DogsbytheSea

Sum

It's True.

A True Story.

For You.

Here:

He was alone.

It was quiet.

It was comfortable.

It was peaceful.

Everything was done.

There was nothing left to do.

Everything was exactly as he wanted it.

Everything was in its place.

Everything was "just right."

There was one problem, though.

He was afraid.

The many days, weeks, and months he spent alone had begun to take their toll.

The question arose, no, it intruded into his awareness.

Did he exist?

Alone, he had no answer.

Worse than a life without meaning was not existing at all.

Worse yet still was to exist, but to be in total isolation, disconnected forever, ad infinitum.

The more he considered this, the greater his fear grew.

When nearly at the point of panic, the phone rang.

"Hello," he said, not expecting a call.

"How are you?" she asked. "I've been thinking about you all day."

"You've been thinking about me?" he asked, still afraid.

"Yes," she said.

"About me?" he asked again.

"Yes. I've been thinking about what you said. I can't get it out of my head. I can't get you out of my head." she said.

"I'm in your head?" he asked, his panic subsiding.

"Yes, why? Is that bad?" she asked.

He laughed again, now relieved. "There's no place I'd rather be."

tu cogitatus ergo sum

...

Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth...

...Oh no Love! You're not alone! You're watching yourself but you're too unfair...You've got your head all tangled up, but if I could only make you care

Oh no Love, you're not alone, no matter what or who've you been! No Matter when or where you've seen All the knives seem to lacerate your brain I've had my share, I'll help you with the pain

You're not alone! ...Oh give me your hands!

David Bowie, Rock and Roll Suicide

...

Hallelujah!

Secret

My Dearest Ones,

For You.

A True Story.

Really.

Here:

His mind was filled with absence; no desire, no regret, no despair, no hope. He was in the moment and he had everything he needed.

He was comfortable and at peace.

It did not last.

He greeted the arriving guests warmly, taking time to introduce himself personally to each and every one.

When she entered the room he felt her presence right away. Rather than turning to see her, he waited for her to approach him, keeping his back turned.

He heard her approach from behind. When she was about to reach him he slowly and deeply inhaled. Smiling and saying as he turned around, “Thank you for coming.”

He looked at her, through her, into her.

Without saying a word she told him everything he needed and wanted to know to know about her. She had a secret.

Impassively she replied, “Thank you, it’s nice to meet you, too.”

She did not offer her gaze in return. Instead she offered him her outstretched hand. Taking her hand, he was surprised by her strong grip, her warm and rough skin. He noticed her petite but muscular frame. These apparent masculine features were contrasted by her narrow waist and shapely hips, long and shiny auburn hair, and her delicate, pretty facial features. She wore baggy, faded blue jeans with a cowboy belt and worn brown boots. Around her neck she wore pearls complemented by matching pearl and diamond earrings. Her plain white t-shirt was tucked tightly into her jeans, accenuating nicely her small breasts and flat belly.

She was dressed to be seen and not seen; rough and refined; masculine and feminine; bland and inviting.

She was seducing him.

Although he did not know it at that time she was happily married, the mother of three. Her husband was a pilot, upright, kind and generous. She was a flight attendant. Their work regularly kept them apart, but their lives were kept busy with children, church, and home. They had an active and generally satisfying sex life. They were successful and happy.

What he did know was that she was nervous, even frightened at their meeting. He excited her and this excited him, as did the chance of uncovering her secret. He continued to study her for clues, none were forthcoming. Increasingly, he became aroused.

The other arriving guests called for his attention. As he excused himself he looked once again into her eyes. This time she did not look away, rather, she gazed directly into his eyes and smiled.

Without revealing it, he was astonished.

She had been seduced and in doing so, she revealed her secret to him.

Still surprised, he returned to greeting the arriving guests. Although meeting and speaking to the others, his thoughts remained exclusively on her.

She was his.

He was careful not to spend anymore time near her; not even looking at her or in her direction.

…

As the evening ended and the guests began to leave he felt he needed to speak to her one more time.

But he could not find her. She had gone.

“No,” he said to himself, “She is not gone. She wouldn’t leave, she couldn’t have.”

He stepped outside and waited for her.

There.

“I think I may have left something behind,” she said as she approached him and started back inside. Again she seemed nervous, frightened. She stopped and stood next to him but continued to look down at the ground, never making eye contact with him.

Neither moved or said anything.

After several moments she slowly, reluctantly, looked up at him.

Looking into her eyes he said, “Thank you.”

She looked puzzled, “For what?” she asked.

“For telling me your secret,” he answered.

She began to tremble.

“Do you know what I’d like to do?” he asked. “I’d like to take you right now the hell out of here. Me and you, go somewhere far away. Just you and me, anywhere, everywhere, nowhere. Just the two of us, get the hell out of here. Right now, get out and go. Me and you, right now, together.”

She gasped. She was speechless.

She didn’t have to say anything, he already knew. He knew her secret.

He took her by the arm. She did not resist.

She felt electric. 

He pulled her close as if to kiss her. Again, she did not resist.

He breathed her in. She closed her eyes as she surrendered to him.

He felt more alive than he had for years. He thought that she began to cry. His heart pounded. She started to shake. He thought she might climax or faint.

“Why me?” she asked.

“Because you told me your secret,” he replied.

Slowly, softly, almost whispering she asked, “What’s my secret?”

…

Twelve hours out of Mackinaw City
Stopped in a bar to have a brew
Met a girl, and we had a few drinks
And I told her what I'd decided to do
She looked out the window a long, long moment
Then she looked into my eyes
She didn't have to say a thing
I knew what she was thinking

Roll, roll me away
Won't you roll me away tonight

I too am lost, I feel double-crossed
And I'm sick of what's wrong and what's right
We never even said a word
We just walked out and got on that bike
And we rolled
And we rolled clean out of sight

Bob Seger, Roll Me Away

...

Glory Be!

Bound

For You, my Dearest Ones:

A True Story.

Just like this.

Here:

...

He didn't mean it to happen.

Nor did she.

Or perhaps they did.

In any case, it happened, and once it did nothing was ever the same.

...

They fell in love.

How they met isn't important.

That they met, is.

He remembers it well, so does she. Neither can forget it.

...

He looked up and saw her.

She looked away.

Once he saw her, he could not stop looking at her for fear she would disappear.

Funny, this.

Later, when he touched her arm for the first time, she nearly fainted.

He loved her deeply.

She loved him desperately.

He adored her.

He protected her, or wanted to anyway.

She had lived amongst gangsters, seducers, drug dealers, users, and abusers. This was her Samsara. Trying to protect her was his.

He gave her everything. He would have done anything for her.

But it was not enough. It was never enough.

They made glorious, insatiable, explosive love.

She did not want it to end, nor did he.

She would hold him close, for fear if she let go she would lose him forever.

But end it did. It had to end. For she was still in love with another.

...

She arrived late, her hair a mess, so too, her make-up and clothes.

She said nothing, neither did he.

They drove together in silence. They spent the evening together in silence. They made love in silence. Afterward he reached out to hold her. She turned away.

Lying apart and turned away from him, she told him everything.

"I saw him today. I was on the street, leaving work. I saw him."

He listened in silence.

"I ran after him. I was so excited. I didn't even think about what I was doing. I started running. I was running after him. Crazy, right? I started to call out his name. I was so happy, I started to laugh. I kept running but I couldn't catch him. I became frightened. What if I lost him? I started to scream his name. I was running and screaming, and then I started to cry. It hit me. There he was. I stumbled and fell, but I didn't care. I quickly got back up and kept running."

He said nothing, and continued to listen quietly.

"And then it really hit me, 'What was I doing?" I was running after him. I felt so ridiculous. I stopped right there, in the middle of the street, just standing there and crying. I couldn't stop crying. I must have looked like a crazy person, running and screaming, and just standing there crying. I couldn't stop crying. I don't know how long I was standing there. An old Chinese lady came up to me and asked me if everything was OK?"

She turned to face him. Her eyes and face were wet with tears.

"Crazy, right? Running, right?"

She tried to smile. He said nothing. He looked deep into her eyes. He held her face in his hands. He realized at that moment how much he loved her. It was immeasurable. He pressed his lips against her forehead and kissed her softly, not wanting his life with her to end.

It was over.

She was still in love with another.

...

She often wept in secret, a long bitter weeping. She did not know who it was she loved: a living man or a dead one? And the longer the desperate days went on, the more often, especially at twilight, did the thought come to her that she was bound to a dead man.

Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

And so it goes.

And goes.

Instead

Dear Ones:

For You, A True Story.

Like this...

He sat looking at the night sky, slowing nursing his drink, thinking about making a change. That night was like so many others on the road, an expensive and exclusive hotel, alone at the bar, late at night.

"I need to make a change," he thought, "but what?"

He recalled how years ago, reading with amusement, the Absurdist tale of man who killed another man on the beach for no reason. He laughed now, as he did then, along with the story's anti-hero, at the notion of "changing one's life." No, this could not be done. For there would be no other life than this. Perhaps different circumstances, but the life would be the same. And thus was his distillation of the absurd: in return for freedom from existential panic, one instead gets only bitter laughter.

He looked at his empty glass. He was tired. Fortunately the hotel bar and its outdoor patio stayed open late, mostly for the benefit of the few registered guests who needed to smoke. The thought of staying there and having another drink seemed pointless, so he headed back inside. As he rose from his seat the thought returned, "It will happen, I will make a change."

Crossing the lobby he took one last look at the bar.

"There."

It had happened.

....

She was sitting alone at the huge bar. She wore jeans and a T-shirt. He thought she looked tough, and she was. Her T-shirt was held tightly against her flat chest. Her face showed signs of age and hard living. Her hair was long and brown, her eyes dark blue. She was beautiful. Sitting tall on the bar stool she cast an imposing presence. He was going to have her.

She was talking to the bartender, a handsome, dark complexioned and muscular young man, who seemed intent on keeping her from talking to him. He approached them both, ordered a drink and sat down right next to her. She didn't seem to notice. He heard her say that she owned a bar in another state, and was on holiday there to "left off some steam."

As the bartender turned away to prepare his drink, he said to her, "I heard you own a bar, so do I."

"Really?" she asked as she turned to him with some interest.

"No," he replied with a smile.

She laughed. He bought her a drink, and so it began.

They talked about everything and nothing. They ordered more drinks. From time to time she would step outside to have a cigarette, giving him a chance to reflect on what she said. Although she did not seem to tire of their talking together, she gave no indication that she cared or was interested in anything he said. Yet, she kept coming back to him each time she left to go outside and smoke.

"Strange," he thought.

This last time she left, he gave up on the notion of spending any more time with her. He tried to make sense of his feelings but could not. When she returned she ordered one more drink for herself, took a few sips, and then abruptly grabbed his arm and said, "Let's go."

She took him by the hand and led him to the elevators. She pushed the button for her floor, which coincidentally, was the same as his. Neither spoke on the elevator.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To my room" he answered, somewhat surprised.

The elevator doors opened, she started out and then stumbled, or staggered. He wasn't sure. He turned right, she turned left.

"Where are you going?" she asked again.

"To my room," he answered again.

He turned away from her and began walking toward his room. She followed him. She was drunk.

When he got to his room, she was right behind him. He opened the door and she followed him inside. She went straight to his bed, sat down, and took off her shirt. Only her mature and large nipples distinguished her thin and muscular chest from an adolsecent boy's.

She took off her jeans, lied back on the bed and spread her legs. She was naked, shaved, and pierced.

"Come here baby," she said, for the first time showing any sign of warmth.

He took off his clothes and lied down on top of her. She was aroused, so too, he.

They kissed.

They made love, or at least, he tried to. For whenever he began, she would moan, and instantly throw him off her. And then came the profanity, "Fuck you!" she yelled. This was followed by, "Baby, I love you." The cycle of start and stop, love and hate continued for a brief while. But quickly he grew tired of it, and decided he had had enough.

He tried to no avail to get her dressed and back to her room. Each time she would kiss him, stroke him, remove her clothes, and lie back down on the bed. No, he was stuck with her. Several more times that night, she would straddle him, start to make love to him, and then throw herself off of him. Once she punched him as she yelled, "I hate you!" only to be followed by her softly and sweetly whispering, "I love you Baby, I love you." Mercifully she fell asleep.

...

The next morning they awoke at the same time. She smiled, kissed him deeply and lovingly, arose from bed, got dressed, and left.

Later that day, still exhausted from the preceding night, he headed for the pool. When he got there he saw her sitting at a table, having lunch. He walked over and asked if he could sit down.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like shit," she replied dryly.

He ordered lunch and together they ate and talked. He found her funny, even charming, not at all like the woman he met the night before. But then, like now, she was distant, there but not there, in a world of her own.

"Last night you told me you loved me," he said.

She looked down for a moment as if in deep concentration, and then said, "I must have thought you were somebody else."

Bitter laughter, indeed.

...

She calls me Baby
She calls everybody Baby
It's a lonely ol' night but ain't they all

John Mellencamp

Amen.

Why

My Dearest Ones:

For You, A True Story.

It was their wedding night. He hadn't seen them in some time. They had once been friends, but less so now.

The groom was, as always, miserable, so too, the bride. They liked it that way, or didn't like it that way, but for them, there was no other way.

No less miserable were the guests.

He hoped that once the drugs and alcohol took their intended effect on the bride and groom, it would begin to look and feel like a wedding, something to celebrate.

Unfortunately, the intoxicants weren't working.

Wanting to leave, yet still feeling the need to stay, he decided to take a break from his assigned table and head for the bar just outside the hall.

Standing alone at the bar, he saw a woman approaching him.

He recognized her immediately, though he didn't know her well. She was the wife of one of the groom's friends.

"Need something?" he asked.

"I'll start with a drink," she replied.

She ordered champagne, he another vodka.

Together they stood at the bar, neither said anything.

After a few sips, she turned to him and said, "Come with me." She began to walk toward a door across the corridor. Without questioning, he followed her. They entered a small, dimly lit room, empty save for a large, freestanding mirror and several chairs. The room had been used as a dressing area for the wedding party.

"What the hell am I doing here?" she asked.

He wasn't sure to whom this question was asked, so he thought it best to wait before he replied.

"You look great," she said. "I haven't seen you in so long. I heard all about you from the 'happy couple.' They said they didn't know if you were going to come. I'm glad you did."

He sat in one of the chairs next to the mirror, facing her, but slightly to her side. She continued to stand.

She told him about her work, her recent travels, and about her marriage. She said that she was disappointed with her husband, how he worked too much, made too little money, and how they were "growing apart." She talked about how they had tried marital counseling, spiritual counseling, and had even considered a trial separation. She complained of her physical loneliness and how her husband no longer was interested in making love to her.

He noticed that soon after she began speaking, she never once looked at him, but rather, focused on herself in the mirror.

"He doesn't pay attention to me," she lamented, still looking at herself in the mirror. She said that she thought at first her husband might be having an affair, but then dismissed the notion because he was too "chicken" for something like that. She told him that she began to spend her time alone, working out, doing yoga, "focusing on her needs" and the like. She said that she had come to the conclusion that there may be no choice for her, other than divorce.

He remembered that in the past he hadn't found her especially pretty, but sitting there he found her attractive in her long, black evening gown. Perhaps it was the exercise and yoga, or perhaps it was something else?

He liked how the sheer black fabric of her dress clung tightly to her breasts and hips. He also liked how her hair was pulled back tightly and knotted high on her head. Her presentation was one of severity and constraint.

He also noticed that she couldn't stop tugging at her pantyhose through her dress as she spoke. While still talking about this or another unhappiness, and without hesitation, she suddenly lifted her dress with both hands up over her hips and past her waist.

She wasn't wearing any panties. He easily saw the dark hair between her legs through her nylons. He looked up and down her legs. He sat silently and impassively, continuing to watch and listen. He saw that she made no sign, nor did it seem to matter to her, that her actions might be viewed as provocative, or even inappropriate. She just kept on talking, without interruption, never once acknowledging him.

Completing her adjustments, she let her dress fall back down. Satisfied at what she saw, she smiled approvingly at her reflection in the mirror.

Still smiling, she turned to him and said, "I don't know why my husband can't be more like you. You are so easy to talk to."

Saying nothing, he gave her a cursory smile in return.

Without another word, she turned and walked out of the dressing room, back to the banquet hall.

Alone once more, he sat and sipped his vodka, wondering what the hell he was doing there?

Hallelujah.

Now

For You and Yours:

A True Story.

Like this...

It was hot.

He couldn't sleep.

Lying in just his t-shirt, he got up and lit a candle.

For several weeks he spent the night in the otherwise empty fourth floor apartment. There was no electricity and only cold water. A large piece of foam was his bed and only piece of furniture.

The apartment belonged to the girl from Malibu. She had come to Paris to teach English at a private school. He met her by chance at a local gym during an aerobics class where he was the only male and the only other American. She was polite enough to explain to him that there was only one changing area and one set of showers. Together they enjoyed the experience of showering with twenty or more women.

The street below was quiet at last. During the day, through the window he could hear the neighborhood's voices speaking loudly in French and Arabic, the steady blare of the car and taxi horns, and the seemingly never ending sound of the mobilettes. But now it was quiet.

He couldn't sleep.

He lied awake thinking of her, thinking that he was going to leave Paris in a few days, leave her forever.

She easily could pass for being Parisian. Her accent and pronunciation were flawless. Her hair was dark brown, cut short like a boy's. She had equally dark brown eyes, almost black. Her skin was beautifully tanned and revealed her thin muscular physique that she earned through years of surfing the California coast.

After their first meeting, he would try to see her every chance he could. Together they had lunch, dinner, went sight-seeing, jogged in the parks, held hands, told each other their life stories, dreams, and desires. He talked of moving to Paris to be with her. He asked her to return with him to the States. At first she thought it ridiculous, but then after spending time together she began to consider it in earnest. He had never kissed her though, fearing he would fall more deeply in love with her than he already had. And this he could not bear.

She was leaving her boyfriend. That's why she had the apartment, it was her escape plan. He was from North Africa, a writer. She and her boyfriend had been living together in Paris for several months, but she was tiring of their relationship, mostly tiring of his infidelity. He had tried before to reassure her that there was nothing to it, that it was the "French way," and so forth. But she had had enough and was leaving.

And then she met him.

"It's all a matter of timing," he would say to her.

"Screw timing!" she would laugh in response.

He found the bottle of wine and bread that had been his dinner, walked to the open window, lit a cigarette and smoked it. As a boy he had dreamed of being an expatriate, living in some far away place, or many places, never to return. As he looked out over the Paris streets at night he wondered if he would actually do it now, leave his present life, leave it all behind to be with her. He would.

As he finished his cigarette he heard the sound of footsteps. She unlocked the door. She was crying.

"I've left him," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

They embraced as they met. She kissed him.

He offered her wine and a cigarette.

"It's over," she said and started to cry.

He listened without saying anything. She began to undress.

He watched her take off her jeans and shirt, stripping down to her white tank top and panties. He returned to the foam bed. She stood at his side as she removed her panties and then lied down next to him. He took her in his arms and held her close to him. She rolled to her side with her back against his chest and the backs of her legs across his thighs. They lied together without saying anything, each holding on to the other, not wanting to let go.

She turned to face him and kissed him once more.

"You're going to leave Paris, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

...

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me--the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and
unsuspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods--
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house--,and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and startled, gave back
my too-sudden image. Who knows? perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...

Rainer Maria Rilke

... What he said.

Them

For You:

A True Story.

Here...

He answered his page.

"You are coming with us tomorrow for Sunday brunch," his friend began. "You never go out, you need to meet some new people, and I think you will like the couple who are hosting."

"No thanks," he replied. "I have four patients in the ICU, six new consults today, and ten on the floor. I will be lucky to get home tonight before midnight. The last thing I want to do is waste two hours eating quiche and talking nonsense, pretending to be interested in people I don't know."

"But you know them, well you've met them anyway," his friend interrupted. " You were introduced to them a couple of months ago when I saw you last."

He tried to remember meeting anyone recently. He remembered.

"Them?" he replied, "No thanks. I'm not going."

They were a wealthy couple who had recently moved to the area. He remembered the husband as being short with ill-fitting clothes, coarse, egotistical, and condescending. The husband was in some sort of technology business. He immediately took a dislike to the husband. Worse yet, he was jealous of him. It wasn't his money or his luxurious lifestyle that he wanted, it was his wife. Smart and witty, she had beautiful sculpted features. Her auburn hair was long, green eyes, and a perfect smile. The wife was a foreign language expert, fluent in four or five languages. She was the kind of woman he had dreamt about, beautiful, intelligent, refined, and sexy as hell. He remembered feeling terrible after meeting them. No, he would not go. He did not want to feel that desire for her again.

His friend was persistent, "You have to go. It will be good for you. See your patients early, go to brunch, and then you can go back to the hospital to finish."

Before he could say no again, his friend gave him the directions to the house, told him the time, and hung up.

The next day he went to the hospital late, having decided to take his time as he was not going to the brunch. He answered another page.

"Where are you?" his friend asked angrily. "I went to all the trouble of getting you invited and you're late! Get over here."

Not wanting to hear any more of his friend's complaining, he said, "Fine, I'm coming. I need to finish this note and I will get there as soon as I can."

Following the directions he realized that he had already been to their house, it wasn't their house at the time, it was for sale and he went to the showing. It was an amazing house, custom built, gorgeous landscaping, great location, and about ten years worth of salary beyond his budget. "Figures," he thought to himself.

He rang the bell and the husband greeted him, "You're late," he said plainly.

"Sorry, I had to see some sick patients in the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital," he said, hoping there would some sympathetic or empathetic response to his alibi. There was none.

"Come this way," came the empty reply.

Once inside his envy grew. The house was sleekly decorated and looked like something out of an Italian fashion magazine. His host could not help but to describe the expense of the furniture, rarity of the art, and size and complexity of his custom sound system. But of all these things, his host was most proud of his jazz collection. An entire room seemed dedicated to it.

And then he saw her.

He found her more beautiful than he remembered. She wore a print wrap-around dress, her hair was held up with a silk scarf used as a head band. His arousal and desire were intense. He wanted to leave that very instant.

"Sorry I'm late," he said apologetically.

"No, no trouble at all," she answered graciously. "Here, sit here, and I'll get you something to eat."

He responded, "No, that's OK. It looks like everyone is already finished," he said, seeing that the eight or so people at the table were in fact done with their meal. He recognized some of the guests, others not. His friend did the introducing. He wanted to throw up or die.

"Here, take what you want," she said as she brought the warmed food to the table. As she did this, she brushed up against him, leaning forward to put the food down. He turned to her and saw the top of her dress open enough to expose her black lace bra covering her breasts. He turned away quickly not wanting to be seen looking down her dress. She straightened back up, smiled warmly, and said, "I hope you like it."

"Yes, I'm sure it's delicious," he said.

"How did that happen?" he thought to himself. Was this merely the Universe cruelly teasing him? Was it she who was teasing him? Or rather, was it simply an accident that she was exposed in this way? Forcing himself to not to think about it he began to eat. The food was delicious, even better was the coffee and desert. He hated life.

The guests began to depart, leaving him and his friend to their hosts. He learned that his impression of the husband was correct, he was an ass, pompous, cold, and vulgar. As for her, it turned out she traveled all over the world as a consultant, mostly using her Russian and French skills. The couple had met several years earlier, married after a brief courtship, and as far as he could tell, they were happy together. They had two children who were loved and wanted. In turn, they listened to his brief and highly edited version of his life up until that time. He didn't stay long. He was being called back to the hospital and he was all too happy to go back to work.

A few days later his phone rang. It was her.

"Hi," she said cheerfully. "Thank you for coming to brunch, it was great meeting you."

Lying he said, "No, thank you, I enjoyed it greatly."

"Listen, my husband is going out of town for a week or two. Your friend says you work too much and that you never go out. Why don't you come over sometime and keep me company?"

Not wanting to sound too ungrateful or completely unimaginative he replied, "Well, I might be busy this week. Maybe when your husband returns we can all do something together?"

Laughing, she said, "Your friend is right. You do need to get out more! How's Friday night?"

Not knowing what to say, he reluctantly agreed, "Friday night it is."

As the day approached he began to replay in his mind the incident at the table, her smile, the brush, the exposing of her breasts. "Why?" he asked himself, over and over, "Why?" He soon began to tire of his ruminating. He even laughed at the craziness of his loneliness.

That Friday night, he again drove to the house, pulled up into their driveway, got out, rang the doorbell and waited. Then he felt it. He knew it. He couldn't believe it, but he knew it to be true. It wasn't an accident. She meant it, she meant for him to see her. And as he heard her coming to the door, he was afraid that when she opened the door she was going to be naked. She might of well had been.

"Hi!" she said, greeting him enthusiastically. "I didn't think you were going to make it."

"Neither did I," he said honestly.

She showed him in. The house was lit dimly by candle light. Coltrane played as she showed him to the kitchen.

"I've already started on this bottle, would you like some?" she asked. "I took this from the cellar, I hope you like it." As she poured him some wine he looked at her closely. She was not at all self-conscious alone with him there. She wore black trousers and a white silk shirt open to the second button. The thin fabric revealed that she was without a bra and he could see her nipples through the fabric of her blouse. She was a bit drunk.

She led him to the living room. They sat on opposite couches. He looked around the room and couldn't help but envy it. It was everything he wanted for himself, the beautiful furniture, the great music, the delicious wine, and her. Everything he wanted, it was there.

They made small talk about their week, current events, jazz, dogs, children, and the like. Her children were at a friend's house for a sleep over. She poured more wine, fed him, and as the night went on he realized that he was falling in love with her. She moved to sit next to him. It was intolerable.

And then it began. She began to tell him of her loneliness. Although she and her husband were still having sex, he did not satisfy her, and hadn't in a long time. She continued to talk but he wasn't listening.

"Here it is, everything," he thought. "I am in his house, sitting on his custom made couch, listening to his music, drinking wine from his cellar, and I am going to have his wife." And he meant it. This wasn't going to be about one Friday night, this was going to be forever. This is what he wanted, and once having it, he did not want to go without it. He couldn't. He would have done anything to have her once, but once would not be enough. No, not once.

And what about her? Would sleeping with him solve anything for her? What was he for her anyway? Just some guy lonely, horny, or stupid enough to get involved with her? What if she fell in love with him? Would she divorce her husband? Did she even care how her husband felt about her? Did she care how he felt about her? And what of their children? He would have loved to had been a father. It was all there, everything. He wanted it all. He wanted her. She wanted him. He was going to have it all.

But no, he wouldn't have her. He couldn't do it. He didn't know why, but he wasn't going to do it. Karma, Chaos, Entropy, Fate, and Nothing, all at once told him this. No, it wasn't going to happen. He looked at her long legs, her tanned skin, her soft hair. No. He looked at her breasts and imagined her with him. He wanted her. He needed her. She was everything he wanted. There in that house, was everything he wanted. But no, it wasn't going to happen.

He looked her in the eyes and asked quietly, "How long would it take for me to get your pants off?"

She looked right back at him and said nothing.

"I have to go, sorry." Without letting her say another word, he put his wine down, stood up, and showed himself out.

Everything he wanted.

...

A monk's Death Poem

My whole life long I've sharpened my sword
And now, face to face with death
I unsheathe it and lo--
The blade is broken--
Alas!

Dairin Soto

Hallelujah!

Way

Dearest Ones:

For You, a True story.

Here…

If nothing else, it was an ordinary day. Outside a winter storm was gathering. The Emergency Room had finally quieted down. His coffee was burnt and cold, the only thing more bitter was his mood. His ER schedule forced him to awaken in the deep black of Winter's morning, work anywhere from 14 to 40 hours, often going without any sleep, and then return home exhausted in the frozen night. Day after day, night after night this went on. He began to confuse the days with the nights. The experience was cruel and disorienting. He had grown angry and sullen. He felt lonely, isolated, and depressed.

It was Christmas Eve, he was post-call. He had spent the last 36 hours seeing patients, drinking wretched coffee, getting bled and vomited on, puncturing veins, removing cerebrospinal fluid, putting silastic tubes into every identifiable orifice, finding shelter for the homeless, reasoning with the insane, filling out useless and repetitive forms, all the while failing to sneak in even one hour of fitful sleep.

But this was his last day in the Emergency Room and tomorrow, Christmas Day, he was to start work on the oncology floor. He welcomed the change even though there was more work to do on the cancer service than in the ER. He would have to take call every other night on the cancer service, while only having been on call one out of every third night in the ER. But there many more nurses on the oncology floor, and under the circumstances, he would endure just about anything for the hope of a date, a kind word, or any measure of human warmth or understanding.

There was one nurse in particular he wanted to meet. She was a few years older than he was and had worked on the cancer service for several years. She was said to be the best cancer nurse, maybe even the hospital’s best nurse. All the patients wanted her to care for them. Her gentleness and patience, kindness and compassion were legend. Unmarried and apparently uninterested, she didn’t date. She wasn’t lesbian as far as he knew. She looked like the All-American, girl-next-door. She looked wholesome, plain but pretty. He had waited for six months to get the chance to meet her, work with her, and in his fantasy fall in love with her. And tomorrow Christmas, he thought he was finally going to get the chance.

He looked up at the clock, almost 3:00 PM, change of shift, he smiled, as it was almost time for him to go home. He started to get his things together to leave when a woman approached him, she appeared, pale, weak, as if she were about to faint. It was her, the oncology nurse.

“Are you on-call for the ER?” she asked, not knowing him.

“Yes, are you OK?” he answered, seeing that she in fact wasn’t.

“I don’t feel well. I think I have the flu.” She replied.

This is not what he had hope for or imagined. This ruined everything. If she was going to be his patient, he could never ask her out. He silently became enraged. He cursed Fate. Was his life always going to be so miserable?

She began to relate her history; fever, chills, night sweats, no pain, some weight loss, but starting to bruise everywhere. Although she was obviously in distress, her tone and manner was consistently pleasant, almost cheerful. She looked sick. She was sick. She had to know at least that much. But no, she never wavered, she remained upbeat. He quickly came to realize that it was true what everyone said about her, she was lovely, yes, kind and patient. She even apologized to him for making him stay late working post-call, instead of going home. He was in awe of her.

When he received her lab results, he felt panicked. He immediately double and triple-checked them, making sure he hadn’t misread them or confused them with another patient's results.

"It can’t be, it just can’t be,” he thought.

He apologized to her and said that the lab had lost her blood, and asked if he could take another vial. Without hesitation, she gave her consent.

He felt sick. “It can’t be, It can’t be,” he repeated to himself. But the second set of labs were identicle to the first. He then knew he had been wrong, he wasn’t the target of Fate, rather she was. Her white blood cell count was 80,000, some ten times normal, and the cells themselves were cancerous. She had acute leukemia and was in blast crisis.

By now, others had come to the ER hearing that she had been feeling sick. Slowly, they began to discover what he had already learned. When the cancer specialists began to descend to the ER, he was quickly relieved of his duty.

As he was leaving the ER, he saw her being rolled to the x-ray suite. His heart was heavy, filled with shame and loathing for himself, fear and sadness for her.

“Thanks,” she said brightly, as she passed him by, not knowing what Fate had in store for her.

Or maybe she did, and that’s just the way she was.

...

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; He guideth me in straight paths for His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou hast anointed my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever

Psalm 23

Sing Praises.

Still

My Dearest Ones:

Oh how we laughed!

Yes, those, those were the days!

Paris.

Rome.

Barcelona.

Madrid.

The Islands! Yes, who could forget the Islands?

How we laughed!

The many songs we sang.

How we danced!

As if the World did not matter, into the night we danced!

Always he was there.

Women loved him.

Oh, the love he made. The Hearts he broke.

So handsome, so charming, he was.

Men, they admired him.

Men feared him.

It was said that a man once crossed him. Like a tiger, he pounced.

Powerful, terrifying, relentless, like a great jungle cat, he attacked.

Oh, but the stories he told! They hung on his every word, spellbound, delighted, mystified, and more!

In all the greatest cafes, in all the greatest cities of the World.

Yes, those were the days.

And now?

What now of this great character, this world traveler, raconteur, the great Gypsy Playboy King?

He is still great, perhaps greater still.

Although the days of wine, women, and song are gone, not so, his greatness.

He is loved and admired still.

Here...

"

Bravo!

Bravo!

Bravo!

Pass

Dear Friends:

A True story.

Here...

"A bad thing has happened," he said.

He waited before saying anything else. He looked at each of the people sitting on the chairs and couches of the small hospital chapel. The wife looked down at her feet, or at nothing, crying. The daughters' clutched the hands of their husbands, staring wide-eyed at him. The son looked everywhere, and nowhere, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone. He had done this many times before, but it was never easy.

"The stroke was massive. The left half of the brain lost its bloodflow because of a blockage in the great artery in the head and neck. Nearly all of the left brain has been damaged, this includes the speaking and understanding brain, the control over the right side of the body, even some of the vision brain has been involved."

They knew this already, as he has met and spoken with the family over the last six days. Each time they met he repeated these same facts, over and over. It was hard for them to listen, but it was important they hear. They watched their beloved patriarch deteriorate, and with each day came more bad news. Each day he explained to them what was happening, what was being done about it, and what they could expect to happen. But now it was their turn to do something, something terrible and profound.

"As all injuries respond to injury with swelling, so too, does the brain. In this case, the swelling has led to the left side of the brain being pushed across to the right side of the brain, and down to the brain's stem. The breathing tube was needed to help bring down the swelling, as well as to insure he would be able to breath on his own. But now he is failing, and we need, rather, you need to make a decision."

He paused again to see if they were listening, some were, others not. But this reality could not be avoided. Either they took the breathing tube out, which would almost certainly lead to a rapid cessation of breathing and death, or they did everything to support him, in which he case he may live, but at the risk of never awakening and be forever disabled, unable to speak, understand, walk, or swallow.
Would they want to take that risk?

"It's what we term 'substituted judgment.' It's not what you want for him, certainly not what I want, or what the nurses want, but what you think he would want to do, if he could tell us so, right now."

"I don't want him to die," cried the oldest daughter.

"It's not what you want, listen to the doctor. What would Daddy want?" said the middle daughter.

"He would not want to live like this. Daddy was proud, he wouldn't want us to feed him, bathe him, take care of him like this. It's not him. It's not Daddy," the youngest daughter said, and began to cry.

"I don't want him to die," repeated the oldest daughter.

"What would you do doctor, if this was your father, what would you do?" the son asked angrily.

He thought about the son's anger. He thought about how easy it would be to forgo these family meetings. He could avoid their accusations, their anger, their denial, their sadness. Why did he do this? Why would he spend an hour with these total strangers, trying to comfort them under such impossible circumstances such as these? What was the reward? It wasn't money, he received none for this. To help them? Them? Help the patient? Help with what?

He thought about his own father, how everyday he missed him, even after so many years. He thought about how much he loved his father, his warm hands, gentle manner, and beautiful smile. He thought about having to identify his father's body in the hospital morgue, after his father collapsed and died suddenly. He hated the son for bringing the Saint, who was his own father, into this.

"I would ask the doctors what were the reasonable expectations of keeping the tube in versus taking it out, and making a decision based on using the substituted judgment that I spoke about," he answered. The clinical and far-removed answer was the cost of the angry son's intrusion.

"Daddy would say, 'I have led a good life, married, children, grandchildren. I love God, and I am ready when He's ready,'" the wife interrupted. "Doctor, if we take the tube out, and he lives, will you still take care of him?" she asked.

"He will receive all the necessary care until that time he surrenders," he replied.

"I don't want him to die," the oldest daughter cried softly. Her sisters hugged her, and then all the children stood, hugged and cried.

"We'll take the tube out, doctor," the wife said.

That sat in silence, each with their own thoughts and memories. Everyone cried, he did too. They for their father, he for his.

...

A Haiku Death Poem:

Of such a time as this
the proverb speaks:
this, too, shall pass.

Kono toki no
sewa o oshie no
mujo kana

Shiei

Amen.

And

For You:

A True story.

Here...

To say her house was modest was being generous. Outside it showed the signs of neglect, with its worn and peeling paint, absent landscaping, and unkempt gravel walk. The inside mirrored the outside, with its old and barely functioning stove, time-warp era refrigerator, total lack of heat, spartan fixtures, and three small rooms without doors.

She, however, was a jewel, a white-hot sparkling diamond, brilliant, resilient, and blinding in intensity. They had know each other for years, perhaps a lifetime, or many lifetimes, he wasn't sure. When he was with her, it was if she gave him back the energy and life that he had lost taking care of so many others, over so many long, and difficult years. In her presence, he felt as if bathed by calm and warm comfort, the like he had never know before. Not in this lifetime, anyway. They weren't lovers, but he loved her.

Inside her house there was only a small and weathered kitchen table and a chair. They looked like someone originally may have thrown them away, too wretched for the Salvation Army. There was a curious china cabinet, something perhaps that was rescued from an old farm house, and one small and equally forgettable chest of drawers in the bedroom. Two plates, a couple of cups and glasses, a handful, at most, of orphaned silverware, two pots, several types of tea, and Royal Jelly, that she ate right out the jar. A mattress lied on the bare floor, this and several blankets were her bedroom set.

She was an heiress.

But on the walls inside this humble space were paintings, framed poems and photographs, etchings, woodblock prints, and tapestries given to her by men who, apparently, loved her too. He understood their desire to give something of themselves to her. He looked at the many gifts and felt that one day, he too, would give her something. What exactly, he did not know.

That night they had dinner together. After the hour grew late and he had too much wine to drive home, she suggested he stay the night with her. He accepted her kind offer.

She lit incense and several candles. He found next to her bed books of poetry, beautiful, old books. Several newer paperbacks were among them. While she saw him studying the selection, she took one from the stack and began to read to him.

Bathed in candlelight, intoxicated and intoxicating, she read. She wore a boys tank-top undershirt that neither hid, nor seemed to care to hide, her breasts. She wore only else a pink satin thong.

As he listened to the poems he thought about this place, its seeming wretchedness, and the incongruous beauty in its midst. And as she read aloud, quietly but resolutely, he found himself slowly, and instictively, touching her for the first time. Her soft skin gave way to her taught yoga-trained muscles. He began to kiss her calves and the backs of her legs, as she was reading while lying on her stomach. His hands now explored her arms, neck, and shoulders, his mouth and tongue the small of her back. Several poems were read. He would echo back to her the lines that he found most beautiful. Call and response, this went on.

"Do you want me to continue?" she asked.

"Yes...and no," he answered.

She rolled onto her back, still reading. He touched her breasts, he kissed her stomach, and she put the book down. Her breathing became deep and slow. And as her worked his mouth down below her belly, to the top of her panties she arched her back, parted her legs and softly sighed.

"Do you want me to continue?" he asked.

"Yes...and no" she answered.
....

XXV

Before I loved you, Love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among objects:
nothing mattered or had a name:
the world was made of air, which waited.

I knew rooms full of ashes,
tunnels where the moon lived,
rough warehouses that growled Get lost,
questions that insisted in the sand.

Everything was empty, dead, mute,
fallen, abandoned, and decayed:
inconceivably alien it all

belonged to someone else--to no one:
till your beauty and your poverty
filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.

Antes de amarte, amor, nada ero mio:
vacile por las calles y las cosas:
nada contaba ni tenia nombre:
el mundo era del aire que esperaba.

Yo conoci salones cenicientos,
tuneles habitados por la luna,
hangares crueles que se despedian,
preguntas que insitian en la arena.

Todo estaba vacio, muerto y mudo,
caido, abandonado y decaido,
todo era inalienablemente ajeno,

todo era los otros y de nadie,
hasta que tu bellaza y tu pobreza
llenaron el otono de regalos.

Pablo Neruda

Truth and Beauty.

Until then...

Late

For You and Yours:

A True Story.

Like this...

It was late. No, it was too late. It was usually too late when they called him. Why didn't they call him sooner? Not that it would have mattered much, well it would have mattered to him. As it was, it was late, very late. He was alone in the ICU except for the two nurses, one of whom was on her "lunch". Why they called it "lunch" even if it was three in the morning, he didn't know. Probably the same reason why they waited so long to call him.

The ICU during the day was quite busy. A nurse for each patient, a ward secretary, several phlebotomists, x-ray or EKG technicians, orderlies, family members, doctors, all moving about the place with apparent purpose, and resolve not to notice how horribile a business the ICU was. The sounds of ringing phones, chattering nurses, doctors dictating reports or barking out important-sounding orders, was the rule. At night, or at this late hour, it was a very different place altogether. One could hear the quiet "whoosh" of the ventilators, the bedside alarms of the pulse oximeters, heart monitors, or IV pumps going off. At this late hour, these sounds echoed off the polished floors of the patients' "rooms" and created their own eery soundtrack to life's macabre inventions.

He hated the ICU. He hated it's smell of the dead and dying, the urine and feces, and most of all the smell of exhaled ventilated air. It smelled foul because it was foul. And here in this real life horror movie, this stench ridden pre-morgue, he sat, late at night, too late at night, reviewing the charts of the doomed. His body ached. His eyes burned. He already had gone with little sleep the last two weeks, due to his long hours spent in the ICU and emergency department doing exactly the same thing. All he wanted to do was sleep, sleep without interruption, sleep without thought or care, about when, if ever, he woke up.

"A dead guy on a vent," he thought, "I'm here this late for a dead guy on a vent."

The patient was in his seventies. He had suffered for many years with cancer. The cancer had widely metastasized to brain, liver, and bone. The patient had undergone emergency surgery to relieve intra-abdominal bleeding, but he did not awaken from surgery. He was intubated, ventilated, comatose, with failing blood pressure and urine output.

The examination revealed little if any brain or brain stem activity. The patient may have lost blood flow to his brain leading during surgery, or perhaps he bled into his brain, from the brain tumors necrosing or as part of a coagulation defect due to the primary cancer. No matter what the cause of his coma, his level of function was poor at best. His hope of regaining consciousness was slim. And even if he did awaken, he would have to suffer the indignity of dying from his metastatic cancer.

He looked up from the patient's massive chart and was startled by the appearance of two men standing at the patient's bedside. Each was large and muscular, dressed as laborers. Why where they there at this late hour? Who were they? Perhaps they were family, or neighbors, or coworkers at one time? They stood silently at the side of the bed next to the ventilator. They held baseball-type caps in their hands behind their backs. Shoulder to shoulder, motionless, they stood and watched the patient for several minutes, never saying a word, simply bearing witness to this part of the patient's life and death. Then as suddenly as they came, and without words, they replaced their hats, turned and walked out of the patient's room.

He met their faces with his as he looked up and out of the patient's chart. They nodded to him in appreciation, or out of respect, or perhaps just to include him in their shared experience. He gratefully acknowledged and returned their gesture.

Within minutes of their leaving, the patient's heart stopped, his blood pressure was lost, and he died.

It was too late.

...

Spread Love.

Stay

Dearest Friends:

A True Story.

Here:

She called. He hadn't expected it. The phone rang and he saw her name and number on the screen. Have you ever had that happen, when someone you loved and lost, suddenly reappears? At first he was excited to answer, then fearful.

"Hi!" she said.

"Hello," was all he could muster.

Just then the doorbell rang, pizza delivery. Perfect timing, the moment she calls he was interrupted. "Hold on a second, we're having pizza."

"I want pizza!" she said happily.

"Well, you know, we are always having some kind of delicious treat or another here," trying to remind her of the good times they had together.

"Yes, I know what it's like there," she replied. The enthusiasm in her voice was gone. Was it because of what she missed? Or was it because she remembered why she couldn't stay?

"I'll call you back," she said.

"Will you?" he asked.

"Will you really call me back?" he thought to himself. His heart sank, because he knew the answer. She wasn't going to call. After so many months without her, he had grown to accept his life without her. He had mourned her leaving, but he still hadn't fully mourned the loss of his fantasy of what he hoped their lives together would be. It was the loss of his hope, of this fantasy, which was the more painful of the two. It usually is.

...

Stay
That's what I meant to say, or do something
But I what I never say is, stay this time
I really meant to so badly this time
Because you can never really tell when somebody,
Wants something, you want too

David Bowie

You can never really tell.

More later.

Until then...

Calling

For You:

A True Story.

He was tall, lean, and handsome. His speech was rapid, almost pressured, and his drawl gave away his Alabama home.

Here:

“Acute yellow atrophy!” he said excitedly. “He contracted hepatitis-B after inhaling blood from an infected patient while he was putting in a chest tube. And he knew what to do. Did he go the VA? He was a veteran. No, they would have killed him. Did he go the University Hospital? No, the nurses there would have killed him. Where did he go? He went to the Charity hospital. The Char-i-ty hospital! Acute yellow atrophy! He knew who to go to. He had a perfect score on his Internal Medicine Boards, a perfect score, he knew. He knew who to go to. The doctor there had his hair cut like Jesus, very religious, he never went home except to change his clothes. He never went home! It wasn’t a job for him, it was a call-ing. A Call-ing!”

This was going to be good. The more he spoke the more excited he became. He was enjoying himself. It was like it happened yesterday.

“No nurses were allowed to see him, they would have killed him. Just the doctor and his wife. A metal IV needle, metal IV needle. No protein, just sugar water and vitamins. No foley catheter, he would have bled to death. The urine just dripped out into the bed, just dripped out! His wife and the doctor would change the bed. The urine just dripped out! No foley, he would have bled to death! And as his brain swelled, he became decorticate, then decerebrate, like a gerbil, his hands and legs all folded up. They intubated him. The doctor never left the hospital, only to change his clothes, he never left! He knew who to go to! One night the tube came out, in the middle of the night, the doctor was there, he never went home! He should have died. We used to let these guys die. Acute yellow atrophy! Coags were infinity! Bilirubin 30! Bleeding everywhere! Comatose, we would let these guys die!”

I knew doctors that never left the hospital. That was their life. They were often married, some even had kids. Their families never saw them. I saw them. They were always there. They typically would say only a few words, wrote long chart notes that nobody ever read, and would never turn down a patient no matter how hopeless the prognosis. He was right, it was a calling. Patients were lucky to have a doctor like that. The doctors' families suffered though. A high price, this calling.

The Alabaman continued. He moved closer, his arms began to wave, and his speech impossibly quickened. “Weeks went on, comatose, IV fluids, metal catheter, no foley, he would have bled to death! And then it happened, they wait for it, re-gen-er-ation, they wait for it. It is supposed to happen, acute yellow atrophy, if you survive, the liver regenerates. They waited, they waited for it to happen. His doctor never left, he never left! He slowly began to awaken, he survived, contractures everywhere, needed plasty to relieve the contractures but he survived! His swollen brain, that swollen brain, it woke up, woke up! He needed a year to rehab, a year! He finished his fellowship! He survived! He knew who he to go to! He knew! His doctor never left the hospital, only to change his clothes! He never left! We would have let him die! His doctor never left!”

...

No, he never left.

Sing Praises.

Us

Dearest Ones:

For You:

A True Story.

He noticed her right away. What was it he noticed? Her raven hair? The way she walked? The uniform? No, it wasn't these things. What then?

Yes, that was it, she was noticing him.

He knew the Feeling perfectly well, it was unmistakable, visceral, totally stereotypic, and it's onset was immediate. The Feeling meant, "She is one of Us."

How many times had he felt this way? He thought about it as he found an open seat at the bar. Next to him was a rather worn-looking young woman dressed all in black, who sat quietly drinking. She looked every bit the kind of woman he later learned she was. He ordered vodka, vodka and ice.

He turned left and started a conversation with the woman in black, but his thoughts were on his Kin.

"Long day at work?" he asked the woman in black.

"Still working," she smiled, as she replied.

"Knew it," he said to himself. "What then, is it that you do?" he playing along with her.

"I'm a broker."

"And what is it that you broker?" he inquired further, though not needing her to answer.

"Different things," she paused before saying more.

"It's OK, you can confide in me, I won't be shocked and I won't arrest you," he smiled as he answered, trying to reassure her.

"Women, weapons, drugs, " she stated matter-of-factly.

His attention was suddenly drawn away from the broker. He turned around, not hearing or seeing anything, but feeling something. As he turned his head 180 degrees to the right, he saw her watching him again. He met her gaze. Neither looked away. They both smiled. She then appeared a bit embarrassed and went back to her work behind the bar.

He felt it again. He wondered if others has anything similar to the Feeling? And if so, what was it that they felt? Was it the same, or something else? He knew she felt it. The woman in black, the broker, did not.

He turned back to the broker, his drink arriving at the same time, he took a sip and resumed where they left off. The broker told how she dealt mainly with providing women for fetishists, the cost was high, $1500 for three hours, but her customers were happy to pay. Clean guns were hard to come by. Drugs, well, she didn't seem interested in talking about them. She said she had done many things already in her young life. She said she had owned an escort service, how she hated having to deal with the strippers who worked for her. She had briefly owned a coffee shop, and how she recently turned down getting into Internet porn. It was in her words, "too risky" for her.

"How many have you had?" she asked.

He turned to find her standing right in from him, behind the bar. She wore a tight white shirt, black and brown patterned pantyhose, and a short tight black skirt with a slit in on the middle of her left leg, reaching high on her thigh, almost revealing her crotch.

"This is my first," smiling as he answered.

"What is that vodka? I don't drink vodka much. I drink whiskey. But I can't drink shots of whiskey anymore when I am drunk. It makes my mouth water," she said cheerfully.

"I believe you," he laughed. He enjoyed the feeling of having her near and talking with One of His Own.

"What, that I get drunk?" she giggled. "I don't have much self-control. I'm not good with limits," she said plainly.

"I believe you," he said again.

"So how many have you had?" she pressed.

"This is my first."

"Your first? I don't believe you!" still giggling.

"It's true, I'm always like this, pre-and-post alcohol," he said.

Her expression changed, and with it, the Feeling stopped. Like a light switch, it turned dead-off. She looked at him carefully. Her expression was one of careful study, if not distrust. He looked straight into her chestnut eyes, then at her breasts straining at the fabric of her shirt, her flat belly, and then down to the slit in her skirt. He raised his gaze to meet hers again. And as their eyes met, the had Feeling returned once more. Once again, the gentle Hum of the Universe, the Quieting of Entropy, the Yin and Yang, all resonated in Harmony.

She smiled, "I believe you."

...

And the Truth shall set you Free!

Hallelujah!

Sun

My Dearest Dears:

A True story.

This really happened.

Like this...

"I'm dead."

"I'm dead," he thought, or said. He wasn't sure.

His eyes were open. Were they? Yes, eyes open, eyes closed. I can see. But I'm dead.

"Am I dead?"

He remembered seeing the car. He remembered putting out his left hand. He remembered the sound, the sound of the car, the sound of the car hitting him. He remembered the pavement. It was cold. He was bleeding. He couldn't move. His leg, his leg must have been broken. He couldn't move. People were there, talking. What were they saying?

"Why can't I move?"

He couldn't move because his leg was broken. The pain.

"Don't move me!" "My leg!" "My leg!"

The hospital room was ordinary. The nurse was ordinary, too.

"Am I dead?"

"You had surgery. Surgery, on your leg," answered the nurse.

He remembered the pain, exquisite pain; acute, searing, explosive pain. Each time they moved him, from the gurney to the x-ray table, or positioning him for the x-rays, or moving him back onto the gurney, he felt that pain, shocking, terrifying, sickening, intolerable pain.

"Don't move me!"

His leg was shattered; comminuted displaced tibial fracture. The fibula was also fractured. He had a few abrasions, here and there. His teeth cut through his lips when he landed on his face. The car that hit him, threw him some twenty feet. He was lucky.

"Am I dead?"

"No hon, you're not dead."

...

Do you remember where you were when you heard the news? When you heard Kurt was dead? That Kurt killed himself? That he blew his head off with a shotgun?

Have you ever thought about what it must have been like for him. The years of depression, drug addiction, intolerable, unending suffering and pain. "No hope. No way out. None. This is better. This is better than that." The weight of the shotgun in his hands. The taste of the gun-metal in his mouth. "No way out. None. This is better. Stop the pain. Stop the suffering."

It still makes me cry.

What else could I say
Everyone is gay
What else could I write
I don't have the right
What else should I be
All apologies

In the sun
In the sun I feel as one
In the sun
In the sun
I'm married
buried

I wish I was like you
Easily amused
Find my nest of salt
Everything is my fault
I'll take all the blame
Aqua sea foam shame
Sunburn with freezer burn
Choking on the ashes of her enemy
All in all is all we are

Kurt Cobain

Makes me cry.

Spread Joy.

Her

Dearest Friends:

Another True story.

This time, by phone.

Here...

"How was the party?" he asked.

"Guess who was there?" she answered. But before he could answer, she continued, "I saw her."

"Really? How did she look?"

"She gained some weight, mostly in the hips and bust. She wore a tight evening gown. Her breasts were piled high, spilling out of the dress. I thought she looked great."

"And?" he inquired. "Did you get any?"

"Oh, a few touches here and there, secret whispers, nothing more."

She thought about their last encounter together, the wine, hot tub, the playful teasing. She remembered how soft her lips were. How they kissed, and undressed. How hard she climaxed when she put her fingers inside her.

"Are you going to see her again?"

"No. I don't know. But I'd like to," she said.

"Hell, I'd like to," he said.

She laughed. He loved to hear her laugh, especially like that. He thought about her. He thought about their time together, their adventures and misadventures. He thought about her with the other woman. or the men she was dating. It was hearing her laugh like that, though, that made him remember what it felt like to be in love with her.

"You're a funny man," she said.

"Yes, I am," he replied.

...

"I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me.",

Lennon and McCartney

Truer words were never spoken.

More later.

Until then...

Both

My Dears:

A True story.

Really.

Really, really.

I happened just like this...

They sat together at the corner of the bar. The Eagles were playing in the background. A mixed crowd of twenty and thirty-something's walked about, drank, and talked loudly above one another.

She was drinking hard cider, he Newcastle.

"At least I'm drinking Newcastle," he thought.

As he finished performing yet another card Miracle for her, she, stunned by the production of her chosen card, stared unblinking into the distance.

She turned her head and gaze slowly to him and asked, "Are you a Demon?"

"A Demon?"

"You're a Demon, aren't you?"

After pausing for a moment, he answered, "Yes, I am."

"That last trick was so amazing. It made me wet," she said.

They sat in silence.

"Would you like to see another?" he asked.

With that he performed another Miracle, one far superior to those previously done. As before, when the Effect was complete, she was left dumb, staring in disbelief, motionless on her bar stool.

She turned to him once more, and asked earnestly,"Are you Christ?"

"Christ?"

"You're Christ."

"No, I don't think so. But then again, I'm always the last to know these things."

Neither said anything for a minute or two. Each took a few sips of their drinks, quietly reflecting on what had just transpired.

"But you are a Demon" she said emphatically. "But, how then could you also be Christ?" She thought about this a while longer. Not being able to reconcile her conflicting beliefs, she confessed, "I'm confused"

"You and me both," he said.

...

Really.

Really, really.

Help

My Dears:

Thanks are due for the Many who have called and written these past few days. So many have been the Many, in fact, that I have had little time for all of my Important Work.

And of the many comments received, one seemed to be most on Your minds.

It appears that many of You did not see Him.

Who?

That special Someone.

Really.

You looked. And looked again.

But no, You simply could not see Him.

In all fairness, I know that many of You, not unlike the Others, have understandable Reasons for this. And no, I don't think less of You because of it.

As I am filled with Love.

And to prove my Love, I devoted many hours to this problem.

Many hours in deep, deep meditation.

How could I help You see Him?

How?

Could I?

Help You?

Him?

...

Can I really help You?

Can I help anyone?

Is it really for me to help?

What if You don't want my help?

What if I am really doing it, to help me?

What, then?

...

And so after these many hours, meditating on behalf of the Many, on Your inability to see that special Someone, I have come to an Answer.

Not a Solution, but an Answer.

See?

Can you see Him now?

No look again. Look there. No, really look.

There? Did you see Him?

Here, let Me help You.

Look again.

There!

There, He is!

As Always...

Love saves the Day.

Praise Be.

Snow

Dear Hearts:

Snow.

Lots and lots of snow.

Snow-fest.

World O' Snow

Snow-o-rama

Yesterday, it was predicted that five to nine inches would fall overnight.

This morning, not even a single snow flake.

Zero.

Zip.

Zed.

Ha! I laughed, no, I scoffed. So much for their mathematical models. So much indeed.

And now, after five inches have already fallen, and another five are predicted, what do I say?

Ha!

Five plus five makes ten!

But all is not scoffing.

No, there is Someone who is very Happy about the snow.

And no, I won't name Names.

But, if You look closely in the photograph below, You just might be able to make him out.

Here, see for Yourself...

There! Did You see him?

Which reminds me of this Winter Haiku...

Listen:

a sudden squall
and the bird by the water
is turning white

kaze ichijin
mizutori shiroku
miyuru kana

Buson

And yes, we are fortunate Dogs this and every day.

Thank you for being You.

Until then...

Illusion

Dearest Ones,

Welcome back.

Much has happened since our last visit.

Or, very little has happened. I get these confused.

And speaking of confusion, I am more confused than ever. Really.

It seems Our Hero has come face to face with the realization that All is indeed an Illusion.

Most disconcerting, this.

Worse still, is the fact that once possessing this knowledge, there is no going back. Sort of like the blue or red capsule.

Sort of.

And, of course, there are ramifications (there are always ramifications).

Game Summary:

Life of Illusion, Samsara, Brief Enlightenment, Samsara.

And so it goes.

Is it possible to change this course?

Or would attempting such a change only bring greater suffering?

Must one suspend all attachments? Must one reach a state of No-Mind and No-Action to be Free and One?

What's worse, my Dearest Hearts, is I know that You too, struggle with these same issues.

And it is this knowledge, of Your Suffering, that brings me the greatest Sorrow.

An Aside, before I close:

Can two hearts really beat as one?

Just wondering.

And Life is Wonderful.

Full of Wonder, Life.

And so I must go.

Miss you already.

Goose

Dear Friends:

As if the turtle Awakening was not enough...

A score or more of cardinals in the trees. Brilliant red males and their brown mates, singing, flapping, and what appeared to be playing.

And then, suddenly...

A large white-tailed doe. Frightened, she ran quickly across the meadow and hopped over the fence to my neighbor's forested land. She stood maybe four to five feet at the shoulders. Magnificent.

But that's not all. These amazing events were immediately followed by the discovery of the Christ Goose, or is it geese?

A blessed day.

Aren't they all?

Enjoy.

Turtle

startled at meeting
the turtle swims away
I keep walking

Surprise

Dear Friends:

Allow me to share.

A surprise.

Turtles.

Yes, turtles. Quite many I imagine. Although I only saw seven or eight.

There have been turtle sightings in the past. They occurred this Summer past, on the North side of the lake, near the tall reeds. But this morning, they were spotted in the Southwest corner of the lake, just beneath the thin, melting ice.

Two results of this experience.

One, Satori.

The corresponding haiku is above.

Two, contemplation.

How many turtles are there really? I mean, if seven or eight were seen, how many went unseen? This led me to ponder the notions of Seen and Unseen in things specifically, and Nature in general. And then, what is Known or Unknown? These latter two seem in some ways dependent on one another. Not so the Seen and Unseen. In our lives, we are often called upon to make decisions based on what is unknown and unseen. How do we do it? And if so, do we do it well? Or well enough?

But back to counting turtles. Here I turn to the idea of "The Factor of the Unseen and Unknown". While highly variable, and by no means accurate, this is a useful device for counting things.

Some examples:

When asked how much someone drinks? Double the answer.

If you see a mouse in your house. You have at least ten.

One cockroach. One thousand.

Profit? This depends on who's doing the asking.

And so on.

How many turtles?

Exactly as many as there is supposed to be at this very moment.

...

Can I get a Witness?

This

Dear Friends:

So good of you to come.

Within this space I hope to share with you this, that, and other things.

There will of course be much to discuss; how and why, where and when, and certainly with whom.

As time and entropy allow, ours will be a glorious experience.

Or not.

In any case, for those of you who already have experienced the joy that is DogsbytheSea, welcome back.

And for those of you who are shy, nervous, sensitive, and filled with fear and trepidation, who have finally come to the knowledge that it's time to experience something altogether different, I say, you've come to the right place.

Indeed.

And yes, this is for you.

Why, you may ask?

It is because I am filled with Love.

'Nuff Said.