You see her, she opens the door wearing cute cotton pajamas, smiling sweetly, then as she recognizes your face she grins, blushing as you hand her your flowers. She welcomes you into her house, warm and cozy, and with a smell unlike anything you've smelt before, and she's baking soft chocolate chip cookies. She insists you sit down on her bed as she removes your jacket and clothes, then she throws you a towel from the bathroom, grinning sweetly again.
You'd do anything for this girl, and you did, everything got in your way, the car wouldn't start, and when it did you got stuck in traffic with a 70 car pile up ahead of you. So you got out of your car, and you walked, roses cradled in your arms. She has this mysterious power over you, something you can't understand but you'd do anything for, you'd call it lust, but you care for her, and you'd call it love, but there's so much more to it. And you'd do anything.
"...clip-clop-clip-clop..." The horse's hooves seemed to beat rhythmically with her heart. A million thoughts raced through her head, until the brilliant sun, blazing grasses, and cobblestone streets all blended together into the glimmering reflection of light in the horse's mane. Her mind was sucked into the blur of her tears - would she ever see him again?
For as long as she could remember, war had seemed to be out to get her, only her. It had taken her father's last breath before she had taken her first; her uncle, the only man in her life until she was thirteen, was stripped from her in a blaze of bullets and hate. Now she was strong enough to take care of herself - yet she couldn't hold her brother back from enlistment. Now Peter, poor, beautiful, obstinate Peter - refused to disobey the call of the country.
Soon there was only silence and a small black dot on the horizon. Echoing in her mind was Peter's strong, soothing voice, "I'll be back for you soon, my love..." She replayed those words over and over again, as the golden setting sun swallowed everything, splashing prisms of hope through the diamond of her engagement ring onto Peter's black and white portrait on the mantle.
I have to discuss the Synchronicity
I really did not want to tie up the database with my home- work -E2- angst but I have to try to release some very serious thoughts that I have had during the end of this month before the last month in the beginning of this twenty first century.
I stumbled across an article in a local publication discussing a certain fatal tragedy. There was just enough mention of the last name and the town up the road from where I used to live that mental bells tolled tempting coincidental comparison.
Dare I ask my friend at work about this incident? He, just before 9-11-01, had to deal with the fatal accident of the husband of the woman, living elsewhere, to whom he rented his townhouse (that I suggested strongly that he buy -- to stop throwing away money on rent -- only to find out later he was counseled, by another, to rent it for investment). This co-worker is one who, along with one other dear Brother-in-Christ, and fellow Postal worker came to my father's funeral uninivited, but certainly not unwelcome. I had given him as much love in a hug and words as I could --not that much longer before that -- when his mother passed on. Now, at this trauma, I comforted him again.
Some of you will know that this horrible, and sad affair affected this community, as well. I am hesitant to give either his real name, or his username, here, but many will interpolate it. Now that I know that I was so close (yet still so far) to this person makes it immeasurably more meloncholic and bizarre in the timing and means of its discovery. Because, he confirmed, with the name, that indeed these two people were the same!
It makes my Anthrax scare, my retirement eligiblity, and even my excitement over learning how to contribute better here ... pale to the enormity of this juxtapositon.
This girl inhabits the spaces between my thoughts and the only way I know she's been around is when I find odd jeans in my closet or become suddenly aware that I am sitting alone in the empty church parking lot early on a Saturday morning.....sometimes she makes me cry and at other times I get so angry! She is the one who got to take my son to piano lessons that I don't recall.....yet she is no where to be found when I call to find out about Life Insurance for myself. It's three years almost since I began recovery. I called Select Quotes for the cost of a ten year term policy for now. I can't afford Universal Life with two sons and putting them through college, we've lived here for 19 years and still have 22 years to pay on our mortgage I would like to refinance into a 15 year one with our income tax return so my husband can retire at a reasonable age.....I have given up any hopes of being able to work. Who would want me after what I went through with this insurance guy.....
Age? Non Smoker? yes yes to all that. Do you work ? No, I'm on disability. oh.... How long have you been out of work? I work at home but I haven't been able to work outside the home in about 5 years oh...... Do you want to go on? yes Where you hospitalized? Yes, twice Do you take any medications? Yes, I take Clonazepam for seizures. hmmm let me read this to you.....it's used for clonic seizures, atonic seizures, temporal epilepsy, panic disorders, bi polar disorder Should I go on? yes You know we will ask for the doctor's report. Are you sure you want to go on? yes please. Why? I would like a quote please. He gave me a quote that was three times the cost of the original one in the mail and more than 10% of my income.
This is rapidly becoming a difficult holiday for me. It's very unusual for me to be so down but there you go. Impatience and feeling overwhelmed seem to be the order of the day, trying to create happy memories for the holiday; it's insurmountable. Possibilities can become such harsh expectations.
The missing memories come out of nowhere and there is no getting used to them. My son says he took piano lessons, I took him every day he says but, I have no recollection of who the teacher was, nor taking him. I am angry at this robbery of time with my children who are nearly grown. I want to get rid of her and all this havoc she creates! The real world is harsh and refuses to try and understand what the real cost is. Who else is capable of loving her the way she wants to be loved? And who else can say to her that whatever you are; whatever you become, in spite of anyone else's expectations, this is your potential and it's a wonderful thing.....if it weren't for her promises in life it would be impossible to hold her up and make goodness visible, there would be no happy discoveries of mixed up jeans in my closet, her beauty would die. Last nights journal says, I am unhappy.
Devotion
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Here's a letter that I just wrote to the fine folks at Warner Home Video. All you Babylon 5 fans out there, feel free to write one yourself!
Michael Radiloff Vice President, DVD Marketing Warner Home Video 4000 Warner Blvd. Burbank, CA 91522 Dear Sir, I write to you in regard to the production of the Babylon 5 television series on DVD. I thank you for taking the first step with the December release of The Gathering and In The Beginning, and I want to assure you that I am in the market for the entire series on DVD. I am given to understand that the success of this release will be interpreted as a bellwether for the success of the series as a whole. From that point of view, I hope that the sales figures totally astound you -- on the high side, of course. However, I must admit that I don't understand the rationale of test marketing a DVD which contains minimal features. (I, of course have not yet seen it, but that is certainly the whisper in the wind.) A consumer's decision to buy or not to buy is a very gross barometer which can be interpreted in many ways; I, and I'm sure many others, worry that buying such a thing sends the signal that a minimal product is acceptable, while knowing that not buying it does not communicate our point that the concept is highly desired and saleable, but that we want it to be done right! In any case, I have placed my advance order for this first B5 production. I have not yet even finished my first watching of the series (currently at S4 E12), but I started some time ago keeping my eyes and ears open for the presence of a DVD version. As far as what I would like to see in such a product, I have two things that I hope you could keep in mind. One, at least occasionally have some real-value extras, for example, a commentary track by Mr. Straczynski (which, while I'm not plugged into any B5 subculture per se, I believe he would be very happy, nay anxious, to provide) or others. Two, please don't make the (in my opinion) mistake that Paramount made with Star Trek of putting only two episodes on a DVD that could hold four or more. Of course, you'll want to charge more, but most people surely want to own the entire series, not pick and choose episodes here and there, and there is no reason to make it take up more space in my living room than necessary. I thank you for your attention, and I await the historic beginning of the production of Babylon 5 on DVD!
Michael Radiloff Vice President, DVD Marketing Warner Home Video 4000 Warner Blvd. Burbank, CA 91522
Dear Sir,
I write to you in regard to the production of the Babylon 5 television series on DVD.
I thank you for taking the first step with the December release of The Gathering and In The Beginning, and I want to assure you that I am in the market for the entire series on DVD.
I am given to understand that the success of this release will be interpreted as a bellwether for the success of the series as a whole. From that point of view, I hope that the sales figures totally astound you -- on the high side, of course. However, I must admit that I don't understand the rationale of test marketing a DVD which contains minimal features. (I, of course have not yet seen it, but that is certainly the whisper in the wind.) A consumer's decision to buy or not to buy is a very gross barometer which can be interpreted in many ways; I, and I'm sure many others, worry that buying such a thing sends the signal that a minimal product is acceptable, while knowing that not buying it does not communicate our point that the concept is highly desired and saleable, but that we want it to be done right!
In any case, I have placed my advance order for this first B5 production. I have not yet even finished my first watching of the series (currently at S4 E12), but I started some time ago keeping my eyes and ears open for the presence of a DVD version.
As far as what I would like to see in such a product, I have two things that I hope you could keep in mind. One, at least occasionally have some real-value extras, for example, a commentary track by Mr. Straczynski (which, while I'm not plugged into any B5 subculture per se, I believe he would be very happy, nay anxious, to provide) or others. Two, please don't make the (in my opinion) mistake that Paramount made with Star Trek of putting only two episodes on a DVD that could hold four or more. Of course, you'll want to charge more, but most people surely want to own the entire series, not pick and choose episodes here and there, and there is no reason to make it take up more space in my living room than necessary.
I thank you for your attention, and I await the historic beginning of the production of Babylon 5 on DVD!
Why stop at one? I also sent this letter to:
B5 watch Twelve episodes into season 4. The year is 2261.
Somewhere between razor blades and soap, it really hit me about all the sacrifices and compromises i've made for relationships and how it's usually bitten me in the ass, about how i keep coming back for more. Not that i'm a glutton for punishment or some old sad bastard, just that i usually entertained different ideas about where the relationships were headed, as opposed to where actually were heading.
i was looking back in my journal the other day. It's a big wire-bound art notebook, crammed full of loose sheets of paper, the cover torn off and held on with rubber bands. i started writing in it in the spring of 1998, just after i caught Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever and i wrote in it more or less steadily ever since then. It's been to Europe and back and survived going on four years of college. i stopped writing in it last year a bit after i was dumped by the first person i ever really loved. i didn't have anything else to write. The words just didn't start, so i stopped until they'd flow again.
Tonight, i've got stuff to write about. It's all starting to come back - the desire to write, the words tumbling out of the pen like fresh snowmelt in a barren streambed. i've seen a lot this year, both good and bad. It's a big, crazy world out there. i'm already thinking about the future, both the immediate and far, something i really haven't done in over a year. Resolutions for New Years have never really been my thing, but i've already started to make a few.
Relationships have always seemed iffy things on which to base wishes. It feels so different this time - more confident, stable, quiet, unyielding. i've never felt as at ease and as wired around anyone else in my entire life. Being around Laura is like being wired into a 440 volt socket, yet i've never been more relaxed. It would be nice if it was easier to see each other on a regular basis, but it seems like we're both ready and willing to make the sacrifices necessary to make this work, which feels very nice. i'm also starting to be able to see the end of the road for my undergraduate work (finally) and thinking past that point for the first time. And i like what i'm thinking about, what i see in my slowly unmuddied crystal ball.
Somehow or the other, i'll make it through this next week of class and through my finals, then it's off to NOLA to decompress for a while and hang out with Laura, Ken and Bryan, some of the random friends that come out of the woodwork at the strangest times for the strangest of reasons. i can't wait.
Once in a while you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right - Robert Hunter/Jerry Garcia, "Scarlet Begonias"
3:15pm I finally get to Arvada and I chill with Starla and my ferocious 3-year-old niece before heading out with both of them to get something to eat. The girl puts up a fuss, accusing me of not getting her a cheeseburger. "I just ordered it, silly." "No you didn't!" "How do YOU know?" "You didn't!" As we get our bag from the drive-thru window and park the car, I raspberry at her as I hand her the cheeseburger. I get a call from Andy, who's taking me out for dinner and a movie. While I'm on the phone, cheeseburger fixins start flying towards my head as demonic toddler laughter emanates from the back seat.
"Stop bein' a little bitch, Abigail," barks Starla. Abigail replies:
"I'm not a bitch. UNCLE NICK'S a bitch!"
About two minutes of uncontrollable laughter follows.
5:45pm Rebecca sits down with Bumpy the kitty at Planned Pethood (corny name for a vet clinic if you ask me), the discount community veterinarian. Abigail runs up to play with him, taking a break from harassing Newt, the resident cat. "Don't put your finger in there," we warn her. "He's very sick," says Rebecca. "And it's very contagious. You don't want to get all your kitties sick, do you?" She continues to put her fingers near the holes, just to see what our reactions will be. "How many kitties do you have," asks Rebecca. "What are their names?" Abigail encounters a moment of shyness. "She has four," I say. "What are their names, Abby?" She sits there giving me a stupid look. "OK, go harass Newt some more, hon."
Rebecca should come around Abby's house a bit more often. She reminds me of an aunt on my mom's side. She's almost identical in every way. She's short-tempered but has learned to control it without lessening her role as a disciplinarian. She doesn't take any shit, especially from children. While she never had any, she'd probably be able to throw some manners into Abby faster than any Jenny Jones boot camp would.
Rebecca breaks into tears as she fills out the application. Abby looks stupidly at her. "I'm very sad," she says. I glance at the application, where she's written "Put my cat to sleep". I didn't know what to tell her, and all I knew was that I was absorbing all of her sadness and had to excuse myself quickly, lest I cry in front of people I don't know.
"Hello, it's me, mom," I say into the voice mail. "Starla's still waiting for you to call her, and we've been here at the vet, so if you're there, call me? Thanks. Bye."
Abigail and I are waiting for my sister and the Vet to be done with the dog. He definitely doesn't have Parvo, which is good, but Mom, who promised to give her a credit card number, has gone mysteriously incognito from her desk when Sis tries to call her for it. "She's probably just fucking with us, Starla," I say, not all that surprised. I run out to get my phone, in case Mom's screening her calls by the caller ID.
All in all, we end up marching back to the car, the dog's medicine being held ransom for the remaining $13 of the vet bill. Wonderful. Starla's bitching and cursing the day she was born, arguing with Bubba on the phone. "She didn't fucking call me back, that's why!" Abigail's edgy and bratty over me making her hold my hand to cross the street. She picks up a rock she found on the sidewalk.
6:30pm It's about time for me to leave. I kept Starla and Abigail out of boredom for as long as I could. It was the time when Starla sits and yells, not wanting to put any more effort into motherhood for the day. Abigail runs rampant, doing whatever she wants. She yells and screams. This time she's sitting on my lap tearing up a Beatles CD booklet. Abigail's gotten antsy enough to start hitting me and raiding my pockets for a pen or something to throw at my face. So far I've successfully deflected a plastic hanger, my own lighter, and unsuccessfully tried to talk sense into her (like I try to do every time I show up). Lastly was her special rock. "That's it," I say. "I'm takin' this rock so you don't break something with it." "No! Gimme back my rock! I WANT IT!" "Too bad." "GrRrRRR. GIMME THAT ROCK!" "Try and make me!" I swear, this girl reminds me of those angry out-of-control kids on those talk shows. You know the ones -- They cuss and scream and break things and beat on each other, not to mention getting super-pissed if you look at them the wrong way. Abigail tries the sad puppy-dog eye angle. I glare at her. "Tough shit."
8:30pm Andy and I run out to a Mexican restaurant and munch on fajitas and taquitos and chimichangas and the such (I can't think of any more food names). We ramble back and forth about programming and the dismal job market and the economy and Osama bin Laden and all that usual crap.
11:45pm Saw Monsters Inc. It was fantastic, especially John Goodman's vocal work. Laughs, jokes, etc. It's all good! My cell phone beeps.
I check my voice mail. "FIRST.. MESSAGE.. LEFT ELEVEN... TWENTY.. FIVE...PM--Hi, it's your mother. I'm still here at work trying to get this paper done. That's all I guess." Fantastic. I figure, oh, she'll be out of there by Midnight and home, so no hell has to break loose. (Trademark Foreshadowing Moment)
2:30am I have since landed at Denny's as usual, shooting the shit with my smoking section compadres, having just smoked up with a particular orange-haired starlet that reminds me of my wacky cousin in Albuquerque. She's crazy, she's abusive, she's--threatening my homosexuality (which my cousin DOESN'T do, mind you). She's also a wacky funny stoner such as myself. The two people facing us in the booth are doing a smoking section lounge act (industrial/goth) while Robin and I counter-attack with 80's and Rocky Horror Picture Show songs. For some strange reason Robin starts punching me on the arm really hard. Ow. OW. My phone rings.
"Hi, it's Mom. I'm still at work." I'm stoned out of my brain at this point. "What are you still doing at work? That shit's wack. You should be, like, home, where it's not work." "I know. I'm just trying to get this paper done." "Well, call Starla and let her know, so she doesn't freak out and stuff. Like, go apeshit. You should drive home, you know, like get in the car and start it and drive home. Where we can call and harass you." Mom pauses momentarily. "Um, OK, hon." She can by this point barely hear me from my tablemates heckling me. "Bye."
3:00am Kat is now talking to Bubba on my cell phone as I inch back from the restroom. Surprise, he's drunk. "Heeeey, man, what's goin' on?" "Just sitting here at Denny's, you know, the restaurant down here, like wooo." "Yeah, I'm WAAASTEED!!! .... Dude, have you heard from your mom? Your sister's all paranoid and freaking out. And I called the security at her building and they say she's not there." Wonderful. "I'll try leaving her another voicemail then I'll go try to find her." Great. After a few more minutes of giggle-fits and the start of our animated blaxploitation flick We's Chocolate, I hop in the car and head home.
3:45am The phone rings. "Have you heard from mom?" "Not since 2:30." "I'm getting really worried." "Great. Well, I'm stoned, and shouldn't even be DRIVING, but I'm on the way home. I'll check at the house, then go see if her car's at the office."
3:55am "Hi, heard from mom?" "She's not at the house, I'm going to go talk to the boneheads at the security desk. Probably all they did was dial her extension and get her voice mail, which automatically happens after her shift. Fucking morons."
3:58am "Where are you now?" "Platte Canyon and something."
4:02am "Where are you now?" "County Line and Santa Fe."
4:02:30am You get the picture.
4:08am "Yes, the car's here," I grunt into the phone. I'm slightly puzzled. Either she's dead or asleep, I think. I feel like punching someone.
I glare at the security guy. "Are you the.. brother in law?" "No, I'm the son. And her car's in the parking lot, so I know she's here."
The guard dials her extension and gets her voice mail.
"It forwarded right to voice mail, didn't it? It didn't ring to her desk." I'm extremely pissed, and my eyes are Tabasco red. The fucker knows he actually has to look for Mom this time, knowing that I won't leave until it's done. When Bubba called they were just worried about getting him off the phone.
4:30am I'm sitting at the lobby, leaving a voice mail for Mom. "Hi, Mom? This is really stupid. The girl won't leave me alone and no one can find you. Are you there? CALL ME."
The guard whistles at me from the elevator. "Come on, I'll escort you up."
4:40am "What the hell is wrong with you," I hiss.
"What? Honey, I logged off my phone. I can't even get my voice mail in this mode."
She didn't understand why I was upset. I nearly screamed.
"The girl's been breathing down my fucking neck over this all night, because you haven't kept in touch. You've been here almost all night, I'm a total wreck because whenever you disappear like that, the girl makes MY life a living fucking hell until *I* make it better for her."
I felt like I had a right to be angry for her deliberately cutting off her contact, knowing my drunk-ass sister would go apeshit and make me bend over backwards to make it better. It's happened so many times before, and Mom always surfaces, be it at a friend's house, a bar, an office party, the Grocery, or still at the office..
"I'll call her, all right?"
"Do it now, while I'm still here?" (As in 'you'll forget to call and if my cell phone rings one more time I will take off my seat belt and aim for an SUV')
The call is made. "Thank you," I spurt cathartically.
"Here," she says. "Quick! I only have an hour to get to school. Grab these books for me?" She then walks faster than I could run towards the exit. "Oh, wait. I need to use the little girl's room." She takes her time walking there. I go the opposite direction and fill my coat pocket with lemon drops someone's graciously left at their desk.
I'm sorry, folks, but at age 52, you can take care of yourself. Some people realize that if you need help, and you're still alive, THEN you will start calling people. If you have any kids that are overprotective and paranoid over where you go and what you do after your shift at work ends, smack them while you still can.
Alone in a crowd. If I could be a camera. and/or Born down in a dead end town.
Chilly morning. I awake to find Mother TESCO closed! Horrors. Hours are, apparently, 11:00 AM to 5:00 PM on Sundays. So, instead, I throw myself onto the bosom of Benjy's Restaurant on Earl's Court Road. Time for breakfast and figgering out just what one can get up to on a Sunday in this town.
Breakfast was the "Builder" plate: 2 toast, 2 sausages, 1 fried egg, 1 piece of bacon, baked beans, french fries and a cooked tomato. Well, the tomato was on the plate, anyway. All that plus a large orange juice for £4.70.
Have decided to get my hat and head up to Camden market...
...which was much like any street market anywhere. I wasn't much in the mood for hip clothing, fun t-shirts, weed paraphernalia or souvenirs, so I contented myself with people-watching. It's gloomy and overcast, which pretty much aces photography for me. Nothing like flat, gray light to make any scenic picture boring.
So, I went down to see St. Pancras Station. It's amazing; really should be called The Cathedral of St. Train the Divine. A Victorian neo-gothic palace, red brick and stone masonry, spires, and one of the largest clocks I've ever seen inside. The place is endless. I went in for a moment and the train "shed" area brought back memories of Summer 2000's Eurail Adventures.
Now at the British Library for micturation and viewing of very important old paper things.
Amazing to see the handwriting of Sir Walter Raleigh and Benjamin Johnson. Mr. Johnson could write in very, very tiny letters. Raleigh's penmanship, straight from the Tower, is not as precise as Johnson's; hurried. Execution imminent?
And William Shakespeare's own handwriting! A page from the excised "May Day" scene in The Booke of Sir Thomas Moore. The label describes the document as "the only literary manuscript to survive from Shakespeare's own pen". His script is barely legible to me, due more to stylization and embellishment than sloppiness. It's painterly, and the ink looks like watercolor these 400-odd years later. Tails of letters swoop and flow down across several lines. Almost arabesque. Beautiful.
So many things... A manuscript of Beowulf, written down in the 11th century. A hand-copied version of Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur. Alexander Pope's handwritten translation of The Iliad, with conceptual drawing of Achilles' shield. Lewis Carroll's handwritten manuscript for Alice's Adventures Under Ground, the predecessor to Alice In Wonderland, with Carroll's own illustrations! His handwriting is extremely neat and precise, and the words EAT ME, from the cake, are visible; open block lettered.
Good lord... Joyce's Finnegan's Wake, handwritten. In pencil, it appears. Words slop all over the page, no respect for linearity, even in penmanship. The pencil grinds into the paper, thick and smeared. Lettering of all sizes. Paragraphs piled, stacked, tumbling. Hasty lines crossing out or pointing to. Joyce.
Gustav Mahler's orchestration of Urlicht from Des Knaben Wunderhorn in manuscript, with handwritten (text) notes.
Beatles. Handwritten lyrics for Ticket To Ride and Penny Lane, A Hard Day's Night (on the back of a birthday card...a boy riding a choo-choo train, waving at us), I Wanna Hold Your Hand, The Fool On The Hill (in orange marker?), and a draft of something on Lufthansa stationary that has lyrics from Strawberry Fields Forever in it. As such, I assume that's Lennon's handwriting.
And, over here, the Magna Carta. Or, at least, various pieces that are, as a whole, the Magna Carta. Underwhelming even to the Library, it seems. The first sentence on the exhibit label reads "Magna Carta is a disappointing document". Essentially, great historical importance with little entertainment value.
The Codex Sinaiticus: the oldest complete Greek manuscript of the New Testament extant (4th century).
One could spend hours and hours just in this room, examining these treasures. I've been here for two already, and it's time to leave.
Oh, but one last thing on the way out: a Gutenberg Bible. Press printed, hand illustrated. From 1454-55.
Picadilly Circus, W1, City of Westminster. As expected, it's a lot like Times Square... yet lower key. Easier to navigate. Noted tourists here, as in New York City, photographing advertising. So I did the "cultural" thing instead and photographed the statue of Eros on the fountain bathed in neon light.
It's fish and chips time. Decided to hit The Shakespeare near Victoria station, 99 Buckingham Palace Road, Victoria, SW1, for that purpose. The sandwich boards outside advertised "the best in London", so, by God, they'd better be. Hopefully this pint of John Smith's will go well. Table for one: aww yeah.
Springsteen's Born In The USA came on the jukebox while I ate my oily food. I laughed out loud. Fortunately, no one was near enough to hear me.
The Shakespeare's bathroom featured a man trough. And, with that, I'll call it a night and head back to the hostel.
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