Simon and Potally

Simon had used up all of his brain tablets for the day. He was completely exhausted and still had to bend to the will of his sister; this meant running her errands. It was the little things that bugged him. Of course he could never talk back to her. Punishment was swift, and any word spoken after her decree would be added to his daily whipping schedule. Most days he required at least two straight hours of whipping. The first hour was done by a professional, thirty mintues was done by Potally herself, twenty five minutes was done by Potally's husband (a real jackass named Fio) and for the last five minutes he was required to do it to himself. Afterwards, she would lie him on the floor, stand on his back and give him the sternest talking to she could afford while still keeping her balance. 

Simon would not report the times to be great. "How are you doing?" one would ask, and he would be caught. Terrible, he thought. He was always on his way to some high fashion store or on some asinine errand, but yet he didn't know how to react. I'm not doing well, but I do not want to show that. Why should I bring them down just because I'm already there? But, be honest, he thought. So he would try to manufacture happiness. He would remember a hilarious joke he heard on TV. He would recall his friend doing the silliest, wiggliest dance. It never worked in time. About forty five minutes later his efforts would bear fruit. The shop keepers he visited thought it was his glee over their product. When he burst into almost insane laughter whilst buying his sister's wedding dress six months ago, kind Mr. Avero thought it was his ceaseless joy for his sister's forthcoming ceremony. "Keep it rolling, my good boy! You're a good brother too! Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." Simon chortled when picking up Potally's new art from the arrogant frenchman, Jean Sousan. This infuriated him because the painting was imagined and drawn by his recently deceased grandmother. She had put to canvas her last memory. Doctor at her side. She unable to move. Doctor staring deeply into her chart. Family at the foot of the bed, Jean Sousan gripping the metal bedframe, downcast Bozo the clown with balloons sagging. The worst news imparted. And this fruitball Simon had the leaking brainmelon to laugh about it! Jean Sousan stood over Simon. Simon was still reeling within from the laughter he wished he could express but did his damnest to hold back. Sousan nearly slapped him. He raised his hand, thought better of it because of Potally's stature in the community, and covered the averted action by blocking the sun, that streamed through the display window, from his sensitive eyes. 

Art in hand, Simon left Sousan's, walked his lonely path home and deliberated the day's happenings. He began to feel somber again. He stopped by a candy shop for a lolly. Leaving with three in his mouth and twelve in his front pocket, he began to feel better, lighter. A little sway from his hips merged with his step. His arms swung loosely beside his torso. They swung towards the sky. He stopped to wonder at them; they continued to swing. Now he skipped and hopped and cavorted. Neighbors and townsfolk saw him. Some laughed, some drummed and sang to his beat, and some bit at their novel covers. Suddenly Simon burst into song and spine wrenching frivolity. With such intensity and severity of exertion did he flop about, that the awful painting slipped from his grasp and sailed high into the air. Up and up and over rooftops it soared. He stopped, mortified. It just keeps going up, he thought.

"Rest assured it will fall, sonny," Sammy Old Timer mumbled. Simon could hear the old man's false teeth smack against his gums; they were surely secured too lightly. "I know it will fall, Old Timer. I just didn't expect it to take off like that."

"Yeah, well, some take off and some don't take nothin' at all. I s'pect it's cause a the paint dryin' diff'rent."

Simon just walked away. Head down, knowing the exact number of lashes he would receive. He stopped and sat on a stump, happy for shade. Run, run, perhaps I shall, he thought.

"SIMON!" Potally's voice ripped through the landscape, severing branches from the greenest of trees. He whistled his response that meant, "Coming quickly, as you command!" 

And so he returned to his sister. She was in her bed chamber, standing triumphantly on her love nest. She held a man's head in her hands. She tossed it from hand to hand and then caught it in the middle so Simon could discern the face. It belonged to his best friend Barno. "Where..." he began. She merely pointed. Barno was a consummate dancer. Of all types. His favorite was tap. And that is what he was doing. He was tap dancing his death beat, minus one head. Simon could tell it had not been long since the severing of his head, for his body was still mostly upright, and the beat was held solid. Seconds passed, and as blood spurted and spat to partake of its new freedom, Simon saw the torso begin to teeter. The legs stiffened to hold out, but soon could no longer. It flopped with a thud, the ankles still straining, and then it was done. 

"UNJUST!" Simon cried. In a moment too quickly passed to be analyzed, and with movements too frenzied to be interrupted, Simon ripped off his sister's crown and ate it jewel by jewel before her very eyes. 

"No!" She cried. Helpless she had become. "Please stop. Don't!"

But he didn't. And she watched. Having some trouble passing the massive jewel in the center of the head piece down his esophagus, he thought he had gone too far. Salivary glands working overtime delivered the lubrication necessary to shove the whole bit down. So I haven't gone too far, thought Simon. How far can I go? he wondered. So he grabbed his sister by the hand and took her out of her castle. She was trembling at every step, still gripping Barno's head. He took her to his tiny shack, fed her soup and placed Barno's head on his mantle, which stared bug eyed at his one prized possession, a nine foot grand piano. Potally was fed clam chowder in a breadbowl. She even at the bowl, which he had never seen her do before. And they talked. He told her his feelings. He reminisced, reminded her of when Dad married Mom and how funny it was that they couldn't remember that because they were not yet conceived. How odd that I cannot remember things before I was born, Simon mused. Potally, fearing her life was in danger chimed in at every available moment, affirming his correctness and rendering her voice raspy and overworked. His had more endurance - he was used to friendly conversation. And then he simply stared at her. She began to get the point at last. She realized what they had been to each other as brother and sister. He stared. Leaned closer and closer. She stayed put. They were almost touching noses. Deeply staring. When Simon felt there was nothing more to do, say, think or express, he jerked his head up, kissed her forehead and wandered off into the woods.

Brother and sister are born hand in hand, but it is not a bond that is long held sacred. A different sort of pair they are as growing siblings. Goes equally for a doubling of boys or girls. Each is unique, and each walk side by side, though they may be worlds apart, without pause, until the time of one or both's demise. If one is left alive they might breathe a sigh and finally know what it was all about, holding the other high in their memory. Some, frail and thin, might throw their hands up, exclaim some nonsense question and answer themselves saying, "Exactly!" And that too is what it was about; their lives together. Together, apart, one way or the other. Rolling, rolling, rolling, the train will meet its destination.

Choo choo.

INTRODUCING: SWEET PEA SQUISHING CO.

I hearby christen the new wholly for profit Sweet Pea Squishing Co. open for business. In 10 years, we hope to squish ALL the peas. But we need your help. Volunteers can donate their time to squish all around the world. They can squish from home. They can squish while on a lunch date. They can even squish during those 15 minute breaks at work. We know you want squishing to be a part of your life. We aim to facilitate your interest and to spread Sweet Pea's mission all over the world. Join us. Too many are confused and dumbfounded by whole peas! The time has come to right all wrongs and make juice of what is far too intimidating!

Say your cousin needs some convincing. Simply illustrate that squished peas are far more delicious than their evil non-squished brethren. They will soon understand. The world will understand, and deliciousness will abound! No longer will food be limited by culture and society. Eat how you want! The squished peas encourage individuality! Roll in them! Play with them! Rub them on someone else! They'll love it too! Get squished and join the revolution!

Peas help us!

Maddy's Hour

"The babies are upset! The babies are SCREAMING!"

Madeline was all out of sorts. Left to tend to the infants for an hour, she had made it to minute 36, and now the walls of her world had come tumbling down. Because of the children. Not babies, but the Davids and Celias and Stephens and Emilys. They rejected what she fed them as inferior to their mother's teat, and clobbered her hands from their bodies; their fists surprisingly strong. 

But there was no one around. No one to assist, no one to hand duties off to. Maddy was left alone with the babies for an hour, and she still had a terrifying twenty minutes remaining. She edged back towards the viewing glass. Such a ruckus was being hurled against the walls of that room. Some of the tiny faces were turning purple, little veins protruding from their skulls, threatening to pop. 

Finally Maddy broke through her hesitation and entered the last digit of her security code. The door wooshed open, and now she knew she was in for it. The screaming would not stop. She could not get it to stop. Not for all the lullabies she sang, or the soothing poems she read. The content or the quality of the recitation mattered not. They wanted Maddy gone! She had not wanted her hour. She wanted nothing to do with children. But if she was going to find a mate, she needed her resume to reflect adequate caretaking abilities. Nobody liked a slouch in any of the important Cultivation Categories: Massage, Child Rearing, Womanly Instinct, Aggressive Negotiation, Effortless Listening, Empathy, Sympathy, Moral Certitude, Love and Cooking. Men had to complete courses in Business, Social Awareness, Exploitation of Perceived Weakness, Aggressive Thought Forming and Love. And new courses not much cared for such as: Empathy, Conflict Resolution, Neutral Posture, Heatrtfelt Expression and Thoughtful Gazing. 

Maddy was one step away from failing multible courses if she could not pass this hour with some degree of success. The first 40 minutes had passed in sure, encapsulated panic. She had forgotten how to administer every kind of care she had been trained for. Now, with 20 minutes remaining, she had to produce some kind of miracle. 

Sorted

"Heylo, my dear. We are now entering another realm. Another space. Into a different time. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes, loads."

"Good."

Rigged Thoughts

Page 3 of a 950,000 page book could begin with: And now she is dead. Or: Having found the ancient piece of jewelry, he clothed himself in the dead bear's skin and fur and headed for the beach on a sweaty, hot, June morning. Or: He still has gotten nowhere. He's been doing dishes for the last forty five minutes, and still can't find the grease remover, and thus cannot remove all the grease, and has no clean dishes left and is hungry but afraid of germs and dirty dishes. And is scared he has smelly breath. Or: When the helicopter crashed in the jungle, the group of red hat ladies knew they'd be late for tea at Apple's Bakery. Or: College seems so strange to me. Or: What is the difference between wasting time and using it up too quickly. How many breaths passed to fold the laundry? No one else should do this chore but me. AND: The stranger they come, the stranger I become.

Statement

Dreams, by design, will take you to the edge. But they can never push. The journey is of such spontaneity and cutting edge wakefulness, that all of who you are is totally transformed. You will see us reaching. Coming so close. And finishing a task, befuddled. You will see ways you have never dreamt of. That is others' dreams showing the way. It is our agreement that starts the process. And it is commitment and inner strength that leads us on. And Joy for it all! Let us remember that!

The best of what we can share we do not find together. 

In Living Pg 2

The days Al Sooley lived spanned the entire spectrum of emotional digestion and explusion, physical interaction and psychological exploration. One landscape, taken away by sleep, gave way to the next. Today, Al woke in an uncomfortable chair. Its back was stiff and his back felt wretched. Light only found its way inside through one narrow slot in the blinds. The room smelled of every kind of waste. I don't like this place, Al thought, scanning, seeking something familiar to link this morning to all others. There was always something. He saw a bed a few feet in front of him. Immediately a string of words lept to mind:

Here she lies

With no chance of disguise

From all the elements now drawn

To lead her out before the dawn.

Through her leaving she has given me courage. Courage I must now spend on the work ahead. With bold direction and forthright footsteps. 

Al Sooley's Ancient Hickory Stick

Al Sooley never knew quite where he'd end up. From one day to the next he could calculate, hypothesize and speculate all he wanted, but as to where he would find himself and what state of mind he would wake to, that was anyone's guess, and he'd long ago stopped making the effort. He was only certain that he would find himself somewhere and with something to do. He was always astounded by the stream of events and feelings that would take him over and drive him from moment to moment. Most things he woke to do he had never done before. Once he woke up mid lovemaking with a woman who had an arrythmic and wildly overactive heart. She made what segment of their time together more interesting and freewheeling than any other spontaneous encounter. 

Today, Al has found himself slightly left of the middle of some recently plowed farm land. A man approached him from the distance. Al squinted to make out his details. Nothing could be assumed from the man and his hulking stature but that he had won his share of fights and lived his life in disagreement with most everything that surrounded him. Even the clumps of dirt clenched by the bottoms of his shoes held tightly a bit longer to slow the man's pace. Al watched the man's gait. Each step seemed to be an act of shaky will. He saw the lips and eyes and nose of a man who actively slung them about his face. Rearranging them to assess whatever situation he found himself in the middle of. The man stopped fifteen feet from Al. Wind blew between them, catching itself in the large front pocket of the unfriendly man's overalls. The man's hat blew off and trailed the earth behind him, but the man did not move to catch it. He locked eyes with Al. 

"Tracy Hillup," he slurped to introduce himself, as if speech was heavily masticated cud. "Here's your pay. Ga'an and take your business somewheres other."

Al nodded and turned to leave, but stood in his spot. Didn't move an inch. 

"Stop frightening the children. Later you'll see how you pay."

Tracy stepped to counter Al's words, but found his foot caught in some deep groove in the earth and barely kept his balance. He caught his breath so as not to alert Al to his unfortunate misstep. 

Al walked all the miles he could that day, passing a word to not one other soul. He ended the day when the sun went down. He decided that it was over when he shut his eyes. The next day he was to have began to shift his position and his mental compass to accommodate some new locale and avenue. One message was passed on the winds: "He is learning."

Inborn Fusion

They are felt as whispers on the neck.

They are dry, and they might cause the skin to crack.

As timeless as the elements we share, 

And as powerful as the thoughts we would forestall.

They lack gracious talent, 

And they bind their hearts to the earth.

Nothing swells within them but scorn,

And it is fear that cues their march.

It is a march to invade, a march to pursue,

A march without hope, but with terrible, malevolent, repressive drive.

They have fashioned the hands to hold and hands to squeeze.

They have undone every joy within their siblings' heart. 

It trembles and stops.

It trembles and stops.

Listen.

It raises again the air to blow...

They keep it prisoner in their vaults

Of hopeless wonder and teething jealousy.

It is a melody torn from ancient lips,

Bound with invisible straps of greed.

Noiseless, insane and furious greed

Does fuel each one to tear!

Ripped each way with foreceps large

And strangled till immobile.

Poison! Poison! Poison corrupts its rhythm

And makes it halt and stutter painfully - exhausted.

Ache not! Oh, melody divine!

Stop the suffering and wounding captivity!

Break free to the air if you can.

Sneak to some other's mind, 

And flit about till voicing you proceeds.

As a charm to us all you must come about and stay.

Away from those who would not share you.

Who would hoard you and profit from you

And release you time after time by the inch.

Indeed they would kill you if they could not possess you.

This vicious nonsense has traveled too far!

It must end without deliberation or debate.

There is no calamity worse than

The death of a song and the silence that follows.