring could not measure up to the memory of the acrobat. In the faces of the crowd he could see only the missing thrill of the acrobat. And from the troupe members he could feel in their hearts only the sadness harbored there for the acrobat now gone. The highwire artist then grimly understood that there was but one way to reclaim his stature. So it was that on a balmy Friday evening before a record crowd in the great tent that the highwire artist ever so carefully slipped. The crowd jumped to their feet in mute horror as the highwire artist plummeted toward the dirt floor, his shining eyes locked on his destiny.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

[We've decided we must post at least one entry each month at jOho. This entry was originally started in November 2005. It was not posted at that time because it did not meet our posting requirements: the piece had to be started and finished within twenty minutes; no revisions. We've relaxed those requirements, and finished up this piece for posting here. It's a rather dark piece. And since it's our only post since 3/14/06, we would have liked to have put up something a bit more upbeat. In any event, those of you who have thoroughly explored The Hole know that the hole contains both darkness and light: dark from the outside in, but light from the inside out. Eds].

old school

2006-03-07T16:04:00.000Z

I dreamed I went out and caught me a "free range" chicken last night. Don't ask me why. Although such chickens are domestic creatures, they are as wild and flighty as anything with feathers found in nature (hence the association in the English language between fear and the word Chicken). I went free range'n using a long stick with a slender piece of wire that feeds through one end in a loop. The device allows you to open or close the loop as you attempt to hook the loop around a leg. Hooking a leg can be very difficult to do, especially if the "free range" is too large and/or the chicken is especially wild. You put some food down on the ground first, however. Then, while the bird is momentarily distracted by the need to eat, you loop the leg in mid-step. There are probably more up to date ways to catch a chicken, but this is the way my grandfather taught me. After he caught the bird he would simply grab it by the neck and twist. Instant death, he said as he watched me with his kind eyes. Sometimes he would actually twist the head completely off with his large weathered hands. And sometimes the bird would actually run around, helter-skelter, it's startled head seemingly watching from the sidelines (hence the saying, run around like a chicken with your head cut off). My grandmother, on the other hand, would beckon me forth to hold the chicken's neck stretched out over the large wooden stump she used for a chopping block. I would grab the frightened creature's head in one hand and the base of the neck in the other and gently pull in opposite directions, laying the exposed downy neck across the cutting surface. I would lean my head back as far as possible in part to avoid the downward travel of the hatchet as it struck home, but also to avoid the spray of warm blood on my face. I could tolerate the spray on my arms and hands, but I did not like it on my face. We would sometimes do two or three birds at a time, my grandmother carrying out the chore as swiftly and efficiently as any certified executioner. We would then freeze the extras after soaking them and picking them clean of their feathers. All of this I recalled after I awoke from the dream, awoke at the creature's shrieking. They say that there's nothing like the taste of freshly killed meat but, to be honest, I've never really appreciated the difference that much.

--everyone (and everything) needs a hole to call their own.

exorcism

2006-03-04T18:03:00.000Z

I don't need solutions, she said with a wince. As she said this, she placed a hand on my arm. She probably didn't realize that when she said the word solutions her hand began to squeeze my arm, punctuating the word, driving home her message. I was tuned into every nuance of her face and her body, every word and every gesture. Still, the only thought in my mind was that I could say nothing else, that I had no more to offer. I wanted only to turn away and regroup, sort out my impulses and thoughts in private. Yet it was not her hand that held me back, but her eyes, her damn eyes.

hole in the whether

2006-03-03T03:19:00.000Z

Her hair was nearly horizontal in the wind. Thin and short and gray, pointing not backward, but straight ahead, the icy wind at her heels.

The effect was arresting to witness, as if the elements were dragging her bareheaded across the road by her scalp, her back stiff with futile resistance. The long handled burlap bag which she carried in one short arm only added to the effect, an anchor it seemed, yet merely skimming along above the bottom. I almost expected her to blow away any minute, her dragging feet cracking free of the earth and the whole of her, anchor and all, tumble out of sight into the frigid darkness that surrounded her. As she crossed through the arc of light at the intersection she looked neither left nor right. Despite her obvious age, there was a strength about her as she moved along her particular path, a determination not to be consumed that I admired.

She was nearly to the far curb when the traffic signal hanging at an angle above me changed green and seemed so momentarily bright that I had to squint ahead, one hand shading my eyes as if it were mid-day, both eyes fixed on the road.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

(more) noms du fond du cœur

2006-02-09T12:33:00.000Z

Publicly, he's Mister Attorney General, or Attorney General G________. When they're meeting privately, the [p]resident likes to call him just General, never General G_______; just General. On one or two occassions, I've even heard the [p]resident call him el general, as in Hey, El General(lay), how's it going, que va? and shaking hands and clapping el general affectionately on the back. Outside the [p]resident's hearing, the AG prefers that we simply call him G. He says he likes the symmetry between G and W. He's confided to me personally that he's the G in GWB.

ain't no one saved dean

2006-02-06T20:52:00.000Z

ther i wuz down'n the ol larimer distrit an who do i see bet dean. yeah. there he wuz on hiz azz on the pavemen, an ol down'n'outer if i ev'r saw one. i guess i sorta spect'd it, see'n how dean is ... well, dean an'all. hey dean i sez, that you? but he didnt anser, just sat ther, staring off into nowher, a loss soul. hey dean moriarty and i lean'd down and shook hiz sholder dean! yo! and then he look'd up. yass, he sez, yass? and i sez wuts a cat like you do'n look'n like that? Man, yo wuz jump'n back when! wher ya bin, man! wher ya bin! but he just sat ther in hiz raggyazz clothes look'n like hunh?? and then sumthin kinda hits'im, sumthin deep 'n vast, i could see it n' hiz face, n' he sez blackberry pie n the eye fell from the sky an all the childrun sang a song a song a soooonnng a la la la, wav'n hiz arms'n the air an a mad gleem in hiz eyes. dean! i sez, ya got sumwher ta go? He looks up then, still crazzylike. Yass, yass, he sez, on the road, man! on the road, an I thought, man, he ain't got shit bet tha crazzy dud'iz still digg'n it! still digg'n it, man! an I heded on down to ko-fax to pan me sum coin an i kuud still hear tha crazzy sumbitch sing'n outta hiz hed.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

[Note: Those familar with Jack Kerouac's autobiographical story, On The Road, will recall Dean Moriarty (a.k.a. Neal Cassady) as the wild and crazy hipster in the story with whom Sal Paradise (a.k.a., Jack Kerouac) cavorted across the country. Cassady never recovered from the coma in which he was found alongside some train tracks in Mexico in 1968--after a heavy night of partying?--and died later that day; Kerouac died in 1969 from cirrhosis of the liver due to his heavy drinking. This post followed my re-reading of On The Road and my wonder about Dean Moriarty: where would Dean be now? Eds.]

citadel

2006-02-05T03:50:00.000Z

A river runs through our town. Well, not a river really, but a canal, a thin channel of cold, brown water scattered with suds that winds through the city. All the excrement of our little corner of the industrialized world, together with the refuse of the ignorant and the inconsiderate, slip through the channel barely noticed, and slowly, so slowly that sometimes you cannot even tell that it's moving. Only its pungent odor tells you that it lives. Every once in awhile, just below the East Steet overpass, someone is found near the brown foamy edge with a knife in their back or a (fatal) gunshot wound--usually the price of a drug deal gone bad. There is a section of path just beyond this that runs alongside the canal for a short distance, the weeds beaten down by foot traffic, a few bold urban soldiers shortcutting over hill and dale to take up their positions for the day in the citadel. Such trespassers into the netherworld of the canal zone have the opportunity to see the apparition-like figures that dwell there: the stalkers and the victims, the destitute and homeless, the faded, dope-eyed users who've hit a run, see their huts and latrines and all their worldly possessions in a mere glance. And if you walk the path often enough, you may begin to lose your fear of trespassing there. You may begin to feel that traversing the shortcut poses little worry, at least at certain times of the day. Still, no matter how much work awaits you at your office in the citadel, no matter how distracted you may be by the soldiering demands that lie ahead, you never tread through the canal zone with your mind elsewhere. No. And you never, ever, say hello.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

[inspired by LOE? Eds.]

magnetic poetry

2006-02-03T15:13:00.000Z

Remember, someone said--Iron will yield.
Thus, deceive naught in dark repose.
Share thy depth, merry prisoner, as wouldst
devour one thousand man.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

[dining out at Pastabilities, 2001. Ed.]

kicks

2006-02-01T00:57:00.000Z

We strained our eyes toward the darkness, the other side, but we could see nothing save for a small light some distance off. It was impossible to say with any certainty how far. Tension filled the air, our limbs, and our minds. I could feel breathing on the back of my neck, from someone large behind me, someone unused to such physical exertion, evidently. And on both sides of me, taut muscles crowded against my own, both pressing and seeking comfort, I thought, comfort in knowing that we were all in it together. I drew on this sensation, attempting to put my own thoughts in order as to what we should do next. Do we advance or retreat? So simple when reduced to that calculus. I almost laughed at the thought, but bit my lip to stifle any such outburst. That would be precisely the thing to set off panic and this whole thing would spin out of control in an instant. I adjusted my stance and began to wonder how many were ahead of me. It could have been a hundred for all I knew, but I figured several. No more. Perhaps less. And then we began to move, forward, as a group, and I moved forward with them. Just as we've always done. Just as I've always done. For the joy of kicks. There was really nothing else to be done about it.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

mitty unplugged

2006-01-31T01:27:00.000Z

You realize how insignificant your life is when you see someone drive by and you pretend, just for a moment that you're that person, in that car, driving, looking at the green light, reaching down for your coffee mug, and you've just driven past the guy walking down the sidewalk (me), only you didn't even notice--too busy in your own world, wondering if you're going to make the next traffic light so that you won't be late for the job you hate, or how your car sounds like shit but you don't have the money to get it fixed just now, or thinking about the bumper sticker on the back of the car in front of you, or the fact that it's just a beautiful morning to be alive. And then you pull back from the car, back to the sidewalk, where you're walking again, back in your own world, wondering, wondering at the cars passing by and the people who pass you on the sidewalk without speaking or even looking your way. Wondering.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

code red

2006-01-25T17:45:00.000Z

The AG (or just "G"--as he insists) called the emergency Code-Red meeting to order. Okay, he said, Let's get started. We've got a mess in aisle one.* The CinC** has leaked. I repeat the CinC has leaked. The nissuh*** ops have gone mainstream. We need a mop and a bucket and we need it now! No residue. No streaks. No spots. Pure shine. Ideas? Let's have them. Let's go people! Think! Think now! We're the best and the brightest. We've got the brains and the education to clean this up. What do we do?

Commotion broke out as everyone around the table began talking at the same time, trying to come up with a plan.

Then Yoo said, wait a minute. What would Rowe do?

He was smiling ear to ear as he said this. Everybody shut up. Well? Yoo insisted. When no one immediately responded, he shrieked, Deny it! Deny it, People!

Wait, G responded, we can't deny it, because CinC has already leaked, damnit! He said we did it!

Yeah! pointed Yoo and jumped up, shouting, We did it because it was L-E-G-A-L! Get it!!? We don't deny the President authorized domestic spying without a warrant! We claim that he had, and still has, the authority to do so!!

* meaning, in __speak, that the President's screwed up in some major way
** pronounced, "sink," for Commander in Chief
*** NSA

oddity of hearts

2006-01-23T18:36:00.000Z

Five small hearts on a string. I had nearly stepped on them in my haste, but had glanced down, just at that moment,for no particular reason. Perhaps I unconsciously caught sight of the string out of the corner of an eye. Even so, I nearly ignored them. Indeed, I was several steps past when I decided to turn around. I picked the string of hearts up by both ends of the strand, lest one or more should slide off the string if broken.

There was nothing unusual about the silver hearts. They did not open, nor was there any ornamentation on them. Just smooth silver. What struck me as a bit unusual, however, was the number, the fact that there were five of them on the string. I could feel their coldness against my skin, and saw that their surfaces had fogged over in my hand as I studied them. I supposed that the five hearts represented a family, although the number may have simply meant that its owner had a fancy for silver hearts. The size and look of the strand suggested it belonged to a child. I did not look about for its owner, since there were no homes in the area. Nor was there any nearby establishment where I might leave it, hoping for a proper recovery upon inquiry within. Still, I was not entirely comfortable with putting it in my own pocket, and I did not want to simply leave it where I'd found it.

I stood there in my reverie, my open hand with the hearts held out before me. I cannot say that I was entirely unaware of a black object closing in quickly upon my hand. However, it was if the enitre scene was merely an image playing out in my mind. The moving shape quickly came into focus as it neared my hand so that I could see that it was a large black crow. Its wings flared as it came directly within my vision, its hard yellow feet and legs reaching out toward my hand, and then the delicate sensation of its claws as they lightly dragged across my palm. I did not flinch, but stood still, a mere spectator. The bird grabbed the string of hearts from my hand in flight and snatched them upward. I stared at my empty hand in wonder, as if still in a trance. The cackling of the crow caused me to turn my head toward the sky, towards more cackling. The crow was climbing quickly, the string of hearts still visible in its claws, where it was joined by four other crows. As they flapped noisily away, I thought: How odd! How utterly odd.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

clouds

2006-01-17T15:40:00.000Z

I'm glad that I've not gotten too old to lie on the ground and look up at the sky. I was in just such a position the other day, the warm sun on my face, my hands behind my head, attempting to put a shape to a long, wispy cloud.

I had been studying the cloud for some time, but could come up with nothing, when a strong gust of wind suddenly swept by. I held one arm up to protect my face and rolled a bit leeward. There was a clatter nearby as several things were evidently blown about by the unexpected blast. I heard a child crying and then the muffled voice of a woman, no doubt the mother. I rolled back over and raised my head to survey the scene, the brief spasm of nature having passed, and discovered a paper plastered to my back. The child, I could see, was pointing in my direction. I peeled the paper from my shirtback and held it up to my eyes.

It was a color drawing of the blue sky. There were clouds here and there, big marshmellowy puffs of scribbled grey lines. A stick figure with long yellow hair and a large smile appeared to be flying a kite in one corner of the page. I carried the drawing over to the child and handed it to her. The mother thanked me and smiled a very large smile. The child shyly took the drawing from my outstretched hand. I smiled at her, then turned to leave, but stopped. I turned back and asked her: That cloud up there ... that one (pointing) ... what do you think that looks like? I've been trying to figure it out, but haven't been able to come up with a thing! She turned and hid her head behind her mother. I smiled and thanked them both, then turned back to my spot feeling an unexpected sense of disappointment. I had, I realized, been hoping for more.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

mustard blossom

2006-01-10T00:57:00.000Z

I was stopped in the middle of the block on my bike, about half way up the hill, waiting for the light at the bottom to turn green. A woman was walking up the hill towards me. When she reached me, she smiled and said, "are you the guy that was out here when that drunk woodchuck was in the middle of the road?" She seemed so sincere.

Ummm. No.

"Ohh, I thought it may have been you. He was on a bike, too. I was going to tell him that the woodchuck had eaten some of my flowers and gotten drunk on them." She laughed.

I laughed, too. No, it wasn't me, I replied.

[fast forward]

We slipped in through a side door. A clock on the wall said eight-ten. She saw me looking at the clock. I smiled. She removed her hat gracefully and hung it on a nail by the door, then turned down a long hallway, my eyes on her the entire distance. With one hand still on the doorknob, I glanced through the window. A mustard blossom bobbed in the warm spring air, its bright yellow petals beckoning pollinators in the dim morning light.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

[Note: I am reposting this from August 2005. I am buried at work and home, so must turn to an "oldie" or two to fill the gap. I will get back. Promise. Lucas--1/10/06]

dark eats

2006-01-06T21:26:00.000Z

She guided my hand toward the bucket she was holding out and said, try this! My blindfold was secure. It was utter blackness. However, I didn't need my eyes to tell me that what I felt with my hand in the bottom of the bucket was cold, cooked spaghetti. I played along: eeeeeww! and lifted a starchy strand to my mouth. She shrieked as my head bobbed around, my mouth hanging open and tongue out, trying to capture the end of the "worm." I acted like I was gagging. I heard her hit the floor with laughter. This game had been so scary as a child, but now it was almost too easy.

Don't make me eat anymore of that! I choked out, gasping.

Wait, wait! she cried, Now try this one! You're really going to blow this time!

I wish I could have seen her face when she said that. I reached down into a shallow warm goo. She began sniggering. Oh, my! I exclaimed, What in the world do you have here? Do I have to eat this, too??

Yes! yes! yes! I found it in the bottom of an old can and warmed it up for you!

You're so twisted! I sneered in gest. I scooped some goo out with my fingers and raised my hand to my mouth. I hesitated, momentarily, to discretely sniff out a clue.

No! no, no! She pushed my hand toward my mouth. You can't smell it, you just have to eat it!

I stuck my fingers in my mouth. The taste sensation, however dreadful, was secondary to the warning flags going off in my brain that this was a mistake, a dark eat as we used to call them.

C'mon, Mom, I say in anquish, Do we have to play this game any longer?

But sweety, you so loved this game as a child! One more bite, now! I've got a new one. Pleeeze!

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

gift horse

2005-12-24T23:16:00.000Z

Pass the parmesan, please. I passed the cheese and continued with my dinner. I was thinking about galvanized wire. If you're done with the salt, I could use that too. I passed the salt, but the question barely broke my concentration. Thanks, I heard. I waved one hand, indicating yeah, sure, glad to help you out, no problem. Bonding galvanized wire. That was a problem. The next thing I knew, my wine glass was sliding across the table, away from me. I looked up. Sorry, I just needed to get your attention for a minute. Okay. I slid my wine glass back towards my plate. Do you happen to know what time it is? I sat there for a minute without saying anything. Was I just asked if I happened to know the time? I looked at my naked wrist, out of sheer habit. I had given up wearing a watch months ago. When I looked back up, his face was expectant, expectant even though I clearly had no watch on my arm. A watch somewhere else then? I supposed his still expectant face to mean. Sorry, I shrugged. As he leaned back in his chair, I noticed that he was wearing a watch. He caught my glance. It stopped working, he mouthed the words and pointed at the face. I nodded. For the first time since I sat down, I looked around the room. We were the only two eating. I could, if I chose, move clear across the room to another table. I looked over at Mr. What's Next? He was picking at his food. I tried to return to my own thoughts, but I couldn't get this guy off my mind. Finally, he got up to leave. I heard a rather large sigh as he stood. Was it targeted at me? I wondered. He started to turn toward the door. Okay, okay, okay. "Excuse me," I said, one arm raised in the air, "Would you care to join me for some dessert?" No, he replied politely, no, thank you. He paid and left. I didn't really have time for dessert anyway, I thought, looking absently at my naked wrist. The Talker walked past the window at which I was sitting. I tapped on the window, but did not get his attention. As he crossed the street, I mouthed out the words: Merry Christmas.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

object d'art

2005-12-22T01:33:00.000Z

The sign said: You break it. You buy it. I paused. Resisted an impulse to pick the object up. It was a "work of art" and you know what those cost. Still, there was something about the piece that nearly compelled me to seize it and run my hands across its surface. A gentleman with artist written all over him was standing nearby, observing. Go ahead, pick it up, he offered, evidently noticing my hesitation, my attraction to the object. Your sign made me a little nervous, I acknowledged. He laughed. The sign is for the idiots, he said, then added, the idiots with hands. He curled a thick, dark moustache between the thumb and a slender finger of one hand as he said this. He watched me for a moment more, then returned to his work at a small table in the corner. Did his comment, as the maker of the object, taint its beauty in any way, I wondered as I surveyed the object with new insights. It's an old question in the arts, isn't it? Whether what one knows or shouldn't know about the artist adds or detracts from the thing of art itself? I disregarded my hesitation and reached a finger toward the object, just a finger, one finger. I stopped. I leaned closer to the object to study it more carefully, my finger still poised. I may have even been holding my breath. Then I backed away. I did not want to buy it, so why risk breaking it?

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

terrorists

2005-12-20T20:59:00.000Z

There was a hole in the wall just above eye level. I tried standing on my tiptoes to look through, but couldn't quite make it. Besides which, M kept pinching my butt when I was trying to stretch up. Then she started giggling and I had to sssshhh her down and wave my hands in the air, scowling, hoping we hadn't been heard.

I could hear but not quite make out the voices on the other side, the voices of certain terrorists. There were several of them on the other side. At least one was female, which, quite frankly, struck me as a bit unusual--although I don't know why, particularly. Then M said, kneel on the ground and I'll stand on your back. I thought about this a minute, then kneeled down on the concrete sidewalk. M put one foot in my back. I winced and told her she had to take her shoes off first. She said, no, I'll get my socks all dirty. I told her that she should take her socks off then. She refused. We had to get a look through that hole, one way or the other. Okay, then, I said. M climbed on, shoes and all. The pain was almost intolerable, but then she raised on her toes and the pain lessened. I can't quite see, she said, can you arch your back or something? I grit my teeth, closed my eyes, and rounded my back up. M began to lose her balance, I thought. I opened my eyes, staring down at the ground. There was a pair of shoes just beneath my nose. They weren't M's; they were ... those shoes belonged to the Chief.

Okay, then, the two of you inside for dinner! Let's hurry now. It's late!

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

nmp

2005-12-19T01:57:00.000Z

considerthis.

everycitizenmustresignhis(orher)consciencetothelegislator. wemustbesubjectsfirstandnotjustpeople.

thatsall.

thanks.

H(arvey) D(aniel) Thoreau
the new millenium philosopher

the mizzart of understanding

2005-12-14T17:05:00.000Z

Don't ask me, I replied, being careful how I said it. I was simply saying, don't ask me, as in I'm-sorry-but-I-don't-know-the
-answer-to-that-question. But I could see she looked hurt.

You know, she said, you could simply say you don't know. You don't need to sound so annoyed. It was just a simple question.

I wasn't annoyed, I reply, defensively (although I was, only for a moment, a nano-second even, something her "radar" can pick up in a heartbeat. Thus, my answer only compounded the problem). I was just answering your question, the ... uh ... question I don't know the answer to. grin. She was moving around the kitchen in double-time speed now, jaw set, eyes averted, making a lot of noise. She shook her head and said out loud to no one in particular, my god but sometimes you drive me insane! I saw an opening--but at least you love me, I ventured, seeking to diffuse the situation, her anger. She does, after all, love me and she's especially fond of my insanity.

She brightened a bit and turned toward me, our eyes now together. There was reconciliation in the air. This had been the easy part, although it had taken me many years to learn it. Now came the hard part, the time that tries a man's very soul: the half hour we were going to spend talking about why the misunderstanding had even started.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

still unfit to blog

2005-12-13T17:19:00.000Z

[Again, we strive to acknowledge our critics out there by providing them "airtime" on this blog whenever possible. Eds.]

Lucas, let us put this as plain as we can: why don't you just jump into the hole and stay there!

We can't stand these little fictoids of private amusment you post every week. The posing and the posturing! Why don't you just admit that you have nothing coherent to say and fill the hole in with something other than random drivel. And don't give us that crap about not having the time to think! Or that there are already too many people out there giving their opinions on blogs, so why should I? Don't you get it? You've flatlined, buddy. The Hole is D-O-fucking-A. Consider this a post-mortem.

Take our word, John Q. and Jane Q. --we've seen it all, and we've seen it all! Don't waste your time here. Move on. Get a haircut. Take a nap. Clip your toe nails. Anything, anything, is better than squandering the precious moments of your life reading the crap you find on this blog.

--Jumpers Hole Veterans for Truth

exit strategy

2005-12-12T02:05:00.000Z

I stared at the clock. I couldn't believe the time. I checked my watch (although it never displays the correct time). No help there. It was ten minutes behind the wall clock. I looked out the window, toward the exit point. There was a slight breeze. I noticed that a piece of garbage was skidding across the sidewalk, toward the door, in my direction. As it got closer I could see that it was the packaging from a loaf of bread. I waited for the wind to pick it up and carry it away, but it just sat there. In fact, as I watched, the bag moved about a foot closer to the door. I thought, I should go out there and pick it up. Put it in the trash. Why let it just blow away and be a blight on the landscape? But I didn't. I kept watching, thinking it was going to blow away any minute. It just sat there, taunting me. I moved to get up and go fetch it, and the bag moved away from the door. I sat back down. The bag did not move. I looked at my watch. Two minutes more had passed. The bag was still sitting there, but wavering a little now and then, like it might take off at any moment. There was a trash can right outside the door. All I had to do was get up and go out and grab the bag and throw it in the trash. What, twenty seconds? Thirty? Why didn't I just get up and do it? Then a different movement caught my eye. People were coming through the exit. I hurried through the door into the cold air. I mindlessly kicked the bag with my shoe as I walked past it toward the exit point.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

@ the SBSBSL

2005-12-11T21:42:00.000Z

The word is that the Brothers and Sisters at the Society of Brothers and Sisters of Brotherly and Sisterly Love were blown away a few years back when their "minister" announced he had left his wife and children for another man. However, being the brothers and sisters of Brotherly and Sisterly Love that they are, they eventually got over it. They celebrated their individual differences. They congratulated themselves on their tolerance. Everything seemed swell. They moved on.

The ranks of the Society continued to grow, but the congregation began to change in a subtle way (although some said, not so subtle). So joyous were the Brothers and Sisters in their affirmation of the minister that other gay and lesbian individuals and couples were attracted to the Society. Nevermind. The Brothers and Sisters celebrated even louder. The congregation began to sponsor GLBT support groups and discussion circles. They placed GLBT announcements in the Society's weekly service bulletin. Not suprisingly, the number of GLBT individuals in the Society grew ... and grew.

Some members of the Society began to wonder. Some brothers and sisters began to wonder out loud, quietly, and only among certain brothers and sisters, wonder about what was happening to their Society. When the Society announced one day that they were henceforth to be labeled a GLBT congregation, thus putting the entire world on official notice of their tolerance and sense of justice, just at that point, the whole thing began to come apart.

Small meetings began to take place among select, long standing members of the Society to discuss the future of the Brothers and Sisters and, indeed, what Brotherly and Sisterly love meant, had always meant, and what it should always mean. Some kind of "note" was sent to the minister. The Board tried to keep a lid on it, but one day (not too long ago) the lid blew off.

I understand that several committees have been established to "look at the problem." It is anticipated that some sort of dialogue will ensue and that, out of this discussion, the path of the Society will become clear.

Truly, as has long been observed, if Religion did not exist, it would be necessary to invent it.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

red

2005-12-09T21:06:00.000Z

How ironic, I thought, that she was wearing red heels. I say ironic because she has always hated red, red anything--and, yet, here she was, standing hip deep in red heels. She was also wearing red lipstick and an earring in her right ear that hung down with a red teardrop at the end. How emphatic! Before I could say anything, however, she opened her mouth and stuck her tongue out, displaying a brillant red and gold stud stuck through the end. Then she said: I've always been red, you bastard!

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

posting moritorium @ jOho

2005-12-02T21:43:00.000Z

In consideration of the hanging of Nguyen Tuong Van in Singapore, as well as the 1,000th execution in the U.S.(since the dealth penalty was restored in 1977), we are observing a week of silence at the jOho.

You are encouraged to visit one of the following sites, just a couple of the many excellent sources of death penalty information.

http://www.deathpenaltyinfo.org/
http://sun.soci.niu.edu/~critcrim/dp/dp.html

how can i keep from singing?

2005-11-29T18:21:00.000Z

I am a convicted drug mule. I am trying not to count the time, even though I have less than 72 hours to live. I remember reading newspaper accounts of those who have survived commercial airliner crashes. Uniformly, those individuals describe the peace that comes with the certainty of death, that imminent certainty where death is expected within mere minutes. That is something of what I feel, since my death is now as certain and nearly as imminent as if I were speeding toward the earth at supersonic speed in a crippled aircraft. This notion is not intuitive. It defies our customary experience of waiting as being the worst part, when anticipating something adverse ahead.

Still it is not as if no thoughts of my impending execution can penetrate this sense of peace. I do think about the execution, but it's almost as if this too only adds to my sense of calm. My execution will occur just before dawn, the darkest hour. l will sit in peace and wait these last hours, use my remaining hours of consciousness ... to feel the rough floor of my cell with my hands, the floor upon which my hands have rested for these many years, but with new sensation; to study the cell with my eyes and find new things to see, things perceived only by the mind and not with the eye; to hear things previously unheard in this isolated environment, things, perhaps, only the heart can hear; and to taste, taste the will to live and the will to die peacefully, mingled together in exquisite sweetness in my mouth, the taste that only the rush to conscious, certain death can evoke.

And when they come to get me, when my body is only moments from impact, I will continue to feel, to look, to hear, and taste. I will see my feet as they take their last steps and I will feel the muscles of my legs as they move, the feel of the floor through the canvas slippers on my feet. I will feel their hands upon me as I walk, the hands of the executioner. They will be gentle hands. They will guide me carefully to my destination, up the steps, and then forward that short remaining distance. The hands will be comforting, but I do not wish to see the eyes. What is in the eyes does not matter, anymore than what is in my own eyes. Rather, my eyes will be cast toward the inpenetrable blackness of the sky in its darkest of hours.They will ask me if I have any last words. I do not think so. There will be no one present to whom I have anything to say. They will ask me if I wish to have a blindfold. I will not. I do not want my eyes covered. Lastly, the executioner will ease the noose over my head, the prickly roughness against my skin as he gently lowers it around my neck, and the pull of slack from the knot. I will feel him back away. I will breathe in ... and breathe out. in and out. in and out.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

[In contemplation of Nguyen Tuong Van's execution scheduled for December 2, 2005]

black friday

2005-11-28T16:59:00.000Z

It seems as if I've been digging for hours with very little progress. True, the hole has gotten a bit deeper, and it is a tad larger round--but I said very little progress, not that I've made no progress at all. Still, at this rate, I'm liable to be here digging the rest of the day. I did not want to spend the entire day digging. Besides, it looks like it might rain ... or snow. Then what?

I thought I was going to spend the day doing something else, but I'd said--I'd rather dig a hole deep enough to jump into than go to the Mall on Black Friday. And so, here I am. If you thought there was something more to this story, you are wrong. This is it. Just digging--and I don't even have an i-pod nano to keep me company. Maybe someone will bring me back one from the mall.

Or you could keep me company, if you want.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

highwire

2005-11-25T13:08:00.000Z

The high wire artist was one of the troupe favorites. The bearded lady adored him. The strong man admired his skill on the wire, and the girl with two heads was writing songs about him, both lively tunes of celebration. In each small town the carnival troupe entered to perform, it was the high wire artist who always drew the largest audience and the loudest applause. And, indeed, the high wire artist was a very skilled performer. And this is the way it was for a very long time.

Then came the day, that fateful day, that the troupe entered into another small, ordinary village in the West, the home of a talented but as yet undiscovered acrobat. When the young acrobat heard that the carnival troupe was coming to his village, he became most excited. He wished to make a name for himself, and he considered the arrival of the carnival to be the opportunity he had been looking for. On the very day the carnival pulled into his village, the acrobat hurried down to where the troupe was setting up for the show. And, of course, it wasn't long before he encountered the highwire artist. He begged and pleaded with the highwire artist to take him into his act. He did flips, stood on his head, and did a handstand on one arm. The highwire artist, although initially very reluctant, finally relented and signed the young acrobat on.

[to be cont'd]

end of life crisis

2005-11-18T20:20:00.000Z

I ran into the Lost Boys the other day. They walked past me on 4th Street, going South. I was scared when I first saw them, a large crowd of boisterous youth coming toward me. They were making a lot of noise. They had trouble written all over them. But as they got closer to me, just as I was about to cross the street, it hit me: the Lost Boys. I knew they were the Lost Boys because I had seen them in a movie years ago, and now here they were passing before my very eyes in all their unbridled youthful gaiety--and not one day older than when I'd last seen them! What were they doing here, on 4th Street? Where were they going? My anxiety completely vanished by the time we reached one another. Then it suddenly hit me again: they weren't going anywhere! Or they were going everywhere! Whatever! I didn't know whether to turn and join them, or just keep going my own way.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

inferno

2005-11-14T18:31:00.000Z

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, the same must surely be said for the halls of family court. Too many parents end up here, despite their good intentions in deciding to create children.

I've always thought of the courthouse as sort of a Dantes Inferno. Family court is on the lowest level of the courthouse, the lowest level of hell. The sorrow, the sorrow of it all, hangs in the air like a cloud of steam. You feel it on your skin. It gets into your clothes. It smells ... like fear, like anger, like dispair, like pain and hurt. I've seen everything in the passages of family court: children crying, women crying, and even men crying. I've seen people, including women and children, dragged down the hallways in cuffs, some kicking and screaming, some spitting, and some as stiff as a corpse. Some carried in and some carried out. Frankly, I generally make it a practice to avoid family court. But not today. Today, I had an appearance scheduled in Part D of the Family Court, before the Hon. Carl Robert Cox, presiding.

Judge Cox is a very thin man. Most judges rarely change their appearance. However, the opposite is true of Judge Cox. Nearly every time I see him he has a new hair-do. The length of his hair has varied from a buzz cut style to shoulder length. He talks very little, but is known for his explosive outbursts on the bench. His facial expression--in it's "default" mode, shall we say--nearly always suggests the smell of something sour in the air. He does not like being looked in the eye.

Today he did not show up. After nearly a half-hour of waiting, a deputy came by to tell those of us who were waiting that the Judge had to "go out of town." Sorry. A man across the room from me began to swear and snap his head back and forth. He complained of missing a day of work "for nothing." His lawyer patted his arm and tried to calm him. It does not take too much to be carried out.

The deputy gave us a new date.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

honest law & order

2005-11-12T18:41:00.000Z

Judge Howdy easily won reelection this past week to a second ten-year term on the bench. Although I'm reasonably certain he's never hung anyone, or even sentenced anyone to death, the Hon. Hansen T. Howdy is known as the "hang'n Judge" in Slapsaw County. He was a shoo-in.

Only Republicans get elected to the bench in Slaspsaw County. Usually they make their name first as prosecutors. (To my knowledge, no defense attorney has ever been elected a judge). Judge Howdy was first elected as a Republican candidate on a platform of "Honest Law and Order." He ran unopposed. Interestingly, he is not a former prosecutor. He is not even a member of the bar. Indeed, he's never attended law school. I'm not at all sure he's even been to college. In his ten years on the bench he has built a reputation for no-nonsense justice. He is especially fond of the saying, I don't mollycoddle criminals and I don't mollycoddle lawyers--and I don't mollycoddle anyone else, either. Ironically, he's built his career on the politics of mollycoddling voters and financial contributors.

I've had my run-ins with Judge Howdy, professionally speaking, of course. It's not always easy being a defense lawyer in a small town. Most people here consider me a necessary evil, including the Judge, but we all say hello to each other and wave when we pass one another on the street. That's how it is. That's just how it is.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

longing

2005-11-10T05:36:00.000Z

The ground is still green outside my window. I can see it from my bed, this bed. I can describe the sky, the color of the fall leaves, and even the smell of the air when I'm lucky enough to catch a whif coming in somewhere through an open door. I can always smell the air, the clean, fresh air coming in here, from out there. I can describe it all in my thoughts as easily as I could once describe it with my voice. Only now I can't, can't really use my voice. Not effectively. Can't seem to talk fast enough. Can't seem to talk clear enough. No one seems to understand what I'm saying. Pointing is of no use. They treat me like a child. I should have put it in writing long ago, how I wanted to die--if, in fact, I had any choice in the matter. Now it is too late. Much too late. too late for me. too late for me to choose, to say, to raise my voice to ceiling with a demand that anyone with any compassion at all would understand. I've tried over and over and over to tell them, tell someone, tell anyone. All I want is to be carried outside and laid on the ground, on the earth. I want to feel the earth against my skin and the air on my face. I want to feel the earth and the air as I am dying. That is how I want it. And yet that is evidently too much to ask. I must simply lie here in this bed. And wait.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

mind reading

2005-11-09T01:38:00.004Z

I have the ability to read other people's minds. You think I'm lying. No. It's true. You think you'd like to be able to read other people's minds. Trust me. You wouldn't. You still don't believe me. You're testing me. You still think I'm lying. What if I told you that right now, just after that thought, you tried to think up something really off the wall, just to try me out. I felt it coming a mile away. My, but that's a twisted little thought you conjured up there! I think you have a soul mate somewhere on Third Avenue. She broadcast a similar thought, oddly enough. I picked it up as I walked past the window at that little italian restaurant, next to the tobacco shop. You think I'm bullshitting you. You really think I'm bullshitting you. Okay. How about this? You're thinking I pull this stunt all the time. Yeah? Come on! Clear your head out! Give me something clean to work with! No, I'm not really obnoxious. I'm not! I really hate this mind reading thing. Hey, can you at least feel my pain here?

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

heightened complications

2005-11-08T13:46:00.000Z

My eyes kept saying, Just reach up and grab it. She just stood there, looking down. It really bugs me when she does this. But B___ has always been this way: looking down when she should be looking up--or looking up when she should be looking down. Look up! I urged her, It's not that high! You can get it! Why are you doing this? What's the problem? Again, I didn't really say it. I just sent this message to her with my eyes. It's not the kind of thing you'd say out loud, particularly here. Her eyes more or less remained glued to the ground. It's not that she couldn't make it if she tried; she could. The problem is that she was mad at me. And B is nothing if not stubborn. At this point I thought it was probably best to avoid a scene and not press the matter. I grabbed the mug of beer from the bar counter and handed it down to her. Several patrons couldn't hide their amusement. There are sometimes complications for those of short stature.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

(no) ducks

2005-11-07T01:42:00.000Z

There ought to be ducks on a pond, I thought. But there weren't. There weren't any trees around the pond, either. They had been blown over, chopped up, and hauled away. That was five or six years ago, after the storm. But there still aren't any trees. It takes a long time to grow a tree. We should have gotten started right away, as soon as the last piece of broken limb was carted off. I'm wondering why we waited? I can't remember now. My intentions are always good, must have been good. Just never enough time. So, what about the ducks? Why haven't the ducks come back? Perhaps I've just been too busy to notice. I should double-check. Tomorrow morning I'll take a look. Ducks are like that you know--come back without telling you.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

gar-bah'-je

2005-11-03T17:14:00.000Z

I turned to the person in line behind me at the grocery store and said, I should warn you that I'm usually in the slowest line. Actually, I may have said always in the slowest line, because it certainly seems that way.

I hadn't paid any attention to who was standing behind me in the line. When I turned I saw that it was a young woman. Her first look was pure stranger danger, very suspicious, possibly even hostile. (I should mention here that my appearance doesn't really deserve that kind of reaction). The moment passed. She smiled at my remark, but did not say anthing. Nor did she change lines. I resumed my study of the cashier and what was taking place at the front of the line. She remained behind me, patiently waiting, while I otherwise patiently waited, the line at a dead standstill.

I glanced to my left at a display rack. It was the usual collection of supermarket tabloids, last minute impulse items, and candy. One of the tabloids had a headline that read: Mother Eats Children--Gives Birth to Monster. Normally, I wouldn't have given the rag a second look but the picture on the front page gave me pause. The picture showed a waist shot of a young woman, holding what appeared to be part of a small leg raised above her head with one bloody hand, and blood smeared around the mouth of her mad, contorted face. I couldn't be sure, but I thought the Woman Who Ate Her Children looked an awful like the woman in line behind me. I didn't dare turn to look, however. It was, after all, quite unlikely--wouldn't you think? Yes, it would certainly be absurd, I told myself, several times, almost biting my hands in an effort to stem the impulse to turn, look, verify, one way or the other. Then I thought: okay, worst case scenario--assume the woman behind me is the Woman Who Ate Her Children--it's unlikely that she posed any particular threat to me here in the store, particularly seeing as how I am adult sized. I grabbed the issue from the rack, steeled myself for a confrontation, and turned to face the Woman Who Ate Her Children--I have no idea what I intended to say. What would one say to such a person?

I whirled around and thrust the headlines into the face of ... the old woman who was standing behind me. The Woman Who Ate Her Children was nowhere to be seen. The old woman recoiled in fear, at first, but then seeing the article I was brandishing and the look on my face, she laughed, patted my arm and said, Oh, honey, that's nothing but garbage. She said "garbage" like it was a French word: gar-bah-je. Then she pointed over my shoulder. The line's moving, she added.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

H model

2005-10-31T18:14:00.000Z

There are a hundred bad habits I had to put on lid on when I got married. I was prepared to do that, and I'm proud to say that I've done so rather sucessfully, for the most part. I've even managed to squelch the bad habits I was unaware of at the time, habits formed over a long period of living alone. Bad habits that had to be pointed out, brought to my attention. I was even prepared for this, in my own way. Indeed, our wedding vows called upon each of us to be a good partner.

I don't want to beat my own drum here, but you could almost say that I'm now a model partner--that's how effective I've been. In fact, I'm personally aware of a number of woman who have pointed me out to their husbands as the kind of husband they ought to be. I try to ignore these situations, however. I try not to think about them, because my stomach begins to feel upset, and I want to throw something. The burden is sometimes simply too great to bear. That's why I must write it down here, post it at the jOho, let some air out of it.

Beneath this veneer of near perfection I'm just one guy with a Y chromosome like every other guy--and, frankly, I'm not sure I can take being a model much longer.

mission

2005-10-29T10:57:00.000Z

They were a chirpy bunch, standing there all smiles, pointing out the windows and ducking their heads for a look, all the while just chattering away. Their good spirits were infectious and prompted me to ask: So, where are you all off to? A short stocky woman standing close to me leaned forward and replied firmly, We're going to A_______. That's a long way off, I replied. She shook her head and smiled. Seeing that I had further questions on my mind, she added, We're all members of the same church. We're going on a mission. She straightened her back when she hit the word "mission." Oh, a mission, eh? What kind of mission? I replied, not immediately picking up on the full import of the word. A mission to save the abe--abogigg--abbag--(and here she turned to another church member for assistance. I could see the other member smiling and patiently mouthing out the syllables of the testy word slowly one at a time. The missionary, her head turned away from me, seemed to respond back one time, then turned her head back to me)--A-bore-ridge-gin-knees, she said. She remained smiling. I looked beyond her to the assisting member behind her, who smiled and shook her head in approval. The missionary then put her hand on my arm and leaning in, added confidentially, We're going to save the poor little creatures from Hell. I sat back slowly and resisted the impulse to pull the emergency stop cord. The missionary began to clap. Others joined in. C'mon, clap for Jesus, one shouted. More clappers clapping. Suddenly, the whole pack of a-bore-ridge-gin-knee savers began to sing some bright and bouncy gospel tune. The missionary beckoned to me to join in. smiling. Of course.

Fern (cont'd)

2005-10-28T02:12:00.000Z

We worked our way northward into the upper latitudes on waves of ripening barley, wheat and rye. It was dirty work. We wore kerchiefs over our noses to filter the dust and large straw hats on our heads to protect ourselves from the heat and sun. Still, several times a day it was necessary to stop and blow the barley dust from my nose. It was like that throughout the day, the snorting and blowing and hacking which punctuated the rhythym of the work in the hot dry air. As I labored I would observe the others at their tasks, their brown backs bent beneath the sun, collecting stalks into sheaves with sharp blades and rough hands. Later, after rinsing the abrasive chaf from my skin, I would remove my pencil and pad from my rucksack and again fix their slender figures before my mind and begin to draw. But, inevitably, as I drew in some detail or another of the figure, my mind would begin to wander, to the war. And I would find myself considering the minds of my subjects, the thoughts that may have occupied their minds as they worked, rather than on the lines of their toiling bodies. It was quite pointless, actually, and rather destructive in all.

tribute

2005-10-26T16:27:00.000Z

Whatever happened to ... you know, what's his name? C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! The guy who used to sit on the corner of Hiawatha and Second and play songs and sing? Remember? He had this whole cluster of instruments on the sidewalk? Claimed he'd made them all himself (and they rather looked like it, if I do so say myself--but brilliant, nevertheless, absolutely brilliant). He was a Oner, that one! I can still see him sitting there with all that wild, blond curly hair, strumming and singing. He recorded CDs in the back of his van with his dogs. Can you dig that? He once told me that he had an eight octave singing range. What a trip! What ever happened to him? I can't believe I don't even remember his name. I never bought any of his CDs, but I threw some change in his hat. He was out of his time, that one.

Fern

2005-10-25T01:36:00.000Z

I first visited Fern after the war, while traveling about the country on foot. You may recall that many traveled so in those days. Fern was in the North. I made my way there by the labor of my back and hands, finding work with a small band of harvesters. Several men on the crew were veterans of the war, like myself. The remaining members seemed no more than boys. We did not mingle with them much, for they evidently blamed us for their plight, for the mess we had made of their world, for our failures. Rightfully so, I thought--though I never told them as much. The war had lasted eight years, with untold suffering. Who else was there for them to point a finger at? We labored as fools beneath their stern gaze.

when E met Z

2005-10-23T15:23:00.000Z

[some more history on Z and we. See also previous posts on Z. Eds.]

We were still in the driveway when E________ met Z. It was nearly dark, and Z was still wearing his customary dark glasses. I don't know how he sees half the time. He walked around the end of the car and stuck his hand out to E. He can be very charming, although it's very random--rather than simply being charming when one feels like it. That night he was in his charming mode. Hmmmm, so you're Z, the infamous Z, E quipped, as she extended her own hand. I thought she was being a little too cute, almost throwing her sex at him. (She later denied this, emphatically). Z gave her one of his million-dollar-i'm-great-and-i-love-you smiles, which didn't particuarly offend me because if I had seen Z put this gig on once I'd seen him do it a dozen times. We all went inside and ate the warmed up store bought quesadillas that I had gotten for the occassion. I kept watching E, watching Z, even though I didn't really want to or even aim to. I just couldn't stop myself. E and I had a small argument after Z left. I hated myself.

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

the great pontificator

2005-10-19T16:48:00.000Z

[For an introduction to the great pontificator (tgp), see the 9/14/05 post here. Eds.]

New trigger: Harriet Miers

[I mentioned Harriet Miers name and the fact that her religious beliefs had come up in the context of assuring very conservative members of the republican party that she could be "trusted" to be placed as a Justice on the U.S. Supreme Court].

tgp: Well? (i.e., Your point is??)

me: Well, "trusted" in what way, for instance?

tgp: What in the hell is wrong with mentioning religion, anyway? (Immediately agitated). What are the godless heathens afraid of in this country? Besides going to hell? Electing a God-fearing individual to the highest court in the land, I suppose! Frankly, I don't get it. When I was young, everyone believed in God--capital G, capital O, capital D. Now days it's okay to kill someone, okay to run away from your family responsibilities, hell, it's even okay to be a queer, but it's NOT okay to mention God. What the hell is that all about, eh? I'm sick of it, I tell you, sick of it. We don't need less of Bush. We need more. We need to kick some godamn ass. God isn't going away, no sir. I don't know what this world is coming to when people don't believe in God. I mean, that's the problem with those moozlems--they don't believe in God. Sure, they've got a god, but it's not Our God, not the Real God. If they had Our God, we wouldn't be doing all this fighting. That's why we've got to get this thing into the schools, teach this kids about the Real God and what's right and wrong--call it intelligent design or whatever you want, just get it done. [pause] Know what I mean?

me: Well ... .

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

crude dis.trac.tions

2005-10-17T20:00:00.000Z

I remember the room very well. The lights were too bright, for one thing. It was like everything (and everyone) in the room was screaming for attention. E and I sat down on a pair of classroom-like chairs, with a little round table in between, next to a whitewashed wall. There was a loud squeak when she sat down, and we laughed for a moment. On the wall next to the table was a styrofoam plate stuck to the wall. It had numbers drawn in around its circumference, like a clock. The numbers appeared to be drawn in a child's hand. There were no hands on its face. Nevertheless, I kept turning my head to look at it. I don't know why. Did I expect hands to appear? Did I expect to tell the time? I think I kept looking at it to figure out if it was really supposed to be a clock. Afterall, even without hands, wasn't that the intention of ... the thing ... or its creator, an intention somehow gone awry? (Although, did I mention that there was not any sign on its face that hands may have once been featured there? e.g., a pin hole, perhaps?) And why was it hanging there? I wondered. Who, in heaven's name, had hung it there to begin with? As I considered the status of the plate, I became aware of E's silence. A quick glance across the table. She was no longer smiling. In fact, she looked rather annoyed.

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

stooge

2005-10-12T13:48:00.000Z

I imagine in Seattle they are used to this: rain day after day after day. I'm not. We're not, not here. We're used to getting our moisture in measured, intermittent doses, a little here and a little there. Our house began taking on water a couple of days ago. I placed a large plastic tub in the basement, beneath the ceiling joists to catch the water. I've emptied the tub three times, and the rain continues. This morning I went down to check the water in the tub. I decided to take a closer look at where the water was coming through. I had to stand on a cardboard box to see, yet it was not quite tall enough. I strained upward, and the box collapsed, throwing me backwards into to a stack of boxes, toppling the pile. I landed hard. To the casual observer it was probably hillarious to see. I began to laugh, myself, at the thought, the picture of it all in my mind, playing over. From upstairs I heard, "What was that?? Are you alright?" I was about to say yes, but was distracted by a song in my head which I could not name. I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm even telling you this.

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

dietism

2005-10-11T13:37:00.000Z

I need to lose some weight. I've tried a number of diet/eating strategies without success. I'm a diet failure--or eating failure--I haven't figured out which. Recently, a local social activist conducted a fast for peace. He went about four weeks or so without anything but sips of juice. I saw him about a week ago, standing on a corner, still looking a bit sickly, but thin as a rail. I was envious. He had invited others to join him in the fast. A few did, although I'm not sure they held out until the very end. I did not join in myself. I couldn't really figure out the point of the whole thing. Too bad, I now see, because had I joined in I could have gotten two proverbial birds with one stone: lost fat and done something democratic and important. Now it looks like my best weight loss strategy is to hang on until the avian flu pandemic hits. That oughta do it.

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

the NMP

2005-10-10T13:52:00.000Z

mymainadviceisthis:choosesomepathinlifeuponwhich
youcanhokeypokeaslongasyouwant.

thatsall.

thanks.

H(arvey) D(aniel) Thoreau
The New Millenium Philosopher

you can't always get what you want

2005-10-07T16:35:00.000Z

My neighbor is trying to suck me into some scheme he has for obtaining a Russian bride via email. You can find or get just about anything on the internet--good or bad. This seems pretty much all bad. He's got MH issues and some money he doesn't need, which is a bad combination. She has written that she is madly in love with him. She just needs some money to get to the US of A so they can consumate their relationship. (Do you smell what I smell?)

I don't know why, but he keeps asking me questions about immigration law. I don't know anything about immigration matters. I told him so. Did I mention that she's a gorgeous medical student? Yeah. And she sent a picture to prove it. I told him I don't know anything about immigration law, but I do know something about money--and if he wants to piss four or five hundred down a hole, he should send it to her. I know, I know, I'm such a cynic.

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

inside draw

2005-10-06T15:58:00.000Z

I walked out of the nursing home into the bright sunshine. Raised my face to the sun. Took a deep breath. I wanted to go somewhere and wash my hands as quickly as possible. Despite the air and the sun, I felt weary, a weariness deep inside, a weariness that neither the warmth of the sun nor the fresh morning air could fully dispel. I got in my car and must have sat there for at least ten minutes. Don't ask me what I was doing, what I was thinking about. I can't say. It's a blank. I might have sat there longer if my cell phone had not begun to ring. I tried to ignore it. It kept ringing. I sat on it and it stopped. I didn't need another thing to deal with. I didn't need a question, or even another thought from anyone. All I needed was to start driving and figure out what to do next. Figure out how to continue with my day as if a beautiful morning was the only thing that mattered.

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

breach of the hole

2005-10-06T15:26:00.000Z

Well, unfortunately, we've had to "turn on" the comment verification function at JH. We apologize for any convenience to the thousands of loyal readers and commentators who visit this site every day--hell, every hour--but it had to done to weed out those pathetic few, the comment spammers, who have found yet another way to inflict their own peculiar brand of bullshit on the rest of us.

[eds.] [Note: reposted from 9/13/05, Eds].

raw

2005-10-05T15:55:00.000Z

I wanted to get "raw" so I went to a wrestling school in Ohio, hoping to make it to the WWF. I even had my gig: no pretty boy thing; just the opposite--The Scarecrow, featuring my less than highly conditioned body and my partially bald head. (You know what everyone thinks of the partial baldness thing). I auditioned for the school with straw hanging out of my shorts. (It was a bit uncomfortable, but anything for show biz, I say). Now, get this! They denied my application for admission! I asked them, it was my hair, right? They wouldn't even admit it. The cowards! As a result, I never got to slam a single soul. What a sham! I'm going to come up with a new gig! I'll show'em! My daddy told me to never give up in life. You've got to believe in yourself, he said. Man, I'm a N-A-T-U-R-A-L for raw. I'll show'em! You just wait and see!

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

deep archive

2005-10-04T13:37:00.000Z

you live in a jumpers hole, you live accordingly.

--guy t. (1996)

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

zeitgeist

2005-10-03T18:36:00.000Z

We stood together, a mass, waiting. Then a small voice: "Today is the first day of the rest of your life."

I turned, slightly, in wonder at the remark, here, now, in this crowd. I had been in a reverie, and was unsure where the remark had come from. It was as though the the disembodied words had drifted into my consciousness from out of nowhere. As I turned those nearby looked away, careful to avoid eye contact. Several, their indifference feigned and heads slightly askew, observed from the corner of one eye.

It had been a little voice. I looked down.

A small girl, very close by, stood looking up at me. She wore a green wool hat pulled down quite tight with blonde hair sticking out from beneath the brim. I would guess she was about four or five years old. Terribly cute. She had one hand in the grasp of a woman, her mother, I supposed. With no hesitation, whatsoever, she boldly stated: I said, Today is the first day of the rest of your life. I glanced up at the mother as I carefully squatted down to address the child. Mom did not seem to notice.

I smiled at the girl. I was about to say something ... perhaps, Is that so? or And the first day of the rest of your life, too! When, suddenly, she was jerked away. I caught the child's startled backward glance as she disappeared through the crush of coats and shoes, my own face now looking upwards, towards the half-turned face of the retreating mother, a shot of fear into the dank morning air.

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

unfit to blog

2005-10-01T11:48:00.000Z

[Note: We at jOHo respectfully acknowledge all points of view, including the following critical perspective. Eds.]

We hate to say it, but this blog is crap! Why anyone would take even one precious moment from their life to read the mere title of this blog is beyond us. What is this blog about? What is it trying to say? What is it's reason for being? (Aside from delivering the shallow drivel that gets delivered up all too regularly). And Lucas? Why does he even keep blogging? Does he think that anyone comes to this site more than once? He's not funny. He just thinks he is. That's the worst kind. He rarely even offers an opinion. Hey, we've been to The Hole. Trust us. Don't go on. Stop now. Quit wasting your time.

--Jumpers Hole Veterans for Truth (JHVT)

more fog of war

2005-09-26T13:10:00.000Z

Our local citizenry, may the gods bless them, had their own little anti-war rally this weekend. I say "little," because it was. Twenty people. Pretty much the same twenty people that protest everything in our community. The anti-war spirit has not yet infected the general population here to any measurable degree, a population which is largely Republican and which largely supports the (p)resident and his policies. This support was evidenced at the anti-war rally by the significantly larger pro-War rally that was waged in response, on the other side of the street.

The Society of the Brothers and Sisters of Brotherly and Sisterly Love (SBSBSL) were also on hand, or at least three members of their "social justice" committee, to distribute leaflets and spread the gospel. The anti-war rally was scheduled to begin at 11 a.m. at Columbus Circle. The SBSBSL was there early. They took turns speaking in front of the card table that featured their literature, raising their arms in an effort to stir the growing "crowd" and to punctuate particular points. They gestured and scowled at those arriving on the scene with pro-War signs. I feared for a time that a fight might break out. I would have put my money on the SBSBSL members, even though they were considerably out numbered.

I heard a few motherfucker this and motherfucker thats. I think a rock or two may have been thrown. One little girl, about three years old, who was sitting on her father's shoulders holding a sign that read, "SUPPORT OUR TROOPS--SUPPORT THE WAR," got hit in the head with something. That almost set everyone off, until she pointed, crying, to the sign of someone standing next to her that had accidentally poked her in the head.

In the end, everyone got to say their piece, wave a sign, and then go home without significant injury.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

the NMP on soul

2005-09-25T13:32:00.000Z

Idontknowaboutthiswholesoulandnaturething.idon'thaveany
divinethinginsideme,atleastnotthati'mawareof. whatidohaveis
anincredibleachingforanipodnano. yeah,that'stheticket.

that'sall.

thanks.

H(arvey) D(aniel) Thoreau

the new millenium philosopher

--everybodyneedsaholetocalltheirown.

Attention!

2005-09-24T16:48:00.000Z

Attention to All!

JOHO HITS THE CENTURY MARK!

For you thousands of loyal Joho surfers and jumpers, tonight--in celebration of this, the 100th post to the Joho--there will be a party for all. We expect a huge turnout! There will be food, music, and many, many awards, all of which will be handed out to recognize YOUR contribution to the success of this blog. We expect many luminaries to be in attendance, including surviving deep archive contributors, jumper activists (e.g., The Jumpers Hole Veterans for Truth), politicos (Sen. Clinton is expected to show! Maybe with Bill), Fab celebrities of all stripes (Can you name the likely Hollywood Jumpers?), musicans of note (but mostly Blues artists), several auto mechanics and an exterminator apprentice from Bugs-R-Scuz.

Like we said: it's tonight!

What time? 7 p.m. until who the hell knows when!

Where? Where else? Joho at 422 West Main Street, 32nd floor!

Be hip! Be Seen! Be there!

the bicycle as rideable art

2005-09-22T13:05:00.000Z

If you are an American and you are like most Americans, you may not realize that today is World Carfree Day. You can check this out at the World Carfree Network.

I try to ride my bike to work each day, but I was unaware of this event until last night. (yeah, I'm always out of the loop). So, if you've missed the opportunity to particpate in this event today, do not worry. You can still get up and go carfree tomorrow. And if you get on a bike, "think of bicycles as rideable art that can just about save the world." (Grant Peterson, cited at Quote Garden on World Carfree Day).

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

the fall of the olympian (wannabe)

2005-09-22T01:09:00.000Z

yeah, i'm an olympic wannabe--I bought some olympic style weights last fall and they kicked my ass. Now i'm looking for a trade-off to a regular set of barbells, etc. In truth, I began working out with The Olympians without too much trouble, but then I slipped on a set of stairs trying to catch my cat and fell flat on my back. I laid on the ground and cried for about twenty minutes before I could pull myself to my feet. It was a week before I could stand up straight--and months of chronic pain after that, although nothing seemed to be broken, chipped or ruptured. I had purchased The Olympians about a month before the fall. Now they just sit there, in all their weighty glory, mocking me: Go ahead, pick me up. Today I finally said fuck-you and put them on craigslist. So, I get the last laugh? --although I'm not sure whether I can ever live up to them again--The Olympians.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

the great pontificator

2005-09-14T19:46:00.000Z

from an "older gentleman" and sometimes regular visitor at our home:

[the conversation is generally flowing along until the mention of some event or memory triggers the great pontificator into pontificating, e.g.]:

the price of gas

I can't believe the price of gas! Those damn oil companies! You know they're just getting over on us, the bastards! I don't know where the world is going (sighs and shakes head). I wouldn't want to have any kids in this day and age (this to me, as the parent of two young children), I'll tell you. Bunch of punks walking around with the pants hanging off their asses, looking for trouble, and you know what get's me? You even look at them wrong and they put a gun to your head and pull the trigger! For chrissakes! No, I wouldn't want to be a parent (sighs again and shakes head more). And the politicians! What a bunch of crooks! What the hell are they doing about the price of oil? (he voted for Bush). (I squeeze in a word about government action/inaction with regard to hurricane Katrina). Oh, sure, the liberal press is jumping all over the issue but that was an unprecedented event in our history! How could anyone have been prepared for that?!! Those people down there, the local people, weren't doing anything and they want to blame everyone else! And did you see the pictures of the goddamn looters?!! I'll tell you, I don't know what the world is coming to when people can walk into a store and take anything they want! You try to stop them and they put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. Kill you. Just like that. They don't care. Even the police couldn't handle it. (shakes head, takes another sip from his vodka tonic). Nope (more shaking), I wouldn't want to be a parent today. My god, when I was a kid people respected each other!

Dont' even get me started! Okay?

You don't even want to get me started.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

jus passing thru

2005-09-11T11:19:00.000Z

I've been to New Orleans (nu orlans). It was a long time ago, in March. I went south from Nebraska and hung a left at Louisiana, headed to the Florida Keys. I passed through NO after dark, rain beaten and exhausted. I found the French Quarter and sat at a sidewalk cafe, sipping chicory coffee under a dripping umbrella and watching the exotic crowd, keeping one eye on my bike which had all my gear strapped on it.

I had left Pleasant Dale, Nebraska heading due south on my newly acquired Harley sportster. I hit it south right off because the weather was still very cold on the plains. The morning I left I wrapped newspaper around my legs, beneath the leathers, to help keep my legs warm. My dead hero brother had gotten the leathers custom made in Nam, and I had acquired them from among his remaining "personal effects." I wore heavy gloves, goggles and a bandanna wrapped around my lower face. I kicked that fine machine to a start before 9 a.m. with one thought in mind: get as far south as I could as fast as possible. The temperature still hadn't reached past the upper 30s when I steered out onto the road, cold before I had even started.

I cannot now recall exactly how long it took me to reach NO. Couple of days, I suppose. It didn't begin to warm up until I was well into Loozianna, as they say there, and even then it wasn't that warm. The gulf moisture fell from the sky without mercy or end, plus the wind, which pushed and pulled on my body, hour after hour, until a tremor of tingling nerves took over my arms and even my skull and the fatigue from it all soaked through every pore of my skin. On a two lane highway in Baton Rouge I spotted an Army-Navy store right alongside the road. I pulled in to see what kind of rain gear I could find to wear. I was soaking wet.

All I could find there for the rain was what they called a "WWII beach landing suit." It had elastic cuffs at the ends of the sleeves and built-in shoes. It opened at the top with a draw string and then you stepped into it, pulling it on over your shoes and everything. Then you cinched the top shut. There was a lot of excess material on the top as it was evidently designed to accommodate a combat backpack. Without the backpack, however, all that extra material just hung there like a big flap of skin. When I got back on my bike and took it up to speed, the flap began slapping at my face in the wind. I had to stop and secure it by a bungee cord around my chest. What a frigg'n sight! I didn't give a damn, as long as I stayed dry.

New Orleans was down the road, more or less east, across a highway that stood on pilings over the water, a long and straight shot of smooth concrete clear to the horizon. Trees stuck out of the water, or the tops did, a submerged forest extending a vast soggy distance. I roared down the hardtop in my rubber suit with the sun dropping down behind me, a brief respite from the rain, the road seemingly floating on high water in the golden hour of light. I cinched up my goggles against the flying insects that come out at dusk, and pulled the bandana up to protect my face. The hum and vibration of my thundering ride massaged my limbs and the raw power of those pounding cyclinders beneath me resonated in my skull in a mantra of speed and near invincibility as I ate up the miles into the whole throbbing nightime spectacle of the Big Easy.

[to be cont'd]

deep archives

2005-09-09T13:00:00.000Z

And from former jumper, g. brooks:

I shall create! If not a note, a hole.
If not an overture, a desecration.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

sneaking my joe past joe

2005-09-08T18:14:00.000Z

[still down but easing back into things ...]

I went out for a walk around 1:30 today. My office is in an old downtown building that lets out on two sides to relatively neglected areas of the city "wherein low-living, poverty and crime meet." I call the entrance on the front side of the building, Joe's entrance, because in one corner of the building lobby sits Joe's Deli where Joe toils all day to make a few bucks. The back door of the building I simply call the back door.

I don't usually eat at Joe's because I usually bring a lunch. Besides, I've tried him a few times in a pinch and the experience came out lacking. (The coupe-de-gras was the two day old bagel he served me that was dipped in butter--I think, in an effort to hide the fact that it was two days old). I haven't been back since, although at some organic level it would otherwise resonate with me to be a regular patron of his establishment--the nuturing vibes of helping-the-little-guy-out sort-of-thing.

Today on my walk I scooted a few blocks over to the "trendy" part of our city--which encompasses about a two block area--for a cup of joe at Starbucks, the high voltage stuff. When I got back to my building, I entered through the back door. I hid the cup of joe behind some papers as I walked toward the elevator. You see, as Joe toils all day for a few bucks he does so in front of an interior door that faces the elevators, so he can see who comes and goes. And, as I approached the elevators, there was Joe, toiling behind the counter. I was able to duck into the elevator unseen, however, thus avoiding the need to try and wave while hiding my joe behind papers or risking an ... In Your Face, Joe!

Sorry, Joe. Get some real joe and maybe I 'll come back.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

and from (the all New) H.D. Thoreau

2005-08-16T17:43:00.000Z

Idonwannaliveinnofuckingwoods.

Iwannaliveameaningfullife--somewherebesidesthewoods--
andwhichinnowayinvolvescivildisobedience--iaintgoingtojail--
especiallyonprinciple.

thatsall.

thanks.

Harvey Daniel Thoreau

the new millenium philosopher

--everyoneneedsaholetocalltheirown.

the continuing saga of ricky the road warrior

2005-08-15T13:07:00.000Z

Man, it was like cruisn weather this weekend, trolling the bolleevard, top down, toons cranked, pounding out a vicious tribal vibe on the hardtop--eye-eee-looking goooood.

I tell you my ride is so decent, comrade, its almost E-fucking-legal. If I aint blowin away weak dicks on the bolleevard with the heat under my hood, I am otherwise on dis-play for the sweet, for the honey, for the i-gotta-have-me-one-of-those darlins, darlin. Yeah, sweet thing, I see you checkin me out! Wanna ride?

The other thing bout this ride is it aint no mere ride. Unh, unh. Its a freakin myuuuzzik mahsheen on wheels. Man, I emptied my walleto into this sound system. Its gotso many woofers and tweeters its a dog and bird show. And course therz the big daddy bass in the way back that's so Po-Tent that it can melt down anything within a quarter mile rayydeeass. I'm telling ya man I'm the King. And you'll know that when you get an earful of my coolest seeleckshons em and em-inateeeng through the air, poundin into your thick fucking skull, til your foot starts a tap-tapping to that toon. Yeah, brother, I see it, I see it tappin. C'mon now, how fucking cool is that? Yeah, like I says, the King. Comin on by.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

extraordinary measures

2005-08-11T13:50:00.000Z

I got out of bed at 3 a.m. to use the bathroom and almost tripped over Little Lefty Loo Hoo (see, naming names, 7/08/05). She was lying in a somewhat unusual position. The thought that she was dead flashed through my mind. She wasn't. We should probably chalk it up as a PTSD episode.

Yes, I was traumatized by the death of earlier pets, two cats: Gizmo and Mickey. Traumatized not so much by their deaths per se, but by the guilt of being financially unable to afford the premium medical treatments that might have saved their lives--at least for the short term. Think about that. The vet says to you: okay, I can put Gizmo in the "hospital" for a week or two with a course of hydro therapy to deal with her severe dehydration, then we can perform three brain operations and a heart and lung transplant while we're waiting for her new dental caps to harden. Cost? About $3,000. The vet continues: do you want to save her, or shall I put her down?

So, feed the kids? Save the cat? Feed the kids??! Save the cat???!! Ohhh, shhit!

Okay, okay, okay.

Sorry, Giz. Here let me hold you, cuddle you, while they inject you with the death serum. It's for your own good. Trust me.

I cried a lot. With Mickey it was pretty much the same thing. They were sisters. After she was "put down"--in my arms--I drove Mickey home and placed her in a shoe box in the dining room, "curled up" on a scrap of her favorite rug, until the kids got home and we buried her. Last words. We read from, When Cats Dream. Put some momentos in the box with her. Then we covered her over. At least she got a decent funeral. I learned that much from Gizmo (who simply got incinerated with a heap of other dead cats).

Now it's PTSD episodes in the middle of the night for my tortured soul.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

deep archives

2005-08-11T00:56:00.000Z

From the e'er poetic Anne Sextunne, always a favorite at JH:

In the jumpers hole your baby
is strangling.
Your mouth is clay.
Your eyes are made of glass.
They break.
You are not a brave jumper.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

lemmings on the march: or, how many patriots does it take to pop a balloon?

2005-08-09T16:42:00.000Z

I'm sorry. I heard this report this morning, and I just can't let it go.

____________________

NPR Morning Edition,August 9, 2005 · Army recruiters are not making their quotas nationwide, but in the South and Midwest, they're having less trouble finding recruits. One reason may be the economy, but recruiters and military families also point to a rural tradition of military service.

__________________

"... a rural tradition of military service." Ok. I can relate to this--or used to, before I took my turn and marched off the cliff ... and then found out what was on the other side.

The march of the lemmings is fueled by a sense of duty and patriotism. It's something I still respect. What I don't respect is blind patriotism on the one hand, and on the other our government's readiness to sacrifice lives without enough thought or simply out of sheer arrogance. When the government rushes blindly into hostilities with other countries and sacrifices life without purpose or gain (0r worse, on a pretext or deliberate mispresentation), a fundamental trust between the people and the government is broken. For me that fundamental trust was broken in Vietnam--and it has repeatedly been broken since, most recently and notoriously in Iraq.

Like many in the NPR report, I come from a long line of veterans. However, the "tradition" that our collective service represents has hopefully ended with me. My children will have to make up their own minds, of course. It is safe to say, however, that I will not offer them up to the dumb ass politicos that run this country (and their supporters) to be thrown away in Iraq.

And don't tell me you're proud to see your children serve. Take a hard look. Now that all the "patriots" have gotten us into the war in Iraq by supporting this president, they are predictably losing their stomach for the mayhem and loss of life that has ensued--with no apparent gain. Indeed, the situation has only gotten worse. As the support wanes, political pressure will build (just as it currently is) to get out of Iraq. (Just get out! Now!) Then, what story do we tell ourselves about all the death and destruction to keep our myth intact? Will you be able to accept, as a parent, that you waved and saluted when your child was shipped off? (You'll have to, won't you? Just to live with yourself? ... And so the story goes). You'll get a flag and fly it on Memorial Day and you'll be proud.

You may even stay proud--if you don't think too much. Just keep marching. Keep the line moving. Think of a marching song. (there you go ... eyes straight ahead, now ... left, right left ... left, right, left ... .)

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

deep archives

2005-08-08T12:54:00.000Z

Mason Cooley at the JH (c.1991):

Every hole tempts my finger.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

it's only a game

2005-08-06T14:39:00.000Z

We were sitting at the far end of the first base line, the 100-level. It was our second move from the 300-level. The boys kept saying this is where we should have sat from the very beginning, but I had purchased 300-level tickets, so we had sat up and behind the visiting team's dugout, hoping for a pop-fly hit foul. They both had two hats on (it was P&C "Hat Day" at the park)--one hat pointed to the front and the other hat to the back--and had their gloves in the ready position for each throw across the plate. We waited. And we waited some more. The actual game was almost secondary to the prospect of nabbing a fly ball. Eventually one ball did land up on our level, a couple of sections over, but that only whet their appetite to be closer to the action.

And so we had moved down, down and out, then further out (when a hole opened up), to our present position, the boys now out of their seats and hanging over the ball field wall with their gloves everytime a ball was hit foul in our direction. I squirmed in my seat, making adjustments for a recurring back problem, and alternately switching hands to shield my eyes from the sun setting across the field (too low in the sky for my P&C hat to do any good), sipping my ten dollar beer. I was sitting about eight rows back from the field, a few seats south of an aisle. There were a lot of empty seats around, lots of kids goofing off, waiting like mine to snag a shot to right. Despite all the noise, I turned my head to the right, towards the aisle, when I heard a clacking sound. It was a woman navigating the concrete stairs. She was disabled, MS, I think. She had a metal cane hanging over her arm, the arm she was using to hold the metal railing. With each slow step, the cane would bang against the railing one or twice. Click-clack, clack. And another step. She made her way down to the second row. I watched her all the way. She couldn't have found a more out-of-the-way place to sit. At the second row, she turned south and made her way past a half-dozen seats, using the seat backs and her hands to safely reach her own seat, nearly right in front of me. There was no one sitting in between the rows separating us. I continued watching, curious.

She sat down next to a rather large man, wearing (like many others) a P&C hat. He was turned at a diagonal to her, facing more to the pitching mound, than the outfield, thus his back turned in part to her. He had done nothing to acknowledge her arrival. She laid her head on his back/shoulder when she sat down, resting from her exertion. He did not seem to notice. However, it wasn't as if his inattention was due to his concentration on the game. He sat and he looked about, this way and that, but never toward her. She lifted her head off his back. One row behind them was another woman, a relative? She and the woman talked back and forth a bit. I continued to observe this scene off and on until they left. The woman who I assumed to be the man's wife, would rub his back, pat his shoulder affectionately, and occasionally squeeze his arm. Now and then he would half turn his head toward her, but I never saw him say anything to her. It did not seem to me that this inattention was the result of anger or some simmering dispute, but rather ... what? ... indifference? lack of care? lack of love? mere inability to in any way be empathic? complete self-absorbtion? I don't know.

They left part way through the ninth inning. Perhaps it was necessary to leave early to give her a "head start" on the departing crowd. She called to their son, "C'mon Mike, it's time to go, let's go honey." Mike, seven or eight years of age, was predictably disappointed to be leaving before the end of the game. "Awwwww, mom, " and he dropped his head and smacked his hand into his large ball glove several times as he moved towards the aisle. She threw a bag over one shoulder, a bag that looked like a family bag, one she had likely packed herself--but for them--and with the cane hooked over one arm, began the climb out of the 100-level area, her husband leading the way, empty-handed.

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

deep archives

2005-08-02T12:46:00.000Z

from Jumper Cynthia O. (c.1970):

Wonderous hole! Magical hole! Dazzingly influential hole! Noble and effulgent hole! From this hole everything follows logically: first the blogger, then the post, then for years and years and years until death, a way of life. It is all logic, and she who lives by the hole will live also by its logic. It is, appropriately, logic with a hole in it.

[Note: this post was subsequently modified and published in "The Hole/Birth Catalog." Eds.]

--everyone needs a hole to call their own.

my god, i'm a god

2005-07-30T18:50:00.000Z

I took my fully restored Shelby Cobra out on the road today. It's blue with white accents. It's got kick-ass written all over it, and it sounds like it will swallow you whole.

I'd like to say I spent years restoring it myself, but that's not the case. I bought it from some poor schmuck who toiled over the restoration for years, then lost the car in a divorce. I hate to cash in on someone else's misery, but .. why not? If not me, then who? The car was a steal. Plus, since I'm already divorced, I don't have to worry about any communal property problem down the road. But, yeah, this car is like my baby. I don't take it out to drive unless the roads are completely dry, the sun is out, and it's warm. Up here, that's a half-dozen times per year. Then only on planned routes that have the proper road surface (no loose gravel, pot holes, or tar, etc.). The rest of the time it's garaged with a tarp over it. I keep a few mouse traps at the ready, too, just to make sure nothing gets chewed up on the inside. I've never taken the car to a show, because the fingerprints and dumbfucks are too much to handle. Some days, I just go out in the garage and sit and look at this car. It's that beautiful.

I've waited nearly all my life for this car. I deserve it. I've worked hard. When I go out on the road, it's like I'm a god. Heads turn, people stare. The envy is palpable. I've got to admit, I've never felt so cool, so together, so ... desirable. And who needs Viagra when you've got a cobra with which to strike! I'm practically frigg'n immortal behind the wheel of this baby.

Z: last hurrah (no)

2005-07-29T15:41:00.000Z

Z's trademark glasses have been taken away. He's been sentenced by the Hon. Howard Carson Small.

[Judge Small, with aspirations to the highest court in the state, is "paying his dues" on the family court bench in Littletown, Colorado, biding his time until his true stature is given recognition in a position worthy of his political connections and lifestyle. What drudgery it must be to sit in judgment on the likes of Z and the many other poor souls who have the misfortune to find themselves in family court! Do I sound negative? Okay, I am negative].

Judge Small was evidently unimpressed with my plea for leniency in sentencing Z, a plea grounded largely upon Z's mental illness and the practical problems associated with being mentally ill and adrift in society. The People's picture of Z, painted by the CA in broad strokes and false colors, is the picture that has controlled events surrounding sentencing. Z needed someone to speak up for him, someone other than a lawyer or an arms-length acquaintance. He needed an "expert" who could have addressed the court with the requisite credibility on issues of mental illness. Unfortunately, Z had no money for an expert. His life and his problems, styled by The People in a quick "gloss" of hyperbole, were dogmatically reduced to terms of art for ease of digestion by the machinery of the system.

He is sentenced to serve two years in the state correction system. After central processing, I am told he will be shipped to San Carolos, a prison facility that deals specifically with patients having psychiatric "problems." In the meantime, his other pending legal problems will grind on in bleak, Dickensian fashion--in his absence.

Z has insisted that I share his story with you. I have invited him to continue to contribute here, as he is able, and in what ever manner possible.

-- everyone needs a hole to call their own.

Z:nah nah nah nah life goes on

2005-07-27T12:37:00.000Z

The judge looked around the table, like anything else? Ricky pointed in my direction, nodding his head to the judge. "Well, counselor?"

I turned my affidavit-face to the judge and began talking about Z. I mentioned a few things about my involvement in the matter, and so forth, before addressing the CA's remarks.There were several factual distortions (over-the-top-spin on the facts by the CA, as well as outright false statements) made by The People.

I pointed out that Z was not the established father of six children. There were two paternity suits still pending that had been filed--(coincidentally) when word that Z had won the private island was announced. Z had never met these women. His only fault was that he had thus far been unable to vigorously contest the issues in court. This was due in part to his inability to hire or find a lawyer, and in part to his mental illness. The remaining four children were the result of two failed marriages. Z had in fact visited regularly with one set of children until the mother had withheld visitation, citing his mental instability and the children's safety for cutting off his parental rights. Z attempted to challenge her position in court, again without counsel, but failed to win back his rights. The other mother had simply disappeared with the children, in violation of the order of visitation by the court. As for the criminal charges against Z, there were just that: charges. He had not been convicted. He maintained his innocence, and I felt that he would be exonerated of any wrongdoing with regard to the allegations contained in the criminal complaint.

I acknowledged that Z had responsibilities and that he had not entirely lived up to his responsibilities. However, when his actions were viewed in the context of his mental illness--as they should be--what became obvious in an otherwise complicated story was his difficulty in obtaining adequate mental health services, including medications to help control his mental illness, which in turn affected his decision making processes, and the unavailability of legal counsel to help him navigate and deal with the various petitions that had been filed against him--two of which now appeared to have been filed fraudulently. I argued that all of these factors came into play in this case and should be fairly taken into account in sentencing and determing in what manner justice is best served. The simple answer might be to lock him up, but the more just response required consideration of the entire range of circumstances that gave rise to situation. Indeed, all the outrageous factors described by The People, even when adjusted for accuracy, clearly depict an individual outside the "norms" of society. This begged the question as to Why? And, if the court was willing to give consideration to the Why, to all the factors that had a role in shaping, limiting, and even forcing decisions by Z, I believed the court would conclude that incarceration is not justice in this case. Nor would incarceration serve the interests of The People, because incarceration would not serve the interests of Z's family--whose interests The People claimed to represent. I threw in a couple of points about Z needing the right supports and services to help him make more appropriate decisions, work successfully, etc., although I had no idea whether Z had any real interest or ability to even cooperate in any kind scheme to "re-invent" him--as he would likely say.

The judge had a couple of short questions. Maggie looked irritated. Ricky kept glancing at the clock. The judge said, thank you. The meeting broke up.

Ob la di, ob la da.

Sentencing is scheduled for the 28th.

pigeon break

2005-07-26T16:40:00.000Z

Saturday night I broke a pigeon out of a trap in my neighbor's backyard. The frigg'n bird had been in there all afternoon, flapping around, trying to get out. Poor bastard. I dislike pigeons immensely, but ... poor bastard.

At first I had thought: I'll call the neighbor and say, hey, you've got a pigeon in the trap out back. shall I let it out? (They're an elderly couple and don't venture out until the heat of the day has dissipated). Then I remembered, or thought the wife had told me, that the guy who picks up the traps takes them out of the area and releases the creatures--except for pigeons. I was pretty sure she had told me that he simply kills the pigeons. "They're such a nuisance!" she had pointed out to me. (They can be a nuisance, but I had never seen more than a few beneath the bird feeder in their yard, scavaging for leftovers--live and let live, I thought).

So, I waited until late, almost 11 p.m., after all their lights had gone out and they were likely asleep, before I made my strike. I stood in the corner of my yard near a bush, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then I crept into their yard. I found the cage door and lifted it up, then moved my other hand to the rear of the cage to encourage the bird's exit. It kept walking back and forth in front of the open door. I almost had to shake it out of the cage.

The next morning I wondered what the neighbors would make of the fact that the bird had disappeared. I stepped out back to survey the scene next door.

The trap was sitting there--with another (or the same?) pigeon in it.

This poses a serious dilemma.

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

Z: what the people said

2005-07-20T10:59:00.000Z

"Very impressive," I remarked dutifully. The judge sat back, surveying the room for a moment, then turned his attention back to the table and the topic at hand. He flipped open a file that lay in front of him on the table. "So, we're here to discuss misterrr ... uhhhh, Z's psychological status? Is that correct Misturh Lyons?"

Before Ricky could even open his mouth, Maggie seized the opening. In fact, I thought she was going to jump to her feet, but instead she simply sat back in her chair and with one long, thin finger pointed at the stack of files at her side, saying, "Judge, we are all too familiar with Mr. Z's psychological status. He is the father of six children by six different women, none of whom he has ever supported in any way financially. Nor is there a single shred of evidence that he has ever been any kind of a father to any of his children. Most of whom he's never even seen."

I sat there, the cat that swallowed the canary. Maggie was playing right into my hand. I waited, hopeful. She continued, now leaning forward, zeroing in, her fine, expressive hands pointedly coming into play, as her voice began to rise. Her personal disdain for the Z creature almost palpable.

"Furthermore, there's very little evidence to suggest anything other than deliberate indifference to his family obligations since there is no reason why he should not be able to earn some money working and thereby support his family ... er, families." She gestered at the pile with a two-handed shrug, like what-the-fuck? "While Mr. Z has been cavorting on a private island and engaging in shady and evidently illegal business enterprises, the People of Colorado have been supporting his family. What's more this court has repeatedly been forced to issue a warrant for Mr. Z's failure to appear to be held accountable for his actions." Then, more calmly, again, "The People remain firm in their contention that Mr. Z is a flagrant violator of the law and should be punished accordingly--and--to the full extent allowed by the law." She looked around the table. Her eyes were very blue, even earnest.

I let her words hang in the air for a minute, in the silence that followed. She had a lot of ammunition in those files. Yeah, she had barely even scratched the surface of Z's pathetic life. The conviction in her delivery of the words made them sharp enough to cut, but they nevertheless sounded as overused in her role as the CA as a dull razor blade.

My hopes of saving Z from jail time remained alive, but then ... I've underestimated the humanity of humanity more than once.

[cont'd]

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

Z: the rec room

2005-07-20T09:52:00.000Z

Judge Small greeted Maggie warmly, and suggested that we all move into the "rec room" (or at least that's what I thought he had said). I turned as the judge walked past me and saw an archway in the back corner of the office leading to another room. I noticed Maggie give Ricky a wink, and wondered what that was about. This was my first opportunity to observe this side of Judge Small's office. There were dinosaur type things scattered about here and there: several posters on the walls of various dinosaurs, some "fossil" looking things on shelves, and a large egg-shaped rock on the floor. I supressed the urge to see if I could get it to roll with my foot.

We followed Judge Small into the "rec room." I stepped through the door and stopped dead in my tracks. Hovering over one end of a modest sized conference table, was a giant cardboard T-Rex. It was in the classic t-rex pose: mouth hanging open with lots of long sharp teeth exposed, roaring its head off. I say it was "giant" size, but it probably was somewhat smaller than a life-size t-rex. The Rex on display was, however, the largest that possibly could have fit into the room, standing--and it was an old courthouse office, with very high ceilings. The judge sat down in front of, sort of beneath, the Rex. All around the room were smaller dinosaurs painted on the walls, and at the far end of the room, opposite the judge, a jungle scene depicting various creatures evidently scrambling to get away from the T-Rex behind the judge.

It was pretty hard to miss the symbolism of it all.

Yeah, the Rex Room.

I sat down, still looking around, before turning to the judge. He was looking directly at me, smiling.

The Rex.

[cont'd]

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

Z: the CA's rep

2005-07-19T00:59:00.000Z

There was one other person in the Judge's chambers with us: the representative from the County Attorney's office.

I had met her outside chambers, in the hallway, as Rickey and I stood waiting for the Judge. I was expecting someone from the CA to show up, but had not yet mentioned this to Ricky, when a thin woman turned the corner at the hall's end, clutching several legal size folders with both arms. She was clearly in a hurry. That alone may have given me pause to casually observe her for a moment, but there was something else about her that prompted additional scrutiny. I wouldn't have said at the time that it was one thing or the other that captured my attention, but looking back on it I would say it was her walk. She closed the distance between us rapidly, moving quickly, but with short, choppy steps, as if she were trying to keep her shoes on as she struck a bee-line to our spot. Her frizzled blonde curly hair added to the effect of speed and purpose, sort of blown out and back as if she had just dismounted from a speeding motorcycle before rushing into the courthouse. She ground to a stop front of us and, as she did so, several curly strands of hair from each side of her head were propelled by the sheer physics of the act to the front of her face, which she quickly brushed aside with a long, slender hand.

She looked directly at Ricky, and the first words out her mouth were: your guy's a fuck up, you know. So what the hell is this all about?

Ricky nodded in my direction.

She turned and stuck her hand out to me, saying: Maggie (something), and then added, before I had a chance to respond--And you would be?

[cont'd]

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

armchair perfectionist

2005-07-18T12:40:00.000Z

People who think me a perfectionist don't realize that I strive every day to draw just one single straight line--my only aid, a bent ruler.

--Everyone needs a hole to call their own.

Z: a small matter

2005-07-17T11:26:00.000Z

What a week! I drove out to Colorado to see what I could do to help Z. (he called and pleaded with me; what could I say?) I'm afraid to fly and would never take a train, so I had to drive: sixty-one hours there and back; over 33 hundred miles rountrip. My ass was busted. What's more, I may as well have stayed put for all the good I was able to do.

Z had already been arraigned on the warrant in Littletown Family Court (ironically) before Judge Small. Upon my arrival in town, I made haste to locate Z's attorney and advocate for a meeting with the Judge before sentencing.

The Hon. Howard Carson Small is, in fact, rather short. We met in chambers. He stood to greet me as I entered his office. I immediately noted his clothes, which were very expensive. He had small, expressive hands, with well-manicured nails that always seemed on display above the crisp cuffs of his well-starched white shirt. His thick dark hair was combed straight back and neatly trimmed around the corners and edges. His face sported a ready (but dangerous?) smile on thin lips wedged between a clean shaven chin and a rather prominent nose. In all, he had the confident demeanor of a man who knows his star is on the rise.

I attended the meeting with Z's court appointed lawyer, Richard Lyons, who insisted I call him "Ricky." (Could anyone blame me for thinking, Little Ricky? And, how would you feel about putting your life in the hands of a lawyer named Ricky?) It appears that Ricky was in the courtroom when Z was arraigned on the warrant, so the Judge asked him to accept the case. That's the very simple story of how Z obtained counsel to handle his legal problems. In the end, however, it may not have made much difference who represented Z, as was evident from his family court history and his presentence report, he had dug himself a very deep hole indeed. Ricky was nothing more than a prop, window dressing, to make the whole thing go down a little smoother--because Z was going to be sentenced to jail time, there was no question about that. We were only in chambers with the judge, at my insistence (with Ricky), to discuss Z's psychological status.

[to be cont'd]