TOMMY'S GRANDFATHER

Tommy drew close to his grandfather on the weathered boards of the pier. Cold fingers of the lake's mists sent shivers up the 10-year-old's spine. Patrick, noticing Tommy's discomfort, reached around the boy, enveloping him with the warmth of his strong arms. The lad smiled up at old man's face. He was too young to notice the touch of sadness that lined the old man's eyes.
It was a perfect morning. The mist and sky and land and water blended like an abstract watercolor. A chorus of peepers sang out to the dawn. The scent of wisteria from vines crawling along the fishing shack perfumed the air. Soon the sun would rise and write a poem full of color to the sky.
Patrick's soul had come alive again after years of tedious and mind numbing work. He had made so much money that he could give away half of it and still not be able to spend the rest. He was a well-respected business and community leader. None of this paid for the death of his soul. He looked deep into Tommy's eyes and saw his daughter. Why had he stayed away from Tommy so long? How could he rejoice in Tommy's new life when Annie's life bled away at the boy's birth. There sitting next to him was all the wonder that was Annie.
Tommy was a bright boy. He knew that his grandfather liked the early morning quiet. He held back his questions and his endless imaginative observations for later in the morning. Grandfather would tell him stories later. He was content to watch the sky reflected in the water
Patrick's thoughts were somber this morning. As he became older, thoughts of his end came more frequently. The death of his soul was something that troubled him greatly. He wasn't thinking about the soul in any religious sense. He went to Sunday service to maintain his standing in the community not because of religious belief. In fact, he deeply resented religions. Too much blood had been shed in the name of God. How could God, who is supposed to be all good and all powerful let the Arabs and the Jews spread their blood on land where God once walked? He was ashamed that the descendants of his ancestors fought each other as Protestant and Catholic. He didn't like thinking of scarlet soaked green hills.
"Baba look" Tommy could no longer continue in silence. He pointed to a school of tiny fish that swam close to the surface. Their movements were like a ballet. They moved to the rhythms of the water. Patrick's dark thoughts swam away as quickly as the fish. He was as happy to be around Tommy as the boy was to be around his "Baba." Through Tommy's eyes, Patrick looked around at the world as if it were new again; as if it were Eden and man had not sinned.
He listened to the "weeta-weta-weeteo" of the magnolia warblers who decorated the pine trees like yellow Christmas ornaments. Tommy was humming when all of a sudden, he stopped and stared at his Grandfather, his eyes wide and his mouth open like a fish gulping food. " The angel's are coming for you." A tear rolled off the boy's cheek. The casual observer might agree with Tommy. At that moment a bolt of sunlight rent the early morning clouds and illuminated the old man's fine white hair. He looked like a saint in a painting until he slumped over.
Before he could open his eyes and gauge where he was, he felt himself gently pushed as if by the breath of a girl's first: "I love you." He expected tubes in every orifice, glowing fingers checking his blood pressure, electronic monitors upon which the lines of many lives have gone flat. He didn't smell antiseptic cleanliness of a hospital. Strangely, he was not disoriented. He felt serene, at peace for the first time in many years.
He wondered if he was dead or was this an "out of body" experience that occurs before the grim reaper takes in his crop. When he did open his eyes, he couldn't tell if he was prone or upright. The first thing he saw was a stream of bubbles upon whose surface were beautiful pulsating patterns. He passed his hands through the surface and as he did, he heard wondrous tones, songs of dying sirens, whale sounds, and the tinkling laughter of children. Abruptly, all of the other sounds stopped and all he heard was the relentless beating of his heart. Louder and louder it beat. Faster and faster until finally in one gigantic whoosh, as if all the blood in his heart gushed out, all the bubbles flew away from him. To his left was single chair. It was an invitation. In the distance, he saw a line headed toward him. It was small and he didn't have a clue what it was. As it got nearer to him, he noticed that it consisted of words; each letter of which had a three dimensional form. They were his words: Words in big red jagged letters spoken in anger to his mother. Fat wet letters that were the lies spoken to excuse his laziness. Tall tales in white letters on a black background told to teachers as reasons why the assignment was not complete. Cube shaped cold letters reflecting his rise to the top of the corporate ladder. The letters came at him quicker and quicker. He felt trapped by the letters of his own words. He began to struggle for each breath. He felt his arms flailing away trying to rid himself of the morass of his own words sticking to his face.
Just as he felt himself lost in the quagmire, he heard the words: "I love you." All of his words fell away revealing the tear stained face of his grandson.
copyright (c) 1998 by Jack Berg

Recognizing the Sublime and Lost in the Ordinary

10-12-2002
Am I even capable of recognizing the sublime? Would I feel it? Would I know it if it was there before me? Would I see, hear, smell, taste it if it were near me? Do I even know what sublime means? Sub- under... Lime... a substance- mineral with a high/low ph red/blue (I don't remeber high school chemistry...yikes) litmus strip. This substance is used to shovel onto dead bodies which are piled in mass graves ala Mozart in "Amadeus" or is it a green skinned, green citrus acidic fruit. I have forgotten basic things. Maybe I have experienced the sublime... maybe in the throes of Passion with Mary, maybe while listening to Beethoven's ninth, maybe at the death bed of Mary's father deep in the night before he died when I was so tired I thought I saw angels.

Why does everything have to be so ordinary? Why can't I be touched by muses who fiddle with the electrons in my brain?

It could have been me. This thought has haunted me with snipers loose in my area. I have changed my gas station. Mary and I went to the gas station to fill up her car's tire. One car used to block a sniper's bullet. This is certainly paranoia. I can't help but think that this is a terrorist act. It is innocent people. It is a well trained sniper. It changes the behavior of the population.

I am angry this morning. I have two broken lawn mowers. I just picked up one at Bill's lawnmower service and it won't start. I had them put a new cord on it because the starter cord had broken. Do you think they pulled on the cord to start the engine?

Mary's back! She had her hair cut this morning. We're going to a movie. Which one? Don't know. Our company is gone and we are going to

Drawing Contest

Be the first in your neighborhood to create your own Jack. You can make a jack in the pulpit. You can draw a jack of all trades. You can draw a You don't know Jack. You can draw a jack in the box. You can show Jack in a Jacket. You can show Jack Jacking up a car. You can animate his mouth and make Jack Yak. (Remember this is a family site so I don't want any thing about Jack's day off and no duplicating Jack so you can play with Jacks. )

Spilt Salt

9/14/02
Instead of a "to go" cup I am drinking my magic elixir, put me in the write mood, cappuccino from a mug. More like a beer mug than a coffee mug.

A mother is playing peek a boo with her daughter. Why do such simple joys have to slip away? Why do we have to get used to things? Perhaps waking up each day with no memory of the previous day would be a good thing. Everything would be new, fresh, and full of delight. Seeing a sun beam creep in under the window shade for the first time again, watching the dust motes swirl around in the stream of air made by your exploring hand, getting up from bed and feeling the covers fall away and the coolness of the morning against your skin, wondering who was the marvelous creature that says, "Jack, what are you doing?" and you answering back in words as if you had not ever said them, "Good morning, the day is a newly born baby." You would even feel the physical nature to the words as you say them as if for the first time. "Good" Feel your tongue go to the bottom of your mouth to form 'g', the expulsion of air as you form 'oo' and finally the clicking of your tongue against the roof of your mouth. "D." Wait, wait... Isn't that what a writer is supposed to do... form a new world, show it in a different way? Anna tell me if that is the way of a visual artist. You show things in a different way. Novels are appropriately named. See these people and their conflicts in a novel way.

When I came here today, I thought, ‘I have nothing to say today, I am tired, cutting the lawn and whacking the weeds left me as limp as the lawn in a drought and worse my back aches. Pains can drag you from the place you need to be to write. What will I write in my journal? Then the mother's peek a boo and off I am on some thought holy grail or as I have said almost every time I write these journals... it is the cappuccino. No matter. What ever it is that keeps me tapping away on these keys is a good thing. Let my mind wander on whatever path it can. It is such a feeling of being alive. Off to read a bit.


What if someday by some mysterious and mischievous act of fate, only your words were found by future anthropologist. What a thought this is! I want to throw my words into an incinerator, mash them until the a’s and z's look like underlines. Nothing I write is dredged up from the collective unconscious, formed from the primal soup of the universe, or spun from the gold of genius and therefore not worth future recognition. So why write? Because it is a way to feel alive.



Spilt Salt

His hand tried to touch mine
Across the table
After he confessed
He no longer loved me

Salt shaker in the path
The salt spilled
He put some in his hand
And tossed it across his shoulder

I fell feint, whack
Crystal light arcing
Freshly salted burning wounds
Falling, falling for him, from him

Whiff of wake me up something
"Are you ok?"

"Goodbye"

Spilt salt tears

9-28-02 and 9-21-06 Not right Mr. No ReWrite

9-28-02
Friday at Border's and Saturday.
Free Cappuccino day.

Mary, Kate and Lauren are shopping. I have finished all but two of my chores. So I am here. Always drawn here when I am alone. I like the way the sun lights up the honey yellow chairs. I like to see people with books in their hands. Those with pens in hands stop, stare out at air and let their thoughts form.

The cappuccino is exactly the way I like it...strong. It has the desired effect. I am awake, alert, and observant.

Into the eyes of the beholder the words pore
On the lips of the student the words four
Into the brain of the reader the words tore
Into the heart of the lover the words soar
"I love you too."
9-21-06
OMG
Did I really write the above? Do I think a poem has to rhyme? And as for meter—it isn’t even a millimeter.

Should I go rewrite it or let it stand? Just call me Mr. No ReWrite.

The Moon Rises and Millay Sets

9-27-02
3:10 PM. Finally the rain falls, dreariness prevails, I should be overjoyed that we are finally getting rain. The waning light and damp are depressing.

I haven't taking a sip of my coffee... too hot.

I browse the literary magazines, read about a poetry contest, heed not the poetry editor's advice to read, read, read poetry, pick up a book of Edna Vincent Millay's poetry in an unconscious response to the exhortations.

"The Poetry of Edna St Vincent Millay combines spiritual intensity with intellectual sophistication..." the book begins. Immediately my mind wanders. I think I know that I have little intellectual sophistication and very little more spiritual intensity. I used to think that I had a special sensitivity to beauty which in a way could be related to spiritual intensity. God knows I have no spiritual intensity in a religious sense. As for intellectual sophistication, I left that self behind years ago. Now I simply don't get half of the stuff I read. I have become more animal, instincts overcome reason as I look less at the book and more at the exposed back of the young woman sitting by the window. It is almost ridiculous that my glances are directed toward the creamy smooth skin between the low rider jeans. And the black knit blouse. Women's backs with their wonderful valleys and channels and back bone traces hold more erotic wonder for me that for most people. She has shifted position and the moon rises. I need your help. Should I go over to her? What would I say? 'I'm sorry but much more of your butt shows than should. ..... Could you please pull up your pants, I'm trying to read? ...." Oh If only I had some sense of control. A. I would not stare and B. I would not write about staring

I need to start an exercise program. My energies are sapped by the end of the day. I seem to be more sleepy than usual. Since I feel that I am only half awake, this is not good. I could say that work and getting to and from work use up all my energy and I would be half right. I do think it is simply a matter of too sedentary of a life.

Four Years Ago

9-22-02
Sunday. We had been preparing for the annual visit of Mary's mother, brother and two sisters. I was given the furniture vacuuming task, the installing of the antique tiebacks that look like hands holding flowers, putting up the laundry plaques that Mary's mother sent so that Mary's mother would think we have had them up all year task, and the cutting the grass until the lawnmower broke task. We are taking a break at Border's because Mary's sister, Kate, called and depressed Mary because Kate read that the Mayor of our town is planning on installing Don's Johns because of the drought. What a bunch of sh** that would be. Kate also potentially ruined Mary's next Saturday plans.

"Our car is on its last legs."

"But I just sent Lauren's card. It promised getting her hair highlighted."

Mary came up with a unique birthday gift for our niece Lauren, a hair makeover.

So Mary's depressed and I get to go to one of my favorite places and drink my cappuccino.

Instead of picking a poetry book, I have a non fiction book which should be depressing me. It starts by discussing the coming end of the fossil fuel era, and the tensions between the Muslim oil producing countries of the east vs. the oil consuming nations o f the west. I wish I had the time to read it and the $25 to buy it because the dust jacket promises to discuss the creation of a new worldwide energy web and the redistribution of power on earth away from corporate greed and into the hands of the people. Perhaps some day I will have the time and discipline to focus on these issues. Now I float away in the arms of that grandfather and his granddaughter. The three young girl students who are actually studying and not talking... "Like, he was so cool." There seem to be a large number of studious people here. Boy, I wish I were one of them.

A Stupid Virus or My Soul's Shoal

8-9-02
On vacation I caught a virus. I know it is a brain virus since it has left me completely stupid. I lost my car in the lot at Kennedy space center. It didn't help that I was looking for my green Le Sabre when I had rented a red Dodge. I seemed to find my self mumbling to Mary stupid comments. "Oh... look at that. Isn’t that nice?" I kept taking pictures of swimming dolphins at the exact moment they were under water. At one point I imagined myself sucked into a Mickey Mouse costume... shades of Gregor... Have you ever tried to talk with a high pitched, squeaky voice? "Hi, boys and girls." What do I know, one or all of you may speak in a high pitched squeaky voice and I am now insulting you. I did say I have become terminally, in terminally, terminally stupid didn't I? So forgive me. Inside Mickey, I had to deal with 4 fingers. Why doesn't he have a middle finger? I would have liked to use it on the little brat who tried to feed me cotton candy and managed to get some of the sticky mess down the eye hole. I didn't mention how uncomfortable it was to take my 6'4" frame and fit in a 4'6" costume did I?

When you combine a high level of stupidity with my normal extreme laziness, you get... well you get nothing. I can't even think of a 250 word story. I don't even look to see what the topic is in IS or IP. Forget Short Stories. I happened to catch that ass Tom Clancy on book TV. His suggestion to would be writers is to tell yourself that you can do it and then do it. He says writing is a job. Great! I don't want a job. I want freedom to be the lazy person I can be. I want to come her to Border's twice a week and browse through books. Then when someone asks me if I have read the latest best seller, I can say yes. Ok, so I lied a little. Does reading dust jackets count? I am beginning to ramble and since I am infected by the stupid virus, I pretend to have an excuse. When I do have the time free from earning a living, what will I do with it? Three weeks ago I had convinced myself I would use my free time to study poetry... poetry that is hard. I have no idea what is really good in poetry.

I have rambled all this way on a few sips of cappuccino. It is still a bit hot. There are few people in the cafe today---perhaps because the sky is as blue as a beautiful woman's eyes or the fluffy clouds which would be wonderful as a pillow to watch those eyes.

At this point in my journal exercise, I like to write about the people I see. I can only see one young boy's face. I can't see his eyes. They are focused on a fantasy football magazine. His hair is cut in ragged bangs like the coast of the Chesapeake Bay with many inlets.

I seem to have hit a shoal in my writing right now. A shoal with my sole, my sole soul. I should know what a shoal is; but I really don't. Is a shoal, the shore's sole? See, I really have become stupid.

Drafts of Liquid Imagination and Table Top Dancing

8-30-02p to the new reader… this is when I originally wrote this entry,

A four day weekend

Friday--
They're playing Spanish music.
I want to get up and dance around the cafe, clattering castanets, twirling skirts.

Oh no they changed the music. A dumb song about" keep smiling, keep trying" set to a monotonous beat. Oh yeah it is in English.

Oh good they switched back to the Spanish music.

My feet are wet. This is the first time I have walked the two miles to Borders. It feels good to have walked through wet grass, smelling the grass and honeysuckle, feeling cool winds and listening to the killdeer overhead. We have had so little rain that they are considering closing businesses one day a week. We save the water normally wasted waiting for the shower water to warm. The corn which grew 7 feet tall in early spring rain is dry, yellow, with few, tiny corn husks. Walking is so much better for observation. I discovered a hidden field not yet eaten by development

A young German couple is studying a road atlas. I envy them. I wish Mary and I were traveling in Germany and some German would-be writer is studying us.


I see my face reflected in the screen of the PDA- full face, edges blurred--- I look like a hooded monk. I wonder if in a previous life I was a monk, perhaps an evil monk --Savonarola. I hope not the simpering parsons in Jane Austin novels. I wonder if I took delight in putting witches to death. When I was young I was in the emotional and intellectual clutches of nuns. Religion was a big deal to me. It was a guiding principal. So I am not surprised by such thoughts as these. I would love to embody my objections to Religion in a character. The religious character would be in conflict with a character representing beauty. Wait! Wait! that was Chocolate! Read that book. Saw that movie.
I have been anxious that I have not been writing lately. I have been reading more lately. You said that would help my writing. It has only discouraged me.

"How Can I possibly write that Well?"

So here I am at Border's. Writing to my Audience of two. Ok granted, two special gifted people who seem not to mind my self indulgence and wandering, unfocused attention.

The cappuccino has been too hot. Sipping slowly searching soothing something will happen soon.

I have loved reading "Poetry to Read" This is the first poetry book I have bought in years.

Wow. It is only 10 am. I am beginning to feel the effects of the caffeine. I have a general feeling of well being. My hands feel slightly numb. I can almost see my thoughts drift outward in long threads. Some made up of the DNA of words...spiraling into new creation... some in musical colors. I can almost step out of my physical self and hop from table to table looking in the eye of each person as they are reading something. They cannot see me. I can see them as they really are. Some surprise me. I thought that guy was smart and all he is, is a hollow shell. Another deep draft of liquid imagination and I can fly, knocking books from shelves, commanding them to return before the "humans" see them, lining them up by color and returning them in an instant. I seem to be caught between instances. My time opposite the beat of a human heart. I tire of flying. So I float on the soft notes of piano jazz and muted trumpet, watch the piano strings vibrate, count how many times per second the trumpet reed hums.
Now I float in air riding up on each bubble of thought from each cafe patron's head. The bubbles turn to threads. I want to sew them all together. There must be a story here.

I am so undisciplined, so utterly lazy. I need a stern teacher. Anna claims to be lazy. Yea right. Why do I see a weekly poem? Why do I see all those points wracked up that Anna can get a digital camera? (Not to mention the art work and endless summer company)
Then there is the Jasmine flower growing up in a new house, responsible for children, giving so much of her time to anediting award winning magazine... she has Arose to the Throne.


Cappuccino is gone. I am off to home. Then to the Library. Maybe I'll write more lately.