Free Paris

Today I had decided that I was going to organize a march to protest the unjust incarceration of America's sweetheart...the strangely ubiquitous Queen of all Media...Miss Paris Hilton. But then it turned out to be such a gloriously blue and breezy spring day here South California that I blew that off and took a long, leisurely walk in the early afternoon sunshine by myself instead.

I am, of course, still fuming over the way "The Man" has treated Paris...but hey stuff happens (and I know that she would want us all to be strong and keep our heads held high while she's up the river in the Big House.) And besides I know that the media...especially the television folks...will keep us completely up to date on all things Paris (I'm pretty sure that they reported that she had regular bowel movements thanks in part to the oatmeal she had for breakfast today...though they forgot to mention if she had raisins on that oatmeal... )

Perseverance furthers, Paris. Stay strong, sweet pampered princess, stay strong.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Strong Arms and Soft Lips

He had strong arms and soft lips…dark eyes that twinkled with mischievous wit and wisdom…rough-hewn and beautiful masculine curves and features that seemed to invite tender exploration…Terry found it all so wonderfully wounding that it stole breath from the body and gave light to the soul.

The sweet, steady song of his sleeping breathing was magical…Terry couldn’t imagine a sound more amazing, more lovely, more thrilling…especially in the first light of dawn as that song confirmed that the passionate, sweaty, carnally delightful magic of the darkling hours was more than just an aching trick of dreamtime.

He had a voice that rumbled melodically, that spoke softy and gave amble space for both quiet and dialogue…Terry found that so incredibly precious and rare that it was almost beyond belief…almost beyond desire…almost beyond reason and expectation.

Terry took a deep, hopeful breath as the man stirred to waking…as the promise of the night before teetered on the precipice of disappointment in the harsh light of an unforgiving morning.

He looked over and smiled that smile and looked out with those eyes and Terry sighed with relief and snuggled into a lingering good morning kiss. Strong arms and soft lips…Terry sighed with passion and allowed for the possibility of a thousand and one tomorrows started just so.

- for T & K (by request)-

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Decision '08 (a Talking with Bob interlude)

My friend Bob burst into my house with a mission. He was, I noted with some chagrin, in his crusader mode. “Who are you gonna vote for?” Bob asked without any preamble.

I wracked my brain. American Idol was over and I didn’t think that So You Think You Can Dance had opened their phone voting yet. I frowned and gave him my best puzzled look. “Vote for?”

“For President! President of the United States of America! Maybe you’ve heard of it???” Bob said with exasperation. “Who are you gonna vote for?”

I sighed to myself. Political conversations with my friend Bob were never a pretty thing. “Hadn’t really thought about it that much,” I replied truthfully. “Especially considering that this is June of ’07 and I don’t really have to make a final decision until November of ’08.” I knew that this was the wrong answer before I’d finished speaking but I was already committed so I went with it.

“No! No! No!” Bob raged indignantly, the veins in his forehead throbbing impressively. “This is the most important decision in the history of this country and you can’t sit on the fence until next year! The good people of New Hampshire are on the verge of moving their primary to Halloween of this year so that they can have the first say in who gets to move on! You have to choose and you have to choose now!”

I suppressed a smile. “Calm down, Bob,” I said solicitously.

Bob grabbed me by my lapels and drew me so close that I could tell that he’d had Hawaiian pizza for lunch. “A name, Michael,” he said, his eyes glowing wildly, “give me a name!”

I suppressed a laugh and shrugged. “Okay. Fred Thompson.”

Bob’s eyes went wide and then he frowned. “Because you agree with him on the issues?” he asked warily.

“Nah,” I said, extricating myself from my friend Bob’s grasp, “because he has the coolest theme song. They’re going to play the Law and Order theme everywhere he goes and that’s going to be so cool.”

Bob’s mouth fell open. “You…you…you…” he sputtered unable to grasp my seemingly flippant attitude to the most important decision in the history of this country. “I can’t talk to you anymore,” he said his voice low and icy.

“Gah!” Bob exclaimed, throwing up his arms as he spun on his heels and marched towards the front door.

“Nice talking with you, Bob,” I said not bothering to suppress a smile as I began to hum the theme from Law and Order.

Believing in Magic

“Don’t be afraid,” she said reassuringly, “you can do it.”

I smiled to myself…she was 6 and I was much older than 6 and she was the one telling me to be strong…to have a little faith…to believe in magic.

“I used to be able to do this, sweetheart,” I said looking down to the valley so far below. We’d climbed up the mountain together but now, at the summit, I was afraid. “I think I’m too old to believe in magic.”

She smiled…patiently and impatiently in the same instant…and held out her hand. “You never get too old to believe in magic, Papa,” she said guilelessly.

I took a deep breath and took her tiny hand in my ungainly paw of a hand. And, fighting the “wisdom” of my dotage, I stepped forward. We dipped down into the bracing summer’s breeze and then we began to glide…to soar…to fly.

“See?” she said smiling brightly and holding tight to my hand. “I told you so.”

“Yes, you did,” I smiled back feeling the wind in fact and the sun dancing on my back. We were flying…so high above the verdant valley…and believing in magic.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Safe Harbor

She walks in light and shadow with each and every step; she walks with the casual, entrancing sway of her delightfully rounded hips and her bountiful and enticing bosom. The dazzling, passionate, boisterously smiling sparkle in her dark eyes colored and mitigated with a soft, wounding melancholy; those eyes, filled with equal measure of laughter and tears and hope and faith and bittersweet memory, so easy to get lost in forever.

Her thick brown hair crowns her head softly waiting for strong hands to caress it, to luxuriate in it, to stroke it lovingly as she lays her head close to your heart. Her face…those dark eyes, that creamy skin, those sweet lips that seem made to be kissed gently and roughly (often and gratefully) She is bright and beautiful and breathtakingly sensual; sensitive, energetic, strong, vulnerable, wise, naïve, girlish and womanly in the same amazing, thrilling, beguiling moment.

She is all a wise man could ever want in a partner…a friend, a companion, a lover, a confidant, a safe harbor…in the tumultuous journey that is life. A remarkable girl…a remarkable woman…

And, of course, there was no way that he could not fall in love with her.

She, of course, never regarded him that way…never took his ill-disguised passion and longing for her seriously. Her wisdom failed her in matters of love as she too often gave her heart to an endless number of vapid brutes who had absolutely no idea what a treasure it was…no idea what a precious treasure she was.

Not having it in him to try to play the brute he settled for being her buddy… her confidant…the good guy she trusts but would never fall in love with. For him, it wasn’t enough…but, with her, it was better than nothing.

She walks in light and shadow…she nestles into him and cries over the brutes who will never cry over her…and he holds her, keeping his love chaste and his longing at bay, and gives her the safe harbor she needs.

- for Chris and Magdalena (wherever life has taken them) -

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

The Necessary Persistence of Memory

We were born in a crucible of fire and blood…of the sweat and the tears and the courage and the hypocrisy and the bravado that only fools and visionaries and freedmen and dreamers know intimately.

We were born of blood on the ancient byways of the Old World, blood on the fertile realms of noble Africa and blood on the plains, and the verdant fields of a “New World”.

We were born of blood spilled in burgeoning colonies created…by hubris and guile and deception, by force of will and force of arms, by self-anointed divine right…from the bright and blue, majestic and expansive, hardscrabble and bountiful, land we claimed as our own.

We were born of the blood of the young spilled on battlefields near and far…in Lexington and Valley Forge, in the shadow of the majestic Rio Grande, at Fort Sumter and in Gettysburg and Atlanta; in Cuba and Germany and France and North Africa and the blue Pacific; in Selma and Mississippi, Dallas and Memphis and Chicago and Kent State and Los Angeles; in Korea and Vietnam and Kuwait and Somalia and Afghanistan and Iraq…and we remember.

We born of the blood of the young spilled…in the name of freedom, in the name of justice, in the name of manifest destiny, in the name of a fragile union, in the name of ending tyranny and injustice and war itself, in the name of self-protection, in the name of peace…and we remember.

We were born in a crucible of fire and blood…sweat and tears and passion and setbacks and triumphs. We were born from the sacrifices of our young…and, in the necessary persistence of memory, we remember.

Dirty Laundry

I dreamt that I woke up (yeah, I know…just go with it) and heard a raucous commotion in the outer room. Walking out of the bedroom I found my dirty clothes hamper had been dumped out onto the living room floor and Jerry Springer, Montel Williams, Judge Judy, and Maury Povich were furiously digging through my dirty laundry looking for…well actually, I didn’t know what they were looking for.

“A bit on the nose, isn’t it, folks?” I said as sardonically as I could so soon after waking up.

All four of them sprang up and surrounded me. “Laugh it up, buster,” Judge Judy snarled poking my chest with her bony finger, “but when I find the goods on you I’m going to drag your no-good butt into court and let you have it! Just you wait!”

“Ooo-kay,” I said trying to take a step back from the spray of righteously indignant spittle coming from her thin, angry lips.

Maury Povich spun me around and brought his face so close to mine that I could almost taste the turkey sandwich he had for lunch. “There’s a 99.730017792% chance that you’re the father and I’m gonna find the proof!”

Before I could reply to that, Montel Williams spun me around. “My psychic will tell me everything I want to know about you, buddy. Prepare to be smacked down on national television!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that nobody watched his show any more.

Jerry Springer nudged me and bent close. “Look, if you’re cheating with your alcoholic midget nympho half-cousin who’s pregnant with your priest’s love child, I can make you a star.”

I nodded warily. “Thanks, Jerry, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do you know what you want?” Judge Judy demanded.

“I want you all to go away…?”

“No!” Montel bellowed. “You want to be on television!”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE EVERYBODY WANTS TO BE ON TELEVISION!” they all shouted as one.

“And if you’re not gonna fess us, then we’re going to keep going through you dirty laundry until we find something,” Maury said portentously.

I backed slowly out of the room as the four of them leapt back into the pile of sweaty t-shirts and used BVDs. “Yeah, good luck with that,” I said softly not wanting to upset them again. “Lock the door when you go.”

Jerry, Montel, Judy, and Maury ignored me as they clawed at different pieces of my soiled clothing.

“Eww, what’s that?” I heard Judy ask as I ambled back into my bedroom.

“I’m not sure,” I heard Jerry reply with no small amount of concern in his voice, “but I hope to God that it’s chocolate…”

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MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

My Mother's Eyes

My mother’s eyes are ever with me…I am kept safe and strong in their light…in their tenderness and anger, their wisdom and their passion, their hope and charity and nostalgia and regret.

I am who I am because of my mother’s eyes…my mother’s heart…my mother’s strength and dreams and her boundless and wondrous and fierce love.

My mother’s eyes are ever with me…lingering with me through days of sunshine and magic, through days of shadow and sorrow, through all of my days of my journey from my first cry and down the winding path that makes up the continuing tapestry of my life.

My mother’s eyes are with me…and I am kept safe and strong by their light…my mother’s eyes are now, and ever shall be, with me.

Blessed be.

Melting (a brief Spring interlude)

So I was out watering the roses, the tomatoes, the fruit trees, and the irises in my backyard and listening to the song playing in my head (which was, in case you were wondering, “Tears Cry on Their Own” by Amy Winehouse…don’t know why, I’ve long since made my peace with the fact that when a song decides to take up residence in my whimsical psyche it’s best just to let it go rather than trying to fight it) when my mind wandered in the odd ways it sometimes wanders. I felt, for fleeting moment, like I was melting.

The sky was crystal blue and the Santa Ana winds (hot, dry winds that blow in off the desert…as opposed to the cool breezes that usually blow in off of the Pacific) were dancing softly but insistently and thus the day was unseasonably warm (91 degrees) for a San Diego May afternoon.

The sun and the spring/summer winds were competing to impishly caress and tease my shaved head and bare arms and, for a brief little eternity, time stopped and I felt like I was melting…an odd but not really unfamiliar sensation.

The moment passed…Amy started singing again…and the roses, tomatoes, fruit trees, and irises…parched by the withering heat of several days of unseasonable temperatures…got my full attention again.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Sanjaya Was Robbed

Jake sat up and yawned. He was longing for a cigar but he was feeling too good from last night to get into that particular argument on what looked to be a fine spring morning. He stood up and stretched and then, not bothering to retrieve his boxer shorts from the floor, he followed the sound of humming towards the bathroom.

Joy came out of the bathroom as Jake neared the door. As always the sight of Joy made Jake’s heart skip a beat. Joy was wearing a pair of pink panties and a blue shirt with the phrase Sanjaya Was Robbed emblazed across its front in bold red script. Willowy and tanned, Joy was freshly showered and even across the room he could tell that she smelled wonderful.

Joy looked up and smiled brightly. “Good morning, old man,” she said brightly, putting her hand on his naked belly and stretching up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Yuck!” she teased. “You’ve got morning breath!”

Jake reached down and swatted her behind playfully. “Outta the way, girl,” he mock-growled, “I gotta go.”

Joy was sitting on the edge of the bed brushing her long auburn hair when Jake came out of the bathroom. He stood looking at her and found himself wondering what a girl like her was doing with a crusty old man like him.

Joy looked up and then shook her head and sighed patiently.

“What?” Jake asked, though he knew what she was going to say.

Joy, playing along, went back to brushing her hair. “You’ve got that ‘I’ve got shoes older than her’ look in your eyes again.”

“Well, I do,” Jake replied petulantly.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said standing up, “so what?” Joy walked over and poked him in the chest. “If you were so worried about the difference in our ages, you shouldn’t have married me. But you did and now you’re stuck with me, old man.”

Jake smiled in the way that only Joy could make him smile. “I’m okay with that.” He put his leathery hand on her face and bent down and kissed her again. “And maybe one of these days I’ll understand why you’re with me.”

Joy smiled, patiently and tenderly, and pressed her head against the soft pelt of salt-and-pepper fur on his brawny chest. “And maybe one of these days you’ll stop fretting about silly things like that.” Jake wrapped his arms around her and they stood silently for a few blissful moments.

“I’m gonna be late for work,” Joy said, reluctantly breaking the embrace and heading over to the closet to get a pair of shoes.

Jake went to the dresser and dug out a fresh pair of boxers to wear after he showered. He looked over as Joy pulled on a pair of jeans and he noticed the shirt again. He knew he shouldn’t…there were things he didn’t, and didn’t want to, understand…but he was compelled to ask the question anyway. “Who or what is ‘Sanjaya’?”

Joy looked over at him quizzically and then she laughed softly. “I could explain but you’d be bored by the time I was half-finished. Kinda like I was when you were trying to explain to me how great that Hank Williams guy was…”

Jake shrugged and nodded. “Fair enough,” he replied amiably. He winked at her. “I love you, little girl.”

“I know that, old man,” Joy said, winking back. “I love you too.”

Jake turned towards the bathroom humming…”Hey, Good Lookin’”…as he prepared to shower and get himself ready for work. He didn’t give ‘Sanjaya’ another thought.

- for S & A -

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Cowboy

Cowboy was the guy that good girls’ mothers warned them about…and he was proud of that fact. Cowboy was a sight to behold…tall and rugged with dark brown hair, a thick moustache, and deep silver-blue eyes that always seemed to be smiling. He was born in the San Fernando Valley but he always carried himself like he thought a real cowboy would…with softly-faded Levis, vivid calico shirts, and hard-worn boots being his attire for almost any occasion.

Cowboy wore his cowboy hat rakishly and drove a big old Ford pickup that you could hear coming from blocks away. He smoked nothing but cheap cigars, drank nothing but beer and whiskey, and there were people who knew him for years without ever knowing what his given name was (it was Brian but nobody but his mother and his grandmother called him that.) He was a self-styled good ol’ boy before that term had been used to death and, again, he was proud of that. Still and all, his charm was such that he attracted an eclectic group of friends, lovers, and acquaintances and few folks had a cross word to say about the man.

Cowboy couldn’t carry a tune to save his life but that didn’t stop him from happily braying out his favorite Hank Williams or Willie Nelson songs when the mood struck him.

Cowboy did have his faults, of course…he did, for example, sometimes drink a wee bit too much (but, being a happy drunk, even that failed to take away from his appeal) and, though usually affable and forgiving, he had no problem coming to blows if he felt someone was slighting him or somebody he cared about (I bailed him out of jail once after he got into a row with the brother of one his former paramours outside of a bar in Hollywood one humid summer night.)

And he was not by any stretch of the imagination a faithful lover…often he would be juggling two or three (or more) girlfriends at the same time and managing, for impressive stretches of time, to keep it going without it blowing up in his face. Some women found that less easy to live with than others but, strangely enough, most of them remembered the good times more than the bad times when it was over.

Cowboy and I were not best friends or anything…we were far too different for that…but, for a brief season, we got along just fine (I occasionally got to see the quiet, reflective Cowboy that he rarely showed to most people in his ever-widening circle of acquaintance.)

Last time I saw Cowboy he was off to Texas…he had somehow gotten a job as a cop in some small town outside of San Antonio…loaded for bear and wondering out loud if the “pretty l’il Senoritas” were ready for someone like him. I imagined that they could (and did) handle him…and that Cowboy would be all right with that as well.

Are You Alright?

…are you alright?
are you sleeping through the night?
do you have someone to hold you tight?
do you have someone to hand out with?
do you have someone to hug and kiss you?
hug and kiss you…hug and kiss you…
are you alright?

I’m sitting in my quieter place…the place that nobody knows because I won’t let them…and I’m thinking about you. I’m thinking about the us that we used to be. Lucinda is singing the soundtrack and I’m letting my thoughts dance in the rose-colored light that permeates and caresses the memory fields where we, still and always, linger happily.

I’m in my quieter place…and I’m smiling warmly, nostalgically, only the tiniest bit ruefully as I savor and wallow in and rewrite the dances we did back when we were a viable us.

We ended badly…we ended as well as could be hoped…we ended in a perfect and proper measure of time…we drifted apart in clouds of acrimony...we drifted apart in the benign mist of unintentional neglect.

Whatever…whatever…whatever…the past is past and I’m in my quieter place and I’m happily thinking about you and imagining, with some hubris, that sometimes…every once in a bright blue moon…you’re thinking about me thusly as well.

Lucinda asks the question…are you alright?...and I nod wistfully, only the tiniest bit ruefully, and pray that it is so.

“Are You Alright?”
words and music by Lucinda Williams
©2007 Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp./Lucy Jones Music

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

What it Was That the Cat Did

Naala, the sleek, quiet-spoken black female cat of the household, was sitting in the corner by the front door like an errant child sent to the sit thusly for some transgression. I wondered what it was that she had done to warrant punishing herself thusly. She would not, of course, tell me…but she sat there, lost in what in whatever thoughts cats might have, staring at the corner still and unwavering for the better part of a quarter hour.

Mr. Gambino, her white-footed, tuxedoed brother, went over near her quizzically but, being a cat of fickle and fleeting attention, he quickly grew bored and ran off to find some more interesting mischief to get into.

Bart, the laconic third cat of the household, had not the slightest bit of interest in the situation and sued instead to be allowed to egress to his place of privacy, the small stack of towels atop the clothes dryer out in the garage.

Autumn, the old dog who rarely acknowledged the presence of any of the cats, slumbered peacefully in the family room her legs twitching as if she were running after some wily rabbit in her dreams.

After the quarter hour had passed, Naala, apparently haven’t served out her self-imposed penance, stretched and sauntered across the living room, past the kitchen, and out to the family room where she calmly leapt onto the couch and curled up and went to sleep.

I suppose I’ll never know what it was that the cat did :-)

3:39

The pounding on the door was insistent, anxious; it would not be denied. Solid metallic thumps on the security door thundering through the ebony stillness of the wee hours…adrenaline surging through every fiber of my being. I lurched up, all of my senses screaming to be left in their restive state, wrenching myself from the dream world and back into the real world.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand, the bright crimson glow of its numbers mocking me mercilessly…3:39. Rats. It was just a dream.

My disorientation faded slowly as I sat up in bed. I listened for a moment…just in case it wasn’t a dream. The world was, of course, almost completely still…no pounding…and every housemate (two-legged and four-legged alike) still slumbering peacefully in their chosen sleeping places.

I shambled to the bathroom…darting apparitions, having followed me from the dreaming, played hide-and-seek behind me but I ignored them.

Yawning, I shambled back to the bedroom and tumbled back into bed…and then I lay there wide awake and praying to be accepted back into the dream world while every other housemate (two-legged and four-legged alike) continued to slumber peacefully in their chosen sleeping places.

The clock, taunting me with its impertinent crimson numbers (stupid clock), continued to mock me mercilessly: 3:48…4:09...4:17… 4:28...4:44…5:03…5:11...5:27. Until another distant thump echoed through the gathering lightness of the coming dawn. The newspaper was on the front lawn and I was awake on top of my bed.

Rats.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Kurt Vonnegut 1922-2007

The amazing, avuncular writer of Slaughterhouse-Five, Breakfast of Champions, and Cat's Cradle has died at the age of 84.

Stars Dancing in the Nighttime Sky

It’s a warm April night and the crickets are singing to the night. Jenny and I are lying on a blanket in the backyard looking up at the stars dancing in the nighttime sky.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You think there’s more than 500 stars up there?”

I smile. “Yep, there’s a lot more than that. There are millions and millions of stars up there.”

“Millions and millions?” Jenny says incredulously. “Whoa. I’m not sure I can count that high yet.”

I try to imagine what the nighttime sky looks like through 4-year-old eyes. “Did you have a good day?”

“Um-hm,” she replies. “I like birthday parties. Especially birthday parties for me. The only bad part is that when somebody asks me how old I am I can’t say ‘almost four’ anymore.”

“Is being four that much different from being ‘almost four’?”

Jenny sighs softly…there were, she already knew, so many things that parents and other adults simply did not get. “It’s completely different, Daddy,” she says as patiently as she could.

“Well after a while you can start telling people you’re ‘almost five’…”

She pauses as she weighs that and then, with some satisfaction, says, “Yeah, there’s that.”

We are quiet for a while just listening to the crickets and the slight rustling of the liquid amber trees. And then Jenny looks over at me. “Is there a time when I won’t be your little girl anymore? I’m not sure I want to get that old…”

I reach over and stroke her hair. “You’ll always be my little girl…no matter how old you get.”

“That’s good,” Jenny says softly, relief coloring her words. “I love you, Daddy.”

I smile again and let the warmth of the moment wash through me. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

I look up into the sky while Jenny, being the adventurous girl she is, goes back to trying to count all of the stars.

“Happy Birthday, pretty girl,” I whisper not wanting to disturb her mission.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Jenny whispers back not looking down from the stars dancing in the nighttime sky.

- for JLM -

The Case of the Duplicitous Duck

And then the duck nodded, conspiratorially and contemptuously at once, just before he waddled away at a pretty impressive pace without ever once looking back. It was not a good turn of events.

I reminded myself to never trust a duck again.

But I didn’t have time to fret about it…sirens were screaming towards me and the blood on my hands and the sack full of crumpled hundred-dollar bills at my feet made me look anything but innocent.

As the rain beat down on my head…yes, of course it was raining…I wished that I had remembered to bring my umbrella and I was longing for a mocha latte from Starbucks and something glazed and gooey from the bakery down the street from my mother’s apartment building.

It was not a good night.

I shook off my stupor and grabbed the sack and ran into the shadows. As the cops screeched to a screaming halt down the way, I hugged the alley wall like it was sweet Ruby Brown when she was in her cups and frisky as a bunny in heat and prayed they wouldn’t notice me.

The cops’ flashlights stabbed through the rain and the darkness but they couldn’t find me in my soggy hiding place. I was going to make it. I was golden. I was on easy street. I was king of the world.

And then the damn duck snuck up behind me and quacked, forcefully and spitefully at once, and then he turned and melted back into the deeper shadows.

Every police flashlight instantly illuminated me and I stood there, bloody hands grasping the sack full of crumpled hundred-dollar bills, cursing myself for ever having agreed to be part of the caper.

As the cops led me away I reminded myself to kill that duck the next time I saw him.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Different from the Last Time (Angela's Refrain)

His kiss was warm and fragrant…perfectly-aged brandy and hand-rolled Cuban cigars…and as before it took my breath away. The masculine softness of his whiskers stroked my face gently as he kissed me a third time…his sweetly-urgent lips caressing mine with courtly passion…and, despite my well-founded misgivings, my head began to swim.

Last I remember, I walking out of the club…too tired of the mating game to want to play that night or any night to come…I was on my way back home to the solace of my quiet bed and my curious cat and my Norah Jones CDs. I was walking out of the club…away from the desperate din and casual come-ons…when a warm, massive hand lit on my shoulder and gently stopped me.

His dark brown eyes smiled at me…looked at me as though he had been waiting for me during all of those weeks and months that had passed since our incandescent relationship ended in acrimony…he mouthed my name…”Angela”…and I felt myself slipping under a warm ocean of passion and possibility. He said something else but the music was so loud that I couldn’t make it out. He bent forward and kissed me fleetingly and then he pulled back to gauge my reaction.

I think I nodded and smiled. “Not again, old man,” a voice inside pleaded feebly. I ignored it.

He stepped into me, resting his hands on my hips and then moving them up to my waist. I melted into him, my arms entwining him as my senses luxuriated in all of his wondrous scents and textures. We stood there…alone together in a bustling crowd of hedonistic revelers and earnest love seekers…for a short eternity before we pushed through the throng to the door.

In the cool night breeze, we spoke…shy, carnal hellos and self-conscious apologies for ages-old slights and time lost…and then we kissed again, less demure, tongues probing and hands exploring.

There was no reason to believe that this time would be different from the last time…but just the same, I believed this time would be different from the last time.

Back home in the solace of my humid bed, his touch was gentlemanly and proprietary at once…his mouth warm and comforting…his body sturdy and hirsute, sweetly fevered and anxiously yearning to please and be pleased…and I forgot about yesterday and left tomorrow to its own devices.

In the morning, his breathing as he slept gave me hopeful comfort…his ruggedly etched and weathered face gave me shivers of longing and belonging…but in one breath I vowed not to believe that this time would be different from the last time…and in the next I truly believed that this time would be different from the last time.

- for Angie and Alfred -

Robin

Robin is a contrarian and a snob. He is quite proud of this and never lets those few whom he counts as being worthy of his time and attention forget it. If it’s a TV show that everyone likes, Robin will be sure to hate it with a passion (this country’s fondness for the cheesy spectacle that is…and ever shall be…American Idol irks him to no end.) If it’s a movie that critics rave about, Robin will gleefully point out its many flaws (Robin fumes through the Oscars every year grumbling that all of the best films of the years are ALWAYS ignored in favor of soulless junk.)

And God help any band that manages to sell more than a few thousand CDs…Robin knows, without a doubt, that they have sold their artistic integrity to the false idol of popular acclaim (he has yet to forgive REM for having records…far inferior to their earlier stuff, of course…that went multi-platinum.)

Robin is…despite his intractable fussiness and snobbery…a good guy (especially when you’re feeling devilish and just to tweak somebody who’s wonderfully easy to wind up.) Those few who he counts as being worthy of his time and attention…those few who he calls his friends…accept his blowsy pretensions with a knowing wink and a smile because they know he’s a good guy…and because they know secrets…that Robin always cries at the end of Titanic and that he has a secret stash of Britney Spears CDs that he likes to workout to…that Robin doesn’t know that they know.

Letting Robin be the Robin he wants to project to the world is a simple enough thing for those few who count him as a friend (especially when they have the Britney Spears thing to hang over his head if ever the need arises.)

Total Raisin Bran

It was a hazy Saturday morning in San Diego and I was inside my local Ralphs. I’m balancing my calculator on top of the legal pad on which I’ve written my shopping list; my coupons are clipped to the top sheet of the pad with an oversized paperclip. It’s a weekly ritual and I am focused on getting through the store…the usual pattern starting in produce and ending up in frozen foods…and getting on with the rest of my day.

As I came around the corner of the cereal aisle…Cheerios are on sale…I hear a tiny, determined voice: “Mommy, I can get it.”

“No, Laurel,” a woman said irritably, “you cannot climb on those shelves. Just give me a second to get your sister settled.”

Mom, feeding her fussy baby formula from a small bottle, was harried and unsmiling; she was wearing a scarlet sweat suit and black running shoes; her chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was not wearing makeup. I had the distinct feeling it wasn’t a good morning her. Her basket, half full, was parked next to the shelves of coffee that was right across the aisle from the Cheerios section of the cereal shelves; there was an empty baby seat in the top section of the basket.

Near Mom’s feet was a tiny girl…maybe 3…wearing faded blue jeans and a pink Hello Kitty tee shirt, her hair also in a ponytail, and looking up at the cereal shelves. She looked frustrated and impatient. “Mommy, I see it up there,” she said, “the one you like.” I followed her gaze up to the boxes of Total Raisin Bran on the top shelf…two shelves above the Cheerios…and wondered how the impasse was going to be broken.

“In a minute, Laurel,” Mom snapped.

Laurel frowned and then glared up at her mother. “I just wanna help.”

Mom, still feeding the baby, looked down seemingly not knowing whether to laugh or to cry. I imagined that Dad…wherever he was…was in for an earful when he got home.

“Can I help you get something?” I asked, pulling my basket in behind her. Mom looked up at me as if she was trying to figure out my angle; Laurel took a step back towards her Mother.

Mom, apparently deciding that I didn’t have an angle, smiled weakly and said “I just need a box of Total…the Raisin Bran…”

“Mommy, I wanted to get it!” Laurel interjected petulantly as I started to reach for a box.

I suppressed the urge to laugh and got down on one knee. “We can get it together if you want.”

Laurel looked at me warily…I’m a large dark man and she’s a tiny pale girl…and then looked up at her mother.

Her mother looked at me and nodded gratefully and then she nodded at Laurel. Laurel and I crossed the aisle and I put my arm around her waist and lifted her up. She steadied herself my putting her left hand on my shoulder as she reached out for the purple box of cereal with her right. I took a step over and let her put the box…which she was she just barely controlling with both of her hands…into her mother’s cart and then I lowered her back down to the floor.

“Thank you,” Laurel said in small, shy voice as she pressed close to her mother.

“You’re welcome.” I stooped down and grabbed a box of Cheerios from the bottom shelf and tossed it into my cart.

I nodded to Mom as I passed her…she smiled and nodded back…and went on down the aisle towards the front of the store.

“I was up really high, Mommy,” Laurel said behind me before I was out of earshot.

I finished my shopping and got on with the rest of my Saturday.

Blind Date

Kathy’s fight or flight instincts kicked in hard as soon as she saw him…proud as a peacock in his gleaming cherry red Gremlin singing along to Supertramp’s Breakfast in America…pull into the parking lot. She reminded herself to never ever go another blind date…she also reminded herself to throttle Gayle (“he’s a fun guy…you’ll love him”) the next time she saw her.

He fairly danced out of the car…singing “The Logical Song” without once hitting a correct note…and ran up to greet her. Kathy shied back from his attempted hug and they shook hands instead.

Gary…that was his name…was a sight to behold in his three-piece bright white suit, black shirt open down to the middle of his chest (which was covered with a forest of thick black hair), bright white platform shoes (shining like a new dime), gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses (which must have made the world seem awfully gloomy seeing as how it was well past sunset), and enough gold chains to make Mr. T envious back in the day. Kathy wondered if perhaps they were going to a costume party and she hadn’t been given the memo.

Kathy tried to think of what it was she could have possibly done to Gayle to deserve this…and then she remembered that Gayle fancied herself a prankster and Kathy realized that she should have known better. She was glad at least that she’d agreed to meet in a neutral place as she was pretty sure she didn’t want Gary knowing where she lived.

Kathy’s head immediately filled with static after he said “Hey, foxy mama” so she only heard snatches of his chipper monologue as she allowed herself to be led to the passenger seat of the Gremlin (which was, she had to admit, amazingly immaculate.) Gary, chattering away while chewing his Doublemint gum, didn’t seem to notice.

Gary said something about “mood music” and switched the Supertramp cassette for a K.C. and the Sunshine Band cassette. Gary drove and bopped his head and sang (no closer to being on key with this song than he had been with the Supertramp tunes)…that’s the way…uh-huh…I like it…uh-huh, uh-huh…said words at Kathy; Kathy wondered idly if jumping out of the car at the speed it was going would hurt very much.

The club they ended up at was, Kathy imagined, just like Studio 54 back in the seventies…that is, if Studio 54 were a sweaty, dingy, murky hole in the wall dive in a neighborhood most people wouldn’t (or rather would very like be) caught dead in after dark. Lots of people in the club…dressed in enough bright rainbow shades of polyester and gold lame to almost (almost) cut through the haze…seemed to know Gary and he basked in their boozy adoration (Kathy thought that she heard him introduce her to a puffy guy in a lime green leisure suit as “my lady” but her mind refused to try to grasp onto that concept and the thought died a merciful death of denial and sanity preservation.)

Gary led her to “his table” and a waitress…a bored bleached blonde who apparently had put on her makeup with a shovel (and in the dark)…asked what they would have. Gary ordered a rum and coke with a Jose Jimenez accent that he thought was both hilarious and charming.

Kathy ordered beer. Lots and lots of beer.

It took almost two beers before Kathy acquiesced to Gary’s incessant offers to dance when his favorite Village People song thumped through the club’s speakers. Gary, almost as a matter of course, danced no better than he sang and Kathy spent most of the time on the dance floor making sure his white platform shoes didn’t crush down on her stylish but comfortable pumps while idly wondering why it was so much fun to stay at the YMCA.

The rest of the evening was a blur for Kathy. She drank beer, stared down leering disco dancers who had…surprise, surprise…come to the club without dates, and watched Gary’s lips move incessantly (at one point she thought she might have heard him introduce her to someone as his “new girlfriend” but that was too absurd a concept to dwell upon for longer than a nanosecond so she happily let it go.)

There had to be a time machine to take her back to the 21^st Century somewhere around there, Kathy thought as she glanced around the club.

Gary put on some chill out music…Barry White, of course…for the ride back to the mall where Kathy’s car was. The static in her head cleared just a bit too much and, much to her chagrin, she found that she could make out most of the song…I’ve got so much to give…to you my dear…as interpreted by Gary (who was emphasizing his passion by giving her what Kathy was sure he thought were his best, most seductive bedroom eyes.) Barry White was probably rolling over in his grave, she thought…and then the thought of graves made her think of Gayle and that made her smile.

Kathy was opening the door before the Gremlin had drawn to a complete stop. Gary leaned over for a kiss and Kathy deftly offered him a fleeting taste of her cheek. Gary asked if he could call her and Kathy said “sure” and rattled off seven random numbers before she bolted out of the door.

Kathy waited in her car…her safe, reliable, conservatively painted 21^st Century Honda Civic…until she was sure Gary was far down the road before she was sure it was safe to drive home.

Happy Birthday

Today…March 13^th…is my birthday (and yes, I still enjoy my birthdays :-)

Once upon a time, I was young (see above)…I do not yearn for more youth (everything has its season…every life has its stages to experience and embrace) but I do still yearn for time…time to be awed by more sunsets…time to savor more laughter, to sing with more rainbows and dance with more raindrops…time to luxuriate in more sweet kisses and to nuzzle into more lingering hugs…time to see…time to sing…time to laugh…time to dance…time to learn and teach and discover…time to be.

Once upon a time, I was young…and the future was boundless. I am no longer young as I once was (see below)…but the future…the future is still as boundless as my wits and my imagination will allow…and that’s good enough for me.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Gravity

When I was 8 I spent much of my time defying the law of gravity. The white towel tied around my neck morphed into a flowing red cape and I, running faster than a speeding bullet, took off gracefully and soared high into the sky.

The people waved, glad to know I was watching over them, and I waved back as I patrolled the city. I would do all of the usual stuff…putting out fires, rescuing silly kittens from trees, smashing giant killer robots…until my mother made me come in for lunch.

“Where did you go?” she would ask after I glided down from the heavens and walked into the door from the backyard.

“Metropolis,” I’d answer, a bit miffed that I’d had to cut off my patrol in order to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“That’s nice, baby,” she would reply. “Just don’t get my towel dirty.”

I always just sighed and rolled my eyes…my mother was the smartest woman in the world but she just didn’t get it…and went to the bathroom to wash my hands.

After lunch my teammates…Wonder Woman (Renee) and Batman (Lloyd)…came over and we would spend the afternoon defying the law of gravity, saving silly kittens, keeping the world safe from giant killer robots…and making sure we didn’t get our mothers’ towels dirty.

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Other MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

The Tomorrow Girl

Everybody loved the tomorrow girl. She always walked like she was dancing on sunbeams…she always talked like she was singing songs only the four winds dared give voice to.

She always brought bountiful light to dourest of shadows…and sweet magic to even the most mundane of circumstances.

She melted hearts with her smile and moved mountains with naught but the force of her boundless optimism; sadness and cynicism and loneliness had no welcome place in her company.

And that’s why everybody…everybody…loved the tomorrow girl.

Everybody claimed they knew the tomorrow girl intimately. Some claimed to be her sisters and her brothers...her mothers, her fathers, her husbands, her most ardent and faithful lovers. Some claimed to be her most trusted confidants or her most devoted and unwavering supplicants.

Everybody claimed to have a place in the heart of the tomorrow girl…and, though none of them truly knew her as intimately as they imagined they did, every one of them was right.

And even when she was gone…for she never lingered long in one place…her spirit remained…dancing on sunbeams…singing with the mighty winds…opening hearts to light and peace, passion and joy…and that’s why everybody…everybody…loved the tomorrow girl.

And that’s why everybody…that’s why I…loved the tomorrow girl.

- for Magdalena -

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Other MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

the balcony

Vaguely, he heard the rustling from the bed….and the soft patter of feet behind him…but he didn’t turn…he didn’t speak out when his name was called in a curious, concerned whisper...he didn't rise from the weathered lounge chair.

The night was cool, the moon was warm and creamy and golden, and the sea in the near distance was languid and soothing and streaked with warm and creamy and golden highlights…the view from the balcony was peaceful and calming.

He felt the arms slip around his neck and the warm lips dance lightly on his neck. “What are you doing out here?”

He nuzzled back. “Watching the moonlight skip across the waves,” he replied.

“How very poetic…” There was a moment of silence. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep, old man? I figured you would have been worn out after…”

He smiled with some amount of self-satisfaction. “Not such an old man an hour ago was I?”

The arms squeezed him firmly, reassuringly. “Don’t flatter yourself too much, old-timer,” came the playfully taunting reply, “I took it easy on you…you would probably end up in a coma if I really cut loose…”

He laughed. “If you say so…”

The sea breeze wafted around them but the warmth from the place where they were touch was ample proof against any chill.

He felt another kiss tease the most sensitive spot on the nape of his neck and he shuddered involuntarily but oh so sweetly. “Come to bed.”

He closed his eyes. “I will,” he replied, “I just want to watch the moon for a few more minutes.” He opened his eyes and looked out at the lazy sea in the near distance.

The hand gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re a strange and wonderful man.”

“And that’s why you love me.”

The velvety chuckle that came in response encircled him like a hug. “If you say so…” The soft patter of feet retreated through the balcony door back into the bedroom.

He sat for a few moments watching the moonlight…feeling very old and very young at the same time…and then, with a respectful salute to the warm and creamy and golden moon, he rose and slipped into the bedroom...into the welcoming bed.

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More MKW Blogstuff: Neverending Rainbow

Amanda

I’ve always thought of my cousin Amanda as the little sister my mother refused to give me when I was boy. My brother and I lobbied hard for a little sister for years but my mother, divorced and out of the baby-making business forever, always just laughed and told us that it just wasn’t going to happen.

Ever the dreamer, I wanted to be my little sister’s best friend and her favorite hero. I wanted to be there when she needed to cry and I wanted to be the one to glower at her perspective boyfriends and let them know that I knew what was on their minds (being a guy myself) and that they were wading into dangerous waters if they messed with my little sister that way.

My cousin Amanda, born almost 3 years after I was, kind of filled that void while we were growing up. She was sweet and self-effacing and a calming, guileless joy to be around (frankly most days I would have traded my troublesome brother…may he rest in peace…for Amanda in a heartbeat.) Amanda had two older brothers but my cousins never seemed to appreciate her as much as I thought they should.

She grew up, of course, and married a man she remains with to this day. Her firstborn daughter became, for a long tender season, the apple of my eye and found a place in my heart right next to her mother’s.

Time and distance separate me from Amanda but the feelings remain…warm and comforting and unlikely to ever fade away…my “little sister” has been a woman for a long while and still…and still…I hope that she knows she’s my little sister now and forever.

Gather.com First Chapters Writing Competition

FYI (and, yes, for your consideration :-): My entry is Gather.com's First Chapters Writing Competition went live today. In their words: The Gather.com First Chapters Writing Competition is a first-time author's gateway to publication. One novelist will win a publishing contract with Touchstone/Simon & Schuster, a $5,000 cash prize and promotion by Borders.

I’ve entered my novel Soul Deep.

If you want to check it out, the link to my entry is here.

My first chapter will be up and available for voting for the next 14 days. It will then be taken down and the votes tallied. The highest rated chapters will then move on to the next round with the second chapters from the novels being posted for another round of voting.

Only Gather.com members can vote (Gather is a free social network for adults who like things like books and music and current events and other everyday interests and concerns and passions and interacting with other like-minded adults who like those kind of things.) If you want to join Gather, the link to do so is here

Once you’re a member, you can vote in the competition if you wish to (again, my entry is here :-), enter your own novel (the deadline for entries is March 15^th I believe), or just enjoy the social networking (Gather is like MySpace…only with a lot fewer kids and no unsigned pop bands trying to sell you their music :-)

Namaste, y'all.