Optimist Prime

Ecclesiates 1:9-10 "The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us."
I have grown weary of pessimism. I do not speak simply of our country, but of my own will.
It is an age of technological warfare, and unsophisticated jargonistas who vie for our attention and hardearned wages, and our freedoms. An age where there is neither time nor talents to be wasted on the minutia of trinketries and compulsive speculation, brought on by overeducated - underwitted legalists, wishing to steal a few more precious moments with conjecture and assurances. The charlatans!
But it has been going on forever.
We yell at each other. We hurl insults about uncertainties - about things that we do not understand. We learn to hate. We refuse to remember history, and compassion, and adventure, and laughter. We rely upon our kneejerk reactions that have been injected into us by those overeducated - underwitted legalists, as some sort of fix-all elixir. It pains the veins, but its a vaccination and they tell us we need it to get along with them and others. And for lenghty moments, we forget our people - our families.
My solution: simplify! We have to get back to work. I am not talking wages in financial gain, but in life sustaining love for what some call the Unknown, and for our families and beyond.
Ecclesiastes 5:18-19 "Behold that which I have seen: it is good and comely for one to eat and to drink, and to enjoy the good of all his labour that he taketh under the sun all the days of his life, which God giveth him: for it is his portion. Every man also to whom God hath given riches and wealth, and hath given him power to eat thereof, and to take his portion, and to rejoice in his labour; this is the gift of God."
So, I will smile, eat and drink. I will love my Lord, my wife and my daughter. And I will think most fondly of and pray for each of you.

I'll Take a Manhattan - Hold the Cherry Juice #3 (redux)

Hic est nonnullus magis feces ex preteritus

When you're above the reality and the clouds, the very existence of the sky takes on a different meaning. You tread lightly over a snowy field of cauliflower. Underneath lie the ants busily prepping themselves for a chance in the clearing to display their work.
And then you notice the blue. So subtle; from newborn baby blue over which a light mist is blanketed, and you raise your eyes to a surprisingly ominous darkness.
Fly!
Fly very high and far, and through the atmosphere - so empty!
So empty.
Unleashing your Soul Burning brightly - as a sun's.

I'll Take a Manhattan - Hold the Cherry Juice #2 (redux)

More debauchery from meus rabidus preteritus. Commodo utor.

And a strange lonely woman with greasy hair and a filthy knee length knaki winter coat followed my brother and I onto the train.
Her clueless eyes stared blankly into our nonsensical conversation.
I laughed inside and made unnecessary facial gestures to make her change her look - to no avail, and Danny thinks "She's kind of sexy."

The Parable of Aged-Fellow and the Altars of Many Faces

Surely, one must realize that our world - that is to say "human existence" - is a life dedicated to the preservation and evolution of convenience; a means by which this happens of course is through the very means by which one may read this essay, though quite antiquated by the rapidly approaching end of human contact. One can not go about the day without gawking at the expediency and clarity of applicable technology at everyone's senses - most of it not for the sake of betterment mankind, but of entertainments, personalized and bejeweled in apathetic discourse and avarice.

Formerly, part of the human fold was the respected aged-fellow, who spoke truths and tales to the young and naïve in the hopes of carrying them on to the next generations. He reminded them of the cycle of life, and warned them of the coming apathy - to steer away from the many faces. He spoke these in a soft deliberation and calmness – each word chosen wisely, a picture, animated and colorful to remember the darkness, which to some was the light. He taught the significance of the bonded tribe, of battles won and lost, of love and hate, of learning and ignorance, but as time progressed, the latter of each became more significant and more revered, and the aged-fellow, dribbling and weathered felt their cold embrace of indifference.
Sadly, the means by which it was shared - in a patriarch's voice or in gnarly-scribed text - with one's hands and experiences became far too difficult in both understanding and construct. And the darkness was vilified and made human, as though defeat were possible.
So they were built. Altars, made by the hands built by the hands of man to make light of the darkness; they were raised in parasite-filled palaces encrusted with millions of shining, tiny, glass trinkets and cheaply bred sycophants, designed to bleed the aged-fellow, who in turn was ushered away, placed in the wilds that no one ever visited, and left to rot. The altars of the many faces were traded for souls. They were given life through malleable roots, dressed in authority and jewels to breed more sycophants. They were sent to the comfortable asylums of the young and naïve, and were placed in little palaces constructed of regurgitated wood-pulp, abdicating the place where once sat the aged-fellow.
The tribes became smaller as the tales of old were altered and tailored for each. The tribes gathered daily. They knelt in front of the altars of the many faces, basking in the cool neon glow. They knelt on the soft tissues of animals they could not catch, and ate food they did not make. In provocative imagery, the altars of the many faces reminded the tribes of how insignificant and foolish the aged-fellow was. It instructed them to not miss a moment of discipleship; and so it came to pass that the altars of the many faces, reproduced and reproduced again. They were placed throughout various chambers of the asylums where the aged-fellow once visited.
“The fool.”
The altars of the many faces advised each tribe, now separated into small and separate selves, which were found in even smaller sterile chambers, to find and place worthless baubles as sacrifices around the chambers and themselves. The selves ostracized and separated from each tribe. They were ushered away. And the young and naïve selves were given authority in so much as they sacrificed their souls to each altar of the many faces.
The aged-fellow wept.
And so 'twas the altars of the many faces became brighter and more beguiling; the more the faces spoke, the more the young and naïve selves desired. Their commands grew more boisterous as demand called them to be. And with the same souls of the young and naïve selves, who were of certain no different, more were bargained for as the desires of each altar, for greater attention, became louder. Were one to move, the altars jealously noted, the less time could be devoted to them; this displeased the envious altars of the many faces. And they grew smaller, becoming prized idols, and they were lovingly embraced and worn as clothing by the young and naïve selves, who divided from each other - senses numbed by the neon glow.
And the aged-fellow watched.
All around the young and naïve selves, life – once spoken of in truths and tales by the aged-fellow - teemed wildly, but they could no longer see it nor did they desire to. Life now appeared to them as in a dream, where the realities, displayed by the altars, showed it untamed and dangerous; a place where the darkness lurked. It was most assuredly only seen from a safe and uncaring distance.
The aged-fellow, alone in the reality teeming with life, nestled in the wood, his face and hands, made by experience, furrowed, and his hair, the splendor of his struggle, a peppery-white. His eyes now dull; he built an outlawed fire for warmth, with a light, acrid smoke and flitting orange fire-flies that cracked from the fire billowing boldly into the sky.
“The fool.”
The darkness – far older and far wiser than the aged-fellow – witnessed this and came to pass over the reality; and never having enough to consume, the darkness took the outlawed fire, the wood, the teeming life, and the aged-fellow.
The altars of the many faces showed the passing darkness. It fascinated the young and naïve selves, who were assured by the altars that the darkness was yet another dream no different from the others they had seen.
But the darkness – far older and far wiser than the altars – witnessed this foolishness and came to pass over the young and naïve selves; and never having enough to consume, the darkness took the division, the neon-glow and the altars of the many faces.
Now in the wild reality, the young and naïve selves sat chilled by the northern cold. They discarded the altars, whose many faces were no longer. Finding warmth the closer they got to one another, they mourned and longed once more for the aged-fellow. The ashes of his outlawed fire fell coldly between their soft fingers.
And the darkness – aged and wise, and never having enough to consume took the young and naïve one by one.

Bear Attacks

There are those among us who are born to wear dungarees that have seen better days, and those who are not. Some of us enjoy the subtleties of a gentle decline in the fabric through everyday wear, while others seem to find a certain macabre pleasure in the deliberate practice of rapid erosion with either stone, brick or razor. And in the American culture, where immediate gratification and avarice are key, many aspire to purchase with plastic currency, pre-torn/worn and thusly ruined accessories and are willing to pay exorbitant amounts to so so.
Still others are simply in possession of these decrepit articles purely by accident; statistics show, there are an inordinate amount of dungarees that are being mangled by the common North American black, brown and grizzly bear (otherwise known as Ursus horribilis). Of course, as a result of these attacks the wearer of said article, generally is consumed, and what remains are used as bear markings, known as scat, which in turn warns fellow dungaree wearers not to tread unawares near those locations. It should also be noted that those who do indeed escape these horrific bear attacks, tend to suffer greatly with tragically frayed dungarees, which though very trendy in the fickle American Xer-subculture, are subsequently and prematurely rendered completely useless after only one wash cycle.
In a scientific case study provided by four regional community colleges - Spring of 2010, it was proven in at least 5 known triple-blind, double gold standard cases that bears became receptive to not digesting nudists. The case study involved interviewing nudist camp attendees, streakers, and exhibitionists. After interviewing two hundred fifty-seven nudist candidates, 5 overall were selected to have hidden cameras secretly placed in their environments. During the two year intensive study, no bears were seen, though one nudist was described as having "a very frisky kitten."
The lack of bear and bear-like activities, according to Rachel McCutchin, a recent associates degree recipient in veterinary sciences, proves that not wearing bluejeans in the presence of bears is a stunning discovery.
McCutchin then went on to say that should an actual bear approach any individual, that though the traditional methods of "lascivio mortuus" or "playing dead", may still be effective, dropping ones dungarees was by far the best means of deterring a bear attack. To prove that fact, McCutchin expressed her heartfelt gratitude to her alma mater and simply stated, "I am going to the Appalachian Trail, with my bluejeans and a camera."
That was some two months ago, and we are still anxiously awaiting physical proof from Ms. McCutchin.

I'll Take a Manhattan - Hold the Cherry Juice (redux)

Recently, I have had the ridiculous idea of backtracking some ideas of my debaucherous times in the city of NYC. Many of these moments are faded memories hidden behind some foggy residue of hedonism and what I like to refer to as Bohemianism. This is no attempt by myself to relive or glorify my past, but perhaps to gain some insight as to where my attitude on life came from. Many of these unremarkable pieces have no titles, and to stay true to their form, I will not label them, nor will I alter them entirely. Enjoy.

Incidentally, my handwriting is so bad that I may, though certainly not embellishing on what is original, may have to by no choice, have to alter some of the original context. Not editing, but guessing.



If you fall down from a glass ceiling, you break a metal floor.
Devil's eyes, an angel's heart can claim - no serenity.
Eventually, the persistent screams become surreal whispers.
Lies determined truths by judgemental farces,
and the burning steam is cracked by icy myths.
What is the person who should live though dead?
Where does my temporary casket lie, but in my broken bed?
Buried in some joke of freedom, I laugh myself to tears.
I burn my flesh on fuel call knowledge and ignorance.
Stand with me o' my favorite nightmare of bliss.
She calls out lovingly, baring no kiss for me.
Oh, wound myself on broken years and healing tendons.
I laugh through freedoms eyes, becoming a haunting burden.

She smiles - her blinding white and sharp death.
The blood of "years gone by slowly", eroding her like acid.
Squirming, I watch liquid love pour from my soul.
Harmless though devastating, I pour it into her,
and she reels, licking her salty lips hungrily.
It is my soul that she wishes to devour.

Books Can Be Fun

As a writer, and one that is trying to write a classic, is not easy. It takes moments of great solitude. It takes a butt made of lead. Fingers that are not as addled as the brains. It takes putting words to a page and then making sure that each one has meter and rhythm. It takes research like reading classics and knowing what those authors wrote in order to grasp how a neo-classic is written.
Which bring us to our story:
I am the co-owner of a cafe and bakery in the suburbs of Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. We are busy people, especially now with our beautiful daughter who is entering the "twos" with gusto and a will that I can only describe as angsty. in our minimal time, I write, exercise and make humble attempts to hop on the motorcycle for a romp into the windy roads.
One fine weathery day, I had to forgo a more lengthy ride into the hills of West Virginia for one closer, and to kill two birds with one stone - seeing as how I had just finished reading a book on hiking the Appalachian Trails and needed another, I adorned my black leather jacket, my "brain-bucket", goggles, boots and red bandanna, which fit snugly below my nose.
My wife asked in her winsome and cautiously caring way that I stick to the byways and not the main thoroughfare, as drivers today tend to be ignorant of other drivers - especially motorcyclists. I love the country roads and proceeded to swoop and careen precariously through the valleys and hills, enjoying my romp.
I managed to find my way to a distant and well-stocked used-bookstore and found what I was looking for and proceeded to leave. I do not possess a carrier on my motorcycle to carry such things - at times I wish that I did, so I stuffed the book and bag down the back of my trousers.
Nothing unusual.
My return trip had started off a ripping good time, sweeping in and out of turns and then finally finding myself stuck behind slow moving technofruits, who endanger everyone surrounding them. I decided to take a familiar and usually barren steel-belt, riding parallel to the Ohio River. There are rarely any uniforms on this particular stretch so I allowed the machine to pull hard.
I passed several vehicles and noticed two miles ahead the white spectacle of a white car in uniform and proceeded to slow to what now was a very legal crawl. Alone in front and behind, I watched as the officer's vehicle pulled onto the roadway directly behind me.
I monitored my speed very carefully as I entered my hometown's limits.
35 miles per hour.
Dragging.
I pulled up to a traffic light and then was accosted by three more uniforms. With lights flashing they blocked the road - both ways. I raised my hands. One stocky fellow stepped quickly out of his tan police sedan and pulled his revolver, and another with his hands on his holster approached.
"Turn off the bike!"
I did.
"Turn the key!
I did that too.
"Now - keep your hands where I can see them."
How fast was I going?
"Put you hands on the hood of the car! And I'll explain!"
Isn't this a little extreme for speeding.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Robinson."
They removed the book from my pants. They grabbed my wallet and reached in my jacket for my phone.
And then I "patted" down.
Can they do this for speeding?
"There was a holdup in Aliquippa. The guy was on a motorcycle wearing a black leather jacket, a helmet and a mask."
They opened the pages of my book - flipping through it in haste.
"Sorry, I'm an avid reader."
"Hey, your Rock's brother-in-law! Coffee business must be tough."
Ensuing laughter.
Pre-deficant in my trousers.
"Ah - he's a good guy."
Laughter continues.
"Sorry about the mix-up, sir."
No problem - seriously!
My mother-in-law always tells us that we seem to always have these inexplicable adventures. Not that I recommend this particular one to anyone,but if there is one thing I can tell you it is that stories are not recounted by people who sit and watch TV, proselytizing the end of the world, or by people who need to satisfy a narcissistic urge to tell others about their every excretion, or by sadistic "game players" - they are written by doers with smooth rear-ends and calloused feet.