Rob Krabbe's Blog: From a Krabbe Desk, page 8
April 21, 2011
Fear or Adventure? —Great Grandpa Ray Jackson, and the Los Angeles 1971 Earthquake
Fear can drive some bad decisions when you're young. By the time a person gets to mid life or beyond, one of two basic personal dynamics has settled in as the status quo. One may live governed by and even addicted to fear, using as one of the most common mantra, "what if?"
Or, a person comes to a way of looking at life much as my great grandfather Ray Jackson did. His way has stuck with me for the whole of my life thus far, and I pray I only get more adept at its intricacies.
I remember when the 1971 quake hit the Los Angeles area. We had recently moved from the corn fields of Illinois to Redondo Beach California, and were in our little apartment when the sizable earthquake hit. Now the best part of that earthquake was how we, recent additions to the Los Angeles area, reacted to our first experience with such an event, the shaking earth that wonderful morning.
I was nine, and I immediately froze in my bed until within milliseconds my mother and father, who have won awards in responding quickly to emergencies, snatched me and my two brothers out of our beds and our arms out of their sockets in the doing, and down the stairs into the best hallway possible. My parents did nothing in those days without consulting the best information available, the Farmer's Almanac, and the encyclopedia set of books that my dad so wisely bought from a door to door salesman in Verheggeville Illinois, several years before, a town that was re-named every year depending on which family had more children that year.
The best information was to quickly run and stand in the hallway or doorway that offered the most protection from the entire world caving in on you, just in case the entire world did indeed cave in on you. That way you would be entombed properly and would save the state or your family a lot of money providing a more intentional tomb, or the long drawn out hospital stays to bring us back to some quality of life after said world caved in. We had, after all, moved to California, land of the freaks and the flakes and the nuts and the earthquakes, and accepted every known risk. You see, everyone who lives to the right of Arizona, knows that California will one day, without warning, slide across Zuma Beach and into the Pacific Ocean killing everyone, and all their pets, and opening up a pantload of beach front property just east of the Arizona border. This would, of course, as my southern relatives knew, thin out the ranks of hippies and communists.
Now the memorable part: My grandparents Jackson were visiting at the time of that earthquake. My great grandmother Claire was a legendary worrier, as well as the family morality officer. I believe she is still in the Guinness Book of World Records as having said "What if?" more times than any human being. Before the earth started shaking that morning, her ears picked up the sub-audible resonance of the earthquake from miles beneath the earth's surface, and she was already deep into panic-mode, running around in circles claiming the help and salvation of Jesus, in the kitchen, which very much qualified as a hallway in times of earthquakes or large gatherings.
My mother, as stated before, had grabbed all three of us boys by the third actual individual tremble of the first shock, and slung us through the air to the safety spot downstairs; Predetermined by the research they had done prior to moving in.
All at once, after verifying we were all alive, when the shaking had finished for the initial shock wave, my dad looked at my grandma Jackson and realized at that very moment that no one had seen or heard from grandpa Jackson during the horrible shaking event at all and there was some odd noise coming from upstairs. Instantly my grandmother envisioned him bloodied and dying. She swooned a good bit at first, which was the mandatory warming up of her full emotional faculties.
At that moment, my dad beginning to move towards the stairs was stopped by the first of many aftershocks. This one lasted a good long time, long enough for my grandma Jackson to fire up her other superpower, her ability to send verbal messages at incredible and efficient, shrieking amplitudes.
"RAY JACKSON, YOU GET DOWN HEEEEEEEEEERE THIS MINUTE! WHAT IF THIS IS THE BIG ONE?'" She screamed.
As the current aftershock subsided, we listened for signs of life coming from the upper floor. We heard a drawer slam upstairs, which sounded just like a dresser drawer from the room they were staying in, and then silence. I also thought I heard a hushed "damn it," but I kept that to myself, lest I tempt the need for soap in my mouth, my grandmother's favorite corrective measure.
Grandma Jackson repeated her transmission at the next higher level, taking us to DEFCON 5.
"RAY JACKSON, YOU GET DOWN HEEEEEEEEEERE THIS MINUTE, DO YOU HEAR ME!?!?!" At the exact moment she finished the transmission, the front window shattered. We will never know if it was the earth shaking again that caused it, or as we kids knew, my grandma's superpower.
Then we heard the first of two responses from above. It was the chuckling voice of my grandpa Ray, from his bedroom upstairs, deftly firing back his first volley, as if he were a sub issuing countermeasures against a torpedo attack.
"Does anyone know where my Mickey Mouse sweatshirt is? The one I bought at Disneyland yesterday?"
"Mercy sakes, what is that man talking about? What if the whole building collapses?" Grandma gasped out loud.
"I haven't worn it yet, and if I'm going to die, I want to go out with Mickey Mouse emblazoned on my chest, and my big ears on. Oh! . . . Never mind here it is."
We heard another drawer slam and some glass shatter on the floor. Grandma Jackson shrieked again. My dad tried to stand and go retrieve Grandpa Jackson, who had obviously lost his mind from sheer panic and fear. My father, however, was slammed right back by the biggest aftershock yet. So my grandma issued one final order from on high, and this particular warning was what the family understood as the next thing to a God-command:
"RAYMOND JACKSON, YOU GET DOWN HERE THIS MINUTE OR . . . ELSE!"
Dogs in the neighborhood which had calmed down during the aftershocks were suddenly stirred up again by the monstrous tone and volume she with which she made this final warning, and we think her yelling at grandpa is, to this day, still recorded as one of the aftershocks in our area.
I will never forget this next part, because it has informed my life even to this day. We heard great grandpa Ray's 87-pound footsteps on the top of the stairs as the shaking increased. He was hopping up and down as best he could, apparently trying to see if he could stay upright while the ground shook underneath him. Then, as grandpa was apt to do, he uttered his wise and argument-ending comment, his final word on the subject, conveyed clearly, and calmly:
"I'm ninety years old, old woman, and this is the most excitement I've had in sixty five of those ninety years. You do what you want, but I'll be damned if I am going to miss a single moment of this!"
My grandpa Jackson came into view just as another aftershock hit. He was on the stairway butt-bump-sliding his way down the shaking stairs, hands in the air the same way he had on the Matterhorn roller coaster the day before, yelling "weeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" His yell surged and ebbed with every bump of his butt on each step. He was wearing his red and white Valentine's day boxer shorts, with the "I love you" hearts on them, a three-sizes-too-large Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, a wide grin on his face, and his Mickey Mouse ears planted firmly on his head, still there from the day before, he hadn't even taken them off in the bath the night before (we were told). He had worn them the entire time we were at Disneyland, all the while pointing to them and giggling at little children, who burst out in laughter uproariously. (We had spent a good bit of time finding him as he got lost three times, and once we even had to announce a "ninety year old giggling man lost" through the park's public address system.)
My grandmother knew better than to even comment at this point. Grandpa was as happy as a clam that he had "upset the applecart" once again, one of his favorite pastimes. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he stood up and said, "I want to go again. Anyone want to join me?" Then he giggled some more while slowly climbing the stairs on his rickety legs, for one more assault on the hill.
April 19, 2011
The Great Front Porch Epiphany - Volume One
I think we do this life backwards, in some ways. Some of the things of our lives are certainly dictated by physical realities, but think about this: Right out of the gate we are learning and experiencing, and rightly so-- our brains are fresh, and empty, hungry to be filled, a new computer out of the box, ready to set time and date and be programmed. Countless brain cells are warmed up and ready to jump, immensely bigger and faster than a supercomputer, firing at lightning speed, and we are revving at the starting line, eager to put it all into use in the great adventure of life. Now at fifty (in a month or so), I find my life experience and the process of living through the past five decades have led me to a place developmentally where I would actually appreciate the application and meaning of all that knowledge that I have either long since forgotten, lost to bad memory sectors, or didn't really pay attention to because in my ghost-like youth I didn't see the application while I was dreaming of sex and driving a car (hopefully not at the same time, but at 18 I didn't see the danger in that, either).
When we are driven hormonally to nothing but sex, we should certainly abstain. We don't, at that early stage of life, know enough about reality or have the compassion or understanding to deal with the consequences of our actions and relationships, but, and this especially for men, at that age our lives are consumed by thoughts of sex. Now, in the second half of life as a seasoned and experienced human being (one hopes), having learned all the techniques, and even studied the likes and dislikes of a long-time lover and mate, I just wish I had a quarter of the physical and sexual energy I had when I was 18, when I would have, like in a popular movie, stuck body parts into fruit pies just to quell the sexual hunger and energy.
At 18, I had big dreams. Some were ridiculous. Some were so abstract and unobtainable that I spun my wheels a good bit, but really one of the best things a young person does is dream. It's a part of the programming that works well. But just imagine, at fifty, if a burst of fresh youth-like creativity were to explode on the scene and find itself sitting on a foundation of life experience, and the inevitable modicum of wisdom that would put a plan into action were then fired into a verb by energy that we could borrow from days gone by--youthful energy, creatively unbounded by cynicism and a history of failures, and yet streamlined and crafted into a real plan. A strategy. A well-kept "action item list."
I consider this as I rock in my front porch chair, sipping sweet tea in the spring of 2011, having lived fifty years, more life than I imagined even mattered when I was a child. The old adage is true: if I had known I would live this long I would have taken better care of myself. The next adage, true as well: If I had known then what I know now . . . well maybe I would have just exploded. If I remembered now what I've learned all my life, maybe there would be no room in my head to remember how to turn a door knob and I'd be stranded in the bathroom (at fifty, I don't know that I'd struggle that much to get out) and the point, and existential motivation, sad and ghostlike, would just fade, or crumble like my tired knees.
But then it hits me. Yet one more cliché, one more wise nugget. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, a factoid, still pulsing, laying there, unused for years and years, quietly forgotten until now, but faithfully at the ready for this moment in time. "You're only as old as you feel!" Crap, I am undone.
NO! Wait! I am an adult, so I can get up and act like a child if I want to. I don't need permission now to kick the can, as long as I don't break any civil laws, and I remember to put on pants before I go outside. I could get up and dance, and maybe a little every day, until I begin to re-awaken all those muscles and flesh parts that have gotten a little stiff from disuse, and clean out the carburetor of all the bad fuel I have digested.
I could take a class in some subject that interests me and fire up some brain cells; I hear that if used again, even later in life, the brain will restart growing new cells when needed! I begin to be excited again. I could actually rediscover my youth within the wiser gentler me!
I could, with all my current earned life's wisdom (my heart is beating fast now with new energy), get up and sweep out the dust from the corners of my mind, renew my body (as much as it will), lose some weight, and take back my youth, this time using it wisely! I could go right in the other room and throw my wife down on the bed, in the middle of the day and . . . !
Crap what was I writing about?
March 12, 2011
Beneath the 'Great Mound' a collaboration by Rob Krabbe and Rose Boehm
Do you see the flag up high?
It once fluttered against a dazzling sky
but has long been forgotten.
All that remains is the echo of its sound.
An old tattered banner celebrates
a half-finished housing development
crumbling into yesterday.
Ashen summer winds pass
over the Chihuakan burial mounds,
saluting desperate struggles.
Long past.
Torn remnants of eager lives and
forgotten dreams decay in the dirt,
aimless echoes of
ancient Indian spirits:
tenuous shuffle of desiccated
leather-strapped sandals dragged
across fields, one moccasined foot
after another on the hunt for the buffalo
that's gone... gone...
Shreds of rotting combat boots
draped over blistered feet
during a break between
struggles for God and country.
Harmonica melodies drift
into the campfire sky and fall
lightly across the plains
into a hollow where a mummified corpse
rests in peace, unaware that
his own hunting season was
long ago.
She's not alert to the voices
that boast of old conflicts
once played out
on what was sacred ground;
all she wants is a drive-through-snack
on the way home from work.
Her shining young face turns
into the summer wind and
she steps off the curb into sudden
knowing, falls like a rag doll
tossed into an ancient pile of dirt
accumulated over time
by the side of a random road.
The truck screams through the breaks,
the driver enters two worlds, his last thoughts
adding to the whisperers caught between
dream and do and forever fading there.
There is no hope for tomorrow
beneath the 'Great Mound' on the southern Illinois prairie.
It once fluttered against a dazzling sky
but has long been forgotten.
All that remains is the echo of its sound.
An old tattered banner celebrates
a half-finished housing development
crumbling into yesterday.
Ashen summer winds pass
over the Chihuakan burial mounds,
saluting desperate struggles.
Long past.
Torn remnants of eager lives and
forgotten dreams decay in the dirt,
aimless echoes of
ancient Indian spirits:
tenuous shuffle of desiccated
leather-strapped sandals dragged
across fields, one moccasined foot
after another on the hunt for the buffalo
that's gone... gone...
Shreds of rotting combat boots
draped over blistered feet
during a break between
struggles for God and country.
Harmonica melodies drift
into the campfire sky and fall
lightly across the plains
into a hollow where a mummified corpse
rests in peace, unaware that
his own hunting season was
long ago.
She's not alert to the voices
that boast of old conflicts
once played out
on what was sacred ground;
all she wants is a drive-through-snack
on the way home from work.
Her shining young face turns
into the summer wind and
she steps off the curb into sudden
knowing, falls like a rag doll
tossed into an ancient pile of dirt
accumulated over time
by the side of a random road.
The truck screams through the breaks,
the driver enters two worlds, his last thoughts
adding to the whisperers caught between
dream and do and forever fading there.
There is no hope for tomorrow
beneath the 'Great Mound' on the southern Illinois prairie.
February 18, 2011
Roll Over In Your Grave Walt Whitman
© 2011 Rob Krabbe (not sure why)
Oh TUESDAY! my Tuesday,our fearful Monday done,The day had weathered every rack,the prize we sought is won;The Wednesday near, the clock I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady time,the vessal grim and daring:
Oh heart! my heart!Oh the bleeding drops of red,Where on the floor my calendar lies,Fallen cold and dead.
Oh Tuesday! my Tuesday,
rise up, hear ZZtop,
Rise up—for you—the date is flung,
for you-guitars on top;
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths,
for you the weekends a crowding,
For you they call, the swaying audience,
their eager faces turning:Here Monday, dear weekday!
This arm beneath your head,
It's some dream that on my floor,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Monday does not answer,
his lips are cold and pale,
My weekday does not feel my arm,
he has no pulse nor will;
The week is anchored safe and sound,its passage well underway,From day by day, the fear away,comes in with bold new days:Exult oh month, and ring the date!But I with mournful tread,Walk by Monday's charms,
Fallen cold and dead.
Oh TUESDAY! my Tuesday,our fearful Monday done,The day had weathered every rack,the prize we sought is won;The Wednesday near, the clock I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady time,the vessal grim and daring:
Oh heart! my heart!Oh the bleeding drops of red,Where on the floor my calendar lies,Fallen cold and dead.Oh Tuesday! my Tuesday,
rise up, hear ZZtop,
Rise up—for you—the date is flung,
for you-guitars on top;
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths,
for you the weekends a crowding,
For you they call, the swaying audience,
their eager faces turning:Here Monday, dear weekday!
This arm beneath your head,
It's some dream that on my floor,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Monday does not answer,
his lips are cold and pale,
My weekday does not feel my arm,
he has no pulse nor will;
The week is anchored safe and sound,its passage well underway,From day by day, the fear away,comes in with bold new days:Exult oh month, and ring the date!But I with mournful tread,Walk by Monday's charms,
Fallen cold and dead.
February 16, 2011
Falls' Ashes
© Rob Krabbe 2010When I sit on my porch, in my fall
rocking chair and look to the bright
heavens. Pages of summer poems
flitting down from the sky.
Flames of orange and red, consumed
by the season, dancing beautifully on
the wind. They float to the earth that
welcomes them to herself much as a
mother opens her arms for her children.
I watch this parade, until the last
parchment slowly lays down upon
the ground. Life's own poems, telling
the story of a spring heart filled to the
brim and a huge summer feast.
When the dance is done, I see the
framework of life, crisp and cold,
picked clean like a well eaten bone.
I lay back and think of going home.
Ashes to the earth, where spring's
phoenix will rise, and make new,
this parade of spring rains, and
fresh warm ponds filling, unfolding
life, like a born babies new cry.
I hope the parade is long, for you, for
me, but when it's time, I wish to float
down to lay upon the earth, under the
nearest tree.
February 14, 2011
You're On The Air With The Jazz Doctor
© 2011 Rob Krabbe - NoonAtNight Publications - Krabbe.com
The gravel chewing velvet voicedRebel Bowling Alley Don Juancome 2 A.M. radio announcer, chain smoking insomnia, and spinning vinyl smooth jazz old school, lips caressing every cheesy winking word, finger-points his Dollar General wisdom like dice against a
gold framed black light velvet Elvis.
For some unknown reason,
one reefer imbued morning
after a double shift at 5 A.M
he says, "Hey all you zombies
out there, doin' this job is kinda
like herding cats." and then
he choked up a wheezy
cigarette laugh and spun a
cut from Mother Focus,
called "Oh, I Need a Bathroom."
What kind of an asshole
tries to herd cats?
The gravel chewing velvet voicedRebel Bowling Alley Don Juancome 2 A.M. radio announcer, chain smoking insomnia, and spinning vinyl smooth jazz old school, lips caressing every cheesy winking word, finger-points his Dollar General wisdom like dice against a gold framed black light velvet Elvis.
For some unknown reason,
one reefer imbued morning
after a double shift at 5 A.M
he says, "Hey all you zombies
out there, doin' this job is kinda
like herding cats." and then
he choked up a wheezy
cigarette laugh and spun a
cut from Mother Focus,
called "Oh, I Need a Bathroom."
What kind of an asshole
tries to herd cats?
February 11, 2011
The Stalker
© 2010 Rob Krabbe / NoonAtNight Publications
From the book "Chaos to Order and Back Again." by Rob Krabbe, available HERE
Whoa! The smell was something he would never, ever forget. He had seen a dead body before, "lots of times," he thought to himself as his chest heaved, painfully, repulsed by the air he was trying to inhale. He pulled the heavy growth of vines and branches from over the face and almost vomited. This particular dead body was just a little different. He had not ever seen one that he himself had caused to be among the dead. That was the difference that was causing his heart to bang against its confines like a ball-peen hammer trying to club its way out of his chest.
It had only been a few days, but Tristan was horrified, and at the same time intrigued, at the changes in the body's appearance. The face was almost unrecognizable as anything but a ghoulish kind of pudding plopped onto bone. If he didn't have such a problem on his hands, he would be fascinated by the decomposition process. He had been back to check on it three times since that fateful day, and each time, try as he may, he found his pulse increasing and his breathing becoming shallow, as if it were the very day he had done it, all over again. He snuck in small quick breaths, as best he could.
The increase in the number and quantity of insects, worms and other just plain gross things was the biggest surprise. The body was being eaten a million tiny mouthfuls at a time. It didn't look much like anything that made sense anymore. Tristan would never forget that what lay there hidden under the brush in this remote gully was indeed very real; the body of his guilt, the end of his innocence, the one he had personally killed.
The smell had changed too. As bad as it was today, he noticed that it wasn't as bad as it had been on previous days. He had puked instantly on one of the days because it was so bad.
Tristan looked down directly at the eyes. He had avoided them thus far, but what was left of the eyes seemed to somehow be satisfied that he was enduring torture beyond measure at the outcome of their little contest. Now it wasn't about winning. It was about a death that was undeserved. It was about what Tristan felt, now that he was a cold blooded killer. And . . . it was about what would happen when people found out, and what he would do when he was put in prison or worse.
He felt the tears welling up again, and then without warning, he vomited again into the same area of brush he had puked in several times before. He heaved trying to sneak another breath into his hungry lungs in between the gut-wrenching spasms without sucking in a glob of vomit. That was a skill he had mastered after that first day. He had almost choked to death on his own essence that day, almost ending up side-by-side with this organic feast in the forest. "What a banquet that would have been," he thought. "Two bodies for the price of one." He couldn't help thinking he'd have been better off.
He began to place the vines and branches back over the body, covering it up as best he could without actually touching the rotting corpse. He would have buried it, but he found he could not touch it without passing out. That had been his second worst mistake; that day it happened, and he had woken up with his arm across a dead man's chest. He laughed at his little joke; the name of a really good pirate movie.
Suddenly and painfully, he sucked an entire lung full of air in as the body jerked violently, and seemed to roll up on one side, shuddering, and then laying back down. Tristan fell back away, screaming. He hit his head as he bounced on the muddy ground, a rock pounding a nice dent in the back of his head, and he almost lost consciousness. He tried to stop the burning feeling in his lungs, and now on the top of his head, by holding his breath as he looked at the corpse. It moved again. He felt his heart trying to escape his chest as if it were a wild and desperate animal, yet he himself seemed frozen unable to move. Then a huge and vicious looking rat, a really big one with smiling meat-slicing teeth, reared up and squealed at him, before scurrying out from underneath the body and running off into the forest, his big fat rat muzzle stained with his mushy meal. Tristan was sure his heart would just explode, but after a few minutes it seemed to calm down. He had no idea how long he had been laying there. He finally calmed felt he was safe enough to move.
He sat up, "crisscross applesauce," as his teacher, Mrs. Jamison called it, and then just plain wept. How could he, only eight years old have done such a thing? He never meant to be a killer. He was confused; how could he even feel compassion for the dead, if he was indeed a cold blooded killer? What would become of him? What would God do, if there really was a God? It had not been intentional, but then he knew that was a lie, too. He had started off the contest without thought to the possible consequences, and he knew that was enough to make him guilty. And then, for whatever reason, he had pulled the trigger, and there was no getting around that.
"Please God, can't we just go back to the moment before? Please God? I won't hurt anyone or anything ever again! I promise!" He tried to look up into the sky, but his tears were too full now, and he couldn't see anything except a slurry and foggy storm of guilt. He wept so deeply that his gut hurt even more than before.
Suddenly, he heard what sounded like a loud roar or groan coming from deep within the body, and he jumped up, screamed, and ran off down the creek bed as fast as he could. The tree branches and leaves seemed to blur by, he was running so fast, and he could think of nothing except getting away. He slipped on some mud, fell against some more rocks and slid, out of control, right into the creek. Splashing into a thick stagnant pool, he rolled over and a mouth full of really scummy creek water went into his throat. It tasted horrible, but he didn't have time to get sick again. He wiped the slimy algae off his chin and stumbled up onto his feet and continued running, sure that death itself was chasing him.
He was confident he was being followed now by something deeply horrible. "Maybe it's the ghost of . . . . . . ahhhh!" He screamed as he heard a branch break somewhere behind him, and he ran as fast as he could. The forest now whipping by him at light speed, he felt ripping and searing pain in his body. He thought he certainly was close to death; his legs were burning and his cheek bleeding from scratches of rocks when he fell, and the branches that whipped his face as he ran.
He knew he couldn't go home. They would know. His mom and dad were superhuman in their ability to see when something was wrong, and this would be like a big neon flashing sign. How he had hidden what he had done so far, he wasn't sure. It was probably due to the fact that his parents were both so busy this time of year. They were always complaining about taxes; how the government was like a big growing cancer and how the liberals should all be lined up and shot. Maybe this was all his dad's fault, he thought, as he considered any way possible he could put the blame on someone else for his apparently evil mind. Suddenly, and in fact sadly, he knew his parents really had not even given him a thought in the past few weeks. Maybe he was suffering from neglect; maybe the jury would have mercy on him because of that?
He knew one thing, if he came in crying, and running, and scared, they would instantly know he had done something horribly wrong. He definitely had to calm down before he went home. He could tell his mom later, after he had calmed down, that he had just slipped and fallen in the creek. That was the truth, anyway. Just not all the truth. He wouldn't tell her he had been checking on the corpse of a body he had murdered, or that she should turn him into the police so he could be fried in the electric chair, or anything like that. He laughed in the middle of his tears. "Why was he laughing?" he wondered, and, at that moment, was sure he really was evil. Then he figured this was what his dad was always telling him was his "penchant for sarcasm." Where did his dad think he got that from anyway? He chuckled to himself, the humor almost shoving aside his torment. Almost.
He just couldn't stop thinking about a life lost, for no good reason. How could he live with himself?
He gulped in a dry-heave-extra-breath, that kept shaking his whole body every so often, even though he had stopped crying. He hated those kind of trailing heaves. They were always a dead give away, and could creep up any time, even a very long time after a good cry, unexpectedly giving away the very best of secrets.
Tristan ducked into the garage. It was a barn really, he knew, but they had not moved to the farm with the intention of actually farming, just getting out of the city, so they all called it the garage. Its coolness, in Tristan's mind, was because there were so many cool places to hide, a billion or more spiders, and a couple of rat snakes that called it home. His dad parked the family cars in it, and a riding mower that Tristan lamented he would never be taught to drive now that he was a murderer.
That one hurt. He had fantasized endlessly about driving that tractor. His dad had promised him that he would teach him to drive it by himself that very summer, but Tristan knew that killers didn't get to do those kinds of things.
He was suddenly awash in all the things he would never do. Once they found out about what had happened, his life would be over. No high school, no driving a car, no dating girls; of course that dating girls part was more of a relief, as he could not really imagine himself touching a girl without feeling much as he did about touching the corpse.
Suddenly, Tristan realized he had fallen asleep in a pile of hay and an hour or so had passed. He could tell by the waning sunlight. He stretched and went over to the door and peered out. That's when he knew his secret was out and it was all over. His heart stopped altogether.
A police car was parked in the driveway, and its lights were flashing.
He was surprised to find he felt a tiny bit of relief. He thought it was weird that the worst and most horrifying thing that could happen had happened, and yet it brought him a sense of peace. He took a full breath and tried to exhale, but it came out in trembling bursts, as he slowly walked towards the house. He didn't want to be a killer anymore. His head down, he felt like he wanted to cry again, but the tears had dried and no more would come. It was over and he knew it.
He had never, ever meant to kill. He had taken his dad's 22 rifle, and just wanted to play around in the forest pretending to be a secret service agent. He had known it was loaded, but never in his wildest dreams did he know what he would do. He hadn't even considered that he was capable of such violence. One minute he was tracking an innocent life, lining up his victim in his sights, pretending to be the secret service guy, like the ones in the movie about the president, and the next thing he knew, he'd pulled the trigger.
It sounded like a cap pistol, not loud at all like he had expected. Not like in the movies. Not even like his games, with the sound turned up only half way. It wasn't even real sounding. But it was real enough to kill. It was like slow motion when it struck an obviously mortal wound, and the body seemed dead in midair, before it hit the ground. He wasn't even that good a shot, but this time he had been extremely good. To kill with a single shot. His aim had been perfect and the head-shot, deadly. He guessed he would have made a good secret service agent. Not now though. Secret service agents did not go around killing randomly.
But it was over now.
Tristan couldn't put it off any longer. He numbly walked into the house, and found his family was sitting quietly while the policeman was talking. They seemed to know he had come in but were not looking directly at him, except for his dad, who gave him a quick glance. In that glance was a very clear look of disappointment. His mom had obviously been crying. His dad had asked his brother to go to his bedroom. His brother was wickedly disappointed, as would be all little brothers who were possessed by evil spirits, as Tristan suspected was true with his six year old brother David.
The policeman was saying, "Do you want me to step outside while you talk to him?"
"No." His dad replied as he turned to face Tristan. Tristan felt a sadness, in his dad's eyes as they looked into him. Tristan looked at the floor but it didn't take the bad feeling away. Then his dad spoke and every question stabbed at Tristan and hurt him. It was really all over.
"Did you do it, son? Did you take my gun out that day? Did you do this horrible thing?"
His mom broke out crying again, and that was all it took; Tristan simply collapsed in a confessional, weeping heap. He had not meant to kill, and yet he had. He told them everything. How he had been playing and stalking his victim. How it was only a game. How he had been perfectly quiet and sneaky. How he had tracked and aimed and then how his brain just decided do it without asking him. How he saw himself pull the trigger as if it were a dream. How the head had jerked to the side and the spurt of blood, and the body, already dead weight, had fallen lifeless to the forest floor. How he had covered up the body to hide his mistake.
The policeman told them that Mr. Dawson had reported finding the body this morning, and it was just a matter of time, considering there were only two other families within ten miles; and a good thing Tristan had confessed; something about, "it would go easier on him."
His dad sighed, and put his arm around his mother who was calmed a bit, but still whimpering. "Why shouldn't she be crying," Tristan thought, her little boy was a cold hard killer.
"Boys will be boys." Dad smiled nervously, trying hard to ease the moment.
"Yeah", his brother chimed in from the hallway, "I've done bad stuff like that, too."
"David you get back in your room!" his mom yelled out, and then turning on his dad, "Honey, how can you say that?!" She flashed an angry look at Tristan's dad, and he smiled an awkward smile and tried to salvage the moment.
"Listen, I'm not saying that I condone killing, but I did the same darned thing when I was just a little older than he is now, honey, and I grew up alright! It's not such a big thing, is it really? Officer? Help me out here." Looking around to see if anyone was buying, he found that, of course no one was. God bless my dad for trying, thought Tristan.
Then the policeman, mercifully stepped in.
"Well it is a crime, no matter how you cut it; the piper has to be paid here. We can't just wink this away. Killing is killing, accident or no; and well, we have a confession now and it isn't anywhere near being an accident, and Mr. Dawson is pressing charges. I guess it's not the worst thing a boy could do, but that bull was Mr. Dawson's most prized breeding bull and there will be a judgment of restitution I can tell you—at a minimum—if not some time in juvenile hall. Juvenile hall is a tough place to spend time, I can tell you."
Then Tristan saw it. Almost imperceptible, but he saw it. The policeman actually winked at his dad, and Tristan knew. There was hope!
Tristan allowed himself to look a little more pitiful and scared. Oh sure, he knew his life was over, as far as a good grounding would do and that was bad enough, but he would pay the price gladly.
"Well I guess, we can do this the easy way, this once," the policeman said, exaggeratedly, back to dad. Tristan considered how adults really thought kids were dumb.
His dad sighed again, and looked at Tristan sternly, which he did really well, and agreed with a grumble that he would go next door with a check for the cost of the bull. He mumbled something about how Tristan would be paying that back for several years.
Tristan couldn't help his smile breaking out on his face like an uncontrollable seizure. It was his first real smile since the killing. He would have a tomorrow, after all, even if it was in his room doing his time. He thanked God, in case there was one, and decided he would write a note to Mr. Dawson by way of an apology. Of course, he decided he would do that only after his mom insisted on it, and he promised he would hand deliver it and he would never again touch anything of dad's again, especially his .22 rifle.
Tristan listened to the rest as if he were reading someone else's story. He was mostly considering how close he had come to the gas chamber, how long he would really be grounded, and wondering how long it would be before he would be able to see all the bones on the corpse.
From the book "Chaos to Order and Back Again." by Rob Krabbe, available HERE
Whoa! The smell was something he would never, ever forget. He had seen a dead body before, "lots of times," he thought to himself as his chest heaved, painfully, repulsed by the air he was trying to inhale. He pulled the heavy growth of vines and branches from over the face and almost vomited. This particular dead body was just a little different. He had not ever seen one that he himself had caused to be among the dead. That was the difference that was causing his heart to bang against its confines like a ball-peen hammer trying to club its way out of his chest.
It had only been a few days, but Tristan was horrified, and at the same time intrigued, at the changes in the body's appearance. The face was almost unrecognizable as anything but a ghoulish kind of pudding plopped onto bone. If he didn't have such a problem on his hands, he would be fascinated by the decomposition process. He had been back to check on it three times since that fateful day, and each time, try as he may, he found his pulse increasing and his breathing becoming shallow, as if it were the very day he had done it, all over again. He snuck in small quick breaths, as best he could.
The increase in the number and quantity of insects, worms and other just plain gross things was the biggest surprise. The body was being eaten a million tiny mouthfuls at a time. It didn't look much like anything that made sense anymore. Tristan would never forget that what lay there hidden under the brush in this remote gully was indeed very real; the body of his guilt, the end of his innocence, the one he had personally killed.
The smell had changed too. As bad as it was today, he noticed that it wasn't as bad as it had been on previous days. He had puked instantly on one of the days because it was so bad.
Tristan looked down directly at the eyes. He had avoided them thus far, but what was left of the eyes seemed to somehow be satisfied that he was enduring torture beyond measure at the outcome of their little contest. Now it wasn't about winning. It was about a death that was undeserved. It was about what Tristan felt, now that he was a cold blooded killer. And . . . it was about what would happen when people found out, and what he would do when he was put in prison or worse.
He felt the tears welling up again, and then without warning, he vomited again into the same area of brush he had puked in several times before. He heaved trying to sneak another breath into his hungry lungs in between the gut-wrenching spasms without sucking in a glob of vomit. That was a skill he had mastered after that first day. He had almost choked to death on his own essence that day, almost ending up side-by-side with this organic feast in the forest. "What a banquet that would have been," he thought. "Two bodies for the price of one." He couldn't help thinking he'd have been better off.
He began to place the vines and branches back over the body, covering it up as best he could without actually touching the rotting corpse. He would have buried it, but he found he could not touch it without passing out. That had been his second worst mistake; that day it happened, and he had woken up with his arm across a dead man's chest. He laughed at his little joke; the name of a really good pirate movie.
Suddenly and painfully, he sucked an entire lung full of air in as the body jerked violently, and seemed to roll up on one side, shuddering, and then laying back down. Tristan fell back away, screaming. He hit his head as he bounced on the muddy ground, a rock pounding a nice dent in the back of his head, and he almost lost consciousness. He tried to stop the burning feeling in his lungs, and now on the top of his head, by holding his breath as he looked at the corpse. It moved again. He felt his heart trying to escape his chest as if it were a wild and desperate animal, yet he himself seemed frozen unable to move. Then a huge and vicious looking rat, a really big one with smiling meat-slicing teeth, reared up and squealed at him, before scurrying out from underneath the body and running off into the forest, his big fat rat muzzle stained with his mushy meal. Tristan was sure his heart would just explode, but after a few minutes it seemed to calm down. He had no idea how long he had been laying there. He finally calmed felt he was safe enough to move.
He sat up, "crisscross applesauce," as his teacher, Mrs. Jamison called it, and then just plain wept. How could he, only eight years old have done such a thing? He never meant to be a killer. He was confused; how could he even feel compassion for the dead, if he was indeed a cold blooded killer? What would become of him? What would God do, if there really was a God? It had not been intentional, but then he knew that was a lie, too. He had started off the contest without thought to the possible consequences, and he knew that was enough to make him guilty. And then, for whatever reason, he had pulled the trigger, and there was no getting around that.
"Please God, can't we just go back to the moment before? Please God? I won't hurt anyone or anything ever again! I promise!" He tried to look up into the sky, but his tears were too full now, and he couldn't see anything except a slurry and foggy storm of guilt. He wept so deeply that his gut hurt even more than before.
Suddenly, he heard what sounded like a loud roar or groan coming from deep within the body, and he jumped up, screamed, and ran off down the creek bed as fast as he could. The tree branches and leaves seemed to blur by, he was running so fast, and he could think of nothing except getting away. He slipped on some mud, fell against some more rocks and slid, out of control, right into the creek. Splashing into a thick stagnant pool, he rolled over and a mouth full of really scummy creek water went into his throat. It tasted horrible, but he didn't have time to get sick again. He wiped the slimy algae off his chin and stumbled up onto his feet and continued running, sure that death itself was chasing him.
He was confident he was being followed now by something deeply horrible. "Maybe it's the ghost of . . . . . . ahhhh!" He screamed as he heard a branch break somewhere behind him, and he ran as fast as he could. The forest now whipping by him at light speed, he felt ripping and searing pain in his body. He thought he certainly was close to death; his legs were burning and his cheek bleeding from scratches of rocks when he fell, and the branches that whipped his face as he ran.
He knew he couldn't go home. They would know. His mom and dad were superhuman in their ability to see when something was wrong, and this would be like a big neon flashing sign. How he had hidden what he had done so far, he wasn't sure. It was probably due to the fact that his parents were both so busy this time of year. They were always complaining about taxes; how the government was like a big growing cancer and how the liberals should all be lined up and shot. Maybe this was all his dad's fault, he thought, as he considered any way possible he could put the blame on someone else for his apparently evil mind. Suddenly, and in fact sadly, he knew his parents really had not even given him a thought in the past few weeks. Maybe he was suffering from neglect; maybe the jury would have mercy on him because of that?
He knew one thing, if he came in crying, and running, and scared, they would instantly know he had done something horribly wrong. He definitely had to calm down before he went home. He could tell his mom later, after he had calmed down, that he had just slipped and fallen in the creek. That was the truth, anyway. Just not all the truth. He wouldn't tell her he had been checking on the corpse of a body he had murdered, or that she should turn him into the police so he could be fried in the electric chair, or anything like that. He laughed in the middle of his tears. "Why was he laughing?" he wondered, and, at that moment, was sure he really was evil. Then he figured this was what his dad was always telling him was his "penchant for sarcasm." Where did his dad think he got that from anyway? He chuckled to himself, the humor almost shoving aside his torment. Almost.
He just couldn't stop thinking about a life lost, for no good reason. How could he live with himself?
He gulped in a dry-heave-extra-breath, that kept shaking his whole body every so often, even though he had stopped crying. He hated those kind of trailing heaves. They were always a dead give away, and could creep up any time, even a very long time after a good cry, unexpectedly giving away the very best of secrets.
Tristan ducked into the garage. It was a barn really, he knew, but they had not moved to the farm with the intention of actually farming, just getting out of the city, so they all called it the garage. Its coolness, in Tristan's mind, was because there were so many cool places to hide, a billion or more spiders, and a couple of rat snakes that called it home. His dad parked the family cars in it, and a riding mower that Tristan lamented he would never be taught to drive now that he was a murderer.
That one hurt. He had fantasized endlessly about driving that tractor. His dad had promised him that he would teach him to drive it by himself that very summer, but Tristan knew that killers didn't get to do those kinds of things.
He was suddenly awash in all the things he would never do. Once they found out about what had happened, his life would be over. No high school, no driving a car, no dating girls; of course that dating girls part was more of a relief, as he could not really imagine himself touching a girl without feeling much as he did about touching the corpse.
Suddenly, Tristan realized he had fallen asleep in a pile of hay and an hour or so had passed. He could tell by the waning sunlight. He stretched and went over to the door and peered out. That's when he knew his secret was out and it was all over. His heart stopped altogether.
A police car was parked in the driveway, and its lights were flashing.
He was surprised to find he felt a tiny bit of relief. He thought it was weird that the worst and most horrifying thing that could happen had happened, and yet it brought him a sense of peace. He took a full breath and tried to exhale, but it came out in trembling bursts, as he slowly walked towards the house. He didn't want to be a killer anymore. His head down, he felt like he wanted to cry again, but the tears had dried and no more would come. It was over and he knew it.
He had never, ever meant to kill. He had taken his dad's 22 rifle, and just wanted to play around in the forest pretending to be a secret service agent. He had known it was loaded, but never in his wildest dreams did he know what he would do. He hadn't even considered that he was capable of such violence. One minute he was tracking an innocent life, lining up his victim in his sights, pretending to be the secret service guy, like the ones in the movie about the president, and the next thing he knew, he'd pulled the trigger.
It sounded like a cap pistol, not loud at all like he had expected. Not like in the movies. Not even like his games, with the sound turned up only half way. It wasn't even real sounding. But it was real enough to kill. It was like slow motion when it struck an obviously mortal wound, and the body seemed dead in midair, before it hit the ground. He wasn't even that good a shot, but this time he had been extremely good. To kill with a single shot. His aim had been perfect and the head-shot, deadly. He guessed he would have made a good secret service agent. Not now though. Secret service agents did not go around killing randomly.
But it was over now.
Tristan couldn't put it off any longer. He numbly walked into the house, and found his family was sitting quietly while the policeman was talking. They seemed to know he had come in but were not looking directly at him, except for his dad, who gave him a quick glance. In that glance was a very clear look of disappointment. His mom had obviously been crying. His dad had asked his brother to go to his bedroom. His brother was wickedly disappointed, as would be all little brothers who were possessed by evil spirits, as Tristan suspected was true with his six year old brother David.
The policeman was saying, "Do you want me to step outside while you talk to him?"
"No." His dad replied as he turned to face Tristan. Tristan felt a sadness, in his dad's eyes as they looked into him. Tristan looked at the floor but it didn't take the bad feeling away. Then his dad spoke and every question stabbed at Tristan and hurt him. It was really all over.
"Did you do it, son? Did you take my gun out that day? Did you do this horrible thing?"
His mom broke out crying again, and that was all it took; Tristan simply collapsed in a confessional, weeping heap. He had not meant to kill, and yet he had. He told them everything. How he had been playing and stalking his victim. How it was only a game. How he had been perfectly quiet and sneaky. How he had tracked and aimed and then how his brain just decided do it without asking him. How he saw himself pull the trigger as if it were a dream. How the head had jerked to the side and the spurt of blood, and the body, already dead weight, had fallen lifeless to the forest floor. How he had covered up the body to hide his mistake.
The policeman told them that Mr. Dawson had reported finding the body this morning, and it was just a matter of time, considering there were only two other families within ten miles; and a good thing Tristan had confessed; something about, "it would go easier on him."
His dad sighed, and put his arm around his mother who was calmed a bit, but still whimpering. "Why shouldn't she be crying," Tristan thought, her little boy was a cold hard killer.
"Boys will be boys." Dad smiled nervously, trying hard to ease the moment.
"Yeah", his brother chimed in from the hallway, "I've done bad stuff like that, too."
"David you get back in your room!" his mom yelled out, and then turning on his dad, "Honey, how can you say that?!" She flashed an angry look at Tristan's dad, and he smiled an awkward smile and tried to salvage the moment.
"Listen, I'm not saying that I condone killing, but I did the same darned thing when I was just a little older than he is now, honey, and I grew up alright! It's not such a big thing, is it really? Officer? Help me out here." Looking around to see if anyone was buying, he found that, of course no one was. God bless my dad for trying, thought Tristan.
Then the policeman, mercifully stepped in.
"Well it is a crime, no matter how you cut it; the piper has to be paid here. We can't just wink this away. Killing is killing, accident or no; and well, we have a confession now and it isn't anywhere near being an accident, and Mr. Dawson is pressing charges. I guess it's not the worst thing a boy could do, but that bull was Mr. Dawson's most prized breeding bull and there will be a judgment of restitution I can tell you—at a minimum—if not some time in juvenile hall. Juvenile hall is a tough place to spend time, I can tell you."
Then Tristan saw it. Almost imperceptible, but he saw it. The policeman actually winked at his dad, and Tristan knew. There was hope!
Tristan allowed himself to look a little more pitiful and scared. Oh sure, he knew his life was over, as far as a good grounding would do and that was bad enough, but he would pay the price gladly.
"Well I guess, we can do this the easy way, this once," the policeman said, exaggeratedly, back to dad. Tristan considered how adults really thought kids were dumb.
His dad sighed again, and looked at Tristan sternly, which he did really well, and agreed with a grumble that he would go next door with a check for the cost of the bull. He mumbled something about how Tristan would be paying that back for several years.
Tristan couldn't help his smile breaking out on his face like an uncontrollable seizure. It was his first real smile since the killing. He would have a tomorrow, after all, even if it was in his room doing his time. He thanked God, in case there was one, and decided he would write a note to Mr. Dawson by way of an apology. Of course, he decided he would do that only after his mom insisted on it, and he promised he would hand deliver it and he would never again touch anything of dad's again, especially his .22 rifle.
Tristan listened to the rest as if he were reading someone else's story. He was mostly considering how close he had come to the gas chamber, how long he would really be grounded, and wondering how long it would be before he would be able to see all the bones on the corpse.
February 2, 2011
Old Man Jackson
By Rob Krabbe
© 1997 Rob Krabbe, all rights reserved
With some degree of surprise he felt a familiar nuisance, swelling up hard. Just a tad prideful, he reached to his brow, just below the hairline, and squeezed the massive boil on his forehead. The things normally found in a boil sprayed from it, raining down upon the young girl. Her perfect face, was now speckled with fluids from his infection. Of course she said nothing, nor moved a muscle; she was after all, a Princess . . . and tied up.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower in tone, and his words excruciatingly slow. He leaned in closer to her, "oh my . . . my . . . my . . . I'm terribly sorry," he whispered. He never took his blood-shot eyes off her, as he backed up and sat down on a chair next to the table. He rested his elbows on the table surface and with his face nestled between his hands, smiled at the Princess, his every movement taking an eternity. Wetting his swollen lips he bent over close to her and inhaled deeply. He could smell her royal blood; sweet and innocent. He leaned in and licked her baby-like face with his thorny tongue, swallowed hard, and sighed. "Mush. . .I mean (he swallowed hard) much better." A tittle of laughter escaped his dripping mouth, as he slurped in the goo that hung from his lower lip. With a slight grunt, he rose from his chair, clanging his spoon on his crystal chalice. "I have an announcement," he said comically, "a toast!" as if to a room full of people, "I welcome this wonderful princess . . . this . . . this exquisite creature, to our happy home." He looked down at her lying, trussed up on his table, and winked. "Welcome my dear."
He raised the glass of wine, smelled it's wonderful and subtle bouquet, smiled widely, lifted it to his lips and downed it; bursting out in horrendous laughter as he smashed the chalice to the floor. In the next swift motion he lifted the meat cleaver from its place on the table and brought it crashing down with tremendous strength upon the girl's soft, butter like throat, cleanly severing her head from her shoulders with no more effort than one lifts a finger. The head rolled over and fell off the table to the floor with a dull sounding thud, leaving a trail of blood. Without a glance, he lifted his boot and brought it down on her head, stopping it from rolling any farther. "I hope you enjoy your stay as much as we will!" His laughter was so robust that he coughed up a mass of gray mucus, which he spit onto the floor beside the girl's head.
"Wife!" he yelled, as he reached down to pick up the head by it's hair—he was suddenly very serious, "prepare the cooking pots, while I carve her into healthy portions. We will feast for days on this plump princess—this pudgy pudding girl." He began to go to work, in a graceful and seemingly effortless dance, on the body with his cleaver, cutting it up into meal size portions. He was fast and accurate, not missing a beat. The sound of wet, meaty chopping, echoed from their humble cabin and throughout the forest, as the poor unfortunate girl went to "royal" pieces.
Old Uncle Jackson smiled as he closed the old worn book and set it down on the wooden nightstand, next to a burning oil lamp. He paused for a moment, looking at the old leather cover on the book. A smile came to his wrinkled face—a warm familiar smile. Many were the times he had enjoyed listening to his grandfather read aloud from the same book of scary stories.
Uncle Jackson had a look about him of old comfortable love. Kind and generous was his countenance with a hint of precocious humor seasoning his personality and evidenced by the warm twinkle in his eyes. He was a gentle man, generous of nature, who could not hurt a soul, even if his life depending on it. He was a man who truly enjoyed life and laughter, and especially the wonderful aura of children.
He looked down at his niece, through the dim light, with as serious a face as he could muster. "So, my dear, do you like that little story so far?" The little nine year old girl was shivering equally from fright as from chill. She had her blanket pulled up nearly covering her face, her little green eyes darting to and fro, surveying the room carefully from underneath her tussled, light brown hair.
When she spoke, it was in a whisper. It was as if she were afraid that the characters in the book might hear her, and jump out and attack. "I think it was . . . awful, uncle Jackson, just awful—was it for reals?" the petite, green eyed beauty' asked, through her horror. Old Uncle Jackson smiled, and bent down, so close; Janice could feel his whiskers; "what do you think? Go to sleep now, pumpkin. I'll stay awake for a awhile to ward off the evil spirits." He gave her a kiss, puffed out the lamp, and went lightly from the girl's room.
"I love you, pumpkin," he whispered quietly over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him."I love you too Unc," she whispered, snapping the covers back up over her face so she would be safe from the night. He shuffled down the dark hallway, lingered for a moment, then went back to little Janice's room.
"Pumpkin?"
"Yes Uncle Jackson?"
"I'm sorry you go to bed this night with only porridge on your stomach, I wish I had more to offer you."
"Oh it's alright, I love porridge. Anyway, you can't beat porridge, topped with a great scary story."
"Thank you princess, I know you didn't bargain for this when you came to visit, but we'll do the best that we can with what we've been given, by the Man Upstairs. Maybe tomorrow there will be something in one of my traps; then we will eat like kings! I love you honey."
"I know Unc, and I love you too."
Jackson smiled. It filled his heart with warmth, to hear his niece call him Unc, just as if it were a magic spell. The combination of her innocent faith and her love, freely given, all rolled up into one endearment, once spoken, had the power to refresh and comfort his very soul. She was such a delightful girl, and he loved her so. He was, of course, not happy in his half-sister's untimely death, he just prayed, every night, this wonderful girl would be allowed to stay with him always. He knew he could not replace her parents, but he would love her like his own child, which of course, he had had none.
Old man Jackson retreated to his rocking chair, by the fireplace. The cabin felt a little cold, and he considered whether the chill warranted another log on the fire . . . he decided not and rocked off to sleep. Better to save as much of the wood as he could, in case of a bad winter, he thought to himself, as he pulled a light blanket over his legs. Two weeks later, the storms came. Jackson had hoped he would trap some food before the winter set in. Sadly, it seemed that this would not be the case. The first storm of the season was turning out to be the worst storm he had ever witnessed. The winds were fifty to sixty miles an hour, and it was snowing heavily. The snow blew across the landscape like a wet sandstorm, piling up everywhere it fell. Luckily, he had cut and stacked a great deal of firewood before the first sign of weather, and his frugal nature meant he had a goodly amount stored up of oil and other supplies.
We should be just fine, he thought, the whole winter, if the season's not too long.
"Uncle Jackson?" He heard Janice's voice faintly, from her room.
"Yes Pumpkin?" he called.
"It's time for my story now—I'm clean and dry."
He smiled knowing she had only been in the bath for three minutes and could not have sufficiently cleaned herself, but he would play along, "did you wash behind your ears?"
"Yes sir." Jackson rose from his chair "I'll be right there, Princess. Put on your warm jammies, and crawl into bed."
"Yes Uncle, but hurry, I'm already getting sleepy eyes, and I don't want to miss story time."
Old Uncle Jackson reached up to the top of the woodpile retrieving two logs. Throwing them both onto the fire he shuffled down the hall toward Janice's room, his old knee giving him a bit of pain. He, not one to ever complain, warmed it with a rub, and made his way into her room.
"What story do we want to hear tonight?" he asked as he entered her room.
"How about the story, The Ogre and the Orphanage?"
"You have a fascination with such scary things my dear." "I love to be scared, besides it's not so frightening as the one about the princess." "Oh well, maybe I should just read you an even better story—better than either of those two!" "Better than The Ogre and the Princess?" Now she was intrigued.
"Much better!" He sat down on the chair next to Janice's bed, and picked up the book opening it to the very last story. Blowing dust from it's pages, he began reading.
"Once upon a time, there was a . . . by the way did I tell you that this story is true? . . . anyway, once upon a time there was a small village, nestled in the smokey hills of Cancaroon, (Janice snuggled deeply into her pillow and smiled. Jackson continued) and in that village lived a family of forest workers. The towns people called them tree-ers, as they cut down hundreds of trees each week for lumber and firewood. Seven men in one house with one women, the youngest of the six children, named Cerise. (Jackson looked down at his niece with a smile on his face as he continued the story from memory.) The men of the family were all very handsome—handsome and single, even the father, had been single for six years since his wife had died from a fever. The women of the town had always been interested in the young men; courting them with letters and baskets of food. The men were the pride of the town; the only single men for miles around.""One day the youngest boy and his sister went into the town of Woo, which was three miles from their cabin, to get some supplies—"
Suddenly a tremendous crashing sound from the yard, interrupted the story telling.
"What the?" Jackson hurried as fast as his old legs could carry him, out and down the hall. He called behind him, "You stay put, young lady!"
"Unc?" She called after him, suddenly very frightened, beginning to shake. She heard her Uncle go out into the living area, and then open the front door of the cabin. "Unc? . . .hello? . . .Uncle Jackson." Then she heard him scream, her heart jumped. Then nothing but silence. "Uncle Jackson . . .please answer me!" She was really scared and didn't know what to do. She heard him scream again, this time however it was different.
"YaHoo!" Janice heard him jumping up and down and carrying on.
"What is it Unc please!?"
"Quick! Come out here and help me . . . YaHoo!"
Janice jumped up out of bed, threw her slippers and pretty pink robe on, and ran as fast as she could down the hall and out the front door into the scary night.
There, in the front yard, she found her uncle bent over one of his traps. Could it be? Did he catch something to eat?"
"There you are princess . . . go get my club, it's not quite dead. YaHoo! Hurry now, I'll watch it to make sure it doesn't get loose. The Lord has blessed us tonight! YAHOO!"
Janice jumped for glee. She hurried to the shed, so excited she did not even notice the cold, or the scary shadows, or spider webs, or complete darkness in the shed.
"Here you go Unc." She yelled as she ran back and handed him the big wooden club. It was then that she could see the beautiful catch. They would be able to eat for days on it. Jackson had tossed a rope around it's neck for extra safety. He threw the other end of it to Janice."Hold on tight, princess, in case it comes to. My what a big fat one!"There at the other end of the rope was the biggest and fattest human girl-child Janice had ever seen. One leg was caught in the trap, and broken.
"Eeyuu! Hurry Uncle, I hadn't remembered how scary these humans really look in person."
"Don't tell me your afraid of a human girl-child?" He laughed.
Janice shook her head, stubbornly but not confidently in negation. Uncle Jackson took the club and cracked it over the girls head, a little too hard.
"Well that did it!" Janice teased.
"It's alright, we usually make stew out of that part anyway, and I don't like stew. Jackson smiled at his niece, she always looked at things in such a positive light. The body had stopped moving around. Jackson released the steel trap from it's leg.
"Let me help, Unc," she said as she jumped right in and tossed the body over her shoulder, "I can carry things pretty good you know!"
"Yes, pumpkin I guess you can." He smiled, pridefully. His little niece was only a scant eight foot tall, yet she was as strong as many ogre children twice her size and age. Janice thundered playfully into the house, taking out a good seized chunk of the doorjamb. Old Uncle Jackson laughed to himself, he remembered when she was a scant six feet tall. Right then she peered out of the house, back at her Uncle, "It's pretty heavy, Unc, how much will we get out of it?" He reached up and pulled something gross and wormy looking out of his thorny nose, thought for a moment and said, "Several great meals, honey, and a even few light snacks." He laughed at their unexpected blessing, as he reached up and popped a huge puss wart on his chin and then hurried inside slamming the door behind them.
THE END© 1997 Rob Krabbe, all rights reserved
© 1997 Rob Krabbe, all rights reserved
Just a fun little story I wrote a few years ago, and published in "Suspense Magazine." Just a tiny warning, its a little edgy. Enjoy!He was very old, and he had seen it all at one time or another in his life. Even so, never in a million years, could he have imagined that the Princess would grace his humble table. "I am certainly delighted and honored to extend my hospitality to you, your highness," he said graciously, bowing from the waist. It had been ten years since he had even seen her. She had grown into a comely young woman. Her hair was the color of fine spun gold, lacy and delicate to the touch—an ethereal banquet for his long, sensitive, somewhat knurled fingers, he thought as he slowly and gently brushed the hair from her lovely milky face. It gave him a secret chill to touch her young skin, which was as soft as butter and warm as the summer sun to his quivering, wrinkled hands.
With some degree of surprise he felt a familiar nuisance, swelling up hard. Just a tad prideful, he reached to his brow, just below the hairline, and squeezed the massive boil on his forehead. The things normally found in a boil sprayed from it, raining down upon the young girl. Her perfect face, was now speckled with fluids from his infection. Of course she said nothing, nor moved a muscle; she was after all, a Princess . . . and tied up.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower in tone, and his words excruciatingly slow. He leaned in closer to her, "oh my . . . my . . . my . . . I'm terribly sorry," he whispered. He never took his blood-shot eyes off her, as he backed up and sat down on a chair next to the table. He rested his elbows on the table surface and with his face nestled between his hands, smiled at the Princess, his every movement taking an eternity. Wetting his swollen lips he bent over close to her and inhaled deeply. He could smell her royal blood; sweet and innocent. He leaned in and licked her baby-like face with his thorny tongue, swallowed hard, and sighed. "Mush. . .I mean (he swallowed hard) much better." A tittle of laughter escaped his dripping mouth, as he slurped in the goo that hung from his lower lip. With a slight grunt, he rose from his chair, clanging his spoon on his crystal chalice. "I have an announcement," he said comically, "a toast!" as if to a room full of people, "I welcome this wonderful princess . . . this . . . this exquisite creature, to our happy home." He looked down at her lying, trussed up on his table, and winked. "Welcome my dear."
He raised the glass of wine, smelled it's wonderful and subtle bouquet, smiled widely, lifted it to his lips and downed it; bursting out in horrendous laughter as he smashed the chalice to the floor. In the next swift motion he lifted the meat cleaver from its place on the table and brought it crashing down with tremendous strength upon the girl's soft, butter like throat, cleanly severing her head from her shoulders with no more effort than one lifts a finger. The head rolled over and fell off the table to the floor with a dull sounding thud, leaving a trail of blood. Without a glance, he lifted his boot and brought it down on her head, stopping it from rolling any farther. "I hope you enjoy your stay as much as we will!" His laughter was so robust that he coughed up a mass of gray mucus, which he spit onto the floor beside the girl's head.
"Wife!" he yelled, as he reached down to pick up the head by it's hair—he was suddenly very serious, "prepare the cooking pots, while I carve her into healthy portions. We will feast for days on this plump princess—this pudgy pudding girl." He began to go to work, in a graceful and seemingly effortless dance, on the body with his cleaver, cutting it up into meal size portions. He was fast and accurate, not missing a beat. The sound of wet, meaty chopping, echoed from their humble cabin and throughout the forest, as the poor unfortunate girl went to "royal" pieces.
Old Uncle Jackson smiled as he closed the old worn book and set it down on the wooden nightstand, next to a burning oil lamp. He paused for a moment, looking at the old leather cover on the book. A smile came to his wrinkled face—a warm familiar smile. Many were the times he had enjoyed listening to his grandfather read aloud from the same book of scary stories.
Uncle Jackson had a look about him of old comfortable love. Kind and generous was his countenance with a hint of precocious humor seasoning his personality and evidenced by the warm twinkle in his eyes. He was a gentle man, generous of nature, who could not hurt a soul, even if his life depending on it. He was a man who truly enjoyed life and laughter, and especially the wonderful aura of children.
He looked down at his niece, through the dim light, with as serious a face as he could muster. "So, my dear, do you like that little story so far?" The little nine year old girl was shivering equally from fright as from chill. She had her blanket pulled up nearly covering her face, her little green eyes darting to and fro, surveying the room carefully from underneath her tussled, light brown hair.
When she spoke, it was in a whisper. It was as if she were afraid that the characters in the book might hear her, and jump out and attack. "I think it was . . . awful, uncle Jackson, just awful—was it for reals?" the petite, green eyed beauty' asked, through her horror. Old Uncle Jackson smiled, and bent down, so close; Janice could feel his whiskers; "what do you think? Go to sleep now, pumpkin. I'll stay awake for a awhile to ward off the evil spirits." He gave her a kiss, puffed out the lamp, and went lightly from the girl's room.
"I love you, pumpkin," he whispered quietly over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him."I love you too Unc," she whispered, snapping the covers back up over her face so she would be safe from the night. He shuffled down the dark hallway, lingered for a moment, then went back to little Janice's room.
"Pumpkin?"
"Yes Uncle Jackson?"
"I'm sorry you go to bed this night with only porridge on your stomach, I wish I had more to offer you."
"Oh it's alright, I love porridge. Anyway, you can't beat porridge, topped with a great scary story."
"Thank you princess, I know you didn't bargain for this when you came to visit, but we'll do the best that we can with what we've been given, by the Man Upstairs. Maybe tomorrow there will be something in one of my traps; then we will eat like kings! I love you honey."
"I know Unc, and I love you too."
Jackson smiled. It filled his heart with warmth, to hear his niece call him Unc, just as if it were a magic spell. The combination of her innocent faith and her love, freely given, all rolled up into one endearment, once spoken, had the power to refresh and comfort his very soul. She was such a delightful girl, and he loved her so. He was, of course, not happy in his half-sister's untimely death, he just prayed, every night, this wonderful girl would be allowed to stay with him always. He knew he could not replace her parents, but he would love her like his own child, which of course, he had had none.
Old man Jackson retreated to his rocking chair, by the fireplace. The cabin felt a little cold, and he considered whether the chill warranted another log on the fire . . . he decided not and rocked off to sleep. Better to save as much of the wood as he could, in case of a bad winter, he thought to himself, as he pulled a light blanket over his legs. Two weeks later, the storms came. Jackson had hoped he would trap some food before the winter set in. Sadly, it seemed that this would not be the case. The first storm of the season was turning out to be the worst storm he had ever witnessed. The winds were fifty to sixty miles an hour, and it was snowing heavily. The snow blew across the landscape like a wet sandstorm, piling up everywhere it fell. Luckily, he had cut and stacked a great deal of firewood before the first sign of weather, and his frugal nature meant he had a goodly amount stored up of oil and other supplies.
We should be just fine, he thought, the whole winter, if the season's not too long.
"Uncle Jackson?" He heard Janice's voice faintly, from her room.
"Yes Pumpkin?" he called.
"It's time for my story now—I'm clean and dry."
He smiled knowing she had only been in the bath for three minutes and could not have sufficiently cleaned herself, but he would play along, "did you wash behind your ears?"
"Yes sir." Jackson rose from his chair "I'll be right there, Princess. Put on your warm jammies, and crawl into bed."
"Yes Uncle, but hurry, I'm already getting sleepy eyes, and I don't want to miss story time."
Old Uncle Jackson reached up to the top of the woodpile retrieving two logs. Throwing them both onto the fire he shuffled down the hall toward Janice's room, his old knee giving him a bit of pain. He, not one to ever complain, warmed it with a rub, and made his way into her room.
"What story do we want to hear tonight?" he asked as he entered her room.
"How about the story, The Ogre and the Orphanage?"
"You have a fascination with such scary things my dear." "I love to be scared, besides it's not so frightening as the one about the princess." "Oh well, maybe I should just read you an even better story—better than either of those two!" "Better than The Ogre and the Princess?" Now she was intrigued.
"Much better!" He sat down on the chair next to Janice's bed, and picked up the book opening it to the very last story. Blowing dust from it's pages, he began reading.
"Once upon a time, there was a . . . by the way did I tell you that this story is true? . . . anyway, once upon a time there was a small village, nestled in the smokey hills of Cancaroon, (Janice snuggled deeply into her pillow and smiled. Jackson continued) and in that village lived a family of forest workers. The towns people called them tree-ers, as they cut down hundreds of trees each week for lumber and firewood. Seven men in one house with one women, the youngest of the six children, named Cerise. (Jackson looked down at his niece with a smile on his face as he continued the story from memory.) The men of the family were all very handsome—handsome and single, even the father, had been single for six years since his wife had died from a fever. The women of the town had always been interested in the young men; courting them with letters and baskets of food. The men were the pride of the town; the only single men for miles around.""One day the youngest boy and his sister went into the town of Woo, which was three miles from their cabin, to get some supplies—"
Suddenly a tremendous crashing sound from the yard, interrupted the story telling.
"What the?" Jackson hurried as fast as his old legs could carry him, out and down the hall. He called behind him, "You stay put, young lady!"
"Unc?" She called after him, suddenly very frightened, beginning to shake. She heard her Uncle go out into the living area, and then open the front door of the cabin. "Unc? . . .hello? . . .Uncle Jackson." Then she heard him scream, her heart jumped. Then nothing but silence. "Uncle Jackson . . .please answer me!" She was really scared and didn't know what to do. She heard him scream again, this time however it was different.
"YaHoo!" Janice heard him jumping up and down and carrying on.
"What is it Unc please!?"
"Quick! Come out here and help me . . . YaHoo!"
Janice jumped up out of bed, threw her slippers and pretty pink robe on, and ran as fast as she could down the hall and out the front door into the scary night.
There, in the front yard, she found her uncle bent over one of his traps. Could it be? Did he catch something to eat?"
"There you are princess . . . go get my club, it's not quite dead. YaHoo! Hurry now, I'll watch it to make sure it doesn't get loose. The Lord has blessed us tonight! YAHOO!"
Janice jumped for glee. She hurried to the shed, so excited she did not even notice the cold, or the scary shadows, or spider webs, or complete darkness in the shed.
"Here you go Unc." She yelled as she ran back and handed him the big wooden club. It was then that she could see the beautiful catch. They would be able to eat for days on it. Jackson had tossed a rope around it's neck for extra safety. He threw the other end of it to Janice."Hold on tight, princess, in case it comes to. My what a big fat one!"There at the other end of the rope was the biggest and fattest human girl-child Janice had ever seen. One leg was caught in the trap, and broken.
"Eeyuu! Hurry Uncle, I hadn't remembered how scary these humans really look in person."
"Don't tell me your afraid of a human girl-child?" He laughed.
Janice shook her head, stubbornly but not confidently in negation. Uncle Jackson took the club and cracked it over the girls head, a little too hard.
"Well that did it!" Janice teased.
"It's alright, we usually make stew out of that part anyway, and I don't like stew. Jackson smiled at his niece, she always looked at things in such a positive light. The body had stopped moving around. Jackson released the steel trap from it's leg.
"Let me help, Unc," she said as she jumped right in and tossed the body over her shoulder, "I can carry things pretty good you know!"
"Yes, pumpkin I guess you can." He smiled, pridefully. His little niece was only a scant eight foot tall, yet she was as strong as many ogre children twice her size and age. Janice thundered playfully into the house, taking out a good seized chunk of the doorjamb. Old Uncle Jackson laughed to himself, he remembered when she was a scant six feet tall. Right then she peered out of the house, back at her Uncle, "It's pretty heavy, Unc, how much will we get out of it?" He reached up and pulled something gross and wormy looking out of his thorny nose, thought for a moment and said, "Several great meals, honey, and a even few light snacks." He laughed at their unexpected blessing, as he reached up and popped a huge puss wart on his chin and then hurried inside slamming the door behind them.
THE END© 1997 Rob Krabbe, all rights reserved
February 1, 2011
The Next Time I Die
© 2011 Rob KrabbeThis is one hell of a great cemetery.
One of the best. People stay dead
here. Deep within the well-kept walls
of thick old magnolias that grow slow
and steady, fully unconcerned with
the plans and schemes of man.
My great grandfather planted the trees
here almost eighty years ago. Breaking
the warm southern wind during graveside
services all these years in return for
feeding them with our dead.
I love being here. Sometimes I watch
the long lines of mourners dressed in black,
the madness jumping out of cars, running
up to the tents, nervously sitting and praying,
shuffling off some guilt and running away,
back into the cars and off. Mostly I pray
for a slow steady rain so it feels like
an old black and white movie.
I love the manicured lawns too, the perfect lines
and corners rounded beautifully. Pots of plastic
flowers placed with precision on the same
spot of each grave, all decent and in order.
Flowers that will never die, lining the rows
of graves of people who never lived.
Another line of black cars pulls around the
back road, and out the gate like molasses.
The mourners already on cell phones making
plans for the rest of the day. Behind them,
slow and graceful, like a ballet, two old men
crank and lower the dearly departed into
the rich southern red clay.
There's the spot. Under a dying oak, on the
edge of just one more row. Red dirt, smells
like a rusty old working field in the rain. If I
thought that dirt would love me back, I'd lie
down right now in the shade of that last tree.
January 28, 2011
Carnitas & Manic Mango Salsa
© 2011 Rob Krabbe - Noon At NIght Publications
So far the only good and tasty "real Mexican food" in the Land of Dixie, is in my memory of some of the best music, cooked up in a mixed pot on the front lawn of a rented house on Avenida De Los Arboles back in the day before I figured out I was crazy.
When I lived in Los Angeles I spent a great amount of timetrying to remember if I wasa criminal or not.
A bread crumb trail of hopes on the orange and green tiled floor so I could find my way back in the angst ridden fog of that dry San Fernando Valley spring.
Not all bad, I used to love the smell of the hot spicy carnitas simmering in salsa over the wood coals in the back of Elena Consuela Alanso's neon blue and orange crumbling-plasterkitchen.
Cumin and green pepper aroma thick like a steam bath in the "Oahu Gentleman's Club," thatinvariably wafted through the room where we rehearsed Hawaiian party music in an actual "working band" called "The Udda Brown Boys."
I was the only "haole" playingslack-key steel guitar island tunes in a Mexican cover band, with twoMexicans, two Spaniards and aBrazilian, on that side of the San Diego County Line, and me? I lived day by day to get me a lung-full of air free from tyranny and the mass conspiracy that keptme sleepless, and hunting sanityin the poetry of the great masters.
One day, after a particularly hot set, we sounded so much like thefamed "Gabby Pahinui Band," the year they won the Moloka'i Folk Music Festival, that we all thought we "had what it takes."
We'd make the top ten Hawaiian pops, and turn the Polynesian music charts inside out without leaving the mild early-May weather in La Mesa, California.
Turns out, five Latinos, and a white guy, can't get many gigs playingHawaiian folk music in East LA gang banger beer bars, and birthday parties for the rich Westwood business suits.
Just a thin self-medicated line separated me and the entire world that was out to "get me," in those days, you know?
What we did have, sadly, was an ounce of good "Mexican Mayhem," in a bag, bought for less than street. The bag? That bag had a damned hole in it.
We left, less than high in a rusty back-firing stolen 1970 sun`dried blue grand marquis, a fine and noble automobile, with a trunk full of nothing but dreams and almost enough desire to get anywhere but where we were that day.
I pray to my darling Lithium, dear and sweet keeper of the expansive plans to rule the world. Accept, then, my offering; the keep of my realities; my tithe and adoration, as I laud yet another random god while chasing a better wounded healer.
Why did my doctor, a tall lankycotton swab of a man, say "we don't know much about this thing we call a brain?"
He was the expert and yet as, confidently as a close-to-retired whore in the back pew of a FullGospel Holiness Church, he says"take these pills three times a day." Pills that we "don't know how or why they work but they do," and then "call me asap, if you pass out, seize or go toxic."
All in everything considered,that leaves me sitting herethirty years later, in blessed remission, deep in the forest of the Upstate, between twofall creeks, and lazy kinder gentler rebellion.
I am off medication legitimately, eating carnitas and mango salsa, with baked pita bread chips, abit melancholic, thinking back on that wonderful funky place in the heart of Los Angeles,"Ticos Fine Mexican Food," with a nice tableside-made fresh guacamole.
An old friend of mine named Jose, high on Negra Modelo , sits down in my memory to play some nice Brazilian love songs on his hand made classical Spanish guitar personally signed by the great Jose Miguel Moreno.
So far the only good and tasty "real Mexican food" in the Land of Dixie, is in my memory of some of the best music, cooked up in a mixed pot on the front lawn of a rented house on Avenida De Los Arboles back in the day before I figured out I was crazy.
When I lived in Los Angeles I spent a great amount of timetrying to remember if I wasa criminal or not.
A bread crumb trail of hopes on the orange and green tiled floor so I could find my way back in the angst ridden fog of that dry San Fernando Valley spring.
Not all bad, I used to love the smell of the hot spicy carnitas simmering in salsa over the wood coals in the back of Elena Consuela Alanso's neon blue and orange crumbling-plasterkitchen.
Cumin and green pepper aroma thick like a steam bath in the "Oahu Gentleman's Club," thatinvariably wafted through the room where we rehearsed Hawaiian party music in an actual "working band" called "The Udda Brown Boys."
I was the only "haole" playingslack-key steel guitar island tunes in a Mexican cover band, with twoMexicans, two Spaniards and aBrazilian, on that side of the San Diego County Line, and me? I lived day by day to get me a lung-full of air free from tyranny and the mass conspiracy that keptme sleepless, and hunting sanityin the poetry of the great masters.
One day, after a particularly hot set, we sounded so much like thefamed "Gabby Pahinui Band," the year they won the Moloka'i Folk Music Festival, that we all thought we "had what it takes."
We'd make the top ten Hawaiian pops, and turn the Polynesian music charts inside out without leaving the mild early-May weather in La Mesa, California.
Turns out, five Latinos, and a white guy, can't get many gigs playingHawaiian folk music in East LA gang banger beer bars, and birthday parties for the rich Westwood business suits.
Just a thin self-medicated line separated me and the entire world that was out to "get me," in those days, you know?
What we did have, sadly, was an ounce of good "Mexican Mayhem," in a bag, bought for less than street. The bag? That bag had a damned hole in it.
We left, less than high in a rusty back-firing stolen 1970 sun`dried blue grand marquis, a fine and noble automobile, with a trunk full of nothing but dreams and almost enough desire to get anywhere but where we were that day.
I pray to my darling Lithium, dear and sweet keeper of the expansive plans to rule the world. Accept, then, my offering; the keep of my realities; my tithe and adoration, as I laud yet another random god while chasing a better wounded healer.
Why did my doctor, a tall lankycotton swab of a man, say "we don't know much about this thing we call a brain?"
He was the expert and yet as, confidently as a close-to-retired whore in the back pew of a FullGospel Holiness Church, he says"take these pills three times a day." Pills that we "don't know how or why they work but they do," and then "call me asap, if you pass out, seize or go toxic."
All in everything considered,that leaves me sitting herethirty years later, in blessed remission, deep in the forest of the Upstate, between twofall creeks, and lazy kinder gentler rebellion.
I am off medication legitimately, eating carnitas and mango salsa, with baked pita bread chips, abit melancholic, thinking back on that wonderful funky place in the heart of Los Angeles,"Ticos Fine Mexican Food," with a nice tableside-made fresh guacamole.
An old friend of mine named Jose, high on Negra Modelo , sits down in my memory to play some nice Brazilian love songs on his hand made classical Spanish guitar personally signed by the great Jose Miguel Moreno.
From a Krabbe Desk
A thought, now and then, this "blog," and it is more a matter of filtering than writing. It is that scavenging through the thoughts to find one or two that transcend from an inner reality to a deciphe
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