The 3 A.M. Epiphany, exercise 12

Roland kept noticing he had to go the bathroom. The feeling kept returning, even after relieving himself and coming to Marcie's house. He checked his shirt, he checked his fingernails. He ran his fingers through his hair again.

It may have been Marcie's house, but in her own way, she was late. She had stayed in the kitchen after all the coffee and water was served. Still, she insisted, the food needed to be reheated.

Mollie kneeled on the couch to Roland's right and stared out the window, through the lace curtains.

"I can still see the flag. That stupid bright flag. How he dares! I can see it through the blue, blue," she paused, "Marcie, this curtains are very, very clean. Did you do this yourself?"

"No, husband treated me to that drapery cleaning business, you know, from television?" she yelled over no noise.

Sharon did not look up from her Bible. She had crossed her legs and pulled her dress over the knee. It tick-tocked with a large wall clock from the dining room. The rhythm was so precise, she looked at the clock through the doorway and nodded. She flipped a good chunk of pages and stopped again.

"So, are we going to do this?" Roland asked, tired of thinking of putting up conversations that related to very little.

"Yes, the bastard is going to die," said Mollie identified.

"I'd say, within the week," Sharon stated without looking up.

Marcie entered, her food ready, as well as her point of view. "I just need, we, we just need to plan."

"Faggots infesting everything," Mollie mentioned. "But at least we have the big boys here, right?" She edged her chin towards Roland.

"Me? You give me too much credit," Roland understated.

"Look, you can do it, you can. We have everything planned out, all you gotta do is the heavy lifting," she continued without noticing his comment. She removed a folder from the table--it had been present the entire time but due to their own foci, they had not acknowledged. Inside, on crisp printed paper, sat a database. Roland could make out the timetable.

Sharon placed a yarn bookmark into her text and reached into her omnipresent handbag. She pulled out a similar observation table. Marcie had made copies for everyone and handed them out in unison, looking for some kind of specific notes--names, most likely--at the top of each one. Sharon began to compare her notes with Marcie's.

"Yep, the schedule is the same from two week's ago. He's got a schedule he must not like to deviate from. That could make this easy or hard."

Roland responded without pondering first, "hard, I mean, I mean, you don't know where he's going. You didn't tag him as he exited his house. This is all pure schedule out his front door. You don't know--he could be meeting with friends. Work's going to miss him some."

All three women looked at him as if he had swore.

"You have a better idea?"

"No. But I do know that leaving a papertrail is not exactly clear thinking either," he said without smiling.

Marcie looked at the paper like she would an unwanted insect.

Sharon shrugged and kept to her business. "I'd go with poisoning. I found these books at the bookstore about hwo to write about drugs and drugs usage. He's a homosexual. They all use drugs, that helps. No one is going to question an overdose of another creature like that. It'll be ruled a suicide and we can back to Thursday night Bible-study without rainbows without rain."

Mollie sat back down and sighed heavily as she looked at the schedule. "Did you find the justification in there?" She asked Sharon.

"Well, it's simple. It says We Shall Not Kill," the room raised eyebrows collectively.

"And yet they killed their own Savior. We'll need to pick and choose as they did, if we are to save the souls of this community," Sharon was not looking whilst she said this. She had already rehearsed it.

"What if he doesn't die?" Roland questioned.

"That's why we have the brawn," she poked Roland's bicep and smiled.

Roland sipped his tea.

"And what if I don't want to kill him?"

Marcie stepped back to the kitchen and he heard a drawer close.

"We can discuss that too."


Today's exercise is merely to discuss a meeting of four people who have decided to execute someone.

Another writing with a friend

Well, I'll go ahead and be redundant. We're doing another one of those IF writing activities. In this one, I have to cancel one aspect of my job, what would it be? Considering my woes as of late at my place of employ, my first instinct would be to yell SHOWING UP.

But, to be serious, I'd say that we've lost sight of working with children. I spend most of my day planning and working when I'm supposed to be interacting with kids and making the smarter. Politcians whine and the world watches how we handle education giving it importance. They make unilateral decisions, regardless of who or how it effects the kids....and then everyone complains about how education is a mess.

Yet, for all those whining, no one seems to want to go back in, get their hands dirty and see what is happening on the front lines. It reminds me of a President who decides to invade a soverign nation without thinking. He send in the troops, children of his people, without remorse. He then claims no victory and fights about the whole issue.

Same for education. In my home on my Disney boards, the same is true. The conservatives rally to their party's defense. But all they do is say, "it's a mess," but offer little true resolve or resolution.

Now arrive at my job. I have to give out these exams to my students as required by the state. The exams are written by experts in their fields. Makes sense when you think about it. However, when a 8 year old is expected to know a four syllable word whilst taking a science exam shows that the test was not written with an eight year old in mind. However, since this order was given down on high, you have to give the test. And watch the child fail and your money taken away. Then you have to ponder how, as a teacher, you can go on.

Take away these tests and see what happens. Take away these IEPs. Go back to doing what we did and was successful. Teaching. Reading, writing and arithematic. These were happening before. They had to modified because those ON THE OUTSIDE deemed it important. My time now with students has been completely dictacted to students. I teach to please exams and parents, not to benefit of students. And if I do what I think is correct, I'm pulled aside and requested to get back on task.

It's sad.

So what would I take away? Maybe I should the sad intervention of bearacusy on education. And replace it with honor and trust.

Writing activity with a friend

Okay, okay, okay, at the coffeehouse again. And to encourage my friend to write, we're going to address the book "If" with our next available journaling. He never really writes for any reason for his own (I probably should follow his example!) and I'm just curious as to what he pens. This is our way of writing for another person. He's picked a topic which I'll list next and we'll both write responses. He, in his journal; myself, right here.

"If you could have survived any historic disaster, which would it be?"

Let's be realistic here. Not a whole lot phases me when it comes to fear. I mean, I've been reading Mr. King since sixth grade, I saw Halloween in elementary school. Yeah, sure, maybe it's helped me develop into psychopath into training, with tales of bloodletting I sometimes write, but it also has helped me develop a fairly tough skin when it comes to the scary stuff.

I love watching my students talk about some horror movie like "Saw" and think they are so brave for living through the experience. I see myself making those statements all those years ago. Time passes and what was once scary comes to light in time and the fears reformat themselves. Such is the case with disasters and me.

When I left Fuckface all those moons ago, I had a miniscule apartment. I ran away with my tail between my legs, only grabbing my television and clothing. I had little else. I used to see reports of fires and apartment floods on the news and look around my meager ownings. The stuff could be destroyed and I'd only be upset about the fact that I didn't have any clean underwears.

Then I got a computer. Then I got a husband. Then I got a house. Then I got a dog and a cat. Suddenly, my life bloomed and boomed. I had things that I had to take care of and watch over. And when I saw about people's houses being burned down in a freak brush fire or sudden flood, my heart stopped. Now I looked around the room and my heart sank.

I worry about my husband, my dog and my cat. And yes, my computer. I've written much, especially lately, that my heart is truly stored on a hard drive.

And the concept of fear now has new face....disasters. I am truly fearful of disasters.

And I think that the worse disaster is the one that is man-made. A flood or a fire carries no weight. There is no one to blame but fate. To lose a loved one is to know that the hand of God swept forth and deemed this moment a person's time.

But what about the Holocaust? There was a disaster that had humanity's flaws completely on display. I am already a sympathic man to the world about me, in my opinion. But to live through that disaster would have a changed me on such a level. To lose my husband due to sheer fear, that would change me forever. I do not know if I would become sympathetic. I do know that the experience to have survived would truly show me that I needed to live and let the world know of the hate we can create when we do not pay attention.

That would be the disaster I would have to survive.

And know the horror forever and forever.

The 3 am Epiphany, exercise 11

The first time I ever saw a real life corpse, I found the whole experience not-very-earth-shattering. I mean it was almost a bit anticlimactic. He just lay there. Sure, there was a small hiss coming from his chest and lips, but nothing beyond that. If I hadn't been told he was dead by the paramedics that arrived later, I probably would have written the whole experience off as a man in a very drunken stupor.
But that wasn't the case.
I had known the man, don't get me wrong and he was the kind of son of a bitch you get a vibe from when you first meet him. He's cute, sure, with short blonde hair and lanky, fit frame. The words roll off his lips like he practiced saying crap from the day he could utter the word "Ma, get me a beer." Our meetings were always impersonal. I just kept away from the dude.
The first time I bumped into him, I, quite literally, bumped into him. I had balanced most of my things from the dorm on top a tray I had found in a garage sale over on Minneasota Avenue. The tray was so strudy, it felt like you could rebound bullets off the fucker. Not that tired. On some nights, when Libby and I were so drunk, we thought about buying a gun and finding out, but we gave up around the time we passed out.
So there I was, climbing the stairs and wasn't watching where I was going. Couldn't. The unironed shirts piled themselves to my chin and I had to raise my head to hold them in place. So I had a great view of the ceiling of the apartment building I was escaping to. I didn't see Jerry.
He didn't swear, he didn't even waste a stink eye on me. He mumbled a clear, "move," and then pushed me into the stairwell's flakey wall.
I had met Jerry. I didn't think anything of it until about two days later.
Libby was working late at the campus cinema and I had begun to indulge in cheap beer a few hours before she was due. I heard the screaming, looked at my beer and then the television.
The screaming was coming from neither of those things.
It was coming from the wall beyond my living room.
I stood, got a dirty glass from the sink and decided to test the theory that you can hear better through a wall with it raised to your ear. By the way, you can.
I met Jerry and Tina that night. They were dancing the night away next door. The screaming? It was Tina REALLY enjoying the night.
Libby joined me in giggling the next night when it all started up again.
I found Jerry in hallway several times. His clothes were clean, his soul? Not-so-much. I just couldn't help thinking this guy was not all he seemed.
I was right a few weeks later.
The love-screaming subsided for many weeks. I was content with my beer and didn't notice until the sounds became something more ominous. I opened to the door to might the neighbor right across the hall this time. Mrs. Pruitt, who exchanges the cross on her door as frequently as I change my underpants, met me face to face. Her eyebrows were not raised as high as mine.
"Jerry and Tina, must be the third time," she shook her head as if to say, 'tutt-tutt-tutt.' "Son, you should have looked elsewhere."
My eyebrows raised even higher.
She called the police while I heard a scream from Tina. This one did not end with sighs or laughter. It did not end, as a matter fact, it just changed pitches.
Mrs. Pruitt's phone call gave me a week of sleepless nights. I think Tina left or Jerry, for I saw neither. But when I bumped into Jerry again a week and half later, it took only a few hours before the screaming began again. Mrs. Pruitt was gone for the reason, so I had to make the call.
You'd think that I'd sleep better. I didn't I was too afraid that Jerry would figure me out and I'd start screaming as he began to beat me.
I met Tina in the laundry room and decided that enough was enough. I didn't want to confront her, but I wanted her to know she wasn't alone. Sure, oh sure, she nodded a lot in that conversation--but she never did say anything worthwhile.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Now, you gotta understand, I'm a chemistry major. Not because I wanted to be one. It's just that I had that down. I flunked everything in high school. Yep, even physical education. Couldn't do anything but type, surf the 'net and remake copper from aluminum with 5% loss of composite decay. My paper is due next month. But most of it is written, so I'm not that concerned.
So I left a peace offering one night for Jerry and Tina. The beer was the kind I always drank. The cheap crap you snag from over at Econofoods for less then a buck a can. Sure enough, the next morning, the box and cans were gone. A few days later, they made an appearance in the rubblish bin. No questions were ever asked.
So I left another two weeks later. Now understand, I didn't get to see Tina at all during this time. I didn't want to alienate her at all. Not at all. But I'm sure she ran. Ran as far away as she could from the bastard. I don't blame her. I hope I was the one who encouraged her. But without a target, my fears grew of the schmuck who lived next door to me. I was afraid that Jerry would figure that one out--that Mrs. Pruitt and I were the co-conspirators and the lifeline to the police.
Those cans were snatched up. Not a single fucking thank you.
Not that it mattered. Free beer tends to make men forget to check things.
I had laced each can with my own concoction. The recipe is complicated, a mix of alloys in minute amounts. The substance is a bit waxy, but if applied by a Q-tip, you don't notice it--especially if you are in a hurry...for free beer.
I didn't call the police this time. I just waited to Mrs. Pruitt couldn't stand the smell any more.
And when they wheeled that body out in front of me, that was the first time I saw a corpse.
But like I said, the whole event was pretty uneventful.



Today's entry is about a tale written in first person by someone who was a meddler.

The 3 A.M. Epiphany, Exercise Nine

It is here, Brother Montrose realized, having been absorbed by his thrice reading of the Timothy gospel. He had picked up the book and decided these passages would calm him the most while the ship pulled up to the dock. He looked to the men on the ship and turned to the fortress' portal.
The portcullis had been brought from Macao and was not original. If had be built for this particular environment, it would not have stuck out at the lip of the brick and tile building. The arch doubled up near the trellis, giving the illusion of a maw readying a decent bite of food.

The gangplank of the small boat was no more inviting.

On the upper potion, waiting for him, were two samurai in full regalia. Father Hernandez had warned him that the men would be dressed to such an extent, but the Father's words did no justice to the showmanship. The reds and yellows of the Shogun's house and colors draped the ship and these two men sent to great him. Brother Montrose requested to greet the boat solo, telling the other servants and men to stand back-wishing to appear every bit the servant to the Lord and make a nonthreatening presence to the people of Nagaski.

A small interpreter stepped out behind the samurai on the left, as if memorizing the floorboards. His eyes were up, Montrose noticed, but he dare not look at the intimidating presences that flanked him. Brother Montrose found his connection and looked at the handsome youth.
Montrose noticed the other sailors, dressed in nothing but brown rags that clashed with the angry red that circled the ship. Servants. These were the people who should minster too, these are the ones who needed the Lord's prayers for hope.

One of the sailors treated himself a glance at the young friar. The navy man sneered and covered his face.

The Portuegues man sniffed himself. He had tried to adapt to the locals cuisine, something he had learned about working with the converts of the Middle East. Smells are strong; so he stopped eating meat a week and a half ago.

The sailor's expression showed that his body's aroma had not left. He sighed and readied his overnight pack, making sure his Bible found itself on top. He waited for his invite, standing as tall as possible.

The two samurai were expressionless behind their gentaos. The fangs were meant to intimidate, but Montrose realized they were just posturing. It was mean to impress.

And Montrose was impressed. The arms of the men were bold, built and pressing against their armor. Their swords were at the ready, but unwarranted. They both took deep breaths, fighting to keep balance against the rising tide on the fortress' docks.

Montrose realized that the two knights knew not what to do. Years of protocol had not spelled out the exact etiquette for meeting the emissary and diplomat of the Vatican's Pope.

Both masks turned to their beautiful interpreter.

And they screamed.

Montrose lost face, but he had not known yet. He dropped his bag and it landed firmly on his right sandaled foot. He struggled to pick it up.

They continued to bark orders, the same words in differing cadences, at the underling. The laison bowed to the floor and Montrose's face broke a slight smile at the awkwardness of it all.

The samurai noticed and stopped talking at the top of the gangplank and their eyes narrowed to slits in their eye holes of their masks.

Montrose swallowed hard.

Both men reached for their swords and started down the bridge to the dock. Brother Montrose did not move, he was not sure if escape was possible.

The small interpreter was between the advancing samurai and himself and was chattering about something, quickly to the men. They stopped a fourth of the way down.

The young man bowed deeply and turned to Brother Montrose.

He bowed again and Montrose was impressed at the young man even moreso up close. His clothes were tailored, unlike the others on the small boat, and he had his hair clicked back with oils. He was a servant of some power, probably because he spoke Portuguese.

"Brother Montrose. Welcome to Nagasaki, summer palace of the Shogun. We are honored by presence as a representative of the Christian Pope. The Shogun has full colors to escort you to the palace."

"Thank you!" He stepped onto the plank, his legs already water-wary from weeks upon the sea, and approached the interpreter. "I look forward to the meeting! It's Catholic, by the way, the Mother Church, my young man, Catholic."

THe intperper kept his head down but his head lifted as his eyes went wild.

The two samurai, again, imagining a slight, clicked their weapons slightly forward.

The interpret spoke with his eyes.

"But, your Portugese is flawless, I cannot thank you enough to have such a worthy interpreter," the young man bowed deeper at the complement.
The men returned their swords. But they did not relax. They turned in military precision and headed back onto the swaying bardge.

When Montrose finally got on the boat, he heard a whisper from the interpreter.

"Bow"

He did.

The two samurai looked at each other and returned the gesture.

"Lower, for your sake." The whisper continued.

He did.

The samurai looked at each other again and shouted something much calmer to the interpreter.

He looked relieved.

Brother Montrose was too.



Write historical fiction...without doing research.

Television List

Okay, okay, remember when I used to this with my best friend and his blog? It must be a few years ago--when I first started publishing online back in 2004. Well, we used our own personal 'top tens' for books and movies. Television was never tackled.



There's a reason for that.



I hate television.



And, for some reason, I love writing about things I hate, right?



Not always. I didn't think that addressing my 'favorite' television shows would make sense. But my best friend persisted and I relented. So, yeah, I hate television. I see no possible reason to sit, passively infront of a box. Really. I'm terrible at relaxing, if you've not ever figured that one out. For me, if I'm going to sit down and do nothing, well, I better just go to sleep. Look at my vacations. I never go to Hawaii or Mexico, where the choices are limited to the beach and the beach---and nothing there by tanning. I go to the Disney parks, chock full of activity after activity.



I like to think that it was borne of my first marriage. Whenever I would collapse on the couch after a rough day of teaching, I was greeted with "you're a lazy shit...I'm surprised you're not fatter!" I would look around as if I were dreaming and then run to the gym. Or the laundry. Or the dishes. Even today, supposedly the day of rest, I've graded several gazillion papers, typed 12 pages of lesson plans, got my hair cut, cleaned the kitchen, made lunches for the week, edited one of my stories, journaled...and...and...and..



See? Television interrupts that. What's worse? Commercials. I love the 'last' button on my remote. I switch back and forth during commercials watching two program simultaneously. Drives my Beloved nutso. Poor guy.



I kinda see it like sitting infront of a slot machine. You put money in and pull a lever. Then nothing happens.



So, yeah, I hate gambling too.



But, as we know, the world is not absolute as we like to think. I DO, on occasion, watch television. Heck, there's one here in my little writing office that I occasionally indulge in when I'm writing my letters and cards to family and friends. But, exactly, really draws me in to watching?



I have to be honest, only one show do I actually watch religiously in some form or another. A majority of the time, I merely surf and find whatever movie I can. Most likely a movie that I've seen before and already own a DVD of.



One thing that does need to be mentioned is that there is a channel that I do tend to float towards. LOGO has greatly changed my viewing habits in astonishing ways. For the first time ever, I watch commericals on that channel. I mean, gay and lesbian programming? WOW. Who sponsors that!



Okay on with the actual countdown. Unlike my best friend, I'm not going to merely list titles. I'll try to add stuff whenever possible.



5. NEWS...this is the only show I watch religiously, as mentioned. I'm addicted to news. My addiction started in college, when CNN changed the world by fully broadcasting the nation at war. For me, I was hooked--I was taking a broadcasting class at the time and was the acting anchor for the KVUU show on campus. I wasn't a reporter, per se, but did have to review news items and I really got into it. I watch any news over fiction--20/20 if it's interesting; CBS news on LOGO if it's a new episode. I'm usually up at the crack of bleedin' dawn and find the morning news on ABC. Heck, it's a Disney affiliate and the graphics are good. And then I'll slide over to CNN for Robin during the commercials or sports (tho her sports reporter, Rafer and weatherman Van Dillen are pinups in their own rights!). So news is going to be on this list. What is interesting, however, is that I'm also highly critical of the news--if I see a report on the nightly news of Paris or Britney, I know it's a slow news day and get mad...leave that to Entertainment Tonight, folks. And, btw, I'd watch more Entertainment Tonight if they didnt' spend 50% of their show broadcasting "coming up next" or "tomorrow on ET..." Um stick to the news folks.



4. Ghosthunters...my hatred of television is magically doubled when it comes to reality television. When I was in a Seattle hotel back in 2002, I figured I'd order a pizza and do what everyone supposedly does in a hotel room---no, not watch porn, but watch actual television. I'd not turned it on that week I was there for a workshop until Thursday night, choosing to get my news from the radio in my computer. But, sure enough, I watched "Big Brother" and started to wretch and the stupidiy of humanity and that producers felt THESE people were some how worthwhile observing.



Well, they were goodlooking.



So reality television died a little in my book while watching this "Survivor for Dummies" television show...until Ghosthunters. I read about it online (where I tend to be more then the television) and thought, well, I wanna see that. Was the premise? No. Was it the cute stars? No.



It was incentive to write more scary stories. I used their banter, their observations, their drawls in writing the occasional scary story. But as I analyized and analyzed more and more, I found that this show was something more watchable then I thought. And so it ended up as something I do watch.



3. X-Files...This was a show that drew me in. Just like Ghosthunters, it gave me ideas and concepts to filter through my own mediums. But the titles kept me thinking and mulling more then the writing could support. Stuck in the midst of an awful first marriage, this was my solace--he'd go and get drunk at his little buddies' houses and I'd lock myself in with my step-mutt and we'd treat ourselves to a candlelit X-Files episode.



2. Medical shows...Surprisingly, cop shows rarely cut it for me, even tho I usually use police offiiers and procedures in my authorship. But it's medicine shows that bring back positive memories. I remember racing home from my ASL 4 class to catch St. Elsewhere and taking Thursday nights to succumb to ER. I don't watch it any more...I have a family now, but I did catch a viewing this past week as I was making dinner. And I stumbled across the fact that it is still very high tension--what I think draws me in. I occasionally have the television on when I'm cooking dinner and I also kinda watched Gray's Anatomy and felt the same thing. It's tension is taut and the friction is palapble. That draws me in and will keep me there.



1. Sitcoms

*pause*

Okay, see, my best friend doubles as a dork. He's like, acting all mad that I didn't pick SHOWS as opposed to just listing genres as I've been doing. He, apparently, thinks that there's a difference between news-programs; that, somehow, a sitcom has enough strength that one can pick between them.

Aw poop. I've never seen it that way. Television is a fattening mess, second only to Washington stupidity.

However, he is my friend. And when he says things, they tend to carry more weight. So, with the guilt I feel, I'm going to pull a small list out of my ass. I'll go ahead and number them in order, and see if that gives him the feeling of superiority he's craving by making me stay to task, the poopiestupidearface.

And yeah, he's right, I know it. And he must like television. He'd rather cancel something like exercise then miss some aborant crap liek Amercian Idol.

So, here are my number one sitcoms.

MASH

Taxi

Designing Women

Frazier

Will and Grace

One thing I do notice about this list. All are ensemble pieces. Each show has several players and, with that, mulitple storylines. Each show carries, also, some weight--in that they mention social issues or criticism for the world. I need that and carve it.

I hope that makes sense!

Peace out.