I filmed this one minute, vintage silent movie of my dog, with my I pod camera in 1920–that was 93 years ago when my dog was a pup. That now makes him 651 in dog years.
Cindy my wife, a risk-taker, filmed hand-feeding a terrifying border collie cooked bacon, while trying not to have her fingers bitten off.
Books are not so different than people are. Both come in many different genres, they see things from different points of view, and they speak in unique voices.
Unfortunately, it is easier for me to judge them by their covers, as they wait patiently on a shelf. If I am not careful, I will walk past a great one and never open it–because I am busy, impatient, and thoughtless.
But when I do take the time to look, I find each one has an exclusive set of contemplations: observations, interpretations, and insights about life.
I do not agree with all of them. Some do not share my curiosities. Some I do not understand. Some irritate me for no good reason. Some of them just plain make me mad.
Still, every time I open a new book or talk to a new person, I learn something about life that I did not know before, and that makes my whole view of the world a little bit wider.
- Happy Birthday to The Hobbit! (hcplteenscene.org)
- People alike. (thoughtofanindividual.wordpress.com)
- Big Reading: A Hike Through Dickens : The New Yorker (themodernmanuscript.wordpress.com)
She is the web of green vines, which came to me one day. New life blossoming with perfumed jasmine flowers, as they climbed up my melancholy brick wall of loneliness towards the sky.
Her living roots lovingly adhered to me, devotedly—her climbers adorned my crumbling bricks in an enormous impressionistic painting of burgeoning blossoms and soft petals in splotches of vibrant blue.
Her soft fragrant essence kissed the warm breeze, which caressed my time-hardened surface, and the setting sun reached down with fingers of golden mist, which shone warm on the two of us. She is a part of me now, the beautiful part, and I am no longer alone.
I love you Cynthia Ann.
Reach up High,
Got a hand full of napalm,
Throw it high
The sky is on fire, the moon is in flames, and the stars are crying like a child.
That girl said she loved me. But she bruised my life.
When she left me, her words were like broken glass; they cut me deep.
She left me with a bleeding soul.
“Look at her.” Azure eyes–goddess-like, with luminous golden curls, and slender legs.”
There she goes; she is rambling on.
I am the one who has got no soul.
I live in the United States of Jesus Christ
A baby cries and an old man dies. Time goes on. Life goes on.
Pray for the baby, pray for the soul of that old man.
May they not end up writhing in hellfire.
“Look, you do not talk about bad feelings in this family; we swallow it all down into a tiny, painful ball that lies in the pit of our stomachs. The ball just festers and eats at us.
[One day, in a rage, it will crawl up her throat and scream its existence to the world.]
Holiday Family Dinner Day
God damn it, do we have to do this?
Uncle Roy is drunk and pissed his pants.
“Shut up! We don’t talk about bad feelings, we swallow it all down.”
Get on an airplane and fly away from home and all the problems.
Land where no one tells your secrets
The City of Sin
Dreams of Lust and Power
Credit Card, Credit Card
Sex, Sex, Sex
Rolling dice, games of chance.
“Just keep them in the casino playing. Statistics will ruin them.”
“Dance with the Devil and the Devil gets into you.”
Cigarettes, Alcohol, and drugs.
Delusions of Grandeur.
Dopamine and Serotonin receptors.
He’s fucking high.
The Wife, he must remember the wife.
Get on the plane broke with secrets
Fight, Fight, Fight
“Leave me alone!”
“Quiet! The kids– in the next room.”
TV, TV, TV
Don’t talk, we don’t talk about feelings.
TV TV TV
The man and wife in bed.
Sleep, Sleep, Sleep
Another God damned morning,
Fight, Fight, Fight
“You do not even seem like the same person anymore!”
“I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”
You always do that,”
“You never do that.
Secrets, Secrets, Secrets.
This is it.
“I don’t love you anymore. I need to be on my own.”
“What are you talking about?”
We don’t talk about bad feelings, we swallow it all down.”
“Go to Hell.”
We don’t talk about feelings.
Make up for now
There are other fish in the sea.
The other woman will always be there when you need a little sympathy.
Secrets, Sex, Secrets, Sex.
New year’s Resolution,
Don’t see her again.
TV, TV, TV
To Hell with Exercise.
The other woman
Secret Sex, Sex, Secrets.
I can handle just one drink, then I will stop.
Alcohol, Alcohol, Alcohol
Spend the night in jail
I will have just one cigarette.
Sex, Sex, Sex.
I will have just one cigarette.
I am going to tell her it is over.
cigarette, cigarette, cigarette.
Sex, Sex, Sex
Back to Marriage Combat
Fight Fight Fight.
Credit Card, Credit Card
Sex, Sex, Sex
Shop, Shop, Shop
“I’ll just have one cigarette and quit.”
“The years go by and people we love die.”
We are getting older.
We are going to die next.
We will be in the box, six feet under dirt.
There we will rot and slugs shall crawl in our eyeless skulls
I’ll have just one cigarette and quit smoking.
I never could quit smoking
I saw the doctor and the specialist for test.
Lung Cancer; they told me I was going to die.
They said it just like that, like they were telling you what they had for lunch that day. They must see a lot of people die.
I figure that I am going to die soon if what they said was right.
And yesterday is when I just decided, “Fuck it,” I am going to live my life anyway.
All you can do in life is your best, you can’t do anymore.
It was a cold November day, and as I lay in bed awakening, I saw the newborn sun’s illumination flare up behind the layer of condensation on the bedroom windowpanes.
My ancestors had repainted those wooden, square borders that hold the glass, painting them again and again over the years. The wood had an accretion of paint layers, almost geological, and sedimentary, in sheets of white weather coatings. After many years, the layers of white paint flaked, and cracked into many fine lines and fissures.
The bedroom window I looked at was an old window, in an old house, a house of four generations, which in time became home.
The sun’s light, filtered by the fog on the window, shone diffusely into our bedroom as a gold, radiant mist. It filled the bedroom, as if gilded dust hung about everywhere in the air.
Turning my head on the pillow, I saw her sleeping next to me. The soft radiance revealed the graceful, contours of my wife’s face. Hers was a statuesque, symmetrical, bone structure, resulting in feminine loveliness.
The condensation on the windowpanes, attested to our warm life breaths, pulling in and out of sleeping lungs during the night. The layer of moisture clung to the glass as a memory. It held the traces of her whispers in bed, whispers which I had felt against the nape of my neck the night before. I vaguely recalled that softly spoken, “I love you,” fading away, as my conscious awareness sank, into the oblivion of sleep, as if I were slipping beneath the surface of quicksand.
Coming out of my recollection, I yawned. I rubbed my eyes, sat up, and leaned my bare back against the vertical bars, at the head of the antique brass bedframe.
Over many years, the dry country air discolored the brass bedframe’s slats, bars, and darkened the round brass knobs atop the bedposts. As a child, I loved to turn these brass knobs with my small hands, as the circular orbs squeaked and vibrated when rotated.
The antique bedframe now showed in gradations, a spectrum of tarnished brass in the colors from shiny to the darkest bronze.
Reaching back for more than a century and a half, that bed frame had been the marital bed of the previous three generations of my family. Each generation of my ancestors married, and as a couple, they slept each night in the brass bed, and they grew old together slumbering on their Sears and Roebuck feather mattresses.
In their golden years, I contemplated what their old minds dreamed about, and how each of them lived, acting out scenes, in the realm of their imaginings. I wondered if for a night, they were young once again. As I imagined them dreaming, I could picture white diamonds pulsing, scattered across the vast, black, velvet expanse of the heavens, hanging so high above the tin roof of this humble house.
I suddenly emerged from within the depths of my mind, and became again aware of myself sitting up in the Family Bed, leaning back against the cold brass bars of the headboard. Having laid my bare back against the brass bars for too long, I was deeply chilled. I shivered in the cold bite of the bedroom air, frigid inside the unheated house.
As I pulled the old patchwork quilt, that my grandmother had sewn by hand, from atop the bed, I pulled it gently, so as not to wake her. Yet I also pulled it all the way to me, so as to bundle it and wrap it about me. I removed the patchwork quilt, from the pile of the many others that warmed she and I during the cold nights of the winter.
I wrapped the warm cloth heirloom around my bare neck, my shoulders, and my back. Then I pulled it around in front of me, grasping both ends of the quilt in one hand, holding it at my neck.
I was careful not to wake her as I lowered my legs off the bed, and let my bare feet touch the cold wooden floor. I stood up to get the blood moving in my legs, and in seconds, the chill of the floor drained all of the heat from my feet. My feet throbbed, burning painfully with the coldness. I walked away from the bed quietly, and I headed in curiosity towards the window to look at the translucent condensation on the windowpanes.
At first glance, the moisture on the inside of the pane, looked just like frosted glass, but as I inspected the foggy film more closely, I saw that the condensation was actually thousands of microscopic beads of water, each clinging tenuously to the surface of the windowpane.
In wonder, I touched the layer of moisture. The glass was cold and it chilled my finger. The moisture of our exhaled breaths wet my finger as I swiped it across the glass. My finger made a clear streak in the condensation on the pane, and small drops of water ran down from its edges. I quickly exhaled on it, and the clear streak filled halfback with the fog of the moisture of my breath’s humidity.
I turned and looked back to the bed, and I saw my wife sleeping. I cherished her with my eyes. She was beautiful as her skin basked in the morning light. Her naked shoulder lay exposed above the blanket, supple, and ivory white. She was young and innocent, shapely and nubile. In awe of her, my breath hung heavy in my lungs, and for a moment, I could not breathe.
The night before, when we went to bed, her long, chestnut hair had lay splayed out, in voluptuous disarray, across her pillow. While nuzzling at the soft, white, nape of her neck, I had pressed my nose into the silky morass of her dark hair. I inhaled the fusion of many delicate, intermingling fragrances. I remembered the all-consuming, sensual nature of the smell of her hair.
Deeply woven into her reddish brown waves were traces of the farmland. Her long lustrous hair bore the earthen, musty smell of freshly turned over sod in the plowed fields. Also was the scent of that distinct breeze, which always arrives as a fragrant announcement, just moments before a summer rain shower in the country. This was a fragrant breeze that undeniably smells like safety and home. It is the smell of a blessing.
My nose detected numerous, feminine, anointing oils in her hair, and of her flesh; the oils were a musky fusion that composed her unique, primal smell. No other woman alive exuded the same fragrance. My body knew the smell of her instinctually. And when I smelled her scent, I knew she was my mate.
Her scent whispered to my sense of smell, beckoning my body unto hers. It was an intoxicating bidding of her pheromones in the innocent concupiscence of our love.
Her hair bore the scented memories from the previous evening. Woven deeply within her long silken curls, was the smell of perspiration from our naked, entwined, exhausted bodies. There was the brackish biting smell of the ocean’s waves, whitecaps that surged, swelling, and rushing inland towards the untouched volcanic rocks. The waves struck the black, jagged, pillars with a fury, throwing expansive white froth, in wide fan-like dispersals and a fine mist of briny droplets.
We made amatory thunder in the night, as our bodies lunged and hove in the brass bed, moving inside of each other. It seemed that the earth moved beneath us. And for one sacred moment, the boundaries that separated us dissolved, and our two souls fused, and we both inhaled, and sighed, in one shared breath of ecstasy.
As we slept, she was soft legs, which were warm against my hamstrings on a cold winter night. She had a perfect curve the neck, the graceful arc of a warm breast, the curving relief of a smooth hip, and a white delicate shoulder that I woke up to in the night, a bare shoulder that I loved to pull the hand-made patchwork quilt back over.
She was wide, sleepy, coffee brown eyes—eyes that compelled my deepest trust by never asking for it. Her eyes showed no sign of judgment nor embarrassment, of she nor I, nor our naked bodies. Her eyes showed only a loving acceptance, for my body, my strengths, my insecurities, and my foibles.
Hers were eyes that willingly unveiled the window into her soul and revealed everything about her to me, and in doing so belied absolutely nothing that I could not accept and love, and nothing that I could not forgive and forget.
Her dark eyes staring deeply into mine made me stronger, and somehow they made me more of a man. Her eyes loved me with their softness, and they humbled me with their profound tenderness. Her eyes brought me to my knees.
When I looked deep into her eyes, I saw her innocence, her virtue, and a deep love and gratitude for everything in her life. I revered these eyes, and looking into them made me want to be a better man.
At times when thunderclouds rained down angry and struck hard on our tin roof, her eyes looked into mine showing fright. When those eyes looked into mine, the worry melted away. I realized that I had soothed her, and she was no longer afraid. Then she wrapped one arm over my chest and the other underneath my neck and she pulled her body close into mine.
And when I understood what she felt emotionally, that she believed that I had the power to protect her, and give her succor, it melted away all my inhibitions. And I cried, and I was not ashamed. She whispered tender admiration into my ear; she kissed my neck in nurturing love, and laid her cheek on my chest, then she rapidly fell into a deep, safe, sleep.
Hers were the only eyes that I would walk to the end of the earth, simply to gaze into, as they told me that she truly loved me, and that she would stay with me for the rest of our lives.
They were the eyes that I wanted to grow old with over the years. And such eyes could never lose their resplendent love and acceptance with the passing of decades.
And I was not concerned about aging. Because I knew that when I was an old man, and looked into her eyes, I would always be young.