Serendipity & the Aroma of Cigars

Over all a very good weekend landing in the unexpected and the unknown no matter how mundane it may sound, these kinds of serendipitous events truly make life worth living.

Saturday night had dinner in Glenferrie at the local hotel. A wonderful meal of Baby Quail and mashed potatoes mixed with basil & other herbs, washed down with an incredible Australian Cabernet Sauvignon. The décor of the pub is typical for Melbourne, that is to say, most of our buildings’ retain their 19th century New Gothic style, yet the insides of the building can be anything from nineties Minimalist, fifties Art Deco to Eastern Persian and Seventies Garish. The Glenferrie has maintained the exterior as New Gothic and has refurbished their bar and rooms eclectically, meaning, combining modernist clean lines with comfortable lush furniture; bookshelves crammed with old books can be seen in many places throughout the hotel including ‘live’ fireplaces and the smells of fine cooking, burning wood and an undefinable air of the old world.

After a terrific meal, walked the main thoroughfare, and for a Saturday night, as Glenferrie is a University town, the space brimmed with life.

On the corner of Burwood and Glenferrie road used to stand the State Bank. Only in the last few months has it morphed into an interesting new fashion establishment in Melbourne, The Cigar Lounge.

As you walk into this seeming ‘institution’ from times past, the smell of fine cigars and expensive liquor pervade as the lighting comes from only tasteful lamps beside quality leather chairs and couches. The place is dark but not so dark where actual seeing is a problem.

Shown to my seat, a leather couch with a view of the busy road, the dark and brooding waitress handed me a menu of perhaps, every cigar available in Australia. The menu contained literally hundreds of brands and types, including the famous Cuban, selling for $59…for one.

Finally decided that the proprietor should recommend, describing that my taste is akin to a thin cigar though stronger a bigger in size.

My attractive, dark and brooding waitress returned with the subject in question; along with an expensive Brandy that I’ll only drink on special occasions. (This seemed to be one of those occasions.) She lit the cigar for me and I breathed in the smoke, feeling its benefits and aroma; then tasting my expensive Brandy, the entire experience combined to settle my soul into pure hedonistic pleasure. The quiet jazz in the background, the hush of conversation, and pleasure of the brandy and special cigar all said to enjoy the moment.

Once finishing my cigar and lovely brandy, decided to have one more drink, as the couple in front of me happened to be celebrating their twentieth anniversary, and obviously wanted to share their marital successes with me. (I really have know idea why…)

The night ended.

Daylight Savings has begun, in the Southern Hemisphere, the start of long summer nights.

Taking a right turn instead of a left, entering the Cigar Bar, truly made my night.

I enjoy this atmosphere and hope to do it once again.

Overall, a great weekend.

The Hot and the Cold...

It has been extremely hot in Melbourne over the last few days though today the temperature dropped, significantly, and we are back to sweaters and coats. Even after living in this great city for over twenty years, the change in the weather, sometimes “four seasons in one day” has always and continues to astound me.

For many reasons I love cold weather: an excuse, really, to remain inside, watching old movies, reading a good novel or simply cuddling by the fire with the one you love.

My father was the exact opposite. He loathed cold weather, particularly the snow, even more specifically, driving in it. The man would go into a depression after summer, becoming darker and darker as winter approached. In a word, the weather dictated his emotional state.

In his last years he lived in Southern California and Atlanta Georgia; obviously for the reasons stated above.

For me, however, summer is one long tortuous season, the heat rising, matching my change in personality. The hotter it gets, the crazier I get; and at one hundred degrees, I’ve morphed into Hannibal Lecter, seeking out his next victim.

On the other side of this spectrum, in cool or cold weather, I’m happy, kind, funny and quite comfortable with the world.

In the 19th century, some intellectuals believed that climate dictated culture. This was, of course, an excuse, a justification, really, for the British to “civilize” those in hotter climates, like India, for example, and believe they were more highly evolved as they lived in cooler climates. We know this theory to be preposterous now, but reflecting on my own behaviour, during hot and cool climates, there seems to be a little credence to this theory.

On another note, this week would have to be in the top ten of all time worst weeks in my life. What ever could go wrong did go wrong and felt to get worse towards the end of the week. The weather all week was deathly hot, and by Friday, turned wonderfully cold.

Could this be merely a coincidence?

Today is Friday, a cold wind blows outside and I’m wearing a thick sweater, and I’m feeling absolutely brilliant!

Strange.

Intellectual Snobery

As a “Blogger’, a writer of BLOGS & various other so-called projects, one has a tendency to read other “writers” BLOGS, to see what they’re up to; how they are fairing on their particular projects, their lives and so on.

For the published writers, their BLOGS are mostly a tool of self-promotion, pushing their various “zines” (E-mags) and their newest published works.

Considering the publishing trade, self-promotion is the nature of the beast.

Some writer’s such as Neil Gaiman, for example, has a popular following but he will never trash his fellow writers…bad move, lady, and highly inappropriate.

This particular writer in question, shamelessly presented emails of people praising her work and, at the same time, shamelessly hung crap on “popular” writers which obviously she felt superior to.

Because she writes a “sub-genre”, so-called “Lovecraftian” tales, she is somehow above the fray? Please, I have read your work; good at creating atmosphere, but you are repetitive.

Sorry darling…popular work such as Koontz is entertaining and bloody sells.

Again, you are displaying your insecurities, as one’s readers can be anyone.

Your influences, after reading your short stories are extremely derivative, trying, really, too damn hard, to write like Lovecraft or Poe…

My message is this, don’t hang crap on other writers, no matter if their successful or not. Or have you missed the boat: Shakespeare and Bart Simpson are in a popularity contest…and Bart is winning.

The world is much bigger than you are!

Image from: futurism-aint-shit.blogspot.com/2004_12_01_fu...

"Any Day Above Ground is a Good Day."

A beautiful spring day with sunshine and leisurely cool breezes maintaining the over all temperature at a very comfortable level.

Spent the afternoon correcting Year 12 exams to discover the vast majority had done quite well. It is only three weeks for their state-wide examinations; there are technically no more classes; however I’ll be conducting small group tutorials right up the end. These groups have been traditionally small depending on the student’s comfort level with the material or their shooting for an above average mark and want to achieve an edge. I’m pretty confident that they’ll do well on the exams. We’ll just have to wait and see…fingers crossed.

Looking through my bills today and came to discover my car insurance had lapsed, and have been driving around for a week in an uninsured vehicle. It is now paid and we’re safe. An accident, even a minor one costs a lot of money, a potential catastrophe to say the least.

My novel has been stalled for months, avoiding chapter 15 like the plague. Well I can now report that there has been a breakthrough, and if persistent, I can actually finish the manuscript in about a month. This will be a major accomplishment and a relief, as it had become the proverbial ‘monkey on the back’ for a few years now. There is an end in sight. It is a rather large novel, sitting at over 80,000 words with at least another 10,000 to wrap the tale up. I think I’ve mentioned this before but the book is a supernatural story concerning the main character’s revelation as to his true identity. Overall a very strange tale and one I should think (hopefully) will entertain the reader.

While working today with the headphones on listening to a haunting track: Samuel Barber’s Adagio for strings, performed by the Philharmonia Orchestra. It is a moving piece with tremendous amount of pathos, touching the soul. Also listening to Diana Krall’s “The Look of Love” one of her better albums.

I can feel the idea for a short story creeping into consciousness and if I get a good sleep, the story should come to me in the morning.

Overall a productive day and as my friend continues to tell me, “Any day above ground is a good day.”

I believe she’s right on that one.

Early Memories & the Moon

My first image in this life is sitting on the bumper of my father’s car and feeling the heat smart on the back of my legs. I look up at my father at his charming smile, the loving feeling of his arm around me, and his handsome face staring forward at the camera. Despite the heat from the car burning my legs, something tells me to endure the pain and let the picture be taken.

The next memory is looking down at mounds of hot, dry dirt. Adults are sitting around in lawn chairs, laughing and drinking. The smell of the earth brings on feelings of home – I’m no-longer afraid – throwing handfuls above my head, making mud, absolutely recognizing that this will be as good as it gets. Dirt is real; it has smell, texture and is the core of everything – this is the first time feeling that I belonged in this world and that it was okay to be here… living.

Scanning memory again, a blue carpet and tiny bits of white particles manifest across my line of vision. The carpet burns my knees. I hear my name being called out, and seeing a glass brought down to my level, I crawl towards it and take a sip. The drink tasted strange but delicious as I peer up into the glass at the white bubbles, smelling the liquids bitterness as it travels up my nose, a wonderful sensation.

No matter how hard I try to remember the little things between the darkness, it is much later, on an airplane, looking out the window at the white clouds and below, the perfect square lines and shades the colour green. There was no fear whatsoever, but a true excitement that we were actually among the blue and white, flying in the sky.

Memory turns to flashes now, except for the nightmares.

Attempting to re-create these terrible visions in sleep, as a small child is difficult. Are they true recollections of dreams or something else?

We forget how lonely a small child’s existence can be: left in the cot for most of the morning, hungry and waiting. My trick was to jump up and down like a professional trampolinest; this action would most certainly bring mother to make my breakfast. The window was right next to my bed, thus I could jump higher and higher, up and down, seeing the apartment building across the alleyway. I remember it being a queer sensation, a perception of “now you see it, now you don’t.” At night, above the building hung a beautiful, glowing light. As I watched it turn whiter and move closer to me, this vision, this incredible orb, had to be mine for the taking. Why would this wonderful light disappear in the morning? Later, I was caught at my bouncing antics and my little bed moved to the other side of the room, to ensure my small body did not end up on the concrete, three stories below.

It was only much later that it dawned on me that the moon could never be mine.

The Unfortunate & Courageous

Courage is one of the major virtues.

Born in circumstances that will influence his place in the world, without proper guidance, this twelve year old boy doesn’t have a chance.

How does such a young lad deal with one’s parents that never give him the time of day?

When one’s mother and father have no interest in you, ignore your emotional & physical well being, because they cannot take care of themselves; this boy is considered damaged goods, his life at twelve, has no boundaries, fixing his own lunch everyday, and worrying about being late for school, because both his parents are asleep due, I expect, from their own self indulgences, lost in their self inflicted hell.

But the boy has courage.

While the twelve year old young man struggles to do the right thing everyday, he fights back with inappropriate behaviour: bad language, bullying all and sunder, struggling with his work. This boy is one who has fallen through the cracks of the system, nothing major like sexual cruelty or physical abuse, (as far as we know) just simple, silent… neglect.

This interesting student has moved through the system, undetected, the so-called professionals through out his school life; failed, obviously not taking the time to help this bright though broken soul.

Thus the boy is now with us…and doing better.

We are focusing on his needs; a specialist school, perhaps, something that will help this soul realize the better angels of his nature. But he is a boy, and boys require boundaries; however the little bugger manages to avoid restraint, though restraint is what is absolutely required.

Needless to say, although illiterate and a tested low IQ, he is a charming lad, learning the basics as he goes along… but with a mouth of a drunken sailor.

These are the children that end up breaking my heart.

His parents are very aggressive, intimidating any teacher that rings to express their concern. We, the system, are the problem; they’re victims, believing the world is the cause of all their strife; while the young lad, cops it all…alone.

He fronts up everyday, open, funny, with no pen, paper or text book.

The little man has courage, a Front that gets him through the day, he needs to learn to read and write, practice restraint, and, perhaps, a good meal occasionally.

We all need to pay more attention.

Dreaming Away

Woke to my alarm clock registered (enough decibels to raise the dead) for terrorist attack or a nuclear explosion.

The problem is that, for the most part, it takes this kind of alarming sound at full volume to bring me back to consciousness after a long sleep. All through my life, sleep and dreams have always been deep, sometimes reaching the depths of the comatose, sleeping through 4pt to 6pt earthquakes while living in California through the eighties. The apartment coming down around us as my girlfriend at the time, panicked and, as always, dramatising the event like a B-grade actor in a lame seventies film.

Once awake, though, the soul comes alive, and no matter what the hell is happening, self-preservation prevails, scrambling outside while paintings fall off the walls and the ceilings begin to crack. Though my girlfriend was, and probably still is, a drama queen, if she didn’t wake me that morning, I’d have slept through the entire earth-shaking affair.

Remembering a most chilling incident, house-sitting for my boss with my girl friend, shaken awake to a terrified whisper….

“There’s someone in the house.”

Crawling on the floor in the dark, peering around the corner, not seeing anything at first then, a shadow, and the sound of boots on the linoinian floor of the kitchen…there was not only one person in the house but two or perhaps three.

The kitchen is next to the door to the garage, where my boss, an amateur carpenter, had tools to the worth of thousands.

Crawling again to the front window, their truck was parked outside, as these thieves conveniently stacked my boss’s tools in their vehicle, casually and without fear.

My girlfriend was already on the phone talking to a 911 operator:

“Alright darling, don’t panic! What ever you do, please stay on the phone. Now, tell me your address. Good girl, tell me what is happening now?”

“But we have children in the house! You need to come now, please…”

Watching through the corner on the floor on hands and knees, I could see they were satisfied with their takings. The smaller one of the three, said something that was just out of earshot, but it sounded like,

“Let’s have some fun.”

These thieves a coven of criminals all laughed and it was at that moment that my stomach decided to reject everything that had been put into it in the last 24 hours.

While retching, I heard: “ON THE GROUND!”

One of the threesome attempted a getaway over the back fence, hitting it hard, ending up on the ground, handcuffed.

The sound of him smashing against the fence, an extremely loud scrambling bang, at that point I knew that it was finally over.

Interestingly and thankfully, the two young children, aged two and four, slept through the entire harrowing experience.

My boss’s tools were saved and his children were safe, but the question always remains:

What if my girlfriend hadn’t been there at the time?

Would I have slept through the entire ordeal, possibly causing, inadvertently, something terrible, an event much more sinister?

In fact, this is useless speculation, the pointless “what if’s” of a past event.

Sleep is a wondrous, natural and necessary aspect of our lives, mine, unfortunately or otherwise, is all consuming…

Thus I continue to put the alarm at nuclear or terrorist mode because it would be a shame to miss life while sound asleep…dreaming away.

Greek Food, James, Wittgenstein and Kafka Review

The weekend has been good in so many ways and not so in other more personal matters.

A friend and I had dinner on Saturday night in Collingwood, an old section of Melbourne at a famous Greek restaurant that has been in business for 30 years. The restaurant did not have one empty table and our old Greek waiter’s accent thick and authentic. As I’m not familiar with the Greek dishes, naming them all would be impossible. However we started with a fried cheese dish which was absolutely gorgeous followed by a spicy selection of King Prawns. My favourite of the night was the thinly sliced lamb and onions, and to be honest, should be considered the best lamb on the planet. We washed these beautiful dishes down with a moderately priced Cabernet, served in small cups and two carafes’ of ice water. We finished the meal with two cups of Greek coffee which is known to be quite thick and flavourful.

The night was cool though not cold and the city was teeming with people.

Currently reading “Wittgenstein and William James by Russell B. Goodman: the piece is a philosophical analysis comparing the thoughts and connections of these two great philosophers. It is well known that Wittgenstein had few books on his shelf, Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov and William James’ The Variety of Religious Experience. Wittgenstein mentioned at least twice that this book helped him in many ways, as he considered James to be a real Human Being. I suppose one should be familiar with James’ Pragmatism & Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus to really appreciate Goodman’s arguments, however, I’m finding the book extremely worthwhile.

In the afternoon watched a somewhat lame horror film on cable, “Darkness”, that was extremely slow in the beginning and the end, convoluted and vague. The film seemed to have so much potential to then fall apart.

Finally completed my short story, “A Spit in the Wind’, about an older woman’s endless attempts at finding love, only to attract vulgar men who never seem to grow up. In the end, decided against publishing the piece on this BLOG, as the story could well be misconstrued by those familiar with my personal life.

As I’ve been reading Kafka’s diaries, (see last BLOG entry) and have been for some time now, wrote a review of the book on Amazon.com, bringing my total reviews to 340…Onwards and upwards and never look back.

Note: Image is of the Philosopher William James
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A Writer's Writer

My last entry will never be published because the innocent, old, sick and unaware, would never understand.

This reminds me of great writers of the 19th and 20th century who, knowing they were about to leave this earth, stacked their writings of a lifetime upon a grand fire, destroying the evidence of a life lived.

Destroying primary historical sources (as a teacher of history) is like killing the one you love, an act of insanity; the secret remains a secret, and will remain so forever.

There are certain details of one’s life that should never be revealed, as this certain information, for some, will and can cause great harm, at least on a social level.

As a writer, writing for writing sake, is a central target of social gossip, entertainment, food for the crowd, which, in the end, will have no positive use.

In no way comparing myself to this man, Franz Kafka’s diaries were never meant to be published. Yet his diaries are spread across the internet, the actual published diaries in their 10th or 11th printing. These dairies are very personal, and the gentle Prague Jew would certainly be appalled.

Why do we continue to find these writings so fascinating?

Well, simply, they’re terribly honest. Kafka never meant for these diary entries to be published, let alone read by another person. For those interested in the mechanics and soul of writing, Kafka’s diaries are a source of true wonder. A confessional of a gentle soul, a man trapped in an insurance job, staying up through the night writing his heart-out, his thoughts, pains and acute observations of a time of great change, cruelty and oppression in Europe.

When reading Kafka, there is an overwhelming darkness, loneliness, a strong shadow that continually hovered around him, a “something” he tried to rid himself of but never, in his short life, accomplished.

Kafka’s life story is a tragedy. A painful experience as one, sometimes, can feel his self consciousness, that subtle pain at the back of the neck, when, you know, you’re being stared at…

I’ve attempted to read Kafka’s diaries many times, and only now, for some reason, can withstand the pain of his perceptions, his precarious relationship with his father, and the few women he loved from afar.

Kafka is a man that loved writing for writing’s sake, an artist who experimented daily, till dawn most nights, to pick up his little brief case and begin his work as an insurance assessor. ( A bureaucratic hell if one reads his novels.)

Kafka’s writing was for the act itself without pretension or gradious dreams, an act of instinct, pure and natural.

Weather, Writers, Writing, Dore & The French Revolution

It is a clear crisp afternoon, the sun bright though the air remains cool and the steady breeze from the North West causes the chimes outside to perform their calming, at times, hypnotic song.

Discovered an entire network of SF, Horror and Fantasy writers, published poets and novelists that communicate through their respective “live journals”, commenting, criticising, encouraging, revealing current projects – all have a viewpoint on the creative/writing process; and as BLOG writer’s, continue to keep all informed about their day to day lives.

Contrary to the popular belief that a novelist is a Romantic figure, living for their art form and meeting extraordinary people, that a writer is somehow different to the rest of us mere mortals, could not be more from the truth. It is difficult work requiring a tremendous amount of discipline. One of my favourite writer’s BLOG, one who has been compared to Edgar Allen Poe or H.P. Lovecraft, has had a terrible week, describing the writing process as tedious. Granted, she has a lot going on, an on-line magazine where she writes most of the “vignettes’” and a collaboration with another writer on a story that continues to expand, and, of course, the day to day grind of her current novel. The poor woman has not taken a day off in months and is currently toying with the idea. I guess what I’m attempting to describe is that writing for a living is no cake walk.

My short story in my last entry, “The Consequences of a Dabbler”, was an interesting exercise from the writer’s perspective. I had a day off from school last week, because of a heavy migraine the night before; feeling much better by 2 that afternoon, and decided to write a short story within the length limit of 1200 words. I had no idea what the story was going to be about; sitting down at the computer, letting the mind clear, and the words began to flow. I love the works of the 19th century artist and illustrator, Gustave Dore. He illustrated Dante’s Inferno and Milton’s Paradise Lost. Dore’s drawings are truly captivating, and the image from Milton’s Paradise Lost came to mind of the Arch Angel Michael, expelling the rebellious angels from Heaven. Having this image in the minds eye, the story almost seemed to write itself. It’s an average story; however, the big win was checking the word count at the tales end to find it just under 1200 words.

The work week ahead involves reviewing the French Revolution with my Year 12 class. We’ve been immersed all semester in the Russian Revolution, thus the task is not an easy one. I also have to re-write their final test on the Russian Rev as last years is not up to standard. There is only a few weeks left before they sit their state-wide exams, determining their fates as to any future in the world of Academia. Australian standards are quite high, thus the stress that the serious student experiences at this time of year borders on the tortuous.

Despite everything, I’m bound and determined to work on my novel this week as it is seriously close to the end. Discipline, discipline and more discipline…

Emotional State: Determined, Anxious & Hopeful

Note: Above illustration is Gustave Dore’s interpretation of Poe’s “The Raven”

The Consequences of a Dabbler

The wind is currently whipping through the garden while the full moon brightens the night as if searching out a victim. There is a feeling of ‘presence’ in the hallway, waiting, watching, ready to pounce.

Caroline is sitting on the dining room chair, gazing into her crystal, divining the spirits of the night; her ignorance of the powers of the ‘other’, the intense psychological damage that can be wrought, could have dire consequences.

This young girl is a dabbler of the Black Arts. Having read only a few New Age books on the subject of Magic, her adolescent pride, a deceptive confidence, leads her to believe she can become a witch, possessing great power to wield at her whim.

The ‘presence’ in the hallway grows and an outline of darkness begins to materialize.

Caroline has her new book open to the page on demons, a list of names, Mammon, Lucifer, Beelzebub and Satan, and begins to shout their names out loud, her arms extended, her palms pointing to the sky.

In her dangerous unawareness, she believes the Fallen One’s will help her to exact revenge on her once best friend, Rebecca, who merely kissed her boyfriend on the night of the school dance. They had been childhood friends since Primary School, going on excursions, having sleep over’s, playing with dolls and sharing each other’s secrets. In high school they were known as the Blondie Twins as they were never seen apart, “Best friends forever” was their pact, though this “pact” was about to come to a disastrous end.

She calls upon Them to crash Rebecca’s car, but to only hurt her a little, not kill her, just cause a little physical damage.

She continues to chant their Names over and over as the candles around the room burn brighter, their flames rising to the ceiling.

“Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub & Great Mammon, come forth to serve my will and harm the one that hurt me.”

Caroline repeats this line again and again, as the “presence” in the hall looms darker, transforming from mere shadow to solid darkness.

Caroline is blissfully unaware that these so-called demons are in fact Fallen Arch Angels, banished from heaven for disobeying God…cursed to walk the earth until Judgement Day. Although the Banished One’s, continue to possess powers so great that it transcends human comprehension. One of the truly great ironies is that Satan, in the beginning one of God’s favourites, refused to bow to God’s new creation, the human being. And it has been his mission since his fall, to prove to God that man is a great mistake, thus the seven deadly sins, man’s inhumanity to man, and the evil in the world. The irony is the practitioner's of the Black Arts, Satanist, worship the Dark One who only wishes harm, tempting them to do evil, to prove his point to God, that we are not worthy to enter the gates of heaven, thus permitting His once favourite, Satan, back into His presence.

Caroline’s chanting goes on through the night into the morning. She feels exhausted yet surprisingly exhilarated at the same time.

Sleep is impossible. She then decides to take a long hot shower, maybe the shower will make me sleep, she thinks.

The hot stream of water pelting over her body finally begins to make her relax.

As she dries herself with a soft towel, the steam in the bathroom begins to dissipate and, looking at the mirror above the sink, she sees words written in a strange script, a language she doesn’t understand. Running to her desk, she grabs a pen and paper, and copies the strange script as best she can.

‘It looks like Arabic or Latin or maybe Greek.’ she ponders. All at once she has an idea:

“Ill jump on the Internet to one of those translations sites and see what I can find.”

Booting up her computer, she can feel the excitement begin to grow in her stomach.
Her hands start to shake in anticipation as she types in ‘Latin Translations’ on the Google search engine. A list of 12 sites pops into view, she chooses the first one, Ancient Language Translations, double clicks her mouse and the site almost instantly appears on the monitor.

The list is as follows: Greek, Aramaic, Egyptian, Latin, etc.

Instinctively she double clicks on Aramaic and the screen changes asking to type in the Aramaic word which will then be translated to modern English.

The message is only eight words, thus the task only takes a few minuets, and the translation reads:

“The Deed is done. Now you are mine.”

Caroline cannot take her eyes of the monitor as the excitement in her belly turns to a deep nausea. Suddenly the phone rings, giving her a fright.

“Hello”

“Caroline this is Rebecca’s mother; you need to come down to St. Vincent’s Hospital right away. Rebecca has been in a terrible accident.” The woman begins to sob, disconnecting the line.

Caroline had never felt the feeling of such intense dread in her entire life. Dressing, she jumps in her car and races to the hospital. She’s directed to the ITC unit, and walking into the room saw a group of doctors and nurses around Rebecca’s bed. One of the doctor’s, the oldest of the group, announces, “Time of death 11:38am”

Somehow thinking through shocked senses:

“I did this…I killed my friend.”

Caroline drove home in a daze, not able to cry or even feel at this point.

She enters the house and walks straight up the stairs, ignoring her mother’s calls.

When she walked into her bedroom, she immediately locked the door and, turning around sees an extremely handsome man laying on her bed with his hand behind his head wearing a sly smile. She had never in her life seen eyes so dark and penetrating.

“Who in the hell are you?! Get out of my house!”

The handsome stranger slowly lifted himself off the bed and standing up, must be more than eight or nine feet tall, his head touching the ceiling.

“Caroline my child, I performed the task you had requested. You should be pleased with the outcome.”

Caroline wanted to speak but felt that her lips had been sewed shut.

“You’re mine now, Caroline!” said the handsome stranger.

Out of the corner of the room a dark “presence”, looming, crawling towards the young girl; suddenly enveloping her entire body, the pain excruciating, her eye sight becoming darker and darker until she is in total black.

The voice of the handsome stranger calls out as if from far away.

“Good girl, Caroline. I’ll visit you from time to time, maybe in a century or two.”

Caroline’s fall into the abyss, which she knew, would last an eternity.



Ends.

Lost Love

All claim to be experts on Love, but for you to be so vain, to claim you know how I feel, what and think is absolute vanity. Seems to be that most people have an opinion, but what exactly is missing, is the ‘informed’ opinion.

You claim the tone of one’s words are so important. One’s exact living, depending who you know and how wealthy you may seem, is all that counts. How you say something is more important than what you are actually saying.

The important question is not who or where but why?

Disappointment in the so-called ‘real’ and “social” conversation, in our personal day to day lives, has turned into a Rap song on a strange cocktail of drugs and ego.

It is better to be silent than spout about something you know nothing about.

This is a state of affairs. A shared language depended on tone and feelings.

But what if these so-called “shared language”, depending on tone and feeling, suddenly change? Would you try or remain steadfast or move with how you actually feel?

Sometimes Love is about choosing between one and another.

Feeling rises like the Phoenix out of the Ashes, moving, turning towards and being honest.

The question on most people’s lips or minds is:

Do you Love me? I mean Really Love me?

When you realize that the ‘Love’ they once had for you has moved on to a different state of affairs, that they still love you, but for some act of, something, i.e., trust, boredom, what you once had together has gone and will never return.

This state of affairs is sad because the love continues but in a different form.

In the end acceptance is the key.

The last time you saw her and departed from the home, her last question from her lips was, out of the darkness of the front porch:

“Don’t be a stranger? I just didn’t want to bother you, make things worse, you know what I mean? I still love…



I just didn’t want to bother you, make things worse, you know what I mean?”

I stood at the bottom of the drive, looking up at her silhouette, as the porch light expanded behind her head and her face.

My thought: I’d love to see you and talk to you! You mean a lot to me, and I will never let that go! But can she be serious? How can we be “friends” now?

“Ok, I’ll ring or something.”

“That would be really good.”

I had to look up at the outline of light and her silhouette, turning away and walking down the stairs. Once to the car, looking back to the porch again, her position had not changed: she was open but dark, somehow in the same tone and manner, simultaneously. Open though mysterious; an enigma which millennia of deep thought & anguish would never ever decipher… would ever really know.

Driving away, her deep brown eyes continued to fill my thoughts…

How would I ever forget the feeling associated with those lovely eyes?

Time propels forward out of your control, but you know ‘this too will pass’; but in your heart of hearts, she will be forever in your dreams and thought…someone you’ll try to forget to avoid the pain, and never will.

Love is so strange because it involves so much: kindness, lust, obsession, admiration, selfishness and selflessness, and the felling that the possibility that you will never see them again is not even imaginable.

Though one’s life continues, no matter how painful one feels.

Though this is the thought that sooths while you experience the moment.

My feelings will never change but will become shrouded in time, leaving me with only a subtle flash, a split second image of your Love.

French Revolution Documentary (History Channel) Soundtrack

As a teacher of history including the Russian and French revolutions', the email from the talented Gary Pozner, (the composer of the highly acclaimed 2004 Emmy nominated soundtrack for the History Channel’s acclaimed “Russia: Land of the Tsars) requested that I listen to his soundtrack of the “French Revolution”, also produced by the History Channel, and “possibly” review the piece for Amazon.com, came as a flattering surprise.

Without hesitation, my return email communicated a resounding affirmative.

Wondering where I would find the money for the CD, ($ is tight these days), he offered to mail the CD to me from NYC. The CD arrived, and because of a variety of excuses, have not had time to listen let alone review his music.

As I sit at my computer, my headphones wrapped around my head, turned at a proper volume, we are currently listening to Track 7, The Great Terror; one can actually feel the madness as the streets of Paris literally flow with blood.

A great filmmaker once commented that a soundtrack should never rise above the story or film, stand out on its own, but contributes, as if invisible, only adding to the drama and pathos. This is Gary’s true talent; however, listening to the music without the images of the documentary, my own images conjure… imagining the guillotine at work, in some cases during the Reign of Terror for twenty-four hour shifts. In some places in France during the Terror, hundreds if not thousand of heads were removed and taken away by wooden carts like an assembly line of murder. It is true the blood literally flowed through the streets.

One of my favourite tracks is 10, “The Doomed Queen”, of course, Marie Antoinette, sitting nobly in a wooden cart on the way to the guillotine as the angry, absolutely mad and hungry mob screaming base obscenities, throwing rocks and anything they could get their hands on; the Queen, facing her death with dignity, continued to look ahead, ignoring the mob’s cries. A true aristocrat who existed in the bliss of ignorance, not knowing or even realizing her subject’s suffering. This is a very sad moment, and Pozner captures the Patho’s of this shameful event.

Rather than comment further, I’ll think about Pozner’s soundtrack for a day or two and write the review later once the entire composition has been absorbed, processed and thoroughly appreciated.

Lou & I have decided to order Italian as my sister has had a gruelling couple of days.

Because she loves the “Pepper Steak” (Italian style), and me, the restaurants famous Ravioli, a delight that will last two days; because like true Italian’s, more is never enough, and the quantities would feed a small army.

Gary’s music was not a disappointment in any sense of the word.

Gary is a true feeling composer.