For The Love Of A Good Sore

We all remember the story of poor Lazarus in the Bible -- poorer even than me -- dogs came and licked his sores. I heard the old preachers of old expound on this passage at some length. By the time they were done, he'd suffered long and they were terrible sores, with one brutal sore right at the nucleus. Of course it took three or four sore points to finish the soremon. Ah, for the love of a good sore!

One of my favorite jingles in advertising is, "Dog’s don’t know it’s not bacon!" Let's say we have a guy carrying bacon in his back pocket. The dog comes running up and bites his ass. Because, "Dog’s don’t know it’s backend!" Now I got another hole where the good Lord folded me, very holistic. My dog’s never been picky either when it comes to food. If it’s related to the meat family, it’s 10 times better than the world’s finest grain.

You get a sore, the sore has to heal. Dog’s also heel, eh? I have a few little sores. Who doesn't. You scratch too much, there's one, then another. And sometimes I get banged up. A cut. And I always hope the same thing, that the tetanus shot I got in 4th grade is still working its magic.

Other than that, there’s always dogs. Just take your mind off your problems. Watch TV, lay back, relax, and let the dog lick you, like Lazarus. It gets so comforting, you might set an alarm. I had a sore on my leg one time and the dog started licking me. Naturally I went to sleep. I woke up and there it was, all the color out of it, like a bit of ham fat from a can of soup after it’s processed in the soup factory. Hanging there, no substance, no strength, just dead tissue. Two minutes later the dog would’ve been bitten it off and I'd've never known.

Pa, is that dog still licking you? Cover that thing up or it’ll never heal! The dog hears heel and dives to the floor. Dives, of course, being the name of the rich master in the story of Lazarus. He had enough of life here — overdosed, I’d say — and had to go to hell, took a dive, dove right in, to a place where dog’s don’t heel, including Cerberus, the hound of hell. He’ll never heel in hell. I’d rather kneel in heaven than heel in hell, amen? For the love of a good sore.

A sore can be useful. It's nature’s bandage, an organic arrangement of blood and evaporation.

Dogs get so they understand the word sore, depending how accident-prone you are. Especially way back when, when they didn’t get treats like today. It's just like you say ‘You wanna go bye bye?’ They know bye bye means a car ride. You wanna go to the park? They know park. One of my dogs knew the word squirrel. I’d tell her “Squirrel!” Her ears perked up like satellite antennae. She’d look for my finger to point the way, even though if she wasn’t so dependent on me she could’ve just discerned it. Then she was off, blazing speed. Even caught one one time, but I didn’t want her tasting wild blood, so I called her off, letting the squirrel live. There was, however, a time when I came around the bandstand and there was a dead squirrel at her feet. It looked fresh with some fresh sores, and naturally I didn’t let her have it. A squirrel’s a rodent, and rodent’s carry disease. That’s why I don’t allow mice in my home, even if they are good for keeping roaches at a decent level.

Milton, he milt hell for all it was worth. Besides him, mythology has Long Schlong Silver (his distinguished appendage tastefully censored with a dime) with Cerberus appearing on the vast hellscape, that three-headed dog pissing on Satan to help relieve his pain. Or something. 

Sometimes, though, as Kenny Rogers said, the hurting won’t heal. You get a sore, it gets worse, other sores pop up, things run, things get pusy and drip, and the whole thing degenerates into a mass of coagulation, looking a sight. There's purpose in that, too. A good sore sets things right, if you tend to it right. Or not, either way a good sore does its thing. Finally in the end, we fall on our sore and die a noble death.

Newsletter -- The 900-Foot Lush

My staff greatly reduced after Dashing Danny's demise and Spud's degradation, I considered forgiving Tipsy and Cannibal. As idiots, surely they only followed the others when they had sex with The Lady. If I forgave them I'd still have a newsletter staff worthy of the name. But two minutes later I walked into the office and saw Tipsy lightly chucking The Lady under the chin and giggling like a drunken schoolboy. That's it!

I thought Stanley "Tipsy" White was a docile soul who couldn't be bothered with the concerns of our sober world. But he was truly focused on the best of both worlds, a little hooch here, a little hots there. And as for the newsletter, what could he contribute? The time of loveable lushes is past. No one's charmed now or open to the fun and frivolity of the lives of drunks. This is a newsletter for today, not 40 years ago. Tipsy doesn't fit in, he's got to go.

He came out of the garage to relieve himself in the yard, when I confronted him. "Taking a leak, Stan?" I said angrily, causing him to stop immediately. He was clearly concerned, because till then I'd been very gentle. "Go away!" he slurred, waving me off. I went berserk -- it was rage -- and belittled him for his excessive drinking, his red nose, his staggering gate, and all the rest. I spat out, "Your place isn't here but the gutter!" I saw him as the last dregs of a bygone era, unworthy of even the succor of rotgut. Amazingly, he was OK with the stream of insults, but mentioning rotgut made it personal.

We confronted each other without coming to blows, just circling and snarling, glaring at each other. "I'm very disappointed in you," I spat. "I thought you believed in the newsletter." He was honest but full of bluster, "I never cared for your ... newsletter." He said it like it was a dirty word. "But one look at The Lady and I had to have her!" I responded through clenched teeth, "Tipsy, I hope you're clearheaded enough to understand what I'm about to tell you..." With that I charged in and let my fists do the talking. If his head was clouded by drink, it was double-clouded with the chaser.

Then, at once, inexplicably, as if by some kind of ancient warrior instinct, he ran to the far east end of my half acre and I ran to the west. We removed the shoes from our feet, knelt solemnly, and prayed to our ancestors. Then standing again, he pulled out the celestial conch Foster Brooks and blew it, its deafening call resounding as far as the east is from the west. I was shaken, but I also had a celestial conch, Lady Love, and sent its deafening call as far as the north is from the south. The din was so great, Tipsy dropped his conch and about a dozen small liquor bottles rattled in his vest, vibrating, and clattered to the ground. Then he sounded his conch even louder and I sounded mine louder yet, with both combatants in this battle so shaken -- it's embarrassing to say -- that we ejected urine and excreta*. Of course Tipsy ejected mostly urine, with me providing the other and even making up what he'd lacked.

We then charged one other and struck with pummeling blows. "You're a guy who wants his kicks!" I cried, and spun in mid-air, kicking my way to glory. His head now matched his red nose. I saw my advantage and took it, pouring it on, violence begetting violence. Tipsy was on his hands and knees and appeared to be spent and was finally helpless. When, and this was a major moment, like the mighty sailor man reaching for spinach, he pulled out instead an extra-small bottle of hooch from an inner pocket -- this wasn't one of the standard brands, but something concocted by a distiller mage.

This is completely unbelievable, I know, but I swear (or affirm) every word is true. Tipsy swigged that small bottle down, which seriously might've been only 10 or 12 drops, and he was transformed. Everything about him was enlarged. He was vast in size! I looked up and beheld a 900-foot Tipsy White! The local airport threw up their hands. The National Guard was powerless. Even the local cop shop, always so ready to rumble, shrunk back. IT was loose! I had to do the responsible thing. I ran into the garage and secured The Lady, then returned to tangle with ... IT ... a big tipsy IT!

The colossus was making his way downtown, about to destroy the city. I climbed his foot and clutched a pant leg for dear life. Then I remembered the oldest saying known of drunkenness, "Hair of the dog." When he was busy enlarging he had dropped the tiny bottle of power and I had picked it up. But there was only one drop left, one and a half drops at the most. I shimmied down his ankles and to the foot, working my way nearer, ever nearer his big toe. As he stomped along I sweated it out, working my pocket knife, hacking a tiny puncture in his gigantic toe. Looking up, the water tower came into view. If he stomped the water tower both I and the city itself would be goners. I wasn't yet ready but I had to take my only chance, dripping that tiny drop and a half of power into the miniscule hole.

If this didn't work, frankly, there would be no tomorrow. It'd be all over. The Lady would be gone, my vengeance against Cannibal, and perhaps the world itself. But after a few tense seconds I heard and felt an enormous rumbling and roar. The air was sucked dry and there was nothing, then air from 100 miles away came rushing in. Later, I heard that hundreds of pimples in middle schools had popped themselves from the pressure drop and powerful reversal, so this was huge.

I craned my head and looked up toward Tipsy's face, past the clouds. The best I could make it out, I saw the look of fear, then simultaneous transformation. He shrunk so quickly, everything snapping around me, I certainly would have been crushed had I taken even one second longer to leap. As it was I ended up under his normal-size foot, just where I didn't want to be. The optics were embarrassing. Because who should come to my aid but The Lady Herself, bringing down an empty wine bottle on Tipsy's head, and I was freed.

The black prison bus came and took Stan "Tipsy" White away, my gain, the work release farm's loss.

---------------------
*Mahabharata, Book 6.

The Old Shaman

YOUR BASIC
STEREOTYPICAL SHAMAN

I was into mythology a number of years ago -- I've since backslid -- and the stories I most "thrilled to" were the tales of the old shamans. Probably because, no big secret, if I was going to be anybody in their world, it'd have to be a shaman. I wouldn't mind being one right now, frankly.

These were/are the guys with the inside track on the divine. They know the ins and outs of how to deal with people. They're busy discovering the secrets of life, then discreetly, I'm guessing, keeping them hidden until they're needed. And they're never fully needed, meaning they're always holding something back, making themselves men of mystery and therefore needed. In the Bible, I'd say Moses filled that role in the stories. And that's why they had a law about killing witches, because they also had the inside track, but with it, their own mind.

If I were to drop down into one of these communities -- thatch roofs and all -- I believe they would immediately take to me, just like that. The people would gather around, I'd be passing out Wrigley's gum, and everyone would love me. Except for the shamans. Their guardsmen would drag me to their quarters, where we would have a great stare down. Then, in looking into my fantastic eyes, they would look deep, then deeper yet, then deeper still, until realizing they could never plumb the depths. You with me still? And that's when they'd give up, commit suicide, and name me new shaman.

Until that happens, though, and I'm not like Margaret Mead or someone, always traveling, going off to these little villages and making a nuisance of myself, I'll be here. The shaman I'm writing about today, one I heard of, had nothing to do with Margaret, insisting he was a self-mead man.

This guy had all kinds of powers, like they all have to have. Whatever it was, the heights, the depths, the widths, everything in creation, he seemed to have an in on. What about sickness and health? He was there too, any disease: gout, bad back, sore leg, winnebago, nagging cough, cold feet. And of course he had the in depth knowledge the community needed for their continuing prosperity, mental and physical.

One of the big concerns mankind always has is about the weather. It's still a concern we have today. I was thinking of the weather earlier today when it was snowing. It meant I had to get out there with my snow-blower and wake up the neighbors. It was supposed to get warm and melt it all off. So I was amused to see the parking lot scoop guys out early, knowing if they didn't hurry it'd all be gone and they'd make nothing.

Here's how the shaman thing works with the weather. A householder comes to visit him. He walks outside, he looks at the color of the sky. He licks his finger and gets it real wet, then he sticks it up into the wind. He looks straight up, he looks straight down. He climbs up a ladder and looks to the horizon. And so forth. Anything he can do, he does.

Then they go inside, and he considers the evidence well before making his pronouncement. If I say this, this might happen. If I say the other thing, something entirely different might be the result. These are the kinds of thoughts that go through your mind when you want to tell all, but you have to be very considerate. How's it going to affect me if I get it wrong? Then he clears his throat and gives the townspeople his best advice, in the unique Pig Latin his tribe speaks:

W3A3T3C3H3 G3A3R3Y3 L3E3Z3A3K3'3S

R3E3P3O3R3T3 O3N 3431 A3C3T3I3O3N N3E3W3S3.

(Omit the 3s)

[Secret Journal] Scratching an Itch (or Not)

8:00 pm. Sunday - So many itches I cannot contain! -- I will bust! It's over! No, wait, stylistically I cannot start with the climax and give up. Must bear and forbear, must be patient. My impatience points to truth of pursuit, not falsity. Simply scratch as always, I have 61 years of ingrained habit, Lord Itch rules the temple.

8:10 pm. Sunday - The last 10 minutes have been a roller coaster ride, wooden, not safety-tested, really rattled my bones. Centered in non-itch new beginning, having scratched till I'm raw in places. Took BIC pen to right ear, smaller than finger, not recommended, certainly, but no one was looking. The things I do in the dark! Clean slate, blank slate, one little itch under eyes, then they creep in and subsume consciousness. I'm lost!

8:28 pm [day unspecified] - What's it been, 20 minutes? Rome wasn't built in 20 minutes, I guess. There's no reason to keep counseling patience, I already know that. This harping on patience is making me more impatient. Counsel mercy, which, apart from a possible first mention, is only truly mercy when it's not mentioned. OK, mercy for myself, still busy scratching. What I need is one decent concentrated itch spot, of my choosing, not a million popping up everywhere. What kind of universe is this, for pity's sake?

8:29 pm Sunday - Brief entry to say, the universe, the world is mercy -- pity, if you will -- I'm not separate. You can't think continental drift, tectonic movement, doesn't itch like hell. That's why we have earthquakes, the Logos rolling over to scratch. Merciful to itself. Giving credence to my theories.

11:00 pm Sunday - Must've dozed off. Dreamed I was on the ground floor of a massive itch, turned out to be a volcano. False alarm?

5:30 am Monday - Woke up scratching, might wear oven mitts today, hands up like a surgeon, reminding myself to break the cycle. That's it, I'm just unconscious through habit (cf. above, Lord Itch, Temple.) Who is this f'n Lord Itch? How did I come to serve him? Who's his consort? Is she worse, prodding him from behind? "Exact tribute from him, you worm!" she cries, calling the Lord a worm? Who is this massive B? Called Lady, probably. Lady Scratch? I guess that's it, men always want to scratch their itch, and Lord Itch just happened to fall for Lady Scratch, etc. "I got you under my skin." Making progress, this has a whole mythic basis!

6:30 am Monday - Finished coffee, my head a lot clearer, scratch that Lady Scratch stuff, unintentional pun, I swear. Scratch that, too ... Oops, did it again. Lady Scratch has now infected my vocabulary, my thought process. More coffee, gulping it down between these pen scratchings, no!!!! Must reclaim temple, especially new deity of my own choosing.

6:43 am Monday - Every developing world/cosmic view starts as experience, then mythologizes in upward ascent, making sense and also making palpable. All I've got so far is the itch point likened to black hole or nucleus, and conjecturing that entering (through consciousness) at that point might (likely?) be a different realm of consciousness. Not realm so much, bad word, too early for mythologizing itch point as kingdom.

7:03 am Monday - Thinking about blog today. Time to throw out some red meat. Maybe crumbs. Nose suddenly itching, think I see Heaven.

Bye Bye to the Christmas Tree

Once Christmas is over -- this being December 26 -- one of the most unpleasant reminders of the holiday is the Christmas tree. There it still sets, suddenly unwelcome, like a hangover.

I look over and feel nothing but queasiness, whereas, somehow, before Christmas and on Christmas Day it was such a great thing to see. I really don't know what it is about a Christmas tree on Dec. 26. It's not like it has rabies or rickets or some other communicable disease. It's the same thing it was yesterday ... and isn't Christmas supposed to have 12 days and not just one?

The tree I have is one that comes in a box. Artificial. Unless you're a tree grower or the Optimist Club, the only kind to have. I had a real one for the last time in the '70s. Unfortunately I was slow about taking it down and it dried out and the needles fell into the carpet, keeping me up till 3 or 4 in the morning cleaning it up. Never again! And I've been good to that vow.

But still, it's work to take it down and get it in the box. There's ornaments and various knickknacks on it. Then there's another problem, unplugging it, knowing it's not going to work right when I plug it in next year. It didn't work when I plugged it in this year. I messed with it for an hour, changing a few bulbs and doing all kinds of things, to no avail. Then I left it half-on, as it was, and when I came back in the room a few hours later it had fixed itself! Can't depend on that every year!

I got the idea today that if the tree could talk, and if it knew my disgust with it on Dec. 26, it'd probably say, "I didn't ask to be set up. You brought me into this world. If there's something wrong, obviously it's something in your own psyche and nothing about me. I'm the exact same tree I was yesterday." Which, you know what? I agree with!

Everything about the Christmas tree, except for the physical thing, is in the psyche. I think it's something like this, recalling stuff I heard as a kid: The ancient whoever, our ancestors, thought when winter came everything was going to die. So to keep things alive, they brought a tree in the house. Then, I guess, if everything did die, all they had to do was take the tree out in the spring and everything would resurrect. How they kept the needles out of the carpet, that's what I don't know. Probably wooden floors.

I'm not especially a big believer in a magic tree keeping things alive in the spring, certainly not an artificial tree. But there's still something in my psyche, apparently, like everyone else, that says, "Must have tree in house ... just in case everything dies, or whatever." Even Republicans have Christmas trees. They might not accept global warming and the need to save the whole planet, but by golly, we're going to have plants in March!

Bye bye, tree. Back in the box you go. See ya around Thanksgiving!

Enhancing Your Dreams

My life of lucid dreams began when I started wearing glasses to bed to catch more detail. From there, it progressed. Still today, REM activity actually continues through most of the morning. If you see a guy fluttering his eyes at you, that's me!

The glasses were enough for a while, but I wanted more. I started sleeping with a chair, thinking that if I could sit during dreams I'd be able to take in more. Indeed, things were less hectic. I was suddenly less a participant than a spectator. That was fine, but dreams are meant to be participatory and not so tame. So I went "full gator," sleeping with a stuffed alligator, which made things very wild very fast. I was chased and cornered more times than I can remember. I almost ended up with my own show on Animal Planet, in my dreams, but thankfully woke up in time.

Other times, I wanted things to be more pastoral, with dark blue skies and bright stars, and fairies and satyrs roaming the countryside. I got some books at a book sale, Van Gogh, Yeats, and Greek mythology. I tore out the specific pages to create the scene and had one of the best nights of my life. All except for the satyrs. They're very randy rascals, so if anyone tries this, make sure you make provision for them to have a good partner.

A lot of my favorite enhanced dreams involved going back to my childhood and camping with my family like we used to do. Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, brothers, cousins, everyone. Naturally, this involved going to bed with a photo album, a lantern, and a chunk of tent canvas. And throw in some fishing equipment. The biggest problem wasn't the fact that I woke up with my pillows at the end of a stringer, but that I associate camping with downpours. Touch the canvas and it leaks right through. I not going to tell much about it, except to say I changed the sheets and put down plastic.

Anyway, in my dreams I've done a little of everything over the years, including running away and working for the circus, like Toby Tyler. Even though Toby's adventures were mostly misadventures, I had more success. But it's true what they say about clowns; I'd rather be chased by satyrs any night of the week!

The weirdest, most elaborate dream I ever had was the entire Apocalypse -- 360 degrees, 3D depth, the entire judgment, God, devils, and white throne. Thankfully, it had a happy ending: I awoke five years later to a blessed morning, having seen a lot of angelic nudity and lots of other cool stuff, the works!

To prepare for this, it took workmen a whole week to construct what looked like a swing set over my bed, with pulleys, chains, and various berths for figures carved by craftsmen. These were prophets, angels, devils, etc. All this apparatus was connected by a team of technicians to several bicycles, the whole works carefully choreographed by a panel of respected ministers, according to their reasonable theological consensus. Lastly, the bikes were powered by members of a trusted Boy Scout troop. I once bought popcorn from them, so I knew they were good.

Despite the noise, I dozed off. Around midnight, I heard the cranks and pulleys churning and the breathing of the Scouts at their bikes. I drifted off again, and ascended through super consciousness into the heavenly spheres, passing through the seam that separates mundane existence from the higher realms. It was fantastic! Not a satyr or clown in sight!

But as the Apocalypse involves tumult, destruction, judgment, and the eventual reconciliation and restoration of the cosmos -- and a lot of close calls with devils -- I had more on my mind than I knew what to do with. It's harder to get back than you'd think. This is where I probably went too far, and, like I said, I ended up sleeping for five years. I was out of it! I don't know if anyone paid the Scouts and the craftsmen. Everything of my normal life was gone. All I knew during that time was the inner world I inhabited.

My family, who otherwise would've been out camping, took care of me, bedridden as I was. And if I hadn't covered the bed in plastic, I can only  imagine the bedsores I might've had. Thank goodness for my wise planning.

Part 3 -- A Lot of Legs, Six To Be Precise

PART 3 of 3

The vision of the naked child, having been revealed as signalling a potential rebirth of Father Time, seemed to mean one thing: Father Time was somewhere in the area.

In his last sermon, Walt promised the people they would kill Father Time, and further rallied them to, "Chase Father Time to hell and back if necessary. However far it is, however long it takes, we will ensnare him, and once ensnared, we will kill him!"

Then it all happened quite quickly. Father Time was just over the next hill, standing there on his one remaining leg. The leg Walt had severed with the scythe was a healed stump, which would've been tough to see under his robe, but he had hiked the robe up momentarily to scratch an itch. When he saw the people coming out with swords and staves, and Walt there in front, the most prominent, with the scythe, he showed his vulnerability by dropping the robe. By dropping the robe, I mean he dropped it to the ground, then on his remaining leg, hopped over it.

Father Time stood naked and proud! He seemed a sympathetic figure. The people stood there in a phalanx, not knowing what to think, while Walt proceeded forth alone. "You have come to kill me, haven't you, Walt?" "Yes, " Walt said, "and not only to kill you but to send your soul to damnation," not understanding the nature of anything. And with all those years of contemplation in the mountains! What a dope...

Without delay, then, in rashness, Walt charged ahead. But Father Time stood firm, yielding himself to the scythe, simply allowing Walt to hack him to death. That was simple, Walt thought. And he kept thinking it, until the pieces of old Father Time's body vanished, and a new Baby Time appeared in the same place, this time not just a vision. Walt had unknowingly reinvigorated Father Time, being lured into it.

The baby spoke: "I am Father Time. The idea of me ever being old, or for that matter, young, is nothing but a crock of crap. You cut off my leg, yes. But you see now I have two legs. And I could grow back six more if I wanted!"

The people in the phalanx suddenly sensed themselves withering away to nothing. They were being judged. They wrinkled up quickly, something fierce. In a moment, they were all dead. As for Walt, he was granted several minutes for his final contemplation, but death for him would also be swift. He complained, "So you got me, did you? Now I must die, having never had the privilege of someday seeing my great great grandchild graduate from college. If I have only one regret, it is that I ever thought of 'killing time.' Now I see, I should have set forth better goals for myself, then knocked myself out trying to reach them."

Baby Time aged quickly and was now Father Time again in appearance. He raised his scythe in a kind of salute toward Walt, sort of like what you see between bitter enemies in Star Trek, a nice recognition of spirit and life being held in common, regardless of how apart they are in values and background. But suddenly there was a frown on Father Time's face, and his grasp on the scythe was intense. Walt seized up in excruciating pain and fell dead.

Concerning the townspeople, it's very interesting that the ones who died were the more high-minded, involved ones of the town. Only the ones who'd been oblivious to the whole struggle of life, who didn't care, were able to live happily ever after ... till they would eventually die of such old age that they were content to go.

Finally, in the lore of all this, there went this saying abroad, that from now on Father Time would appear not only with his two normal legs but six other legs besides. But he had not said that he would grow six legs, only that "I could ..."

PART 1 -- Father Time Being Blunt
PART 2 -- Have Scythe, Will Travel

Part 2 -- Have Scythe, Will Travel

PART 2 of 3

Years passed quickly, lickety split. You know how time goes. Sometimes it seems like it takes forever, then 40 years are gone. Cute little kids are suddenly ugly adults. It's a slippery slope, like ice. No one likes cold, but what can you do? There's plenty of things I don't like, but I still have to put up with them.

Walt had his complaints, too, but he could only press on, clutching Father Time's stolen scythe in his hands. He was like a fugitive, his life completely changed, forever on the run, always looking over his shoulder, never getting too comfortable. Because Father Time's vow had been that he would kill him. And now that he had cut off Father Time's leg, it might be hard to get back into his good graces.

But then quite a few years went by, and in all that time he never once encountered the old man again, so he started to think maybe the scythe had great powers of protection. He toyed with the idea that the scythe was the source of Father Time's power all along. But he was never comfortable.

It went on like that. Then, after 10 or 20 years wandering and hiding, Walt sought to regain his confidence and went far up into the mountain, where he contemplated the whole thing. Then, while resting on a precipice on one knee, and watching a circling eagle, he came to an inner knowledge that his time of going down had come. His old fear was gone. So down he went, arriving in a small village and appearing in their marketplace. As the townspeople gathered around, he gave a sermon on time: "The idea of wasting time is a lie. Your ambition to redeem time is the true waste. Do whatever you want, it's all the same."

The people of the town figured he was just a crank who had been exposed to too much of the blistering sun, either that or he was crazed by love and feeling, and internal thoughts protracted among endless solitudes. And now he had come to ensnare them in the same craziness; that's why he came down, they reasoned, to give us this obviously false message.

But suddenly, in addition to the prophet being there with them, there was in a beaming vision a naked child in a barrel, who appeared in their midst without warning. Walt felt himself go faint, nearly a dead faint. Could it be? Was it? Yes, it was Baby Time in an unformed, nebulous state, like he was out there somewhere, craving to be reborn. The barrel covered him like the protection a turtle gets from its shell. Also, he had no scythe ... and was so helpless he wouldn't have been able to use it anyway.

None of the greybeards in the town had been able to silence Walt, but this naked child not only silenced him, he made him go completely mute. In fear, Walt raised the scythe, motioning the others toward the child, as if to say, "Let's get him!" But none of it worked, the people apparently transfixed and in too much fear.

In that instant, Walt's prophetic voice returned, and he implored the people. "It's you or him!" But the child vanished, leaving the barrel behind. The townspeople had now been worked up enough to kill the child, had he not vanished, but they could only destroy the barrel, breaking it down to its constituent parts, several staves, which also vanished as if they'd been mist.

Walt rallied their flagging spirits with one final sermon, ending with these ominous words: "He's out there somewhere! We shall find him! We shall kill Father Time!"

PART 1 -- Father Time Being Blunt
PART 3 -- A Lot of Legs, Six To Be Precise

Part 1 -- Father Time Being Blunt

PART 1 of 3

This story didn't happen to me. It happened to a guy I'm calling Walt. Walt came just that close to Father Time, he of the mighty scythe. Very close!

Father Time appears from time to time. Usually around New Year's, but that doesn't preclude other visits. When he appears, it's most often bad news. Like his own temporary death in late December. If he appears to an individual any other time, it is said, it's usually bad news for that person.

Well, Father Time did show up before Walt, scythe in hand, with a word: "You've wasted me. You spoke of 'killing time,' then followed through on it. I felt myself weakening, and it was only because of many other people, good people, passing me in the proper way, that I regained strength. Now you die!" With that, he raised his scythe...

Walt yelled, "Wait! You're Father Time, please give me just a moment. Let me explain. I thought I needed to waste time, for my own well-being. I didn't know it'd hurt you. By 'killing time,' I meant taking time for relaxation, chilling out, and taking time to play with the kids."

But Father Time would not be reasoned with. "Kids have all the time in the world. You were simply wasting your time playing with them. Let them go outside. They can play outside. They'll entertain themselves. You've made very unwise choices." Walt tried to object, but Father Time slashed his scythe through the air and nearly took off his head.

The old timer then paused, "I am stolid in my conviction that you should die. But I am also merciful. Use me wisely, or next time I won't miss! After all, you're the one who first spoke of 'killing' me. It'll be your turn to see how it feels."

Walt moderated himself, not wanting to incite Father Time any more than he had to, as he was clearly unhinged. He raised his hands, conceding the point. He thought, 'Give him his space. Keep calm. Let the old bastard state his case, then I'll get the hell out of here.' He asked, "What should I be doing?"

Father Time's will for Walt was this: Sleep deprivation, staying on the treadmill of life, burning the candle at both ends, striving endlessly, hungering to see another day, and creating meaningless goals. "Your prayer should be that you will live to see your great great grandchild graduate from college. Then knock yourself out in order to make it happen!" He further directed Walt, "And buy nursing home insurance -- you're going to need it."

Walt saw in this some kind of omniscience on the old chronographer's part. "So I will live that long?" Father Time was quick to answer, "I didn't say that. I'm Father Time, ever in the now, never looking ahead. I couldn't if I wanted to. But what I have said, I have said."

What an admission! He may as well have lifted his robe and just let one fly in the breeze. It'd be worth about as much. Walt concluded all at once that Father Time is just a worthless old personification of the inexorable slipping of one second to another. The old bastard doesn't know anything, and if he does, it doesn't amount to anything. Basically just a pompous old poser.

Walt was nothing if not bold. With that quick insight, and knowing he had the upper hand, he was quick to the ground and back up, throwing dirt in Father Time's eyes. In a flash, he grabbed the scythe, and with equal quickness whipped it through the air, cleanly cutting off one of Father Time's legs.

As Father Time writhed on the ground, a bloody mess, Walt ran away, yelling back, "I will waste you if I want, I will kill time! Your ideas of the future suck!"

PART 2 -- Have Scythe, Will Travel
PART 3 -- A Lot of Legs, Six To Be Precise

Hercules Out For Breakfast

I think of Hercules as a big klutz who can't control his power.

For example, if he shakes your hand, you've just lost a hand. He either squeezes it like a lemon or it's torn off completely. If he so much as feels the fabric of your shirt between his fingers, as daintily as he can, he's at least torn a big hole in it.

So the idea we're thinking of today is full of danger. And really not so far from the realm of possibility. Since Hercules is a big guy, of course he has to eat. We all have to eat, how much more such a big guy?

The way Hercules normally eats is to stand on the side of a mountain and pluck big birds out of the sky. His hand darts up like a reptile's tongue, the reptile having lain in wait for its prey. Hercules is just that quick, and equally voracious.

But in this scenario, Hercules finds himself in modern society, away from the mountain and present with the rest of us. Although you could easily imagine him on a mountain, then reaching up and, thinking it was a bird, plucking a jet plane out of the sky, thereby becoming Public Enemy No. 1.

But we're going to keep it on the up and up. Hercules is at a house and decides to go out to breakfast. He goes to the car and immediately rips off the door. He gets in and crushes the seat. Even the steering wheel is in pieces by the time he gets to IHOP.

He gets to IHOP and accidentally pulls the door off its hinges. They seat him at a table for one. He puts his arms on the table and crushes it. He goes to the bathroom, and his stream is so powerful the urinal is shattered, leaving a horrible mess.

It comes time to order. Of course the menu doesn't stand a chance. Just in normal handling he's ripped it to shreds. He tells the waitress what he wants and the power of his booming voice blows the windows out of the place. The waitress and all the people on that side of the room are deafened.

He needs a mountain of food for his enormous appetite. The cooks are overwhelmed, having to come up with 40,000 pancakes, 100,000 sunny side up eggs, and enough fried bacon to sink a battleship. They don't even have the supplies for such a meal, as good as IHOP is.

A thousand waiters bring his meal. He has torn off the roof so they'll have a place to stack it. But he's not satisfied, as I said, since they don't have the supplies, and he literally consumes 200 waiters to make up the difference. And in our modern world, you can't just kill 200 people and expect them to think nothing of it. Because not everyone belongs to the NRA. So it's a big problem.

Hearses are lined up outside IHOP, as coroners try to sort out which remaining legs belong to which missing waiter. Hercules is offended and comes running out. He rips off the tops of two hearses, put his feet in them, and roller skates away.

The Horse Wildfire

His father was the lightning,
His mother was the weeds,
This horse is made of fire,
The fieriest of steeds.
He came across the prairie
In the greatest cloud of smoke,
Fire like this in horses
Is nothing you can stoke.

WILDFIRE!
Keep on blazing!
WILDFIRE -- He's really one hot horse.


He started out a little flame,
But then the years passed by,
And what was only little once
Had now flamed up so high.
And so the prairie felt him
A'charging o'er the plains,
And not a thing could stop him,
Not the wind and not the rains.

WILDFIRE!
Lights the night!
WILDFIRE -- A horse without a match.


The enemy of outlaws,
He watches where they turn,
And then he flares up at them
And whinnies as they burn.
Their camp will be no refuge,
No water's in the well,
There's nothing that can douse him,
He sends them straight to hell.

WILDFIRE!
Whinnying at them!
WILDFIRE -- His flames will save this land.


His coat is a fiery furnace,
His mane's a living hell.
A marshmallow 40 miles away
Would heat and start to swell.
The children at that distance
May go out pale and wan,
But when their mother calls them in,
They look like Al Jolson.

WILDFIRE!
Can't approach him!
WILDFIRE -- He's lighting up the sky!


And so, my friends, we honor him,
This horse without a peer.
We hail him from afar of course
Because we can't go near.
His fiery coat is burning,
There's brimstone on his breath,
To shake his hoof or brush him,
Would mean our certain death.

WILDFIRE!
Keep on smokin'!
WILDFIRE -- He's burning evermore!

The Legend Of Paul Boone

I've got kind of a heartwarming story today, of a true incident, something that actually happened and that I personally witnessed. This is true, I can't believe my good luck in just happening to be there when it all went down. But, who knows, maybe it was divine intervention, with me being right where God wanted me to be so I could witness this...

Well, I've thrown out enough clues, so you've probably already guessed what it was. Yes, that's it, I just happened to be at the public library, and just happened to be passing through the hall when they were doing the children's story hour! I was really in a hurry, and it's the weirdest coincidence that I overheard what I did, making me stop and linger just a little while.

I was passing by, like I said in a hurry, when I heard the story lady reading something about Paul Boone and Babe the Blue Ox. And I stopped dead in my tracks, because I couldn't believe it. That was always my most favorite story when I was a kid. And honestly I figured it was dead and gone as a story, since I know that kids are into so much more these days, with Pac Man, pogs, Pikachu, Pokemon, and Game Boys. I didn't think they still sat still long enough to hear the old stories!

But there they were, just like me all those years ago, looking up at the story lady, and I think she might've been the same one I listened to 50-some years ago, a little longer in the tooth, of course, but still fighting the good fight of reading books to little kids. So I lingered, I listened, and I heard her pleasant reading, only interrupted occasionally by a raspy smoker's cough, then the kids asking pertinent questions about where Paul got Babe, etc.

Good grief, it really took me back! Because, I actually can remember most of the details of Paul Boone's story, and how he had such big footprints that he created all the lakes in Minnesota! And how he had Babe the Blue Ox there as a kind of sidekick, or maybe a friend, a kemosabee, and someone to help carry their supplies.

I was going to go on for a while about Paul Boone, but, guess what, some of the details are eluding me. I thought I remembered them all. Let's see ... he had something to do with shoveling snow in Minnesota, I think, like in their very hard winters. Father Winter would be blowing from the North and Paul Boone would blow right back from the South, thereby keeping most of the snow out. Something like that.

Then there was the aforementioned ox, Babe the Blue Ox, who was blue because after Paul Boone stamped out all the lakes, he beheld his own image in the water so often and so long, that he became blue. Kind of a karmic thing, whereas he was normal color before the change. Then Paul Boone had to think, "Do I want a blue ox? Won't people point and stare?" He thought it over for an entire century -- the basic time-frame of legends being a lot longer than our own time -- and decided, Babe was cool even if he was blue.

OK, now I remember another detail. Paul Boone went through Minnesota with a big axe, the head of which was the size of a locomotive. He was able to cut down a fairly big forest in a few hours. He did that, providing lumber for the people settling the area. Which is probably why the people of Minnesota are so terribly lazy even to this day; they're always expecting someone else to show up and do their work for them.

I'm glad I passed through the library when I did. Because otherwise, you know, I wouldn't have heard what I heard when I heard it. I would've merely gone there and done whatever else it was I would've done.

The Fish I Saved

I just wrote about a fish I saved.

I didn't waste any time getting it back in the water. But later I was thinking about it, that I seemed to remember some mythology, or some fairy tale, about a fish that asks favors or grants favors.

Let's say the fish does a little of each, asks and grants. This might be like a transcendental story, the fish wants to become more than it is, so it seeks a favor, then it becomes a princess. Or it might be one of those depth psychology fish, where it stands for your hidden, repressed qualities, but if you minister to it, you are transformed.

I wasn't going to wait around to find out, because this fish needed to get back into the water, pronto!

Later, then, I'm reflecting on it, and wondering what I would do if the fish had asked me a favor or offered a boon. But my basic psyche is set to do this, to say, "This is no time to be asking favors or grant boons, you need to get back in the water, now!" "But, but!" "No buts about it, back in the water you go!"

Let's say it happened that way. Then, even later, I'm reflecting again, going, "I really screwed up big-time, I could've had a favor!" You remember, Jesus and St. Peter found a coin in a fish's mouth. Look it up in your Jung book!

I'm veering this toward a happy ending for me, in case you can't tell. Despite my later rumination, what I did in the pressure of the moment is what counts, that's where my true character lies. I did the right thing, eschewing any benefits that might have been mine. Because, obviously, the fish needed to be in the water.

Here's what might have happened. A beautiful queen shows up at my door, telling me the incredible story that she had been a fish and had suffered greatly. An evil magician, let's call him Sqerlin, had hexed her, for whatever reason, and the only one who could restore her would be an honorable man. Sqerlin of course doesn't believe in honorable men, so now he's governing her land and doing a piss poor job of it.

So she shows up at my door, decked out in gold, silver, and a long silk train, stretching from my front door all the way to the garage. Telling me a fish story that -- hmm, it's awakening some recognition in me -- and that she now knew an honorable man. I say, "Who is he?", being of course very humble as well.

She touches my forehead, bringing me instant recognition -- a series of flashes gives me the whole truth. She was the catfish on the bank! A parade of dishonorable men had passed her for centuries! She was literally down to her very last minute of life -- after centuries! -- when I showed up, miraculously.

It really is miraculous that I showed up, because I'd never been there before -- it was one in a trillion.

And instead of waiting for a boon, I had selflessly put her back in the water! How honorable I was!

She falls into my arms, we hug and kiss, then we come up for air before falling into one another's arms again, hugging and kissing some more. It goes on like that for a while, until I take her out to Long John Silver's for a nice fish dinner, before retiring back to my ... private quarters. Where she is anything but a dead fish! In fact she's quite feisty, putting up a play fight and making me really work at it to eventually land her. Like anyone, once she's had the best, she's hooked for life...

Then she explains to me there's no time to lose. If we don't get back to the palace before midnight -- and it's five till now -- Sqerlin will officially be king. As if in a dream ship, in no time, we're there in her realm. I pound down the gates, we rush into the palace, I kill Sqerlin, the queen is restored, and I am proclaimed King of the Realm!

All this ... because I was honorable enough to save a fish when I had the chance...

Every Town Its Own Crunchy

Crunchy is my name for a guy who's always at the library, who one time when I was there was eating a bag of cereal. He had the inner lining bag from the cereal box out and was making loud crunching noises and laughing. I wrote about him here.

That was "Surveilling Crunchy," which seemed like an interesting thing to do at the time, but in the meantime I've given up all interest. Now I try to keep my head down and mind my own business. Fortunately we haven't had a repeat performance of the cereal bag incident, since it was very distracting. Still, to me, he'll always be Crunchy, or the more formal name I gave him, J. Wellington Crunchford II.

Since I'm out now on a roadtrip, out of town/out of state, I was thinking I ought to go to the local library and see if Crunchy is a type who reappears everywhere. I'm thinking there's always mythological substratums, types, figures who fill the role of gods and demons, at least aspects of their personalities and qualities, maybe on a smaller scale, in the larger whole of existence. It's what makes life so wonderful, that you're part of a larger drama. But I wonder what makes me the observer and not myself a more intrinsic type. Of course I'm not telling the whole story, mostly because I don't know it (1), and (2) that would be something I would be more protective of anyway.

OK, I haven't gone to the library here in this other town. But let's say that I did, except I'm pessimistic as to the Crunchford type being there. So, to make it happen, I myself assume that role. I dress like him, frizz out my hair, what I have left of it, and, more importantly, show up with a box/bag of cereal. Then as people around me are studiously looking at their books, I take a handful, crunch it, rattle the bag, walk over to the stacks, and back to my table, a repeating cycle of about 35 seconds, over and over.

I don't know that I could be oblivious enough to the sensibilities of the others around me to make it happen. It'd be hard to prolong it, since my natural thing is to do my munching with great discretion. I'd rather chew in slow motion and with keen attention to my jaws, that no one would know I had a mouthful of something. OK, but in this telling of the story, I throw caution to the wind. "Crunch, crunch, rattle, rattle, giggle, chuckle, laugh." To the stacks and back. Another guy, the type of actual me there, with his back turned, thinks, "What is it with this crazy guy," and immediately tags me with a ridiculous name, to himself privately of course.

Except, and here's the kicker, in this little picture he appears! There actually is the Crunchy type at this out of town library! He may look different from the other guy, since you can't depend on body doubles, but he approaches me, wild-eyed, and literally with a bag of cereal. He breaks character, since his character is observant but with a heavy dose of obliviousness. He breaks character long enough to call me to one of the unofficial stacks, a netherworld within the library mysteriously beyond the numbers of the decimal system, and explains to me that this is his territory.

My character is such that I would want to know that he's all right. His character has that far-off look that "I'm beyond reach." But in that private area, where we both set down our cereal and look into one another's eyes, and all is revealed, I determine he is all right and knows his own mind. We talk over our respective parts in the psychological scheme of things. We clasp shoulders, I give a friendly wide-handed pinch to his elbow. He tells me in a good faith voice that he hears there's an opening at the Knoxville library, which would really be contradictory to our prior understanding of our parts in the psychological scheme. But am I doomed to be simply me? Couldn't I trade roles? Why would I want to?

I set my cereal down. He runs his hand over his face, top down, transforming his visage from present with me to oblivious and fairly blank, at least feigned. Then back into the public stacks he goes!

The picture -- The Marx Brothers picture I almost forgot. Of course that represents two apparently identical types meeting and scoping one another out. A quick thrust of the fist would solve the dilemma, but sometimes life demands a more slow motion, feeling out approach.

Tree Top Hiatus

The idea I had yesterday for a tree house theme was very exciting. I thought of it in depth through the morning, and then after a while the mania wore off and I was back to normal.

Those are interesting times, when you feel like you need a recorder to get down every detail, because it's wild. I was thinking, What is that primal tree? Yggdrasil? Something like that. That is one weird looking word, assuming that's close enough to the spelling. Looks like something Frank Zappa might name a kid.

What exactly Yggdrasil is I'm not sure. But something in my mind tells me it's like everything else in life, in mythology, just another way of representing what's inside us. That's always the short answer. Put that as the answer and you'll never be too far off.

So the great concept of yesterday, which hasn't carried over to today, to tell the truth (nothing's quite as expansive as yesterday, since it's all lightning in a bottle anyway, tough to capture at will), zeroed in on that. And it was just a tossed off idea.

Anyway, the idea became, as yesterday morning went on, that my hiatus would not formally end but would be transsimplified (or transimplicated) into or with the tree house theme. This would serve a couple very useful purposes. 1) That my hiatus would for all practical purposes end; 2) That I would not be psychologically injured when it was suddenly gone. Because I really am invested in it, even identified with it. If you see a forlorn guy on the square with a button that pleads, "Ask Me About My Hiatus," that's me. By this time next week it might say "Ask Me About My Tree."

Oh, what I could do with this! Only time will tell, but my mind is racing so far ahead I'm going to need bloodhounds to find it later. The only thing more cosmic than a tree is an egg, and of course I like both. If I'm up in a tree house, wow!