The Last Dance

The music was loud and raucous. She had to shout at him amidst the writhing bodies on the dance floor. "I CAN'T DANCE TO THIS!" she shouted. He shook his head, not hearing a word she said. "I CAN'T DANCE TO THIS!" she shouted louder. "OK!" he shouted back. "LET'S JUST MAKE FACES AT EACH OTHER!" he shouted. So they stood there, and she stuck out her tongue. He crossed his eyes. She pulled on her ears, and made them stick out, sucked her cheeks in, and made a fish lipped pucker with her lips. He stuck his finger in his ear and poked his tongue into his opposite cheek, making it look like he had stuck his finger completely through his head. She put her middle fingers into each side of her mouth, and stretched her lips out into a grotesque face. He stuck a finger up his nose. THAT'S SO GROSS!" she shouted above the music. They went to an all night greasy spoon and had breakfast at 2 AM. They sat in a booth, giggling, and feeding each other scrambled eggs and pancakes. They were the only ones in the joint. He plugged the jukebox. Nat King Cole. They got up and slow danced while the little old lady behind the counter, her grey hair tied into a bun, watched, getting teary eyed. "You kids are a match made in heaven." the old woman said, as they paid out. They both smiled and nodded at her, then turned and embraced right in front of her. A long embrace. A long kiss. "Oh, my!" the old woman said, remembering some time long ago. He reached out for her hand, and looked at the name tag on her blouse. "Come here, Dixie" he said. He plugged the jukebox again, Nat King Cole, again. The song was Mona Lisa. He danced her slowly around the aisle between the booths and the counter. He looked over at his girlfriend who was nodding, smiling, and swaying to the music. They finally went home, back to her place. Too tired to have sex. The old woman went home at the end of her shift, and went to bed. She fell asleep thinking of how nice it was to feel young again, if only for the length of a song.

Fall Color

My Mother's Hands

I hope this is not depressing to anyone. Because, I don't mean it to be. It's just about a life lived. About the difference between being alive, and having a life. She will be 84 next week. We took care of her as long as we safely could. But, she is riddled with arthritis, has Parkinson's and Alzheimer's, and doesn't know at this point that she is in a nursing home. My sis and I take turns visiting her on alternating days. If we missed a day, she wouldn't know, since she has lost all sense of time. It is a thin line to walk every day. To try to keep your own life going forward, while watching someone else's go down. You have to be able to turn feeling off and on. It becomes it's own art.

A Day at the Office

Dr. Erik Von Schnell, renowned psychiatrist to the stars and celebrities from around the world, leaned forward on his desk and spoke into the intercom. "Nancy, send in my next client." Nancy looked over at the man sitting on the couch who had suddenly looked up at her. "Mr. Jacobson? Dr. Von Schnell will see you now." The man tossed his magazine aside, "Thank ya, darlin' thank ya ver' much." he said in a breathy voice and with a wink. "You can call me Elvis, darlin', ever' body else does." Nancy smiled. "OK, Elvis, the doctor will see you now." "Thank ya, Nancy darlin', thank ya ver' much."

Gerald Jacobson walked into his psychiatrist's office. Dr. Von Schnell smiled at him. "Well, Gerald, I see you have come in character today." "Aw, shucks, doc. I'm alwuhys in muh character, it's jus' sometimes, a man has to take cover, an' wear normal clothes, like ever'body else. I jus' felt like dressin' up today, an' bein' muhself, even if it does create some problems " Gerald took a seat in front of the doctor. "What kind of problems doe it create for you, Gerald, when you dress like that?" the doctor asked, looking at his ridiculous attire. "Well, when I dress like this, the gals realize that I am Elvis, an' just won't leave me alone." "So, Gerald, let's go back to that night." the doctor said, leaning back in his chair. "That night you woke up believing you were Elvis." Gerald leaned forward in his chair. "See, here's the thing ya' gotta realize, doc. I didn't wake up jus'' believin' I was Elvis. Elvis came into my body. I could feel his very fingers clutchin' at my soul. He was grabbin' my soul by the collar. I was all shook up. It was that very night he died. Before that night I wasn't nothin' but a hound dog, jus' barkin' all the time. An' I wasn't even a very good one, at that. I aint' even never caught a rabbit, or nothin'. I just kinda admired him, you know. I wish I had though." "You wish you had ...what?" the doctor said. "I wish I coulda caught him a rabbit before he kicked off, you know. He really liked rabbits, you know."

Dr Von Schnell got up from his chair and paced slowly around the room, his hand caressing his chin, and then his forehead, as though lost in thought. "So, is it frustrating to think that you never caught a rabbit for Elvis?" "Well, it used to be." Gerald said, "But now I make sure to catch a rabbit ever' year, an' I drive over to Memphis, an' I put it on his grave on his birthday. He appreciates it too, since nex' day when I go there, the rabbit is gone." "OK, look, Gerald, what is the main thing that is really bothering you right now? Can you get in touch with those feelings?" Doctor Von Schnell said, sitting wearily down in his chair. "Well, it's mostly about my girlfriend, I guess." "What about her?" the doctor asked. "I don' know, it's kinda hard to describe. She jus' wants me to be her teddy bear, an' to love her all tender, an' that kinda thing." "And so, you find that difficult?" the doctor asked. "No, that's pretty easy," he said patting his bulging belly, "I'm gettin' to look like a teddy bear more and more. An' I do love her tender, cuz mos' the time I'm real tired. But, that's the problem doc." he said. "What's the problem Gerald?" the doctor said, leaning forward in his chair. "Well, on the outside I feel like a teddy bear, but on the inside, I feel like a blob of...no, blob's not the word...no, ummm... a chunk, that's it...a chunk of...no, chunk's not it..." "A hunk, maybe?" the doctor said. "Yes, that's it. I feel like a hunk...a hunk a' burning love." The doctor nodded, with a certain wise look on his face. "OK, Gerald, I'm going refill your Viagra scrip for you." "You're the greatest, doc! When I go back to Vegas, I'm gonna dedicate a song to you." "You've never been to Vegas, Gerald." the doctor said. "I'm afraid our time is up for today. In our next session, I would like to discuss with you this practice you say you have of throwing your sweaty neck scarves out to girls in the audience." "Sure thing, doc. An', can you refill them other pills too?" The doctor nodded, as Gerald walked toward the door.

"Nancy, can you come in here please, and take notation? " the doctor said into the intercom. "Yes sir, I'll be right there." Nancy took a seat and crossed her legs. She flipped open her notepad, and looked patiently up at Dr. Von Schnell. "Nancy, what is that around your neck?" "Oh, this scarf?" she said, caressing it with her fingers. "Elvis gave it to me." . He watched as Nancy picked up one end of the scarf and caressed her face with it. "He's just such a big teddy bear." she said dreamily. Dr. Von Schnell suddenly began banging his head down on his desk. Bang! Bang! Bang! "Doctor? What's wrong?" Nancy said in a startled voice. "Nothing, Nancy" Bang! Bang! Bang! "Nothing at all." Bang! Bang! Bang!.....................................

Beating swords into plowshares.....

Farms, not Arms! "All farmers of the world share the unique privilege and the daunting responsibility of making sure everyone is fed and the land is protected to feed the future generations. War, and the enormous waste of resources spent in preparing for it, threaten our work. We come from different political, religious and social backgrounds but share a common concern that this great country of ours, founded by small farmers and craftsmen, return to the spirit and ideals on which we were founded. We strive for a world that reduces the risk of war by eliminating its causes poverty, injustice and religious intolerance. We call for all countries to stop misappropriating their resources on war and to focus rather on fighting hunger, disease and protecting our environment and our farmland."

The above quote is from farmsnotarms.org

Autumn Leaves

Unfortunate Fortune

The map the guy at the bar had drawn for him on a paper napkin, was labyrinthian. There were many turns and forks, and dirt roads that had no names. It would be a two hour drive taking him deeper and deeper into the wooded mountainous outbacks. Little notes and arrows drawn onto the map identified landmarks to keep an eye out for. A rusty old bridge. A stone chimney still standing among the charred remains of a house. An abandoned gas station. At one point driving across a shallow stream, he was supposed to turn up-stream and drive through the water for 3/4 of a mile. At that point, he would see the old woman's shack off a ways through the trees.

The old woman was not a fortune teller, per say, but was said to often have an uncanny sense of the near future. He had heard talk of her in the little town where he had taken a room above the pub, and was quite interested in meeting her. He was writing an expose of sorts., for a magazine. It was about fortune teller scams and psychic shysters. As he pushed through the dense undergrowth winding back through the trees, he could hear the clucking of chickens. He was supposed to ask her if she had any eggs. He saw her hobbling around in front of her shack tossing handfuls of grain out onto the dirt. The chickens milled everywhere around her feet pecking at the ground. She was making clucking noises herself. "Hello." he called. She looked his way and gave a small nod. It seemed the closer he came to her, the smaller and smaller she appeared to be. She squinted her eyes and shaded them with her hand as she tilted her head back to look up at him. Her skin seemed shrunken tight to the bones of her chin and jaws, and was dark and leathery, criss-crossed with wrinkles, and dotted with purple blemishes. Her eyes seemed sunken deep back into her eye sockets. "I was wondering if you have any eggs for me?" he said. She nodded and turned and hobbled back to her shack, stopping at her door to turn and look at him.. She gestured for him to follow her in. It was a dark and dimly lit room smelling of ashes from the crude rock fireplace.

She sat wearily down on her couch with a low aching groan, and motioned for him to take the chair. The low table between them was cluttered with oddities. He made quick mental notes as he looked at the array. The dried claw of a chicken, and some chicken feathers. A tooth. Little bottles of oil. One was called Omega Oil. Another was labeled Wizard Oil. There was a larger jar filled with a yellow powder; it had a hand-scrawled label that said 'sulfur'.


"Why do you come for these eggs?", she said in a high pitched raspy voice. "I would like to know something of my future." he replied. "And, what would you like to know?" she rasped. "Anything. Anything at all that you can tell me that might lie ahead." he said. She reached for a round tin pan on the table in front of her, and then picked out a brown speckled egg from the bowl next to it. He watched intently as she cracked the egg into the pan, and then swished it about in a circle the way a prospector might swish a pan of pebbles and creek water around, looking for gold. At last she sat the pan down on her lap, and stuck her finger into the broken egg mix. It dangled wet and slimy looking as she raised her finger to her nose and sniffed it. Then she rubbed her finger on her lips. She grimaced, as she smacked her lips several times. "It is bitter." she said. "The egg is bitter? What does that mean?" he asked. She shook her head. "No, it is not the egg. It is your future." "What? What will be bitter?" he asked nervously. She didn't answer. She dipped her finger down into the pan again, and repeated the ritual. "For me, as well." she said. "Bitter." "Why?" he asked. "Why is it bitter?" She picked another egg out of the bowl and cracked it into the pan, and stirred it with her finger slowly, and for what seemed a long time. Outside he could hear the chickens clucking, and scratching the dirt. There was the distant drone of a small plane in the air somewhere. She wiped her finger on her dress and just sat there staring down into the pan. "Do you see anything? What do you see?" he asked nervously. The sound of the plane was getting louder. A rooster standing in the doorway startled him with its sudden crowing., and it sent a shiver up his spine. She shook her bowed head and closed her eyes, and he was beginning to think she was falling asleep. "What do you see?" he repeated. The plane must be nearly overhead, quite loud and flying low. Then, quite abruptly, she lifted her head and stared at him with a wild look on her face. "Neither of us will leave this place alive." she hissed. He felt a chill come over him and stood to leave, just as there was a loud crushing, crashing sound, and the roof of the shack was blown apart by the nose of a single engine Cessna.

The local paper the next day showed photos of the scene. There were four people aboard the small plane that crashed into the forest south of town. They all died instantly. The plane had torn apart the humble home of an elderly woman widely known to be a seer. The woman too, was found dead. A sixth body, a male, has yet to be identified.