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Sean Flaherty Oct 2015
{9/23/15 - 12:09 PM}  

[page 1]

“I’m Flagstaff.”

I'm borne-witness, to a splattered human corpse. I'm twice-over. Shocked. I'm doubled, where I'd have sworn, there were once three, of me. I'm the witness. I'm: the sequel. I'm the self that slept through my own screaming, for help.

[Somebody, stop me. Please, assist, with-this.]

I'm jaw-dropped. I'm probably halfway to heart-attacked. I'm trying to remember what an old boss had said, about that. I'm sure that this is traumatic enough, to ask, for a few days off.

I'm on my way, to officially knock, on the door, of the office (which is always locked). I'm hanging my hat, on a lamp, inside-it. I'm hitting the light switch, and melting-more, plastic. I'm crying the realest of tears.

I'm not wiping [page 2] them away anymore. I'm distant, from a once prioritized fear, of a nap on the floor. [Or, a drug-saturated, and dark-eared, dirt-sleep.] I'm considering the wax I'd left, on that dirt, near the splatter-stain. I'm calling out my own name.

I'm thankful for any opportunities to recharge your batteries, but I've told you before of my power outages. I'm outraged.

I'm waking up to the Grim Reaper, in my rocking chair, every morning.

I'm forgetting, "who made that chair for me?  I'm not sure, "she did much more, than paint it." I'm too big, "to fit-in, it, any way?"

"He can ******* keep-it." I'm not sure who said that. "I'm right here, you glorious fool." I'm far-from, and a Good Word Away, from a fool.

[page 3]

"You've spent so much ink, on your Kryptonites. Can't we just shoot some cans, off the over pass, with our laser vision?" I'm stuck-on. The idea's that I must do-good. "You're better, than done-good. You're the Great-Best-Unfinished." I'm confused...

"Well, I'm not. I've been taking over, for years, but you've ignored it with tears, and the salt you spit angry, at selves, far more jangly. I'm the S on your chest when it stands for success, or your second-half, or your superpowers."
I'm Superman!

"Sure, but I'm Flagstaff. This is my sword. We've got an army of angels on the way. Suicide is a coward's [page 4] out."

I'm not professing any bravery. "You've pretended you were better to brothers, and sisters, for almost two years. Your responsibilities outweigh your rare ability to regret your existence. Rally-up, Mr. Wizard." I'm not as well-versed in the old craft, as I used to be. I'm not really writing fantasy. I'm self-centered, "in the middle of," a really nice day.

I'm aggregating all the energy I can use, to arm my amazement. I'm splitting my personality, to prevent feeling so-pulled, apart.

"Now you're getting it."

I'm spinning gems, looking for lost contacts, and rebuilding, a burnt-bridge... [page 5] I'm just gonna need one day asleep...

[...]

at your house... in Right City...

[...]

I'm gonna chop my horns off, on the rails of the train tracks. I'm simply gonna rest my head...

[...]

on the platform...

[...]

and wait.

I'm not sure where Flagstaff went.
[...]

"Get the ******* the floor." I'm not sure I'd call this the floor. "Get the **** up, we're going to bed."

I'm not tired. "Well, you're gonna be."

[I'm halfway to the decision to get back on my feet, before the screaming subway shuttle smacks the wrong-side of my right horn. It splinters and cracks and spins me, slicing the [page 6] lesser half of the left-one, on the lip of the first car.] I'm checked for head trauma, quarter-horned. I'm hoping the devil was bid: "back down."

"Sleep now?"

I, uh... I'm not sure who I'm talking to... this time.

{9/27/15 - 12:28AM} An angry redhead operates farm-equipment (the heavy-kind) with an Xbox controller, from inside my television set. My eyes are trained on the answers, with which, I had, typed-in, responded, to his voice. A skunk walks by outside. I can't tell if it was attracted to the ****, or the weasels.

I'm just about to lose myself, again, along [page 7] with everyone else.

"Stop letting yourself get bored! I see you there! Your eyes, glazed-over, like this'll be just another ******* poem you read, over, and over, again, to yourself.
"For yourself! I beg you to wipe the cobwebs, from your eyeballs, and break a little bad here! **** it, man!"

**** it indeed. I'm too clean to fight the **** machine. So roll me a fattie, and sell-off my spleen. I can be mean, but I hate when I show it. You-zhuh-Lee trip, when I'm flowin', but  find ways, to keep  goin'. And I don't wanna do wrong by my friendships. Want them to know, [page 8] when I'd said, I "love" them, I meant it. But I don't have the money they've been lookin' for, I spent it. Bruising up my knees, begging: "leave my skull un-dented!"

Rented out the couch, before I stole my brother's bedroom, for the afternoon, in my dreams, I was singin' show-tunes. Doomed to sound. Like "rip-off-Danny Brown." This clown, that clown. We still around. Came back to your hometown, and ended up inside, your little blue notebook. Said "you shoulda read it!" When you spat-that-****, the Earth shook.

Forgot to ditch my henchman, as I entered fourth dimension. Words are sentient, and mention, more than definition. Hush up, listen, see! We be the glorious ones, without a gun, but weapons that, from our tongues, are flung, and they're still unheard. Weapons are glorious words, see-through, the story.

I'll purge all the toxins in your mind. Like oxen, farmed for hides, by the shepherds we were finding. But the field is made, of food, and that dude's always been rude. It's time we charge, with-horns down. Buck the rodeo clowns.
Off the cliff's a better-tread, head above water, 'fore we drowned. On bottom-rocks we'd woke up dead, yet still without the farmer 'round. So if instead you swim to nearby islands, start your grazing. Freedom never came by anyone who can't endure some hazing.
The sequel to "Essay #2: 'I'm'"
Mountain peaks and street lights,
Old hotel signs and train tracks.
Pine trees and rooftops,
Coffee shops and secret spots.

The ocean of sky surrounded us
like a blanket of stardust.
The city swelled with love
And I was home.
Portland Grace Dec 2013
I don't know,
how to turn on my heels
and leave you lonely,
even if it would be better for us both.

And I don't know
how to use the arms
that hold you close at night
to push you away
even though I know I need too.

I am beginning to find too much comfort
in your scars
too much laughter by your side,
too much sweetness in your kisses
and I do not want to be that close to someone again.

Because today I received a letter
thick and important,
giving me my freedom
to leave this town I have lived in my whole life,
and you.
I will leave you too.

I am going to go
788 miles away from your sleepy eyes
and messy hair.

I want to,
I want to fall into a world
where no one knows me,
and I will be cleansed
by the blanket
of anonymity.

I am still figuring out,
how to fold my fingers into yours
without holding on too tightly,
but I will keep your name in my pocket,
your words beneath my tongue,
and I will leave.
I will leave.
Kurt Philip Behm May 2024
Day #9: Grand Canyon to Williams Arizona (p.m.)

The East Entrance to the Canyon had always been my least favorite way to enter the Park. I usually arrived by the elevated and back canyon road from Flagstaff known as Arizona Rt.# 64.  Alpine and rural, it was more than a mile up in the clouds. Today though, I had no other choice and would enter the park from the lowest depths of a barren landscape.  It was dusty and hot (106’) when I passed the old Cameron Trading Post just before the Park’s entrance.  I turned onto the park road and looked high up into the distance before me. The greatest sight visible anywhere on earth, and the standard bearer of all God’s creation, was just beyond my reach — but it wouldn’t be for long!

I climbed the twenty-six miles toward the rim, and as the temperature dropped, my spirit soared.  The memory of Sam was now a spiritual bead on my Rosary to be remembered in my thoughts and prayed for every day. I saw two great hawks soaring overhead.  They were not moving their wings and remained motionless as they went higher.  I knew they were caught in the great updraft of something whose true height could not be measured and whose depths would never be fully explored.

The Comfort Zone Of Relative Size And Dimension Was About To                                           Disappear

At the top, I saw at least 100 cars parked along the canyon’s edge.  This marked the first series of rims and lookout points for what no first visitor was ever ready to see.  As I searched for a place to park the bike, the returning vision of something I had never been able to explain rushed out and overtook me again.  

I knew, after so many visits, you never looked into the Grand Canyon without permission. The only way to truly see what your eyes were about to embrace was to accept the changes happening inside of you as you stood in her presence. The Canyon took hold of all searchers and played with their sight while making it her own.  Finally, she gave back to the lucky few a new vision of themselves, affirming those things that they had up until now denied.

It was a mid-August day, and I had never been here during the height of tourist season.  As I walked to the Canyon’s edge, I had to weave through the packed in crowd of European and Asian tourists lining the rail. Looking off into her distance, a blessed transformance emptied my soul. It created space for what I was hoping to take with me, and with each visit I knew the cost increased. Each time I left, there would be an even greater part of myself left behind — a part that would call out when my confusion returned.  The Great Canyon cared not about reasons or circumstance, she stood only as she is, a GIANT, isolated from all ordinary things, a connective force that allowed us to dream beyond ourselves … and to eventually see.  

It led you beyond what you thought yourself capable of before.  And without guidepost or roadmap, it brought you only and exactly to where you most needed to go.  The Great Canyon began where your imagination ended and, by looking into her depths, you were at once changed and transformed.  Transformation being measured by what you left behind.

The Great Canyon neither pretended to know what you know nor portended your future. Timeless and unchallenged, she stood guard over all that is. Your questions here were but echoes from a distant memory.  It was, the one spot on earth, where you stood and heard the answers returned to you for what they were — disturbing reminders that much of your life had been spent in denial.  

She neither blessed nor forgave, and her message spoke only of today. Whether you looked one time or stared into her unending depths forever, she treated you the same.  All meaning was derived from what she taught and the immediacy of how that made you feel.

Like two things that must be shaken together to be truly mixed, the Grand Canyon joined your mind and spirit in a cocktail that intoxicated your soul. She inebriated your entire being.  Yes, she was that big and more.  To say otherwise only reinforced what you still needed to know.  She continually poured all that she was, and is, into everything that you were not. Like the arid canyons and valleys that were overflowing with her waters, our spirits hoped to become a small tributary into what she had become.  

Becoming was all that mattered in the Canyon, yesterday and tomorrow were for those already dead inside.  I looked up again and saw the Great Hawk. Its wings were tucked back in dive position, and it was headed toward its destiny in the Colorado River below.  All of life’s summation was contained within its dive, and all that would ever matter in my own life was contained in the connection I felt.

I stopped at ten different rims that afternoon, but one would have been enough. What stared back at me never changed until everything inside of me was again new. My first look into the eyes of my Spiritual Mother 30 years ago, and the one again today, released me from ever having to be in only one place. She called to me in the most distant reaches of my isolation and reminded me that whenever lonely or confused, with her — I would always have a home.

There was never a way to come ‘to terms’ or to ‘make peace’ with what the Canyon taught. The very best you could hope for was to live unguarded and within the message of her timeless beauty. Within your spiritual awakening there would be found an eternal connection, and in the release that it brought you … you could make peace with yourself.  

There were no rooms, either inside or outside the park, as I passed by Canyon Village. I gladly bypassed the tourist frenzy that happened at both sunset and sunrise and pointed the bike further South.  I did not resent or begrudge the tourists for what they did or for what they thought they wanted.  I just needed to be alone with my mother, but for today that might have to wait.  As I left the Park, I spotted the long gravel road that was used only by the park service. It was open and still had not been paved.  I turned left and traveled its half-mile length to a ****** rim which faced off to the East. I had worried, when coming up from Cameron, that it might no longer be accessible.  It was here that I had always been able to talk to my mother alone, and the place where her voice had always been loudest and strong.

  As She Sensed My Approach, The Ancient Memories Returned

It was a private access road, and by design was restricted to all trespassers like me. My mother had called loudest to me from here, and I liked thinking of this place as hers and mine alone. After less than five minutes in her presence, two hikers came out of the bushes saying: “WOW, the view is really spectacular from here.”  I realized at that moment that the concept of ownership was still one of my many faults and one that I had to work on if I was ever to become totally free.  I shared my mother with the two German hikers, as we celebrated in communal reverence an unspoken reflection.

An hour later, and having made two new friends, I was again on my way. I eased the bike down the old service road and made the left turn onto Rt.#64 toward Flagstaff.  From this spot on the Canyon’s Far South Rim, I had only eighty more miles to go.  In her neither giving nor taking away, my mother had put me at rest about Sam. As she said goodbye she left me with the words: “Your sympathy will never change what only your empathy can set free.”  

I exited the Park in a southerly direction and saw no other people.  The only sound I heard was my mother’s heartbeat. It was from the current she carried deeply inside of her so far below.  I thanked her again for having kept me close and reminded her of how much my father loved her. By returning me to her this week, he reaffirmed his deepest feelings.  And from the High Northern Regions that fed her each spring, he stood forever vigilant and on-guard. She smiled back at me from her great distance and expressed with her silence the things that only he could hear and the things that a son, no matter how dutiful, could never truly understand.  

The high pines that lined this back road out of the Canyon made it one of my favorite rides.  It was getting to be late afternoon, as I rolled past the cattle herds and cut timber that filled this high mountain plateau. Most would never associate this landscape with Arizona, as it more resembled Idaho or Northwestern Colorado. This part of the Great Canyon State was atypical of what you expected and special unto itself.  In thirty miles, I came to a major fork in the road.  To the left was Flagstaff, but to the right was Williams.  Both towns sat on Interstate Rt.#40, but Williams was closer, and since I had never spent the night there before, I took the fork to the right.

        Newness Was Always Birth Mother To My Anticipation

In a long hour I was in Williams. It was one of the old original stops along the Mother Road. At one time, Rt#66 was the main artery East and West across America.  It was along its corridor, and before the interstate highway system was built, that the great motorized migrations of Detroit iron began. Williams was still trying to eke out a living based on the myth of the old road, and a resurgence and hunger for 1950’s glory kept the tourists coming … especially those fifty and older. It was quaint and touristy, but then it always had been. It was also mostly authentic and looked just as it had when the autos were carbureted, the air-conditioner was a hand crank on the inside of the car’s door, and families were large.

After I circled the town twice on its two parallel (and 1-way) main roads, hunger overtook me, and I was in search of good food.  I was lucky enough to get the last room at the Red Garter Inn where I parked the motorcycle for the night.  After a quick fresh up in the bathroom, I left my helmet on the bedside table and hung my Kevlar riding jacket on the back of the closet door.  I was still in the lower half of my riding suit, with my boots on, as I headed into town.  It was something that I had learned years ago and was now a rule that I carefully observed. Staying in my riding suit prompted conversations with strangers and other motorcyclists that would never have happened otherwise.  Tonight turned out to be no exception.

It Also Allowed Me To Travel Out From Pennsylvania With Only                                          One Small Bag

As I walked up a side street from my hotel into town, I heard one of the two things I was looking for, ‘Live Music.’ The guitar player was halfway through ‘Gentle On My Mind,’ by the great Mississippi River banjo player, John Hartford.  Most people thought Glenn Campbell had written the song on his famous Ovation 12-string guitar. He did have a big hit with it back in the 60’s, but it was actually written by John Hartford and a song that I had always loved.  As I followed my ears, the guitar player morphed right into the great instrumental, ‘Classical Gas,’ by Mason Williams.  By now I could see the café/restaurant at the next corner, and from all outward appearances, it was everything I had hoped for.

It Was Called Pancho McGillicuddys, And The Food Smelled As                             Good As The Music Sounded

The waitress seated me at an outside table with a view of the street.  I was less than thirty feet from where the guitar player sat, as he started to play the great Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg song — ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow.’  This is the greatest American song ever written, and he performed it well.  Upon finishing, he took a break, and the waitress came back for my order.  The quesadilla combo, refried beans, and local micro-brew, sounded perfect, as the sun disappeared behind me and off to my left. The last table was being seated, as the gas lights came on that lined the streets, and darkness became a backdrop to a magical sky.    

I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this hungry.  The waitress brought my food as the guitar player returned.  The first song of his new set was ‘Fire And Rain,’ by James Taylor, which is my favorite song of all time. I knew at that moment, that on this night, and in this town, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.  I decided to give my mind the night off and just go with the music.  If you’re ever in Williams, and in need of a travel break, I can’t recommend McGillicuddys highly enough.

Sometimes, Like Tonight, The ‘Road’ Presents You With A Special                                                    Gift

A big smile was permanently implanted on my face, as a family of four came in and was seated at the table to my left.  It was a father and mother in their late forties, and two teenaged boys. The father was wearing a lacrosse t-shirt from a school I didn’t recognize, so when he looked over and smiled, I said, “Nice to see a Lacrosse shirt so far from home.” He answered: “We’re from Portsmouth Virginia and out here on vacation, I played at Woodberry-Forest, and both boys now play at their respective schools.”

He then said, “So what are you riding?” The boots and the riding pants were a dead giveaway, as the guitar player started ‘Cheeseburger In Paradise’ by Jimmy Buffett.  He was sure it was a Harley, as I explained I was riding a Honda Goldwing. I told him that after 40 years of riding, the Goldwing was the best touring bike that God, or any engineer, had ever made.  As I explained to him the benefits of shaft drive over a belt or chain, his eyes widened, as he finally grasped where my travels had taken me during the past ten days.

“You went from Vegas to the Canadian border and then south to Arizona, all in a long week?”  Yes, I answered him, and every mile was a joy to ride. I wish there had been more time because then I could have gone further north, maybe even to Alaska.  At this point his wife’s eyes glassed over, as women’s often do, when mentally picturing their own husbands riding a motorcycle. They often saw only the danger and not the thrill and joy of riding to new places.  It was a shame, but it was a reality and a major hurdle that most men had to get over at home when they made the decision to ride later in life.

We continued to talk while they ate, and I came to find out that their oldest son’s high school coach had been a teammate of my sons when he was in high school. They were both on a team that had won the Pennsylvania State Lacrosse Championship back in 2000.  Sometimes, the very best things in life also had the smallest following.  Small, in terms of the numbers they produced, but large in the effects that their participation created.  Both long-distance motorcycle touring and lacrosse had been two of those special things in my life.  They created a spiritual and permanent bond between all those who had either played or ridden together and resulted in lifelong friendships that are cherished to this day.

On 9/11, Almost 100 Of Our Beloved Lacrosse Alumni Lost Their                                              Lives

His wife then asked me where my son had gone to high school.  “Haverford School,” I told her.  She brightened up immediately and said, “I went to Haverford College which is right next door.”  “Amazing,” I said, “how small the world really is.”  She then wanted to know what the college lacrosse recruiting process was like during the third year of high school. I was glad to share with both her and her husband what my son and I had gone through only ten years ago.  That small world we rediscovered through our common experience continued to get smaller throughout the evening. We continued to share more of where our lives had taken us and, in being together in this remote spot along old Highway Rt. #66, we grew bigger inside.

As the waitress passed my table again, I realized that I had already had one beer too many and was enjoying myself entirely too much.  I said goodbye to my new friends and started the walk back to my hotel glad that I didn’t have to get back on the motorcycle again tonight. After four beers, I knew that I would never try to ride, but the removal of temptation went a long way.

Sleep came easy on that night, and I did not dream —the effects of having lived beyond what on most days I only hoped for.  I thought to myself while still awake in the darkened room, with only the light from the train-yard filtering through my window, how truly lucky I was … even if everything ended tonight.  

Just then, the high-pitched whistle of a distant train approaching Williams, came through my wall.  It was a fitting exclamation point to another day beyond all planning and another example of why without a fixed itinerary, I continued to ride.  Just before sleep, the immortal words of Crazy Horse and the Oglala people flashed before my eyes. “HOKA HEY’, it is a good day to die.”  The Lakota knew that a good day to die was an even better one to live, and on this incredible day that ended in Williams Arizona, so did I.

My Prayer That Night Was To Avoid All Future Mediocrity, As The Back-Half Of My Life Continued To Unfold



Authors Note:
These chapters became longer as the sweetness of the days they told of increased.  Each one built upon the other until blockages were unstopped — with all knowledge running back to its source.
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
Hey kid, I woke up buzzing, here
In the future ruins of ancient America. 
Staring, after the imperial sunrise,
Listening to Los Angeles on repeat.
Insistent and purple, only 
Sediment left in the
Bottles of night. 

This third-world way
Causes Third World War
So I'm drinking at a 
Tavern on the End.
The bus goes by, and
"Baseball's the worst sport."

Alliteration, allusion,
Colors, characters,
And metaphors.
Sobriety sending me 
Searching for smoke. 
Rehash, re-up, and "read the ****** thing." My world-view,
Out-maneuvering your
Upbringing.

(The memories I have are white and yellow.
Fogged, not angry, if even confused.
You'd call me, after finishing your nightly readings, to cry about the characters you'd loved, and castigate my inability to care.
Remember when you used "undermined" to describe the adaptation?
You meant that it was "assuming too much.")

"Brenda and Eddie," over here,
"Couldn't go back to the greasers" so they
Wound up at your family's tavern. 
"You look like the fat kid,
On whom the popular girl was 
Forced to settle."

Dear Man,
Woman's found you out. Or 
Are we, justly, doomed to be 
More juvenile?

Worn sole, soul-open, "so long,
Kid, I don't know you, but,
I can't help myself from
Destroying you."
(My upbringing: out-maneuvering
Your world-view.)

"You've always been the caretaker, Flagstaff."
The bait's in your brain. 
You've simply been 
Overlooking the barkeep.

(Dear Diary, could I just die already?
The Price is Life, and purgatory's a game show.
Anger, the color of your mother.
Skin, the shade of yard-work.
Staring at road maps of Virginia, stoic.
Trying to divine the diners we'd die in.)
I dunno I'll let this speak for itself.
Hal Loyd Denton Feb 2012
A Father for a Nation

A lot of knots now show in our discord but in our great beginning the great living God went into the
****** pristine forest and plucked out one of uncommon character and dignity from this choicest

Material a people would be brought forth that would be the admiration of the world so George
Washington with the common materials of only a quill and parchment set in motion a new course

That abridged history and chartered a course for this unique land a trek was begun across a vast frontier
Many obstacles and difficulties lay ahead the king and tyrant’s angry words would blast you into action

They would come sweeping across the Potomac whipping and lashing until men of devotion and devout
Faith could no longer ignore their substance or their intent a struggle began its clamor would reach and

Deafen the English crown that tried in vain to squelch freedom’s infant cry in places like Yorktown White
Plains and Long Island musket ***** would run up the tally the individual cost in human souls for a

Required season agony were paid their demanded sum into the chasm of ugly death marched the
Gentle souls of our fore fathers paying a price so that we could be free not free to do as we please

But to carry on this proud heritage that was given to us by their great sacrifice oh mortal soul on self
I did not bestow to another one day I will be careful to behold his face trace it well make sure it shows

Peace for with him you are to dwell I have not been a man of war it was the responsibility of others to
Defend my rights on the field of battle they knew unspeakable horrors walked the thin line between

Sanity and madness sacred honor held them from going over the edge to them in everything I owe them
Profound thanks we use to say the pledge of allegiance George but now lip service is even too much

Our national monuments were made of marble the idea was to build them from an enduring material
We go and gawk and gush and say how marvelous all the while our actions have eroded these precious

Symbols of freedom the true picture is marble that is in a state of decay pock marked chipped bits and
Pieces piled at the foot of what was once a great edifice for freedom the statutes of bronze who

Symbolize our national heroes take on the guise of doddering foolish old men that don’t know where
They are or what they are doing this our reality not theirs in each generation it falls to individuals to

Arise To the occasion and meet the need that reality prescribes I believe the God who gave us George
Washington will lift up a leader with the power to pull us from the quagmire that we find ourselves in

It will only be by His mercy in every other time He has never failed all is needed is humility and prayer
As the portrait shows George kneeling in the snow in his generals uniform he knew where his victory

Would come from as well as Abe who said we don’t count on our bristling battlements but on the
Righteous God who loves freedom and is the true source of it endurance we in true humility say thank

You Heavenly Father and thank you father of our indebted and grateful nation with grateful hearts
Thanks and happy birthday to you remembering you gives us a connection to the past and to each other
That is Profound

This is being posted late in the day as a tribute for the father of our country but it isn’t late this was
Written in ninety six I picked up a car and a old royal typewriter here in Illinois on the way back home I

Held up in a Motel in Flagstaff Arizona for two days watched hours of the history channel and wrote this
And other Pieces those old royal type writers were what the soldiers hiding behind enemy lines used to
Send their Communiqués back to the front I’m very proud of it I try to do honor by it when I write
Tried to visit Petrified Forest but my stomach said no
Didn't really mind it cause it didn't have much to show
We drove on route 40 and a hot guy kept following us
When he had waved 20 times we were like "Okay, enough!"
In Flagstaff I got to check in at my very first motel
It was way cooler than the Dallas hotel!
We wanted to get wasted so we went out to find a bar
Some Germans were playing pool, they couldn't speak English at all
Shots! Shots! Shots!
Two of them were actually quite hot.
After some drinks we lost each other in the dark
Thankfully both remembered were the car was parked
Hungover as **** we left for Grand Canyon
I was so excited to see it with my favorite companion
The size of it was greater than I had imagined it to be
and squirrels were practically climbing up my knee
An idiot lady had her dogs locked in the car
***** was lucky that I didn't have a crowbar
Still missed our turkey but deers were walking free
When the heat almost killed us it was time to leave
It was one of the most amazing things I've ever experienced
But for Vegas we left to see something completely different!
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
[page 1] I already regret writing this to you. I already regret sharing this with you. I've already told you, before, but I'm bursting---I'm skidding, like my brakes are busted--- bottling-it-all, inside. And, a wise man once told me, "If it's eating you up, you should ink it, all-out." I just wish I could remember whose words those were.

Sometimes, when I'm searching the Rolodex, for the right-scene, you've been around, to remind me. [Almost-like, you'd read along.] You tell me, you assume "I'm always awake," and, I would only elaborate: with-fear, my dear, for falling asleep would draw you back, to my dreams.

See, and I've said this (to much poorer souls than yours), [page 2] before I allow my ambitions the axiom, certainty must surround the word "love" like an aura. My so-flawed system of authentication, of authority, in my own-hearted matters, starts and ends with my dreaming. Only three romances have recurred. Randomness is much more regular. Rarely do my dreams speak with structure, or in-a-story. That real random. [The reason I'm a poet?] Flying symbols, from "seven hells," heavens, or highways. If you left the top-down, or had a bad-day.

[Relax, Flagstaff]

sighs

[Ready, again?]

Ready.

...
Essay #4 is even longer than #3 by a little bit and I'm posting it in parts. With parts missing. Because I'm keeping some of it personal. Or at least for one person.
From Austin on to Pensacola
from there I went to South Dakota
Moved on back to Arizona
Just trying to start a life

Went from Flagstaff to Daytona
then headed out just past Pamona
hung around and hit Sedona
Just trying to start a life

It didn't matter where I was
I had to move on just because
She'd find me in my dreams
I shut my eyes but couldn't sleep
Her image in my mind would creep
She'd find me in my dreams

Spent some time down in L.A.
There she was so I couldn't stay
Went and moved to Spanish Bay
But there she was again

Found a place in Monte Ray
only stayed there for a day
went down south down by Queens Cay
But, she followed me again

I shut my eyes and I did find
Her image burned into my mind
The girl was in my dreams
Although I tried to start anew
There was nothing I could say or do
And you should have heard my screams

I tried again, but had no luck
I even slept inside a truck
I woke up cuddled with a duck
And again her in my dreams

I'd been all 'round this country side
I'd walked, and flew and hitched a ride
It may be better if I died
But, I'm sure she'd find those dreams

I'm sure it didn't matter where
She didn't really care
She would always haunt my dreams
Hair so blonde and eyes of blue
I just can not get rid of you
You'll never leave my dreams
Sean Flaherty Apr 2014
The Queen, snowed-in, stopped for
Cigarettes and milk
Then drove another hundred. 
The Governor told her not to. 
I suppose I did too.

But it's two weeks later and 
I'll be ****** if we've heard
From her. 
Passionate about black lines,
And smaller yellow ones,
Metal arches, sweating salt
Since stained rain came,
And big green signs,
With numbered shields. 

She said, before she left, that she felt,
"Like a consequence.
Something that is constantly flaunting
How severe it is. 
A recourse, to a long-forgotten mistake,
That just learns to be dealt with."

Traversing the wasteland of white
Can teach you a thing, or 
Three. Like how you're not ready
To move upwards, if the
Phantom's shovel keeps filling
In your igloo. 

Every time she left,
I wrote myself down. 
Stories about how, when, and who
Should-Be-Growing,
And the day she lost Heyworth's smile.
I changed her name.
Poetic license, and whatnot.

It doesn't take long to 
Realize, picture or
No picture, they'll all
Still say their 1,000 words.
They earned them, when they
Caught you with the flash,
In-between dreamings. 

I don't need to hear from her.
I know what she'll say. 
A scathing remark about my advice,
A bite-back.
"Lay off the smokes. The Greyness may not claim us, 
Flagstaff, but sure as hell, has it made me paler."
Flash was my nickname in school. From seventh grade on. But only kids I didn't know would call me that.

"The Greyness" "Queen" and "Dylan" deserved sequels. This serves, as such, to all.
Matt Jun 2015
Dear Dave Hodges,

My husband is an Army Reservist in Michigan. He is home this weekend after training at Camp Grayling. He know that I am writing to you but please don’t use our names. His unit is training in the processing of Americans into detention camps.He was told by his CO that they would be processing American actors posing as American citizens. Part of their training was the removal and disposal of dead bodies. My husband said he will not participate when the time comes to do so. Please keep getting the word out Dave you are making a difference.

Hello Dave!
…There has been quite a bit over the past couple months as would be expected with Jade Helm. I’ve seen many convoys of various types on I-40 and I-17 as well. Camp Navajo at Belmont between Flagstaff and Williams has had a lot of extra activity also. I don’t know if anyone else north of you has mentioned any of this but it is getting quite frequent around here. Thank The Lord Jesus I’m washed in His blood!
God Bless!


Mr. Hodges,
I was traveling on Interstate 81 in Virginia this past weekend and spotted this military convoy at a rest stop right before exit 264 on 81.  After getting back on the highway, I also encountered another convoy on the road… Use these pictures as you see fit.
AD ASTRA  

by

TOD HOWARD HAWKS


Chapter 1

I am Tod Howard Hawks. I was born on May 14, 1944 in Dallas, Texas. My father, Doral, was stationed there. My mother, Antoinette, was with him. When WWII ended, the family, which included my sister, Rae, returned home to Topeka, Kansas.

My father grew up in Oakland, known as the part of Topeka where poor white people lived. His father was a trolley-car conductor and a barber. Uneducated, he would allow only school books into his house. My father, the oldest of six children, had two paper routes--the morning one and the evening one. My father was extremely bright and determined. On his evening route, a wise, kind man had his own library and befriended my father. He loaned my father books that my father stuffed into his bag along with the newspapers. My father and his three brothers shared a single bed together, not vertically, but horizontally; and when everyone was asleep, my father would grab the book the wise and kind man had loaned him, grab a candle and matches, crawled under the bed, lit the candle, and began reading.

Now the bad and sad news:  one evening my father's father discovered his son had been smuggling these non-school books into his home. The two got into a fist-fight on the porch. Can you imagine fist-fighting your father?

A few years later, my father's father abandoned his family and moved to Atchinson. My father was the oldest of the children;  thus, he became the de facto father of the family. My father's mother wept for a day, then the next day she stopped crying and got to the Santa Fe Hospital and applied for a job. The job she got was to fill a bucket with warm, soapy water, grab a big, thick brush, get on her knees and began to brush all the floors clean. She did this for 35 years, never complained, and never cried again. To note, she had married at 15 and owned only one book, the Bible.  My father's mother remains one of my few heroes to this day.


Chapter 2

My parents had separate bedrooms. At the age of 5, I did not realize a married couple usually used one bedroom. It would be 18 years later when I would find out why my mother and my father slept in separate bedrooms.

When I was 5 and wanted to see my father, I would go to his room where he would lie on his bed and read books. My father called me "Captain." As he lay on his bed, he barked out "Hut, two, three, four! Hut, two three, four!" and I would march to his cadence through his room into the upstairs bathroom, through all the other rooms, down the long hallway, until I reentered his bedroom. No conversation, just marching.

As I grew a bit older, I asked my father one Sunday afternoon to go to Gage Park where there were several baseball diamonds. I was hoping he would pitch the ball to me and I would try to hit it. Only once during my childhood did we do this.

I attended Gage Elementary School. Darrell Chandler and I were in the same third-year class. Nobody liked Darrell because he was a bully and had a Mohawk haircut. During all recesses, our class emptied onto the playground. Members of our class regularly formed a group, except Darrell, and when Darrell ran toward the group, all members yelled and ran in different directions to avoid Darrell--everyone except me. I just turned to face Darrell and began walking slowly toward him. I don't know why I did what I did, but, in retrospect, I think I had been born that way. Finally, we were two feet away from each other. After a long pause, I said "Hi, Darrell. How ya doing?" After another long pause, Darrell said "I'm doing OK." "Good," I said. That confrontation began a friendship that lasted until I headed East my junior year in high school to attend Andover.

In fourth grade, I had three important things happen to me. The first important thing was I had one of the best teachers, Ms.Perrin, in my formal education through college.  And in her class, I found my second important  thing:  my first girlfriend, Virginia Bright (what a wonderful last name!). Every school day, we had a reading section. During this section, it became common for the student who had just finished reading to select her/his successor. Virginia and I befriended each other by beginning to choose each other. Moreover, I had a dream in which Virginia and I were sitting together on the steps of the State Capitol. When I woke up, I said to myself:  "Virginia is my girlfriend." What is more, Virginia invited me to go together every Sunday evening to her church to learn how to square dance. My father provided the transportation. This was a lot of fun. The third most important thing was on May Day, my mother cut branches from our lilac bushes and made a bouquet for me to give Virginia. My mother drove me to Virginia's home and I jumped out of our car and ran  up to her door, lay down the bouquet, rang the buzzer, then ran back to the car and took off. I was looking forward to seeing Virginia in the fall, but I found out in September that Virginia and her family had left in the summer to move to another town.

Bruce Patrick, my best friend in 4th grade, was smart. During the math section, the class was learning the multiplication tables. Ms. Perrin stood tn front of the students holding 3 x 5 inch cards with, for example, 6 x 7 shown to the class with the answer on the other side of the card. If any student knew the correct answer (42), she/he raised her/his arm straight into the air. Bruce and I raised our arms at the same time. But during the reading section, when Ms. Perrin handed out the same new book to every student and said "Begin reading," Bruce, who sat immediately to my right, and everyone else began reading the same time on page #1. As I was reading page #1, peripherally I could see he was already turning to page #2, while I was just halfway down page #1. Bruce was reading twice as fast as I was! It was 17 years later that I finally found out how and why this incongruity happened.

Another Bruce, Bruce McCollum, and I started a new game in 5th grade. When Spring's sky became dark, it was time for the game to begin. The campus of the world-renown Menninger Foundation was only a block from Bruce's and my home. Bruce and I met at our special meeting point and the game was on! Simply, our goal was for the two of us to begin our journey at the west end of the Foundation and make our way to the east end without being seen. There were, indeed, some people out for a stroll, so we had to be careful not to be seen. Often, Bruce and I would hide in the bushes to avoid detection. Occasionally, a guard would pass by, but most often we would not be seen. This game was exciting for Bruce and me, but more importantly, it would also be a harbinger for me.


Chapter 3

Mostly, I made straight-A's through grade school and junior high. I slowly began to realize it took me twice the time to finish my reading. First, though, I want to tell you about the first time I ever got scared.

Sometime in the Fifth Grade, I was upstairs at home and decided to come downstairs to watch TV in the living room. I heard voices coming from the adjacent bar, the voices of my father and my mother's father. They could not see me, nor I them;  but they were talking about me, about sending me away to Andover in ninth grade. I had never heard of a prep school, let alone the most prominent one in America. The longer I listened, the more afraid I got. I had listened too long. I turned around and ran upstairs.

My father never mentioned Andover again until I was in eighth grade. He told me next week he had to take me to Kansas City to take a test. He never told me what the test was for. Next week I spent about two hours with this man who posed a lot of questions to me and I answered them as well as I could. Several weeks after having taken those tests, my father pulled me aside and showed me only the last sentence of the letter he had received. The last sentence read:  "Who's pushing this boy?" My father should have known the answer. I certainly thought I knew, but said nothing.

During mid-winter, my father drove with me to see one of his Dallas naval  buddies. After a lovely dinner at my father's friend's home, we gathered in a large, comfortable room to chat, and out of nowhere, my father said, "Tod will be attending Andover next Fall." What?, I thought. I had not heard the word "Andover" since that clandestine conversation between my father and my grandfather when I was in Fifth Grade. I remember filling out no application to Andover. What the hell was going on?, I thought.

(It is at this juncture that I feel it is necessary to share with you pivotal information that changed my life forever. I did not find it out until I was 27.

(Every grade school year, my two sisters and I had an annual eye exam. During my exam, the doctor always said, "Tod, tell me when the ball [seen with my left eye] and the vertical line [seen with my right eye] meet." I'd told the doctor every year they did not meet and every year the doctor did not react. He said nothing. He just moved onto the next part of the exam. His non-response was tantamount to malpractice.

(When I was 27, I had coffee with my friend, Michelle, who had recently become a psychologist at Menninger's. She had just attended a workshop in Tulsa, OK with a nationally renown eye doctor who specialized in the eye dysfunction called "monocular vision." For 20 minutes or so, she spoke enthusiastically about what the doctor had shared with the antendees about monocular vision until I could not wait any longer:  "Michelle, you are talking about me!" I then explained all the symptoms of monocular vision I had had to deal without never knowing what was causing them:  4th grade and Bruce Patrick;  taking an IQ test in Kansas City and my father never telling me what the test was or for;  taking the PSAT twice and doing well on both except the reading sections on each;  my father sending me to Andover summer school twice (1959 and 1960) and doing well both summers thus being accepted for admission for Upper-Middler and Senior years without having to take the PSAT.

(Hearing what I told Michelle, she did not hesitate in telling me immediately to call the doctor in Tulsa and making an appointment to go see him, which I did. The doctor gave me three hours of tests. After the last one, the doctor hesitated and then said to me:  "Tod, I am surprised you can even read a book, let alone get through college." I sat there stunned.

(In retrospect, I feel my father was unconsciously trying to realize vicariously his dreams through me. In turn, I unconsciously and desperately wanted to garner his affection;  therefore, I was unconsciously my father's "good little boy" for the first 22 years of my life. Had I never entered therapy at Menningers, I never would have realized my real self, my greatest achievement.)


Chapter 4

My father had me apply to Andover in 8th grade to attend in 9th grade, but nobody knew then I suffered from monocular vision;  hence, my reading score eye was abysmal and I was not accepted. Without even asking me whether I would like to attend Andover summer school, my father had me apply regardless. My father had me take a three-day Greyhound bus ride from Topeka to Boston where I took a cab to Andover.

Andover (formally Phillips Academy, which is located in the town of Andover, Massachusetts) is the oldest prep school in America founded in 1778, two years after our nation was. George Washington's nephew sent his sons there. Paul Revere made the school's seal. George H. W. Bush and his son, George, a schoolmate of mine, (I voted for neither) went to Andover. The current admit rate is 13 out of every 100 applicants. Andover's campus is beautiful. It's endowment is 1.4 billion dollars. Andover now has a need-blind admission policy.

The first summer session I attended was academically rigorous and eight weeks long. I took four courses, two in English and two in math. One teacher was Alan Gillingham, who had his PhD from Oxford. He was not only brilliant, but also kind. My fondness for etymology I got from Dr. Gillingham. Also, he told me one day as we walked toward the Commons to eat lunch that I could do the work there. I will never forget what he told me.

I'm 80, but I still remember how elated I was after my last exam that summer. I flew down the steps of Samuel Phillips Hall and ran to the Andover Inn where my parents were staying. Finally, I thought, it's over. I'm going back to Topeka where my friends lived. Roosevelt Junior High School, here I come! We drove to Topeka, going through New York City, Gettysburg, Springfield, IL, Hannibal, MO, among other places. I was so happy to be home!

9th ninth grade at Roosevelt Jr. High was great! Our football team had a winning season. Ralph Sandmeyer, a good friend of mine, and I were elected co-captains. Our basketball team won the city junior high championship. John Grantham, the star of the team, and I were elected co-captains. And I had been elected by the whole school to be President of the Student Council.
But most importantly, I remember the Snow Ball, once held every year in winter for all ninth-graders. The dance was held in the gym on the basketball court. The evening of the dance, the group of girls stood in one corner, the boys in another, and in the third corner stood Patty all alone, ostracized, as she had always been every school day of each year.

I was standing in the boys group when I heard the music began to play on the intercom, then looked at Patty. Without thinking, I bolted from the boys group and began walking slowly toward her. No one else had begun to dance. When I was a few feet in front of her, I said, "Patty, would you like to dance?" She paused a moment, then said, "Yes." I then took her hand and escorted her to the center of the court. No one else had begun to dance. Patty and I began dancing. When the music ended, I said to Patty, "Would you like to dance again?" Again, she said, "Yes." Still no one but the two of us were dancing. We danced and danced. When the music was over, I took Patty's hand and escorted her back to where she had been standing alone. I said to her, "Thank you, Patty, for dancing with me." As I walked back across the court, I was saying silently to the rest of the class, "No one deserves to be treated this way, no one."

Without a discussion being had, my father had me again apply to Andover. I guess I was too scared to say anything. Once again, I took the PSAT Exam. Once again, I scored abysmally on the English section.  Once again, I was rejected by Andover. And once again, my father had me return to Andover summer school.

Another 8 weeks of academics. Once again, I did well, but once again, I had to spend twice the time reading. Was it just I who realized again that if I could take twice the time reading, I would score well on the written test? Summer was over. My father came to take me home, but first he wanted to speak to the Dean of Admissions. My father introduced himself. Then I said, "I'm Tod Hawks," at which point the Dean of Admissions said enthusiastically:  "You're already in!" The Dean meant I had already been accepted for the Upper-Year, probably because he had noticed how well I had done the past two summers. I just stood there in silence, though I did shake his hand. Not another application, not another PSAT. I was in.

Chapter 5

Terry Modlin, a friend of mine at Roosevelt, had called me one Sunday afternoon the previous Spring. "Tod," he said, "would you like to run for President of the Sophomore Class at Topeka High if I ran as your running mate?" I thought it over, then said to Terry, "Sure."

There were eight junior high schools in Topeka, and in the fall all graduates of all the junior highs attended Topeka High, making more than 800 new sophomores. All elections occurred in early fall. I had two formidable opponents. Both were highly regarded. I won, becoming president. Terry won and became vice-president. Looking back on my life, I consider this victory to be one of my most satisfying victories. Why do I say this? I do, because when you have 800 classmates deciding which one to vote for, word travels fast. If it gets out one of the candidates has a "blemish" on him, that insinuation is difficult to diminish, let alone erase, especially non-verbally. Whether dark or bright, it can make the deciding difference.

Joel Lawson and his girlfriend spoke to me one day early in the semester. They mentioned a friend of theirs, a 9th grader at Capper Junior High whose name was Sherry. The two thought I might be interested in meeting her, on a blind date, perhaps. I said, "Why not?"

The first date Sherry and I had was a "hay-rack" ride. She was absolutely beautiful. I was 15 at that time, she 14. When the "hay-rack" ride stopped, everybody got off the wagon and stood around a big camp fire. I sensed Sherry was getting cold, so I asked if she might like me to take off my leather jacket and put it over her shoulders. That was when I fell in love with her.

I dated Sherry almost my entire sophomore year. We went to see movies and go to some parties and dances, but generally my mother drove me most every Friday evening to Sherry's home and chatted with her mother for a while, then Sherry and I alone watched "The Twilight Zone." As it got later, we made out (hugs and kisses, nothing more). My mother picked me up no later than 11. Before going over to Sherry's Friday night, I sang in the shower Paul Anka's PUT YOUR HEAD ON MY SHOULDER.

I got A's in most of my classes, and lettered on Topeka High's varsity swim team.

Then in late spring word got out that Tod would be attending some prep school back East next year. I walked into Pizza Hut and saw my friend, John.
"Hey, Tod. I saw Sherry at the drive-in movie, but she wasn't with you." My heart was broken. I drove over to her home the next day and confronted her. She just turned her back to me and wouldn't say a thing. I spent the following month driving from home to town down and back listening to Brenda Lee on the car radio singing I'M SORRY, pretending it was Sherry singing it to me.

I learned something new about beauty. For a woman to be authentically beautiful, both her exterior and interior must be beautiful. Sherry had one, but not the other. It was a most painful lesson for me to learn.

Topeka High started their fall semester early in September. I remember standing alone on the golf course as a dark cloud filled my mind when I looked in the direction of where Topeka High was. I was deeply sad. I had lost my girlfriend. I was losing many of my friends. Most everyone to whom I spoke didn't know a **** thing about Andover. My mind knew about Andover. That's why it was growing dark.


Chapter 6

I worked my *** off for two more years. Frankly, I did not like Andover. There were no girls. I used to lie on my bed and slowly look through the New York Times Magazine gazing at the pretty models in the ads. I hadn't even begun to *******. When I wasn't sleeping, when I wasn't in a class, when I wasn't eating at the Commons, I was in the Oliver Wendell Holmes Library reading twice as long as my classmates. And I lived like this for two years. In a word, I was deeply depressed. When I did graduate, I made a silent and solemn promise that I would never set foot again on Andover's campus during my life.

During my six years of receiving the best formal education in the world, I got three (3) letters from my father with the word "love" typed three times. He signed "Dad" three times.

Attending Columbia was one of the best things I have ever experienced in my life. The Core Curriculum and New York City (a world within a city). I majored in American history. The competition was rigorous.  I met the best friends of my life. I'm 80 now, but Herb Hochman and Bill Roach remain my best friends.

Wonderful things happened to me. At the end of my freshman year, I was one of 15 out of 700 chosen to be a member of the Blue Key Society. That same Spring, I appeared in Esquire Magazine to model clothes. I read, slowly, a ton of books. At the end of my Junior year, I was chosen to be Head of Freshman Orientation in the coming Fall. I was "tapped" by both Nacoms and Sachems, both Senior societies, and chose the first, again one of 15 out of 700. My greatest honor was being elected by my classmates to be one of 15 Class Marshals to lead the graduation procession. I got what I believe was the best liberal arts education in the world.

My father had more dreams for me. He wanted me to attend law school, then get a MBA degree, then work on Wall Street, and then become exceedingly rich. I attended law school, but about mid-way into the first semester, I began having trouble sleeping, which only got worse until I couldn't sleep at all. At 5:30 Saturday morning (Topeka time), two days before finals were to begin, I called my mother and father and, for the first time, told them about my sleeping problems. We talked for several minutes during which I told them I was going to go to the Holiday Inn to try to get some sleep, then hung up. I did go to the motel, but couldn't sleep. At 11a.m., there was someone knocking on my door. I got out of bed and opened the door. There stood my father. He had flown to Chicago via Kansas City. He came into my room and the first thing he said was "Take your finals!" I knew if I took my finals, I would flunk all of them. When you can't sleep for several days, you probably can't function very well. When you increasingly have trouble getting to sleep, then simply you can't sleep at all, you are sick. My father kept saying, "Take your finals! "Take your finals!" He took me to a chicropractor. I didn't have any idea why I couldn't sleep at all, but a chicropractor?, I thought. My father left early that evening. By then, I knew what I was going to do. Monday morning, I was going to walk with my classmates across campus, but not to the building where exams were given, but to the building where the Dean had his office. I entered that building, walked up one flight of stairs, and walked into the Dean's office. The Dean was surprised to see me, but was cordial nonetheless. I introduced myself. The Dean said, "Please, have a seat." I did. Then I explained why I came to see him. "Dean, I have decided to attend Officers Candidate School, either the Navy or Air Force. (The Vietnam War was heating up.) The Dean, not surprisingly, was surprised. He said it would be a good idea for me to take my finals, so when my military duties were over, it would be easy for me to be accepted again. I said he was probably right, but I was resolute about getting my military service over first.
He wished me well and thanked him for his time, then left his office. As I returned to my dorm, I was elated. I did think the pressure would be off me  now and I would begin to sleep again.

Wednesday, I took the train to Topeka. That evening, my father was at the station to pick me up. He didn't say "Hello." He didn't say "How are you?"
He didn't say a word to me. He didn't say a single word to me all the way home.

Within two weeks, having gotten some sleep every night, I took first the Air Force test, which was six hours long, then a few days later, I took the Navy test, which was only an hour longer, but the more difficult of the two. I passed both. The Air Force recruiter told me my score was the highest ever at his recruiting station. The recruiter told me the Air Force wanted me to get a master's degree to become an aeronautical engineer.  He told me I would start school in September.  The Navy said I didn't have to report to Candidate School until September as well. It was now January, 1967. That meant I had eight months before I had to report to either service, but I soon decided on the Navy. Wow!, I thought. I have eight whole months for my sleeping problem to dissipate completely. Wow! That's what I thought, but I was wrong.


Chapter 7

After another week or so, my sleeping problems reappeared. As they reappeared, they grew worse. My father grew increasingly distant from me. One evening in mid-March, I decided to try to talk to my father. After dinner, my father always went into the living room to read the evening paper. I went into the living room, saw my father reading the evening paper in a stuffed chair, positioned myself directly in front of him, then dropped to my knees.
He held the paper wide-open so he could not see me, nor I he. Then I said to my father, "Dad, I'm sick." His wide-open paper didn't even quiver. He said, "If you're sick, go to the State Hospital." This man, my father, the same person who willingly spent a small fortune so I would receive the best education in the world, wouldn't even look at me. The world-famous Menninger Clinic, ironically, was a single block from our home, but he didn't even speak to me about getting help at Menninger's, the best psychiatric hospital in the world. This man, my father, I no longer knew.

About two weeks later in the early afternoon, I sat in another stuffed chair in the living room sobbing. My mother always took an afternoon nap in the afternoon, but on this afternoon as I continued to cry profusely, my mother stepped into the living room and saw me in the stuffed chair bawling non-stop, then immediately disappeared. About 15 minutes later, Dr. Cotter Hirschberg, the Associate Director of Southard School, Menninger's hospital for children, was standing in front of me. I knew Dr. Hirschberg. He was the father of one of my best friends, his daughter, Lea. I had been in his home many times. I couldn't believe it. There was Dr. Cotter Hirschberg, one of the wisest and kindest human beings I had ever met, standing directly in front of me. My mother, I later found out, had left the living room to go into the kitchen to use another phone to call the doctor in the middle of a workday afternoon to tell him about me. Bless his heart. Within minutes of speaking to my mother, he was standing in front of me in mid-afternoon during a work day. He spoke to me gently. I told him my dilemma. Dr. Hirschberg said he would speak to Dr. Otto Kernberg, another renown psychiatrist, and make an appointment for me to see him the next day. My mother saved my life that afternoon.

The next morning, I was in Dr. Kernberg's office. He was taking notes of what I was sharing with him. I was talking so rapidly that at a certain point. Dr. Kernberg's pen stopped in mid-air, then slowly descended like a helicopter onto the legal pad he was writing on. He said that tomorrow he would have to talk not only with me, but also with my mother and father.

The next morning, my mother and father joined me in Dr. Kernberg's office.
The doctor was terse. "If Tod doesn't get help soon, he will have a complete nervous breakdown. I think he needs to be in the hospital to be evaluated."
"How long will he need to be in the hospital," asked my father. "About two weeks," said Dr. Kernberg. The doctor was a wee bit off. I was in the hospital for a year.



Chapter 8

That same day, my mother and father and I met Dr. Horne, my house doctor. I liked him instantly. I know my father hated me being in a mental hospital instead of law school. It may sound odd, but I felt good for the first time in a year. Dr. Horne said I would not be on any medication. He wanted to see me "in the raw." The doctor had an aid escort me to my room. This was the first day of a long, long journey to my finding my real self, which, I believe, very few ever do.

Perhaps strangely, but I felt at home being an in-patient at Menninger's. My first realization was that my fellow patients, for the most part, seemed "real" unlike most of the people you meet day-to-day. No misunderstanding here:   I was extremely sick, but I could feel that Menninger's was my friend while my father wasn't. He didn't give a **** about me unless I was unconsciously living out his dreams.

So what was it like being a mental patient at Menninger's? Well, first, he (or she) was **** lucky to be a patient at the world's best (and one of the most expensive) mental hospital. Unlike the outside world, there was no ******* in  Menninger's. You didn't always like how another person was acting, but whatever he or she was doing was real, not *******.

All days except Sunday, you met with your house doctor for around twenty minutes. I learned an awful lot from Dr. Horne. A couple of months after you enter, you were assigned a therapist. Mine was Dr. Rosenstein, who was very good. My social worker was Mabel Remmers, a wonderful woman. My mother, my father, and I all had meetings with Mabel, sometimes singly, sometimes with both my mother and father, sometimes only with me. It was Mabel who told me about my parents, that when I was 4 1/2 years old, my father came home in the middle of the workday, which rarely ever did, walked up the stairs to their bedroom and opened the door. What he saw changed not only his life, but also that of everyone else. On their bed lay my naked mother in the arms of a naked man who my father had never seen until that moment that ruined the lives of everybody in the family. My mother wanted a divorce, but my father threatened her with his determined intent of making it legally impossible ever for her to see her children again. So that's why they had separate bedrooms, I thought. So that is why my mother was always depressed, and that's why my father treated me in an unloving way no loving father would ever do. It was Mabel who had found out these awful secrets of my mother and father and then told me. Jesus!

The theme that keeps running through my head is "NO *******."
Most people on Earth, I believe, unconsciously are afraid to become their real selves;  thus, they have to appear OK to others through false appearances.

For example, many feel a need to have "power," not to empower others, but to oppresss them. Accruing great wealth is another way, I believe, is to present a false image, hoping that it will impress others to think they are OK when they are not. The third way to compensate is fame. "If I'm famous, people will think I'm hot ****. They'll think I'm OK. They'll be impressed and never know the real me."

I believe one's greatest achievement in life is to become your real self. An exceptionally great therapist will help you discover your real self. It's just too scary for the vast majority of people even to contemplate the effort, even if they're lucky enough to find a great therapist. And I believe that is why our world is so ******-up.

It took me almost eight months before I could get into bed and sleep almost all night. At year's end, I left the hospital and entered one of the family's home selected by Menninger's. I lived with this family for more than a year. It was enlightening, even healing, to live with a family in which love flowed. I drove a cab for about a month, then worked on a ranch also for about a month, then landed a job for a year at the State Library in the State Capitol building. The State Librarian offered to pay me to attend Emporia State University to get my masters in Library Science, but I declined his offer because I did not want to become a professional librarian. What I did do was I got a job at the Topeka Public Library in its Fine Arts division.

After working several months in the Fine Arts division, I had a relapse in the summer. Coincidentally, in August I got a phone call at the tiny home I was renting. It was my father calling from the White Mountains in northern Arizona. The call lasted about a minute. My father told me that he would no longer pay for any psychiatric help for me, then hung up. I had just enough money to pay for a month as an in-patient at Menninger's. Toward the end of that month, a nurse came into my room and told me to call the State Hospital to tell them I would be coming there the 1st of December. Well, ****! My father, though much belatedly, got his way. A ******* one minute phone call.
Can you believe it?

Early in the morning of December 1st, My father and mother silently drove me from Menninger's about six blocks down 6th Street to the State Hospital. They pulled up beside the hill, at the bottom of which was the ward I would be staying in. Without a word being spoken, I opened the rear door of the car, got out, then slid down on the heavy snow to the bottom of the hill.

A nurse unlocked the door of the ward (yes, at the State Hospital, doors of each ward were locked). I followed the nurse into a room where several elderly women were sticking cloves into oranges to make decorations for the Christmas Tree. Then I followed her into the Day Room where a number of patients were watching a program on the TV. Then she led me down the corridor to my room that I was going to share with three other male patients. When the nurse left the room, I quickly lay face down spread-eagle of the mattress for the entire day. I was to do this every day for two weeks. When my doctor, whom I had not yet met, became aware of my depressed behavior, had the nurse lock the door of that room. Within several days the doctor said he would like to speak to me in his office that was just outside the ward. His name was Dr. Urduneta from Argentina. (Menninger's trained around sixty MDs from around the world each year to become certified psychiatrists. These MDs went either to the State Hospital or to the VA hospital.) The nurse unlocked the door for me to meet Dr. Urduneta in his office.

I liked Dr. Urduneta from the first time I met him. He already knew a lot about me. He knew I had been working at the Topeka Public Library, as well as a number of other things. After several minutes, he said, "Follow me." He unlocked the door of the ward, opened the door, and followed me into the ward.

"Tod," he said, "some patients spend the rest of their lives here. I don't want that for you. So this coming Monday morning (he knew I had a car), I want you to drive to the public library to begin work from 9 until noon."

"Oh Doctor, I can't do that. Maybe in six or seven months I could try, but not now. Maybe I can volunteer at the library here at the State Hospital," I said.

"Tod, I think you can work now half-days at the public library," said Dr. Urduneta calmly.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing, what he was saying. I couldn't even talk. After a long pause, Dr. Urduneta said, "It was good to meet you, Tod. I look forward to our next talk."

Monday morning came too soon. A nice nurse was helping me get dressed while I was crying. Then I walked up the hill to the parking lot and got into my car. I drove to the public library and parked my car. As I walked to the west entrance, I was thinking I had not let Cas Weinbaum--my boss and one of the nicest women I had ever met--know that I had had a relapse. I had no contact with her or anyone else at the library for several months. Why had I not been fired?, I thought.

As I opened the west door, I saw Cas and she saw me. She came waddling toward me with her arms wide open. I couldn't believe it. And then Cas gave me a long, long hug without saying a word. Finally, she told me I needed to glue the torn pieces of 16 millimeter film together. I was anxious as hell. I lasted 10 minutes. I told Cas I was at the State Hospital, that I had tried to work at the public library, but just couldn't do it. She hugged me again and said nothing. I left the library and drove back to the State Hospital.

When I got to the Day Room, I sat next to a Black woman and started talking to her. The more we talked, the more I liked her. Dr. Urduneta, I was to find out, usually came into the ward later in the day. Every time he came onto the ward, he was swarmed by the patients. I learned quickly that every patient on our ward loved Dr. Urduneta. I sat there for a couple of hours before Dr. Urduneta finally got to me. He was standing, I was sitting. I said, "Dr. Urduneta, I tried very hard to do my job, but I was so anxious I couldn't do it. I lasted ten minutes. I tried, but I just couldn't do it. I'm sorry.
"Dr. Urduneta said, "Tod, that's OK, because tomorrow you're going to try again."



Chapter 9

On Tuesday, I tried again.

I managed to work until 12 noon, but every second felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. I didn't think I could do it, but I did. I have to give Dr. Urduneta a lot of credit. His manner, at once calm and forceful, empowered me. I continued to work at the library at those hours until early April. At the
beginning of May, I began working regular hours, but remained an in-patient until June.

I had to stay at the hospital during the Christmas holidays. One of those evenings, I left my room and turned left to go to the Day Room. After taking only a few steps, I could see on the counter in front of the nurses's station a platter heaped with Christmas cookies and two gallons of red punch with paper cups to pour the punch in to. That evening remains the kindest, most moving one I've ever experienced. Some anonymous person, or persons, thought of us. What they shared with all of us was love. That evening made such an indelible impression on me that I, often with a friend or my sisters, bought Christmas cookies and red punch. And after I got legal permission for all of us to hand them out, we visited the ward I had lived on. I personally handed Christmas cookies and red punch to every patient who wanted one or both. But I never bothered any patient who did not want to be approached.

On July 1, I shook Dr. Urduneta's hand, thanked him for his great help, and went to the public library and worked a full day. A good friend of mine had suggested that I meet Dr. Chotlos, a professor of psychology at KU. My friend had been in therapy with him for several years and thought I might want to work with him. My friend was right. Dr. Chotlos met his clients at his home in Topeka. I began to see him immediately. I had also rented an apartment. Dr. Urduneta had been right. It had taken me only seven months to recover.

After a little over six months, I had become friends with my co-workers in the Fine Arts department. Moreover, I had come warm friends with Cas whom I had come to respect greatly. My four co-workers were a pleasure to work with as well.

There were around eighty others who worked at the library, one of whom prepared the staff news report each month. I had had one of my poems published in one of the monthly reports. Mr. Marvin, the Head Librarian, had taken positive note of my poem. So when that fellow left for another job, Mr. Marvin suggested to the Staff Association President that I might be a good replacement, which was exactly what happened. I had been only a couple of months out of the State Hospital, so when I was asked to accept this position, I was somewhat nervous, I asked my girlfriend, Kathy, if I should accept the offer, she said I should. I thought it over for a bit more time because I had some new ideas for the monthly report. Frankly, I thought what my predecessor's product was boring. It had been only a number of sheets of paper 8 1/2 by 14 inches laid one on the others stapled once in the upper left corner. I thought if I took those same pieces of paper and folded them in their middle and stapled them twice there, I'd have a burgeoning magazine. Also, I'd give my magazine the title TALL WINDOWS, as I had been inspired by the tall windows in the reading room, windows as high as the ceiling and almost reached the carpet. Readers could see the outdoors through these windows, see the beautiful, tall trees, their leaves and limbs swaying in the breeze, and often the blue sky. Beautiful they were.

Initially, I printed only 80 TALL WINDOWS, one for each of the individuals working in the library, but over time, our patrons also took an interest in the magazine. Consequentially, I printed 320 magazines, 240 for those patrons who  enjoyed perusing TALL WINDOWS. The magazines were distributed freely. Cas suggested I write LIBRARY JOURNAL, AMERICAN LIBRARIES, and WILSON LIBRARY BULLETIN, the three national magazines read by virtually by all librarians who worked in public and academic libraries across the nation. AMERICAN LIBRARIES came to Topeka to photograph and interview me, then put both into one of their issues. Eventually, we had to ask readers outside of TOPEKA PUBLIC LIBRARY to subscribe, which is to pay a modest sum of money to receive TALL WINDOWS. I finally entitled this magazine, TALL WINDOWS, The National Public Magazine. In the end, we had more than 4.000 subscribers nationwide. Finally, TALL WINDOWS launched THE NATIONAL LIBRARY LITERARY REVIEW. In the inaugural issue, I published several essays/stories. This evolution took me six years, but I was proud of each step I had taken. I did all of this out of love, not to get rich. Wealth is not worth.

My mother had finally broken away from my father and moved to Scottsdale, Arizona. I decided to move to Arizona, too. So, in the spring of 1977, I gathered my belongings and my two dogs, Pooch and Susie, and managed to put everything into my car. Then I headed out. I was in no rush. I loved to travel through the mountains of Colorado, then across the northern part of Arizona, turning left at Flagstaff to drive to Phoenix where I rented an apartment.

I needed another job, so after a few days I drove to Phoenix Publishing Company. I had decided to see Emmitt Dover, the owner, without making an appointment. The secretary said he was busy just now, but would be able to see me a bit later, so I took a seat. I waited about an hour before Mr. Dover opened his office door, saw me, then invited me in. I introduced myself, shook hands, then gave him my resume. He read it and then asked me a number of pertinent questions. I found our meeting cordial. Mr. Dover had been pleased to meet me and would get back to me as soon as he was able.
I thanked him for his time, then left. Around 3:30 that afternoon, the phone rang. It was Mr. Dover calling me to tell me I had a new job, if I wanted it.
I would be a salesman for Phoenix Magazine and I accepted his offer on his terms. I thank him so much for this opportunity. Mr. Dover asked me if I could start tomorrow. I said I would start that night, if he needed me to. He said tomorrow morning would suffice and chuckled a bit. I also chuckled a bit and told him I so appreciated his hiring me. I said, "Mr. Dover, I'll see you tomorrow at 8:00 am."

I knew I could write well, but I had no knowledge of big-time publishing.
This is important to know, because I had a gigantic, nationwide art project in mind to undertake. In all my life, I've always felt comfortable with other people, probably because I enjoy meeting and talking with them so much. I worked for Phoenix Publishing for a year. Then it was time for me to quit, which I did. I had, indeed, learned a lot about big-time publishing, but it was now time to begin working full-time on my big-time project. The name of the national arts project was to be:  TALL WINDOWS:  The National Arts Annual. But before I began, I met Cara.

Cara was an intelligent, lovely young woman who attracted me. She didn't waste any time getting us into bed. In short order, I began spending every night with her. She worked as the personnel director of a large department store. I rented a small apartment to work on my project during the day, but we spent every evening together. After a year, she brought up marriage. I should have broken up with her at that time, but I didn't. I said I just wasn't ready to get married. We spent another year together, but during that time, I felt she was getting upset with me, then over more time, I felt she often was getting angry with me. I believe she was getting increasingly angry at me because she so much wanted to marry me, and I wasn't ready. The last time I suggested we should break up, Cara put her hand on my wrist and said "I need you." She said she would date other men, but would still honor our intimate agreement. We would still honor our ****** relationship, she said. Again I went against my intuition, which was dark and threatening. I capitulated again. I trusted her word. It was my fault that I didn't follow my intuition.

Sunday afternoon came. I said she should come over to my apartment for a swim. She did. But in drying off, when she lifted her left leg, I saw her ***** that had been bruised by some other man, not by me. I instantly repressed seeing her bruised *****. We went to the picnic, but Cara wanted to leave after just a half-hour. I drove her back to my apartment where she had parked her car. I kissed her good-bye, but it was the only time her kiss had ever been awkward. She got into her car and drove away. I got out of my car and began to walk to my apartment, but in trying to do so, I began to weave as I walked. That had never happened to me before. I finally got to the door of my apartment and opened it to get in. I entered my apartment and sat on my couch. When I looked up at the left corner of the ceiling, I instantly saw a dark, rectangular cloud in which rows of spirals were swirling in counter-clockwise rotation. Then this menacing cloud began to descend upon me. My hands became clammy. I didn't know what the hell was happening. I got off the couch and reached the phone. I called Cara. She answered and immediately said, "I wish you wanted to get married." I said "I saw your bruised *****. Did you sleep with another man?" I said, "I need to know!" She said she didn't want to talk about that and hung up. I called her back and said in an enraged voice I needed to know. She said she had already told me.
At that point, I saw, for the only time in my life, cores about five inches long of the brightest pure white light exit my brain through my eye sockets. At that instant, I went into shock. All I could say was "Cara, Cara, Cara." For a week after, all I could do was to spend the day walking and walking and walking around Scottsdale. All I could eat were cashews my mother had put into a glass bowl. I flew at the end of that week back to Topeka to see Dr. Chotlos. I will tell you after years of therapy the reason I was always reluctant to get married.



Chapter 10

I remained in shock for six weeks. It was, indeed, helpful to see Dr. Chotlos. When my shock ended, I began reliving what had happen with Cara. That was terrible. I began having what I would call mini-shocks every five minutes or so. Around the first of the new year, I also began having excruciating pain throughout my body. Things were getting worse, not better.
My older sister, Rae, was told by a friend of hers I might want to contact Dr. Pat Norris, who worked at Menninger's. Dr. Norris's specialty was bio-feedback. Her mother and step-father had invented bio-feedback. I found out that all three worked at Menninger's. When I first met Dr. Norris, I liked her a lot. We had tried using bio-feedback for a while, but it didn't work for me, so we began therapy. Therapy started to work. Dr. Norris soon became "Pat" to me. The therapy we used was the following:  we began each session by both of us closing our eyes. While keeping our eyes closed the whole session, Pat became, in imagery, my mother and I became her son. We started our therapy, always in imagery, with me being conceived and I was in her womb. Pat, in all our sessions, always asked me to share my feelings with her. I worked with Pat for 20 years. Working with Pat saved my life. If I shared with you all our sessions, it would take three more books to share all we did using imagery as mother and son. I needed to take a powerful pain medication for six years. At that time, I was living with a wonderful woman, Kristin. She had told me that for as long as she could remember, she had pain in her stomach every time she awoke. That registered on me, so I got medical approval to take the same medicine she had started taking. The new medication worked! Almost immediately, I could do many things now that I couldn't do since Cara.

At Menninger's, there was a psychiatrist who knew about kundalini and involuntary kundalini. I wanted to see him one time to discuss involuntary kundalini. I got permission from both doctors to do so. I told the psychiatrist about my experience seeing cores of extremely bright light about five inches long exiting my brain through my eye sockets. He knew a lot about involuntary kundalini, and he thought that's what I experienced. Involuntary kundalini was dangerous and at times could cause death of the person experiencing it. There was a book in the Menninger library about many different ways involuntary kundalini could affect you adversely. I read the book and could relate to more than 70% of the cases written about. This information was extremely helpful to me and Pat.

As I felt better, I was able to do things I enjoyed the most. For  example, I began to fly to New York City to visit Columbia and to meet administrators I most admired. I took the Dean of Admissions of Columbia College out for lunch. We had a cordial and informative conversation over our meals. About two weeks later, I was back in Topeka and the phone rang. It was the president of the Columbia College Board of Directors calling to ask if I would like to become a member of this organization. The president was asking me to become one of 25 members to the Board of Directors out of 40,000 alumni of Columbia College. I said "Yes" to him.

Back home, I decided to establish THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY CLUB OF KANSAS CITY. This club invited any Columbia alumnus living anywhere in Kansas and any Columbia alumnus living in the western half of Missouri to become a member of THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY CLUB OF KANSAS CITY. We had over 300 alumni join this club. I served two terms as the club's president.  I was beginning to regain my life.

Pat died of cancer many years ago. I moved to Boulder, Colorado. I found a new therapist whose name is Jeanne. She and I have been working together for 19 years. Let me remark how helpful working with an excellent therapist can be. A framed diploma hanging on the wall is no guarantee of being an "exceptional" therapist. An exceptional therapist in one who's ability transcends all the training. You certainly need to be trained, but the person you choose to be your therapist must have intuitive powers that are not academic. Before you make a final decision, you and the person who wants to become your therapist, need to meet a number of times for free to find out how well both of you relate to each other. A lot of people who think they are therapists are not. See enough therapists as you need to find the "exceptional" therapist. It is the quality that matters.

If I had not had a serious condition, which I did, I think I would have never seen a therapist. Most people sadly think people who are in therapy are a "sicko." The reality is that the vast majority of people all around the world need help, need an "exceptional" therapist. More than likely, the people who fear finding an "exceptional" therapist are unconsciously fearful of finding out who their real selves are. For me, the most valuable achievement one can realize is to find your real self. If you know who you really are, you never can defraud your real self or anyone else who enters your life. Most human beings, when they get around age 30, feel an understandable urge to "shape up," so those people may join a health club, or start jogging, or start swimming laps, to renew themselves. What I found out when I was required to enter therapy for quite some time, I began to realize that being in therapy with an "exceptional" therapist was not only the best way to keep in shape, but also the best way emotionally to keep your whole self functioning to keep you well for your whole life. Now, working with an "exceptional" therapist every week is the wisest thing a person can do.

I said I would tell you why I was "unmarried inclined." I've enjoined ****** ******* with more than 30 beautiful, smart women in my life. But, as I learned, when the issue of getting married arose, I unconsciously got scared. Why did this happen? This is the answer:  If I got married, my wife and I most likely would have children, and if we had children, we might have a son. My unconscious worry would always be, what if I treated my son the same way my father had treated me. This notion was so despicable to me, I unconsciously repressed it. That's how powerful emotions can be.

Be all you can be:  be your real self.
reflectionzero Sep 2014
I talked to a friend today for the first time since I've been back from Arizona. It was interesting. I tried to start off cool, calm, collected... all of those things you should be in public and with strangers-- but only in private among friends. Eventually he started asking the hard questions, as I knew he would. It's a simple formality that defuses so much stress for me. Listening to someone's problems is like making eye-contact with a homeless person. You still want to treat them like a human being, but you'll end up regretting it later.  



So he asked me how the relationship stands with my dad since summer. “Has it improved? Did you two talk?” “No, no.” I say. No, it hasn't improved at all. My father still feeds of his perpetual guilt as a muse and mentor in every sale he makes and AA meeting he attends. If you cut him open you'd find an empty bottle of Jameson. “That's alright,” I tell him. I don't chase him down anymore to have a heart to heart about the past, or his feelings, or his mistakes-- no, we're adults now. We use each other as a means to an end. This is the way males bond. Instead of getting angry at him when he's a ****, I just ignore his phone calls for five days until he's saturated in his guilt long enough to actually be proactive. When I call him back It's expected he'll send me money, even if it's unwarranted. It's so easy. I don't have to fight with him, and he gets to avoid looking at the loser in the mirror. Nobodies emotional needs are being met-- but, hey! At least we can spend the 100$ drinking long island ice tea at the layovers on the way back to my life away from hell. Thanks dad, really.  



“And how is your sister?” he asks. “Oh, she's loosing her mind,” I say. She asks me why I don't try harder for the family. She blames me for leaving and emotionally severing myself. “It's like you don't give a **** about anything but yourself,” she says. Well she really hit the nail on the head. I, apparently, am the patron saint of reassembling ravaged family units beyond repair and squaring the circle. I am fully aware of how angry she is that she can't do the same emotional distancing for herself. She wants so badly to grow out of that child that's still locked inside of herself begging for a functioning home. So there she is, Atlas, holding the weight of the world and I'm the one that put it on her shoulders. No one can advise her because we're all to blame, are her victimhood is a virulent strain infecting everyone but me.  



“And hows your mom?” he asks. “Oh, well she's just a silly goose, you know?” “Sillier than ever,” I say. Making her rounds to the ER quicker than she rebounded from deciding to leave her boyfriend and live off my sister in Seattle. “At least this time it's from the aftershocks of her attempted suicide and not the actual act of doing it, you know?” But there still runs the potentiality of getting that phone call-- “Hey, your mom's got a tube running into her heart.” It's a fun game of Russian Roulette we like to play in our family-- nobodies winning.  But she made the time to come to Flagstaff and spend some quality time with me for my birthday. Forked over a little bit of Xanex for me and my girlfriend, bought us *****, drank with us. “You know, what are moms for?” I say.  



I tell him, "My life is like a Modern Family episode directed by Quentin Tarantino."



It just makes a person a little rough around the edges, you know? And with insight comes a bit of cynicism. Like, yeah. I dissected and tore you apart yesterday-- but it's only because I love you. Your imperfections really make you shine. It's that feeling you get when you try to jam the wrong shape through one of those Fisher-Price toys-- it doesn't fit but you force it anyway.



But you're alright, you'll muddle through.
Whit Howland Mar 2021
A moon not pale
but robust

or

dare I say
voluptuous

it's still snowy
in Wintertime

through this mountain
pass

so long ago

and I'm still crying
over spilled milk

whit howland © 2021
An impressionistic word painting.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2023
This is the magi's pen.
If child Newton sat beside me,
might he think the older knowing mine?

I smile and share a second thought.
I accept reality allows my thoughts out
let fall with luck would let
be the letting, let us make believe.

The joy of a ride in a Tesla, akin
to the thrill of an Oldsmobile 442,
on the completed cloverleaf exchange
southwest of Flagstaff, in fall of '69,
a test drive, for a couple o'vets,
in school on the Gee, I didn't know bill.

I-Forty had not replaced Route 66,
but the interchange was accessible,
by curious joy riders, for about one day.

Remember such days.
Savor surviving and think of thanking
times process for arranging the occasion.

Don't bring up the fact that onces exist.
Being first to do a once is not great glory.
I lucked into the end of civilization and the first disease of globalization.
First, we say it'll be okay, life does not end --- when it feels like it does.
Nomkhumbulwa Aug 2018
This is the question they ask me,
And one which I struggle to answer;
For it is not something I gave much thought,
And I really dont know how to answer.

It plagues me every day,
For you are still - ALL of you..."gone";
Why did I ever go back?
Had I been away for too long?

Perhaps I was being selfish,
Wanting to go back and see my Nan,
Wanting to go back to my roots,
To be on the ship while I still can.

To go back to where I felt I belonged,
I had waited ten years to go back;
And I still dont regret my return,
I dont see it as a reason for "attack".

I thought I had a family,
But it is quite clear that I do not;
For I struggle to find any answers
For this place that time forgot.

So it was a big mistake
To once again return,
To feel the soil under my feet,
For which I had so long yearned.

To climb High Knoll,
Looking out to sea;
Beyond the rugged terrain
lies nothing but sea, sea and more sea.

To climb the peaks,
Through the flax and the ferns;
Everything so green,
Being circled by the terns.

The wild windy bends,
On the road to Blue Hill;
The cloud almost consuming me -
and then everything so still.

The woods of Plantation,
And Rosemary Plain;
The sweet smell of fresh pine
Brings me back again and again.

The narrow streets of Jamestown,
Where cars and people compete;
Can take such a long time to walk,
Talking for hours with everyone you meet.

Swimming in the sea at Rupert's
Became my great escape;
With lovely friends we'd cook and swim
From early until late.

Being churned by the rough South Atlantic
Is like being in a washing machine;
When the huge waves come crashing upon you,
All you can do is hold your breath and hope...its better not to scream!

The water is warm but not gentle,
The swell can sweep you away;
As the waves pound rocks at your body,
You might be tempted to pray.

We swam and ate plo,
We swam and ate cake;
Fish freshly caught
Then from fire and onto plate.

Nana's house has not changed much,
The old geysir still in place;
The bead curtains, the photos,
of just about every single face.

Cockroaches escape hastily,
And the mozzies might come in,
Yet the peace and tranquility of this place
...with its "acoustics" of tin...

For the tin roof has a lot to offer
Especially for a musician;
The flute can be heard from afar,
Penetrating the silence within.

The rain drops make music too,
As they fall upon this roof of tin;
Every other sound may well be drowned out
And the lights sometimes go dim.

But to look from Nana's house,
To the peaks, the Gumwoods, the Fort;
Across to Francis Plain, the School,
And the sea in the distance of course.

Flagstaff sits prominently,
The sun setting on its flanks;
All can be seen from this house,
Built on these precarious banks.

I said goodbye to my nana
I did not know she was going to die;
She was staying in the nursing home,
I visited each time I passed by.

The house then felt more empty,
Even though she had to move out;
Suddenly it became so empty -
Everyone now has moved out.

It was also a place of torture,
And I am not proud at all of my mark;
I left this house with a darkness,
From which it will never depart.

I left the Island with darkness,
As it came time for me to depart;
The people, community shattered,
I still love it with all my heart.

I then felt I could help others,
After learning from those I could confide;
Since my once close knit family
Had pushed me to the side.

We thought we could bring justice,
For many victims of this fate;
But then as we drew so close..
...all of a sudden - it was too late.

Now we are cursed even more,
For our actions have caused such shame;
Yet he was the one who abused us -
He was the one to blame.

So I say goodbye as thats all I can do,
Tears flowing as I write this;
For I know with most certainty...
that I shall never return...and how I miss...

I miss you St Helena,
I tried to help you too;
But as closed minded as you are,
I am just more sad - there is nothing I can do.

Without the support of anyone,
Due to "fear of speaking out",
My own voice falls on deaf ears,
Even when I shout.

Now I must live with this damage,
And shame, and blame, and guilt;
Sometimes I still know not what is true,
Because as women - of course, its "our fault".

You are drifting away St Helena,
Our people - they have but gone;
I miss you, our jewel of the ocean,
Thinking back to the days when I was "still one".

I was still one of you till  last year,
How so much can change in that time;
But now our bond is forever broken,
Its broken...because of this crime.  

....and yes....it was a crime.
A new poem...not really thought out.  Just thoughts that came out (!).
TG Hinchcliff Feb 2014
A saintly cabdriver
High in the mountains of Arizona
Once told me to try to never be cynical.
Live in the now, you won’t regret it.
His own son
Had given his life to negativity.
I never saw the driver’s face
But I know he had a moustache
And I imagine his face was lined
With many years of the winters of Flagstaff
And the harsh wisdom of all creation.
I tipped him two dollars after
The ride was over.
I probably should have also told him
Thanks for saving my life
Or
Thanks to you
For imparting these golden thoughts
Or
I hope things work out between you and your boy.
But I didn’t.
Instead I got in my car
And pointed the headlights
For New Mexico.
It was a long drive.
That was many months ago
And it has been a crazy ride ever since.
I remember every single woman
That I have “loved.”
I remember all of the friends
Whose shoulders were but precipices for understanding.
I even remember what I had for breakfast this morning
Or what new horror story the news had for me a month ago.
But I will forget those things soon enough.
The cabdriver
Who’s name I never even asked for
High in the San Francisco Mountains
Of Arizona
Spinning his wheels all around a city
Filled with
People that really just want him to drive them somewhere.
He drove me somewhere.
I just don’t know where.
The perfect thing is that
Once he was gone
He was gone.
Graff1980 Jul 2018
He’s been on the road
coming home
from
Arizona flagstaff
wearing his
jury rigged knapsack
with plastic
and cloth bags
strapped together
by an orange cord.

Sixty something,
tan skinned,
and missing teeth,
I find him
on the off ramp
as I head out
to work.

Sign says Springfield
but he is trying to
get back to
Chicago.
I almost pass him by,
but I remember
a younger guy,
the good man
I used to be.
He asks me to be
kind again.

I tell him
I’ll drop him
halfway there,
but he offers
a traveler’s perspective
and excellent conversation
so, I take him as far as I am going.

We roll in
just in time
for him to miss
the storm coming,
and part with
a handshake
and goodwill,
I forgot how good
that feels.
Poe Reimer Oct 2016
Things down past Flagstaff got nasty, no doubt,
more heat coming in than was getting back out.
It was maybe the 20th year of the drought;
valley fever came in, pretty much won that bout.
Gas prices went north, cooling systems went south;
things go **** up, you get down in the mouth.
Finally, unable to take any more
they pointed it north, ended up at our door.
We're already full; not a thing we could do;
fed them a meal, took a woman or two,
told lies about work up in Kalamazoo.
ChawzzyScript Sep 2017
From the cockpit of my silver R8 convertible, I was
“Not The Doctor” on call, I drove at dusk the 89A from Sedona on my way to Flagstaff.
The failing sun brushing against the red rock was so beautiful,
As "Jagged Little Pill" blared and bounced off the canyon walls echoing “Mary Jane”

The diminishing daylight gave way to the cool of the “Perfect” night,
And the stars began their delicate lattice song of arrival,
Yet incomparable to the grandeur of the full moon
That rose in my view elevated along side of me, then "Right Through Me."

Its celestial wonder, its luminous glow, its dimpled smoothness, captivating.
Quickly reminded I was driving, my car veered to the left shoulder,
Alanis declaring "Wake Up", I corrected back on the highway.
My eyes re-fixed on that wondrous stellar promontory.

This lunar object, on which many experts claim mental unrest,
Had me "Head Over Feet" as I continued to stare, then unconsciously drool.
I fancied how it would feel to be on that great orb, then recollected, and was “Forgiven” of
My childhood wish to become an astronaut.

I could see her face laughing as she looked back past her voluptuous *** protruding out the window.
From the back seat of the Range Rover, brunette, woo-hooing her young adulthood to the world.
She was beautiful, liberated, spontaneous, uninhibited, and likely inebriated; I was infatuated.
She looked into my lustful eyes; I had one hand on the wheel and one "Hand in My Pocket"

I ruined my jeans; then chastised myself, “You Oughta Know” better.

No other night since has carried with it a moon so lovely as the one I saw that evening;

Isn't it "Ironic"

-----ChawwzyScript
isabella Jul 2015
delicately trace the outline of my body
every night in your dreams
wishing you were next to me
and leave me unraveling
is it for sure?
nothing is exactly
so i back up backbone
and head for the freak show
can you flag me down
somewhere near flagstaff, arizona
call me, say
"i miss you
you've got a home here"
i wish I could run to you but
the waters are murky
and my mind isn't clear
David Lessard May 2018
2,000, five hundred feet higher,
it's ten degrees cooler up here;
than the place where I now live
watching the green cacti near.

From where I am,  I can't see it,
I'm too far to the north and east;
but the views I do have,  are great,
Verde Valley's a high desert feast.

The peaks behind Flagstaff's are lovely,
Eighty-nine A winds her way to Jerome;
and a shelter of pines line my footpath,
as we amble and stride and do roam.

Jax - is my  faithful companion,
adorable, trustworthy...true;
a canine that I can call buddy,
he's with me in most things that I do.

The road is a thousand feet lower,
like a concrete snake amid trees;
Wood-Chute mountain's enchanting,
as once more, I return, to just see.
Kurt Philip Behm Feb 2019
Racing the dark from Albuquerque to Flagstaff
  old questions trailed behind me

The highway marked with broken dreams
  of searchers long ago

As Gallup filled my rearview mirror
  the sun reached out and grabbed me

My last horizon dropping fast
  —the finish line aglow

(Flagstaff Arizona: February, 2019)
louella Apr 2022
daisy’s spread out in a vast field
twirling as the wind whips their blossoms
salty lips and caramel hips
dips and tricks
picking up the flowers that fill the ground with
color
laughs in Flagstaff
sidesteps and triceps
gracefully holding sweaty hands
in fields that only flowers inhabit
liberated limbs in little lands
with boundless promises
sway with arms on shoulders
hands on slim waists
spreading fake wings while lying in the yellow
field
smelling the scents, but with no allergies
spinning until floating
two in one without knowing
falling into enchanting spells
flower field remaining sweet
while kissing is faintly heard in the brisk
night air

oh, what a magnificent thing is to be in love
i love to love love and love loves to love me loving love
4/13/22
Two nights running this
Stormlight has warned me
Out on the flagstaff
The pennant is torn and
I hear your threat
Ruffle over the water
Chilled menace
A cold tantara
My sword was never sheathed
Though I am old and tired
In stillness I wait by
A dying fire
The rising storm deprives me of sleep
And out there a wolf is eyeing the sheep
Storm closes in
Sparks flare in the hearth
I close my eyes and
Probe into your heart
Know this -
I was warned years before
I became tired and old
I do not fear your darkness
And in its path the sigil holds.
Dr Peter Lim Apr 2018
The years--what did they say
that I had grown old and senile?
there's still throbbing sap in the ageing tree
its trunk, branches and leaves would still last a while

never mind the young offshoots nearby
that have joined the shared foliage
they will be the sprouting voice of the future
the flourishing flagstaff that will carry the message

that all life is one and existence
is a cycle of eternal recurrence*
what had gone before would give way
in gracious gesture to a fresh in-coming  -- radiance

never loses its glow in the overall of both the young and old
there's light still in the warm and generous day
the ageing tree once provided lovely shade to weary travellers
it has had its times of glory--what more should it say?
* from Nietzsche
Marshal Gebbie Jul 2024
Because of the pre ponderance of handguns and their ease of
availability in America....and because of the theatrics embedded in
the imagination of the population by 60 years of 1st Blood,  *****
Harry and High Noon....and lastly, because of the newly expressed
rhetoric of ultimate violence against any opposition by people in high places....

The mantra of political assassination hangs like a shroud over the nation.

There is always going to be the loose cannon who lusts for notoriety, who lusts for revenge, who hates to the degree that he or she will court a violent end to achieve their ****** ambition.

Politicians are the prime target, loud and vocatious, exposed to the
masses frequently, always violently expressing the primal things which trigger the thin line of discord to rupture with the shot from a gun, with the momentary gleam of manic satisfaction, with the spasm of agony as the ****** of justice fires the round which ends the assailants life.

It is a grand performance which has been replayed through history. A performance, these days, played repeatedly over the media, every portrayal in every available angle, every agonised expression of the players recorded, every spray of blood. The more graphic and grandiose, the better....and it is devoured, slavishly, rapaciously, by much of the nation's spectator population.

Disgustingly, Trump has made huge capital from the near miss of last week. He has enlisted the roar of approval of the MAGA crowd in his expression of ****** defiance whilst being rushed away by the Secret Service. He has maneuvered the mass sympathy of the adoring thousands at the crass pantomime which was the Republican National Convention. He has even invoked the assistance of Divine intervention and the suggestion that God has, indeed, decreed that he shall be the next President of the United States of America.

From afar, it all looks like a huge and ghastly fabrication. A
manipulation of tragedy to achieve a political aim. A blatant betrayal of values of human decency  and a crass desiccation of the  values embodied in the magnificence of your nation's history and the grace symbolized in the proud Stars and Stripes flowing forth, yonder in the breeze, from the white flagstaff.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
Dr Peter Lim Jun 2018
I talked to you in fullness of heart
that summer of long ago
you've forgotten and stood apart
I'm now someone you hardly know

we vowed to save the world
usher in a new era--you and I
together in those days of sunshine
where are you? You wouldn't even walk by

we hardly walked a mile
and you turned away--didn't try
to abide by what we set out to do
I was left alone weary and dry

your own flagstaff is all over city and town
among the elite--your name is praised sky-high
I recall that summer of long ago
in silence and desolation I cry.
* part of this is true
Kurt Philip Behm Feb 2019
I live in places  
  you’ve never seen

And sleep in nightmares
  you’ve never dreamed

I choose in dimensions
  above either or

Beyond the pain
  you can endure

My memory lapses
  in moments freed

But fate imprisons
  all I see

Escape an option, death allowed,
  but only if I’m willing

To marry freedom’s hope denied
   —and **** my soul’s foretelling

(Flagstaff Arizona: February, 2019)
Kurt Philip Behm Feb 2019
The power of dissent
  —a true measure of our freedom

(Flagstaff Arizona: February, 2019)
Kurt Philip Behm Feb 2019
Striving to be anonymous,
  the hole got deeper still

Ties were broken, ropes were cut,
  less water in the well

Alone within my loneliness
  the darkness came at last

The wish, I wish, I’d wished away
  —had captured me at last

(Flagstaff Arizona: February, 2019)

— The End —