The Joy of Writer's Block

It has been ever so long since I have written anything – of merit or at all.  My addled brain functioning not so much as an artist in suffering, but as a machine  of survival, it moved along as an old pufferbelly whose wheels, by friction were made nearly impossible to move, and only with an incredible amount of energy thrown into the fire. 

I have what some call “writer’s block”.

Still, there are those who claim that writer’s block does not exist.  I beg to differ, as the term simply describes one’s inability to put forth the written word.  Of course, one may assume writer’s block does not exist due to the multiple reasons and symptoms thereby rendering the term a broad generalization. 

But what are these reasons for WrB?

On a personal level, firstly, an inability to negotiate or navigate a devoted time to writing, prevented writer’s glue from fastening my backside to the chair that sits in front of the keys with all the pretty little symbols; one would believe that a man, such as myself, with a beautiful wife, daughter, and a business that all occupy a great deal of time.  Now, one may say in my defense, “But those are things that are unavoidable.  You have to go to work.  You have to spend time with your wife.  You have to raise your daughter with your wife.”

There are no “have to’s”.  There are choices. 

Without going into a whole other subject: a “have to” would include the intake of liquid into your body for survival; a “choice” would equate to the argument about what form the liquid should take – water or gasoline.  If one makes the right choice, there are positive consequences received.  If one chooses the unhealthy alternative, negative outcomes become the reality.

The reality in this example for me becomes a matter of priority.  I chose and still choose my family’s well-being over my need to release creative pheromones into the ozone.  Oddly, with all three of the above mentioned priorities, including the business, creativity is block-bursting, for better or worse, and in a genre different from that of the lonely writer.  As my “gift” is entertainment, I choose to be alive, granted the energy exists in my being.

Much to my chagrin, I have been in a state of depression and exhaustion, allowed perhaps by what I digest.  For though my spirit is in a state of recovery, my mind and physicality are slow in the mend.

Finding devoted time to write has been an activity devoid of fluid creativity; clunky, misguided depression due to realities I have witnessed outside of things that only God can control, and that I can only inhibit in process.

Life gets in the way.

But in the three (spirit, mind and body), I am choosing to find joy. 

Oddly, it is always there for the taking.

And now I want to put word to paper.  A choice to start here.

The burning embers in my pufferbelly.

Ruckin Nuts

Impressions leading up to the first Pittsburgh GoRuck here.

The Cadre would not be called "Sir."  We called him that word and paid for it - and learned to not call our active-duty green beret that word ever again, though it took a few painful disciplinary actions.
He smoked every time he spoke.  Holding the cigarette gingerly between his fingers, and he honestly did not have a Hollywood stereotypical "hero" look; he instead looked as if he would come out of PNC Park or a bar in the South Side, eating a Primanti Sammich, and smoking one too many, but you know if you got in his face, you were toast.   The way he spoke to the police that night - so matter-of -factly.  He enjoyed having us "carry lots of heavy-a@# sh#$!"  He enjoyed his story times, telling us all how he blew up a cache of Taliban goodies and how the Taliban responded - good times.
We held the American flag, never allowing it to touch ground.  Come to think of it, we never let our coupons (really heavy a@# h#$) down either and it was heavy.  Our backpacks weighing, on the march, came in at a bouncy +100lbs.  Our shoulders loved us.  Our legs loved us.  Surprisingly, the Vibram five finger shoes survived as did my little tootser toes after 13 hours and 21 miles.
The Cadre told us first thing was a little mission, after we failed to pull together during the exercise.  We all volunteered to do these things.  My elbows and knees took a scraping and bruising, and then we went into a pool of stagnant water and performed lots of fun things that the military does, like crawling around with our packs and pulling bodies, but we came together.  We had to.
And we carried heavy a@# sh#$. 
Into the city with the cadre, smoking his cigarettes, leading the way.  Joy.
We happened to cross the bridge into Station Square, and then onto the darkness of the trail.  In the background the deep bass of  chunka-chunka music to confuse our slogging dogs, the cadre found us a nice sized tree to hoist and pull through the trail.  We ran Indian runs to attempt to move us faster in the dark; our headlamps burned brightly. 
Hrmmph!
Calisthenics in the Mon.  Oh joy!
Then up and through the drunken South Side.  I was disheartened by this most of all.  The flag was mocked, and had we not been in mass and looking every bit a band of very weary marauders, spit upon by college shits - not quite adult kindergarten kids.  We ended up pulling into a gas station - all 28 of us. 
On the bright side, the cops showed up.  They drove in from the lechery and debauchery of the South Side to see a bunch of tired crazies carrying a lot of heavy a@# sh#$.  One old man in a leather jacket muttered, "See, I told you there's going to be some crazy sh#$ happening tonight."
Seven police cars more police officers and the cadre easily walks over, cigarette pursed in his lips and explains the "deal".
And we headed off.  Up Mount Washington, carrying the coupons and the log.  Never putting a thing down.  Slogging and sweating in the humid darkness to the top.  We never knew what time it was, and in a way I am glad that we didn't.  It would have been torture, but the view of city now rendered harmless by the passing out of drunks and debutante whores spending daddy's hard-earned cash, it looked beautiful again.  The statue of Ol' George and an Indian in conversation, silently embraced the remains of the night.
We drank our waters.  Ate what we could.  And stared blankly off into the city and I imagined it as a big bowl of rubble and debris, and we, the 28, a rough and tumble troop, ready for action - after a long nap maybe.
We finally deposited our friend, the big f@#$ing log.  And everyone was so sad to see it get lost on that random ball field, where we drank beers and giggled through our exhaustion. 
I won't go into to much more, because - it was a lot of calisthenics, 21+ miles, carrying heavy a@# sh#$ in all three rivers and I can not remember how many bridges where those not carrying coupons were subjected to torturous lunges and bear crawls as the sun rose.  We swore under our breath.  We carried our "buddies".
In my lucidity, I imagined the relief of our warriors coming home to their families, and I welled up just a little, as we approached our vehicles.  I imagined my wife's reaction to my "coming home".
Glorious.
In earnest, I confess, I was never a team player, until the GoRuck.  I learned.  The only team prior to it was at home, and I think I got a little better at it. 
I learned to respect the flag, and to hold in disdain those who would disrespect it.  Maybe they should save up their mommy and daddy's money and head to Afghanistan or Iraq or Syria, and see how well received they are. 
I learned that Cadre Dan is obeying the rules of the Green Beret.  Yep, in spite of his overuse of F@#$ and S@#$, he is pretty cool... and tough as nails.

When asked if I would do it again, I replied that I would consider it - after my wounds have healed and my body forgives me.
And in my fitful sleeps, I shout out to zombie mobs, "GoRuck!"  And I smile.

I must be Rucking Crazy

George had come back from that fateful event a new man.  He trained hard for an overnight of torture with a group of men and women willing to let those hardened by military experience beat them up - a taste of what lengths some people will go through physically, mentally and spiritually. 
After listening to his first-hand experiences and the comraderie built in the challenge, I was now interested in "Embrassing the suck."  I joined the GoRuck.
After learning that one would be held in Pittsburgh, I hemmed and hawed, waiting for my wife to say, "Just do it"  And then once I did, I heard her ask if I was nuts.  She was not the only one, but to her defense, she also believed that it would do me a world of good - build experiences, friendships and an edifice of "candoitiveness", which lately I had been lacking.
"Sure, put six bricks in a backpack and go running throughout the city from about 9 in the evening until whenever.  Carry my teammates and do bear crawls for a couple miles.  Great.  Hey, here's an idea, why not train for it vegan-style.  Awesome."
My folks would call me foolish.  I can not disagree.  My cardiologist (yep, I have one!) is not 100% behind the idea.  Nor do I know too many people who would wish to join with George, Darrell and I.  George, you see, is doing it again.  Nuts?  Well, he's a pastor - so some might say so.  He's also tough as nails.  And Darrell - he's Sempre Fi and gristle.
I played music and acted. 
"Nancy boy."  Some say.
Perhaps, but I don't witness too many of my late 30 - early 40-something peers trying the GoRuck to understand the rigors of what our fighting men and women go through.  You see, it all benefits the Green Beret Foundation. 
The funny thing is that I am rucking crazy. 
I trained hard.  Sweat my Gazongas off.  I ran, though I am not a very good one, in five-finger shoes.  My wife likes the way I look - and with GoRuck completed, she will also appreciate the attitude.
Go Ruck yourselves!

Rhama's Flowers

The busy fairy Rhama was known throughout the land as a fairy who could get a job done.  She was also very intelligent, and was considered one of the more beautiful of the fairies – as her larger than average wings would glitter like sparling clusters of diamonds, particularly at night and under the direct glow of the bright moon.  Why the harvest moon itself would make Rhama’s wings glow like a jack o’lantern set ablaze.

She attributed her intelligence and beauty to her work, and one of the things she loved to do was to plant flowers and berries in her garden.

One particularly beautiful spring morning she decided to plant a flower garden that would make the whole forest sparkle.  She gathered seeds that she bought and saved for seasons, and some were very old and rare.  She dug up her garden and tilled the soil.  Eyes watched her from in the dark of the forest.  Next, Rhama lovingly placed the seeds in their planned out spots and built trellises so that they would grow tall.  Eyes and whispers came from the forest.  She paid no mind.  Then Rhama sprinkled the ground with dew and some dust from her wings, and then she waited.

It took many weeks but the flowers began poke through the well-manicured garden.  Rhama smiled and flitted about, pulling up weeds and watering and sprinkling dust where she could.

Soon, the flowers began to grow, and as they grew and bloomed, the forest came alive as colorful birds and busy little bees came by.

One day, after feeling very pleased with her work, Rhama decided visit the berry farmer, to purchase some malloberries for a pie.  She picked some of her beautiful flowers to give to the farmer in exchange.

While she was gone, the eyes that watched her from the forest appeared once again.  They were fairies as well, but they were grey and their faces though full and round were very plain and miserable.  Slowly and deliberately, these grey fairies picked Rhama’s flowers.

When Rhama with her hands full of berries, saw them.

“Get away from my flowers!”

And the grey fairies moved and fluttered away, but they yelled mean words to her.  Calling her selfish and greedy.

One day, after Rhama had trimmed and fed the flowers, there was a knock at her door.  A fat fairy stood with his wings held wide behind him.

Rhama answered the door, and when she did the smell of her malloberry pie wafted through the door after her.

“I represent the fairies you chased off of this property.  They demand those flowers!”

“Why?  They did not lift a single finger to help me.  They did not save a single seed.  They did not ask for them before they took them.  Why should I give them my flowers?”

“Because, like you, they are part of the forest.  And it is part of a new forest mandate.”

Behind the fat fairy, the greys took all they could and flitted back to the forest.  By the time they were gone, all of the flowers had gone with them – leaving Rhama with nothing.  Her pie was gone as well, the fat fairy turned with a smileful of malloberry pie.  He tipped his hat and went off in pursuit of the greys.

The following year, Rhama stood in her garden.  Weeds had poked through the dried up ground.  She was no longer pretty and her wings had grown withered and gray.  And as the eyes watched from the surroundings Rhama decided to never plant another garden again.

Dog Day's Springtime Happy Poo... and Other Hilarious Names Probably Used for Japanese TV Shows

It could have been one of those perfect days.
 I just came back from one great motorcycle ride through a misty morning and into an absolutely picture perfect afternoon.  Sweeping backroads.  Seeing acquaintances at Miss Blue's Diner in Hundred, WV.  Hours of tantalizing fun and speed filled meditation.
I came home and our daughter was already bathed - and she greeted me with one of those Hallmark runs down the hallway that always gets my heart thumping warmly.  My wife had one of those sunshine smiles that causes global warming. 
I was tired, but for this I could blow the stink off and keep my eyes wide open for as long as they could stand it.
The plans were simple enough: shower, eat a nice dinner, watch a fun kid's movie, put our little girl to bed and then Kristi and I could have the evening to ourselves - to look into each other's eyes and giggle over a glass or two of wine.
Our daughter made the family decision, and understanding that she was perfect that day, we allowed for it. She wanted for us all to go for a walk around the neighborhood - including of course Madison, our dog.  The movie was okay, but a perfect finish to a perfect day sounded great.
Now, I have never been nervous about taking both Madison and our little girl out around the neighborhood just by ourselves, though Kristi will not do it.  So all of us together made complete sense. 
It could have been one of those perfect days.
Taking Madison out for a walk, when there are a million scents in the air is more like taking her out for a sniff, it is a long, long mile.  Every blade of grass must be carefully analysed and then peed on.  Our daughter is about the same, minus the "spotting".
At one property (normally 20 seconds from our front door to reach) a big, chocolate brown lab, somewhat disturbed came barreling out of the homeowner's front porch and is on Madison.  Madison's fur stood up like a fish dorsal fin, in protection mode; she is super-protective and does not get along with other dogs.
The owner, a BC overweight woman, came heavily bounding down her front porch.  She anxiously explained that she didn't know how he got out of the house.  Drrrrrr.
We continued walking.  My normal scowl, which Kristi recognizes right away, appeared as the two littlest Harpers needed to examine Spring, in the slowest form ever. 
I pulled Madison.  And our daughter did not want to walk anymore, and did not want to go home either - ah - the great toddler mind. 
On the Atlantic Avenue, a nicer part of our neighborhood, we continued.  We passed by one fella, who his garage door opened to reveal a garage that was more crammed with crap than our own.  I commented. 
As we moved on.  The following house had recently been gutted and the remains of the garbage sat regally out on the owner's front lawn for all to gaze upon.  The owners and friends drank out on the back porch overlooking the Ohio River, when suddenly a doberman pinscher came bounding out to the front yard in full battle mode.
Now, Madison is 40 pouinds of friendly, but you get that "dorsal fin" up, and all bets are off. 
The doberman and Madison are at it.  One lady, BC large, came running out of the backyard, I am certain she handed her Ir'n City off to one of the "men" in the backyard, who either could not be bothered or were filming.
"My dog is friendly."
My dog is not!
The "friendly" dog grabbed the back of Maddie's neck, which is a thickly furred mane of hair.  Kristi threw our daughter up on her shoulders.  I farted around excitedly trying to retract the stupid "autoleash retracting thingamabob".  Grace had allowed our dog to not only break free of the "friendly" doberman's jaws but she sank her teeth into its neck. 
Now, I know better than to get in between two fur-flying mongrels, but I grabbed the doberman by the back of the head, and I drove it with my knee to the cement sidewalk, so that the owner in all of her sobriety could grab it. 
We walked away very quickly with this woman staring angrily at us.
Kristi used language that I never heard from her mouth before.
Our daughter crossed Atlantic, with absolutely no regard for any traffic, and this got me growling - as I am still in adrenalized defense mode.  (Ladies, if your man is in adrenalized defense mode, please, give him a beer and say nothing, he will be scowling for days otherwise.)
And Maddie, shook and forgot all about it.  As though nothing happened.
Here's the ridiculousness in summary:  Hours of really awesome fun, crescendoing to a welcome home filled with pomp that only kings should be lucky enough to receive, smiles, sunshine - and 1 tiny minute of turd to ruin it all.

I should have been a dog.

My Fragmented Life

Cliches are not my cup of tea, but there is one that has been routinely been brought to my attention and not by anyone other than myself;  Everyone has the same 24 hours by which to live.
You can't help but grasp the obvious truth of this statement right away.  Heck, you and I share the same moon - how about that?
Lately, I have been on a mission to bitch and moan to everyone my situation of needing a vacation, more time to write, more time to exercise, to ride my motorcycle, to hang out with my wife, to play with my daughter, to sleep in, to cut the arfing grass, only after scraping up dog waste, to plant the garden for some fresh vegetables and fruits, to read the Bible - and the list continues.  I hit upon all of these things, but in sporadic spoonfuls, whenever I can.  And in this, my owner/operator/manager side at the cafe has suffered; I am just plain ol' burned out and that's dangerous because the cafe, and to my surprise not my writing or acting capabilities is what is paying the bills -keeping food on the table.
It's hard.  It's not cancer hard.  And I am truly blessed.
I should be content, and I am not.  I do not understand contentment.  The actual term I get, but what am I to do with my ambitions, or for that matter my garage, which is straight out of the scene of a disaster film.
Am I to be satisfied with my lot?  Should I be out there just selfishly stealing more time from what is truly important?  And for that matter how do I know what is truly important?  I have priorities, and bothering with the details is nuts, and they do not not grant me an income (yet).
Our daughter is three; three is the most important dad year for her, and then there are those ambitions.  They are curses.  Ambitions are curses.
"I aspire to be a (whatever)." does not equal "I want to aspire to be a (unattainable and very retarded goal that would be detrimental to every relationship I have ever had, and I will pay dearly should you ever attempt, so I should stop and just go back to work, loser.)
Yeah, I talk to myself like this alot.  It's funny, but I would never talk to anyone like this, even if it were true, then again I am my own worst enemy. 
The truth is this - I lack focus. 
Snipers have some serious focus, but have them run from spot to spot, and then shell them, and drop them off in a territory that they do not know at all, and remove all communication, clothing, and give them a lens that has been scratched, and I believe that they would have a hell of a time focusing.  Now, I am no sniper, and I am not trying overcome world wide catastrophes, but man I need some friggin' focus.  You can tell who has it - confidence, clarity about the goal - I want that. 
My lowly income would be worth it, if I could get a little bit.  I could earn a little more, but I am just so fragmented and disorganized.
Help! 

The Strawberry Patch

Once upon a time there lived a lovely and very energetic princess named Fiona.  Princess Fiona was the love and joy of the king and king, as she was their only daughter, making her the heiress to the kingdom. 
'Twas on one particularly summery day, when the sun was blazing brightly overhead that Princess Fiona and ten of her closest of friends were playing a frenzied game of running and catching.  And for the longest time the children, including the princess, sprinted about without a moment for a cool drink and a quick rest.  As they played and screamed for joy, their faces became as bright red as ripened strawberries.
The queen recognizing that the children were surely exhausting themselves called to the children asking them to enjoy a cool glass from a pitcher of freshly made tea, but the children, ever so excited to be in the hot sunshine ignored the queen's request and continued running about the garden.
Under the summer sun, as their skin became the color of strawberries, beads of sweat poked onto their hot, dirty skin.  They were the very shape of the tiny seeds found on strawberries.  The queen noticed, and became very wary of the welfare of the children, and called them in to rest, but the children refused to listen. 
The children continued under the hot summer sun, which began to wane into the western sky, and it was not long before the queen and the king noticed that the tops of the childrens' heads had turned a bright green.  Now the king, being most stern in the keeping of his good daughter, called to her in his loving and booming voice, "Princess Fiona!  It is time to come in!  This instant!"
And the princess, looking ever more like a strawberry fruit, ran to her father, the king, as her friends continued to play.
"Why must I stop playing, while they are permitted to continue?  I am the princess."
"We are your parents and we love you."
Princess Fiona grumbled as she sipped on the cold glass of tea, as her friends continued to scream and run outside.  The green top of her head returned to the light brown that she had been given at birth.  In her bath she groaned as the noises outside continued, and the seeds of sweat floated away.  And though she growled about resting, laying down in her bed, with noises outside not fading as the western setting sun, her skin returned to its golden hue.
When she awoke, the garden outside was quiet but for the nightingale singing its sweet song.  The king and queen took her gently by the hand and led her into the garden.  Much to everyone's pleasant surprise, they discovered a beautiful patch of ripened strawberries in the garden.  They were red and looked ready to pop, and Princess Fiona begged the king and queen for a wonderful snack - to which they agreed.  They allowed her to pick all ten of the strawberries.
She placed them in a bowl and her parents brought to her a bowl of fresh cream.
"What do you suppose happened to your friends?" 
Princess Fiona smiled as she placed the first one into her mouth.  It made her fingers and lips red and sticky sweet.
"I can not say father, but I do surely wish that they had stayed so that I might share these strawberries with them."
FIN

When 2 = 1 + 1 + Variable and the Art of Fragmented Romance in Marriage

I remember her walking up to me in church and introducing herself.  It is hard to say what preempted her wanting to meet me, but probably some stagy-shinanigans.  She mentioned that she had seen my name in the church bulletin, and recognized it as someone from her past.  When she walked up to me, I knew who she was, because my mom had sent me a newspaper clipping regarding her story: "Executive Returns to Her Roots to Make Kolaches".  I won't say that this is what brought me back to Pennsylvania from NYC and Japan, but it was not long after that I did just that.
"You're Hugh Harper.  I'm..."
"I know who you are."
I was not interested in this beautiful woman.  No, I had experienced quite enough.  I wanted to ride my motorcycle into the sunset alone.  I remember praying about it.
Be warned though folks; when you say things in a prayer like, "Thy will be done."  It will be.
So, the next day, I look up her shop in Beaver - this Cafe Kolache place.
"Sounds girly"
I called her and asked her if we could talk. 
And the next day, I stopped down on my motorcycle.  We sat for two hours and talked and laughed.
We courted.  I trained her to hike Pike's Peak.  Brady's Run has our Kissing Rock, and everytime - even today when we hike up there, we stop for a nice long smooch.
Oh yeah...  We got married. 
About, 5 months after we started, I knew.  I glanced over to her while driving at night and she was fast asleep in the car - her mouth was wide open.  It was a sight.  I wanted her right then.  And I had a little ring in my glove box waiting.
Thy will be done indeed.
It is funny how plans are made and changed.  Sometimes they change in the blink of an eye, and others, like a glacier altering the landscape - a long-long time.  And I look back on my single life - that torturous past, those in some cases, heinous relationships, and then I take but only a glance at life now, even under the constant strains of the financial burdens of the business, the obligations, the mood-swings and the crazy three year-old, and those moments that can crush a man, as he would crush an empty beer can and I will never ever want to take back any of that so called freedom of the single life again.
I remember early into our marriage, our family doctor telling us that I was going to need an aortic valve replaced.  She had the fattest tears in her eyes, and I could tell what she was thinking:  "Great.  Defective husband."
I remember well, our attempts at having a baby.  All those appointments, and then her etopic pregnancy, and while waiting to hear that she was out of the operation, hearing my name get paged and the doctor telling me that it was a "real mess in there".  I thought I was going to die, when I thought that she might.
I remember those stars up around Oil City.  We walked outside with her eyes closed, and then she opened them to a blanket of stars.
I remember how ill-prepared we were for Abby.  My first migraine.  The absolute joy!
And now, we enter our sixth year of marriage.  The house, the finances, the cafe, our daughter, the dog, our folks, the world spinning on its axis.
I remember being asked what it was like working with my wife.  I said that it was a "scenario ripe for comedy", and while it may be true, we work well together, and we both go through good and bad times as we muddle our way through the business - and life.  I won't have it any other way.
I come up behind her, and give her a squeeze, and life, as always, in the way.
"Ahem, a little romance."
Okay.  Abby screams out something in the background.  The cafe calls.  The dog is itching her butt on the carpet.  The buzzer from the dryer goes off.  The fire alarm explodes.  Time is not complying with our demands.  I am in my smelly t-shirt and a pair of boxer-briefs.  She has not washed her hair in two days, and has "no sleep" wrinkles under her eyes.
And she wants romance?
It'll take some figuring, but I think I can do that.
"Kristi, I love you more now than I did then."

At La Casa d'Narcissi Winery some time last year - by motorcycle!

Your Husband.

Critics are Jerks (last install)

There are a group of fat, lazy, overly-opinionated, "still-living-at-home with mommy and daddy for friggin' free wanna be somethings, but are aggressively seeking a handout for their underemployed and under dressed selves" who take it upon themselves to find something that some other has done, and then wreck it with their careless, and carefree choice of words like a drunk behind the wheel of steamroller.
These "critics" are generally overemotional douches who frequently use generic words (sucks, terrible, luke-warm, garbage...) poor grammar and spelling in broad generalizations.  Here is an example:

• There muzic sux!

My response should be, "No, you suck!"
However, like mama always says, if you don't have anything nice to say...
The really fun thing to introduce to these losers is to have them actually attempt to accomplish the same thing and better it. 
Silence...
A very dear friend of mine harped continuously on how poor this movie was or that movie.  He also waxed on poetically about how poor some beers and wines were made.  This (pretentious gobblety-gook) got to to me.
"Star Wars sucked!  I must have seen it 20 times!"
Really?!  What sucked about it?
"Ummm.  Well, they only did it for the merchandising."
Really?!  Why don't you make one?
"What?"
A movie.  And I tell you what - when you can make a movie as loved by that many people, I will listen to your critiquing.

My friend, taking the challenge to heart, is at the top of his class in film production at the Savannah College of Art and Design.  He does not voice his opinion about how bad some movies are that Hollywood makes. 
Why?
He is too damn busy trying to make them himself.  Will he now grab my attention regarding what his form of expertise is?
Perhaps, but I hold to the idea that opinions are like bellybuttons - everyone's got one.
Another axiom to live by is "Those can - do!  Those who choose ignorance, become fat, lazy, overly-opinionated, "still-living-at-home with mommy and daddy for friggin' free wanna be somethings, but are aggressively seeking a handout for their underemployed and under dressed selves" who take it upon themselves to find something that some other has done, and then wreck it with their careless, and carefree choice of words like a drunk behind the wheel of steamroller douche-bags."
Remember this:  Just because you have the right to free speech doesn't mean you should exercise it everytime you fart.

So You Wanna be Rich and Famous...

This is in relation to a conversation I had with my agent.  She met me at a gig recently and we got to talking about the industry.
A little background. Without going into it sounding arrogant - I was and still am a professional performer - in music, theater, and film. 
What's a professional?  Someone who gets paid.  Period.
I can go on.  I won't.  The Lord has a means of making us all humble.  For teenagers and young adults who believe the apex of high art is twinkies and beefcakes playing fruity vampires and whatever else on the silver screen, this will be completely incomprehensible.
Here is the stark reality in numbers, and this is not meant to sway the young reader or the dreamer, because the world is full of them - including myself aspiring to be an author of not just any novel, but a classic as big as MobyDick, a motorcycle racer as fast as King Kenny Roberts, an actor of great renown of which there is not.
The reality is however, that while I may very have all of the traits of having these characteristics, the likelihood of ever becoming rich and famous is small.  And for you, perhaps even smaller and I have been wrong many time before.
By the numbers, using the very popular and often generous  80/20 rules:

• 80% of everyone would love to be rich and famous.
• 20% of those 80% doing something about it.
• 80% of those are involved in their craft and not making money.
• 80% of those who are not making money do not attend classes or seminars.
• 80% of those who do attend seminars in their crafts are socially awkward.
• 20% of those who are not believe they deserve to be rich and famous.
• 80% of those people, due largely to their egos never work in this town again.
• 20% of these people go back home to mama with their tails between their legs.
• 80% of the professionals keep doing it while working other jobs.
• 80% of those who do not are still living at home.
• 20% of these have accepted reality.
• 100% of the Universities that have advanced degrees in theater, film, literature, dance will never ever refund the tuition that the banks forked over to them on your behalf. 

Your stats are pretty crappy.  For that matter, so are mine. 
But the world is made of dreamers, and in order for those dreamers to live on, they must love what they do, and live humbly.  Be extraordinary.  Attend a class or two, and a seminar.  Do public and free stuff, because agents in all fields need to know that you are serious, knowing that you are "out there"

Critics are Jerks (part1)

Mom always used to say that if you are incapable of saying anything nice, don't say anything.
Somehow these words have fallen onto deaf ears, or perhaps mothers today are not repeating the wisdom of yore. 
But today, at least since the advent of "comments" pages and certainly into the often opinionated, self-centered, self-loving and loathing pages of Facebook, emotionally provoked, mentally small critics have scoured the good and hard-working nature of a proper criticism.
It used to be that experienced, caring and solicited individuals were the select to provide proper feedback on projects like the arts, politics, architecture.  They offered tactfully addressed advice and suggestion mostly to the betterment of the persons being instructed.
An example of this may be the following:

• Jimmy, you're doing better; however, try adding a triplet to that last measure and then finishing with an Am7.  I think you'll get it now.

This is an example of what most will call constructive criticism.  It is used to improve the abilities of others in their vocations and hobbies.  It is difficult, as it involves a train of thought and a degree of expertise.  The emotion that is used is that of a vested interest.
Those who give constructive criticism are generally very busy in their own works.  They either can "DO" or have "DONE" what it is they are assessing.  They are rare and oft underappreciated.

The group of "critics" that I am calling jerks are the cowardly and emotionally immature bloggers, who write without experience, and under the guise of a pseudonym that they wish could be their real name.

Click here to read on! And find out if you're constructive or otherwise!

Twinklin' lights and The Throwing of Caution into the Wind

I often criticize and rarely recognize the overzealous appreciation for safety.  I believe in my heart that we live in a completely neurotic and dreadfully fearful society; you hear about it everyday in our politics, in the air and on the roads.  A general need for the building of self-esteem through braces, cameras, airbags and BPA-frees.  I can not help but wonder if we haven't all become a bunch wimps.
On a recent car trip into the the twinkling of Christmas lights, I was the driver of a vehicle that was overstuffed with small children and adults - one car seat.  We were shredding paint and burning rubber at the maximum speed of a whopping 2 miles per hour.  My daughter and her two friends merrily enjoying the seizure-driven twinklings of merriment for which I was willing to shill out of pocket 12 bucks.  Oh, it was beautiful.  My daughter wanting to throw her body on top of the middle console and her friends bouncing recklessly in the back of the Crusher, my foot cramping.  And then we came to the end - toll with Santa Claus and two police cars. 
My dad would not have thought twice about this back in the 70's.  No airbags.  Cold beer in a cooler.  Fishing poles.  And the open road screeching tires with his buddy George riding shotgun, and my brother Danny, and George's kids all in the back of the pick up truck on what must have been the most flea infested mattress.  Flying headlong to a remote location - we wrestled, as the truck teetered inches closer to a permanent nirvana at every passing mile.  They had beer, and we had our mouth's painted a vibrant electric purple on Welch's Grape Soda, and all of us, I believe were loaded, and either ready to fish and camp or just pass out from exhaustion.  We pulled off at some remote location.  Both my dad and George held cigarettes dangling out of their mouth like they were characters in an Andy Capp comic strip.  They's pour a little gasoline into a hole throw on a couple fat branches for kindlin' and WHOOSH - Now that's a fire!
They were there.  They knew (not considered, but knew) we were all gonna be fine.  A hospital was bound to be somewhere if we blew up or something.  These fathers back in the day, were Vietnam Vets - tough as nails and they wanted an experience for their kids - who as it turned out never went to prison, enjoyed the bumps and occasional pain often associated with being stupid (like setting up a plank and brick jump in the middle of the street - no skate parks with mandatory helmet ordinances)
I understand why these laws exist.
Lawsuits.  Not because some greasy politician cares about your kids - there's money involved.
So I drive out of the merriment of those bright colors with the kids quietly huddled in the back.  We all waved happily and nervously at Santa.  And got up to speed to get back to the other car.  The kids survived - but then again, there is always tomorrow.

White Lightning or: How I stopped being Politcal and Learned to Enjoy an American Automobile

There were no doubts or questions anymore - at nearly 180,000 tired miles and squeaks, groans, vomitous noises from who knows where, we decided to sell the "SilverBullet".  She was a very slick 1997 Infinity I30 with all of the leathery bells and whistles.  I purchased that treasured piece of mechanical decency and comfort while selling Lexus automobiles, at just below 92,000 miles, and my beloved and I enjoyed it for seven years. 
She was the second car I owned, and unlike the first car - Eurotrash Saab -it ran nearly perfect throughout its existence with me.  the previous owner banged it up pretty good, and repaired it to the best of his capabilities, but after years of PA weather, the SilverBullet became long in the tooth.
Japanese cars.  They manufacture the best cars and motorcycles on the market.  I know bikes.  I owned about 9 of them (currently riding a British Triumph) and they were all world-class racer types; all made in Japan.  I sold Japanese vehicles.  Bullet proof.  So my first thoughts for a new vehicle were just about anything Japanese, and there was no possibility for an American hunk of crap with their puddles of oil and their utter lack of sophistication.
Why the hate?
Politics perhaps.  Bad stories.  Unions. 
An auction friends and I went the distance on finding the appropriate vehicle for my family and on the list was Japan and Germany, but no American.
Ford maybe.  But there was simply no way that I was going to buy GM (Government Motors).
Why?
Bruce assured me time and time again, and perhaps because of his age and he kept forgetting things, that Chevy made a good car.
Maybe he did not understand - I wanted a great car for a "good" price.
Even my "I know a guy" buddy, Chad suggested a one. 
I thought there was dung between his ears, he has an even more conservative ideology than I do.  he knows cars though... hmmm
But the bailouts, the UAW, lumpy image of insignificance, obsolescence and arrogance of yesteryear...
But what about Bruce?  Chad?
Politics?
And then I thought about it.  I hate the bailout.  The unions and I will never get along in our ideology.  And the whole American car underdog thing, kind of weighed in on me. 
I have a big ol' Kolache Crusher - Chevy Tahoe that has been pretty good to us, minus the whole AC creature comforts and the ever deflating tire issue, but that danggone thing will run over a one of those moronic Smart Cars like a white-head pimple in a pair of dirty digits.  Probably survive the impending nuclear war that I am so paranoid about too.
And then there are the people who work for Chevy and Ford.  They are still working in spite of their unions.  They could have been and should have been dissed by the CEOs, but they were not. 
So at $6000 I bought a 2002 Chevy Impala.  Cloth.
Okay.
It's a good car.  Good.
"Hey I had one of those.  One of the best cars I ever owned - really fast!"
Thank you Curt.
Now I like it.  An endorsement through experience - I needed that.
Politics aside.  I bought "Made in America".  and to be frank, I probably should have thought that to begin with.

Things get Fuzzy

I have a rage issue, and to top it off, I am probably paranoid.  Kristi knows about the paranoia - noises, things that go bump, odd words and looks, the blinker on the old lady's car in front of us.  And while some people may consider a little vigilance, or caution to be good, I handle some of these things, in my opinion, a little irrationally.  A knife out of the drawer of the kitchen cabinet, a sword with a gruesome looking skull carved into the hilt.  Consider jumping out of bed in the middle of the night ready for a fight at a strange sound.
What was that?
Don't know...
The door?
The back door?
Go see.
The rage issue though is a nuance to this paranoia.  As a young boy I had it, used it pitifully, losing all inhibitions for my own or any others safety, generally a pretty loud, primal-entity fuzzing up my field of vision and carrying weapons like stones and sledghammers - far too heavy for a boy.  Now though, in my forties with a wife and daughter, a business that at times can be all consuming, a bit of boxing and kickboxing training, a blackbelt in Aikido - I am growing nervous as times to release frustrations are limited that it will come out.  And it has not here in this town and not with anyone that you my good readers would know, but it (the rage) is an ugly devil.
I was once in a fight after 9/11 - more emotionally charged, but it turned.  I had a knife at my chest - a sharp butchery-looking thing.  I grabbed it, throwing it to the floor.  Things got fuzzy, and though I never physically retaliated, I saw something that scared me perhaps more than my opponent. 
The Devil. 
I saw myself in those eyes - talking slowly, breathing hard.  Cruelty incarnated into what this other person saw as a reason, justified and ready, to suffer horribly.
I turned away.  Perhaps God had other plans.
It almost came out again recently.  I walked before any devil could come out, but my language became a little flowery - and I hate that.
The problem is this: It's going to come again.  And I need a valve.  I pray for it.  I have been looking for an old punching bag again - stuffed and heavy.  A gym - a real one that lets guys beat the snot out of each other like they were meant to - to prevent war, death.

I'm not a Number

What in the world is going on in my country?
Since the country's beginnings, we were joyously given an opportunity to follow happenstance, and our educations, guts and intuitive capabilities allowed us to go forward to pursue our own place in society or farther.  Individuals - with beliefs that could reason, and now especially in an age where most certainly those with differing views, skin-tones and sexes can make a difference - make a name.
And yet throughout the Americas, groups of people have deemed themselves numbers or percentages, and perhaps this to belong to a collective - to give themselves a "small-group" in which that number could have significance; a big fish in a small pond.
Our country has grown in population, but why does that have to diminish the individual to a numeric category. 

• I am the 99%.
• I am the 53%.

Cliches. 
Americans have lost their creativity, so much so that names do not matter unless one is at the top of his economic or political ladder.  Washington DC (which by the way has the richest population per capita in the United States) and the banks do not care about any single one of us, unless we are voting for them or buying into their loans. 
The difference of course between the two of these entities is that one group can either lie or backtrack on their promises, and the other one, in order to save its slimy scales, will word contracts that we willingly sign in the "lawyer-speak" - thereby making it difficult to understand, nudging gently into agreeing with what in hindsight is completely ludacris; the word "mortgage" means "til death".
One more word regarding banks, especially those who promise school loans, car loans and mortgages - read the words (the fine print too - and I know that it's hard to understand) and then remember this "Caveat Emptor".  Difficult?  Don't sign!
I am not a number.
I wake up 4 or 5 depending upon what days I am opening the business.  And work 50 to 60 hours a week.  My wife, who I love more than bread, works another job, which actually helps our business.  I do not have cable or satelite TV.  I pay my mortgage.  I pay my dang'on student loan to a company that I paid for that is now being handled by some jackass that lives in Pakistan.  We have health insurance, it's bloody expensive, but it beats the alternative.  My health care plan is exercise and restraint. We give personally and through the business to countless organizations throughout the community including to public school systems whose unions are among the strongest and hungriest in the country.  We pay a lot in taxes and with more than ten employees are constantly under scrutiny and unwarranted tax obligations and adjustments. 
I probably belong to a number or a percentage.  I just don't care to know what it is.
I am not a number.
- neither are you.  So stop acting like it!

Very Vexed by Vasoline

Abby is a doll and she's smart too.  Sometimes, I think, she is maybe a little too smart, and I think that perhaps a little more SpongeBob and a lot less reading and outside fun is a great idea.  You take that intellect and tag on a strong will to never ever nap - even when daddy is begging her to, then you have an issue which if left unattended can leave you with loads of trouble, or should I say a tub of...
Abby.  It's time for a nap.
"No no no!"  She replies with a musical lilt.
It's time.  Let's go.
"No!"  Less musical, more emphatic.
One.  Two.  Thr...
Up the stairs to her bedroom she advances like a midget on the sands of Normandy,  because she realizes that "three" means I carry her and close the door sans story and song. 
"You go second!"  She instructs me pointing to the bottom of the steps.  And honestly, at this point I don't really care - as long she gets up to her room for her nap.
Blinds drawn blissfully making the room dark but for the few patterns of light shining through the little slats.
"It's still daytime.  There's light."
Yep.
I threw her in a diaper, knowing all too well that I would be removing a stinky package exactly five minutes after I depart the room.  And I do.  And she's very clingy at this point and wants nothing to do with her bed.
I took the poopy parcel out of the room, and descended to the study for a little reading and writing.
I forgot something and knew I should have retraced my steps, but she was making a horrible racket of banging and singing.  I needed some alone time, and allowed the noise to crest and wain like a tranquil wave at a sunny shore.
The Vasoline.
About an hour later, I ascended the steps expecting a few things to be strewn haphazardly around the room.  What I did not expect was Vasoline on just about every nook and cranny, including her bed, the frame of the bed, her newly painted wall, the newly redone floor, her pajamas, her belly, her hair - and then on my fingers and feet which made that hardwood floor a little more challenging to navigate.
Roar!
"Hi daddy."  She coos.
Abby!  Why - you?  Roar!
"I make you happy!"  Greasy smile.
Yep.  Sometimes but not - right now!
I struggled.  My hands caressed her bed frame through the stick, thickly applied goo.
She looked up me with those multicolored eyes, while sitting in her dirty clothes basket, knowing (the lil' scamp) that if she played her cards right the worst I would do is wash her clothes and her hair, and then  write about it in one of my stupid articles.
Ab.  You are absolutely right about that.

Probably a Technophobe and getting Closer.

Third and final part of a series entitled "The Ligonier".

I was amazed watching two friends fistbump each other using "intellihands" (or intelligent handheld device) to exchange information. The information that they exchanged - I could not say as to its importance, but I could say it raised some of my more paranoid questions in regards to our future. A future which seems to be rapidly approaching.


The Ligonier brought up a whole lot of topics, and in the conversation regarding my friend's financial disturbance he told me of an article he recently read.

"In a few years, our IDs will be kept in these handheld devices."

And this reminded me of the fistbump I witnessed earlier that week, where the physical action of bumping fists, produced an exchange that the mind alone or the notepad and paper should have accepted and stored to both individuals, and not the madness in mine that soon followed; I reminded my friend that there are devices out there that can be surgically implanted into the skin. The devices are called RFID, or Radio Frequency Identification Device.

RFIDs are used to company inventories, and in some European hospitals, they are used to track patients and their conditions. Here while the first may be used more frequently in the means to protect companies from loss through theft, veterinarians provide peace of mind for the owners of dogs and cats by letting them recognize the unrecognizably scrambled mess on the side of the road, without having to undergo some form of recognition autopsy.

Fear.

I believe it is what drives this technoeconomy. After 9-11-2001 - a time when we were told that no one was safe, intellihands became immensely popular as did the increase of information. What also increased at the time was the rampant abuse of personal and financial identifications which brought forth a wave of ID protections, which continue to prove useless no matter how hi-tech, because on everything we apply for from credit to jobs requires information that would otherwise be ours alone to share with an increasing paranoid government.

And the online malls where we buy our necessaries and unnecessaries, have their own walls of protection built for us, which though well packaged are nothing more than office cubicles - providing just enough protection to think that we are alone.

Fear.

Fear of public speaking - Youtube.

Fear of germs - Bluetooth.

Fear of your poor esteem and close relationships - Facebook.

Fear of mispellings - Spellcheck.

Fear of meeting new people - Face recognition.

Fear of hard work - Wikipedia, Wii, GuitarHero

Fear of want - Amazon.com, Ebay, Craigslist.

Elbert Hubbard, that often thought eccentric artist, once said that fearing a possible mistake by cowering to it is one of the biggest mistakes a person could make. And here, nearly 100 years since his passing, we are creating software applications to avoid that fear at any cost, which in the end will make us, as a species.

If fear is met and conquered, as a climber may challenge Everest, we become more than what we were. However, in this day and age, we hire digital sherpas, who do it (the hard work) all without us moving even a single muscle, and we, if we are honest with ourselves, know that we deserve absolutely for it.

But our egos, sensitive to our fears and luxuries will develop more programs to meet and relieve us of even the most minute sensitivities, and rest assured it will not be long before our intellihands are greeting our virtual children with timidity as they awaken to Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.

Part 1
Part 2

Not Quite a Techonophobe, but Closer.

Part 2 of a 3 part article.  For part 1 take off the "r".

We found ourselves finally, after some ridiculous and unnecessary hours on the road basking in the Ligonier dusk. I was told that tomorrow an antique show to tell the neighbors about will be featured on the very stret we were staying, and much to my own relief I was not one of the relics to be sold by these artifact dealers.

I had collected my wife and daughter and a myriad of articles that they both found necessary with which to cram the car to overflowing for the weekend retreat, and then myself - coming down from my unpleasant moments of technological blundering through the all too common global positioning device which we mistakenly used to bring us to our lovely destination.

After the giggles of children and the tittering laughter of adults through complete exhaustion and copious amounts of red wine, my beloved and I carefully ascended the wonderfully restored staircase with ninja-like reflexes, passing by our slumbering daughter and into our pillow top bed, where we slept until 6:45 in the morning, receiving the usual better than 2 hours of sleep.

The sun rose and the antique dealers crawled out from their vehicles. They set shops up and down the main street, and quietly waited for interested buyers to creep up on them with coffees and - in our case children in hand or on shoulder.

Yes, two grown men and their respective children walking side by side - writer types. Both a little sleepy looking, and wives nowhere to be found - my, how fancy.

Bait - a really cool, old green-felt sofa.

Fish - "writer extraordinaire" in need of really cool, old green-felt sofa for really old house in a really old neighborhood.

Snag.

She takes cash.

My friend goes to an ATM. An ATM is a machine which reads a magnetized, plastic card which holds personal finances. Its primary use is to divvy out parts of your cash reserves. There are several other duties the computerized teller can perform, including that those reserves may be dangerously low.

My friend is astonished. Not so much alarmed, but bewildered. Apparently, someone, who he has never met has used his card to the tune of over $1000 USD. This stranger is in Great Britain.

We buy stuff on line every day. We pay with these magnetized cards, which have numbers to our personal and business financial accounts trusting that the seller is one of incredible integrity or that the financial institution he is using is credible. Complete strangers.

It is not like I have never bought anything online. Indeed, I have bought quite a few things online, but I have to reconsider it now. The whole "exposed anonymity" economics is seedy to say the least - the secure feeling that no one knows what is in that "plain manila envelope, but the trustworthy individual who gave it to you. Nothing to be embarrassed about, right?"

It used to be that we went to the corner newsstand, restaurant, clothier and supermarket for our goods. We paid cash and we walked away. The person on the other end of the counter was someone we trusted and were familiar with or at the very least a person whom we could “eye-up”, and then somewhere along our consumption, someone invented the credit card. With it we could take into our physical possession, the products that we believed that we wanted, and we went to places that seemed innocuous, and we began to place our trust in people with a nice appearance, never looking into their eyes. Still personal - they may say “Hello” and “Thank you”, thus ending the transaction. Now we go “online” to buy goods and services. We use our financial IDs, willingly giving it over to complete strangers.

It does not end there. These strangers can access our personal history, our families, our consumption history, and market accordingly; like exercise videos and whole foods? You can bet somewhere in your online visits, you will have something marketed to you accordingly – in spam and spyware.

Compare it to walking down a dark alley in the city, with cash pouring out of you pockets – bank number, your car keys, house keys, your favorite music, your favorite food, pictures of your family, and your place of business. And then hand them all over to the first stranger you meet. He.com (She.com) looks great – sexy and armed for protection, not to mention of course that because of this they appear trusting. You hand it over because they have the latest product and service. They tell you to wait by the dumpster for it.

Good idea.

Part 3

Not Quite a Technophobe, but Close

It was not just the trip that our family took to Ligonier that started my fear and disdain for technology or the dangerous commercial addictions and misguided actions of both consumer and maker alike, it started about the same time that I first read Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 way back in Center Junior High School.

We were to meet friends in Ligonier - a quaint town though being a sleepy lil' village (which we needed), seemed hipper than most western Pennsylvania towns. We had gone only a month prior to one of the local and very well-known fun parks, which too had showed a knack for being really cool without the modern hoopla and over-abundance of mechanical enhancements, indeed some spots were rickety enough to cause some consternation on an otherwise thrill seeking man, such as myself.

We borrowed a GPS from my parents, a wide-screened piece of equipment which if plugged and programmed properly could probably take you through the wildest parts of town through the bitterest traffic patterns very easily - and it did just that.

"The lady" - that is to say the digital voice from inside the system bid me hello with a happy little "ding", which must have resulted from some Pavlovian understanding, because as soon we heard that "ding" sound, my wife and I immediately shut our conjoined brains down. And the lady sent us careening down route 65 towards Pittsburgh in Friday construction traffic at an approximate speed of 5 miles per hour.

In my head, only five minutes into the trip, I am uttering phrases and epitaphs that could only be described as coming from a Tarentino movie, because I realize that I could have hopped onto a road that would have very easily taken us out of the hell that we (the lady and I) put ourselves into.

"What are we doing?"

Grumble. Grumble.

"Why is she taking us this way?"

Grumble. Snort. "Duh. I dunno-."

My wife - the woman I love that most, the flesh of my flesh, my best friend - found my short fuse, and I, in turn, found hers, because I was cheating on her with a GPS system that after enduring the biggest, snarling beast of a bottle neck in suburban Pittsburgh, in an automobile whose very structure may well bounce into oblivion was thought to be infallible in my dullard state of being.

"She knows all - duh."

A one and half hour trip to a weekend of rest in a Mayberrian Utopia with close friends. The children, prior to getting in the car, were bouncing pleasantly in the evening sun, filled with colors of the on coming evening. All gathered at a feast, reserved at the local 4-star restaurant. All this in my vivid imagination, but in truth the hours ticked by with unadulterated speed and my boiling point was reached.

"ETA 7 VIA GPS." My wife texted to her friend, already in Ligonier basking in the grapy glow of a sultry red wine.

Texting. More texting.

I remained hot and quiet.

"Change the reservations for dinner?"

Text.

What ever happened to actually talking to one another?

Then it hit me. After finally making it through the Monroeville tunnel with angry people listening to their radios, their GPS, their talking texts, my wife and I realized that we could have looked at the map or even better, could have talked to someone - our friends who have been there numerous times, and then we realized that they - two very intelligent individuals - did the same damn thing; they plugged in their GPS. They shut down their brains as though dogs salivating at the sound of a bell. They wished their children asleep with music and texting and "the lady" to guide them into the same stupid drive-home-traffic.

Keep in mind we've been there. They have been there numerous times. An hour and half - TOPS.

No one talks anymore. They fear their own intelligence or a potential challenge to it by someone else, by feigning interest in it claiming they are too busy. Texting is a way to commune how much we are afraid to go into deeper water with someone. I married my wife and kept the TV off because we both like the high-dive in the deep end. If we want to be careful in a subject of discussion, we stay out of it until we are ready, or we wade in, shallow side first into the deep end – always.

 part 2

The Bronze

She came home tired and huffing, having run a great distance, carrying all that she had.  Her belly hung heavy - low.  Her lips and teeth covered in the catch, feathers clinging to the crimson crusts around her mouth.

She placed the catch on the dirt floor of her little hovel and wondered about the single dwelling five feet from the surface, until her feet would no longer support her.  She bent her legs and lowered herself down onto the bird, placing her head gently on its neck. 

It was covered in blood - still warm.  Not for long.  She waited as had always been the case for it all to become cool. 
Inside, the little one moved.

Soon, the Bronze - Blacksock, would be the only provider.

Above her, the Domestic - with their snarling and their unnatural lust of obedience to a species that believed itself superior to all others.  The oddness of them wanting to kill her and her kits rather than savor in the natural desire for the bird or the rabbit, which in their own world was abundant enough for her and her entire clan - the fabled Bronze of the Netherwood.

Inside her belly, the young stirred.  The Bronze would grow.
"Thunder."

She smiled coolly.  The Domestic would go soon, losing interest in the Bronze.  Their yelling and screaming cum madness.  Fear of the explosions and the light-flashes and the rain. 

The rain frightened them.  Their coats drizzled wet.  Masters - cowards with black-magic sticks producing death, wait with weak eyes, frustrated by the hunt, by the water, by each other.

She licked her lips and then her paws and chest.  Smiling through her sharpened teeth, she set to tearing gently the bird apart.

Through the great hollow he came, father, hunter, protector. 

The great Bronze males, just short of a Domestic, but lighter, stronger, smarter and deadlier.  Unforgiving jaws. 

The Domestic, once dogs proudly held in the great line, forewent the underground and the hunt above, for companionship with the "TwoLeg", a criminal, selfish species that devoured all it carelessly possessed.  They listened and forgot the language for the sake of scraps that the two-leg provided - granted their bidding was done on command. 

The Domestic rather endured slavery in creature comforts than live in service to instincts.
 

The male, Blacksocks a lovely creature of celebrated fidelity with his mate.  His paws far greater in proportion compared to the slave Domestic, he makes a noise when tired as though the very ground was shaking with each pad.  His tongue hangs low and his mouth like hers covered in the catch. 

He does not possess it, having left it in the middle of the wooded glen above for the Domestic, should they come to their senses - one of their own, left shaking for dead.

"Thunder."

He sniffs the air, finding her over the bird and waiting for him to rest.

She would live and so would the kit in her belly.

The world above now weary and wet, with no sound but the servants, laughing to one another.  They speak beautiful tones as music while the wind and rain breath through the Netherwood and through them.  

He would go out again but not before the birth of his pride.  In rain, snow, wood rotted death, and forage and hunt for the blood.

The slaves, would eat their scraps in the dry cells to stare out of the magic nothing - secretly pining for a chance at his Bronze flesh - and the master's.

As he travels in and out of their pen, with fresh catch, the blood making the great Bronze darker, and more mythological, the Slaves cry.  Their masters - the TwoLeg sit on their honches around their great weapon, drinking the sleeping waters, and staring dead into the moving light bark orders for their silence, all the while stoking their apathy for the Way with poorly processed shreds of food.