Smoke from Mexico

Here is one of the poems I wrote in 2000 which was included in the ACCAnthology Volume 1

Later I fed it to a speech synthesizer... [if you like that sort of thing... let me know I'll post a link to the mp3]

It's a cyberpunk in a small red capsule... a bit of free association and skewed plot...

A spoken-word by synthesized voice MP3 is available HERE

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Smoke from Mexico

Smoke from Mexico
Or maybe some Cloud from Bogata
or stolen memories from that desolate Lab
Outside 
Las Cruces, was it?

I don't really remember any more

I can't say what I want
Cos the memories are sealed

Yeah. They got to me.

It was not that hard.
If they want you
They'll get you.

Don't believe me?
Try to run when 
they've got your number.

The name is in the Database
The one you want.
She is alive.

They'll have erased me 
by the time you read this.
So don't come looking.
There won't be anything left to save.

I hear there is a shortage 
of major organic subsystems

never did like dealing bio-logics
didn't understand
how they could unravel a brain 
and reassemble it into a q-dot 'face.

Hear you're hunting him again.
good luck
Its the self that you don't know
that always spoils it.

You know that voice
you hear
there in the back of your mind 

the one that speaks to you
when you pick up the phone
and dial tone does not answer

the jarring sense that the escalator
should be moving
and it's not.

white noise.

the voice that sounds 
too much like the voice
you'd imagine Death to have.

A regen transformer
causes it to reverberate 
its well modulated ravings
like a long, long distance call
a hollow one-way rant

annoying beyond belief.

It's always *that* voice that tells you 
that you really bent over 
too far this time
this time they'll get you.

I know 
I'm rambling.
comes from having 
too much to think about 
and too little time

At least for now 
I can look out across 
the polluted water 
And see it 
see it rise like 
the life I have lived
Black, Billowing, Bellicose

I started there and I finished there.

What kind of life do you have
when it is only
a poetic fragment?
a snippet of code
easily rendered by an RNA sequencer?

What sense of truth is there?
The mathematics of billowing smoke
is more etherial and more beautiful 
that seeing the cloud itself.
But it can't be explained.

Why did I do those things?
Why did I leave you behind?

Look. 
Can you see the equation now?
I wasn't much of a Dad.
Hell I wasn't much of a human being.
but I left you where 
at least *I* 
wouldn't destroy you

The Smoke is changing to gray now
They've got some water to it.
I won't be here much longer
They'll come 
and that will be that.

What was that equation
Outside 
Las Cruces?

Or in the Cloud from Bogota?

A child?

A tear?

A sorrow I cannot undo?

I'd ask your forgiveness
but
The wind has changed 
I am finally lost
in gray
Smoke from Mexico

What price silence?

This was originally posted in alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo after a rather bruising visit from that ever fascinating flame giant  whom I once de-famed [it fell off actually but....]

In any case trying to talk reason was like pouring gasoline on a flame giant...

Which led to the following Poem which ended up as one of my entries in the A.C.C. anthology Volume 1

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

What price silence?

Sometimes
Silence is
the answer
best
unmade

Chrome reflects
light
not the shadow
worlds and words
of images on the page
there!
within the mind of the reader
truth and denial
lies and fantasies
truths and pains

Do you hear the words?
Moment to moment
trace to trace
circuits made
links broken
packets lost

large caliber lies
versus
high velocity truth
versus
perceptions as usual
versus
intertnetainment at any price
versus
the petty
versus
a fragmentation grenade made of silence

do you laugh
when your world is unmade?
should you cry?
plot the noise to signal ratio
as the future is
as much the past
or present

light staccato laughter
with as much value
and impact
as a horizontal retrace
across phosphor coated glass
85 hurts per second

we bleed
photons of our own darkness
calling it the darkness of others
a sprawl of pain as large as our own heart
                 as shallow as our need
This is how we create meaning.
               
do we betray our self or another?
do we accept the futility of hope?

To escape from the vacuous
choose meaning
choose pain
choose acceptance

cold logic dictates the truth table
quantum dots of nothing
bound forever
and not or nand nor
infallibly superimposed
logically interlocked
packet collision

Does the best always win?
Good?
Light?
Truth?

Listen to:
irrationally indexed entries
in a helical strand of nucleic acids
lies nature has told itself
future generations laugh an cry

nothing *is* forever
forever is nothing.
words
traced once across a phosphor page
now fade like chainsawed trees

my voice is stilled
I listen
soft breathing
a murmur
another
crying out
in their sleep

Had I not listened
I could not have heard.

Sometimes silence is the answer
hardest to obtain
but most precious all

Beware:

What price silence?

Punished

A piece of poetry I wrote due to a misunderstanding with a friend.

Sometimes history is an explanation of the present... but still not an excuse.


+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Punished

nose.
nearly to the wall.
not too close.
the nose is naturally oily.
it leaves a stain and you will be punished.
severely.

but

small boys can't stand in one place
small boys do foolish things
small boys get tired of standing
small boys get set up to be punished
because its their nature

so

I never learned
I always left a spot even if it wasn't there
I always did things
which made me wrong
because its my nature

yet

I've tried so hard and failed again
I  left a spot no one can see
Except in a hurt perceived or believed
A spot in a corner I did not wish to leave
but a spot is a spot

therefore

punishment is at hand
it doesn't feel any different now
than it did those dim long years ago
I've never pleased those I have loved - never.
So the spot won't go no matter how hard I try

still

this is neither unexpected
nor is it undeserved
so now I take the lashes with salt water
and scream in pain to an unlistening wind
for my shame and sorrow...

nor

Can I permit myself to look
In anyone's eyes for my shame
and so I disappear as friend now unmade
and hope that punishment will suffice to them
and their joy wipe away the spot

now

alone and ever again the fool
leaving marks where he has no business
feeling  inappropriate as ever
as stupid as ever
as sad and hurt as ever

so

one last piece of wisdom:
shoot poets at 50 paces
shoot lyricists at 100 paces
get assassins to take care of wise men
but forgive me for the spots I make. 

Galataea

Galataea is a retelling of the Pygmalion story with a twist. The typical male thinks, in his narrow minded self-obsession, that he is the center of the universe and the females in his life are merely objects to fulfill his desires or at least this has been a popular notion...

A careful examination of the facts would reveal this is not true. Men generally are Scoundrels rather than Lovers.

The poem below was written around 1995 as I was exploring the ideas of the Divine Feminine -- the Goddess. Even in the most Patriarchal of beliefs the Divine Feminine is at the root.


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Galataea

I have never been a lover
More a scoundrel and a fool
Yet I have fallen into the grace of Love
By the product of my simple tools.

How could I not love her?
She is a wonder of form and face
Truly, not I, but the Goddess
Has give shape to her Grace.

Yet how can I give my love 
To this polished chunk of stone?
Still were she not so beautiful 
I would surely be alone.

What is the truth dear Goddess? 
Am I not More a stone than she?
Is my gross prediliction 
a product of my own anatomy?

Yet the purity of her form 
The line of her polished breast 
If she was sent to tempt me 
then I know I have failed the test.

But is not a man more than his genitals?
Is not a woman more than her Form?
Can you not, Oh Goddess, answer me 
and lead me through this storm?

Were she to come to life, I ask, 
Would I be her dream come true? 
Or would I be a Master of her slavery 
The butcher of her purity too?

Oh, to hold her close to me!
And kiss those stone cold lips
To cup her unyielding breast 
And feel the touch of her finger tips

Tis a cruel madness Aphrodite!
That I, as a man, can see 
This form of my physical desire
Mock the base nature I must surely be 

Will not this craving only destroy me?
Is not Love more than this?
For surely these feelings cannot be 
The foundation of Love's Bliss.

Still a man that knows not himself
Seeks always to fill an emptiness within
To take his fullness from another
And it is here that he loves his sin.

Were that I was all she is!
There! That is the Heart of my lust!
Yet her eyes and arms call to me 
I cannot, but I know I must 

Gone are the Golden Sun's Rays 
Here now are the Silvered beams of Night
I call to you Oh, Great Goddess
Save me from my foolish plight!

No sound is heard upon the wind 
'cept the Wing beats of the She Owl's flight 
Moonlight bathes the pure form of my desire 
And I know that my soul is lost this night

Let me wash my unclean body, Beloved 
Ere I come naked to your loving arms
I am mad I know too well 
For I cannot resist your charm

As i bend to kiss your lips
I see the living gleam in your eye 
I feel the swell of your breast 
I hear the sweet sound of you sigh

"She Lives!" I want to cry 
But I have lost my voice 
I can only give you what you ask 
I have no other choice 

Your body is like fire and Ice 
As you Love my life away
For you my Galataea, are the Stone 
That crushes my heart of clay.

++++++++++++++++

Ghost Writer

This was written in the fall of 1986. I was under treatment at the time for Major Depression. That of course is only half the story... a little more that a year later I would commit suicide in prison...

Yet this story [as well as I] have lingered. The story after all does have a message... It remains to be seen if I do.


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If I was to tell you the Truth, the WHOLE Truth, and nothing but the Truth so help me Joe, you wouldn't believe me, so that's the real reason you are reading this here rather than the front page of your local "Morning Gazette." Besides in fiction, there is Truth.

What better Truth is there than a fictional author telling a fictional story about his fictional god, AND having some innocent fun while getting paid for it?

Everybody knows how all of the schools of religion seem to be obsessed with the idea that "We know the Truth" and "We worship the only true God." 'Round here they call Him Joe Hova.His holy rolling rationalist devotees even have a holy day for Him, Joho Day, the holy day of the mighty, holy, and only rational god. His son is another story for another time.

If you are rational about it, you will see that their ideas, may be your own ideas, or even my strange preconceived notions of what the Creator is, looks like, or does is... irrational drivel. Think about the facts.

If God were so rational, the Universe would never have gotten started. The truth of the matter is that Joe Hova, in all of His radiant holiness, is NOT the rational, high mighty God sitting on a golden throne with a thunderbolt in one hand, a whip in the other and the fire of your damnation in His eyes. No, the truth is He's a little runt with a warped sense of humor. You don't believe me? I have seen Him. I know what the Truth is.

I can hear you snickering. Now you're saying that I'm crazy. Well, that may be so, but that has no bearing on the facts. I have digressed. Let me tell you what I know about Him.

He is a little man - about two feet eleven with a used Girope salesman's phony wide toothy smile. His nose is big and crooked. Big ears hang unevenly on the sides of His head beneath His closely cropped hair.

The afternoon I met Him, He wore the latest Calin Klevin semi- informal wear: a powder blue silk top hat with a bright red band propped slightly askew on His head, a pure white French pleated shirt, black pants, white spats topped over His glossy black shoes, with a bright phosphorescent green top coat with tails. The buttons of His jacket were obviously pure gold. He carried a platinum tipped graphite-composite cane".

"Wonder--full day, isn't it?" He exclaimed.

I looked around. I didn't see anyone.

He hit me in the shins with His one-of-a-kind cane. As the pain exploded in my head, I looked down to see Him smiling up at me.

"As I said before, Literu, a won-dar-ful day?"

"I don't believe we have met." I said through gritted teeth and painful tears.

"Of course we haven't, but that doesn't mean I don't know you.

Literu Litpinni, infamous writer of cheap thriller novels, pulp untrue confessions, and general all around loser. Bet you don't know that I know why you're standing on this bridge." He cheerfully replied.

"Well, I..." I stammered.

He cut me short by saying, "Don't bother telling me some piece of drivel about how you like watching the boats go by three hundred feet below you there." He gestured at the cold steel colored sea.

He continued with a smirk: "You're here, so you think, to kill yourself and end your dismal life."

"Well, I was actually more interested in..." I began to lie.

"Watching the sea hawks? Oh, come on, Man! If you're gonna lie, at least be creative!" he retorted and smiled His huge toothy smile.

"OK, Mister High and Mighty, what do you want?" I was pissed. Not angry, P-I-S-S-E-D. Being pissed is not rational, whereas if you are angry it's the same thing but dressed up in rationalized intellectualized emoting.

"I see you're pissed. Good. As for being High and Mighty-- However did you guess? You're good boy, real, good! As for what I want, well, I want to save your miserable soul and make you rich and famous. And, at the same time, I want you to tell My story."

"You want me to WHAT? Who the hell are you, any way?" I demanded.

"Joe Hova is My Name and Creation is My Game." He replied with a tight phony smile.

"What kind of a fool do you think I am?" I snapped.

"Is there more than one kind of fool." He paused with an All- Knowing smile, then continued with a not quite feigned benevolence,"To respond to your original complaint, I want you to write My story."

Thinking to myself, "I must really be crazy." I asked Him, "Why?"

"Because who better to write my biography than a someone who writes cheap novels?" He responded evenly.

I started to open my mouth in reply but stopped and thought for a moment about the great pompous pious pilgrim who was masquerading as His Holiness, the Right Reverend Archbishop of Pewksbury. I answered without further consideration, "You're right. Obviously I've got nothing to lose."

"Precisely. Let's get out of the wind up here."

He waved his cane. With a loud 'Pop,' we were in a high priced penthouse office where the windows looked out over....well, it's really very hard to describe. The best way to put it is that the windows looked out over Creation. All of it. As I looked out, I found that depending upon what I looked for, determined what I saw.

"Nice view." I observed.

"Goes with the job, of course. As I was saying before, you're to be my biographer and the pay is handsome. Please sign here." He said.

He offered me a pen and a large parchment which exuded the smell of legalese: that rankling dialect which only lawyers understand.

I took the pen and looked at the parchment and just as I suspected, it was covered with indistinguishable printing of indecipherable legal polyglotic declarations.

I looked down at Him and said: "Just how handsome is the pay?"

"Anything you want at all, except a few minor stipulations, as noted in paragraph 4231, sub-section B, last clause; otherwise, it's anything at all you want." He replied with plastic encouragement.

"Can I read this before I sign it?" I asked.

"Why, of course! I have all the time in the world." He replied with a giant smirk.

I began to read. And I kept reading. I think I must have read for at least four hours and I didn't even get to the end of the first sentence. It seemed to be getting longer even as I read. I finally gave it up.

"Doesn't this thing have any end?" I innocently asked.

"No." He said flatly.

"Oh. Why not?"

"I have to cover all of the possible situations which might arise from any of your work as my employee."

"Oh." I signed the contract wondering when I would wake up.

"Now, here is my story: I was. I am. I forever shall be." He proudly exclaimed.

"That's It?"

"Should there be more? Well, I suppose you can embellish it a bit." He replied.

I could not believe what I was hearing. "That's going to take an awful lot of embellishing."

He smiled one of His crookedest smiles and said: "You can do it, I am sure that you can."

"How can I tell All of Creation that God is a little runt with a sarcastic sense of humor. Besides, that bit about 'Forever shall be' has been used before. Some guy named Noah or Job or Sumsuch..." I responded.

"Nothing new under the sun and all that rot. Still a man of many talents such as yourself, should be able to come up with something of interest. Just think someday you could write a bestseller just like my last one." He grinned.

I thought for a moment then said sarcastically, "Right! As I recall it, most of the guys that were in that one died horrible deaths."

"Just so." He replied evenly, the slightest of smiles upon His lips.

"You mean to tell me that I have to die a terrible death?"

"Of course. How else can my creation know Hope, Faith, Love and Forgiveness? They can and will only see it by a willing sacrifice for those gentle ideals. You know all the sins and sadness that's out there." He gestured at the window, "You know how terrible it is."

"I won't do it," I said flatly.

"Sorry, Son. It is in the contract. Remember paragraph 4231 et al?"

"Bastard!" I cursed.

"Why...now that I think of it, you are right! I didn't have any parents!" He grinned a wicked grin. His expression softened then He continued. "Son, it's like this...if I were the terrible God that most of those kids out there believe me to be, I would not be in business very long.

"Sure, there ARE terrible things going on out there. There is great wickedness and soul wrenching sorrows. Yet even with all of those things, there is still Goodness, and Love, and Laughter,and Joy.

You can't have one without the other."

"If I were less joyous and more morose as some of you out there believe me to be, then all there could be or would be infinite infernal damnation. I'm a mathemythical mythimatical beast that lives loving, laughing, crying, birthing, and dying in ALL of my Creation." He paused and looked at me and I felt so small in His gigantic presence.

"Son...I laugh. As I laugh, I love my creation and it loves me. I love you, Boy. Even though you've done your damnedest to sin against me. Even though you doubt me, I am with you. Now you protest the idea of dying when just a short while ago you were standing on a bridge ready to jump? Tell me when have you really lived? Can't you see that death is only a transition from one form of creation to another? Haven't you heard about my Law of the Conservation of Energy? Nothing is ever lost; it's just untouchable in this world that most earth worms choose to live in."

I looked at Him and saw all of these things and more.

"OK. you win." I replied.

So I wrote His biography, _JOE HOVA: The Laughing God of Our Fathers_. It was a best seller, of course, just as He promised it would be. There was a lot of things that resulted from the publication ofthat book.

When "Pious Pilgrims" gathered, the book was burned; yet when the sorrowful read it, there was Joy. Joe popped in one day with a proud gleam and said: "Son, you're better than I Thought you could be, but the time has come for you to make the transition." 

"So soon?"

"Sorry, but I have other things for you to do. I have a job for you in my front office. I need your talents to take care of those things now. Some eon soon, I hope to retire and I think with what has happened, you just might have what it takes to run the whole show."

"What's the job?" I asked with some hesitation knowing His propensity for understatement."

"Oh, something, you're already quite good at doing. Don`t worry about it. You'll enjoy it."

I was still hesitant but he was right.

Later that day the outraged Pious Pompous Pilgrims, who claimed to be Joe's Only True Church, tore me, quite literally, to shreds. It was only natural that in time they made me the patron 'Saint' of authors.

I still do a lot of writing as you can see. I enjoy it and I have many best sellers out on the stands just now. How many? All of them.

What do you expect from a 'Ghost Writer'?" 

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Da Angels come and dress you

Blues.
Hard. Cold. deep
Painful
Blues.
Old 12 bar slow blues.
Meant to mix with whiskey and cigarettes.
A weeping guitar and a wounded bleeding soul...

I wrote this in 2004 as my mother lay dying of cancer.

Don't read this if you've lost someone recently.




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Da Angels come and dress you
and Azrael come and take you down---
Yeah... Da Angels come an' dress you
an' Azrael come an' take you down----
Da train is in da station
It's homeward boun'...

You know, de cap'n call de number
An' the Porter take yo' bag
Yeah, De Cap'n call yo' number
an' de Porter take yo' bag
Da ticket is fo' a oneway
It say so on da tag

De Lord in His mercy
De Debil in Detail
De Lord in His mercy
De Debil in Detail
It's a long lonely ride
Jus' to hear dat ol' whistle wail

Dey say its better
But I don't believe a word
Yeah, dey say its better dare
But I don't believe a word
I've been down to da station 
an' dat ain't what I heard

Ev'rythin' has an endin'
If you a listen to da tale
Yeah--- Ev'rythin' has an endin'
If you a listen to da tale
But know that the endin' ony happen 
when the true words fail...

It's mighty lonesome
When da truth finally come home
yeah, It's mighty lonesome
When da truth do finally come home
It kiss you on the brow
den tell you always been alone

Don' look fo' no endin'
You won't find it here
No ,Don' look fo' no endin'
You won't find it here
Da Beginnin's are simple
but da endin' is som'in ta fear...

Saying Good-Bye

A song from 1977... about a girl I loved and lost. It turns out that it expresses well any relationship that has come to its natural end.

I played this at my mother's memorial service in 2004.

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Saying Good-bye

I guess I've said

All words can say

And Played all the memories

I can play

All that's left

Is to say good bye to you

And Sayin' Goodbye

Is always the hardest thing to do

We've had some good times

and a few that were bad

Sharin' the laughter

And the teardrops

When we were sad

I've enjoyed

All this time spent with you

But saying goodbye

is always the hardest thing to do

BRIDGE:

So dream your dreams

And smile your smile

And don't forget

all the while

I have loved you

And I'll always love you

Just as you are

The lights have all

Faded so low

And I guess it's time

For you to go

I'll always remember

Lovin' you

And that Sayin' Good Bye

Was the hardest thing

I've ever had to do.

Tides of Time

In 1974 while I was living in Tuscon, Az,  I found myself writing a couple of songs about the ocean. I suppose the lack of something makes you think more about it. Some what like Gordon Lightfoot, eh?

A old MP3 is available HERE
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Tides of Time

I am a Sailor of the Oceans 
Of the Seas of Long Ago
But they are gone as I knew them 
Washed away with the Tides of Time
     Well gone are the Whalers
     And gone are the four masted ships
     And gone is the new world 
     And the perilous trips

CHORUS:
Sail with me on the Mighty Ocean
Sail me as I roam 
Sail with me on the Mighty Ocean
Sail me as I search for  my home 

Now I have follow the north Star
To the Edges of the Earth 
Singin' Sons of the Sea,
O the Mighty Sea
     Now here are the Airplanes
     An' here are the Superboats
     An' here are the Diesels
     A cuttin' the current with their strokes

[CHORUS]

Time has passed me by
An' left only the sea
To wash away the conflicts 
An' bring Peace again
     Now the waves they're just a laughin'
     A rollin in the sand
     Knowin' they are Eternal
     Out livin' the finite in Man
     
Repeat [CHORUS] fade

Twenty Years

Here is a "Twentieth Anniversary Edition" of a song I wrote in 1994...

A tale of twisted woe.
A remembrance of regrets.
A song of sorrow
With no place to go

+++++++++++++++++++++++
Twenty Years

Twenty years I have traveled
And what have I got to show?
All the scars and sadness
from the things I did not know
Tucson in '74
Reno in '75 or 6
There are somethings you just can't do
and some things love won't fix

But the Song leads me onward
To where I don't know
The Song leads me onward
From the Great Above through
The Great below

Pueblo in '78
L.A. in '79
If things were lookin' good
It was cause I didn't read the signs
In '81 I left her,
In '82 was back in line
Ain't it funny how it happens:
You always return to the scene of the crime

But the Song leads me onward
To where I don't know
The Song leads me onward
From the Great Above through
The Great below

'85 was the betrayal
'86 was in kind
In '87 I walked through the gates of hell
To find I'd lost my mind
Dying there in the Darkness
Reborn to a life unknown
Was it I or a stranger
Who stole what he could not own?

But the Song leads me onward
To where I don't know
The Song leads me onward
From the Great Above through
The Great below


Released in '89
In '91 they let me go
The wounds that are the deepest
Are the ones I cannot show
I've been named, numbered and labeled
But I'm still not too well defined
Which comes from a lack of focus
And livin' locked inside my mind

The Song of Life leads us onward
Whether Infant, Saint, or King
Givin' us New horizons
And new songs for us to sing

'92 found us
And '93 made us one
Don't believe it when they tell you
There are new things under the sun
'Cos Love is where you find it
And Truth is what you Know
If you don't like the place you're in
Then pack your bags and go

Let the Song of Life lead ya onward
To where I don't know
Let the Song of Life lead ya onward
From the Great Above through
The Great below

So twenty years I have traveled
Got twenty years of tales to tell
I've seen the Gates of Heaven
And I've known the Fires of Hell
This tales got my Ending
You've got to find your own
Give my love to all you meet
And follow the path you are shown

Let the Song of Life lead ya onward
To where I don't know
Let the Song of Life lead ya onward
From the Great Above through The Great below

Pain x Pain

Another song from a dream. It was written in 1995.

a song for all the lost souls...

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Verse 1:

I never did know you
And now you are gone
Black powder consciousness
Is the ending of your song
Were you a victim?
Or just sadly mislead?
Who were you really, Kurt,
Alone there in your head?

Verse 2:

All of the spin priests
Want us to chant your name
And bow and pay them
To play their gilted game
While they create an new idol
You get all the blame
For being unable to accept
Your frailty
As the price of your fame

Verse 3:

You've been charged with wanting
To "join that Stupid Club"
But the truth is more chilling
And there is the rub:
For all the spin that
they put on your life
You were just a sad man
Balanced on the edge of a knife

Verse 4:

For all the denials
And all the half-lies
Your death is still with us
Maybe to open our eyes
To all the hopeless souls
and their tormented cries
To lift our empty ideals to a Truth
Finally realized

Verse 5:

No, Kurt, I didn't know you
But I do know your pain
I've stood in the Darkness
And died in the rain
You were used and used up
It's all too plain:
Sweet suicide isn't sweet
It's made--- Pain by Pain


Spoken word:

Dare we call it murder
In the house of the Money Tree?
Are we not all guilty,
of ignoring your plea?
Dare We call it murder
Written in you sorrow?
Are we going to turn away
and forget about you, tomorrow
I want you to think about it
I said think about it...


Sweet suicide isn't sweet
It's made---
Pain by Pain----

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©1995, 2014 jh crook

Season

Sometimes I am overcome with hubris and attempt to do things I probably should not. Below is my take on Ecclesiastes Chapter 3... which you have probably have heard as Pete Seeger's "Turn, Turn, Turn". Obviously I'm not Pete Seeger.

I wrote this after a long, long Yom Kippur day after having attended a break-the-fast on the Eleventh Day of Tishri, 5768 [2007]. I suppose that some time I will repost a essay about that particular day... but not today.

You can find a passable Mp3 recording of the song HERE [My Google Drive]

It is played in an open E tuning

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A Season is Set for Everything

CHORUS  
    A season is set for everything
    a place and time for every deed
    For above and below Heaven
    A place and time for ev'ry need

There's a time for bein' born
and a time to pass away
A time for us to sow our seeds
and a time to clear the weeds away

There's a time for taking life
and a time for hurts to heal
There's a time for tearing down
and a time to build what we feel

There's a time for us to weep
And a time to share our joy
There's a time for us to wail in sorrow
And a time to dance once more

    A season is set for everything
    a place and time for every deed
    For above and below Heaven
    A place and time for ev'ry need
  
There's a time for us to sling a stone
And a time to gather together stone
There's a time for us to embrace
and a time to stand alone

There's a time for seeking
and a time to lose our way
There's a time for keeping
and a time for casting away

There's a time for ripping cloth
and a time to mend the break
There's a time for silence
and a time to speak for Heaven's Sake

    A season is set for everything
    a place and time for every deed
    For above and below Heaven
    A place and time for ev'ry need

There is a time for us to love
and a time for hostility
There's a time for making war
and a time for loving serenity

    A season is set for everything
    a place and time for every deed
    For above and below Heaven
    A place and time for ev'ry need
   
    Repeat 2x and fade

Written the Eleventh Day of Tishri, 5768

+++++++++++++fini+++++++++++++

*disk and jAn3 *

A while ago [before  USENET died] I was a regular in a Cyberpunk Writers dive called alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo

The rules were you had to either post Cyberpunk [science] fiction or you had to post "in character" as a Cyberpunk Character. Eventually we collaborated to sell two anthologies of fiction: The Alt.Cyberpunk.Chatsubo.Anthology We never saw a dime but at least the promotional site was paid for...

In any case I would upon occasion post a story or a poem like the one below.

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*disk and jAn3 *

See disk and jAn3
See jAn3 mount disk.
/dev/hd1

See disk spin!
Spin, disk spin!
Round and Round.

See disk light flicker
Flash! Flash! Flash!
Boot disk boot.

See jAn3 access disk.
Hear disk's head move!
Clickity! Clackity! Click!

See disk! 
See, disk go. 
Go, disk go!

Hear disk seek
Hear disk seek for jAn3.
Plink! Plonk! Plunk!

Look!
disk has found bytes
disk bytes jAn3

See jAn3
jAn3 is angry!
Yell! jAn3, Yell!

jAn3 is going to get even.
See jAn3 hack the code
Hack, jAn3 hack!

See jAn3 smile
See jAn3 save code
See jAn3 save code on disk

See code.
See code compile.
Compile code, compile!

See jAn3 at command prompt
Hear jAn3's black vinyl shine
Squeek! Squeek! Squeek!

See jAn3 smile
See jAn3 execute command
Die, command Die!

See disk go crash! 
Crash, disk
crash!

+++++++++++++++ fini +++++++++++++++

Who says cyberpunks don't have a sense of humor?

The Ship

This was another one of those vivid, waking dreams recorded on November 8, 2012 at 4:28 AM. The dream events are in the future. 

I do not claim any of this is real. I'm not a sleeping prophet... I just have one weirdly vivid waking dream imagination.

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Dream 6 - The Ship

Thursday, November 08, 2012

4:28 AM

We were out on the highway. Heading north along a two lane black-top road.   It was early afternoon on a blustery late fall day. The sun broke in and out of the clouds in the west but to the east there was a black thunderstorm which against all odds seemed to be slowly heading west down off the mountains . We were traveling north on highway 52 about 30 miles south of Magelena wide with mountains to the south, northeast, north and far west. 

It was then we saw the landing lights in the darkness of the thunder storm to the north east of us. We thought this to be very strange.  When the lights turned south in our direction heading down the arroyo which we were just crossing , it almost looked as if a Jumbo Jet had just turned  for a final  landing approach.

My assistant. Adele, asked if I would pull over so she could take a closer look. Thee was an abandoned ranch house and its out buildings just off the highway.

"Maybe this is one of the oddities you are always talking about."

Adele was highly intelligent, a clear headed thinker, and a "good girl" who had somehow adopted me as a 'father figure' which for the life of me I cannot understand .

 I pulled to the  side of the road. She pulled out her spotting gear and set it up.

After a moment she said. "Nigel, you're not going to believe this!"

"What? That some military twit is crashing himself on an endangered species' range habitat?"

"No.  Look! Tell me what you think."  She stood aside and I looked through the spotting scope.

I looked and focused the scope. "What the… That's not…"

I looked at her and she  looked at me expectantly.  After a moment I said. "It's not from around here. "

I pulled out my Comm and began to take a stream of still frame photos of the landing approach.  Each photo was automatically uploaded to my NodeSpace host. As it got closer, its unearthly appearance became clearer. It was  the size of a terrestrial "super-Jumbo" jets but looked like one of the blocky 'drop ship'  tactical transports from one of the old  science fiction movies.

"It's Alien?"

I nodded. "From the look of it, I'd say so…"

"But where is it from?" She asked pointlessly.

When it was about a quarter mile to the north of us at about 500 feet,  it suddenly turned to the west and began a vertical landing. We could see obvious combat damage to the ship's hull.

"Adele, I think we better get out of here."

"Yes."

I turned off the photo stream  while she stowed the scope. I opened the accelerator as  got on the road.  My Comm suddenly began ringing.  A voice only call. I answered.

"Yes?"

"Dr.Caruthers ? Dr. Nigel Caruthers?" The voice was of a young woman.  A whole series of impressions filled my head. Facts about the caller I could not possibly know. She was English, from the Midlands, highly intelligent, worked for an agency related to Terran Federation Military Intelligence, was military trained but had a degree in Anthropology,  loved rough sex and could be had if asked.  I cleared my  mind.

"Speaking."

"You have seen it?"

"Seen what?"

"We know where you are."

"And?"

"We have your photos."

"So?"

"Its not from around here. We have a team studying the photos.  Your clearance has been re-activated. We have transportation waiting for you at Highway 163. Which is about seven miles ahead of you."

"What about my assistant?"

"Arrangements will be made."

"What does  that mean?"

"You know the protocol when people see  things they are not supposed to see. She'll wake up soon at home and will not remember a thing other than she has been recovering from an illness. "

"Alright. I'll meet your agents in a few minutes." I cleared the connection.

"What was that about?" Adele asked.

"Who else? My ex-boss, The Government. They have transportation waiting for us just ahead."

She looked at me wide eyed. "Will we be safe?"

"They have given me assurances. It seems that the government does not know our visitors. And have asked for my assistance."

"You're going back?"

"They have not given me a choice."

We drove in silence for the few minutes  it took to get to the crossroads. We found a black MilSpec heavy utility transport  vehicle waiting. We provided identification and they politely collected our things. Soon we were underway headed south and west on

++++++++++++++++ fini +++++++++++++++++++++

I knew it was in New Mexico but I did not know exactly where. I knew that they were headed to The Very Large Array Radio Telescope  [34° 4'44.71"N  107°37'6.88"W ] which is 50 miles west of Soccoro, NM. So using  Google Earth I found the site where some of this takes place which is at the junction of Limestone Canyon and Highway 52 . For those of you who'd like to go look you'll find it here:   33°43'29.60"N  107°40'16.55"W

I've never been there.  I don't know anyone named  Nigel Caruthers or Adele. But I do [even now] remember portions of the dream. Especially the terror of the MilSpecs in the face of the unknown that picked up Caruthers. 

I suppose I could be a "Sleeping Writer". If so I'd like to develop the technique. These dreams go interesting places.

[Update]

I found out today that some where near the "Plains of San Augustin" is apparently an alleged UFO crash site that was in the same era as "Roswell". Amazing synchronicity.

Questions?

Comments?