LitKicks Presents ...

Week Three Selections The third week of The QUEST was probably the most challenging. We asked authors to write about what they stand for, or what they believe in. Here are a few answers. You'll find arguments, deflections, courtroom testimonies, acceptance speeches, fables, fairy tales and spiritual visitations. One author recounts a real-life conversation with William S. Burroughs, while another takes issue with the QUEST rule that asks members not to criticize each other's beliefs. In summary, we find nothing to criticize here, and much to celebrate. i believe by NinePages Group: Chickadee this is probably a mistake, a result of some stupid emotion...i shouldn't post this because i should give it some thought and try to come up with something more creative and slaphappy genius so i can try to advance to the next round. but then again, we're all in this together and i want you all to succeed just like i want me to succeed so i'm going with a little off-the-cuff here and just throwing this out there to see how it looks after litkicks slaps its html on it and if it bombs, it bombs, but it's me and it's the most immediate thing that happened at the end of my fingers and my thoughts after i read the week 3 assignment, so here's to ti jean and first thought best thought... i believe I believe in nothing. There is a park bench in Battery Park beneath an oak tree that you can sit on and see the Statue of Liberty, the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, and, between the buildings, the Brooklyn Bridge, all at the same time. I believe in luck that means nothing. I don’t believe in curses or ghosts. I believe that our mind can make up anything it wants to, and that makes anything real. I believe in the spectrum, but I don’t believe in chartreuse. I can hold my hands behind my head and they will go numb. There are at least three bad vertebrae in my spine which are the result of constant pulling by the lumbar muscles on the right side of my back. I grew up thinking starboard meant left and port meant right because I grew up going backwards in boats. I believe that green is the same for everyone, even though I have no proof of that. The last time I was in New York I paused and cried and left for the last time, perhaps. I believe in perhaps, because I need to. When I was a child, I had dreams and a vivid imagination. I don’t have many more dreams these days, and my imagination leads to nightmares. I believe that life is a process of improvement, even though I have a lot of proof otherwise. There is an artist who sits on the sidewalk south of the Central Park zoo who will draw your picture for five dollars. He’s never met you before but if you give him five dollars, he will cause you to question your own identity for days, and all your friends will pretend that your nose is just fine. And there are animals nearby, in cages. One of them, once, had to see a therapist. He was a polar bear (the animal, not the therapist). He went in circles all day, while Nomar Garciaparra makes millions and has a pretty girlfriend. People laugh at the polar bear. I believe that obsession is the key to longevity, and I would swim all day if only they’d let me. Everything in moderation. I believe that the moon rises and the sun sets and people change every time they wake up, even though, technically, I realize that none of those things are actually true. An artist can find beauty in a momentary glimpse of a young child watching a car drive by on a dingy interstate during rush hour in the Los Angeles smog, from behind a chain link fence next to a graveyard filled with high schoolers. Beauty. Every brilliant sunlight flower I ever see in Battery Park will forever be covered in ash. I haven’t made up my mind about religion yet, but I’m sure that everyone can live forever. I believe in prayer and ceremony and solemnity, even though sometimes it gets me down. I believe everything I read, for a minute. This is the cause of great variations in my mood. I believe in faith and despair. When a young woman watches an old man step in front of a bus on Broadway she is forever changed. Her name is Angela. She rides the subway home as if in a trance. She walks up the steps of her Park Slope brownstone and slips on the top stair and catches herself on the rail. She holds on for a moment and then lowers herself to the step and sits, and she begins to cry, small sobs like from a child. She’s crying right now, and I believe that you can hear her. I like things to be linear because I know that nothing is. I like to pretend that I can make sense of everything. I’ve spent my life trying to give everything a set of rules. I haven’t told anyone what all of these rules are, but I get very angry when they are broken. I’ve spent my life giving everything a set of rules, but I believe them to be natural and inherent to everyone. Despite this desire for order, I refuse to try to learn about order. I refuse chemistry. I don’t want to know how the body is constructed because I would rather believe that we are the chance manifestation of ephemeral souls rather than carbon-based playthings of a creative universe. When I look out the window of an airplane, I pretend that I don’t see the rivets or the hinges on the wing, because I’d rather believe that airplanes fly by magic than by mechanics that can fail. I hate you, but I would give my life for you. I love you, but I will berate you with anger in order to make myself feel better. I believe that all people are good. I believe that any combination of any two people can produce evil, and usually does. This isnt why I don’t believe in math, but I don’t believe in math. I still have dreams where I’m in high school and I’ve neglected to go to math class for the entire quarter. I’m about to graduate, but I have one more test to take, and it’s in math. I’ve never gone to class. I have notes from somewhere, and these will help me pass the test, but they’re in my locker and I can’t find my locker. I find my locker but the combination escapes me. The bell has rung. The hallways are emptying. I need to take this test. I need to get to class. There is a day in Manhattan, there is a temperature and an angle of the sun and a direction of the breeze, that will bring me to my knees. It’s only in Manhattan, but I know that if that day were to happen here, where I am now, it would bring me to my knees. But perhaps it won’t happen, that day, and I’ll keep standing. I have to believe in perhaps. I believe that nothing ever dies. I believe that buildings never fall and children never kill and mothers never fail and liars never win and bodies never bleed and nothing ever dies and nothing ever dies and nothing ever dies. I do believe in nothing. I do. I believe in seratonin by dgalant Group: Chickadee I hold these things to be self-evident. Prozac is the great equalizer. There is nothing bad about artificial sweeteners. Watching TV in the morning is like drinking beer in the morning. Baseball is good; football bad. Writers ought to make more than investment bankers. One sign that Canada is a better country is that they legalized pot. Terrorists suck. Fireworks, fireflies and bonfires are all very cool. SUV's are a sign of weakness. Beige is the color of cowardice. Blond highlights have been done to death. Summer is the best season, comedy the highest art form. A good down pillow is worth the money. The world would be better off if mirrors had never been invented. Fate may be random, but a sense of purpose is not. There is nothing better than staying up late, drinking wine, and talking to good friends. You should smell the dead leaves as well as the roses. Read novels. Take pictures. Enjoy weekends. Eat garlic, and never worry about the consequences. Miraculous Breath by Ben Gant Group: Daffodil With the day’s labors drawn to an end but not much accomplished; the ends that never seem to justify any means, Jim came home to his dismal little apartment. It was the end of the day and the start of its proceeding night, another long night of only Jim’s own thoughts to swim through his head. The televisions shattered remains left on the floor was the only thing that he had to remember the prior night. He sat alone in the shadows, cascading in from the window that held the pictures of fleeting light outside. Jim found everyday work life harder to accept in his convalescence than in the years prior to his illness. And when he was ill, work was never given any regard. Instead, his days of were spent coping with the grim reality of his own demise; unavoidable death loomed around the corners of his humble abode. Every day in the time of his sickness was spent saying goodbye to his life. Days and nights seemed so long and he was hesitant to go to sleep, not knowing if it would be the last time he would see the night. When he awoke in those mornings he was overjoyed just to see the sun. Now here he sat alone, on the verge of dusk, with only his own tragic hands to console him in the world of the living. How they all congregated to his side when eerie death emulated from his face and stared back at their pious eyes. In those days of looming death, friends and relatives vanquished him, to wish him well and ease his suffering; his body fatigued and withered. Then, through what the doctors called a miracle, he was once again able to stand on his own two feet and able to go about living as he’d done before. Now, back to his former self, Jim wondered why they no longer visited. He was left with the notion that he’d disappointed them and thought they viewed him as fraudulent. He thought to himself how they now hated him for deceiving them and making them bestow their emotions and compassion upon him, when after all he was not sick or he was not as sick as he’d suggested. Now they were exhausted with him and chose to stay away. “I don’t need them.” Jim thought to himself as he was now surrounded by only his own thoughts and emotions. He sat and drank his beer, against the recommendations of his doctors. Inside he felt an emptiness that could not be filled, a dying of the soul that was somehow harder to take than the physical death that had been so near; a dying that could not be described as it was felt by Jim; an emptiness that could not be filled by any purge of the senses or communicated to anyone in the same way that Jim felt it. Jim drank his beer, knowing full well, there was not a debauchery in the earthly world that could kill the spiritual dying he felt. Jim never believed in miracles before his recovery and now after, he believed in them no more than before his illness. Jim placed the cold beer to his torrid forehead, thinking to himself how much pain he had inside. Jim took another sip of the beer as he placed it to his lips, wishing that they could somehow convey the toiled thoughts that tormented him, all the feelings that manifested themselves upon one another and burdened his every conscious thought; making it difficult to perceive anything ardently beautiful in a world where everything was so painful. Jim put his beer down and held his hands close to his chest. Taking a deep breath, he felt the air rise up from his abdomen and fill his chest. Then he let go, reminding himself that he was not alone. The air he breathed was the same as all shared. He looked around the apartment and realized he was not confined to it but confined to the labor that produced its warmth. The faces of the ones that he loved so mush still lingered about in the empty residence. "Were they not of the same nature to work for their own place of warmth in a world so unyielding to our most primitive needs?" He asked himself. Jim was suddenly overwhelmed by the notion that they would one day grow old, if they weren’t already. The people that he loved would suffer their own illnesses and they too would, one day, come to their own demise. It was the simple art of breathing, each inhalation and exhalation, which kept them here among a world so impermanent and full of suffering; it was suffering that made Jim so vulnerable. The nature of change made suffering so inescapable, it bore all to an impalpable exile. Jim visualized the faces he’d known so well and tried hard to hold them in his memory as he saw them in that moment. Then he let out a sonorous cry. “We’re all dying,” He thought. “We are all born to die. Why do I have to go on living when all that is left is the cruel fate that awaits us all?” Jim threw himself to the floor and wept for his fellow man and for himself. Outside the celestial snow fell silent upon the ground, blanketing the ground in its cathartic sheets of purity; the stars candescent light reflected by it in the still darkness of the night. Spring was soon to come, just as sure as the morning would find Jim. Jim lay on the floor, as he listened to the hushed voices that came from afar yet there were no answers to his silent entreaties. In the isolation of his apartment, he found only himself and the ultimate realization that we are all of the nature to change, to grow old, and eventually die; to die not alone, in an existence tied by one common thread. As he brought himself to his feet, he stood defiantly of the death that he had contrived in his own mind. He looked at the bottle of beer he had left on the table. Looking at it, he saw the beer was half gone. Did that make it half empty or half full; or was the bottle just a bottle, never to be half full or half empty of anything. How could the bottle ever be completely empty? Would it not hold something, be it beer or the air in which we all breathe. With his own two tragic hands, Jim found the answer to his supplications came in the form of pen and paper as he began to scribe what he felt inside. There was no one there to listen but Jim believed that if he could formulate his words on paper so someday they might be heard. So he began to write: “What I write I hold to be true. My belief is that the air we all breathe is the most sacred miracle….” A Tribute by stevadore Group: Daffodil Last night I visited with my mother-in-law in the hospital, like I’ve done every night for the past two weeks. Only this time, as I was leaving and trying to avoid disturbing her, she called me back into the room. Perking up a bit, she wanted to say some things on her mind. Things that one avoids saying until they are on their deathbed. Things that one needs to get off their chest in order to clear their slate before they die, which is an indulgence that most of us don’t benefit from. (It’s kind of ironic how we come in to this world blank, and we want to go out the same way, isn’t it?) I wasn’t prepared for this yet. Among other things, she told me she loved me and how she always knew I was perfect for her youngest daughter. She saw it long before anyone else. The wisdom of a mother, right? As I stood looking at her waxen feet poking out from under the sheets, I couldn’t help but think how much she looked like her oldest daughter did a year and a half ago when she succumbed to cancer too. Even the nails on her toes—devoid of color and life—bore a similar, wretched resemblance. A death pall had come over her since the previous night. I could see it in her eyes, glazed from the morphine, yet still piercing into my soul. After I told her I loved her and promised to take great care of her daughter and grandkids, I left the room and broke down. I went home and wrote a few values I’ve learned from her and from this experience; beliefs that I’ve benefited from and come to believe for myself as well. At the risk of sounding sentimental, (but really, is that such a bad thing?), here they are: I believe in freedom of choice and free will, as long as such do not harm and encroach on the rights of others. I believe the impending death of a loved one helps us escape the modalities of life and get in touch with the universality that wordlessly binds us together, if only for a short while. I believe in a cadre of family, friends and professionals rallying in support of a human being facing the end of her known existence. I believe God allows suffering, but doesn’t cause it, and that there is a difference. I believe in faith, hope, and love. I believe in a pain-free world . . . someday. I believe in acting on what I believe in. I believe that a mother never stops being one. I believe my mother-in-law was like a second mother to me. And, I believe Neil Young said it better than I could when he wrote: “You are, such a woman to me And I love you Until the end of all time.” Try Again Yes Now Try by Ida Wright Group: Daffodil YES YES YES YES TRY YES AGAIN TO TRY NOW NOW NOW NOW WHY? TRY AGAIN? YES NOW? YES DO I HAVE TO? YES NOW. TRY TRY TRY TRY YES YES YES YES NOW NOW NOW NOW TRY. YES. NOW. TO AGAIN TRY. Helene teetered up on her tippy toes and almost but-not-quite could reach the bag of Almond Joys that her mother had hidden in the cupboard above the sink. She looked at the kitchen chair and wanted to pull it over so she could climb up onto it, but then her mother, who was sitting in the living room reading her Good Housekeeping magazine, would hear the legs scuffling along the tiled floor and then her mother would come in and say, "Helene, Get down!" like she was a dog or something. Helene only wanted one little candy bar. She didn't just want the taste of it in her mouth, she wanted to hold the wrapper in her hand. She loved the crinkly sound when she opened it up, the smell of the sweetness coming out of the wrapper like an invisible snake slithering its way to her nose, and she liked to trace her finger along the big bubbly letters that spelled out "Almond Joy" that seemed to be written all smiley across the whole wrapper. Helene sat down at the kitchen table and stared off at the cabinet. Once she had her mind on something, it was too late, she just had to have it. Her mother always said Helene was too young to be so bull-headed, but nine years old or not, that's how she was. So even though her brother was outside throwing snowballs at their neighbor's car (which Helene was way better at than him) and her sister was upstairs yakking away on the phone (which gave Helene the chance to do her favorite after-school activity -- eavesdrop), Helene was stuck at the kitchen table with her eyes on the chocolate-and-coconut prize. She sat there and sat there -- wanting the Almond Joy more than she'd ever wanted anything before, knowing it was just out of her reach, and definitely not wanting to risk the humiliation of her mother catching her, yet again, as she stole yet another hidden dessert. It's not like she was fat or anything. "It's the principle," her mother would always say, "You can't have everything just because you want it." And with that, her mother would push the Chips Ahoy/Snickers bars/Brownie Mix even further into the cabinet or find a new hiding place altogether. But Helene thought her mother was wrong. Why can't you have something just because you want it? Isn't that the best reason of all? Even if she was nine, she knew it was the best when she got something after wanting it so hard. She stood up and walked into the living room where her mother was reading her magazine. "Mom, I'm hungry and I really want an Almond Joy. And I can see them in the cupboard, but I can't reach them. Can you get one down for me please?" "Just pull a chair over and get it yourself." "Really?" Her mother nodded, without hardly moving her head. "That's it?" said Helene, "It's that easy?" Her mother, looked at her from over the top of her glasses, and nodded again. Helene went back into the kitchen where she pulled the chair over to the sink with out caring how loud she was, she got down three (shhh!) Almond Joy bars, sat at the table and while she slowly ate one, feeling the chocolate and coconut and almonds all swish around in her mouth, she admired the wrappers of the other 2 that awaited. She knew that if her mother had said no, she would have gotten the candybars anyway. But she also knew that they tasted better this way. Camaraderie on the Front Lawn by Devil's Haircut Group: Diamond The four men work in ordered lines, sweeping across the lawn from one side to another, according to the direction of the wind. (Zach always pray that it’ll blow over into the next lawn, a small relief for a man and his comrades). They move their rakes like plows in the grass, reaping fallen leaves and cursing the hot Sunday and the still blanket of air. It’s good, honest work; everyone that worked it knew that much, even if they didn’t see the meaning in it. Pushing the dead leaves around the yard, bagging it up and moving on... by the end of the day they smelled of rank earth, dirt and dust and sweat. Sometimes blood if your gloves wear thin. The worked in single-piece paper duds, flimsy blue things that they rolled up on hot days (such as this one) and threw away at the end of the day. Zach keeps his mouth shut more often than not, because talking slowed you down, even if it at least comforted you while you worked and meant that you’d get overtime at the end. More than wanting to be done with it quickly, he was for some reason a little afraid of the people around him, especially Boss. The others curse him out for not talking, because the others really did need the money. “Christ Zach, you don’t need to go so Goddamn fast,” Chris says, but Zach doesn’t even pause. “Don’t you get it? The slower we go the more money we get.” “Unless the Boss catches on,” Jeff says. “Don’t fucking bother, he’s hotboxing in the van,” Chris says. “I think he gets paid in dope.” Chris ripped off the sleeves of his shirt, only wearing the minimal of their disposable uniforms. He was fair-skinned, and sweat a lot under his long, shaggy black hair. Jeff has olive skin and an acne problem, with red hair like fire. “How did he get so damn big?” Zach wonders aloud, and is surprised when Jeff answers. “He’s been here longer than Eld. Sometimes you creep to the top, even when you don’t do shit.” “Eldred should be Boss,” Zach says, and somehow regrets it before it’s out of his mouth. He didn’t throw in with people he didn’t really know, and he didn’t really know any of the others, even with how long he’d worked the landscape. “Eldred’s smarter than him.” “Yeah, but Eld’s still Mex and they think he‘s lazy. I can’t believe how hard that old guy works, though,” Jeff says with a grin, but when he looks over and sees the old man his grin changes. Eldred wears his blue Sunday-issue in a professional manner, a crisp uniform the color of the sky (until it gets sweat-stained because Eld would never roll up his sleeves). Eldred sits hunched over on himself in the shade, on a five-minute smoke break. Eldred had brown skin and long white hair, hair that shone like silver even in the shade, lining his cloudy face. “He’s taking care of his grandkids.” “He teaches, he rakes, he bags groceries at the all-night, and he minds the Sabbath on his smoke-break,” Chris adds with his own evil grin. “Superman.” “Fuck you, he’s a good guy,” Zach says. Eldred deserved defense from Chris, not just because he was old and a feeb now. Eldred had a little bit of honor even in this world. “Nobody’s saying he’s not a good guy,” Chris suddenly says, acting like he’s been offended, but guys like Chris always act hurt when they take a bad joke two steps too far. “So what do you have against him?” Jeff asks with his same serious tone, like he’d grow up to be a lawyer. Public defender. “I have nothing against him! I feel sorry for him, Christ!” Chris says, suddenly without the same essence of conflict in his voice. “It’s just... survival of the fittest. He’s an old man, he should be in a home. When you can’t work, you die out. A species that can’t survive goes extinct.” “How in Hell does that work to humans?” Jeff suddenly asked, with a certain murder in his blue eyes that hurt Zach to look at directly. Chris took a second to think about, and Zach remembered what he’d thought about Chris; Chris was no nice guy, he was like a different, darker person. Chris didn’t have the same sense of camaraderie to Jeff and Eldred that Zach felt; when Chris was around and telling his jokes, Zach felt outcast in Chris’s presence; when Chris was quiet, Zach felt like Chris was outcast. If Chris hadn’t taken so long, Zach would have never realized the depth Chris had when he wasn’t telling his jokes. “I don’t know--Jesus Christ let me speak for a second!--good things just don’t come just because you expect them to.” “You don’t know what the Hell you’re talking about,” Zach says, stepping up to drive a wedge between Jess and Chris. “You don’t fool somebody and take their money. We’re meant by God to work and sweat for what we got. It’s like divine retribution, we have to work so hard for the little we get in our sin.” “Is that so?” Chris asked, and he and Jeff realized why Zach didn’t talk much. “That’s why I don’t slow down, damn it,” Zach said, and returned to work. Choice by lescaret Group: Diamond I. Dilemma At night’s end, surrounded by empty bags of potato chips, TV screen blathering nonsense, beer bottles upturned, the game ended, the favorite team defeated by banshees from a distant hated city, what remains of consciousness? In line at the ATM, the cash slit hot and spitting currency, the 40 hour plus work week receding into brain fog, Friday night a circuit of electric obscenity beckoning, the lust for release a bionic mosquito buzzing the mind ear, who has time for the muse? Patent leather pumps, hairstyle goo, gabardine suit coats, eye shade, nightshade, window shades, porcelain thrones, the babble of pick-up lines, elbows and paws to brass bar rails, the symmetry of awkwardness, what becomes of night? Television the backdrop of group think dreams, predictable dramas, reality show amusements, requisite products, focus group identities fashioned around canned laughter, what value a life programmed for consumption? Mid life crisis, menopause, gauze for wounds undeciphered, lackluster gloss gone slack and glass opaque, no surface for vision, no combustible spark, generations of capitalism marching sidewalks, coursing subway tunnels, raging on freeways, puddling globules of humanity fat on office chairs, which way to sanctuary? Churches, mosques, synagogues, pedagogues, theologians, demagogues, commandments, abandonments, excommunications, haloes, angels, televangelists, macrobiotic dreadlocked shamans, which advertisement resounds an acceptable truth? II. Struggle The struggle is to become who you are. The struggle is finding the tools to become who you are. The struggle is deciding to find the tools to become who you are. The struggle is accepting the thought that you are. The struggle is who you are. The struggle is. III. Resolution Closets of loss, plays unvoiced, short stories clotted in spiral binders, sheaves of poems in file cabinets, desk drawers, plastic storage bins languid for decades in musty cellars. Musical scores scrawled in newsprint tablets, the imagined strains of piano ivory, or saxaphone bawls and plaintive wails, or drum crash, guitar chords punk-rocked and amplified, gravel larynxes growling lyrical collages to sweating moshpit deities. Glops and heaped plops of modeling clay, slick, caressed by watery hands, swollen-knuckled but strength-hardened over decades plying lumps, back bent, molding visions for the fiery kiln. Paint can panoplies arrayed ad hoc on floorboards, splattered wooden tables, window sills, benches, drop cloths, tin can paint brush scabbards, varnish, thinner, walls tacked, hung, taped, splashed, collaged in imagination. Typewriter keyboard clackety-clack, computer blip, hard drive whir, hieroglyphic composition of shaped lines, alphabet ruminations depending on mind spleen and hunger, curiosity when most would slumber. No suit to don, no title to pursue, ladder rungs slippery with blood and lies forsaken for cluttered studios, for wine sticky café tables, bandstands, restless Whitmanic rambles down clamoring neon boulevards, over granite mountain brows, composition books scrawled thick with eye traipse, heart doodles and the feverish certainty that art births life, all other pursuits diminished. lilies by kairo Group: Diamond lilies exploded in vulva shapes-- pink, white and red petals of flesh (this was distraction) hovered a heaven screen too far to touch too close to comfort (all these eighteen years of rising action) i was only a girl. a girl. only. white is reserved for an aisle walk of love not a bed of questionable sterility in which your new life begins and a life you cannot claim ends quietly (a repose of remorse of so many before me) this is one experience only the urgent can understand. i was perfect and unblemished i was loved and in love i was hanging in a delicate balance (six weeks can drastically tip the scales) there was no choice i always dreaded the idea of pick and choose, so for me, there was no choice (foolishness can give wings to a prison bird) i lay there quiet as sunday church listening to the sermon of directions and directives, turning my eyes to the heaven screen of lillies so close above my foreign body even today i remember the moment of death (this is one experience) and the guilt of being loosened and relieved even today i remember the walk of new life (this is what i believe) as i left what was never mine in the first place somewhere behind me fading to white Ghazal by pottygok Group: Diamond In giving, we receive; please, do not fear my hymns. I will wash your feet with my tears; I will sing, for your ears, my hymns. The rich wear silk, and shiver in the cold of no heaven. The fellaheen wear wool. Let us shear my hymns. Look. A tree has gone red. Geese flock through the sky. My lawn awakes with dandilions. I rejoice, and cheer my hymns. I pour my soul from my body that I may receive the Lord. Let me be filled with Christ, and all heaven will hear my hymns. Look for the One. You may as well watch the wind blow. Still, in the blessings of Ar-Razzaaq appear my hymns. Those afraid of the Lord wear infinite veils of oak. Soak into this blindness, like a veneer, my hymns. The world is a shroud for the Holy Spirit—an ocean of dust. My voice is a black waved curragh. I row as He steers my hymns. Hear the Almighty in the waves of my breath, and the throb of my heart. Come spin to the rhythm of my pulse. Listen and dance near my hymns. The key to heaven is bought with righteousness. You will be lacking. I offer you mine, for not even Hellfire can sear my hymns. Oh, my love. Saqi brings carafes of you to the table. Intoxicate my life with song, for we’re my hymns. Parking for New and Expectant Mothers: An Open Letter by flood Group: Helium I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are and I wouldn’t recognize you again if I saw you, but I’m sorry. I had no business confronting you in the movie theatre like that. See, it’s kind of funny now - two years removed. Honest. Not funny “ha ha”; funny “damn, that was embarrassing” funny. I was coming in to see a Saturday afternoon matinee while my girlfriend put in some OT at the office when I saw two teenage girls park in the “Parking for New and Expectant Mothers” parking spot. They were obviously not expectant in their belly shirts and hip-huggers; nor did either of them have a newborn. Who the hell did they think they were? To me, it was the same as parking in a handicapped spot. Since they had parked closer, they made it in to the theatre before me. I followed them in, but lost them in the line. I stood in line to pay for my ticket and I was borderline livid. I know that seems like a disproportionate response, but as you were about to learn – I was just beginning. It was opening weekend for some summer blockbuster or another and the theatre was pretty packed. It was almost my turn to pay for a ticket, so I let it go. After all, there was no reason to take it out on the girl behind the counter. I paid for my ticket and figured I’d get a four-dollar pepsi and a two-dollar bag of swedish fish to calm me down. (I know it seems counter-intuitive to think that would calm me down, but at this point in my life sugar and caffeine have little to no effect on my central nervous system unless ingested in quantities that I can not afford at movie theatre prices). But if that didn’t calm me down, nothing would. Next thing I know, THERE THEY ARE. Talking to you, an innocent bystander. All I heard was that damn giggling and gum-cracking of theirs and something about the extra-large popcorn bucket you were holding. I realize now, in retrospect, that you were merely answering their question(s) about the concessions that were available. But all I saw was an adult who should be responsible for them for parking in that spot, if they were not going to accept responsibility. So I confronted you. Quickly. And aggressively. “Why don’t you worry less about their damn popcorn and more about what the hell they are doing.” I should have let your silence be my contextual key. Nope. I was on my high horse. AND DOWN THE STRETCH HE COMES! “Did they tell you they parked in the pregnant mother’s spot? You need to get those girls to accept responsibility for their actions or they will end up expectant mothers.” You should have torn me a new one. You should have told me to go to hell, to pack sand, to put it in my pipe and smoke it. But you didn’t. They weren’t even your girls and you let me yell at you. Like I said earlier, this is where it gets funny. Not funny “ha ha”; funny “damn, that was embarrassing” funny. I wanted you to get them to accept responsibility for their actions when I so clearly could not do the same. This is me hoping that responsibility doesn’t have a statute of limitations. This is me saying I’m sorry. Mahatma by elecfoto Group: Helium The gray door opened as the gray man in the gray suit asked in an ashen gray voice, “Did you make any?” “ Yes Bill we got lucky, we found a pharmacy in a small town near Verdun that let us have nine bottles. That’s all he had, so he’s burnt out now too.” “Nine is enough to get me straight, of course I have to boil out the camphor first." “I know Bill, we can smell that awful camphor burning throughout the whole hotel, isn’t there another way you can extract the opium out of the Paregoric? “ Well, I’m going to drink one of those 2 ounce bottles now, it’ll take the edge off. The problem is that aside from a powerful licorice taste and it’s mucus texture being so hard to hold down it makes you throw up, the camphor could eventually burn a hole in the lining of your stomach. “ You gag and puke Like with Peyote?” “Yeah, like Peyote, to get high you have to support the vomiting but you don’t mind.” “Bill, what’s this stuff used for other than to get high or get straight?” “Babies, they give them a drop or two to relieve colic and of course the ‘O’ calms the crying too, so everybody is happy. Then later when they're toddlers they give them a drop of wine to shut them up and then watered down wine with dinner when they're kids and then just wine, no water in their teens. The French are the biggest nation of winos in the world. You know if all the bottles of wine stored in the cellars of Paris were to break at the same time, we’d all drown.” “So, does it taste any better once the camphor burns off? “Look how the camphor rises to the top and turns to wax when I scoop it out. No, the taste is still like the most God-awful medicine you ever had. But I don’t mind, I’m feeling better already from those 2 ounces and I’ll get down the rest and then I’ll feel like you feel all the time.” “What about tomorrow when the shit wears off, Bill? All the pharmacies around here are burnt down, they know what you’re up to and even if you don’t need a prescription like in the States they don’t like drawing heat on themselves. I’m not leaving Paris again for a few weeks. You know I don’t mind scoring for you but I can’t around the hotel.” “Well, in a few hours when I’m straight and the chills are gone, Shel and I are going to track down Pepe and see if he can get us some smack. Shel scored some moolah from one of those old, rich dames on the list his Gigolo friend passed on to him in Denver. If we don’t score the 'Horse' or some paregoric, I’ll just have to suffer. Sooner or later I’ll kick it again. Jack knows a Doctor in London who’s got a new method that works with a drug substitute that you don’t hooked on. I’m looking into it.” At that point he took an air target pistol out from under a pillow on his brass bed and started shooting at a bull’s-eye target, the only decoration on the gray wall across the room. “I went up the Amazon doing drug research, looking for a drug that would give you the bliss of “H” without withdrawal pains. I believe there is something out there, in the Rainforest, that will save us from a junk-suffering world. The CIA knows where it is but they are keeping it hidden because they need to control their junky agents. It's an old story, Opium was used to control the population by the English in China. That could never happen with the drug I’m looking for. Someday, I’ll find it, maybe in Africa. I need somebody like Louie the 'Dip. He could smell a fix through concrete. We’d sit waiting in the 42nd street Automat dunking pound cake until Louie’s nose started twitching and then we’d know somebody’s holding when they walked through the door. He’d mooch a fix by threatening to tell the fuzz and if the guy was a square, he could scare the mark into fixing us all.” “So that’s your big search Bill? The perfect drug, Soma? I thought it was for the meaning of life. “The meaning of Life? Listen, kid, I’ll tell you a story: Mahatma goes up the mountain to find the meaning of life. He comes down after thirty years alone on the mountaintop. ‘Mahatma, Mahatma,’ the people cried as they surrounded him ‘Mahatma oh great,wise,sage what did you do on the mountain, what did you learn, tell us please tell us.’ 'The first ten years on the Mountain I meditated about life. The second ten years I meditated about death. The last ten years I just jerked off every day." And with that he hit the bull’s-eye. Synaesthesia by Hejira Group: Hollyhock I stand for art: Creation of matter from energy, Displays of frustration manifest in bodies moving; Music, the vibrations that will save the world, Manipulation of a populace on a 5x7 once white sheet of paper (striking visuals forcing people to see something differently); what the right seven letters next to each other can make a body feel: aspirin holiday love you leave me commune in peace harmony the Lord Satanic suicide bananas And for art that is food. How sun and wind and rain, how flour, baking powder, the sap from a tree, how these things can become a pie how the pie can be a memory of Grandma Angel or last November. I believe in sensory awareness and observation. Rubbing the furry leaves of A rose geranium, coming away with Candy-smelling fingers; Lying in a field or flatbed truck Letting the wind scour my cheeks To see one shooting star, to count The stationaries. In the listening To the pitch of that wind, the chords Of crickets echoing in doorways, The song of rain on budding branches, On thick, full leaves, on dry leaves about to fall, On naked limbs and hard cold earth. I wholly believe in rich dark blue flannel warm breeze-dried and fresh off the line. And oh! do I believe in taste! Pallet subtleties: The fullness and comfort of brown rice, The take-me have-me of chocolate sauce Licked off a finger, the hearth of fresh bread. I stand for these things intertwined: The dull thud on a windy September afternoon: the sweetest apple just fallen; the weighty smell of about to rain: garden water, mosquito puddles; the creak of a door and a sockfooted approach, the sag of a mattress under a lover coming in late, undressing: the promise of warm breath rippling the soft crop of hairs on the nape of a neck. I stand for empathy, for art from love, for art From a fervent, fiery desire, no - need - To reshape thinking. I stand against all that serves to snuff art's fire, Against, my body chained to a fence in protest, Pictures, music, words, tastes, bodies created for money. Against: Boxes and boxes of grocery store plastic, The line of cars puffing exhaust at the drive thru (the word "fodder" whispering in my head) Television's ability to numb without inspiring Unless to be thin, beautiful, to have A fast car, maybe then I'll be loved, happy; I stand for what's real, for being Un-numb, Un-happy If that's what I am, and for gathering this Nebulous pain and slashing it down like a red hot poker On the skin of this page: I won't stand it! Beauty and ugliness inseparable. I stand for art. I believe in pressing it all to a point, Colors and tastes and motion and scents swooning Symphonies and bells and independent radio and Shakespeare and Mary Oliver, all of it amalgamated To a fine white ray, a white dwarf condensed until its heat explodes it all and drenches the world and every shadow gleams like crystal and every right angle becomes an ammonite spiral. Vibrant Triality by arid zona Group: Hollyhock I. Real Justice: Life’s Gonna Change, combined but dissynchronous development, abandon money and state for bio-social rites (i reject power relations, educate) The city of this earth awakes to nightmare action: we stab our knives of hunger, rape and fears, conditioned world for thousands of our years - as oily wars deliver lives for profit’s satisfaction to make their path corrosion and distraction instead of love’s work and good labor’s dream. I hear You say ‘It’s not as easy as that seems’ – should I resign to blatant cruel dissection of all my hopes, those tortures night and day ?! When system’s minds showed me their wrecky face: the senseless psychos, bombs and lost love cries - should I not crave for every warm embrace and try to point out, children, hear me say: stand up for balance ! – that THIS here works is lies ! II. Wet Art and Science: what an assurance for human minds, some beautiful bridges as nature rests unmoved, humble care, and Beat humility (i train in accepting biochemical cycles, investigate) I join the stream of life – a rider on the storm, thrown into longing being with a conscious mind: the cosmos grins and nature’s care is blind – take context’s beauty or You feel forlorn. Rejoice in spermy sweat, ‘cause all in slime You’re born: the symmetry installed, we all seem of one kind - and as with life our temporality is rhymed, sensoric patterns paint Your body’s form: so reach out, scream out with specific flame, devour time’s secret with a love unknown, send message out, You ranger on the shore: to fellow drifters, so they’re not alone. Your mammal offspring joining in the game: life’s art meets science and builds nature’s lore. III. Motions United: Religions, Models, Fates feed the philosophic consciousness with truth, to become a calm light, make them endure, to see the void (i tend to where logics and meditation meet in one reason, and there's no 'more', nor 'deeper', 'higher') A leaf that’s falling with a tender breeze, a moon-lit wave caressing ancient shores of long-gone races and seductive whores: time’s pointed vector is a bitter tease for us made clever, but made not to cease, just search for meaning’s rare and noble ore, since evolution’s sin-seamed veil it tore apart and now with blood-filled raging ease we crave for sense and well-earned holy bliss and mix the genres: argue ordered social greed with esoteric and fanatic (saddened) fear. While Karmic zeros level out my need so mazed and dazed I see their quanta kiss and opposites unite when end is near. A Liquid Resovolution at the End: The dance of particle waves, the light, electric twitching of the earthworm, taking it easy When realness sings beauty and beauty rings true I swarm with Your dreams and follow Your rap Dimensions they gathered with time from the blue Field particle flavors – which wave to pursue to select Your nice being from probability’s gap when realness sings beauty and beauty rings true ? With children in school and Your love sighing too We go for the sun, never needing no map - Dimensions they gathered with time from the blue. Solidarity’s banners show the hominids’ hue dyed by orgasmic youngsters escaped from the trap, when realness sings beauty and beauty rings true. Fascination swings freely, evolution’s the glue there for physical matter whenever the apt dimensions they gather with time from the blue Once in a lifetime, I’m singing to You: united in time’s dealing, an illusion’s sap when realness sang beauty and beauty rang true, dimensions they gathered with time from the blue. "This world would not exist if it hadn't the power to liberate itself" (J. Kerouac's beautiful intrinsic message, recursive to all 3 levels, self-resolved) The Family's Silence by hopoch Group: Hollyhock (The setting for this conversation between two brothers, Pete and Jim, is a family holiday at the their Mother’s home.) JIM: There is a dead elephant in the living room. PETE: What! What are you talking about? JIM: There is a dead elephant in the living room and it has been there for a while. PETE: Ok… what’s the punch line? PETE: (pausing) Why are you looking so serious? JIM: We need to talk about it. PETE: About what!! JIM: About the elephant. We have been walking around it for our whole lives and it is really starting to stink. PETE: Ohhh…. I get it, the elephant is a metaphor, why not just say what is on your mind. You’re not high on anything are ya? JIM: No I stopped that years ago, I think the elephant had something to do with my abuse issues. Ya know trying to numb myself about it being there in the living room, trying to forget about our family’s silence and inability to communicate except with our minds. We avoid the tough stuff, don’t allow for emotions between us. Sadness we have stuffed, tears we fear, anger’s way too uncomfortable, and joy a fleeting wanna be. We as a family are dead from the neck down. All of us, Mom, our sisters, and us too Bro. PETE: And the elephant? Where is it in all this? JIM: He is where we keep our silence. I think he first appeared when Dad died. PETE: Dad died over 40 years ago why do you bring him up, he’s dead, and you never even knew him. JIM: This is what I am speaking about; we naturally don’t want to talk about him. We never have. Ya, I was only an infant but I believe we started walking around the elephant, or crawling in my case, back then. We learned about it from Mom, all seven of us. It is how she grieved, she chose to stuff the pain and never look back, we all have learned how to stop feeling, how to stuff emotions. PETE: Hey, this is Christmas lighten up, Mom did her best and she did a damn good job. JIM: Agreed, a phenomenal job. You see, the raising of her brood, of our clan, all by herself had a cost. She made choices on how to make it through and one of those choices was silence. We learned to avoid sensitive subjects, to divert unpleasantness, our conversations have none of our hearts only our heads. And this living upstairs has affected my ability to truly be with others. It is alive in my work, in my relationships, and it started and still lives here in our family. PETE: So wadda ya want to do about it, where are you going with this. JIM: I Love you Pete. PETE: What has that got to do with anything? JIM: (softer) I Love you Pete. PETE: Ya I know, ahhh…thanks…. I feel the same. You know that don’t ya? JIM: Our love is not in question, but our ability to express it is. (Silence) JIM: Does this make you uncomfortable? PETE: (meekly) A little…. I just don’t… I don’t know what to say… JIM: It’s the elephant; he gobbles up our heart’s speaking. He needs to be buried. We have muscles we have never used and as long as we dance around him, around his quiet, around the family’s mutually unsaid status quo of emotional silence, we will never know how to use these muscles. PETE: What is it you want? How about getting a drink? JIM: I want to have you really know me and I wish also to really feel you, a drink ain’t gonna help, never has, just another diversion between us, ya know. PETE: Sooo….Umm…I ….I am little lost here, I understand what you are saying but just don’t know where to go… JIM: I think this is it, we don’t have to go nor do we need to know, let’s just start by being with the discomfort and live in the feelings a bit. It’s new for us, for you and I. PETE: Ya and kinda frightening, know wadda mean. JIM: Lets talk about Dad, tell me about him. What do you remember? PETE: Oh boy! You really aren’t gonna quit, this is getting heavy … JIM: So is the elephant. having had to construct something upon which to rejoice by in_extremis Group: Hollyhock i can scarcely recall a time when life didn't include long periods of langouring alone, lost; listless afternoons needlessly prolonged. i have always known that i did not love it, that it could not be all, or enough. and i have known the crushed feelings of defeat, of reeling under this seeming endlessness, this unbroken monotony, this void teeming with gestures, voices, a veneer of meaning and, somewhere, vestigial dreams of blonde, auburn, acorn brown and, sometimes, the red of flames, crimson, or blood. there have been mornings, clammy with the chill of frost or the oppressive sweat of summer's early heat, where tangled and thrashing in the heartless embrace of a restless single bed i had touched upon the thought that nothing is indeed sacred; but though i had not willed it, and though i do not still, i have woken into this. it was seasons ago, not far from where i'm writing this, that i gave her a lilac to put in her hair and she smiled at me, and i can still see the salaciousness playing across her lips, as if she were savouring a moment that could never be reproduced. it was an innocence that led us wide-eyed into that ebullient evening, there was brilliance to our both being there bandying ideas back and forth like so many frothy waves flirting with that first shore that we enjoyed together. there was an illusion of time stopping, and at some point we marvelled at a bleeding skyline; we let our leaking bruised hearts color the horizon where a seagull glided gracefully above the waves, solitary until out of the expanse of sky and salt breezes another joined it and they danced through the last moments of that early spring day when darkness settled and they disappeared; together or alone, i do not know. these are the things that have sustained me, though i can't speak to their efficacy; there isn't time enough to count the hours or even days spent in the careful service of collecting angelic faces and curves and imaginings of quiet, quilted moments; feathered wings and pillowed mornings and eternity experienced in the purity of moments shared. i have lived for her, for the countless passions of touch and glances; i have given everything to this. but i haven't seen her in months and those that came before are poorly lit wax figures in the museum of my memory, false glories fading with the passing of lives, ghosts of loss and regret. so i live in the space created by this longing, between the notes of a lilting sonata echoed through abandoned hallways, in the service of love and the things that will survive us. A True Story by sidhedevil Group: Lithium This is a true story. A long time ago, I was in graduate school at an enormous state university (huge mistake, as it turned out, but that’s another story). I was sharing an office with a fellow graduate student named Ray, who was teaching two sections of the required freshman writing course. As the end of the term approached, the kids from Ray’s classes came in, one by one, to discuss the topics they had chosen for their final “opinion paper”. Ray was (and I’m sure, still is) a sweetheart of a guy, but listening to fifty college freshmen describing research paper topics is enough to try the patience of a deity, let alone a saint. In between the onslaughts, he would come and sit on the edge of my desk and try to drown his sorrows in the horrible coffee from the vending machines down the hall. One evening around 6, Ray’s seemingly boundless patience reached an end. The meeting began promisingly enough—the student arrived on time, and actually had a paper topic in mind. “I’d like to write my term paper about, you know, inheritance. I mean, inherited personality characteristics and stuff like that,” she said. Ray made an encouraging noise. At that time (the late 1980s), the genetic links to various human and animal behaviors were a relatively new and exceedingly hot topic. “Would you be researching some of the recent studies by geneticists?” Blank look from the student. “Or perhaps you would be looking into some studies of animal behaviors?” Continued blankness. “Well, what exactly did you have in mind, then?” “I wanted to write about how people inherit their personality characteristics. You know, like, my mother is Norwegian and I like the forest, but my father is Irish and I also like the ocean.” Ray stared at the young woman, blinking slowly. I buried my head even deeper in my volume of Keats. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m not following you,” Ray said after a moment. “Well, you know. People inherit their personality characteristics. Like my boyfriend’s mother; she’s Italian and loves to cook and all.” “And this is because of ‘inheritance’, you believe?” Ray was keeping his cool, with some effort. “Yes, of course. And, you know, like black people, or American Indians—why they are how they are, and all.” “I see. And how **are** they?” “Oh, you know. Closer to the earth, and so on.” “Listen,” said Ray, his carefully-preserved cool now completely melted. “That has to be one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. Under no circumstances should you write a term paper on this topic, because I will certainly give you an F.” “But why?” the girl asked, with a piercing emphasis that testified to Olympic-level whining abilities. “Because your idea is idiotic and racist, and had been thoroughly discredited by the end of the 19th century.” “But it’s my opinion,” said the girl. “You said we should write these papers about an opinion, and this is my opinion.” She sat back in her plywood chair with a wide smile. “It is your opinion,” Ray said, clearing his throat, “but I strongly encourage you not to write about it.” “I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” she said. “It’s my opinion, and I have a right to my opinion.” Something about the complacent plonk of that last sentence broke down the shreds of restraint to which Ray was still clinging. “Of course you have a right to your opinion. But it’s a stupid opinion, and if you try to write a research paper supporting it, you will receive a grade of F, because there is no way you will ever be able to find any credible evidence to back you up. Yes, you have the right to have any opinion you want—you have the right to believe that Earth was colonized by giant green beings from the planet Triton, but God help you if you try to write a research paper about it!” Some atavistic instinct for self-preservation told the girl that she had gone too far, and she gathered up her notes and her backpack and left the room. As she backed out the door, she muttered, “Well, you didn’t have to be rude about it.” Ray looked at me for a second, then went to the door, opened it, and shouted down the hall, “Yes! I did!” It was one of my favorite moments in graduate school. I was reminded of it by the instructions for this challenge, in which we were carefully admonished to be sure to “respect everyone’s opinion” when critiquing the work of our fellow group members. To be absolutely frank, I think that’s abject, craven bullshit. I refuse to respect everyone’s opinions, because there are many opinions which are ignorant, prejudiced, and downright dangerous. Fortunately for me, the opinions of my fellow group members turn out to be interesting and admirable, so the point is moot as far as this particular challenge goes. My larger concern, though, still remains. Like my friend Ray, I am never going to “respect” anyone’s racist opinion. I may understand why a given person holds a racist opinion, and respect him or her (on the whole, at least) despite that opinion, but the opinion itself is despicable. And I have to say that I bridled more than a little at being cautioned to play nice with the other writers. I don’t know about anyone else here, but I, for one, didn’t learn “everything I needed to know” in kindergarten. When I see, or hear, an opinion that is unjust, prejudiced, or self-serving, I am going to speak out about it. That is one of the reasons I have worked at writing for the past three decades—to speak out about the things I think are important. Sometimes I think that what we do as writers is only a more complicated version of what was done by the women and men who first daubed designs on the walls of their caves at Lascaux, or plowed patterns miles long on the plains of Nazca, or notched sticks along the trails of the great Huron wilderness. We make signs to tell other people things they need to know. And if what they need to know is “Danger!” or “Poison!”, then surely we are doing them a disservice to cover the sign with hearts and flowers instead. I think that if we try to smooth over real, important disagreements with the veneer of politeness that often passes for respect (real respect, in my mind, goes much deeper than that), then we are betraying something powerful, the one gift that makes us different from all the other animals—the gift of language. And if I didn't care about that-and I mean, care **passionately** about it-then why would I be here at all? A Balancing Act is No Act by Billectric Group: Lithium A Balancing Act is No Act (Edited again) “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” - The Bible The women sat in 1960’s turquoise and white striped nylon lawn chairs on lush green grass, smoking their Salem menthols and Virginia Slims. They met in our yard near the bus stop where I and the other kids poured out of the yellow submarine, laughing or crying. A lot of the kids ended up in my yard with where the mothers drank iced tea and gossiped in their sunglasses, chewing spearmint gum, this one a bleached platinum, this one a long-haired Cher brunette, and my Mom had that starlet look with short black hair and the hip countenance of Jackie Kennedy. I was eight years old with a red plastic bucket perched on top of my onion head . It was supposed to be a fireman’s hat. As I gyrated toward other kids playing, I held the pretend hose, one open end of a broken hoola-hoop, flailing the invisible water all over them. I heard Hank’s mom say to my Mom, “Billy seems to be well-adjusted…” To which I knew, even at the age of eight, and as I suppose my Mom knew as well, that was far from true. I've spent most of my life trying to get adjusted to one thing or another. When I use quotes from the Bible I like to point out that Hunter S. Thompson and Bob Dylan quote it, too, so people won't think I'm preaching. A lot of people are intrigued by the predictions of Nostradamus or enlightened by the story of Buddha, but when you mention Jesus or it pisses them off. So, the Bible says old men will dream dreams and young men will see visions. I like to say, “I’m right in the middle, being bombarded from both sides.” Picture this. I am standing up straight and my arms are stretched up and out making a “V” from my chest upward. All the space in that triangle, in my arms, are my dreams. If put my arms down, but not touching my sides, I form an upside-down “V” and everything in that space is a vision of what has or will actually happen in reality. It looks like an hourglass. I like diagrams. There is a splitting off of physical and spiritual which many have tried to explain. Have you ever had that glimpse? Where you sort of see something, but if you were trying too hard, it vanished? Now they have found “little beach balls” - particles smaller than atoms – which get so small that they change just by you looking at them, so you never get to see what they are really like when you’re not looking. A photon pellet travels from your eye a knocks the little quarkazoid bean sideways, so it scowls at you with a swollen foot or something. So you never get to see how it looks when you are not looking. So the human body has got to be a miracle no matter how you look at it. So I feel pretty good about inhabiting this thing. Now, if you take the image of me standing with my arms stretch up and out into the air, and if I spread my legs like so, then I look like an “X”, right? At the very point where those two x-lines cross, is a diamond holy empty blissful spot. This is where those little beach balls jump back and forth. The nexus, baby. These particles have to fill in the blanks, see, so when a negative space appears, a positive ball jumps into that space. But that leaves an empty space, so another microscopic ball jumps in there…and they all keep doing this non-stop… Unless a few balls trickle further in, to one side or the other. Dreams becoming realities; realities becoming dreams. Visions becoming feelings and feelings becoming visions. Here is a true story that freaks me out sometimes. I have heard other people have experienced this, too. I dreamed I was at work and this girl I work with started talking loudly to me. I said something crazy like, “Hey, maple syrup” and she got really angry and started cursing me for not getting my work done, and I just shrugged so she picked up a hand-full of paper and threw it at me. It hit me in the face. I woke up and my cat had knocked some papers down onto my face. But if the papers hit my face at the end of the dream, how did my brain know to build up to that action with the girl yelling?! Since I was eight years old I’ve known that I needed a balance between the two worlds, choosing the more surreal vividness of make believe to complement my drab days; and when I was, in fact, living a dream on the sea or on a stage, I longed for the mundane again. So can I find that diamond at the point where the x-lines cross? Oh, I'll find it. Yeah. Belief Warehouse (Lüuka goes Shopping) by beatvibe Group: Lithium "It's all about choices," declared the merchant. "You're a person of intellect, right? Well, I mean intellect balanced with... I don't know. Whatever it is that makes us human. You follow your heart, your mind... Either way, you end up making choices. About what to believe, I mean. And when you're ready to buy, you end up here, at Belief Warehouse." "I'm just browsing," said Lüuka. "Comparing alternative structures, looking for ideas. I haven't quite made up my mind yet." "Oh, you think not?" scoffed the grizzled old man, shaking his head. "Well, that's a belief as well. A false one. Give it a little consideration, a little introspection... You'll see. Hmmm..." he squinted at her. "I could be wrong, but uh... I peg you as a liberal. Capitalist, of course..." Lüuka took a deep breath. "Well," she responded cautiously, "I don't know that we should... I mean, I'm not quite comfortable with..." "Yeah, I know," acknowledged the man. "People can be very protective of their beliefs. That's why we package everything here in metal cans. Some places will sell you beliefs wrapped in tissue or plastic -- or even loose off the shelf. But not at Belief Warehouse. Here, everything is hermetically sealed in titanium alloy canisters. Some people think beliefs last longer that way -- less susceptible to contamination. That's important, you understand. I mean, when you've got every conceivable principle under one roof, you've got to keep things in their place. Or at least allow for that perception." "This showroom is enormous," exclaimed Lüuka, scanning the cavernous expanse of inventory. "When I walked in... I mean, from the outside, I didn't realize what I was getting into." "Well, it's different for every person," explained the merchant, leading her deeper into the crisscrossing labyrinth (confused, like tangled neurons). "Some people come here because they're comfortable with abstractions, and they just want to examine the options. Others are more literal and really think they can purchase this stuff. But, uh... Either way, I think you'll find we're quite well organized. I mean, once you allow for the vague nature of our product. Basically, it's all categorized by aisle." "What about all those baseless notions that seem so popular?" Lüuka asked. "You know... Fake moon missions, the flat Earth, conspiracy doctrines...?" "Oh, that..." sighed the man. "Well, you see, those aren't really beliefs -- I mean, in the true sense of 'conviction.' They're just speculative ideas. Quite tangible, for the most part." "Yeah, I suppose... A different niche." "Even so, we stock a few of the more popular ones as novelty items. Impulse buys on display by the register. But none of that stuff is profitable, because it's worth so little to begin with." "Do you offer layaway plans?" Lüuka inquired. "Of course not," snorted the merchant. "I mean, once you've made up your mind on a belief, you can't very well leave it behind. It's yours. I mean, how you reconcile it is your business." "Yeah, I suppose that makes sense. But I'm concerned about cost." "Well, most beliefs are just trinkets," conceded the man. "We just give them away in bulk. But, you're right... Certain beliefs can be very expensive. They'll cost you your livelihood, your love, your life, your limb... Perhaps even your soul. I mean, if you believe in that sort of thing. And if not... Well, we can fix you up." He stopped before an expanse of well-repaired shelving. "Here," announced the man. "This is the Politics aisle. You'll notice we stock liberal beliefs on the left side of the aisle, and conservative on the right." "Well, assuming you browse in this direction," Lüuka countered. "The moment you turn around and come back, everything's reversed." "Uh... Actually not," corrected the man. "That's the strange thing about Politics. It's more of a circle than a spectrum, and it's all relative. You can try to turn things around -- God knows, it's been done -- but ultimately..." Lüuka reached tentatively... "Careful," warned the man. "Be wary of beliefs stocked on the right. They spend obscene money on packaging and marketing, and are notorious for mislabeling. But if you scrutinize the ingredients, you'll see that all you're buying into is callous, self-serving greed." "Not to mention self-righteousness," Lüuka added. "And intolerance." "Ah... You've shopped this aisle before," realized the vendor. "Well, their self-righteousness isn't a belief per se. It's probably a defensive reaction invoked by a sense of shame. I mean, assuming they have any left. The intolerance is characteristic of their general fear and hatred. But, uh... That's just my own, uh... Observation. Anyway, I guess they've got to sell their beliefs somehow, and continual repackaging has proven curiously effective." The man squinted at an elaborate display of canisters stacked in the center of the aisle. "Now, here's a prime example," he snorted. "I don't know how these ended up getting stocked with the Midway Moderate lines. People come in here trying to be evasive, and they walk out with Compassionate Conservatism. It's disgraceful." "Well, I think that's why I'm here," said Lüuka. "Looking for something less convoluted." "Not quite sure how you mean that," said the man, scratching his chin. "I mean, if you're a connoisseur or collector, you can still find Marxism, Federalism, Mösknvorrism, et cetera, stocked down at the end. But if you're just an idealist, that stuff's a bit radical. I mean, you want your beliefs to fit the general framework, don't you?" "I hesitate to ask," she ventured. "But, uh..." "Aisle six," answered the man. "It's funny... Strange, I mean. Everyone seems hesitant to bring up Religion. But that's our most popular item -- in a broad sense, I mean. Fundamental." "Oh, yes..." cooed Lüuka. "May I look? I mean, I'm just curious, you understand." The old man shuffled to the sixth aisle and gestured with an open hand. "It's all here," he declared. "Kind of hard to keep these beliefs sorted in neat categories, so you might have to scrounge a bit to find exactly what you're after." Lüuka squinted at the extensive line of product, stacked neatly on gilded shelves extending farther than the eye... "There's so much of it," she observed. "It's overwhelming." "Humph," barked the man. "Look at it from my point of view, as a humble shopkeeper, I mean. This aisle is infinitely long, filled beyond capacity, with new product arriving daily. East, West, old, new..." "I don't know where to start." "Well, follow me," offered the man as he set off down the corridor. "You know, when I help people find things in this aisle, I used to say, 'I am the way.' As a joke, you understand. But, uh... That sometimes doesn't go over so well." The man stopped before a colorful expanse of product. "You might start by choosing a God," he suggested. "Of course, the basic Old Testament versions are among the most popular, but I think you'll find we're well stocked in all the variations. I mean, you could even go with a lowercase 'g,' if you prefer." "I... I have trouble telling the difference. Could you possibly recommend one?" With little forethought, the merchant snatched a can from the shelf. "A white-bearded old man," he offered. "Very popular item. Produced by a major manufacturer and endorsed by numerous factions. General-purpose. Over eighty percent ecumenical..." "Oh," said Lüuka, squinting at the can's ingredient label. "But is this a benevolent God?" "Uh, no..." admitted the shopkeeper. "Actually, that one is rather vindictive. Most people seem to identify with that -- conservatives especially. If you actually want a 'loving' God... Well, you limit your choices substantially, but there's still an impressive realm, depending on the qualifications you choose to impose." Lüuka returned the bearded old man to His spot on the shelf. "No," she decided, "none of these seem right. It's hard to explain, but I think there's something wrong with the packaging." "Yeah, well... Easy to sell that way," rationalized the vendor. "It's a business, you know." "But don't you have...? You know... The true God?" The merchant eyed her skeptically. "You don't see Him here?" he challenged, spreading his arms. "We stock infinitely many choices, and you've only glanced at a couple. If I didn't know better, I'd say you weren't ready to buy. Heck, you can even customize. Buy a generic version and equip Her with whatever suits you. That's very popular these days, and not just among the fringe cults. Belief accessories are myriad in this department." "No," Lüuka insisted. "I know what I want, and it's not here. Not on these shelves." The man knit his brow. "Okay, follow me," he relented. "Behind the counter. No place for what you're seeking out on the floor." He shuffled back and retrieved the coveted item, placing a non-descript tin on the counter. "It's small," Lüuka realized. "I mean, I expected it to be bigger. You know... All encompassing." "Packaging," reminded the man. "But there's no label. How do I know what the ingredients are? Or what religion exactly...?" The old man shrugged. "Either you know, or you don't," he proclaimed. "That's faith. And if you don't have that... Well, then you may as well just buy something off the shelf." Lüuka nodded. "You're right," she admitted. "This is it." "Are you certain?" "Absolutely," Lüuka insisted. "I need this. And, uh... Price is no object." The belief merchant took the can back and returned it to its spot under the counter. "Well, then you already have it," he proclaimed. "There's nothing I can sell you." Do you really want to know what I believe? by trms Group: Lithium Do you really want to know what I believe? I could wrap myself up for you with tidy labels. I could sort and categorize my guiding principles; religion, politics, socio-economic theories, sexual orientation, educational philosophy… If I told you, for instance, that I was a feminist, that I believed in equality unequivocally, would you begin to form a picture? Now what if I told you that I’ve spent the last seven years calling myself a stay-at-home mother? I could tell you how I spent six and a half years of the last decade with a child in my belly or at the breast. I could tell you about three natural birthing experiences; no drugs, no hospital stays, and, in two of three cases, not even a doctor present. We could talk about the family bed. We could talk about unschooling. Do you understand me now? Do you know who I am? What if I told you that I was raised in the Lutheran church? Nearly everyone has a picture for Lutherans, right? But what would you think when you learned that I don’t go to church, haven’t baptized my children, and don’t pray to an almighty God somewhere up there in the heavens above us? We could talk about the life force that I believe exists in each of us. I could tell you what I believe about the nature of good and the nature of evil. Surely you understand me now. What if I told you that, when I vote strict party lines, I vote Libertarian? And what if I then said that politics were hopeless, but voting remains a crucial act of participation? I could admit that I only support local charities, and that, even then, I tend to be stingy. We could talk about my view that there is no point in saving the rainforest if you aren’t willing to clean up your own back yard. Is your picture of who I am clear yet? I could tell you that I don’t much care what kind of car I drive, but that it’s important that I have a nice computer. I don’t wear makeup, but I shave my legs and armpits. My children do not go to school, but my husband does. I could tell you about my degree in psychology, and then discuss with you the hundreds of reasons why I believe psychology is bullshit. There you go. That’s pretty black and white, isn’t it? I could tell you that I’ve spent my entire adult life in a monogamous relationship with a man I consider a soul mate. I could also tell you that I don’t really believe in soul mates, that where there is one right person, there are probably many. We could talk about the choices I’ve made. We could also talk about my bell-curve theory of sexual preference. Would that make you understand me? Or would that simply make you want to run away? Do you really want to know what I believe? If there is one common theme that drives my day-to-day interactions, it is this: It’s not enough to simply know what labels a person carries. Knowing a person takes an open mind. Understanding where someone is coming from takes time. I believe we should open our minds. I believe we should take the time. I believe that there is someone worth knowing beneath every brand of label. 3am Where St. Charles Avenue And The Ponchartrain Expressway Meet by KateMonkey Group: Alligator Light the red candle. Light the red candle, and light the white candle. Light the red candle, light the white candle, and light the candle with the picture of Saint Lazarus pasted on. Light the candles. Stand at the crossroads with your 50-cent safety lighter, covering the candles from the faint breeze that rises up under the overpass. Stand at the crossroads in the center of the city, with cars speeding over your head even at this late hour, the hour of hopelessness and magic, and light the red candle, the white candle, and the candle with St. Lazarus on it. The old man with the crutch and the dogs and the gateway between one and the other, between the living and the dead, between all the worlds, stares up at you from the flickering candle, and you look at him as you reach for the piece of red chalk you have in your bag. Red 'x's on each concrete column, and you pause each time a car goes by, whispering his name over and over in an attempt to protect you from tourists, from police, from people. Legba Legba Legba Legba Legba Legba Legba Legba Legba Legba You used to believe. Once upon a time. You would sing and dance and hold the chickens in his name. You would drink the rum and beat the drums and everyone around you would sing sing sing to him and to you. Legba nan baye-a Legba nan baye-a Legba nan baye-a You've forgotten the words and their meanings now, you've forgotten what it takes, so you make it up as you go along, with the red chalk 'x's on the overpass columns and the red candle and the white candle and the candle with Saint Lazarus pasted on. You begin to chant, but you've forgotten all the Creole you used to know, so you chant in English. It's okay, it's all right, he understands all languages because he's between worlds and between words and "open the door, Legba, open the door, please, Legba Legba Legba, open the door, come to me, save me save me save me. Answer my questions and rescue me from myself, sweet darling Legba who I love and adore and await, oh Legba Legba Legba Legba, my Legba, come to me, be here now, open the door, open the door, open the door." You keep repeating those words, you're babbling in his name, and you reach into your bag again and pull out the mix of cornmeal and brick dust -- at least you remembered how to make that. You pour it in the shape of the vévé. You don't remember the exact design anymore, so you improvise, again, but there's always that one thing you can't help but remember. A cross. The crossroads. One line and another line intersecting and it's right there, where one meets the other, that he is and you babble-chant and draw it out and the candles are lit and the red 'x's on the columns get caught in the headlights of passing cars. Rum. You've forgotten the rum. The rum you picked up at the nearest Walgreen's, not even paying attention to what kind of rum it was, as long as it was cheap. You take a swig of the rum, wincing at the rawness, and pour the rum onto the ground before you spit out your swig over the candles (which flicker briefly at the taste of alcohol) and the vévé and the red 'x's on the concrete overpass columns. You're at the crossroads and you're calling his name and you hear the streetcar trundle past, drunk college students goggling at you as you stand on the corner, dressed entirely in white, with candles and rum and little red 'x's around you. You close your eyes and take another swig of the rum, because you're still not sure you believe in him anymore, but you have to, you have to, because he has to come, he has to, you've lost nearly everything, you took all your money to come here, and if he doesn't come, you've given up, "Oh Legba Legba Legba, I stand at the crossroads, I stand before you, I give you gifts and respect and love, open the door, open the door, come hear my pleas, come hear me, Legba Legba Legba Legba Legba Legba..." Your voice gives out. You're crying, big thick tears like a sudden middle of the day New Orleans rainstorm, and you're convinced he's not coming, you're convinced nothing is happening, you used to believe but now you don't, and he isn't gonna come for that, he isn't at the door, he isn't at the crossroads, and you might as well go back to the trashy hotel on St. Charles Avenue, you might as well get on that bus and go back home, you might as well just give up, because you've stopped believing in the loa. You hear shuffling footsteps behind you, and you turn around quickly. An old man stands there, skin golden brown in the streetlights, walking slowly with a cane, walking slowly with a limp, walking slowly and the scent of rum is strong on him and he's just another drunk on his way to the cheapest bar in town, another damn rummy in a town full of rummys, because you've stopped believing in the loa, you've stopped believing in everything. He stops in front of you and stares at you with rheumy eyes, large and yellow in the lights. He looks down at the bottle of rum still in your hand, looks at the tears still streaking your cheeks, looks at the vévé and the chalk and the red, white, and Saint Lazarus candles. You're deeply irritated at this drunk for daring to interrupt, for daring to be here when you're waiting for someone you don't think exists anymore. He leans forward. He whispers. "I'm still here, darlin'. And everythin's gonna be al'right." He takes the bottle of rum from your suddenly slack hands. He shuffles past you. You believe. The Other Side of Midnight by DanielStephen Group: Alligator “Just take the money and leave,” Corey slurred still not realizing the effect alcohol was having on him. “It’s no fuckin’ use, it hasn’t been for a year and it probably won’t ever be.” The cold tone in his voice matched the temperature of the bedroom as well as the rest of the tiny flat, kept but with small piles of clutter. “I didn’t come here for the money and I’m not leaving,” Jared replied. Jared walked out of the bedroom and curled up on the couch and turned on the stereo. A low but methodical beat eased its way out of the speakers and filled the room with a gentle slap. Jared stripped of his sweater and tight, worn jeans, grabbed an age old quilt off the back of the couch and curled up. A beer he had been drinking early was still perched on the Salvation Army style coffee table in front of him. He closed his eyes and absent-mindedly lit a cigarette as he allowed his mind to get lost in the beat. Once the cigarette was partially crushed out, Jared closed his hazel green eyes and fell asleep. Corey felt the nights previously consumed cocktails spinning his head and form cold uncomfortable beads of sweat on his forehead as he tossed relentlessly in bed. Secretly he wished he could throw up but knew he was not quite that drunk. A familiar scent teased his mind and for a split second he swore his grandma was in the room. The spinning slowly calmed to a gentle rocking. An involuntary smile crossed his face as he dreamed, he thought, of Gran. The memory of her last hour with him flashed before him, on the movie screen in his mind, as he readjusted the pillows behind him and propped his head and shoulders up against them. “Corey, I have to leave, darling,” Gran whispered, “but I’ll always be around if you need me. Take care of Nicky. He’s a doll but you’re the stronger one. He’s got a good heart. That’s what matters.” Gran coughed up more blood and Corey dutifully cleaned it up. Gran wrapped her thin hands around Corey’s and looked beyond his eyes and into his soul. “I’ll be over there when you need me. And you will.” “What do you mean, ‘over there’,” Corey asked, the fear unmasked in his voice. “The Other Side, darling, The Other Side.” Corey felt a light hitting his eyes. He tried to cover it with a pillow but the light seared through it undaunted. As Corey sat up in bed, covering and opening his eyes at the same time, the light faded to warm glow. Gran sat at the end of the bed, wearing her favorite pink pantsuit and smoking her Moore 100’s. Her hair was still as white as freshly fallen snow and her blues twinkled brightly, her smile still as bright and warm as the sun. “Did you have to get this close to shit faced to call for me, darling?” “What do you mean? When did I call you? Gran, am I dreaming?” Gran chuckled as she exhaled the smoke. Corey could feel his cheek being held by her hand as he watched the smoke from the cigarette delicately billow upward. “Darling, you didn’t ring me on the phone, if that is what you are thinking. Your soul cried out for me. Just loud enough for me to know something was wrong and just quiet enough for me to know that you’re not doing so well. So what is it that you need? You’ve got quite a looker on the sofa waiting for you.” Cory blushed and looked into Gran’s eyes. She had died ten years earlier so this had to be a dream. But nonetheless she was right. He did need her. “I feel lost, Gran. Not even confused, just fucking lost. I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know that I want to think anymore.” “Language, darling,” Gran replied patting his face. “Corey, let me tell you something. You are my dear grandson, full of shit. Thinking has nothing to do with it. It has to do with believing. You stopped believing about a year ago. When Nicky came over. I can understand it, too. I stopped believing for a time. Your mother had a lot to do with that. Good Lord, that girl did everything to keep me from believing in anything good. But then you came along and I understood what I should have the whole time and suffice to say I began to slowly believe again. You just need to get off that butt of yours and do the same thing. Okay, darling?” “Gran, I don’t wanna be rude, but what the hell are you talking about?” Corey looked at the vision of Gran in front of him with disbelief and confusion. This nonsense she was muttering from wherever she came from began to spin his head more than the seven cosmopolitans he had drank earlier. “Alright,” Gran sighed grabbing both of Corey’s hands in hers, “I forgot how damned thick headed you can be sometimes so hold on tight, don’t let go and follow me.” In what felt like an eternal second, Gran and Corey were above the apartment. Clouds flew passed them as they flew upward. As terrified as Corey was to open his eyes he was equally determined not to close them. Stars and planets zipped by and soon the two of them stopped, almost too quickly. Corey gasped for his breath and closed his eyes, certain he was going to piss his pants. At thirty-two, he was going to just wet all over himself, he knew it and there was no stopping it. “You aren’t going to tee-tee on yourself, you just think you are, darling,” Gran whispered as Corey finally opened his eyes. “Now, I want you to see where you are and why you are here. Tomorrow morning you won’t remember most of this in your mind but your soul will, darling, so pay close attention. Where we are right now is the other side of midnight and the opposite side of the morning. Now watch.” As if there was a movie screen before them, Corey’s life from conception began to play. His mother that left in the middle of the night five days after his birth to follow the man that she loved only to disappear from their lives forever. Scenes from his childhood and teen years seemed to take seconds to play out in front of him. The good times and the hard times had equal play. Within a matter of seconds, Nick was on the screen. The first time they met, the first time they kissed, the first time they made love. The parties and the holidays. The fights and the hurt to each others pride. The making up that always seemed to follow like a river flooding. And then the bullets from a passing car that ripped threw Nick and ripped apart Corey’s life. The screen obscurely faded as quickly as it appeared. “Darling, the reason we go through life isn’t to find someone or live out some fairy tale that doesn’t exist, it is for our souls to learn. We go through hell in the process because trial by fire is the best way to learn. If things were always perfect, we’d never know what failure or pain or hurt or loss or love or joy would teach us. Along the way we need a little kick in the ass. Look at it this way, occasionally an angel will appear that is helping us pick up the pieces of something broken, a dream or a heart or a whatever it may be. Just because he doesn’t have wings doesn’t mean he isn’t an angel. And you should know by now broken hearts have more room for someone to settle in." As quickly as Gran had appeared Corey felt her leave. Fear forced him to look down from his lofty view. His stomach turned slightly as he felt a rush fuel itself over him. He expected to see the world beneath him. Had he not seen it on the way up? In place of the planets and stars he was looking back at himself. Unlike looking into a mirror when his face looked back this time it was his soul. Corey woke up thinking he had to puke. He stumbled into the bathroom and leaned over the toilet as the cold tile forced him to awaken. He spat into the toilet and then washed his face. He tiptoed into the living room to see if Jared was asleep on the couch. No one was there. He started to walk back to the bedroom when a pair of arms wrapped around him. A light kiss to the top of his head and the light scratching of chest hair against his back eased his body. “Babe, you’ve been tossing and turning all night. Talking in your sleep again. You okay?” Jared asked as his body encased around Corey. “Yeah, I think so. It was just a dream, I guess.” Corey replied turning to face Jared and nuzzle against the once escort now lover he had given his heart too. Jared kissed Corey’s forehead before the two headed back to bed. Once settled and spooning in bed, Jared leaned over as a dimly glowing light faded in the distance and whispered into Corey’s ear even though he was asleep. “That was no dream, angel.” The Tale of Ruby Dream (Snow White's Next Generation) by judih. Group: Alligator Re-cap: Snow White was married, in most blissful wedlock to Roman, her hero, her prince who had rescued her from her state of frozen apathy, so many years before. She still praised that long ago day when she'd been set free. And now the tale: There she was: Snow White gazing out at the wintry landscape from her favorite window in the tower loft. Entranced, she began to flashback to the time when she had been a frozen shell of her true self, encased in glass. How long she'd been in that state, she'd never know, yet, the miraculous had happened! She'd been discovered and taken by sled over snowy paths towards a new land. Suddenly, inexplicably, under the night skies, a powerful surge of starlight emblazoned her throat. And just as suddenly, she'd been released from a hideous spell. From that day, she spoke, sang, shouted her inner wishes. She danced with the clouds. She conversed with raindrops. She chanted her soul’s epiphany. Then one day, her glance fell upon the sweet face of a man. Had heaven again reached out to the ends of the earth to bring her such a beautiful man? Time passed and they grew to know one another. In the joy of discovery, they pledged eternal union and came to live in this private Castle, nestled in snow blanketed forests. As she remembered her past, a red cardinal flew by her window. Like a flag of color, it waved to her like a thought: a child. Yes! She wanted a child from this blessed union; a pure new being she could nurture. And as she looked at the scenery she so loved, she sang: Snow-covered land     Bless me with a child    Throbbing with forest blood     Heart eagle-strong     Mind undefiled     Grant me my wish, snow-covered land... Nine months later, the sound of festive chimes could be heard throughout the castle as a new-born babe was announced. It was said she was pure as snow with lips as red as new spring cherries and hair as black and shiny as her mother’s. They called her Ruby Dream, as she had arrived in answer to her mother’s wish. Ruby Dream was a child born to love. Her parents doted on her. Her father taught her how to use a bow and arrow and climb rocky cliffs. Her mother instructed her in how to find her way through forests, how to speak to animals and how to trust her instincts, never to be fooled by outer appearances. Thus, Ruby Dream grew into a strong young woman who loved the cold wintry forest and the spring flooded river. She spoke to deer and elk as if she were their sister. She knew which plants to gather for food and which caves were safe for a night’s shelter. Her parents watched over her with confidence, for the Castle was protected by its forest creatures, and no harm could befall their daughter. Ruby was free to grow and learn about the world around her. This was just as it should be, for somewhere not too distant lived the spirit of the Wicked Queen – the enemy of her mother. And in a not too distant Castle, at that very moment, an Empress was consulting her mirror. "Looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall,     Who in this land is the fairest of all?" And the Mirror answered: "Oh, queen, thou art fairest in this dark realm,     But over the hills, where the snow is white,     Ruby Dream is breathing light,     And she, my lady, is a fairer sight." When she heard this, the Empress shook with rage. Impossible! Who existed who could begin to compete with her beauty? She, of eternal majesty was beyond mere beauty! She was, she was.... the Empress was furious and could not continue. Horrible memories flooded her thoughts. There had once been Snow White, a silly child who'd dared to issue a challenge. But, she, certainly, had disintegrated trying to live under the hardships of Snow Country. Who, then, might this new young rival be? There was no peace for the Empress. She resolved to destroy the foreign beauty. And she set herself the task of learning the blackest arts to accomplish her task. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ruby Dream was learning to fly that day from Eagle and was playing with the wind currents, high into the flow, when a crow headed straight towards her, joining her in flight. “Listen...” The black crow and Ruby's black hair were quite a sight, shining so in the bright sunlight, but the beauteous vision was soon interrupted. Clouds seemed to gather over Ruby's windblown face. Her arms suddenly stiffened... what had Crow said? Someone had sworn to kill her? There was someone who wanted her dead? Who? And why? What had she done? She looked around for someone to ask, Crow was long gone and where he'd been, there remained stagnant air, large and empty of answers. Ruby was innocent and truly believed that all people were like her own parents: good, loving and fair. So, surely, she, herself, must have done something terrible, something to incur such horrible wrath. Back on forest ground, she paced the paths, searching her heart for misdeeds, or thoughtless words, but she could truly think of nothing she'd done that might incite such rage. Ruby approached the animals asking them for a clue, any piece of information about one who might hate her, but they were too young to have heard of the story of her mother, Snow White, or of the times before the family had come to live in the forest. They did know, however, of someone who might be able to help: the Oak Tree at the far end of the woods. She might have some answers for Ruby. Off she went, rushing to find the stately Oak Tree. When she reached the place where she could run no further, the Oak Tree stood in wait. Ruby breathlessly asked for help in finding someone who would want her dead. The Oak Tree, of course, knew all the stories in the land, for the tree was thousands of years old, well-rooted into the heart of the planet. Oak had witnessed everything there was to see. And Oak Tree knew exactly who wanted Ruby dead, and why. For the Oak had seen it all. She had seen how vanity could scoop the kindness from a human heart and change it to ice and venom. She’d seen tribes living in peace slaughter one another for a morsel of food. Time and time again, human destroyed human. There was no limit to mankind’s cruelty, and no reason that wouldn’t set it off. The Oak Tree had seen few rise above the foul noise that haunted mankind. Many wailed a sickening screech. The Wicked queen, who attacked Snow White, shared that horrific wail with the jealous Empress. The Oak Tree knew that Ruby must learn these songs of mankind in order to protect herself. She had to recognize the sound of danger. For her pure harmony with Nature was not enough to safeguard her from the foul cacophony of human beasts. And so the lessons began. The Oak Tree walked Ruby through mind visions, showing her how man had misunderstood the ways of creation and had destroyed the simple beauty of life. Ruby listened to the tones of mankind, who through the centuries, succumbed to his inherent weaknesses. She learned the sound of man falling into traps set by his own greed for money, lust for carnal pleasure, desire for power. Ruby heard the same themes repeated throughout history. She watched as her own forest, once a land of peaceful co-existence between man and animal, became victimized as man abused the riches of the earth. She witnessed one man rob the roots of ginseng, and then another poison the leaves of sacred plants, while yet another harvest the holy manna to sell it for a profit to those who knew nothing of its entheogenic properties. Ruby learned what members of her own race could do. She understood ignorance. She weeped as she watched wars that annihilated all that was good in human beings, and prevented all that was beautiful from flourishing. All this Ruby acknowledged and took to her heart. With each lesson, Ruby Dream praised the spirits surrounding her. She felt the joy of being born of a father who had risen above such dead chains of thought and a mother who had taught her the ways of living. O night sky, cosmic stars     mighty forest,     Thank you for opening my ears to your wisdom     Friend eagle, fly well, fly brave!     Blessed spirit, I kiss you     in gratitude for the privilege of being alive... The sound of the forest shone, encompassing light and shadow. Ruby Dream heard it all. No enemy of the truth would harm her, for she understood. The Hypocrite by JeffSeb Group: Amoeba I try. I really do. But no matter how hard I might attempt to live the way I want to I just can’t. It is utterly impossible. And when I stand up at school or just lay into my friends about my anti-almost-everything beliefs I can’t help but think how hypocritical I’m being. Sure I hate McDonalds and chains and sweatshops and all that crap. But when I’m hungry and with friends I’ll run to the closest fast food place. When the newest videogame or movie (that cost a hundred million dollars or whatever to make) come out, I can be seen beelining it to Zellers. And while almost all my indie band shirts are Hanes, I’ve never once checked the label to see where they’re made. I’m an ignorant consumer whore. Made all the more ignorant because I know I’m ignorant. These aren’t my beliefs. These are my confessions. Catharsis within 500 miles by PackageDeal Group: Amoeba I had the dream again. I wake to a warm ocean breeze that sweeps through my room. I’ve never seen the room before, but in the dream I know it’s my bedroom… our bedroom. She sleeps on her stomach with her head turned away from me. The lightly colored sheets only cover what needs to be covered. I’m tempted to wake her, but I don’t want spoil the surprise. I’m half convinced of her identity anyway. I turn my attention to the task at hand. Waves crash on the sandy shore mere footsteps away from my bedroom. I slip on a pair of shorts, forgoing the black wetsuit that lies crumpled in the corner from the night before (presumably,) pick up my board and run to the water. Those first few footsteps are slightly cold, but not overly so and certainly not enough to deter my run. Now paddling through the oncoming waves, I push myself up a bit to let the majority of the wave pass between my stomach and the board. With my bedroom door barely visible, I turn to face the coast as the next wave approaches. It seems strange, but it only takes one good wave to fall in love. Love may be the wrong word; obsession seems inadequate. Surrounded by the upper Mississippi River Valley, with no ocean wave in either direction for hundreds of miles, such a preoccupation seems absurd. However, I can’t ignore this preoccupation. It was on the beaches of Waikiki that I caught my first waves. With the shadow of Diamondhead in my midst, my eyes were open to a new part of the world. I didn’t realize it every other day that week when I rented enough long boards to buy my own, but surfing to me filled a long empty void in my soul that was once scarcely occupied with religion. Suddenly all my cares and dread fell away and, for one of the first times, I felt at absolute catharsis. I wasn’t aware of the lasting ramifications this event shook me to my very core, but I did know then that I could wake every morning and surf. Rainer Maria Rilke abandoned his mundane everyday life to study Rodan and Cezanne in France while finding himself as a writer. Maybe it’s time to consider a similar retreat. My biggest fear as a writer is not writing. I fear that I will be overwhelmed by the mundane tasks of everyday life and I’ll wake up in the middle of a midlife crisis with no adventure to call my own. This is a pre-emptive midlife crisis. I will leave this place, at least for a while, and find myself as a writer, a surfer and a human being. Unlike the dream, I most likely will go alone and wake alone. It may be a trick. The desire to surf and write may stem from a much larger desire to see just how big the rest of the world truly is. believe. by Ambon Pereira Group: Amoeba fall again the morning way and tell us that you love the earth more than heaven, unless your soul were a question you dare not answer from the freshborn shadows of day. then trust these words: Orion, Taurus and Galatea, half-charmed quirk of a nebulous supernova, heart of an expiring angel exulting in the fiery footprint of stars. as if to speak from the sum of human knowledge, mountainous peak of a pile of clay tablets and parchment rotting, tower of babble-on, persian astrologer, arabian nights. Black Box Revolution by drmenlo Group: Antimony He was just walking down the street head immersed in effluvia when a man bumped into him. "Oh, I'm sorry about that!" he said, smiling broadly. He had such a wide smile you tended to take him for his word, so Joel did, but thinking so, he heard a clatter to his right. He turned to look and there his umbrella had gone down the steps in the scuffle. He turned back to the man who had interceded him: "Oh, that's quite all right, no harm done." The man with the wide smile tipped his hat and walked on. Joel looked after him for a minute before walking down the steps to retrieve his rain shield. As he bent over to pick it up the door there opened and a hand reached out, grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him in, slamming the door shut behind him. "What the--?" Joel said, his eyes adjusting to the sudden absence of light. A match was struck and a face alit. It was a girl--a pretty girl. Framed by long jet black hair and a large grey turtleneck lying under a navy blue peacoat. "Please," she commanded. "Sit." Joel looked behind him at the ground. Surprisingly, the parquet wood floor there was clean and polished. He sat, lying his briefcase beside him. "Sorry we had to intercept you like that but they're always watching, hm?" Joel looked around slowly. "We?" The man with the wide grin popped out from the shadows, had evidently come in thru a back door. "Yes, we," he said, still smiling, standing next to the girl. "Um," said Joel. "Is this a kidnapping?" She laughed. "Oh good heavens, no. We're here with a gift for you, Joel. Or should I say . . . Homer?" Joel's face went slack. "Ehm, my name is Joel." "Oh, sure, it is now. But you used to be Homer, way back when." "Homer was . . . a noted thought criminal. If I was him--which I'm not--I'd surely be in jail." She smiled and sat down across from him and crossed her legs. Only then did he notice she was barefoot. "Don't worry about us, Homer," she said. "We're here to help." The man with the wide grin brought out a briefcase from the shadows. He set it down in front of Joel and snapped it open facing him. On the top half of the briefcase Joel could see a screen flashing green digits. "Do you know what this is?" Grin asked. "Looks like a computer," Joel said. "Oh yes," Grin said. "But not only--this here? . . . is a portal to Internet 3." "Internet . . . 3?" Joel asked. "Yes. You're familiar with internets one and two--both since subsumed by corporate powers. So we've created another one, a place to congregate, share information . . . plan. It taps in thru WIFI, of course, and is totally encrypted. It's also powered by the latest in super fuel cells--good for ten years without a recharge. And it's yours. Homer." Joel looked at him. "Who are you?" "Well, I can't tell you my name," he said, grinning. "But, I can tell you that you had a wonderful effect on me as a kid. In fact, you were a defining influence. And it's an honor to sort of repay the favor . . . if only in a small way." Joel looked to his left and noticed for the first time that the girl had his briefcase open, and had placed all of it's contents on the floor. "What are you--?" he began to ask, but he already knew the answer to that. "Ah, yes," the Grin said. "All that goes into here and you leave with a black briefcase just like the one you came in with. Of course, usually when you open it the screen just won't appear like it did when I opened it. You'll have a lock on it's I3 properties for the most part. And you'll only unlock it when you are assured of your privacy. Let me show you how it works." He showed him. Afterward, Joel asked, "Well . . . so . . . what's . . . going on? By way of . . . plans?" Grin stood and shook his legs out. He took Joel's hands and shaked it fiercely. "It's been an honor, sir." He said. "Now I'll be off so you can receive your official initiation into the current revolution." He cast a sidways glance at the girl, who was now undressing. "As far as plans, well, the first step is to distribute the tools. So long as the people have the tools to spread the information they need, they will, in the end, do the right thing, won't they?" "Yes." Joel said, shocked to hear his own words, from so long ago, read back to him. Grin disappeared into the black and a sound of a door opening and closing could be heard. When Joel turned to his left, the girl was there, completely naked, sprawled out on pillows with a couple candles going around her. She couldn't have been more than 22, and was luscious, in every way. "Welcome back to the revolution, Homer." she purred. "Now come and get initiated." Back out into the street an hour later with his new briefcase, Homer's senses were reignited with the possibilities which now awaited him. He began walking, and the first Bush for President 2012 poster he saw filled