Deep purple outcast Earthling...
Finds living social brutal, an impossible mission among an alien nation of nasty trumpeting sore losers, who don their heads periwigged with orange coiffure emulating, looking, and ululating trolls bemoaning the existence of hashtagged second class citizens such as yours truly, a genetic anomaly whose misconstrued physique (mine), an innocent married sexagenarian, whose predilection towards stranger things (that go bump in the night) experienced being character assassinated, electronically besmirched, and forever crucified for claiming to be divine creator reincarnate attested by scars evincing severe puncture wounds (courtesy sharp stake) to palms of each hand, where river of blood coagulated upon emaciated body electric, yet never totally extinguishing unbridled spirit.
Abandonment at birth courtesy young unwed mother of mine found her set beet red, gangly and scraggly newborn within basket - case there might happen by the boulevard of broken dreams, an altruistic, deterministic, humanistic, maternalistic, spiritualistic, and zootheistic good samaritan (and a nice Jewish man to boot - ha), which wayfaring stranger from a stranger land or maybe even an extraterrestrial channeler from amidst dark shadows hoovering within outer limits of the twilight zone, whereby said nebulous Gaia the Greek goddess of Earth, mother of all life, similar to the Roman Terra Mater (mother Earth) reclining with a cornucopia, or the Andean Pachamama, the Hindu, Prithvi, “the Vast One,” or the Hopi Kokyangwuti, Spider Grandmother, who with Sun god Tawa created Earth and its creatures.
Fast forward sixty five years to the present where wedded bliss eludes a wordsmith envisioning being whisked away (with a half sashay, and a do-si-do) at light speed to accompany other worldly species as interstellar travel fine companion to hopskotch across the universe despite obvious and immediate language barrier, and essential species difference gnome matter said cosmic dust rendered myself and other entity divergent organisms prone to eye each other with at least one characteristic aberration, barbarization, elucidation, fascination, intercommunication, jubilation, melodramatization, nonconfrontation, et cetera.
Upon surrendering this self hypnotized faux yes ("FAKE") Earthing, I noticed nothing amiss (which temporary state of transcendent bliss twice daily meditation strives to attain), ah...before you dismiss a non "FAKE" claim lemme juiced apprise ye with a very brief hiss tour re:, how this generally outlandish (long gush fellow) doth wanna kiss hippy, cheeky and buddy UFO's (with chess a bot of errant knightly - je ne sais quois finesse, Oh Henri Matisse - yea artfully add a touch of Swiss obviously predominantly French laced politesse), though up pawn occasion this lousy manque nonrook key mutant doth miss long disused subtle social cues, cuz I still feel asper (in) a human aberration always felt like an outcast in an alien nation even though born on Mars, (a distinct honorable station), yet resided on third rock from the sun what seems like forever damnation yours truly experienced abolition against supposed invaders from outer space, and essentially targeted, kindled, and bullied on par like an abomination, no surprise while attempting to escape being walled din, and trumped "illegal" accusation crackled, snapped, and popped with abjection, your honor (forgot to mention earlier got picked up mistaken as invitation from outer space by a kid prized as some sophisticated surveillance drone), within a sketchy section of town, and must avoid acquisition by mad scientists (employed by NASA), who will undoubtedly take immediate action and disassemble me (carefully as if dismantling Bono fide atomic bomb), hence activation must be established pronto against administration, sans powerful GMO firearm, emitting disinformation (mine defense of last resort) will definitely signal to nemesis furthering my aggravation, and Putin this webbed, whirled, and wired woebegone wysiwyg at risk.
I ably, eagerly, readily, and willingly roll out the Scottish Tartan mat in an honest to dog effort to be removed (ofttimes experiencing chilblains as persona non grata) as soon as possible off a planet chock a block teeming with billions of anglocentric, eccentric, egocentric, humancentric, phallogocentric, et cetera bumping uglies during three hundred and sixty five days (one additional twenty four hour period occurring every leap year), self absorbed in satisfying basic instinct to procreate despite overpopulation imposing immense stress upon oblate spheroid analogous to spinning wheel (threading thru Milky Way galaxy) across variable cosmic tapestry in the sky that keeps on turnin.'
How curious to embark on long day's journey into night where experiencing inescapable gentle tug of black hole's gravitational pull extends indefinitely, but its strength diminishes with distance subsequently the gravitational force from a black hole can be felt from any distance, but it becomes weaker the farther you are from the black hole, therefore no specific "cut-off" distance for its gravitational influence, but it becomes negligible at large distances, just like any other massive object in space.
Beginner's luck found yours truly (me) honored and privileged to become linkedin with space travel endeavor, which global enterprise incorporated representative ace cadets inured to the rigorous regimen of zero gravity.
An exceptional solo flight to Mars on a lark, (a summer vacation experienced many years before as an audacious, capricious, and precocious adolescent and native Martian to boot), who stealthily boarded the sleek and sophisticated state of the art missile, (which stood ready to be launched at a moment's notice) did notch prospects and counted as figurative feather in my cap considerably increasing prospect to voyage into the realm when the space/time continuum burst with a big chitty chitty bang bang, when entering the spatial sweepstakes for a one way ticket to witness the beginning formation of galaxies.
Even though an aerospace engineer with an assignment in top secret government project to sendd an unmanned rocket to the red planet, (the intention to scramble aboard the massive satellite required careful planning over the course of many months), I lacked particular knowledge about entering hatchways, which would allow, enable, and provide easy access to enter the control center.
Company policy frowns on interaction between one department and another issued special badges (even with the most restrictive clearance) to minimize espionage and sabotage, and/or the selling of vital information to a competitor particularly Russia, many other countries that comprise the Soviet Bloc, and even China.
In an effort to obtain vital information for redacted reports mentioning (or even alluding) to general data points about said undertaking, I won over any skepticism on behalf of chief executive officers (and their ilk) with a sincere concern the normal wear and tear of the components at structural junctures subject to excessive metal fatigue.
With the aid of latest computer hardware and software, the graphical user images on the screen showed every square inch of each module, which electronic schematics could be rotated three hundred and sixty degrees in at least (but not limited to) three dimensional arrangement.
Upon request, a permit became available for me to scrutinize the actual entire multistage proud product at various stages of completion utilizing digital camera, hand held tablet, and latest implements of the trade notating courtesy diagram and description any questionable site that cast a dark shadow of doubt for a successful thrust of mother ship into deep space nine.
Lest any tell tale signs signs of an independent research enterprise betrayed my true where-abouts and/or ulterior motives, an undisclosed pricey retreat someplace in the tropics constituted the solee extent for my explanation at a long term leave of absence, which got corroborated courtesy revamped computer program responsible for monitoring surveillance in the far fetched event some intelligent living social alien life source ransacked premises.
As the day of lift off approached, an stepped up increase in preparations for my lengthy surreptitious stay in space took place. Tucked away in frequently overlooked nooks and crannies behind innocuous panels stood cannistors of food, me books and telecommunications devices, aa high powered microscope and writing material as back up medium.
All those months blankly staring at least one, (but ofttimes many more) monitor screens, thumbing thru technical reports, and quite a few unobserved practice dry runs (to familiarize and adequately prepare me with the real test) witnessed perfect blast off without a hitch into the infinite azure sky, more so the color of an inky abyss as millions of miles jettisoned yours truly permanently away from nearly totally traumatized Earth.
Even with the aid of a seatbelt and shoulder strap, the powerful shocked thrust from the forced propulsion heavily bore down against my forehead and created the sensation of being flattened by a steamroller, but once outside the powerful force of the planetary pull, I experienced a lightness of being. Arms and legs floated up as if I owned no control (to major Tom) over them.
From recent maneuvers in a simulated environment of weightlessness at the Astronaut Training Center (ATC for short), a place about halfway to the moon available to all employees who thought to relocate to of of a dirty dozen deeded deployment destinations strategically strewn across a trafficked trajectory.
Although usually considered unwise to bounce around in a free form fashion within a traditional sized room without a strong rope tied around the waist and affixed to a secure anchoring post, or donning suction shoes, the cubicle housing makeshift main headquarters the exception to aforementioned rule, which cramped area not specifically designed to carry a passenger (unless excursionist qualified as an authentic midget) offered slight breathing space to average sized person excellent at being a contortionist.
Anything I wanted could be obtained within arms length. Most of the intervening hours whiled away found yours truly (me) adopting meditative pose, whereby a certain serenity pervaded throughout my entire trek into the outer limits of the twilight zone lulled into mental, physical, and spiritual quiescence courtesy absolute zero sound, nary a whine of engine disrupted hypnotic trancelike state.
Within the immediate moments after blastoff, the third rock from the sun (home to multitudinous species of life that proliferated despite impact of Homo sapiens upon all animals and plants exhibiting wanton exploitation of fauna and flora to buzzfeed the capital one promulgation of industrialization) instantaneously receded into a pinprick of light before blinking out altogether, which inky blackness suddenly pronounced, accentuated, underlining austere beauty of the cosmos.
My quasi/pseudo fiction titled balms away
originally written June 10th, 2018
Never could this prattling dada adjust to “empty nest” syndrome (he considered a bord den), despite natural declaration of independence, either of two beloved daughters took, who trod divergent paths (measure for) measure with much ado about nothing to attain singular autonomy.
Language usage the perfect analogous engine and tonic re: incorporating universalistic, therapeutic, opportunistic, holistic, and cathartic personal choice modus operandi vis a vis coping method to allow, enable, and provide adjustment since (the smallest possible) even number of offspring figuratively flew (without being chicken) the coop.
Thus, thy near limitless imagination took refuge in conjuring means to harness this then melancholic feeling.
Sadness ofttimes (more so in mine recent writing past, which coincided with trials and tribulations of assessing completed fatherhood) helped expunge, shoe away, and soften hard heart hardening like leaden albatross that weighed upon psyche.
An aha moment arose soothing this inconsolable ache, especially to bear witness, when thee youngest poised to graduate from Redmond Proficiency Academy sans the evening of Friday May 26th, 2017.
Courtesy of an overactive imagination, this dada could practically will himself to be (and or course not to be living in a Shakespearean hamlet, per chance shaped like a Globe bull omelet, where measure for measure all's well that ends well as you like it) in the presence of those whose absence affects me the most.
Aside from the mental equivalent of a clowning magician possessing wizardry zeal, a secret channel existed for me to experiment as a “guinea pig” to bring wishful thoughts into fruition.
So without further delay (explaining general information about this prosaically protective proud papa), I cut to the virtual paper chase and apply the remaining words to self-taught exploit to travel at the speed of greased lightning.
Whether the weather perfect or inclement, this middle-aged father follows strict safety guidelines.
Additionally, true to the postal employee motto, (which maxim faithfully, dutifully, and benevolently taken to heart whenever I did dull liver mail, a job that comprised my working career since age eighteen until forced retirement, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night will stay this fatherly courier from his swift completion of self appointed roundly nada impossible mission to a light like a bolt to Bend, Oregon.
Thus, dexterous fingers intuitively, instinctively, and busily circled round my heavily padded faux santa claus size waist, where the Kuiper belts got buckled, Asteroid clasps cinched, and Dwarf men uber zippers drawn snugly into a custom fit pod like contraption.
Elaborate panels of buttons, knobs, and switches appeared when this air borne civilian ready to blast off into the great beyond.
Aeronautical engineering avocation well versed in the pseudo rigor mortis stasis, sans keeping this five feet and ten inch athletic body rigid for untold hours (yes, or even days at a stretch) amateur astronaut, Cosmo (funneling) naught, and English major trained me to the precautions when a human being approached the velocity of light.
Extraterrestrial futuristic gewgaw hedged intrusion of extreme atmospheric pressure.
Intubation asper nutriment (even though the journey across the celestial vault, would practically clock more than a few minutes), the sheer excitement to surprise the punim compromised an ordinarily hearty appetite.
I would not miss attending the academic achievement of thee offspring fraught with mastering rudimentary particle physics for the world wide web, which aptitude she, (who refers to herself as Shay) acquired with flying colors.
Hence, thru thick or thin, hell or high water, this practitioner viz laissez-faire promised himself to take a bold risk.
Ooh, a shiver did tingle down the small hairs of my back at the utter pleasant shock of surprise, when this joyously earthlinked capital one amusing chap would spring out from some secluded spot after the pomp and circumstance of the tearful feted milestone made manifest when this class of two thousand and seventeen exploded with joie de vivre at the special stepping stone.
Though told to thine charmingly fond, indubitably loved, and officiously regaled unpretentiously young woman that neither this conniving father, nor idealistic languorous otherwise rational uber xing missus would attend this once in a lifetime poignant performance, the playful goniff within this overgrown “boy” found schemes to transcend, triumph and trump the travails defying overcoming odds to attain sought after goal.
Prior to embarking on near blink oven nigh transportation, a deathly stillness sans pall cast dark shadows where me countenance strove to bask as like a avast limned idyllic patch, now invisible jack hammers chattering within the usual tour de force core of droning heart wrenching torment, which triggered an unstoppable, invincible, and inconsolable biblical geyser of tears streaming down me smooth shaven cheeks.
Sudden pangs of nostalgia for the salad days (yes, they got unexpectedly, maddeningly and frequently tossed – boot lettuce turnip vines frankly zapping this despairing biological beastie cry boy i.e. “sir”) akin to a basket case of one deplorable whimpering, sniffling, and oozing remembrance of fragmentary occasions when the girls erupted (like puppies yowling, yipping, and yawping with dog gone excitement) at the mere mention to spend time at their favorite “sand” playground.
How such simple and basic activities ushered forth an untrammeled vivacity wakening the child within myself (more’n a doe zen full moons ago), a flashback that rent asunder any attempt to activate the podcast, which flashback appeared to predominate a formerly giddy state of mind.
Though disheartened with scattered mental debris (and an importance to validate than vitiate this dismal deep seated depression), an all out attempt (my very mediocre college try plumbing the depths courtesy mine temple mount) made to launch self into the void.
Just when dark shadows blackened all hope seemed lost in space at the outer limits of the twilight zone, (and the once in a billion – er…a slight hyperbolic statement… - chance to assimilate, bask cerebrally, divinely evoke fascination gamete hopscotch invoked, journey kindling life manifesting nameless outcome, prithee, queen royally slumbering tonight), the alt-rock totally tubular voodoo wresting yik yak (paddy whack give this dog a bone) zoomed into warp speed woof out any commands barked into the voice processing gizmodo.
Off went this sole sailor, soldier, and tinker toy spy zipping away into the heart of darkness.
The sheer blindingly crushing velocity (faster than posted speed limit) stretched the starlight into infinity, whereat the vacuum of deep space nine vector of space/time continuum produced Doppler effect, this low-pitched threshold wham (bam thank you ma'am) could be felt as being heard.
Aside from the fleeing rainbow gathering far into the distant Cosmos, a barrage of hail size residue (possibly from an aborted planet that never materialized, or perhaps one potential “Mother Earth” miscarried), this comfortably numb skull of mine with a neck row feeling immovable like a led zeppelin, tautly tethered torso, nonetheless, a basic human instinct invited a wave of rapturous, luscious, and joyous delight suffused this humble being.
How grand (when nowhere near the finale) to extol firsthand, this great homogeneous uniformity throughout the vastness encompassing, incorporating, and manufacturing a kaleidoscope of colors that blended into one prime mortally a self coined metaphorical soupy egg drop broth.
Genetic Roulette — Luck of the Draw
It was pure luck that ovum # 102,364 was released via ovulation from my mother on that exact day in that exact year and was waved down the ciliated tube to meet a suitable suitor. It could've been any of the other hundred thousand eggs she was born with and, if so, I wouldn't be me.
It was pure luck that spermatozoon #43,438,822 was the exact vehicle to deliver the right exact half of my father's DNA. Had it been any other swimmer, then I just wouldn't be me.
And I really do like me, so I am very lucky.
Stagnation
"There's something about change that shakes me to my bones."
The frail woman shivers and tucks herself into her shawl. Her rocking chair slowly teeters; it could have been from last century or the one before. Like the lady in it, age is hard to determine, and the only certainty is everything in this house is old.
They sit together on the screened porch. Around them, white paint chips, flakes, and fades, but the haint blue ceiling is vibrant and fresh. Several two by four floorboards are yellow and unpainted, replaced recently by grandchildren or friendly neighbors.
Her chair has never known the business end of a paintbrush. It has a shine only decades of use can leave on the armrests; natural cedar color peeks around her housecoat and lap blanket.
"You've been her a long time, ma'am?" The man is an hourly temp employee from the Census Bureau. He is from the next county over, but he's never been to this little house along the marshes of Savannah.
"All my life, boy." She says this without the bite the words themselves imply. To her, every man is a boy; she remembers when radio was the entertainment for a household and Sears & Roebuck sold mail order homes.
"Does anyone live with you?"
She pauses her rocking and looks over at her guest. Her eyes are sharpened points in a nest of crow's feet, and she considers her words. "Live? No. Stay? Always."
"Come again?"
"Change ain't the only thing that scares me, boy. Staying the same, bein' still, goin' stagnant. Them that won't change; they scare me more."
"I don't understand, ma'am."
"One day I hope to move on. I've seen what happens to them that stay." She looks up at her blue ceiling and shivers in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.
"So I should mark you down as the only resident of this household?"
"You do your paperwork how you need to, son. I reckon it's true enough I'm the only one alive in the house."
The census man finishes his sweet tea, wishes the lady a good day, and pretends not to notice shadows dance across his path through live oaks back to his car.
Cowboy Rides Away
Cowboy hat pulled down with collar straight up, hand on the trigger, walking right into whatever the next adventure life holds. His steps measured realizing the power of luck isn't so much in his corner, as it's more situational. The thing about situations is they change on a dime. Sometimes we walk in tall cotton other times life is cattywampus. Life is what it is, until it isn't.
When I asked where he was headed, he looked at me and half grinned stating, "I figure north is a direction and south is just a lifestyle." He disappeared. Vaya con Dios.
Water
This world is not what it used to be. Our Grandma told stories about the everlasting water from the streams; our Grandpa told us about the drought.
To our luck, we chose to rob a bank. We escaped with more money than we could've imagined. We drank water for months and gave Grandpa and Grandma their soft goodbyes. We drank water until we became just like Grandpa and Grandma.
Today, I tell the stories of how we robbed the bank to our grandkids, and my brother will tell the stories of how everything went wrong – this time with war.
The Fork Lift
"What does your Dad do?" Tommy asked, blinking behind thick glasses, consciously, and earnest, waiting for an answer on the shaded driveway in the summer afternoon, as I took a breath and sighed real slow through the teeth.
He wiped the crumbs off the metal from the conveyor with the greasy red terry rag. He'd been within the mortared concrete walls since 06:30. Eight hours plus "bringing lunch," meant he'd be out at 03:00PM. Some would say "a-whole-nother-day-ahead," if thinking in shifts, and disregarding the human.
"...a machine-Operator?" said Tommy, blinking and not fully processing, "That's cool." Tom Senior was 15 years an accountant. Two plus years of Tommy's life, and never quite gripping imagination.
One more hour, one God-have-mercy one, and Friday would be done. Luck was not with him, or maybe it was, as a test of faith and endurance. The film had ended. The thin transparent Saran type plastic that sealed the Variety Pack. The little mini ounce size packages all coming together into a carton, and then into a larger box, and one on top of the other. He measured his days by tons.
"You mean like a forklift?" Tommy continued, inspired. A man behind the wheel of a truck is in the driver seat and might be King. The machine moves the man, and the Man moves things, on command.
Ninety-six pounds was the roll of film. That's ninety-six to his 126. He was the Machine-Operator. Yet the film was to be lifted, overhead, between spindles, with his bare hands. A Herculean effort at any time, but all the more as the clock wound down on the whole week.
"Well what does it lift?" Tommy persisted, as I grew flustered, throat dry.
...Double Stuff, Nut N' Butter, Toblerone, Oreo, the empty calorie was the thing that suddenly weighed so much on legs that stood all day and fought so hard to not be rendered mindless. "Working the line," he would be told, but refused to fool himself, by the assumption of standing around at the conveyor sorting and counting. He counted, thoroughly, and honestly, and not only the standing weight, box after box, that had to be brought to the line, then unpacked, only to be packed up all over again into a more cumbersome block. There was no "standing around." Operating meant keeping the conveyor running, by running around and adjusting the gears that always fell out of alignment as if in silent protest to the manufactory. The long week had its girth not in steps, but in miles. Tons of miles, and now this extra 96-pounds of deadweight film on top of it all, to lock into place, to finish today and prepare for next week. His only comfort in that it would mean a little distance early in the week before he'd lift another one.
"Cookies," I said in a near whisper, tasting the shame.
He took the heavy paneled pallets round back, like giant wafers, at the end of the day, to where the trucks would pick them up, by forklift, at drop off and pick up the next AM. Oak pallets, he learned, because he'd tried to reclaim a few that were broken and the saw tooth only smoldered and burned, refusing to gnaw through the tough wood. He thought he'd cut the boards, into shelves, paint them and sell them to supplement the near minimum wage. Near, because as machine Operator he earned a whole dollar more than anybody else. It earned him respect, and distain, two herniated discs, and intense back pain.
"Cookies?" Tommy said, a corner of his mouth lifting spontaneously, no doubt imagining a lazy hand stealing a mouthful of broken treats as occupational bonus, "What kind?"
"Nabisco," I said, hoarsely, taking a drink from my water bottle, that grew heavier on the heart, as I emptied it... picturing transparent bottle, after bottle, after bottle... pallet after pallet.
2024 FEB 09
As Luck Would Have It
"'As luck would have it'. Curious phrase isn't it? As luck would have it. Is it luck that has brought us here tonight, to this moment? Is it fate? Perhaps they're one and the same, two sides of the same coin, ever present, ever aware of the other, yet destined to never meet...
Whatever force has brought us to this moment, a challenge you have issued, and a choice I must make-"
"Will you just play a damn card?"
"Well... as luck would have it... DRAW FOUR! "
"... This is why no-one wants you at game night anymore Gary."
Would you call it luck?
I didn’t believe in luck until I was 18. A math teacher’s daughter, I lived my life based on hard work and probability. Everything was a numbers game and I calculated my life to the decimal points.
Going to college threw all of my carefully constructed numbers out the window. I still counted everything, but the numbers no longer fit into the carefully constructed box of logic I had built my life around.
17 new friends, 3 jobs, 36 classes, 4 funerals, 1 roommate, 2 boyfriends, 2 break-ups, and a million memories.
I couldn’t call it anything other than luck.
Recessing
The problem required a professional’s verification. The sheriff was insistent. Several safety-yellow, hydraulic brutes rolled over their garden. The cesspool cover was removed, ripe sewage tainting the air. A crew of five men took turns precariously balancing on the edge of the hole, shining lights and poking downward with poles. Last week’s moaning continued; sad, whalish, inhuman grousing. She presented now only as a plump, half-submerged, dark brown mass, strung between walls the way cheese pulls from hot pizza. But Gladys was a ward of the state and her sentence had not included the neighbors she’d wronged switching to vegan.