It's 4 U, Beave

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So, I write these elaborate posts that kinda don't make sense. Today I have no creative energy. I feel like a sponge that's been dipped in dirty dishwater and then wrung out...or something to that effect, I would imagine.
Anyway, as all of you know ( I HOPE, or I'll personally strangle you, jk), my 20th Birthday was Saturday, and I started partying at noon on Friday with whisky (thanks Rainer:) !) And then went to the Auto Show with B. Beaver and M. Cha. Well, Briana and Mary....no they're not strippers or porn stars, for those you who are wondering. Pervert.
ANYWAY, we went and looked at the cars and took pictures.... It was fun. Cha wanted 2 DUB keychains but only got 1....WAAAAAAA!!! ok, jk. That was a minor detail. There was a really shiney car there...that was the only one I really remember. But it was fun to see all the shiney cars and DUBS and rich people who actually were considering buying these cars.....some cost more that a large house. wow.
"Hey Beaver, did you say you'd marry for money? Looks?"

"Yeah....I mean no.....There's something to be said for personality." She said.

It's true. There's something to be said for personality but I forgot what it was. Oh well.

So then we left. It was not as cold as it was when we got there which was funny, because it was dark out. Usually temperature drops when the sun leaves the sky. But no. This is Michigan we're talking about people. So yeah, we got into the car and discussed where we were going to eat: La Shish? Macaroni Grill?

........PANERA....? hahahahhahhaha, jk. I just had to throw that one in there for Beave.

But we were driving...actually Mary was driving the good ol' Honda at a nice clip...pace....speed...whatever, fuck being literary right now. And as we flew past HockyTown CAFE Briana Beaver made a comment about getting some kind of Detroit "experience" and we agreed that if we were gonna do it up we better do it BIG in the D....with our DUB keychains and all... SO fabulous.....so we turned around and headed for Hockeytown....but THEN...dum....dum...dum....we changed our minds.

Mexican food! Mexican town was...in Detroit, right? YES! "But where?" One might ask....or 3 honors college girls might ask. And we kept on driving...and driving....and driving....and driving
Wait....do we even KNOW where we're going? no. Not really. But Cha started chewing, packing away gum like they were marshmallows and she was in a competative tourament of "chubby bunny."
And there were some phone calls made...to people who might have been able to reel us in from obscurity...a.k.a give us directions. No fancy way of saying it. We're lost.
So Beave decides to give the old EX a ring...always a good idea right? Maybe, maybe not....ask Beave next time you see her...or don't. ANYWAY, we don't know where we are therefore none of these people who know where it is can help us....so we keep driving....and driving...and driving.....

"FUCKIN' A!!!!!! MORE GUM!!!!!"
Please pay no attention to that outburst, it was just Cha....it's the turrets. She's okay. Really.

.......And I made baby-footfrints with my hand in the frosted car window. Cha and Beaver were on the phone and I was about to utilize the old celli myself when I realized: few of my friends had ever even BEEN to Detroit let alone Mexican Town...and the ones that did were probably drunk and of little use....plus it was the eve of my birthday and in my universe the world was revolving around me. I imagined I saw little green gnomes in the snow, hitchhiking....green thumbs...I started laughing.

"CANADIAN BRIDGE? WHAT THE FUCK! I KNOW I'M ON CANDID CAMERA RIGHT NOW!!!!!"
It's okay Cha. Eat more gum.

Then we drove in loops and ended back on the highway several times. We even spent some quality time at the Marathon Gas station. Golden Memories!!
But we made it there. That is key. We got there alive, (despite M. Cha's frantic predictions of death). But we were hungry, indeed.

"I WANNA SEE MEXICAN PEOPLE!!! WHERE ARE THE SOMBREROS?"
Chaaaaaaaaaaaaa.....love that girl....she thought the Lions played at the Joe...LOL. Only dull people are brilliant on Friday nights right? RIGHT. :)

Where's ESPERANZA? OK, that was for the WAD peeeps, what! What! Represent!!!!! Ok.... No? No. Ok.
So we found a restaurant and another one...and another one and one that looked like it might be a personal residence..no wait....It WAS a residence. We were that hungry.
Anyway we ended up eating at Xochimillcos, I believe that was the name, and the food as heavenly...either that or I was incredibly hungary. The world may never know.
The Beave and the Cha had a plan. They wanted to do up the whole birthday thing....you know the drill, embarassing song and dessert....but the restaurant was too busy (thank god) and there was no song. But there was cold cake. Very cold, but good. I even got a little candle. :). Fun times. No forks but that was ok. A knife works when the cake is cold enough.
OK, so then we sat and gossiped for like an hour....always a blast! You know of whom we spoke!!!! LLLAAUUUREN...JUUUDDDE....MARG...., fun, fun. WAD old memories. I think I talked to some kid names Trevor who was stranded on eight mile. Yeah, it was that kinda night.
As we were leaveing the restaurant, this guy in a faded plaid vest approached us...and asked for like, 50 sents, something small. Beave and I said no, politely and when we turned to keep on walking to the car, we found that our dear friend Mary Cha had made a dash...apparently she didn't like beggars or was scared of them....for we saw her tunneling through the darkness,...made me laugh anyway.

So After we left (BTW thanks for DINNER GIRLS!!!) and did not get lost on the way back might I add. We worked out (telepathically of course) with Kanye West....it was...special.
I think Christina called me a bunch of times and i talked to Consetta on the phone, there was a party, I believe, at Joes...the "FRAT" jjja.
But Mary felt "crusty" and Briana had to work early so I ended up hitting up the par-tay by my lonesome...not really but you girls shoulldda come!!!! jk. There's a lot more weekends to come!
There I found more whisky, beer, talking, girls and boys, socialists and republicans....Santa....Yeah, it was that kinda night. There was a boy names TEEN SPIRIT there...a 40 yr old trapped in a 13 yr old's body...but really he was 18. Didn't look it...but he was the only sober one there, so he drove me, B. Koss, and Christine back to the dorms. I had to work nightwatch.
We watched bootlegged CARNIVALE (HBO series) for like an hour before I had to go to NW. I LOVE that show! Samson's a Handsome Devil.
Anyway, I am getting bored with this crappy writing. Need to get back to my tropes and metaphors.
But this one's for you Beave, because you are prolly the only one who actually reads my wordy posts to the last sentance...or maybe you don't. But since you got to the end...
And CHA, see, you prolly only read like the first 2 sentances and then asked Beaver what it was about.....or better yet, scrolled down...hehehehehe)
If I married Cha's Bro my name would be Minehaha CHA....hahahhahaaha.
Ok.... no? No. Ok.
I *HEART* my friends!

~Word to your Mother~

Her Universe House: A reflection

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I climbed into the window of her universe house:
Thanksgiving came, like it does every year, and I ate too much, like I do every year. And even though it was three days, it seemed like a week, I hadn’t been home to Birmingham in at least four months, I felt like a visitor in my own house, I slept in my old room in the attic, and it seemed almost as if I was in the room of a stranger. A person I never knew, a person whose bed was on the floor, the room of a high school student. This person wore platform shoes and had an ugly red down coat with stains on it. She also seemed to like to like boy bands and her phone book contained only three phone numbers that were not those of her relatives. I never knew her, and if I had, I’m sure that I wouldn’t like her. I saw a picture of her and she was fat, with curly hair and was wearing poorly applied makeup: she probably did it herself. And I read her journals because I was bored, and a little intrigued: something about this stranger seemed aggravatingly, almost painfully familiar. In her journal she did write about herself, but there were other people. People that did not exist save for the space in her head. In her journal she was in Italy, bringing back a rise of a modern roman empire and engaged to the son of the man, Romaine Chestari, who sponsored the invention of nuclear fusion. And her best friend’s name was Janice. It dawned on me that it was all her imagination when i found out she did not,in fact, know anyone named Janice; I looked in her yearbook and her phone book. Nothing. The only thing that was real in that journal was her name…And I felt sorry for her but at the same time, almost envied her: she had really known these people. And then I felt like I could cry. I had lost them. That girl was me…, only time had come between us. The only thing that remained intact was the name…the only thing that was real. The rest was saftly shuttled back to the land of imagination.
It was two in the morning by the time I put down my old journal and turned out the light. I had a strange feeling, like I had stepped into a foggy fourth dimension though I was neither high nor drunk…and I went over to my laptop, Jack, and opened Windows media player. I clicked on the postal service “the district sleeps alone tonight”….and fell asleep on my bed on the floor. I put my arms around an old stuffed animal of mine, a life-size lioness. It was dry and dusty…it was Lemonseed, my old friend.

Where's the Candid Camera?

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“Where’s the Candid Camera?”
Something happened this year, and I cannot point it out as a constellation in stars or a definite point of a graph. But something (lets call it a luckybug for all adorable purposes) crept into my life, and stayed there. If this year could have been made into a slideshow, the slides would start out slow, black and white, with maybe as much as an hour between slide changes, and end in and in a motion picture, complete with color and sound.

Slide 1: Me in a miniskirt wearing something pink and something green, looking
like maybe I stepped out of the Delias/Alloy catalog

Thirty minutes….
Slide 2: A picture of me dressed in the OU Housing Staff black polo, unkempt hair, sporting a fake smile.

An hour…

Slide 3: Me wearing a lifeguard uniform, kept hair, and makeup done.

An hour….
Slide 4: Me looking tired.

An Hour…

Slide 5: Me sleeping
Slow transitions, silent. No genuine life. I got up in the morning to go to work. I slept in my dorm so I wouldn’t fall asleep in class. I ate because I needed energy to work. Hunger was a distraction. Never in my life had my schedule been so chaotic. That semester I learned how to nap.
Slide 6: Me Voting

Fifteen minutes:
Slide 7: Me walking to work in the rain looking disgruntled to say the least

Then the slides began to change more rapidly, colors filled in the dark spaces and sounds flashed by. I met Kerrie in Theatre class. The Man Who Came to Dinner project, we were partners. She was a colorful person, animated, which rocked the foundations of my slideshow. And she had curly hair, like mine. And then we got high. One night, work and leisure met face to face, shook hands…and then, as if in some agreement had been reached, for one brief moment, work stepped aside.
The ground felt spongy that night, and I was fully entertained by depth perception. The signs of the city seemed to overlap and fly past each other, yellow, red, yellow and sometimes green. The windows were foggy, and Fall bowed out...the leaves were gone, the warmth was gone. So was work, class, and all my worries at the time, just for that night if not at all. And when I got back to Vandenberg there was music. Matt Kelly held his choir practice at Nightwatch that night. Either this choir was phenomenally talented, or I was phenomenally high, I’m not sure which, but either way it was good to me, so I sat on the bench in front of the Beer Lake Nightwatch station listened, stuffing my face with vanilla cookies. I ate so fast I could hardly taste them but I am sure they were good. I was not eating for energy; I was eating because I felt like if I didn’t, I would swallow myself. When I went to sleep that night it was not so I would not because I had to be awake in class the next day, and when I got up in the morning it was not because I had to work.
The slideshow projector was rattling at the speed at which my life wanted to process and display the slides, it stared smoking and, eventually, it exploded. I was asleep for the explosion; sound asleep when the luckybug came into my life. I suppose the benevolent, imaginary insect either repaired the slide projector or replaced it with a candid videotape recorder. Perhaps the one Mary Cha referred to last night….but that’s for later on in the slideshow. Right now I have to clean up my Nightwatch Station and go to sleep…and no, I don’t have class tomorrow.
~to be continued

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The Secret Life of Sunflowers

My favorite type of flower is the sunflower. It is born in spring and dies at the end of summer when leaves begin to ripen and the warm of vernal months subside to the changing season. The sunflower is one life, one plant, one flower: the head of a body made to nurture the one. And through the hot months if perseveres, taking in energy from the sun and converting it into a spectacular showcase of warm yellow. The face of the flower is resilient, never sun burnt but rather welcoming the balmy rays cast from the nearest star. And so it is modeled: in the likeness of that star.
The young flowers, before they become brittle and set in their ways, will follow the sun on its daily path trailed in the sky, east to west. Illuminated by the dawn breaking beams, they lift their faces to the glory of morning and bow to the power of the sun at the later hours as the blazing orb falls off the brink of the western horizon. In the hours between the rise and set, at midday, the flexible young awe-struck flowers will beam upward, straight up, like noon hands on a clock. But when too many of these cycles come to pass the flower chooses a stance it likes best. Some stay tilted to morning, others, more submissive, nod in poise of evening. Still, the star soldiers of the crop choose to stand tall at all hours frozen to the stance of noon, and unrelenting, even under the face of the sweltering summer sun.
Now I will describe the beginning of sunflowers. Indeed, their derivation from the earth is in a whole, almost (if not more) of a magnificent adventure than their bowing out.
First they sprout at a disadvantage: how crows love to peck off their succulent cotyledons! Then, off course there are those just not meant for this world, they poke their fragile stems just above the soil fighting for survival, but it just is not in them to live past their first day and they are soon beaten by the hard world they find themselves in, shriveling back into the crack in the earth from whence they came, gracefully admitting defeat and welcoming what death has to offer: they have nothing to regret in so very short a life.
But there are others quite on the contrary that start out so strong and promising from the seed: troopers from the very beginning. But funny thing about those overconfident ones, they almost always seem to meet misfortunate ends. Such show offs they are, tempting the hungry crows and squirrels in their vainglorious entrance to the humble community of the garden. Boastful in their beauty to yet so dangerous an audience; naivety and conceit become a deadly potion when mixed correctly.
And so the arrogant sproutlings and the weak seed sprouts meet their early ends. Those rarely get to spend a week on this planet, as it is not theirs. Gone, going, gone.
But don’t be discouraged, there are still some citizens of the sunflower bed that I have yet to mention! No, I have not forgotten about those late seeds that hide away until the first battle is silenced. They shoot out of the earth when all is thought to be over and they are neither very weak nor overly strong or proud. They are mediocre, genuine in life, not posing a threat to anything and joyful, joyful, joyful: shameless in the autonomy of their own spirit. They reach for the sun before they even grow arms to reach with, ever hopeful and growing, so passionate for life! Some of them do meet early ends, as we all know how greedy slugs and pregnant butterflies patrol unpolluted gardens in the warm months of the year. But this is an occurrence of nature and no fault is reflected on the innocent sun-sprouts and when those ones meet misfortunate ends a certain amount of regret is to be felt for them; overcoming so much just to be extinguished at the brink of their prime.
Yet still, there are the chosen ones. The ones that survive to maturity: the very ones I mentioned at the beginning. Yes, these are what we know as sunflowers, but as outside spectators we know very little of their previous adventures, their accomplishments and what they have overcome. But they are the chosen ones; humble, yet invincible in life. Sunflowers are true survivors, masters of the game of life, worshippers of the noonday sun, and when they do come to their inevitable ends (for we all do on this temporary earth), when the sun sets on their fortunate lives, they all hang their heads regardless of the stance they took earlier in life. They hang their pretty heads, (not in sorrow, for they have nothing to remorse, nor in defeat for they have been victors from the very beginning) but they hang their heads in respect for the earth; in respect for generations to come. It would be ignorant to pay homage to the sun alone, when indeed it is to the earth that they owe their initial existence. So they bow out in grace, subsiding to the oncoming season for it is not theirs, and they lend their seeds back to the welcoming soil, to the promise of a spring to come. The little seeds are set to sleep until spring commences when the pivot of Earth’s axis leans in their favor. The seeds will then awaken to the melted snow softens the waking. They will come alive in to a world that may or may not be for them; yet for some amount of time (whether it be long or short) they all will find themselves in same the garden which hosted their triumphant ancestors.
One day I should like very much to learn more of the life of sunflowers, but then again perhaps it is not mine to know. Perhaps it is not my place as a gardener to interfere with their system, polluting the garden with insecticides, or chasing the crows and squirrels, because it is all a part (in some way I believe) of their secret life, a life that is not mine to change. Indeed I too am an outside spectator, an onlooker of their lovely show, and in the end I can say I am annually entertained. No, their show never bored me, it doesn’t bore me now, and it will never bore me, year after year. I am quite content as I am when I water the flowerbed, knowing that I myself play a part in the secret life of sunflowers as they play a part in mine.

Training Ground

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Training Ground ~Minni Forman
A thick layer of fog hovered just above the salty waters of the origin. There, the roar of the almighty water was deafening to the living ear, while shaking the cores of the non-living elements that surrounded the one. One by one, walls of blue-white life and salt fell forward towards land: they fell hard, and their energy was absorbed. Energy was never ending then, it seemed, for it neither emptied nor tired. The force that generated towers of foam and spray was none other than the one that powered life. Life in turn, finished the cycle, eventually giving back to the one origin. So when the liquid walls fell fast against the solid land, that energy was swallowed by the grains of earth; it was soaked back up by strings of life creating the reciprocating symphony of the one power. The power of the ocean was immeasurable; to lie at the bottom of it or float astride its living current was to feel the presence of the endless being, the living origin. Even the fog hung low to the water lingered there to embrace the almighty presence of the sea. Such a large unified body was so wonderful, yet terrible at the same time, creating the powerful union of life and death.
That mass of saline fluid had brought forth such ugly creatures in times past; yet they grew more gruesome with each era. And before long they took it upon themselves to divide, those ugly ones, and then multiply, forgetting their very origins in the sea. Cast off onto the island, they all emerged at one point long ago, from the one. And just as those walls of water fall here on the white mouth of grainy pumice under this shell of fog, they all fell back to the one, and it sucked them back only to spit them out once more, each regurgitation becoming more hideous. And then came the homosapiens out of it all, the most fatal rejects. Those creatures with the holes on their faces and brains that is were relatively too large for their bodies. These ones that crept about the planet, burdened by the weight of their torturous heads: what was a living creature to do with such intelligence, if intelligence it could have been called? So much promise was awakened at the birth of this species but that promise was never kept, nor did it bloom past skyscrapers and malevolent cures for self-generated diseases. The promise that this species once held fell short directly after their awakening and no conclusive result could be contrived from their selfish existence. It came to a downfall, in the end, but that was inevitable.
To this day more specimen of various build and intelligence still spring from the sea and run the red waters of their originator through their networks of arteries and veins. Those waters run in my veins now as I type, they run to the tips of my fingers and it is only minor layers of cells that hold them back from flowing forth, onto this keyboard.
Salt and mineral derived directly from the sea, the warmth, the depth, and living units that dwell within us are all part of the one; part of the being that will reclaim us in the end. This is a borrowed lot of time, ours is, and for our stay we pay a heavy price. That price is not monetary, nor is it tacit in any manner. It is chemical, mental, and spiritual. This blue-green spherical station on which we cluster is a training ground. And yes, the endless red-blue current of the sea runs us all, it strings us together on an invisible chain that marks us as living, it marks us as one. One life, one energy, one spirit: divided, multiplying, and lost. Lost and renting time on this training ground to learn its way back to the one. Learning, however, we are finding to be difficult, (regardless of the size of our heads) for it is near impossible to find answers by groping in a questionless darkness wielding numb fingers at that. But we are all here, in training for purity. And as it is a relatively timely process to convert swamp water into pure liquid, it takes an even longer more tedious one to make the selfish fragments of a pure being selfless once again.

Unexpected as Nature

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It became evident to me, scrolling through ancient mythology that floods have recurrently signified a beginning. To initiate new creation, all that is old must be washed away and thus, purged of old reminiscence, a new leaf of life is overturned. So it came to be, during the rain season of the year nineteen hundred and eighty-seven in Belize, Central America, as a ruthless rainstorm rampaged through the flora upsetting the very foundation of leaves…

I
The Flood
A break in the storm was not yet forecasted on the ominous eastern horizon where, looming low to the earth, were clouds swollen with a bluish black. The once silent waters of Cocoa Creek were now tormented with relentless rains, thrashed by wild winds. The creek was roaring and boiling over the shallow banks. Footpaths had transformed to flood veins and were surging, pulsing across the gigantic stone ledge which stood hitherto above water. Clouds filled dark with moisture clotted the sky with a hopeless gray, smashing all that separates day from dawn into oblivion. The voice of the rampant water seemed as if it would never silent, ripping through the canna grass that held fast to the banks and the stone ledge. Only those too indolent to plant thier roots deep were torn from their rock beds into the live river. A ghostly wail was dispersed from the banks, and thunder shook the heavens: as the day tore onward the fury of nature came down upon the untamed jungle, haunting the very foundations of the earth. The groaning grass blades blended eerily with the screams of the wild wind unleashed, and ripping through the behemothic fig tree towering proudly over the river. Together they created a symphony of horror heralding lost lives in the wild darkness.
Rain continued streaming down in buckets. For five days the storm held out without a sign of weakening. The only force holding an old chicken coop from plummeting into the deadly swirl was the most fragile plank of rotted rosewood. One more tug from the lethal liquid tentacles would drag the chickens to a watery grave. Two hens in the coop that had remained living thus far clucked nervously and clung for balance as they perched tediously on the highest roost, the flimsy structure swaying to and fro in the voracious current. Then, within the blink of a keen eye, it was gone: sucked into a murky stampede...there was nothing more final.
When the day finally gave way to evening, the storm only gained more power and now the night roared onward, driven by an uncontrollable force. A pot-licker dog with a pink nose stood atop a heap of flotsam, howling at the top of its lungs into the night, though the hungry seemed to swallow its cries. Death seemed to draw ever nearer now, all around, it was enclosing fast in tightening rings of peril. The dog stared up at a decaying house tucked into the branches of the fig tree: it stared on in half hopes of a salvation which now seemed light years away. It longed for rescue from the deadly liquid circles that tore clockwise around the little island on which it perched. The dog wailed even louder at the sight of a human figure carefully making its way down the deteriorating wooden stairs out of the tree house which was covered in lichens and moss. The figure, somewhat shielded by a torn yellow raincoat, struggled though the rushing waters towards the stranded dog. The figure helped the dog off of the island of debris and guided it back towards the tree through the current.
Together they were fighting the force of the run off water, every footstep a perilous venture. Man and animal fought the force of the water’s will with all their might. They were different beings by far though they shared that common desire...the desire to survive. Both were in the seemingly endless struggle for life. There was a strong gust of wind and the figures raincoat blew off, exposing the figure and revealing a man. A man the dog knew well, for it was the same muscular frame that never hesitated to bring the staff down upon its back when lard was missing form the frying pan. Together, they arrived on the slimy steps that led up to the tree house. The dog bolted up the stairs first, followed by the man, and both saturated in remnants of the outside flood, though the droplets that fell from their bodies hardly reflected the intensity of the outer night. Vigorously, the dog shook itself sending a spray of muddy floodwater throughout the bantam structure.
“Pinto!” A girl cried. “You saved him Da!”
“He lucky you ‘round,” the man grumbled. “He ass be dead long time.”
The little girl viewed the emaciated dog fondly. “He’s shaking. Can I put a towel on him Na?” Sarah looked at her mother who was sitting in the corner next to a rusty kerosene lamp. She held a two year old baby tightly as the house rocked back and forth in the wind. Another little girl stood at her side her eyes darting here and there, fear written upon her face. The moaning water seemed to getting louder every minute.
“Everything’s wet honey,” Na answered quietly. “Pinto will be fine.”
“Are the chickens going to be okay do you think?” She asked, running to the window.
“Sarah, stay ‘way from the window, yah hear?” Da exclaimed irritably.
“Is the chicken coop still there?” Sarah asked. It had been days since anyone had ventured outside and news was more than welcome.
Da grumbled. “I don’ know! Me cah do everything a’de si’ame time!” He took off his wet shirt and threw it onto the creaking wood floor. “Me los’ da raincoat Mary K.”
“How?” Na asked sincerely confused, no sarcasm sharpened her tone.
“How you tink?” I’ de blow outside! Ya no know what I go trough all a’ dat fo’ wa good-fe-nuttin maga dog!”
“Calm down Charles,” her voice lowered almost to a whisper, “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Carm down? Ya tell me fe carm down? How me goin carm down when da house de blow out de tree, eh?”
“There's nothing you can do.” She shook her head slowly, almost regretfully from side to side.
The house jolted and there was a bright flash of lightening. A large opossum darted across the floor. Da ran to get his machete. Pinto didn’t move. He stood shivering in the corner, his tail between his legs. By the time Da had the machete ready, the frightened marsupial had disappeared into one of the large cracks in the wall.
“Fuckin dog!” Da shouted. “Dat de wa good fo’ nuttin’ pot licka’!”
“He’s too cold.” Sarah defended the pathetic, shivering animal in the corner.
Da sucked his teeth. “Cho! Shouldda let i’ ras drown.”
“Look, there’s another!” Sarah squealed as a corpulent gray opossum scuttled disjointedly across the soaked pine floorboards. Da raised his machete this time bringing it down upon the opossum’s spine with all his might. A horrendous shriek seared through the humid air and within seconds the opossum writhed upon the floor in those final seconds preceding death as the last drops of life escaped its putrid corps, waiting for rigor mortise to set in. Its eyes remained open while the corners of its saliva and blood encrusted mouth curled upward as if grinning up condescendingly at its slayer. Da took it by its succulent pink tail, pushed open the heavy zinc window, and flung the lifeless carcass down into the profound spiral of the fluid that simultaneously creates the powerful union of life and death. The wailing water grew louder when the window opened and then a bit fainter again as it closed. Everyone was silent in the minutes that followed. Sarah’s eyes dashed tensely about the decaying tree house, tensely scanning for more opossums. There were none.

A frog

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A Frog’s Love of Life
In the damp places of the world, where rainy days are welcomed and more mosquitoes mean more food, there lives a certain species of peace-loving amphibians. And in one of these damp places of which I speak, there lives a frog, quite content to be a frog to say the least, for he was in want of nothing. He had no name, nor did he want one, since the only frogs with names usually lived in captivity. This frog was, beyond a doubt, a lover of life as it was, with no fix-me-ups or if-only-I-could. He lived a simple life, never wandering far from the river at the foot of the hills and never eating anything but mosquitoes (without the legs because mosquito legs always made him choke made him choke) and on rainy afternoons he would croak with the falling of the raindrops and listening to the birds above in the trees as they too rejoiced the falling water. This frog never ventured out into the world and even wanted to. He did not know what it was to explore, though he felt he lacked nothing in life. He got the daily news from the frogs croaking across the river and he would croak back to let them know he heard, but he would never join the discussion. He was alone, and he liked it that way. He had no friends, but he wanted none. And though I am aware that it may sound redundant, I must reiterate that our friend frog was unconditionally happy: happy in the sun, happy in the rain, and happy when the sun set and the mosquitoes came out.
Our friend frog was not in any way ungrateful; however, for every night before the mosquitoes buzzed out of the woods he would crouch down on his little frog knees and pray a thankful prayer for the food. Simplicity is the essence of happiness in the damp places of the world.
But life and happiness are not always holding hands, as Frog knew only too well, and one night, when all seemed still and peaceful (even more so than usual) aa great storm tore through our friend froggy’s home or the river bank. Poor froggie awoke with a great shock and as hard as he tried he could not keep out the wind and rain. Thunder shook the sky above and frightened the world below. Then, with one large gust of wind, Froggy’s house beside the river was blown away, and water crept up and swallow the land on which it has stood. Froggy hopped about frantically trying to evade the oncoming current of water as it rushed toward him. He felt scared and confused because he did not know where he was going. He had never explored what lay beyond his home. He was lost, and alone in a world that seemed to be getting bigger with ever step. His little frog legs were getting tired but he did not give up. He loved life, still, no matter what it served him, sun or storm, and he had resolve of steel. The wind and rain washed Froggy far from his home, and he knew he may never find his way back.
When the storm was over Froggy felt like he was far down the river and he knew he was badly bruised and scratched by the storm. When the air was still, and the sun came out that morning after, he looked into a puddle and saw that he had a black eye (a falling branch had hit him in the head) and scratched cheeks….but he was okay. He still had his front and back legs…and a tongue, fully capable of catching mosquitoes with. And so he set out to find a new home, knowing in his heart that he could be happy anywhere, for he was happy frog. He was happy to be alive and with all of his limbs, life was very kind to him, he thought, for there were plenty of frogs that were not as fortunate as he was. He understood that there would always be those who were “better off” than him, but he also understood that he would always be better of than others, and there was nothing really to bemoan. He set up a temporary camp for the night and rested there until the mosquitos came. And he ate the mosquitoes (without legs) and relished every morsel. He had no place to go, but he didn’t feel scared. He ventured up a hill to see exactly where the storm had washed him and smiled. He was no longer lost. He recognized a tree that he used to see from his old front door and realized he was not far down the river, but safely on the other side. He never had wanted to very much to see the other side of the river, but he shrugged and decided that some things are just meant to be and some were not. He knew he may never make it back to the other side, and at the same time he also knew it was time to turn the page to a new chapter of life, and he was ready to embrace it, for the black eye would soon heal and life would go one….it was getting dark.
“Haven’t I seen you face before?” A frog from across the river asked Froggy as he was trying to find a leaf to spend the light under. “Weren’t you the frog who used to live next door?”
“Across the river.” Froggy nodded. “But I must have washed up here after the storm.”
“Well in the morning we can make you a boat and you can go back if you need to get home.” The frog said kindly.
“No, I think my home is here now.” He said. “Though I’m not sure exactly were…I must get to work in the morning.
“Ahhhh yes.” The frog smiled. “Don’t we all.”
“And life goes on.” Froggy sighed.
“Most certainly.” The Frog agreed. “And I am quite sure that that is a good thing.”
“It is lovely.” Froggy sang out. “No doubt about that.”

Capitalist Pig Tribune

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Written by: Minehaha and Sarah Jane Forman, April 2002
$$$ Capitalist Pig Tribune $$$
Fiery Love Triangle Burns in Hell
What are the real motives behind Bush’s brutal “Shock and Awe” campaign in Iraq? Closed sources have confirmed that this is no war for oil, but a passionate battle for affection. It was made apparent Sunday in a exclusive interview with ruler of the underworld Satan Diablo, American dictator George W. Bush (a.k.a G. Dubbs), and Iraqi tyrant Saddam Hussein, that it is lust, not hate, that has spurred this irrational outbreak of bombs in the middle east this spring. Apparently Korean dictator Kim Jung Eil is the forth wheel in this menage-a-trois of world leaders, much to his dismay.
Recently, the trio (G. Dubbs, Hussein, and Satan) was spotted at a hot night club in Mexico shaking their nonexistent asses (though Saddam begs to differ) to Sir Mix-a-Lots ever popular “Baby Got Back”. Says Bush of his Mexican experience, “The only problem I had there was that so many people spoke Mexican!” Yeah, he’s one of ours.
However the events of that night led to a heated quarrel that ended in an uproar of great disaster. The trio caused quite a stir outside of the underworld. Such a stir, it is said to have begun the war that erupted in Iraq earlier this year. It appears the bombs over Baghdad are nothing more then G. Dubbs taking out his pent up frustration on one of his lovers, Iraq’s very own Saddam Hussein.
Says Bush of his irrational attack on Iraq, “The devil made me do it.” Though his friend Satan denies any coursing on his part,
But where is Kim Jung Eil all this time? He is lurking bitterly on the sidelines baring chocolates, roses and nuclear weapons that Satan has chosen to ignore.
When asked to comment on his feelings regarding Satan’s cold shoulder, Jung Eil blurted “He promised I was next. He made me a promise. A promise! But he left me for that shit-for-brains American...Bush.” Jung Eil pauses to control his emotions before continuing.
“Satan Diablo said that if I built up my nuclear weaponry I join the menagerie...or whatever that French word is. But his promises are empty! Empty! Just like his heart.”
However, Diablo denied any allegations of reneging on his part. “Yeahhh...” Satan reminisces, “…I was looking for a quick fling with an imperialist. You know, he’s got those cute little beady eyes...and...ahh... those shoes of his! My my. I was quite swept away when I saw him. But looks aren’t everything you know. I had a crush....” He shrugs carelessly … “it didn’t work out. But anyway...I…um...I’ve found someone new who is more worthy of my lust.”
Inside sources (who will remain nameless) informed the press that this menage-a-trois of world leaders participates in all forms of erotic role playing of which this war is a part. Says Bush of his relationship with Saddam, “I feel the bondage*.”
Sometime in the near future, it appears that Satan is preparing to end his long term relationship with Saddam Hussein and become a one tyrant kinda man. George W. Bush seems to live up to Satan’s high standards and is now the apple of his eye.
Yet things are not looking bright for Satan Diablo. Bush isn’t ready for the commitment. With Saddam Hussein still burning in his heart and mind (if indeed he has either of these organs) it would be hard for him let go of all old emotional ties and settle down. In other words, it would be near impossible for G. Dubbs to carry on a monogamous relationship with Satan. The intense attraction that remains between G. Dubbs and Saddam is obvious from the way they passionately fight one another. It’s their only means of showing affection in these troublesome days of late.
What of Laura Bush you ask? Laura Bush is simply a prop used to deter the public eye from G. Dubbs’ scandalous affairs. But apparently, Laura doesn’t seem to mind. It appears her husband’s warped love life has inspired her to start a raunchy love triangle of her own. She was spotted in Washington earlier this week on the arms of Hillary Rodham Clinton, and her long time partner, Oprah Winfrey. But enough about rich powerful lesbians.
Now, up pops Kim Jung Eil. He set the record straight Monday when he told reporters that his missile was bigger than Bush’s and Satan’s put together. Boasts Jung Eil, “I am very sure my missile would satisfy Satan. All I’m waiting for is a chance to use my goods.”
However, regardless of size, it seems Satan has chosen Bush. Says Satan of his past experience with Hussein, “Saddam wanted to be on top all the time. I prefer a more submissive man who lets me take control.” When our interviewer suggested Al Gore as a possible candidate for a passive partner, Satan laughs, “Ha! Gore? That dipshit is so wishy washy he probably can’t even decide which brand of toilet paper to buy...Charmin or Cottonelle?” Satan rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I choose Charmin. Their television adds are the most offensive.”
“What about Jack Cheraq?” Satan is grimaces in disgust. “Are you kidding? The French haven’t produced anything worth my while since Napoleon...and he was from Corsica! He was a little guy but...mmmmmm...boy oh boy was he good in---Wha....I’m sorry what was the question?”
A little bird told the Tribune Sunday night that Brittish prime minister Tony Blair may be joining the menage. Says Kim Jung Eil of this news, “If there is going to be an addition to this relationship it’s gonna be me!” With that he asks his assistant to put in his *Nsync CD and play their popular song of the same name. The lyrics seem to describe Jung Eil’s situation well. Says Jung Eil, “I have worked hard, hard looooong hours to gain their affection. That frugal bastard better not try to steal my lovers...or else...I’ll whip out my missile! What does Tony have? He’s a level headed, democratically elected leader! He has nothing to do with this! It was enough that that fuckface Bush forced his way into Satan’s love life with that puny crooked Supreme Court ruling thingy. But Blair...he won! Fair and square. Satan is clearly too good for him. This is an outrage!”
Saddam was overcome by emotion when asked to comment on their burning triangle of love. Through tears he told the Capitalist Pig Tribune “My love for Bush is priceless and will burn eternally.... much like my oil fields. But I have to admit: that Kim Jung Eil is looking pretty hot right now. I’d like to strike an agreement with him to combine missile sizes...if you catch my drift. Together we could overthrow the Satan/Bush regime and rule the world... forever!!!!!!” He attempts at an evil deep throated laugh which quickly turns into a pathetic gargle.
When asked for any final comments on the topic, America’s G. W. Bush stars blankly into space. “Don’ mess with Texas,” He chants repeatedly in a trance like state. Though it is hard decipher from the far-way look in his eyes, this comment may be in response to the fast growing campaign geared towards selling the redneck state of Texas to Mexico. The Tribune launching an investigation on the Texico Campaign. $$$

The Beggining

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Edward Biltmore ~ Chapter I
“Chestari.” Biltmore spoke from above, raised high upon an old fashioned wooden desk. It was a large mahogany desk, which, unlike its occupant, was sturdy in build, and correspondingly their differences served him well,hermit crabs do the same thing. His glance rested petulantly on the opposite side of that desk where stood another man who, again unlike Biltmore, was stout and much more forbearing. Biltmore leaned back in his chair with and narrowed his eyes. “So we meet again.”
“It was inevitable.” Antonio shifted his weight from one leg to another in a rhythmic timing. “We are plagued with each other’s existence yet one needs the other to survive is that not correct?
The woodworm forced a smile that resulted in a horrible contortion of his face forcing his nose to wrinkle and his teeth to bare. His eyes narrowed steadily slowly forming slits of concentrated hate.
“Biltmore, you must know I get no pleasure from this.” Antonio continued. “One might even venture to say I despise you. But I am, as of now, in no position to question my superiors. After all, I am not worthy of judging you at your hardwood desk making decisions for the voiceless.”
Biltmore tightened his jaw. A reluctant sigh filtered through the spaces in his uneven front teeth. “There is no work for you here Mr. Chestari.”
Antonio felt his insides turning at the sight of this man Biltmore, his rival since grade school. What a serpent he was; thin and soulless, poised for attack even now which his poisoned tongue. He stared intently at Antonio, no blink interrupting his cold gaze. “You may leave the building Chestari,” He muttered coolly, and then jerked his head towards the door. “You are dismissed.”
“For now I will leave.” Antonio made no point of hiding his intent of return from Biltmore, still, he made no movement to leave the premises even as much as a millimeter. “But I must say now, just as I have before: it is inevitable that we should meet again. Perhaps the day will come when you shall grovel on the opposite end of this false wooden box.”
Biltmore’s head cocked to a tilt, his eyebrows levitated tediously. “Must I call security?”
“If it would make you feel better, Mr. Biltmore,” Antonio stepped a pace back motioning politely with his arm, “By all means.”
“I have no work for you.” Biltmore reiterated. Through clenched teeth he breathed, “None.”
Antonio neither replied nor moved. He just countered Biltmore’s hideous glare with an intent one hoping to break the scheming façade of his enemy.
“Here we only hire the best.” Biltmore digressed after a pause. “We have no positions open for pathetic beggars and under-achievers as of yet. I will post you promptly when one opens.”
Antonio moved a step forward and clenched his fists tightly behind his back. “You seem well versed in slander Mr. Biltmore, but I will have you know that this talk will never benefit you for it only strengthens my resolve.”
“Ha.” Biltmore bleated a mirthless laugh. “I pity you. I do. If I didn’t know better I would say you were threatening me. But that couldn’t be the case. No. You have bigger concerns.” Biltmore proceeded to chuckle if chuckling that awful sound could be called. “Oh no, Mr. Chestari is far too busy planning the deaths of his in-laws to harass an old school rival is that not so?”
It took all of Antonio’s his will power to keep grounded and not hurl himself at the hateful man that sat above him. His mind flashed back three years prior to that night, the night when he watched his world collapse before his awe-stuck eyes. It was November fourteenth, 1947, when a squad of police flooded his house, accusing him of murder. He remembered the cold handcuffs, and brutal words….but most of all he would never forget the body. It was the mutilated body of his sister-in-law Daphne Evanderakis, and the crowds of people who gathered about all looked upon him with contempt in their eyes. He had looked about frantically hoping or a face that believed in his innocence, but the only one who showed trust through her tears was his faithful wife Beatrice…but there was nothing she could do. Indeed, Daphne had been a victim of murder, as her body was recovered brutally assaulted from the old marsh on the far North side of the property, but it was not by the hand everyone suspected. For two weeks Romaine was confined to metal bars until sound evidence cleared his name: The night the body was recovered from the marsh Antonio had been working late with his co-worker and brother-in-law Stephen Evanderakis the Evanderakis-Chestari law firm. Someone had planted Antonio’s coat and business card in the bracken surrounding the marsh…someone who felt threatened by the Chestari-Evanderakis law and order.
“The way you look at me Mr. Chestari one would think you suspected me of that crime.” Biltmore contorted his face into another would-be smile. “You know, they never had a hard time attaining your coat and card. The coat-closet at your old office was never locked. I hope you’re more careful with you possessions now. Someone had to teach you that lesson.”
Romaine could contain himself no longer. He stormed out of the building blinded by rage and lamenting the seemingly unfair way the world treated him. Yes, Biltmore won that battle, if ending on that note was just enough to called winning. All these years his suspicions had not been not in vain. Daphne had been the victim of the Biltmore malice. But now time had passed and no one would believe him even if he could prove it. No, he had to find another way to bring the serpent down from his wooden thrown. He was sure Biltmore had would stop at one murder to protect the welfare of his company. Doubtless, there were other ways which the conniving snake was cheating humanity.
Ever since his time in prison Antonio had never regained the prestige he once had. The people he once knew to be colleagues and friends turned him and his family the cold shoulder. Even though his business partner knew he was innocent, Steven never fully trusted his brother-in law after that faithless night and soon Antonio found himself unemployed, searching for odd jobs about the city. It was when his family was in dire needs that he gave up some of his pride and applied for a job at the electric plant that had so suddenly sprung up in Risorgimento, a little town just north of the city of Rome. It was Biltmore Electronics and the name rung with foreign sound in many Italian ears. Biltmore was of English origin and intended to renew the reign of the United Kingdom once he and his scientists discovered a means of generating nuclear fusion. He was sure of it. Biltmore Electronics Company now served nearly half the sovereign state of Italy on coal power alone. With the discovery of nuclear fusion Biltmore planned to go worldwide.
“You are not welcome here.” Biltmore sneered into the empty space before his desk after Antonio raged out the door.
Antonio left the Biltmore Headquarters that day vowing to see the fall of Biltmore and his dream if he himself had to sacrifice his life in doing so. He knew he was not welcome at the plant, he never had been. However, as long as Biltmore drew breath behind those doors they would remain open. They must. That space would still remain. Antonio was going nowhere. The war had just begun.
From the sooty street lamps a dull light escaped, reflecting off of the pavement in the shallow puddles that filled cracks and pot holes in the street. Antonio Chestari could feel water seeping through holes in is battered boots. He struggled against the cold night wind, his empty lunch pail clicking jerkily to and fro. His eyes were blurred by the fog, as street lamps melded into amorphous shapes of yellow against the murky black skies of Rome. He pulled his threadbare coat tightly around him as he trudged onward. Determination pulled his feet forward. It was determination that kept him going. He believed in the rewards of human sacrifice and found confidence therein; the sacrifices of an everyday man. To lie down would be to admit defeat. To admit defeat would be to flee from the enemy and live in his shadow. Now it became apparent that Biltmore, however fragile, had the upper hand and was slithering down the path to ultimate success whether or not it meant he was tainted by corruption. Antonio now made a choice to follow Biltmore down this path in hopes of overtaking him. It would be harder for him now. He had a family: a wife and two sons.
When he reached the threshold of his small home, Antonio was drenched and his feet soaked in filthy drain water from the streets.
His wife Beatrice looked up at him tensely as he stepped onto the damp doormat. Her eyes sparkled with so much hope. His glance then fell upon his sons Arizon and Milo. Arizon was fast asleep on the ragged sofa, his head resting on Milo’s shoulder. At first glance Milo looked asleep as well, his head tilted to the side but his eyes open just a slit, barely concealing his consciousness.
“Bea,” Antonio forced a smile, “always remembers this. Life is war. There are battles. You fight…you win sometimes. Sometimes you must loose. But the war is not over until one admits defeat. It does not end until one ends it. Don’t you see Bea? Some try to bring mine to an end…but how does one snuff a flame that has never yet been lit?”
“So no work at the plant.” Beatrice’s face went pale in the dim lamplight, her lips trembled. The air filled with a sudden stillness. Milo shut his eyelids this time tighter, more forceful than the soft poise of sleep.
“I never meant to work there.” Antonio replied quickly seeing the disappointment on his wife’s face. “I only wanted him to see that I was not going anywhere. I wanted to show him that I was not afraid.” He avoided his wife’s stare now, feeling as if letting their eyes meet would be too painful. The deep pools that where her eyes could easily drown him if he let them. He removed his damp coat slowly and hung it on a hook against the wall, his head bent towards the floor.
“Tony, don’t be unreasonable. I tell you each time to stay away from that Biltmore man. He lives to bring you down. He wants to see your destruction, and each day you let him see it. You play his game.”
“He wants to see to my ruin for a reason you know Bea. He is afraid. He seeks my destruction because he is afraid of what I am capable of. I am bent with determination and determination is his toxin.”
“You must move on.” Beatrice said sternly. “To that toxin he has become immune.”
“Bea,” Antonio moved closer to his wife and learned forward to get a better look at her face, “Bea, in the thirty-eight years I have walked this earth my very footsteps bleed with willpower; with determination. He has seen that and knows that if ever I get to a place where I can cut him down I will. He wants all who work under him to hold a certain fear of him and his empire. I do not work for him, nor am I afraid.”
“I never questioned your willpower. In that we have do not lack. But I must remind you that I can cook neither will nor words for dinner.”
Romaine was silenced for some time, clenching his fists and pacing the length of the small living room. “He wants to keep me from law for some reason. He stopped me three years ago with by…by hurting my family. Bea I was right about my suspicions of him and the murder----”
“Shhhhhhhh! Beatrice put a finger to his lips and nodded towards the sleeping boys. “Such nonsense! I thought we agreed never to speak of that night!”
Antonio glanced at the boys quickly then continued. “There is something unlawful regarding his business, I am sure. No company spreads so fast. Like a disease it is taking Italy overnight. There is a way to stop it I know, and I must find it.”
“No Tony.” Beatrice said firmly, her voice rising this time above the soft tone she spoke in before. “No. Then we must move on. We cannot stay here much longer. You are becoming obsessed with this man and his antics. If there is any truth in your suspicions then we must go away. Let him live in peace and he will let you.”
“We will stay as we please.” Antonio shot back, interrupting one of his paces across the room to lean over Milo who screwed his eyed even tighter feeling his father’s proximity. Antonio knelt near the sleeping place of his sons and kissed Milo on the forehead. “You say you do not want me to play his game. Bea, moving would be playing right into his cold hands. Yes, am playing a game, but it is not his, it is mine.”
“Tony you are too ignorant. You are too proud.” Beatrice scolded him as if he were a child. “We cannot stay here. We cannot live here any longer. You know this as much as I. Do not let your pride blind you now, when you so dearly need your sight.”
“We will not move.”
“What about the children?” Her voice raised now, more in distress than anger. “And the baby?” she caressed her pregnant stomach.
“You think too little of me.” Antonio replied slowly shaking his head. He rose back to full height now, taking his eyes off the other object he had engaged them with prior to look directly into his wife’s eyes. “If you think I will stand here, blinded with pride, and let out family fall…then you think too little of me.”
To be continued in Ch. 2 next week...