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?"

Kimchi is Life

 As I look to the year ahead, I think of the weather. The snowy days ahead, the mud season tease, the awakening of the impossible spring, summer heat, mosquitos, cicadas, autumn that seemed to take 90 years or 90 minutes to arrive, and finally, the terror threat of November into December.

I ask myself: Culinarily, what do I wish to achieve during this year? The only thing I could say to sum up the entire composite is that the underlying theme of flavors in my rock opera of cooking would be "maximum impact with minimum effort."

In case, throughout my rambling ranting, I have not made this absolutely clear: this is what Fight4Taste is all about. I look back at the tattered calendar of the last year; some plans are memories, and some memories never materialize. You win some, you lose some. Three dear friends went down with the ship, and there was nothing I could do. 

As I contemplated being practical, I found myself in the sand, digging for treasure that I already knew was not there. I persisted, and in a couple of short circuits, my senses returned, and I seriously asked myself what I was doing. I would never need the things I was collecting. 

Sunrise and the scene is different. I see roads and trails that were not visible before last evening. Is it a dream? Will it slip away? I know what this is. The rest of the random particles have been traveling through the void. Refracted light has bounced off a particulate or two, allowing me a gracious thought or reference, but if I were to be challenged at the border by the guards demanding my credentials, I dare say it ends there.

My new rank dictates decisions, actions, and plans. I know in my heart I have earned every last bit of it. If I fail to take action, all the adventures ahead are unknown to those in the lands that these roads and trails lead to. Will I be the killer of that era? Doubt is doubt is doubt, by which I mean;

Doubt is that which causes me to pause.

Doubt is the potential destroyer of the future.

Doubt is the tool that shows others they can do anything they can dream.

You asked me where the door was. I did not even see one. That is when you told me there were three. This is just what I needed. Patiently, you repeated those words over and over until my eyes were open, and the doors began to become visible. This is where the days of weakness and tired soul must dwell. 

In the darkness, the violins struck hard like rapid-fire thunder in the rose garden. How can this exist without me? But as I stared down my own mortality, I knew I only own my version of this. The empathic marketplace has been around longer than any of us imagined. Seriously?

I consolidate, I reorganize. I get high, then I get low. I cash my chips in and count them slowly, realizing I must make every minute count. On the one hand, I need to slam things around and get it done; on the other, I also need to carefully dust the sand off broken pieces as if with a fossil brush to discover that which is sublime and leave behind the substance I will pay storage on and yet never touch again. 

I am not done yet and maybe have not even started. I told my oppressors they were in trouble, and they were not so quick to believe it. But they will know they have failed when the glass shatters and the burning steel contacts my hand with such velocity. Pain, a drain on energy, the very air around us that tells us, we cannot. But I can, and I am, and I will. There is no "no." Deal with it.

In my writing, I realize I have returned to my abstract roots. It is often designed to not name names when an actual story is being told. Today, in these words, it is more to depict the struggle I face daily dealing with wanting to do something with food and time. I have so many great ideas, and I feel they can be inspiring. I have been fighting pain for the last two decades whatever. For a year and a half, I am accompanied by the sound a ciccaidas screaming in my head 24 hours a day, so be it. 

For so much of my life, I have collected endless information. The problem is that it was all in fragments, as if partial novels were disbursed from the clouds and dropped into the land where I lived. Many are fascinating, practical, and useful; others are interesting but have little value, and others I do not understand. For the first time, pieces of this puzzle fit together. Undoubtedly, a gift from the girl who landed in the spaceship over 3 years ago guided me through my whole life and walked with me for 2 years. I never did get to thank her before she disappeared.

The clarity of my ideas is being challenged by my pain and affliction. But when the fragments start making sense, I know I can create so much and show others that they too can do anything, explore their strengths, cook for their loved ones, and not give in to the machine that seems to dictate to us as if we were drones.

Kimchi is like this. It is alive. Anyone can follow a recipe, but a successful batch is a perfect storm of life. Everything falls into place when you really understand what it is to make it and how natural forces must be achieved. Those forces allow the process to make something out of things that previously seemed unrelated. They become one, they make sense and Kimchi becomes life.

Be Here Now

 We had just crossed the barrier from 1975 into 1976, the US Bicentennial. We had just entered the final quarter of the twentieth century, the second half of the 1970s. I remember that house on Carol Drive; it had warmth and love.

My sisters and I would have conversations with my grandmother; it was so much fun. Looking back on them, I can see her appreciation for her time with us. We did not understand it then, but to her, she was right there, taking it all in, really appreciating where she was at the time.

This is fantastic when you consider that she had nothing. She had a $400 66 Chevrolet Bel Aire. A small World War 2 saltbox house. A $39 a month pension from the factory that she had worked much too hard under terrible conditions. But Violet Mable Allaire Jackson was born in 1908 and was from what is known as the Greatest Generation. That generation did not complain about things. They had unparalleled endurance.

I had no idea how fortunate I was to have spent the years with her, my father's mother, and my grandfather, my mother's father. I feel a great privilege to be a bridge that can connect those wonderful people of the Greatest Generation to my children of Generation Z. When I contemplate this, I understand that I need to pause and reflect on the influence and teaching they provided. It is the anchor needed in a world where gravity almost does not exist or when there is too much of it. 

I recall that on one of those weekends at Grandma's house, we talked about the very far-away Year 2000. It seemed as far away, just as possible, as any of us going to the moon. It would be another 24 full years to cross. We did the math. I would be an “old 34-years old” at that time. That seemed so old!

Well, guess what? I blinked, and it is now January 1st, 2025. I am at the balance point we were on January 1st, 1976. We are now in the last year of the 1st quarter of the 2000s. So much happened in that last quarter of the 20th century, and of course, even more occurred in the first quarter of the 21st.

I was 10 on January 1st, 1976, and am 59 today. Those years taught me many lessons, leading me to the inevitable question: What is the most important advice I can give from the road traveled this far? The late Warren Zevon summed it up. 

On October 30, 2002, David Letterman asked Warren how his recent terminal diagnosis had affected his life lately:  "You put more value in every minute," he noted. "It's more valuable now. You're reminded to enjoy every sandwich."

Photo by Rostyslav Savchyn on Unsplash

It is the finest thing you can do when striving to find the good you have right now. Just like my Grandmother sitting at her table in that little kitchen on Carol Drive, listening to my sisters and I telling her about the last 2 weeks since we last visited her. She hung on to every word and appreciated where she was at that moment. Any sadness she experienced over the years and hardships she endured paid no rent in this space.

It should be this way. Hardship highlights priorities, but we can also check ourselves daily to ensure we are focussing on what is really important. The first day of a year is just another number. It is just a visible flaw in the surface that provokes my associative memory. It is just another reminder to be here now.