Safe Haven - Part 5 The Fall and Rise of the Kobayashi Maru

 As the wagon pulled away from the land where it all started, destructive fires burned behind them, making it clear that there would be no way to return. They had made this journey many times before, but never like this. It was a one-way trip tonight. From a distance, it seemed like growth and expansion; in reality, it was cover and concealment. There was no plan, but really, was there ever a plan?

When they arrived, it was dark. The woods and interior looked different than they had before. It was lonely, and it held no answers within it. They quietly put in supplies, whatever little they had. Inside, the boy wanted to know where all of this was going. He had no idea what was next. Previously, he had been on the wrong side of the airlock, which was bad enough, but at least those times, he was alone. Now he had companions, and that made it very different. He did not feel any closer to those in his care. Ever since the journey, everyone was weird to him.

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As the sun rose, he wanted it to be a play day. It was Saturday. He sat in the sand of the beach, looking at the glistening sunlight reflecting off the water, and wished he had answers. Winter was coming. It was a predator that kept pace with his steps, yet somehow, winter took slightly longer strides. He knew there was no way to outpace it.

Had he fled a month earlier, he could have gone south, to a warmer land without the threat of winter, but that is not what he did. There was nothing he could do about that now. He would have to come up with a solution. Nothing happened. The summer sun got hotter, water was scarce, and food even more elusive. 

He looked around rural areas for work, but it never provided results. So they journeyed south, not far from where they fled from, to take temporary work with old friends. The summer spun like a top of changing world events, devastation, and loss of respect. But like an injured animal, friends took them in, and the boy could never quite understand the motives. Forty years later, that equation is even more perplexing.

They journeyed back and forth on the road that led north into the quiet peace of their uncertainty and back south to the psychological tango of mercy and doom. There was no accounting for how they were able to do this. The boy did not even know how they were being sustained. He grew more disillusioned as he continued through the darkness in the light of the days and long dark nights. 

The voices in his head were ignited by the comments of those around him, which passively aggressively charged him with self-deprecating feelings. Some days were hot, in the city, in homes of the past. Other days were also hot but filled with children screaming and laughing at the lake, enjoying summer vacation to the fullest. The mercy of infactuation allowed the trickle of poison that kept the boy subdued, always keeping him looking selfish, a failure worthy of conspiritorial manipulation.

Like panic season, the precipice of the end of everything was advancing fast. There were no tricks or scraps from which the boy could construct answers. All resources were depleted, and he failed. Fortunately, it had affected the girl so much that she relented to being left in the lands she once fled. When you are number one, that becomes the prime directive revealed, and all of the facade burns away.

What happened next was similar to what happens when you remove Kryptonite from the vicinity of Superman. The boy's strength began to rise. New ideas that should have previously been obvious came to light, and he pursued them. He was incredibly successful. Resources were at their lowest, so he put every last one into his new endeavor. It was an investment that would win.

The days were fine. He made a decision, and he was surrendering to it. Meanwhile, in the land where the Pease Brothers settled, the girl spun the hourly assessment to determine what words would be used in the next hour. At this point, it was more of an instinct than a plan.

The days and nights went by quickly, and the time came to reunite. He still believed they were a team and sometimes, so did the girl. Things began to have a routine, and life became something that she liked again. It seemed like fate was smiling upon them, so they took the next step to end their wayward wandering and put down roots. This was met with them blatantly being shot down. All of the wars fought in the days of living in the ancient place where a thousand people lived and died rose to smite them one more time.

This knocked the boy down into the dirt, ash, and smoldering timers he thought he had been free of. He smiled, pushed his face out of the dirt, and stood up. He shook the fire from his hair and said, "Did I ever tell you? I love the no-win scenario." He played it their way; now, it was his turn.

Like the perfect campaign of coordinated attack, he left nothing untouched. Every T crossed and i dotted, his assault was bulletproof and held unswerving confidence. Today, he wins; he just needs one more lifeline support from those who will love him forever to finish it. Of course, they made it so.

The boy will never forget finding that the road to where he had been going his whole life went further north. That long climb felt like change; it felt like his 52nd chance. The day was bright and summery, and relief and real life were not only coming, but they were here, and he claimed them. It was not October; it was August. All of June's uncertainty and the following desolation had led them here, on the road to a new life.

With only the little bit they had, they set up the new homestead on a quiet summer day before he had to leave. He would be back in the middle of the night. August meteors streamed over his head in a spectacular array as he traveled home. As he approached home, small fires were burning in the street, and angry people were yelling. He assessed them as he walked to the door, and they quietly watched him walk past.

What had he done? The boy wondered if he had made a terrible mistake, but deep down, he knew he had not. Something about it felt very right. A bunch of drunken idiots who slept like vampires during the day and caused destruction at night. Well, that was something he could handle. He would no longer be pushed by the wind as he had been for the last year. Something had happened to the boy during all of this; he was the captain of his future, and no one would change that. Well, except for the girl.

Rogue Twilight

My legs complained about the miles I logged today. No matter how many people are walking with me, this is a very lonely journey. I felt good, too. There is nothing more fulfilling.

As I took each step, carefully contemplating the thousand that followed, I felt stronger. I could take on the load of others in my entourage, which is also a reward like no other. 

The evening began to fall, and I shared stories and warnings with my travelling companions. I wished to share more, but fatigue and illness soon won out. I had been fighting for survival only 24 hours earlier, a battle so intense that I was not sure I was going to make it. Somewhere, you must pay the price.

As the night air grew colder, the stars rotated above all of us in a dark kaleidoscope of dreams and random interjections that would change the laws of physics in a world that was familiar enough to make sense and then suddenly not make sense at all.

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Even worse, the illogical becomes the logic. It becomes what we fight for. As we dance through the fourth dimension, gaining, we run face to face with ourselves from the land of the sunlight. We look so foreign; we silently stare into dark eyes in disbelief. How? I saw you reaching for more. Why did you take anything in the first place? 

I begin to wonder if the man in the dark mirror is me. I mourn for the progress I made in the land of the sun. Are we the same person? Or is he just fragments left over, that the stirring of the night sky floats to the surface, so that I can pull them out, right here and now?

Even more disturbing is the people I encounter. Why? There should be no connection, but here we are. Did I pick up a current that can be felt but not seen? Are we simply travellers in the same group trying to beat the same enemy?

Like a trail walk, there is a mighty judgment coming. A wise man said, "The time has come to see yourself; you always look the other way." There is no avoiding it. It started with the girl landing her spaceship as I was lost in a nighttime forest. Although she has been gone for a long time, her care still manifests.

Moving across the borders, bad news comes in waves. As I look at the structures that represent the cities I have journied through, the repairs I made then look much worse than I ever thought. My shame and shock at the fragments slowly bring relief as the steed mightily pulls light across the land, bringing truth into the corners and conquering deep shadows.

It takes a while, but I am glad when the warmth steams away the night's dew. Images evaporate and show what they are, fragments to be extracted and not repaired. Decisive eradication. Never look back. It was just a dream. It was the Joker dealing the Rogue Twilight, pulling broken pictures and thoughts from deep within. Without this Aurora of sorts, how could I ever move forward in everything I do?

Now, with the light overhead, I raise my glass to the memory of the night sky that spun above me in its betrayal and mockery. I will never trust it because the walls inside of that dimension are not as solid as we know them to be. Mere thought can move us through the solidity of substance. But I do know that this is a purge and if I really want to finish the journey, I have to endure the Rogue Twilight.

Safe Haven - Part 4 (When You're an Outlaw)

 Unfortunately, in the aftermath of losing immortal heroes, life demanded that the boy carry on. Although this seemed impossible at times, it was required. In those days, there was still chemical escape to deal with or not deal with, whatever he chose. 

He did not think too far into the future. Shortly up ahead, that road contained a thick fog, and seeing beyond that was not permitted. He did not care.  A tremendous pressure had been lifted, and living the life of a transient was much more like a home than anything else.

Since he had left Ann's Island, nothing felt like home unless he slept in the place that made him feel like he could be returning at any moment. Not long ago, he met someone who was tempting him with a rich lifestyle he never thought he could know. The man, however, was cunning and convincing.  Slowly, the boy changed his image; he dared to dream what that life could be like. Being what the status quo thought was upstanding and respectful felt good. Especially after the tornado that flung everything he owned everywhere in the past few months.

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That continued in this new life. The girl who let him think he was making the decisions allowed this to continue, but you could tell at any moment that she would cut it off like only she could. As the days got warm, everything seemed to be getting better. But, an unplanned journey came up, and of course, the boy was always up for something like that.

To this day, I am still amazed at how he could take great journeys with no resources and somehow win. Not that this was not tense and scary at times, but it was still remarkable. This journey became the mold for many to come. His expediency, tenacity, and resourcefulness were all exercised in esquisit ways.

It was a strange journey as well. The people had dynamics that the boy did not understand. The girl appeared injured and retreated with whatever she had, lying in a fetal position in the back of the room. It looked like one thing, but it was far worse. The boy, alone at the wheel, found the peace he always found when he was alone. 

Upon his return, his tether broke. Here, he began to float. Last year, he had jumped from burning piece of shipwreck to another. He tried that again, but he kept falling into the water. He looked for numbness, and everyone turned against him as he did everything. He was used to the girl allowing precision pain to be administered to him; he was used to that. This was different. Behind eyes that seemed neutral, there was an elation in the boy's new level of pain. What did he do? He did not know. It should have been obvious, but he could only think as far as she wanted him to.

The seemingly random assaults increased. Something was missing—an outlet to inflict destruction, and now he was falling into that role. Something had changed. This only allowed him to damage himself even more. He had no purpose, and those who did not amount to anything lifted themselves into lofty dominance over him, coveting anything that was his, leaving him no integrity, no wisdom, and absolutely no self-respect.

In the light of day, gravity pushed hard down upon his head. All he could feel was shame, and there was nothing but disgust around him. He was mocked and ridiculed and treated as though he were a homeless vagabond. Not a word could come out of his mouth correctly. He was only nothing.

There is an old saying: "The enemy of my enemy is my friend." If not for an ancient, twisted history that I would never want to know about releasing an explosion in the compound, the boy would not have made it out alive. Because it was the only card the girl had left, she pulled back on the subliminal torture she was applying and quietly looked to the boy to pull something off.

He did what he did best. He rushed through the house as if there was a meteor entering the atmosphere and headed straight for them. He grabbed the belongings that seemed essential to them in seconds. The wagon was already moving, and he jumped on board as it escaped. The villagers were screaming in rage behind them, shooting flaming arrows at them. They always thought they could bury them beneath their communal meeting place. But today, that boy and that girl were escaping. They would need to tear someone else apart.

Blind Spots

 The 1980s was a decade in which I saw that we had taken a futuristic turn. We abandoned the real existence we lived during the 1960s and 1970s. I always felt that the 1950s through the 1970s were what real life was. What happened in the 1980s was some space-age dream we might suddenly get over.

So we went, complaining about punk and new wave music, front-wheel-drive cars, and the addition of electronics in the new album releases of our favorite musicians. The 80s were too much like the Jetsons—polished, synthesized, and overproduced into a chrome shine. In our bumbling yet instinctive analog way, we easily walked our 1970s walk through the 1980s, knowing that things were catching up with us. Computers were in some people's living rooms, but not ours; we could not afford them. Telephones were in most people's houses, but not ours; we did not need them. 

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None of us knew what was next. From watching Video Killed the Radio Star in August of 81 on a channel that seemed to think it could somehow pipe music with images into our homes 24 hours a day, to the shuttle program sending astronauts into space so often it became commonplace. Faster and faster, the wheel began to spin, and we packed all of this into our little lives with all of the wisdom of the seventies but a chip of vanity on our shoulders that somehow made it ours personally.

There are many ways to look at an era, but none is as precise as when we look back upon it. Ten years out, we feel so much pain. Twenty years out, sadness. Thirty and forty years later, we realize we were sitting on a time bomb in which infinite combinations of perfect events were falling into precise chambers, locking a fate too bleak to imagine. We were headed for oblivion. The world would never be like it was then. Little did we know that the foundation was being built to tear everything down. 

In the summer of '87, I was timeless and immortal. I was 21 and thought that I would live forever. My parents were just over 40; they would also be here forever. In a room downstairs, I was listening to the waves. Mister Petty pleaded with me and tried not to panic as he did, but it would never be the same. Everything. Everything is changing.

I was changing lanes, telling myself that, at some point, I would know where I actually was. The woman I knew did not wave from the ship as it pulled further away from the land. I wished I could be as well adjusted, but expected to be eventually. The music filled my space, and it was music about loss. Loss indeed was happening, and I was not totally getting it. There was an explosion several miles away. I saw the shockwave closing in in the rearview, but I had no idea what it meant.

The notes mourning are not for something that happened or perhaps even happening. This was big; everything was in jeopardy. A chilling realization comes to light between bursts of emotion upon which my gravity starts and stops. The world is still spinning. The centrifical expansion of whatever caused all of this is still unfolding. Time says I'm used to being alone. I try to know what I have and be there wearing all my folly as armor. But two seasons later, I always see a better way.

Nobody ever told me that youth ignorance is so formidable. As terrible as it is, they had a responsibility to paint warnings on the asphalt of the streets, plaster billboards, and write them on the sky. I cannot be sure they were not already doing that because one thing I do know: I was not listening.

Are we all this blind? So fallen? So unwise? Or does that belong to those who have no questions? They never rethink, recount, or recall how they could have made it all better, and then let it haunt them at highs and lows in years to come, calling themselves out, over and over again.

Could it be that living those moments again and again is helping now, turning hours into minutes when it counts? Could any bad decision made today become a three-month deviation from the journey? I have to believe. The blind spots were there, and I will always hold myself in contempt for not being able to see better through the fog. I guess I am depending on time to get it out of my mind.

Hands Tied

 Sometimes, it is like building castles in the sand too close to the tide. The edge of the water is never within my control, but I try anyway. That leads to frustration, and I still try. I persevere, and I am met with dissolution. I become so frustrated that I wonder if I should be more aggressive, insisting that things are not so bad. I know that will never win, and somehow, I keep futility like that in check and still lovingly build despite the erosion by the tide.

A peculiar thing happens: the tide yields and the structure is beautiful. There is gratitude and appreciation. Inside of me, I, too, am grateful that I stayed the course of love. In the weakness that I felt, the yield allowed the growth of the most important things, and for this, I cannot possibly assign a value.

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Sometimes, I am tired, but the energy that flows when this plays out naturally is unmatched. It humbles me and makes me listen, feel, and relate better. With the wisdom of restraint, I scream inside because what I feel and do will not naturally mesh. I know I am getting stronger because of it, but it can also hurt.

I have no regrets about the restraint I exercise when I patiently allow all of the complexities of our likeness to find their respective places. I also know that had I been weak and tried to make it all better by rushing in and making everything fall into place, the ground I stand on would have fallen under my feet. 

As we walk the path of our lives, I have concerns as simple as the struggle just mentioned. I worry I will succumb to my weakness and frustration, feeling I am not helping enough. I hope you are strengthened every time we walk this path, and I showed restraint to allow us both to grow. I hope that I am making everything count so that good choices will be remembered and that I will be a source of strength should I no longer be here. 

I never realized all of the impact every moment can make. I now understand the responsibility of it and am sad that wisdom took the time it did. I misunderstood the whole point of everything. Life is strange that way. I hope that I am making up for it. I make every second count. Sometimes, that means that I need my hands tied and my mouth shut so I can watch the beauty of seeing my children grow in their decisions. There is where true peace and contentment live, and there is no place I would rather be.

Don't Yuk My Yum

When you are doing something incredible, life asks when you will fall. 

When you are riding, the slip-stream pockets appear in the vacuum.

You stumble and even fall

You tumble, you crash, scrape and burn sometimes.

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Look up at the sky and do it again.

Stay the course, because good things are happening.

Be the change you desire to see all around you, 

then fight, fight, fight. Quietly determined.

When you see the light and rally the people in the land

savor all the good you have done, and lift each other up.

Don't you ever let this be about greed.

Do not poison the well. Give freely and you will see.

I don't want to go out in the rain

I don't want to go out in the rain

I don't want to live with those restraints

incarcaration of self-affliction.

What if we could see the bars we put around ourselves?

Would we all unite and declare our liberation?

Would we free each other?

Would we allow others to free us?

Don't bring me down

Don't bum me out

Don't rain on my parade

Don't be so negative

I was admiring a wise woman and the art she masters.

She told me that you have to just let it go.

I know she is right, 

There is no room for bitterness in any of us.

Let this beautiful thing have it's day

Let it grow and flourish as it can and should.

You will be surprised with what will happen,

Let it be, let it go, get over it.

It will be great.

Safe Haven: Part 3 (Time's Arrow)

 He fell through the ice just as it formed. That is when a hand reached down from his childhood and pulled him back out of the freezing water. He would survive now, and so would his tribe. Things were looking up. He was sure that this was where life was beginning. It had to be.

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The storm that had been raging for three months had finally calmed, or so it seemed. In the boy's uniqueness, he found normalcy inside ancient brick walls where people came to live and die. As the nights became colder, he worked through distractions that would be debilitating for many. He jumped from a floating chunk of ice to another in a great cold sea that, although he had never seen before, he navigated with incredible skill.

The entire world was rapidly changing beneath his feet, and he did not truly understand that. He was so busy fighting for his life and the lives of others. Just where did all of this trouble come from? It was tireless, relentless, and never-ending. The very mountains he had known since conception were fading, and his back was turned toward them so he could not see them. At the time, he was so unaware that he was squandering the most incredible opportunity. Time was running out fast as the detonation approached like a fuse burning down to the dynamite.

The days were still wild like a roller coaster ride that had not been activated for 25 years. This was what normal had become. He felt the weight of the ropes that suspended those he carried high above the gorge. In the evening, just as he thought he could rest from the war, the girl raised a firearm, made eye contact and pulled the trigger over and over again until all of the brass lay hot on the floor. Tomorrow she would reload and tomorrow they would play that scene again. You might think it was the rounds that caused the most damage, but it wasn’t. It was a subtle but undeniable joy that would emanate from her during the assault. That held a pain he would feel over and over again.

The days grew dramatically shorter. By day the boy roamed the countryside living 20 years in the past. By night he shared intimacy with the glass darkly shaded. Within it, secrets bubbling violently trying to break free to the surface. Dangerous meetings of substance in one moment, floating away as smoke in the next. He never knew if it was clarity or illusion. The floor was made of a mere thin sheet of glass and they danced upon it like it were a foot thicker than it actually was.

They created a bubble in the frigid air. The airwaves brought definition to the dark days. Adventurous journeys into the north that their decendants would be afraid to ever take on. The nightbird was tapping on the glass as the Kobayashi Maru streamed through that strong north east wind. Somewhere in the darkness, principles existing beneath the dirt, a foundation upon which he would not build upon for a long time, affected everything. If not for that, the soil he was on would just wash away into the sea.

It was not enough. So lost in the smokey night, there was a haze in which they could not even see accross the room. While the nightbird tapped, the boy placed his elbow on the table and extended his hand upward to grasp hers firmly. His face was struck with a heavy glass bottle, pushing his limits into a savage fever of betrayal and anger. Retaliation and hurt was all he could feel. He stomped around the surrounding land, tearing people from their tents and teepees of the past, dragging them out into the light of the fire to charge everyone with their crimes. Judgement day had come. It was enough!

Soldiers burst into the compound, guns blazing, knives flashing, gathering them up with contempt and loathing. He knew that they did not know what they were doing, and he searched for ways to control the assault. The soldiers, poked them and prodded them, sure that they could incite a response that they could smash. But the boy had a friend so many years ago who taught him well. "Fight them with those things they do not understand, and they will have no leverage."

As the sun rose, the walls around them were revealed to only be made of paper. There were indeed desparados under the eaves. Whispers everywhere, plotting harm, never trustworthy, never safe, always injurious. They brought in additional forces, more eyes and ears to guard the homestead. As they did, the sun grew warmer and brighter. They could see that the furniture around them was all smashed and there were ashes of their goals all over the floor. 

New hope arrived as the days grew warm. A complete course change was on the horizon. Shelter was up ahead, but the boy had to fight in one more battle to make it happen. He embarked alone on a journey to take the war on himself, knowing that he could not be defeated. In those days, nothing stopped him. He was strong, ten times his size should have allowed.

Just as he was hanging up the sword, a messenger came to him. One of the most formidable men he had ever known was passing. It was something that never seemed possible. This was the threshold of life and deep regret. If he could have gone back, the boy would have spent day and night with him and walked his journey, respecting all of the purpose in which this man had lived with.

So much knowledge, power and wisdom, comes to this quiet and dark moment in which the boy and his family sat in a circle whispering, remembering and crying. The man still fought, because he was a fighter. Far into the night, I supposed he walked through the bombed out streets of war torn France once more. He heard the voices of his children, muffled in the back of his head. He knew the sound of the voices and the streets that he walked at same time. 

Did he see friends along the way who bled out forty years ago, hardening his heart forevermore? Did he see his wife on the day that they met? Sherwood Island, the mountains, the smell of charcoal, all of it. Echoes of machines in a factory that churned out the industrial revolution. 

There comes a time, where a decision made thousands of years ago finally determines that we only have one option, and we surrender, and rest. Our thoughts do perish, but are remembered. For the hours the boy sat accross from the table from the man, he now struggled to bring back every single word. The bridges, the homely French girl on the bicycle, the storms, the human nature, and the fight. 

The boy went to his new life, in a box on wheels. He did not know it but things were really going to come apart now. They would be flung accross the sky, where new wreckage awaited them. Things were going just as they should. Just the way they were supposed to.

Never Be So High

 What are you? 

What am I? 

There are days I know the answer well. 

There are also days I know nothing. 

The sun shines, and the windows are down

I float along in my bubble that seems self-sustaining

The music plays, and it is beautiful

3 months later, I wish to remove the bass line from it.

Who do I really think I am, taking gifts and tampering?

You can shine, I can shine, we can shine.

Then I isolate, doubt, and disassemble, 

because the higher we fly, the further we fall.

What a dream it is to soar and see for miles at a time,

but I cannot be trusted to decide my own fate.

It only leads to falling into a land full of agitation, 

people hating you and people hating themselves.

At the heart of the matter, I do not wish to be so high

that I cannot see the people I love, 

those who make my life great, lifting me up.

I never want to forget that it is them and not me.

We take so many things for granted.

We need to constantly be on guard.

I never want to be so high

where I cannot see you.

I sit here this morning thinking about everyone I will see today.

Because of them, I have opportunities.

Every interaction and every decision is a chance to make the day a little better.

I never want to forget. It is about them and not me.

The Disintegration of the Gun

 It is the course of difficulty that I walk. I lean into the rain and the wind. Pushing, gritting teeth, grabbing for holds in the landscape, and I am happy to do it. I understand what is at stake. Even though I am not playing at the table I stand at, I know the dealer plays a psychological game with me. My ability to opt out of his gravity has limitations.

The fact that I am still allowed to make choices despite the pull is where the definition of true love lies. The defining line, beyond which the pain and broken dreams dissipate without substance, is a mere watery mist that, within seconds, cannot be seen.

Photo by S. Tsuchiya on Unsplash

In the realm of physics, nothing changes. That absolute antagonist bears down even harder, pressuring, depriving freedom of movement and even thought. But then, that is just brought to nothing. How can one ever define this? Do we really need to?

Someone very dear to me asked a rhetorical question the other day: What have we learned from this human drama? There is more answer to this than anyone knows. The decisions made as a parent have far-reaching benefits or perhaps consequences. Indeed, we must choose carefully. There comes a time when our comfort and contentment are not necessary. We have a duty. It is a matter of respect and honor.

"All of this human drama, have we learned anything?" Yes. The answer is simple, but it must be complete. We are a fickle people. We tear apart anything that even has the slightest imperfection. It is the black speck of debris on the pure white snow. It is the tiny crack in the tile seam of the shuttle Columbia. Like the physical law itself, that is who we are. When the answer comes, we have to see it for ourselves. We have to know that there are no other options. The ultimate dead end, and ultimately honest answers to the questions.

The disintegration of the gun, all of which pierces us today, ultimately comes to nothing. It is an undeniable testimony to assure our hearts that we did all we could; we truly have learned who we are and where we need to go. 

Course Oblivion

 It was cold. The world was buried in ice. Daily achievements contained a strange supplementary factor to them. Nothing happened without manipulation and pain. Hopes of a better day fueled the only power to get through it. It seemed so elusive and impossible. None of us were really sure it was a real thing. 

The sun rose and set sometimes, and when it did so, its duration was brief and left them wanting more. Unquenched, night after night, they endured, knowing that they just did not know if there ever would be a way out. In the glow of light bulbs, they lied to themselves and each other, falsely hoping the sun would come again.

The false peaks came into view with every tiring step and passed with great discouragement. Holding a depth we could not comprehend, the dark window mocked and taunted us. The decks popped beneath their feet, every step crunching like an exaggeration. Beneath them, they knew there were issues, but they just hoped the frozen universe could hold everything together.

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Subconsciously, they knew that, in the direction of hope, there was a bridge to cross that was swaying and weak and spanned the raging waters of bad to worse. That could put them closer to relief if they even made it there. Just more pain. Just another day. One could only hope for such a thing.

They promise themselves in the dark night to be proactive. If they get out... when they get out, they will be ready, knowing what they know now. The Panic Season would grow, and it absolutely needs to. 

I don't know if those unsuspecting souls will reach the promised land. I certainly hope they do. I can only pray they can hold onto their hope of a brighter day. Hopefully, they will make it. Spinning on a frozen axis, defying everything a day deals them. 

Some never make it out. It is an unfortunate certainty. I will always try to remember them and the course they endured. Something has got to give. There has to be light somewhere.

Safe Haven (Part two - Perfect Strangers)

 He was aimless on the edge of a new dawn, freedom like he had never known. He never thought about summer ending. It was like he was exempt from all of the consequences and afflictions of the world. 

On a bright summer day, aimlessness suddenly dissipated. His impulse was at its highest in the toxic smoke of a thick and heavy summer night. He pushed all of his chips into the center of the table. Fearlessly, he went for it. His endless energy supply fueled his fight to take any chance he wanted.

He picked her up during a hide speed chase. He thought he was just so clever and thought it was all him. Really, though, nothing was in his control. It wasn’t him. It was her. Death masks itself as freedom, and it plays it so well.

If only it were a movie I could watch now, I would cry and scream at the screen, "Get out of there!" He would not listen if he could hear across the celluloid barrier. Even though he was free in every other sense of the word, he was still bound by the shackles of youth. Those can be the most formidable.

The night before the dagger was plunged into his entire existence, he had a moment of clarity, but it was on a misty, dream-like ride to work late at night. Sister Ann sang a haunting tune about perfect strangers. It was a cry, and he knew it. Don't cross the river. Don't board this plane. Stay here. Run... The tone of her voice still chills him today every time he hears it.

Run, you stupid boy, RUN.

As the sun rose, he stood at the canyon's edge in the foggy morning. Proud and pleased with what he was about to do. He leaned into it, muscles tensed, and he sprinted as though fired from a cannon. The edge came fast. He stepped off at velocity. Expecting flight, he plunged. Nothing felt like it should. He was not where he thought he should be.

Photo by David Gabrić on Unsplash

He landed in familiar places but found the math was off. The laws of physics were no longer constant. He knew he had crossed into another dimension. He was innocently standing in public on a cool fall morning and suddenly was ambushed by someone he did not know. A glimmer of light appeared on the floor; it was a dusty sword others had dropped because they would no longer carry it. He took hold of it, held it up, and suddenly found words he did not possess moments earlier. Where did this come from? He knew deep down that the power he had been given in the mantle light was it, and he wanted to return again and again.

Hungry, he did what he always did, but this time, it only gave way to shame. Things were different now. He had no plan and no wisdom here. The last time he had been on a journey like this, there were only 3 walls. Leaving was always easy. Today, there were four walls and no doors or windows. 

Attackers came in so many forms. The kings had banished him from one land after another. He fought in city after city, numbing the pain of his choices in the night. As the season grew old, he fought even harder. He was running out of clever tricks. His energy was involuntary, spinning with that sword every day, doing what had to be done to make it through. The road was ending soon; there would be no place to go. Where was he going? How could he change it? As magnificent as he was at so many things, he pushed everything beyond its limits many times. 

The Wind

 You are lost. The complexities of relationships that should be so straight forward are tough when you find that perception and reality do not intersect. What, then, is there? You spent so much time lamenting over loss that you felt contained no compromise. But now, it is not that way.

It was easier when it was black and white. Straight-up heartbreak felt so much better than this muddy mess of debris in which snakes hide everywhere. You want to cry, but that seems inappropriate. You want to scream in anger, but that betrays the foundation. The void is upon you, and you cower in the wind.

Photo by Gurudas Gandhi on Unsplash

Before the dawn broke, you heard it screaming in the tree tops. You know that you must get up and move on from this scorched and barren spot of earth. Moving directly under fire can be done when the OP4 possesses bullets and bombs. It has been trained upon, one generation after another. But the wind, it will find you the moment you try to move on. It won't care who you are. This mess won't discriminate.

In the timeline of your days, this unrelenting foe that seeps through the cracks and crevices of your shelter, screaming its haunting war cry, is relatively short-lived. That does not matter. Not much can make you feel this small. No matter how hard you try, you cannot even pretend to be immune to this feeling. 

Dear one, what have you done? Look at the land for as far as you can see—burned, gone, and sad. This never seemed possible; everything was so much more noble and kind. Sometimes, life is not pretty. 

The challenge you now face is, where does this fall in the worst of who you are and who you have been. All that you regret, sitting before this disaster, who wins the bigger prize for the finest crime.

You never dreamed you'd be here. How does this look three years down the road? Did you lose that dear one long ago? Was she ever really here? Today, the wind is crying her name. Over and over. When will it stop?

Rust

 I remember a time when it seemed like people cared about everything. Store displays were built by a person who took pride in the outcome. They were not built by maps. The consumer's convenience motivated this work, not the profit margin of an offshore corporation. These businesses just wanted to be the best they could be. You were courted by courtesy and professionalism to find the highest quality of goods and wares. Doing it right meant something. They proved that efficiency could be achieved, but waste was unacceptable, and shortcuts were not considered.

What exactly got me thinking about this very long-lost standard? I was in my local Ocean State Job Lot store on Sunday. This store location was the Ames department store during its heyday in the 1980s, and it lost its footing in the '90s. By the 2000s, the space was abandoned. 

In the early 2000s, it was such a relief to see a store like Ocean State breathe life into the towns of Newport and Walpole, New Hampshire. The spaces, which were the first of many to sit empty, were suddenly clean, bright, and teaming with a whole new idea that, in its flanking genre, could somehow compete with the beast Walmart and Kmart, which we all thought was going to pull through when it merged with Sears and then died on the beach right before our eyes.

Ocean State has been here for a solid 20 years in this area, but I have noticed something. It is the sound of drums off in the distance of disintegration. It starts when the store is dirty. Just general cleaning happens. It used to be an adventure to see what I could save money on. These were mostly practical items that allowed my food budget to go further. I was in the olive oil section when I noticed that the price tags on the shelf did not match the item. It was not just in one place, but multiple.

Photo by <a href="https://stockcake.com/i/vintage-shopping-scene_1657085_1209314?signup=true">Stockcake</a

Something about this made me feel like it will only get worse and may never get better. It made me feel like I had climbed onto a spaceship for a week, but while I was away, the world changed in a way that will never be the same again. I suddenly remembered that A&P Market in Forestville, Connecticut, with the hardwood floors and the old red 8 o'clock coffee grinder in the aisle. I swear, as a child, I was sure as we rounded the end cap, we would run smack-dab into Mr. Whipple himself, gallantly guarding his precious Charmin from grabby housewives not being able to stop themselves from squeezing the goods.

Superficial? Maybe. But we have really lost so much. These little things can be linked to more severe changes in people everywhere. As imperfect humans, we had to push the envelope on everything we could see. Was this really worth it?

A walk through any average town or city, with some exceptions of recent repurposing, is a post-apocalyptic journey through sadness. We shined, helped, cared, respected, and did not seek our own exultation as a whole. Doing right by others, although it was never complete, could be found in abundance in everyday life. 35 years ago, a drill sergeant told me that he had been all over the world and could find love everywhere in people's hearts. This is an incredible statement from a surprising source. I will never forget him when I was at a tactical site in Fort Dix, New Jersey, in the winter of 1990, waiting for the OP-4 to attack. I know his words have lost their weight.

What happened to us. Did we really need a little shock and awe to feel something? Is that what made us just not care anymore. I bring this up because, as we watch one long-term company fall after another, it is like a sickness, and those at the top of these businesses cannot stop it.

What do people really want? Isn't that the question? How do you employ a staff and inspire them to never want to leave? Is it because efficiency has caused corporations to bleed everything good out of their own businesses? Swimming with sharks is never easy. Eventually, one tires and the shark wins.

As Gen-X gets older, this memory of what it was like will become less and less. Eventually, those days will fade from memory and become facsimiles in movies that get a little out of phase. I recall the 2nd episode of the 2005 reboot of Doctor Who. It was the last day of the planet Earth, and spectators bought tickets to a space station to watch the planet finally explode. People brought gifts to the event. One entry was a jukebox, announced as an "iPod." I know in my heart this is an authentic depiction of where we are going.

What will our stories be as the days we lived run like watercolors in a cloudburst? Will we be painted as brave, caring, or insensitive? I do not know. There is so much rust around us that it is too late to fix. We must look at only what we have now and build something beautiful. If that is a house, a garden, or a meal. Let it make you feel that you have made it better today.

A Beautiful Disaster

A beautiful disaster awaits a word or two ahead if you want it.

 It is strong, wild, and unpredictable. All you have to do is jump. 

The ground will collapse all around you, and you will fall. 

You will know what you're worth in the beautiful disaster.

Hey man, it looks like you got it made, so lean, sharp, and squared away. 

Everybody wants some, watching, looking for a way to fit.

You move through the days and act so innocent, waiting to be discovered.

The darkness falls, emotions red line, and you are ready to bet everything you've got.

All along, you know a whole ocean presses against the wall you are hitting.

Today was great because of all the people who carried it with you.

How can you be so presumptuous to think it was all you?

Beautiful disasters only shine for a while before they live in the unattainable void between love and hate. 

Will you thank everyone for making it so great?

Beyond your morning coffee, there is treachery and treason, 

You knew it when the sun began filtering through the trees.

You anticipate the stumble and fall from a moral platform you have no intention of holding to.

You are looking a mis-step to regret tomorrow, a door you should have never walked through.

It is the one-way trip you have taken, not yet, and already done.

The irony is that this mountain was forged by devastating explosions, whereas the alternate path is only made by thousands of years of soft erosion. Who would you want to be?

It is one beautiful disaster after another that brought you here. You hold something that no one can buy.

Is it better to obliterate the wall than to wait for a door that might open?

It was so much easier when the sun rose in the water every morning. 

You lived such a simple, uncomplicated life.

Walking the streets, looking for conflict to add to wisdom and experience.

You got what you wanted, pulling entire buildings down to make it happen.

The scars of climbing out of the rubble and dust over the years have made it difficult to get up in the morning. 

Pain runs deep, and it is the price paid for such a cavalier existence.

A thousand times, you have contemplated the right course of action.

A hundred times, you acted on it.

There is a conflict similar to nuclear power, which is friction that never stops.

Can you harness that and show it how to build?

You know that there is a point to all of the chaos.

It could take more than a lifetime to sort out all the contrasts.

One hundred thousand bytes per minute stream into your head; how do you sort that out and make sense of it all?

You have notes, words, and instruments in a room where physical laws won't play.

You never give up, though. That could be the fallout.

The scene around you falls into line, and you have everything at once in your eyes.

When you wake up, it is 1970, 1980, 1991, and 1999 all at once.

A beautiful disaster has dismantled time itself from your continuity; 

because of it, you see it all, which often makes no sense.

...

It is February.

This is what it is like to be in my head in the month of February.

<sigh>

A Very Personal Trap

 Someone has filled my freezers. That person is me. They are full enough for me to rearrange the contents to fit something new. Something is amiss. I am not shopping more, not hitting great sales, and have not changed my shopping habits. That can only mean one thing. I must not be cooking enough.

So what is going on? Winter depression is all around like an unwanted, persistent weather pattern. I remember a time like this a few years ago. I cannot recall how I broke free from its gravity well. My ambition requires a jumpstart, and my motivation has flown south for the bitter winter season. I feel I am left with nothing, like Henry Bemis in the Twilight Zone episode Time Enough at Last. Socially awkward, Henry could not deal with people in any way whatsoever. His only refuge was found between the pages of a book. It was his special place. A catastrophic event takes the lives of every other person on the planet, yet Henry is spared. As he wanders around a post-apocalyptic city, he comes across the largest library he has ever seen. There is time enough at last to escape to the only world where he can exist. 

As Henry situates himself into the rest of his paradise life, his coke-bottle thick glasses fall to the floor and are broken. Henry could not read without them, and he could not see anything inches from his face. All of those printed words around him, his absolute paradise, become, in one moment, his torture. 

Photo by Ivan Aleksic on Unsplash

Sometimes, winter does feel like a sentencing. I have bashed this worthy adversary for over 40 years relentlessly. Some things never change. 16-year-old me, sitting in my room, listening to John Lennon's Live Peace in Toronto 1969 over and over again, seeking new ways to smite this unsinkable taunter.

What gives, though?  My food? Seriously? This is the one place where I can kick it out and feed myself and my household. The canvas is blank, and the food is there, just like the many books in the library poor Henry Bemis sat in. My glasses are my cooking knowledge, tools, and stove fire. Seemingly, nothing is missing.

I can only conclude that something is missing. I need motivation and that insatiable need to discover and master more in the art of many things culinary. The worst struggles ever are those that we have within ourselves. 

I am old enough to know that randomly changing parts till you hit the target is not an option. Everything needs to count. That is why I am sitting at my kitchen table this morning, taking it apart, trying to see where the obstruction is. Just like my dishwasher, which is too new to experience an issue, despite that "is," which I will take apart later after work to see if I can fix that too.

That will displace the time that I would have been cooking once again. I see a connection between the broken stuff in my life and my frustration in not cooking. It is that proverbial sink full of dirty dishes, coupled with the dishwasher full of clean dishes, added to the 15 bags of groceries I just bought that are still sitting out 30 minutes after I got home and need to be put away. Yeah, and let me tell you, I was so confident at the store as I bought those groceries!  Oh, the stuff I was going to make!  You fool, I shout internally! What a joke!

It is the only way I know how to break free. To just get mad. So here I am, trying to shake this winter stalemate. It is a boring standoff in which everything stops. A terrible waste of days that needs to be smashed. I cannot do it. I cannot allow it. I need to mix everything up. Blend, shake, and throw it against the wall and see what happens. I know I can do it. I just need to push. Gravity feels heavier these days. I can do it, I know I can. Tall words to say when you are pinned down, but I got this.

A Certain Kind of Love

Where is the moment when everything changes? You are just streaming across the sky, and suddenly, Boom! Oblivion. We watch the days pass by from our little prison cell of our own making. The little habits and idiosyncrasies that we long to break free of. Little do we know, today, these cease. 

Does the coffee taste different? Does the air feel different when leaving the house? Is it just a day like any other day? Sometimes, lines intersect in hours; other times, more than 50 years. I cannot help but think about a glassy-eyed Paul, expressing with frustration, "And then there were two."

Photo by Ran Berkovich on Unsplash

Was she happy? Was she sad? Was she just lost in the distraction that the winter days write into our story as our hearts cry for seasonable days that make our infirmities feel small? He walks into the kitchen from the shop 41 steps away, weary from the years of standing under dripping, cold, and rusted problems that he can overcome for a price, but it is never enough. What else is there? He does not know.

She wraps her arms around him and makes him feel as important as she knows he is. He was made for her, which is enough for him because she was made for him.

What happened next, I do not know and probably never will. It is not my place to know but a stark reminder to appreciate what you have. In a moment, he was alone, forever. The pain that he was feeling was unimaginable because he had been right where he always wanted to be. But now, that was no longer possible.

 I know why he did what he did, though I would never understand it, even if it was me. The contrast between going to sleep in one world and waking up in a completely different one many of us could never endure. Although I have seen people who I thought could never survive, they climbed to the top of grief itself, and they claimed their loss with incredible decisiveness for the honor of who they loved.

I was not sure where he was going to land this time. My guess was that he would possess great strength, and although it would play out like some twisted gauntlet, he would get through. But then, we learned that we were wrong. We found out that their love was stronger than every other option, and in that, it was the best thing there ever was. It, too, was the worst thing there ever was.

I sit silently while a year has gone by. I have not made kimchi at all since before your last day. You always loved it when I did; somehow, the two have a connection thanks to my associative memory. I know that I will have to do it someday. I am strong in my own right, and that only has to do with who I am and no one else. I am sad because your whole existence was wiped off the surface of the world in a moment. It does not seem fair. I will honor you. I will honor the love that you had for her. It was a certain kind of love that could not continue without all of its pieces. I get it. A year later, I am still stunned. 

Let me be your shelter

I will keep you safe

I will keep you great 

No one knows like me

I can do it all.

It comes from having everything all of the time.

The lie that my barriers can provide me wisdom.

For me, there is no reconciliation.

There is nothing you can say that will make me listen.

You made me this way in your hunger for glitter and artificial light.

You dragged me out into your public squares and asked me to dance.

You showered me with compliments and gifts to inflate my view of myself.

What could be my actual share of useful knowledge?

Could the delusion of greatness actually make me more wrong than everyone out here?

As I walk through the dust and corroded streets of the world we once lived in, I hear your chants and screams from the broken windows of the homes around me.

I have become haughty in your praise and have become a delusional nightmare.

It is the ultimate high, this game. 

In stupidity, I charge forward. They just say things that make them think they are selfless.

Let me be your shelter because I have no clue.

I know no better than those who wish my demise.

Photo by Timur M on Unsplash

It is important to all to know this ship is going down.

There is no saving it.

Where will they put their hope?

For me, the one who thinks I can save you, I do not see the path out of here, although I believe I do.

I fall, you fall, we all are going to fall, yet I am too blind to see, hear or know it.

Even Challenger looked promising for 73 seconds, then oblivion.

Let me be your shelter.

I will keep you running toward the cliffs, just like the rest have been doing all along.

The only difference is, I am going to do it while agitating others.

Either way, we are all clueless; you are on a one-way ride to nothing.

C.S. Lewis said, “When the whole world is running towards a cliff, he who is running in the opposite direction appears to have lost his mind.”

Is there really shame in being different?

 

War and Space

In the days of Frequent Wind, the aftermath looked bright.  Innocence only appeared if you were not peering through a camera or, even worse, looking up from the land near Tân Sơn Nhứt Air Base.  The only knowledge that exists is the path that led us here. Far away, men mowed lawns, and women planted gardens in a land that was becoming hated for its perceived decadence. 

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Playtime scraped the concrete walls slowly enough that no sound could be heard. But with each grain of sand blend, there was a pinpoint hope of exile. Sisters struggled to be heard. Many stood in the sunlight and agreed with full hearts, voices booming in agreement. But the car ride home was always like none of it ever happened. No one questioned his license. Like downed Japanese pilots from 25 years earlier, some could still be found on remote islands in which no other man had set foot.

I stood in lines of conformity with a styrofoam vessel in my hands. I never really knew how fortunate I was until 50 years passed, and I found that in this basement, the will to do something good still existed. The evil scientists were still hard at work in their dungeons, conjuring up the death and disease of the years to come. They would feed it to their own families and bask in the glory of profit margins.

Nothing had to shine as it does now. The facade of our fragile well-being today. Back then, we just made our intentions known, and to a good measure, we were held to it by the others around us. Parents were parents, which was not relative to the property lines drawn by the tax assessor. 

Somewhere high above a summer night sky, men who, under the influence of oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, and gravity, could not even speak to one another were suddenly shaking hands, exchanging hugs and ceremonial gifts. The catch? They had to first leave the planet to do so.

Rest was finally here after 20 long years, no more smoking gun.  Eloise dealt a deadly blow.  An iron ore freighter met her end in Lake Superior. Bombs detonating on both sides of the globe kill no one quickly. A morning standard is born that does not end. Linda meets the law, but she and her like-brother John are later let off the hook.

Smoke-filled jets filled the sky, everyone living in a sweet little bubble. It was not sweet for all, but it was what it was. 

Taffy

I stand at a wall in the distance. I am constantly touching it, feeling its coolness. Sometimes, it is smooth, with no hand or footholds. Some days, it is rough, with plenty of points to climb. 

There are great treasures inside and out on the other side.  I race the timebomb to the finale or the moment of liberation. Deep down, it is not really a race. It is only something I tell myself to explain my lack of action. Dramatize for effect and distraction. 

In a moment of lucidity, I demand stark effort and reality. To be real without spin. In the last 50 years, we have been programmed to weave stories that make us feel one way or another. Perhaps they were right about television after all.

Photo by Possessed Photography on Unsplash

Fantastic self-psychology in the fake it till you make it lane. Is that really necessary? Do you need to fire an arrow downrange whenever you hold the bow? Words need not bruise, and hugs do not count. Not in the way that you think. 

I was standing at the bus stop and not thinking about energy. I thought of everything else, and it showed. The bus was not even built yet, and I stood in the rain, heat, snow, and wind, telling myself that I would see it crest the hill at any moment.

I met a traveler. She was modest and wise. She smiled as I told her my tale. She earned the right to tell me how it was, but she was kind instead, saying what was needed in the softest ways. 

The curtain lifted, and when the light flooded the stage, I found the necessities I obtained were not only other people's trash but mine. Facade and rumor had run down the clock, and I had nothing to show for it except for all the work I still needed.

I sit on the stairs with my head in my hands and wonder, am I going in the right direction? There will not be enough time to turn and run if I am wrong. Will the gravity be heavier? Will words not translate from mind to sound?

I push all of the debris aside and sit on the dusty floor. I close my eyes. Control my breathing. I feel the air around me. I pay attention to the song playing in my head. Exhale.

What is real?

Do you sleep in Stockholm?

 What is in the hearts of those we love? 

Is there a reflection of how we feel? 

Is there faith and confidence, or is it tolerance and frustration? 

Did your heart beat faster when I was there?

Did you look forward to when we were apart?

Did you let me believe that I was helping you?

Did you say words to make the moments pass?

Did you ever feel that we were meant for each other?

If you did, when did it change?

Why didn't you tell me?

Photo by Romeo Varga on Unsplash

What was the darkness like that surrounded you?

Were you not able to say the words?

Could you sleep?

Were dreams poisoned now that you were lost?

Did you know there were possibilities?

Do you understand that everything is broken?

In the words I heard you say one night, were they meant for me or really for you?

Under fire, I watched you evade the worst and was thankful and impressed.

Much further down the road, I found that you were bleeding.

I was not ready to accept that. 

I made up reasons for your behavior.

But as time passed, I found that you lost every battle.

You were tainted and compromised in heart and mind.

Your survival has required this cloak that you wear.

It is a prison without the desire to leave.

Do you sleep?

If so, how is that possible?

I called you invincible, seeing all of the light within.

But when treachery and danger permeate every sunrise,

the game is laid before you to play an artful hand.

Those who have hurt you are no better than the pusher 

because they have not only stolen your most precious gifts, 

but they have trained you to pillage them from yourself.

Is it better now?

Does one less lie make it easier to not feel pain?

More than ever, I hate those who have hurt you.

I like to think I could see who you could be without the pain.

I thought it was terrific.

In my heart, I know they are to blame.

You, too, are the victim. But I know better than so many

this is a road that will take you apart piece by piece.

I am sad.

I saw you, and you were amazing. 

I long for you to realize that you have choices other than those you were taught.

Deep down inside I worry that you will exist in what you know.

I used to live there. I had love, and it saved me.

Do you sleep?

The very nature of your condition makes me stumble.

I have to remember it is my flaws that make me do that.

You will be who you will be, and I can do nothing.

I like to think you have seen the possibilities.

You were there.

There is always hope that you will remember, dig your feet hard, and say no more.

For that I have to hope in the light I saw in you.

It is what I hope for you.

Amid my incredibly mixed emotions for being as blind as I once was, 

you, too, have love.

I may be totally wrong but I'm a Dancing Fool

 I cannot sometimes. No matter what age you are or within the decades you grew up in, some things just fall through the cracks in popular culture's floorboards, and we never see them again unless you have to pull up the planking for some reason.

I have done this physically, especially in 1988 and 89, while working on houses built in the 1890s in Claremont, New Hampshire. I have also done this in the figurative sense. It happened most recently this week. I was searching Spotify for a playlist of the 1970s. I did not want to be fed the same old, overplayed thing. No Steve Miller's Joker, Cat's in the Cradle, Hot Chocolate, or Bee Gees. In the 70s rock genre, PLEASE, nothing that braindead FM or satellite radio regurgitates, making the newer generations believe that we did nothing but listen to the same 50 songs repeatedly. We were so much better than that!

Or are we?

One playlist contained many songs that I am sure I have not heard since they were on the billboard charts back in the day. More so, the very existence of these songs was long forgotten, even as far back as 1982.

One song that I have picked on for decades was "Fly Robin Fly" by Silver Connection. According to Wikipedia, in the United States, it rose to number one on the Billboard Hot 100 in November 1975, staying there for three weeks. To show you the psyche of American pop culture of the day, it was preceded and succeeded by "That's the Way (I Like It)" by KC and the Sunshine Band for the number 1 spot on the Billboard Hot 100.

I may have said some pretty negative things about these cryptically complex lyrics many times:

Fly, robin fly

Fly, robin fly

Fly, robin fly

Up, up to the sky

Fly, robin fly

Fly, robin fly

Fly, robin fly

Up, up to the sky

Fly, robin fly

Fly, robin fly

Fly, robin fly

 Sylvester Levay and Stephan Prager wrote the song. Stephan, a.k.a. Michael Rolf Kunze. Prager's lyrics are painstakingly fleshed out here (Okay, I'll stop). 

I could pick all day, but these guys were brilliant. Respected music composers in the 1970s and for decades after wrote songs for artists we consider legends and many movie scores tattooed on our collective consciousness; they knew how to do the job. In its first 90 days of release, "Fly Robin Fly" sold 1.5 million copies in the United States alone. I don't have figures for other countries, but the song was a hit on multiple continents.

We have seen other brands of this kind of thing before. Remember the (person) "has his own jet airplane" in Dire Straits, Money for Nothing. Or what about the 16-year-old kid who now drives a Ferrari because he gained millions of followers on YouTube because he simply played Minecraft. And I think I'm so smart! Really, what have I done compared to these folks? Well, I have maintained "artistic principle." That and $5 will buy 3 cans of generic tuna fish at Market Basket.

But this is not why I am writing this...  I am here to talk about something that makes "Fly Robin Fly" look like it has the depth of Pink Floyd's "The Wall."  That can only mean that I am talking about the 1975 hit:

"Lady Bump"

First, let me say that I wish I was joking. According to the ever-wise Wikipedia, "Lady Bump" is a pop disco song by Austrian singer Penny McLean, released in 1975. It was a hit for McLean, who was at the time still with, guess who:  Silver Convention, of course! Two years later, she would leave to pursue a solo career.  Even better, this song was also written by Levay and Prager (Kunze).

Lady Bump was released in June, and Fly Robin Fly (I have also learned the original title was "Run Rabbit Run")* was released in December of the same year. I could make fun of this song and say that Mr. Kunze toned back the lyrics when he wrote “Fly Robin Fly” after writing “Lady Bump” to bring the court back to order. Whatever the case, it, too, became an international hit.

They call me lady bump

lady bump it's no lie - ah

Lady bump

lady bump - just the music takes me high.

They call me lady bump

lady bump uh uh uh ah

Lady bump

lady bump look at me and you'll know why.

That old phrase, "I guess you had to be there" applies. I want to know what we appeared to be like in the mid-70s to those who were not there. As I try putting myself in the shoes of the millennial or the Gen Z'er, I am so thankful that I grew up during that time. I say this even though watching these old performances go down just as smoothly as a 1977 JCPenney catalog.

I love looking up song meanings on the internet. Some contributors are excellent at extracting what has to be the depth of some songs. Others are so far off you want to comment and ask why, but then realize this is not the person to waste time in a debate on something that has no return on investment. In the case of “Lady Bump,” one guess was bump was a reference to a drug, but they were wrong as this song was written ten years before that label; queue up the Family Feud buzzer and big X on the screen, you are wrong.

The other was a reference to the contemporary dance known as the Bump. It was very popular and consisted of the person(s) rotating hips sideways to bump the other person’s hips. I must admit, I suddenly wonder how many folks who did this dance now have titanium hips.

Where there is dancing and hip replacement, no doubt there are injury lawyers:

Have you had a hip replacement after doing the "Bump" as seen on TV's  Soul Train? 

At Smith Johnson and Jones, 

we can get you the compensation you deserve.

The song absolutely references the popular dance. The original video depiction is not quite as much, but in the years since, the dance has been choreographed into the performance, so those who see drugs in every song need to get over it.

Lady Bump is a lyrical depiction of a Saturday night in 1975 at the disco tech, and in this case, the singer is turning her silk, eye shadow, and hush puppies into dollars. It sort of reminds me of "The School for Singing Truckdrivers" commercial in the 80s where "you can turn your truck driving miles into millions" singing songs like:

Drivin' a big truck

Drivin' a Big Truck.

Drivin' a BIG BIG TRUCK.

Lady Bump was intentionally sugar-coated candy professionally crafted for the Pez dispenser du jour. Although I might pick on music like this... a lot. Songwriters Michael Kunze and Sylvester Levay really knew what they were doing. They actually initiated the group Silver Connection in Munich and then West Germany. From there, it spread around the world, raining cash.

These men are still out there today and have prestigious careers in Broadway music, movie scores, pop music, and national music concerts to benefit others. Yeah, they knew what they were doing. Some things never change. It was another exercise in giving the people what they wanted. 

When you look at what Kunze and Levay did here, you realize it was business. It was a strategic move to fund their fantastic careers. Thanks to them, a large part of 1970s pop culture is represented forever. Thanks to Spotify, I have another song that can get so stuck in my head for days that I think it will never stop!

*If "Fly Robin Fly" was originally called "Run Rabbit Run," what lyric would go in place of "Up up to the sky?"