Cardomon-The Future

    She was old for her tribe, in her forties at least—she had long since abandoned the egoism of enumerating her years. The trials of mountain life and the rigors of her discipline had been harsh on her body. Her hair was white, her flesh was brown, she was lined with creases and she walked with a distinct limp in her right leg. Nonetheless her pace was strong and steady and her eyes were clear. Certainly she was ready to go to Cardomon but Cardomon, it seemed, was not ready for her yet.
    Not that she wanted to leave the flesh, still, the situation granted her the luxury of a little detachment. It was only her discipline that kept her focussed enough on the here and now to avoid a fatal misstep as she scrambled across the rugged foothill country.    
    It was a poor season to travel this country, hot, dusty and dry. Her path led across the lower courses of numerous small dry creekbeds that dissected a low plateau. Again and again she descended from the thinly wooded heights to the dense riparian forests in the canyon bottoms and then climbed back to the heights. The elevation change averaged about two hundred feet—it was just enough of a climb to make her feel it and topping the interfluves was a delirious rush as her breath caught up with her pace and she would run the downslopes with a great leaping stride until she came skittering to a halt on the gravel bottoms. Every third or fifth canyon still held a sheltered pool of water in its bottom and this would be a cue for an extended break—she was in no hurry. She would throw her pack to the ground, take out a ladle and draw herself a long drink. Then she would set her pack up against a shady bank, sit back against it and kick off her sandals; out would come her pipe and she would quietly smoke and relax. If the mood was right she would play a small wooden flute—she liked to imitate the birds. Sometimes her eyes would close and she would doze for a while.
    Still she kept a good pace; by sunset she had covered fifteen miles and, with three rising moons, she kept on into the early hours of the night—a full twenty miles had passed before she finally stopped. She made no fire but simply unrolled a thin blanket to sleep under the stars. She was not hungry for she had been gathering and eating roots, nuts and fruits for much of the day’s hike. It was still warm in the morning when she rose in the gray before dawn. She continued her trek until she came to another pool. Wading into the knee-deep water she crossed to an overhanging bank. Reaching into the cavity beneath the bank her skilled hands found the fish she knew must shelter there. With a firm grasp she grabbed the fish and pulled it from the water. She slapped its flopping body against the overhanging rock and the fish was still. Within minutes she had a fire going and the fish was cooking on the end of a stick. An hour later she was cleaned up and on the trail again.

One Hundred Ten in the Shade

When it’s a hundred-ten degrees in the shade, hummingbirds perch on the fence in the spray at the edge of the sprinkler, panting.

A fresh picked strawberry does for your mouth what a good orgasm does somewhere else.

Bean vines grow fast enough to make you hear a giant shout “Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum!”

When it’s a hundred-ten degrees in the shade, honeybees swarm around the leaky garden faucet

.

A frozen water bottle thaws before you drink it.

A light breeze feels like a blow dryer.

When it’s a hundred-ten degrees in the shade, you question the sanity of people who don’t believe in global warming.

A Drag Queeen, A Pair of Sociopaths, and Two Unsolved Murders--Portraits in American Integrity

A true story in the spirit of Utah Phillips:

We knew him as ‘RH’, short for Runninghorse; no, he’s not Native American. He was a presence at Diablo Valley College in the 1990s, a loud mouthed presence. Nobody ever challenged his leadership of the Frank Little Club. He was full of energy, a zeal for organizing, a megaphone voice, and a confrontational attitude; he started the club, chaired meetings, and actually cooperated, to a modest extent, with the college Administration. He did a lot of heavy work.

But we also knew that he was an absolute creep. Women in the club did not care to work alone with him, and they had good reason. That’s an odd situation for the leader of a left-wing political action club.

Now I have to relate one story to his credit—sort of.

It’s a complicated saga of local politics that starts thusly:

The Reverend Lloyd Mashore, of a fundamentalist congregation in Concord, waxed wroth over the rising tide of the supposed ‘Homosexual Agenda’, specifically the idea that ‘Christians’ were being forced into politically correct tolerance of whatever the Lloyd Mashores of the world fear. His big outrage was that Christian property owners were being compelled to rent homes to gays and lesbians, people certain to engage in unbiblical activities inside these Christian owned bedrooms.

Proof positive, to Lloyd Mashore, that True Religion was under persecution. The Secularists must surely be ready to bring back the popular sport of feeding the lions.

Humor Is Paramount

To me the word  "silly" translates as "stupid."

All the silly things we do to try to gain recognition, or approval , or status.
The silly aspect of courtship immediately races to the forefront.
Man gives woman things like cold, dead rocks, smelly vegetation, fattening foods, and toxic potions.  She falls for these things
and gives man her warm, vibrant body!

Humor is Paramount!

Michael Dean Long

Tales out of School

Hank van der Putte, a 50ish typical, tropical, tramp (TTT) from Holland talked me into visiting a whorehouse in the Orinoco area of Venezuela. He reasoned that as a sheltered, 22-year old, Peace Corps volunteer, I needed to see how my counterparts lived. Part-time work in a small university library left me much free time, so I had reluctantly agreed to teach an English class at the high school. I had met the students- once- they were testing me- and I had no idea what I was doing! 

I was just learning to drive, but had no license. We did know enough to not borrow the P.C. jeep for it was recognizable all over town, practically new and a bright aqua. Late one afternoon we set off in Hank's car, bumping off-road, through scrub-land and  a few dry creek beds until we reached a house miles out of town.

Hank announced to the woman at the counter that he had brought me there to see what life was for some Venezuelan women. We sat in the living room for a few minutes, chatting about nothing. As we stood up to leave she pointed to a closed door in the corner of the room and said that my high school principal was being entertained in there!

Class ended right there!

COMMANDMENT

Thou shall not explain

Roses

Poetry

or

Rain

Please Not Today

birds were singing couples holding hands

children were laughing in a playground of sand

mothers were watching them talking to each other

it was a day when everyone is a sister or brother

proud trees were green flowers watched sunny skis

there were bumble bees and yellow and orange butterflies

we all were having a wonderful time

when we heard a voice that caught us by surprise

it was not a voice from paradise

it whispered i am the prince of sin

i want you to kill the child within

suddenly everyone vanished away

i said to myself please not today

i heard something moving didn’t want to guess

squirrels don't slither through the springtime grass

i woke up i heard someone at my door

i was half awake as I crossed the floor

that voice pursued me cold as ice

kill that child even if he's nice

god in heaven i don’t want to despair

god in heaven help me conquer my fear

i opened the door there was no one there

Alex