20 years ago, Carl was responsible for genetically engineering a girl with narcotic blood. Now he's brought her home - and the boundaries between love and addiction are becoming increasingly blurred.
Friday, May 4, 2018
Thursday, May 3, 2018
Saturday, April 14, 2018
My Ship Sank From Beneath Me. I Find Myself Washed Onto a Terrible Cold Shore, Facing a Dismal New World.
What makes a home? If it's a single place where you keep your things and I keep my things in a few places, does that mean I have no home? Does it mean I have a home at each of those places? Even at Clutter Closet Mini Storage?
Is home where your people are... your family? Then my home is also in multiple locations. With both my step children and their families. Or whatever apartment, in whatever city Rebecca is living in and is willing to let me crash in order to not feel bad about making me a homeless vet. Is home where you spend most of your time? Then it's the barracks on Camp Robinson Arkansas where I set down my suitcases each Sunday night and from which I pack up those same bags, then load them back into my truck for the return drive to Alabama each weekend. Or is the truck itself my home since it's where I keep my most-often-used, common possessions?
Home may not actually exist for me. At the age of 50 I find that fact an unpleasant development and one I never saw coming. I thought I would be settled someplace with a nice, spacious home filled with the comforting bric-brac of a long life accumulated around me. Working in my shop while my wife worked in the kitchen or with her friends. I expected to be visited by shouting, scampering grandchildren and travelling around the country in an RV. Instead I find myself a gypsy, living out of a pair of suitcases and rolling the miles under my wheels each week like some traveling salesman. It is unbearably sad to me.
It felt like my life was a ship. I was the Captain and all my possessions were the cargo. My crew were all my family and passengers were my fiends. My ship did not always sail. In fact I often preferred it lolling at anchor is some calm safe harbor. But one day a storm came, as they often do. My ship was rocked and tossed and the chain holding me fast to the mooring strained, again, as it often had in the past. This time however, the chain broke and the ship of my life was tossed bow to stern, yawing and pitching until it began to founder. With alarming speed the ship began to take on water... debt worries, neglect, alienation of affection, loss of sexual desire, mistrust, resentment, anger... each a wave that washed over the decks and poured through the hatches. Finally my ship sank out from under me. I felt my feet leave the deck for the first time in 20 years. I flailed. I struggled to keep my head above water. I choked and grew exhausted. And, once for a desperate moment, I let my head slip below the waves. Considered letting a gun barrel rest against my temple. Just let go. You're too tired. Too cold. Just let the water pull you down.
But I didn't. Thoughts of the people who still loved me kept me treading water. And eventually I made my way toward land far in the distance. I touched bottom, struggled through the surf and collapsed on the shore of a strange, cold, dreary land all gray and dark and misty. Shivering I crawled off the rocky beach and lurched to my feet swaying and weeping.
It felt like my life was a ship. I was the Captain and all my possessions were the cargo. My crew were all my family and passengers were my fiends. My ship did not always sail. In fact I often preferred it lolling at anchor is some calm safe harbor. But one day a storm came, as they often do. My ship was rocked and tossed and the chain holding me fast to the mooring strained, again, as it often had in the past. This time however, the chain broke and the ship of my life was tossed bow to stern, yawing and pitching until it began to founder. With alarming speed the ship began to take on water... debt worries, neglect, alienation of affection, loss of sexual desire, mistrust, resentment, anger... each a wave that washed over the decks and poured through the hatches. Finally my ship sank out from under me. I felt my feet leave the deck for the first time in 20 years. I flailed. I struggled to keep my head above water. I choked and grew exhausted. And, once for a desperate moment, I let my head slip below the waves. Considered letting a gun barrel rest against my temple. Just let go. You're too tired. Too cold. Just let the water pull you down.
But I didn't. Thoughts of the people who still loved me kept me treading water. And eventually I made my way toward land far in the distance. I touched bottom, struggled through the surf and collapsed on the shore of a strange, cold, dreary land all gray and dark and misty. Shivering I crawled off the rocky beach and lurched to my feet swaying and weeping.
And why? Why did my ship sink. What was so powerful about this particular storm that it sank the ship of my life? Because my partner in life... my Admiral... my wife... opted to take another course. Choosing to follow some undeniable pull in another direction, her midlife crisis carried her away from me. It was a massive tidal wave in the form of adultery. She had become another man's woman. Time will tell if it is the worst or best thing that ever could have happened to me. For now... it seems dark and hopeless. It seems as though the world is no longer vast and the far horizon beckoning. Now it seems the world has grown small and dimly lit. It's like I've wandered off the shore, up over the gritty dunes and found myself at a train station. A long line of grey, dingy passenger cars are lined up at the platform behind a smoking steaming behemoth of a locomotive engine. Hoping it might take me home I climb aboard. The train pulls out yet I do not feel hopeful. I feel as though my destination is an even darker, more hopeless place.
My life now seems like a dismal, grey, and barren rolling landscape viewed through the dirty cracked window of a train coach compartment. I feel as though I have resorted to tapping on the walls to try and reach others in other compartments on that same train. I hear their muffled voices through the walls. I feel the the thumps and scrapes of their movements but, no matter how much I tap, or even pound on the walls I can't get their attention. I wrench the door handle to get out of the compartment. I bang on the door and shout to be let off... to be allowed to go back to where I started but no one comes... the door is locked. I am trapped on this dismal grey train... rolling through some desolate world populated only by other broken, wounded, travelling companions. Heading for some as yet unknown destination. I have even thought of breaking the window and jumping from this train... consequences be damned. Instead I fly around my compartment screaming for someone to let me off... someone to even notice I'm here. I'd settle for the comfort of another traveler to share my fear, pain and loneliness.
My life now seems like a dismal, grey, and barren rolling landscape viewed through the dirty cracked window of a train coach compartment. I feel as though I have resorted to tapping on the walls to try and reach others in other compartments on that same train. I hear their muffled voices through the walls. I feel the the thumps and scrapes of their movements but, no matter how much I tap, or even pound on the walls I can't get their attention. I wrench the door handle to get out of the compartment. I bang on the door and shout to be let off... to be allowed to go back to where I started but no one comes... the door is locked. I am trapped on this dismal grey train... rolling through some desolate world populated only by other broken, wounded, travelling companions. Heading for some as yet unknown destination. I have even thought of breaking the window and jumping from this train... consequences be damned. Instead I fly around my compartment screaming for someone to let me off... someone to even notice I'm here. I'd settle for the comfort of another traveler to share my fear, pain and loneliness.
Can the Sun Come Out and Warm My Soul?
In my dark and lonely world I have begun to try and find my way. I have stood up on shaky legs, swayed from the effects of the blows I've taken and tried to walk forward. As I stagger through this world of loneliness, pain, anger and grief I see others out of the corner of my eye. Furtive figures moving far back in the shadows and I stop, calling to them. "Please. Who are you? Can you help me? I'm lost. I want to go home."
Most dart away, leaving just swirling mist to mark their departure. Some will step timidly out into the pale gray light and approach. I reach out to them and often find that they are an illusion of smoke and light, insubstantial. Others are not what they seem. They drop their hoods and raise their faces to expose gaping jaws and sharp teeth. I back away, turning to flee farther down the broken, rocky trail... staggering and stumbling
I reach and fail to connect. I reach and then recoil. I reach and grasp only empty air. It seems so hopeless. It seems so sad, that I am doomed to wander this place alone. And just as all hope seems lost, I hear a voice.
It's small but strong. Clear and distinct but just on the edge of my hearing. I turn my head and scan the shadows, straining to see back into the dimness amongst the trees. Is that a faint glow I see? I edge into the woods, head down passing beneath and around the grasping branches. Yes. Their IS a light ahead. The voice is coming from there. Its clearer now... louder. As I approach, a clearing opens before me and in the center sits a woman, her legs tucked beneath her, dressed in a simple peasant skirt and a plain white blouse open at the throat. She sits facing away from me, staring into a small pool, watching her reflection and singing softly to herself in an angelic lilting voice. I approach and murmur a timid "Hello?" She turns and her radiant beauty strikes me like a soft velvet blow. I take an involuntary step backward. She is stunning, striking... I am rendered mute... literally dumbstruck. I stare, in awe of her. She smiles and my heart trip-hammers in my chest. She speaks, her voice soft yet strong like a whisper that seems loud because it's close to your ear. "Hello. Are you lost?"
"Y-yes." I stammer. "I am." my voice quivers on the edge of breaking.
"Come sit with me." she beckons, raising a hand, palm up, inviting me to take it.
I hesitate. "I can't." I mumble. "My hands are dirty. I'm wet and cold and I don't want to get you muddy."
Her smile widens. "Don't be silly. Come."
I shuffle forward, suddenly feeling very large and clumsy and oafish. Very aware of my grimy face and my stubbly beard... my muddy wet clothes. With a trembling hand I reach out and put mine in hers. Her warm soft hand closes around mine and she gently pulls me down beside to her. I slump, thumping down next to her and she puts her other hand to my cheek. "You're okay now. I've found you." Her smiling face and radiant beauty threatens to overwhelm me.. I feel as though I might pass out. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. I begin to tremble all over.
"Shhhh. Rest now. I've got you." I lower my head to her shoulder and the tears come, unbidden and burning in my eyes. She folds her arms around me and rocks me gently speaking calmly, soothingly in my ear. I feel the grief and loss and sorrow wash out of me, through her and up into the sky.
A small patch of cloud clears away in the cold wind and a shaft of warm, bright sunlight falls upon us. I have found her. I have found the way home. My soul can rest here until I am strong enough to rise and join her. She will lead me home. I will follow. Wherever she goes, wherever she is, that shall be my home. She shall be my home.
Most dart away, leaving just swirling mist to mark their departure. Some will step timidly out into the pale gray light and approach. I reach out to them and often find that they are an illusion of smoke and light, insubstantial. Others are not what they seem. They drop their hoods and raise their faces to expose gaping jaws and sharp teeth. I back away, turning to flee farther down the broken, rocky trail... staggering and stumbling
I reach and fail to connect. I reach and then recoil. I reach and grasp only empty air. It seems so hopeless. It seems so sad, that I am doomed to wander this place alone. And just as all hope seems lost, I hear a voice.
It's small but strong. Clear and distinct but just on the edge of my hearing. I turn my head and scan the shadows, straining to see back into the dimness amongst the trees. Is that a faint glow I see? I edge into the woods, head down passing beneath and around the grasping branches. Yes. Their IS a light ahead. The voice is coming from there. Its clearer now... louder. As I approach, a clearing opens before me and in the center sits a woman, her legs tucked beneath her, dressed in a simple peasant skirt and a plain white blouse open at the throat. She sits facing away from me, staring into a small pool, watching her reflection and singing softly to herself in an angelic lilting voice. I approach and murmur a timid "Hello?" She turns and her radiant beauty strikes me like a soft velvet blow. I take an involuntary step backward. She is stunning, striking... I am rendered mute... literally dumbstruck. I stare, in awe of her. She smiles and my heart trip-hammers in my chest. She speaks, her voice soft yet strong like a whisper that seems loud because it's close to your ear. "Hello. Are you lost?"
"Y-yes." I stammer. "I am." my voice quivers on the edge of breaking.
"Come sit with me." she beckons, raising a hand, palm up, inviting me to take it.
I hesitate. "I can't." I mumble. "My hands are dirty. I'm wet and cold and I don't want to get you muddy."
Her smile widens. "Don't be silly. Come."
I shuffle forward, suddenly feeling very large and clumsy and oafish. Very aware of my grimy face and my stubbly beard... my muddy wet clothes. With a trembling hand I reach out and put mine in hers. Her warm soft hand closes around mine and she gently pulls me down beside to her. I slump, thumping down next to her and she puts her other hand to my cheek. "You're okay now. I've found you." Her smiling face and radiant beauty threatens to overwhelm me.. I feel as though I might pass out. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. I begin to tremble all over.
"Shhhh. Rest now. I've got you." I lower my head to her shoulder and the tears come, unbidden and burning in my eyes. She folds her arms around me and rocks me gently speaking calmly, soothingly in my ear. I feel the grief and loss and sorrow wash out of me, through her and up into the sky.
A small patch of cloud clears away in the cold wind and a shaft of warm, bright sunlight falls upon us. I have found her. I have found the way home. My soul can rest here until I am strong enough to rise and join her. She will lead me home. I will follow. Wherever she goes, wherever she is, that shall be my home. She shall be my home.
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
FOUND YOU AT LAST!
I have finally tracked down this book. I had read it as a teenager and remembered many of the plot points. I remembered the main character's last name, Belson. I remembered a scene where he steps out of his spaceship on a new world and puts his foot on the grass... which begins to scream from his crushing weight. I remember the bleak world of 2063 where all fossil fuel is gone and uranium is also running out. I recall the strange new element he discovers that is only radioactive in zero-G and how it makes him the wealthiest man on Earth. Alas, I could never remember the book's title or the author's name.
Today I was doing a Google search for keywords "Belson," "screaming grass" and "depleted resources" and was taken to a thesis paper that references these words in a critical analysis of... Lo and Behold! The Steps of the Sun by Walter Tevis. That title on Amazon led me to this cover which I remember distinctly as one cool piece of sci fi novel cover art. It was so impactful I copied the style of drawing and it became part of my own rendering style.
Now I can scratch one more enigmatic mystery from my past off my list as solved. Now if I could only find that paper sack filled with eight rolls of 35mm film from our family vacation to California in 2000, which I lost and fear I may have accidentally thrown away.
Today I was doing a Google search for keywords "Belson," "screaming grass" and "depleted resources" and was taken to a thesis paper that references these words in a critical analysis of... Lo and Behold! The Steps of the Sun by Walter Tevis. That title on Amazon led me to this cover which I remember distinctly as one cool piece of sci fi novel cover art. It was so impactful I copied the style of drawing and it became part of my own rendering style.
Now I can scratch one more enigmatic mystery from my past off my list as solved. Now if I could only find that paper sack filled with eight rolls of 35mm film from our family vacation to California in 2000, which I lost and fear I may have accidentally thrown away.
Tuesday, March 6, 2018
The Thin Skin and Dour Persona of Popular Culture
I miss the days when it was okay to celebrate caricatures. Not stereotypes... not bigotry... not insensitively mocking or shaming others... just being okay with caricatures of people. Hooting Indians, gun slinging bowlegged cowboys, air headed gum chewing blond showgirls, sombrero wearing Senors, sassy "honey-chile" drawling big bottomed black ladies in big church hats, or hysterically flamboyant gay men.
The vein of offense that runs like a raw nerve through our cultural discourse makes it a capital offense to poke good natured fun at any of the myriad humorous characteristics common among any particular demographic.
In the 60s and 70s Chief Nock-A-Homa was a fixture of Atlanta Braves baseball who would come out of his tepee in full feathered headdress and buckskin regalia to dance a war dance each time a Brave hit a home run. He's long gone because it was offensive to some.
Aunt Jemima pancake syrup bottles used to be shaped like a glass depiction of a large black woman in a kerchief. That went away as racial stereotyping.
I remember a Little Golden Book called "Little Black Sambo" that was a favorite of American children in the 50s through the 70s. So popular it spawned a home cooking restaurant of the same name. Now it is even hard to find any record that the book even existed at all; let alone a copy of it.
Johnny Reb's chicken and barbecue was an icon on Hwy 19 in Union City Georgia in my childhood. The 30 foot talk Confederate soldier holding the Stars and Bars could be seen from a mile away. Torn down as horrific and offensive.
Uncle Remus characters where a staple of Six Flags over Georgia when I was a kid. The Disney classic film depiction has been locked away in the vault forever. Obtaining a poorly duped copy of it is like buying black market silk stockings during the Great War with lost of low voices and winks and nods as money is slipped into palms and a bootleg DVD is slipped into a plain paper bag and placed under your coat as you slip out the back door of the bookstore.
All these things are gone now... sacrificed on the altar of political correctness. We've become so conditioned to assume the most negative possible intent in every interaction with our fellow man that we have made our imagery bland, banal, and innocuous... and the world is a more homogeneous, less colorful, less vibrant place for it.
The vein of offense that runs like a raw nerve through our cultural discourse makes it a capital offense to poke good natured fun at any of the myriad humorous characteristics common among any particular demographic.
In the 60s and 70s Chief Nock-A-Homa was a fixture of Atlanta Braves baseball who would come out of his tepee in full feathered headdress and buckskin regalia to dance a war dance each time a Brave hit a home run. He's long gone because it was offensive to some.
Aunt Jemima pancake syrup bottles used to be shaped like a glass depiction of a large black woman in a kerchief. That went away as racial stereotyping.
I remember a Little Golden Book called "Little Black Sambo" that was a favorite of American children in the 50s through the 70s. So popular it spawned a home cooking restaurant of the same name. Now it is even hard to find any record that the book even existed at all; let alone a copy of it.
Johnny Reb's chicken and barbecue was an icon on Hwy 19 in Union City Georgia in my childhood. The 30 foot talk Confederate soldier holding the Stars and Bars could be seen from a mile away. Torn down as horrific and offensive.
Uncle Remus characters where a staple of Six Flags over Georgia when I was a kid. The Disney classic film depiction has been locked away in the vault forever. Obtaining a poorly duped copy of it is like buying black market silk stockings during the Great War with lost of low voices and winks and nods as money is slipped into palms and a bootleg DVD is slipped into a plain paper bag and placed under your coat as you slip out the back door of the bookstore.
All these things are gone now... sacrificed on the altar of political correctness. We've become so conditioned to assume the most negative possible intent in every interaction with our fellow man that we have made our imagery bland, banal, and innocuous... and the world is a more homogeneous, less colorful, less vibrant place for it.
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