The Call of the Dead and the Living

     Have you ever received messages from The Dead and the Living?

     I notice patterns, particularly those that parallel the very words spoken by people from my past.

     The late Loften Mitchell was a Professor of Theatre at Binghamton University and was head of the Playwrights Program.  Best known for writing the book to the musical BUBBLIN BROWN SUGAR, his writing covers original play scripts, librettos, short fiction and history.  As a Harlem native, he knew writers such as John Oliver Killens and Langston Hughes.  In fact, his oft repeated observation about the latter was that Mr. Hughes always seemed to be writing something, even as he sat in restaurants and bars.

     A student (not me) once asked "How do you deal with writer's block?"

     Mr.  Mitchell plainly answered "There's no such thing as Writer's Block.  There's only Time Block."  From there, he explained that there will be things that pull one away from writing.  He was emphatic about staying away from people who waste time.  "All that matters is you and your typewriter" he said.

    A few years later I was studying under yet another mentor, the late Stuart M. Kaminsky.  In a brief exchange, I apologized for also working on a play script (I had barely made his deadline for a screenplay).  He merely shrugged and said "Writing is Writing."

    Last week during Morning Edition on NPR, I heard an interview with an award winning Florida State University professor.  The author attributed his success to the "B.I.C. Method", which stands for "Butt In Chair."

     More recently, I attended a workshop with the Tallahassee Author's Guild.  A local author, Marilyn Griffith, conducted a 15 minute writing exercise which proved the very same thesis.

     My challenges usually involve words on a page.  Yours may involve other endeavors.  I contend that we all receive messages from the past and messages from the present.  Messages from both the dead and the living.   They are nothing more than simple reminders of what we need to do.

      The question is:  Are we listening?

     Always B Positive

The War of the Dental Appliances

     The Conspiracy had finally come to fruition!

     An evil International Consortium had secretly conspired with the Aliens, who had amassed a mighty armada of warships behind their invisible cloaking shields.  But now these behemoths lumbered across the sky like great aircraft carriers.  They moved into position, readying their weapons for the final assault upon the panet Earth.

     Yet little did they know that a hero would soon appear, perhaps the only one who could stop the invaders.  Little did they know that the Conspiracy would be toppled by everyman's Everyman.  Little did they know that the pudgy, aging nerd on the hill would unleash the most lethal weapon ever created.

     A tooth flosser.  The weapon was the pointy end of a plastic tooth flosser, one of those green or white picks that cost one or two dollars a bag at any drug- or discount store.

      The crowd was under surveillance.  But when the opportunity presented itself, I raised my right hand, and balancing the pick between my two fingers, aimed and squeezed.  The blast produced a mere pinpoint of light, which quickly morphed into a mighty missile.  The the lethal drone headed for the closest ship, striking it on the underbelly near one of the engine nacelles, which exploded in a huge fireball.  Now unbalanced, the ship pitched slowly sideways and crashed just outside of town.  We felt the heat from miles away and the ground itself trembled from the impact.

     "Look!" someone shouted.

     I did.  On the horizon were hundreds of similar enemy ships, which were now alerted to my presence.  Yet fear never registered in my heart.  With merely a glance I recruited hundreds of comrades, and with floss picks in hand, we raced headlong to the battle, to deal death to the invading alien Superfortresses in the sky...

     When I told my wife about the dream, she merely shook her head, mumbled something under her breath like Popeye, and went back to whatever she was doing.

     I have no idea what she said, but she's probably right.  Upon further examination, I realized that on a regular basis I have been avoiding something vital.

     Sleep.

     I enjoy my dreams but rarely do I remember them.  When I am sleep deprived and tired, I sink quickly into the depths without having any memorable dreams.  It is only when I am well rested do I sleep properly and wake up naturally instead of by alarm clock.  On these rare occasions I slowly ascend toward consciousness and linger in that realm wherein - according to the scientists - memorable dreams occur.  As much as I enjoy these flights of fancy, I simply do not allow myself the luxury of embarking. 

     Why is it so hard to make easy choices?  Why is it so hard to simply do the simplest of things?  Perhaps this is why we fail to address more vital areas, like taking care of our health, planning for the future, eliminating debt, etc.  I admit that some people's lives are hard.  Victims of war, abuse and crime may not have as many choices; however, I contend that every one can do something that can make their lives easier.

      The warships are approaching, but they are not the armed airships inspired by one too many Science Fiction or Steam Punk novels or movies.  They are the Warships of Life.  Mine is the war for more sleep and better time management.  Yours may be in other areas.  Regardless of your enemy, today is the first and greatest battle in this epic struggle.  Will you join me?

     Raise your arm.  Steady your flossers!  Fire!

Prized Consolation

Today is the meeting of a local writers group, an assemblage of people with whom I have little in common.  We hail from various backgrounds and geographical locations, and we have one objective:  To motivate, encourage, hound, harrass and shame each other into finishing our respective works.  Talk is cheap, and there are dozens of other writer groups that are filled with socialites, dowagers, Miss Daisies and pretenders.  No, we try to be serious about our work.

A fateful phone call derailed my plans.  On the other end was "the job".  End of story; money is money.  In this economy we hear:  "Well, be thankful you have a job!" - and whoever says that is right.  Yet I wonder if it is sensible to be thankful for the consolation prize.

The consolation prize is the lure of a reliable paycheck, instead of fulfilling the omnipresent dream.

The consolation prize is the item on sale - last years' model or last one in the bin - which is perfectly fine but not exactly what you need.

The consolation prize is settling down with someone who is "nice enough"; after all, he or she isn't a [fill in the blank________________:  Abuser, druggie, alcoholic, cheater, murderer, etc.].

Society has taught us to be unrealistic, selfish and lazy.  Life is work and anything worthwhile comes with a price.  There is nothing wrong with choosing the consolation prize, as long as one seeks counsel and intelligently weighs the options.  But as we continuously work out our tasks ranging from the mundane to the monumental, from the simple to Salvation, let us make sure that we are not simply settling due to lack of effort.

Nature vs Nature

He (or she) was sitting there, all googly-eyed and slimy, with no particular goal in mind other than to sun him (or her) - self.  The only problem was that there was no sunlight to be gathered, only the off-white glow of flourescent lights and their infernal, nearly imperceptible humming.  The frog sat on the edge of the toilet, the third one that had appeared recently, each one larger than the one preceding it.  This one was light green, very large and very spotted.  Weeks ago I flushed the first one.  But with the second and now the third, I did the manly thing.

I called my daughter. 

With a gloved hand she gingerly trapped the beastie, and gently let it back outside.  I wonder if there is some sort of conspiracy or collusion behind my back, because an hour and a half later that same frog had hopped up onto my porch railing, and was looking at the house.

The other day, I stepped out my front door, and there was a snake.  Not a moccasin or a rattler (which are common in this area); just a small black racer.  I am not afraid of snakes, but I still jumped;  anti-venon now costs up to $3000 a dose in this area, with the average number of doses being between 5 and 7, depending on the size and weight of the victim.  Once again, I bolstered my masculinity and called my daughter.  This time we shooed it away with a water hose.  Naturally, my wife now wants me to reapply all of the liquids and powders around the house perimeter and stink up the garage with mothballs.

When I left New York years ago, I swore that as long as my mind is good, I would never live with rats and roaches.  So far, so good.  Meanwhile, I am surrounded by a veritable menagerie.   Recently I got up in the middle of the night, opened a window and told a fox to shut up.  She ran to another yard, taking her yelping with her.

Nature never quits.  So why are humans so quick to give up on their most cherished goals and dreams?

Always B Positive!

The Leer of the Omnipresent Sentinel

I talk to to him daily.

There is nothing Supernatural to him, although he is heavenly.  He is always there, although his sweep regularly takes him to some unseen corner of the cyclorama that I share with the other 5 or 6 billion denizens of this insignificant piece of dust.  His complexion shows the ravages of age, yet he regularly applies a thick coat of photonic makeup to hide his blemishes.  In fact, sometimes he even hides his face behind a black cape, which he holds up in imitation of Zorro, Batman and so many other heroes and villians from my youth.

I once wanted to go to the moon.

Like so many others who visited the mid-1960's World's Fair and rides at Disney's parks, I believed that by now we would have regular, economical public flights to space. Obviously, we don't.  Also, like so many Boomer youngsters, I once dreamt of being an astronaut.  But that dream was dissolved quickly by my claustrophobia and easily acquired motion sickness.  Still, I look up at my friend, The Man in The Moon, and wonder what could have been.

Orion the Hunter is another celestial friend, and he has given me an invitation to come see him.  In fact, I'd love to visit one of the stars in his belt (incidentally, the same one pointed out by Captain Kirk (William Shatner) when he walked down the street with Edith Keeler (Joan Collins) in the Star Trek episode CITY ON THE EDGE OF TOMORROW). 

Unfulfilled desires, unmet goals and dreams deferred leer at us, breathlessly awaiting our arrival...

Forced Perspective

She was a friend from years ago and she stood in the middle the street, in what was supposed to be New York City.  I immediately knew that it was a fanciful representation, for down the street was the beginning of Chinatown, with its crowded sidewalks and street-level vendors.  In the opposite direction (in plain view) was the New York Public Library, lions and all.  Only this time, the surrounding park was missing; indeed, the lions and steps themselves were made of gold, bathed in light, and inviting readers to take part in the truly Royal Act of Reading.

I rarely remember my dreams.

The last two days I have been traveling.  Two separate trips took me to see family on one day, while the other carried one child to a computer camp.  Regarding the latter, I left quickly when I saw my kid blend in with the small herd of Steve Urkels, Jimmy Neutronses and Poindexters.  As much as we wish to hold onto our youth, playtime is for the kids...

Still, my waking dream was fun.  My friend from school was eating an ice cream cone in the middle of the street (which had been closed by the police; a parade had just passed).  I ascended into a restaurant / bar that was built on a series of platforms that slopped upward.  My friend followed and had changed into yet another friend (a guy) from another school and he was now drunk.

I drank a soda (even in my dreams I am a teetotaller).  Along the wall, behind the bartender and running down to the street was a projection screen that showed graphics from old Jefferson Airplane and Jefferson Starship albums, which were animated like sprites on a computer screen.  I mused over the construction of the sloping bar, the ceiling of which now resembled the underside my roof, up in my attic.  With one last bit of insight, I figured that the city and bar were built in forced perspective, a trick used by designers to give the illusion of length, height, depth, distance, etc.

This year I didn't go to any reunions.  I didn't think it would matter, nor did I think I would miss the city of my youth.

Sometimes our dreams force us to see what is truly on our minds and in our hearts.

Always B. Positive!